Carrie Pilby

by Caren Lissner

  “We’d definitely like to bring more young people into the church,” Eppie says. “There are a lot of young people who’ve just moved to the city and feel guilty that they haven’t been going to church. This gives them a way to be a part of something new and exciting.”

  I don’t want to be taken in, but he’s saying the right things. I set up an appointment.

  After I hang up, it’s quiet again. I hear a car puttering past.

  I look at the TV pullout I’ve saved from my paper. Just soaps and talk shows.

  The phone rings.

  I hope it’s Matt. Then I chastise myself for hoping it’s Matt. Maybe it’s A-Adam. Maybe Kara. At least now I’ve got people who it could be.

  I wait until the third ring.

  “Is…Carrie Pilby there?”

  The woman pronounced my name right. Maybe for a change it’s not a sales call. Maybe this is the call that will change my life.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m calling to let you know you’ve won a free month of Women’s Week.”

  A letdown, as usual.

  “After your free month, if you’re interested in getting the next forty-six issues, which would be the full year of issues, you can order them for only $14.95.”

  “If you’re giving me a free month, that’s four issues,” I say. “If I can buy another forty-six and that’s considered a year’s worth, that’s fifty. The magazine is called Women’s Week, and there are fifty-two weeks in a year.”

  “We have double issues at Thanksgiving and Christmas,” she says.

  “But what if something happens with women during the weeks you’re not publishing?” I ask. “What if women land on the moon? What if a band of angry Pygmy women holds up the White House?”

  “Would you like to try the free offer?”

  Suddenly I feel bad for her. The only people who do these jobs are people who really need the money. Otherwise they would get a job that pays better or doesn’t require you to get hung up on for half the day. Why should I act superior? I’m not.

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” I say. I’ll just write “cancel” across the bill when I get it. I know this woman will get a commission if I accept this. All it’s going to cost me is a few seconds of my life.

  “Really?” she says. “I mean, thank you. Let me get the rest of your information, ma’am.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  For a change, I feel like I did something good. When I hang up, I don’t feel as bad about myself as usual.

  I return to bed. I still feel alone, though. Maybe I’ll meet Michael Saturday, we’ll hit it off, and then I won’t ever feel this way again.

  I wonder what Matt is doing right now. I was better off when I didn’t know what I was missing.

  If I were Matt’s girlfriend, I’d call him at work right now and say hi. I would ask how his day was going.

  I think of Shauna. What if she is a nice person? She probably is. Am I horrible because I want Matt’s attention, too? If Shauna isn’t going to be enough to keep him happy, maybe it’s better he find that out now. And maybe he’ll realize there is one person who can keep him happy forever, happy enough to never want or need to cheat—it’s just not Shauna.

  I lie in bed a little longer. The silence is unnerving.

  I decide to listen to the 78s that I found when I moved in here. I haven’t done that in a while. I put one on, and it’s a polka. It’s scratchy and I love it.

  The choppy sounds fill the room. They bring me to life. I whirl through the bedroom, living room, kitchen, bathroom. I touch the medicine cabinet, skip out past the painted-over window in the wall, head back to my room. The music spikes and drops. I leap into the air as if I am in a giant flowing skirt. I hop onto my bed and off. Someone on the record claps three times, and I do the same.

  I’m having a Pilby Party: a party for one. I love Pilby Parties. I’m the only guest, and I always fit in.

  The phone rings. I lower the music and pick it up.

  “What are you doing?” Matt asks. “Having Oktoberfest in December?”

  I laugh, happy to hear from him. “It’s the old records I found when I moved in here.”

  “You have a record player?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  “I like old things.”

  “Do you have a CD player?”

  “No.”

  There’s an odd silence.

  “I was half expecting your voice mail. You off today?”

  I think quickly. “Night shift tonight,” I say.

  “Oh.” He’s quiet for a second. “All right, I’ll level with you. I was calling because I’m having trouble not thinking about you. I’d really like to see you.”

