The Bump Into

We met inside Joe’s Coffee House. Well, technically, in the doorway of Joe’s Coffee House. She wore a bright blue dress with a decorative floral print (which, by the way, still looks amazing to this day). That morning, I was on my way out, and she was on her way in. I was still jittery after indulging in my second cup of coffee; she was flustered, and struggled to balance her awkward combination of urgency and clumsiness that I too saw in myself. Then it happened. We bumped into one another. She stepped right, and so did I. We both giggled. I smiled and she blushed. Then I went left, and she went left! I made the first move, and nervously apologised. She blushed some more, brushing the hair away from her face and said, softly – ‘It’s okay.’ Not wanting to hold her up (although, secretly hoping to) I stepped left once more, but coincidentally, so did she. We both excused ourselves simultaneously, stammering over the top of one another (which was cute… then) It was as if it was our destiny to bump into each other. Fate had brought us together, in it’s own romantically clumsy way. But after twenty thousand-odd left and right footsteps later, we’re still caught in the same doorway, unable to get out of each other’s way, not unlike an animated GIF.

As time went on Joe’s Coffee House eventually closed down and became a laundry mat, then a beauty spa, followed by a Thai massage parlour, a tattoo parlour, a Starbucks, a KFC, a tax agent, an adult store, and eventually another coffee shop. It didn’t seem to matter what happened either side of the doorway, we remained permanently stuck in our clumsy collision. She grew cold, irritable and sarcastically sinister, while I exchanged my smiles and charming mannerisms for demeaning mumbling slurs (directed mostly at myself). 

As unhappy as we were, our timing remained impeccable. She still shuffled left when I shuffled left. And when I went right, she wearily stepped right as well. Gradually, our apologies subsided to a mere sigh or grunt, then inevitably ceased to exist. Each time she brushed the hair away from her face, I quivered inside with rage. The awkward little nuisances we originally fancied in one another became one gigantic pain in the arse.

Still today, our doorway predicament often draws an audience of onlookers who sigh ‘awww’ in unison. Over the years we’ve featured on multiple news programs and even signed a book deal. The publisher thinks our story could be turned into a movie one day. She calls it ‘Hollywood’s first ‘Doorway Romance’. Together we’ve witnessed all types of things in the doorway. A couple of years ago when the cafe was still a KFC there was a robbery. They managed to escape through the open doorway with the safe and four hostages by walking right between us, without breaking our bind. KFC were so livid they attempted to sue us for neglecting our duty of rescue. The court hearing took place right there in the doorway, where we were forced to demonstrate our bind to the jury, as if we had a choice.

The latest coffee shop is currently undergoing renovations, the owner’s concerned that we’re going to get in his way. How ironic. ‘It’s nothing builders haven’t worked around before’ I told him. If something was to change and either she or I made an unexpected move and broke free, I don’t know what I would do with myself, to be honest. It’s been so long that I’ve grown comfortable, content even. My parents have been married 45 years and they can’t stand each other, but they persist. I guess it’s easier staying together sometimes, even when you have a choice.

When we’re alone at night we often talk about missed opportunities to travel abroad or the fact that we’ve never been intimate. As we grow old the chance that one of us may become too weak to stand is kind of exciting, thrilling even. We’ve even started placing bets on who will go first. She thinks it will be me, because of my arthritis. Hopefully, whoever goes first will still be young and healthy enough to travel, heck, even meet somebody else. As long as it’s not in a doorway that is. 

Our timing is so impeccable that we’ll probably go at the same time: dying in each other’s way. Come to think of it, that would be a fitting way to go. Romantic. A real Hollywood ending, the publisher would say. Like Romeo and Juliet, but nothing like that at all.

Little Like The Fly

I return to the table from a short bathroom break and our eyes meet. My date smiles at me as she elegantly brushes the hair away from her face, while sipping her green tea. I sit down and do the same hoping it will calm my nerves. I don’t have any hair so it doesn’t quite come off. As I’m about to take a sip of my tea I happen to notice a small dark blur floating around in my cup. I catch it in the bottoms of my eyes as it passes beneath my nose and hurries into my mouth.

I try to convince myself that I’ve only swallowed a loose tea leaf that somehow managed to slip through the tight security of the strainer. Then paranoia sets in. Could there have been a fly swimming around in my tea cup? What if I have swallowed a fly? I hate flies; I have a phobia of them, they call it – Pteronarcophobia. It all happened so fast I can’t be sure what I saw. I’m starting to sweat. My date excuses herself from the table and I’m convinced that my least favourite thing in the world is now inside me.

I imagine the fly must have landed in my English breakfast whilst I was in the bathroom earlier. Perhaps it attempted to drink its way out at first, eventually swallowing more tea than it could stomach. Is it possible that the fly was lactose intolerant? Did it drown, or was it still breathing? Meanwhile, the back of my shirt is now completely soaked.

Should I say something? Do I ask the waiter for a new cup? By asking and explaining the situation am I going to embarrass myself? Even if I didn’t swallow the fly, she’s still going to think I did because I mentioned it and made a whole big deal over nothing. She’s going to wish she swiped left rather than right. Tinder hasn’t been kind to me, I need this. I don’t have to tell her, and I won’t. Still, I’m worried about the fly that’s now nesting inside me. My date returns to the table and looks uncomfortable; did she see me swallow the fly? Perhaps she noticed that it was in my tea and didn’t say anything, or tried to, but it was already too late. She starts staring at me, swiping left with her eyes.

