Being Anti-Social

by Leigh K. Cunningham

  At thirty-two, young Zach might be tired of the single circuit, I figured, and I hoped he was not looking to me for a place to rest for I was not that curious. I checked emails and Facebook one last time; there was nothing from Zach, which was infuriating—he said he would be in touch. I started a new message to pretend a friend needed a realtor, just to get a response from him, but slapped myself in the face for being an idiot. I was too wise and mature for that old game, and only one who was truly desperate would need attention that badly. I was too busy anyway with my writing, and helping Sophie to finalize her life, and avoiding Thomas and the Projects Director.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  FRIDAY NIGHT came and went with no word from the troublesome Zach and I was incensed for allowing myself to be duped by the young prankster. Perhaps I was more desperate for attention than I thought. I called Amber to be sure she knew of my good works with Sophie.

  “Have you spoken to Erin or Sophie?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah,” she said.

  “Good,” I said.

  “Is that why you called?”

  “What did they say?”

  “You owe Erin two hundred dollars.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Anything else? How was Sophie when you spoke to her?”

  “Very positive, surprisingly. Everything seems to be in motion—the separation, plans to sell the house, plans on where they will both live, and sharing custody of Lucinda. They’re not even bothering with more counseling. It seems they’ve agreed everything in a weird, rational kind of way with none of the usual drama.”

  “That’s quite something, don’t you think? Wonder what brought this on.”

  “Truly amazing, Mace. What are you doing for the weekend?”

  “I have to finish my writing assignment.”

  “We’re going to the football tonight. Want to come?”

  “No thanks—too cold and boring.”

  “If you want to find yourself a man, you’re going have to develop an interest in football.”

  “I don’t want to find a man, thanks, Amber.”

  “Have you heard from Zach?”

  “Zach who?”

  “The guy we met down Chapel Street. Zach and Ryan, remember? He was asking after you.”

  “Haven’t heard anything and don’t want to either, and stop trying to match-make—you’re no good at it. I’m perfectly happy on my own, and you should know that by now. Did Sophie mention the chat we had the other night?”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said. “Must fly—Jake and Rudy are waiting for me.”

  Rudy—there seemed to be no way to escape him, and each mention of his name caused a nick in my self-esteem, and possibly to my threadbare, pasty heart as well.

  I settled on the sofa in front of the TV with my laptop and merlot to work further on my assignment, which was overdue and a source of tedium. I flicked through my forty-two new channels repeatedly, but found nothing to watch. The time had come to step with trepidation into the insight offered by Amber—the sport channels, which only served to remind me that it had been quite a while since I had last rested a hand on a sinewy bicep. Rudy once again, since Thomas was as soft as a stuffed plush grizzly bear.

  Sportsman watching was a worthwhile pastime as it turned out, with ripped, glistening bodies racing around in pursuit of a ball while others tried to keep them from getting it—much like Piggy in the Middle. It kept me away from my second assignment, which was the objective, but at least I came to understand the source of the problem—I had nothing further to say on the chosen topic; it had all been summed up in one sentence: people with colds should stay home, not talk or breathe, and that was that.

  Not long into my new interest though, I found another topic for the assignment, which might sustain more than just a first sentence—there was a dire need in football for team-issued handkerchiefs, perhaps to match the striped socks. This would bring an end to the current practice of spraying one’s nasal contents all over the place, which was utterly gross. I wondered how far the scattered mucous might travel on a windy night, and where Amber, Jake and Rudy might be sitting in proximity to the prevailing winds. But writing 1,500 words on mucus, revival of the handkerchief, and sport etiquette, could be a stretch.

  Another possible topic arose while watching football that had more substance—the conundrum of the male testicle. It is perplexing that an apparatus so pivotal to the survival of mankind falls unprotected as it does susceptible to the slightest contact. God is ironic, I concluded, for he gave men strength, egos, and higher wages then humbled them with a scrotum, or perhaps as Oscar says, “I sometimes think that God, in creating man, rather overestimated His ability.” This is certainly true in many respects, based on my experiences.

