Carrie Pilby (20 page)

Heading home, I think maybe part of the attraction surrounding Kara is an attraction to a situation in which
I
feel good about myself.

In fact, everyone I've kissed has been someone who told me I'm smart. But usually, they only say that because that matters to them, which means they share my priorities.

 

Sunday morning, at First Prophets' Church, the sermon is about Christmas and Christmas gifts. It's good. Natto doesn't carp about the materialism of the holidays, like some people do; he finds ways in which materialism can be converted into a spiritual deed, like buying extra gifts and giving them to a home
less shelter. Or picking one of our gifts and donating it to someone who needs it. Natto doesn't mention his book at all.

But I'm still not sure the “religion” isn't a cult. I can continue my research better if I come to church more consistently. Plus, then I can finally meet that goal of joining an organization. It would be nice to officially get one goal over with. I'm not sure my dates with Matt count as real dates, because he's taken, so that goal hasn't conclusively been met yet; when I see Michael from the personals at Barnes & Noble in a few days, it will count. But it's time to join a group.

I amble over to a long table in the back and fill out the membership form. It asks if I'm interested in receiving information about a youth group, a singles group and a Bible discussion group. I check off the middle one and the last one.

I hand in the form, along with a twenty-five-dollar check. With a few strokes of my NYU stationery store plastic purple pneumatic pen, I've officially joined a club.

 

“This is Eppie Bronson, from the First Prophets' Church? You filled out a form expressing interest in the singles and Bible studies group?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” says the voice on the phone, “I noticed you're rather young, and we've been thinking of starting sort of a middle group between teenagers and singles because a lot of our singles are in their forties and fifties. We want to sort of start a young leadership group, which would be people, not necessarily all singles, but they can be singles, in their twenties and early thirties. Do you think you might be interested?”

“Possibly,” I say.

“What is it you do for a living?”

“Proofreading. And I'm a sort of philosopher.”

“Aren't we all,” Eppie says, and he laughs. He has a high-
pitched laugh. “You know, we need someone to lead a new twenties-thirties group. We really don't have too many young people in our church, and Joe's hoping to attract more. Would you have an interest in discussing the possibility?”

“Maybe,” I say. “I do want to learn more about your philosophies. I mean, I don't…”

“I know,” Eppie says. “It's a new church, and you don't want to get taken in by something you may not agree with. Joe loves converting cynics. And honestly, we don't want you to take everything we say as gospel. Put it through the wringer. Challenge it. That's what First Prophets' is about. We're not brainwashers. We need new voices. Like yours.”

“Well, I could think about it,” I say.

“We can set up a time for you to meet with Joe Natto if you'd like.”

This seems rather quick. They must be desperate. Or just new. If I meet Natto, will he see through my cover? “That sounds interesting,” I say.

“We'd definitely like to bring more young people into the church,” Eppie says. “There are a lot of young people who've just moved to the city and feel guilty that they haven't been going to church. This gives them a way to be a part of something new and exciting.”

I don't want to be taken in, but he's saying the right things. I set up an appointment.

 

After I hang up, it's quiet again. I hear a car puttering past.

I look at the TV pullout I've saved from my paper. Just soaps and talk shows.

The phone rings.

I hope it's Matt. Then I chastise myself for hoping it's Matt. Maybe it's A-Adam. Maybe Kara. At least now I've got people who it could be.

I wait until the third ring.

“Is…Carrie Pilby there?”

The woman pronounced my name right. Maybe for a change it's not a sales call. Maybe this is the call that will change my life.

“Yes?”

“I'm calling to let you know you've won a free month of
Women's Week.
”

A letdown, as usual.

“After your free month, if you're interested in getting the next forty-six issues, which would be the full year of issues, you can order them for only $14.95.”

“If you're giving me a free month, that's four issues,” I say. “If I can buy another forty-six and that's considered a year's worth, that's fifty. The magazine is called
Women's Week,
and there are fifty-two weeks in a year.”

