by Pamela Ribon
“You know what to get him,” I said.
“I am not buying anyone a theatre mask.”
Dale collects theatrical happy/sad masks. Some are paintings, others are statues. His Christmas tree is a terrifying ornamental ordeal. We’ve all spent several nights outside of Dale’s company complaining about how creepy the collection is.
“It’s cheesy and wrong and it makes me not want to be his friend,” she said.
I laughed. “I’ll tell him you said that,” I said.
“Shut up. I think for his birthday I’m going to rid his bedroom of all the scary masks and it’ll be the best gift ever.”
“I just don’t go into his bedroom. It works out better for all of us that way.”
“It only works out better for Jason.” We often joked that Dale’s boyfriend, Jason, actually hated all of us, which was why we rarely saw him. Apparently Jason didn’t want Dale to feel like his relationship had to be his entire life, but I think the truth was that Jason couldn’t stand us.
“Hey,” Shannon said, and I could picture her grin. I could see her leaning forward, her brown hair brushing over her forearms as she giggled into the phone. “Don’t you think that those masks over their bed leave this deep mark on Jason’s psyche that never goes away? They’re trying to have sex and it’s like, ‘Mask in your face! Mask far away. Laughing at you! Crying far away. Laughing! Crying. Closer! Closer! Closer!’ You think Jason ever sleeps? I mean, no wonder he’s such a grouch.”
“Shannon, you’re scaring me. Are you coming to my apartment or are we meeting up at Dale’s?”
“Go to Dale’s. I don’t know exactly what time I’ll get in. I’ve got a test in my three o’clock I can’t skip. Traffic’s gonna be a bitch.”
“Are you staying the night?” I asked. I wondered if I had any clean sheets in the apartment for the futon. I thought about the monster laundry beast that was squeezed up against the closet door, threatening to take over my bedroom. I debated doing laundry for the fifth time that week.
“Nah, probably not. Just in and out. I don’t know. If we drink I might crash at your place. Or Dale’s. Jason makes yummy omelets.”
“So now you’re a big Jason fan,” I said.
“Love his omelets; don’t necessarily love him. Are you going to Hartford for Mom’s birthday?”
“Maybe I’m not invited. She hasn’t said anything about it to me.”
“She will. I gotta go, Stinky.”
We hung up and I went back in to feed Taylor.
I found my cat slumped around the pillow on my futon, sleeping with one eye open. He always crawled into the place I just left, hoping to find the warm spot made by my ass.
He jumped down onto the hardwood floor and stretched out his hind legs. His gray and white fur spiked up around his neck as he hunched himself forward. His tail lowered as he pulled himself back. He stopped to sniff at the coffee table but saw that I had already cleaned my sandwich plate.
He jumped to the counter. He brushed up against the coffee maker as I offered him a choice: “Chicken or fish?”
He mewed, brushing his left side along a bottle of wine. I caught the bottle before it tipped into the sink. I opened the can and plopped the solid hockey puck of food into a small bowl. The kitchen filled with the sharp scent of cheap tuna fish as I sang “The Taylor Song.” It goes: “Taylor! Taylor! The cat with the fur on his face! Taylor!” I was confident the song didn’t make me a crazy cat lady, by the way.
Once back on the futon, I held a pillow to my chest. Taylor had recently been eating the corner of the pillow, so the damp stuffing was pushing though the cheap green fabric on one side. It was quiet in the small room. I glanced at my television, my laptop, and my stereo. Nothing was calling to me. I bounced in place. I thought about doing my nails, but it seemed like too much work. The sound of Taylor’s wet chomping filled the room. I was so restless, I was excited to hear the phone suddenly ring.
The Caller ID said it was Becca. I hadn’t heard from her in a long time. I searched for the cordless, hoping for a twenty-minute chat that ended with an invite to go out with a group of her friends. Dinner and a movie, maybe, or even just watching television at someone’s apartment. Becca’s timing couldn’t have been better.
“Hello?”
