Fiction II

The Same Rules Apply

   When Rome challenged Carthage for control of the West Mediterranean from the third century onwards, a lot of stuff happened. Houses were burnt, boats got sunk, bad stuff involving elephants and people being killed in general. The Third Punic War (149 – 146 BC) was a fairly gruesome war. The Romans, under Publius Cornelius Scipio Aemilianus Africanus Numantinus got as far as the city of Carthage in their conquest and then destroyed it. Now, the important thing is that Carthage had been an object of many Romans’ hatred since even before The Punic Wars (264 BC) began, and the Romans pretty much hated everything about Carthage. So when, your friend and mine, Publius, ransacked and destroyed Carthage, it was a fairly big deal. He wasn’t content however with the mere destruction of an empire, he ordered that salt be sewn into the ground so that nothing would grow there. Then, a 25-year prohibition on the inhabitancy of Carthage was implemented. So Carthage lay barren for a long, long time. Can you say, overkill?

Sometimes, I feel like Carthage.

   May 16 is my birthday. My parents aren’t exactly big on birthday presents because they’re not exactly big on me. My friends, well, they’re not really big on birthday presents either because who has money to spend what with the economy in shambles and the GST and whatnot. Usually, I spend my birthday’s alone and by myself, maybe with my music, maybe with a book and I don’t mind. It’s not as though I look forward to my birthday every year, expecting anything grand or happy, “So I was born, big deal!”. I was surprised when she sent me a card.

   Dated May 14^th, our would-be 23^rd month anniversary, the card itself was pretty bad. I should’ve seen the signs. There was a picture of a camel on it, with the caption “I would’ve got you something better, but there was a hump in the way.” Of course, I didn’t want to find the card funny, but even with the benefit of hindsight, that’s not even remotely funny. Did the camel know he was being used in horrible, horrible birthday cards? I think the people at Hallmark should speak to the camel’s lawyer. That camel is in for a huge cash settlement.

   As I opened the card, an HMV gift voucher fell out. $50. $50? Now her debt was down to $70. $50! That’s 2 CDs. Nice. Nice? Nice! I was pretty close to ringing her back and saying thankyou. In fact, I had picked up the phone, and my finger was incredibly close to pressing the 6 after I’d dialled the 9. The 6 would’ve brought about the other seven numbers, and inevitably my downfall. I was very, very close. The card had the same tripe I expect is on every birthday card ever written “Happy Birthday, you’re real special, thanks for nothing, signed some jerk.” Well, this time, some jerk was Sara and “thanks for nothing” was replaced with “I miss you, let’s get back together.” I hung up the phone. I never got past the 9 ever again.

   I don’t think I’d ever been asked by an ex-girlfriend if I wanted to get back together with her. It’s an incredibly empowering feeling. When Peter Parker realised the radioactive spider that bit him had given him a whole bunch of cool powers he probably felt nice, maybe even good. But however good he felt, however nice he felt, discovering you’re the most agile being the world has ever experienced, that you can crawl up walls and that you have super human strength among other thing, is nothing, nothing compared to an ex-girlfriend uttering those four words and letting you know the humiliation they put themselves through to bring those words to you. It’s even more empowering when the first thought which enters your head is “Fuck off.”

   It’s sort of funny how life works out though. Funny when it happens to them anyway. I wonder how funny it would seem if you were Dr Strangelove. That aside though, maybe a week later, I was lying on my bed. My head was squashed against the pillow in that really uncomfortable, yet comfortable enough to make you too lazy to move way that happens every night as you’re trying to go to sleep. My mind started to wander and I started hating Sara. I started hating her for dumping me, hating her for wanting me back, hating her for giving me a present I was obliged to eventually thank her for. The whole situation sucked.

   In my hand I held the gift voucher, this one item was the sole cause of my dilemma. $50 is a pretty big gesture of good faith, which meant that she had somehow convinced herself that just telling me alone how she felt was worth $50. It meant that much to her, and I felt bad taking her money – even as a birthday gift – while in the back of my mind still thinking “Fuck off”. Nobody’s that evil. I resolved to tear it up. To rid the world of this ball of hate, that’s what it had become, a reason for me to hate her.

