Pink Slip Party (18 page)

Caroline steals the conversation spotlight, as usual, telling us all how she decided “on a whim” to visit home, and how Kyle was nice enough to pick her up from the airport today, and how she hasn’t even been home to see her parents yet.

This is good news, I suppose. This means they probably haven’t had sex yet, unless they did it while they drove down the Kennedy. This is also why Kyle must have canceled picking me up. Why? So he could go get
Caroline
from the
airport.

Predictably, I feel my anger toward Kyle slip every so slightly and find a better, juicier target: Caroline.

Caroline, who is self-absorbed and totally uninterested in other people’s feelings, who essentially left him without a word a year ago and now drops back into his life and expects him to pick up where she left off? She is wrong for him in so many ways. For one thing, she’s totally unstable. Who just leaves the country and the continent “on a whim”? You could never trust her to stay. Not to mention, why is he rewarding that kind of behavior? For another, she’s bossy. She tells him what to do and how to do it at almost every turn. Like now, she’s asking him to fetch her a drink of water, but not just any water — filtered, and in a glass with ice. But not too much ice, she says. Just a couple of cubes.

I try to imagine her in bed, giving him directions like the workers guiding in planes on the jetway. Left. Back. Back. Left, I said! Back. Right. Back! Stop!

As a worse twist of fate, Kyle has never looked better. He makes jeans and a sweater look like they belong in a catalog. The curve of his shoulder, the strong line of his chin. I look at his lips and remember how warm they were on mine. I can’t forget the feel of his chest, hard and firm, under my fingers. You don’t just step over a friendship boundary, discover a spark, and then pull it all back in again. I feel like I’ve just ordered a seven-course meal and the waiter, after the appetizer, comes out to tell me the kitchen’s expectedly closed.

Kyle’s elbow brushes my forearm as he walks past me, and I wonder if I’m the only one who feels the charge of the touch.

“Sorry,” he says, giving me a quick glance, a shy one. And for a moment, I think he may be apologizing for more than just the bump.

I don’t say anything. I just watch as he fetches Caroline her glass of water with ice.

When I come back to my apartment, I discover that Ferguson has fallen asleep on my couch and is snoring. Steph is drawing permanent marker mustaches on the models in my J. Crew catalog and Missy and Ron are making loud sucking sounds on each other’s faces. This is the last thing I need.

“Guys, seriously, do you have to do that in the living room?” I ask them.

After a few more seconds, Ron is the one to disengage.

“You’re such a buzzkill,” Missy tells me.

“Whatever,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“How did it go?” Steph asks me.

“One word: Caroline,” I say.

“But when? How?” Steph stutters. Shocked, she listens as I recount the events of the afternoon.

“If he’s got an ex in the picture, you don’t want him,” Missy tells me.

“Thanks for stating the obvious,” I say.

“What was he doing inviting you on a date if he was going to get back with her?” Steph asks me.

“I wish I knew,” I say.

“Well, chicks, this little foray into
As the World Turns
has been fascinating, but I’ve got to motor,” Ron says, standing up and stretching, as he brushes lint off his giant, oversized pants.

“Where you going?” Steph asks, too eagerly.

“Home, then a gig,” Ron says.

Steph looks at me, and I know we’ll end up going. I’m in that frame of mind where I doubt things can get worse, so a night out with Ron doesn’t seem so bad.

“What about Ferguson?” Ferguson has a line of drool that’s threatening to travel from his mouth to one of my Pier 1 throw pillows. Quickly, I snatch the pillow away. The motion abruptly wakes Ferguson, who sits up, blinking.

“Hey, where are you guys going?” He rubs his eyes, not waiting for us to answer. “Can I come?”

*   *   *

We travel in Ron’s Impala to his two-flat in Bucktown, where he is living, along with his three bandmates. As far as I can tell, only a couple of them actually work, holding down odd jobs here and there, and the rest of them survive on the lead singer’s trust fund. It pays to have rich friends with expensive hobbies. The two-flat is even nicer than my spacious, overpriced apartment, although instead of furniture, they have mostly giant floor pillows. A trio of wilted hippie chick wannabes are lounging on the giant Oriental rug at the center of the room and passing around a huge bong. The air is thick with pot smoke. The Poser Hippie Chicks are wearing tattered rags that look like they came from a reject bin at the Salvation Army, but probably cost them $500 apiece. They’re large women, and they’re wearing skimpy tank tops that only barely hold in their ample chests. Each has a roll of fat hanging over her gypsy skirt.

