“If that’s one of my eggs, consider yourself dead,” Morgan said. She pushed past me and took an egg carton from the refrigerator. Her name had been boldly written on it with a black Sharpie. She opened it and started counting her eggs. Each one had an M scrawled on its shell.
“I didn’t use your eggs,” I stated. “The eggshell is in the trash can. Check it, if you don’t believe me.” She didn’t. She put her eggs back without saying a word, then pushed by me again on her way to her room. Before she left the kitchen, I said, “Why are you such a bitch?”
“Excuse me?” she said, slowly turning around.
“I—I mean…” I stuttered. I’d pushed my luck. “You’re always accusing us of using your stuff or taking your food. You must’ve had shitty roommates in the past, or something.”
“You’ve been out of work for a month, Nick. Where did you get the money to buy that egg, if it’s yours? Or any of the other food you’ve been eating, for that matter?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Do you have money saved? Are your parents giving you cash? Maybe your uncle, or one of his rich friends? It’s the middle of April. Rent’s due in a couple of weeks, Nick. I think I have a right to know if you’re going to be able to pay your share.”
“I will,” I insisted. Even though I’d finally received my last paycheck from I Dream of Cleanie in the mail, I wasn’t too sure. If I ate store-brand spaghetti and sugar wafers for the rest of the month, I figured I’d save enough of it to cover rent.
“Right,” Morgan said. She sounded doubtful, as if she could read my mind. “If stealing my food is part of your budget, you can nix that plan right now. I’ve got a job. I’ve got responsibilities. You’re not one of them.”
“Fine,” I said. “Who asked you?”
“You did,” she said. “I left my last situation because my roommates were freeloaders. Your name is on the lease here, not mine. I can move out just as quickly as I moved in.”
I didn’t have anything to say to that, because I was suddenly envisioning my rent increasing. As annoying as Morgan could be, I couldn’t afford to lose her as a roommate. I flipped my egg with a spatula and repeated, “Fine.”
After she closed the bedroom door, Kendra came out of the bathroom in her waitress uniform and whispered, “It’s the middle of a weekday. What’s she doing here?”
“She heard me break open one of her eggs from her office in Midtown and flew up on her broom to make me pay,” I guessed.
“Don’t use her food,” Kendra insisted. “It’s not worth the pain. I told you, my food is your food. Help yourself.”
I rolled my eyes. Kendra’s current rations were a loaf of moldy bread, an unopened can of baking powder, and a Diet Coke. She ate at the restaurant, where the staff was given a free meal at the beginning and end of their shift. When she could be bothered to remember, sometimes she’d bring home a bag of leftovers from work.
I pointedly took out her Diet Coke and said, “Here’s to your health.”
Kendra cringed and said, “That’s not mine. It was here when we moved in.”
“At least it’s not mine,” Morgan said, coming out of their room. “For once.”
“What are you doing here?” Kendra asked her. When she saw Morgan’s expression, Kendra added, “I mean, uh, did you come home for lunch?”
“I forgot something I need for work,” Morgan answered. She nodded at me and added, “You should be asking him why he’s home, and not out looking for a job.”
“If she did,” I said, “I’d tell her that I intend to do just that after I eat this delicious egg.”
“My delicious egg,” Morgan said.
“Guys, please,” Kendra said, holding her hands over her ears.
“What about you? You can’t expect him to cover your rent again, since he’s out of work. You’ll have enough for rent, right?”
Kendra put her hands down and said, “What?”
“Leave her alone,” I said. “You act like you’re our mother, or something.”
“No. I act like the only one around here with a real job.”
“That’s not fair. Kendra has two jobs and manages to go to school. Roberto has a real job.”
“I can’t stand listening to you two argue,” Kendra said. “I’m out of here.”
“Speaking of Roberto,” Morgan said, “is he sick?”
“What?” Kendra said, shutting the door and returning to the kitchen.
“He seems fine to me,” I said.
“Now that you mention it, he’s been looking really tired,” Kendra said.
“He works hard,” I said, “and he sometimes looks after his brothers while his mother’s at work.”
“He looks like he’s lost weight,” Kendra said. “Maybe he’s bulimic. I never see him eat.”
