Dogs With Bagels

by Maria Elena Sandovici

  He stands up.

  “It’s hot here. What do you say we go see a movie?”

  There’s something French playing at the Paris. They both enjoy it, and walk off feeling happy, playfully speaking French to each other. He’s proud of his daughter’s French. He had no idea it’s gotten so good.

  He remembers the effort he put into teaching her, when she was just a little girl, the used copy of The Little Prince he bought to read to her at night. It was expensive for their meager budget. His wife got upset, and so the next time he bought his little girl a French book, he hid it from her. Maria found it later, of course, but she just smiled, half amused, half annoyed.

  He takes Lili’s hand, and asks playfully:

  “Ou avez-vous envie de dîner ce soir, mademoiselle?”

  Where would you like to dine tonight?

  They end up at one of her favorite restaurants, close to his apartment, on the West Side, a place that serves a simple yet delightful grilled chicken salad, and quite exquisite desserts. She’s enjoying her chocolate mousse when he finally asks why she needed to spend the night.

  She tells him her roommate, Gretchen, forgot to give her a key. He knows how a father should react to this type of story. But he decides to keep quiet. He doesn’t want to tell her once again what he thinks of Gretchen, or of their living arrangement. He’s met this roommate once. L introduced them at her high school graduation, an event both he and his wife dutifully attended.

  After dinner, Lili borrows his cell phone so she can call her friend. He’s irritated that she still has not replaced the phone she lost a few weeks ago, an expensive phone he had gotten her as a gift. But he doesn’t want to ruin the evening by scolding her.

  L seems happy after a short conversation he tries hard not to listen to. She just found out that Gretchen has returned home, and now she’s in a hurry to get back. Apparently, there’s some kind of crisis going on, and her roommate needs her ASAP. And besides, Lili assures him, Gretchen really IS a wonderful friend, friendships just have their ups and downs, and the thing about the key is an innocent oversight, nothing major. Most importantly, she says, it’s a wonderful place to live, and he really shouldn’t worry, her arrangement with G is rock solid.

  He decides against voicing his doubts. Instead, he surprises himself by offering her to stay with him, for as long as she needs. She laughs, declines, thanks him, hugs him, and tells him to stop worrying. She keeps giggling and shaking her head. “Oh, Tati! Come on!” Does she know how hard it is for him to make such an offer, how he hates the idea of sharing his space, of giving up his solitude? He doesn’t insist. But he feels uneasy for the rest of the night.

  He sees her to a cab, and gives her three hundred dollars in cash. He reminds her to buy a new cell phone, tells her as kindly as he can that he hasn’t stopped paying her monthly bill, and that it’s neither safe nor practical to go without a phone in this day and age.

  Walking back home, he decides to allow himself a third cigarette, and when he finishes it, he craves the fourth one, but doesn’t give in. He walks into his building, greets the doorman, who has become almost a friend over the years, and strikes up a short conversation. Oddly, he feels the need to talk to someone. He’s almost sorry he told Mona not to stop by tonight. He talks to the doorman about sports. By the time the elevator comes, he has pretty much satisfied his need for conversation.

  He’s happy to get into his big bed, turn on the flat screen TV, and enjoy his single malt scotch. He falls asleep watching sports, and when he wakes up to turn off the lights, he has the feeling it’s been a good day. The thought of some of the new furniture orders crosses his mind. He’ll take care of those tomorrow, at the store. It also occurs to him that he has not asked his daughter for her phone number at her friend’s house or at that silly place she works at. He makes a mental note to call his wife tomorrow and ask for Lili’s numbers. Shortly thereafter he drifts into a dreamless sleep.

  3

  Friendship

  By Sunday night it’s clear that Bob was just another one-night-stand. No, he hasn’t called. No, he hasn’t replied to Gretchen’s seven (or was it twenty seven?) text messages. And he ushered her out of his apartment quite rudely this very morning, not even offering coffee. Gretchen is curled up on her beautiful white couch, with a bottle of her favorite wine, some chips, a melting carton of Ben and Jerry’s, and a box of tissues. Between sobs, she repeats over and over that he was so rude, he practically told her to leave.

