The Roxy Letters

by Mary Pauline Lowry

  “I hate you,” I said. “Seriously. You are dead to me.”

  “I’m coming over to help you paint signs,” she said. She paused. “I’m starving all of a sudden. You hungry?”

  I realized I was ravenous. “I was so busy shaving my legs, trimming my giant power triangle, and vacuuming up dog hair, I forgot to eat dinner.”

  “I’ll bring over a pizza,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’ll get half vegan.”

  And she did. We hung out, delighting in the gooey slices, and she told me all about some guy who farted during her aerial yoga class, and I laughed until beer came out of my nose. I drew signs that she painted under my careful direction until like two in the morning. And it was so fun.

  Well friendedly,

  Roxy

  CHAPTER SIX

  August 26, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  Stupid, worthless day! Disaster! Disappointment! Drudgery! Heartbreak! Pathos! Oh, how I hate pathos! (Also, while I’m whining and on a side note: It’s now late August and it’s hotter than fucking ever. The forecasted high for today is 105. Every time I step outside, it’s like I’m being boiled alive in my own sweat.)

  Today at work, we were all prepping to open the store, chopping and slicing and sautéing like crazy, when Dirty Steve stormed in dramatically. “Nelson’s grandma kicked it and he’s going home for a couple of weeks to help his parents sell her house. Imagine asking Nelson for help with real estate! He’s dumb as a dildo! Anyway, we’re gonna be short-staffed for a while. I’ll need everyone pulling doubles.”

  We all groaned but not very enthusiastically, as we all like Nelson. (And I owe him, because he sometimes covers shifts for me, like last June when Roscoe ate the crotches out of my dirty panties and I had to rush that naughty wiener dog to the emergency vet for a panty-ectomy.)

  My phone dinged and I saw it was an email with the list of ten finalists for the Bucknether Art Competition. My name wasn’t on the list. Oh, Everett, you can imagine my devastation and disappointment!

  I needed a moment, I really did. So I went out back behind the dumpster. Jason was there smoking a cigarette.

  “Want one?” he asked.

  I was actually tempted—I could let the nicotine soothe me, while looking haughty and glamorous in the manner of a 1940s film star. “Nah,” I finally said. “It’s too late to start now.” For a while we stood in a companionable silence as he puffed away and I sipped my kombucha. “Hey, if you talk to Nelson, will you tell him I’m sorry about his grandma?”

  “His grandma has been dead for like ten years,” Jason said.

  “What?”

  “Nelson got accepted to a three-week PharmaTrial study. They’re testing some acne medicine on him. So maybe his skin will clear up AND they are going to pay him like five thousand dollars.”

  “Fuck me.”

  “Yeah. You know how Robert Rodriguez went into PharmaTrial for a month and wrote ‘El Mariachi’ and came out with enough money to film it low budget in Mexico?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “Nelson is convinced he’s gonna do the same thing, but with a TV pilot about stoner deli maids.”

  “Oh,” I said. I wondered if Nelson was even literate, but there are some questions that don’t need to be asked.

  As if reading my mind, Jason said, “I went to school with him, yo. Homeboy wouldn’t know a three-act structure if one bit him in the ass.”

  For some reason that made me feel really sad. Like sadder than I was when I thought Nelson’s grandma had just died. And I started to cry.

  “It’s okay,” Jason said. “I mean, maybe he can learn.”

  “It’s not that,” I said, wiping at my tears. But I wasn’t sure how to explain—it was that I wanted to be an artist and here I was slinging tofu. And Nelson wanted to be a screenwriter but I knew he never really would be, not in the way he was hoping. And maybe I’d never be a real artist either. Everything just seemed really pointless and sad. And maybe I should accept that deli maid was as good as I could do, as good as I’d ever be. And then I cried harder, so hard Jason started looking worried.

  “Hey, hey,” he said, and then he was hugging me, like, really sweetly, and he kissed my cheek and then we were kissing for real. The door opened and I turned and it was this deli maid, Groken, that we don’t hang with really because he’s a sulky goth who believes friendliness is anathema to his moral code. He disappeared and the door slammed behind him—like the sight of us had driven him back inside.

