Milkrun (17 page)

“That's the plan,” she says.

Sam sticks her finger in her glass in an attempt to suck up whatever alcohol might be left. “I'm going to need some more wine.”

“Just finish mine,” Natalie offers, handing over the glass.

I see the mental turmoil on Sam's face. Should she take the wine along with all of Nat's potential germs? Or should she give in to her anal ways and pass up the free beverage? I put my hand on her shoulder. “The new fun, fearless you, remember?”

Courageously, she nods. “Thanks.” At first her facial expression reminds me of someone drinking toilet water, not that I've ever had the good fortune to witness such an event. But then she relaxes and I feel like a proud aunt.

Natalie throws her head back and laughs out loud, startling me. Apparently, the let's-pretend-we're-having-fun-so-we-can-attract-men show has begun.

Ten minutes later, the
GQ
men are sitting at our table. Natalie is flirting with Needs-a-Shave and Sam is flirting with Cell-Phone. I would have thought that watching Sam flirt would be like spotting a girl on the street with her dress tucked into the back of her panty hose, but she is surprisingly talented. Once she introduces herself as Samantha, she morphs into a nymphet. She starts off with the pretending-to-be-interested-in-what-he-says technique and asks a dozen questions, and then subtly turns the spotlight on herself.

“I teach fifth grade,” she says in response to the standard so-what-do-you-do. If he asks what sign she is, I swear I'm going to throw up.

“You don't punish your students, do you?”

“Not usually. The girls are pretty good. The boys sometimes misbehave. But that's okay. I know how to handle naughty boys.”

Is that a cell phone he has in his pants or is he just happy to see her? Hmm. Maybe there's something to this spanking thing after all.

 

In the elevator, Needs-a-Shave asks when they can see us again.

“Unfortunately, that won't be possible,” Sam says, surprising the rest of us. “It was nice to meet both of you.” She kisses both of them on the cheek.

Huh? Did I miss something here? “Didn't you want to meet them?” I ask when they're out of earshot.

“Forget it. They didn't even offer to buy us drinks.” Sam waves her hand in the air as if to shoo away an annoying fly.

“But we didn't say we wanted anything,” I protest.

“Cheapskates,” Sam adds, and Natalie nods her head.

“Besides,” Sam says, “what kind of sleaze hits on a girl at a bar?”

Fifteen minutes later, Natalie lets us off at the apartment, and as I turn the key into our door, Sam says, “Guess what we're doing tomorrow.”

“Sleeping in?”

“Yes. And after that, we're getting belly-button rings.”

This Samantha character is beginning to scare me.

N
ATALIE TELLS US THAT HER PIERCED
friends got it done on Willington Street.

“Maybe we should find out the exact name of the store,” I comment as we peer through the dirty windows of a used clothing store.

“If we wait, we'll never do it,” Sam replies. “There's no time for extensive research.”

“I'm not asking for extensive. Superficial will do.”

“Let's try here,” she says, and I follow her into a place called
Spider.
The tattoo machine's reverberating buzz makes me think of a sixteenth-century torture chamber.

Sam asks the scary alternative man at the desk if he performs navel piercings.

“No inglés,”
he replies.

“I think the possibility of having the wrong body part pierced here is alarmingly high,” I whisper, my voice coated with nausea.

Sam thanks the man, not that he understands, and we slip back out the door.

Further down the block a window advertises “expert exotic piercing” and a “reputation that is earned, not assumed.” Hoping that their reputation goes beyond the local panhandlers, we enter.

The expert, I use that term loosely, looks a little wild—with various insect tattoos and nineteen pierces that I can see. I'm guessing ten is the minimum for employment. He convinces us that a navel ring is well worth his fifty-dollar quote.

Being the responsible millennium-girl that I am, I ask him about his hygiene practices.

“I always wear fresh plastic gloves, and all my needles are disposable,” he answers.

This is good, I think. Disposable needles. Wait…needles? What needles? What happened to the good, old-fashioned piercing gun? When I got my ears pierced way back in the third grade, two women used a gun on each ear, and it was over in a momentary thunderous explosion.

“Would you kindly both sign these waiver forms?” he asks nonchalantly. Forms? What forms? Why do I need to sign a waiver form? I read: “…in the unlikely event of excessive bleeding, permanent scarring, loss of consciousness…” Loss of consciousness?

