Milkrun (10 page)

I take a bite of my sandwich and read on.

“The sensation made him cry out. He lowered his head and ran his hands over her peaked nipples. He'd never wanted a woman the way he wanted Julie. He caught her hips, wrapping her long silky legs tightly around his waist, and drove himself deep within her hot wetness. She was tight and slick. With every stroke, his thrusts became deeper, harder, faster, and she moaned. He no longer cared what his family had said. Now that he had this woman, he knew he could never let her go.”

“Oh, Ronan!” I cry out through sticky lips that have been partially glued to my teeth with peanut butter, as Julie digs her nails into her lover's smooth back. I continue reading.

“He left one of his hands on her soft, supple breasts and used his other one to pull her head to wardhim. He crushed his lips over hers and drove his tongue deep into her mouth. With every rocking motion, he moved fuller and deeper inside of her, joining them, moving them closer and closer to a tidal wave of pleasure…”

My ringing phone interrupts me. Oops, I forgot to edit. But who can pay attention to condoms (oops again, Freudian slip—I mean commas) when it's getting so damn hot in here? Then again, Julie's not paying attention to condoms, either. Hopefully she's on the pill.

“Jackie speaking,” I say.

“Darling, it's me.” Am I Darling? “Me” is Jonathan Gradinger. How did he get this number?

“Hi, Jon,” I say in my most I'm-really-busy-here-so-I'm-going-to-have-to-get-off-the-phone-shortly voice. “How are you?”

“Good, good. You? Been busy?”

“Yeah, busy. Sorry I haven't got back to you. You know, work.”

“Yeah, ever since last week's walkathon, I've been swamped with podiatric emergencies.”

“What walkathon?”

“Some women marching at night because they don't feel safe after dark or something. Some feminist crap.”

It's official. I hate him. “Actually, I'm looking to find a good self-defense course.”

“You mean like karate?”

“No, I mean self-defense.”

“Just kick the guy in the balls, and he'll stop bugging you.”

Something I should practice on you, lover-boy.

“Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to catch a flick tonight.”

“Sorry, Jon, I'm going to be stuck here late tonight. I have no idea what time I'll get out.”

“No problem. I'll wait up for you. We don't have to see a movie. We can do something else.”

“I really don't want to make you wait. Tonight's just not a good night.” Just what else do you have in mind, lover-boy?

“Okay. We'll do something tomorrow then.”

This guy is like a yeast infection that just won't go away.

“I really don't think it's a good idea, Jon. Actually, I'm still kind of hung up on someone.” I can't believe I just used Jerk-Face as an excuse. At least Jer is still good for something.

“You didn't mention anyone.”

“I know. I'm sorry. I was involved with someone before I moved here and I'm just not over him yet.” See, that part is true. I'm not lying. It's not something I would have admitted if I had liked Jonathan, but whatever. It sounds a lot better than saying, “It's not you, it's me.”

“What happened?”

“He was supposed to move here with me, but it didn't work out.”

“Okay, no problem. I understand. Call me if you ever change your mind.”

“Definitely.” Definitely
not.
I know I'm probably breaking his heart, but what else can I do? Fashion Magazine Fun Fact # 5: it's better to be cruel at the beginning than to string him along.

“So, Jackie, since you won't go out with me, do you have any friends you can fix me up with?”

I've come to a conclusion: all guys are assholes. Particularly the ones I date.

But even this asshole has nothing on Jeremy.

Jeremy was supposed to move to Boston with me. I had finished one year of a master's program and he had finally finished undergraduate school. It's not that he's stupid or anything. He took a year off after high school, and then took four classes a semester instead of five in university so that he could be involved in school politics. He was vice president of the student body; Wendy and I spent days making his campaign posters, my favorite being a bristol board of three-dimensional cardboard bricks with the slogan “Jeremy for VP, Not Just Another Brick in the Wall.” He was a Pink Floyd fan, what can I say? I glued his picture to each board; he looked so cute until someone decided to color in one tooth black on each poster.

“I told you I shouldn't be smiling,” he said.

So self-centered, that boy.

Like when he would pick out extra marshmallows from the Lucky Charms box for his bowl. He never did grasp the concept that more marshmallows for him meant less for me.

