by Jessica Pan
It’s not like I’ve reached some higher plane. Even I’m not naive enough to believe that. But I am still here and, instead of anxious musings, I’m finally telling myself: “Wake up!” When Rosabelle and I walk through Central Park and the wind rushes through the trees, I think to myself, “You don’t want to miss this.”
This philosophizing may also be due to the fact that I keep skipping my sessions with Claudia. I imagine her sitting around drinking mint tea on her own and probably reading Freud or Jung or whoever is making her ask her opaque questions. I keep thinking that I don’t want to create more anxieties or delve into old ones. I feel like I don’t want opaque questions when, all of a sudden, everything seems so clear. I’m leaving my job soon and moving to Paris. It feels weird to quit a job I actually like, but it must be done.
For the first time in a long time, I feel okay, but it’s such a delicate balance.
More soon,
Scarface
APRIL 18
Jess to Rachel
I know the exact feeling you’re talking about, when you step out of the incessant superficial chatter in your head and actually become aware of what’s around you. I get it when I’m in the middle of a throng of motorists, cyclists, and cabs and look up and see an ancient temple looming over me.
As for George, you’re right. He probably is sexually frustrated. Things progressed slightly. I’ll say this much: I don’t mind kissing him. But then again, that’s the title of the least gripping romance novel in the world. Subtitle: He Was Just Okay.
I thought that if you get naked with someone, the attraction would just appear. But I was wrong. Once we start removing our clothes, I am completely detached. I tune out and it starts to feel like I’m just an observer rather than a participant. “So that’s what a hand on my right boob looks like.” So far, I’ve managed to escape actually having sex with him by always claiming to be late for an appointment I just remembered I had. “I’m meeting Astrid and I have to leave NOW.” It is a sign of George’s politeness that he does not say, “But it only takes fifteen minutes!”
Other than you, Astrid took the brunt of my George angst. She tolerated session after session of my justifications for trying to talk myself into him: “We’d be such a great couple. Our children would be so funny. They would have the best accents ever. He says ‘schedule’ in the funny British way, and that will never get old.” But you know Astrid can’t take this kind of delusional shit.
Finally, she sat me down and said, “Look, George is great. I get it. He’s funny and kind and it seems like he’ll love you forever. I can see that, too. But if you don’t want to have sex with him now, then you certainly aren’t going to want to have sex with him in ten years. And eventually, he’s going to hate your guts.”
Flicks cigarette.
“So end it today and have him hate you now or drag this out for ten years and have him hate you later. Your choice. But either way, he will hate you.”
Norwegian wisdom.
George came over to my apartment later that night. I let him in, trying to avoid his kiss hello, and he sat next to me on my couch with a smile as he reached over to pull me into him. But I stopped him and shook my head. He froze and we looked at each other for a few moments as I tried to get up the nerve to say something.
Only fragments ran through my head. The knowledge I would soon be ruining something special, the loss of someone that I genuinely liked, the fact that he really was one of the greatest guys I’d ever met. Instead of speaking, I started crying. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t have to. He put his arm around me and brushed my hair from my face. That’s how great George is—considerate and understanding even when I’m breaking up with him. He said he understood, that he knew something was wrong but that he didn’t want to face it.
Then he went from so nice to manic. He stood up and started pacing my apartment. After rambling for five minutes about how hard it was, how hard this was going to be, he abruptly announced that he was leaving.
At the doorway, he turned and said, “I thought we were going to be together for a really long time.” Then he grabbed me and kissed me, hard. I let him.
And then I closed the door.
I still have my doubts, and have to go around wondering whether George is the last man who will ever truly appreciate me, afraid that I was being too picky.
I mope and Astrid tolerates it briefly. Every time I think about backsliding, she grabs me and says, “Think of his penis. Do you want to be with his penis?”
That’s an old Norwegian saying grandmothers knit on throw pillows.
Why am I always writing about penises?? You don’t even want to know what Google ads keep appearing in my sidebar.
Meanwhile, George told all of his friends that I have ruined his self-confidence, that I led him on, that I was cruel, and that he hates me. Astrid was also right about that.
Apparently, if you don’t have sex with a guy you are dating, he will hate you forever. It doesn’t matter how much fun you had together—all he will remember is that you refused to have sex with him. Nothing else. The rooftop conversations while overlooking a lake? The book you gave him that changed his life? The time you saved him from a burning building? No. For every photo he sees of you, his eyes will superimpose a red X across your crotch and his heart will turn to stone.
Mutual friends wonder why I dated George at all if I’m not actually attracted to him. But friends become lovers all the time, don’t they? Rosabelle and Buster! Harry and Sally! Luke and Lorelai! Only now do I see that this happens in real life when friends suddenly see amazing new things in each other for the first time, making them suddenly want to rip each other’s clothes off. You can’t work backward—“This person is amazing, therefore I will eventually want to sleep with him.” It’s saying something that I would rather attend six imaginary urgent meetings with Astrid than have sex with George even once.
His friends call me Nonstick. Nonstick Pan.
