Not a bad business proposal, actually. A trolley that runs up and down the parking lot, picking up and dropping off passengers like at Disney World. But people would constantly want to get on and off, the train would have to stop every few seconds, and it would take longer to get a lift back to the car than to actually walk.
“Hurry up, girls, we’re already late,” Marc tells us. Tells me actually, because I’m the one slowing us down. I’m a slow walker. Is it my fault that short people have short legs?
If he had dropped us off at the front door, like a gentleman, we’d have tickets by now.
The multicomplex looms in the distance like Cinderella’s castle. Three-D cartoon animals impressively swirl over the entranceway. The theme-park adventure continues with giant bats, which would have terrified a younger, less mature version of me, that hang threateningly from the ceiling. We buy tickets and then join the popcorn line. Sam and Marc buy jujubes and two Diet Cokes. Puh-lease! Not buying popcorn at the theater is like going to a baseball game and not buying a hot dog. Why else do you go to a baseball game?
“We’ll get seats,” Sam says, and they disappear hand in hand.
“One small popcorn with extra butter and a small Orange Crush, please,” I tell the eyebrow-pierced teenager with bleached-blond hair.
“Would you like to upgrade to a large, ma’am? Then you get free refills.”
Ma’am? Ma’am?? “No, thanks.” The smalls are already giant size.
“It’s only an extra thirty-five cents,” the pierced kid says.
“Well…okay.” For an extra thirty-five cents, why not?
“Would you like to upgrade your popcorn to a large, ma’am? It’s only an extra sixty-five cents.”
“No, thanks.”
“You get free refills, ma’am.”
I’m not sure when exactly I’m going to refill, considering that the movie is starting in about thirty seconds. But free is free. I can do the refill right after the movie. I can bring a snack to work.
The pierced kid hands me two huge cartons, a drink about the size of a two-gallon container of orange juice, and a popcorn the size of a water cooler.
Oooh! Sour berries! I love sour berries! “Can I have those, too?”
“Here you go, ma’am. That will be $15.50.” Fifteen-fifty? Why is my snack twice the price of the movie?
Uh-oh. I have to pee. Maybe if I go now, I won’t have to go in the middle of the movie. One can always hope. Only now I feel kind of like a kid in a snowsuit. How can I carry the tub of popcorn, a pack of sour berries, a gallon of soda, and a separate straw into the cubicle without spilling everywhere?
The first life-lesson Jeremy taught me was that I should never put my straw in my drink at a movie theater until after I sit down, in case of leakage. Seems like a simple enough strategy, except you’d be amazed at how many times I’d left the theater with orange stains on my jeans before I started dating him.
The last life-lesson I learned from him was to never date a backstabbing selfish bastard.
I can hold it in.
The theater is dark, and the please-turn-off-your-cell-phone-because-it’ll-really-piss-everyone-off-if-it-rings announcement flashes across the screen.
How the hell am I going to find them in here?
I walk down the aisle and peer. I feel like I’m looking for Waldo.
No.
No.
No.
I arrive at the screen amid a chorus of “Hey, sit down!” and “Get out of the way!” and “What’s the matter with you?” God forbid they should miss the ads. So where are Sam and Marc? They’re probably sitting in the back. I must have passed them.
They’re not in the back. I turn around again, and make my way back toward the screen.
Sam waves from the front row. “Sorry, I forgot my glasses,” she whispers. “Hope you don’t mind.”
I wonder if it’s rude to sit by myself, in the middle of the theater like a normal person. What if a potential date is in the theater and sees me sitting by myself and concludes that I’m a complete misanthrope who has to go to the movies alone on a Saturday night to try to pick up men, or maybe not even to pick up men but just to get out of a cat-infested apartment for a few measly hours? What then?
I sit down next to her in the front row. I tilt my head eighty degrees and try to get comfortable.
This isn’t going to work.
“I’m going to find a seat in the middle,” I whisper to Sam. I’m a big girl. I can sit at a movie by myself. I scout for an empty seat. I spot one next to a blond girl about ten rows back and push my way through.
