The Roxy Letters

by Mary Pauline Lowry

  I’ve barely seen Annie since she moved up to her new job on the fifth floor, where she acts as a griffin guarding the priceless treasure of Whole Foods—its wacky C-suite exec and environmental warrior Topher Doyle. But today she came down on her break and stopped at the deli counter to see me.

  “What’cha doing down here with the pleebs?” I asked.

  “Buying kombucha. Lavender for me because I need to chill the fuck out. Pomegranate for Topher Doyle because he says it’s a Greek symbol of eternal life and abundance. I do think he’s actually trying to both live forever AND become the most influential corporate environmentalist on earth.”

  I used to brew kombucha faithfully, but since I landed in this slump I haven’t bothered. “At least Dirty Steve isn’t shooting for immortality.”

  “I like it when you see your glass as half full. Will you come up on your lunch break to check out my new digs?”

  I told her I’d be elbow deep in a batch of kung pao tofu but she refused to accept such a bullshit excuse.

  “Okay, fine,” I said. “I can’t because I’m too jealous you’ve escaped the confines of the deli case. If I see your admin desk I might swoon with envy.”

  She told me to quit whining and meet her at the elevators at 1:05 p.m.

  I’d been acting like I was pretending to be jealous. But the truth is I am actually jealous. I’ve been standing behind that deli counter for three years with nary a move except that of keeping myself from being fired last week. (The fact that I consider that a move, dear Everett, shows just how stagnant my life has become.) Annie was my deli pal, sure, yet after only six months she rocketed herself upstairs to the nerve center of a health-food empire.

  And so it was that I walked to the elevator at our meeting time, feeling a little sorry for myself. Annie was standing there waiting for me, looking happy and excited. She used her badge to gain us access to the fifth floor. The elevator doors opened and it was like a golden heavenly light shone on us. I was so disoriented by its glow it took me a while to realize it was a combination of sunlight coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows and some new age, high-tech lighting system Topher Doyle likely sprung for to prevent himself and the rest of the upper echelon of the company from being exposed to the draining effects of fluorescents. “It’s crazy that when we were born, Whole Foods was still a tiny local chain with just a handful of stores,” I mused. “It was small when we were small.”

  “I know. And now that we’re grown, it’s a corporate behemoth.”

  “Is it terrible that I think of it as our corporate behemoth?” I asked. And by “our” I meant not just me and Annie, but every other Austin slacker raised on the notion that true success means working a “cool” low-wage job—at a record store, coffee shop, or yes, at the one acceptable corporate giant Whole Foods—that barely supports one’s artistic endeavors (or what the alchemists referred to as one’s Great Work).

  “Let me give you a tour,” Annie said. First she took me to the Help Desk room, where a row of staggeringly attractive, tattooed men and women sat wearing headsets, cheerfully talking Whole Foods employees from around the country down from the hysteria of their minor tech disasters. They all smiled and waved at us, gesturing that they were too absorbed in their glorious duties supporting the empire to chat with us. I noticed that two of the men were super-hot identical twins.

  Annie then took me to her desk, which sat just to the right of a closed door made of gleaming walnut. A nameplate beside the door read:

  TOPHER DOYLE

  CHIEF ECOSYSTEM OFFICER, WHOLE FOODS

  (This nameplate was made from recycled six-pack rings plucked from the Gulf Coast and thus saved the lives of one to six baby seals.)

  Just then, a guy with chunky glasses and an artfully arranged mop of hair approached. “I was hoping I could—”

  Annie cut him off. “Topher Doyle is working quietly now. Feel free to email me a request to speak to him via Outlook.”

  The guy nodded and slunk away sheepishly.

  “Oh my Goddess, you’re like the personal guardian of Topher Doyle’s uninterrupted mental focus,” I said, a little awed by her proximity to power.

  “No one gets to Topher Doyle without my permission,” Annie replied. On our way out, I spotted an open door to a big office with a giant drafting table. A man stood in front of a chalkboard easel. In deep red chalk, he drew a giant bunch of strawberries. It was just a sign for the produce section of the store announcing a sale, but it was so lovely that I stopped to stare, a wistful feeling coming over me at that unexpected beauty.

