I Love My Side of the Story (6 page)

Walking fast, I turn a corner and hide
in the inset doorway of a looming apartment building. Chest heaving, I marvel
at what I just did; an apple for an Apple - what poetic justice! I meant to hit
Josh, not his computer, but …meh…I’ll take it.

My phone will start ringing soon.
Snatching it from my bag, I’m grateful I hadn’t yet plugged it into the kitchen
wall, because there is no way I’d have remembered to grab it through this
adrenalin rush. I might need it later. But not now. Frantically, I power it off
to avoid the onslaught of his calls that’s sure to begin any second. I peek my
head out to see if I’m being followed. Nothing. Taking a chance, my heart pounding
so hard I can feel it in my eyeballs, I stuff the phone back into my bag and
break out into a run; jacket in one flailing arm, bag in the other.

I race as fast as I can,
free
, past countless faceless blurs;
zipping around some, forcing others to jump or get trampled. Block after block
I run until my legs are like noodles. Still I run, not knowing how to slow much
less stop my velocity. My legs threaten to buckle. I’m out of options. I grab
onto a light post, hard, slamming into it like a first-timer on roller blades
who went down a steep hill with no skills for braking. Flushed, and aching, I
close my eyes against the vertigo. After a dozen deep concentrated breaths, my
head begins to clear and I can smell the pungent scent of garlic bread. I also
hear whispering, and can feel I’m being watched. I open my eyes fast and sneak
a panting look to my right. Patrons on the patio of a quaint Italian restaurant
stare back at me, bewildered. Some even look annoyed. I let go of the light
post, stand up straight. Shoving wild bunches of hair away from my face, I
realize,
I need my girlfriends.

I say aloud to everyone and no one,
“Nothing to see here. Go back to your lives,” and walk away, mortified. From
the Italian flags hanging from buildings, I ascertain quickly that I’m in
Little Italy. I have to get to The East Village, to Jessica’s. She’s the
closest. We’ll call Nicole from there and she’ll come running to help. Thank
God. The same thoughts spin over and over in my mind. Do I want to break up
with Josh? Am I really done? Give up, for good? Truly, in my heart? I refuse to
be one of those couples who live like roommates rather than lovers. I just
can’t. I won’t. Something has got to change. My girls will know what to do. My
tired legs press onward, moving me toward an unknown future I can’t stop
thinking about.

I’m surprised at how quickly I reach the
East Village. I’m disoriented; time feels like hours and seconds have switched
places with each other. As I get closer to her home, a memory of Jess showing
up at my place after she found out David cheated, pops into my mind. I’m where
she was, shattered and lost – my relationship over. I touch my cheeks to
find out if I’m… yes, there are tears.

I need my
girlfriends.

I break into a run, powered by fear.
When I reach Jess’s building, I pull on the handle. It doesn’t budge. The lock
was broken, wasn’t it? For like, ever? I yank on it again. Still nothing. And I
realize,
they’ve fixed the door, just
like she’s fixed her life.
I check the directory, push the buzzer for her
place, and wait. Behind me, a crazy person passes, talking to herself. I see
myself in her thinking, we’re all two steps from crazy, huh?
Jess, where are you?
I push the buzzer
again. Nothing. Shit shit shit! I can’t call her. No fucking way am I turning
on my phone.

Through the door I see a man who looks
like Super Mario in a suit, walking toward me. He opens the door. “Can I help
you? I’m the manager. You have a friend in here?”

I stammer, “My friend Jess… Jessica
Harper. Seventh Floor. She isn’t answering the buzzer.”

“She left with a new male friend awhile
ago.”

I stare at the sidewalk, not moving and
remember, “Oh, of course. It’s Friday. I forgot.” I see a tear fall onto the
pavement, and hurriedly wipe my cheek, embarrassed.

He says, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” I nod several times and
sniff.

He smiles kindly and says, “I remember
you. You came with Jessica when she rented the apartment a few months ago. I’m
Prizzi.”

I
don’t
remember. “Oh right, of course. Good to see you again.”

“You want to come in and wait for her in
the lobby?”

