The hemsworth effect, p.2
The Hemsworth Effect, page 2
The afternoon light had already started to lose its spark. She picked up a framed photo off the nearby windowsill and took a sip while studying it. Even with the muted sepia tone, her store building still looked the same as it did back then. The only thing that had changed was the hand-painted sign above the corrugated iron awning: MAGUIRE ANTIQUES. She placed the photo back down on the windowsill and picked up the frame next to it. A photo of the same store, but a different era and a new awning. THE DREAM EXPLOSION. Two kids standing in front. One of them was a much younger Aimee – eighteen or so – with her then-boyfriend Tim. Aimee was dressed in low-cut jeans and Etnies while Tim sported a trucker hat and an SMP belt – a sartorial time-stamp of the early 2000s. He’d swooped her up in his arms for the photo, as if they’d just been married.
Aimee sipped from her glass and realised the photo was one of the last remaining signs that Tim had lived inside the apartment she was standing in. Well, he still did live there. Technically. Just not at that moment. He’d left one or two pairs of boardies in their bedroom’s cedar chest of drawers. And the surfboard in the hallway – one of many he had, but the one he used the least. The rest had been moved out for the summer, but you couldn’t tell. The apartment had always been Aimee’s domain. Tim’s décor offerings came in the form of soggy wetsuits, surfboards and grains of sand in the sheets.
She moved to the fridge to get some ice and opened the door before quickly shutting it again. She stood back and stared. A rectangular card with cursive font on it had been stuck to the stainless-steel door with a magnet. It looked like the fortune cards one of the roadside clairvoyants in town handed out to clients after doing their palm readings. She leant in and read it.
If you want to win your life you have to go wild and jump into the fire.
THREE
A slinky, distorted guitar riff buzzed through the bar and the tish tish tish of the hi-hat shimmered. Then the rest of the drums cascaded down and the too-cool bass line decided to shuffle in. Charlie purred the opening lyrics to Olivia Newton-John’s ‘Totally Hot’ into the microphone, abandoning his sulky pout for just a split second to flash a smirk.
No one knew exactly where Charlie came from, but it seemed that everyone was glad he existed. Anyone watching in the bar when he was playing would quickly become jealous of his black electric guitar. The way he’d grind his narrow hips up against it and how his tanned biceps flexed when he moved his fingertips up the frets on the neck was truly something to behold, if you asked Aimee. Charlie’s band, The Girly Boys, did surf rock covers of songs by female artists. Their version of Kim Carnes’ ‘Bette Davis Eyes’ was used on the soundtrack to a Grey’s Anatomy episode. In the three years that Charlie had been living with Aimee, she’d never once seen him go to the gym. He stayed fit through sex and surf. She would’ve hated him if it weren’t for the fact he was as beautiful as the breakfast quesadillas he made her every morning.
A pouchy middle-aged guy who smelt of essential oils came over to Aimee’s table in the back corner of the pub. ‘Can I get you a drink?’ The pickup line was as dated as the tweed vest he was wearing. Music Club drew an interesting crowd. It happened once a week at The Palace Hotel – a grand old three-level pub with wraparound iron lacework verandahs. Local bands would jam. And the local Looney Tunes would slam whatever was on tap.
‘Someone’s already getting me a drink,’ Aimee yelled over the music.
‘Can I get a name?’ he smiled.
‘Rob,’ Aimee nodded.
‘I meant yours.’
‘Aimee.’
‘Is Rob your boyfriend, Aimee?’
‘Rob’s my barber.’
The cold metal edge of a knife jabbed into the side of the man’s neck and his body seized up.
‘You want a cut-throat shave?’ a throaty voice whispered.
The guy froze with wide eyes.
Then the menacing voice broke into a laugh. ‘Relax, it’s a butter knife from the bistro.’ Rob wrapped her arm around his neck.
‘This is Rob. She has a hair salon in town called Barber Rob’s.’ Aimee closed her eyes and laughed. This routine had become unintentionally rehearsed over the years. Barber Rob was tall, thin and had a short blonde shag haircut like Meg Ryan in the nineties. She was the coolest person in Byron Bay.
The guy straightened his vest. ‘You know, that’s really not in the spirit of Music Club.’ He pursed his lips and walked off.
