“Yes, we’ll have beers,” David said. “One for me and one for Emily. Oh, and a glass of hot water with lemon.”
Lauren shot him a skeptical look. “Lemon water?”
“You should try it,” Emily said. “It’s great for your digestion if you know you’re going to eat something inflammatory. I have low stomach acid.”
Lauren was about to find fault with lemon water but couldn’t seem to think of anything. “I’m glad it works for you, Emily.”
Jason
The bartender saw Jason approaching and momentarily stopped playing with her phone, seemingly annoyed by the interruption. “Hey there,” he said, his voice dropping half an octave in an effort to sound more masculine. “Let me get...four Stellas, and uh...one cup of hot water with lemon, please, for this gay guy in our group. Thanks, sweetheart.” The bartender sighed, put her phone down, and began pouring the drinks.
“What time do you get off?” he asked, leaning against the bar.
“At the end of my shift,” she said flatly.
Jason returned to the table sulkily. The bartender came over with the drinks. Everyone took a beer except Matt. Jason nudged him in the shoulder. “Gotta love the designated driver. Thanks, man.”
“I don’t drink anyway,” Matt said. “Except for artisanal absinthe.”
Jason handed some wrinkled cash to the bartender. “I would have tipped more if you had smiled. What’s your problem, exactly? Bad breakup? You’re too hot to be so rude.”
She wedged the cash into the pocket on her apron. “This tip is fine, sir, thank you. Have a good night.” She went back to the bar.
“Lesbian,” Jason stage-whispered to David. He sipped his beer. “I know this isn’t exactly the Meatpacking District, but we could definitely have fun here. For one, just look at those two hot girls over there.” He nodded toward the two women with the frozen margaritas.
“I thought you didn’t like women over thirty,” Emily said.
“Look, the range of women I will sleep with is far wider than the range of women I would actually commit to. I would easily sleep with both of those women. The blonde is like, a six, which is fine, and the Asian is at least a seven. That’s adjusted for age, but it’s rare to see an Asian who’s less than a seven. Adjusted for race, though, she’s like a four.”
“You are really gross,” Lauren said.
“Yeah, you’ve made your point,” he said. “You’re the one who really needs a beer. Now let’s go make some friends.”
He stood up and swaggered over to the women’s table, his shoulders swaying more than usual. The blonde pushed some hair behind her ears and fluttered her eyelashes as she gave him a little grin, while her friend zipped her jacket up to her neck.
“Hey, ladies,” he said. “I couldn’t help but notice you were alone. Want some company?”
“We’re on a girls’ night out,” said the East Asian woman. She leaned forward to sip her margarita.
The blonde scooted over to make room for him. “Girls’ night out is all about meeting new people, right? Feel free to join.”
“Sweet,” he said, sliding into their booth. “Looks like we both came here to make friends.”
“Didn’t you already show up with a big group of friends?” the East Asian woman asked.
“Oh, those aren’t my friends. Those are my sisters. The one in the white dress—she’s in town for her wedding, and—”
“Her wedding?” the blonde gushed. “Oh my gosh, that is so exciting! This is embarrassing, but I love weddings.” She said it in a flirtatious whisper and Jason felt his confidence return. “I’m Sandy. This is Jeanine.”
“I’m Jason.” He reached across Sandy to shake Jeanine’s hand.
Jeanine let out a smile so brief that it could have been mistaken for a small facial tic. “Nice to meet you,” she said.
“So the million-dollar question,” he said. “What are two single ladies doing out tonight without a swarm of dudes around them?”
Sandy laughed. “I don’t know! Usually I have a bunch of creepers trying to buy me drinks. I seem to only attract losers and assholes! The only good man in my life is my best friend Bequon.”
“And you, Miss Eastern Promises?” he asked Jeanine.
“Was that an Asian joke?” she asked. “Eastern Promises is about the Russian mob.”
“Hey, we’re all pink on the inside,” he said. “So what’s your story?”
“Married,” she said curtly. She held up her left hand and wiggled her ring finger.
“Warning, ladies—a ring doesn’t stop me, and it never has.” He winked.
