by Dom Harvey
As I mentioned earlier, Mum is terrible with any sort of new technology. And when I say ‘new technology’ I mean anything that is more advanced than a cassette deck or VHS recorder. How a cell phone manages to automatically go onto speaker when answered is beyond me but if it was going to do it for anyone, it would be my mum.
She didn’t stop for a second to question how a Farmers security guard could have obtained the number of her prepaid cell phone to call her about taking some paper from a box. Nor did she stop to question why a huge corporation that loses hundreds of thousands of dollars of stock each year to shoplifters would bother wasting their time on something so petty.
‘It was a man—he said his name was Kerry and he was from Farmers security and I had to quickly try and turn my phone off. They caught me on their video stealing my book. So I quickly hung up and said to the doctor, “I don’t know who that was.” Brand-new doctor, first time I have ever seen them and now they probably think I’m some sort of a criminal. I felt so embarrassed. If I knew the doctor better I could have made a joke about it, but since they don’t know me they probably think I’m a thief.’
I pointed out to Mum that she was, in fact, a thief. She took something that wasn’t even hers. Then I told her that she shouldn’t be scared and if he happened to call back she should just do the right thing—admit it, apologise, offer to return it—and that would probably be the end of the matter.
‘Yeah, that’s what I’ll do. But surely they wouldn’t go around ringing every person that stole a brochure. Oh, I’m so embarrassed. I’m a sixty-year-old woman. Mum would die of shock if she heard about this.’
She was talking about her own mum, my nana, a healthy eighty-five-year-old woman who probably spends more time in church than the average priest. Seriously, she goes to a Catholic mass most days. Some days she even goes twice.
It must be a difficult task staying awake for any priest who has to sit through my nana’s visits to the confessional booth to clear her conscience of her sins. Apart from going through the express lane with more than twelve items from time to time, I cannot imagine what sins my nan would have to get off her chest.
Mum agreed that she would face the music if the Farmers security guard happened to phone back. I left her and went back to work and got Kally to make the follow-up call. I had planned to leave it another day, but as funny as I found all of this we really needed to get this over and done with so I could reveal it was a joke and Mum could stop living like a fugitive. But sadly for my mum, before she got relief she would have to endure a wee bit of pain. Here is a transcript of the phone call that ensued.
Kally: Hi, is that Susan Harvey?
Mum: Yes, it is.
Kally: Hi, Susan—I spoke to you before. My name is Kerry Thompson from Farmers security.
Mum: Yeah.
Kally: Sorry, I must have had a bad line before. I got cut off.
Mum: Oh, okay.
Kally: Just calling in regard to a small issue. Last week we had you in our St Lukes store and we have you on camera going into a box that appears to be for a blender and pulling out what we think is the instruction manual. Would that be correct?
Mum (nervously): Oooh, yeah.
Kally: Okay. Well, can you explain what was happening there?
Mum: Well, I was given a blender and it never . . . [Mum pauses and takes a deep breath] it never had any instructions with it.
Kally: Right.
Mum: It was bought from Farmers. And it was given to me and it never had any instructions and I just assumed I would know how to use it.
Kally: Right.
Mum: And anyway, I couldn’t work the thing out. I’d been in a couple of times to try and have a look to see how it would work and then on Sunday I went in and . . . [Four seconds of silence follows before my poor old mum lowers her voice and completes her sentence] . . . I took it.
Kally: Okay.
Mum: I’ve got it, so I can return it.
Kally: Right. Did you think to just come in and speak to someone from staff to get a bit of help there?
Mum: Well, I thought about that but . . . no disrespect, but Farmers staff are quite slow. You know what I mean? I can stand there for ages waiting to be served.
Good one, Mum! So first you steal from them and now you shit on the staff who work there! Well played.
Mum: I know what I SHOULD have done.
Kally: But you found it easier just to shoplift?
Mum: Well, I wouldn’t really consider it stealing.
Kally: How do you think the next person would feel, though, if we sold those goods on without an operational booklet?
Mum: Absolutely. I totally agree. I most definitely apologise. I am certainly in the wrong.
Kally: Okay, well, we take these issues fairly seriously because we don’t like dealing with complaints from customers, as we pride ourselves on our customer service. So what do you think we should do about this situation?
Mum: Well . . . [another long, deep breath] . . . I can return it.
Kally: Okay, do you think that is sufficient?
Mum: I don’t know. No, probably not.
For crying out loud, Mum—don’t roll over and give up so easily. It’s sixteen bits of paper you took, not a giant plasma telly!
Kally: Okay.
Mum: I mean, I’m sixty years old, for goodness sake!
Kally: Yeah, and I guess that was one of the questions we asked ourselves—what is a lady of this age doing stealing goods?
Mum (pausing, then laughing nervously): I’m sorry for laughing—it’s actually not funny, it’s very scary. Especially when you put it like that.
Kally: Yeah, we don’t find it funny either.
Mum: No.
