Miserable Love Stories

by Alex Bernstein

“Try this,” she says to Ryan, handing him a frail, whispery piece of ham.

  “What is it?”

  “Ham,” she says. “Try it.”

  He smells it, nibbles. His eyes bug out.

  “You hate ham,” I remind him.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Half a pound,” I say. “Skip the bamboo.”

  “Awww,” they say in unison.

  “Frankie! Frankie!” yells a kid in a tuque and Rutgers sweatshirt to the Deli Chick. He whispers in her ear and pulls something—tickets—out of his pocket. Her eyes widen, excitedly. Nearby, I pick through raw red hamburger meat. Ryan tugs on my coat.

  “Dad—that guy in the hat’s beating you out.”

  “Mm. Want meatloaf this week?”

  “You better make your move!”

  “Ah.”

  “Dad!” he pulls on my arm, staring back at the counter. “Now another guy’s asking her out!”

  “Let me know what happens,” I say, moving on to poultry.

  10:30 pm. Monday. Watching the Devils in my basement with Don, both of us in full Devils-watching gear.

  “What about the one you met online?” says Don. “Melody?”

  “Melanie. Very nice.”

  “And?”

  “She looked good. A little tired. Couple years younger than me. Maybe forty-something.”

  “And?”

  “Divorced.”

  “And?”

  “Two kids.”

  “Professional?”

  “Pharmaceutical something. Very nice. Very stable. Lots of charity work on the side. Volunteers with MS kids. Pretty big house.”

  “Sex?”

  “Just met her, dude.”

  “So . . . ?”

  “I dunno. She likes Bon Jovi. She went on and on about Bon Jovi. Bon Jovi, Bon Jovi, Bon Jovi.”

  “You don’t like Bon Jovi?”

  I stare at him.

  “So, you’re picky now?”

  “I’m not into all this dot com stuff. Match.com. DriftwoodSingles.com. Jesus—I said I would never ever ever do this.”

  “Yer a fuckin’ hermit.”

  “My grampa married once. When my grandmother died, he spent thirty-five years alone. And he was perfectly happy.”

  “So, being a shut-in runs in your family?”

  “Exactly.”

  “No doubt he was getting it left and right.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Dude,” he glares at me. “It’s not good for you. And it’s not good for Ryan when his number one role model is cranky and depressed all the time.”

  But I ignore him and watch the game.

  9:30 pm. Wednesday. The Price Chopper parking lot.

  It’s freezing out. I’m bundled up, packing up the trunk. The lady in the car next to me packs up her trunk but her bag breaks and groceries spill out everywhere. Then, reaching to pick things up, she loses two more bags and everything’s all over the place. I crouch down and help her, shove stuff in the trunk. And the wind whips around, fiercely.

  “Thank you!” she yells.

  “No problem!” I yell.

  “I told him he was packing it too heavy!”

  “Y’gotta pack your own bags!”

  “He wouldn’t let me!”

  She pulls her scarf down, and—guess who? It’s the Deli Chick.

  “Hey! How’s your son?”

  “Good. Great. Home with a cold.”

  We’re hopping back and forth, shivering.

  “He’s sweet!”

  “Thank you. Yeah. I think that’s all of it!”

  “Thank you so much! What a nightmare!”

  “Sure. Goodnight.”

  “G’nite!”

  We head quickly to our cars. But I stop. I’m outside of my body—watching myself stopping, watching myself doing this utterly crazy thing.

  “Hey—!”

  She rolls down her window.

  “I—I don’t mean to be—to be—I don’t know—creepy or weird or—”

  “Uh?”

  “Never mind. Never mind.”

  “What?”

  “You wouldn’t want to—I dunno—get a cup of coffee—with me—sometime?”

  “Absolutely,” she says. “How about now?”

  “Now?”

  “Or in an hour? I just need to put my groceries away.”

  “Oh—oh—okay. Sure. I’m Nick, by the way.”

  “Frankie,” she says.

  An hour later. In a booth at Leo Coffeehouse.

