Milkrun

by Sarah Mlynowski

  The Reaction—Scene Three

  Janie: Couldn’t you have just highlighted your hair or something?

  The Reaction—Scene Four

  Dad: So what’s new?

  Me: Nothing.

  The Reaction—Scene Five

  Wendy: (Voice on speakerphone while I paint toenails.) I’m wondering why our generation chooses to mutilate our bodies.

  Me: It’s not just our generation. Piercing has gone on for centuries all over the planet.

  Wendy: But why is American culture piercing stomachs, tongues, nipples, and other parts I won’t mention?

  Me: Maybe it’s a tendency of the politically correct to embrace cultural relativism?

  Wendy: Perhaps to produce an aesthetic effect.

  Me: (Blows on toes of right foot.) Or a spiritual one.

  Wendy: Or a sexual one.

  Me: (Feigning indignation.) I didn’t pierce my clitoris.

  Wendy: Maybe there’s just nothing left to attack but our own flesh.

  Sam (aka Samantha): (Barges into my room.) Isn’t it cool? (Pulls up her shirt.) Can we take a picture?

  Wendy: It’ll definitely give your kids something to laugh about.

  The Reaction—Scene Six

  We’re eating an early dinner at the Asian Grill, one of those places where you pick your own meat, vegetables, noodles, sauces, whatever, and watch how a small plate of food can cost you thirty dollars.

  Andrew: (Sitting across from me in a two-seater booth.) I can’t believe you did that.

  Me: (Arms folded tightly across my T-shirt.) Why? I didn’t realize body ornamentation was a character-altering ordeal. (The following words are unspoken.) Uh-oh. Will men find me sexually repulsive?

  Andrew: I guess I always thought belly rings were for Alanis-type girls.

  Me: Puh-lease. There’s even a Miss America contestant who proudly sponsors one. Miss Springfield or whatever.

  Andrew: Can I see?

  Me: You want me to lift up my shirt in the middle of the Asian Grill?

  Andrew: (Eyes growing large.) Yes!

  Me: (Lifts up the bottom of my shirt.) Happy?

  Andrew: Why is it so red?

  Me: I just got needles stuck in my stomach, what do you expect?

  Andrew: (Eyes growing to size of English muffins.) It’s, uh, kind of, well, sexy.

  Me: (The following word is unspoken.) Good.

  Finis

  After work on Monday, Sam and I go for a grocery run. Not that we can even walk properly. For the past thirty-six hours I’ve had to leave my jeans undone, and every time something comes in the remote vicinity of my stomach—an arm, clothing, air—I momentarily pass out.

  We put the regular staples in our cart: juice, milk, and macaroni and cheese. Then Sam goes for the gourmet stuff and throws in a slab of salami, a six-pack of beer, a chunk of hard cheese, and a package of antihistamines.

  I stare in bewilderment at the produce. “Are we visiting a frat house?”

  “No. We’re making our apartment guy-friendly.”

  “Is this the if-you-build-it-they-will-come philosophy? Let me guess, Cosmo? Glamour? City Girls?”

  “City Girls.”

  “What else does City Girls say?”

  “That we should get a dog. Guys will come up to dogs on the street and start conversations with their owners. Us.”

  “You’re allergic to dogs.”

  “That’s why we’re trying the food route instead. But maybe we can borrow someone’s dog. That’s what the antihistamines are for.”

  Who is this woman and what has she done with my roommate?

  Sam has a bunch of other suggestions, all of which I veto:

  1. Take a computer class. (We have no time for that. We’re very, very busy.)

  2. Suck lollipops at bars. (Although lollipops turn your mouth to various tastes, which in itself is not a bad thing, they also turn your mouth to various inappropriate colors.)

  3. Hang out at Home Depot. (So not happening.)

  4. Take a salsa class. (Me: “No way—we can’t dance.” Sam: “That’s why we should take classes.” Me: “No way.”)

  5. Turn socks into voodoo dolls. This, she says, is not to help us meet men but rather to cause Jeremy and Marc severe physical pain, emotional embarrassment, and financial ruin. (Fun idea, but would put us in the “we’re psychotic” category.)

