“Neither can I,” she admitted.
“So, what do we do?” I asked. My phone made a noise. I had a text message.
“No idea. Who is that?” she asked. I grabbed my phone from my bag and snapped it open.
“It’s the ex.”
Sam moaned as the words came from my mouth.
“Please don’t tell me,” she said. She stamped out her butt.
“No, no. I ended it. You’d be so proud of me.” I told her the story of last week, of how I had behaved. She couldn’t believe what I had done, but laughed because it was something she would have done herself.
“And, he just stood there as you blasted the radio?” she said.
“I guess so. I honestly don’t remember. I just switched my mind off and whatever was happening outside, I was oblivious to it.” I quickly changed the subject. “Do you believe in that thought that if one person gives up their dreams then one thousand other people are affected by it and thousands of little lights of hope go out?” I said. “I always think of Tinkerbelle in Peter Pan. I believe, Wendy! And I’ll clap my hands to make sure no fairies die, Peter!” We both laugh again at the absurdity of it.
“Yeah, I believe that to an extent, but I don’t think we can base our entire outlook on it. I don’t think we shouldn’t give up our talents in order to fulfill other people’s hopes.”
“I guess.” I stood up. “What would have happened if they told us we might not have been able to succeed?”
“We would have tried even harder,” she said. I laughed. “And what if we were told the truth - that it could possibly happen, we could possibly make it, but it was also possible that we couldn’t?”
I honestly had no idea what to say to that. “I don’t know.”
“You off?” She asked.
I stretched my back. “Yup.”
“I get it. I don’t want to think about it either,” she said. “You’re not going to call him, are you?”
“No. No. Definitely not.” I bent down to pet the cat. “Should I?” I hoped she would give me the answer I was looking for.
“Del, you’re a big girl. You know how to handle him.”
“Yeah, but shouldn’t I text him back to at least make sure he’s not hanging off a cliff somewhere?” I stood up. I tried to hold back how hard it actually was for me to let go of him.
“I can’t answer that for you. All I’m going to say is that you know what you’ve done for the past year, and you know how that’s turned out. Try something different.” Riiiiight, I thought, try something different. I had tried everything. What else could I possibly try?
Oh. Right.
She had no answer for me because there was no answer. I simply should do nothing. That’s the one thing I hadn’t tried over the year. And perhaps that was the one thing I could do to save myself. Sounded hard. Really hard.
“Yeah, you’re right. You always are,” I agreed. “OK, thanks. I’m leaving now.”
“Bye Del,” she said, accompanying me to the door. “And, don’t call him. As much as you may want to get his side of the story or apologize to him, don’t. He doesn’t deserve it. He got what he should have gotten a long time ago, and I’m so proud of you for doing that.”
“OK. If I get the urge, I’m calling you.”
“Fine. Fine. Please do.” We hugged each other tight. “Oh, wait. Before you go, you need to take this website and sign up for this.” She went back to the kitchen, and grabbed a tiny piece of paper, and handed it to me.
“What is it?”
“A telecourse. I think you could really benefit from this right now.”
“OK. Thanks Sam. Love you.”
“Love you too.” I took the piece of paper and headed out.
It was getting dark outside, and this was the time of day I became emotionally weakest. The sun goes down, and so do my inhibitions and strength. I eventually found my car and drove home.
I slowly sauntered into the courtyard, and tried to get some reconciliation from the rose bushes. Cody, our resident gay landlord, does all the gardening. And usually, the garden was nothing short of gorgeous - from the delicate spray of water drops forming on the petals, to the earth just freshly raked enough to look like moist chocolate cake you’d want to eat. The lawn ornaments were not cheesy or sentimental, but more like what you would find at your great aunt’s personal beach house.
The lights cast an eerie yellow shadow on the ground. The rosebushes did not give me a break; they did not make me feel better, but looked limp and forlorn. They had already given up too. Now, I was certainly doomed.
