Miserable Love Stories

by Alex Bernstein

I thought I just heard them call Bala’s name over the PA system.

  12:20 am

  I got back from the payphone, but Bala wasn’t in the Crown Room, so they wouldn’t let me back in. At first, they acted like I imagined the whole thing—no, he doesn’t exist. He never existed. But then they double checked and yes, yes, he was here. And they brought my prop bag back to me. Thank God. And Buster and everything else was still inside. And I asked if they knew where Bala went? Was he the one that they called on the intercom? They didn’t know. They weren’t paying attention. I realized I don’t even know what airline he’s on. People Express or Delta or God knows what. Something going to Boston, I guess. So, now I’m . . . kind of freaking out.

  12:30 am

  So, Bala was taken to a Delta security office!

  Millie, the woman at the Hudson’s newsstand, said she saw a Delta attendant escorting him through an “employees only” door to what was likely a security office.

  Then she told me something that freaked me out more. She said she’s pretty sure that Bala has been at the airport for a couple days now. She said she’s definitely seen him here since Wednesday morning—because she’d left early on Wednesday when she got a call that her kid was sick—and Bala had been in there talking to her when the school called—and that was definitely Wednesday. Two days ago.

  So, then I ran over to Sbarro’s and the woman there said, “Yeah, Wednesday seems right.”

  Jesus at Chock Full O’ Nuts corroborated their story.

  “At least Wednesday,” he said.

  “But,” I said, “I just saw his flight get cancelled. I mean—that’s what he told me.”

  “Well,” said Jesus. “Maybe he had a lot of flights cancelled.”

  12:40 am

  I knocked on the door to Delta security, but they wouldn’t let me in.

  But I could see Bala there in the back of the office.

  I can’t decide if I should help him or not. I mean—he lied to me. I should just let him rot.

  12:42 am

  Goddammit.

  12:44 am

  Shit.

  12:46 am

  Son of a bitch!

  12:53 am

  I just broke Bala out of the Delta security office.

  We are now basically the Bonnie & Clyde of Newark Airport—if Bonnie was a pudgy fifteen-year-old girl with a bag of weird props and Clyde was a fourteen-year-old Indian boy with a mancala board and a huge mess of hair—and neither of them had guns. Jesus at Chock Full O’ Nuts was instrumental in my Escape Plan. (And could have easily lost his job!) He brought a tray of hot coffee to the Delta security office and when the guy opened the door, Jesus “accidentally” spilled coffee all over him. C’mon! How Starsky and Hutch is that?! The attendant was furious and drenched. And when he ran out to the men’s room to clean up—I snuck in and freed Bala! Then we ran down the airport midway to hide. After a couple minutes, they were calling his name over the PA system again—but then I got another great idea.

  We went over to the remaining sea of Deadheady students (more like a small lake, now) still camped out in the People Express area and literally lied on the ground right next to them. Bala took off his academy blazer and put on my Coat of Many Colors while I put the tie-dyed, plush mini Santa Claus over us, and we were totally camouflaged!

  So yes, sure, I had gotten Bala out of security, but I was still pretty incredibly pissed at him. And then he got real quiet. Which—y’know what?—is fine, because I have had it. I want nothing more to do with him. I helped him escape. That’s it.

  We are done.

  6:30 am

  Well.

  So, it was a long, long night. Here’s what happened next.

  So, I sulked for a super long time, but by 1 am, I couldn’t contain myself anymore.

  “Have you really been here since Wednesday?”

  “Yes,” he admitted. “Early Wednesday morning.”

  “So, when you said your flight was cancelled—”

  “I lied. I skipped my flight.”

  “Why?”

  “I . . . don’t know.”

  “How many flights have you skipped since Wednesday?”

  “Uh—eight? Ten?”

  “You made me think that that was the only flight you skipped!”

  “I know.”

  “Why did you skip eight to ten flights?!”

  “Because—I told you—I prefer the airport to going home.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “I’m aware of that. Nevertheless—”

  “You can’t stay here forever!”

  “No, but you’d be surprised how long I’m capable of dragging out the inevitable. I have tremendous staying power. McCarter’s been very good for that. Discipline.”

