Lingerie For Felons (11 page)

‘Ah, Tony, it's you. You okay?'

‘Yeah, Lola. Few bruises tomorrow, that's all. Can you believe this shit?'

Indeed, I could not. You know, I really thought I'd found my groove teaching at the university. Math isn't like art or literature. You don't have to guess, or interpret. You have to uncover, discover. I love unravelling the mystery of it; showing the students something true. You can teach math, or astrology, or even macramé, but if you do it right, you show other people how to question, and questioning is at the very heart of all revolution.

Without it, how can you change anything? How can you even know something's wrong in the first place?

‘No, I can't believe it, Tony. I can't. It was all pretty peaceful.'

‘I know,' he nodded, running his hands through his short grey hair. ‘Some chanting and a few makeshift placards.'

‘I think one of the students may have mooned the Dean,' I offered, to ensure a full and frank appraisal. ‘More to relieve the monotony than anything else.'

‘Yeah,' Tony nodded. ‘I saw that. But no-one was breaking down any doors.'

My mind wound back over the events. Suddenly, we were being ordered to disperse, and we didn't. And then it had all gone to hell.

So, there I was. In the back of a cop car. Again.

And if I'd thought the Leprechaun was no fun, the guys hauling me into the car this time were enough to make you dial in for some prozac. They both looked to be in their thirties, with almost identical blonde buzz cuts and chiselled jaws. Something about the superior jut of their chins, and the rough treatment I'd seen them dish out at the sit-in, made my skin feel itchy. Like how my grandma used to say she could feel in her bones when it was going to rain, I could sense my own personal storm about to hit.

‘Wow,' I started. ‘I never knew they made Ken dolls in matching sets. You guys been dating long?' Tony looked at me like I was demented.

I knew Clark would be annoyed if he was here. I have this internal voice that always warns me not to do certain things, or reminds me of possible consequences. I think in other, more evolved souls, these voices are called consciences, but mine tend to get treated a little like traffic signals in Italy: a good idea, but generally ignored.

Anyway, lately my internal voice had started to sound a lot like Clark.

Like, I could hear him right at that moment saying ‘you don't have to kick down every door, you know, Lola. Sometimes, if you turn the handle, they just open' and I could picture his face. A long sigh, that eye roll he deploys when I go off on one of my rants.

Tony started to press himself closer to his door.

I tried to smile at him encouragingly, but he was too busy trying to catch the cops' eyes in the rear view mirror and give them a ‘don't know her from a bar of soap' shrug and a little smile.

They ignored him.

***

I tried explaining it to Clark, but I kept getting my words tangled up.

‘So, you just got caught up in it,' he offered.

‘Well, yeah. Kind of.'

‘Kind of?'

‘Yeah, well, technically I guess I kind of started it.'

‘How, Lola?' It wasn't that I was in trouble with Clark. He always called me Lola.

‘Look, Clark, I promise this isn't what you think it is. It's not about, you know...' I flapped a hand at him and he nodded quickly. He knew. ‘And I've really tried. Honestly. I've tried to keep my campaigns away from the university. But today was different.'

He exhaled noisily. ‘Different how?'

I reached out for his hand, but he busied himself with his pen and some papers. I snatched it back. ‘Three reasons.' I tapped my pointer finger on the little table, and let the safety of the numbers wash over me. ‘One: the woman they locked out of her office, Susie Ng, she's a friend of mine. Well, friend's a little strong, but we had stuff in common.'

He raised an eyebrow, and I knew what he was thinking. ‘No, honestly, Clark. Like, properly in common, not random stuff.'

‘Like what?' he sniffed.

‘Well, like we both have vaginas, for a start,' I huffed. ‘The only two in the whole school who do.' He shuddered at my directness, so I went on quickly. ‘And we've both had trouble with the Shrimp —'

‘You're going to have to call him Dean Shrimpton,' Clark interrupted. ‘Especially if this goes any further.'

‘Okay,' I agreed, biting my lip to stop words spilling out that I knew would only make Clark more distant. ‘Anyway, there's more. Two: they were making an example out of her, Clark. It makes my blood boil. Susie was appealing her suspension through the right channels. They had no right to lock her out.'

‘Everything's changed,' Clark nodded. ‘Of course they want to make an example out of her. They need to. It's just... It's just how things are right now. You can't blame people.'

