Australian Graffiti.

A public female bathroom is located, fortuitously, just outside my office. This string of communal cubicles is far from being fancy, quite the reverse actually. This bathroom has an unaffectionate reputation as the most airless, constrictive and dirty toilet block in the whole of the social sciences complex, having missed out on the hygienic refurb that most other bathrooms were recently treated to. It has boarded up windows, locks that hang ineffectual and broken, and fluro lights that are stuck in a perpetual state of candlesticky flicker.

 

Although murky, musty and possibly haunted, my bathroom lacks the romance of say, an old English manor, or a moonlit moor.

Proximity is a strong motivator, however, and it is rare that I will put comfort before convenience in the matter of all things bathroom. Furthermore, in the small, dingy bathroom, so close to where I study, I have MY STALL.

 

Unlike the owners of this aquarium toilet, I have not yet customized my cubicle of choice.

It is a funny component of human nature to like consistency. People pick out seats and spots that they favour, and then continue to use them regardless of mitigating or external factors. In these cases, habit will often trump the desire to hunt around for something shinier, more spacious, or even more functional.

When it comes to my bathroom visitations, I too am a woman of routine. When adjourning to that dank and dimly lit set of stalls, I without fail choose the end cubicle to the far left of the bathroom. This stall is my particular favourite, not just because it is familiar, but also because I enjoy the sporadically increasing graffiti statements and conversations that spider up and down its walls.

 

Most people, if you believe the press, view graffiti as vandalism. In a toilet stall, however, I enjoy the varied reading material.

At the top of the door, creating a heading, if you will, the text reads:

VIVA LA RESISTANCE

Underneath this call to arms a feminist sticker with the printed proclamation “Beauty comes in all shapes and sizes” has been scrawled over with the adage,

TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE

To my right are written the ruder messages of the collection, with a musing student wondering in blue pen,

EVER WONDERED WHAT HAPPENS WHEN SHIT REALLY HITS THE FAN?

A flesh-phobic student has taken the spot next to the previous question to declare the wise and age-old truism:

FAT PUSSY STINKS

Another author has taken it upon herself to draft a response, with her rejoining scribble cramped underneath the declaration,

TAKES ONE TO KNOW ONE

My personal favourite occupies the bottom right of the left hand wall,

BE KIND, EVERYONE YOU MEET IS FIGHTING A GREAT BATTLE

Finally, so faint you can barely read it, a girl has written a single, poignant word, in semi-translucent black ink:

ONEDAY

Knights in Shining Car-ma.

I am fully aware that my general political agenda and personal values make me perfectly suited to being a foaming at the mouth feminist.

The modern-day feminist can wear make up.

In my formative years, however, there was a hitch. My mother and father adopted relatively gender stereotypical roles around the house, with my father bringing home the bacon (vegetarian for me, of course), and my mother maintaining a tidy house, hearty table, and strong network of social ties. Further to this, both my father and mother demonstrated daily to me specifically masculine and feminine modes of etiquette.

When going through a door, it became established that the rules were thus: females pass through the portal first, the aged before youth, and at all times, doors should be held by those waiting. Dad, if driving us somewhere, would drop my mother and us kids at the door of our destination, and then scout around for a park, saving us, presumably, the messy and annoying task of walking ten extra steps. If I take my early homelife into account, it is easy for me to conclude that chivalry is not dead, although it may have a cough.

I have always been a bit enchanted by the romance that chivalry entails. The most famous example of masculine sacrifice is, of course, in the interaction between Sir Walter Raleigh, and Queen Elizabeth (I think). They were walking together, when Sir Walter saw a puddle blocking her path. Springing into action, Sir Walter laid down his coat over it to protect her delicate footsies. Sir Walter was also the man who eschewed hygiene, and refused to wash his hand for months after Queen E. touched it, thinking that her delicate power and scent would linger on him and bring him power, and the respect of all other men.

That dashing coat dropper, Sir Walter Raleigh, and the lucky Queen.

