Acknowledgments

by Becky Lucas

  The morning after, I opened my eyes and stared at the tent’s ceiling while listening to Carlos have a spirited conversation with someone about the ethics of euthanasia. From the smell of bacon and eggs, I could tell things were back to normal, at least until the afternoon.

  We passed the week like this, all of us dancing, laughing, repeating our inside jokes, until one morning towards the end of the festival, Carlos had disappeared. It was a morning like all the others, until someone noticed his tent had been packed up so neatly, there wasn’t a trace that he’d ever been there. Well, there was probably some of his DNA on one of the couches – he had seduced at least four of the girls we were camping with, including one who had a boyfriend who was not a fan of Carlos.

  As people slowly came out of their tents, the others would ask them if they knew where Carlos was or why he’d left. But no one did.

  Some people were upset that Carlos had left without a goodbye, but I stood by him for the way he left. Sometimes the nicest thing you can do is leave without saying goodbye, particularly in a party setting. Some people are obsessed with doing the goodbyes and, frankly, it’s no good for anyone. Why even remind other people who are still invested in the party that leaving is an option? You’ll be at the pinnacle of a good story when someone comes over to explain why they have to leave: ‘Well, I’m off, guys, I’ve got tennis in the morning.’ Yes, we know, we heard your little song and dance to three other groups of people before you reached us.

  Eventually, the conversation at the campsite turned to who might know where he’d gone, and that turned into a discussion of who knew him best, and after some time it became apparent that no one had known Carlos at all. It turned out that every person at the campsite had only met him at the start of the week and assumed he was a friend of someone else.

  I still think it’s one of the funniest things anyone has ever done. He must have just been walking by on the first day, seen the incredible set-up, and realised that the campsite had everything it needed except him.

  In recent years, the thought of trying to contact Carlos online has occasionally crossed my mind. But what would be the point? We’d had a good time, and now I don’t ever have to see him in a suit or read the questionable things he might share on Facebook. He’ll remain forever alive in my mind the way he wanted to be seen.

  So thank you to Carlos for teaching me that sometimes not saying goodbye is the perfect way to leave.

  My primary school girl group

  I was walking with my friend the other day when we saw a group of noisy miner birds pecking one of their own to death. We were both horrified but kept walking – obviously, we couldn’t intervene, and everyone knows birds regularly turn on each other.

  I would have thought that having humans as a common enemy meant animals of the same species would have some kind of loyalty towards each other, like, ‘Hey, I know we aren’t always gonna get along, but I’m a bird and you’re a bird, so let’s look out for each other, okay?’ But rarely does that seem to happen.

  Then I thought about it for just one second more and realised that you could make the exact same argument for human beings, and look at what we’re capable of doing to each other. And I’m not even talking about the worst examples – the ruthlessness of human nature can be witnessed in the schoolyard, particularly among the large groups of schoolgirls who congregate together each lunchtime.

  We might not have pecked each other to death, but the girl group I was in at primary school definitely had a strict pecking order. We were kept in line using cruel tactics, such as choosing new locations to sit at lunchtime and ‘forgetting’ to tell one or two girls. The journey to becoming accepted into what was widely known by all to be the more popular group was long and arduous. It consisted of trying to inch your way into the centre of the circle, where the coolest girl would be holding court, doing something like playing with a flower, already secure in the knowledge of how beautiful she was.

  In order to get to the middle of the circle, you’d begin your social campaign by starting in on some of the weaker girls on the outside. These were the ones who were barely clinging on to their position themselves, so they would be happy to talk to you in order to at least look busy and somewhat popular themselves. If you played your cards right and managed to entertain them, it was possible that a girl closer to the middle would be intrigued by what you had to say and start up a conversation, allowing you to then inch in a little closer, pushing someone else out to the edge.

  Eventually, after many lunchtimes of inching, you would miraculously find yourself quite close to the popular girl, and if, like me, you could braid hair to a proficient level, you would be allowed to braid hers. This proximity would give you some time to shine and prove your worth in the centre, which, if done successfully, could really solidify your position in the group.

  It was important to keep your eye on the prize and remember that it was every girl for themselves. Having worked my way to the middle, I’d sometimes look up and accidentally make eye contact with some of my former outer-edge comrades who had taken a shot on me. They’d give me an imploring look, and I could see they wanted me to return the favour and help them climb the ranks too. But I’d shrug apologetically and try to telepathically communicate that there was nothing I could do right now.

  The concept of a group sleepover always seemed like a fun idea, but most of them turned into a Russian Roulette–like game of ‘Who is going to cry first?’ There were plenty of activities designed to fracture friendships and destroy alliances and, because of that, there was always a chance you might emerge triumphant.

  I found that most of the tension at a sleepover came from the girls constantly vying for a higher position or to at least have their current position reaffirmed to them. Then you had the girls who knew they had power and that there would always be someone who wanted to take it away.

