Joanne Worrad has a penchant for all things pink. Shoes, bags, clothing, even the décor in her shabby-chic Bondi boutique. Excited about the day to come, she struggles with the lipstick choices in front of her. Musk Magic, Pink Pulse, Pale Peony. She decides on one choice to match her mood, Fuchsia Burst.
While applying her makeup she feels pleased with her decision to wear the elastic-waisted linen pants that arrived in store yesterday. Also relieved she went with the size 16.
Jo is feeling excited. With good reason. Today she exchanges contracts to finally purchase her shop. No more wasted rent, no more arguments with an unreasonable landlord. Today she will pass over the deposit, in cash, and finally be able to create the store she has always wanted.
Makeup completed, she has a final check in the magnified mirror attached to her bathroom wall. Hell’s bells. Something was happening to her, and although not a religious person, she did question God as to why she was losing hair up top, while random hairs sprouted on her chin and peeked out of her nostrils. Getting old was not fun.
Trying to keep positive, she turns from the bathroom mirror and moves to her bedroom where the light is softer and the mirror there reflects an attractive, if not a little overweight woman who said goodbye to 40 some years ago. Pushing her shoulders back and angling her face and body into a model-like pose, she smiles at the familiar, friendly reflection.
Shoes on, cat fed, door locked, Jo grabs her bag, and with a quick wave to her neighbour Bob, who she secretly fancies, tosses her handbag on to the front passenger seat and squats into the driver’s seat of her car.
Jo loves this car. A 1990 convertible BMW, though she never takes the top down. It always seems to be too hot, too windy or too cold. Easier to just keep the roof where it was meant to be. She ups the air-conditioning and opens both front windows for an extra burst of fresh air.
Seatbelt on. She presses the podcast button on her phone and chooses an Oprah chat about bonding with your inner self … whatever that means. Joanne accelerates and before long is winding her way along Oxford Street away from the city and towards Bondi.
Trying to grasp an understanding of the podcast lessons, she jumps when her phone rings. She tries to answer but all she can hear is Oprah’s familiar soft voice. She takes a quick glance at her screen and sees it’s her solicitor Scott calling. Bugger, must be about the sale. She’ll have to take this call. She pulls over into a loading zone. She’ll only be a minute, she thinks.
“Hi Scott, is everything okay?” she asks.
Before he replies, an unfamiliar hairy hand comes through the open passenger window and grabs her bag. Her bag with seven different pink lipsticks, her shop keys, a paper fan, a breath freshener spray, a small pack of tissues, hand sanitiser and $30,000 in cash.
Jo manages to grab one of the handles of her faux Chanel. She screams and a tug of war ensues. Shit! Some bloody thief is going for her bag with its precious contents and her life savings. The thief gives an extra tug and the bag is gone.
Jo jumps from the car, screaming at the top of her lungs and grateful that she decided to wear her driving shoes, not the heels she would change into for the meeting.
Her cries of “help” and “stop thief” attract passers-by but they are sidetracked by her now unruly black hair and top to bottom hot pink ensemble.
“What are you doing? Stop staring and start helping me. I’ve been robbed!” she screams.
One woman is licking a multi-layered gelato cone, clearly excited with what’s happening. Realising this is going to be up to her, Jo increases her pace and remembers she was a track and field athlete in her teens. She calls on her inner strength and a burst of adrenaline gives her the push she needs. But the thief is getting away. Jo steps up her pace and gets closer, remembering the phone still in her hand. She screams a quick message to Scott.
“BEING ROBBED! WILL CALL BACK!” And with that, she flings her phone as hard as she can then watches with joy as it hits its mark.
Disorientated and slightly blinded by the whack to his head, the thief trips over the gutter and tumbles onto the road and into the path of a Bondi bound bus.
Jo grabs for her bag, and simultaneously manages to pull the thief to safety by his shirt tails. She takes the opportunity to give him a number of smacks across his head as she drags him back to the footpath.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” she says. “How dare you steal my bag! Stay right there. I’m calling the police.
“And look at my phone, the sequins have come off the case, you arsehole!”
“Stop hitting me! I’m sorry lady, okay? Please don’t call the cops,” says the thief.
“You can’t be serious, you just tried to rob me. You took off with my bag and now you expect me to just let you go?”
“Yes, you just assaulted me so … I’m sorry but please don’t call the cops.”
“I’m not letting you go so you can continue on your merry way robbing people. And look at my shirt! I‘ve got a meeting, a very important meeting and now I’m going to be late and dirty,” she says.
“Hey lady, I saw what you did, you can’t just smack people around like that,” says the ice-cream licker on the footpath. Others around her nod in agreement.
“Are you joking, this prick just tried to steal my bag,” replies Jo.
“And the swearing’s not nice either. There’s kids around.”
“What the hell is wrong with you people? He’s a bloody thief, he stole my bag.”
“Okay. Can you just let this go? You’ve got your bag back,” says the slightly dazed thief.