I am fascinated by chivalry, but it is not to say that I expect doors held or cars chauffeured for me… but oh how I love it. I watch for it, carefully waiting in an elevator to see which boys push out before me, and which men, with mannish and directive hand waves, wait patiently until I have trod lightly through the exit. “He’s a nice boy,” I inevitably think when this happens, “Oh yes, he’s well bred”. Well bred!? What am I thinking? Do I wish to replace my seemingly AWOL feminism with classist snobbery?

An artist’s impression of me, thrilling in my slippers as I look doe-eyed up at a gentleman who holds the door for me and/or protects me from the harsh realities of life.

Door-holding, seat giving and arm pressing are often thought to be acts of ‘benevolent sexism’. ‘Benevolent sexists’ kill with kindness. These bigots believe that women are somehow less than human than men, even disabled in comparison to them, and thus ladies need extra help and care when going about their daily business. In this mindset, women are on one hand lauded, respected, and held up as angels in need of assistance, and are on the other hand degraded as dirty temptresses, wanton sluts and unfeminine bulldogs, should they contradict the stringent, chaste, and delicate feminine norms that these benevolent sexists hold for them.

 

Is the wheelchair redundant, is womanhood itself a disability?

And yet… and yet… chivalry makes me so happy and warm on the inside when I come breast to fist with it. Two acts of such gallantry spring vividly to mind, and when I remember them they always make me smile.

One day, having driven myself to uni in the great white horse (again read Volvo), and parked on the road by the river, I was walking distractedly across the sporting fields up to my building. A large and hairy man, who resembled a member of that crazy 1% of the biking contingent, the Hell’s Angels, was sitting pretty atop a ride-on mower. The bikie look-alike was roaring around at a great rate, grass flying in his wake. Upon seeing me, however, he shut the motor off immediately. I looked him in the eye, and he smiled a big, toothless grin at me, which I returned, with interest. He waited until my delicate ears were safely out of range before starting his motor again, mowing with courtesy and grace, and making my day at the same time.

Add one mower and one Hell’s Angel and you have a recipe for chivalry* (*results may vary).

Another day, after a long and arduous slog at uni, I was driving home. Too late, I realized that I was driving on empty, and in the wrong lane to get to the petrol station. Furthermore, I was pulled up at a set of lights, and the line of angry drivers behind me looked like they would not be impressed at waiting immobile until I could safely merge. I looked over my shoulder in distress, and flicked on my indicator. I was well and truly stuck, banked in by a macho-looking Commodore, which was idling in the other lane. The driver of the said Commodore, suitably macho himself, seemed to note my distress. He looked in his own rear view mirror, and, seeing there were no cars behind him, began to reverse at a mad and dangerous pace. He waved me in, and in I slipped. I made it to the petrol station, and he made it away unharmed. It was so manly, so masculine, so new-age chivalrous of him to maneuver his car at personal risk to make sure that I had a gentle path to my destination… I was charmed.

Letting a woman in in traffic is the modern day equivalent to jousting for her honour.

But then, maybe there is just something about man and machine. I have a friend who considers a successful reverse park as equivalent to foreplay. One time, whilst she was in England, a fellow famously got her into bed by executing a perfect ‘one reverse’ park into a narrow space.

There is a right way, and a wrong way to park when attempting to bed a woman.

I had always thought that this was a bit mad until the other night. Having picked up a movie with a friend of mine, he drove us back to my house. Unfortunately, the guest parking lot where I live is a tight squeeze at the best of times, and his is not a small car. He took one look at the space, and revved the motor. He then glanced casually at me, and thwacked a strong hand behind my headrest. My heart was in my mouth. In one smooth movement he reversed the car in, shutting off the motor as if it were nothing. I felt a a flush blushing my cheeks, my pulse speed up, and my libido rise. I don’t know whether it was the skillful insertion of a large vehicle into a tight space, or the sense of mastery the whole process awarded him. Whilst not having quite the effect on me that it had on my friend, I began to understand, just a little, of what she felt.

Was it me, the night, or the seamless reverse park?

