Love and Other Perishable Items Read online

  So messy. Holding the pen is not as easy as it was. And I’m crying.

  Michaela. It costs me a lot of what I used to consider my manhood to say this, but your pleasure was more of a pleasure to me than mine. Shit, if someone had taken me aside a year ago and told me that sex could be more than the relentless search for somewhere to get off, I’d have laughed them out of whatever seedy twenty-four-hour bar they’d found me in. And then you come along with your perfect skin, your freckled shoulders, your glorious laugh, and you lay my entire life to waste. Ignorance suited me fine.

  You spoke like me.

  You got my jokes.

  You got me.

  You fucked me senseless.

  Then you left.

  The shadows on your face are flickering in the light of that candle we bought in Leura.

  I see them every day.

  So don’t ring me up from your boyfriend’s house on the other side of the continent, bursting with contentment from your great life over there, and ask me to be friends. You’ve made your decision; that’s the end of it. I will never, ever want your friendship. I want only to possess you completely. Like it was for those three days at Leura. Nothing went bump in those nights. Nothing.

  My hand hurts.

  I pass out now.

  Michaela.

  Where are you?

  I know where you are.

  Fuck.

  August 23

  Jeez, take it easy, tiger. Don’t hold back or anything, Chris. We wouldn’t want you to keep the pain bottled up inside. You emotional incontinent.

  Please accept my apologies for that disgraceful performance. So many f-words. What will my grandchildren think?

  Probably that their grandpa had his heart ripped out, bloody and still beating, from behind his shattered rib cage by a wily Western Australian. Which is pretty much what happened.

  Last night was just a temporary setback, a stumble, a blip in the getting-over-it process. I really was doing a bit better. I was dealing with the pain. Or at least successfully medicating it with ever-increasing amounts of alcohol and caffeine. When I read back over what I’d written, I seriously thought about ripping out all the pages. It was a pretty poor showing all the way through, but when I got to the bit where I was writing out the lyrics from the Dire Straits “Romeo and Juliet” song, I had to rip that out.

  But then, I really want to be more honest in this diary than I have been in past ones, so everything else stays in. It’s bad enough that I present such a heavily edited version of myself to my friends and family; if I start editing my diary, it will reinforce my already overwhelming tendency to be gutless. But let us never speak of it.

  For the record, she really did cry when we made love and said she loved me like the stars above and would love me until she died. But, you know, people say shit in the moment.

  All in all, there have been better days for one Christopher John Harvey.

  September 2

  I’m on the bus on the way to work. It is 7:05 a.m. It is also Saturday. It’s just wrong, I tell you. So tired. So profoundly underwhelmed. Five more hours of my life spent at Coles, pretending to be friendly to customers, making halfhearted attempts to flirt with Kathy, being rebuffed in said attempts and rescuing fifteen-year-old checkout staff who have jammed their registers. My sister, Zoe, came into my room the other night after I got home a bit worse for wear. It was not long after the disastrous phone call from Michaela. She leaned on the doorframe and did her raising one eyebrow thing. Then she said, “You’re pretty passionate about your unhappiness, aren’t you, Chris?”

  I looked right back at her and said, “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well.”

  She just stared back, treating me to a full-strength dose of her nostril-flaring superiority. I suggested that she close the door on her way out. She banged it.

  I’d better wrap up. Coles is shimmering and beckoning at the end of this block. Who can resist its siren call? It is the Land of Dreams.

  September 7

  I am officially struck down with the Kathy virus again. Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the staff room on your break … She’s cute; she’s smart; she’s wearing a fitted shirt; she plays pool pretty well for a girl … It’s Kathy Virus Part IV: The Revenge.

  I would normally be cursing my stupidity for succumbing to yet another exercise in futility. In this case, though, if I could somehow manage to convert my Michaela angst into Kathy angst, it would be much easier to bear. Wanting Kathy but not having her is a lifestyle I could adjust to. It’s not like I hunger to inhale the amazing smell of the skin on Kathy’s neck and clavicle, because I have never experienced it in the first place. Hell, I don’t even know whether she has one.

