“Wanna know what our code word for you is?” he whispered to the ceiling that night as I lay naked by his side, trying to make a permanent impression of my 34Bs on his chest—a physiological proof of purchase. Staring down at his other head, I was immediately grateful he couldn’t see me smiling like a dismembering serial killer. Our? He talked about me with his friends? Code word? I was worthy of synecdoche?! Some lucky part of me (bitchy, baby-hungry, black?) was going to be the immortal epithet to my issues with men. If I’d paid more attention to Mrs. Paul’s sixth-grade lecture on word choice, I’d know whether to be anxious or eager.
“Whaaaaaaaat?” I sighed, hoping to sound appropriately apathetic and not like the possessed Dex fiend that I’d become. Umm, he already knows, dude. By then it’d been about a month, and already everything about him gave me uncontrollable ghost itch—his love of the History Channel and skinny neckties. I would call it something paranormal if this hadn’t been the natural flow of things: girl meets boy, boy says something awkwardly amusing to girl, girl decides boy must be him, and then Facebook turns him into a hobby—or a habit. I was addicted, and our code word would be my next fix.
“Perfect girl,” he said in the dark.
Fuck. I stretched the ashen webbing between my toes to their limit, arched my back to the point of breaking, and dug my nails a few centimeters deeper into his man boobage. But this wasn’t ecstasy, it was exhaustion.
I’d spent the last thirty days doing everything to prove myself worthy of calling this jackass my boyfriend. When Dex called me at 3:00 a.m. wanting to talk about nothing in particular (but really everything indefinable), I answered the phone (which had been waiting impatiently beneath my pillow). When Dex wanted dinner, I cooked as if I hadn’t ordered the No. 17 from Sala Thai for the last six nights in a row. When his number showed up on my BlackBerry in the middle of a Tuesday (ice cream at the Lincoln Memorial!), I slapped an end quote on the ass of another boring story and ran outside to meet him. I even had an “in case of Dex” bag under my desk at work (mascara, thongs, Burt’s Bees, invisible solid). I washed his dishes while mine nurtured micro universes at home. I did his laundry while going pantyless by necessity. I gently lectured him on fiscal responsibility while waiting in line at ACE Check Cashing and Pay Day Loans.
In short it was no surprise, then, that when given the Rorschach test of premeditated shit I never do, the suicidal adjective that leaped from Dex’s lips was “perfect.” This was an involuntary response based on shoddy research, like having a panic attack after a missed period. Just wait a couple more days. What shocked me was that he’d actually bought it. He seriously believed that he’d found the Ivy League Barbie Doll, the fully posable collector’s edition complete with removable panties. No wonder Frances refused to buy me those monsters as a kid. It wasn’t about the impossible complex I’d develop—to be young, gaunt, and blond—but the all-too-possible fulfillment of that fantasy. I could and would be perfect for this perfect man, my Ken without the plastic hair. The thing is, I was, and he wasn’t. So I resented, and he retreated. That night, he thought explaining himself would break the awkward silence he didn’t expect. (I mean, who doesn’t want to be “perfect girl”?)
“You are actually better than me as a person,” he confessed, unnecessarily. “If we had a person contest, you would defeat me—handily.”
“Are you serious?” I answered back, trying to sound both flattered and surprised, but definitely not scared shitless.
“Yeah, I mean, you’re awesome.”
Like I said, Dexter didn’t know it yet, but with one word he’d begun to seal our fate, activating the ticking time bomb on the dating doomsday device. Perfect girl? Depending on which side of the law you were on, she was either superhero or villain. By now it should be apparent to most that I am neither perfect nor any synonym thereof. Moreover, at this exact moment in time I’ve realized that playing Super Cool is not a good look, because despite my very best efforts, I’d become a girl, not the girl. Really, I was one of those women—the ones who are so strong and black that the jumbo-size S on their chests is assumed. I for one don’t remember the trip to the phone booth.
Actually, that’s a lie.
It’s like how I figured out how to cheat at FreeCell.
