Acknowledgments

by Becky Lucas

  Thanks to Jacinta Allen for the reminder that, if you’re going to go to the trouble of faking your own death, don’t give it all up for a Seafood Sensation Subway sandwich.

  Jeff

  My mum used to host these ‘jams’ when I was a kid, where she and her friends who played in folk bands would sit around our house playing music together. Her two best friends were a married couple who, when they weren’t playing folk music, dressed like clowns and toured with the circus most of the year. I thought they were amazing. Jeff was tall and played the fiddle, and Maggie had long hair and played the mandolin, and they were both so nice to me, I felt so special whenever I was around them.

  I loved ‘doing the rounds’ at these jams and being spoken to like an adult, but mostly I loved the fact that my mum would be in such a good mood that she would regularly let out peals of tinkling laughter. When her friends arrived at the front gate of our house, I knew that, for the next while, everything would be fun and nice. Sometimes I have the same feeling when there are people over at my house or when I’m at a party. I just want everyone to have a good time. And it’s not for my benefit – when people are having a good time, I don’t even want to be there really; I want to go somewhere private and relax, or ideally listen in on them having a good time from the next room.

  When my parents’ friends came over, there was also the added bonus of a probable treat, which I think is a cornerstone of hope for most kids, even if it’s just something small like a cup of tea and a square of chocolate.

  Mum and her friends would all sit around and get stoned, playing song after song, which for me was probably the worst part. I liked the bit where they stopped playing and there would be general chitchat and laughter; sometimes when they were singing, it was all too earnest for me. I felt uncomfortable at how emotional they all were mid-song. I still feel that way about some music to this day. I hate the thought of expressing how you feel so ardently and publicly – it is probably my greatest fear. This might sound strange coming from a stand-up comedian, but for me comedy is different. I am never required to actually express my true feelings; if anything, people prefer that I don’t.

  Occasionally, during these jams, I would be handed a tambourine to bang along to if I promised to do it quietly but, as I got older, I started being entrusted with real instruments like fiddles or guitars. One time, Jeff handed me a mandolin and showed me how to pluck a few basic notes for the upcoming song. I was excited to be given this chance so, as the song began, I started plucking along softly. I saw a few of the adults look at me approvingly and, when the song finished, they all declared I had a great ear for music.

  I loved how easy it was to get a compliment as a kid. I could be speaking for myself here, but I was always very aware at how little effort you were required to put in to get a compliment. That’s why the whole concept of show and tell appealed to me so much, because the basic premise was to bring in something that you already owned, or even an interesting stick you found on your way to school, and then the whole class would sit there hanging off your every word. It just seemed so easy. Do little to no work and receive praise and attention? Sign me up.

  As I was plucking along to more songs and quickly gaining confidence, I got louder and louder. In my mind, I was now the star of this jam.

  After a song where I had played particularly enthusiastically, while people were tuning their instruments and getting up to go to the toilet, Jeff leant over to me and said, in a very kind voice, ‘I think for now you should play a bit more quietly. Just until you learn how to do it properly.’

  My whole face burnt with embarrassment. I wanted to cry, but instead I nodded really fast and pretended I wanted to go and play with my toys. It was the child’s equivalent of ‘No, I’m fine. I’m just tired. I might head home. You guys go ahead.’

  As embarrassed as I was at the time, I now think what great advice that was. When you’re learning something new, watch and learn from others, and shut the fuck up. They should teach that in schools. It is such a gift for someone to tell you when you’re being annoying when you’re at an age that there’s still a chance you can change. Hearing you’re annoying as an adult, on the other hand, usually doesn’t achieve much except sending you into a manic-depressive episode.

  I look back on that exchange as one of the small defining moments in my life that helped me become more aware of the people around me. In that moment, I was making it about myself and being a show-off, and Jeff, probably recognising that he himself had acted that way in the past, let me know where I was going wrong without being rude or hurting my feelings too much. Adults have so many things to teach children; there are so many little behaviours that can develop into more problematic ones if they’re not caught and corrected early. If you’re lucky, your network of friends and family are able to spot things that might need to be realigned and tell you about it in a kind way.

  At age thirty, I went on a family trip. Prior to the trip, I had taken several years off from family events to be an entitled brat pursuing the arts down south. In an effort to prove how good a niece and daughter I really was, I took everyone out for lunch. Thinking the gesture had adequately made up for years of neglect, I relaxed and concentrated on enjoying the rest of the trip, occasionally lending a hand carrying groceries and setting the table.

  One afternoon, Aunty Elizabeth, who had taught me how to make cutting remarks and has this way of mocking you while her face maintains plausible deniability, asked me if I could wash the dishes. I was sprawled out on the couch with my hand resting inside a bowl of chips, and I complained loudly over the noise of the TV that I’d done enough on the holiday.

  When she asked me what I meant, I foolishly walked into her trap by listing my good deeds in detail.

  In a perfect play, she allowed me to go on and on until I’d exhausted myself, then she said in a composed voice, ‘Becky, it’s been so lovely having you here. We’ve seen how good you’ve been with everyone—’

  Then she delivered the final blow: ‘—and it hasn’t gone unnoticed.’

