by Anna King
Naturally, I thought, a mother-figure. That’s what happens when you get older. If a younger man does decide you are strangely attractive, surprising even himself, it’s always because you’re a mother-figure. Never again will I be a daughter-figure. Those days are kaput. The only thing I had left to look forward to was become a crone-figure. Should I be so blessed. On the other hand, better than nothing.
“Don’t get too excited,” I said. “Tomorrow I’ll be wearing a kilt.”
“That could be fun.”
We were almost to the bottom of the stairs. I took a chance. “Are you an actor?”
He dipped one shoulder modestly. “I go to auditions, that’s about it.”
“As a fellow artist, I do understand.”
Lunch with my bartender classmates started in complete silence. I fiddled with my straw, popping it in and out of the diet soda. trying to keep myself from orchestrating everyone into a discussion. Since I wasn’t shy and I was impatient, I tended to take control of social gatherings.
My daughter, Alex, had felt it necessary to conduct an intervention on this propensity of mine, right smack dab in the middle of last year’s Thanksgiving dinner. She’d enlisted everyone but me (the definition of an intervention, I know) and she started by touching her nose with her right forefinger. At that sign, every single person at the table stopped talking. At first, I figured they were just tired, then I thought someone must have gotten their feelings hurt, and finally, I could only assume the turkey had been poisoned with a substance that rendered a tongue immobile. Except, my tongue just kept babbling. I did everything I could until, ultimately, I burst into tears and sobbed into my linen napkin. The entire family then ganged up on me to inform me that I was too controlling in social situations. Too too.
Since then, I’d been understandably wary. The silence at our table stretched like a spider web. How could they stand it? Didn’t it make them nervous? Why didn’t anyone say anything?
Jelly finally opened her mouth. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to memorize 25 drinks by tomorrow.”
“Sure you can,” I bellowed, grateful to be allowed to speak and trying to buoy her confidence.
“You’re smart,” she said.
The others nodded.
“I am not smart, plus I’m old. It’s much harder to memorize when you’re old.”
Ike turned around and searched for the pizza.
Cathy said, “That’s true.”
Halfheartedly, Jelly added, “You’re not old.”
“We could meet early in the morning and test each other,” I said.
The other four just stared at me. It was obvious I was a dinosaur lost in the underbrush of an entirely new plant life form. Luckily, the smoking hot pizza arrived.
Ike ate two pieces in the time the rest of us had finished one, but it seemed to wake him up. He grabbed a third piece and began talking at the same time. “I’ve got my first job all lined up,” he said.
“Lucky you,” Jelly said like she knew something.
“Yeah, my uncle’s got a bar in Malvern. I get certified, I get the job.”
Staring at Ike, I knew with a certainty that he wouldn’t get certified. I asked, “What have you been doing until now?”
“My last job was at the hardware store down the street from me, but I don’t really know that much about fixing stuff, so it wasn’t a good fit.”
“Umm,” Jelly murmured.
I looked at Cathy and Joan, hoping they might pick up the conversational slack.
Joan started to talk in a tiny voice and I realized I’d never heard her speak until this moment. “I think maybe I can’t do this, you know?”
“It’s so hard to remember everything!” Cathy agreed.
“The first morning is bound to be challenging,” I said. “Hang in there. “
They glared at me. Apparently, they had a real thing about glaring, especially at me.
“We should tell Al if we need him to slow down and give us more help,” Jelly said.
I knew Al wouldn’t be sympathetic to that approach, but I didn’t think I could say anything. In fact, I felt so discouraged by the whole environment that I dug in my purse for ten bucks, which I threw down on the table before standing up. “I’ve got an errand to run,” I said. “See you back at class.”
“You gave too much money,” Ike said.
I waved away his concern and got the hell out of there.
