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He takes a deep breath and exhales. “That I’m going to Co
The words sting like a million bees.
“But I really need to see you,” I plead.
“I know, I know. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”
The anger, the disappointment, the hurt – are too much for me, and I slam down the phone. It’s the first time I’ve ever hung up on Michael, and I feel absolutely terrible.
Like I could die.
And then I notice something – the hives, the burning odor, and the music are gone.
What’s up with that?
Chapter 36
THE ELEVATOR RIDE DOWN to the lobby feels as though it takes an eternity. I’m doing everything I can to keep my emotions in check.
I plead with myself, Think calm thoughts! Think good thoughts if that’s possible.
Dispensing with visions of babbling brooks and sleeping babies, I go straight to what always works. One after the other, I conjure up my favorite photographs.
The nudes of Edward Weston.
Avedon’s portrait of Truman Capote flashing his belly button.
And, of course, A
It’s always about people with me, flesh and bone. I can appreciate Galen Rowell and Ansel Adams, but mountains and other landscapes never pack the same punch for me as a living, breathing person.
The mental slide show works, and I begin to settle down. That is, until I step off the elevator and spot my neighbor Mrs. Rosencrantz. Standing by her mailbox in an orange-and-blue circa 1973 muumuu, she looks up from a catalogue and shoots this incredibly evil sneer my way. What is her problem?
Clearly it’s me.
I try to ignore her as I head for the door, but I can feel her eyes boring into me from behind those cheap large-rimmed glasses she wears. Her stare is relentless, she won’t give it a rest; and as much as I want to keep walking out to the street, I can’t help making a little detour. Right up into her face.
Whipping out my camera, I aim the lens an inch away from her pointy nose.
“Take a picture, you old bag, it lasts longer!” I yell.
Click.
I spin around, not waiting for her angry reaction. Everyone else in the lobby is now staring at me, but I say nothing more. I aim for the exit and look straight ahead.
What’s come over you, Kristin?
This is so unlike me. I simply don’t do things like this, yelling at people, getting in their faces.
It’s scary.
And yet, scarier still is that I enjoyed it.
With everything happening lately, I’m acting more and more on impulse – thinking, saying, and doing things I normally don’t. Those little red flags, the ones that are supposed to pop up in my brain, have mysteriously disappeared.
“Hey, watch where you’re going, lady!”
It takes me a second to realize that the grunge-looking guy playing guitar for tips on the corner is talking to me. I nearly plowed right into him.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
I’m already a block from my building, head down and oblivious to everything and everyone. The guy’s right; I need to watch where I’m going. Of course, that raises a good question. Wheream I going? I stand still for a moment, thinking of what might have been. My day with Michael, the picnic he mentioned. We’d talk, hold each other, drink some wine… and I’d feel so much better.
Instead, I feel as if my day is ruined before it even started. The dream, the burning smell, the rash…
Then, out of nowhere, I have an idea.
Something a little, well, crazy.
Very unlike me. At least the way I was until a few days ago.
“Hey, lady, you mind moving along? You’re hurting business.”
I turn to the stringy-haired guy plucking away on his guitar, every other chord off-key. His ragged guitar case lies open at his feet, and I glance at the torn black velvet lining sprinkled with spare change. And I do mean spare. A quarter or two is the mother lode for this troubadour.
“I’m serious, lady,” he barks. “Beat it! Get out of here!”
Before I know it, I’m right in his face too. “Listen, you sorry-assed Kurt Cobain wa
He’s speechless, songless too, and I’m already halfway down the block.
I’ve got somewhere to go after all.
Chapter 37
WHEN I LEFT BOSTON and traded the Red Sox for the Yankees, I brought three things with me to Manhattan. A suitcase. A boyfriend.
And Bob.
There are undoubtedly far more inspired nicknames for a pickup truck than Bob, but I’ve always liked the simplicity of it. Besides, we’re talking about a 1980 Ford F-100 with more than 180,000 miles on it. Even the rust has rust. A fancy name just wouldn’t feel right.
I hurry over to First Avenue, where I park Bob at an outdoor lot. The indoor garages can cost more than some apartments here – like mine, for instance. Still, I don’t get off cheap. Three hundred and fifty bucks a month, to be exact. That makes broken-down Bob, with his missing hubcaps and leaky engine, my greatest luxury in this city. Crazy, huh?
But today he’s worth every single pe
The crosstown traffic is its usual bear, and I’m worrying that I might be late. When a Macy’s delivery truck ahead of me doesn’t move the nanosecond a light turns green, I obnoxiously bang on my horn. It doesn’t take much to bring out my i
Approaching the building, I know I can’t park too close. Bob doesn’t exactly blend in.
After circling the block a couple of times, I luck out with a spot that’s a safe distance from the entrance. I reach for my cell and dial the apartment, hitting *67 first to block the caller ID.
Michael answers.
Good, they haven’t left yet.
For the second time this morning, I hang up on him. Then I adjust my sunglasses, sink down in Bob’s front seat, and get busy.
Waiting.
Soon I see Michael emerge from the building. I immediately want to rush out and go to him, kick his shins, and call him a nasty name. Then I’ll kiss him so hard he can barely breathe. We’ll escape to the nearest alley and have amazing, passionate makeup sex – no, wait, better yet, we’ll fuck, like rabbits, like minks, or like whatever other furry creatures top the most-horny list.
“Have a nice day with your in-laws!” I’ll say when we’re done.
Instead, I stay right here with Bob, watching.
Michael disappears around the corner. A few minutes later, he returns with the “family car,” a shiny black Mercedes, the G-class.
Almost on cue, Penley, Dakota, and Sean come bounding out to the sidewalk while Louis, sweating in his doorman uniform, brings up the rear with the kids’ knapsacks and an overstuffed beach bag.
Michael steps out and straps Sean into his booster seat while Dakota climbs in on her own. Penley meanwhile opens a compact and applies some lipstick, blindly gesturing to Louis to load everything in the back of the wagon.
It should be me getting in that car, not Penley. That’s all I can think as I stare at them. I should be the fourth in that particular foursome.
They may look like the picture-perfect family – all smiles as they pull away from the curb, heading for “the country” – but I know better.
Pictures lie.