Am I Right or Am I Right? (10 page)

“Get on the fuckin’ floor,” he continued.

I ignored him. I had it all worked out. The toy section? Yeah, right. He had picked up a water pistol or something. Let’s apply a little logic here. What self-respecting robber would go to a store with a gun but without a disguise? No. He had picked up the pantyhose—I wished I’d recommended something lighter; they didn’t really suit him—and then he had got a dish towel and a plastic piece of crap from the Bargain Buy section and that was it. All he needed for a heist. That and relying upon the staff being complete bozos. Well, he hadn’t counted on Calma Harrison. I strode toward him and he lifted up the dish towel.

“Another step, motherfucker, and—”

“And what?” I said. “You’ll dry all the dishes in the place? Listen, shitface, I’ve had a bad day. I am not the kind of person who has sexual relations with her own mother and I resent a sad, pathetic dropkick like you wasting my time.”

And with that I smacked him on the head with the pan. It made a very satisfying clunk and he fell to the floor. I stood over him and saw his eyes rolling back in his head, even through the stockings.

There was silence. Then Jason appeared at my side.

“Jesus Christ, Calma,” he said. “What have you done?”

“Mopped up a nasty spill,” I said. “Part of my duties. Now I suggest you call the police while I go and finish off the canned fruit section.”

I hadn’t forgiven him for the blonde.

“But he was armed. You could have been killed!”

Jason’s voice was cracking slightly and I noticed the decibel count was creeping up. If it continued, I’d smack him round the head with the pan as well. I was developing a taste for it. Instead, I put my hands on my hips, the pan sticking out behind like a small satellite dish, and turned my scorn upon him.

“Oh, please, Jason. What kind of a moron do you take me for? I mean, look. Stupid pantyhose on his head, mangy dish towel—aisle thirteen, four for five dollars—and a two-dollar plastic water pistol. He’s not exactly Mr. Big from Sydney, trying to muscle in on the local organized-crime scene. He’s just a pathetic bag of shit.”

I kicked the runt’s arm at that point, to punctuate my line of reasoning. The tea towel fell away and his arm flopped. A loud bang rang out and something ricocheted off the rent-a-carpet-cleaner display, taking out part of the skylight. There was a gentle shower of splintered glass and a smell of something burning.

I looked down at the runt’s hand.

A black metal gun was gripped in his fingers, a thin wisp of smoke curling from the barrel.

There was only one thing to do. I fainted.

Chapter 16

Fifteen minutes of fame

Leukemia Supporter Foils Supermarket Raid

“She’s a Heroine,” Says Supervisor

A local resident foiled an attempted armed robbery at a supermarket late on Saturday night.

Calma Harrison, age sixteen, an employee at Crazi-Cheep supermarket, attacked the alleged thief with a stainless-steel frying pan, despite him being heavily armed and dangerous.

Courageous

A police spokesperson described the intervention by Ms. Harrison as “courageous in the extreme. We certainly don’t recommend members of the public taking direct action against armed robbers, but Ms. Harrison showed remarkable composure and bravery.”

Charity

Ignoring personal danger and armed only with a household utensil, Calma Harrison, who recently had her head shaved as part of the fund-raising program in support of leukemia research, tackled the thief as he was in the process of emptying registers. “I just couldn’t let him get away with it,” she said. “Being an Aussie battler, I knew I’d have to have a go. There were pensioners in the store and they could have been harmed. I didn’t think about my personal safety. I just acted on instinct.”

Heroine

Candy Smith, the supervisor on duty, said, “Calma is a heroine. The guy was obviously crazy, but she tackled him straight on.”

A local man is helping police with their inquiries.

In the interests of historical accuracy:

1. The newspaper article didn’t come out until Monday.

2. I didn’t say any of that stuff. I mean, would you really expect me to say something like, “I knew I’d have to have a go”? Does that sound like me? And as for “being an Aussie battler”—well, they could force me to wear stilettos and shred my epidermis with a paring knife, and I still couldn’t bring myself to utter that phrase. They made all of it up.

Okay, I’ll give you the shortened version. I woke up on the cold floor of the supermarket with Jason leaning over me. He looked concerned. I was too. It occurred to me I was wearing ratty underwear under my uniform and my fall might have rucked everything up, exposing things better hidden. As it turned out, it was all right.

The police made it there in quick time and I sat up just as they were cuffing the runt and bundling him, none too gently I might add, out of the premises. He hadn’t recovered consciousness, and judging by the dent in the bottom of the frying pan, I suspected he would be out of it for some time.