I shake my head no. Waiting would be
useless. She won’t come home until late, or maybe not at all. What would I do
without my phone to keep me occupied… pull out my fingernails? “That’s okay.
Thank you.”

“Okay. Be safe now,” he says, hesitating
to close the door behind me as I turn around. “Oh, miss?” I turn back, my face
blank. “I remember you very well. I remember thinking,
now that’s a strong young woman
. Whatever it is you’re going
through, you can handle it.”

I blink, my mouth opens in surprise. I
shut it. Pride pulls at my insides. “What a beautiful thing to say! Thank you.”

“It’s gonna be okay,” he says, the
wrinkles in his face spreading wide, a lined smiling frame around kind eyes.

“Thank you, Mr. Uh…”

“Prizzi,” he reminds me, gently.

“Right. I’m sorry. Thank you, Mr.
Prizzi. Thank you. Really.” My smile is more tentative than his, but it’s
growing. I watch him shut the door and walk back up the hall.

Facing the hustling electricity of
Manhattan on a Friday night, I take a deep breath, let what he said sink in,
and commit to myself that I will survive this heartbreak. I have my friends,
right? I have a job I love, most of the time…right? If Josh doesn’t want to be
with me, then screw him! I’ll give the place to him and move out – start
fresh. I’ve been worrying about his ability to pay the bills on an actor’s
fluctuating and unreliable salary; now I won’t have to. I make more money than
he does, so I can do it without too much trouble. And I mean
really
- if he doesn’t want to make love
to me, then he’s an idiot! The world is my oyster. I need a drink!

It’s 64º out, but I hadn’t felt chilly
until now. I slip my coat on and wonder how I’m going to get a hold of Nicole
without using my phone. Prayer? Oh no! I forgot. She’s out on a first date with
that ballsy, bartender guy. If I called her, I know she’d come. Same with
Jessica. What should I do?

I mutter aloud, “A hot night with a
bartender sounds pretty fucking awesome right about now.” Some lady, early fifties,
hears me and gives me a reproachful look. “You’re not getting laid, either!
Don’t lie!” Off her look of annoyance, I yell to her back. “See? I knew it!”

I’m yelling at strangers. What is wrong
with me? I have to suck it up and turn on the phone – I need to call
them. I pull out my phone; push the button to power it on. It pops open, and I
see a powder puff and makeup. Why does my phone have… oh… Pulling out my real
phone, I look at it and hesitate. Jessica and Nicole are in here, behind the
darkness. But so is Josh and a million texts and voice mails. Or worse, what if
there are no messages; what if he hasn’t called?

My stomach flips and I shove the phone
back into my bag, shaking my head. “I can’t. I can’t,” I mumble aloud.

Looking up, I see an old couple,
mid-seventies, dressed up for a night on the town, holding hands. The pace with
which they walk, deliberate and steady, is in direct contrast to the frenetic
youthful energy swarming past. As soon as I can’t see them anymore, I bounce
around people to catch up. For three blocks I follow them as they talk to each
other, saying things I can’t hear, things nobody in the world can hear, but
them. When the crowd swallows them and takes them away from me, I stop and a
sob catches in my throat. That’s what I want. What they have…

“Are you sad?” I look down to see a
little girl, maybe six years old, her black hair curling out from beneath a
pink hat. “Why are you sad?”

“Kayla! Leave her alone,” the mother
calls from where she’s zipping up the younger brother’s jacket. He struggles
against her, tugging.

“But mommy, she’s sad!” Kayla calls back
from behind open innocence. “Why?” she asks again.

I wipe my cheeks. “Um… I’m sad because I
want something I don’t have.”

She shrugs with all of her body, the way
only children can, and says, “Then go get it!”

“I’m sorry. She’s very strong-willed.
Kayla, come here! I have to catch Dylan!” her mom says, chasing the little guy
who’s made a run for it.

“Bye!” Kayla says, and takes off after
her family.

“Bye Kayla!” I call out loud enough for
her to hear. She waves, not looking back, the back of her hand tiny with nails
polished matching pink.

