Odyssey In A Teacup

by Paula Houseman

  With bride and groom now back on the ground and the dance bracket over, we all returned to our tables. The meal was served on ornate Wedgwood (Miri and Isaac had spared no expense). Gazpacho entrée was followed by another dance bracket, which was followed by the main meal of Fish à la Meunière, Duchess Potatoes, Carrots Vichy, and green beans. Bowls of Waldorf salad, French salad, and a basket of white bread rolls were placed in the centre of each table. Conversation and the clanking of cutlery drowned out the soft dinner music playing in the background. But there was no dialogue at our table because these behemoths were too into their food. It was scary, yet fascinating to watch them eat. A bunch of opportunistic omnivores, they gorged, guzzled and gobbled.

  Ralph leaned over and whispered, ‘I feel like I’m in the middle of a Roman food orgy with players who’ve never ever seen the inside of the vomitorium.’

  ‘Unlike Monique?’

  Ralph smiled at me. He was about to answer but got distracted. One of the players was noisily mopping up every visible streak of sauce on his plate with military precision and a bread sponge. Ralph couldn’t resist a jibe:

  ‘You might want to leave the pattern on your plate. Wedgwood isn’t cheap, you know. Costs an arm and a leg.’

  Ralph had eclectic taste where his reading material was concerned. That would be the only way he’d know Wedgwood is pricey. I so admired his ability to bounce back, though, and to make light of an uncomfortable situation. I laughed at his comment, but stopped short as they all downed cutlery and glared at us. Had we spoiled their appetites? Did Pinocchio have wooden balls? Yes ... but not for long! They resumed their scoffing. I winced as one of them asked for my scant leftovers, but I handed him my plate because I felt so guilty for having ugly, judgemental thoughts. The tables were then cleared and the formalities were about to start.

  My father had a special connection with Zelda, so she had asked him to make a speech. The emcee, a friend of Neville’s, took his place at the podium and Joe hovered around it, waiting for his cue. Parents quickly collected their young children, who had been running around on the dance floor. Mary walked past the podium with her three-year-old son, Jason. Joe, who was never one to waste an opportunity, beckoned the munchkin over. Next thing, Jason had hold of and was tugging at the old man’s index finger. Jason laughed hysterically. And anyone who knew Joe expected nothing less ... or nothing more.

  When a family member has a special aptitude, it becomes a kind of fulcrum and life revolves around that person’s activities: a champion swimmer—training schedules; a gifted violinist—special classes; an actress mother—taking her family on location. In our family, Joe had a special aptitude for farting. And he was renowned for it in the Jewish community. There were whispers: Psst, did you hear what Joe Roth did during the visiting dignitary’s speech? What chutzpah! Still, never heard anything like it before! and, That’s Ruth Roth. Her father’s the one who farts in public. This earned him the nickname ‘Joe Blow’ (clever, but also dumb because he was anything but your average Joe). Sylvia was appalled by his ‘prowess’, and when we were young she organised our activities around him, to a point (for one, we never went to the movies as a family; she feared the silent moments). How did I ever end up with these two as parents? That was the mistake; I myself wasn’t. Surely.

  On the surface, it looks like Joe’s problem—or talent, depending on how you view it—stems from the way he eats, which is a truly horrible thing to witness. He hoovers his food (even if it had little legs, there’d be no chance of a getaway). So his fare to air ratio is 1:1, and his food retention is also directly proportional to his air release. In other words, he eats and farts in equal measure.

  I wondered what Mr Kosta would make of this. I remembered he’d implied there’s at least one depraved character that escapes suppression in our dark, ancient consciousness, and can pull the strings in our lives. Ha! In Joe’s psyche it had to be the Anemoi—the wind gods. There were several of these—some the gods of beneficial winds, others the gods of destructive winds (the Anemoi Thuellai). Joe’s antics make him an embarrassment to us. Without question, he’s much more aligned with the destructive ones, especially their old man, Typhon, because this god, a stormy bastard, was the source of devastating winds that issued forth from the dark nether realm.

  Joe’s finger-pulling stunt was a warning sign that Typhon was already engaged. I wanted to rub my hands with glee as I noticed this register on Zelda’s face. There was a fine patina of sweat on her forehead, which had nothing to do with her size. If Joe farted during his speech, I could overlook the embarrassment and in my book, he would qualify for an upgrade to the embodiment of a beneficial wind. Alas, it didn’t happen.

