A veteran gym class dodger, Fred knew a “women’s issues” lie when she heard one. “That’s it! I’ve made a decision!”
“About your band name?”
“You mean the Laundry Baskets?”
“The Laundry Baskets?”
“Forget that. No, about tonight. We’re having a party.”
Marjorie groaned and fell back against the headboard. “Fred, no. I mean, you should totally have a party. But count me out. I’m so tired and disgusting. I’m getting a pimple on my chin, and I’m small talk deficient. What would I tell people?”
“You’re not disgusting! At least you won’t be once you shower. Seriously. You should bathe. I can’t let you spend another night listening to Jackson Browne. While I approve of your choice of depressing music, the wallowing has to end. Anyway, my friends are all ‘between jobs.’”
“Yeah, but I don’t have some artistic passion either.”
“Let’s make one up—like you’re really into clowning.”
“Oh, my God.” Marjorie buried her face in a weathered throw pillow.
“C’mon! I want to celebrate you moving in!”
Marjorie was touched. “That’s so sweet of you, but please,” she pleaded, “I don’t feel celebratable.”
“Fine. It’ll be a laid-back get-together. We won’t celebrate you or anything else. We’ll watch C-SPAN and get bummed; we’ll watch Fox News and get really bummed.”
Marjorie mustered a weak smile. “Fine. What can I do to help?”
“Nothing. Elmo and I already stocked the van at some budget store in Chinatown. I hope you like lychee gummy candies and dried squid snacks!” Fred had never planned to take no for an answer. “Now go shower—notice the emphasis on that! Not to sound like your mom, or my mom, but you should go outside. Court Street is super-duper cute. Get a special trinket for your room to symbolize your fresh start! And, if it makes you feel better, get me some biscotti too. Just kidding. Sort of.”
“A trinket requires money.”
“Get something small!” Fred jumped up and skipped toward the door, then spun around to face Marjorie. “BTW, have you ever heard of ‘Saturn return’?”
“Is that the next Star Wars movie?”
“See, every twenty-nine point five years, Saturn comes back around to where it was when you were born.”
“Like the planet?”
“Yeah. It’s an astrological phenomenon that spurs a wake-up call in your late twenties and early thirties: Time to grow up and become someone new. Time to change, like it or not.”
Marjorie gave Fred an incredulous look. “So Saturn is causing my emotional collapse?”
“Rudolph Steiner also posited that every seven years, we change monumentally. And a lot of experts agree with that too.”
“Experts?”
“Whatever. It’s easy to be a cynic! All I’m saying is, whatever you believe, this is not an easy time. The more you fight the change, the larger it looms. Also you need to shower. It’s time.”
“You mentioned that. Thanks, Fred. You’re the best. I don’t deserve you.”
“Few do. At least there’s a light at the end of the tunnel: past its “best by” date Tsingtao to drink tonight! Okay. I’m off to practice with the Crystal Doorknobs.” She disappeared, then popped her head back into view, waiting for a reaction.
Marjorie crinkled her nose.
“Ugh. Back to the drawing board. Okay! Fred out!”
She exited stage right, humming Jackson Browne’s “Late for the Sky.” Marjorie thought the Wacky Sprites was a more fitting name for the band.
But she took her roommate’s suggestion. She showered and went wandering. Carroll Gardens turned out to be an Italian neighborhood: outside businesses with names like Sal’s, Caputo’s, and Monteleone’s, older gentlemen in wife-beater tank tops relaxed in folding chairs. Between those old standards were newer, buzzed-about restaurants: Frankies 457, Prime Meats, Buttermilk Channel.
She kept walking, through boutiquey Cobble Hill, grungy Downtown Brooklyn, and quaint Brooklyn Heights. It felt good to be in motion. On the way back, seduced by wafting lavender and eucalyptus, she stopped into a beauty product store called Shen in search of her trinket. From a display of LAFCO candles with fragrances named for spaces (Living Room, Boudoir, Sun Room, Office, Patio) she chose one called Greenhouse (Guest Room sounded apt but depressing, and her nook did overlook a garden). She bought Fred biscotti from a hundred-year-old bakery down the street too.
