Things I can’t Explain (32 page)

“Look, I'm sorry I got your hopes up with that article,” I say, bending over to speak through the space beneath the door so he can hear me. “I did my best to help your enterprise, I really did. And Norm, honestly, you've come a long way. You deserve to have an article written about you, but I've got to go. Or stay, I mean, and you've got to go and leave me alone. I've got wallowing to attend to.”

I stand up with effort; my back is killing me. This is the most exercise I've had in a while, but I open the door a crack to be civil and say good-bye when I see Norm … wearing … like, clothes … from Steven Alan or Acne Studio or some other cool store. No shredded cutoffs, no bowling shirts.

“Hey, wait a second,” I say. “You're wearing normal clothes.”

“Yeah, I've been shopping with MT a couple of times.”

“And you're not speaking in the third person.”

“Third person? What do you mean?” Okay, he's learned to speak English, not how to write it.

“Your name, Norm. You used to talk about yourself as if you weren't there, remember—‘Don't do that to poor ol' Norm'?”

“Oh yeah, that. She made me stop. It was driving her crazy.”

Ya think?

“But you
did
stop?” I say.

“Yeah, sure. I don't see what the big deal is.”

“It was that easy?”

“Well, no, but she asked me to.”

Oh, jeez, why didn't I think of that? Well, too late now.

“The MTV guys got kind of creeped out, too. After the first two shows were taped and it was like ‘Norm this' and ‘Norm that' and they had a big meeting and decided I should stop or they wouldn't move forward.”

“MTV?”

“Yeah, I got my own series. The announcement has kicked up deck orders like crazy. It's been amazing for business.”

Oh, great, now I really feel like a total failure. Even Norm has skyrocketed past me.

“Well, congrats, I have no idea how you pulled that off, but it couldn't happen to a better guy. Well, as I said, I have to go visit some of my new friends on
Second Life
who want to see more of me, the virtual me anyway. Besides there's a big sale of some new virtual clothes that will look great on my much better virtual body. Then I have to go cry some tears in my milk. Part of my daily quota.” I begin to close the door but he puts his foot in the way.

“It's because of your article,” he says. “That's what MT wants to talk to you about. Your pictures and the piece put Nuzegeek on the map. Something about aggregators and click-through syndication. Everyone in the skate world reposted and blogged it. All sorts of other websites picked it up. Even
WSJ,
whatever that is. Your snaps made me look really good. MTV loved it. Something about an option. I don't really understand but everyone else does … except you, I guess.” He peeks around my shoulder into my apartment. “Whoa, it looks like you've been eating ice cream out of containers for a really long time.”

“No! I just started that.”

“Well, I'll wait outside while you change out of your PJ's and clean up. MT is waiting downstairs,” Norm says like a perfect gentleman. It's shocking what she's done with him. I'm more impressed than ever with MT.

“Really?” I ask.

“Really.”

 

CHAPTER
37

Okay, so let me bring you up to date. First of all, I respectfully declined an offer to appear as the ex-girlfriend on Norm's show. Everyone tried to get me to change my mind—including MT, who is exec-producing, and even my mother. There was actual pay involved but I couldn't even dream of doing it. Besides, the option money for my article was enough to bring me current on my rent and begin to catch up on the loans. I have to say MT was generous; Nuzegeek could have totally screwed me on the deal.

Dad stood by my decision and Mom let it go. Yeah, Mom and Dad, together. They haven't solved all their problems, but Dad's back home in a real and different way. Apparently they continued on for some time after I left the shrink lady in shock at Café Angelique. It was an intervention, all right. Just not mine. Mom and Dad shared lots of weepy hugs and kisses and Madame Schmeud hightailed it back to the airport later that evening completely baffled as far as I can tell, but more than willing to collect her fee, expenses, and take all the credit.

Although they're not remotely the way they used to be when I was a kid, things seem to be working out. Dad's regaining his self-respect and is taking time to explore new career options. Mom is way more considerate about the money situation. Who knew that all those years they kept separate bank accounts? It might have been a good idea when Mom was worried about being financially dependent and maintaining a sense of autonomy, but I see how that definitely could create problems for Dad, who was left with no money and had refused to ask Mom for help.

They worry about Ferguson, but how could you not? Even I do. Once in a while he sends them a secret piece of marzipan from some far-off region of the Baltic or Kazakhstan as a sign that he's okay. I regularly comb the newswire, trying to read between the lines on anything to do with the Russian Mafia and the SEC, looking for hidden evidence of his exploits. Considering the turn in Russia-U.S. relations and all the sanction-bound Russian billionaires in Putin's inner circle, who knows where Ferguson might pop up next. Every one of those Ruskies has to be looking for something to do with their riches. Knowing Ferguson, he might be in the middle of all that. We heard through one source that he even met with Edward Snowden about a proposed business venture. I hope it's not that Internet dating thing for evangelicals in prison. I think more highly of Snowden than that. It could ruin his reputation. Got to admit my little brother certainly gets around in some weird wide circles.

Meanwhile, I've become the queen of DIY. God help me, I've written about so many Indiegogo and Kickstarter entrepreneurs that I really do want to write about the Federal Reserve, the new FICO scores, and Janet Yellen at this point for a change of pace. Janet Y. is totally cool.

And yes, even Dartmoor has begrudgingly begun to show me some respect as my stories have been driving major web traffic to the site. Honestly, I've changed my opinion of him—a teeny tiny bit, anyway. He deserves lots of credit for creating the best financial news site since Ezra Klein set up his own online feed after leaving the
Washington Post
. Beneath his perfectly pressed shirts, his perfectly knotted ties, and his perfectly slicked-back hair, the dude knows what he's doing. Dartsy and I have even collaborated on an article or two. He's even been a bit flirtatious, which I don't mind as long as it doesn't get out of control. I never in fact discovered the gender of the mysterious Aubrey. It's just weird how he only refers to Aubrey by name and never a gender-defining pronoun. I've given up on trying to figure that out for now. I think they've broken up anyway.

