Bob 'n Erin

(2nd in a series that began with Gregory http://poulsengregory.blogspot.com/2007/02/gregory.html )

It was a modern house in an affluent suburb. There was a paved driveway leading to the garage, with a garden and vegetable patch on one side and a tiled patio on the other. The warm spring air was fouled by the smoke that spiralled out of the chimney and drifted away into the clear blue sky.

A middle-aged man answered the door. He was slim and dressed in casual wear. Abraham showed me through to the dining room and poured tea. There was a boiled egg on the table with its top knocked off, together with a few slices of toast. His breakfast, he said. It was past noon.

After his breakfast, we went downstairs to look at the rooms. They were fully-furnished and even equipped with writing desks, lamps and electric heaters. The windows looked out toward the Ngaio hills.

"So, would you like to move in?" he asked me.

I could hardly believe my ears. No "I'll call you'' line, nor even any questions about my employment or references. They were far and away the nicest rooms I had seen, in the nicest house I had been to, the rent was similar to the others, and it was being offered to me right there and then. It was too perfect. I felt a strange urge to decline.

In the event I decided to accept, of course. Were there some hidden trap, I could always look for another place. But right then my priority was to find somewhere to live, and I wasn't going to do any better than this at short notice.

I moved in the following Saturday. It was not Abraham who answered the door, however, but an overweight fellow in a baggy, worn-out tracksuit who prised it open after I had rung the bell several times. His hair was a dishevelled bush of grayish-black, his jowls a mask of stubble. He would have looked at home among the drunks you saw rolling about in the bus shelters downtown.

He eyed me skeptically at first, before, having satisfied himself as to my reasons for being there, permitting me to move my things inside. These amounted to a bag of clothes, a few books and some toiletry, and barely made an impression on the copious drawer and wardrobe space I had in my new bedroom.

Once settled in, I went upstairs and joined Bob in the living room. He was slumped in an armchair, watching rugby on the television. There was a flagon of beer on the coffee table beside his feet, and a cigarette smoking in an ashtray. In the corner a ceramic wood burner blazed away. The room was oppressively warm and reeked of the smoke.

"Where's Abraham?" I asked. "I need to pay him the rent and get the keys."

He belched disinterestedly. "The Minister of Relaxation is out playing tennis."

"Minister of Relaxation? Is that his job?"

Bob removed his eyes from the screen and turned them slowly toward me; large brown, slightly-bloodshot eyes. "His real job? No, cuz, he doesn't have a real job. He was made redundant and put out to pasture."

"He must have received a tidy sum," I remarked, gazing around the amply-furnished room.

The eyes blinked at me a few times. "Sharp as a razor, aren't ya, cuz! And what is it you do?"

"Check-out operator at Whopping Shopping, fourth largest supermarket chain in -"

"Ha! ha! ha! What kind a job is that? Worse than ol' Abraham there. He was cooped up in an office for twenty-odd years!"

Bob took a long swig of beer, smacked his lips contentedly and belched again. "I'm in the construction business meself, cuz. Yep. Man's work. None a this sittin' round in a stuffy li'l office or, tee-hee, doin' what you do.

Fresh air and physical labour. That's the life!"

I surveyed the chubby features of the bushy-haired, cigarette-smoking specimen before me and struggled to reconcile these words with the image.

"Course, it's hard yakka," he went on. "No job for pansies. Ever worked on a scaffolding twelve stories up in a gale-force wind? Nah, course ya haven't. Well, I'll tell ya, cuz, those skirting boards turn to sails in your hands. We had a bloke went over just a few months back."

"You mean he fell? Was he killed?"

The gelatinous eyes grew tragic. "Company passed it off as suicide. Didn't wanna fork out a big compensation package. Ol' Hemi had a wife and kids, y'know."

"Did anyone hear him scream? A man would scream if he fell, wouldn't he?"

Bob stopped in the middle of lighting another cigarette and fixed his gaze on me. "Don't be an idiot! Hemi wasn't a bluddy pansy."

I sat back on the sofa and let Bob do the talking. And this he was happy to do - for the rest of the evening. Mostly he complained about the government and the economy, and how society in general had deteriorated since the 'good ol' days.' It was clear that everyone was to blame for Bob's problems.

He, at least, had reasonable taste in television programmes; which was to say, he mostly watched news and sports, so that it was actually worth sitting there and weathering his rants.

By and by he must have become aware of my complete disinterest in everything he had to say, because he ceased talking about himself throughout the long evenings and began probing away to find out what interested me. Soon enough he got around to the subject of rugby, and I suggested it was all a bit of a sham because the national champions were professionals competing in an amateur competition. This Bob dismissed as nonsense. The dastardly Frenchies and Saffas might have got up to that sort of business, but never New Zealand.

