Avoiding Mr Right

by Anita Heiss

  I could understand that; it was like people thought Blackfellas only ever hung out with Blackfellas and only talked about land rights and 'our' issues. I had friends from all walks of life and occupations. Shelley the stockbroker and Sylvia the eco-poet my two latest additions. My boyfriend was an architect and now I had the unlikely copper friend Mike.

  When we were finished our meal, Mike signalled for the bill. He was turning his BlackBerry back on when I noticed a blue rubber band on his wrist, one of those charity bands that every second person wore to show their support for a particular cause: breast cancer, homeless youth, World Environment Day and so on.

  'What's that for?' I asked.

  'Oh, this.' He moved it around his wrist nervously. 'You probably won't like it.'

  What wouldn't I like about a charity band? How could I possibly have a problem with MS or the guide dogs?

  'It's in support of John Bush. Do you know who he is?' I nearly fell off my chair.

  'Of course I know who he is! He's the policeman who killed a Black man up on Possession Island. How can you possibly support him?'

  'I'm supporting due process.'

  'Due process? What due process?' I was furious. 'The Queensland Director of Public Prosecutions was given a coroner's report that clearly showed that a Black man died at the hands of a white policeman, but she refused to charge him, and only after national outrage was there a special inquiry that led to charges being laid. Never at any time was the DPP's job under threat, though.' I took a breath. 'But at the other end of the spectrum, we had a Black man who spat at a cop on Redfern station – spat, not maimed, or stabbed or killed, just spat at a cop – and he was arrested immediately. When he went to court and the magistrate let him off, the bloody New South Wales Police Minister stepped in and the magistrate's job was under review immediately. So we have a policing and legal system that says it's worse for a Black man to spit at a white cop than it is for a white cop to kill a Black man and that's your fucken process.'

  Mike just sat there for a moment, and then stood up, put his hand on my shoulder and said, 'You need to relax. I'll order us another round and we can talk about this.'

  I was fuming. Relax? Relax? I didn't need to relax, I needed to be somewhere other than here, now, with him. I didn't know what to do, but relaxing wasn't on the top of my list of options. While he was at the bar I picked up my mobile and thought about calling Alice, but what would she say? I told you so.

  Before I had a chance to punch in a number, Mike was back with a bottle of wine and the wrist band off. I didn't know where it was, but it wasn't in sight.

  'I didn't mean to upset you. My intention today was to get to know you.'

  'Do you want to be my friend?' I asked.

  'Of course.' Of course he did, because he knew I knew my stuff and clearly I knew his policing stuff as well. I wasn't an idiot, and a smart man, even one who makes a poor judgement call in supporting John Bush, would want to see a smart, gorgeous woman again.

  'Well, if you want to see me again, you have to read Simon Luckhurst's Eddie's Country. It will explain the history of relations between the cops and Kooris and then you'll understand why I'm so angry now. Can you do that?'

  'I can do that.'

  'You don't even know what it's about.'

  'I don't care. You make me want to learn. If you think it's an important book for me to read, then I'll read it.' He reached out and took my hand.

  'I have a boyfriend,' I said. It was the right time to tell him.

  'Really?'

  'Are you surprised?'

  'I'm surprised he's let you move down here all alone.'

  'We can be friends, though. I mean, if you read—'

  'I will. Friends is good.'

  nineteen

  Foot in mouth

  The next day was so busy with the announcement of the cultural awards that I didn't have a moment to even consider my time with Mike the day before, which was probably a good thing – he made me feel uncomfortable anyway. There was no time for a debrief with Shelley, either, as her cousin Andrew was in town from Sydney for a week's work. She invited me to meet them both at a Japanese restaurant in the city one night, but as I walked down Collins Street right on seven pm, she called to say something had happened to the stock market. Not a crash, but not something I could understand either. I would have to entertain Andrew until she arrived. Shelley hadn't told me anything other than he was a podiatrist, and that he always had his head in a 'how to' book of some description. At the restaurant it was easy to find him: he was reading How to Create Peace: Locally and Globally.

  As I walked towards him I scanned the room, looking at the tables lined up alongside the train of food making its way around the restaurant in a loop, as patrons pinched tiny plates and steaming baskets from it. It wasn't a chain-store variety sushi train: it was more up-market, full of businesspeople, some obviously talking work, others just unwinding; there was the odd couple, and one or two people sitting alone.

  'Andrew?' I asked, and he stood, putting his book down and extending his other to shake.

  'Hi,' he said and I sat.

  'So, Shelley tells me you're a podiatrist.' I remembered what it was like to have James suck my toes – God, I missed that. And I missed sex.

  'Yes, I've loved feet since I was a kid. You probably think that's weird.'