“Hey, sit down!”
“Get out of the way!”
“What’s the matter with you?”
I slide into a seat, trying to make room for my industrialsize purchases.
Jeremy and I always sat on the aisle. Correction: Jeremy always sat on the aisle. He liked the leg room. Of course he never asked if I wanted to sit in the aisle seat. I always sat near the weirdo who left his arm on the seat rest. I was always the one who had to feel the weirdo’s arm hair brush against my skin. Let me ask you this: if there’s only one armrest between the two of you, why does the other person always assume it’s his right to take it?
Oh, well. At least the girl next to me is giving me a lot of space. She’s snuggling with her date. I can’t see his face, but she’s all blond and shiny and I’m really trying not to hate her.
I have to pee. I really should have gone before the movie started.
Wow. Pierce Brosnan is really hot. Natalie says he’s too pretty, too good-looking. What does this mean exactly, too good-looking? She says she could never go out with a guy prettier than she is. She says she hates going to a restaurant and everyone looks at the guy instead of her. Such problems I should have.
Look at that bod. Maybe I should suggest we do spy books at work.
I really have to go to the bathroom.
I try crossing and uncrossing my legs. I’m not sure why, but I drink more of my Orange Crush.
Maybe I can convince the marketing people at work to put Pierce on the cover of our new spy books. Of course, I won’t be invited to the shoot, but Pierce will hate the fake-blond bimbo chosen to model with him. I, of course, will happen to be passing through the room, and he’ll ask “What about her?” in his husky British voice. “Her?” Helen will say (although she is only an associate editor, not a senior editor, so she won’t have a fat chance of being there, either). “But she’s just a copy editor!” The whole scene will unfold with perfect timing and I’ll say, “Me?” And he’ll nod enthusiastically, beckoning me with his wonderfully strong hands, and I’ll join his pose. And while the wind machine blows my hair, he’ll turn to me and say, “Will you be my next Bond girl?” And I’ll play a DNA expert who runs around the hospital in a tight white tank top and silver stretch pants.
Oh, God. It’s a waterfall scene. This isn’t going to work.
I have to use the washroom. Now.
“Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me…”
“Hey, sit down!”
“Get out of the way!”
“What’s the matter with you?”
I sprint to the ladies’ room and run into an empty stall. I carefully place a paper toilet cover on the seat. I’m not Sam, but I’m not crazy.
And then just when I’m minding my own business…swoosh.
What is wrong with these automatic bathrooms? Why do they flush while I’m still using them? How can I be a Bond girl when I can’t even figure out how to work a toilet?
I sneak back into the theater (“Hey, sit down!” “Get out of the way!” “What’s the matter with you?”) and despite the temptation, I don’t ask the blonde what I missed. After all, she might think I want to be friends with her, which probably wouldn’t be so bad since she probably can get any guy she wants and therefore has great castoffs. Forget that; I don’t want her to think I’m friendless as well as annoying—or, God forbid, desperate.
When the credits start to
role, I leap up to make a quick exit to beat the refill line. Granted, I barely even ate a quarter of it. But I paid for a refill and dammit, I’m going to get it.
“Jackie?”
I turn to the seat next to me and see Andrew Mackenzie’s lightly freckled arm curled around the blonde.
I am never sitting by myself at a movie ever again.
The blonde is checking me out, most likely thinking, So this is what a person who has no friends looks like.
“Hey! Andrew. I know it looks like I’m here by myself, but I’m not. I’m here with friends. Really. But they’re sitting in the front row, and it was hurting my neck…” They both stare at me, expressionless.
Andrew is going to tell Jeremy I went to see a movie by myself on a Saturday night. I might as well just throw myself in front of Marc’s two-door Civic.
“How are you?” he asks. Smiling, he motions for me to exit into the aisle.
“No, really. I’m not here by myself.” I’m not exiting anything until Marc and Sam walk by so I can prove that I am not here alone.