Not even Candy could expect me to carry on working after that little episode. In fact, they closed the supermarket early, once the police had taken the names and addresses of everyone there. I was told they would be around to take a statement when I had recovered. To be honest, all of this went by in a blur. I do remember Jason walking me the short distance home. I didn’t have the opportunity to tell him that if the Fridge was not home, I was locked out. Anyway, it was academic. The Fridge’s car was in the driveway and there was a light on in the kitchen.

I don’t know if she was more surprised by my bald head or the revelation that I had attacked a gunman with a frying pan. I was feeling queasy, if you want to know the truth, and took off to bed as soon as Jason left. The Fridge wanted to talk, but I was still pissed off at her and pleaded tiredness and ill health. I knew I would have plenty of explaining to do in the morning, but my bed called to me. I was asleep in minutes.

I dreamed of guns, mascara, men with long gray hair, and nonstick pans.

Chapter 17

Sunday, bloody Sunday

When I woke up in the morning, it took time for the previous day’s events to come back to me. They had the texture of a dream. As the full significance of what I had done sunk in, my legs trembled. I was lying in bed, the sheets rippling all over the place. I was doing a horizontal performance of
Riverdance.
It took twenty minutes before I could think about swinging them over the bed and putting weight on them.

I had a shower and got dressed slowly. I wasn’t looking forward to explaining everything to the Fridge and was happy to delay the inevitable. While I got ready I mentally prepared my own newspaper article.

Bald Drongo in Supermarket Fiasco

“What a Loser!” Says Supervisor

Police are considering charging local resident Calma Harrison, sixteen, with reckless endangerment of life after a bizarre series of events at Crazi-Cheep supermarket on Saturday night.

Harrison viciously attacked a customer with a frying pan, causing $19.99 worth of damage to the pan and $2,000 worth of damage to a skylight.

Idiot

A police spokesperson described Ms. Harrison’s actions as “reckless in the extreme. Frankly, we are fed up with members of the public having a go and thereby putting the lives of innocent people in jeopardy. If the idiot was my daughter, I’d slap her silly.”

Bald

Candy Smith, supervisor at Crazi-Cheep supermarket, said, “There will be a thorough investigation into the incident. Calma has been rude to customers before, but I didn’t believe she’d attack one. I’ve worried about her since she started work, and when she turned up with a shaved head, I knew there was going to be trouble.”

Calma Harrison was unavailable for comment last night. Police are monitoring all flights to the Galapagos Islands.

The Fridge was inhaling coffee when I made it down the stairs. She was dressed and appeared to be on the verge of going out, as normal. I stuck bread into the toaster and got a glass of milk as a delaying tactic.

“I like your head,” said the Fridge as I was buttering my toast. “Very chic. Very shiny.”

“For leukemia,” I said. I wasn’t in the mood for banter.

She cupped her hands around the coffee mug and blew into the steam. I sat opposite her at the kitchen table. Under most circumstances I can read the Fridge. She was thinking about whether she should be proud of me for what I had done last night or angry at me for putting myself in danger. I was curious which tack she’d take. The silence stretched and she glanced at her watch. My irritation grew.

“So,” she said finally. “My daughter the heroine, huh?”

I kept quiet.

“Do you know,” she continued, “I don’t know whether to be proud of you or angry.”

I kept quiet.

“Calma. Why don’t we talk anymore?”

I wasn’t prepared for that, but I recovered quickly.

“You’ve got to go, Mum, haven’t you?” I said, dropping the piece of toast on my plate. “You keep checking your watch. You’re going somewhere. Aren’t you?”

She looked embarrassed.

“Well…yes,” she said. “But I’ve got ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.”

“You know,” I said, pushing back my chair, “I’ve no idea why we don’t talk anymore, Mum. It’s a real mystery. Maybe we’ll figure it out one day.”

And I left. I went back to my bedroom, until I heard the front door close, the car start up, and the sound of the engine fade into the distance.

I didn’t know how to spend the day, mainly because there was nothing I wanted to buy with it. I wandered around the house. I thought about doing schoolwork but quickly discarded the idea. Then I thought about calling Jason, but I wasn’t comfortable with that either. It wasn’t so much the blonde. I decided I had overreacted, though I would rather die than admit it to Jason. I just thought I should wait until he called me.

In the end I turned on the TV and surfed channels. There was a soccer game on and I flicked past it, then thought better and skipped back. A scorecard in the top left of the screen told me it was Manchester United versus Liverpool.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.
As soon as a guy comes on the scene, you watch soccer! Pretty soon you’ll be dyeing your hair, if you had any, window-shopping for time-saving domestic appliances, and taking embroidery classes at night.
Yeah, well, I can understand this cynicism, but I want it placed on record that I’m the kind of person who is open to new experiences, who believes that minds are like sharks—if they stop moving, they die. Now, I’m not suggesting a soccer game will change your life. But I’d never seen one, and that’s an omission. I had nothing better to do, after all.