  I made a start on the new topic, searching the internet for testicle information. I learned a lot, most of it useless, for example: the left one hangs lower than the right one in 85% of men; steroids cause shrinkage as do cold temperatures; and some fail to descend. Another word for testicles is ‘bollocks’ which is logical when you think about it—when you exclaim ‘bollocks’ intending ‘nonsense/useless/rubbish’, you are referring to the testicles and the source of man’s thinking.

  I checked emails and messages again, having sighted one too many withered, hairy samples during my research, including an eggplant-colored duo the size of pumpkins (caused by a cricket ball). I flicked to a late night movie to enjoy some Lindt balls with my merlot.

  There were emails from Sophie and Erin—nothing urgent, and a reminder from Shannon about Sunday at mother and dad’s for Anderson’s birthday. I had not forgotten of course, and was in fact looking forward to it, to see baby Oscar and to learn more about the fate of Alexis the cow.

  It annoyed me then that my thoughts roamed freely towards Zach then Rudy who, in hindsight, was most likely my last hope at a real relationship, albeit a fraudulent one. I was destined it seemed to live the rest of my days alone; even though by choice, it was still a disturbing image. Who could know how aloneness for decades might manifest. I might become a crazed old spinster who wears quilted dresses and odd socks, and drinks merlot yoghurt smoothies while terrifying neighborhood children—it would not be all bad. The notion of spinster though, was upsetting, for I was a loved and loving wife for nine years and together with Ben for thirteen years all up, but who would remember that in three decades from now, other than me. If only Ben had stayed that night and talked to me instead of packing his bags. But then I would still be alone for he is dead and perhaps absolutely nothing would have changed—the same path would have been traveled, just on higher ground where the air was much less toxic. The memory of that life, of Ben and me, is like an old Charlie Chaplin movie—so wondrous then because of the magic of it all, but now all I notice is that there is no color anymore; it has faded to brown.

  I dragged some old albums out of my spare wardrobe, including the wedding one, to remind myself of who I used to be, so young and happy, with the future still to fill. Then I cried and cried until I fell asleep with a photo of Ben clutched to the fleece of my tracksuit with fragments of melted chocolate and drips of merlot.

  Anderson’s ninth birthday was a cold, bleak day although bright in many other respects, which began with the termination of my weekend of self-compassion.

  Patrick and Lauren announced the date for their nuptials (15 October) and I was offered the role of chief bridesmaid to be accompanied by Amelie and Jesse. Lauren assured me that there would be no garish or bridal-looking gowns, and she had designed something spectacularly original for the four of us, which was not at all comforting and if anything, a little frightening. Despite my position on archaic bridal traditions however (per my forthcoming book), I was happy to accept the position as it bestowed a sense of superiority (Shannon was not asked) and—I am embarrassed and confused to admit— popularity, which has never been a preoccupation of mine, not even when I was an influential twelve-year-old. Populari
ty, I have long believed, is an affliction of the ordinary who can find no other way to validate their existence. As Oscar says, “Popularity is one insult I have never suffered.” I was feeling popular also because Kimba and Kenneth had chosen me as godmother for baby Violet. They had also chosen Erin, Sophie and Amber, but that did not matter.

  The main point of interest at Anderson’s birthday bash however, was the absence of Alexis the cow. Dad would be relieved I figured, for her red-soled heels would have turned his sodden lawn into mush. And since the divide that had once separated the blue corner and the knitting corner was now rubble, there was opportunity for me to discuss her absence directly with Jason. In years to come, I would share the legend of Alexis the cow and her shoes and other obsessions with baby Oscar.

