TARZ' AN JANE

TARZ' AN JANE

Sure, it was a surprise. It was just another Tuesday. Mid-winter,
middle of yet another dreary year of his mid-life. The sun was off
north. Holidaying in Greece, laughing pissed with the holidaying hordes
at the local taverna. Mean and wild Melbourne was winter. Cold snaps
freezing leaf and limbs. The chill making all men equal.
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The twilight and home. The salvation armchair. This was to be just
another dark night. A Fred normal homecoming. Key in the door and "I'm
Home". The hope of a warm familiar family greeting. Loud - heartfelt.
The grunt of the hunter. The chest thump "I'm Home" of Tarzan. Of
dad.
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Pity times had changed. Emancipation had overwhelmed him. Wife Jane was
earning more than cuckold Tarzan was.
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But Tarzan, father of two, Sophie ten, Simon twelve, had three things -
aside from Simon and Sophie - Jane didn't. Guess two. Here's the other:
Tarzan had society onside. Centuries of years, days and weeks of male
domination. Sperm democracy, testicles triumphant and seats up. The
godheads all male. Yet for all the advantages, he was being stealthily
emasculated. Just because he earned less than the wife.
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Not only that. Jane was BOSS. At home AND workplace. She could fire him
tomorrow. If the mood struck. If she became PMT predatory. If he
strayed. Got caught salivating over the wife-beating contours of
November's pet loving Penthouse Pet Serena. If he, Tarzan, refused to
swing. Or neglected to wax lyrical over Jane's new dress. Or remain
deflated to her thrill French lace underwear invitations.
---------------
The many years of marital bliss and kids growing strong had lost its
gloss. These days, entry home was met with the deafening silence of
"Who cares". But tonight was different. Moses was there.
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It was big enough to trip over, obvious enough to collect curiosity. A
brown wicker basket on a lonely doorstep. Cradled warm amongst pink
woollen blankets was a baby. Nappies bursting, cheeks flushed red, its
bottom bogged brown. Tarzan's kids had arrived in more salubrious
circumstances but, peeling the blanket back, this one looked identical.
Smelled similar.
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What goes in, oozes out. On distant examination, the nappy was an
expressed sorta' green, grey. The smell maternal and rather reassuring
to him. Warm, fuzzy memories floated back. Tarzan was overcome. By the
pong. Aping motherhood, clutching the sweet still forming flesh tightly
to a suckle impossible chest, he wiped the little one's little nose
with a soup stained tie.
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He'd locked the keys in the car. Senility was upon him. He rang the
doorbell. Was greeted by the tin tune shrill of the Taiwanese
electronics. The glorious strains of "Onward Christian Soldiers" played
in full digital mono. $12.80 - direct mail. The dead knells of heaven's
vanguard. The hell liberated Liberace encoded on Doll Parton
silicon.
---------------
It's 2001 and there is no such thing as a doorbell. There are just
synthesised symphonies, God on the march and love gone wrong songs. But
no simple buzz, tone or chime. Now you can even record your own
welcome.
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"Fuck off!" was the only recorded welcome he wanted.
---------------
Tarzan hit the onward Christian chorus again. No-one answered. Again.
Dad's with child here, he implored. Kicking, sorta' cursing at the dam
door.
---------------
"I'm not here," Jane screamed through the intercom. "I'm not here
either," Sophie giggled.
---------------
"They are. They're here." Son Simon dobbed. Disinterested.
---------------
So, both the innocent and aged hers were in collusion. Gawd, don't
chicks lie. Doubtlessly genetic. Beyond their control. Though it was
getting harder to damn difficult to decry an entire species when your
daughter was one of them. But Sophie was preformed so asexual. So he
could still pretend she wasn't ever going to be one of them. Female.
Them full bloom females. So he remained vindictive. Sex dismal, female
affronted. Targeted the wife gnashing gawd don't chicks lie.
---------------
In the cold and the rain, baby to breast, he raged. They lie
horizontal. Vertical. Karma Sutra spastic. Wife's do. For years prior.
And a couple of months after the ceremony anyway. Girlfriends lie, pant
and shriek appropriately forever. So long as they stay girlfriends. So
long as you refrain from diamond ringing them, Tarzan proposed.
---------------
Course, he was lacking perspective. So was a few kilos short on the
justifiable scales. Denied a critic. Of his words, interests, music,
occasional lack of hygiene, hobbies and habits. Because the wife wasn't
home. Supposedly.
---------------
He kept ringing and kicking at a nightlit inside. Where the laughter
had reached fever pitch. The wife and Sophie were rolling about,
pointing at each other, clutching midriff, giggling like stuck hyenas.
Miss Teen Bikini U.S.A. was on the TV. So Simon was not the least
interested in dad either. Or in Mum gone mad. Or sister Sophie wetting
herself. Miss Dallas was going to cure his virginity. Soon. For she
wanted to help the world's starving children. Simon was a kid. Simon
was sex starved. So Simon was IN!
---------------
The door opened. Tarzan was in anyway. Sighing, he considered trading
the wife. For a few beads. Trinkets. A car wash even. Or cheap trash
slut with plastic painted lips smiling lust and promises. A girl who
listens. A woman who does it all. Malleable and double-jointed - Miss
Ogynist - someone inflatable by bike pump given the description.
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"Oh Daddy, you found Moses!" Sophie yelled in frenetic welcome. To
Moses. Tearing dolly from Dad's grip, racing to the corner to admonish
the escapee. The wife just stood there. He ignored her. Not that he
didn't love her.
But because she wasn't there.
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She'd said so.