by Andrea Meyer
At some point later, I get up to pee and notice my phone flashing with a message. “Hey, baby, it’s me,” the message from Anthony says. “Was that our first fight? I don’t think I liked it.” He swallows hard and continues, “Hey, I was thinking maybe you could come down here for a weekend. I can take some time for myself, just as long as I’m here and on call. I think you’d have fun running around with us, too. It’s a trip.” He chuckles. “Baby, it’s hard for me to be away from you, too, but I’m so tired. I sorta snapped back there. All right, baby, sleep tight. Um, later. Love you.”
I hit 9 to save. It will be a good one to play when I’m feeling blue. It always cheers me up to be reminded that somebody loves me.
I fall asleep thinking about what to bring to Chicago: sneakers and cargo pants for roaming around with the crew, the black, lightly transparent halter dress Anthony loves, and my favorite slinky red Cosabella nightgown, which he hasn’t seen yet—it’s the perfect opportunity. I picture us rushing through the streets of Chicago on the heels of these wild, cocky teenagers whose jokes make us laugh. I imagine Anthony throwing his arm around me as dusk falls over a dank alley, where Mikey has slunk off to smooch with his skinny, bare-legged girlfriend with bewitching brown eyes. Anthony pulls me close and presses his warm lips to my forehead. “I’m so happy you were able to come down here, baby,” he says. “So happy you’re seeing all this for yourself.”
11
* * *
Seeking large apartment in East Village or beyond. Overdue yet unexpected breakup has left me homeless. I have lived in the EV all my life, but might consider the right place in Brooklyn, Long Island City, open to suggestions. Ideal would be a large, raw space that can use some work. Could even go in on a building with someone if the right property comes up. Any leads, please call Zach.
* * *
I spend a good chunk of my weekend perfecting my Luke Benton piece, which reads like a tongue-in-cheek love letter—or is there such a thing as a lust letter? I’m proud of its humor, honesty, and sexual insinuation that never crosses the line of propriety. I know that Luke and his peeps will love it. I also devote some time to procrastinating. While I’m on Travelocity shopping for tickets to Chicago, Serena calls to let me know she’s going out of town for a week, so Saturday I decide to run by to pick up my mail and take advantage of the trip to the city to do a yoga class. My body is crying for it, but once I’m actually in the studio on my Bubble Yum–pink sticky mat, my muscles resist nearly every pose except those that require total relaxation.
While we melt into an easy seated pose at the beginning of class, Gwin gives us the usual dose of her personal philosophy. Today she describes a documentary she saw about a group of Tibetan Buddhist monks who created elaborately decorated man-dalas out of sand only to destroy them afterward. She said that at first it was shocking to witness the destruction of breathtaking works of art that had taken many weeks to create, so contrary to our society, which believes in treasuring every artifact, every child’s crayon drawing. But after watching for a while, she became hypnotized, acutely aware of the value of their actions, how in a larger sense they symbolized the Buddhist principle of nonattachment. “Challenge yourself to let go of your thoughts, your judgments, your need for people and things,” she said as we sat cross-legged in the darkened room. “What do we gain from clinging to our possessions and ideas? Is there anything we get through chasing or grasping or hoarding that’s worth holding on to? See if during the next hour and a half you can move through these poses without attachment. Break a habit today. Maybe find something different in these familiar movements than you ever have before. You might discover a shift, a sparkle, just by letting go of your usual routine.”
She ends class as usual, telling us to put our hands together in front of our hearts and take a moment to think of something for which we are thankful. The first thing that comes to mind is my apartment, which is strange since I don’t live there anymore, and then the faces of my mom, my dad, and my sister float through my head.
