It didn’t take me long to realize that Third Place Books was soft on aggression. Of the few titles they carried, only one was on Dr. Steiner’s list. I took this as a sign and grabbed the battered copy of Assertiveness and Equality in Life and Love. I wondered how one’s life and relationships could be so clearly divided into sections—as if one had no life when in a relationship and no relationships when having a life. But then maybe there was truth in that. Relationships really require sharing the weight of decisions and choices with someone else. Clearly I was having a life, however relationship-free it was. So perhaps I could practice being a bit more assertive with myself.
A quick scan through the book revealed a few self-tests, and that most of them had been filled in by the previous owner. I could compare my answers with someone, even if she was a serial killer.
The idea of taking a test, especially one graded against other people, always excited me. In school, I loved tests, especially the drama of waiting for the results. In college it got so bad that I refused to look at my score until I got outside the classroom, just in case I didn’t get an A and burst into tears. Lucky for me, I usually got an A. Elated, I’d float though the next class or two. Maybe that was why I never needed to take drugs.
These test questions, however, didn’t appear to have right or wrong answers; rather, they were meant to provide a qualitative sense of my own sub-assertiveness issues. I felt a little queasy, but I was ready to take on my vacillation. One way or another.
I looked at my watch. It was a little after five o’clock. Sal would be home by now and have raised the temperature in the house enough to roast vegetables. I took my two books to the counter, paid and was pulling into my Asshole Bob-free driveway within fifteen minutes.
Sal yelled a greeting from her bedroom as I walked into the house, where I was met with a blast of heat. I headed straight to the thermostat and punched the setting down to sixty-eight degrees from its reading of eighty degrees.
Sal popped her head out of her room. “A portent of evil arrived for you today. It’s on the kitchen table.” She gave me a disapproving look as though something unethical, like a rack of veal, had been shipped to the house.
I walked hesitantly into the kitchen. There, on the table, sat a large bouquet of long-stem red roses with a white envelope perched in the midst of the arrangement. I pulled out the card, knowing that Sal had already done the same. As I had suspected, the flowers were from Frank.
He had written a verse in his erratic scrawl.
Roses are red,
Just like the Door,
Please take me with you,
I promise you’ll score.
Good old, suckier-than-suck Frank. I inhaled deeply. They smelled good—sultry sweet. I was trying hard not to read too much into the flowers. They were from Frank after all.
“I thought you two had broken up.” Sal walked up beside me, arms crossed, still glowering.
“We are. We are.” I set the card back in the midst of the flowers and gave them a final nose before grabbing the stack of mail and beginning the daily sort.
“So why the flowers?” She sniffed at them as well. Women have an almost Pavlovian need to smell roses. The fragrance links us instantly to our fondest romantic memory, even if it is one we made up.
“Oh, he wants me to take him to The Slutterati Salon tomorrow night. I’m not sure why.” And it was the truth. I wasn’t sure why he wanted me to take him. He obviously had gone there alone before. He didn’t need me.
“Are you even considering going with him?” She was tapping her foot hard on the linoleum.
I knew it was a bad idea to lie to Sal. She knew me too well. But if I told her what I was thinking, I would be writing my next Strange and Unusual article in a body cast. I smiled. “Of course not.”
“Good!” She sounded relieved. “I was afraid I’d have to stage an intervention.” Pulling out her chair with a loud scrape, she plopped into the seat and began picking through the stack of mail I had sorted and piled neatly in four piles: hers, mine, ours and dyslexic postman.
Sal never went through the mail first, though she was usually home before me. She always let me organize it. Maybe this was her way of being polite—it was my house after all. But some people seem to wait just long enough for other people to step in and do things. I didn’t mind, but I wondered if this was another indication of my submissiveness.
Our conversation settled into a discussion of the grocery list and then to the evening’s plans. Sal was having dinner with some classmates and invited me to go along, but I wasn’t in the mood for a two-hour debate on the merits of buckminsterfullerene molecules, no matter how much they tried to sex them up with a name like “buckyballs.” Instead we decided that I’d catch up with them later for drinks and a bit of clubbing.
