Girlfriends

by Patrick Sanchez

  “Sure, I can believe it. What did you really expect from him, Shirley?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m upset, and I’m pissed—that’s what I am.”

  “Look, Shirley, I’m really not feeling well. Do you want me to get him back for you?”

  “How?”

  “What’s his home phone number?”

  “Let me see. I have it, but I wasn’t allowed to call him there. I could only page him or call him on his cell phone. Oh, here it is,” Shirley said before reciting the phone number to Gina.

  “Okay, I’ll call you back later.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll let you know, Shirley,” Gina said before clicking the phone and dialing Collin’s home phone number.

  “Hello,” Collin’s wife said after picking up the phone.

  “Hello, is Collin there?” Gina asked in the sexiest tone she could muster after just waking up.

  “He’s out for a couple of hours. May I ask who’s calling?”

  “This is Raquel,” Gina lied before adding, “Oh, I’m sorry, is this the maid? He told me to hang up if the maid answered.”

  Gina hung up the phone, feeling that her work was done, and went to the kitchen to pop some aspirin and her antidepressant. She grabbed some orange juice and got back in bed to watch television. The night before was truly one of the most eventful nights she had had in a long time. She kept having visions of herself in the mirror, that lonely young woman standing there naked, with the bloodshot eyes from the crying and the drinking, and her hair completely frayed. But the worst, the absolute worst, was the look of sadness in her face. She felt like a character in a made-for-TV movie. One of those really cheesy ones where the nice girl becomes a slut and then has a revelation over the toilet and goes on to save poor children in India.

  She tried to convince herself that she was being too hard on herself. Compared to other people she knew, she was almost saintly. Since college she’d probably only slept with a dozen guys, and she wouldn’t go home with just anyone. She had to hit it off with them, and they had better damn well be attractive. In an age of AIDS and Lord knows what else, she wasn’t about to take that kind of risk with any joe schmo who came along. But all of this changed after the “Griffin incident.” What happened to her standards? Why had she sunk so low? She was only twenty-eight. She certainly wasn’t looking old and haggard yet. She shouldn’t have to settle for a guy like Griffin for at least another ten years. Maybe another fifteen if the Pond’s Age-Defying Cream actually worked.

  Passing on a Milky Way

  Cheryl had just gotten back from Whatsa Bagel on 18th Street and was settling in for a relaxed Sunday afternoon. She was finishing her coffee and sitting next to the phone with the Washington City Paper in hand. She decided she was going to respond to the two ads she had circled the night before and was still trying to get up the nerve to actually pick up the phone. She hadn’t really prepared anything to say. She didn’t want her response to sound rehearsed. She wanted it to be relaxed and casual—even if she wasn’t.

  Eventually, she picked up the phone, dialed the 900 number, and responded to the appropriate prompts. When she entered the code for the first personal ad, she was immediately turned off by his recorded greeting:

  “Hi. My name is Tyrol. I’ve been told that I’m very good-looking, but I don’t get off on it or anything. I work out at Gold’s four days a week and, if I do say so myself, I have a defined muscular build. I have short black hair, brown eyes, and skin the color of a Milky Way candy bar. I enjoy the finer things in life: wine, nice restaurants, fast cars, and beautiful women. I own my home, drive a BMW 500 series, and work in high finance. I’m looking for an attractive woman with brains and beauty who doesn’t mind taking care of her man. . . .”

  As soon as Cheryl heard the part about “taking care of her man” she pressed the pound key to stop the message. She had heard enough. His tone was so pompous and patronizing, not to mention the “skin the color of a Milky Way candy bar” thing—how stupid was that? And although Cheryl had to admit that owning a home and driving a luxury car were certainly things she would like in a guy, she didn’t think it was appropriate to put something like that in your initial greeting. Those were things you let your date subtly find out about, so it doesn’t appear as if you’re bragging.

  Once she bypassed Tyrol, she skimmed the paper for the other ad that she had circled and punched in the appropriate code.