Okay, smart-arse. I
had
remembered Jason supported Liverpool.
And
that I’d said I was prepared to learn about the game.

It’s a strange business, soccer. At the final whistle I wasn’t any wiser. As far as I could understand, to be a player you either had to have flowing locks, honed leg muscles, and a face with chiseled features or a stubbled pate and the kind of appearance that causes small children to wet themselves. There were plenty of these. At times they formed a line and put their hands over their private parts. This explained the general group ugliness. The ball, smacked at high velocity, must have rearranged a number of features that had previously been in tolerable condition. Their private parts, afforded protection, were undoubtedly in mint condition. It crossed my mind that some of them would have been better leaving their gonads alone and putting their hands across their faces.

I know I would have felt better.

The good-looking ones
were
good-looking, mind. They ran at full speed, kicking the ball toward the ugly ones, who would gently tap their finely honed legs, causing the hunky guys to scream in agony, roll over twenty times, and writhe on the ground. This would result in the lineup of willie-fondling ugly buggers previously mentioned. Getting injured at soccer is drastic, if short-lived. I mean, these guys react as if they’re in the last stages of disembowelment, but within moments they are running around again, locks flowing and chiseled features intact.

The game involves getting the ball between the goalposts. Given that most players were trying to do this, it amazed me no one succeeded. In fact, the ball seemed to go everywhere
except
between the posts. Basic communication and elementary team-building skills should have enabled twenty-odd blokes to achieve this modest task. They were hopeless.

One part of the game I enjoyed enormously involved individual spitting contests. The players had a seemingly inexhaustible supply of phlegm. Every time the television camera was on them, they’d produce a huge slimy ball and blow it with considerable force into the ground. Sometimes they’d create divots. The more skilled were able to do this out their noses. They’d stick one finger against a nostril, closing it—presumably for maximum explosive potential—and send a tracer into the turf at the speed of sound. If they’d hit an opposing player in the leg, it would have had the same effect as a round from a .44 Magnum.

I enjoyed the game—in the same way as I’d enjoy watching an Italian opera. I didn’t have a clue what was going on, but it was all very exciting. At least I’d have something to talk to Jason about. He could explain the snot hurling. Were there judges in the stands, awarding points for force, accuracy, and artistic interpretation? I’d ask him.

When the game was over, I tried Discovery, but it was a repeat so I turned the television off and attempted to read. I gave up after five minutes. I couldn’t concentrate. I paced. I even thought about tidying my bedroom, but I hadn’t yet reached the absolute pits of boredom, so I went into the garden and sat in a plastic chair.

I looked out over wilting palm trees and thought. My insides were a knot of anxiety. Or rather, a number of knots, all churning and mixing together. The Fridge, of course. And Vanessa. And Jason. My dad. But the more I thought, the more anxious I became and the more inextricable the mess of my personal relationships. I spent the rest of the day out there. I didn’t even get anything to eat or drink. I didn’t trust my stomach to keep it down.

Darkness fell abruptly, like it always does in the tropics, and I didn’t budge. The stars freckled the sky and I watched. The more I stared, the more stars I saw—not directly, of course, but crowding the periphery of vision. If I concentrated on one spot, kept my gaze fixed, then stars appeared at the edge, one milky dot after another, until the sky became impossibly full. Apart from the black well, with its light dusting, in the center of my gaze. It occurred to me then that I spent too much time looking directly at things. Maybe I would see more if I watched less.

It seemed a profound realization at the time, but I had no idea how it could help.

I went to bed early. I unplugged the phone, took it with me, and plugged it into the phone jack in my bedroom. For some reason, I was incredibly tired. Maybe it was the emotional exertion of the night before. Maybe I was simply tired of thinking. But as I drifted off to sleep, I wondered why Jason hadn’t called to see how I was. He’d been so concerned the night before, yet I had heard nothing from him all day. But if I’m honest, that wasn’t the most important thing. What I really wanted was for Vanessa to call. I knew she would be home late from her dad’s. If her mum gave her my message, and I wasn’t convinced she would, then I wanted to be close to the phone when it rang.

It didn’t. When the alarm went off at six-thirty, the first pale streaks of dawn were filtering through the curtains. They gave a sickly light and I didn’t want to get up. The day offered no promise.

The phone, resolutely silent, lay on the floor beside my bed.