The Roxy Letters

by Mary Pauline Lowry

  Just before I headed back into the store, my phone rang. It was Yolanda. She said it’s been too long since she, Kate, Rosa, Barclay, and I all got together. She misses us. She knew it wouldn’t be the same once we graduated college, but we’ve grown too far apart. I didn’t think it prudent to mention I don’t see her and the other girls much because they’ve become such a firm part of the square community. And then she dropped the bomb. She’s getting married on New Year’s Eve and wants me to be a bridesmaid. After I gushed the usual obligatory congratulations, I asked the critical follow-up question: “What sort of monstrosity will I be required to wear?”

  “Anything you want. I love you, Kate, Rosa, Barclay, and my sisters too much to force you to wear big green bridesmaid dresses.”

  I struggled for some other reason to object. Just as I settled on the idea that bridesmaids are supposed to be mute and beautiful, a row of silent eye candy for the wedding attendees to objectify, Yolanda jumped in.

  “I know you hate being in a situation where you can’t talk,” she said, “so I wanted to know if you’d like to give a reading, too. A little poetry, a quote about love, you pick. Okay?”

  I felt myself tear up. Yolanda knows me so well. Why haven’t I made an effort to keep up with her and my other girls? It’s not as if my dance card is full. I told her I’d be honored. When we hung up I wiped my eyes and headed back into Whole Foods.

  The rest of my shift, I found myself keeping a watchful eye on Dirty Steve but I saw no signs of gastric distress. In fact, he was as surly and abusive as ever. “Hey, Señor Slowpoke!” he yelled at Jason. “Hurry up with that coleslaw.”

  “That’s a microaggression and—at even a less progressive company—a fireable offense!” I thundered.

  “Shut up, Poxy Roxy,” Dirty Steve said. “Why don’t you go make a batch of meatballs?” Dirty Steve knows that, as a vegan, I detest the squish of ground meat between my fingers. I suddenly felt certain that a case of ex-lax two-step WAS fitting retribution.

  I went outside to join Jason and Nelson on their smoke break (as usual, they offered me a cigarette and as usual, I countered that I was fine with my kombucha). I ended up complaining about Dirty Steve, and finally confessed about the brownies. Jason smiled and put his hand on my arm when he said, “Gracias, guapa. Just what that pendejo deserves.” It’s rare for Jason to dip into Spanglish and it seemed like a little intimacy-reward for the risk I had taken.

  It made me all the more furious Dirty Steve had called him such an awful nickname. I hate “Poxy Roxy,” but what Steve called Jason was so much worse. “You know, Annie told me if we ever wanted, she could complain to Topher Doyle about Dirty Steve. You know, tell him what the deal is.”

  For a moment we contemplated the possibility in silence.

  “I don’t hate Dirty Steve,” Jason said with a shrug. “I mean, I’m glad he’s about to have the Texas two-step, but I don’t hate him.”

  “If some corporate lackey replaces him it’ll be so much harder to slack off and steal food,” Nelson said. “Also, that asshole gives this place character.”

  I had to admit the truth of his statement. Whole Foods, once a local hippy grocery store, is now turning into the McDonald’s of health-food chains. You can buy kung pao tofu in a Whole Foods deli in Boulder, Colorado, or Austin, Texas, or Manhattan and it’ll taste the same. In a way, Dirty Steve is a throwback to a time when the store, and this town itself, was a little less clean scrubbed, and not yet on commodified offer to the world. Dirty Steve doesn’t represent a part of the old Austin that I love, per se, but it’s a part that I’ll be a little nostalgic for once it’s gone completely.

  “You’re right. Fuck that guy,” I said. “We won’t rat him out to Corporate, ’cause we can handle him ourselves.”

  Nelson pulled out a little pipe and we all took a hit. As I breathed in, I imagined myself as an empty vessel, receiving the gift of the smoke. When I handed the pipe to Jason, our hands touched and I felt a proverbial spark. He has a girlfriend and it was nothing, really, but enough to keep me from even thinking about a walk down Beer Alley. Lucky for me, because the last thing I need right now is a rare disease that gives me an acne beard.

