“You know, that time when he and Celina were broken up? He flirted with me once in the dining hall,” said Gladys. “It’s true, ask Miriam.” Miriam nodded half-heartedly, rolled her eyes, and went back to her drink. “But I was so scared ’cause you know how it was. When you’re a minority at a school like that, there’s just no way you can see someone and not have everyone in your business.”
Miriam added, “No way you can date someone of the same race and not end up sleeping with someone’s ex. If it’s not someone who lives in your dorm, it’s someone in your class. If not in your class, in your club…”
“… and believe it or not, I was still virgin.”
Lisa and I were both shocked to hear that. “All those times Pablo came over and spent the night, you never…”
Gladys shook her head and continued, “And Mark seemed so much like a … a … man.” Gladys grabbed Lisa’s hand. “Tell us, tell us! How’d you and Mark get together?”
“We didn’t,” Lisa said. I heard the annoyance in her voice.
“But you said…”
“I said, ‘You guys remember Celina Ferrer?’”
“So why mention Celina Ferrer if…”
Then it hit me. I shouted, “Because it was Celina Ferrer!” All the other restaurant patrons snapped their necks in our direction. I even heard the man at the next table whisper to his date, Is that the one they call the Hispanic Oprah? I slapped my hand over my mouth and just as quickly yanked it away. I hoped Lisa would understand that my embarrassment was over my outburst and not about her revelation.
“Celina’s the one I just broke up with before moving back to New York,” she said. “When we realized that we were both headed to Georgetown, we decided to look for an apartment together.…”
Miriam asked, “Is that when you guys got together? In medical school?”
“Actually, it happened that semester when she and Mark broke up for that spell. We’d always been good friends, and I dropped by her dorm room to see how she was doing. Eventually, Celina told me that she broke up with Mark because not only was she questioning her sexual orientation, she was questioning it because of me. Then Celina said that she was only admitting this to me because somehow she sensed that I was, too. And she was right. So we got together. Secretly, of course.”
“So what happened?” I asked.
“She got scared about coming out and went back to Mark.”
“So you’re … like…” Gladys stuttered.
“Yes, Gladys, I’m, like…” Lisa joked.
“Oh.” Gladys sat as still as a statue. Had we chosen a sidewalk café, I’m sure a pigeon—or as we native New Yorkers lovingly call them, rats with wings—would have made himself at home on her head.
We all sat perfectly still. No one even took a sip or picked up her fork. What do you say when your best friend from college reveals she just ended her first lesbian relationship with the campus goddess? Being the closest to Lisa, I felt particularly terrible about my loss for words. First Miriam, now her. I neglected my friendships to study social work only to have lost my counselor’s touch now that I needed it the most.
“I wish I was gay!” Miriam said suddenly. “Better selection, less drama.…”
I reached for my drink. “I seriously doubt that.” Within minutes of reuniting with her after all these years, it became obvious that by her petite lonesome, Miriam offered more drama than a Greek tragedy.
Lisa chuckled at my dig which made me feel better about my not having the perfect words to express acceptance of her sexuality and sympathy over her breakup with Celina. But my crack flew over Miriam’s head faster than a Boeing. “Another woman would understand me. She’d be in better tune with my wants and needs. And if she weren’t, at least she’d freakin’ ask.”
I turned to Lisa and said, “C’mon, Lis, is it really all that easier?”
“No!” she said, clearly relieved that someone finally bothered to ask. “It’s not harder, it’s not easier, it’s just different. Like, what’s tough about being with men?” She paused to find an example, and thankfully she did before Miriam began reciting a litany.
“You know how we complain that men don’t want to communicate? Well, when you’re with another woman, everything needs to be processed to death. Doesn’t matter how small or big the issue is. Whether it’s about choosing a place to live or deciding who’s going to walk the dog, it’s gotta be a conference. And God help you if it’s a disagreement because automatically it’s never about what it’s about, it’s gotta be about something else. Something bigger, something deeper. And that means it takes a thousand conversations to resolve the matter. I mean, sometimes you’ve just had a hard day and need some time to yourself and that’s it. You just want to say, ‘Can you just leave me the hell alone right now?’ and not have her read something more into it that’s just not there, like ‘I hate you’ or ‘You suck.’ All I said was, ‘Leave me alone right now,’ and all I meant was ‘Leave me alone right now.’ Nothing more, nothing less.”
“OK, I get it,” Miriam said. “You were the guy in the relationship. Gotcha.”
Lisa didn’t even hear her. She poured herself more wine and softly said, “And when things are right…”
Lisa’s voice trailed as she slipped into a private remembrance of what right was like. The look on her face told me “right” actually hadn’t been all that different for Lisa and Celina than it was between Eduardo and me. They finished each other’s sentences, shared comfortable silences, and knew when a peck on the cheek or squeeze to the shoulder at the right moment was nothing less than tossing a lifeline. Like anyone reeling from the loss of her soul mate, Lisa was trying hard to convince herself that the hard times with Celina were worse than they really were because that’s how damned good the easy times were.
