The hemsworth effect, p.10
The Hemsworth Effect, page 10
Open cardboard boxes were strewn around the shop and mounds of plastic packaging rustled under the breeze of the ceiling fan. Aimee scooped up a bunch of candy-coloured rubber fidgets, clutched them to her chest and rolled over to the other side of the store to stack them on a shelf. The Dream Explosion was once stocked full of beautiful books, but those beautiful books had recently started sharing their shelf space with whimsical toys and weird gadgets – the kind people would use as stocking stuffer gifts or presents for relatives they didn’t like.
Book sales had been on a steady decline. A small store in a booming town couldn’t slash the prices to match the internet or the big stores that sold books in shopping centres and airports, where most tourists bought their holiday reads. So Aimee had turned to toys and other accessories as a way of bringing in new customers. Turns out, people preferred to buy them on the internet too. She stocked beautiful, handmade timber toys, many from local artists, but the only thing kids were interested in that summer were fidgets – those sensory toys that claimed to boost focus and productivity. They were the new must-have playground collector item, and entire YouTube channels were dedicated to reviewing them. At first, Aimee didn’t give in to the trend. But, soon enough, the question was being asked far too often. ‘Do you have any fidgets?’ mums would desperately enquire on behalf of their kids. ‘Where are your fidgets?’ Feeling incredibly out of touch, Aimee forced herself to watch a YouTube video of two American tweens with multicoloured hair. They were the Margaret and David of fidget reviewers. She caved in. Of course, by the time she’d started stocking them, a whole new range of fidgets was released. ‘They’re not the right ones,’ little kids would declare to their mothers after Aimee proudly guided them over to the display. Aimee had no idea there was more than just one type of fidget. Now she was stuck with a mountain of outdated fidgets that no one wanted.
Whirling over to a shelf near the display window, she hesitated for a moment and wondered how to arrange the rubbery toys. They were in all different shapes – dinosaurs, cupcakes, shooting stars, flamingos. Years before, when The Dream Explosion first opened, she’d spent an excruciating amount of time tending to her displays like they were a prize-winning garden. Designing them. Curating them. Watching them flourish. She even flew to Sydney to do a ‘visual merchandising’ course and spent an entire weekend in a function centre, sitting next to an insufferable woman who designed the window displays for regional Just Jeans outlets. Staying up late – fuelled by wine and armed with a hot glue gun – she’d craft large-scale installations out of wire and papier mâché and suspend them from the ceiling with string. She’d been particularly proud of her Harry Potter display, with its giant cardboard lightning bolt. Kids would stop – even at night, when the store was closed – just to look through the windows and point at how they wished their bedrooms looked. The displays were also what every parent wished the school projects – the ones they’d secretly build on behalf of their single-digit aged children – had turned out like. Sometimes mums and dads even offered to buy them – ‘name your price,’ they’d lean in close, the request sounding more like a demand, as if the cool-looking rocket ship in the window was a rare drug. She’d always just give them away and build another that was more over-the-top and extravagantly imaginative than the one before.
But now, things were different. Even when she could be bothered to carefully organise the fidgets, they’d just be ravaged within minutes by a child who’d then proclaim, ‘These are wrong!’ Fucking fidgets, she thought as she dumped them on the ledge. Abandoning the chore altogether, she began skating laps of the store – rolling clockwise around the timber table in the centre of the room that had the five-level doll house perched on it.
A man walked past the entrance. Seconds later, he backed up to get another look. He crossed his arms, cocked his head and smiled to himself as Aimee continued to whirl around her makeshift rollerdome. She didn’t notice the spectator. On about the ninth lap, she whipped off her denim shirt, tossed it onto the counter and adjusted the straps of the white singlet she was wearing underneath. She’d thrown on the outfit and run out the door as soon as Heath and his travelling circus left her apartment. Her hair was down and still a bit wild from her morning swim. Elowen Wilder continued to wistfully preach her scripture over the speaker.