We talk about a range of topics, but not the fly. She’s amused that we share the same taste in films, music and food, but not so in our choice of tea; I avoid the topic of tea altogether and steer the conversation elsewhere. She seems to have forgotten what happened and entertains me with her quirky tales of adventures abroad, but all I can think about is this disgusting fly. ‘It’s possible he swam out.’ Says a voice coming from within me. ‘What? No! What did he do? Swim to the side and climb out using the ladder?’ I mutter to myself, earning an odd look from my date. ‘Flies shit wherever they land’ Says another voice. Great, now the voices are back. How common is it to suffer from both Schizophrenia and Pteronarcophobia? I’m not thinking clearly, my body’s having a reaction to the fly. I’ve gotta keep it together.

The voice continues ‘I’ve heard if you swallow a fly it’s like swallowing gum. It clings to your insides for eight years and you’re unable to digest it.’ The other voice butts in. ‘No, that’s ridiculous. Gum stays wherever it lands; it hugs the streets, hides under school desks and resides on the backs of cafeteria seats. I’ve never seen a fly stay anywhere for too long, they can’t sit still.’ I cover my mouth and whisper back ‘When it’s alive that is.’

 The date may as well be over, she waves her finger in the air to signal the waiter for the bill. ‘I strongly believe if the fly is in there, he will fly out and everything will be okay.’ Says the voice. ‘She was the only girl who swiped right! We need this!’ Adds the other voice. I wonder what the chances are that he will fly out of my stomach, up through my throat and out of my mouth? Can a fly escape from an ear? Or nose? Or? Oh no. This is bothering me a little, little like the fly.

Down in Smoke: Passive Beginings

I’ve been a passive smoker since I was 7 years old. At least, that’s as far back as I can remember. I’ve never paid for a cigarette, not once, but I have paid for my fair share in cover charges just so I could stand in the smoker’s lounge of a nightclub. I’m pretty much a 2nd hand smoker of the first degree. My addiction has made me a regular at most pubs; and I hate pubs: beer, whisky and bourbon all sicken me to death. Even so, I persist with pubs, and the stench of pub carpet that wishes that it wasn’t. Because, for me, nothing is more satisfying than walking into a clouded room full of cigarette smoke. It’s like taking in a breath of fresh air. Actually it’s nothing like that at all. People often complain about the smell it leaves on their clothes, but that’s what I savour the most.

Simply catching the scent of a stranger lighting up will set me off on their smoke trail. Which brings me to one of my current dire predicaments: people are quitting. Or at the very least, less likely to light up socially. For years I’ve kept pretty close tabs on every known smoker in my office, and numbers are dropping. My strategy for soaking up other people’s smoke is well-worn, nevertheless, effortlessly effective. My process for fuelling my addiction was this: whenever somebody motioned towards the door for a ‘smoko’ break, I would tail closely behind to join them. Most of the time this would mean forcing pointless conversation about weather, sport, or worse, the uneventful coming weekend. Even the most painfully pointless conversations were worth every second of 2nd hand smoke that blew in my direction. Margaret from accounts was a double-edged sword. She was terribly boring on one hand, while blessed with exquisite taste in branded nicotine on the other. She bought the best ciggies, my absolute favourites – Port Royal. Like inhaling gold; so smooth; so good. The combination of the smoke and her perfume was strangely exquisite. Down right intoxicating.

Margaret’s daughter had just married a Jehovah’s Witness. As a devout Roman Catholic, this worried her. So she had plenty of stress to smoke her way through. The more she stressed, the more she smoked. And the more she smoked and choked, the happier I was. By the end of the day she had gone through a whole pack, and so had I. Her daughter’s marriage was turning her into a pack-a-day smoker, upping my intake in the process. If this kept up, I could avoid spending my passive smoking ciggie breaks with Ian, Arthur and Brody. To me, their conversation was just as deadly as their Winfield Reds and Peter Stuyvesant Blues. By 6pm, I was pretty much all smoked out on a daily basis. So satisfied, in fact, I could probably bypass my usual trip to the pub on the way home.

Just like a regular smoker, I tried to quit passive smoking several times. My personal best was 8 days clear, way back in 2006. It wasn’t like I hadn’t tried things: from patches to gum, quit hotlines to meditation, and hypnosis to lozenges. Eventually I decided to just go it cold turkey, which is especially hard when you’ve purposely aligned yourself with heavy smokers. So I took a trip to the countryside to be on my own, away from the nicotine society I had wedged my way into. It was fantastic for about two seconds.

When I got back things had changed. The smoke was clearing as the ban on smoking indoors at pubs and clubs finally hit in 2007. I knew it would, which is why I escaped to the countryside in the first place. Far far away from Ian, Arthur, Brody and most importantly Margaret. I thought I’d be clean by the time I got back, and the smoker’s ban would only help me break free from passive smoking for good. After all, who really wants to stand out in the cold with terrible company. To my surprise, there was no rioting in the streets. Nobody seemed to kick up too much of a stink about the anti-smoking laws. The idea of standing up to the law and fighting back had sort of petered off. Maybe because the pubs had done such an incredible job of transforming outdoor areas with couches that begged for the stench of cigarettes, and portable heaters that the made the inside of the pub feel Antarctically icy. Prior to the law change, many of these pubs were barely standing in their original decor. The idea of a renovation was laughable. Now the term ‘reno’ was on everybody’s lips. In a way the ban on smoking was the culprit which spearheaded the current landscape of made-over pubs, even the office balcony got a few pot plants. Unfortunately, Margaret was also attempting a make-over. She’d quit smoking, first with patches (unsuccessfully) then with prayer.

