“You only had a couple drinks,” she said from the doorway. “Do you have a stomach bug?”
“I think my boss Dirty Steve gave me some expired sushi as revenge for blackmailing him.”
“That fucker,” Artemis said, plopping down on the edge of my bed.
“I should have known better. Free sushi is never a bargain.” That made her laugh. “What a dick,” I heard myself saying, and I wasn’t talking about Dirty Steve anymore. “I mean, that girl. She was about twenty-two and a giraffe.”
“Probably his sister,” Artemis said without missing a beat.
“Ha! In rom-coms it’s always, like, his niece, right? But that was nobody’s niece.” My own voice sounded ominous.
“Don’t worry about it. Drummers are always scrubs,” she said. She lay down on top of the covers, her head on the pillow next to mine, her eyes on the ceiling. It was nice and reminded me of all the times back in college when Yolanda, Rose, Kate, and Barclay and I had stayed up late talking. “They’re too afraid to take a front seat in life. Always hiding back there, looking sexy, unable to pay their bills.”
“He definitely looks broke.”
“Definitely.”
“At least I got her shoes pretty good,” I said. We both started giggling uncontrollably.
“That you did.” We laughed a little more and then things quieted.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said.
“Shoot.”
“When was the last time you had a real boyfriend, like, not just a hot guy to bang?”
Artemis laughed but there was no lightness to it. “I’m a little much for one guy to handle.” She paused. “Sometimes I think no one would want to handle me for very long.” Her face looked so sad.
“Of course they would. You have serious man trap!”
“Man trap? What kind of Roxy-ism is that?”
“It means guys like you. Like, a lot.”
“But I don’t trap them. The thing is, when it comes to me and guys…” She paused. I waited for what she was going to reveal, not daring to breathe. But then her face changed, as if she’d made a decision not to wallow, and she sat up. “I’m catch and release, baby,” she joked as she leaned over and tugged the bedspread up under my chin. “Well, I’m gonna head out.” She stood up and walked to the doorway.
“No way. We’re lucky we didn’t get pulled over on the way home—you had like six drinks. You can stay in Everett’s old room,” I said. “There are fresh sheets.”
“I can drive.”
“Don’t be an idiot. I’m in no shape to go bail you out of jail.”
“Okay,” she said.
“I keep spare new toothbrushes in the cabinet.”
“Of course you do.”
“Artemis?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks for the necklace.”
“Sure thing. You deserve it.”
I can’t explain it, but when I heard the water running in the bathroom, it made me happy. There’s truly something to having another human soul in the house.
Feeling both humiliated and well friended,
Roxy
P.S. As my spiral notebook fills with letters to you, letters I know I will never give you, I have to consider this as a bizarre new anti-phase to our friendship. And though you have “abandoned” me for a household of sexually venturesome OMers, it’s refreshing to know I am capable of finding friendship and support elsewhere.
July 31, 2012
Dear Everett,
I feel so much better today—though considerably weakened, I am no longer sick. The vomiting that laid waste to my dignity was definitely food poisoning and not a virus. This morning I texted Annie and during her lunch break she came by to visit. As soon as I opened the door she said, “Oh man, you look terrible.” In contrast, she looked fabulous, with big gold hoops and her hair in braids. She bustled in with her bag full of vegan broth, natural ginger ale, and gluten-free crackers. A moment later I was alternately sipping broth and telling her the whole story of what happened at Emo’s.
“Dirty Steve is just wrong!” Annie said. “Do you want me to tell Topher Doyle he poisoned you with expired sushi?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think that’s necessarily the best use of your proximity to power. Also, Artemis told me she thinks I should never rat out Dirty Steve, that I can just totally get revenge on him myself.”
“The girl just sounds off,” Annie said. “I mean, the things you’ve told me about her make her sound like some kind of sex-addicted mental patient. I’m not sure she should be a go-to person for life advice.”
“Well, I think she’s right about not involving Topher Doyle. It’s like going to a Daddy-type authority figure for help with something I can figure out myself. If we want to tear down the patriarchy, we have to start by resisting the urge to ask Daddy figures to step in and solve our problems.”
