Take Two

It Sounded So Much Better In My Head

I’m horizontal on my sofa, head propped on a pillow and legs tucked under a throw. The Phillies are playing the Dodgers and the commentator’s analyzing the data flashing across the bottom of the screen. A glass of red wine sits on the coffee table. A tattoo of my lips, Laura Mercier Peony, stains the rim of the glass. Just beyond is a bowl of fresh made popcorn. My apartment smells like a movie theater.

“What do you want now?” I ask with feigned anger when I answer the phone.

“Love you too,” Leslie says.

I mute the television, roll onto my back, listen to her talk.

“Hey, I’ve been thinking, when I’m making more money, I want to take in a foster child,” I randomly blurt out.

Leslie laughs. I’m quiet. “Oh my God, you’re serious?” She’s clearing her throat, swallowing down her giggles.

“Yeah. Kids don’t make the choice to be abandoned. And once they get older, they’re all but discarded. It’s shitty.”

“Wow, that’s admirable. Why don’t you become a Big Sister in the meantime?”

“Oh hell no! That’s too much of a commitment.”



Degrees of Class, Or Lack Thereof

A bellman insists on golf-carting me to my room, but I politely decline the offer. My legs, stiff from the flight, can use the stroll. Except I regret my decision when I see I have to climb two flights of stairs, suitcase and ten-pound purse in tow. It’s arid Arizona but I’m sweating when I reach the landing. Once in the room, I tend to pressing issues like peeing, hanging my dress, setting up my iPod, opening the sliding glass doors to let fresh air fill my room.

“Hey!” I say when I answer my phone, flopping down diagonal across the bed.

“I’d like to order ten Aztec print ponchos,” Leslie requests.

“Already bought you twelve.” I sit up, cross my legs, reach for the sealed bag of trail mix I brought with.”

“Cool. I can flip them for a profit. All the rage with the Buckhead ladies. So it’s nice?”

“I mean, the topography’s rather unappealing. It’s so flat, I feel like I have a bird’s eye view of the entire state. And I’m 5'4". Plus everything is turd brown. This is probably the only region where I’d thrive as a landscape designer. It’s like dead plants are chic out here.”

“How’s the room?”

“Nice. Though I’m certain the interior decorator was color blind. I can’t decorate for shit but even I know a moss green rug has no business being paired with pink and orange armchairs. Aztec print, of course. And then there’s the issue of red throw pillows and a striped ---”

“Paige?” Leslie breaks the silence.

“My Trader Joe’s trail mix just exploded all over the place.” I’m crawling across the bed, plucking pistachios and pumpkin seeds off the crisp white, 1000-thread count duvet.

“Well done.”

“Listen, if you think I’m going to spend seven dollars for a handful of stale cashews, you’ve got another thing coming to you. Which reminds me,” I say before popping some stray craisins in my mouth. “I need to get out and find some bottled water that doesn’t cost ten dollars.”

“That’s my girl! So you already pocketed the complimentary toiletries?”

“God no. That’s so tacky.”

Happy Ending

"So listen, the instructor will call you out during class. Like if your position is wrong, she'll say something," Maya noted as she shifted the car into reverse.

"Fantastic," I said as I clipped my seat belt.

"Oh, and your legs will probably shake when you do the exercises. It'll feel like they're going to give out."

"Wow, it's like law school and a Chinese prison got it on and Bar Method is the bastard child."

In the lobby of the gym, women collected, lots of women. And from the way they walked, the way they unlaced their sneakers, I could sense their Type A tendencies. They stood straight, had perfectly pinched ponytails. These are the women that lead me to drink. I glanced down at my half-filled bottle of Dasani and hoped for the best.

The music started. The class began.

"You're new. What's your name?" The instructor stood there, hands on hips.

"No thank you," I politely responded as I reached for a 2lb weight.

"No, what's your name?" She pressed, like she was interrogating a murder suspect.

"Right, no thank you."

"Paige," Maya offered with a giggle.

"Dead," I muttered beneath my breath.

We started with quick arm pulses, tensing and flexing the tricep. Then we moved onto push-ups, ballet squatty things, and leg extensions. Sometimes my muscles ached, my joints burned, and I dropped out of the pose and took a break.

"Your leg should be higher, Paige," the instructor said from across the room. "Excellent form, Maya."

"Fuck you," I grunted.

"Now everyone grab a mat."

Lying on my back, crunching my abs and flapping my hands, I started counting the slats in the blinds. Then I thought about how to better develop a character in a story I'm writing. It wasn't until my head was finally off someplace else that I felt at ease. My form was all wrong and I know this because nothing hurt as I moved. But by this time, the instructor had given up on me, galloping off to another pupil to adjust the reach of her arms.

"So what'd you think?" Maya asked as we walked into her neighborhood cupcake boutique.

"I think I like ending a workout with cake. I also think I'm not cut out for a class where you have to pay attention to exercising. I want to go in there, bust it out to blaring Beastie Boys and be ignorant to my reality."

