by PJ Mayhem
Positive Lovers’ Oracle card endorsement: Cast away your concerns, come rest in my embrace. I feel more likely to pass out in it but anyway.
I can do this. I’m going to go and buy my produce like I would in any other shop. Simple. It’s just my fate riding on it, no big deal. But first, I slip off my jeans, take off my knickers and put my jeans back on. Like I can afford the distraction of worrying about VPL in such critical circumstances.
Before I head out I check that the $50 note is still in my pocket. After the last time I can’t rely on my hands to stop shaking long enough to get a note out of my wallet. PayPass feels too impersonal. I throw in some coins for coffee as well.
Of course coffee must come first. ‘Nice to see you slept in a bit today, Fiona,’ Jack says brightly.
‘I’m exhausted. I feel like I could sleep forever.’
‘Like Sleeping Beauty but then you’d have to wait for your …’
‘No.’ I know where this is headed. ‘I don’t need a Prince Charming—just a new job.’
‘I’ll give you a job. One catch—no pay.’
‘Why would I work for no pay?’
‘For love.’
I give an Oscar-worthy sigh. ‘I can’t afford to work for love. What about coffee and love?’
‘For sure, as much of both as you want.’
‘I’ll think about it.’ I wink as Jack passes me my coffee. Today my reflexes are too slow to get my fingers away before he grabs them.
‘Hi,’ I say and smile as I walk into PGGG, head up. Unfortunately it’s not the Singing Fruitologist I’m saying it to but one of the other regular guys who works there—slightly younger than the Singing Fruitologist. I have totally no attraction to him, so feel perfectly safe.
I grab a basket and commence my access-all-areas tour of PGGG—Retro FM is on so I’m feeling optimistic. I’m bent over getting some chai from a bottom shelf when, from the adjacent storeroom, I hear what can only be the Singing Fruitologist. Thinking no one can hear him, he’s belting out Rod Stewart’s ‘Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?’ with such abandon it runs the risk of turning the smile that’s galloped across my face into a fully-fledged snort.
Still bent over—for all the world looking like I’m very focussed on my choice of chai—I wonder how I can fill in time until the Singing Fruitologist comes into the store, without making it too obvious. I’m certain the answer is about to rush forth from my neurons when I sense someone behind me. I look over my shoulder and see the ‘hi’ guy from when I came in. He’s staring at my arse. I snap up and give him an indignant look. Does he have any idea what he’s done? Not only has he ruined my moment listening to the Signing Fruitologist, there’s no way I can hang around and wait for him to appear now.
I storm to the counter and make a point of staring out at the street to avoid looking at the ‘guy with the roving eyes’ as he cashes up my items. Infuriatingly, he’s still smiling at me.
‘Raymond.’
The guy and I both turn. The Singing Fruitologist is just inside at the storeroom door. He’s dressed in a bright green, branded sports T-shirt and reasonably stylish jeans.
‘Can you do a count of the organic pastas when you’re done there?’ The Singing Fruitologist calls.
Hmm. I’m not sure I like his speaking voice—it’s got a strong nasal twang. This could be an issue if we’re going to have a relationship. I can always use a gag in some sort of sex-play scenario so I don’t have to listen to it—not sure about the rest of the time, but an answer will come. The Universe always provides.
‘Did you look at him in the eye? Smile?’ Jane launches in immediately on answering when I call her to report.
‘Well, sort of.’
‘There is no “sort of”, Kismet, either you did or you didn’t.’
‘I sort of had a practice run.’
‘Practice run? How can you “sort of” have a practice run?’
I explain the rationale of my smiling at the other guy.
‘No harm and you usually are open and friendly with everyone. Well, everyone other than guys that you fancy or that you think fancy you.’
‘You won’t believe it, but it sort of backfired.’
‘I know I’m going to regret this … but how exactly can you smiling at someone in a shop backfire? Although I realise if we’re frolicking in the fertile fields of your imagination the possibilities are endless.’
Of course Jane won’t regret it for a second, she’s dying to know. So I run her through the events at PGGG. She finds Raymond’s antics much more entertaining than my Singing Fruitologist sighting.
