Parts Unknown (4 page)

“You’re asking the wrong question,” Josh said. “I think there’s comfort in conforming. In doing things just the right way. It’s so much easier, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I looked down. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Well. We’ve got to find you the perfect cookbook, then!” Josh enthused, his voice artificially buoyant, and I knew it was to cheer me. Somehow, this funny, smart, thoughtful guy wanted to make me happy. In the scope of my life’s experiences, this was absolutely new. Meanwhile, I stepped carefully. This shop featured several sleek tabby cats, and I noticed what looked suspiciously like hairballs underfoot.

I paged through a book imposingly titled
Twentieth Century Art in Context
. “You were asking why I’m not majoring in art, anymore,” I said. “And you’re right—it’s the one thing I’m good at. The one thing that makes me feel completely . . . I don’t know . . . alive, but settled, if that makes sense. I have all this energy I need to channel somewhere—and painting takes care of that. But I don’t have that belief, that I can really make it as an artist. I don’t believe in myself enough, I guess. And if you don’t have that, as an artist, you’re lost. When I’m retired maybe I can show my paintings in some senior citizen art show. Paintings of cats and flower arrangements, or something.”

“I feel the same way about writing,” Josh sympathized. “I’ve always wanted to be a writer. But I’m not sure I have the willpower to pursue it, really. It’s like the luncheon ladies with the tea carts. It’s way easier to stay on the safe path, the one my dad’s prepared for me for my whole life. I mean, my life’s been already planned. I just have to show up.”

“I don’t know the answer,” I said. “I don’t have that drive, and it makes me sad—that I’m just letting it go. And I don’t have anything really to take its place. Nothing could.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Josh agreed. Then: “Hey! What’s this I see!” He pulled out a yellowed book. The lengthy title page read, in part:

Ladies’ Indispensable Assistant

Being a Companion for the Sister, Mother, and Wife

Directions for Managing Canary Birds

Also,

Safe Directions for the Management of Children;

Instructions for

Ladies under Various Circumstances

I flipped through the book avidly. It appeared to cover every potential situation a lady in 1852 might encounter. Dropsy remedies. A recipe for roast pig (“A pig about three weeks old is best. It should be killed in the morning . . .”). How to write love letters. The book cost twenty pounds; more than I could afford, but I had to have it. “I wish there were books like this now,” I mused.
How to Figure Your Life Out in 1998
, or something.”

“That’s what magic eight-balls are for, silly. Anyhow, all these cookbooks are making me hungry!” Josh exclaimed, pulling at my arm, changing the subject again. “Come on—I’ve got the perfect lunch plan; you’re going to love it.” I bought the book before I could change my mind, then he backtracked us down Charing Cross Road, onto Garrick Street, and a few blocks to Covent Garden.

I browsed eagerly through the eclectic array inside—an opera house, the Punch & Judy pub, numerous shops. I was awestruck in particular by the promise of chic yet bohemian skin care options available at brightly colored Lush. “Hurry up,” Josh said impatiently, “We can come back later; I’m starving.” He led me outside to a nondescript hot dog cart. “You might not think so right now. You might be incredibly doubtful, in fact. You might even wonder why I yanked you out of that foofy bath store, just to come here. But I swear: this will be the best hot dog you ever tasted.”

I rolled my eyes. Josh was so enthusiastic—“Fine, buy me one, and I’ll see for myself,” I demanded, actually arching an eyebrow. Was I . . . trying to flirt? Me?

Okay: I’d never eaten a hot dog like this. It was encased in a long baguette, with a hole poked in the middle, and inside the hole was one long, perfectly cooked hot dog. “Gourmet!” I enthused.

“Told you,” Josh said, satisfied. Then he leaned forward conspiratorially. “You know . . .” he whispered. “This was a test. If you didn’t like that hot dog, I figured there was no hope at all. I would have had to drop you back off in Trafalgar Square, and continue on my merry way.”

He liked me—this gorgeous, electric guy with the happy smile. Gears in my head that had never meshed now squealed into motion. I could be that person. The person that Josh could like.

~ ~ ~

We took the tube to Warwick Avenue and walked briskly past the stately Edwardian row houses, creamy and beautiful against the now-blue sky. I was one big bubble of happiness. It was so easy being with Josh, carried along on waves of his enthusiasm. I didn’t have to do anything particular; I just had to be there, and listen, and he took care of the rest. Everything was so easy, all of a sudden.

