Carrie Pilby (11 page)

“People are always like that,” I say. “They do things simply because they feel like it, and then they come up with an excuse. Some of the stuff they do is really hypocritical. I've seen people do things they didn't believe in until two seconds ago, and then they come up with a rationalization for it. It drives me crazy.”

“People can be hypocritical as hell,” Kara says.

“Yes.”

“And that's what makes life wonderful.”

“Huh?”

She leans closer. “You never know what's going to happen,” she says. “You can feel one way one day and then feel completely differently the next day. You can make mistakes. You can realize you were wrong. You can do things simply because they're indulgent or decadent. We can change our minds, try everything and then settle down when we choose to. We don't know how things will affect us until we're in different situations. It's wonderful.”

Her face is really close to mine. I would debate her on this, but I want to keep her talking.

She's silent, though.

I say, “I think that if you declare something is wrong or dangerous, and you know it's wrong or dangerous, you flat out shouldn't do it. And if there
is
a good reason to do it, and if it hurts no one, then it's not wrong. Simple as that. I'm not saying that decadent is always bad. ‘Wrong' and ‘decadent' do not mean the same thing. No one is stopping you from eating a hot-fudge sundae. But if you believe, and you declare, that stealing is wrong, and you see a little kid with a hot-fudge sundae, you
shouldn't steal his and then say it's okay because you
had
to have it. That's what I'm saying.”

“I'll give you that,” Kara says. “But tell me, do you believe in absolute truth?”

“Yes.”

“Do you believe abortion is absolutely wrong, or absolutely right?”

“There are conditions where it's more right than not,” I say. “Like if a woman was raped and traumatized and doesn't want to have the rapist's baby.”

“Aren't you still killing an innocent baby?”

“Maybe,” I say. “I guess you have a point. To modify what I said before, I do think there are objective truths, but I don't know for sure what they are. I haven't made a decision about unborn babies. I don't know exactly where life begins. But maybe there is an answer and I'm not a highly evolved enough life form to know it. There is one.”

She considers this.

I add, “I don't know if every single thing is right or wrong. I'm still trying to figure it all out. But what I won't do is decide simply based on what I
feel
like doing. And if I do, I'll admit to it. If it's something unhealthy, hurtful or stupid, I'll try my best not to do it. If it's wrong or dangerous and hurts other people, or even if it hurts me, I'll stop. It seems like no one can pick something and stick to it. There are things that are immoral, and things that are dangerous, and things that are both, and even if the former is worse than the latter, the point is that it makes all the sense in the world not to do them. But as soon as it gets a little bit difficult, people change their reasoning. I've heard people who keep Kosher say it's okay to eat pork if it's in Chinese food. I knew a guy in college who was against people stealing software, but he stole music all the time. Half the people sitting in church are there because they just did something wrong and
want absolution. If you're against something, be strong enough to commit to your beliefs.”

“It seems there should be a disparity between dangerous and immoral,” Kara says. “Do you really think doing things that hurt only yourself are immoral?”

“They're not as bad as hurting other people,” I say, “but in the end, they can, in different ways. But that's not even my point. My point is that you should decide what to do based on logic, and then stick to it, not based on what you feel like doing at this particular moment.”

“Wow,” she says. “I like this discussion. I feel…challenged.” She puts her head on the desk. “I don't get much intellectual stimulation most of the time.”

“What do you do during the day?” I lay my head on my desk, too.

“I'm an actress,” she says. “But I only get a commercial now and then. I'm trying out for indie films.”

It almost seems as if she's trying to impress me. It's a strange feeling.

“Indie films are okay,” I respond, “but lately I've spent a lot of time watching old movies.”

“Have you seen
It Happened One Night?
That's the best.”

“If it's not on the ‘100 best of all time' list, I probably won't get to it,” I say.

“And you believe in this list?”

“It's as good a place to start as any. The reviewers were all professors and film scholars.”

“What kinds of movies do you like?”

“Movies with a plot,” I say. “Not today's movies, where a couple meets and the next scene is them in bed together.”

“But that's realistic.”

“Not in my life.”

She laughs. “I'll take care of that. I'll bring you to CBGB and initiate you into my seedy underworld.”

“Not likely,” I say, although I wonder if I should let her do this. For research purposes, of course. For Petrov's five-point plan.

“You know, I've been thinking about the problem with you and your English professor,” she says, picking her head up. “The problem is, you were young. We all make mistakes in our first relationships. One of the things we don't learn until later is how to say no and still keep men interested. It takes as much skill as saying yes. You can find a way to do it so that they can't get around it, and so that they don't blame you for it.”