I offered a few more observations, and it was necessary for Bob to correct me on these points also, interrupting me for the purpose. For he had played rugby in his youth, back in the 'good ol' days' when Pinetree and the Unsmiling Giants had ruled the world and rugby had been a game for real men - like him, I supposed he meant. Bob did not like this 'ten-man kicking game' they played nowadays, and he was not so sure he agreed with the notion of a 'rugby world cup' either. That all sounded a bit too glitzy for Bob.

Nevertheless, he deigned to put his amazing powers of deduction to work and predict the world cup would be won by New Zealand. The Aussies were too arrogant, the Poms too soft, the Frenchies too unpredictable. The Saffas were cheats so it was a good thing they wouldn't be taking part. The Welsh, well, they and New Zealand may have contested some of the most thrilling contests in the history of mankind back in Bob's day, but, alas, those golden years were gone and the Welsh too had become soft, like the Poms. No one else could be taken seriously, the way Bob saw it. The Irish were backward, the Argies and Iti's suffered for their Latin temperament, the Islanders were all brawn, the Japs too small, and the Yanks, they could stick to that sissies' game they played with helmets and protective padding on.

Next thing I knew I was up on my feet goose-stepping across the room, my right arm thrust out before me. "Heil Kiwis!"

Bob gazed back at me as if I had just plucked an eyeball out or something. He did not talk to me for a while after that, which must have taken some considerable effort on his part.

Abraham advised me that a tenant had been found for the other room. Erin would be moving in the following week. This took a while to sink in. I was going to be living with a female! I had never lived with one of those before; at least, other than family. What would she be like? How was it going to be, living in the same house as a female who was not family, sharing the same amenities, the same shower, the same toilet seat? I tried not to get my hopes up. Nevertheless, the fantasy seized me now and again that she was going to be a gorgeous knockout of saintly qualities who would fall madly in love with me.

I was out on the patio on Tuesday evening, taking my washing off the line, when an odd-looking fellow rode up the driveway on a black bicycle. It was only when the rider removed the neon green helmet and stood under the porch light that I realised my error.

"Hullo, I'm Erin," she said, and gave me a sweaty handshake.

I observed that she had crooked teeth, many pimples and thin, mousy hair that looked as though it had been cut by a machete-wielding psychopath. Her smile was reminiscent of a Halloween pumpkin. Erin, at least, seemed friendly, and would surely prove a more amiable living companion than beer-guzzling, belching Bob.

By the next evening she was firmly entrenched, sitting in Bob's armchair, the remote control in her lap, smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee from a giant mug with 'All Men are Pigs!' emblazoned across it. I sat down on the couch behind her with the intention of talking. But she was engrossed in her television soap and seemed irked by the interruption.

Bob, meanwhile, was seated in the dining room with Abraham, him drinking beer, smoking and griping about Erin, Abraham trying vainly to read the newspaper, as was his custom. Too polite to ignore him, Abraham would glance down at his paper whenever Bob paused, then quickly look up as soon as Bob got going again, all the while contributing a thoughtful hum of accord now and then, as though audience to some profound philosophy rather than Bob's mindless ranting.

It was about a week before Bob broke his silence with me. He was in his now customary spot, at the table with Abraham, when I walked into the room.

"Hey, you need a car, don't ya?" He grinned up at me.

"Me?" I gazed suspiciously at him. "Not especially. Why?"

"Young fullah like yourself ought a be takin' girls out rather than sitting round here all day."

I was tempted to say, "Mind your own business, you fat slob," but Abraham was there, and I wouldn't have said it anyway.

"I can't afford a car."

Bob belched with particular satisfaction, then took another long swig of beer. He smacked his lips and gleamed at Abraham, as though the pair of them shared some secret knowledge which was beyond the comprehension of a mere bantling such as myself (although Abraham looked as puzzled as I was). The gelatinous eyes slipped back across to me.

"Well, I won some cash on the horses this week and fought I might get meself a new set a wheels, eh. The ol' Ford's a rust-bucket but she runs okay. Fought I might give her to you."

I blinked stupidly at him as I took all this in. I did not need a car, but, gee, it would be nice to have one. He was right; a young man like me should be taking out girls. Nonetheless, while one part of me was away fantasising about this, the other was planted firmly on the ground, wondering why Bob would do such a thing for me, especially after I had been so obnoxious the previous week.

Call me a phony, but I made an effort to be courteous to Bob after that. I listened to all of his one-side conversations and agreed with everything he said without venturing to offer an opinion of my own. He, meanwhile, provided me with daily updates on his search for a new car. It was a difficult task, of course, finding just what he was looking for.

The weeks went by, and still no joy. I began to suspect he was stringing me along, but I had built my dreams up around that old Ford and could not let them go so easily. Probably I was too embarrassed to admit to myself that Bob the slob had put one over on me.

