I Came Out for This? (7 page)

I fucked up the whole date with Dee, who looked adorable in a tight floral skirt and silky blouse that showed off her small bust. Dinner wasn't so bad because Dee talked about herself, telling me that she grew up in DC and attended school in California and moved around a bit, and finally returned to DC, where she became a professional advocate for children who are “in the system.” She's been single for a year, ever since her girlfriend left her for another woman. (Dee reported this with admirable
restraint, although when I looked at her eyes they were two fresh wounds.) I liked everything about Dee and sat there feeling awful that I didn't want to jump her bones right there over the table. After dinner, we went to a bar called Larry's for a drink and I drank three rum and cokes and then the date really degenerated further because I started talking and couldn't stop. Specifically I couldn't stop talking about Terri. I went on about how she was my first love, and it was like a big explosion, and I moved here to be with her, and blah blah blah blah blah, and I even went into how divine it was to have
SEX
with her, and whereas Dee's story about
her
old girlfriend took about ten minutes,
my
story about
Terri
, who wasn't even an actual
girlfriend
, took about an hour. I would have kept going but Dee interrupted me finally and asked me if I was ready for a new relationship, and I looked her bravely in the eye and said, “Oh yes, oh yes, I'm definitely ready for a new relationship, I mean there's no way things can work out with Terri,” but it was so obvious I was lying, it was pathetic.

I was too depressed to go home, so I announced that I needed a cigarette, and Dee needed one too after listening to my yammerings all night, so we went to the Seven-11 and bought a pack of Camel Lights and went back to Larry's and smoked a bunch of them and talked about whether flies sleep. After we left and parted ways, I was very drunk. The snow was melting and there was a warm breeze and I decided to find a place to hide my cigarettes, since I didn't want to smoke them. I wandered over to New Hampshire Avenue and found an apartment building with a bench outside of it and buried the cigarettes under the
bench, thinking how cool it would be to take Dee there the next time we went out and retrieve the smokes like a magician. That's how looped I was, to think that Dee would be the least bit impressed with a woman in her 40s who digs up a pack of cigarettes she'd planted, not to mention the absurdity of thinking that she would even go out with me again in the first place.

After my evening with Dee, I didn't want to talk to anyone about it, my mom or my sisters or my friends in Cleveland or Jerome or anyone. I just lay on my bed and chastised myself for five days. And then, today, Terri called and it was like the re-opening of a theater that had gone dark. “Hello, Knadel?”
Voom!
Floodlights. She remembered that Sunday is my birthday, and she invited me to go with her to brunch and a play. She also said she bought me a cell phone. That's my Terri; she's so stodgy and practical, she has to
tell
you what she's bought you for your birthday instead of having a normal sense of whimsy like other people and wrapping it up and giving it as a surprise. But the best part of our conversation wasn't about the cell phone, but when, after I asked her (against my better judgment) how Sandra was, she told me they were “just friends.” To be suddenly relieved of all the graphic little images that had been plaguing me for weeks was the best birthday present I could ever have.

After I hung up with Terri, I started calling everyone I knew and telling them about my disastrous date with Dee and that Terri and the publicity agent are just friends and that she's taking me out on my birthday. Nobody sounded all that thrilled about it. My mom politely said, “That's very nice” and my sister said, “Oh, fuck her” and Tommy
said I'm a sputnik and she's my earth and I will spend the rest of my life circling around her and when I told Jerome he said I blew it with Dee and I'm going to end up getting my female companionship in an old age home. But I don't care what they all say. Well, I do. But if they can't encourage me on my great quest for love, I'll just have to go it alone. The greatest heroes listen to no one. They forge ahead on their own, and public opinion be damned.

February 2000

My birthday was perfect. It was like a symphony by Mozart or Tchaikovsky, without the melodrama of Rachmaninoff or— who's that guy who wrote
The Rite of Spring
?—Stravinsky. It was Haydn, not Wagner. It was Brahms, not Beethoven during his hysterical deaf period. But maybe I'm getting a bit carried away, to compare my birthday to a great symphony. I suppose it was more like a movement, not a whole symphony. But a movement can be memorable, too.