  “Hi, thanks for answering my ad. My name is Hal, and I live just outside the city in Alexandria. I really hate talking on these things, so I’m going to keep it brief. Just to get the stats out of the way: I’m 32 years old, 5’10”, 165 pounds, light brown hair, and have green eyes. I’m certainly not buff, but I know my way to the gym and I’m in reasonably good shape. I like doing virtually anything. I enjoy hiking in the summer, going to the beach, restaurants, movies, biking, reading, you name it. I guess I’m really looking to meet some new friends in the area and see what happens. So, if you would leave your name and number and tell me a little bit about yourself, I’ll give you a call back and maybe we can meet for coffee or something. Thanks again for taking the time to answer the ad.”

  Cheryl really liked the sound of Hal’s voice. He just sounded like a nice guy, not cocky or arrogant like Tyrol. He seemed friendly and maybe a bit humble. She pressed the key to leave a response.

  “Hi, I’m Cheryl . . .”

  She pressed the key to start again. “Hi, I’m Cheryl . . .”

  Once again she pressed the key to start over. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “Okay, just relax, Cheryl,” she told herself, hitting the key again.

  “Hi, I’m Cheryl and thought I’d leave a quick response to your ad. I agree with you about talking on these recordings, so I will be brief as well. Let’s see . . . I’m about five five, one hundred ten pounds, African American, short black hair, brown eyes . . . gosh, what else? I’d like to think I’m an attractive, fun person. I don’t really have any specific hobbies, but I’m pretty much up for anything. I like doing things outside now that it’s summer, hanging out with friends, and I enjoy cooking from time to time . . . things like that. Anyway, your ad seemed pretty nice, so I thought I’d go ahead and respond. Hope to hear from you.”

  Cheryl then left her telephone number and replayed the message to make sure it sounded okay. She wasn’t overly thrilled with it but couldn’t think of anything better to say. She held her finger over the appropriate key to send her message. She still wasn’t one hundred percent sure this was something she wanted to do. She held her finger over the key a little longer before she took in a deep breath and gave it a quick punch. She still wasn’t sure if the whole personal-ad thing was a good idea, but it was too late to change her mind now.

  Name Tags

  Linda was walking up Connecticut Avenue toward St. Margaret’s Church for the evening service. St. Margaret’s was an Episcopal church, but they let Dignity, a group for gay Catholics, hold a Catholic Mass there on Sunday evenings. Most of the time Linda didn’t bother with it and went to the standard Catholic church closer to her apartment on Sunday mornings. Dignity’s services tended to be long and, being in the evening, cut into her Simpsons watching time. It was just easier to go to a quickie forty-minute Mass in the morning and get it over with. Of course, she had issues with the Catholic church and its stance against homosexuals but, nonetheless, she always felt at home at church. She’d been Catholic all her life and even went through eleven years of Catholic school until her mother moved her and her sister to D.C. after the divorce. There Linda enrolled in Tenley High School, where she met Gina.

  Linda had tried some other religions. She went to the Unitarian Universalist church a couple of years earlier but found their service to be more like a town meeting than a religious experience. She also visited the Metropolitan Community Church on Ridge Street, but when they wanted her to hug a complete stranger after receiving the Eucharist, she decided
it was too touchy-feely for her. What was the big deal about being a gay Catholic anyway? It wasn’t like every other Catholic didn’t ignore the Pope’s teachings—like half of the people that sat next to her at Mass weren’t using birth control, having premarital sex, and even abortions. Please!

  Linda was still a little annoyed with Gina for just disappearing from the Phase the night before—as annoyed with Gina as Linda could get. Long ago Linda decided to accept Gina for what she was—a mess. She knew that Gina cared for her, and that Gina would do anything for her. Gina took Linda under her wing in high school, helped her through her parents’ divorce, and was right there through the rough times with Karen and Julie. Gina had even helped Linda move into her new apartment last summer, something Gina did for no one else. Linda remembered the time Peter asked Gina to help him move, and she told his “cheap ass” to hire movers.