   I slowly turned the piece of paper in my hand, holding it above me as I lay on the bed. I didn’t know whether or not I was doing the right thing, but it was all the same to me then, my mind was angry. I can remember noticing, as I turned, the date on the gift vouchers. 24^th of April. Almost a month ago. I can remember thinking to myself that she must’ve been contemplating this for weeks before she even sent the card to me. Those weeks must have been hell for her. I hadn’t spoken to her since we broke up, so I wasn’t sure how long she’d been single for, or if she still was single. Had she been thinking like this while they were still together? Then, as if my eyes had suddenly decided to start sending messages to my brain like they should, I realised the date on the vouchers was 24^th of April 2000, and that below the date it said “NULL AND VOID 12 MONTHS AFTER PURCHASE”. If there is one thing in this world I will eradicate, given I the chance, no question, it will be small print.

   For lack of a better explanation, I was had. Expired HMV vouchers. The fucker. Then, I started to wonder whether she had done it on purpose, whether the White-out tape underneath where my name was written was her money troubles or just plain evil. I thought to look back in the envelope for clues. I had become a private eye, betrayed by the long legged beauty that walked into my smoky office pleading her case.

   A small note had eluded my eye at first glance. I always wondered about its significance afterwards. I always questioned whether or not the words “Gotcha Sucker” were grammatically correct. Whether there should have been a comma after Gotcha. Gotcha, short for “Got you” would not work in the phrase Got you sucker, unless “sucker” was something she had got me which did not require a ‘the’ or an ‘a’ before it, for instance if it were the name of a country she had gotten me. My current view is that it should have read “Gotcha, Sucker.” Got you, Sucker. Sucker is turned into a proper noun because it’s, apparently, my name.

   When someone hurts you as badly, as much, and as wilfully as she hurt me, as easy as it is to say you’re over it, it’s like she invaded, conquered, destroyed and ransacked me, then sewed the ground with salt, so that nothing would ever grow again. I think there’s a huge conspiracy of women out there who like to do this sort of thing, and Sara called together a meeting shortly after she’d sent the salty birthday card, and had explained to the entire group that occupancy of Carthage was forbidden under penalty of death, or exclusion from the Bitter Wench Club. Wouldn’t it explain a lot?

   She rang me. She fucking well rang me. She called me up to see how I was doing. It was a few weeks after my birthday now. She didn’t ring me up to apologise or anything, or even to really explain herself, I had to grill her for answers.

   “Hi, is Darren there?”

“Yeah, it’s me, who’s this?”

“We went out for over a year and you don’t recognise my voice?”

“Oh, it’s you. Whaddaya want ‘cause I’m.. .. busy right now and not in the mood for any of-“

“Sorry, I just called you up to see how you were doing, obviously not that well.”

“Well, I was doing heaps well until about 30 seconds ago. How’re you Sara? You’re in horrible pain because you sold your soul to the devil? That’s great to hear. Anyway, gotta go, bye!”

“Darren, wait. I just wanna talk.”

“Okay, let’s talk. Why did you do it?”

“Not about that, I want to-“

“Right now, I don’t give a damn what you want to talk about, okay? So just please, answer my question, why did you do it?”

“Can’t we talk about something else? That’s all in the past.”

“Hey, if I ever drag you naked through the streets of pain and agony, I’ll have the decency to-“

“I was angry!”

Silence. Breathe, 1, 2, 3. Breathe, 1, 2, 3.

She continues. “I was angry because you gave up on me really easily. I loved you. I really loved you, and do you know how much it hurt to know that you didn’t care enough to even call me after we broke up?”

   After that, the conversation deteriorated at the same rate my heart was shrivelling up. The more she told me how much her joke was my fault, the more I believed her, and the more I wanted to hang up. We weren’t Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde anymore, I was Dr. Frankenstein, she was my monster. That night I cried, I really, really cried. I told myself that she was stupid, and unreasonable and neurotic, but I couldn’t grip the fact that she wasn’t me anymore. Every time I called her stupid, I called myself stupid, and as unreasonable as she was, I must’ve been exactly the same. My demons were back.

   Not content with allowing Sara to win, I took those HMV vouchers and headed into HMV a few weeks later. I’m a fairly honest person when it comes to people I’ve never met before. People I’m more than mere acquaintances with are there merely to be abused and for me to lie to, but people I don’t know, well, they’re the people who one day, I might abuse, and I don’t want to risk that by lying to them. I walked down the stairs into the Pitt St store and turned right towards the counter. I showed the nice girl there my vouchers and gave her my sob story about the horrors of being dumped and the unfairness of life in excruciating detail. Then I realised what I was meant to be explaining to her and told her how I didn’t want to let my ex-girlfriend win, so if she just let me.. … “That’s fine. Go and get something. It’s not as though I would’ve checked the date anyway.”

Thankyou.

