“Shit,” I yelled, jumping up. “Great to see you, Ken. Nice to meet you, teachers!” I ran out into the parking lot and jumped into my car. Luckily it’s only a five-minute drive from The Parlor on North Loop to the new one on Guadalupe. Outside I took a deep breath, finger combed my hair, and then stepped through the doors. I scanned the room and saw Texas staring at me as if he’d been watching the door. He stood up and walked over to me.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I said.
“I thought you weren’t going to make it.”
“I went to the other Parlor.”
“There are two?” He looked somehow both panicked and relieved.
“Exactly,” I said. “I was halfway through my second anger pint, sure you’d stood me up.” I glanced toward his table, where the other guys from FAIL BETTER! were pretending they weren’t checking me out.
“We ate all our pizza. Want me to order you another one?”
“No. I stuffed my feelings at the other Parlor. Want a beer?”
“I don’t drink,” he said.
“Oh,” I said.
“Maybe we should go to Dolce Vita and have a coffee or something.”
“I love coffee,” I said stupidly.
“Want to meet my friends first?”
We walked over to the table. “Hey, guys, this is Vet Girl,” Texas said.
I laughed. “I’m Roxy.”
“We know,” Arsen Alton said. “Texas has been ripping out what’s left of his hair worrying that you weren’t going to show.” Texas blushed an adorable bright red.
“He’s got all his hair,” I said. Texas turned around and tilted his head over so I could see a cute little bald spot in the back. “So some of your fur has been loved off,” I said. “That’s what makes you real.”
“ ‘The Velveteen Rabbit’ is one of my top five favorite children’s books,” Texas said.
The FAIL BETTER! guys glared at Texas with a collective look that surely meant, “Shut the fuck up, man!” But I have no idea why. There’s nothing wrong with having a working knowledge of a wide range of literature.
“I love it too,” I said. We all chatted for a minute, and I tried to casually display my knowledge of FAIL BETTER!’s album without seeming like a groupie. It was a difficult balance to strike, but one I think I did well. Texas told them we were headed over to Dolce Vita for a coffee, and they shot one another knowing looks. I told them it was nice to meet them and Texas and I headed out the door.
“They definitely seemed tuned in to the fact that I’m a girl.”
“I told them about you, is all.”
“That other girl I always see you with. Is she your girlfriend?”
“Gazelle? She used to dance onstage with the band. She’s just my friend.”
“Women who look like that aren’t anybody’s friend.”
“Are you being beautyist?”
“I’m just saying.”
“Okay. I think maybe she wanted more. And I didn’t. So we haven’t been hanging out as much.”
“Why didn’t you want to date her?”
He paused. “I don’t want to say anything bad about her. She’s a nice woman. Our interests just weren’t a total fit. She was so into hair and makeup and clothes. I just can’t keep up with that stuff. What about you? Are you and that Australian guy an item?”
“That’s just mean.”
“It’s not! Last time I saw you, it seemed like you were close.” He shot one eyebrow up on his forehead in a teasingly Sherlock sort of way.
“Shut uuuuuppppp!” I said. “The road to that moment in time was winding and terrible. And it’s one I will not be taking again.”
“It did seem rather,” he paused as if searching for a word that wouldn’t offend, “adventurous.” He took my hand and then we were walking along with our fingers clasped. Holding hands! When was the last time I’d held hands with someone? Every single ounce of attention in my body was on the places where our skin touched. It was literally one of the most erotic things that’s ever happened to me, no offense to our past sexual relationship, Everett. A couple years ago I had a Spanish tutor. And the way we practiced Spanish was just by talking about our dating lives. And if one of us met someone the other would always say, “¿Hay chemica?” which means, “Is there chemistry?” And there hardly ever was, because good sexual chemistry between two people is rare. But as soon as I held hands with Texas, I knew for sure that we had it.
I asked about how he started playing for FAIL BETTER! and he said before he joined the band, he’d had an electric drum kit that he played all the time in his garage.