“Now you’re feeling better!” Annie said. “Oh, and I have some good news for you. I looked into Duckie & Lambie Moisturizer, and it’s totally aboveboard on animal treatment. They’re sourcing everything from some small family farm. And they’re only in Austin stores, so it’s a real mom-and-pop operation.”
“Great,” I said lamely. But somehow it did not make me feel better. “Do you think you could convince Topher Doyle to stop stocking their products in Whole Foods stores anyway?”
“What happened to not turning to patriarchal figures to solve your problems?”
“Did you find out whose farm it is? Is it Cold Connie Caldwell’s family farm?” I asked. “And how much is that company making? Could you find that out too?”
“Look, I’m sorry your ex was a dickhead. Really sorry. And I’m sad he stole your artwork and is using it to a hideous end. But I love you enough to cut you off from an ex-boyfriend shame spiral,” she said. “So I’m gonna talk about myself now.” She then told me about a crush she’s developed on the two identical twins—Jeff and Joe Castro—who work at the Whole Foods IT help desk. She says she wants to ask one of them out, but isn’t sure how to decide which one, since she can’t tell them apart. It was so good to see her and hear about her fifth-floor antics, and the broth really made me feel better. I also appreciated that she looked into the moisturizing company that shall not be named. She’s a real friend. When she left to go back to work I made her promise not to be a stranger.
Poisoned by my lack of self-discipline as a vegan,
Roxy
August 1, 2012
Dear Everett,
Yesterday after Annie left I lolled around the house alternately reading Tom Robbins, masturbating to Silky Raven, and wishing you hadn’t moved out so you could bring me glasses of water and saltines. Then I spent a considerable (perhaps embarrassing) amount of time trying to find out more about Texas, FAIL BETTER!’s drummer. The band’s website revealed that his full name is Texas Johnson, which I have to admit is pretty cute. So cute it’s only a millimeter to the left of annoying. I found an “Austin Chronicle” profile of the band from last year, but it mostly talked about Arsen Alton, the skinny jean–clad front man who isn’t my type.
I figured maybe I could find out more about Texas via some deeper cybersleuthing, but a thorough Google search of “Texas Johnson” turned up nothing at all. I had no luck with a Whitepages search either. His lack of a Google-able job or residence means that Artemis must be right—he is a total scrub, likely unemployed, maybe even couch surfing. I’m disappointed that in the twenty-first century, when privacy has allegedly ceased to exist, I am unable to dig up more info on a guy that I absolutely do not have a crush on.
Artemis texted me demanding I meet her out for a late afternoon beer. (I insisted we meet at Spider House again so she could drink IPAs while I imbibed a chamomile tea—my innards are still not up for alcohol!) There she cheered me up tremendously. She told me that my clash with Dirty Steve is more of a long-term war than a single skirmish. I won a round by keeping my job. He won a round by poisoning me. But the w
ar isn’t over and I need not be discouraged but rather should keep my eyes peeled for opportunities to strike out at him again. (Looking back on it now, this reasoning seems less sound than it did at the time, but it really did cheer me up, which is perhaps all that matters.)
I then confessed that I’d spent enough time cyberstalking Texas to give myself a mild case of blue-light poisoning and that I was still mortified about the vomiting incident. Artemis insisted I didn’t need to worry about what some drummer thinks about me as:
I don’t even know Texas; and
Because he’s cute, and
a drummer, he’s probably a buster/scrub who relies on women to support him and thinks a date is meeting at Tacodeli for breakfast tacos, which the woman pays for.
She also pointed out that my yelling “Dirty Steve!” as I was projectile vomiting onto the nude pumps of Texas’s model-looking girlfriend (or niece?) was a sort of Dadaist feminist manifesto that was brilliant, hilarious, and surreal; and that Artemis (and likely the lanky girlfriend) will remember for all time.
That got me laughing—sort of in horror at myself—but still, I’ll take it.