  Several gushy speeches followed and then it was time for the bridal waltz, which surprisingly turned out to be a neat piece of footwork. Towards the end, though, the two tables of teenagers at the edge of the dance floor chanted: ‘Dip-dip-dip-dip ... ’ Worth a try but nobody really expected Neville to dip his jumbo bride. It would have been a death drop.

  The rest of the evening passed in a haze of more food (a dessert of Strawberries Romanoff with ice cream; and then supper of millefeuille wedding cake with tea and coffee). There were more speeches and more dancing. Then just before midnight, all the single girls were invited onto the dance floor for the bouquet toss. I tried disappearing amongst the guests gathering at the edge, but Sylvia saw me and gave me an almighty shove towards the centre. Sandwiched between two heifers and hyperventilating again, almost to the point of passing out, I felt a strong pair of hands cupping over my mouth and nose. Ralph was screaming in my ear, ‘Breathe!’ He then led me back to the perimeter, where I happily opted out of the toss. But then, it was time for the groom to remove the bride’s garter. Zelda sat on a single chair brought into the centre of the dance floor. Neville was down on his knees lifting her dress up a little, and poised to plunge.

  ‘Dive-dive-dive-dive ... ’ The ‘dip-dip’ teenagers were at it again. Other guests were whooping on the sidelines. Then, in amongst the hubbub behind me, I heard a whisper.

  ‘Oi! Nisht gut!’ I turned to see Uncle Isaac shaking his head. Echoes of an earlier time, but tonight it was about his own daughter.

  ‘If she closes her legs, he’s farkakt,’ said Ralph. More echoes. Uncle Isaac nodded.

  Finally, it was time for the bride and groom to leave. The guests formed a farewell circle on the dance floor, and Neville and Zelda made their way around it, hugging and kissing each one of them.

  As Zelda hugged me, she whispered in my ear. ‘Hopefully one day I can dance at your wedding ... if you can find someone who’ll put up with you.’ Sylvia used to tell me nobody would. I felt my cheeks flush with shame. Then, the Princess of Darkness drove the knife in deeper. ‘Ooh, little black sheep, you’re going red. Your face is beet ... Root. Baa.’

  At first, I was dumbstruck, the pain in my shoulder intensifying to the point of agony. Chaos—a mishmash of thoughts, but no music this time. Zelda didn’t move; she was rejoicing in my inescapable torment. Slowly, slowly, though, I became lucid. I was mystified as to how someone, on one of the happiest days of their life—when they would supposedly feel warm and fuzzy towards everyone—could be compelled to deliver such a spiteful comment. Sylvia’s many justifications over the years for Zelda’s barbs came back to me: She gets picked on at school; she’s not a happy girl; make allowance for Zelda, she doesn’t mean to be nasty. Oh, and the best one: She has glandular problems. Pig’s arse! If Sylvia knew anything about the witching hour and black magic, she’d no doubt use that to support Zelda’s mean-spiritedness now.

  But all of it was bullshit—every one of these excuses that once tugged at my heartstrings, even if only momentarily, cut no ice with me tonight. It had become increasingly harder to feel compassion for someone who constantly targeted me. Anyone who could feel compassion under these circumstances qualified for sainthood. This excluded me, partly because I didn’t feel merciful; partly because I’m Jewish and I don�
�t think there are any Jewish saints; but mostly because canonisation comes after death. And although I had been feeling kind of dead of late, I was about to come back to life.

  Sometimes, you need to hit someone between the eyes because there’s just too much at stake if you don’t. Tonight, Zelda’s remarks were like a red rag to a bull. The bitterness and resentment I’d been nursing for years gave way to full-blown anger. I leaned forward and whispered in her ear.

  ‘I will eventually find someone who’ll love me for who I am, and not just put up with me. But I’m not putting up with you anymore. I don’t care if it is your wedding day. Don’t you dare talk to me like that! If you’re old enough to get married, then you’re old enough to deal with your shit. And if you can’t, then find someone else to dump it on, because I won’t take it anymore. Is that black and white enough for you?’

