by Carr, Suzie
Actually, the ultimate revenge would be to emerge as a successful writer and show up holding my head high, my name now famous—my badge of honor, my gun, my spray painter, my scissors—and surprise the prettiness right out of each and every one of them. I, Jane Knoll, despite being bullied and attacked and treated worse than a rat in a New York City alleyway, would be somebody they’d want to know now.
I mentally carved out my dream. Of course after receiving enough hurtful rejection letters for magazine articles to wallpaper a house, this dream took a back seat. I didn’t totally abandon the idea. I just put it to rest for a while until I could figure out a way not to break into a fit of tears every time I got rejected. Without a dream, what would be left? Sweet potatoes drowning in brown sugar and melted butter? Television show marathons for the rest of my life? More visions of Larry imploding from my sad, teenage stories?
I needed this dream to wake back up. This dream would restore me to the girl I used to be. It had to.
# #
When I returned home to my empty condo that afternoon, I headed to my laptop and landed back on Eva’s Twitter account. I read through her tweets and got sucked in by her wit. She played with followers, stringing them along with short musings, clueless that the girl from the bathroom stall who knew about her mismatched shoes reveled in snooping in on her.
So, I did what any other bumbling, hormonal idiot would do and tiptoed through her profile, through her mentions, through her Twitter feed, through her followers list, through her following list, through her random images, and sank into a warm and gooey crush I couldn’t squash. I needed to learn more about her.
I stared long and hard into her deep, dark eyes and welcomed in the flutters. She sucked me into her soul with those eyes. I sat helpless and vulnerable on my stool, a victim to the beginning stages of a crush that would tempt me, dance on my heart, and prey on my romantic weaknesses in the middle of the night.
I could be anyone to her from the safety of my computer. I could turn myself into a gorgeous babe with a flirty side that twirled her heart and sent her off into the land of flutters and tingles, too. This sent me reeling.
This could be fun.
A switch clicked in me. A challenge erupted. A jolt of what could be electrified me.
I would reinvent myself and tease her about hating Old Bay seasoning. Goodbye @jktwitter. Hello new self.
Who did I want to be? Rich? Fit? A published writer? A traveler? What a fun article this could turn into for a high profile magazine—an experiment in social networking where shy girls got a chance to have some fun from behind the protective barrier of a computer screen and whether this enhanced their pathetic lives.
If anyone’s life was worth testing, it was mine. All in the name of experimental research.
Sitting on my stool, still uncomfortable in my skirt that was a dress size too small, I set out to create my brand new Twitter account; one that marketing wouldn’t recognize; one that I could bait Eva Handel with about her hating Old Bay seasoning.
I stared at the blank fields that asked for a username and password. What could I call myself? Something cool. I needed something edgy. Something that sounded sexy. Something that would pique Eva’s attention. Something daring. Something bold.
Ten minutes later, after rifling through my thesaurus for different takes on sexy, bold, edgy and cool, I decided on @CarefreeJanie.
Someone stop me. I was so original and creative I astounded myself at times.
I needed a picture.
An egghead wouldn’t do.
I clicked through some of my photo albums. I was such a dork. My hair always looked like I needed a highlight, even though I’d never had a highlight in my life. My eyebrows were far too light. I was twenty pounds too heavy.
I needed sexy, alluring, desirable.
I took advantage of the magic of the internet and searched Google images. Why not use the tool if it handed itself to me? If I were on a deserted island and needed to construct a raft, and wreckage of my downed plane floated past me, you bet I’d improvise and mold that wreckage into something useful. Plane wreckage, images, eh same thing—both tools in a worthy pursuit.
I scanned. Perhaps I could go with something artsy, like a book. Or something sensual, like a curvy leaf. I scanned stock photography and plugged in the words sensual, cool, edgy, sexy, daring and bold. The erotic choices stunned me. Clearly, I’d been living under a rock.