  “You have a girlfriend, right?” To my credit, I’d just remembered.

  “Shit,” Jason said. “Yeah. She’s pregnant, too. I’m sorry. I never know how to comfort girls.” He meant it nicely. He really did.

  “Congratulations,” I said. “On the baby, I mean. You did okay. Just don’t do that again.” And then I wiped my eyes and hurried back into the store.

  The rest of my shift I forced myself to pretend I was fine, but I’m not fine, Everett. I’m a failure in love and I’m a failure in art. And this letter is staying in my spiral notebook with all the other ones I’ve written to you lately, because I don’t want you or anyone else feeling sorry for me.

  Morosely, your failed ex-girlfriend,

  Roxy

  August 27, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  Annie wanted to cheer me up after my disappointing news about the Bucknether Art Competition, so last night she came over and we watched that new Netflix documentary about bologna production. We screamed in disgust through the whole thing. It was seriously like watching a Stephen King movie—only so much more horrifying because it’s real. It was also weirdly fun to be totally grossed out while curled up on the couch with Annie. The documentary mentioned how bologna is so full of acidic preservatives that it’s been used in a series of vandalism incidents. Basically sometimes vandals will put slices of bologna all over cars and the acid from the preservatives burns off a layer of paint. It really is great to have a friend who thinks this sort of thing is as fascinating as I do.

  Before she left, Annie hugged me and told me how proud she is that I entered the Bucknether Art Competition. I cried a little.

  “I think you should make a gratitude list,” she said.

  “You really are a bossy woman,” I said.

  “It’s easier to make a gratitude list than it is to be combative.”

  “Okay fine. I’m grateful you are my friend. I’m hella grateful for the furballs and that I have no human children. And I’m really grateful I own my own house.” It actually did make me feel better.

  If Annie and I wouldn’t drive each other crazy, I’d ask her to move into my spare bedroom.

  Cozily,

  Roxy

  August 29, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  Meth heads have been coming in and out of the house next door all week. I was on my patio last night having a beer when a bunch of them came out on their patio. I haven’t seen them face-to-face since the Nicorette incident. “Want some gum?” Captain Tweaker yelled at me. I stormed inside, knowing I cannot engage until Mars gifts me with a strategy. But I couldn’t help but think that whole batch of meth heads and their meth-cooking van and their rotten meth mouth teeth are SERIOUSLY grosser than bologna.

  That’s when Mars struck me with a truly brilliant idea. I don’t want to diffuse the potency/energy of the scheme by writing about it before I execute it, so for now I’m off to work.

  With plans for vengeance,

  Roxy

  August 30, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  Yesterday was insane. Thanks to that goth fucker Groken, word spread like wildfire through the store that I kissed Jason. All the cashiers kept glancing at me and the guys over in Bakery were looking my way and talking to each other behind their hands all afternoon, like middle school girls.

  Patrick must have heard because he came round to the deli today asking for his usual chicken salad. He was very flirty, asking me what I’ve been up to and all that. He did not me
ntion being oh-so-busy with Rhymefest. This should have been infuriating—why couldn’t he just pay attention to me because we like each other and not because he’s heard a rumor I kissed a coworker? But I was actually glad to see him. He looked more ripped and adorable than ever. However, when he asked if we could hang out, I held my ground and told him I’m very, very busy.

  “Could you make some time for me later?” he asked, his eyes big, hazel, imploring, and luscious.

  “I have a supersecret and important mission to go on after work,” I said. “You can join me IF you are up for helping me AND you don’t mind breaking the law.”

  This seemed to further ignite his newfound interest in me, and he agreed to meet me in the parking lot after work. As soon as I finished my shift I bought fifteen packages of preservative-free vegan bologna. Patrick let me put my cruiser in the back of his car, and on the way to Albertsons I told him my plan. He agreed the idea was genius. At Albertsons I bought two packages of regular grosser-than-gross bologna.

