by Craig Cliff
The husbands and I were at a distinct advantage over the single Eamon and we knew it, slowly swarming around Mish and Delancey and engaging them in conversation. As we discussed the great location of the apartment, I glanced over my shoulder at poor Eamon, who was sitting on the couch, rubbing his thighs and staring at his reflection in the blank television.
During a pause in the conversation, one of the husbands turned to Delancey and said, ‘I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Ian.’
‘Delancey,’ she said, shaking his hand. Touching Ian.
‘Yes, I heard Alice say that when you arrived. What a splendid name. Is it Irish?’
‘No, I think it’s French,’ she replied. ‘My parents named me after a street in their home town.’
‘How marvellous!’
I let him talk his tweed-and-pipe talk. My time would come.
Delancey’s hair was thick and never-been-dyed brown. She had pulled the fringe and sides back into a high ponytail, but let the back splay out like a scallop shell over her shoulders and back. I once had a landlord with a similar haircut. It made him look like a barbarian. But with her green eyes, Delancey looked like a Celtic goddess — regardless of the origin of her name.
‘Mulled wine, everybody,’ cried one of Alice’s colleagues. Our crowd in the living room all gave Might as well gestures and moved wordlessly to the kitchen.
I managed to make my way up to Alice as she ladled the wine into coffee mugs, and gave her a peck on the cheek. She passed me a mug, but I passed it on to the person behind me. She continued to pass me mugs and I passed them on until there was just Delancey waiting and only one mug left in our house.
‘Oh, I’m fine to go without,’ said Delancey.
‘Me too,’ I said. ‘You did all the work.’
‘I can just grab a wine glass,’ Alice said, gesturing at the cupboards with her ladle.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ I said, and picked up my Mexico City Mule, which is a Moscow Mule with tequila instead of vodka — a drink I highly recommend.
‘I’m fine with my orange juice,’ Delancey said.
‘That’s settled then,’ I said, handing the last mug of mulled wine back to Alice.
‘All right.’
The three of us exchanged smiles.
Back in the living room, Eamon was showing off the features of his shiny new cellphone to Ian.
‘Boys and their toys,’ I said to Delancey, our shoulders millimetres from touching.
She smiled again.
‘Do you get high?’ I asked.
She looked at me, pursing her lips in appraisal—reappraisal. That’s my secret. Show them the nice guy, then show them the wild card. Confuse them. Get them off balance.
‘I think this party would be greatly improved with a little THC.’ I patted my shirt pocket. ‘I’ll be on the balcony,’ I said and eased away, not letting her say a word — another secret of mine. How do you think I wound up with a catch like Alice if I didn’t have a few secrets? I’m savvy. I’m a hunter. Sure, I was a little out of practice when Delancey showed up — semi-retired might be another way to put it. But the greats, they never lose their touch.
On the way to the balcony I decided a pit stop was in order. The bathroom door was shut and I gave a little rap with my knuckles before placing my hand on the doorknob. Before I could turn, it turned itself, and Eamon, avoiding eye contact, squeezed past and into the corridor. The poor fellow, I thought as I spruced my hair in the mirror, despruced, respruced: success. I was toying with all-buttons-up or three-buttons-down (my chest hair has only come on in the last two years, but boy has it come on) when a low, thrumming noise began behind me. I turned to see a vibrating cellphone on the top of the cistern. The vibration stopped. When I picked up the handset, it became clear that this shiny device was the same one Eamon and Ian had been discussing in the living room. So this is Eamon’s phone, I thought. What sad messages has he been sending from the bog, and to whom?
As a confident, forthcoming sort, I am aware of the informational asymmetry that exists between my kind and Eamon’s. Whereas I go out and get what I want — as I was in the process of doing with delicious Delancey — Eamon appeared content to sit by and let the world act upon him. But I knew better than to take appearance for truth. I pressed a button, and the screen of the cellphone kindly illuminated with instructions to unlock the keypad. Instructions followed, an envelope spun across the screen, followed by 1 New Message. I pressed the ok button.
From: Luke-o-zade
Bruv, that is 1 hot girl.
Now my interest was truly piqued. I navigated my way to the Sent Items folder and opened the most recent message. There was a picture of Delancey: flouncy skirt and flowing hair, face in profile, the half-mouth curved up in mild delight. It had been taken in our living room; I recognised the Klimt print in the background. When I scrolled down, I found the words: Perfect 10?
So this is how the introverts hunt, I thought. Take only pictures, leave only footprints. But this was not a national park. This was life. If you’re looking for advice, here’s a little: One cannot proceed as if the world is covered in precious lichen.
I slipped Eamon’s phone in my pocket, double-checked my hair, and proceeded to the balcony. It was vacant, of course. I was not expecting her to be waiting for me. I hadn’t done enough for that. But I also knew that she would come and that it was cold enough to prevent anyone else joining me, due to our own informational asymmetry re: my stash.
My breath came out in plumes of white smoke, and in the end I was forced to do up the top button of my shirt. I kept myself busy by rolling a stunning joint and running through several possible conversations with Delancey.