Sandy put her hands over her mouth in a half gasp, half laugh, while Jeanine checked her phone.
“I can see someone is fresh off the Buzzkill Boat,” Jason said to Sandy, indicating Jeanine with his thumb.
“I can still hear you,” Jeanine said. “And that’s still incredibly racist.”
“Oh, lighten up, girl,” Sandy said. “He was just being funny—this is political correctness gone crazy. Jason, invite your sister over! I want to ask her about her dress!” He sighed and beckoned Emily and the others. Lauren reluctantly walked over, her sneakers squeaking against the linoleum floor.
“Sit with us, Em,” he said. “See? I told you we’d make some friends.”
Emily and Lauren slid into the booth. There was no room for David and Matt, so they remained standing, awkwardly facing the table.
“I heard you were getting married!” Sandy said to Emily. “What’s your dress like? I’m Sandy, by the way.”
“Um...well, it’s white, of course, and strapless, which my mom was a total bitch about but she bought it anyway.”
“Oh my gosh, your mom paid for your dress? My mom would never do that for me. That is so cool...most parents totally give up on paying for wedding stuff when their kids are our age.”
“Our age? How old are you?”
“Thirty-six.”
“Oh, um, I’m twenty-eight?” Her voice went up a little at the end, as if even she were starting to doubt her own age. Jason thought about lightening the mood with a joke about how if she was worried about looking old, she could always drop David and find a teenage boy with a cougar fetish, but he thought better of it when he realized a comment like that might actually make her cry.
Sandy looked momentarily taken aback at Emily’s answer. “You are so lucky. It’s because you’re so mature and confident. I wish I was like you. Everyone looks at how goofy I am and assumes I’m still in college. I have my immature sense of humor to blame!”
“I feel you,” Lauren said. “Everyone at work thinks I’m a college intern.”
“Lauren,” Emily said, “you’ve worked there for, like, three years.”
“Well, obviously my boss knows my real age, I just mean people who are new to the magazine. They usually ask me to get them coffee and ask me what I’m majoring in.”
“I assume this happens after a trail of men follow you home propositioning you?”
“Fuck you, Emily. Stop invalidating my experiences.”
Emily
A few beers later, Jason had his arm around Sandy, and Jeanine was deep in conversation with Lauren. Jeanine was a stay-at-home mom, and luckily Lauren hadn’t said anything judgmental about it being a form of slavery. Instead, she regaled her with tales of being harassed online because of things she had written for Cunt.
“I got PTSD after someone with the screen name Tittyman69 called me a fat bitch on Reddit.”
“That’s terrible. Did you get treatment for that?”
“Ha! I stopped trusting so-called medical professionals a long time ago.”
“Wow, no doctors? So, like, you gave birth at home?”
“Of course. I’m not buying into the business of birthing. Did you see the Ricki Lake documentary about obstetricians? She fucked them up
good. To have a baby, all you need is a good birthing stool, a kiddie pool and a net to get all the poop out.”
“What about medical emergencies, though?”
“Nothing a midwife can’t handle. Although my midwife was actually sex-negative, femme-fluid gendercritical and preferred to be called the Usher of Beginnings, due to the patriarchal implications of the term midwife.”
“Cool,” Jeanine said, taking a long sip from her margarita while her eyes wandered. “So you’re, like, really into women’s rights?”
“Oh, not just women’s rights. I work tirelessly to dismantle every single oppressive structure that exists. I don’t know if you’d be into this, but I’m going to be doing a rally against the lingerie industry for fatphobia at the Galleria. Want to join? It’s next week.”
“Uh, what would it entail? I took some gender studies courses in college, but it’s been a while.”
“Basically we’re going to be topless with duct tape over our nipples and we’re going to chant, ‘Kiss my fat ass.’”
Jeanine cocked her head to one side. “Are you saying I’m fat?”
