Odyssey In A Teacup

by Paula Houseman

  My intention was to minimise the risk of running into anyone I knew. It was bad enough going out with an ugly guy, but to be caught with one didn’t bear thinking about. And Lee made it easy—he asked me where I wanted to go. I picked a club off the beaten track (about half an hour’s drive away).

  Lee was wearing the same sepia suit when he turned up in his grey rattletrap the following Saturday night. After introducing him to Sylvia and Joe, we left. This was going to be a one off; they didn’t need to grill him. Only I did.

  We had just got round the corner when his car coughed and spluttered, made a hissing sound as smoke came out from under the bonnet, and ground to a dead stop.

  ‘Shit shit shit!’ Lee slammed his fist into the steering wheel. I was equal parts shocked and fascinated. Frightened by his sudden outburst, I shrank away from him, yet at the same time, I felt a perverse kind of admiration because his language and behaviour were bursts of colour in the drabness.

  ‘Oh no, no. No. I’m really sorry.’ Lee suddenly realised there was someone else in the car with him. Even so, when your date has to apologise to you in the first five minutes, it’s not a good sign. I was tempted to walk home, but remembering this date wasn’t without purpose, I steeled myself to suffer for the cause.

  ‘I can take care of this, no worries.’ He sounded confident.

  It started raining heavily—bucketing down—as he tinkered under the bonnet for the next half hour. Another half hour later we walked into the disco, he, sodden and with grease stains on his shirt. It was forgivable because it gave off a manly vibe. Here was a guy who could fix his own car. But when Lee greeted an acquaintance with, ‘How ya goin’, mate?’ and mate replied, ‘Good till I saw you, shithead’ (and didn’t laugh after saying it), I wondered if it was all worth it.

  Mercifully, it only took an hour until mission accomplished. I’d wrung as much information out of him about BAG as I could. Talking about one bloke to another bloke didn’t seem to put Lee off, strangely enough, but enough was enough.

  ‘I have a headache. I’d like to go home now.’

  ‘Oh no!’ Lee was genuinely concerned, a little too much so (it wasn’t like I’d announced I had a brain tumour). He raised his left hand as if he was stopping traffic, and with a knowing look, he leaned to the left, fossicked around in his pants pocket, and pulled out two foil-wrapped Disprin. He even took them out of their tatty little packaging and handed them to me with my glass of ouzo and Coke.

  ‘Go on, take ‘em. You’ll feel good as gold in about fifteen minutes.’

  Shit shit shit! I felt obliged to take pills I didn’t need (you really need to pick your ailments). Half an hour later, I had a stomachache.

  ‘It’s probably from the Disprin,’ I said. ‘Taking them on an empty stomach can unsettle it.’ Especially if you take them unnecessarily. And with alcohol.

  ‘Oh God. I feel so bad that I didn’t get you something to eat first.’

  Lee was a bit of a tragedian. It was like being on a date with Sylvia, who also made mountain ranges out of anthills. Kind of makes you feel over-responsible for their angst. So I felt bad that he felt bad, but not bad enough to stay any longer.

  ‘I’m going home, but you stay—I’ll catch a cab.’ I was insistent.

  ‘No way, José! Wanna make sure you get home safe ‘n’ sound. Else your folks won’t let me in the door again.’

  Please God.

  Once in the car, he kept asking if I was okay. I wasn’t; I had gas. But if I’d said no, it would have sent him into a tailspin. Still, saying yes sent him into a cloying monologue about movies he wanted us to see together, friends of his he wanted to introduce me to, poems he’d written that he wanted to read to me. Jesus H Christ! Lee was mapping out a nauseating future with me. Obviously, it would be cruel to tell him he was just a means to an end, but drastic measures were now necessary.

  As a kid, I’d learned to burp the alphabet. Half of it, anyway. I’d only ever made it as far as ‘M’, which was still pretty impressive. I drew on those skills and went for it.

  I’d have scored full marks for resonance, but lost points on range—wouldn’t have registered much past ‘G’. But Lee was shocked. He just stared at me, slowly shaking his head.

  ‘Wow. Any other girl would have held that in. I love that ya feel comfortable enough with me to just be yerself.’

