—4—
The Higher LightBooks, Music & Crystals opened at ten, and I was supposed to open it. Except I was one minute out of bed, having slept through my alarm.
The responsible side of me panicked reflexively, but the logical side of me said I had time to sleep for another few hours. The Light was always dead before noon. And I had no worries that Leonie Bowes, the owner, would know. She was in Chicago now and for another six months at least, learning how to be a franchiser.
I found something almost clean to wear, ran my fingers through my hair and my hand over my face, digging sleepy out. My mouth tasted like sewage but coffee would fix that, and I'd get it next door to the Light.
I ran down the stairs and halfway down, stopped. How could everything be so normal? Why hadn't I thought first of him? Wasn't I supposed to wake thinking Was it all a dream?
Voices from the kitchen said it hadn't been. I heard the word 'Brett' in two keys, along with some edgy laughter. I had to see.
He was standing at the kitchen counter, pouring soy milk into a bowl of Weet-Bix. At one side of him was Andrew, who took the carton from his fingers and put it into the fridge. At the other side was Simone, holding in her outstretched arms, like an offering, a bundle of cloth.
'Brett' turned to the kitchen table and saw me. 'What a welcome,' he said in a way that I'm sure was a smirk, though they just sidled closer to him. 'Simone's loaned me a set of sheets, and Andrew's let me share his soy milk this morning.'
'Brill,' I found myself saying. The sheets were black satin, but of course. Simone chose her look and her sheets to suit her man. She even had one set that must have been made by Brooks Brothers, a look doomed to failure in this sharehouse setting.
'I've gotta go,' I announced. 'Brett' flashed me an evil grin and a dismissive wave, so I had no choice. Simone and Andrew were preoccupied.
~
The day was uneventful, which meant maddeningly frustrating. I had tedious hours to fret over what he was doing.
A flock of customers came at fifteen minutes to closing time. I let them pick up and put down and take to the counter a large pile of things they wanted to buy. At 6:10, the assortment of things they had accumulated was gone over yet again in a group discussion. One of the flock made a disparaging remark about one book in the pile, and without further discussion, they all streamed out the door.
After closing for the night, I rushed home, a five-minute walk.
The only sound in the house was the tinkle of the fridge's faulty defroster.
So I had a shower, made a cup of coffee, and took it to my room. I would have checked my email, but now I didn't feel comfortable doing that. Anything I'd write would be a lie.
I tried to read, but couldn't, so I gave in and checked my email. Julie had written.
anj!
i've begun my screenplay! it is absoluto fabuloso. i've set it in a city so it could be shot anywhere. i sent a letter to the film board to find out about financing. but enough about that detail especially as anyone with half a brain can suck out the economics. it would be such a good deal for fox here or in hollywood whether they can get tax thingies or not. with me starring and directing they would save wads. I am, for the moment, unknown. but thinking pragmatically, I might just have to settle for selling the script. getting ahead of myself hahaha. the real thing is: I'm writing. how are you doing?
luv ya,
jules
I wrote:
Congratulations! Ditto with my book (begun...fabuloso)
Angela
And I sent it. For a moment I worried over whether I should have put 'luv' or 'love', but only for a moment. Julie liked my reserve. She called it my distinguishing characteristic.
A low level of frizzle began to irritate my stomach, my body's signal of an impending attack of almost unbearable happiness. I vaulted myself out of the chair and began to twirl Sufi-style, arms out, face radiant. The face was right, but I didn't have a skirt, and felt the need for long hair. A pile of books splayed across the floor, ending the dance, and I was dizzy anyway. The frizzle was still there. What would fame feel like? I had a sniff of my armpits and thought about the Devil as publicist. What image would he want for me? Would he be my stylist or would he contract out? Maybe, to be prepared, I should buy a pair of stilettos and practise walking.
My journal caught my eye. I picked it up with both hands and nuzzled it. The cover was Italian leather, tanned with mountain chestnuts. The volume was thick and heavy, filled with linen-rag paper from a 600-year-old water-powered paper mill in Florence.
There was no entry for yesterday.
It had been neglected for a day—and such a day! There was so much to write.
The Waterman was out of ink. The wide-nibbed Lamy felt argumentative. The Sheaffer, though a present from Mum, felt right. I opened the journal and wrote:
The Devil
and stopped. I had to come to a decision about this. I couldn't think of him as the Devil, and call him 'Brett'. Besides, he looked like a Brett.
Carefully, I crosshatched over The Devil and crosshatched the other way, adding new furbishments till I paused to examine my work. It looked like a dog's dinner. If I had thought I would put ink on a page in such a way, I would have bought a ring binder.
The journal sat mutely in my lap till I had to respond. I opened to a random page, and began reading.
Got my locks off today. Inspired! They suggested a post-dread I hadn't seen before It has a name: 'peekaboo' because your scalp glows through. Hair colour: a yellowy-green-natural-nylon. I could hardly stop gaping into every window as I walked home, to see my head.
Mail today from Paris Review, Atlantic, N Yorker. Paris Rev's was so small that maybe they have $$ problems. Atlantic's was I assume a rejection but there wasn't anything in the envelope. N Yorker's came in an email, and although it was a rejection, it was the reason I spent two days' pay to get a new look. They almost took my story! These are their exact words: 'We're sorry to say that this manuscript is not right for us, in spite of its evident merit.'
Staring sightless for what must have been a minute, I reached my psyche out towards that particular moment, to experience again that thrilling squiggle in my innard being that happened when I first read 'evident merit', but nothing happened. So I read on.
