Graduates in Wonderland

by Jessica Pan

  The office publishes four magazines, so I’m also writing features and music and book reviews for the other expat magazines, which keeps me sane. The editorial staff at the office is young (most of us seem to be under thirty), gossipy, and full of Brits, Americans, and a handful of Australians, which means entire afternoons are wasted on arguing about the correct word for swimwear (swimsuit, bathers, swimming costume, budgie smugglers?) while each nationality declares superiority. Office dress code seems to be anything goes besides budgie smugglers.

  The managing director sometimes brings his dog Xiao Xiong (Little Bear), who is currently sitting at my feet.

  When I told my editor, Victoria, that this was my first real job, she said, “This is your first real job? You’re kidding me. This isn’t a job. This is summer camp.” Which makes her my strict, intimidating camp counselor, especially when she edits my copy with a red pen, or circles a phrase and writes “NO” or “WHY?” or “SOUNDS LIKE CHINGLISH.”

  We have a very strange relationship, because we laugh together, but we aren’t particularly close. And sometimes her remarks are slightly offensive, or she turns her back to walk away when I’m still in the middle of a sentence. I imagine that this is what it would be like to have an older sister.

  Together we plan the content for the entire magazine, edit the columns, and organize the layouts. However, I don’t have my work visa yet, and that makes me panic because I feel that I could be deported at any moment. My current Chinese visa expires in a few months. Minor detail.

  Meanwhile, I’m still trying to figure out how to navigate the coworker/friend territory. My entire office often gets drunk together after work, and there’s many a handsome enough expat at each gathering. Getting drunk with coworkers is unnerving, especially when most of you are single and of similar ages. You start getting totally trashed, everyone is a little too touchy, and then the next day you’re back in the office, passive-­aggressively asking them for page forty-­three’s layout. This, more than anything, is the reason you shouldn’t ever date anybody at work. The sexual tension is fun, but then page forty-­three gets really fucked up.

  Anyway, the new job means I’m going to tell Astrid I’m moving out soon.

  I’m off.

  Love,

  The Worst Aunt Ever

  DECEMBER 5

  Rachel to Jess

  Oh my God, does this mean that we’re officially adults now? I still feel like I’m just playing at being employed, but now that Astrid, Rosabelle, and you all have jobs, I think we just might be on the verge. CONGRATULATIONS, by the way! I’m so glad you ran like hell from the badly paid PR job. The magazine sounds like what you’ve always wanted: no blazers, no swishy pants, puppies in the office. Oh, and writing, of course.

  However, you are wrong about Victoria acting like an older sister. An older sister does not make subtly offensive comments—­she makes directly offensive comments, sees you crying, and then backpedals and tells you that you are perfect. Also, she never lets you use the phone. It’s obvious you grew up with older brothers. Mostly because you never share clothing.

  And I agree about being paid for working. It must have to do with direct deposit. If we were paid in gold coins at the end of every shift, I think we would feel the connection more.

  I think that we can both agree that our new jobs are exponentially better compared to what we almost/did have. I listen to Ryan Adams and Joni Mitchell and Nico (all singing about Chelsea, where my beautiful loft office space is located) on my commute to work and on my much-­loved lunch hour. It is so great. TELL NO ONE.

  Chelsea is gritty but full of glamorous people and so...fake-­gritty. There are a lot of homeless people and a lot of art galleries in buildings that look like factories and usually were (mine was) and no trees. Cracked sidewalks and women with huge bouffant hair and gay men walking dogs and lots of girls like me in leggings and tall boots and scarves smoking and carrying coffee to our art jobs. I’m beginning to feel like I fit in.

  However, there’s a strange guy who mans the elevator at work, and he’s taken to calling me Dimples. I stare at the ceiling and count the floors.

