Sitting here on the couch, I feel as though I’m going slightly crazy.
I stomp my foot.
“Do I have to move back home to feel normal?” I ask the empty loft.
There aren’t even strangers traipsing around here to give me an answer.
This silence unsettles me; I finally get my wish to be alone, and the place feels more like the setup for a scare in a slasher flick than a home. I don’t like this. It’s too alone—nothing but emptiness and hushed sounds of the streets. I turn to look out the windows, and I can make out an ‘L’ train rumbling on its tracks, full of people who can’t see that I’m alone here in this big, deserted place, about to become the next victim of some masked villain they’ll later scare themselves with in theaters.
Getting up from the couch, I turn on the tube. We only get four channels out here—can’t afford cable yet. As I flip between them, I catch a glimpse of her name: Charlene Pollard.
I flip back a station to see Charlene’s photo and name superimposed over a police station.
“… boyfriend was questioned by police today, and was released without charges,” the disembodied voice says. “Richard Barthes voluntarily surrendered at O’Hare International Airport earlier this afternoon. He has been out of the country for several months, in Indonesia for business, and this is his first trip back to the US since before Ms. Pollard fell to her death.
“Asked to comment”—the scene cuts to a fat cop behind a lectern—“Sergeant Luckac, the lead officer for the case, says that both of the glasses with alcohol in them had only Ms. Pollard’s fingerprints on them: two sets—one from her right and one from her left hand. Right now, her fall appears to be an accident. She had been drinking alone and apparently lost her balance on the balcony—”
I switch off the TV and stand, staring at the black screen.
“No,” I say. “That’s insane. They’re lying. Charlene was going to move in with me. She had a career. You’re wrong. She didn’t slip. She was murdered. Her asshole boyfriend paid someone. Come on, Charlene; tell me this is wrong. You didn’t really slip and fall. You weren’t just drunk. It’s too stupid.”
I stare at some bits of yellow paint stuck in a groove in the floor.
Fucking nothing’s real—not her slipping because she was drunk, and not those mannequins of me posing in photos. Even this loft is fake—borrowed, empty, and full of people I don’t even know. How is this a home?
Finally it becomes so clear: “Joie de Vivre” isn’t real, either. It’s a con too. Jonathan, you lied when you said you wrote it about our love when you were watching me sleep; it’s sex—like the other smut you sing. All your songs are about lovers. I’m only the centerfold of your porno EP.
So—do you think of me when we’re together? Or Amy?
“Do you still want her?” I shout into the emptiness. “Or am I subbing for her?”
Closing my eyes, I cringe.
Did you even write it about me at all? Or did I happen to be the body in your bed at the right time?
“It’s an ode to fucking,” I tell myself. “Who never mattered. It’s a lie, like everything else here. This place, us, everything—pure bullshit.
“You’re not gonna make a fool of me,” I say, shaking my head violently. “Not like that closet queer Martin. Not this time. Not a chance.”
I march to the mattress and look at everything in our—not our anymore—his bedroom.
It’s not even a bedroom. It’s a mattress on the floor.
“Fake, fake, fake,” I say, pointing at the mattress, the shelves made of cinder blocks and boards, the cardboard box “drawers.”
“Lucky you, Jennifer. Haven’t moved much here yet.”
Some clothes, a few tapes, and my red leather jewelry box.
My satchel and a garbage bag’ll work fine to get myself gone.
I start yanking my clothes off the cinder block shelves. After I clear them, I take a deep breath, holding up my hands.
“Slow down,” I tell myself. “Careful. Take nothing of his. Leave no reason for him to call.”
Rummaging through the pile on the mattress, I pick up his long-sleeved shirt I used to wear around the loft when it got cool at night.
Folding it carefully, I lay it back on an empty shelf.
Can’t say I trashed your stuff.
Next I search the apartment, grabbing all my CDs and magazines. Anything I forget is gone forever.
I’ve dumped the last of my stuff onto the mattress when the sound of the door opening makes me freeze.