Our shoulders brushed as we walked toward the canal. My stomach cramped with a sudden sharp desire. These were surely the first steps in some unfamiliar dance.

“I’m dying to show this place to you, because it’s one of my favorite London spots,” Josh said. “Now that you passed the hot dog test, I mean. And you’ve been found worthy.”

“I’m in suspense! Canals in London—who knew?”

“It’s called Little Venice—look!” Backed by those gorgeous houses and leafy trees, there was indeed a narrow canal ringed by small, colorful house boats: cadmium red, hunter green, and one burnt-umber–colored one that looked to have been constructed by hand of leftover wood planks. Ripples splashed against the dock. Sky and trees shimmered upside-down in the water.

“I wish I could stay here forever!” I said impulsively. “Just like this.”

“Let’s, then,” murmured Josh. “Let’s just stay.”

We quietly leaned against a fence for an hour. Not feeling the need to say anything, just being there next to each other. Mothers passed by, pushing strollers. Animated men wearing newsboy caps pulled low walked near, talking and gesturing loudly. But finally, it was just us, watching the changing patterns of the sun on the water, the boats bobbing up and down, feeling utterly peaceful, at home in the world, no longer waiting for answers.

Chapter 3

By dinnertime, we’d made it to Win Kee Restaurant, back where we started, near Leicester Square. It was a dingy spot, with wrinkled pink tablecloths covered with thick acrylic table covers. I peered dubiously at the poorly spelled menu. It featured “spared rips” and “orange chiken.”

“So, what’s good here?”

“Doesn’t matter what’s good—you should ask, what’s cheap!” Josh grinned. “I’ve managed to subsist on nearly no income this year, just by having dinner here a couple times a week. I take home what I don’t eat; it’s dinner tomorrow. Here:” He perused the menu. “The absolutely cheapest thing they have is the mixed chow mein. So we should get that.”

“Tally-ho, then,” I said. “You can take home my leftovers too; you’ll eat for a week. But wait a minute—they don’t feed you, at Chicago Pizza?”

“Oh man, I’m so sick of pizza, you just have no idea. But I bring pizza home from work too. That’s lunch. And breakfast!”

It was still bright outside, but it was 7 pm. I felt suddenly lonely. I’d never had so much fun in one day, and now it was over. This dinner, and then back to the hostel, and three more weeks of aimless wandering, trying and failing each day to recapture the joy and camaraderie I’d had with Josh today. I jerked out of my reverie:

“So what are you going to do, now that you’re not going to be an artist anymore?” he was asking.

“I don’t know, really. I changed my major to history, just so I could come here and have something to study.”

“Yeah, like studying history is some kick-ass way to make a living. Get real. What are you going to do with a history degree?”

 “Listen, I didn’t really think things through, okay? The whole idea was to come here, and by the end of the year I’ll have something figured out. I don’t know. I’ll do whatever people do with history degrees. Be a teacher. Be a waitress. Something like that.”

He glared at me. “You know, I always wanted to be an English major. I’ve always wanted to be a writer. So it’s not fair that you just gave up your dream, and I didn’t even get a chance to try mine.”

“So why not? What are you mad at me for—it’s your life! You can do whatever you want!”

An exhausted-looking waitress hurried over with two steaming plates of brown, greasy noodles. I poked my fork into them dubiously. They were delicious, actually—“Big piles of MSG goodness,” I joked, to make him laugh.

He didn’t, though. He just looked gloomy. “Sorry I snapped at you. It’s just, I don’t really have a choice. My dad’s massively strict, and he firmly believes that I need to, I don’t know, I need to be the son he can name-drop in conversation. ‘Josh—the lawyer—yes, he’s working for Wangdoodle and Grinch. Junior Associate already!’ That kind of crap. So I’m getting this political science degree, just like everyone else. So I can have the same fuckin’ boring life as everybody else does. And so Dad doesn’t have to say, ‘My son, the screw-up writer that works at a coffee shop because he can’t sell anything he writes . . .’ Okay?”

I got up, went around the table and hugged him, hard. “It’s not okay. You know it’s not.” Thinking of Mom, name-dropping Eric in conversation that way. Never me. Remembering how much it hurt.

