Something Red, Something Blue

It was on the final day of the conference that I drank too much with my 'conference friend', Liesel. We were both aged in our forties, with careers in workplace health and safety, and we'd found ourselves at a three day event in a tiny beach town in North Queensland partially out of a desire to increase our professional knowledge, and largely out of a desire to get away from Brisbane. We'd quickly identified each other as a companion for the week and had attended sessions, shared notes, and eaten together.

We were both unmarried. Childless. Liesel had a cat which her mother cared for when she wasn't at home whereas I had nothing but a small tank of tropical fish that lived in the lounge room of my small brick flat.

Our work lives were so neatly organised and regimented that there was no pressing need for us to be at our desks each and every day. All our colleagues had to do in our absence was follow protocol, so while other delegates had rushed off to the airport to fly home at the conclusion of the final session, Liesel and I had both elected to fly home the day after the conference ended. Perhaps that explains why we got drunk. The organisers had paid for a fifty-guest farewell function and there were only twenty of us who'd hung around. Waiters kept offering us drinks. And Liesel and I... kept drinking them.

My companion was nearer fifty than forty and had a solid build and a helmet of dark brown hair. No-nonsense when sober, the drunker she got, the more she over-shared, joked, and flirted with the young, male wait staff in a way that was more 'terrifying' than 'cougar'.

I was forty-two, with the trim body that comes from no children and far too much participation in Zumba, Spin Classes and Pilates. My hair was whatever subtle shade my hairdresser decided on -- at the time of the conference it was dark blonde -- and I avoided killer frown lines only with the prodigious use of botox. I had the figure of a seventeen year old waif paired with skin that would be a mass of wrinkles by the time I was seventy.

Liesel was loud with a few drinks in her, while I was quiet and giggly. We'd dealt with singledom differently and with our own, regrettable, brands of bitter. Liesel had been a necessity, someone to talk to and have dinner with because I had no friends attending the conference, and no husband to call at night, and no children for whom to collect knick knacks from trade stands, but I didn't particularly like her. When I got back to Brisbane I'd delete her number from her phone and not think twice about her.

We didn't leave the function until the final farewell speech was given. Liesel and I clapped loudly. Too loudly. It was only four-thirty in the afternoon for God's sake. Who gets drunk at the time of day, and in a ninety minute period no less? But we all have moments of stupidity and this, I thought, was mine.

'Thank God that's over,' Liesel said, as we exited the function rooms and walked into the bright, sunlit street. 'One more night and we're out of this one horse town for good.'

'Don't you like it?' I asked, glancing around. There were palm trees swaying in the breeze and the mood was relaxed. 'It's very peaceful.'

'It's great if you're retired and have nothing better to do than potter about and interfere with your neighbours. I can't believe anyone thought this was a good location for the conference. I'd been expecting something more.'

I didn't argue. I liked small communities. They always seemed warm and welcoming after the cold, overcrowded streets of inner city Brisbane. The houses here were large, built to withstand cyclones, and cheap. I'd browsed the estate agent's windows yesterday and had nearly cried at what I could have bought with the proceeds of the sale of my flat. If I didn't have the sort of job that only existed in large cities and regional centres, I would have moved here in a heartbeat.

We walked down the main street towards our hotel. I'd had, God, four or five drinks in ninety minutes. Drunk? Yes. Very. I couldn't hold my alcohol.

We passed the usual suspects in these sorts of town. A takeaway. A small general store. A store that sold bathers and towels. And a newsagent. There was a chalkboard sign out the front of the newsagent. It read;

'Join our syndicate -- four tickets left in tonight's Powerball'

'Four balls,' I remarked to Liesel. 'I'd settle for two.'

'What?'

'The sign.' I pointed to it. 'Four tickets left in tonight's Powerball syndicate. Four balls.'

'There's only one Powerball per draw, Jodie.'

I shook my head at her with the impatience of a drunk. I was frustrated at her for failing to understand what I thought was an obvious joke.

'I want to buy a ticket. I want to buy two. Two balls. There's no other way I'm going to get anything with...' I paused and burst into giggles. 'Two balls in my life.'

She stared at me, dumbstruck. 'You need to go home.'

'No. I'm getting a ticket. Two tickets. Come with me. I'll buy one for you.'

