Things I can’t Explain

by Mitchell Kriegman

  When CCG sees me standing at his cart, he smiles in that shy way of his. He selects a chocolate-almond biscotti from a tray and hands it to Fluffy. I can’t keep myself from thinking puppy treats. “Thanks for covering, Clem,” he says.

  I can tell this slender little pincushion of a girl is half in love with him. She bats her blue mascara-ed lashes and giggles. “Anytime.”

  I think I might be sick, but hold myself together.

  She lingers a moment, gives me a quizzical look, and finally turns, heading for the elevators.

  “Clementine works for some accounting firm on the eighth floor,” CCG explains, plucking a cup from the cardboard tower. I don’t know why I’m startled by his soft voice. “It’s slow up there, so I call her whenever I need to sneak off for a bit.” He nods toward the tray of cookies. “I pay her in biscotti. Works for both of us.”

  It occurs to me that although I’ve probably purchased two thousand cups of coffee from CCG, this is more than he’s ever said to me at one time. It’s a clear violation of the micro-code, but today I’m thinking, Screw it. I really like his voice, especially when he says whole sentences. I like that even though he’s super shy, he’s making an effort to look me in the eye and actually succeeding. And those soft indigo eyes … why didn’t we attempt this fifteen hundred cups ago?

  “Gotta love a good old-fashioned barter system,” I say. CCG positions the small cup under the spigot and presses the handle. The carafe releases a stream of fresh coffee. I inhale deeply as he hands me the cup.

  Feeling a tingle of warmth rush through me that has nothing to do with the hot beverage I’m clutching, I make a decision.

  Today is the day I’m going to kick this up a notch.

  After all, if some snotty little seventh-grade slut-ling can put the moves on her science teacher and Miss Fluffy can bat her eyelashes for biscotti, I can certainly get my flirt on with Cute Coffee Guy, right? I reach into my knock-off Birkin for the $2.29 and hand it over. As I’m doing this, I purposely let my fingers brush against his. It’s a calculated maneuver, but it surprises the heck out of him. The good news is that he doesn’t withdraw, he actually blushes and grins.

  Hah. Now I’m feeling downright cocky. I made the coffee guy blush.

  “Thanks,” I say in a breathy murmur (take that, seventh grader, and you, too, Clementine). Then I press my lips softly to the rim, and in a dreamy kiss-like way, I take a cautious sip. I’m careful not to be obvious, keeping the maneuver subtle so that it whispers: See this cup? This could be you. Your lips, your earlobe, or the body part of your choice.

  CCG seems very interested as he watches my lips make contact with the cardboard cup. And why not? There’s a reason why this stuff works. This move is right out of The Flirty Girl’s Handbook.

  But apparently, he’s read a page or two of Boy Talk for Beginners. Because the next thing he says is: “So … you’re a writer, aren’t you?”

  It’s my turn to be surprised because our micro-status never allowed me to tell him what I did for a living. But I do realize that since he’d seen me scuttling across the lobby after Hugh a zillion times, it wasn’t much of a leap for him to arrive at this conclusion. Still, the fact that he noticed is very encouraging.

  “Yes. Yes, I am.” I smile and take another, less prudent sip, and stifle a scream, pretending that the Colombian Breakfast Blend isn’t scorching my throat on its way down.

  Then something even more amazing happens. Without warning, this shy coffee peddler with the scruffy jaw and silky indigo eyes takes the notch-kicking entirely out of my hands and into his own.

  “So what’s your name?”

  Whoa. Please refer to Rule 1.0 of the Micro-Relationship Code. No names! That’s how it works. That’s why it works! Distance, anonymity, mystery.

  Anything less would be … well, something completely different. Which is exactly what I was moving toward, but I’m a little thrown by the fact that he’s leap-frogged so far ahead of me. Thrown, yes. Displeased … not even a little bit.

  CCG is still waiting for me to introduce myself. So I open my mouth and say …

  “Clarissa!”

  Wait a minute. That’s definitely the correct response, but that’s not my voice providing it. Who could be calling my name here?

