by Karyn Bosnak
Then came fall.
It’s funny how quickly things can change. Feelings, no matter how intense they are, can be fleeting. With the snap of a finger, happiness can turn to sadness, hope can turn to despair, and one day your past can catch up with you and make you realize you need to hit the brakes.
The moment I knew things were going to change was when Foxy lost his job. It caused a domino effect. Not only did he lose his income, he lost his tan, he lost his six-pack—basically, he lost his foxy. In the blink of an eye, Foxy Blonde turned into Matt King, my unemployed boyfriend with a beer gut.
This alone didn’t bother me—I’m not that shallow. I can deal with someone losing a job and gaining weight. (I mean, hello?) What bothered me was that he lost his zest for life; he lost his free-spirited personality. Since he was unemployed, Matt’s harmless weekend partying started to spiral out of control and turned into daily occurrences. He was always either drunk or high and would frequently start arguments with me over stupid stuff. Initially these arguments led to some good “love at first fight” makeup sex, but eventually his chronic pot smoking negatively affected that area of our relationship as well. Yes, leaves weren’t the only things falling in Chicago that autumn.
Matt didn’t just lose a little wind in his sail—the thing couldn’t even fly at half-mast. He couldn’t get it up ever. Initially when it started happening, he would ask me to turn on Guns N’ Roses music—I swear—as if listening to Axl Rose was the cure-all for drug-induced impotence. I did it though, of course I did. I was willing to try anything. Before every attempt at sex, I’d jump out of bed naked to throw on the CD, then I’d jump back in, lay there and wait while . . .
“Take me down to the paradise city . . .”
. . . blared through the speakers and my boyfriend tried to psych himself into getting it up. I wish I could say it worked, but the best it ever did was get Matt’s penis to the point of resembling an al dente noodle—mostly soft with a hint of firmness.
Things only got worse. Because of his healthy party habits, Matt fell two months behind in paying his rent, so I lent him eight hundred dollars. Stupid, I know. In order to pay me back, he started selling pot. When I asked him to stop, he refused saying he was doing it for me. What was I supposed to say to that? “How romantic?” What kind of bad music video was I living in?
Any idiot would’ve broken up with him; however, I wasn’t just any idiot—I was an optimistic idiot. I thought I could help him. But his behavior soon became erratic. He was up and down, happy and sad—he was manic. In a matter of a few weeks, a glassy haze slowly replaced the sparkle in beautiful, icy blue eyes. Likewise, dirt replaced the highlights in his dirty blonde hair. Matt’s instability soon made me feel out of control as well, and I realized that for my own sanity, I had to get out of there. The wild, carefree days of summer had finally caught up with me. The world was still out there and I was still hungry, so I decided to go back to the East Coast.
I didn’t tell any of my friends that I was leaving, not even Matt. I just planned one last night out to say good-bye without really saying good-bye. The night, about halfway through the evening, I looked around the bar and didn’t see Matt anywhere. He didn’t say he was leaving or going home, so I called his cell phone to see where he was. After two rings, he picked up. “I’ll be right in,” he said shortly, then hung up.
Thinking it was rude that he ended the call so abruptly, I went outside where it was quieter to call him back. After dialing his number, I held my ringing cell phone to my ear and the strangest thing happened: I heard the ringing in stereo. I heard it through the phone in one ear and from across the street in the other. When I looked up to where the live ring was coming from, I saw Matt standing on the corner, kissing another girl. With their arms wrapped around each other, the two of them talked and laughed just like we had done so many nights in bed. Since I hadn’t hung up my phone, Matt’s was still ringing. I watched him pick it up and answer. “I said I’ll be right in!”
“Don’t bother,” I said aloud. When he looked up and saw me, the smile disappeared from his face. He didn’t know what to say. What was there to say? He cheated on me while he was out with me. What kind of person does that?
Deciding to leave, I turned around and went back inside the bar. As I gathered my belongings, my friends sensed something was wrong, but before anyone had a chance to ask what it was, Matt walked inside. “You’re leaving?” he asked.
“Yes,” I huffed, frantically grabbing my things.