  “You dislike your father that much?”

  “Dislike is a weak word.”

  “Why don’t you talk to him about it?”

  “I do. Of course. Nothing changes.”

  “He’s going to be unbelievably pissed at you.”

  “Yes. That’s why the longer I’m here, the less time with him.”

  A wave of anger washed over me.

  “I know families suck! Mine sucks, too! But they’re supposed to suck, and you just deal with it!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I trusted you.”

  “I know.”

  “I liked you.”

  “I know. I like you, too.”

  Wait. Whoa. What?

  “You—”

  “I’m sorry I got you all caught up in my bullshit. I thought you looked like someone I could—I don’t know—talk to. You seemed—interesting.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. In a weird way. With all your junk.”

  “Props.”

  “Right.”

  And then, at that moment, Delta security guards with dogs—dogs!—came by. So, we put our heads down. One of the dogs barked at a college student near us, who grabbed his bag and ran off down the midway. And the security dogs and guards chased after him.

  We looked at each other, tired and exhausted, and we laid there for a few minutes and tried to play mancala. And we fell asleep.

  “Hey! Hey! Both of you! Come on! Rise and shine! Let’s go!” was the voice I woke up to at 5:30 am.

  It was Bala’s father, a gangly, older man with white hair and a very similar face to Bala’s—but with anger lines etched into his forehead. He hauled Bala to his feet, forcefully. Bala, groggy and disoriented, put up little resistance.

  “Hey!” I said, angrily. “Stop it!”

  His father ignored me, so I yelled louder. “Stop it!”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Who the hell are you?”

  “It doesn’t matter who I am,” I said. “He doesn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

  “Doesn’t deserve?” stammered the man, fuming. “Do you have any idea what I had to do to get here?! What I have to do now just to get him home?! You have no idea!”

  “Well,” I said, “if you weren’t such an a-hole maybe he’d have gotten on that first plane Wednesday morning!”

  He glared at me, furiously, then glared at Bala, and wrenched him up by the arm. Surprisingly, Bala resisted.

  “Stop,” said Bala.

  “People are waiting!” shrieked his father. “Do you know how fucked up this is!?”

  “And who’s fault is that?” yelled Bala back at him.

  I think Bala might have never yelled at his father before that moment. Now all of the student campers were awake and tired and grumpy, and they surrounded us. Bala’s father looked at them, and me and Bala.

  He took a breath and looked Bala in the eye.

  “I know it’s screwed up,” he said, helplessly. “And I know it’s my fault. But—I—am—trying. I am truly trying to make this right. Maybe you can’t see that. But it’s the truth.”

  He put a gentle hand on Bala’s shoulder and spoke—what seemed to be—sincerely.

  “I need your help
, Bala,” he said, “to try to make this year just a little less screwed up. Okay? Could you please try to do that for me? For once? For Christmas?”

  Bala looked at me.

  I nodded.

  He looked at his father again.

  “I can try to do that,” he said.

  “Good,” said his father.

  “But one thing,” said Bala.

  His father took a deep, worried breath.

  “What?”

  “This is Vera,” said Bala, introducing me.

  I grinned, stupidly. Bala’s father glared at me.

  “Vera’s been here all night. And she may be in trouble now with Delta because of me.”

  “Fine,” said Bala’s father, annoyed. “Fine. Fine. Fine.”

  And so, that’s why I’m now traveling on Delta first class back to Milwaukee!

  Whoo hoo!

  Bala’s father, out of guilt—and also probably in an attempt to make peace with his son—upgraded my flight. And that’s a-okay with me. I think it’s the first time I’ve flown first class, actually. Almost as nice as the Crown Room! (Although no Jackie O.) I do feel a little bourgeois, like maybe I should be in the back with the losers and the proletariat. But hey! I earned this! Right?

  So, I am considerably prop lighter now, by the way. I still had half an hour before takeoff and decided to see who was still on shift in the food court. I gave my Coat of Many Colors to a very excited Jesus. Paula was happy to get the reversible pig baby. And Millie was thrilled to get the pith helmet for her son. Bala requested the tie-dyed Santa. And I considered giving his father Bondage Paddington Bear, but I imagined that that would be a one-way trip to the circular toy box.