On my first day back I stood out on the balcony with Ian, Arthur and Brody as they banged on about the same-old shit that I won’t bore you with here. I kept my eye on Margaret through the window, hoping she’d fall back into temptation and join us outside. I was longing to see her face red with rage come storming through the doors and onto the balcony, Port Royals burning like a motherfucker one after the other. Instead, her face remained calm, creamy even. She was barely recognisable as she stared at her computer screen, neck veins intact. Prayer was working for her, and working against me. Religion had finally found a way to pay me back for all the years of gags I’d enjoyed at it’s expense. God does work in mysterious ways. Rather than strike me down (which he could) he simply takes away my chain smoking supplier of the good stuff.

There was only so much more I could take from the likes of Ian, Arthur and Brody. Fuck. I hadn’t come across the scent of a Port Royal in weeks. That day I complained of stomach pains and got out of the office early – that’s when it happened. While standing by the bus stop, my overly sensitive and desperate nostrils caught a faint scent of Port Royal. As the puff of smoke passed over me it revived my morale and gave my cravings an incentive to follow its trail down a dark alley, which, like any alley in a story, was poorly lit. My experience has taught me to keep a safe distance from smokers; enough space to avoid alerting them of my immediate presence, while remaining close enough to take it in. When I eventually caught up to the guy connected to the end of the cigarette butt I became just like the pub carpet that wished that it wasn’t, and witness to a crime. Cold-blooded murder. That’s what it was.

Bath Age

Andrew Nguyen and Korina Chow. From 23 to 73 in just 3 hours bath time

Ever wondered what it might be like to make love when you’re old and wrinkly? Simple: stay in the bath that little bit longer. That’s right, they’re calling it Bath Age, and it’s the latest trend being soaked up by hip millennials.

The bath craze was believed to be inspired by Rookie founder and socialite – Tavi Gevinson, who published a series of risqué images of what looked like a senior version of herself, revealing a fair amount of wrinkled thigh. Fans of the tween icon were initially shocked, wondering if their idol was suffering from the side effects of excessive smoking. However, Tavi’s people were quick to kill the rumour, responding with a rejuvenated image of Tavi’s skin restored in all its glamour with the caption and hashtag: show us your #bathage.

Since then selfies of teens looking like their grandparents have flooded social media. Instagram has been inundated with retro-chic filtered images of wrinkled hands: knitting, making tea, and gardening. Pop culture and social media expert Sophie Banks believes it’s simply a natural progression for young people obsessed with all things old and vintage.

‘When you think about it, it’s a natural evolution of the whole retro-hipster thing. Vintage cameras, filters, fashion, music, and now skin! With #bathage you can even look vintage, you know.’

The art of staying in the bath too long has inspired curious young couples to experiment with the idea of having sex with a wrinkled partner. Jessie, a 24 year old barista from Collingwood, says it’s helped change her perception of old people.

‘Yeah, I mean, like, I’ve always thought getting old and still having sex was gross. Like, picturing your grandparents still going at it. It’s weird. But me and my boyfriend thought we’d give it a try, so we took a 3 hour bath. I’ve got to admit, And I never thought I’d say this, but, it was like a turn on.’

Sophie Banks believes that the idea of experimenting with extended baths is a tempting thought. A preview of what’s to come, so to speak.

‘I’m not suggesting that everyone is going to use baths as a way of glimpsing into the future, and take up wrinkly love making. But if young people can grow an appreciation for vintage skin, then they may just gain some respect for their elders who still possess the desire to ‘go at it’ you know.’

Brands have already jumped on the trend, with Dove rushing out the release of a new bubble bath product designed to speed up the ageing process of a bath. Rather than spending your whole night in the bath, you can achieve the desired ageing process in just minutes. And better yet, the bubbles help prolong your wrinkles for longer love making.

Will you show the world your #bathage?

Let’s Talk About The Weather

The weather is a topic I prefer to avoid. It’s absolutely pointless. Unless I’m having my hair cut, then it’s a necessity. Because hairdressers are always asking what your plans are for the weekend. And there’s simply not enough weekends (past or present) to get me through a wash, cut and dry. So unless we enjoy same TV shows, or share an interest in silence, the weather will no doubt manage to cut in.

We all understand that the weather is only brought up when there’s nothing much else to talk about. It can be called upon to break the ice or simply pass the time. It’s the king of small talk. Why? Because It’s not difficult to know about the weather, just look outside and you’re instantly up-to-date. And it’s pretty difficult to offend anybody in a conversation about the weather. The only thing you can disagree on is the temperature. But it’s unlikely that you’re going to get into a fist fight over whether you prefer the warm or the cold. Since you’re reading this, I guess you have nothing better to do. So I’m going to explain why the cold weather, trumps the warm weather.