  'Not at all, I can totally relate.' And then Andrew somehow morphed into James on the other side of the table, and I imagined him sitting there with my leg resting on the table and my freshly painted toes in his mouth. I wondered if Andrew was thinking anything similar.

  Was toe-sucking technically sex? Would that kind of action break my celibacy rule? Then I remembered Liza's words of advice: 'If one of you has an orgasm, it's regarded as sex.' But perhaps I could – we could – have an orgasm-free toe-sucking session. That might be nice. Then I realised I'd been having a conversation in my head for a few minutes: the silence was a little uncomfortable. I looked across to the table next to us and there was a Japanese guy and an Anglo woman and their gorgeous kid, and not knowing why I even thought it, let alone said it, I came out with a line that surprised me:

  'I love Eurasian kids, don't you?'

  Andrew just looked at me oddly. Was that a racist thing to say?

  'What I meant was that mixed kids are so much more interesting looking than standard vanilla-flavoured kids.'

  'Vanilla?'

  Was that also a racist thing to say? God, I could never be the Minister for Cultural Affairs when I couldn't even get my own act together.

  'You know if an Aboriginal and an Asian had a baby it'd be called an Abrasion.' And I laughed at my own joke.

  'Look, I'm only twenty-five, I'm not really thinking about Eurasians or Abrasions just yet.'

  'Oh no, I wasn't thinking you were. I'm not thinking about kids either, I don't even like kids, I was just thinking, or not thinking, perhaps.' I was so embarrassed I just stuffed more sushi in my mouth, skolled some sake and watched the train of little dishes pass us by again. The food was great; it was a shame things were going so badly.

  As I put a piece of tempura in my mouth our phones beeped simultaneously, and we dove for them as if expecting the message of a lifetime. It was Shelley, saying the same thing to both of us:

  So sorry, lovelies, can't get there, emergency at work. Eat something yummy for me. Speak later. xx Shelley

  Andrew looked relieved. 'Well, I'm done if you are.'

  'I'm done too,' I said, as he waved the waitress over for the bill.

  ♥

  'Never again! How could you do that to me? I made a complete idiot of myself, and he must be wondering what's wrong with you, sharing a house with someone like me,' I said as Shelley walked in at ten pm.

  She flopped onto the lounge and kicked off her heels. 'Why? What happened?'

  'I hope he talks to you again, cos I'm sure he won't be talking to me.'

  'What did you do?' Shelley asked, taking a sip of my wine.
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br />   'I think I'm racist.' I slapped myself on the forehead.

  'You're not racist.' She got up to get herself a glass.

  'Then I must be an idiot.' I lay down flat with my head on the armrest of the lounge.

  'But a likable one.' Shelley threw a cushion at me.

  'Thanks a million. I think I should go to bed, and then maybe when I wake up in the morning I'll find that tonight was just a bad, bad dream. See you in the morning.'

  I could still taste the sake as I closed my eyes.

  Within minutes I'm in Japan but it's not Tokyo, which is where everyone thinks of when they think of Japan. It's Kyoto, the old capital. I'm the Australian Minister for Cultural Affairs, and I'm treated like a rock star. A limousine arrives to pick me up and as we drive off I wind down the window and sign some autographs. It's early morning, but the city is bustling. There are people everywhere: 'small dog' walkers; students looking very proper, the girls in their pleated sailor-like tunics, and the boys in suits; office workers on their bikes, riding to work and not breaking a sweat, just sitting upright – helmet free – like being in a convertible car with the roof down. Almost everyone is busy punching keys or talking into tiny flip-phones. People are smiling and hospitable, but I am kneecapped, stifled, choking on my inability to speak. The only Japanese I know is konnichiwa, sayonara and hai. Why didn't the astral dream booking agency give me some intensive language lessons before they sent me here?

  My driver, who is hot, hot, hot as wasabi, suggests that to make small talk I should always tell my hosts that I'm really enjoying Kyoto, that I haven't tried eel yet and that I think Japanese rice is the best in the world. He guarantees that if I do, people will love me, and of course I want to be loved. He tells me his name is Yoshi, and teaches me to say, 'Hajimemashite, Peta desu. Dozo, yoroshiku.' It means, 'My name is Peta, please be nice to me.' I rehearse it a few times, then he stops the car, gets out and climbs in the back seat with me.

  'How nice do you want me to be?' he asks, and I'm wondering if that's a nori roll in his pocket or he's just glad to see me. He kisses my neck and whispers in my ear, 'Would you like to try some eel tonight?' and I'm thinking that Mike and the driver would get on really well.

