Laughing Down the Moon (8 page)

“You want to burp something?” Falina asked the wearer of the tight ski sweater. She turned to the big oak table where she had artfully arranged a mountain of brightly colored Tupperware and drew out a radiant white and orange bowl. This didn’t look like old-school Tupperware, the kind a person would have to “burp” to get a good seal with the lid, but Falina said, “burp this,” and handed the bowl to the woman. Conversation stopped around the room as everyone watched the ski sweater woman. She set the bowl and the lid on the stone-topped coffee table before her, cleared her throat, flipped her hair over the shoulders of her ski sweater, rubbed her hands together as if conjuring up some serious burp-power, placed the lid atop the bowl, eased its outer edges to the lip of the bowl and, with something of a flourish, “burped” it.

I laughed out loud as a mighty cheer went up from the rest of the women in the room. A few clinked wineglasses, and I even witnessed an exchange of high-fives. These women were funny. Were they really that excited about the product, or did they just enjoy having something to laugh over together? Did it really matter? Falina did excellent business with Tupperware. She had never needed another job. She thrived on providing a good product—one with a lifetime warranty—and bringing people together in social settings. Some of the stories she had shared were almost unbelievable. Did people really get that excited over plastic? But now, seeing the cheer for the burp, I got it.

I had expected a bunch of crotchety, traditional women who’d be knitting as they listened to Falina’s spiel on how the new set of Vent-n-Serves could go from the freezer, to the microwave, to the dinner table, to the dishwasher, just like that! But these women were funny. Two were frightfully non-traditional with severe uptown piercings, stretchings and spikes. These two were by far the most serious about their Tupperware shopping. They had been at the demonstration table when I arrived, holding up Modular Mates and discussing which size would best accommodate flour and which would be appropriate for rice. Did they really eat rice and flour like everyone else? And did the rice ever get stuck in their labret piercing holes that held silver studs beneath their bottom lips? But they were shockingly cute. They put the Modular Mates back into their proper places in the Tupperware display and practically fell over each other as they raced for their seats when Falina got the demonstration under way.

Through the huge plate glass window behind the Tupperware display on the dining room table, a bit of black dashing across the yard caught my eye. I felt my lips purse and my eyebrows knit together. Was that the cat? I tried to smooth out my forehead, which made me think of the smiling cow pose episode. How could it be the cat? It couldn’t be. I was simply too far from home. I drew my attention back into the room while I fingered the garnet beads at my neck.

I heard the oohs, ahhs and thank yous as Falina passed out the Citrus Peelers, the piece I used the most because oranges were an easy dietary staple. Recently I’d discovered the non-business end of it was perfect for dislodging clay from under my nails after pottery class. Still, I was dumbfounded when everyone at this party got so revved up over this little freebie Tupperware tool. Were we, as a collective group of human beings, really that starved for a communal experience? I’d have to ask Falina later to see if all Tupperware partiers were this excited or if it was just this group.

Cami plunked herself down next to me. She twirled her Citrus Peeler like high school boys twirled cigarettes. In her other hand she held a glass of wine.

“Whatcha writing?” she asked me, looking at my order form. She smiled and said, “Yes, we are hysterically sweet, and yes, Falina does do a good job. Sorry, I’m used to spying on my students’ writing. Are you having fun?”

“It’s okay and yes I am,” I answered. She had the sparkliest eyes, all green and brown, that I had ever seen.

“Good, good,” she said and took a sip of her wine.

For a split second I had the impression that she might raise the Citrus Peeler to her lips to take a drag. Instead she pressed its flat end to her bottom lip, tapped it there several times and then asked me, “You’re a freelance writer, right?”

“Well, yes, but I also do a column for a writers’ magazine,” I answered, reaching over the stone coffee table for my own wineglass. Why did I feel compelled to drink every time I saw someone else drinking? It wasn’t only with wine, either. It didn’t matter if it were coffee, water, tea or whatever. Compulsive? Easily swayed by suggestion? I made a mental note to try not to drink next time Cami took a drink.

“Have you been doing that for a long time?” Cami was full of questions.

