Exes and Ohs

by Shallon Lester

  In fifth grade, I was religiously into the Disney movie The Sword in the Stone, so Mama oh-so-helpfully suggested I go as Merlin for Halloween. The only thing more awkward would’ve been to dress as Archimedes the owl, but that costume was pretty intricate, so we settled for the next-creepiest thing. She fashioned a long, boxy gown out of dark blue fabric with gold stars, made a matching pointy hat, and whittled a wand from the Japanese maple in the backyard. But the coup de grâce was the fake beard. Mama was so concerned with authenticity, she probably would’ve consented to testosterone shots so I could grow the real thing. But instead, she spent thirty minutes carefully pasting fuzzy strands of gray batting, one by one, onto my face and eyebrows.

  I’m not going to lie—I looked pretty great. There aren’t many eleven-year-old girls who can pass for a geriatric wizard, you know. I netted a huge haul of candy and declared the night a glittering success … until I tried to get the beard off.

  Soap, eye-makeup remover, Soft Scrub—nothing worked. Turns out, Mama had used some NASA-grade superglue. We even tried to shave it off, hoping that the razor could slide under the adhesive and scrape it off. Nothing. Already hopped up from mini Snickers bars, I had a panic attack. I pictured slinking into school the next day with facial hair and getting sent to the nurse’s office on suspicion of a pituitary problem. Even at Vista Nerdy, that wasn’t cool.

  Finally, a mixture of turpentine and olive oil seemed to loosen the glue, and after two hours of scraping, I was free. My cheeks looked like I’d gotten into a slap fight with a rabid cat, but it was still better than a face full of hair. I vowed to stick to normal Halloween outfits—kitties, princesses, maybe the occasional ninja. Boring, sure, but I didn’t care how many bite-sized Butterfingers it might cost me.

  But time has a way of fading memories, and twelve months later I had managed to craft an equally bizarre Halloween costume: a head on a plate.

  Yes, I’m afraid you read that right. I was in sixth grade and stoked for my very first school dance, which unfortunately happened to be a Halloween dance. While my friends planned to go as normal things like Nefertiti or a Gypsy, my mom latched on to the head-on-a-plate idea. It would be years before a drug-themed T-shirt taught me not to let my mom play stylist for school dances, so at this point I was still full of foolish trust.

  The costume was simple: a piece of cardboard cut so that it could fit around my neck, with a sheet hot-glued around the cardboard to simulate a tablecloth. The sheet was bright orange, I might add—my worst color. Not that it mattered because most of my face was obscured by the fake fruit glued to the cardboard “plate.” The result was beyond hideous. Plus, the costume was impossible to dance in. Pfft, as if anyone was asking.

  My mind circles back to incidents like this when I wonder why I’m not married yet. It’s simple math, really. If you subtracted all of the minutes and days and years I spent acting like a total spaz, my actual age in terms of social development is somewhere around twenty. Not nearly marrying age.

  But if you think that a severed head was my worst Halloween debacle to date, you are wrong, my friend.

  Last year, for example, I was Lil Wayne. Oh, it was a brilliant costume. I had a boyfriend at the time and took full advantage of the fact that he had to hang out with me, no matter how horrifying I looked. I wore XXL men’s jeans, a white wife beater, a red Bedazzled Yankees cap over a dreadlock wig, and a grill on my teeth. I made my roommates draw every one of Weezy’s many tattoos on my body and carried around a bottle of cough syrup and lollipops. I even talked in Wayne’s gravelly high-pitched voice all night long. Only cops and black guys knew who I was supposed to be.

  But it was the Halloween before that when my costume was the most memorable of them all, not for its creativity or oddness, but for the devastating effect it had on my social life.

  It was just a few days before October 31, and none of my friends had come up with costumes yet. Still knee-deep in my emo revolution, I especially hated the idea of dressing in something frilly and sexy, so I suggested we go as a group of something. My top ideas were the Golden Girls, the Baseball Furies from The Warriors, the A-Team, or Pete Wentz.

  “Wait, like we’d all be Pete Wentz?” asked Klo.

  “Yeah, we could be a whole roving herd of Petes.”

  The girls stared at me and shook their heads.

