It's Not All About YOU, Calma!

by Barry Jonsberg

  ‘But you start work at five yourself, don’t you?’

  Bugger. I’d forgotten about that. The last thing I felt like was going into Crazi-Cheep, but I didn’t have much choice. You can’t throw a sickie when you’ve only worked a week. And anyway, there were compensations. Like it was also Jason’s shift. And I was going to get paid. About four dollars and fifty cents, probably, but it was better than nothing. Marginally. I did some quick calculations. Even though I would only have an hour between her shift and mine, I thought it might be enough time to make a start, at least. I’d give it a go.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ I said. ‘I’d forgotten. Good job you reminded me.’

  The Fridge stopped stacking cartons of milk in her namesake and gave me a long, searching look.

  ‘Are you okay, Calma?’ she said. ‘You seem . . . I don’t know. Distracted. And you have a bath towel welded to the top of your head, for no apparent reason. There isn’t anything you’d like to tell me, is there?’

  ‘Like a secret I’m keeping from you?’

  She looked at me even more funnily then.

  ‘Yeah. I suppose so.’

  I put on a broader smile.

  ‘Would I keep secrets from you, Mum?’ I said sweetly. And that seemed to end the conversation.

  I’d given the Fridge every chance to come clean, but she’d spurned the opportunity. If there was any part of me feeling bad about the plan I had formulated, it disappeared at that moment. Actually, I don’t think there was any part, so it was a little academic. Thrusting a bag of split peas into a dark corner of the cupboard, where the Fridge was unlikely to ever spot it, I went to my room. I told the Fridge I needed to study maths, but it was just a cunning subterfuge.

  What I really wanted to do was perfect my disguise.

  Now, how do you go about changing your appearance so that not even your mother would recognise you? I suppose my barren dome gave me a head start, if you’ll forgive the pun, but I was uneasy about going out without some kind of covering. Sure, the Fridge would be unlikely to associate a skinhead with her own daughter, but it was a style that attracted exactly the attention I wanted to avoid. So I fished the blonde wig from her wardrobe and stashed it under my bed.

  I then turned to my own wardrobe. There were articles of clothing in there that hadn’t seen daylight in years. The Fridge used to make a habit of searching through op-shops for the most appalling fashion disasters and then presenting them to me triumphantly, as if I was going to be thrilled at receiving stuff other people had thrown out for quite obvious reasons. I suppose she was trying to economise, but it was wasted, since only a seriously deranged individual would think of using the assorted dresses and tops for anything other than cleaning the barbecue or mopping up sump oil. So I stuck them in the back of my wardrobe where they gathered dust and mould until the dim and distant time when they would come back into fashion.

  I’d probably be dead by then, though.

  Still, it’s a favourite maxim of mine that you never know when something might come in useful. I pulled out a short red skirt that would have come to my knees when I was thirteen, but which now would only be useful as a broad belt. I tried it on and it fitted around the waist beautifully, but exposed so much of my legs I wouldn’t dare bend over in public. I also found a silver, glittery top. A pair of high-heeled black shoes, which I dusted off with another top, completed the outfit. I put on the blonde wig and surveyed myself in the mirror.

  It was then I discovered what the Fridge was attempting to achieve when she bought all this junk. She wanted me to be a child prostitute. It was the only explanation. Give me a leather whip and dye the wig’s roots black and I had a full deck. Actually, it was mesmerising looking at myself in the mirror. I mean, I turned to the side and the image did the same, but for all that, it was like there was someone else living in my wardrobe door. A grisly, earthy doppelganger capable of group sex and tearing the heads off live chooks. It was strangely empowering as well. In this get-up I could do anything I liked and wouldn’t feel any responsibility. You know, a kind of Jekyll and Hyde thing.

  During the day, she is meek, mild Calma Harrison, librarian to the elderly and infirm, but at night she is transformed into . . . Super-Slut!

  I glanced at my watch. There was still time for the final touch to my disguise: make-up. I didn’t hold back there either, I can tell you. I put it on with a trowel and my lack of expertise proved a distinct advantage. Bright, glossy lips and enough black mascara to make my eye sockets seem as if they were suffering a lunar eclipse. I had the face of a nymphomaniac panda.

