Things I can’t Explain (31 page)

“Gotta go,” I say, popping up from the table.

“Go?” Mom looks shocked. “We're in the middle of a psychiatric intervention here, Clarissa. We've spent a fortune flying Dr. Lyman across the Atlantic. Where could you possibly have to go that's more important? We know you don't have a job.” Ooof! That was a low blow. I figure I might as well give them what they want.

“Well, Mom, I think you and Dad have a few things to work out. You might consider starting by hugging the man who loves you and find out what's really bothering him. And when you guys are done putting all that stuff on the table, I'll be glad to check back in with you and hash out my problems. But in the meantime, I do have a job,” I say calmly. “Didn't you know I'm William Randolph Hearst's personal assistant? I know he's dead and the benefits aren't great, but I'm willing to work with that. Besides I have to meet my boyfriend, Barack O., for drinks, hope Michelle doesn't mind.” I take two steps toward the door, and turn back. “Oh, and after that, I'm going dancing with Wolverine from
X-Men
.”

What can I say? I'm still a big Hugh Jackman fan even though I know he's tired of playing that part.

Dr. Lyman is about to say something but I don't hear what it is because I turn on my heels and dash out of the café, determined to put to rest the only remaining question I have about the mysterious Roxie Buggles.

 

CHAPTER
34

I catch a glimpse of her frizzy hair turning the corner onto Lafayette Street. Even following at a good clip, I don't catch up until Roxie disappears down the steps to the subway station.

Down I go, into the bowels of the city, chasing the girl whose boyfriend I unwittingly tried to steal. I'm not sure exactly what I'm going to say to her, but I know if I don't confront her now, I never will, and I'm not about to let her get away. This is probably not the smartest thing I've ever done, but then again, according to one of Austria's greatest medical minds, I'm teetering on the brink of a psychotic break anyway.

“Roxie!” I shout, weaving in and out of the crowd in hot pursuit.

She turns to see me, a little smile creeping across her face. She flips me off just like she did at the wedding, then steps backward through the doors of the 6 train that has just pulled up. I jump, barely making it through the doors, before they seal the train shut and it screeches forward.

The subway rockets through its underground capillaries and this time I don't care about my neurotic fear of subways. I shove, jostle, and shoulder my way through packed cars searching for Roxie's massive woven locks. I find a few Roxie knockoffs and Roxie-lite types, but the genuine article evades me. As the train arrives at Union Square I catch a glimpse of her dashing for the L. I shove my way through the doors before they close, just barely making it into the nearest subway car before it screeches away and give chase. First Avenue … Bedford … Lorimer … Graham. I think of all the people who live in these places going about their lives in a normal daily fashion while I'm chasing a crazy rocker babe who has given me the slip.

I make it through three cars without getting yelled at too much or punched, but after the next stop it's clear—I've lost her.

The train rumbles on a bit longer, then pulls to a stop.

The sign says I've arrived in Bushwick. I lean out the door, scanning the platform to see if Roxie exits, but there's no sign of her. I give up and slip out of the train as the doors close.

Ascending to street level, I wander around a bit and actually see a few of Norm's custom skate decks rolling by. I wonder whether Dartmoor and MT even bothered to read my story at Nuzegeek. I contemplate calling them and realize I left my phone in my apartment.

I continue meandering, crossing over some invisible boundary into Williamsburg. I'm only half-heartedly searching for Roxie now. My feet seem to have a destination all picked out and I let them go there. Soon, I'm standing beneath that distinctive arch of antique bicycles.

But something's different. The place has that lifeless look that comes from having been recently vacated. Closer inspection shows me that the HeadSpace sign is gone and there's a new one in its place.

My knees buckle under me. It's not as though I thought I still had any kind of chance of making something happen with Nick. It's not as though the real reason I was following Roxie was because I hoped she would eventually lead me to Nick. It's just that I know this place was his dream, that it made his life worthwhile.

And, okay, I wouldn't complain if I got to see him one more time.

But it doesn't matter now.

Because while the bikes and the building remain, one thing is certain.

Nick is gone.

The abandoned studio door opens, scaring the shit out of me.

It's Roxie.

 

CHAPTER
35

Roxie's locking the place up, carrying a cardboard box, and for one crazy second, I wonder if it contains a sampling of Nick's freshly severed body parts.

“You?” she barks.

“Yes. I want to talk.”

Roxie spins and turns away without saying a word. I suppose it's an improvement over the finger. We walk about three blocks at a pretty good clip before she enters a bar, which would be considered a dive even by my friend Rodgers's standards. I linger on the sidewalk a minute, watching Roxie settle into a large window booth already crowded with hipsterish guys who have a tableful of empty shot glasses. She grabs the guy next to her and pulls him into a full-on tongue swapping.

I rap my knuckles against the glass to get her attention. She glowers at me.

But I glower right back. Then I crook my finger at her, not Bruce Lee kung fu–style, but the closest I get to that. “Let's talk,” I mouth. “
Now
.”

Maybe Rodgers is right. Maybe I do have a death wish.

Roxie storms out of the bar and in the next heartbeat, we're standing nose to nose. “What do you fucking want? I'm sick of you following me around. You're giving me a bad reputation,” she bellows.

“I want to know why you came after Nick and me. And if you're so into him, what's all that in there about?” I spit out, pointing to the guys in the bar.

To my shock, she actually starts laughing.

“You think Nick and I are together?” She laughs. “Nick and I have been shit for a long time.”

This brings me up short.

“Then why the big scene at the wedding?” I ask.