Back at the house, the pixie stood out front, holding a tomato behind her back and acting indignant before a shouting Roberta. To her surprise, Marjorie felt the muscles around her mouth tug upward into a smile.
16
For Marjorie, the party did not start well.
When she arrived downstairs, the festivities were in full swing: The living room was infested with scruffy-bearded guys with varying beer bellies. Girls of all shapes—pear, apple, lollipop, straw—in ill-fitting vintage dresses and high-waisted shorts looked rockabilly or hippie, depending on their makeup application. Someone somewhere was playing a kazoo.
Fred—sporting a Cleopatra-style velvet headdress that jingled when she walked—was already drunk. She spotted Marjorie and shrieked, “Here she is! Everyone, this is the one and only, fabulous Marjorie Plum!”
So much for remaining inconspicuous. Some revelers glanced over with disinterest, others nodded hello and returned to their conversations. One seemingly out-of-place guest—more J. Crew male model than indie rocker with parted blond hair above a pastel button-down—clapped like a seal.
Fred stumbled up and clutched her roommate’s arm.
“Who’s that?” Marjorie whispered, nodding toward the country club transplant.
“Oh. That’s just James. He’s my ex-boyfriend. Hi, James!”
James waved but remained standing in the corner.
Marjorie raised an eyebrow. “Okay. We’ll talk about that later.”
“Yes! Later! Because now you need alcohol and to meet my brother!”
“Oh, is there alcohol left? I thought maybe you drank it all.”
Fred ushered Marjorie to the liquor station—too bad LAFCO didn’t have a scent for that. The kitchen counter was spotted with droplets of cranberry cocktail, lime juice, and Coke. Bags of ice sulked in the sink. Fred grabbed a red plastic cup. “Pick your poison.”
“If I’m going to catch up with you, maybe a shot.”
Marjorie could sense her anxiety humming beneath the surface. Maybe alcohol would help.
“Shots! Perfect!”
Fred poured vodka for ten into each cup. She passed one to Marjorie, raised her own, and toasted: “To Saturn returning, then getting the hell out!”
“To Saturn! Your home planet.” Marjorie pounded the astringent liquor, ignoring the sharp burning in her chest. As she gasped, Fred gave her a funny look. “That was supposed to be several shots in one. We were going to toast again and again.” She hadn’t made a dent in hers. “Oh well! Come meet the bro.”
Two less bohemian-looking men stood talking, maybe arguing, by the fridge.
“This is Michael,” said Fred.
The shorter one—who evoked a teddy bear—flashed a disarming grin not unlike his sister’s and gave Marjorie’s hand a hearty shake. “The famous Marjorie Plum! So nice to finally meet you. I must say, you look surprisingly normal for a friend of Fred’s.”
“Nice to meet you too. And thanks, I think.”
“And this,” said Fred, “is Gus.” She gestured toward the taller, tanner, dark-haired man in a thin gray T-shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops. “Don’t let his crotchetiness fool you. Gus is the best.”
“At what, nobody knows.” He didn’t extend his hand.
“So how did you come to live here again?” asked Michael. “My sister says you’re not a musician.”
Nearby, some guy began strumming Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” on his acoustic guitar and singing along, soulfully.
&nbs
p; “Oh, Christ. That guy,” said Gus.
“You know him?” asked Fred.
“I’ve known hundreds of him,” he grunted. “I’m going outside for incense-free air. What’s next? ‘The Joker’? Why haven’t music tastes changed since I was in college? Aren’t kids supposed to have Bieber fever or something?”
Gus pushed through the crowd and disappeared.
“Don’t mind him,” said Michael. “He’s not the most tolerant gentleman. Hating everything and everyone is part of his charm.”
Marjorie raised an eyebrow. “That’s one word for it.”
“So, you were about to tell me how you landed at Casa de la Hermana Loca.”