‘Go Kizzo! I told you your mojo was back. Ha, let’s see if the Singing Fruitologist sings Beyoncé songs next time you go in.’
I have been known to do some of ‘How to Get a Body like Beyoncé’ workouts on YouTube—not that I’m not ever going to breathe a word of that to anyone, least of all Jane. She’d die laughing.
‘Very funny. It’s just made everything worse. What if my mojo is conjuring the wrong sort of man or the wrong sort of attention? I’m not up for those sort of shenanigans with just any frisky fruiterer. I most definitely don’t want to be turned into a sex object and discussed by them like a skank as though they are boys down at the pub, if anything happens with the Singing Fruitologist.’
‘Do you think you might be overreacting just a tad, Kizzo? There really weren’t any shenanigans—it’s pretty standard male behaviour. I wouldn’t be worrying about getting a rape whistle for when you go in and get your fruit and veggies just yet.’
4
One very uneventful week on from my last failed attempt, I’m back at base camp heading out my door on another ‘conquer Situation Singing Fruitologist’ expedition. The sun’s radiant smile makes me certain it has come out specially to welcome me. I can practically hear it whispering, ‘Kismet, today is a day where anything is possible.’ I float down to PGGG on a cloud of possibility—OK, so maybe it’s more a rapid dog paddle in a sea of anxiety. The weather’s a good sign at least.
The terse woman who never seems pleased to be at work is at the till. This is disappointing but not critical—I’ve observed that she and the Singing Fruitologist are rarely on shift together. I confess that I’ve wondered if they don’t often work together because they’re married; I wouldn’t want to work with my partner either. Still, the fact that I can’t hear him singing along to the Bee Gees’ ‘Tragedy’ is far from ideal. I mean, who can resist the Bee Gees? Even I want to sing along.
I have a feeling that something or someone is interfering with the fruitologist’s and my cosmic connection and I think I know exactly who it might be. The woman’s eyes burn into the back of me as I dawdle down the aisle. I know I look dodgy—dodgy and uneasy. She probably thinks I’m a shoplifter. Mind you, a quick frisk by the fruitologist may just get this karmic-relationship-in-waiting underway.
Given there’s only four aisles and the deli, it doesn’t take me long to discover a silent fruitologist in the deli section. He’s up a ladder, back to me. My eyes are exactly at the level of his butt and I let them wander upwards. I’m not perving, I’m just taking a moment, maybe two, to appreciate the physical aspects of what fate has in store for me—obviously the Universe put me in this position for a reason. I watch him move jars of organic baby food from the box resting on the top of the ladder to the shelf. Sweat prickles against the red fabric of his T-shirt. The flush I experience as I watch him, the way his back and shoulder muscles stretch against his T-shirt, is from nothing more than the heat of the day, I swear.
I so hope the baby food isn’t a sign though. I love children—provided they’re other people’s. I don’t really do babies, and definitely not nappies. Babies aren’t on my karmic blueprint for this lifetime, Amethyst tells me, so it’s a good thing I’ve never wanted them anyway.
I could say hi. I would say hi, but then I imagine him jumping with fright and falling from the ladder to his death—slicing his jugular on the glass of a broken jar of baby
food or slamming his temple on the corner of the shelf. That would be lifetimes of super bad karma and his death is really not ideal for my destiny, not to mention his. I step away extra quietly.
John Farnham’s ‘You’re the Voice’ comes on as I gather my items. If the fruitologist starts singing to that, it’s over. I know it hasn’t really begun but that would be the end right there. Surely fate could not be so cruel?
At the checkout the woman is a little less super rude to me than usual, dealing with my items in her speedy way.
‘Sorry,’ I say, not even trying to keep up. I’m stringing things out today, just to make sure I stay to the end of ‘You’re the Voice’ so I’ll know for sure if the fruitologist sings along.
‘That’s OK, take your time,’ she says over the beeps of the scanner.
What does she mean by that? Does she mean, ‘Take your time stealing my man’?
