Screw Everyone

by Ophira Eisenberg

  “Sure. Are you at home or something?”

  “I’m in the parking lot of the Mac’s Convenience Store off of Highway 45 right before the drive-in movie theater.” I shoved all the information together to make it sound like a composed request rather than a cry for help.

  “Um. Okay. Where is that again?”

  I gave him expert directions, since I’d driven that route four hundred thousand times and knew exactly how long it would take. I hung up the phone, wiped the highway dirt from my face, and headed toward Mac’s. It was about a twenty-minute walk. If I made it with a few minutes to spare, I could buy a Slurpee.

  It was quiet on the street, almost deserted except for one other person up ahead walking a dog. They were a blur in the dark, so I slowed down to avoid encountering them. As I came a little closer, the dog walker turned around and transformed into a familiar figure: Tommy.

  “O-phir-rahhhhh!” He howled my name like a Shakespearean villain and ran toward me. I’d never felt such a menacing moment, even later in life, when I was ping-ponging around strange men’s apartments in New York City. Call me lucky. I spun around and ran in the other direction, into the trailer park. Tommy, chasing me, yelled, “I just want to know what is so wrong!” I wanted to shout back, “Well for one, you’re chasing me!” but figured I should save my breath.

  Adrenaline coursed through my body and gave me superhuman powers. I ran faster than I had at any track meet, terrified to be caught. I flashed forward to sprinting away from him in the outback as a kangaroo hopped by.

  There is no way I’m going on a trip across the world with a crazy person! I thought, as I vaulted over a broken fence. I wasn’t stupid.

  I could hear Tommy’s footsteps pounding behind me, his body triggering motion lights outside of the trailers. I jetéd over a small ravine and wondered, Why couldn’t I have dated Sven? He might have chloroformed me, but at least he wouldn’t have hunted me.

  As I careened around the corner near the dumpsters behind Mac’s, I saw a familiar-looking car pull into the parking lot, with a hippie redhead behind the wheel. It was Seth. He had perfect timing—movie timing. He spotted me and got out of the car.

  “Hey, Ophira!” He waved at me with a relaxed smile.

  “Get in the car! Start the car!” I screamed, barreling toward him. Seth’s face turned from pale to panic as he slid back in and started the car. I rammed into the passenger’s door but managed to swing it open, and threw myself into the green-gold mock-leather seats of Seth’s hand-me-down Oldsmobile. He needed no additional command to “gun it” when he saw Tommy racing toward us.

  “What the hell is going on?” he demanded.

  “Uh, Tommy and I broke up,” I muttered.

  Wasn’t that obvious?

  As Tommy became a tiny figure in the rearview mirror, sweat and relief washed over me. I pleaded with Seth to let me stay at his place. I was too afraid to go home. At least I could take some solace in the fact that if Tommy dared wake up my mother, she’d kill him.

  “Of course, no problem,” he said, sounding a little stoned.

  A half hour later, I was safe in the warmth of Seth’s room and his arms. As it turned out, he had a thing for me. I must have had a hunch when I called him at midnight to rescue me. He was my hero. I slipped into his bed wearing a pair of his boxers and a T-shirt, figuring the best way to thank Seth, in lieu of gas money, was to have sex with him. I had a knack for moving on . . . rather quickly. Why not delay dealing with the aftermath of the evening by engaging in a little pleasant distraction? Maybe this was no coincidence; maybe the forces of nature brought me to Seth on purpose. But when I went to kiss him, he pushed me away, claiming my timing was “all wrong.”

  “Why?” I asked. “We’re here now,” I said, alluding to this magical coincidence I conjured up in my head, one we’d be fools not to take advantage of.

  Seth sat up in his futon. “Ophira, I’m going to Europe for a year. Tomorrow.”

  Dumbfounded, I suddenly noticed a huge packed knapsack, with a hand-sewn Canadian flag on the front, propped against the wall. I nodded and hugged Seth. And we slept.

  I woke up to sun streaming through the A-frame windows and Seth scurrying around his room in final preparations for his big trip. He drove me home, and when I wished him well, it felt like we were parting colleagues who had worked together on a project that never got funding. My mother saw me from the window and ran out the front door waving and yelling at me.

