Recycler

by Lauren McLaughlin

  “Where are you going?” she says.

  I grab my coat and the big green bag, then head to the door.

  “Jill!” she shouts.

  But I don’t answer her.

  I’m on a reconnaissance mission.

  Ian is not at Dexter’s, but his friend, the cute black guy, is. I order a coffee from Joel and sit next to him at the bar.

  “Hi,” I say. “I’m Jill. Ian’s friend?”

  He looks at me and nods slowly. “Alvarez.” He shakes my hand.

  Alvarez. The name sounds dimly familiar.

  “By any chance,” I say, “are you meeting Ian here?”

  “Yup.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “You looking for him? There’s an epidemic of people looking for Ian Larson these days.”

  “Can I ask you a question, Alvarez?”

  The bartender hands me my coffee and I pour some milk into it.

  “Sure,” Alvarez says.

  I stir the coffee and have a sip. I’m getting used to the bitter taste of New York coffee. It’s not so bad with four sugars and a lot of milk. “I was wondering,” I say. “Do you and Ian trade girls?”

  Alvarez rolls his eyes. “Aw, man.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  Alvarez looks at his wrist. There’s no watch there. He takes one last sip of coffee, then slides off the stool. “Sorry,” he says. “I gotta run.” He puts a five-dollar bill on the bar and rushes out the door while sliding into his coat.

  Joel the bartender comes over. “Are those guys being dicks?”

  “Possibly,” I say.

  I don’t want to describe the chart to him, because I’m hoping it’s an ugly story Jack made up to keep Ramie away from Sasha.

  “Someone is being a dick,” I say. “I’m not entirely sure who.”

  Joel nods slowly. “Well,” he says, “I hate to say this, but if I were you, I wouldn’t give those guys the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know that Larson guy very well. And Alvarez seems okay. But their friend, that little blond guy? Pure scum.”

  “Really?”

  He rests an elbow on the bar. “He dated this friend of mine, and when she dumped him, he went completely apeshit on her. Started following her around and calling her at work. Scary dude. I asked my boss if I could eighty-six him, but he spends a lot of money here. Trust fund kid.”

  “A trustafarian?” I say.

  “Yeah.” He laughs. “He’s always buying rounds. That’s probably why they hang out with him.”

  Interesting. It certainly indicts the blond guy, but all it says about Ian is that he has bad taste in friends. That’s not a hanging offense.

  “Oh,” Joel says. “And the four of them keep a chart of all the girls they’ve slept with.”

  I almost choke on the coffee. “You know about that?”

  “They sit right there.” He points to a table by the window. “They don’t exactly hide it. I think it’s that little blond guy’s thing. What’s his name? Permafrost or something?”

  The memory drifts up suddenly from Jacktime. “Permascrew,” I say. There’s a story behind the name, and I have to focus to uncover it. “Because …” I close my eyes and concentrate, the hazy image of the blond guy sharpening. “Because when he screws a girl, she stays screwed.”

  “He said that?” Joel asks.

  “Yes!” I nod excitedly because I just excavated a complete Jackmemory with the sheer force of my own mind. Wow!

  And yuck.

  “Well, it’s probably none of my business,” Joel says, “but I think you can do better than that.”

  “Really?”

  He nods, then wipes down the bar and stacks up some discarded newspapers. “You’ve got that fresh-scrubbed smalltown thing going for you.”

  “But I was going for vamp.”

  Joel laughs, then, realizing I was serious, looks embarrassed. “Oh, I mean, um …”

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m still working on it.”

  “Of course.” His face darkens suddenly as he sees something at the door.

  Turning around, I spot Ian entering. When he sees me, he takes a small step backward, as if hoping to make a speedy exit.

  “Wait,” I say to him. I turn to Joel. “How much for the coffee?”

  Joel shakes his head. “On me.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “It’s provisional,” he says.

  “On what?”

  “On you doing better for yourself.”

  What a sweet thing to say. Or is Joel flirting with me?

