Welcome to Story Club

by Zoe Norton Lodge

  We find a spot next to an old rusted car. No one will ever see us. He pulls out of his pocket a packet of playing cards with photos of naked women in soft focus on them that he stole from the shitty travelling two-dollar shop that comes into town once a month and sets up shop at the old pub. All the ladies are wearing really lacy lingerie, high heels and have big permed hair and even larger bushes of pubic hair.

  It’s enough for us to be aroused (again, hormones) . . . and we’re off.

  Pants off, red dirt swirling, lots of sweat . . . Sounds hot? Well it was. It was literally hot, like forty-two degrees hot. You’d be amazed at what kinds of animals are attracted to human sweat, not to mention the sheen of blowflies that swarmed us. It was very romantic.

  We tried a lot of things, and if only I knew what I know now back then, well things would have been less painful.

  We were all elbows, hands and heavy breathing and then I saw it: a shimmering flash, shiny scales, slithering near the rusted-out car.

  My friend had his eyes closed and right at the moment I saw the snake, I am pulling him off . . .

  The moment I see that snake, he cums and I yank his penis so hard it tears his foreskin. He’s in ecstasy and agony and I am screaming, thinking the snake is about to chase me at any minute. I take it as a sign from god that what we are doing is so sinful a serpent has come to bite me and my parents are going to find me dead in the scrub with my pants around my ankles and that horrible deck of cards scattered next to me.

  I hightailed it out of there, sans thongs, running through scrub and eventually making it to the highway, where the bitumen was at least a hundred degrees, and did my walk of atonement back into town, where I almost collapsed from heat exhaustion.

  My family is not even religious, but after I recovered from all the cuts and blisters on my feet, I did spend a long time praying to god that he would fix me, that he would make me masculine, sporty and a bloody good fighter. Instead, I was swinging and landing uppercuts on myself, fighting who I really was.

  Looking back at that terrified, lost, horny teen in the scrub under that blazing sun, I think what I really needed was a black gay role model.

  Not someone people called ‘cat’, not someone people laughed at: a gay elder to say we, as people, have a place in our culture.

  When I was eighteen and living in Sydney my mother visited. She asked me if I was gay. I remember inhaling sharply and then letting go of all that fear and dread and saying, ‘Yes, I’m gay.’

  Today, we, the black community, have to fight this together. We need to say to our sons and daughters it’s OK to be gay, lesbian or transgender and that it has always been a part of Aboriginal culture.

  We are losing many to suicide – many of them have spent hours alone in their bedrooms in the middle of nowhere praying to be someone they’re not.

  For those keen to know about my friend’s foreskin. It healed nicely and we have never mentioned it again.

  CATHY WILCOX

  Cathy Wilcox is a Sydney-based cartoonist and illustrator who has drawn cartoons regularly for the Sydney Morning Herald and other Fairfax Media publications since 1989. She has illustrated numerous picture books, delivered a TEDxSydney Talk on the ‘culture of outrage’ in 2016 and live-illustrated a Terrapin Theatre puppet show in 2017. A keen observer of society and politics, and a champion of press freedom, Cathy has participated in several international cartoonist conferences and is a member of Cartooning for Peace. She has won several awards for her work, including three Walkley Awards and the Museum of Australian Democracy’s award for Political Cartoonist of the Year 2016. She is married and has two teenage children.

  ‘Do You Not Know How To Lie?’ copyright © Cathy Wilcox 2018

  Do You Not Know How To Lie?

  by CATHY WILCOX

  This story was originally performed at the event Hopelessly Devoted

  There’s a sucker born every minute.

  I have a fair idea who it was that minute, one afternoon in June 1963.

  Twenty-one years later, in Paris, the world was still trying to tell me I was a sucker.

  I’d not long since arrived there, part of my big adventure to find myself and grow up, and within a few weeks, three unconnected people had asked me, seemingly out of the blue, if I knew how to lie.