“Okay….”

“Here's an example. How do you get out of giving a guy oral sex?”

I shrug. “Eat peanut butter?”

She shakes her head. “Guess again.”

“Say no?”

“You can't say no. If you say no to that, you've lost them for good. You need a reason.” She points to her nose.

“Your nose is too long?”

“No,” she says. “Say, ‘I've got a deviated septum.' A deviated septum can block your nose so you can only breathe through your mouth. Therefore, you can't have something in your mouth, because you'd suffocate. It works, trust me. I have a friend who really is a mouth-breather. It's hard when she goes to the dentist because they have all those tools in her mouth. They could smother her.”

“Oh.”

“Deviated septum. Lesson number one for tonight.”

From then on, I will always think of Kara as Deviated Septum.

An older woman with short hair and tiny round glasses peeks into the office. “Do you have work to do?” she asks me.

“Not…uh, right now.”

“I have an assignment for you.”

I hate that she sounds accusing. It's not like there was work and I ran away from it.

Kara goes back to her desk.

As I work, I can't concentrate well. My attention span is worse than usual. I feel all sorts of good things, although I can't classify them.

The assignment takes about an hour, and then I'm bored. I grab a red pencil and try to write out the periodic table from memory. But I only get up to molybdenum. Darn. I'm slowing down.

Before long, Kara pops her head back in. “I don't think we'll get in trouble if I only stay for a few minutes.”

“I hope not.”

“Witchy Woman's on break. I'm not interrupting your work, am I?”

“No.”

She sits down. “So what's the list?”

“You don't give up.”

“I'll leave in a second if you give me a hint.”

Might as well level with her. “I see a therapist once in a while.” Okay, this isn't exactly leveling, since I see him fifty-two times per year. “And he made up a list to help me socialize better.”

I tell her all about Petrov and his silly list. “The organization, I can do,” I say. “But it's hard to find a date if you're not into clubs.”

“I'll find a date for you,” Kara says. “Give me your phone number.”

“Okay.”

That night, I sleep more soundly than I have in months. In the morning, I wake up and feel happy. I'm not sure why, but I think that, for a change, something good is coming my way.

I don't hear from Kara on Thursday or Friday. Saturday, the night that she mentioned she and friends were going to CBGB, I figure she'll call and ask me if I want to come along. But the hours pass and she doesn't. I should have acted more eager about it. I have to stop being so passive.

But maybe she really didn't think too highly of me. Maybe she has more exciting friends. She's like Nora, my freshman year friend at Harvard. Kara is a vibrant, funny person whom people like to be around. How stupid I was to think I'd be one of them.

I can't keep putting off this go-on-a-date thing to wait for a miracle to happen.

I put on my shoes and run to the corner to get the
Beacon.
My ad is the fourth one under “Women Seeking Men.”

I sit in my window and call the 900 number to record an introduction. “Hi,” I say. “I'm Heather. I guess if you're listening to this, then you read my ad. Please leave your name and tell me about yourself. Also please leave your Stanford-Binet IQ score. You may leave your SATs if no Stanford-Binet is on file. Thank you.” I decide that even if all the responses are from Neanderthals, I'll go on one date. That will satisfy my requirement.

When I finish, I notice that the couple in the apartment across the way is in the kitchen eating. They're sitting across from each other, talking and gnawing on something. There's a bottle of wine on their table. I wish I was in their shoes right now: sawing off a slice of some meat or other, washing it down with a glass of red, chatting and feeling the warmth. The couple can't be that much older than I am. Why aren't we friends? Why don't they ever invite their neighbors over?

I decide to ask them. But I need their names so I can find out their phone number.

Getting neighbors' phone numbers is not hard. I have a system. I pull on my coat and boots to run across the street to check their mailbox.

I stamp in the couple's vestibule, leaving stars of snow on their dirty black mat. Their mailbox says,
Guarino.
I wonder if the male half of the couple cheats on the female half. Like Matt from the personals.

I used to be romantic like everyone else when I was little, and I figured that marriage was something that happened because it was “meant to be.” But lately I've been wondering if it's just a necessary social convention. Maybe we've stuck with it because if you don't have at least one person in this rotten world who is
bound contractually to back you up when everyone else wants to roll you over with a cement truck, you'll end up wanting to kill yourself. So you sign this contract with someone saying you're going to care about them and support them and not stab them in the back, no matter what happens in life and no matter how old and wrinkly and ugly you both get, and they're supposed to do the same. If we didn't have large numbers of people doing this, the world would get too confusing and probably more lonely than it already is.

