Milkrun (18 page)

“Sir?” I ask. You have to call everyone here Sir. Yes, Sir. No, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Throw me up against the wall and kiss me, Sir. “Yes?”

“When can I get my yellow belt, Sir?”

“You've only been to one class, Jackie.”

“Oh. Right, Sir.” Hmm. “So how many classes do I have to come to, Sir?”

“At least twenty.” Lorenzo is looking at me with confusion.

Twenty? That's twenty hours of working out! That's also twenty hours of working out with Sir Sex-God-Lorenzo. Never mind. I think I'll remain a white belt forever. I think I'm in love.

“Do you know who you look like?” Sir Sex-God-Lorenzo asks. His hand is on the curve of my back and I'm having difficulty breathing. I'm still trying to figure out who
he
looks like. So familiar, yet I don't remember ever meeting him.

“Who?” An actress? Your first girlfriend?

“Chelsea Clinton.”

Get away from me, Sex-God-Lorenzo. You smell, Sir.

 

“I don't see what the big deal is,” Sam says. I'm sitting on the countertop in her bathroom, watching her expertly apply white stuff all over her eyelids. She's getting ready for her second date with Philip. She's been single for less than two weeks and she has a second date. A second date! Unbelievable.

“Chelsea Clinton is notorious for being ugly.” I squirm, realizing that I am sitting on Sam's wet pouf.

“I don't think she's ugly.”

“That's not the point, is it? The point is that she's
known
for being ugly. Letterman and SNL make fun of her constantly. How can someone think it's a compliment to tell me I look like someone who's notorious for being ugly?”

“Maybe he finds her attractive.”

“Irrelevant subjective opinion.” There's no use arguing anyway, because Sam's not even paying attention. Tonight Philip is taking her to a wine-tasting class. A wine-tasting class! How ridiculous is that? He obviously just wants to get her drunk and sleep with her.

Fine. I'm jealous. Horribly green-contact-eyed jealous.

“Do my eyes pop?” She bats them at me.

“Snap and crackle.” What am I going to do tonight? It's Saturday night. Sam's on a date. Natalie's on a date. Even Andrew's on a date with Jessica the Sweet Valley Twin.

I sit down on my couch, wrap myself in Sam's afghan, and in desperation, call my sister Iris.

“Omigod. You're not going to believe what happened!”

“What?”

“Omigod. The guy who my best friend has obsessed about for seven years wants me, and I like him
so
much. What do I do?”

Teenage angst. Sigh. The good old days. “Mandy likes him?”

“No, Tamara.”

“I thought Mandy was your best friend.”

“Mandy used to be my best friend, but now she's more like my second best friend. So what do I do?”

“What do you want to do?”

“We were all at a party last night and every time Kyle came over to talk to me, Tamara kept shooting me looks so I couldn't talk to him except when she went to the bathroom, and it's really absurd because she's liked ten guys in the past year and she can't call dibs on every guy she's ever liked! Don't you agree?”

I think I lost her at the Mandy and Tamara confusion. Not that she waits for a response. She rarely comes up for air.

“He works part-time at Abercrombie, which proves he's hot, because every guy who works there is hot…”

After fifteen more minutes of listening to how hot Abercrombie-Kyle is, I am inexplicably tired. “Iris, I'm going to sleep.”

“It's ten o'clock! On a Saturday night!”

Yeah, so? “Leave me alone. I'm tired.”

“Don't you have any plans?”

Plans? What are plans? I decide to lie. “I did, but I decided to stay home instead. Are you going out tonight?”
Beep.
“Hold on, call waiting.”

“Hello?”

“Jackie, you're my literary lifeline and you have sixty seconds to answer this question. The timer is starting now—” It's Bev, my stepmother. I haven't a clue what she's talking about.

“I'm your literary
what?
”

“I'm playing
Who Wants to be a Millionaire
with your father and some friends and I don't know the answer to this question. You're my literary lifeline.”

