I nod, though I’m not sure I agree.
It’s interesting that the two women I admire most, Mami and Momo, are both very keen on me living my life. In very different ways, of course. I can’t imagine Mami encouraging me to experience sex with various men. Still, as odd as it seems, Momo and Mami have something in common, a pushy enthusiasm for all sorts of new and exciting adventures they want me to embark on. I wonder what it is that makes them so eager to see me live life to the fullest.
Of course, Mami missed out on a lot of fun. But what exactly did Momo miss out on? Momo went to a good university, then got a good job as an accountant. She partied through the eighties and nineties, and had several lovers before meeting Tati. And now she’s in a stable relationship with a man she adores.
“Sweetie, why are you afraid?” Momo asks.
I wonder if I really am afraid, or just uncomfortable.
“I’m not in love with him.”
“Is he in love with you?”
“I’m not sure.”
Momo lights another cigarette.
“Love is not all it’s cracked up to be, you know. Love can actually mess up everything. It makes you lose your head, and do stupid things. Trust me, it makes the strongest women weak and needy. Do you remember how miserable you were when you broke up with your first boyfriend?”
I nod. I’ll never forget that.
“It’s better sometimes to just find someone you like being with. We all need companionship. And, even though you have not learned this yet, we all need sex. You’ll understand someday. If you can find a good companion, that’s usually the best you can hope for.”
Momo takes a drag of her cigarette. She blows the smoke out pensively.
“This guy seems like a good guy. A nice person. He adopted a dog from the pound, what a sweetheart! And he’s studious, and all around sweet. Maybe that’s why you’re not that hot for him. We usually fall for the bad guys, the hot bad guys, right?”
I laugh. Now, that is true.
“But the hot bad guys always break our hearts, love. Trust me on that. Maybe the key to happiness is to just find a nice, stable, guy, maybe not the hottest one out there, and just stick with him. And seriously, L, as jaded and crazy as New York is, a guy like that is almost impossible to find. You saw how men act out there, right? They all want to hook up with no strings attached. You told me that yourself!”
Unfortunately that is true. No hot guy in Manhattan wants a girlfriend. The atmosphere is too sexually charged and there are as many beautiful girls as there are trendy clubs and overpriced cocktails. Nobody wants to limit their options. They want to try everything the city has to offer, and the city never stops offering up new things. Fuck buddies and hot one-night-stands lurk around every corner. A nice boyfriend is harder to find than a cab during rush hour on a rainy day. So what am I doing throwing away a good man?
17
French Connection
At the end of the month, I get fired. Francesca says my wardrobe has gone from shabby to grungy, complains about my lack of punctuality, and about Gretchen calling the store incessantly.
“Bella is a high-end boutique, not an answering service!”
My financial situation is beyond bleak. After paying the rent and the minimum payment on my credit card, I’m looking at another month of eating bagels.
Depressed about my money troubles, I agree to a date with Greg, hoping he’ll cheer me up. I end up getting drunk. Once the second bottle of wine is uncorked, I tell him about getting fired from Bella. I meant to keep it a secret from everyone, until I found a different job, but the wine loosens my inhibitions, and I end up confessing. Under the influence of alcohol, I cannot even remember why my financial troubles are normally so embarrassing to discuss. I even tell Greg I’ve been living on bagels. The only thing I keep to myself is my debt to Gretchen.
Greg listens, and seems not to judge. He says most young people struggle with money at some point, and he encourages me to apply for a better job than the one at Bella. According to him, it was a job with very lousy pay, and I’m better off without it. He thinks I should forget all about retail, and instead try for a secretarial position that requires language skills.
“You might not make a lot of money, definitely not as much as in some of the better-paid retail jobs, but you’ll have something to put on your resume if later you want to shoot for a better job, or maybe apply to grad school. Nobody cares that you spoke Italian selling bags, but if you work in an office, you’re likely to get more skills, and that type of experience looks good.”
