by Sara Barron
If you said, “What is it that you do, Tomas?” Tomas would say, “I am an actor/dancer.”
Nowadays, this slash (“/”) in one’s job title is a common thing to see. The folks who like to use it, they like to seem, well, what exactly? Diverse in their talents? Successful in multiple fields? Ironically, the use of the slash undermines what they’re after, since it mostly confirms a lack of success. A lack of achievement in more than one field. An actor/dancer. A writer/painter. An actor/writer/director. A photographer/painter/designer. The sign of the slash does not mean you do it all, or more than one. It means that you wait tables for a living. Or temp. Or have a parent, wife, or husband who funds the things you say you are. It shows you have a hobby, a thing you’re hoping or trying to be.
In keeping with this idea, Tomas called himself an actor/dancer, yet to earn his money he taught fifteen spin classes per week. Well, combine the self-delusion inherent in slash (“/”) exploitation with the self-discipline involved in fifteen spin classes per week, and it’s like, of course Tomas was awful. The first time I met him, I’d recently arrived home from a shift at Banana Republic. I’d been back for, I don’t know, twenty minutes, let’s say, and already I had changed into my cleaning-woman outfit so that I might scour hardened ketchup off a counter.
Suddenly, there was Tomas.
I heard a door and a voice. And turned around. And he was there. And he was gorgeous. Tomas had that level of attractiveness that can really bowl a person over. Wordlessly, it suggested that I should smooth back my hair and set down my scouring pad.
Tomas had a movie-star face and what are often referred to as “washboard” abdominals, and these, the latter feature, were on display care of the white-ribbed tank top he’d worn and tied in a knot at the base of his chest. For my part, I’d been outfitted in wide-legged sweatpants, kneepads, and a roomy sports brassiere. Such was my uniform for cleaning.
I set down my scouring pad and dried off my hands.
“Tomas, Sara,” said Wayne. “Sara, Tomas.”
“Hello,” I said.
“Hello,” said Tomas.
“Sara is my friend,” Wayne said. “The one living in the closet.”
“Weird,” said Tomas. “I mean, like, why? Why are you living in the closet? And, like, why are you even dressed like that?”
This first question from Tomas did not help me like Tomas. On the contrary, he questioned my living situation and my cleaning outfit, and I thought, I know for a fact that I’m going to hate you. But, of course, that is not the kind of thing one can say without looking psychotic. So instead of telling Tomas that I knew that I hated him, I just mumbled, “It’s comfortable. I clean a lot,” and then scurried away to my closet, to a safer place where his evil abdominals could not stare me in the face.
I sat there, alone, in my closet, and channeled my feelings into my work.
“Times were tough,” I wrote. “Tough times were fast becoming my best friends. But I could take it. I was resilient. In other words: I was just a common woman.”
I hadn’t yet decided on the ideal format for Mole Woman, and reconfigured the sentiment as a spoken-word poem.
I wrote, “There I was at the School of Hard Knocks / Droppin’ rocks / Of negativity / Rocks: That were holdin’ me down / Bring it, world / Bring the pain / It’s my gain / It makes me tough.”
A week went by, and by the end of that week, Wayne and Tomas were a Couple. They were in a Relationship. How this sort of thing happens at the drop of a hat for everyone other than me, I’ll never know. But the point, for the moment, is just that they were a Couple, and that by the end of one week, Tomas had ostensibly moved in.
Wayne, Tomas, and I managed the cramped quarters with a pair of noise-canceling headphones. Wayne bought them off eBay, and left them for me in my closet with a note attached that read, “Hi! I was hoping you’d wear these at night from now on. Just for privacy and stuff. Thanks!”
