Room for Love

by Andrea Meyer

  “Oh, soon, he’s just really busy right now. He’s doing a shoot in Chicago, God, he’ll be gone for a month, I’m going to miss him. We don’t go out much. It’s embarrassing, really. There are weekends when we literally don’t leave the house. I don’t know, we just get so into each other, I guess we don’t want to dilute it with other people’s company or something. I’m sure it will pass.”

  “Honeymoon, schmoneymoon. You’re probably ashamed of me. ‘Oh, Jeremy, he’s not really my friend per se. He’s more like a stalker.’”

  I laugh, put my arm around him, and lean my head on his shoulder. “Oh, you’re right. I’m busted,” I say.

  “Met any of his friends?”

  “Um…” Guilt. “Not many. His sister, we ran into one of his friends in the neighborhood and had brunch with him, one night we went out with some of his work friends, but barely, really.” Jeremy looks down at his hands. I can’t tell if he’s hurt or just admiring his manicure.

  “Can you tell I’ve been working out?” he asks, thrusting out his chest. “You can’t really see it under my coat, but I am so ripped.” I touch his waist and feel his ribs. “Be honest, have you found any flaws in the man? Any warts on his baby-soft booty?”

  “He’s perfect. He’s gorgeous and smart. We have a lot in common—the movie stuff, books, and he has a dog! It’s all very easy. We moved in together after five minutes, and we get along amazingly. I absolutely recommend finding a boy and just going for it.”

  “Oh, come on, there must be something about the guy that drives you batty. You can tell me.”

  “Well,” I say. Six little dogs are playing tag around the perimeter of the small dog run. I follow them with my eyes, seriously considering his question. “He eats raw fish with his fingers.” Jeremy widens his eyes as if we’ve stumbled upon some devastating evidence.

  “He’s not very domestic. He doesn’t cook, he’s a slob.”

  “So pick up after him.”

  “I have no desire to be a live-in housekeeper.” The pug is trying to hump the Scottie at our feet. The Scottie seems willing to give it a go. A bunch of other dogs gather round to watch: puppy porn in the dog run.

  “Okay, this is bad,” I say and pause, afraid to go on. “Sometimes he does things like, um, use ‘real’ when he means ‘really.’ I’m actually not sure he’s ever used an actual adverb in his life.”

  Jeremy shudders and says, “I can’t let you have sex with this man.” We have a drinking game where we take a sip every time a celebrity or the president makes a grammatical error. We wind up wasted.

  “He doesn’t really have the ‘I/me’ thing down either,” I add. “But I swear it’s not that bad. And he’s so cute I barely notice. It must be true love, right?”

  Jeremy hides his head in his hands, aghast.

  “There is one more thing,” I say.

  “No holding out.”

  “Okay fine, apparently he’s a serial monogamist.”

  “Big deal, so are you.”

  “Yeah, but it might mean he’s a commitment-phobe.”

  “Big deal, so are you.”

  I widen my eyes in an expression of mock shock.

  “Know anything about the exes?” he asks.

  “One left not so long ago. According to his sister, she was bugging him about moving into his place or something, so he hit the road.”

  “You’ve got one up on her already,” he says.

  “I know! And his sister told me out loud that she likes me better.”

  “She came right out and told you she didn’t like the bitch?”

  “I think she said ‘witch.’ I know it rhymed with ‘itch’ anyway.”

  On the way to my place, I pass the bike-repair guy again. Now he’s leaning up against his cart in the middle of the street, taking a nap in the sun. He shakes awake and grins at me, his ratty beard blowing in the wind. He changed a flat tire for me once. It was flat again a week later. But we’re still friends. I wave and move up the street to where the Bible lady, elegant in a snazzy navy skirt suit and hat, is saying, “Sign up for Bible studies.” Next to her sits a shopping cart covered with a blanket, and I wonder for the first time where she goes at night. It never occurred to me she might be homeless. Her voice is so clear and resonant, I’ve always thought she could have a career doing voice-overs. As always, the Yorkie who lives two buildings down from me yaps wildly from his window as I pass.

  “Hey, sweet thing,” I call up to him.

