Bitter Is the New Black: Confessions of a Condescending, Egomaniacal, Self-Centered Smart-Ass, Or, Why You Should Never Carry a Prada Bag to the Unemployment Office : A Memoir (35 page)

“Oh, my God, how can I get a hold of her? How is she doing?”

“She’s really shaken up and she’s in a lot of pain. She’s asking for you.”

“What should I do?”

“Dad’s going to drive to Connecticut, and he needs you to come with him. Because of the lung, she won’t be able to fly for a while, so he’s driving her back when she’s released from the hospital. He expected you to be on the road already, so get moving.”

But I can’t get moving.

I never told my family about the repossession, so they don’t know I have no way to get to Indiana. The last thing I want to do is burden them with this knowledge. Since Fletch hasn’t been paid yet, I don’t have enough money to take a train or fly, and my credit cards have been maxed out for months, so I can’t rent a car.

My mom is scared and alone, and all she wants right now is me. But because of all the selfish, foolish mistakes I made in my past, I can’t get to her.

This is just about the worst feeling in the world.

Weblog Entry 9/6/03

LEAVING THE DRIVING TO THEM

“Wait, Jen, I’m confused. How did you get to your parents’ house? Did your dad pick you up?”

No.

“Did you fly?”

Nope.

“Did you take the train?”

Negative.

“Did you—heh, heh, heh, take the BUS?”

Yes. Yes, I did.

And no, I’m not kidding.

I was slightly terrified at the idea of riding Greyhound since I’d never done so before. But I also was a tiny bit exhilarated; it just seemed so
On The Road
, although having not actually read the whole thing, I wasn’t sure if I would be more like Jack or Neal Cassady.

As I figured getting to see my mother would outweigh any risks, I booked my ticket. I caught a cab to the bus station and began to get nervous when the driver assumed that I was kidding about the whole Greyhound Station destination. When I assured him that I was serious, he apologized and said I just didn’t look like a typical bus rider. I wasn’t sure whether to be delighted or offended.

I entered the station and suddenly understood what my cab driver meant. I
didn’t
look like any of these people. The people in the Greyhound terminal certainly didn’t seem like the same people I’d bump into at O’Hare or Union Station. I’m so used to being around happy travelers…families excited to be on their way to Florida, young sales execs ready to fly out to Houston to “totally NAIL the Pennzoil account, boo-yah!” and amorous honeymoon couples about to jet to Hawaii for a week of never actually getting to see the beach.

But there’s little joy of travel at the bus station. Everyone looked sad, weary, elaborately tattooed, and pointedly NOT excited to be there. Like on the verge of violently-not-excited-to-be-there. I imagine a lot of this had to do with the atmosphere. The bus station was not a cheery place, and it lacked the charm, warmth, and sanitation of, oh, say, a third world country’s sewage treatment plant.

Actually, after having a good look around, I realized why the scene was vaguely familiar. It reminded me very much of HBO’s prison show
Oz,
both in atmosphere and clientele. I broke out into a cold sweat when I noticed that some of the “inmates” were eyeing me. I wondered if I should immediately “take someone out” with a weapon I’d fashioned by whittling down a plastic spork. Then I figured they’d eventually realize I was no better than the rest of them since I was taking the bus, too, and would leave me alone. And even if I had been hassled,
nothing
was going to keep me from getting to my mother. So, I bought a cheeseburger, opened a book, and waited for my ride.

Now here’s where I’d like to begin to detail
The Journey from Hell…

…but I can’t.

The bus was OK.

No, actually, it was very nice. It was clean, comfortable, and cool. No crying babies. No foul stinks. No erratic driving. As an added bonus, a Greyhound employee was deadheading to a different station, so he sat up by the driver and they quietly gossiped like sorority girls about stupid customers.

While the miles rolled away, I popped open my roasted almonds and closed my book. I noticed that I had an excellent vantage point; I never realized that from a bus you could see inside of every car! I amused myself for almost an hour by spying on other drivers. I was a bit disturbed to see how many people smoke pot while they’re driving. I started to record their license plate numbers but then realized that I am not the Hall Monitor of the World. I had no idea what I’d actually do with the information. Maybe if I’d had a phone with me I could have called the police? But I’m thinking since these cars were going about 12 miles an hour on the expressway, there’s a good likelihood of them being caught without my help. And if I called the police four hours later when I got to my house, they’d just think I was a kook.

Besides, Jack Kerouac would have
never
been a narc.

Jennyslvania

To: [email protected]

From: Cal Canter

Date: September 12, 2003

Subject: Little Blaster

Jennifer—aka “Little Blaster,”
¹⁹¹

Some time ago your brother told me about your web site and being the arrogant snob I am, (also very busy and very impressed with myself), I never bothered to look it up. Hopelessly bored tonight, I found a scrap of paper with your web address on it (actually, didn’t even remember that it was yours), so I dialed it up. Several quick observations, if I might—

1. Credit should be given to your character that being unemployed for almost 2 years has not made you bitter. Heh.

2. Perhaps you are setting your sites too high for a job in retail. There is always opportunity in fast food that can lead to management positions.

