She'll Take It (2 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: She'll Take It
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He's a musician.
I know it's bad, it's wrong, it's foolish, it's trouble—but it is. For those of you who have loved and lost musicians, no explanation is needed. You feel my pain. You know dating a musician is akin to sticking your hand in a roaring fire to save a falling s'more. No matter how delicious it tastes, in the end you're going to get burned.
At some point in the dating scheme you have to ask yourself, “Is he thinking three little words about me, or am I just another groupie?” Ray Arbor and I have been spending every day together for the past three months. Ray's band, Suicide Train, plays in dives all over Manhattan, New Jersey, and Long Island, and I've been a fixture at every show. By the second week of our courtship, I knew I would marry him and live in a trailer with six squalling brats if it meant spending the rest of my life staring into those jade green eyes. The guys in the band are used to women hanging on Ray, and they've started taking bets on how long I'm going to last, so I've doubled my efforts to be nice to them. I told Brett, the drummer, that he reminds me of Bono from U2, when actually with his curly red hair and freckled face, he looks more like a Muppet. I bring scotch and soda to the bass player, Tim, and point out the women in the crowd who I think will sleep with him on the first date. Nine out of ten times I'm right. Jason, the main singer, is the one I haven't succeeded in winning over. He responds to my flirtations with a quiet disdain that leaves me feeling like I just wet my pants in public. I have decided to leave him alone.
Last, Trent, Ray's backup singer, is a pushover. He is a hundred pounds overweight and responds to touch—a hand on the shoulder, a pat on the knee, a peck on the cheek. I'm proud to say that when Trent gets drunk after shows and rants and raves about how evil women are, he never includes me in that category. In summary, Ray and I are having sex four plus times a week, I'm ignoring my closest female friends and sucking up to his, and I regularly shave my legs, highlight my hair, and wax my eyebrows. He has to be in love with me, right?
Then why, why, why has it been six days, three hours, and twenty-four minutes since he's called? The last I heard from him was the day after Trina Wilcox's party. And even though I was blind drunk by the end of it, from what I can remember I looked smashing and it went swimmingly. We even had sex in the coatroom. It's enough to make you insane. It's enough to make you a klepto.
As punishment for stealing the bar of soap, I go home, turn on every light in my place, and stand naked in front of my full-length mirror. My roommate Kim is out so I don't even shut the door. I try to imagine my imperfect body swathed in orange prison garb. It's not so bad. I would look good in orange—especially if I get blond highlights to perk up my roots. I wonder if I'll be propositioned by a prison guard and what the chances are the relationship will last. I imagine myself by the side of the road, picking up trash with a long, sharp stick. The sun would feel good on my cheeks, my highlights would glimmer, and my fellow inmates and prison guard/lover would say, “She's really calmed down. She's at peace with herself. We've locked up her body but we can't touch her soul.” And “Has she lost fifteen pounds or what?”
Here are the facts. You already know I'm twenty-nine and holding. 5'7” (relatively tall, but I'm no giant), I have shoulder-length, dark blond hair, and long, thin arms with freckles. I thank the Saint of Freckles that he marched them up my arms and sprinkled them on my shoulders but left my face alone. I wonder if prior to this lifetime we're given a choice about our appearance as well as our disposition. Did I give up sanity for a freckleless face? I can see Saint Peter prodding me with a white feather pen. “Melanie dear, you must decide. Would you like a face full of freckles or a lifetime supply of Prozac?” I wouldn't have hesitated. “I'll take the Prozac please, and make it a double.”
Back to the mirror. Breasts adequate, not too small, not too large (Goldilocks would be proud), hips too big, stomach okay if I suck it in, calves actually very nice, but thighs frustrating beyond belief and constantly in need of hiding as if my entire lower body were a spy. Although I would never resort to liposuction, I do look forward to the day that you can buy your own fat-sucking vacuum right off the shelf and do it yourself in the privacy of your own home. I'm sure the technology is only minutes away. Until then, I'll continue to refer to myself as “voluptuous”—it's much nicer than “needs to lose a few.”
