Cupcake

by Rachel Cohn

  "So how's it gonna be this time?" he asked me before I left. We stood against the ancient Geo Metro car I'd driven up north that used to be mine and that my parents still hadn't given away. Shrimp pressed against me, and I held him tight, rocking, kissing his neck and running my fingers through his hair. I didn't want to stop touching him. Ever. I momentarily considered pitching Shrimp on

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  the idea that we get a reverse Siamese twin operation that could join us together forever, instead of separate us back into two independent beings.

  "No clean break," I whispered in his ear.

  "Then what break?" he whispered back.

  Last time, we made the right choice, but executed it the wrong way. This time around, we couldn't make that same mistake. I said, "No break at all. Cuz there is like technology around now that makes it possible for us to see and talk to each other every day even if we're on opposite sides of the world. We're gonna make that technology our bitch."

  "Bitchin'," Shrimp murmured. Then, in response to the fog setting in overhead and chilling the air, sending goose bumps across our arms, he added, "Burr-ito."

  "Enchilada and tamale," I answered.

  "Tostada and guacamole."

  "Me amo Shrimp."

  "My name's 'Camarón' en español."

  "My name's still Cyd Charisse in other languages, I believe."

  "Just promise not to call me Phil ever again?"

  "Promise. I still amo Camarón"

  "Ditto."

  I could only break my body apart from his after we shared a vow that we were not breaking up at all, but rather diverting to a

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  temporary holding pattern, spiritually together but geographically apart. We promised a proper airport good-bye a few days later when I returned to Manhattan, complete with longing kisses and tears, and plans to reunite in New York after Shrimp's time in Nepal. Promises had other plans in mind.

  My attempt to extract a Don't Die promise from Sugar Pie was requested of the wrong person. When I returned to San Francisco from seeing Shrimp, a message waited for me from Danny. I needed to return home to New York immediately.

  Max had moved on to the big commune in the sky. He died of a heart attack the night after I arrived in San Francisco. A lifestyle of junk food, smoking, and not visiting the doctor regularly since his partner's death, had finally caught up with him.

  Sid-dad didn't want me to be alone after I'd lost a friend--the first friend I've ever lost to death. He offered to accompany me back to New York. I told Sid-dad, "I'll be okay, you don't have to come, I have Danny." He said, "You need your father." I said, "You're right. Thank you."

  As our plane traveled back east, Sid-dad snoozed next to me and I rested my head against his arm. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry because maybe Max's timing was his sick way of giving me a last gift: grief for him distracted the heartache I otherwise would have felt for finding myself on an eastbound plane, again, after having let Shrimp go, again. Our young friendship--the one

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  I shared with Max--had been cut too short. Max and I had never gotten around to watching his Ann Miller movie collection together, he'd never seen my barista mastery skills, owing to his desire to never leave his apartment unless absolutely necessary, and I'd yet to see Max in action when he crank-called his upstairs neighbors and played obscene noises from his laptop.

  Even if Max was a grouch, I decided that he'd see it as no dishonor to his memory if I celebrated the bright side of his passing. Max lived twenty years essentially alone in his apartment after his partner died, and he was eager to ride out eternity with his true love. So when I think of Max, I will picture him up in heaven, reunited with Tony and their friends, building new walls of not-sadness. They're having garden parties with Ava Gardner and Lana Turner, drinking proper British tea, eating beets from a can, ramen noodles, and lots and lots of cupcakes. They're learning the real answers to the universe's crucial mysteries: Who was driving the car that killed Grace Kelly--Princess Grace or Princess Stephanie? How did Marilyn Monroe really die--and why? Did Sid Vicious off Nancy Spungen at the Chelsea Hotel--or did the drug dealer who visited them that night really do it? Liberace ... WHY?

  Yvette Mimieux greeted me when Sid-dad and I arrived home at Max's to retrieve her. She miaule 'd, So maybe you've lost a friend and your true love has flown the coop once again, but you've gained a movie star namesake sister. You promised.

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  ***

  FORTY-SEVEN

  A cappuccino bought me my life.

