Years after walking along the tracks, I actually got on the train. I smoked my Marlboro Mediums, I did my cocaine, and I flipped the ultimate bird at my mom and grandmother for trying to raise me to be a princess. But then I found out where the boxcar takes you, and it wasn’t as exciting as it had seemed. It was a lonely, dead-end place. As I stand in the circle of chanting three-year-olds I know I don’t have to be the sulking, smoking girl anymore with bad breath and a thieving habit to still live the adventure.
Tim has two drinks. He sips them very, very slowly. I think in the time it takes him to drink two beers, I have had somewhere around seventeen seltzers. I always used to say that I wasn’t an alcoholic so much as I just drank fast. I wonder whether I wish those club sodas were Beam and Cokes, but I would have had almost as many and probably would have slept with Tim. I look at Tim as he talks and think about what it would be like to have sex with him. My stomach turns.
I leave the bar and walk to my car, and though I want a cigarette, as is tradition at the end of all of my dates, I don’t. Because I’m Cinderella, and no matter how poorly she’s treated at home, no matter that she misses her real mother, no matter that she is caught between the better neighborhood and the railroad tracks, Cinderella doesn’t smoke Marlboro Mediums. And for today, neither do I.
30
Date Thirty: The Perfect Date
It’s been a long time since I’ve had a straight, male friend. In college, I had roughly forty of them. I was in a fraternity filled with funny, smart guys with whom I drank, got stoned, and for a good handful, screwed throughout the four years I was a part of higher learning. I recently found my old camcorder that has more hours of college footage on it than I would ever want to watch. But I threw in a tape anyway.
The image is grainy, and it takes me a moment to identify the friends in the shot. And then it focuses a bit. My friend Flannery is lying on the kitchen floor of our frat house amidst beer cans and other litter.
I can hear my voice: “Come on, Flannery, when do you not have anything to say?”
Flannery explains to the viewer: “This is typically the part of Morning Tails where I lie on the kitchen floor of whatever fine establishment we have crashed and give my yearly summation.”
He takes a sip of his drink as he says, “But this is our last Morning Tails.”
Morning Tails is the final party of the semester. It starts at 6:00 a.m. in the morning on the last day of classes. It is and will always be remembered by me as one of the best times of my life. Flannery is a gregarious Classics student who later goes on to become a lawyer in the D.C. area. He is never lacking words, in English, Latin, or Greek. Until that moment.
And then in the video, a figure emerges from the dark, and it is my closest male friend, my heart of hearts: Reeves. He is so young, and sweet, and not yet damaged from his own alcoholism. He is wearing Flannery’s straw hat and takes it off. Reeves is the quiet one of the bunch, and so it goes to him to give the annual summation. With the hat over his heart, Reeves says, “I guess we say goodbye today. Though we’ll never really say goodbye. We are in our house this morning.”
Flannery and I both howl. Reeves just smiles. “And I couldn’t think of two better people to be here with. I love you guys.”
He places the hat on Flannery’s head and lifts his Beam and Coke. “Here’s to an awesome four fucking years.”
The tape goes dead because even in my college bravado there are some moments too special to catch on film. I cry when I watch this. Because it is all so innocent and fun and loving.
They are my boys, and I am their girl. And we still talk but no longer in the same cities and not with the same intimate passion that we did when we were stoned and hopeful at Hamilton College. Since that time, I have discovered that is hard to make straight, male friends after college. Because everyone’s looking to mate. They’re not looking for new buddies. And either you become more than friends, or you simply don’t have time to keep up any sort of active friendship. This is why outside of Ivan, and a couple of sober men, the only other male friend I have in this town is a guy named Adam. Adam and I met three years ago right before I moved from L.A. He was working as an independent producer, and their offices were housed in the same building as my own. I was dating Sabbath at the time, but Adam and I hit it off from the get-go. He was from Houston, and we became natural friends.
We stayed in touch when I moved to Dallas, and about three months in I got a call. Adam was in town and needed somewhere to crash for the night. He came over to my uncle’s house where I was living, and I couldn’t help but wonder if something might happen between us. I was newly sober and spent the better part of the evening getting Adam drunk on White Russians.
Adam and I sat outside talking for hours—him getting loose-tongued and misty and me realizing that I could not sleep with this man. Perhaps because I only had three months of sobriety, and my nerves were too raw. Perhaps because I was watching someone get smashed, and it’s not that attractive. Perhaps because I found out that Adam is three years younger than I am, and I don’t do younger men. In the end, I put Adam up in my room and left his disappointed face to sleep in another bedroom.
A few months later, Adam came back to Dallas, but I was working and was unable to meet up with him. In return, he left me a voice mail telling me he was in love with me. I could tell he was drunk in the message, and so I never brought it up and neither did he. Instead, we stayed friends.
Adam’s follow through on our friendship is remarkable. Most guys would have forgotten I existed by now. But not Adam. I know I’ve got some good qualities, but I can’t help but be surprised that he still wants to hang out with me. We hadn’t seen each other in months when Adam e-mails me recently asking when we are going to catch up. I suggest we go shooting because he too is a fan of the gun club. He calls me up, enthusiastic, and offers that we go to Little Tokyo for dinner. I tell him I am dying for some good sushi, and he says he knows a great place.