Or when I sat with him at the dentist's office for three hours when he had a cavity, because I know how much he hates going to the dentist. (“They take pleasure in my pain,” he'd say.) But when we had that condom-breaking scare, the precursor to me going on the pill, did he offer to come with me to the gyno? Nope. I had to drag Wendy.

And now that we're on the subject of Jeremy's overwhelming self-centeredness, allow me to describe the Boston fiasco. Picture this: your long-term boyfriend gets into a philosophy master's program at Boston University. He tells you the city has a million opportunities, terrific jobs, wonderful people, and asks you to go with him. You agree to make the move, not because of the opportunities or jobs but because of the people, namely him.

You drop out of your own master's program—you were becoming disillusioned with academics anyway, you told yourself. You agree to get your own apartment because you can tell he's not “ready” yet. You agree despite your mother's warning that a girl shouldn't follow a boy around the country without a ring on her finger. You think your mother's ridiculous—you're only twenty-three, way too young to get married. So you look for editorial jobs because you were an editor at your college newspaper, and you know you don't want to go into academia and you don't want to be a teacher and you're not really sure what else you can do with an English lit degree.

Cupid offers you a job that comes with full benefits and an intensive two-week copyediting course. You know correcting grammar isn't what you want to do with your life, but since the only thing you currently feel worth doing is being with Jer, you take the job. So you call your old college friend, Natalie, who introduces you to Sam. You sign a lease. And your boyfriend is still looking for a place. And looking.

And then one day while you're packing your books in the cardboard boxes from the liquor store (you were just finishing the nineteenth century; you always organize your books chronologically, not by author), the so-called love of your life rings the bell. How sweet, you think. He's brought you supper. And he has brought you supper, Thai noodles and egg rolls. But he's also brought a plane ticket. One plane ticket.
His
plane ticket. His plane ticket to Thailand.

He says he has to find himself, and has deferred his acceptance into the master's program until the winter semester. You wonder when he got lost in the first place, but this you don't ask. He circles his hand along your back and tells you that you'll be fine without him, that it's only for a few months. You start crying and ask how he could do this to you, and he says it has nothing to do with you. And that's just the point.

Then you suggest an idea: you'll go, too. You haven't taken time off in a while, and you've certainly earned a vacation. You'll take out a loan. You'll even learn to eat with chopsticks. But he isn't looking at you anymore; he's looking past you at the print of Francesco Hayex's
The Kiss
hanging on your wall. The print he bought you for your birthday. The Romantic painting's dusty red color of the Robin Hood–like hero matched with your duvet, and at the time you thought the fact that he'd picked such a romantic painting, one featuring a hero gallantly kissing a woman, instead of any other picture he could have bought, meant something.

“This is something I have to do alone,” he says. You cringe. Suddenly, you start to cry again, and he's kissing your cheeks. His hands are under your shirt, and somehow you find yourself in bed with him even though you think you might hate him.

And then you're helping him shop for backpacks, travel pillows, and
Let's Go
books, and you're trying to smile and be supportive, and he kisses you as you stand in line in front of the cash register. And then the night before you move, he's helping you finish packing, and you're sitting on a duffel bag filled with your shoes, and he says, “We have to talk about something.” And suddenly you want him to shut up, shut up,
shut the fuck up,
but he tells you he wants you to see other people while he's gone.

Translation: he wants to screw Thai women.

“We're breaking up?” you ask, but he insists that you're not, that you're just seeing other people, and you wonder what he'll do if you say no. But you don't say no; you don't say anything at all.

The next morning, you say goodbye and tell him to e-mail.

The most ironic part of my life right now, is the juxtaposition of my love life against the love lives of my alter egos, my heroines. They've all found their soul mates. Where is my everlasting love? Where is my Prince Charming? Where is my incredibly handsome, brilliant, stoic romantic hero?

Jeremy is not him. He's too busy screwing Thailand. And possibly, Holland.

Jon is not him, either. Heroes must be good kissers.

Enough! Back to Ronan and Julie.

My screensaver pops up and three handsome, topless heroes in cowboy hats smile devilishly. Lovingly. Look at those hairless, buffed chests! Where have buffed chests been all my life?

I need a man who's rugged. A man who smells like sweat. A man who could kill someone with his bare hands. A man who
would
kill if he had to. Not that I'd want him to, of course, but a man who would if he had to would definitely be a plus.