“Anna, it’s Becca! I’m getting married!” She said it quickly, like I’d been expecting her to call and say exactly that.
Normally those three words produce shrieks and giggles, sending a room or even an entire house into chaos. But those three words were coming out of Becca’s mouth, so they only produced a small, worried mental hum that flatlined underneath my restless jitters. See, Becca wasn’t the closest friend of mine, but she was a woman in my social circle. Now she was a woman who’d moved up another rung on the ladder of life, while I was still down below. Someone was getting married. Someone else. Another person that wasn’t me. As I sat still listening to her recite the engagement story, the hum in my head turned into a murmur. Then it sizzled into a loud, vibrating buzz. I hated that feeling of dread weighing down my arms, that heaviness making my stomach feel so empty. I hated it because I never expected to feel it. I didn’t think I was that kind of girl. I looked down to see that my palms were sweating; there were also tiny half-moons indented from my fingernails. I opened my mouth wide when I realized I’d been clenching my jaw. What was happening to me?
“So anyway, we’re finally doing it. Married. Hitched! Can you believe it?” Her voice cracked on the last word, and I could tell this phone call was way up in the double digits on her list. By now she was reciting a well-rehearsed monologue. She might not notice I wasn’t picking up my cues.
Becca and Mark had been together for about four years and had been talking about marriage for the past year, waiting until they had enough money saved up. I didn’t even have someone I was debating marrying to discuss savings and budgets with. Someone else had done all of that searching and finding, and that girl—she wasn’t me.
“Congratulations.” I hoped I sounded sincere. “When’s the wedding?”
“In nine months.”
“Oh!”
“No. No baby,” she said quickly, laughing. No, nothing was sordid or imperfect about this impending wedding. Hers was just fine. Everything was great. Becca had been declared “A Keeper.” She was getting married. I was not. I was “A Releaser.” Or maybe even “A RunLikeHellFromHer.”
“We wanted a wedding in the spring, and I’d like some time to get myself in shape,” she continued.
Becca was what my mother would call “well put together.” Always wearing an “outfit” and not just clothes, she’s the only person I know who wears a blazer to a bar.
“How’d you like to be a bridesmaid?” she asked me.
I didn’t expect this offer, as I hadn’t been one of Becca’s closest friends. Ian was the closer one to this circle of people. They were Ian’s friends first. I had fully expected to lose them after we split up. I appreciated that they all stayed my friends after the breakup. They really liked Dale and were pretty considerate about not forcing Ian and me to get back together.
“Wow, Becca. Thank you. I can’t believe you’re asking me.”
“Donna’s not going to be able to make the wedding because she’s got a family reunion that weekend.”
Oh.
“Oh.”
“Shit. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. I’m just glad that I can ask you. I was worried we wouldn’t have enough room to have everyone in our wedding party that we wanted and now we can. Besides, you and Ian were really there for us that one time we almost broke up and it would just mean so much to us if—”
“Becca. It’s okay. I’ll be in your wedding.” I politely cut her off before she had to fabricate a loving history between us. I was flattered enough that she was thinking of me. “I’d be honored,” I added, in case she was still feeling guilty.
Now, I’m not the kind of girl who defines her personal status and self-worth by the le
ngth and quality of her relationships. Or at least, that’s what I thought about myself before I picked up that phone to hear Becca’s good news. Then I was flooded with the jealousy of another person getting picked first. I didn’t need a husband to prove I was worth something. I just hated being second.
Or last. God, don’t let me be last. The Spinster. The Old Maid. Aunt Anna With the Cats. I don’t have to be next, but please, please, please, I can’t be last.
The guy at the Circle K already had a pack of Marlboro Lights and a 20-ounce Diet Coke sitting on the counter when I walked in. “I saw you walking up! I know what you want!” He beamed. How did everyone else know what I wanted? Why couldn’t I have that insight?
I got home, grabbed a bottle of beer, smacked my pack of cigarettes against the inside of my wrist and then opened them. I sat down to my computer. I lit a cigarette, took a breath, and I wrote. I wanted it to be okay to feel like this. It’d be okay if I were Anna K.