  Whatever I did, I did right. And he was thinking about me when I wasn’t there! Just like Harrison used to do.

  “Are you able to meet up for lunch this week?” Matt asks. “Tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow’s a little busy,” I lie. I lie because I wonder if Shauna’s out of town tomorrow and that’s the only reason he’s asking me.

  “Thursday or Friday are okay, too,” he says, “if they’re okay with you.”

  All right. He’s being flexible. “You know, I just realized, tomorrow’s okay,” I say.

  “That’s great.”

  “Will you get in trouble at work?” I ask.

  “They don’t really pay much attention to how long our lunch goes at my job,” he says. “I’m a consultant anyway, and I move around. It’s not like I’m at one desk all day. And I’m there till six some nights, or I’m in by eight in the morning. They know I do my work.”

  Matt’s office is near the Harrigan’s in Union Square, which is one of those family-style bar-restaurants whose menu spans everything from Southwestern to Cajun to finger food to fifty flavors of margaritas. I meet him in front of the roped-off entrance, and a woman says, “Smoking?” and we both shake our heads. It’s packed.

  “Work crowd,” Matt says. “Don’t worry, I’m paying. The prices here are double what they would be in a normal city.”

  We slide into a booth. Matt is smiling. He seems genuinely happy. Very light. I wonder if he’s changing his mind about Shauna, now that he sees there’s more out there. I’m both guilty and hopeful at once. It’s not like I’m in love with him or anything, but I do like him, and it’d be easier to feel good about this if I knew he wasn’t about to take his vows and spend ten days in Hawaii with someone.

  Harrigan’s is decorated with tin signs and corporate logos. There’s a red Reading Railroad sign, a giant metal Pepsi thermometer, a circular blue Morton’s salt ad, and a Maxwell House sign.

  “Teddy Roosevelt used to eat there,” Matt says, sitting down. There’s a mirror on the side, and I see us both in it, him in a white dress shirt and tie, me in a red sweater. We don’t look half-bad together.

  “Teddy Roosevelt used to eat where?” I ask.

  “Maxwell House. Maxwell House coffee was invented in the Maxwell House hotel in Tennessee, where all the rich and famous used to hang out after the turn of the century. Supposedly, Teddy Roosevelt was eating there one day, and he even said he enjoyed it to the ‘last drop’ and that became one of their slogans.”

  “Why did it happen to be Teddy Roosevelt who said it?” I ask. “Why wasn’t it, like, Ernie the Bellhop?”

  Matt laughs. “I guess you’re right.”

  The waitress appears. “Welcome to Harrigan’s. We have several specials, as you can see in front of you, as well as a new tutti-fruiti margarita.”

  “Tutti-fruiti? We’ll have to do that,” Matt says.

  “Two?” the waitress asks.

  “Yes,” Matt leaps in, before I can say anything.

  When she leaves, I say, “I thought you didn’t drink.”

  “Yes, but since we’re in Harrigan’s, and since you can get margaritas in kids’ flavors, and since we’re celebrating our first workday lunch together, it’s acceptable.”

  “I was hoping for bubble
gum flavored.”

  “I was hoping for wild cherry or creamsicle,” he says. “So, how’ve you been doing?”

  It’s sweet of him to ask. “I’ve been fine,” I say. “How are you? How’s work?”

  Matt shrugs. “It’s pretty good, except there’s this new guy there who’s annoying as hell. His name’s Tad. Whoever heard of someone named Tad?”

  “Abe Lincoln’s son,” I say.

  “Figures you’d have heard of someone named Tad.”

  “We did a play on him in elementary school.”

  “On Tad Lincoln? Must have been boring.”

  “On Abe Lincoln.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be named Abraham, either,” Matt says.

  “You know what was weird?” I say. “My teachers in school always said Abe Lincoln was considered ugly in his day. But no one in my class ever thought so. My teachers said maybe that’s because we’re used to looking at him. Have you ever thought of Abe Lincoln as ugly?”

