The Idiot Girls' Action-Adventure Club (7 page)

The Speech

Relationships suck.

They suck hard.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, when my bedroom is as black as death, and the sheets on half the bed are as cold as a five-day-old corpse, I think

All I ever wanted to be was someone’s Old Lady.

I want to be the ball and chain.

I need to be somebody’s squeeze.

I float in this for a minute, in this bed that is too big for me, and feel a little bit lonely when all of a sudden the wheezing, flopping noise from my lungs wakes me up and shocks me back into Relationship Reality, and I realize

The empty side of the bed does not fart in its sleep.

The empty side of the bed does not attempt to sodomize me while I am sleeping.

The empty side of the bed does not make me look at the turd as big as my leg grounded in the toilet and then ask aloud, “Dude, do you think it will go down in one flush?”

The empty side of the bed does not wrestle me to the floor, pin me, and then straddle me, in order to do the Spit Torture, dripping saliva out of its mouth over my face, then sucking it back up; dribbling it out, then sucking it back up; dribbling it out, then letting it fall right near my mouth.

The empty side of the bed IS NOT, I repeat, IS NOT a MAN.

And for that, I am thankful.

I want a man as nice as my retarded dog, but one that doesn’t crap on the floor. I want a man who will only cheat on me a little and who will call me once a week. I want a man who will buy his own drinks and who will hold back my hair when I puke. I want a man who is unconfused regarding his sexual identity. I want a man who has never heard of or practiced the Speech.

I will never find him. He has never been born.

The last time I got my walking papers, it was over the phone. “It” had lasted about five months, the longest-standing Relationship Record I had held in this decade. Well, it wasn’t even a “relationship.” I called it the “thing.” He didn’t call it anything. He thought I wanted to get married tomorrow, have seventeen kids, buy an Isuzu Trooper, and then staple his scrotum to the living-room couch. All I really wanted was one phone call per solstice.

Anyway, the conversation was off to a running start when he cleared his throat and said,

“I am not ready and will not be ready to actively get involved with anyone for at least three to five years.”

“Why?” I asked. “Are you going to prison?”

“No. What I am saying is that I’m not ready to commit to anything, either way.”

“Either way? You mean you can or cannot commit to committing or not committing?” I said, growing suspicious and confused. “Are you giving me ‘the Speech’?”

“I think we should concentrate more on the ‘Friends’ part of our—well, you know.”

Suspicions confirmed. I gasped.

“You ARE giving me the Speech! You just gave me the Speech! That was the Speech!” I cried.

So I got the Speech, which automatically drops you to the lowest point in life, it’s like throwing the self-esteem balloon on a cactus. You become such a small specimen of existence that you could probably mate with yourself, which would actually be such a terrific advantage.

I guess I took it well. I didn’t set anything on fire, practice any voodoo, or listen to sad songs. No, this time I just sat at the bar and drank, sneering and growling at all of the men except my friend Dave.

“How’s it going?” he asked.

“Well, I got the Speech today,” I said.

“Oh no. Not the Speech,” he said. “Did he use the ‘F’ word?”

I nodded.

“Oh God.” Dave sighed. “The ‘F’ word is low. Low down.”

“Yep,” I said. “
Friends.
He said, ‘We’re just Friends.’ ”

I don’t understand the Speech and how men learned about it. Was it a part of boys’ eighth-grade PE class, did the gym teacher make them say it to one another over and over in the showers so they would be good at it?

“Okay, now how does it go?”

“It goes, ‘You’re a cool girl, and I like hanging out with you, but I’m not ready to make a—um, that big word—commitment to one person, and I think we need to be . . . we need to be . . .’ ”

“Man, this is the most important part! The ‘F’ word, man! The ‘F’ word!”

“Oh, yeah! You tell the chick you want to be Friends! But you don’t mean it, do you?”

“No. A chick won’t let you nail her if she knows she’s not even a Friend.”

