At this statement, the entire room erupted into an explosion of loud commentary. How could it have escaped her that every farmer would be intimately involved in water privatization?
“You need to try Drop of Life in Ottawa,” Ned piped up, nasal voice struggling with the n’s. “Now there’s an effective group. Small but effici—”
“What about that group in Santiago?” Raymond asked, eyes halfway to the ceiling.
“My dear, she’d have to learn Spanish. Do you know any Spanish?” Dahlia looked down her half-moons and over her bosom.
“Sì. Un poco,” Barbara said, with a flourish of Italian.
“Oh, very good. Is there anywhere else?” Dahlia asked herself. “Ah, yes. I know the exact spot. United Nations Environment Programme in Nairobi. How about that?”
Barbara pictured herself in khaki, being fanned by beautiful men in chunky jewellery. On safari. “That would be perfect. Can you help?”
“I’ll certainly try either UNEP or any organization that requires your particular …” Dahlia lingered on a single note and then dipped into the last two words, “… skill set.”
“That would probably be UNEP, then,” Barbara replied. “I love Kenya.”
After a whispering manager fired her for her efforts three hours earlier than she had anticipated, Barbara crawled to the Center for Beatific Light, ready to rip apart the first breathing biped that crossed her path.
She was well pleased with the array of delights twinkling behind the glass cases in the vegetarian whole food delicatessen. Fruit curries, salads with leaves of the darkest green, exotic foods from forgotten regions, breads made of spelt, amaranth and rape seed-the last of which Barbara refused to buy on principle.
She edged in front of a woman dressed too brightly, with loud bangles, smelling of patchouli. Next to her stood an annoying cherub with no shoes on her blackened feet and little stars in her hair. They were taking a long time to choose the flavour of that night’s doubtless Ayurvedic cuisine.
“But Twilight,” the mother reasoned, “you liked this when we bought it last time.”
As Twilight screamed that she would refuse to eat any tofu with green bits in it, Barbara stared in shock as the child called her mother by her first name-something sounding like “nipples.”
Barbara edged in front of them towards a young woman wearing a nose ring, black lipstick and a blob of red, which Barbara supposed was a dot, on her forehead. “Excuse me, darling!” She commanded the full width of the bread counter with her spread-eagled arms. “Was that couscous salad made today?”
“Pardon me.” Bangles tapped her on the shoulder, clinking. “I was here before you.”
“Congratulations!” said Barbara. “When you and Nite-lite here …” she stared pointedly at the soiled cherub, “… have made up your minds, you’ll doubtless be served.”
Barbara turned back to the Dot. “The couscous needs to be fresh. And tap water please.” She emphasized “tap” with some satisfaction.
“Hey!” Bangles tried to ease herself in front of Barbara, who stared at her as though she were a thug.
“You really need to get to a meditation class, sweetheart. This is not appropriate behaviour for a child to witness.” After getting her salad directly from the chef, Barbara surreptitiously tucked the number for ChildLine into Twilight’s sticky hand, then turned on her heel. She slammed straight into the hermaphrodite from yoga class, yellow irises staring in disbelief, hands on hips, nodding in firm disapproval.
“What is it with you purplicious people?” it asked in disgust.
“We’ve got schedules,” Barbara snapped and bustled to claim a table near the window. She opened the blinds to give her retinas more sunlight to ward off seasonal affective disorder. In the process, she flooded two other tables with unwanted light and heat, oblivious to the loud tutting sounds around her.
A few minutes later, she noticed the hermaphrodite looking for a spot. Barbara’s table now had the only free chair in the room. She put her coat on it as The Thing approached.
“Is this taken?” it asked.
“Yes. ’Fraid so.” She wished to be left in peace.
The hermaphrodite raised its eyebrows and placed itself between Barbara and the sun. It stood there looking down at her, daring her to meet its eyes. Finally, it slammed its tray on her table. “I’ll get up if your guest shows up,” it said.
The two sat in sullen silence, chomping on their organic dinners.
Soon the mysterious spices in the salad wafted their calm through Barbara’s mind, and after a short while, her mood lifted. She broke the ice. “What’s your name?” she ventured.