I refuse to look. If it’s Scott, he’ll probably help. If it’s Jonathan … I shake my head.
Throwing open my satchel, I start stuffing my clothes in.
“Hey, lover,” I hear Jonathan say over the thunk-thunk of his bus-driver shoes.
I keep shoving clothes into the satchel until it overflows with sleeves and tails.
“Wanna go to Bondage-A-Gogo over at Exit?” he asks. “Nancy popped in at work and said Ron and Scott both want to go.”
The satchel’s overfull, but I try stuffing more into it. Pissed that nothing more will fit, I clench my fists. My body shakes. Listening to him walking over to the mattress, I close my eyes. Why won’t you—please—leave me alone?
“What’s, um …” he asks. “What’s going on?”
I know he’s staring at me from across the mattress.
Good. I finally have your attention.
“I’m leaving.”
“What?”
I hope you’re seeing the real me right now. The one who can’t be conned. The one who won’t change her mind.
I feel the mattress sag as he kneels on the bed. He touches my shoulder.
Pulling away from his fingers, I grab another handful of clothes and try to stuff them into the satchel, and they won’t fit, and I feel tears of frustration and anger building up, about to burst, but I refuse and punch the satchel.
“Fucking thing!” I shout.
Chapter 39
Mistress Mayhem
—Jennifer—
It so doesn’t feel like it’s already 1989. Almost Valentine’s Day. Not that anyone could tell. Back home, we’d have a cupid or two up, or a heart. Something. It’s the same thing with Christmas; no decorations here. No tree. No wreath even. Jonathan’s not that interested in that. I doubt Scott is either. I think he hates his family.
I shouldn’t care that much. But wouldn’t it be nice—
Jennifer, stop being your mother.
My water’s come to a boil and I’m breaking a handful of spaghetti in half when the front door opens.
“You’ve got almost perfect timing, Jonathan,” I say to the roiling water as I drop in the pasta.
Then I hear Kenny’s voice, and then Scott’s, followed by Jonathan’s. I roll my eyes. No one was supposed to be here tonight but us.
Dinner alone—poof, like everything else in our TV-set life.
“Oh, it’s so warm in here,” Kenny says. He strips off a full-length leather duster and reveals he’s wearing a skin-tight black PVC shirt with long sleeves, and chaps that expose his butt entirely. He’s wearing cowboy boots.
“Every day is Halloween,” I say to myself, half hearing the song in my head.
“Hi, Jen,” Jonathan calls. “Look who I ran into on the way up.” He walks around them to give me a kiss.
“You get those chocolate-covered espresso beans from Myopic by any chance?” I ask, trying to look around Jonathan at Kenny.
“Oh, sorry. No. Ran into them.” He throws his thumb over his shoulder.
Finding myself gawking, I look at Jonathan.
“The outfit, right?” Jonathan asks. “It’s for some Valentine’s Day party.” He turns. “What was that party called again? House of …”
“Whacks,” Kenny says. “Like ‘whack
your ass.’ ‘Whacked out.’”
“Right,” I say, not sure if this is Candid Camera or for real.
“You want to come?” he asks.
“Me? I mean,” I say, shaking my head. He’s half naked.
“It’s fun. PVC, leather, or discipline-chic required. Or you can wear an evening gown. Your boy there’ll have to do black tie. Unless you’re hiding something I don’t know.” He winks, giving me a mock shocked face.
“What?” I’m still waiting for one of them to laugh and point to the camera.
“Fetish party,” Kenny says. “All the kinky people go: dominants, submissives, sadists, masochists. Thirty-five bucks gets you in the door.”
You’re serious, aren’t you?
“Free drinks. Free canapés. And all sorts of fun people. You can find about anything you want. But you have to go in gear: leather, PVC, dog collars, and ball gags. At least formalwear. For those who only want to watch.”
“Oh, no. That’s … No.” I shake my head.
“How about you?” he asks, looking at Jonathan flirtatiously.