  Sweet merciful crap! What do you say to that? Fortunately, we weren’t far from my place. We pulled up front, and with my hand on the door handle ready to flee, I quickly turned towards him to thank him. But he was already zeroing in with puckered lips. Shit! Family-size air gulp—GLUUUG—and this time I broke my own record. I got to somewhere between ‘N-O’ (how apt). Lee shrank back but then, he looked at me sympathetically.

  ‘Oh. Ya really did have a nasty tummy ache, din cha? That should ease things a bit.’

  Oh boy. Getting rid of this guy was as difficult as cleaning dog shit off the bottom of a ripple sole shoe.

  ‘I’ll walk you to the door,’ he offered.

  ‘No. Stay!’ I commanded, as if speaking to the dog whose shit I was trying to remove. I bolted before Lee could say any more.

  As I relived the whole experience when I went to bed that night, I was horrified at how low I had stooped. But then, another one of Sylvia’s platitudes came to mind: ‘When you look back on your life, you'll regret the things you didn’t do more than the ones you did’. I mulled this over as I lay in the dark, thinking about the things humanity would have missed out on if someone hadn’t taken a chance.

  1. Would feminism have suffered a setback if the FBI hadn’t started employing female agents? Yes.

  2. Would Trekkies have felt deprived if the first Star Trek fan convention had not taken place? Yes.

  3. Would a stick of butter have regrettably remained something not worth writing home about if Last Tango in Paris hadn’t made it to the big screen? Yes.

  4. Would I have regretted not burping in front of Lee? Yes.

  What benefits one, benefits all. And I’d learned a lot that night from Lee. I had discovered that the man of my dreams was actually Irish. His family migrated to Australia when he was ten, he was a carpenter and his name was ... Phelan.

  Ralph dropped in the next morning. ‘No! Really?’ He raised an eyebrow mockingly. ‘His name is ... Phelan?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No, really?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Hmm ... as in, Phelan horny? Or ... once more, with Phelan?’

  ‘It’s an Irish name, smart-arse.’

  ‘Is he a leprechaun, then? Is that the appeal? You know, small man, big johnson.’ Ralph winked and clicked his tongue. ‘Oh. Oh, no ... please don’t tell me his last name is Johnson. If it is, I’m not sure I want to meet him: “Hello, I’m Ralph Brill.” “Hi, I’m Phelan Johnson.” “All well and good, but I’m not shaking that hand! And don’t you know you could get arrested for masturbating in public?”’

  I couldn’t help laughing, but I was also disturbed. ‘He’s a, er, a carpenter.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So it means he doesn’t have a university degree. And you know how important that is to Sylvia.’

  ‘Hmm ... just tell her every vocation has its advantages, and that he probably gets good wood.’

  ‘Yeah, imagine!’ I sniggered.

  ‘Ruthie ... she won’t get it. She’s not the sharpest tool in the shed.’

  Ralph was, though, and I had to listen to him lampooning my one true love as the waiting game continued. I waited for another three long months, and when Phelan was a no-show at Swinger for two Saturday nights in a row, I was worried. Maybe he was dead ... and I was still a goddamn virgin! Yet another Saturday night passed, but then two days later, on a Monday public holiday when Maxi, Vette and I went tenpin bowling, a miracle occurred.

  We were sitting on swivel stools at the food counter having milkshakes after our game, when Maxi sucked in her breath and turned to me, smiling. ‘Your prayers have been a
nswered. Over by the door—nancy boy and the two uglies.’

  And there he was.

  My Celtic Adonis was alive and well! Phelan stood at the entrance of the bowling centre in painted-on black flares. The top three buttons of his paisley shirt with its wide, floppy lapels were undone, exposing a toned, tanned chest that I ached to lay my head on. Although he was flanked by Frodo and Dildo, there was no paramour-du-jour in sight. We watched him as he scanned the centre, his eyes coming to rest on us. A lopsided smile broke out on his face and in slow motion, he ambled towards us with the two little hairy people following. Seconds later, Phelan stood in front of us, his head slightly tilted to the right.

  ‘Hey, youse girls go to Swinger, don’t ya?’

  Phelan spoke Strine. I was surprised because I expected an Irish brogue, but really, who gave a rat’s arse? The point was he had noticed us at Swinger! Or ... oh ... he had noticed and recognised Maxi. He fixed his gaze steadily on her. I was crestfallen.