Or maybe the Speech is some kind of computer chip that gets implanted in every baby boy’s dingle as soon as he’s born.

“There are things running around out there with uteruses, son. You’re going to need this.”

Could it be a hormonal gift package with an added feature thing, where women get PMS with estrogen, and men get the Speech with testosterone? I don’t understand it.

I do understand one thing. I am pissed off at God for making me heterosexual, and I swore that the next time I heard the Speech, I was going to fix that. I have enough Friends, so I’m going to try really hard this time to be a lesbian. The only problem with this is that all men are fascinated by lesbians, lesbians are delicacies to men, and once they find out you are one, they want you back again.

But maybe it’s just my destiny to remain alone, eating single-people food like Soup for One, collecting Precious Moments figurines, and thinking that my dog can talk back to me. Oh, God. With any luck, I’ll wind up living in a trailer park as a bitter, celibate alcoholic with a heart full of hate. I’d much rather be alone and make myself miserable than give someone else the pleasure. I’ll die a graceful and glowing death when my cigarette plunges into the shag carpet as I pass out after my final date with Jack Daniel’s, who will be resting very comfortably and very drained on the pillow of the empty side of the bed.

Moral Sex

My nana was getting aggravated.

I couldn’t blame her. She was stuck in a hospital room with an inflamed gallbladder while her pain medication was lolling about on a nurse’s cart somewhere in the hallway. To make matters worse, we were minutes away from watching President Bill Clinton’s apology for diddling Monica Lewinsky, and the coverage clogged every channel.

“I don’t understand all of the fuss,” Nana said, shaking her head at the TV. “There wasn’t this much news when Frank Sinatra died, and he was much more important to this country. He was a real American.”

Sitting in a chair next to the bed was Nana’s sister, Aunt Ida, an exact duplicate of Nana, right down to their four-foot-ten height, their wavy light-brown hair, and their tan Easy Spirit shoes, and she wasn’t pleased about the lack of television viewing choices, either.

Personally, I was more concerned with keeping Nana’s ID bracelet on her wrist, lest we discover three years from now that we brought the wrong Nana home from the hospital and then have to share custody with another family. The day before, just to be safe, I pulled a bobby pin from her hair and scratched the letters N-A-N-A into the polish of four fingernails on her right hand after she got a pain shot and passed out.

“The whole thing is crazy, I tell you,” agreed Aunt Ida. “Who wants to see the president naked? Now I got all these pictures going through my head. I don’t need that!”

If Monica Lewinsky had seen naked pictures of Bill Clinton beforehand, I can assure you that this whole thing never would have happened in the first place. I’ve only seen photos of him with his shirt off, and that was enough to make me do the cootie dance. Big nipples, size of silver dollars, on saggy man boobs, and they were purple. The color of eggplants.

“What kind of girl would keep a dress for such a long time with that . . .
stuff
on it?” Nana said, pointing to the TV. “That pig! She’s never heard of a dry cleaner?”

I was amazed. My nana, the eighty-two-year-old embodiment of everything good and pure, who has never had a bad word to say about anyone, was getting testy. And, most horrifying of all, she knew what “stuff” was.

“Ah, she’s a tramp,” Aunt Ida said, waving her hand. “She’s just one of those girls—Laurie, what do you call them, they follow men who do the rock and roll?—”

“Groupies,” I offered.

“Groupies!” Aunt Ida finished. “They’ll do anything.”

“Oh, yeah. A grouper. Like Ava Gardner was to Frank Sinatra,” Nana added, shaking her head and wringing her hands. “He got into so much trouble with her. So much trouble . . .”

“Don’t play with your wristband, Nana,” I said cautiously.

“What do they mean by ‘inappropriate relationship’?” Nana asked as the president spoke across the airwaves.

“It means they were fooling around,” Aunt Ida said. “But in different . . . ways.”

“Like what?” Nana queried.