“You ever go to Sushi Gen?” he asks me.
“I love you, Adam! Sushi Gen is my favorite.”
And I wonder whether maybe now I really could love Adam. We do complement each other nicely. Adam picks me up, and we drive to the restaurant, and I wonder if this is a date. Because Adam is cute, and he dresses well, and he’s funny and articulate and spontaneous—everything I say I am looking for in a man—and maybe I have grown up enough to get over the fact that he is younger. Maybe I have a little cougar in me after all.
“So, how’s the house?” I ask. Adam lives in a big house in Nichols Canyon with a revolving door of occupants. It’s sort of like the Real World but without cameras.
“Good,” he tells me. “We just got a new roommate.”
“When don’t you get a new roommate?” I laugh.
“Yeah, that’s true. Except, well, she’s a girl. One I’ve been dating for a while now, so it’s a little different.”
And I realize—this is not a date.
My dad calls me the other day. His transfer to Houston was recently complete, and so he is living there in various motel rooms as a consultant for the FBI.
“I’m not a rat, K,” he tells me again. “But they said that they can clear my record, give the old man his name back. I haven’t been Dan McGuiness in years.”
And I can’t help but wonder if the old dog might just be willing to learn some new tricks. Adam already knows this story of my dad, so when I tell him the latest update, he has the same reaction as most straight males.
“Who is he going to be informing on?” he asks.
I tell him that I don’t know. I try not to ask too many questions. I prefer not to know.
Adam and I go to the gun range and afterwards, Adam asks, “You wanna get gelato?”
And off we go to Pazzo. I explain the gelato criteria, and after Adam orders, he asks if he passed. And he has. He asks me how our own non-date is going.
“Pretty good,” I tell him while spooning the world’s greatest gelato into
my mouth.
“Come on, it’s probably one of the best.”
Adam is flirting with me but only innocently. Because I can tell he is madly in love with his girlfriend, and I know that he is not the type to cheat. Adam and I have a perfect itinerary tonight with all the things I love. And he loves them too. And I ultimately confess that this is one of my best dates yet, and I mean it. But as much as I wish I could feel I missed the boat, or that someday Adam will be mine, I know that’s not true. Instead, I am genuinely happy for him. I am happy for my friend.
31
Date Thirty-One: The Council of Butterfly Ancestors
The minute I walk into Lidia’s house, I feel better. It is one of the few things I can count on these days. My mom senses the depression in my voice, and without asking about it or intimating as much, she says, “It’s a good thing you’re seeing Lidia this week.” And it is a good thing I’m seeing Lidia this week. I have a lot to tell her.
Last night, I was talking with my best friend from college, Liz, which normally doesn’t trigger a depression, but then she said, “I talked to Jake the other night.”
I was sitting in Echo Park. My Tuesday night meeting was about to begin. I normally could not care less that she talked to Jake One the other night. Jake as in my evil ex-boyfriend. Jake as in the guy who tried to strangle me to death. Jake as in the convict who just got out of San Quentin. Even on his MySpace page, it says for occupation, “Parolee,” and I wonder whether Jake is more institutionalized after two years in prison than my father is in over twenty. But either way, what I do care about is what Liz said next: “Yeah, he’s living with Maria in Echo Park.”
I gulped. “Liz, I am in Echo Park right now. I am in Echo Park all the time. It’s right next to Silver Lake.”
I couldn’t help but look around. I was half expecting a rap at the window and for Jake One to be standing there. But more than that, I am really pissed that he has a girlfriend. And I am pissed that they are living together in Echo Park because that’s the neighborhood in which I fantasize about living with my future partner. And right now, I feel like I couldn’t be farther away from seeing that fantasy come true. Though I love my new job and my hikes with Mimi in the morning and my recent visit from my mother, I am getting that feeling again that I want something more. I want things to change.
As I sit across from Lidia I tell her about my recent run-ins with Jimmy Voltage. “I feel so stupid, Lidia. It’s like what happened with Oliver. I know that Jimmy doesn’t want anything with me. I can see that, but yet I still can’t stop thinking about him.” I laugh. “My God, it’s been four years, and I’m still thinking about Oliver.”
“Let me ask you something.” Lidia smiles at me, and I get a bit of relief that I might not be as stupid as I feel. “What attracted you to both of them? When you think about still wanting them, what is it you want?”
I think about it, and I know. I know so well. “Magic. I think everyone I dated has had that. Oliver, Jimmy, Sabbath, even Jake One. They were just magical to me.”
“Sabbath?” Lidia asks. And I realize that I have never mentioned him here before. I explain how he was the last man to play the role of boyfriend. That he just wanted to be there for me, but that I couldn’t see him for what he was worth.
“And where is he now?” Lidia asks.
“New York. I tried to call him a couple of years ago; tried to get together for coffee, but he never called me back.” I shrug. “That’s the thing, Lidia. I look at Jake being able to have a girlfriend, and I wonder what is wrong with me that I have to keep going for these guys who want nothing to do with me, guys like Jimmy, and I just can’t like the ones that like me back.”