000006.
Girlie Thoughts
LATER, 30 JUNE
I never start this off by saying “Dear Diary.” Sometimes I wonder if I should. Tonight, because I want to sound more like a diary than a column, I’m going to.
Dear Diary,
I’m going to pretend that you’re quiet, secret pages locked somewhere in a drawer and that you’re not the Internet. I’m going to pretend it’s just me here tonight because what I’m about to say makes me appear to be weaker than I ever thought myself to be. Dear Diary, I’m sad tonight.
A friend of mine is getting married, and even though that doesn’t make me any less of a person, and being single at this age is perfectly normal, I want to say right here and right now that I feel like I’m not on the right path. No, maybe I am. I don’t know. It’s just not the path that my parents followed, and it’s not the path that movies are made out of.
My life so far isn’t going to make much of a movie. That’s something I’ve been thinking about lately. If my life were a movie, how would I want it to end? Does someone swoop in and carry me off into the sunset? Is it Ian? Does anyone have to? Can’t I be the swooper? Why do I have to wait to be chosen?
I like to think that I’m a completely independent woman capable of running her own life without the help of others. I like to think that. I know it’s not true. I depend on others for fun, advice, help, and favors. Right now there’s nobody around, and nobody’s home, and there’s nobody to commiserate with about someone else just getting chosen to get out of the game. I’m alone tonight because my friends are busy and Ian’s not here. He’s been out of town and will be for a while, so I don’t know when things are going to get easier. I hate that I feel this way. I hate breaking down, shutting down, just because there’s nobody around to keep me up.
Last night I went to get a glass of water, but I couldn’t find a glass. They were in the dishwasher, dirty. As I turned the dishwasher on, I realized that it’s quite possible I haven’t run a load of dishes in over two weeks.
I never remember to do laundry. If I do, I usually forget to put it in the dryer. The next day, when I do put the clothes in the dryer, I forget to hang them up. I run out of steam right there. I’ll pull all of the clean, warm clothes out of the dryer, give them a half-assed fold, and then put the basket on the floor of my bedroom. I honestly can’t remember the last time I went to the store to buy groceries.
But that’s nothing compared to the hardest part. When it gets this lonely, and I’m feeling this down, I can’t sleep. I sit silently on my couch, listening to the wind hitting the building, and I think about things I should be doing or things I want to do. I worry about things I haven’t done yet. I worry I’m running out of time.
I can’t sleep. I try to clear my head by creating a pillow-and-blanket boyfriend to spoon against. It doesn’t help. Pillow Boyfriend is way too mushy, and Blanket Boy makes me sweat.
When will I be good enough to be chosen? What do I get to choose? Why does everyone go away?
Weddings bring out the worst in me. All of this paranoia is due to my friend’s announcement. I feel silly for getting this upset. When will I be as strong as I give myself credit for? When will I actually feel as independent as I act? Weddings make me hate myself as I count down the days, working to get “pretty enough” to be seen at the wedding, attractive enough to tolerate dancing in front of old friends and ex-lovers. Once I’m at the reception I get mushy and sad, drink way too much, and convince myself that nobody will ever love me and I’ll never be as happy as everyone else. It’s not pretty, it’s not healthy, but it’s all a part of being a woman. It’s a cycle I’ve got down to a science.
Love until later,
Anna K
000007.
Mom called the next night. She was trying to remember which baby-sitter used to borrow our Stephen King books because she was missing her copy of Cujo. My mom likes to keep all of her Stephen King books in a place where she can see them in the living room because she thinks they have the power to move at night, cursing her belongings and plotting her ultimate demise.
This is sort of my fault. One day I put a magnet inside the pages of Mom’s paperback copy of Salem’s Lot and I made it move along the kitchen table as I pretended to do my homework. I acted like it was freaking me out. I convinced her that she could control the evil by wishing it away and keeping an eye on it. I did it on and off for about a month. Now she makes sure that the Stephen King books are in her sight at all times. I’m a horrible person.
