The Roxy Letters

by Mary Pauline Lowry

  “Mom, are you crying?”

  My mother wiped at her eyes. “I did love that little dog,” she said. “But the day I lost him was the day I got you.” She smiled at me kindly. It was a puzzling sort of non-compliment, but I’ll take it.

  My mom and dad ran off to talk to Captain Tweaker, and I circulated through the crowd. When I spotted Tim and Mario we all jumped up and down for joy while yelling “Vaya con Dios” and giggling hysterically. They told me the rest of their PharmaTrial stay was more boring without me, but when they were released and the $7,000 hit their bank accounts, they felt it had all been worth it. We went outside together briefly to admire the new underglow on Mario’s Dodge Charger. It was kind of weird to see them out in “the free.” It felt like when you are a kid and you have a best friend at camp and then you see them in your regular life and it’s kind of awkward and strange, even though you still love them. But overall it was great.

  Nelson and Jason arrived. Jason had his girlfriend in tow. Their newborn baby was in a sling on her chest and was quite adorable. And Patrick showed up with his burlesque girlfriend Sal. I was a tiny bit frosty toward him at first, but gave Sal a huge hug. I did bring myself to ask Patrick about his skating, and he said—modestly—that he’s been making it to the skate park almost every day. “I wouldn’t expect anything less of you,” I said, and I meant it. I admire him for maintaining the slacker ethos we all grew up valuing so highly. I’m just also really glad he isn’t my boyfriend. I said goodbye and made my way through the crowd.

  I stopped and chatted with people I know as I went, like Teal, and a bunch of the burlesque girls, and my old college pals who I’ve gotten really close with again since we all went to about a million wedding events in the run-up to Yo’s fabulous nuptials (where my reading of a passage from “Love in the Time of Cholera” was a big hit, I must say). Annie appeared at my side with the hotness squared Castro twins in tow. (She told me that now that Jeff has a neck tattoo, she’s decided he’s by far the sexier of the two and has thus laid off her risqué flirtation with Joe.) The three of them sailed off together to check over the microphones for the fund-raising games.

  I was standing alone for a moment, taking in the happy crowd, when Artemis came up and grabbed my elbow. “How are you doing?” she asked. I had been a little nervous about Artemis being at a party with booze, but she looked perfectly content to be sipping a LaCroix. I couldn’t help but follow her gaze toward FAIL BETTER! The entire time I was flitting around like a (very popular) social butterfly, I’d been trying to ignore the fact that the band was in the far corner playing a quiet acoustic set. Texas (a.k.a. Sam) was slapping the bongos, which I tried to tell myself looked stupid, but was actually pretty hot. Artemis and FAIL BETTER! lead singer Arsen Alton made steamy eye contact.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I think I acted like a giant immature idiot to Texas, but I’m fine.” I turned so my back was to FAIL BETTER! Seeing Texas was just too distracting. “How’s work anyway?” I asked. A couple of weeks ago Artemis landed a job as the Girl on the Swing at the Old San Francisco Steak House. In her new role she wears an 1880s–style (family friendly) prostitute getup and belts out old jazz standards while curled up on a piano. She then performs a rather seductive and death-defying round on the swing. Apparently when she was in her early twenties, Artemis did a stint as a trapeze artist, and so the swing comes naturally to her.

  “My manager says I learn faster than any Girl on the Swing they’ve ever had before. I could kick the bell on the ceiling and do a back flip off the swing after a week of practicing.”

  Right then Captain Tweaker joined us, grinning widely to show off his pearly whites. “How are my favorites doing?” he asked. We told him we were fine. “Hey,” he said. “I don’t mean to be nosey, but Sam told me he called you to ask you out and you said no because of his kids.”

  “I kind of did,” I said miserably.

  “You don’t look happy about it.”

  “I’m not. I mean, I always kind of think of myself as a kid. But I don’t even like kids. Or like, I’ve never wanted them.”

  “Did he ask you to be the mother of his children?” Captain Tweaker asked, inexplicably deploying his fake Irish accent.

  “No. He just said he wanted to ask me out. But—”

  “Did he even ask you to meet his kids?”

  “No, but—”

  “Would you want to go out with him?”

  “Yes!” I wailed. “But—”

  “Then why don’t you just try one date? When I used to think ahead into the future I would get so stressed out I had to smoke meth just to deal. But now I take things one day at a time and my life seems to be working out fine.” It was surprisingly good advice.

