“That’s my laundry, girl!” Alma barked.
Someone should tell Alma that all her shouting will only give her a coronary, but you can bet that it won’t be me. Before she could ask me to wash her disgusting garments, I ran up the stairs. Did not warn her about lazy Jadwiga nor the pastrami hanging from the drying rack. Just my luck that 2F opened their door as I passed. Does no one work in this building?
They stared at me curiously. I stared back. I had mud smudged across my nose and my manicure was a wreck, but frankly I no longer cared. Life was taking a strange turn for me, and I could not be bothered with mundane concerns.
Chung held the Sun-Times in his hand. “Don’t you work at this place?” he asked, pointing to the article on the front page. I said I did and prayed for the battery of questions to stop there.
Stefan stepped into the hallway and eyeballed me. He asked if I was all right.
“Of course I am. Why shouldn’t I be? I had nothing to do with that website! Nothing! He fell in front of a train. I don’t know anything.”
He blinked a few times then said, “I meant about your accident last night. You were covered in blood and that big guy carried you up the stairs, remember?”
“Oh, that. Yes, I’m fine. Who would have known the old dog had so much blood in him?” I wisecracked lamely. They exchanged glances. Nobody understands my Shakespearean jokes.
They continued to stare as I walked up the last flight. I could feel the fire from their eyes on my back as I turned the corner, and a moist, salty substance drenched my forehead. The scrutiny weighed heavily upon me, and my hand shook as I fumbled with my keys. Francis’s face floated before me ... I mumbled to myself like a madman, confessing to the murder of King Duncan, not to mention all those Scottish women and children. A tiny click sounded and my will broke under the strain.
“Yes, I admit it! It was me all along!” I screamed. But they had already closed their door, and my confession rang hollowly in the empty stairway.
When Val Wayne came home, he found the apartment shining and clean. I, too, was shining and clean after a nice hot shower, facial mud pack, hot oil hair treatment, pedicure, elbow loofah, and a change into freshly hand-laundered pink silk pajamas. I suppose I still do care a tiny bit about mundane concerns. After all, a good scrubbing settles a tense mind.
“What’s going on?” he called from his bedroom, changing into his household uniform. “I saw the newspaper at lunch.”
I explained all the recent developments. Val listened carefully while grooming his sprouting mustache. It’s filled in a bit. He looks more like Apollo Creed now instead of John Waters.
“Addie, I’m so proud of you,” he said. “I mean, I’m sorry your boss got run over, but that wasn’t really your fault. That website—I looked it over today at the office, and I have to say it’s brilliant. I never knew you could write. And think what good you’ve done for the other peons at work, especially the janitor.”
Yes. One must think of the janitors (except Jadwiga), and not of oneself and how terrified one might be of getting caught and going to jail. But Val said nobody would ever in a million years suspect me or Fat Bald Jeff. We weren’t outwardly thought of as rabble-rousers, nor were we considered the least bit clever by our superiors.
“You’re a freedom fighter.” Val smiled. “Like Mumia Abu-Jamal.” I flushed with pride. See where having a bad attitude and hating work can lead you?
We were interrupted by the sound of our buzzer. Val went to the intercom, then informed me the Lemming was on his way up. He threw Deep Purple on the stereo full volume and settled into the disco couch with half a lime shoved in his mouth.
“We might want a little privacy,” I said.
He gestured expansively toward my bedroom. That sort of privacy only encourages the Lemming to disrobe and convulse around me. I just wanted some quiet for conversation.
I opened our door and he stepped in. As usual, he wore his conservative suit and stained rep tie. It occurred to me that I have never seen the Lemming in anything but a suit, not counting the times when his pants were draped around his ankles in the backseat of his car. Does he even own casual sportswear? Suddenly, an image flashed before me of the Lemming parading about in Francis’s acrylic grandpa sweater, and I stifled a laugh.
The Lemming gave me a dry peck on the cheek, acne scars and huge pores looming, and the laughter disintegrated in my throat.
“Hello, darling. Hello, Val Wayne Newton,” he greeted.