I reached over and placed my hand over Lisa’s. “Women,” I said. And she cut loose with another snorty laugh. That got Miriam started, too.
Gladys, however, remained parked in Heteroville. “So … like … how long have you known you were … you know.…”
Even Miriam saw through that question. “¡Ay, give it a rest, Gladys! Lisa was not checkin’ out your scrawny behind while we lived together at Barnard, OK? I mean, the woman had Celina Ferrer. Why would she bother with you?”
Although she tried to fight it, Gladys had to laugh, too. “To hear this bitch talk, you’d never know I was marrying her brother in a week.”
“So are you nervous about the wedding?” Lisa asked.
Gladys zeroed in on a mushroom abandoned on her plate. “Not really.”
“It’s perfectly natural, you know,” I said.
Gladys turned to me and said, “OK, I know this is such a telenovela thing to ask, but seriously, Ricky. How did you know? I mean, you never even considered marriage and then you meet this guy and you dove right into it so…”
“No, I didn’t dive in, trust me,” I said. I thought of saying more, but I didn’t want to move the focus off Gladys. “I won’t lie and say I was a hundred percent sure. No one ever is. The only thing you’re really sure about is the risk…”
“Amen,” said Miriam.
“… and whether you love someone enough to take it.”
Lisa raised her glass and said, “Even I can drink to that.”
I lifted my glass, too, and said, “To Gladys y pobre Pablo.”
Giggling, Miriam and Gladys followed suit, and the four of us repeated, “Y pobre Pablo.” As I sipped, I thought, this is going to be an unforgettable night. Damn it, if I weren’t right. Poor Pablo indeed.
* * *
When we arrived at the Sin Bin, Lisa dragged Gladys off to the lingerie rack while Miriam and I perused the lotion aisle. Every once in a while I would peek over at Gladys and Lisa to see how they were faring. I knew Lisa wanted some time alone with Gladys in the hopes that she eventually would grow comfortable with her again, but I wanted to keep an eye on them so I could swoop in at the first sign of awkwardness. More for Lisa’
s sake than Gladys’s.
“I swore to God it’d be you,” said Miriam.
“What?”
“If I thought anyone was going to come out tonight, it’d be you. You were the one that was so anti-male.…”
“I was not anti-male,” I said. “I was anti-male chauvinism.…”
“… and nothing could be more pro-male than marriage. Remember how you used to say that all the time.” Miriam read the label on a tube of something called Slicky Dicky and dropped it into our shopping basket. “Something else you once said actually helped me get through my divorce.”
So it was officially over with Watsisface. “Really? What was that?”
“That studies showed that the most content and healthy people were single women. Followed by married men. So whenever I got really down, I’d remember that and think, ‘Hey, now that the sonofabitch is gone, I’m finally better off than he is.’” She gave this unconvincing laugh and moved down the aisle to the edible underwear.
I didn’t know what to say to that. Was Miriam sincere when she said that remembering my words helped her through the divorce by reminding her that she was better off single than in a bad marriage? Or was she hinting that I was some kind of hypocrite for giving marriage a chance? Seeing that we had not seen each other in so long and had some reacquainting to do, I chose to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“I think the reason why single women are generally happier than married men is because women are still pressured into marriage for its own sake,” I said. “You know, instead of doing it on their own terms the way men are encouraged to do.”
“Well, I married Larry on my own terms,” said Miriam. “No one pressured me into marrying him. I certainly didn’t need to marry him. I made just as much money as he did. I owned my own house, my own car when I met him. And it didn’t matter to me one way or the other if I had kids or not, so the ol’ biological clock wasn’t a factor. So Dr. Durán, you tell me why after getting married on my terms, I’m fighting with my now ex-husband about not having his little girlfriend stay over on the weekends he has our son?”
Sounds like love wasn’t a part of your terms, I thought. But as defensive as I felt, I didn’t say it. First of all, Miriam’d probably say, Love isn’t enough. And she’d be right, so spewing out a superficial response like that would only make me sound like a pop-psych phony. And I didn’t want to get off the defensive by putting her on it. For whatever reasons, Miriam was already there and desperately wanted company. But as much as he seemed like a bona fide heel, talking shit about Larry when I didn’t know him wasn’t the answer. After all, Miriam married the man and bore his child. I could only criticize him so much without passing judgment on her. Besides, absolving Miriam of any culpability in the failure of their relationship—especially when I knew so little about it—went against everything I knew about being an effective social worker. Or a good friend because despite my own professional experience, I only had to look at my own personal history for examples of failed relationships with no clear victim or villain.
“I can’t tell you that, Miriam,” I finally said. “I mean, with the little I know about your particular situation, anything I’d say right now would just be go-girl-fuck-him bullshit. Then what kind of friend would I be?”
Miriam stared at me as she weighed what I had said. She walked toward me and dropped a pair of cherry-flavored edible panties into the shopping basket. “You’re right. You wouldn’t know. Sorry for putting you on the spot.”