  Just then Dirty Steve came through the front doors, flanked by two women flaunting alarmingly taut fake breasts who were most certainly strippers at Dirty Steve’s favorite strip club The Yellow Rose—“where all the dancers wear is a smile.” He was talking loudly and I saw his coked-up eyes scanning the room before alighting on me. His face took on an angry glower and he made a beeline in my direction, leaving the entertainers behind. “Oh, there she is,” he shouted as he approached me. “Woman of the hour! Poxy Roxy turned too-big-for-her-britches.”

  “Whatever,” I said, trying not to sound intimidated.

  He reached out and grabbed me by both arms. I tried to pull away, but he’d really clamped down. It hurt! “You think you’re so great, up there on the fifth floor, but you’re nothing but a chickenpox-covered skank!” He shook me back and forth as he yelled, “I fired you! I fucking fired you!” My head jerked back and forth on my neck. Artemis tried to shove him away from me, but he wouldn’t let go. Captain Tweaker gave a shove as well, but his skinny frame was no match for Dirty Steve’s fat potential.

  Suddenly there was a crashing sound and Dirty Steve’s head was replaced by a bongo drum. I glanced around in confusion. Texas tackled Dirty Steve, taking him down to the ground and in the process knocking over part of the puppy pen holding fifteen frolicking wiener puppies, who ambushed the downed Dirty Steve—head still inside the bongo drum—crawling all over him, licking and leaking pee and barking with excitement. Texas staggered to his feet as Dirty Steve flailed around, trying and failing to get up.

  Annie ran over. “Dirty Steve, you’re fired!” she yelled at the bongo drum. “And if you EVER come near her again, I’ll bring down the wrath of the entire Whole Foods legal team on your ass.” She froze, perhaps mortified she’d overstepped her bounds. She looked toward Topher Doyle.

  He gave her a slight nod, then spoke to the bongo. “You heard her,” he said.

  The police arrived in no time, and after talking briefly outside with me, Topher Doyle, Annie, Artemis, Texas, and Captain Tweaker, they took Dirty Steve away in handcuffs. The strippers stayed at the party—I later heard they each adopted a puppy! As the cops left, everyone else went back inside, leaving me and Texas alone on the sidewalk.

  “I’m sorry about your bongo drum,” I said.

  Texas waved his hand as if it was nothing. “I always feel like that ‘Portlandia’ sketch ‘Dream of the Nineties’ when I play that thing anyway,” he said. “It’s ridiculous.”

  “Thanks for saving me from Dirty Steve.”

  “You don’t need saving,” he said.

  “I was just talking to Captain Tweaker about you.”

  “Who?”

  I struggled to remember Captain Tweaker’s real name. “Franklin, from AA,” I said. “He’s my neighbor. Well, he was.”

  “I know. He talks about how great you are all the time. He’s told me about everything you did to get his teeth fixed. He said it was like seventy thousand dollars’ worth of implants.”

  Now I waved my hand as if it was nothing. “He said if I like you and want to go out with you, I should just focus on that. One date. Not, like, all the big picture stuff and the future.”

  “He did?”

  “I’m sorry I was such an asshole ab
out you having kids. I’ve never been very grown-up, and usually the guys I date aren’t Real Adults either, so it was like a big shock that you are, and that you’re caring for so many different people already.”

  “Just because I have kids and help other people doesn’t mean I don’t have room in my life for a…” He paused, like he didn’t want to say “girlfriend” so soon. “For a woman who is special to me.”

  That’s when I kissed him. And it was a kiss like the world’s best ice cream after you’ve eaten strictly vegan for a year.

  “So would you want to go on a date with me at some point?” I finally said.

  “Depends.”

  “On what.”

  “When and where that date would be.”

  “How about after this party? My house?”

  Texas looked as if he was considering it. “Okay,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  We held hands as we stepped back into the PUPPIES! PUPPIES! PUPPIES! grand opening party. The room was abuzz, all the guests talking loudly about Dirty Steve’s arrest. While Texas and I had been outside, someone had set up the wiener dog racecourse. Topher Doyle sailed up to us. “I appreciate Steve providing some much-needed excitement for our biggest donors,” he said. “Studies have shown that adrenaline spikes result in higher donations at fund-raising events. We’ve already just had some unexpectedly large contributions!”

