Clara in Washington

by Penny Tangey

  ‘Oh right,’ he says. ‘So does that mean it’s hot for the holidays?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Wow. That’s weird.’

  ‘You get used to it.’

  ‘Right,’ he says.

  ‘What do you study?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t go to college.’

  ‘Are you still at school?’

  He laughs. ‘No, I’m twenty-one!’

  I’m surprised. I assumed he was really smart because of the duffle coat and the books and the long-letter writing.

  ‘So what do you do?’ I ask.

  He raises his eyebrows and smiles mysteriously. ‘I do lots of things. On Wednesday nights I come here.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Campbell doesn’t say anything for a minute as he finishes writing an address on a piece of paper. ‘I don’t have the answer you want. I can’t say I’m a carpenter or an accountant.’

  I’m getting frustrated. ‘Well, what did you do today?’

  ‘Today I worked in a cafe.’

  ‘Right, well that’s all I was asking. You’re a waiter or barista something. See, that wasn’t so hard!’

  ‘So that makes you feel more comfortable?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Having a label for me.’

  The room is very quiet and I realise that people are listening to our conversation.

  A guy wearing a newsboy cap is shaking his head, as if in despair. ‘That’s the problem!’ he exclaims. ‘It’s so standard for people to be defined in terms of their relationship to the means of production that no one even notices that it’s happening.’

  Campbell nods.

  Was I labelling Campbell? I thought I was getting to know him by gathering contextual information. Maybe it’s a cultural thing. Maybe in the US it’s rude to ask people what they do. Like how it’s rude in Australia to ask people how much they earn. The Lonely Planet guide didn’t mention it though. They just advised readers not to use the word ‘toilet’.

  Campbell and hat-boy are talking animatedly about labour and capital. One thing is certain from the conversation: Campbell is smart. I can’t follow his arguments but he is confident and articulate. I concentrate on cutting up the sticky tape into a useful assortment of sizes.

  I don’t have anything to contribute to the conversation and as I listen I realise how stupid my previous questions were. Of course Campbell doesn’t want to make small talk. He wants to talk about actual proper things, like ideas and world events, not the weather and occupations.

  ‘Whoa!’ says Campbell. ‘That’s enough tape!’

  I realise that I have covered the entire edge of the table with sticky tape.

  ‘Sorry. I lost track.’

  Everyone here is probably a hardcore environmentalist and hates tape-wasters. Also, Campbell’s already told me that the group doesn’t have much money and I bet all the tape costs add up. I should leave now before my soup-van-ban nightmare becomes a reality.

  I push back my chair, making a loud scraping sound across the floorboards.

  ‘I’d better go home. My mum’s picking me up,’ I say.

  ‘Cool,’ says Campbell. He must be sick of me asking stupid questions and wasting precious postage materials.

  I hurriedly put on my gloves, scarf, hat and coat.

  ‘Have you got any plans for the rest of the week?’ asks Campbell.

  ‘Not really,’ I say.

  ‘You should get out and see DC. It’s an interesting place.’

  As I pass her on the way to the door the girl in the tea-cosy waves at me. ‘See you next week.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ I say. Rushing out of the warm fuggy room into the cool corridor I know I won’t be going back. My face is burning with embarrassment and I want to escape.

  As I walk down the stairwell the sound of a choir singing Christmas carols drifts up from below. At the bottom of the stairs I pause in front of the dark, arched wooden doors. I lean my shoulder against the wall, listening to ‘Good King Wenceslas’. For a moment, I shut my eyes and think about safe and secure things: The Vicar of Dibley, octagonal turret rooms and loose-leaf tea. Then I push against the door and step outside.

  Chapter Three

  Change will not come if we wait for some other person or some other time. We are the ones we’ve been waiting for. We are the change that we seek.

  Barack Obama, 42nd President of the United States of America

  I plonk down on the couch. Today I deserve a break – all I want to do is stay in the apartment and watch television.

  When I got home from Reading Beyond Bars last night I had a stomach-ache. I thought I was getting sick but then as I lay in bed the cramping slowly dissipated. It was the tension making me feel ill.

  They are playing all of season seven of The West Wing today. Mum loves it, but I’ve never really watched it. It’s always seemed to me to be about boring self-important characters who engage in lots of tedious schmaltzy talking but never actually do anything. But given that I am in Washington DC, maybe I should give it a chance.

  I only intend to watch one episode but then I watch two and then that becomes three. The understandable trick of ending each episode on a moment of tension makes it hard for me to stop. After awhile the episodes blur into each other. Throughout the day I make myself a snack or a drink and then go back to the TV. I do some stretches and sew a couple of buttons onto one of Mum’s shirts. I clean up the kitchen and put on a load of washing.

  At five o’clock I finally turn the television off, but I keep thinking about the show. I can’t decide if I want Santos or the old guy to win. It’s not like with Obama and McCain where it was so obvious. Obama is inspiring and McCain is just blah. You wouldn’t expect a television show to be more subtle than life.

