by PJ Mayhem
‘Remember what I told you last time—have faith that you can handle anything the Universe sends your way. Have you seen Lionel yet?’
‘Yes, a couple of times. It feels like more.’
‘That’s great, if it feels like more you must have a bond. Has he helped?’
‘Early days, but I’m feeling very positive about it. I’m seeing him again Thursday.’
‘Good. I can really sense you’re moving forward. Have you been doing all the things we’ve talked about? The list, how’s that coming along?’
‘Great. I’ve made it very … comprehensive.’
‘Good, good. And the signs, having you been keeping an eye out?’
‘Yes, and they’ve been popping up all over the place. Even the songs that are on the radio when I go into the shop seem to have meaning, they’re so in tune with the situation.’
‘Of course.’ Amethyst smiles knowingly. ‘I don’t know why you sound surprised. Now all you have to do is keep looking him in the eye. I get that every time. I’m getting it again now,’ she says, pressing her temples, eyes closed. ‘You can’t escape it. One way or another it’s going to happen, my guides are certain about it.’
Four days on from my session with Amethyst the meaning of Situation Singing Fruitologist still eludes me, let alone the meaning of life.
‘Welcome, Kismet.’ Lionel sweeps up from the maestro-like bow he gives me as I walk into his consulting room for my session. He sits at his desk and smiles at me. I follow his lead and sit in the office chair next to it.
‘What’s been happening this week?’
‘I’ve seen the fruitologist a few times lately,’ I say. To bemoan my work situation feels so dull; besides, it’s a practical, tangible thing—I should be able to figure it out on my own.
‘Have you connected with him in a non-regular-customer way yet?’
‘No, not yet, but things are warming up.’
‘How so?’
‘I managed four or maybe five words in a row to him and looked him in the eye. There’s been a smile too.’ Having worked on it with Amethyst so thoroughly it feels unnecessary to go into too much detail with Lionel today.
‘That’s great progress, Kismet, well done.’
He’s probably thinking that the smile, the looking in the eyes and the extended speaking (no more than a polite ‘hi, how are you?’) were all simultaneous events on the one visit. I don’t bother to correct him.
And in terms of warming up, I don’t confess that parts of me warm up every time I catch a glimpse of the fruitologist in action—the lean; seeing him reaching up to get something from overhead, the way his T-shirt—best I don’t go on, I’ve started to blush. I don’t want Lionel interrogating me about why.
‘I want you to try that chair today please, Kismet.’ Lionel points to the chocolate brown velour one with the bear. ‘We’re going to do some work with Positively. I have introduced you to Positively, haven’t I?’
I stare questioningly at the bear. ‘No, I don’t think we’ve met.’
Lionel moves across to take the teddy from the chair. ‘Hello Kismet, I’m Positively,’ a voice suspiciously like Lionel’s says from behind the bear’s body, as it waves a badly mended paw at me. There’s nothing to do but wave my now completely healed hand back.
‘You did do your homework, didn’t you?’ Lionel moves Positively from in front of him and looks at me. He’s not as cute as Positively but his face is kind and safe.
‘Yes.’
‘Good, because Positively can’t help you if you haven’t. It’s forbidden. And there’s something else you have to do if you’re going to work with Positively.’
‘Yes?’ I say, an octave or two too high to carry off being entirely comfortable with the situation.
‘You have to cuddle him.’
‘Sure …’ The word comes out thin and reedy, uncertain. And who can blame me?
‘You’ll need one of these.’ Lionel hands me a card. I look at it, hoping for the secret message that will open the door to Positively’s affections. All I see are two bears entwined, hearts dotted around them like lovers’ thought bubbles. At the bottom of the card, printed in a very unattractive font (Comic Sans, I suspect) is: This Cuddle Card entitles the recipient to one cuddle.
‘Give him that, I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.’
Oh great Goddess above. I slip the card between Positively’s paws, which Lionel is holding together. I wonder if Positively’s surname is Ridiculous because that is how I feel.