Sal headed out shortly thereafter, and I was left picking at three-day-old leftover lasagna accompanied by the last of a young cabernet and the aroma of a dozen red invitations to hell.
I was feeling a vague unease, torn between my glandular urge to call Frank and certain knowledge that I should be reading my assertiveness book. Whenever I was in such a quandary, I turned to the trusty Google Oracle to help guide me. I needed only to launch my browser and type “Emily needs” (quotation marks essential) in the Search box and I would receive a plethora of helpful tips.
Once the digital sibyl beckoned to me, I wasted no time, and rolled up to my computer.
My search returned approximately 13,000 results, which sounded a bit needier than I felt. However, it was only the top ten that really counted, according to Google Oracle lore. I scanned down the list. The first one didn’t make sense, not at first.
1. Emily needs to remove that one frame from her animated gif avatar.
Huh? I re-read it several times before I had a sudden flash of insight. If my life was an animated movie that repeated over and over, and the avatar was how I appeared to the world, then the one frame that kept showing up—to everyone’s dismay—became all too obvious—the Frank frame. OK, so that was one vote for not calling Frank. I decided to ignore it for the moment and go to number 2.
2. Emily needs real love.
OK. Pretty self-explanatory. On to number 3.
3. Emily needs a MAN!
Right. Well to have number 2, I’d need number 3. Or change my sexual persuasion. Next.
4. Emily needs to devise a budget and stick to it.
Not pertinent to the current conversation no matter how accurate. Number 5.
5. Emily needs to live in Tahiti and grow pineapples.
I felt just a little unsettled by this one. Did I need to separate myself so much that I should move to an island in the middle of the ocean and grow heavy, ugly, prickly fruit? The fruity recluse. Let’s hope not. On to Number 6.
6. Emily needs help, but she doesn’t want to involve the police.
Yes. This one was certainly true. Unless he was a really handsome police officer. Next.
7. Emily needs her sleep; after all, she is carrying John’s demon child in her womb.
I remembered dating a John once. John Romano—a short Italian salesman with a penchant for cigars, Campari and ice hockey. I walked away from that relationship with more than a few demons in my psyche. I suppose one of them could have slipped south without me noticing. Nothing that a good Catholic priest, or better yet, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, couldn’t help me exorcise. Clearly the Google gods were channeling Loki this evening.
8. Emily needs a catchy slogan.
Now that was a solution worthy of note. When all else fails, make up a catchy slogan, especially one that doesn’t mean anything. I remember running for student council in college. Emily Royce, She’s Our Choice. Nothing else rhymed except voice and hoist. Strangely enough I’d won and spent the next year with a wild group of women led by our President—a 300 pound RN student who assigned new meaning to the phrase “political parties.” To this day I wonder whether the election was rigged. I think the President preferr
ed me to my opponent, a very outgoing young man. He wouldn’t have survived the perpetual Bacchanalia. Or perhaps I really did win, as I was dating the president of the Ski Club—the largest club on campus. He insisted that everyone in the club go vote for me. This made me extremely uncomfortable—what sort of favors did my main supporter expect?—and I knew I wasn’t cut out for politics. I wanted to win on merit, whatever that was.
9. Emily needs to be able to express her feelings to someone she trusts.
This drove me to take a large sip of wine. In the midst of all sorts of fun, number 9 sounded serious. Even frightening, because at that moment, I knew there wasn’t really anyone I trusted enough to share my feelings. I suddenly had the same sensation you get when you realize you’ve just stepped in dog poo, but before you look at your shoe to see the real damage. I read on to the next, a little desperate for levity.
10. Emily needs to find something quick.
Number 10 drove a nail into the coffin of my fun. I knew with all seriousness that this was true. I needed to talk to someone right away. Someone who could help me sort out my feelings about Frank as well as the strange undercurrents that this latest story was stirring in my psyche. I thought of talking to Sal, to my mom, to Kenner, even to Asshole Bob. But I couldn’t be honest with any of them. They hated Frank and that’s all they would tell me.
