Like. “Wow. How adventurous of me!”
“Yeah.” He took another swig of his beer. “So I was thinking that not tonight—tonight we’ll just do normal crazy—but sometime soon, that . . . we could do that.”
“Wow, soon?”
“Sure, why not?” he said. “You . . . me . . . and someone new . . .”
“Just us three?”
“Definitely,” Dirk said, clearly getting excited just thinking about the possibilities. “Yeah, mix it up a little bit, you know? Throw a different ingredient, something else into the mix. But not”—and here, he sat up very straight and craned his neck way back, the picture of moral rectitude—“not trashy. Not anything to come between us.”
“Huh,” I said. Actually, I was sure he’d be flexible on the coming-between-us part if I agreed to go along with the plan.
“I mean, I was always happy with just you and me,” he said, pouring it on even thicker. “At first I tried to talk you out of it because I didn’t know if it would change things between us once it was all said and done, but . . . I just want you to be happy.”
“Tell you what,” I said, “make that third party a guy? And I’ll think about it.”
He made a face, trying to laugh but choked by instinctive fear of the subject. “Ho. Whoa. What am I? Some kind of fag?”
“I don’t know. Are you?”
“Ha, no! God no. Fuck no! You know I’m not.” If Dirk were a cartoon, steam would have been coming out of his ears. “Just forget I said anything.”
“Are you sure?” I looked around, pointed at a good-looking guy in a flannel shirt. “What about that guy?”
“Right.”
“I’m serious,” I went on. “The two of you, going at me. It’ll be different. It’ll be fun. Someone else in the mix. I see what you mean . . .”
“Are you out of your mind? Did you lose some brain cells along with your memory?”
“I don’t think so,” I said. And then with my eyes locked on Dirk, and a new kind of smile dancing across my lips, I got up from my chair and walked over to the guy I’d pointed at.
“Hi,” I said to the stranger in flannel. “I’m Jordan.”
“Hello, Jordan. Mike,” he said.
“Hey, Mike. This is going to sound weird but . . . would you let me kiss you? It’s for a thing. Like a bet . . . kind of.”
He looked, well . . . he looked like any man who’d just been asked for a kiss by a young and reasonably attractive woman in a bar. The preening was precious. “Who’d you bet?”
“Nobody. Actually, myself. I bet myself that I wouldn’t go through with it.”
“What do you get if you win the bet? And what happens if you lose?”
“If I win I get a kiss, some self-esteem back, and the pleasure of making someone pay for trying to take advantage of someone else’s misfortune. And if I lose . . .”
He cut me off with a kiss. A good kiss too. Not like I saw fireworks, but it was pleasant enough, and it certainly caught Dirk’s attention. He was halfway to where we were standing when I came out of it. I whispered to Mike to just play along.
“Hey, Dirk,” I said. “This is Mike.”
“Hey, Dirk,” Mike said with a finger-trigger point.
“Mike’s totally cool with everything . . .” I said to Dirk. “So how do you want to play it?”
“Jordan!” Dirk hissed. “Fuckin’ forget about it, all right?”
“Fuckin’ forgotten,” I said as I held back a major laughing fit. “I guess, never mind, Mike,” I said to my new friend. “But I’ll let you know if anything changes.”
That? Was awesome.
* * * * *
After Dirk and I parted ways, I met Todd and Cat at the twenty-four-hour diner where we’d clocked so many hours together that they’d given us our own reserved table. Almost. Whenever we came, the owner or night manager would cast a weary glance at us and jerk his head toward our booth. If someone was there, the quandary set us back for minutes at a time. Once we stared a group of giggling teenaged girls right out of the place.
I was late—ditching Dirk had taken longer than expected. Still, to keep up the ruse, I called Todd on his cell phone and he pretended to give me directions so I’d know where I was going. I hadn’t seen Cat in ages. I’d avoided her more than I’d have liked since my rebirth and I was feeling sixteen shades of guilty.
“Greetings,” I said as Cat got up and hugged me tightly.
“I’ve missed you,” she said. Make that seventeen shades of guilty. “I wonder—” Cat broke in, then stopped.
