by Babe Walker
Mabinty was right, I was down on myself. My four-poster bed had become my personal Alcatraz. I was a prisoner in my own skin. The pain was borderline unbearable. My back brace made me look fat. I lost the very little muscle tone I had in my legs, my roots were obscene, and I was wearing sweats, exclusively. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t sleep. I missed Barneys. Even though my dad had all the best doctors and physical therapists working with me, my soul was unwilling to let my body heal. I turned into a gremlin. I hated everyone, and they hated me. I spent my days ignoring my physical therapist and my nights crying, alone. Mabinty even tried to perform a voodoo exorcism on my demons, but all the eggs broke, and all the goats died.
The morning after my failed exorcism, something extraordinary happened that changed my whole perspective. I got a package from Tai Tai that contained some items intended to cheer me up. Included in the package was a letter.
My Dearest Barbara,
I am so very sorry to hear about your accident. In Asia right now, and there’s no cell phone service at the monastery, so please accept this care package along with my condolences. I remember being bitten by a black mamba in Uganda. I was paralyzed for a week. I used a piece of charcoal and my mouth to write down all of my thoughts. To this day I believe that the power of the written word is what helped me to heal. That and the anti-venom.
Love,
Your Tai Tai
In addition to the letter, Tai Tai had sent me a book about hormones written by Suzanne Somers, and a Smythson notebook. A diary of sorts, with lizard-skin binding. It had been personalized with my initials on the front cover, and the color was the most tranquil of jades. The gift really perked me up, and I knew it was just the dose of sophistication I needed in order to recover. I decided to write poetry.
Thus began a renewing period of my life that I now refer to as my “Babe emerging from the darkness of unremitting suffering” phase. I really focused my efforts on creating the most powerful poems that have ever been written. I’m convinced that without the poems and that chic little notebook, I would have never fully recovered.
Every day I wrote, I got better. I had a purpose again. I wasn’t just a worthless blob who barked orders at people that worked for me, I was a creative blob. The notebook was what I really needed to give myself the permission to heal. It took the whole summer and four more of the lizard-skin notebooks, but I made a full recovery.
Here is a sampling of some of my strongest works:
Dream Lover
You lay me down in the grass.
It’s wet.
I’m wet.
Your name is Josh.
Hartnett.
Sonnet #17
I will not be confined to my own bed
For I have lost touch with the me in me
So much of life has gone with things unsaid
I’m past the point where life is what I see.
Oh stop, it is a never ending dark
It looks as though there’s dust upon my heart,
I am the star to no one but Mabinty,
My Worth’s unclear although I’m at the start.
My back won’t bend, though glossy lips appear
Upon my face so I must take some rest.
Will I embrace the space and have no fear
For what is clear is I have tried my best.
If what I find is at the end I’m wrong,
Then I will spare you more sad sullen songs.
*I only wrote one sonnet, because sonnets are really fucking hard and long, but I called it Sonnet #17 because I like the number 17
My Hands
My hands are perfect
i have
Perfect
hands
A Babe Haiku
A fallen dress is green.
Couture at rest.
The cold breeds the cold. I die.
Getting There
I’m like a prisoner.
I’m like a prison.
I’m like a total freak.
I’m like getting better.
I’m like positive that Tom Cruise is not gay.
I’m like a moment.
I’m like a song about a song.
I’m like a bird.
I’m like freezing right now.
I’m like me, again.
*This is tattooed on my side, in French
I AM
Je suis.
Sorry for texting you ninety-three times last night.
I was ready to go back to school, but I had no idea what to study next. Hollywood wasn’t ready for me yet, and the art world was clearly too dangerous. Thankfully, I’d cut ties with my RISD friends and was back on good terms with Roman and Gen after my accident. At the tail end of my healing process, I had an epiphany that I needed to devote my life to something that would merge my love of art and my love of myself. That’s when it hit me—I would be a fashion designer.
Parsons School of Design
I enrolled at Parsons as a freshman, because they wouldn’t accept my previous total of six credit hours from my time at USC, Brown, and RISD. I’m not good at grades, get off me. I was back on the East Coast, but this time I was in the right city, the only real American city, New York. My dad and I had a serious heart-to-heart while I was in recovery from my accident, and he’d decided to let me have a clean slate and start over. Mabinty and I flew to New York and picked out an apartment for me to rent in Nolita. Once I was settled in, I fully committed myself to becoming a slave to fashion.
The secret to excelling at fashion school is 90 percent looking the part and 10 percent actual schoolwork. I spent most of the semester meticulously curating my outfits and being at the right parties at the right time. Also, due to my extensive hallucinogen use, it was super-easy to come up with concepts and mood boards. Like, for a capsule collection of jumpsuits I dreamed up this whole under-the-sea-on-the-moon vibe that earned me stellar grades during finals, and one of my professors even asked if he could use some of my fashion illustrations in a textbook he was writing. I came out of my first semester at Parsons with a 4.0 GPA and a mission to be the next Diane von Furstenberg. Instead of going home for Christmas break, my dad and Tai Tai came to New York to toast to my success. It seemed I had finally found my calling.
