A ridiculously short sleep did nothing to deter the bounce in my step. If Snip had bags to pack, he would have been packing them, but lately he was all too discombobulated by my newfound and increasingly common feelings of happiness. It wasn’t what he signed up for, all those years ago. He was old, set in ways, and comfortable with my cranky moods. Plus he was a dog, and dogs didn’t generally have bags to pack their stuff into.
The birds were up early today. For all I knew they were up this early every day, I certainly wasn’t privy to the goings on of the world at this time—seven a.m. Wow, it may as well still be yesterday. For the first time in a long time I put some makeup on. The foundation was out of date and the mascara was more clumpy than smooth, but if felt good to care about how I looked. It felt good to want to look good. I pretended it was for me, but since I could hear my own, deep and secret inner thoughts, I knew it was for Mike.
Another first for a very long time, I half walked, half jogged to the radio station. The air smelt sweeter today. I waved and smiled at Kali from the other side of the street as I power walked past. Kali frowned and hugged the pile of books she was carrying closer to her, using them as a shield against the strange, happy creature who was prancing around in my body.
Flying through the gate of the studio, I opened the door with such excitement it left a slight dent in the wall. Guilt was quickly pushed aside, nothing was going to spoil my day today, not even the destruction of other people’s property. I was about to change Mike’s entire life, he was going to be so pleased that I had taken the initiative and booked something as brilliant as a sunrise hot air balloon. There was no time to waste. Happiness like this only comes around a few times in a lifetime. I think.
“What the hell do you mean hot air balloons in Myanmar?” Mike’s reaction was a little underwhelming.
“I mean—I’ve booked us a ride on balloons.” I sounded small.
“You said that. What I don’t understand is why.” His arms were folded across his body and he was clearly freaked out.
“Because I thought you could use a chance to get out of your head, because I wanted to help you, do something for you, and at the time this seemed like a really good idea.” I was starting to panic.
“What? Rosie, this is crazy! Not long ago you couldn’t stand the sight of me, and now you want to take me for a romantic balloon ride at sunrise. It’s not normal!” I didn’t remember actually using the word romantic. I really, really hoped I hadn’t.
“How do you know it’s romantic?” I asked him. I was impressed with the calmness of my voice.
“Well, isn’t it?” He was right, it wasn’t normal. It had seemed like such a good idea at two a.m. last night, but now the whole situation was making me look like a crazy, desperate woman. It had just been so long since I had opened my world to anyone, I got carried away.
“I love Lee,” Mike continued. “I won’t love anyone else. I only love Lee, and I always will.” His voice was strained, like he was teetering on the edge of a cliff and his footing was slipping. Any minute he would fall off, lost in the black below.
“It’s okay, Mike, You’re right. I’m sorry. It is weird, totally weird. I’m weird.” The tears were forming behind my eyes. I willed them not to fall, not to show themselves to Mike. “I wasn’t suggesting you love me or fall in love with me, I was just suggesting a hot air balloon ride, something different—for both of us. I think I got overexcited about having a new…friend.”
“Rosie, you could have as many friends as you wanted if you were nice to people.” Mike sighed as though his energy reserves had completely run out. He looked tired and I know how he felt. We were both in danger of tumbling off the cliff, but at least we might fall together.
“Well, that’s what I’m trying to do.” This was getting exasperating. Which one was it? Obviously, I’m a weirdo if I try to be nice to people, but that was a risk I was willing to take, for Mike anyway. Not that my first attempt was going very well.
“Thanks for the gesture,” he said after a prolonged silence in which I had busied myself playing with the station’s phone. “No one has done anything like this for me since Lee died…I was caught off guard. But I would never have let anyone get away with something like this before, either. Okay, let’s go on a hot air balloon ride in Bagan—as nuts as this is—I could use an adventure.” Sinatra was singing “Fly Me to the Moon.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, putting the phone back in its cradle.
“I think so. Are you going to actually be nice to me? Are you going to be able to be nice to me for the duration of the conference? It’s a big thing for you.” He managed a smile, hidden in the sprawling patch of confusion that had almost engulfed the room.