“What’s my name? It’s Astroturf.”
Barbara’s eyebrows shot up. As she suspected, it had adopted a genderless name.
“Got a problem with that?” it asked.
“No. I was just wondering whether your parents were also named after garden implements.”
“Turf isn’t an implement. It’s a substitute.”
“Garden substitutes or plastics of any kind,” Barbara continued, crunching more of her couscous salad.
“Yours?” It drained a bottle of water with loud gurgling sounds as it looked at her. It had flawless skin, cheekbones from the Cherokees and the ease and grace of an African. Apart from the gurgling.
“Barbara.”
“Barbie.” It came up for air. “Great name!”
“No, not the great name of Barbie, but the wholly commonplace name of Barbara. I’d like it to remain that way.”
Yellow irises shot to the sky and a pouty mouth formed a pretty grimace. “Aw, man! You take the gateau, Bar-bar-a. You take all eight layers, man, icing and all.” It opened its second bottle of water.
Barbara sighed a note of invalidation. “So, what do you do?”
“I work with plants.”
“Plastic?”
“Oh-ho. Very funny. No, real.” It had olive skin, large piercing yellow eyes and long, curly hair—a mixture of corn blond and tawny brown—reaching its lower back. It was hard to define how many races had been brewed and bubbled to thrust it into earthly existence. Perhaps this ridiculous specimen represented all people, bound within a timeless geography and a placeless history.
“So, do you talk to your plants?” Barbara sipped some green tea, staring at the creature.
“Yes, we discuss the history of the Congo, Barbunkle. Do you also talk to plants? You look like the type.”
“No. I tried but found they were too argumentative.”
It stared at her for a nanosecond, then cackled, a sudden look of delight on its face.
“You’re very unusual-looking,” Barbara observed. “If I had to categorize you, I would say you’re beautiful-like a painting.”
Astro almost choked on its guava. “Aw, Jesus Christ!” It looked at the café plants for support. “I don’t believe she just said that.” Looking back at Barbara, “I hope I don’t have to respond in kind, ’cause I don’t want to keep you waiting here all night.”
“I don’t need to wait. I’ve seen you looking at my sun salutation.”
“Aw, please! You’ve got to be-what-ten, twenty years older than me?”
Barbara gave it a look of withering contempt. “Well,” she replied with some heat, “when you find someone in their twenties,” her voice carried through the café, “who can have multiple orgasms-both clitoral and vaginal-then please write and inform me.”
Astro glanced around at the other customers, horrified. “I can’t believe you just said that. Do you think I’m interested? Anyway, I won’t need to write. Know why?”
“No, not interested.”
“Because I can orgasm without ejaculation.”
Barbara noted that it must have a male organ for this task. “Congratulations. And why would you want to do that?” she asked, maintaining a pretence of boredom.
“Because firstly,” it added on its fingers, “ejaculate is very rich in nutrients and it’s best to keep it in you
r system.” It waited a moment for her to digest this information, along with her couscous. “Secondly, I don’t need a partner and thirdly,” it lowered its voice, “I too can have multiple orgasms.”
“Glory, thy name be AstroSeed. Well, I hope you have many happy moments with yourself.” Barbara wiped her mouth and stood up, grabbing her bottle of tap water. “I must take my leave. I have to get my walking frame upstairs.”
“You don’t need to, Mom. They have a handicapped elevator.”
“That’s not funny. Handicapped people shouldn’t be the butt of your jokes.”
“Then plastics people shouldn’t be the butt of yours.”
Barbara climbed up to the yoga studio, one hour early, hid the incense box and turned off the fountain that sounded like a flushing toilet.
Twelve minutes of quiet meditation later, someone turned the fountain back on and tapped her on her shoulder. “Hey, man! Could you like move over, please? That’s my usual spot.”
Barbara opened her eyes, looked up and frowned. It was The Thing. “En Oh. No.”