“Jackie, this is Jessica. Jessica, Jackie.” I shake her perfectly French-manicured hand. She looks like a Jessica. She looks like how I used to picture Jessica Wakefield, the Sweet Valley Twin.
Who is this Jessica? And why didn’t he mention a girlfriend? Not that I gave him much of an opportunity at Orgasm to talk about himself.
Sam and Marc are already near the doors. Damn. They went around the other side.
“Nice to see you, and nice to meet you. I have to go,” I say, choosing not to prolong the misery. I hurry out of the theater.
At least there’s no line at the popcorn counter.
No line because it’s closed. What a rip-off. This sucks. I’m the worst Bond girl ever.
“I’ll get the car, girls,” Marc says.
“Oh, you’re so sweet, Marc.”
“That’s Bear. Biggy Bear.”
Never mind. I don’t want to be a Bond girl, anyway. I hate silver stretch pants.
No message. Not that I’m expecting one, but you never know. He wouldn’t call on a Saturday night. If he does, it would mean that he thinks I’m home, meaning he thinks I have nothing better to do but stay and wait for his call. And why would he be home on a Saturday night, anyway?
Thank God he didn’t call. I don’t go out with losers.
I wash up. The green mold around the drain is starting to scare me. I really have to clean the bathroom. Where are the supplies? Why did Sam take them away? Tomorrow for sure I’ll do it. I’ll even set the alarm. For nine. Okay, nine-thirty. Ten.
Brrring… It’s 9:57. Secretly, 9:48. I still have three more minutes. I am not answering. Go away, Dad. I unplug the phone and turn off the alarm.
Shit. It’s 12:40. I’ve got to clean the bathroom. But wait, I have a message. It wasn’t Dad who called; the caller ID says Anonymous. What inconsiderate fool calls at 9:57 on a Sunday morning?
“Jackie, this is Jonathan Gradinger calling. My number is 555-2854. Call me back when you get a chance. Call me back when you get a chance.”
5
Run Your Fingers Through Your Own Damn Hair
YAY! HE CALLED. YAY! YAY! YAY! Thank goodness I didn’t pick up when I was asleep. I might have said something awful. I might have told him how foxy he was. Why did he call so early? He must really like me. I mean really like me. He thought of me as soon as he woke up. Assuming he wakes up at around 9:30, which is pretty probable considering that’s a usual wake-up time. Or maybe he woke up at eight, thought about me, decided to go for a run to diffuse the energy building up in his loins, and when he couldn’t take it any longer, called me.
Omigod. What if he wants to go out tonight? Or what if he wants to go out today? What if as soon as I call him back he asks me if he can come by and pick me up for lunch, and what if once he comes inside he has to use the bathroom? I’ve got to clean it now and only after I clean it, can I call him back.
I walk into the bathroom. Strands of my hair have woven themselves into a blanket on the tiled floor. “Sam!” I holler, close to tears. “Help! I don’t know how to do this!”
In a jumping-jack five-second flash, in comes Sam, fully equipped with liquid cleaner, yellow gloves, and some sort of brush I’m pretty sure is supposed to go in the toilet but I’m not a hundred percent.
“Why don’t I have one of those?” I ask.
“They don’t come with the toilet, my dirty friend, they’re sold separately. Like batteries.”
“Got it. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“I’m not cleaning it for you. I’m just showing you how.”
“Oh.”
A half hour, a half bottle, and two rolls of paper towels later, I am satisfied.
Now I can call him back. Maybe he’s planning an afternoon picnic with champagne and strawberries and cut-up tuna sandwiches. But first I have to make myself presentable. Right now, my frizzies are pointed in many obtuse angles. I feel like Pippi Longstocking. I shower, blow-dry my hair, and squeeze out what’s left of my concealer. And a little lipstick. I put on my bathrobe. I don’t want to get dressed if I don’t know where we’re going. Duh.
I listen to his message again: “Jackie, this is Jonathan Gradinger calling. My number is 555-2854. Call me back when you get a chance. Call me back when you get a chance.”