I go back to my own pad, hang up my coat, and look up Guarino on the Internet. There are a Thomas and Jocelyn Guarino at that address. I turn off the lights in my room and rest my head on the windowsill, my body on the bed, so they can't see me. I pick up the phone. I first put in *67 so my call can't be traced.

I watch Tom get up from the table and disappear. Jocelyn is looking after him.

Tom picks up. “Hello?”

His voice is deeper than I expected. I guess that when you see someone, you automatically assume many things about them, like what they'd sound like.

“Why don't you have a dinner party someday and invite your neighbors?” I ask.

“Who is this?”

“Does it matter?”

There's a silence at the other end.

Then I hang up. I haven't thought this through. I need a more detailed plan.

 

About ten minutes later, my phone rings.

Maybe it's Kara. Maybe she's inviting me to CBGB after all. I know it's too late at night for telemarketers. It must be personal. Please don't let it be a wrong number, I think. Don't let it be
my father this time, either. Okay, I'll admit it, God. I feel lonely right now. So yes, I need friends
once
in a while. Are you happy?

It's a male voice. “Hi…is Heather there?”

For a second I think it
is
a wrong number. But then I remember that I left my number for Matt, the “wants to fool around” guy.

“This is she,” I say.

“Oh, hi. I'm Matt.” He sounds a little nervous. It's almost cute. I have to stop myself. If I'm that easily led, then I'm as bad as everyone else. But just because Matt met his fiancée in high school or college, does that mean none of us will ever deserve to spend time with him?

What am I doing? Making an argument
for
cheating?

“You called me,” Matt says. “From the, uh…”

“Oh, the
Beacon,
” I say. “Right. I guess I just wanted to see what was…I don't know.”

“I guess it's awkward,” Matt says. “Well, you read the ad. What's
your
situation?”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“Right, right. You said.”

“I don't know,” I say. “I guess you sounded like an interesting guy, and along the way, I've had thoughts like yours—should I never get to have fun again?”

“Right!” Matt says. “What if you want both? What if you've met the person you want to marry, but you still occasionally want the right to secretly see someone else you're attracted to? If both people in the marriage know about it, it can get uncomfortable. But if it's done discreetly, it won't hurt anyone. In fact, it might even help the marriage. With everyone getting divorced these days…”

“Exactly,” I say. “You only live once. Better to have a good marriage and sometimes do things on the side than to ruin your marriage, or to never get married in the first place.”

“Yes!” Matt says. “Most people are reluctant to talk about this. But lots of people cheat. They'll probably all tell you it's wrong. Except for themselves. Or in
their
particular situation.”

So Matt's not a hypocrite, and he even dislikes hypocrites. But he's not exactly honest, either. He's saying he believes in marriage, but he doesn't believe in sharing his
real
view of marriage with his fiancée.

“But what if your future wife wanted to do the same thing?” I ask.

“Well…” he says.

Ha! Right away he's trying to come up with a rationalization for why it's okay for him but not her. I've already caught him in his own web of dishonesty.

But then I realize I should back off. The purpose of this is to meet him and then tell his girlfriend on him, right?
She
can be the one to put him in his place. It doesn't always have to be me.

“I wouldn't want to know about it,” Matt says.

“But you think it's wrong,” I say, unable to help myself. “Yet, you want to cheat before you even get married.”

“Yes, but
I'm
going to be discreet.”

“You're right,” I say. What I really want to say is, if you trust your wife so little, if you think you can cheat responsibly and
she
wouldn't, then why are you marrying her at all? If she's not the kind of person who would be careful, maybe you don't have as much in common as you think.

Besides, even if he claims he's going to handle his cheating responsibly, why does he get to be the one to decide everything? Maybe he will allow a lapse in judgment one day, get a disease and give it to his wife. He's already cheating and they're not even married. In five years, he may decide that other taboos should be broken. Then five years later, a few more. As soon as you cross a line you've set, it's that much easier to cross again and again, until there's no line anymore.

But I remind myself that an argument will scare him off, and then I won't meet him. This is all about the possibility that his girlfriend thinks he's perfect. She should know about his real views of marriage. She has a right to. Doesn't she?

Matt and I talk about boy-and girlfriends and commitments and love and divorce and parents, and then he asks if I want to meet him “for coffee” and talk further. I wonder why people always want to meet for coffee. Matt also manages to ask what I look like, ostensibly so he'll know how to recognize me. But he asks a whole lot of questions about my looks. I guess if he's going to cheat, it might as well be with someone hot.

