Save Karyn

by Karyn Bosnak

  I had a cat once, but I had to get rid of him. His name was Kitty, and I got him while in college. A few years after that, I moved into a new apartment with a friend in Chicago. The apartment wasn’t very big, and I don’t think Kitty was very happy there because he weighed eighteen pounds. He was big.

  One day my roommate came home and told me that she was allergic to him and asked me to get rid of him. The thought seemed ludicrous to me, until I looked at big fat Kitty, who seemed unhappy anyway. I ended up giving him to a good family friend who had met Kitty before and was very fond of him. She had a house with a yard and Kitty ended up being really happy there. But I cried and cried when I had to give him away. It was horrible.

  A few months later that same roommate went to the Humane Society and came home with a cat. Seriously. She made me get rid of my cat and then got herself one. She said she was only allergic to my cat. That’s a bunch of crap.

  But you know, everything happens for a reason. And if I’d still had Kitty when my mom called about finding Elvis, I might have decided not to take him. And Elvis and I were destined to be together.

  I named him Elvis because I like the name, not because I’m a huge fan of the King or anything. When I was a little girl, I used to love Elvis. My mom had the Elvis—Aloha from Hawaii eight-track tape, and I would play it on our stereo in the basement. And I would think that a miniature Elvis was really singing to me from inside the speakers. I would just lie there all day and listen to him.

  So Elvis it was. It wasn’t until a few months later that he landed his full and proper name of Elvis the Bush Cat. It was the holiday season and I put up a Christmas tree and he started attacking it and scaling the side of it. I decided that he must be having flashbacks to his wild days living in the bush and must have thought there were animals inside. He still acts the same crazy way every Christmas when the tree comes out. So Mark was watching Elvis until I moved into my new apartment.

  “Not you, dumbass,” I said. “How is my baby Elvis?”

  “He is good. And I am happy to get rid of him,” Mark said.

  Mark is a high-maintenance gay man. I like to call him Mo, which is short for Homo, which is short for High-Maintenance Homosexual. He has jet-black hair and ice-blue eyes and is so good-looking that it’s sometimes painful to be friends with him. He doesn’t act gay, so women everywhere, including me at one point, always fall madly in love with him. When we first met, I was positive that I could change him, but I was wrong. He’s as gay as they come. And he’s now one of my greatest friends in the whole world.

  Mark gave me the details of his flight, and told me to expect him that Wednesday. He was arriving in the middle of the day, and I would have to go to my apartment to meet him.

  When I hung up the phone, I decided I’d call the moving company to see if they’d found my furniture yet. I really needed it to arrive by that Wednesday because I had company coming. I called and was of course transferred around a million times before I finally got a man on the phone who knew the whereabouts of my furniture: in a warehouse outside of Chicago.

  “You’ve had it for two weeks and it hasn’t even left Illinois?” I asked.

  “Sorry, miss, we don’t know what happened. You should have it in a couple of weeks.”

  “A couple of weeks just won’t do,” I said, starting to cry. “You have all of my stuff. You have my clothes, my underwear. I really want my underwear.”

  “Miss, there’s no use crying over lost underwear. We’ll try to get it to you as quickly as we can.”

  “Listen, dude, this isn’t spilled milk here. It’s my underwear. And it’s not just my underwear, for that matter. It’s everything I own. I feel so displaced. I want my stuff. I want my underwear,” I said.

  I can’t really explain why I got so emotional over my underwear, but I did. I wanted my stuff and was sick of living out of five suitcases. And the feather bed seemed like it would make a fine mattress, but the truth was that it sucked. The wood floors were very hard to sleep on. I was tired. I was cranky. I wanted my bed. I wanted my underwear.

  I hung up the phone and decided to take a walk and get some fresh air and something to eat. It was a bit early for lunch, but I was depressed and hungry. While I was walking down the street, I saw a Jennifer Convertibles in the distance. I always see their flyers in the Sunday papers. They have couches in there for like $400 and stuff. I decided to check it out.