  When Jason told Alexis that he no longer wanted to be a married man (to her anyway), the reaction was predictable and involved the destruction of certain Waterford and Kosta Boda items within her reach—regretful planning on Jason’s part. He remained calm throughout while ducking the fine china and utilized the old, ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ routine, and ‘you deserve more…’ which worked, not surprisingly. Anything she demanded, he agreed to, and this calmed the savage beast. But in the intervening months, since he had started up with Stephanie and planned his escape, Jason had reorganized their investment portfolio to his benefit. Alexis would be none the wiser, he said, for she had no idea whatsoever about finances other than how to accrue a sizeable credit card debt each month, which he had never questioned.

  Jason gave Alexis permission to tell her family and friends whatever she wanted about the marriage dissolution, and she did. Through Stephanie, Jason learned that he had been having an affair with a work colleague for several years, and Alexis had thrown him out when a private investigator came up with evidence of the infidelity. I would have been furious, but Jason was not. He said he did not care what Alexis or her friends thought—they were not his friends—and he trusted the in-laws would come to learn the truth with the assistance of Stephanie, his Mata Hari on the inside.

  Jason had moved into an apartment in the city, and made a little love nest with Stephanie although her possessions were kept under lock and key so visiting children did not innocently unveil the deception before the papers were signed.

  According to Jason, Cristin and Justin were unaffected by the separation, and their birthday barbeque behavior supported this assessment. Perhaps they were simply used to not having him around, because of work, so nothing much had changed for them, except now they had somewhere new to go on weekends when they were not busy with friends.

  All-in-all, it was quite a brilliant family day although mother was not as energetic as she used to be, and her hair was still just fuzz—winter may have stunted its re-growth. But just as some will ruin a good cranberry and orange muffin with pieces of orange peel, so should the day conclude with another song or two from Shannon and her troupe. I asked if she accepted requests and her eyes lit up with excitement. I walked away before suggesting that she not sing as mother was close-by. As Oscar says, “One of the many lessons that one learns in prison is that things are what they are and will be what they will be.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  WE HAD been busy planning our spring weekend away wine tasting in the Yarra Valley, with emails going back and forth between us. The main point of contention was on the issue of participants. Clearly, those of us without partners (me) were in favor of a girls-only get-away. Even Sophie wanted Adam to go because they had entered the Bizarro World where past antagonists were the best of friends who had occasional meaningless sex, it would seem. Since it was my fortieth birthday present, I asserted a right to two votes, but still lost because Erin changed her vote to break the three-all deadlock. At least we all agreed that the Yarra Valley was no place for children, except for Violet who was still living off Kimba’s breasts, and because she is very cute and entertaining, especially with her bubble blowing.

  The weekend away had an additional purpose—to celebrate Erin’s two-book publishing deal just signed with Random House. More importantly, she promised to blow a portion of her advance on drinks over the weekend. Sadly though, this prompted a rather ungenerous group discussion on my own writing career, which had stalled since I failed to submit my second assignment due to a lack of inspiration and words. This inconsequential failing should not have surprised anyone—I am a middle child and no expectations should therefore follow me. Still, I had plans to write my two non-fiction books and did not need a silly course to distract me from these important works that will make an important contribution to society.

  In the midst of the planning and insulting emails, there was one from the elusive Zach, who wrote to apologize for not getting back to me as promised because his grandmother had died. As if, I thought.

  “Sorry to hear that, Zach,” I wrote. “When is the funeral?”

  “Yesterday. I know it sounds like a lame excuse, but it really is true. We were very close.”

  It certainly was lame. I was not affected when my grandmothers died. They were not involved in our lives, and were rather cranky old widows who came for Christmas Day and thought we were raucous. I cannot imagine what they would make of the new generation and the hooliganism that occupies our family events. And now that I think of it, I am offended, for we were docile little angels compared to this lot. But since I knew Lucinda would be shattered if anything happened to her grandmother/primary carer, I was prepared to give Zach a little piece of rope.

  “Do you want to go out this weekend?” he asked.

  Why would I? I am forty years old and a failure at relationships, although expert, and not at all interested in meeting people. My life needs simplicity for family, friends and work offer enough complications. “Sure,” I wrote then slapped my forehead.