I have a question of my own: why are my parents having more fun than I am on a Saturday night? Final answer?

“Hold on! Let me get off the other line.” I press the flash button. “Iris?”

“Haven't you been listening to anything I said? I'm going to a party at Angie's, and both Tamara and Kyle are going to be there.”

“Can we discuss this tomorrow?”

“But the party is tonight!”

“I have to go.”

“Why?”

“Bev needs something on the other line.”

“Fine. Pick your other family over me.” She slams down the phone.

I switch back to Bev. “Okay.”

“Ready? Timer on.”

“Am I on speakerphone? I hate speakerphones. Hi, Dad! Can you take me off?” There's no way anyone else is going to hear me make an ass of myself.

This whole lifeline thing is making me nervous. What if I get it wrong? What is Bev losing exactly? How much does she already have? I need to know what I'm up against here. Suddenly it grows very quiet. I'm off the speakerphone.

“Who did T.S. Eliot dedicate
The Wasteland
to? Was it Andrew Marvell, Ezra Pound, his wife Jennifer Eliot, William Carlos Williams, or none of the above?”

None of the above? Wait just a moment here; there's never a “none of the above.” “Five choices?” I ask.

“We try to make the home version slightly more challenging.”

Okay, okay. Calm. Stay calm. I read this in my survey course, my modernism course, and my twentieth-century poetry course. I never really understand anything in it beyond the title. Okay. I know it's not Marvell.
The Wasteland
was written at the beginning of the twentieth century. Wait a minute. I know this. “Marvell,” I say.

“Are you sure?”

No! No! Why did I say that? I knew it was wrong! Can I change it? Is it too late? Have I lost? “Not Marvell! I meant Ezra Pound.” I should have finished my master's! Why didn't I finish my master's?

“Okay. Ezra Pound. Are you sure?”

“No. It could be William Carlos Williams. I'm not sure. I think it was Pound.”

“What's the percentage possibility of it being Pound?”

“Fifty-one percent Pound, forty-five percent William Carlos Williams. Four percent his wife. Wait. I'm not sure if he
was
married.”

“Then it could have been his wife if he was married?”

Maybe. “I don't know. I think it was Pound.”

“Okay. Thanks. Good night.” And she hangs up.

Good night? Good night! How can I possibly sleep when she didn't tell me if I was right? Thankfully, my bookshelf is now in full working order. The top shelf is filled with school anthologies, the second shelf with classics, the third shelf with commercial trade books, the fourth shelf with my nineteenth-and twentieth-century books, and the fifth shelf way at the bottom with all the romances. I organized each section by publisher—an extremely entertaining time-wasting activity that caused me to miss some pretty heavy-duty prime time TV, an extremely entertaining time-wasting activity that I should have saved for a night like tonight.

I find a copy of
The Wasteland
in one of my Norton Anthologies. It is in fact dedicated to Ezra Pound.

Thank you, God. And thank you, T.S. Maybe I should start calling myself F.J. in tribute.

Never mind.

 

My phone rings at exactly 1:07 a.m.

“Hello?”

“Good. I didn't wake you.” It's Iris.

“You did wake me. I told you I was going to sleep three hours ago.”

“I know, but this is an emergency.”

“Why?”

“Because Kyle left the party early and Michael gave me his number and said I should call him.”

“Call Michael?”

“No, call Kyle.”

“Who's Michael?”

“Kyle's friend.”

“Did you call?”

“Not yet. Should I?”

“Won't Tamara be mad?”

“She won't find out. I'll just call and we'll talk and hopefully, he'll ask me out or something. All my makeup is still on.”

“You're going to go out now? It's 1:08! Don't you have a curfew?”

“Yes, but if necessary, I can climb out the window. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

“So call.”

“Okay. But I want you to stay on the phone. I'm going to call three-way.”

“But what if I laugh?”

“Don't.”

“What if I can't help it? Is this a good idea?”