That's what I need now. A fling with a rock-hard hero. Arms like a he-man. Legs of a hunk. An alpha male. No more of this philosophy bullshit. And no more dating guys whose names start with the letter
J.

Now where can I find this strapping, young lad? A construction site? A rodeo? Home Depot? What was it Jonathan had mentioned? Karate? Suddenly it comes to me as clear as filtered water. Forget self-defense! I'll enroll in a martial arts class; at least Jonathan will have been good for something other than fuel for a “It-Happened-To-Me” magazine column.

I look up “Boston” and “martial arts” on the Net. Fourteen matches. Karate, judo, Tae Kwon Do, origami…Origami? I click on Tae Kwon Do. It sounds kind of like Tae Bo, something I once tried. Okay, I didn't actually try it; I bought the video. Fine, rented the video. Whatever.

Ten muscled, dark-haired gods in crisp white uniforms spring onto my screen, performing perfect sidekicks, and
Only 500
flashes across the console. Only 500? Excellent! Of course, this doesn't include the costume, the cost of each belt as you progress, the testing fee per level so that you can achieve these higher belts, not to mention the designer bricks you get to break, or the required café latte after each lesson.

Nevertheless, I will get to:

Right after work, I'm joining the gym.

“We want you!” the screen flashes. And I want you, I think. All of you.

“How's your lunch?” Helen's nasal voice asks. She pops up from behind her cubicle wall, interrupting the “wax on/wax off” hand-motions in my head.

“Oh, fine. Thanks.”

Her eyes drop to my desk, onto my borrowed coffee cup. “So you're the one who stole my mug this morning! I was wondering who the culprit was. I don't mind you borrowing it, but next time, please ask.”

Helen's mug? Ew. Helen cooties.

O
KAY
,
SO
I
DIDN'T GO
W
EDNESDAY
right after work, but it wasn't because of laziness, I swear. It was because I now have a new life game plan: think ahead. Instead of running straight over as I'd normally do, I called first to arrange an appointment. See how organized I can be when I put my mind to something? The teacher, Master NanChu, told me to come Saturday morning at eleven for a trial class. Yay, a free class! Wait a minute—why do I need a trial class? What if he doesn't like me? Can he refuse me?

I'm going to look just like the
Flashdance
girl in the “She's A Maniac” workout scene. Luckily I have an adorable pair of Calvin Klein black workout shorts and a matching tank top I bought at an outlet mall last winter.

Tomorrow is Saturday, so I can't stay out late tonight. Not too late, anyway. If I have to be at the Tae Kwon Do studio at eleven, then I'll have to leave my house by 10:30, which means I have to get up at ten. Wait—I should probably eat before I go. You're supposed to wait at least an hour after you eat before going swimming; it's probably the same for martial arts. Okay, I have to be finished eating by 9:45, which means I have to start eating at 9:30, which means I have to get up at 9:15. Maybe 9:25, considering there's no point in showering if I'm only going to get all gross.

But first things first. Tonight I'm off to Orgasm with Natalie. As soon as she gets here, that is. I've been waiting in the lobby forever, teetering in my new boots, which I'm wearing under pants because even though no one can see them, they make me feel quite sexy.

Finally a BMW comes to a screeching halt on the circular driveway. The driver has shiny, toothpaste-commercial teeth and glossy long black hair, and waving frantically next to her is Natalie. I open the car door and climb into the backseat.

Natalie introduces us, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “Jackie, this is Amber.”

Amber? Is she an 80s pop singer? A porn star? “Hi, Amber, nice to meet you.”

Amber's arm raises slightly in acknowledgment. Her nails are
so
fake, and I'm not too sure about the expanse across her chest, either. I bet she has a miserable handshake; her wrist is about the size of a chopstick. My dad always says you can judge a person by his or her handshake.

“So how do you know Nat, Amber?”

“School.”

I assume not college. She's got the word
bimbo
written all over her slinky frame. “High school?”

“No, junior high.” Her voice is low and scratchy, and she sounds a bit like Grover from
Sesame Street
.

“Amber lives around the corner from me,” Natalie says, trying to cover for Amber's lame conversational skills. Not that she's doing any better.

“Fun.” Pause. Now it's time for you to ask me something, Amber darling.

Silence.

