Exes and Ohs

by Shallon Lester

  Adding to the building tension, Kyle and I weren’t sexually compatible. He got in the habit of coming over to my house wasted and passing out with his clothes on.

  “You need to put out more,” I finally said testily. “Or I’m going to start hooking up with other people.”

  “If you need something that I’m not giving you, you should totally go find it!”

  This was not a wise thing to say to a girl who had a necklace that read “Revenge” custom-made … and wore it every day.

  So I quickly rekindled a romance with Sterling, a gorgeous, self-obsessed banker I’d dated the year before. Any time we had plans I would drop hints to Kyle that I was going out with “a guy friend” and then would proceed to describe him in glowing terms.

  “Cool!” Kyle said enthusiastically. “We should all hang out sometime!”

  I gritted my teeth and tried harder. One night I purposely stole Sterling’s boxer shorts and left them lying around for Kyle to find.

  The next morning he just folded them up casually on his way out the door. “Oh, I put those boxers in your drawer, babe. Have a good day!”

  Finally, a week before Valentine’s Day, I sat Kyle down.

  “Look, there’s someone else who wants to take me out on the fourteenth, but I’d rather spend it with you. So you need to cowboy up or break this off.”

  Kyle thought about this and nodded slowly, saying nothing. Sterling, of course, had made no such request. But tools such as honesty weren’t part of my romantic arsenal.

  I wrongly believed that Kyle would take the bait and make some grandiose plan involving romance and champagne and roses, and I was giddy with anticipation when he came over the night before Valentine’s Day … carrying a potted Peruvian lily.

  “This is a birthday/friendship/Valentine’s present …,” he said.

  My face fell. “I’m sorry, did you say ‘friendship’ somewhere in there?”

  “Shallon, look”—he fumbled with a petal—“I just can’t give you what you want. I can’t be that ‘boyfriend guy’ that you’re expecting.”

  I felt like I’d been dipped in ice water.

  “I’m expecting it, Kyle, because that’s what you promised me. That’s the kind of relationship your behavior, your actions, have led to.”

  Silence.

  Getting dumped is like stubbing your toe. The real horror is the pain you know is just around the corner, the agony to come. I burst into tears, the floodgates crashing open spectacularly. I sobbed because I knew I had a long road of anguish waiting for me, weeks full of sleepless nights and depressing playlists. I managed to gurgle out that it wasn’t supposed to happen like this—I should have been leaving him.

  “Why would you leave me?” he asked simply, no trace of sarcasm or hubris in his voice.

  “Because!” I wailed. “You’re the only thing that makes me happy!”

  “Aw, sweetheart … that doesn’t make any sense,” he whispered, rubbing my back, and I thought bitterly about just how wrong he was.

  The next morning I woke up, puffy eyed and wretched, just as I had 365 mornings ago. I plodded into work with the faint hope that I wouldn’t be assigned any events that night—very few celebrity parties took place on holidays. They, unlike me, had better things to do, with people who loved them. But leave it to the Sea Hag to whip up a hellish situation out of thin air.

  “You’re covering this. Tonight.” She slapped a ticket down on my desk: El Concierto del Amor con Marc Anthony y Jennnifer Lopez en Madison Square Garden!

  “There’s a rumor they’re splitting up and some people think they might announce it tonight at their concert,” she said.

  “Why would they announce their divorce at a Valentine’s Day concert?” I mumbled. It would be like abandoning your child at the Olan Mills portrait studio.

  “Look,” she snorted, “just go, record everything they say, and file the story by midnight. Can you handle that, Shallon?”

  “Do I get a plus-one?” Not like I had anyone to take, unless my body pillow counted. I could put it in a sweatshirt and spray it with Abercrombie cologne like I used to do in high school.

  Sea Hag seemed to read my mind (or probably just my swollen, miserable face).

  “No. The concert is sold out; we had to get this ticket on eBay for $250.”

  In a rare moment of fortitude, I decided to try to make the best of it. I had covered another J. Lo concert the year before in Atlantic City and had actually become a bit of a closeted fan. I inexplicably knew the words to every song, and while it wasn’t something I admitted to at parties, I even liked Gigli.

