by Mary Carter
“What? I don’t want gory details or anything but you don’t seem that excited, that’s all.”
“It’s good good. He’s just a little too—”
“Big?” I ask, curiosity clinging to my throat like socks to a dryer. I had seen his shoes once in the hallway. Huge, clown feet.
Kim laughs. “I was going to say too gentle. Too sensitive, you know? Like he’s afraid of breaking me.”
I nod while images of Ray and me having sex on my fire escape flash through my mind.
“Your turn. ‘It’s just’ what?”
“Okay. It’s no biggie. He just—he’s not that into oral sex I guess.”
“He doesn’t like blow jobs?” Kim says loudly. Now the men are really looking at her.
“Shh,” I say. “No, he’s quite enthusiastic about them. It’s the reverse that seems to be an issue for him.”
“You mean you have to ask him?”
“I mean he’s never even made an attempt. Not once.”
Kim studies me while finishing her margarita. “You’re going to have to guide him then,” she says.
“What? My terrain is so confusing he needs a guide?” I say.
Kim giggles.
“Has Charles—”
“Of course.”
“So it’s weird that—”
“Yes.”
“So I’ll just have to guide him.”
Kim holds up her margarita and we toast. “You could draw a map on your stomach,” Kim says. “South Town that way.”
We laugh. I giggle. It was good to talk about these things. Really, maybe Ray just needed a little nudge.
“Bring on the tequila!” Tommy shouts from the doorway.
Tommy Vance is a gorgeous, funny, talented model. (Before you ask, I would have but he’s gay.) He was the one impersonating Kiss with me the night of the party. But for another ten seconds, it would have been him kneeling on the floor with a wooden penis, and his community wouldn’t have thought twice about it. Kim signals a waiter, and this time a pitcher of margaritas appears.
“Are we eating?” Kim asks. The three of us stare at the pitcher and shake our heads no.
“Good,” Tommy says. “We’re going to get nice and drunk. Now fill me in. What exactly did Trina say?”
Tommy and Kim hate Trina as much as I do, but since they constantly run into each other on modeling jobs they have to hide it. But it doesn’t stop them from relishing every drop of gossip they can squeeze out of anyone. “Okay. First she asked me if I was going to Sheila Hedge’s play—”
“Sheila Hedge?” Tommy interrupts. “The Canadian with the big melons?”
“Yes,” I say. “Anyhow—and then she casually said ‘Ray and I are thinking of going.’”
“Are they real or has she had them done?” Tommy interrupts. For a gay man he’s way too obsessed about breasts.
“I don’t know,” I say.
“They’re real,” Kim says.
We both look at her.
“What? Cynthia Howard got drunk and squeezed them on a dare last Fourth of July.”
Tommy nods, satisfied.
“Anyhow,” I say with a trace of irritation, “she said she and Ray were going to the play.”
“Thinking of going, or going?” Tommy says.
I look at Kim for help.
“We’re two drinks ahead of you, Tommy. No talking until you catch up,” Kim orders.
“Kim,” I plead. “Ray hasn’t called me in like ten days. What if he’s seen the Web site? What if he’s not calling me because he thinks I’m a she-male?”
“She-males are really in right now!” Tommy pipes up. Kim and I corner him with dirty looks. He shrugs and goes back to his margarita. “It’s true,” he says to the salt and pepper shakers. “They’re third. Bisexual women are first, metrosexuals are a close second, and she-males are rounding third! On second thought I think we need some fajitas. Waiter!”
“But what if he hasn’t seen it?” Kim says, picking up our conversation. “Then you draw his attention to the Web site unnecessarily.”
“But what other explanation is there? We weren’t fighting—we had great sex—he called me every day. Every single day for three months. Obviously something is going on.”
“Maybe he’s gay?” Tommy says hopefully. Tommy thinks every straight man is secretly gay, and there are times when I sadly concur.
“He’s not gay,” I huff. “He’s definitely not gay.”
Tommy waves the empty basket of chips in the air. “A commitment-phobe then.”
