What She Saw... (26 page)

“I WANT TO go away with you,” he told her on the phone the following day.

But the idea of going away with Pablo Miles—it worried Phoebe. After all, they'd only met a week ago. And what if they ran out of things to talk about up there in the country with no distractions—no downtown Manhattan or Bohemian Brooklyn to confuse for a context? “You want to go away together?” she said. “I mean, we hardly even know each other.”

“So what?”

“It seems kind of soon.”

“I want to fuck you in a sleeping bag.”

The image excited her. Or maybe it was the sound of the word
fuck
on Pablo Miles's lips. On his lips that word sounded like an imperative. “Where would we go?” she asked him.

“My family has a house up near Killington,” he told her. “Nothing fancy. Just an old A-frame at the base of the mountain. Let's go up Friday morning. Just you and me. What do you say?”

“The thing is, I have a shoot on Friday,” Phoebe told him. “I mean, it's not my shoot . . .” Because she was just the grunt who unpacked the catered lunch, who separated the clear plastic wrap from the premade sandwich basket. Just the thought of it left her angry and resentful at her Birkenstock-wearing director/ boss Dee Dee, who didn't show the slightest interest in Phoebe's creative suggestions and never stopped making loaded comments about her impractical footwear. “Let me see if I can get out of it.”

And she did. She told Dee Dee there was a death in the family—a funeral she needed to attend. And who can argue with death?

SHE PACKED THE night before. All her cute clothes. The kind of clothes
Mademoiselle
magazine suggested you pack for a romantic getaway. Puffy socks to pad around the fire in. Oversized chenille sweaters with extra-long sleeves to hide your hands in when you're feeling coy. She was ready to go at ten. At quarter past she looked at her watch. At twenty past the phone rang. It was Pablo calling from the street. “Listen, I broke down on the Brooklyn Bridge,” he shouted to be heard over a chorus of honking horns and revving engines and emergency-vehicle sirens.

“That's terrible!” Phoebe shouted back.

“Yeah, the radiator overheated or something. I'm gonna take Betty to the garage. I'll call you when I get home.”

But he didn't. He didn't call the next afternoon either. And the next afternoon after that, it was pretty clear he was never going to. You'd think Phoebe would have been upset. She was mostly just relieved.

There was a part of her that had always been happiest alone.

And she didn't know how much longer she could have continued the experiment. In the end, that's all Pablo Miles was to her—another test case to see whom she could fool, and for how long, into thinking she was someone that she wasn't. That he knew her by the wrong name was secondary. She couldn't imagine him understanding why her handwriting changed on a daily basis. Or why her teeth chattered when she thought too hard about yesterday. That was the thing about cocky assholes. In the end, they were only good for sex. In the end, you couldn't wait to get away. To get back to yourself. Even if that self was a fraud, or a freak, or a fool.

At least it was you.

Besides, she suspected that “serious relationships” were antithetical to the biological imperative.

And she was still playing catch-up with Holly Flake, still trying to convince herself that the blah girl running laps behind the gym until she thought her legs would snap, her heart explode, was no longer her.

And she'd let all her other her talents lapse—her tennis and violin strings pop. But she was good at sex. Everybody said so; everybody said she was a great lay. And with every new guy there was new proof—that she was “incredibly gorgeous.” Because she was never so gorgeous—not even when she was “incredibly gorgeous”—that she didn't require outside confirmation. Just as it was still some kind of thrill to bear witness to a virtual stranger's face contorted in ecstasy—to feel essential to that contortion, even if it turned out you were only convenient. (Even if turned out he made those same faces when he touched himself.)

And if it ended now as opposed to later, whoever it was would never learn how neurotic and crazy and boring and essentially talentless she really was, and be forced to leave, disappointing them both—especially Phoebe.

SHE RAN INTO Pablo Miles in front of Tower Video a year later—as if it mattered. She was still nowhere, still waiting to be appreciated. “Pablo Miles.” She said his name out loud just to be sure it was him.