Terri was all excited to give me my cell phone, which she had already programmed with her and my parents' numbers on speed dial. To tell the truth, I never really wanted a cell phone, figuring it would just complicate my life, but Terri insists that I need one because I drive all over the city for my job. Knowing me and my mouth, I'll probably become one of those obnoxious people who traipses around the street talking to people in a loud voice.

After Terri gave me the phone and a very funny card, we drove up to Silver Spring, MD (about 20 minutes away) and we met Tiny and Lou for brunch at the Indian
Gardens. They had a birthday balloon set up on my chair and gave me a homemade card with an elephant on it—Tiny remembered that I like elephants. The Indian meal was outstanding, which surprised me because it was a buffet and I usually hate buffets because the food gets cold and lumpy, but the buffet food at this place was hot and fresh and spectacular. The wait staff were attentive and filled our water glasses, and the nan was crusty and warm, and the company was delightful. It was nice to see Tiny again and I liked her girlfriend, Lou. We sat and laughed ourselves silly about Terri's father, who goes into excruciating detail about every moment of his life and doesn't ask Terri anything about herself, and Tiny's father, who eats mashed potatoes with his hands— he picks them up, makes little balls from them, and pops the balls in his mouth— because that's how he learned to eat them in Poland. Tiny has told him, “Dad, they do not eat mashed potatoes that way in Poland, I have Polish friends and none of them eat their potatoes that way,” and he says that her friends don't come from some specific region in Poland where it's the custom to eat potatoes that way.

There was one briefly annoying moment, when, during a lull in the conversation, Tiny gave Terri a little smile and said, “Have you seen Sandra lately?” and Terri said yes, and then gave her a look like Let's not talk about this. Sandra is the publicity agent. I don't know why Tiny brought up this Sandra person since Terri isn't even dating her; they're just friends. Tiny can be annoying sometimes. She thinks I'm a crazy to be in love with Terri; the last time I saw her, when she came to Cleveland for Terri's mom's funeral and I had recently fallen in love with Terri
and was totally hysterical, she said, “Protect your heart,” and I thought it was the most idiotic thing I'd ever heard. Tiny was in love with Terri for three years and she said it was “three years of hell.” At least I'm not in hell. Or if I am in hell I like it, so it's better than
her
hell, which to hear her tell it was exceedingly unpleasant. Anyway, she's not in hell anymore because now she's with Lou and they seem happy together.

After brunch, Terri took me to see
A Midsummer Night's Dream
at Montgomery College. It was a fine performance, with a lot of crazy improvisation, and I felt so contented sitting there next to Terri. I think she was contented too. Our arms were touching throughout the play and it was comfortable. The whole time I had not one moment of fear, not one moment of thinking, well, when is
this
all going to blow to smithereens? I think it was from watching all those idiotic fools in love, acting even more ridiculous than I, with their jackass heads.

After the play, we went back to Terri's and watched TV in her room. We lay on her bed and drank some wine and then I cuddled against her and she put her arm around me. We found an animated show called
South Park
and I wanted to change it, but Terri said, “No, no, Knadel. You'll love this.” I couldn't believe this crazy cartoon. All these little characters were running amok, cursing one another out and dissing the principal of the school and making allusions to drugs. We were in hysterics over it. After the show, Terri turned off the TV and we lay there talking for a while. At one point Terri looked at me and said, “I wonder if you're going to start
getting under my skin.” And I said, “Count on it.” I know she was drunk, but I think she meant it anyway.

That was yesterday, and I'm still high. She's going to be mine. I know it. Oh come on, Joanna, how many times have you thought that and then she slips away— usually that very same day? But how can she run away from such irresistible music? Right now, the violins are shrieking gratitude and the piano is bouncing along like a hobo with a full belly and the tuba is oom-pah-pah-ing and I'm the music pouring forth. Suddenly I know what Tommy means about classical music being superior to rock ‘n' roll. Classical music doesn't just stay down here. It starts down here and then goes all the way up and out.

I suppose Tommy would say, “Werm, you know nothing about classical music.” And he's right. I should stop writing and call some people on my cell phone. When it comes to talking on the phone, I'm a maestro.

