The Christmas Party

Non-Fiction
Location – Melbourne, Australia
Written - December 2008
[I started sending out my work to publishers only recently - after I returned from India, in July 2008. This story was written about an experience I had during that time. It doesn’t have all that much going for it, it was written quickly and then sent out to the same magazines I was writing about....]

I’ve been submitting my writing to Overland and Meanjin magazines for the past six months. So far, nothing published. But when I hear they have their combined Christmas party coming up, I figure I’ll go along. It might be a good chance to meet some people. I don’t have the knack for networking. I don’t have business cards in my shirt-pocket. But I’m curious to see the faces of the people I’ve been sending my work to.

When the day comes I’m wracked by nerves. My girlfriend Amy persuades me to go. “It’ll be a good opportunity for you, Tom,” she says. “I’ll come with you.” I put on my best black shirt. It’s unwashed from some previous occasion, so I spit on my finger, and rub at a grey stain of cigarette ash. I smoke furiously in the car, and more ash spills into my lap.

I’m not usually nervous about parties. I can happily banter with almost anyone. But this is somehow different. We park the car and begin walking through the Edinburgh Gardens. Sunday is living up to its name. There’s frisbees in the air, and the dogs are unleashed. We scan the parklands for the gathering. There’s plenty of them around. We pass a group of beer-swilling boys with bellies out - probably not the ones. What does a group of editors and writers look like? Do they, too, have ash-stains on their shirts?

“Just relax, Tom,” Amy says.

“But we don’t know anyone,” I say. “How will we know which group to approach? I
feel like a stalker.”

“We’ll have to go up and ask.”

“Nah, give it a bit. We’ll walk awhile.”

Delaying tactics. We’re not really invited to the party. Usually at a party you’d know at least a face or two. I only know a few names. I’m not even a regular reader of their magazines - but of course I’m not about to tell them that.

We come across a trio of people who look similarly lost. I approach them. “Are you looking for the Overland and Meanjin party?”

“Yeah,” they say, and introduce themselves. “So are you with the Overland or Meanjin?”

“Um, I’ve been sending my work to both,” I say.

“Sitting on the fence!”

One of the girls rings someone, who directs us to the gathering. It’s a young crowd. There’s eskies and picnic blankets laid out on chequered blankets. The sunny clink of hands rummaging through ice, in search of beer bottles.

Amy spreads out her jumper on the grass as a blanket, and we kneel on it. We wonder what to do next. A lady approaches us with a platter of sandwiches. I thank her, and take one. It’s a good sandwich. And, for the moments I’m eating, it makes it impolite to talk. I eat another.

“What do we do now?” I say quietly to Amy. She’s usually good with social situations, but my nerves must be contagious. She fidgets with her phone.

“I don’t know. We should talk to someone.”

I roll a cigarette.

One bloke approaches us, and introduces himself. As soon as he says his name I forget it. I take it this is not good networking form.

“I’m Tom,” I say, blowing my smoke away from his face. “I’ve been sending in work to Overland and Meanjin for a few months. I thought this might be a good chance to put some faces to some names.” A dog runs past, barking. “Are you a writer, or an editor?”

I read somewhere, it might have been Helen Garner, describing this as the most often heard line at writer’s festivals. ‘Are you an writer or an editor?’ Most here seem to be both, making the line not only cliched, but largely redundant. I’ve never been to anything like this before. I suppose all cliches exist for a reason - they’re handy when you’re not in the mood for thinking.

A group nearby bursts into uproarious laughter.

Say something, Tom. Say something insightful, or witty. Say something Memorable. Say... something... But thoughts like that only clog up the works, and make it more than likely that you don’t say a damned thing.

Silence.

The bloke spots someone he knows and goes over to say hello.

My throat is dry. “We should’ve brought something to drink,” I say to Amy. “I’m gunna get some orange juice.” My stomach isn’t ready for the beers being passed around. Amy says she’ll stay, I set out to find a shop. As I walk, I reassure myself that there’s something inherently weird about turning up to a party where you’ve never met anyone. It is perhaps stranger again to go to a party where your only contact with the crowd has been consistent rejection over a period of months. I smile to myself as I write down the thought into my notebook. I put the notebook back in my shirt-pocket, where my business cards aren’t.

When I return, Amy is talking to a young lady about Sweden. I set the orange juice out in front of me, just so far away as to not claim ownership of it. Damn, I didn’t remember to get any cups. I scan about for some. There’s some plastic cups by an Esky, set just so far away from a nearby circle as to not claim ownership of them. I approach and take one, awkwardly, expecting at any moment to be exposed as a thief.

A bloke turns to me. “So you’re Mister Ones And Zeroes,” he says, referring to something I’d sent to his magazine. I wrote it about my job in market research. As a non-fiction writer it’s also, unfortunately, my life. I ask him what he liked about it. It’d be more useful to ask what he disliked about it, but it’s too early in the day for criticism. As I listen, his mobile phone rings.

I pour another cup of juice.

Amy is faring well. The song of her laughter is punctuated by my ringtone. It’s a mate of mine, who, by sheer coincidence, is also in the Edinburgh Gardens. He joins us, and begins ranting and cussing. His boss has cancelled all his shifts for the next week. As I cringe at his trucker’s talk, so I smile at his unaffected realness. Perhaps I should inject more cuss-words into my conversation: “so you’re a fucken’ editor, eh? Awesome mate, fucken’ awesome. I need a good fucken’ editor, to edit out all my fucken’ cuss-words. Us bastards should collaborate, eh? Eh?”

I shouldn’t think so much.

We’re going to see C.W. Stoneking play at the Corner. After checking the time, Amy says it’s time to go. I’d rather slink out, unnoticed. But we say some sudden farewells. I shift on my feet as Amy explains why we can’t stay for the soccer game. “I’m not wearing the right shoes!,” she says, raising one foot demonstratively. It would have been good to stay for the soccer game. It’s harder to be calculated when you have a litre of beer in your belly and you’re trying to dribble a soccer ball about.

“Uh.... Bye,” I say. I don’t look anyone in the eyes. I’m about to joke, maybe I might see you all next year, but I don’t.

I take my bottle of orange juice, and leave the gathering. The crowd of people who’s stories I don’t know, who’s stories I may never know. They may be wife-beating assholes for all I have learned, there may be infidelities, torments, or triumphs. We could have spilled cigarette ash on our shirts, together. I’ve been so lost in my own caverns of concern that I have missed it all.

What was I thinking? They’ll probably think I’m some antisocial bastard. The afternoon has been so surreal, so odd, that all I can do is write about it.