Story of My Life

by Jay McInerney

  So when Jeannie came home and asked if I wanted to split a gram I said sure. When that was gone we went to the Surf Club and Didi was there, and so was Skip. Skip was flirting outrageously, really hitting hard on me, all these steamy looks and sexual innuendos. I don’t know, I had a bunch of drinks, at that time of night Magilla Gorilla can start to look good and Skip’s no gorilla, he’s pretty decent-looking, plus I was remembering that he was actually really good in bed. Plus I was so mad at Dean. That’s what it was really all about in the end, when Skip and I were rocking the old sleigh bed back at his place, we weren’t really screwing each other, we were both screwing Dean.

  I wish I hadn’t, but it’s done now. I think about calling him, but I don’t. I turn on the tube for a while and watch All My Children. Then I go back to sleep.

  When I go to the doctor’s I tell her I just feel shitty and nauseous and I sleep all the time. She asks me about my period and I can’t really remember. I’ve been on the pill since I started going out with Dean but sometimes I forget to take it and I can’t really remember when I finished up the package. I don’t know, for a while there—like a couple of months—I was using the old withdrawal method, which is about as safe as Russian roulette. After surviving that I figure I should do fine on the pill. My gynecologist keeps telling me I should make the guys wear rubbers but I hate them and so do they. Safe sex, right? That’s like, truth in advertising, it’s kind of a contradiction in terms.

  So anyway, I think this doctor’s barking up the wrong tree, but she takes some blood for a test along with everything else and sends me on my way without a single prescription for narcotics, which really depresses me, I’m going to have to find a new doctor. I mean, when I spend a hundred bucks I usually get off.

  So I meet this guy at Jackson Hole who wants to buy the necklace. The short, balding type, maybe forty, he looks like my father. He has rotten skin, the pores in his nose are like the potholes on Second Avenue, you could lose a cab in one of those things. Real attractive, right? He’s wearing this incredibly tacky diamond ring and a giant Rolex. If I had to list my least favorite things, jewelry on men would be right up there at the top.

  After we sit down I take the necklace out of my purse—it’s in this blue velvet case—and he puts it down on the table and starts looking at me instead of the pearls. He goes, your sister Rebecca is a lovely girl, I admire her very much.

  I go, she’s a big hit with all the boys.

  And he goes, but I think you’re even prettier.

  You’d be the first if you really did, I say.

  Just to give him a little hint about why we’re here and all, I reach over and open the case for him. He picks up the necklace and holds it up to the light, sticks a little telescope thing in his eye and squints at it. I mean, this has got to be an act, I know damn well who he’s buying these for, but she certainly went to a lot of trouble to make it look authentic, the bitch.

  When the waitress comes around I order a burger deluxe because I haven’t eaten in two days and frankly I’m starved and I figure I’ll tell him I forgot my wallet. I’m feeling really dizzy, for a minute I almost black out, my vision gets all blurry.

  After a while he says, nice, not bad at all. Then he looks up and says, did you know that pearls are a symbol of purity? and I shake my head, I’m scarfing my burger.

  I bet you’re pure, he goes.

  And I’m like, right.

  And he goes, I bet you don’t go out with just anybody.

  So finally I’ve cleared this big wad of beef out of my mouth and I say to him, actually I fuck practically anybody. But in your case I think I’d make an exception.

  And he’s like totally blown away that I’m talking like this.

  So how much for the necklace? I go and eventually he offers me twenty-five hundred and I take it, he’s got the cash right there—naturally a guy who wears gold jewelry would carry a huge roll of cash, right?—so I take it and make him pay for the burger and I walk out of the restaurant feeling dizzy and puke all over the sidewalk.

  And this guy who’s just bought my grandmother’s symbols of purity comes out and watches me wipe off my face and goes, you wanna come back to my place and lie down for a while?

