Authors: Jenny Mollen
Live Fast Die Hot (26 page)
An hour and a half and five baskets of pita bread later, Adele and I returned to a hotel room covered in feces. It seemed inconceivable that Harry could have been solely responsible. I imagined him opening the door with his teeth and inviting other dogs (and maybe livestock) into the room to empty the minibar and then their bowels. But it was only Harry. Perched on my pillow next to a half-eaten mint was a tiny, perfectly round truffle of shit. Harry looked up at us innocently as if he'd just woken from a long nap and hadn't the faintest idea where he was.
“Yikes,” Adele said, and gasped.
I tried to stay calm, but this wasn't an accident. The entire room was smeared in shit. There was shit on the coffee table, shit on the couch, on the blankets, on the room-service menu, even on the remote controls. This was a message. Harry wasn't going to take his abandonment lying down. But I wasn't changing my course.
At eight the next morning I was at the airport with Harry strapped to my side. He squirmed in his dog carrier as I sneaked him through security and onto the plane. According to Jason, the plane was already at capacity for in-cabin pets, so Harry had to travel covertly. Seated next to me was a retired couple, and I made small talk, trying not to look down whenever I heard a weird hacking coming from underneath the seat in front of me.
The second we touched down in Cleveland, I called Jason, breathing a sigh of relief. “We made it. Gonna get in an Uber and head to my hotel.”
“You booked a hotel?”
“Well, yeah. Where else would I be staying?” I smiled at the retired couple, who looked at me, worried I was going to ask if they had a spare room.
“With Jen.”
“I've never even met her!” I said, tossing Harry over my shoulder and disembarking from the plane.
“But she has almost thirty thousand Instagram followers.” Jason couldn't resist throwing it back at me.
“I feel like anything under a hundred is still dubious.”
“And yet you're fine giving her my dog?”
I unzipped Harry's carrier outside the airport and let him pee while I waited for my Uber. “Let's put it this way, the odds of Jen murdering Harry are a lot less than the odds of me murdering him,” I said, corralling Harry into the Uber and heading into the city.
Not wasting time, I checked into my downtown hotel and immediately texted Jen, telling her I was ready to meet. Jen wrote back that she was getting in her car and would be there soon. In the meantime, I decided to take a shower and freshen up. Too scared to leave Harry in the bedroom alone, I locked him in the bathroom with me. The two of us had been together in bathrooms innumerable times. Often instead of taking the dogs to the groomer, I'd wash the three of them while I showered.
Our eyes connected as I disrobed and twisted the knob as far left as it would go. The sound of water beating down on the porcelain tub evoked a nostalgia I couldn't resist. Harry stared at me as I studied his perfectly chiseled chin. I remembered the countless times I wanted to punt him out a window, as well as the other, fewer times I genuinely appreciated his presence. He'd kept me safe when Jason was out of town, never allowed me to sleep through an alarm clock, always encouraged more cardio. He watched me learn how to be a writer and a wife. All the crazy BBQs, the late-night fights, the insane capersâHarry had seen them all (or at least heard them through the door of our guest bedroom). As hard as it sometimes was to see it, I loved Harry. There was a part of me that would miss him. I felt a pang of remorse in my chest as I sized up his football-shaped torso. Maxine had washed him before bringing him back to me so he'd be presentable for Jen, but he still had flakes of dandruff scattered along his back. In what might have been our last moment alone together, I picked him up and, for old times' sake, gave him a proper bath. Warm water cascaded down our bodies, washing away years of frustration. Like someone you know you're about to break up with, nothing he did seemed to bother me the way it had in the past. I'd freed myself of the relationship and could now just enjoy his company without worrying about how to change him.
Jen was shockingly hot for a woman who primarily used Instagram to post photos of her furniture. With long legs and auburn hair, she reminded me of a younger, funkier Connie Britton. She was warm and open and not at all murdery. Nosing his way through her purse, looking for treats, Harry already seemed to feel entitled to all of Jen's generosity. The courting continued for another half hour before I broke them apart to take Jen to dinner. Harry gave Jen a quick once-over, then conveyed to me with his eyes that even though he and I were sharing a hotel room, and even though, yes, we'd just showered together, we were in no way exclusive.
I shut him in the bathroom and escorted Jen out.