  When I open my mailbox, it’s packed full, but at least half is trash, which I dump into the recycle box in the hallway. I look around the building, feeling vaguely as if I don’t belong there. I know every inch of wall and floor, but at the same time don’t recognize it. It’s like when I get home from a long trip and it takes me a second to remember which key opens the door. I make my way slowly up the stairs and turn the top lock. The door doesn’t open. I panic, paranoid for a second that Serena has had the lock changed, but then realize she’s fastened the bolt that I never use.

  Inside, there are unopened boxes and duffel bags stacked up against the kitchen counter. Serena hasn’t done a lot of unpacking. My bedroom looks like a tornado hit it, with clothes strewn frantically over the bed and floor, reminiscent of the Alicia period. An open suitcase leans against my dresser with sundresses and sweaters spilling out. The pictures that I had up on the wall—my parents, Alicia and me, a group of college friends, Larry licking my face—are in a stack on top of the dresser. I guess she wouldn’t want them hanging over the bed.

  On a pad of paper by the answering machine I notice a message from Planned Parenthood asking me to donate and one from my mom, who must have called my place by accident. I hit the button to hear the outgoing message and it’s Serena’s voice saying to speak at the beep and instructing people to reach me on my cell. I guess I won’t have any messages here the next time I come by to snoop. I open the fridge, which is sparsely stocked with blueberry yogurt, a carton of eggs, milk, a box of strawberry-frosted Pop-Tarts, a head of lettuce, a jar of pickles, and Chinese food containers. I open one and take a bite of cold chow mein with my fingers before putting it back. It’s good. I take the box out again, grab a fork out of the silverware drawer, and carry it to the couch and turn on the TV. I channel surf for a while and go back into the kitchen to toss the empty Chinese food box. There’s a bag on the floor full of paper towels, toilet paper, grout, and screws. I’m wondering what Serena plans to do with the stuff when I notice a guy’s jean jacket on the back of the stool at the counter. It’s very worn and has lamb’s wool on the inside. I walk around to the other side of the counter and touch the soft, faded denim. When I lift a sleeve to my nose, it smells warm and male, like leather and grass. Is Serena already seeing someone new? I look around for other signs of a man’s presence. She’s probably getting ex-sex. Hell, she was with Rory for three years and they’re supposed to go cold turkey? I pull the jacket off the back of the stool and put it on before moving stealthily into the bedroom to look at myself in the full-length mirror. I pull it tightly around me, feeling like a teenager wearing a guy’s jacket against the cold for the first time. When I’m putting it back on the stool, I notice that my broken window is shut. I run over to it, unlock it, and open and close it a few times. Sure enough, it’s fixed. Right on, Rory.

  As I’m leaving, Alicia calls. She sounds depressed, says she’s had a low-grade headache for days.

  “Do you think it’s a tumor?” she asks.

  “No, but you’re definitely sick in the head.”

  I invite her over for dinner and movies since I’ve got the place to myself. “You can sleep over if you want. I’ll probably be lonely.”

  When I arrive back in Brooklyn, Alicia is sitting on the curb in front of Anthony’s apartment, waiting for me and looking glum. “Guess you were anxious to get over here?”

  “Yeah. I brought food.” She holds up a plastic bag that smells like rice, beans, salsa, and the rest of the trappings of a Mexican feast.<
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  “That’s so unlike you. Hope you got a lot, Courtney’s coming, too.”

  She nods and hoists herself off the sidewalk to give me a stiff hug.

  “Here, I got you keys,” I tell her, tossing them to her.

  “Thanks.”

  “You know what? I’m gonna run to the deli on the corner for ice cream and beer,” I say. “Do you need anything?”

  “A cat scan, a job, and a rich boyfriend,” she says.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  When I get back, Alicia has become a mushroom growing out of the couch. “We don’t even have cable at my place,” she says. “I think I’m gonna buy a cheap DVD player. I’m going crazy.”

  “Well, Anthony’s gone for a month. You can stay here.”

  “I’m over my apartment. Why did I want to live with a guy again?” she asks. “I need a roommate with feet that don’t stink and a subscription to Lucky magazine.”