Oh, boy. Now you see what you’ve done, Monica Lewinsky, you stupid, stupid tart, I thought. Because of you, I have to explain to my nana, while she’s in a hospital bed with an enlarged gallbladder, what oral sex is. Do you see the damage you’ve caused? Do you see where your sinful path has led?

Ever so reluctantly, I bent down and whispered into Nana’s ear exactly how Lewinsky got to know President Clinton “in the biblical way,” and when I was done, she looked up at me, bewildered.

“I don’t know what the hell you just said,” Nana whispered back. “You know that’s my bad ear.”

Forced to do the devil’s work twice, I repeated the carnal carnage in the good ear.

She scrunched up her face. “Oh, that’s disgusting,” she replied, thinking it over in her mind. “I don’t understand why they call it ‘moral’ sex. Was it approved by a priest?”

“No,” I replied slowly. “Just by Monica’s mother.”

“This president,” Aunt Ida said, “he wears his privates on his sleeve like they were cuff links.”

“This is not a nice girl, Ida,” Nana reminded her. “She’s a floozy. Even President Kennedy didn’t pick girls up off the street. What’s this all over the inside of my hand?”

“It’s your address and phone number,” I said quickly. “We’ll wash it off when you get home.”

“I think I have the coordinating map on my arm,” Aunt Ida mentioned.

“Oops,” I said, embarrassed. “Sorry, I guess you got too close.”

A nurse entered the room armed with a shot of Demerol and pulled the curtain around Nana’s bed.

“Oh, this is really binding you,” I heard the nurse say to Nana. “Let’s take this off.”

“No, no, no,” I asserted to the curtain. “Leave the wristband on. Nice trick, but I’ve got her marked.”

“You’re a nurse,” I heard Nana say from the other side of the curtain. “Do you know what ‘moral’ sex is? My granddaughter says it’s dirty.”

“Why do you have a piece of paper that says, ‘I’ve Been Switched, And I Miss My REAL Family! Call Police!’ taped to the back of your neck?” the nurse asked Nana.

“I thought I felt something itchy,” Nana said.

After Nana got her shot and the curtain was pulled back, the nurse shot me a look and left the room. That’s when I noticed a white pair of Nana’s slacks folded at the foot of the bed.

“Is this what the nurse took off?” I asked Nana, and she nodded.

“Nana,” I started, “you’ve had these on the whole time?”

“Yeah,” she answered.

“But you’ve been here for three days,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh, I wanted them on,” she answered. “I was worried that if I had to walk to the bathroom, someone might see my legs.”

“Monica Lewinsky could learn a thing or two from you, Nana,” I said.

“Oh, no,” she replied, the Demerol kicking in. “I was married for three years before I had your mother. I have my paper from the priest. That’s very moral, isn’t it?”

I nodded and smiled. After she drifted off to sleep, I pulled another bobby pin from her hair and scratched the letters I L-O-V-E into the polish on the five fingers of her left hand.

Men Are Stupid
and I Rock!
(Ode to Dorothy Parker)

I was stood up last night.

Again.

I waited at the bar for, well, all night. I kept glancing at the door every time someone entered, pretty much every fifteen seconds. A couple of times I thought I saw him, a flash of hair, a slight smile, but on a double take it wasn’t him at all, it was someone a couple of inches shorter, with crooked teeth. His teeth are straight. Perfectly straight and white, a Pepsodent smile that I would’ve liked to kick in with the heel of my boot.

The son of a bitch. I had eaten an entire roll of Clorets already, just in case he came in without me seeing him first. I could talk freely and easily without having to talk into my hand and then smell it, no, no dead animal breath here. I had cool, minty, kisssssssable breath.

I looked good, too, in my opinion. I had only two pimples, and my eyeliner went on smoothly, no tire tracks tonight. I had even used lip liner so that the lipstick smeared on my lips wouldn’t bleed into the little crinkles above them. I wore perfume.