It came as no surprise to arrive home one evening, about a month into Bob's quest for a new car, to find his door wide open and the room empty of all but the standard furnishing. Abraham confirmed that he had moved out.

And I really had to laugh. It didn't matter about the car anymore. I was just glad he was gone.

Erin, meanwhile, moved upstairs into Bob's old room. She had a look on her face like she was chewing broken glass when I entered the living room that evening.

"You're all chauvinist pigs!" she declared. "The world would be a better place if men were just. . .exterminated."

I gazed at the television for a few minutes. She was watching one of the government channels and it was a documentary about rape and male attitudes.

"It's all because of pornography!" she snarled with her crooked teeth. "Pornography is what they do to the body that gives life! It should be banned completely. Any man found guilty of looking at it should be castrated."

"Including strippers?" I enquired.

"Especially strippers. Those poor women, dragged up there to perform for a pack of leering, salivating Neanderthals!"

"I read recently that male strippers are becoming more popular than female strippers."

She gave me a look as though I had pulled a two-metre worm out of my left nostril or something. "Women do not go about raping men. And we've been oppressed for centuries."

I wondered how many centuries old she believed she was, and thought also of pointing out to her that I was not in the habit of going about raping women personally. Only, next thing I knew my legs had sprung into action of their own accord, and I was goose-stepping across the room, my right arm thrust out before me.

At this Erin stubbed out her cigarette and changed the channel. When I sat back down on the couch she complained she could see the reflection of my head in the television screen. So I moved to the other side, but still she complained, and no matter where I sat it seemed she could see the reflection of my head. Eventually I returned to my original spot and told her she would just have to put up with seeing the reflection of my head, because my head had as much right to be there as hers did.

"You're all chauvinist pigs!"

She flicked through the channels some more, without finding anything that interested her, before returning to the show about rape and male attitudes. Only it was the commercial break, and there was a trailer on for an upcoming sitcom. A puny bespectacled guy was explaining how his show was going to be all about 'accountability,' as though accountability were the latest breakthrough cure for all the world's ails, and we, as men, must force ourselves to embrace it, no matter how painful the process might be.

"If ya broke up with yir girlfriend," the puny guy was saying, "gee, maybe it was yir fault."

I chuckled to Erin. "Only a complete moron would watch that."

She lit another cigarette and drew bitterly on it. "Don't start ramming your views down my throat, check-out boy. An' don't get any ideas about coming in here and watching rugby either."

I knew I was conceding status by failing to reply to that. But I was no good at standing up for myself. It was another of my weaknesses. I could never think my arguments up quick enough. They were all there, inside my head, but I would get agitated and confused, and find myself unable to locate them. Or else they would come out jumbled up and nonsensical. Besides, I had learned by now that there was not a lot of point in arguing with people about anything, because they would only despise you for it. I was not capable of making expressions as ugly as theirs nor thinking up insults so nasty. So it was easier to just concede status. I supposed I was the kind of person who dwelt on things and got angry about them later.

"And get your stupid-looking head out a the telly!" she added.

I did not bother to point out to her that it was not my stupid-looking head she could see in the television screen but her own.

From that point on it was with a scornful tone that Erin addressed me, if she deigned to address me at all. She barged past me in the hallway, changed channels every time I entered the living room, and slammed cupboard doors if we happened to be in the kitchen at the same time. So I just kept out of her way, as much as I could, spending my evenings downstairs listening to music. I lived in a house with all the modern conveniences, I had a furnished bedroom, and nobody made me run around with the lawnmower or stick my head in the oven to clean it or anything. I did not want to create a situation that might put my place here in jeopardy.

But I had an unsettling premonition about the Easter break, a feeling that intensified when Abraham told me he was going to be away camping that week. I could not sleep properly at all. Once I came suddenly awake in the middle of the night with my heart pounding in my ears. My theory was that a premonition amounted to a sense you got when the signs were so vague you only registered them subconsciously. A subtle change in someones posture; a fleeting look in their eye. I realised that I had actually grown afraid of Erin.

It was the morning following Abraham's departure that my door flew open and I looked up from my bed to see Erin standing there, glowering down at me with all the hatred in the universe.

"Would you mind washing your bluddy dishes! I'm not here to clean up after you!"

I could think only of a side-plate and a coffee cup I had used the previous night.

"The sink is full a your bluddy dishes," she raved. "Don't think I'm gunna clean up after you just because I'm a woman!"

"Get out a my room."

"I'm not in your room."

I got up from my bed to close the door myself. She stood in the doorway to prevent me but I closed it anyway, pushing it firmly into her. Unexpectedly she shoved back and it almost cracked me on the nose. The scornful cackle on the other side further enraged me. I booted the door and it slammed shut so cleanly I knew Erin must have got out of the way.

I hauled one of the big wardrobes across the doorway, and I did not leave my room again until midway through the afternoon. The idea of facing Erin again repulsed me.

