“WHAT? How do you know about that?” she asked.
“How many alter egos do you have?”
“Girl, I lose track.” Just then Annie knocked on the door. Once we’d settled in with drinks, I gave them a blow-by-blow of my spiral of humiliation.
“Epic!” Artemis said. “First you barf on the FAIL BETTER! drummer’s girlfriend’s shoes, and then you bust out of a doorway leading to seven hundred people masturbating each other with panties dangling from your shoe. Shit, girl. He’s gonna be intrigued.”
“She’s right,” Annie concurred. “You are most definitely on his mind.”
Artemis launched into her theory that the crazier and weirder and more eccentric a woman seems, the more a man worth his salt will want to get with her. She was talking so fast her words seemed to bump into one another, as if each was a reckless driver who couldn’t obey the speed limit.
“Who said Texas is worth his salt? You are the one who told me all drummers are busters,” I added. Then Annie began a rousing condemnation of guys in Austin who think just having a pulse and a dick that gets hard should suffice and that no further effort or courtship is required on their part.
Artemis countered in an increasingly slurred voice that a pulse and a hard dick were perfect offerings, really, because who wanted to deal with a man who would hang around? It was a fantastic night overall, and for a bit I even forgot my sorrows and humiliation.
But now today I am hungover and cannot call in sick again for fear I will lose my job. And I hope I don’t have to face Patrick. I don’t want to think about him rising to the occasion of a skillful coupling with that sexy burlesque girl. Oh why, oh why did I let myself think getting my honey where I make my money was a good idea!???
Melancholily,
Roxy
September 12, 2012
Dear Everett,
Well, as I anticipated, yesterday work was a living hell. Nelson is still gone to PharmaTrial so we were short-staffed. (I console myself with the thought that at least I have not hit the rock bottom of selling my body to Big Pharma.) Customers stood three deep at the deli counter all afternoon and were thus grumpy once they were finally able to place their orders. I kept my eyes peeled for any sign of Patrick. For hours there was nothing, but then at about 4 p.m. I spotted him standing in line at a register with the raven-haired burlesque grrrl who must have come in to eat a late lunch with him on his break. When he and I were doing our “dance” of flirtation, he never once asked me to have lunch!!!!!! A lunch date seems so casual yet intimate that it must be a sign of a seriously burgeoning relationship. I feel humiliated and alone and somehow convinced the burlesque goddess has already taught Patrick how to lavish (non-weird, non-masturbation cult) attention on her lady bits.
On my break I walked over to Waterloo Records just to get out of Whole Foods. I was again greeted by the giant FAIL BETTER! poster in the Waterloo window announcing their upcoming in-store performance. Texas looked down on me like the billboard eyes of Dr. T. J. Eckleberg in “The Great Gatsby.” Seeing his cute face and ripped physique in that tight black T-shirt brought back the horrible memories of what I now think of as “the Great OM Debacle of 2012.” Though in real life, run-ins with Texas have brought only profound embarrassment, strangely his band’s music still gives me comfort. I even ducked into the listening booth for ten minutes of the soothing sounds of his drumming.
Though I was momentarily calmed by the sounds of FAIL BETTER!, I now feel I am destined to be alone with the furballs, and that any attempts I make to form a romantic bond with another human will be met with failure and disappointment.
Sadly,
Roxy
P.S. Perhaps to make myself feel even worse, I texted Artemis to ask if she would please participate in the Lululemon protest. NO WAY! she texted back. I’D BE FIRED SO FAST. I LOVE YOU, BUT I LOVE HAVING A JOB AS A GUERRILLA BODY IMAGE COUNSELOR MORE.
I HATE TO ADMIT IT, BUT THAT MAKES ME FEEL BETRAYED, I countered.
I HATE TO ADMIT IT, BUT YOUR SELFISHNESS KNOWS NO BOUNDS, she said.
I’m not sure if either or both or neither of us was kidding.
P.P.S. The one bright spot of my day—before work I saw a cleaning crew hauling dirty couches and other crap out of Tweakerville. It looks like I’ve successfully ousted Captain Tweaker and his brethren from my life forever!
