The stairs lead to a room with white ceilings and white walls: a big, shiny box populated by gallery goers in outfits so eccentric that my wrinkled, moldy dress would have been right at home. A man in a three-piece orange-mesh suit greets me by holding out a glass canister of small, shiny white squares. He spoons three into my hand and says, “Come back if you need more.”
A new art-world drug? Not going to find out. When he’s no longer looking, I slip the squares into a trash can near the tired-looking fruit-and-cheese platter set up by the guest book. Now, where is BuzzBuzz?
The sole piece on display is a rubbery, grayish free-form sculpture, whose title, Chicle Resin No. 4 (White), becomes immediately clear. Those little white things weren’t drugs but gum; now that I look closely, everyone in the room is chewing. Their jaws pop open and clamp shut in choppy, unconscious unison, like the mouths of an army of robots. Sometimes somebody removes his or her wad and adds it to the sculpture. A man in baggy camouflage pants studies the giant lump, wrinkling his forehead in concentration. Wait, I know that forehead. I step up and touch BuzzBuzz lightly on the sleeve.
My date doesn’t turn around. He takes his gum out of his mouth and smashes it onto the sculpture. Then he says, still not facing me, “NewGirl.”
“Right, that’s me! My name is Iris. What’s yours?”
BuzzBuzz leans in toward the sculpture, removes the piece of gum he just stuck there, squishes it with his fingers some more, and reattaches it. In keeping with the other eccentrically costumed gallery patrons, my date has chosen to wear a thermal shirt with the long sleeves hacked off at the elbows, the better to show off the matched set of dragon tattoos on his forearms. He turns around. “Buzz.”
I giggle and blush. “No, your real name.”
“Buzz.” He repeats the word louder and more slowly, as if for someone whose first language isn’t English, and looks past me, over my shoulder, for a moment. He wipes his gum-sticking hand down the side of his pants and extends it toward me. I manage to shake it without wincing. Note to self: Must not use right hand at cheese-and-fruit table.
Still, Buzz had the right idea asking me here; a gum sculpture is a perfect first-date conversation starter. I study the tiny speck he has contributed. “What do you think of the art?” I emphasize the last word and roll my eyes, Val style, to convey that I’m in on the joke. Chicle Resin No. 4 (White) is in no way intended to be art. It’s the maker’s way of thumbing his nose at the art world.
“A masterpiece.” Buzz gestures toward the man in the orange-mesh suit. “Jonas over there spent thirteen years preparing—chewing Chiclets and storing the chewed pieces in refrigerators all over the city. It’s pure genius, and an important evolution from his earlier, pink works in Bazooka.” Buzz lifts his chin and again looks past me, over my shoulder.
I say, “My thoughts exactly.” Not exactly; my thoughts are on what Buzz could possibly be looking at. When he doesn’t stop and I can stand it no longer, I turn around to spot a group of Nordic model-types standing near, though not eating, the Brie. And as if I were a superhero, I feel myself transforming yet again into my angry alter ego, Fidelity Girl: making the world unsafe for the unfaithful. “Hey!”
Buzz doesn’t seem to hear. I wave my hand in front of his face. “What is it with you? Do you think women don’t notice when you leer at other women? Oh, I know what you’ll say next: ‘It’s the male’s biological destiny to propagate the species with as many different females as possible.’ Right? Well, what are the rest of us supposed to do while you’re carrying out your search right in front of our noses? Where’s your wallet?”
“What?” I finally have Buzz’s full attention.
I look him over. At second glance, his fatigues are so voluminous, they border on rodeo clown pants. I’m not sure I could locate his wallet.
“Where’s your wallet, Buzz? It’s the female’s biological destiny to find the best male to provide for us and our offspring. So perhaps every time a woman catches a man looking, she should take twenty bucks out of his wallet.”
Buzz looks at me as if I were crazy, but doesn’t move. He seems to be waiting for me to continue my tirade. I can think of nothing further to tell him. So when it turns out to be Buzz who says something to me, I miss it.
“Speak up, Buzz,” I snap begrudgingly at his forehead. “I didn’t hear you.”