I sat on the bar stool for hours, holding in my stomach in a desperate attempt to appear alluring. At a quarter till one, I still hadn’t given up and imagined him bursting into the bar, out of breath, panting. His car had broken down. He’s run, not jogged or walked, he’s run, five miles, nonstop, to get here. He looks around frantically, scanning every face in the bar, where is she, am I too late? He sees me, that ivory Pepsodent smile extends across his face, and he’s every bit as handsome as I ever thought he was. I have waited. My patience has paid off. He holds my hand and I am not mad. Everything is fine.

Instead, the lights above started to flicker on and off; the bar was closing. I killed what was left of my drink, sucking out every last drop of whiskey with the tiny red straw until the ice crashed together. I walked out of the bar, just a little bit too sober, and headed for home.

It’s the next morning, I wake up.

Immediately, I think:

He stood me up, goddamnit. I knew he would, I knew he would, I knew he would. God!
Shit!
How could I be so stupid! I knew he wouldn’t show up, why did I wait? So stupid, so incredibly stupid! I am the jackass. It’s me, I admit, who is the jackass. I’m raising my hand. IT’S ME. Christ. All night I waited, he said he’d be there and he wasn’t, just like he should call me today and he won’t. Oh no. Oh no. No, I won’t do it, I won’t, I will not sit here all day and wait for that phone to ring I WILL NOT DO IT. I absolutely refuse to sit and look at that dead phone, no, no, no, he got me once, he won’t get me again I WILL BE STRONG. Damn that phone it better ring and it better ring right now. RIGHT NOW.

I take a breath. I look at the phone. It looks back at me. It blinks.

I will smoke. I will have a cigarette, and by the time I’m done, the phone will ring. I deserve that much, I do. I deserve an explanation, and when I hear it, no matter how much bullshit he spews over the phone, I will not be pissed off. I will pretend not to be pissed off. In the meantime, I will count how many drags I can get off of one cigarette. I have never counted before, I will be interested to know, to find out, just how many times I can inhale on this cigarette.

One drag.

Just one ring, one little jingle; it’s not too much to ask.

Ring.

I will make it ring with my mind, I will make it ring, if I think hard enough, it has to happen.

Two drags.

I’m thinking, thinking hard, I can make this phone ring. Come on, please phone, ring.

The phone looks at me again, shakes its head. Nope.

Piece of shit. Three drags.

I promise I will not be mad if that phone will ring. I will be nice. Pleasant. Charming. “No, no, it’s quite all right,” that’s what I’ll say, “don’t worry about last night. I understand, truly I do.”

Four drags. Am I kidding? He stood me up! Who the hell does he think he is? Gregg Allman? Because if Gregg Allman stood me up, I could never be mad, hell no, he’s Gregg Allman! Goddamnit. I will not let him make me feel this way. I am a woman. Women are strong, much stronger than men. You know what? I don’t even want him to call. I don’t. Even if he calls, I won’t pick up the phone. I’ll just sit here and laugh is what I’ll do. You’re goddamn right. I’ll laugh. Ha ha ha. Let it ring a million times, I’m not gonna pick it up. Asshole. The next time I see him, I’m gonna punch him. Square in the gut. And I’m going to walk right up to him and say, “I hate you.” No, then he’ll know that I’d waited. I’m not going to say anything at all. I’m not going to let him know that I waited. I won’t give him the satisfaction. No! I’m going to tell him that
I’m
sorry that
I
didn’t show up! Yes! I’m going to call him right now and tell him that.

Eight drags.

Where’s the phone number? I should call Jamie, she would know what to do. She could tell me if I should call him or not. She would say don’t call him. Don’t call him. Here it is, here’s the number, I hope I wake the bastard up, I do. I’m dialing, I’m dialing, I’m done dialing, it’s ringing. Oh my God, it’s ringing. What the hell am I doing? It’s ringing. Shit. What if a girl answers? Hang up the phone now!