I discovered the game one virgin night in my freshman dorm room, JJ 602. Mousing through My Computer seemed more gratifying than reading more Virgil. Minesweeper, being the most asinine guessing game ever invented, was out of the question. Hearts is for a demographic who don’t know nothing ’bout no computers. And Solitaire? Too obvious.
FreeCell I’d never tried. The mug shot of the bearded blond king guarding the game had misled me all these PC years. He was staring offscreen somewhere, perhaps into the blank page that was my social life. I read it as a warning sign but double-clicked anyway, spending the next four hours pairing black queens with red kings and forgetting about the fact that some jackass hadn’t called. Highlighting the arrow of All Programs to Accessories, which led to Games, which then pointed to FreeCell, made me feel like I was going somewhere. Having unblemished stats made me feel like it didn’t matter that I wasn’t. If a single round seemed lost, before giving up I’d walk away from the computer, take a lap around the sixth floor, maybe even have a conversation with a human being, and then come back—mind cleared and ready to rock. At the height of my lameness, I had a streak of like 27 wins and 0 losses, which is not to say that I only played 27 games of FreeCell. If I ever lost—no matter how geekily high my win column—I’d take a final glance at the awesomeness of my achievement and start over. “Are you sure you want to clear all statistics?” Yes. Eventually, I got sloppy, got my cherry popped, and left FreeCell behind with all my other freshman things.
When real life happened, the idea of stealing a few minutes from work doing something mindless became as compulsory as a cigarette break. This time around, however, losing was not an option. Half-finished games would stay minimized at the bottom of my screen for days, the bearded king looking militaristic. Stumbling into a statistical loophole that ensured I’d never “lose” made me feel more genius than cheat.
Say all the free cells are loaded. A Queen of Spades is propped up against a King of Diamonds. Just one column over is a lonely King of Hearts. She’s sort of got options—one egomaniac for another—but then again, not really. So the game’s over, technically—but, since there are pointless moves left, not really. At this point, there’s nothing else to do but stare at the screen and wish you had made better choices in the beginning, right? Not quite. If you ever find yourself stuck between that Queen of Spades and no place (that is to say, in royal trouble), relax. Just make sure you save all the really important crap you have up—Excel spreadsheets entitled “HDA Expenses: The Musical Comedy,” and PDFs of party invites you’ll never rsvp to—and then go to your start menu and end it all. I mean shut the shit down. For some holy reason, the “Are you sure you want to resign this game?” box doesn’t pop up. And best of all, when you log back in to Windows, FreeCell won’t count your cowardice as a loss—just a temporary breakdown.
That’s what Dex was. Or, better yet, that’s who perfect girl was. Just a momentary lapse in perception. The game, not being lost or over, just needed a reboot. Pretending perfect works just as good as being. If I showed him the Michelle in me, then eventually he’d have to see the Helena in me too. She’s creeping around here somewhere—crouched down behind the trash cans blocking my basement apartment’s window, sneaking peeks at the two happy people clicking between History Channel and HGTV. One is dreaming of a “three, two” somewhere in Silver Lake, and he’s boning up on the big bang theory. One time, they both got really crazy and started Googling Chicago real estate. The perfect girl almost had a seizure. He was just having a spousal moment. It would eventually pass, though, and the window to the basement apartment would get blocked by too many recycling bins.
The same conversation got rinsed, reprocessed, and repurposed every few weeks:
“I’m just scared I can’t live up to even your lowest expectations of me,” Dex announced to the back of my head on another night for insomniacs.
“I’m sorry…what?” Remember, alls I had to do was reboot without regret, and none of this would count in the morning. I was only half listening.
“I don’t know.” He sighed, using one hand to wipe down his face like a clean slate. “It’s like you’re perfect, you put everything like out there and do everything right. What do I do besides screw everything up?”
“I have no clue how to respond to that without violence.”
“You’re like my favorite verse. I’ve got you on repeat and I never get tired of you, but…”
“So just to review—” I had to stop the hip-hop similes before Jeeps got involved. “You’re saying that I’m too good for you.”
“I don’t know. Something like that. I’m just bad with women.”
