Sad Desk Salad (16 page)

Miraculously, and perhaps because she thinks I’ve been through enough today already, Jane changes the subject, sparing me a real confrontation. “I promised Cheyenne that I would go to her show tonight.”

“Ughhhhhhhh.” I bury my face into the futon cushion. Another night spent in the bowels of Bushwick listening to Chey, our friend from Wesleyan, yowl like a freshly neutered cat. She’s the front woman of a noise-rock band called Barbizon, which released an EP called
Mitzi Kills
on an Internet-only label last month. I believe there are currently four hundred copies floating around on iPods in the greater north Brooklyn region.

“If you want to stay here and take another Xanax you are more than welcome to,” Jane says firmly. “Or if you want to go home and see your good man, that’s another option.”

“I’ll come with you to see Chey,” I grumble. I’m not ready to face Peter yet.

“Okay, cool. We’ll have fun and it will take your mind off things. Especially if you change out of that disgusting sack you’re wearing.”

“Hey!” I know the muumuu is nasty, but somehow it’s a shock to realize that everyone else thinks I’m foul, too. I really thought I was covering the stank with the green tea perfume. Guess not.

“Real talk, girl. That thing you call a dress makes you look like a hobo.”

“Fine. Will you let me borrow something?”

“Always.”

I get off the couch and pad over to Jane’s overflowing closet. We settle on a striped, seventies-inspired top that has thin straps, and a pair of wide-legged, almost sailor-style jeans. She gives me nude espadrille wedges and a pair of big hoop earrings, and sits me down on the bed so she can do my makeup. The gentle feeling of the big round blush brush on my cheeks is so soothing that I almost fall asleep again.

“There!” Jane says, startling me awake. “Much better.”

She looks pleased with her dress-me-up Alex, and I get up to check myself out in the mirror. She’s right; I do look better. I smile at her, because I also feel better now that I look presentable. Perhaps if I took the time to bathe and clothe myself appropriately on the regular, my workdays wouldn’t seem so dire. Sharing clothes with Jane reminds me of college, before Chick Habit took over my life, before we had serious boyfriends and full sets of cutlery. When we used to stay out late and drink more than we should and go to class with evil, pounding hangovers. When my dad was still alive and I thought I would live forever, too.

On some level, I know that I need to face the present, that I need to stand by my decision to publish the Rebecca West video, even if it means dealing with unpleasant consequences. But right now I want desperately to turn back the clock approximately four years, just for the night.

I look over at Jane, who is wearing a floral romper that would look ridiculous on nine-tenths of the population but somehow is adorable on her. “Thank you for all of this. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I say, my eyes welling up ever so slightly.

Jane finishes fastening the last tiny buckle on her fringed sandal, looks at me, and starts making barfing noises.

I laugh. “Come on, I was trying to have a moment!”

“Don’t be maudlin. Of course I’m always here for you.” She walks over to the bathroom and returns with another Xanax in her small hand. “Here, take one for the road. Now let’s blow this Popsicle stand.”

I put the Xanax in my purse along with the crumpled-up muumuu and we walk out the door and onto the first of three subways we will need to get out to the boonies of Bushwick. The entire trip takes us nearly an hour, and Jane distracts me from my solipsism by telling me an involved story about her creepy, sexist landlord. She’s convinced he’s spying on her because one time she left her snow boots in the vestibule and Ali got a phone call about it within fifteen minutes. She’s convinced he’s a pig because once, when Ali changed his phone number, Jane got a call from the landlord asking for his new contact information. Jane gave it to him, and he told her, “Thanks, sweetheart. You know I really prefer to speak to the man of the house.”

I can step outside myself enough to let Jane rage and make appropriate comments like “Oh no he didn’t!” at the proper intervals. Just as we’re pulling up to the Myrtle Avenue stop on the J train, Jane turns to me and says, “Hey, I need to tell you something.”

“What?”

“I think Caleb is going to be there tonight. I heard he lives in the space where Barbizon’s performing.”

“Christ, Jane, why didn’t you tell me before I trekked all the way out here with you?” This unexpected curve scares me. I don’t think I can take any more upheaval today, and my heart starts beating faster.

“Because if I told you, you would have stayed on my futon zonked out on Xanax. I think this is a better option.”

