Reinventing Mona

by Jennifer Coburn

  “How have you been, Mona?” he said as he returned to his desk. “Anything new and exciting going on in your life?” Make me an offer.

  “I left my job in December,” I said, silently coaching myself to breathe slowly and steadily. In. I am the sexiest woman in the world and he is lucky to be sitting across the desk from me. Out. In. I am calm, I am cool. Out.

  “That’s big news. What are your plans for the future?”

  I had to remind myself that this question was not actually a marriage proposal, and that I should not leap across his enormous mahogany desk and kiss him. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do,” I said. Sounds flaky, come up with something. “I mean, of course, I’ll be terribly busy volunteering for worthy causes.” Sounds like a rich old lady. “And partying.” Partying? What are you, sixteen? “I mean working for the party.”

  “The Grand Old one, I hope.” He winked.

  “Of course,” I bubbled back, hoping he would never find out that I’m a registered member of the Green Party. “So, what have you been up to, Adam? Did you have a nice Valentine’s Day?” Could I be more obvious?!

  “Life’s been pretty fair. Spent the good part of the morning trying to win Ozzfest tickets off the darned radio to no avail. It’s crazy how fast these things sell out,” he said, glancing at his watch as if the mere mention of time reminded him that he needed to speed things along with me.

  “I’ve got tickets to Ozzfest,” I blurted in a moment of panic. “Do you want to go?” I asked, wondering what the hell Ozzfest was, and how I would produce the sold-out tickets. “Just as friends. It wouldn’t have to be a date or anything.”

  In a second that would determine a lifetime, Adam smiled and told me he’d love to go. Well, he agreed to it, at least. The love would come later.

  “I, uuh, you, uuh, sort of dropped something,” Adam said, darting his finger at my ex-plant that jumped liked a frog out of my bra and onto his desk. As I sat facing Adam, fully aware that one breast was noticeably fuller than the other, I groped for an explanation less humiliating than the truth. The gelatin-filled sack stared up, mocking me, laughing at its successful attempt to expose me for the B-cup fraud I am.

  After far too long a pause, I explained that it was a cold compress prescribed by my doctor. “It’s to reduce swelling,” I said. “I have a breast infection.”

  A breast infection?! A breast infection?! How completely unsexy is that?!

  “It’s actually a sports injury. I play soccer and the ball knocked me pretty hard in the boob,” I stammered. Stop talking immediately! “Which is how this one got infected,” I gestured toward my left breast “But it’s almost better now. The cold compresses have helped a lot.” Please shut me up!

  Mercifully, Adam buried his head in my tax file and changed the topic. “If I’m going to go to a concert right in the middle of tax season, I’d better get moving on your filing, Mona,” he said. “Do you have all of your interest statements?”

  Adam leafed through my papers, promising he’d do everything within the law to reduce my tax liability. “I’ll tell you, I think it’s criminal that people like you are hit with such a high tax bill. Your grandfather helped build this city. I think people who bring jobs to the community and build the local economy should really get a break, you know? If you have a lot, it means you’ve probably already given a lot.” He shook his head with dismay at the amount of taxes I’d need to pay. “That’s what I believe.”

  “Oh, okay.” I filled the dead space, wondering why I felt like the Republican National Committee was courting me.

  “No really, you worked hard for your money,” Adam said, his face still buried in papers.

  “Well, I inherited it,” I reminded him. “And the life insurance.”

  “Your grandfather worked hard for it then, with the tuna fish business,” Adam said.

  “You’re from back east, aren’t you?!” I was thrilled to shift gears.

  “We moved here when I was twelve. Why do you ask?”

  “You said tuna fish,” I said. “People from back east call it tuna fish. It just sounds so funny, ‘cause of course it’s fish. Out here we just say tuna. The fish is assumed. It’s a silent fish.”

  Oh God, please strike me mute right now.

  “Tuna, then,” Adam returned flatly. “Anyway, I’ll look for some ways to help protect your money, Mona. We’ve got to watch each other’s backs. That’s what I believe.”

  “Hallelujah!” I laughed.

  He stared back blankly.

