August Falling

by Les Zig

  ‘What’re you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘You do this, or I do it for you.’

  ‘And if it implodes?’

  ‘Then you pick yourself up and stumble into the next fiery mess, like the rest of us. Now am I going, or are you?’

  I gaze at the girl with the stallion tattoo—no, not a stallion. A stallion’s silly. It’s something ethereal. An angel! She bounces on her toes as she waits for her order.

  ‘Right,’ Gen says.

  ‘Okay, all right, all right, all right,’ I say.

  I ease myself from the booth as the barista hands the girl with the angel tattoo a brown paper bag. She gives him money. He counts her change, idly talking to her. I can’t hear what’s being said as I approach, but I recognise his easygoing banter, although the girl with the angel tattoo stands with her hands folded in front of her waist. She smiles, but it’s not a smile that washes her face in joy, but a forced smile—the sort of smile you offer a police officer when they pull you over and give you a ticket.

  The barista holds out an open hand, change gleaming in his palm. He wants her to take it from him, to have some connection, like he’s offering his hand for a dance. She plucks the coins from his hand and thanks him.

  I sidestep through a minefield of tables. Somebody pops out of their chair right in front of me. I pirouette away from my near collision as the girl with the angel tattoo turns. I come out of my spin and it’s inevitable we’re going to crash—how cool in a clichéd way, like something from a movie, and then there’ll be apologies and small talk leading up to bigger talk. But we each pull up just in time. She murmurs an apology, prepares to sidestep around me, but realises by the way I’m holding my hands up and fumbling for words that I want to address her. It’s only now I realise I’m still clutching the teddy I bought for Oscar.

  Words pop into my head, but they’re disconnected from any sense. I talk all day for a living and can improvise when need be. I can talk with friends and joke and laugh. But now the pressure’s on this personal, social level, all my words tangle up into an indecipherable knot.

  She frowns.

  ‘Uh …’ I say.

  Her gaze picks out the teddy. ‘Cute bear.’

  Tension broken. Sorta. I take a deep breath, clamp my hands together in front of me like I’m imploring her, while simultaneously strangling the teddy.

  ‘I’m sorry to be so presumptuous,’ I say, ‘but I was sitting there with my nephew—he’s the bald-headed baby attached to my sister’s breast—and I know it’s trite, especially from a guy so far out of your league I may as well build a rocket ship to get to you, you being stunning and me being … me … not that I’m objectifying you, that is … and, um, this is probably something you get a lot, probably so much that you know what I’m going to say, which is something, because I’m not even sure what I’m going to say …’

  I pause, hoping she’ll save me, but she waits.

  ‘… and I’m not even this sort of guy really, the sort who can approach beautiful women in public, totally randomly, that’s not me, it could never be me, but I saw you, getting your coffee, and I was wondering, if it’s not too forward, although I guess it is forward, me accosting you like this, I was wondering, although you’re probably not interested, and I wouldn’t blame you for not being interested …’

  My sister joins us, Oscar suckling greedily at her breast. ‘Hi, I’m Gen,’ she says. ‘This is my brother, August.’ Gen points me out, then holds her hand out, beckoning the girl with the angel tattoo to talk.

  ‘Julie.’

  Gen nudges me, but I remain mute. She nudges me again. Then once more, like when we were kids, and she wanted me to do something—the way she nudged me off the high diving board at the pool, all the way from the ladder into the water. I nudge her back, only she isn’t expecting it and stumbles a step. Oscar’s mouth dislodges and milk squirts from Gen’s exposed breast like a water pistol, splattering Julie’s exposed hip and her jeans. She shrieks and jumps back.

  ‘Oh my God, oh my God!’ I say.

  Gen bellows with laughter. Others in the cafe snicker and chuckle. The barista rolls his eyes. I snatch napkins from three people seated at a nearby table too shocked to respond and thrust them at Julie, then pull up, unsure I should touch her. She grabs the napkins from me and dabs at the milk. Every set of eyes in the cafe is fixed on me, burning me to ash.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. He’s a fiend.’ I gesture at Oscar, who’s contentedly reattached to Gen’s breast as she buries her face in one hand trying to stifle her laughter. ‘We can’t take him anywhere,’ I ramble. ‘He pees and poos and dribbles and is responsible for all sorts of liquids flying everywhere.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Julie says. ‘I’ve had worse.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I hold my hands up in surrender. ‘I’ll leave you, peacefully.’

