Cupcake

by Rachel Cohn

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  never being held accountable for information about what I may have learned in class: "Brenda from Flushing--you know the girl with the big hair and fake boobs that I told you about who doesn't know the difference between a Le Creuset loaf pan and a regular aluminum one--well I'm fairly sure she is doling out sexual favors to the instructor in the closet of the cookbook library during the breaks, and I will be so pissed if she gets a better grade than me," or "Should I be worried that I ate the Linzer tarts we made in class today even though Nikolai from Latvia sliced his thumb in the mixer while we were making the dough and had to go to the hospital for stitches?"

  If I spent half as much time going to school as I did thinking about what I'll do while dodging school, I would probably be master chef by, like, tomorrow.

  "Helen got it right," I announced to Autumn. Our other close girlfriend from San Francisco had been headed to UC Santa Cruz after high school graduation--until she wound up pregnant this past summer. And proving Helen was the only true punk of our group, she decided to keep the baby--and get married!

  "How do you figure?" Autumn asked. "I mean, I'm glad Helen's happy with the choice she made, but how weird is it that she's giving up on her dreams of art school?"

  "I don't think she's giving up dreams. Her dreams just changed. And now her choice means she'll have to adapt to the circumstances.

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  Rise to the challenge. No possibility of falling into slackerdom."

  "Slackerdom really does not get its fair due in our wealth-driven society. You know?"

  The sun had set over the horizon, chilling the air. "Do you miss San Francisco?" I asked Autumn.

  "Yeah," Autumn sighed. "Do you miss Shrimp?"

  "I can barely figure out how to get through the day without missing Shrimp."

  "You going to do anything about that?"

  "If you mean am I going to break the 'no contact' agreement with Shrimp, the answer is no. I haven't broken down that far yet. But I'm reserving the right."

  I want Shrimp to break the agreement. And since he apparently is not psychic, or he has other ways to spend his time (don't think about that, CC, don't even consider the possibility that Shrimp has happily adapted to NZ), I want to figure out how to get this new body of mine some attention that does not involve "dating." I want that connection to be hassle-free, safe, and easy. I want an orgasm that's not a gift from my own hands.

  It's like my leg is healed but my heart refuses, and until it does, I don't know how to get out of the rear window mentality.

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  ***

  TEN

  Houston, I have a problem. I seem to have lost contact with the heterosexual world.

  Dallas, if you're listening, the scarier part is that lisBETH may have been right about the men in this city--at least from my current view of it.

  And yo, Austin, if you're out there--could you lend our party one of those twangy alt-country singers who croak our brilliant tumbleweed lyrics?

  Danny decided to throw me a "coming out" slash belated eighteenth birthday party to celebrate my reintroduction into society as a newly minted adult with a newly minted castless leg. But at this rooftop Halloween party in Greenwich Village, Danny's society was made up mostly of alterna-crap indie-band-type gay boys with super-cute faces and superbad haircuts. The few females in attendance were

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  of the Ani variety, whom I have mad respect for, but those chicks don't tend to gravitate toward ones like me. I am Chaka Khan meets The Clash in the land of full-on boy-girl lust-o-rama. I had no place at my own party.

  Even my Halloween costume alter ego, Mrs. VonHuffingUptight--the Chanel suit--wearing society bitch who is so desperate for male attention she would shoot up Botox-crack cocktails if she thought it would make her look more attractive to men--was feeling the confusion. It's not that she/I wanted to experiment on the other side. It's more like we weren't so sure anymore that pure straight folk still roamed the earth.

  I may have been dressed like the fabulous socialite Mrs. VonHuffingUptight, but she and I suffered a big case of wallfloweritis. I could not be bothered to work this rooftop, despite the chatter and good times being enjoyed all around, particularly on the dance floor. From my wallflower observation point the dancing area highlights included: some dude dressed and coiffed like Morrissey grooving with one of those French Louis kings, an Ani girl who was lip/hand/hip-locked with a black leather-clad dominatrix-headmistress, and, awwww, Holly Hobbie (him version) and a gender-ambiguous Cabbage Patch Kid definitely teaching each other the meaning of dirty dancing.

