“Here’s your change,” the shop girl says cheerfully. I look at her, wondering what she means and shake myself back to reality. Her face has turned from envy to admiration. “Love that dress—I would have bought it if you hadn’t!” She smiles.
“I know,” I say, and manage a smile in return.
“I hope you wear it someplace wonderful,” she adds as I take my bag and leave.
“Me, too,” I say.
CHAPTER 25
Anxious and excited, I manage to survive until Saturday afternoon. It’s not clear which part I’m most excited and anxious about: my dress, Nick, or this weird wedding stacked with people I dread. Nick and I communicated once in the span of time that has elapsed between our final Where Have You Bean? visit and this very moment. It’s so strange how often communication seems to go dark right before a big relationship event. There was only one eight-word text confirming the time he would be at my place of residence. Just eight words.
I made the mistake of getting ready on the early side, which leaves Elvis and me alone to entertain ourselves. I challenge him to a staring contest, but he yawns and refuses to look me in the eye. When I persist he runs away. I give chase into the kitchen but he isn’t there. How he can disappear in a tiny apartment this size is beyond me. Sorcery, I tell you!
My brain obsesses less if I’m rushed or a few minutes late so usually I avoid being ready early. The kitchen clock ticks off the seconds—yes, I’m fixated on the long black hand that makes its abrupt little thrust second by second, emitting the tiniest tap, like the sound of Elvis smacking on food, or gum snapping, or the clack of high heels when you walk.
The longer I wait, the more anxiety outweighs excitement, and the more I think about Nick and his boomerang girlfriend Roxie. Roxie is practically the definition of a bad penny. The way Rodgers and Nick have talked about her makes Roxie sound capable of almost anything, including feigning death and then slowly rising out of the grave, her tattooed arm thrusting sharply from the dirt to drag Nick back into her Crypto Goth Netherworld. Shit. Please, Clarissa, stop? Get a grip. No need to go paranoid schizo on me. Me being Clarissa, naturally. Sometimes even I get lost in my inner dialogue. But there’s just one thing that I absolutely need to know … Where is Nick?
Elvis has returned and he’s giving me the stink-eye. What does he know that I don’t?
I can’t help thinking that maybe Roxie’s gotten word of our impending rendezvous and handcuffed Nick to the radiator in the basement dungeon of her apartment.
“Calm down,” I say so loud that Elvis scurries away again. He doesn’t like it when I yell out loud to myself and pace like a madwoman. But then who would?
“Do something worthwhile,” I say. “Check your hair.”
But my hair is perfect. Yes, I double-check in the mirror. It should be. I spent hours on it.
Usually I just clean the kitchen, the bathroom, the corners of the cabinets. That keeps me in check and has the added advantage of establishing order and good hygiene. It’s not full-blown severe OCD. Besides, I object to the DSM-V. That’s the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition, where psychiatrists catalog diagnoses for everything from post-caffeine intoxication disorder, trichotillomania, sibling relational problems, post-traumatic embitterment disorder, as well as good old-fashioned penis envy.
I mean, I’ll admit to some serious caffeine intoxication and a little trich now and then, and Lord knows I have difficulty dealing with my little brother, but I don’t remotely envy anyone else’s anatomy.
I prefer to think of my behavior as eccentric and colorful. Like my superstitions.
It’s been speculated by behavioral scientists that superstitiousness and obsessive-compulsive disorder actually exist on a continuum. I’ve read the reports. That’s how OCD I am! But after poring over the symptomatology on all the neurocognitive data, I feel as if in my case, I’ve taken superstitions to a whole new level of creativity and understanding with a very healthy twist.
Take, for instance, “spilling”—the frequently overlooked omen of bad luck. Admit it, you probably didn’t even know that spilling is bad luck, did you? People simply don’t understand how an unfortunate spill can lead like a chain reaction to an even more unfortunate series of interconnected events that are almost impossible to know about or even predict. Similar to the butterfly effect.
