Intermission (Novelettes) (The Bridge Series)

by Ashley Pullo

  Zach has spent three weeks in basic training somewhere in Germany and soon he will be dropped front and center on the Afghani battlefields. I hate him and I love him, but mostly, I miss him. After my Metro North Meltdown, we spent the entire night in each other’s arms, talking and laughing . . . ignoring the pain. We made love one last time, honest and real, no joking and no silly dialogue. I shaved his head as we talked about nothing and everything, but promising to never say goodbye. Sometimes when I’m deep in my thoughts, I wonder if I imagined him – like a little prince that fell from the sky in search of a friend.

  When I get to the office, the UPS guy is waiting for me, so I sign his clipboard quickly and grab my little package. I see the Deutschland stamp and I know it’s from Zach. I rip open the brown paper and find a small box with a single key and I know exactly where to go!

  I run down the four flights of stairs and out onto the street. I’m booking it down Broadway and leaping over anything in my way. He said he would get a short leave and he’s here! I shove past some tourists and manipulate my boots like Nancy Sinatra . . . I’m almost there.

  Out of breath and flushed, I take the elevator to the fifth floor and nearly attack the door to 5G. My hands are shaking, but I manage to finagle the key in the hole and swing open the door and it’s . . .

  Empty.

  Not one piece of furniture. Not one tack left on the wall. No Zach. I walk to the middle of what used to be the living room and stomp my feet. I jump up and down and scream and curse. Fuck! Shit! No! And then I see it, Le Petit Prince, resting on the kitchen counter. It’s calling me and I go to it, that stupid book I will never fully understand. I open the cover and run my fingers over his handwritten addition to the title page.

  La vie est un interlude au salut.

  ~Zacharie Pascale Dumas Parker

  There’s also a note.

  Natalie, ma femme:

  First of all, stop carrying on and be quiet. These are your new neighbors and you can’t have them thinking you’re a wanton hussy. That’s right, the apartment is yours. I had the lease transferred to your name and you’re paid up for the year. All my stuff is in storage; ask Wayne (the doorman) for the key and help yourself to anything you want.

  Secondly, I bet your tits look great in tight sweaters. Oh yeah, I promise not to bore you with long letters from the battlefront. From what I hear, times can get pretty bleak and there’s no sense in documenting that kind of shit. However, I can receive mail and I expect full-frontal pictures at least twice a week.

  I slept with a girl named Heidi. It’s freaking Oktoberfest! So after you get done calling me a dickweed or whatever, go find yourself a nice guy. I would be your wingman if I wasn’t busy doing push-ups and shooting guns. Seriously Nat, live your life how you want and never apologize for being you.

  One last thing. You should really read this book.

  I love you.

  I place the note in the book and pull it close to my chest. Life is made up of millions of destinations: some alone, some with friends, some in fear and some with dreams. And this silly book about the little boy that meets a stranger, enjoys an interlude with a fox and dreams of the salvation in the desert of tears, is my guiding star.

  I close the door to my new apartment and wait for the elevator, thinking about the way destiny plays a role in the smaller picture. The doors open and I step inside, running my fingers along the brass rail. I hum an upbeat song and watch the descending numbers flicker. I step into the pristine lobby and wave to Wayne, my new doorman. This all belongs to me now, this is my life!

  Once outside in the crisp autumn air, I contemplate my options. I’m a modern woman living her fantasy. I’m free and independent and I feel liberated. The emotions start to build inside of me and I want desperately to jump in the air like Mary Tyler Moore . . . but I’m not That Girl, I’m Natalie LeGrange, and I need an orange beret. And if I’m going to work a bold accessory like that, I will need a new bag. And some shoes . . . and I should really consider warmer highlights . . . oh, and a French dictionary.

  July 4, 1996

  Holy crap, I’m eighteen! My future is bright, my youth is history and my presents are arriving in five minutes!

  Tonight is my annual pool party, notoriously themed by my crafty mother in her efforts to be the next Canadian Martha Stewart. But tonight is also a surprise party for Natalie, Aunt Judy and Uncle Dave. My identical cousin is moving to Connecticut next week, and although Natalie and I tried everything to stop it, the move is inevitable.