  ‘Youse all wanna come for a spin?’

  Vette and Maxi chorused, ‘Yeah!’

  ‘No thanks,’ I said in a husky voice, courteously of course, but faintly aloof.

  Phelan’s gaze shifted and now locked on me. Thrown off guard, he looked confused. Rejection, it seemed, was foreign to this man. Understandably. ‘Um, uh, okey-dokey. Er, we’ll see youse next Sat’dee night then.’

  With that, he winked, executed a perfect 180-degree pirouette, sauntered off and exited the bowling centre with the two humanoids. Obviously, Phelan had no intention of bowling. He was just there to pick up. The three of us just stared, speechless. Then Vette turned to me.

  ‘You think he does ballet?’

  ‘No!’ God, I hope not!

  And Maxi turned on me.

  ‘What is the matter with you? You’ve been slobbering over him for what ... a year!’

  ‘Thirteen and a half months.’

  Maxi buried her face in her hands and groaned. She looked up at me and just shook her head.

  I got defensive. ‘Well, I wasn’t about to go cruising with someone who didn’t even ask our names, or bother to introduce himself! Anyway, I don’t want him thinking I’m easy.’

  ‘Ooh no, of course not. And yet ... you’re happy for all the freaks you’ve kissed to think that!’

  ‘Not fair, Max! Anyway, there’s more to it ... have you forgotten? I’m wearing my mumsy pants.’

  Maxi nodded knowingly. ‘Oh yeah. Point taken.’

  Sylvia still had too much control over my wardrobe. She’d bought me a pair of mauve, crimplene flares because she liked them. I only wore them to shut her up, and because I didn’t expect to run into anyone I needed to impress. I’d put Phelan on a pedestal; it was inconceivable to me that a god would turn up at a lowly bowling alley. Yet he had, and now my legs were going to remain under that counter until I was confident he wasn’t coming back.

  ‘Ruthie, you need to exercise the word NO with that woman!’

  ‘And where exactly has that got me?’

  Not very far with Sylvia, but, oh baby, pressed up against Phelan on the dance floor the next Sat’dee night with his hands on my arse and his hot tongue in my mouth. And, a date lined up for the following Sat’dee night! Ralph had been right. I already did have the moves. I might have extracted the facts about Phelan on my date with Lee, but I knew intuitively that playing hard-to-get was an effective tactical manoeuvre. It’s what appealed to Zach (although I didn’t actually play it with him; he genuinely repulsed me in the beginning).

  I was generally prone to daydreaming, but now I turned up the volume. In my future, I saw a three-tiered heart-shaped wedding cake with white fondant icing, miniature pink fondant flowers and a miniature plastic cake topper of Phelan and me. First up, though, there was the question of my virginity to attend to. And if Phelan was going to take it, I needed to wear my best outfit for him to remove.

  ‘My best’ cost me two-thirds of my weekly wage. With an attraction to the animal and reptile print look, I was chuffed when I discovered a sexy little snakeskin-patterned dress in a midtown boutique.

  ‘I don’t need the matching pants,’ I told the saleslady.

  ‘They’re not sold separately. It’s an ensemble. You’ve paid for them, so you may as well take ‘em.’ She smiled; I shuddered.

  Loose pants under a dress is an unbecoming look (unless you have thunder thighs). I had no intention of wearing them. Ever. But when I came into the lounge dressed, made up and ready to go, Sylvia sent me back to my room to put on the pants of the outfit that I had bought with my own bloody money.

  Phelan turned up shortly after and was subjected to Sylvia’s interrogation. ‘Where are you taking my daughter and what time do you plan to have her home?’

  ‘We’re goin’ to me mate’s weddin’, and I’ll ‘ave ‘er home by midnight.’

  She looked uncomfortable. I could tell she was satisfied with the particulars—wedding and midnight were acceptable—but dissatisfied with his uneducated delivery. Phelan didn’t speak proper. Then Joe jumped in.

  ‘So, Phelan. How’s that name work for you? Did you get made fun of at school?’

  Jesus!

  ‘We gotta go, we’re gonna be late.’ I pushed Phelan out the door.

  ‘Sorry about my folks,’ I said once we were in the car.

  ‘Er, no worries.’