  I stuffed a change of clothes into a plastic shopping bag and glanced out my bedroom window. The car was still in the driveway, but my watch told me the Fridge would be making tracks very soon. I tiptoed out of my room and listened at the top of the stairs. The toilet in the bathroom flushed and I knew the coast was temporarily clear. I clattered down to the hallway, nearly breaking my ankles in the high heels, and opened the front door. Fortunately, the street was deserted and as far as I could tell there were no curtains twitching across the road. That old Mrs Buckley at number 48 could while away a calendar month doing a solo version of Neighbourhood Watch and I was worried the appearance of Rent-A-Trollop would cause a short circuit in her pacemaker.

  I yelled up the stairs to the Fridge.

  ‘I’m off now, Mum. Catch you later.’

  There was a muffled reply, but I closed the front door and scuttled round to the side of the car. Making sure the car body was between me and any windows in the house, I carefully opened the rear door and bundled myself into the well behind the driver’s seat.

  Now, you need to understand something about the family vehicle. I believe it is the custom in some households to regularly polish and wax the exterior, vacuum the interior, buff the rear-view mirror and generally maintain an atmosphere of cleanliness and hygiene. If that was ever the custom in my household, it has now slipped into the mists of time, beyond the recall of the living. The Fridge treats the car like a giant wheelie bin. There are chip packets, battered cups from McDonald’s, copies of the local newspaper with screaming headlines like, ‘Titanic 0, Iceberg 1’ or ‘Van Diemen’s Land Discovered!’ and other assorted detritus. You could hide an elephant seal in the back of the car and be confident the Fridge would never notice.

  I tucked myself down and pulled an old curtain over my head. Don’t ask me what it was doing there, all right?

  Fortunately, I didn’t have to wait long. I heard the Fridge slam the front door and felt the car dip as she got behind the wheel. The engine spluttered into life and the car lurched into reverse. We were on our way. I hoped it wasn’t going to be a long trip and not just because I only had an hour to get there, trail the Fridge and make it back to Crazi-Cheep in time for my shift. You see, the car doesn’t have aircon, unless you count a faulty front window liable to slip down at unexpected moments, and it was a hot day. The air from the window was merely circulating the heat, and being covered in a curtain didn’t help. I could feel sweat beading on my forehead. If it was a long trip I would not only lose five kilos, but my mascara would pool. I had visions of appearing out of the back of the car, in a crowded street, looking like a mutant wombat and scaring passing children.

  I risked lifting the curtain a little, just to get some air. It didn’t help much. It was still like being in the waiting room for Hades, but at least I could see. In fact, I discovered a plastic doll I had lost when I was five years old.

  I’d always liked that doll.

  Twenty minutes later, the car came to a halt and the engine cut out. I was relieved, I can tell you. If we had travelled much further I would have been forced to rise up on the back seat, just to breathe. I could imagine the Fridge’s reaction when she saw a ghastly, bewigged apparition loom up in the rear-view mirror. I suspected she wouldn’t have seen the funny side of things, particularly if we had veered into a lamppost or a queue of senior citizens at a bus stop.

  The Fridge gathered he
r stuff from the passenger seat. Then the car door slammed and the key turned in the lock. This was the tricky part. How long should I wait before I got out of the car? If it was too soon, the Fridge would spot me, but if I left it too long then she might have disappeared and the whole exercise would have been futile. Judgement was vital.

  I waited until the clack of her shoes faded and then counted slowly to ten. I prised open the rear door and slipped into a pool of sunshine. Snapping the lock down I pushed against the door until I could feel the mechanism engage. Only then did I search for the Fridge.

  I was in the car park of the casino. Of course. Just my luck. The one time the Fridge actually goes to work was bound to be the day I followed her. I looked towards the entrance of the casino, about two hundred metres away, but could see no sign of her. She couldn’t possibly have walked that distance in the time. I scanned rows of cars all around. Maybe she was going shopping before work. My watch said ten to four, so that was a possibility.

  I couldn’t believe it. Had the earth swallowed her?

