by Jessica Pan
I’ve been told this is going to be distributed to at least fifty thousand children, which I try not to think about.
Astrid and I went to a Yeah Yeah Yeahs outdoor concert this week and it poured the entire time. Incredibly muddy. We pushed our way to the front. It’s easier to be rude when you can’t understand what people are yelling at you. I just kept saying, in Mandarin, “My friend is up there, my friend!” Then I saw a British guy trying to get in front of me, so I pointed to him and yelled, “Foreigner!” in Mandarin to rile up the crowd, but it turns out he knew Mandarin better than I did. Oops.
Anyway, two hours later with hair completely soaking wet, we danced around and screamed to “Maps.” Obviously it reminded me of all the long drives we’d take in Rosabelle’s car blasting that song. It was one of those moments when I really loved Astrid and was so happy that we were on this China adventure together. I almost forgot about her and Maxwell. I just don’t let myself entertain thoughts of actually dating him, and I shove him far into the friend corner. Also, we never ever touch, which is fundamental to this arrangement. Maybe this will all blow over.
I am also trying to apply for real jobs, and the advice everyone always gives is to network. Network! Network! Not sure what this means, because apparently my version of networking comes off as flirting. I can’t seem to master the vital, final step of the networking process in which you say, “No, but really. Enough about your trip to Japan and your new apartment. Hire me.”
Honestly, I’d love to be back at school now that the weather is finally turning cold. Astrid doesn’t understand my nostalgia. I guess Norwegians aren’t really known for their nostalgia.
I want to walk to a café after class and see you sitting there with your copper-tinted hair and dark blue eyes buried in a book....I wonder who’s sitting in our usual places there now.
I want to hear more about your life in New York. If you want to imagine mine, imagine a lot of Chinese people. Also, crowded streets, delicious street food, misty mornings, and something called “split pants.” It’s what toddlers wear here. Instead of diapers, their pants are split open in the back. The streets are dirty. You do the math.
Okay.
Karen O from the Yeah Yeah Yeahs wanted me to tell you:
They don’t love you like I love you.
Ai*,
Chinese Santa
*Mandarin for love
OCTOBER 20
Rachel to Jess
Dear Jess,
If you ever mention split pants again, I’m going to immediately delete your e-mail before finishing it. You’re making me miss Jon too, because nobody else can make me laugh so hard I fall off beds. Also, you know he’d stop calling you a lesbian if you just threw out that biker jacket.
I’m also searching for a new job. The more I think about the opportunities that this city actually has, the more I realize that the art world I’m in right now is cold and more about money than the actual art itself. And I’ve come to realize that I don’t love art the way I love writing, or even film. I know about art, and I appreciate it, but it is not worth putting up with somebody who behaves as badly as my boss, Vince, does. I wake up early and sit in the park to work on cover letters and my résumé, thinking, “Didn’t I just do this?”
Because, yes! I have decided to quit! This is with a lot of encouragement from Claudia and the rest of my “support network” (therapist talk). I can’t wait to do it, but I’m holding off until I’m a little bit more stable (financially and emotionally).
Also, I am totally terrified of any confrontation whatsoever. There’s also that.
I’m supposed to be researching hotels in Rome for Vince’s next trip, but screw work. Instead, I’m going to tell you about the date I had with Bill Broadwick!
When I last left Bill Broadwick at the art gallery, I was Cinderella to his...oh, I can’t even say it. You know. I recently remembered that at Brown he was dating a girl named Tara who every boy ever always fell in love with, even though (because?) she had a mullet and wore only plaid. Every outfit she wore always had a bird somewhere on it. Bird print, bird pin on her bag, bird charm bracelet. (Does this attract men or hungry cats?) Anyway, that was a long time ago and I think I remember hearing that they broke up recently.
Instead of waiting for him to call me—he does not know where I live—I called Bill yesterday and we decided to meet for a coffee today.
