Am I Right or Am I Right? (2 page)

Okay, here goes.

Let’s get rid of some misconceptions. Misconception number one: poetry has to rhyme. Wrong. Rhyming poetry is actually very old-fashioned (as well as a pain in the arse to write) and we are modern, up-to-date wordsmiths here. Misconception number two: rhythm is important. Wrong, wrong. Modern poetry relies upon the rhythm of the street, the natural cadences of the spoken language (memorize that and repeat it to any teacher who challenges you). Misconception number three: poetry has to make sense. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Let’s be honest. How many proper poems have you read where you’ve known what the hell was going on? Few, if any, I’ll bet. And the same applies to your teacher. He or she will read your poem and nod wisely. They can’t admit they don’t understand it. They’re English teachers, after all. In the unlikely event they ask you to explain, recite the following: “It was my attempt to rationalize the dichotomy between personal emotions and the pressures of modern-day living.” That’ll shut them up.

Okay. We don’t need rhyme, rhythm, or meaning. The key is that it should
look
like a poem.

Let me give you an example. Take any old drivel you can think up in twenty seconds:

The wind leaned sideways in the town and the boy threw up as I felt excitement pouring down the rain-swept streets.

Gibberish? You got it! Now watch as I turn it into a masterpiece of poetic inspiration:

the wind

leaned

s

i

d

e

ways in the town

and the boy threw

p

u

as i felt excitement pouring down the rain-swept streets

See? It’s still crap, but no one knows it’s crap. Mucking around with spacing, the shape of lines, and punctuation has made it poetry in motion.

Too bloody easy.

Calma, you’re a legend.

Five

Dear Fridge,

I don’t know how to break this gently…

You might remember that twenty years ago, when you were young, inexperienced, and suffering from the bad taste that characterized the early eighties, you fell under the noxious spell of a serial loser called Robert. Instead of spurning him, as one would a rabid dog, you lost the plot to such an extent that you muttered “I do” in front of appalled witnesses at a registry office. I, personally, am inclined to attribute this to temporary insanity produced by excessive substance abuse (rampant at the time), though I don’t insist upon this. It may not have escaped your memory, either, that some four years later there was issue from this union in the shape of yours truly. I still hold out hope that this was the consequence of artificial insemination from an anonymous donor.

Be that as it may, the putrid excrescence known as your ex-husband is back, Fridge. He turned up this morning like a bad smell, though I attempted to waft him away. We need to arrange new identities, false passports, and visas for the Galapagos Islands. Give me the word and I’ll withdraw the forty-eight dollars from my savings account.

Sorrowfully, your loving daughter,
Calma

Dear Calma,

Bob’s been back a week. Didn’t tell you because I knew how you’d react. Wasn’t expecting he’d turn up at the house. Sorry. Should have told you.

Put the Galapagos trip on hold and don’t withdraw your money. I’d hate to create a crisis in the Australian economy.

Love,
The Fridge

Six

“Calma, could you do me a favor?”

Miss Moss was the best English teacher I’d ever had. She was new at my school, replacing Miss Payne, who’d left under a cloud. And with a police escort. I still couldn’t understand how Miss Moss had got the job. She was articulate, intelligent, excellent at English, enthusiastic about communicating her skills, and conscientious to a fault. My school wouldn’t normally touch someone with such impeccable credentials. We specialized in the aging and incompetent. The interview panel had obviously made a big mistake, but I wasn’t complaining.

“Of course, Miss.”

Miss Moss carefully opened the large case on her desk. We were minutes into our first lesson of the new week. It was a pleasure to be in class, not just because of the quality teaching but also because I was with fifteen other students who were eager to learn. We sat in respectful silence while Miss Moss removed a large saxophone from the case and walked over to my desk.

“Could you play us a tune, Calma?” she said, thrusting the gleaming instrument under my nose. I laughed.

“Sorry, Miss,” I said. “I can’t play sax.”

“Oh, go on,” she said. “Any tune you like. Make something up.”

I took the saxophone from her, only because she wasn’t giving me an option. It was lovely and slightly warm to the touch. There was a bewildering array of valves and stops, burnished to a golden glow. I could imagine it had a beautiful tone. But that was academic. I had more chance getting a tune out of a toaster.

