other.
And so, I stayed where I was. I ate my sandwich. He drank his beers. He talked, and talked, and talked, a monologue of Zs and Ks. I smiled. I nodded. He grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard.
When he left, it was dark outside. The day was over. My true love, whoever he was, hadn’t shown up. For some reason, I was happy anyway.
THE NEXT DAY, THE HANDYMAN appeared at my apartment and wired me a buzzer that turned out to be louder than the entire neighborhood combined. Its bleat registered equivalent to my teenage idiotic episodes of leaning against the speakers at grunge-era rock shows.
“So you always know when someone’s coming,” said the Handyman. I protested that the buzzer was likely to make me have a heart attack.
“Nobody wants to be safe,” he grumbled.
“Obviously not,” I said. “I just want to be happy.” I thought I was being lighthearted. The Handyman disagreed.
“Fuck it,” he said. “Fuck everyone.” His eyes blazed.
The disadvantage of addicts, recovering and otherwise: mood swings. The Handyman stormed out of the apartment. A moment later, my buzzer screamed. And again. He rang it for an hour. Finally, I went outside to give him a piece of my mind.
“What are you doing?”
“You weren’t supposed to answer that, mamita,” he said. He was sitting on my stoop, looking calm and dejected. “I’m a crazy motherfucker, but you’re one stupid girl.”
“Probably true,” I agreed. “Don’t do that again, or I’ll call the police.”
“No charge for the buzzer. It’ll keep you safe from people like me, and shit, mami, you look like you need it. You’re too young for me, mamita, young and dumb, just like I was when I was in Montana.”
Carmela materialized, suitcase in hand, followed by a troupe of three neighborhood mutts, and a lagging older woman in worn-down red stilettos.
“You were late, Daddy,” she said, reprovingly. The old lady said something pissed off in Polish. The Handyman replied, also in Polish. She left, grumbling.
“Daddy’s got problems,” said Carmela, looking at me solemnly. “But I love him.”
There was no one in my life that I could say that about. Besides myself, that is. I envied Carmela her capacity for the unconditional. Part of me wanted to be like her, to be able to accept everyone I met. To forgive them their trespasses, their buzzer ringings, their vacuuming. Obviously, I wasn’t there yet. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be.
“See you,” I said to the Handyman.
“Next time something breaks, baby,” he replied.
He swung Carmela up, and she scrambled onto his shoulders like a monkey. I watched them as they walked into the sunset, their two bodies becoming a silhouette of something bigger than both of them.
Zak sat down next to me with a bottle of beer in hand.
“Brittany?” I asked.
“Catastrophe,” he said. “Debacle, disaster, horror, nightmare. You?”
“How about I sing a little bit of ‘Handyman’ for you? I fix broken hearts …”
“No. You know how I feel about easy listening.”
“He was as broken as me, is the bottom line.”
“That’d be life, yes,” said Zak. “And the things that compensate for emotional instability aren’t constant, either, that’s the problem.”
“What would those things be?”
“Things that eventually sag,” he said, sadly.
I put my head on Zak’s shoulder as the sun went down. Maybe love was like Godot. You spent the whole play talking about it, but it never actually made it onstage. You waited anyway. Of course you did.
“Wanna go play video games?” asked Zak.
“Desperately,” I said.
And so, in lieu of love, we went out into the night to kill a few monsters.
Jack the Stripper
In Which Our Heroine Meets a Wuss in Creep’s Clothing…
THE NEXT FEW WEEKS WERE spent in a state of controlled chaos. I went out with guys I met on the subway, guys I met in the bookstore, guys I met in line for stupidly expensive espresso. Varying degrees of dates. Mostly
And so, I stayed where I was. I ate my sandwich. He drank his beers. He talked, and talked, and talked, a monologue of Zs and Ks. I smiled. I nodded. He grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard.
When he left, it was dark outside. The day was over. My true love, whoever he was, hadn’t shown up. For some reason, I was happy anyway.
THE NEXT DAY, THE HANDYMAN appeared at my apartment and wired me a buzzer that turned out to be louder than the entire neighborhood combined. Its bleat registered equivalent to my teenage idiotic episodes of leaning against the speakers at grunge-era rock shows.
“So you always know when someone’s coming,” said the Handyman. I protested that the buzzer was likely to make me have a heart attack.
“Nobody wants to be safe,” he grumbled.
“Obviously not,” I said. “I just want to be happy.” I thought I was being lighthearted. The Handyman disagreed.
“Fuck it,” he said. “Fuck everyone.” His eyes blazed.
The disadvantage of addicts, recovering and otherwise: mood swings. The Handyman stormed out of the apartment. A moment later, my buzzer screamed. And again. He rang it for an hour. Finally, I went outside to give him a piece of my mind.
“What are you doing?”
“You weren’t supposed to answer that, mamita,” he said. He was sitting on my stoop, looking calm and dejected. “I’m a crazy motherfucker, but you’re one stupid girl.”
“Probably true,” I agreed. “Don’t do that again, or I’ll call the police.”
“No charge for the buzzer. It’ll keep you safe from people like me, and shit, mami, you look like you need it. You’re too young for me, mamita, young and dumb, just like I was when I was in Montana.”
Carmela materialized, suitcase in hand, followed by a troupe of three neighborhood mutts, and a lagging older woman in worn-down red stilettos.
“You were late, Daddy,” she said, reprovingly. The old lady said something pissed off in Polish. The Handyman replied, also in Polish. She left, grumbling.
“Daddy’s got problems,” said Carmela, looking at me solemnly. “But I love him.”
There was no one in my life that I could say that about. Besides myself, that is. I envied Carmela her capacity for the unconditional. Part of me wanted to be like her, to be able to accept everyone I met. To forgive them their trespasses, their buzzer ringings, their vacuuming. Obviously, I wasn’t there yet. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be.
“See you,” I said to the Handyman.
“Next time something breaks, baby,” he replied.
He swung Carmela up, and she scrambled onto his shoulders like a monkey. I watched them as they walked into the sunset, their two bodies becoming a silhouette of something bigger than both of them.
Zak sat down next to me with a bottle of beer in hand.
“Brittany?” I asked.
“Catastrophe,” he said. “Debacle, disaster, horror, nightmare. You?”
“How about I sing a little bit of ‘Handyman’ for you? I fix broken hearts …”
“No. You know how I feel about easy listening.”
“He was as broken as me, is the bottom line.”
“That’d be life, yes,” said Zak. “And the things that compensate for emotional instability aren’t constant, either, that’s the problem.”
“What would those things be?”
“Things that eventually sag,” he said, sadly.
I put my head on Zak’s shoulder as the sun went down. Maybe love was like Godot. You spent the whole play talking about it, but it never actually made it onstage. You waited anyway. Of course you did.
“Wanna go play video games?” asked Zak.
“Desperately,” I said.
And so, in lieu of love, we went out into the night to kill a few monsters.
Jack the Stripper
In Which Our Heroine Meets a Wuss in Creep’s Clothing…
THE NEXT FEW WEEKS WERE spent in a state of controlled chaos. I went out with guys I met on the subway, guys I met in the bookstore, guys I met in line for stupidly expensive espresso. Varying degrees of dates. Mostly
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