The Roxy Letters

by Mary Pauline Lowry

  Everyone in the room applauded and smiled at me as if I’d single-handedly rescued a baby from the bottom of a well. I beamed, Artemis forgiven. Next, a lady shared that her landlord was selling her house so she had to move and she hoped her Higher Power could help her find a new place. Then a guy shared that he’d finally surrendered to the idea that his second ex-wife is as big of a bitch as his first ex-wife. This caused some of the women in the room to shift in their seats and roll their eyes. After he shut up, there was a pause, and finally Texas said, “Hi, I’m Sam, I’m an alcoholic.”

  “Hi, Sam,” I said along with everyone else. There was something comforting about the call-and-response style of the meeting.

  “As you all know, I’ve been single for what seems like forever. And a while back I met this new woman I really like. She’s not like anyone I’ve ever met before.” Everyone around the room smiled and nodded as I died inside. He’d met someone! I was such an ass. He probably thought I was stalking him by coming to his meeting, and this was his way of letting me know I should leave him alone. I could barely stand to listen to another word. I felt like I might explode out of my skin. Even my teeth itched. “But I wasn’t able to ask her out because she was a client at my work and my boss has really strict rules about that kind of thing. But her case is closed—it’s been closed for a little while now. And now I feel stupid, like I missed my window. I mean, I have no idea if she’d even want to go out with me.” Now Texas was looking straight at me and even I could tell he wasn’t talking about some other girl.

  I wanted to let cross talk be damned, leap to my feet, and yell, “She does want to go out with you,” at which point Texas would stand, grab me up in his arms, and kiss me in front of this circle of alcoholics, who would burst into applause. But of course I sat frozen in my seat.

  “But I’m trying to surrender to the idea that I’m not in control of this situation. That’s all I got,” Texas said.

  The rest of the meeting went by in a blur, with me too nervous and excited to do more than sneak an occasional glance in Texas’s direction. When it was time for the meeting to end, the leader asked us to close with the Third Step prayer. Everyone stood in a circle, held hands, and closed their eyes. This gave me the chance to watch Texas as he said the prayer. He looked really cute with his head earnestly bowed and his eyes closed. As soon as the prayer was over, the circle broke up into little clumps of people.

  “Go talk to him,” Artemis said.

  “Don’t boss me, Cupid Vanuncio,” I said. But I headed toward Texas.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey, Roxy,” he said.

  “Thanks for sharing.” Could there be anything more awkward?

  “I hope it was okay.”

  I nodded in a way I meant to be encouraging.

  Just then three guys swarmed Texas, all hugging him and patting him on the back as if he’d just hit some kind of spiritual home run. They had a variety of piercings, rockabilly outfits, and neck tattoos. “These are my sponsees,” he explained. “Hey, guys, this is Roxy.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said, even though it wasn’t.

  “I’m so glad we are going over our third step tonight,” one of Texas’s sponsees said. They all looked at Texas sort of reverentially.

  “We go to Joe’s Coffee every week for our after-the-meeting meeting,” Texas explained.

  “We need to get on with it if we’re gonna get a good table,” one of the sponsees said. The other two nodded in agreement.

  “Yeah,” another said. “I only have a babysitter until nine.”

  “Well, I better—” Texas gestured toward the stairwell, the world beyond this cozy church basement, and even I could tell he’d rather be leaving with me than going for coffee with a bunch of dudes.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Good to see you.”

  “Good to see you, too,” Texas said, and then his three sponsees sort of swept him out of the building.

  A moment later Artemis grabbed my arm. “Tell me you got his number.”

  I shook my head.

  “Oh my God! I’m the world’s best wingman and you are impossible.”

  We were headed toward the stairs when I heard Captain Tweaker yell, “Thanks again for the teeth!” I turned to see him waving goodbye at me and grinning his giant proud grin. I’ve never seen something so endearing from a man who had recently called me a cunt.

  Artemis and I emerged into the dark night of the parking lot. “I can’t believe you didn’t get his number after he confessed his like for you in front of the entire meeting.”

