Telling Stories

by Geoff Palmer

  I quickly turned a page when I realised I hadn't done so for a while. She continued sitting quietly, lost in thought, occasionally sipping her tea. I tried to imagine what she was thinking. Eventually she snapped herself out of it, glanced at her watch, got up and left. I let her get a bit of a head start then followed her out and back to the section. I can't imagine how I hadn't noticed her before.

  Party

  Betti, looking like a death's-head or an extra from the remake of Night of the Living Dead, has just asked me if I'd like a cup of tea. Her sing-song voice has been reduced to sounding like a rough file on the edge of a sheet of corrugated iron and her whole body appears to be sagging like a plant with its supporting stake removed. I declined her offer because I've just had one, because she makes lousy tea even when she's at her best, and because I've seen the state of the kitchen. If parties are judged by the amount of damage done and chaos caused, then last night's was a winner.

  I don't like parties. There's something wrong with the basic premise that insists a host and hostess work themselves into a frenzy of cleaning, angst and preparation just so they can appear calm, casual and relaxed. My brother especially works himself into a tizz of bitchiness that disappears for all but the immediate family the moment the first guest appears. Then it's snapping and sniping sotto voce and smiles and shoulder slaps for the visitors.

  At one point this afternoon he even said to me, 'There'll be some pretty important people here this evening, so for God's sake try and look as though you are somebody.'

  Betti shot him a glance.

  'Well, he mooches around like an old bison sometimes ...' His voice trailed off and Betti muttered something about not being able to talk to him when he was in that sort of mood. Next thing you know the old bison had mooched over a tray of glasses.

  There's something wrong with the execution of parties, too, where every conversational lapse is seen as a failure to be masked by raucous music, where deafness, intimacy and laryngitis are simultaneously enforced by the volume of the music, where intoxication is a prerequisite to relaxation, and where the success or failure of such an endeavour is ultimately judged by such statements as, 'God that was a good night. I was sick as a dog for two days afterwards.' If people rated restaurants the way they rate parties, the health authorities would have closed them all down long ago.

  People also dress up for parties. They spend a great deal of time and money trying to look as if they haven't spent a great deal of time and money and then stand around in semi-darkness and no one can see them anyway.

  'Great dress, Marcy.'

  'I'm Frank.'

  'Oh ... er ... great dress, Frank.'

  'Thanks.'

  Of course, last night's was a cut above your standard booze, brawl and barf affairs, which is to say that, instead of getting pissed, making fools of themselves and driving home in their Toyotas they got pissed, made fools of themselves and drove home in their BMWs. There were a couple of minor politicians present, a few faceless businessmen notable only for their seraglio of sycophants, the occasional television presenter looking, for the most part, smaller in real life and with the added disadvantage that they couldn't be switched off, a handful of familiar-faced actors no one could name because they're mostly seen only in commercials, and enough advertising and PR people to sell the Eiffel Tower, the Golden Gate bridge and a bus load of their own grannies.

  There is one thing about the occasional knees-up that I do enjoy. It gives one a marvellous opportunity to stand around and watch the social process at work. Take new arrivals, for example. They enter nervously, clutching their brown paper bottle-bags of holy offerings, still jacketed, formal, polite, in search of the high priest or priestess. Only after effusive greeting rituals — in these circles accompanied by what Betti calls 'huggies' — dejacketing and a few gulps of social lubrication do they venture out into the farmyard, strutting and pecking at half-remembered faces like nervous hens. They circle, find some co-initiate, then settle into half-hearted banter while their eyes dart hither and yon, searching for someone more interesting or checking out other new arrivals.

  As the evening wears on, hidden behind the mask of diminishing sobriety they begin to relax, drop their barriers and finally become themselves, with the added bonus that they can disavow their actions at a later date by claiming inebriation. Alcohol is the one legal release from our social framework that can be indulged in while remaining within it, but once the loquacity begins its a fine balance on a slippery slope. A tad too much and we slip into a rapid backward social de-evolution and show ourselves simultaneously for what we were and what we really are behind the mask: an affable, jocular, silly, irresponsible, abusive, bitter, nasty, brutish and ultimately violent species.