  I lingered in the doorway, envious of the ease with which he created this chalk drawing, which—though bordering on the sublime—was destined to be erased in days to make way for the next store sale. It’s funny that when I was a kid sidewalk chalk was my favorite medium, but now, maybe because it’s so ephemeral, I would never think of using it. (Perhaps I lack the acceptance of the transitory nature of material life possessed by Tibetan monks who labor so hard over their beautiful sand mandalas only to dismantle them once they are complete.)

  “Roxy!” Annie said, snapping me out of my chalk drawing reverie. I hurried after her. At the elevator, she gave me a hug.

  “Thanks for coming to check out my new desk.”

  “It’s like you’ve ascended,” I said. “And now I’m headed back down to the underworld.”

  “A bout of self-pity a day keeps positive action away.”

  “You did not just say that,” I replied, which was my only retort because she was exactly right. Just then the elevator dinged, ready to lower me back down to the hellscape of the deli. “Sorry for being a brat.”

  “I love you, brattiness and all,” Annie said, just as the doors closed between us.

  A melancholy mood enveloped me for the rest of my shift. I’m not such a baby that I’m not happy for Annie. It’s just that no matter if she comes up with excuses to come see me in the store, it won’t be the same. I’ve lost my deli pal, and serving food to sensitivity–ridden hippies, local scrubs, and yuppie moms isn’t the same without her by my side.

  I must have looked sad, too, because even Dirty Steve noticed. “Cheer up, you dirty freak,” he said.

  “Don’t you have a stripper to assault or something?” I replied.

  “Too soon,” he said. “Way too soon.”

  My mood cheered considerably a few hours later when I finally got a text from Artemis! She asked if I wanted to meet up for coffee later this week!

  Intrigued by a potential new friend,

  Roxy

  P.S. It’s a relief to know I won’t be giving you this letter, because as close as we are, I’d still feel embarrassed to reveal to you the depths of my petty jealousies and tendency to wallow.

  July 13, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  I was hoping you’d be here when I got home tonight. I just had the most amazing outing with Artemis Starla and I want to tell you all about it. Before I left the house, I was so nervous and excited that I tried on three outfits, finally settling on a sundress and sandals. (What else did I think I could wear in this heat, really?) We had decided to meet at Spider House for coffee. Thank Goddess that Spider House is still going strong, despite the fact that Starbucks stores have spread through the city faster than an STD in a retirement home. Inside its dark interior, Missy Elliott blasted through the speakers while students hunkered in booths, drank espresso milkshakes, and pretended to study when really they were alternately flirting and reading snarky articles on “Jezebel.”

  I’d only been standing at the counter for a minute when Artemis breezed in, looking incredible in some sort of space-age silver minidress with white platform sandals. When she spotted me, her face lit up like a neon Lone Star sign. “Roxy!” she cried, in a way that made me feel amazing.

  “Cute dress!” I said.

  “Thanks, love. It’s actually supposed to be part of a sexy space cadet Halloween costume. But I like it for summer.”

  We
ordered iced lattes. Artemis insisted on paying, then glanced around the loud, dark room. “Should we sweat it out on the patio?” she asked. We grabbed our iced lattes and made our way outside, where we settled in at a slightly wobbly, brightly colored aluminum table.

  From the moment we sat down, her phone kept buzzing—dick pic after dick pic rolling in via text—and she seemed totally unfazed. At the arrival of one photograph, she held up the phone for my inspection and said casually, “Must be photoshopped.”

  “Where do you meet these guys? On dating apps?”

  “Never!” she said. “Those things are for people who don’t know how to live.” I wanted to grill her on this philosophy, but as we were only drinking coffee I didn’t have the nerve.

  “Then where?”

  “Around town.”

  “Do you always pretend you are a trophy wife?”

  “Only at Whole Foods,” she said. “My avatars are location specific. What about you? Seeing anyone?”

  “Well, there is this one guy at work.” I felt sick with dread. “Any chance you’ve fucked Patrick from Beer Alley?”