Val removed the lime from his mouth and threw it at the Lemming. It hit him as sure as if there were a target drawn on his forehead. The Lemming has the dull physical reflexes of an investment banker.
“You know I don’t like that,” said Val angrily. “Val. Val Wayne. Even Val Newton. But not Val Wayne Newton!”
The Lemming dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief, feigning ignorance. “Settle down. I had no idea.”
“It’s a family name,” replied Val. “I just can’t stand my family.”
Quickly I fixed us all some Bloody Marys. There is no fire that can’t be quenched with a little alcohol. I led the Lemming into my bedroom and closed the door. The frontal expansion on his trousers was immediate and disgusting.
“Ick,” he said, placing the drink on my nightstand. “Tastes like inferior rib-eye steak.” He flung himself on my bed and sighed. He held his arms out in feeble command, and I reluctantly laid down in them. I couldn’t get comfortable. The Lemming is all bones and teeth and coarse fibers.
He said, “I heard about all the trouble at your office.”
I said nothing.
“What a stupid prank. I mean, who cares?” He yawned. “You probably did it, didn’t you.”
“Of course not,” I answered, banishing thoughts of Duncan and Banquo and all those dead Thanes.
He stuck his pointy nose deep into my neck in a strangling attempt at cuddling. “I wasn’t serious.”
No, he wouldn’t be. Val and Jeff have no problem believing there could be something deep and riotous and thrilling inside me. But the Lemming sees me only as a shallow brat with a fine clavicle.
Then he looked around, assessing my room full of junk. “You have got to throw out this hideous pom-pom bedspread and that perfectly ridiculous lamp your father made that doesn’t even work, not to mention your three-legged dresser.”
“The lamp works. You just have to jiggle the cord.”
“Darling,” he said, “it’s the worst example of Arts and Crafts I’ve ever seen.”
It was one thing when I mocked Father’s lousy pottery. For years I had to pick clay out of my hair and food while the kiln belched out Maoist chess pieces. Yes, he was foolish and weird, but as Gran said, he always loved his little princess. Me. I was a princess, at least in my father’s bleary eyes. The Lemming is merely a priss, and when he makes fun of my father, it just sounds mean.
I said tentatively, “Well, I like the lamp. But I would also like that Sheraton mahogany passed down from prior Lemmings.”
“I know you covet my furniture. I don’t blame you. It’s what you’ve always wanted.” He breathed humidly into my ear, struggling out of his pants.
I sighed. “I’ve always wanted a sprawling Tudor castle, preferably moated and ancestral.”
He grunted in assent, or maybe it was a grunt of frustration at not being able to disengage his pants from his feet. He kicked and kicked to no avail. I sat up to untie his wingtips.
“But what good is a nice house and nice stuff when there’s just a lot of boring people hanging around all the time?” I mused, dropping the shoes to the ground.
“Uh-huh,” he said, pitching his suit coat in the corner, following it with his tie.
I unbuttoned his dress shirt absently. “Even this building doesn’t seem so bad when Val’s around, or when we’re all working in the yard together.”
“That’s the place,” he said, moving my hands to his depressing pelvic area.
“Right, even the Place is tolerabl
e now that I know Fat Bald Jeff and Francis,” I agreed. The Lemming occasionally makes good sense. “Of course,” I continued, “who knows what will happen there now?”
“So what do you think about all this?” he asked.
“Tomorrow at work I’ll probably have a better idea—”
“No, no,” he admonished me sharply. “This.”
Oh. That.
Concave and hairless, and all yucky beluga-pale.
He clasped me to his chest, shoving a bunch of knuckles all over me. “Take your clothes off,” he begged.
“They’re not clothes, they’re pajamas,” I said. And I didn’t spend $39.99 at the Lord & Taylor intimate-apparel clearance sale so I could end up tossing them on the floor.
The Lemming brought my face down to his and gasped, “Oh mama.”
Suddenly my bedroom door burst open. The Lemming shrieked a womanly scream and tried to cover himself with my hideous pom-pom bedspread. Fat Bald Jeff stood in my doorway with a profound look of embarrassment.
“Oh! Sorry,” gulped Jeff, his moon face turning alternate shades of scarlet and purple. “Val said you weren’t doing anything in here.”
