Black Books

I needed a job; I found one. A book shop or at least a sort of a bookshop. This time a week ago, I was drinking merlot and feeling jaded about being unemployed. Tonight, I drink Riesling and feel somewhat jaded about the 40 hour week ahead. The irony is delicious, the wine is more so.

The book shop in question shall remain nameless, a sprawling mass of a thing attached to a shopping arcade. It’s a corporate chain affair, with plenty of books but mostly written by Eckhart Tolle and Jodi Picoult. There is a large self help section and lots of 20% off stickers hurriedly slapped on piles of Popular Penguins. So far, a uniform is not compulsory but I have heard disturbing rumours of bright red polo shirts. The widescreen TV halfway through the store plays Avatar on loop. No one in it is hot.

As I said, I needed a job.

The week started off with as something of a challenge, with my hours starting at seven ‘o’clock in the AM. Doey eyed, I scrambled around the store stacking shelves and chewing on bits of rolled up paper so as not to collapse in a pile of golden slumbers. Everywhere I turn, Robert Pattinson’s bored eyes stare back at me from books, posters and jigsaw puzzles. It is impossible to avoid the Twilight Corporation; even the magazine stands have abtastic CHILF of the Moment Taylor Launder’s sex stories all over it. I try not to get turned on but it’s hard not to when his glistening six packs eclipse everything else. Pun, get it?

One of my fellow employees is an overweight woman who has worn the same Twilight T-shirt for the past five days. On Wednesday, she turned up with purple hair and the staff told her she looked ‘modern.’ She met her husband on an Internet dating website and seems happy. We wear lanyards with our ‘passion’ on them. Mine in Seinfeld. Hers is ‘Riot Grrrl.’ Watch this space.

The day starts with a bevy of manic managers initiate “GO-O-O-O-O-O TEAM!” warm up exercises, complete with daily budget requirements and lessons on how to use ‘open ended questions’ when selling to customers. The rest of the staff smile and nod and sip away at their Almond Honey non fat vanilla lattes. I stand at the back of the meeting and half expect Alec Baldwin to come storming in and yell “You call yourself a salesman, you son of a bitch.”

We have walkie talkies and say things followed by the word “Roger.” It’s awkward and rather a change from the independent book trade in which you talked loudly across the store and people knew who Alan Hollinghirst and were. Here, the main words used are “percent off” and “discount club.” The soundtrack consists of a cluster of CDs chose from head office. These include Norah Jones and Craig David sings Motown. Tears dribble down my interior as the latter’s version of 'I heard it through the Grapevine' pervades my ears for the fifth time in eight hours. At 4pm, I try to smuggle the Rolling Stone’s revised edition of Exile on Main Street into the stereo but was stopped by the assistant regional manager, a large man with a beard who told me in a hushed tone that it might be a little “too edgy” for the customers. It was release in 1971, before Watergate. I die a little inside and head back to the counter where I sell a small, excited woman three copies of Paulo Cohello’s The Alchemist and somehow manage to keep a straight face.

The hours and days slide by and a pay check appears and I take it with a grateful, exhausted smile. Across the road, the city’s top independent bookshop smiles kindly at me, its front window filled with Chekov biographies and Hertzog box sets. I stare longingly and then, realising that I am still wearing my corporate bookshop t-shirt of whoredom, pull my coat tightly around me and head home. I’ve got one hand in my pocket and the other one’s holding a cigarette. Life, as they say is good. And so is nicotine.

Melbourne, in & around my mouth.

Once again, Elaine picks up her corporate heels and settles in a new country. She stops at duty free for a couple of bottles of Bombay and a couple of shuttles and trams later, reaches the stylish stomping grounds of Melbourne, Australia. It’s a cool place, Elaine thinks. Wellington on Steroids with a sprinkle of Victorian class. There aren’t many beaches but there is a river; a great, greasy thing called The Yarra which winds its way through the CBD. Tourists dutifully snap photos of but will probably delete them a few hours later. The weather is fantastic.

There are more bars here than any alcoholic could ever stumble in and out of; more restaurants and bistros that can ever be counted. Horse drawn carriages clip-clop up and down Swanston Street, carrying fat, bored families of tourists in akubras. No one in this arrangement looks pleased to be here, particularly the horses, whose dignity is lost somewhere between their elaborate tassels and the enormous shit bags swinging beneath their tails. If they could cry, I’m sure they would. The drivers wear their top hats grudgingly, waiting out the half hour of till they can tuck into their packet of Lucky Strikes and fart loudly.

Our flat is a wee brick villa, located in the uber-chic suburb of Fitzroy (north). Brunswick Street is filled with ethnic delights, not least the faction of souvlaki cafes, which serve up mouth watering pita breads filled with grilled lamb at all hours of the day or night. After a year in the Asian Royston Vasey town where the only shop closed at 7pm, the joys of 24 eateries cannot be expressed. Let’s just say if I was a Blondie song right now, it would doubtless be ‘Rapture.’ Up the road is a Soup Kitchen, which dishes out dreamy Moroccan from a spoken menu. The trick is to be polite to the harried waitresses or you might get thrown out into the chilly Melbourne evening, sans soup. The whole thing is so Seinfeld, I almost can’t handle it. We went to see Vampire Weekend on a week night. Ironic?

In Lygon Street, Italian restaurants are packed wall to wall. They quietly terrify me. Walking past in the evening, seedy matradees try to coax you in with a beckoning finger, offering you a free bottle of cheap wine if only you’ll come in and try their mouth-watering linguine. Out the back sit the owners, ex-Soprano henchmen with hands clenched into fists and blood smeared aprons. It’s a good time to have a vegan boyfriend by your side, shaking your head at the creamy, meaty delights on offer and escaping to the Thai place down the block. The owners eyes follow you down the street and light another cigar. I swear this is reality and not an HBO cliche. Hamish and I eat our Thai with shaky hands, sweat dripping into our red curry.

Last week, we watched the YouTube video of Oprah interviewing a woman who had her face and hands torn off by a chimp. It was a cultural experience.

On Saturday, we trekked to hideous outer suburb Reservoir to attend a Roller Derby. It was perhaps the most Gummo moment of my life. The crowd was an interesting mix of lesbians, bogans and art school kids trying to be ironic. The music consisted mainly of Marilyn Manson and Slipknot which seemed appropriate as two teams of girls in hot pants and roller-skates raced around a rink and try and push each other over. The roller derby girls had amazing names such as ‘Skate Bush’ and ‘Kitty Von Krusher.’ At one point, our ringside view was blocked by an obese man with a ponytail until his friend brought him over three hot dogs and he had to go and sit down so he could hold all of them. At half time, a gimp man in a neon blue dog suit and wraparound sunglasses serenaded the crowd with an air guitar rendition of the ‘Danger zone’ song off Top Gun. People cheered and threw their empty beer cups at him. Out in the freezing night, we smoked cigarettes because everyone else was.

Melbourne is a place of treats. There are things to do, eat and gawk at in every crevice of the city. Whether you’re looking for a good Ethiopian restaurant or a Friday night sex party and you’re bound to find one that exceeds your expectations. Fun times are many. Elaine approves. Put on your red shoes and dance the blues.