  They asked it in French: ‘Est-ce que tu ne sais pas mentir?’ – ‘Do you NOT know how to lie?’ My French was still at high-school level, so while I understood the sentence, I didn’t really get it.

  The next year or so would clear that up.

  You see, the premise of my being in Paris was a relationship – my first BIG love affair. This affair was unequal, that much I knew, and I felt I needed to grow myself up to be equal to it.

  I met this man while working in that grand old dame of retail, David Jones. I sold men’s hats and overcoats; he was in suits. Between us was a Rubicon of parquetry, and also of life experience, which he crossed during quiet times to make banter, and flirt. He was charming. A New Yorker, recently arrived in Sydney, educated, with that urbane, Tom Lehrer diction, a sharp wit and a kind of quaint gallantry.

  He was thirty years old.

  I was eighteen, only one year out of school, an Art College student who lived on the North Shore and had gone to a private school. David Jones in the city, where I’d worked Christmases since I was fifteen, was my window to the world, albeit a genteel slice of it.

  All my boyfriends up to that point, of which there had been many, had been pleasant, suitable boys who attended schools my parents could identify; they were not charming or worldly, and they generally told me that I thought too much. The most challenging among them had long hair and played in rock bands or – God forbid – went to a public school. So it wasn’t hard for an exotic bird from New York to awaken some profoundly romantic interest in this naïve but curious hatchling who was hungry to grow up.

  This man – let’s call him J – asked me out. I dumped all my erstwhile boyfriends immediately and accepted.

  For the next six months, you could picture the standard fallingin-love sequence from a Hollywood romcom. We went to old movies, had picnics by the harbour, laughed at the animals at the zoo and became regulars in an Italian restaurant. He gave me books, told me what to read, what to listen to, discussed art with me (now, there was an area where I knew more than him).

  It was the most exhilarating time of my life and I was smitten.

  Adding to the danger and excitement, my parents disapproved.

  They were bellyaching about not knowing what his parents did or what school he went to and the fact that he lived on the other side of the bridge and wouldn’t pick me up or bring me home! J had by now exposed to me how ‘petty bourgeois’ these values were, and he certainly had no intention of living up to my parents’ ridiculous standards.

  The relationship had started to move beyond the ‘going out’ stage and was leaning towards the ‘coming home’ side of things. Given my parents’ feelings, we couldn’t be hanging around my house; and yet they certainly didn’t want me going un-chaperoned to his place! It was really all about my virginity for my mother, and her rules had held tight so far, but now . . .

  There was going to be no sex while I was living under their roof so, encouraged tactically if not practically by J, I moved out into a share house. I was nineteen, and even though my parents refused to support this move, I had my job at David Jones.

  I was now free of parental constraint, but the relationship still ran very much on J’s terms. It mostly happened on my turf; he was less extravagant with the outings now and his place was practically out of bounds.

  He lived with a flatmate, he explained – a friend of the family who had kind of sponsored him since he’d come to Australia. It wasn’t really his place to invite me to. Also, sometimes he had to do stuff with the flatmate’s family – out of a sort of friendly obligation.

  Sometimes he cancelled our plans at the last minute, or just didn’t turn up, explaining later that he had
. . . family obligations. I’d be disappointed and hurt, but how could I make demands of this grown, worldly man? He had met a few of my friends but had no desire to come to their parties or hang out with them. He made me see what a shallow, silly bunch they were. I got to meet a few of his friends – and felt like I’d acceded to the inner circle!

  I called his place sometimes and the phone was answered by the flatmate. She seemed pretty surly. I didn’t insist.

  Intense love does not come without intense conflict, and we sometimes had some big ones. We’d end up breaking up, usually because of some point of principle I’d refuse to concede, or a thing I wouldn’t agree to. But then we’d see each other at work, the spark would still be there, we’d meet up after, I’d have had time to see the error of my ways and we’d end up going home to my place.

  It was clear: I was still not grown up, after my sheltered upbringing and my Art College degree, which he reminded me wasn’t a real education.