  I’ve discovered that the neck pillow, by the way, makes an incredibly great—wait for it—neck pillow! (Although, it does smell a little garbagey.) And Buster is squeezed in right alongside me, here. Don’t worry. He’s not going anywhere.

  So, that was my holiday airport adventure. Not what I planned when I started out. But hey, you go where life takes you. I think the best part is what Bala whispered to me as I left the gate:

  “See you, next year.”

  And that’s a-okay with me.

  Back When

  NEW YORK CITY. THE EARLY 1900s, OUTSIDE A BROWNSTONE TOWNHOUSE. WINTHROP AND CAMILLE, two teenagers, speak to one another.

  WINTHROP: Camille—it was ever so pleasant to walk you home this afternoon.

  CAMILLE: Oh, Winthrop—it was marvelous. You’re a true gentleman to carry my books.

  WINTHROP: Perhaps we might see more of one another?

  CAMILLE: That would be grand. Why don’t you text me later?

  WINTHROP: Text you?

  CAMILLE: Yes, text me—or DM me. One of those things.

  WINTHROP: Yes, well here’s the thing . . .

  CAMILLE: Yes?

  WINTHROP: You see, it’s only the Year of our Lord 1913, right now—and well, there’s just nothing to text you with.

  CAMILLE: Nothing to text me with?

  WINTHROP: I’m awfully sorry.

  CAMILLE: Oh, that’s fine. Then just Facetime me—

  WINTHROP: Facetime you?

  CAMILLE: Is that a problem?

  WINTHROP: Well, you see it’s that 1913 thing again. No texting, no Facetime. No Talky-Chatty boards of any kind, really.

  CAMILLE: Nothing?

  WINTHROP: No. I could send you a telegraph. But it would cost twelve thousand dollars and wouldn’t arrive for two weeks.

  CAMILLE: That seems inefficient. (beat) Look. Just come over at eight tonight and we can Netflix and chill!

  WINTHROP: I almost don’t know where to begin with that one.

  CAMILLE: We can’t do that either? Well, can we just watch regular television?

  WINTHROP: Nooo . . .

  CAMILLE: Go to a drive-in?

  WINTHROP: Nope.

  CAMILLE: Play MarioKart? Please!?

  WINTHROP: Camille—

  CAMILLE: Well, what can we do?!

  WINTHROP: Take a lovely stroll around the park and enjoy each other’s company!

  CAMILLE: That sounds horribly dull. (beat) But . . . not so bad with you, Winthrop.

  Cliffside

  JESUS CHRIST—WHERE THE FUCK AM I? IT’s—IT’s FREEZING IN HERE. Windy! Windy as shit! I’m—I’m—I’m—in a tent on a—I don’t know—a raft?! A boat?! The thing is unsteady—no balance—keeps shifting! And the goddamn wind. Shit. I’m fucking freezing! Hung over. My brain is shit. I’m—oh God—I’m gonna—I’m gonna puke.

  What happened? There was—that girl. And now. Where’s Dan? And is this even my tent? My tent wasn’t this small. And why is it so goddamned windy?! No—no—we never even set up the tents! We weren’t supposed to even get to the site till tomorrow! Shit—how bad was I last night? And—and what is all this constant swaying and shifting?!

  Okay. Okay. Okay. I’m gonna stand—and—and—

  I try to stand, but my slightest movement sets this little tent off-balance, like it’s going to flip. My stomach’s doing somersaults. I stay on my knees and edge slowly, slowly towards the front-end tent flap, trying to keep balance, but everything’s pitch black and I have no sense of direction. My shuddering, convulsing body is shaking the tent and then suddenly all support gives out from under me! And I’m in freefall! Freefall! Falling swiftly through the blackness!

  Until I stop. Hard.

  And then—then—I’m—I’m dangling—from some rope. Some noose or hitch-line. Now, the wind is whipping me, savagely. And I can hear my own voice—screaming.

  I must stop panicking. Must—compose myself. I slowly fish for the mini flashlight in my lower leg pocket. Gingerly, I get it out, gripping it tightly. And I turn it on and see, finally, where I am:

  Dangling off a sheer cliff.