“They usually aren’t,” called Val from the kitchen. “Addie’s frigid.”
How dare he! “I’m particular,” I interjected.
The Lemming retorted, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Jeff said, “I think I’ll go.”
“No, wait,” I said, climbing off the Lemming, who immediately burrowed under the bedspread. “Is everything all right?” I motioned for Jeff to sit next to me on the bed. Val followed him in with the tray of drinks.
“Bloodies, anyone?” offered Val.
“Get out! Everyone get out!” shrieked the Lemming from under the covers.
“Just a sec,” I said, distributing the beverages.
Fat Bald Jeff said that after the candlelight vigil at Big Lou’s locker, in which a minor mishap involving the Hibachi, lit candles, and a carelessly placed bottle of 151 set off the fire alarms and sent all staff fleeing for the exits (fully documented by the news crews), a “crisis memo” had alerted certain departments of imminent layoffs.
“Did you lose your job?” I asked fearfully.
“No,” he said, staring into his glass, “but you did.”
I cried for a while as Jeff and Val comforted me. The Lemming continued to kick and thrash under the bedspread, but in my state I could scarcely be bothered.
Finally he sat up and asked hoarsely, “Do you mind moving your encounter session out to the living room so I can get my pants on?”
Val Wayne volunteered to cook up a pot of spaghetti and sautéed vegetables. Would have done it myself, but it was nearly forty minutes past my usual dinnertime and I felt too weak and bewildered to stand over a hot stove and stir things.
“Don’t bother making any for me,” said Jeff. “I have to go home now.”
I looked at him in shock. “To the hovel? You can’t! What if that fiend is waiting there to avenge his mongrel’s death?”
Jeff considered. He said, “I can’t help that. The hovel is my home.” This was said with characteristic humility. I so admired that Fat Bald Jeff. He was truly brave.
The Lemming stormed out of my bedroom, disheveled and ornery. He fixed his tie with ineffective little jerks in the mirror by the door.
“I lost my job,” I sniveled. “I’m destitute.”
He said to me, “That’s the way the ball bounces. I’d lend you money, but I never carry cash. Anyway, Addie, I’ll be traveling on business for a couple weeks, but I’ll be back for that party.”
“For what?” I asked.
He gave a yank of impatience to his tie and nearly asphyxiated himself. He bit the words off as though speaking to an idiot child. “For the goddamn party the fags are giving.”
And with that, he stomped out and slammed the door.
I turned to Val and whimpered in disbelief, “2F invited him and not me?”
Val shrugged and turned back to the saucepan, but I saw the smug grin on his face!
“Hey,” he said, “that’s the way the bong bounces.” And he fired up a monster joint and laughed himself sick.
Threw myself on the disco couch, preparing to tantrum, but no one was watching, and anyway, I was exhausted from all the lovemaking.
Chapter 10
Those of us laid off still had to come in for another week to clean out our cubicles, finish what work we could, and delegate all unfinished tasks. Mr. Genett had organized a memorial service in the conference room to commemorate our late unit head, then explained the layoffs.
“Sorry,” he said, not sounding a bit sorry, “but after all the brouhaha with that website and the resultant bad press and, uh, legal ramifications, all departments have to pare down. What with the costs incurred by imprudent use of the company credit card and so on and so forth, publishing will be keeping only one employee in each of its units. “At least Bev was booted out along with me; I was glad Lura and Francis got to keep their jobs. Mr. Genett decided to keep most of the production slaves so they could take up the slack left by departing coworkers. The production slaves looked rather proud of themselves for once. They didn’t yet realize that they would not be compensated for all the extra work! The cycle was starting over again, although they would never object. Zombies, by definition, never question poor work conditions.
Tech support kept the Jeffs, as they had seniority and didn’t protest pay cuts.
I stayed under the afghan on the disco couch for ages.
Val was very sympathetic and told me he would handle the rent until I got another job. Wasn’t sure what kind of job I would be good at. The only thing I’d found that I liked to do was write mean things about people on the website.