  “What the hell happened to you?” she demanded. “That good-for-nothing boyfriend of yours knocked on the door at three in the morning looking for you, and then sat out in front of the house half of the night waiting for you!”

  I was disappointed she didn’t kill him.

  “We broke up, Mom.”

  It was all I needed to say. She shook her head, fed up by my ongoing teenage drama, but I detected a small smile on her face. She was pleased to finally be rid of that good-for-nothing Tommy.

  I plopped onto the couch and buried my head in a pillow. What was I going to do? I was certain that my life was going to be better now that he was out of the picture, but the trip was ruined. He was probably canceling it as I lay there. Wait. Why couldn’t I still go? People travel by themselves all the time. I had saved up all my own money, and at seventeen I was a smart, independent woman who could run really, really fast. I was ready to shed my small-town skin, upgrade from trailer trash in the boyfriend department, and discover who I was in relation to the rest of the world. And I’d do it alone.

  CHAPTER 6

  FIJIAN WATERS RUN DEEP

  That summer, I took a job at a do-it-yourself jewelry shop called Beadworks to raise money for my big walkabout through Australia. I maneuvered around that store in ill-fitting vintage dresses and hand-woven tribal fabrics, spouting my philosophy du jour—primarily, that I didn’t believe in God or love because they were constructs built to keep women down. That was until Michael, the guitar guy, walked into the bead store and ruined everything.

  I knew of Michael before I actually met him. He offered jazz guitar lessons at my high school, and every time he showed up in the band room, my friends Cheryl and Diane, who played saxophone, would swoon. They’d gush about his boyish good looks and recount his witty asides and observations, but my curiosity was not in the least bit piqued. Going gaga over any guitar player—especially an “older” one (he was the ripe old age of twenty at the time)—seemed so cliché. For my graduation photo, I had braided tiny skull beads into my hair. Clearly I was marching to the beat of my own cow bell. If I were going to crush out on an older guy, it would be a forensic archaeologist, or at the very least an oboe player. So when Michael came into the jewelry shop a year later, I played it cool in my purple Guatemalan pants.

  He complimented the beads in my hair. I told him they were baby-hamster skulls. He laughed and said I was funny. In that moment, I noticed his big sapphire-blue eyes framed by four-inch lashes. I felt like a fawn caught in the headlights of his speeding car. If I didn’t look away, I’d be creamed.

  Too late.

  As we talked, I started to fall under his spell. Michael was different. He wore a blazer. He didn’t seem full of angst, tormented by the problems in Tibet, or on an eternal search for the best ’shrooms. He wasn’t rebelling against anything—just trying to make a living playing jazz. By comparison, all my past boyfriends seemed like hacky-sack-obsessed adolescents who were excited to find a bong that matched their bed sheets. The more I talked to Michael, the more his sweet demeanor seemed to wash away my layers of black eyeliner and tough, too-cool-for-school exterior to reveal a more innocent Ophira who still wanted to be a ballerina. I couldn’t believe it. Was I really falling for his smooth jazz shit?

  Despite all the edginess I thought I possessed, I caught myself giggling at his cheesy jokes while I attempted to make him a bracelet out of leather and some masculine-looking beads, which I’ve since learned is an oxymoron. He let me put my creation on his wrist, and I joked t
hat we were now married in Burkina Faso or something. He laughed again.

  “So how much does a Burkina Faso marriage bracelet cost?” he asked.

  “Oh no, it’s on me,” I said.

  “Are you cereal?”

  “Totally!”

  “Really? What kind?”

  And then he elbowed me, cracking up that I fell so willingly into that classic little word gag. I laughed along with him, although it was the first time I’d ever heard it.

  “Okay, at least let me buy you a drink. Oh! Do you want to come see me play tomorrow night? I’m in this superfunkyfragilistic show band, Penguins on Broadway. We’ve got a gig at Rosie’s tomorrow night. What says you?” There was something about the way he talked and joked that reminded me a little of Bill Murray.

  “I’d love to,” I said hesitantly, “but, uh, I’m underage.” I was so embarrassed by my youth.

