by Penny Tangey
I guess Steven the Manager explains the Feeling happy. Just happy Facebook update. I can’t understand why she’s interested in him though. I met him once when I went into Gloria Jean’s and he’s about thirty-two, handsome but slick. And I bet he’s married with kids.
I check for Facebook status updates. Yingmei’s now reads: Can’t wait for tomorrow. Looking forward to having sand between my toes. Perhaps Steven the Manager swung the rosters so they’d both have the day off at the beach. I can imagine that perverted old man ogling her arse.
Liam’s update says: Finally finished unpacking! Never moving again, I intend to die here. Dad told me that Liam was moving in with the girl. Perhaps I should write a comment asking how it’s going – just to show a friendly interest.
But then again, Liam probably told her what I said. And if I write a comment, she will see it. I imagine her sniggering in a derisive but attractive way as she sits at her Mac in a bay window. Liam will come up behind her and puts his arms around her neck and say, ‘So you’ve seen that? Clara won’t leave me alone. Can’t the stupid kid get the message? She’s so ugly and selfish compared to you.’
I read Yingmei’s email again. God she annoys me. The fact that she thinks that I still want to do law next year proves that she doesn’t understand me. She assumes I’ll keep going down the same track because I’m boring, predictable Clara.
Also, Yingmei’s advice is so trite. ‘Go to New York,’ she says, as though it’s that easy.
I imagine tall buildings closing in on me, getting lost, asking for directions, no one will help me, people laughing. Then, worse, I imagine buildings falling, trying desperately to flee, being trapped.
There’s no way I can go to New York on my own. Yingmei would go if she was in my position. Liam definitely would, and his girlfriend would too. But I can’t. I just can’t.
By the time Mum and I leave the Corcoran it’s already dusk. Mum may have agreed to leave at one o’clock but it was closer to two by the time we left the house.
‘Should we try that cafe?’ I say.
Mum looks unenthused and groans, ‘I can’t face another disappointment.’
‘But this one is supposed to be good. I’ve looked at their website. There’s all this stuff about not overheating the milk and good coffee not needing sugar.’
‘They say that, Clara. But without a strong competitive cafe culture you will never get good coffee.’
‘It has a bookshop attached,’ I say.
‘So does Borders,’ she says darkly.
‘I had to wait for you all morning. The least you could do is come and have one little coffee.’
Mum gives in and we walk across the road to the cafe. We walk into the bookshop first. The cafe is out the back.
‘What do you want to do first?’ I ask. ‘Look at the books or have a coffee?’
‘Let’s face the horror first.’
‘Good to see you’re keeping an open mind.’
We walk through the bookshop and slide into a booth in the cafe. On the table there are flyers advertising an event. Mum picks one up. ‘Look, Clara, there’s an Anarchist Collective meeting next weekend.’ She snorts. ‘Surely that’s a bit of a contradiction – holding meetings and being an anarchist.’
‘Excuse me, are you ready to order?’ says a voice.
I look up. Campbell from Reading Beyond Bars is standing beside us, pen poised above his notebook. I remember the last time we met. My stupid questions, labelling, and all that tape.
‘By the way,’ he says, ‘anarchists want to create a classless society without hierarchies or authority. But we have no opposition to self-managed, voluntary organisations based on mutual interest. So we do have meetings.’ He smiles at me. ‘Hi, Clara, how are you?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
Mum appears pleasantly baffled and waves her hand between the two of us. ‘How?’
‘Reading Beyond Bars,’ I say. Mum still looks blank. ‘You know, that volunteering thing I went to. Anyway, Mum, this is Campbell. Campbell, this is my mother, Camille.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Camille,’ he says. ‘What can I get for you?’
‘I’ll have a cappuccino.’
‘And Clara?’ He turns to me, raising one eyebrow.
‘I’ll have the same.’