“I’m trying not to be offended by that question, but I understand why you’re asking it.” Suddenly, realisation dawned on me. “Mike! See! Only recently I would have been so angry at you for asking me that, which would have turned into weirdness and surliness. But yay me! Emotions in check!”
“I’m happy for you,” Mike said, a faint smile playing on his lips. “I have to get back into the studio.
“We leave for Myanmar on Monday, can you believe it?” I did the calculations in my head. “Four more sleeps to go!’
“I know. I’ll drive us to the airport. I’ll pick you up at seven a.m. on the Monday,” he said.
“Seven a.m.? Can we get a coffee on the way?” I was horrified. Just because I got up at some inhuman hour this morning, didn’t mean I wanted to make a habit of it or, ever do it again really. I liked the world to be churning away, going through its motions and well into its daily routine before I decided to join it. Chirping birds or not.
“No. It’s better to be early than dead on time. Anything could happen. We don’t want to miss the flights and then miss, god forbid, the sunrise hot air balloon ride.” And there he was, the arrogant man I knew before the modern interpretation of Mike I had been getting to know. I wondered if this character flaw came out when he was under emotional pressure, or just good old fashioned stress. But denying me one coffee wasn’t as bad as my not-so-brilliant plan to look more and more like I was the weird one in all of our dealings. I started to lose even more confidence and freak over why he had agreed to go ballooning with me in the first place.
Be patient, love.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, Dad! First, I need to be nice to people, then I need to lose some weight, and now I have to be patient. Do you want me to get world peace whilst we’re at it? Dad didn’t answer me. He never used to when I was mad, so I don’t know why he would start in death.
In a perfect case of serendipity, maybe Mike had agreed to go with me because I was the one who needed help, not him. I felt my face redden at the thought. All this self-reflection was gruelling. And embarrassing. At every turn, I was finding a new version of myself that was less than desirable. I had always liked myself, but it was becoming apparent no one else really liked me, and they were right not to. God, I was weird.
“Fine, seven a.m. it is,” I said. Sinatra crooned “My Way.” I wish, Old Blue Eyes.
Seven a.m. for a flight that leaves at nine a.m. makes sense if you have the discipline of the army running through your veins. All I had was sugar. I hoped the coffee at the airport would be drinkable, yet I knew it wouldn’t be. But this was about Mike, an experiment into what it consists of and how it feels to do things for other people. So far it had consisted of not getting my morning coffee and it felt a little like rage.
Mike marched into Studio One to continue his show after the news break, signalling the end of the conversation. I sat at the computer in Studio Two and started to prepare for today’s Airwaves of Attitude. My last show for a whole four sleeps. A shiver of excitement coursed through my body, as though a tiny, hyped-up-on-sugar fish was swimming in my blood, which actually made sense. Anything swimming in my blood would probably die from a sugar overdose. The thought made me giggle and I forgot to be mad that Mike didn’t notice my brilliant mathematical skills. Anyone who could count four nights’ sleep using their fingers was brilliant in my books.
The songs of Sinatra and Bennett were calling me today. Crooning voices from eras when women weren’t needed for a lot, weren’t allowed to do a lot, but where romance was the main objective of most undertakings, if you judged entire decades by the songs they produced, which I did.
Was I being romantic? Did I even have the right to be romantic with Mike? Perhaps he was more the type of man who liked to do the romancing and not be romanced by a woman. If this was the case, we were in for a few more clashes. So far it was pretty obvious that we both liked to be in control. But the few things he had said about Lee, she seemed to be a pretty independent woman, and Mike had no noticeable issue with that. Her death really was a tragedy. Not only because her death had left an obvious and potentially unfillable void in Mike’s life, but because she was young and clever and was supposed to do something with her life. Not just die because an unknown person shot her in the back.
Perhaps the time of the crooners was the time Mike belonged in. I smiled at the thought, despite the heaviness of Lee’s death weighing on my newly discovered heart. I could see Mike twirling around in a white tie and top hat. Sinatra sang “I’ve Got the World on a String.” I would use this song to open my show today. If the string was sturdy, more like a chain than a string, and if Mike cooperated, I could indeed have the world. As long as you try to be nice and improve the plethora of personality defects you have created over the years. And lose weight, I added.