  I too could fence in bloody colour, and I could bleat with the best of them!

  Zelda’s face blanched. She was dumbstruck, and the pain she was so adept at offloading clearly showed on her face. She looked like a frightened little girl. I felt like a total bitch ... but only for a split second. And the pain in my shoulder eased up significantly. I broke from the circle, collected my handbag and headed for the exit. Ralph followed me. He had heard only bits and pieces of my exchange with Zelda, so I filled him in.

  ‘I’m so proud of you, Ruthie,’ he said when I finished.

  I was proud of myself. I missed Glen, but there’s nothing like being able to stand alone. Although I felt worn down, I still had it! Even better, from this afternoon till now, I’d gone from zero-to-hero. Ralph, on the other hand, ended the evening the same way he started it: scavenging.

  We were almost at the door when he backtracked and grabbed bonbonnière bags from a couple of empty tables. He filled his silver pockets with as many of them as he could fit, and carried as many as he could hold.

  ‘Ralph! Does it always have to be about food?’

  ‘You might want to think about that one yourself.’ And he left it at that.

  CHAPTER SIX:

  FRUITY NUTS

  I was so hyped up after having opened my mouth at the wedding, I couldn’t sleep. I relived that milestone moment over and over. I felt proud! But Ralph’s comment as we’d walked out of the reception was niggling away in the background. What did he mean?

  When I’d confronted Zelda, I had been a woman with fire in my belly, a state that had lately been waxing and waning. Much like my relationship with food. But how could this be? I was Jewish. The tribe’s hunger for knowledge and success is equal to our desire for food. We’re encouraged to be fruitful ... veggieful, meatful, breadful and cakeful. We eat heaps. My mind drifted, trying to locate what had affected my appetites, and when it had started ...

  The most opened door in my home was the fridge door, and the fridge itself was always chock-full. Not so at Ralph’s place. Norma had a nice big fridge in her kitchen because Albie worked on the refrigerator production line at Malleys. But four kids in the house going through growth spurts combined with Albie’s meagre wage meant that the fridge was sometimes as empty as george and simon’s heads. Ralph had realised their heads were empty when he was thirteen when Norma dished up brains for dinner. He’d stared at the serving plate in the centre of the table.

  ‘What’s this?’ he’d asked his mother.

  ‘Brains.’

  ‘Hmm ... are things so tough that you had to lobotomise your two oldest sons?’

  ‘Ralph!’ Norma had feigned indignation (she had a soft spot for her youngest son, and she was very proud of his extraordinary intelligence).

  simon and george had stared at him blankly. Either they didn’t know what a lobotomy was, or they’d actually had the procedure.

  But Albie was pissed. ‘C-c-can’t you see there’s f-f-food on the t-t-table! D-d-d-dummkopf!’ It must have seemed to him that Ralph was raising doubts about his capacity as a provider. Obviously, Albie also didn’t understand what lobotomised means.

  Ralph looked again at the brains on the platter:

  Three—. All nanoscopic—. His thoughts were confirmed.

  Norma mostly dished up other cheap cuts of meat: sausages, brisket, tripe, mince, lamb shanks, or stewed rabbit. Ralph never ate fillet steak or anything out of the ordinary unless he stayed over at our place. He was resigned to the fact that that was just how things were at home, and he didn’t see any point in moaning about quality or quantity. Louwhiney didn’t care what she ate, but she had an insatiable appetite and hated being kept waiting. She hadn’t progressed from the instant gratification needs of the infant, and whimpered like one at dinnertime.

  Ralph dealt with this with his usual savoir-faire. ‘Your Louwhining is using up energy. That’s only going to make you need more food, you know. So ... you could always start nibbling on your own flesh. God knows, there’s enough there to feed all of us.’

  ‘Why don’t you go and get stuffed!’

  By the time Louwhiney got to fourteen, it looked like she had taken Ralph’s advice as well as her own. She’d lost a whole lot of weight, and her virginity—very frequently, according to Ralph. And for a spell, he’d changed his sister’s nickname to ‘Loueasy’ (whispered it, though). He knew Norma would be upset to find out that her daughter wasn’t chaste, but he only kept it to himself because he figured as long as Loueasy-whiney kept getting porked, she wouldn’t pork up. Figure conscious, she’d eat less and there’d be more food for him.