  Linda walked into the church and found a seat near the back. She didn’t go to services there very often, so she didn’t recognize anyone. Cursing herself for forgetting to set the VCR to tape her programs, Linda sat in the pew, reviewing the church bulletin, while she waited for the Mass to begin.

  “May I?” a sharply dressed woman with a Dorothy Hamill haircut said to Linda, wanting to know if it was okay to sit next to her.

  “Sure,” Linda said, and scooted over just a tad.

  “I haven’t seen you around before. Are you new?”

  “Sort of, I guess. I only come every once in a while.”

  “Well, it’s great to have you,” the woman, who was probably just a few years older than Linda, said with a smile. “I’m Amy.”

  “Linda. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “You too. So, if I may ask, why do you only come every once in a while?”

  “I usually go to another church in the mornings, but I was out late last night. I overslept and missed that service.”

  “I don’t believe there is such a thing as oversleeping on a Sunday. That’s what Sundays are for,” Amy said with a quick laugh.

  “Can’t argue with that,” Linda replied, not sure what the woman’s intentions were. Was she hitting on Linda? After all, there were plenty of empty pews in the church. Why had she chosen to sit down next to Linda? She had a look that Linda liked—a look that sort of said “I’m proud of being a lesbian, but I still want to look feminine.”

  “Certainly not. I hope you’ll oversleep more often, so we get to see you here again.”

  Okay. She’s flirting with me. Damn, I wish I had done my hair. “Maybe I’ll do that,” Linda said, smiling nervously, trying to sit up straight. It wasn’t every day an attractive woman flirted with her. They chatted a bit more and started to get to know each other. Linda found Amy to be very interesting and well spoken. And, despite the fact that it was the beginning of the summer, Linda soon started thinking about what she always thought about when she began to hit it off with another woman—Christmas. She thought about Christmas and how this relationship might work out and how for the first time she wouldn’t be alone for the holidays. She would have someone to put up a tree with and kiss at midnight on New Year’s Eve. She knew it was silly, but she couldn’t help it. The same way Pavlov’s dogs started salivating when they heard a bell, Linda thought about Christmas the moment an inkling of a relationship seemed to be budding.

  The girls talked some more before a rotund woman with graying hair plopped down into the pew.

  “Amy, who are you harassing now?” the woman joked.

  “This is Linda,” Amy said to the woman before turning back to Linda. “And this is Harriet, my girlfriend.”

  Linda tried not to let her face drop. “Nice to meet you,” Linda said, extending her hand and managing a smile.

  “Yes, you too.”

  Why the hell did she sit down next to me and start talking to me as if she were interested, Linda thought to herself as the large woman fished a name tag out of her equally large purse.

  “I brought your name tag, Amy.”

  “Oh, thanks,” Amy said, pinning it onto her blouse. It said “Amy Garland, Greeter.”

  “You have to forgive Amy,” Harriet said to Linda. “She has a habit of not wearing her Greeter name tag, and then people wonder why this brazen woman is approaching them and asking them all sorts of questions.”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t think that at all. I just figured she was being friendly,” Linda lied, offering a smile to Amy.

  “Nope. Didn’t think that at all,” Linda repeated silently to herself as the music started, signaling the beginning of the Mass.

  Another Short, Pudgy Man for Gina

  Gina hated Mondays. She was usually hung over from the weekend. Not necessarily from drinking too much—more from just napping here and there and staying up late. She found it impossible to go to sleep early on Sunday nights. Not getting up until noon on Sunday mornings may have had something to do with it, not to mention that Entertainment Tonight ran a special hourlong weekend edition around midnight.

  The night before, she had stayed up even later than usual. She didn’t leave the apartment the entire day or even get dressed. She watched reruns on channel five and napped off and on. It had definitely been a blue Sunday. She stayed up into the wee hours of the morning watching a tape of The Sound of Music her grandmother gave her for Christmas years ago. Now it was Monday morning, and she couldn’t get the song “Climb Ev’ry Mountain” out of her head.