She also said—commanded, really—that I need to go ahead and ask out Patrick from Beer Alley. We discussed a strategy as well as first-date ideas and, as nervous as it makes me, I think she’s right! It’s time to bust myself out of this celibate rut! But sitting in the coffee shop for hours with a new friend also reminded me that nothing—not even a hot date with a sexy skater—can replace girlfriends. I sometimes wonder if straight women fed up with men shouldn’t just live in a big house together, going to private bedrooms for merman time and reconvening for spirit-raising socializing. See, Everett! Your guru Nina Sylvester isn’t the only one who can envision a different kind of sexual utopia/dystopia.
I’m headed in to work tomorrow and Patrick better watch himself. Dirty Steve better watch himself, too, but in a defensive rather than a sexual way! (Though Artemis did warn me not to escalate the battle immediately but rather to lay low in the manner of a strategic student of “The Art of War.”) I asked her if I should envision myself as Durga, a goddess with countless arms, each hand holding a different weapon, and thus prepared for any type of battle—be it one of vengeance or romance. Artemis looked bewildered, but said sure.
Empoweredly,
Roxy
August 2, 2012
Dear Everett,
I woke up this morning thrilled and trepidatious to know today is the day I would finally ask Patrick out. I put on my labradorite necklace from Artemis and as I dolled myself up with some of Durga’s weapons—a little concealer, blush, and mascara—I thought of Artemis’s advice that my invitation should be casual. “Nothing is more likely to scare off a slacker Austin guy than the threat of a REAL DATE!” she explained. “Invite him over for a home-cooked meal and he’s one hundred percent sure to stand you up. Ask him to meet you for a cheap beer in a dive bar and he’s ninety-eight percent likely to show.” (In lieu of biking, I drove with the air-conditioning cranked. I feared that if I pedaled into work in this heat, by the time I arrived I’d have sweated off all the makeup.)
When Dirty Steve smirked at me and asked me how my night at Emo’s went, I said, “Fantastic! I saw one of the greatest live shows of my life.” (The ability to conceal and reveal information as needed is another one of Durga’s weapons!) The quiver of disappointment in his face told me that he had indeed purposefully food poisoned me. I wanted to confront him right then, but I need this stupid job—not only does it cover my mortgage and provide benefits, it also offers me “free” groceries. And as they say: revenge is a dish best served cold (an expression with which Dirty Steve is clearly familiar because that past-its-prime sushi came straight out of the refrigerator case).
During a lull between customers, Nelson relayed to me that Jason was arrested last night for spray-painting “Stop Gentrifying East Austin” on stop signs on Holly Street.
“That’s insane!” I said. First, we natives of Austin cannot expect to stand by silently while everything we love about this city is destroyed. Second, what the fuck, cops? They seem to think it’s fine for white tweakers to cook meth night and day in a van on the south side. Law enforcement cannot be bothered to rouse themselves for such calls, chalking it up to the norm of a “hippy neighborhood.” Meanwhile, free speech by a young man of color in the form of perceived “vandalism” is an arrestable offense. My outrage about the whole issue was enervating.
It’s strange to say, but I felt generally energized and buoyed up, and not just by indignation at Jason’s arrest. In some way my disastrous puking, followed by the excellent pep talk from Artemis, has popped me out of my melancholy surrounding your egress and has imbued me with a carpe diem sort of feeling, not in a clichéd, modern-day mistranslated “Seize the Day” sort of way, but rather in the original sense that Horace intended in his great work “Odes” (23 BC). The literal translation of the phrase would be “pluck the day [as it is ripe].” It was time to use my newfound energy to pluck that tasty snack and a half, Patrick, right off the Beer Alley vine! On my break I went to the bathroom and put on a little more blush—to channel that rosy-cheeked goddess Venus—and then headed to the other side of the store. Sure enough, when I sailed through the sliding glass doors into the refrigerated Beer Alley, lined on both sides with every domestic and exotic beer imaginable (and all of them overpriced), there was Patrick stocking shelves.