  I pivoted around, a dangerous manoeuvre in high-heeled shoes, and just as I was about to despair completely, I spotted her. She was standing in the middle of the car park, talking to a man. He was holding my mother by the arm, in a curiously intimate way, just by the elbow. She was looking up into his face and smiling. It had to be the same man I’d seen last night. I couldn’t imagine the Fridge made a habit of romantic assignations with different people. Even though I couldn’t get a good view because he had his back to me, it cleared up one concern. It wasn’t my dad. This guy had hair. Lots of it, mostly grey. But who was he? I started to walk towards them and that’s when the first disaster happened.

  The man dropped my mother’s arm and opened a car door for her. She dipped her head and got in. He walked around to the driver’s side, got behind the wheel and there was a throaty roar from a powerful engine. They were driving off! I tried to walk faster. I would have broken into a run, but the high heels were a danger to life and limb. How do women wear them and steer clear of hospital emergency rooms? I kept tottering to the side and my ankles bowed alarmingly. My call-girl persona now had the additional refinement of apparent inebriation. I watched helplessly as the car, a long, sleek beast, swept past. The Fridge and the driver were gazing into each other’s eyes, so they didn’t notice me. I doubt if they would have noticed if Elvis had materialised on the bonnet. The guy had his head turned from me, so I didn’t get the satisfaction of clocking what he looked like. Bugger!

  The car disappeared down the casino’s driveway and headed away from the CBD, fading into a dim twinkle of brake lights. I hadn’t even had the presence of mind to get the rego.

  Sweaty, irritated and feeling completely dispirited, I staggered into the casino. I needed the ladies room. There was a bloke standing guard at the entrance, all done up in formal gear, but looking like a one hundred and twenty kilo slab of muscle. You know the kind. Squashed nose, perpetual stubble and a brain the size of a pea. He leered as I approached, his piggy eyes glued to my silvered, sparkling bust.

  ‘Not a bloody word, mate,’ I said to him, ‘or you’ll find the business end of these stilettos giving you a rectal exploration.’

  I left him struggling to find a response and crashed open the door of the ladies toilet. Haunted, black-rimmed eyes stared back at me from the mirror. I was exhausted. And it was then, when I was at my lowest, that the second disaster broke into my consciousness.

  I had left the bag with my change of clothes in the car.

  The locked car.

  And if that wasn’t bad enough, my purse and house keys were in it. I contemplated the half-hour walk back to Crazi-Cheep, in high heels, in the blazing sun, dressed like a hooker, and I started to cry.

  It did absolutely nothing for the mascara.

  Chapter 15

  From harlot to heroine

  If it’s all the same to you, I’ll let the details of my long walk to work remain in oblivion. Maybe deep hypnosis could resurrect the grisly experience, but some things are best left buried. That’s the way I feel about it, anyway.

  I’ll tell you one thing, though. It was not a happy, carefree Calma Harrison who finally staggered through the doors of Crazi-Cheep on Saturday afternoon. It was a Calma Harrison in the mood for violent confrontation with any pensioner who glanced at her sideways. I burst through the automatic doors looking like Sexually Deviant Barbie. Mothers grasped small children to their bosoms as I clicked towards the staff changing rooms. I couldn’t see Jason. The only bright spot in an otherwise bleak situation.

  At least I had the opportunity to clean myself up. Typically, the store only provided cheap Crazi Brand soap for its employees, but it did the trick. The mascara was stubborn, though. By the time I’d finished scrubbing my eyes with gritty soap, the redness around my face made it seem like I had been sobbing hysterically for a large portion of the millennium. For once I was grateful for the outsized uniform. I stripped down to my underwear and unless a freak wind-devil careered down aisle twelve and lifted my smock, I would remain decent. The wig had to go, as did the high heels. I tell you, if I’m ever captured behind enemy lines, they’d only have to produce a pair of stilettos and I’d spill my guts. Those things were spawned from a mind of pure evil.