  In the off chance that J. Lo and Marc would address the crowd in Spanish, I arrived at the Garden early enough to pop into the Borders bookstore next door and pick up a Spanish phrase guide. Although it seemed unlikely that this pocket guide would contain such phrases as “legal separation” or “I just can’t take her nagging anymore,” an ace reporter is always prepared.

  I had been to the Garden only for hockey games and Fall Out Boy concerts, both audiences I considered to be the fringe members of society, clearly making them “my people.” But tonight MSG was packed with eighteen thousand Puerto Ricans festooned with flags, bandanas, and the ultimate Concierto del Amor accessory, a significant other. In other words, not “my people.” I thought briefly about stopping to get a snack but I didn’t want to stand out in any way, so I just merged into the crowd and drifted into the arena. Several times I called out a random gringo name—“Kevin! I’m back here, wait up!”—just to make it seem like I wasn’t alone, that perhaps my non-fictitious boyfriend and I had gotten separated. This would have been more plausible if there had been one other white person at the concert besides myself.

  I scooted past canoodling couples to my seat, my one seat, and tried to ignore the puzzled stares and whispers en español. I didn’t even need the phrase book to figure out what they were saying—turns out “Is she here alone?” is universal in every language.

  I flushed with embarrassment and poked the woman next to me, who was staring at her reflection in the glare of her boyfriend’s gold medallions.

  “I’m here for work!” I shouted above the din.

  “Que?”

  “I’m … I work for …” I groped, making swirly hand movements that were supposed to indicate writing but looked more like the foppish imitation of a flaming gay man.

  She nudged her boyfriend nervously. “Lesbiana,” she said, shifting in her seat to get as far from me as possible.

  Great. Not only was I alone but I also didn’t even have any snacks. Then again, if I broke the seal of emotional eating, I might never stop. The janitorial crew would find me stuffed under the seats days later, smeared with congealed cheese, a stray hot dog bun sticking out of my bra.

  At last, the lights went down and the audience erupted in cheers. At least in the dark I’d be less conspicuous, and who knows, maybe I’d bond with Jorge and Esmerelda in the seats behind me as we sang that our love don’t cost a thing.

  J. Lo and her husband came sweeping out onstage and launched into a Spanish ballad about escaping Nazi persecution … or something equally intense, judging by their dramatic choreography.

  Okay, I’ll recognize the next song, I thought, and I might have if I’d had the foresight to be born in San Juan or Aguadilla.

  It slowly dawned on me that this concert was entirely in Spanish. There would be no discussion of which block Jenny was from, nor would anyone announce, “Let’s get loud!”

  After about five songs, Jennifer and Marc trotted their infant twins out onstage.

  I whipped out my pen and paper, poised to capture a teary admission that yes, their odd marriage was over. Then maybe I’d have some purpose among the stadium full of weeping, devastated Latinos. I would make my way to the stage and seize the microphone and offer J. Lo tips on how make it through a mangled Valentine’s Day. The Juans and Marias would cry out gratefully, “La gringa es muy buena!” and celebratory tequila wou
ld be passed forward in my honor.

  But those hopes were dashed as Marc gushed that he and his big-assed wife were happier than ever and the rumors of a split could not have been more false. As thousands of cheering fans hollered their support, I plopped down in my seat, dejected. Technically my assignment was over, and I could have left. But where would I go? My roommates were both out on dates. All that was waiting for me at home was Kyle’s Peruvian lily, and it had begun to lean away from my incessant blubbering.

  Yes, it was better to wait out the bulk of the evening in the dark shelter of Madison Square Garden. Sure, the people inside (correctly) thought I was a pathetic loser, but at least we probably didn’t have many mutual Facebook friends. Out on the street, however, I stood a very good chance of running into a coupled-up friend out on a romantic stroll. Everyone thinks New York is a massive, sprawling metropolis, but in reality Manhattan is only a few square miles. You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting someone you’ve slept with, and that night I wasn’t going to take any chances.