Felt good enough to ring Mum. Yesterday Dad's best dog disappeared. Dad spent all night looking and found him this morning. Snakebite. Dad had to do the dog in with the back of a shovel. Worst part was, when Dad swung Bonzer saw.
Dad asked for the phone, and it was He was only a pup when you left (pause) but already showing promise. Paaause. Mum took over (better for us) and it was all How soon is your book coming out??? I said I got my hair dressed then it was all Them Washing my hair and Massaging my scalp etc and it put her right for a while. But then it was Tell me More. I don't know which I hate more. Making up shit, or having to pry her off. Angus cut his thumb half off bunghole-crutching a stroppy old ewe, but he'll live. He was so mad he chewed the top of her ear clear off. Only halfway goodoh part of the conversation, as we all could laugh a bit then, even Dad, Nothing ever changes. Stoicism, girl, stoicism!
But calloo callay! Even that didn't manage to wreck my day.
Tonight I went to a YWAE evening (haven't a clue what it stands for) at the old Arts School in Plunkett Street. Gordon told me about it.
Fiona Ransomme spoke (Gordon's heard of her) on How to Get Over the Thousand Word Mark. Awesomely fantabulous, but she had to leave right after her talk. Gordon and I were so hyped we went to Nostramamma's. In our mutual debrief, we realized that, illuminated by Ransomme, our problem is: we get bored with our characters too fast. I finally had to burst out my good news about just WHY I had celebrated today. So I told Gordon about the New Yorker being a fan of my work, and that it is just a matter of me warping my style to suit their taste. He got a funny look on his face. Gordon jealous??? He asked what their letter said exactly. I could only remember the 'evident merit'. I got one of those last week, he said. Has he been improving himself behind my back? He then asked Do I think they all WANT our flash fiction? A funny question, considering we both seem to be almost THERE. But maybe he lied about his success.
It made me think of our goal again, and our focus. I rebalanced us with this reminder. Seriously, Gordon, I said, These magazine are only stepping stones. Our books are our real goal.
I don't know how he's going on his now. He said he's in the grip of writer's block.
He had some NY'rs with him from the library, so we wrapped up the evening reading stories from them, howling ourselves hoarse they were so boring.
A line and arrow lead to a margin note. I turned the book sideways.
TRY-ON NUMBER 5: Gordon asked again if he could sleep with me. I again rejected him with gentle élan. He asked if I had saved my hair. My hair! I think if I had said yes, he would have asked for a dread as a fetish. Eeew!
The day's log hadn't ended, though the snake of the margin note ended with the book in the right position to continue reading.
SELF-ASSIGNMENT FOR TOMORROW: Explore the Name Issue. Is my name inhibiting someone who loves my work, but is put off by my name? And would it be the Angela part or Pendergast? Should I be a female? male? Or should I be a neuter (A.J. Pendergast—Gordon says this means female in hiding)
Till tomorrow!
My left foot tingled, half asleep. I closed the diary and closed my eyes, distancing myself from the mesmerization of the Story of My Life.
Reading it now had been like finding out that someone had watched me as I squeezed a pimple on the tip of my nose (leaving a blotch and gaping pore) and then subsequently performed a double-jointed strip routine in front of a mirror, with snakes.
Thinking of anyone reading this, my scalp crawled.
Of the piles of books all over the table and floor, the journal pile was the tallest. I had kept a journal since the first year of my escape from the bush. The journals chronicled with religious devotion, my undergraduate and graduate years at Sydney Uni (BA, Masters in English), my year backpacking, my few years at the Commonwealth Bank, Bettawong Branch (only a block away from my present employment) until I was retrenched, then a variety of jobs in the neighbourhood—cafes, mailbox droppings, and the present fill-in position at the Higher Light—every single day, every plan, dream, success, every bedding, longing, thought, every soggy wad of rumination, up until the day before yesterday.
I knew without having to read further, that I was bored with the main character. Bored, but embarrassed to tears.
The problem now was not easy. The journals could not just be dumped into the household rubbish. They were, for the most part, 'recyclable cardboard paper mix'. Cardboard and paper had to be sorted, tied, and neatly placed in specially marked recycled-plastic CARDBOARD and PAPER open-topped trays, and then stuck out on the kerb on the night of the second Tuesday and the second Wednesday of the month, for 4:30 am pickup.
I could not take the risk of these labelled journal covers (meticulously labelled) and naked pages being exposed to the perusal of a whole inner city's worth of passers-by, not to mention the gold strike this would be to my housemates. Besides, the size of the PAPER tray barely accommodated the house's discards without all the additional material that I needed to secrete between the pages of media dross. Getting rid of the journals by secreting them bit by bit would take twenty years.
Dropping the journals into bins around the city was out of the question. Too many people excavated, looking for food or opportunities. So I stripped the sheets from my bed and threw one on the floor, gathered up the pile of books in their variegated covers and shapes, laid them sideways on the sheet like bricks, pulled up the edges, tied them together, and dragged the lot into the corner, kicking the dirty clothes pile away first. Then I draped the other sheet over the bundle so that it fell over the mass with a suitable nonchalance, and dumped the rest of the laundry over it all.
Stepping back to examine my handiwork, I was satisfied. Now my room looked neater, one pile of books gone. The dirty clothes corner was still the dirty clothes corner, merely making a statement that I had become a shopper. And as far as my sheets went, I sighed.