  Mind you, I'm not beyond getting a bit rat-arsed myself.

  Myths About Fat People #269: Fat people have considerable capacity for consumption. Not me. Two pints and I'm pissed. Three and ... well, see for yourself.

  Another good thing about parties is the way you can drop in and out of other people's conversations. The place is usually so packed you can't help it — and besides, no one really knows who knows whom. A circuit of the kitchen, that traditional escape from the blare of music and the blackness favoured by dancers and dope smokers, proved to be no disappointment in this department. Only half of the innumerable spotlights were on — no doubt to the relief of the guardians of our hydro lakes — and those that were were modestly pointed into corners, ceilings or at rimu-panelled doors so the overall balance of gloom wasn't greatly disturbed. The technique is simple; one merely hovers at the edge of any such group and, like Moses parting the waves, it will invariably inch open to accommodate the newcomer. To retreat one simply reverses the process — usually on the pretence of getting a refill — and the group magically closes up again as one eases away.

  In precisely this fashion I came upon the local MP and associate minister for something or other spouting forth on what a wonderfully egalitarian society we had.

  The latter was being challenged in his views by none other than my grovelly brother, who would throw in figures on unemployment or the homeless, only to have them effortlessly returned by linguistic backhand. It was an oddly passionless exchange that looked more like a dress rehearsal for a TV chat show, an effect enhanced by the MP's tendency to direct his answers to the onlookers and not his interrogator.

  I recognised the politician as Barry Kennedy, Pid's latest cause célébre and focal point of the posters left lying none too discreetly round the house that evening. 'Barry Kennedy,' they proclaimed, 'The Right Man in the Right Place.' I was tempted to stick one on a toilet.

  As the debate developed — one could hardly claim it raged — Betti flitted past and waved as a sign of encouragement. Like a fool I returned the gesture. I realised to my dismay that I had just volunteered an opinion on the state of the nation because, just before waving, Kennedy had asked the assemblage how they felt about the wonderfully equal, impartial and even-handed society we lived in.

  'Look, enough of me talking,' he'd said. 'How about some feedback? How do you folk outside the ivory tower of politics see things? Tell me what you think. Anybody.' At this moment a hand near the back is raised ...

  'You look like a regular guy. You're not one of these agency-wallahs are you?' he said, thumbing at Pid.

  'No.'

  'So what does the man in the street think? How do you see things? Are you with me on this?'

  'Well ...'

  'Gimme a grass-roots, ground-level, gut reaction. What d'ya feel inside? Speak your mind. Don't be shy, tell it like it is. We're all just regular guys here — even the ladies,' he chuckled. They chuckled too.

  I glanced around for some assistance and caught the eye of my brother, who stood to the side of Kennedy, smiling somewhat malevolently, enjoying my embarrassment.

  'Well,' I said at length, sipping my drink, waiting for the polite laughter to die down and directing my response at both of them, 'I think you talk a
lot of shit.'

  Kennedy's ingenuous smile became something of a grimace. Pid stiffened. 'Pardon?'

  'I said, I think you talk a lot of sh ...'

  'Yes ... er ... but steady on. There's ladies present.'

  'Oh, I thought they were just regular guys? And I thought you wanted a grass-roots, ground-level, gut reaction?'

  There was a moment of fierce eye contact between us. He was momentarily speechless and I waded in, buoyed by my third pint; the bison mooched no more.

  'I think you're talking shit because in my opinion the classless Kiwi society is an enduring myth propagated by the likes of you who are doing very nicely out of it as members of the status quo.' Kennedy opened his mouth, probably to ask what the big words meant, but I ignored him. There seemed to be something wrong with my brother's silly smile.