  I felt so ashamed and grateful to her for that nip, which I needed.

  I came back to Sydney and told everyone that story, probably as a way of diluting the embarrassment I had felt and trying to own the narrative. Whatever my reasons were for sharing it, that phrase has become something my friends and I say to each other whenever we feel that the other person is wanting too much praise for something they did, instead of being cool enough to know that the favour will be returned at some point down the track: ‘It hasn’t gone unnoticed.’

  It’s a privilege to have people around me who care enough to keep my behaviour in check, because that means they care about me and how I fit in with other people.

  I knew a guy who had grown up in foster care and was a social menace. He was the sort of guy who would smoke your last cigarette or drink your last beer. People didn’t like him a lot of the time, but I loved him and still do.

  What was interesting was that the same people who didn’t like him would claim to be socially progressive, and would happily lecture for hours about ‘how important education is’ and ‘how the system creates criminals because of the lack of housing and mental health funding’. Yet faced with a man who had been shunted from house to house from the age of nine, a man without a mum or dad or any real network of people to monitor the type of man he was becoming, they were unable to extend the same sympathies.

  I am guilty of being annoyed by people and the things they do – I’ve built an entire career on mocking such people. But I think that, deep down, the reason I make fun of people who do things that rub me the wrong way is because the idea that they didn’t have someone who loved them enough to gently teach them not to do what they’re doing makes me really sad.

  So thanks to Jeff for reminding me to not be an annoying little twerp. I shudder to think what I would have been like if I hadn’t had that little tap on the shoulder; because, even now, I’m pretty unbearable.

  The
dead puppies

  My parents had a dog called Heidi who was perfectly behaved until she met a dog called Fred who lived a few doors up. She and Fred would run away together all the time. Any time she disappeared, we’d check which dogs were at the pound, and there would be pictures of the two of them smiling side by side.

  Eventually, Fred knocked up Heidi and she had eight little puppies. This was a dream for my two younger sisters, Hannah and Charlotte, who were about seven and nine at the time. The puppies used to trot around the house in the cutest little convoy, trying to find places to escape the oppressive Brisbane heat. One of their preferred spots was behind the tyres of my stepmum’s car, which was usually parked underneath a shady garage that often had a breeze whipping through it in the afternoons. Because of this, every time anyone had to use the car, we had to do a quick head count to make sure the puppies were safe and sound.

  On Christmas Day, my stepmum had invited the whole family over. As usual, she spent much of the day sending Dad off to buy this and that, while my sisters and I kept out of the way so she wouldn’t see us and yell at us to do something.

  My sisters and I were all lounging around, just out of sight, picking up our Christmas gifts and giving them a shake, then putting them down again, when I heard my stepmum storm into every room of the house, trying to find my dad so she could yell at him for forgetting the butter she needed for the garlic prawns. The heat, combined with the stress of impending guests, meant that any little disruption to her meal planning became a huge deal. She couldn’t find him – perhaps my dad had seen how well our hiding technique was working and was doing the same – so, with her face all sweaty and puffed up, I watched through the glass doors as she ran out the door in frustration, jumped in the car, started the engine and quickly reversed as fast as she could out of the driveway.

  Then time seemed to slow down.

  ‘Noooooo!’ I heard my stepmum cry out in anguish.

  My sisters looked into my eyes, and I saw that they realised what must have happened.

  I didn’t know what to do – I didn’t want to see what had happened, but I had to follow my sisters outside because they’d begun screaming at their mum and beating their little fists against the car.

  ‘You killed the puppies! You killed all of them!’ they shrieked again and again, repeating themselves until they were hoarse.

  Whenever somebody complains about having to hear the same carols on repeat during Christmas, I remember the anguished screams of my sisters and think to myself, There are worse things one could hear over the holidays.

  My poor stepmum was on her knees, sobbing and begging for forgiveness, as the entire family stood around her. Mothers often talk about the guilt that comes with parenting and look back at the things they did or didn’t do, like encouraging their child to play an instrument or working too much, and beat themselves up over it. Usually, I roll my eyes a bit at the things they feel guilty about. Hardly anyone has a perfect childhood. But watching my stepmum on her knees, only ten feet away from puppy gizzards, I realised I was bearing witness to something she would feel guilty about for the rest of her life, and probably with legitimate reason.

  Meanwhile, the trauma of the incident was being firmly cemented deep into the recesses of my sisters’ brains. It’s no doubt still there, lying dormant, waiting until they’re in their mid-thirties and hear the sound of a car ignition on Christmas Day, when it will erupt, resulting in them weeping hysterically in a foetal position on the floor.

  My dad jumped into action and began grabbing the little dead puppies as quickly as he could and putting them into a bucket away from my sisters, who had just learnt the hard way that sometimes Christmas isn’t magical. My stepmum went inside and laid down on the bed to cry for an hour or so, while Dad organised a last-minute funeral for the eight puppies who had lost their lives.