When his back is turned Mum stares at me, opening and closing her mouth in exaggerated excitement. After he’s reached the bar she says, ‘Ooh! Clara, I thought you were being a sad sack on your own at home all day. And all that time you were out joining the social revolution with handsome young men.’
‘He’s not handsome.’
‘He is so too handsome!’
‘I thought he’d be a bit scruffy for you.’
‘He pulls off anarcho-grunge chic extremely well.’
‘Anyway, he thinks I’m an idiot.’
‘You think everyone thinks you’re an idiot.’
‘I am an idiot.’
‘But not as many people realise as you think. You hide it well.’
‘Shut up now,’ I mutter, because Campbell is coming with our coffees. Mum is actually right. He is cute and looks good in an apron. He smiles at me when he puts my coffee down. When he turns to walk back to the counter he looks very good in an apron.
Mum is deeply unimpressed with her coffee. I can see why. The froth on the cappuccinos looks like the scum that floats along the top of rivers – usually near dead sheep.
‘Perhaps the underlying coffee will be okay,’ I suggest hopefully.
We both take a sip and it is very clear that the underlying coffee is not okay. It is horribly bitter.
‘This is awful!’ says Mum. ‘I should say something to them.’
‘Don’t you dare!’
‘But Clara, they claim that they are serving a quality product and they are not. It’s defective. Perhaps they don’t realise there’s a problem with their machine. I’ll be doing them a favour.’
‘Please don’t.’
‘Clara, I won’t embarrass you. I’ll quietly ask to speak to the manager.’
‘That will embarrass me.’
‘Well, you’ll just have to build a bridge and get over it.’
‘Fine. I’ll be in the bookshop.’
Mum always does this. Every time she sees something that could be improved she has to point it out. Why can’t we have a nice time without making a fuss? I would never presume to tell someone how to do their job. I guess I get that from Dad. I once saw him pay eighty dollars extra for a pair of pants because he didn’t want to remind the shop assistant they were on sale.
Once I’m in the bookshop I slip behind a shelf where I won’t be seen. I peer out to watch. Mum is talking to a short, balding man with a small, neat moustache. Campbell is standing nearby listening. This is so embarrassing. The bookshop and cafe are busy but Mum has a loud, piercing voice so I catch snippets of what she is saying. Words like, ‘Standards . . . training . . . crap.’ I want to get out of here but I don’t want to walk home by myself because it’s already dark.
On the shelf in front of me is The Illustrated History of Underwear. I pick it up and try to concentrate on the book. The next time I look back to the cafe, Mum isn’t there. I check all of the aisles but she’s not in the bookshop either. Tentatively I shuffle over to the cafe section, and then I see it.
Mum is behind the counter. Mum is standing behind the counter at the coffee machine. Mum is frothing milk. I want to die.
Mum sees me and shrieks, ‘Clara, come here! I’ve made you a proper coffee.’
Moustache man, Campbell and Mum are all looking at me now. I shuffle over to the counter. I take the cup that Mum is thrusting at me and slink over to our booth.
The coffee is better. I mean, not brilliant, but much better. Even so, it
doesn’t make Mum’s behaviour okay. She’s never worked in a cafe. She did an espresso-making course last year as part of a work team-building exercise. She’s definitely not a qualified barista. Yet she still thinks it’s okay to waltz in and tell professional cafe staff how to make coffee.
When I turn back to look at the counter Mum and moustache man are still talking intently while she makes coffees. Campbell isn’t there. Maybe he has work to do.
‘Hey there.’
I turn back around, startled, to find Campbell sitting on the bench opposite me.
‘I’m sorry about my mother,’ I blurt out.
He laughs. ‘Nothing to be sorry about, she was trying to help. Is your coffee better?’
This is very awkward. I don’t want to seem like a raving coffee-snob like Mum. ‘Well, you know, it’s more like what I drink at home, so maybe I’m biased.’ Changing the topic I say, ‘I’ve been trying to see DC like you said.’