“Bulimics eat and hurl,” Morgan said. “Anorexics don’t eat.”
“I’ve seen him eat,” I declared. “A lot. He never pukes. And he’s not losing weight.”
“I once knew a girl who was anorexic,” Kendra said. We waited for more, but after a long pause, she said, “What do you think is wrong with him?”
“Nothing!” I exclaimed. “He’s fine.”
“Thank you, Dr. Dunhill,” Morgan said. “That was a brilliant diagnosis.”
“He always takes care of himself,” I said, thinking about when Roberto took me to see Mark. “He’s got a doctor.”
“Oh?” Morgan and Kendra both said.
“Maybe he’s got Lou Ferrigno’s disease,” Kendra guessed.
I snorted and Morgan said, “Yeah, that’s it. He’s going to get mad and turn into the Hulk. Lou Gehrig’s disease, you idiot.”
“What is Lou Gehrig’s disease?” Kendra asked. I shrugged. Morgan looked at the floor. “I see. Anyway, we shouldn’t be talking about Roberto behind his back.”
“Thank you,” I pointedly said to her. “Besides, it’s not like Morgan really cares about Roberto. She’s probably just worried he’ll kick it and stiff her with the rent.”
“I think he’s positive,” Morgan stated.
Kendra and I were quiet and stared at Morgan as if she’d just announced that she was leaving to fill Mother Teresa’s vacant sandals.
“But he’s not gay,” Kendra said. She turned to me and asked, “Is he?”
“You don’t have to be gay to contract HIV, you ninny,” Morgan said.
“I know that!”
“He’s not,” I said.
“Gay? Or positive?” Kendra asked.
“Neither. Both,” I said, even though I couldn’t be sure. I didn’t want to think about either scenario. “You can be a real bitch, Morgan. Would it matter to you if he was positive? Or if I was?”
“It’s not like I’m wishing anything bad on him. People with HIV are still discriminated against. The world can be a sucky place. I’m concerned. That’s all.”
I didn’t buy it.
“Don’t you have to get back to work?” I asked. “Thanks for stopping by and spreading sunshine on our day.”
Morgan shook her head and quietly left. As I finished my egg, Kendra said, “I don’t think he’s positive. Roberto looks fine to me. A little tired, maybe, but who isn’t? He’s still hot. He’s always flirting with me. I think it’s cute. Don’t you?”
I wanted the conversation to end, so I just nodded and quietly washed my plate. Kendra turned to leave, then jumped back when the apartment door opened. Morgan stuck her head back in and said, “Hey. That’s my plate you’re using. You’d better…”
Her tirade trailed away when I held up the dripping plate, then did my best to rub away the plate’s pattern with a dish towel. I grunted a few times to make it seem like I was using Herculean strength to make her plate shine. I asked, “Anything else I can do for you?”
She ignored me and said to Kendra, “Come on. We’ll share a cab downtown.”
As the sun was setting, I sat outside on our fire escape with Roberto and told him about Morgan’s egg tirade. He laughed in all the right pl
aces and said, “Wasn’t it always eggs that dragons guarded in medieval times?”
“I thought it was treasure.”
“Maybe eggs are all she has left.”
I disagreed. If Morgan left, our apartment would be empty again. She was the one with all the furniture, the appliances in the kitchen, the television and DVD player, and the good stereo in the living room. We used her things all the time, because we had nothing. I knew the main reason she annoyed me so much was that she seemed so in control of her life. I always felt like there was something inside me that was defective. Maybe the decision-making part of my brain. I was a factory reject. Any day now, someone was going to knock on our door and inform me that I was being recalled.
“Roberto!” someone yelled from below. “Open up!”
“Why can’t he use the buzzer,” Roberto asked while crawling through the window, “like a normal person?”
A few minutes later, Roberto’s brother JC was in our apartment. I watched through the window as they playfully smacked each other around. JC—Juan Carlos—was an even beefier version of Roberto. He was five years older, solid, and almost menacing looking. Except when he smiled; his dimples made him look like an angel on steroids.