I haven’t seen Caleb since we broke up. Jane’s right—I would have stayed at her place in a sedated fog if she had told me the truth. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to face him, especially not after everything that’s been going on.

Caleb’s always had the remarkable ability to manufacture insecurities in me where they didn’t previously exist. For instance: I never thought about the fact that I didn’t shave the backs of my thighs until he pointed out how hairy they were. I believe he told me I had “monkey legs.” When I got offended, he pretended to be shocked. “But they’re so cute and fuzzy!” he protested.

It’s impossible for me to back out now—home is at least an hour away—so I just pull a sour face as I follow Jane to our destination: a freestanding Victorian mansion surrounded by two empty lots. The building’s façade could charitably be described as sweetly distressed, or uncharitably called a dump. The overwrought gables are in disrepair, the porch has at least two broken steps, and the house looks like it hasn’t been painted since the Watergate hearings. We can hear the first song off
Mitzi Kills,
“Room 69,” as we approach the unlocked front door.

The narrow entryway opens up to a big dark space. There are Christmas tree lights taped haphazardly to the walls, and the only other light source is coming from a small platform stage where Barbizon is performing. Chey and her bandmates look like fem-bot factory rejects: They’re clad in metallic silver dresses so tight you can see every granny-panty-fabric bump. Chey’s done her hair up in a sixties bouffant and is wearing black-framed glasses. She’s grasping the mic so hard her knuckles are white, and there’s a small crowd of mostly boys staring up at her adoringly while she screeches. I take a quick, furtive look around. Caleb is nowhere to be seen.

Jane and I move in behind the scrum. I check my phone to see if Adam has e-mailed, but no luck. After a few minutes I can’t take the din anymore.

“I’m going to find the booze,” I shout to Jane.

“Okay,” she says. “I want to hear the rest of their set.” I walk back past the raised platform into the kitchen.

The kitchen is full of people hiding from the onslaught of noise. I spot another friend, Julia, and sidle up to her. She’s talking to two girls who look vaguely familiar.

“Hey!” Julia gives me a big hug. “I haven’t seen you in months!”

“I know, I’ve been hibernating.”

“I’ve been reading your stuff on Chick Habit. It’s so much fun!” Julia is an assistant at an anarchist publishing house that seems to exclusively print books about new JFK conspiracy theories. She’s got a very well-maintained blond pageboy haircut and gravitates toward gamine French fashions. Tonight she’s wearing a striped boatneck shirt and black cigarette pants. We know each other because we worked at the Wesleyan newspaper together as editors.

“Hey, thanks, that means a lot. It’s been sort of rough lately.” Julia doesn’t respond—it’s loud in the kitchen so she might not have heard me—plus I don’t really want to talk about Chick Habit right now, so I turn to the two girls she’s talking to.

The girl to Julia’s left is cheerful looking, with a mess of shaggy blond hair. She’s wearing a simple denim dress and orthopedic sandals and she’s about my height but is shaped like a thick square. The other girl is tiny and sourpussed. I have at least half a foot on her, and she’s so skinny that her shapeless black dress hangs off her body. She’s wearing big, thick glasses with Lucite frames, which look German and expensive.

I can’t place these girls. I’m pretty sure we went to Wesleyan together and that I should know their names, but I don’t. The little one worked at the paper with me, I’m almost positive about that, which makes it even worse that I don’t remember her. I realize I need to get out of this conversation as quickly as possible and reach for my phone, but then I remember that it’s still off and I can’t fake an urgent e-mail or text. How did people get out of awkward moments before smart phones? I spot a table laden with half-filled plastic bottles of cut-rate hard liquor and there’s my answer.

“I need to get a drink. Does anyone want anything?” I chirp.

“No, thanks,” Julia says.

“I’m good,” says the square. Sourpuss doesn’t respond.

“Be right back!” I say.

As soon as I turn away I walk right into Caleb.

“Oh, hi,” I say before I can think of something more clever.

“Hey,” he says. “It’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” I say, and unfortunately I mean it. I have to admit, he looks amazing. He’s wearing a vintage Wrangler shirt that I bought him three years ago, which hugs his lean, muscular torso. His blond five o’clock shadow gives his face depth that it doesn’t have when he’s clean-shaven. His hair is perfectly mussed. My solar plexus is already jumping, like there are small frogs hopping inside me. Why does he still have this effect on me?