  Not that I paid much attention to the US elections. I was too wrapped up in preparing for exams. The election was held on the day after Melbourne Cup Day. I had three exams later that week. Dad thought I was studying too much, and wanted me to come to the Maguires’ for a barbecue. I agreed, but on the condition that I could take my maths notes to read over.

  So while everyone else ate, drank, talked and played cricket, I sat on a bench seat in the garden and read my notes. Every so often someone came over to talk to me, or to offer me food. They all asked how Year Twelve was going, when were my exams, what was I studying, what course I wanted to get into at uni. So even though I was at the periphery of the party, I felt special. Everyone else could take the day off, relax and have a good time, but my work was too important. The race might stop the nation, but it would not stop my exam preparation.

  I did take a break while the Melbourne Cup was run. I had a horse in a sweep but, as usual, it came somewhere near last. I watched the race standing next to Liam. He’d put thirty dollars on Viewed and when it won, at extremely long odds, he put his arm around me and squeezed me against his chest. I remember he was wearing a purple-and-green striped shirt.

  After watching the photo finish a couple of times, I announced that I’d better get back to my notes.

  ‘Do you see that, Liam?’ boomed Liam’s dad Terry. ‘Clara’s actually studying for her exams. Do you remember what that was like?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Liam. ‘Bloody boring.’

  Everyone laughed.

  I sat on the bench and kept reading. Liam came and sat beside me.

  ‘Clara, Clara, you’re making me look bad.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘All this studying, studying, studying.’

  ‘No, I’m not. You make me look bad, Mr Perfect Score.’

  ‘That was three years ago.’

  ‘I bet it’s the same at uni.’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘I doubt that.’

  �
�Well, it’s true,’ he said firmly. ‘Why do you think I had a year off?’

  ‘Because you wanted to travel. And to learn about politics in Brazil.’

  ‘Oh sure, that’s what Dad tells people. And I suppose I was kind of interested in that stuff. But the real reason was that I failed half my subjects and I barely passed the others. I said I’d take a year off to deal with my motivational issues so they’d let me have another chance.’

  This was news to me. ‘Have you dealt with your motivational issues?’ I asked.

  ‘I dunno. I guess I want to finish my course so I can get a job. But it all seems so pointless. I mean, what does writing essays achieve?’

  I wasn’t sure what to say. I’d always assumed Liam was as much of a star at university as he had been at everything else. Whenever I saw him he always sounded so enthusiastic. He was studying politics, he did lots of stuff for the student union, and he always sounded so knowledgeable about any topic in the news. Surely he would have got good marks.

  He continued, ‘Anyway, if I fail next semester, they say they’ll kick me out. Imagine that! I’ll be bringing shame on the family.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be fine,’ I said lamely.

  ‘Well, anyway, boring topic,’ he said in a forced change of mood. ‘Are you excited? Less than twenty-four hours to go!’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’ I said, breaking out in panic. Surely my maths exam wasn’t until Thursday? Unless I had the date wrong?

  ‘Until the election.’

  ‘Election?’

  ‘You know. Obama and McCain. The United States.’

  Finally realising what he was talking about, I said, ‘Oh yes, that.’

  ‘Haven’t you been following it?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been busy. I haven’t had a lot of time.’

  Liam said he was having people over to his house to watch the results. He asked, ‘You want to come?’

  ‘I can’t. I have to study.’

  ‘Surely you can take a break for a couple of hours. If Obama wins it’ll be great. You’ll never have a better excuse to drink gin at eleven o’clock in the morning.’ He grinned at me, and I so badly wanted to go.

  ‘What’s your address again?’

  I stayed up late on Melbourne Cup night studying. I wasn’t very focused though. I kept thinking about my conversation with Liam. I thought he’d opened up to me, that he trusted me. I remembered the way he’d hugged me when his horse won and I read a lot into that. Also, Liam had never invited me to his house before. We usually only saw each other at family events organised by our parents. I thought things were changing.

  As I chop up vegetables for soup for dinner, I imagine Liam working in a political office. I can picture him in The West Wing. He would wear a suit with a slightly off-centre tie and talk fast while surging through corridors on his way to meet an ambassador and deal with a crisis, grabbing briefing notes and coffee on his way.

  No matter what he decides to do I’m sure that Liam will make a difference to the world. He’s that kind of person.

  By contrast, what have I done today? Watched television. I should do more. I don’t want to be how I was in Australia: obsessed with myself, studying and exam results.

  I’m sitting in a circle of twenty people while a very perky woman named Tiffany welcomes us to the DC Women’s Centre. Tiffany explains that the centre’s mission is to provide food and shelter for homeless women and to help them transition to independent living and employment.

  A middle-aged woman sitting opposite me is nodding at everything Tiffany says, and making occasional clucking sounds to emphasise her agreement. She’s dressed in what looks like most of a llama that has been dyed pink and then draped over her without any of the cleaning or weaving usually considered essential for clothing.

  Tiffany asks, ‘What percentage of DC’s homeless population are women?’

  I mainly see homeless men, particularly near the train station. But I don’t want to have a guess because Tiffany is clearly setting us up to be surprised by the answer.