I kicked the dirt by the small tree in front of my window, and went back inside. I almost forgot how clean I had already made the apartment. I was too distracted at first by Sam’s and my conversation, but when I saw my makeup arranged so nicely, I smiled. I opened my bay window back up and walked into the kitchen to have another glass of wine. That’s when I noticed that I’d left a trail of dirt from the door into the vanity area to the window and back through the kitchen. I puffed out a large, heavy sigh. I resisted the heat from behind my eyelids, and swallowed. I would not let this break me.
It was time to call Sam again. My home phone started ringing instead.
Monday, April 7th, 2008
G,
Wow. You are having quite the adventure already! Somehow going through the shitty things gives you better stories, right? How can you be afraid of public transportation and not be afraid of hiking and camping on Mt. Kilimanjaro? I’d say I’d be a bit more afraid of the lions or freezing temperatures. Do they have scorpions?
Man, that bus journey sounded rough. How did you last? Especially with a man named Gasper!? I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help laugh at how your gentlemanliness turned into a nightmare for you! Figures, right? You do something nice, and you get stuck on the worst ride of your life. You’re a much better person than I.
But hey, each to his own. I would love to do something like that one day…climb a freaking mountain, and, you can say you got there before the ice caps melted.
So, what happened to the bus you were supposed to catch?
My weekend was a classic LA story. Friday night I hung out with a married couple, Lindsay Lohan’s publicist (or so he claims. I can’t really imagine a star that big hiring him), and my Lebanese friend Zayna. We went to this club called Les Deux, and I got pretty drunk. Culprit? Lack of food.
We ended up in a Thai restaurant after the club. It was brilliant. Taiwanese people were singing in really thick accents to bad, early 1990’s hits. I felt like I had entered some strange time warp, or worse, a George Orwell book. It was the best karaoke I’ve ever been to. Oh, and Ron Jeremy was sitting amongst us…can’t get more seedy than that. A porno star and a lying publicist.
As you can imagine, I didn’t feel so good the next day. I spent it at the salon and shopping. I’m looking forward to a nice tax return, and thought I could use a bit of a splurge.
That night, I had about five parties to attend, but ended up opting out of all of them. A nice glass of wine and a book seems to do me just fine lately.
Sunday night I went to a good friend’s birthday party, and yesterday morning I missed my workout session because I still felt so ill. Shame on me. I seriously am thinking about not drinking for a while. I’m just really determined to get into shape, and this whole drinking thing doesn’t go hand in hand. I texted my trainer “I’m really sick, can we reschedule?” He writes back, “Yah, hangovers suck.” I guess I didn’t fool him.
Today is work with my horrible boss, and tonight I must do laundry. So, while you are tackling the mountain, I will be tackling dirty clothes. Pretty much one and the same, no?
Answers to your lovely questions:
1. My motto - to live compassionately, passionately, honestly, without inhibitions or fear, all while learning something new everyday… phew… and I agree with yours. Nice one. Every day I try to make sure I’m living without regrets - haven’t succeeded that well this past year, b
ut working on it. I always try to see the bigger picture.
2. I am not religious, but I believe in the Universal Law of Attraction - that if you truly want or need something and put it out there with the purest intentions, then it has to come to you. I believe everything happens for a reason - not necessarily fate, but we decide the purpose of each event, and we have the power to decide what we do with each event that happens. I believe in Angels.
3. I LOVE CHEESE! Dubliner is my favorite cheese of all time… I guess that would be considered a strong Irish cheddar. Oh, and warm goat’s cheese on salads. Unfortunately, I haven’t had a warm goat’s cheese salad since I left Europe - all the American pasteurization laws. So not fair.
Questions for you on your return from crazy heights:
1. How do you picture your future? (I picture myself living in a big city by water - LA, Paris, NYC, or London, traveling as much as possible, making enough money with acting or writing that I can afford such luxuries. I can still go everywhere I want anonymously, but every once in a while I get some recognition…recognition is always nice. I see myself having a core group of people that I work with consistently, and that are like family. I see myself starting some type of non-profit for young women’s empowerment, as well as finding and enjoying the love of my life. Not many people in my family have had that. I want that. I see myself very happy.)
