Twisted City

by Jason Starr

  Occasionally, after one of our early-morning sessions, Rebecca got very intense and melodramatic, telling me about how traumatic it was for her when her father left her mother—just packing up one day and leaving without any warning—and how she’d always been terrified of men abandoning her. Whenever Rebecca talked like this I couldn’t help feeling trapped. I knew that Rebecca and I had no future together, and I began to dread the inevitable day when I would tell her it was over.

  Then, one night in bed, Rebecca started nibbling on my ear playfully and asked me if I could see the two of us getting married someday. Of course the answer was definitely no, but, caught off guard, I changed the subject. The next day, she didn’t mention marriage again, but I decided that things were starting to get a little too serious and it was time to call it quits.

  When I came home from work, I told her there was something important we needed to discuss.

  “What?” she asked.

  In gym shorts and a sports bra, doing crunches on the living room floor, she looked especially hot. As usual, rap was blasting on the stereo.

  When I turned down the throbbing music she said, “Hey, that was my boy Jay-Z.”

  “Last night,” I said, trying to avoid eye contact, “you said something about us getting married.”

  “I did?” she said, acting surprised.

  “Yeah, you did,” I said.

  “That’s so funny, I was probably half-asleep.” She held up her head and chest off the floor, her face turning pink as she tightened her abs for several seconds, and then she relaxed.

  “What I’m trying to say,” I said, “is at this point in my life I don’t think I’m really ready to—”

  “Don’t worry, I didn’t mean it,” she said.

  “You didn’t?”

  “Of course not. Why would I want to be somebody’s wife?” She made the idea sound ridiculous.

  “Oh,” I said, “because last night you—”

  “You shouldn’t believe everything I tell you,” she said.

  We continued to live together and nothing really changed. She went out to hip-hop clubs and bars at least a few nights a week and we hardly spent any time together. She made more passing comments about marriage—usually when she was drunk or on whatever drug was fashionable that week, but sometimes she was completely sober. Whenever I confronted her about it she always claimed that she didn’t remember saying it or that she didn’t really mean it.

  Then, one night, I overheard Rebecca in the living room bragging to her friend Monique about how I was “a little puppy dog,” and how well she had trained me. She said she could get me to do anything, even paint her toenails, and she predicted that by next year we’d be engaged with a joint bank account and her name on the lease.

  I felt like an idiot for letting Rebecca use me and take advantage of me for all of these months. When Monique left, I marched into the living room, prepared to tell Rebecca to move the hell out. But when I was about to speak, I imagined what it would be like if she left—I’d be alone again, wandering the streets.

  Rebecca asked me what was wrong and I said, “Nothing. Coming to bed soon?” And a few days later I was ordering her credit cards in her name.

  I TYPED THE first sentence of my Byron Technologies article and continued outlining the rest of it. In the opening, I’d describe Robert Lipton, the CEO, as “desperate” and describe how he had “irresponsibly deceived investors by pursuing an unrealistic business plan.” Then I’d go on about how the company had been rapidly losing market share and was likely to file for Chapter Eleven by year’s end.

  While the article wouldn’t be totally inaccurate—Byron did have some major financial problems, and I had some serious doubts about the long-term viability of the company—it still bothered me that I couldn’t write a fair story, outlining the negatives and positives and letting the readers reach their own conclusions. But Jeff Sherman hated lukewarm articles and insisted that in order for the magazine to stay “edgy,” reporters had to write strongly opinionated articles no matter what. The other day, when he’d called me into his office and reminded me that I’d written three “puff pieces” in a row and that my Byron Technologies article had to be negative, I told him that I didn’t think, in this case, a negative article was justified. He told me, “You don’t like the rules? Maybe you’d be happier working someplace else.” I would’ve loved to tell him to go fuck himself, but the job market was tight and, especially with the way Rebecca had been spending my money lately, I couldn’t afford to be unemployed.

  I was typing so hard my wrists hurt. I took a break, flexing my hands, and then patted my front pants pocket where my wallet had been. A sudden, sickening emptiness overtook me, and I rushed down the hallway to the bedroom. I spilled out the contents of the top drawer of my dresser onto the bed and searched through everything, hoping by some crazy chance it would be there. But after looking through the stuff for the second and third times I realized I was just deluding myself—my favorite picture of Barbara, that I’d taken when she was sixteen, was gone.

  I started crying. Not just crying—bawling. Everything—the stress of the whole night, my screwed-up relationship with Rebecca, missing Barbara more than I had in months—was hitting me at once. As I sat on the bed, sobbing, taking short, erratic breaths, I imagined that Barbara was with me. She was sitting next to me on the bed, putting an arm around my shoulders, telling me, Don’t worry, Davey. Everything’s gonna be okay .

  Then I remembered what Heather had said to me in the bar about spirits. I didn’t really believe in any of that metaphysical crap, but, figuring I had nothing to lose, I said to the empty space to my left, “I just want you to know how much I miss you. I think about you a lot, all the time actually, and I wanted to tell you how sorry I am for not saying good-bye to you that day at the hospital, and for acting like such a dick the whole time you were there. But I think you know how much you really meant to me. If you didn’t know it, I hope you know it now. I loved you, Barb. I thought you were the greatest sister in the world. I hope you can hear me now, that I’m not just talking to myself. But you’re not fucking here, are you?”