  I had blocked Bill Broadwick from my mind since he disappeared (frustrating to know that he could actually be back, just a few blocks away, not calling me). I don’t think I told you, but I’ve been meeting up with Platonic Nick from Brown a lot lately. Why can’t I fall in love with him? He’d cook me pasta and watch old movies with me every night. Also, he gives great massages and always texts back. But you know how it is, I just see him as a friend and vice versa. Maybe this is because of his name, Platonic Nick—­he is cursed in this sense. I think we’re both kind of lonely, so we turn to each other for distraction—­of the nonsexual kind.

  I am actually beginning to like New York again. Now that I’m not on the Upper East Side and am dividing my time between Brooklyn and Chelsea instead, it’s gorgeous and all the things people always say it is. I spent yesterday afternoon at the New York Public Library, which made me think of Joan Didion, and which really struck a chord with me—­it really is set up like a cathedral for books. It was beautiful, and I got a lot of good writing done.

  Point being, though, I was in Midtown during the holiday season and it didn’t make me hate the city.

  I’ve been staying in a lot lately, and not just because it’s been bitterly cold. My new resolution is to save money, and so I’ve stopped going out. I don’t want to be in a position where I can’t afford to leave this job or even this city. So I’ve been spending my time running a lot—­as much as I can out in the cold (scary because no health insurance for the first three months—­so if I break a leg getting hit by a bus, it’s just going to have to stay that way) and writing as much as I can. It’s hard. Working all day takes it out of me.

  I still can’t help thinking: Is this the best life I could have? I miss having the time to mull over ideas for stories and to actually write. Tomorrow, the plan is to get up early to go to Café Angelique (the good one at 49 Grove, NOT the bad one at 68 Bleecker) and write before I go to work.

  In only a few weeks I’ll be in Wisconsin for Christmas, riding horses with my sister and pretending that we are the girls from Sense and Sensibility (don’t you dare judge me, hillbilly kisser).

  I’m glad it’s almost Christmas break. I’m going to keep running when I get home to Wisconsin. Right now, I’m going to read O magazine, which my mother sent me, because apparently I am forty.

  WRITE BACK.

  I LOVE YOU. And capital letters.

  Love,

  Dimples

  P.S. What does a four-­year-­old carry in a purse? Crayons? Lipstick?

  DECEMBER 17

  Jess to Rachel

  I can’t move my knees. I just Googled “delayed-­onset ski paralysis,” but it turns out this is not a thing. Sometimes Google is blocked here, sometimes not. YOU NEVER KNOW. One time I urgently needed to know how to kill a spider without looking at it and the Internet refused to tell me. I still don’t know!

  Last night I returned from a skiing trip with Astrid and some of her coworkers. We drove a few hours away from Beijing, but the snow is artificial (it’s not naturally very snowy near Beijing, but why let a good mountain go to waste?).

  Learn from my mistakes: Do not ever give into snow sports peer pressure OR take your first snowboarding lesson in Mandarin without first taking a Mandarin lesson in snowboarding vocabulary. All I remember is being near tears halfway down the mountain with my Chinese instructor (the only word she could say in English was “No”), looking down, and picking out which pile of fake snow I would prefer to die in because anything was better than continuing to try to snowboard. Luckily, I made it down the mountain alive, but I never went back up again.

  Invigorated by near-­death, telling Astrid I wanted to move out didn’t seem like such a big deal. I think she had been sensing my growing unhappiness, and at din
ner that night I finally just told her how I felt and that it will be better for our friendship in the long run if we lived separately. And actually, she didn’t freak the fuck out. She agreed, and seemed to take it really well, until a few glasses of wine later, when her eyes filled with tears.

  “You’re abandoning me. We came here together, we spend all of our time together, and you’re abandoning me. You’re my family, and you’re abandoning me.”

  I felt like a terrible person, but she and I can’t keep going around in circles like this. I tried to explain how I needed to focus on my life and that when she and I are together, entire days go by where we don’t leave the couch or we just sit in a café and talk all day. I didn’t come to China to spend my days with Astrid, but I didn’t know how to say this. Finally, I explained another point that has been on my mind lately: Eventually, one of us will get a boyfriend who would probably spend most nights at our place, and neither of us wants to live with the other one’s boyfriend. When I said that, something seemed to click. She got it.

