by Pamela Ribon
“I did! I said it! I’ll say it again. You’re old.”
“You wear ugly hats.”
“Oldie.” She tossed her hat on the table.
“Hattie.” I lit another cigarette.
“Okay, I take it back,” she said, as she leaned in to bum another cigarette, this time without asking first. “You’re what I thought you’d be.”
“And what’s that?” I asked her.
She smiled with her head down. Her eyes looked up at me as if she was scheming as her mouth formed the word.
“Fun.”
000031.
Subject: I’m Terrified of Thunder.
Anna Banana (AKA AK),
I promise to never use that nickname again. I was trying it out. I hate it. I feel safe in assuming you do, too. I know you’re having important girl time with a new girlfriend. I hope that’s going well. I have to tell you, it’s strange having you so busy entertaining guests. I’m also jealous that some other fan gets to meet you first. I’m glad to hear you two have hit it off. (Does she get to see your apartment? Do fans get a tour if they come visit? I’ll book a flight for the first weekend in December, if that’s the case.)
Back to what might be considered a point, I was thinking about how I feel very strange about this. There’s no reason in the world that I should physically miss you right now. You’re exactly as far away from me distance-wise as you always are. You’re also a woman I’ve never met. But for some reason, not having you there to read my letter as soon as I send it makes me feel like you’re away on vacation or off on business. You’re “away,” even though you’re where you always are every day that we’ve known each other. How is it possible that I miss you?
You’ll probably write to me later on tonight, or Monday morning from work, and chances are I’ll only get two or three fewer letters than I usually get from you in a weekend, but I can feel those missing letters. It’s the damdest thing. (Damndest. Damnest? Damnmdest? Shit. That’s what I get for trying to sound proper when I write. The spellcheck on my computer tells me you spell it “dandiest.” So there you go.)
Anyway, I guess this all means that you’ve somehow become a part of my life. You’re a part of my day. I think about you, I think about what I’m going to say to you, I wonder what you’ll say to me. I have an image of what you look like, what you sound like, and what you smell like. And even though this relationship will probably never mature beyond electronic pen pals, I wanted to take a moment to say I’m really thankful that you’re in my life. That’s what we’re supposed to do this week, right? Be thankful? I mean, I probably won’t be able to e-mail you on Thanksgiving, since my parents own what might actually be a Tandy from the late 1980s. I’m thinking it probably doesn’t have Internet capabilities since it still uses giant floppy disks (I’m not even sure I’m staying with my parents. I hate sleeping on the couch. My sister has room, but she also has a kid—my niece, Arial, whom I love, but she’s young and noisy. So I might go home after dinner, in which case I may very well write to you. Not that you care about any of this. I’m thinking aloud here. Closing parentheses, moving on).
Pretend this is your Thanksgiving letter. Happy Thanksgiving. I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad you wrote back to me back in the day. I’m glad you’re my friend.
I just thought of something. What if that girl is actually a crazed fan and she’s already stabbed you with a knife and that’s why you haven’t written? What if she’s smothering you with a pillow right now while I’m blissfully smacking my keyboard, blahblahing about how cool you are? What if you’re dead? I’m a bad friend. This is why I should have your phone number. Not that I want it, but just so I can call it and make sure the message doesn’t say, “Hi. Anna K just got killed by her crazy-teenaged-stalker fan. Leave a message at the beep.”
If you are dead, you’ll never read this, will you? Wait. If you’re dead, you’re a ghost, right? You’re already a ghost? So potentially you could already be visiting me? Here in my apartment? If that’s the case, I’m sorry I’m not wearing any pants. It’s sort of messy in here and rude to be in this state the first time you see me. I swear, if I knew you were going to haunt me, I would have taken a shower or something. Put gel in my hair. Something.
Wait. You don’t know where I live. Whew. Safe.
For now.
Sweet dreams, sweet friend.
-LD
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000032.
“I need you to wait out here,” I said to Tess as we stood at the door of my apartment. “Just give me a second.”