September 15, 2012
Dear Everett,
I will admit that when you told me last night that you’re “seeing” a woman who lives at the OM house, it felt like a punch to the gut. (And of course she has a totally sexy, mysterious name—Nadia! A name that all the world will forever associate with a perfect 10!) I always secretly comforted myself with the idea that you wanted to be with me. It made me feel like I was alone by choice. I never even admitted it to myself, but I liked having you on standby as my fallback option. And now you perhaps love another. (Though I have to wonder—what does it mean to be “seeing” someone in a house where everyone fingerbangs everyone else? Do you still glove up when you hook up with her? Are you now “exclusive” as OMers? Or do you still partner swap for timed sessions?)
Now that I know you have a girlfriend, I have to ponder the fact that I haven’t given you a single letter I’ve written to you in months, certainly not since before you moved out. Writing to you just served in the end to make me (falsely) feel you would always be available to me as a back-up boyfriend. But I cannot lay down my pen. And whether or not you are my boyfriend, you will always be the person whose listening ear got me marginally back on my feet after my heart was crushed by Brant Bitterbrush. You are the person I find it easiest in the world to talk to and so talk to you I will, if only in a one-sided way you will never hear. I will continue to write out my truths to you, starting with this one: I am a failure with men.
If the thought of munching on a vagina didn’t make me feel unbearably squeamish I would convert to lesbianism on the spot. Regrettable (and even prudish) though it may be, even in my fantasies all I want is dick. My recent failed attempt at romance with Patrick makes me miss Brant Bitterbrush and our relationship all the more, which for so long was delightful and happy, frolicking and passionate. How long will I yearn for the days when we slept tangled together? How long will anger and shame at his double crossing vex me? Sometimes I think the only way to truly exorcise him from my spirit would be to get Duckie & Lambie kicked out of Whole Foods. But is it truly my path to obsess about revenge in every corner of my life? Also, Annie says if I don’t stop pestering her about it she will no longer be my friend. “Putting your energy into doing something bad to a new father of triplets—even if he deserves it—is not going to make for a happier life for you,” she says every time I bring up the fact that she should be using her sway with Topher Doyle to evict Duckie & Lambie from the aisles of Whole Body.
Artemis came over for coffee yesterday and I confessed all to her as we painted two signs. She dumped quite a bit of bourbon into her coffee and I got the impression she may have had a few swigs off the bottle on the way to my house. (Sometimes I think I should worry about Artemis, but she’s so much fun it’s impossible to do so with any seriousness.)
“You, my friend, have a case of one-itis,” she said. “Hand me the gold paint.”
“One-itis?” I rooted through the paint tubes until I found Solid Gold Tacky, which I passed her way.
“It’s where you are obsessed with ONE GUY.”
“That’s not entirely true. For a while I was obsessed with Patrick.”
“But over the past year, you’ve spent most of your time thinking about—”
“Brant Bitterbrush. No question.”
“There is only one cure for one-itis,” she said seriously, as if she was a doctor doling out a difficult medical treatment. She squeezed too much gold paint onto a scrap of cardboard. Go figure—that girl does absolutely everything to excess.
“And?”
“It’s to go out and fuck twelve guys. Then come back and tell me you are st
ill pining for Brant Bitterbrush. ’Cause ya won’t be. And that Duckie & Lambie shit? Forget about it. Thinking about revenge is just giving that guy more of your lifeblood.” As she spoke she waved her hands in the air and then dragged her fingers through her hair, like a mad sage desperate to impart her wisdom to me.
I looked over at Artemis’s sign. I’d carefully outlined the words: BUY LOCAL. DON’T BUY A (LULU)LEMON, but she was doing a sloppy job filling in the paint. “Careful with that,” I said. “And forget it. I slept with Patrick and that just made me feel worse. It was like another scoop of heartbreak on the banana split of my Brant Bitterbrush sorrow.”
“But he was lousy in bed!” Artemis roared. “You don’t just need sexual healing, you need clitoral healing, too!” I must have told her at some point about Patrick’s Marvin Gaye dance moves. “At least that cockblock Everett has moved out and moved on!” Artemis’s philosophies and theories are questionable, but her enthusiasm never fails to cheer me up. “Can you draw a pucker-faced lemon for me?” she asked, pushing her sign over to me.