Am I crazy for thinking this? Beaches, pool parties and bikinis: they’re all linked with warm weather. This is an error of association, you see. People enjoy being warm. They don’t enjoy being cold. Simple. Which is why winter takes the cake. The experience of warming up gives far more pleasure than that of cooling down. Think about it. In summer, when you’re at the beach or swimming pool, you’re practically forced into the cold water to cool down. You could be boiling hot and you have to be dared or pushed into the water. ‘1.2,3 jump!’ They scream. If you’re like me, you rarely ever jump on three. And why the hell would you? It’s like leaving the warmth of summer and plunging into winter with one single leap. You have to be pushed in, against your will. See, here’s the thing: if you’re cold, you don’t need to be dared to move closer to the heater or fire. You volunteer. Nobody who is cold and shivering dips their toe under a warm blanket, before snuggling on the couch in front of the TV. And you definitely don’t count to three before jumping into a warm bed on a brisk winter’s night, right? I didn’t think so. Anyway, enough about the weather. What have you got planned this weekend?

Reflex Claireways A4

Claire was no stranger to paper. She made things with it, tons of things: houses, flowers, cranes and even floating boats. However, of late she’d spent most of her time turning paper into planes, rather unsuccessfully. 

Her first paper planes didn’t fly too far. In-fact, they often crashed instantly, right after departing her hand. Naturally troubled by this, Claire hired her father as an engineer, co-designer and pilot for her second attempt. Different shapes, designs and paper folds were all considered before they successfully landed a prototype from one side of the room, to the other.

Her father seemed to have a natural flair for flying planes, and Claire was rather good at watching. Everything looked promising. Soon she was confident enough to even carry passengers on board. She drew on windows, engines and even named the plane after herself. Scribbled on the right wing was: Reflex Claireways A4. A reference to the brand and size of paper they chose to build the plane with.

Once the blueprints, test flights and overall design was complete, Claire began to hire cabin crew. She chose a selection of films to be included as part of the in-flight entertainment, and considered passenger’s dietary requirements for in-flight meals. Everyone from coach to business class was offered a complimentary pair of tiny headphones and magazines. Soon after the passengers of Reflex Claireways A4 arrived, they began wondering around her room, awaiting boarding instructions from the Claireways staff. They were offered complimentary biscuits and tea, as a reward for flying on the plane’s maiden voyage.

Claire was overwhelmed with excitement. Sure, her paper boats had always sunk, and her cardboard houses had all collapsed, but this time, things were different; her father was involved for one. Together they carefully planned the flight path, purposely avoiding trees, puddles and dogs. Her father was given strict orders specifically regarding this. 

On the afternoon of the maiden flight, her father was late returning home from a BBQ, which Claire assumed took place to celebrate the launch of their new venture. He was a little drunk, and initially refused to go outside and fly the plane. He said that he would ‘Do it later.’ Taking another beer from the fridge. Claire explained that he couldn’t afford to risk a flight delay, not at such short notice. He grumbled, and stormed outside with the plane in hand.

‘Where are we flying this thing?’ He asked ‘This way?’ Pointing over at the neighbours lawn. Claire shook her head. He obviously hadn’t looked over the plans at the celebratory BBQ. 

‘No. Over by the garden,’ she ordered ‘I’ve made a landing strip for them by the path.’ 

It was an excessively windy day. Claire’s dad said the wind would help fly the plane even higher and faster than it had during the test run.

‘As long as we can get it to the Claireport in one piece.’

‘OK – Here goes!’ He howled. 

The wind carried the paper plane high into the sky, it swirled around and even glided upside down. It back flipped and front flipped and never looked like coming down. Claire was nauseous. Eventually, it made it’s way over to the path marked and highlighted – Claireport. However, the plane just kept on going, flying over the landing strip altogether, ignoring the indicators she’d marked in with chalk. Concerned, Claire chased after it, but her short legs were no match for its wind powered speed. The plane disappeared over the neighbours fence, completely off the map.

‘Dad! What were you thinking? We should never have taken flight in these conditions.’ She cried. But when Claire turned around her father was gone. What a lousy pilot, thought Claire. Not only was he drunk, but he was careless.

Meanwhile, inside the plane.

The passengers of Reflex Claireways A4 clutched their seats. A red headed woman at the back of the cabin had already been sick twice, leaving the couple in front completely covered in her continental breakfast. Up front, the crotch of an older gentleman’s pale blue trousers quickly dampened and darkened in colour, while those in business class mindlessly scoffed down all the ice cream. 

In an attempt distract himself, the freckle faced captain in charge plunged his whole head into the slurpee machine. He squinted and squirmed his way through a brain freeze, then passed out. Cabin crew failed to hold it together and contemplated jumping; a priest on-board shook his head, and scorned his bible as he watched an atheist hyperventilate in prayer.

Barely 90 seconds had passed since take off, but for those inside the plane it must have felt like an age. The wind was slowly running out of breath as the plane began to float south. Much like Claire’s many other paper creations, her venture into paper aviation looked certain for yet another complete disaster.

Later that night while burrowed into her pillow, Claire whispered her own prayer for the passengers of Claireways A4. Part of her blamed her dad and the wind; but neither made her feel any less at fault. She cursed herself for not spending enough time on the safety design, neglecting to draw on extra parachutes for the passengers.

The next morning was dull. Claire slumped into the kitchen and downed a glass of milk as if it were whisky. She wiped her mouth, shooting a look of disdain towards her father; but he didn’t seem to notice, too busy reading the news. How could he just sit there? Face hidden behind the pages of the paper with a cup of coffee like nothing had happened. Did he not care about the crash? Or the fact that their airline venture had failed after just one take off? Claire sculled down a second glass of milk before leaving for school.