“About five years I guess,” I answered, hoping my math was correct. I had started the column right about the time the IntelliBoard had come out on the market.

“Hm,” Cami said, clearly contemplating a question.

“Do you have an IntelliBoard in your classroom?” I asked her before she could continue her interview.

“Yes, why?” she answered, eyebrows drawn up over her glittery eyes.

She took a sip of her wine, and I did the same. Damn! Creature of habit, I was.

“My very first column covered ways IntelliBoards might be used in the classroom,” I said, thinking about how lame that sounded. “It was more exciting when it was new, I guess,” I said, setting my wineglass back on the coffee table. The glass rung out musically as it touched the stone top of the table. Whoa, real crystal.

“Everything is more exciting when it’s new,” Cami said, laughing a little. She tapped her bottom lip again with the Citrus Peeler. She had nice lips, and I started wondering if she was trying to draw my attention to them. “Babies, cars, dogs, classes full of ninth graders, eyeglasses, boyfriends…they are all wonderful fun when they’re new, and then, well, one day you wake up and go, ‘Oh! You are not nearly as much fun as you used to be!’ and that’s how it goes,” she said. She took a sip; I took a sip. Damn! Double damn.

“Hiking boots,” I said.

“What?” she asked, holding her wineglass balanced on her right knee.

Maybe this copycat behavior of mine explained The Funk. Was I only mimicking others as I moved through this world? Was I not living an original life? Was I out of fresh ideas and actions? Possibly. Not wanting to miss the fun of the party, I tucked these questions away for future rumination. I was going to turn the tables on this next sip. I’d take one first and see if she followed suit. I took a sip; she took a sip. Haha! I wasn’t the only lemming here. I felt better.

“Hiking boots,” I repeated, “they’re no fun when they’re new.”

“No,” she agreed and shook her head slowly, frowning as if we were discussing a dearly departed friend. “Hiking boots are definitely not fun when they are new.”

Falina called us all together for a game. I shuddered. I silently willed Falina not to foul up a perfectly good party with games. Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it. I got up and wandered back over to the display table, trying to look interested in a colander as I examined how far I could see through the tiny holes. I faced it toward the window for better lighting. I did not want to play Tupperware games. Falina was about to kill a very enjoyable time.

Surprisingly, I could see well through the colander holes. I held the plastic tool like a spyglass viewing various shrubs and tall dry grasses in Cami’s yard, just hoping Falina would change her mind about the game. The base of one shrub, an evergreen, was shuddering. I moved the colander away from my face and scowled as a black cat emerged. He looked just like the cat who’d been ambushing me. But I couldn’t be sure until he came all the way out of the shrub. I groaned out loud. I spied his little white and black feet, his little defiant flipping off toes. How had he gotten here?

“Okay, everyone, here’s how the first one goes!” Falina called out.

She hadn’t changed her mind. When she said the
first
one, I groaned out loud again. I reclaimed my seat by Cami.

“Oh, c’mon, you’ll love these!” Cami said, sitting up straight and kind of bouncing on the wide ottoman beside me. “I actually use Falina’s games in the classroom. They’re fun!”

Cami was right, of course. Falina had us laughing our heads off over ridiculous things that we made up according to her rules. For one of the games, we had to introduce ourselves and then using the first letter of our first name, tell where we’d like to go, wearing only one article of clothing, with one other person, using one mode of transportation and tell what our first activity would be there.

So Cami wound up going to Cairo, wearing only a camisole, with a call girl, riding a camel, for some cavorting on the coastline. I had to go to Asia, wearing only an apron, with an anonymous admirer (I got extra credit for that answer, which meant I scored a tiny Shape-o-Ball keychain,) riding my own airplane, for an afternoon of adventure.

There were some pretty funny ones, but I was glad I didn’t have to go after the pierced, spiked girl whose name was Bailey, because she was going to go to the bra store in butt-less chaps, with her brazen best friend named Bettie Page. Her plan was that she and Bettie would ride her boyfriend to the bra store where she and Bettie would spend a bunch of time busting out black lace B-cups with their beautiful, bared breasts. The place fell apart with hoots and cheers for Bailey’s plan. Falina decided that Bailey had definitely earned an entire set of microwave-safe luncheon plates, and these she marched over to the proud recipient. Bailey held the green translucent plates aloft as she took bow after bow, with her spikey hair never once losing its points. Maybe this was why she had been so serious when I had first arrived—she was planning her show-stealing answer to this introductory game.