On the way to my apartment, inspired by the yoga class, I take a different route than my normal one and enjoy glancing into unfamiliar storefronts. In a fancy furniture store, a burly, black French bulldog stands in the middle of a display, gazing past me into the street. I follow his eye line and, for the life of me, can’t figure out what has him transfixed. Wandering up Second Avenue, I notice a simple, hand-painted statue of Ganesh in the window of a crowded Tibetan shop. The elephant god is one of the most popular Hindu deities, and I’ve learned in yoga class—where we often chant to Ganesh—that he’s the remover of obstacles and his presence in a living space brings good fortune. I buy the statue for my sister, who could use some good fortune. The salesman tells me to place the statue facing the front door so that Ganesh can invite in great riches and luck. He wraps it up in red tissue paper and I stow it in my bag.
I turn up First Avenue and across the street see Buster the wondermutt lounging in the sunny doorway of the hardware store. I cross to say hi to him. “Hey, crazy face,” I say, ruffling his scruffy white fur. I squat down in the doorway for some lovin’ and notice Buster’s cute owner also squatting a few feet away through the open door, arranging ceramic flowerpots. I shamelessly watch his hard calf muscles flex as he reaches to grab something that’s fallen behind a crate. “Hey,” I call out. He’s listening to his iPod, so I wave my hand to get his attention. When he finally sees me, the strangest look crosses his face, like he’s been caught doing something illegal, and he hastily pulls off his earphones and stands up.
“Stashing pot plants in the merchandise again?” I ask.
His pale cheeks turn pink and he says, “No, hi, you just startled me. You haven’t been here for a while.”
“I actually moved out of the neighborhood,” I tell him. “I, uh, moved in with my boyfriend.” I feel awkward saying it, like I don’t want him to know that I have a boyfriend. It’s disturbing to me that a part of me still wants attractive guys to think I’m single.
“How’s that going?” he asks, rubbing dust off his knees.
“Okay,” I say. “Great. Well, you know, living with someone is hard work.” Am I sounding too negative? I add, “It’s totally worth it, though. It’s great.”
“Cool.”
“What were you listening to?” I ask. “You seemed really into it.”
“The sound track to this movie In the Mood for Love, a Wong Kar-Wai movie.” He blushes again. “You probably know it.”
“I love that movie,” I say.
“Want to hear it?”
He walks over and places one of the earphones into my ear. After a second, he puts the other one in his own ear. It’s a love song with a Latin beat, rhythmic, swooning, old-school romance. It’s what I would want to listen to if I worked in a hardware store all day. I’m suddenly aware that the cute hardware-store guy is so close to me that I can feel the blond hairs on his bare arm touching mine. When I look up, his pale lashes flutter and his blue eyes catch mine for a second, and we pull away in unison, jerking the earphones out of our ears, so they dangle at his side. He takes a step back and clears his throat, and I fix my bag on my shoulder.
“Um, I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I sputter. “I mean, I could use your expertise. Do you know of a nontoxic alternative to Drano? The sink in my, uh, my boyfriend’s bathroom, my bathroom, the sink keeps filling up with water.”
“No problem. Just mix baking soda with a can of Coke and pour it down,” he says.
“Really? God, thanks. How much baking soda?”
“About half a cup,” he says.
“Cool, thanks,” I tell him, noticing a penny on the floor between us and glancing to see if it’s heads up. “I love that song. I’d forgotten how much I liked it,” I say. “Well, I gotta go. Gotta check the mail at my apartment—my old apartment, really. I’m subletting it. Anyway, bye.”
He waves, smiling slightly without opening his mouth, and turns away. I give Buster a last hug.
As he lazily wags his tail, I reach over to pick up the penny and dust it off before sticking it into my pocket. I notice that the hardware-store guy is still watching me and my face flushes hot.
“I still pick up lucky pennies,” I say, embarrassed. “Not like it does any good.”
“Oh it does,” he says. “You should see what life is like for people who don’t pick them up.”
When I get to my apartment, I unlock the bolt like a pro and just inside the front door find an addition to the household: a coatrack, one of those old wood and brass ones often spotted in Irish pubs. On it is a hot-pink raincoat and the jean jacket with the lamb’s wool lining: There’s still a man in the house. I run my finger down a soft sleeve and dump my bag onto the floor before turning into my bedroom. I catch my breath when my eyes fall on a simple, white blind up over the window; the dirty, green towel that was tacked up there for months is nowhere to be seen. I hop over to it and look up. It’s been expertly installed and has a silver chain hanging down the right side to raise and lower it, an action I practice a few times.
