Miss Misery (8 page)

Even back when I was nominally happy, my friend Bryce actually went so far as to create a superhero alter ego for me: The Amazing Sublimated Man. A catchy name, but I was no doubt the only superhero in history to have both sides of his identity be equally mild-mannered. The gist of Bryce's argument was that if something was really bothering me, I'd always be the last to know it.

And so it was with this summer: I had barricaded myself rather handily in the days since Amy left. As an only child I was always more than capable of being alone, of entertaining myself, but this was something different. It was possible, I realized, to waste a season. You might not think so, but it's true. Days go by whether we want them to or not. You can ride them like an escalator: Stick your hands in your pockets and hope you see something worthwhile along the way. Or you can hop on that same escalator and give it an extra push, take the steps two at a time: Don't just give yourself over to the momentum; help it out. Get where you're going faster and with clean intent of purpose, even if where you're going happens to be another escalator, with another one waiting at the top of that.

I didn't need Bryce to tell me that something was wrong, but I had no idea in the world how to fix it.

Amy had been gone for nearly six weeks, and I had barely left my apartment and accomplished none of my work. The book seemed like a fever dream from a different life; so, in fact, did Amy. During the long mornings when I'd surfed blogs and sports Web sites and listened to Fleetwood Mac records and drunk my coffee in tiny sips to make the excitement of it last longer, I didn't necessarily feel like I was retreating from the world. I honestly couldn't think of anything else to do. The rhythm of life without Amy was hypnotic, easy, and lulling. I didn't notice the quiet in the apartment anymore, the spaces where her voice would have been. The more time I spent alone, the easier it was to be alone. And then the goal became finding a way to stay alone.

There was my fake diary, of course, which was becoming more and more out of control by the day. But the things that I found myself typing into it were fantasies—a useful vehicle to imagine myself out of my predicament. But the rock-star schmoozing and the anonymous hookups weren't the things I really wanted; I wasn't even capable of doing them. Writing the diary made me feel vibrant and mysterious, but it was nothing more than an artful bit of miscasting. In reality, I was the good guy. I was the guy with the girlfriend, the good credit rating. I was dependable. Trustworthy. Steadfast.

Safe.

There had been times—sure, many times—when I had been tempted to be otherwise: a fleeting kiss with a sophomore theater student during a drunken visit to Bryce's college; a few joints with Amy at the beach; an offer of an Ecstasy tablet at New Year's. But the problem with my brain was that it always clicked a few steps ahead: I saw the potential outcomes before I even did the deed. And so nothing illicit ever seemed quite worth it. Going out and clubbing and living that life was, at its root, hollow. I knew it, so I didn't do anything about it.

And now I just didn't do anything at all.

I sighed again. Went to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of orange juice. Came back and read through some diaries. Leslie was moving to Berlin in the fall for a semester abroad. Paige was outlining the six rules of a guilt-free hookup. Ashleigh was fighting with her parents again, with her sister, with her life. And Miss Misery? I didn't know; I always saved the best for last.

I knew from recent postings that she had made it to New York City safely, though the city that she described in her first few alcohol-fueled and exhaustion-drenched diary entries was nothing at all like the city I lived in. She was magical like that, transforming every scenario, every street corner, every bar stool into something distinctly her own, something vital, something alive. It was a world I tried to inhabit in my own diary entries but without success. If I was an interloper in her world, at least she was a vibrant tour guide.

Her diary filled my computer screen—a new entry at the top. I took a sip of juice and settled in to read it.

Oh yeah. THIS is why I moved here.

What a fucking night. Started innocently enough: Ben and Debra came over with bottles of wine and we ate leftover takeout Thai on the floor (Stevie sold his kitchen table–long story) and they toasted me and made me a provisional member of the VSC. Ben wasn't even being weird to me, which was nice for a change. Then Debra got cranky because it was hot in the apt (no AC yet–must change this immediately) so we went to Hi-Fi which is so totally the rock critic nerd bar on Avenue A but it also has a digital jukebox with like 3000 albums on it, so it's worth it.

So I was drinking beer because it was going to be a quiet night and I put 7 bucks in the jukebox and was taking forever to pick out songs (they have every New Order album on there–EVERY ONE) when I noticed this guy sitting in one of the booths, totally checking me out. Now this does not happen all the time but when you are a young lady in the big city it happens SOMETIMES right? But not like this. This was so brazen. He was not my usual type (kinda skinny) but had cool hair and big brown eyes and he was just boring holes into me with them. I kept trying to stare him down but he wouldn't even blink, so I ended up blushing and turning back to the jukebox. I was taking so long up there that Debra came up to me and was like “that dude is totally checking you out.” But she didn't know who he was either. Finally when I ran out of credits I took a big drink and turned around and walked right over to him. He was just sitting there, staring at me as I walked over, with this totally cocky lazy smile–the kind you just want to smash either with your fist or your lips. I didn't know what to say so I was like “do we know each other?” And he just keeps smiling that lazy cat smile and says something like “I dunno but I'm pretty sure I know you.” And I don't know what came over me but something about his confidence or his assholeishness (same diff) was so overwhelming I was just like “you are very cute.” And he was like “you're not so bad yourself.” I felt kinda queasy but kinda turned on and I felt–fuck it, right? This is NEW YORK CITY. This is where I live now. So I sat down with him just when my songs started on the jukebox.