He sounds a bit like Momo, but for some reason I’m not irritated. In fact I feel lucky to have him advise me.
I decide to attack the job market with patience and determination. Greg says it might take longer to find a decent job as an administrative assistant, but I’m willing to put in the time and the effort. Greg helps edit my resume. He moves the languages section to the very front because it’s my most marketable skill. Seeing my resume dressed up restores some of my hope. For two weeks, all I do is apply, wait, then apply again.
I’m nervous. I never understood much about the economy, but I know the Clinton years are gone. Now there’s this awful war in Iraq going on, and overall, everybody is talking about things going poorly. I never paid attention before. I considered going to an anti-war protest once, but that had nothing to do with the economy. I just hated the idea of people dying, and of us taking over other countries, just because we can. The economy was the last thing on my mind. I thought I was immune to it. After all, I had no money, no stocks… Funny, I never realized just how vulnerable I was.
To survive without an income, I’m stricter than usual with my diet of bagels and coffee. Following Rachelle’s advice, I start buying frozen bagels from the supermarket, and tubs of store brand cream cheese. I now eat all my meals at home. It reassures me that I can feed myself so inexpensively. But it’s a minor consolation. Deep down inside, desperation is building up. What if I don’t find a job? How long will I be able to buy bagels? How long will I be able to pay rent? At night, unable to sleep, I add up numbers in my head. My life is cheap these days, but no one lives for free. Especially in New York City.
Aside from bagels, my only expense is the paper I buy each morning. I read the ads carefully, circling the ones that even moderately match my skills. Each day, I arm myself with courage to make the calls. I’m probably over my minutes on my stupid cellphone. I don’t want to imagine Tati’s face when he gets the bill.
In the afternoons I feel tired, discouraged. I sit on the couch like a bum, watching my new favorite show, Judge Judy. I’ve started to imagine myself on the show, a defendant in Judge Judy’s courtroom, and Rachelle standing there accusatory, reciting a laundry list of reasons to evict me. Number one being, of course, inability to pay the rent. Because really, even while starving on two bagels a day, if I don’t find a job, I won’t be able to pay next month’s rent. I’m probably looking at a future of homelessness. And Judge Judy.
But being sued by Rachelle is not even my worst nightmare. When I succumb to the darkest levels of depression, an even more terrifying fantasy plays out in my head. I’m once again the accused in Judge Judy’s courtroom, but this time the person suing me is not Rachelle. It’s Gretchen. Over and over again I imagine Judge Judy ordering me to pay Gretchen back, scolding me for leaving in the middle of the night, betraying a friendship, and not repaying kindness.
Things take a turn for the better once I start getting interviews. At least now I have a reason to get dressed in the morning, to comb my hair, apply makeup (not too much of it, and definitely no perfume – that’s Rachelle’s advice), then spend the day in limbo between various offices, dull and institutional as they are, where other young people in cheap suits wait clutching briefcases and manila envelopes, hoping to be selected for some crappy underpaid position. It’s no walk in the park, but it sure beats spending the day on Rachelle’s couch in my jammies.
Sometimes I make it h
ome in time to catch the end of Judge Judy. It’s lost part of its power to terrify me. In fact, one day, I even catch myself thinking, that it will be sad to have to miss it once I get a job.
Once I start believing in it, it happens. One day, my cellphone rings, and I’m told I got a position as a receptionist at a small finance firm whose main clients are French. Français! It’s not the best paying job, but I did find it moderately interesting, and was able to show some genuine enthusiasm during the interview.
After hanging up and jumping up and down a few times (Mais oui!), I go out and buy a miniature bottle of French champagne, and a slice of pizza. I rent a French film to watch by myself on Rachelle’s TV. It’s a small private celebration. Of course I should celebrate again with Greg. I can’t wait to tell him about the job! Le boulot! I’ll buy him dinner this time. I owe him for all the times he’s treated me, and I need to thank him for his advice.