  “Nope. Cashiers only. I don’t know why, but as far as Whole Foods employees go, they’re my thing.”

  “Thank Goddess.” Relief washed over me. I may have my charms, but I’m no competition for Artemis.

  “So you and Patrick?” She made a lewd finger gesture.

  “No. I mean, not yet.”

  “Then who’s the lucky guy that’s been keeping you satisfied?”

  “Well… it’s been a while.”

  “A while?”

  When I confessed it’s been a year since I saw ANY ACTION WHATSOEVER, she spat out a mouthful of latte, then composed herself enough to demand to know my emotional block.

  “It’s not so much emotional as physical,” I said.

  “Sexual dysfunction? Chronic yeast infections? VD? Bladder infections? Pelvic floor disorder? Girl, I have a host of referrals for hippy doctors who can fix it all.”

  “No, no. Nothing like that.” I paused and considered telling her everything about Brant Bitterbrush. But I didn’t want to delve into my maudlin heartbreak on my first friend date with Artemis, so I kept it simple, Everett. I blamed you. “I have a big old ex-boyfriend covered in stick-and-poke tattoos living in my spare bedroom.”

  Everett, she put her hands over her ears and let out a bloodcurdling scream that caused a passing barista to drop a mug, which shattered, spraying hot coffee all over the patio stones.

  Then she removed her hands from her ears and said, “Homeboy is completely messing with your mojo. HE. HAS. TO. GO!”

  Of course I explained everything to her about your social anxiety, your history of being unjustly fired from multiple jobs for talking to customers about conspiracy theories, your passion for weaving (a worthy but unlucrative art form), and the fact that you are secretly studying long hours at some vet tech vocational program or pet acupuncturist school in order to better yourself and your opportunities. (I thought I would be able to give you this letter, but now that I’ve mentioned your cloak-and-dagger undertaking, this missive is also destined for my period underwear drawer.) But she remained adamant that you HAVE to move out of my house. I finally changed the subject by telling her about my selfish sense of devastation at Annie’s move to the fifth floor.

  “She sounds like a boss,” Artemis said.

  “Well, she’s actually the boss’s admin assistant.”

  Artemis shrugged. “Still, she’s making moves.”

  At that I felt the old familiar sadness that I am making no moves whatsoever.

  Now that I’m safely at home, drinking chilled merlot from a coffee mug with the furballs and contemplating Artemis’s operatic response to my admission that you are living with me, I realize that she is right—inviting an ex-boyfriend into my home has surely created a block, an impediment that keeps good, new things from flowing into my life. But still, I’m going to give you six months to finish your schooling and get back on your feet. I know all you are struggling to overcome. I admire—and even envy—your gumption. I feel like having the proper support could make all the difference for you.

  Committedly, your friend and platonic pillar,

  Roxy

  July 15, 2012

  Everett!

  Why aren’t you here this morning? It’s 8:05 a.m. and those tweakers from next door are still up! They haven’t slept and, as a result, neither have I! A couple of them are on the back patio right now, vaping and laughing. I mean, get a real cigarette, you creeps! Those guys are tanking my property value. I can feel it dropping with every batch of meth they cook in that damn van.

  I have called 311 again and registered yet another complaint with the police, though of course the officer that answered my call didn’t seem very enthused. He’s likely just been assigned desk duty for some infraction and has lost the will to determinedly root out neighborhood drug crime.

  ACK! I think Captain Tweaker just saw me peeking out at him through the blinds. Now if the police show up those meth heads will definitely suspect I made the report. What if they try to retaliate by poisoning the furballs? This is so stressful.

  Anxiously,

  Roxy

  July 17, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  Congratulations! I’m overjoyed you got your line cook job back at Kerbey Lane Cafe! I ask you in advance to NOT bring me home any queso. Melted cheese is my Achilles’ heel and wreaks equal havoc on my skin and my moral compass as a vegan.

  Like you, I am making progress in changing my situation in life, thanks to the encouragement of a friend! Artemis and I have been texting and she gave me a “homework” assignment: find Patrick at work and actually talk to him! It seemed like a reasonable first step to busting out of my man-fast.