  The espresso pull tasted too watery, and the newbie barista still can't get a good head of foam on milk--skim or whole--so I didn't bother actually paying for the drink. Instead I stuffed a dollar tip down the baristas shirt, for effort. He's here, he's trying. He's Johnny Mold, our first employee, who hopefully won't consider my dollar-down-the-shirt tip as grounds for a future sexual harassment lawsuit.

  Johnny said, "Toon vor es," to my tippage.

  Myself may also be called Cupcake, Chaos, Little Hellion, CC, Ceece, Dollface, etc. (but I'm not yet called "Etc."--to my knowledge), but even in Armenian I didn't think I cared to be called an ass. Lisbeth beat me to my own defense. "Toon esh es," she responded to Johnny. She then handed him her Armenian phrase

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  book to go along with her piece of advice. "Maybe you could learn some words that don't involve offending someone?" At the rate their friendship has ignited since Aaron's birthday party, Johnny the Armenian jackass, and not Frank, will be accompanying Lisbeth to Armenia to adopt a baby next month.

  Lisbeth's going to be a mom! More important, I'm going to be an aunt!

  Johnny Mold may have lost his grandpa, but like Lisbeth, he's gained a family. He said, "So that's the new plan--you two ganging up on me?"

  Lisbeth sang out, "Sisters."

  Our brother Danny stood up on the platform in the corner window area of the establishment, clinking a fork against a champagne glass to get the group's attention. "People," he said. "Let the voting on a new name begin. I'll start the bidding by suggesting 'Dollface.'" He looked in my direction. "If we name the place after Ceece, perhaps she'll have less inclination to bolt every time we hold a party here?"

  I had no intention of abandoning this particular celebration. The venue hosting our party, the Village establishment formerly known as LUNCHEONETTE, is now an unnamed café that, as of today, officially and permanently will host Danny's cupcake business. Make that, our cupcake business.

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  While it may be a joint business of which I am co-owner, Danny's nickname for me shouldn't bear the brunt of becoming our business name. Too cute and obvious. Nixed. "'Pastabilities,'" I chimed in. "That's what I think we should call the place."

  Aaron asked, "But isn't the plan for this business to indulge the sugar more than the pasta side of the carb food chain?"

  True loves be damned, I smelled a voting bloc. I said, "Is that distinction really so important? Who wouldn't want to eat in a cupcake place called 'Pastabilities'?"

  "I wouldn't," Johnny Be Damned said.

  "I wouldn't either," Lisbeth seconded. "But I'd be glad to have my management consulting team research and develop an appropriate corporate brand name--"

  The Danny and CC voting bloc: "NO!"

  Johnny mused, "As hard as it is to operate a successful food business in Manhattan, it's even harder to come up with an original name for it. So I'm throwing 'Geldof' into the suggestion pile, after Sir Bob Geldof--"

  I interrupted, "Who's not actually a proper 'Sir,' since he's not a British citizen, even though he gets called 'Sir'--"

  Only to be interrupted back by Johnny, "And Danny could formulate special brand cupcakes named after Sir Bob's biological and adopted daughters."

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  "I like it," Danny said. "The black-and-white cupcake becomes the Fifi Trixibelle, the spring fever cupcake becomes the Peaches Honeyblossom ..."

  Aaron grabbed Danny's hand, inspired.
"... And the flower frosting cupcake becomes the Pixie Frou-Frou! The peanut butter cupcake becomes the Heavenly Hiraani Tigerlily! I can already see the marketing campaign: Come to Geldof--cupcakes catered to your every groupie craving."

  Danny laughed. "There's our niche! I foresee customer lines out the door and down the block."

  Sid-dad shook his head. "What's the matter with simply calling the place 'Cupcake'?"

  Sid-dad is biased. Frank-dad is not. "How about just sticking with the name LUNCHEONETTE, until inspiration strikes?" he said.

  We all more or less grumbled, "Okay." If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

  I always imagined it would be too weird to see my two families merge, but watching Frank and Sid-dad step aside to inspect the preliminary remodel plans at the counter together, I realized it was in fact too overdue. The two dads, former college roommates and former best friends, their friendship long lost to the Nancy riff that produced me, converged in New York for a talk after Max's funeral service. A talk about me. They emerged from that talk to pronounce that while I may call myself a slacker, I'm in fact anything but.