  “I couldn’t!” I said. “Not in front of Team Bro Sponsees. It was like he was a cult leader.”

  “He’s just a good sponsor. Wait! I got it!” Artemis said. “You could leave a note on his car.” She pointed to a black Prius.

  “Absolutely not,” I said.

  “Come on! I’m sober and not the slightest bit manic. You’ve got to help me bring some fun into my life. This will cheer me up for a week!”

  “Fine,” I said. Truthfully, I didn’t need much convincing. “Pen? Paper?”

  She dug around in her purse and handed me a pen and a receipt. I started to write on it. Then I flipped it over and saw what it was. “Artemis! This is a receipt for a twelve-pack of condoms! I can’t leave a note on this!”

  “Might be good to let him know you come prepared,” she said, but she looked in her purse again and found me a tattered blank envelope.

  I carefully wrote:

  Sam,

  Great to see you! Call me if you ever want to grab a cup of coffee.

  —Roxy 512-555-8792 (My actual phone number)

  Artemis studied the note. “Basic and lacking in romance, but it will do.”

  We approached the car. As I was sliding the note under the wiper blades, I spotted the glistening eyes and sharp teeth of a snarling animal staring at me. I jumped back in alarm and then looked closer. A taxidermied raccoon sat in the passenger seat of Texas’s car. “What the fuck!” I yelled. What a freak! I pressed my eyes against the glass. On the floorboards sat a wadded up Burger King bag. And Texas had claimed to be a vegetarian!

  “Don’t worry! That raccoon and those burger wrappers belong to Texas’s sponsee Stuart. The raccoon is named Boris. He’s Stuart’s Higher Power.”

  “Jesus,” I said. “That’s fucked up.”

  “Stuart’s a contrarian. He likes to push the limits of the AA philosophy that a person can pick any Higher Power they want.” Suddenly Artemis screamed and pointed at Texas’s car with a trembling hand.

  “What?” I asked. “What is it?” I mean, what could be worse than a taxidermied raccoon?

  Then I saw it there in the backseat of Texas’s car.

  A child’s car seat.

  “Oh, shit,” I said. My heart sank. “Any chance that belongs to Stuart, too?”

  “Doesn’t seem likely,” Artemis said mournfully.

  In that moment I wished Artemis wasn’t sober, so we could walk across the street to Güero’s and get hammered together on margaritas. “Want to come over for a cup of tea?” I asked.

  “I most certainly do,” Artemis said.

  In the end, I didn’t leave the note on Texas’s car. Artemis and I went to my house and watched my bootleg copy of “Pitch Perfect.” It turns out she knows the complete choreography of the final dance sequence, and she taught me a couple parts of it. Roscoe joined in, dancing at our feet. So at least the night wasn’t a total bust. But I am devastated that Texas likely has a kid. Will my desire to live a child-free life forever ruin my chances at love? I can’t be any kid’s stepmom or even stepmom-type person. I don’t know how to deal with children, and kids come with a mom somewhere, and that’s just a whole lot of baggage I don’t need in my life. I’m barely not a kid myself.

  I now feel I am certain to live the rest of my life alone and, like other oppressed groups before me, I plan to reclaim the name given to me by my oppressors—Spinster.

  Woefully,


  Roxy

  November 7, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  I woke up this morning thinking maybe, just maybe I could deal with dating someone who has a kid. I mean, the kid still needs a car seat. Maybe it doesn’t even talk yet. I could teach it how to dip french fries into ketchup. That would be pretty cute, a tiny little Texas person daintily dipping a french fry. It’s something I could handle, maybe. But then Texas has all these sponsees. And I know they are needy, since they obviously worship him and he gets called in any time one of them has a crisis or whatever. When would he have time to pay attention to me?

  I was pondering all this when my phone rang with a local number I didn’t know. Against my usual inclinations, I answered it.

  “Vet Girl?”

  “Texas?”

  “I got your number from Mitch. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Yes! I was going to give it to you last night but then—”

  “The sponsee storm hit.”

