Intermission (Novelettes) (The Bridge Series)

by Ashley Pullo

  “Madame Clarice, I’m not sure I’m a believer, but like you, well on a more amateur level, I tend to rely on my energy to guide my decisions.” I shift in my wicker chair as Nat sits quietly next to me. “But, well – I would like for you to tell me that my behavior doesn’t lead me to a ditch to die!” I laugh nervously.

  “Very well. Give me your hands and try to clear your thoughts.” Madame Clarice closes her eyes and sighs heavily. I try to think about nothing but that’s impossible, so instead, I think about the chords of a Dolly Parton song.

  “Do you have a love potion?” Natalie asks.

  “Please, be as quiet as possible,” whispers Madame Clarice. Natalie rolls her eyes and bites her lip.

  After several minutes of silence and hand holding, Madame Clarice finally speaks. “You will have everything you want because of your impetuous nature. You will sing with pride. You will grow a tree.” I scrunch my nose at that last declaration and Natalie snickers in disbelief. “Would you like me to finish?”

  “Oh yes, please,” I say.

  “Love will strike on a summer’s night after you’ve gained the wisdom from the twenty-fifth year. He will be tall and handsome but with very few words.” Madame Clarice opens her eyes and locks them on mine. “I see no death in ditches.” She releases my hands and smiles slightly.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “My turn! Will I shag Brad Pitt?” Natalie asks sarcastically.

  “For this to work, you need to clear your thoughts and remain silent. I do not answer specific questions because I can only see what your soul offers.” Madame Clarice places her hands on the table and Natalie willingly gives it a go.

  “Okay, I’m ready – but only the good stuff.”

  “You, my love, will speak to the stars. You will find your home among the people. Your true love will be charming and handsome—”

  “Woo-hoo, Prince Charming!” Natalie interrupts.

  “Dear, please don’t break the concentration. You will also grow a tree.” Madame Clarice opens her eyes quickly to peek at Natalie and gives me a little smirk. “Oh, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you will have a huge ass and whiskers on your chin.”

  “What? You can actually see that?” Natalie falls dramatically over the table and even though I know the psychic is joking, it’s a mean joke to play after the night we’ve had. “Is there some . . .” sniff, sniff, “magic potion to stop it from happening?”

  Madame Clarice stands elegantly from the table and walks to her wall of herbs and bottles. She takes a tiny purple bottle and wraps it neatly in a scarf. Natalie looks up, tears watering her eyes but hopeful for a mystical cure.

  “Girls, the gift of psychic ability is not to be taken lightly, but it’s merely a reading of the present energy – the future can always be altered. Free will, dear,” Madame Clarice stares at Natalie, “is your greatest gift. You will be rewarded with an entire sky of stars. And you,” she tilts her head at me, “you have an energy that is complex yet simplistic. Your aura is a contradiction – only one man will be able to interpret your psyche.”

  I place my arm around Natalie’s shoulders as she wipes back her tears. This is quite possibly the strangest moment we’ve ever shared and I’m dying to know what Nat thinks about all this.

  “What’s in the bottle?” Natalie asks.

  The psychic hands the wrapped bottle to Natalie and smiles compassionately. “The bottle, dear, contains hope. It will give you the power to dream. And for you,” she looks at me with sympathy, “you will find the connection between impulse and purpose. Look for balance in the perfect song.”

  Wow.

  “Okay, girls, that’s all I got! Seventy-five dollars cash or credit but I will have to charge a service fee of $3.95 if you use Discover.” Madame Clarice walks over to a fanny pack and a handheld credit machine as Nat digs in her oversized bag for cash. I take forty dollars from my wallet and add it to Nat’s eighteen. We charge the rest on my emergency MasterCard, which I’m sure Dad will flip over when he gets the statement, but this is sort of an emergency.

  “Thank you so much, Madame Clarice! Besides the fat ass and the whiskers, I’m embracing my future.” Natalie jokes.

  “Yes,” I mumble.

  “You are more than welcome. Happy birthday, dear. Cancers are my favorite people.” She smiles sincerely and leads us to the door.

  In the dark, starless night, we start our drive back to my house. We’re both uncharacteristically quiet and pensive, neither of us certain about what we just experienced. Natalie lights another cigarette and I lower the radio to get her opinion. She is the most straightforward thinker I know, and always challenges my romantic idealism.