  He winked and twirled his bracelet. “Don’t worry. I gotcha.”

  The jazz club was the most adult place I’d been to, with the exception of the Philharmonic and Chippendales. The clientele looked grown-up, the kind of people who recently took down their British flag in favor of curtains for their windows. It was a welcome switch from all-ages punk gigs and the plaid-clad pseudo-skinheads I’d been subjected to for the past year. I sat at my cloth-covered table and clumsily ordered a glass of red wine of some sort from the intimidating wine list. There wasn’t one other person even close to my own age in the club. I loved it.

  The music was a different story. Forget about trying to like jazz; I couldn’t even understand the musical arrangement. It sounded disjointed and messy, like someone took a heaping box of notes and threw them all over the floor. I didn’t recognize any of the tunes, but I pretended to be engaged. That changed the moment Michael launched into his guitar solo. He played, looking at me with such intensity, it seemed that every note professed his love.

  I relinquished control. My body felt like a chemistry set with all its Bunsen burners set on high. Had Cheryl and Diane been there in that moment, they would have taken one look at me, nodded their heads knowingly, and whispered, “Told you so.”

  The show ended and Michael shook hands with the regulars, then walked over to my table with a couple of glasses of wine. Both starstruck and lovestruck, I tripped over my words trying to express how much I loved his playing and the show and the bar and that he was just . . . amazing! He suggested I drink up so he could drive me home.

  Yes, sir!

  We sat parked in front of my house, talking and laughing at his jokes, until we hit that pause in the conversation that I’d been waiting for. Michael looked at me, his blue eyes filled with intent, gathered me in his arms out of my bucket seat, and, with the gearshift between us, kissed me hard—not with spastic excitement, but with jazzy passion. It was perfect. I never wanted to get out of the car. But I did . . . three hours later.

  The next night we saw a movie, but all I remember is the electricity I felt while holding his hand in the dark theater. Afterward we went to his place, or rather his parents’ basement, where Michael not only lived but also had constructed an entire music studio. He put on a variety of Miles Davis and Coltrane CDs, occasionally picking up his guitar to play a riff here and there. I’m pretty sure I just sat there with a big smile plastered on my face and big hearts in my eyes. Soon we were having sex, right on the carpeted floor of his soundproofed studio, and finally my sister’s prophecy came true. I felt something this time, and it was downright incredible. Although I didn’t have a huge sample size to compare it to, our sexual chemistry bubbled out of the test tube. This was it. The real thing. True love. A perfect match. I’d done it. I’d found it.

  Life was magical. I actually saw sparkles in almost everything I looked at. He taught me about jazz, we explored museums, and we had tons of sex. Since we clicked so well in the bedroom, we consequently spent a great deal of time there, putting certain Prince songs on repeat. To this day, the first few chords of “When 2 R in Love” from The Black Album share a sexual trigger with tinted Halloween hairspray.

  I don’t think Michael had ever met someone who idolized him the way I did. I told him repeatedly that I couldn’t believe someone like him could like someone like me, reinforcing that he could do better. Luckily he adored my worship, and after a couple of weeks together, he confessed that he was falling in love with me.

  Like any seventeen-year-old girl head over heels in love, I wanted nothing more than to cancel my trip to Australia and stay with Michael . . . for eternity. And like any typical twenty-two-year-old guy, Michael insisted that if I didn’t go, I would be making a huge mistake. “But what about us? What if I go and I lose you?” I implored. How could he stand a year of celibacy? How could I? He reassured me that nothing could shake what we had. It would be romantic—pining for each other. He also reminded me how much time I’d spent planning and saving, and he warned me like the wizened elder he was that I might never get this opportunity again. He assured me that we’d write and talk regularly, and the distance would make our relationship grow even stronger. It was going to be the trip of a lifetime, one that I’d never forget.

  He was right about that.

  Like a devoted cult member, I clung to his every word and obediently started packing.

  I wrote him every day on that trip. According to his count, I sent him seventy-six letters, all ten pages or more.

  He sent me four.

