Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book

by Babe Walker

  “I—”

  “No. Don’t say anything. Just do it. I don’t know what’s gotten into you today, but I don’t have time to discuss it because you’re late for the swimwear shoot, so please get over there and try not to act like a freak.” Then she left in a huff.

  The rest of the day was disastrous in ways that are hard to talk about because it ended with me losing the only job I’ve ever semi-liked. The following tweets that Babette tweeted from Vogue’s account should give you an idea of what was going on and why it was so dark.

  @voguemagazine 1:40pm: Crying on the floor of the accessories closet. Why is everyone so mean here?

  @voguemagazine 1:45pm: It’s like you try to do something nice for your coworkers by bringing them McDonald’s and they don’t even care. #overworked #underappreciated

  @voguemagazine 1:50pm: I miss Robert.

  @voguemagazine 2:11pm: Swimwear shoot, starring Karlie Kloss and a bunch of beefy male models. Snooze.

  @voguemagazine 2:15pm: I’m over Karlie Kloss.

  @voguemagazine 2:22pm: She’s so tall it’s scary. Almost too tall. #KarlieKloss

  @voguemagazine 2:24pm: These male models smell weird but I’m still totes DTF.

  @voguemagazine 2:30pm: brb, gonna go take care of some business (aka touch myself).

  @voguemagazine 2:45pm: Dear assistant who just found me in Anna’s office, I was only smoking a cigarette under the desk because I’m addicted to them. NOT doing anything else. Swearsies.

  @voguemagazine 2:57pm: I’m literally starving.

  @voguemagazine 3:34pm: Holla! Ordered a delish lunch from @cheesecakefactory. Just one slice of cheesecake lol maybe three.

  @voguemagazine 4:00pm: FASHION.

  @voguemagazine 4:05pm: BCBG clutches are so cute but everyone here hates them. #why

  @voguemagazine 4:10pm: I think Anna’s hair is actually a wig.

  @voguemagazine 4:29pm: Grace Coddington’s hair is SO FRIZZY girl. You’d think Anna would have made her get a Brazilian blowout by now!

  @voguemagazine 4:41pm: “Karl Lagerfeld is the chicest Nazi in the industry.”—André Leon Talley

  @voguemagazine 4:52pm: ROBERT.

  Around 5:00 p.m., I was escorted out of the building and told to never come back. Felix drove me home. Somewhere along the way back to the West Village I transitioned back into myself. Babette was gone, but the damage had been done. Before I got out of the car I fired Felix, for obvious reasons. What kind of driver are you if you can’t tell when your client is having a nervous breakdown and needs to be quarantined instead of taken into her place of business?

  I was in complete denial about what had just happened to me. Robert? Babette? Vogue? I had landed myself on Anna Wintour’s blacklist, right next to Kim Kardashian, and I had bangs that would take at least six months to grow out. I couldn’t even deal. Not one part of me was able to process the shit show that was this day. I drew a hot bath and just as I was about to get in, my doorbell rang. Standing at the door was Charlie’s doorman, Donald, who handed me an unmarked box that he claimed had been dropped off by a messenger. Fuck. It was probably a gift from Charlie. My eyes filled with tears, thinking about how far away he was, how much he trusted me, how much I was fucking everything up.

  I took the package into the kitchen and opened it, hoping it would be Google Glass, or a Rolex, or at the very least a set of jade bangles, but it was none of those things.

  The box was filled to the brim with unopened black lipsticks.

  I shoved the box off the counter, and black lipsticks flew everywhere. Fucking Thalia! I thought confronting her in Gstaad had put an end to her reign of terror, but I was wrong. Apparently she was in New York and wasn’t going to stop until I was dead.

  But you know what? I was happy Thalia had followed me to New York. If Babette was going to destroy everything that mattered anyway, I wanted Thalia to kill me. This was my perfect out. I went into the kitchen, took out several knives, some duct tape, and some heavy-duty trash bags, and brought them into the bathroom. I arranged them neatly on the bathroom counter, took a roofie, and got in the bath fully clothed. It was my time. Come and get me, Thalia, I thought to myself. End me. I’m ready to die.

  But I didn’t die.

