43. Relationship Contract
Once upon a time there was a man called John and a woman called Jane, or a woman called Jane and a man called John. They called themselves JJ and were indistinguishable from one another.
One day, after a long walk in the park together, they stopped at a sidewalk cafe for a coffee and muffin.
“Frightfully delicious muffin, wouldn’t you say, honey?” asked John.
“Excuse me, what were those two words you uttered?” replied Jane.
“Which two?”
“Repeat back the sentence you just said to me.”
“Is that really necessary, darling?”
“Excuse me, that’s three words we need to talk about. Delicious, honey, and darling. This is food for topic at this moment, wouldn’t you say?”
John put down his muffin.
“Now, JJ, delicious is a word that implies you are 100% happy with the muffin, but you did not ask whether I was happy or not beforehand, and as we are in a formative state of mutual matrimony at this time, would it not have been fair to come up with an equitable answer that we both agree on, weighing up each other’s opinions and agreeing on consensus?” asked Jane.
“Yes, JJ.”
“And what about this honey and darling thing? Is that something predominantly said by males to females? Or were you referring to me as a sex object?”
“No, JJ.”
“Good. Glad to hear it. So please replace the sentence with another that is on par with the expectations outlined in our relationship contract. Keeping in mind that that document is a signed contract of equity, symbolising our steadfast relationship that runs neck and neck through the woods together. An agreement that will see us unite at the finish line, right to the end.”
“Okay, JJ, here we go.”
“Did I detect an element of sarcasm in your tone? What did you mean by here we go? Are you aggravated by this discussion? Does it infuriate you that I wish to be recognised as an equal, simply asking my partner, by contract, to explain his choice of words? Does this offend you?”
“No, JJ.”
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“What are the substitutes? We need to sort this out now, JJ, or it’s relationship counselling first up tomorrow morning.”
“Um, I can’t remember the sentence.”
She sat there teary-eyed.
“I’m afraid you’ll need to stay at your mother’s house tonight. I’ll book an 8 a.m. session for tomorrow.”
“Why 8 a.m.?”
“We always do 8 a.m., don’t you remember? You go to the toilet, wash your face, and drink orange juice at 6:30 a.m. each morning. I also wake up at 6:30 a.m. and open the windows to let in the morning air. This was our mutually recognised time to unite and share the bathroom facilities. As a result, we are both able to get to work by 8 a.m. Do you wish to renege on this agreement?”
“I’m not sure. I’ve been a tad busy at work lately and need a few days off, so it would be good to sleep in sometimes.”
“So then I need to wake up by myself, open the windows, pour you orange juice, and go to the toilet without any morning company? And I suppose you want a different haircut to mine, and a different name? JJ not good enough for you these days?”
John wiped his hands with his napkin.
“Oh my god, oh no, please Lord,” Jane said.
“What’s the matter, my equal half of eternity?”
“You’re wiping your hands of me; it’s a sign of the end. My friend Jane talked to me about this.”
All her friends were called Jane.
“It’s a sign of change; a metaphor for cleansing. You want to get rid of me, don’t you?”
“Jane, I’ve simply finished my muffin.”
“What did you call me?”
John knew he’d said the wrong thing.
“We agreed to call each other JJ to symbolise our eternal equality in the modern world. This binds us together in the universe as one entity, travelling the cosmos hand in hand towards a common goal. Aren’t these things important to you anymore?”
“I think we’d better leave it for tomorrow morning, JJ. There’s no counsellor here, and I feel this conversation is becoming one-sided.”
“So, you don’t trust me anymore, is that it? We’ve come down to the most fundamental principle of relationships.”
“Perhaps we could just change one thing about it all.”
“About it all? Is that what our relationship is to you, an it? You’ve been watching Saturday Night Live again, haven’t you?”
“No.”
“Well then what? Where are you getting this stuff from?”
“Cosmopolitan.”