  The barista snorts. Julie scowls at him—she actually scowls, but her face softens as she looks back at me. It’s probably pity. People throughout the cafe go back to their meals. The clatter of cutlery on plates and the murmur of conversation mixes into a disharmony that derides my failure.

  ‘Hey,’ Julie says.

  I pivot back.

  Julie recites her number. ‘I need to go. Call, okay?’

  I stand there, endlessly reciting the number in my head. Gen nudges me—again.

  ‘Sure.’

  Julie smiles—not the mannequin smile she gave the barista, but the good smile, the real smile, the smile smile—and then leaves. I remain dazed, not wanting to look any more the idiot than I already have, although I realise that I forgot to check her tattoo, which is what created this attraction in the first place.

  I race back to my booth, pick up my pen, and scrawl the first five digits of her number on my notepad. I stop. Was it five-three-seven or five-seven-three?

  Gen eases Oscar into his pram. ‘Five-three-seven,’ she says.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  I scribble that down and tear the page from the notebook, fold it, and put it in my pocket. There’s something I should be feeling now, and what I get surprises me: dread—a tingling in my chest, my heart firing into a higher gear.

  We go over to the counter and grab our bill from the same barista Julie shot down. Gen fires a twenty across the counter before I get a chance to reach for my wallet. I take it out anyway, start to take out a ten-dollar note. Gen closes my wallet on my hand.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she says.

  ‘You don’t have to pay for me.’

  ‘It’s what family does.’

  ‘I have money, Gen.’

  ‘Get the next one.’

  We leave Charisma’s, Gen pulling the roof of the pram over Oscar. I deposit the teddy bear by his side, then shove my hands in my pockets, notebook filed between my arm and ribs.

  ‘I’ll walk you to work,’ Gen says.

  I try to sort through my feelings. People always insist they should trust their instincts and then lament when they don’t and things go awry; that they knew better, but didn’t follow their guts. I’m wary of Julie. Something’s wrong. It resonates from deep in my stomach, a cold, dark sliver that pulses enigmatically. Is it instinct?

  ‘You’re quiet,’ Gen says.

  ‘I’m … worried.’

  ‘You don’t have to call her, but it’s more likely you’re cagey after That Cunt Lisa.’

  And it’s probably that simple. Lisa hurt me, I’m not only worried Julie will do the same, but I’m expecting the worst.

  ‘If I call her,’ I say, ‘when should I do it?’

  ‘Do it tonight.’

  ‘Isn’t that too soon?’

  ‘There’s no formula, doesn’t matter what anybody tells you. What do you think?’

  I shrug.

  ‘If I met somebody and wasn’t sure when to call them, what would you advise me?’

  About five different answers jump forward in my mind, and then five different counters se
cond-guessing them. Gen reads my indecision.

  ‘That Cunt Lisa has a lot to answer for,’ she says, as we reach my building. She clasps my arm. ‘Call tonight.’

  ‘It’s Friday night. She’ll probably be out.’

  Gen hugs me tight and kisses me on the cheek. ‘You’ll work it out,’ she says. ‘Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Come over for dinner. We’ll organise something soon.’

  ‘That’d be good.’

  Gen hugs me once more. ‘Talk soon. You should get back to work.’

  ‘Oh the joy.’

  ‘There’s the brother I know and love.’

  Insecurity plagues me through the rest of the work day. It’s been so long since I dated—over seven years, and even then it was with Lisa, where I fell into the wake of her lead. It was easy because I was young, inexperienced, and in love—a combination that was always going to be vulnerable to tragedy.

  When five o’clock comes around, I shoot from my chair, but all that opens up before me is that dread again, that blackness I’m going to fall into: the void of not knowing what I’m going to write when I get home and the vacuum that all I’ll do is think of Julie, which’ll swallow up whatever I do want to do.