I grabbed her arm, and with the impatient enthusiasm of an inebriated woman, I marched us both up to the counter.

A very young, beautiful, gay man asked if he could help us.

'Powerball,' I said simply.

'Oh, the syndicate,' he said, brightening. 'Would you like to buy a share? Normally we sell out days in advance, but we've still got four shares left and the draw's in less than five hours.'

'How much are tickets?' Liesel asked suspiciously.

The clerk told her the price. Liesel told him the amount was ridiculous and she was surprised there weren't ten tickets left, what was the world coming to? Good grief, I thought. This woman is no fun. Thank God I wouldn't have to talk to her after tomorrow.

'I want a ticket,' I told the clerk. 'Two please, actually. Is that allowed? Can I have two balls? Because...' I burst into giggles again. 'I'm single and this is the only way I'm going to see a pair.'

The clerk laughed. Not with me, but at me, but not unkindly. 'I like your theory,' he said. 'You can definitely buy two.'

A second male voice chimed in. 'And on the basis that I'm a divorced man and my ex-wife seems to have retained one of my testicles, I'll take a ticket, too.'

I turned around to see a man somewhere around fifty. He'd suffered the usual effects of age; lost some hair, gained some weight and worn his teeth down around the edges, but he had a great, cheeky smile and deep blue eyes that shone like two little marbles in his lined, tanned face.

'I think you should definitely buy a ticket,' I told him. 'Even if you're lying to me and you have two balls, if you win, you'll have three.'

'I could go on Oprah if I had three balls,' he grinned.

'You could,' I agreed. 'And, also, I'm drunk.'

'On a Thursday afternoon,' he acknowledged. 'Half your luck.'

I liked him immensely. I liked everyone when I was drunk, but I especially liked this man. I turned to Liesel and asked if she'd be okay having just one ball.

'I don't need any balls,' she replied.

'Sure you do,' I said, nudging her and smiling. 'Who doesn't want a ball? Or two balls? I'll pay for your ticket.' I turned to the clerk. 'Three tickets please. I'll leave the fourth for the man whose wife stole his testicle.'

~~~~~~~~~

In most stories, lotto winners scoop first prize. Not this one; our syndicate won second. The total prize pool was just over seventy thousand and in the land of Australia where gambling proceeds aren't taxed, this meant each share was worth over seven grand. As the holder of two shares I was the biggest winner. My total prize was $14,128.54.

I found out about the win the morning I was due to return to Brisbane. The newsagent called me, congratulated me, and told me to expect payment in eight to ten days. The lotteries commission would have to validate and distribute the prize pool and this took some time, they said apologetically.

I didn't care how long it took for me to get the money, I was absolutely ecstatic. It was a good amount of money to win. I could tell friends and family without worrying that they'd feel resentful. Fourteen thousand is a nice amount, but it's not exceptional. It would allow me to get a beautiful bathroom renovation without worrying about tile or tap choices. I'd been saving to have the bathroom fixed for over a year, so the prospect of being able to get it done right away, and to my heart's desire, was pleasing.

The newsagency told me several of the regular syndicate entrants wanted to organise celebratory drinks. They said they were looking at holding it in two weeks' time, when everyone had their money. I was welcome to attend.

I wasn't so sure about saying 'yes'. Firstly, I lived in Brisbane and would need to take time off and organise flights to come back here, and secondly, if everyone else knew each other, I'd probably be seen as a bit of an interloper, and perhaps even someone who had no right buying a share in a local lottery syndicate. I didn't want to face any ill will. I told the newsagent I'd think about it, then rang Liesel to see how she felt about the celebratory drinks.

Liesel's phone rang out. I left her a message and sent her a text, expecting to hear back from her shortly, but she didn't respond. Two hours passed and I still didn't hear from her. Odd, I thought, but it was time for me to check out and I thought I might be able to catch up with her in the airport shuttle. We were both booked to ride the same shuttle to the airport, and then to catch the same flight to Brisbane.

But Liesel wasn't out the front waiting for the shuttle. I grew concerned. This town was quite a drive from the airport and a taxi fare would be exorbitant, so I couldn't see why she'd travel privately if the shuttle was available. I went to the hotel reception, explained my situation, and asked if they could put in a welfare call. The clerk checked their system and told me Liesel had already checked out. The clerk then conferred with a colleague who seemed to recall Liesel ordering a taxi. Both hotel staff smiled at my sympathetically, as if I were a date who'd been stood up. I ignored their pitying looks, thanked them both, then went and boarded the shuttle.

After arriving at the airport and checking in, I undertook a search for my new friend. I was quite keen to ask her opinion about returning to this town for the celebratory drinks. If she was willing to come back, then I definitely would. I liked the town, it was warm and welcoming, and I had quite a bit of annual leave banked up. It wouldn't destroy any vacation plans if I were to take a week's leave and come here.

I found Liesel sitting in a corner, reading a magazine, facing away from everyone. It was almost as if she were trying to hide, but I recognised her hair and raced over.

'Liesel!' I called. 'Liesel, did the newsagent call you?'

Liesel put her magazine down. She blushed a bit at first, then managed to transform embarrassment into a stern stare. 'I'm not giving it back to you,' she said.

I blinked, confused. 'I'm sorry?'

'The money. I'm not giving it to you. You gave the ticket to me as a gift.'

Suddenly it all made sense. She'd thought I was going to ask for her share of the money and had been trying to avoid me to avoid any uncomfortable conversations.

'I'm not... I wasn't...' I fumbled, embarrassed. Of course it was a gift. I'd been drunk. I'd never have dreamed of asking her for the money she'd won. 'That wasn't my intention.'

'Good,' she said, raising her magazine. 'Because I've already checked with my sister. She's a lawyer.'

A combination of anger, embarrassment and annoyance stirred in my stomach. My heart began to thud. I'd been genuinely concerned about this stupid bitch's welfare, but while I'd been asking hotel reception to check on her, she'd been consulting a lawyer to safeguard a stupid bloody gift.

'Some of the syndicate regulars are organising celebratory drinks,' I said brightly, refusing to give into my anger. I always tried to hide my more unsavoury emotions. 'Are you going?'

'God no. The sooner I'm out of this shithole, the better. I still can't believe anyone thought this was a suitable location for an event.'

'Well, I'm going to come back to the enjoy the celebrations,' I replied childishly. 'I think it's lovely here, and I can't wait to come back.'