  The name Maxwell was not mentioned once.

  Anyway. I’ve already found a new roommate and place to live.

  Before I even told Astrid I was moving out, I responded to an online ad from a twenty-­one-­year-­old guy from New Zealand named Chris, and no, I’m not attracted to him because he has huge muscles and blond hair. He has a beach house in New Zealand that his twin brother is currently living in. I’m not going to lie; half the reason I wanted to live with him is because I was imagining myself at this beach house.

  I asked him if he’s the type of guy to sleep with a different Chinese girl every night and Chris said, “No. Sometimes the same one.” Yeah, I asked this during the roommate interview, and I still got accepted.

  He seems friendly and fun, and he said he wants a roommate to actually be his friend. He laughed a lot. However, the place reeks of boy. It’s covered in popcorn and beer...but it would be nice to have someone to visit in New Zealand?

  I move in two days!

  After our first meeting, Chris invited me out to have a beer at a bar downstairs. I don’t entirely understand his accent. At times, it was harder to understand his English than to interpret Mandarin with locals. He had to repeat himself three or four times before I got what he was saying.

  From what I can tell, Chris says cunt a lot. But he says it in his accent, so it’s not as jarring as it would be in ours. “He’s such a stupid cunt.” The first few times, I didn’t even notice it because I thought he was saying, “He’s such a stupid cat,” or “He’s such a stupid cad.” I found myself laughing or agreeing before I realized what he was saying. And then I thought, am I encouraging the usage of cunt? He only refers to males as cunts, which is even more confusing. I never call girls dicks. He’s definitely brasher than I’m used to.

  I have never had someone call me soft before, but Chris does all the time. As in, “You don’t like looking at my scars? Or talking about cunts? You’re fawking [NZ accent] soft.” I’m also cheeky. Cheeky and soft. Which sounds like really nice toilet paper.

  The lease expires when Chris goes back to New Zealand in a few months, so it’s not long-­term, but it was available immediately. I hope this is a good idea.

  Love,

  Jess

  P.S. Why do you read O magazine? Are you looking for advice on how to get your twenty-­two-­year-­old son to move out of your house? You wear colorful knitted sweaters and you drink hot water in the morning because it’s cleansing and you make time for yourself, because you deserve it? That’s okay. Just tell me what Oprah would tell me to do.

  DECEMBER 22

  Jess to Rachel

  drunky drunk drink

  my new kiwi flatemaste came hone and he smoked on my winsow sill. it was actually nice. then he climbed in my bed. but i kicked him out. no worries.

  danced like crazzy at a chinese club.

  miss you heapssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

  DECEMBER 22

  Later that day

  Rachel to Jess

  Don’t sleep with your roommate!!! You never had this problem when you lived with Astrid....

  DECEMBER 30

  Jess to Rachel

  Rachel! Rachel! Wake up! Wake the fuck up! I met a boy! All because I live with Chris, and apparently boys are like Russian dolls—­if you find one, he leads to other ones (who are inside of him???). Or boys beget boys who beget boys or something. (I don’t know, Rachel! Old Testament? WHAT DOES IT EVEN MEAN?)

  Sorry for the yelling. I don’t know where to begin. There. Is. A. Brazilian. Boy. Asleep. In. My. Bed. THERE IS A BRAZILIAN BOY ASLEEP IN MY BED! I think he is a belated Christmas present.

  He plays on Chris’s rugby team, and I met him at a terrible, terrible trashy Chinese nightclub when I was out with Chris. I wish I had some witty story about how we started talking, but we were mostly SHOUTING into each other’s ears to be heard above the music. It was dark, there were strobe lights, and I was holding a gin and tonic in a plastic cup. I think the conversation went something like:

  Me: WHERE ARE YOU FROM?

  Him: NEW ZEALAND.

  Me: OH! Like Chris! NEW ZEALANDERS UNITE!

  Him: NO! BRAZIL.

  I said it wasn’t a good story.

