Meg’s Farewell

I am teetering. It’s Sunday afternoon, about 3 o’clock and I’m still in my pyjamas. I’ve been buggerising around all day trying to get an essay done, drinking tea, making toast, being strong by not turning the TV on, but not so strong as to deny myself the Saturday paper – all 47 sections of it. And all the while 3.30 is coming closer.
It’s Meg’s farewell, and I was kind of hoping I could use it as a reward. I could see myself pressing the print button, then stapling the bastard together, jumping on my bike and riding triumphantly into the city. Actually it’s a bit of a shame she’s going. We hit it off pretty well. But there’s no point in trying to start anything now, because she’s not going to be back for a while. Anyway, it doesn’t look like I’m going to get to this thing.
I trot back up the stairs, past the pile of smelly washing which has tragically merged with the pile of clean washing, and sit down at the computer. The cursor is blinking in same the spot I left it, the word count still reads half the number it should and as I read over the introductory paragraph for the fifteenth time, I wonder if perhaps a different font might help the creative process. An hour later I’ve added a couple of paragraphs. But I’ve edited the first part so ruthlessly that the word count is only twenty-six words more. It’s all a bit depressing. ‘What if I take out the hyphens?’ I consider.
It’s past 4 now and the internal battle is heating up. One part of me says, ‘It’s simple. You haven’t done the essay so you can’t go to the farewell.’ Another part of me says, ‘Lighten up. You might as well go. Better than moping around here. Besides, she invited you. It’d be rude not to rock up.’ And a third part of me doesn’t say anything, but is against any plan that involves getting out of the pyjamas. So this is the state of play at 4.16 pm. Oh, and now my stomach is adding its bit, reminding me that whatever I do, I shouldn’t stray too far from a source of food because it has to eat again at some time in the next three hours.
I look down at my bunny-rabbit slippers and a wave of apathy washes over me. ‘You’re pathetic Liam,’ they snigger. ‘Can’t do a simple bloody essay, can’t get out of the house for a bit of socialising, can’t do much can you?’ It hurts when your own bunny slippers turn against you.
I’m plodding down the stairs trying to remember the Sunday night movie when I catch sight of my bike against the wall. The sleek red frame, the curve of the handlebars seems to stir something within me. I look down at the snickering bunnies and violently kick them off. One goes down the back of the telly, the other gets caught on the curtain rod. ‘Ha, ha!’ Barefoot now, I leap up the stairs; the cold floor putting a spring in my step. Naked, I rummage through the underwear and subject them to the smell test. Trousers go on next, then socks and shoes, underarms receive deodorant aplenty—who needs a shower? Now t-shirt, jumper, get money, house key, helmet, bike and out the door. It’s a race against the clock, against indecision, and against those damned bunnies!

