by Alli Curran
“Mm.”
“Why do you do that, Thomas?”
“Because playing pool for money is such a rush.”
“But I can give you a much better rush, right here, in the comfort of your own home.”
I ran my fingertips suggestively over his pectorals.
“Hustling is a different kind of fun,” he said, staring at the ceiling with a faraway look in his eyes.
“If you say so. What about your mom?”
“What about her?”
“How did she cope with your dad?”
“She took a lot of Valium, and eventually she divorced him. Then she married another schmuck.”
“Your stepfather?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s he like?’
“I just told you. He’s a schmuck.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The guy has so much money. You should see their new house. It looks like a museum, filled with all the trashy, expensive stuff they’ve bought. You can’t even walk through the living room without worrying about accidentally breaking their pricey junk. And with all that money, do you think the bastard has ever given me a dime toward medical school?”
“Uh, no?”
“That’s right. Not one penny.”
Though Thomas intermittently blames his mother, father, and stepfather for his emotional problems, from my perspective, he’s a 20-something-year-old grown man, with no one but himself to blame for his unhappiness.
Then again, maybe I’m being unfair, since my upbringing was radically different than his.
“Happiness is a choice,” my mother said one day when I was 13-years-old.
“Then I’m choosing to be miserable,” I yelled from beneath the comforter on my bed.
“If you choose to be miserable, then miserable is what you’ll be.”
“Miserable is how I feel,” I said. “Hey, gimmee back my blanket!”
“It’s one o’clock in the afternoon, Emma…way past getting up time!”
She grabbed my comforter and threw it onto the floor.
“C’mon, Mom…I wanna keep sleeping,” I whined.
“If you sleep any longer, it’ll be bedtime again. Enough laying around. Time’s a wastin’. That’s better—sitting up is a good start. What’s with the frown face?”
“You woke me up and stole my blanket. I’m allowed to frown,” I said.
“Oh, no you’re not,” countered my mom. “You’re a privileged child with no real reason to be unhappy.”
“You’re not letting me go to Helen’s birthday party tonight.”
“True. But Great Aunt Maude’s anniversary dinner is a very special occasion.”
“Yeah, sure. Dinner with Aunt Maude and the ‘ladies’ at the Victorian House should be really spectacular.”
“Since when did you master the art of sarcasm? Don’t turn your back on me, young lady. Now, before I give you a consequence, look out the window.”
“What?” I asked.
“Look out the window, and tell me what you see,” said my mom.
“I don’t see why….”
“Just do it, before I get upset,” said my mother, pressing her fingertips to her temples.
“Oh, alright. I see snow. A whole lot of snow.”
“Anything else?”
“Umm…lots of clouds, so we’re probably going to get more snow. Yay.”
“Is that it?”
“There’s some dog poop in the snow, down by the mailbox.”
“Okay, dog poop. Now, do you want to know what I see?” asked my mom.
“Not really,” I replied unenthusiastically.
“First, with all the snow on the ground, I see excellent skiing conditions at Mount Southington this weekend.”
“You don’t even ski, Mom.”
“And you were right about the clouds. When we get the next big storm—which is arriving tomorrow morning, by the way—I see a chance to curl up by the fire, sip hot chocolate, and catch up on some books I’ve been meaning to read.”
“How exciting.”
“And Inky’s present down by the mailbox isn’t just dog poop.”
I rolled my eyes at her.
“No, really. It isn’t.”
“What is it, then?” I asked.
“Lawn fertilizer.”
“But dog poop always turns the grass yellow.”
“In the long run, it’s good for the soil. That’s why the tulips I planted around our mailbox will be the biggest ones in the neighborhood when springtime comes. Do you understand what I’m trying to say here, Emma?”
“That dog poop is good manure?”
“No. That the way you view your circumstances is up to you. If you wish, you can go through life feeling depressed about every bad thing that happens to you. And unfortunately, lots of bad things are going to happen.”
“Gee, Mom, that’s so optimistic.”
“That’s reality, Emma. In life, each new day is a mixture of good and bad events. The important thing is not so much what happens, but how you choose to view these events. Cultivating a positive attitude—or not—is your choice.”
“What if I don’t want to be happy?”
“Then you can choose a lifetime of depression and misery. From experience, though, I’d strongly recommend choosing happiness, since it’s a whole lot more pleasant.”
Too bad Thomas didn’t get whacked over the head with this speech as a child, instead of his father’s belt.
During my trip to Brazil, Thomas started seeing a therapist, but thus far I can’t see that he’s made much progress. Tonight, as he wolfs down a cow-sized hamburger, his mood seems off, twitchy and withdrawn. Fabulous. Looks like I’m stuck with Mr. Gloomy, one of my least favorite personalities, for the duration for the evening. Okay, I admit it. Much of the fault here is mine, since I’m only encouraging Thomas by putting up with these mercurial mood swings.
During our uncomfortably quiet dinner, I try for some normal conversation.
“So how was your day?” I ask.
“Hmph,” grunts Thomas.
“That good?”
He glares at me momentarily before turning back to his burger.
“Mine was pretty good. Want to hear about it?” I ask hopefully.