  I stood up and swatted everything from the bed onto the floor and screamed, “Damn it!” Then, looking down among the contents of the dumped-out dresser drawer, I noticed a snapshot of Rebecca taken in front of the fireplace in the living room. She was standing sideways to the camera in cutoffs and a little-boy T-shirt, her hair flung over to the left side, her lips pursed in an I’m-better-than-you way. The flash had reddened her eyes, giving her a devilish quality.

  I left the apartment, not even bothering to take a jacket, and headed toward Central Park. I entered at Eighty-first Street and veered left along the path through the woods. I might have passed an occasional jogger or a body sprawled on a bench, but the park was dark and empty. Then I noticed two young guys— one black, one white or Puerto Rican—walking about twenty yards behind me. I didn’t want to look back over my shoulder again, but I sensed they were following me. I started walking faster, but their footsteps were getting louder and I could hear their breathing, so I knew they had gained on me. I started to run as fast as I could, my heart pounding and my adrenaline flowing. I thought about veering off into the woods, but I stayed on the path, and around the next bend I reached a play-ground and saw streetlights ahead of me. I exited the park at Eighty-fifth Street and Central Park West and walked downtown a block, looking back over my shoulder, relieved to see that the kids weren’t following.

  I reduced my pace to fast walking, gasping, still looking back after every few strides. I crossed Central Park West at the next light and walked quickly along Eighty-fourth Street. I was angry at myself for getting into a potentially dangerous situation. Normally I had better instincts, avoiding all places in Manhattan that were quiet and unpopulated, especially at night. At Columbus Avenue, my pulse and breathing returned to normal and I started seeing the humor in the situation. If the kids had tried to steal my wallet, I would’v
e had nothing to give them.

  Back at my apartment, I cleaned up the mess in the bedroom, then showered. Afterward I felt refreshed and clear-headed, and I decided that tonight I’d finally break up with Rebecca. All I had to say was, It’s over, and I could go on with my life.

  It sounded so simple.

  It was after ten o’clock. I returned to my computer, hoping to at least finish a rough draft of my article. I connected my headset to a little digital tape recorder and started transcribing the interview I’d had earlier with Robert Lipton. As I listened to Lipton go on in his upbeat voice about his company’s prospects, I kept rehearsing in my head what I’d say to Rebecca. I had trouble concentrating. I mistyped words and sentences and I had to replay parts of the recording, sometimes three or four times. As I was working, I realized that I’d forgotten to contact the credit bureaus about my wallet. I went online and did a search for “what to do if your wallet is stolen” and found all the information I needed. After I called the credit bureaus and put fraud alerts on my accounts, I remembered that I hadn’t canceled one card from my wallet—an Emigrant Savings Bank ATM card that I rarely used.

  After nearly an hour on the phone, getting put on hold and talking to two customer service reps, I was finally able to close the account. I tried to get back to work, but I was starting to feel the way I had right after I discovered my wallet had been lifted. I felt like a sucker, like I’d been violated. I couldn’t believe I’d let it happen. I hadn’t been drunk, so I couldn’t use that as an excuse. I remembered how Eddie had distracted me, showing me the pictures of the naked women, and how I had leaned forward slightly on my stool to see the first one. At that moment, anyone behind me could have had access to my front pocket and easily swiped my wallet.

  I finished outlining the article at about one o’clock. I was exhausted, but I wanted to stay up to have it out with Rebecca. I was afraid that if I waited until the morning, I’d lose my edge and wouldn’t be able to go through with it.

  I turned on the TV in the living room for some background noise and lay on the couch. I dozed for a while, then woke up and checked my watch. It was past three. I realized that tonight could be one of the nights that Rebecca didn’t come home. Sometimes when she went out she didn’t return until the next afternoon, claiming that it had gotten late and she was wasted so she’d “crashed” at some friend’s place. Of course, I often wondered if she was cheating on me. I hoped she was in bed right now with Ray, or some other guy, and that they were having great sex, or better yet, falling in love.

  I got up from the couch and was about to head toward the bedroom when I heard the lock in the door turning. A few seconds later, Rebecca entered. She was obviously wasted— standing unsteadily, her eyes glassy and bloodshot—and when she saw me in the living room facing her she reacted as if she had entered the wrong apartment. Then her confused expression morphed into a drunken smile and she said, “Hey, what up, yo? . . . I mean what up besides you?”

  She tossed the Gucci pocketbook that she’d bought last week on my Visa onto a chair, then wobbled over and kissed me on the lips, giving me a whiff of alcohol.