  “Deal,” I say.

  I grab my coat and bag and head to the door. Ian stands there awkwardly, half blocking my exit. I push the door open and go outside. Ian hesitates in the doorway for a second, then follows me outside.

  “One question,” I say.

  He stands in front of me, slouching nervously, his breath fogging in the cold.

  “Is my name on that chart?”

  “What?” he says. “No! Of course not. Listen, tell your brother …”

  “My brother?” I say.

  “Isn’t he your brother?” he says. “He said he was your brother.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Yeah. Never mind my brother, Ian. Is it true? Do you and your friends …” I have to take a deep breath before I say it aloud. “Do you trade girls?”

  “It’s not like that,” he says.

  “Really?” I say. “What is it like?”

  Ian stares at me for a few seconds, then sighs and looks at the ground.

  “So it is like that,” I say.

  He shrugs.

  “Do you even know how gross that is?”

  When he looks up at me, he seems sorry, even if he doesn’t come out and say it. Sorry and cute, actually. But that’s an absurd thing to be thinking right now. I should be shoving him against that wall or, at the very least, scorching him with a blistering retort. Unfortunately, all I can think of is how naughty and delicious it felt when he put his hand up my shirt. Mal, I’m such a pervert.

  I steel myself.

  “Yeah, well …,” I say. “I … I … I was just using you anyway.”

  “You were?” he says. “For what?”

  I want to tell Ian I was using him for sex, because I’m pretty sure that’s what a vamp would say, but I can’t seem to get the words out. My face grows hot, and I know it’s turning red. It’s so frustrating. What’s the point of becoming an uber-sophisticated New York City vamp if you can’t turn it into a weapon?

  “Hey, maybe we should—” he says.

  “Shut up!” I say. Then I turn and run away.

  “Wait!” he says.

  But I don’t wait, and he doesn’t follow. By the time I get to McCarren Park, I’m running and crying like a stupid baby! I run home as fast as I can with the goal of locking myself in my bedroom forever. But when I get through the door, despite the fact that I’m still mad at her, I find myself calling out Ramie’s name. She may be a disloyal friend who’s choosing Jack over me, but she’s all I have in this ugly girl-trading world.

  She comes out of her bedroom half dressed, shoving an earring into one ear. “Are you okay?” she says.

  I wipe my runny nose. “I hate this city. I hate this world.”

  Ramie rushes to me.

  “Stop,” I say.

  She freezes.

  “Technically, I’m still mad at you,” I say.

  “Why?”

  “For trying to kill me.”

  “Jill.” She walks right up to me. “My love, if I were trying to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

  “Don’t make jokes.” I sniffle.

  “But you can’t be serious,” she says. “You know I’d be lost without you.”

  “Really?”

  She hooks her pinkie with mine. “Of course.”

  I suppose I do know, on some level, but I’m still mad at her. Maybe that’s because deep down I can’t help but agree that when all
is said and done, Jack is more amazing and wonderful than I am. Maybe he deserves to have a relationship; whereas I deserve to be dropped off in Brooklyn and felt up by girl-traders.

  “Did you see Ian?” she asks.

  I nod.

  “And?”

  “Why did he have to be such a good kisser?” I say.

  Ramie hugs me. “You don’t need him,” she says. She pulls back and brushes the wig hair from my eyes. “He’s nothing. He’s a tiny speck of dirt. You can do so much better than him.”

  “That’s what Joel said.”

  “The cute bartender?” she says.

  I sniffle. “You think he’s cute?”

  Ramie smiles and leans back to evaluate me. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about. Line them up and check them off. Ian is so last month. And we do not get hung up on boys from our past, do we?”

  I shake my head.

  “Correct answer,” she says. “Come here. I want to show you something.” She drags me into her bedroom.

  “Ramie, please don’t dress me up like a clown today. I deeply can’t handle it right now.”

  “Shh,” she says. “Look.”

  She makes me stand in front of her full-length mirror next to the one-armed mannequin. I have no makeup on, and my wig is a tangled mess.