“Out with it,” Todd said.
She arched her brows. “What it’s like being in there. It’s unbelievable that you can’t . . . remember.”
Unbelievable? Implausible, sure . . . but beyond belief? I hoped not.
“It’s like . . . ” I looked up for effect. “Like the first day of school, every day. I know I’ll be okay. I know it’s generally fine—I’m supposed to be there, I’ll be able to handle the homework, do the math, fire up the Bunsen burner. But everyone is new. I don’t know a soul. But”—I smiled hopefully—“I look forward to meeting everyone and making new friends.”
“But what about when you got your arm stuck in that trellis in your backyard and Sam kept hitting you with her shoe? The baking cupboard surprise we used to make with the vinegar and mustard and cinnamon and chocolate morsels?” She scoured her own memory. “What, what, what about the bird . . . that flew into the car when you were driving? And you went up on the curb and took out the mailbox and blamed it on—” She caught herself. We’d blamed it on Todd and his minibike—and we hadn’t yet found the perfect opportunity to tell him.
My body had a mind of its own, and it remembered every glorious moment with her, and it started to reach to slap her arm, and my eyes and mouth were about to go along with it in the hilarity of the moment, until Todd calmly interceded by horse-kicking me under the table.
“That’s wild stuff, wild!” he said. “Hooo! Good times. And we can only hope that one day, God willing, she’ll find her way back to us. For now, I think we have to tread lightly,” and he used his fingers to tiptoe around the table.
So I swallowed hard and picked up again. “I’ve just been getting acclimated at work and trying to figure out who I was and who I’m going to be and how I used to live and if that’s still gonna fly.”
“And what about Dirk?” she asked. “Did you have a nice time with him tonight? You know, I hate to be the bearer of bad news—”
“You live to be the bearer of bad news,” Todd interjected.
Ignoring him, she continued. “You weren’t very happy with him before this happened to you.”
“I know,” I said.
“You remember what a dick he is?” Cat looked hopeful, as if I were having a breakthrough. I got nervous.
“I filled her in,” said Todd. Always quick with the cover. God, I loved Todd.
“I’m surprised he didn’t make you go home with him tonight,” she said.
“Yeah, well . . . he did try to suggest we work some ‘experimenting’ into our sex life.”
“Typical,” Cat said. “Revolting.”
“He’s got some stuff to work out.” I nodded.
“I’d think his idea of working something out would involve a couple thrusts, immediately followed by copious snoring,” Cat added.
“Was that my idea of a good time?” I said. “I don’t think that’s going to get him anywhere these days.”
“Good,” she said. “Make him suffer. Make him beg! Conjure your inner diva.”
I raised my glass. “To my newfound inner diva!”
“Hear, hear,” Cat yelped. “I gotta pee so bad I think my bladder is going to explode all over this table.”
“How ’bout you spare us the charming imagery and just go to the bathroom?” Todd said.
“Wow . . . hadn’t thought of that.” Cat got up and left, so Todd and I could have a mini powwow.
“You would
not believe the shit Dirk was trying to pull.”
“Oh, no,” he said, “I would.”
“Complete one-eighty from the other night with Travis.”
“Who?”
“Travis.”
“What’s a Travis?” Todd asked, face contorted, shoulders inching toward his ears.
“The guy . . . whose car . . . you know . . .”
“Oh, the florist?” This was Todd’s way of flexing his muscles. Any mention of any other men, and immediately his feathers started ruffling.
“Not exactly his occupation, but, yes, the guy who sent me all the flowers. Anyway, I’ve seen him a couple times and he’s really sweet.”
“Sweet, like how? Like a sweet old man? Sweet like a basket of puppies? A sweet three-year-old covering you with finger paint?”
“No, he’s not a puppy. Or old. Or three. He’s around our age, I guess. You know, I can’t tell how old anyone is anymore.” Cat came back in time to catch the last part of my sentence.