‘I can blame people,' I snapped, slapping the table. ‘She didn't burn the flag that day. She was just there.'

‘She got arrested,' Clark pointed out. ‘And people are upset, Lola. And scared.'

‘Anyway,' I sniffed, trying to push down the sick acid that was rising in my throat. ‘Even with all that, even with Susie, I still didn't mean to get seriously involved. Especially today.' I reached for his hand again, and this time I didn't let him pull it away. ‘But something in me just snapped when I saw her there, sitting outside her office, refusing to leave. I sat down beside her and held her hand, and before I knew it there were ten of us. Twenty. And then more and more as word spread.'

He dropped my hand and pointed at me. ‘But you didn't need to get involved, Lola. There were others. You didn't need to.'

I could feel hot tears start to prick the back of my eyes. I so wanted him to get it. He was one of the good guys, wasn't he? He had to get it. ‘I love my job, Clark. It's true, I do. But some things are more important.'

Clark just sat there, nodding and listening, doing that careful, head-on-the-side deliberation thing I'd come to know so well over the previous three years. But every now and then this little nerve in his jaw jumped.

‘I am on your side, you know, Lola,' he started, but he didn't meet my eyes. ‘But you just don't get it. This could be serious. And the cracks you made in the car didn't help. I have to ask you something and you have to answer me seriously. Did you know about the bomb threat?'

‘What?' My head snapped up. ‘There wasn't any bomb threat.'

‘There was, Lola. Some guy calling himself Bryan said he was going to detonate a device unless Susie Ng was reinstated and the US laid off his Muslim brothers.'

I started laughing. Clark's jaw nerve jumped furiously, so I reached for his arm. ‘That had nothing to do with us. Bomber Bryan always rings the cops. He's an identity.'

‘Apparently not.'

‘Clark, listen to me. Last time he called he asked for the removal of all checkpoints from Gaza, a copy of
Hustler
and two bottles of Jack Daniels. They know who he is because he's too thick to make up a pretend name, and he always rings from the same booth. And…'

Clark sighed. ‘And?'

‘And he's not even Muslim.'

Clark sighed again. I knew he wanted to rescue me, but I also knew he needed me to appreciate it. Which is understandable, I guess. After all, what use is it being Superman if no one notices the suit?

‘Look,' he continued. ‘Is this about last night? I hope not. This is real, you know. They are actually pressing charges against some of the protestors.'

‘Really?' I said, studiously avoiding his question. ‘Who?'

‘Well, Bomber Bryan, for a start. And some guy who mooned.'

‘That is so crazy. Since when is mooning an offence?'

‘Jesus, Lola, of course it's an offence. Indecent exposure. Apparently one of the faculty officials was deeply offended.'

I snorted. ‘Huh. The Shrimp. His existence offends me.'

‘Anyway,' Clark continued as though I hadn't spoken, ‘I think I can get you a formal caution. It's a bit complicated though. Even though there's no formal record of last time, one of the officers remembers you from that other incident, and they might think they need to make an example. A…' He consulted his notes, ‘Constable Linus McNally.'

‘Wow, Baby Cop's moved up in the world,' I muttered. I looked at Clark's face and he was doing the pained thing. I tried hard to find the right lines. ‘Look, Clark, thanks. I'm glad you can…fix it. Do you think that'll mean my job will be okay?'

He leaned over and squeezed my arm. ‘Of course, Lola. I'll make it okay.'

I breathed out. That's how it had been since the beginning. Clark to the rescue.

From Transition Man to Superman — April, 1998

In the beginning, three years ago, Wayne was like tinnitus. Ringing in the ears. The low gush of my haemorrhaging heart was the backdrop to everything, no matter how hard I tried not to think about him. I'd only been with Wayne for a year, but without him I felt like I was a stranger to my life. I was conscious of everything I did, like I was watching myself in some documentary about heartache. I just wanted life to be unselfconscious again.

Heidi suggested meditation. It was a sign of how desperate I was that I agreed.

You know, I always cringe when white people ‘find' India. And never lose it again, no matter how hard other people try to hide it from them. ‘Raj', the New Jersey redhead who ran the yoga class, sported a Bindi and those hideous drawstring pants in which the genitalia roam free, making it look like he had this monstrous penis because its outline kept popping up in the most unexpected places, like a shadow puppet. Up at the hip. Down near the knee. I kept thinking
just put some briefs on and reign the thing in, for Pete's sake.

