Odyssey In A Teacup (13 page)

Please God, don’t let her clear her throat and spit.
Maybe He had shown up after all, because she didn’t.

Then she said, ‘Do I know you?’

Fuck
.
Please God, don’t let her recognise me.
Yep. Maybe He really was there and sent Ralph to do His bidding. Ralph’s morals may have become questionable, but he was my saviour:

‘Is that an existential question? Does anyone really know anyone? How well do we even know ourselves?’

He fired each question at Kishma in rapid succession. She was gob-smacked. Ralph took advantage of this and quickly led me a safe distance away (while I checked for bite marks).

Kishma collected herself and moved on to the next group of hostages. Ralph and I returned to our seats to regroup. We resumed our ‘sharing’. Andreas announced that he hated his mother.

‘Thank you Andreas,’
whispered Jan.

Now, it was Ralph’s turn. He took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, lowered his head, then turned towards Jan.

‘Hi, I’m Ralph, and I have OCPD. Acronym for obsessive-compulsive personality disorder.’ He paused briefly. Jan was about to thank him, but he raised his hand to indicate he hadn’t finished. I was so blown away by his admission that any doubts I’d earlier entertained about his integrity evaporated. But then Ralph continued, ‘I like to do things twice, and I like things that come in pairs.’ With that, he dramatically swivelled his head and fixed his eyes on Vicky. And there it was! Ralph never disappoints.

‘Thank you, Ralph.’
Jan squirmed in her chair a little.

And by the look on the faces of the others in the group, they were all nonplussed. It was now my turn.

‘Hi, my name is Ruth, and I’m a mistake.’

Jan was startled, but then managed to squeak out,
‘Thank you, Ruth.’

‘My brother is only eleven months older than me,’ I added.

‘Thank you, Ruth.’
Jan obviously didn’t want to hear any more.

And before she could say any more, Kishma, who was now back at the microphone, announced that the sharing was over, that we were to remain in our designated groups, and that in a few minutes Albert would lead us in a meditation.

Ralph turned to Jan and asked, ‘What was the point of divulging our personal stuff but then not exploring it further?’

‘It was to show you that it’s safe to confess something intimate without being judged.’

What a load of crap! Everyone was casting furtive glances at Vicky. It looked like we were all still stuck on her disclosure, and
not
impartially, I might add.

The lights were dimmed again and the Magic Pudding instructed us all to get comfortable and to close our eyes. Once the shuffling had stopped, in a soporific tone, Pud told us to note mentally any areas of tension in our bodies.

‘I have tension between my legs,’
whispered Ralph. I lost my focus.

‘Take a deeeeep breath in,’ continued Albert. ‘I want you to imagine that you’re breathing into the tension, and as you exhale, feel the muscles becoming more relaxed.’ Albert then asked us to visualise ourselves on a tropical island, palm trees gently swaying in the breeze, the sound of waves peacefully lapping against the shore. He embellished this imaginary scene, and then he stopped talking. I began to feel quite relaxed, and I sensed that everybody else was feeling the same because a silence descended over the hall. And then ... someone relaxed their anal sphincter a little too much and cut a colossal fart.
A whopper!

Of course, I began to laugh. Loudly. Whereas before I was able to curb my giggling, this time I lost control. Embracing the black sheep within, I was doubled over, roaring with laughter. I thought I would
die
laughing. In exquisite agony, I was hooting and howling, with tears streaming down my face. This set Ralph off, and one by one, the members of my group started laughing. Then the surrounding groups joined in and in no time, the whole hall had erupted. All except for Kishma and Albert, who were NOT happy.

‘Albert was going to return your awareness to your surroundings, but it looks like YOOO’VE done it YOURSELVES!’ Kishma growled, shooting daggers at me at the same time. Just like at home, whatever went wrong was my fault. If Myron did something bad, somehow
I
would end up getting in trouble. On this night, I wasn’t the one who farted; I had just laughed. Still, I felt a little contrite as the evening came to an abrupt end and the groups quickly dispersed.

As I waited for Ralph, who had approached Vicky, turned on the charm, and got her phone number, one man patted me on the back and a couple of women gave me the thumbs up as they passed by. And when Maxi and Vette came over and congratulated me, I became defiant.