Maths was terrible, English was plain, and history was just OK. Claire’s father could tell this just from the shrug of his daughter’s shoulders whenever she walked in the door.

‘How was your day dear?’ He asked

‘Hmmf’ Replied Claire.

After throwing her bag down, Claire drank another glass of milk, her third of the day, then stamped straight to her room. She realised that her father had been there. In-fact, he’d even left his newspaper on her bed. It wasn’t just any newspaper though; It was different, hand drawn and stapled together. The picture on the front page was of her paper plane, and appeared to be stuck on with glue. The headline read ‘TOUCHDOWN CLAIREWAYS!’.

Claire’s head almost collected the fan as she leapt towards the ceiling. The plane had crash- landed after all in a neighbour’s backyard, the Henderson’s place two houses over, reported the paper. Despite the horrendous conditions there were no casualties thankfully, other than the freckle-faced captain, who was receiving treatment for his frozen brain. Her father called her into the kitchen. He raised his beer to propose a toast. Claire poured herself another tall glass of milk, this time it was chocolate.

‘To Relex Claireways!’ They cheered.

Meanwhile, the passengers of Relfex Claireways A4 were a little shaken up from the rocky flight. They checked in to the Henderson’s garden retreat. They sat by the Henderson’s pool, ran from the Henderson’s dog, and enjoyed the music coming from the Henderson’s lounge room window.

Dress Up Party

Saturday night: My 28th birthday. Nothing out of the ordinary or obvious. There was drinking, self-sabotage, and cake. Afterwards, I lead a small group of friends, plus Dale (a workmate, who wasn’t invited) into a dingy establishment, highlighted by neon lights. Once inside, my friends drank cheap wine, while we pretended to enjoy bad music. Then the Monster Mash came on. Everybody went crazy and headed for the dance floor.

I approached a girl dressed as a zombie and asked her to dance. Her pale face reminded me of one of the puppets from The Corpse Bride. She wore a stained dress and purple lips (which trembled). She didn’t seem interested in my sudden attention, nor responsive for that matter. I offered her a drink, but she dry reached at the offer. Then her eyes rolled back into her skull and she let out a painful zombie sounding moan. For a dress up party, she seemed to take her character way too seriously.

I figured she wasn’t much of a talker, or simply unwilling to break character. It didn’t bother me, I was happy to carry the conversation. When I mentioned that it was my birthday; she seemed unimpressed, then crawled into a ball. ‘That’s exactly the way I feel about it’ I nodded. ‘I’m glad someone else gets where I’m coming from. You sure I can’t get you a drink?’ The girl keeled over, covering her face. After a couple of minutes of awkward silence I tried again to get the conversation going. ‘My friends want to go into Kings Cross after this, but I think I’m done, unless you want to go?’ I asked, enthusiastically. ‘Arrgwwwhh!’ She grumbled, sounding very zombie – circa Sean of the Dead. ‘Yeah me either,’ I replied ‘did you come here with anyone?’ I Paused, looking around the room. ‘I mean, was there a dress up party here before? You seem to be the only one in costume.’ She shook her head, batting her eye lids heavily.

At that moment, I couldn’t help but admire the amount of detail the girl had gone to: she looked as though she’d been dead for days. Even so, she was striking. Beneath the bloody makeup, and hair stuck to her cheeks, hid a stunningly pretty face, however pale it was. The Monster Mash made for the perfect soundtrack. But at just 3 minutes and 14 seconds, it didn’t last long. The music took a turn for the worst and suddenly changed gears. Another DJ + 1 had climbed behind the booth. Heavy electro beats entered the room, gate-crashing everybody off the dance floor.

A group of girls approached me and my zombie crush. They weren’t wearing zombie costumes themselves, or any monster like costume for that matter (unless the theme was loose. In which case, they had chosen to go with – cheap call girl costumes). Even so, they too captured the spirit of their characters: spilling drinks, exposing too much breast, rummaging through their purses, and slurring profanity into each others faces. They must be all drama school students, I imagined; so rehearsed and well cast. Without a costume, I felt completely out of place.

‘Oh Ruby are you OK babe?’ One asked, stroking my zombie’s sticky hair. ‘Ruby? That’s your name?’ I asked, without a reply. I’ve always been drawn to girls named after stones, or jewels. Previously I had dated a shallow Crystal, an unfaithful Gemstone, and the walking nightmare that was Pearl. ‘Is this guy bothering you hon?’ Asked one of the other scantly clad girls. ‘Why don’t you fuck off! Can’t you see she’s fucking smashed.’ Spat another girl, who vaguely resembled Julia Robert’s best pal in Pretty Woman. ‘Yes, she’s smashing.’ I gushed ‘Great costume by the way.’ This comment, despite its good intentions, seemed to irritate her. ‘What costume?’ She asked.

By now, my friends had lingered over, thinking I’d had hit the jackpot, infiltrating a group of single girls in skimpy dresses. As did my uninvited workmate, Dale, who managed to break apart the group. He lured a couple of them to the bar with the line. ‘I bet a couple of sorts like yourselves could use a wet pussy.’