After a few minutes, I crawled back into the apartment. JC pointed at me and said, “You still hanging out with this piece of trash?”
“He keeps following me around,” Roberto said. He shrugged, as if to say, What are you gonna do?
Suddenly I was being crushed by JC’s arms and lifted off the floor. I gasped for breath, and all I could smell was cigarettes, sweat, and cheap cologne. None of which smelled bad on JC. He put me down, pushed me away, and said, “Punk.”
“Asshole,” I muttered.
Roberto and JC locked eyes and both said, “Ooh, snap!”
JC threw his jacket on a chair, looked around, and said, “This place isn’t half as bad as I thought it would be.”
“It’s worse, right?” Roberto said, grinning.
“You got that right. Your mom would go apeshit if she saw this place.”
“At least I don’t still live with her,” Roberto said.
In a flash, they were rolling on the floor. I sat on the windowsill and watched them wrestle. I wondered how much money I could make if I videotaped them. If only Morgan had a camera. When JC put Roberto in a headlock, I said, “If you guys need it, I’m sure I have some lube.”
JC pushed Roberto away. They both lay on the floor panting for a few minutes. JC reached into his jacket, pulled out a folded-up brown paper bag, and tossed it to Roberto. It hit him in the middle of the chest. Roberto’s eyes lit up. He opened the bag, peered inside, and grinned.
“My brother’s the bomb, yo,” he said to me. “Didn’t I tell you?”
I’d never been one of JC’s biggest fans. He was pigheaded, overly macho, and sometimes rude. But he always scored the best weed in the city. From what I’d heard, most cops did. We passed around a tightly rolled joint, and JC filled Roberto in on their youngest brother’s latest exploits at school. I tuned them out and followed the cracks in the ceiling with my eyes. They formed a spider-web around a dusty glass light fixture, which looked on the verge of giving in to gravity. Maybe one day it would fall on Morgan’s head.
“What are you giggling at?” Roberto asked me.
“Nothing,” I said. I hadn’t realized I was laughing.
JC pointed at me and said, “This kid’s crazy. One day, he’s gonna snap.”
I snapped my fingers and flipped him the bird. We all started laughing, until we heard the apartment door open. Kendra walked into the room and said, “Why does it smell like my grandmother’s house in here?”
“It’s him,” I said, gesturing to JC.
“Uh-oh,” JC said. “Mom’s home.”
“Your brother?” Kendra asked. Roberto nodded. She turned to JC and said, “Nice to meet you.”
JC stood and took Kendra’s hand in his meaty paws. In a low voice, he said, “Hello.”
“Hey, Kendra, I forgot to tell you about something earlier,” I said and dragged her into the kitchen.
“What?” she asked, pulling her hair behind her ears.
I looked around the room, then took a jar of mayo from the refrigerator. “Is this yours?”
“No.” She pointed to the label. Hellman’s was crossed out and replaced by Morgan’s. “Are you stoned?”
“Why? What have you heard?”
“I don’t care if you are,” she said. She pulled me into the bathroom and shut the door. “I’ve got a problem.”
“Oh God. Is this a female thing? Why do women feel compelled to tell their gay friends everything that happens down there?”
She blushed and stammered, “Oh. I guess you’re right. You probably don’t want to—I’m sorry.”
I sighed. “Go on. What is it? Does it burn when you pee?” Kendra looked as though I’d just slapped a scarlet P on her crotch. “Really? Gosh,” I said. “I was just kidding.”
“Believe me, it’s not that funny,” she whispered.
“Does Morgan have any cranberry juice? Isn’t that supposed to help?”
Kendra folded her arms and said, “Right, Nick. It burns when I pee, so I’ll drink something that’s going to make me pee even more.”
“I don’t know! I’m not a doctor!” I shrieked.
“Shut up!” she hissed. “I don’t want the whole building to know. This is so embarrassing. What am I going to do? I don’t have insurance. I can’t afford to see a doctor. I don’t even know if I can pay rent. Again. I still owe you for last time.”
“It’s okay,” I mumbled. Suddenly I didn’t feel as bad about my life as I had earlier. “My final paycheck from I Dream of Cleanie arrived in the mail the other day. I’ll float you a loan until you get paid again.”