‘Gimme a minute,’ I told them, and went looking for Kishma.

My appearance in front of her briefly threw her off balance, but then she curled her lip in disgust and bared her yellow fangs. Before she had a chance to open her mouth, though, I verbalised my thought-form.

‘If I seem familiar to you it’s because I should. You were my second year high school English teacher, and you made my life hell. If you think I was stupid and disruptive tonight, it’s because you made me write it so often in class, it became a reality. Well ... you can hide behind this spiritual stuff all you like, but you were mean back then, and it sure looks like nothing has changed!’

With that, I turned on my heel, collected my friends and walked out the door without looking back.

Although the evening might have seemed like a waste of time, I gained a lot from it. Had I broadened my spiritual horizons? I’d say so. But there was still a bit of a question mark over whether or not God had shown up. Back then, I expected Him to make a grand entrance. Not so much like Kishma’s stage entrance, more like a thunderbolt, razzle-dazzle appearance. A bit like when Ralph materialised in his silver lamé suit at Zelda’s wedding. Though I still thought of God as a person—a man—I’d figured out that Joe wasn’t Him. But I didn’t yet fully understand that The Dude expressed Himself cryptically and in many forms, such as through me every time I squared up to someone who attacked me. I did understand, though, that I didn’t need Maxi’s moxie, or Ralph’s. I had my own brand of it, and three dollars fifty was a small price to pay to resuscitate it.
Now you see me.

Being a black sheep wasn’t so bad after all. And Kishma could
kish ma ken tookhus.

CHAPTER EIGHT:
WARTS ‘N’ ALL

How far away is the horizon? It doesn’t matter as long as you can see it. Fog and scattered light can limit its visibility, but you’ve seen it often enough to at least know it still exists. Even though I’d broadened my spiritual horizons that night at the community hall, over the next few years, the fog of war in my head—me versus a militia of little Sylvias—escalated and increasingly made the horizon’s visibility poor. Eventually, I would stop looking, and worse, I would stop believing.

The meditation intro night might have brought me closer to the horizontal plane where the sky and the ocean meet, but time and again after that, I was likely to be found below the plane, partially submerged. Still, with an ever-present threat of being dragged down by the undertow, I furiously trod water. At times, Ralph also tired of the struggle to shine. In spite of his home environment, though, he couldn’t be held down for long.

Shortly after that woo-woo night, Ralph and I turned twenty-one. Sylvia and Joe had suggested a combined party, but I wasn’t in the right frame of mind, and Ralph had taken to downplaying his birthday (he’d never fully recovered from his seventh birthday celebration—‘I could have handled it if they’d served up Louwhiney on a platter with an apple in her mouth, but not my duck!’). Sylvia wanted to throw us a big bash.

‘And all the cousins will be there.’

What! That’s supposed to be the carrot? Are you kidding?
‘Um, no thanks.’

‘Oeuf!’

Sylvia offered to hold a twenty-first party for the next three birthdays. Each time, I declined; she
oeufed
. Then, just before I turned twenty-five, she threw her hands up in despair, and then tried another tack.

‘What
do
you want,
pest
?’

As Ralph, Maxi, Vette and I had got on with our respective lives, we didn’t see each other as often as we would have liked. But we each knew that if anything could revivify our spirits, it was precious time spent together. Maxi and Vette also had their challenges and needed to recharge as much as Ralph and I did. So, I bit the bullet.

‘I wouldn’t mind if you paid for a holiday away for me, Ralph, Maxi and Vette. You know, with whatever you were going to spend on the party.’

I’d done some research and calculated that what she and Joe had been prepared to outlay would cover the cost of four airline tickets to Surfers Paradise, and two nights’ accommodation at a beachfront hotel (two rooms). I told her so.

‘Okay.’

Whoa! That was easy.
‘Thank you!’

‘But we’re not paying for the
putana
!’

Of course not. Always some caveat. I shared the news with Ralph, Maxi and Vette, and the four of us were excited about our impending sojourn. Maxi was also understandably riled.

‘Christ! It was
eight
years ago that I posed. When is she gonna let up?’

‘Never. She’ll take that one to her grave.’

That was Sylvia. But we intended to have fun, even if Maxi had to pay her own way.

