by Ashley Pullo
My fingers and brain can’t get it together. I can’t disconnect. It’s ringing, I’m dying, it’s ringing – fuck, red equals disconnect, go-go gadget fingers go . . .
“Chloe?”
I slam the phone down on the table, and then toss it into the pizza box. That’ll show him . . . that’ll show him I’m a stalking psychopath.
I roll my head clockwise and then wipe my hands on my jeans. After a deep breath and a hacking cough from my cotton mouth, I retrieve the phone from the box.
“Oh, hey,” I say breezily. Yes, easy breezy. I’m super easy, super breezy, and really tipsy.
There’s no answer. I place the phone back on the table and stare at the lone mushroom on my plate. This is ridiculous. I will call him when I sober up and apologize. But why am I apologizing? He doesn’t want me and if he did, well, it’s been like three months . . .
My phone rings. It’s him. I can’t.
After waiting five minutes with no voicemail indicator, I decide to call the one person that understands me. The one person that doesn’t patronize me. The only person that is paid to listen to me – McKinstry.
“Hey, Doc, it’s Chloe.”
“Who?”
“Do you find pleasure in fucking with people that suffer from panic attacks?” I ask.
“Some more than others – what’s up Chloe?”
I slouch over the table and pout. “I’m alone – literally. Hey, how’d you know this wasn’t a freak-out phone call?”
“Because you said, hey, Doc, it’s Chloe. Freak-outs usually start with help or heavy breathing,” he responds.
“Oh, that’s smart.” I laugh nervously. “So do you remember that guy I told you about? The one that’s really intense,” I add.
“Yes.”
Mumbling I say, “I drunk-dialed him.”
“Is that really a thing? It’s a physiological fact that you still have a subconscious while inebriated. Did you have an episode after you called him?”
I pick at the mushroom on my plate and then flick it onto the floor. “Not at all. I was mortified, but he has this way of making me feel centered – comfortable with my embarrassment.”
“That’s a great thing, Chloe. What did you talk about?”
Oh shit, maybe I should’ve mentioned that part. “You know, stuff. Very quick,” I add casually.
“Chloe, did you actually have a conversation with this person?”
“Doc, I have anxiety, I’m not delusional . . . but no, I didn’t actually speak to him. He did call back, though.”
“But you didn’t answer,” he quips.
“Tabernac! Do you have monitors in my apartment?”
“As your therapist, I advise you to avoid situations that affect your decision-making. But as an old guy that believes serenity is a basic requirement in a healthy relationship, I say go with your gut. Does that help?”
“No. I mean, yes. Thank you for taking my call, Doc.”
“It’s my job. How’s your cousin, Natalie?”
Without notice, my eyes well into puddles of sadness – just when I thought there were no more tears to be shed, my emotions send me a nice, big fuck you.
“She’s a mess. I want nothing more than for her to be happy. I mean it! I would give up everything – a deal with devil or be forced to eat liver and cabbage for the rest of my life if she would just get a shot at happiness.”
“She will. Existence is a circle . . . we’re all revolving around that center force. Give Natalie time, be a friend, but please don’t take her burdens as your own,” he pleads. “Chloe, I’m sorry, but I have a dinner I’m late for with the people of Pfizer. Would you like to schedule weekly phone sessions?”
I contemplate the idea of routine sessions, but they somehow make me feel pathetic and weak. “No, Doc. I will see you in a few months – hopefully with good news.”
“I’m sure of it. Keep writing, you have a song to tell.”
I sit up straight and take a sip of wine. “Good night, Doc and thank you for everything.”
“My pleasure – good night,” he says before disconnecting.
I toss my phone on the table and clean up my mess. There’s really no sense in staying up and watching television by myself, and maybe tonight I can actually sleep in my room without a strange man making Nat giggle and moan. Barf.
I brush my teeth and wash my face. My eyes are red and glassy and my cheeks are blotchy. Not my best look – not anyone’s best look. I turn on the stereo and pick the Indigo Girls CD. Those chicks get it right! Well, except a few songs that I still don’t understand, but most of their lyrics are pure poetry. I rummage through Nat’s dresser in search for some pants to sleep in. My pile of laundry is higher than—
Holy shit.