  In contrast, wanting Michaela and not having her, having inhabited a private universe with her, as the song goes, is untenable. So there. And this evening Kathy laughed at something particularly witty that I said and touched my arm. Phwoar. I need a beer. If anyone wants me, I’ll be in the bar, plotting my next Kathy-related maneuver, twirling my imaginary mustache. And studiously avoiding study.

  September 22

  So much uni work looming. You can only hide from it up to a certain point—beyond which you are well and truly screwed. I was at that point at about this time in first year and vowed I would never return.

  Dad was rather peeved at me, as I recall. He seemed to take it personally. I don’t know why. I’m the one that will have to pay off the student loan debt for the subjects I failed. I suggested at the beginning of this year that perhaps he and Mum might like to pay my tuition for me up front like they did for Zoe so we get the discount. I can’t remember the exact wording of Dad’s response, but it was something to the effect of perhaps I’d like to go fuck myself instead.

  Yeah, well, you know. Guess I’ll be paying it off myself then. Assuming that I ever get a real job, that is. Maybe what Dad was really pissed off about was that he has a pansy of a son who is studying for a liberal arts degree instead of business or engineering.

  Must go and finish writing my essay on Stalinist Russia. In a surprise cameo by my tear ducts, I felt moisture crowding behind my eyelids the other day when I was reading about the purges. I can’t imagine. I don’t want to.

  11 p.m.

  Sometimes I think the only reason Stuart is angling for Kathy is that he knows I am too. He’s a smooth bastard. All reserve and broad-shouldered strength. He may well be my nemesis. And my antithesis! How about that?

  Harvey out.

  P.S. I have puny shoulders.

  P.P.S. And I’m okay with that.

  P.P.P.S. I’m not really.

  October 5

  Exhausted and a little in my cups. Worked four to nine this evening, training a New Little on the registers. She’s one of the more interesting New Littles out of the bunch they just hired. Her name is Amelia, and what a funny little youngster she is. She demonstrates an advanced-level single-eyebrow raise. She’s amusing—all frizzy-haired and fiery. I suspect she can, like, construct sentences and read books. Here’s hoping she will go a little way toward Amelia-rating the vacuousness of her chain-smoking fifteen-year-old cohorts. (Ameliorate—get it? Oh, there’s nothing like your own jokes, is there?) She’s a healthy mess of contradictions. Sense of humor? Check. Very articulate for a youngster. She hasn’t developed the ability to see past her own nose yet—takes everything seriously. Oh, adolescence, how much I don’t miss you. She’s smart and has reason to carry herself well. But she has this way of crossing her arms, gripping her elbows and looking down and sideways that screams “ill at ease!” to the world. Maybe all she needs is a good sensei to instruct her in the ways of, like, stuff. Maybe I’m the man for the job. Or maybe I couldn’t be bothered.

  I went back to Ed’s after work. We missed the last bus and had to walk all the way, cutting across the park and freezing our arses off. Living the dream.

  Kathy continues to lead the Field, and I am considering whether to bump sociology se
minar Lauren from the list, as I’ve seen her walking around campus holding hands with a guy. Georgia from the deli is still a possibility, and probably up for it, and I may end up sleeping with her just to get Ed off my back. If he’s so keen for Georgia to be put on her arse, why doesn’t he do it himself?

  “Time to break the drought, Chris,” he said tonight. “Do you good.”

  “I’m working up to asking Kathy out,” I protested.

  He gave me the one-eyebrow raise—an advanced practitioner, like Amelia.

  Yeah. The chances of Kathy ever having sex with me are slim to none. Ed reckons he’s going to make sure Georgia comes out with us after work tomorrow night.

  Harvey out.