3. I didn’t get a chance to read all of your web site (specifically the article about Peggy Noonan, and I might add that next to the bible on my nightstand is a copy of
Ronald Reagan, When Character Was King
), simply because I do work and could not possibly have to time to read the entire thing. (I will have my secretary read it tomorrow and summarize it in a memo for me.) Try to remember George Orwell’s 6 rules to better writing—1. Never use a long word where a short word will do—2. If it is possible to leave a word out, leave a word out, etc…. This might add a little brevity and make the reading go quicker.

4. Remember, if you go 5 years without meaningful employment, you live in Chicago, where panhandling is not only an option, it is an opportunity.

5. Your writing is both good and entertaining, however, Stephen King is the exception to the rule about financial success of writers (while they are living). If you become classified as a successful writer you will either starve to death or someone will turn up some dirt on you and you will go the way of Bob Greene, leaving the literary scene humiliated and divorced, faced with unavoidable litigation.

Jen, Al Gore invented the Internet. It is grossly overrated. If
Survivor
wasn’t over, only one episode of
The Bachelor
left,
Joe Millionaire
all but forgotten, myself and the rest of the world would not be sitting at a computer tonight.

Volunteer at the Church, help the illiterate, do something.

Nice web site,

Calvin, a friend of your brother’s.

P.S. I have recently started a management company to manage my portfolio of commercial real estate properties. We are looking for several in-house maintenance people. Feel free to forward your resume, or we can fax you an application. GED or equivalent required.

“Are you going to dignify this with a response?” Fletch asks. We’re in the den, and Fletch is standing over my shoulder, rereading Calvin’s e-mail.

“Maybe. When I read this the first time, I thought it was funny. Nothing like a little ribbing between old friends, you know? But then I reread it, realized he was actually being mean, and got mad.”

“Regardless of shared history, no one has the right to talk to you like that. If you reply, what are you going to say?”

“I’m thinking about it now. When I come up with a response, I’ll run it past you.” He heads out to walk the dogs.

I grab a Diet Dr Pepper and a tumbler of ice and settle in front of the computer to craft a snappy retort. As I try to string together the perfect response, I begin to reminisce.

Calvin was in the same fraternity as my brother. I haven’t seen or talked to Cal since he was a groomsman in my brother’s wedding almost ten years ago. Cal and Todd’s other fraternity brothers behaved rather inappropriately during the ceremony. Fortunately, they were so drunk none of them made it to the reception.

Todd’s wedding was important because it marked a turning point in my “relationship” with Calvin and the rest of that crew. You see, when I arrived at college, I was a naive young girl, and I was impressed by, well, almost everything. I desperately wanted to leave my bourgeois roots behind me.

When I met Calvin and the rest of his clique, I was blown away by how smart and witty and worldly they were.
¹⁹²
They’d all grown up in wealthy towns like Newport and Greenwich and Alexandria…. Certainly no one had spent his teens in an Indiana farming community like me! And they’d all done things I’d previously only read about in
The Preppy Handbook
…attended prep schools, summered on various Capes, captained yachts. As for me, I spent summers straining leaves out of my parents’ pool. Granted, there are worse fates than having an in-ground pool and needing to clean it, but I didn’t know it at the time.

At that point in my life, I’d never met anyone who could slam a Little Kings beer AND quote Arthur Miller AND had a wardrobe full of Alexander Julian shirts. Naturally, I was enamored of Cal, as he represented everything that my seventeen-year-old mind considered “cool.” But I didn’t want to date him because at the time it didn’t occur to me that I could even be worthy of his affection. (Ironic, because I was 125 pounds at the time and had done the local beauty pageant circuit in high school.) Instead, I foisted my adorable roommate, Joanna, on him and lived vicariously through their chaste flirting.

What I so desperately craved from him was his acceptance. He’d always been grudgingly nice to me out of respect for my brother and because he’d been raised well. Take these factors away, and I probably would not have even existed in his world. Yet I so wanted to be liked on my own merits. I tried everything within my power to gain his respect but didn’t realize that the role I played was that of a door-mat, thus ensuring we’d never be equals. For example, in return for being
allowed
to hang out in his room in the fraternity house, I would voluntarily run errands and do chores.
“Need a button sewn on your shirt? Let me handle it!” “Want cute freshman girls at your next party? I’ll round them up for you!”

My indentured servitude didn’t last long. The more I made my own friends, the more I took back the power that I’d so freely given away. Don’t get me wrong, I was still in awe of him. But I’d gained the tools to better mask it.
¹⁹³
Anyway, Cal eventually graduated, and I didn’t see him again until my brother’s wedding, although I’d occasionally hear an update about his so-called fabulous life.

So, when Cal and the rest of his cohorts acted like drunken buffoons at Todd’s wedding—IN THEIR THIRTIES—the scales fell from my eyes, and I questioned why on earth I’d ever worshipped him.

I mean, really, on what planet is a cute and eager-to-please seventeen-year-old girl considered a liability?

I believe the last words I spoke to Cal before I received his e-mail were “Calvin, would you please shut the fuck up so we can finish taking these pictures?”

The seventeen-year-old Jen would have been crushed if she’d received a condescending note from Cal the Magnificent, even if it was just meant to tease her.

But what about the thirty-five-year-old Jen? The one with the big butt? Who lives in the ’hood and has a pit bull and actually LIKES polo shirts from Target? Who doesn’t have a job and is married to a regular guy from Indiana?

She just laughed and laughed.