On the sidewalk, I hesitated. Then I started walking fast, going nowhere. Which was pretty much how I felt. It hit me that I needed a bathroom in the worst way. The urge to pee nearly made me fall over. As I turned into the first coffee shop I could find, I knew why I was so overwhelmed. When you’re a writer, the toilet is your best friend. That may sound absurd and downright yucky, but what can I say? It’s true. Ask any writer and if they’re in the least bit honest, they’ll admit it. First of all, the toilet is always there. We’re not trained to learn to control our bladders because we don’t have to. Second, when you’re writing, you get stuck every other sentence and the perfect thing to do when you get stuck is to pee. The flow of urine into the toilet bowel is an unimpeachable metaphor for the flow of writing, or what you might wish to be a flow of writing. I flung myself into the woman’s room and yanked down my pants. I’d gone three and a half hours without urinating!
I sat on the toilet for so long that someone rattled the door handle and yelled, “Are you ever coming out of there?” I tried to act nonchalant when I opened the door, but as usual, I failed. Instead, I hunched over and slouched away. On my way out, I noticed a computer with internet access, for a fee. I was also desperate to check my e-mail even though the only person I expected to hear from, or desired to hear from was Mr. Rabbitfish, especially since I’d never heard back from him after the crazy long e-mail I’d sent Saturday night. Just as the toilet used to always be available to me, so, too, was my e-mail. I might have to get a phone with internet capability. The craving was strong, but I checked my watch and knew I’d be late for the afternoon session of Bar Tending 101. As I headed back to class, I also acknowledged that Al’s minute attentions to me, though pleasant, had caused some anxiety. The mysterious, unknowable Mr. Rabbitfish seemed safer.
Much as I might rail against my celibate situation for the last two years, I was secretly proud of myself. No one could believe that I’d been in such control for so long. Frankly, I could hardly believe it. I neurotically recounted the months, checking to make sure that I hadn’t somehow forgotten some forgettable episode, which, though forgettable, still counted as sex. While I’ve never been promiscuous, a la Isaac, sex had loomed large in my life starting from my first real kiss at the age of 14. I remember that kiss distinctly, not so much because of its physical characteristics and sensations, but because of what I’d been thinking as it happened.
This is the best thing in the world. Better than homemade brownies, better than making an ‘A’ on the Biology final, even better than sleeping out in the backyard with my older brother and sister. I thought kissing was completely brilliant, worthy of great sacrifice even though, apparently, kissing cost nothing at all. No price to pay, just pure pleasure, a deep bath of love.
But—glory, glory—it got even better. Because kissing quite naturally grew into sex, which at sixteen I discovered was every bit as great as kissing, if more complicated. Like any good thing, I slowly learned that sex could be abused and even discouraging, but I resisted this side of its nature by deliberately falling in love over and over again. Hence, the myriad marriages. Until Isaac, who turned out to be my clock set to shrill its alarm without stop. I so misjudged him, and myself in the process, that I knew I had to change. No more sex. I was allowed to fall in love, but I couldn’t have sex until I verified that I loved him, he loved me, and that he was compatible with me.
Impossible. I had set up a hopeless scenario, a tight knot, and that most especially included the gorgeous Al. Sex with him would be fantastically animalistic. No love lost or g
ained. I climbed the narrow stairs to the second-floor classroom with an argument starting to form. What was wrong with mindless, loveless sex, anyway? I simply couldn’t remember why I’d thought it was a bad idea.
When I walked in, it was obvious that Al had been waiting for me. He gave me a mock disapproving look, then yelled in a charming Scottish brogue, “Our lassie has arrived and so we resume!”
Took me a few seconds to realize that he was playing off my threat to wear a kilt the next day. We took our places behind the bar while the word resume echoed in my brain. Awfully good word choice. I shot a glance at Al. Suddenly his right hand grabbed at nothing in the air, closing into a triumphant fist. He’d caught my look and held it tight.
7
I DROPPED MY BACKPACK in the living room and ripped down the stairs to my basement study. I’d missed my little house and felt quite nostalgic as I hurled toward the computer. When I clicked on the Mail icon, it seemed to twirl for longer than usual before exploding with a list of 24 unread e-mails. My eye ran down the list, searching for Rabbitfish. There were 3! I jump-started my breathing by giving a small cough. Then, calm, I proceeded to read the other 21 e-mails. Finally, I began to read the Rabbitfish missives in chronological order.