“I can’t either,” said Cat. “I swear everybody between the ages of nineteen and thirty-five looks the same to me.” We all nodded in agreement. I wondered when that happened. I used to have a fairly good grasp of people’s ages. I could tell more or less how old someone was by what they wore, the music they liked—that sort of thing. Now all the teenagers were dressing like twenty-somethings; and all the thirty-somethings were trying desperately to still look like twenty-somethings; and then the actual twenty-somethings, well, they looked their age, I guess. It made for some confusion though. “What did I miss when I peed?”
“Hopefully not the toilet,” Todd said. “Jordan has a not-so-secret admirer.”
“Really? Who?”
“The guy who ran her over,” Todd answered.
“He didn’t run me over,” I clarified. “We collided. It was an accident. That’s why they’re called accidents and not on purposes.”
“Porpoises?” Todd said. “I love porpoises! Is it porpoises? What’s the plural of porpoise?”
“Could you be more annoying?” I asked.
“You know he can,” said Cat. “Don’t egg him on.”
“Por-pie?” he murmured.
“Anyway, I wouldn’t call him an admirer,” I said, although I hoped it wasn’t true. “He was just being nice. He felt bad about what happened.”
“As well he should,” said an indignant Todd. Then piling it on he added, “Causing our Jordan to concuss and lose all her precious memories.”
“I probably won’t even hear from him again,” I said, but immediately said a little silent prayer, Please God, don’t let that be true.
“I’m sure,” Todd said with a knowing grimace.
“What about you, Cat? Tell us about you,” I said.
“Is this where we start men bashing?” Todd asked sarcastically. “I love this part.”
“No,” Cat said. “Because I am a happily married woman with a baby on the way.”
* * * * *
As I walked down my hallway—something was different. It didn’t hit me until I turned the key in my front door. Silence. Total silence. Sneevil wasn’t making a peep.
I quickly entered my apartment and ran to his cage—which was empty. I looked around, panicked, but didn’t see him anywhere. My heart started racing, and then I heard a tap. I looked up toward the noise, and there at my window was Sneevil, nestled in a surrogate nest that he’d built on my windowsill. And on the other side of the window—a pigeon. Not just any pigeon—a pigeon who was looking longingly, desperately at Sneevil. And Sneevil was returning his gaze. Her gaze? Sneevil was so enamored with this pigeon that he’d moved house. And was that part of my new orange sweater amid the nest? Make yourself comfortable, Sneevil.
The pigeon tapped at the window again and Sneevil cooed and started singing. It was an avian Romeo and Juliet, but as I thought avian, immediately I got to thinking about the bird flu we’ve been hearing so much about and wondered, What if that pigeon was a flu-carrying carrier? I panicked and shooed him away. Or I tried to. He wasn’t budging. He didn’t even notice me. He only had eyes for Sneevil. And Sneevil returned his yearning gaze, inching forward, singing to it, leaning forward as far as he could—if it weren’t for the glass partition they’d be out together dancing beak to beak.
I was pacing, trying to figure out what to do about the budding romance, listening to the messages on my answering machine. The first message was from Citibank. Shocker. They were relentless. You’d think they want you to pay them every month or something. They’d call at all hours, too. I’d received calls at 6 A.M. from the heathens.
My second message, though . . . that canceled out Citibank’s annoyance.
“Hey, Jordan. Thought I’d put this number to use. Oh, it’s Travis. The guy from the car. And Thanksgiving. And . . . shabu-shabu. Um . . . calling to see what your plans are for tomorrow night. Still feeling awful about the smell and the retainer and the late notice . . . This probably sounds like a really weird message. Anyway, I was hoping I could make it up to you. In a place where everybody has to keep their shoes on. Maybe you don’t even remember the incident. I’m not sure which side of the amnesia that falls under. So if you don’t remember, then great! If you do, then sorry . . . again. Give me a call. It’s Travis. I said that already.” Beep.
Could he have been more cute? He totally had that stammering-over-his-words Hugh Grant thing going on. But not annoying. Not that Hugh Grant is annoying, but we’ve seen him stammer through the awkward moment enough already. Travis, however . . . this was new territory. Move over, Hugh! This was the movie of my life and it had a new leading man. Cue the soundtrack.
