667 Ways to F*ck Up My Life

by Lucy Woodhull

  “Could do no right.”

  He grabbed my shoulders, and I managed to pick up my head to look at him, tears in my lashes. I swiped at them—really, I should be over this by now, right?

  “Baby, you do not deserve being treated like… Fuck, I don’t even know what to say. Hating one child because of eye color? It’s…like a dystopian novel. I’ve seen this sort of thing in Desi families—the light-skinned kids being preferred to the dark ones. But I’m a dark one, and I’m great the way I am. So are you.”

  I squeezed my eyes shut. “I’m not trying to say… I mean, I’m still a white girl. I don’t experience racism or anything.”

  “I understand what you’re saying. But you have suffered, in your family, for not being some stupid ideal. For what it’s worth, I’m crazy for pocket-sized girls with dark, flashing eyes and weird senses of humor.”

  He actually managed to make me laugh. It was worth a lot.

  His hand under my chin, he said, “Fuck them if they can’t see that you’re a wonderful, beautiful person. Are you close to your sister, at least?

  I laughed again—this one, short and unsweet. “No. She took on her role as the good one like a duck to water.”

  “Then none of them deserve you.”

  I searched his eyes for a sign of a trick. If any friend had come to me saying she was lesser than for being unlike Western beauty standards, I would have told her she didn’t need to conform, that she deserved love and was perfect as is. Intellectually, I knew I was fine the way God made me. I would say such out loud to anyone who asked. But deep down…

  Deep down it’s hard to undo twenty years of Dad programming me to believe I was a big-nosed, olive-skinned, brown-eyed, short-statured bug on the windshield of his shiny life car, and if I just tried harder, maybe I could make up for my undesired presence on this earth.

  Mel’s voice cut through my self-loathing. “Well, Dagmar… Giselle… Whatever, right? We need to get going. We have to get pedicures or something. Out of the apartment.”

  Yash swept me into a powerful hug, and I clung to him far longer than was polite. “Yes, we’re getting pedicures,” I agreed over his shoulder.

  He took a step back from me. “In the winter while it’s snowing?” He shook his head with a smile. “Being a woman is very difficult, especially with horrible fathers.”

  “You have no idea,” I assured him.

  Mel said, “Oh, yeah, her dad is a total piece of shit. Sexist, racist—”

  “Okay.” I stopped her with a loving grimace while I swiped the tears from my eyes. “Enough thinking about my family.”

  “Bless their hearts,” Mel agreed most savagely.

  Yash’s hand lingered in mine. “Can I come over later on? I am dying to see your flight attendant uniform. On your short body with its sun-kissed skin.” He lowered himself until we saw brown eyes to brown eyes. “Please?”

  The room began swaying again. “Hopefully I have one clean,” I hedged.

  He picked me up into a hug and planted a rather chaste kiss to my lips.

  “Thank you for not exploring her tonsils,” Mel said.

  He left, and I collapsed onto the carpet. Myrtle came running over and mewed at me. I scooped her up, and she lay on my chest to purr and knead at my boobs. Aw. I would never hate Myrtle for being gray. She was the perfect kitty daughter just as she was.

  Mel got down next to me. “I haven’t seen tap dancing like that since Singin’ in the Rain.”

  “Thank you. I appreciated your Ode to Homewrecker Ethel. I wonder if she was ever half that interesting in real life?” I hugged Myrtle. “Although, she did ask a lot of cock questions about Yash, so…”

  She sat up. “Shall we visit the Internet café to see about the home we wrecked?”

  “He wrecked himself. But yes. And after that, I have to try to find a Lufthansa flight attendant uniform.”

  She wrapped her arms around her eyes. “Why? Why did you say that airline?”

  “You said that airline, jerk bag!”

  Without acknowledging her contribution to my mess, she continued, “And then we have to get pedicures. In January. And then go home in flip-flops.”

  I hauled her to her feet. “The pedicure thing is your fault too. And we can probably get away with getting manicures. Or nothing. He’s a man, he won’t know.”

  “Okay, but you know what?”

  “Yes, yes. I’ll be paying. I’ll probably be paying for a long, long time.”

