Not Meeting Mr Right

by Anita Heiss

  I wanted a man to worship me and fill my life with romance. Simon had only seen me at my worst and still he was impressed. What more could a girl want? Was I mad? What was I waiting for? I dialled his number.

  My gut feeling was that the phone call was probably a step in the wrong direction, but I had to be open to all possibilities.

  He answered, 'Simon speakin'. '

  I stumbled, 'It's Alice.'

  'Oh, hiiiiii!' He sounded as happy as a puppy whose master has just come home from work and is going to stroke his stomach. His enthusiasm at hearing my voice was flattering.

  I kept the conversation as short as possible. We arranged to meet for dinner and a drink in Chinatown, because it was on a train line and he didn't have a car. He asked if we could go on Thursday night because it was payday. I deduced that it meant he lived from week to week, and would never have any extra cash for romantic spur-of-the-moment weekends away. Already I was nervous, shaking my head at the thought of having to play chauffeur and banker for a guy who couldn't drive or manage money. Before we'd hung up I'd already decided that Thursday night's dinner was going to be a failure and Simple Simon wasn't Mr Right, but more than likely Mr All-Wrong.

  ***

  The next few days flew by. End of year exams were keeping me busy. Thursday arrived and I wanted to cancel, but that wasn't my style. Always stick to commitments or don't make them in the first place was a mantra my father had instilled in us as children. He was really strict on meeting obligations, whatever they were. Even so, there wasn't one minute fibre of my being that was excited about the prospect of dinner with Simple Simon, even if I could classify it as a date to the girls. My Mr Right had certain criteria to fulfill beyond simply worshipping me, and Simple Simon hadn't fit any of them yet.

  I re-read his letter, which I had taken to carrying with me for regular self-esteem boosting. I did have a presence people wanted to be around, and either way we would have a nice meal together. I should at least give him a chance.

  ***

  At seven pm I sauntered into the Sutherland Hotel in a black and white striped skirt and black tee. I was wearing heels to add definition to my already toned calves. Walking up and down Arden Street had definitely helped get me into shape for summer – one of the reasons I chose to live in the hilly suburb by the beach.

  I put on a smile and strolled over to the table where Simple Simon sat in a black and white Treaty t-shirt, rolling a cigarette. He was a bloody smoker as well. As if the way he mumbled wasn't unattractive enough without a fag stuck to his bottom lip.

  'I need a drink, you want one?' I said bluntly. I knew I sounded rude and unpleasant. I probably deserved to be single.

  'Hey Alice, great to see ya. Yeah, I'll have a schooner of black beer. Ta.'

  How could someone who'd written such a beautiful letter be so inarticulate? I'd always thought the written and spoken word were very different in the white world. It's so obvious in their literature. Aboriginal writing is closely aligned to the spoken word. We write like we speak, and reality is, that's how our people read too.

  And what was with the black beer? I thought only old men drank that crap. At the bar, I ran through what I knew about Simple Simon as I waited for our drinks. Simple Simon: hangs out at Koori-oke, has a poster of a Black boxer hanging over his bed, fancies me, wears a Treaty t-shirt, and drinks black beer. If he thought he was doing his bit for reconciliation by doing all this 'Black' stuff, he was sadly mistaken. Either way, I was going to find out what his go really was. I ordered myself a nip of Drambuie, checked to see he wasn't watching, and threw it back, hoping it might help.

  The barman shot me a sleazy but sympathetic wink and smile that perked me up a little. I carried my G&T and Simon's schooner of old-man's-beer back to the table, where he was rolling another cigarette. Two drinks later (plus the nips I'd skolled at the bar when it was my shout), and Simple Simon wasn't looking so simple anymore. He almost looked attractive, and I realised I should probably stop drinking immediately. Then he rolled yet another cigarette. I'd lost count how many he'd sucked on since I arrived. The smell made me ill. Before I knew it I leaned towards him. 'Do you plan on kissing me tonight?'

  'With an open mouth!' he laughed confidently.

  'Well you can forget about having another cigarette, then.'

  He tossed the half-rolled cigarette into the ashtray and grinned. We both knew I had the power at that moment, and I grinned too. All of a sudden he could possibly be Mr Right and I was really looking forward to that open-mouthed kiss. My short-term mantra for the evening became: No more alcohol for me tonight.

  We staggered out of the pub, both very conscious any time we accidentally touched, and headed into the balmy night air towards Chinatown for dinner. I sobered up a little over dinner, downing three Cokes and some salt and pepper squid while he chewed away on beef and black bean.

  While the pub had given us time to exchange basic information like preferred bands, football teams (he loved Nokturnal and went for the Panthers) and the like, we hadn't really talked about anything of substance, and I still had a list of questions I needed to ask him. I started with the most obvious.

  'Why do you sleep on the floor in your living room when there's a bedroom with a bed in it?' Did that sound as logical a question to him as it did to me?

