She'll Take It (10 page)

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Authors: Mary Carter

BOOK: She'll Take It
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“If you don't stay then I'll have to ask Trina—and that wouldn't be too nice. Trina has a hot date tonight,” Margaret says, winking at me.
“You owe me one too,” Trina says, meeting my eyes.
“Of course I'll stay,” I say in a pitch a few octaves higher than my normal voice.
“That a girl,” Margaret says, shoving an envelope at me. “He should be here any minute now.”
Chapter 9
A
ny minute turns into an hour an a half. I watch my chances of returning the scarf tick away with the second hand of the large black clock above the elevators. By the time I get to the Number 1 train at Penn Station, it's almost 6:30. I squeeze into a seat next to a nun and try not to look at the drunk across from me with his fly open. And if that's not revolting enough, it appears that he isn't wearing any underwear, and I find myself continuously glancing at his penis, wondering exactly which part I'm looking at. I force myself to look above him at the array of posters advertising birth control, AIDS, drug addiction, moisturizer, littering, and the Gap.
Underneath the birth control ad, someone has scribbled “Murdering Cunt” in red paint. I wonder if the nun was doing her rosary and if her presence was a sign from the Saints that they're going to punish me for not returning the scarf. I make a mental note to go to confession. The train screeches to a stop at 42nd Street, and more sardines cram themselves into the can. Something wet and hot spills on my leg—lukewarm coffee. At least I hope it's coffee. I don't even make a move to wipe it off—I can't bring myself to touch it. At least Kim is meeting me at Juan's. I really need the Three Musketeers now. A cell phone starts to ring and suddenly they pop up like fireflies, emerging from the pants, pockets, and bags of busy New Yorkers. To my surprise, even the nun reaches for hers.
It's not until the exposed drunk across from me leans forward and says, “Your hello is running over,” that I realize it's mine. He winks at me and smiles as if he knows I've been looking at his penis. By the time I answer the phone, they've hung up. I scroll through the screen, desperately trying to find out who called me. Caller Unknown. It's the story of my life. I wonder if it's Ray. I wonder if I should call him and check. But if it wasn't him, then I've just blown my chance at playing it aloof and mysterious. Bring on the margaritas.
As usual, walking into Juan's Mexican Restaurant immediately makes me happy. Hundreds of colorful sombreros dangle from the ceiling like balloons, and the cement walls are painted a sunny yellow with wide turquoise stripes. Two large cactus plants stand guard near the register, and every tabletop is adorned with cactus salt and pepper shakers wearing little sombreros. But the margaritas are the real reason we love it here. They're as big as your head and bottomless. Even the salsa is laced with tequila. The waiters wear black capes, call you Señorita, and are always smiling. Kim is late as usual. So far I've eaten an entire basket of chips and lifted five sombrero candles and a fork. I'm eyeing the cactus salt and pepper shakers when she walks in.
Every male in spitting distance cranes their neck to get a look at her. All I can do is smile; I read that men like it when you smile. Two waiters and a busboy float down from the ceiling and pull out Kim's chair. Jealousy strikes my throat, and I fight the urge to light her hair on fire with the sombrero candle, but I don't because I am a mature woman. Besides, with my luck, cute firemen would rush to her rescue, tossing me aside like pyromaniac roadkill. Kim flips her hair, smiles, and inspects the empty basket of chips like she's investigating a crime scene. Within seconds, a full one appears in its place.
“Nice scarf,” Kim says. “It looks good with my sweater.”
I feel one twinge of guilt for the stain that it's hiding and another for not returning it. “Thanks. Margarita?”
She nods and immediately the waiter appears.
“Two margaritas,” Kim says, eyeing my recently emptied one. The waiter bows grandly and takes off. “Listen I hope you don't mind but I called Tommy,” Kim says. “I think three heads are better than one on this one.”
I had already called Kim and filled her in on Trina's bombshell about Ray. If anyone knew how to win a man back it was Kim.
“Where's Charles tonight?” I ask, wondering how many chips I could eat before they attached to my thighs.
Kim sighs. “To tell you truth I'm getting a little bored of him,” she says.
I nod sympathetically, but I'm not surprised. Kim goes through boyfriends like I go through underwear. (And yes, I change them daily.)
“I mean the geeky science thing was attractive at first,” she says, pondering her situation. “But that's all he ever talks about. Light bending and—particle something or others. I mean, come on—I invite him to parties with scantily dressed models and all he can offer me is a conversation on light bending?”
“How's the sex?” I say, then, “I miss Ray.”
“Ugh. Please don't go on again about sex with Ray.”
“I'm not going to go on—it's good that's all. Except—” I pause to worship my second margarita, which is being placed in front of me. “Thank you, Señor,” I say, batting my eyelashes at the waiter.
“You're welcome, Señoritas,” he says to Kim.
“Except what?” Kim says the minute he's gone.
“Nothing. It's just—”
“Spill.”
“First tell me how the sex is with Charles.”
She shrugs. “It's good,” she says.
“Good? Like really good or okay good?”
“Melanie.”
“What? I don't want gory details or anything but you don't seem that excited, that's all.”
“It's good good. He's just a little too—”
“Big?” I ask, curiosity clinging to my throat like socks to a dryer. I had seen his shoes once in the hallway. Huge, clown feet.
Kim laughs. “I was going to say too gentle. Too sensitive, you know? Like he's afraid of breaking me.”
I nod while images of Ray and me having sex on my fire escape flash through my mind.
“Your turn. ‘It's just' what?”
