If You Were Here

by Jen Lancaster

  I look around at a roomful of stunned personnel. “I’m sorry. Is anyone else following this?”Vienna’s personal assistant points behind Vienna’s back and pantomimes inhaling an enormous rail of coke off the staircase. Her makeup artist sighs and quickly repacks all the lotions and potions she’s just unloaded, while the lighting gentleman snaps off the big box lights. Her producer has assumed a position best described as “face-palm.” I’ll bet when he envisioned Vienna “taking command in a professional environment,” it didn’t shake out like this.

  Vienna’s not finished with her diatribe. She starts in on what I assume is her thesis statement.

  “So fuck you, fuck your bathtub, fuck the Japs, fuck your grill, fuck your mother, and fuck your fucking fuckity fuck.Your dogs are cool. But fuck your cats and your fucky face.”

  I wonder, am I supposed to be intimidated by her yelling? Cowed? If so, I’m going to make for terrible television. I mean, I’ve heard worse stuff coming out of Babcia’s mouth while wishing me a happy birthday. And really, I’m too busy for this nonsense, especially when Jake Ryan’s house is waiting for me. I’ve got to put a stop to this.

  “Um, hi, listen, sorry to interrupt while you’re rolling,” I say, offering the producer an apologetic look. “Quick favor? Those guys over there?” I gesture toward the movers. “I’m paying them by the hour. So if it’s not too much trouble, could we either start the walk-through or finish up with the fucking fuckity fuck?”

  A giggle escapes from the previously unscathed second hairstylist. And that’s all it takes.

  In one deft motion, Vienna whips off her impossibly high sandal and hurls it in the direction of the laughter. Thanks to Sir Isaac Newton’s first law of motion, a triple-strapped Alexandre Birman python wedge produces more drag than, say, a baseball, so despite what I’m sure is Vienna’s extensive knowledge of all things aerodynamic, she ends up picking off Manny, the foreman of the moving crew. She clocks him right in the head, and Manny crumples and hits the ground with a thud.

  At this point, the producer grabs Vienna around the waist and begins to drag her out the door. “I think we’re finished here. Thank you,” he calls as he wrestles her down the steps and to the gate, the rest of the crew scuttling out behind them.

  I rush over to Manny to see how he’s doing while his coworkers offer up yet-to-be-packed bags of frozen peas and cold drinks. We get him up and try to assess his level of consciousness. Manny insists he’s fine, but I’m not so sure. That shoe must have weighed six pounds, and she pitches like a Cy Young Award winner. I set him up on the couch and beg him to rest as long as he needs.

  As I try to calm everyone and reorganize the boxes, I have to wonder—how does that girl go through life generating so much bad karma with so few repercussions? Every time I think, Oh, the universe will eventually right itself, in regard to Vienna, she ends up making out with Robert Pattinson76 or appearing on the VMAs. Sure, she had a few bumps in the road—like her family attempting to make her work77 for a living—but for the most part, she’s bulletproof.

  That’s when I notice something important I’ve left unfinished, and I can’t help myself. “Wait, wait!” I call, running after Vienna and her crew. I reach them just as they’re done putting all their gear back in the van and are about to take off.

  “Do you guys still need my consent form?”

  Mac and I are tucked into bed after what’s proved to be an arduous thirty-six hours.

  Unfortunately, we’re not tucked into bed in our new house. Due to Vienna’s antics and Manny’s head injury, the movers didn’t have enough time to unload the truck in Abington Cambs after filling it up. So we agreed that they’d simply store everything overnight and we’d see them in the morning.

  Kara’s parents insisted we stay with them, and you don’t say no to the Patels,78 so we’re upstairs in their guest room watching television before we go to sleep. My sweet little Daisy and Duckie are so exhausted from running around their new backyard that they’re too tired to climb up on the bed with us. This may be the first time we’ve slept alone since we adopted the dogs.

  “I can’t keep my eyes open.” Mac yawns. “Where’s the remote?”

  I reply, “I don’t know, and I think I’m too tired to get up and find it.”

  “Maybe we’ll just close our eyes for a minute and ... mmph.” And like that, he’s out.

  I’m about to drift off too, when I hear the opening credits of TMZ, followed by a familiar voice and a bunch of bleeps. I sit up and grope for my glasses.