Rachel! Come to China and knock some sense into me (with the hand that’s intact). How did I mess this up so badly?
Anyway, I have to finish editing and writing articles on breast-feeding and summer camps for Victoria (separate articles, thank God). I feel like I’ve been doing well at work—less heavy-handed editing by Victoria, and I’ve been given more responsibility, like ordering around the interns. However, the George drama did set me back a few days, and I turned in a book review to Victoria three days late. I think I’ve seen too many movies where the writer is depressed, incompetent, and lazy and their editor is patient and kind of a hard-ass who loves the writer anyway.
All lies, because Victoria’s not speaking to me now. Via e-mail, she has assured me that she does not love me.
Love,
Sad Jessi Trousers
APRIL 27
Rachel to Jess
I feel sad for the demise of you and George, and not just because I had grown to love the idea of you two. I always thought that if someone was great enough, we would love them. That’s the point of entire fairy tales. The Frog Prince? Beauty and the Beast? At least at the end, the frog and the beast turn into handsome men. In real life, you’re stuck with unappealing bedfellows whom you then have to sleep with for the next fiftysomething years.
If attraction didn’t matter, you and I would be married to each other!
I do think you are pretty, though.
Anyway, my hand is slowly getting better.
I quit my job last week. It was so different than when I quit with Vince, because I wasn’t scared about my boss’s reaction this time. My happiness is more important than inconveniencing two people for a short period of time. It also helps knowing I’m headed to Paris.
When I actually talked with my boss Joan, she just nodded sagely and said, “I knew you wouldn’t stay long. You’re meant for other things.” This confused me. Why did you hire
me, then? I mean, I’m glad you did...but then tell me what I’m meant for!
The feeling of having missed my calling again hit me after I posted my job description online to find my replacement. Responses started piling up after five minutes and by the end of the day, I had seventy-five. Each one made me question my decision to leave. “You are giving up a job people are lining up to take away from you. Most of these people are more qualified than you are in the first place! WHY ARE YOU LEAVING THIS JOB?”
I’ve made my decision, though, and I know that part of this fresh start has to be a refusal to dwell on things. So, moving on.
I’m heading to Wisconsin for a while to work on my French in a rent-free environment before flying to Paris. Rosabelle and Buster are both getting ready to move to Argentina for a year, so we’re all moving out soon. We drank champagne for hours yesterday evening celebrating our impending departure. The highlight was Rosabelle lying faceup, spread-eagle on the floor. “I loved this apartment! Why do we have to let it go? We had to search so hard for you, little apartment!”
One month left to go here, but New York has already started to feel like a memory: walking in flip-flops down brownstone-lined streets, working in a white air-conditioned space with film images flickering on the Chelsea gallery walls, riding in a 1930s elevator at the nonprofit, smoking in the midday heat, sitting on rocks by the East River at sunset.
All my love,
Meant for Other Things
MAY 8
Jess to Rachel
Last night Astrid and I stayed out really late and ended up at our favorite all-night duck restaurant, which we used to eat at all the time before we moved into separate apartments. While we were there, I was thinking about how great it was that finally we had our favorite go-to places when Astrid told me that she’s ready to leave Beijing.
She said she wants to return to the United States for law school. She’s tired of the language barrier, of not understanding most of what’s going on around her, of feeling slightly adrift. She kept repeating that she’s ready to return to real life. I don’t feel any of these things. For me, this is real life. Life back in the States—that’s what’s imaginary to me now.
I can’t fathom leaving Beijing after having worked so hard to begin a life here. Because Astrid and I came here together, it feels like if she leaves, I’m truly choosing Beijing, and this spur-of-the-moment decision suddenly becomes a real life choice. And as Astrid wraps up her life here, I’m finally realizing that this is a finite experience: At some point it will end for me too. I wonder what’s going to eventually pull me away from China.
Since I’m now fully committed to staying, I have resumed Mandarin lessons during my lunch break with a girl about our age named Karen. She gave me my Chinese name: Jie Si Ke. (I know that this looks kind of like my American name, but actually, using Chinese tones two, four, and three, it sounds like Gee-eh suh kaaaah.) Karen is thrilled that I am attracted to Chinese men—so many Chinese-American women claim they aren’t. I want to shake Chinese girls who say this and yell, “How can you say shit like that? If your mom had thought that, you would not have been born!”
Karen often invites me to dinner with her and her boyfriend, and each time there is a new bachelor waiting for me. Seriously. So far there’s been an American, a German, and last week, a Chinese guy who is in the military. I haven’t actually been on any dates with them, but sometimes the Chinese army guy and I text in rudimentary Mandarin. I don’t think our exchanges about my favorite fruit are building the foundation of a romance, but even so, a Chinese coworker informed me that if I date him, we have to register our relationship with the government because he is in the army. Also, he’s actually forbidden to marry a foreigner.
What? Sometimes I forget what a strange place China is and then I realize YouTube and Facebook are blocked on the Internet and the thought enters my mind that the Chinese government is reading these very e-mails.