“An electric drum kit that doesn’t make any noise?”
“I mean, I could hear noise in my headphones.”
“You were a silent drummer!” I said.
“I was a silent drummer.”
“That’s so sad in a way.”
He laughed. “It was kind of lonely.”
“I’m glad you found a great band to play with.”
“What about you? Do you have an art form?”
“I do,” I said. For a moment I was on the verge of blathering about how blocked I was artistically and why. But then I felt this sudden waft of intuition and instead I said, “Right now my medium is protest signs.”
“Protest signs? Yes! Social justice is my thing. I want to hear more.” We were walking through the door of Dolce Vita then and we ordered cappuccinos and sat down at a little table. I took a sip. “Oh my Goddess, that’s good,” I said.
“I’ll probably be up all night and I don’t even care,” Texas said.
I refrained (barely) from saying something lewd about what he could do all night while he was awake.
“Roxy, I want to hear all about your protest signs, but there’s something I want to tell you first,” he said. What could it be? He has AIDS. He has herpes. Both of those things I could work with. He’s gay? He’s bi? He’s moving to South America? Right then his phone dinged, and dinged again. “I’m sorry. I have to see what this is.” He looked at his phone and all the color drained from his face. He seemed suddenly older, and very sad, and a little afraid. “I’m sorry. I have to make a call.”
“Whatever you need to do,” I said.
He dialed. “Hello,” he said, his brow furrowed in concern. He listened. “Oh God. Oh no. Yeah. I can go to the hospital. I’m at Dolce Vita, but I don’t have my car. Okay. See you in a few. I’ll be out front.” He hung up and looked at me. “My friend Stuart, who I’m kind of responsible for in some ways, he tried to kill himself.”
“Good Goddess!” I said. “That’s horrible! What do you need to do? How can I help?”
“Our other friend Doug lives just around the corner. He’s picking me up to take me to the hospital.”
“Do you want me to take you?”
“No. You don’t need to be dragged into this mess.” He held his phone out to me. “Give me your number?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said. My hands shook as I created a new contact in his cell phone—Vet Girl—and typed in my number. I handed it back to him. “Will you let me know how it goes?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll text you in the morning.”
I stood outside with him as we waited for his friend Doug. The enchanted feeling of our date had evaporated with the phone call. Texas looked worried and sad. His friend Doug pulled up in just a couple minutes. “We can give you a ride back to The Parlor.”
“No, it’s okay. I’ll walk. It’s just a few blocks.”
He leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. “I’ll talk to you soon,” he said. “It was so great to see you. I’m sorry I have to go.” Then he climbed into the car and slammed the door. And then he was gone.
That was last night. And now it’s 8 p.m. and I’ve heard NOTHING from him. Not one text. Not one word. Did he make up that elaborate ruse to get out of his date with me? It doesn’t seem possible.
Hell hath no fury and all that, but I can’t even be ma
d because maybe his friend actually died or something.
Deflatedly,
Roxy
September 24, 2012
Dear Everett,
Still no word from Texas. I lunge for my phone every time I get a text—which confuses Roscoe, who barks excitedly as if it’s some sort of sick game—but nothing! I’m trying to imagine what I did to cause Texas to ghost me. Maybe I am a man repellant? I am trying not to obsess on unanswerable questions, but rather to focus on improving myself and my life.
While I am now pretty freaking scared of magic, I still put a bar of fancy chocolate on my Venus altar last Friday. And I tasted my new batch of powerful, spellbound kombucha today. It’s almost ready!