  “And you honestly wonder why you’re single,” said Pfeiffer.

  Defeated, I spent the afternoon trolling around the picked-over costume store until I found four costumes so incredibly perfect I bought them all on the spot and rushed home.

  “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?” said Marcia, poking suspiciously at the outfits—green bodysuits, giant plastic shells, and nunchakus—as though they were cylinders of plutonium. “You realize these are children’s costumes, right?”

  The girls rejected the idea flat out, even when I volunteered to be the one carrying the box of pizza all night (authenticity is key). But I didn’t care; I seized the Raphael costume and went to work. Since it was built for an eight-year-old, I cut a deep V in the bodysuit hoping that would give it some extra length. It didn’t work and I was left with a raging camel toe that I tried to hide with a pair of beige boy shorts. Again, fail. I was beginning to think that this was my worst costume yet; at least the Merlin dress fit.

  But I was out of time and had no choice but to follow through with Raphael, the “cool but rude” turtle, so said the package. Again, authenticity is key.

  The girls scraped together some slutty, predictable costumes—Klo was a tarty maid, Marcia a naughty cop, and Pfeiffer (for the fourth year in a row) capitalized on her Sioux heritage and went as Pocahontas. They all looked adorable. I, on the other hand, looked like Quasimodo. As if my camel toe wasn’t bad enough, the hulking plastic shell made it impossible to stand up straight.

  We ended up at Fiddlesticks, a fratty bar in the West Village rife with fist-pumping ex–lacrosse players. I was in hell. Not that anyone noticed. I wrongly assumed that people would respect me for not dressing slutty. Maybe they did. I’ll never know because no one would talk to me. Halloween is for sluts, pure and simple. It’s the one holiday they have all to themselves. Patriots and hillbillies get the Fourth of July, drunks get St. Patrick’s Day, the obese get Thanksgiving, and tramps dominate Halloween. I had gone against the natural order of things.

  I ended up sitting alone in the corner, double-fisting Citron and sodas, and trying to chat up people in line for the bathroom. Once I realized I was making everyone uncomfortable, I tried to pretend that I was in fact a child who didn’t know any better. That didn’t work either—for some reason, talking in a baby voice asking, “Have you seen my mom?” wasn’t endearing.

  When the girls started complaining about the bar getting too crowded, I seized the opportunity to suggest we go to Pink Elephant, a new club that had just opened in the Meatpacking District.

  Normally, attempting to get into a hot new club on one of the biggest party nights in the year would be an exercise in futility. But just prior to my emo overhaul, Klo and I had been total bottle rats. We partied at any and every club in the city, so I felt confident I could finagle our way in.

  As we walked down the dank cobblestoned street, a trio of douchey guys sidled up alongside us.

  “What’s crack-a-lackin’, ladies?” one said, smoothing his Christian Audigier shirt. “You headin’ to Pink Elephant?”

  Hoping that maybe they could get us in, I tried to flirt as best I could with nunchakus in my hand. But it became clear that these retards had no juice whatsoever, so we ditched them and put plan B into effect: lip gloss and schmoozing.

  The key to getting into clubs is to be super-sweet, never pushy or entitled. Don’t bother with lines like “You don’t remember me?” No one remembers you, even if you fancy yourself a regular. The doorman have five hundred “friends” coming up to them all night expecting special treatment, so your best bet is to just ask politely what the crowd is like and wait for them to unclic
k the velvet rope.

  But I didn’t even get that far.

  The bouncer, Sam or Sig or Sun—some single-syllable name not worth remembering—took one look at me and lost his fucking mind.

  “You,” he spat, pointing right at me, “I don’t like your attitude.” I looked over my shoulder, convinced he must be talking to one of the dozens of slutty nurses/stewardesses/bunnies lined up behind me. Then he turned his wrath on my friends and said, “All of you can just get the hell out of here because I’m not letting in anyone who’s with that chick.”

  “Wait, what did she do?” asked Pfeiffer in protest as Klo, ever the diplomat, tried to smooth things over. “Okay, I think there’s been an eensy-weensy misunderstanding,” she cooed, batting her long eyelashes. “We’re not with those other douches who just tried to get in. They’ve got Ed Hardy issues.”

  His eyes narrowed as he looked her up and down.