  'Classless? What about the oiks-in-BMWs class whose sole preoccupation is self-aggrandisement'? What about the angst-ridden professional class obsessed with conspicuous consumption, or the I-don't-sit-behind-a-desk-all-day-I-do-the-bloody-work class infatuated with the supposedly traditional values of rugby, racing and beer? We've even got a truly destitute class, despised by practically everyone else because, according to most politicians, they're secretly living it up on the paltry handouts from Social Welfare.'

  He went to speak again but I continued.

  'And lowest of the lot is the political animal class. On the ladder of life forms that's three rungs below the humble amoeba.

  'Maybe politicians never really cared about the people they represent, but they're certainly more blatant about it now. You're only interested in your careers; getting your faces on TV, getting known and getting re-elected. Election promises are just so many lies to be swept under the carpet as soon as you get into power. "Oh dear, the country's in a worse state than we suspected. We can't do any of what we promised, any of what you voted us in for. Sorry."

  I chided him about the sale of state-owned assets (a great idea to spend money and turn them into viable businesses, but why then sell off something that's finally making a profit?). I criticised him for forcing hospitals and universities to become self-sufficient (isn't it sufficient to have a healthy, educated and reasoning populace?). I chastised him for seizing the assets of the elderly and sick (put away something for a rainy day and the government grabs it at the first opportunity). And then, when we look to our leaders for guidance, we see them sheltering big business interests. Cutting social spending and calling for wage restraints while taking hefty pay rises and seats on the board.

  'Oh, we're egalitarian all right,' I snorted at length. 'But only in the sense that we're all now a nation of cynics looking for a quick buck and a tax break.'

  There was a moment of silence in which Barry Kennedy nodded, and kept on nodding, even after I'd clearly finished. Pid tapped him on the shoulder, thought for a moment then muttered something. Kennedy muttered something back. The group, which had drawn away slightly, seeing no immediate response from the grand inquisitor, began talking in smaller cliques and somehow fragmented itself. Moments later supper was announced. I caught my brother's eye as he led Kennedy away by the elbow. Curiously, he was smiling.

  That, on reflection, was the highlight of the party for me and for the rest of the evening and early morning hours I resumed my apparently traditional bison-like mooch. The crowd was thinning by the time I slunk off to bed for a bit of a read, but I'd only just got settled when there was faint knock at the door and a familiar blonde mop appeared around it.

  'Hiya, Steven. Thought you might be here. D'you have a good time? I saw your light on, eh.' Betti came in and sat on the edge of the bed. She looked tired. Her shoulders sagged, wisps of hair had come loose and her eyes seemed a little unfocused.

  'Bloody people, eh. Still, nearly all gone. Not my friends. Mostly Stuey's, eh. Good for business, he says.' She wavered slightly. She didn't seem too steady, even sitting down.

  'Business, business, bloody business,' she sighed, searching for somewhere to rest her drink. "Sometimes I think he only married me 'cause I'd be good for business, eh? Something to hang on his arm, like a ... like a nornament. Yeah, a nornament. D'you know he tells me what to say and who to make a fuss of? I had to be specially nice to that Barry-thingy-in-the-right-place tonight, eh. Bastard propositioned me. I told Stuey and he just said humour him. Humour him! Jeez, how far do I have to go to humour him? Still, probably be all right if he gave me a baby, that'd be good for business, but your bloody brother won't, eh. Too busy, he says. Too busy for kids. What he means is it'd probably spoil the shape of his nornament.'

  Having only just found a resting place for her drink, she now began to search around for it. 'He treats me like a kid sometimes. Tells me what to wear and stuff. But I'm not, eh? I'm a nadult and I'm not getting any younger. There's limits for women and that stuff, you know. He doesn't seem to realise. eh. It's all right for men. Trouble is, babies aren't "in" right now. That's what it is, eh. If they were he'd want one.' She snorted. 'Then we'd probably have to adopt 'cause he couldn't wait, he'd want it now.' She finally located her glass. 'It's not fair. My sister's got one and it's not fair.'