I knew at that moment that there was only one person I could talk to. I picked up the phone and dialed that old familiar number. After three rings, Frank picked up.
Chapter 11: Friday Night Fight
As I drove around, trying to find a parking spot near his apartment, I was definitely having second thoughts about seeing Frank. Frank lived in the upscale downtown enclave of Belltown. Only ten years ago, Belltown had been a haven for starving artists, musicians and the homeless. The old pubs and porn shops had been replaced by overpriced restaurants and exclusive boutiques. Of the original residents, only the homeless remained, and even they seemed to dress better.
Frank didn’t live there because he could afford it. He rented a room from a very rich, middle-aged, gay lawyer named David Schulman. David owned a spectacular penthouse with a commanding view of Puget Sound. I used to love to sit in front of the bay doors in Frank’s bedroom and watch the ferries go back and forth as we drank glasses of cheap Bordeaux.
I never could figure out the relationship between Frank and David. They weren’t really friends—at least not if you listened to the way they argued. And Frank didn’t have homosexual tendencies, at least none that I could discern. They weren’t exactly the Odd Couple, since Frank wasn’t a slob, but they were an odd combo. The only thing they had in common was a love of expensive cognac. David could afford it, and Frank was happy to drink it without feeling the slightest hint of guilt.
After my fifth time around his block without finding a spot, I settled on a pay lot and took a small hoard of one dollar bills, rolled them tightly into the origami burrito shape displayed on the pay stand, and shoved them through the eye-of-the-needle slot. Having piously offered up my sacrifice to meter maidenhood, I made my way into the building elevator.
To my surprise David answered the door. “Oh, hello, Emily dear. Do come in.” He had obviously worked late as he was still dressed in full lawyer regalia. He gave me his gracious host gesture and once I was inside offered to take my coat. “Frank has the telephone glued to his ear.” He replied to my questing look around the apartment. “Would you like a glass of something? I just opened a 2001 Chateauneuf-du-Pape.”
Out of habit, I translated the name out loud. “Pope’s New Castle?” I hadn’t eaten, but I nodded, knowing it would go straight to my head.
David picked up the bottle and looked at the label. “Is that what it means? It’s actually a very good wine region in the Rhône Valley. I get these bottles from the wine club but half the time don’t pay any attention to the history.” He poured a generous measure. “Tell me how you like it.”
I took the glass and made my way into in the living room, stopping in front of the massive picture window with its fabulous view. The black velvet water of Puget Sound sparkled with the reflection of stars and city lights. Two ghostly ferries passed each other in the distance.
The view engendered a pang of emptiness. So many wonderful memories of Frank and me were buried under a weight of anger and resentment.
David joined me at the window. He had a glass of his own and was tugging absently at his tie, looking sad. “A fabulous view, isn’t it?”
I knew David had lost his partner to AIDS a couple of years ago, which was why Frank had moved in. It was David’s second loss. His first great love had died many years earlier of the same disease. And though David seemed to take these tragedies in stride, I could never escape the sense that only a thin veneer of gloss covered a yawning cavern of grief. No one should have to endure losing two lovers like that. Whenever I was alone with him I was afraid I’d say something stupid and crack the veneer. Who knew what might surface?
Frank said I was silly for being so worried, that David was a rock. But I didn’t buy it. Frank wasn’t known for his insights, just his insensitivity.
I felt a mixture of relief and dread as Frank hollered from down the hall. “I’ll be right there.” Apparently he had heard me come in. A moment later he stepped out of the hall, tossing an old phone book at the dining room table, where it landed with a heavy thud. Frank was never self-consciousness about the noise he made. In fact, he moved within a swirling wave of sight, smell and sound. I always felt a bit dizzy in his wake.