I couldn’t help but cringe, hoping to take enjoyment in the sound of Dale’s face being slapped. However, there was no slap, or slur, instead, the girls giggled and stumbled away with him, arm in arm. Again, I had to appreciate how seriously this bunch of girls were taking their trashy characters. My zombie crush, Ruby, had managed to slip away from the group without anyone noticing. She stumbled towards the door alone, leaving her cigarettes and phone behind. Here was my big opportunity to flirt with her without a four to the floor beat as my soundtrack.

Outside, Ruby had managed to attract the attention of two creepy looking guys in dress up, playing drunks. They were both wearing identical costumes: Nike tracksuits, with TN trainers; proof that the theme of this dress up party was pretty loose. Not unlike the girls inside, these fellas had really given some thought to their characters. One of them had even gone to the trouble of getting a neck tattoo. I did my best to fit in, initially pretending to be an extra.

‘Hey baby, where you off to?’ Neck Tattoo asked, grabbing her arm. I stood back and contemplated what I was going to do, or who I was going to pretend to be. My tight fitting corduroy certainly didn’t lend itself to the look of a tough guy. Peter Parker was my first thought. ‘Hey Ruby, you forgot your smokes and your phone.’ I whispered, not wanting to ruin the scene. ‘Shut up dick head. She’s going to come party with us.’ Slurred Neck Tattoo. Studying the tattoo, It appeared to be an ice-cube. Neck Tattoo pulled a cigarette from his shiny track pants, and took a few drags. ‘She can have one of mine.’ He winked. ‘Could I pinch a light then?’ I asked, now part of the act. But he ignored me and didn’t offer me a cigarette. So I improvised, lighting up one of Ruby’s Winfield Reds. Neck Tattoo took another drag of what was left of his joint, and stuck it in Ruby’s face. ‘Try some of this.’ She waved it away, knocking it out of his hand, and onto the ground. ‘What the fuck was that? Pick it up!’ Yelled Neck Tattoo, pulling at her hair.

I sensed things were getting a little out of hand, even for role-play. Were they a certain type of method actor? So committed. So well-rehearsed. Despite being without a costume, I decided to participate and improvise, going forth with the gusto of a heroic civilian. I plunged towards Neck Tattoo, but tripped on the pavement, accidentally sticking my cigarette right into his ice-cubed jugular. He wailed in pain as the ice-cube on his neck melted. Before his friend could respond, I noticed Ruby’s face quickly turn an unpleasant green. She vomited all over the other guy’s jacket, which kept him distracted in disgust. Neck Tattoo swung at me, but missed. I fell over anyway, completely selling his punch. Good acting I thought. His face turned bright red. He looked as though he was about to lay into my corduroy pants with his TN cross trainers.

The thing is, I probably shouldn’t have got involved. These guys were pros, or at the very least third year students at NYDA or wherever. Still, something was frighteningly real and exhilarating about the whole thing. It was though Neck Tattoo was actually going to kick the shit out of me. Rather than watch my life flash before my yes, though, all I could think about was Dale. He wasn’t even invited to my birthday party. The only reason he was there, was because he accidentally caught wind of the event on Facebook. Fuck Facebook, I thought. The event was set to private, I’m sure of it. Strictly invite only. This kind of thing made me incredibly mad. Maybe Ruby felt the same about me joining her dress up party, without invitation, or a costume. Neck Tattoo certainly did.

Meanwhile, his friend had responded to Ruby’s vomit by throwing up on himself, and suddenly fainting. A ghastly way to exit a scene, but worthy of applause. So technically, it was one on one, if I could only get to my feet. Yet to break her character, Ruby displayed the super human strength that only a zombie could possess. She latched herself onto Neck Tattoo, sucking his blood and replacing the melted ice-cube with an imprint of her teeth. Stunned, I sat there and applauded in sheer delight. Their timing was impeccable, he was only inches away from knocking my very own teeth out. Even the blood gashing from his neck looked authentic. Neck Tattoo’s Nike tracksuit was now ruined. I wondered if it was a rental or one of his own. The TN trainers were fine, but I doubt the costume store would consider refunding his deposit, based on the state of the tracksuit alone.

Ruby helped me to my feet, before throwing up again. That whole scene had really taken it out of her. ‘We should get a move on before he gets up’ I said. ‘I guess he’s going to act like he’s been infected now, and turn into a zombie too.’ She struggled to speak. ‘I’m sorry, I had way too much to drink, I’m really…’ She swallowed hard, turning purple once more. ‘Fucking Dale.’ I cursed, cutting her off. There he was, leaving the bar with the two girls dressed up as hookers. Knowing how far Ruby had pushed her character, it wouldn’t of surprised me if he was going to get laid. ‘He wasn’t even invited!’ I squirmed.

I walked her to the door. ‘If this whole thing is wrapping up, can I call you a cab?’ Ruby nodded. While we waited I was left to do all the talking. I asked her why her character hadn’t bitten me. She just shook her head, but never answered. In hindsight, it was probably stupid of me to ask. Like Dale, I wasn’t invited. Yet, I joined in and played along, without a costume. Still, it was worth it. Ruby’s pale face was the highlight of my night. It was getting pretty late; taxi drivers stopped, but refused to take her home.

‘You know, they probably think you’re drunk; stumbling all over the place like that, vomiting.’ I smiled. ‘Little do they know, you’re such a talented actress.’ Her eyes rolled back into her skull and she let out a painful zombie sounding moan. In awe of her commitment, I whispered… ‘For a dress up party, I think you take your character way too seriously.’