Weeks passed in this fashion: resting on the disco couch—gathering strength for the next sickening job, whatever it would be—bravely venturing out to Arturo’s Seafood and Liquor Shop for sustenance, eating take-out pizza (wheat crust, soysage) with Lura, Francis, and Jeff every Wednesday evening, taking the El downtown to Marshall Field’s for the thirteen-hour sale (maxed out MasterCard—stupid thousand-dollar limit—found gorgeous irregular Donna Karan camp shirt, very good for future work wardrobe, left sleeve can be shortened), sipping iced tea in the backyard while ignoring Alma’s screeching re: weedy veg patch, and getting Val to drive me to Gran’s (too weak for the Red Line).
But all that began to change the day Val came home from work and handed me the envelope. It was addressed to the two of us, and he sat next to me on the couch while I opened it. Removed an engraved invitation, read it silently, passed it to Val, then retreated under the afghan.
He read aloud the awful news.
THE PLEASURE OF YOUR COMPANY
IS REQUESTED AT THE MARRIAGE OF
RUTH ANDERSON PREWITT
TO
JANN MATTHIAS HELLSTROM
“This is upsetting to you?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I murmured. “Kind of.”
He pulled the afghan off my head. “Why? Didn’t she tell you?”
“Well, I think she sort of mentioned it a few times, but I may have blocked it out—”
“You better stop feeling sorry for yourself,” ordered Val. “And stop lying around here all day.”
“Why?” I asked listlessly. My arm flopped off the couch, but I just left it on the floor amidst the dust bunnies.
“Because it’s not healthy,” said Val.
I sighed in response. What would Val know about health, anyway? He is a stranger to regular mealtimes and nutritious eating.
“You don’t know how good you have it,” he said. “So your mom’s getting married. So what?”
“She’s marrying the hulking Nordo. I have no career. Nobody loves me.”
“You dumb-ass. You really are a dumb-ass. You have me here helping you instead of kicking your lazy flat butt out. Francis and Lura and Fat Bald Jeff come by all the time to visit. And speaking o
f Fat Bald Jeff, have you even stopped to think how grateful you should be to him for the Crook-Eye project? Sometimes, Addie, I feel like smacking you right in the mouth.” I hoped he would not smack me in the mouth. My bucks give me a sad-bunny look that subdues most aggression, but Val can be very unpredictable.
“You found something you were good at, you took a stand against the bullshit that happens to peons at work, and you’re not even happy. The only thing you’ve lost is a crappy job you hated anyway. You have friends, the world’s most tolerant roommate, a cool mother. She calls every day to check on you. When’s the last time my mother called here?”
Felt ashamed. Val’s parents moved to Portland last year and forgot all about him.
He slumped on the couch next to me. “They’ve never even invited me out there.”
We don’t talk about the Newtons. Now that Val and his siblings are all in their twenties, their parents kind of dumped them and just took off. On holidays he comes with me to Gran’s or goes to his brother’s condo in the suburbs or sometimes stays home by himself, hoping his mom and dad will call. They don’t know he has a new paralegal job, or that he passed out dehydrated at my birthday party last year and needed twelve stitches in his chin. My mother and Jann drove him to the hospital.
“You’re not missing anything in convention-flouting Oregon,” I said, resting my head against him.
“I know,” he said.
“I hated living there,” I continued.
“Look, I know, Addie. Can you just sit here a while and shut up?”
At the end of my family’s on-the-road living experiment, we ended up at the long-sought commune in Eugene, Oregon. Endless months of communal peanut butter, performing natural functions out in the open, and minimal bathing concluded at a bonfire celebrating the autumnal equinox. The parents were dancing around the fire with the other idle layabouts. I sat with my back toward the hippies, filing my toenails with a piece of river rock. As usual, they started bickering over who would have to leave the party and put me to bed. Mother lost the argument and dragged me by the hand to our cabin. Surely other mothers, somewhere, delighted in spending bedtime with their children. She groaned and complained the whole way through the woods that she had never been able to do anything for herself—everything she did was for her husband, her child, the commune, and Grandmother. I found that a little melodramatic; when we still lived in our old house, she was always gadding about to the grocery store and block club meetings.
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