Positively remains stagnant, stuffed and completely silent.
When enough time has passed for Positively’s silence to be taken as a green light, Lionel passes him to me.
I sit back and pop Positively on my lap, gently holding him around his middle.
‘No, no, no, Kismet. Not like that. That isn’t even a hug! You can’t just have him sitting there for protection like you try and get away with when you hold the cushions.’
Dharma it, he was onto me.
‘You need to really cuddle him. You do know the difference, don’t you?’
‘Sure.’ I hold Positively a little closer.
‘Still just a hug, Kismet! Here, let me show you.’ Lionel reaches across to take Positively. ‘Cuddling is about the fondness factor—nestling, snuggling and tenderness. Hugging is just, well, like what you’d do with your great aunt or whoever—it’s just an embrace of general affection. There is no real nurturing or intimacy there.’
I bite my lip to stop myself laughing at Lionel’s demonstration.
He passes Positively back to me as though he’s cradling a baby. I hold the bear to my chest and put his head under my chin. Many things cross my mind, none of them likely to induce a state of deep relaxation: I hope no one has dribbled on him; I wonder who has had intimacy with Positively prior to me; etc.
‘Lie back, relax and let go,’ Lionel begins as usual. ‘I can still sense some tension, just give into it, nurture him, Kismet, go into the cuddle, feel it, explore the affection, embrace it—pardon the pun.’
I struggle to navigate my way through this whole cuddling business and how I can possibly carry it off without snorting. Maybe that’s the point, maybe this is really humour therapy in disguise and I’m meant to start laughing? I get a shot of panic, unsure what to do. But Lionel seems to be taking it very seriously, so I get back to thinking of how I can manage the correct cuddling moves with Positively. A puppy, or a fully grown dog, even a kitten (though I’m not really a cat person); if I imagine Positively as one of those things I’ll be able to pull it off.
‘Before we start, I want you to just relax like that and tell me the most emotionally charged discovery you made doing your homework.’
I don’t tell Lionel the full details of the family album search—I’ll be so tense I might snap Positively’s head off. ‘There wasn’t anything really—I was just sort of there, in my family, while life went on around me.’
‘Hmm. OK, now just breathe the way I showed you. I’m going to count down from fifty. When you’re ready, we’ll travel back through your childhood to strip the layers of anxiety.’
Once Lionel has counted down he says, ‘Kismet, I want you to think of yourself as a badly treated chair, coat upon coat of paint whacked one over the other, where no one ever concerned themselves enough to care what was underneath.’
Bullseye. I give a little cough to distract myself from what he’s just said. My eyes are already closed but I squeeze them a little harder to stop tears slipping out.
‘Now just relax, focus on Positively. He is here anytime you need him. On any day you come, now that you have his permission, you can cuddle him.’
By the time Lionel has stopped speaking again, my poorly cared for piece of furniture moment has passed completely. The image I’m getting is not of me cascading back through my childhood but a bird’s eye view of this scene, looking down at myself, a 35-year-old woman sitting in a dark room, sprawled in a brown velour recliner, hugging a t
eddy bear that has seen better days. Now I’m wondering if Positively’s middle name is Insanely: Positively Insanely Ridiculous.
But if this is what it takes to overcome my anxiety, then so be it. I’m prepared to do whatever I have to.
‘Do you feel safe, Kismet? Comfortable?’ Lionel asks.
I nod.
‘Visualise yourself, take yourself to a place where your anxiety is at its premium. Don’t rush. Just nod when you’re ready.’
When my mind’s eye has me at the counter in front of the fruitologist, handing over my items, struggling to even get a note from my wallet, I nod again.
‘Give it a name.’
‘What?’
‘The anxiety—give it a name.’
Oh, Lionel, how could you? Does he not realise he’s just added a whole new level of anxiety to this experience by making me come up with something on the spot? How am I meant to name my anxiety just like that and how am I meant to know what an appropriate or acceptable name for anxiety is? What if I call my anxiety something wrong and he thinks it’s stupid? But I know exactly what he’ll say if I ask what most people call theirs or what sort of name I should give it.