By the end of the party, my cheeks ached from all the laughing. I stood by the table at which Falina had been helping people fill out order forms, wanting to ask her about the next party. Some sort of rice-making bowl held my attention as I waited while one of the other attendees was making plans with Falina to start her own Tupperware business. I eavesdropped into my sister’s life a bit and heard the woman telling her how she had considered this after every single Tupperware party she had ever been to and now that she had been laid off, she knew it was time. I knew this was good for Falina’s business and important to the woman, Liz, who was going to Lima wearing nothing but a leather jacket, so I pulled out my phone to text Falina my question. That way I wouldn’t forget and Falina could answer when she had more time. I looked up after texting, and Cami was standing right in front of me looking like she had another question of her own.

“Thank you for letting me come to your party,” I said to her.

“You are more than welcome,” she said. “Say, may I ask a really big favor?”

“Yes?” my answer sounded more like another question. I wondered what she was going to ask. I hoped she wasn’t going to flirt with me again. I had been warned about straight women who wanted to “explore” the pathways of their sexuality and about the lesbians who got caught up in relationships that were going absolutely nowhere with these travelers. I wasn’t sure I could say no to Cami’s sparkly eyes and pretty lips, which she was now pursing and moving slightly from one side of her mouth to the other as she thought, perhaps, about how to phrase her question. I tried to focus on something else but then found my gaze drawn to her pale gray sweater as it clung to her athletic shoulders and abdomen. I looked away.

“Well, we don’t have any money for things like this,” she began.

Oh Goddess, was she going to try to pay me for my services? To that I could certainly say no. That would just be wrong. If I had a wineglass in my hand, I would most assuredly be the first one to take a sip.

“But I’d really appreciate it if you would come speak to my English Eleven class about being a writer,” she finished.

Oh. Not what I had thought. Not at all what I had thought. Whew. I was relieved, but honestly somewhat disappointed, too. She was attractive, but I wasn’t genuinely attracted to her. Even so, it felt like a long time since I’d had a good go at physical contact with anyone. I had to force myself to stop twisting the garnet beads at my neck.

“I’d love to,” I said.

So we made plans to meet and discuss what things her students would be interested in hearing about and which dates would work best for both of us. To talk about the job would be cool, even though doing the job, right now, was a shade less than cool. Maybe sharing the best parts of writing with the kids would bring back some of my energy and passion for the whole business. I planned to go straight home and start outlining my presentation.

Chapter Eleven

Hilarity Ensues

“Tell me,” Dr. Browning said, setting up her question from her chair directly across her desk from me, “what is your favorite phrase to write?” Today she wore a blue and white striped sailor’s dress, still with the strappy white sandals and bare legs despite the cold. The intense gaze from behind her big, black-framed glasses hadn’t changed either. I knew my favorite phrase, but I didn’t really want to share it with her. I had thought we were just about to close things up. Tick, tick, tick… The daisy-shaped clock on her wall had a second hand with a bumblebee attached to its end. The bee seemed to be flying very slowly. Before this question I had reported to her that I was, surprisingly, making progress with the assignments. She had laughed to the point of tears over a few Dwight stories, she had chuckled—only after I started laughing—during the first pottery class story and she had smiled during the Tupperware party story. I felt like a junkie taking a hit every time I made her laugh, like a comedienne who brought the house down, and I liked the feeling. I didn’t have to think at all about my favorite phrase to write. It had been the same phrase for as long as I could remember, but what would she make of it?

“Hilarity ensues,” I said. I made the jazz hands motion as I said it so that she could get the additional impact of the phrase.

“Hilarity ensues,” she echoed, smiling and making a note in my file, which hadn’t really grown much. It was still the thinnest of the pile. I didn’t find the same sense of relief that I had the first time I noticed its underfed look. I looked hard at the stack of files and sent good energy to each of the other patients. Dr. Browning watched me.