All this leads me to wonder whether chivalry is chivalrous at all, and what percentage of chivalry is just a continuation of the age old mating game. Having said that, I always feel respected, and respectful when a door is held for me. An empathetic thrill of appreciation also runs through me when I see a man giving up a seat for an old lady, helping her with her shopping, or opening the door for her.

I am sure all this means, without a doubt, that I am a bad, bad feminist. But nonetheless, really, I wish my lawn-mowing man and the Commodore driver a little good karma. In fact, I send them my most adulating, simpering, and adoring thanks (wide eyes and trembling lashes included) for lifting my spirits, and making me feel like a girl.

MAIDEN is an anagram of DAMIEN.

*WARNING: Post is long.

If you distort Rupert Everett into awkward angularity, then skew and stretch him into lanky proportions, then you have an idea of what my friend Danny looks like.

Squint whilst looking at this picture for a visual approximation of Danny.

I first met Danny when I was doing honours at uni. We were all stressed out of our minds when I spied him, with his brown hair pointing directly up like some sort of wild flame. We struck up a friendship over statistics and essays, meeting up almost every night to prowl aimlessly around Indooroopilly, walking and talking as we went. Most nights we would end up at the St Lucia golf links. It is a beautiful and strange place at night, with groves of trees and a perpetual abundance of misty allies through them. As we tramped past ponds, rushes, and putting green we used to talk about life, death, and love, in fact anything but our tortured uni lives.

Should you feel like an adventure of your own, simply pick a slightly mental and unruly friend, and follow the map.

The golf course would usually then take us to the walking path along the river, where we would alternately traipse and subside, sitting on any one of the benches that dot the path. A few times when we walked that way, we saw fireflies come out, and follow us as we went. I had never seen fireflies in Brisbane previous to this, nor after for that matter, but somehow it didn’t surprise me. Danny, you see, is one of those people who fireflies follow.

With their little lanterns, fireflies often guided the way for Danny and I.

“I’m messy at the moment Fiffles.” he used to say to me, and he was. It was the perfect description for the sort of malaise that overtook him at that time, depression mixed with mania. His sadness was always peculiar in that it had an optimistic bent. His speech would speed up and his movements become jerky. I always saw in him this wild, wild spirit, sort of pressing to break free from its mortal prison.

Danny is a talented artist, and specializes in the spray paint variety. One day I went into the computer labs at uni to work on an assignment. I sat down next to him, and started tapping away, but soon had to stop. A strange odour was thick in the air and my head was starting to spin. I turned to Danny and mentioned it to him, but a close examination of his attire made his words redundant. He had spray painted himself a t-shirt, and with the paint not yet dry, the noxious fumes were slowly but surely asphyxiating the entire lab. Danny became so lightheaded he had to take off his shirt, and swelter in his thick jacket all day.

Graffiti on t-shirts, whilst acceptable in theory, can be deadly in practice.

At some time during that honours year Danny was riding the train into the city, when an orange vested locomotive worker came up and sat down next to him.

“You and I are going to have a good old chinwag, sonny.” he said to Danny. “Yes, we are going to have a natter and I am going to tell you your life.”

Prophecy, not being a standard component of train travel, was complimentary in Danny’s case.

In the fifteen minutes that followed the man told Danny such vivid and accurate information as to make Danny both frightened and intrigued. As the train slowed to a stop, the man got up and tipped his cap to Danny. He looked at his watch, and told Danny the exact time and date.

“Remember this,” he said, “because this is when I told you what’s what. You will never see me again. Goodbye.”

Danny, now more freaked out than anything else, embarked on a two week bender as a direct result of this encounter. He never did see the man again, but often thought about what he said, and the surreal nature of their talk.

The friendship between Danny and I was great in so many ways, because it really defied convention – the convention being the whole ‘men and women can’t be friends’ memorandum that we all received at birth. Additionally, no one was quite as good as him when I wanted to talk existential crises and meaning of life bullshit. Sadly, however, there was a hitch. Danny had a girlfriend of three years, who came to object to our nightly meetings and frequent coffees. Eventually she had it out with him, and Danny and I had to sit down and have a talk.