Artemis and Annie came over last night to help me with final preparations for the protest on Sunday—just six days away! Annie invited everyone we know on social media. We tweeted it and twatted it and emailed all our friends and coworkers (except for Artemis’s coworkers) and now it’s really happening. The signs are done. They are not perfect, but I’m glad I drew all the lettering and images and symbols myself and only let Patrick and Artemis fill in my work with paint. The signs may not be art, but they are the sum total of my creative output for the last year, and I am relatively happy with them. Annie told me she was proud of me. Artemis ranted about how we are going to topple corporate America like it’s a statue of Saddam Hussein in April 2003. (This was slightly annoying since she’s not even coming to the protest.) But then she veered off again, talking about that plumber who fixed her stopped up toilet last month. She said she’s pretty sure he’s draining her bank account. Annie asked a lot of practical questions about identity theft, calling the bank, Artemis canceling her credit cards, etc. But Artemis didn’t seem interested in a solution. It was a little worrisome.
Then we all got progressively drunker and conversation veered toward my recent romantic mishaps. They both admitted that Texas did sound really nice right up until the ghosting, which made it even more loathsome and despicable.
Annie told us she’s started seriously dating Jeff Castro in IT, though she’s still desperately hot for his identical twin Joe, too. This caused trouble with Jeff the other day when she “accidentally” grabbed Joe around the waist in the kitchen. She swore she mistook Joe for Jeff, but for some reason this didn’t assuage Jeff’s consternation.
“Maybe you could just say, ‘If there were two of me, wouldn’t you want to be the meat in that sandwich?’ ” Artemis suggested.
Annie’s love life may be full of tension, but she’s rocking her job. Topher Doyle recently called her “my right-hand woman.” Ever since their marketing campaign about how Whole Foods lobsters are now housed in ethical lobster condos, sales of lobster have risen 40 percent and overall store sales have risen, too. Annie is angling to have her title changed from “Assistant to Topher Doyle” to Whole Foods’s first “Vice President of Animal Rights” (VP of AR), and she’s framing it in terms of how great it will be for the company’s worldwide image if they have a VP of AR. A fitting move for a woman whose mantra is: “You want the power? Take it.”
Artemis confessed she’s working on some secret art project, but she won’t tell us anything about it. She did promise to let us see it when the time comes. She was very funny and mysterious about it, which has me curious, to say the least.
There is so much cultural hype about boyfriends and husbands, but I’m starting to think that having good girlfriends really is the greatest thing on earth. But now that my house is empty (except for the furballs), Sunday’s Lululemon protest looms. This protest will be the first time in ages I will have ACTUALLY DONE SOMETHING I CARE ABOUT. I hope it’s not a total failure, or else I may feel I’m “doomed to suck.” I am really very nervous about it. It’s one thing to complain interminably about the stupid Lululemon. It’s another thing entirely to actually try to do something about it.
Best,
Roxy
September 26, 2012
Dear Everett,
Yesterday I went to Sun City to say goodbye to my mom and dad before they take off on their trip to visit my brother Derek in Peru. They found an amazing eco-lodge that has an organic spa and a natural hot springs heated by a nearby volcano, but does not have internet or cell service. As we gushed over the pictures of the swim-up bar and water slide, I felt a serious pang of FOMO that I wasn’t able to swing the trip. But after Roscoe’s most recent panty-eating episode, my financial situation is even worse than when my parents first started planning the vacation. With no housemate to help with the mortgage, I just don’t have the money. My credit card is maxed out again from vet bills and my checking account is always slightly negative by the time I get paid.
My dad opened the door. He was grinning, jaunty like I haven’t seen him since he retired, and listening to a novelty country song called “What Would Willie Do?” I finally got it out of him that for the past three days he’s been doing twelve-hour marathon dental sessions on Captain Tweaker (who my dad calls by his real name, Franklin). It seems the work has reinvigorated my dad. “It’s nice to feel useful again,” he said.
“Roxy, it seems this charity project you’ve cooked up might have saved our marriage,” my mother said.
“What?” my father said, feigning outrage.
“If you hadn’t snapped out of your grumpy spell, I might have left you,” she teased. My dad swatted her on the ass. I’m happy they’ve rekindled their spark, but ew!
“If you need us when we are gone, dear,” my mom said, “you’ll have to call the Peruvian consulate.” She was wearing a white tennis skirt with hot-pink racing stripes down the side.