This Cujo situation had the potential to become a very bad thing, so I made a mental note to buy a new copy to slip into her bookcase the next time I went to visit. My parents live in Hartford, Connecticut. Of all the places my parents thought they’d end up living, Hartford was probably last on the list. It’s boring, but in a “We’re done making a family” sort of way that agrees with them. Dad works and Mom organizes rooms to minimize their evil potential. They must enjoy the monotony of Hartford after all the moving around we did when I was young. Dad sometimes got transferred twice a year, which meant that by the time I reached my senior year of high school, I’d gone to over fifteen different schools. Living in the same house for more than a year must be a pleasure for them.
I live in Austin because I went to college here. I got a degree in acting. I did a few plays once I graduated. I found myself working harder and harder, never feeling like I had accomplished anything. I hated performing for eight people. So I quit. I would be lying if I said I didn’t miss it.
I think Mom likes telling people that her daughter is an actress. She still uses the word actress, even though most people say “actor” now. She also refers to all of my shows as “little plays.” She asks about my shows and I make up plays that don’t exist. It’s easier than admitting I have no idea what I am doing or where I am going. The actor’s struggle is much nobler than the haze of postcollege slack.
After the Cujo thing had been settled, we were free to go through the rest of our phone routine.
“Are you doing any little plays right now?” she asked me.
“Yeah, Mom.”
“What’s this one called?”
“More Jock Than Titty.”
I heard my mother suck on her teeth. “That sounds dirty.”
“I’m not naked in it. Other people are, though. It’s about a boy who tries to become a member of the dance team and the other girls won’t let him unless he dresses like a girl.”
“I don’t think I can make it down to see that play.”
Mom asks, I describe a play she’d never want to see, and then she politely turns down an invitation I never extended. That’s our routine.
“I miss you.”
We said it at the same time.
“You should come and see your father. He’s feeling down lately.”
To the best of my knowledge, I never really saw my father feel much of anything. My mom would often tell me about these emotions he was going through, so I always imagined he had to break down in their bed at nig
ht since he was pretty much a blank page whenever I talked to him. That sounds very 1950s, to say that my dad is strong and silent while my mother discusses emotions, but I think they’re very much a 1950s kind of couple.
“Well, I’m coming for your birthday,” I said.
“I mean I think he’d like you to come.”
Another one of Mom’s codes. It meant Dad wasn’t feeling well again. He’d been getting sick and the colds were sticking around longer than before. He’d had some heart problems in the past, but he didn’t like telling me all of the specifics. It was as if simply discussing why my father was in the hospital would hurt his condition, tempting the illness to return worse than before. Dad hates doctors and always assumed that if he was sick it was because he’d been working too hard. Last month Mom told me she saw blood on his handkerchief. (Right. A handkerchief. I said they were 1950s.) Dad always bounces back from these things, but my mother still quietly talks about him like he’s just about to slip into a coma.
“I’ll be there soon, Ma.”
“You’re coming up for my birthday, then.”
“That’s what I just said. I was wondering if you were going to invite me or if I was going to have to crash your party.”
“Oh, you.” She made a grunting noise. “Always acting like I’ve forgotten you. Shannon and Meredith are coming. I figured you were too.”
“I will, Ma. I am.”
“Good. Your father will like that.”
I spent the rest of that evening adding more stories to my webpage. I fell asleep at the computer—something I hadn’t done since college. I wrote entries about how Ian and I had found our apartment, the time we got lost in Oklahoma, about our first fight over car maintenance, and what it was like to meet his father. The words came easily, and I was surprised at how much I remembered. Even while I was writing I’d find myself giggling or tearing up at times, nostalgic and proud of this relationship I’d had, the relationship I was giving to Anna K. Letting Anna K have these memories made them sweeter, allowed them to be untainted by our arguments and difficulties. Anna K only had the best times with Ian. She got all the good stuff.