  “Well? What do you think it all means?” I ask.

  “Huh? Oh, I don’t know. What does anything mean? What do the lyrics to Pink Floyd mean? We’re both destined to grow some trees – whatever the fuck that is! I avoid nature at all costs, so maybe she saw a money tree?” Natalie blows a puff of smoke and coughs. “She did say I will talk to the stars and you will sing with pride or whatever, so our dream of being famous will happen!” Natalie tosses the cigarette out the window and digs for her gum.

  “Don’t you think it’s weird that she specifically said I will find love when I’m twenty-five?”

  “I guess, but Chloe, the woman was wearing sweatpants and a head scarf and that bottle she gave me was empty. Don’t interpret every little detail as truth.”

  I raise the volume on the radio, trying to appear as unaffected as my cousin, but the truth is, I don’t want Nat to hear my rampant imagination. Madame Clarice vaguely assured me that everything would be great . . . I will have a music career that I’m proud of. I will find my true love because of my purposeful spontaneity. This is good news, I can basically plan to be impulsive . . . pass up on the annoying, childish relationships and float from meaningless job to job and just hang on until the right moment. Simply waiting will prepare me for my future . . . and those impetuous actions will bring me joy . . . and he’s waiting for me . . . tall, handsome and quiet.

  July 3, 2003

  “Chloe! Great news – huge!” Natalie leaps across our tiny kitchen, clumsily knocking my bowl of cereal into the sink. “Oh, sorry.”

  “What’s up, Nat? I gotta leave for work in five minutes,” I sigh.

  Nat is an assistant event planner in a trendy SoHo office and our schedules never seem to mesh. I’m usually on my way out the door to the bar when she comes bouncing in from her day job. But who cares? We’re living in New York City in an amazing TriBeCa apartment with anything we want in a one-block radius. (No really, an illegal ferret dealer and Cuban cigars are within one-block from our front door.)

  “Tomorrow is your birthday and we’re doing it up New York-style. The Fourth of July is like a big deal around here and you’ll have to get used to sharing your day with America.” Natalie fishes for a Snapple from the refrigerator and continues excitedly. “You know Molly, my boss? Well, she graciously gave me the keys to her bungalow on Fire Island! We leave in the morning and won’t be back until Sunday!” Natalie grabs my hands and jumps up and down, forcing me to jump along with her.

  “That’s awesome, Nat! Is it like the Hamptons?” I ask, still confused with the layout of New York. It’s taken me three months to realize Houston Street is pronounced House-ton.

  “No way! The Hamptons are sophisticated and snobby, but Fire Island is a hedonistic orgy of booze and bad decisions. It will be so much fun!” Natalie walks to the hall closet to get our travel bags while I devise a plan to get out of work early tonight.

  “I really have to go, Nat. I’ll try to be back by eight. Thank you, it sounds perfect!”

  Natalie drops the bags in the hallway and runs toward me. “Chloe, you will love it, but – well, how do I say this in the nicest way possible? Um, how’s your lady garden?”

  “Meaning?” I ask. I know my garden hasn’t been plowed or trimmed in several months, but it’s not like I’m an undiscovere
d rainforest.

  “Meaning – I’m making you an appointment with Sue Ling. She’s on Eighth, next to the Au Bon Pain with the rats. Promise me you’ll get there by nine?”

  “Fine. Can you pack my bag?”

  “I will, just for my favorite cousin with the amazing body, gorgeous green eyes and a voice that can melt a hockey rink.” Natalie smiles and flutters her eyelashes.

  “Ha ha. I get what you’re doing, and I promise I won’t embarrass you. I can clean up real nice, gee golly gee.” I kiss her cheek and head out the door to work.

  “Fire Fucking Island!” She chants through the door.

  I moved in with Nat back in April after a year-long, uneventful tour with an unknown band (think Canadian Toadies.) I’d made a deal with Dad that if I finished my degree in business, he would support my career in music. So basically, my poor dad supported me while I spent twelve months in the backwoods of Canada playing taverns and hippie festivals. I made approximately six hundred dollars and slept with every member of the band. I was traveling and performing . . . but mostly, I was waiting – for something. After a year living as a slutty bohemian and the constant nagging from Natalie to move to Manhattan, I finally made the practical decision to get my ass in gear and try to be an adult. Dad supports this decision 100%.

