Twisted City

"I thought I heard your voice," she said. "What up, yo?"

Rebecca was originally from Duncanville, Texas, then she lived in L.A. for several years before moving to New York. She had a faint Texas accent and spoke in Southern Californian, slash Manhattan, slash twenty-something up speak making the ends of most of her sentences sound like questions. She also used a lot of pseudo hip-hop slang, which most of the time sounded forced and stupid a white girl from down south trying too hard to fit in in the big city. I used to think her style of speaking was cute; now, like a lot of other things about her, it just a

But, I had to admit, she looked especially hot tonight in skintight jeans, a pink halter top, and matching pink sandals. I had never seen the sandals before and I realized why my Visa card had a $124 charge on it from a purchase made this afternoon at Wheels of London, a shoe store on Eighth Street.

She came over and kissed me on the lips, slipping her studded-tongue into my mouth for a second or two. She tasted like a bong hit.

Then she pulled back and said, "How was your day, cutie?"

"All right," I said.

"The business writer was out lettin' his hair down tonight," Ray said.

Rebecca looked at me with an intrigued smile. "Are you drunk?"

"No, I just had a couple beers with the CEO I was interviewing."

"Oh, how did that go?"

"It went okay," I said. "I mean, I think I got all the information I need for my article."

"Good, I'm so happy for you," she said.

"So what's this about a party tonight?" I asked.

"Oh, it was kind of a last-minute thing. Rachel told me about it this afternoon. Her manager's friend is this, like, famous clothing designer or something? Anyway, he's having this big party at this new club in Soho tonight it should be slammin'. Wa

I knew she didn't really want me to go if she did I wouldn't have had to basically invite myself but I wouldn't" ve gone if she begged me.

When Rebecca and I first met and I was excited about dating her, I used to go out clubbing and bar hopping with her and her friends all the time. It was fun the first couple of times dressing up like an MTV groupie in FUBU jerseys, Snoop Dogg jeans, and other clothes Rebecca bought for me. But after a while I started feeling ridiculous the old guy in his mid-thirties out with a bunch of kids in their early twenties and Rebecca started going out without me.

"I'd love to," I said, "but I have a deadline for tomorrow afternoon."

"Blow it off," Rebecca said, acting disappointed.

"Sorry, can't," I said.

"Well, I'm go

"After you, baby," Ray said, smiling widely as he put his arm around her waist.

As Rebecca was leaving the kitchen, I said, "By the way, your credit cards won't work tonight."

Rebecca stopped and turned around, suddenly panicked. "Why not?"

"I got pick pocketed "You did?" she said, sounding more concerned about her credit cards than the fact that I had been robbed.

"Yeah, it must've happened in an elevator or something," I said. "I thought I felt something, but when I realized what had happened it was too late my wallet was gone."

"That sucks," Rebecca said, still probably thinking about her credit cards. "Did you call the police?"

"For what?"

"I don't know. Just to report it?"

"They won't do anything."

"You sure?"

"He's right," Ray said. "The police won't do shit about a wallet."

"So why won't my credit cards work?" she asked.

"Well, I had to close the accounts, didn't I?" I said.

"I guess that was smart," she said. "You think you can, like, lend me some money tonight?"

Lend, I thought. That was a good one.

"The only money I have is in the dresser in the bedroom," I said. "I can't get any more until I open my bank accounts tomorrow."

Rebecca pouted. I wanted to say, "Too bad," but I guess if I had the ability to turn her down I wouldn't have let her have access to my money and credit cards in the first place.

"How much do you need?" I asked weakly.

"How much do you have?" she asked.

"I don't know. Maybe twenty bucks."

"That's if?"

"Sorry."

It felt good to put my foot down with Rebecca for once, but of course in this case it helped that I had no choice.

"Hey, I know," Rebecca said, brightening. "You keep your Discover card in the top drawer of your dresser? So that card must still work, right?"

I'd forgotten about the Discover card. I rarely used it, but Rebecca had one in her name too.

"Yeah, it works," I said.

"Slammin'!" Rebecca said. She started out of the kitchen with Ray, then turned back to me and said, "Hey, you sure you don't want to come out with us?"

"Next time," I said.

"I shouldn't be home too late," Rebecca said. "Two or three. I have my cell if you need me."

"You mean my cell," I said.

"What?" she asked, confused.

"Have a great time," I said, smiling.

When Rebecca and Ray were gone I scavenged the fridge, eating some leftover burrito from the other night and a yogurt, and then I went to the alcove in the living room and booted up my computer. The Windows wallpaper came on a picture of my sister Barbara and me, taken at Syracuse. She was a senior and I was a sophomore and we were in front of my dorm me in jeans and an Orangemen basketball jersey and her in a Lands' End sweater, a knapsack over one shoulder. She looked good in the picture, but it didn't really do her justice. She had pale skin, but the picture made it ruddier, especially around her cheeks, and she must've been having a bad hair day, because her hair looked much frizzier than it really was. I tried to remember who had taken the picture maybe Aunt Helen or a friend of Barbara's then I became distracted by the scent of Glow by J. Lo that Rebecca had left in her wake.

I opened a file in Word and worked on my article for a while, but I couldn't concentrate, thinking about the last time I saw Barbara, at Sloan-Kettering.

"You can't even look at me anymore," she said. "I disgust you."

She looked so awful half-bald from the chemo, her skin ghostly gray. It was hard to believe the tumor in her brain had been discovered only three weeks earlier.

"What're you talking about?" I said. "That's crazy."

"See? You can't even look at me right now."

I turned toward her, realizing she was crying.

"Come on, stop it," I said, getting up to find her a tissue.

"Get the hell out of here!" she screamed. "Just go!"

"Calm down, I didn't mean»

"I hate you, you son of a bitch! Just get the fuck out of here!"

I started working again, writing a line I'd insert somewhere in the story about how Byron Technologies would likely have to seek equity financing later in the year, but I couldn't focus, remembering the awful, hollow sounds the shovelfuls of dirt made against Barbara's coffin. I had been in shock during the entire funeral, unable to cry or show any emotion, and for weeks afterward I remained in a zombie like state, unwilling to accept the fact that she was dead. I stopped showing up for my job as a technology reporter at the Wall Street Journal, without giving any explanation. Eventually the paper's perso