  “So bleep you, bleep your bathtub, bleep the Japs, bleep your grill, bleep your mother, and bleep your bleeping bleepity bleep. Your dogs are cool. But bleep your cats and your bleep face.”

  What the bleep?

  Glasses finally on, I see shaky cell phone footage taken from my house, replaying everything that went down today. Then Harvey Levin comes on-screen, reporting, “Producers have pulled the plug on Vienna Hyatt’s new reality show after today’s violent outburst.”

  The cute surfer-boy reporter with the wild mane of blond hair adds, “Yep, it’s over before it even began. I guess anyone wanting to spend One Night in Vienna will have to do it the old-fashioned way!”

  Harvey continues. “Ha! You know that’s true. I’d hate to be in her shoes. No, wait. I’d hate to be hit by one of her shoes!” Cameras pan to the whole team at TMZ laughing before the scene cuts to a shot of Manny trying to shake away all the cartoon birds flying around his head. “Will our favorite bad girl seek revenge for her axed show? Wait. What am I talking about? This is Vienna Hyatt! Of course she will!”

  Then TMZ launches into a long retrospective of all her old feuds. My God, that woman’s fought with everyone. And I’m not just talking about the usual Paris-Lindsay-Kardashian-du-jour-Britney conflagrations, although by Vienna’s own admission, Ms. Spears currently holds a spot on the buddy list. Her extended enemy list includes the regular suspects, such as all the kids from Laguna Beach, The Hills,79 The City, and even Jersey Shore. But it doesn’t end there, oh, no. Vienna’s had words with everyone from Arnold Palmer to Ahmet Zappa. According to TMZ, she even pissed off the Dalai Lama by shoving him when he accidentally walked in front of her at the step-and-repeat banner wall at a Free Tibet event.

  Harvey returns to the screen. “And when Vienna gets revenge, you’ll hear it here first!”

  After the segment ends, I hop out of bed to find the remote, which is located directly beneath Daisy’s ample rump. I give her a quick smooch on the snout, switch off the television, and climb under the covers.

  Before I fall asleep, I snuggle closer to Mac; then I say a little prayer of thanks that we’re up here in Abington Cambs now and will never have to deal with Vienna again.

  Chapter Eight

  FOR WHOM THE BELL TOLLS

  “Doorbell! Mac, the doorbell! Come on, let’s get the door!”

  We’ve been waiting for our first official doorbell ring for what feels like forever. The movers mentioned that coming up to Abington Cambs is a huge pain for them, because the neighbors are always getting in the way with all their welcome baskets and impromptu wine-based meet-and-greets.

  At the moment, I’m not concerned whether the new neighbors might cause the movers “a pain,” since we’ve waited over a week for our stuff to arrive. Thirty miles away! Eight days of waiting! Turns out after foreman Manny was hit in the head, he had a little trouble reading the bill of lading back at the warehouse and our things were shipped via rail to Atlantic City, not Abington Cambs. Straightening this all out took forever—and more than a little yelling on Mac’s part. Every day the moving company would promise “tomorrow,” but after a few days, we wondered if tomorrow would ever actually come. (Please don’t tell Mac, but part of me wonders whether, if he’d been a little less shouty on the phone, things might have been resolved faster.)

  Anyway, after we left the city, we slept at the Patels’ house for three nights while we waited for our beds and stuff to arrive. Kara’s parents
assured us we could stay as long as we wanted, but that seemed like such an imposition. Also, after a couple of days, Kara freaked out over being obligated to visit, and Mac became really interested in learning to cook Indian food, which . . . no. So we bought an air mattress and a couple of beanbags and officially moved in here. Those three items plus what we packed in overnight bags comprise all of our accessible belongings, as I refuse to replace what I already own.

  Mac and I have been “urban camping” for five days, and all I want to do is sit on a chair with a back. I’ve been trying to write my novel since we got here, but I keep going off on tangents about sturdy, comfortable Amish furniture. I’ve waxed on and on about stately farmhouse tables and wide-slatted rockers, varnished and lovely and solid. I devoted eight pages to the matching bedroom set Amos handcrafted for his zombie crush, Miriam, but instead of reiterating how conflicted he was about his unrequited, undead lust, I ... Well, why not just read it for yourself?