Kally: So I guess what we suggest is that you come in and we will sit down with management and have a discussion about this and decide whether or not we need to take this further with the police and so forth. Generally we don’t like to do so because obviously there could be some fairly serious consequences. So how about we arrange a time for you to come in and we can have a talk about this and see if we can come to a mutually beneficial agreement.
Mum (sounding totally beaten and deflated): Sure.
Kally: What’s a good time that suits you?
Mum: Perhaps, I don’t know, what about Saturday?
Kally: Saturday? Yes, we can work with that. What time?
Mum: Umm, god, I don’t know. Maybe half past ten?
Kally: Righto, we can make ten-thirty work. I would recommend you bring in a support person or potentially a lawyer.
Mum (after pausing again, for about two seconds this time): YOU’RE KIDDING ME?
Kally: Well, it’s just a recommendation. We don’t want you to feel like you’re in a situation where you are being bullied. We want to make sure we manage this as best we can, legally.
Mum: That’s ridiculous, though!
Kally: Well, it’s just in your best interest.
Mum: Yeah, but it’s a brochure!
Kally: As I said, Susan, we do take these matters seriously.
Mum (after another pause): Well, you obviously do. Okay.
Kally: Do you have someone you can bring in?
Mum: Yep. Yep, I’ve got a son who’s probably quite happy to help me there.
My only brother lives in Brisbane, so it was me she was talking about. Here she was, on the verge of tears, more nervous than she has ever been, and I was the first person she thought to call . . . even though I was the arsehole who was putting her under this terrible stress. The joke had gone far enough. My dormant conscience came to life and I jumped into the phone call.
Me: Yeah, Mum. I’m free on Saturday. I’ll help you out.
Mum: Oh no! Dominic, how could you? I’m nearly crying. That is nasty! Oh, Jesus.
Me: Sorry, Mum.
Mum: Ooooh, I don’t believe this. Why did I give up smoking? I could have one right now! Phew, I won’t be going to jail after all.
Me: And you can happil
y blend things now that you know you can keep the stupid manual!
Mum: Okay. Anything else? I’ve got things to do.
Me: Nah, that’s all.
Mum: All right. Talk to you later. Bye. [Click.]
And with that, Mum hung up.
She sounded mad at me. Maybe she was. Or maybe she was just busy. She did have an old SodaStream that she never could figure out how to work. Maybe she was off to Briscoes to hunt out another instruction guide.
GO TO A GAY SAUNA
I’m not homophobic or anything. I would never discriminate against someone based on their sexuality. But I must confess, I do have a reasonably large fear of gay sex involving me. I’m fine with everybody doing whatever the hell they please. No problem with that whatsoever. But it just isn’t my cuppa tea.
I was talking to my mate Mike, who happens to be gay, and I mentioned that I never use the change rooms at the gym. There are two reasons for this.
1. I have an irrational fear of getting athlete’s foot, a skin condition where the skin flakes away in between your toes. For some odd reason it was drummed into me by my parents as a kid that I must be careful if I’m using communal showers because I could end up catching athlete’s foot. I didn’t really know what it was but it made me scared shitless of communal showers.
2. The gym I go to has change rooms complete with a spa pool and a sauna. It also has a reputation as a meeting place for gay men. I don’t like the idea that men who are into men could possibly be checking me out. To me this seems like an unfair perk that the gay community enjoy. I know I would be as happy as Larry (whoever the hell Larry is) if I was allowed to change and shower in an area full of naked or partially dressed women. So surely for the gay community, the best part of the whole workout is getting to hit the change rooms post-workout where you get to see a smorgasbord of sausage.
In my thirty-nine years of life I have never been even the slightest bit curious about the same sex. I have a penis and I’m still not bored of it despite decades of using and, sometimes, abusing it. But I have no need, want or desire for another one.
The closest I had ever come to a gay experience was probably a urine-stream lightsaber fight at the urinals of Riverdale Primary School in Palmerston North with my friend Aaron while we were humming the Star Wars theme music. Given we were only seven at the time this is far less homoerotic than it sounds. So, for the next tick on my bucket list, I was going to pop along to a gay sauna.
It was my gay mate Mike who suggested it. So I was more than a bit surprised when he told me he had never been to one himself. Then I suggested he could tag along with me, be my wingman for this mission. He replied by making a shuddering motion, accompanied by the words: ‘Ewww, god no!’ That made me nervous. Imagine if I ended up getting athlete’s foot?
A NZ Google search of ‘gay sauna’ took me to the Centurian Sauna for Men. Instead of making me a bit curious or intrigued, though, the website and the services this place offered made my sphincter muscles twitch with fear:
Our spacious facility includes 14 private rooms, a 3-level theatre, maze, Sky TV, a sun bed, spa pool, steam room, dry sauna, internet and much more. We also provide our guests with free lubricant, condoms, shampoo and mouthwash and also free tea and coffee. A selection of food and drinks are also available.
I feel uneasy having my coffee made at the service station by the same bloke who just filled up my BBQ gas bottle. I was definitely not too stoked at the idea of having my coffee made for me by the guy who is also dishing out free lubricant and condoms.