My eyes are my best feature; they fluctuate between gray, blue, and green like a mood ring. If I go a few days without eating, I look even better—cheekbones—but a few days after that I binge from all the deprivation, and they puff out again. I really like my feet, but I hate my ass. My feet are petite, and I have a great arch (I could have been a ballet dancer), but my ass is way too big. Ray (My boyfriend? Friend I'm sleeping with? Future husband?) tells me he loves my ass. What kind of man could love this ass? The kind who doesn't have to spend hours trying on a bloody pair of jeans, that's who. Bloody hell. (I picked that up after a week in London. That and
shagging
. Sounds like you're having way more fun. Some of it doesn't work. For example, “Shag you!” Not enough grit. But when it comes to my ass, nothing works like a good “bloody hell.” Sod off!)
When I'm done torturing myself, I hide the bar of soap in my bedroom closet. It's the only spot in this room that's not a disaster area. In fact the rest of my room looks like an abstract, post-robbery painting. It's purposeful. My roommate Kim hates a mess, and although I would prefer a nice and tidy space, as long as I keep my room like this she won't dare enter it. The padlock on my closet door would grab Kim's attention like sharks smelling blood. She's a sensitive girl and would think the padlock was because of her and might even accuse me of not trusting her, blah, blah, blah. You know how we are. I would do the same thing. After all, her room is an open book. There are no locks on her closets, and I'm welcome to waltz in anytime I'd like and borrow anything of hers that I can squeeze myself into. So for now I have to put up with my messy room and content myself with a meticulous closet.
On the windowsill next to my closet sits a porcelain clown that my father gave me for my tenth birthday. We were supposed to actually go to the circus that day, but at the eleventh hour my father couldn't get out of work and instead of a night of Lions! Tigers! And Bears! (Oh my!) I got a moody babysitter and a porcelain clown. Now my father is a tour guide who lives a laid-back life in the Florida Keys, but the ten-year-old me is still waiting for an apology. Ironically, I was too young then to be bitter, and I absolutely loved the clown. Now I use it to hide the key to my closet. It just fits underneath his big blue feet. I remove the key now and hold my breath. I relish the anticipation of opening my closet.
The first thing I notice (with a twinge of panic) is that my closet is getting full. I have to hide what I steal or I can't sleep, like an insomniac squirrel. I used to worry that dirt would build up on the objects and attach to my soul, but the nightly dustings have eased that. I place the bar of soap on the bottom shelf next to a package of island coasters (Bahamas! Bermuda! Virgin Islands!), a spanking-new Yankees cap, and six long, twisting beeswax candles. I feel a little bit sick. I didn't really need another bar of soap. I'm a horrible person. That's it. I'm done shoplifting. Besides giving myself an ulcer, I just don't have the closet space. New York apartments are infamously small.
It's a two bedroom that sits right above a sushi restaurant on Thirtieth between Lexington and Third. I used to love sushi. Raw fish no longer touches my lips. The smell of it clings to everything, including my clothes, but the worst part is that it's an open house for cockroaches and mice. They come to us in droves. I shower constantly now and stuff cotton in my ears at night after hearing a story about a woman who had a cockroach crawl into her ear while she slept. It had to be surgically removed. I've missed my alarm going off a few times due to the cotton, but it's worth it to have a bug-free canal.
We don't have a doorman, but we do have Jimmy, a homeless man who sleeps in the hallway. If he's in a good mood he'll open the door for you and flash you a toothless grin. However, if he's had a bad day he'll try and trip you, so you always have to watch your feet in relation to his. He hails from Georgia, but he's lived in New York for the past fifty years. “I'm from Georgia,” he said the first day I moved in. I was trying to drag a futon mattress up the stairs, stopping every few seconds to swear and readjust my grip on the monstrous thing. I would like to see the basement of the person who invented the futon. I wouldn't be surprised to see it rigged up with chains, whips, and other sadomasochistic machinations. He either completely ignored the fact that people have to actually move these beasts around or enjoy the thought of the pain it causes.
To add to my frustrations, every friend who had promised to help me move had suddenly been hit with the Moving Virus, and so there I was cursing the Saint of Moves From Hell every time my wet tennis shoes slipped on the stairs. The skies had been crackling with rain and lightning all day. “You want some help with that?” Jimmy asked, taking it over before I even answered. I weakly waved my hand in protest, but he was already tossing it over his shoulders and heading up the stairs. “I used to be a professional mover,” he called over his shoulder as I crumpled with relief on the stairs. It had taken me four hours to load the truck from my fifth-floor walk-up in Chelsea. The truck was due back in an hour or I would owe another seventy-five dollars. Jimmy was a lifesaver.