“Hey, Patrick,” I said. “Any chance you have any Pliny the Elder?” Jason and Nelson often wax poetic about how Pliny the Elder is a beer both delicious and difficult to obtain. Apparently Pliny shipments arrive every first and third Thursday, and the beer is sold out by Friday noon.
“You like Pliny?” Patrick asked. His eyes lit up and I could feel them run the length of my body, as if taking the (physical) measure of a woman with such exquisite taste buds. (Luckily I’d removed my dirty deli maid apron before heading over to Beer Alley.)
“Delicious,” I said, afraid if I started throwing in words like “hoppy” or “chocolatey” I would miss the mark since I’ve never actually tried Pliny myself.
“I’ve got a special stash. What time do you get off? I’m going to the skate park after work. Maybe you could come watch me skate while you drink a Pliny?”
All praise to Venus, Goddess of Love, I didn’t even need to ask him out! I just had to radiate a seductive energy and HE asked ME out. Artemis is a genius. But then the lameness of his offer began to sink in. Being from Austin, Patrick’s proposition should not have confused me. But still it took me aback for a moment. I am twenty-eight years old and Patrick is a couple years older, and yet this technically grown man had just invited me to drink beer while I watch him skateboard? Artemis had warned me, but this date seemed considerably lamer even than meeting for a beer in a dive bar, which would at least be air-conditioned. I mentally wished I had a headset in my ear being manned by Artemis who could guide my response.
“What do you think?” Patrick said.
“I might have this thing,” I said.
“That’s cool.”
“Let me check. Can I tell you, like, right before I get off?”
“Sure.”
I ran outside and called Artemis, who picked up on the first ring. I described the situation to her.
“He’s hot, right?” she asked.
“YES!” I said.
“So duh! Do it!”
“But I’m almost thirty.”
“So what if he’s a man-child? You think those cashiers I hook up with are going to take me to the opera?”
“Good point.”
“Go tell him yes, and then sit on the edge of that skate park and get yourself a buzz, girl.”
On the way back to Beer Alley I realized perhaps having to consult with a friend as to whether or not I should accept the skate park invitation was almost as childish as the invitation itself.
Patrick looked surprised to see me appear again so soon.
“I’m in,” I said.
When he smiled I could see his teeth were straight and a glorious white, and I wondered for a split second if he had parents who had paid thousands in orthodontic fees when he was a child and how they felt about his current occupation and hobbies. But I pushed the thought out of my mind. In Austin, isn’t everyone in my tribe well educated and underemployed? And doesn’t it mean something to stay true to our passions and fundamental sense of integrity rather than sell out to bullshit societal expectations?
The skate park is just three blocks away from Whole Foods, tucked back behind Ninth and Lamar. Since Patrick got off work an hour before I did, I walked over to meet him there. I arrived, glazed in sweat, to find Patrick sitting under a tree with a backpack and his skateboard. He told me he was stoked I had come, then he popped the top off a Pliny wrapped in a brown paper bag.
“For you,” he said, and handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I said, and took a swig. It actually was delicious.
As I sipped, I surveyed the surroundings. Dozens of skaters whizzed around the concrete bowls. Teenage girls sat around the edge of the park in clumps, giggling, pushing each other on the shoulder, reapplying lip gloss or fiddling with their hair.
“There are more grown men skating than I thought there’d be.”
“It can be hard to stick with it sometimes. But I’m here almost every day,” Patrick beamed.
I felt my eyes grow wide and took a second slug of Pliny to avoid responding.
“I’ve got another one in my backpack with an opener,” Patrick said. “Help yourself.”
Then he turned and dropped down into the bowl on his skateboard with a sort of casual, magnificent, animal grace rarely seen in an urban environment. I wanted to judge him—for his job in Beer Alley, for his hobby of whizzing around and around a concrete bowl in the ground on a little board with wheels on it. But as I drank the Pliny in the sun-dappled shade, a breeze blowing through my hair, I realized I truly respected his dedication to a simple lifestyle, a Zen pursuit of the physical, an utter lack of status-seeking (perhaps even a pride in that lack of status-seeking?)
The Roxy Letters Page 8