9:12 a.m. Your e-mail suggests you couldn’t quit writing if your life depended on it.
I remembered that he was referring to the long e-mail I’d written Saturday night, in which I’d rather endlessly told him everything. I smiled and felt like pointing out his use of a cliché.
11:15 a.m. You there?
No, I thought, I’m not. I’m presently learning how to make martinis from a gorgeous hunk named Al.
3:30 p.m. I’m slightly bored. Maybe I should read one of your novels.
I flushed, more out of humiliation than pride. My novels were successful with women, but I suspected that even my own sons hadn’t read all of them. There was something about Mr. Rabbitfish that struck me as smart, erudite, intellectual. I didn’t want to hear his opinion of my novels. Many possible replies to his e-mails popped into my head, like a flurry of signposts suddenly appearing on the outskirts of a city. But I ignored them. I headed upstairs and threw myself across the unmade bed, dirndl skirt and all.
Naps were another major part of a writer’s life. I used to feel guilty about this until I understood that I often solved problems while I slept. In fact, I’d learned that if I was stuck, and taking a pee didn’t help, then perhaps a nap would do the trick. And, it usually did. I was convinced that everyone, including bartenders, should take naps to help them deal with any uncertainties in their lives.
Sure enough, when I woke up 45 minutes later, I knew exactly what to write Mr. Rabbitfish in answer to his Maybe I should read one of your novels,
Maybe you shouldn’t.
I climbed the two sets of stairs to the kitchen and made myself a decaf espresso, which I carried down one flight of stairs and outside to sit on my front steps. A whole host of activities were lined up ahead of me: 25 drink recipes to memorize, phone call to Jen, daily run or some form of exercise, dinner. I sipped the espresso and thought about why I was so lazy. I could show spurts of physical activity when I was particularly happy, but for the most part, I was a catatonic person. I drifted in trancelike states as if I were someone on anti-psychotic medication. This bar tending idea was supposed to wake me up, jolt me into an action completely unlike my usual word-making at the keyboard. But I could see it wasn’t going to be easy.
For the past week, ever since I’d seen Mr. Rabbitfish at the outdoor cafe—or ever since I thought I’d seen the unknown and unknowable Mr. Rabbitfish, whom he may or may not be—I’d been thinking about, well, breasts. Not his breasts, but my own. This was notably weird. The night before, I’d dreamt I was breast-feeding my youngest son, Noah. The tug at my nipple had been so real that when I woke up, I expected to see milk wetting my nightgown. Now, okay, I get that this somehow correlates with being a bartender, the giving of milk in the form of alcoholic beverages. But even before this latest dream, I’d been aware of my breasts. They actually seemed to be growing.
When I went on my run, they bounced and jiggled despite the sports bra, which had, in the past, nicely flattened and contained them. They didn’t hurt, exactly, or throb. It wasn’t like adolescence or pregnancy, when breasts turn into babies themselves. More like a low-level warmth and fullness. They were bigger, I was sure of it. Yet my bras and blouses fit just fine.I put down the mug of espresso and lifted both hands to fit under my boobs. I hefted them upwards, testing as if they were tomatoes or melons growing on the vine. Yup, no doubt about it, they weighed more.
My conclusion was obvious, if disconcerting. Mr. Rabbitfish was making my breasts grow. Or, umm, my fantasy about Mr. Rabbitfish was making my breasts grow. I picked up the cordless phone I’d carried out with me and called Jen at the office.
I said, “Can you talk?”
“Sure,” she answered in what can only be called a trill.
“You just trilled.”
“Did I?” she trilled.
“Please stop it,” I said. “I have enough bizarre things going on without you starting to trill.”
Silence.
“Don’t you want to hear about the bizarre things?”
“Absolutely.”