  341. In more ways than one

  * * * *

  On the train ride to the Internet café, I typed a post for Craigslist asking for a flight attendant uniform. Said it was for a play. As soon as my cell service returned, I hit Send and hoped for the best.

  It was nearly dinner time, and my stomach rumbled in anger. The only person I’d fed recently was the cat. Hopefully, she wouldn’t fill my handbag with poop.

  I peeked into my bowling bag, and she booped me on the nose with hers. My squealing noise turned heads on the sidewalk, and Mel laughed at me. Myrtle hadn’t seemed to mind the subway, and I couldn’t bear to leave her at home. She needed affection from her captor after her ordeal of being kidnapped by strange women and the people to whom they lie.

  342. I would need the cat to love me after my boyfriend eventually dumped me

  343. I knew I wouldn’t get a happily ever after

  344. Maybe a restraining order, though

  I told Myrtle she must stay in the bag while we were in the café. She nodded and told me, “Of course, beautiful Mother Dagmar.”

  345. Crazy cat lady step one: Hear it when they talk to you

  We got to the café and found a spot at a corner computer. My heart began thumping, wondering what, if any, response we’d get. Soon we logged into the account and…there was a message!

  “Oh em gee,” I said.

  Mel turned green. “I’m afraid to open it.”

  “Me too. Let’s make Myrtle do it.”

  But Myrtle said no, loudly, and denizens of the café gawked at us.

  Her hand shaking, Mel clicked on the email from Abby.

  I want to meet in person to hear about the origin of these photos. I checked with my resident geek, and they don’t appear to be Photoshopped. When and where? I always protect my sources.

  I jumped in my seat. “Yes!”

  “We can’t meet her,” Mel protested.

  “We have to. For womanity, Mel.” I took a breath. “I’ll do it myself. You don’t have to come, it’s totally okay.”

  “No way. We’re in this together.” She scooted closer to me. “I didn’t even tell you about his car, did I? It cost him a few hundred to get the fuel drained and stuff, and then they figured out that there was no sugar, so he knows it was a totally wasted expense.”

  “Ha!” We shook hands and Myrtle lifted her paw out through the bag in my lap to swipe at us with her talons of solidarity. I disentangled myself and rubbed away the blood on my smarting wrist.

  I checked my phone, and lo and behold, someone had responded to my Craigslist ad! God bless this city. A guy in Brooklyn said he had just such a uniform for two hundred dollars.

  Mel read the phone upside down and whistled. “I’m not letting you go there alone. For all we know, he sells duplicitous young women into Greek slavery.”

  “Doesn’t bode well for me.” I decided to meet him at a coffee shop a block from his apartment in an hour. I wasn’t such a fuck-up that I’d meet a weird dude at his sex dungeon.

  346. Only non-weird sex dungeons for me

  This expensive task completed—ugh, I’d be eating ramen for two weeks straight—we turned back to Abby, the intrepid journalist who would help us deal a blow against sleazebags everywhere.

  Or at least one.

  I slid the keyboard toward me, wishing I’d brought hand sanitizer.

  347. What was that brown, crusty thing on the side of the 9 key?

  I began:

  Dear Abby,

  We wish
to remain anonymous, but will make ourselves available to answer questions.

  I turned to Mel. “Let’s Deep Throat it.”

  “The porn or the parking garage?”

  “I love you, Mel, but I’ll keep my passion for you above the waistline.”

  “Butt pats notwithstanding.”

  I shrugged and returned to my important missive.

  Let’s meet Sunday morning, 1am, at—

  “Which parking garage?” I asked.

  “There’s one near my place open all night.”

  “How do you know?”

  Mel blinked. “Because it has a big sign that says Open All Night.”

  “You’re a genius.”

  She set her head in her palm and let out a puppy whine. “One a.m., though? I have to work the next day.”

  “After two weeks off, ya lazy bum. Adventure knows no sleep! Once more unto the breach! And/or parking garage.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  She looked up the address on her phone, and I finished the note to Abby.

  Mel reached into the bag in my lap to pet the vicious adorable contained therein. “You’re feeding me a hot dog on the way. I’m starving.”