  I woke up ten hours later, completely disoriented. The water was freezing and I felt like Leo in that scene from What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. My dark reality was coming into focus. Thalia hadn’t killed me, and now bits and pieces of my day were floating through my head like the trash that floats through the East River. I got in the shower and just stood there crying. Why hadn’t she come for me? I’d made it so easy for her. All she had to do was put me out of my misery.

  Leaving the shower meant facing the shitstorm my life had become. I had no job, no prospect of happiness, soon I’d have no boyfriend, and now my untimely demise was imminent. I was safe in the shower. Warm. Isolated. Denial. But I couldn’t stay in there forever. I was at least clearheaded enough to know that. So I got out, grabbed a towel, quickly dried myself off, and cocooned under the covers on Charlie’s bed.

  “Please let it be over soon,” I said to God, or myself, or whoever the fuck cared to listen. “Please.”

  eighteen

  YOU LOOK HOMELESS, BUT NOT IN A GOOD WAY.

  If you’ve ever heard the ringtone for Skype, then you’d know that it’s perhaps the most horrible way to be woken up from a deep sleep. I accepted Charlie’s call despite the fact that I looked unpresentable on every level.

  “There’s my girl.”

  “Hi.”

  “What’s wrong, Babe? You look truly worn out.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look that fine. You look sad.”

  “No. Really, I’m fine. I just . . . miss you. That’s all.”

  “I miss you terribly, but I have some bad news. I have to push my return date.”

  “How long?”

  “Another week? Maybe two?”

  “Charlie . . .”

  “I know, darling. It won’t always be this bad. Once this deal is done, I will have far more free time. I promise.”

  “Well, good.”

  “What have you been up to, love? Anything new going on?”

  I paused and contemplated telling him everything that had happened in the past forty-eight hours.

  “Nope.”

  “I find that a bit hard to believe. We haven’t spoken in a few days. You must’ve gotten up to something.”

  “Honestly, Charlie. I’ve just been here or at work. The usual. Hanging out, I guess? You know.”

  Now would have been the time to rip off the Band-Aid, tell him about Robert, my job, Thalia’s return, Babette. But I just couldn’t do it. Even though I knew Charlie wasn’t The One, part of me wished he was in New York, comforting me. He was so good at that. I hated lying to him.

  “Do you have a busy day at the office today?”

  “I’m actually not going in today. It’s like a Jewish holiday or something, so I decided to observe.”

  “But you’re not Jewish.”

  “I know. But still.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay, my dear? Something’s off with you.”

  “Well, maybe it’s Skype. I look a lot prettier on FaceTime. FYI.”

  “I’ll remember that for next time. Listen, I have to run to this dinner for work. But I can cancel it if you just want to talk.”

  “You’re so sweet. But no thanks. I have a super busy day planned. You go ahead.”

  “Okay, but I’ll try you again before I go to bed. Love you, Babe.”

  “You too.”

  And with that, we clicked our respective hang-up buttons.

  It was time for me to stop taking three-hour showers and lying in bed, waiting to die. I was sick of being a victim of circumstance. I might have felt forlorn in regards to my love life, but I needed to make a serious change if I wanted to live. Which I did. I wanted to live for a long time. Long enough to get married someday, have a daughter,
raise her to be a supermodel, age gracefully, get a second face-lift, and die in my sleep. Rolling over and allowing Thalia to murder me was not an option.

  I rehired Felix as my driver and my bodyguard, and enrolled myself in a week’s worth of kickboxing and Krav Maga classes. I bought Mace and a Taser. I watched Home Alone. I was starting to feel physically stronger, but my heart still hurt. I was slipping deeper and deeper into despair about the Robert and Charlie situation, which I dealt with by turning to poetry. I Instagrammed pictures of my writing:

  The Undead

  An Invisible Poem by Babe Walker

  My Soul Is A Rat King

  my voice my hope my time my love my life my heart my tears

  lost

  my death my dust my depths my dear my dull my darkness

  cost

  my happiness

  This must have been what tipped Gen and Roman off to just how fucked my life actually was. We’d been checking in periodically over the past few months, but within an hour of posting the poems (which each got like 2,000 likes, btw) I received a stupid number of texts from them:

  Genevieve 3:45PM Babe. Are you dead?