“You look great,” he says. “That outfit looks like something from
Soul Train
.”

As usual I can’t tell if this is a compliment or an insult. He was smirking when he said it, but he’s always smirking.

“Thanks?” I say. Feeling off-kilter, I quickly add, “I was just going to get a drink,” hoping he’ll take the hint and leave me alone.

To my dismay, he says, “Me, too. I’ll pour one for you.” We walk over to the table and he pours us Jim Beam out of a plastic bottle into two red keg cups. “I don’t think there’s any ice,” he says, handing me one.

“That’s okay,” I tell him.

I take a sip of bourbon. I don’t know what else to say, because I don’t know how to behave. As unsupportive and dickish as Caleb was toward me, there was always a certain electricity coming off his limbs that I can still feel, a certain cockiness that I have to admire. I know that I should just walk away from the booze and from him. But I can’t help it. I don’t know what to think about Peter right now—maybe he’s just as selfish as Caleb is, but he hides it better. Perhaps that’s worse in the end. At least with Caleb, what you see is what you get.

Besides, Caleb would never get on some high horse about my publishing the Rebecca West video. He doesn’t believe in privacy in the first place. I know because one night early on in our relationship the condom broke. I wasn’t that worried about it until three weeks later, when my period was late. I marched, crying, over to a Duane Reade on Seventh Avenue near my apartment and bought the most expensive pregnancy test they had. That was when I was making $10 an hour at
Rev,
but my theory was—and still is—you don’t skimp on pregnancy tests or tattoo artists. I learned that the hard way.

Caleb held my hand, which I had stuck outside the door of his tiny bathroom, while I took the test (which, thank God, was negative). Two weeks later, I visited him at his studio and saw a digital C print of my discarded pregnancy test on glossy paper. In old-fashioned printer’s-block letters the words
ALEX IS NEGATIVE
were written at the bottom of the print. I was furious—partly for the invasion of my privacy, and partly for the wordplay: Caleb was always telling me to stop being such a Negative Nellie, when I thought I was only being my realist self. “That was my test! ” I hissed at him.

He responded, “It’s not yours if I’ve created something entirely new out of it.”

Later, he showed that piece at an up-and-coming Williamsburg gallery.

The memory makes me cringe and I down the bourbon left in my cup.

“I thought you were domesticated,” Caleb says. “But it looks like you’re back to your old tricks.” He takes my cup and pours me another shot. “So how have you been?”

“Okay, I guess. I’ve got some weird shit going on at work.” The sensible angel on my shoulder tells me I should get out of this conversation and find Jane, but there’s something keeping me planted in this spot. I didn’t realize it until I started awkwardly chatting with Caleb, but there’s a latent sliver of me that missed feeling emotionally askew in this specific way. He kicks up rocks inside me.

“Where are you working now? Some website? Girlie Town?”

His condescension irritates me and gives me a little more backbone. “It’s called Chick Habit,” I tell him, giving him my meanest expression. To my pleasant surprise he looks sincerely wounded.

“Alex,” he says, catching my hand and forcing eye contact. “I’m really sorry about your dad. You never let me say that.”

I’m surprised into silence—I never expected to get an admission of wrongdoing from Caleb about anything. Sure, he still hasn’t apologized for being a crap boyfriend, but it’s a start. I avert my eyes because I don’t know what to say and see that Jane’s come into the kitchen. Chey’s screams have been replaced with the Arcade Fire’s funereal dirges. Jane is talking to Julia and those two girls, and I can tell she’s trying to catch my eye.

“I want to show you my latest piece,” Caleb says. “It’s on my computer upstairs. You might not believe me but you really inspired me. It would mean a lot if you came up and looked at it.” I look right at Caleb, trying to discern whether he’s being genuine. I know I shouldn’t be tempted by his offer but playing the muse again, if only for a few minutes, is highly seductive.

Before I can say anything, Jane appears by my side. “Can I steal Alex for a second?” she asks, and instead of waiting for a response she yanks me by the arm into a small alcove off of the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” Her face is at disappointment level 10 now.