  “I don’t know,” Matt said. “I want to see a picture of him now, to see.”

  “I’d give you one, but I don’t carry around pictures of Abe Lincoln.”

  “I do.” Matt pulls out his wallet and takes out a five-dollar bill. “Yeah, he ain’t bad.”

  I have to admit that Matt’s pretty clever. I think if I were around him, I’d be continually surprised.

  Someone a few tables away is delivered a birthday cake, and we wait for it to pass. Matt says, “I hope no one ever does that to me.”

  “Me either. I hate surprise parties.”

  “So do I. Anyone who knows me knows I don’t like them. My parents threw me one once, and when everyone yelled ‘Surprise,’ I cried.”

  He looks cute when he says this. “Aww. How old were you?”

  “I don’t know. Five?”

  We both order, and I notice a metal Esso sign. “Do you know how Esso got its name?” I ask.

  “No. Only that it became Exxon eventually.”

  “Right. But back when they broke up Standard Oil in 1911, Standard Oil became a bunch of different companies, like Standard Oil of New Jersey, for instance. Eventually they got all cutesy and abbreviated it to Esso—S.O., get it?”

  “Wow,” Matt says. “That’s cool.”

  “Another branch was Socony, Standard Oil Company of New York. That became Mobil.”

  “Happy motoring,” Matt says, raising his margarita glass.

  I clink glasses. “Happy motoring.”

  I think of how I haven’t seen “Happy motoring” written on a gas station since I was a kid, and how Matt probably shares that, and how it’s nice to have childhood pop culture reference points with someone. That was something I never had with Harrison.

  “Antitrust theory interests me,” Matt says, “because it’s so antithetical to the theory of our capitalist system, and yet, so completely in line with it. Our country was founded on the idea, among others, that if you work hard, and you get more and more successful, you get to enjoy the fruits of it. You can overcome whatever situation or class you were born into with sweat and determination and ideas. But there’s this nondelineated point at which if you will become so successful, you will get punished for it. And this is necessary because if you have a monopoly, you can do things that a regular market wouldn’t allow, so there is a need for trust-busting. But the idea of the government knocking you off because you’ve done too well in America—that’s strange, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I say, and I take a sip. “I confess that among disciplines, economics isn’t the one I’m most well-versed in, although I’ve always wanted to learn more.”

  “Economics bores me,” Matt says, “and yet, I play the market all the time. There’s psychology involved, too, not just numbers. I don’t buy powerful stocks—I buy little ones that I think might rally.”

  “Are you good?”

  Matt suddenly looks bashful. He shrugs.

  I get the feeling it’s a hidden talent of his, that he’s wildly successful at it.

  The waitress puts down our food. I drain my margarita, while Matt has a tiny bit left.

  “More drinks?” the waitress asks.

  Matt winks. “For her,” he says.

  When the waitress leaves, Matt raises his glass. “Here’s to…to…”

  “To good friends?” I ask.

  “You know what?” he says. “Millard Fillmore came up with that.”

  “I think it was John Quincy Adams who first said, ‘What’ll it be?’”

  “You’ve hardly eaten your food,” Matt says.

  “I’m too excited to eat,” I say. “I want to tell you about Sanka.”

  “What? James Buchanan invented it?”

  “No,” I say. “This is serious. What it stands for. It stands for sans caffeine.”

  “No shit.”

  “Really,” I say. “And Chicklets are chicle pellets.”

  “I never thought about that.”

  I can’t seem to stop babbling. “‘Brillo’ is Spanish for ‘I shine.’”

  “You’re just a fountain of knowledge.”

  “3M stands for…guess what?”

  “I’m going to get this one. It stands for Mmm… mmm…good.”

  “No, that’s soup, silly. It stands for Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Necco is short for New England Confectionery Company.”