  So, during my first break today, I headed over to Beer Alley. I found Patrick crouched down to stock a low shelf full of Guinness, his baggy shorts sagging to reveal the most adorable coin slot. “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey, Roxy,” he said.

  Artemis told me I should ask Patrick for a beer recommendation. She said it would make him feel smart and knowledgeable, and thus horny. I’m not sure I totally followed her logic, but I tried to follow her advice. “I’m looking for a new beer to try,” I said. I was so nervous I reached out and touched a random six-pack. “I loved this one. Could you recommend another one like it?”

  He made a confused face. “It’s pretty hot outside for a chocolate stout. That’s really more of a winter beer.”

  “Exactly! I’m looking for a beer like this winter beer,” I stammered. “You know, one that’s like that good, but summery, right?” Oh my Venus, I was totally mangling this attempt at flirtation! I could feel my face flush a merciless red.

  “Yeah, it’s scorching out there,” he said. “Makes me want to swim at Barton Springs.”

  “Yeah, but I heard the fecal count in the water is actually really high after last week’s rain.” Why? Why did I say something so disgusting!!!! I could have mentioned my days lifeguarding at the Springs, or said something about having a new bikini. Why, oh why, did I instead say the word “fecal”? (But it’s true. The more developed Austin becomes, the more nastiness is washed into beautiful Barton Springs when it rains, making the normally crystalline waters unswimmable for a time. And besides, Barton Springs has very complicated memories for me, given it’s where Brant Bitterbrush and I fell in love.)

  “Ugh,” he said.

  I tried to rescue the conversation by bringing up beer again. I escaped with a six-pack of something unpronounceable with a hint of orange, even though I hate orange-flavored beer. When it comes to love, or even cheap sex or basic coquetry, I seem to be hopeless. Venus! Oh, Venus! Goddess of Beauty, Love, and Friendship. Why have you forsaken me?

  Discouragedly,

  Roxy

  NEST LIFE

  Getting Started with Orgasmic Meditation

  In orgasmic meditation (a.k.a. OM), a stroker strokes a woman�
��s clitoris very lightly for 15 minutes within a very ritualized situation involving:

  A timer

  Gloves

  Lube

  A nest (i.e., blankets and pillows)

  Orgasmic meditation is an innovative “Zen” tantric practice wherein both the stroker and the strokee focus intently on the sensation of the point of contact between finger and clitoris—much as the point of Vipassana meditation is to focus on the sensation of the breath passing over the upper lip as it enters and exits the nose.

  At OM meet-ups, attendees take turns OMing and share tips, as well as their emotional journey with orgasmic meditation. OM meet-ups can be informal and involve only a stroker and strokee—perhaps at one practitioner’s home—or they might involve a small or large group of people.

  Our largest OM event took place at a ballroom at the San Francisco Convention Center and included 630 participants—315 strokers and 315 strokees in one room. Now that was a lot of orgasmic energy (and a lot of nests)!

  To find an OM meet-up near you, go to:

  www.nestlife.com

  July 19, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  I was taking out the recycling today and when I dumped it into the blue bin, a flyer fell out and fluttered to the ground. When I picked it up, the words “orgasmic meditation” caught my eye and of course I immediately read the whole thing. Everett!? What in the world have you gotten yourself into?

  When I found a box of medical gloves and a timer in my backpack that you borrowed, I thought you were IN SCHOOL studying to be a vet tech so that you could use your talents with animals to pay your rent on time and perhaps someday even get your own apartment. Of course it never occurred to me you’ve been spending your days fingerbanging strangers as a form of pseudomeditation. I’m rarely shocked, but damn it: I have to say I’m shocked. And concerned that you’ve fallen into the clutches of some crazy sex cult. Are you really stroking strange women’s clits? It’s hard to imagine. But I’m going to try… Now that I think of it, I’m sure that if you ARE going door-to-door rubbing clitorises, it serves as an effective distraction—if you’re focusing with every ounce of your being on the point of contact between your gloved, lubed finger and some rando’s clit, you are certainly not considering the actual situation of your life.