  “Clarissa!”

  I know that voice. Oh boy, do I know that voice.

  I whirl away from CCG, hot coffee inadvertently splashing from my cup onto the marble floor in what seems like slow motion. Mental alert: It’s always bad luck to spill. What will result from this ominous event? Only misfortune, I fear, but I don’t have time to do anything about it. I turn and there they are: Marshall and Janet Darling, the revolving door spinning behind them. The two people to whom I credit my existence, the Official Sponsors of my X and Y chromosomes.

  Too weird.

  My parents.

  Shit.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Surprise!” my father hollers across the lobby.

  Gee, ya think?

  CCG looks from me to these two strangers who are charging toward us, then back to me. To say that seeing my dad and mom, aka Marshall and Janet, in New York is surreal would be an understatement for a couple of reasons:

  REASONS WAY SEEING MARSHALL AND JANET IN NYC IS SURREAL

  1. They live in Ohio.

  2. They never called, e-mailed, texted, or sent out a homing pigeon with a note banded to its leg to tell me they had plans to visit.

  3. My parents aren’t exactly what you’d call spontaneous. Or at least they didn’t used to be.

  4. And finally—they’re not together, and by that I mean, they’re separated. As in legally. You know, like Splitsville, “taking a trip to Reno,” which basically entails paying some guy with a law degree to draw up papers stating that they can no longer stand the thought of living under the same roof.

  And yet, here they are in New York City, unannounced and, unless my eyes deceive me, together.

  I pounce on the together part and feel a surge of hope. That has to be good, right?

  Unless they’re here to share the burden of informing me that the legal separation has evolved into a full-fledged divorce. That would not be good.

  “Hi, Mom,” I sputter as she arrives at the cart and flings her arms around me.

  “Dad, hey!” He leans in to kiss my cheek.

  “Hi, Sport!”

  I blink at them and go with the approved response to this situation and usually good for close encounters of an unexpected kind: “What are you guys doing here?”

  And as I think of it, I’m astonished that they stumbled upon me at one of my random-but-regular coffee runs. I know Sigmund Freud said we always act according to our greatest desire and that there’s no such thing as coincidence, or was that Suze Orman, the Freud of the Spreadsheet, talking about forbearance and student loan debt versus the desire to pay them off? I forget. The point is, it’s pretty unbelievable that they’re showing up here in this particular lobby, the scene of my former employ, as I happen to be working my flirt on CCG.

  “We came to see our journalist daughter,” my mother offers brightly.

  Oh no. I’m putting it together as they speak … oh shit.

  “It’s been so long since we’ve seen you,” she bubbles on. “We just couldn’t wait for you to find time to invite us, so we planned our own visit.”

  Visit. Ambush.

  Tomato, tomahto …

  “We’ve heard so much about where you work,” my father says. “We were dying to see it. Impressive building architecturally, by the way.” He nods toward the enormous pillars and marble-tiled walls. “This lobby just screams big-city newspaper excitement!”

  No, he didn’t just say that.

  As stunned as I am, I admit I’m feeling encouraged by the fact that Mom and Dad appear to be operating as a parental unit again. I don’t care how old you are, or how independent you pretend to be, when your parents tell you they’re considering a divorce, you turn into a terrified little ch
ild. When my parents first told me, I didn’t sleep for two full weeks. I was so confused and afraid. All I wanted to do was crawl into their bed, like I used to do during thunderstorms or after waking up from a nightmare. The only problem being that I was in New York and their bed was in Ohio.

  And they weren’t in it.

  “You know what would be nice?” Dad says, draping his arm over my shoulder. “If you took us upstairs and showed us the newsroom bullpen where all the action happens!”

  I couldn’t agree more. It would be nice … if all that big city newsroom action were still there.

  I shift a quick glance to CCG, wondering what he might be making of this conversation. He knows that the Daily Post is no more, but to his credit he doesn’t throw me under the bus, subway, or coffee cart by pointing out this inconvenient truth to my parents.

