Cupboard lunch
Today I'm having a cupboard lunch. Lunch made out of things from the cupboard; an instant rice, a tin of tuna. I need to walk after sitting in the office all morning, but am trying to avoid accidental shopping. Maybe I'll go down to Salamanca for some fresh air. Maybe I’ll get a tomato and a cucumber to add to my cupboard lunch.
I'm wearing a standard workday outfit. Slim black pants, black ankle boots, oversized grey roll-neck jumper. Defence against the cold, defence against the tea room volume going down when I walk through.
I walk down Macquarie St to Murray and down toward Davey, where there is a temporary tunnel outside the building where a Big New Thing is under construction. I scan the tunnel's cut-out windows, to get a preview of who might be inside, and whether it would be inadvisable to enter an enclosed space with them. I don't see anything. I enter and walk through. My boots make a satisfying thrum on the plywood floor. Here I am.
I walk down through Salamanca Place. Two men in suits are chatting outside the new office building there on the left. I give them space, keep my face high and studiously ignore them as I walk by. Their conversation pauses, mid-sentence, for a split second. They both look me up and down. I keep to the left and avoid crossing the road - avoid walking through the crowd outside Irish, the Quarry, the Whaler.
I wander around Salamanca Fresh looking at things I might like to eat. I walk out with the cucumber and the tomato, a satisfyingly fat, round, truss one, in a marvellously ugly calico bag borrowed from the office supply. ("Going shopping?" a sign chirps by the lift doors. "Don't forget your borrow bag!")
I cut across Parliament Lawns to get back to Murray St. A tiny addition of interest to my tiny lunchtime walk, not to go back the same way I came. I cross right outside the fruit market, cut across the fountain opposite Retro, go around the green grass. I almost cross at the lights at Customs, but I notice two guys chatting outside on the side street. I walk up the street a little and cut diagonally across the road. I have barely looked at them but I'm giving them a lot of space. I've become conscious of it. I'm berating myself for being a chicken-shit and for assuming the worst of people when I register the word "boobies". I search my brain and it pushes forward the rest of his sentence. "Can I get some more jiggle in them boobies?" His face is flat and pale. His hair is shorn off, orange. He's solid-set, muscly. I wouldn't be able to get away. I've accidentally looked at him while figuring out whether he was talking to me, and now, for a full second, I look into his eyes. I muster as much contempt as I can. He laughs. I look away, keep walking. I think the construction workers across the street have noticed something. There are a few people walking down in front of Daci and Daci, too far away to hear. Would they help if he grabs me? "Come on," he crows, "I want to see some more movement in those titties!" And then, half to his friend, "Don't you just wanna get your hands on those?" More laughter.
I take long strides up the street. Away, away, away. I feel tiny. My heart is thumping. I assess my reaction. I wonder what else I could have done. Should I have said something? I wish that I were more quick-witted. I berate myself for not knowing what to say. But there's nothing. It doesn't matter what I wear or where I walk or when. If he wanted to get his hands on me, he could have, and there's nothing I could have done about it, and there's no way to react. A grown man who still says "boobies" has all the power. I have none
I know all this by the time I get back to the corner of Davey. I miss the light because I forget to press the button. The sun is shining but the pleasure has gone. I look down at the ugly little borrow bag. Every man I pass along Murray and Macquarie receives a sad, searching look.