  “We can’t have that.”

  Hot dogs in hand, and one for Myrtle—my purse was a goner—we proceeded to the subway, then the coffee shop. Except…

  I referred back to my phone, and yes, I had the address right. Oh, wow. This would be a new experience for me.

  “Sexpresso?” Mel read the pink and black neon sign, accompanied by a photo of a hot blonde woman dripping coffee on her bikini-clad boobs.

  I recoiled. “That’s how you scald the girls. How is that sexy?”

  Mel crossed her arms over her chest. “This whole day is a mystery. Earlier, I helped you steal a cat. I told a heinous lie about an old lady. And now I’m going to assist you obtain a uniform for a job you don’t have to keep a man who doesn’t know your name…all while in a coffee shop strip club. Emily Post just doesn’t cover days like today.”

  “Probably a very good thing. Come on.” We opened the heavy, wooden door and descended into a pink nightmare of darkness.

  Everything looked…

  348. Sticky

  That’s the most positive word coming to mind. We proceeded through a black hallway (not touching anything, obviously) and soon found ourselves in a giant, warehouse-type room. Men of all sizes, shapes, and ick-levels sat around the stage, upon which two lovely ladies danced for definitely not enough money.

  I leaned to whisper in Mel’s ear. “I wonder how much they make?”

  She punched me in the arm. “I’m not dogging strippers, but you are not becoming a stripper.”

  “Of course not. I’m not that talented a dancer.”

  She nodded. “That’s true. You’d probably twirl off the stage and stab a scumbag in the eye with your stiletto. Speaking of… How do we know which one he is?”

  We took a survey. Two fifty-something twins in tracksuits were harassing a very unhappy-looking waitress. Mob, probably, according to television. Another stick-skinny white fellow was clearly masturbating under his table, so…no. We passed a man muttering in Russian while playing with a switchblade. Mel nearly retreated then, but my lust motivated me. I intrepidly kept exploring. I was the Amelia Earhart of sleaze.

  I met the eyes of the grossest man in the place—a handy achievement. It had to be him. If I Googled the word ‘weirdo,’ his be-speckled, long-ponytailed, lime-green plaid jumpsuit-ed mug would be pictured there. In his lap sat a plastic bag from a popular teeny-bopper clothing store.

  “We’re going to be culted into the Manson family,” Mel said.

  “We shower too much for them,” I assured her. “I have to meet him. I have to get that uniform.”

  “And what after that? You’ll get you and Yash free standby seats to London so you can take your fiction on the road? And we have not even begun to discuss the ‘please be my boyfriend’ crap. You’re gonna bust his heart wide open, honey.”

  Tracksuit Number One sidled up and rubbed his belly on me. I nearly screamed, but I was rescued by a blonde in a thong, who pulled him aside for a lap dance, bless her.

  “I’m just a random hookup for Yash,” I assured Mel. “I’ll—I’ll end it by kissing his best friend soon, and then he’ll be happily rid of me.”

  “Oh, did I say his heart? Because I meant you—”

  “La la la!” I passed her and made a beeline for Weirdo. I didn’t want to consider breaking my heart or Yash’s heart. Especially after he’d been so amazingly perceptive and wonderful about my family situation. Blade had never told me I shouldn’t feel inferior to my sister—he’d actually once confessed that he’d hit that if he could.

  But enough with assholes and on to weirdos. Up close, the guy reeked of patchouli and armpit stench. His feet stuffed into gold-spray-painted loafers and his hair was dyed gray over older purple dye.

  I girded my loins—

  349. And my nostrils—

  And said, “Hi. You have a uniform for me?”

  He twitched. “What’s your name?” His high-pitched voice barely sounded over the 80s hair metal pounding through the place. British accent, but not a real one. A Madonna-in-the-country terrible accent. He twirled the grease at the end of his handlebar mustache, and I fought back a barf.

  Myrtle peeked her head above my bag, fixed on him, and hid again.

  Smart girl.

  I said, “My name doesn’t matter. Let’s see the uniform.”

  He leaned forward. “How do I know you’re not the feds?”