I lit up, never once turning around to peer through the gap in the curtains and into the party. After three drags, I heard the French door forced free from the jamb (it sticks, the landlord is not interested) and Delancey slid through the curtains.
Like the world’s easiest birth, I thought.
‘Here, this’ll keep you warm.’ I handed her the joint.
She sucked soundlessly, held and exhaled. I watched her breath drift out over the street.
‘You’ve made quite an impression this evening,’ I said.
‘How so?’
‘Come on. The other men, the husbands. I guess you’re used to it.’
She went through her effortless suck, hold, exhale routine again.
‘Have you spoken to Eamon?’
‘Which —’
‘The young, quiet one.’
She shook her head.
I pulled the cellphone from my pocket. ‘Found this in the bathroom. He must have left it there. Probably frantic now, looking for it.’
I saw her screw up her face as she stared out across the street, messing up her angelic profile.
‘I’ll give it back to him in a second. I just thought you should see this. Thought you should know.’
I conjured up the photo of her and handed her the phone as she handed me the joint. I held it smouldering by my hip, knowing this moment needed a certain precision.
She looked at me properly, perhaps for the first time. I looked back. I’ve never understood why some people cower at the thought of eye contact.
‘How do I know this isn’t your phone?’
‘Got mine right here.’ I retrieved my older, duller phone from my other pocket.
‘But how do I know you didn’t take this photo?’
‘The message below. Would I write that? Would I send it to someone called Luke-o-zade? Sounds like it’s not the first time they’ve done this.’
‘Perhaps,’ she said, still holding the phone.
‘Listen,’ I said, as we both turned back to face the street, our shoulders now touching, ‘I just thought you should know. Everyone, even someone as special as you, deserves some privacy. Some respect.’
She shrugged, received the joint and sucked. She held it in there longer than before, so long I even started counting, One hippopotamus,
two hippopotamus …
‘What were your plans for later on? Are you heading into town?’
She shrugged again. ‘Mish’s department.’ Somehow I must have missed her exhalation.
‘I’ll give you my number.’ I removed the folded Post-it note from my shirt pocket. She received it graciously, paying careful attention to my hand, then she spun towards the door, her hair and skirt following, and re-entered the party.
I am the first to admit things would have progressed further, sooner, in an ideal world. But the combination of rust and reefer meant I had to be happy with how that little scene had played out.
Back in the fug of the living room, the party was without music. I heard someone extolling the virtues of a never-fail biscuit recipe.
I clapped my hands and started singing ‘Brown Eyed Girl’.
I pulled Alice up to dance with me, but no one else joined in, not even at the sha-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-te-da part.
‘I’m not sure what’s worse,’ I whispered in Alice’s ear, ‘the possibility these people don’t know Van Morrison, or they do and won’t join in.’
‘You stink of weed,’ she whispered back, our hips still swaying to the imaginary coda.
‘You smell like hot cross buns.’ I leaned back and saw her frowning. ‘You seemed busy,’ I explained.
She spun in to me so that her back was to my chest, my arms like the sleeves of a straightjacket, then spun out and slipped her fingers from mine and twirled a few more times on the way to the kitchen, her arms raised above her head like the dancer atop a music box.
I was sitting next to Ian, not listening to his conversation with Visi, when I remembered that Delancey had never returned Eamon’s phone to me. I hadn’t intended to put the poor boy in it, but so often the pawns get it in the neck, don’t they? What concerned me most, as I sat there on the couch, was that maybe I had missed the scene between Delancey and Eamon.
To console myself, I borrowed Ian’s cellphone — somewhere between mine and Eamon’s in age, shine and capabilities — and began taking pictures of myself. Once I had captured the essence of my impatience, I made this the background image for Ian’s phone and handed it back to him. Visi was giving him the same speech about the evils of privacy, and he took the phone back without looking and slipped it in his pocket. He really seemed to be buying into Visi’s words, which I took to be a good sign re: my usage of his phone. I can’t say for sure how old Ian responded, though, because I got up and went to the kitchen to make myself another Mexico City Mule. I didn’t think I’d had that many, but this latest mule swallowed the last of the tequila.
‘There you are.’
It was Alice, standing in the entrance to the kitchen holding a picked-at platter. All that remained were bruschetta crumbs, a scatter of water crackers, three cocktail onions and a tired-looking corner of brie.
I held up the empty bottle. ‘Who’s been drinking the tequila?’
‘You, by the look of it.’
‘No, besides me.’
She held out the platter. ‘Eat something.’
‘I’m not a child.’
She placed the platter on the counter, made to return to the party.
‘Babe —’
She turned.
‘Are you having a good time?’ I asked, and reached out for her hand.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s excellent.’ I kissed the top of her wrist.
‘I’m going back to the party. Are you all right?’
‘Dandy.’
I still had ginger beer left, and found a half-full bottle of vodka, so I made a garden-variety Moscow Mule to go with its Latino cousin and carried my two drinks back into the living room. There were no spare seats — it seemed as if more people had arrived, but I couldn’t be sure — so I walked to the bathroom for a final spruce before we headed to town. The door was locked so I went into the en suite in our bedroom.