  I’m delivered my second margarita and I take a big sip. I put the glass down. “I read all kinds of wacky things all the time. Right now I’m going through this phase where I rent the top 100 movies…”

  “Oh, the AAFR list? Yeah, I keep meaning to rent some of those. Half the time I go into the video store and have no idea what to rent.”

  “Me, too, so anyway, the list inspired me to take out this book on the origins of Hollywood. It said that Samuel Goldwyn, the Goldwyn of Metro Goldwyn Mayer, that wasn’t his name. His name was Goldfish. But he had this partner named Selwyn. And the two of them combined their names to make a company, Goldwyn. And I was wondering why they decided to do it in that order, like, why didn’t Mr. Selwyn’s name get to be first, followed by Goldfish? And then I realized that if they did that, the company would have been Sel-Fish.”

  Matt laughs. “So this is what goes through your head all day.”

  “Nah,” I say. “Only during first period.”

  “Come on. Don’t tell me you order your days like school.”

  “Sure. I keep seven alarm clocks in my room, each set for a different period.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Trivia, gym, lunch, nap time—my favorite—art and music. I was in music when you called.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I’m actually making him smile. He gets me. The job interview guy never got me. “Okay, I made that up.” I finish my second margarita. This stuff is good. I lick the salt that’s encrusted on the glass. “Are you going to be late getting back to work?”

  “I can be late.”

  I saw into my fajita. I have to be careful not to make a mess with the sour cream, salsa and guacamole. I’ve had so much to drink that the spiciness of the food is blunted.

  “What are your parents like?” Matt asks.

  He must really like me if he asks a serious question like that. “My mother died when I was two,” I say.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. She had cancer. I don’t remember her, really. My father tells me about her sometimes. It’s hard for him to talk about.”

  “Well, if you ever want to talk to me about it.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  “Well, I like you.”

  I look at him. He’s smiling. “Thanks.”

  “How did they meet? Your parents.”

  I think about it. “They worked at the same company.”

  “What does your dad do?”

  “Investment banking stuff. He travels a lot.”

  “You must be very self-reliant.”


  I shrug. “I try.”

  He looks at me sympathetically. “It’s impressive.”

  “Grows you right up.” To negate this, I put a bit of guacamole on my spoon and pretend I’m about to fling it. He laughs. “I was born in London,” I say. “We only moved to New York when I was two.”

  “No way,” Matt says. “I was born in Paris.”

  “Really?”

  “My mom was getting a doctorate in French studies. My parents are both college professors.”

  It always seems like people who are interesting had interesting parents. But then again, sometimes they had really awful parents. In any case, Matt obviously got a lot of support growing up. “Did you go to public schools?”

  “Yeah,” Matt says. “My parents are big public school fans. But they also taught me outside of school. Every night they discussed current events with me and my sister at the dinner table. And my mom started teaching us French before we were ten. She was one of those people who believed you have to learn a language when you’re young.”

  “Really?” I say. “I hate to say this, but say something in French.”

  “Sans caffeine,” he says.

  “Très bien,” I say. “Unfortunately, that is about all I remember of my seventh-grade French.”

  “That’s because you didn’t start learning it before you turned ten.”

  “I did.”

  “Ha.”

  “I took Spanish, too,” I say.

  “Say something in Spanish,” Matt demands.

  “Eat-o your burrito, gringo.”

  He laughs.

  “Fun fact,” I say, unable to resist. “Gringo comes from ‘Griego,’ which is the Spanish word for ‘Greek.’ Because ‘Greek’ can be used as a word to mean something foreign, as in, ‘It’s all Greek to me.’ So they took Griego and it mutated to ‘Gringo.’”

  “That’s pretty interesting,” Matt says.

  “So is this margarita.” I polish off the very end.

  “I hope you’re not driving today,” Matt says.

  “I’m out of Essolene.”

  “Put a tiger in your tank.”

  “Martin Van Buren invented that.”

  The waitress comes by. “How is everything going?”