David left my side and smacked Frank on the shoulder as he passed. “Manners, dear boy. It was good seeing you again, Emily.” Then he disappeared into the master suite on the other end of the apartment.
Frank was, as usual, freshly showered and tousled. He held out his arms, gesturing me to hug him. “Shouldn’t I get something for those flowers?”
I set down my wine and hugged him back, looking for some hint of that familiar, relaxed comradery we used to share. The kind of hug you could exhale into and release your innermost anything. But it wasn’t there, not really. Nor did I sense that he was looking for it. Maybe he didn’t even know such a hug existed.
I released him, picking up my wine glass again and sitting down at the dining room table, feeling disappointed and all too aware of the growing pangs of hunger. “Sal was livid with you, you know. She’d have you arrested if she could.”
“I half expected her to throw them away before you got home.” He poured himself a glass of wine.
“Oh come on, a woman doesn’t throw away roses. Even if sent by the Devil himself.”
He nodded as he sat down across from me and held up his glass. “True.”
We toasted each other with a quiet clink of crystal. Frank was one of those men who understood the relationship between the female and floral kingdoms.
“I would have sent them to work. I know how you like the thrill of feminine envy.” His voice had a conspiratorial luster. “But I figured Kenner would go ballistic, so I took a chance on Sal. Trying to make a grand gesture to you is akin to coming up with a seven-letter word at the end of a Scrabble game. There’s just no place to play anymore.”
I didn’t understand what Frank was really after. “I’ve been trying to figure out why you sent them. That’s why I called. To talk.”
I knew how much he hated those words, but I wanted answers. Frank did what he could to avoid long conversations about the state of our relationship. He fidgeted with the stem of his wine glass. “Oh come on. I thought I was pretty clear in my note.”
“Frank, sending red roses with a sleazy poem is not the epitome of clarity. What do you want? Are you trying to get back together? Do you want sex? Or are you just trying to convince me to comp you a pass to the Salon?”
“And you said I was being unclear.” Between the smirk on his face and the mocking tone in his voice, I knew Frank’s impatience meter had been activated.
I’d be sorry if I pushed
it, but I wanted a straight answer for once. If he wanted to be with me, why couldn’t he just say it? “What is the crime in being honest? With you it is always dancing around the truth. I get so tired of it.” My voice sounded overly sharp, even to me. I was tempted to apologize until I saw the look on Frank’s face. His jaw was clenched in anger.
“Well, fiddly dee. Miss literature major is having a crisis de communiqué.” He was being really sarcastic now.
I felt his words like a slap and held my breath as a whirlwind of possible retorts gathered momentum. But they were all dammed up inside. Maybe all relationships reach a point of fragility where nothing can be said, good or bad, without damage. Like two ancient pieces of parchment that had been glued together, the bond itself tore the paper at the slightest touch.
My hand was shaking slightly as I took another sip of the Chateauneuf-du-Pape. It tasted flat and lifeless as though my taste buds had gone on strike at the first sign of discord. I could almost imagine the Pope giving me a good finger wagging. This was one of those times where my assertiveness deserted me. I thought back on Dr. Steiner’s comments. I needed to speak up and say what I wanted, or at least what I didn’t want. Persistence was key.
I took a deep breath. “I don’t want to have this conversation. Not like this.” It felt good to say. The tension in my body released a little.
Frank snorted and stood. I couldn’t help noticing a glimpse of his smooth stomach as his shirt flashed open. He had great abs and skin that begged to be caressed. At the crossroads of heaven and hell. That was Frank. I averted my eyes.
We were silent for a moment longer before David came back out of his room, dressed in casual gay chic. He gave us one quick glance and shook his head. “Ah, the love birds are at it again.” He began rummaging through one of the cabinets, his back to us so I couldn’t see his face. “A word of advice. You two should either incorporate or dissolve the partnership. Life is too short.” He paused, his fingers gripping the cabinet for a moment, before he released it and moved to the faucet to fill a glass of water. He drank it in one long gulp.
Breakfast in Stilettos Page 6