  “Exactly.” And then I blurted out: “I thought you didn’t want to be my attorney because you hated me.”

  “Hate you? Ever since I saw you teetering on that chair in the vet’s office I’ve been totally intrigued by you. So I couldn’t have you be my client. Dating a client—or former client—isn’t illegal. But it’s seriously frowned upon at my work. So I just had this lightning-bolt realization that if I took your case I could never date you without it potentially being disastrous for my career, and just kind of… not right. Like a shrink dating a past client or something.”

  “But then you weren’t my attorney and you didn’t ask me out.”

  “I wanted to wait until your case was totally closed. And then Mitch told me you went into PharmaTrial.”

  I groaned. “And then you really didn’t want to date me!”

  “I wasn’t judging you! It’s just that after a while I felt like I’d missed my chance or something. And then I worried I’d be too straight and vanilla and boring for you.”

  “Vanilla? Boring? You’re a tattooed drummer.”

  “I mean, I saw you at that convention.”

  “Oh my Goddess, I told you, that was such a mistake. It was the first and last time I ever tried orgasmic meditation.”

  “Can I ask you something that’s kind of forward?”

  “Okay.”

  “Why would a man go to a convention to rub a woman’s clitoris when he could do it at home all the time with a woman he’s really into?”

  Oh my. “It doesn’t make sense to me,” I said.

  “I’m sorry about the sponsee swarm after the meeting.”

  “Your friend that tried to commit suicide?”

  “He was a sponsee.”

  “So does that kind of stuff happen all the time?”

  “No. Not serious stuff like that. But my sponsees, they do call me a lot.”

  “Texas.”

  “Yes.”

  “I saw the car seat in your car.”

  “That’s what I was trying to tell you, that night we were at Dolce Vita.” There was a pause. “I have two kids.” TWO???? “Madelyn and Titus. They are three and seven.”

  “Three and SEVEN!” I said. “My Venus, how old are you?”

  “I’m thirty-three,” he said.

  “Oh.” The new horror that he had not one, but two children was trying to sink in. “Do they have the same mom?”

  “Yes, of course. I mean, I was married to their mother. We share custody.”

  “So three and seven—they can both, like, talk?”

  “Of course they can talk.” Texas sounded confused and maybe frustrated.

  “Oh my God,” I said. Everett, you know I’m flummoxed when I mutter oaths at a patriarchal deity. “So you have two kids and they have a mom—who is your ex-wife?”

  “Yeah. That’s how it often works.”

  “And you have a gaggle of bro sponsees calling you every time they have drama or whatever.”

  He made a noise of exasperation. “I’m starting to think this conversation isn’t going well. Look, I’m an adult with responsibilities, and I work hard to be of service to other people so I can stay sober, and I work hard to be a good dad. And I like you and would like to go out with you.”

  I felt sick, and a giant lump formed in my throat. “I want to go out with you, too,” I said. “But you have so much going on. And kids… well, that’s a lot.” I hoped he couldn’t hear the quaver in my voice.

  But he could. “I don’t think this is the right thing right now,” Texas said. And I just stammered out some stupid things in agreement, and when we finally hung up I sat there for a long time, overwhelmed by sadness and conflicting emotions. Oh Venus, Goddess of Love! When it comes to my romantic life, why, oh why, is the timing always so damn off!

  Self-pityingly,

  Roxy

  P.S. But at least I am a professional artist with a paying job and health insurance! I am going to see this glass as half-full no matter that it’s empty of men! For today, I am resigned to a life of celibacy and solo sex.

  P.P.S. I just asked Annie if we could cancel FAIL BETTER! as the band to play the Puppy Adoption Center opening. Annie said their band name is already on all the promotional materials we’ve sent out, so unfortunately I have to suck it up. When I see Texas I will be aloof, gorgeous and chilly, leaving him to regret his earlier choice to procreate and find sobriety. (Okay, I’m not sure that makes sense. But hopefully I’ll be cool and detached and will not mope or even publicly leak tears of wistful longing for what could have been.)