A nose ring does not a Buddhist make.

Anyway, every time ‘Raj' breathed ‘just relaaax', I got more and uptight. My internal dialogue went something like this:

Okay so just relax. Relax. Relaaax.

Momentary pause in thoughts.

Why can't I relax? What's wrong with me? Everyone else looks relaxed. I'm a freak. I'm the only human being biologically unable to relax. Okay, so enough. Just listen to what he's saying. Maybe he's giving out some hints about how to do it effectively. Pause to listen. Okay, so I need to concentrate on my breathing — in and out. In and out. Hang on… My God, is that a rattle I can hear in my breathing? Don't tell me I'm getting bronchitis. Great. Now I can have a broken heart and broken lungs.

And of course, all that quiet headspace simply left a great, big black hole through which Wayne strolled contentedly for the entire ninety minutes of the class. By the end of it, I was ready to jump the next plane to Sierra Leone.

When I got back to the apartment, Steve, unhelpfully and belatedly, declared himself unsurprised.

‘It's bullshit, Loll,' he declared. ‘Emptying your head, what a load of crap. Okay guys, I challenge you, try this. Try, as hard as you can, not to think about an elephant.' He paused for about a minute. ‘Okay, what are you both thinking about?'

‘Elephant,' Heidi and I both agreed in unison.

‘Mine's worse,' I added. ‘I'm thinking about a whole herd of them. Different colors, the whole thing.'

Heidi looked at me in disgust. ‘You are
so
competitive,' she breathed.

‘Ladies, please.' Steve was in full swing and not to be diverted by our bickering. ‘My point is, the only possible way not to think about an elephant is…'

Heidi and I both leaned forward. ‘Yeah?'

Steve beamed. ‘To think about a zebra.'

I saw big red spots in front of my eyes. ‘What the hell is your point?'

Steve held up his hands in front of him. ‘The point is, Lola, you have to distract yourself, not with nothing. With something. Or even better, someone.'

And I knew he was right.

And so, as awful as it is to admit, Clark was my zebra; the only thing standing between me and my great, big, trumpeting elephant. It had to be him — I couldn't use Heidi, Steve or any of the others; they were all too close to it. Being with them only reminded me.

So I started calling Clark every time my fingers itched to pick up the phone to call Wayne. It was like I was metaphorically putting my fingers in my ears and yelling ‘la la la la' so I couldn't hear the internal monologue that kept saying
call him, call him, call him, go to him, go to him, go to him.

At first, it was platonic things. A movie. A pizza. Then drinks. Then dinner. I wondered if he knew what I was doing, but, in typical Clark fashion, he said nothing. Then, one night, after about three weeks, he mentioned the elephant in the room, so to speak.

‘Lola, it's alright, you know.'

‘What?' I was suspicious. He was using the voice I'd heard him use back at the precinct. I had taken to thinking of it as the horse whisperer voice.

‘You can talk about Wayne if you want. I know what you're doing. I know you're frantically trying to keep busy so you don't think about him. And I know that's why you're calling me…like…every second day. I don't mind, you know. I just really like being with you. But maybe you should talk about it? With me. I'm a good listener.'

‘No thanks,' I responded. ‘I'm fine. Really.'

And so we didn't talk about it, but somehow the fact that he'd mentioned it changed things. I relaxed, in a way that ‘Raj' had been unable to achieve. I didn't have to pretend with Clark. And I actually started looking at him in a real way, not as a vital source of distraction and entertainment. I noticed how tall he was, and what nice, long hands he had. And how he had such a clever, multi-layered voice, that he used to great effect.

Within the week, the inevitable happened.

And it was really nice. Wayne hadn't been a selfish lover, but we'd both been so caught up in taking. Like vampires, sucking the very marrow from each other because we needed it to survive. With Clark, I could tell he was working hard to make sure I was happy. Sex was something he did for me. Out of politeness, in a way. And I liked it. Maybe not enough to stop the thoughts of Wayne, but enough so that they didn't interrupt all the time. Enough that they didn't hurt quite so much. Enough so I didn't jump on a plane to Sierra Leone.