“Why? I guess I just wanted to finally see the famous BRB for myself.”

“BRB?” I have no idea what she's talking about. I think “be right back,” but that hardly applies here. “What are you talking about?”

Roxie finds my confusion amusing. “You're totally clueless, you know that? Blond Reporter Babe. BRB. That's what Nick used to call you before he knew your real name. When he talked to his friends and the studio staff about you, he would be like, ‘The BRB this and the BRB that.' You were his favorite topic of conversation. It made me want to puke.”

So the CCG had a nickname for me? BRB. I would smile if I weren't so damn stupefied.

“He would yammer on and on about all your crap. From your cutesy wardrobe to your beverage of choice to the fact that you have a really great rack.” She grabs a cigarette from her pocket and pokes it between her lips. “The guy has been in love with you since the first time you ordered a cup of coffee from his cart.”

I stagger. It's heartbreaking to hear Roxie of all people say it flat-out like that. How could I be so unaware?

“Nick and I, we gave it a shot, but when the record dropped and went nowhere, we both got creeped out. Sure, I got a few benefits from time to time. After all, Nicky boy has a great ass.” She smiles in that way that makes me want to punch her.

“I only went to that stupid wedding to see for myself what the hell was so irresistible about you.” She lights the cigarette, inhales, and looks me up and down. “He was right about your rack.”

I have no idea how to respond to that one.

“I gotta say, for a chick with such a brainy job, you're pretty fuckin' stupid.”

I watch her take another long drag as all this new information sets in. After a minute, Roxie stubs out her cigarette beneath the sole of her pointy patent leather boot.

“Now, if you don't have any more questions, I'm busy,” she says, glancing back at her fanboys inside.

“Just one,” I say. “Why is HeadSpace closed?”

“Because Nicky skipped town. All he left me was that box of my CDs and some other shit.”

This news sends a chill through me. “Where did he go?”
Please let it be the Bronx. Or Chelsea. I'll even settle for Hoboken. Just let it be somewhere close by.

“Fuck if I know. As you can imagine, we ain't exactly talking. He was pretty pissed off after my motorcycle stunt up there in prepster heaven. My best guess? LA. That's where his brother lives. He has great connections in the music biz. He'll probably make it big out there without me draggin' his ass down. Look, if you don't mind, my entire fan base is sitting drinking in there without me,” she says, pointing to the boys watching from the bar. “All six of them. And to be clear, I actually like getting fucked up. But for the record, you're
really
fucked up because your head is so far up your ass you don't even know how fucked up you are. So get the fuck out of here.”

“Okay, I get it,” I say and honestly I do and even in a perverse way agree with her. “But there's one more thing…” And using every bit of my body weight and every ounce of strength, I haul off and slug her across the jaw, knocking the cigarette out of her mouth and landing her on her drunken ass.

Okay. I don't do that. But I think about it. Instead, I nod slowly in recognition of my loss and her sorry state. As Roxie turns away I think I see the slightest hint of remorse flicker across her face before she returns to her fan club. Or who knows, it might have been gas and she was about to belch.

Like a zombie, I head back to the subway.
Los Angeles. LA. California
, I think to myself walking down the subway platform.

I drag myself home and drop into bed, slithering back under my pile of blankets—the Clueless Blond Reporter Babe (CBRB) once again in self-pity wallow mode.

LA, huh? Might as well be Mars.

 

CHAPTER
36

You know when there's a ringing or a buzzing sound coming from somewhere and you're sleeping and it seems to go on and on forever? You have no idea if it's from the alarm by your bed or the doorbell in your dreams or some television show you saw before you went to sleep or your cell phone? It goes on so long, in fact, that you don't even hear it anymore, not really, and you think you're just dreaming it?

I can't sleep anymore anyway so I decide to drag myself to the kitchen and face my morning coffee versus tea dilemma and the fact that Elvis has apparently left the building for good. I'm kind of surprised to hear an actual knock on the door and realize it wasn't a dream at all. I open it a crack and find Norm.

“Hey, Clarissa, I…”

But I don't hear the rest because I slam the door on him.

It doesn't take long for him to begin knocking again.

“Come on, Clarissa,” he says through the door. “Everyone's trying to get in touch with you.”

“Well, I'm pretty tied up right now. What with the sleeping, the moping, the staring out the window, not to mention feeling like a worthless piece of absolute shit—I'm kind of busy being depressed. Do you have any idea how long it takes armpit hair to grow? Come back in three years,” I say.

“MT sent me. She really needs to talk to you,” he says.

“Well, you can tell her I'm sorry the piece wasn't better and it didn't work out. I still need the kill fee. God knows when I'll get work again.” I glance over to the calendar on the fridge and I realize I've crossed over into the dreaded third month of rent delinquency. Gee, I wonder how Mom and Dad will feel about me showing up at their door with my rollie suitcase because I've declared bankruptcy at twenty-six after my landlord kicked me out and I've defaulted on my student loans. How's that for an education in finance? Nothing like spontaneously combusting all your bridges at the same time. I'm so fucked. But I try to muster the last modicum of my goodwill.

“I just can't talk now but I hope you and MT are still good. No hard feelings. I'd love to keep hanging out on the other side of the door with you but I've got a lot of hiding under the covers to get back to.”

“MT and I are fine,” he says through the door. And my ears perk up. I'm struck by the curious use of the pronoun “I,” as if he's finally learned third-grade English. I guess having a girlfriend who hobnobs with the Windsors is enough to straighten you out. Then I realize the article I was writing was about his career and he's probably bummed it didn't go anywhere.