  What I needed to do, he said, was to go away – to Paris! – get a proper education – and find myself!

  As vague and ill-formed an idea as this was, my parents actually supported it, because at least it would get me away from J. Better the world out there than with some shady American fellow we don’t trust!

  My head agreed to the plan because J said it was what I needed to do, but in my heart I was terrified. But fear was the most limiting thing, he explained, and that’s why I had to push through it.

  I would study and find illustration work, and soak in the culture. We’d ask no questions about each other’s relationships in the interim. He’d give me time to get established then he’d come and see me and how lovely! I’d be so grown up!

  Farewells, tears, promises and ridiculously heavy bags . . .

  My father had booked me a hotel for the first week, and I had the phone number of someone living there – thank God – and that was the start of my new adventure.

  And that’s where I was when, a few weeks in, as I found my way about and looked for a place to live, people I met asked me if I didn’t know how to lie.

  I learned so much in my time there – believing, all the while, that I was doing it for J. We wrote letters, sometimes had short expensive phone calls, and again he promised to come and see me, but his plans always got postponed.

  One day, more than a year after my arrival, he called.

  His letters had been ardent, he’d spoken of wanting us to be together and, now, he wanted to marry me.

  I was so used to his bohemian rejection of those hypocritical bourgeois conventions, I actually asked whether he was joking. But, of course, I was thrilled at the thought.

  For the next weeks, I walked lightly – after all my challenges, the waiting, the disappointment, the missing. This was unofficial, I had nobody I could really tell – but I had a future plan!

  Three weeks later, I had another phone call.

  It was his flatmate, M.

  She had some shocking news:

  J was dead.

  He had died of an asthma attack. She had tried to get him to hospital but didn’t make it in time. But, she said, he’d have wanted me to know that he loved me and believed in me.

  That was it.

  I was left to grieve, to find those of my new friends who could comfort me, and to re-examine this complete overturning of what I’d thought this adventure was about.

  It turned out that this was my trip, for me. Not for him. I’d been brave, I’d learned the language, I’d found work, I’d made friends, I’d made things happen, I’d done it all.

  I’d been devoted to J, but he’d let me go, and there I was.

  Now, that might seem a poetic end to the story.

  But I still missed this man who had been so influential in my life, and in my grief I looked for him everywhere – in the mannerisms, features, intonations of other men. Of course, I’d realise these were illusory.

  Also, what was my place in his story? I only knew a few of his friends, and his family didn’t know I existed; I had no one in his circle to share my grief with.

  That’s why, some months later, in a fit of missing him, I tracked down the number of one of his friends – one of the few I’d been allowed to meet.

  He told me about the funeral, the eulogies and the wake. He asked after me. Then he told me: J was just sorting his life out – he’d graduated from his uni course and he’d reaffirmed his vows.

  His what?

  ‘His wedding vows, with M – after eleven years, they’d had a bit of time out but were back on track.’

  . . .

  ‘Cathy?’

  . . .

  ‘I thought you knew.’

  . . .

  ‘I’m so sorry, if there’s anything I can –’

  M was the woman I’d known as the flatmate. A friend of the family, indeed!

  I’d seen her once, when I’d gone to his flat to look for him, when we were having a fight. She’d just said: ‘He’s not here.’

  You probably all saw it.

  There was I, the young woman who didn’t know how to lie, but who’d been brilliantly deceived.

  When I came back to Sydney a year later, I met with M. She kind of granted me a hearing, a chance to ask questions, to fill in some gaps.

  So many lies and half-truths . . .

  But there she was. Knowing it all, and having chosen to stay.

  CAMERON JAMES

  Cameron is a quickly rising comedian, actor, writer and podcast guy. He can currently be seen being funny as the head comedy writer for The Feed, and in Comedy Central’s popular ‘Share This’ web series with fellow comic Becky Lucas. His face has also appeared on ABC TV’s Utopia, and his own Next Gen stand-up special. You can hear his voice (no face, this time) on his iTunes chart-topping podcasts ‘Total Reboot’ and ‘Mike Check’. He’s also funny in conversations with people’s mothers at parties. Most importantly, Cam was recently named one of the ‘Funniest Aussie Comedians to Follow on Social Media’ by the Herald Sun, because having a strong online brand is EVERYTHING.

