August Falling

by Les Zig

  Julie frowns. ‘And you were behind me in line the other day.’

  ‘I … um …’ The hallway is close—a couple of steps into that hallway and I could escape to the toilets.

  ‘You nervous again?’ Julie’s eyes narrow—her right eye more than her left, which gives her a look of wry thoughtfulness. ‘Because you relaxed there for a bit. Sorry, I hope I haven’t embarrassed you.’

  ‘It’s okay. I was in the line—I was going to ask you for your number or something like that, but I chickened out. I only did it today because my sister threatened to do it for me if I didn’t, and I never actually did, I guess, you volunteered it, and, yes, I’m nervous again. I’m telling you too much, aren’t I? But I’m nervous, I’m very, very nervous—it doesn’t show, though, does it?’

  Julie leans back. Again, there’s that wry look, almost like she’s trying to work out whether or not I’m for real.

  ‘I’m always nervous,’ I say.

  ‘Why? As far as right now goes, why are you nervous?’

  ‘Beautiful woman, almost like a blind date, I can’t believe you’re here … It’s not like a pity date, is it? Because it’s not too late to change your mind. I mean, I won’t be offended. I’ll be disappointed, but—’

  ‘It’s okay. And I don’t mean it’s okay about the date, I mean it’s okay to be nervous.’

  ‘You’re not worried I could be a stalker or a freak or a creep?’

  ‘I’ve known stalkers and freaks and creeps, and I don’t get that from you. You’re sweet. Right?’

  I don’t know what to say—it should be something self-deprecating. But I can’t think of anything. I open my mouth. And that’s when I go blank. I wonder if Julie thinks I look like an idiot, but fortunately she’s studying the menu. I clamp my mouth shut.

  ‘Come on, let’s order,’ she says. ‘You know what their burgers are like?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  Julie runs the forefinger of her left hand down her menu. I watch the bridge of her nose furrow, the only concession to a frown, her face serious, as if she were studying for a test.

  ‘Let’s live dangerously,’ she says, signalling for Sylvia.

  Immediately, Sylvia’s at our booth, smile and notepad ready.

  ‘I’ll have the cheeseburger, and can I get bacon in that?’ Julie says.

  ‘Sure,’ Sylvia says.

  ‘Is there tomato in the burger?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘No tomato. I can’t handle tomato.’ Julie looks to me. ‘I can handle it as a sauce, and as a relish, but not in its original form. It’s so …’

  ‘Tomatoey?’ I say.

  ‘Exactly.’ Julie shudders.

  ‘No tomato,’ Sylvia says.

  ‘Does the burger come with fries?’

  ‘Thick-cut chips.’

  ‘That’s great. Maybe bring another beer out with it, too.’

  ‘No problem.’ Sylvia turns to me. ‘And you?’

  ‘Same’s fine with me,’ I say.

  ‘You’re easy,’ Julie says.

  ‘Okay, two cheeseburgers with bacon, minus the tomato, and two more beers,’ Sylvia says. ‘Coming right up.’

  We sip from our beers—almost simultaneously—while I try to come up with anything to make conversation. Topics flash through my head: my writing (too much of a nonentity), work (not interesting enough), her studies (she’s probably told me all there is to know), family (think we’ve covered as much as there is to cover without getting too personal), interests … interests?

  ‘Got any interests?’ I ask.

  Julie does that crooked narrowing of the eyes again, the right one narrower than the left. Got any interests? It’s so groan-worthy. I lift my hands and cover my face and then, because that’s such an embarrassing gesture, push my hands up through my hair, like all I was going to do was flip my hair back.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m really bad at this,’ I say.

  ‘How did you think this was going to go?’

  ‘I didn’t think past asking you for your number. I envy how naturally it comes to everybody else. Meanwhile, I’m sitting here, opposite you, thinking the last thing I should be telling you is how bad I am at this. I should be bluffing. That’s what people do, isn’t it?’

  ‘Fake it until you make it.’

  ‘I wish I could do that.’

  ‘Do it.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  Julie takes a deep breath—peculiarly, the same cocking of a sigh that Gen gives me, but Julie doesn’t fire the actual sigh. ‘Do it,’ Julie says. ‘Bluff me.’

