Janice craves a simple cup of coffee while an earth-shattering email looms. But her wait is disrupted by an alien spaceship landing in the Australian outback.
Here is her introduction from Aaron Lamb’s upcoming book, Cults, Coffee and Close Encounters:
Janice hung her head over the toilet bowl. Correction: the public toilet bowl. She was certain she’d feel better if she could have a little spew. A few dry heaves, but not the relief she sought. The antiseptic smell of the toilet cleaner mixed spitefully with the willow bark incense sticks. Her shallow breaths, as fast as her heart, drowned out the noise of the fancy party outside.
Her eyes tightly shut, and the evening’s expectations played out in her mind; a hundred possibilities ran through her like a freight train. The critical glances of the board of directors, the whispers over her performance so far, the weight of three different countries all wanting different things from her. Tonight, her life’s work would get the green light if the museum in London signed on the dotted line. The twelve-hour difference to Melbourne did not help her nerves.
“Fine,” she mumbled and hauled herself off the floor. Opening the cubicle door Janice stared into the mirror. The harsh golden light of the restaurant bathroom highlighted the wrinkles around her eyes, carving them deeper than usual. After taking a pump of the sea buckthorn juniper berry and patchouli skin lotion, she rubbed her hands, and shook her head. “Stop procrastinating,” she scolded herself. Rolling her dark almond-shaped eyes, she straightened her black and red floral shirt, and touched up her apricot lipstick. With a deep breath her fingers found her Nimrud bracelet, tracing the intricate patterns that connected her to her grandmother’s heritage.
The bathroom door swung open, and the noise from the party flooded in, along with Kate from marketing. “Fuck, there you are,” said Kate, breathless, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Kate, younger and wide-eyed about the world still, Janice liked her.
“Sorry,” Janice replied, instantly adopting the pose of a servant, hands clasped at her waist, head slightly bowed.
“You okay?” Kate frowned and nodded with her chin.
“What’s the feeling when you are super excited and terrified?” asked Janice.
Kate shrugged. “All I know is that York needs you. She won’t say she does, but she’s drowning out there. I don’t think the free bar is helping much, either.”
“Of course. I was just taking a moment to check my emails. London should be confirming any moment now,” Janice had finally regained control of her mind and body. Her hands stopped trembling, her shoulders square. She faced her reflection and clicked her resting determined face back in place.
“I’m excited for you too, Janice, but right now, if York doesn’t get to impress her guests, we are all in trouble. She is about to get into it with some bigwigs I was instructed to get you and get you yesterday. You have to go now.”
Janice nodded, leaving the bathroom and only now realizing that she needed to pee. Dinner was finished. The bar buzzed with people. Golden LED light strips beamed like a never-ending sunset over the ocean of alcohol and bad ideas. The walls lined with green and gold flora wallpaper illuminated by sharp right-angle light tubes. The young, gorgeous staff darted around in smart grey suits and served every need of old rich people, who stood around smashing the free bar. The rich talked with big words when simpler ones would have done. The biggest offender also had the biggest crowd, Mrs. York.
York, the museum director, knew how to hold an audience. An old battle-axe who had seen and done everything over thirty years. She told tales of Indiana Jones figures, black market deals, high finance contracts, and, at the heart of it all, herself. She’d not done any actual work for two decades, but she called all the shots. Her short grey hair spiked upwards, horn-rimmed glasses, and a gold necklace that should be in a museum, not around her neck. Janice often thought York was trying and failing to be an ancient history museum director stereotype.
York’s stare pierced Janice, her eyes narrowing—a gesture – sharp, immediate, for Janice to stand by her side. Janice managed a smile and shuffled in. York shifted her feet so Janice could be positioned just behind her shoulder.
“Janice, my dear, I was just telling our state MP here—oh, apologies you wouldn’t have met, Mr Belmont—about my newest exhibition. He is awfully excited and believes it will create some wonderful opportunities.”
“Oh, really?” Janice felt invited in, which was a surprise. “We’ve been working on the translation project since 2004. The astrological texts from Nineveh are so interesting, and in the last few years, we’ve been able to reconstruct medical texts, too. The clay tablet library has never been on loan to Australia. We can build the most beautiful exhibition for everyone, sharing an unparalleled insight into the lives of Babylonians.”
“Babylonia,” Belmont paused, “hanging gardens, right?”
“Yes, the famous cousin,” Janice nodded enthusiastically, “It’s in the same region with similar timing, but the gardens are not mentioned in the tablets commissioned by the king. Even more fascinating, absolutely no physical evidence has been found of them. There are a few theories, though. My favourite is that they were mythical.”
“Babylon, what modern country is that?” Belmont asked York.
York smiled and turned her head to Janice.
“Iraq and parts of Syria.”
“A great chance to influence a minority vote,” he said, sipping his Champagne.
“Absolutely,” added York, “a low-risk cultural diversity exchange,” she laughed.
“Indeed, and we headline with the famous hanging gardens of Babylon, maybe get a lot of plants in for the exhibition. That’ll bring in my core voters. The minorities will get their slice of history. This could work very well.” Belmont turned to Janice and stuttered a question: “This would, of course, be okay with your people?”
Janice knew what he meant. She felt the urge to throw up again. She smiled — she always smiled. She hated every part of what he said, but she could only meet him with the greatest of respect.
“While my grandmother was Iraqi, I’m from Bendigo, so you’d have to ask the Iraqi embassy. I’m afraid I can’t consent to changes to the contract I’ve negotiated on behalf of all interested parties. It’s taken about three years of careful planning and buy-in from multiple countries and vested interests. There are some specific cultural guidelines for appropriate use, so you’d need a comprehensive stakeholder engagement plan.” Inside, she wanted to scream, but outside, her face projected nothing but politeness.
“Guidelines, that’s great. A little bending never hurts anyone,” laughed Belmont. “How big is the exhibition?”
“10,000 clay tablets from the oldest library in the world,” said York, seizing her moment to take control.
“1,000, Mrs. York,” Janice interrupted. “Also, not the oldest,” she muttered and reached for her grandmother’s Nimrud bracelet again.
“King Ashypal, very influential, you know,” said York.
“Ashurbanipal,” whispered Janice.
“The contract is signed, and we are ready to go,” said York, who shifted her feet slightly; Janice was now not at her side and at an odd angle for the conversation.
“Really?” jumped Janice with a grin, “I keep checking my email, but nothing yet.”
“One moment, Mr. Belmont,” York turned to Janice and whispered, “You are belittling me. I see it was a mistake to invite you. Please find the door, and if you fail to land this contract in the next twenty-four hours, you’ll have failed me for the last time. Now, kindly, go away.”
She turned back to Belmont and his friends, “Sorry, gentlemen, as I was saying—”
Janice stopped listening and took a step back. Another subtle shift of York’s feet and Janice was outside the circle. She took a deep, jagged breath, feeling like she’d been stabbed in the lungs. She turned away, successfully willing herself not to show any sign of tears or weakness. She smiled at her work colleagues, pretending to sip her drink.
Aaron Lamb 