“Say more about that.”
“Three months you say? You should check into his past relationships. Do a little digging, and if you find out all of his relationships disintegrated after three months—poof—there you have it. You didn’t do anything wrong at all. You’re just past your expiration date.”
I look to Kim. “How long did he go out with Trina?” I ask. Kim studies the floor. “Kim?”
“Three years.”
“Ah-ha! “There’s your three. Look, just call him,” Tommy says, handing me his cell phone.
I reach for it but Kim grabs it before I can touch it.
“That is relationship suicide. Do you hear me? Call him and it’s over.”
“Maybe he’s just not that into you,” Tommy says.
“Tommy!” I yell. “Stop watching Oprah.” He shrugs. “Did you even read the book?” I say piously.
“No,” Tommy says. “But it’s propped up on the back of my commode, and I will get to it right after Straight Men On Parade.”
I don’t know what Straight Men On Parade is and I’m not sure I want to, so I skip the snappy comeback.
“Tommy has a point,” Kim says. “I mean, first he doesn’t call you and then he goes to a play with his ex-girlfriend? I mean, is that the kind of guy you want to be dating?”
I take my straw out of my margarita glass and stick it in the pitcher.
“Well maybe he’s not calling because of something Trina said. And maybe she’s lying about him going to the play. I mean I should at least find out, shouldn’t I? Even if it’s over I need closure, don’t I? Come on. You guys know how I am about closure.”
“Chris Sorenson,” Kim and Tommy say, nodding in unison.
“Chris Sorenson!” I yell. “Three hundred and sixty-five fucking days go by and not a peep. I hear nothing from him until New Year’s 1999 when I get a collect call from Moscow informing me he’s married a Russian woman and running her father’s dry-cleaning business.” I slam the pitcher of margaritas down on the table. “Did we order the fajitas?” I ask.
Four pitchers of margaritas, five basket of chips, and two orders of fajitas later, Kim is struck with a brilliant idea. “What sis phone number?” she says, playing with the cell phone.
“Whose sis?” I ask.
Kim bursts out laughing. “Hissssssss,” she says. “What’s his phone number?”
Tommy looks around the room. “Do you see a hottie?” he says.
“Where? Is it the guy in the corner with the black glasses? I was thinking that myself.”
“I’m talking about Ray,” Kim says loudly. “Melanie, what’s his number?”
I stare at her trying to assess her level of drunkenness. “Walk a straight line first,” I say, marching the salt and pepper shakers up and down the table.
“You two are a couple of crazy bisexual metrosexuals,” Tommy slurs.
“We’re not bi or metro, Tommy,” I say.
“Plain old hetero,” Tommy laments. “Not cool. So not cool.”
“Manhattan,” Kim says into the phone.
“Kim. What are you doing?”
“Ray. Shit, what’sis last name?”
“Arbor,” Tommy says. “Like a sunny field of trees.”
I glare at him. He smiles at me.
“Ray Arbor,” Kim says into the phone. “Got it.” And then she smiles.
It’s like watching an artist at work. Kim purrs. She coos. She even concocts a fake cry that sends wa
iters flying to the table with free fried ice cream. For her. “I’m so sorry to bother you, Ray, but I had to ask you if Melanie’s acting any different lately?” Tommy wiggles his eyebrows across the table at me. I cover my mouth with my hand. “Well it’s just that—I think my boyfriend Charles is falling in love with her.” I start to choke. Kim glares at me.
“Can you speak up?” Kim says over my choking. “I’m on the subway.” This makes me laugh. But I’m still choking so I sound like a motorboat starting up. “Well have you picked up on anything with Melanie? I mean she’s spending an inordinate amount of time on her hair, wearing new perfume, and dressing sexier than I’ve ever seen her. And she’s been going out a lot lately, and if it’s not with you—I mean, do you think she’s losing interest in you?”
