Good Oil (10 page)

Anyways, I made excuses of feeling unwell and stumbled straight out to my bedroom. Panadol, Nurofen, Berocca, bacon and eggs, tea, coffee – none of them can fix the pain at the base of my skull, the taste in my mouth or the general indignation of my internal organs.

I may have gotten a bit messy last night, as evidenced by the scribbling of what appears to be a verse from
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
. Needless to say the Perfect Woman was not in attendance at Rohan’s house-warming party. Some of Ro’s mates came to the party at about midnight, having been to see a band at the uni bar. In my lubricated state, that got me to thinking about what I had been doing a sterling job of
not
thinking about for the whole trip. Namely, the one time I had been to Newcastle before.

Just after midyear exams last year, Michaela and I came up to stay with a friend of hers who was doing a semester at Newcastle Uni. A ‘Perth girl’. There’s a whole Perth thing. They all seem to know each other. Like a big country town. I digress. We came up to stay with this friend in her giant share-house. Student share-houses always fascinate the likes of me, who have to live at home if we want to keep studying.

Bernadette, this friend of Michaela’s, lived with eight other students. There were two big living rooms, with coffee tables made from milk crates, and huge, tired-looking Tarantino posters on the walls. We slept on the floor of her big, damp bedroom with peeling wallpaper and rotting carpet. We had a big barbie out the back with a bunch of other students on the Saturday afternoon. We went to the uni bar to see Augie March. It was three weeks until Michaela was due to go back home. I was dreading her immediate absence, but I didn’t think for a second that we would be over when she went back. Pretty much the only time we weren’t touching was when one of us went to the toilet. This bordering-on-desperate grip was mutual – she must have been holding on for all she was worth, knowing that soon she’d be going back to Brad, and wondering how on earth she was going to play that one.

In retrospect, I can see that Bernadette was a bit uncomfortable and bemused by all the coupliness. One time she and Michaela were in the kitchen, I overheard her ask in a low voice, ‘Have you spoken to Brad lately?’ and Michaela reply, ‘Um, yeah. Last week.’ They both started, almost imperceptibly, when I came into the room.

‘Who’s Brad?’ I asked.

‘A friend from back home,’ Michaela replied without missing a beat.

‘There are real people called Brad?’

‘At least one.’ She smiled in my direction, but didn’t look at my eyes. ‘Cuppa?’

At the gig we were one of Those Couples. You’ve seen them at every gig you’ve been to. They stand oblivious to the many petty insults of being surrounded by a sea of buffeting, drunk people. Usually the bloke is standing behind the girl, both his arms encircling her, almost supporting her weight and protecting her from the crowd. They whisper in each other’s ears from time to time. The bloke will often tap-tap along with the music on the girl’s hips. And they are
so
going home to get it on after the show. You know it and I know it. Anyways. That Couple was me for a few months.

Later that night I woke, on the dusty floor of Berna-dette’s room, to find Michaela propped up on one elbow, studying me while I slept.

Alone on a wide wide sea.

February 28

Ed was more or less lucid at work yesterday, so I took the opportunity to make a couple of suggestions. One – he should cut down on his pot. Two – he should ask out young Amelia. She’s not even three years younger than him and she’s a tops sheila, all of which I pointed out. She’s smart, she’ll make you laugh, I said. She’s cute, she’s straight down the line, I said. You’ll have a good time with her, I said.

Ed shrugged and made non-committal noises.

‘What? What?’ I pestered him. ‘Why not?’

He put down the crate of receipt rolls he was carrying and levelled with me. ‘Chris, she’s a very nice girl. But I’m not quite the fan that you are.’ Well. His life. At least I gave Georgia from the deli a
go
!

March 3

Okay. Let’s take stock. I’m working only fifteen hours per week, so am more or less on top of uni work at this early stage in the game. This morning I didn’t start till eleven, so when I dragged my arse out of bed everyone was at work. A magazine article entitled ‘Are You Drinking at Problem Levels?’ just happened to be open on the kitchen bench. Mum and Zoe are in unsubtle cahoots.