The night took a different turn from there. The VSC wanted to leave and I didn't even notice them go because I was still talking to this guy–I'll call him “D.” And the thing about him is that he's SMART but he's also older. He's a writer–about music and he's working on some kind of book–but not a dorky, trainspotting shut-in like most music writers. This guy was vibrating on some sort of crazy frequency and we just clicked but in a totally fun and confrontational way. We were arguing about movies and records and he got all my references and he laughed at all my jokes. We kept taking turns running outside for cigarettes because we didn't want to lose the booth. At midnight he ran out of money so I bought him two more drinks–he was drinking vodka on the rocks which seemed kinda cool and writerly–and then he asked me to go to the bathroom with him and I was kind of loaded at this point so I said sure.

We got some funny looks but the place was crowded and people were hammered so no one stopped us. He locked the door and broke out drugs and gave me bumps and then grabbed me just so and I let him kiss me for a while, pushed up against the flimsy wooden door, then we did some more and then I kissed him, harder this time, trapped him up against the sink. His tongue tasted like tobacco and I liked the way he held my head and hair while he made out with me–like it was a project for him, something he was working on. Like I was some sort of human canvas. And then I don't even remember the rest. We went back to the apartment and did more and drank more and listened to records until we woke Stevie up and took cell phone pictures of each other and made out more and…

I know you're not supposed to sleep with strangers in the big bad city and there was something about this guy that wasn't entirely…right. But I couldn't help it. He just left like 20 minutes ago–my whole futon smells like him now. I smell like him now. Crazy. Too crazy. But sometimes I like crazy. And I think I liked this guy.

Ten bucks (Canadian) says he'll never call me again. I gotta get some sleep.

I read the entry three or four more times with my mouth open and my head shaking back and forth. She lives here for less than a week and hooks up with someone who could have been me. Perfect.

I sat back, took a breath. Really, I thought, as the photo of Amy tacked to the wall caught my eye, it's probably for the best. I never actually wanted to meet Cath Kennedy. I wanted to meet Miss Misery, lose myself in her daze and in her nights. But she was a fantasy—an online construct—that existed on the Internet and maybe in my head as well. No different from my own journal. Fake, fake, fake.

Still, though. I had a catch in my throat and a weird tinge of jealously. I knew where that bar was, what the jukebox was like. I'm a writer (supposedly). I have the same taste in books and music as her, not that guy. I could have been sitting there. I could have swept her off her feet. I could have, but I wouldn't have. Story of the year.

I leaned forward again and redirected my browser to my own diary. Time to check in on my exciting life. The truth is, I was running out of things to write about. How many times can you pretend to make out with anonymous younger girls, drink until you slosh when you walk, and vacuum up drugs that you've never really had any interest in trying? When does a fantasy life become mundane? Maybe today would be a quiet day for me online. Maybe I wouldn't have anything to say at all.

My diary loaded slowly on the screen in front of me. There was the entry about the Futureheads and there was that ridiculous one about “looking at the city from above.” And then there was…something else.

I blinked. I hadn't written that. It was from today. From—I looked at my watch—minutes ago. My heart lurched and free-fell somewhere into my lap. I scrolled down, my eyes barely keeping up with the page. It felt like when a bathroom lock fails and someone walks in on you. It felt horrible.

Was sitting at Hi-Fi last night nursing a drink when I saw her–black hair, tall boots, long fingers, standing at the jukebox, looking tough, looking in control–and I couldn't look away. I knew she was the one I was looking for, and she knew it too, came over to me, liked the way I looked, the way I talked. She fell for it, like all of them do, but this one had something else–a spark, a light. And I knew there was no chance I was going to let it get away.

She was from Canada–just moved here–and loved to argue, so we tussled over the table for a while, over drinks, over movies. She liked most of the same records I do, even the same obscure Japanese books. Eventually I just couldn't wait anymore so I took her into the stall with me, got her high, got her to make out with me. She was a hell of a good kisser–twists her body into yours and grabs at your back so hard it leaves a mark. Like she was hungry for something, which is good because hungry is all I ever am these days.

She lived not far away–over by Avenue C–which was good because I had nowhere to go. She finally kicked me out half an hour ago (why does it ever have to be morning?). I am fired up and cooled off at the same time. She's a firecracker that just exploded into my summer.

Thanks, Cath. Now: What's next?

My mind was racing. No one read this thing—no one even knew about it. So who could have done this? Who could be fucking with me like this? I hit
REFRESH
again and again, hoping it was a glitch, a mistake, a dream. But it kept popping back up exactly the same. Who could have done this? Who would know to do this?