Friends in High Places (Pt. One)

Shawn and I started work on the same day, answering phones in the complaints department. One week later, he was promoted to CEO. That’s right, despite his complete lack of experience, credentials or ability to perform even the simplest of tasks, he’s now running one of the largest telecommunication companies in the world. From an office that’s the size of a football stadium, I might add, overlooking every inch of the southern hemisphere. Shawn is living proof that it’s not what you know; it’s who you know. And Shawn knows a guy. The big guy upstairs––God almighty.

I received a memo from him late last night requesting a meeting at 11am. After riding the elevator all the way up to the 700th floor, his secretary informed me that he’d slept in and wouldn’t be able to make it until after lunch. While I waited, I decided to hit some balls on the virtual driving range he’d had installed in his office. By 2pm, he still hadn’t arrived – so I swam a few laps in his private pool. It was 3pm before he eventually showed up, yawning. He poured himself a glass of scotch, kicked off his shoes, and flopped down on the couch. ‘Where have you been all day?’ I asked, while contemplating whether I should dry off, or take a dip in the hot tub. ‘We had a meeting at eleven!’ He wasn’t fazed and yawned. ‘Didn’t Rosa tell you? I slept in. I was working in the office until late last night finding shit to watch on Netflix. Did you go for a swim?’ By this point I was sipping a cocktail with the towel around my waist. ‘Yeah. When did you have the water slide put in?’ He glanced over at the swimming pool and raised his brow. ‘They finished it already? Wow, that was quick! Hey, listen. I need to talk with you about some stuff, work stuff.’ He said, scratching his head. We’d never discussed work stuff before. ‘I’ll clear your schedule for the rest of the day, and uh, we’ll hit up that new Indian joint, I hear it’s like, authentic and shit.’ ‘Okay, sure. I mean, I have loads of work to get through but I guess it can wait.’ I confessed, before sinking back into the jacuzzi. ‘You’ve got a meeting with the CEO, they’ll understand.’

Shawn and I have known each other since high school. He was always a little off, and didn’t have many friends. While everybody else was playing sport, or chasing girls at lunch, Shawn would hang out on his own at the school church; which was odd, because he wasn’t exactly religious. We were in science class one afternoon discussing evolution. Some of the students were pointing out the absurdity of Genesis, while others poked fun of the band of the same name. Shawn was clearly uncomfortable about the subject; not because he was anti-Darwin, nor because he thought it contradicted his beliefs like some of the other Christian kids did, no. Shawn just thought it was disrespectful to talk shit about his friend behind his back, not to mention his favourite band – Genesis.

That night he invited me round to his place to hangout. Shawn’s room looked more like the type of garage that belonged to a single guy in his mid-forties, than it did a 15 year old. There were no signs of religious paraphernalia about the place either. Instead, playboy posters and muscle cars cluttered the walls. In fact, the only thing remotely religious was a trucker hat bearing the words ‘Jesus is my homeboy’.

The Indian restaurant Shawn insisted was ‘authentic and shit’ was certainly popular. Since we didn’t have a booking, a tiny woman fanning herself with a clipboard told us it would probably be a 30 minute wait. ‘That’s bullshit.’ Muttered Shawn. ‘Ah, forget it. Let’s go someplace else. We don’t even know if we’ll like authentic Indian. You know you’re just going to end up ordering the butter chicken, anyway.’ I said, while he looked over the menu. ‘True. Wait, they don’t even have butter chicken, what the fuck? How is that even Indian? Hang on a sec. I’ll see if God can get us a table.’ Shawn put his hands together in prayer and began to whisper something to himself, well, to God I guess. ‘That’s weird,’ he frowned ‘he’s not answering. I keep getting put through to some Angel. Fuck it, I’m not going to wait around for him to help us out. Let’s just get a naan bread to go and head back to the office.’

 

 

The Cubicle Stand Off

Three men sit patiently with their pants around their ankles. It’s a cubicle stand off (or sit off). Tension mounts. Stomachs groan. Nobody knows who they’re up against within the vague privacy of their cubicle walls. Even so, nobody wants to make the first bowl movement, or pass wind within earshot of the other. So they wait. And wait. And wait. Then one man caves. He flushes the toilet; unable to cope with the pressure, he leaves without letting it go. He’ll have to hold it in until the coast is clear, which could be all day, it’s a busy office, and coffee flows freely.

It’s down to just… The door opens. Someone new enters. Both men hold their breath. Luckily, he unzips. He’s just taking a leak. This will buy them some time, not that they needed it. The new comer is oblivious to the dual and lets one rip. Both men silently applaud his bravery, whilst clutching their knees in jealousy. The man leaves without washing his hands. Both men ponder his identity.

They’ve been missing from their desks for over 20 minutes now. That’s enough time to warrant suspicion. Nothing they haven’t dealt with before. Both have survived investigation from desk neighbours over the course of their careers. Even so, the inability to defecate in public has cost them great jobs in the past.

Neither man moves any closer to letting go. What they’re holding inside now is much more than a plate of lunch that has overstayed its welcome. No, they’re holding onto their dignity. They’ve waited this long, what’s another five minutes? Then the fire alarm sounds, activating the sprinklers. Sitting their drenched, neither man moves. Instead, they wait. And wait. And wait.

Email & Infidelity

So I broke up with my Gmail account. Things had been rocky for a little while, and we were rarely connecting; but they had never been this bad. In my defence, my Gmail account was sensitive and didn’t like CAPS; It reminded me of this everyday when logging in. Despite our many years together, I was still being asked to confirm that I had the right address. In truth, after re-entering my password several times, I started to question why I even bothered.