If the fruitologist and I are destined to be together as the Lovers’ Oracle predicted pre-trip—Your soul mate is already with you in spirit—Ms Terse-at-the-Till and I are obviously going to have to embark on some sort of turf warfare.
I step out into the street with the final bars of ‘You’re the Voice’ drifting into silence, mercifully unaccompanied by the fruitologist. I immediately feel as though I’ve forgotten something but I’ve no idea what; every item on my list is ticked. However, my intuition sends me back in to search for whatever it is, and I almost run smack bang into the fruitologist coming out.
‘Hi,’ he says as we weave our way around each other.
‘Hi,’ I mumble to the ground, unable to look at him, sure he’ll be able to see the guilty blush of my earlier appreciating-his-physicality session. The tingle I feel being so close to him only makes it worse.
It’s perfect though—now the fruitologist has opened the lines of communication by saying ‘hi’, I can say ‘hi’ if I see him without worrying about seeming like a stalker. I know it may not seem like much, but to quote Lao Tzu: ‘The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.’
A single step may be all well and good for Lao Tzu, however I’m about to self-combust. I consult the Lovers’ Oracle. Mystery—all will be revealed in good time. But Great Guru, Govinda and Ganesha give me strength—I’m not sure what the oracle considers ‘good time’: it really should be more specific. It is now five full days since the ‘hi’ incident. There hasn’t been a single fruitologist sighting, let alone an opportunity to facilitate advancement on the ‘hi’. Not even the sound of his nasal twang chatting to a colleague or the lyrics of an out-of-tune song have come wafting out as I pass each day, making sure I look like I don’t care.
I need to take control of this situation before another day passes. But it’s 9.30pm on Thursday and PGGG is closed, so my options are limited. Meditation feels too passive, chakra dancing too wafty and my I-Ching hasn’t been so reliable on the relationship front in the past. I consider a spell, briefly—probably a bit too extreme this early on. At least an entire interaction-less month would be required before I go googling white Wicca tricks.
Only a Manifesting Miracles affirmation is right for these circumstances. I write out the miracle I want to manifest—that’s the obvious part. But it’s equally important to make a couple of key declarations, such as ‘I am a magnet to miracles’ and ‘I am open to miracles and welcome them into my life’, before launching into asking the Universe for the miracle. It’s also vital to visualise the outcome you want to manifest—burning a candle is good too. The final steps—which most people miss—are repeating it every day and sleeping with the ‘miracle’ under your pillow until it manifests.
It worked. By the next morning the miracle of the Singing Fruitologist has been manifested—in my dreams at least. In the dream the fruitologist and I were sitting next to each other at a local meeting when he leant towards me to ask me a question of no great consequence and, disappointingly, not at all romantic in nature (typical of the men I seem to attract—I must work on clearing this negative pattern with Amethyst). I leant even closer to him and put my cheek against his to whisper my response into his ear.
That’s when I saw the list of items he was going to raise at the meeting. Item one was for people to put the egg boxes back in a neat stack when they disturb them grabbing their dozens and half-dozens. This very much appealed to my medium- to high-scale need-for-order tendencies.
He then wrote me a note: Are you free 24th, 25th or 26th?
And that’s where the dream ended.
Unfortunately, a few days on there’s still no sight or sound of the Singing Fruitologist in person. Note to self: Remember to say ‘in person’ in manifestation affirmations in future. Destiny may not concern itself with detail but sometimes the Universe can be dharmaed pernickety about these things.
But tomorrow is the twenty-sixth.
Sure enough, now the fruitologist has started infiltrating my dreams there is no stopping him and I wake on Saturday having had a dream that PGGG were out of yoghurt. When I began seeing Amethyst eight months ago she told me I’d get a lot of messages through my dreams as my intuition developed, but I’ve never had them with such clarity before.
Dressed, make-up on and eyelashes curled (only twice but worked perfectly) I add extra glisten to my face with a quick spritz of my refreshing rosewater mist, try to keep breathing, do my hair, apply lipstick then do my hair again. It’s just not happening, my eyelashes seem to have used up my positive hair energy quota for the day. I can’t afford any more time fussing with it. I’ve spent so much time getting ready and mantraing myself up (I will look the Singing Fruitologist in the eye today, it will be easy and I will do it seamlessly and with grace) that I have less than thirty minutes before Stephanie comes to collect me for our swim at Pebbly Beach.