“Another example of reneging on our contract. We agreed to read Woman’s Day at the same time each night for thirty minutes, then debate the issues at hand. It’s in the contract, page 1,277. Don’t you remember anything?”
John wiped his hands again.
“There you go again with that subconscious action of cleansing your inner thoughts. We definitely need counselling tomorrow.”
“But didn’t I just say that I wanted to sleep in sometimes?”
“Yes, you did, but that doesn’t mean you can just break an agreement whenever you like. All these changes need to be agreed upon with a relationship counsellor present.”
“And what about my haircut? It’s the same as yours.”
“You mean, the same as ours?”
“That’s what I meant.”
“Oh, so now you say what you don’t mean?”
“I mean, we both have the same platinum blonde short back and sides haircut.”
“And?”
“Well, I’m a natural blonde and you’re a brunette.”
“So that makes you better than me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Oh, I’m just reading between the lines here, buddy pal. You’re implying that blondes are better than brunettes. You’re saying that blondes have more fun. Is that what you want, more fun? Without me? You want a natural blonde for a partner, is that it?”
John wiped his hands again and walked down the path.
8:05 a.m. ME&YOU relationship counselling. Sydney CBD.
“You’re late,” said Jane.
“No, I slept in. We talked about this yesterday.”
“Yeah, we did, and let’s see what Jane has to say about it.”
The counsellor’s name was Jane, as was the receptionist. The janitor was called John.
They walked down the hall towards the therapy room.
“Excuse me, you’re three feet in front,” said Jane.
“And you’re three feet back,” said John.
“So now you think I’m lazy?”
“I got to sleep in, so now I have more energy.”
“How long did you sleep in?”
“Ten minutes.”
“What did you do?”
“When?”
“In those ten minutes?”
“I slept.”
“Oh, don’t give me that. I bet you’ve been feeling guilty and woke up at the same time, secretly taking off the covers and getting your precious orange juice from the carton.”
“Mum has apple juice.”
“And you drank it without thinking about me!”
Jane burst into tears as they walked into Jane’s office.
They sat in chairs with thickly upholstered red shag seats. The counsellor rolled over in her custom-made Chesterfield office chair.
So, you guys had an issue at the park yesterday?”
“Not really,’ replied John.
“Yes,” said Jane.
“Right, all this honey stuff, wiping your hands with a napkin, and asking for a different haircut. Can I ask you, John, where is all this coming from?” asked the counsellor.
“From me.”
“Well, that’s all very well and good, but there is a John and a Jane, I believe?”
“We agreed to call each other JJ; it’s in the contract,” said Jane.
“Look, I just want to make a few changes, that’s all,” said John.
“Changes? Well, you’ve already done that, haven’t you? Calling me honey, walking three feet in front of me, asking for a different haircut, wiping your hands with a napkin, and sleeping in for five minutes. Don’t you think that’s enough? Our relationship contract is already 4,600 pages long. Want to make it 4,601? I know, you just want to be different. That’s it, Jane. He wants to be different!”
“Oh, come on, you two, there’s no harm in a few subtle differences here and there. Can we agree on five changes to be made today and I’ll have the contract edited by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll go into my study and you can talk it out.”
“Two changes,” said Jane.
“Five,” replied John.
“One.”
“Three.”
“Two.”
“Two it is,” said the counsellor from her study.
“And that includes the five you’ve already made without a relationship counsellor present. So, you need to decide on two of those, and then we need to mutually agree on them,” said Jane.
“Okay, haircut then.”
“No way. That would mean you’d look different to me, which implies different values, intentions, and priorities in this big wide world. There’s no way I’m having that. We need to walk forward in unison to reach our common goal in life.”
“Which is?”
“Whatever is written in the document. It’s a signed contract you know.”
“That’s fair, we can’t have a situation where differences bring out alternate lines of thought which will ultimately create division,” said the counsellor from her study.
“But don’t people naturally change over time?” asked John.
“Change for the good or bad? Or do you want to change to piss me off?” replied Jane.
“I think the agreement needs to be flexible.”