  I hand over most of the money to Jeannie because even though her father came up with the back rent I still owe for the past month plus the phone bill and that pretty much takes care of my little inheritance. And of course she immediately decides we should buy a quarter ounce. But I’m the irresponsible one, right? Well, okay, I am a little irresponsible and I don’t protest as much as I should about this idea. But I haven’t really talked to Jeannie in ages and I really want to sort of clear the air, you know, I mean Jeannie and I go way back, plus I’m feeling so bad I don’t think anything could make me feel worse and it’s either stimulants or another twenty hours in bed.

  We just sit around the apartment and talk all night. It’s great. We start talking about Didi and how great it is that she’s off drugs because she really had a problem, she was just way over the top.

  Next we start talking about guys, naturally. Jeannie says she doesn’t know, she’s just not sure about Frank, does she really want to spend the rest of her life with this guy who was kind of dull to begin with and then betrayed her with a bimbo? Frank is pushing for a fall wedding and now Jeannie’s got cold feet. I tell her she knows my feelings about marriage, I mean probably it works for people with really low expectations and about zero self-esteem, but show me a happy marriage and I’ll show you one fool and one hypocrite. Like, I’ve got a late meeting tonight, honey, don’t wait up for me. Okay, darling, don’t work too hard.

  I don’t even mention that Frank has one of the smaller dicks I’ve ever experienced. Two inches of throbbing steel.

  So after a while we talk about the old days on the horse circuit, that was where we got to know each other, sharing rooms in half the Hiltons of America, showing and jumping while everyone else was going to school and proms, riding all year long to qualify for the three big shows in Harrisburg, Washington and then Madison Square Garden, ordering room service and flirting with the busboys and the stable hands and the judges, and now it sort of feels like all of that’s ending, I mean it ended a long time ago, a few years back anyway, but in a way we sort of grew up together on the road and in the saddle and moved to New York together and now I’m moving out to Francesca’s and somehow I don’t think I’ll see Jeannie much after a while. She really sort of screwed me over but it still depresses the shit out of me, because whatever comes next it won’t be the same.

  And Jeannie is all excited about something she’s saying, I’ve been half listening, something about horses, and then she’s crying, saying, that wasn’t fair, that was so unfair, I still think about it.

  It turns out she’s all upset about this one show out on Long Island when I won the ribbon for hunters. Showing hunters is very political anyway, it’s all up to the judges. With jumpers if you jump clean it’s strictly against the clock and more fun. The horses are thinner and they’re fast and nobody can rob you if you win. Hunters are big fat beautiful animals and they’re judged on form, supposedly. And I do mean supposedly.

  So this one day Jeannie went before me, she was on this horse, Patrick Henry, he was beautiful and she had a great run, everything clean, I watched her from the stand and then I went out on my horse, Eric the Red. Eric was in this really rotten mood, I don’t know why, then when I get out there and start jumping I realize he’s lame. He banged two jumps early on and twisted once coming down. I was trying really hard to hold him up, he was pretty lame and I just thought, go for it, let’s just get through this thing.

  So me and Eric the Red won first prize in the class.

  Something weird was going on in that judging booth, don’t ask me what. Maybe my father paid somebody, maybe somebody liked the look of my ass in riding breeches, whatever.

  It was so unfair, Jeannie goes. I never forgot that.

  And I go, welcome to the world, Jea
nnie babe.

  Because that’s the thing about hunters and jumpers. The jumpers are fair, it’s you against a clock. But showing hunters, it’s political. Great preparation for life, right?

  Let’s face it, how often is anything fair?

  Jeannie finally stops crying long enough to tell me she’s always competed with me, even though she loves me she’s always tried to outdo me in everything and never felt like she could, like this is news to me, and I go, it’s okay really and for about three minutes we’re best friends, everything’s fine, and we talk about really silly and trivial things that seem important enough at the time and finally she says, I’m going to give you the best birthday ever and then she goes whoops, like there’s been a big surprise planned and she blew it.