  “I went out like this,” I say.

  “Shut up,” she says. “You look gorgeous.” She stands behind me and cinches the red satin blouse in the back to make it tighter. “You’ve lost some weight,” she says.

  “No thanks to you and Jack,” I say. “Do you think the guy could manage to consume a single vegetable? All he ever eats is pizza.”

  “And kielbasa,” she says. “I guess he does rely on you to provide his essential nutrients.”

  “And his cash and a roof over his head.”

  “You’re right. He’s pretty ungrateful. I’ll have a word with him about it.”

  “I bet that’ll go over well.”

  She puts her finger to my lips. “Shh,” she says. “We’re not talking about Jack today. We’re talking about you.” She reaches up for my wig.

  I grab her hand. “What are you doing?”

  She pushes my hand away gently. “Trust me.” She takes the wig off and places it carefully on the one-armed mannequin. Then she runs her fingers through my hair to mess it up. “You see? You look well fit with short hair.”

  “Well fit?” I say. “What does that mean?”

  “It means hot,” she says. “It’s British slang. I learned it from Marguerite, my TA in textile history. She’s English. Hold on.” She rummages through her overflowing closet and comes out with a thick red patent leather belt. She wraps it around my waist. “See that?” she says. “Instant sex bomb.” She lifts my head up and makes me look at myself in the mirror again.

  I’ve never worn such a tight belt before. “You really like it?” I ask.

  “Defo,” she says. “Don’t lose any more weight, though.”

  “Defo?” I say. “Is that British slang too?”

  Ramie nods. “According to Marguerite, the whole fashion industry is run by the British mafia. She should know. She’s practically part of it now.”

  “The fashion industry has a mafia?”

  “Yeah, not a literal mafia.” She pulls a long string of pink and black beads from her drawer. “They don’t kill people for bad runway shows or anything.” She drapes it around my neck.

  “How cool would that be, though?”

  Ramie laughs. “Yeah.” She holds an imaginary machine gun and points it at her closet. “Pleats! Prepare to die!”

  “No way,” I say. “The mafia would be way more secretive. They’d make people die of starvation or overdose. Something that couldn’t be traced back to them.”

  “Devious,” she says.

  “Yeah.” I keep my eyes on the mirror. “But I’ve got that small-town thing working for me, right?”

  Ramie drops onto the edge of the bed to evaluate me. “I’m not getting small town so much. Not anymore.”

  “Good,” I say. “That was defo last month.” I double the string of beads around my neck. Then I put my hands on my hips and strike a pose. “Do I look like a vamp?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Well, what do I look like?”

  She cocks her head to the side. “You look like you.”

  “Only better?” I ask.

  She smiles mysteriously, but she doesn’t answer.

  I decide (after the fact, admittedly) that ditching the wig is a symbolic act. A sloughing off of the old me to reveal the shinier me underneath. I am committed now to becoming at least as Amazing and Wonderful as Jack, but in my own inimitable way, whatever that is. A wigless head is defo the first step. Plus, that thing itched like a nest of fleas.

  Ian is behind me, a mere blip in my ongoing journey to become Amazing and Wonderful. It was foolish to think I needed a boy to distract me from another boy. It all adds up to an excess of boy in your life. For now, I am taking a vacation from boy obsession in order to cultivate the dignity of singlehood. Who knows where it will lead.

  So one morning I’m making my way from the subway to some law firm downtown when my mom calls.

  “We were thinking of visiting,” she says.

  What I hear is: free dinner and a mother-daughter bonding session through Mastercard and Filene’s Basement.

  “Wait,” I say. “Did you say we?”

  “Would that be okay?” she says. “Don’t worry, we’ll stay in a hotel. But we’d like to see your apartment.”

  “Sure,” I say. “Are you and Dad, like, getting along now?”

  “Things are changing,” she says. “But don’t get your hopes up. He’s still Dad.”

  Helen McTeague, ladies and gentlemen, fountain of optimism.