  On my way into the store, I noticed the American Express card logo on the door. I mean, if this wasn’t an emergency, then I don’t know what was. I browsed around for a while and looked at what they had to offer. The flyer was right. Some of the couches were dirt cheap, but they were also butt ugly. I then started to thinking about the blender in college, and the feather bed that I’d just bought, and asked myself, “Self, why buy the cheap one when the nice one is only a thousand dollars more?” I mean a couch is an investment. There’s no use spending $400 on a cheap one. If I was going to buy one, then I might as well buy one. And I was being responsible about this. I was in Jennifer Convertibles, for crying out loud. I wasn’t in the Bloomingdale’s furniture department, or at some other fancy Italian furniture place. I was at Jennifer Convertibles: the home of cheap couches.

  In the corner I saw a nice gorgeous brown velvet sofa that would go perfectly with my new rug. I asked the salesman if I could buy the floor sample. He said no.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Because it’s not for sale. You have to order one,” he replied.

  “But I really need a couch now, like today. I have company coming in two days.”

  “Listen, I can try to put a rush on one if you want to order it, but it is our policy not to sell the floor samples.”

  I sat down on the sofa and cried.

  “How about a chair? Can I buy that chair over there and take it home today?” I asked, pointing to the most hideous blue-and-white-striped club chair.

  “No, sorry. It’s the same thing as the couch. You have to order it.”

  “Okay,” I said, giving in, “I’d like to order this couch, please.”

  The salesman started to write up the paperwork. I sat on the floor sample and sulked.

  “Do you want to put a price hold on the matching chair, ottoman, and love seat?” he asked.

  “Sure, I guess,” I said, not knowing what a price hold was. The salesman could tell by the confused look on my face that I had no idea what I just agreed to.

  “That means if the price goes up at all, you can buy it for the same price that it is today. That’s fifty dollars extra per item. It’s a good deal.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said.

  “Okay, miss, the grand total is $1,774.00. Would you like to open up a Jennifer Convertibles credit card?” he asked. “There is no payment due and no finance charges for four months.”

  I looked down at my American Express card. I was holding it in my hands. Putting almost $1,800 on a charge card that I have to pay off every month didn’t seem that wise. And even though I didn’t want another credit card, the idea of no payment due and no interest charged for four whole months seemed like a much better option. I would easily be able to save this money in four months, at which time I would pay it off in full.

  “Sure. I’d love to open up a store credit card, sir. Thank you.” In less than ten minutes, I was applied, approved, charged and out the door. I got back to my office and saw Ann Marie on my way in.

  “How was lunch, Karyn?” she asked.

  “Great, thanks,” I said, one couch heavier and $1,800 lighter with one more credit card in my wallet.

  ELVIS THE BUSH CAT

  The next morning, I left a check for Spiro at the front desk on my way to work. The American Express Gift Cheques were delivered to me at work right on time. I deposited them into my checking account at lunch. I decided that if I could just get past these moving costs I’d be fine.

  Brad called me later that afternoon and asked me to go to dinner Wednesday night. I told him that M
ark was coming into town, and he invited him to come along as well.

  Before I knew it, it was Wednesday. I’d already broken the news to Mark that he had to stay in a hotel or sleep with me on the floor, and he opted for the hotel. But he was going to call me when he arrived, and meet me at my apartment to drop off Elvis before checking in.

  Around noon, Mark called me to tell me that he and Elvis were leaving LaGuardia and on their way to my apartment. I snuck out the back door at work, “on my way to lunch,” and jumped in a cab so I could get home fast to meet them. I was so excited!

  “Four hundred East Fifty-seventh Street, please,” I said to the cab driver.

  “Oh, lady…,” the cab driver whined in a thick accent.

  “Oh, lady what?” I asked.

  “Oh, lady, that’s all the way across town.”

  “Yeah, so what? I know it’s not that far, but I need to get there quickly,” I said, thinking he was mad because it wasn’t that far.

  “That’s not it, lady. The traffic is bad this time of day, and it will take a long time to get across town. You should walk.”