  'Well, I like watching telly in bed of a night. Ya know, I can lie on the mattress with a bottle of Coke and packet of chips in front of SBS and have a party for one.' He was a bundle of contradictions – the least likely SBS watcher in the world. Then again, they did screen a lot of European soft-porn films. I hoped his definition of 'party for one' was different to mine.

  'Right, well, I hope you don't mind, but I wanted a cold drink and went to your fridge. There was a pot with green liquid in it. What was it?' I couldn't wait to hear this explanation.

  'Oh that, that's just the juice from the spinach I boil. It's really good for you.' Yeah, that'd wash down the month-old spag bol in the fridge, too, I thought, but I continued with my interrogation. I wanted to get to the bottom of what really made Simple Simon tick and what made him think we'd have a future together.

  'What were you doing at the Covent Garden Hotel the night we first met?'

  'I like hangin' out there with my people,' he said, without looking me in the eye.

  'What, the wannabe singers and lonely hearts?'

  'No, the Kooris. I'm Koori, can't ya tell?' He seemed a little surprised I hadn't understood him.

  'Sorry, you're what? Koori? How?' It's not like he was sporting a deadly tan or anything. In fact, he looked almost albino. Identity's not about skin colour, of course, but there are definitely identifying characteristics that most Blackfellas can pick up with their Koori antennae. Language, an understanding of shared concepts and experiences, family connections, something – anything that lets you know the other person is one of your kind. Simple Simon didn't have any of it. He wasn't Koori, he couldn't be. I wasn't finished with him, though, and carried on playing the detective.

  'So who's your mob? Where are you from?'

  'Yeah well, not sure yet.'

  Here we go, I thought.

  'I only found out six months ago that my great-greatgrandmother was Aboriginal. I'm still trying to trace the family tree, so I'm not real positive right now who my people are. I know I'm a Williams. So, I'm Koori too, like you eh?'

  How dare he! 'Mate, you ain't nothing like me.' (My own language began to deteriorate as well.) 'Your greatgreat- grandmother being Aboriginal a century ago doesn't translate into you being Koori. And a Williams? From where? You want to be sure which Williamses you reckon you belong to before you start spouting off, or you'll end up on that bony white arse of yours.'

  Simple Simon, Mr All-Wrong, was the latest in the Johnny-Come-Lately-family-tree spreading through the country. If he were smart, he'd just shut up. But on he went about 'feeling out of place all his life', 'always feeling different', and 'family secrets'. It was a common story, of course,
but others had more dignity, didn't assume their identity until they were actually sure who they were. I was dying to tell him he'd felt out of place all his life because he was a deadset weirdo and a loser. It had nothing to do with Aboriginal heritage. Why should we all cop the blame for him being a dickhead? He started rolling another cigarette but I didn't care now. That disgusting wannabe-Koori tongue of his wasn't getting anywhere near mine.

  'I'm doing the course in Aboriginal Studies at TAFE, too', he blurted out, and I did everything possible not to sing out 'Whoopee.' I was always fascinated how many wannabe Blacks and do-gooding whites went to college to learn what it means to be Aboriginal. Most of them never had and never would actually live it – just read about it, write about it and get glassy-eyed about it.

  'So what's with the Anthony Mundine poster?'

  'Yeah, well I'm real proud of my brother boy. He stands up for what he believes.'

  Brother boy? BROTHER BOY? If he started on about 'gubs' I'd have to do something drastic.

  'And what do you believe Simon? What would you stand up for? What racism and discrimination have you experienced as a six-month-old lily-white Koori that could give you the passion that Anthony has? Did you have to deal with taunts and stereotypes based on your race growing up? Did you ever get called names because of your skin colour?'

  I stopped then, because he may well have been called names – he was so fucken white it was off ensive.

  'Okay, so maybe you got called whitey or Casper, but that's because you should really get some sun on your body.'

  He just sat there stunned, mouth agape, and obviously off ended.

  'And what do you know about being part of an Aboriginal community, Simon? You think singing some songs at the pub with Blackfellas when you're pissed makes you Black? You think finding out your greatgreat- great grandmother was Aboriginal makes you Aboriginal? You reckon living in Blacktown makes you Black? Pulleeaaase ...'

  'Aboriginality is spiritual, and it's a lived experience – not something you find by accident and then attach its name to yourself. I'm sick of white people deciding they're Black so they have some sense of belonging, or worse still, so they can exploit our culture.'

  I was raving. I could tell he had no idea about what I was talking about. He rolled one cigarette, then another, then another. His hands were shaking, and he kept dropping filters on the floor. I was just waiting for him to get up from the table to go smoke any one of those cigarettes, because he'd end up shitting filters for weeks I'd shove so many of them down his throat.

  I took a deep breath and looked around to see if anyone else in the restaurant could hear me. 'Well?' I prompted.