  While partygoers laughed and danced, I took position next to the food table, mute, watching, and wondering if anybody was

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  keeping count of how many of Danny's cupcakes I'd eaten while standing there all by myself. As I munched cupcake number four (really number five, if you count the devil dog cupcake I spit into the trash because it gave me some kinda Cujo flashback moment), the thought occurred: Where did I belong in this blacktop swirl of strangers, most of them at least a decade older than me, college grads with cool jobs and interesting lives? As if to point out how much I didn't belong at my own party, Autumn and Chucky had declined the party invite, because they were reveling Halloween elsewhere, within their own age and geographic vicinities.

  This guy who I think was supposed to be Jerry Lewis came up to me and said, "Great coming out party. You're Danny's sister CC, right?" He held out a coin donation can in my direction. "Got anything to spare for Jerry's kids?"

  "Sorry, pal," I mumbled. "I got nothin'." Which was true. Danny went to all the trouble to throw me this party here in the heart of all that is Halloween glory, with a view from the rooftop down to the Village parade of Halloween costume fabulousness marching up Sixth Avenue, and all I could think was: I'm kinda lost and out of my depth. Also, I want my fucking boyfriend back. What part of the "No" that I said to Shrimp's marriage proposal because we wanted different things from life, wanted to experience different places, did Shrimp misinterpret as sincerity? I want a Do Over in place of a

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  Do Something! And in the absence of that, I want a straight boy at this party!

  New existence, I defy you. I shun you.

  I squirmed in my Halloween costume. Mrs. VonHuffingUptight's couture suit--conveniently swiped from my mom's closet last spring--was loose on me when I visited New York last Easter, when I was only dabbling with the idea of living here but had yet to make the full commitment because I had a true love Shrimp waiting for me back home, and we were going to start our new lives together. Now look at us, on opposite ends of the earth, no longer in contact with each other. Now I have to take deep breaths because the zipper is about to bust open from my new ass trying to break free from the fabric.

  By the way, I totally get the control top panty hose thing now.

  Jerry gave up on mute me, lured to the dance floor by a Dino. I looked toward the stairwell door, but Danny intercepted my attempt at exit. "SULKING MUCH?" he yelled over the Pet Shop Boys song coming from the DJ booth.

  It was hard to answer Danny seriously. He wore a very tight white polyester disco suit with a chest stick-on badge that said HELLO. MY NAME IS DENNY TERRIO. Danny/Denny's bush of black hair was whisked and feathered so high and with so much mousse that it was almost like a disco hair jello mold, not to mention a stunning display of hair product prowess.

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  "I'm not sulking," I answered. "This Chanel suit is so tight on me it renders facial expression impossible." I resisted his arm swinging around me, trying to trap me into a dance, into a good time.

  "Aaron looks great, don't you think?" Danny dance-gestured in the direction of Aaron, but I knew Danny was really asking about the cute guy dancing with Aaron, not about Aaron, who did indeed appear to be having a great time. I'd been surprised that Aaron had accepted the invitation to this party (who'd want to go to a party thrown by your ex and watch that ex flirt with budding prospects?); su
rprised, that is, until Aaron showed up in the newfound glory-confidence that must have come along with working past his self-esteem dating trauma. Not only did Aaron arrive with a new guy to flaunt, but the new guy was *finger snap* gor-geous and also the head pastry chef at some hot new restaurant in Chelsea, a combination designed, of course, to make Danny rage with jealousy. Kudos, Aaron! Danny was the one, after all, who'd left him.

  Yet Danny had the gall to not appear jealous of Aaron's presence here tonight, dangling some serious arm candy. Instead he smiled and waved at Aaron, who was also wearing a white disco suit with flipped-out hair. Danny said, "How weird that we both ended up in disco Halloween outfits without even consulting each other in advance first. Do you like Aaron's Andy Gibb Solid Gold-era thing, CC?"