It huffed, “Aw, no, man.” Reasoning initially with the stack of mats, “She knows this is always my place.” Looking down at Barbara, “Did you, like, take some police car over here to get my spot? Eee-ooo, eee-ooo! Get me to the yoga studio, man. I need this guy’s spot!”
“Are you done yet?”
“Hey, don’t worry about that old lady crossing the street, man. The ambulance can get to her later.” It slapped its mat down next to hers. It waited a full minute, then said, “I can’t concentrate if I’m not in that spot. What are you trying to do to me here?”
“Why don’t you go back to Beginners, then?”
“What’s your problem? Is it that time of the month?”
“No. It’s that time of the decade. And …” she whistled in another in-breath, “… I never forget a favour.” She groaned out the exhalation.
“Oh, man. Are you listening to this?” Now reasoning with the fan, “Can you hear this?” Looking down at Barbara, “I mean, okay. Look, I’m sorry. There’s no way I should have talked to you like that. Okay? Are we okay now?”
Barbara waited for a counterattack. Nothing. She could not believe it. “What did you say?”
“Nothing. I just apologized. What? You want more? Are you fundamentalist or something? Do we have to cut off some body part now?”
“I didn’t mention amputation per se, although that would be a nice sight. Keep your eyes on me. I’m moving over, okay?” Barbara ceded the front/centre spot to the hermaphrodite, who had doubtless suffered untold abuse and thus had to sit in the back row at school. “I hope this small act of kindness has been seared into your memory. Sssssss! I want to hear this memory burning itself in.” She moved over, a small tear collecting at the side of her eye.
“Aw, jeez. What have we got here? Some daytime soap? Look, if you really want that spot,” it said, “take it. Just take it.”
“Don’t worry. That’s not the problem.”
“So what is?” it said, wriggling into a comfortable position.
“No one’s ever said that to me. Just said sorry.”
It looked at her for a plump moment, then reached out and smoothed down the hair at the top of her forehead. It turned around and they both went into meditation.
However, that small touch had ignited a violent yearning.
A desperate desire to have sex with a hermaphrodite.
Barbara bundled out of the yoga studio. She heard a jaunty whistle behind her. It was The Thing.
“Hey, Bra-Bra,” it shouted. “Have any orgasms during class?” It was chuckling to itself, emitting puffs of cold air.
“If I had, I’d still be having them.” Something about it irritated her—perhaps its cavalier attitude towards her. “You must feel very proud of yourself, preserving your fluids while standing on your head.”
“Don’t take this personally, but there was nothing in the class to prime my pump—”
“There was a mirror—”
“—no disrespect to you, of course, Blah-Blah.”
“—which I noticed you never took your eyes off.”
“That means you never took your eyes off …” it pointed both fingers at its face, “… this. Compliments accepted, man.”
She slipped through the slush in regal silence, chased by snorts of laughter. Finally they reached The Thing’s car. It was an old, rusting Volvo station wagon. On the roof, Astro had planted hardy grasses and multicoloured heather.
“Why the flowerbed?” Barbara punched her fists onto her hips.
“Well, Car-bra, this is technically a car roof—not a garden or flowerbed, as it is mobile. Thus, it is not covered by municipal law. I took it to municipal court.”
“Why did you bother?”
“They tried to stop me watering my plants. Some bureaucrat with a brand-new pen his gran gave him or something. No offence to grannies there, Bing-Bang. Those municipal guidelines on water, man, they really tick me off!”
“Well,” said Barbara in her most self-righteous tone, “if we all wasted water as you’re so recklessly proposing, there’d be none left. That’s the problem with being so young. You don’t know such things. If you spent more time reading and less time stalking—”
“If you don’t green the planet, you have what is known as a ‘desert.’” It quote-marked the air. “If you have a ‘desert,’” air quotes, “you have no more water.”
“Oh, please. Do you even know what you’re talking about?”
It looked at a hydrant for confirmation. “Do I know what I’m talking about?” Back to Barbara. “I think so. Do you?”
“I’m not willing to continue with this conversation. I have to go.”
“In a hurry, huh? Leo, right? Fire sign. I’m Aquarius-air.” It made a quick calculation. “Yep. Good enough. You could come for dinner one day, I guess.”
