July 27, 2012
Dear Everett,
This morning I read over the past few letters I’ve written to you and I could see I have been cycling through the early stages of grief—shock, denial, pain, anger, depression, reflection, and loneliness.
So to try to shift my energy toward the “upward turn” stage of grief, I’m focusing today on the positive side of your move. To that end I did some quick banishing work to rid the house of bad energy, which involved sageing every room, then scrubbing everything down with a mixture of vinegar, salt, hot water, and rosemary. So far in my life I have only ever dabbled in witchcraft, a DIY sort of spirituality that is empowering to women, grounding, and requires no intermediary between the seeker and the spiritual world. I hope to one day (soon!) get it together to become a more regular practitioner.
I then went online to check out dating websites. Seeing all those headshots of smiling men reasonably close to my own age made me feel as if I was in a candy shop looking at a brightly colored wall of bins—they were delicious for my eyes to devour, but also gave me a sort of bellyache of the lower chakras. But my root chakra lit up like a lustrous ruby when I saw Patrick from Beer Alley’s face smiling out at me! I don’t have a profile so I couldn’t message him. But it did assure me that he is single and looking for love, or at least some hot sex.
Stupidly, it made me wish you were here so I could tell you about it. We could have a good, old-fashioned argument about online dating versus meeting people in real life, or about Nest Life, or astrology, or whether or not “Girls” could be a more brilliant show if it would incorporate young women from a wider variety of cultural and socioeconomic backgrounds. But of course you are off in your Palace of OM, which I imagine as a falling-down old Victorian off of Manchaca Road that—despite the surgical gloves—would light up under a black light like a hazmat Christmas tree.
Perhaps the sageing and witch scrubbing have cleaned a film of denial from my eyes but, for whatever reason, the reality is finally sinking in—my love life and artistic endeavors are totally stagnant, my current pool of friends alarmingly small. At some point, changes will have to be made.
With great lethargy and sadness,
Roxy
P.S. I should call my old college pals Kate, Rosa, Yolanda, and Barclay at some point. Sure we grew apart as they settled into lives of office work and mediocrity, but they are extremely nice and sometimes make even stories about copier malfunctions amusing.
July 30, 2012
Dear Everett,
I’m eager to report I finally have something to write about other than my moping and sense of solitude at your departure. But how I wish it were a tale without a calamitous end! It all started yesterday when Artemis came into Whole Foods shortly after I started my shift. I was completely thrilled to see her—though we’ve been texting a bit, we haven’t met up since our coffee at Spider House. Artemis asked if I wanted to go to Emo’s with her after work. There was some band she wanted to see that started at 11 p.m. (Since you moved out I’ve mostly been working the 3 p.m. to 11 p.m. shift, and I have to RACE home on my thirty-minute break to give Roscoe his 8 p.m. insulin shot. Thanks for that!) When I told her I had to close and wouldn’t have time to go home again and change, she said she’d bring me fresh clothes.
“But I’ll be all deli greasy,” I said.
“What size shoes do you wear?”
“An eleven,” I said sheepishly.
While most people would exclaim over my gunboats, she didn’t even raise an eyebrow. Such poker-faced acceptance is hard to find in this world. She peered over the deli counter at my pink Chuck Taylors. “I’ll bring you a dress to match those,” she said.
“There’s no way I can squeeze my sexy haunches into anything you own,” I said.
“Don’t worry about it,” she replied, and because I was so sick of staying home alone and moping, I didn’t. Having just left her job at Trophy Wife’s Overpriced Closet, Artemis was of course in her full Lululemon getup with her fake cherry-tomato diamond ring on her finger. She gazed over toward the cashiers.
“I’m really liking the looks of Register Number Ten,” she said as she sailed off.
“His name is James and he has a girlfriend,” I called out after her. This in no way slowed her down.
A little while later, Dirty Steve came out of his office to harass the deli maids. “Poxy Roxy, you look practically homeless,” he said.
“Well, my outfit’s cuter than a prison uniform,” I said. “Right, Steve?”