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  January 6, 2013

  Dear Everett,

  Between working full-time, getting through the holidays, taking care of the furballs, making sure I still meet up with my girlfriends on the regular, being a bridesmaid in Yolanda’s New Year’s Eve wedding, and prepping for the grand opening of the Puppy Adoption Center, I’ve been too busy to write—but last night was so perfect and magical I have to get it down.

  Knowing Texas would be at the Puppy Adoption Center grand opening party playing with FAIL BETTER!, I splurged on a hot new black cocktail dress flecked with gold sparkles. I was a little nervous about seeing him. I didn’t want my confusion and turmoil about him to spoil the night.

  But I forgot about all of that as soon as I arrived. I parked and walked over to the site that had once been Waterloo Video, then the accursed Lululemon. I stared up at the sign that now reads: PUPPIES! PUPPIES! PUPPIES! The thought that every time a puppy mill crackdown occurs, the pregnant moms and their puppies will be whisked here to be adored and adopted out to loving homes overwhelmed me. The adoption center will take any breed of puppy, of course, but how fitting that, since I am likely a reincarnated wiener dog (more on that later), the first batch of residents is almost entirely made up of dachshunds.

  Everett, there you stood at the door, proudly wearing a pin that said, “Everett Cantu, Adoption Coordinator, Puppies! Puppies! Puppies!” I hugged you. “You look great!” I said. I’ve never told you this, but I had floated you to Topher Doyle and Annie as manager of the whole operation, but they decided on a more experienced candidate. However, Annie was happy to hire you as an adoption coordinator. Your role vetting adopting families and training them on how to care for their new puppies is perfect for you! I am guessing it pays three times more than your Kerbey Lane Cafe gig AND comes with full health insurance and bennies. The best part is that now you and Nadia can afford to move out of the OM house and into your own place together! I feel relieved for both of you.

  When you told me you were so nervous you had pit stains, I was surprised. You seemed calm as a PharmaTrial inmate after the morning opioid dosing. As the party was not just to celebrate the opening of the PUPPIES! PUPPIES! PUPPIES! but was also a fund-raiser, the place was already swirling with tech giants, trophy wives, and the old Austin aristocracy. How ironic that while I once hated seeing such types in Whole Foods, I was thrilled they (and their deep pockets) were in attendance to support PUPPI
ES! PUPPIES! PUPPIES! Their money would be cajoled from them and used for good!

  Annie came up to give us both hugs. Her name tag said: Annie Rhimes, Vice President of Animal Rights, Whole Foods Headquarters.

  “Oh my Venus,” I said. “Is this for real?”

  Annie’s glow was all the answer I needed.

  “I’m so freaking proud of both of you!” I yelled, pulling you and Annie in for a group hug.

  The parquet floors of Lululemon had been replaced with hip concrete washed a lovely purple. Every available surface had been covered in candles and the walls were hung with my dachshund series—dachshund astronauts floating through space; dachshund bakers making cakes; dachshund scientists working in a lab. I’m critical of my own work, but even I was pleased. While there are many dog runs in the back, the big main front room was full of open puppy playpens where adorable dachshunds frolicked in shredded newspaper.

  My mother sailed up to me with my father in tow. “Roxy! Your paintings are so delightful. They remind me so much of Wimpy.” I hadn’t thought of Wimpy in years! When my mother was nine months pregnant with me, her miniature dachshund Wimpy was run over by a car and killed. She buried him in the rain (I guess my father was at work, or napping on the couch). Anyway, the shock of Wimpy’s death sent her into labor. I was born, which rocked my then four-year-old brother’s world in a very negative way. To get back at me for stealing my parents’ attention away, he always claimed I was Wimpy the Wiener Dog reincarnated. Throughout our childhood, and well into our teens, he would often pin me down and chant, “Wimpy! Wimpy! Wimpy!” right into my face. It wasn’t until adulthood I realized he was probably right—I have the exuberance, childish joy, and easily hurt feelings of a dachshund. And of course, it’s why Roscoe and I are such interspecies soul mates.