“I can’t play, Miss.”

“Please. Just a short melody.”

Now, I liked Miss Moss, but the part of my brain responsible for intellectual irritation was receiving serious stimulation. I mean, I couldn’t have been much clearer. It was time for plain speaking.

“Miss,” I said. “You don’t understand. I can’t play saxophone. It’s not a question of not wanting to. I can’t—meaning I do not have the skill, the ability, the expertise, the know-how, the technique, the requisite musical knowledge, the capacity, the facility, the knack, the gift, or the talent. I can’t get a tune out of a jukebox, let alone this.” I smiled sweetly. “I hope I’ve made myself clear.”

Miss Moss had returned to her desk and was searching through a drawer. She pulled something out, looked at me a moment, and then held up a sheet of paper.

“So how do you explain this, Calma? Your ‘poem.’” I swear I could hear the quotation marks in her voice. “What a sad, pathetic thing you must think the English language is if you can pretend that what you have written here is anything other than cacophonous drivel. I asked you to make music out of words. You didn’t. And you are quite right about the saxophone. No one would expect someone without talent to make music from it. But you are talented at English, Calma. You
can
make words sing. You have the capacity, the skill, the gift, and the talent. Which makes
this
”—she waved the sheet again, as if trying to shake it to death—“all the more deplorable. If you want to desecrate your abilities, then fine. It’s your choice. But don’t expect me to be pleased or to collude with you in it. ‘ ’Sblood. Do you think I am easier to play on than a pipe?’”

I could feel my face flush. I fixed my eyes on the desk.

“Trivia question, class. From which play did that quote come? Answers to me at the beginning of next lesson. First correct to receive a completely pathetic prize.”

The class laughed.

“Right. Last week we considered the unreliable narrator. Let us continue. Please turn to the first page of Jane Austen’s
Emma….
”

I cradled the saxophone on my knees for the rest of the lesson. When the bell rang I waited until everyone had gone, then placed it back in its case. Miss Moss was wiping the whiteboard.

“That was unfair,” I said. “Why did you humiliate me?”

Miss Moss turned.

“You humiliated yourself, Calma,” she said. “I was teaching you.”

We stared at each other for a while. Tears pricked my eyes. My next class was a free period and I needed to think. I was nearly out the door when Miss Moss called my name.

“The quote, Calma?” she said.

“Hamlet,” I said, “to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.”

Miss Moss waited until I forced myself to meet her eyes. She smiled.

Chapter 2

Getting to know your narrator

Hi! Here at
Hot Gossip
we pride ourselves on keeping you up-to-date with your fave celebs. Who’s in, who’s out, who’s halfway in, who was in but has just popped out for five minutes, who’s out but thinks they’re in, and who’s inside out and upside down. This week we have an exclusive interview with the hottest property in town, our own homegrown Aussie chick who’s taking Tinseltown by storm: Calma Harrison.

HG:
Hi, Calma. Thanks for taking time out of your busy schedule to talk to us.

CH:
Always a pleasure.

HG:
Your career is the stuff of legend, Calma. How have you managed to achieve so much at just sixteen years of age?

CH:
Well, clean living plays a part. I exercise regularly, eat good, nutritious food, and always get eight hours of sleep a night. But mostly it’s because I am enormously talented.

HG:
Yes, indeed you are. And
Time
magazine recently named you the most beautiful woman in the world. Would you care to comment?

CH:
Well, it’s silly, isn’t it? I mean, look at me. I’m five foot nine, 135 pounds. I have brown eyes, a flawless complexion, silky chestnut hair, and a bust that on occasions is in a different time zone than the rest of me. It’s absurd to say I am the most beautiful woman in the world. There must be at least two who are more beautiful.

HG:
I don’t think so.

CH:
No, I don’t think so either.

HG:
What about your upbringing, your home life? Can you tell us about the real Calma Harrison?

CH:
I live in northern Australia. In fact, I attend a high school there and am currently in Year 11. English is my favorite subject.