  “My ex has a whole other family, now,” I say. “Guy has two kids, two girls, and now they’re having one together. It’ll be Ryan’s half-brother or sister or whatever. I don’t even ask anymore, but it’s fine. It is what it is.”

  “And he gets along with them all?”

  “Yeah. When he sees them. Which isn’t much. Sees them on the holidays. They’re three hours away. Which is a little too close, a little too far—if you know what I mean. But the worst of it was over a couple years ago.”

  “Tough raising him yourself.”

  “Nah. My mom helps out. She’s there now.”

  Her shoulders sink, relaxed.

  “So, the deli, huh?” I ask.

  “Yeah. The deli. I smell like meat all the time. And my feet and back are always killing me. But it’s fine. Not quite what I planned to do.”

  “Does anyone plan to cut meat?”

  “Oh yeah. The Deli Manager. He comes from a long line of—”

  “Deli Managers?”

  “Seriously. He does. Cutting meat’s a whole family tradition with some people.”

  “But not you?”

  “I got laid off six months ago and a girlfriend of mine told me they needed somebody a couple days—”

  “And you’re still there.”

  “And I’m still there. I don’t like to brag, but I’ve put on, like, fifty pounds since I started.”

  “All that meat—?”

  “Cheese. I’m a vegetarian.”

  “How can you work at a deli?”

  “I’m not killing the fuckers. I’m just slicing and serving ’em.”

  She grins.

  “I am so less hungry now,” I say, smiling.

  And she looks at me, looks into my eyes. And a little electricity goes off that I haven’t felt in about ten years.

  “Oh hey! There’s one perk,” she says. “The deli manager got me a work iPhone!”

  She pulls out the latest iPhone. It’s nicer and newer than mine, and I’m suddenly stupidly jealous.

  “Kewl, huh? It’s the latest model.”

  She leans closer to show it to me. And she does have a smell—a good smell—like meat and lavender. And the phone rings suddenly. And we both jump, surprised.

  “My boss,” she mouths, soundlessly.

  “Yeah? Hello?” she says, answering.

  “Deli emergency?” I say.

  “Hey,” she says. “Yes. Yeah, that works! Works fine. Uh huh. Okay. Great. No problem. Bye.”

  “All good?”

  “Wanted to know if I could do the mid-day shift tomorrow.”

  “Can you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, now I know why he got you an iPhone.”

  I stare at her, knowingly. She blushes.

  “Please! He has kids!”

  “If I was the Deli Manager, I’d get you three iPhones and a Vespa.”

  “Stop.”

  She puts it away, sees me glance at my watch.

  “You have to go?”

  “I—well—yeah, I should.”

  “This was nice.”

  “Yeah. It’s nice seeing you, y’know, without a bloodstained apron on. Although, you wear it well.”

  She smiles, and then she’s quiet, thinking.

  “What?”

  “I dunno. Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I thought I’d ask if you—I dunno—you wanted to come back and smoke a joint with me or something.” />
  “A joint?”

  “Oh-my-God! Did I just say that? That sounded like a fifteen-year-old, didn’t it?! I’m such a loser.”

  “No! Not at all.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “So?”

  An hour and a half later. Frankie’s apartment. In bed.

  Not how I had imagined the day would end.

  “Nick,” she says. “Can I be honest with you?”

  Here it comes. I knew this was too good to be—

  “I sneak pieces of meat.”

  “Oh. O-kay.”

  “What did you think I was going to say?”

  “No idea.”

  She stares off, puzzled.

  “I can’t help it,” she says. “I mean, some of the cold cuts are really good.”

  “They are good.”

  “I feel guilty recommending things to people if I haven’t tried them, y’know?”

  “So, you’ve tried everything?”

  “Mm.”

  “Even the braunschweiger?”

  “Yes.”

  “Y’know—you’re an awful vegetarian?”

  “I know.”

  I breathe easier, and I feel her warmth settle against me.

  “You think we went too fast tonight?” she says.

  “I—I dunno. What do you think?”