“I am a Leo!” Barbara was impressed with this deduction, but quickly retreated back into indignation. “But we fire signs don’t have time to watch air signs talking to themselves.” She swivelled around.
“What can I entice you with? Hey, I know! I’ve got a few pictures of myself you can pore over. Maybe that’ll stop you staring at me during yoga. Yeah-we could go in my car, man. You could tell the police you don’t need a drive home this time. Save the taxpayers some money.”
“I thought,” Barbara said, turning a dismissive eye to it, “I was ‘too old’ for you. I wouldn’t want to be accused of child molestation.”
“It’s okay, Bar-Bell. I’ve got protection.” It stopped and looked her in the face.
She stopped walking.
“ChildLine,” it said. It raised its eyebrows in disbelief and exploded into hysterical laughter.
Her face flushed with a wash of pink. “Stalker,” she spat.
Tears came into its eyes as the tempo of its laugh grew more erratic.
“Have you finished yet?”
It couldn’t stop.
“Done yet?”
It breathed in heavily but broke out again into a high giggle. “Fine, man. Next week Thursday, dinner. Seven o’clock. Don’t be late, okay? And don’t bring anything, alright? I only eat stuff that’s been cooked in my kitchen. Then we know it’s hygienic.”
“So what were you doing eating at the delica—?”
“And don’t eat before you come.”
“Oh, all right,” Barbara huffed. She reckoned that, perhaps, if she could get it to shut up, the sex would at least be noteworthy. “That’ll give you time to take my photos off your walls, stash your long-range lenses into some closet and dismantle the shrine.”
“That’d take more than a week, but I’ll see what I can do for Thursday, Baa-Baa.” It bleated out the last word as it wrote its address neatly on a precisely cut piece of paper.
“Can’t wait!” Barbara said under her breath in her most sarcastic tone. She headed for Tribal Treasures to buy four sarongs for her move to Kenya.
; SEVEN
Peekin Ducks
Lifting herself from the Oaxacan blankets that covered her couch, Barbara began to dress for her date with Astro. She threw on a purple skirt from Afghanistan and a plunging V-neck top, then added a series of provocative amber necklaces and clinking Indian earrings. After snaking globules of aromatic oil through her generous cleavage, she wrapped herself in a Norwegian cloak and grabbed a voluminous bag made of mud-cloth from Mali.
She arrived on the outskirts of the city, assaulted by the sound of a saxophone played off pitch at full volume. A neighbour one floor below the sax player poked his head and net-vested chest out the window. “Turn your fucking flute off or I shove it up your ass.”
Barbara, on the verge of joining the protest, followed the man’s gaze. There, serenading her into the building, stood Astro with its saxophone. Barbara took pity on the hermaphrodite. Poor kid, she thought. Trying so hard to cope with its disability. Such a lesson in courage.
Astro played even louder. The neighbour leaned farther out his window. “Better to put grease on flute. I coming up now. I shove it up your ass.”
“Hey, Bra-Bra! I’m up here.” Astro stopped mid-note. “You’re late, man. How do you expect me to time the meal?” It sounded annoyed.
Barbara, displeased, bundled upstairs.
The creature was wearing a loose-hanging cotton summer dress that reached to the top of her knees. A female hermaphrodite. A female hermaphrodite with very little taste in clothing.
Barbara entered the apartment, kicking off her shoes. She could hardly believe her eyes-the carpet was made entirely from Astroturf. Deck chairs had been placed on real sand, which surrounded a large piece of glass. On the ceiling, Astro had painted a blazing blue sky with crystal clouds, creating a sense of elation and exultation. Barbara felt like she had floated into a dream.
Offered a beach chair, Barbara sat down. Astro headed for the kitchen, but not before straightening Barbara’s shoes at the doorway. Barbara harrumphed. She looked towards the glass at her feet and saw something move. She budged forward and peered down to see a collection of tropical fish. This outlaw-wearing little more than an unflattering flowery sheet-had circumvented another important municipal law on water use and had built an aquarium into its floor!
Doing Dangerously Well Page 8