  Contemplatively,

  Roxy

  August 20, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  I was off work today so I asked Artemis if she wanted to go with Roscoe and me down to the Hike and Bike Trail for a walk. She gave me her address—somewhere off Old Enfield Road. I figured she’d live in some crappy old apartment complex, one of the ones that’s destined for the demo crew in the next few years. But when I pulled up to the address, I saw it was a nouveau mid-century-modern town house. (Sugar daddy jokes aside—where does she get her money?) I was going to park and knock, but Artemis was already trotting down the sidewalk. She climbed into the passenger seat.

  “Hey,” I said. “Is this your parents’ house?”

  “They’re in the deep freeze in the garage,” she said, and laughed.

  “That’s horrible!” I said, but I laughed too.

  “It’s actually just a rental. I don’t even have a garage,” she said.

  Traffic down to the Hike and Bike Trail was hideous, the skyline full of cranes. I counted seven, each one building another towering upscale downtown condo that will soon be packed full of douchebags arriving from San Francisco and LA. Those D-bags may be in search of authenticity or the real America, but they will each contribute to diluting the essence and soul of this town that means everything to me. Oh how I wish I could do one tiny something to preserve this place that I love! When I moaned about it to Artemis, she said she was glad I was transforming my ire into action by making my Lululemon protest signs. I have to agree.

  By the time I found a parking place near the trail I was about to get in a mood, but it only took ten minutes walking along the lake with Artemis and Roscoe before my spirits lifted. The trees were gorgeous and the sunlight threw sparkles across the water, where rowers skimmed the surface and stand-up paddleboarders made their way lazily along. Even though it was totally relaxing, I kept thinking about what Artemis had said about her parents being in the deep freeze. “Where do your parents live, anyway?” I asked very casually.

  “Don’t worry. I didn’t murder them,” she said. “They’re divorced. My dad lives in Manhattan, so I go visit him sometimes. My mom, she’s here. I don’t see her as much as I should. But she’s all right. She’s a worrier.”

  “Totally,” I said. “I get it. My mom too.”

  “What does your mom worry about?”

  I had the sense Artemis was trying to steer the subject away from her family. “Lately I think she worries about me because I’ve been doing this dead-end job for so long and I’m not making art and I don’t even have a boyfriend. I think parents want one positive talking point about their kid that they can say to their friends to show their kid isn’t a total fuckup. Like, ‘Brenda’s doing great; she works for the Wicked World Bank.’ Or, ‘Suzie was able to catch a man and she’s breeding like crazy.’ Or, ‘Derek is great; he’s saving the world in the Peace Corps’ (which my brother actually is). But right now my mom doesn’t really have a talking point for me, so it makes her worried that something is really wrong with me.” I was going to ask Artemis more about her mom, but just then, we got interrupted by a quick stop-and-chat with Esmeralda Limon, who I went to high school with, and then another one with Ms. Woodall, my elementary school art teacher. I also waved at a few regulars I see down there a lot.

  “You know everyone,” Artemis said.

  “That’s the great thing about the Hike and Bike Trail,” I said. “You get sun and socializing. Sure, this town may be changing, but the Hike and Bike Trail is always glorious.” I didn’t know how to explain that all that smiling and waving and exercise and endorphin-releasing is that much better because it happens on the edge of the water, which, like the Temperance card in the tarot deck, brings a sense of balance and healing.

  By then we’d
done a full loop around the lake and had made it almost back to the car. Roscoe looked up at me imploringly, dying for a swim. But I was worried if I let him off his leash, he wouldn’t behave. Artemis encouraged me to let him wade a bit, so I did. I was in such a good mood that the crazy traffic on the way back to Artemis’s house didn’t put me out of sorts. I was going to invite myself in to see her place, but when we pulled up she looked at her watch. “Shit! I’m gonna be late for my aerial yoga class! Thank you for a fun afternoon!” She kissed me on the cheek and jumped out, running lightly up the walk, and then—like the woman of mystery she is—she slipped into her house and was gone.