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  Despite my refusal to go to college or to culinary school, they decided that with the right backing, Myself was fully capable of learning how to run a business. They were equally bullish on Danny's prospects. And so Our Two Dads (being that Sid-dad is also Danny's godfather) teamed together to formulate a Plan. Trust funds were cashed out, offers made, papers signed. Danny and I, along with our families as investors, now own LUNCHEONETTE.

  Hmmm: Our Two Dads. Potential band name ... or potential café business name?

  The sound of a champagne cork popping open announced our celebration was ready to get lively. A glass of sparkly arrived in my hand courtesy of the honored guest who'd brought the bottle to help us christen the New-Old establishment. "I see your doll still travels with you," said Miss Loretta, the NY bio-fam's longtime friend and former housekeeper, acknowledging Gingerbread perched on top of the blueprints lying on the counter. When I first came to New York to meet the bio-fam, Miss Loretta had extended an offer to my sixteen-year-old girl self to park Gingerbread on a shelf at her restaurant uptown if Gingerbread and I were ever ready to part ways. I'm allegedly a woman now, one with a hella remodel debt piling on, and I still wasn't ready to part with my childhood doll.

  I pointed in the direction of La Marzocco, eternally reliable and therefore saved from the discarded appliances list included in the

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  remodels upgrade plans. I told Miss Loretta, "Naw, Gingerbread doesn't travel with me so much as hang out in my important places. And she's fixing for a permanent retirement. The remodel plans will provide a custom-built shelf designed for Gingerbread to sit over La Marzocco."

  "Good spot for her," Miss Loretta allowed. "From there Gingerbread can lord over and grace your community of customers, family, and friends. Amen." She lifted her glass to me. "Cyd Charisse, I wish you much luck and happiness with this business, and I promise not to hold a grudge at you for breaking my nephew Luis's heart."

  I informed her, "We were 'just friends.'"

  She patted my back. "You just let yourself go on believing that, honey."

  I hadn't let myself believe that Chucky would show up after I sent the invitation to her at the nail shop, yet here she was, holding a glass of champagne in her foxy rhinestone-studded manicured hand. Though I hadn't expected her to come, I'd prepared for her just in case. I had mucho to hablar with her. "Chucky," I said, "Encantada de verte. Me han dicho que no me esforcé lo suficiente para darle una buena oportunidad a nuestro primer intento de amistad. Así es que cogí un curso de español de inmersión intensivo durante un fin de semana en caso de que tuviera la oportunidad de hablar en español contigo hoy. ¡Así es! ¡Asistí a una escuela actual y me quedé el tiempo

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  complete! Me ayudó que el profesor del curso era muy guapo, (y soltero, si tienes algunas amigas que están buscando salir con un recién graduado de NYU que estudió español como asignatura principal). Él escribió lo que estoy diciendo ahora para poder memorizármelo. Pues, ¿piensas que podemos tratar de nuevo a ser amigos?" 1

  Chucky laughed. "Si. Cuz your pronunciation sounds like shit. You're gonna need a lot of my help, I can already tell. And congratulations on your new business. I hope to be following in your footsteps a couple years down the road, and I might be needing your help."

  "I'm there for you," I said.

  "Classy party for a not-yet-opened business," Chucky said, pointing in the direction of the band.

  Aaron and his bandmates had set up at the corner window, conferring over selection of their first song. Now that the band is back in business, they've changed names too, also after extensive name negotiation, the result of which is that My Dead Gay Son

  ***

  'I'm glad to see you. I've been cold I didn't give our first try at friendship a good enough chance. So I cook an intensive Spanish immersion weekend course just in case I might have the chance to talk to you today, in Spanish. That's right, I went to an actual school and stayed the whole time! It helped that the instructor at the language class was very cute (and available if you have any friends looking for a date with a recently graduated Spanish major from NYU). He wrote down what I am saying now for me to memorize. So do you think we can try again at being friends?

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  has morphed from No "Way Gay to Yes Way Gay, Okay? Per the family business agreement, Aaron's involvement with this business shall be restricted to band performances at our café. He and Danny have chosen to play it safe this time. Despite his outstanding chef skills, Aaron will not be joining us in a professional capacity. Living and working together was what did him and Danny in last time. They won't make that same mistake.