  Manhattan. It’s . . . well, I – I distinctly remember my teenaged-self lounging in front of the television drinking tiny bottles of Evian and inventing my future-self. I imagined I would be this mature and refined pop star, sipping wine with celebrities in my sexy black cocktail dress. Discussing politics and fine art while being photographed for the Style Watch section of People Magazine. Hordes of rich men would line up and beg to whisk me away to London for the weekend. Of course, I wouldn’t accompany them because of my weekly performances at Carnegie Hall and the movie deal that would contractually forbid me from dating non-celebrities. My apartment in Washington Square would be an upscale, modern space but I would never be too good to slum it with my friends, Monica, Rachel, Phoebe, Ross, Joey and Chandler. Like, it totally made sense years ago. I even prepared a speech for my GrammyEmmyOscarTony.

  Reality bites. Being twenty-four in New York City goes more like this . . .

  Last night I wore overall shorts I found for three dollars at a vintage clothing store, and by that I mean the Salvation Army on the corner of 6th and 7th. I wear crappy clothes while waitressing at the bar because of all the vile shit that splatters on me throughout the night, but it also seems to give me the apathetic edge of I don’t give a fuck. I had a black tank underneath my dated denim and I thought I was rocking the Demi Moore-pottery-scene, but Natalie overtly pointed out that I looked like a Village hobo. (The Village is actually rather chic, so I took that as a compliment.) She is notorious for speaking her mind at the most inopportune moments, but I love her and she did manage to snag a pretty awesome apartment in TriBeCa.

  If I told Nat I was actually three months overdue for a wax, she would disown me. I did find a rusty razor in the shower this morning, but it only managed to slightly scrape my legs. There was no way I was risking armpit hemorrhaging, so my appointment with Sue Ling will be more of a medical precaution rather than a luxury. My hair looks okay, if summer sweat can be considered the latest fad in glossy hair serum. The sun is normally good to me, leaving me with golden skin, but I still have the remnants of a farmer’s tan on my arms from wearing a Blue Jays t-shirt to a Yankees game – karma. Oh, and I don’t discuss my guitar-picking nails. Aesthetically, I’m a slob, but I look like the rest of the twenty-somethings.

  My current place of employment is an understated bar located in TriBeCa. I can walk there, which is awesome, and the owner has a small crush on me, which makes it easy to get the best shifts. It’s near the Holland Tunnel, but ironically named The Bridge, provoking my need to hum Under the Bridge by the Chili Peppers every single time I go to work. The bar has a steady stream of customers and the happy hour is very popular, mainly because it’s a nice place to hang before going to a real bar. My Tuesday through Saturday shift allows me to mingle with an eclectic crowd: underage NYU students, dating couples (or cheating couples) and a shitload of Uptown too scared to go all the way Downtown (that’s what she said.) Rarely are there hordes of handsome men, and not once have I been asked to run away to Europe. And oddly, record moguls aren’t breaking down the bar door to sign a sarcastic, Canadian slacker wearing thrift-store jeans and concert t-shirts.

  Honestly, it fucking sucks. I was raised as an only child and educated by television and aversion – aversion to anything realistic and uncomfortable. It’s embarrassing to admit that I feel like I’m owed something in this world; by just going to college I would eventually own my own applesauce empire. And simply traveling around in a van pouring out my emotions on a rickety stage would reward me with a record deal. Or by just being me, creative, pretty and unique, I would score a hot guy and live in Beverly Hills with awesome clothes and the Peach Pit.

  But with each day struggling as an adult, the enchanting visions of my future start to implode. The world is faced with new problems now, bigger problems and relevant people with realistic ideas. The new millennium of plastic, technology and fear has distorted and mocked my teenaged fantasies, forcing me to hide in a bubble of the whatevers. But I’m not alone, oh no, there’s a whole fucking generation of exceptional, over-educated, turgid pricks like me, waiting for the future to fall in our laps. I’m not lazy or depressed, I’m a byproduct of false idealism and Saturday morning cartoons. I get that now, on the eve of my 25th birthday – and it’s all about to change.

  July 4, 2003

  “Molly’s house is three blocks east past the bait shop. Good thing I brought the rolling bags!” Natalie exclaims.

