“That should give you both enough to quench your thirst for a few seconds,” I said.
“Sam, cut it out,” Jimmy interjected. He always took my father’s side.
“Show your mother and me some respect. Clean up this mess,” my father said, “and while you’re at it, why don’t you clean up your mess of a life?”
He burped and spit spewed from his mouth. Sweat dripped off his face. His rank breath and BO permeated the room. I almost hurled.
“You have disrupted our jazz, Samantha,” my mother said. “Please leave the cabin until you’re ready to apologize.”
Then she belched at me. There was a reason that people over the age of ten should not eat tater tots!
“Ever since you divorced yourself from your husband of barely a year, you have become gross to me,” my mother said. “You are so ugly you must take ugly pills.”
“Mom, come on. You don’t mean that,” Jimmy said. It was about damn time he stepped in to mediate this mess.
“Who says that to someone? Take it back,” I wailed.
She took another swig and said, “You drove me to…” and slipped into the puddle of spilled booze on the floor. “Why are you still here?” she cried in her dry heaving/hiccup kind of way.
I went to the kitchen, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and ran back to the family room where I wiped up all of the wine and grabbed the box and slammed it back down on the table in front of my father.
“In case you didn’t hear me,” I said, “never have I ever disowned my daughter.”
I waited for either one of them to chug their wine. I looked for the slightest hand movement toward their cups, but nobody lifted anything. Somebody had to take control of the situation, and from the looks of Jackie and Jimmy, it would have to be me. I picked up the box, opened the spout, and dumped the rest of the wine down my throat, spilling the last sips all over my rose-colored turtleneck. I wore it to give me strength against my family. Vogue said red was making a comeback as a power color. I wasn’t sure if it was working.
“That drink was on your behalf, Father.”
I walked down the hall to grab my iPhone and lingered as I passed by the entrance of the “family” room. Ours was anything but.
Dipping my head back into the room, I said, “Your wine tastes like asshole. Fitting, considering the company.”
I didn’t bother waiting for a response. I walked out and slammed the rickety door behind me as I started down the dark dirt path leading to who knew where. I paused for a moment to look through the window. Everybody looked so peaceful without me, lounging around the fireplace sipping wine as if nothing had happened.
***
After a stumbling walk through the woods, I hit the main road and landed at the only bar in town. It stank like raw sewage and beer, but I felt at peace for the first time since Justin “friended” me. It was somehow fitting that I was most comfortable surrounded by fellow degenerates, all of whom appeared to want nothing more than a cold, wet drink, or in my case, three Alabama Slammers. Like Mama always said, alcohol could cure anything.
“Do you think I appear lovable?” I asked the outdoorsy-looking bartender. He wore his red flannel shirt well. It made him look powerful. He just smiled.
“Have you ever been disowned by your family and sort of dumped by your boyfriend, all in the same week?”
“Wow, that’s rough. How can you be sort of dumped? Either you are or you aren’t. I don’t think there’s a gray area when it comes to breakups. I’m Tomas,” he said.
I felt like throwing my shooter at his chiseled face, but I thought better of it. Never insult the barkeep, my father always said. Tomas sure was a looker. His square, shapely hands reminded me of Justin’s.
“Well, what would you call it when the love of your life says he likes you like a roommate and is no longer attracted to you? That’s a pseudo-breakup, don’t you think?
“Maybe.”
“Then I offered him space, alone time. Do you think I did the right thing?”
He looked away awkwardly. I slurped down the rest of my shooter, pounded my shot glass on the bar, and then flipped it upside down to ensure he understood it was empty.
“That is a bad week. I don’t recommend giving a guy space. We find way too many things to do to pass the time, if you know what I mean,” he said.
Unfortunately, I knew exactly what he meant.
“Well, flip that. I’m not going to wait around for him to break up with me. You know what? He can come back to me all he wants. It won’t matter. Sammy’s sex shop is closed for business. Roommate? What the fuck,” I said, burping up more tater tots. Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you? Your mouth is ugly and so are you.