Over two plates of trout and a bowl of shishito peppers, we talked about Harry, our astrological signs, and how #TheBlondeSaladNeedsToStop. Jen was the type of girl I wished I'd met fifteen years earlier when I needed a roommate who wasn't my sister. She was witty, smart, vulnerable, and more than willing to share her ice cream. If I were a dog, I would've been psyched to land with Jen. Hearing her talk, I stopped feeling bad for Harry and started feeling envious. (I made a mental note not to mention Harry's whereabouts to Gina, who would have split the second she learned that Jen's kids were grown and her dogs slept on custom kilim pillows.) After dinner we drove back to the hotel, where I ran up to my room to retrieve Harry. I was scared to invite Jen up for fear that I'd find the room demolished. Luckily, Harry had behaved. When we got outside, Jen was standing in front of her car like a coachman waiting to help Cinderella into her carriage. I took a deep breath, expecting some sort of scene, but Harry jumped into Jen's car without incident. I poked my head in, hoping to at least share a farewell kiss, but Harry wouldn't budge.
Jen looked at me, embarrassed. “He probably just smells the other dogs,” she said, hoping to reassure me. But it was no use. Harry's exit was true to form in every way. He left the way every bad boy leaves, with a nod that says “I told you not to fall in love with me.” A weight was lifted as I watched them drive off, then turned toward the hotel and my empty room. My ego was slightly bruised, but I felt stronger for having let Harry go.
The next morning, I sat on my plane bound for New York. I texted Jason and told him that everything had gone smoothly and that I'd be home soon. He shot back a quick response begging me to hurry. Apparently, while he was napping Sid decided to take off his diaper and give his penis some air. Now the entire crib was covered in urine and Jason was trying to scrub the remaining scent out of the mattress. Before powering off my phone I unconsciously scrolled through my Insta feed. My fingers landed on a picture of Harry luxuriating on a Danish loveseat next to a warm fire. I quickly took a screen grab of it, then expanded it on my phone to see if I could gather further intel. I wanted Harry to be happy, just not quite as happy as he'd been with me. And most definitely not this fast. In this case, however, eclipsing me wasn't going to be hard. Jen spoiled the shit out of her dogs, and Harry's adorable
punim
had already earned her a thousand more followers. Their relationship was in its honeymoon phase and I needed to be supportive. I reclined in my seat and tried to enjoy a few more moments of freedom before returning home to clean up someone else's bodily functions. Despite my efforts to do the right thing, to manage the mayhem, I still felt like I was drowning. I might have gotten rid of one problem child, but I had an even bigger one waiting for me in New York. The issues I had with Harry, though annoying, paled in comparison to the future I faced with my almost-two-year-old. Harry might have chewed up all my shoes, but I couldn't begin to imagine the damage he could have done with opposable thumbs.
Fuck! Maybe Harry wasn't that bad after all. He never forced me to watch shitty cartoons or get up at 3Â a.m. to make him a bottle. He never bit me in the face because I wouldn't let him cross the street without holding my hand. He was excellent in the car, always cleaned his plate, had zero interest in using my iPad. Under my sweater, I reached down and, in an act of defiance, powered my phone back on mid takeoff. I examined the picture of Harry again, feeling envious now. I knew it would be years before my life would be as serene as his new oneâbefore I could bring my Danish furniture out of storage or light a fire without Sid trying to roast Gina like a marshmallow. I wanted to be happy for Harry, but a part of me resisted.
That asshole better invite me to his birthday drinks.
AMAZON PRIMED
“H
ello, American Express? Yes, I'd like to upgrade to the black card. I was told that a black card entitles me to an airlift out of the jungle if, for instance, I were in a life-threatening situationâ¦Well, I can't be too sure, but I just ingested a cup of ayahuasca and it's not looking goodâ¦Yes, I'll hold.”
My fingers tingled as I tried to move them at my side. I snapped back into the present moment, realizing I didn't have a phone and that my mouth wasn't moving. I was all but catatonic on a small foam mat in the Peruvian jungle, sandwiched between my friends Chelsea and Denny, as a camera crew circled around our mosquito-netted yurt and a small garden gnome of a man with blackened teeth and greasy skin chanted and spit into the night air. Sickness swirled in my stomach as I tried to sit up and assess the situation. Denny's body dripped with sweat. His chest heaved with anxiety. He was pale and bony and looked like something you'd see wheelbarrowed around a concentration camp. Chelsea stared at the shaman, dead sober.
“What's the game plan with your teeth?” she asked.
The shaman didn't respond, just puffed on a hand-rolled cigarette and blew smoke into her face. Chelsea glanced over at me, making only the slightest effort not to crack up laughing.