He hugged me back. “Thanks for that. I just get so upset, you know,” he muttered into my shoulder; I was squeezed uncomfortably against him and the table. “I don’t have the control over my life I thought I would, and it’s partly my fault. I’m too weak to stand up to him, to damn weak to say, ‘I’m going to be who I need to be—I’m just gonna do it.’ Because doing that would cut me off from my family.” I extricated myself, grabbed my chair, pulled it over next to his. He grasped my hands. “My dad rules everyone. Mom is totally under his thumb. And I’m not ready for that—to be on my own like that, totally alone.”

I wanted to say,
You’re not alone. I’d be there for you
. But I’d only known him for one day. His hands so warm over mine.

“I thought if I came to London, I’d be far enough away that I could leave them all behind. But I still crave his affection, you know? It kills me, that I email him about my high marks in class, just wanting him to love me more. Like I’m not worth anything without his love. And I can buy it with As.”

“I came here to get away too,” I said softly. “Isn’t that funny. To get away from my family for a different reason than you did, but still—to escape. And now you’re telling me it’s not far enough—that nowhere will be far enough to hide from all those memories.”

“What happened that made you go so far away?” Josh asked intently.

“I really don’t want to talk about it. Maybe another time.”

“Why? Is it so bad?”

“No, I guess not. Yes.”

I was crying now, making a fool of myself, blubbering into the noodles. “I’ve had such a lovely day—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get so upset.”

“I had a really nice day, too. And I’m glad you’re upset, kind of! Because you think like I do, and you know what I’m going through. I’ve never met anyone who did, really, before. Or I never told anyone what I’ve told you. That’s so strange—I’ve only known you for a day. Why am I telling you all this stuff?”

I looked at him. The gears clicked into place. I slurped a now-cold noodle.

“I wonder . . .” he started, then stopped. Finally: “I don’t have to get to work till five o’clock tomorrow. Will you spend the day with me?”

The room swirled around a bit, then leveled.

~ ~ ~

The next morning, I exited the Tube at the Hampstead station, peering around nervously. We were supposed to meet here, at 9 am, and I was right on time. But I was certain Josh wouldn’t show up—that yesterday had been some sort of hallucination or trick. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty, and I sat down on the ground outside the station, curiously paved with blue glass tiles, hiding my face in my arms. I felt as if Alice in Wonderland must have, after awakening from her fantastic dream.

And then, my shoulder jostled, Josh’s face peered anxiously down at me. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed. “I left late, and then my train got stuck in the tunnel for ages—damn Northern Line—it’s a disaster sometimes. But look! I’m here now.” He searched my woebegone face. “Let’s have a hug.”

I scrambled up, and squeezed him tight, unraveling the plastic-wrap-like layer of emotional protection I’d wrapped around me while sitting on the ground. He’d come. And he was real.

“So,” he said, grabbing my hand, “this is my favorite part of London, and I wanted to show it to you. Where shall we start?”

“I’m at your mercy,” I said. “My A-Z ends at Camden Town. But I am a fan of cemeteries. There’s got to be some fantastic, haunted graveyard somewhere around here.”

“You’re a woman after my own heart,” he beamed. “Highgate Cemetery is my absolute favorite place. I love showing you this city—you like everything I do!”

He thought for a moment, then decided, “Here’s the plan: it’s a couple-mile walk to Highgate, so we’ll take it slow. Stop at Keats’ House. Hang out in Hampstead Heath. And eventually, we’ll get there. Even better! I brought provisions!” He opened a bulging knapsack, stocked with bread, cheese, and cans of Pepsi.

“We’re set,” I confirmed.

It was so nice, holding his hand and walking down Hampstead High Street, its red brick storefronts showcasing a colorful array of goods. I was dismayed to see the Gap, as I had elsewhere in London, as if I hadn’t left San Jose after all. In a local clothing shop, I tried on some brown boot-cut stretchy pants; unfortunately, British clothes seemed to be made for other body types than mine. We stopped by a rummage sale a church was holding, whence I scored a battered brooch for a pound. I could feel a kiss, sizzling in the air between us, waiting for its moment.
Sometime today
, I thought,
I will be kissed, by this amazing guy
. The anticipation was delicious.