  Amos: Miriam, my sparrow, please direct your loving gaze to the dovetail joints on this fine sleigh bed that are as firm and strong as my bond to you. Pay special heed to the curved footboards I crafted with my own hands.

  Miriam: Why, Amos, are you making your wanton intentions clear, that this shall be our marriage bed?

  Amos: Uh, sure, yeah. But please note the ergonomics that went into the curved shape of the headboard that would make it ideal for late-night reading or snacking or perhaps watching television. I mean, if we watched TV. I didn’t make the headboard out of any kind of stupid fabric, so it’s not going to hold stains or any odors. And I hand-tooled and lacquered the wood in a cherry stain because I know it’s your favorite finish, because it’s not too light like honey oak and not too dark like mahogany, and really, this particular color would go so great with, say, a really awesome antique Persian rug, you know?

  I ran some of the new pages past my niece Claire, and she said they “sound like an IKEA catalog, only boring-er.”

  Another downside of not having our things—and trust me, there are plenty—is that we haven’t been able to prepare meals, since our pots and pans have been wending their way back from the boardwalk. For the first few days we lived on takeout, and that got so old that I found myself missing Mac’s culinary abominations.80 All I wanted was something from my own kitchen, so we resorted to microwave cookery. As luck would have it, the nice microwave in the big kitchen died the second I tried it, so we’ve been using the antique one in the basement. Said microwave is perfectly functional, but I’m afraid it’s going to go all Hot Tub Time Machine on me and send me back a few generations every time I nuke a hot dog.

  But now the moving truck is here at long last, which means the neighbors have been alerted to our presence. Somebody’s at the door, and I may be even more excited than the dogs, who are leaping and howling at the possibility of visitors. I can’t believe I’m finally living in a place where I’ll know my neighbors. I’m not the kind of gal who’d run next door to borrow a cup of sugar, but after so many years of being anonymous in the city, I’ve taken a shine to the prospect of brief, friendly chats with other homeowners when we’re getting our newspapers in the morning.81 I’m cool with the idea that someone might keep an eye on our place when we go on vacation, not because they have to, but because they want to. I’m a little bit enamored by the idea of trick-or-treaters, and I’m thrilled with the notion that someone might sell me Girl Scout Cookies.82

  When I was growing up, the street where we lived looked rundown and depressing, yet a closer-knit community could not be found. Sure, a few families allowed their dirty children to play outside at night in their pajamas, but even so, every single adult in the neighborhood watched out for those ragamuffins. We banded together to shovel Mrs. Kingery’s driveway, and we picked up Mr. Signorelli’s arthritis medicine once he got too old to drive, and brought casseroles every time the Kubiaks had a new baby.83 If indeed it takes a village, Spring Street was that village.

  As we make our way to the door behind two elated, scrambling dogs, I quiz Mac. “What do you think we’re getting, a fruit basket? Maybe a pie? Ooh, I hope it’s wine!”

  “I’m dying for a nice, heavy casserole, with ground beef and macaroni and cream of mushroom soup.” Mac rubs his stomach. “I can’t eat another hot dog. I can’t.”

  I settle the dogs and smooth my ponytail, running my tongue over my front teeth to make sure there’s no stray lipstick before I make my first impression on our new neighbors ... and possibly our new friends.

  I grab the door handle—hmm, that feels a bit loose—and I swing open the door. Not too enthusiastically, mind you. Don’t want to appear desperate, just welcoming. “Hello! I’m Mia! And this is Mac and Duckie and Daisy,” I say, pointing to each of them.

  A small, fastidious middle-aged man stands in front of me. He’s wearing undersize round tortoiseshell glasses, and one of those tweedy blazers with the sewn-on leather arm patches, and ... Oh, Jesus Christ, is that an ascot?

  No, wait. It’s just a scarf.

  But still, it could have been an ascot. How badass is that?

  Seeing my neighbor here dressed like it’s casual Friday at Harvard Law School makes me laugh about how far I’ve come from Spring Street. The only jackets neighborhood men wore were of the Carhartt variety, except for state occasions such as christenings and weddings, which called for synthetic sport coats festooned in plaids best described as “tasty.”