  You never knew how a sleepover was going to go down. I once saw a girl go from outer edge to inner circle simply by staying up the latest. The stakes were high, and you had to be brave enough to risk it all, knowing it could go either way. Do you dare put shaving cream on the popular girl’s face while she’s asleep, knowing she might either find the prank hysterical or banish you to the outer edges forever? What about accusing a girl of stealing something from your bag to get her on the back foot? These were both tactics I saw employed at some point to varying degrees of success.

  If somebody suggested a game of ‘Spice Girls’, it was not merely a game, it was a way for the group to discover how much power each one had. It always seemed to me that the boys would play games like football, cricket or marbles, which had set rules and the fun was had in playing the game to the best of your ability. But for us girls, the fun lay in deciding the intricate rules and the framework for how the game was going to be played.

  ‘You want to be Posh? No, Jess is Posh now. You can be Sporty Spice.’ And with that, you’d basically been labelled sexless.

  Of course, the popular girl with blonde hair would always get to be Baby Spice. My Czechoslovakian friend, Adrianna, on the other hand, who had blonde hair but no status, was delegated to Scary Spice every time because she was considered the most exotic of us all. The conversation over who was who, and why such-and-such deserved to be a particular Spice Girl, was so long and fraught that by the time all the particulars had been nutted out, no one actually wanted to play anymore and everyone had had their feelings hurt.

  There was one sleepover I went to in Year Seven, where a particularly sadistic girl in the group suggested a game. First, we would all sit on the bed and put our names into a hat. Then we’d draw out one name, and that girl would have to stand alone in front of the bed while all the girls on the bed took turns saying what they found annoying about her – and the girl being critiqued was not allowed to get upset. The idea of the game, this girl explained, was to learn to accept that we all have flaws and to help each other address these flaws in a mature and helpful way.

  ‘Plus we�
��ll all have our time being told what’s wrong with us, so it’s fair,’ she added.

  The first girl lasted thirty seconds before bursting into tears and running out of the room. She then locked herself in the bathroom for the rest of the night, at one point threatening to eat some aspirin she’d found in the top drawer. This meant the sleepover became mostly dedicated to dealing with this drama, as different girls took turns trying to convince her to come out and just have a good time. Meanwhile, the instigator of the game sat there, delighted at what she’d achieved.

  This game was undoubtedly cruel, but I was secretly disappointed that it didn’t go on a bit longer. Deep down, I had this strange desire to hear what everyone disliked about me. Perhaps the most frustrating thing about a group of women is that they won’t tell you exactly what it is you’re doing wrong; instead, it’s up to you to pick up on subtle hints and clues. I was jealous of the ease of male friendships – among the boys, any bad behaviour was up for public discussion and ridicule, so you at least had the chance to defend yourself.

  Of course, most of these sorts of mind games fade away by the time you’re older and have found your real female friends. I now have so many beautiful friends who I adore and feel completely comfortable around, and who make me feel loved in a way I didn’t think I ever would be. I sometimes look around at them and think I’ve found the best women in the world.

  That being said, I don’t think any girl groups, no matter what age their members are, are immune to the politics of female friendship. I also have some female friends who, once we’re in a group together, make me feel like I’m getting sucked back into the dynamic of that primary school circle. There’s a bitchiness in groups of women that I’m addicted to and terrified of. I think it’s one of the great allures of women in general – that no matter how hard you try, you can’t ever truly know what they’re thinking or who they’re colluding with. And once you realise that, you can be truly free of the circle.

  So thank you to my primary school girl group for the vital lesson that still applies today: you only need a handful of completely trustworthy female friends and the rest are just there to have fun and figure out the rules of the game with.

  The Westfield shopping centre

  In my early twenties, I worked at the customer service desk of a Westfield shopping centre in north Brisbane. My friend Sophie had got me the job, which I was to start over the Christmas break, and I was excited to begin as I had always been a huge fan of going to the shops. It’s seen by my friends and loved ones as one of my little provincial quirks, like my love for theme parks. To me, theme parks are a great equaliser – the man next to me on the ride might have a neck tattoo and a dubious relationship with his ex-wife, but, for now, we’re both sitting side by side squealing in terror and delight.

  If you grew up in a suburb forty minutes out of the city, like I did for most of my young life, you may understand why a Westfield shopping centre has such a special place in my heart. I have a theory that any place that’s forty minutes out of the city is the worst. People who live there will commute to the city for everything they need, which means the suburb itself gets neglected. The people who live an hour out of the city, however, have decided that they aren’t going all that way on a regular basis for the things they like, so they’d better hunker down and make their suburb or town somewhere decent.

  For me, a trip to the Westfield shopping centre meant that Mum and I were on a mission together. It represented a certain type of calmness from having enough money to treat ourselves. In my eyes, it was a gateway to the world, a cosmopolitan retreat from our suburb, filled with all the brands from TV, and the possibility of McDonald’s for dinner.

  The customer service desk I worked at was in the middle of the shopping centre, directly underneath a beam of natural light that perfectly illuminated us customer service reps and made it easier for irate customers to locate us. My first day working there, a woman in a maxi dress with two children in tow came barrelling towards the desk.

  ‘Do you know that in the level three toilets there’s a poo on top of the toilet seat?’ she shrieked, as if I had been personally responsible for the deed.