“It is. Whenever we want to change anything, we meet with Jane at her office and talk it through. Then Jane types up the notes, we scan for anomalies, and the final product is ready to sign.”
“So, what can I have out of the five?”
“Well, definitely no sleeping in. That will cause obvious problems.”
“Such as?”
“As I said before, we drink orange juice at the same time to ensure our sugar levels go up simultaneously.”
“So?”
“So, by drinking at the same time, we can start the day off on an equal plane. If you or I got a sugar hit before the other, it would cause issues in our morning routine.”
“Agree with that,” said the counsellor.
“So how about the haircut?”
“Definitely not. That would imply a change of status between us. Brunettes and blondes are totally at odds in this world. If our hair colour is the same, then this won’t be an issue.”
“So, I’ll change mine to black, and you can be a natural brunette again.”
“Best not rock the boat.”
“I totally agree with Jane here. Why rock the boat?” said the counsellor, now sitting behind her desk.
“Okay, so what’s left?”
“Well, there’s this napkin business,” said Jane.
“You mean wiping my hands after I’ve eaten?”
“It’s the psychological impact of doing it in front of me. Don’t you get it?”
“So, I need to do it under the table?”
“Indeed no. That would imply a secretive motive. You need to be transparent. Can you go to the toilet?”
“What if there isn’t one?”
“Then remove yourself behind a tree.”
“Yes, I agree. That way a natural organic structure will shield Jane from your cleansing ritual, one that obviously offends her,” said the counsellor
“So that’s one. What’s one more?”
“Well, John, we need to decide this by consensus, with all three parties present,” said the counsellor.
“Okay, I get to dye my hair black.”
“No,” said Jane, standing up.
“Yes,” said John, standing up.
“No!”
“Yes!”
“I’m afraid you’ll both need to sit down. John, you first, as you stood up last,” said the counsellor.
“So?”
“So that’s the rule. Whoever stands up last during an argument sits down first,” said Jane.
“Who said?”
“Page 2,344 of the contract. It’s all here, buddy boy.”
“You called me buddy boy.”
“It’s a figure of speech.”
“Like honey?”
“No, honey has a sexual connotation.”
“And buddy boy?”
“It’s just a saying, plain and simple.”
“Jane, what’s your take on this?” John asked the counsellor.
“I fully agree with Jane over here. We can’t let a simple slip of the tongue dictate proceedings.”
“So, what can I call you then?”
“You can call me JJ, as agreed.”
“How about Jane?”
“No, if your name is different to mine, it implies…”
“Difference?”
“Yeah.”
“And that’s bad?”
“It promotes inequality.”
“Okay, so I’ll wipe my hands on a napkin behind a tree whenever I’m out and–”
“And that’s it, only one.”
“I’m sorry, Jane, I want two as agreed.”
“You called me Jane.”
“Did I? Well, I suppose I did, Jane!”
“You said it again!”
“How did you feel?”
“We agreed on JJ.”
“I think we need to make a change. Jane sounds better to me. What do you think Jane?”
“Well, it’s also my name, and I like the sound of it,” said the counsellor.
“Settled. Then I’ll call you Jane from this day forth. After all, it’s the name your mother gave you.”
“She’s dead, you know that.”
“Yes, that’s right, Jane. Very good, Jane. I do remember the funeral, you know, Jane, the one with the beautiful roses and your uncle mentioning your name ten times in the epitaph. Do you remember that, Jane?”
“Yes,” she replied, all teary-eyed.
“So, it’s John and Jane. You want me to write that in the contract?” asked the counsellor.
“Perhaps,” replied Jane.
“Yes,” replied John.“Well, this calls for a celebration. I think you should both go out to dinner,” said the counsellor.
There was no shortage of cafes along the harbour, and the Opera House Cafe was at the top of the list.
“I don’t like the way they’ve restored this place,” said Jane.
“In what way?”
“Like everything.”
“Example.”
“Why do I need to give an example?”