When you look at this whole chain of events with my parents and Nick, it all began with an ominous spill. I couldn’t help worrying about it at the time. But you may wonder, what is there to do if something accidentally spills? Are you simply a victim of fate, unable to change the outcome? Will events keep cascading out of your control? No. I say no! Not if you have the antidote! That is my innovation. See, I believe that for every superstition, there is an antidote—a counterbalancing ritual that creates a restart and reestablishment of order and progress. Fight magic with magic, I say. Or is that something that Gandalf said on his way to Isengard in the film version of the first installment of Lord of the Rings? I forget.
All I know is that bad and unlucky things happen, you can’t change that. But you can adjust how you react and take preventative measures. So, for instance, if you spill, then you must spill again from the remainder of the glass or cup or whatever. This antidote, or “re-spilling” as it’s called (okay, I’m the only one who calls it that), stops the onrushing possibilities of fate and resets the path of your life in a take-charge, positive direction.
Think about it: Where would I be now if I had just stopped when Mom and Dad surprised me in the Daily Post building and spilled again? How would things have turned out differently? Maybe I would have decided to come clean with the truth then and there and all these events of the last week would have been unnecessary and I would be on an entirely altered path.
I believe there are these serendipitous or serendumpitous moments in life’s journey where, like switches on train tracks, our lives shift direction for a split second or forever and we can find ourselves for better or worse on a separate and distinctive parallel journey.
That’s why I “keep” Elvis, I guess. I couldn’t bear to have another black cat cross my path and disappear, and it’s nice to have another Elvis in my life, so I opted for him to stay.
There is a famous Chinese legend where the gods tie an invisible red cord around the ankles of those who are destined to meet. Two people connected by the red thread become lovers, regardless of time, place, or circumstances. The magical cord may tangle and stretch, but it never breaks. Kind of like a cosmic pinkie swear. Sam and I seemed to be connected that way, but did our red string snap?
Or was Sam simply my “first love,” a concept I’m not fond of because it implies that we have a second love, and a third, and so forth. If we all have “first loves” and subsequent loves, how do we really know when we have experienced “true love”?
And what about Nick and me? We seem to be connected somehow. Didn’t Albert Einstein say, “God doesn’t play dice”?
I have read that scientists who study string theory insist that we live in a multiverse filled with universes that encompass all possible outcomes. In some separate universe, Sam and I eloped and are happily hitched, Nick and I never spoke to each other, and Elvis and I are hurtling through space in a rocket ship. Or not.
What is fate and destiny in a multiverse world? Are we all fated to multi-exist simultaneously alive and dead just like poor old Schrödinger’s cat? At least I gave my cat an actual name. And how does the multiverse apply to love and fidelity?
Let’s face it, as far as we have reason to know and believe, in this universe I didn’t spill again. Like it or lump it, this is the universe I’m stuck in, and events have hurtled forward out of my control until this very moment. Thankfully, Nick and I have reconnected as though nothing ever happened before.
The second hand continues to drive unrelentingly forward as I watch and listen to it click.
It’s not quite time yet but—where is that boy? Shoul
dn’t he be sending me a “getting close” text? Elvis reappears from around the corner. I’m sure the little devil thinks this is all one big game of hide-and-seek. In fact I’m convinced he actually thinks I’m just a big cat, only dumber and more clumsy because of my size. Cats are so self-centered.
Okay, Clarissa, get it together. Breathe in. Breathe out.
I take another breath to calm myself and seriously consider something more important—changing my shoes.
See, the first pair I put on is always the most gorgeous, but usually the most painful. So I slide a different possible shoe selection on each foot and do this flamingo thing where I stand on one leg, comparing different shoe options by standing sideways in front of the mirror. Kitten heel on the left foot (switch), strappy stiletto on the right. Platform pump on left foot (switch), ankle bootie on right. That went on this morning for, like, fifteen minutes, testing shoe after shoe until I ended up going with the ones I had on first because, as I could have predicted, those were the best choice all along. Anyone could have predicted they were the best choice all along. The danger, as you can probably guess, is that I could have gotten carried away, trying on every pair, and the buzzer might have rung mid-flamingo.
