The Harm in Asking: My Clumsy Encounters With the Human Race

by Sara Barron

  I returned home from work one night and decided to be bold, to bring up my idea. Roy was in his bedroom drinking. Gina was in the living room watching TV. I said, “Oh, hey, Gina. How are you?” but she did not respond. So I walked closer to her. I could see that she was drunk.

  I tried again.

  “Hey. Gina,” I repeated.

  “Whaaa?” she slurred.

  “Oh! Good! You’re awake,” I said. “I thought maybe you were doing that thing where people sleep with their eyes open. Have you ever seen it? It’s super weird! Anyway, care to chat? Woman to woman?”

  Gina, still, said nothing.

  “Well. So. Here’s the thing,” I said. “I’ve overheard you and Roy these past few weeks discussing how he owes you money for … a case of beer, I think it was, and tickets to see Coldplay. But seeing as how you’ve been living here full-time, I thought maybe the thing to do would be to call it even on the money. I thought that maybe moving forward, you’d pay a portion of the rent.”

  Gina looked confused at this stage, and backed her head into her neck. This had the overall effect of giving her a double chin.

  She belched loudly in my face.

  “Bless you,” I said.

  “Fuck you,” she said. “Just, like, fuck. You. I ain’t givin’ you money. Or Roy money. Or anybody money.”

  The “fuck you” felt out of left field and unnecessarily aggressive. Nonetheless, I chose not to make an issue.

  “You’ve had a long day,” I said. “I can see that, and I blame myself, as a matter of fact, for choosing a stupid time to bring this up. Let’s discuss it in the morning, maybe, when you’re in a better frame of mind to—”

  “JUST SHUT UP!” she screamed. “JUST LEAVE ME ALONE! WHY CAN’T EVERYONE LEAVE … ME … ALONE?”

  I threw my hands up, not in exasperation, but so that I might convey an overall mood of compliance.

  “Yes, okay,” I said. “I am leaving you alone.”

  Gina took a deep breath, marched toward Roy’s bedroom, and slammed the door behind her.

  I took a deep breath, sat down in the living room, and watched The Sopranos. It felt different this time, though, as I felt atypically distracted. I kept reviewing what Gina had said:

  “Why can’t EVERYONE leave me alone?”

  I found the sentence disconcerting. Who did she mean when she said “everyone”? On instinct, I pictured a sociopathic brother with a chip on his shoulder who’d be angry at his sister’s deadbeat boyfriend. I pictured someone who would swing by soon to beat Roy up. Or, if things went wrong, to shoot him. And he’d shoot me too, by the way. He’d shoot Roy because Roy had been disrespectful, and he’d shoot me because I had seen him shooting Roy.

  I was jumping to conclusions and I knew it.

  Sara, I told myself. Lemon. Asshole. OUT.

  There was no reason to be nervous. I channeled the better version of myself, the one who knew that this was not how people behaved just because they were Italian American. I reminded myself of the progress I’d made in my relationship with Gina. She was someone with whom I had a rapport. Gina was no one to fear. Gina was almost a friend. And if she, a friend, made reference to an unspecified “everyone,” well, then she probably meant, like, I don’t know … her mom? Yes. She probably meant her mom. Her totally normal, nonthreatening mom.

  I was smart enough—now—to understand this. I was rational. I was mature.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING I slept in, treated myself to a bacon breakfast, and went to the bathroom for an on-schedule morning movement. As I exited the bathroom, I prepared for Gina’s usual Fancy Nights turd alarm, and was therefore surprised when I heard a loud knock at the door. Gina went to the door, opened the door, and there before her stood a man—shirtless—wearing only tracksuit pants.

  This man, I would learn, was Gina’s brother, and his name was Dinosaur Dante. Why? you ask. Because he had stegosaurus back plates tattooed along his spine.

  “Dinosaur Dante!” screamed Gina. “Whatta ya doin’ here! Whatta ya doin’ in my home?”

  In my home? IN MY HOME?

  I would’ve found the phrase more audacious, but I was too terrified by a certain aggressor who had just been allowed in my home.

  In my home. Because I, of course, paid rent.

  Dinosaur Dante did some nasal breathing.