Terri just called and asked me to meet her for dinner at Sushi Taro on 17
^th
Street. I'm going to wear my black jeans and purple and red sweater. I wonder what she wants to tell me. She had this tone in her voice when she called— a slight formality that suggests this is not an idle invitation. I think she's going to tell me she wants to date me. Her father once said to her about me, “She seems like a nice girl; why don't you give her a tumble?” A tumble? I laughed when she told me that. But if she wants to “give me a tumble,” I won't object.

Maybe she just wants to eat sushi. If that's the case, I need to make sure we don't sit at the sushi bar. If we do, Terri will spend the whole evening chattering with the sushi chefs and not pay attention to me. To keep her focused on me, I'll wear a pinch of musk oil. I'll put it behind my ears, and it will mix with the fake fur on the hood of my jacket and I'll be able to smell it for weeks. I love that!

I'm nervous. The walk will do me good. Forget driving. I'll never find parking. That's the one thing about this city that irritates me. You can't just go somewhere, like in New
York, where you automatically take public transportation. You have to plot it. “Do I walk? Do I drive? Do I take the bus or the train?” Often driving seems like the best option, but then you have to think, “Will I find parking?” And more often than not the answer is, “Not without a lot of aggravation.” So then you might simply decide not to go, like if it's to buy a new watch-band. But when you have a date for dinner you can't just not go, so you have to figure out how to get there. The advantage to me of walking this evening is that my hair curls up nicely in the moist chilly air and I will enter the restaurant looking healthy and glowy rather than pinched and stressed the way I would after driving around and around competing with all those yoyos for a parking space. It's like a mad game of musical chairs out there. Musical Chairs with Cars. Sounds like the name of an album, don' it? (Want a Hertz Donut? —
Sure! Ouch!
Hurts, don' it? Ha ha ha ha ha . . .)

I'm lying here in this teeny tiny room in Washington, DC with no friends, where I'm a nobody. It's not funny. Stop laughing. Crying. Whatever it is I'm doing. I'm going to write because I can't just lie here like wet cement the way I've been doing for the past three days.

I don't understand it. I don't understand why she would want to date that publicity agent instead of me. She told me before that they were just friends. I suppose she just told me that so I wouldn't be upset and so she could give me my cell phone, which she probably bought months ago and she didn't want to be stuck with it. But Sandra didn't even know whether or not she was a lesbian. What did Terri do to her to make her realize what she was? I can't stand thinking about it. Thinking about it is worse than being eviscerated with a samurai sword. And I acted so wimpy when Terri told me at dinner that she and Sandra were dating each other and that she was scared to tell me but it would mean so much to her if she could have my support. And first I told her there was no way that I could be supportive, but she looked so crestfallen that I drank as much sake as I could and started
joking around with her, giving her the impression that I won't abandon her, but I will because I can't even speak to her as long as she's dating Sandra Finch.

I wonder how long this thing will last. I hope not more than two more weeks, but even if it's two weeks that will be two weeks of hell. Maybe she's already realized that this person is not The One. Oh god save me. If she wants a relationship so badly, why isn't she having one with
me
? I don't understand it. But why should I have just
assumed
that we were headed toward a relationship? When I think about it, we haven't done any girlfriend things since I moved here. We haven't made out, we haven't had sex, we haven't even kissed or
talked
to each other like girlfriends. We went to a movie and a Vietnamese restaurant and talked on the phone about where to get my car fixed and we went to brunch and a play. We lay on her bed a couple of times, but we didn't actually
do
anything on her bed. But still, she said I was getting under her skin. I know she loves me. I don't understand why she would want to be with
Sandra Finch
and not
me
. The woman is all fucked up. She has an eating disorder and was even hospitalized for it at some point in her life. Of course, I was hospitalized for being a pyromaniac, but that was a long time ago when I was just a teenager, and anyway, I'm not setting fires to trash bins anymore, but I'm sure Sandra Finch still has an eating disorder. She probably runs in the bathroom and throws up every time she's eating out with Terri, who takes her eating excursions very seriously and wants everyone with her to get as ecstatic about eating as she does.