Fragrance was another thing I dilly-dallied with. I put a little bit on the inner wrists and behind the ears, just like Mom taught me. Then I had to be careful not to get carried away. Feeling frisky, I put a little behind my knees. I thought about doing that movie thing where I spray a cloud of perfume into the air and walk through it, but I stopped. I didn’t want to smell like the perfume girl at Bloomingdale’s, and who knows? It might be allergy-inducing for Nick.
There’s not much left to do so I settle on the purse check. Altoids: check. Lipstick: check. Feminine hygiene apparatus: check. Condom: check. I take out the condom, worrying about what that says about my expectations. House keys, cell phone, travel tissue: check, check, check. Then I go back and add the condom, just in case. Check! Then I take it out. Sometimes I get totally stuck on this one.
Shouldn’t he be here by now? This is where things get dangerous. I have been known to step outside my building to test if the downstairs buzzer is working. I’ve even managed to lock myself out on occasion doing this. I decide not to go down today because I’m terrified Nick might pull up just as I’m ringing my own buzzer, which would look particularly dorky.
Okay, he’s still not here and now I’m heading into that nightmare territory of thinking that I gave him the wrong address, wrong time, or the wrong day.
WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?!
Bzzzt!
The sound makes me jump, but it’s music to my ears. He didn’t forget, get lost, change his mind, get chained to the radiator, or drop dead from a rare and undetectable allergy. He showed up!
I’m so excited that when I open the door I can’t keep Elvis from slipping out. Damn. No time to chase him now. He always comes back in ways I never understand anyway. He wouldn’t just leave, right?
I take another deep breath and head out the door.
CHAPTER 26
“Wow.”
“Wow yourself,” I say.
We’re standing on the sidewalk in front of my building. Somehow we’re both astonished. I love what he’s wearing beneath his motocross leathers—super-skinny black pants and a narrow-cut long-lined dark charcoal jacket, navy-checked patterned vest, and a pocket square with a complementary white linen shirt. Simple, but all tailored within an inch of its life.
“You look amazing,” he says.
I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath waiting for him to say something.
“That dress is dangerous … for a bike. Walking around, too,” Nick says, smiling.
He hands me the same all-encompassing leather jacket I wore the first time and I slip into the luxury of it, feeling as though I have truly rejoined my first pre-spill reality. Somehow fate, the multiverse, or whatever you prefer to call it has pulled that train track switch the other way and events have totally realigned to where they should have been in the first place. Maybe the effects of that tragic unaddressed spill have worn off.
Short dress, high heels, and all, Nick pulls me up on the Harley. The hog practically purrs, happy to welcome me back. Maybe it even missed me.
I am not stupid enough to forgo safety for style, so despite the hours of careful coiffing, I put the helmet on without question.
Nick revs it up a notch and the bike rumbles like a jungle cat, making me feel rebellious and cool.
“Ready?” he asks.
“You have no idea.”
As Nick revs the bike into gear, we glide away from the curb. I snuggle up against him, holding tight around his waist. I’ve come full circle—holding Nick and riding down the road where I belong.
I don’t know why, but as Nick’s Harley screams onto the highway, I think about how far I’ve come. It’s one of those leaps of time that make me feel older in a good way, like I’ve grown up a notch or two. As the Harley accelerates, the city landscape blurs into countryside and I wistfully reflect on the assorted stages of my brief existence:
MY SWEETHEART AGE
When I still snuggled up to Mom and gave her kisses and Dad chucked me on the shoulder and called me “Sport.” Those were the years when everything came down to that old Sesame Street song: “One of These Things Is Not Like the Other.” Life was as simple as telling apples from oranges.
MY EINSTEIN YEARS
Those days were followed by My Einstein Years when I explained it all and knew everything. Boys (particularly brothers) seemed oblivious and naive in those days. I remember Mr. Sapperstein, our neighbor and local pharmacist, standing in the kitchen and going on and on to my dad about the differences between boys and girls he saw in the pharmacy.