  I realize it would be in bad taste to bring up the trifling matter of the key at a time like this. I’ve never seen G this distraught before. Though I’ve seen my fair share of G’s post-party meltdowns. Hold your judgment, though. It’s really not the way it sounds. Yes, Gretchen goes home with the wrong guy every now and then, and yes, she gets upset when they don’t call her afterwards, but it was never this bad before. Some ice cream, a pizza maybe, a cocktail or two, a few jokes about men being pigs, and she’d cheer up and be her usual self. But tonight she’s really upset and I’m starting to get concerned. None of the usual tricks in my pet chinchilla repertoire seem to cheer her up this time.

  “He practically shoved me out the door, L!” she says for like the millionth time. She blows her nose, defiling yet another innocent tissue, then tosses said tissue behind couch. The maid will have a heart attack when she sees this place tomorrow.

  “Like, like… like I was garbage, L. Like a prostitute or something.”

  G sobs. Her face is swollen beyond proportion, and her nose looks like a red bell pepper. Ca un ardei gras roşu.

  “You’re exaggerating, G! He’s just a guy, he’s stupid, and he has no manners. He’s a pig.”

  “You have no idea what a pig he is!”

  Gretchen takes another sip of wine, then refills both our glasses. I shudder. I can already feel a headache coming on. Please God don’t let me be hung over at work tomorrow!

  “Can you get out another bottle, L? I’m just too weak to move. And I really need to get drunk tonight!”

  While opening the wine in G’s immaculate kitchen, I glance at the digital clock on her state of the art oven. 11:45. Fat chance of going to bed before one, the way Gretchen is carrying on. I wonder what is best, to stop drinking and just pretend to sip, or maybe to chug like a pig in the hopes of finishing the bottle fast, going to bed, and hopefully falling into an instant coma.

  Surrounded by discarded tissues, Gretchen is holding out her empty glass.

  “Oh, L, you have no idea! You’re such a sweet little girl, you’ve had such a sheltered life! You have no clue how people are!”

  I try to not take offense at that. It’s G’s pain speaking, that’s all. I smile and take a sip of wine.

  “I mean, L, maybe if I grew up like you, if I had a mother, instead of three older sisters who just treated me like a fucking mini-adult since I was five, who just took me to parties and gave me clothes and never told me not to smoke, not to do drugs, or drink, or let a guy get to third base… Well, you know what I mean. I just… I didn’t even have a childhood. I just experienced it all, and well, you’d think I should know better. You’d think I’d be wise enough by now not to let people use me. But it’s the same thing all over again, L. He used me! And I let him. I’m such an idiot. I just let him use me, and then he shoves me out the door and…”

  Her voice breaks. I feel sad and guilty. Poor Gretchen really needs a friend. And lately I’ve been so resentful of her wealth and privilege, that I forgot all the bad things in her life. Yes, she has a trust fund. And her daddy and older sisters spoil her rotten. But that’s mostly because her mom died when G was a baby. And no matter how much money and how many presents her family dish out, they’ll never make up for the fact that she grew up without a mother. I can’t even imagine what that’s like, can’t imagine my own childhood without Mami. I can’t even bare to think of what I would have done if my Mami had one day disappeared.

  And so I drink more wine, and try, as best I can, to comf
ort Gretchen. Poor G! Motherless, and then to have such bad luck with men all the time! Yes, probably it wasn’t the best idea to get drunk and go home with Bob. But he did seem nice, and G had such a crush on him, and they are considerably young. And it’s 2004, for God’s sake! Going home with a guy shouldn’t be such a big deal anymore.

  “Oh, G,” I say, “stop beating yourself up. You had no way of knowing he’d be such an asshole. You didn’t do anything wrong, you just…”

  “L!” Gretchen sits up and fixes me in a serious, yet very drunken gaze. “You know nothing!” Her voice slurs. Her puffy face seems darker. “Let me tell you something. But you have to swear, and I mean swear, you won’t tell anyone.”

  I swallow. I wish G were not this patronizing.