Let’s take a look at The Field:

Kathy – the Kathy-virus has been in and out of remission for, let’s see, three years now. I might make an executive decision sometime this year to actually hit on her proper and see what happens. Kathy reserves the right to shoot me down in a ball of flames at all times. At least I’ll go to my grave knowing that I did not go quietly into that good night.

Stella the Master Brewer – the pretty engineer. Although, I noticed her and Rohan doing some close-talking at his house-warming. Perhaps I should sound it out with him before I ask Ro for her number.

Token youngster – Sveta Tarasova. Sixteen-year-old checkout operator. Perfectly legal. Amazing legs. Trained her up with my own hands. Bet I could have her on her arse in a matter of coffee dates. They all seem to look up to me with starry eyes, the youngsters. I excite them. I wish I was as irresistible to the Kathys and Michaelas.

March 15

There was a fire in the Tip Top factory last night. Thousands have been left breadless. Foul play is suspected.

March 18

It’s Sunday night. Uncle Jeff was here when I got home from work this afternoon and was obviously staying for dinner. He and my parents were sitting out the back under the awning. The empties from a sixpack of Boags were lined up along the kitchen bench.
Crap.
I skulked about in my room and pretended to be doing uni work, until Mum came in and said I had to come out and talk to him. It is SO humiliating when she does that. I’m one-and-twenty years old. I can vote, enlist, drink legally in the US and ‘come into’ my inheritance in a Jane Austen novel. I have a tertiary degree. But I can’t come home from work and flop onto my bed in peace if I choose. It’s all wrong. God, I wish I could move out. If I dropped out of Honours and went full-time at Woolies, I could start looking for a place after a month’s pay. The Perishables manager would have me full-time in a heartbeat.

So out I come to talk to Uncle Jeff, who is my father’s brother, older by five years and the worst kind of baby boomer. He’s some kind of environmental manager or some such. No one knows exactly what he does. He worked for years and years at the Department of Infrastructure, Planning and Natural Resources. Then he left there to work in the ‘private sector’. He and Aunty Jo used to live in Lane Cove with my two cousins. After the divorce, he moved to a flat in Rose Bay, where he has remained. His barely-veiled anger towards me also extends to ‘my generation’, whatever that means. Anyway, I suspect that Uncle Jeff rides his angry-wagon in my direction because his own kids chose to live with their mother. Today – predictably – he expostulated about how ‘my generation’ is apathetic and never protests about anything.

‘Yes . . . ’ I said. ‘Well . . . ’

My mother shot me the pleading look.
Let it go through to the keeper, son.

‘When I was a student,’ Jeff continued, ‘we got out there and protested about the things that mattered. We made our opinions known. We put in the hard yards. We effected change.’ He paused for breath and looked pleased with himself.

‘You raged against the dying of the light,’ I added, helpfully.

My mother looked uncertain and Jeff looked undecided.

‘Chris, you have an essay due, don’t you?’ Mum was giving me an out, knowing there was only so long I could hold the line.

‘I do.’

‘Well, you can be excused to go and work on it.’

‘What’s it on?’ Uncle Jeff piped up, louder than necessary, in all his belligerent glory, ‘Bloody poofterdom in John bloody Keats?’

Oh, good times.

I put in the hard yards
, I thought, back in my room.
I just put them in at the Land of Dreams.

April 2

Bianca’s having a party at her parents’ place. Water frontage on Rose Bay, mind. I’ve been there a few times before. You could swim out to Shark Island.

It’s time I threw my hammer at destiny and put my case to Kathy. The Kathy-virus is hard to understand. Is it just because she is beautiful and uninterested in me? Is it just the chase? The masochistic thrill of the threat of being rejected? Coupled with me being lonely and rootless? Whatever it is, it’s pretty strong and has been going on for long enough. Time to act – and then at least I’ll know. After some careful moustache-twirling consideration I have devised the following plan.