  Oh, not this. I still couldn’t walk because I had blisters all over my feet.

  “I have heels on,” I said, lying. “You have to take me.”

  “Fine by me,” he said shortly.

  The car slowly started to move and then stopped abruptly. Then it started again and stopped abruptly again. It couldn’t possibly be this bad.

  “Was there an accident?” I asked.

  “No, lady, I told you already,” he answered. “This is what it’s like trying to go crosstown in the middle of the day. Welcome to New York. Sheesh.”

  I looked down at my watch. I had been in the car for all of ten minutes and had moved ten yards. I hadn’t even gone one block yet. The car slowly started up again, and then stopped. This continued for almost an hour.

  I looked up and realized that I was only two blocks from home, so I decided to pay the guy and walk the rest of the way. I knew Mark would already be waiting for me.

  “Oh, gee, thanks, lady,” he said. “Make me get stuck in this crap for an hour and give me a dollar.”

  “You know, it’s not my fault, sir, and sometimes people have to go crosstown.” I quickly figured out that New York is one of the only places I know where I can walk somewhere in thirty minutes or drive there in an hour.

  WHEN I GOT TO MY APARTMENT, Mark was already there waiting. So was Elvis in his pet taxi.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t buy me the Kate Spade pet carrier like I asked you to,” Mark said. “I was embarrassed to walk through the airport with this one.”

  Mark has this way of joking, but pretending he’s serious. I get the sense of humor and knew he didn’t really expect me to buy him the Kate Spade pet carrier. But if a stranger just overheard our conversation, they would think he was serious.

  “Mark, he goes in his pet carrier once a year on his way to the vet. That’s it. He’s agoraphobic. You know that. He doesn’t want a Kate Spade pet carrier.”

  I like to give human qualities, and even human neuroses, to my pets.

  “How do you know he doesn’t want one? Have you asked him?”

  “As a matter of fact I did,” I said, “I called him last week when you weren’t home, and he said he was fine with this black one,” I said.

  “Huh. Well, still, this is an ugly pet carrier,” he said.

  We took the elevator up to four and arrived at my empty apartment. I put the cat carrier on the ground and opened it up. Elvis the Bush Cat peered out. He looked scared. I picked him up and he hugged me. He does this. He wraps his kitty arms around your neck and hugs. I call it “putting out.” He’s not picky. He’ll put out for anyone.

  I looked down at him and noticed that he had a bad case of the flakes. Kitty dandruff.

  “Mark,” I said, complaining, “didn’t you ever brush him? He’s got dandruff.”

  “Ew. No,” he said, “he wouldn’t come out from under my bed for the past three weeks. Why can’t he brush himself?”

  “He tries, but he can’t hold the brush. No thumbs,” I said.

  Elvis may be cute, but suave he is not. He frequently gets the flakes, which are really noticeable because he’s black and white, but mostly black on his back, where the flakes are. He also barfs everywhere on a daily basis. I think that he may be bulimic because he does it right after he eats.

  He’s grubby. What else can I say? He came from a bush. And he just flew first class to live on 57th Street in New York. That’s a long way from the ’hood.

  “Oh, baby, did you miss your mommy?” I asked. He didn’t answer me, and I could only assume that meant yes. He just kept hugging me and was hanging on for dear life. He was terrified.

  “He was actually really good on the flight,” Mark said. “He didn’t make a peep the whole way here.”

  “Yeah, well, I think he had a big going-away party last night with all his kitty friends, so maybe he was hungover.”

  After a few minutes of mommy-kitty lovin’, I showed Elvis his new pink litter box and his new food bowl and martini glass that I’d bought the night before. Elvis always drinks his water from a martini glass. A few minutes later, we locked up and left the building. Mark and I, that is. Not Elvis.

  After my horrible commute home, I decided to walk back to work, and Mark walked with me.

  “What are you doing tonight?” he asked.

  “I went on this date about a week ago with a guy named Brad that Naomi set me up with. And I’m supposed to go out with him tonight again. I told him that I had a friend coming in town and he told me to bring you. Do you want to come?”