“I won’t need you,” I said. I felt a little jealous they were going to stay somewhere swanky without me, but I didn’t want them to know and feel sorry for me. “I hope you have an amazing trip. Give Derek my love.” I teared up when I hugged them as I was leaving. While deep down I wish I had a mom who understands me and has a great sense of style, I really do love my parents.
And now they are off to Peru without me.
Feeling slightly orphaned,
Roxy
P.S. The magical kombucha I brewed is ready! I am now dedicated to sipping the elixir daily to increase my strength and confidence, and to attract good luck and success in love and work!
September 28, 2012
Dear Everett,
Nelson is back from PharmaTrial and during our shift at the deli he was waxing poetic about how great it was. He especially seems to have loved having had all his choices taken away from him. “You eat when they say eat,” he said. “You sleep when they say sleep. It’s like a sort of weird nirvana where all the pressures of modern life have been removed.” As he was talking I couldn’t help but notice he has a serious eye twitch he didn’t have before the drug trial. But his skin actually looks amazing—the experimental drug they were testing on his acne seems to have been quite effective.
“That sounds a lot like prison,” Jason said. The further along his girlfriend gets in her pregnancy, the more testy he seems.
“It’s in a voluntary prison where you can be truly free,” Nelson said.
“What the fuck are you carrying on about, Dingle Dufus?” said Dirty Steve, who seems to have forgiven Nelson for lying about his grandma’s death in order to get out of work. “PharmaTrial is a place where Big Pharma tests drugs on poor people. If you think that’s freedom, you’re even dumber than I thought.” It felt unsettling to totally agree with Dirty Steve.
That’s when Nelson pulled out a wad of screenplay pages. “I sent the screenplay I wrote while I was in PharmaTrial to a manager at Circle of Circles in LA. I’m pretty sure I’ll hear back from them soon.” I took the proffered screenplay from Nelson’s hand and skimmed the first page. It was absolute jibberish that did not adhere to any common laws of grammar, syntax, or proper screenplay formatting. Poor Nelson! I hope the happy twilight of his delusions is never punctured by the harsh sunlight of reality.
On my break I decided t
o walk over and do a final recon of the sidewalk in front of Lululemon to mentally prepare for the protest the day after tomorrow, which of course meant I had to pass by Waterloo Records. Even though FAIL BETTER! has already done their in-store performance, that stupid poster still hangs huge in the Waterloo window. Texas looked down on me as if to say, “I never texted you like I said I would, and now I’m rubbing your face in it.” It gave me a pang for sure, but I tried to focus on my mission of scouting my protest space.
The Lululemon sidewalk is pretty small, but there is a decent-sized parking lot adjacent to it that could give us a little more room to move. Also, right next door is an open area for people waiting to go into Amy’s Ice Creams (a wonderful local business deserving of the location!). As I surveyed the area, I felt a fresh wave of outrage that Lululemon deigned to open a store in the building that previously housed the glorious Waterloo Video. They have replaced a veritable mecca of excellent video rentals and local quirk with a store dedicated to the idea that women should be svelte, athletic, and rich enough to buy overpriced tights while swallowing a shopping bag full of positive affirmations and feel-good quotes such as “Do one thing a day that scares you.” (Actually, I’ll take that slogan to heart! This protest scares me, and yet I’m ready to charge it like Durga!) Energized by my fury, I let out a Zena war cry, which caused several passersby—unfamiliar with my mission—to stare at me and then hurry past.
I now feel as ready as I’ll ever be to drive the offending Lululemon from the hallowed intersection of Sixth and Lamar. I may not be able to topple the whole corporation, but I will boot that one store out of there! Sunday is the big day and I am ready! Let’s see if our one-day protest can be enough to turn public sentiment against the store and wreck their bottom line!
Excitedly,
Roxy
CHAPTER NINE
October 1, 2012
Dear Everett,
The Roxy Letters Page 18