Story for performance #272
webcast from Sydney at 07:08PM, 19 Mar 06

should have said no
Source: Tom Hyland, ‘The US ties that bind: so why are we in Iraq?’, The Age online, 19/03/06.
Writer/s: Ziggy Edwards

When the old hippie and his dog spotted me on the beach, he asked if I was all right. ‘You all right, man?’ Didn’t call me ‘miss’ or ‘lady’. That’s how I knew he was a hippie, even before his scraggly silhouette against the bluish dawn. Dog a German shepherd, judging by his triangular ears perked forward.

I had a pretty good idea how I looked: stupid cocktail dress, carrying my shoes in one hand, limping slightly. Nothing broken; I hadn’t fought as hard as I cried. Oh I said no, then—over and over—loudly, unambiguously. It was all I could think to say.

When Chad asked if he could get me a drink, I immediately lit up. Almost pathetic how much that made my night, but here was the first guy to make any attempt at hitting on me since Mark left. I’d finally taken off the ring this morning, thinking about this party and how it meant I was doing ‘single things’ again. Even considered Susan might’ve set up this encounter. It was just like something she’d do: send over a complete stranger for me to ‘dazzle.’

I searched the room, but Susan was nowhere to be seen. Surely she’d have stuck around to give a giddy thumbs-up when Chad (who hadn’t even introduced himself yet) wasn’t looking. It was all me, then.

‘You look amazing,’ she’d said when she picked me up. She watched me slide into the passenger seat of her little convertible and shut the door. Her hand paused on the gear shift. ‘How do you feel?’

‘Great. Never better.’

Susan nodded, made a satisfied clicking noise in her cheek. ‘That’s my Beth,’ she said, and pulled out onto the street.

We ended up on the balcony because Chad wanted to smoke, and I found myself happy to get away from the crowd. We talked about the break-up, which hadn’t become a divorce yet so far as I knew.

‘That must be rough,’ Chad said. ‘To have him just leave like that, without trying to work things out or explaining why or anything.’

‘Actually, I’m kind of enjoying this time to myself. Having my own little space, being autonomous again.’

‘I can see how that would be, definitely. I like having that all the time. I kind of can’t give it up.’ Chad blew a ghost-squid of smoke over the city lights. ‘Of course I get lonely. It’s not even the sex, you know? I just need to break through the small-talk, surface bullshit with someone every once in a while.’

I had this picture in my head. Get a dog, maybe a golden retriever. Clean up the garden; Mark and I both neglected it badly. Join a gym. Oh, that nice lady. I see her walking her dog sometimes or swimming laps at the pool, buying salad dressing and laundry detergent at the supermarket. She’s some kind of career woman, an executive I think.

‘Come on,’ Chad said, ‘you can’t do this to me.’ The beatific smile never left his face; only his grip tightened. ‘You got me so…hot.’

I turned to face the old hippie. In my posture I tried to convey all the things it would’ve sounded false to explain. My apartment isn’t that far, it’s been a long day, I did have a little too much to drink, but I just like the feel of the sand on my toes.

I have always been very good at this. Sometimes I’d ask Mark to wake me up at a certain time, and when he did I’d carry on complete conversations with him to convince him I was fully conscious. Apparently. I don’t remember any of it. My sleeping self did it without me; it wanted him to leave the room, satisfied he’d gotten me up, so I could sink beneath the covers again.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’m all right.’

Adapted for performance by Barbara Campbell from a story by Ziggy Edwards.