  I race through the same conversation starters again, dismiss them, come up with meaningless topics—weather, politics, science—and throw those out. I could mention my interests, but surely they’re unappealing to anybody other than geeks like me. Then it occurs to me.

  ‘Tomatoes,’ I say.

  Julie nods. ‘Tomatoes.’ And then she shudders again.

  ‘What’ve you got against them?’

  ‘You like them?’

  ‘I’m indifferent. I’ve never really thought about them. I don’t really like them, but nor do I hate them; they’re just there.’

  ‘They’re more than just there.’ Julie grimaces. ‘They’re squishy.’

  ‘That’s the whole root of the problem?’

  ‘Mum used to make me sandwiches for school. When she got ill, I had to make them for myself. And, no, there’s no correlation between Mum’s illness and tomatoes, like I have this tomato-centric phobia because of unresolved issues around Mum dying. It’s just that I had to make my own sandwiches, and tomatoes are squishy. You cut them, and they leak all over you, they spill their … what are they? Pips? Seeds? And you get those particularly soft ones, and they don’t want to be cut.’

  ‘But before this sandwich-making episode—’

  ‘It wasn’t an episode. It was a series. A long-running successful series. Then when I’d bite into my sandwich, it’d be that squishiness all over again. It’s like stepping on a fat spider and hearing it crunch.’

  I cringe at the image of finding a half-eaten spider in a sandwich.

  ‘Tomatoes should be for, like, stage shows—you throw them at bad performances. That’s a good use for a tomato.’

  ‘You see a lot of bad stage shows?’

  ‘Well, no, I don’t really see any, but if throwing tomatoes was something I could do, I’d probably start attending more.’

  I chuckle. ‘But before all this, you used to eat them?’

  ‘I was like you. I was indifferent to them. But then it was like discovering a new life form, and since then there’s been this ongoing conflict. I don’t think it’ll ever get resolved.’

  ‘A tragedy.’

  ‘I wish they’d go back to their own planet. It’d be a good science fiction premise for a Star Trek movie or something.’

  ‘You’re a Star Trek fan?’

  ‘I’m not a fatalist, but I really liked the old series and movies. And then the first couple of new series they made. But not the new movies.’ Julie hisses as she draws in a breath. ‘Why? That too geeky for you?’

  ‘I’m a fan—not a fatalist. Exactly like you. I liked the old stuff, some of the stuff they made afterwards, but not the new movies.’

  Sylvia arrives with our burgers and beers, then heads off.

  Julie lifts the upper half of the bun and peers beneath it. ‘Just checking—sometimes chefs are clueless. There’s a whole communication breakdown from me to waitstaff to chef.’

  ‘All clear?’

  ‘All clear. So where were we?’

  We fall into a rhythm, the way old friends would, discovering we’re both fans of some science fiction (Doctor Who being another staple), that we’re both movie junkies (and download lots of stuff illegally, so we compare pirate sites), that neither of us are morning people and we both procrastinate before we go to bed, and that she hasn’t been in a ser
ious relationship for years. I don’t say anything about Lisa, although I think she guesses something’s gone on.

  Most of the conversation skitters from one point to the next, and while lots of the things we have in common seem like stupid incidentals, they feel right. It’s not something I’ve ever felt so early in a relationship—not even with Lisa. Talking to Julie, I lose the trepidation that what I say might be wrong, or judged as dumb, or that it might be worthy of some argument.

  It also means we eat slowly, nibbling through cold burgers and colder chips, so we order a third beer. The moment we’re done, Sylvia’s over to collect our plates. She doesn’t ask if we want another beer—no doubt a signal that she wants us to vacate the booth—so I ask for the bill.

  I take out my wallet, while Julie starts fishing in her pocket.

  ‘That’s okay,’ I say. ‘My treat.’

  ‘Uh uh.’ Julie flips open the little leather folder. ‘Down the middle.’

  ‘That doesn’t allow me to be chivalrous.’

  ‘That’s life in the modern world.’ Julie yanks some folded-up money from the right pocket of her jeans. She checks the bill, leaves her share and a small tip. I match her.