  Everett, your voice boomed out of the speakers. I spotted you holding a microphone. At your elbow, I could see beautiful Nadia, beaming at you proudly as you announced the biggest fund-raising event of the night: the Wiener Dog Races. She looked adoringly at you, Everett, her kind, gainfully employed, rent-paying boyfriend. And normally such a thing would have given me a pang of jealousy. The old me would have thought: “Why couldn’t you have been that boyfriend for me?” But instead, I just felt really glad for you both.

  You’ve come so far, Everett.

  I mean, last summer solstice you were unemployed, with only my roof overhead, and so lonely you’d use any excuse to bust into my room and talk for way too long. And now here you are! But pondering the ways your life has changed for the better made me realize that mine has changed too! I mean, by the time you moved in with me I’d already let myself sink into such a slump that I was totally unable to access my art, my activism, even my friendships. All praise to Venus that I found a glorious grrrl gang to help power me out of my underemployed, artistically stymied state.

  As you introduced the Wiener Dog Races, I looked around and saw myself surrounded by people I love and who love me, my art hanging from the walls, puppies who (thanks in some part to my efforts) would soon find happy homes frolicking in shredded newspaper, and Texas standing by my side. It was all wonderfully overwhelming. But luckily I had the Wiener Dog Races to keep me grounded in the beauty of the moment so that I was not entirely carried away by my bout of navel-gazing.

  Six wiener dogs had been put in starting blocks. They weren’t dogs up for adoption, but rather were adult wiener dogs whose owners had trained them for the race. “Go ahead and put in your final ‘bets’ on your favorite pup,” you said into the mic.

  Everett, you’d explained to me how this “betting” system would end up in massive donation dollars, but I still didn’t understand the details. The wiener dogs’ owners stood at the end of the straightaway racecourse with bits of hot dog and other dog treats as encouragement. Holding Texas’s hand tightly, I pulled him through the crowd of familiar friends and fancy donors until we were standing at the finish line of the racecourse, too.

  “On your mark!” you called, clearly enjoying the limelight. I heard a girl next to me telling her friend you are “totally cute.” Annie and Topher Doyle each took ahold of one side of the starting gate. “Get set! Go!” Annie and Topher lifted the gate. The wiener dogs took off running toward their owners, little legs flying and ears flapping. They moved with such joy that it made everyone in the room laugh with delight, because there is nothing in this world so beautiful as a happy creature running with all its heart and soul toward someone it loves.

  After the party, Texas followed me home. As soon as we walked through my front door, he sat right down on the floor so he could really pet Roscoe, which made my heart just about burst. “Roscoe, wait until you meet my mastiff,” he said. “You and Major Payne are going to be such good friends.” And then I dragged Texas into my bedroom. He took my clothes off slowly. And then it soon became very clear that he doesn’t need some OM group to teach him how to enthusiastically (but gently) pay attention to my clit. As a result, I had a mind-blowing, merman-free orgasm, right off the bat.

  Texas spent the night. (He told me he’d texted one of his sponsees earlier asking him if he could feed Major Payne and take him for his evening walk. So maybe his sponsees are like a gang of Everetts—seemingly needy but actually totally awesome.) We slept like spoons—a perfect fit—and this morning we went at it all over again, only it was even better. When we finally dragged ourselves out of bed, I made him my famous bulletproof coffee. As we drank it he said, “I always hoped that someday I would meet someone and I’d like them and they’d like me and it would just be as easy as that. Do you believe that could happen?”

  “I do,” I said. “I mean, I think we’ve already gotten the comedy of manners–type complications out of the way.”

  “Doesn’t a comedy of manners satirize the customs of fashionable society? In what fashionable society are that many men touching that many vaginas in one room?”

  That made me laugh really hard, and he laughed, too. “Oh my Goddess, it was so horrible,” I said.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he asked.

  “I guess.”

  “Those panties that were hanging off your shoe—what were they made of exactly?”

  “Shuuutttt uuuuupppp,” I said. Then we kissed again and headed back to the bedroom. Sexiness, a sense of humor, and an in-bed work ethic like his I’m not putting to waste. Later he ran home to pick up Major Payne—who is as mellow as I remembered him from our encounter at the vet’s office. Then Texas and I walked Major Payne and Roscoe around the sun-dappled Hike and Bike Trail, where sunlight glittered on the water. Roscoe—who clearly adores Texas and Major Payne already—seemed jaunty and proud, and I did indeed feel reborn in so many ways. Afterward, Texas dropped Roscoe and me back at my house. He said he had to go pick up his kids from their mom’s, but that he’d text me a little later.