Eventually I had to eat and crept upstairs to make some lunch. Encountering a pile of dirty plates, pots and cups in the sink, I went through to the living room where I could hear Erin watching the television.

"They aren't my dishes. Abraham must a left them."

"Actually they're mine," she said quietly, without turning her head to look at me. "Why should I wash my dishes if you're too lazy to wash yours?"

So that was the way it was going to be. The dishes piled up more and more until there was no room on the benches or even in the kitchen anymore. So I washed a few items that I used regularly and kept them in my room, rinsing them off in the bathroom after each meal. Then one evening I arrived home from work to find them gone, and Erin walking around in the hallway whistling a cheerful tune.

"You'll be kicked out for this!" I yelled at her. "You've got no right to go into my room."

She stopped whistling and blinked back at me. "Oh, I'll be kicked out, will I? An' wot's gunna happen when Abraham sees all the dishes in the sink? I took photos, y'know."

It seemed an odd thing to say, about the photos, until I went upstairs to the kitchen and found all the dishes gone. Neither were they in the cupboards, nor the utensils in the drawer. It remained a mystery to me until the next morning, when I went to take a shower and discovered the whole lot - pots, bowls, plates, utensils, everything - piled up in the bathtub, which served as the shower floor.

A stinging pain shot through my back as I retreated downstairs. I spun around to see that hideous head at the top of the staircase. Picking up the teaspoon I made as if to hurl it back at her, though I never would have done it. It was not worth jeopardising my place in this house over. Besides, the head quickly vanished.

"Do that again and it'll be a mug that comes flying back at you," I yelled threateningly.

She poked her ugly face back around the corner. "I'll just knee you in the balls. It's easy enough to drop a man."

I went into my bedroom, pulled the wardrobe across in front of the door, and lay down on my bed to read. But I could not concentrate on the words and had to keep going over the same passages again and again. More than anger, I felt humiliation. I had allowed her to get away with assaulting me. What kind of wimp was I becoming? But to retaliate would be to stoop to her level. It might get me kicked out, or even into trouble with the police. She was a woman after all. But just how crazy was she? If I retaliated would she burst into my room in the dead of night and stab me in my sleep or something? This seemed entirely realistic to me then, so I knew that I was afraid of her.

I was still trying to read, though basically just thinking angry thoughts, when I heard the whir of the vacuum out in the hallway. It grew steadily louder, and there came the banging of the plastic head against me door. Why in hell couldn't she just leave me alone? Getting to my feet, I hauled the wardrobe back away from the door. It was time to have it out with her, once and for all.

Before I could open it, the door flew open and Erin charged in, wielding the plastic vacuum pipe.

"You might at least do some bluddy housework, you chauvinist pig!" With that she whacked me on the head.

Seizing the pipe off her, I shoved her out of the room. She lunged back at me, driving her knee up so high she almost toppled over backward. But I had turned side-on and her knee merely glanced off my hip. A rough push sent her tumbling onto the hallway floor, rolling up on her shoulders, so that she really looked quite ridiculous with her over-sized backside in the air. I actually felt sorry for her.

The evening Abraham returned I stayed in the dining room. I wanted to be there to defend myself. But Erin, curiously, did not say anything about the dishes, and I supposed she must have been as embarrassed about the whole affair as I was. In fact, she seemed strangely cheerful, even addressing me once or twice while chatting with Abraham and giving me that big pumpkin smile. I felt horribly uncomfortable, as though we had seen each other with our clothes off or something, but it was better to leave all that childishness behind, so I played along with her, like nothing had happened.

There came a gentle tap on my door later that night, so faint I was not sure I had heard anything at all until it came again. Getting up to answer it, I discovered Abraham standing in the hallway, his head slightly bowed, his eyes peering humbly up at me.

"Sorry to disturb you," he said, looking very awkward. "It's just that, well, I've received a complaint from Erin. She claims you assaulted her."

I stared back at him for a moment, unable to reply as I pondered what else she would have told him after I had left the dining room. "She attacked me with the vacuum pipe. It was self-defence."

"Oh, dear," he sighed feebly, scratching the back of his head. "It's just that she's threatened to go to the police."

The spectre of a prison cell entered my mind. Darkness, solitude, bread and water. "She's crazy! She charged into my room and attacked me."

He practically went into convulsions of head-scratching, shuffling his feet all the while.

"Look, Abraham, she's upstairs watching television and I'm here in my bedroom. Wouldn't it be the other way around if I had attacked her?"

At this he stopped scratching and nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, well, it might be best if we kept it that way. I've got a small TV in my room you can use. I never watch it."

"It's okay," I told him. "I'm not much of a fan of TV either."

It was only a few weeks after this when I looked through Erin's door, which had been left wide open, and noticed the room empty aside from the standard furniture. Abraham explained she had got behind with her rent and moved back with her mother.

end