  “Yeah, that sounds good,” Mark said.

  Halfway to work, Mark and I went our separate ways. He took a left down Madison Avenue because, well, he’s gay and likes to shop. I kept going straight toward work.

  “I’ll call you later,” he said.

  “Okay, bye, beautiful boyfriend!” I yelled toward him down the street. He looked at me embarrassed because I’m not his girlfriend. He’s a big Mo.

  KARYN’S GOT A BIG OLE BUTT

  That night Mark and I met Brad out at a restaurant called Rosa Mexicana. It was right across the street from my apartment, and it was in my Zagat guide. It was known as one of the best Mexican restaurants in the city. It was Brad’s choice.

  I told Mark all about Potentially Gay Brad being potentially gay. So he was all prepared to let me know what his professional opinion was.

  Mark came over as I was getting dressed. I was rummaging through the same clothes that I had been rummaging through for the past five weeks. I finally pulled out a pair of black pants and a yellow tunic button down and began to put it on.

  “Honey, no,” he said, “you are not wearing that.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Because you look like a cow in it,” he answered. “It’s too big and baggy. You know what I noticed today?”

  What, dear Mark God, who just called me a cow? Enlighten me.

  “Women in New York wear everything tight. It doesn’t matter if they are big, small, fat or skinny. They all wear tight clothes. And it looks good. Nothing’s wrong with having a big booty, honey. And you should try showing it, rather than hiding it.”

  Just like my Mo to bring me down, then bring me back up again.

  “Really, you think?” I asked. I wouldn’t call myself fat, but I definitely have some hips on me.

  “Yes. Leave the pants on, but change the shirt,” he said. “Let me see what you have.”

  Mark started flipping through my clothes and found a tight yellow T-shirt.

  “Here, wear this,” he said, handing it to me.

  “Okay,” I said. I put the T-shirt on and looked at myself in the mirror. I felt so fat! I’m not what you would call fat, but I’m not stick-skinny either. I have curves, but only on the bottom. I’m flat as a board on top.

  “Mark, now I look like a cow,” I said
. “My hips are so wide.”

  “Honey, shut up. It’s womanly. Thank Jennifer Lopez. She made girls like you with big asses acceptable in society again.” He continued laughing. “Without her you’d be nothing.”

  Sometimes I wonder why I’m friends with Mark, but I love him too much to question it. He’s so vain, would he want to go out with a woman who looked like a lard-ass? The answer is no, so I decided to trust his judgment and wear the tight T-shirt with the tight black pants.

  “You need bigger boobs,” Mark added.

  “No duh,” I said, pulling out my jelly silicone breast enhancers. They are called Curves and are a small-breasted woman’s best friend. I started to put them into my water bra to balance myself out. I was going for a double whammy tonight!

  “Much better,” Mark said.

  We left and headed toward the restaurant. We arrived five minutes late. Not bad for me. Brad was already waiting at the bar. He was cuter than I remembered.

  “Hi,” I said, looking down, incredibly self-conscious about what I was wearing.

  “Hi,” Brad replied and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I started to blush. I get nervous and awkward during times like these. I can’t help it. I can come across so self-assured at times, and so self-conscious and nervous at others.

  I introduced Mark to Brad, and the three of us mingled by the bar for a few minutes until the hostess came to show us to our table.

  Rosa Mexicana was the best damn Mexican food I had ever eaten in my whole life! They had these pomegranate margaritas that were mouthwateringly good. And they made guacamole from avocados right in front of your face. It was dreamy good! Hot diggity damn it was tasty!

  Now, the last thing I wanted was to feel full and fat while dressed in my skintight New York style–clothing, so I only ate half of my meal. Sadly. The waiter came to ask me if I was full and I said, “Oh, yes, stuffed.” What a lie. What a waste.

  We all had too many margaritas during dinner, and Brad excused himself to go to the bathroom.

  “So what do you think?” I asked Mark as soon as Brad was out of sight.