by Rachel Cohn
Then I cuddled into bed with Gingerbread, who told me everything would be okay and that I should be nicer to unhappy people.
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Twenty-nine
Communes are not meant for families, I suspect. That's why they're communes. You can choose your family if you start your own commune. That's the new rule.
My next commune will be in Greenwich Village. We will wear rainbow flags for clothes, and charm bracelets with pictures of Ann-Margret around our ankles. We will only eat Michelangelo-worthy cakes baked by Danny, and we will dance around to punk rock thrasher music, with subways thundering beneath our floors, making us vibrate with pleasure, but not the sleazy kind.
Our commune will be all beautiful men and me. It will be like that Wonder Woman island in reverse, except we won't have superpowers, although we will all look great and be super strong and we will really dig on our collective philosophy, whenever we figure out what that is.
Since I will be the only girl and since all the boys won't be interested in me in that dangerous way, I will stay out of trouble. I will meditate and figure out ways to get along with the outside species of women who like to get bogged down in petty shit and that's why we had to start our own commune, to get away from them. I won't leave the commune until I'm ready, which could be never.
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Thirty
So there was something called a lunchtime poll taken at the Village Idiots, and in this poll it was decided that I was the Village Idiot du jour . According to the poll, I overreacted about Autumn and I jumped to conclusions about Shrimp's relationship with her. According to the poll, I should have trusted my boyfriend more and been a little more secure with myself before accusing him of cheating on me. According to the poll of customers, who I might add were very happy munching away on their quiches and cakes so they had no reason to bitchslap me, I was the wrong party, not the wronged party.
One thing about being a barista is you can't just be all coy with your mysterious self. Serving and drinking too many straight shots of caffeine will sear right through that. You have to let your coffee-drinking clientele feel your pain, even if it means telling them your love saga over and over and letting them analyze it and take polls about it and such.
I decided not to hold their opinions against the customers by watering down their lattes or serving them whole milk with their cappuccinos when their lean muscley selves had requested skim. I decided to take their opinions under advisement.
After the poll, Danny came up to me and said, "Were you planning on telling me about your and Lisbeth's visit ever? It's been two days."
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"Not particularly," I said. How mad was I? A lot. On top of her nasty insinuations was the fact that she was not some cool older chick who would like take me under her wing and divulge important information about men and sex and want to exchange funky clothes and go get pedicures and make puking noises while we looked at the skinny model freaks in the fashion mags as our feet soaked.
It was lucky a lot of steam was coming from the milk I was foaming so my almost-tears did not seem obvious.
Danny said, "Well, I'd like to know your side of it."
"My side! There are no sides here! She was wrong, simple as that. She busted in on me unannounced and then called me 'daddy's little indiscretion' and was not exactly what you would call gracious and welcoming."
"Ouch," Danny said, which was so cute because he had adopted one of my pet expressions and he said it exactly the way I do. "Take a break, Ceece, let's sit down and have a Java."
"Coffee," I said. "Let's not use that word 'Java.'"
"Why?"
"Let's just not." Somehow in my rendering of the Shrimp saga to Danny, Aaron, and dozens of Village Idiots customers, I forgot to mention that teensy little part about how I had the major hots for Shrimp's brother. My bad.
The lunchtime-poll crowd had left and the cafe was nearly empty. Danny and I took seats in the big cushion chairs at the front, by the window looking out onto the Greenwich Village scene.
"Lisbeth said you had some guy there with you."
I sipped my iced mocha and summoned an innocent expression to my face. Me?
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"Ceece?" Danny said.
Danny was just too nice; I couldn't lie to him. I raised my hand like I was in court and said, "Guilty, your honor."
"Who?"
I squirmed. Danny said, "Please don't tell me it was Luis."
I raised my hand again and repeated, "Guilty."
"Cyd Charisse!" Danny said. He tried to feign shock but I think he was impressed, too. I mean come on, Luis is major score gorgeous. "Does Daddy know?"