“Oh come on,” he sighed. “Don’t be so crazy.”
Don’t be so crazy? Hearing those words come from his mouth filled me with anger. I couldn’t believe that he of all people had the nerve to call me crazy. Unable to control my feelings, I began yelling at him, telling him what a loser he was. The entire time I did so, he stood in silence, staring at me. When I was finished, when I didn’t have anything left to say, I waited for a response, waited for a reply, waited for an apology, but I didn’t get one. Instead of telling me he was sorry, Matt simply looked at me . . . and laughed. He laughed the biggest, loudest laugh I’d ever heard in my life. He laughed and laughed and laughed. To have someone laugh at you when you’re angry is infuriating. After telling him that I never wanted to see him again, I walked out the door.
Eventually I got over Matt, but I never got over being angry at Matt because I never got an apology. Through the years, I always thought that maybe one day my phone would ring, and it would be him calling to say he’s sorry, but that didn’t happen. To be honest, when I made my list, just writing his name made me so upset that I thought about taking him out of the running. However, remembering the bad times soon got me thinking about the good. I remembered the day we met and the nights we wrapped our bodies around each other. The more I remembered Foxy Blonde, the more I forgot Matt King and decided he was worth another shot.
mmmail!
monday, april 25
Despite the fact that I left New Orleans with a negative attitude, the drive to Illinois was rather enjoyable because, after I hung up from my mom, I called Colin back to tell him about Yoshi and the two of us laughed and laughed and ended up talking for an hour. You’ll never believe it, but I think talking on the phone actually helps me drive better. I’m still overly cautious, but since I’m gabbing I don’t obsess as much over the clicks, hums, and rattles and therefore drive a little bit faster. Don’t get too excited, I didn’t quite break fifty miles per hour, but I got close. Yes, my cell phone is a rock star, if that’s possible.
Although Foxy lived in Chicago when I met him, he now lives with his parents in Rockford, a city about ninety miles west of Chicago. Okay, fine—WITH HIS PARENTS—are you happy? Yes, I know this is a possible sign that he’s a loser (he is almost thirty years old by now, after all), but I have to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Rockford is located in Winnebago County, a county people claim is named after the Winnebago Indian tribe. I say claim because since I’ve been here, I’ve counted twenty-two recreational vehicles and zero Indians. My hotel, the Clock Tower Resort, even has a special RV parking lot. I’m not calling anyone a liar, but I think the possibility of the county being named after the motor vehicle is worth looking into.
Don’t let the name of my hotel fool you into thinking I splurged—the place is less a resort and more a theme park. Truth be told, it’s a Best Western hotel located right off the expressway whose main selling point is an indoor family water playland, complete with a corkscrew slide. Yesterday, while walking through the lobby, Eva and I had a run-in with a twenty-one-foot floating snake. When Eva saw it, she snarled and tried to jump out of her bag and attack, much like she did with Wade’s puppet—I mean Muppet—but I stopped her. I’m a little worried and have started to feel badly for raising her in a car. I feel like one of those women you see on Lifetime, Television for Women, one of those women played by Swoozie Kurtz or Meredith Baxter Birney who raises her children on the street. I know Eva’s just a dog, but she stil
l needs stability in her life, especially after everything she’s been through.
But back to the hotel.
It’s not too expensive, only eighty dollars a night. However, when you multiply this times three nights, it can get a little pricey. I got in late Thursday night and have been sitting outside Foxy’s parents’ house ever since. It’s Monday now and still no Foxy. The only life inside are his mom and dad, or two old people who look an awful lot like him. I’m beginning to go stir-crazy and don’t know what to do with myself. I’ve listened to my 1997 playlist—songs that remind me of Foxy—more times than I can count. Believe me, despite how much I used to love them, one can take only so much Spice Girls. “So tell me what you want, what you really, really want!”
I don’t ever want them to get back together, that’s what I want. And then I want someone to tell me what happened to Chumbawamba.
After waiting a bit longer, I decide to call Colin to make sure he gave me the right address. When he answers, I greet him with song.
“MMMBop! Bop, bop, MMMBop! Yada ya-daaa! Bomb pops! Rock, rock, yeah-eah . . .” I don’t really know the words.