“Please? Please? Please? Please?”

“Okay, fine.”

She does some speed dialing (she's obviously programmed a button for him), and then I hear a deep male voice answer, “Yeah?”

“Is Kyle there?”

“It's me.”

“Hey, what up? It's Iris.”

“Hey, Iris! What up?”

What is “what up”? Why are they forgetting the
S?

“Nothing, I'm just sitting at home. What are you doing?”

“You know. Chilling at my pad.”

This boy has a pad? Why does he have a pad? How old is he? Why is he chilling? Is he on drugs?

“Oh.” This from Iris.

Silence. More silence. Should I interject something here?
Breeeeeeep.
Oops. That was an accident, I swear.

“Well, have fun,” she says. “I'll see you later.”

“Okay.” I hear a twinge of confusion in Kyle's one-octave-lower-than-I-expected voice.

“Okay, bye.” Iris disconnects Kyle. Again, silence.

I howl.

“Stop!” Iris says, unable to suppress her own laughter.

“Nice work! I'm very impressed.”

“Omigod. Omigod. Omigod.”

“Why does he have a pad?”

“Omigod. Omigod. Omigod. At some point in my life I'll be able to treat boys like normal people, right?”

“I'll keep you posted.”

All this laughing is killing my navel.

I'
M ABOUT TO START EDITING
The Sheik Falls in Love,
when the words
New Mail
flash across on my screen.

More comma meetings I cannot take.

But wait, what's this?

Humph. What kind of horribly superficial person does she think I am? Does she really think I'll only go out with her brother if he's physically attractive? What about personality? Intelligence? Sense of humor? Money?

I open the attached file.

He's
cute.

And
tall, standing at least a foot taller than Julie beside him. It looks like a professional picture, with that pale blue screen in the background. A present for their parents' twentieth wedding anniversary? As far as I can remember, I always wanted to have my picture taken professionally. But my dad had this fantasy about being a photographer, and when I was little he always had a camera and a huge lens slung around his neck, ready to snap at anything. He looked like a tourist at Disneyland. “Oh, look, Janie!” he'd shout. “She's smiling!” or “Oh, look, Janie! She has a new tooth!” I'm just grateful my parents split up long before I got my first bra.

It's not that he was so embarrassing, which he was, it was because in all his pictures people came out with no feet, or no heads. Weird. In all my early years on this planet, I didn't have a decent picture of me. But when I was thirteen, I thought of a plan. I convinced Janie to have Glitzy Image done for her birthday. These are funky professional pictures where they do your makeup and hair, and dress you up in fur scarves or glittery bustiers. I told her I'd pay for the shoot, and all she'd have to pay for were the prints. Of course, once we arrived at the studio I wanted to get my pictures taken, too, and the bill came to twenty-five dollars. That is, twenty-five dollars for the shoot and four hundred fifty dollars for the actual pictures. But they were good pictures, I swear it. Especially the ones of me.

It was
so
worth it. For me, anyway.

This guy isn't just cute, he's hot. He has broad shoulders, and soft brown hair that looks like it wants to fall into his big, brown puppy eyes. Come here, doggy. Over here.

Why didn't she just tell me she has a hot brother? What's his name again? Right—Dad. I mean Timothy. Timmy. Tim.

What a conundrum. If I say I'm interested in meeting her brother, she'll know it's just because of his looks, otherwise I would have said yes earlier. Do I e-mail her back, thereby admitting I'm superficial? Or do I respond that I haven't had time to look at the picture? No, that would sound fishy. Maybe I'll tell her that my computer can't open attachments but that I'd love it if she could fix me up with her brother anyway, sight unseen. Come to think of it, why is she doing this in the first place? Did she see through my lie that I have a boyfriend? Or does she think I'm a slut who will see two boys at the same time? Or, God forbid, does she think I did have a boyfriend but that I am totally incapable of maintaining a relationship?

I hit reply. No reason to think too hard about this.

Send.

