Screw Everyone

by Ophira Eisenberg

  But as the saying goes, three wrongs don’t make a right.

  I ran out of riffs about the weird room and the weird Amish, so I segued into a few jokes about my weird name. When I felt like I had them on my side, I defied orders and told my drinking games joke, justifying it by thinking they used to abuse substances, so at least they’d get it. Asking an audience in recovery to reminisce about the positive side of irresponsible using turned out to be a horrible idea, and the room went dead silent. I even watched a woman in the front row clutch the silver cross around her neck. My usual bad habit of scanning the crowd for the purposes of finding the person who was not enjoying me was far too easy; there were too many choices. Instead, my eyes darted around, trying to find anyone who didn’t look annoyed. There was one woman excessively laughing and clapping, not at the right moments, but still behaving in a way that was appropriate to comedy. She wasn’t angry but clearly mad-crazy, and she became my touchstone, the only thing that kept me going. I was able to muddle through the remaining thirty minutes because of her, which I whittled down to about seventeen. No one would complain that I got off stage too early.

  The second it was over, I began to shake and quiver as the pent-up nerves overtook me. Failure nausea filled my gut, and I considered fleeing out the emergency exit, if only I could find it. Unfortunately they hadn’t paid me yet, and I was hungry. Satisfying both of those needs meant returning to the ballroom and wading through the crowd to locate the event coordinator and the buffet.

  I finger-combed my bangs, straightened my top, and told myself that regardless of what happened, my mother still loved me. Sort of. Everyone was mingling, sipping diet sodas, and swaying to Sheryl Crow’s “All I Wanna Do.” My usual way of dealing with a disaster-of-a-gig was to soothe the emotional aftermath with heavy drinking and light sex (see chapters 11–on), but I couldn’t do that this time. It wasn’t just because it was a dry event attended solely by lesbians—I’m sure if I had to, I could make that work. This self-imposed boundary had more to do with the new life I was building with Jonathan that I didn’t want to fuck up because a room full of gay women booed me. At least not anymore.

  The problem was that I had no idea what to do instead. It had all become such a habit, a reliable routine. I’d never worked out what I would use to replace it. I loved Jonathan, but thinking about his love did not relieve my angst. What was my emotional Nicorette? Food? Video games? Religion?

  Everyone avoided making eye contact as I walked among them, except for that one woman, my big cheerleader in the crowd. She bee-lined in my direction. She was stunning in that au naturel kind of way, pulling off an adorable boyish haircut and cut-off jeans. I couldn’t tell if I was attracted to her or just jealous.

  “You were wonderful!” she bellowed in a voice that did not match her exterior. Was it an Eastern European accent of some sort? I couldn’t pinpoint its origin, only that she sounded a bit like my waxer. She extended her arms, inviting me in for a hug.

  I agreed to it even though it felt patronizing. She gave me a hug that had meaning. Her body pressed right into mine, and her Pilates-trained arms gripped tightly around my back. It felt like a warm straightjacket. Was she coming on to me? Or just trying to make me feel better? I wrestled with the ethics of cheating and for a fleeting second thought, It doesn’t count if it’s with a woman, right? Even in my head it sounded pitiful, like an alcoholic justifying a glass of wine with dinner, knowing full well it would turn into hiding in the bathroom, guzzling Robitussin within days.

  “Aw. That’s very sweet. Thank you,” I said, freeing myself from her embrace.

  I looked right at her. She had fanatical eyes. They were espresso color and far too wide open, as if they were actually caffeinated. The expression on her face was somewhere in between scared-to-death and wildly excited. Why do I always attract the crazy ones?

  “I’m Ophira,” I said, extending my hand, which was ridiculous after body smushing.

  “I already knew that! I’m Marcy. Your show was very, very funny, and I’ve seen Ellen DeGeneres. You made me laugh way more.”

  “Thank you,” I said robotically.

  Are these the kinds of things groupies tell guy comics? No wonder they have confidence to spare. Her compliment meant nothing to me because I knew it was nonsensical overexaggerated bullshit—and I wasn’t being coy. A ridiculous statement like that had more to do with Marcy not knowing what the hell to say, so she went with something fantastical. It’s like looking at a child’s finger painting and comparing it favorably to a Jackson Pollock. Either Marcy really needed to be liked by me, was totally deranged, or was actually one of Ellen DeGeneres’s exes.