Somehow it is decided that I should go first, possibly because Samantha looks more like an about-to-be-sick Sam. Lucky me. I sit in a big black leather chair and without going into details here, I tell dear Samantha it only hurts for a second.

Her turn.

Screams from the leather chair.

I lied.

Natalie: You really did it?

Me: Yeah. I don't think I'll ever be able to do up a pair of pants again.

Natalie: Maybe I'll get one, too.

Me: You should. Didn't hurt a bit, although it's a little sore now.

Natalie: Maybe I will. But it's kind of cheesy, don't you think? And everyone has one.

Me: (Muttering.) Thanks a lot, Nat. I guess I'm a conformist with bad taste.

Iris: That is so cool! I want one. Is it red? I bet it's red. The red will go away, won't it? My friend Mandy got one and she didn't tell her mother, and now whenever she takes a shower she has to wear a bathing suit just in case her mother barges in or something, and she doesn't know what she's going to do in the summer; she has a pool and won't her mother think it's weird she doesn't wear bikinis anymore? I asked Mom if I could have one but she said no, not a chance. I'm so getting one the second I turn eighteen. One year, five months and three days left of a belly-pierce-free me! It's not going to get infected, is it?

Janie: Couldn't you have just highlighted your hair or something?

Dad: So what's new?

Me: Nothing.

Wendy: (Voice on speakerphone while I paint toenails.) I'm wondering why our generation chooses to mutilate our bodies.

Me: It's not just our generation. Piercing has gone on for centuries all over the planet.

Wendy: But why is American culture piercing stomachs, tongues, nipples, and other parts I won't mention?

Me: Maybe it's a tendency of the politically correct to embrace cultural relativism?

Wendy: Perhaps to produce an aesthetic effect.

Me: (Blows on toes of right foot.) Or a spiritual one.

Wendy: Or a sexual one.

Me: (Feigning indignation.) I didn't pierce my clitoris.

Wendy: Maybe there's just nothing left to attack but our own flesh.

Sam (aka Samantha): (Barges into my room.) Isn't it cool? (Pulls up her shirt.) Can we take a picture?

Wendy: It'll definitely give your kids something to laugh about.

We're eating an early dinner at the Asian Grill, one of those places where you pick your own meat, vegetables, noodles, sauces, whatever, and watch how a small plate of food can cost you thirty dollars.

Andrew: (Sitting across from me in a two-seater booth.) I can't believe you did that.

Me: (Arms folded tightly across my T-shirt.) Why? I didn't realize body ornamentation was a character-altering ordeal. (The following words are unspoken.) Uh-oh. Will men find me sexually repulsive?

Andrew: I guess I always thought belly rings were for Alanis-type girls.

Me: Puh-lease. There's even a Miss America contestant who proudly sponsors one. Miss Springfield or whatever.

Andrew: Can I see?

Me: You want me to lift up my shirt in the middle of the Asian Grill?

Andrew: (Eyes growing large.) Yes!

Me: (Lifts up the bottom of my shirt.) Happy?

Andrew: Why is it so red?

Me: I just got needles stuck in my stomach, what do you expect?

Andrew: (Eyes growing to size of English muffins.) It's, uh, kind of, well, sexy.

Me: (The following word is unspoken.) Good.

Finis

 

After work on Monday, Sam and I go for a grocery run. Not that we can even walk properly. For the past thirty-six hours I've had to leave my jeans undone, and every time something comes in the remote vicinity of my stomach—an arm, clothing, air—I momentarily pass out.

We put the regular staples in our cart: juice, milk, and macaroni and cheese. Then Sam goes for the gourmet stuff and throws in a slab of salami, a six-pack of beer, a chunk of hard cheese, and a package of antihistamines.

I stare in bewilderment at the produce. “Are we visiting a frat house?”

“No. We're making our apartment guy-friendly.”

“Is this the if-you-build-it-they-will-come philosophy? Let me guess,
Cosmo
?
Glamour
?
City Girls
?”

“City Girls.”

“What else does
City Girls
say?”

“That we should get a dog. Guys will come up to dogs on the street and start conversations with their owners. Us.”

“You're allergic to dogs.”

“That's why we're trying the food route instead. But maybe we can borrow someone's dog. That's what the antihistamines are for.”