He calls at exactly eight that evening. Amazing. Completely implausible. He got my number today
and
he called today. See? Not all guys play games. There are some men out there who don't sing at plays, don't run off to Thailand, and don't cheat on their girlfriends. I hope so, anyway. It would suck
big
-time if Tim has a girlfriend, is planning a trip to Thailand, and sings at plays.

What if he wants to take me to a play? What if he buys tickets to
The Apartment?
Do I have to go again?

 

“Jackie!” Sam yells from her room while I'm watching the end of
Ally McBeal.
“It's for you!”

“Tell them I'll call back later!” I scream back. Damn, just when the sappy music is about to come on. Why would someone call during
Ally?
How annoying is that?

Two minutes later I yell, “Who was it?”

“Some guy…Jim? No, Tim.”

“Tim? Why didn't you give me the phone?”

“You said you'd call back.”

“Yeah, but I thought it was Iris or someone. I didn't think Tim would call so soon.”

“Just call him back. I took down his number.”

“What did his voice sound like? Smart? Cute? Funny?” I don't need Sam to tell me if he sounded hot. I already know he's hot. At least I
hope
he's hot; he was hot in the picture. But wait. What if it was airbrushed? “Did he sound hot?”

“How does someone sound hot?”

“Never mind. Did he sound funny?”

“No. He just asked to speak to you.”

“You can't tell me anything?”

“He was polite.”

Polite's better than rude. “Okay, I'll call him back.” Uh-oh. “I
can't
call him back. What if Julie answers?”

“He lives with his sister?”

Good point. I hope not. But they might. “What if they do? Do I say hello? This is way too stressful.”

“If you don't call him back, he's not going to call you again.”

True. A definite bind. Aha! “I'll leave an internal message!” The miraculous capabilities of the virtual answering machine. I can call through the message service. This way it looks as if I tried to call but didn't get through.

“Are we going to have dry-run messages again?”

Hmm. “No, I'm not even nervous because I don't like him yet. Watch. I can do it cold.” She hands me the phone number and watches me dial.

“Hello. You've reached the Mittmans. We can't come to the phone right now. To leave a message for Tim, please press one. For Norman or Sandra, press two.” Beep.

I press one. “Hi, Tim, it's Jackie. Julie's friend. Call me back when you get a chance. Call me back when you get a chance. Bye.” I hang up. Hee, hee. I'm not sure why I pulled a Jon Gradinger, but I couldn't resist.

“So? What does his voice sound like?”

“Old. I think it was his dad.”

“His dad? He lives at home?”

“I guess.” Uh-oh.

“How old is he?”

“I don't know.”

“How old is Julie?”

“I don't know!” What if Tim is really Timmy? Eighteen-year-old Timmy. Eighteen-year-old Timmy still in school.

“What does he do for a living? Does he have a job?”

“I don't know.” I probably should have done a touch more research than simply ogle his picture. If he doesn't have a job, do I have to pay for the date?

The phone rings. “I'll get it,” I scowl. “Hello?”

“Hi, can I speak with Jackie, please?” His voice didn't crack. Good sign. He's not twelve.

“It's Jackie.”

“Hi, this is Tim, Julie's brother.”

“Hi, Tim.” Nice voice. This is good.

“Hi, Jackie. I'm glad I reached you.”

“I'm glad you reached me, too.”

“Good.” Pause. “So apparently you're my type,” he says.

Cute opening line. Three cheers for Timmy! “I've never been told I'm anyone's type before.”

“From what my sister says, you're everyone's type—cute, smart, and sweet.”

Two points for Tim. Four points for Julie. Wait a minute. There's something a little off-color about being everyone's type. However, for the moment, I will give him—and Julie—the benefit of the doubt. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Pause. “Would you like to meet me for coffee this week?” Cutting right to the core, aren't we?

“I'd like that.” I hope you're not a creep.

“Are you free on Friday night?”