All right. My turn again. “What are you doing in Boston?”

“I live here.”

Yeah, I figure that, dimwit. I was asking if you have a job or if you go to school, but I now suspect that you sit on your skinny ass filing your fake nails all day except for when you meet your friends for a lunch of celery sticks.

Since the stalker episode, Natalie refuses to walk anywhere. “Where are we going to park?” I throw out the question to apparently deaf ears. “Park? Hello? Car? Anyone?” Am I in some type of absurd Beckett play? An episode of
Twilight Zone?

Natalie turns to face me. “Amber parks at the fire station.”

“The fire station! Who do you know at the fire station?”

No answer.

“Is your dad a fireman or something?”

“No, he's a surgeon.”

Well,
excuse
me. At least I know how to elicit a response: imply civil servant lineage. “So does that mean
you're
the fireman?”

“No, I'm a dentist.”

I certainly didn't see that coming. Apparently she's not a bimbo—just a bitch. It actually makes a bit of sense, since it's so painful to be around her.

The fire station is directly behind Orgasm. Six men, firemen I'm guessing (a brilliant assumption, I know), are smoking in the driveway's corner. There's something very wrong with this picture; I mean, firemen shouldn't smoke, right? What would Smokey the Bear say? Amber pulls into an empty spot beside a fire truck and cuts her engine. “Flirt back with Fred, 'kay?”

Fred? Who's Fred?

Amber steps out of the car, and I realize that the toothpaste description extends even further; she actually
looks
like a tube of Crest—a used tube. Like when I roll the bottom to squeeze the rest out of the top. Well, not exactly. I twist and wring to get the final drops out. Sam rolls. In any case, any toothpaste left in Amber's body has been squeezed upward, and is now spilling over her shirt in the form of cleavage. I'm
definitely
thinking boob job. A very perky boob job.

Come to think of it, her nose looks a little too perky, too.

A short, very built Asian man walks toward us.

“Hi, Fred.” Amber runs her arm down his forearm. “Miss me?”

“The love of my life! I thought you forgot all about me.”

“Forget about you? Impossible.” She kisses Fred—get this—on the lips.

Is he a boyfriend? A civil servant Romeo?

“Remember me, Fred?” Natalie says in a pouty voice.

“Of course I remember you! How could anyone forget such a beautiful face?” Now he kisses her, also on the lips.

Do I have to kiss him, too? “Hi, boys!” Amber squeals to the other firemen, saving me.

All the Smokey Bears hoot hello. Fred, who is easily my dad's age, stomps on his cigarette and asks, “Here to entertain us?”

“Not tonight, hon,” Amber says. “We're off to Orgasm.”

“Need any help?” he asks. Ew. Is this really worth a parking spot?

“Another time. I assume it's okay that we park here.” Amber does not ask. She informs.

“Who could say no to three hotties like you?”

“Thanks, I really appreciate it.” She kisses him again. On the lips.

Natalie kisses him again. On the lips.

I wave.

 

The hostess says hello to me; apparently I've graduated to regular-patron status. It's Amber, though, who knows the hostess's name and gets us a table near the bar. According to the bitch-looks from two girls in pleather, this appears to be a huge score. Amber and Natalie grab the seats facing the bar, leaving me staring at the window. Unless all the guys in this bar all have a back fetish, I might as well be invisible.

The buxom waitress comes over to our table. “What can I get you girls?”

“A Manhattan,” Amber says.

I really want to ask what a Manhattan is, but I know it'll sound like a stupid question.

“Same for me,” Natalie says.

“Me, too, please.” Okay, so I'm a suck. But Amber seems like the kind of girl who knows what to order in places like Orgasm.

“Do you believe!” Natalie squeals. “I think I just saw Darlene Powell. No, it couldn't be her. I ran into her at Saks last week and she looked like shit. She had pockets under her eyes the size of her shopping bags…”

I focus on their eyes, which continually flicker around the room. It's as if Natalie and Amber are stage actors who have been instructed to face the audience instead of each other.

The waitress places three very chic red drinks in martini glasses on our table. “Cheers,” we say, clicking glasses.

Mmm. Quite good. Very alcoholy. At least you're good for something, Tiffany. Debbie. Amber. Whatever.

“Did you see Debbie's ring?” Natalie asks while jotting down some numbers in her calorie notebook.