  That being said, if she went with honesty and introduced herself by saying, “Hey, I could see you trying up there, but I guess it didn’t work out this time,” I would have punched her in the face.

  “If you want another cuddle, you know where I am.”

  Was she offering to mercy fuck me? Comfort me? Or wax me? Women are complex, especially with a thick accent. The path of least resistance, for once, was to stick with my loyalty plan.

  “It’s really nice to meet you, Marcy. I know how these convention halls work, so I’m going to try to grab some food from the buffet before they take it away.” Sure, now I sounded like a professional.

  With my head hung low at the buffet, I shoveled some cold spaghetti onto a plate and disappeared up to my hotel room. I was too tired to wallow in the “what the fuck am I doing with my life?” debate, so I put the social suicide thoughts on hold, collapsed onto the bed, and watched a couple reruns of Frasier. Before I passed out, I called Jonathan. He tried to soothe me by promising that the gig probably wasn’t as bad as I made it out to be; after all, I was my own worst critic. I tried to convince him that no, this was different. I wasn’t exaggerating for the sake of drama, and this was really embarrassingly horrible, but he switched subjects to this new restaurant in our neighborhood that he wanted to check out when I got back. I was a little pissed that my pity party had ended so abruptly and told him that I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be up for scoping out the new sushi joint in the hood right away. I wanted to get home, take a hot shower, and sleep for a week.

  And then find a therapist. Who worked on a sliding scale.

  ALL I COULD think about on the bus home was that much like Peter Pan, I had to grow up. I was worried though: Could my relationship carry me through the crappy times? Would it take the edge off a bad gig? How do other people do it? Was I going to have to learn about Reiki?

  When I walked into our apartment hours later, I expected the familiar sight of Jonathan sitting on the sofa, crouched over his laptop, watching some documentary on TV. The first thing I noticed was that the place was clean. Suspiciously clean. Jonathan materialized from our yellow kitchen, gave me a big kiss, and said, “I made us some dinner!” What had happened while I was gone? Was he hiding something? Then again, the last time I thought I caught him surfing porn, it turned out to be a website called Mugglecast, a site for Harry Potter enthusiasts. No, when it came to Jonathan, my problem wasn’t other women—it was other wizards. Besides, if he really was covering something up, he was doing a damn good job of it with the cleaning and the cooking. I applauded his time-management skills.

  The foldout table was set, and Jonathan served up one of the two recipes he’d mastered: grilled salmon with grilled asparagus. The other one was grilled steak with grilled asparagus. I settled into my foldout chair (everything in a 350-square-foot apartment is foldout) and gulped down my dinner. As I mopped the salmon juice with the last asparagus spear on my plate, Jonathan casually took out a piece of red origami paper and started folding it. I know that sounds strange, but one of Jonathan’s many hobbies is the Japanese art of paper folding. Not wood working, learning guitar, drinking whiskey, or even fetishizing Asian women—just the ancient Japanese art of paper folding. You can’t be angry at someone for being into the Japanese art of paper folding. It’s like yelling at someone for loving b
adminton. You have to let it go.

  In a booming announcer voice, he started, “There are all these stories in Japanese folklore about a thousand cranes.”

  I looked around for a hidden studio audience, but, no, it was still just me.

  I returned a crooked eyebrow, but he continued.

  “Like if you fold a thousand cranes, it will bring you luck, or if you fold a thousand cranes, it will bring you health. But the one I like the best is, if you give the person you love a thousand cranes, your love will last forever.”

  He thumbed the final crease, checked that the wings flapped properly, and handed me the little red paper bird.

  “This is number one thousand.”

  Time slowed as I accepted the crane. I looked at it confused. I knew something was up, because none of this was normal, but I didn’t get it. Or I didn’t let myself get it. Jonathan directed my eyes to the floor in front of the TV where the banker’s box from the closet was now sitting.

  “Why don’t you open it up?”

