Some things you need to know:
We meet on Wednesdays. We all wear Hello—My Name Is … stickers over our hearts. We do this, even though: 1. We all now know each other by name and 2. We really don’t give a shit. However, the group convenor, one Barbara Wandsworth (‘Baaaarbara’, as she delightfully pronounces), vigorously maintains that the success of these sessions depends on the performance of such nauseating tasks. She believes that they help us to ‘come together as one’ and prepare us all for the sharing, the healing, the learning and the whatnot. I’d rather my sticker read: Hello—My Name Is … Irrelevant. Perhaps I will try this out next week. I write that down.
We all sit on those blue plastic chairs that are usually stacked in a corner cupboard. The ones they bring out for the parents to sit on at sickly-sweet primary school Christmas productions that babies end up spewing down the back of and fat people trip over; the ones that people drag across the floor to sit closer to their friends, oblivious to the screeching sound they make as the legs skid and shudder from one side of the auditorium to the other. I think it’s rather ironic that they’re blue. Here, then (despite said chairs, various books, ancient grey carpet, and cream-coloured, wall-mounted radiators) are the contents of the room:
We take our seats and Barbara says:
‘So. Who’s going to start us off this week, then?’ Even though we know it will be Gerald, because he was last to speak the previous week and the last person from the previous week always starts the session the next week. But, rituals are procedures, are part of the process, are influential on the success of the sessions, are blah blah blah.
‘It was me last time.’ No shit, Gerald. Get on with it already.
‘Yes, Gerald. In your own time, love.’
‘Um, yeah. So, wasn’t I telling you guys about the waffle maker that has a smiley face on it? I mean, did I tell you the whole thing? I can’t remember. Anyway ... so ... you know ... basically ... you put the waffle mixture in and the thing cooks them, but there’s a sort of, well, there’s an imprint on the lid and when they’re cooked there’s a smiley face! Wasn’t I telling you about that?’
‘Yes, I think you were, Gerald. Very interesting. Would anyone like to comment on that?’
‘Incredible,’ I say.
‘Sounds nice,’ says Maggie.
‘Delightful,’ says Lindsay.
‘Rewa?’ says Barbara. (She says it like ‘Reeewah’. Drives me insane.)
‘Think my uncle’s got one of those.’
There is a long silence. This usually occurs after Gerald says anything. This is because Gerald is always amazed at things that are actually quite mediocre to everybody else. The things he talks about are either: 1. Things we’ve all heard of before, or 2. Things that don’t impress us in the slightest. Of all the technological advancements being made, I think to myself, he wants to bring our attention to a fucking smiley face waffle maker? I wonder what chemicals Old Spice consists of. I write this down.
‘Who’s next, then?’
‘I’ve been thinking about my morning breakfast routine,’ begins Maggie. ‘It’s all a bit silly, really. See, when I get my breakfast, I put my hand in the cupboard to get a bowl without looking. The thing is, I have two types of bowls stacked up together, some have blue rims and some have green. I say to myself, in my mind I mean, when I’m reaching in there, I hope it’s a green-rimmed bowl today because it’s my favourite colour and that will start my day off well and then the rest of the day will be good, too. It was a blue one this morning, unfortunately. Told you it was silly. Doesn’t anyone else have little things like that?’
‘Why don’t you just choose a green one if you like them so—’
‘Why don’t you just look?’ says Gerald. Lindsay crosses his legs and folds his arms.
‘They have a point, love. I mean, you don’t have to leave it to chance. You could make every day a green bowl day! What do you think, Reeeewah, dear?’ The bow wobbles.
‘Mmmm.’
‘It’s just, I don’t know, there’s something kind of in that. Don’t you think? I mean, of course I could just choose the green one but it’s just there’s something special, almost magical, about leaving it to chance. You know?’
Rewa looks at her shoes. Lindsay picks the dirt out of his nails. Gerald sweats.
‘Rewa love, would you like to share anything today?’ There is an excruciating pause.
‘I … ah … ’ she sighs, ‘I’ve been trying but I just can’t seem to put—’
‘Can you speak a bit louder?’ says Gerald. Maggie shifts in her seat. I look at Barbara to see what the ramifications of the interruption might be. Her bright pink painted lips are pursed. I note down that I should think of an adequate metaphor for this hilarious expression at a later date.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ says Rewa. ‘Can someone else go?’