“No.”
Further attempts at communication are shot down with grunting noises and/or brooding stares.
Eventually I pick up the tab.
“Can’t say that I love your hairstyle,” Thomas comments on our way to the subway.
“Whoa—the man speaks. At least the hairstyle got you talking,” I say.
“Harrumph,” says Thomas.
“What—you don’t like ponytails?”
“You look about ten-years-old,” he says.
“Which makes you a lucky man.”
“What do you mean?” he asks.
“Most men prefer dating younger women,” I say.
“Not that young.”
That’s another problem with my boyfriend. When he’s in a bad mood, demeaning statements fly out of his mouth without warning.
Following a quick subway ride downtown, we arrive at the club and find our seats. Along with dinner, I’ve also purchased our tickets, but Thomas knows I draw the line at alcohol. If he wants to drink himself into oblivion, he’ll have to pay for it himself.
“Can I get you anything?” asks our waitress, batting her eyelashes at Thomas.
“I’ll have a beer,” he answers without hesitation.
“Sure thing,” she says, smiling sycophantically.
After taking Thomas’s order, the waitress heads toward the bar without even glancing in my direction.
The concert turns out to be fabulous. Previously I’ve enjoyed Luka’s music at the Newport Folk Festival, but his voice resonates even more poignantly in the smaller setting of the Bottom Line. Unfortunately, Luka’s sexy, Irish brogue isn’t enough to exorcise Mr. Gloomy. Ignoring the music, Thomas continues to wallow in despair, focusin
g his stormy gaze on his beer, hardly noticing my presence. Our interaction, or lack thereof, reminds me of the song “Mr. Cellophane,” from Chicago.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” says a fantasy director inside my head, “please welcome Emma Silberlight. Tonight, for the hundredth time, she’ll be playing the role of Mrs. Cellophane.”
Ugh. I’m more than ready to ditch the part of this leading lady.
Except that halfway through the concert, I’m the one who gets ditched, when Thomas announces, “I’m going out.”
Other than his critique of my hairstyle, this is the longest chain of words the man has strung together all night.
“What do you mean, you’re ‘going out’?”
“I mean, I’m going out.”
“But we’re already out,” I say.
“Out…by myself.”
With no further explanation, Thomas stands up and saunters moodily out the door.
At that moment, another familiar song—“Love Stinks,” by the J. Geils band—starts playing in my head, temporarily drowning out Luka. After putting up with Mr. Gloomy for the entire evening, I’m not even going to be compensated with sex. How disappointing. Perhaps I’ll have a date with my vibrator after the concert. The thought depresses me.
Though I’m now flying solo, the music is so good that I stay until the end of the show. As the last, lovely notes hang in the air, the crowd breaks into applause, and I slip outside, into the night. Despite the late hour, the streets are filled with seemingly normal people enjoying the evening. Bustling activity, at almost any hour, is one of the things I love about New York. Walking toward the subway, I observe animated teenagers chatting too loudly on street corners, trying to impress one another, just like the kids in Brazil. Couples of all ages are strolling together along the sidewalks, smiling at one another. The walk is refreshing, reminding me that typical romantic relationships are usually emotionally reciprocal.
Before descending into the subway, I notice a flyer taped to a lamp post.
“Learn to dance at New York’s premier ballroom studio. Swing, cha-cha, waltz, foxtrot, and more. No partner needed. Call today!”
Hmm. No partner? Sounds perfect. I rip off a tab with the phone number and shove it inside the pocket of my jeans.
When I arrive in my apartment, suspicious moaning is emanating from behind Helen’s bedroom door. My goodness. Are Thomas and I the only two people in the city not having sex this evening? Then it occurs to me….Thomas could be messing around, right now, with some unknown person. If so, I hope he’s using condoms and not catching terrible diseases. Dejectedly, I reach into the corner of my underwear drawer, fish out my rabbit vibrator, and attend to my sexual needs. Then I cry myself to sleep.
Sometime in the wee hours I’m awakened by a loud banging noise. Bleary-eyed, I throw on a nightgown and shuffle toward the front door. Peering through the peephole I see Thomas’s face, round and distorted. Though I should send him straight home, I completely cave. When I open up, he pulls me into his arms, where I catch the scent of hard liquor and stale cigarette smoke. Though Thomas doesn’t smoke, he sometimes hangs out with people who do.
“I’m sorry,” he says, slurring his speech. “You deserve someone better than me.”
That’s for sure.
After I lead him into my room, Thomas promptly passes out on top of my bed, obstructing access to my comforter. For a moment I study his face. When he’s asleep, the lines on his forehead relax, transforming his grown-up face into that of a little boy. Other than when we’re engaged in coital bliss, this is how I love Thomas the best—innocent, unconscious and utterly silent.
Chapter Eleven
Sushi and Sayonara
Later in the morning, when the sun is high in the sky and I’m physically alone again, I receive an e-mail from Walter.
Subject: Your next project
Hi, Emma,
I hope you’re resting and enjoying your vacation. I just finished speaking with Connie Burgess, who could use some assistance with her pediatric TB project. Currently she’s on service, making hospital rounds in the afternoon. If you return to her lab, you’d probably have light hours. Let me know how that sounds.