Buzz smiles lazily. He tilts his head back and regards me through half-closed eyes. “What I said was, ‘How about we go back to Dumbo and fuck?’”
At ten minutes to one on what is now Sunday morning, I should be trying to reach the New York State Department of Labor—surely at this hour there can’t be a busy signal. But I had a rare moment of epiphany in the cab on the way home and feel compelled to act on it right away. This is why, instead of calling for my unemployment money, I’m dialing Val and announcing, “Do I have the man for you!” I’d worried briefly that she might be at home asleep, but by the laughter and ruckus on her end of the line, it’s clear I need not be concerned. “Where are you?”
“Out,” she shouts, “with the Hayes Heeley gang.”
“Fun.” I try not to sound hurt. Lately the whole world seems to be one big party to which I’m not invited. “I had that date from Matemarket.”
Val yells, “How was he?”
I step out of my shoes. “He’s your perfect man. He’s an artist, he’s got tattoos over at least twenty percent of his body, and practically the first thing out of his mouth was, ‘Come home with me to my loft and let’s go to bed.’”
“I missed that. What did he say?”
“‘Let’s go back to Dumbo and fuck.’” My elocution is so crisp I could be having tea with the queen at Buckingham Palace.
“Cool! Did you?”
“No, I got his number. For you. Want it?”
“Sure, why not? Can you e-mail it to me? I’ve got to go, Iris.” Before she hangs up I could swear she says something that sounds like “namaste.” She’s gone before I can ask her to repeat it.
I retrieve my bag from the floor and fumble around inside until my fingers connect with something soft: the paper napkin with Buzz’s scrawled number on it. I turn on my computer and dash off an e-mail to Val. Afterward, there’s nothing left to do but make that dreaded weekly phone call to the Department of Labor. Seconds later I’m pacing across the apartment—six steps, east wall, six steps, south wall—getting a busy signal, hanging up, hitting “Redial,” getting the busy signal, hanging up, hitting “Redial,” busy signal, hang up, redial; busy signal, hang up, redial; busy signal . . . Repeat twenty-six times; hurl handset against wall in a fit of pique—and watch it clatter in pieces to the floor. Lord have mercy, I’ve killed it! I leap off the bed and scramble to pick it up. Heart pounding, hands shaking, I fit the batteries back in, snap it all back together and hit “Redial.”
I hear a ringing at the other end and want to cheer. Not only has my phone survived, I’ve gotten through to the unemployment office!
Even more astounding, an actual human being answers. “Namaste!” cries a female voice that sounds, incredibly, like Joy’s. It doesn’t occur to me that this person might be someone other than an actual live, human customer-service representative from the New York State Department of Labor, nor does it strike me as odd that such a person would sound like my mother as opposed to, say, a frustrated, underpaid government drone. “Gosh,” I tell the voice, “I’m calling for my check?”
The customer-service representative who sounds like my mother says, “Iris?”
This spooks me even more: She knows my name?
“Iris, a late bedtime is no good for your qi. Do you have insomnia? Try orienting your bed so your head points east. That should help.”
Cognitive dissonance strikes yet again: It is my mother. Somehow, my phone has dialed not the unemployment office in New York but self-employed Joy in Scottsdale. “Sorry. I kind of called you by accident.”
“It was no accident, Iris. I was summoning you. I’ve been send
ing you messages. On your answering machine and through your e-mail. When you didn’t answer those, I performed a summoning ceremony.”
“I haven’t gotten any messages.” It’s not technically a lie. I am aware that my mother has been calling and e-mailing; I simply haven’t been listening or reading.
“Let it in, Iris. Open your heart. You can’t close yourself off to what the world is trying to tell you.”
“Sure I can, Joy.”
I hang up, hang my skirt and blouse back in the closet, and go into the bathroom to get ready for bed. It’s only when I walk out, toothbrush in hand, that I notice the flashing light on my answering machine: two new messages. Could one of them be Sandy Christmas? Would she call me on a Saturday night? Simon will kill me, but if it were Sandy and she asked, I’d happily get dressed again and meet her for lunch right now. How much more of an indignity could that be than dyeing my hair Scarlet Sunset or passing along remedial romance pointers?
No, I will not allow myself to hope. No doubt it’s Joy and Teddy again. I press the button.