A knock on the door made us both jump. I nearly fell off the toilet seat. Kendra cautiously opened the door. Roberto’s hand came into the room, holding a slip of paper. As Kendra took the note, I heard Roberto say, “They’re open for another hour. It’s not far, but if you get a cab, you’ll get there in plenty of time for someone to see you.”
“Okay,” Kendra mumbled. Roberto’s hand popped into the room again, this time offering a twenty-dollar bill and a condom. Kendra stuffed them both into her pocket and weakly said, “Thanks.”
“I’ll go with you,” I offered.
Halfway down the stairs, I realized that I’d forgotten my wallet. I told Kendra I’d meet her on the corner and ran back for it. Roberto and JC were watching a game on TV. As I searched a pile of dirty jeans for my wallet, I heard JC say, “That chick you live with’s hot. You hittin’ that?”
I stopped what I was doing and waited for the answer.
“Nah,” was all Roberto said.
I found my wallet on top of a milk crate by the futon. I stuffed it in my back pocket and ran downstairs.
The address Roberto had given Kendra led us to a clinic near Columbia University. It wasn’t a free clinic, but they charged on a sliding scale. Kendra tried to haggle with them, but changed her tune when they referred her to the free clinic and said it wouldn’t be open until the next day. She mumbled something about it being a burning issue and followed a nurse into an examining room.
I flipped through the magazines in the waiting room. A picture of Sheila Meyers caught my eye. Sheila was one of my uncle’s best friends. I read the box of text and smiled.
Sheila Meyers, the spokesmodel for Lillith Allure Cosmetics who’s currently filming scenes for a movie version of That Girl (Meyers will portray Ruth Bauman during the first half of the movie. Tina Yothers continues the role in the film’s second half.), on recent rumors that she’s a transsexual: “Nobody wants to hear a model say she was born in the wrong body. That’s a step beyond ‘Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful.’ Maybe I am a transsexual. Would it matter? We’re all human. Sexuality doesn’t demand a cure.”
“Nick?”
I looked up, expecting to see
a nurse or doctor who’d come to inform me that Kendra’s condition had taken a turn for the worse. They’d have to operate, but needed the consent of Kendra’s family. Which, of course, would be impossible, since I knew nothing about her family. Kendra would lapse into a coma and—I shook my head clear of ER-induced fantasies and said, “Hey, Mark. How’ve you been?”
“Okay,” he said. He looked concerned. “How are you?”
“Oh. I’m waiting for a friend to come back out,” I said. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” he said and smiled. Then he asked the dreaded question. “What’s new?”
He looked good. As bed buddies went, Mark was the best. He could be sweet and gentle, or rough and hot. Whatever I wanted. But out of bed he was Dr. Mark: successful, organized, together. Everything I wasn’t. Who wanted to look at a bed buddy and see a role model? I wanted the two of us to be on an even plane. Out of context—out of bed—we were in different universes. Judging from his anxious expression, Mark felt it, too. I wished I had good things to tell him. I wished we were in bed, so I could tell him everything that was bothering me. Instead, I said, “Fine. Hey, this isn’t the clinic where I met you.”
“That clinic was a real zoo,” Mark joked. “No, you’re right. I’m meeting—”
“Mark, hi,” a man in a white coat called and interrupted our boring conversation. When he was near enough, his hand reached for Mark’s shoulder, but when he noticed me sitting there, he shook Mark’s hand awkwardly. “I got held up in the lab. Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Mark said. He introduced me to David, a radiologist, who didn’t have much to say to me. David said he’d change and meet Mark outside. He then speed-walked away with the long strides favored by eight out of ten New Yorkers on a time schedule. When we were alone again, Mark said, “That was David.”
“I see. I mean, I saw. He came and went so fast, I wasn’t sure. Are you sure he’s not an illusionist?”
“He’s definitely a radiologist.”
“How long have you guys been dating?”
“Oh, we’re not—” Mark broke off and collapsed on the seat next to mine. “Shit, I guess we are. We call each other a lot. We’ve had three dates. There was talk about a share in the Pines.”
When You Don't See Me Page 8