“I don't feel anything. Do you guys?”
Denny's eyes rolled into the back of his head as he jolted up and started heaving into a bucket placed at his feet, clearly feeling
something.
Fifteen minutes had passed and the murky brown cigarette water I'd been told was “medicine” had taken over. Though I felt the room spinning like I'd eaten one too many Jell-O shots, I was acutely aware of my environment. I could count the wooden beams overhead. I was able to make eye contact with Chelsea's cousin Molly, standing behind the monitor. I was even self-aware enough to wonder if the deep-scoop-neck tank I was wearing was worth the fifty bucks I'd recently paid for it, or if I should return the same one I'd bought in white. Confident I wasn't going to die, but unsure what was next, I closed my eyes and let my mind wander into the darkness.
Six months earlier, my friend Chelsea had e-mailed me, asking if I wanted to join her in the jungles of Peru to drink a hallucinogenic tea that was supposed to bring you spiritual enlightenment. The experience was going to be one of several drug experiments in a documentary that she was starring in for Netflix, called
Chelsea Doesâ¦
Still high off the adrenaline rush of Morocco, I wrote back with an emphatic yes before even googling the word “ayahuasca.” Admittedly, I was seduced by the idea of another great adventure to share with Sid. But it also didn't hurt that the entire thing was going to be filmed and broadcast on Netflix, where everyone I've ever hated would have the opportunity to see me sexily washing my hair under a waterfall. The fact that it was Chelsea also made the invitation hard to turn down. Six months prior to this invite, I'd been on a yacht with her sailing through atolls of French Polynesia on quite possibly the most decadent vacation of my life. Whenever we traveled together it was a nonstop party. My face would ache from laughing, my body would ache from trying out whatever harebrained adventure sport we stumbled into. Just being in her orbit infected you with a spirit of adventure that could inspire a thousand cannonballs off a thousand rocky cliffs.
I'd known Chelsea before her fancy trips, her fanatic fans, her meteoric rise to stardom. We met when I was twenty-six years old and working on a terrible
National Lampoon
movie. At thirty years old, she'd already written her first book and starred in a short-lived television improv show, but for the most part remained relatively unknown.
“You didn't audition for this shit, did you?” she asked one day in the makeup trailer.
“Umm. Yes?” I said, embarrassed.
“Well, just an FYI, this movie sucks and Nicole Eggert is a hot mess and probably gonna be dead soon.”
From day one, I felt like she was the older sister I'd never had. Back then I didn't quite know who I was. There was a fear inside me that I carried into both my work and personal life, a trepidation that prevented me from taking risks and speaking my mind. Chelsea, on the other hand, seemed crystal clear about who she was and where she was headed. She was a freight train of conviction, whose biting wit and self-deprecating candor would pave the way for an entire generation of female voices. She was saying what so many of us were thinking before we had the balls to say it. It was easy to fall in love with her and yet hard to hold on to the horns of the mechanical bull that was her life.
Fame is a funny thing. It can bring out the best in people and it can bring out the worst. As someone who hasn't experienced fame herself but who's been around it, I've seen both sides. When I met Jason, he was already known. People already loved him or hated him, but in both cases expected him to be overwhelmed with excitement when they told him that there was a super-Jewish kid they went to high school with that everybody said looked just like him. As long as I'd known Jason, the world responded to him in a certain way.
With Chelsea, it was different. Over the course of five short years, the girl who I'd watched get a back massage in the middle of a Vegas mall, the girl who I'd dressed in a pair of my shitty Charles David heels because she was planning to wear Havaianas to our premiere party, was now a household name. For a person like myself, who was already lacking ego strength, it was impossible not to feel not only intimidated but slightly unworthy. When a normal friend fails to call me back I psycho-text them seventeen times in a row demanding they pick up. When an über-famous friend doesn't respond, I go through a different series of thoughts:
1.
She's probably just busy.
2.
Maybe she doesn't have her phone.
3.
Weird, she just posted a picture to Instagram twenty minutes ago.
4.
Maybe she's getting a Pap smear.
5.
Maybe I said or did something to offend her.
6.
Maybe she's told everybody around her that she hates me and to never bring my name up ever again.
7.
I bet if I were Amy Schumer she would have answered.
8.
Why am I not Amy Schumer?
9.
Why am I failing at life?
10.
It's going to be so awkward when I bump into her six months from now and she spits in my face.
11.
Fine, I guess we'll just be enemies. Everybody has enemies. It's perfectly natural. Something I'll just have to live with.