  Curiously,

  Roxy

  August 21, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  WHAT A DAY! It’s been a roller coaster of enemies turned (sort of) allies, and other enemies turned worse enemies. First I went into work to find Dirty Steve standing in front of my apron hook, arms crossed over his chest. “You gave me diarrhea from HELL,” he said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Those brownies.”

  “Baked goods are not generally known to cause gastric distress.”

  “They do if you load them up with ex-lax.”

  I feigned ignorance and outrage.

  “Don’t lie,” Dirty Steve said. “After I got the shits, I gave the last brownie to my brother. The motherfucking jig is up.”

  “Well, that’s what you get for PURPOSEFULLY GIVING ME FOOD POISONING,” I said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The free sushi!?”

  “I offered you sushi I was gonna throw out. You’re the one who decided to eat it. I’m not gonna POISON you on purpose. What am I, a fucking psycho?”

  Dirty Steve lies a lot, but he does so terribly. It was clear he was telling the truth. I felt a horrid wave of guilt, which of course made me want to justify myself. “I thought you were trying to get retribution on me for blackmailing you into not firing me.”

  “I was GRATEFUL to you for helping me out. I didn’t blame you for trying to keep your job in the process. Jesus.”

  “So now are we square?” I asked.

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “Like, are you going to seek revenge on me?”

  “Of course not, you nutbag. Quit tilting at windmills and go make some tuna salad.”

  Humph! Perhaps I do sometimes jump to conclusions. I wonder if Dirty Steve has actually read “Don Quixote”?

  I spent the rest of the afternoon burdened by remorse, and then soon learned how the Universe would punish me! After work I walked through the front door and Roscoe charged up to me. At first I couldn’t figure out WHAT HAD HAPPENED to my baby. He had white devil horns sticking off his head and big white clumps hanging from his fur ALL OVER HIS BODY. I leaned down and touched one. It stuck to my fingers. After that it only took me a minute to realize he had giant chewed up wads of Nicorette smashed into his fur. Roscoe must have gone into the yard through the dog door when I was gone, and that’s when the tweakers got him. They must have chewed themselves nearly to a Nicorette heart attack to get that much gum.

  My hands shaking with consternation, I considered calling 911, but—always prudent—I decided that I would be taken more seriously at the nonemergency 311 number. When the desk jockey cop answered, I told him about the state Roscoe was in and how I expected an immediate arrest of every member of Tweakerville living next door to me. But even my near-hysteria could not break through the cop’s apathy.

  “Some guy put gum on your dog? Sorry, lady, but we’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

  When I hung up after our fruitless convo, I let out a cry that was half yowl of frustration, half battle cry. It was clear—I would have to take matters into my own hands. “Tweakers!” I yelled. “This means WAR!”

  However, I knew that before I could deal with the tweakers, I had to get their saliva-filled Nicorette off my innocent furball. I immediately called the dog groomers, but as it was 8 p.m., every groomer in town was closed. So I got Roscoe into the kitchen, put on dish gloves, gave him his insulin shot, and spent THREE HOURS cutting Nicorette out of his hair. While I was disgusted and angry, Roscoe seemed pleased at the attention. Charlize Theron, who usually keeps to herself, came out to watch for much of it, as if worried and a little intrigued.

  I can barely write this as my hands are quivering from working the scissors. I now have a brown grocery bag full of chewed-up Nicorette and dog fur that makes me rage gag every time I look at it. While normally I am a devout Venus girl, I am preparing an offering to Mars, the planetary deity that governs combat. The offering consists of tobacco, cayenne pepper, some polished red aventurine, and a sliced mango doused in chili powder. I am going to need all of the energy of will and creativity of aggression that the fourth planet from the sun can offer in order to accomplish my aims of taking those tweakers down!