  “Life’s too short to be shy,” she says.

  10:00 pm. Thursday. Watching the Knicks in the basement with Don, both of us in full Knick regalia.

  “She cuts meat?”

  “Yeah. Short black hair, bangs. Always giving out free samples . . .”

  “Wait-a-minute—! Chick with the nose ring?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dude—she’s hot!”

  “She’s very nice.”

  “In one day?! You nailed the Deli Chick in one day?!”

  “Well, that’s being completely crass.”

  Don hugs me, forcefully.

  “Dude! I’m effin’ awestruck!”

  “I think we were more on the same wavelength than I had originally thought.”

  “So?”

  “So what?”

  “So now what?”

  “So now what what?”

  “So?”

  “So, I dunno. I just met her. She wants to take Ryan ice skating.”

  “Bonding with the kid even!”

  “Yeah. He loves her.”

  Don stares at me a long time, then suddenly becomes cross-eyed, pained, angry.

  “Oh shit. Screw you, man. Screw you!”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got a but in your eyes.”

  “I don’t have a but in my eyes. I don’t even know what that means. . . .”

  “Dude—you totally have a but in your eyes. I know you! And this is where you always kill it!”

  “I haven’t even said anything!”

  “You expressed doubt, dude!”

  I stare at my half-empty beer.

  “I dunno. It’s just a little—sudden for me. She’s like half my age!”

  “You’re what?”

  “41.”

  “She’s—?”

  “28.”

  “That’s a jackpot, dude! Let’s call your ex and rub her nose in it—”

  “Do what?”

  “I’m kidding. Boy—look at you. Y’got all panicky for a second.”

  “Look, I think, in the rational, reasonable world, the world that Ryan and I currently inhabit—that the concept of stability isn’t a bad thing.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Forget it.”

  “Is she crazy? Unbalanced? Pissy?”

  “No. Not that I know of, yet.”

  “She a heroin junkie?”

  “No. She smokes a little pot.”

  “This is you in a nutshell, Nick. You freak yourself out too much.”

  “Yes, I do. I do freak out. Seriously. Sometimes, at night, I lie there, and I literally have anxiety attacks. What if something happens to me? What if I get hurt? What if I get killed?”

  “What if you spontaneously combust? Like right now?”

  “Right. Yes.”

  “Then we’d both be fucked.”

  “This is what I think about all the time. Yeah, I’ve got friends. I’ve got my mom. But it’s basically just Ryan and me. The two of us—this micro-micro family. It’s just too small.”

  He stares at me, at a loss suddenly for something clever to say.

  “So maybe the Deli Chick is your road to stability?”

  3:20 pm. Friday. Outside Driftwood Elementary.

  Ryan bobs back and forth from leg to leg, looking anxious.

  “Hey!” says Frankie. “Sorry!”

  “I thought you forgot me—”

  “No, no! I just—”

  “I coulda been kidnapped like twenty times by now!”

  “It’s great that you weren’t. So, you wanna go skating or what?”

  7 pm. Friday. Front of my house. Frankie watches me shovel snow.

  “I just—I couldn’t get out,” she says. “And I got stuck on the way over in all that fucking after school traffic.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “Everything was fine. He had a great time. It’s not a big deal.”

  “I was trying to race over and I’m honking at everyone and parking five blocks away. And he was really worried. I should’ve called you. I’m such a fucking idiot—”

  “You could’ve called him. He has an iPhone too. For emergencies.”

  “Like his dad’s stupid girlfriend being twenty minutes late?”

  I stop shoveling and stare at her.

  “So you’re my stupid . . . girlfriend?”

  She looks confused.

  “Of course I’m your stupid girlfriend. Aren’t I?”

  I smile at her.

  “Yeah.”

  10 am. Saturday. At the car wash, watching the shampoo shoot spray all over my Camry. Talking to Don on Bluetooth.

  “I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing, Don. I need things predictable. Reliable. I completely made up my mind to end it. And now she’s my girlfriend! It’s not excellent! I was fucking furious with her! I mean—I mean—yes, I like spending time with her. I do.”