I wanted to look casual, but I couldn’t resist curling my hair. I did not curl my mullet, because, let me remind you, I don’t have one.
He walked over to Fort Greene, and we went to a café called Bittersweet (I don’t think I’ve taken you there, but I will someday). It was crowded, so we took our coffee and went for a walk around Fort Greene Park, which for the record is not that big, so we had to circle it several times. It was twilight, and beautiful, but I was cold to my bones.
We fell into easy conversation about our daily lives, but now I feel strange because I barely know anything about who he is. Maybe it’s his slightly aloof demeanor and his opaque writing, but I guess I just wanted to hear stories about playing down by the creek with his brothers when he was a child or how he spent his high school prom night (if he even has brothers or went to prom—because I still don’t know). I think this really is a problem with me, because on dates, I either make small talk, or I want to delve into childhood trauma, unfulfilled dreams, hopes, etc. I no longer know what the middle ground consists of.
I turned into some weird, saccharine, muted version of myself to compensate. So nice. Way too nice.
Me: So are you still writing? Your story about the yurt was so amazing last year. You’re so talented. If you ever wanted me to proofread your stories, I would totally do it for you.
BB: Yeah, maybe. I submitted that to a bunch of contests, but I haven’t heard back yet. Mostly I’m working on my art writing right now.
He is just as beautiful as I remember and so insightful and intelligent. In case you were wondering if green eyes, blond hair, and rosy cheeks look radiant against a black peacoat, the answer is yes.
Eventually conversation died, so I walked him to the corner. His good-bye: “Well, I’ll see you around the neighborhood.” And I went in for the hug. Yes, I did. I tucked myself under his arms and squeezed (in case you don’t know what a hug is). He hugged back but in, like, a limp way with a sad pat on my shoulder.
I just texted him a minute ago with the name of a film we couldn’t remember and he has not written back.
Q) WHAT DOES TARA HAVE THAT I DON’T HAVE?
A) Nothing. Girl mullet.
Anyway, I have some semibig gossip about Ted. Aren’t you impressed that I haven’t written about him since we graduated? It’s so strange that a guy I loved so much (even though we never dated) suddenly doesn’t hold any power over me anymore. Or so I thought.
The other night Rosabelle and I were out at this party (all people from Brown, again—meh) and left at around 4 A.M. to go home. We were hungry and so we stopped by an all-night diner. I walk in and it hits me: It’s the exact same diner that Ted and Jon and I went to freshman year. We’d driven up to the city for the first time and it was snowing when we went to Brooklyn so I made snowballs and threw them at Ted, and then he put snow down my shirt, and my fingers were so cold that he had to hold them until we got back to his apartment. The memory made me nostalgic and so I called Ted like four times, thinking it’s only 1 A.M. in LA. Voice mail. Rosabelle stopped me and told me that Ted had moved to Toronto for a job and his phone number doesn’t work anymore. I couldn’t believe that she knew this and I didn’t.
This made me tear up, maybe too much for the occasion. That’s what I’m figuring out about depression; it’s two steps forward and one step back.
Granted, it was 4 A.M. and bitterly cold, but I had this moment—remember when we were all so young—again, I know we’re young now (but not as
young)—and being in New York seemed so glamorous? At least it did to me.
Sometimes I wish I were in China too. And that is saying something, because I really don’t want to live in China. It’d be easier if you were here in New York with me. Come back at some point in the next few years—it would make me really sad never to see you again except in passing.
To tempt you, let me remind you that New York has amazing movie theaters—I’m being sucked into spending all of my money and free time at Film Forum discovering a love for bleak Swedish films. And the MoMA! That is something I know China doesn’t have, because I walked past it yesterday and it’s still here.
Does it frighten you that Santa is relying on YOU to teach fifty thousand children about being naughty or nice? That’s a lot of pressure.
Are you still in love with Maxwell?
Loooooooooooooove,
Rachel
P.S. I’ve started writing fiction again. What do you think about a story about a girl who works at a gallery but then falls into the Gowanus Canal and dies....No, wait, I lost it. Too real. More later.