I was roused by a knock on the door.
‘Open up. It’s me, Alice.’
My body seemed to respond quicker than my mind and I had popped the lock before I really knew what I was doing.
Alice stripped her face of all expression and blinked once.
‘What time is it?’ I asked.
She blinked again.
‘Have people started heading into town?’
‘The younger ones left an hour ago.’
‘An hour?’
‘You don’t eat anything, you drink a bottle of tequila and smoke a whole jay by yourself and you’re surprised you pass out?’
‘The younger ones,’ I repeated. ‘Did Mish — ?’
She nodded.
‘But you — ?’
‘I couldn’t very well leave you passed out, locked in the toilet. And don’t think I’m going to give you and your sore bear routine any pity in the morning. You’re — how old are you now? How old am I now?’
‘You can go now, if you still want. To town. I’m sure —’
‘It’s okay.’ She came right into the en suite for the first time and sat on the edge of the bath. I had slunk back down against the vanity. ‘I’m not a big town person anymore.’
‘But Mish —’
‘It’s different. She’s single still. She has younger friends. She never left that scene.’
‘Younger friends,’ I repeated.
A smile broke out on her face. ‘Did you talk to Eamon?’
‘The quiet one?’
‘Well, that’s what we all thought. Dark horse might be a better term. He left with Delancey. She was the one —’ She let the sentence hang, half finished.
‘Left with?’
‘First they’re looking a bit cosy on the couch, then she’s leading him out the door by the hand. She seemed like such a nice girl.’
‘Huh,’ I said, like I had just been told an interesting fact about Saturn.
She lifted herself from the edge of the bath. ‘Shall I get you a glass of water?’
‘Please.’
I got up and relocated to the foot of our bed. I slipped my phone from my pocket. No messages.
Alice returned, holding a glass of water in one hand, the other balled up in a fist. From experience I knew this hand would contain several ibuprofen.
I had questions, but didn’t quite know how to deliver them, so thought it better to stay quiet. In my head I counted, One hippopotamus, two hippopotamus …
‘What?’ she asked.
‘It’s just … I saw Eamon taking pictures of that girl, Delancey, earlier in the evening. I don’t understand why she —’
‘Pictures?’
‘With his cellphone. Like … like a pervert.’
‘And she caught him?’
‘In a way.’
Alice gave a tilt of her head, then handed me the glass of water.
‘What does that mean?’ I asked.
‘What?’
‘That head tilt.’
‘Well, it could be quite flattering.’
‘Flattering?’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘you know.’
Flattering? I looked down at my feet. How could this have happened? Granted, I should not have passed out in the bathroom, but that did not explain Delancey leaving — leaving — with that meek, eye-contact-avoiding technophile. I’d kept it casual yet mysterious. I’d offered her weed and she accepted. I’d played the white knight, showing her Eamon’s cellphone. And she left with him? What happened to survival of the fittest?
I saw it then, as if the first swoosh of a windscreen wiper had revealed my wrong turn. I was not the only hunter that night. Eamon had set up his own ambush, playing that clueless con. The vulnerable idolater. But he too was on the prowl. That little cellphone trick, leaving it in the bathroom for someone to find. I’d played my part to perfection; his conquest made all the more simple with me zonked in the bathroom. But I had to hand it to him. He had fooled us all.
The shock of this was short lived. It had to be. What happens to the rabbit in the
headlights? He gets run over, that’s what. So I was trumped on this occasion; what can you do except learn from such an experience?
A bag of tricks is never full. You can write that on my tombstone.
I looked up at Alice. Her face wore a faraway expression. I held out a cupped hand, coughed once and she rolled in two pills.
Orbital Resonance
1.
Ken from Canberra was the unhappiest Associate Professor of Astronomy Stellenbosch University in South Africa had ever had. He felt justified in his unhappiness as, contrary to the information he was provided during the job application process, the Astronomy Department at Stellenbosch was not well regarded. It did not even have its own observatory.
And, as Ken from Canberra had learnt, justifiable unhappiness is the worst.
The best word he could think of to describe his unhappiness was stolid.
He regretted emigrating to South Africa to take up his post, but found himself paralysed. The one big change in his life to date had been an unmitigated disaster, his thinking went, so what guarantee was there that making another big change would not be an even greater disaster?
So he stayed in Stellenbosch, writing papers on celestial mechanics which none of the good scientific journals would publish because they had never heard of Stellenbosch University.
The only place he had ‘published’ in the last three years was on Wikipedia, where he described ‘Orbital Resonance’ as:
when two orbiting bodies exert a regular, periodic gravitational influence on each other, usually due to their orbital periods being related by a ratio of two small integers.
At parties he used to talk about orbits. How they relate to more than just planets. He would ask his audience to imagine two people running around an athletics track: it didn’t matter what speed they ran, if they ran for long enough they would come level again. The runners behave differently, he would explain, just before they are level, while they are level and just after they are level. Drag coefficients are altered. Motivation increases or decreases.