  “Hmph. Fine,” Sly/Stiff/Snake snorted. “You three can come in but not her—everyone but the turtle.”

  “But what did I do?!” I wailed, which of course made me look even more pathetic. Rule number two of clubgoing is never argue with the bouncer. Unlike with sex, “no” really does mean “no.” But I’d had enough rejection for one night and wasn’t about to take any guff from some ass clown in a fedora.

  I was dragged away from the club by the girls, still hollering wretchedly that I was innocent. They had every right to ditch me, given that I was blubbering in a plastic children’s costume, but they stuck by me. Fifteen miserable minutes later we walked into the only place in town where everyone really did know our name—Chelsea Square Diner.

  The Greek manager immediately brought us the usual—a plate of cheese fries with Russian dressing—as we all sat down to eat our feelings.

  I swore to hate Pink Elephant forever and even went so far as to steer clear of the Meatpacking for a good six weeks, lest I run into Slop/Snot/Snoop again.

  But, because Jesus loves a good laugh, before my Meatpacking ban even ended, I spotted him at a holiday charity gala. I couldn’t imagine that he remembered who I was—or cared—but of course I wouldn’t be that lucky.

  “Oh look,” he sneered drunkenly, cornering me by the silent auction. “It’s that fucking turtle.”

  I turned bright red. My poor date for the evening, Ben, a hulking banker Marcia had set me up with, was totally bewildered. The tale of dressing as a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle and getting blackballed from a club wasn’t exactly a story I led with on dates, so I wasn’t eager to explain.

  “Um, I think you have me mixed up with someone else,” I lied hopefully, but Snack/Snape/Snatch saw right through me.

  “Pfft, please,” he said, getting right up in my face, the stench of whiskey wafting off him. I hadn’t noticed before but he was actually super-hot, wasteyface and all. “I never forget an amphibian.”

  “All right, dude,” Ben said, putting his massive hand on Sid/Slut/Spike’s chest. “You’re done here.”

  “I’m done here? She’s done here! She’s never getting into any club again ever!”

  Before he could ball up his grapefruit-sized fist and shove it in Spud/Spit/Scum’s face, I dragged Ben away and tried to explain. But the more I talked, the less sense I made. Camel toes, nunchakus, Ed Hardy, Pocahontas, Pink Elephants—it was more like a peyote hallucination than a story.

  “So you really didn’t do anything?” Ben asked.

  I shook my head emphatically but I couldn’t blame Ben for being skeptical—spend five minutes in my company and chances are I’ll say something offensive. Factor in a goober of a costume and shots of tequila, and I was hard-pressed to come out smelling like a rose. Normally I don’t really care if people like me or not, but Snorf/Smurf/Stench wasn’t just anyone—he was a well-connected doorman capable of crushing the party-girl clout I’d worked years to amass. I needed him to like me, or I was facing a total social excommunication.

  My chance for redemption came a month later, on New Year’s Eve—or so I thought. Marcia and Pfeiffer and I had braved the bitter cold to trot to a house party thrown by our yacht-broker friend Grier. Every guy at the party was in Brooks Brothers and had some hideous girlfriend clinging to him, so the girls and I proceeded to drink our sexual frustration away. We were halfway through our fifth Coors Lights when someone in line for the bathroom caught my eye.

  It was him, Sauce/Sav/Stump! I couldn’t imagine who he knew in this stuffy, coupled-up crowd, but there he was, looking bored and lonely as he waited for the loo.

  “Oh mah gahh, you guys,” I slurred. “It’s that dude who thinks I’m a turtle!”

  The girls were convinced that this was fate pushing us together and that it’d make an absolutely adorable story for our grandchildren one day.

  “It’ll be jus’ like The Notebook!” Marcia gurgled, opening a new box of wine.

  “You haven’t seen The Notebook, have you, Marcia?” asked Pfeiffer.

  “I have not, no,” she said. “But wha’eva, s’all the same—guy meets girl, guy calls her a turtle, and boom! They get married! Happens all the time.”

  “She’s gotta good point, Pfeiffy. He and I are meant to be. Like Barack and Michelle.”

  They nodded in boozy agreement as I filled up my empty beer bottle with wine and toddled over.