  “It’s just that you said that’s what you believe, so I was like ‘Hallelujah! I believe.’ It was just a joke,” I shuffled. “I don’t know what I’m saying. The antibiotics make me a little loopy sometimes. Okay, well you’ve got everything, so I guess I’ll see you this weekend for the Oz festival.”

  * * *

  “Mike!” I shouted into my cell phone as soon as I saw the square of daylight allowing me to exit Adam’s garage. “It’s me, Mona Lisa. Guess who I have a date with?” I heard nothing. “Are you there? Mike, I’m leaving Adam’s building where he just asked me out on a date. A date! Do you hear me?”

  “I hear about every other word you’re saying,” Mike said coolly. “Something about a date.”

  “Yeeeesss!” I screeched. “A bona fide, tell-the-grandkids-about-it first date. The first date of the rest of my life. A pick-me-up, take-me-to-dinner D-A-T-E. Just one question for you, what’s Ozzfest?”

  “You’re going to Ozzfest?!” Mike now matched my level of enthusiasm. “That concert’s been sold out for weeks.”

  “Back up,” I said, my anxiety level rising. “Then tell me when it is, and how I get tickets.”

  “Oh shit!” He laughed. “You gotta get the tickets?! What’s up with that?”

  “I told him I had tickets already, okay? I offered to give them to him, but he insisted that we go together and that we have dinner beforehand. Somewhere quiet, he said, because he wanted to spend time getting to know me,” I lied.

  “He said he wanted to get to know you? He talks like a girl.”

  “Shut up!” I snapped. “I’m excited about this. Just tell me where this band is playing and how I can get tickets.”

  “It’s not one band, Mona. It’s something like twenty heavy metal groups. Ozzy Osbourne, Metallica, Korn, Marilyn Manson, you know.”

  “No, I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

  Mike laughed. “Ozzfest is this weekend and the only way to get tickets at this point is from a scalper or off eBay.”

  “What bay?”

  “You’re kidding? You’ve never heard of eBay?” Mike gave an incredulous chuckle. “The online auction?” Silence. “eBay, eBay,” he said, as if repeating it would refresh my memory. “You’ve never heard of eBay? You don’t know about Ozzfest. Mona Lisa, I gotta ask, where ya’ been?”

  “Listen, if I was worldly I wouldn’t need you, now, would I?” I shot playfully. “You’re cashing my checks, now answer the question.”

  “Mona Lisa,” Mike danced me with his words, “I gotta tell ya, I’m liking this new attitude.”

  * * *

  Mike was freshly showered with his hair still wet when he met me at the house to show me how to register as an eBay buyer. He smelled like soap. Reaching his arms around my back to help guide my roller ball, he helped me set up my secret cyber-life as MonaLisa31. Mike also opened a PayPal account for me so I could simply tap the code “Monasbux” and money would painlessly transfer from my Visa to cyber-vendors. Something about the immaterial nature of the transaction and three degrees of separation between the actual cash and me gave eBay the distinct feeling of something clandestine and sexually charged. Like an affair of cash. PayPal did it with Visa, who got it automatically every month from the bank.

  “Five hundred dollars?!” I shouted. “They want five hundred dollars for these tickets?! I thought heavy metal was a bunch of poor pimple-faced teenage boys. Who’s buying five-hundred-dollar tickets to this, this, thi
s festival thing?”

  Like a surgeon performing an operation through my keyboard, Mike remained steady with his hands and calm with his voice. “Let’s find out.” He rolled the ball around and started clicking to see who had bid on the tickets. Suddenly, I was looking at all of the other purchases the little pimple faces had made, and more important, their bidding style. “You got three snipers in on this auction,” he said. I raised an eyebrow as if to say If I didn’t know what eBay was, I certainly don’t know the jargon. “Oh yeah, sorry.” He read me right. “Snipers come in at the very last minute and outbid everyone else. You gotta be right here at the keyboard ready to pound those fuckers.”

  I giggled then silently kicked myself for momentarily wondering what the weight of Mike’s body would feel like on top of mine.

  Adam, Adam, Adam. Mike is sexy and exciting, no question. He would have been a fun guy to date in college, but in the long run he is totally wrong for you. Hell, he’s wrong for every woman who gets within two feet of him emotionally. Mike: Wonderful night. Adam: Wonderful life.