“Serena! Your boyfriend is a genius!” I say, excited to snoop further. I notice that the simple, white curtains I bought on sale at West Elm months ago are finally hanging up in the living room, and on the coffee table that I painted orange stands a pot of red mini-roses, my favorite. They remind me of one springtime in Paris when I was angry at Philippe because the flowers suddenly appeared in all the florist shops, easily becoming the object of my deepest passion, and he never got me any, despite my constant hints that our apartment needed some greenery and color. Eventually I bought myself a pot and planted them in a big Moroccan bowl that I placed by my window. When Philippe got home, he went on and on about how beautiful they were. He honestly had no clue that he was supposed to have gotten them for me. Yet another illustration of two relationship basics: (1) Don’t assume that a guy gets it. He is clueless and needs to be told explicitly, with a loudspeaker to the ear if possible, at a time of day when he is especially alert. (2) Never wait for him to do it. If at all possible, do it yourself.
Next to this particular mini-rosebush is a note that says, “S—Thanks for letting me crash. The light here is incredible. Hope it cheers you up. x.” I assume that this is from Rory and think he’s doing an awfully good job of winning her back. Inspired, I call Anthony and leave him a message suggesting that we fix up the apartment—repaint the bathroom, hang all those pictures that are stacked on the floor, clean up a bit. I feel impelled to renewed domesticity. On a whim, I go into my front closet and find the pile of flowerpots I lugged home on my birthday and select a small one that’s stained a shiny cobalt blue. I take it into the kitchen, dig out a bag of soil I bought months ago but never opened, and set to work repotting the rosebush. It looks beautiful, I think, placing it back on the little orange table next to the note. Serena will like it better this way.
There’s nothing but a couple of Entertainment Weeklies and New Yorkers and a stack of bills in my pile of mail—plus a check for sixteen hundred dollars for the commitment-phobia piece.
I skip all the way over to the fridge, which is fully stocked with fruits and vegetables, milk, yogurt, salsa, hummus, cold cuts, jarred sauces, butter, jam, a six-pack of Sam Adams, Tupperwares full of leftover stir-fry and marinara sauce, plus chicken cutlets, fish, veggie burgers, and ice cream in the freezer. The cupboards, too, are packed with pasta, tortilla chips, pretzels, cereal, rice, couscous. There are even cans of soup and beans and bags of lentils. It feels like my parents’ kitchen or something. I wander around a bit more and find guy products in the bathroom, a razor, an extra toothbrush, and Right Guard deodorant. I have no desire to leave yet, even though I feel like a jerk for making myself comfortable in what is essentially Serena’s apartment, which she appears to be sharing with a man. It still feels like home to me, though. I pick up the most recent copy of The New Yorker and lie down on the couch to read it. My cell rings and I run to my bag by the front door, hoping it’s Court, whom I haven’t spoken to since our argument, but no, it’s Jake. I miss the call but check his message.
“Yo,” he says. “Checking in. Wanna get a drink? How’s it going with your dude? I’m doing really good. The art is going good. Did you check out my show?” Shit, I forgot. “I got some interest from it, so effin’ cool. Really. We should have a drink. I’ll tell you more. Anyway, pretty lady, call me sometime. Late.”
What is up with these guys? I call my sister to find out and she says, “As soon as they sense that you’ve moved on, they come running. It’s like a law of physics or something. When you gravitate toward them, they pull away. Then when you start to recede, they rush up against you, try to suck you in like a drain.”
“Can you still meet for food?” I ask her.
“Yeah, I’ll be at that Italian place on B in half an hour.”
“Cool, I’ll head over soon. Call Jeremy.” I know I should invite Courtney, too, but I’m not really in the mood to see her. With a little time to kill, I stick my head into the café to say hi to my cute boy there. He’s busy, but runs over to see if I need anything.