  Holy hell. “A fed? Here to arrest you for what, assaulting everyone’s eyes?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time!”

  Mel and I exchanged a glance. Not a happy or hopeful glance.

  I leaned down and grabbed the dirty plastic bag at his feet. Yup, it was the right uniform, current even, according to the airline’s website. It was a size too small for me, but that would probably be okay since it was a sex fantasy and not a job requirement I might need to wear on a deserted island after a crash.

  I fished a wad of twenties from under Myrtle and held them out to Gross Guy.

  He yanked them from my hand and counted them before stuffing them into a pocket on the chest of his horrifying polyester jumpsuit. His red-rimmed gaze flicked up to mine. “I want four hundred now.”

  Mel groaned behind me.

  “I’m not paying you more than two hundred,” I said. I stuffed the uniform in my bag. A smothered “Mewr?” sounded in protest. “And I’m leaving now.”

  I turned to go. He grabbed the back of my jeans to hold me there. The waistband cut into my abdomen, knocking the wind from me. Panic gripped my whole body, and I melted into jelly. He wrapped his hand around my upper arm and twirled me around. “Give it back,” he said into my face, and I died of strip club buffet breath.

  The disgusting man reached into my bag for the uniform. Oh, hell no. I gritted against my fear and stomped on his foot. He yelped and snatched back his hand just as Myrtle hissed after him—good cat! I backed up, gripping the bag with all my strength. His fingers dug into my arm and I couldn’t shake him off.

  Mel bashed him over the head with her purse. “Let her go! Hark, a vagrant! You, sir, are no gentleman!”

  People were noticing now. The tracksuit guys started toward us, their cigars dangling from their lips. “Help me,” I screamed to any and all denizens who felt chivalrous. Gross Guy would not let up—he started to shake me, hard, my head bouncing from shoulder to shoulder.

  The two guys arrived to help and one of them immediately shoved against Gross’ shoulder. He finally let go of my surely bruised arm.

  One final yank and I clutched the uniform to my bosom. Mine!

  Mel said, “Run!” She pulled on my coat. “Come on.”

  In a split second, I decided that his act of skullduggery should cost him.

  350. I lunged for his chest pocket and tore out my wad of cash
r />   Just before Tracksuit Number Two shoved him to the floor.

  One of the waitresses poured a carafe of coffee onto his crotch, and his yells chased Mel and me from the place. We ran and ran, not daring to glance behind.

  We stopped, breathless, a few blocks away. I gestured Mel into another coffee shop, this one with no naked people in it, and we took our drinks at a table in the back away from their doors and windows.

  I opened my fist, and the cash scattered across the table.

  Mel’s jaw dropped. “You took back the money?”

  I grinned.

  “You stole that uniform!” she gasped.

  “I liberated it from a vomitus hustler who assaulted me.”

  She burst into laughter. “Holy shit, Dag! I can’t believe you did that!”

  I put my bag in my lap and peeked in to make sure poor Myrtle was okay. A surreptitious look around the coffee shop told me that nobody working was paying attention to us, so I liberated her from her leather prison and set her in my lap. She snapped at my finger, but quickly came around and accepted my love. “What a good kitty you are, Moaning Myrtle. You defended me against that horrible man! At least your life isn’t boring, cat.”

  She bit my finger harder this time. Mel kept laughing and laughing. I yanked my digits away from my adorable hellion and returned to my coffee, which never bit me.

  “You—” Mel sobered for a moment and peered deep into my soul with her clear green eyes. “You really have changed, you know that?”

  I spread out the skirt of the ensemble across the table. “I have. I-I understand I’m not being Mother Theresa or anything, but it feels amazing to talk back against the bullshit that I used to just take.”

  She picked up the stack of cash and fanned herself with it. “Maybe you should change your name to Giselle.”

  My heart missed a beat, and the thump jolted me. I looked up, and she met my eye after she paused rubbing the cash on her face. She flashed a smile and put it back on the table.

  I said, “I… Can I do that? Maybe instead of the inevitable horrible breakup scene with Yash—”

  “Which was entirely preventable.”