I told Wayne no problem, and wore the headphones when I slept. It wasn’t the most comfortable thing in the world, but neither is sleeping ten feet from aggressive intercourse, anal or otherwise. Which is what I did, countless nights a week. Wayne and Tomas would do a lot of intercourse at night, and in the afternoons they’d watch TV. Tomas would leave whenever he had his spin classes, and Wayne would go with him. When they returned, Tomas would set up two yoga mats in the communal living space, and lead Wayne in a series of yoga poses. The schedule was such that Wayne and Tomas would do their daily yoga at the same time that I would do my daily cleaning. Often I would clean around them. Sometimes Wayne would invite me to join in on the yoga, but more often than not, I would’ve just finished a bag of beef jerky, and doing a child’s pose in that condition would’ve been like waving a red flag at the bull of my cataclysmic gas.
“Oh, gosh,” I’d say. “I shouldn’t.”
Wayne tried to include me on a number of occasions, but I always declined. These declined invitations appeared always to offend Tomas. One day, two months into their relationship, Wayne, as usual, invited me to join them. I, as usual, said thank you but no thank you. Tomas, as usual, rolled his eyes. But then in an unprecedented manner, he wanted to discuss the issue further. He asked, “So, like, what do you do for your body?”
I thought it rude to use so hostile a tone in response to so selfless an act. My first impulse was to give Tomas a piece of my mind, but the blatant rudeness had thrown me off guard. I’d been holding a bag of beef jerky at the time, and instead of any verbal retort, I brandished the jerky in his face.
“That’s your defense?” he said. “That you clutch a bag of jerky like a blankie?”
“It’s good for me.”
“It’s not, actually. The nitrates and sodium trigger water retention and, over time, can cause obesity and diabetes.”
“Well, congrats,” I said, “on knowing stuff about beef jerky. For your job.”
“Yes, well,” he said. “My career is going awesome at the moment.”
“Yeah, well,” I said. “If we all taught gym class, then we all could have awesome careers.”
It is scary to speak so directly to someone so attractive. I have this fear these types can use their beauty to … I don’t know … like, melt my lesser face.
Tomas glared, although, in truth, he did not melt my lesser face.
“I am an actor and a dancer,” said Tomas. “That is my career.”
“It’s not,” I said. “Maybe it will be at some stage, but for now, it is your hobby. Gym instruction’s your career.”
“What-ever,” he said. “Like you’re one to judge. You work at Banana Republic.”
“True,” I said. “But I also have a hobby. I’m also working on a show.”
“What show?” he asked.
“A show I wrote,” I said. “It’s called Mole Woman.”
Tomas’s eyes lit up. They danced with the evil unique to those with zero body fat.
“Do you even know what a mole person is?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said.
“Someone who lives in a subway tunnel,” he said.
“I know,” I said. Although, in fact, I had not known. Despite the blow, I carried on. “Anyway, I’m reappropriating the term.”
“To mean …?”
“A struggling artist.”
“Who mooches off her friend?”
I stared back blankly. I collected my thoughts. I said, “Excuse me, but I am not mooching off my friend. I am cleaning so I can stay in the apartment.”
“How impressive,” he said.
“It is,” I said, “compared to you. I clean so I can stay in the apartment. You have sex so you can stay in the apartment.”
Tomas gasped. He said, “You’re calling me a hooker?”
“No,” I said. “You are calling you a hooker. I’m just pointing out the facts.”
I was just pointing out the facts. However, there was one I had omitted and it was the whole entire point: Wayne and Tomas, as a couple, looked b
izarre. Tomas looked every inch the high-end hooker, whereas Wayne, as previously discussed, looked like a human-sized pear. He had asymmetrical eyes to boot, and a nose you could hang your hat on. And sure, it was possible that Tomas was the kind of guy who cared about what was on the inside. It was also possible that Mole Woman was bound for a Broadway debut. Wayne was (1) a human-sized pear with (2) a fabulous apartment. And I knew—the world knew!—which one of those two things had kept Tomas around.
I wanted to say as much, but Wayne had been standing between Tomas and me throughout our fight, staring at the floor.
I turned toward the refrigerator, opened the door, and took out my cheese bread.
“Oh. Classic,” said Tomas. “Your friend, Wayne, is using her cheese bread to escape. Wow. I’m so, like, totally surprised.”
