Love from Amanda to Zoey

by Ian Mark

  Wait. I realize it can’t be Brian’s wedding. He’d never get married. He always told me that. “Why limit myself?” he’d say. I realize in this instance that it was fear, not bravado, that made him say that. A second later the thought is gone, it slips between my fingers without a sound. So whose wedding am I floating at? Because I am floating, I notice. I am above all the other guests. An invisible hand, like Adam Smith prophesied, delivers me to the stage. It is my wedding, I surmise. A unicorn runs past. I giggle. Then I start to freak out. Who am I marrying? Music starts playing. It’s “Black Magic Woman” by Santana. I never got why they are called Santana when he doesn’t even sing. I turn, and a woman is walking down the aisle. Is this my wife? She is so beautiful. She turns and sits down. I reach for my lighter and a cigarette and pull out a carton of silly string. My hands start to melt. A woman wearing a wedding dress and a veil walks down the aisle. A Mexican Mariachi band starts playing. All of the band members have facial hair that goes from ear to ear, but skips the chin and goes over the mouth instead. “Here comes the bride,” I sing. “Who will she be?”

  “Zach?” Erica’s voice startled me. I awoke with my face still in her nether regions. Never woken up in one of these before, drunken me thought.

  “Well, not for a long time anyway.” I said.

  “What?”

  “Huh?”

  “Are you too drunk for this?”

  “Of cour not. Where a condom?” I kiss my way back up to her lips. I was naked. Huh. That was new. I saw a condom and put it on. At first I tried the wrong way, but I got it eventually.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”

  “How old are you?”

  “What? I’m 21.”

  “Hmmm. So you are a stage one. I think I am a stage one still as well. But maybe not.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Looking for love in all the wrong places.” My singing was off-key. Strange, I was normally a good singer.

  “Look, this was a mistake. We are too drunk for this. I should go.”

  “Okly dokles. Look both ways before you cross the street, Erica. You little cutie you.” Erica stands up and gets dressed. I stare at her left butt cheek. Why does such a shape arouse me? It causes a certain set of neurons to fire, which causes other circuits of neurons to fire, which eventually sends a signal down to increase blood flow. Funny, the way evolution prepared me to attempt to drunkenly hook up with a stranger in a two-bedroom brownstone in Williamsburg. Erica put on her necklace.

  “I’m going to leave now, okay?” She stood in the doorway.

  “I think I’m at the wrong party…” I moaned. She left. I passed out.

  We are off on our honeymoon. Wait, what about the wedding? I can’t see her face. Every time I turn towards her, she is looking away. She has dirty blond hair and a mole on the left side of her neck. That’s all I know. She doesn’t do it on purpose. I look at her and she is looking out at the water. I look at her and she looks for a waiter to order. I look at her and she dives into the pool.

  We live out our life. I never see her face. We raise two beautiful children and I never see their faces either. All of this happens so fast. Then, I am somewhere different. The smell of freshly mown grass overwhelms me. I am lying in a graveyard. I get up. I see a tombstone. “Alex Foster, born 1924, died 1938.” A part of me cries for this forgotten stranger, who lived fourteen years and will never think again. The amount of energy that went into creating him is overwhelming. And it was all for nothing. He never left stage one. But why am I here? I see a mass of people and walk over. My feet don’t touch the ground.

  She is dead. She lies in the coffin. I beg for them to open it, to let me see her face once. They think I mean one last time, I mean for the first time, let me see the woman I married. My children hold me back. I look at them and they turn to their wives. Their identical, cookie cutter wives with long brown hair and wonderful bosoms. Each has a single tear run down their cheek. I scream and yell and cry and they take me away.

  Chapter 4

  I woke up and looked at my phone. 4:27. I didn’t know where I was. The smell of puke filled my nostrils. The recognition it was mine sent me running to the bathroom. I didn’t make. Fuck it, this isn’t my apartment. I threw up on the floor. I lay down and curled up into a ball. I’m never drinking again. I just wanted to pass out and wake up the next morning. The room was spinning. I squeezed my eyes shut. I put my hands over my eyes. I moaned. “Fuuuuck.” I fell back asleep. I didn’t dream, for once.