“No, it’s just the chant. It’s to protest against them for the unrealistic expectations they put on women’s bodies and how they shame women for how they look. I mean, all their models look like gross ten-year-old boys! We were going to throw a rally against them for being transphobic, but then unfortunately they hired that trans model, so that had to be scrapped. Those assholes are always one step ahead of us. And wow, how progressive—a trans model who’s tall, thin and beautiful. Yawn.”
“Oh, um, I’ll think about it!” She picked up her phone again.
Jason was snuggling closer to Sandy. She was on her third margarita and was having trouble sitting upright. She put her head on Jason’s shoulder and blew some hair out of her face. As Emily watched them, she took a small amount of perverse pleasure in seeing Sandy’s mascara irrigate her crow’s feet. Sure, you look like you’re in college. Right.
“Why is it so hard to meet good guys?” Sandy said, taking a sip of Jason’s fourth beer. “Every guy I’ve dated has been such an asshole. Like, why me?”
“All guys are assholes at heart,” he said. “But I was raised to believe women liked nice guys. My ex-wife left me because I was too nice.”
“She sounds like a bitch. How could anyone divorce you?”
“Well, I learned my lesson. Women like assholes, so I had to become one. Even though I’m actually nice. I’m very complicated.”
“I’m just as complicated. This is so lame, but sometimes I just like sitting around and eating ice cream while I watch Sex and the City. I’m such a dork.”
Jason’s grin widened and he licked his lips in a way that looked far too intentional to Emily. “Well, I think that’s adorable. We all have our quirks and faults. Like I was saying, mine is that I’m just too nice. I give too much. In the bedroom, and out.” He winked.
“No, you’re perfect! You’re only thirty-five and you’re the CEO of your own company? You’re like...Mr. Big or something.”
“It was important for me to become a self-made man,” he said. “I didn’t want to live off my grandfather’s fame.”
“Who’s your grandfather?”
Jason hung his head in false humility. “Don’t tell anyone, but...Arthur Berger.”
“Who?”
“Arthur Berger...of Berger’s Relish? You can’t have a burger without Berger’s?”
“Oh, Berger’s Relish!” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Wait, so you’re like really rich.” She smiled deviously. “You’re a real Christian Grey, aren’t you?”
“In more ways than you think,” he said, winking again. “So what’s your plan for the rest of the night? Want to get out of here?”
“Jeanine drove me. I have to leave with her.” She stuck out her lower lip and pouted, tracing an imaginary tear down her face with her French manicured finger.
“Forget Jeanine! She can take her own canoe home. My sister’s fiancé is our designated driver, so we can take you home with us for the after party.”
“After party? Fun! When I came out tonight, I had no idea I would meet someone like you. Wow.”
DAY 2
David
“YOU’RE UP EARLY.” Emily’s dad, Steven, was in the kitchen making coffee. He was wearing a gray zip-up sweatshirt and a pair of too-short nylon gym shorts. The shorts displayed disproportionately skinny legs covered in gray hair, with veins like squiggly telephone cords bulging beneath the skin.
“Nine?” David said. “That’s not so early.”
Steven grabbed a mug from the cabinet. “Every time my kids stay here, they never get up before eleven, so forgive me when I say I’m surprised to see someone your age sentient before lunchtime.”
“Yeah, I joke with Emily that she’s nocturnal.” David tended to wake up a few minutes before Emily every morning. He would make her a cup of green tea and leave it on her nightstand for her to find when she woke up. On the rare occasion that Emily woke up first, she made him breakfast and followed up with a massage, which she joked was her payment plan for all the tea. Women like Emily, as far as David could tell, didn’t exist in modern day. Or if they did, they were uptight and unfunny, and voted for Ted Cruz.
“Technically Emily is not really nocturnal. It would be nocturnal if she actually fell asleep at dawn and woke up at dusk.”
“Oh, I know. It’s just a joke.”
“I wake up at six. Marla gets up at five, but she goes out for her run and I usually don’t see her until seven or so. She must still be out.” He poured coffee into his mug. “The human body is actually designed to wake up at three in the morning, work for two hours, then go back to sleep until ten or so. But modern ideas of sleep and work prevent us from staying true to our internal clock.”