  The day was getting off to a lousy start. Gina was down on her hands and knees in a skirt and heels trying to woo Gomez out from under the bed. She had forgotten to close the bedroom door before she took him out for his morning walk—big mistake. As soon as they got back inside, and she let him off the leash, he shot across the living room, into the bedroom, and under the bed. Once he was under the bed, he knew he was safe.

  Gomez had a slight issue with doing his business on the floor when Gina wasn’t home, so she had to keep him confined to the kitchen while she was at work. Gomez hated being restricted to the kitchen, and he knew hiding under the bed was his best bet for avoiding it.

  “Gomez . . . here, boy. Look, I have your leash. Let’s go for a walk,” Gina called to the dog, waving his leash underneath the bed. He just looked at her like, Yeah, right. I’m really going to fall for that. Every time she’d try to reach him from one side, he’d run to the other. Gina would then hurry around to the other side just in time for Gomez to scurry back to the first side.

  “Gomez, please!” Gina yelled, and grabbed the footboard of the bed. She pulled the entire bed a few feet away from the wall, exposing the little dog. He looked up at her and immediately scampered back underneath the bed to start the whole ritual again. Gina looked at her watch. She had to meet Dennis before work to get her hair done. Now that it was summer, Dennis spent most of his weekends at the beach in Rehoboth, Delaware. He didn’t have any openings before he left for the weekend, but since they were friends, he agreed to meet Gina at seven A.M. to give her a quick touchup before the salon opened.

  “Oh, forget it,” she sighed while grabbing her purse and heading for the door.

  Once Gina was gone and Gomez heard the front door shut behind her, he poked his head out from under the bed—ah, victory.

  Gina pulled into the bank parking lot about nine-fifteen. She was one of those lucky people who actually drove against traffic to get to work from her apartment in the District to her job in the neighboring suburb of Arlington, Virginia. One would think with this advantage she would usually be on time for work. She waited a minute or two before turning the ignition off and going into the bank. She wanted to catch the last bit of the story they were discussing on the radio. She was listening to some morning radio show, and the deejays were laughing it up. Some woman in nothing but bikini bottoms was washing the windshields of cars stuck in rush-hour traffic. They said the topless woman was causing traffic tie-ups from K Street to Constitution Avenue, and the cops had just arrested her. Gina laughed a little to herself. Some people will do anything
for a buck, she thought as she cut off the engine, stepped out of the car, and headed toward the bank.

  “Morning, Gina. You set such a great example for your staff, being so punctual and all,” Linda said, noting Gina’s tardiness with a friendly hint of sarcasm in her voice.

  “Do you ever feel like you should have just stayed in bed?” Gina asked.

  “Of course. Is today one of those days for you?” Linda responded before adding, “What happened to your hair?”

  “Is there any coffee?” Gina asked, ignoring both of Linda’s questions.

  “No, I’ve only been here a few minutes myself.”

  “Why is Kelly working the drive-thru window?”

  “Bob is late again, so I told her to go ahead and run the window until he gets here.”

  Gina sighed and went into the back to start the coffeemaker. She needed her morning cup of caffeine, especially since it was a Monday. Every Monday, Liz, the branch manager, didn’t come in until noon, so Gina was in charge and, once again, she was late. With Liz out, Gina had to deal with all the tellers’ little troubles and sign off on their large transactions, but the extra work was almost worth a morning without Liz. It wasn’t anything personal, but she just creeped Gina out. Liz was a tall, stocky woman with broad shoulders and a deep voice. She tried desperately to look feminine but usually ended up looking ridiculous in floral print dresses with gaudy scarves tied around her neck.

  Gina’s early morning appointment with Dennis hadn’t gone very well. She just wanted to get her roots covered and a trim; however, Dennis was in one of his manic phases and convinced her to go a few shades lighter. When all was said and done, Gina left the salon quite unhappy with the final product. Her hair had the yellowish hue of an overweight housewife who bought whatever brand of bleach was on sale at the drugstore. Dennis said she would have to wait at least a week before they could tone it down, to let her hair “rest.”