The baker pulled a square plate from the case, presented mini-cupcakes and offered samples. I popped one in my mouth. "I mean listen, if I can't flip off the instructor, what's the point of working out? That whole zen, inner-peace shit is lost on me. Which is exactly why I hate yoga and running." I paused, savored the buttery flavor in my mouth. Maya glanced over, witnessed my expression.

"Okay, you just redeemed yourself," I said as I plucked another mini-cupcake off the plate.

Normal

My dad’s been sick for so long, it’s normal. I can’t recall how he walked before he became dependent on a cane, reliant on a walker. Though the sound of his voice hasn’t changed, I don’t remember how he spoke before the slurring and stuttering. Some days I think he sounds clearer. The words are more enunciated. Other days he has to repeat a himself three times before I can figure it out.

“You’re going to feeble hair play?” I guess.

He shakes his head, smiles, says it again.

“You’re going to Frisbee air pee. Wait, what the fuck is ‘Frisbee air pee’ and should I be concerned that you’re going there?”

He laughs, licks his lips and says it one more time. This time the movement of his mouth is deliberate, exaggerated.

“Ohhhhhhhhhh, you’re going to physical therapy. Got it. Have fun,” I say as I duck out of his office and return to my desk.

It’s normal that my dad can’t partake in conversations at loud restaurants, his vocal cords too tight for him to project his voice. He’ll still chime in. People rest their utensils on the edges of their plates. They lean closer. Some understand him, respond. The rest nod and smile.

It’s normal that my dad can’t tie his laces or button the cuff of his shirt. It’s normal that he can’t pick up something he’s dropped, the bending over process dangerously compromising his balance. It’s normal that he can’t carry a glass, regardless of it being filled with liquid. My dad lives in a world with different rules.

“So last night we went out with the Gilberts. Remember how he had been in the hospital and no one was sure what was wrong? Well, it turns he had a stroke,” my mom informs me as she opens a menu.

“That’s a shame,” I say, my tone flat.

It isn’t that I don’t care. Family friends since I was a tot, I don’t want to hear that he’s not doing well. That sometimes he loses his balance and falls. He’s forgetful. Memories are blurry, words are hard to find.

“It’s sad seeing him this way,” my mom continues.

And I’m sure it is. But it rolls right off me. I dismiss that emotion the same way I wave off a pesky mosquito or pluck a stray piece of lint from my black crepe skirt.

“Isn’t it sad, PJ?” I look up, see my mom waiting for an answer.

“Sure. But you know what, he lived a damn good life the last thirty-five years, skiing in the winter, swimming in the summer,” I explain, my voice calm and quiet.

She gets what I’m saying. She knows I’m not being bitter or keeping score. My mom nods her head, purses her lips, follows the movement of the maitre d’ as he seats a party across the room.

“Want share some dumplings?” I ask as I scan the menu.

“Fried or steamed?”

And like that, everything is back to normal.

Bartender, What Can You Do With These Lemons?

"So how was your date with Saddam?" Leslie asked when I answered the phone, her car idling in the carpool line.

"His name is Sandeep," I corrected.

"Whatever."

"Sure, whatever. One's Iraqi and killed a lot of people and the other is Indian and socially retarded. I can see how you'd get the two confused."

"Are you going to tell me or not?"

So I started sharing the details, telling her about the other girls, and the two boys that showed up shortly thereafter. That sometimes I was part of the conversation and other times I was on the periphery, seated on the edge with my date's back facing my front. Though he repeatedly apologized for their presence, claiming it was a coincidence, an accident, I eventually tired of the circumstances. That's when I swiveled in the opposite direction and chatted up the guy to my right.

"They have the best burger in town," he claimed.

"No way. Rouge? That's the best burger in town," I countered.

"Hey aren't you with that group?"

"I think I'm on a date with one of them but I'm not sure," I explained with a wave of the hand.

That's when a server placed a burger and fries down on the bar. I eyed the food, inhaled the smells. With utensils in hand, the guy cut a triangle of burger and pointed to it, "Yours."

"You're adorable. But I can't. I don't even know you."

"Yes, you can. You will," he insisted as he dragged an empty bread plate closer. "And I'm Matt."

As I bit into my share of his burger, my mouth watering from the savory Gruyere and juicy beef, my date tapped my shoulder to announce his clan was leaving. That after three rounds of drinks stretched across two hours of time, they were heading up the street for dinner. I nodded farewell and returned my attention to the last bite of burger in my hand.

"I'll be right back," my date said, kissing me on the cheek before hopping off his stool and wandering toward the bathroom.

"Oh my God, you are on a date! I'm such an ass. I can't believe I just hit on you while you were on a date! I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," I said, dabbing my fingers on a cocktail napkin before reaching into my wallet and pulling out a card. "You made a rather lame night fun. So much so, I think we should do it again."

He gazed down, studied my card held between his thumb and forefinger. He tilted it to catch the light. "Paige, nice name," he said as he tucked it in his pocket. Then he looked up, smiled and wished me a good night.