  So I huddled in my seat and tried to decipher the words to some of the more melancholy-sounding songs, scrawling unhelpful notes to myself—“sounds like ‘Matterhorn’ ”—in hopes of translating the song later.

  But as I sat there, watching the sea of couples swaying dreamily to the music, I realized the futility of my efforts. It would take more than a Spanish dictionary for me to ever fully understand the language of love.

  Hoarders Without Borders

  Working as a gossip writer for the New York Daily News was largely an exercise in masochism, but there were perks. Among them was the opportunity to make out with numerous celebrities—actors, musicians, athletes, you name it. But that wasn’t even the best of it. Boys come and go. Gift bags, however (if you play your cards right), can clog up your apartment forever.

  One of my chief duties as a gossip hack was to cover the Manhattan charity gala circuit. I loved going to these events, mostly because I ascended two social levels (in my mind, at least) every time I said the word “gala.” Gaaaaaaala. You really had to put your nose in the air and draw it out.

  Charity functions are a lot like weddings: dressy people at huge circular tables eating and drinking and competing over who is better friends with the hosts. Only, instead of toasts and dancing, the entertainment mostly consists of “inspirational” presentations about why that particular nonprofit needs your money. Additional acts usually include a speech by some drunken old executive in the crowd whose wife goaded him into donating an obscene amount of money—one geezer gave $1 million at the last Christopher Reeve foundation dinner I attended—and then, of course, there was always the silent auction.

  Sure, silent auctions are intended to raise money, but if you’ve ever been to one you know that all they really do is underscore how out-of-touch rich people are with how much things are worth. Five thousand dollars for a private cooking lesson with Mario Batali? Seven hundred dollars for a pair of Crocs worn by Plaxico Burress? Seriously?

  “Who the hell would pay a grand for a bike signed by the Real Housewives of New Jersey?” Klo would ask. Whenever possible I would take her as my plus-one, but seats were usually tight to the best events, so she got stuck tagging along to parties that were about as fun as, say, the United Hispanic Volleyball Association dinner or a right-wing Abort Abortion bonanza.

  As we listened to whichever D-list MC (usually a retired soap star or former Menudo singer) was hosting ramble about the majesty of giving, Klo would inevitably turn to me and hiss: “There’d better be a good gift bag, Lester.”

  Ah yes, the gift bag. The true reason anyone ever came to a benefit.

  Bad gift bags are like boys with small penises—there’s no way to predict the unpleasant surprise ahead of time. I can’t tell you how many sacks I’ve greedily snapped up, only to find a heap of crap inside: combs, bird food, mints (oh, so many mints!), moisty-naps, XXL T-shirts advertising the services of Dr. Ira Weisenthal, DDS—the list goes on and on.

  But when a swag bag is good, it’s like Christmas morning. Flatirons! Movie passes! Godiva chocolate! During the Super Bowl one year I snagged a $500 gift certificate to a spa in Santa Barbara. At the Denise Rich Angel Ball, everyone got Diptyque candles and Tempur-Pedic pillows. Hair products are also abundant on the Manhattan goody bag circuit, which is odd because most events are attended by old Jewish guys who don’t have any hair (at least not on their head). Makeup is also really popular, most of which can be exchanged at Sephora with no problem, no matter where it’s from. At one point, I had more than $1,200 worth of gift cards at the cosmetics store thanks to gift bag returns. I currently have enough lip gloss to choke a hippo.

  But the gift bag cornucopia started coming to an end once my bosses at the Daily News realized that they hated me and began giving my buffoon of a coworker invites to the top-tier events, leaving me to cover Dog the Bounty Hunter’s Flag Day Fiesta at the La Quinta Inn.

  Since I knew there was no chance of getting any hot gossip at these phony-baloney benefits, I tried to guess the freebies ahead of time.

  “So,” I’d say casually to the publicist handling an event, “who all is sponsoring?”

  She’d rattle off a few companies and I’d jot them down eagerly, quickly calculating the odds of decent loot.