Of course, now the idea of mentioning that my breasts were growing seemed stupid, especially given that I hadn’t heard an update on the one-and-only Tom Callahan for twenty-four hours. He’d called Jen on Sunday morning to tell her that he’d had a great time and he was seriously planning to seriously pursue her. I think she just trilled back at him, but I’m not sure.
I said, “Do you have any news?”
“Tom’s coming over tonight.”
“Please don’t say you’re making dinner.”
“He’s bringing Indian take-out.” She sighed heavily into the phone. “I think we might make love.”
That’s when jealousy struck. I was so disgusted that I would harbor even a smidgen of jealousy at Jen’s happiness that I immediately decided I would have to cut off one of my rapidly growing breasts by way of atonement. Though how, exactly, the offering of my breast would mean squat to Jen wasn’t clear. The image of lopping off a breast, rather than making me think of breast cancer, instead conjured up visions of myself as an Amazon warrior woman with a bow-and-arrow slung across my gleaming chest. I blinked and focused on the tulips poking their little heads out of my sometime garden.
“Are you nervous?” I said.
“Not really.”
“How come?” This was the moment when I might have asked if she was a virgin, except her lack of nervousness suddenly suggested that I’d been silly to think she’d never made love.
“I feel like I’ve known him forever, almost like he’s you, except in a man’s body.”
This was possibly a weird thing for her to feel, or possibly a healthy thing. I wasn’t sure.
Jen said, “How was the first day of bar tending school?
So I told her all about it, including the discomfiting beauty of the instructor, Al.
“Do you think you might sleep with him?” she asked.
“Of course not!”
“It’s been a long time for you.”
“I’m not doing the random sex stuff anymore. Those days are over.”
“What if he asks you out on a real date?”
“He’s not going to.”
“Umm,” she murmured, obviously disbelieving.
“So, there’s something else going on.” I told her about the e-mails from Mr. Rabbitfish and how my breasts were growing heavier by the minute.
“By the minute?”
“Practically.”
“If your bras still fit, then it’s in your imagination.”
This was where Jen the Lawyer and I, Rose the Writer, split company. The imagination, for her, was bullshit. But for me, the imagination was real. Of course, this was also why I was becoming a bartender, so that I started to experience real
real life instead of the real imagination.
“It may be in my imagination,” I said, “but I’ll bet if you could plop my boobs onto a scale, they’d weigh more.”
The weight of my breasts.
My breasts wait.
See why I had to stop writing? The treachery of words had begun to sabotage me.
Jen said, “I really can’t talk any more because I have to get home, but I think this Rabbitfish person is scary. You don’t even know his name! This is exactly how women get stalked and killed. Promise me you’ll stop e-mailing him.”
There was no question that Jenny was right. No question at all. What kind of person doesn’t reveal their name and says mysterious things like that they’re unknowable? So I promised and we hung up the phone.
I immediately went inside and down the stairs to check whether Mr. Rabbitfish had responded to my last e-mail, in which I’d recommended that he not read one of my novels. I tried to control the crow of delight when I saw he had.
Too late.
A thrill, which is not unlike a trill, zipped over my body. He was reading one of my books. I wondered which one. I wondered what he thought. As usual, his e-mail gave nothing away. Entirely impossible to discern his opinion, though on the whole, I decided the terseness suggested disapproval.
My promise to Jenny forgotten, I had my honor to uphold.
You’re a very annoying person, if you are a person and not an actual rabbitfish.
Then, because I was agitated, I googled rabbitfish and learned more about their species than I wanted to know. “The fox-faced rabbitfish is a hardy, pretty, common, and cheap fish that is a great addition to a saltwater aquarium. In addition, it is active, large yet peaceful, and exceptional at eating algae. The only drawback is they’re poisonous, but if care is taken, it isn’t a problem.” Of course, as a literary type, I analyzed the description of a rabbitfish with the person, Mr. Rabbitfish. The reference to a rabbitfish’s poison caused me to remember the promise to Jenny. But, too late, my Mail gave a dinging noise.