It’s like a college bookstore set up shop in her drawer . . . Princeton, Syracuse, Boston College, Penn State, and NYU – gag, figures. Men keep women’s panties, Nat keeps collegiate memorabilia. Whatever.
I slip on the BC sweatpants and curl under the duvet with a book. Maybe I should get a cat – or like six cats! Hey Darren Star, here’s some great material for Sex In the City . . .
Single.
Medicated.
Cat-less.
Glutton.
Alone.
THE FOLLOWING WEEK, Simon gives me my first assignment finding a guitar for a movie set. Yesterday, I had the pleasure of tracking down a violin for a soap opera, but this assignment is for a real Hollywood project.
Simon approaches me on my break and asks, “Chloe, did you have a chance to speak with Regency Studios? They desperately need a Fender electric.” The British are refined and mellow – except when things are desperate and literal. I desperately need my tea. I literally ate three scones . . .
“I spoke with them – did you know they want zebra skin?”
Simon’s face cringes in horror. “Oh? Well that’s peculiar.” Peculiar is another one of those fancy, overused Brit-words of emphasis.
“I put in a call to a vintage shop on 8th – they supply peculiar props for music videos.”
I scan through my legal pad filled with my notes from this morning’s conference call. “Simon, I have two days . . . it’s only the eleventh of January! Don’t worry,” I say, slapping him on the back. “Do you mind if I take my lunch break to hit some of the shops in Chelsea?”
“Yes, that would be lovely. Great initiative.” Simon nods and returns to tuning his favorite bass.
Grabbing my coat and bag from the break room, I then hurry through the showroom, waving at Simon. “Okay, I’m on it! Be back in an hour.” I make my way out onto Bleecker . . . ah crap, I hate the snow. Not the white snow that powders ski resorts or a New England farmhouse, I hate the shit that piles into brown sludge on every available surface of Manhattan. Not to mention the death walk under scaffolding with falling globs of slush and angry icicles. And the fact that the sanitation trucks focus on clearing the streets . . . resulting in no trash or recyclables pickups for days. There are literally mountains of garbage on every corner. Literally.
“Chloe?” a voice yells.
I stop in my snowy quicksand and look around. A woman and her baby carriage slam against the back of my calf, sending me off the curb and into the arms of . . .
“Pete?”
Laughing he says, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to distract your power walk.”
He steadies me and smiles boyishly – he’s quite handsome, even in an apron.
“Wait, what? I wasn’t power walking.”
“Really? You were intently moving at a rapid speed. Do you have somewhere to be?”
I place my hand on his arm and smile. “Thanks Pete, now I’m going to be self-conscious every time I walk.” Oh shit . . . am I flirting?.
“Let me show you my truck.”
“That’s a new one,” I muse. Oh for Christ’s sake, Chloe . . . stop it. “What kind of truck?”
Pete takes my hand from his arm and leads me carefully across the street.
&nb
sp; “I have a food truck – hey, watch that pothole.” Pete pulls me closer to him as I hop over the cement crevasse.
“Like a hot dog cart?” I ask.
“What? No.”
We stop on the curb next to a shiny white truck similar to one that sells Italian ices in Corona. It’s sleek and new and only the name appears on the side in an illegible, fancy script. Rich mahogany lettering and gold accents . . . does that say . . .
“Fucks truck?” I ask loudly. “Fucks truck, fine foods and catering?”
Pete tilts his head and crosses his arms. “Huh. Shit.”
Laughing at the confusion I say, “That’s like full-service catering.”
“Fuchs is my last name – it’s German. Rhymes with pukes . . . goddamn it. No wonder I had so many strange looks at the Food Festival.”
“Sorry, it’s really cool! Do you serve from the truck?” I ask.
Pete shrugs his shoulders and replies, “Sorta – let me show you.” He runs his finger over the decal and shakes his head in disappointment before leading me to the back door. There are no steps, so he gives me a boost inside, touching my ass in the process – but honestly, I don’t mind.