As I approach PGGG, I begin hatching a plan. If they’ve run out of yoghurt I can ask the fruitologist to call me when it comes in, the perfect cover to provision him with my number. Yes, I can well imagine that I’ll be able to carry that off! Ms Cool, Calm and Collected Seductress will be so suave and sexy. Not!
Keep it simple, Kismet.
Best I settle for: 1) Trying to look him in the eye, and 2) saying hi.
A point to fate—the fruitologist is at the checkout when I walk in. He’s too busy with customers to see me or be singing. And it sounds like a younger staff member has taken control of the radio so I doubt he’d know the words to The Killers ‘My List’ at any rate. They’re my all-time favourite band so I notch the song up as another point to fate.
The next revelation has to be worth at least a thousand points and I grip the refrigerator door, unable to breathe at the magnitude of it. They’re out of yoghurt! With my second dream coming true, the chance that the first one might too, or the note bit at least, is overwhelming. These are the spiritual rewards Amethyst promised will come, if I maintain faith and stick to my path.
In the queue my ability to eavesdrop on the fruitologist’s exchanges is inhibited by the couple behind me speaking unnecessarily loudly. Totally inconsiderate. My evil-eye glare silences them immediately.
‘Had a great day at Pebbly Beach yesterday,’ the fruitologist says to the woman in front of me.
Pebbly Beach! Like that isn’t another sign. Still my Scorpio moon sends tiny pulses of astrologically borne jealousy through me at the friendliness and familiarity of their interaction. Lucky for her she is no competition—middle-aged and, dare I say it, downright dowdy. Otherwise she may have received an ‘accidental’ scuff to her heel and a wide-eyed innocent ‘sorry’ when she turned to see what was happening. Not ideal for enlightenment but all’s fair in love, war and fruitologist flirtations.
As the woman leaves I hand over my items and miraculously find the voice and courage to say, ‘Do you know when you’ll be getting more organic sheep’s milk yoghurt in?’
‘Wednesday,’ he says with a smile and starts bagging my items.
‘Oh, that’s OK thanks, I don’t need a bag thanks.’ I wave my
enviro bag at him partly as evidence but mostly in the hope it will distract him from my ridiculous use of ‘thanks’ twice within ten words.
Seemingly undeterred by my bagging rejection the fruitologist tells me the yoghurt delivery will be ‘between one and 2pm’.
I do love someone with such attention to detail. So very helpful.
I feel the pressure build as we wrap up our little exchange. Brave me as opposed to the other me, whose armpits are sweating and feels like she’s going to faint, comes out with ‘Fantastic! Guess I’ll see you Wednesday,’ in an attempt at flirtation. I do have to look down slightly to carry this off. He’s smiling at me when I look up.
It’s a funny lopsided smile. The kind of smile that looks like he’s holding something back, which only makes me more determined to find out what that could be.
The fact that I have just enough yoghurt to last me until Wednesday can’t be overlooked. My intuition is telling me that this is the start of something big.
5
‘Good morning, sunshine.’ Jack beams from the coffee machine. Normally this level of enthusiasm would be too much for me on a Wednesday morning, but today’s a different story.
‘Hi, Jack. How are you?’
‘I’m awesome but not as awesome as you.’
‘Why?’
‘You just are.’
‘Thanks. I’ll be even more awesome when I get my coffee.’
Jack laughs. ‘Sheesh, don’t rush me. It’s a fine art.’
‘I know, and it’s worth waiting for—you’re a master.’
‘True. Nice dress by the way.’
‘Thanks, it’s a top actually.’ I step back from the counter, showing Jack my wrap top. ‘It’s one of my favourites—I wear it all the time, hadn’t you noticed?’
‘Yes, I just hadn’t mentioned it and today it looks different. It’s making your eyes look even more beautiful, like emeralds.’