  I sort of figured my friends would do something, I mean, I hoped they would. Ten days from now I’ll be twenty-one. It seems like I’ve been on the planet a lot longer than that. Like who is that woman who goes around the country to Ramada Inns pretending to be some forty-thousand-year-old man, charging people hundreds of dollars to come listen to her speak in this fake baritone about the wisdom of the ages? Well, whoever she is she’s an imposter, the real forty-thousand-year-old man is me. And I’m here to tell you, free of charge, that it sucks.

  12

  Good Night Ladies

  Of course with my luck it turns out I’m actually pregnant. The rabbit dies, so I have to visit the clinic for real this time. I can’t believe it. And I don’t have a nickel to my name, I owe every body in the western hemisphere, I’m like a fucking Third World country—empty treasury, exploding birth rate. Jesus. And what’s really depressing is I don’t know whose it is, I mean, it could be Skip’s and it could be Dean’s. If this had happened a few months back there would’ve been like twenty suspects, but even two is too many. Francesca and Jeannie want me to call Dean, they say it’s only fair. No way. I’d rather have the kid than call Dean, and I’m not about to have the kid.

  I call Carol first, my sister, and she’s really sympathetic, I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have Carol to talk to sometimes and she says if I can’t find the money anywhere else she’ll get her boyfriend to cough it up, he’s rich and she’ll threaten him with a sex embargo if he gets difficult about it.

  I go, where’s Dad? and she says he’s in Cancun with a new bimbo. Which is just great. Whenever I need my old man he’s on some beach with a nineteen-year-old sex kitten. Story of his life.

  Next I call my old man’s office and his secretary claims he’s in Europe on business and then she says, I just sent you the check for your school tuition.

  And I’m like, incredible, I don’t believe it. Something actually going right in my life for a change. I must be dreaming.

  So I make an appointment for the next week and I use the tuition money, which is kind of ironic because last month I used my supposed abortion money for tuition and now it’s the other way around. And if that’s not weird enough I see Skip Pendleton a few nights later, he’s with some anorexic Click model and pretends not to see me. Meanwhile my breasts hurt like hell and I feel like I’m filling up like a water balloon. I try not to think about the thing inside me, I mean, even if it’s a person instead of a fish I want to say, hey, believe me, I’m doing you a favor. You don’t need this shit.

  I’m so distracted that I totally forget the appointment is the day before my birthday. When I figure it out I’m like, what the fuck, I want this over with. They tell me I should be able to walk out of the clinic that afternoon and barring complications I’ll be fine in a day or two. I tell them I’ve got twenty-four hours till the first day of the rest of my life.

  Don’t ask me why, I don’t want anybody to think I’m getting mushy in my old age, but for some reason I decide to visit Mannie in the hospital. They’ve got him over at Lenox Hill, I walk over. Out in front these two old guys are having a wheelchair race down the sidewalk and people start cheering them on, these two guys must be in their eighties but they’re really starting to cruise and people are jumping out of the way, then a nurse and an orderly come out and start screaming at them and chase them down.

  Mannie’s like a cartoon version of an accident victim, they’ve got him in this body cast, he’s like a mummy in traction. His head is pretty well bandaged up but you can see his face and when I come in he opens his eyes, he starts smiling like a lunatic, I don’t know if he remembers me or if he’s just like a baby that smiles at anything.

  So I go, it’s Alison, Rebecca’s sister. Then suddenly I feel bad, like I maybe shouldn’t mention Rebecca, right?

  He smiles, the guy’s beaming like a headlight, either they’ve got him on some really great drugs or else he’s glad to see me.

  I’m really sorry, I go.

  I know, don’t tell me, I have a real gift for saying the intelligent thing.

  I sit down in this chair beside the bed, just to give myself something to do. He’s still smiling, it’s beginning to drive me crazy, it’s like he knows something I don’t know, so finally I go, Rebecca asked me to send her best, she had to rush out of town for some important stuff but she wanted me to check up on you and say hello and all.

  Which is totally a lie, I don’t know why I say it, except maybe to make him feel better.

  And after another few minutes of smiley-face I go, it was an accident, right? His face is really white, white and red where he’s cut and stitched, he looks like some painting where the colors are all wrong and not true to life.