Jealous girlfriends cross here at night.

Even though I was sad in a way with our conclusion – we both decided it was probably better to see less of each other – in a way I respected the right of the girlfriend to protect her relationship. As we sat next to each other in that final talk, Danny had tears in his eyes,

“You know Fiffles,” he said, “I know this will sound odd but I really think that I’ve grown to love you over this last year.”

“Suck it up.” I replied, with feeling. And I meant it too.

We didn’t see each other for a while, probably around a good year at least, before getting back in touch at the start of this year when Danny commenced his PhD and got an office down the hall from mine. I really hadn’t thought about him much, to be honest, my main reminder being the beautiful drawing he did for me that hangs in my bedroom. If I ever did think of him it was with much fondness, and equal amusement.

After he got to uni we met up for coffee a couple of times, and surprisingly the talk between us was as natural and unconstrained as ever. He had bought a boat in the year that had passed, and now sailed as a hobby. He had also assaulted a policeman whilst drunkenly avoiding arrest, and narrowly escaped a permanent record. These incidents concreted my belief that no one part of Danny goes with any other, instead he is a strange jumble of unrelated interests and characteristics.

The arrest, I am informed, looked a little like this, and went down outside the Toowong Coffee Club.

A little over a week ago he came to tell me he was dropping out of uni to become a full time writer. This made complete sense to me, coming from the man who once spent a week painting the walls of an abandoned house with an assorted bunch of hobos.

Two days after his revelation, a friend and I went in to see my sister at the pub where she works. Coincidentally, Danny was there, fresh from 2-months of alcoholic abstinence, downing drink after drink with a couple of strangers he had met there.

I went up and chatted to Danny and his two new friends, one of whom informed me eloquently about 9/11 theories (that I had already heard), and why he thought domestic violence was the fault of women (I had not already heard this argument).

Whilst most of Australia says “no” to domestic violence, Danny’s drinking buddy says, “Bloody asking for it.”

Eventually Danny and I got a moment alone together.

“I’m so sorry Fiffles.” he slurred at me.

“Danny, that’s fine, you haven’t let me down at all dear!” I answered, taking a stab at the wrongdoing he was apparently apologizing for. “I think that you made the right choice quitting your degree!”

“No no no! Not that… I am sorry for all this…” he replied, gesturing vaguely at the beer stained counter.

“Well don’t worry, it’s OK. You can start not drinking again tomorrow!” I comforted.

“I’m going to get all maudlin on you Fiffles,” he interred, “and I don’t mean this.” I cocked an eyebrow in encouragement and he kept on going.

“What you must think of me!!” he moaned, “When we had this beautiful friendship and I let it be ruined by the most banal and base jealousy. I have let you down intolerably.”

“Danny!” I cried, getting into the drama of the moment, “Don’t be ridiculous! Never for a moment have I thought badly of you, you did what needed to be done!” I leaned forward, straining to communicate my thoughts, and make myself heard over the bad cover band.

“Yes, but there is more…” replied Danny enigmatically, “I really shouldn’t tell you this, but I am so drunk that I will. I need to tell you…”

At that moment we were cut off, as the domestic violence aficionado slammed his beery glass down on the counter next to us.

“Another drink mate?” he asked Danny. At that moment my friend appeared and pulled me to the side, imploring me to leave with him.

“I’ve got to go,” I said to Danny.

“It’s probably for the best.” he answered.

The bar where behind which my sister works. Good for getting beer, not great for sharing secrets.

A few days ago I bumped into him at uni. He was even more skittish than before, eyes darting and sinewy body in a perpetual state of motion. No talk was made about the night at the pub, what he had to tell me or anything else really. Instead, he cut the conversation off and bolted.

In a way I am glad he never told me that which would have probably turned out to be a boring confidence about his work or girlfriend. Instead, the situation is left open and I can embroider it such that it remains full of intrigue and mystery. In that way, it stays just like I imagine Danny, that boy who is inescapably lost, wonderfully weird, and often dogged by fireflies