“Actually no. You’re a thieving little bastard whose life I just saved. I should’ve let that bus run you over. And yes, I’m calling the police.”
“Wow, lady, that sort of chat was cancelled in ’21,” says the ice-cream licker’s tattooed friend.
“And it looks like you’re getting booked. Technically, there’s no reason you’re allowed to park in a loading zone. Not in that car. Unless of course it’s a legitimate emergency which is debatable.” Joanne turns back and sees a cop writing an infringement notice.
“Hey! Hey! Wait, I can explain. Don’t book me. I’ve just thwarted an attempted robbery. There’s the thief …” Jo turns and there is no sign of him. “Shit, he was just here. He tried to steal my bag through the car window, then I chased him and he was getting away, but he tripped and fell on the road, so I grabbed him and saved his life and now he’s disappeared.”
“Yeah, sure he has … now I need to know if you have consumed any alcohol or taken any illicit drugs this morning? Because I have to warn you …”
“What? No, I haven’t. I just … look just give me the bloody ticket,” she says. Jo grabs it, jumps in her car and accelerates away while letting the officer know what an arsehole he is, and giving the finger to the unhelpful witnesses.
Struggling to stay focused, Joanne notices her bangles jingling as her hands shake. Her heart is racing as she imagines where she would be if her cash had been stolen. Why did this have to happen today of all days. Slow down, she tells herself. No point in getting booked for speeding. Inhale and say your mantra, she thinks. Um … how does it go? Something about “All being well right here, right now”.
It’s not helping.
She turns into Bondi Road and parks in a legitimate spot. She takes a few deep breaths, while Eckhart Tolle and Oprah bang on about the ills of the ego. This was no way to start a day. She stops the podcast and tells herself to pull it together. She tidies her makeup, brushes her hair and removes the dirty marks from her shirt. She takes her bag, locks her car and, spotting the vendor, throws her shoulders back, plants a smile on her dial and gives him a wave.
Fifteen minutes later the papers are signed and the deal is done. Jo’s mind is awash with ideas. She hasn’t been this excited since she was upgraded on a flight to Bali years back. She decides to pick up a bottle of bubbles and maybe pop in to see Bob and celebrate. She tells herself he is a nice man and that surely that old smelly dog of his won’t be around forever. The day is heating up, but Joanne loves the salt air that blows through her car and is almost temped to finally open the roof.
She inhales deeply and thinks what a crazy day it has been. Scott urged her to go to the police and report the attempted robbery but she just wants to – as that Frozen princess said – “Let it go” and concentrate on a positive future.
She’s sitting in traffic but in her mind she is in a massive paint shop surrounded by every shade of pink imaginable – what will look best on those shop walls? Should she branch out into other colours? There are so many on the spectrum. Maybe a feature wall. With a mural perhaps. She could try painting something herself. Maybe dolphins and some roses, no, wait … coral! Stick with a seaside theme. Just as her thoughts are drifting along, out of the corner of her eye she sees movement at the passenger window. What is that? It’s a hand, sun-damaged and claw-like. Nooooo! Not again! She winds up the window and manages to trap the hand.
The owner at the other end is screaming. Shit! How can this be happening, thinks Jo. Another attempt to steal her bag. “Thief! Thief!” she yells.
The traffic starts to inch ahead. No one is taking any notice of her. The trapped thief is yelling out for her to stop as he tries to keep up with the moving car. Jo is now hysterical. She’s having flashbacks to earlier in the day. She thinks she will have years of PTSD therapy ahead. What to do … think … yes! She has a plan. She continues to scream abuse at the offender then waits until the traffic moves forward and accelerates and lowers her window at the same time while continuing to shout abuse at whoever is on the other end of that hand. As the trapped arm is released, and just before the thief falls to the road, Jo hears a feeble yet distressed voice: “You’ve got a flat tyre …”
A flat tyre? What? Oh hell. So that’s what he was trying to tell me. Jo glances at her rear vision mirror and sees a passer-by assist the elderly man to his feet. Oh … okay, well nothing she can do now. She takes off as fast as possible and turns down a side street. It’s silent except for the soft familiar thump of the tyre as she pulls over. She really should have replaced it after last time. Joanne reminds herself to stay in the moment.
She’ll go via the garage near her unit. There’s a nice man there who can help her. Doug. He doesn’t own a dog. Maybe he’s free for a drink after he replaces her tyre. She takes some more deep breaths remembering the importance of exhaling, swaps Oprah for Fleetwood Mac, winds up her windows, locks the doors and accelerates the hell out of there.
About the Author
Susan Turner was born and grew up in Sydney. She studied acting at the Ensemble Theatre and Sydney Actors Centre. She has been a member of the Arts Theatre Cronulla for many years and has appeared in a number of productions as well as directing plays for its main season. Susan has a full-length play which she hopes to produce in 2023. This is her first short story. It is lightly based on a true experience of her sister, Joanne.