In the soft glow of my living room, I scrolled through the breasts, the thonged butts, and the voluptuous curves that ran rampant across my screen. I scanned page after page of nudity and insanity before landing on an adorable animated picture of a pretty girl partially hidden behind a Victorian fan.
In my bio, I played myself up. I was a lover of words, of risks, of playful debates. I, Victorian-fan-waving @CarefreeJanie, was someone fresh, someone fearless, and someone interesting.
Once complete, I tweeted to Eva Handel, “How can you possibly hate Old Bay seasoning?”
I waited for twenty minutes in front of my computer, staring at it, waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, I closed my laptop, stood up on an exhale and pushed back, away from Twitter, away from the obsession of wondering what she’d say back, away from the ridiculous notion that she’d even care that someone named @CarefreeJanie wanted to know why she hated Old Bay seasoning.
I washed my dinner dishes slowly, caressing the handle of my scrub brush as I slid it in and out of my coffee tumbler, watching as suds piled up the sides of it and overflowed in a frothy mess down the white ceramic of my kitchen sink. I’d always enjoyed the simple pleasures of performing acts like this. They calmed me, centered me, and expanded my presence in my small kitchen nook, placing me in the path of something grander than I was in the life I led outside these walls.
My lemon colored walls, with their daisy flowers sprinkled around the border, had always cradled me in peace, blocking out the gray world that existed outside where people yelled, honked horns, and chucked each other the bird. In my small kitchen, I was safe and free to enjoy the simplicity of running water, of fresh-smelling bubbles, of green ivy leaves waving at me from the window sill.
Oh yes, my life was one big joy fest being obsessed over domesticated novelties and now possible tweets from Eva Handel.
Chapter Three
The following night was laundry night. Every Wednesday I gathered my dirty clothes and lugged them down the condo steps and out to Larry’s car. I hated doing laundry on Wednesday nights because it got in the way of my favorite show, American Idol.
Larry could only do laundry night on Wednesdays because he over-committed himself every other night. When I told him no way, that I’d be doing my laundry on Saturdays like the rest of the people do in the town of Elkridge, he got down on one of his scrawny knees and begged me not to leave him alone to face the cockroaches.
Of all people’s legs to land on, a cockroach had to land right smack on Larry’s leg one time out of a thousand that he’d visited the laundromat.
The ordeal went down like this: Larry sat in one of the hard, plastic orange chairs, reading Jeannette Wall’s memoir, The Glass Castle, when something crawled on him. He looked down at his leg and a big, fat cockroach, with antennae at least an inch long twitching and fluttering about, crawled on him. He jumped up, flung his book and ran out of the laundromat screaming. When he arrived banging at my front door, he looked as if someone had chased him for miles through the town. He panted like an overheated dog, sweating and convulsing, trying to catch his breath. “I need your help,” he said, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me. “You need to come with me.”
Without blinking, I reached for my keys. I forgot about the boiling water on the stovetop, about the garlic bread in the oven, about the marinara sauce simmering, and followed him. If I was one thing, I was Larry’s saving grace in situations that I could handle and he couldn’t. He’d never put me in front of an obnoxious crowd or ask me to fight on his behalf. He only ran to
me for help if a bug threatened him. I followed him down the exterior steps to our parking lot and straight to his waxed, cherry red Lexus.
“Where is it?” I asked him, reaching for the car keys, ready to tackle the bug with bare hands.
“At ABC Wash Center.” He handed me the keys. “I’m sure it’s long gone by now, the ugly bugger.” He shivered, wiggling with such force, his teeth rattled. “I need you to pull my clothes out of the dryer. I left them there.”
Not until I arrived at the laundromat ten minutes later did I realize I had forgotten my dinner cooking on the burner.
A year later, Larry still refused to step foot in that place without my trusty bug-swatting self by his side. Ask him to stand in front of a crowd of people and talk about the first thing that came to mind, no problem. Ask him to call the cable company and complain about poor reception, not an issue. Ask him to accompany me to a work party so I didn’t stand like a complete ass by myself, and he strolled in like he owned the company, chatting it up with the company executives about golf games and fine cigars. Ask him to walk by an ant on the sidewalk and he squealed like a girl wearing a tutu, catapulting all of his one-hundred-seventy pounds into my arms.