Charlie’s band had finished their set and the microphone screeched over the speakers, which meant it was time for Bada Bing. Bada Bing had lived on the streets of Byron since Aimee could remember. He was the town mascot – a grizzled, opinionated mascot – and his submissions to the Letters To The Editor page of The Byron Times were famous. In a way, he was the original Byron celebrity. People had tried helping him over the years but he’d never accepted because, as he explained, he didn’t want to give up the luxury of being able to complain. To fund his low-key lifestyle, he’d carved out a very specific niche: Emceeing Music Club and presenting a Guess Who, Don’t Sue segment between sets.
The game was simple: Bada Bing would present clues to gossipy tidbits and then the audience would yell out their guesses for who the blind items were about. His nomadic lifestyle meant that he saw and heard everything and, ever since the glitz-factor of the town had cranked up a notch, the things he saw and heard were juicy. The only rule of Guess Who, Don’t Sue? If anyone who was named during the guessing happened to be in the crowd and started denying the allegations, they got booed. The town really had gone tabloid.
Bada Bing had kicked off. ‘Guess Who, Don’t Sue: Which Hollywood star got attacked by a flock of ibises while picking through a pile of discarded furniture on council kerbside collection day?’
Rob’s voice rasped over everyone. ‘Shelley Craft!’
‘She’s not a Hollywood star,’ Aimee said.
‘Well she should be. She’s a ray of sunshine.’
Out of all the notable personalities who lived in Byron, Rob had a particular fondness for the Block presenter, who’d become somewhat of a local property mogul after flipping a few houses in the area. Judging by the face Shelley made whenever Rob saw her in town and yelled, ‘Oi, Crafty!’, the affection was not mutual.
* * *
Charlie bounded over to the table and wrapped Aimee in his arms. ‘How’s my little slime monster?’
‘I didn’t tell him.’ Rob put her hands in the air.
‘I saw the video,’ Charlie laughed.
Rob held up her phone. ‘There’s a video? Send it now!’
Aimee closed her eyes and placed her head down on the round bar table – grimacing as her cheek touched the puddle of condensation that had pooled around the drinks.
Rob pulled Aimee’s hair out of the puddle. ‘What can I do? Should I finally get back on stage and scream-sing “Thunderstruck”?’
Charlie drum-rolled on the table with his hands and Aimee sat up.
‘I mean, yes, you absolutely should do that again,’ Aimee said. ‘Just not tonight. The crowd still seems… sensitive.’
Ever since Ben Harper showed up one time and tested out new material while he was in town for Bluesfest, Music Club had started to turn into hipster territory with lots of baby-voiced twenty-somethings ruining classic songs. Tensions flared about a year ago when Rob got drunk and decided to annoy them by crashing the stage and performing the AC/DC anthem, acapella. It had become somewhat of a ritual.
Aimee shook her head in frustration. ‘Let’s just talk about anything other than sliming videos.’
‘Ooh, let’s talk about dicks!’ Charlie flipped his phone around. The image of a naked man’s bottom half was on the screen.
Aimee shrieked.
Rob grabbed the phone excitedly. ‘It’s huge!’
Charlie laughed. ‘It’s the big dick from that Netflix show – Oceans of Angels.’
‘I thought I recognised it.’ Rob studied the photo intensely as she used her thumb and forefinger to zoom in. ‘Aimee, don’t you recognise it?’ She held up the screen.
Aimee raised her eyebrows and sighed defiantly. ‘No.’
Charlie shot up straight. He didn’t get shocked by much. But this was a topic he was passionate about. ‘How do you not recognise it? It’s everywhere!’
‘Everywhere? Where’s everywhere?’ Aimee laughed.
‘The internet, nan,’ Rob teased.
‘I don’t even know what Angels and Oceans is.’
‘Oceans of Angels,’ Rob corrected. ‘The first season just dropped and it’s so bad but that’s why it’s so good. It’s about a group of wannabe actors trying to make it in nineties Hollywood. The cast is a bunch of nobodies and the acting is terrible.’
‘But the actors are also hot,’ Charlie chimed in. ‘And they get naked and have sex.’
Aimee reluctantly posed a question. ‘And why is this particular penis getting talked about?’
‘Because it’s big. Jeez, Aimee, pay attention.’ Charlie slapped the table.
‘There are entire think pieces being written about it online,’ Rob shared, as if she were talking about an investigative report she’d just read in the New York Times.