“No, just wanted to say hi,” I tell him.
“It’s sad that you’re not in the neighborhood anymore,” he says, handing me a biscotti for the road.
“I know, I’ll try to stop by more often.” He squeezes my hand and rests his hazelnut eyes on mine for a moment. My stomach lurches. As I wander to the dog run, the park is crawling with good-looking men. Is it possible that there are more out today than usual? My eyes flicker from a blond in thick glasses and a plaid shirt reading on a bench to a shirtless redhead napping on the lawn. Am I being tested? A guy tossing a Frisbee to a cute friend looks over at me through the longest lashes I’ve ever seen. It’s okay to notice male beauty when it’s being shoved in my face, isn’t it? I arrive at the dog run and stick my finger through the fence to let a baby Bichon lick it. In the middle of this wet, gooey greeting, Anthony calls.
“Hey you, what are you doing?” he asks.
“At the moment having my finger licked.”
“Sounds sexy,” he says.
“Not really. A moving cotton ball is doing the licking.”
“Ah.”
“So I was thinking I would come down this weekend. I wanted to check with you before I book the ticket, but this weekend probably makes the most sense.”
“What?” he asks, sort of shouting into the phone.
“Where are you?”
“On the street, it’s kinda windy,” he says.
“You get my message about fixing up the place?”
“Yeah, got it. Awesome.”
“Cool, I’m glad you’re into it. So, does this weekend work?”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“What do you mean, ‘What do you mean’?” I ask. “We were talking about my coming down.” The little dog had run away but now he comes back and stares up at me, mouth open and panting happily. I bend back down to pet him again.
“We were?” Anthony asks.
My abdomen tightens. “Well, you mentioned it,” I say.
“You know, baby, I don’t know if it’s such a good idea. We’re crazed, and I’d barely get to spend any time with you.”
“Oh,” I say, my fantasy of us holding each other in the dank alleyways of Chicago getting violently vacuum-sucked into the world of wonderful, would-be events that never were.
“I’ll be home so soon, it doesn’t make sense.”
“I don’t care, I miss you. I want to see you even if it’s just a couple of days sooner.”
“Why don’t we plan something when I get back? A weekend somewhere, the Hamptons or my parents’ place in the Catskills, go hiking. It’s starting to get warm up there; I can take you to this secret lake where we swim. It will be so much better, just you and I. Or we could fly somewhere, Florida, the Caribbean, we’ll think of something. Also, we’ll put some time aside for fixing up our place. I know that’s important to you.”
“U
h-huh.”
“You don’t want to be around while I’m working, Jacquie.”
“It’s just that you said—”
“Well, I shouldn’t have,” he says abruptly. “I wasn’t thinking. It wouldn’t be cool for you down here. You’d be hanging out in a hotel room while I shoot sixteen hours a day. It would suck for you. And for me, ’cause I’d feel bad.”
“You said I could come along,” I say, under my breath.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing. Look, I’d better go. I’m late to meet Alicia.”
“All right, baby. I’ll call you tonight.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say.
“Love you,” he says.
“Uh-huh.”
I walk over to Avenue B wistfully replaying Anthony’s message in which he invited me to come watch him play big, important producer in the mean streets of Chicago.
On the back porch of a groovy brick-oven pizza place on Avenue B, seated at a table littered with seven empty martini glasses, Jeremy is having none of my complaints.
“Look, I don’t want to hear your bitching!” he slurs while grabbing his phone off the table.
I grab his wrist and say, “Jeremy, put it on vibrate and stick it in your pocket. Please.”
Alicia’s off asking the waitress where the hell our food is.
Jeremy shakes me off and sticks his phone into his pocket. “Jacquie, you’re always moaning! Oh, my life sucks!” he says, feigning a girl’s voice, or more specifically, mine. “My gorgeous, perfect boyfriend doesn’t want to fly me to Chicago for the weekend! He wants to take me to an island in the Caribbean instead. He’s so mean!”