“I divorce him! Two more shots, Tomas. Ha, that rhymes. Doesn’t it?”
“Wait a second, you’re married?” he asked, taking me too literally. “You didn’t tell me that. You know, you may want to think twice. My mother always says divorce is not the answer.”
Figures. Tomas was just another guilt-ridden Catholic masquerading as a bartender. He was no longer cute.
“Can you just get me another shot?”
He left and I bumbled back to the ladies’ room to practice my breakup speech.
“Screw sensible speak!” I said to the women in the stall next to me, and then I dialed.
“Hello, Just-friends Justin, is that you? No, no stupid voicemail. Whatever, you’ll hear this eventually. It’s your girlfriend, the one you love, like a roommate.”
I hung up and slouched against the stall door, trying to collect my jumbled thoughts and quell my nausea. I went to the sink to splash water on my face. Some stupid girl named Sally had scrawled love rules and so does Jules, all over the bathroom wall. I hope Jules one day “friends” Sally—her handwriting is crap. The trash can overflowed with tampons, and the stench made me gag. I did some deep puffs, just like Shape had depicted in last month’s issue. I redialed.
“And yes, you judgmental man-boob, I’m drinking and loving every minute of it. How could you do this to me after all we shared, after the memories, and the sex? The sultry, stupid sex, I knew it was evil. Well, stuff it.”
I continued to rant as I peed. “And no, I do not want to be your friend or roommate, you loser. I can’t take your girly bath and body products any longer. Friends, for fuck sake, you overgrown, over polished man-boy. We were in love. People don’t float seamlessly from love to friendship and for fuck sake, roommates. They’re just people to share rent with. By the way, your voicemail message is fruity. So, take this, you buff, muscled freak. I am no longer in love with you. Stick it!”
I contemplated hanging up, but was unable to stop myself. As I exited the stall, a plump redhead tried to squeeze her way in front of me at the sink. I blocked her and continued my rant.
“And, by the way, Mr. Fancy Pants, you’re not kidding anyone. You’re obviously gay because what hetero man pays that much attention to grooming details and keeps the entire Bath and Body Works lotion and gel collection in their medicine chest? You’re supposed to be an FBI agent for Christ’s sake. Why don’t you grow a pair?”
I waved my fired-up hands toward the sink, indicating to the redhead that my work there was done.
On a tell-off high, I continued my dialing diatribe by ringing Crazy Molly’s office.
“Hello, Molly’s goofy-dopy phone message. Even though you are a communications maven, you blow. Couldn’t you come up with a better greeting than that? And you know what else? You’re bonkers. You can take your stupid job and your ridiculous plants and stuff them down your Botoxed pie-hole! And, by the way, just because you send amazing wine baskets after berating people, it does not make up for your bitchery. Suck it, bitch!”
Wow, I felt invigorated. If only I had known of the buzz and balls you can grow by drinking boxed wine, I would have adopted it into my drinking repertoire years ago.
The bathroom started to spin, making me do my sexy dance into the bar. Everyone, including my now estranged
bartender, stared at me. They just wished they had half the balls I did. I should break up with perfectly sculpted men more often. It felt fabulous. I sat back on my bar stool and dialed Justin’s number again. It went straight to voicemail. Where the hell was he?
“And just so were clear, ha, this is one hell of a voicemail, ain’t it? Just know this. I’m divorcing myself from our relationship. Seriously, who wants to be having sex with a gay man-friend? Aside from the obvious AIDS and genital warts issues, it’s just stupid. Men and women can never be just friends. You should know that since you’ve seen When Harry Met Sally at least a million times. Sex is always going to get in the way, except for you because I have turned you gay, and you probably like anal sex with men. Have a good life, goodnight, and good luck! You’re so ugly with those bulging muscles, you must take ugly pills. Wait, no that’s me, whatever, beat it.”