Aimee furrowed her brow. ‘Think pieces about a dick?’
‘Not just a dick, Aimee,’ Charlie said. ‘A massive dick.’
‘It’s the pénis de résistance of the entire show,’ Rob chirped.
Charlie nodded. ‘And it’s not just Oceans of Angels. Every TV series these days is showing full-frontal penis. We’re in a wiener renaissance.’
‘Debate is raging about whether it’s real or a prosthetic.’ Rob pointed to the picture on Charlie’s phone. ‘And you wanna know the best part?’
‘The big dick is getting its own spin-off series?’ Aimee deadpanned.
‘The show’s second season is being filmed on the Gold Coast right now,’ Rob informed her. ‘Finally! Government incentives and tax breaks are being used for good.’ Gasp! ‘Maybe we could track down the big dick.’
Rob and Charlie snapped their heads up to glare at each other. ‘Dibs!’ they yelled in unison.
Aimee took a big sip of her tequila. ‘Well, thank you for getting me up to speed with Angels and Oceans – I’ll definitely be avoiding it.’
‘Aimee, there’s a whole world of TV out there at your fingertips and you reject it all in favour of watching YouTube videos about chiropractors cracking people’s backs.’ Rob waved a hand in the air.
‘Hey, I stream TV shows as well,’ Aimee informed her friends.
‘Oh, sor-ry, Stream Queen,’ Rob laughed.
‘What TV shows are you streaming, Stream Queen?’ Charlie piled on.
Aimee fought a smile as she ventured an answer she knew her friends would mock. In this trio, they all knew their roles perfectly and leant into them hard. ‘A lot of the old episodes of Just Shoot Me are on YouTube now.’
‘Aimee!’ Rob covered her face in pain.
Aimee laughed. ‘Same with Becker.’
Charlie was mid-sip and covered his mouth as tequila dribbled out. ‘Oh my god, it’s all making sense. I’ve lived with you for years and I’m only just realising this now: You’re female Becker!’
‘You are!’ Rob yelled. ‘Always so cranky and ready to embark on long rants about minor inconveniences at a moment’s notice.’
Aimee closed her eyes and laughed as Rob leant over and playfully poked her. ‘You’re Becker, you’re Becker! That’s what we’re calling you now.’
‘You know, on second thought,’ Aimee swatted her away, ‘I think I’d rather talk about the sliming video.’
‘Actually…’ Rob reached into her pocket and cleared her throat. ‘I know you said you wanted to avoid talking about your… other… news, but I’m breaking the embargo.’ She unfolded the property flyer the rich Porsche landlady had tucked into Aimee’s jeans.
Aimee snatched it. ‘Are these being handed out?’
‘No, I stole it from your handbag earlier. Serious chat: What are you gonna do?’
Aimee used her finger to jab the flyer into the puddle on the table. ‘Not much I can do. It’s being sold with approval for retail and a thousand levels of boutique apartments. And a goddamn… juicery.’ She whacked the table with both hands and the playfulness that had bubbled just seconds earlier was gone. ‘I’ve been there eighteen years. My parents had the store before that. Same landlord the whole time. Barely raised the rent, ever.’
Charlie dropped his jaw. ‘What if I sell the taco truck?’
Aimee affectionately grabbed a chunk of his scruffy, curly-ish brown hair and suddenly remembered the missing swimsuit. ‘Hey, did one of your Grindr hookups stay over last night? My swimsuit’s missing.’
Charlie laughed. ‘Why would they want your swimmers? And are you sure it didn’t just disintegrate?’
Aimee ignored the running gag. ‘And there was… a KeepCup.’
Charlie arched an eyebrow and smirked. ‘Did you wash it or throw it out?’
Rob persisted with her theory. ‘I still think it’s the town trying to scare you into going green. A KeepCup on the kitchen bench is their version of a horse head in the bed.’
Aimee looked back down at the flyer. ‘Once this sells, the rent will be…’ she exhaled as she tried to estimate a price before giving up, ‘I dunno. More than I can afford. And the other shops in town are now all the same.’
‘You could move your store into my salon?’ Rob offered. ‘We could be like a cool barber-bookshop hybrid.’ She jutted her shoulders back and forth. ‘Like those cafes in clothing stores or—’
‘Like Tim and his rooftop bar?’ Aimee finished her friend’s sentence.