  I counter-suggest visiting a bookstore. I figure since I’m in publishing, my degree is in lit, and I read a lot, it would make sense for me to date someone who also appreciates the written word.

  “I don’t understand,” Sam asks. “You want to meet a guy who reads romance novels?”

  “No, that would be weird.” I’d prefer him to read something manlier. Something Hemingway-esque.

  We end up at Barnes and Noble. The clock says it’s now six. Sam and I decide that we won’t leave until we each hand out our phone number to at least one potential husband. She makes a mad dash for the business section. I’m still debating: Soul (fiction) or good job (computers)? It’s a tough call, but I cave in favor of nice library over nice car; I’m just about to head up the escalator to fiction, when I cop out and veer toward the computer book area. Okay, so I’m weak.

  La, la, la. The computer section consists of three walls of books. I figure I’ll start at the right and work my way left.

  “Can I help you with something?” a Barnes and Noble woman asks.

  “No, thanks. Just looking.”

  One cutie is glancing through a hardcover. I’ll just bide my time, wait for a good opportunity…not that I know what I’m going to say to this man. Oh, I know! I’ll ask him to recommend something. This is good. Brings out the hero quality.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yes?”

  What am I supposed to ask here? “Do you know a good book on…computers?”

  He looks at me as though there is something horribly wrong with me, as if I’m wearing odd shoes, or I have no eyebrows. “You should probably ask someone who works here.”

  Damn. Time for a latte break.

  Six coffees and four hours later, I’m over-caffeined and bored. I’ve encountered three men whose wives/girlfriends/women didn’t appreciate me moving into the periphery of their territory, two men with kids (I don’t think I’m at the stage in my life where I should be stepmom/mistress), and one Trekkie geek whose incessant staring forced me to temporarily abandon my post. The Barnes and Noble woman thinks I’m a complete freak. About every ten minutes she asks me if I’m sure I don’t need any help.

  “I’m beyond help,” I respond.

  Then I meet Josh. He’s standing by the C++ shelf, scanning through a book called The Joy of Programming. He’s tall and cute and has a nice smile (he has two adorable dimples), but I’m tired and want to go home. I stick out my hand and introduce myself, abandoning all pretense at preliminary mating rituals. I’m in a hurry here. He tells me his name, we chitchat for a few minutes, and in the middle of his telling me about his cat and dog and five microprocessors, I say, “Call me.” I write out my phone number on a piece of carefully prepared paper from my purse (they’re presprayed with perfume), throw it at him, and go look for Sam. Mission accomplished.

  Sam is sitting on a couch deep in conversation with Jerry Seinfeld’s look-alike. I wave. She doesn’t respond. I wave again. I’m sure she’s ignoring me. Time for another coffee.

  “How do I look?” Sam asks and twirls. She’s wearing a very lowcut black dress that ties behind her neck, and a brand-new pair of her version of high black boots—black sling-backs. She’s going on a first date with Philip—the guy she met in the business book section. It turns out he owns his own business and he reads a lot of Grisham. Okay, fine, The Firm isn’t exactly For Whom the Bell Tolls, but at least it’s fiction. He can read. And he called. It’s been five days and Josh has not. Serves me right for trying to date yet another jackass whose name starts with J. Serves me right for not stalking the business section. Computer section—pl
ease. Guys who read computer books are about as trustworthy as the startup Internet businesses they left their safe, monotonous jobs for.

  Seven days. Why didn’t I do the travel section? Even the cooking section would have been better. Once Natalie met a psychologist in the how-to section; with my luck, I would have probably run into a psycho.

  I bring my frustration to Tae Kwon Do.

  “Hanna. Twul. Zed. Ned. Dasso,” Lorenzo says. “Spread your legs! Wider!”

  Believe me, I’ve been trying.

  After class, Lorenzo offers to help me with my first form. He puts his hands, those big Tae Kwon Do hands, on my shoulders and molds them into the proper form position. It’s 7:30 p.m. and I’m daydreaming of a nice tall bowl of macaroni and cheese, but I say thank you and let him help me. I need to know this form before I can be tested for a yellow belt. And yellow belts are far more slimming than white belts. Presently I imagine I look like the giant Pillsbury marshmallow in Ghostbusters.