  ‘Hungry Jack’s Robbery’ copyright © Cameron James 2018

  Hungry Jack’s Robbery

  by CAMERON JAMES

  This story was originally performed at the event Tomorrow Is Another Day

  When I was fourteen years old, I worked at Hungry Jack’s Kotara, Newcastle, New South Wales. I’m sorry for starting this story with such a blatant brag, but that’s just the life God chose for me.

  When I was working at Hungry Jack’s, I was involved in an attempted robbery. I’ve been robbed twice in my life, if you count my bid for school captain in Year Six, which I lost to Myles Young. I’m over it now. (Just recount the votes, that’s all I want.)

  I worked there before it was Hungry Jack’s. When I started, it was called Burger King, which is just a much better name, isn’t it? The Burger King sounds strong, and regal. Hungry Jack sounds like a menace who always wears Hawaiian shirts, and gets his foot amputated at thirty-five.

  I was fourteen, and I was bad at my job, like all kids that age are. Fourteen-year-olds aren’t bad people, they’re just shit people. They don’t even look like people yet. Have you ever seen a photo of you at that age, you’re like: Who is that mutant?

  So, the managers at HJ’s invented this initiative called the Valued Team Member Club.

  Every month, two employees who performed well got their name up on the Valued Team Member board and a thirty per cent off discount card for every Hungry Jack’s restaurant in Kotara, Newcastle, New South Wales. First month, I wasn’t chosen. Fair enough. Second month, still no me. OK. Third, fourth, fifth month, I’m not on the board yet.

  I was there for four years and I never became a member of the Valued Team Member Club.

  After a while, it became a source of pride. I was glad I wasn’t up on that board with the other nerds. I started my own club, the Rebel Team Member Club. It was just me. But I was always on the lookout for new recruits.

  We had our ow
n set of rules over at the Rebels. Rule number one – death to all Valued Team Members. In hindsight, a bit extreme. I’ve never had to enforce it. Yet.

  Rule number two – Rebels stick together. Again, I was the only member.

  And while I couldn’t offer a thirty per cent off discount card, I had my own counter-offer – a hundred per cent off. What do you think of that? That’s right, I was stealing burgers over in the Rebels. I had a whole system. I’d make a burger, wrap it up, put it in the bin, take the bin outside, eat the burger.

  It’s fine: it wasn’t touching any rubbish.

  Sure, it’s not for everybody, I’ll admit that. But neither is being a Rebel Team Member.

  My managers were always trying to get me to work harder to get on the Valued Team Member board. One of them said, ‘What if one day in five years you’re starving and you have no money, and the only way you can afford some dinner is if you had a Valued Team Member thirty per cent discount card? What would you do then?’

  ‘Kill myself.’

  Of course, I didn’t know at the time I’d become a comedian when I grew up, and that discount would come in handy.

  One time a manager caught me eating a sticky date pudding out of the bin and they sorta stopped bothering me about it after that. There’s two ways you can look at someone eating out of the bin: he needs help, or he’s probably got it covered.

  One night, I’m on close. It’s midnight, I’m alone, cleaning the machines, when I hear this tapping noise behind me.

  I don’t know what it is, so I just keep cleaning.

  It starts getting faster, more annoying. I turn around to see the scariest thing you could ever see at a Hungry Jack’s: Ronald McDonald. No, it wasn’t him. Though that’d be terrifying if he was there, wide eyed and shouting, ‘You think your burgers are better, motherfucker?’

  It was a guy standing on the other side of the Drive Through window tapping the glass with a knife. And my blood froze. I’m fourteen, and there’s a guy with a knife, and he’s going to rob me and stab me and I’m going to die – in a Hungry Jack’s.