How to Avoid Sex (15 page)

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…and Other Stories

Concentration Tongue

It started as a mere curio - writing the word ‘shoes’ on standard, lined paper. I was introduced to writing the word ‘shoes’ by my good friend, Carl. He had been doing it for a few months and, in that time, had become extremely proficient at writing that particular word. I couldn’t see the allure at first and was initially reluctant to engage in the activity. Carl suggested that I tag along to one of the group sessions he attended twice a week. He assured me that participation wasn’t necessary and if it made me feel more comfortable, I could simply watch from the sidelines. Being a Tuesday night, I had nothing better to do. At the very least, attending Carl’s ‘writing the word ‘shoes’ group’ would break up the monotony my week usually contained.

---

The writers’ group itself had no single locus of operation. Each new class was held at the home of a member, based on a simple rotating roster. The class I attended took place at the house of a lady called Linda. Thinking back, it was really Linda who inspired me to participate in the hobby. She wasn’t particularly attractive, interesting or intelligent, but there was this mosquito-like lingering quality that was strangely alluring.

I didn’t just jump in and start writing the word ‘shoes’ though. After Carl introduced me to the enthusiastic group of 20 or so members, I was guided to a well-cushioned spectator’s seat. A bowl of salt and vinegar chips sat within easy reach and I was far too weak-willed to deny its tangy charm. So I sat, stuffing my face with chips and watching. The members sat about the lounge room. Some were lucky enough to get a couch or an armchair but most had to resort to stools, fold outs or the ground. Then, in a strange unison, each pulled out a lined piece of standard paper and with tongues jutting from mouths in concentration, they began to write.

The writing continued ceaselessly for exactly 90 minutes. The vigour in which they carried out their writing was admittedly admirable. It was Linda who I watched the closest though. The concentration that played about her face summoned beads of perspiration to pop on her brow. Ropes of watery drool swung from her lower lip. Her writing hand scrawled in near-religious fervour. I could honestly say that never in my life had I exhibited such passion… for anything. It made me feel inadequate somehow.

After the writing component of the meeting concluded, a discussion was initiated. I was asked directly to share my thoughts on their hobby. I felt singled out unfairly but had a determination to speak truthfully and candidly. I admitted that although I couldn’t fault their obvious commitment, I didn’t understand the general thrust behind what they were doing. The choice of the word ‘shoes’ struck me as arbitrary and I let them know this. I queried the need to pluralise the word and wondered if perhaps ‘shoe’ would have the same effect. It would certainly sound less awkward in general conversation. Each and every one of them laughed at my apparent display of ‘naivety’. I was told outright that the only way I could hope to understand their hobby was to partake in it myself. They urged me to try writing the word ‘shoes’ when I arrived home. They were adamant that the act itself would be enough to help me understand.

I had a pretty strong conviction to ignore the group’s suggestion. That was until Linda approached me. I was waiting in the driveway for Carl, feeling a little annoyed by the attempted indoctrination. I was inhaling deeply on a cigarette when I felt a tug on my shirt. I jumped at the unexpected intrusion, sending Linda slinking backward like a startled animal. I apologised profusely and asked her what she wanted. I was expecting more writing the word ‘shoes’ related propaganda but instead, with grave tones, Linda warned me never to participate in their hobby. The way she uttered the word ‘hobby’ was ominous and cold. She told me that if I went down that path, it would mean the end of my life as I knew it. A few tears mapped her face and the way she shook was contagious. I wanted to know more, but she ran off, ducking behind some sparse shrubbery before I had a chance to question her. I could clearly see her behind the shrubbery. It was a poor choice of hiding spot, but if she was so intent on avoiding me, I wasn’t going to push it.

…

I didn’t talk much to Carl on the drive home and for whatever reason he didn’t try talking to me. I guess he could sense the agitation his group had caused. Linda’s words were percolating in my headspace like rotten coffee and scolding my brain. It was at this stage that I became certain that I would at least try to write the word ‘shoes’. I’m a fairly simple guy to work out when it comes down to it. Tell me not to do something and I won’t stop thinking about it until I’ve given it a go. It’s the reason I only have two toes and the reason my last dog was called Mrs. Felch.