“You really should stick with Lionel Richie,” he says. I laugh.
“Yes, maybe so. Hey, I have a question. The address you gave me for Matt King—are you positive it’s the right one?”
“Yep,” Colin answers quickly and confidently. “One hundred percent.”
I let out a frustrated sigh. Where could Foxy be? Could he be in a boat? Could he be with a goat? Could he be on a plane? Could he be on a train? Could he be in a car? Could he be in a bar?
Oh . . . that hits a little too close to home. Actually . . .
Where Is Foxy?
A poem by Delilah Darling
Could he be in a tree?
Tripping out or taking E?
Could he be drinking wine?
Shooting up? Doing a line?
Could be smoking grass?
Eating shrooms or sniffing gas?
I will not leave, I’ll find this man.
I will not leave, the tramp I am.
Damn, I’m talented.
I suddenly hear a grunt and a click come from the phone. “What are you doing?”
“Sit-ups,” Colin says. His voice cuts out at the end. I think I’ve been put on speakerphone.
“Sit-ups? You don’t need to do sit-ups; your abs look fine.”
“So you were looking at my abs that one day!”
“I might’ve caught a glimpse, but they were right in front of my face. I couldn’t help it.”
“Uh huh . . . right.” Colin clearly doesn’t believe my excuse. “And how about my legs?”
“I plead the fifth on that one,” I giggle. “So are you like a big workout fiend?”
“Not at all, but I gotta get serious about it because, well, I don’t want to jinx it but I got an audition for One Life to Live later in the week.”
I gasp with excitement. “One Life to Live the soap opera?”
“Yes, One Life to Live the soap opera. Do you watch?”
“No, it’s just that . . . well, I knew you were an actor, but I wasn’t sure if you were any good.”
“Gee thanks.”
“I’m only teasing. Well, you sound busy, so I’ll let you go.”
“Okay, I have to start doing lunges now anyway.”
“Well, good luck.” I almost hang up, but then . . . “Oh wait—Colin?”
“Yes?”
“You don’t need to do lunges. Your legs look just fine.”
I can practically hear him smile through the phone. “I knew you were lookin’!”
I hang up with a smile on my face. A little harmless flirting after so many strike-outs is just what the doctor ordered. Feeling reenergized, I put my thinking cap on and look out the window at Foxy’s parents’ house. The mailman is parked out front. A few seconds later when he pulls away, I see a package sitting next to their mailbox. A package. I suddenly get an idea.
Now, I know it’s wrong to steal someone’s mail—it’s a federal offense, an invasion of privacy—and I’d be pissed off if someone stole mine, but I need leads. I need that package.
Within seconds I’m running like a bat out of hell from the scene of the crime, holding not only the stolen package, but also a stack of mail. When I arrive back at my car, I jump in and lock the doors. After looking around to make sure no one saw me, I put on a pair of rubber gloves (in case the feds dust for fingerprints) and start with the package. Addressed to Foxy’s mom, it’s from the Home Shopping Network. After tearing it open, I look inside and find six terrycloth hair turbans—Turbie Twists—that the enclosed pamphlet says are “not as bulky as normal towels.” Holding one up, I cringe. It might not be as bulky, but it sure is ugly. I toss it aside and move on to the mail.
Bills, bills, more bills, and then . . . a small envelope from a place called Lily Pond. I tear it open. Inside is a note:
Dear John & Sylvia,
We had a nice breakthrough the other day. You did the right thing. Matt’s in good hands. Keep your spirits up.
Dr. Trudy Jacobs
98543 LILY STREET—ROCKFORD, IL 61101
Matt’s in good hands? Hmm. Since I have my laptop with me, I begin driving around the neighborhood until I’m able to pick up a wireless Internet signal from someone’s house. Parked out front, I Google Lily Pond. After 0.29 seconds, the results appear before me:
Lily Pond Substance Abuse Treatment Center
Alcohol and drug treatment center located in Rockford, Illinois.
www.lilypondtreatment.org/—10k—Cached—Similar pages
Alcohol and drug treatment center? My heart sinks. Foxy’s in rehab? Oh my God! An overwhelming feeling of guilt engulfs me. I feel partly responsible. Not only did his drug problem start when we were dating, but when things got bad I left him. I should’ve stayed and helped him get straight. I should’ve stayed!