  “Get outta my way,” he said to Gina. “Just tell me where to find that skinny bitch.”

  One thing I don’t evoke is “skinny bitch.” If Dinosaur Dante had come to our apartment looking for a “skinny bitch,” then he was surely there for Roy. He had surely spoken to his sister about the status of her current relationship, and was surely here to seek revenge.

  I write “surely,” although what I mean is “presumably.” Because I could only presume. I could only use my knowledge of The Sopranos and, therefore, of all Italian American families, to make an educated guess as to what had happened. Gina had presumably complained about Roy in front of Dinosaur Dante. Gina had presumably mentioned Roy’s continued unemployment, or the fact that Roy had borrowed money, and failed to pay her back. And in light of Dinosaur Dante’s proclivity for fits of shirt-removing aggression, shouldn’t Gina—presumably—have thought that through a little more?

  Why, yes, indeed. Why, yes, she should.

  Dinosaur Dante barreled past me—I’d stood frozen by the bathroom door—toward Roy, who was sipping a beer in his bedroom. Dinosaur Dante announced that he had come to fight. Not with his words, but with his actions. Which is to say he kept repeatedly jamming his sternum against Roy’s chest concavity while alternately smacking him in the face.

  “I’m an Ultimate Fighta, okay?” he told him. “That’s who you fuck with when you fuck with Gina Bogadelli. An Ultimate. Fighta.”

  The unbridled anger combined with the sight of Dinosaur’s namesake tattoos left me with the distinct impression that someone was going to die. And who could say for sure who that would be? Roy was the obvious choice, but my understanding of a certain type of hostile individual is that their targets can shift on a dime.

  Consider, for a moment, the relationship between Tony Soprano and Georgie, the bartender at the Bada Bing. Georgie’s a nice guy, sure, but he rubs Tony the wrong way. And since Tony’s always angry about one thing or another, Tony’s always beating Georgie up. I’d seen it happen a million times and felt instantly, viscerally concerned that something similar could happen to me with Dinosaur Dante. That if I wasn’t careful, I’d wind up the Georgie to his Tony.

  As for Roy, I thought he handled himself well. By this I mean that he did not cry or shit his pants. He just kept telling Dinosaur Dante to “chill.”

  As for Gina, she passed the time pleading with Dinosaur Dante on Roy’s behalf.

  “DINOSAUR, STOP! PLEASE STOP! ROY’S FRAGILE! HE’S FRAGILE!”

  I wanted to tell her it would all be okay, but I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, and anyway, I wasn’t so sure. I tried making my way from the bathroom to the kitchen for a serrated knife with which to defend myself in case, but then Dinosaur covered Roy’s face with his hand and slammed Roy’s head against the wall, and instinctively, I shouted, “OY!”

  And Dinosaur Dante whipped around.

  “Back up, bitch,” he said. “Back. The Fuck. Up.”

  “I WILL!” I screamed. “I’M BACKING UP! I’M VERY SORRY!”

  I ran for my bedroom and blocked the door with my bookcase, bed, and dresser. I searched for weapons. I grabbed a bobby pin and earring post. I stood at the ready in what is commonly known as Warrior II.

  Prepare, I told myself. To fight.

  I’VE HEARD IT said that you can’t know how you’ll respond in a crisis until that crisis arrives. What I learned in my crisis was that I would respond with both a yoga pose and an ineffective weapon. I’d do this as I basked in the perverse glow that is being right when you cannot believe that you are right … when you wanted, for once, to be wrong.

  I learned that I would promptly call my mom
.

  “Mom,” I said. “It’s me.”

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “At home,” I answered.

  “Why are you whispering?” she asked.

  “Because,” I answered, “Roy’s girlfriend …”

  “The one with the underpants? The underpants she lays across the chairs?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Her brother came over, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt, and he was acting really angry, and I said, ‘OY!’ …”

  “Why?!” she yelled. “Why would you say ‘OY’ to a very angry man?”

  “Because!” I said. “He was pressing Roy’s head against the wall, and he threatened me and called me ‘bitch’!”

  A pause.

  “Mom? Did you hear what I said? HE THREATENED ME AND CALLED ME ‘BITCH’!”

  A pause.

  “How much?” she asked.

  A pause.