Rachelle comes home while I’m still watching the movie. She sits on the couch next to me and gazes dreamily at the screen.
“You’re so lucky to speak French, L. I wish I spoke another language.”
In a good mood, and slightly tipsy from the bubbly, I offer to teach her.
“Are you serious?” Rachelle asks with her usual skepticism.
“Sure, Rachelle. It’s the least I can do. You’ve been so good to me.”
Rachelle sighs.
“Child, you really are clueless, aren’t you? How exactly have I been that good to you?”
“Well, letting me live here and all.”
“That’s not me being good to you, child. You pay rent here, remember?”
On the screen, Paris in the rain (la pluie) looks mellow and romantic as ever.
“Now how much are you gonna charge for teaching me French, child?”
“I wouldn’t charge you, Rachelle.”
Rachelle sighs again, exasperée.
“I’m trying to teach you something, white child, and you won’t listen. You don’t go around offering people stuff like that for free. Because if you do, they will take it. And when they take it and they don’t give you anything in return, well then you only have yourself to blame. I’ll give you ten dollars an hour to teach me. We can do two hours every week to start, and if it goes well, we might go up to three.”
I nod. I don’t want to argue with Rachelle.
“Now, normally it would not be any of my business what you do with your money,” she continues. “But since you were stupid enough to not even ask for it in the first place, I’ll make it my business. You better save my money, honey child, and do something sensible with it. Don’t let me catch on that you bought one more of those overpriced purses with it.”
“What if I bought you a purse?” I volunteer. “For your birthday, you know?”
Rachelle has never acknowledged my Italian leather bag. I thought it went unnoticed until one night, when she couldn’t find room for something in the freezer, and took it out on me:
“Do you think you could have any more cheap frozen bagels, child? Well, I sure am glad you’re running all around town with a three hundred dollar bag! That sure is worth eating nothing but frozen bagels!”
I was shocked to see that Rachelle had not only noticed the bag, but that she knew exactly how expensive it was. I thought she was jealous, and wanted one herself. That’s why I offered.
But Rachelle rolls her eyes:
“Well, if you buy me a bag, you’re a fool, L. Because when your birthday comes around, you’re still not getting more than a twenty dollar present out of me.”
Luckily Rachelle’s negativity can’t bring me down. I know my life is about to drastically improve. A few days later, I invite Greg to lunch at a cheap little French place. My days of eating bagels are over. I order grilled chicken salad, and contemplate having chocolate mousse for dessert. I feel at peace and happy. It’s a nice autumn day, and we got a good table by the window. But suddenly I almost choke. The woman walking by outside is Joan. And they say you never run into people in New York. I want to hide under the table. But you can’t do that, just like that, while having lunch with your sort of boyfriend, can you? Luckily Joan is too immersed in a conversation on her cellphone to see me. But the encounter reminds me that, even if things are looking up, my troubles are not over. I promise myself to start saving and pay Gretchen back. Suddenly, chocolate mousse for dessert is not such a good idea. Still don’t I deserve a little treat for getting a new job?
More days pass, days of eating chicken sandwiches, clam chowder, and chocolate croissants (pain au chocolat!). I settle into a pleasant routine. Each morning I walk to the tramway enjoying a steaming cup of coffee, ride above the dark waters of the East River, prying into people’s floor to ceiling windows as the tram comes to a halt, take a brisk walk to work, to spend pleasantly dull hours typing French words on the computer (l’ ordinateur), with nothing but the occasional phone call to interrupt the sound of my keyboard (tastature). I hardly notice the imminent arrival of New York winter. Each day it gets dark earlier, and each day it gets colder. I’m comforted by my new routine. It has an aesthetic quality to it, just like the French words on the screen. Black and white. Balnc et noir. Symmetric. What more can a girl wish for, than editing French business letters? I feel like I’m working on a piece of abstract art.