  She finished her drink and set it on the floor. Then she leaned across and said in a husky voice, 'You'd give me babies, wouldn't you Steven?' I couldn't answer that. She sat back with a thoughtful look. 'Barry-thingy-creep would too, given half a chance. So it's not me, eh? I'm not always too tired and stuff. It's that bloody job. He even goes in on Sundays now. Stuey! I couldn't used to get him out of bed on Sundays, eh.'

  Somewhere there was a distant call of, 'Betti? Betti! The Dickenses are leaving.'

  'Oops,' she giggled, 'atten-shun!' and leapt to her feet. 'Mustn't keep him waiting.' She marched unsteadily to the door, gave me a cheery wave and, just before she disappeared, snapped off the light and left me and my book in darkness.

  So, what did I tell you? Alcohol, parties ...

  • • •

  The death's-head from the black lagoon has just returned to proffer me the cup of tea I didn't want.

  'Did I say anything to you last night?'

  'What about?'

  'About anything. I was pretty drunk, eh.'

  'So was I. I don't remember.'

  She smiled wanly. 'I remember you having a go at that politician.'

  'Kennedy? Oh yes, he was fun.'

  'It's just that, when I've been drinking, I get a bit, well, silly, emotional and sometimes I say things I shouldn't. You know, personal stuff. If I did say anything last night, well, just forget it, eh?'

  'Forget what?' I asked, catching her eye.

  'Thanks.'

  Monday, April 6

  All sorts of strange things happen when you start to write things down. Things like maintaining a narrative flow and stuff. Like how you have to pretend when you're actually writing things down so you don't disturb that.

  That last bit wasn't really written yesterday morning after the party at all — in fact I only did it this evening after work — but I felt I had to phrase it that way to maintain some sort of flow. And if I can mess around with something so apparently inconsequential as when I wrote it, how can you really trust anything say?

  By the time I got up yesterday Stu had gone off to golf.

  'Golf? More like bloody work again, eh,' said Betti as we loaded and unloaded mountains of glasses into the dishwasher. Apparently Stu took up golf because Sunday morning is a good time to chat informally about the coming week with one's colleagues.

  We spent the rest of the time restoring the house to a state fit enough for the cleaning lady to approach. Mrs C. — no one seems to know her full name — comes Monday and Thursday mornings and is such a fearsome old tyrant that your life isn't worth living if the house isn't spotless to start with.

  Betti was still a bit under the weather and hardly ate anything over lunch. Stu was apparently looking rather grey, too, when he left. I was fine.

  Betti declined my offer of a cup of coffee when she drop
ped me off, saying she just wanted to get home and have a lie down. As I walked up the path I could hear the next door neighbour mowing his lawn and the couple in the front flat yelling and screaming at each other. Ah, I thought, Sunday. Nothing changes.

  Back at work today I had to put up with all the crap. Actually, I hoped they wouldn't remember, but I guess Betti is anything but forgettable. They started asking each other about their weekends and then of course someone remembered.

  'Hey, wasn't this Spud's dirty weekend with that blondie?'

  'Yeah, I thought he'd lost a bit of weight. Sweated it off, eh Steven?'

  I ignored as much of it as I could and gave monosyllabic answers to the rest, but just as the full inquisition was about to start Marie went past and they all fell silent. Once she'd disappeared I was no longer the focus of attention and I was quietly grateful to her.

  She was in the same place as last week when I went down to afternoon tea, just sitting there staring out the window and blowing on her coffee. Typically, I didn't notice till I was halfway to my usual spot — which was diagonally opposite — but it was too late by then. To turn back halfway along negotiating a row of chairs would have been a bit obvious and I didn't want her to think she was being ostracised by everyone in our section. As I got to my spot I remembered what had happened to Dave the smoothy and decided she'd probably let me know if she thought I was being presumptuous. In fact, she caught my eye and smiled as I sat down.