***

We meet on the stairs and I say, ‘It’s a bit early to be leaving your own farewell.’ She smiles and wrinkles her nose.
‘Hi Liam. No, I’m just ducking out to the ATM.’ She touches my arm at the elbow. ‘My friends are in the corner,’ she gestures. ‘Just go up. Be with you in a sec.’ She turns and goes out into the cold afternoon air. Was she a little unsteady on her feet? I bound up the stairs and suddenly I’m looking forward to having a beer or two with Meg.
I stroll over to the corner and when I’m halfway there I remember why I didn’t want to come: Introductions. Meeting new people makes me want to run for the hills. I recall a documentary on hermits. That’d be the life – no forced conversation, no plastic smiles, no having to pretend to be interested in other people’s lives. Just undisturbed beard-growing.
You’d reckon it would get easier. I’m getting on 30 and I still get that empty feeling in the bottom of my stomach, just like at the Year 9 disco. Fifteen years later and nothing’s really changed. The whole thing makes me cringe.
I stand there on the periphery for a few seconds, looking at them. I can’t believe these are Meg’s friends. They look so unfamiliar, not a bloody mutual friend amongst them. This is going to be hard work. Someone’s going to look up and notice me in a moment. I sense a few of them are deliberately not looking up, not breaking their conversations to stare at the intruder. Not because they’re being cruel; on the contrary, because they fear staring will make me feel even less welcome. I am quietly grateful. But as I stand there I begin to worry. Perhaps I’ve misjudged. I take a small step forward, scanning the faces, the bodies; taking in the clothes, the make-up, extrapolating to occupation, education. And then I get that flicker of eye-contact, a shy smile. I nod in return. But the circle of chairs is tight, no place for me. A girl with her back to me notices the couple on the other side looking and smiling. She turns, they’re all turning; no backing out now. All conversations have paused. I nod and smile at them, making brief eye-contact with some. I grab a chair and I am a little miffed when they don’t open up the circle. I panic and scrape the chair noisily across the floor. That works. A friendly-faced chap to the left sets the example. In fact, he moves a little too far out, forcing the others to follow suit. It is a big circle now. I’ve buggered the air of intimacy, the close-knitness. Still, there’s a space for me so I slide in and grimace to the girl at my left.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi,’ she replies.
‘I’m Liam.’
‘Jessica.’
‘G’day Jessica.’ She looks at her drink then away. Her conversation has moved on without her. She’s stuck with me. I try and save the silence.
‘How’s your weekend?’
‘Not too bad. How about yourself?’ She puts it straight back on me. I’m not entirely disappointed; I’m a better talker than listener. But now it’s up to me to steer the conversation. Should I say something interesting or something true? I opt for the latter.
‘Just been doing a bit of school work.’
‘Oh.’
Bad move. She’s looking at her drink again, now around the group, now out the window. Geez, this is going well. Somebody save me. Even when Meg gets back there’s no way I’ll get to talk to her, there’s too many people.
Hang on—a bit of movement—something’s happening. I look around. Ah ha!—new people arriving. My saviour. Now I get to watch someone else go through the same ordeal.
As the arriving couple nod and smile, three girls head to the bar or to the toilet or somewhere. There are spare seats. I move away from the talkative Jessica and offer up my seat. I move to the wall, still in the circle but out of the way, a good spot to observe the introductions. I shake hands with the guy, Ernesto, and smile at the girl, Daniella. I pause before retreating; she might be one of those rare hand-shake girls. She’s not. We all sit down.
To my left now is a different girl. She’s facing away, talking to her friend. I lean forward to catch the conversation. I worry the topic might be over my head. She glances in my direction and shifts back in her seat. The newly arrived couple to my right are still quiet. I turn back to the girl. She opens her shoulders. That’s my signal.
‘What are you talking about?’
The girl stops speaking. I hope it was my signal. She has a sharp nose and a narrow elf-like face. She is slim, wearing a cardigan and her cheeks are somewhat flushed. She is attractive.
‘We’re just talking about Yoga.’
‘Oh, right.’ I dash back through my memory and latch on to any relevant information: Old housemate, Andy, Yoga teacher, right.
‘Where do you do Yoga?’ I ask.
‘Brunswick St.’
‘Okay. My old housemate was a Yoga teacher. He was a bit of nutcase. I guess you’d have to be though, to be that full-on into it.’
I squirm in my chair. For all I know her boyfriend is a Yoga teacher. Could I perhaps fit my other foot in my mouth. But there’s no sign of her having taken offence.
‘Yeah,’ she says, considering my point, ‘but some people do Yoga for more than just the physical side.’
I’m relieved. We go into a conversation about the shallowness of Western society, how it squashes the spirit and always goes for the mainstream quick fix.
Her name is Kate and I almost jump on her when she tells me she’s doing the same course. I tell her about my editing assignment and we go into a yarn about apostrophes. I could never have foreseen a knowledge of hyphenation being useful in a social setting. We find other common interests, moving easily from topic to topic. In a natural pause, Julia, the plain-looking girl to Kate’s left, joins the conversation. She’s good value too.
I slide back in my chair and take in the scene. Jessica seems to have found conversation elsewhere. Kate and Julia are chatting without me – but I’m grateful for the break. Ernesto is sitting quietly, nursing a beer, content to let Daniella take centre stage with a loud story about her dad trying to organise a stripper for the buck’s night. She tells us she’s having none of that. It’s a good story and her energy is bringing smiles and chuckles around the table. A blonde girl on the other side is so into the story she’s squealing, ‘No way!’
When Daniella has calmed down, I ask her when the wedding is. It’s in 5 weeks in her hometown, Ballarat. ‘That’s exciting,’ I say genuinely. She doesn’t need much encouraging and she’s off again, describing a dream she had the other day about the ceremony. She has an infectious warmth that brings the group together. The alcohol is probably helping too.
I don’t feel like beer. I see some of the others sipping cappuccinos and decide that’s what I want: a hot drink. I come back from the bar with a hot chocolate. The two marshmallows are already in my mouth. I scoop the froth off the top and drink the rest down quickly. The blonde notices.
‘How was your hot chocolate? It didn’t last long,’ she smiles.
‘Good, except it wasn’t really that hot. That’s why it went so quickly.’
‘Yeah, they’re never really hot.’
‘I should’ve asked for a warm chocolate. Then maybe I would’ve got a hot one.’ She laughs at that.
‘No, then theyd’ve given you an iced one!’ She’s matches me for silliness so I crank it up a notch.
‘Maybe I should’ve asked for a chocolate so hot it sent me screaming out into the street!’ We’re both giggling now. I love elevating a conversation into the ridiculous. It beats the pants off: So, what do you do? She has a bloke sitting next to her, probably her boyfriend. In a way it makes me more relaxed talking to her.
The friendly chap who let me into the circle is leaving. He says his goodbyes and although I didn’t get a chance to talk with him, I smile and wave as if we’re old friends. ‘See you later,’ he says. The chatter continues.
Kate is talking aerobics to Julia. The blonde across the table and Daniella are quite animated about some dress style or other. The blokes down the end are having a good-natured man-to-man. And I’m nestled in the corner. Suddenly I wonder if Kate’s into cycling; maybe I’ll get her number before I leave. Might find the loo first; someone points the way.
I’m walking across to the far end of the bar with a stupid grin, shaking my head at how negative I was at the beginning and how wonderfully things turn out if you just give them a chance.
I see another group sitting around a long table. It’s covered with bottles and glasses. There are cards and envelopes scattered amongst wallets and mobiles. And there’s Meg. She’s sitting with them, laughing and yelling. And it’s then I realise. They’re in the other corner.