‘I never saw a wild thing sorry for itself,’ announces Lindsay, profoundly, as if he’s just made it up. I roll my eyes. If I had a dollar for every time I’d heard people like us quote D.H. Lawrence, I’d be a goddamned millionaire and wouldn’t have to attend sessions like these to hear people like Lindsay quote me D.H. Lawrence. ‘I think there is far too much telling going on and not nearly enough sh—’
‘Oh how wonderful. Yes, Lindsay, yes. A very apt quote, well done. Does anyone have anything to add? Any comments?’
‘What are you trying to say, Lindsay?’ sweats Gerald.
‘I don’t feel sorry for myself,’ adds Maggie.
‘I do,’ I said. ‘But a bit of D.H. Lawrence isn’t going to make me feel sorry about feeling sorry for myself.’
‘I wasn’t trying to— ’
‘What was the point? We already feel inadequate Lindsay. That’s partly why we’re here. Perhaps you should be attending performance poetry sessions instead.’
‘Now, now, Gerald. Lindsay was simply giving us an alternative point of view. Trying to start some healthy discussion. Isn’t that also partly why we’re here? Hmmm?’
After twenty more minutes of that, we have cups of tea and glasses of orange juice and unexciting biscuits from an equally unexciting Tupperware container. Tupperware. My mind goes back to parties my mother once hosted, with cheese cubes and pineapple on toothpicks, and asparagus rolls eaten by ladies with big hair and bright coloured earrings. My mother had a terrible perm.
After the tea break, we resume our circular seating arrangement. The conversation is just as scintillating as before, so much so that I have difficulty containing myself. In fact, I begin to imagine myself in a Tupperware container. I write that down.
Lindsay is talking. ‘I know what I want to achieve, I just, it’s not—’
‘Ever tried making jam?’ asks Gerald. Rewa looks up. She has green eyes. This shit just got interesting.
‘I have. Me and my nan used to make apricot jam. We had two apricot trees at our old place. It’s not hard to make. Just a bit of sugar and boiling and stuff. You need to get it to the right temperature though and then you sort of test it on a saucer to see if it, like, congeals or whatever. We used to do heaps of preserving actually. I remember one time—’
‘Lovely, Reeeewah, lovely. If we could just go back to Gerald for a moment, though. Why did you say that, Gerald? Why did you ask about jam whilst Lindsay was talking about his difficulties with—’
‘It’s therapeutic isn’t it? I mean, going through the recipe, getting everything organised, sterilising the jars and making the jam and labelling it and then eating it, know what I mean? It’s preserving you know, that means something. I mean, isn’t that really what we’re—’
‘I see. Well if you could just wait until the person has finished speaking next time—’
‘You say mean a lot, Gerald. Are you aware of that?’ Maggie offers. ‘It’s quite interesting really, because just the other day I had my Chinese friend ask me what part of speech mean is and I said well it’s an adjective and a verb, because you can be a mean person, which is an adjective, or you can mean to do something, as in, intend. Isn’t that funny?’
‘It’s also a noun,’ says Lindsay, matter-of-factly, looking over his non-existent glasses at the group. ‘The mean, that is to say, the average. It’s also a noun.’
I write:
We talk a bit more and then, once the hour is up, we stack the chairs and put them in the corner cupboard and try not to look at each other. There is always this post-session shyness; as though we’ve all just seen each other naked and we are trying to forget about it. I walk out the door and flip to the back of my notebook and head towards the supermarket.
After purchasing the required items, I walk the three blocks to my flat and think of frozen birds wearing bow ties, falling into apricot jam in Tupperware containers placed in stacks of blue bowls balancing on stacks of blue chairs. And green eyes. I turn the key in the lock, force the door open, throw my satchel on the sofa and walk into my office. I peel off my name tag, and stick it on the noticeboard next to all the others; a red and white collage calling out to me: Hello. My Name Is … Hello. My Name Is … I look at the debris scattered across my desk: numerous pieces of scrunched up paper, scribbles on napkins, torn out notebook pages, Post-its, pens and pencils. I flick through my notebook. Congealed. Preserving. Jam. Meaning. Smiley-faced fucking waffles. I place the book on my desk and think of pursed pink lips and try to forget that tomorrow is Thursday.