OCTOBER 24
Jess to Rachel
Although I think you’d look great with a mullet (you really have the bone structure for it), I just don’t think Bill Broadwick is the right guy for you. You definitely need someone who has an emotional range that goes beyond neutral. He is a cold, beautiful statue, and he’s not the kind of guy who is going to comfort you or listen to your feelings. However, he is such a hot statue and I know that if I had been on a date with him, I would have said all the wrong things and just blurted out weird opinions that aren’t even mine to fill the silence. Hot and smart men are unnerving. I would have wrapped my arms around him and squeezed, like, wayyyy too early and made it awkward for everyone. I probably would have also shouted something weird like, “Hug time!” to try to stop the oncoming awkwardness.
Something I keep remembering: Isn’t he also pretentious? He would go to the “naked parties” the hippies would throw on campus but keep all of his clothes on and just write about what the naked people were doing. (Comparing penises? To his own? I don’t know. I’ve never been. To the naked parties, or Bill Broadwick’s penis. But if I did, it would be awkward. “Penis time!”) But in any case, I do approve of your proactive approach to life and hugging.
A French hairstylist named Jerome told me it was time for bangs. I don’t know how he knew this, but I trusted him. Yes, I have full-blown bangs now. So there you go. Long, blunt, and in my eyes.
I didn’t tell Astrid about it beforehand, and her reaction when she saw me was that I look like a haughty Chinese girl, which, incidentally, might have been the look I was going for. With these bangs, I now look nearly 75 percent Chinese, not just half like I actually am.
So I was feeling okay about my bangs, when I walked into my favorite hole-in-the-wall serving steaming-hot noodle soup (this stuff is amazing. I could and do eat it every day) and I saw my doppelgänger. Same bangs. Same black coat. Same black jeans. She was even a halfie like me, except she had a nose ring. She looked exactly like me but only if I had an amazing magazine job and a boyfriend who sings in a band. She just looked like she had her shit together. The kind of girl who doesn’t give a fuck about what anyone thinks about her. It was like walking in on a cooler version of me.
Then I saw her flirting with the noodle guy that I always flirt with. No! It was actually really awkward. I’m sure she noticed the bangs and the coat likeness. I had to leave. I backed out slowly. So she won.
But I was fatter, so HA—got her there! (I seem to only eat noodles, buns, and rice here. I don’t know how Chinese women are so thin. It’s one of the greatest mysteries of the universe.)
I had dinner with Maxwell after my haircut. He told me he hates bangs. That’s okay. I’m okay with that now. To answer your question: No, I no longer love him. I’m realizing that he’s one of those rare characters who enchants everyone he meets. Every time he steps out, he draws in new friends and he literally cannot accommodate everyone who wants to hang out with him. I just made the mistake of thinking that our connection was special, when in fact, everyone feels connected to Maxwell.
So, yes, he’s charming and if you met him, you would briefly love Beard Brother too. Astrid’s grown tired of sharing him with all of his fans, and he seems to have moved on to pursuing someone else a little less intense. I used to care about his love life, but I no longer do. I’m just glad I don’t feel like I’m competing with Astrid anymore, although we still haven’t acknowledged that we both liked him.
I still feel like we’re changing, though. As you know, she and I have always had such an intense friendship—I’ve probably said more words to Astrid than I have to anyone else in my entire life (and not just because we are both incredibly fast talkers). Four years of sleeping in the same dorm room, of traveling together, of having all the same friends. I’m thinking about moving out of our apartment. I hinted at it a few times, but Astrid hasn’t taken the bait.
I want to branch out. I only just got here, so why have I spent so much of my time fixating on these two people, who are distracting me from things like my future career and the other 1.3 billion people who live in China?