  “Eight hundred,” I answered. “At the absolute most.”

  Let me here return to the issue of my savings.

  In the year I’d lived with Roy, I had saved up almost enough for one of those hellholes of an affordable studio apartment. The operative word, though, is “almost.” On the day of Dinosaur Dante’s arrival I lacked the necessary funds to move out, for I lacked the necessary funds for a security deposit. I was on the path toward saving the money myself, and would’ve gotten there in just a few more months. And was there value in that? In getting there myself? I did believe there was. But now—in this moment—I had a maybe-killer in my home. Now—in this moment—I was literally squatting as my form of self-defense.

  “Eight hundred … dollars?” asked my mom.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You’re out of your mind,” she said.

  “Mom,” I said, “I’m really not. I swear I’m not. I’m asking because I might die.”

  “You will not die.”

  “But I could die.”

  “You couldn’t die.”

  “I could die.”

  “It’s unlikely that you’d die.”

  “Yes, well, it was unlikely that that hemorrhoid I had last spring was a tumor. But you paid for the out-of-network doctor because it could have been. Because I could have died. I could have died from cancer, and I could still die at the hand of the aggressive man!”

  A pause. An exasperated breath.

  “Eight hundred dollars, Sara. Fine. I swear to god, though, if you ever do so much as …”

  “I won’t, Mom. I promise. I won’t ever ask again.”

  THE MINUTES PASSED by. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. I heard neither a gunshot nor a skull go through a wall. I relaxed slightly and got off the phone with my mother. I came out from under my bed, where I’d gone to make the call, and back into my Warrior II. I stayed there for a moment. I moved from my Warrior II to the top of the dresser that I’d pushed against the door. This new position was a more vulnerable position, but I was desperate to hear what was going on.

  I heard a bit more yelling and a bit more sternum-bumping.

  I heard a loud smack and a scream.

  I heard the cops arrive.

  I heard everyone go quiet.

  I heard the cops ask what the problem was.

  I heard Gina and company respond.

  “Nothin’. Nothin’. We’re cool, sir. We’re good.”

  I heard the cops say, “Well, keep it down then, all right?”

  I heard the cops leave after that, and I heard Dinosaur Dante leave with them. He was not handcuffed or, as I had expected, arrested on sight for the murder of someone named Don Giovanni. He was just escorted nonviolently out.

  Gina stayed behind with Roy. I stayed locked in my bedroom for hours. I came out only when I had to go to work. I gave myself a little extra time, though, for a little talk with Roy.

  I found him slumped on the couch beside Gina. They looked drunk and very tired.

  “Hey, Roy,” I said, “I’d like to talk.”

  “Whaaa?” he slurred.

  “I’d like to talk,” I said.

  “Okeydokey,” he said. “Talk.”

  “Well,” I said. “It’s a difficult topic. But sometimes, well, it’s important to be honest, don’t you think?”

  Gina grabbed the remote. She increased the volume.

  “Anyway,” I said (over the increase in volume), “Roy, I think it’s important to be honest. And the reason I bring it up is that I’d like to be honest with you. There’s something, well, difficult that I would like to talk to you about.”

  “Whaaaa?” he slurred.

  “There’s something difficult that I would like to talk to you about.”

  “O-kaaaay,” he said.

  “The thing is, Roy—and this is hard for me to say—but I need you, as my roommate, to know.”

  Gina, again, increased the volume.

  “ROY, IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, THERE’S SOME-THNG I NEED YOU TO KNOW.”

  “WHAAAA?” he asked. “WHADDAYA NEED ME TA KNOW?”

  I paused. I said, “I WAS AROUND A LOT OF VIOLENCE AS A CHILD.”

  In truth, the only violence I was around as a child took place this one Fourth of July weekend, when my parents took Sam and me to a water park in Wisconsin. While there, I’d seen another kid get spanked. That had been the sum total of my childhood violence exposure, however my last lie about family had worked pretty well. I figured I should try my luck with it again.

  “ANYWAY, YES,” I continued. “THAT IS … ME. AND MY … STORY.”

  “OH. YEAH?” he said.

  “OH. YEAH,” I said. “AND I MENTION IT BECAUSE TODAY WAS JUST … TOO MUCH. FOR ME. YOU KNOW? I THINK I HAVE TO MOVE.”