I cough into my napkin as happy as a girl choking on her own saliva can be. “Oh, so you’ve been really busy? I thought maybe you’d broken up because Melanie hasn’t even mentioned you. And what with Charles hovering all over her—yeah, give her a call. Feel her up. I mean out.” She hangs up just as Tommy and I explode with laughter.
“Feel her up?” Tommy shouts.
“Yes!” I shout.
Ten minutes later, my cell phone rings.
“Don’t answer it,” Kim whispers as if he can hear me. “Let him leave a message.”
Except for the fact that I’m going to have to start dressing sexier and spending an inordinate amount of time on my hair, I’m ecstatic. Kim is a beautiful genius.
Chapter 10
To Whom It May Concern:
Dear Webmaster:
Hey Webmaster:
To: The Webmaster
To: Shemaledivas.com
Attn: Webmaster
From: Parks and Landon Attorneys At Law
To Whom It May Concern:
We are writing to request the removal of a certain photograph on your Web site. It features a beautiful woman, Melanie Zeitgar, who was innocently impersonating Kiss when her picture was snapped. The spoon in the photograph that you insinuate is a wooden penis is actually a microphone. Melanie does not have a penis. She doesn’t even own a set of wooden bowls.
To the Webmaster of Shedivas.com
I find the photograph of “Pinocchio Girl” offensive and misleading. I happen to know that the woman in the picture has never used kitchen utensils to represent anything other than—well—kitchen utensils and the occasional microphone while drunk. Please remove her picture immediately or the law firm of Parks and Landon will be forced to take action.
P.S. The photograph in question also adds at least ten pounds to the Melanie we know in real life.
Dear Shedivas.com:
Listen assholes. I was drunk. The spoon is a microphone. If you don’t remove my picture immediately I’m going to slap you with a lawsuit so fast your freaky little heads will spin.
Sincerely,
Melanie Zeitgar
Things still in their packages. Round things. Square things, things in tubes, things in plastic, useful things, silly things, pointy things—things you could put your eye out with! As I imagine these things I break out in a little sweat. That’s odd, I think to myself. Is it hot in here? I am wearing a sweater, so I slip it off and hang it about my chair. Much better. But it’s not. My hands feel funny now; a tingling sensation is running up and down my fingers, and I can’t stop thinking about the drugstore in the lobby of this building. This morning I casually strolled through it, and I can clearly see the layout in my mind’s eye. There are three cashiers up front, a pharmacy in the back, and a security camera that scans the middle of the store. The pharmacist has a good look at the left row and the cashiers face the middle rows, but there is one little neglected corner in the back right-hand side where it would be very easy to acquire a) reading glasses, b) a jar of Vaseline, or c) plastic hair clips.
Automatically, my hand curls around the pocket of my sweater, and like an accident victim feeling the phantom limb long after its been cut off, I can actually feel the reading glasses in there, and guess what—there is still plenty of room for the Vaseline and the hair clip. Stop it, I tell myself. You no longer need to steal. It’s true. Ray had left me several messages as of late, and after the third I called him back. He was sweet and funny and apologized like crazy for not calling me lately. I wanted to jump into a cab and into his bed so that I could (among other things) try out my new belly map, but Kim made me wait. So we’re all going to see his show next week. It’s horrific that I have to wait a week, especially since today is Friday and I don’t see why we couldn’t see his show this week, but Kim insisted it’s part of the master plan.
My hand starts to hurt, and I realize that my fingers are still curling around the navy glasses that I’m not going to steal and instead I’m actually digging into the file I’m holding. Unfortunately, I seem to have ripped it a bit. When I ask file boy what I should do about it, he barks at me to get a new folder from the supply cabinet. I look at him questioningly until he silently extends his arm and points in the direction of the next room like the Grim Reaper ordering me off to hell.
Only it’s heaven. Ten rows of spanking new ebony staplers are parked next to each other like stretch limousines, flanked by crisp white boxes of Bic pens (blue, black, and red ink), surrounded by stacks of bright yellow legal pads and guarded by a wall of genuine black and brown leather binders. I forget all about the file folders as I lean forward and inhale the scent of the supplies. I think I’m going to faint with joy. I’ll just take a pen and a legal pad. Surely I need a pad to take notes. Why hasn’t anyone offered me one before? And just as I’m about to close the door, I notice a whole other cabinet I’ve yet to explore.