‘Great. Where have you been?’
‘To the White House. And I’m planning to visit museums in the Smithsonian. There’s so much to see.’
There’s a pause before Campbell says, ‘Great.’ But I can tell he doesn’t actually think it’s great.
‘Don’t you like the museums?’ I ask.
‘Well . . . it’s not a question of liking.’
‘What is it then?’
‘I guess I think there are better things to do with your time than visit centralised monuments to “progress” and “knowledge”.’
He’s right, visiting the Smithsonian is a boring, obvious thing to do. I’m a typical unimaginative tourist. Next thing I’ll be taking a photo of myself pretending to prop up the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
‘So where should I go?’
‘You could come to this,’ he says, pushing the Anarchist Collective flyer towards me.
‘But I’m not in the group.’
He smiles. ‘You can fill out the membership form on the day.’
‘Okay. Or could you email it to me beforehand?’
‘I was joking. We’re not really into paperwork.’
‘Oh right, sorry.’
‘Anyway, if you want to come, I’ll be there. Drop by and say hello and see what we’re all about.’
‘I’m not really into politics,’ I say.
Campbell smiles. ‘Good. Neither am I.’ I must still seem hesitant because he adds, ‘Don’t be scared. We’re not about throwing bombs and creating chaos. We’re nice.’
I watch as he walks away from the table. I put the flyer in my bag.
Walking home, Mum is jubilant. ‘The thing is, Clara, the regular barista left last week and none of the other staff know how to use the machine properly. I’ve offered to run a training session next week.’
‘You don’t know anything about making coffee!’ I almost yell.
‘I know more than they do.’
‘You’ve only done a half-day course.’
‘I won’t be charging them any money. Well, there will be an in-kind payment, actually. Tony’s offered us free coffee for the next month.’
‘Your self-confidence is amazing,’ I say.
‘Thank you, darling.’
‘And unwarranted.’
‘Thank you, darling.’
There’s a pause in the conversation and the longer it goes on, the more certain I become about what she will say next. Finally she comes out with it. ‘Will you be seeing Comrade Campbell again?’
‘Maybe. Not sure.’
‘So I’ll take that as a yes,’ she says. ‘I have one request though. When the revolution comes, could I please be first up against the wall? I hate waiting in line.’
Chapter Four
If I can’t dance, it’s not my revolution.
Attributed to Emma Goldman, anarchist and activist
I walk towards Connecticut Avenue with a pleasant sense of purpose. I have a job to do. I am going to the post office to send my Christmas presents.
I finished wrapping them yesterday. I wanted to make sure everything would arrive before Christmas. I asked Mum if she had anything to include in the parcel.
‘Christmas!’ she squawked. ‘It’s weeks away!’
‘Seventeen days.’
‘Weeks!’
‘What will you do for presents?’
‘Probably what I did last year.’
‘Put money in our bank accounts and forget about it?’
‘It did seem to go down well.’
‘You do know that it’s the thought that counts?’
‘I’ve got better things to think about.’
So Mum has not contributed to the parcel but I never expected her to. Yesterday I made cards for everyone – my sister and brother, Dad and his girlfriend Tamra, Zoe, Bethany and Casey from school, even Yingmei, although she doesn’t deserve it.
It took me all day to make the cards. I cut up bits of red and green paper from magazines and stuck them on in abstract patterns. I made Yingmei’s card gaudy and tacky, as a joke. I thought about making a similar card for Liam, but I didn’t because I was afraid it would confirm his opinion that I’m hopelessly boring and desperate.
When I push open the post office door I walk straight into the end of the queue, which stretches all the way from the counter. I close the door behind me and stand in the line. I hope it’s the right one. I’m not sure if I need to fill in a customs form. There’s a table in the middle of the room covered in pieces of paper in untidy piles. I don’t want people to think I’m queue-jumping. I’ll wait until I reach the table to get a form; I should still have plenty of time to fill it out.