HG:
Which brings us neatly to your latest novel. Is there any truth in the rumor you are a shoo-in for the Nobel prize for literature this year?

CH:
I can’t possibly comment. Let’s just say I have a plane ticket for Stockholm, I love pickled herring, and my ski gear is packed.

HG:
As the reigning Winter Olympics champion in the grand slalom, you must be looking forward to getting on the piste again. But back to your home life. Is it true your father deserted you when you were in Year 6?

CH:
That is true. But there is always something positive to take from life’s little tragedies.

HG:
You are referring to your latest album,
I Turned Over a Stone and My Father Crawled Out,
which recently went platinum in the U.S.?

CH:
Yes.

HG:
Why do you call your mother “the Fridge”?

CH:
Since my father left, she has worked constantly because she has an irrational fear of claiming benefits to which she is entitled. She prefers to work herself into a stupor to provide for us. As a result, she is rarely at home and we communicate mainly through notes on the fridge, hence my reference to her in those terms. I see more of the fridge than I do of my mother. But all this is very personal and I’d sooner not go into it.

HG:
Did you draw on this experience for your Academy Award–winning role in
The Fridge and Me,
written by you, directed by Spielberg, and also starring Robert De Niro and Orlando Bloom?

CH:
Partly.

HG:
Are you surprised that your habit of wearing large colored glasses has become something of an international fashion statement?

CH:
I confess I was flattered when the queen started imitating me—though putting them on the corgis was excessive. But yes, it amuses me to see them on the Australian prime minister.

HG:
Tell us, Calma, what’s going on with your love life? Is there a hottie on the scene, and should we read anything into the pouting jealous rages of a certain Hollywood star whenever you are at a function together?

CH:
The tabloids have blown that out of all proportion. For the record, her husband and I are just good friends. But yes, there is romance in the air. I can’t say anything yet, but the name Jason is one to listen for.

HG:
You heard it in
Hot Gossip
first. Calma, we know you have groundbreaking work to do on a cure for cancer, and you are scheduled to deliver a keynote address to the General Assembly of the United Nations first thing in the morning. Thanks so much for talking to us.

CH:
My pleasure.

Chapter 3

Pressures on the Fridge

It was time to get a job.

I had come to this decision for a number of good reasons. I was of an age where I
should
be contributing to the family budget, thus taking pressure off the Fridge. Of course, a little extra personal spending money wouldn’t go amiss either. While my classmates were showing off their latest cell phones, with still-image manipulators, video capture cards, wireless Internet, and espresso-making facilities, I couldn’t afford two baked-bean cans connected by garden twine.

It was a tad embarrassing.

The most compelling reason, however, was that I needed exposure to real life. As a student, I was living in an ivory tower. I went to classes; I came home and read or watched TV. If I was going to be a writer—my chosen career path and current burning ambition—then I needed to connect with ordinary people and understand their motivations, lifestyles, and patterns of speech. I’d read that proper writers carry a notebook in which they record snippets of conversation that might be of use. I liked that idea.

So, a job. No time like the present. I showered and washed my hair twice before styling it for an hour, so it looked natural. I applied cleanser, toner, reinvigorating face mask, de-wrinkler, energizing lotion with beta hydroxy acids plus supplementing minerals and a few other things in bottles I stole from Mum’s collection. Then I started on makeup. The pimples on my nose weren’t angry anymore; they were beside themselves with rage. So I applied a masking compound, not unlike the stuff you use to seal shower doors, but skin-toned. It wasn’t bad, either. When I’d finished, you couldn’t really see the pimples, though there were still bumps, like molehills, along my nose. Short of taking an orbital sander to them, there wasn’t much more I could do. I tried to finish the rest of my makeup, but frankly it’s an art form I’ve yet to master. After much screwing up of the eyes and facial contortions, I managed to end up looking relatively normal—a considerable improvement on my usual efforts, where I wouldn’t be out of place in a Picasso painting. I turned to the wardrobe.