‘Alex. I will call my anxiety Alex.’ I am partial to alliteration and this way I don’t have to decide whether it’s male or female.
‘Now ask Alex where it came from.’
‘It’s always been with me.’ I breathe into my feelings, my words slow, considered, my voice softer than when I’m not ‘under’.
‘What’s it telling you?’
‘That whatever I do, it’ll be wrong.’
‘Ask it why.’
‘Because I was different and being different wasn’t just being different. It was wrong.’ And so it goes. Alex and I have words, thirty minutes of them, then Lionel brings me back out.
‘Here take one of these,’ Lionel hands me a Cuddle Card as I’m leaving. ‘You might like to give it to the fruitologist.’
What are you on about, Lionel? Do you think I would be here paying $80 to cuddle a bear in a dark room if I could just barrel right up and thrust a Cuddle Card at the fruitologist? It’s looking very much like Positively might well be the most sane one among us.
‘That may be a little premature. I don’t even know his name,’ I say diplomatically.
‘Well, there you have it. That is your homework for the week. Challenge yourself, challenge Alex and introduce yourself or at least find out some personal information about the fruitologist or divulge some about yourself.’ Lionel smiles, knowing he’s caught me at my own game.
15
Lionel’s homework is like a magic wand. Left to my own devices I’d faff about forever but now I have someone to answer to, I’ll spring into action. I’m not sure if I’m innately obedient or just have a pathological fear of displeasing people or letting them down. Either way, the spots on the leopard appear the same.
I’m in a tricky situation. Obviously I’m not going to be able to find out anything about the fruitologist without managing to form a coherent sentence in front of him. But from where I stand (which happens to be wrapped in a towel, staring at my wardrobe, wondering what to wear for Mission Elicit Personal Information), that feels like a higher mountain to climb than Everest.
Then there’s the summit—the fruitologist. How is it possible for him not to have a single one of the two hundred and twenty-nine items on my What I Want and Need in my Next Male Love Relationship list, for Buddha’s sake? What sort of man is he? If such a thing as a spiritual intervention ombudsman existed, I’d be lodging a complaint before you could say, ‘Aren’t two hundred and twenty-nine items a bit excessive?’
Stuck with the issues of the earthly realm, as I stand here at ten on Saturday morning, dark jeans in one hand, light ones in the other, all I can do is wonder how I’m ever going to carry out my homework. Divulging some personal information might be easier.
‘Kismet, my name’s Kismet.’
‘Hi, I’m Kismet, I see you all the time but I don’t know your name.’
‘Hi, um, I see you all the time but I don’t know your name.’
‘Hi, I’m Kismet—you are?’
‘Hi, I’m Kismet, I was christened Fiona, but I really prefer to be called Kismet, so in fact just forget I said that first bit and call me Kismet. Your name is?’
Hmm. That last one isn’t going to do; as if I’d be able to get that many words out in front of him anyway. And the second two are so similar no one else would bother to think twice about them, but in my mind the tiny difference could be make or break. I know no matter how much I rehearse them the lines will come out however they like. That doesn’t stop me giving it a shot. I need to feel prepared.
The coy smile I road-test to accompany my introduction is far from ideal when I see it in the mirror. The seductive smirk I try just makes me look smarmy and, if past experience is anything to go by, my attempts at a red hot sexy seductress act around the fruitologist don’t bode well for the friendliness of said greengrocer.
I think about choosing a Lovers’ Oracle card for a clue. So I do—ten in fact. None of them offer anything I’m really in the mood for, so I listen to the little voice in my head that says, Just ask his name.
I get dressed, give my eyelashes one more curl (total: four) and, armed with my big plan, I’m ready to make the potentially life-altering trip to the PGGG. But first, a little affirmation and visualisation focussed on the Feng Shui bunnies in my relationship corner and an incantation for the Universe’s support.