Amber runs her fingers through her mane. “You call that pebble a stone? How embarrassing for her.”

I can't handle this ridiculousness. “I'll be back soon,” I tell the gossiping duo. I'll do a once-around stroll through the bar.

Obstacle number one: stroll is a misnomer. Elbow/squeeze stepping in the Lilliputian gaps that divide women's bare skin from too touchy men would be a more accurate term. My height disability only adds to the situation; I can't see over anyone's head.

Problem number two: every elbow/squeeze step sends a tidal wave of my drink over the glass rim. Whose decision was it to make glasses in this stupid V shape anyway?

Finally I maneuver my way through half the bar. The end looms in the distance like a pot of gold or a two-for-one sweater sale. What if my soul mate is waiting at the end of the bar? And what if he'll only be standing in that same spot for the next four minutes? If I don't happen to bump into him within this time frame, the moment will be lost forever and I'll be forced to roam the earth alone for the rest of eternity.

Oh, my, it's Stripe-Boy! The cute bleached blond with the New York rimmed glasses from last week! He's sitting by himself on a stool in the corner, and here I am, trapped in the age-old eleventh-grade math question: if I always have to cross the halfway point before reaching the endpoint, how is it possible to ever reach my destination, since every halfway point is a destination, and every destination has a halfway point? See where I'm headed with this? If the distance between a girl and the end of a bar is say, twenty feet, she has to pass the halfway point at ten feet before she can reach the end of the bar, but first she has to pass the halfway point of that, which is at five feet, and so on, and so on…Good God, there will always be another half point, and I will never reach my damn soul mate, oh, Stripe-Boy, you adorable, unattainable goal!

Which might be a good thing because Jon Gradinger is currently standing smack in the middle of a halfway point with his elbow against the bar, wearing a black turtleneck, which simply reinforces my I-won't-date-guys-who-wear-turtlenecks rule. What guy wears a turtleneck to a bar? What guy wears a turtleneck? I turn around and walk back through the three halfway points I survived getting here.

And while we're on the subject, why is Stripe-Boy obsessed with stripes? A dysfunction from his childhood? Maybe he's the kind of guy who linearly plans for his future. Like me. Didn't I plan ahead by calling Master NanChu in advance? Stripe-Boy probably already has a ten-year plan. To meet a nice girl. Me. To fall in love with a nice girl. Me. To propose to—

A splash of red hair surfaces at another halfway point. Andrew? Thank God. Now I get to talk to someone I know while simultaneously proving to all skeptics (mainly Andrew himself) that I do in fact have friends.

Quite the social butterfly, that Andrew. Always doing the scene. I elbow-squeeze my way toward him. Push. Elbow. Push. Someone pats my butt.

Andrew smiles when he sees me. “Hey, Jack.” A gentle arm wraps around my waist.

Destination complete. Math theory proven false.

“I thought I spotted you in the distance. Are you here alone?” he asks.

I smack him lightly on the arm. “No, I am
not
here alone. Natalie is sitting right over—”

“I'm kidding.” He takes a sip of his beer. “I'm sure you don't go out alone every night.” He smiles, his eyes crinkling into half moons.

“So, who's the blonde?”

“Blonde? Where?” he looks around the bar in a mock search. I swat him on the arm.

“Jessica. The Sweet Valley Twin. At the movie.”

“What's a Sweet Valley Twin?”

“Don't they teach you anything at Harvard?”

“Apparently not.”

“When do you study, anyway? You're Mr. Scene.”

“I don't know about Mr. Scene—I've only left my apartment four times all year.”

“Yeah, sure. And three times in the past two weeks.” What is he, a socialite in denial?

“The more important question is, Where have
you
been all year?”

“Around.” Around my apartment.

A brunette who's had one too many knocks against him, and he bumps against my leg. “I only go out when Ben drags me out,” he says, apparently oblivious to our body contact.

Hmm. He's standing quite close here. Does he realize how close he's standing? Is he standing this close on purpose?

You know when someone's standing so close you can feel them even though you're not actually touching?

“Who's Ben?” I ask, after clearing my throat.

“My roommate. You didn't meet him last week? Now
he's
who you'd call Mr. Scene.” The brunette disappears, and Andrew returns to his previous not-quite-close stance.

“Is he cute?”