  Once we get outside, I button up my shirt, fold my arms across my chest, and bounce on the spot. Julie shoves her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket, the wind sweeping back her hair.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘can we do this again?’

  ‘You trying to get rid of me?’

  ‘I thought … I haven’t dated for a long time.’

  ‘You’re freezing, you poor thing. Why didn’t you bring a jacket?’

  ‘I thought I’d be going straight home after work.’

  ‘You should still bring a jacket. Be prepared.’

  We begin to walk, seemingly randomly, only stopping to peruse options to continue the night as we confront them. On one street, there are clubs and bars, like Aftershock, Ringer’s, and The Back Room—all the in-things at the moment. Queues stream from their doors, while bouncers stand with arms crossed and haughty expressions.

  ‘Feel like going to a bar?’ I ask.

  ‘It’d take forever to get in.’ Julie points at The Back Room. ‘Didn’t somebody die there recently?’

  I nod. ‘Jumped from the balcony.’

  ‘That’s pleasant. Come on.’

  We progress onwards, past the theatre, showing The King and I. Julie studies the billing on the placard, and I make a mental note that if I see her again, this is something we could do. Only a couple of doors down are the cinemas. We stop again, check out what’s playing, but there’s nothing interesting, so we continue walking until Julie points out an adjoining street.

  ‘I’m parked down here,’ she says.

  ‘Oh.’ Oh sums it up. The energy has ebbed, like air leaking from a balloon, and I wish there were some way to pump it back up. I thrust my hands into my pockets. ‘Well …’

  ‘You drive?’

  ‘I do drive, but I don’t have a car at the moment, so I catch trains.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll give you a lift home.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  ‘I don’t have to, but I’m going to.’

  ‘You don’t even know where I live.’

  Julie tugs my shirt. ‘So you can tell me.’

  As we walk onwards, I’m not sure what to do, whether to put my arm around her—and I’d like to, because the cold bites through my shirt until I’m shivering—or to lope alongside her. We turn the corner, and she points out—under a willow—something sleek and black parked alongside a battered little box. I know nothing about cars, but recognise it’s a Porsche, albeit an older model.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘You parked your Porsche next to that little shitbox?’

  Julie takes out her keys and I expect the Porsche to bleep and the lights to flash. ‘No,’ she says, ‘I parked my little shitbox next to that Porsche.’

  I stop and cover my face, and say from behind closed hands, ‘Do you have a shovel in the boot I can borrow so I can bury myself?’

  Julie laughs. ‘It’s okay. I know she’s a shitbox, and she knows she’s a shitbox, but she gets me to where I want to go—well, usually.’

  On closer inspection, ‘shitbox’ is being kind to Julie’s car. Several panels are dented, there are scratches all over the dull turquoise paint job, and the front bumper hangs a little bit askew—perhaps a wry grin showing the car doesn’t take herself too seriously. I have to read the logo on the back to identify that it’s a Fiat.

  ‘Uh uh,’ Julie says as I head around to the passenger side. ‘Door doesn’t open. You have to get in through my side.’

  ‘This car is legal to drive, isn’t it?’

  Julie opens the driver’s door, then strokes the car’s roof. ‘Don’t listen to him,’ she says to the car. ‘Of course you’re legal to drive.’ She stands aside, unfurls an arm, and ushers me into the car.

  It smells inside—not of anything bad, but that old-car smell of vinyl, although there’s something else I don’t immediately recognise. As I crawl over to the passenger’s side across the cold, cracked vinyl seats, I pick it: clothes—the stale way they smell in the hamper. They’re everywhere in the back—jeans, blouses, a dress or two, all over the back seat and floor.

  Julie clambers in after me and closes the door. ‘Oh,’ she says, noting my curiosity. ‘I’m always in such a rush, I do half my changing in the car.’

  The passenger seat is lumpy, and the springs whine as I wrestle with a seatbelt that continuously locks as I try to pull it down. Julie reaches across me, warmth emanating from her body, hair dangling across my collar, her neck right under my lips. I close my eyes and smell her—not perfume, or I don’t think it’s perfume, but something faint; perhaps nothing more than deodorant, or even the soap she uses, yet it’s still delicate and alluring and wholly alien. She coaxes my seatbelt free, clicks it in for me, and leans back into her own seat.