He didn't respond immediately. Then he turned around with a start and said, “If it isn't Starla Chambers!”

“That's me,” she chimed.

“I remember you.” He smiled congenially. “You had a really cute ass.” He craned his neck around her backside. “You still do.”

Phoebe rolled her eyes, shook her head. Of all the offenses! But it was just another performance on her part. In fact, it pleased her to no end that Pablo Miles still thought she had a cute ass. She'd been thinking she was already over the hill. It was the weight she'd gained since she met him—maybe five pounds. It felt like ten. “You always were disgusting,” she said, hating herself for her vanity and for her inability to hold grudges.

And for saying the very thing Pablo Miles wanted to hear. That was clear from his answer. “It's true.” He grinned lubriciously. “I've always been a sexist pig.”

It was only later that Phoebe found out that Pablo Miles's real name was Peter Mandelbaum. (It was only later that she wondered if he'd felt the same things she'd felt.) But by then it was too late. By then he was just another name in her address book whose number she hadn't dialed in a long time—probably never would again.

12. Anonymous 1–4

OR “Overheard in Bed During Phoebe Fine's Admittedly Short-Lived Experiment with Promiscuity”

THIS IS WHAT she'd learned about the “male gaze”: to walk into a crowded room and have twenty sets of eyes defer to your silver-sequined purse—that was some kind of exquisite power. (“Thank you. . . . Just a lipstick and a twenty and it looks like someone's business card . . . I wonder whose it is . . . I can't imagine how it got there. . . . Debevoise what? . . . I would have made a terrible lawyer. . . . I've always hated conflict. . . . I've never been good at midtown. . . . I need a lot of sleep. . . . I remind you of who? . . . Never heard of her. . . . She's a dancer? A topless dancer or a dancer dancer? . . . Excuse me one second. . . . Sorry about that. . . . You were saying?”)

It was the act that followed that finally irked her—the way it always led down the same path, to the same ineluctable conclusion, prompted by the same stiff drinks, the same parted lips, the same loaded glances, the same false promises, the same pornographic drivel, the same leading questions. The same “Do you want me to fuck you?” And “I wanna fuck you so badly right now.” And “You know you want me to fuck you.” And “Lemme fuck you.” And “What are the chances you're gonna let me fuck you tonight?” And “I'm so fucking attracted to you.” And “You have such a great body.” And “You have such great tits.” And “You have such a great ass.” And “Did anyone ever tell you that you have a black girl's ass?” And “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like that actress? . . . that model? . . . that pickax murderer on death row?”

And “I really love making love to you.” And “I really love making love with you.” And “I really love the way your thighs make that triangle shape at the top.” And “Lemme pull the shades.” And “Lemme lock the door.” And “Your hands are so cold.” And “Your feet are like ice.” And “You're so incredibly hot.” And “D'you wanna touch it? . . . lick it? . . . kiss it? . . . suck it?” And “Can I put it in?” And “I promise I'll be careful.” And “I promise I'll pull out.” And “I'm clean.” And “I'm tested.” And “I'm sorry.” And “It's not you.” And “It's me.” And “It's nothing.” And “It's just that . . .” And “I guess I'm a little nervous.” And “Will you kiss it again?” And “Come here.” And “Don't move.” And “You're so wet . . . so tight . . . so unbelievably beautiful.”

And “Can you open your legs a little wider?” And “Will you put your arms around my back?” And “Would you mind squeezing my balls? . . . scratching my back? . . . sticking your finger up my asshole?” And “I can't believe you let me stick my finger up your asshole in the back of the cab on our very first date.” And “You're such a little whore.” And “You're such a little prude.” And “Can you lift up a little?” And “Can you scoot down a bit?” And “Can you move up an inch?” And “Will you say my name?” And “Will you say it again? . . . and again?” And “You can't get enough.” And “You're made of sex.” And “You fuck like a man.” And “You fuck with your whole body.” And “Will you sit on my cock?” And “Lemme sit on your face.” And “Can we do it doggie?” And “Come to the edge of the bed.”