“Because you said you don’t like anything. Anything can mean anything.”
“Correction! I said everything about the restoration. But if you insist, I really don’t like the toilets. They stink of segregation.”
“Aren’t they supposed to? I mean, for privacy reasons?”
“Unisex toilets are a statement. It’s where she/hers, they/thems, and he/hims can enjoy time together in a wilful display of–”
“Excrement?”
“No, smart ass, I was about to say offloading.”
“So, if a man walks into a bathroom with a woman, then it’s okay?”
“No, it’s the world of pronouns, my fanciful fiancé. We don’t think like that anymore. We went over this six years ago and documented everything on page 4,217 of the relationship contract. Can’t you remember anything?”
“Oh yes, and can you remind me, how long have we been engaged?”
“Twelve years. What’s your point?”
“I forgot.”
“Well, while you’re thinking, I’m going to the ladies room.”
“Isn’t that segregation?”
“I meant the they/them, she/her, he/him room.”
“They don’t have one. Just regular toilets.”
“Well, then I’m going into the male toilets. I want to make a statement.”
Jane returned five minutes later in a funk.
“Someone tried to peek into my cubicle. I think it was a man, a he/him man.”
“A straight guy?”
“Perhaps. But he could have been a he/him/his just checking if it was free. That would make it okay. But if he’s a he/him, then he needs a good talking-to. Can you ask him?”
“Ask him?”
“If he’s a he/him.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re the… Man?”
“You know that I’m a he/him, don’t you?”
“Of course, do you think I’d go out with a he/him/his?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Because, dear John, he could be looking at my legs one minute, then sizing up a juicy, round Carlton full forward buttock with his peripheral vision. It would be me and him, and me/him is not on the list of pronouns, you understand?”
“So, it’s my job?”
“You have the same pronouns, idiot. Now get over there and sort out your kind.”
“My kind? You mean male?”
“I mean the he/him crowd. You’re the only pronoun that pisses in a trough at the cricket on Sunday. People can smell it from the car park.”
“Don’t criticise Shane Warne and Rod Marsh, my dear. Whilst I’m sure they’re he/hims, I don’t think this conversation would impress them.”
“Who cares? Now get over there and ask him if he was perving on me. And don’t let him change his pronouns to get out of the situation. He’s made his choice, and even placed it on his email signature, I bet.”
“Okay, dear.”
“And we’ll talk about that when you return as well. Calling me dear is forbidden, as stated on page 2,355 of the contract.”
“Isn’t it page 2,455?”
“Don’t test me, dickhead, I’ve got the book on my lap, see!”
She held up the 4,600 pages in a four-ring binder.
“And the dickhead comment?” asked John.
“Oh, I’m sorry, dear, my mistake. Let’s just forget about it.”
John walked over and made contact with his fellow he/him.
“I’ve sorted it out,” said John on his return.
“Is he willing to come over and apologise for violating a woman’s privacy?”
“No. He says that he’s a genuine they/them, so it gives him the right to look at you as a non-binary entity without prejudice or sexual intent.”
“But he was looking at me over the top of the cubicle, making distorted Homer Simpson Doh! sounds.”
“And what do they sound like?”
“Well, it’s more like a Do than a Doh! you know?”
“Well, don’t you think that Homer made those sounds because he was overweight? That guy over there is pretty fit, so I think it makes a difference.”
“Oh, you think? So, all fat people add a H to their exclamations?”
“Maybe. Anything about that in the contract?”
“Don’t bring this all on our relationship. You’re the man, so you need to take care of this station. Women need protection from these sorts of incidents. That’s why you scrotum, ting tank ball breakers were brought into this world.”
“I’m sorry, double dear, he’s a genuine they/them, and he unequivocally denies looking at your unshaven areas and exceedingly well-watered camel humps.”
“Are those your observations as well?”
“His words, madam.”
“And you agree?”
“Wholeheartedly.”
“So, you think I’m hot?”