  His mouth starts to move and I lean closer so I can hear what he’s saying. Finally he says, in this gnarly whisper, tell her I love her.

  And I’m like, what are you, nuts? You’re crazy, you’re really out of your mind. Listen, I go, I hate to be the one to tell you but she’s actually a total bitch, she doesn’t give a shit about you, she doesn’t give a shit about anyone but herself, she hasn’t even asked about you. That’s what kind of person Rebecca is.

  He’s not really looking at me, he’s looking through me, still smiling, and I say, what is it about her? I mean, tell me, I’m dying to know, this is really bugging me.

  All he does is say it again—tell her I love her.

  I say, I’m sorry, Mannie, I didn’t mean that, it was just jealousy. Becca had to go out of town but she asked me to look in on you and everything. I’m sure you’ll hear from her soon, I go.

  I don’t know if he hears me or not. I leave him grinning into outer space like some kind of Moonie, somebody way beyond your basic logic and facts. The thing is, he looks happy, which is more than you can say for the rest of us.

  Francesca comes with me to the clinic. She’s lost about twenty pounds in the last two weeks and she’s looking great. I make her promise not to call Dean no matter what. We sit around in this waiting room with Mademoiselle s and Ladies’ Home Journal s on the coffee table in case we want to get some summer tanning tips or learn how to make a supermoist coffee cake that will drive hubby into fucking raptures and then they call me in and I undress, put on the little paper robe, climb up on the table, stick my feet in the nice cold stirrups.

  I want drugs, I say, as soon as the doctor shows up.

  I’ve heard they give you Demerol and I tell them I have this monster tolerance, forget about the correct dosage for my height and weight, but the doctor says for outpatients all they recommend is a local. I’m like, give me the express. She sticks a needle in my uterus and I try to do my sense-memory, I do a sense-memory of Dean just imagining him sitting in that chair of his where he reads and talking about Shakespeare or the stock market or something, I re-create the expressions on his face, his crooked smile, I put him right there next to me talking. Forget about sex—they’re hoovering my insides out . . . the local isn’t enough to kill the pain and it’s hard to do my sense-memory, I can’t concentrate, I keep losing the image, his face and his voice keep fading like something on a bad TV set in the middle of nowhere. . . .

  So I try to remember that rhyme we used to say in school—
Miss Mary Mack Mack Mack all dressed in black black black, but I draw a blank on the rest . . .

  Afterwards it hurts like hell. They give me another incredibly painful shot to close up my uterus and after that it’s cramp city.

  Francesca takes me home in a cab and puts me in bed and Jeannie comes in with some ten-milligram Valiums and I drift off into some kind of brain death for about sixteen hours.

  Jeannie wakes me up a little after noon, she’s bought me two dozen long-stemmed roses and my mail on a little breakfast tray, birthday cards from her and Carol and my mother and a bunch of other people. Nothing from my dad. Not even a fucking card.

  Any messages? I go, and Jeannie says Francesca called to ask how was I doing, that’s it.

  So I just lie around in bed all day, I’m not exactly feeling too terrific, but why bitch?

  My mom calls after five, she’s very economical about little things like waiting for the rates to go down but then she’ll spend a hundred and fifty dollars to have the poodle trimmed.

  Happy birthday, baby, she says. You’re all grown up now.

  Thanks a lot, I go.

  Did you get my card? she says.

  I got it, thanks, I say.

  Then she starts to tell me about her boyfriend, how thoughtless and inconsiderate he’s been, how he’s not sensitive to her needs, yada yada yada. She goes on and on, she’s not blasted yet, but I can hear the ice cubes rattling at the other end of the phone. It’s not like I’m not sympathetic, but it’s a little depressing because maybe just this once on my birthday we could talk about me. I’m the kid here, after all, even if I’m supposed to be a big girl now. I’m the one who could maybe use some advice, and it makes me wonder, what’s the point of being an adult, except that you can legally drink in all states of the union, my mom might as well be sixteen the way she talks. . . .