I flicked my phone off, and returned to my barstool.
“Wow, I feel so much better. You were right, dude. If you’re the breaker-upper, it is so much better.”
“Huh?” Tomas said.
“Whatever, it’s all good. Do you know where I could catch a lift back to the city? This mountain air is making me want to vomit.”
Charming, dear, this is why your husband divorced you.
“Look, just hang out here. You can’t head out on your own. I’ll find someone to cover for me, and give you a ride to the train station,” he said, and then he winked.
***
I woke up the next morning on the floor of my apartment, not sure how I got there, but with a new understanding of why cheap wine and making out with cute bartenders didn’t mix. Note to self: boycott boxed wine. Its after-effects could explain why my parents were always so cranky and plagued by chronic diarrhea.
I finally made it off the floor and fetched my phone. There were voicemails. See, somebody does love me, Mother, no matter how ugly I am to you. I swathed my forehead with a cool cloth as I played back the messages. I felt barf brimming.
Message 1: “Hey, baby, it’s me. I’ve been thinking about you all week. You were right. I just needed a little time. In the past, I’ve had a tendency to run from commitment when things get too close, but I love you more than ever, and I’m ready to really do this, for good this time. I need to make love to you up and down my new sheepskin rug. I’m rock hard for you, always have been. Roommates, seriously, what was I thinking? I will love you always, promise.”
Gulp.
“I love you too, baby!” I shouted out the window, and then ran to the bathroom to puke.
As I stood hunched over my toilet, a disturbing string of flashbacks played in my mind. Cheap wine, parental showdown, more wine, dive bar, Alabama slammers, drunk dials, oh my. What have I done? Well, you’ve once again made a mess of things. You’re like relationship repellant.
Message two: “Samantha, just so you understand us, because you can be slow on the uptake at times, you are not welcome in our home or lives. P.S. Your father also agrees.”
Delete.
Message three: “Just got your messages, baby. Wow, I’m sorry I hurt you. I need to see you. How about Friday night at eight? You know the place. I love you.”
Repeat message. Repeat, and fall to the toilet bowl. Damn, I was an idiot. Note to self two: must stop drinking someday soon.
How was it possible that despite everything I did, this man still loved me? Clearly, he must be atoning for some horrible sin.
Could it be true? Somebody finally loved me, drunk-dialing, ugly pills, and all.
Chapter Thirty-One
I was super excited to see Justin, but also super sick. Like vomit sick, and no, I had not been drinking this time. I had been resting, cradled in my bed, ever since the Catskills. Lovesick, I guess. But tonight was our reunion, so I had to rally.
At seven o’clock, I willed my body to get up but couldn’t move. Then my phone rang, forcing the issue.
“Hello.”
“Samantha, we do not want you to say anything. Just sit there and listen. We are on our way to see the priest to figure out how to excommunicate you out of the church and our family, for good.”
Yet they continued to call me.
Besides, I wasn’t even sure that was possible, but the Catholics were experts at excommunications. Whatever, I was about to leave that behind and meet my non-gay, dreamboat boyfriend. I deserved true love just like everyone else. Well, that’s debatable. You are more unlovable than ever.
I really could turn devastation into destiny when I put my mind to it; I could also look fetching when reclaiming my man is the mission. Who cared if those people disowned me? I could just start a family of my own—with Justin. I took one last peek in the mirror, primped myself, and dashed out of my apartment.
***
As I entered Rue B, Justin’s lips met mine at the door. His muscles, among other things, appeared to be throbbing.
Before I had ample time to soak it all in, a jazz trio started playing a soulful rendition of “Have I Told You Lately That I Love You.” Justin fumbled in his shirt pocket, causing his muscles to bulge even more. This seemed to go on for an inordinate amount of time, until it fumbled out. And then it continued to bounce gingerly to the floor where it just sat, staring and sparkling at me, like only the finest diamond could do.