“Okay. It's no biggie. He just—he's not that into oral sex I guess.”
“He doesn't like blow jobs?” Kim says loudly. Now the men are really looking at her.
“Shh,” I say. “No, he's quite enthusiastic about them. It's the reverse that seems to be an issue for him.”
“You mean you have to ask him?”
“I mean he's never even made an attempt. Not once.”
Kim studies me while finishing her margarita. “You're going to have to guide him then,” she says.
“What? My terrain is so confusing he needs a guide?” I say.
Kim giggles.
“Has Charles—”
“Of course.”
“So it's weird that—”
“Yes.”
“So I'll just have to guide him.”
Kim holds up her margarita and we toast. “You could draw a map on your stomach,” Kim says. “South Town that way.”
We laugh. I giggle. It was good to talk about these things. Really, maybe Ray just needed a little nudge.
“Bring on the tequila!” Tommy shouts from the doorway.
Tommy Vance is a gorgeous, funny, talented model. (Before you ask, I would have but he's gay.) He was the one impersonating Kiss with me the night of the party. But for another ten seconds, it would have been him kneeling on the floor with a wooden penis, and his community wouldn't have thought twice about it. Kim signals a waiter, and this time a pitcher of margaritas appears.
“Are we eating?” Kim asks. The three of us stare at the pitcher and shake our heads no.
“Good,” Tommy says. “We're going to get nice and drunk. Now fill me in. What exactly did Trina say?”
Tommy and Kim hate Trina as much as I do, but since they constantly run into each other on modeling jobs they have to hide it. But it doesn't stop them from relishing every drop of gossip they can squeeze out of anyone. “Okay. First she asked me if I was going to Sheila Hedge's play—”
“Sheila Hedge?” Tommy interrupts. “The Canadian with the big melons?”
“Yes,” I say. “Anyhow—and then she casually said ‘Ray and I are thinking of going.'”
“Are they real or has she had them done?” Tommy interrupts. For a gay man he's way too obsessed about breasts.
“I don't know,” I say.
“They're real,” Kim says.
We both look at her.
“What? Cynthia Howard got drunk and squeezed them on a dare last Fourth of July.”
Tommy nods, satisfied.
“Anyhow,” I say with a trace of irritation, “she said she and Ray were going to the play.”
“Thinking of going, or going?” Tommy says.
I look at Kim for help.
“We're two drinks ahead of you, Tommy. No talking until you catch up,” Kim orders.
“Kim,” I plead. “Ray hasn't called me in like ten days. What if he's seen the Web site? What if he's not calling me because he thinks I'm a she-male?”
“She-males are really in right now!” Tommy pipes up. Kim and I corner him with dirty looks. He shrugs and goes back to his margarita. “It's true,” he says to the salt and pepper shakers. “They're third. Bisexual women are first, metrosexuals are a close second, and she-males are rounding third! On second thought I think we need some fajitas. Waiter!”
“But what if he hasn't seen it?” Kim says, picking up our conversation. “Then you draw his attention to the Web site unnecessarily.”
“But what other explanation is there? We weren't fighting—we had great sex—he called me every day. Every single day for three months. Obviously something is going on.”
“Maybe he's gay?” Tommy says hopefully. Tommy thinks every straight man is secretly gay, and there are times when I sadly concur.
“He's not gay,” I huff. “He's definitely not gay.”
Tommy waves the empty basket of chips in the air. “A commitment-phobe then.”
“Say more about that.”
“Three months you say? You should check into his past relationships. Do a little digging, and if you find out all of his relationships disintegrated after three months—poof—there you have it. You didn't do anything wrong at all. You're just past your expiration date.”
I look to Kim. “How long did he go out with Trina?” I ask. Kim studies the floor. “Kim?”
“Three years.”
“Ah-ha! “There's your three. Look, just call him,” Tommy says, handing me his cell phone.
I reach for it but Kim grabs it before I can touch it.
“That is relationship suicide. Do you hear me? Call him and it's over.”
“Maybe he's just not that into you,” Tommy says.
“Tommy!” I yell. “Stop watching Oprah.” He shrugs. “Did you even read the book?” I say piously.
“No,” Tommy says. “But it's propped up on the back of my commode, and I will get to it right after
Straight Men On Parade.
”
I don't know what
Straight Men On Parade
is and I'm not sure I want to, so I skip the snappy comeback.
“Tommy has a point,” Kim says. “I mean, first he doesn't call you and then he goes to a play with his ex-girlfriend? I mean, is that the kind of guy you want to be dating?”
I take my straw out of my margarita glass and stick it in the pitcher.
“Well maybe he's not calling because of something Trina said. And maybe she's lying about him going to the play. I mean I should at least find out, shouldn't I? Even if it's over I need closure, don't I? Come on. You guys know how I am about closure.”
“Chris Sorenson,” Kim and Tommy say, nodding in unison.
“Chris Sorenson!” I yell. “Three hundred and sixty-five fucking days go by and not a peep. I hear nothing from him until New Year's 1999 when I get a collect call from
Moscow
informing me he's married a Russian woman and running her father's dry-cleaning business.” I slam the pitcher of margaritas down on the table. “Did we order the fajitas?” I ask.
Four pitchers of margaritas, five basket of chips, and two orders of fajitas later, Kim is struck with a brilliant idea. “What sis phone number?” she says, playing with the cell phone.
“Whose sis?” I ask.
Kim bursts out laughing. “Hissssssss,” she says. “What's his phone number?”
Tommy looks around the room. “Do you see a hottie?” he says.
“Where? Is it the guy in the corner with the black glasses? I was thinking that myself.”
“I'm talking about Ray,” Kim says loudly. “Melanie, what's his number?”
I stare at her trying to assess her level of drunkenness. “Walk a straight line first,” I say, marching the salt and pepper shakers up and down the table.
“You two are a couple of crazy bisexual metrosexuals,” Tommy slurs.

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