  “Sir?” I ask. You have to call everyone here Sir. Yes, Sir. No, Sir. Thank you, Sir. Throw me up against the wall and kiss me, Sir. “Yes?”

  “When can I get my yellow belt, Sir?”

  “You’ve only been to one class, Jackie.”

  “Oh. Right, Sir.” Hmm. “So how many classes do I have to come to, Sir?”

  “At least twenty.” Lorenzo is looking at me with confusion.

  Twenty? That’s twenty hours of working out! That’s also twenty hours of working out with Sir Sex-God-Lorenzo. Never mind. I think I’ll remain a white belt forever. I think I’m in love.

  “Do you know who you look like?” Sir Sex-God-Lorenzo asks. His hand is on the curve of my back and I’m having difficulty breathing. I’m still trying to figure out who he looks like. So familiar, yet I don’t remember ever meeting him.

  “Who?” An actress? Your first girlfriend?

  “Chelsea Clinton.”

  Get away from me, Sex-God-Lorenzo. You smell, Sir.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is,” Sam says. I’m sitting on the countertop in her bathroom, watching her expertly apply white stuff all over her eyelids. She’s getting ready for her second date with Philip. She’s been single for less than two weeks and she has a second date. A second date! Unbelievable.

  “Chelsea Clinton is notorious for being ugly.” I squirm, realizing that I am sitting on Sam’s wet pouf.

  “I don’t think she’s ugly.”

  “That’s not the point, is it? The point is that she’s known for being ugly. Letterman and SNL make fun of her constantly. How can someone think it’s a compliment to tell me I look like someone who’s notorious for being ugly?”

  “Maybe he finds her attractive.”

  “Irrelevant subjective opinion.” There’s no use arguing anyway, because Sam’s not even paying attention. Tonight Philip is taking her to a wine-tasting class. A wine-tasting class! How ridiculous is that? He obviously just wants to get her drunk and sleep with her.

  Fine. I’m jealous. Horribly green-contact-eyed jealous.

  “Do my eyes pop?” She bats them at me.

  “Snap and crackle.” What am I going to do tonight? It’s Saturday night. Sam’s on a date. Natalie’s on a date. Even Andrew’s on a date with Jessica the Sweet Valley Twin.

  I sit down on my couch, wrap myself in Sam’s afghan, and in desperation, call my sister Iris.

  “Omigod. You’re not going to believe what happened!”

  “What?”

  “Omigod. The guy who my best friend has obsessed about for seven years wants me, and I like him so much. What do I do?”

  Teenage angst. Sigh. The good old days. “Mandy likes him?”

  “No, Tamara.”

  “I thought Mandy was your best friend.”

  “Mandy used to be my best friend, but now she’s more like my second best friend. So what do I do?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “We were all at a party last night and every time Kyle came over to talk to me, Tamara kept shooting me looks so I couldn’t talk to him except when she went to the bathroom, and it’s really absurd because she’s liked ten guys in the past year and she can’t call dibs on every guy she’s ever liked! Don’t you agree?”

  I think I lost her at the Mandy and Tamara confusion. Not that she waits for a response. She rarely comes up for air.

  “He works part-time at Abercrombie, which proves he’s hot, because every guy who works there is hot…”

  After fifteen more minutes of listening to how hot Abercrombie-Kyle is, I am inexplicably tired. “Iris, I’m going to sleep.”

  “It’s ten o’clock! On a Saturday night!”

  Yeah, so? “Leave me alone. I’m tired.”

  “Don’t you have any plans?”

  Plans? What are plans? I decide to lie. “I did, but I decided to stay home instead. Are you going out tonight?” Beep. “Hold on, call waiting.”

  “Hello?”

  “Jackie, you’re my literary lifeline and you have sixty seconds to answer this question. The timer is starting now—” It’s Bev, my stepmother. I haven’t a clue what she’s talking about.

  “I’m your literary what?”