I’m not sure why he says that last part twice. His message reminds me of the ones Wendy’s grandmother used to leave when Wendy and I were at Penn together: “Vendy, this is your bubbe calling. Your bubbe called. Call your bubbe. Call your bubbe.”
I write down his number. I dial.
“Hi,” his sexy voice says. Omigod. I’m talking to Jonathan Gradinger.
“Hi, Jonathan?”
“This is Jonathan Gradinger. I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. So leave your name and number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Have a great day.” Again with the double statements. That should tell me a little something, but do I have foreshadowing on my mind? No, foreplay is more like it. At this point all I can think of is, omigod, I’m talking to Jonathan Gradinger’s answering machine! Forty-eight hours ago I never would have believed that I’d be leaving him a message. If some psychic had read my palm and told me that in a few days I’d have Jonathan Gradinger’s home phone number—so much more intimate than a cell phone—I would never have believed it.
Wait a minute. How do I know it’s his home number?
Beep. I have to leave a message. Beep.
My mind is blank. I have no idea what to say. Beetlejuice, beetlejuice? I stare at the receiver and hang up.
My fault. I should have known to be prepared. Where’s my red felt pen? Okay, let’s keep it simple.
Hello, Jonathan. This is Jacquelyn.
Too formal.
Hi, Jon, it’s Jack.
Too close. We’re not even phone-acquainted yet. And what if he thinks I’m a guy?
Fifteen minutes pass and I’m still struggling.
“Your bathroom looks great! I’m impressed!” Sam calls out, interrupting my concentration. “Jackie, where are you?”
“In my room.”
“What are you doing?” She enters tentatively, as if expecting something alive to jump out of my overfilled laundry basket and attack her.
“Composing.” I outline the situation for her.
“Okay,” she says. “How about this. Hi, Jonathan, it’s Jackie returning your message. Give me a call when you have a chance.”
“Oh, that’s brilliant. What comes after ‘message’ again? Say it slowly so I can write it down.”
“You’re a nut.”
“Never mind. I remember.”
“Don’t forget to block your number.”
“Why?”
“What if he has call display? You already hung up once. It’ll look funny if it says your name twice with only one message.”
“Soooo clever! You’d be
single-girl extraordinaire.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
I pre-dial the code to withhold my number, then re-dial Jonathan’s. Sam holds my other hand for moral support.
“Hi. This is Jonathan Gradinger. I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave your name and number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. So leave your name and number and I’ll call you back as soon as I can. Have a great day.”
Trying to make my voice sound as natural as possible, I read my scrawled message and carefully place the phone back on the receiver.
Now all I have to do is wait.
Hmm, hmm, hmm.
How am I going to wait all day?
How is he supposed to pick me up for our picnic and see my clean bathroom if he doesn’t call me back?
“What should I do all day, Sam? What are you doing all day?”
“Correcting some homework.”
“You give homework to fourth-graders? That’s mean.”
“I have to give a little homework.”
“Wanna go shopping?”
“I can’t. I’m broke.”
“Yeah, so am I. So what’s your point?”
“I find window-shopping depressing.”
Oh. Oh, well. I’ll just watch TV then. Jonathan will call back soon.
Six o’clock. No Jonathan.
Seven o’clock. I’m sure he’s just out for the afternoon.
Eight o’clock. He just got home now. He’s turning on the TV. Getting ready to watch a new episode of The Simpsons.
It’s the last scene. Any minute now.
It’s over. Any second now the phone is going to ring. Any second now. C’mon, phone, don’t be shy.
It’s eleven and I’m not waiting anymore. I detest Jonathan Gradinger; he obviously met someone else tonight, fell in love, and forgot all about me. No one will ever love me again. My days will consist of work, my nights will consist of TV, and I will spend Saturday nights from here on at the movies—alone.
And so I go to bed—alone.
The next day at work I try to proofread a manuscript, but every time I get to the end of a paragraph I call in for my messages. “No new messages,” the anal recorded bitch says.
Milkrun Page 6