  ‘Hey!’ Ronnie says. ‘Sam and I are going to grab a few drinks at the Palladium. Not interested?’

  ‘Sure,’ I say.

  Ronnie squints at me. ‘You look like August.’ He touches my shoulder. ‘You feel like August.’

  ‘Good one, Ronnie,’ Sam says, as he dons his leather jacket. ‘Tell us when you’re going to cue laughter.’

  ‘What the hell, huh?’ I say.

  Ronnie grins. ‘What the hell indeed.’

  The Palladium was built in the 1950s, and probably still belongs there with its old wooden floors, high ceilings with buttresses, and tapered windows. From the outside, there’s a dignity and elegance about it. On the inside, it’s two floors, with the second floor leading out to a balcony. Given it’s a Friday night, the whole place is packed with twenty-somethings who drink and chatter and dance—a raging mass of obliviousness, lack of inhibition, and passion. I used to feel part of such crowds as a teen. Now I feel like I’m standing outside them.

  We push and nudge our way up the spiralling stairwell to the second floor. Ronnie goes to round up beers, while Sam and I thread our way out to the balcony. In the summer, the tables here are filled, open beach umbrellas poking through their centres. People circle the balustrade, and inhale the view of the city. Now, the tables are empty, umbrellas closed and forsaken. A few smokers have snuck out for a cigarette, but it’s hard to tell when they’re exhaling smoke and when their breath is misting from the cold.

  Sam leads us to a table up against the back wall, which acts as a windbreak. I sit opposite him and rest my notebook on the table. Sam runs his hands up and down his arms.

  ‘I need somewhere warmer,’ he says. ‘Hawaii, maybe.’

  ‘You thinking of going?’ I ask.

  ‘I’m looking—Miami maybe, or the Caribbean. But I think I also want somewhere culturally unique, you know?’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I can go to a beach anywhere—I can jump in the car and drive thirty minutes to a beach. I want to go to a place where I can only see and experience what’s in that place at that place. Like going to see the Sphinx. I wouldn’t see that anywhere else.’

  ‘Egypt then?’

  ‘That was just an example—I’m still trying to work it out.’

  Sam hisses as he breathes in, like he’s bracing himself. I’ve only known him for as long as I’ve worked at the call centre—he’s friendly, and has something about him. Maybe it’s that big smile of his that’s so disarming. Women are always flocking to him during our lunch break—he doesn’t even instigate them. But in no time he has them enraptured.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ I say.

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘If you met a woman and you gave her your phone number, when would you call?’

  ‘Did you meet somebody?’

  ‘I’m asking, hypothetically.’

  ‘I’d call that night.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘It’s romantic.’

  ‘It’s not needy?’

  Ronnie emerges onto the balcony, a jug of beer in one hand, three glasses in the other. He sits down beside Sam and pours beers for everybody.

  ‘What’s not needy?’ Ronnie asks.

  ‘August met a girl,’ Sam says, ‘and wants to know when to call.’

  ‘I was asking hypothetically,’ I say.

  ‘What did you say?’ Ronnie asks Sam.

  ‘That night.’

  ‘Stalker alert.’

  ‘Women like attentiveness.’

  ‘Give it a day at least,’ Ronnie says. ‘In this case, Saturday. If you met her on Thursday, then you’d wait two days, because Saturday’s a day you go out. Sunday’s Sunday. Everybody’s in a lull because it’s back to work the next day.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter,’ Sam says. ‘There’s always something you can do. We’re not teenagers. It’s not like you’re taking her clubbing, right?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘You can grab a bite, maybe a coffee. Or do something original—go rollerskating.’

  ‘Rollerskating?’ Ronnie splutters on his beer.

  ‘Don’t stick with the norm,’ Sam says. ‘That other stuff—that normal stuff—you can do any day.’

  ‘What if she wanted to stay over?’ Ronnie says. ‘She’s more likely to do it on a Saturday when there’s nothing on the next day, rather than Sunday when she’s probably got work or something.’