12.
She wrote back.
13.
We are totally good. I don't know what I was thinking, of course we're friends!
14.
I love her.
Chelsea had never done anything to hurt me. She was actually one of my biggest supporters. It was the pandemonium that swirled around her that seemed to throw me off balance. Just like with my mother, I couldn't help but feel like I had to share her with the world. Everyone wanted a piece of herâwhich allowed me to use her interest in me as a way of judging my own self-worth.
So when Chelsea asked me to go to Peru, I felt worthy.
Mommy picked me.
It took a few weeks of saying it to myself aloud to remember I was, in fact, a mommy myself, and that traipsing off to the Amazon to do a controversial hallucinogen with a friend who once persuaded me to climb up the mast of a 164-foot sailboat without a harness might not be in the best interest of my son. I intentionally failed to mention my plans to my therapist for nearly five months, seeking counsel instead from the Magic 8 Ball in my friend Lisette's office.
“It is decidedly so!” I announced one afternoon. “How can I argue with that?”
Lisette worked at
The Wall Street Journal,
where I'd recently repurposed her cubicle to be my writing headquarters. I'd met Lisette through my friend Joan Arthur, who had threatened to kill Lisette if she didn't help publicize my first book. Lisette didn't have children and was still a bit of a baby herself, but I'd decided that her access to a printer and the fact that she thought I was pretty was enough to base a friendship on.
“Don't you just shit and vomit the whole time?” Lisette asked, skimming an op-ed online.
“Yeah, but I enjoy both those things.” I hit Print on a two-hundred-page script.
“Animal! Be honest, if I'd have asked you to go on this trip, would you have said yes?” Lisette said, invoking a pet name she'd given me the first time she watched me devour a container of sushi in the checkout line at Dean & DeLuca.
“Absolutely not.”
“So you
are
only doing it because it's Chelsea?”
“And because it's going to be on Netflix. Oh, and I might reach enlightenment.”
Lisette's office phone rang. She picked it up and immediately slammed it back down.
“Who was that?” I asked, concerned.
“My dad. We are in a
huge
fight. Don't worry about it.” She paused, then turned to me, dead serious. “Listen, I think my Eight Ball might be lying to you.”
“Really?”
Lisette tucked her jet-black pixie cut nervously behind her ears, then poked her head out of her cubicle to see if anyone was listening.
“It lied to me two weeks ago about my remodel and now I'm in for another fifty grand. Or, wellâ¦my dad is.” She gave me an ominous look before turning back to her computer to continue working.
Though it sounded shallow, it did mean something to me that the trip was being filmed. It legitimized the whole thing. It legitimized me. After all, I'd be on a TV show, and as any actor knows, the words “TV show” are basically interchangeable with “reason for living.” I wasn't trying to prioritize my career over Sid. But I did feel the need to keep it going so that in seventeen years when he moved out and left me, I wouldn't completely fall apart. And more than that, I wanted to remain interesting, to stay worthy of his affection. I wanted Sid to respect me, to see me as successful, and to never feel like he was solely responsible for my happiness. I didn't want his high school years to consist of me creepily lurking around his locker, waiting for soccer practice to let out so we could go get our eyebrows threaded. I didn't want to reach my fifties before I learned how to Snapchat. I'd worked too hard to let it all go. And I wanted to be an example for him, to show him that when you put your mind to it, you, too, can end up doing drugs on Netflix.
But the longer I thought about Peru, the more conflicted I became. Unlike my trip to Morocco, I couldn't seem to justify the risks I was taking this time. Ayahuasca was a drug, and I was responsible for another human being.
“It's used to treat addiction and eating disorders and all sorts of phobias that I think you have,” Jason said, over a bowl of Naomi's albondigas soup. “If you were telling me you were gonna go drop acid at some dude's apartment in the Bronx, I'd say no fucking way, but I gotta say, I'm not freaked out by this.”
“Baby! You freak out when I'm at the gym too long. You're fine with me hallucinating in South America?” I couldn't believe how nonchalant he was being. This was not the Jason I was constantly hiding shit from.
“My sobriety has opened my mind to this kind of stuff.” He lifted his bowl to his face and slurped down a mouthful of broth.
“Opened your mind? Or do you just want me to do drugs because you can't?” He seemed sincere, but I was still skeptical.
“A little of both,” he admitted.
“I think you need to do it. In my country, we believe it will heal your fear,” Naomi added. “You have
a lot
of fear.”