And “Have you ever gotten fucked by two guys at once?” And “Do you think your sister would let me fuck her?” And “Have you and your sister ever gotten fucked by the same guy? . . . on the same night? . . . at the same time?” And “Do you want me to fuck your brains out is that what you want me to do you want me to fuck the shit out of you, you little nigger-loving Jew?” And “Use me.” And “Abuse me.” And “That's right.” And “Wait.” And “There's so much air in your pussy.” And “There's so much blood in your . . .” And “I thought you said you didn't have your period.” And “Can I fuck you up the ass?” And “Lemme fuck you up the ass.” And “Are you sure you don't want me to fuck you up the ass?” And “I promise I'll go slow.” And “I'll stop if it hurts.” And “Forget I ever mentioned it.” And “Baby, come here.” And “Baby, don't be upset with me.” And “I'm such a pig.” And “I'm such an asshole.” And “I'm such a dick—
aren't I
?”

And “Lemme touch you.” And “Does that feel good?” And “Does this feel good?” And “Did you come?” And “Can I come now?” And “I promise I'll be quick.” And “Can I come inside you?” And “Can I come on your face?” And “Baby, I'm coming.” And “Do you want to come again?” And “That was really amazing.” And “That was pretty intense.” And “Lemme get a towel.” And “Has anyone seen my cigarettes?” And “Where'd you say you were from?” And “Oh yeah?” And “Oh, really?” And “That's cool.” And “That's interesting because I grew up in Boston . . . Phoenix . . . Tallahassee . . . Just up the street, on Seventy-ninth and West End.” And “My dad moved out when I was six . . . eight . . . ten . . . twelve.” And “My mom remarried when I was seven . . . nine . . . eleven . . . thirteen.” And “I didn't have a lot of friends.” And “I watched a lot of TV.” And “I smoked a lot of pot.” And “I jerked off, like, eleven times a day.” And “Hey.” And “Come here.” And “Look at me.” And “Phoebe.” And “Baby.” And “Hey, you okay?”

Oh, she was okay, just tired, tired of trying to be the one you wanted,
the one you couldn't live without, the one you found yourself reaching out
an arm for as she teetered from crisis to crisis to crisis only to collapse in
your bed at the end of the day, a tortured sylph in black lace. Except she
never really was. And you never really did. Or maybe you did for one
night. The next night was another matter. It turned out the world was
filled with beautiful girls.

It turned out being beautiful wasn't nearly enough.

13. Nobody 5–8

OR “Overheard in Phoebe Fine's Head During Her Even Shorter-Lived Experiment with Celibacy”

THE SPOTS: THEY took Phoebe by surprise—ambushed her one night while she slept. She woke under siege, stippled like an impressionist painting, mottled like a bad apple. The bumps were everywhere, on her nose and her forehead, her cheeks and her chin. And the more she tried to defend herself against their advances, the angrier they became. Until that old joke from junior high school, “Your epidermis is showing,” had a certain truth to it. She felt unfit for public viewing. She walked with her eyes on the pavement. She stopped looking at men. Men stopped looking at her. She'd never been so lonely in her entire life. She wondered if she'd ever find love again.

Or were those bumps merely an excuse to be alone—for once?

For as long as Phoebe could remember, she'd had a savior figure hovering in the background—a mommy or a daddy, a boyfriend or a best friend. Now she wondered if the getaway car wasn't better driven by herself. Never mind the fact that she'd never actually learned to drive. Being lonely breeds a certain recalcitrance among its practitioners, a certain indifference to negotiation. Indeed, the lonely tend to revel in their isolation. For Phoebe, even the idea of documentary film had come to seem intrusive. Maybe the camera wasn't turned on herself, but it was still a camera. And she'd grown weary of looking—not just at herself.