  She starts the car. It wheezes to life, but once it’s running, the engine purrs. Julie flips on the heater but cool, stale air blasts into my face.

  ‘That’ll take a while to get going,’ she says.

  ‘That’s okay.’

  ‘Ready, then?’

  ‘I should warn you, I’m not very good with directions.’

  ‘We’ll find our way.’

  She flicks on the indicator, checks traffic, and pulls into the road.

  7

  Julie fiddles with the radio. The music is tinny, and the right speaker rattles. It’s one of the reasons the song is hard to place; the other is because the song’s old, and I only get it because I recognise the chorus—Spandau Ballet’s ‘True.’

  ‘Hope you don’t mind,’ Julie says. ‘I have this fetish for eighties music. I think it comes from my aunt. Don’t really get into anything too contemporary. What do you like?’

  ‘This is good,’ I say. ‘I don’t mind eighties stuff. Are you sure you don’t want to do anything else?’

  ‘Like?’

  I shrug.

  ‘You like clubbing or bars on a Friday night?’ she asks.

  ‘Not really. I liked dinner, how we could talk, but in bars and clubs, you can’t hear each other.’

  ‘Not a dancer either?’

  ‘I’m a bad one. You?’

  ‘I’m a good one. I did ballet until I was eleven. Maybe we’d balance each other out.’

  ‘You want to go dancing?’ I visualise my clunky moves on some dance floor under flashing lights while Julie’s stupefied by my display.

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘A movie?’ Now I’m throwing out things just to try land a catch.

  ‘We already checked out the cinema …’

  ‘Yeah, but …’

  ‘But?’ Julie’s face is serious, as if I’m about to reveal some great secret.

  ‘Maybe there was something you wanted to see but thought I wouldn’t, so you didn’t suggest it.’

  ‘You really think that?’<
br />
  I hold out my hands, as if to say, I don’t know, but what I should really do is get out of the car right now—open the door, unlatch my seatbelt, and leap like I’m parachuting. The answers I’ve given Julie echo in my head until I have to stop myself from recoiling. She’ll never want to hear from me again after this—I’m boring. No, I’m worse than boring. I’m arduous; a cheese grater—nothing but hard work. Wait. Are cheese graters hard work? I don’t even know anymore.

  ‘What do you want to do?’ I ask. ‘I’ll follow your lead.’

  ‘I want you to do something for me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Take a deep breath.’

  ‘A deep breath?’

  ‘A deep breath.’

  I frown.

  ‘Go on, do it.’

  I take a deep breath until my chest expands.

  ‘Hold it.’

  I clench my teeth and keep my lips pressed tight.

  ‘Holding it?’

  I nod.

  Julie chances a look at me. ‘Sure?’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’

  ‘Now I’m going to tell you to exhale slowly, but as you do that, just relax. Feel the tension pour from your body. Okay?’

  I nod again.

  ‘Breathe out.’

  I exhale until my body loosens.

  ‘Better?’

  I search myself, and find only castigation because Julie had to talk me through a relaxation exercise. She must think I’m an idiot. If she were Gen, she’d outright tell me, albeit affectionately, You’re an idiot.

  ‘I can see why you’d be a good nurse,’ I say.

  ‘This has nothing to do with nursing. I’ve gone through a thing or two. The secret is to ask yourself, what’s the worst that can happen?’

  ‘Other than coming across like a complete moron—or a completer moron?’

  ‘Is completer a word?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Well, so what if that happens?’

  It doesn’t seem logical to be that indifferent. I have an internal gauge for how the night’s progressing, a series of ticks and crosses, and while there were plenty of ticks at Charisma’s, there were crosses too, and they’ve continued to stack up.

  My diffident directions are another set of crosses, and at one point I even tell her to take a turn-off which would’ve put us on the freeway back to the city. Julie corrects me—or corrects me to the extent that she tells me (kindly) the turn-off would take us the wrong way. Five minutes later, streets become familiar. Another five minutes, and I think I recognise the local Kmart, and then I definitely identify the Carpet Duke store.