That night, kneeling in my bedroom, stuck in a pose that approximated veneration, I placed a sheet of standard grade, lined paper on my bed. With a common, mass-produced ballpoint pen, I began to write, a little cautiously at first:

Shoes

I leant back a bit and stared hard at the word on the paper. A strange sensation coursed through me. It was the unmistakable feeling of having written a word, only with double the intensity. I wasn’t sure why the word had such an effect. I tried experimenting with other words:

Lip

Tuckshops

Quarry

Mint

Bradley

There was no doubt about it. The feeling garnered from these words contained nothing beyond the typical base-level sensation associated with the writing of a standard word. There was something about ‘shoes’ that simply hit all the right buttons. I even tried removing the pluralisation, but sure enough, the elevated feeling was nowhere to be found. My desire to keep writing the word ‘shoes’ began to far outweigh my desire to understand why it was important. For the rest of the night I
remained on my knees, writing the word again and again. With each repetition, I felt stronger and more alive. This was coupled with an ambiguous sense of achievement.

…

Morning hit and I was alarmed to find I had spent the whole night writing the word ‘shoes’. It was also confusing to note that despite the hours dedicated to the activity, I had only written it 12 times. There was no logical reason that such a short, simple word should take so long to write.

All I wanted to do was get better. I knew I could increase my writing speed if only I could spend a little more time. A quick glance at my clock revealed that time wasn’t something I had. Work was looming and despite an urge to call in sick, I did the right thing and left the writing behind. It would still be there when I returned.

The morning commute made apparent the immediate change that had occurred within me. Rather than concentrating on the pop music coughing through my headphones, my mind was on the fellow commuters. Usually these people passed me by in a blur of early morning humanity, but today I couldn’t help but wonder if any of them liked writing the word ‘shoes’. I studied each face closely, trying my best to ascertain whether I was looking at that face of an enthusiast.

I cast my mind back to the writing group. I tried bringing the face of each member into mental focus. The only commonality between them all was a distinct expression of devotion – of commitment. This wasn’t a trait I could readily project upon any of the faces on the train. It wasn’t a complete write off though, because on a few of them, I could swear that the word ‘shoes’ appeared on their foreheads. I wanted to approach these people and kiss them.

Work turned out to be a waste of time. I spent the day finishing an overdue report and felt a sense of relief upon completing it. This relief was short-lived when my supervisor, with eyes aflame, threw the report down on my desk. He demanded an explanation and looking at the report, I could understand why. Rather than mapping the quarterly growth of the glove department, I had written, very carefully, the word ‘shoes’ repeatedly - 19 times in all. I felt my stomach twist into a knot and
squeeze out its contents… right onto my supervisors loafers. I was given an official warning, a liberal spanking and sent home to think about things.

…

I had always been an exemplary employee and the warning should have imbued me with fear. I knew that fear was the appropriate reaction but I couldn’t summon it. Instead, without a second thought, I resumed writing ‘shoes’.

A few hours later, I picked up the phone and rang Carl. I was eager to attend another meeting. I was eager to see Linda again. What I wanted more than anything was to sit at Linda’s side, our concentration tongues jutted, both of us writing ‘shoes’.

The phone seemed to ring for years before Carl finally answered. He confirmed that a meeting was scheduled for Friday and gave me the address. I tried writing it down but all I managed was a feeble ‘sho…’. I tossed the paper aside, hoping that my memory would recall the address. Staring at the crumpled paper with the half written ‘shoes’, a feeling of anxiety slapped my face. I immediately retrieved the paper and continued writing.

The meeting was only two days away but in my mind that was a million eternities. There was still a part of me that understood the stupidity of my impatience, but that part was quickly growing smaller. What was it about writing that word that made me want to share the experience? Why was any of this important? These questions weren’t asked in hope of finding answers. They were just a way to kill time.

…

The feeling was unmistakable. I was now one of them. Less than a week since my initial exposure to the word ‘shoes’, I was already a convert. Everyone else in the group stared at me, beaming sickening smiles… all except for Linda. Despair painted her face like makeup. I felt guilty, but I was already too enslaved to my new ‘hobby’ to let guilt stop me.

Carl cautiously admitted that the group met nightly. He was concerned that admitting the extent of their involvement would turn me off. He may have been right, but the thought of nightly meetings was music to my ears.