Lidia stops me. “Did you not like Sabbath?”
I think about it. “No, I liked him, but I was so fucked up. I was so hurt from Oliver. I knew I couldn’t be there for him, and then I got embarrassed, and I got angry, and I just feel like, whenever somebody does want to love me, I decide they’re not good enough. And so I end up with guys like Jimmy. And I lose the ones who want to stay.”
I start to cry. “It’s not fair. Why can’t I make this singlehood business end?”
In that moment, I don’t care about this stupid book. Or about meeting the right one. Or about my inner growth. The tears are coming down, and Lidia hands me a tissue.
I want to be in love like Mimi. I want to get married like Nat. I want to be attracted to someone who won’t disappear. But more than anything, I want to come home from work on a Monday night, put the laundry in, make dinner, and curl up in bed with someone who loves me. And instead, I find myself, night after night, sitting on my bed, watching TV by myself. If you surveyed people who killed themselves, probably 98% of them were doing just that the hour before they died. Because it’s depressing. Really depressing.
I tell Lidia all of this, and she smiles sweetly at me. “Kristen, there are caterpillars and butterflies in this world, and you are a butterfly. You’re smart, you’re self-aware, you’re evolving and changing, and you’re interested in that growth. And that’s no judgment call against the caterpillar. The caterpillar is beautiful too. But they’re a lot more caterpillars than butterflies. The butterflies are rare, the male butterflies even more so. And it will take a special man for you to fall in love.”
“I’m not even attracted to the caterpillars,” I sniff.
Lidia smiles at me. “And they are not attracted to you.”
I get it. Though there is nothing wrong with being a caterpillar, I’m not in the space yet where I want that, where I am ready to stay close to the ground, foraging for food, and hoping that I won’t get squashed. I still want to fly. I want to be taken away into some dream world with Jimmy and Oliver and not into the reality that someone like Sabbath demands.
As I walked into Lidia’s house I saw a “For Sale” sign in her yard. I comment on the fact that I am going to miss her house, and she says so will she. She tells me that she and her husband are splitting up. And I am thrown. I have always wondered how such a strong, magical, sarcastic creature could have achieved the American Dream. The husband, the child. She seemed like so many women I know in her age group: divorced, maternal, and wiser for both. The fact that she was married almost didn’t fit. The fact that I can see the pain of the split on her face when she mentions it makes me realize that even the most magical of the butterflies still have to face the pain of living.
Lidia and I get down on the floor for the energy work. She has me choose a stone, and once again, says it’s perfect. I lie down, and she places it right on my pubic area. I trust her enough to do that, and she is so respectful of space, it doesn’t feel weird or awkward. Before I begin wondering why the stone is perfect, she tells me that its purpose is to help us focus on the first chakra, which is the baby-making, lovemaking section of the body. It is the place where we as women find our center.
Before we begin, she asks me to picture my ancestors. “Kristen, they are your ultimate spirit guides. I want you to think about the ones that came before you. The women that brought you here. The woman that you are to become.”
And I see them. I see me. This long line of women who thought too much, and felt too much, and just wanted to soar because they couldn’t stay on the ground long enough to be hurt. And then I see me. I see me as the woman who finally finds a way to do both. Who lives the adventurous life but is still able to create relationships which stay.
“Okay, let’s picture that woman. Picture the grown, strong woman you can be. Bring her into focus,” Lidia tells me. And I can see her. She is taller than me, and she is a healer, and she helps others and is strong and of faith. I am supposed to picture her in an environment, and I see her in a desert. She climbs on top of a boulder. The boulder has soft edges and is large but surmountable. She watches as a storm clears, and then we begin channeling spirit. Trying to use the magic I easily contain in my palms, we start moving the trapped energy between my first chakra and my mind. Moving it up through my gut, my heart,
up my spine, and out of the top of my head. It’s funny, but I have become sensitive enough to know when the energy is pulsing and when it’s not, and it’s not at first. I kind of have to pee, but I don’t want to interrupt, and I think it’s more than that. I think it is where the real problem lies. Learning to unite my heart, and my mind, and my spirit, and my loins, in an honest, mature and loving way.
Lidia tells me to continue the work every night at home. She asks me if I pray, and I tell her yes. “Then try praying to your ancestors this month. Ask them to guide you wherever you are supposed to go and ask them for the strength to get you there.” If ever anyone has suggested a god in which I can believe, it is this. When I was twenty years old, I studied abroad in South Africa, and maybe that’s the soil, the dark rich ground in which I can believe. Because I learned about this notion of ancestors from my friends there, and though I might not believe in the traditional Creator spirit so many people call God, I can believe that the spirits which shared my blood might get a say in my destiny. We Italians trust family above all else. So whereas a god who tells me what to do and what not to do is kind of terrifying, those crazy Italian, Hungarian, and Irish brethren who left this world before me feel like much better advocates for my life.
51/50: The Magical Adventures of a Single Life Page 17