  “Yes,” says Mom. “That’s one of the reasons we came.” She holds up a few shopping bags and I see Marshall’s holding two as well. Dad smiles painfully. “But sweetie, we were really hoping you could give us a tour of the Daily Post.”

  “They do allow tours, don’t they?” Dad asks eagerly.

  Um, sure … to potential renters, who want to move into a vast empty office space?

  The problem is, since the news of my joblessness had come hot on the heels of the news of their separation (and some equally distressing news about my younger brother, Ferguson, which I can’t even think about beginning to explain right now), I made an executive decision to keep my parents out of the employment debacle loop. It was dishonest, I know, but I had saved up a little, and at that time I wasn’t behind on my loans or my rent (my, how times change) and I really just wanted to spare them the additional stress.

  In fact, given that things are about in the same place, and my stress level is a tad higher, I still do.

  “Well, you know I’d love to!” I fudge. “Especially since you came all this way to … uh, surprise me—but the office is closed. What a drag, huh?”

  Not a lie, exactly. It is closed at the moment, and will remain thus for every moment following, ad infinitum, ad nauseum. Fortunately they never heard the old newsroom saying “The news never sleeps.” In the case of the Daily Post, the news seems to have fallen into an artificially induced coma.

  I sneak another peek at CCG, who is watching me closely. I mean, unless he’s a complete idiot he’s already figured out my little scam. But so far he doesn’t seem to be judging me harshly for it. He even looks amused. There’s this tiny smile on his face, which, even in the throes of this pending catastrophe, I can’t help but notice is awfully sexy.

  “That’s a shame,” my mother says, crestfallen.

  “And we’re leaving tonight, so we won’t be able to see it tomorrow,” Dad says, and I can tell he’s wallowing in it. Come on, Dad, get over it.

  “You’re leaving tonight? That is a shame,” I say shamelessly, hoping I don’t sound as unashamedly relieved as I feel.

  “Yeah, your mother can’t stay,” says Dad. “She’s got an R and D meeting tomorrow with the Chinese Defense Department and I … well, you know…” He trails off and I know it’s because he really has nothing to do besides fix himself waffles at the Make Your Own Breakfast Bar in the crummy hotel he’s been living at during the separation.

  Heartbreaking as that is, my survival instincts kick in. “Well, there’s always next visit. In the meantime, let’s see about finding you two crazy kids a cab to the airport.”

  Mom laughs. “Clarissa, we just got here. We don’t have to leave that fast.”

  “You don’t?” I gulp.

  “Not without taking you to dinner,” Dad chimes in. “Besides, if we can’t see that corner office of yours overlooking the Big Apple, at least we can meet that terrific entrepreneur boyfriend you’ve been bragging about.”

  Wait, so now there’s a terrific boyfriend? I lied about having one of those too? It takes a second for the synapses in my brain to spark before I realize that when I told Mom and Dad I had a boyfriend, it actually wasn’t a lie. I did, at one time, have a boyfriend. The “terrific” part, not so much—just a case of delusional behavior and poor character judgment on my part.

  Norm. My parents are talking about Norm.

  I flick yet another look at CCG, curious to see how the mention of a “terrific boyfriend” is sitting with him. I mean, three seconds ago I was making out with a coffee cup in an attempt to entice him. Now this revelation. I try to meet his eyes, hoping to see devastation, or at least disappointment. But at the moment, he’s attending to an aging female corporate warrior wearing a bright red Elie Tahari business suit who has sidled up for an herbal tea, so I can’t get a read on his reaction.

  Here’s another confession: In addition to not telling my parents that the Daily Post was no more than a journalistic memory, I’d also neglected to tell them that the guy I’d gushed about before as My One and Only had been demoted to My Ex with Serious Stalker Tendencies.

  Frickin’ Norm. Let me take a moment here to give you the low-down on that failed entanglement:

  Met him. Loved him (mostly his looks, which are Ashton Kutcher–esque), dated him, moved in with him, realized it was a ginormous mistake, and dumped him. Norm seemed great at the beginning, but once I made the commitment to him he became an emotional and financial parasite. In three short months he went from holding doors open for me to wordlessly leaving his dirty socks on the kitchen counter to wash.