  ‘Um, no, I wasn’t aware of that . . . particular one,’ I responded, warily eyeing the large diamond ring that sat below one of her perfectly manicured nails.

  ‘Well, it’s disgusting,’ she spat, which I couldn’t disagree with.

  ‘I’ve just spilled my mocha on the ground. What are you going to do about it?’ yelled another woman behind her.

  ‘I’m going to get on all fours and lick it up like a dog,’ I considered replying.

  But the main thing people were upset about was the new Westfield policy, which declared that if people had been at the shopping centre for longer than two hours, then they had to pay for their parking.

  ‘It goes against our most basic human rights,’ one man said aggressively, a glob of his spittle landing on my temple. It was bizarre how many times people’s spittle would land on my face and the person who’d done it would see it happen and fail to apologise. It wasn’t out of embarrassment, but out of what I presume was an assumption that I wouldn’t complain or wasn’t even really allowed to.

  To combat this growing resentment around paid parking, and to boost customer morale, Westfield employees were occasionally given parking vouchers and ordered to hand them out to customers randomly. We were told to be careful doing this, that we weren’t to create a mob-like atmosphere or let it get ‘out of control’, as there had been instances in other centres where people were injured by human stampedes during previous prize giveaways. Imagine being crushed to death by a human stampede – it’s a death so undignified, I imagine your family would prefer to say you’d died during a wild night of autoerotic asphyxiation gone wrong.

  Whenever I was sent out on one of these expeditions, I found that it always took a while to get going, because whenever you’d attempt to hand out the vouchers, people would assume you were trying to sell them something and they’d shoo you away or avoid eye contact. Then a more astute customer would pick up on what was being offered and, within seconds, you’d find yourself swamped by shoppers elbowing each other out of the way and demanding free parking vouchers. I remember giving out two passes, valued at about four dollars, to a man who was so overjoyed, he started breakdancing while holding a bag of Donut King donuts. I’m sure, outside of the shopping centre, these were all intelligent and caring people; it’s just what that place does to you.

  Over time, I realised that I had to leave my humanity at the door and succumb to the abuse. It was my own ego that made me continue to feel hurt by the customers; I was refusing to accept that we live in a world where people in service positions are treated like shit by those who think it’s okay to do that, and, honestly, once I got over trying to be seen as an actual person, I was able to really enjoy myself.

  One afternoon, I was trying to help a middle-aged woman with an expired gift voucher. I was highly aware of her speaking to me like she was being so generous and benevolent by engaging with me. She spoke in clipped tones, a barely concealed sneer dancing over her lips. Then her kid, who I had gone to school with, came up from behind her and started chatting with me. I really enjoyed watching her entire demeanour change as she realised our interaction was no longer anonymous.

  Even though I loved going to Westfield as a kid and teenager, until I worked there, I didn’t realise how many people went to the shopping centre every day and stayed there from open to close. There was an older husband-and-wife couple whom we all knew, who loved spending all day at the shops, eating ice creams and looking at things. The husband needed a mobility scooter to get around, but his wife could walk.

  A couple of weeks after I started, the husband ran his scooter right over his wife’s foot, breaking it in three places, which meant we didn’t seem them for about six weeks. Then, on my last day, I saw the two of them ambling along. The woman’s foot had healed and the man was once again atop his mobili
ty scooter. I ran back to the customer service desk and told everyone they were back, and the news really lifted our spirits.

  An hour later, my manager told me that the security guard had just radioed in to tell her that, while the couple had been perusing a popular homewares store, the husband had accidentally accelerated into a display of vases, freaked out, then reversed over his wife’s foot, breaking it again.

  My friend still works at that Westfield and he tells me that they’re still together to this day, which I see as a testament not just to the strength of their relationship but to their love of going to the shops.

  When visiting a Westfield, you may have occasionally noticed a bird fly through the front doors, and, if you look up, you’ll see them flying around in circles in the highest part of the roof. You may have even seen them perched on one of the benches next to a tired old man who’s having a sit-down while his wife tries on various capri pants in a nearby store.

  I would sometimes see people pointing and laughing at the sight of a little bird lost inside a shopping centre. Admittedly, it is funny to see something in a place it shouldn’t be, but a bird inside a shopping centre is much more tragic than they realised. You see, if a bird gets caught inside of a shopping centre, it usually only has an hour or so before it dies of exhaustion or thirst from the stress and general discombobulation of being inside a manmade environment.

  I suppose it’s similar to what might happen to a human trapped in a shopping centre, if there wasn’t a huge food court for them to hydrate and feed themselves – certainly there were times when I saw people experiencing the same levels of confusion and distress. I used to have to help people find the exit of the shopping centre nearly every day. It’s commonplace for people to either lose themselves or their toddlers at a Westfield; in fact, they’re designed to increase the chances of that happening. Next time you’re in a shopping centre, pause for a second and try to remember who you are and why you went there. It’s almost impossible. You become convinced that you need bejewelled jeans and a Dyson vacuum, when really you only went in there to shit on the top of a toilet seat.