“Hotter than the Red Hot Chilli Peppers on tour, before they decided to reunite and play in front of large crowds without practising beforehand.”
“Sit down; I’m hungry.”
The waiter approached them.
“I’ll have the hamburger, no, I’ll have a steak, no, I’ll have the French fries, no, I’ll have mashed spud, no, I’ll have–” said Jane.
“Excuse me, madam, but the kitchen is closed. I did ask your husband if he wanted to order beforehand, but he was talking to the football player at table twelve, so I didn’t want to disturb him.”
“We’re not married; he’s my fiancé.”
“Oh yes, no wedding rings, please excuse my tardy observation.”
“So married couples need to wear rings?”
“I’m not conversant in such matters, madam.”
“That’s bullshit. You can’t change values and beliefs to accommodate others when a potential dispute is brewing. John, say something to him.”
“Well, it depends on his pronouns.”
“I’m a he/him, sir.”
“Fantastic! Then can you go over and ask that footballer if he was perving on my fiancé in the toilet. I’d like to get a second opinion from a fellow he/him.”
“And what did he say to you, sir?”
“He gave me the old they/them routine.”
“Oh yes, I do apologise, I’m actually a they/them as well. How dreadful my memory is these days. Well, good luck finding a restaurant that serves steak and mashed spud at this hour. Good day to you.”
They walked out arm in arm.
“Let’s walk over the harbour bridge,” said John.
“Why the bridge? There are perverts all over the place who want to look at my legs.”
“You have two pairs of pantyhose on, and you’re wearing a petticoat.”
“So? You know I was shortlisted for the Sydney Opera House’s most popular back-up model twenty years ago.”
“There were 250,000 applicants.”
“And I was shortlisted in the final 249,999. You know my legs are beautiful, so why can’t you admit it?”
“Well, the only time I get to see them is when you’re emptying the dishwasher, and I’m picking up a dead cockroach.”
“You’re looking up my double pantyhose petticoat barrier?”
“I just think we could converse in a nonverbal manner occasionally. You know, like how Homer does in the middle of winter when he can’t go to church?”
“Sorry, I’m lost.”
“Well, the stuff you see in movies sometimes, with all the hoo-ha and noises and stuff.”
“Sorry, triple dear, I’m still lost.”
“You know, getting down and dirty?”
“Can we talk at the same time?”
“Not usually. My dad always told me that anyone who converses whilst in the act isn’t concentrating on what they’re doing.”
“The act?”
They stopped at the entrance to the bridge.
“You’re a virgin, aren’t you?” asked John.
“I’m only disposed to answer that question on a Virgin Airways flight attendant application.”
“You’re avoiding the question. And don’t refer back to pronouns; even they/them/he/him people have sex.”
“It’s LGBTQIA, Mr. Ignoramus. You’re talking about sexual orientation, not pronouns. Do you know what it stands for, Johnny boy?”
“Lenny, Generic, Bible, Tangible, Impotent, Quack, and Armenian.”
Jane chuckled.
“No, quadruple dear. It’s Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer, Intersex, and Asexual.”
“Did you read that in the contract? I don’t remember us discussing that?”
“No, it’s but one example of my sheer intellect and life prowess,” said Jane, tilting her head to one side.
“So what’s asexual?” asked John.
“It means people who have emotional relationships, no sex.”
“Like us?”
She broke down crying.
“There, are you happy? You’ve found out I’m Asexual. Are you proud of yourself?”
“Well, it has been twelve years, and I haven’t seen you undress in the bathroom, and you always pee in the dark in the middle of the night, and you locked yourself in the car when all our friends were on the beach in skimpy bikini costumes. Perhaps something should’ve clicked.”
“So, you’re going to dump me?”
She was still crying.
“No, I’ve got a solution. Turn to page 3,495 in the contract.”
She wiped her eyes.
“When stopping at a traffic light, there is to be no conversation about passers-by, as some may have the ability to read lips?”
“Try page 1,281.”