The weather when we arrived late Saturday morning was groovy. The hotel and our rooms were groovy. And we all felt ... groovy. Each room had two single beds. Ralph and I shared one room, and Maxi and Vette shared the other. Although I’d reconnected with Reuben and we’d gone out a few times, none of us were in serious relationships, so we could let our hair down. And that night, we did—band-watching, dancing and drinking at the Playroom Nite Club. We planned to spend the next day, my birthday, relaxing around the pool.

At breakfast, Ralph, Maxi and Vette surprised me with my gift. They’d all pitched in and booked me in for a mid-morning massage at the hotel. I was excited; it would be my first ever massage. And at five to ten, I left them lounging poolside and took off for an hour’s worth of bliss.

The tall, tawny-haired girl manning the corner reception desk of the hotel’s small health and fitness centre was expecting me. Her left breast was called April (the nametag said so).
Was her right one called May?

‘Good morning!’ April’s owner was a chirpy one.

‘Hi. I’m booked in for a massage. Ruth Roth.’

‘Yes. Happy twenty-first birthday!’

‘Thank you. Actually, I’m twenty-five. It’s a belated present.’

‘Well ... better late than never!’

I thought of Sylvia. I think of Sylvia every time I hear a cliché. I wanted to get away from Sylvia, but here was her shadow, like an eclipse on the horizon.

‘So, how are you this morning? Are you enjoying your stay?’

‘I’m well, and yes I am, thanks.’

April then introduced me to Cheryl. ‘So, how are you this morning? Are you enjoying your stay?’ Cheryl asked as she escorted me past a small gym and to the massage studio.

I was still well, thanks and yes, I was still enjoying my stay. Thanks. Cheryl opened a squeaky door to an airy room, softly lit and very pink. Shag carpet, walls, cabinets, massage table, the folded towel on the massage table—all various shades of pink.

‘Just strip down to your underpants, no bra, lie face down on the massage table, and cover yourself with that little towel. The masseuse won’t be long.’

As instructed, I undressed, climbed onto the table and wrestled with the towel as I tried to pull it up over me and flip onto my stomach at the same time. I lay there for about a minute staring through the headrest hole at the table’s cold metal legs, and then I heard the door squeak open and close. I was now staring at a pair of feet in white (not pink) Dr Scholl’s leather clogs. They had rows of equidistant holes in them, probably a good thing if you’ve got a sweaty feet condition.

‘Good morning, my name’s Dee.’

That’s not a name; that’s a cup size.

‘How are you this morning? Are you enjoying your stay?’

Jesus! It’s happened. I’m officially in Stepford!

‘Good, thanks and yes, thanks.’

‘That’s the way!’ Dee had a sing-song, nasally voice. ‘I’m going to oil you up in a just a minute.’

And the door? The door could do with a little oil.

Dee continued talking right over my thoughts, ‘I’ll pop on some relaxing music and we can get started.’

Clack-clack-clack—
the familiar sound of riffling through a stack of audiocassettes. But it was a rhythmic sound, so they were obviously neatly arranged, and not just thrown haphazardly into a box. A good sign of someone who works methodically. Thirty seconds later, the cries of an orca burst out from the speakers.

‘How’s that? Okay with you?’

Hell no, and it wouldn’t be okay with Greenpeace either!
‘Ooh, it’s a wee bit unsettling.’

A brief silence. Some more clacking.

‘This better?’ she asked over the sound of harps and running water.

‘Umm ... that’s a bit
wee
unsettling.’

Maybe Dee got the play on words. Maybe she didn’t. Either way, it seemed she was unimpressed. Her silence now was a heavy one, and the clacking got loud and impatient. I heard her thought transference:
what a pain in the arse this one is.
I felt ashamed, and one of Sylvia’s ritualised chants echoed in my head: ‘You’re a difficult child!’ But the roar of a waterfall, like a thunderclap, suddenly and frighteningly filled the room and drowned out both transference and mantra, and brought to the surface a genuine fear of death by drowning. And not
just
my spirit drowning. This time I would have to be resurrected, which means coming back into a new body.
Shit
. What if I came back into one like Zelda’s? I started hyperventilating. Dee noticed this and must have softened because I felt her hand on my back.