  The rest of the rugby team attempted to sit down in a crowded booth and I ended up on top of him. Bruno. His name is Bruno, and it turns out he is half-­Chinese, half-­Brazilian. He has a heavy accent and he is a male god. Dark beautiful skin, thick lips, broad shoulders. Somehow, sitting on his lap turned into full-­blown making out, and I just didn’t care that I was in public. At all. This is growth, right? I’m growing. Since we’re both part-­Asian, we compared our Asian glows. Do you remember this phenomenon? It’s when I (and most other Asians) drink alcohol, and our skin turns bright red, our eyes become bloodshot, and our skin becomes hot? Well, Bruno has it too (as will our children).

  At 4 A.M., he came home with Chris and me, because he lives outside the city, and now he’s fast asleep in my bed. I can’t sleep when boys are in my bed! One person tells you that you snore and you’re doomed for life (Damn you, Astrid!). Besides, there is a Brazilian god in my bed—­who can sleep at a time like this?!

  How do I make him stay there...forever? He was a really good kisser.

  He is completely naked. Nothing happened besides making out, but in his drunken tiredness, he flung off all of his clothes.

  What do you say to a naked Brazilian god when they wake up in your bed? I would try to Google this, but currently Google is blocked in Beijing AGAIN.

  Text me your reply. I don’t care if it costs three dollars to text China.

  AHHHH,

  Jess

  DECEMBER 30

  Later that day

  Rachel to Jess

  Look, are you even sure he speaks English? I have no advice for you! In movie scenes like yours, the girl often brings back a bag of bagels and coffee and then they walk around Central Park, and the guy sort of brushes the girl’s hair out of her eyes, squints, and says, “Let’s do this again,” and he gets into a yellow cab. So...do that.

  I am at home and just finished a juice fast. I will never drink juice again. I did lose four pounds (all back now, in case you were wondering—­WORTHLESS). I would not recommend.

  Even back home and faint with hunger, I’ve gotten more writing done than I have in the six months since graduation. My dad and I just sit up in his office with our backs to each other and type, type, type.

  It’s such a peaceful life.

  It hasn’t snowed here yet, so everything is brown and muddy and gray, with bare tree branches and huge flocks of blackbirds, and in this world, New York City does not exist.

  Back there, I still have really low periods maybe once or twice a week, where it’s impossi
ble to see anyone. Here, though, I feel steady and calm and peaceful, and I start to wonder: Even though I love my work environment, do I really love my job? Is that what I want to be doing for the next twenty years? And why am I even in New York, other than the fact that it was the default graduation plan?

  To my older sister, who traveled around forever and then moved to Madison after graduation, these questions seem so stupid. “Rachel, nobody is making you stay! Can’t you just leave?” she asks.

  I hadn’t even considered that. When you want to work in the art/publishing/creative universe, New York seems like the only place to be. But when you hear it said out loud like that, it seems so obvious that there are other great places.

  I’ve been going back and forth with my future plans. I always thought I’d go to creative writing grad school at a certain point, but I feel like that’s just following too closely in my father’s footsteps. Also, I really only want to go to one school, and the deadline for the Iowa Writers’ Workshop is in just a few days. On the other hand, I just read a book of short stories from the Workshop’s alumni, and so many people just write about being middle-­aged professors who hate their spouses and have affairs with their students, or who have to run their English departments. It’s hardly fiction, and I feel like I haven’t lived enough to really focus on my writing. I don’t think I’m ready.

  When I really let myself dream big, in my fantasy I get to study film and live in Paris, the city I love the most. The six months I spent there during college made me so happy, and I’ve always vowed to find a way to return.

  And so I’ve applied for a Fulbright fellowship. I just want to see if I’ll get it. No, that’s a lie. I applied for it because I want one SO BADLY. Instant ticket to a new life. Rosabelle also applied for one, to Argentina. I think being at home makes adventures seem both more exciting and more possible, but also somehow more imaginary (like, I don’t think about how to sign up for French health insurance, only planning my outfits for wandering along the Seine).