  Men. I give up on them.

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  If it were Shrimp over there dancing with a new love, I would absolutely have the decency to rage with jealousy for his benefit. So much for the stereotype that gay men are more highly evolved beings. I put Danny on too high a pedestal. I should have known he's a boy just like the rest of them. Clueless. I mean, how could you look at Denny Terrio staring at Andy Gibb on a moonlit Manhattan rooftop and not know they are like true loves predetermined by fate to walk through life together?

  Luckily, two most excellent specimens of manhood emerged through the stairwell door and into our party, in the form of two NYPD cops. They approached me first. "This your party?"

  I hoped this was some type of sick striptease belated eighteenth birthday present for me from Danny. I was all, "No way, officer," feeling the night's first promise of a smile on my face, but Danny's concerned expression let me know the cops were the real deal. Damn.

  "I'm throwing the party," Danny said. "Is there a problem?"

  At least if they weren't strippers the cops did have a quality good cop-bad cop routine. Good cop said, "Folks, we got a complaint about noise from one of your neighbors."

  "Max!" Danny exclaimed.

  Bad cop threw in, "Turn the fuckin' music down."

  "Max?" I asked.

  Danny said, "You know, Ceece, your favorite rear window binoculars victim during your leg cast imprisonment? The tyrant with the

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  garden apartment in the building opposite ours, the most hated neighbor within our courtyard radius? Noise complaints are his specialty."

  Mystery man! Who spends all his courtyard garden time making noise on a laptop, yet who complains about neighbors' noise!

  Bad cop added, "It's Halloween, and we've got better things to do than respond to ridiculous noise complaints. Keep the noise level down or we cite you for improper congregation without a permit."

  Danny made the throat slash sign toward the DJ, who turned the volume down and changed the groove, totally going Enya on us. Mean!

  I handed good and bad cop a cupcake each for their service. They accepted the peace offering and left. From the rear view of their asses, I'd say if the cops lessened their doughnut consumption by about ten percent, they could have a definite future in stripping.

  I was finally ready for some socializing. I grabbed a tray of party cupcakes and followed the cops marching down the stairs.

  "Where are you going?" Danny called after me. "This is your party!"

  "I have a date with destiny," I shouted up through the stairs. This Max guy called the cops on a party in the Village. On freakin' Halloween. That is SO punk.

  I gotta meet this mystery man finally.

  Shrimp is not coming to rescue me. Not now. Not ever.

  New existence, let's get this party started.

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  ***

  ELEVEN

  Buzz.

  Nothin'.

  Buzz.

  Nothin'.

  Buzz.

  "Who the hell is buzzing?"

  Contact!

  "Avon calling," I said into mystery man's apartment building intercom speaker. I felt confident the Nixon administration-era intercom would work similarly to the one in Danny's and my apartment building, and that what mystery man would hear would not be "Avon calling!" but "Azhghrt kwz ing!"

  The lobby door buzzed open. Gibberish, successful. Access, granted.

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  Hey now, I'm a sorceress in VonHuffingUptight threads.

  Mystery man opened his apartment door only a crack, but I could see across the chain lock that he wore his trusty lavender silk smoking robe. He had one of those old-fashioned gentleman's pipes dangling in his mouth, yet he managed to bark out, "What the hell do you want?" without the pipe falling out. Impressive.

  I lifted the tray of cupcakes for his view. "Noisy neighbor with cupcake peace offering? Sorry about the music!" I chirped. Cuz I'm a gonna ferret you out and learn the secrets to yo' universe, sucka.

  Now, in no city, but especially not in New York City, would a person seriously consider opening the door to a cupcake-bearing stranger. But then, not every cupcake-bearing stranger arrived in a Mrs. VonHuffingUptight costume, looking like her mother, tall and ironed-straight hair and Chanel-elegant--like, totally-reliable-not-gonna-go-psycho-on-your-ass.

  Mystery man opened the door a tiny crack more. "Chocolate?" he asked.