  We step off the ferry and onto the rustic dock to take in our weekend paradise. The smell of the salty ocean is overwhelmingly fresh compared to the subway steam and curry that penetrates our neighborhood. Ocean Beach is gorgeous in its natural environment, and the gentle swaying of the sea oats is like a mystical trance of tranquility. Breathe in, breathe out . . . holy shit this is amazing!

  We spent the entire train ride chatting with a group of college kids from the Upper East Side. They mentioned to us at least a million times that they’re renting a house in the Hamptons and consequently, I have a massive headache from rolling my eyes. They turned their snobby noses up at the mention of Fire Island, even though Natalie boasted about our mansion that was once owned by Elizabeth Taylor. By the time the train stopped in Bayshore, those stupid kids thought we were two rich socialites that were simply partying for the weekend. Idiots.

  I follow Natalie on the walkway, taking the time to read the large signs she seems to be ignoring. Oh shit.

  No swimming beyond floats.

  No food or drinks.

  No disrobing.

  No radios without earphones.

  No ball playing, kites or Frisbees.

  No sexual abstinence.

  Okay, so the last one is just my interpretation from the article I read in Time Out New York about the Land of NO! Apparently, people come to this island for two things: gay-friendly shenanigans and freaky, no limitations, sex. (As long as you don’t fly a kite or drink a beer.)

  “Hey Nat, did you bring a Frisbee?” I joke.

  Natalie stops abruptly and spins to face me. “Why the fuck would I bring a Frisbee? I swear Chloe, if you don’t get laid this weekend, I’m shipping you back to T.O.” She continues walking toward a green picket fence surrounding a gray shingled cottage. The front door is the color of butter, and tiny seashells dangle from the door frame. “Yes, there it is. How adorable is that house? Chloe, this is going to be so much fun!” Natalie picks up her pace and I trail behind her with a giddy smile.

  “Did Molly tell you where to meet people?” I ask.

  “Of course she did! We’ll have lunch and hang by the beach. She said parties are always popping up and tonight there’s a huge fireworks show.”

  We roll our bag
s into the little cottage and tour the space. There are two small bedrooms, one large bathroom and a kitchen tinier than the one in our apartment. The living room is actually in the back, overlooking the sand dunes and the foamy waves of the Atlantic Ocean. Molly’s home is cozy, comfortable and at least a million dollars.

  Natalie and I plop down on a white linen sofa and stretch out our legs. Our relaxation is interrupted by a shadow moving outside the large window and I nervously grab Nat’s hand. We quietly get up and move toward the figure, my heart racing and her hand squeezing the circulation out of mine . . . but it’s just a deer! Oh wait, there are two cute little deer, staring at us with their big brown eyes! It’s cool that the wildlife can flourish even though their habitat is disrupted by ferries full of visitors and drag queens. I could watch their innocent faces nuzzle against each other all afternoon, not a care in the world, not worried about a job or a music career or finding someone to love, these deer inspire me.

  And . . . the bigger one just mounted the female. He’s humping the shit out of her and his eyes are rolling to the back of his fuzzy head. The female on the other hand, appears frightened. Her doe eyes are now the size of saucers and she’s making a weird sheep noise. They don’t seem to mind the audience and yet I can’t look away.

  “Everything gets laid,” I joke.

  “On Fire Fucking Island,” Nat retorts.

  7:45 p.m.

  We met a few of Molly’s neighbors on the beach earlier and they graciously invited us over for cocktails on their patio. Now, math is my worst subject, but I can manage simple calculations to determine that one husband, one wife and one girlfriend equals a threesome. And two gays plus two LeGrange girls equals no sex for Chloe. I would never judge someone’s lifestyle or sexual preference, but Nat and I might be in a sexual conundrum.

  The owner of the house, Mr. Hughes, has one hand on the ass of his girlfriend Susan, and the other hand tightly around my waist. His gorgeous wife, Mrs. Hughes, is busy drunk-flirting with Natalie, and I’m pretty sure her left boob is about to pop out of her super slutty top. Natalie is so sarcastic and crazy, that she charmingly plays along with the flirtation, even commenting on Mrs. Hughes’ lovely top. Benjamin and Travis are the hottest gays ever, and I have a very, very dirty visual going on in my head right now that includes me, the gays and a steamy shower – but, I didn’t spend two hours getting everything waxed for lousy bourbon and an awkward swing party.