“You’re funny,” Steve said. Then—in an uncharacteristic gesture of humility and friendship—Dirty Steve offered me a free California tuna roll from the deli case! Of course I normally do NOT eat tuna, but it seemed to indicate that Steve secretly, truly appreciated the help I provided in his escape from the police, so I graciously accepted his peace offering. Also, as you know, before I embraced my vegan lifestyle I was known to down dragon rolls like they were popcorn.
Despite witty repartee and friendly gestures from my high-class boss, the deli is just not the same with Annie upstairs working to save the quality of life of animals far and wide. That girl. I don’t know how she does it. I mean, I adore animals and would love to help their well-being on a larger scale, but it’s all I can do to take care of the furballs and stay (nearly) committed to a vegan diet. Is that sort of apathy a sign of depression?
I fear it may be. It’s probably the reason I’m still stuck behind the deli counter with Jason and Nelson watching wealthy hippy women sporting “lovin’ head” (i.e., a mess of tangled hair at the base of their necks that’s a sure sign they’ve just gotten some lovin’) contentedly push their grocery carts past the deli counter, as if still floating in a cloud of postcoital hormones. It makes me wonder—have they just been OMed? And if so, was it with you, Everett? Ugh. You can see how these sorts of thoughts would make for a very long shift.
On the plus side, Jason did tell us a funny story about almost being arrested while spray-painting a mural on a train paused on the tracks over Lamar Boulevard last night. Together we complained about the Austin Police Department’s obsession with vandalism. It’s true I am getting to know Jason and Nelson a little better now that Annie and I aren’t a constant band of two. I’ve also bonded with Nelson over how much we think children look like creepy little mini-humans. We’ve pinky sworn to never procreate.
Artemis appeared at 10:45 p.m. carrying a bag from Goodwill and wearing goddess sandals and a slinky black dress, her red hair in wild, shining curls. “You look amazing!” I said. I felt a tangled mix of envy and awe.
Of course, Dirty Steve appeared behind me just then. “Poxy,” he said, “you could definitely get some tips from your pal here on how to dress.”
The thing about Dirty Steve that really gets me is how sometimes his meanness is completely spot-on. But Artemis snapped back, “You look like you could use some help your own self. I think the Fashion Police have been arresting men for wearing white sneakers since 2003.”
I chortled, but clearly Dirty Steve chose to see her cutting retort as some sort of flirtation, because he told me I could take off ten minutes early in a transparent attempt to try to impress Artemis with his “power.”
Artemis and I made our way to the less frequented and thus relatively clean bathroom toward the back of the store, where Artemis whipped out a whole case of beauty supplies like some sort of makeover fairy. There was a battery-powered curling iron—like something out of a sci-fi movie written by a woman—some dry shampoo, and more makeup than you’d find backstage at “RuPaul’s Drag Race.”
“May I?” she asked.
“Have your way with me,” I said.
Twenty minutes later I was transformed. No kidding, that girl knows about smoke and mirrors. “What do you have in the bag?” I asked.
“I went to the Gucci Goodwill in Tarrytown.” She pulled out an off-the-shoulder gray dress and silver cowgirl booties in a size eleven, both of which were totally rock and roll and
actually flattering. “What are you, a fairy godmother?” I asked. “I’m going to give you money for this.”
“You can pay for my cover. And our first round of drinks.”
When I was all dressed, Artemis said, “I got you one more thing.” She pulled out a little box from Crystal Works and I opened it to find a gorgeous labradorite pendant on a silver chain.
“Holy Venus, Goddess of Friendship! It’s so pretty. Labradorite, for—”
Artemis and I spoke the words at the same time: “Magic and protection.”
“Thank you!” I said as I put it on. I was overwhelmed. The necklace was perfect, but the gesture was grand enough to be disconcerting. “Are you in love with me?”
“It’ll help you get your groove back,” she said.
“Who says I need to get my groove back?”
She raised her eyebrows. “When we met you were handing out samples of tuna burger.”
“Shuuuuut uuuuuupppp!”