  Dad dug a mass grave and placed all of the puppies in it. A few choice words were said about them, which was made hard as my sisters insisted on giving individual eulogies for each puppy and, really, once you’ve described the attributes of a puppy you’ve only known for a few days, it’s really hard to say something new or interesting about the next one.

  Heidi, however, merely seemed a little nonplussed about the whole situation. I felt that if eight of my children had been squished beyond repair in one go, I would be making quite a scene. Heidi just had a sniff around, then went and laid back down on her dog bed with a big sigh, as if she’d been denied a walk or something. I suppose we all grieve in different ways, though she could have at least skipped dinner or let out a yelp.

  As each guest arrived in the following hours, they were greeted by news of the mass murder. It was a fairly subdued Christmas dinner to say the least and, due to the upset and drama of the whole day, nobody had bothered to pick up the butter for the garlic prawns. This did not go unnoticed by my uncle, who commented, ‘The prawns are a bit dry this year.’

  I don’t really know why I’m thanking the dead puppies. Maybe I’m just grateful to have a really dark Christmas story, as it makes me seem more interesting at parties.

  Brian

  I’ve pissed off quite a few people in charge in my life. The most memorable of them was Brian, the manager of my uncle’s spearfishing shop, whom I worked with for about six months when I was twenty-three.

  I’d just returned from travelling for a year or so, and had a ‘nothing matters’ attitude and a misplaced sense that the rest of the world was as open to rejecting hierarchy in a workplace as I was. See, I used to think that people in power responded to playfulness and a down-to-earth approach to things, because that’s what I responded to. Whenever I wrote cover letters or resumes, or had job interviews, I would try to impress upon them just how unaffected I was by their power and status. I assumed that sucking up to them would be considered gross and transparent, because that’s exactly how I saw it.

  Upon my return, my uncle had kindly given me a part-time job working in the warehouse of his store so I could make a bit of money while figuring out what I wanted to do with myself. It was a perfect storm: I was a young, entitled girl who didn’t take anyone too seriously, working alongside a man, Brian, who had worked hard to secure a managerial role and who took everything extremely seriously.

  I found Brian to be very annoying. He had a ponytail that was, in my opinion, far too long and gross. If a ponytail is long enough to be pulled down your back and up through your legs, and there’s still enough length left to have it touch your bellybutton, it should be cut off. He was like most managers of small-time businesses, in that he saw workplace decisions as being life or death, and he expected you to be as invested as he was. My uncle, the big boss, loved him because he was such a good worker, and an employer’s interest isn’t about whether people are having a good time at work but whether the shipments go out on time. But it must have been hard for Brian to be so beloved by the boss, while being detested by everyone else who worked there.

  Instead of just accepting that he was a company man the other employees would inevitably dislike, he would try to gain social acceptance by swinging wildly between overly serious pomposity and attempts at being playful and engaging, and he wasn’t good at either. He had this habit of forcing you into a conversation you didn’t want to be in and refusing to let you reply on autopilot.

  He’d saunter up to you, interrupting whatever it was you were doing, and say something like, ‘Do you know that seventy per cent of people don’t wash their legs?’

  ‘Oh really? That’s crazy. Yuck,’ I’d murmur disinterestedly.

  ‘I don’t think so. We don’t eat with our legs, or hug with them, so why should we wash them?’ he’d shoot back and I’d convulse with irritation.

  You constantly felt like you’d been conversationally backed into a corner. Most of the time I didn’t even have an opinion on what he was talking about in the first place – I was merely responding politely in a way I thought would end the conversation quickest. Far from achieving that a
im, I’d instead find myself defending something I couldn’t have cared less about.

  One time, he interrupted my precious lunch break, where I was hiding out behind some boxes scrolling through my phone, just to tell me how much he hated opening up to people. I stared at him blankly while he explained that when he was younger, his dad was really hard on him whenever he showed his emotions. I could sympathise with this, but I also couldn’t help but feel that by virtue of telling me this, he was, in fact, opening up. I continued staring blankly while occupying myself with thoughts of how wonderful it would feel to chop off his ponytail.

  When I was overseas, my friends and I would play this game where we would walk behind each other and kick the bottom of the other person’s shoe, causing them to take a big, unexpected step. As we did this, we’d yell out ‘Big step!’, which would usually make them and anyone else around us laugh.

  On the first day of work, Brian showed me around. This game still fresh in my mind, I decided I would cement my place as the workplace larrikin by ‘big-stepping’ Brian. As he walked ahead of me to point out where I could eat my lunch, I kicked the bottom of his foot and yelled, ‘Big step!’ Then I laughed nervously, already sensing that I’d made a mistake.

  I was right. Brian did not find this funny. In fact, he let out a dramatic noise and squealed, ‘My foot! My foot!’

  Looking down, I realised that the foot I had just kicked was wrapped entirely in bandages. He continued to wince in pain as I freaked out and began apologising profusely.

  ‘I just had surgery on that foot,’ he spat, annoyed by what I’d done but also, I suspect, by the fact that I’d tried to undermine what was obviously one of his favourite parts of being in charge: walking people around and explaining things to them in a bossy way.