“How messy could it be, Anna? I’m sure it’s fine.” She looked excited, ready to see proof of my private life. My afternoon with Tess had flown by. We kept talking and suddenly we were out of cigarettes, out of cash, and ready to flop on a couch in comfy clothing. I had invited her back to my place for pizza and movies.
“It’s not fine,” I said, jamming my shoulder into the door as I unlocked it. I slid myself inside before Tess could see anything. “It’s beyond messy.”
“You’re being silly!” she shouted as I closed the door in her face.
The place wasn’t just a mess; it was a single girl’s mess. The apartment was completely void of anything Ian. I rushed straight away to the recycling bin and found a few empty beer bottles. I left them in random places in the apartment—the bookcase by the futon, the television stand, and my bedroom windowsill. From my bedroom closet I pulled a box of Ian’s old things from the top shelf. I dropped his things in their old familiar homes. A pair of his boxer shorts on the floor in the bathroom, right behind the toilet. Another one in the living room, near the bookshelf. A can of shaving cream on the sink. An Oxford shirt on a chair. I didn’t have enough guy things. As I walked to the door to let Tess in, I hoped she wouldn’t notice.
“Okay, I’m coming,” I shouted.
“Finally.” Her voice was muffled through the door.
As I put my hand on the doorknob, I looked back over my apartment. It looked like a busy, hip couple lived here, a couple with too much going on to worry about cleaning up. They might have even had sex on that futon recently. The room had a tousled coolness to it.
That’s when I spotted the Post-Its of Lies that had grown to mural proportions on my wall. A multicolored explosion of fibs stared me in the face. I frantically found the Weezer poster that used to be taped there, tripping over Taylor in the process. Nursing my stubbed toe, I once again stuck the poster to the wall, shoving random Post-Its underneath the paper. My lies were now safely covered—lies like my parents lived in Houston and that I took ballet for a number of years.
Tess knocked on my door. “Anna, I’m starting to feel rejected!”
I took a breath and opened the door. She looked around and squished her face into a doubtful squint. “I thought you were cleaning,” she said.
“Trust me, it was worse,” I said, noticing I was a little breathless.
Tess walked around my apartment like she was touring a place she’d been studying in school. She carefully looked over framed photographs, and each time it filled me with anxiety. What did I tell her about that person? Had I mentioned that friend?
“God, is this Ian? He’s a total hottie. I knew he would be.” Tess was holding a picture of Dale.
I laughed. “No, that’s really not Ian.”
I took a photo album down from a bookshelf. I opened to a picture of Ian and me with our arms around each other. We were at a wedding of a friend of his we both lost touch with. Kevin-something was his name. I think.
“Oh, he’s even cuter. You’re so lucky. Where is he?”
“On a business trip.”
“What does he do?”
“Sales.” Sure, why not? Sales. That was nice and vague.
Her eye caught the discarded boxer shorts. I could hear my pulse in my ears as I waited for her response. She looked back at me, her mouth open, her eyes squinted, her tongue touching her bottom teeth. She had to have known. She must have figured it all out. I wa
s about to be exposed.
“Boys are dirty,” she said quietly.
Tess and I talked through the night, giggling over stories like we’d gone through five years of school together. She told me about her crazy boyfriend that dumped her by saying she turned him gay. I told her about a boyfriend I had that decided to become Ringo in a Beatles tribute band. We didn’t know which one was a more embarrassing story to tell. After a detailed comparison list where we analyzed how those relationships affected all future love affairs, Ringo won. When we finally looked at the time and saw it was after two in the morning, I insisted Tess crash on the futon.
I woke up from a bad dream around four. I dreamt that LDobler was at my high school graduation, and he was telling everyone I had cheated on my Biology final. LDobler was, of course, John Cusack in my dream, and I was trying to explain everything to him. Then he was crying, telling everyone that I ran over his dog with my car. My mother was there, and the bloodied, dead dog was in her lap. She was holding it close to her chest, looking up at me with tears in her eyes. “How could you?” she shrieked.