  We eat our burritos in front of Days of Being Wild, directed by one of my favorite directors, Wong Kar-Wai. Court arrives during a scene where Maggie Cheung and her boyfriend, played by Leslie Cheung, are lying in bed. I move a stack of Anthony’s tapes to make space for Court on the couch. In the movie, Maggie says, “How am I going to tell my dad about us?” And Leslie, her boyfriend, goes, “What about us?” Court sits on the edge of the couch and says, “Can you believe this jerk?” Maggie starts putting on her clothes. She asks Leslie if he wants to marry her and he says, “No.” Maggie storms out, saying she never wants to see him again. Something about the scene bothers me, makes my stomach tighten, as if the movie is trying to tell me something I already know, but I don’t know what.

  “That’s so typical,” my sister says, holding up half a burrito that we saved for Court, who touches it with the tip of her finger to see if it’s hot and takes a bite.

  “What?” I ask, trying to snap out of my momentary panic.

  “Dude’s a dick,” my sister says. When I stare at her blankly, she gestures at the TV set with her napkin. “You know, unable to commit, like most guys.”

  “Not only guys,” I say. “What about you.”

  “Uh, me?” Alicia says. “What about you, Miss Only Dates Twelve-Year-Olds with Intimacy Issues?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh come on, you know what I’m talking about. It’s easy to ‘commit’ to emotionally unavailable men. You seem like this total relationship junkie, but you don’t really have to give shit, because those guys will never let you get too close. You get to feel all in love and poor me, I’m such a victim, but it’s total bullshit. Deep down you know as well as they do that it’s not gonna last.”

  “Excuse me, Dr. Phil, if you didn’t notice, I’m living with someone.”

  “Someone you met four minutes ago. Let’s have this conversation next month.”

  “I can’t even believe this is coming from a girl who goes out with a different guy every night of the week!” I say, shaking my head at her. I pick up a couple of dishes and take them into the kitchen. “Court, would you rewind the movie a little? I want to watch it.” She picks up the remote with a smirk on her face. I know she’s eating this up.

  “What’s up with you, Alicia?” Courtney asks, changing the subject. “I haven’t seen you in such a long time.”

  “Life sucks. I sleep so much, I’m always tired; I need to find something to do.”

  “I wondered how you could just leave L.A., with your house, your job, your cat. I can’t believe you gave him to Mom,” I say, getting back onto the couch and rubbing Lucy’s tummy with my foot. She gets excited and climbs onto the couch, smooshing her fat butt between Alicia and me.

  “Don’t even talk to me about him. It kills me, but I wasn’t happy there. My job sucked. I had no life.”

  “Are you okay for money?” Courtney asks her.

  “I can probably last about six more months on my savings and subletting my bungalow in L.A., as long as I don’t spend a lot.”

  Courtney puts her arm around Alicia. “I worry about you. Are you all right?”

  It’s as if the sudden tenderness flicked a switch that makes Alicia’s polished veneer crack. Her voice wavers as she says, “I don’t know what I’m doing with my life anymore. It seems kind of worthless. I don’t like what I was doing before, I don’t want to work in advertising,” she whimpers, “but I don’t really think I’m good at anything else.”

  “You know,” I say, touching her leg—we don’t touch much in my family. “I don’t know if I told you about when I first finished grad school. I felt kind of the same. I kept getting jobs I didn’t like and then started working as a personal assistant to this amazing director. She once seated me down and said, ‘I think you should do volunteer work.’ I was like, ‘I don’t think so,’ but she insisted, said it would be a way out of myself and my rut, a way to start doing something concrete and productive for someone else. The next week I started delivering lunch to men with AIDS, just giving food to people who couldn’t get it themselves, and she was right. I felt better, I stopped freaking out, and I actually started writing. I got my first gig a couple of months later. I can’t say it was because of the food deliveries, but I do know my head cleared up a lot. Maybe you could walk dogs at a shelter or something, I don’t know, do something for someone besides yourself. I don’t mean to lecture you, but I know all about staring at your navel and starting to think everything that matters in the world is inside it.”

  “Yeah,” she says glumly. I think she’s taking it in even though she’s staring with great concentration at Leslie Cheung’s lanky body doing a slow, dreamy rumba around his room in his undershirt. Court and I watch the rest of the movie, while Alicia falls asleep with her body curled around Lucy, who has never looked more content. As I’m throwing a blanket over them, the door bursts open and Anthony walks in.

  “Oh my God, hi, baby,” I say, jumping off the couch. “What are you doing here?”