At uni she seems to be surrounded by rather dull types who, nevertheless, have pretty good future-earning capacity – doing Commerce or Engineering (Hello, Stuart Green!). I think my only ‘in’ is to play up my sensitive Humanities side. Juxtaposing myself with the dullards may work in my favour because, although she knows and I know she will one day choose one of them to provide for her future, she may like to go slumming with the sensitive guy prior to that. You know, just to have had that experience. Years from now, she can look out over her neatly clipped lawn and ocean view while her children are wolfing down their dinner, and remember an affair from days of yore – Christopher Harvey, who wrote her poems and made love to her with such passion. She’ll wonder where he is now.

I wonder where I
will
be then. Probably in the Perishables department at the Land of Dreams.

I’m getting ahead of myself. Again.

I’m going to write her a poem. I’ve had the makings of one in my head for a while so I’ll pen it tonight. Then, the night before the party I’ll send her the poem and some flowers, but I won’t let her know who they’re from. She’ll have all night to lie awake and wonder about the identity of the passionate wordsmith. Then the next evening at Bianca’s party I’ll take her aside, and bam! Confess! Give her the full voltage of my charm and persuasion.

Now all I have to do is write a poem.

April 9

Here is the current draft of the poem that will hopefully turn the Kathy-virus into friendly bacteria:

The sun has set the ocean ablaze

With gold and pink,

A million dancing sparks.

It shines because you smiled.

In its warmth I regard

The colours of your face,

So young, and yet old.

Eyes bright green, like a shallow beach

On a sunny day, and ringed

With the darkness of a pine forest.

For years I have loved these eyes,

Longed to find their favour,

And kiss their lids.

In their centre lies the promise of a deep

And dreamless sleep.

Mottled clouds scud across the sky,

To smother the sun.

They came because you frowned.

If this doesn’t get me somewhere, and fast, I will accept that the universe is denying me this particular prize and turn my attention to a new futile exercise.

April 16

The poem and flowers went down a treat. What a brilliant idea! A stroke of genius in the field of romantic endeavour! The only sour note in the evening was that before I had a chance to make my confession, Stuart Green stepped up.

I’m sure Kathy would have melted into my arms had she not been too busy
having sex with Stuart Green
, who took credit for my flowers, took credit for my poem and then took Kathy upstairs. There is no justice in the universe. I have suspected this for a long time and now I think no other conclusion can be drawn.

And to add insult to serious narcissistic injury, young Amelia went and pashed that mid-teen power tool, Jeremy Horan. I had her billed as the antidote to Daisy from
The Great Gatsby
. I thought she represented the ultimate triumph of good over evil. With all her ranting and posturing she gave me the impression that she really stood for something. I’m not sure what exactly, but definitely something. She’s
smart
. But all he had to do was pour her a few generous glasses of wine and put in an hour of conversation.

I am working tonight and she will probably be there. I feel it incumbent upon me to teach her better behaviour. How is it that guys like Stuart and Jeremy are rewarded for their fuckwittery? If someone like Amelia goes for someone like Jeremy Horan we may as well all pack up and go home. Shit! Land of
Broken
Dreams.

All right, I’d better do some study now.

The field is as follows:

Yeah, no, I didn’t have to run away in the middle of the entry or anything. I was just using the blank space as a device to communicate that there are NO options at the moment. Arty, no?

Amelia is going to rue the day she let that boy’s tongue anywhere near her. I’m going on the rampage.

April 19, midnight

Midnight was the ‘witching hour’ in
The BFG
, I seem to recall. My mother read it to Zoe and me when we were small. I remember Sophie peeking between her curtains at the orphanage, to get a glimpse of the streetscape ‘now the witching hour was at hand’. Everything looked eerily skewiff and milky . . . and then! She catches her first glimpse of the BFG down the road, wearing his dark cloak and carrying his dreamblower. Zoe and I gripped each other’s hands under the covers, as terrified as Sophie.