  Later

  When my sister and I were little, Mum would read us a book called Amelia Bedelia. The title character was a housemaid who kept getting herself into “scrapes” because she was a bit of a literal thinker. She’d get really upset when she got into trouble and would run away. Actually, no, I think her employer got really angry at her and sent her away. Eventually and after much adventurous soul-searching she would come home. Her employer would greet her warmly, his earlier wrath forgotten, and ask her to make him some soup.

  October 7

  Last night I drank too much and bedded She’s-big-she’s-blond-she-works-in-the-deli Georgia at her place. Conversation was slim pickings afterward. I asked her if she liked Tom Waits. She said, “Tom who?” Enough said.

  October 12

  The timetable for exams and final essays is out. Six weeks until I’m all finished. It’s going to take a superhuman effort to get all my work in on time and keep the credit average I need to graduate with honors in my new second major next year. Interesting. I’m going to work as many shifts at Coles as possible over Christmas break in the hopes of saving enough money to cut back to twelve hours a week next year. Maybe then I could put a little more time into actual study. Doing honors sociology and all, it would be nice to give that priority.

  So, another year of school and then what? Too scary a topic. New paragraph, please.

  Mick, Rohan and Suze will be waiting for me at the uni bar. It’s almost dark out here on the lawn. I’d better go soon. I’m getting along quite well with a couple of the newer youngsters at work, both of whose knowledge of fruit and vegetable has blossomed under my firm but fair tutelage.

  Donna is a very old soul indeed. She’s fifteen going on thirty-five and has a pretty fucked-up home life. Always keen for a drink after work is young Donna. She is Bianca’s new girl pet; they’re becoming thick as thieves, taking smoke breaks out the back together and all the rest.

  The other one is Amelia. When my sister and I were little, sometimes I would piss her off so much she’d take a few steps back and then rush at me, fists raised. I would stick my hand out and plant my palm on her forehead, stopping her in her tracks. Her arms would flail about, getting her nowhere. She’d keep flailing until Mum heard the ruckus, broke it up and sent me to my room. For some reason I think of that sometimes when I’m talking to Amelia. She wears her entire personality on her sleeve. Upon (uncharacteristic) reflection, maybe I see some of myself in her. Zoe and I seem to have changed roles as we’ve grown older—these days it’s me that tends to flail around while she stands composed.

  Right. Beer o’clock.

  October 22

  The new youngster, Amelia, has acquired a bit of a cult following of late. Consisting of, well, me. It’s relaxing to be in her company because there’s no need for guesswork of any kind. I am going to try to push her in Ed’s direction. A girlfriend would sort him out, I reckon, especially one that can read and write, and Amelia can certainly do that.

  This will probably be the last time I write in this notebook until the end of exams. I will hardly have time to scratch myself over the next month, I have so much work due. But then it will be three glorious months of holiday. Consisting of three essential elements: beach, Land of Dreams and beer. See you in December. Provided I don’t die from caffeine-induced heart failure, which, let’s face it, is in the cards. It’s late. If you’ll excuse me, it’s time for me to get into bed and look at the ceiling.

  December 2

  Welcome to the other side! I would say welcome to the season of love, but that might be a bit of an exaggeration, as will become clear when I get to the Field. Against all the odds, I got my essays in and sat my exams, proving for the third year running that there is a God and he loves me. My last exam was sociology—a three-hour nightmare. When the examiner said “Time” at twelve o’clock, the pen fell from my cramped fingers and I put my head down on the desk almost involuntarily. A curious montage of the year flashed through my mind, including lots of Michaela scenes from various stages of the whole sorry affair, watching Kathy holding court across the library lawn, fighting with my poor sister, who always seems to bear the brunt of my late-night seething, and, curiously, Amelia in the staff room at break, sitting on the chair with her knees drawn up to her chin, reading a dog-eared copy of Heart of Darkness and sipping tea from a Styrofoam cup.

  Then I went to meet Mick, Rohan and Suze at the uni bar. Then I drank a lot. Then I went home and slept for fifteen hours. And here I am!