I exhaled resignation, flipped over so my back faced his front, and scooted my ass deeper into the crook of his crotch. “Go to sleep,” I said, shutting him down. Tomorrow we’d start up again, and maybe then I’d figure out a way to win. And if this was a blinking warning signal, then Gina was the pop-up message that spelled everything out, “Sorry, you lose. There are no more legal moves.”
“If dude is telling you fifty thousand ways that he ain’t ready, listen to him,” she concluded at the end of a marathon my-life-sucks-and-every-dude-I-date-turns-out-to-be-a-raging-asshole phone call. She was probably right, but ’member before what he said? He said I was perfect. Remember that? Can’t we just focus on that for a minute, please?
Gina had memories of my own to share. Like when West Point Willy told me he wanted to “take a step back,” and I let him date other women, knowing he’d come back to me one day because, hellooo, I was the best thing that’d ever happened to him since not dying in Iraq. I wasn’t, and he didn’t. And when Abdul said he wasn’t over his ex-fiancée and I gave him time, because seriously, that chick was hideous, and he, despite being Muslim, bought me a DVD player for Christmas. Like if he could barrel through religious roadblocks as hard-core as Islam versus whatever I was, then forgetting some hideola girl who wore jean skirts should not be that hard. They got back together in three months, and I got Netflix. And when James said he thought he would lose his job shuffling legal briefs because I worked in the newsroom twenty-one floors down, I thought he was totally justified. The plan was to just wait until he went back to school in the fall. September came and went. He started dating some midget who ran marathons and, according to Facebook, liked cooking “big ole meals.”
Gina had points.
“We broke up last night,” was how I said hello the next morning. I gave up on being perfect and decided to be a soldier instead. I blocked Dex on IM. I threw the toothbrush I kept at his apartment in his trash can, hoping the pathetic image would drive him insane, or at least to my basement apartment on Ninth Street.
“Whaaaaa?” Gina said, feigning an appropriate modicum of surprise. Best friend indeed.
“Yeah, dude. He said he wasn’t ready for a relationship and bla bla bla. We’re done this time. I can’t do this back-and-forth shit anymore. It’s for the birds.”
“Right, dude, you gotta keep that shit moving.” She was on auto-pilot now. “K.I.M.”
We both knew this was all bullshit—a rehearsed spontaneous dance number that was getting harder to perform night after night. I was the jerk in the Magical Mister Mistoffelees costume wondering how my master’s in fine arts came to this. Dex was the master of backtracking. My phone rang by evening. Maybe he’d come around—the white-capped mountains of my gleaming perfection. Maybe it was snow blindness he was scared of, not a healthy, loving, and monogamous relationship with one Helena “You’re Awesome, You’re Perfect, Now Change” Andrews. How would I ever know if I didn’t pick up the phone? “Hello?” We’re back “together” in the time it takes to spell-check abracadabra.
I was an annoying narrative arc on a teen soap opera. Okay, we get it. These two crazy kids will never get together! It’s impossible. Too much has happened! Dan and Serena, I’m bored of you now. The best way to flip the script would be to get the upper hand this time. I never IM’d Dex first. Let the phone ring at least three times before answering. And I refused to play Scrabulous with him for weeks, ignoring every new game he started and then pretending like I hadn’t. I was through with games, see.
“Stop ignoring my Scrabulous requests!”
“What are you talking about, crazy pants?”
“My pants aren’t crazy. Get on Scrabulous.”
Obviously this man wanted to marry me and inseminate me immediately thereafter. Why else would a stupid computer game be so important? He loved me in a place where there’s no cyber space or time. So Scrabulous became our new thing. We made dates to play—Okay, be at your computer in an hour—and our daily conversations were peppered with talk of word scores and numbered tiles. And then, of course, he screwed it all up again.
“I just don’t want you to hold out for me,” he said out of the total blue one day while we were spending quality time online. I’d mentioned a blind date I was maybe going on—maybe. He had to know I had options. Endless tiles!
“I see,” I said from my couch.