The interior is gorgeous. Stainless steel surfaces and miniature sizes of everything – it’s like being inside a toddler’s play kitchen. A tiny little oven and cook top, refrigerated drawers, small plates and even a teeny tiny cappuccino machine. I could play in here for hours.
Leaning against the counter he asks, “What do you think?”
“Pete, I love it. How does this work exactly?”
“Oh, well mainly I service events and parties. I’m portable.”
“I can see that. So do people just come up to the window and order?”
“Sometimes. Food trucks will soon be the hip thing in Manhattan – like Jamba Juice. In a few years, I will revolutionize street cuisine. But for now, it’s just my mobile fuck truck.” Pete laughs as he knocks on the counter.
I run my hand along the stainless steel and then slide open one of the drawers filled with fruit. “Where do you keep the truck?”
Pete opens another drawer full of plastic bento boxes and removes two. He hands me one and smiles brilliantly. “Lunch, my lady?”
I open the lid to the box to find small compartments of tiny salads and fruit. It looks delicious and surprisingly, like art. I never realized how much creativity and artistry goes into being a chef.
“I pay a shitload of money to park it near my apartment. My parents live in Westchester and storing it there was a pain in the ass.” Pete passes me a fork and napkin and points to the salad in the corner of the box. “Try that one – spicy lobster and crab salad.”
With my mouth full I say, “Oh wow, that’s delicious.”
“It’s a basic recipe, but sometimes, the simple things taste the best.”
Did he just wink at me? I shove another forkful of the lobster in my mouth and nod casually.
“So, how’s Natalie? I mean, is she better? I, um, worry about her.” Pete glances down at his box of compartmentalized salads and shakes his head. “It’s just that Adam told me about her boyfriend . . . and the funeral – that’s fucked up.”
Strange.
I answer him honestly. “Natalie is struggling . . . but she’s resilient.”
Pete looks up from his lunch with a bashful grin. “Maybe I could call her.”
Stranger.
“Sure, she would like that.” I don’t have the cajones to tell Pete that Natalie is my least favorite person right now. I try another one of the salads with broccoli, diced chicken and a hint of ginger dressing. Delicious.
Pete watches my reaction to his culinary foray and then blurts, “Adam is a good guy, Chloe.”
“He is. He’s not really into me, but a great—”
Pete’s forehead creases as he imitates my serious face. “You should call him.”
Oh, I do. I call him when I’m shoving pizza down my throat and drowning in shitty wine. But I just nod my head and smile politely. “Hey Pete, I hate to mooch and run, but I really have to get going. I need to scour some thrift shops in the Village for an electric guitar with zebra stripes.”
He forms horns with his fingers and says, “That’s righteous – do you want a lift?” Pete asks, motioning to his kitchen on wheels.
“No,” I smirk. “I prefer to power walk during lunch.”
“I knew it! So hey, are you performing anytime soon?”
Pete is such a refreshingly honest guy. I can always tell when people are being disingenuous about my career, but Pete really seems to care. “Friday.”
“Cool, I think I can make it. I have a very challenging list of song requests to throw at you.”
“I’d love that – and the beer’s on me.” I smile as I nudge his shoulder.
Pete unlatches the back door and hops down to the street. He extends his hand to guide me down. I try to jump as gracefully as I can, but I end up slamming against his body in a freefall – a four-foot freefall. “Thank you for lunch. A handsome entrepreneur that cooks – girls will be lining up at the fuck truck,” I tease.
“You’re never going to let me live that down, huh?”
“I’m writing lyrics in my head at this very moment.”
Pete leans in with a one-armed hug – completely platonic, and completely welcomed.
“I’ll see you Friday,” he says.
“Great.” I start walking toward 8th but turn back to add, “Pete, thanks.”
That little impromptu lunch put a lot of things in perspective. 1. I have to talk to Natalie. 2. I really miss Adam. 3. Cold salads presented in cute little mounds inside a bento box are genius!