By now, Fred had strayed and was engaged in a meaningful debate about guitar picks with a drummer, who couldn’t have cared less but thought she was cute. Marjorie could feel panic rising, despite Michael’s good intentions. She debated claiming to be “between jobs” or calling herself an “entrepreneur.” She couldn’t bring herself to be honest.
“Are you okay?” Michael asked. “You’re a little pale.”
“You know, I didn’t really eat today. Maybe the vodka was ill-advised.”
“Ah, the danger of living with my sister, who subsists mostly on fairy dust. I think there are brownies over there, near the squid thingies.” He pointed to the far end of the counter, where a silver tin did in fact contain baked goods, cut into rough sections with a butter knife.
“I should probably go grab one.” She added, “Be right back!” They both knew she would not return. Not even the most sincere revelers follow through on that promise, such is the sad and lovely impermanence of parties.
Michael moved on quickly. A round girl with jet-colored hair and nails ran up and embraced him; he seemed to know her well enough to overlook her bleeding mermaid neck tattoo.
Meanwhile, mostly for show, Marjorie took a couple brownies in a napkin and sat at the bottom of the stairs, taking deep breaths. The alcohol—normally calming—was turning on her. Her pounding heart drew her attention to the myriad valves and arteries that labored to pump blood through her body. The more she tried to ignore it, the more the system in her chest seemed doomed to fail, and the more sure she became that she was about to become a cautionary tale—the twenty-eight-year-old girl who collapsed at a Brooklyn house party. The cause would be that she was a loser, the way people die from broken hearts. At her memorial service, the rabbi would proclaim, “Marjorie didn’t accomplish much in life, but she had some nice pairs of boots from sample sales. Ameeeeen! L’Shana Tova.”
Maybe food would help. She stuffed the brownie into her mouth; they stuck in her throat. But she didn’t trust herself to fill a cup with water at the sink and return to her seat without incident.
Two girls in matching Daisy Duke jean shorts and stacked rings leaned against the stairwell’s railing, oblivious of Marjorie’s state.
“Most millennials are so entitled,” said the taller one. “Like, sure my parents pay my rent, but I also have to work.”
“You have an unpaid internship, one morning a week.”
Marjorie wheezed, catching the duo’s attention. They exchanged a look: Let’s go find some gluten-free beer.
Other snippets of conversation floated around her like smoke.
Brooklyn is so not the new Manhattan. Manhattan is the old Brooklyn.
Don’t start a blog. Words are so over.
The husband is hot, but it’s like he has no genitals at all—smooth like a Ken doll. She gives him permission to pee.
The beating of Marjorie’s heart intensified. Perhaps sugar and chocolate, high in caffeine, were not the best cures. Was this the precursor to an epileptic seizure or, worse, an aneurysm? Who would help her if she collapsed? Not Guitar Boy, whose sensitivity was for show. Maybe one of the girls smoking a joint by the sticker-covered fiddle case, if they could muster the energy.
A joint! Marjorie suddenly realized: They were pot brownies. True panic set in. She had to get outside! She stumbled toward the front door, capsizing some disembodied plastic cups, then burst onto the landing, as a group of female revelers arrived. One—nerd glasses, Sleater-Kinney tank, sensible face—caught her before she tripped down the stairs.
“Easy there, girl. Gotta take the steps slowly in heels.”
Marjorie managed a nod before rushing downstairs and busting out into the night. She leaned against the building’s façade and gulped fresh air like she’d escaped drowning.
Only after a full minute did she notice Michael’s friend sitting on the concrete steps, peering up at her in amusement.
“You okay there?” he asked.
“I’ve been better.”
“What’s up?”
“I feel dizzy.”
A look of concern replaced his smirk. There was authority in his voice: “Sit down.”
She did as instructed, taking a wobbly seat beside him.
“That better?”
“A little maybe. It’s stuffy in there.”
“Do you need to put your head between your legs?”
“I don’t know. Are you a doctor?”
“No. But people do that.”
Marjorie nodded. “You know, that guitar guy did play ‘The Joker’ after you left.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
She took a deep breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Maybe it has something to do with the trough of vodka you pounded.”