  Mom thought it would be a cool idea to have a New England clambake and decorate the backyard with red, white and blue. She even ordered a ginormous apple pie with tiny sparklers to serve next to my store-bought sheet cake. My mom is a mega-dork and tends to go overboard with the party themes. Like at my 15th birthday party luau. . . my friends spent the first hour puking their brains out over some gooey shit called poi, but then, the night really lit up when half of the cheerleading squad’s bangs started a fire by the tiki torches. Or the first coed pool party I had in seventh grade, in which Mom created a whimsical carnival with games and cotton candy – and a kissing booth? Needless to say, parents were outraged.

  I peek out my bedroom window and study our suburban backyard that’s exactly one cheddar biscuit shy of a Red Lobster. Battery-operated lanterns hang from the trees, emitting a yellow glow over the entire yard. The red gingham picnic tables are cluttered with blue plates, sunflowers, mini lighthouses and the occasional American flag tucked into the hors d’oeuvre platters. It looks like one of Mom’s decorating magazines, well, except for my friend Hip Hop Casey. He’s crouching behind his portable DJ booth chugging one of Dad’s beers. Doofus.

  I run down the stairs and head straight to the kitchen, immediately drawn by the delicious smell of garlic and seafood. The kitchen is a mess and Mom is frantically opening lids on large pots and cursing under her breath.

  “Hey Mom, do you need some help?” I ask as I shove a handful of blueberries in my mouth.

  “Hi honey! No, it’s just that the stupid caterers dropped everything off without any instructions and it’s all cold.” She spins around with a huge smile and a large knife. “Ask your father to start a bonfire!”

  “Um, no. Clambakes are usually on the beach, not in the middle of Toronto with huge oak trees. You are the only housewife on the fire starter watch list, ya know,” I tease.

  “That was years ago, Chloe.” She looks me over and whistles. “Wow, nice suit! Although, your father will likely have a heart attack.”

  I’m wearing my gold bikini with a sheer gold sarong, and there’s no doubt I will excite the Princess Leia fantasies of all my guy friends. I should change, seeing as how Mom is dressed in a denim shirt and red shorts.

  The doorbell chimes as Mom pours a large pot of steamed clams into a galvanized bucket.

  “Chloe! Get the door and take the sangria pitchers outside!”

  “Ma-um! I’m going upstairs to change. Get Dad, he’s outside giving beers to my friends.” I turn sharply and run up the stairs to my room. As I’m undressing, I hear laughter and Dad defending himself to Mom. There’s some chatter and then the sound I have come to love, the rapid pitter patter of Natalie racing toward my room. 3, 2, 1 . . .

  My door flies open like a narcotics shakedown, and if it were anyone other than Natalie, I would find the nearest thing to cover my naked body.

  “Shit! Chloe, please, put some clothes on, ya perv!” Natalie throws her purse on my bed and her monogrammed flask falls to the floor. “This is getting serious. A good-bye party? With clams? What the fuck?” She begins pacing around my room as I frantically search for an outfit as cute as her pink ankle pants and sheer top. “Okay, tonight’s the night. Operation Hootie and the Blowfish is in full effect.”

  “Am I the Hootie or the fish?” I put on a white sundress and wait for Natalie’s approval.

  “Nice dress. You can be Hootie!” Natalie bites her lip as she rummages through my dresser. “Wher
e is that nickel bag I hid in here last week?”

  “Hey, that shit made my bras smell funny. I put it under the bathroom sink.”

  Natalie darts to my bathroom and searches the cabinets. I place my hair in a sleek ponytail and apply some lipstick. The doorbell rings continuously, and I’m a little upset that my birthday has become a grownup dinner party where guests are actually greeted at the door. In past years, Dad made all my friends line up and enter through the side gate so he could thoroughly examine all the male guests. He even went so far as conducting a random bag search last year, and made Christy Carmichael cry when he discovered her six-pack of Zima and box of tampons.

  “Got it!” Natalie shakes the grassy bag in front of my face and smiles mischievously. “Now, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  We pack a few things in Nat’s oversized handbag and debate over which friends are worthy to join us. Natalie stares out into the backyard and snorts. “Chloe, look at Patrick! He’s wearing a banana hammock! But goddamn, he looks pretty good for a theater geek.” Natalie evaluates all the guests, mentally taking notes. “We could take Piper. Maybe CeCi?” Natalie pulls me over to the window and it’s cool looking at the party from the outside . . . actually we’re on the inside looking outside, but whatever.