I loved him anyway. My sweet friend Larry.
He arrived at my front door carrying his netted laundry bag over his shoulder like a satchel of presents. I closed up my laptop, disappointed Eva hadn’t replied to my playful tweet, but still smiling for Larry.
He needed me. For that I needed to remain grateful. If Larry didn’t exist in this world, no one would care if I lived and breathed, laughed or cried. Larry needed me. This carried a greater purpose than a tweet I had only just sent twenty-four hours prior to a girl way out of my league and even out of CarefreeJanie’s league.
We spent our two-hour laundering session talking about Larry’s LGBT youth center. A group of philanthropists opened the LGBT center in an old church, and over a year’s time it had grown into a safe haven hang out for at-risk kids. The center included an expansive library of books and movies, a basketball court, an art center, and a meeting hall. Apparently, one of the kids played guitar and offered Larry lessons at the center. Poor Larry tried many new things and never quite mastered any of them. “He’s teaching me ‘Stairway to Heaven.’ He says everyone can play that.” I nodded to this and swallowed my sarcastic remark.
“So, tell me more about this new man in your life.” I folded the sleeve of my shirt over the other without taking my eye from my friend.
“Tim looks like a younger version of Pierce Bronson.” Larry caught his breath, shook his head and gathered enough control to continue. “When I tell you his eyes melted right through me the first time I met him, I’m not lying.” He blew out an exhale. He looked about ready to cave into a moment. He plucked up matching socks and folded them together, tossing them into his netted bag.
“So, is he the real deal or another heartbreak we’ll need to mend?”
Larry cranked his head towards me so quickly that he could’ve broken his neck right off of his shoulders. “No raining on my parade here. This guy is perfect for me.”
I wondered how many more times in this man’s life I would have to endure another ‘perfect lover’ comment. “I’ve got two names for you. Randy Hines from your office party and Mike Cotters from the choral group.”
“No judging.” He pointed his finger at me. “That was our deal, remember?”
I stopped all folding and faced him. I took his hands in mine. “You look really happy, and that makes me really happy. So good for you.” I released his hands like I would confetti, and he smiled like a kid who just earned a lifetime supply of strawberry ice cream.
“Of course, there is this one thing about him.”
I rolled my eyes not surprised. “Spill it.”
“It’s nothing.” He waved off my disdain. “Just forget I said that.”
I reached out for his arm. “Oh no you don’t. Tell me.”
He squinted at me. “No.”
“No?”
“It’s no big deal. End of discussion.”
Insulted, I released him. “Fine. Then, you will not get to hear my latest news.”
He squinted more. “Fine.”
“Fine.”
I finished piling my clothes into my bag and then led us back out to his car.
On our drive back to our condos, I couldn’t help myself. I asked Larry if he hung out on Twitter.
“Of course. Everyone does.”
“I was thinking of joining,” I said, tossing a peppermint candy into my mouth.
“Thinking of joining?” He stretched his face. “You speak of this as if you’ve mulled over the pain-staking decision for weeks now.” He opened his palm up to me. “Got one of those candies for me?”
I unwrapped one and dropped it in his palm. He tossed it between his lips and continued. “Listen, you’re not deciding to join the military or a one-way space trip. It’s just Twitter.”
“I know.” I wanted his buy-in, his support, his company as I had fun with this. No one else would get that Twitter would most likely be my big ticket to a social life, even if it was a fake one. “Aren’t you even curious why I want to be on Twitter? Me? Jane Knoll? Ms. Hater of Whiners and Bullshit?”
He took his eyes off of the road and contemplated this in a long stare at me. “It’s pretty obvious to me. So, please don’t make me say it.” He looked back at the road, swerving to get back in his lane. “Twitter’s going to be good for you.”