I’m also beginning to really question how the skills I use on a regular basis will ever be applicable to any other job, even though I do enjoy working at the magazine. You know what I’ve learned so far this month? If you want to get into shape after pregnancy, don’t torture yourself by Google image searching “Gwyneth Paltrow.” Also, kids love pandas.
Sometimes on deadline I stay late, sitting with our non-English-speaking Chinese designer, Echo (self-named). She and I have reverted to pictographs to communicate, in which I draw elaborate layouts involving stick children and boxes for text. We argue heatedly about colors and fonts and then she gives me a big fake smile at the end of the conversation and says she’ll take care of it.
Victoria and I have a running joke about how we are afraid that Echo is going to smother us in our sleep.
In an eerily uncanny coincidence, Victoria has just sent me an e-mail telling me she “wants to talk to me in private” after we put this issue to bed. This is terrifying. What does she want?
Maybe she wants me to stop spending work hours writing to you?
I can’t believe you’re really leaving New York. Everyone is on the move. I remember sleeping on your couch in that apartment before I flew to Beijing—and now as you leave, Astrid’s headed back to the United States.
Love,
Jie Si Ke
P.S. My passport arrived with a new visa pasted inside. It says I got it in Mongolia. If anybody asks, that’s where I was last month. I mean, that’s where I was last month.
MAY 25
Rachel to Jess
Big news. I never thought I’d be writing a sentence like this to you, but a few days ago I opened my mailbox and there was a check from an insurance company for ten thousand dollars.
I have to open mail now by kind of clawing at it while using my teeth, so it was all wrinkly and a little wet, but there it was. At first I thought it was one of those Publishers Clearing House–type things, like, in tiny type, “enter to win” and then, enormously, “$10,000!” But when I thought it over, I realized it was from the pickup truck guy’s insurance company, and part of the check had already been signed over to my lawyer’s firm.
But I was still so confused about why I had this check. At first I thought it was for my medical bills, but I looked through them and they were all paid in full. Then I thought maybe it was some kind of trap, like if I accepted this check, it would only turn out to be worth one cent because there was a decimal place error.
So I called my lawyer and asked him if it was hush money.
Long story short, he’s been negotiating with them for “pain and suffering” money on my behalf, and this escaped me in my Vicodin haze. He has been e-mailing me ever since, but my e-mail filtered them into the spam folder.
So that’s how I endorsed an insurance check today for ten thousand dollars. I keep looking at my bank balance and blinking hard. The legal fight, such as it was, was quick and painless, except for the scars on my face and legs and my hand brace.
It’s kind of unbelievable that this is how things turned out. It seems like my time in New York was created to let me experience every possible human emotion, from the very worst to the very best. Depressive episodes on the subway, unrequited crushes in Fort Greene, bleeding on the street, healing in the springtime. Now I’m ready to move on.
Even though I’m starting something new, I’m glad that you’ll still be in China. I like to imagine you waking up in Beijing, on your way to work in the busy, chaotic city as I start unpacking my belongings looking out over my new quiet courtyard in Paris.
Paris and a full bank account. I feel rich. Blessed. Broken. Zsa Zsa Gabor? Elizabeth Taylor?
Okay, okay—truthfully, I thanked the universe, but I did not tell Claudia this. She told me not to blame the universe—but can’t I thank it for gifts?
Meanwhile, it’s warm here today just as June finally approaches. I’m sitting in our living room full of bo
xes, writing this. It feels like you’ve been in New York with me. In case you were wondering, you live inside my computer, where you emerge with messages from time to time.
Tuesday was my last day at work. Sally and I spent the day secretly sipping a bottle of cheap white wine, and then went out to a diner. Sally’s one of those New Yorkers who wasn’t born here but will never ever leave. Like the guy who calls me Dimples, or the French girl who works at my coffee shop. For some reason, I find this very comforting.
Yesterday was also my last day with Claudia. I’ll admit it: I cried. She was like, “You are ready! Go forth into the world! Go do amazing things, it is time!” And instead of my usual extended internal monologue, I just thought: “Well, maybe it is.”
I’m going to miss Rosabelle a lot, but not her insane cleanliness standards. I know that the second I live somewhere without her, I will immediately get mice. I’m okay with that, as long as I don’t have to clean the stovetop fourteen times a day.
But it’s going to be weird to be without her. I’m going to leave my best friend in New York, who sat with me in the emergency room and in tiki bars, baked countless cookies, and walked with me in Fort Greene Park. Rosabelle will always be New York for me.
Buster went back to Chicago before meeting Rosabelle in Argentina next week. Here is what our good-bye looked like:
Me: So, uh, see you later, Buster.
Buster: Yeah, um. Bye.
That was my easiest good-bye. It’s strange—I am suddenly sad to leave this great city, but then again, if someone said, “Oh, you love New York now? Here’s an opportunity to stay here for two more years!” I would swim across the ocean to Paris rather than accept their offer.
Like so many of the other women here, I arrived thinking I was exceptional in that moderately precocious, moderately well-educated, moderately good-looking way, and was immediately swept under the rug. New York is full of girls like me, being ignored and full of rage and confusion about why.