  Pink-llama lady is frowning and hazards, ‘Twenty per cent?’

  Tiffany shakes her head enthusiastically, thrilled that llama lady fell for it. ‘That’s actually a common misconception. In fact, over fifty per cent of DC’s homeless people are women. The reason you might not notice them is because being homeless is very dangerous for a woman, so women often take more care not to appear to be homeless.’

  Pink-llama lady goes into clucking overdrive.

  It is an interesting fact. I bet Liam would find that interesting. He loves statistics, particularly when they demonstrate something you wouldn’t expect. I wonder if he’ll notice my status update: Put my name down to volunteer at a homeless women’s shelter – going to the orientation session this morning.

  Tiffany reads us the riot act on not drinking or taking drugs before coming to the centre. At the end of the session she says, ‘Thanks for coming along today. Please fill in the sheet with your availability on your way out. All our spots are full at the moment but we’ll contact you if we need you.’

  Because I have no other commitments I put my name in every slot. When I see the sign-up sheet covered with Clara I feel like a loser with no life. As I write down my phone number I explain to Tiffany, ‘I’m only here for the summer. I’ll be studying next year.’

  ‘It’s great that you came down. We’ll call you,’ says Tiffany.

  Walking out of the centre, I’ve lost all my virtuous sense of purpose. I thought I was being such a good person for volunteering, but they don’t even need me.

  The induction started at eight for the benefit of people with jobs and lives. So now I have the whole day ahead of me.

  I remember Campbell telling me to get out and see more of DC. I should. It’s silly to come halfway across the world to sit inside and watch television. Even if there are a lot more channels here.

  Walking from the station I try to summon an appropriate sense of anticipation. I am about to visit one of the most famous buildings in the world. But when I see the White House it looks so small that at first I think I’ve got the wrong building, except that lots of other tourists are standing around taking photos.

  I find a clear space at the fence where I can look at it. There’s not much else to do except look. I imagine what would happen if I climbed over the fence. Would I be shot straight away? Or would men in military uniforms rush in and tackle me to the ground? I take a step away from the fence.

  After ten minutes, I’ve pretty much seen it. I walk down Pennsylvania Avenue, back towards the station. Just as I reach the pedestrian crossing sirens scream and a dozen police motorbikes surge down the street. They block the traffic at an intersection and a moment later police cars roar past followed by a large black car with tinted windows.

  Maybe Barack Obama is in the car? I watch carefully as the car passes but it’s impossible to see anything inside.

  Campbell was right, DC is an interesting place. There’s so much happening. And soon, Barack Obama will move into the White House. Everything is changing and DC is the centre of it all.

  I think about what my status update should be. I could put Still recovering from the excitement of seeing Obama in the street. This is a thrilling exaggeration but it might be embarrassing if it turns out that Obama isn’t even in DC at the moment. I decide to put Impressed by the size of DC motorcades: twelve motorbikes and ten cars later I finally managed to cross the road.

  I wake up cheerful because it’s Saturday. Mum will be home today. I’ve never felt so pleased about spending time with my mother. She’ll want to sleep in, which is fair enough because she has been working twelve-hour days. Every day she comes home from the office a bit later. She must be exhausted, although she doesn’t show it. Her energy and industry is a depressing contrast to my aimless
existence.

  I want the day to start well so I decide to buy croissants for breakfast. I can’t be bothered getting dressed so I put on my coat over my pyjamas and walk to the delicatessen on Connecticut Avenue.

  The sky is cloudless, but the shining sun makes no difference to the freezing air. Brown sludgy ice is piled up in the gutters. The snow on the pavement has partially melted and then refrozen into patches of ice that stand out black and slick. I walk carefully across it, making sure I don’t slip.

  In the delicatessen I wait at the counter to be served. I’m standing next to the coffee beans. There are dozens of flavours of coffee including Maple Syrup and Pumpkin & Cinnamon. I bend down to smell the beans. Their sickly, synthetic smell makes me want to gag.

  When I get back to the apartment Mum has just got out of bed.

  ‘I got pastries!’ I say.

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘So, I was thinking we should leave here at ten,’ I tell her.

  ‘What?’

  ‘To go to the Corcoran.’

  Mum pulls on her dressing gown. ‘I’m not sure about that any more to be honest. I thought I’d get more done yesterday. It’s the Belgian delegation, they’re so bloody anal about everything.’

  ‘So you can’t come?’

  ‘If I do some work here in the morning, I might be able to come in the afternoon.’

  I turn on the oven and put the croissants on a tray. I’m trying not to get angry.

  ‘Can we decide on a time?’

  ‘How about three?’

  ‘How about one?’ I say as I bang the oven door shut.

  She must realise that I’m on the verge of cracking it because she agrees.

  While the croissants warm up I check my email in my room. Yingmei has finally replied. She writes:

  Hey Clara,

  Don’t let it get you down!! In a couple more months you’ll be a law student. Enjoy the break!!! Why don’t you go to New York?

  Guess what! Steven the manager asked me out! He’s so hot!!

  Hugs,

  Yingmei

  It is too little, too late.