“We have double issues at Thanksgiving and Christmas,” she says.

“But what if something happens with women during the weeks you're not publishing?” I ask. “What if women land on the moon? What if a band of angry Pygmy women holds up the White House?”

“Would you like to try the free offer?”

Suddenly I feel bad for her. The only people who do these jobs are people who really need the money. Otherwise they would get a job that pays better or doesn't require you to get hung up on for half the day. Why should I act superior? I'm not.

“Okay, I'll do it,” I say. I'll just write “cancel” across the bill when I get it. I know this woman will get a commission if I accept this. All it's going to cost me is a few seconds of my life.

“Really?” she says. “I mean, thank you. Let me get the rest of your information, ma'am.”

“You're welcome.”

For a change, I feel like I did something good. When I hang up, I don't feel as bad about myself as usual.

I return to bed. I still feel alone, though. Maybe I'll meet Michael Saturday, we'll hit it off, and then I won't ever feel this way again.

I wonder what Matt is doing right now. I was better off when I didn't know what I was missing.

If I were Matt's girlfriend, I'd call him at work right now and say hi. I would ask how his day was going.

I think of Shauna. What if she is a nice person? She probably is. Am I horrible because I want Matt's attention, too? If Shauna isn't going to be enough to keep him happy, maybe it's better he find that out now. And maybe he'll realize there
is
one person who can keep him happy forever, happy enough to never want or need to cheat—it's just not Shauna.

I lie in bed a little longer. The silence is unnerving.

I decide to listen to the 78s that I found when I moved in here. I haven't done that in a while. I put one on, and it's a polka. It's scratchy and I love it.

The choppy sounds fill the room. They bring me to life. I whirl through the bedroom, living room, kitchen, bathroom. I touch the medicine cabinet, skip out past the painted-over window in the wall, head back to my room. The music spikes and drops. I leap into the air as if I am in a giant flowing skirt. I hop onto my bed and off. Someone on the record claps three times, and I do the same.

I'm having a Pilby Party: a party for one. I love Pilby Parties. I'm the only guest, and I always fit in.

The phone rings. I lower the music and pick it up.

“What are you doing?” Matt asks. “Having Oktoberfest in December?”

I laugh, happy to hear from him. “It's the old records I found when I moved in here.”

“You have a record player?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I like old things.”

“Do you have a CD player?”

“No.”

There's an odd silence.

“I was half expecting your voice mail. You off today?”

I think quickly. “Night shift tonight,” I say.

“Oh.” He's quiet for a second. “All right, I'll level with you. I was calling because I'm having trouble not thinking about you. I'd really like to see you.”

Whatever I did, I did right. And he was thinking about me when I wasn't there! Just like Harrison used to do.

“Are you able to meet up for lunch this week?” Matt asks. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow's a little busy,” I lie. I lie because I wonder if Shauna's out of town tomorrow and that's the only reason he's asking me.

“Thursday or Friday are okay, too,” he says, “if they're okay with you.”

All right. He's being flexible. “You know, I just realized, tomorrow's okay,” I say.

“That's great.”

“Will you get in trouble at work?” I ask.

“They don't really pay much attention to how long our lunch goes at my job,” he says. “I'm a consultant anyway, and I move around. It's not like I'm at one desk all day. And I'm there till six some nights, or I'm in by eight in the morning. They know I do my work.”

 

Matt's office is near the Harrigan's in Union Square, which is one of those family-style bar-restaurants whose menu spans
everything from Southwestern to Cajun to finger food to fifty flavors of margaritas. I meet him in front of the roped-off entrance, and a woman says, “Smoking?” and we both shake our heads. It's packed.

“Work crowd,” Matt says. “Don't worry, I'm paying. The prices here are double what they would be in a normal city.”

We slide into a booth. Matt is smiling. He seems genuinely happy. Very light. I wonder if he's changing his mind about Shauna, now that he sees there's more out there. I'm both guilty and hopeful at once. It's not like I'm in love with him or anything, but I do like him, and it'd be easier to feel good about this if I knew he wasn't about to take his vows and spend ten days in Hawaii with someone.