Mike’s theme music broadcast the beginning of his show. The twanging tune from “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance”—an ironic gesture of revolt against country music some thought, me included, was played too much at the station. But for every person who hated country music there was one who loved it. So, country music was played at the station. A lot.
At least I hoped Mike’s theme music was ironic.
“That’s right, folks, it’s time for One Less Bushman with your old pal, Mike. You are tuned into Pindari’s very own True Blue FM.” Was it just me or had Mike’s voice gotten sexy suddenly? I didn’t remember ever listening to Mike’s show before. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it was. Still nowhere as good as mine though.
The theme music faded and Mike launched into a story about a female firefighter from the local area who was changing the gender inequalities within the Australian fire brigade.
“Bronnie has played professional Rugby Union in Australia and America, has a bachelor’s degree in sports science, and is an avid property investor. But these aren’t the things that make Bronnie an inspiring woman. The inspiring part of her story begins in 2014 when she was promoted to Fire Station Manager.” Listening to his segment, I thought he had a natural journalistic streak. He was showing glimpses, just slight slivers of intelligence and respect for women, cartwheeling in and out of his consciousness, that were suggesting the arrogance was a front, an on-air personality. Or, that I had fabricated a complete personality for him. Suddenly I was hopeful.
Myanmar was in four sleeps, so I would find out for sure what kind of man Mike was then. No way would he be able to hide his true self with our adjoining rooms and me basically obsessing over him, but in a suave and sassy way. If there was such a thing. I would also find out what kind of woman I was, apart from suave and sassy, of course. I was in for a huge undertaking and I was as nervous as I was excited. God, please let me turn out to be really nice and sexy and tall.
***
Saving my long list for today, I knocked on the door of studio one as the latest Rhianna song started.
“I’m heading to the medical centre tomorrow for my vaccinations. Want to come and get yours?” I asked Mike. “We can see who’s the toughest. It will be me, though.” I looked at the muscles pulling at his t-shirt. “It might be me.” I put my head down. “But most likely it won’t be.”
“I’m all up to date, thanks. Army.” He pointed to the crease in his inner elbow, as if I was supposed to be able to see the needle marks. There were no marks there, only a crease of perfection. “Best interest to keep up with the jabs.” I was a little disappointed that beautiful and sensitive and kind Mike wasn’t going to be keeping me company whilst old, sick people coughed into the air I would be breathing. Oh for heaven’s sake, Rosie, don’t be so dependant! You’ve been to the doctor before all by yourself, you can do it again.
I nodded in agreement with myself and trudged towards the medical centre. Okay, so Mike wasn’t as thrilled as I thought he was going to be. But he was going and I was determined to be happy with that. If he liked me so far, despite my despicable tendencies, then logic dictates he would like me more once he got to know a happier me.
The skip was back in my step.
Dr. Harrison was on duty today and I groaned inwardly. I had been stalwart in my attempts to avoid this doctor.
“Rosie, come through,” the torturer said with clipboard in hand. “What can I do for you today?’
“I’m going to Myanmar and I need all the vaccinations.”
“Okay, we can do that,” Dr. You-Eat-So-Much-Sugar-I-Think-You-Have-Diabetes said, nodding to the nurse.
“Rosie, whilst I’ve got you here, I would really like to do a complete check on you. I know your diet leaves a lot to be desired, and you’re fast approaching thirty, so your body will not be able to metabolise the rubbish you put in your system as well as it used to. You eat so much sugar, I think you have diabetes.” And there it was.
Looking closely at my nails, I refused to make eye contact.
“Rosie,” he continued, as though he was actually getting somewhere, “sugar is a drug. An addictive drug. It can put holes in your brain. Let me do a blood test.”
“Fine.” I still refused to make eye contact. One blood test to keep Dr. You-Eat-So-Much-Sugar-I-Think-You-Have-Diabetes quiet. I need not know the results. And that’s the wonderful thing about being an addict. You can get help whenever you want. Often people are queuing at the door to offer their services, usually so they can feel better about their own lives. But you don’t have to open the door a moment before you want to. The door to Dr. You-Eat-So-Much-Sugar-I-Think-You-Have-Diabetes will be staying closed for a while yet. And dead bolted, just to be sure.