Glue sticks, rolls of Scotch tape, staples, clips, pencils, erasers, and sticky pads in every color of the rainbow. Everything I need to do a good job. In fact even a leather binder is a necessary accoutrement for an assistant at a law firm. Granted, I wasn’t exactly an assistant yet—but it was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? I have to force myself to close the cabinets and stroll back to the file room like I’m not on fire. Then I have to wait an excruciating hour (while visions of glue sticks dance in my head) until file boy goes to lunch. As soon as he does, I slip back to the supply room like a kid on Christmas morning.
I should grab one of each, just in case. I commend myself for bringing a large satchel with me and I proceed to put supplies (one of each, just one of each!) in my bag. Finally I remember the file folder, and I grab a few of those too. My bag is starting to sag. Just as I’m throwing another leather binder in my bag, Margaret Tomer walks in.
At first she’s smiling so I smile back. Then her eyes slide down to my pregnant satchel and her smile disappears. I hold up the bag. “It’s ready,” I say.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The bag,” I say. “For the children.”
“For the children? What children?”
“School PS 47. Anna at the front desk told me we were donating school supplies to them since Mrs. Kragel’s third-grade class lost most of theirs in a flood.”
“I don’t know anything about this.” “Oh. Well apparently the janitor left the sink on overnight. Must have been quite a drip.”
“I still don’t see—”
“It was all over the radio. They were begging local companies to pitch in. Anna told me to fill this bag.”
“Anna was a temp, and yesterday was her last day.”
“Oh. Then why did she call me and tell me to fill this bag for the children?”
“Why indeed. Did she give you that bag? Is that her bag?” Margaret grabs my bag and starts rifling through it. “Why do the children need leather binders?”
“You don’t think. I mean—this isn’t for Anna herself is it? Margaret, I believed it was for the children. Anna said she would pick it up and—oh God, I am so stupid.”
“Hold your horses. We shouldn’t go around accusing her of anything, mind you. There could be children. It just seems a little strange. Doesn’t it?”
Margaret looks through the bag again.
“I know,” I say. “Why don’t I call the school and see if there really was a flood. If her story checks out I’ll talk with Greg or Steve first to see if they’ll authorize us supporting the children. And if her story doesn’t pan out—well then I’ll let you know and you can take the appropriate action.”
Margaret smiles at me. “You’re a dear. Just keep this on the down low. We wouldn’t want to start any rumors.”
I nod respectfully and hold my finger to my lips. “Now what did I come in here for?” Margaret says to the ceiling. Oh. Greg Parks wants to see you in his office.” I try not to let the surprise show on my face. I hadn’t seen Greg since the incident in the elevator. I nod and start to walk out. “Melanie,” Margaret calls after me.
“Yes?”
“Why don’t you leave the bag with me. You know. Until we find out about the children.”
“Of course,” I say and grudgingly hand her my bag.
Greg is sitting at his desk talking on the phone. The nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach takes me by surprise. It’s just because I take my work seriously, I tell myself. Greg senses me in the doorway, looks up, and gestures for me to come in. “Well, I don’t see why not. That’s okay. Yes, yes, you can call anytime. Yes, as a matter of fact she’s right here.” To my surprise Greg hands me his phone. I must look as horrified as I feel, for he says under his breath, “There’s that poker face again.”
“Hello?” I say into Greg’s phone.
“Melanie, dear. I was just having the sweetest chat with your boss.” Oh. My. God. No, no, no. The Saints are going to pay for this one.
“Mother,” I say. “Can I call you later this evening?”
“Of course, dear. I really didn’t call to speak with you anyway.”
“You didn’t?”
“I was just introducing myself to Gregory, dear. Why didn’t you tell him that Zachary was a lawyer too?”
“I’ll talk to you later, Mom.”