When warrior women resist the opportunities where failure is an option, they also miss out on the opportunity to fly. Fearlessly failing sets you free to soar about the Amazon of life.
The man walked up the two steps into the store and slipped over to the shelf of jumbled fidgets. Aimee only noticed him when she rolled past. ‘All good?’ she called out, without stopping, giving him the regular amount of attention she’d usually offer to a thirty-something guy in black jeans who was clearly from the city and had probably just wandered into her store to waste time while waiting for a mate to show up at the bar next door.
‘Ah, yeah.’ He nodded.
She noticed an accent. Maybe Irish.
‘… Actually, no.’
Aimee pulled a swift 180 spin up near the counter and her hair whipped through the air. With her hands on her hips in an accidental superhero pose, she was now looking at the man across the store. He had the stylishly scruffy appearance of a wolfish shelter dog adopted by a nice family. With shadowy stubble and one eyebrow that looked to have a kinda-permanent arch to it.
He held up a fidget in each hand – one in the shape of a butterfly and the other a cactus. ‘What do I do with these?’ The eyebrow remained appropriately arched.
Aimee couldn’t help but smile at the offbeat image. Thunk, thunk thunk, thunk thunk. She rolled over and took the butterfly – holding it with both hands and using her fingers to push the rubbery buttons in and out. They pipped and popped. The guy looked on in silence. She glanced up and noticed the chiselled jaw and the dark, sleepy eyes studying her hands. Then she clocked his black T-shirt stretched across his chest and the way it gripped his shoulders. Painted on, like an Action Man figurine.
‘Wait, wait.’ He held up a hand. ‘Go slower.’ He bent at the knees, lowered his face closer to Aimee’s hands and watched, intently. He bit his bottom lip.
Aimee made a strange face at the request and slowed down the pipping and popping.
‘Hmm. Complicated. Do they come with instructions?’ He flicked his dark eyes up at her and she noticed how they sparked the same way moonlight does on the ocean at night. A smirk spread across his face as he let the Dumb and Dumber act slip away.
Aimee whacked the butterfly on his chest with a smile. He reached up and grabbed it, letting his hand linger on top of hers for a moment. Was he flirting? Maybe. It had been a while since she’d had a guy flirt with her (the occasional weirdo at Music Club didn’t count). Or, more accurately, since she’d been free to flirt back with a guy. A cool, effortless response didn’t come naturally to Aimee. Flirting with a guy was supposed to be like Cameron Diaz in early 2000s movies. Carefree. Fun and frothy. Like a can of Sunkist pulled out of an icy Esky on the hottest day of the year, shaken up and then cracked open, fizzing everywhere. Fun and frothy were not qualities Aimee ever felt an affinity with. Her social personality was probably better described as stern and hard-boiled.
As the guy with the painted-on Action Man shirt continued to stare, she went to run a hand through her hair, but it was tangled and messy from her morning swim, and the body moisturiser that she was still using as a make shift leave-in conditioner had added a tactile gunky quality to it. Her fingers got snagged in some knots mid-tousle. She aborted the mission and settled for a casual hair flip before turning to roll away. Then the front wheel on one of her skates wedged into a gap between the floorboards and she tripped, arms flailing, almost demolishing the nearby doll house. The guy moved with swift precision, swooping in front and catching Aimee before the Godzilla-style carnage could play out. Her hands latched onto his shoulders and her face smooshed into the nape of his neck. She could smell his cologne – a smoky swirl of tobacco, spice and vanilla. He stood her upright. Even with the rollerblades on, Aimee was shorter than him. Her hands had moved further up and were linked around the back of his head, touching his unfussy black hair.
‘Thanks,’ she whispered.
They were standing close. Then Elowen interrupted.
The bravest, purest and most compassionate gift you can bestow upon yourself is cutting the leash on your inner lady lioness and letting yourself be loved.
Aimee snapped back to reality. She found her balance, released the guy from her arms with an awkward laugh and rolled over to the counter to yank the speaker’s power cord out of the wall. ‘Looking for a Christmas present?’ she called back.