  I cleared my throat for no particular reason. “Okay, um, how do I, um pound the fuckers?” Mike smiled as if he knew I’d just imagined the feel of his penetration. “I’ve got something in my throat. I’m going to grab a glass of ice water. Do you want a beer while I’m up?”

  “No thanks.” He smiled smugly. “I could use some cold water, too, though.”

  I returned to see Mike clicking away at my keyboard. “You got three main competitors here. Nothingface is a clipper, but he’s never made a purchase above two hundred bucks so I think he’s out. These two guys, Metalman and XTC420 buy lots of heavy metal shit and they’ve bought tickets online before.” I placed the ice water by Mike’s side where he left it without touching the glass. “Here’s what you gotta do. The auction ends at 11:23 tonight. Log on tonight, type in your bid of a thousand bucks at 11:20 and confirm it right when the clock on the computer says 11:22 P.M. Not the clock on the wall, got it?”

  “I’m supposed to pay a thousand dollars to see a heavy metal concert?” I sank my head into Mike’s shoulder. “Who’s ever heard of a Republican accountant who’s into heavy metal anyway? Aren’t they supposed to dig Lawrence Welk and Frank Sinatra?”

  “Hey.” Mike patted my head like a kid sister. “I’m a Republican. Ozzfest rocks and so does Frank.”

  “A thousand dollars,” I mock sobbed.

  “Poor baby.” He patted me again before reaching for his glass of water.

  Chapter 22

  As instructed, I was on the eBay auction for Ozzfest tickets at the stroke of 11:00 that night. Truth be told, I logged on at 10:15 and got into a bidding war for a pair of wedge boots that were absolutely adorable, despite the fact that they were a size too big and a color I didn’t really need. I already owned black boots, but after forty minutes of sifting through nearly 200 pairs of cowboy boots, baby booties, and a vinyl of “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’,” I felt lucky to find a pair so close to what I was actually looking for. My intention was to bid twenty-five dollars and forget about it, but as soon as I confirmed my bid, a message from eBay popped up. “You have been outbid by another buyer,” it informed me. “Oh yeah, who?” I asked the screen. I remembered Mike looking at an area called “bidding history,” so I went there to find that some shoe-thieving little tart known only as ShoePrincess had declared war over my boots. I clicked back to the bidding section and upped the ante to thirty-five dollars, and within seconds received a message from eBay, again informing me that I’d been outbid again. “What?!” I cried, outraged, before going back to the bidding history. “ShoePrincess,” I grumbled. When I was outbid a third time, I found myself shouting, “Die ShoePrincess, die!” Not since the Wicked Witch of the West stalked poor Dorothy for her ruby slippers had a pair of shoes been so highly coveted. Clearly, I had Oz on the brain. Like a sprinkling of fairy dust, I heard the two-note arrival of an instant message.

  Good girl, Mona Lisa.

  Mike?

  Who else calls you Mona Lisa?

  What are you doing?

  Just earning my keep, making sure my girl is where she needs to be. You haven’t bid yet, right?

  No, but I’m doing battle with some bitch named ShoePrincess who seems to have nothing better to do than park herself on eBay and outbid me the second I try to buy these cute go-go boots. Every time I bid, she’s right there taking me down. She does it in seconds. Like it’s personal. She’s just so right there in my face.

  Ha!

  What ha?

  You know she’s not really sitting there at her computer, right?

  What do you mean?

  Oh man, I almost don’t want to tell you.

  Tell me!!!!!

  You see the area where it asks how high you’re willing to bid? Hers must’ve been higher than what you’re putting in, so eBay automatically lets you know if you want to stay in the game, it’s time to step up.

  Oh.

  Still want the boots?

  I’m not sure.

  Are they black?

  Yes.

  Leather?

  Yes.

  Be sure. Be very sure.

  How come?

  Very sexy. Take the bitch down at the end of auction. When does it end?

  Two days.