"Not unless your sister told him."
"She's your sister too," Danny said.
"She's not. She's a biological oddity that I choose not to accept as my blood."
And then who should walk into the cafe but that same biological oddity. She did not see us sitting in the window but ran right up to the counter where Aaron was tossing a salad.
'Aaron!" she squeaked and it was sad, her tone was totally soft and you could tell by the forwardness of her chest and the happy expression on her stern face that she had a thing for her brother's lover. I'll say this for Frank, he breeds complicated people.
Now Danny took on the innocent expression. "Oh, did I forget to mention I asked her to drop by this afternoon for a visit? She had a business meeting not too far from here."
"You," I accused. If it were possible to be annoyed with someone as adorable as Danny, I was, but I admit, I was also curious. My first meeting with Rhonda lisBETH had been disastrous, but if Danny and Aaron could like
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her as much as they did, there had to be something redeemable about her.
Aaron led her over to sit with us. I would guess he and Danny both knew about lisBETH's crush and they were trying to butter her up.
"Oh, hello," she said when she saw me. "I didn't know you'd be here." She gave Aaron a look like, I have to share you with her ?
"Likewise," I said. I gave Aaron a look like, do you get a major case of the icks from It having a crush on you?
Danny said, "Did you ladies know that both of you have a sweet tooth? You both like my chocolate mousse cake best of all the cakes here, and you both like to drink mochas!"
Now lisBETH and I both gave Danny the same look: You're stretching.
"Well, then," Danny said, deflating. "Aaron and I will just go fix some food for all of us. Why don't you ladies sit here and chat while we're in the kitchen?" They scurried off before we could protest.
It sat down opposite me and once again the staring showdown began. She broke it first by asking, "So, was that your boyfriend the other night?"
"Nah," I said. "Just some guy."
She borderline snorted. '"Just some guy'? Nice. Really nice."
I told her, "If you didn't happen to notice, he was way
hot."
There was almost a smile on her dour face. "I'll give you that," she admitted.
"I'll say!" I answered. I did not include, and he's
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almost of legal drinking age! Howdya like them apples! LisBETH said, "How many boyfriends have you had?"
"Major or minor ones?"
There was a stunned pause, then, "Hmm," she said. Somehow I had a feeling lisBETH hadn't had many boyfriends in her life and maybe I should shut up about my bounty of booty. "Excuse me a moment, I need to use the ladies." She hopped up from the table and headed toward the bathroom.
Her premium leather briefcase was lying in the window seat. Danny and Aaron were in the back kitchen. I could not resist. Underneath the tablecloth, I slipped my hand onto the briefcase and unlatched it.
Briefcase contents: one electronic organizer; three huge business documents called prospectuses; a disturbingly organized group of faxes, clipped together in sets of descending order by size; a cosmetics bag containing sunscreen, a Chanel lipstick in a ridiculously tasteful pale color, three tampons (the
environmentally correct kind), one mini-bottle of hand sterilizer, and no stash of condoms--not even in the zippered compartment (although there was a business card in there that said only "Paulo" and had a telephone number on it...hmmm); a cell phone that was actually a funky crystal blue color; a book called Forgiving Our Fathers: Successful Strategies for Building Healthy and Happy Relationships ; and a book with a cover by someone called Goethe, but when you opened it up, it was actually a Chicken Soup for the Soul book.
One more thing. There was a small framed picture of Frank, lisBETH, and Danny and their mom. Danny was
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about five in the picture, lisBETH about ten, and the family was gathered around a Christmas tree opening presents. Danny had tousled bed head and was wearing pajamas with feet and lisBETH's hair was pulled back into two tight pony-tails with ribbons and she was wearing a girlie Christmas-colored frock. What kid takes time to get dressed and put their hair into neat ponytails on Christmas morning when there are presents to rip apart? The Rhonda lisBETH kind, I guess. Their mom, who was more homely than pretty, and sort of full-bodied in that unhappy Betty Crocker kind of way, was gazing adoringly at Frank, who was handsomely staring off into the distance, oblivious to the family moment.