I couldn’t fall back asleep. When I was little, Mom always told me to turn my pillow over if I had a bad dream, because the other side would be cooler. It was the hot side of the pillow that held the bad dream, and by smooshing it back into the bed you could get a fresh dream. But flipping the pillow wasn’t working, so I quietly walked through the house to the kitchen for something to drink, as Mom also suggested a very cold glass of water to clean away lingering nightmares. Why all of her nightmare cures involved cooler temperatures I’m not sure.
When I opened the refrigerator door, I jumped. I saw a shape on the living room floor. It was Tess.
She was asleep with a blanket pulled around her. The laptop was open in front of her, but I didn’t remember leaving the computer on. I gently placed my hand on Tess’s knee.
“Tess?”
She stirred and for a second didn’t know where she was. “Oh, Anna. Sorry.”
“Why are you on the floor?”
“I couldn’t sleep, so I was surfing the net for a little while. I guess I fell asleep here.”
“I’m sorry my futon’s not so comfortable.”
“No, it’s great, Anna. It’s great. I love that you call it a ‘futon.’” She stumbled over to the couch, clutching her blanket between her legs. “You’re so technical. It’s hilarious.”
I noted how tiny she was, seeing her in my high school choir T-shirt and another pair of Ian’s plaid boxer shorts I had exhumed from the box. As she curled into a fetal position, Taylor jumped up to sleep on her feet. Tess smiled and closed her eyes.
I heard her rhythmic breathing a minute later as I left with a glass of water. It was only then that I noticed my photo album was off the shelf on the floor by the computer.
The album was opened to a picture of Ian and me on the swing set at the playground near Ian’s parents’ house. I’m on the swing, and Ian’s holding me back against his chest. I’m pleading for him to let me go, and he’s holding me back by the swing chains. He’s laughing and my face is frozen in a half-terrified grin.
It was then I saw that a yellow Post-It note had fallen off the wall and was on the floor by the album, my own handwriting scribbled across it. “Possible wedding next year?”
Even if she had seen it, she probably didn’t know what it was. Of all the Post-It notes to find, at least this one sounded like I was working on a story. Or even if I was talking about myself, it wasn’t like it was completely impossible. Maybe Anna K needed to remind herself that she might want a wedding next year. If I were Tess and I found this Post-It, would I think anything about it?
I had to stop worrying and get some sleep. If Tess was really curious, she’d ask me. If she had figured it all out, I’d know in the morning. There was nothing I could do. I picked up the Post-It and crumbled it into a ball. I carried it with me as I closed the album and put it back on the shelf. I picked up the computer, placed it back on my desk, and momentarily debated checking my e-mail. LDobler would have written another letter. I decided to save something for my Sunday afternoon once Tess had gone home. I turned off my laptop, grabbed my glass of water, and quietly made my way through the dark back to my bed.
Again I couldn’t sleep. I flipped the pillow a few more times, but by then the entire thing was cool. I changed to a different pillow. I kicked the covers off. I pulled them back on. I took off my pajama bottoms. It wasn’t that the nightmare was lingering, I was just completely awake.
In my head, in my dreams, in my fantasies (and even my nightmares) LDobler is John Cusack, dressed as Lloyd Dobler, wearing the outfit he’s wearing when Lloyd asks Diane out for the first time. He’s wearing a Clash T-shirt and his hair is tousled and he’s warm and strong. He’s watching me—watching me write him letters. I’m at my computer and I’m reading his words and I’m laughing. I start writing back to him and John Cusack’s reading over my shoulder and he begins to laugh, and just as I sit up shocked that someone is there, he’s suddenly around me, pressing against my back and shoulders. My bottom feels warm and tingles run down the backs of my legs to my feet. He’s kissing my neck from behind. His teeth graze my skin. His tongue slides up to my earlobes. He’s sucking and biting gently, but with just enough pressure. My arms are out straight, clutching the sides of my desk as he cups my left breast with one hand and his other hand lowers to my crotch. He pushes against my clothes. His hand is strong and insistent. I push my body into his hands. My back arches to push into him deeper. I can hear his breath in my ear, against the side of my face. I’m hot and I can feel my face turn red as I feel him wanting me. I can’t see him but I can feel him. I can hear him. I can feel how he’s craving me. I tilt my head back because I’m sure I can’t breathe. He’s sucking my neck and squeezing between my legs and I’m warm and wet and his tongue is in my ear and his hand is on me and I’m grinding into him and his skin feels good and he smells so good and I feel so sexy and I’m rocking and I’m coming and I fall asleep with my hand still inside my underwear.