  Mac and I stand next to each other in the doorway, two dogs sitting nicely behind us, all waiting for our new elbow-patchy neighbor to say something. I can’t help but notice his well-manicured hands are empty, but maybe his wife’s on her way with something potable or macaroni-based and delicious? Mac and I grin briefly at each other and then back at our neighbor.

  “Would you like to come in?” I offer.

  “Are you the new owners?”

  I’m a bit taken aback by this stranger’s brusqueness. But maybe he’s cranky because he couldn’t find his ascot? Self-consciously, I try to knock the excess dust off of me. I bet my stupid yoga pants and dirty hoodie are throwing him off. We’ve been busy cleaning and I must look a mess.

  Mac’s detected something off about the man’s voice, too, and I notice he pulls himself to his full height. Duckie stops wagging his tail, and Daisy slinks down to the floor. “We are. Can I help you?”

  “Yes, you can help me. You can help me by taking care of your diseased tree, southeast corner, three paces in.” The man whips out a digital camera and begins to scroll through the photographs of limbs and sticks. “Here, you see the flagging on these branches? And the brown streaking in the sapwood here? And this bark beetle gallery! Ugh! Listen to me: I will not lose my elm tree because you people refuse to service your property, and I’ve already reported this to the city.”

  “Whoa, hold on,” Mac says, and gestures at the team carrying in our couch.84 “We’re just now moving in.” At this point Daisy slinks away and Duckie’s hackles raise.

  “It’s my understanding that you’ve been here for a week. My expectation is that you would have taken care of this the first day.We have standards around here, and you’re already in violation.” With this, Mr. Elbow Patch removes his glasses and gives them a quick polish with his handkerchief.

  As Mac’s drawing his breath to set him straight,85 I surreptitiously pull him back a step and attempt to defuse the situation. I don’t want to be disinvited from the block parties for the next twenty years because we’re tired, dirty, hungry, and sore from sitting on bean-based furniture for most of the week. “Yes, of course, I’m really sorry. We’ll take care of this immediately. Is there a landscaping service you can recommend?”

  Elbow Patch’s disgust is almost palpable. “Hiring a service? We keep our gardeners on staff around here.” And with that, he spins on his heel and marches up our driveway.

  Mac makes a stern face at me and repeats, “‘We keep our gardeners on staff around here,’ ” and we both crack up, causing the dogs’ mo
ods to lighten as well.

  “Who says stuff like that?” I wonder, wiping my eyes.

  “People who wear elbow patches,” Mac replies.

  I glance down, noticing a small splotch of mustard on my jacket, and I absently scratch at it with my thumbnail. “I guess there’s one grumpy person in every neighborhood. Although I can’t remember who the meanie was on Spring Street.”

  “Didn’t you tell me that Babcia used to confiscate all the balls that landed in your yard and would then sell them back to kids at garage sales?”

  “Ha! Yeah, I forgot about that. I guess she always had entrepreneurial tendencies.” Nothing used to make Babcia’s blood flow quicker than a stray baseball or Frisbee in our grass. She’d practically vault over the ottoman to get around to the door in order to snatch the wayward toy before its rightful owner could get to it. Babcia fetched balls faster and with more vigor than a purebred Labrador retriever. “I wonder if people thought she was the neighborhood crank?”

  Before Mac can answer, the bell rings again.

  “Showtime!” I exclaim. We move toward the door, and I’m a tad more reserved when I open it this time. This time, the dogs don’t follow because we’ve put them out. A woman about my age stands in front of us. She sports the kind of sassy haircut made up of points and flips that no one over a hundred pounds can get away with. She’s all done up in Lululemon togs. Aha! I knew people had to wear athletic gear up here at some point.

  I suspect the weird looks I’ve been getting at the coffee shop all week have had to do with how I’ve been dressed. Whereas I’ve been tooling around in the same workout clothes and ratty old Nikes, everyone else appears to be ready for lunch with an ambassador. Seriously, it’s like every woman in the AC is channeling Grace Kelly, with superstarched Peter Pan–collared blouses or twinsets, pencil skirts, or tailored pants, finished off with kitten heels or ballet flats. And the jewelry? Don’t even get me started on the jewelry. Charm bracelets and pearls and, oh, my God, the diamonds! I’m talking studs the size of horseflies and solitaires big enough to skate across.