When we walked out to the parking lot, Artemis unlocked a black BMW with the click of a key fob. I climbed into the passenger side. The car smelled like new leather seats. “Damn,” I said. “Where’d you get this? I mean, I know nothing about cars and even I can tell this is insanely nice.”
“I hope it’s nice enough to appease the Parking Gods,” Artemis joked, and sure enough, we found a spot a half block from the club. Walking through the darkness with her, I realized it had been ages since I left the house to do something fun. Annie is amazing, but she hasn’t been partying since she got her new job. And when you were living with me, dear Everett, we just watched TV together and ate vegan junk food, or I stayed home alone and drank and wrote you missives about things you were doing that annoyed me. It’s all too easy to justify staying in when I make barely double minimum wage, am financially crushed by vet bills, and hardly have the funds for nightlife. Thoughts of my financial woes made me wonder how the hell Artemis could afford a BMW.
“But seriously, where’d you get that car?” I asked as we stood in the short line to get into Emo’s. “Do you have—?”
“A trust fund? A sugar daddy? A boyfriend who robs banks? Yes, yes, and yes!” Artemis said as we arrived at the bouncer. I was happy to see it was Logan Ray Jones working the door. Logan is another one of those Austin guys who sees “keeping it real” as the ultimate success. His social media feed is like: “I’m working at Antone’s Record Shop all afternoon. Come see me,” along with a photo of Coltrane on vinyl. He and I slung thunder sauce together at ThunderCloud Subs years ago, so he waved me and Artemis in without charging either of us a cover. I may be broke but, in my own way, I’ve got this town wired.
Artemis and I stepped into the dark, dirty, graffitied world of Emo’s. She dragged me through the crowd to the bar, which was three deep. “Since you’re buying, I’ll go hold us a place up front. You are going to love this band,” Artemis said, and disappeared. When I finally made it to the bar myself, I caught the bartender’s eye. But when I raised my hand to order he turned away. The next time he looked my way he stepped toward me, but then I felt someone slide in next to me and the bartender turned to him instead.
“My man,” the bartender said. “What can I get you?”
“A club soda with lime,” said the interloper.
Indignant, I turned to stare him down. “Excuse me! I’ve been waiting—” But I trailed off when I found myself face-to-face with Texas—the hottie from the vet’s office. If he was surprised to see me, he didn’t let on.
“Vet Girl! How’s Charlize Theron?” he asked.
“Reluctant to let me shove a giant horse pill down her throat every morning, but otherwise recovering nicely. You shouldn’t cut a lady at the bar.” Everett, you know I’m as devoted as anyone to bringing down the kyriarchy, but I’m still not going to excuse a total lack of manners.
“I usually wouldn’t but I’m late for work.”
“Work.” I rolled my eyes. “So that’s what you call hanging out in a bar with a fresh drink?”
“Exactly.” He grabbed his glass and slipped off the stool and into the crowd.
I finally ordered and before the bartender could set the two G&Ts down in front of me I heard a guitar strumming and the high-energy tapping of drums that sounded like happiness. I made my way through the crowd to Artemis, who eagerly took her drink and sucked away at her straw like a hummingbird at a flower. The band—four guys who called themselves FAIL BETTER!—played a dialed-up, rocking cover of Wilco’s “Heavy Metal Drummer.” The singer must have sewn himself into his pants with dental floss. “His name is Arsen Alton,” Artemis said. “He’s so fucking sexy.”
When Arsen Alton sang “She fell in love with the drummer/She fell in love with the drummer,” it of course reminded me to check out the drummer. And that’s when I saw Texas WAS the drummer. He crooned into his mic, earnestly singing backup. I couldn’t help but notice that, in addition to his nice pecs, he had great forearms, a ski-slope nose, and really lovely white teeth. Humph.
Artemis bumped my hip with hers to remind me to dance and so I did. The next time Texas sang “She fell in love with the drummer,” he met my eye and winked, which caused Artemis to nudge me in the ribs and then head to the bar for another round. The next song was a Kiss cover—played all light and hipster-y like a Death Cab for Cutie number or something—which made me worry everyone in the band was way up their own asses. But on the whole, the set was actually fun, mostly original songs and all really danceable and upbeat.