  “MOOOOOOOOVE,” he said, contemplative.

  “YES,” I said. “MOVE.”

  Roy closed his eyes and shrugged. He stayed there for a moment. He opened them again.

  “FINE,” he said. “YOU GO DO WHATEVAH. YOU GO SEE IF I CARE.”

  I’D HAVE MONEY in the bank. I had the blessing of my roommate. It was everything I needed. It was time to live alone.

  14

  Eleanor Barron

  Although I myself have never been married, I know a few women who have. Who have craved it, and gone on to get it. I have known these women and spoken to these women, and they have told me what it feels like, getting the thing they wanted so badly for so long.

  For a moment, it is great. But then it mostly isn’t great.

  It is precisely what it feels like to finally live alone.

  I LIED TO Roy about my early exposure to violence, and two weeks later I moved from Astoria, Queens, to a thumb-sized studio in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn.

  Bushwick, at its worst, was a series of warehouses interspersed with chain-link fence and the odd, abandoned lot.

  Bushwick, at its best, had a certain industrial charm. There was a supermarket with a comprehensive “World Food” aisle, and a coffee shop that sold sandwiches without too much mayonnaise. There was a Laundromat with a good deal on stain removal and a corner bodega where—if you were so moved—you could buy the dried ears of a pig.

  Bushwick covers a wide stretch of Brooklyn, and is home to a diverse population of Hispanics, blacks, and whites. The whites are mostly hipsters. The blacks and Hispanics are not.

  I moved to the part that was hipster and Hispanic.

  When I saw someone Hispanic, she’d be going to or coming from work.

  When I saw someone Hipster, she’d be in a crazy outfit.

  These generalizations are sweeping. But they are also mostly true.

  The hipsters were always all “ ’sup, dude” this and “peace, man” that. One time, I was power-walking through the supermarket, when I heard a woman in a cowboy hat and full-length mink say, “Art’s what I was born for.”

  I found this behavior all at once ridiculous and intimidating. I’d run my Bushwick errands in the same sweatpants ensemble I’d favored for my Astoria errands. No one thought much of it back in Queens, but this was not the case
in Bushwick. I was at the coffee shop one time, when the guy behind the counter asked, “I’m sorry, but are you sick?”

  And I said, “No.”

  And he said, “Then how come you’re always in sweatpants?”

  I will point out that at the time of this exchange, the guy behind the counter was wearing a onesie he had belted with a headscarf.

  Lacking the confidence to stay true to myself and my sweatpants, I purchased a pair of knock-off Ray-Bans and a used, waist-length fur of my own. But then I got gnats from the fur and the weight of the Ray-Bans gave me a headache. So I threw them both out and purchased instead a handful of plaid, lady-lumberjack shirts. I paired the shirts with jean shorts. I paired the jean shorts with ripped tights. I thought I looked good. Or rather, I thought I looked appropriate, considering.

  I was madly in love with my new apartment, for it was mine and mine alone. And sure, it was small, but I mostly didn’t care. The bedroom was the kitchen, which was also the den. The bathroom was its own separate thing, which was good, although the toilet didn’t flush.

  That’s an exaggeration.

  It would be fairer to say that one in five times the toilet wouldn’t flush.

  In a different situation this might have upset me, but in this one it did not. If you are literally starving, you will find yourself willing to eat human flesh. If you have lived with Wayne and Tomas, Jan, and Roy and Gina, you can watch a turd go nowhere up to seven times a week. You can watch a turd go nowhere and feel lucky while you do.

  I would not have believed it if I myself had not lived through it.

  I loved living alone as much as I have ever loved anything else in my life. There was a good, long stretch of time in which I felt … I think the word is “happy.” The experience suited me. I smiled more. I slept better. I had that glow that comes with exercise, but without having to exercise.

  My favorite part of each day was now coming home at the end of it. After waiting tables for eight hours, the silence upon entry was like a massage, relaxing and luxurious. I set up a pedicure station smack in the middle of my bedroom/kitchen/den. I would sit there and give myself a pedicure. I would pass gas like it’s what I was paid for. I would feel, in a word, content.