“When paying at a restaurant, the bill is to be split exactly in half, and payment made using individual credit cards, except when both parties amicably decide to order a side dish, in which case the tip is then calculated on the weight of the side dish and the density of the food, i.e., a side of fries versus a seaweed salad.”
“So, I would pay more of the tip if I ordered the fries?” asked John.
“Got it.”
“Okay, how about page 511?”
“When visiting Tibet in the winter, never travel by Yak to a remote village without rubbing Vaseline on the saddle beforehand.”
“Why?”
“I assume it stops your ass from freezing to the Yak.”
“How about page 1,510?”
“Pythagoras theorem is a love triangle in disguise.”
“I knew it! That’s why Mrs. Haveashag marked all my answers wrong. She was trying to get my attention!”
“We’re getting off topic,’ said Jane.
“Alright then, try page one.”
“Thou shalt not have sex unless ratified by God.”
“Okay”, said John, rubbing his hands together. “Now all we need is a priest, like Mel Gibson in Braveheart when he came across a Latin victor standing beside a stone cross in the middle of the night.”
“Um, dear, I think he arranged that.”
“Oh yes, and did they have a relationship contract, or just exchange hand-woven hankies and say their vows?”
“What kind of an attitude is that? Everything needs to go in writing, my dearest of all dears. Detail, logic, affirmation! I demand perfection, God damn it!”
She dropped the contract on her foot.
“Okay, so we need a priest. Hey, isn’t that Father Fenech over there teaching homeless kids to box? Father Fenech, we need you, mate! Can you take off those boxing gloves and come over here?” asked John.
“Who’s that?” asked Father Fenech.
“It’s Jane and John, without the Doe at the end,” replied John.
“Oh yeah, I love youse all.”
He approached Jane and John with a loving smile and a flattened nose.
“We want to be married. Can you make it happen?” asked John.
“Yes, of course, I love all those who can spell their name. Now I’m moving to Melbourne tomorrow, so get on your knees and repeat after me.”
John and Jane obliged.
“I will throw that stupid book in the harbour and rip off my clothes as soon as possible.”
They repeated.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
“Thanks, Father Fenech,’ said John.
“Now get up onto the bridge and make the water ripple.”
In no time they were at the highest point of the bridge with no harnesses on.
“Throw the book over,” said John.
“Is that a demand or a request?”
“I’m a he/him, so I have a Neanderthal background, and I’ve got twice as much testosterone as you, so it’s my decision.”
“Finally, taking charge at a crucial moment. I was wondering if you had a pair of clangers down there inside your custom designed Armani pants. Now do me from behind like you were working on a deep throat Hollywood movie set.”
One minute passed.
“Is that it? Is that all I get? I didn’t feel anything.”
“I did my best. Page 246 of the contract states that my performance in bed should not be compared to others who possess a more potent thrust or make animal-like noises that evoke the senses.”
“Bullshit, that’s not in there!”
“Just throw the book over the side, will ya?” said John.
“I think we should throw it together.”
And so they did. Or at least tried.
“Why do you get to use two hands?” asked John.
“You’re still doing up your fly.”
“Well, can you wait?”
“I suppose, but only if we get married in a church next July. I think my parents wanted to come.”
“Oh yeah, mine too. Great idea.”
They threw the relationship contract over the edge and watched it spiral towards the water, eventually losing sight of it in the dark.
“Is that it then?” asked Jane.
So it came to pass that John and Jane walked the aisle of holy matrimony in the presence of God. In time, they accepted that toast could be cut into triangles and squares, that a clock could be hung on the north or south wall of the house, and that sleeping in could mean lying in bed after the alarm had rung.
Obscured harmony never felt so good.
Paul Drewitt is an Australian author whose work spans both fiction and memoir. He is the author of the memoir Emus Fly North in Winter and the novels Urban Shadows, CatWalk, Karinya, Street Sweeper, Vince Lombardi, and Pine Needles in Spring. Originally from South Australia, Paul now lives in Darwin.