I shift my box onto my other hip and get out my book. It’s hard to concentrate on reading though because I keep thinking about Campbell. Ever since I ran into him in the cafe I’ve been fantasising about seeing him again.
I know I said I wouldn’t go back but I’ve changed my mind about Reading Beyond Bars.
I imagine talking to Campbell at the church hall. I’ll say intelligent and interesting things (unlike the last time I saw him). He will be fascinated and want to hear all about me. After I tell him about the time I hid in the school library all night he’ll realise that I’m not as conventional and dull as he thought. And then we’ll leave Reading Beyond Bars together and have a hot drink in a cafe.
I’ve finally made it to the table. There are several different coloured forms. One form has Parcels under 30 Pounds written on it. I’m certain my box is less than thirty pounds, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to carry it. Leaning on the table I fill in the form.
The queue is moving quite slowly. I guess lots of people are sending complicated Christmas parcels. Finally it’s my turn. I approach the counter, heave my box onto the desk, smile and say, ‘I want to send this to Australia.’
The woman doesn’t smile back. ‘You need to fill in the form.’
‘I have,’ I say, pushing across the piece of paper.
She shakes her head, ‘No. Oh no,’ she says. She’s talking very fast and I can’t understand her. She’s pointing and talking louder and louder but I don’t understand. Everyone else in the queue is looking at me now.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand,’ I say.
Talking even louder she starts repeating, ‘Datman. Datman.’ Finally I realise she is saying ‘that man’.
‘What man?’ I ask.
She starts speaking very slowly, ‘The. Blue. Form. Next. To. That. Man.’
I turn and see a man waving a form in the air.
‘Thank you,’ I say. I take the form from the man, who rolls his eyes sarcastically. As I walk back to the end of the line, I hear the postal worker say something to her colleague about me having no sense.
I’m at the end of the queue again, where an
icy blast hits me every time someone opens the door. My eyes are stinging. I’m usually good at forms, but I can’t even do that right here.
My mobile phone rings. I fumble around in my bag. I only just manage to answer before it rings out. ‘Hello, this is Clara.’
‘Hi there, Clara. This is Tiffany from the DC Women’s Centre. Is this a good time to talk?’
‘Sure, it’s fine,’ I say, hoping I won’t start sobbing hysterically.
‘I was wondering if you’d be available to serve breakfast tomorrow morning? I wouldn’t normally call you at such late notice, but someone’s just pulled out.’
‘I can come,’ I say. ‘But I don’t know what to do.’
‘That’s okay, we can show you. Just be at the centre at seven tomorrow morning. Come to the side entrance and I’ll let you in.’
‘Okay, see you then.’
Tiffany says goodbye and I hang up the phone. At least I have somewhere to go tomorrow. I get out my pen and start to fill in the new form.
My alarm clock goes off. I’m confused. Then I remember. I’ve agreed to do the breakfast shift at the Women’s Centre.
In the kitchen I pour myself a bowl of cereal and take it to my room. I turn on my laptop and change my Facebook status to Serving breakfast at the shelter this morning. Can’t believe I’m up this early!
Liam’s status is: Can’t wait to get to the beach. Ha. Now who’s the self-centred one?
At 6.30 I’m ready to leave. I leave Mum a note telling her where I’m going, just in case she’s forgotten.
It’s completely dark when I step outside but I’m not as scared as I am at night. I assume that criminals won’t get up this early. I’m not sure if that’s true though, some criminals might try to get a jump on the day. Also, maybe some won’t have gone to bed yet. I only have a couple of blocks to walk, but I get out my keys and phone anyway.
The side entrance of the centre has a glass-panelled door and inside is a bright, fluorescent-lit room with round tables surrounded by plastic chairs. I press the bell, feeling nervous. I have no idea what Tiffany expects me to do. I don’t have any food-handling experience. I wish I’d had more training before my first shift.