Then go get
it.
If it were only that easy, Kayla. Wait until you start dating.

Where am I? I look around. This looks
familiar. I look up to find the bar Nicole and I were at last Saturday, the
night Jess introduced us to her new guy. The heavy charcoal grey door takes
effort to open and I give my ID to a very intimidating bouncer, inside. When he
smiles wide at me and says, “Welcome,” it takes me completely off guard.

“Uh, thanks.” I take my ID and have the
odd feeling I’m supposed to be here. Pushing through the Friday night crowd -
sparse lighting, red booths, great music - I see a seat at the bar about to be
vacated by a guy in his early twenties with long shaggy hair and cool glasses.
Alternative music type. We exchange a polite smile while I wait for him to pay
his bill – I’m glad there’s a seat; my legs ache. He leaves me to it with
an open-palm wave like a magician showing you there’s nothing up his sleeve.

Climbing onto the barstool, I reach
below the laminated counter for a hook to hang my bag on, and find one. I try
to add my jacket, but it won’t get on the hook. I wrestle with the little cloth
tag to stretch it, but it’s new and tight.

“Having trouble?” asks a deep male voice
to my left.

“I’m trying to get my coat on the hook,”
I grunt, hunched forward, both arms under the bar, struggling. From my
position, I crane my head to look at him, and when I see a gorgeous man –
sandy brown hair, warm eyes, also brown, well dressed, maybe six foot two or
three – I fail to hide a gasp. And here
I
am looking like The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Great. My fingers
finally manage to wrestle the coat’s tag into submission and I slide it on the
hook. I sit up quickly, straighten my posture, and run my fingers through my
hair.
  

“Got it. It’s fine. I got it on there,”
I say.

He smiles, “It didn’t stand a chance.”

I grin shyly. “Ha. That’s funny.”
Wow, this guy is hot
. I divert my ogling
gaze to the bartender, a striking woman with super-short jet-black hair and
pretty makeup. She asks what she can get for me, with a weird look in her eye.
Him,
I want to say, but instead I choose
the more civilized, “Do you have a nice chardonnay?”

“How nice do you want it?” she asks,
referring to the price.
Up against a wall
or swinging from a tree. I have a feeling he could do both.

“Um…”

“Seven, nine, or fourteen,” she offers.
Times?

“Get her the fourteen,” he answers. “And
put it on my card, please.” Oh…
dollars.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say,
flustered.

“You deserve it. The battle of the coat
was won.” No man has bought me a drink since Josh and I started dating. It
feels… good?

I chuckle like I’m trying too hard. She
shoots me a knowing look and leaves. “Thank you,” I squeak.

“You’re welcome.” It’s his turn to cast
me a sideways glance. Does he like me? Hmm…

I pretend to look around the room while
I sneakily check him out. He’s got a nice face. He looks like a celebrity who I
can’t quite place. “You’re not here with anybody?” I ask, pointing to the
couple making out behind him. “Or is that your buddy and he found a new best
friend…”

He sneaks a look back, then whispers to
me, “I think I got ditched.”

“Just a little bit,” I whisper back.

“I’m not with anyone, no. Thought I
would have a date for tonight, but…” he trails off, then adds after a moment,
“I’m here on business. I don’t live here.”

“You flew here with a woman and she
ditched you? There’s no way!” I clamp my hands over my mouth. He laughs.

“Thank you, but no. I flew here alone.
She lives here. But she’s met someone since I was here last, so…”

“Ah. Gotcha. I’m sorry…”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. I
barely knew her… met her during my last visit here, but I thought we hit it
off. She was fun. Different. I don’t know.” He takes a sip of his beer and
looks ahead.

I nod. We sit in silence for a moment or
two. “You hoped.
”

He looks up, surprised. “Yeah. Exactly…
I hoped.”

“That hurts the most.” I turn to the
bartender and say, “Beautiful glass,” as she places my wine in front of me.

She says with a wink, “That’s what you
get when you go for the good stuff,” and walks away. I don’t like the way she
looks at me. What is she thinking?