  But before Louwhiney became Loueasy, Ralph had to hang onto his school lunch, because after she finished her soggy tomato sandwich, she was on the prowl, like a herbivorous predator feverishly hunting him down in the schoolyard to try and swipe his soggy tomato sandwich, which was what Norma put in their lunchbox every day. What I wouldn’t have given to find one of those in mine.

  Because Joe was a good provider and Sylvia was a good homemaker, and because they were both of middle-eastern descent, it meant there was enough money to buy and to cook with unusual and expensive ingredients found only at the Central Market in the city. This meant that we often had alien meals. Mostly, I enjoyed these—but only at dinnertime. It was distressing for me to open an overcrowded lunchbox the next day to find leftover lamb kofta, dolmades, deep-fried kibbeh, falafel and pita. It wasn’t so much that the contents looked like an assortment of turds on flatbread, but in the days before Australia became multicultural and ethnic foods started to become mainstream, these lunches had me pegged as a freak. I already felt like one at home; I didn’t need to have it affirmed in the school lunch shed. I protested.

  ‘Why can’t you just give me normal food?’

  ‘I do give you normal food.’

  ‘It might be normal in the motherland, but it’s not normal here.’ I grumbled often enough to wear Sylvia down (she’d taught me well).

  ‘Oeuf! Here’s money. Buy your bloody lunch from now on, pest!’ It was music to my ears.

  When we were in primary school, each morning, those of us in our classes who were ordering lunch wrote what we wanted on a brown paper bag and put the money inside it. The lunch monitor from each class—and I had the honour of being one for a month—dropped the orders off at the shop across the road, and collected the basket of lunches (appropriate change in each bag) just before midday. I usually ordered a fritz and tomato sauce sandwich, or a pie, a pastie, or a sausage roll. And every single day, I had a cake: either a vanilla slice, Neapolitan, cream bun, lamington, Kitchener bun, or apple turnover. It made me feel Australian.

  At high school, the tuck shop was on the premises, and I always bought an assortment of lollies for recess. Sometimes, I didn’t have quite enough money so I borrowed from Maria, an Italian girl in my class. Maria came from a wealthy family so we all took advantage of her, although, I was one of the few who always paid her back. People used to line up to borrow from Maria and she never said no. The boys in the class nicknamed her ‘Lollipop’ (an all-day sucker). Maria never learned how to say no to anythin
g or anyone, so she retained her nickname. But by the time she finished school, this moniker had nothing to do with confectionery.

  My favourite sweet was liquorice. I especially loved liquorice blocks. These came in a flattish sheet of connected two-centimetre squares, which could be torn off into sections. One cent would buy you four blocks, so I was in heaven on the days that Maria lent me five cents.

  ‘I wonder why you swallow liquorice black and it comes out green.’ I mentioned this to Ralph in passing.

  He called me the next day after school. ‘They use blue food colouring.’

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’

  ‘The liquorice manufacturers. They use blue food colouring, which is why it comes out green.’

  Ralph had obviously been to the library. Even before he got his library card and discovered Human Sexual Response (the book), he spent a lot of time at libraries where he self-diagnosed his OCPD and amassed useless bits of information.

  ‘Although ... that in itself is a riddle,’ he continued. ‘When you combine black and blue and brown, you should get a dark, warm grey colour. Or even purple. Hmm ... the whole digestive process is a mystery, really. Like, why is corn so hard to digest? Even a baby eating pureed corn will probably excrete it as whole kernels.’

  At that stage of my life, I didn’t much care if babies crapped out a whole buttered cob with little holders on either side. And although it was good to know about the liquorice upload/download colour difference, I wasn’t overly concerned; I just loved it. I also loved the candy teeth and gums. But sharing the love was not in my best interest in second year high school.

  My English teacher was Miss Parker. She was forty-something, and had a blokey voice. Miss Parker was a very tall, broad woman with a long face, bulbous nose and short, tightly-permed black hair. She also had very hairy arms and was in dire need of an upper lip wax. And, she wore vanilla-scented perfume. Joe always put a sickly-sweet vanilla deodoriser in whatever car he was driving. Miss Parker smelled like his car, so already, she and I were off to a bad start.