2. What are your morals - or what would you NEVER do, for moral reasons? (I would never cheat on a boyfriend, and never have. And lying to hurt someone. Somehow lying with good intentions doesn’t seem so bad.)
3. What is your biggest pet peeve? (I hate it when people pick their toes. Disgusting! I also hate arrogance, and racism. Even more disgusting!)
Looking forward to your emails. I know it may be a while, but good luck. Gonna go run some errands.
Be safe, stay warm, and know that you have a blonde LA girl excited for your return.
Xoxox,
A
THE PHONE CALL
Sam knew I needed her, I thought, she is so intuitive. I double-checked the caller ID just to be sure it wasn’t the ex. Sam and him were the only two who ever called me on this phone.
‘Chelsea Bell – Maryland,’ it read. Wow. I hesitated. I tapped my fingernails on the desk. I grabbed the side of my bedpost tightly for support. I wasn’t sure I was ready to face her yet, especially at this moment. I was in no state to speak to her. But then she was my best friend, ‘was’ being the operative word, and there might be something wrong. I had to do this, I saw no way around it.
I clicked the phone on. “Chelsea?” I said. The phone let out a muffled, fumbled sound, but no one answered back. “Hello?” Nothing. “Chelsea?”
“Del? Oh my God…I was just about to call you.” She breathed heavily into the phone, her long willowy legs skipping along the pavement in her flats, I imagined. She towered over all of our friends and me, but in heels, she appeared even more sylphlike than she already was. She gave up wearing stilettos among many other things when she married Victor, her Colombian husband.
“You did call me.” My furrow had taken the battle back, and lips were no longer twitching.
“What? No I didn’t.” She put her phone down as I sat gnawing on my thumb cuticle. She picked it back up. “My phone was in my purse, I pulled it out and went to dial a number and there you were…Oh, wait…Maybe I did accidentally. Oh, who knows? Well, fancy hearing you on the other end,” she said, trying to overcome her own surprise. She spoke in a new voice that didn’t sound like her, and, after knowing her my entire life, that felt strange.
“Wow, that’s quite the greeting,” I couldn’t help myself.
“I know it’s been a long time - you were on my mind either way. I was about to call you.” She regained the composure in her speech to something more recognizable.
“Good to know.” Yeah, right. “I almost didn’t answer. Anyway, how are you?”
“Double S, double D.”
“What?” I said. “What does that even mean?”
“Same Shit Different Day,” she said. I heard a car door open and bags being thrown in. “Oh, everything is fine. Really, really fine. Victor just left for the airport, he was running late, and he needed me to bring him his luggage that he forgot at home. I must have pushed your number by mistake – it is the first name in my contacts, ya know.”
“Oh, you must have.” I rolled my eyes.
“Have to get back to work to meet this deadline by Monday. Things are just really hectic right now.”
“What, in life or at work?” I imagined that life with Victor is always crazy.
“Oh, not with life. No, just work. But Victor leaving for Colombia unexpectedly – Oof!” She giggled self-consciously. “Just trying to get things organized.” I could tell she was smiling in spite of it all. She was a commercial interior designer, and she was good at it. She was one of the youngest to ever make a senior position, and she got where she was out of dedication and honesty. “Anyway,” she pushed on, “where are my manners? How are you?” The way she put the extra emphasis on the “you” indicated to me that she was making an effort. I wasn’t buying it.
“Why is Victor going to Colombia unexpectedly?” I ignored her question. She had met Victor at a club while she was in college. She was so drunk the night she met him that she mistook him for another guy she had been dating. It wasn’t until the next day that she realized she had gone home with a complete stranger. Victor hadn’t bothered to correct her in the club when she was calling him by another name. When she woke up that morning, she was silently horrified and guilt stricken by what she had done. It wasn’t like her to go home with someone she didn’t know, and it went completely against her Catholic beliefs and upbringing. She was afraid that she would be judged for sleeping with a stranger, so she married him a few months later.