Was that resignation or sarcasm? I wouldn’t know because we haven’t been in touch all these years? Or I wouldn’t know because I didn’t know the first thing about relationships, let alone marriage? Before I could ask her, Gladys came running over with a purple teddy in one hand and a turquoise baby doll in the other.
“Which one should I get?” she asked.
Lisa caught up to her. “I say the turquoise, but what do I know?” She seemed frustrated. I started to wonder if her conversation with Gladys carried a similar theme.
“Definitely the turquoise,” I said.
Gladys looked to Miriam for the final verdict.
“Ay, of course, the turquoise,” she said. “That purple thing’s so cheesy. I can’t believe you even considered it.” Miriam snatched the hanger from her and marched back to the lingerie rack. “Now if you can get this baby doll in royal, that’d be perfect.”
“Pablo likes royal?” asked Gladys.
Miriam squinted at her. “You asking me?”
Lisa and I hesitated to follow them. “Let me guess,” I said. “You lesbians don’t know the first thing about lingerie.”
“Apparently.”
“Good thing you didn’t take her to the vibrator section.” I thought that would at least make her smile, but I was wrong. “Give her time.”
“And a couple of drinks.”
“Served by a dude with big, oily pecs.”
Lisa finally grinned. “Is Miriam having fun yet?”
“I’m starting to think she needs this a lot more than Gladys does.”
“OK, let’s get this party started.”
* * *
We arrived at Studs early enough to grab one of the tables in front of the stage. I must have been expecting something like the set of Soul Train because I was struck at how small the club was. The better to see them with, my dear. At the front of the room, the stage resembled a wide catwalk. Simple tables and chairs surrounded the perimeter and filled toward the back to a very long bar. On either side of the room toward the front were staircases that led up to a balcony. The balcony overlooked the stage but seats were available only on the extreme right and left. In fact, some parties of women had already nabbed seats on the right side of the balcony. The left side remained dark and empty.
From what I could tell, at least five other bachelorette parties were there for the show. Lisa pointed out one bride-to-be with her Furla friends sitting diagonally across from us on the other side of the stage. “Is she even old enough to get married?” she asked. The Jessica Simpson look-alike in a red plaid micromini, white knee-hi socks and Mary Janes pranced around with a veiled tiara on her head, a pink garter around her thigh and a shot glass in her hand. She threw back her drink, slammed the glass on the table, pulled a bill out of I-don’t-want-to-think-about-where, and hollered for the server to bring her another one. One of her guests teased her to save her money for the dancers to which the nubile bride slurred, “Oh, fush the huck up!”
“That pisses me off,” I said. “All these politicians running around trying to quote unquote preserve the sanctity of marriage by banning gays from doing it. You want to protect the institution of marriage? Keep rich, straight chicks like Britney Spears, J. Lo, and Tammy Tequila over there from doing it.”
Lisa grinned at me. “Ricky, quit trying so hard.” She put her arm around my shoulder and hugged me.
My belly tumbled with embarrassment. “I’m serious!”
“I know you are.” Lisa stood up and said, “This first round’s on me. Who wants what?”
Gladys pointed at Tammy Tequila. “Whatever she’s having.”
Miriam said, “I’ll have a merlot.”
“You can’t be serious. We’re in a goddamn strip club,” I said, “Get her an apple martini, and bring me a cosmo.”
Of course, the second Lisa turned her back, Gladys and Miriam bombarded me with questions. How did I feel having shared a room with Lisa all those years? Did I have the slightest clue that Lisa was lesbian? Did I ever suspect her having a secret affair with anyone let alone a woman like Celina Ferrer? Why the hell would she agree to go to a show at Studs, let alone suggest it? Was Lisa thinking about going back to men?
“None of that matters. Look at how thoughtful and sentimental she is,” I said. “She’s still the same Lisa we’ve known and loved all these years. Which means she’s more broken up over Celina than she’ll ever let on ’cause she doesn’t want to spoil Gladys’s night. That means we have to look out for her a
nd make sure she’s having a good time, too.”
“How?” asked Gladys.
“We can offer the drunken schoolgirl over there cash to give Lisa a lap dance,” Miriam cracked.
“Bright, Miriam, real bright,” I said. One of the things I always adored about Miriam was her quick lip. She was the only person I ever knew who could outdo me with the snappy comeback, and back in college a line like that would make me brim with admiration and even some envy. When did I become so hypersensitive to see malice where none probably existed? After all, Miriam was the first to say something affirming about Lisa’s sexuality at the restaurant. It may have been based on stereotypes about gay relationships, but her heart was in the right place. I had to chill out and not assume her bitterness over her divorce colored everything she said and did. So I backpedaled into a joke. “Pay that skinny white girl to give Lisa a lap dance? Miriam, please. She’s so not Lisa’s type.”
No sooner than Lisa returned with our drinks and took her seat, the house lights dimmed. The DJ played Corina’s “Temptation” as a masculine shadow made his way to the center of the stage, and the women screamed and applauded. A spotlight zoomed over the crowd as Corina sang.
Friday Night Chicas Page 20