I slam the phone down and push it away, evil thing. I dig voraciously through my nightstand until I find a big, thick black marker, pull off the cap, and victoriously mark his name and phone number out of my telephone book and out of my life.

HA! Thought you got me, but you didn’t. I am not going to call you, I will not be the fool in this circus, no way, little man, find yourself another idiot, buddy. I’m not going to play your games, count me out.

The cigarette is gone. I’ve lost count. I pound it out in the ashtray.

That’s right, I am a woman, I come from a long line of women, my mother was a woman and so was my grandmother, yes, she was a woman, too! I like being alone, I can do whatever I want, I don’t need him. What is he? Someone to make me feel miserable, to make me cry, a dog is what he is. All men are dogs. I LOVE ME. I love doing anything I want, whenever I want. I don’t need anyone else to make me feel fulfilled or satisfied! I wish I could call myself! I wish I could date me, I am a wonderful person, and it’s his fault if he can’t see that!

Wait a minute—I don’t remember hearing a dial tone when I picked up the phone, I don’t think there was one. I know I’m late on the bill, I’m sure of that, but I don’t remember a dial tone. Maybe the phone is shut off. He’s probably been trying to call all morning and can’t get through. Oh no. I feel horrible. The phone is shut off, I bet; that’s why it—
stupid.
Moron. I didn’t hear a dial tone, but I
did
hear it ring at his apartment. Idiot girl. Serves me right. I was getting all ready to forgive him, but not now. Hell no, not now. He can go to hell. Straight to hell. Dance with the devil, for all I care.

But what if something happened, a car accident, food poisoning, testicular cancer? What if he’s dead? He’s listed in the phone book, the white pages, I’ll find it, F, F, F, G, Gr, Gra, Gri, yes, okay, it’s right here, I’m dialing again, I hope he’s not dead, don’t let him be dead. It’s ringing, it’s ringing, it’s ringing—

“Hello?”

He answered. HANG UP NOW!
Slam!

You sonofabitch. You son of a bitch! You’re alive! Damn you! Oh God, I can’t believe this! I must be crazy, I must be out of my mind! How can you do this? You’re alive and you didn’t call? How dare you be alive and not call me! You are NOT Gregg Allman!

Light another cigarette. One drag. Two drags. Three drags.

I’m going to rip this page out of the phone book, is what I’m going to do, and then I’m going to set it on fire. I’m going to watch it burn. Here we go, it’s going up in flames, it’s being eaten by fire, now I can’t call him if I wanted to, four drags, five drags, six drags. Never again. I will never fall for that again. I’ve learned my lesson. If I’ve learned something from this, then it was worth it. The lesson is, don’t trust him. And don’t trust men. Don’t trust anybody. I’m the only one I can depend on. Today, I hate everyone from now on, everyone but me. I am independent. I am a lone wolfess.

The phone rings. Quietly at first, ringing almost in a whisper. The second ring is louder, more like a cry. The third ring begins to yell, and before the fourth ring even happens, the phone is shrieking and instead of ripping it out of the wall the way a good woman should, I pick up the receiver.

And it’s guess who.

“Did you just call?” he asks.

“No,” I answer, “I was sleeping.”

“I’m sorry about last night,” he says.

“It’s okay,” I lie. “I understand. Truly I do.”

“I’m glad you’re not mad,” he sneaks.

“Want to go to the game tonight?” I mention quietly. “I have really good seats. The game’s sold out.”

“Yes! I do want to go,” he says. He’s excited now. Really excited.

“Good, meet me at the arena,” I continue, “around eight o’clock. I’ll wait for you there.”

“See you then,” he says, “at eight.”

And he was on time, got there a little bit early, actually. He looked up every fifteen minutes, every time a girl with long brown hair passed him.

I know this because I saw him standing outside the main door, and as I watched him, I laughed. I laughed, sitting in Jamie’s car parked across the street, deep in the shadows where he couldn’t possibly see me.

Oh, yeah. It’s called karma, baby.