Who is this woman and what has she done with my roommate?

Sam has a bunch of other suggestions, all of which I veto:

I counter-suggest visiting a bookstore. I figure since I'm in publishing, my degree is in lit, and I read a lot, it would make sense for me to date someone who also appreciates the written word.

“I don't understand,” Sam asks. “You want to meet a guy who reads romance novels?”

“No, that would be weird.” I'd prefer him to read something manlier. Something Hemingway-esque.

We end up at Barnes and Noble. The clock says it's now six. Sam and I decide that we won't leave until we each hand out our phone number to at least one potential husband. She makes a mad dash for the business section. I'm still debating: Soul (fiction) or good job (computers)? It's a tough call, but I cave in favor of nice library over nice car; I'm just about to head up the escalator to fiction, when I cop out and veer toward the computer book area. Okay, so I'm weak.

La, la, la. The computer section consists of three walls of books. I figure I'll start at the right and work my way left.

“Can I help you with something?” a Barnes and Noble woman asks.

“No, thanks. Just looking.”

One cutie is glancing through a hardcover. I'll just bide my time, wait for a good opportunity…not that I know what I'm going to say to this man. Oh, I know! I'll ask him to recommend something. This is good. Brings out the hero quality.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes?”

What am I supposed to ask here? “Do you know a good book on…computers?”

He looks at me as though there is something horribly wrong with me, as if I'm wearing odd shoes, or I have no eyebrows. “You should probably ask someone who works here.”

Damn. Time for a latte break.

Six coffees and four hours later, I'm over-caffeined and bored. I've encountered three men whose wives/girlfriends/women didn't appreciate me moving into the periphery of their territory, two men with kids (I don't think I'm at the stage in my life where I should be stepmom/mistress), and one Trekkie geek whose incessant staring forced me to temporarily abandon my post. The Barnes and Noble woman thinks I'm a complete freak. About every ten minutes she asks me if I'm sure I don't need any help.

“I'm beyond help,” I respond.

Then I meet Josh. He's standing by the C++ shelf, scanning through a book called
The Joy of Programming.
He's tall and cute and has a nice smile (he has two adorable dimples), but I'm tired and want to go home. I stick out my hand and introduce myself, abandoning all pretense at preliminary mating rituals. I'm in a hurry here. He tells me his name, we chitchat for a few minutes, and in the middle of his telling me about his cat and dog and five microprocessors, I say, “Call me.” I write out my phone number on a piece of carefully prepared paper from my purse (they're presprayed with perfume), throw it at him, and go look for Sam. Mission accomplished.

Sam is sitting on a couch deep in conversation with Jerry Seinfeld's look-alike. I wave. She doesn't respond. I wave again. I'm sure she's ignoring me. Time for another coffee.

 

“How do I look?” Sam asks and twirls. She's wearing a very lowcut black dress that ties behind her neck, and a brand-new pair of her version of high black boots—black sling-backs. She's going on a first date with Philip—the guy she met in the business book section. It turns out he owns his own business and he reads a lot of Grisham. Okay, fine,
The Firm
isn't exactly
For Whom the Bell Tolls,
but at least it's fiction. He can read. And he called. It's been five days and Josh has not. Serves me right for trying to date yet another jackass whose name starts with J. Serves me right for not stalking the business section. Computer section—please. Guys who read computer books are about as trustworthy as the startup Internet businesses they left their safe, monotonous jobs for.

Seven days. Why didn't I do the travel section? Even the cooking section would have been better. Once Natalie met a psychologist in the how-to section; with my luck, I would have probably run into a psycho.

I bring my frustration to Tae Kwon Do.

“Hanna. Twul. Zed. Ned. Dasso,”
Lorenzo says. “Spread your legs! Wider!”

Believe me, I've been trying.

After class, Lorenzo offers to help me with my first form. He puts his hands, those big Tae Kwon Do hands, on my shoulders and molds them into the proper form position. It's 7:30 p.m. and I'm daydreaming of a nice tall bowl of macaroni and cheese, but I say thank you and let him help me. I need to know this form before I can be tested for a yellow belt. And yellow belts are far more slimming than white belts. Presently I imagine I look like the giant Pillsbury marshmallow in
Ghostbusters.