‘Sure.’ He wandered further inside.
‘Who are you buying for?’
‘A… child,’ he chirped. It didn’t matter how big or buff a guy was, if they were Irish, their voice always sounded like a chirp.
‘Yeah…’ Aimee dragged the word out and waited for more details. ‘What do they like?’
He was already distracted. ‘Are you a bookstore or a toy store?’
‘Bit of both,’ Aimee deadpanned.
The guy sorted through a stack of board games before spotting a blue and orange Nerf Blaster hanging on the wall, pre-loaded with foam pallets. ‘This’ll do.’ He grabbed it down.
He moved over to the cash register and placed the toy on the counter. ‘I’m Jules.’
Aimee looked up from the shiny bronze till and told him her name. ‘That’s the display model.’ She nodded over to the other Nerf Blasters. ‘We’ve got boxed ones.’
‘You should get a drink with me.’ He ignored her attempt at polite retail chatter and added the fidget to the counter.
She smiled and held out her arms. ‘I’m working.’
‘After work.’ He looked her in the eyes while tapping his credit card on the PayWave machine.
‘That sounds very nice, but… I’ve got some… stuff on.’
‘I gathered that from the rollerblades.’ He nodded. ‘Only a very busy person would wear rollerblades. Zipping from errand to errand.’
‘I’m just getting ready for…’ She looked over at the crap piled in the corner behind the counter – a basketball, a bucket of chalk and the pair of rollerblades Charlie kept at the store. ‘I’ve got a rollerball class later. In the carpark out back. Then a dinner… thing.’ There were lots of things she’d rather do than go to that dinner thing. Like holding the flame of a cigarette lighter to the webbing between her toes.
The back door behind Aimee was open and a dry heat blew on her legs. She’d often spend quiet days in the store leaning on the counter and staring out at those gloriously perfect afternoons – the kind that made you feel like everyone else had amazing plans except you.
‘Aimee. Can I give you some advice?’ Jules’ tone turned serious. He looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling and leant onto the counter as he considered his words. ‘Resisting opportunities means you clip the wings off the Amazonian warrior woman who just wants to fly,’ he said.
Aimee fought a smile. ‘You’re very wise.’
‘I’ve got more.’ He pinched his chin with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Even lady lionesses deserve a break every now and then – otherwise they lose the wings that let them fly ferociously into failure.’
‘Sage words.’ Aimee played along while internally cursing Elowen Wilder.
Jules walked over to the corner, picked up the basketball and squeezed behind the counter, heading for the back door.
‘As I always say, Aimee: A stitch in time… gathers no moss.’
‘You should do speaking tours.’ She nodded.
He lifted the Nerf Blaster and pulled the plastic trigger, popping one of the long, orange foam pellets at her. It flew through the air and bounced off her shoulder. ‘Come play with me.’ He turned and began walking out to the carpark. ‘C’mon, Aimee,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘You’re free to fly.’
* * *
Aimee sat on a timber shipping pallet while Jules rolled around the concrete in Charlie’s rollerblades and used yellow chalk to draw over the faded court lines that were only just visible from the previous week’s game.
‘This isn’t the relaxed drink you had in mind, sorry.’ She held a hand over her eyes to block out the glare.
Jules dropped the chalk on the ground and rolled over, reaching into the back pocket of his jeans and pulling out a silver metal flask. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Now, who seriously carries a flask?’
‘I’m Irish.’
‘And a stereotype, apparently.’
He took a swig and handed it to her with a wink.
She grabbed it and sipped. Whisky. A good kind. ‘So are you staying at one of the hostels down the road?’
A laugh burst out of his mouth. ‘You really think I’m a backpacker?’ He was genuinely shocked and waited for confirmation. ‘I’m not that much of a stereotype.’
Aimee raised her hands in surrender.
‘So what’s got you so blue?’ He nudged one of his knees into hers.
‘What makes you think I’m blue?’ She took another swig.