  I marched from the changing room straight to House-wares, where I picked up a multi-coloured tea towel and folded it into a bandanna. With my red eyes and a tea towel on my head I resembled the late Yasser Arafat, but I didn’t give a stuff. From there, I went to the section that had thongs – the cheap kind that cause calluses between your toes and slap on hard floors with sounds like gunshots. My transformation from Penthouse Pet to middle-aged housewife complete, I fronted up to Candy at customer service to enquire about my duties for the evening.

  I was hoping she would say something about my appearance. I was in that kind of mood – the sort where if someone says, ‘Good Evening’, you’re liable to give them a stiff-fingered poke in the throat. She didn’t say anything, though. She just assigned me to shelf-stacking again.

  That didn’t improve my mood either. I wanted to say, ‘Oh, I was good enough for the tills when you were desperate, but now the brain-dead zombies you call your staff have returned, I’m back to the chorus line, is that it?’ I didn’t, though. It was just another small flame under my simmering anger.

  I plunged through the plastic curtains out the back and loaded up a trolley with sundry items apparently in short supply on the shelves. I grunted at one of the men when he smiled and said ‘Hello’. Provocative bastard! Then I set to work in a lather of resentment. If I’d spotted the ankle-ramming, condom-buying granny, I’d have strangled her with prophylactics.

  Have you ever had one of those days when disaster dogs you, like . . . well, a dog, I guess? This was one of those. Not the day to buy a Lotto ticket, unless you want someone to snatch your purse from the counter while you’re paying. I was slamming cans of something onto a shelf and cursing softly under my breath when there was a tap on my shoulder. I resisted the urge to slam a can backwards into a rheumatic ankle and got wearily to my feet.

  It was my father. Of course it was. How could it be anyone else? Maybe the Grim Reaper, but frankly that would have been preferable. I narrowed my reddened eyes and tried to get his head to explode through sheer force of will. I saw a film where that happened once.

  ‘Calma,’ he said. ‘You look different.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ I said, ‘you look exactly the same. Please rearrange these words into a well-known phrase or saying: off, piss.’

  ‘Please,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave you alone. But first there’s something I need to tell you.come on, Calma. Please.’

  ‘You haven’t a clue, have you?’ I replied, the steel in my voice getting harder and sharper by the moment. ‘Not the vaguest idea of what you’ve done to Mum and me. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here. Well, matey, if you want to know the cold, hard facts of the matter, you lost your chance to talk to me wh
en you walked out five years ago. I remember. I remember sitting on the stairs, listening to you shouting. And you stormed past me as if I wasn’t there and the next thing you were gone. Talking wasn’t of any significance then, was it? Why should I believe anything’s changed?’

  ‘Calma,’ he said, ‘do you think you might have lost perspective on this?’

  ‘No, but I think you’ve lost my interest,’ I replied. ‘Please go. Stop haunting this store like some sad spectre, the ghost father of Christmas past. Stop following me. Just stop everything. Breathing included. Keep out of my life!’

  His eyes widened. I had difficulty believing what I’d said myself, but this was not the best time to engage me in even casual conversation, let alone a heart-to-heart with someone I wouldn’t pee on if he was on fire.

  ‘But, Calma. I’m your father. You might not like it, but that doesn’t change the fact we have a bond. A blood tie. And it isn’t going to go away.’

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘Get fifty cents and ring someone who gives a shit about your clichés. I have to work.’

  And I turned back to slam more cans into empty spaces. Ironic, really, since empty spaces seemed to be all I was composed of at that moment. When I looked up, he had gone. For a briefmoment, I couldn’t be sure if what I felt was relief or regret. But I readjusted my tea towel and turned my attention to the pressing matter of button mushrooms in brine. Life, as I knew only too well, had to go on.

  My mood did not improve when I took my break. Jason was smoking in his usual spot round the corner, and at first he didn’t see me. He didn’t see me, because he was busy talking to a stick-thin blonde girl who was giggling in a moronic fashion. She had big, blue eyes, a wide mouth and flawless teeth. I couldn’t decide which of these features to punch first. She kept brushing back her hair whenever he said anything. Now, if you’re male, you’ll probably find this an entirely innocent mannerism. If you’re female, however, you’ll understand it’s akin to shouting from the rooftops, ‘Come on, big boy. Let’s get it on.’ I hated her. I hated Jason.