“Hello. It’s Ilona at Rubicon. I know it’s late Saturday night, and you must be out, but I just got home from the store and remembered you’d had your big interview, and I wanted to see how it went, and how you’re enjoying your new clothes. Please remember, if you need anything—alterations, girl talk—let me know.” It’s not Sandy. But this is a level of service I didn’t know existed. I’m beginning to understand the allure of being an “insider” in Manhattan.
Message two. Please let it be Sandy. Pretty please.
“It’s Steve.”
I drop the toothbrush, toothpaste and all.
“Sorry to bother you at home, but I’ve been thinking. I can’t do this anymore—keep giving you pointers for Vickie, that is. It was a bad idea from the very beginning and now it’s best if we stop. I know you’ll be upset; it’s just the way it has to be. My schedule is going to be brutal through at least the end of the month, so I wouldn’t have been able to make our Tuesday meetings, anyway.”
No more meetings? Why does this feel worse than being stood up by Sandy Christmas?
“. . . need to talk to you about something and it has to be in person. I’d really like to see you July Fourth. The fireworks at South Street Seaport are spectacular, truly, and you shouldn’t be sitting home by yourself on Independence Day. It’s unpatriotic. So how about we go together?” A pause. “Call me.” He ends the message with his cell phone number.
Appalled. Incensed. I should be both. What we have here is a clear case of Vickie’s husband asking me on a date. Is that not what just happened? Is that not proof this man is a dog? And yet, my heart jumps. I’m flattered. I want to go.
That makes me appalled and incensed.
And what’s this about no more wife-coaching for Vickie? He can’t do this to me—I mean, he can’t do this to her.
Before I consider what I’m doing—specifically, calling a married man in the middle of the night—I’m dialing Steve’s cell phone and listening to it ring. Once, twice, three times, four. This is far too risky. I’m going to wake Vickie.
Just as I come to my senses and am about to disconnect, Steve answers, sounding dazed and weary.
I start right in yelling. “Are you out of your mind? Did I just hear you ask me out on a date? Have you gone insane? And now you’ve got me telephoning you at this ungodly hour, probably waking up your wife? What were you thinking?” Never mind that I chose to return his call. He still deserves to be yelled at. “Where’s Vickie? She’d better be asleep or we’ll both have hell to pay.”
He says nothing for so long that if it weren’t for the faint traffic noises on the other end, I’d think we’d been cut off. For a moment I’m happy that I won’t be caught by Vickie having a middle-of-the-night tiff with her husband. Then another, even more sickening thought occurs to me. Is it possible he doesn’t know who this is?
“I didn’t mean to offend you, Iris.” So he does know it’s me. That’s a small relief.
“Didn’t mean to? How could you not think asking me out would offend me? If you think I’m going out with you somewhere while you abandon your wife in Greenwich to watch fireworks by herself, you’re out of your mind. Unless . . .” Hang on, Iris; here’s an even more appalling possibility. “Unless you’re trying to use me as an alibi. Could that be it? Vickie will be out of town, and you want me to be able to say to her, ‘I can assure you, Steve wasn’t with another woman. He was with me’? And why can’t we meet anymore? Are you so busy with your ‘affairs’ that you can’t make time to help your wife? You’re a rotten husband, Steve. Do you know that?”
I imagine him in his and Vickie’s dark living room, scuffing his feet in that way he has through the plaster dust, whispering into the phone while Vickie dreams alone in their bedroom. I wonder what he wears to bed. I picture him in lightweight pajama bottoms, the city lights streaming through the window, pale blue and amber on his bare chest.
“I want you to tell me who Jessica is right now,” I hiss.
“Iris. You need to believe me. I’m not the man you think I am.” He sounds so gloomy and solemn that it only makes me angrier. “There’s no ulterior motive. I’m not trying to establish an alibi. I’d simply like to explain some things to you. As friends. It’s up to you. I’ll be in front of the building, Twelve Seventy-five Lexington, at eight thirty, July Fourth. If you’re not there, I’ll understand completely, of course, and wish you well. I’ve enjoyed spending time with you. If you are there, great.”