THE ELEVATOR UP to our apartment is slower than a Newfie tying his shoes, but it gives me plenty of time to reevaluate what I’m about to do. I spent the entire afternoon searching for that zebra guitar and planning my spontaneous conversation with my cousin – the guitar proved to be much easier. On my way home, I stopped by the bakery and bought a cheesecake with strawberries to either inhale by myself, or hopefully, to share over laughter with my best friend.
The doors open and I bite the inside of my cheek. My approach is going to be simple and honest . . . oh fuck, this is never going to work. I unlock the door to the apartment and quietly make my way in. Natalie is in the kitchen using the blender, so I quickly look to see if there are any signs of a male guest.
From the kitchen, Natalie shouts, “Chloe, your mom called.”
“Oh, well it’s Stuart Smalley Sunday, gosh darn it,” I reply.
“And people like me – hey, I’m making a mango smoothie, you want?” Great sign – she finished my SNL joke.
“Um, I actually bought a cheesecake,” I say, placing it on the table. “I thought we could pig out and catch up.”
Natalie places her hands on her Lycra hips and frowns. “Chloe, I spent the entire afternoon at the gym, please don’t ruin my hot body.”
“Then you can watch me and my grotesque body go at this cheesecake with a spoon. Come sit with me at least.”
Natalie pours her yellowish smoothie into a glass and joins me on the sofa. I sit with one leg underneath my butt and turn to face her. She reaches for the remote from the coffee table, but I stop her midway. “Wait, I want to chat.”
Frowning, she asks, “Oh great. What’d I do now?”
“It’s not like that Natalie, not at all. I want to apologize . . . for my inconsistent behavior when you needed me the most. I love you more than anything, so much so, that I would gladly grow old with you and only you . . . possibly some cats if you’re cool with that. What I’m about to say is honest and raw – prepare yourself.” I take her hand and clear my throat.
“Chloe, this is all really dramatic and unnecessary. I’m not pathetic and neither are you. Can we please just be normal again?”
“Yes! But I really need to say this.” I think about all the times I’ve tried to start this conversation, only to be met with a violent argument or cruel r
emark . . . this is going to be tough. I quickly jump up and run to our room.
“Chloe? Did you take your meds?” she yells from the couch.
For the love of all that is sacred and pure – I really don’t think that’s funny. I dig through my jewelry box and retrieve the necklace. It’s so shiny and delicate and it belongs around her neck, not buried in my jewelry box. I squeeze it into the pocket of my jeans and walk back to the living room.
Natalie’s staring cautiously when I return to the couch, but I grin and take her hand. “You’ve been a nasty bitch lately and rightly so, but you need to stop. I love you, Nat . . . you’re my soul mate.” Natalie raises her eyebrows and snickers. “What I mean is, there’s a stigma that equates love with romance – roses and chocolates, passion and desire, but love can also be simplistic. Friendship, companionship, loyalty . . . we both need to accept that and move on.” I remove the necklace from my pocket and place it in her hand. “This star belongs near your heart.”
Natalie closes her eyes as she clasps the star necklace around her neck. “Are you trying to tell me you’re a lesbian? I mean, that’s cool and all, but lesbian cousins is ridiculous.” Natalie smirks, but underneath the laughter, I know she gets it.
“I’m not a lesbian, and if I remember correctly, you had a lady love back in the day.”
Snickering she says, “Oh shit, you’re right!” She clutches her necklace as we press our foreheads together. “Chloe, I understand. Zach would want me to love . . . and if that means my sentimental sap of a cousin for the rest of my life, I’m perfectly fine with that. But I’ll need to get some penis on the side.”
We laugh. So much so, it hurts. But it also feels really good to release the tension – LeGrange style, of course. For the first time in months, things seem normal.
“Is that the buzzer?” Nat asks between snorts.
“Maybe your side of penis is being delivered.”
Natalie jumps up from the sofa to answer the intercom. “Hey Wayne, what’s up?” she asks, holding the button down.
“Ms. LeGrange, there’s something here for you.”