  The “entrepreneur” part to which my father is referring would be All Decked Out, the custom skate deck company Norm dreamed of establishing.

  He got as far as pulling together seven layers of veneer and mixing a bucket of Gorilla Glue in the middle of our apartment. I rolled up my sleeves to dig in and help, but when his left hand and right foreleg got stuck in the wooden layers sopping with fast-drying glue, I knew we were in trouble. My foot almost got caught in the sticky stuff when I tried to pry him off. It was like a bad game of permanent Twister. Ripping the hair off the side of his right leg almost hurt me as much as it hurt him, especially when I had to listen to his baby-like screams. I could tell Norm was traumatized when he planted himself permanently on the sofa (video-game controller in hand), saying he needed “think time” to reconsider his career goals.

  It wasn’t like the rest of our time together was so peachy. So when Non-performin’ Norman started hanging out late at night with all sorts of bogus excuses, I knew it was time to cut my losses. Au revoir, Norm!

  It seems to me when I think about it now, I would have never gotten involved with Norm, except it was right after things fell apart with Sam.

  Who’s Sam? He’s my childhood friend, homie, and ladder-wielding best bud. Sam had the endearing habit of throwing an extension ladder against my house and climbing in and out of my bedroom window anytime of the day or night throughout our formative years, a groundbreaking innovation in parental avoidance that made it amazingly easy for us to hang out whenever we wanted. I know that sounds pretty salacious, but it wasn’t.

  As you’d expect, Sam’s ladder technique was a major source of controversy in the neighborhood and among my friends at school, who thought it was kind of outrageous that he could get away with it. No one believed that we were just friends as in “a boy who is a friend and not a ‘boyfriend.’”

  A friend is someone you’re close to and have feelings for, but not those kinds of feelings. In other words, a friend is someone you haven’t had sex with, and back in those days, remarkably, that wasn’t on our minds.

  Sam and I never fought except once—the night we went out on a test date, Sam’s idea, and it was a miserable fail. It was good, it was bad, and by the end—when we kissed—it was ugly. “The Good-Night Kiss of Death,” we used to call it.

  I never told Sam, but I was secretly insulted after that kiss. First of all, I was unprepared. Second, I never thought risking a good friendship for a kiss was worth it. Third, I like to think I’m a good kisser, but I didn’t even have a chance to try. Post-kiss, I
was totally confused, and his words stung me.

  Sam didn’t understand. Although he had those “more than a friend” feelings before he kissed me, I had those same feelings after we kissed, and that made me pause. If we had kissed again, who knows where it would have gone?

  Who am I kidding? I know exactly where it would have gone.

  “It felt like I was kissing my sister, if I had a sister,” he had said, and I almost never forgave him for saying it. That was the only time I ever considered shoving that ladder off my windowsill regardless of the consequences. But I held back.

  Instead, we friend-zoned each other pretty permanently.

  Fortunately my parents were totally oblivious to Sam’s ladder. Don’t ask me how. I think it’s because Marshall never did any work around the house or in the garden and he’s pretty oblivious in general. I suspect Mom knew, she just didn’t want to deal with it because—well, Sam and I were just friends and she could tell.

  After our miscued date faded from memory, Sam once again became the human equivalent of a golden-rayed sunrise or slow-burning sunset. Total Zen. It was impossible to feel anything other than relaxed around Sam.

  He was … my soul mate.

  There, I said it. He wasn’t just the person I could spend the rest of my life with. He was the person I couldn’t imagine spending my life without. Sam Anders was the one person who knew me so well that it used to scare the crap out of me.

  Everybody but me knew we’d get together eventually. It was glorious, it was beautiful, it was unforgettable, and when that summer ended, it was over. We never had one single fight or argument or even heart-to-heart about where we were going. If he walked in today I think we’d kiss and jump each other’s bones, as if not a day had passed.