  “Heeyyyyyyy,” I said, slinking up to him. “Happy new year. You gonna be nice this time?”

  Slim/Stfu/Salt tilted his head slightly and considered his response. “Um … yes? Yes, I am going to be nice.”

  “Good baby,” I cooed, stroking his lapel pervishly. “I think it’s time we got better acquainted, ya know? I think it’s destiny that you’re here tonight.”

  He looked a little puzzled but broke into a smile and pulled me into the bathroom.

  Within seconds he had me pressed up against the door in a passionate kiss, and I thought that maybe Marcia was right—all of our venom made for some sizzling chemistry. But I didn’t want to give it all up, just enough to get him obsessed with me. With a little finesse, I could go from social pariah to Meatpacking Queen.

  “I gotta go, lover,” I said abruptly, pulling away.

  “You’re leaving?” he said, pouting.

  “Yeah, but I’ll see you Saturday night …”

  I fully planned on finally hitting up Pink Elephant and using my newfound good graces to my advantage.

  “How will I see you Saturday night?” he asked.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, giving him one last kiss, “I’ll come to you.”

  And with that I was out the door, staggering back to my friends just in time for the ball drop.

  What a great start to the new year, I thought proudly. Not only did I win over an enemy, I just might’ve started a new romance!

  For the next few days, I pictured myself suddenly becoming the darling of the New York club scene. Shrek/Stan/Swizz and I would become the It couple on the scene, velvet ropes parting for us all across Manhattan. I had already texted all of my friends announcing that I was once again flush with social currency and that Saturday night we were going big to Pink Elephant.

  That night as I got ready and practiced my air-kiss in the mirror, I got a call from my friend Grier, who’d thrown the New Year’s Eve party.

  “Sooooooo,” she said, “you made quite an impression on Nate the other night!”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” I said uninterestedly. I figured he was one of the gawky guys I’d asked to open our fifth bottle of Charles Shaw. “Is he cute?”

  Grier laughed. “Do you seriously not remember? Or did you just have your eyes shut that whole time in the bathroom!”

  Wait.

  “Bathroom?” I whispered, hoping against hope that this conversation was not going where I knew it was.

  “Yeah, duh, Nate who you pulled into the bathroom! I think someone actually peed in my ficus because you guys were in there so—”

  “Who is Nate?” I shrieked. “I mean what does he do for a living?”


  Maybe I’d just misheard the bouncer’s name on Halloween? “Nate” could be mistaken for “Snate,” right?

  “Well, right now he’s a host at Outback,” she said, quickly adding something about his awesome demo reel, but I’d already tuned out.

  Was this really happening? Had I seriously hooked up with some loser restaurant employee for nothing?!

  Humiliated, I sheepishly texted all of my friends and called off the celebration.

  “But hey,” I wrote miserably, “if anyone feels like a Bloomin’ Onion at Outback, I’ve got a great hookup on a corner booth.”

  A Needle in a Ho Stack

  There are some things in life that are worth making sacrifices for. My job as a gossip writer for the New York Daily News was not one of those things.

  Snitching on the famous might sound easy, even fun. Stirring up trouble for the most ungrateful people on the planet? Why not! Screw ’em. And for a while, it was delightful. Our column brought in stories about celebs who cheated on their wives and did lines of cocaine off Brazilian hookers, and one hunky actor who bragged about giving girls herpes. I felt like the sword of justice, slicing through pretention and exposing the ugly, coked-up truth.

  Then I realized that the people in my life had started to take a step backward. I had always been a vault of secrets, the one my friends came to for sound advice and discretion. And now here I was, mining every friendship I had for some kernel of gossip, and I hated it. But the pressure at work was unbearable. For a whopping $40,000 a year, I was expected to ruin the lives of celebrities. And in the process, I very nearly ruined my own.

  Every day we gossips were expected to fill two enormous pages with scintillating tales, and most of the time, there just wasn’t anything to write. Celebrities are either outrageously screwed up or mind-numbingly dull. Even if I did stumble across a juicy story, we usually couldn’t print it for fear of getting sued. So we ended up trying in vain to make the most routine tidbit—Angelina avoids dairy! McDreamy buys paper towels!—seem interesting.