  “Pat has an amazing body. I spent six weeks drooling over that chest when we did Cabaret at school. The dude plays rugby and sings, totally hot in my book,” I blush.

  “Chloe, did you screw him?” She tilts her head and narrows her eyes.

  “No. He has a thing for older women. Like Ms. Brewster-old!” I laugh as Natalie makes the connection to our drama teacher.

  “Holy shit. She’s like thirty!”

  “And she dresses like a gypsy! Okay, let’s bring Piper and CeCi. What about Jamie?” I ask.

  “No! Not tonight!” We link our arms together and carefully tiptoe down the stairs. This is not the first time we’ve snuck out of my house, but sadly, it will be our last. We devise a plan to retrieve the other girls without our parents noticing and decide on our Parent Trap-method of divide, conquer and confuse. Natalie will chat with my parents while I spend a few minutes with Uncle Dave and Aunt Judy. I will then grab Piper and tell her to meet at Nat’s car in six minutes. (Six minutes because we like to say sex instead of six.) Natalie will invite CeCi, and then I will give my dad a hug and have a small plate of food in front of Mom. Natalie will tell Aunt Judy she’s been instructed to buy ice cream so Uncle Dave will fork over some cash. Natalie and I will say hello to a few of our friends, push Pat into the pool and run off giggling.

  Or, we could just leave without anyone the wiser, but what fun would that be?

  9:45 p.m.

  “Where are we going?” Piper asks from the backseat. “Jeremy wants to get back together and I just left him with Marcy Hendricks. She’s a rebound slut, ya know.”

  Natalie adjusts the radio and yells into the rearview mirror. “Oh c’mon Pipes, that asshole is a loser and a horrible kisser!”

  “Natalie!” I shriek.

  “It’s true, Piper. We’ve all kissed him and it’s uncomfortably messy,” adds CeCi.

  “We’re women now. We need real men and I’m about to deliver. Everyone got their IDs?” Natalie questions.

  “Real men?” I ask as I fumble through my wallet checking for my fake license.

  “Yes! Real men with big cocks and fancy jobs!” Natalie declares.

  CeCi leans forward and perches her manicured nails on my seat. “Real men with great personalities and dimples!” CeCi is adorable – everyone thinks so. She even beat out Natalie for Prom Queen, but she can be a little naïve.

  “Let’s not get too picky, CeCi. Dimples don’t usually hang out in the bar we’re going to,” Natalie replies.

  My favorite Cranberries song rumbles through the speakers, so I raise the volume and roll down the windows. We all sing in unison at the top of our lungs, even at a stoplight with a station wagon full of kids sticking their tongues out at us. I feel a rush of excitement as Natalie pulls into a swanky bar on the corner of Bay Street with an actual valet!

  The four of us exit the car as Nat takes a ticket from the attendant and pulls me to the side. “Listen Chloe, you need a good buzz. We’re getting tattoos after this!” Natalie winks at me but I gasp. “Hey, it will be fun . . . and we decided to do this a long time ago!” she whines.

  The way I remember it, Natalie wanted a tattoo of a skeleton with roses and I said I would go with her and maybe get my tongue pierced . . . but that conversation was years ago when I was confused and we both wore blood-red lipstick and flannel.

  Nat and I join the girls at a small table near a karaoke stage. It’s odd, actually. The bar is full of businessmen in suits drinking whisky and brandy and I can’t imagine they will start a drunken rendition of Billy Joel anytime soon.

  “Remember, always order casually. Red flags go up when you ask for a Slippery Nipple or some silly drink.” CeCi smoothes out her glossy hair and waves a waiter over to our table.

  “How about tequila, can we just order a round of shots?” Natalie shoots me an evil smile and I shake my head in disgust, remembering our graduation party – I’m not a classy drunk.

  The waiter arrives at our table with four beers sloshing on a small tray. Damn he’s hot! Tatted up the wazoo with an incredible smile and nice, broad shoulders.

  “Well, hel-lo! Thank you for the beers,” Natalie says seductively. The waiter wipes his hands on his jeans and reaches for Piper’s hand (because she’s closest, damn it.)