After getting directions from MapQuest, I drive to Lily Pond as quickly as I can. When I arrive, I feel slightly relieved as I head down the long driveway. It’s is a beautiful place, not at all what I expected. It looks like a resort—a real resort, not a Clock Tower Resort. Located on what appears to be dozens of acres, the heavily wooded grounds are filled with gardens and ponds. It’s calming; it’s serene.
After parking my car, I head inside and see a skinny, balding man standing behind the front desk. I walk up to him. He’s wearing a name tag that reads Carl.
“Hi, Carl,” I say. “I’m wondering if you can help me with something.” Carl gives me a fake smile and nods. “I’m here to visit someone. Matt King.”
Hearing Foxy’s name makes Carl purse his lips together. “Mr. King’s not allowed to have visitors,” he says in a whiny, high-pitched voice.
“Am I here on the wrong day? Is there a special ‘visitor’s day’ or something when I can come back?”
Carl shakes his head. “No, Mr. King’s never allowed to have visitors, not unless they’re doctor-approved.”
Oh dear . . . this doesn’t sound good. Foxy must be in bad shape. I need to get in there and see him. I might be able to save him! I take a moment to study Carl. Although he appears to be a tough cookie, I think I can break him.
“Listen, Carl,” I say, batting my eyelashes. “I’ve come a looooong way to see him. Can’t you bend the rules just a little bit? Just for me? Pretty please?”
Bat, bat, bat.
Maybe it’s the “pretty please” that pisses Carl off, I’m not sure. All I’m sure of is that he’s angry.
“Listen here, young lady,” he says quietly, leaning over the counter. He glares at me with his beady little eyes. “I don’t bend the rules for no one. So why don’t you turn around, walk your pretty little ass right out that front door, and go home. Got it?”
Got it? Oh, I got it all right. I got myself another good idea. When I was a little girl, I watched a lot of Charlie’s Angels, and because of that, I know how to get what I want. Without giving Carl the
pleasure of a reply, I turn around and leave, but I’m not going home—I’m going undercover. I’m going . . . to rehab.
undercover angel
That evening I devise my plan. I have to flesh out three things for my idea to work. For one, I can’t just check into rehab with a dog, so I need to find a place for Eva to go. Two, I’d hate to be turned down for admission simply because I’m not addicted to drugs, so I need to get some drugs in my system in case they give me a blood test or something. And three, I need to find a hard-luck addict story, a story I can call my own. The experts that run that joint are going to ask questions when I get there, and I’m going to need to know how to answer. Yes, I’m aware of the fact that I’m beginning to lose it, but I’m running out of men, I’m running out of options. I need this thing to work with Foxy, I do!
With regard to Eva, after doing a bit of research, I find a well-respected neighborhood veterinarian and make an appointment for her to get spayed. The kid at the pet store in Philly recommended that I do so before she turned seven months old; otherwise, she’ll go into heat and get dog boobies, like five of them or something. The receptionist at the office tells me they keep dogs for two nights following a spay which should give me enough time to get in and out of rehab—all I need to do while I’m in there is make contact.
Now, on to the drugs. While the idea of numbing the pain of rejection with a handful of dolls is somewhat appealing, I need to be of sound mind to pull this thing off.4 I once watched a special on MTV that said if you eat a lot of poppy seeds before taking a drug test, the results will come back positive for opiates. With that said, I reluctantly scarf down not one but six poppy seed bagels. I say reluctantly because I don’t eat bagels, not since my gynecologist told me that my cervix looked like one.
Finally, on to the hard luck story. What are opiates? How does one feel when one takes opiates? Truth be told, I had no idea . . . that is until I read a special edition of Star magazine devoted to celebrities and their addictions. Yes, if the E! True Hollywood Story came in print form, it would be Star. After reading through the issue at least twelve times, I’m pretty confident I know my drugs, so I slam it shut and get a good night’s sleep.