  Right. Let’s take stock. On the upside, I have three months off uni. On the downside, the Search for the Perfect Woman has still yielded no fruit, and I have no girlfriend with whom to spend these three months. I also have no money and will be working about thirty hours a week at Coles to rectify this. I will try very hard not to drink all my pay, but make no promises.

  Rohan has finished his bachelor’s in chemical engineering and applied for a job in Newcastle. It will be strange not having him at uni next year. He won’t be around much for the holidays either because his dad is paying for him to go to Europe as a graduation present. My dad, on the other hand, has offered to make a contribution toward the board shorts I want to buy for the summer. A contribution, mind.

  Rohan said he wanted to lend me his (parentally purchased) car while he was away, but his little sister kicked up a huge stink and he has to lend it to her now. I try not to envy Ro—the stuff his parents pay for, like the trip and the car, and the fact that he can spend so much more time studying because he doesn’t work, while I get to take the bus to the Land of Dreams seemingly every goddamn day. I try not to envy him. It’s disgusting to waste time envying those things when whole families, whole tribes, get slaughtered in their thousands in Africa, when leaky boatloads of refugees drown or starve in their hundreds in the open sea, and the children of those that do make it here have to grow up behind razor wire, watching their parents slide into insanity. When houses, families, towns get washed away in a day. I disgust myself when I covet things from Ro’s life. But then, we humans have always coveted each other’s oxen, haven’t we? In Mod. Aust. Lit. last semester we were doing a unit on short stories and my favorite one was by Kate Jennings. In it she is talking about a fellow writer who enjoys phenomenal success and acclaim way beyond the modest (I assumed) success of the narrator. “Envy,” says Kate Jennings, “is a grubby little emotion.”

  Anyways …

  The Field is as follows:

  —Kathy Look, usually I’d write “Token—never in a million years,” but lately I seem to be gaining some mojo.

  —She’s-big-she’s-blond-she-works-in-the-deli Georgia She’s been trailing around after me a bit since the “Tom who?” incident. The youngster Donna from work seems a bit keen too. It may be completely unrelated, but Kathy has definitely been less withering lately. You never know your luck in a big supermarket chain.

  —Donna (token youngster) Yeah, okay, she’s only just turned sixteen, but, like I said before, she’s sixteen going on thirty-five. She hangs out a lot after work. She never gets carded at the pub. There’s a certain enduring appeal in a young woman who sports tattoos, holds a cigarette and a glass of Scotch in one hand, lights said cigarettes with a huge-flamed Zippo, wears more pieces of jewelry than you can count and can beat you at p
ool. Could I consider going out with a sixteen-year-old? It’s a tough question. I’m pretty lonely and pretty desperate. Watch this space.

  Yesterday I was standing at my register looking down toward the service desk at Kathy when Amelia piped up abruptly from the next register, “Hey, why does Gatsby love Daisy so much? She’s a superficial skank.” Then muttered more to herself than to me, “She doesn’t love him.”

  She even takes the goings-on of fictitious characters personally. These are the things she thinks about when she is packing groceries.

  December 14

  Prepare for another well-lubricated sob story. It’s that time of night, I’ve come home from the pub and you, like Coleridge’s wedding guest, are as compelled to listen as I am to tell. Or maybe this is just drunken rambling that will never be read by any living soul. Even if my diaries are discovered after the apocalypse, people will trawl through the first few pages and say, “Who is this loser?” then, more importantly, “Who cares?” and chuck them on the post-apocalyptic scrap heap. Either way, I’ve digressed.

  I had an odd experience at work tonight. It was about 8:45 p.m. and pretty quiet. I was chatting to young Amelia on the next register. At some point the chatting dwindled. She was tired. She’d been at school all day and it was the end of the week. She leaned both her forearms on the counter, bowed her head for a moment, then flung it up and exclaimed, “I’m starving!”