~~~~~~~~~

Two weeks' later, I arrived back in town.

When I'd put in my leave application my boss had grumpily inquired as to why I was giving such short notice. I'd told her the complete and utter truth.

'I bought a ticket in a lotto syndicate and we won second prize,' I'd explained. 'The syndicate members wanted to hold celebratory drinks together. I thought I might as well make a holiday of it.'

Her interest was piqued. 'Was it a good win?'

'Seven thousand apiece. I had two shares, though.'

'Wow, Jodie, congratulations!' She'd beamed happily. 'That's amazing. Gosh, I'll get your leave approved ASAP. You need to celebrate.'

As I said; fourteen thousand is enough to make people pleased for you without making them jealous. It would have been a different story if I'd been the sole second division -- or, God help me, first division -- winner, but a twenty percent share of seventy grand? It was forgivable.

My leave was approved, I bought a return plane ticket and booked a week's accommodation. Truth be told, I was a little bit nervous about arriving back. It sort of stuck in the back of my mind that this was a small seaside town I was visiting, one where everyone knew everyone else. I was just some ring-in, some stranger who'd been drunk enough to buy two tickets while making crude comments about men and balls.

My face grew hot with embarrassment whenever I contemplated how Mr Divorced-and-down-to-one-ball might react to me when he saw me again, but I assured myself he'd probably forgotten all about me. I'd made being forgotten by men an art form. Hell, most even failed to notice who I was. I hadn't had a lover in over ten years. Yes, you heard that right. Over ten years. I'd tried online dating but after having been ghosted twice and then met up with someone who walked out halfway through, telling me I didn't resemble my picture (I thought I did, it had been a recent shot and Facebook's facial recognition program had had no problems recognising me), I'd decided that it wasn't for me.

I arrived midday Saturday, in plenty of time for the dinner the syndicate members had organised. I had a few hours to kill, so I went for a swim, showered, put on a nice dress and make-up, then called a taxi.

I should stop here and talk about my dress. I'm not just thin, I have quite a small build. 'Bird-like' if you wish to be unkind. Many brands, particularly those orientated towards women in their thirties or forties, don't stock my size. As such, in order to maintain any variety in my outfits, I need to shop at outlets that appeal to twenty-somethings.