  He tells me about hotels you can rent by the hour. We should go to one, he tells me. I'm celibate, I say. 'Then you probably need to go,' he says, and laughs, but he agrees to take me sightseeing instead.

  Our first stop is a Buddhist fertility temple and I panic because I don't particularly want to be fertile, but then I calm down – the temple grounds are really peaceful and lush, and the cherry trees are blossoming, and I'm thinking more westerners might go to church if it were so interesting and tranquil. The only harsh note is struck by crass Americans, talking too loud in this place of peace. I worry that people probably think I'm English or American too – I'm in a business suit, so they're probably never going to imagine that I'm a Blackfella from Down Under. Perhaps a T-shirt with the flag on it would do the trick. But would they recognise it?

  Yoshi takes my hand and leads me to a massive wooden phallus which has just returned from Nagoya and the fertility festival.

  'March is fertility month, you have just missed it.'

  'Oh well,' is all I can say. I don't think astral travelling with a kid would be any fun anyway.

  'Pregnant women stroke it for good luck, for easy childbirth,' he tells me. 'Do you want to stroke it?' He grips my hand tightly.

  'Yes, I want to stroke it,' I whisper in his ear, loosening his grip and sliding my hand in his pocket.

  We both know it's going to be 'on' now, but this is a religious place, a place of respect, and we have to wait until we get back to the city.

  On the way, Yoshi tells me he's an eco-poet. He's impressed that I know anything about his genre of work. I pretend to recite one of Sylvia's poems but make most of it up as I go along.

  'Could you send me a copy of this Sylvia's book, please?'

  'Of course,' I say, which is okay, because even though it hasn't been published yet, commitments made in dreams don't have to be kept.

  In Kyoto we rent a room by the hour. I pinch myself, trying to wake up, and then I pinch him and he pinches me gently back and even in a dream it hurts.

  He tells me there's no time for foreplay in astral sex, or where you're paying by the minute, but I want to check out our room. The toilet seat has all these buttons that I'm not sure what to do with, but one is designed to warm my arse, which makes me want to sit there longer. I check out the mini-bar too: I can't read any of the labels, but I choose something that turns out to be sparkling chardonnay in a can. I wonder what Max the real estate agent wine connoisseur would say.

  Yoshi is sitting on the bed, agitated, but waiting patiently, because if anything the Japanese are polite.

  I turn on the telly, searching for the sumo wrestlers I must see before I leave Japan. Yoshi says I should stop being such a westerner. But I'm not a westerner, I'm Aboriginal – how can I be a westerner? I'm an 'other'. When I find them, they're serving tea to each other, not wrestling, and they don't look nearly as big as I thought they would, of course, on a fifty-two centimetre TV screen. I wonder what I'd look like in one of those G-strings, and decide that at least if I dated a sumo-dude I'd look petite, and that couldn't hurt.

  Yoshi is polite, but he's horny and he's paying by the minute, so he turns the telly off and makes me stand up. I take one more sip of my can of chardonnay because I am nervous like a virgin. But I don't have time to think as he stands behind me and quickly removes the kimono that I've only just realised I'm wearing. When he turns me around he looks so much like Mike that it takes my breath away, but I can't stop what's about to happen because the nori roll is out, everything is happening fast and furious and I'm on fire like my body has been smothered in wasabi, but my astral flight to Tullamarine is being called and I have to go, I want to wake up alone and not with Yoshi the eco-poet and especially not with Mike the cop.

  I'm the only westerner who doesn't want to be a westerner on the plane. I come out of the toilet and someone asks me for a blanket. They think I am an air hostess. I laugh and get them one.

  My mobile rang and woke me up.

  'Good morning babe, did I wake you?'

  'Kind of, what time is it?'

  'Seven-thirty, thought you'd be up already.'

  'Oh, I'm running a bit late. What's up?'

  'Thought I might come down this weekend. Would that be okay?'

  'That'd be lovely,' I said, with thoughts of some serious toe-sucking flooding my mind.

  ♥

  'So this is Girls Bar, eh? I like it. It's got a nice groove.' I smiled at Josie and looked around the bar: it was full of all kinds of women, and a couple of brave men.

  'So you think you might make this your regular hang from now on, then?' Her eyes lit up. 'If you do I'll have to call Aunty Ivy straight away. God, how I'd love to do that.'

  'You're evil.' I toasted her.

  'Yes, it's that evil lesbian gene I have.' And we laughed hysterically.

  'James is coming down on the weekend.'

  'Are you looking forward to seeing him?'

  'I am actually, because in one night I managed to have waking thoughts about a podiatrist sucking my toes and then Mike the cop – or a guy who looked quite a lot like him – appeared in my latest astral travel dream to Japan.'