  He laughs quietly, and I notice a small chip on his front tooth. Puck to the face probably, but extremely sexy.

  “You ladies realize you’re the only women in here, right? You don’t need to order drinks.” He motions to all the men around the bar gaping in our direction.

  “We know. But maybe we don’t want beers.” Piper explains with a sweet smile.

  The waiter takes out a small pad and shakes his head. “Okay, what’ll it be? I need to relay the order to your admirers.” He glares at me and there’s something about his sexy roughness contrasted against the room of dark suits that makes me want to lick his tattoos, one by one.

  “I would like a Seven and 7, heavy on the ice,” Ceci says confidently. I know for a fact that CeCi is hardcore, like the best in her weight-class for a keg stand. She would never order a drink so boring unless she firmly believed she had to.

  Piper waves to a guy across the bar while deciding on her order. “Tell that gentleman, the one with the goatee, I will have a vodka tonic.” Again, boring. Piper invents drinks, like her famous Mountain Rita (Mountain Dew and tequila.)

  “And what about you, gorgeous?” The waiter is waiting for Natalie’s drink of choice, but he glances over at me.

  “Tell me, what time can I start doing shots with you – what’s your name?” The waiter snaps his head back in laughter as Piper glares at Natalie.

  “I’m Andrew, and if one of these suits hasn’t swept you off your feet by eleven, come find me.” He moves to my side of the table and kneels down, bracing his tattooed forearm on my chair. He smells fantastic, like cedar and soap, and his upper lip curls like Elvis. “How about you, darlin’?”

  I unconsciously lick my lips and he smiles. “I want a Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against the Wall.” I take my time saying the words, because I do want it and I want him to want it.

  “Alright.” Andrew stands and places the pen behind his ear and the notepad in the waist of his jeans, slightly lifting his t-shirt and revealing an impeccable stomach. I’m eye-level with his crotch and he knows it. “Coming right up.” He saunters off with the empty tray and then Piper goes ballistic.

  “What the hell, Chloe? You’re going to get us arrested and I’m leaving for college in two weeks!” Piper screams.

  “Ah, shut up Pipes,” Natalie says calmly. “Chloe, that was impressive. That dude totally walked away with a boner.”

  “Is that even a real drink?” CeCi asks.

/>   “It’s a real drink! It’s basically vodka, sloe gin and orange juice.” I laugh at CeCi’s amazed expression and continue. “My dad has this weird mixology book from the 70s and I memorize the ones I like. You never know when it’ll come in handy.” As I’m finishing my explanation, several suits approach our table. There are three of them and four of us, so I take this as my cue to visit Andrew at the bar. Besides, I’m attracted to musicians and mysterious guys in jeans, not mutes in suits.

  I find an open spot at the bar and sit on a velvet stool. It’s strange spending my18th birthday in a bar full of men, some twice my age, and I find myself wanting to go home and have clams with the people that love me. I want some of that apple pie and I want to open my presents and—

  “Hey darlin’,” Andrew rolls the words off his tongue rhythmically, causing my female parts to wave the white flag of surrender.

  “Hey yourself.” God, that’s lame.

  “Let me take these drinks to your friends. Don’t go anywhere – you need your screw.” Andrew winks at me before he turns to walk away and I take this as an invitation to evaluate his ass. Very nice.

  I watch him shove past the group of men to place the drinks on the table. He leans down to Natalie and they exchange a few words. They look at me and I quickly drop my head in embarrassment. God only knows what Nat told him . . . she once offered me to a ticket scalper in exchange for Radiohead tickets – crap, he’s walking back with a smug look on his face.

  “Happy birthday, darlin’,” he sings. “Your sister gave me instructions to get you drunk and get you on stage. I wanna hear you sing, so what’s the quickest way?” Andrew leans over the bar and stares authoritatively at me.

  “It’s my eighteenth birthday,” I mumble.

  “I know. I’m only twenty-two,” he says, easing my shame.

  “Natalie is my cousin.”

  “Whatever. Look, she’s fucking hot, but I like you, darlin’.” Andrew smiles as he pours the nearest bottle of a clear liquid in a shot glass. He passes it to me then looks behind him at the old-fashioned clock on the shelf. Ten-thirty. Damn.