  It didn’t take me long to figure out that sometimes, the worst events can have surprisingly fabulous gift bags. That’s because the sponsors of those events tend to be new companies that are so eager to get their product in the hands of Manhattan’s tastemakers that they’ll practically give you the deed to their store. After the ill-conceived Alopecia Awareness Summit, for example, I was delighted to be gifted with a coupon for an entire year’s worth of laundry service from an upstart dry cleaner.

  But A-list sponsors tended to disappoint. My fellow reporters and I once daydreamed for weeks about the bounty that awaited us at a Cartier event … and were furious when all we pulled out of the swag bag was a jewelry-cleaning cloth and another goddamned box of mints.

  Not long after that, I realized that I had no future as a gossip reporter (and didn’t want one, either), so I took my lifetime supply of Altoids, peaced out of the Daily News, and started filming Downtown Girls. As demeaning and career-stifling as the place was, part of me—the greedy, cheap part—hated to leave the newspaper. Would I ever see the inside of the Plaza’s ballroom again? Oh, how I love the Plaza! They could host a public execution and I’d be there with bells on as long as it was in that gorgeous, ornate ballroom!

  After I quit, I sat in my bedroom and gathered all of the swag I’d amassed in those eighteen months around me, like children awaiting a story. I picked up each item—a bottle of Kiehl’s shampoo, a Lia Sophia cuff—and kissed it, one by one. Would I ever again have the chance to add to this glorious collection of free stuff?

  Turned out I need not have worried. Once word spread that I had my own MTV show, the gala invitations began rolling in. I again found myself rubbing elbows with socialites and celebs, and most important, gift bags. I still took Klo along with me because no one could work a room like the two of us. Within the first thirty seconds at an event, we’d have calculated where the hot single boys were clustered, which table would likely have an extra dessert, and which bartenders could be suckered into giving us a free bottle of Veuve Cliquot to take home. Plus—and this may sound stupid, but I assure you it isn’t—Klo and I have complementary “good sides” when taking photos. I will be snapped only with my head turned to the right—if my chin is even one degree to the left, I look like a wheel of brie or a sweet potato. But Klo, the bitch, looks good from any angle, so she never has a problem letting me always be on the left.

  We would drink, dance, and chat up people about our show, and usually I’d end up kissing some heir or another. But the best part of the evening was the cab ride home, when we’d giddily tear through our gift bags like kids on Halloween. Since she was engaged and I was atrociously single, I’d give her any men’s products in exc
hange for something I wanted, usually candy, or hair products, which she doesn’t use because she is naturally gorgeous. It was like having a diabetic friend who would trade you her Kit Kats for your boxes of raisins.

  One evening, at the Bronx Zoo’s Monkeying Around fund-raiser, I spotted something I wanted even more than the coupon for a free parakeet. His name was Xavier, and this gem of a boy was the son of a diplomat and currently in medical school at Columbia. We chatted all the way through the Cirque du Soleil performance and most of the live auction. He was tall and handsome and beyond dreamy, admitting that he went to these things only when his father couldn’t and someone simply had to represent the family.

  “Oh, I know exactly how that goes,” I lied. When hobknobbing with socialites, I’ve found it’s unwise to appear too different from them. They don’t really value individuality or outsiders. They value being photographed, free stuff, and getting their name in the papers. Maybe we weren’t so different after all.

  “There is one event I begged my dad to get me into,” he said conspiratorially. “The Doctors Without Borders gala. Are you going?”

  The DWB benefit was one of the hottest events in town—real celebrities attended, like CNN anchors and congressmen. I would be hard-pressed to convince the event coordinators that I, future D-list reality star, needed to be there. But at that moment I decided I had to. Not only would the swag be out of control, Xavier wanted me to sit at his table. Eeee!

  “Kloey,” I said seriously in the cab home as we pawed through our loot, “I have to go. This guy could be my future husband!”

  “You think everyone is your future husband.”

  The next day I got to work on my mission: get into the DWB event. I was too cheap to hire a publicist, so I used my Google Voice number to call event organizers and pretend to be my own rep.

  “How y’all doin’, this is Cindy Crosby,” I trilled in a southern accent. “I’m tryin’ to get my client on the list for next week’s Doctors Without—”

  “No can do,” said the gay on the other end. “We’re booked solid. Sorry!”