Wayne, still, said nothing. I chewed some cheese bread. I swallowed the cheese bread. I turned back toward Tomas.
“I hate you,” I said. And, with that, I walked away. I went inside my closet.
It felt exciting to tell someone I hated him. But that excitement was quickly undercut with a fear of being asked to leave. And fear can unhinge you a bit.
I grabbed my phone and called my mom.
“Hi, Mom,” I said.
“Hi,” she said.
“I was wondering if I could have some money,” I said.
“What?” She laughed. “ ‘Some money’? Ha! No. You cannot have ‘some money.’ ” A pause. “Unless, of course, you’re sick.” A pause. “Sara, are you sick?”
“No,” I said.
“Then why would you ask for ‘some money’?”
“Because Wayne’s boyfriend moved in. He’s here all the time.”
“And?” she said.
“And,” I said, “I think it could be good for me, creatively, if I could live in my own place.”
“Good for you.”
“Yes.”
“Creatively.”
“Yes.”
I could hear my mother breathe.
“Well, good chat,” she said, and then hung up the phone.
I considered other options.
I had a little money of my own saved up from my job at Banana Republic, but I crunched the numbers and realized it was nowhere near enough to help me afford my own place. All I could afford was another apartment with another roommate. It was not what I wanted. What I wanted was to live alone or, barring that, I wanted Tomas to slip during one of his spin classes and rupture his anus on his bike seat.
But dreams do not always come true. Tomas was too steady on a spin bike. I was too poor to afford my own place.
I sat in my closet feeling despondent. I stared at my “desk”-lamp for a while. I got bored and chose to do a little writing. I wrote a scene in Mole Woman in which she, the Mole Woman, is discovered at Banana Republic and asked to star in a movie for which she receives a comprehensive makeover.
As I wrote, I dreamed that Wayne would come knocking on the closet door.
“Sara,” he’d say, “I am here for three reasons. One, I need to apologize for the way Tomas has treated you. Two, I’ve broken up with him because of it. Three, I need to know what you are working on. Please. May I read aloud an excerpt?” and then he’d read aloud an excerpt.
“ ‘Art is the battle of YOUR LIFE! Fight for what you believe. BE A BADASS, AND TAKE! NO! PRISONERS!’ Oh my God. Did you write this?”
And I would say, “I did.”
And he would say, “Sara: It’s amazing. Sara: You’re amazing.”
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, Wayne did, in fact, come knocking on the closet door.
“Come in,” I said, and repositioned myself so that Wayne could see my script.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
“Sure,” I answered.
“Outside of the closet?” he asked.
“Is Tomas here?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“Then sure,” I said, and came outside.
“So,” he said.
“So,” I said.
“So,” he said. “You were just, like, psychotically rude to my boyfriend.”
“Because,” I said, “your boyfriend was psychotically rude to me first.”
“Tomas was not rude,” he said, “Tomas is not rude. Tomas is direct. I think it’s refreshing.”
“Refreshing?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered. “I think it’s a brave way to live.”
Over the course of two months, it had never once occurred to me that Wayne thought of Tomas as anything other than a horrible human he liked having sex with. True, he’d never said as much. True, they never spent any time apart. Perhaps, then, I should’ve been clued in to the fact that Wayne might actually like Tomas, might actually care about him in a more substantial way. But I was not. I had written the inseparability off as the sustained intoxication that came with looking at Tomas and knowing, soon, you’d have Tomas. I could not believe that in a coherent moment in which one gentleman was separated from the pheromones of the other, Wayne would describe Tomas as “brave” or “refreshing.” Wayne used those words, and it felt like looking at an old friend from across a wide distance. The details were fuzzy, but the outline was clear.
“I should probably move out,” I said.
“I’ve been thinking that’d be best,” Wayne said, “and so I went on Craigslist. I’ve got a few options picked out.”
12
Can’t You Help a Person Who Is Sick to Wash Her Back?