“You saw that?”
“I was almost impressed.”
“Really? And Michael said you’re not nice…”
“Oh, did he?” Gus smiled.
“He said, ‘My friend Russ is not the most tolerant gentleman.’”
“I don’t think he said that.”
“He did!” she said indignantly.
“I doubt it, since my name is Gus.”
“Same difference.” They were silent for a moment. Maybe she was drunker than she thought. “You want to know the real problem, Russ?”
“Russ might. I’m Gus.”
“It’s twofold.”
“Is it now?” Gus grinned. The girl was at least entertaining and, for a drunken mess, okay to look at. “It’s been awhile since I heard something twofold.”
“First, I’m a train wreck. I have no job, no prospects, no money. My parents are turning my bedroom into a bedroom.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“I know! That’s why I didn’t want Fred to celebrate me with this party!”
“Hard to stop Hurricane Fred once she has an idea.”
“You’ve known her long?”
He nodded. “Michael and I are best friends from college.”
“That’s nice. I remember when I had friends.”
“Well, that’s just pathetic. Okay, so what’s two?”
“Right! Twofold!” She lowered her voice to a whisper: “I ate two brownies. And now I’m freaking out.”
Gus looked up to the heavens, as there was no one else with whom to mock her. “You’re freaking out about eating brownies?”
“Yes!” she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Marjorie. That’s your name, right? Marjorie?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have an eating disorder?”
“What? What are you—oh! No. The brownies are magic. They’re, you know, pot brownies,” she whispered. “And now I’m all paranoid.”
“They’re not pot brownies.”
“Yes. They are.”
“The nice Italian woman downstairs made them.”
“Roberta?”
“Yes, Roberta. Those brownies are drug-free, clean and sober. No rehab for them. You, on the other hand…”
Marjorie exhaled softly. “Oh, thank the Lord. But then why am I freaking out?”
Gus sighed. “Well, I don’t know you, but considering that you don’t look like a friend of Fred’s because there’s no spike through your tongue, I’m going to gu
ess that you’re out of your element.”
“That’s true! I am!”
“And proximity to all that natural deodorant in there probably didn’t help.”
“That was a lot of peace and love and unplugged music in there.”
“Those people are working really hard to seem laid-back.” He pointed his thumb back toward the apartment, as if hitching a ride to somewhere less Kumbaya. “Maybe the universe had to compensate by giving you angst.”
Marjorie had spent her life pretending to be unflappable, especially with men. But something about this guy’s frankness was pushing her toward cracking, her soft-boiled sanity leaking out like so much yolk.
“It’s a good point, but that’s not it. The thing is, Russ, I peaked.”
“You peeked at what?”
“No! I peaked. Like hit the high note. Made my best move. It’s downhill for me. I’m worse than those washed-up football players in movies with the potbellies and the bald spots—Hey, why are those guys always bald? Do you think football causes baldness? They do want to instate those helmet rules.”
“I don’t think that’s about hair loss.”
Marjorie considered that, then dismissed it. “Anyway, I’m worse than them because I didn’t even have a BIG game to relive or glory days. What did I do, Russ? Smoked cigarettes by the park! Skipped lines at clubs!”
“Gus.”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Did you play football, Russ?”
“Basketball.”
“Yeah. You’re tall. Has anyone ever told you that?”
“It’s been mentioned once or twice.”
She narrowed her eyes, as if seeing him for the first time. “Are you from the Midwest? People are tall there.”
“I’m from Philly.”
“So sort of.”
He groaned. “I feel like maybe I’m going to regret asking this, but what happened? You seem, current state aside, like a relatively normal person.”
“Don’t I?” she asked. “Don’t I?”
“Are you talking to me or—?”
“You’re looking at a washed-up prom queen, metaphorically, I mean. I might as well be living in an old trailer, wearing a housedress. I didn’t get knocked up in a ’57 Chevy, but it’s like that! And I’ve gone nowhere since then.”
Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel Page 10