  A sheer cliff!

  An almost dead man hanging in the middle of nowhere.

  Her name was Melanie.

  Dan and I had left yesterday evening. A guys’ weekend to get away from the wives, families. We were going camping. And a few hours out, we stopped at a motel, dropped our bags, and went to the nearby roadhouse for dinner. It was almost midnight and the place was packed with bikers and locals.

  “I think that blonde at the bar’s got her eye on you,” says Dan.

  He was right. Curly-hair in pumps, jeans, and a flannel shirt. She smiled at me, sweetly. I made my way over to her, bought her a drink. She looked friendless and far away. But we connected and drank and danced. And a little while later, we were checking into a new room at the motel.

  Half an hour later, she nestled, naked, under my arm. A perfect fit.

  “You married?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “You?”

  She held up a plain, small, perfect engagement ring.

  “Got it yesterday,” she said.

  “Yesterday?”

  She had gotten it from her longtime boyfriend. But clearly, she was already having second thoughts.

  “He’s a professional outdoorsman,” she said. “He’s that guy in magazines who takes tourists on paid overnight cliffside camping trips.” But, she said, he was incredibly possessive of her. She’d already run away from him several times and he always caught up with her.

  We fell asleep in each other’s arms. A little while later, I awoke to her tugging on me, frantically.

  “Hey!” she whispered. “You gotta get out of here!”

  She shoved at me, aggressively.

  Half-awake, I pulled my clothes on and scrambled for the door.

  “Go!” she said.

  I got just outside the door and then felt a violent crashing pain on the back of my head.

  And the next thing I knew—I was in the tent.

  Hanging by the rope, I sway violently, banging against the cliff. Below me: thousands of feet of nothing. My arms are scraped red. My ribs are on fire. But the merciless pain has cleared my head. I’m alive—so I will get back to the top. I will find her—and I’ll find that bo
yfriend that put me in that tent. And when I do—

  I’ll kill him.

  Twenty-five feet above me I see a flat, red rectangle dangling—the “bottom” of my tent. I pivot, but the goddamn rope is behind me, impossible to grip. I wrench back and forth, my chest burning. And I hear myself yelling:

  I can do this! I can do this! You son-of-a-bitch!

  Eventually, I get it—get hold of the rope and begin the long, brutal ascension. Pulling myself up is unending torture, but I take it inch by agonizing inch. What other choice do I have? My fingers are numb, and the wind is relentless. But forty-five minutes later, I’m back in the unsteady tent.

  Progress.

  Now, I’m wide awake. The peak is still several hundred feet up and my body’s beyond dead—but anger and adrenalin fuel me onward.

  Hours later, my hands ripped and bleeding from the climb, I reach the summit and collapse onto the first sturdy surface I’ve felt in forever. The euphoria is overwhelming.

  “That’s damn good time there, buddy,” says a deep, craggy voice.

  Standing over me is a gargantuan mountain man with ragged beard, cradling a steaming cup of something. He wears a large red parka. Nearby, I hear the engine of a truck.

  “Yeah,” he grins, “I’m the sumbitch that putcha in the port-a-ledge. That there’s a freebie! Usually charge more ’n a grand for that.”

  “You tried to kill me!” I rasp. I want to grab at him, but my back isn’t working the way it’s supposed to.

  “Shit,” he chortles. “Wanted to kill ya, I’da just thrown ya off the cliff! Y’don’t attach a goddamn safety line to some a-hole you’re trying to kill.”

  I stare at him, hatefully.

  “Would’ve come down for ya in another hour,” he snorts. “But you were making such good time, I thought: what the hell!”

  Then suddenly, this bear of a man hauls me to my feet and my body feels like it’s going to rupture. He throws my arm over his shoulder and starts walking me to the truck.

  “Where are you taking me?!”

  “Back to your motel. Unless you’d rather walk.”

  “You left me down there!”

  “I did indeed,” he says.

  I see the sign on his truck: CLIFF’S CLIFFSIDE CAMPING ADVENTURES!

  “I’ll sue the hell out of you!” I choke out. “You’ll be in jail forever!”