“No thanks. I’ve got all the kink I can handle.” He blows a kiss to me. “You got a six-shooter with that outfit?”
“Ten-gallon hat?” I ask.
“I’m not doing western. Not straight western anyway.” He growls playfully at me. “And I don’t have a six-shooter; it’s a forty-five automatic.”
“A forty-five? Automatic?” I ask.
“Colt. Big, brawny thing.” He says this like he’s talking about a boyfriend.
“Why?” Scott asks.
“Oh, long story: When I asked for deposit money on my apartment, my mother found out where it was and about flipped. You know—gangs, drive-by shootings—the usual sketchy neighborhood stuff they like to show on the news to scare the pee out of everyone. So after she talked to my father, they agreed to give me the money only if I promised to take protection. So the forty-five.” He shrugs. “I took it. Makes my roommates nervous. But they secretly like it being there. I tell them to imagine some crackhead coming through the window, out of his head, ready to rape and kill, and boom! his innards’re on the wall. Feels like safety.”
“No thanks,” Scott says. “I do not like guns. Too many bad things can happen.”
Kenny dismissively shakes his head. “Nah. It can be a hoot. Blow off steam. You pretend the target is whatever you hate, and blam, blam, blam. I used to shoot guns with my dad when I was a kid. I mean, it’s there. It’s got bullets in a clip, which I only put in when I go to target practice. Which is about never. I only took it for the cash, anyway.”
“Mercenary,” Scott says.
“Sure you don’t want to come along?” he asks Scott. “Got a dog collar I can loan you.”
“Not this time.”
“Kinky chicks. The kind you don’t bring home to mother,” he says, imitating Rick James. “Do things to you didn’t even know could be done.”
“Sounds like fun,” Scott says. “But …”
“Oh, Little Red Ride Me Good.” He puts his hands on his hips. “Must stay true. You don’t have to do anything. Watch. It can be fun: trolls and chickens; conservative Miss Accountant turning into Mistress Mayhem, May I Have Another; over-the-top porn; free cock-tails.”
Scott shakes his head.
“Next time,” Kenny says, putting his duster back on.
“Aren’t you going to freeze?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “Too hot for that.” He swings his arm around in a wide circle and then thrusts out his hip right as a finger lands on it. “Sssssssss.” He grins.
What? Am I his mother? What’s next, nagging them about getting cherubs and hearts up on the wall or having an Easter egg hunt? Please, woman. It’s like those suburban clones Ron made me dress up as are taking me over.
Chapter 40
Book of Love
—Jennifer—
A breeze gently tugs at the envelope in my hand. While it feels good to get outside and away from the loft, I’m not liking doing it as a gofer.
At Milan Does Chicagoland, I was the boss. I sent interns to do this kinda work. With this tour, I’m the chimp, running errands and fetching.
Lifting my face to the sun, which has broken through the clouds, I try letting the warmth cheer me up.
Only five months ago, I was packing to move back home. In time for Christmas, even.
I’d been so frustrated with my life. Then, after the news report on Charlene, I really needed someone to talk to, and of course, he wasn’t around. As usual. That tore it. I began to see how fake everything in my life was. I was leaving. I stuffed my things into my satchel until I couldn’t fit anything more.
Right then, as if on cue, he came home. He got so earnest and all concerned, asking me what was wrong.
If that satchel had been bigger, I might not be here right now, doing this bullshit scut work.
Instead, everything flooded out: “Joie de Vivre” was only about sex, the band was a lie, the loft was like being on TV, he was fake and never had time for us, his songs were fake, and Charlene didn’t slip and fall, but she had to have been murdered. And this sounded like nonsense when I heard myself saying it.
He asked me to slow down and start at the beginning, which was “Joie de Vivre,” and I told him it wasn’t about us; it was about him and any woman. The next minute, I was listening to him play a smutty song and “Joie” side by side, and then somehow, I ended up on the wrong side of real; I had to prove I wasn’t being fake to him.
It’s all been so ridiculous and embarrassing.