000033.
Subject: You Probably Already Know This
Anna K,
I feel dumb because you don’t know me and I’ve never written to you before, but there’s this girl that has a webpage, and she says she met you. She’s talking some pretty candid things about you and Ian. I didn’t know if you had seen it, so I thought I’d let you know.
If you’ve already gotten fifty letters like this, or if you’re friends with this girl and told her it’s okay to write that stuff, then I’m sorry I said anything. But if you want to see her webpage, it’s at http://tess.diaryland.com
Hope you’re doing well and Happy Thanksgiving.
Just some girl in Atlanta,
Christine
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000034.
Tess’s Stresses (The Journal of a Girl)
Today’s Entry:
Meeting Anna K—(It’s What Everyone Wants, Isn’t It?!?)
Oh, my God!!! I’m in Anna K’s apartment!!! Right now! She’s asleep and I’m all alone in her place, pretending that I’m her, writing at her computer in her apartment. Yay!
First of all, I want to say that Anna K is totally cool. I met my idol, and I have to tell all of you about it, sweet readers, because I promised myself I’d use this webpage to talk about everything that happens to me in my life.
She met me at a coffee shop first, which was probably because she didn’t know if I was going to be a stalker. I wore the hat that I talked about in last week’s entry because I was wondering if she was secretly reading my journal. She didn’t ask if it was Sara’s hat. Instead she made fun of it.
I didn’t bring her down by telling her that my little sister had left it on my bed before she died. I let her make fun of it and I made fun back. It’s not her fault she doesn’t know about my journal, and I didn’t want to start our meeting on a sour note. Besides, I can wear the hat without thinking about Sara. Actually, it makes me feel lik
e she’s with me, and that’s a good thing.
Anyhoo, we totally hit it off and before I knew it I was at Anna K’s apartment! I was at Anna K’s place! Her apartment is so cute!!! Ian was out of town, but she showed me pictures. He’s a total hottie, y’all. I don’t know why Anna K never mentions that in her journal.
Whoa! I totally fell asleep right there at Anna’s computer! Ha! She woke me up and tucked me back in. Aw, isn’t she sweet? Now I’m writing from back in boring Denton. Boo.
She was so cool about having me stay over and I can’t wait for when Anna K’s going to come visit me. I’m going to make sure I’m in town if she’s ever in Dallas, because Anna K told me about this time that she and Ian were supposed to be house-sitting for a friend and they ended up having sex in their friend’s bed. Ew! Poor friend! Unless they want me to be in the bed at the time! That’s so hot!!!
And I’m not one to gossip, but I’m pretty sure there are wedding bells in their future, possibly next year!
I got to pet Taylor, and I even used Anna K’s shampoo before I left. My hair still smells like her. She uses this great shampoo that smells like Orange Dream Machine Jamba Juice.
She was so much like a sister to me in those few hours we were together that I wanted to run into her room and jump into bed with her and cuddle like Sara used to do with me. I wanted to stroke her hair and have her tell me a story as I fell asleep to the sound of her voice. I stopped myself from knocking on her door, though. That was probably a good thing.
Oh, God. I almost forgot to tell you. CrushBoy and I have been chatting late at night on IM. I’m so in love. I’ve totally forgotten about BarBoy from last month. Who? That smelly boy? Hee!
Later, lovelies,
Tess
000035.