  “I had the bestest time tonight,” she slurred. “That new club blew, but Chaos was hype, yo. I met this choreographer guy? I forget his name—Mike or Mick or Mel something-or-other. I have his card in my pocketbook.” She reached toward her side, slow to realize that she had already put her pocketbook down. She went on: “Anyway, I had such a bitchin’ time talking to him. He has this, like, company, you know, a dance company, and he wants me in this, like, show? It’s some kind of modern jazz–like show or something or other. Who knows? Next year at this time I might be dancing at Lincoln Center. Don’t worry, I’ll still talk to you when I’m famous.”

  She started laughing, as if she’d made a hilarious joke, and then she undressed. First her top came off, and then she wiggled out of her jeans and kicked away her sandals.

  “It’s over,” I said.

  Rebecca stared at me, half smiling. My words didn’t have the cathartic effect that I’d thought they would.

  “What’s over?” she finally asked.

  “Us,” I said. “I want you to move out.”

  She continued to stare at me ambiguously, then started to laugh.

  “Very funny,” she said. “I almost thought you were serious for a second.”

  “I am serious,” I said. “We both know we’re totally wrong for each other and that this isn’t going anywhere. We probably should’ve broken up months ago, but we should just be mature adults now and—”

  “Come on, let’s go to bed,” she said, coming up to me and taking my hand. “I’ve been thinking about your hot, studly body all night.”

  “I’m serious,” I said, letting go of her. “I think you’d be a lot happier with somebody else, somebody your own age, somebody you have more in common with.”

  She came up to me again and put her arms around my waist, pressing her tiny, firm breasts up against my chest, and then she began to run her studded tongue gently along the outline of my lips in a slow, circular motion. I hated that I was getting turned on.

  When she started to kiss me I was finally able to pull away and say, “Stop it,” although not with much conviction.

  “Ooh, you’re ready for me, I see,” she said, reaching into my gym shorts and starting to kiss me again.

  “Stop it,” I said again. This time I took a few steps backward, creating several feet between us.

  “God, what’s wrong with you?” she said. “Wait, I know, it’s your wallet, right? You’re still bumming about that.”

  “It’s not my wallet,” I said. “Look, I know this isn’t the best time to talk about this. I mean, you’re obviously wasted—”

  “I am not wasted,” she said defensively. “I didn’t even smoke tonight. I just had some E, a few drinks, and one teensyweensy little line of coke.” She held up her thumb and forefinger about an inch apart, as if measuring.

  “Whatever,” I said. “I just wanted to let you know I made a decision.”

  She stared at me for a long time with her mouth sagging open in exaggerated disbelief, then said, “Decision? What decision? You’re making decisions about my life, telling me I’m fucking wasted? I am not fucking wasted, and you are not fucking breaking up with me.”

  “Seriously,” I said. “I want you to pack your things and move out as soon as possible. Let’s not make this any more difficult than it is.”

  I started toward the hallway leading to the bedroom, proud of myself for expressing my feelings so well, when a large object soared by my head. I ducked, then heard the crash. I looked up and saw that the vase of fake orchids from Pottery Barn had smashed onto the floor, shattering glass all over the hallway.

  I turned back toward Rebecca and said, “Are you out of your fucking—” Then I had to duck again as another vase—this one ceramic—came at my head. It missed, crashing against the wall behind me, and then I charged her. She was reaching toward the mantel above the fireplace for more breakable objects. As she grabbed a small ceramic pitcher in one hand and a glass candlestick in the other, I held her arms from behind, trying to restrain her.

  “Get off!” she screamed. She swung her arms and kicked violently, as if I were trying to strap her into an electric chair.

  “Calm down,” I said, “just calm the fuck down,” but I knew I was just wasting my breath.

  I managed to push her back against the brick wall adjacent to the fireplace. Her face was bright pink and she was trying to bite my arm.

  “Come on,” I said, then groaned as she kneed me in the balls. I keeled over for a moment and she was able to break free. With her right hand she swept everything off the fireplace mantel onto the floor. More glass shattered. She headed toward the kitchen and I went after her. I was about to grab her when she turned and slapped me in the face. It was a real slap—it stung—and before I could do or say anything she slapped me again, harder than the first time. When she came at me with both
hands, fingers extended like claws, ready to scratch my eyes out, I finally snapped into action. I managed to get hold of her wrists and I forced her back into the living room, pinning her down on the couch.

  “I’ve had it with this shit,” I said. “Tomorrow you’re out of here, got that? You’re out of here!”

  She spat at me, and started screaming again, when someone knocked on the front door. I put my hand over her mouth, but she was still able to scream.

  “Is everything okay in there?”

  It was Carmen, the old Italian woman who lived across the hall from us.

  “Fine, thank you,” I said.

  “It’s not fucking fi—” Rebecca said, and I pressed my hand down harder, muffling her words.

  “Are you sure everything’s okay?” Carmen said.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “Thank you!”

  I held my hand over Rebecca’s mouth for about a minute, until I was sure Carmen was gone and then I said, “What the hell’s wrong with you? Are you out of your mind? Huh? Are you out of your mind?”

  Rebecca had started to calm down, breathing normally, and I moved my hand away. I realized I’d been pressing down with more force than I’d thought, because her lower lip was bleeding. It must have gotten cut on her bottom teeth.