“If a fourteen-year-old girl comes into my store, she’s got money in her pocket and she knows what she wants and what it costs. She knows all the makeup brands and their relative merits,” he’d say. “But if a fourteen-year-old boy comes into my store, he doesn’t have a penny on him. He doesn’t know what a pharmacy is and he’s probably lost or up to no good.”
Now I realize my Einstein period was easy-peasy because I coasted so smoothly through those tween years. I was better than the game. My goal in life was to be the star of my own reality as opposed to being a reality star. These days, everyone is so obsessed with being famous that they’ve created new categories of fame to accommodate as many people as possible. You can be Tumblr Famous and YouTube Famous. You can be Reality Famous or become a Bravolebrity. Was it Countess LuAnn de Lesseps from The Real Housewives of New York City renunion special with Andy Cohen who posed the ontological question, “If you’re not famous for something, do you even exist?” Or maybe that was just another quip from Andy Warhol. Warhol managed to say it all about fame and begin the inevitable devaluation of style, fame, fashion, and art for generations to come.
DRAMA QUEEN TEENS
Lucky for me, I lightly skimmed above this stage. Being BFB (Before Facebook) made it a little easier than it is today. Somehow I skirted the sex, drugs, and drama years partly because we were in tiny Springfield and partly because my mom and dad were so different from everyone else’s, so I was pretty focused and directed. Some escape the sex and drugs, few escape the drama. By drama I mean all the girls at school holding grudges, throwing fits, bullying, and the shifting love-hate alliances that dominate high school life. The High School Valley of Death, I call it. Girls can be so tough on each other, criticizing each other’s bodies way more harshly than any boy.
PREMATURE MATURITY
I hit this phase when I moved to New York. Sort of Einstein Years Lite Redux. As I matured in those first few years in New York City, I thought I was incredibly smart and independent until I got my butt kicked at the newspaper by everyone else—people who were actually experienced.
THE AGE OF INDECISION
That’s when I hit my mid-twenties, post-Norm, and found myself unemployed. Every day I’d hope and pray for clarit
y. All those things that were crystal clear when I was fourteen seemed foggy and confusing. The Great Recession didn’t help.
The truth is that it’s always a bad time to be a twenty-something. Just think, in the Middle Ages, being twenty-something was peaking and everything after was old age. Charlemagne won his first campaign at twenty-seven, and Alexander the Great was only twenty-two when he conquered Greece. It makes my mind spin.
But right now I don’t have to think about all that. I just have to snug up and hold on to Nick while the rising whine of the motorcycle catapults us down the highway. Which brings me to my big decision, arrived at over the course of the week: Today is the day I’m going to come clean with my parents, no matter how much my mother yammers on. Regardless of the obstacles, I’m going to tell them about the Daily Post going belly-up (especially now that I have a new job). And most important, I’m going to tell them the truth about the night they met Nick and saw him with Roxie at the airport, especially because he’ll be right there standing close to me.
As far as I’m concerned, holding on to Nick and flying down the highway could last forever. Here’s hoping that G-Bomb’s wedding doesn’t ruin this.
CHAPTER 27
I’m staring at Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, aka Venus on the Half Shell—in ice. Genelle wasn’t kidding when she said her wedding was going to be posh. I’m captivated by the glacier’s worth of ice sculpture and what it says about mankind’s inability to come to grips with global warming. There might be more ice here than all that’s left on the polar shelf. I notice that even the carver has felt compelled to enhance Venus’s proportions significantly. Venus—the goddess of beauty, sex, and fertility—seems to have undergone a breast enhancement and augmentation to the degree that her hand, which never covered much to begin with, now barely covers anything at all. Botticelli might have been appalled at the corruption of his feminine ideal, but after all, it’s Genelle’s wedding and it’s clearly indicative of her revisionist bent, so to speak.
Things I can’t Explain Page 17