  “I’m playing Who Wants to be a Millionaire with your father and some friends and I don’t know the answer to this question. You’re my literary lifeline.”

  I have a question of my own: why are my parents having more fun than I am on a Saturday night? Final answer?

  “Hold on! Let me get off the other line.” I press the flash button. “Iris?”

  “Haven’t you been listening to anything I said? I’m going to a party at Angie’s, and both Tamara and Kyle are going to be there.”

  “Can we discuss this tomorrow?”

  “But the party is tonight!”

  “I have to go.”

  “Why?”

  “Bev needs something on the other line.”

  “Fine. Pick your other family over me.” She slams down the phone.

  I switch back to Bev. “Okay.”

  “Ready? Timer on.”

  “Am I on speakerphone? I hate speakerphones. Hi, Dad! Can you take me off?” There’s no way anyone else is going to hear me make an ass of myself.

  This whole lifeline thing is making me nervous. What if I get it wrong? What is Bev losing exactly? How much does she already have? I need to know what I’m up against here. Suddenly it grows very quiet. I’m off the speakerphone.

  “Who did T.S. Eliot dedicate The Wasteland to? Was it Andrew Marvell, Ezra Pound, his wife Jennifer Eliot, William Carlos Williams, or none of the above?”

  None of the above? Wait just a moment here; there’s never a “none of the above.” “Five choices?” I ask.

  “We try to make the home version slightly more challenging.”

  Okay, okay. Calm. Stay calm. I read this in my survey course, my modernism course, and my twentieth-century poetry course. I never really understand anything in it beyond the title. Okay. I know it’s not Marvell. The Wasteland was written at the beginning of the twentieth century. Wait a minute. I know this. “Marvell,” I say.

  “Are you sure?”

  No! No! Why did I say that? I knew it was wrong! Can I change it? Is it too late? Have I lost? “Not Marvell! I meant Ezra Pound.” I should have finished my master’s! Why didn’t I finish my master’s?

  “Okay. Ezra Pound. Are you sure?”

  “No. It could be William Carlos Williams. I’m not sure. I think it was Pound.”

  “What’s the percentage possibility of it being Pound?”

  “Fifty-one percent Pound, forty-five percent William Carlos Williams. Four percent his wife. Wait. I’m not sure if he was married.”

  “Then it could have been his wife if he was married?”

  Maybe. “I don’t know. I think it was Pound.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Good night.” And she hangs up.

  Good night? Good night! How can I possibly sleep when she didn’t tell me if I was right? Thankfully,
my bookshelf is now in full working order. The top shelf is filled with school anthologies, the second shelf with classics, the third shelf with commercial trade books, the fourth shelf with my nineteenth-and twentieth-century books, and the fifth shelf way at the bottom with all the romances. I organized each section by publisher—an extremely entertaining time-wasting activity that caused me to miss some pretty heavy-duty prime time TV, an extremely entertaining time-wasting activity that I should have saved for a night like tonight.

  I find a copy of The Wasteland in one of my Norton Anthologies. It is in fact dedicated to Ezra Pound.

  Thank you, God. And thank you, T.S. Maybe I should start calling myself F.J. in tribute.

  Never mind.

  My phone rings at exactly 1:07 a.m.

  “Hello?”

  “Good. I didn’t wake you.” It’s Iris.

  “You did wake me. I told you I was going to sleep three hours ago.”

  “I know, but this is an emergency.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Kyle left the party early and Michael gave me his number and said I should call him.”

  “Call Michael?”

  “No, call Kyle.”

  “Who’s Michael?”

  “Kyle’s friend.”

  “Did you call?”

  “Not yet. Should I?”

  “Won’t Tamara be mad?”

  “She won’t find out. I’ll just call and we’ll talk and hopefully, he’ll ask me out or something. All my makeup is still on.”

  “You’re going to go out now? It’s 1:08! Don’t you have a curfew?”

  “Yes, but if necessary, I can climb out the window. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  “So call.”

  “Okay. But I want you to stay on the phone. I’m going to call three-way.”

  “But what if I laugh?”

  “Don’t.”