  I watch jets of water shoot freely all over my car, and roaring vacuums clearing every drop away in instants.

  “I just feel so out of control, Don. And frankly, it scares me.”

  9:30 pm. Saturday. The Cactus Pear.

  It’s a little hole in the wall in the middle of Driftwood, barely room for a bar, much less the little sound stage for music acts. Frankie’s dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. She looks great, hot, feral. It’s open mic night and she’s singing a couple songs to a small, but friendly crowd who seem to know her well. I stay in the back (if there is such a thing) by the bar, and watch. Me, the forty-one-year-old, invisible man. Two guys accompany her on guitar and a single snare drum. The drummer is tuque boy from Price Chopper. The other looks like his twin. Seattle grunge lives.

  She starts with “Yellow Ledbetter” which seems more of a piece for her guitar player than her. But she delivers the unfathomable lyrics with a deep, husky, guttural sound. She follows with a screeching “Piece of my Heart” that surprises me, and closes with a slow, slow song that I haven’t heard in years, and that, for a moment, is even smokier than Janis.

  Come to me, my melancholy baby,

  Cuddle up and don’t be blue.

  All your fears are foolish fancy, maybe,

  You know dear,

  that I am strong for you.

  And she’s like some beautiful, ethereal creature—pained, wounded, fragile. My heart beats faster as I hear the ache behind her words. Am I doing this to her? Are we doing this to each other? Drenched with sweat, hair matted, she finishes. The crowd hoots, hollers, and I’m right there with them.

  2:30 am. Her place.

  I wake up, suddenly, see the clock and panic.

  “Shit! I fell asleep!”


  “Your mother—”

  “Babysitter! Got a babysitter! Shit! Shit! I gotta go!”

  2:40 am. Home.

  Sixteen-year-old Laurie is asleep on the couch. Next to her, wide awake and pissed, is her mother.

  “I am so sorry,” I say. “I—I—I—there was an accident and—”

  I’m an incredibly awful liar. But it doesn’t matter. The mom, disgusted, tugs at her daughter.

  “Laurie—Laurie—let’s go. C’mon.”

  And they leave. The house is silent.

  7 pm. Sunday. Driftwood Café.

  Frankie and I have coffee. We say nothing. She stares away from me, out the window, hurt, angry. I feel like shit. She gets up, and walks out, and doesn’t look back.

  9 pm. The upstairs hallway outside the bathroom. Ryan’s in his pajamas, crying and angry.

  “I liked her!”

  “I liked her, too.”

  “Then why?!”

  “It just didn’t work out, honey. Sometimes—”

  “Why didn’t it work out?”

  “We were just a little too different, y’know?”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Ryan—”

  “It’s bullshit! It is!”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  He breathes, sits on his bed, and looks down, sadly.

  “I shouldn’t’ve told you she was late.”

  I kneel down by the bed and look him in the eye.

  “Listen to me,” I say. “This has nothing to do with you.”

  “Well, I told you. And now she’s gone.”

  “Ryan—don’t even think that!”

  But he curls up on his bed and looks at the wall.

  “Dad . . . ?” he whispers. “You don’t have to worry about me all the time.”

  “I worry about everything, Sport.”

  “You don’t have to. And you don’t have to find me a new mom.”

  I look at him, surprised. Shit. Is that what I was doing?

  “I—I wasn’t,” I say. “Is that what you—do you want one?”

  “No. I’ve already got one. Somewhere.”

  “I know.”

  “We’re fine the way we are.”

  “That’s absolutely right.”

  I hold him and rock him, slowly, until he falls asleep.

  3:30 pm. A Sunday several weeks later. Stanhope A&P.

  Ryan and I stopped going to the Price Chopper for obvious reasons. The A&P is more run-down, but they’re renovating, and they’ve just put in a prepared food section. The place is decked out for the holidays and school kids are in the front of the store singing Christmas carols that play over the store loudspeakers.