Rob stopped shoulder dancing and scrunched up her nose. ‘I’m not helping, am I?’
‘Just don’t tell anyone about it. I don’t feel like being interrogated by everyone in town before I’ve figured out what I’m doing.’
The microphone screeched again. ‘Guess Who, Don’t Sue: Aimee’s being evicted from her store and she’s probably poor now.’
Aimee jumped off her bar stool and walked closer to the stage with a screwed-up face. ‘It’s not a Guess Who, Don’t Sue if you just blatantly name the person outright,’ she argued.
‘Boo!’ The crowd went nuts.
‘Yeah, boo!’ Rob joined in. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed when Aimee shot her a look.
‘My store’s not closing down. It’s just—’
‘Whatever,’ Bada Bing cut her off. ‘And guys, out of respect for Aimee, can everyone stop texting around that video of her sliming the car?’
‘Thank you,’ Aimee said.
Bada Bing continued. ‘For everyone’s convenience, I’ve posted it to the town Facebook page. Remember to like and share.’
Aimee looked like she’d just been punched in the face.
‘Ooh, found it!’ Rob waved her phone in the air. ‘At least you look hot in it,’ she teased.
Aimee walked back to the table and grabbed for the phone but Rob pulled back. ‘Wait up, wait up. Lemme see something again.’ Rob dragged her finger along the screen, scrolling the footage back and hitting play. Then she paused. ‘What did Tim say?’ She held up the phone. Aimee squinted at the screen. There was Tim in the background: standing on the roof of his surf store across the road from The Dream Explosion, looking down as Aimee slimed the Porsche.
Aimee pursed her lips and looked at the floor. ‘I didn’t know he saw.’
Silence.
‘We need more tequila.’ Rob slapped the table and headed for the bar.
Aimee called out after her. ‘Just one! I have a bank meeting in the morning!’
Charlie rubbed his head on Aimee’s shoulder. ‘I know your Tim time-out includes not even talking about him. But you can break that at any time with us.’
Aimee looked down at the wet real estate flyer that was now disintegrating into pulp and dug the nail of her right middle finger into the pad of her thumb.
The microphone screeched. A faint whisper began to build over the speakers. It was unmistakable: Rob humming the opening ahhh-ahhhs of ‘Thunderstruck’.
‘C’mon.’ Aimee stood up. ‘We gotta get down the front before she stage dives again.’
FOUR
Aimee winced under the glare of the bright fluorescent office lights and wondered why all banks had started making their offices look like Ikea showrooms. A little boy started playing with one of those pens attached to a chain on the nearby teller desk – whipping the metal rope against the laminated counter. She flinched at the clicks and clacks.
‘Sick?’ asked the woman tapping away on the computer behind the desk.
It took a second for Aimee to realise the question was aimed at her. ‘Hmm?’
‘Feeling sick? Your sunglasses and cap…’ The woman waved a hand around her face with a laugh. She’d been talking to Aimee with a sense of peppy familiarity from the very second Aimee loomed into the office like a hungover black cloud.
Not even Aimee’s short responses were enough to snuff out the chatty small talk. The Bomb had not worked. Two Panadol Rapid plus two Nurofen with a Gatorade chaser – a cocktail remedy Aimee and Rob had concocted one blurry morning after a night of drinking at Music Club – had been a sure-fire remedy until today. The Bomb usually wiped out any ache and regret that thrived the morning after. But The Bomb had failed to detonate and now sitting in a fake Eames chair, Aimee was a swirl of ache and regret. Regrets about drinking so much tequila. Regrets about booking an 8am bank consultation the morning after drinking so much tequila. This wasn’t a regular hangover. It was a hangover involving administration forms. No one should endure such suffering.
Aimee’s phone buzzed. A text from Rob: I feel surprisingly not hungover!
Aimee thumbed at her screen, typing out a reply. ‘Me too!’ she lied. She adjusted the baseball cap and tugged the brim down low over her face. She’d usually be wearing her sister’s old beat-up leather Akubra – the one with the braided leather band and the red feather on the side – but when she went to grab it off the hook near the door that morning, it was gone. Missing, like her navy swimmers. Did I drunkenly move it when I got home last night? she wondered, haphazardly trying to come up with innocent reasons that wouldn’t add to her stress. Did I wear it to the pub? Maybe I left it there…