  “We got held up,” he says, “and had to push our flight till tomorrow.”

  “Wow, that’s great.”

  Courtney holds out her hand toward him. “It’s incredible that we haven’t met yet. Courtney,” she says, grabbing her jacket and putting it on.

  “Can’t say we socialize much with anyone besides each other,” he says, glancing at me lasciviously. I nudge Alicia with my foot and she stirs. Anthony plops down on the couch, turns off the DVD player, and flips through channels until he settles on a basketball game and relaxes into a comfortable slouch with his feet on the coffee table.

  “Hey, lady, Anthony’s home,” I say.

  Alicia moans and slowly sits up. Lucy wakes up, too, and smiles up at her dad. Alicia sleepily puts on her shoes and jacket.

  “So, your husband is Brad Garner,” Anthony says to Courtney. “That’s amazing.”

  “Yeah, he’s on tour. He’s doing really well,” she says. When no one responds, Court says, “It’s hard on me, being without him, not feeling that daily connection between us that’s always let us both know that we’re strong. I miss him a lot.”

  “Yeah, must be tough when your man’s on the road to rock stardom,” he says, staring at the screen.

  “Well, we should be going,” Courtney says. “It’s late. Come on, Alicia, I’ll walk you home and grab a cab.” I hug them both and start clearing the take-out containers off the coffee table in front of Anthony and rinsing off our plates. Anthony is still staring at the game.

  “Your friend seems a little hippy-dippy,” he says, flicking off the TV.

  “I guess she is a little,” I say, placing beer bottles in a recycling bag and wiping off the countertop. “One of the many things I love about her.”

  I look around the living room to see if I’ve missed anything and stand by the couch.

  “I’m so glad your flight got messed up,” I say. “You’re working so much.”

  “This is my life, baby, when I’m on a project,” he says, clicking off the TV and heading into the bedroom.
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  “It sucks.”

  “I miss you, too, you know,” he says.

  “What time do you leave tomorrow?”

  “Five.”

  “Jeez, you’re getting no sleep.”

  “I’ll sleep on the plane. Hey, can you take those videos back to the place for me? I keep forgetting and they’re like three weeks late.”

  “Jesus Christ, three weeks?” I ask. “How do you forget to return videos for three weeks?”

  “I know, I know, I forgot,” he says. “Won’t do it again, Mom.”

  I turn away from him to go brush my teeth. When I go back into the bedroom, I think he’s sleeping.

  “I didn’t mean to bark at you,” he says quietly.

  I burrow into the side of him, nestling my face into his armpit. He turns toward me, so his hip bones knock gently against mine. I drape my leg over his torso, as always astonished at how well our bodies fit together.

  “I love you, Jacquie.”

  “You do?” I ask incredulously, pushing myself up on my elbow and looking down at his serene, chiseled face.

  “Mmmm.”

  I squeeze him as tightly as I can, but I’m unable to respond and fall asleep quickly while he strokes my hair.

  The impatient crowd on the platform at the Bedford Avenue subway station is particularly annoying this morning. We have an editorial meeting at ten, it’s nine-thirty and I’m not in the mood to push and shove and glare my way into a seat on the train. It’s been over a week since I turned in my article to Clancy and I haven’t heard from her, and I’m feeling grumpy, anxious, and unwilling to deal with the Williamsburg brigade. The hipsters with jobs are out in full force, preening, pontificating loudly enough to make sure everyone can overhear last night’s exploits, proudly displaying their well-worn copies of Jane Austen, Joan Didion, and Jonathan Safran Foer. I’m too old for this neighborhood, I find myself thinking, and force my way onto the train with my fists.

  I arrive late to the meeting and announce my apologies all around. They have moved beyond this month’s issue and are discussing canning one of the magazine’s sections—a monthly gossip column in which an L.A. freelancer slams Hollywood and everyone in it—and replacing it with a new tech column, which would give Chester a chance to show his expertise and cheekily expound the virtues and flaws of whatever new gadgets, technologies, and Web sites turn up. Sounds like a yawn to me, but Chester’s a good writer and Steve wants to prove we have our finger on the cultural pulse. He also thinks we should remind our readers that Hollywood is not our beat. Before we make our way back to our desks, Steve stops me.