  “You don’t know nothing!” G says, and I cringe at the double negative. Not because it’s grammatically incorrect. In fact, to me, it’s über cool. Super tare. Poetry of the streets. But it’s my own linguistic über coolness, my poetry of the streets. It’s fake and wrong on Gretchen. She stole it from me, stole the one cool thing that I had.

  “You think that I went home with Bob?”

  G laughs, and for a second, I don’t understand.

  “You went home with JJ?” I ask incredulous. Haven’t we been talking about Bob all along? And why would G go home with JJ, when it was Bob she was interested in all along?

  G holds up two fingers.

  “Both, L.” She sobs so hard she can barely continue speaking. “I went home with both. I slept with both. I’m so stupid, L, I was drunk, and they told me all these nice things, they flattered me to no end, like I was some sex-goddess and they couldn’t help wanting me, oh God, they actually said that, and I was so drunk, and… I fell for it, L! I thought it’d be hot, and that I was so cool for doing it with two guys, and they both seemed so crazy about me, and…”

  I try hard not to look horrified. But the bouquet of the wine suddenly makes me want to vomit.

  “Don’t ever tell this to anyone, L! I mean nobody, nobody can know. It’s you and me, and well, Joan knows, but that’s it! You understand?”

  Wait… What?

  “You told this to Joan?” If I ever had a threesome, or anything remotely sexually adventurous, Joan would be the last person I’d confide in. But then again, Joan is Gretchen’s sister, not mine. Maybe to G she seems less judgmental.

  “Yes,” Gretchen says. “I shouldn’t have, I know it. But I just felt so awful, L, and I was here all alone, and you don’t have a damn cell phone so I couldn’t call and tell you to come home. Damn, L, sometimes I really hate that you don’t have a cell phone! So I called Joan, and we had takeout brunch, and well, it was horrible. She just... She said I need to learn how to deal with people, that I always let guys use me, and other people too, that I’m too kind, and too naïve, that I try too hard to make people like me, and that I should know better…”

  She reaches for the carton of ice cream, and in a clumsy gesture, knocks it over. I watch as a puddle of chocolate spreads over the hardwood floor. I’m tempted to go get a sponge and wipe it, but just then, Gretchen grabs my hand.

  “It’s true, though, isn’t it, L? I do let people use me. I am a pleaser. How pathetic is that? A pleaser! And my life is a mess! I have to start organizing it, don’t I? I have to become tougher and stronger! You’ll help me, right?”

  I wake up the next morning parched and with a monster headache. It’s one of those yucky post-drinking mornings, when I feel dirty even after taking a shower. But what can a girl do? Life goes on, duty calls. I struggle into my couture and my heels (or rather G’s couture and her heels), cast a regretful look towards the coffee maker I won’t have time to use, and almost sprain my ankle running out the door.

  In spite of the bile building up inside me at the thought of swallowing anything, coffee is all I dream about all morning. Rich, dark, strong, fragrant, slightly acidic, potent coffee. The killer of all headaches. The surrogate of sleep.

  With no bus fare, I have to run to work in heels. At an intersection, waiting for a light to change, I feel a man pushing his body a little too close to mine, and my stomach turns. God, they really are pigs! G’s story looms over me, like a dark cloud. It’s so awful and so revolting, I wish I never heard it. The whole world seems so ugly right now, I can barely stand it. What the hell was G thinking? Why on earth would she sleep with those guys?

  Groggy and ill humored, I stumble to work, dreaming about the cup of coffee I’ll finally buy at lunch. The guy at Starbucks will pitch a fit at the sight of one of Tati’s crisp hundred dollar bills, but so what? A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

  Bella is a small but exclusive boutique specializing in hand-crafted leather goods from Italy, most of which Francesca personally purchases during her trips to Milan. I envy her glamorous lifestyle, just as I envy her slender figure, so comfortably yet elegantly wrapped in cashmere.