Speaking of blocks: two months ago, if someone’d asked me to draw and paint a lemon, I wouldn’t have been able to even attempt it, but now I set to work, knowing it was just a stupid sign and one someone else would probably be holding.
Artemis was so drunk by the time she was ready to go home that I ordered her a ride. While we were waiting, she started talking about how worried she is that the plumber who unstopped her toilet a while ago is going to come back and berate her for putting some spaghetti down her sink. (???) It didn’t make a lot of sense, but I’m chalking it up to drunk talk. Mostly I think Artemis is talented and wild and fun, but sometimes I wonder about her.
Worriedly,
Roxy
September 17, 2012
Dear Everett,
Artemis’s uplifting effect stuck with me for a couple of days, but had largely worn off by yesterday morning. As I sat outside having my morning coffee and moping slightly, I realized I have NOT been showing up for Yolanda in this, the run-up to her wedding. I’ve barely spoken to her since last month when she asked me to be a bridesmaid. I felt a twinge of guilt at being so focused on myself at a time when I should be showering attention on the soon-to-be-bride. As I was also rather lonely, I gave her a call. Even though she was at work, she picked up right away and asked if I’d meet her, Kate, Rose, and Barclay for a happy-hour drink at some yuppie bar on West Sixth. I reluctantly agreed and—to my surprise—the whole experience was delightful. Those girls are hilarious, and even their tales of motion-activated kitchen sink faucets and stultifying jobs are somehow chortle inducing. How have I let myself become so isolated? Seeing them made me realize something: I don’t have to be as wild as Artemis, or as professionally savantish as Annie. I don’t have to plan a wedding like Yo, or hold down a boring nine-to-five job like Yo, Kate, Rose, and Barclay. I can love them all and also kind of make my own way. Unfortunately, my way is currently characterized by professional and romantic doldrums. I am hoping if I pay further homage to Venus, Goddess of Friendship, things will really open up for me.
But for now, the grrrls and I have committed to meeting up at least once a month until Yolanda’s wedding festivities ramp up in December, at which point I’ll see them more often. The only question is, what shall I read at her wedding? There’s a glorious passage from Denis Johnson’s “Jesus’ Son” about the love Fuckhead feels for a bartender with a heavy pour that might suffice!
With the energy of renewed friendships,
Roxy
P.S. Now I’m off to Crystal Works to gather items for a new Venus altar before I head in to work. It’s unfortunate that such a parlor of crystals and sage should sit in the shadow of House Park Bar-B-Que, whose sign reads: NEED NO TEEF TO EAT MY BEEF. But that cannot be helped.
September 18, 2012
Dear Everett,
I went out and ran some errands today and when I arrived home I opened the door and, for the first time ever, Roscoe didn’t run up to greet me. “Roscoe?” I called, hurrying through the house, but he wasn’t there. Panic and adrenaline surged through my body. Where was my baby? I ran to the kitchen and peered through the window to see a man on his hands and knees in the backyard digging a hole.
It was Captain Tweaker!
And next to him on the ground lay Roscoe’s very blingy dog collar. Fueled by a wave of wrath at this fresh, horrific knowledge that Captain Tweaker had murdered my Roscoe and was now burying him, I grabbed the giant bottle of olive oil off the counter by the neck and blasted out the back door.
I charged Captain Tweaker. He looked up at me from his hands and knees and his face registered surprise before I bashed him in the side of the head with the olive oil. The bottle broke, dousing us both in oil. I dropped to my knees and grabbed the trowel Captain Tweaker had been holding as he fell to the ground. I dug frantically to unbury my sweet Roscoe. But then my trowel hit glass with a clink. I dug more frantically and pulled out a mason jar full of jewelry and other items I couldn’t quite make out due to the dirt clinging to the jar. I shook Captain Tweaker violently. “What did you do to my dog?” I screamed.
Captain Tweaker came to, slowly.
“Where is Roscoe?” I yelled.
“At the vet,” he said. “My sister’s with him at the vet.”
“WHAT?” I yelled, shaking him. “What did you do to my dog???!!!”
Captain Tweaker sputtered out that he had arrived in my yard to find Roscoe choking on something. His sister (???) had hurried Roscoe to the vet. None of this made sense to me but I dragged him to his feet and toward my car. “Where?” I yelled. “Where are they?”