  ‘If she’d sleep with you on the first date,’ Sam says.

  ‘Who wouldn’t sleep with me on the first date?’

  ‘I’m sure that’s a long list, Ronnie.’

  ‘You could be right, but we’re talking about August’s hopelessness, not mine.’

  ‘Hey!’ I say.

  ‘It’s okay to be a lost cause.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  They go on, breaking down the politics of dating and rambling off into various tangents, each with opinions that are contrary until the only conclusion I can draw is there are no guidelines.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. Gen. It would be around 6.15pm. I grab my phone, turn it slowly, and feel my muscles loosen as I see Gen’s name.

  ‘My sister,’ I say. ‘I should take this.’

  I leave the table and head to the corner of the balcony, watching the traffic below, headlights beaming in the night. Now that I’m up and away from the discussion, I realise I need the toilet. But I answer the call first and lift my phone to my ear.

  ‘Hey, Gen.’

  ‘Hey,’ Gen says. ‘Where are you? Sounds noisy.’

  ‘Went out with Ronnie and one of the other guys from work. For a drink.’

  ‘That’s great! Did you call her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay.’

  And that’s it: no advice, no condemnation, no encouragement.

  ‘Since you’re out,’ Gen says, ‘I’m going to leave you to it, but text me when you get home, okay?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Okay. Love you. Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  I lean against the balustrade. Below me, people scurry past, on their way home, or on their way out. Everybody’s doing something. And they’ll meet others doing something. Relationships start. Or are sustained. Or broken up. Paths are taken—right, wrong, and sometimes circular, like planes in a holding pattern before they’re called in to land.

  A tall woman in high heels and a figure-hugging red dress passes. I wonder where she’s going, who she’s meeting, where she’ll be tonight, tomorrow, the rest of her life. A man in a charcoal suit approaches from the other direction. I don’t see it—can’t see it in the night—but I’m sure his eyes examine her as they cross paths. Then, sure enough, after she passes, he looks back to admire her as he walks on.
<
br />   I unlock my phone, find Julie’s name in my contacts, and hold my finger above her number. There’s the heartbeat again, picking up tempo until it thumps through every muscle in my body. I close my eyes, search for an instinct, for some pronouncement, but there’s nothing.

  Nothing, but my right hand now shaking above my phone.

  I hit Julie’s number, lift the phone to my ear and hear it dial, hear it connect, hear it ring. It’ll be good if it goes to voicemail. I can leave a message, then the onus is on her to return my call. She can deal with the timeframe of when that’s best suitable—if it is at all. I rehearse the message in my head: Hi, this is August. We met in Charisma’s today. I thought I’d give you call, so—

  ‘Hello?’

  Words vanish. Composure disintegrates.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Uh, hi,’ I say.

  ‘Hi.’ Strained now. Maybe idiots hassle her a lot. ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Me.’

  She snorts and I hear the phone being jostled, like she’s moving it from her ear to hang up.

  ‘August,’ I add. ‘The weird guy you met this afternoon. In Charisma’s? I asked for your number. After my sister … sprayed you with breast milk.’

  ‘Oh!’ Genuine delight in her voice. ‘You know, the guy who works in that cafe, the barista, he must’ve heard me give you my number because he called me too, tried to chat me up.’

  ‘What?’ I feel both jealousy and protectiveness.

  ‘Can you imagine the nerve of some people?’ Julie says. ‘Anyway, I’m glad you called.’ This, like she’s reconnecting with somebody she hasn’t spoken to for years.

  ‘You are?’

  ‘It’s why I gave you my number.’

  ‘Oh, okay, sure. Sorry, I’m not usually this …’ Ineloquent? Dense? Stupid?

  ‘You’ve got a bit of noise there,’ Julie says. ‘You out?’

  ‘I’m at a bar with some workmates, having a beer after work.’

  ‘You’re not drunk, are you?’ Guarded. ‘That’s not why you called now, is it?’

  ‘No! No. I didn’t know when to call and then I thought, well, now, because, you know …’

  Julie waits because, obviously, she doesn’t know.