Then my phone rang. And the only thing that could take me out of my blissful state of It’s All About Travis more than Citibank would be my mother—which is who it was.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Jordan. It’s your mother.” This wasn’t just her acknowledgment of the amnesia: She always identified herself to me like I wasn’t going to recognize her voice after knowing her for my entire life.
“Hi, Mom. How are you?” Automatically I walked over to my freezer and took out a pint of ice cream. I didn’t even realize I was doing it. I guess it was self-defense in the form of comfort food.
“I want you to set up some appointments for physical therapy,” she said.
“Why?”
“It’s going to be better for our case.”
“What case?” I asked.
“Against the driver of that car, dear. He’s going to pay big for what he did to you. And my attorney, and Dirk, said that the more bills we rack up, well, it makes the case stronger.”
“No, Mom. I’m not going to physical therapy and I’m not suing him. I actually met him and he’s really, really nice.” And totally hot and going to have ten kids with me, so back the fuck up. And, P.S., why are you talking to Dirk?
“He can be nice while he runs half of New York over. It doesn’t change what he did.”
“Yes, it does. It was an accident!” Suddenly, I found myself saying the exact same thing to her that I’d told Todd just hours earlier. “That’s why it’s called an accident, not an on purpose.”
“We’ll talk about this later,” she said and then paused. “Are you eating?” I was. I stopped. How did she hear that? It was fucking ice cream. That’s probably why she called in the first place. Her radar went off. Somewhere in Manhattan, Jordan’s about to stuff her face and it must stop. She’ll get skinny like the rest of her family come hell or high water.
“I’m just having a snack.”
“Ice cream?” she shot back.
Dammit. “No.”
“Good. It’s late to be eating anything at all, you know. You should try not to eat after seven.”
“Okay, Mom, thanks.”
“I’ll set up an appointment for physical therapy tomorrow. Good night, Jordan,” she said and then added, “Enjoy your Rocky Road or Chocolate Chunk. Which?”
I waited. “Chunk.�
�
“Yes,” she said. Click.
18.
life is all pretty much
improv anyway
I walked into the office and everyone was looking at me funny. It was reminiscent of the day when I’d been splashed on my way to work, but I was totally clean and they weren’t looking like they felt sorry for me this time—they looked like they were in on a secret. That stupid look they’d get on somebody’s birthday when they’d say, “Oh, Sally . . . they need you in the Bermuda conference room”—and Sally would show up to find a not-so-surprise cake and crowd waiting to celebrate her birthday.
Then when I got to my desk it was cleaned out—totally empty. Not a red Swingline stapler to be found, a conspicuous vacancy where the Hasselhoff poster had been. My heart started to pound and my stomach did the panic flip-flop that’s usually reserved for when I get caught in a lie.
I looked around, but nobody would look me in the eye. Was I busted? Fired? Yeah, maybe I’d been a little deceitful, but I thought I’d kicked ass on the VibraLens pitch.
“Jordan?”
I turned and saw Lydia. “Hi, good morning,” I said, but I nearly choked on my own saliva out of nervousness.
“What are you doing there?” she asked.
“Just . . . standing?”
“Wondering what happened to all your things?” Thump-thump, thump-thump. Can anyone else hear my heart pounding? I wondered.
“Kind of?” I said.
Then Laura J. Linvette, human resources manager and accounting manager (bad idea normally, but we were tiny by agency standards), appeared. “Congratulations, Jordan. This came quickly, so we didn’t have time for a lot of planning, but I think you’ll like what we’ve come up with.”
“Really?” Now it did feel like amnesia. What the hell was going on? Then Billingsly turned the corner and smiled at me.
“Jordan! Here’s my star,” he said, stepping close. “VibraLens signed on to do print and broadcast with your ‘Reinventing’ campaign. They actually increased the buy after we laid out media strategy because they were so impressed by the creative potential here. And you, my dear, are officially in creative. You’re on the Surf team. Starting today.” At Splash, in addition to having conference rooms named after vacation islands, our teams were always named after water sports.
Forget About It Page 17