Something elegant yet businesslike. Something that would say “serious job seeker” yet at the same time reflect my personality. Two hours later I had tried every possible combination of shirts, blouses, skirts, pants, T-shirts, tops, dresses, and sundry clothing items that did not fit readily into any category. It was like a small detonation had occurred in my wardrobe, scattering everything over the entire bedroom. Finally I settled on a crisp white blouse and a stylish knee-length blue skirt. Next, shoes…

A mere five hours after I had started I was ready to take on the world of employment. Donning green plastic-framed glasses, I stepped into the blazing heat of a wet-season afternoon. Now, where could I find a part-time job?

It struck me with the force of revelation. Why not the local Crazi-Cheep? After all, it was…local. And I didn’t really have any specific skills. It wasn’t as if I was passionately into kittens or frill-necked lizards and felt that a pet store would be the only place worthy of my talents. I could scan stuff. I mean, I had seen the staff at Crazi-Cheep. Just how difficult could it be? And it was…local. It was perfect. In fact, I decided it was so perfect I wouldn’t consider employment anywhere else. I headed purposefully in its direction.

The customer service desk was attended by a girl fresh out of preschool. She chewed gum and studiously ignored me. This was difficult since my glasses by themselves would have stopped a Boeing 747 in flight. Plus I was the only customer. Though I did note, out of the corner of my eye, a lone checkout operator and forty pensioners stretching into the feminine hygiene and car accessory aisle. I stood, a patient smile on my face, while the customer service clerk continued chewing and gazing blankly into the middle distance.

“Excuse me,” I said finally.

Her eyes slowly came into focus and she turned her head toward me. There were things in the morgue with quicker reaction times.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“Not really,” I replied. “I just wanted to check if you were some peculiar, life-sized logo, or one of those human statues you see at the markets, or if you were simply in a catatonic state.”

Actually, I didn’t say that at all. I’ve gotten into trouble in the past by allowing my mouth off the leash. This time I restrained myself.

“I want to inquire about employment opportunities,” I said.

She stared at me, the gum chewing as regular as a metronome. Maybe she was incapable of chewing gum and speaking at the same time. Maybe the number of polysyllables I had used confused her. I watched her tonsils for a while, but, to be honest, they were of limited interest. Finally she pointed to a sign on the counter.

I read it. I was half-expecting something like
ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO WAIT HERE
. But it said,
RECRUITMENT FOR CRAZI-CHEEP STORES IS NOW CONDUCTED BY MISSION IMPOSSIBLE, AUSTRALIA. PLEASE PHONE
555-1011. The girl wore a small smile, as if I was a moron for having missed the notice in the first place. I was encouraged. If she could get employment, then clearly the only criteria for acceptance were basic vital signs and sufficient physical coordination to chew without severing your tongue. I decided to get on it right away.

“Do you mind if I use your phone?” I inquired sweetly.

She reacted as if I’d asked to French-kiss her grandmother.

“It’s not for customer use,” she said, outrage in her voice.

“I’ll pay,” I said.

It took a little while to sort it out. This was a scenario she had obviously not encountered before, and having to use her initiative brought on a violent nervous reaction. She lost her gum-chewing rhythm entirely. In the end, though, common sense prevailed and I made an appointment with the recruiting agency for the following afternoon. As I replaced the handset, I was struck by a thought. Why hadn’t I considered this before?

“Is Jason working today?” I asked nonchalantly.

“Late shift,” she said, her eyes returning to their natural state of vacancy.

Late shift, hey? Just the kind of shift that would suit me perfectly. Life is full of strange coincidences, don’t you think? As I went out the automatic doors, I glanced back. The girl was in the same pose, her mouth opening and closing as if she was having a conversation with a goldfish. The line at the open checkout had lengthened. The same CD was droning in the background.

I was going to like this place.

“So what brought this on?” said the Fridge. I had come home and changed into board shorts and a T-shirt. I’d intended to clean up my bedroom but decided I could leave it for a while, accustomed as I was to living in the environmental aftermath of a natural disaster. After another shower to wash off crusty bits of makeup, I went into the kitchen to make a snack and found the Fridge in residence. I was always surprised when I stumbled across her. We were like the trajectories of celestial bodies—once in a long while our paths coincided, and the collision was often spectacular.

“I thought it was a good idea. Help out with the finances, that kind of thing.”