Wayne and I riffled through the Craigslist options until I found a suitable place in Park Slope. If you know this section of Brooklyn, if you’re familiar with its manicured flower boxes and local food–fed Caucasians, the fact of my doing so might surprise you. Under normal circumstances, Park Slope is outside the price range of the average Banana Republic employee. But then, it wouldn’t be a normal circumstance, living in the basement of a deranged diabetic.
WE HADN’T BEEN on Craigslist long when I saw the Park Slope option in my price range. Its ad read: “I am renting my extra bedroom. It has its own bathroom. I have diabetes. Good price for location. —Jan.”
I thought it was odd to mention diabetes in an apartment posting. But Wayne, eager as he was for me to leave, did not.
“Really?” he’d said. “I think it’d be weird not to.”
When I called the number listed, a woman answered who sounded very angry.
“THIS IS JAN!” she screamed. “WHO IS THIS?”
“Hi. I’m Sara,” I answered. “I’m calling about the apartment.”
“ARE YOU A FREAK?” Jan asked.
An occasion jumped to mind wherein my nipple was tweaked to the point of bleeding. I hadn’t enjoyed it.
“No,” I said. “I’m not a freak.”
“Good,” said Jan. “ ’Cause I got diabetes. I’m looking for a nice girl.”
“Well,” I said, “that’s pretty much me in a nutshell.”
I went to see the apartment later that afternoon, and when I did, I was greeted by a frail woman in her mid-sixties, crowned with a mop of graying, disorganized hair. But the apartment. Oh, the apartment. It was the home of my dreams, of all our dreams: a Cosby-esque, two-story brownstone complete with back deck and vaulted ceilings. The living room featured a bay window alongside a series of ornate sconces, and in the kitchen—the separate sit-down kitchen—a Restoration Hardware Farmhouse Collection table. The bedroom itself, the one I hoped to rent, was huge. It could have fit ten air mattresses, and came complete with its own private bathroom.
It was the Caesars Palace to my shack of a previous abode. More to the point, it was magnificent enough to make up for the presence of another roommate. And not just any other roommate: Diabetic Jan. She could’ve answered the door with a loaded gun and shouted, “Forget my diabetes! How’s about Russian roulette?!” and still: I would have begged to live there.
I assumed Park Slope had a higher happiness standard than the East Village. I based this assumption on the fact that
Park Slope was, quite simply, a prettier place to be. The East Village had some good blocks; Park Slope had all good blocks. There were more trees, more cute coffee shops. Fewer frat boys at the bars, fewer heroin addicts in the parks. If I lived in Park Slope, I would live near a beautiful corner market. I would go there every morning to buy organic produce, and I would cook it in Jan’s gorgeous, sit-down kitchen every night. In time, I’d start to run. Prospect Park was nearby, and its proximity would inspire me. I’d be on the Park Slope diet of outdoor running and organic produce, and I’d become altogether more fabulous than I’d been on my East Village diet of jerky and rage.
I was therefore lucky that Jan liked me as much as I liked Jan’s apartment. She offered it to me on the basis of my hair.
“I like it,” Jan had said. “It’s funny like a wig.”
And I accepted the offer despite the nagging sense that being offered an apartment on the basis of one’s hair does tend to indicate that one is gaining an unstable landlord. Jan’s instability was something I thought I could handle, however, and that is because I thought real estate could buy happiness. Jan may have been a far cry from my gal-pal roommate fantasy, but you know what? So was everyone else. At least Jan had a bay window and an expensive kitchen table. At least Jan was not Tomas.
We shook hands and signed a few papers. We settled on a move-in date.
I was excited by the prospect of my new apartment. At the same time, though, I felt a minor apprehension. I blamed this apprehension on three unanswered questions:
Why does Jan mention her diabetes all the time?
How did someone so seemingly bizarre afford such a nice kitchen table?
Why did Jan pick a new tenant on the basis of said tenant’s hair?
Asking these questions is fun, but getting the answers is less so. But that’s what roommatehood is all about, right? You think, What the fuck is your problem? and then get your answer.
QUESTION: Why did Jan mention her diabetes all the time?