Perhaps he saw a green card in her, or maybe he really did love her as much as he said he did; whatever it was, Victor manipulated her to the extent that she lost all sense of self- confidence. The Harvard Law student she was dating at the time was pushed to the side as Victor slid his way in.
Many people, myself included, felt she was way out of Victor’s league, and not just in a snobby ‘she’s better looking than him’ type of way (although she was much, much better looking than him). She graduated top of her class from a prestigious, private boarding high school, as well as with top honors from George Washington University; he barely graduated middle school. She came from a wealthy family who valued independence and self-sufficiency; he still lived at home with his welfare mother and six siblings. She excelled in dance, interior design, visual arts, Spanish and she volunteered at nursing homes on the weekends; he could barely speak English and worked as a waiter in a Jewish Deli. Plus, he was eleven years her senior.
All of those things combined wouldn’t have bothered me if I felt she truly loved him, and if I thought he was good for her. The problem was that I didn’t think either of those things were true.
“Victor’s grandfather isn’t well, but honestly, I don’t know why Victor has to go back to Colombia again. I mean, he was just there two months ago for the same reason, and it’s not like his grandfather’s health has changed that drastically. I’m just feeling a bit frustrated.” I waited with no response. I got up from the bed and started to pick up the biggest chunks of dirt off the floor. “Listen,” she said, “I was thinking that I might need some time away, and I thought we hadn’t seen each other for so long…”
I said nothing. I threw out what I had collected in my hand.
“OK, Del. I need my best friend.” Was this what I was waiting to hear? I couldn’t decide.
“We did just see each other four months ago,” I snapped.
“I know, but it didn’t end well, and you know that, and I feel like I haven’t seen you alone in a very long time.” She was right. We hadn’t seen each other one-on-one for at least five years. Victor made sure of that.
Our last sighting together was this p
ast Thanksgiving. Like every other time I had gone home to Baltimore, Chelsea and Victor took me to the loudest, least intimate D.C. club they could find. The nights normally consisted of loud Spanish music, pervy older men, heavy sloshing it back thanks to Victor’s constant drink-buying, and passing out in the car while he drunk-drove us home.
Victor said over and over how he didn’t like her drinking so much, but any regular observer could see that he was her enabler. He used her weakness for alcohol as a type of control-mechanism. After buying her a fresh Rum and Diet Coke five minutes after he gave her the last one, he’d wait until she was about to take the drink, pull it back slightly and with a sly little grin, say “Now, don’t drink it too fast honey”, knowing full well that she couldn’t help herself. And then, later, when she was upside down in the backseat of the car, drooling with her long, ringletty, chestnut hair in her face, he would claim that he had tried to warn her against the dangers of alcohol, but “as usual” she didn’t listen to him. I was no better. I was usually drooling right next to her.
“So, what were you thinking?” I asked her, trying to hide my sudden desperation at wanting my best friend back. It came on quickly, but I was sure that I missed her more than I had missed my mom’s home cooking when I first went to college, and that was HUGE. Having to learn how to cook – well, let’s just say that it never happened. But not having my best friend to talk to every single night was a disaster. We called each other in college every night before we went to bed to say goodnight even with the three-hour time difference. She had stayed on the east coast, while I had moved 3,000 miles away to the University of Southern California. It was the furthest I had ever been from home, but we still had found the time to talk everyday. But, since she had married Victor, I was lucky to get a text message from her, let alone a phone call. Four months without her at all, however, was more like torture.
“I want to come to you,” she continued. I was trying to stay angry with her, but she was like a sister, and no matter how hard I tried, I was becoming weak. “I really want to get away, and if it’s not too much to ask, I’d love to stay with you in LA…I mean, you know, if…”
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