Ferguson puts his hand out and introduces himself as if he’s at a networking convention.

“Groupies?” I ask Ron, who shrugs.

“That’s Heather, Ganesha, and Vishnu,” he says, not bothering to differentiate between the three. Missy looks at them appraisingly, as if trying to size up her competition. Not picking up on any threat, she decides to ignore them.

“We’re muses,” one of them says.

“They
kick ass
with creative energy,” Ron says. He doesn’t explain further, just plops down next to one and takes a hit from the bong she offers. Missy also takes a drag, and then she and Ron start licking one another’s face. I look away quickly before I’m overcome with motion sickness.

“Don’t you find them gross?” I ask Steph.

Steph shrugs. “Mildly,” she says.

When Missy lets Ron come up for air, he points to me and tells the muses who I am.

“She did the CD cover,” Ron says by way of introduction.

“Nice work,” the three muses say.

“And that’s her friend,” Ron adds. “They’re both having career crises.”

The three muses snicker.

“If you’re too busy having a career,” says one, who’s falling out of her red-and-white striped halter, “then you won’t ever have a life.”

“I get that you’re very in tune with the spiritual,” another muse says with a yawn. “I think you should be a psychic. Channel that energy.”

“How much does that pay?” I ask.

“Money isn’t important,” another one says.

“You’re wasting your time,” says the third. “She’s closed to new possibilities.”

“She is, a little,” Ferguson agrees.

“I am not,” I say, defensive.

“She’s got cynic written all over her. She’s barred to happiness.”

“Vish, I think you’re being harsh,” says the other. “She’s just trying to find herself.”

A knock sounds at the door, and Ron pulls himself away from sucking on Missy’s tongue to go answer it. Standing on the landing are a couple of college kids, wearing striped rugby shirts and baseball caps. Ron hands them a couple of Ziploc bags and takes a wad of bills from them. The college kids leave, and Ron returns to his position in the circle of pot smoke.

“You’re a dealer!” I exclaim, though I am not entirely surprised.

One of the Poser Hippie Chicks cackles. “I told you she was closed,” she says, smug.

“I’m leaving,” I declare.

“Don’t freak out, Jane, shit,” Ron says, putting a hand on my arm. “It’s only a side business.”

One of the Poser Hippie Chicks snorts.

“Come on, don’t be tight,” Ron pleads, his eyes droopy from pot. “Why don’t you have some hot tea and settle down?”

“I’m going to make popcorn,” Vishnu says.

I wonder what would happen to me if I simply stayed, for days, weeks, or months here, in Ron’s apartment.

I see myself six months from now, sitting on the couch next to Vishnu, my eyes bloodshot and bleary, unable to remember what day it is, completely and utterly wrapped up in the life of Ron. My most ambitious thought of the day will be to minimize my movements as much as possible, not even bothering to change channels on the television set, instead fixating on the shopping network for hours. I’d have a steady diet of Doritos and hot tea, and pretty soon, I’d start to wear hippie rags and call myself an Eastern Mystic Muse.

Then I think of Caroline rubbing up against Kyle, and I think, there are worse things than being one of Ron’s muses. I could be stuck watching Kyle and Caroline cuddle and coo at each other at countless family gatherings from here on in.

*   *   *

One tub of popcorn and two cups of strong tea later, and I am beginning to feel a bit more magnanimous. I’m not sure if it’s the fact that I have food in my stomach or that I’m getting a contact buzz from the pot smoke in the room. Ferguson and Missy both turn down the tea, but eat more than their share of popcorn, and Steph, who is definitely buzzed, starts laughing uncontrollably at something Ferguson says.

“I need to pee,” I announce. One of the Poser Hippie Chicks points to the back of the apartment.

The bathroom has rose wallpaper that inexplicably causes me to laugh hysterically. The thought of Ron with a powder pink bathroom is hilarious. I look up again at the wallpaper and notice that it seems to be moving. Like some holographic image. The rose petals are dancing.

Maybe I’m more buzzed than I thought.