The Fridge looked puzzled, as if me helping with money was akin to Osama bin Laden offering to be Santa at the local day-care center. She didn’t say anything, though. She sat at the kitchen table and sipped her coffee. I sat opposite. To be honest, I was worried about her. She looked old, her hair splattered with gray. There were frown lines around her mouth that I hadn’t noticed before. In fact, her whole face sagged as if a weight was pulling and stretching it. I didn’t know what to say. We didn’t have a good history of communication.

“Your father dropped in to see me at work today,” she threw into the silence. She didn’t look at me, and she was chewing the inside of her cheek.

“How charming,” I said. “What did you do? Reach for the Raid or call security?”

“He wants to talk.”

“What would give him the impression he’s got anything to say?”

“He was very serious. Said he needed to talk, that he didn’t want anything or to mess up your life.”

“Bit late for that, isn’t it?” I replied. “Look, be firm and polite and maybe he’ll get the message. If that doesn’t work, I’ll arrange for a couple of muscle-bound acquaintances to visit him with baseball bats.”

Mum stared into her coffee cup and continued to chew on her cheek.

“I
will
talk to him, Calma,” she said. “And I think you should, too.”

I got to my feet. I had a feeling this had been coming. I don’t know whom I felt angrier with—my dad for his manipulative power or my mother for allowing him to wield it. However, she was the only available target.

“Are you out of your mind, Mum?” I said. “Have you finally lost it? Do you need reminding what a complete bastard he is? We might not have realized it at the time, but him walking out of our lives was the best thing that could have happened. And now he strolls back in and expects you to listen. He’s probably single again, wants to cry on your shoulder about whatever her name was. He treated you like shit. Now, you can’t change that. But the very least you can do is make sure he can’t treat you like that again. Please don’t talk to him, Mum. Please.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that your perspective on the past might be faulty, Calma? That not everything is either black or white?”

“I know what I know, Mum. He walked out on us.”

“It was all a long time ago, Calma.” Her voice was quiet and infused with weariness.

“So what?” I said, my voice getting shriller. “What difference does that make? By that argument, if Adolf Hitler returned, we would all be going, ‘Hey, don’t worry. You might have exterminated six million Jews in the gas chambers, but it was all a long time ago. Have a cup of tea and a Fig Newton.’”

“Your father is not Hitler, Calma. You’re overreacting again.”

“No, Mum. You are underreacting. Look what’s happened to us. Here we are having a bloody argument, and over what? Him. He’s been back five minutes and we are fighting. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“It tells me you like to argue.”

I stopped my pacing.

“What? You’re saying this is my fault? Oh, I see. Well, it’s pretty obvious when you think about it. Here’s me angry and upset because your low-life ex-husband is trying to worm his way back into our lives, and it’s all my fault. I tell you what, Mum—you start baking a cake and I’ll work on a big banner we can drape over the front door:
WELCOME HOME, SHITHEAD. FEEL FREE TO FUCK US OVER AGAIN
.”

I never swear in front of my mother. Her eyes hardened and her hands clenched into fists. I could see tendons bunch in her lower arms. Then she relaxed and rubbed her fingers over her brow, a gesture that seemed to take enormous effort. She was exhausted.

“I don’t want to argue with you,” she said in a quiet, reasonable voice that only served to make me angrier. “But you need to understand that it’s not all about you, Calma. When I make a decision, I take your views into consideration. But the decision has to be mine. I will not be bullied. By him, by you, by anyone.”

She pushed her coffee cup away and picked up the car keys.

“I’m off to work.”

I had my back to her as she left the house. I didn’t trust myself to keep my mouth shut, and saying anything else wasn’t going to help. I heard the car start up and the crunch of tires on the gravel as she reversed out. Only when silence settled over the house did I go into the front room and sit down. I tried reading
Emma
for a while but couldn’t concentrate.

Mum was right. It wasn’t fair of me to use anger to influence her. If my feelings were worked up by the return of my father, then hers must have been in turmoil. The last thing she needed was me churning them up further.

Nonetheless, I couldn’t ignore my own emotions. There was trouble ahead. I could only hope we would both be strong enough to deal with it.