  When I get off the phone, I realize this is a perfect opportunity to show off the new me. It’ll be like an audition, but a safe one. After all, they’re my parents. They have to love me.

  That night, while Ramie sits on the living-room floor tearing out pages of a magazine and putting them into piles representing “crap,” “shit,” and “genius,” for some extracurricular project she’s doing with that TA, Marguerite, I take a good, hard look at our apartment. Our coats sit in a pile by the door. There are old copies of The Village Voice everywhere, plus empty soda cans, pizza boxes, small piles of loose change, and a minefield of dried tea bags scattered about. A pale gray layer of dust blankets all horizontal surfaces, and the kitchen floor is splattered with a variety of spilled liquids.

  “Jeeze, Rames,” I say. “We live like bears.”

  She looks up from her magazine, glances around, then shrugs.

  “We need to not live like bears, because my parents are visiting.”

  “Both of them?”

  I nod. “Apparently, things are changing. But seriously, Rames, if my mom sees this, she’ll chloroform me, then stuff me into a windowless van and drag me back to Winterhead.”

  “I deeply believe that,” she says. “Okay. Can we afford a cleaning lady?”

  “Doubtful,” I say. “Besides, aren’t we a little young to have servants?”

  She neatens up her piles of magazine pages. “They’re not servants, Jill. They’re, like, independent contractors. Hey, I know. I bet if we put our pictures up on craigslist, we could get some guy to come over and clean our apartment for free.”

  “Aces, Rames. Then he can violently stab us to death.”

  “Pessimist.”

  •

  The next day, we head to the supermarket for some cleaning products and a six-pack of beer, which the Polish checkout girls sell me without even hesitating. It must be my new wigless look. I swear I can pass for twenty-one now, maybe even twenty-two. I don’t even like beer, but I get a thrill out of buying it.

  As we’re walking home from the supermarket, my cell phone chirps with another text from the ever-mysterious Tommy Knutson:

  Grand canyon. Not so grand.

>   I show Ramie. She shrugs. I shrug too, but it’s forced and she knows it. Though I am committed to a boy-free interval to allow the shinier new me to shine, I still get excited by Tommy’s texts. I’ve stopped looking for coded “I love you’s” in them, because that’s pathetic, but I have not been able to resist keeping a mental tally of their growing infrequency. Twice a day has slipped to once or twice a week. I don’t know if this means that he’s getting over me or that he wants me to think he’s getting over me. Boys can be treacherous.

  “Are you going to respond?” she asks.

  “In forty-eight hours,” I tell her.

  Ramie shakes her head in disapproval.

  “Ramie,” I say. “I don’t want Tommy to think I’m hanging on every text.”

  “But you are,” she says.

  “No way,” I say. “I don’t need boys. I’m too busy, what with all the gallery openings and movie premieres and leisurely afternoons in various cafés with interesting Europeans and stuff. I simply do not have time to respond to these half-baked texts in a timely manner.”

  “You are a complete fraud,” she says.

  “Plus,” I say, “forty-eight hours gives me time to come up with something achingly casual.”

  “Jill,” she says. “When I said you should get over the boys from your past, I didn’t mean you should pretend to get over them. I meant you should actually get over them.”

  “Haven’t you ever heard of fake it till you make it?”

  Ramie rolls her eyes. But she doesn’t understand, because her love life is simple. Whatever she and Jack feel about each other, they just come out and say. That’s fine for them, but out here in the real world, where I live, things are complex.

  When we get back home, we dive right into the disaster we’ve created. Honestly, I can’t believe we let it get this bad. Who raised us? After an hour of cleaning, we’re so covered in muck, we decide to strip down to our underwear. The floor is immune to all mopping, so we resort to scrubbing the mysterious stains with our toothbrushes. It turns into an all-day affair, but just as the sky is turning that lovely violet through the living-room window, we both collapse on the couch to admire our work. The place is spotless. It even smells lemony fresh.

  “How long will it stay like this?” I ask.