Only it’s not the spins, where everything moves at the same pace. The images are moving at different intervals, each at its own speed. I blink a few times and shake my head. I put my nose right against the wall, to see if it’s a trick of the light, but just as I do, one of the rose petals jumps straight out of the wall and onto my nose.

“Ack,” I say, stumbling backward out of the bathroom and nearly into the arms of Vishnu or Ganesha, I’m not sure which.

“Don’t worry,” she tells me, smiling. “It was the tea. Shroom tea.”

I am too busy watching her eyebrows dance to be angry.

“We thought you could use a break from reality,” she says, smiling at me. I think her teeth are made of gold. Or diamonds. In either case, they’re shiny and hypnotic.

“Shroom tea?” I ask. “Does Lipton make that?”

The muse does not laugh at my joke.

“Just don’t fight it, OK?” she says.

I have never taken a hallucinogen before. I must say it is a bit disappointing. I mean, where are the pink elephants? The parade of talking monkeys?

The Poser Hippie Chicks, Missy, Ron, Ferguson, and Steph — who is studying her hand intently — and the rest of the band, gather together to leave for the gig, which starts in a half hour. I hear a voice that sounds like gravel, and realize my Doc Martens are speaking.

“You could stand to lose a few pounds,” the right one says.

“Stop slouching. It’s bad for my arch,” the left one adds.

We end up at Gunther Murphy’s, where the band is putting on a show of the four songs they know. Russ, the guitarist, knows the general manager, which is how they got the gig. Russ plays with his eyes closed, and Ron is rocking his shaggy head back and forth completely out of sync with the music. The lead singer is mumbling as usual, and has both hands wrapped tightly around the microphone. They like to bill themselves as a jazz infusion band with Grateful Dead influences, but that’s only because impromptu “jamming” is the only thing they do well since they are too lazy to learn new songs. It sounds less like jazz and more like a bunch of guys who taught themselves how to play.

Missy takes up a position front and center and starts elbowing any remotely respectable looking women who attempt to stand within ten feet of Ron. Steph and Ferguson are doing some odd version of the Jitterbug, while Vishnu, Ganesha, and Heather throw themselves into some kind of gypsy dance, twirling in circles in the middle of the bar room, their ragged skirts trailing along the floor. Vishnu, I see, is barefoot. My Doc Martens disapprove.

“Girl of loose morals,” the right one says.

“Can’t you ever find any nice friends?” the left one asks me.

“It’s clear why Kyle chose Caroline over you,” the right one says. “Just
look
at the people you hang out with.”

Ron looks remarkably good on stage. The red stage lights beaming down on Ron even out his skin tone, just like for strippers. My eyes wander off through the crowd, which is surprisingly dense and filled with women who look just like the trio of Poser Hippie Chicks. In the middle of the crowd, I see someone who looks like Kyle. Now I know I am hallucinating, because when I look back again, he’s gone.

“Boys only want one thing,” my right Doc Marten chides.

“But you already give it away,” the left one adds.

The two shoes laugh.

I am feeling light-headed, and so I stumble over to the bathroom, locking myself in the far stall and sitting on the closed toilet lid. I prop my Doc Martens up on the door, so we can have a proper conversation.

“You should’ve taken finance courses in college,” the right one tells me.

“Or at the very least marketing classes,” the left one adds.

“You believed Mike was going to marry you,” my right Doc Marten tells me.

“And that Kyle was going to actually
fall
for you,” the left says.

They have a good laugh at my expense.

Ganesha finds me in the bathroom stall, and hands me a large plastic cup filled with ice water.

“You should drink this,” she says. “It will make the comedown easier.”

“Maybe I don’t want to come down,” I say.

“Everyone does eventually,” she says, smiling at me sweetly, one curled red dreadlock falling forward across her face. “Life is a roller coaster, baby. Up and down, round and round.”

I sit for a moment longer in the bathroom, and Steph comes in, laughing.

“I am the master of the universe,” she tells me. “And Ferguson — who knew he was such a good dancer?”

“Now I know you’re high,” I say. “By the way, my Doc Martens can talk.”

She ignores that completely. “Did you know that your skin is totally transparent?” she asks me. “I can see your bones. You really ought to eat more calcium.”

“Slut,” my left Doc Marten says.