Alas, two drinks in, instead of being ready to take my dance moves to the next level, I had started to feel a little queasy. Through the next two songs, I barely swayed on my feet, moved as much by a mounting nausea as by the beat of the drums. A light-headed sweatiness had come over me. I figured it was from the gin and the crowd and having worked all day and not really having eaten anything since that tuna sushi. When the band stopped to take a break, I told Artemis I needed to sit down, so we made our way through the crowd out to the back patio. I plunked down on one of the old picnic tables. “I feel really weird,” I said. A deep nausea rolled through me, but then all of a sudden Texas sat down next to me. It was like he’d appeared out of nowhere, I swear.
“Great show,” Artemis said.
I swallowed over and over as saliva filled my mouth; a mustache of sweat beaded my upper lip.
“Thanks,” Texas said.
“How do you guys know each other?” Artemis asked, gesturing from me to Texas and back again, clearly eager to hear our meet-cute. I swallowed hard. “I’m not sick,” I told myself. “I’m at the club. Everything is good. I got this.” Meanwhile, my stomach felt like a bag full of wiener-dog puppies were wrestling around in it.
“We’ve never officially met,” Texas said.
“I’m Roxy,” I said.
“And I’m—”
“Texas,” I said.
“We keep running into each other around town,” Texas said. He looked me in the eye. “And every time, something really unexpected happens.” I felt a jolt of electricity tingling through my body.
Suddenly the rockabilly supermodel I’d seen with Texas at Whole Foods appeared in front of us. “There you are!” she said. I looked up at her long mane of hair, styled in perfect waves. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.” She was clearly not pleased, but trying to rein in her annoyance. “Have you been hiding again?”
“Hide from you? Never,” Texas said with a smile.
It was then that the most horrifying thing you could imagine happened—I leaned forward and threw up. Vomit splashed everywhere, including onto the rockabilly girl’s nude, patent leather heels.
“Oh God!” the flawless beauty shrieked, jumping backward out of the spray.
I heaved again, so hard it made my stomach muscles cramp. Instead of recoiling, Texas took my elbow, but even the awareness of his hand on my skin didn’t stop the next heave and splash. Artemis sat down on the other side of me, patting my back. “I got you, honey,” she said. “I
got you.”
All of a sudden it came to me like a bolt of truth lightning and I yelled: “Dirty Steve! You bastard,” and heaved again.
As soon as it seemed the heaving had subsided, Artemis said, “All clear for a minute?” I wiped my mouth, nodding.
Artemis helped me to my feet and hustled me out through the club. Another wave came over me but I fought it down until we were past Logan Ray Jones and on the sidewalk, where I threw up again ferociously.
“Get it, girl!” Logan yelled.
Immediately the wave of nausea was replaced by a great wave of euphoria that one only feels after a serious bout of puking has passed. “That’s it for now,” I said.
“Let’s get you home, then,” Artemis said.
Texas stepped outside, hurrying toward us. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I yelled, a little wildly.
“I got her,” Artemis said. “We’re parked right there.” She pointed toward her car.
“Parking angels. I’m not drunk, by the way,” I said with all the haughtiness I could muster. One of Texas’s eyebrows shot up. It might have been cute if I’d been in a better state.
“We’re fine,” Artemis insisted. She put her arm around me and we tottered off toward her car.
On the drive back to my house she had to pull over so I could lean out the car and puke until I was staring at a barf puddle. “Pull forward,” I said, and Artemis rolled the car forward just a little so I had a fresh patch of pavement to look at as I barfed some more.
When we pulled up in front of my house, she said, “I’m going in with you.”
Roscoe exploded into joyful yapping to see us. That’s one thing about having pets—you never walk into your house and feel unloved or ignored.
“What an adorable wiener dog!” Artemis exclaimed.
I staggered into my bedroom, kicking off my new boots and peeling off my dress. “I’m sorry to ruin our fun night,” I said, as I pulled back the covers and crawled into bed.
The Roxy Letters Page 7