  I was woken by a surfer-looking dude the next morning. He had spiky blond hair and a long face. He was frowning at me as he shook me awake with his right hand on my right shoulder.

  “Who are you, man?”

  An excellent question, though I believed he meant it in a more of a logistical sense than an existential one. I, however, was still a little buzzed from the night before.

  “Who are any of us?” I sat up and found I was clutching a pillow. It was puke colored with puke colored stains.

  “Oh, great man. C’mon. What’s your name?” Spiky was annoyed. I wasn’t feeling too great myself.

  “Listen, brah, I really better be going.” A little man had started to pound his hands against the inside of my skull.

  “Alright asshole, I was just going to kick you out. You could at least give me some money to pay to clean all this shit.” Now he was getting aggressive. Jeez, some people. I sighed. He had a point, no matter how much of a douchebag he was being about it. The little man had switched to some sharp object, it felt more like a fork than a knife, that he was digging into my temple.

  “Fine.” His deep v was both too deep and too tight. I could see his nipples.

  “Your shirt is pretty tight.” I stood up and took out my wallet.

  “Oh, is it, stranger I found passed out in my bedroom?” I tossed a twenty on the bed.

  “I’ll be going now.” I moved past him and he shouldered me a little bit. I would have retaliated, but he got a little puke on him from my shirt, which he hadn’t noticed. Karma’s a bitch, I thought. I tapped my pockets to make sure I had my phone, wallet, and keys. I did. I nodded at Spiky, who glowered at me. The little man had recruited his children, who were stomping around on the edges of my brain.

  Outside, I noticed that the horrible smell of the apartment had followed me. Intuitively, I figured it was actually me that smelled, specifically the puke covering all my clothes. I didn’t want to ride the subway back looking like a homeless man, so I called Louie. I figured he must live nearby, as I was supposed to be there the night before.

  “What’s up, man? Where were you last night?”

  “Sorry man, we were so high we went to the wrong party.”

  “Oh, that’s crazy.” I turned left and hoped I was walking in the right direction.

  “Yeah, I had a pretty crazy night. I got mad cross-faded and passed out in some surfer-dude’s bedroom.”

  “That sucks man. You should have been here.”

  “Yeah. Listen man, I’m a mess. Can I swing by and shower before I go back uptown?”

  “Oh, ah, sure. You know where I live? Gonna find me this time?”

  I chuckled. So did the little man, which made my head hurt. He gave me directions. I was pretty close. He lived in a brownstone just a few blocks away. I got there in no time. I pressed the buzzer. It was obvious he had just moved in, the line where his name was written had another name that was crossed out. It said, “Anderson Reynolds. 5b.” Most of the other apartments were vacant. Or at least they didn’t have names listed.

  Louie buzzed me up. The place was a complete mess. Boxes were strewn everywhere, the kitchen counter was covered with empty bottles, the sight of which caused my stomach to lurch, and there was a faint aroma of puke. Oh no, wait, that was still me. Louie came forward to greet me, then stopped short at the sight of me. There was a full-length mirror lying against a pile of boxes marked “Clothes and shit.” I looked, and regretted it. My shirt, once whi
te, was a pinkish-orange in spots and a brownish-yellow in others. My jeans were torn at each knee, and they seemed darker in spots jeans shouldn’t be darker.

  “Here.” Louie had grabbed a trash bag and offered it to me. “Why don’t you just throw those out? You can wear some of my clothes.”

  “Can I?” Louie was a good five or six inches shorter than me, and probably twenty or thirty pounds heavier. I regretted the remark as soon as I said it. Louie’s face darkened. I could see the gears turning as he tried to decide how to interpret my response. I did my best to arrange my face into what I hoped was “grateful.” Apparently I was successful, because he cracked a smile.