Of course, then he’d made me smile, talking about my clothes and stuff; he was going to do the picking and let me do the putting. I kinda hated him for that, but I loved him more.
Now I’m a gofer. I shoulda stayed pissed.
Pushing open the door to the Addison ‘L’ station, I let out a disgusted hiss. And come on, Charlene—falling? Drunk? That’s too stupid to be real.
After that night of weirdness had come more: the holidays. For the first time I can remember, I didn’t have a tree for Christmas. Visiting the parents wasn’t any better. Sure, they had a tree, but their place didn’t feel like home anymore.
For New Year’s, we’d been planning this huge party at the loft, but Jonathan and Scott had taken so much time off for the band that they couldn’t get New Year’s Eve off.
At first getting left on my own for New Year’s really annoyed me, but I got to thinking I could party with the girls like I had before I lived in a big-city loft and had a rising–rock star boyfriend.
New Year’s Eve started almost normal. We met at Wendy’s place like usual. Of course she looked as if she’d stepped right off a page in Cosmo: a body-hugging black dress, with red-tipped frills along her cleavage and the hem of her skirt; fishnets; whore-red pumps. Chris showed up in her usual baggy clothes that hide her large breasts and hips, as if it would be bad for a guy to be attracted to her physically in any way. She wants men to lust only after her talent.
We were missing only Charlene.
After we had a toast for her, they gave me shit for not coming out with them anymore.
I had to admit that they were right: It had been ages since we’d all been together for a night out. When I lived at home, all I could think about was going out and getting away from home.
I really did miss doing nothing but messing around with these guys.
So this New Year’s Eve, I got to hang with them.
But we had to get to Neo before it got full; we had to have seats at the bar.
“Everyone bundled up?” Wendy asked. “Single digits. Windy.”
I tucked in my scarf and pulled my hat down over my ears. My gloves slid on last. We looked like Eskimo bunnies for the dash to the car.
“Let’s go,” Wendy said, opening the front door of her buil
ding.
A blast of frigid air hit us.
“Holy fuck!” Chris said.
“Out, out, out,” Wendy said.
We run-walked down the sidewalk and around the corner of the building to her car. The wind cut straight through my hat and scarf. It felt like I had ice crystals inside my nostrils. Wendy unlocked her door as I ran around to the passenger side. The snow was more like ice; I nearly slipped twice. Wendy got in and unlocked the back door for Chris right as the wind picked up. I ducked my face into my scarf, to which clung bits of ice grown from my breath.
“Hurry up! Hurry up!” I stomped my feet.
Wendy lifted the lock of the front door, and I scrambled onto the hard plastic of the seat and slammed the door closed. It’s a freezer in there, but at least there’s no wind.
“Heater,” Chris said. “Hurry.”
Stiff as a board, my whole body shivered. As the car started warming up, cold air poured out from the vents. I blocked mine with my hand as plumes of our breath frosted the windshield.
“Give it a minute. Heats up quick,” Wendy said.
Finally warmed up, we started on the road, and Chris complained she hadn’t met anyone worth dating in ages, and Wendy didn’t make it better, saying Chris only liked to date “poser artfags.” Which is true. Her last lover, whatever-it-was-friend, Fey. No last name. It broke Chris up when they split, but he was such a freak—not really a boy, not a girl. He was worse than Kenny by about a hundred times.
This brought up me and Jonathan, and then the accumulation of all the things I’d wanted to tell someone but had never had the chance to: that Scott pushes Jonathan around; not directly, but in his attitude, as if he’s the boss; and that Scott makes no secret of not liking me and I suspect he’s trying to get us to break up, all sneaky like, because everything’s “for the band” and the band’s so damned important. Plus Scott knows I have to worry about sounding like I’m a jealous control-freak girlfriend. It’s like he’s jamming me between himself, Jonathan, and the band, and I’m sure he’s going to make Jonathan do something he doesn’t want to. “For the band.” I wriggled my fingers in quotation marks.
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