  ‘Good. They can be pretty scary.’ As I said this, I leaned towards him, hooked the fingers of my left hand onto the waist of my pants under the dress and managed to whip them off adroitly without exposing my knickers. I rolled them up and squashed them into my handbag. Phelan was staring at me in shock, but then he rewarded me with a wicked grin and dilated pupils.

  ‘It’s gonna be a good night. I can feel it.’

  It was an interesting night. I’d never been to a non-Jewish wedding, and Phelan assured me that this one was not the norm. The bride and groom got pissed as newts—he ended up passed out, sprawled face down in his own vomit, while she did the cancan on the bridal table, flashing something old, which apparently was nothing new. You are truly lucky to have found each other. Congratulations! Best wishes for the future.

  When Phelan and I went parking afterwards, I told him I was still a virgin. We snogged, I let him play with my tits, but I decided that was my limit for a first date. So we chatted. Shi-i-i-it. Talk about boring! Swapping spit, body language exchange the Sat’dee night before, and making small talk on the way to the wedding didn’t give much away. But now, it was clear that drop-dead gorgeous could barely string a sentence together. I felt disillusioned ... thirteen and a half months of fevered anticipation down the fucking toilet! Would I ever lose my virginity? Not with Phelan. He called a few days later to arrange another date, but I told him I had herpes.

  Phelan said, ‘Oh.’ Followed by a long silence.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’m still ‘ere. I was just thinkin’ ... ya know, me mum had that and she used a really good oinkment. I can get the name of it for ya.’

  What? What! His response was disturbing on so many levels; not least that his mother had shared something so personal and of a sexual nature with him; that my excuse, which was supposed to be end-of-story-see-ya, had progressed into a discussion about something so personal and of a sexual nature about me (even if it weren’t true); and that he was not actually joking around when he said ‘oinkment’! If only it had ended there.

  ‘I want ya to get cured, Ruth. I really, really wanna be ya first root.’

  Oh, I so hated the word ‘root’ used in this context. It just felt like a perversion of my name (Miri had laid the groundwork years earlier). ‘Crying Ruth’ on the silver screen had also degraded it, but having my name likened to vomit was a little more palatable than having it likened to, well, a root. I needed to uproot myself from this situation, to think laterally.

  ‘Um, yeah ... I was hoping for that too—’

  ‘Mmm mmm—’

  ‘But something’s changed. I, er, really,
really wanna enter the convent.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘I’ve found my true calling. I want to be a nun.’

  ‘Oh ... well, that’s a waste of a looker. Um ... ’

  There was another long silence. This was an opportunity to end the call. ‘Okay then—’

  ‘Hey, you wanna try rootin’ before ya do, seein’ as you’ll be gettin’ “nun”? Get it?’

  Yes. But you’re not going to. Did the original Adonis proposition his love interest like this? Probably, but then he was killed by a wild boar. Hmm ... died of boardom; I felt his pain. Seems Phelan got the hint, though, and he backed off. He was surprised to see me at Swinger two weeks later.

  ‘I thought ya were a nun.’

  ‘Um, these things don’t happen overnight, you know. Er, er, I need to read the scriptures for a while, and find the right religious community and all that.’ Never mind that I’m Jewish and there are no Jewish nuns.

  ‘Oh.’

  Clearly, it was time to switch discos, so the following week, Maxi, Vette and I started patronising The Castle, a suburban club. It was here, a year later, that I met my ‘first root’.

  CHAPTER FOUR:

  NOT WITH A BANG BUT A WHIMPER

  Glen Jones—and thank God it was Jones, not Johnson—looked like Paul McCartney in his neat, bearded, long-haired phase. Glen’s brooding eyes suggested he was a deep thinker, and he was. His mind was constantly in the gutter. Even though his dialogue was loaded with innuendo, which was strangely appealing, at least he was capable of having a conversation. Glen was also a carpenter and he had small feet. What more could a girl ask for?

  Sylvia didn’t like Glen (‘Surprise!’ yelled suburbia). He was a tradie, a Methodist, and from a working class background. None of this suited her Jewish, middle-class sensibilities. But Glen pointed out there wasn’t such a great cultural divide between us: I had a ‘working class mouth’, and he had a Jewish trait—like all Jewish boys, he was circumcised, a snippet of information best not mentioned to Sylvia in his defence.