  “Of course man, I’ll always help out an old Six-Easter.” He was referring to the floor we had all lived on our Sophomore year. Sometimes it seemed like I didn’t have any friends that didn’t go to NYU. I thanked him profusely and stripped. I dumped the shirt and the jeans in the bag.

  “Bathroom’s that way.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Here, you can use…” he looked around, walked over to the mirror, and grabbed an Anakin Skywalker towel from the boxes marked “Clothes and shit.” He tossed me the towel. I caught it and slung it over my shoulder. Louie eyed my dollar-sign boxers. I walked away to the bathroom.

  As the water washed over me, I examined the blue-green tiles beneath my feet and felt sober enough to reflect on the last night. In all likelihood, I figured, I had simply added another member to my Never Contact Contacts list. Basically, anytime I got too drunk and hooked up with some girl but didn’t sleep with her, I would normally wake up the next day to find she had given me her number in the hopes I would call her and we would date. I have never ever contacted one of these girls. I just wouldn’t know what to say. “Hi, we made out last night and I’m pretty sure your name is Francine, want to come over and fuck tonight?”

  I examined Louie’s shampoo selection, of which there were a surprising number of them. I just had shampoo and conditioner, but Louie had all different scents and effects. I selected Aquatic Breeze and sudsed up my hair. It was getting a little long. I was approaching the point of no return, where I’d have to cut it or invest in a comb.

  Louie was waiting for me when I got out of the shower. He had picked out some sweatpants and his stretchiest t-shirt for me to wear. I dried my hair.

  “I don’t have any food, but we could go to a diner or something if you want.”

  “Nah, I just want to get back and lie down.” I dropped the towel and put on the pants.

  “Oh, well. It would be good to catch up sometime, it’s been a while.” Louie picked up the towel. I felt bad.

  “You don’t have to pick up after me, I was just leaving it there for a second.”

  “It’s totally fine man. You’re my guest.” I put on the shirt. It was loose in the chest but did not quite reach my waist. I pulled the cord on the sweatpants as far as I could. They almost reached my ankles.

  “Well. Thanks. And we should catch up sometime. Just not when I’m insanely hungover.” I grabbed my phone and wallet and keys and slipped them into the pockets of the sweatpants. I checked my phone. One missed call.

  “What are you doing tonight?”

  “Huh? Uh, I don’t know yet.” I looked up.

  “Well me and Kevin were going to pick up some brownies. From California. If you wanna join us you could contribute right now…”

  Hmmm. Edibles. Well, they would keep me from drinking. I’d be too fucked up to want alcohol. “Yeah, that sounds good.” I threw him a twenty. “When did you see Kevin?”

  “He came to the party last night. Said you hooked up with some hot girl.” He handed me a ten back. Cool. Cheap edibles. My favorite kind.

  “Yeah, I guess I did.” I headed for the door, bracing myself for the cold walk to the subway. “Text me tonight.”

  “Peace bro.”

  “Goodbye Louie.”

  I took out my phone and saw that I had never checked the missed call. My heart skipped a beat. It was Amanda. I wanted to call her, but I was at the subway station. I texted her: “Bout to b on the subway. Wats up?” I pressed send and shook my head sorry to the homeless man sitting on the stairs. He nodded in response and wrapped his brown blankets tighter around himself. I shivered.

  When I got off the train I had a text from Amanda asking me to call her when I could. So I did. It’s… interesting how easily I follow her directions. She asked to meet me for lunch tomorrow. She didn’t sound happy or sad. I wasn’t sure how I should feel either. Lunch certainly isn’t a “I want to get back together and spend all night having make-up sex” kind of event, but it’s also not a “please don’t be at your place at this time so I can get my stuff” thing either.