Arrgghh! My mobile buzzes over my mantra. My scream subsides when I see it’s Jane, texting in reply to my call from yesterday.
Yes, I can meet you for lunch.
As much as I’d primed myself for Mission Elicit Personal Information and as much as I don’t want to travel across town because I’m really very tired, and as much as meeting her today will mean I won’t be able to get to the ho-hum domestics I planned to do and my routine will be all out for the week, and as much as Amethyst had mentioned about making room for other relationships, I can’t not meet Jane. It’d only make things worse.
The fruitologist will still be there next week. Besides my hair hadn’t worked that well anyway.
‘Bless the Goddess!’ I clink my glass of soda water against Jane’s glass of shiraz. We’re here to celebrate her STI-free results coming through—sure, there’s a while to wait for HIV but she’s pretty confident; Mr Spectacular but Nothing Special had been tested recently.
Jane seems light, happy, totally back to normal as she tells me about her week. I’m still having difficulty getting my head around the concept of Jane wanting a child and, yes, in spite of my best efforts to pretend I’m not stinging from the things she said, there’s a little something inside me that just won’t go away.
She looks at me in the new eye-narrowing way of hers that entered our lives with my fruitologist fixation. ‘What’s happening with you? Dare I ask, any progress with Situation Singing Fruitologist?’
I’m not going to tell her about Mission Elicit Personal Information and risk a lecture but I have to give her something. To not tell Jane anything would create a chasm bigger than the Black Cavern, which, as both Jane and I know from Year 7 Geography, is one of the largest in the world.
‘I haven’t seen him but I’ve come up with an inroad to conversation,’ I tell her. ‘Last night when I got home I was doing a bit of googling and came across an article on the impact of large supermarkets undercutting traditional specialised greengrocers. According to the article, the industry is in urgent need of reform.’
‘You are kidding aren’t you, Kismet? You’re thinking of using that as an opening, with someone you—fuck knows why—fancy?’
‘It’s fate more than flat-out fancy, but I thought it was perfect, arming myself with something that’s relevant to engage him in conversation. You obviously don’t agree.’ I’m probably skating on dangerously thin ice as far as keeping it within the boundaries of Amethyst’s recommended approach
to the change in my relationship with Jane, but now I’ve started it’s not easy to stop.
‘Well, what I really think, if you are going to persist and not face the fact he’s a fuckwit, is that you should just stride in there and—’
‘Yes, I know that. But given that’s unlikely, what do you think of my ‘hot topics in the world of fresh produce’ as a conversation starter?’
‘Seriously, you can’t go in there and start making moves talking about bloody imported fruit and vegetable issues. You’ll seem like the least good-time girl ever and as sexy as a dead otter floating on an oil spill.’
‘I thought it might show I was caring, but I see your point. Anyway, whatever, I think PGGG may have back-up income anyway.’
‘Here we go.’ Jane semi-snorts, so I feel safe to go on. I know she can tell from my tone and little smirk that I’m about to skip down one of my midnight flights of fantasy paths—the type where something innocent going bump in the night becomes a machete-wielding homicidal maniac about to enter my bedroom. Jane will appreciate my theory in a way no one else would or could. As far as the autumn of our relationship is concerned, I’m just playfully throwing leaves in the air.
‘I think they’re Polish mafia.’
‘Of course you do. Why, exactly?’
‘Getting my coffee this morning, I’d just read the headlines of a story on the Russian mafia in the paper and next thing, a guy who used to work at PGGG and has recently returned came in.’
‘Connection?’ Jane doesn’t subscribe to the ‘no coincidences’ belief but sounds curious, if not yet totally on board.
‘He has a strong Eastern European accent, is quite short, stocky and thuggish. Not that being short is necessarily relevant, I just don’t get a good vibe from him. I can well imagine him carrying out a hit on someone. He’s quite disturbing to be around, actually.’