  In my house I found dark beanie hats for both of us, and we hung out while we waited for the lights in all the houses on my street to go off. Blessedly, the tweakers seemed to be having a very quiet night. I could tell Patrick wanted to kiss me, but when he sat on the couch I sat in the beige chair that (as you know) is out of arm’s reach. I stayed friendly yet distant, and gave off an unattainable vibe, enjoying the new power dynamic and Patrick’s obvious lust for me. (Take that, Rhymefest!)

  Once all was dark on the street we snuck out and put slices of non-toxic, preservative-free vegan bologna all over my car. It gave us the giggles to crouch down like cat burglars, sticking slices of bologna to the paint. When my car was covered with the pink discs, we ran together across the street, and covered the across-the-street neighbor’s Acura in vegan bologna as well. We then hit seven more cars on my block. It was as if Patrick and I had been transformed into an outlaw couple, destined to become legends through our explosive chemistry and fearless daring. The meth van was the only vehicle we covered in slices of real-live, acidic, preservative-filled bologna. (This tactic would create the impression of a large-scale vandalism attack and would divert suspicion from me without doing actual damage to anyone’s property—except for Captain Tweaker’s meth van, of course.)

  Patrick and I hurried back into my house and as soon as the door closed behind us, we burst out laughing. Roscoe danced at our feet, charmed by the magic between us. Even Charlize Theron peeked out shyly at us from behind her scratching post. Patrick leaned in to kiss me. I let him, and it was delicious. I felt myself melting into him, succumbing. But then I could hear his voice in my head saying, “You probably won’t even hear from me for a couple weeks because I’ll be so busy with Rhymefest,” and I pulled away.

  “Thanks for your help,” I said.

  “Sure thing.”

  I opened the front door. “See you at work.”

  “Okay,” he said, looking so disappointed that I wanted to throw myself on him. “Keep me posted?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Come see me at the deli anytime.”

  With great force of will, I closed the door behind him, then collapsed on the couch, Roscoe licking my face as if to congratulate me on my resolve.

  This morning one of my neighbors called the cops to report the bologna. Of course the popos—who regularly ignore my complaints about the meth cooking and drug dealing next door—hurried out by 8 a.m., as they love to make arrests for petty vandalism. The meth heads were still asleep. I came out to “see what was going on” and acted shocked and appalled about the bologna dotting my car.

  The cops asked if they could interview me and I anonymously suggested they take a look inside the bologna-covered van while they were at it to see if they happened to find a meth lab. Apparently, some of my other neighbors had made the same suggestion. I watched triumphantly from my window as the cops hauled the whole lot of those meth head assholes out of Tweakerville in handcuffs. Captain Tweaker emerged looking enraged and defiant, and while I wanted to wave as haughtily as a British royal, I maintained self-control. There was no need to spoil my perfect crime by gloating.

  The police are still swarming the meth van, collecting evidence of all the cooking that’s been going on in there. The bologna has started dropping off the van, and sure enough, it’s now marvelously polka-dotted.

  Crime fightingly,

  Roxy

  August 31, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  I’m familiar with the age-old sexual axiom ATTRACTION + OBSTACLE = DESIRE. Yet I still forget about it sometimes—I’m shocked to see once again how true it is. Patrick was totally happy to blow me off until he began to sense I am no longer available to him. Now he seems positively desperate to spend time with me. He came by the deli today asking me what I’m up to for the long weekend.

  Though he looked amazing, I felt a little high on my newfound power. So I told him that on Labor Day my parents are having a few neighbors over for burgers and Lone Star and maybe some boring talk about their HOA rules or whatever. (While it’s not a glamorous destination, I feel more empowered being honest than I would telling a lie about a more fashionable yet fabricated event.)

  “They live in that sexy swingers old folks’ community?” he asked.

  “Where did you hear it was like that?”

  “My friend Nathan’s grandpa went there. He was getting dementia or something. So Nathan’s parents paid extra for the grandpa’s house to have high-tech sensors and everything so they could see how many hours the grandpa was sleeping, if he turned the stove off, all that stuff. Super expensive. Anyway, the techno-bed registered that a couple nights a week THREE people were sleeping in Grandpa’s bed.”