Steven took out a white Harvard mug and motioned to David, who shook his head. “No coffee before food,” David said. “Last time I did that I got nauseous.”
“Oh, yes, feel free to pour yourself some cereal.”
He thought about saying no, since cereal was chock-full of commercially processed grains, but he wasn’t sure how Steven would react. “Actually, I’m not hungry yet.” Steven shrugged and took a sip of coffee.
“Are you on your way to the gym or something?” He had never seen Steven in workout clothes before—only in khakis and button-downs.
“I am. I haven’t been in a while, and it’s time to get back on the horse. Marla pointed out that I’m looking a bit thick around the middle—it happens with age, you’ll see soon enough. Your metabolism just goes on vacation and doesn’t return. But it’ll be good to get back to the gym. I got out of the habit because I was busy researching my next book. It’s on Confucianism, which, contrary to popular belief, isn’t something people just read about on fortune cookies.” He smiled into his mug.
“Do most people believe that?” It was only after he asked the question that he realized Steven was attempting a joke.
“Oh, I hope not. But there are a lot of idiots in the world, so I wouldn’t put it past them.”
David wondered if he was being lumped with those idiots. Sometimes when he spoke to Steven, he felt as if he were in the middle of one of his recurring nightmares, in which he showed up for a class he had skipped for the entire semester only to discover he knew nothing on the final exam.
“You know,” Steven said, “I have a gym pass if you want to come with me.”
David weighed the question. He did want to work out. But he wasn’t exactly dying to spend alone time with Steven. Finally, after what felt like an eternity went by, he knew he needed to respond. “Thanks, that would be great.”
“Terrific. It’ll give us some time to catch up. Plus, you’ll absolutely love our gym.”
* * *
Steven pulled into the parking lot, narrowly
missing a garbage can with the nose of his car. The gym was in a low-rise stucco building painted Pepto-Bismol pink, with purple cursive letters above the door spelling Barbelles. David noticed a clutch of older women standing outside drinking protein shakes and wearing neon leotards and tracksuits. “This is an interesting place,” he said. “It’s uh...for women?”
“For the most part,” Steven said, locking the car door. “It’s Marla’s gym. It caters to women, but they don’t have a rule against male patrons. It was easier to just sign up for the BFF joint plan than have two completely different gym memberships. Plus we save hundreds of dollars a year.”
David glanced at the women in their pastel clothing and headbands. He realized that as strange as it would be to work out in an all-female gym, at least he wouldn’t have to worry about the kinds of men he sometimes ran into at LifeSpin. Women at the gym, as annoying as they could be when they sat on the hip abductor, mouth agape while checking their phones, were far less annoying than the men. There was one particular guy at LifeSpin named Lars, short and stocky with skin that looked like day-old oatmeal. His hands were always streaked with either chalk or protein powder, and he wore a weightlifting belt around his midsection that looked like a corset. He carried a clipboard with a detailed graph of all his reps and weight amounts, and he would regularly scribble away at his graph while cursing under his breath. David usually avoided him, but sometimes if Lars had his eye on the same machine David was already using, he would come over, puff his chest out and say, “Hey man, mind if I work in?” Trading off on a machine with Lars meant listening to his sharp and rhythmic “Fuck!”s and getting secondhand protein powder and/or chalk residue on your hands. David would usually just stop working out at the machine, tell Lars he was almost done anyway, and do something else. One of his greatest fears was that Lars would eventually try to become gym buddies with him. He seemed like the kind of person who would shoot up the place if he had to wait for a machine.
David was guaranteed not to run into anyone like Lars at Barbelles. The interior was pale pink with bright purple hand weights arranged on a rack by a mirrored wall. Near the front desk were magazines like Self and More, and a shelf of skincare products, including some that were Barbelles’ own brand. The gym smelled like air conditioning and fake chocolate—better than the rubber-and-ball-sweat stench of the LifeSpin weight room during peak hours. The front desk was U-shaped with a purple plastic counter. On the wall behind the desk was a poster of an ethnically diverse group of gray-haired women frolicking in a field, with the words Sisters Push Each Other.
Family and Other Catastrophes Page 8