“I dunno…,” he said from his. “I just don’t want you to drop perfect guy for not-so-perfect me.” My exhausted fingertips rested against the keyboard, and I watched our latest reconciliation disappear as he typed each new hurtful line.
“So I guess you’re right,” I wrote. “I’ll move on.”
“Geez Louise.”
“What? That’s obviously what you’re saying.” I was too exhausted to do anything but play the game. “Anyways, what does ‘swap tiles’ mean?”
“You lose your turn, but you can exchange your letters for new ones.”
“K.” Just perfect.
Nine
HELENA ANDREWS HAS THE BEST PUSSY IN THE WORLD
ABORTION MONKEY? Who wouldn’t open that e-mail?
It was the winter of 2004, and my virtual load of junk mail was engorged to the point of needing medical attention. While sifting through spam from Seymour Butts and Mike Hunt to make sure nothing nonpervy got lost in translation, I noticed the most random coupling of nouns capitalized. Abortion and monkey. Not tits and ass or pleasure and her or lottery and winner, but abortion and monkey in all fucking caps. There was also the subject line to consider—“chimp.” My inner pervert had been piqued.
“No wonder your father left you and that dyke,” it read. Wait, what? Was this a telepathic telemarketer? Was I the unlucky member of a new golden demographic? And if so, what exactly was Abortion Monkey hocking—therapy?
The e-mail address didn’t help any: [email protected]. At first it looked like Helenaisastan kape. Never been there. Or maybe Helena I. Sastankape. Don’t know her either. Suddenly settling like a snow globe, I saw it for what it really was—Helenaisastankape. The fuck?
There was only one person in the history of the universe who hated me so much that he’d take time out of his busy schedule of being fucking nuts to come up with a clever alter ego and then set said phantom up with its own e-mail account. Abortion Monkey was his nom de guerre. First name Abortion, last name Monkey.
This was microwaveable abuse. He knew that word would fry my insides. Abortion, abortion, abortion, abortion. No matter how many times I tried to make it toothless, it still gnawed. Had anyone glanced over my shoulder to see it written in all caps? Had they then cracked the code that was “helenaisastankape,” and finally, like Occam, arrived to the so obvious conclusion that at nineteen, with barely a peace sign’s worth of sex partners, I’d had an abortion using the money I got from my student health insurance?
It happened sophomore year, right before falling in love for the first time with Darin (hotmail known as Abortion Monkey).
I’ve never wanted a Valium more in my entire life, but I still said no.
Grant, my potential baby’s daddy, had given me $200 the night before, unaware that Columbia’s health insurance plan paid for “terminations.” I figured he owed me, having acted like an asshole when I screamed in his face, “I’m fucking pregnant, you idiot.” We were at a party on campus. Grant had spent the week prior trying to compel me into menses—“It’s probably just stress.” We had sex once, the fourth time I’d done it ever, and the condom broke (a phenomenon that seems to occur most prominently in the young and the retarded). The plan was for me to get the morning-after pill from Women’s Health the next morning and for us to go back to being teenagers.
To Grant’s credit, he felt guilty enough to endure the walk of shame with me. On the way back to my room, I tried holding his hand while he succeeded in avoiding mine. Once in front of McBain Hall, we gave each other a series of awkward friend pats and blended in with everyone else like nothing had happened or was happening.
There was a football game that day. I showed up at Health Services in my cheerleading uniform, standing in line behind a guy whose penis was apparently on fire. The whole setup was either ill advised or thought up by a devotee of Opus Dei. A woman whose sole job it was to make sure idiot kids didn’t kill themselves over the weekend, known professionally as a triage nurse, sat behind a type of bank teller booth–slash–confessional in the middle of the waiting area. She was irritable and old, so mumbling your midnight transgression wasn’t an option. A lot of stage whispering was going on. And because there were so many of us sinners, a line had formed, giving each of us a chance to mortify ourselves in public. I was on deck after the chick with vaginal itch. She got as far as “but there isn’t any discharge or odor” when I left. Pregnant? Me? Noooooo.
Bitch Is the New Black Page 11