Walter
Early dismissal sounds great. Boy, Walter must still be feeling guilty about my “traumatic” Brazilian experience. Now I’m particularly glad I didn’t tell him what actually happened.
Re: Your next project
Hi, Walter,
Working with Connie sounds perfect. I’ll be there Monday morning.
Emma
While envisioning a shorter work day, it occurs to me that I might be able to get a second job—one that actually pays money, in contrast to the indentured servitude that currently claims my time. But what else could I do here in the big city? Waitressing is definitely out. With my hand-eye coordination, I’d be a hazard with hot coffee, burning people left and right. Imagining the carnage is enough to make me shudder. Babysitting is a possibility, but then again, tiny tots make me nervous. So what else? Scores is just a few blocks from my building. Thomas has suggested I’ve got the body for the job, and the money would probably be excellent. On the other hand…ha! When I pause to the think about it, the reasons for not working at Scores are numerous and compelling. For starters, I’d probably kill myself trying to walk in whichever pair of ridiculously high-heeled shoes they’d force me to wear. Moreover, I’m generally not in favor of parlaying my body for money. I’d never hold it against women who do, but for me, lap dancing is too much like prostitution. Nope, working at Scores isn’t gonna fly.
Grabbing the Yellow Pages, I flip to “tutoring.” Having previously worked as a tutor in high school, this type of job would be right up my alley. Scanning down the pages, I’m surprised to find no less than eight separate listings for tutoring companies in the city, four of which are located on the Upper East Side. Starting in alphabetical order, I call “Advantage Testing.” One hour later, I’m sitting in their office for an interview.
Life sure moves quickly in Manhattan.
“So you’re a medical student?” says the efficient-looking young woman with perfectly straight brown hair who has just reviewed my resume.
I gaze at her head in wonder. Not a single strand is out of place.
“That’s right,” I say.
“I’m surprised you have time for a tutoring job.”
When she gives her head a little shake, every hair miraculously falls back into place.
“I’m doing research now. In June, when fourth year starts, my time will get more limited.”
“Well, your curriculum vitae is impressive. Top of your class, excellent SAT scores, several research publications…not to mention some tutoring experience. Did I miss anything?”
Yeah—I’m a klutz, a sex addict, and I have a really big mouth.
“Not from a professional standpoint.”
“Alright, then. Given your credentials, you’d probably fit in well here, but the timing is a problematic. Since we’re nearing the end of the school year, we won’t be getting many new students until the fall.”
“No problem,” I say. “A slow start is fine.”
“Have you ever done SAT tutoring?” she asks.
“No. In high school, I usually helped kids who were struggling with their math and science classes.”
“A significant part of our business is preparing students for standardized tests. If you stay with us long term, we’ll need to train you.”
Wow. I’ve been here all of 10 minutes, and already she’s talking ‘long term.’ If only men were this eager to commit.
“That sounds fine.”
“Now then, since you already have some experience helping students with their schoolwork, I do have one young lady who could use your assistance, starting immediately.”
“How old is she?” I ask.
“Nine.”
Oh, good. Nine is definitely too big to drop.
“Tell me more.”
“She�
��s a fourth grader who’s having difficulty staying on track with her classroom assignments. A previous tutor wasn’t able to make much progress. Are you interested in working with her?”
“Sure…but I should probably ask how much the job pays.”
“Your salary is based upon the length of time you stay with us. New tutors start at one hundred fifty dollars per hour, but Advantage keeps fifty percent.”
Oh, my god! Seventy-five dollars per hour, to start! Though I’m trying to look unimpressed, the truth is that I’m completely floored.
“Umm, just out of curiosity, can I ask what the business owners make?”
“Sure. Sahill currently bills at four hundred dollars per hour, but that may go up soon. His services are in high demand, and his schedule is always booked.”
Holy shit. I try not to fall out of my seat. Four hundred dollars…per hour! Whether I’ll ever make this much money as a practicing physician is questionable. Maybe I should forget about medical school and pursue a career in professional tutoring instead.
“The starting salary sounds fine,” I say. “How do I get started?”
“After I give you the client’s phone number, you call the family to set up an appointment. When you speak to the parents, just tell them you’re from Advantage. Okay?”
“Okay.”
When I stand to offer her my hand, Little Miss Perfect clears her throat and shoots me with a serious stare.
“Emma,” she says warningly, “at Advantage, we have extremely high standards. If you don’t live up to them, you won’t last long here.”
I nod, dropping my arm. For the money they’re charging these poor parents (or should I say rich parents?), they’d better have high standards.
In light of my improving financial situation, I swing by Shabu-Shabu on the way home and charge a luscious assortment of takeout sushi to my trusty credit card, a companion who has lasted longer than any boyfriend. Then I head back to the apartment, knowing Helen is enjoying the light hours of a dermatology rotation and will probably be home. Sure enough, I find her standing in the kitchen, contemplating a box of Ronzoni.
“Want to forget the pasta and share some sushi?” I ask.
Helen furrows her eyebrows suspiciously.