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Sport 29: Spring 2002
Kirsten
Kirsten
You always keep this hope in the back of your mind that dinner with the old gang will go well. The date will suit; no one will arrive late or rush off halfway. Taboo topics will remain undisturbed. We'll tell the legends about the past, make self-deprecating asides about who we've become and leave feeling nostalgic, though not so much that we want to change places with our old selves.
I call Samantha, who says she's forgotten completely, but I sense in the background Shane's jutting cheekbones and needy sarcasm. Andy is playing pool. He can't be reached. Chris is not drinking so it doesn't seem right to ask him whether there'll be alcohol. Dinner for seven is now dinner for four, and none of us will say why.
I'm late. I missed my bus, found a taxi, and am set down near the restaurant. I look inside but don't recognise anyone. The city, though, is closing around me. Old memories of the streets have returned. I walk through them easily, but uncomfortably. Being somewhere foreign is exciting. Each step holds the possibility of error. That this risk is now absent doesn't mean I'm less alive, just less interested in certain romantic measurements of life: worry, emotional crisis. Engagement with your environment might also be a vital sign. I've started to take political positions in conversations. These are more conservative than those I might have entertained before I left, but I wear them less heavily. They're only ideas.
Cars jostle up the street. I scan their headlights but give up when I remember that Samantha drives a white Honda Accord. The streets in the countries I visited were always full, day or night. Though the population density may be lower here, the people seem larger, less remote and paradoxically more evasive. You're forever bumping into acquaintances on the streets in this town yet the moment you need backup, like now, you're on your own. Kirsten is strong and outgoing. When we were at varsity we once rolled her up in a length of carpet and she totally freaked out, crying. Black uniforms fill the pavement, group and then disperse, leaving the Salvation Army citadel quiet. I see her, the other early bird, and already I'm apologising.
After everyone has gone, Kirsten and I sit in a bar. The table page 129 wobbles. It's Sunday night. ‘I think I'll stop drinking now,’ she says. The bartender nods. ‘I'll have a wine spritzer in a tall glass please.’ He turns in his crisp white shirt.
‘Samantha's gotten really skinny,’ says Kirsten. ‘That's why she wouldn't come. Food. And Shane, God, he's so manipulative. On New Year's Eve he gave her a present for next Christmas. We were all there, Neil was hilarious that night. Shane got her to open this box. A tiny skirt. Size 8. He said, “That's for Samantha to work towards.” I ripped into him. Thank you.’ The striped plastic straw in Kirsten's drink floats like an attenuated life preserver. I wonder if she's going to cry. She hasn't so far. Maybe she's past that stage. She rubs her nose. I remember observing her make the same gesture when we used to watch television in the lounge of our flat.
‘Bastard eh? The four of us were at this hotel in the Scottish Highlands. And Samantha was eating dry toast, that's all. We agreed to go sightseeing. Neil and I hit the piss the night before, but we got up and waited in the car park for Samantha and dickface. We were supposed to meet at 8.30. I don't think we even had breakfast. We waited and waited. Samantha appears at nine o'clock … carrying all her luggage.’
Kirsten smiles as if Samantha has suddenly appeared beside our table, her makeup hastily applied, two suitcases in tow. A pair of cowboy boots bisects her, heading for the toilet. The patrons in this place are restive, torn dollar bills searching for their opposite. Kirsten remains in the Scottish car park. I move uncomfortably. My trousers are too tight; I've put on weight. Mum says it suits me. At the corner of each eye inverted commas indent themselves in Kirsten's pink cheeks. Still mourning, she's as lean as a whippet.
‘We said, “Samantha. We're not going yet. We're just going sightseeing. We're coming back. We're staying here another night. What are you doing?” She just lay down in the car park. Right in front of the lobby. Oh my God! Neil and I didn't know what to do. Put her in the car or take her inside? Careful.’
I've leaned on the table, tipping it, making our drinks overflow. There's so much liquid it's as if the table's vitals have been speared. When this place was a dive the bartenders did not wear pressed white page 130 shirts. But we return; our parents favoured certain names for their bouncing babies.
Kirsten tells an old story. ‘I stopped fucking around in Norway. It was our last night there. My friend Sandy wanted to stay in the hotel. Typical. I said, “Come on, let's go out.” So we met these soldiers. We'd seen them that day at some war memorial. They lived down the end of this dirty-looking street. Sandy didn't even want to walk down it, but we ended up staying there. I've never drunk so much in all my life. We had this guy's bed, Sandy and me, and him. So we started going for it. I was so pissed. Sandy passed out. I was on top of him.’
Fresh drinks arrive. The table shifts but I catch it. I wonder if Kirsten was cold on top of this guy. Norway is always cold, isn't it? Of course it might not have been winter; she might have kept her shirt on. I've gotten very practical lately. Sometimes I work incredible amounts of overtime.
‘I looked over and Sandy's got her head over the end of the bed puking. And that's when I thought, “What am I doing?”’
Girls from here often become mattresses overseas. The guys would like to, but they don't have the same success, unless they go somewhere like Thailand; it doesn't count.
‘So when I got back I sent Neil a message. I'd been seeing him on and off for a while before going to Norway. There's nothing there, I thought. I've got nothing in common with him. He turned up that afternoon. The middle of summer, but he had dressed up. He had his good shoes on, and a suit and tie. He was carrying a daffodil. He looked so happy to see me.’
She's crying properly now, and I'm passing napkins. Six months ago she found Neil, in his best suit and shoes, still a fan of occasions, hanging from the cross beam in their garage. She's shaking, bumping the table; I'm trying to steady her and it, but the table is wet again. I'm crying too; the others couldn't get away fast enough tonight.