My phone beeps. Believe it or not, I've got two calls at once! Matt and I agree to meet for dinner at the Mexican place near Times Square the next night. Then I switch to my other line.

“Hello, Carrie?”

I'm pretty excited to hear the voice. “Yes?”

“It's me, Kara. From Dickson, Monroe?”

“Yes. Hi!”

“I was wondering if you have plans for Friday.”

“This Friday? No. I don't think so.”

“I'm making plans to go out with a friend, kind of a girls' night, if you want to come along. My friend flakes out a lot, but if no one ends up doing it, I'll go anyway.”

“I'll come along.”

Wow! Now I've got plans with Matt for tomorrow, and plans with Kara for Friday.

I get the details on where to meet, and actually feel I'm going to make progress. Real progress! I knew this couldn't be so hard.

 

The next morning, I have a strange mix of emotions when I wake up, but the strongest is dread. I actually am not looking forward to meeting Matt tonight. It's a responsibility. I am kind of looking forward to seeing Kara. Maybe because that doesn't
involve having dinner with an engaged man just to rat him out to his fiancée. But if I don't take on these responsibilities, who will?

I kneel on my bed, part my drapes and peer across the street. The sunlight is blinding. The apartments are reflecting in each other's windows.

Lowering my gaze, I see that on the sidewalk, a punky guy with cropped dark hair and tight clothes is waiting for a girl who's farther up the block. She has flaming-red, close-cut dyed hair, and skinny pants with horizontal pink and orange stripes. I've often wondered about girls who look like her. Most women work hard to look like supermodels these days, but then you have, at the other end of the spectrum, girls who go for the Olympic gold in trying to look bizarre, and
they
always seem to have boyfriends, too, even more often than the supermodels. It is true that their boyfriends always look as strange as they do, but you'd think that just because a man sticks pins in his lips, it doesn't mean he's attracted to a girl who does. I wonder how we're supposed to figure out what anyone wants. I guess the idea is to be ourselves, even though it sure doesn't seem that way sometimes.

I keep watching. My punk rocker friends have disappeared, and I see two guys with a pretty girl. The guys are wearing those thick “nerd” glasses that are popular among Village types. It's unfair to those of us who were bona fide nerds throughout grade school and got picked on for it that once we got out, the popular people went so far as to actually swipe the trappings of our look, turning something we suffered from for years into something they flash like cosmetic dentistry. How come it's only cool to be nerdy
after
it doesn't matter anymore? I always hear famous people talking about how back when they were in school, they were the ugly duckling. If everyone claiming to have been
unpopular in school really had been, there wouldn't have been such a thing.

A few yards behind the nerd-glassed guys is a woman walking a Bernese mountain dog. The dog looks too big to possibly enjoy living in a New York apartment, and might be better off—oh, I don't know—on a Bernese mountain. Next I see three people emerge from a building a few doors down, a building with a terrific revolving door. One of the people is a woman with a stroller, and there's also a young woman and her boyfriend. The young woman is in a jogging getup and has her hair in a ponytail, and it's swinging back and forth. A lot of the women on my block look like her.

Suddenly someone catches my eye. The Hat Guy, aka Cy, is walking directly below. Ronald
did
mention that Cy lives around here. He's carrying a cup of coffee. He's walking really slowly. It looks like he's in sweat clothes. Some weird urge overtakes me. I want to run down and hug him. He must have been up all night rehearsing or something.

But I'm not dressed. By the time I could make myself look half attractive, he'd be gone.

This spurs me to get dressed anyway. I don't see Cy in the subway when I head out.

 

Petrov looks disturbed today. He opens the office door for me, but then goes to his desk to sift through some books with a barely mumbled hello.

I sit in my usual chair.

He keeps sifting through the books.

“Are you mad at me?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “I'm sorry. I'll be with you in a second.”

I look at Petrov's clock, then at my watch. His clock is three minutes ahead as it is. That means he'll end the session three minutes early. That works out to about six dollars he's gypping
my Dad out of. Excuse me, I can't say gypping. But it's such a good word. Gyp, gyp, gyp. It works so well in haiku.

“Sorry about that, Carrie,” Petrov says, turning around. “I'll give you the extra two minutes.” He sits down.

“You also have to set your clock back three minutes,” I say. “It's ahead.”

“Ahead of what?”

“My watch.”

“And your watch is set to the national clock in Washington, D.C.?”