  Roman 3:45PM Babe?

  Roman 3:50PM Hon? Gen said you died. True?

  Genevieve 3:56PM Babe? If you’re dead I want my pashminas back.

  Roman 4:43PM Seriously, are you okay? Just text me one letter to let me know you’re okay. Gen said to tell you she wants a pashmina or something?

  Genevieve 5:01PM Ran into Mabinty at the Grove today. She got extensions. She looks like a young Lauryn Hill. You should call her.

  I didn’t respond. When my depression-fueled hunger strike entered a second day, I tweeted the following haiku:

  Macaulay Culkin

  is my spirit’s reflection

  Home Alone for life

  . . . and mustered enough energy to look up the number of Organic Avenue and order a few cold-pressed celery juices to be delivered to Charlie’s apartment. Twenty minutes later, the doorman buzzed up to the apartment. Donald will try to engage in conversation if you let him, so I just pressed the intercom and immediately said “Send it up,” to avoid having to hear about the New York Knicks or some other stupid football team.

  As I stood up to answer the door, I caught a glimpse of myself in the huge mirror hanging in the hallway. I looked dead. But not in a good, skinny, pale way. Like, actually deceased. I didn’t really care, because it wasn’t as if I was trying to impress the juice delivery guy, but I wrapped myself in a bright yellow Pratesi throw that was on the couch, grabbed my wallet, and opened the door.

  I must have been staring into Genevieve’s eyes for at least a full minute before I realized I was actually screaming out loud.

  “What the fuck are you doing here?” I said, shutting the door in her face.

  “Babe, we came to rescue you from yourself.”

  “What do you mean, ‘we’?”

  “Romie and I. He’s downstairs flirting with your doorman.”

  “I’m not really in the mood to talk to anyone this month, so can you come back never?”

  “Babe. Open the door. We flew Southwest. It was fucking sick and I need to shower, like, pronto.”

  I’d heard the elevator door open so I knew Roman was probably standing with Gen by now.

  “Roman? Are you there too?”

  “Yeah, Babe. We’re both here. I gotta pee. Can you please let us in?”

  “You can come in, but she can’t.”

  “If you don’t let us both in, I’m going to pee on the carpet right in front of your door. PS: This building is very Factory Girl.”

  As I opened the door, it occurred to me how terrible I looked. Gen hadn’t seen me this stripped down since before high school, and I don’t think Roman ever had.

  “Oh, hey,” I said quietly.

  “You okay?” asked Roman.

  “What do you mean?” I was being so rude.

  “You look homeless, but not in a good way,” said Gen. “We know you got fired from Vogue, and you haven’t been responding to any of our texts.”

  “Why is there a handgun on your coffee table?” asked Roman.

  “And who is that?” asked Genevieve, nodding to Felix, who was standing across the living room silently observing what was going on, doing his job.

  “The gun is ceramic, the bodyguard is Felix. Thalia is still fucking stalking me, you guys. And I have a switchblade in my purse. Just kidding, it’s a Taser.”

  “WHAT?” they both asked in unison. I was kind of loving the attention, so I continued.

  “It’s true.”

  “Didn’t she drive a Range Rover into her ex-boyfriend’s house after he cheated on her with Paris Hilton?” asked Roman.

  “That was her?!” I asked, shocked. “I knew she was a psycho from the moment I laid eyes on her freaky face. She’s the one who’s been stalking me.”

  “Ew, sick,” said Gen.

  “I know. It’s all been her. The notes, the creepiness. The lipsticks. But she doesn’t deserve one more second of attention. I’m fine. I’m actually like so super great. I was just about to drink some celery juice, write another couple poems, smoke some cigarettes, maybe go lie down in Central Park for a while . . .”

  “No, Babe,” said Roman. “Take a shower and put on something Jil Sander-y—we’re taking you to lunch at the Carlyle.”