  Neither will Danny and I. Aaron is moving back into their apartment, and I am moving out.

  Accordingly, Sid-dad waved a set of legal agreements in my direction, beckoning me over to the counter area. Apparently what adulthood really means is endless papers to sign, to seal your fate-- for what, you have no idea. Sid-dad tried not to look at me all proud (or maybe his look was jet-lagged haze from all the SF-NY travel time he's logged between Max's funeral and tonight's christening), but with that bald head and pudge face, he wore satisfaction like a merit badge. There's my daughter the Little Hellion--didn't think any of us would survive her teenage years, and now just look at her! Grown up, on her own, and with a proper haircut at last. "I think that's the first time since you were in kindergarten that I've seen you wear a dress that wasn't black," Sid-dad said. "Green becomes you."

  To go along with my new haircut--razor-sharp bob angled from my neck down to my chin, with blunt bangs and a single process old-school original black color--I wore a party dress

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  similar to the green flapper one the real Cyd Charisse wore for her spectacular dance in Singin' in the Rain. But so we shall never forget which Cyd Charisse is which, I've called upon Lisbeth's corporate branding. Next to my old tattoo of a shrimp on the obscure flappy underside of my arm, I've got a new tattoo--a simple brown coffee bean. In honor of Myself.

  Sid-dad pointed to the bottom line on the last piece of paper. I signed and sighed. Sid-dad said, "You sound like your mother. And that's that. Max's apartment lease is officially in your name." In Manhattan scoring a great apartment has nothing to do with combing real estate ads and inspecting different pads before deciding on your perfect home. Here it's all about being in the right place at the right time--and having the cash (and your dad) available to meet with the building super and make it all happen. Also, being willed a cat.

  I'm like Max: New York--I love it!

  I told my father, "Please tell Mom we're not going to protest her threatened inspection next month, but she can fuggedabout her redecoration intentions for my apartment. Yvette Mimieux won't have it." Yvette and I will allow a visit, we might even find it in our hearts to look forward to it, but we'd never allow my mother to ruin our apart
ment's CC-merged-with-Max decor with her impeccable taste.

  Yvette and I have decided to work through our Max sadness by

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  reconstructing the Wall of Sadness. We've left Max's pictures on the wall, but added new flags--red and yellow prayer flags, sent to us from Shrimp in Nepal. We've also installed new pictures, of our San Francisco and New York families, and a drawing Shrimp sent along with the prayer flags that pictures Max standing on his piano bench, broomstick in hand, banging on the ceiling to Heaven and yelling up at the neighbors, "Keep that racket down!"

  The latest haiku from Shrimp (spell-checked by Dante), via text message from Kathmandu:

  Charisse owns mimieux

  Three more months till shrimp visits

  Name café for me?

  Our party at the café-not-to-be-named-"Shrimp" (I'd vote for it, but Danny would nix) was enlightened by the arrival of a lady I didn't know. Frank greeted her, then introduced her to Lisbeth and Danny before making his way over to me. "I've got someone I'd like you to meet," Frank said. "Mary, this is my other daughter I've been telling you about. CC, this is my friend Mary."

  He didn't say "lady friend" or "girlfriend," and they didn't hold hands, which was nice, considering how ancient they are (i.e., not in an acceptably cool old people hand-holding way like Fernando and Sugar Pie), but Mary must have been Frank's "special" friend.

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  Even more creepy than the shock that she appeared to be an age-appropriate companion and not some Barbie type twenty years his junior--minus the BOTOX I'd clock Mary as being in her late fifties--was that Mary's fashionable blond prettiness could have passed her for a near-senior-citizen-age version of... my mother.

  My head didn't even know how to deal with that thought so I just said, "Nice to meet you, Mary." I turned to Frank. "How come you didn't tell us you were bringing a friend? We'd have sent her an invitation."

  Frank said, "I believe in randomness over regularity." Saucy like Yvette! Who knew?!?

  Danny tapped my shoulder. "Didja save the first dance for me?"

  Of course I did. I am the cup to his cake.

  The instruments tuned and fired up, Yes Way Gay, Okay? settled into their first song--a slow-tempo, tender version of "My Favorite Things." For a gay Jewish chef who can't dress for shit, Aaron could really sing him some soul.