  Here we go. Here’s where I see the severed head. Please God, don’t make her a blonde.

  I slowly lifted the lid like I was defusing a bomb.

  Inside, I found 999 hand-folded paper cranes in a range of vibrant colors and sizes. It was breathtaking, one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen. Also—a bit creepy. In the way that one ladybug is adorable, but a thousand is an infestation or an organized attack.

  Jonathan explained that he’d been folding cranes for years as an exercise in patience. It helped with anxiety, and he loved the precision of it. As he continued to fold and collect them, he decided to attempt to reach a thousand. And when he did, the love of his life would be standing in front of him.

  There I was, looking like a FEMA rescue and smelling like a bus. I couldn’t believe he was talking about me. It was the most over-the-top amazing gesture I’d ever witnessed, only second to being told I was as funny as Ellen DeGeneres.

  Had I found the most romantic man on the planet? Or was he obsessive-compulsive?

  At least our doors would always be locked.

  “Reach into the box,” instructed Rain Man.

  My hands dove in, and nestled among the cranes I felt a smaller box. Holy shit. I pulled it out slowly, letting the cranes fall away. I wanted to stop and take it all in, but the minute that little clamshell box was in front of my face, I could do nothing to stop myself from cracking it open.

  Inside was a diamond ring.

  Suddenly, I felt very drunk, even though I hadn’t had a sip of anything.

  Astonished, I looked up at Jonathan. I could feel blood circulating in my head.

  He returned a nervous smile and asked, “Will you marry me?”

  Marriage—the broken institution.

  My single life flashed before my eyes. Sure, I’d traveled boldly from dance club to cocktail lounge to dive bar for years, getting myself in and out of subpar situations. But there were only so many walks, cab rides, and—heaven forbid—Metrocard swipes of shame one girl can endure. Finally someone was offering to make an honest woman out of me.

  I was terrified.

  I’d always maintained that the odds of a marriage lasting were less than 50 percent. Then again, the odds of making it in stand-up were far worse. Of anyone, I should know that 50 percent can also mean, you’re gonna make it.

  I’d certainly washed enough sheets, deleted enough phone numbers, and seen enough Garfields to have a pretty good idea of what I wanted. Or at the very least what I didn’t want.

  For a fleeting second I thought, Shouldn’t I count the cranes first? It looks like a thousand, but who knows? What if it’s only 885?

  I gazed into Jonathan’s innocent eyes—he didn’t have one dog-fart joke in him.

  I took a deep breath and stepped toward the next stage.

  “Yes. Of course! Yes!”

  We hugged and kissed, letting euphoria fill our little apartment. A unique feeling flooded through my body. I think it was joy.

  My mother was right: You never really know someone until you live with them.

  CHAPTER 21

  UNBRIDLED

  Getting married was one thing, but a wedding was a whole other ball of vanilla-scented wax. I never wanted a wedding even though I love going to them. I’m the first to hit my spoon to my glass to try to make the newlyweds kiss, I’ll try to drink the open bar dry, and once the DJ starts, I’ll dance like no one’s watching. Who doesn’t like a party? It’s the ceremony I take issue with. On some level, I see it as equal to bridal capture, and I wanted no part in any ritual where I’d be given away like a possession. Fuck that.

  What I could swallow was a simple civil service at city hall. It’s possible that I would have thought differently if I were still in my twenties, a sorority sister, or believed in Jesus, but with none of that getting in the way, I was free to strip down the kidnapping ceremony to something that jibed with my philosophies. Convincing Jonathan would be another story. I hit him first with pragmatism, pointing out the major roadblock to throwing a wedding in New York: the expense. Why would anyone short of a millionaire waste tens of thousands of dollars on a boring rental hall and dry chicken breast dinner? Jonathan agreed—about what a waste it would be to spend the money on such a pedestrian affair—but he wanted a wedding. More than that, he wanted a wedding spectacular. If cash flow and the laws of science were no issue, he would have us flown to the top of the Guggenheim on the back of a hippogriff while a gospel choir sang “Tradition” from Fiddler on the Roof. He’d wear a bespoke tuxedo, and I’d be dressed in a gown made of bubbles and sparkles. Jean-Michel Basquiat would be his best man, and Harvey Pekar would marry us. This would be followed by hot air balloon rides for all the guests, virtual reality games, and an IMAX screen playing Once Upon a Time in the West and 2001: A Space Odyssey.