“At the emergency vet on Mary Lane,” he said.
I’ve been to the emergency vet more than once so I knew the way. We climbed into my car—still dripping olive oil—and I drove at lightning speed. Captain Tweaker was rambling on but I couldn’t process anything he said, I was so panicked. At the vet ER I jumped out of the car and ran in yelling, “Roscoe! Is my Roscoe okay?”
The receptionist said, “He’s going to be fine. You can see him now. He’s in Exam Room Eight.”
I hurried through the dog gate and down the hall, bursting into the exam room, where Roscoe was happily playing with a woman who looked like an elementary school librarian. I fell to my knees, sobbing and hugging him. “What did you do to my dog?” I said to the woman accusingly.
“She saved his life,” the vet said. He held out a masticated blob of my pink pleather python panties. “If she hadn’t brought Roscoe in when she did, he would have died. These are much less breathable than the cotton panties he ate last time.”
Roscoe licked my face happily, and I didn’t understand anything. And in my relief I didn’t care.
Once I had calmed down and paid the receptionist some exorbitant fee that once again maxed out the credit card I’ve been paying down, I took Roscoe out into the parking lot, Captain Tweaker and his librarian-looking sister on my heels.
“So what the fuck?” I said. “Give me one reason I shouldn’t call the police right now.”
“I’ve been sober since the day I got arrested,” Captain Tweaker said.
“Why aren’t you in jail?” I demanded.
“I’m a first-time offender. My friend Riff Raff—the little guy—it was his van and his operation. So I just pled to intent to distribute and got probation. Riff Raff and some of the others with priors are going away for years. But when I was living next door to you, I had some stuff that belonged to our mom.” He gestured at his straitlaced sister. “And I knew if the other guys found it, they’d pawn it. And then my sister would literally kill me.”
“I would,” his sister said. “I literally would.”
“So I buried it in your yard in that mason jar,” Captain Tweaker explained.
“And I told him we needed to go dig it up,” the sister said. “Where is it, anyway?”
“Shit, I left it in the yard,” Captain Tweaker said.
The si
ster let out a groan of despair and anger I only too well recognized and smacked him on the arm.
“Hey!” Captain Tweaker protested, then turned back to me. “So we went together to your house to dig it up.”
“I didn’t trust him to do it by himself,” the sister explained. “I was all for just knocking on your door and asking for your help.”
“But I knew you’d never let us. So my sister waited in the car while I went into your backyard, and I saw your little dog was choking on something. And in AA and NA I’m learning that you have to do the right thing in the moment, as best you can. So I got off his collar and tried to get out whatever was stuck in his throat. I couldn’t, so I grabbed the dog and took it to my sister’s car. She wouldn’t let me in the car until I had the mason jar, but said she’d drive the dog to the emergency vet.”
“It sounds harsh, but I’ve been through a lot with him,” the sister said.
“I get it,” I said.
“So then you came home and found me.” He rubbed his head ruefully.
“Can we come get our mom’s things?” the sister asked, her eyes glistening. “She died eight months ago. That’s when this one really went down the tubes.” She gestured at her brother.
”Okay,” I agreed, still trying to process the unexpected developments. Captain Tweaker saved Roscoe’s life?
“Thank you,” Captain Tweaker said, and in his eyes I saw something I thought I’d never see there—humanity and even gratitude. I thought he looked almost handsome, and then he smiled and his horrible, meth-rotten teeth totally ruined it.
Miffed and exhausted by the emotional roller coaster of the day,
Roxy
September 19, 2012
Dear Everett,
Venus is a crazy bitch and magic scares me. Let me explain.
I didn’t have to go into work today until 2 p.m. so I did a Venus invocation this morning. First, I set up an altar on a box on the floor. I covered the box with an altar cloth and then put out things Venus likes: rose quartz, sweetgrass, jade, green candles, ylang-ylang essential oil, chocolate, rose kombucha, and a bouquet of roses. I called Venus in, burned sweetgrass and lit the candles, anointed myself with the oil, and then talked to her, telling her all about my nervousness about the Lululemon protest, which is less than two weeks away. I thanked her for every blessing in my life I could think of.
The Roxy Letters Page 16