Once I was reluctantly granted access to my inbox, I could feel the tension mount at my fingertips. Gmail refused to open any of my attachments and took it’s time to empty the trash. It apologised, blaming the delay on my poor internet connection, but I knew it had nothing to do with the internet connection. Gmail was corrupting my incoming messages for weeks. It had an attitude problem and I was well over the ‘wifi’ excuses.

It wasn’t long before an argument started. I screamed expletives at the screen, while Gmail gave me the silent treatment, appearing offline. Then I began to upload extremely large files, giving it the finger, so Gmail crashed. We called each other names, firing insults back and forth like children.

I started out by making fun of its initial, “I bet you the G stands for goofy, or better yet Glob! Since you’re so fat, lazy and slow. I guess I should call you Globmail, or how about Mr. Gsnail – because you’re no longer a mailbox but a snailbox.”

A few moments passed before it managed a comeback. ‘Temporary error (505)’ It bleeps. ‘Chris-piss, in other words’ Bleeping again. Our session timed out.

Several Hours Later

It was 3am before I sat down with my laptop again; I logged into my account first time, without any trouble or delay. My inbox was generally calm at this hour of the morning, so we decided to work through our unresolved issues from earlier. Gmail explained why it was acting out.

‘You’ve been using another email provider haven’t you? I’ve heard it’s hot. Don’t try to deny it.’ It bleeped.

‘That’s what this is about? So what if I am. I’m a user by nature.’ I typed. ‘Maybe you can’t handle all of my mail.’

With this Gmail shut down, sobbed, and didn’t bleep at all. We sat in silence for a moment. I avoided eye contact by staring at the icons on my desktop, the screen dimmed.

‘It’s hotmail that your using isn’t it? That dirty little mailbox! I hope you end up with a virus, that’ll teach you.’ Gmail bleeped.

‘It’s nothing serious. I only use hotmail as a back up address anyway, all of my trash goes there: junk mail, crappy subscriptions and spam!’ I insist, reinforcing with an exclamation mark. ‘I didn’t want you to have to deal with any of that stuff. You’re my important email account’

Gmail maximised, instantly refreshing it’s screen.

‘Why don’t you just put me down as your only email address, for all of that stuff? I can do it, It’s my job you know. From now on I’d like us to be monogamous. I want to handle all of your mail, the serious stuff and the junk. I can help you filter through it all. Gmail is good like that.’

I agreed to consolidate, compile and direct all of my mail to the one address; Gmail was pleased. It flashed and bleeped simultaneously. Hotmail’s wasn’t really that crash hot anyway. We talked about our future together; how we planned to open larger and larger attachments. By midnight we were organising my Google calendar. Gmail believed we could be far more productive in the coming year, and I agreed. I had been a mail cheat, but together we were overcoming my infidelity. For awhile there our emails had never been better.

Meanwhile, my unused hotmail account was left alone to manage the mountains of unopened spam cluttering it’s inbox: pestering newsletters, chain mail and deal of the day sites continued to challenge it’s storage capacity on a daily basis. When hotmail discovered what was going on it was understandably livid. Admittedly, my behaviour had been misleading; Setting up ninemsn as my homepage gave hotmail the false impression that I would eventually leave Gmail for good.

As a security measure, I only ever provided hotmail with limited access to my personal information. Additionally, I go out of my way to avoid the ninemsn page. It does make me feel a little guilty, but it’s just an email address for Christ’s sake.

Twelve Months On

For Christmas, I was lucky enough to receive a Macbook Pro, and introduced to it’s numerous applications. One in particular caught my attention. At first glance, it was both an attractive and impressive concept. It promised to open up my storage capacity and allow access through all of my devices, wirelessly. It was called iCloud, and it was fancy. I was propositioned with a new email address right there and then:chrisbrailey@icloud.com. I’m not going to lie, I was excited about the prospect of my mail living in a cloud, even though it kind of always did. iCloud’s persuasiveness and slick design had won me over, despite it’s lack of experience with mail.

Then we started working together. At first, it was just a few emails back and forth with new clients that weren’t familiar with my Gmail account. However, just as those projects began to flourish, so too did my relationship with iCloud. I realised just how close we’d gotten when a girl at a bar asked me for my email. Without hesitation, I gave her my iCloud address. At first, it felt a little weird. Did this mean we were going steady? If I had any doubt it was certainly put to rest when I received my first non-work related email: my iPhone lit up, and made a new sound that I’d never even heard before. I guess you could say it was blushing.

I forwarded my new address on to everybody I knew. The update wasn’t exactly well received. For a while there, I tolerated my fair share of criticism from friends and colleges who couldn’t believe I’d made the switch. They loved Gmail, and saw no reason to change; despite the fact Gmail was planning to crush your privacy by opening it’s doors to ads, scammers, and strangers who didn’t even have your address! Gmail was practically going to start selling off my details behind my back. I guess it never really got over the whole hotmail fling.

Months flew by before Gmail realised it’s role had minimized; It gradually began to manage fewer important messages and an increased volume of unopened spam. My iPhone was happy that I’d tied the knot with iCloud, and held an integrated celebration for us on iTunes. So I’m a mail cheat again, but this time it’s different; iCloud may even be the one.