  'I'm getting the Koori flag tattooed on my arm on Saturday,' he said nervously, hoping it was the right answer. It wasn't.

  'You're an idiot!' I proclaimed in frustration. Like the beads and the t-shirts people wore like a second skin to show they were Aboriginal, I knew he believed the tattoo would somehow instill in him his new-found Aboriginality. I'd slap him then and there if he went on to tell me he was going to give himself an Aboriginal name as well. If I hadn't detested him so much at that point, I'm sure I'd have felt a little sympathy. He was suffering a complete identity crisis. I'd seen a lot of white Blackfellas go through it.

  Simple Simon really wasn't that simple. He knew exactly what he was doing and saying with that letter he sent me. Trying to align himself with a strong Koori woman to help him infiltrate the community and be accepted by the local mob. He'd probably be asking me to organise a confirmation of Aboriginality for him from the housing co-op in no time, so that he'd have the paperwork at least to say he was a Blackfella. Not if he was the only bloke with the only tongue left in Sydney.

  I shook my head. Simon wasn't just the antithesis of Mr Right, he wasn't even Mr Wrong, he was simply Mr Fucked-Up. I asked for the bill. To further cement my views on him, he divided the bill in two right down to the last cent. I left a generous tip to compensate the staff for having to listen to us argue, then we left the restaurant and headed off in opposite directions: he with a fag stuck to his bottom lip, on his way to the train station, and me to the parking station near UTS.

  As I walked briskly away he sung out what a lovely evening he'd had and that he'd like to do it again sometime. I responded, 'Thanks, but no thanks', mumbling 'psycho' under my breath.

  seventeen

  Peta's brainwave: Perfect Paul

  Saturday morning arrived soon enough and I was greeted with the news that another rich, skinny famous woman was getting married for the third greedy time. I was so uninterested I didn't even read the name. Who really cared? Wasn't there any real news that could go on the front page of the paper?

  I turned the page of the trashy Daily Terror in disgust, only to learn that Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie were arguing again. Who cares! looked to become the mantra for the day.

  I wasn't at all surprised to find an article about a march and hunger strike protesting the government's treatment of refugees rated only two paragraphs on page eight. I was immediately ashamed of myself for even buying a paper and giving money to the fascist media empire that produced it. It was hard to believe that for some this paper was their only form of social education. Real news and issues of importance never even ranked in these tabloids. God knows Blackfellas only made the pages if they were throwing rocks at cops or fulfilling negative stereotypes that soothed the consciences of ignorant racist whites. I declared out loud that I would never buy another paper.

  As I took the paper and other recyclables downstairs, I began to psyche myself for Bianca's hens' night, due to start in ten hours. It would take me that long to convince myself that I should participate in such an appalling event, the second-last step in the process of becoming Mrs Wife.

  I dropped the paper and empty bottles in the appropriate sides of the bin.

  'Morning, Gabrielle!' I hadn't seen her for a while, not since the last time I'd put the garbage out, actually.

  'Hi Alice, what've you got planned for tonight? A hot date?' Gabrielle had hope in her eyes.

  'No, a bloody hens' night. I can't think of anything worse, except for a kitchen tea. I don't even think I like the guy my friend's marrying.'

  'Now Alice, didn't your mum ever tell you that if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all?' Gabrielle smiled at me like a wise mother as she walked off. I felt like a bitch. She was right. In an attempt to seek the Buddha within everyone and the positive in every situation, I would adopt a new mantra: I will only say things that assist, contribute to, or are pleasant about any individual, place or event. Before I reached my door, though, I was laying bets with myself on how long this mantra would last.

  The phone was ringing as I entered the flat, but I didn't answer it in case it was Simple Simon. I let the machine get it and heard Peta's voice: 'Alice, it's me. I know you're there. You want to go to the Ladies' Baths?'

  I picked up. 'Great idea.'

  It was terrific having Peta living so close, both of us only walking distance from the secluded, womenonly rock pool. It was always more peaceful there than the main beach, even if at times it was hard to find somewhere to sit. I was surprised a sundeck hadn't been built there for more women to sit on, but it was still just a natural space. We sometimes pretended to do laps in the pool but mostly we just floated and talked. Peta and I agreed to meet there in half an hour.

  I ran the dry mop over the polished floorboards, sprayed some lemon citrus cleaner in the bathroom so that it at least smelled clean, and pulled the shower curtain right around the bath to hide the underwear hanging in there, then donned my expensive new bikini that made me feel like I'd had breast implants. Next I checked for unwanted pubic hairs hanging around the bikini line and plucked a few strays. I had planned on getting a Brazilian wax for summer but chickened out at the last minute. I had a really low pain threshold.

  It only took me ten minutes to get to the Ladies' Baths, stake my claim on one of the few rocks left to sit on, and
get settled with the latest Who magazine. I'd vowed to stop buying papers, not trashy mags. Like AA, it's a twelve-step program.