I’m finally realizing that I’m so glad I came here. I’ll wander along to the fruit market downstairs and haggle in Mandarin with the market stall owners, observe the old ladies sitting in a row fanning their faces, wave hello to my noodle-shop boy, and buy a green-bean-flavored popsicle (sounds gross but is very refreshing). Then I’ll hop on my bike—a used one Jason gave me—and cycle to class singing at the top of my lungs because no one can hear me over the deafening roar of the construction sites and traffic horns.
These beautiful moments are a nice distraction from the stagnation of my career. (Is it stagnation if it hasn’t begun?) For some reason, I thought it would all fall into place as soon as I got here. Astrid got a job, and it’s freaking me out. First of all, it’s a great job. She’s working for some Chinese advertising agency that needed a German copywriter. You know how Astrid is fluent in about ten different languages. When both of us were just hanging out all the time, it felt like a totally normal and acceptable lifestyle. Now while she leaves the apartment so early every morning, I lie in bed and just have this sense of overwhelming, urgent panic before I have to get ready for class.
I need to stop going out all the time, but it’s so hard to focus here with the constant traffic of new and exciting people at the party. But I can’t continue to wait for the perfect job to fall into my lap.
I haven’t been able to find journalism jobs that don’t require fluent Mandarin, so I’ve arranged two interviews at PR agencies (one of them Ogilvy) and they are both for positions editing PR documents. I met a guy who had one of these jobs a few months ago. He said it’s pretty thankless and I would learn nothing and never move up. I don’t know what to do. How do I go into an interview already hating the job? Plus, I hate wearing blazers. Bulky, ugly. Dilemma. I think I’m being cornered into editing Chinglish and I don’t know how I’m going to escape this.
Important question about interview attire:
I know it’s cold, but do you think it is okay to wear a long skirt (hits calves) with bare legs instead of wearing opaque stockings that look weird with heels? Or would bare legs look slutty?
And, if the skirt is black, can I wear a blazer that is black with gray stripes, or should it all match perfectly? Please respond soon—my interview is at 10 A.M. tomorrow!
OH GOD, WHAT AM I DOING WITH MY LIFE?
Love,
No-One-Told-Me-What-Blazer-to-Wear Jess
P.S. You better write back. At least two lines.
OCTOBER 25
Rachel to Jess
JUST WEAR THE STRIPED BLAZER AND THE TIGHTS.
This is my two-line e-mail. I write three cover letters a night.
> NOVEMBER 10
Rachel to Jess
Jess—I did it. I quit my art gallery job.
My mom once told me that you know you’re an adult when you can stick your hand down the garbage disposal and deal with all of the shit that’s down there. I am maybe not enough of an adult for this, but the idea’s the same—it really is the first time that I’ve had to do something really unpleasant on my own. Well, with you on the other end of the...what, the Internet? The ethernet cable? The other side of my computer screen? I feel all comfortable and calm when I read your e-mails, and then I shut the computer and I gradually start to get fearful and anxious again—until eventually my arms and legs are numb.
I was so terrified about how Vince would react. I got to work an hour early and sat in Central Park listening to Madonna’s “The Power of Good-Bye” on repeat to feel empowered. So...that happened. And I took some Xanax. But these are not the same thing as courage.
And then I went in and had to be all, “Vince? Can I talk to you...alone?” It’s like breaking up with somebody. The second you say it, you both know what’s going to happen, but then you’re caught in this script that you have to play out.
We went into his office and I shut the door behind me. I was trembling. Had to stick my hands in my pockets. Now, normally, you know how I am about quitting things. When I quit the job at the library that summer, I just stopped going. It scares me.
So I told him why I’m leaving. The nice version, that doesn’t involve him punching walls. I mumbled something about his temper. He just stared at me, told me I was neurotic and that they needed me for two more weeks. It wasn’t as bad as Madonna and I thought it would be. It never is, I guess.
I don’t know if my next job will save me from the kind of despair I’ve been feeling, but I know I want to work somewhere more pleasant and relaxed. Prestige is so much less important than I ever thought.