We are constantly upgrading our facilities and services so make sure you visit our sauna regularly to keep up with our improvements. Stay for an hour or all day!
And you actually CAN stay all day if you can handle that much fun. The sauna is open from 11 am till 2 am seven days a week. That’s fifteen hours a day. It is open more than it is shut. You could literally spend more time here than home. You could make this place your second home . . . you could even make your own home your second home. All you would need to do is get your postage redirected to the sauna.
I then clicked through to the ‘features’ section of the website. Sometimes ignorance is bliss; this was one of those occasions. It would have been far easier to go in not knowing what was behind the doors. Here were some of the many features on offer:
Internet room—surf the net or watch the local news in privacy and comfort
Spa pool—a spacious spa pool is available within our facility
Steam room—our steam room is one of many forms of hot entertainment at Centurian (very popular!)
Maze—Centurian features a unique maze that is changed from time to time
Sling room, for those interested in something a bit on the wild side—continuous porn is also played in this room
Douche toilets—a unique feature of Centurian Gay Sauna is the douche toilets—the water is warm and the units are always kept clean
Sun bed—a sun bed in a private room for working on that perfect tan
Gay movie cinema—watch gay porno movies on our big screen projector
After reading that, the thought of going to this place just seemed too terrifying, too far out of my comfort zone. For this mission, I would need a wingman. And since my buddy Mike had already turned me down, I knew just the person to ask next.
Robert John Scott. My best mate. He was my best man. I was his best man. We have known each other for twenty years. We used to be in a gang together, too. The numbers in our gang increased and decreased over the years and peaked at about seven or eight but there were three core members—me, Robert, and his girlfriend at the time, Jeanette (who later went on to be the Target lady who said pretty much everything was ‘entirely inappropriate’.) The gang was called ‘The Cunty Club’ and there was just one rule—when you spotted another member somewhere you had to yell the C word out as loud as you could, and the other member/s present would have to do the same back. The game was very juvenile and offensive, but bloody funny. We discovered that if you shouted that word out loud enough you could actually make it sound just like an odd noise instead of the most offensive word in the world. It was a private joke and anyone else in whatever room it happened to be must have wondered what the hell we were doing, making these strange noises that sounded like some sort of wounded animal.
Robert and I have travelled to Fiji and Bali together. We are probably about as close as two guys can be. And he has already seen my genitals, on numerous occasions, so that would be one less mental hurdle to worry about.
One of these occasions was the catalyst for one of the most embarrassing moments of my life to date. We went to Beachcomber Island in Fiji for a holiday. This was my first trip overseas—I was still in my teens.
That trip was booked for us by a good friend who was working as a travel agent in Palmerston North at the time, Shane Cortese. He is now a popular TV actor who has been in Shortland Street, Outrageous Fortune, Burying Brian, Nothing Trivial, Dancing with the Stars and The Almighty Johnsons. It is such a waste. He really was a very good travel agent.
Beachcomber is a favourite for backpackers travelling on a budget. We slept in a big dorm, the bar on the island has sand for a floor and nobody wears shoes.
On our second night on Beachcomber we were drinking at the bar. We had been there all afternoon. It was now late into the night and we were still at the bar in our togs. I was standing there talking to these two girls from Australia who had arrived on the island that day. I was really quite drunk, but so were the girls, so we were all on the same wavelength.
Then from out of nowhere the Australian girls starting screaming and laughing. Everyone else in the bar looked over and joined in the chorus of laughter.
I was standing with my togs down around the middle of my thighs with my erect penis boinging up and down.
Robert had down-trou’d me at a time when, evidently, I was enjoying talking to the Aussie girls, and the elastic band of my togs had caught the end of my penis, causing
it to move up and down like a diving board at the pool.
My reaction times were dulled by the copious amounts of Fiji Bitter I had consumed, to the point where I didn’t actually realise what he had done until the laughter from the other holiday-makers alerted me that not all was normal. My togs were probably only down for four to five seconds but that was long enough for enough other people to see it to ensure the story would be passed around the island and would follow me around for my entire stay. Suddenly I was the Beachcomber Pervert—the guy who got sexually excited just from talking to girls at the bar. Good one, Robert!
Robert and I at the bar on Beachcomber Island. Wearing matching ‘Bobby’
hats sent to our radio station to promote the new Bobby Brown cassette.
The two of us were lifelong friends. No falling-outs in that time either. But it was going to be a big task to get him to go to a gay sauna with me. These days he is a married man with two kids—including a teenage son. He also does a breakfast radio show on The Breeze, a station for conservative middle-aged women.
My prediction was that Robert would turn me down, citing reputation reasons. I sent him a text message to get the ball rolling. We texted back and forth and within two hours Robert had given me his answer:
Okay . . . maybe I could help out.
Wow, that was easier than I had expected. Maybe he was even a bit too eager. We made a date—the following Tuesday at midday.
On the Monday afternoon Robert texted me to confirm and asked what he needed to bring. This was a good question and not something that had even crossed my mind yet—would we wear togs? Did we have to BYO towels or did they provide them? I called up the sauna to ask.