  "Red velvet with cream cheese frosting, powdered cocoa and maraschino cherry on top. House specialty." Door opened all the way. Somethin'.

  After the many weeks' binoculars observation of mystery man, it was strange indeed to see him in live 3-D form in front of me, wearing that lavender silk smoking robe over black silk pajamas

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  with smart black loafer slippers. He was a short, stumpy guy with brown middle-aged-man comb-over hair and serious coffee breath, which would have been rank except for the sympatico potential it exhaled.

  "That your party on the rooftop across the courtyard?" he bellowed. "Who raised you people to think it's acceptable to play music that loud, for the whole neighborhood to hear? And it's almost midnight. If I can hear your music inside the cavern of my soundproofed bedroom walls, you're violating city-mandated noise levels." Still, he peered down at the cupcake tray and took one into his hands. Taking the pipe from his mouth, he licked the frosting from the side. Then he said, "Delicious. I appreciate the peace offering. I never would have suspected anyone under the age of forty, and particularly anyone in this city's vicious yuppie climate, to have the decency to apologize to their neighbors for their bad manners. Thank you, young lady."

  See? So not a tyrant. His behavior was directly at odds with the binoculars impression one might have of him, said binoculars having observed courtyard neighbors going back and forth between each other's fenced gardens, gossiping and sharing gardening tools and the occasional joint, but going nowhere near his. In fact, you'd think he had prison barbed wire lining his garden for all that the neighbors interact with him--or, rather, don't.

  The sugar distraction going on inside his mouth allowed me a

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  moment to inspect the interior of his apartment. On the basis of the silver framed black-and-white photographs sitting on top of his piano, showing a younger, lighter version of himself, sitting at that same piano alongside an attractive Bobby Darin--type lounge singer holding a microphone, I doubted mystery man had a murdered secret wife buried underneath the potted plants in his garden. And on the basis of mystery man's crankiness and the memorial candle that flickered next to a head-shot photo of the lounge singer lover-man, framed along with a death notice, a pride flag, and an AIDS awareness label, I further suspected that no true love had ever come to replace the one who'd been lost.

  If I were a girl spy commentating about Max's apartment on one of those interior decorating home improvement TV shows, I would not start by describing his living room as waiting for a shabby chic makeover. Because it was a junk palace whose only hope of renovation was a plough ramming through and clearing all the waist-high stacks of newspapers, magazines, sheet music, and correspondence. Also, if I were design-commentating on TV, I would be sure to find some clever but
polite way to point out that the most noticeable aspect of the apartment's interior was invisible--the aroma. The junk palace smelled like decades of accumulated pipe and cigarette smoke, cat, moldy newspapers, coffee grounds, candy wrappers, and ... sniff... ramen noodles? My investigation of the artwork lining what appeared to be every available inch of wall space--photographs of

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  musicians from long-ago eras, when the men wore tuxes and the lady-singers had beautiful hairstyles and secret heroin addictions; the movie musical posters; and dozens of old Life and Photoplay magazine covers picturing old movie stars like Judy Garland, Lana Turner, and Joan Crawford--made for an easy deduction as to the key to unlock mystery man's heart.

  Anyone who'd dare label me as a culinary school dropout with no Real Plan currently in operation could now reconsider me as Cyd Charisse, girl slacker sleuth. Big career potential. Step aside, Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden.

  "I heard your name is Max," I said. "Wanna know my name?"

  "Not particularly," he said, grabbing for a second cupcake. "But I have a feeling you're going to tell me anyway. Could you make it quick, because I'm ready to go to sleep."

  "Mister," I said, "with the amount of sugar you're just now consuming and the amount of coffee I suspect you've already consumed tonight, you ain't gettin' to sleep anytime soon. And why would you want to, anyway, when your new friend named Cyd Charisse is calling on you?"

  Until this point in my life, sharing a famous person's name has felt like a burden, keeping me from--or throwing me into, depending on your perspective--my own identity. Suddenly the name was my trump card.