Marriage? I panicked at the prospect, puking, first on his beautifully exposed forearm, and then all over the diamond ring. Without any attempt to wipe my barf off him or the ring, I darted out of the restaurant and down the block. I stopped just long enough to see Justin standing on the corner.
It could have been bad eyesight, but even from afar, Justin’s beautiful eyes were glistening—and not a joyous glisten, more like weeping. I started to make a move back in his direction. Go after him. This is your best shot at redemption! But something stopped me. I turned and ran in the other direction, never once looking back until I hit the 14th Street subway stop. I tumbled down into the station and leaped into the waiting subway car. Oh, you moronic loser, what have you done?
Chapter Thirty-Two
I peered out the window and accepted there was no turning back. I was stuck on a 747, jetting across the Atlantic. I tried to quell my urge to purge. Vomiting at the aerial view of Lady Liberty would not be a good way to start an eight-hour flight to Rome. Even though barfing at all the wrong times and places had become my thing lately, plane puking seemed like a fate to be avoided. Nobody wants to be seated next to a barf bagger.
Despite no longer being a legit Catholic due to the supposed excommunication, I found myself drawn to some of the trappings of the religion, like going to church for solace, and confession for forgiveness. It’s a little late to start saving your soul, dear. It has already been damned to hell. My sins were so plentiful a power-confession session at the Vatican seemed like the only option for me.
I swear I wasn’t running from my life. I always wanted to make the pilgrimage to Rome, City of God, Homeland of the Catholic Church, Land of the Lord. It wasn’t Justin’s proposal either. I’d had enough of New York. Sure, it was the city of dreams, and destiny, and whatever other crap the media used to market the town, but it was also the city of terrorists, gigantic rats, stinky sewage, and minuscule overpriced apartments. I was over it.
Marriage didn’t seem like the right move. Not for me. Especially since I’d skipped the annulment, and as such, in the world according to Catholicism, I was technically still married. Plus, Justin’s pecs dwarfed my less than ample bosoms. No woman should ever marry a guy that had bigger boobs than her own, even if his were all muscle.
Determined in my new mission, I popped an Ambien, closed the window shade, and blocked out New York, along with everyone and everything that went with it.
***
The Italian public transport system was not nearly as unreliable as Lonely Planet claimed it to be, especially coming down off of an Ambien hangover. It was blissful. As were the Italian people. I paced around the cobblestone streets of Vatican City for
two hours until a pauper girl barked at me in terse Italian. I let her meanness slide, and defying Lonely Planet’s orders, I slid her one American dollar in hopes of placating her enough to not rob me.
I jostled through the crowds that swarmed the metropolis, eventually ending up at the steps of the church. The massive nature of the building within the walled confines of the most religious city in the universe caused me to suddenly sob.
Now that you’ve finally made it to church, buck up and get inside. It might take you a lifetime to be absolved of your sins, and you ain’t getting any younger.
Once I’d cried myself dry, I shuffled awkwardly inside the cathedral to ask for God’s forgiveness. I’d flown across the goddamn globe for this moment—my sins deserved absolution.
The church was mobbed inside, even more so than around its periphery. The gigantic ceilings threatened to scare me right out—but I persevered. The ethereal stained glass windows were the only things that showed weakness. I stopped short at a pyramid of candles. In a Catholic church, this was where you’re supposed to drop money in a bin, light a candle, and pray for someone in need of redemption. My mother had been lighting candles on my behalf ever since I hit puberty. Instead of wasting my wishes on another, I decided to pray for the strength to confess my own sins.
Making the sign of the cross in rapid succession, I stopped long enough to throw twenty euros into the bin. Would buying your way out of Hell be frowned upon? This generous gift on my part caused me to cry a little more forcefully, until the little Italian woman next to me stared so intensely I felt guilty for occupying the space. I couldn’t be certain, but I thought she gestured with her head in the direction of the confessional, as if to prod me toward the booth.
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