“I won’t be there.” I carry my fallen toothbrush into the bathroom and run it under the hottest water the tap will provide.
“I wish you’d reconsider.”
“It’ll kill Vickie that I won’t be passing along any more pointers. That’s on your conscience. Not that you have one.”
“Good-bye, Iris.”
I hang up then, and climb into the bed, still in my makeup, and turn out the light.
“Good-bye, Steve,” I say into the empty room.
I awake a few hours later, tired, irritable, and unsure what to do next. Call the Department of Labor again? Call Sandy Christmas and leave a second message? Call Vickie and tell her . . . what? That Steve asked me on a date?
None of this seems manageable. Nor does figuring out how to explain to Vickie that her husband and I are no longer speaking. What does is walking over to the deli on Columbus and getting some coffee. (“Good new haircut,” the coffee man says to my surprise.) At six thirty on Sunday morning, there is almost nobody on the street, though two blocks ahead of me, a stooped old woman pushes a cart full of newspaper. I take my cup and wander down Columbus past the sidewalk café where, ten days ago, Rocky and I bumped into Steve and Jack/Snooky. The drinking trough is dry, and the windows are painted over, with a notice on the door: “This Space For Lease by Empire Property Management.” I’m almost expecting to see Steve listed as the leasing agent, but the contact is someone else, a J. Catherine Armstrong.
Near an overflowing trash basket on the corner, sparrows brawl over a discarded muffin. At the bus stop a woman in her mid-twenties awaits the downtown M7 in a cocktail dress and heels. Is this a walk of shame?
I turn back the other way and walk north, past my corner, where the middle school’s bleak concrete-and-asphalt playground is empty of the students who give it life when school is in session. But even in summer, on Sundays it becomes the site of a lavish, city-approved flea market. I sip my coffee and watch the vendors setting up tables of yellowed linens and antique picture frames. Stylish New York couples will begin arriving in a few hours, hand in hand, on their way back from brunch, impulse-buying decorative accent pieces.
What am I doing here? I ask myself for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. Not here at the flea market, but here in New York alone? Did my mother feel this way even once after she went off to Scottsdale? Did she ever, even for a moment, regret what she had done?
Another couple of blocks, and I am standing
in front of Rubicon, squinting through steel security bars at windows that would be black-dark even if the store were open for business. I wish I had never left home. Yes, the Valley is a superficial, unsophisticated, plastic place. But it’s easy. The sun never stops shining, and the air is predictably brown; cashiers always smile when they give you your grocery bags, and every waiter hopes a TV mogul will sit at his open table. If it’s shallow, at least you know what you’re getting. In New York, nothing is what it seems and nobody is simple. Steve is an entitled rich kid with compassion for others, a flouter of marital rules with a better understanding of marriage than anyone I know, a cad with a heart of gold. I thought Ilona would be cruel, Simon would be hateful, and Buzz would be soulful. I even misjudged Simon’s dog.
At home, I leave a message again on Sandy Christmas’s voice mail and try again in vain to get through to the Department of Labor. Then I crawl back into bed and, despite the coffee, fall into a hard, dreamless sleep. When I wake up, groggy and stiff, it’s late in the afternoon, and I’m not sure what to do for the rest of the day, let alone the rest of my life. But I have made one small decision. I may not know anything else, but I know what I’ll be doing on July Fourth at eight thirty.
TWENTY-ONE
Nothing much happens for the next few weeks. My job hunt remains fruitless; my e-mailbox continues to teem with Matemarket missives until at last I figure out how to take NewGirl’s profile out of the running—by claiming to have met someone—and the notes begin to taper off. I phone Val several times, at work and at home, to see if she’d like to have lunch or coffee, but never get through; even when her out-of-office message doesn’t have her traveling for focus groups, she doesn’t respond. Simon invites me to his apartment a few times, but he, too, is busy; it’s high wedding season and he has hair consultations with one overanxious Manhattan bride or another almost every day of the week and, on weekends, wedding-day house calls morning to night. I think of Kevin and his upcoming wedding and miss him, too, or perhaps just the idea of him. I think of what I was doing this time last summer: fighting with Teddy; realizing, painfully, that our marriage just wasn’t working.
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