Jules reached into the chalk bucket next to Aimee and pulled out a powdery pink stick. He used it to draw a tic-tac-toe grid on the concrete at her feet. ‘You’re living in Byron Bay and spending your days listening to depressing self-help podcasts.’ He slashed a cross in the grid.
‘Listening to self-help podcasts is actually a very “Byron” thing to do.’ She picked up a green piece of chalk from the bucket and drew a nought.
‘Ahhh. So you’re a stereotype too.’ He slashed another cross.
Her turn. ‘Today was a one-off. And it’ll probably be the last. I just don’t know why those self-help ladies insist on referring to themselves as “warriors”.’ She cringed.
‘So you’re a cynic?’
‘Cynic makes me sound curmudgeonly.’ Her unofficial nickname may have been Byron Karen, but he didn’t need to know that. ‘A cynic hates everything and everyone.’
‘And you only hate most things and most people?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Just the Hemsworths and a few others.’
Jules stifled a laugh. ‘Well. That’s quite an enemy. What’d Thor do to you? Steal your parking space? Not pick up after his dog? Jump ahead of you at the supermarket check-out?’
Aimee shrugged. ‘I don’t know how much you know about this town but there’s been a lot of changes. Money. Celebrities. Wankers.’ She started to laugh at the kind-of-joking-but-not-really declaration she was about to make. ‘We’re in the grips of The Hemsworth Effect. That’s what the papers are calling it.’
He grinned and nodded. ‘The self-help podcasts are clearly working.’
‘Well, I’m working on acceptance and trust,’ she made fun of herself. ‘But what I do know for sure is, this town has a way of telling people who don’t belong that it’s time to go.’
‘Do you ever think it’s the town’s way of telling you it’s time to go?’ He bent down and used the chalk to slash a line through his winning row on the grid.
The playful back-and-forth had cut a little too close to the bone for a second. Aimee changed the subject. ‘What do you do?’
‘Are you trying to determine if I’m one of the rich and horrible zombies of The Hemsworth Apocalypse?’
Aimee let the question hang in the air.
Jules picked up the flask off the shipping pallet, took a swig and passed it to Aimee. She took a sip and maintained her silence.
‘You might not like my job.’ He raised his chin and looked at her with pursed lips, pausing for a moment, just long enough to make it uncomfortable. ‘I’m here for a TV show.’
Of course he’s a zombie of The Hemsworth Apocalypse, Aimee thought.
‘Filming around the Gold Coast. But I’m staying at a place down here.’
Aimee rolled her eyes. ‘So you’re an actor?’
Jules pretended to get cocky. ‘You don’t think I could be an actor?’
Aimee raised an eyebrow while they held each other’s gaze.
He paused for a moment and shrugged. ‘I do stunts.’
‘Stunts?’ Aimee laughed.
‘I do stunts.’ Jules smiled.
‘I can’t tell if you’re messing with me because, honestly, that sounds like a fake job.’
‘The only thing here that’s fake is this rollerball game you’ve made up,’ Jules teased, looking back at the chalk-outlined court. ‘You’ve explained the rules twice and they were different both times. I don’t think you even know how to play your ridiculous game.’
‘Wait, so you’re serious? You… do stunts?’
Jules let out an exhale, pretending to be disappointed by the disbelief, and rolled back a few metres into the carpark. ‘Aimee, I’ve only told you one lie today…’ Then with zero warning, he launched into the air – performing a backflip – before landing clean on his rollerblades and holding out his arms to maintain his balance as he glided forward steadily. ‘And that lie was about having to buy a kid’s Christmas present.’ He rolled back over and grabbed the Nerf gun. ‘I just told you that so you’d talk to me a little longer.’
Aimee tried to fight the smile that was on her face. ‘Oh, I am well aware of that lie. Let’s just say your acting skills aren’t on par with… whatever that just was.’ She waved her hand in the air, referencing the backflip.
‘Really? You saw through my acting?’ Jules played it up.
‘From today’s self-help research, I’ve learnt to speak my truth. And I have to say: Your acting is terrible.’