So that was the family torn apart by Frank's deceit. I wondered if Nancy had ever seen pictures of Frank's kids when she and Frank were carrying on.
I looked up and saw lisBETH huddled in conversation with Danny at the back of the cafe. They were all hushed whispers and hand gestures. It looked like Danny was pleading, "Please!"
LisBETH returned to the table, sat down, and announced, "Let's try this over again." She said it more like a demand than a request. "Shall we get together sometime, just the two of us?"
"I'm around."
She said, "I'm at the office most days until about ten in the evening. In fact, I need to go back now for another meeting. How about this Saturday? I think I could fit you in sometime around lunchtime."
" Could you?" I said, but she did not hear the sarcasm.
"I could. I'll pick you up at my father's at noon."
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"Lucky me." LisBETH took her electronic organizer out to punch in the date. Her father's indeed.
I wondered if she had any curiosity about me, if I went to the ladies if she would try to open my plastic Sailor Moon backpack that I bought in Japantown in San Francisco.
Contents: various lipsticks and powder compacts and my birth control prescription strewn across the bottom; the picture of me (laminated) that Shrimp drew the first day we met at Sugar Pie's; crayon letters and school pictures Josh and Ash sent me when I was at boarding school; a pillow I made for Gingerbread in home ec class; my Walkman with a mix tape that Shrimp made me that I actually listen to a lot because it has the songs from The Sound of Music interspersed with all these hardcore punk songs; a menu from Java the Hut; a small cosmetics case containing dental floss, a toothbrush, and toothpaste for use after all meals because I have had a major crush on my dentist since I was eight and I like to hear him rave about my dental hygiene; and in the little zipper compartment, a stash of condoms, and in a small case of no particular distinction, a silver baby rattle I bought at the drugstore the day out I found for sure I was pregnant, that somehow I have never managed to remember to throw out.
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Thirty-one
Luis hasn't been by all week so Gingerbread and I decided to take matters into our own hands. So to speak. Luis must be a Caller ID kinda fella because he did not answer when I called him on his mobile. That meant I had to go look for him myself.
Frank was working, not like it would have mattered. After two weeks, we had settled into a pattern of don't ask, don't tell. There was never going to be any Daddy/Princess connection between us, and strange as it may sound, I wasn't so bummed about that. Occasional dinners and carefully plotted blocks of "quality time" were the best Frank had to give; frankly, after two weeks of Frank, that was plenty.
Gingerbread and I grabbed the menu from Miss Loretta's House of Great Eats and headed out on our quest for Luis. The funny thing about Manhattan is that on TV and in movies, everyone seems so gruff and the streets so mean. And it's true, when you are pounding the pavement here, masses of people whoosh right past you and nobody bothers to say "Have a nice day," which they are always saying in California and which I personally find creepy, but in New York, if you actually stop for a moment, at a bus stop or a subway station, a newsstand or the grabba pizza joint, if you actually make eye contact with a person and ask for help, they can't wait to help you! People in New York love talking about New York. Stand at the pizza counter and ask for directions to the Village, and five people who were
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reading their tabloid newspapers or listening to the talk radio and ignoring everybody will all of a sudden perk up and give opinions about different ways to take the bus or subway, or what directions to give the cab driver so the driver doesn't try to cheat you by mistaking you for a tourist and taking the long way. The guy at the newsstand where I asked for directions to Miss Loretta's, who by now knew me because every day I had bought a pack of gum from him on the way to the Village Idiots, practically wanted to walk me to Miss Loretta's, he was so excited I engaged him in direction conversation. Geez. Talk about a mean city--not.