He got me. I stared at the row of trees lining our community, comforted by their constancy. They never failed one another. They stood proudly together as a unit, beautifying the view for everyone attuned enough to take notice. This jolted me, spinning me into a state of joy. At least for this moment, all was right in the world. “You’re right. Twitter might be just what I need right now.”
“Baby steps for the socially ill at heart.”
I punched his arm. “I didn’t punch your face because I know you’re joking around with me.”
He leaned his face in towards me. “You might want to punch it because this gay boy isn’t joking. You are in need of a total social overhaul.”
I flicked his cheek and we settled into the rest of the drive through our adorable condo community on mute.
A few minutes later, when we returned from the laundromat, I avoided my computer, despite my self-promise that I’d be able to open it when I returned—the prize for being a loyal friend to Larry and being patient with my new obsession.
I didn’t open it because I didn’t want to taste the grit of disappointment. I wanted to imagine that a tweet from her sat ready for my eyes.
Hope sprinkled around me—hope that I refused to squash. So, I poured myself a glass of milk, sat down with my newest Kindle book, Life in the Balance, and dove into it embracing this moment in my life when happiness bubbled around me, full of possibility for a peaceful night’s sleep, the likes I hadn’t known for quite some time. In my dreams, Eva could be sipping a glass of wine contemplating the return of her reply to me. This hope for something fun, something new, and something intoxicating protected me from seeking comfort from my computer. I would wait until morning to be disappointed if she hadn’t responded. For this moment, I would cherish the anticipation of 140 characters arriving in my dried-up world like a refreshing spring rain, sailing directly to me over invisible, complicated internet connections.
# #
Not five minutes later, I popped back up and headed for the laptop.
The lure of her reply called out to me. I flipped up the screen and began typing Twitter into my browser. Before I got to the second ‘t’, I stopped myself.
I was acting like an idiot.
I would wait three days. I would not cave. Punishment for caving would be no whipped cream on my strawberry ice cream for a month.
I closed my laptop and went back to my bed. I rolled around tucking a pillow under my backside, then between my legs, then under my knees. Nothi
ng seemed to cure my restless behavior. I folded my hands behind my head and stared up at my ceiling fan. It whirred like a hummingbird, and even that peaceful distraction didn’t stop the tease of what Eva’s tweet might say back to me. I laid there, a zombie to anything not Eva, allowing potential charms to pile up in my mind. Possibility after possibility stacked on top of each other, tumbling down and spilling into all the hollow recesses of my mind.
By two a.m., my back hurt. I got up, went straight to the medicine cabinet, poured a helping of nighttime anti-inflammatories into my mouth and swallowed them bone dry. Rest would soon come.
When my alarm blared at seven a.m., I hit the snooze button. When it rang again, I whacked it with my pillow. By the fifth time, I ordered myself out of bed and into the shower. I prepped for the rough day ahead with two generous scalp scrubbings using my tingly, minty shampoo followed by a long pause under the stream of water hot enough to scald my skin.
Forty-five minutes later, as I drifted into my cubicle, my mouth watered for one of Doreen’s blueberry muffins. Why couldn’t it be blueberry muffin day?
In the first day of my three-day commitment to stay controlled, I succeeded by volunteering to adhere mailing labels to five thousand letters going out to new subscribers of our loyalty rewards program. I sat in the mailroom at a metal folding table with a stack of mailing labels and boxes of envelopes and smiled to myself. I enjoyed the empowerment of self-control.
That night, I went to the movies solo to see a new Jennifer Aniston flick. I stood in line to get my usual movie treat—a large bucket of popcorn, buttered, and a jumbo Coke. I eyed the popcorn guy as he drizzled butter on his customer’s popcorn. The longer I stood there, the more conscious I was of the oversized shirt I wore to conceal the fact that I could no longer fasten my top button. I hated the way I looked. I looked down at my loose shirt and cringed as if I’d only just opened my eyes and saw its pink-and-white vertical stripes for the first time.