Apparently my story
did
go through to MT's e-mail when I first sent it, even though I received that kickback notice. That was why Drusy was so adamant about trying to stop me from leaving. MT had already read my story and loved it. Maybe they were, you know, celebrating that evening in the employee lounge.

It's been months since the day Roxie told me Nick moved to LA. I muddled through a brief bout of self-pity, but my girlfriends didn't allow it to fester. Rodgers gave me one full day of sulking, then a few nights later Piper; her new girlfriend, Hilary; Jody; and Rodgers appeared at my door with a bottle of champagne and an ultimatum.

“Get out of bed and come party with us or we will break into your closet and burn every last one of your accessories, starting with your 1990s Doc Martens,” Rodgers said, and I could see they meant it.

I couldn't let that happen. So I partied. Rodgers took us on a series of late-night bright-lights, big-city adventures I'll never forget. Who knew there were amateur molecular gastronomist cooks hosting legally questionable supper clubs and dinner parties in unofficial spaces throughout the Manhattan underground?

“You've been writing so much about DIY, now you get to eat it,” Rodgers said. It wasn't clear how she knew this inside foodie stuff. I figured it might be her Trinidadian pastry chef mom's connections.

On rooftops, helipads, in abandoned restaurants, and Masonic temples, we ate the food of top-notch, not-ready-for-prime-time, up-and-coming chefs from heavy-hitter restaurants.

In one derelict synagogue we feasted on a midnight meal of lamb half buried under snippets of cat grass, sous-vide pork belly, and cheddar fritters. The temple walls were illuminated with massive dripping candelabras and mirrors, and we could see the Milky Way through the broken stained-glass dome. When we discovered the chef was Rodgers's new squeeze, it became apparent how she had become such a gastronaut. Why she kept Bart (short for Bartholomew) Chance a secret I don't know, but he's a very friendly, lugubrious dude with tattoos up to his chin. He's as sweet as his unbelievably delicious chocolate soufflé.

I kept waiting to see if we'd have to know a secret handshake to get in, but apparently knowing Rodgers was good enough. Jody, Piper and Hilary, who's actually a total kick by the way, and I were game to be led around on a crazy week of eating (and drinking) like I've never done before. Here's my list of the weird things we sampled (or were afraid to):

Okay, allow me to decipher my hieroglyphics. Escamole—which is ant larvae harvested from agave plants. They look like little cannellini beans and taste like really weird cottage cheese with a slightly nutty flavor.

Sweet potato pancakes—way better than you'd think, especially dripping in coconut syrup and ghee.

Grilled beaver tail—a mythical delicacy of Mountain Men—and I'm thinking pretty damn illegal—no comment on this one. I couldn't bring myself to eat it.

Artisan raspberry ice cream—actually changes color when you lick it, part of some mad science, gastronautic engineering experiment.

And …

Deep-fried Rocky Mountain oysters—I drew the line on this one as well. If you don't already know what these are, I suggest you look it up yourself.

As night turned to morning we finished up with a breakfast Bart staged with the Bubbles and Brunch Crowd on the actual L train—yep, the subway line everyone takes to Williamsburg, Bushwick, and environs. Breakfast included champagne and banana Nutella crepes.

There was also a massive portable espresso machine on a wheeled cart that kept sliding across the subway car floor, offering anyone on board a killer coffee-and-coconut-oil combo called Bulletproof Coffee. Coconutted espresso was an experience I had never tried before. And there's nothing like going nuts with a bunch of crazy people in bathing suits and bikinis on the L train at six a.m.

I couldn't help thinking about Nick in the middle of it all. Rodgers noticed almost immediately that caffeinated beverages have become a loaded issue for me.

“As my granddad in Trinidad used to say—you've got to get a stiff upper.”

“Stiff upper what?” I asked.

“Lip, sweetie—not whatever's on your dirty mind,” she said. “What I mean is that Nick is a great guy, but if he can't stand up to Roxie, then he's not good enough for you.”

I knew she was right and I had to get over him, but I didn't stop wondering about Nick and how he was doing, and I didn't stop hoping that he'd call now that I wasn't afraid to answer my phone. But as the weeks went by, I kept my chin up per Rodgers's instructions and learned to tuck all that into a tiny place in the back of my heart and let it rest.

Then surprise, surprise: I got a letter from Sam! Unbelievable, huh? I never thought I'd hear from him. It's big, thick, and smells like fish. But I can't bring myself to open it.

That's why I'm standing down here at my spot under the Brooklyn Bridge. I wanted to see how much I've actually healed and how much farther I have to go. I hadn't even considered visiting my secret hideaway since the night I almost killed Nick with a dish of shrimp.

Tonight, though, I decided to test myself.

I've always hated when people deem things “bittersweet.” I mean, how can something be bitter
and
sweet? It's like when people say “same difference.” Come on, it's either the same or it's different. But I guess there's no other word for the feeling I have standing here, watching the ferries shuttle like gargantuan water bugs across the East River, their lights shimmering in the dusky light turning to darkness as the sun goes down on the other side of the island. Autumn is close and there's a crispness in the air, along with a sad cool whisper coming off the water hinting that summer is over.

I've been thinking about everything that's changed, trying to count my blessings even if I feel like the train tracks never really switched back after the “spill that got away,” inserting me into a multiverse not of my own choosing.