  So we compromised—and got married at city hall.

  Jonathan was concerned that the city hall idea would not go over with his family. His mother and father would be disappointed and at the very least demand to be there. Then his brother would have to join us, and then his cousins would feel left out, and within minutes the whole thing would turn into a stressful, messy gathering. On the other hand, there was no way that my family would bear the expense and fly out from Western Canada for a civil service.

  So we settled on inviting no one.

  We would elope in secret. Of course, the idea of a covert private wedding totally appealed to me: Could anything be more of a slap in the face to the ridiculous, overpriced wedding industry? Could anything be more fitting for a woman who’d gone against the grain of commitment her whole life? This was the only way to make sense of the madness and bring it back to what it should be: a simple practice required to obtain a piece of paper.

  Frankly, I was surprised that Jonathan was cool with this idea. The guy can’t keep a secret about a birthday gift, let alone a milestone. As he was a tireless romantic, getting married was precisely the kind of thing he’d want to shout through a bullhorn to the rest of the world. Facebook and Twitter were made for people like him. But he agreed—and I don’t think it was just to shut me up. There must have been a part of him that was as apprehensive as I was, and thought, If it fails, we can just get divorced and no one will know about that, either. We’d both experienced feeling strongly about a life decision before, only to have it fall apart or require a change of heart. Neither of us had a tattoo . . . or even a gym membership.

  Then again, how could one little piece of paper change us?

  Or perhaps the better question was, how could it not?

  We picked a day at the end of May and stuck to our plan not to tell a soul. Sharing this kind of major secret definitely had a thrill factor. We’d find ourselves talking about it rather sensibly—the times, the dates, the paperwork—and then catch each other’s eye and exchange big dumb grins.

  As I fell asleep the night before our city hall date, I found myself unexpectedly overwhelmed with emotion and no one to tal
k to about it outside of our bed. I distracted myself by fixating on the one thing that was within my control: What would I wear? I asked Jonathan how he planned on dressing, and he admitted that he hadn’t thought about it. I was a little surprised but I kept it to myself and pushed forward. We decided that he should wear his old suit—not his worst suit, just his only suit. I dug through my closet, but nothing appealed to me, so I gave myself permission to take advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime (hopefully) opportunity and hit a couple of dress stores in the morning.

  I walked into one of my favorite stores that I owned nothing from: Anthropologie. I loved the clothes there but considered them beyond my price point. I’d wander in occasionally, manhandle some pretty patterned fabric, take a look at the price tag, and scream, “You’ve got to be kidding!”

  For a heartbeat I’d turn into my wartime-raised mother: “You’d think for that much money they could at least hem the dress! It only has two seams. What is it—a hundred dollars a seam?” Some clothing stores make you think, You know what? I’m going to learn how to sew!

  But today was different. I didn’t care how much the dress cost or how carelessly it was made. I was buying it.

  Before long, I was twirling in front of a mirror in a flowery, cream-colored, A-line dress that fit me almost perfectly. It was delicate and pretty and horrifically overpriced, just like most wedding dresses.

  I took it up to the cashier, who, like a good shop girl, smoothed it between tissue paper and commended my choice. “Oh my god! I love this dress. It’s one of my favorite things in the whole store right now.”

  She baited me. I couldn’t help myself. I had to tell her why I was buying it, just to see her reaction.

  I leaned in toward her. “Really? Because I’m getting married in it in a couple of hours.”

  The blood drained from her face. She couldn’t find her next words. This was pages beyond what it said in the customer satisfaction training handbook. But I could see she felt scandalized, as if my being so cavalier about the most important day of my life tarnished her own bridal dreams. By purchasing that dress, I was letting down all young, beautiful women the world over. If everyone acted like me, there would be no weddings. There would be no tulle veils or tiny tiaras. After years of imagining, planning, and leafing through bridal magazines, she was suddenly faced with a marriage anarchist.