Harrigan's is decorated with tin signs and corporate logos. There's a red Reading Railroad sign, a giant metal Pepsi thermometer, a circular blue Morton's salt ad, and a Maxwell House sign.

“Teddy Roosevelt used to eat there,” Matt says, sitting down. There's a mirror on the side, and I see us both in it, him in a white dress shirt and tie, me in a red sweater. We don't look half-bad together.

“Teddy Roosevelt used to eat
where?
” I ask.

“Maxwell House. Maxwell House coffee was invented in the Maxwell House hotel in Tennessee, where all the rich and famous used to hang out after the turn of the century. Supposedly, Teddy Roosevelt was eating there one day, and he even said he enjoyed it to the ‘last drop' and that became one of their slogans.”

“Why did it happen to be Teddy Roosevelt who said it?” I ask. “Why wasn't it, like, Ernie the Bellhop?”

Matt laughs. “I guess you're right.”

The waitress appears. “Welcome to Harrigan's. We have sev
eral specials, as you can see in front of you, as well as a new tutti-fruiti margarita.”

“Tutti-fruiti? We'll have to do that,” Matt says.

“Two?” the waitress asks.

“Yes,” Matt leaps in, before I can say anything.

When she leaves, I say, “I thought you didn't drink.”

“Yes, but since we're in Harrigan's, and since you can get margaritas in kids' flavors, and since we're celebrating our first workday lunch together, it's acceptable.”

“I was hoping for bubble gum flavored.”

“I was hoping for wild cherry or creamsicle,” he says. “So, how've you been doing?”

It's sweet of him to ask. “I've been fine,” I say. “How are you? How's work?”

Matt shrugs. “It's pretty good, except there's this new guy there who's annoying as hell. His name's Tad. Whoever heard of someone named Tad?”

“Abe Lincoln's son,” I say.

“Figures you'd have heard of someone named Tad.”

“We did a play on him in elementary school.”

“On Tad Lincoln? Must have been boring.”

“On
Abe
Lincoln.”

“I wouldn't want to be named
Abraham,
either,” Matt says.

“You know what was weird?” I say. “My teachers in school always said Abe Lincoln was considered ugly in his day. But no one in my class ever thought so. My teachers said maybe that's because we're used to looking at him. Have you ever thought of Abe Lincoln as ugly?”

“I don't know,” Matt said. “I want to see a picture of him now, to see.”

“I'd give you one, but I don't carry around pictures of Abe Lincoln.”

“I do.” Matt pulls out his wallet and takes out a five-dollar bill. “Yeah, he ain't bad.”

I have to admit that Matt's pretty clever. I think if I were around him, I'd be continually surprised.

Someone a few tables away is delivered a birthday cake, and we wait for it to pass. Matt says, “I hope no one ever does that to me.”

“Me either. I hate surprise parties.”

“So do I. Anyone who knows me knows I don't like them. My parents threw me one once, and when everyone yelled ‘Surprise,' I cried.”

He looks cute when he says this. “Aww. How old were you?”

“I don't know. Five?”

We both order, and I notice a metal Esso sign. “Do you know how Esso got its name?” I ask.

“No. Only that it became Exxon eventually.”

“Right. But back when they broke up Standard Oil in 1911, Standard Oil became a bunch of different companies, like Standard Oil of New Jersey, for instance. Eventually they got all cutesy and abbreviated it to Esso—S.O., get it?”

“Wow,” Matt says. “That's cool.”

“Another branch was Socony, Standard Oil Company of New York. That became Mobil.”

“Happy motoring,” Matt says, raising his margarita glass.

I clink glasses. “Happy motoring.”

I think of how I haven't seen “Happy motoring” written on a gas station since I was a kid, and how Matt probably shares that, and how it's nice to have childhood pop culture reference points with someone. That was something I never had with Harrison.