He carried the rest of my things in all by himself. I watched the muscles in his brown skin flex as he effortlessly heaved my futon, kitchen table, rugs, and television up over his head and ascend three sets of stairs without breaking a sweat. Later I learned it was a cocktail of speed and cocaine that allowed him to do this, but at the time I bought the “professional mover” bit. Over the next few months he would also profess to have been a professional chef, professional swimmer, and professional Boy Scout leader. I give him food and money almost every day, and he uses his spare change to buy Jack Daniels.
Lately, he's taken to announcing me. He stands outside the building, and the minute he spots me heading down the sidewalk, he opens the door to our building, bows grandly, and screams “Melanie ZZZZZZZZZZZZeitgar” at the top of his lungs. I don't know why he buzzes the
Z
like that, and I'm ashamed to admit it, but he's embarrassing the hell out of me. I've considered letting him use my shower lately because of his stench, but I think Charlie is the one who should give Jimmy his own apartment complete with a shower. Charlie is our landlord, and Jimmy is the unofficial super. Charlie lives in the apartment building across the street, and it's ten times nicer than ours. They have potted palms and a chandelier in their lobby; we have a broken lightbulb and a plastic container of wheat grass. They also have a real doorman who always smiles, and I've never seen him trip anyone even once.
Sometimes I think I should report Charlie to the NAACP or some other such human rights group, but would that really help Jimmy? Isn't it better for him to have a semiwarm hallway to live in rather than the streets? The day I moved in I gave him a pillow and a blanket to sleep on, but they've subsequently disappeared. I don't understand how he'd rather sleep on bare cement, but it's really not my place to teach him how
not
to be a homeless drunk. I suppose I could protest, move out, raise a stink, but I don't. I have rent control. I like Jimmy but I'm ashamed to admit that sometimes when he smiles at me I have to look away.
Inside our apartment there are problems as well. I can handle the cockroaches (with a little help from my friend the cotton ball), but both Kim and I are terrified of the mice. They mainly hang out in the kitchen section of our pad, and if we stomp on the floor before we enter, they're polite enough to scatter back to their holes. The cockroaches, on the other hand, have no such decency and they're becoming quite bold. I found one on the television the other day watching
The Sopranos
. He was perched on Tony Soprano's right nostril. It was so entertaining we couldn't bring ourselves to kill it. I named him Tony, and I marked the top of his little body with red nail polish. He's the only one we won't squash, poison, or drown. The rest of them are on their own.
Before I go to bed, I play the movie
How I Met Ray
. It gets five stars, it runs in my head, and I can even watch it without a huge bucket of buttered popcorn. It goes a little something like this:
EXTERIOR—NIGHT—MANHATTAN
CHARACTERS: GIRL (Me)
MOST BEAUTIFUL MAN EVER
(Ray)
A beautiful GIRL in her late twenties (twenty-nine is still late twenties) is dejectedly walking the streets of Manhattan after a
lousy
audition for an off-, off-, off-, off-Broadway play. She leaves the audition when the director declares that it will be performed in thong underwear as a ploy to put the audience at ease. GIRL walks out without uttering a word of her two-minute comedic monologue. GIRL decides she will
quit
acting and definitely
quit
waitressing at Beef Boys Bar and Grill where Columbia frat boys come in to check out her ass over pitchers of beer.
Suddenly we hear
music.
It wails from a bar on the corner, a small basement dive distinguishable from a sad basement apartment only by the neon eye that blinks above it. GIRL drops to her knees on the sidewalk and peers in the window.
MOST BEAUTIFUL MAN EVER stands on a rickety stage with a guitar slung around his neck and a harmonica wedged in his full lips. GIRL's heart never stands a chance. She closes her eyes and holds his image. Broad shoulders, shaggy black hair, and since she can't see that well through the dirt and the din, she imagines eyes like soft blue ice (I was wrong about the blue eyes, but jade green is unbelievable too, don't you think?), rough hands, and a mind clear enough to pierce through the clutter of hers. GIRL knows if he makes love like he plays, GIRL is in huge, big trouble. GIRL licks index finger and writes “I Want You” backward in the dirty window. Music stops. Lights dim. MOST BEAUTIFUL MAN EVER looks up, sees GIRL, sees “I Want You,” and smiles. The smile says, “Then come and get me.” And she does.
THE END (but hopefully just the beginning).

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