  And I believe him.

  Feeling well loved (and rather emotionally mature),

  Roxy

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I could not have written this novel without the loving support of my husband, George, my silent drummer. George, this book belongs to you. Thank you for listening to me read these letters as they unfurled each day (and then listening again and again as I edited them). The joy and happiness you’ve brought to my life made them possible. I love you more than Texas!

  The day my agent, Allison Hunter at Janklow & Nesbit, took me on as a client is the day I became the luckiest grrrl on earth! Without her dedication and vision, this book would not exist in the larger world. Overwhelming thanks to my dream editors at Simon & Schuster: Christine Pride, whose delightful edits took this book up about a thousand levels, and Carina Guiterman, whose unstoppable magical mojo makes her the best in the business. I will be forever grateful to Marysue Rucci for her enthusiasm, support, and editorial guidance; and to my incredible publicity and marketing divas, Amanda Lang and Elizabeth Breeden, for their creativity, hard work, and expertise. What a dream team! And many thanks to the other literary superheroes at Simon & Schuster who worked to make this book all it could be including (but certainly not limited to): Marie Florio, Samantha Hoback, Lashanda Anakwah, Richard Rhorer, Jon Karp, Wendy Sheanin, and Cary Goldstein. I’d like to send special thanks to Clare Mao at Janklow & Nesbit. Thanks also to my most excellent copyeditor, Stacey Sakal.

  To my father, Pete Lowry, who always encouraged my love for writ
ing even when the way was dark and seemed impossible. To my mother, Candy Becker, who once said, “Mary Pauline, you are so funny. Why don’t you write something funny?” and has shown me that making art joyfully is the way through the delights and challenges that life brings. To my incredible bonus parents, Eric Baker Becker III (RIP) and Mary Lowry—who can make David Sedaris laugh. To all my siblings, nieces, and nephews. To my magic cousin Fred Burke, for showing me from a young age that it’s okay to follow cultural curiosities, wherever they may lead me. And to my amazing bonus family (aka my in-laws) who are so kind and supportive.

  Thanks to my mentor, Brady Udall, for reading so many drafts and helping me to see the arc of the novel. And thanks to the rest of my Boise State University MFA family who supported and guided me as I wrote this book, especially Jackie Polzin (neighbors forever!), Ariel Delgado Dixon (first years forever!), Natalie Disney, Becca Anderson, Jackie Reiko Teruya, Di Bei, Rory Mehlman, Mitch Wieland, and Emily Ruskovich.

  Thank you to Joy Williams, who was the first to believe in my writing and has been my Giving Tree for so many years. I hope that unlike the little boy, I have given a little something back, if only in adoration and gratitude. To Denis Johnson (RIP) and Cindy Lee Johnson, for showing me how to live a life devoted to writing and love. To Stephen Harrigan, without your years of support, I don’t think I’d still be writing! And many thanks to the University of Texas MA in English (concentration in Creative Writing)—now The New Writers Project—for generous support and for introducing me to such incredible, life-changing mentors.

  All praise and infinite gratitude to Rufi Thorpe (gateway to all of this!), Kimberly Cole, Julia Claiborne Johnson, Christa Parravani, Francesca Lia Block, and Amanda Yates Garcia, who each supported this work in her own special way. Thanks to my bestie, Dawn Erin (the real-life Girl on a Swing at the Old San Francisco Steakhouse!), and Hilary Clausing (so many thanks, Hilary, for always recounting your adventures!). Thanks to David Moorman; and to my doppelganger, Jennifer Olsen. To Sarah Bird, for being an amazing role model and for writing the first book I ever read set in Austin that made me laugh really freaking hard. For being fun, hilarious, supportive friends and for also hiring me to do work that supported the writing of this book: Gillian Hayes, Steve Hosaflook, and Melissa Mazmanian. (On a slightly less related but irresistible note, thanks also to Melissa for arranging my marriage! I am forever indebted—seriously!) To Rachel Fershleiser, for generously sharing your expertise about literary agents. I’ve long idealized you from afar for being a true literary godmother, and you didn’t disappoint. To Jennifer and Bryan Jack, for propping me up and making me laugh. To Charlize Theron, for rising above and lifting us all up with you. You are one cool cat!