I walked over to Madison Avenue and started walking up, with Gingerbread perched in my designer handbag that Nancy gave me on my last birthday, a bag that in her book is totally chic and expensive, and in my book is a perfect luxury limo for Gingerbread. It was fun to look in the windows at all the posh designer fashions and haute couture wedding gowns--fun except when you think about how people like Nancy starve themselves to wear those chic threads. About twenty blocks up, the fancy stores stopped and the neighborhood changed-- the color of it, the stores, the buildings. Now we were in the 'hood. We turned a corner onto a side street and there it was, Miss Loretta's House of Great Eats, in the ground floor of an ancient beautiful brownstone. It was the kind of building so old and cool you could totally imagine that like two hundred years ago some quirky colonial girl lived there, afraid of being found out she was a witch--if brownstones had been around back in that day. And guess who was sitting out on the brown-stone stoop listening to some old school funk radio with his buddies: Loo-eese.
"Hey," I said.
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"Hey yourself," he said when he saw me. He stood up and walked down the stairs and over to the street, I guess so his buddies would not hear our convo. "Whatcha doin' here?" He looked embarrassed to see me.
"I have a karmic debt to repay," I said.
"Huh?"
"Two words: I'm sorry."
Luis got a little eensy smile on his gorge face. He said very low, "Yeah, me too. That whole scene was so uncool on so many levels."
"I am so hearing you," I said, also speaking low, like we were spies. "I shouldn't have called you when you were with your dudes when I knew you'd feel obligated to come over and keep me out of trouble 'cuz all I was doing was trying to make trouble with you."
"Yeah," he said, "well, I wasn't no choirboy either." Luis paused, appraising me, but not in the scamming kind of way, more appreciatively and respectfully. "Ya know, I wouldn't have thought you would be the type of girl to come up to this neighborhood just to apologize."
"You might think I am spoiled, Luis, but I am not."
"I'm hearing you now," he said. He full-on smiled now and my heart melted but in a we're-going-to-be-friends way because that sleazy feeling when we're more is just not nice.
"So, ya wanna grabba slice, right?" he asked. "Ya wanna know the best pizza place in the projects up the street, right?"
I said, "I want to meet your aunt, Miss Loretta."
"Smart girl," he said. "C'mon in."
The restaurant was in the ground level space under-
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neath the stoop. It had red gingham curtains hanging on the windows, and pretty lace tablecloths on the small number of
tables. For a little nook of a place uptown with not that much room, it was packed with people. I went to the counter where a slender black lady with salt-and-pepper hair was manning the register.
Luis said, "Hey, Aunt L, this is Frank's...you know."
Miss L looked me up and down. "You're not kidding!" she said. "It's nice to meet you, Cyd Charisse," she said.
I got a sudden case of shy and I mumbled, "Thank you, you too." From inside the designer handbag, Gingerbread was squirming and kicking. I took Gingerbread out of the bag and said, "This is Gingerbread and she was named after the gingerbread you had made that Frank was carrying one time when I met Frank when I was little."
Miss L did not ask how old was I to be carrying a doll. She extended her hand to Gingerbread's. "Nice to meet you, Gingerbread," she said. "I've never met a namesake of my cooking before. I'm honored."
Gingerbread beamed. She's a sweet little rag doll not used to getting such a reception from anyone other than me.
Miss Loretta said, "I'm knowing your father many years. Known him since we're both children, that's how far back we go." How relieved was I that she dispensed with the niece/goddaughter/whatever business.
I said, "Was he always such a dawg?"
She laughed and said, "Pretty much. It's not funny, I know, but it's the truth. Lord, you are the image of him! That must make your momma crazy!"
I said, "You reap what you sow."
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Miss Loretta raised her eyebrow at me. "Well, we all make our choices, and our mistakes. And then we learn and we grow and we move on."
Interesting.
Miss Loretta pointed to an empty shelf over one of the windows. "See that empty space there? My favorite doll from when I was a girl sat there until recently. Her name was Flowers and she was given to me by an aunt from Jamaica. Flowers was as black as night and wore a turban on her head and I swear to you, she knew when I was even thinking about being naughty."