  * * *

  Louie texted me around 9 telling me to come over. I had forgotten about the edibles. I was still recovering from the night before, drinking cup after cup of water and sitting absentmindedly in front of the TV. But I did want to see him, to reminisce. So I put on my most comfortable jeans and a purple polo I had recently bought that was the softest thing I had ever worn. I was about to leave when I remembered I had a stress ball I had gotten at some work event a few weeks back. I dug around under a pile of dirty clothes I had lying next to my bed for the sweatshirt I had worn to that event. I hadn’t worn it since because I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror there, and before my brain recognized me, it said, that is an ugly sweatshirt. I’ve always found it hard to accurately appraise my looks. Context clues have told me I’m good-looking, but I don’t see it. I look in the mirror and all I see are flaws. My nose is crooked, my skin is blemished and pale, and if you look closely you can see the tiny hairs between my eyebrows form a unibrow. I’ve found the only time I can accurately tell how good I look is when I see myself in a mirror when I’m not expecting to, and my subconscious evaluates me just like it would any other person, with none of the esteem-protectors it has built-in when I look in a mirror. And I normally like what I see. But this sweatshirt made me look creepy.

  I found the sweatshirt under a neon t-shirt that a coworker gave me and that I had worn once so that he wouldn’t think I didn’t like it. The stress ball was in the pocket. I transferred it to my back pocket. I also grabbed a bag of low-calorie rice cakes for when I got the munchies. I headed out the door and reversed the path I took that morning. The sky was a hazy blue. It never really got black here. Too many lights. I read a study once that said if you judged city limits by luminance, the borders of New York City stretch from D.C to Boston. So I guess I didn’t really move away when I went to college, I just moved to a different part of the city. I bounced the ball once on the ground and regretted it. I considered washing my hands. Then I decided I’m 24 years old and I’m not going to be intimidated by the filthiness of these streets. I had lived here for six years. A siren went off in the distance and I jumped. A little black boy walking past with his mother laughed and pointed at me. I glared at him and his faux Timberlands clomping on the sidewalk.

  “Excuse me.” My words stopped the woman in her tracks. She eyed me suspiciously, then softened. There was that effect. I smiled at her. The boy frowned.

  “Yes?”

  “You wouldn’t happen to have any raisins, would you?” I’m normally staunchly against pick-up lines. But in situations like this I don’t have much of a choice. I can’t just strike up a normal conversation like we’re at a bar. So when I do have to use a line, I go corny. And I mean really, really corny.

  “No…” She’s intrigued, but also put off. I noted the hastily applied makeup, the loose sweatshirt and the functional flats on her feet. She was a single mom. She didn’t have time to worry about what men out on the streets think of her. But she was also… voluptuous. She hadn’t walked away yet. It’s times like these where I think I must be attractive to women. If I was ugly, they would leave when I started acting weird, instead of finding it cute or even endearing.

  “How about a date, then?” The wheels turned in her head. I watc
hed with a bright smile. Junior scowled at me. She got it. She laughed, way more than the pun deserved. I won.

  “Okay, well, that’s unique. Sure, I guess. Let me give you my number.” My phone was already out. She told me the number and I faithfully tapped it in. I looked at Junior, he had crossed the arms of his mini peacoat and was watching the interaction with disgust.

  “And your name?”

  “Grace.”

  * * *

  I buzzed up to Louie’s unsure of what the scene would be. I hadn’t done edibles in a while, and I hadn’t done edibles with Louie in even longer. Kevin was already there. He’d dressed down, for once. His Saturday attire still involved a button-down, and today’s version was a sleek black with white buttons, but he was wearing jeans and the button-down was untucked.

  “The fuck are those shoes, man?” I said. He was defensive. Maybe this was why he always wore loafers.

  “They’re my new vans. You like ‘em?” He flexed each ankle to show off his new shoes-- a pair of bright pink canvas sneakers that screamed Flamboyant Gay Man.

  “I love ‘em. Where can I get a pair?” He thought I was being sarcastic, but I supported anything that made him look like more of an asshole. I found it amusing.

  “Louie went out to pick up, he’ll be back in a bit.” Kevin walked into the kitchen and I followed him.

  “Cool.” I opened the refrigerator.

  “When’s the last time you ate?” Kevin looked at me, serious.

  “A few hours ago, why?” I closed the fridge and grabbed an apple from the handmade fruit basket on the granite counter next to the silver oven-grill combo.