  Mona Lisa!!! Get outta there and go buy your Ozzfest tickets. Stop pissing around and go back when the fucker’s ready to close in ten minutes. Have I taught you nothing? Go bid on Ozzfest and come back. I got an idea for you.

  I placed my high bid at a thousand dollars, as Mike suggested, and hit confirm just as the clock on my screen read 11:22 P.M. I stopped to absorb the fact that such a slight motion—the clicking of my roller ball— had just set in motion my new life with Adam.

  I won!!!!! I won the tickets, Mike!!!!!

  Congratulations. How much did you pay?

  What do you mean? I bid a thousand like you said.

  You had to pay the full grand? That sucks.

  What do you mean? I didn’t even check. I assumed I paid the thousand I offered.

  Hold on. After a minute he returned with the news that I had won the tickets at $755. I jumped out of my chair for the victory dance, elated that I’d not only won my passport to a wonderful life, but saved $245!

  Happy now?

  Thrilled!!!!

  Make sure you click on payment instructions so you can get that squared away before the weekend. Fourteen hours of heavy metal. Man, I envy you.

  What?!

  What, what?

  You wrote fourteen hours of heavy metal. Are you serious?

  Very. I told you it’s twenty-some bands.

  Good God, that’s a lot of heavy metal to absorb.

  Yep. Hey, I got an idea I wanna tell you ‘bout. I was thinking about what a smooth move this was, you tellin’ your guy you’re into metal, and all. Not too many chicks are into that. So, I’m thinking, how do we build on that cool heavy metal chick thing we got going?

  I’m terrified.

  You gotta make this guy think you got an interesting past. Like you got a wild side. So I’m thinking you hire an actor who’s doing the part of the rock star, and he “accidentally” runs into you guys before Ozzfest and starts going off about how you two had all these wild times and how you dumped him and he’s all broken up about it still. I’m telling you, this is gold. If I’m out with a chick and some linebacker for the Chargers or Grade 8 bass player starts in on my woman, I’m thinking, man, I got myself a hot little commodity here. She dumped him, but she’s into me. That makes me one lucky guy to be out with her. Get it?

  I hated Mike’s strategy of having Adam trump the rock star, but I had to admit, it did make sense. Mike suggested I go to a community theater group and pay some guy a couple hundred bucks to talk me up at the restaurant Adam and I were at before Ozzfest.

  The next morning, I drove downtown to pay for two tickets to hell, and find an actor to play my brooding, dumped ex. When I met Tim, I assumed
he would refer me to another actor with his company, but instead he said he’d love to “tackle this challenging role.” I couldn’t help wondering whether the challenge would be transforming his boyish looks into a metal bad boy, or pretending to be brokenhearted over me. Tim posed such a stark contrast to the giant tattoo from whom I’d just purchased my Ozzfest tickets that I had my doubts about his ability to pull it off. He looked like a hick, but I told myself it was just the overalls he wore and the fact that I pulled him away from painting a set with a sign reading “Welcome to Bedford Falls.”

  Tim kept asking ridiculous questions about our fictitious relationship, like how long we were together and why I dumped him.

  “Look, you don’t need to get into all that at the restaurant,” I assured him. “I just need you to walk up to the table and make it clear that we once dated and that you’re not over me yet because I’m unforgettable.”

  “Mona, I understand that I’m not going to discuss our history together, but if I’m going to be convincing, I need to know all of this background,” Tim explained. The more he spoke, the less confident I was in his ability to pass himself off as the next Motograter drummer. “Mona, I want to take this role seriously. Impressing this guy is important to you, and I want to make sure I play the part with authenticity. You are paying me more for one night’s work than I’ll receive for the entire run of our show—and I’m the lead.”

  Tim must have sensed I was having second thoughts about him because he offered to take on the “research” himself. “Why don’t I create a history for us and develop my character on my own? When I run into you, just let me take the lead and don’t contradict anything I say. Remember, don’t deny anything I say; stick with a ‘yes and’ strategy.”

  “‘Yes and’?”

  “I say we met at a museum. Now don’t you go and say, ‘no we didn’t, it was a concert.’ You say, ‘yes and it was love at first sight.’ Got it?”

  “Okay,” I said hesitantly. “Can you do something with your hair, though?”