  “Good Goddess!” I said.

  “That’s what Nathan’s parents said when they found out they were paying a fortune for Grandpa’s threesomes. But Nathan’s grandpa, he’s never been happier. He’s had, like, a major rebound in his cognitive skills ’n shit.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Talk about sexual healing.”

  “Let’s get down tonight,” Patrick said, with a little Marvin Gaye dance step that was really irresistible. He does have moves. “So take me.”

  “Take you where?”

  “To see your folks. To their boring barbecue in Sun City. I’ve always wanted to check it out.”

  Inside I was freaking out. He wants to meet my parents? But I played it cool. “That’s weird. But okay,” I said with a shrug.

  “Righteous,” Patrick said. He was beaming.

  This makes me supremely nervous, as I haven’t introduced anyone to my parents since Brant Bitterbrush. I don’t want them to think it’s a big deal! Maybe I’ll warn them Patrick is just a friend. Though I’m sure my mom will run with it anyway. But what the hell? Besides, maybe it will give her a positive talking point about me when she and her friends start comparing their grown children’s achievements. I can just hear her now: “Well, Roxy brought a new beau to our house on Labor Day.” Oh Goddess, that actually makes me cringe! Maybe this is a terrible idea!

  As an aside, I must write a note to self to remember that anytime I feel a man losing interest, I must feign having lost EVEN MORE interest.

  Ruminatively,

  Roxy

  September 3, 2012 LABOR DAY!!!!!!

  Dear Everett,

  I have to apologize to you. While I often tell myself you were a terrible boyfriend—always broke, riddled with social anxiety, etc.—at least you never stood me up. I had just gotten dressed in what I hoped was appropriate attire for a senior living community Labor Day barbecue. (Unfortunately, my wardrobe consists primarily of work and club clothes. I feared if I went with club clothes I would perhaps cause spikes in blood pressure through the male and lesbian populations of Sun City. Yet if I went in my normal deli attire my mother would criticize my appearance in front of Patrick.) I finally settled on my labradorite necklace from Artemis (of course!) with a sundress and sandals (no cleavage, flow-y skirt) that I hoped would
be alluring to Patrick, but NOT TOO alluring to my parents’ cohorts. I was in the bathroom curling my hair when Patrick texted.

  I’M SORRY I CAN’T MAKE IT TODAY. I FORGOT I PROMISED MY FRIEND SAL I WOULD GO TO A BURLESQUE SHOW AT THE 29TH STREET BALLROOM.

  Of course I made the horrid mistake of telling my mom and dad I’d be bringing a “new friend” and they’ve surely trumpeted the news to all of their Sun City friends and neighbors. So now, off I go, alone, unshielded, battling my shame. Why, oh why, is this town full of a hexed combination of beautiful, brilliant women and slouchy, immature, yet-still-attractive man-children?????? I could strangle Patrick. I really could.

  Angrily,

  Roxy

  September 4, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  Sun City was a greater horror show than I ever could have imagined. The only saving grace was that Patrick stood me up. Thank Goddess he stood me up!!!!! (This makes me believe more strongly than ever in the “Good News, Bad News, Who Knows?” Chinese parable.)

  I sat on my donut pillow as I drove out to Georgetown on I-35, which was choked with holiday traffic. I pulled up in front of my parents’ house to park but the driveway, the lawn, and both sides of the street were jammed with golf carts so that I had to park around the corner.

  As I approached the house on the sidewalk—my donut pillow tucked discreetly under my arm—I could see through my parents’ front window. The house was jammed with people. I opened the door to find The Rolling Stones blasting and everyone talking and laughing and eating hors d’oeuvres.

  “Roxy! So great to see— Where’s your date?” my mother said, making a beeline for me and speaking in her most booming voice.

  “Got called into work at the last minute,” I said.

  “Oh, honey. Stood up again!”

  I noticed my mother was wearing a leather miniskirt and, even worse, was somehow pulling it off. “You look great!” I said tentatively. She did look tan and dewy.