  When we arrived, I told Felix to wait outside in the car until I texted him. Gen and Roman checked in while I laid on a couch in the lobby and fake-read emails I’d been avoiding. After what seemed like forever, Roman tapped my shoulder and the three of us went up to the room. I was in one of the shittiest moods I’d ever been in. I didn’t want to be there, I didn’t want to be with anyone (especially Gen and Roman), and I certainly didn’t want to have to talk about any personal shit that had been going on with me. Which is why I almost passed out when we got up to the suite and I realized that I had been ambushed.

  Sitting on a couch cross-legged, wearing a flowy, flower-print dress, was Susan, my fucking therapist from LA. I looked at Gen and Roman with all the disdain I could muster. They had tricked me into thinking that I was going to have lunch with them, but in reality they were plotting to intervention the fuck out of me, and they’d flown my goddamn therapist across the country to help in their efforts.

  “And, uh, what the fuck is this?” I asked, infuriated.

  “Gen and Roman thought, wisely, that it would be helpful to have someone here to help mediate,” said Susan, looking serious/concerned.

  “Okay, first of all, don’t talk to me right now, Susan. You unloyal backstabbing bitch!” I turned back toward the door. “I’m leaving.”

  “Babe! Stop. We are seriously worried about what’s been going on with you,” Roman chimed in.

  “Well, why the fuck do you care all of a sudden? You didn’t seem to give a shit about me or my stalker when you left me at Chateau,” I screamed.

  “You are a mental patient. You are literally Angelina in Girl, Interrupted,” said Genevieve. “No one ‘left’ you, you kicked us out!”

  “Oh, fuck you, Gen. I was in a really good place when I came back from rehab, and you just couldn’t deal with me being happy, so you sabotaged my life by throwing that disgusting party. You are literally Vanessa Hudgens in Spring Breakers.”

  “Whatever. You are literally Tilda Swinton in The Beach. Psycho.”

  “Honestly, you are literally Charlize in Monster. But fatter and greasier. You’re scaring me.”

  “Oh, that’s rich. When you opened the door to your apartment, I literally thought I was looking at Catherine Deneuve in that Roman Polanski movie where she kills like three guys and eats a rabbit.”

  “Nice try. That movie happens to be one of Catherine Deneuve’s chicest moments, so thanks. You are literally Eva Mendes in life.”

  “That’s literally so rude.”

  “I was fucking sober, Gen. I wanted a peaceful, zen dinner party with tropical wildlife in the backyard a
nd around the pool. Not some kegger with a bunch of losers who didn’t even know who I was and what I had overcome.”

  “There were Lakers there, Babe. For you.”

  “Exactly.”

  Gen and I stared at each other for thirty seconds. The tension in the room was palpable.

  I finally broke the stare-off. “Why would I want to have frat guys and starfuckers who don’t even know me at a party celebrating my triumphant, substance-free return to Los Angeles?”

  “Babe,” interrupted Roman, “you know I don’t like to use this word, but sometimes it’s the only way to get through to someone in need, so here goes . . . You’re acting like a cunt. I’ve known you since we were four years old and never in my life have I seen you be so aggressive toward your friends. It doesn’t look good on you, trust. I honestly questioned whether or not we could be friends anymore after Chateau.”

  “I wasn’t that bad, Romie.” I turned to look at him.

  “You were absolutely that bad. You were the worst! You were cuntsville dot com slash Babe Walker.”

  “Roman—”

  “The. Fucking. Worst,” he deadpanned.

  “Can we all just sit down and talk this through?” Susan gently interjected. “Emotions are running high, and I want to make sure that everyone is heard.”

  “I can’t believe you guys lied to me about coming here for lunch,” I said, tearing up. “No one should ever lie to anyone about going to lunch. That’s just cruel.”

  “Babe. Please sit down. Genevieve and Roman flew a long way to—”

  “Ambush me?”

  “No.”

  “Fuck with me?”

  “Babe.”

  “Make fun of me?”

  “I think that’s enough, Babe. I’m in New York because I want to help the three of you clear the air. You’re lucky to have friends who care this much about you. In my practice, it’s rare that I see this level of loyalty between people your age.”

  That statement shut me up. Susan isn’t an idiot, and although I have a love/hate relationship with her, she was kind of making sense. I sat down on the couch opposite Susan, and Gen and Roman each sat in chairs so we could all see one another.