My dress came from one such shop. I'd ordered it online some months ago, in a 'final reductions, no returns' sale, and when I'd tried it on and found it was more revealing than I'd anticipated, I'd just shoved it to the back of my wardrobe. It was cherry red, short and tight and it was probably inappropriate for anyone over the age of twenty-five.

It was also extremely flattering. When I wore it, I felt sexy. It's embarrassing to admit, but on more than one occasion, when I was home alone and feeling horny, I'd pulled the dress from the recesses of my closet. I'd worn sexy underwear, slipped into the dress, pulled on heels, done my hair and applied a full face of make-up. I'd fantasized about having the courage to wear my sexy outfit out in public, and letting a man pick me up. I'd touch myself while imagining us falling into bed together or having doggy style sex with me leaning against the mirrored wardrobe in my room.

As part of these fantasies I'd pull out a vibrator and pretend it was a lover's cock. I'd hike my dress up around my waist and fuck myself in front of the mirror. I'd watch my pussy swallow up the plastic tube. Sometimes I'd suck on the vibrator, forcing as much of it into my mouth as possible. Once or twice I lubed myself up and fucked myself anally with it.

The dress had become part of my secret sex life. I'd have never dared wear it in Brisbane. For starters, it was, as I said, inappropriate. Secondly, I had such firm, sexual memories associated with it that I barely had to look at it to start getting hot and bothered.

The question then remains; why wear it out to dinner with a bunch of fellow lotto winners? And the answer, my friend, is 'I don't know'. Perhaps it was some deep, long buried rebellious streak, reasserting itself now that I was so safely distanced from home and all of my colleagues, family and friends. My companions could gossip about me to their heart's content, but it wouldn't in any way impact on my real life.

I rode to the venue in the taxi in my ridiculous red dress, feeling wet between the legs, and wondering if this was a wise idea. What was I even doing here? I was insane, certifiably insane. No wonder I was single.

The drinks and dinner were being held at a small bistro. A table had been reserved for our group, and a waiter led me over. I followed meekly behind him, mentally preparing myself to come face to face with a table of happy, young, married couples all dressed far more appropriately than I was.

Instead, I was led to a table in which I was by far the youngest guest. The next youngest was Mr One Testicle who was chatting to a couple of butch lesbians of similar age, but the remainder of the guests were all in their sixties. I was five minutes early but I was still the last to arrive, and while I was far more dressed up -- and showing a lot more leg -- than anyone else, none seemed in the least bit phased by my attire.

'The lady who believed two balls could change it all,' Mr One Testicle teased. He was in a black polo shirt and jeans, and his dark blue eyes twinkled with amusement.

I was mortified. 'You remember.'

He pulled out the vacant seat beside him. 'McGrath,' he introduced simply. He gestured to the butch lesbians. 'This is Bonnie and Xanthe.'

'Jodie,' I replied. 'It's nice to meet you.'

Everyone went around the table introducing themselves, but as soon as names were exchanged, two little groups re-formed; the oldies, plus us 'youngies'. The lesbians told me they lived off the land and supported themselves with a small goat dairy, and McGrath commented that only two types of people had goats; stoners and dykes. I thought the women would be offended but they agreed with him, only adding that there were also a few, very weird men involved.

'Like you, McGrath,' Xanthe finished. 'If ever there was a straight bloke to get involved in goat farming, it would be you.'

'Spare me,' he replied good-naturedly. 'I'll stay in town, thanks very much. Life is infinitely better when I can walk home from the pub. Wouldn't you agree, Jodie? There's not much that beats a slow amble around town when you're feeling healthy.'

I laughed, embarrassed, and wished that I could think of something witty to say, but words failed me. It didn't matter. McGrath was proving himself to be a bit of a shit-stirrer, but the goat farmers didn't let him get away with a single thing, which pleased him greatly and only egged him on. He was one of those men who obviously liked a drink and a laugh, but he had that rare trait of being able to take shit as well as give it.

During a lull in conversation I asked McGrath what he did for a living.

'I'm an engineer. I work three days a week at the council, and on my days off, I do spill-over work for a local company,' he replied. 'I'm also the town's resident labour hire man. I step in and become the lackey when any of the local tradesman need a hand for a big job. How about you?'