   I picked up the Scared Weird Little Guys CD and possibly the greatest British Film ever made, “Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels” (directed by Guy Ritchie, in typical Guy Ritchie style) on video and headed over to the nice girl. She looked about my age, maybe a bit older, and she gave nods of approval accompanied with that face people do where they stick their chin out and fold their bottom lip partially over to prove to you that their nod of approval is genuine. She scanned and bagged and cash-registered, then she dropped a bombsell.

   “Y”know what, it must be a really hard time you’re going through right now, so if you like, need anyone to talk to or anything, here’s my number.”

“Oh, uh.. um.. uh, Thanks, really but..”

“Look, just take the number, you don’t have to call it, I’m Chantal, and you are?”

“My name’s Darren. Um.. yeah. Uh. Listen.. you-“

“Shh, Darren.” She emphasised my name to show me she knew who I was. “Just go home, take your video and your CD and if you need someone to talk to, call me.”

   My mind was racing, I wasn’t sure what I should be doing. There is no movie scene ever where this has happened. No possible scene from any movie, book, song or any anecdote ever, that has involved expired HMV Vouchers from an ex-girlfriend, leading to getting the phone number of a gorgeous girl who worked in a CD store! A CD store! I think I must’ve stood there staring at her for 4 – 5 seconds before deciding on the most appropriate thing to do at this point. I smiled, like the film noir private eye I had become, “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid” and walked up the stairs, fairly satisfied with the day’s shopping.

   Either that 25 year ban went past real quick, or this one missed the conspiracy meeting where Sara was guest speaker. In 122 BC a new city, Colonia Junonia was founded where Carthage stood, maybe this was it. I completely forgot about her the second I got home. Of course it seemed odd that a girl who looked like a hybrid Martina Hingis in 1997 / Janeane Garofalo in 1985 (before she went into show biz) would give me her phone number. I mean, the Expired HMV Voucher story is a great story, but it’s nothing to cream your jeans over – especially if you’re a girl. I got home, watched my movie, listened to my CD, and by that time, I’d completely forgotten about ringing her.

   I’ll tell you right here and now that cynicism saves you a lot of pain. A few weeks later my friends asked me “Whatever happened to the chick from HMV who gave you her number?” and I realised then that I didn’t know. I hadn’t called her back. I explained this to my mates who took this opportunity to question my sexuality. “You said she was hot man, what, so you don’t like hot women anymore? Would you rather a bit of man-love?” That was it, I had to call her, if for nothing else than to shut them up and make the pain stop, I had to call her. So I did.

“Hello?”

Silence.

“Hi! Who’s this?”

“Oh um.. Can I talk to Chantal?”

“Yeah, I’m Chantal, who is this?”

“Oh sorry, I’m Darren. We met a while ago at HMV and you gave me your number. I was just wondering if you wanted to- “

“Darren? How long ago, sorry, I don’t seem to remember you.” I thought this was the same game I’d played with Sara 2 years ago, it wasn’t.

“Oh. Well –“

“How did you say you got my number again?”

“Uh, you gave it to me. I had these expired HMV vouchers and I was in the shop and you-“

“Oh! Hah. Darren. Right.” She did the thing with my name again. “Yeah, you took a while to call me didn’t you.”

“Oh well, I figured-“

“Listen it doesn’t matter. I know who you are now. You must’ve been part of the project?”

“Project? Project! What?”

“Oh um. Shit, where to begin. Okay, I’m at uni studying Social Science and I had to do this assignment. Yeah, they-“ I heard these words, and I kept repeating the word “Fuck” in my brain. “wanted me (fuck) to (fuck) conduct social research (fuck.. fuck.. fuck.. fuck..). Anyway, I was (fuck of all fucks) giving out my (fucking) number to a lot of guys (fuck, me) and I was seeing how (fuck) long guys (fuck) take to call back (fuck). If you care, um (fuck) I gave my number out to 30 (fuck!) guys and you’re the 29^th (fuck?) to call back. That’s pretty (fucking) good.” I feigned a laugh, well, tried to. It came out as if a clown had put a vice on my testicles and was doing a funny dance in front of me while he tightened it. “ha ha ough. ha.”

   Colonia Junonia only stood for 30 years, when the people found they couldn’t grow any crops there, and that the Romans only sent them there for social research. After that, Carthage stood barren until 46 BC when Julius Caesar proclaimed a new city should be built there. I’ve got about 50 years to wait until someone declares me inhabitable. Until then, I may as well just be bitter and treat every girl I take a fancy to with contempt. Build up them walls, right?

I hate phone calls.