  Rattled and angry,

  Roxy

  August 23, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  I have calmed down considerably since the Nicorette incident. All was quiet in Tweakerville this morning, so I was able to sneak Roscoe and his patchy fur out of the house without jeering or ridicule. After I dropped him off at the groomers—who showered him with adoration and love—I went to Caffé Medici to drink a delicious latte and reread “Bridget Jones’s Diary” while I waited. As always, it was delightful to be so deeply offended by the portrayal of a woman as an anti-intellectual bing-bong head always in need of rescue by a man. I have to admit I did laugh until I snorted, more than once. I then drove to a little lingerie boutique next door to Crystal Works and bought a pair of faux-leather (a.k.a. pleather), pink python-print panties so that—just in case Patrick and I ever hook up again—I’ll have sexy undergarments. When I picked Roscoe up he seemed quite proud of his new haircut. Indeed, I fear all the attention he has received of late may be going to his head.

  Later at work, I saw Patrick headed my way. “I am a vessel, meant to receive,” I said to myself over and over. Like Roscoe, Patrick had a new buzz cut and looked incredibly cute, but I feigned nonchalance as he asked me what I’ve been up to.

  “Just the usual,” I said, because I couldn’t very well tell him I’ve been dosing my boss with ex-lax and cutting tweaker Nicorette out of my dog’s fur. “You?”

  “I’ve been working really hard getting ready for Rhymefest,” he said. “But I could use a break. Want to hang out tonight?”

  “I’m kind of busy, but yeah. Sure,” I said.

  When he asked if my place was cool, I said sure again, partly because it would be good for the tweakers to see a guy at my house and know I am not a vulnerable single female, partly because I don’t like leaving the furballs alone, and partly because I was afraid if I saw Patrick’s bachelor-guy squalor I wouldn’t want to hook up with him. “I am a vessel, meant to receive,” I thought again and then I realized something: there’s no way I can MAKE Patrick bring me flowers or buy me dinner through the sheer force of my will. But I could Tom Sawyer him into giving me some more free labor.

  “So you can come over, but only if you promise to paint another sign,” I said in a manner I hoped was flirtatious.

  He actually looked pleased to be challenged to live up to his heteronormative biological imperative of giving to a woman. “Sure,” he said, promising to come over at 9 p.m. The time annoyed me, as it guaranteed there would be small opportunity for him to even spring for a pizza, but I let it go.

  So now I have two hours to madly clean up the house, change the sheets, vacuum the couch, and sweep the remaining bits of dog fur off the kitchen floor, then attend to making myself look (casually) sexy and don my pink pleather python panties before Patrick arrives.

  Baby steps to receiving,

  Roxy

  P.S. The tweakers are on the patio, but I have my blinds shut and am ignoring them for now. I am confident that soon enough Mars will gift me with a plan of retribution!

  August 24, 2012
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  Dear Everett,

  The date was not all a girl could dream of. Perhaps the best part was listening to FAIL BETTER! as I cleaned up the house. Their album is so cheering and even I have to admit the drums give the band its true sound, its beating heart. I put on a little makeup and my labradorite necklace. I felt fierce, ready to slay in the manner of Venus… or Beyoncé. Patrick showed up—only fifteen minutes late. He did bring beer, probably bought with his employee discount—and we each drank a couple while talking about how we were going to paint signs. I told him the story of the tweakers and he valiantly offered to protect me from them whenever needed. (I told myself: “I am a vessel, receiving protection!”) Then we fell on each other in a frenzy of lust.

  I gave Patrick what was—if I do say so myself—a rather spectacular blowjob. I thought we would then continue the fun, but he immediately sat up, buckled his pants, stretched, and said, “That was amazing. What a great date!” Then he looked sheepish and stared off into the distance—or at the corner of the room as if it was the distance—before he finally spoke again. “But, you know, you probably won’t even hear from me for a couple of weeks, because I’ll be so busy with Rhymefest.”

  The words were like a slap across my face that left me speechless. Not only was he not going to get me off, he wasn’t even going to see my new pink pleather python panties! Within a few minutes he’d said goodbye and left the premises.

  I immediately called Artemis and told her what had happened. “When Annie said you are a vessel, meant to receive, that’s not what she intended,” she said. Then she started laughing hysterically.