And so, with Emily's help, she gained employment at the Third World Knowledge Initiative, a nonprofit research foundation, where she coordinated a fellowship program for African agriculturists. Which is to say, she purchased plane tickets and wired money and sent official-sounding letters to a bunch of guys she never met with funny names like Elvis Ngale Ngale. It wasn't always easy. There was the Sudanese fertilizer expert who was discovered to be spending all his fellowship money on pornography. Even worse, he ran a bath in the historic home in which he was being housed at the University of Virginia, then went out for Chinese food, whereupon the ceiling under the bathroom collapsed. But it was steady work, didn't pay badly, and came with dental insurance. And it gave Phoebe a place to go every morning, a place to lose herself. And she grew to love her little routines—the oat-bran muffin she consumed every morning at her desk. In its own crumby way, that muffin was sublime.

And sometimes it was enough just to be away from Crystal— clueless, incorrigible Crystal Wangert, Phoebe's aspiring-actress apartment mate, who thought she was really gorgeous because all these guys were in love with her at the same time. Phoebe had found her through the classifieds. Objectively speaking, she wasn't a bad apartment mate. She was pretty neat. She cleaned her dishes. She kept her hair off the soap. But she'd waltz into Phoebe's glorified broom closet without knocking and sigh and simper and flip her hair and shake her head and sigh some more before declaring, “I just don't know what to do. I mean, I like both of them. I mean, who do
you
think is cuter—Jeff or Steve?” as if she'd been handed the job of dividing up Europe—when she was really only deciding whom to fuck.

Phoebe would try to be nice. She'd say, “Who cares who I think is cuter, Crystal? Who do
you
think is cuter?”

“I mean, they're both really cute!” Crystal would groan. “That's the problem.”

“I'm sure you'll figure it out.” Phoebe would smile benevolently even though she was hating her inside—hating Crystal for having referred to her (Phoebe's) body type as “voluptuous” one day when they were trying on each other's clothes. Here Crystal was a gangly five feet ten inches tall—had done some modeling in her hometown in central Florida—and Phoebe had gained a few pounds since college. But she was hardly voluptuous. She still wore a size 6. She couldn't get that comment out of her mind.

She couldn't stop feeling like a tragic figure in her own life.

She listened to Puccini and wrote bad poetry of a self-aggrandizing sort. She ate dry cereal for dinner and read dry magazines on current events. She was back to sleeping with her stuffed basset hound, Walter. She'd had him since she was eight. She'd never cared much for dolls. She'd always preferred scale models.

Walter filled the empty space between her chest and chin.

She tried masturbating. It took too long. Afterward, she always felt desperate.

She tried going to parties; she tried being the belle of the ball. Afterward, she'd stare at her ruined makeup in the mirror over the sink—at the lipstick prints on her cheeks, the eyeliner that no longer lined her eyes, the cover-up that no longer covered much of anything—and wonder if she'd turned a corner that couldn't be turned back.

And she'd think she had.

She went on a few first dates.

There was the dermatologist who offered her dermabrasion free of charge. (She told him, “No thank you.”)

There was Jacob the Earnest Young Attorney, who spent all of dinner recounting the “fascinating” stories he'd read in that morning's
New York Times:
“According to an article I read on A13, the Bulgarian Mafia is so powerful they now control the country's waterworks. However, I read another article in last Sunday's ‘Week in Review' suggesting that waterworks were just the half of it. It turns out they control the natural gas, as well.”

There was Larry the Gourmet Pasta Distributor, who, halfway through his fusilli, laid down his fork, coughed performatively, and inquired, with obvious irritation, “Sooooooo— what's with this, like, ennui thing you're sportin'?”

There was Carlos the Taxi Driver who Really Wanted to Direct. It was true that English was his second language and that he'd only lived in this country for three years. But that he didn't use contractions drove Phoebe insane. He said, “I will come over now,” instead of “I'll come over now,” and then he did. And it wasn't fun at all.

So when he called a few days later to see about a second date, Phoebe told him, “I am really sorry, Carlos, but I just do not think we are a match.”

“I am very disappointed,” Carlos replied.

“I do not know what to say . . .”

“Do not say anything,” he said. “I will hang up now.”

And he did. And that was that.

It wasn't so bad being alone.

It got kind of lonely after a while.