  It’s not Francesca’s slender figure that I covet most though. I’m a size 2 myself. Alex calls me bony. It’s rather something about Francesca’s grace and elegance that I wish I could steal. Something I can’t really put my finger on. It isn’t beauty, though I can name a few beautiful women, like Mami, who have a similar type of grace. Francesca isn’t even beautiful. Mami certainly is. I, however, inherited neither beauty, nor grace. I’m a klutz, my sense of style would be nothing without G’s help, I have bad posture, and the list could go on.

  As I contemplate all my faults, my hand slides over the soft leather of a bag I’ve been coveting for ages. I love the simple style, the tender, malleable texture, and of course the intoxicating scent of leather. This bag represents luxury to me. Luxury, class, and elegance. The kind of beauty I always long for but can never afford. Most of all I want it because it’s the same bag that Francesca wears herself.

  “Ti piace, cara?” My boss asks from the other end of the store. “I’m thinking of putting it on sale, sai? You should really buy it, use your discount on top of the sale price?” Francesca’s enthusiasm is, as ever, contagious. I can’t resist. It seems like the price is worth it, just to honor her friendly invitation.

  I use Tati’s cash to get the bag. Francesca congratulates me repeatedly, gives me a beautiful cloth sack to store the bag in, and throws in some of the special lotion for free, the one she is adamant all fine leather should be cleaned with. She insists that I transfer my belongings to the new bag immediately.

  Strolling to Starbucks on my lunch break, the new bag bouncing softly on my shoulder, I experience an exhilarating mix of dread and delight. I love seeing my reflection in store windows. The large, soft, creamy leather satchel almost makes me look chic. It shows off my delicate figure. And it certainly draws a lot of attention, making the rest of the outfit -a simple black dress, and hurtful six inch heels - seem much less drab. (Seriously, this is the saddest part of my fashion trouble: Even the coolest clothes look drab on me).

  I am in love with my new bag. But I regret spending Tati’s cash. Sometimes I really have no self-control. And I can’t even return the stupid thing. What would Francesca think? So I just squandered $265, which could have been used to pay down my credit card bill, not to mention buying a new phone, and surviving until my paycheck. Oy! I shudder at the thought of my elegant yet frugal mother. Mami would die if she knew how much I paid for this bag. I mean, it’s just a bag, even if it comes with a cloth sack and its own skin-care regimen.

  Well, to be fair, at least I didn’t charge the bag itself, so at least, I won’t pay interest on it. Plus, I now actually have change, and can buy a much needed cup of coffee. And bus fare! I have bus fare!

  After work, holding on to those bars on the bus I feel jittery and anxious. I guess it’s because my only meal today was coffee. Then again, it was a giant latte, containing plenty of skim milk. Isn’t that protein after all? And it should keep me skinny. They show all this stuff on TV about skim milk melting away fat, right? Plus, skipping lunch after making a major purchase is only sensible from a fin
ancial point of view.

  By the time I get home, my stomach feels like a painful hole, a burning little crater, menacing to get deeper and deeper and kill me. Can a girl die from no food and too much coffee?

  There’s never food in Gretchen’s fridge. Just Fiji water. So I stop and get some burgers and fries off the Dollar Menu at McDonald’s. I order two of everything. One for me, one for G. I try, once again, not to think of Mami, who would never in a million years allow Alex and me to eat fast food.

  Although she complains about fat and calories, G loves her burger. And she eats most of my fries in addition to her own. But she isn’t impressed with my new bag. Bella carries quality leather accessories, imported directly from Italy, but G finds it too mainstream. She also thinks a cream colored bag looks hideous with an all black outfit.

  Once again, she has stolen my word. Hideous. Hidos.

  I love that word. Original, and oh so versatile. I mean, now, for example, it describes just how I feel after breathlessly devouring my hideous burger. I promise myself never to eat fast food again. I also promise myself never to show a new purchase to Gretchen.

  Later on, I’m in my bathroom removing my makeup with Ponds cold cream and a cotton disk, a trick I learned from Mami, when Gretchen knocks on my door. I quickly hide the cold cream. Too low brow for the likes of G.

  “Ahm, L…” Gretchen starts, seeming uncomfortable. “I don’t know how to say this correctly, but you’ve been here three months, and…”

  I feel my knees soften. I never thought she’d actually throw me out.