I buy a new fall coat to match the French-ness of my job. I take to pairing it with cute scarves that I tie just so. Greg says I look pretty. He likes to meet me after work. Sometimes he brings his dog, and they walk me to the tram.
When he doesn’t have to study we go out for dinner. Wey try out different restaurants, we talk and laugh, and sometimes I get a little buzzed. It’s a pleasant life, safe and predictable. But invariably the night ends with an awkward good-bye on the tramway platform. I offer Greg my cheek. But his kisses linger, moving towards my lips. They are soft, gentle kisses, warm and tender, romantic, maybe, but not my cup of tea. They are not passionate kisses, not the kind that make my knees weak, not the kind that leave me dizzy, aching for more.
Riding the tramway home I stare into the dark water of the East River, feeling sad and guilty. What is wrong with me? Greg is a nice, sweet, gentle boyfriend. Why am I not happy to have him? Why am I not in love with him by now? Am I romantically challenged? Do I have issues with intimacy? Has growing up in a twisted household with parents who hated each other, who separated but never divorced, ruined my capacity for affection?
I share my frustration with Momo. Of course, I leave out the part about growing up witnessing my parents’ fights. I’m closer to Momo than I am to Mami, but I would never betray my own mother.
“So you don’t like the way he kisses.” Momo’s says. “That doesn’t really matter, L. That says nothing about how he is in bed, or how suitable you are as a couple. Besides, you can train a guy to kiss the way you like. I would not worry too much about the kissing. Just take things to the next level, and see how that goes.”
“Maybe I’m not in love with him,” I whine.
“Love,” Momo sighs. “L, honey, you don’t even know anything abut love. You are addicted to what you think of as love, which really is just lust with a few bells and whistles. Infatuation. Nothing more. Infatuation goes away, L. Love is deeper. Trust me. You are still young enough where you can avoid this trap. Don’t pick the passionate kind of love. Pick someone good and steady with whom you can build a real relationship. Someone who will really stand by you, who wants to marry and have children, and be there for you in the long run, not someone with whom you experience fireworks, but who can’t offer you anything else.”
“I’m only twenty-three, Momo. I’ll probably meet other guys.”
Though frankly I have my doubts. I’ve never really had much success with men.
“Oh honey, they are not that easy to find. Don’t let this man go, L. You will regret it later. You’re young, but it’s not too early to start thinking of the future. Trust me, hon’, if you want to get married and have children, the re
liable guys are the ones to pick, not the exciting ones.”
Odd advice, coming from Momo. I wonder if she has regrets. I know Mami does. I guess as the next generation, it is my job to do things differently. But differently how?
18
Thanksgiving
In spite of leading separate lives and not liking each other’s company, Victor and Maria spend all major holidays together, for the sake of their children. This includes Thanksgiving, although it’s not a Romanian tradition, and not a holiday Maria particularly likes. She doesn’t see why she has to roast a giant bird in order to celebrate the rape and murder of the Native Americans. But she cannot deny her children the holiday. So each year, she dutifully cooks turkey and sides, and joins Victor, Alex, and Lili in giving thanks for being healthy and together. Though really, they are not truly together, and their situation is nowhere near healthy.
Her recent efforts to spice up the holiday were met with disapproval. Last year she suggested to L that she’d make a turkey curry instead of the boring roasted bird. Her daughter looked at her as if she were insane, and Maria decided to take a more traditional route, by preparing a delicious fried chicken instead, with collard greens, candied yams, and corn bread. Victor loved it, and complimented her on the excellent meal. Alex pushed the food around on his plate.
“How exactly does this have anything to do with Thanksgiving, mom?”
She smiled encouragingly and pointed at the candied yams.
“There is sweet potato.”
Alex rolled his eyes. But he had no problem helping himself to seconds and thirds.
This year, thank God, she will be spared the unpleasantness. Alex decided not to come home from school. He needs to study, or so he says. She suspects that he’s actually partying, but she accepts his excuse without comment. Criticizing him would only make things worse.
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