  “Great. What about Tokyo Teppanyaki Friday night?”

  “Sure. I’ll meet you there at eight.” Teppanyaki is a good suggestion for a first date because there is no intimacy with bright lighting and seats side-by-side, which is preferable to being watched as you shovel food and catch flying omelet, which can ruin any relationship at the outset.

  “So, what are your hobbies?” he asked.

  Interesting question, I thought, and thought and thought, and could not come up with a single activity that I pursued solely for pleasure or relaxation. My writing career was not pleasurable or relaxing; it was stressful, difficult and more for the purpose of achieving something as a middle child, and compulsion also to share my wisdom. Gym was similarly a burden—an obligatory pursuit in spring and summer to combat the winter sludge, and to keep middle age spreading at bay. Merlot was a pleasure, but not technically a hobby, although Shannon might say so. I had nothing. I was hobby-less and this was most disturbing, and further evidence of my one-dimensional life. All I had was work, and that was not going so well since I reluctantly had to align with the Projects Director to defeat Thomas and his proposal. The southern corner was decidedly icy. I needed a hobby; I needed to become 3D.

  “U there?” Zach wrote.

  “I don’t have any hobbies,” I replied.

  “You must have a hobby. Everyone has a hobby. What about shoes?”

  “Shoes?”

  “Yeah, aren’t all girls obsessed with having masses of expensive shoes?”

  “You’ve been watching too much TV. I have no interest in shoes and even my friend Amber, who is very fashionable, does not obsess about shoes.”

  “I had a girlfriend who used to spend half her salary on shoes.”

  “I don’t think that’s normal.”

  “I was supposed to be impressed that she spent $400 on a pair of shoes and she would go on and on about the shoes. She even wore stilettos to football and walked from town to the MCG in them. I had to piggy-back her home after the game because her feet hurt. It was embarrassing in front of my friends.”

  “I don’t understand shoe obsession, but she sounds like my sister-in-law. She wears stiletto
s to our family barbeques, or she used to. She’s out of the picture now.”

  “How come you’re still single? You seem like a guy kinda girl.”

  “I was married once.”

  “Divorced?”

  Not going there, I thought. “My husband died. What about you?”

  “Single, never married. Haven’t met anyone I would want to live with forever.”

  It dawned on me then that I could pull a Rudy scam on Zach and use him for research for my modern-day matchmaking book. It was odd to hear a thirty-two year-old guy talk about ‘forever’. Who did forever anymore? Marriage is not a forever thing—it is for as long as it is, until the next one. I wrote this down in a self-memo, for a chapter in my book.

  “U still there?” Zach wrote.

  I took my time to open the merlot and to grab chips and chocolate, asserting superiority over the relationship by keeping him waiting. I would not be there just because Zach was at the other end of the cable. For once, I would have a relationship on my terms—I did not care if it succeeded or not, primarily because I had yet to reconcile the age issue, and I would keep it secret from my friends to escape jibes about snatching cradles, boy toys and Mrs. Robinson.

  I tuned in for my weekly dose of Survivor, sipped, snacked, wiped greasy fingers and reverted to the keyboard.

  “Still here,” I wrote, and waited and waited and waited. Nothing, so I pulled in a section of his metaphorical rope. One more false step and Zachary would hang himself. He better not think I would be sleeping with him for that was most definitely out of the question, even though it had been a long, long time since my last service from Rudy the conman, who at least was my age (Thomas encounters did not count).

  I sent an email to Erin, Amber, Sophie and Kimba to ask them about their hobbies because when I thought about it, no one seemed to have any, other than Kimba and her charitable work, which was a value, not a hobby, and not at all comparable to stamp collecting or horse riding or paper mache or chess. I made a list of hobbies to assume—Thai cookery, wine appreciation and learn a foreign language. This, together with my writing challenge, would keep me busy and out of trouble, except at work.