Friday night? Friday night is Orgasm night—and since you're not a sure bet yet, Timmy dear, I can't quite give that up. Who goes for coffee on a Friday night, anyway? Friday night is bar night.

“Um…Thursday night is better.”

“Oh? During the week? Okay. It's just that I get up at 5:30 and I'm pretty zonked at night. And I have to get up early the next day…”

Is that half past five in the morning? What could one possibly have to do at 5:30? I decide to save the questions until the date to ensure we have potential discussion material. “What about Saturday?” I ask, taking what I know to be a huge risk. A Saturday night first date? That's like playing the two-dollar slots instead of the quarter ones.

“Perfect,” he says.

Yay! Now I can still go to Orgasm
and
have Saturday night plans, too.

“I'll call you Saturday afternoon to get your address.”

And he's even going to pick me up at my apartment, not on a street corner! He must have been deposited here from the nineteenth century! “Okay, speak to you then.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.” I hang up the phone.

“So? How does he sound?”

“He sounds…nice.”

“Nice is good…isn't it?”

“I don't know. You'd think, wouldn't you?”

 

We go to Orgasm on Friday night, we meaning Sam, Natalie, and myself. I am wearing a jean skirt, a white blouse tied at my waist, a cowboy hat (all purchased at a nearby drugstore), and Sam's cowboy boots. She still hasn't given me a good reason as to why she owns these boots. Unfortunately, they are slightly too small and are presently doing damage to my feet. My hair is in pigtails and I drew little freckles on my cheeks. No, I have not decided to commit fashion suicide—it's a Halloween party.

Natalie is not in costume; she's far too cool. Sam is wearing skintight black leather pants, a navel-exposing black crop-top,
Playboy
bunny ears, and a bushy tail. She is determined to act out her costume, and has begun flirting with everyone in sight, including Andrew, who has appeared by my side in a black turtleneck, black pants, black shoes and a sign around his neck that says, “I'm a nihilist, I care about nothing.” I forgive him for the turtleneck; after all, it's just a costume.

“Did you get that idea from
The Big Lebowski
?” I ask, laughing at his creativity.

“Yup. But I think you're the only one who gets it.”

Ben is dressed up as the town drunk—oh, yeah, that's his normal attire. When he sees Sam's costume, she becomes the receiver of his sleazy hello. When he buys the five of us shots, she's the one he drinks a toast to.

“What happened to toasting my soft skin?” I whine.

“You've been replaced.” At least he's honest. His hand drops to Sam's waist, below her waist, and then rests on her butt. Does she smack him? Gently move his hand? No. She giggles and leans into him.

“How come
you're
not wearing a crop-top?” Andrew asks, eyeing my clothed stomach.

Um…no. “Only special people get to see my belly ring.”

“I saw it.” He smiles.

“You must be special.” I lean over and kiss him on his freshly shaven cheek. I guess it's a good thing that I never went for Andrew. Knowing me, I probably would have just screwed up our friendship.

“What's happening with Philip?” I ask Sam later in the ladies' room. After the wine-tasting, he took her out two more times, bringing the grand total to four dates.

“What about him?”

“Aren't you kind of dating him? How come you're all over Ben?”

“First of all, we're not dating-dating, we're just dating. I am not getting back into another relationship. I like being single. I need some ‘me' time. I can flirt, date, and sleep with whomever I want. Second of all, Ben is cute. But just because I'm flirting doesn't mean I'm going home with him. Okay, Mom?”

How is it possible that Sam sounds so adjusted? It's only been two weeks and already she's a swinging single.

 

Tim calls at 3:00, we reconfirm, and I give him my address.

Big Tim (aka Dad) calls at seven to confirm that I'll be spending Christmas with him and Feed-Your-Spirit (aka Bev). “Yes, I'm coming home.”

Like I have anything else to do. I can't believe it's almost Christmas. Have I been in Boston for half a year?

Iris calls just before eight to ask why I can't come visit her.