  The trip itself got off to a rough start. After choking back tears at the airport, afraid to reveal that after all this effort I was scared and wanted to go back home, I waved good-bye to Michael and my family and dragged my backpack through security. Eventually, I made my way down the skinny aisle of the plane, dabbing my eyes, slumped into my aisle seat, and let out a huge sigh. I turned to acknowledge my seat neighbor and screamed. It was Tommy.

  Apparently, he’d decided to go on the trip alone too. Why hadn’t that occurred to me?! I looked at him, completely dazed. I thought for sure he would cancel. He was only going on the trip because I initiated it, and I never imagined he’d be able to afford the fare on his own. Evidently I was wrong.

  He was also at a total loss. It hadn’t dawned on either of us that this could happen. We’d clearly underestimated how like-minded we were. Since neither of us had bothered to create a new itinerary, we were stuck together not only on this first leg to Hawaii but also on all subsequent flights to Fiji, the Cook Islands, and New Zealand, before hitting Australia.

  You can’t run away on an airplane, but you can beg for a new seat, which I did immediately. After our epic breakup, we completely avoided each other, to the point where I wondered if he’d left town. I just didn’t expect the answer would be yes, via my plane to Australia.

  He seemed perfectly happy to watch me huff and hastily gather my stuff to move rows. The flight attendant directed me to a new seat at the rear of the plane. It was the last aisle, so it was a nonreclining seat, opposite the bathroom. As if that weren’t bad enough, the seat next to me was occupied by a nervous woman holding a fussy newborn. Perfect. At least the kid cried most of the trip so I didn’t have to.

  Tommy must have shot off that airplane the moment we landed, because I didn’t see him in the baggage area. I’d made friends with a couple of backpackers who were also sitting in the back and followed them to a cheap hostel near Waikiki. I didn’t mention anything about Tommy to them. It was my way of writing him out of my future, at least for the next twenty-four hours. I bided my time by walking along the beach, perusing tourist shops, and writing to Michael—basically waiting to get back to the airport so I could change my seat assignment for the next leg out.

  When I didn’t spot Tommy in the departure lounge, I figured he’d missed the flight. Good. I changed my seat and joined the line for the bathrooms, relieved he wasn’t there. He was a stain on my relationship past, and I never wanted to see him again. This was my vacation, my trip of a lifetime. But then, whether by coincidence or design, there he was,
standing right behind me in line.

  My body pulsed with rage feeling his presence so close.

  I turned around to face him and practically spat, “So. How was Hawaii?”

  “Babe, it was so cool!” he said, raising his eyebrows to add emphasis.

  How dare he call me babe! And how dare he look so . . . so . . . smug. He bragged about how surprisingly good he was at surfing, and how he caught a fish while deep sea diving, and what fun he’d had drinking on the beach late into the night—mai tais with models! Seriously? I thought. All that in twenty-four hours? Part of me wanted to call bullshit on his stories, or at least ask for names, but instead I tuned him out as he further embellished his exploits, and began plotting my next move. Now I understood what we were doing. It was a competition: Whoever was having a better trip was having a better postbreakup life. The game was on, and I was in last place. That was about to change.

  My makeover plan was twofold. First, I required a physical transformation in the form of a golden tan. Once we landed in Fiji, I hit the beach slathered in SPF 2 and jumped into the ocean. While floating in the warm azure shallows, I conceived the second part of my plan: go on an exotic adventure, like hunting for white men with Maoris, or do something dangerous that no mere tourist would do.

  As I was dreaming up activities—like bushwhacking my way through the jungle to photograph myself draped in rare poisonous snakes or harvesting the summer’s first crop of cassava with an Aboriginal tribal leader, I felt a sharp stinging on my torso, like little razors raking across my stomach. I looked down to see red welts quickly forming on my midriff and ran to the lifeguard-on-duty in a panic. He gave me a condescending laugh and said I’d been stung by baby jellyfish. Baby jellyfish?! Being bit by baby jellyfish was about as pathetic as being devoured by a teddy bear. I didn’t plan for jellyfish, nor did I plan for the fragility of my lily-white Canadian skin, which had never been exposed to the intense equatorial sun and tropical humidity.