Because I’d done so well my first semester, I decided it would be okay to skip the first day of my second semester, so I went to Barneys to pick up a very important Celine bag that no one had bought me for Christmas. The first day of class is always the same anyways. Teachers, books, students, turn your cell phone off, raise your hand. I get it.
The weather was insane. A perfect wintry day. It was cold, but not too cold, and snowy but not slushy. My Celine purse and I went to the top of the Empire State Building, which I know is the cheesiest, but she’d never been there before and I thought it would be a really cute Sleepless in Seattle moment for both of us to treasure and remember forever. Then we grabbed a light lunch of mixed greens and Diet Coke and headed uptown to Central Park.
I was sitting on a park bench, texting Genevieve about my new purchase.
Babe 2:35PM
Guess what I got.
Genevieve 2:36PM
Your HPV vaccination? Finally?
Babe 2:36PM
No. You are beyond rude. Hang on let me text you a pic.
Celine was sitting on my lap because there was no fucking way I was going to let her touch a filthy New York bench, and I could not get a flattering picture of us together. I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. Irritated that my moment was being interrupted, I whipped around and came face-to-face with a man’s chiseled visage, complete with chocolatey eyes and shaggy brown hair. Supercute, super-straight, and super-fuckable.
“Hi,” he said. “I’m Robert.”
“Hi, Robert.”
“Were you in Barneys earlier?” he asked, smiling.
“Um, who wants to know?”
“I thought I saw you in there earlier, buying that bag.” He pointed to Celine.
“Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t. You tell me, stalker.”
I turned around and went back to trying to take a picture, which may have been kind of cold/bitchy, but guys love bitches. And I didn’t want to make it too easy for this sexy “Robert” person. He was wearing a suit, and was so tousled and cute, and muscular but not too muscular.
He sat down next to me.
“You’re never going to get a good angle sitting like that,” he said. “Here, let me see your phone.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your phone,” he repeated, taking my phone out of my hand and pointing it at me. “Now, smile.”
I was beyond shocked, but I pulled myself together and flashed my pearly whites.
“Beautiful.” He handed my phone back to me. I looked at the picture. Celine and I looked GORGEOUS.
“Wow,” I said. “Thanks. Sometimes I’m not as photogenic as you’d think I’d be, but this turned out perfectly.”
“I’ll say.”
“I’m Babe Walker.”
“Nice to meet you, Babe Walker. Can I take you to dinner tonight?”
“Well, Robert, I normally only do liquids after six-fifteen.”
“Would you make an exception for a sushi restaurant that serves really small portions?”
“Did you just ask me to marry you?”
“Not yet.”
Over dinner I found out that Robert was a sports agent, with a great sense of humor, who loved his job and had season tickets to the Knicks. He also had a passion for shopping at Barneys and was there getting fitted for a suit for his friend’s wedding when he saw me picking up Celine Deneuve Jezebel Walker (I’d given her a full name), and then took spotting me in the park after his lunch meeting as “a sign that he had to ask me out.” In addition to being six-foot-four and handsome, Robert also had a huge dick. I knew this because waist size + neck girth ÷ length of ring finger = dick size. I also knew this because we fucked on the couch, and on the bed, and in the kitchen of his incredible Tribeca loft. Normally I don’t give it up on the first date, but Robert and I obviously had an intense connection.
After four more dates, we were officially boyfriend and girlfriend, and it was incredible. He was the Francisco Costa to my Calvin Klein: a complete rejuvenation of my brand. His laid-back approach to life was the perfect complement to my passionate nature. He loved my love for fashion and really supported my dreams of being a designer, which inspired me to work a lot harder in school. He was also really funny. I mean, I consider myself the most hilarious person I know, but Robert was a close second. Plus he was super-athletic, and because of this, I even started running a couple miles a week (which was disgusting and slobbery at first but became really chic once I bit the bullet and bought the entire Stella McCartney for Adidas line).
A few months into dating, everything was going spectacularly. Until the transition happened. It was a Saturday. We’d spent the day sleeping in and walking around the city being cuddly, then had plans to go to a Knicks game that night. Even though I don’t give a shit about sports, I’ll always give a shit about courtside seats. It’s just who I am. After the game, Robert took me to his favorite Italian restaurant, where I actually ate pasta (whole wheat) for the first time in four years. It was so romantic. It was unnerving. I could feel myself falling in love with him, so I ordered a few glasses of white wine to take the edge off. I was a little drunk after dinner, and when we got back to my apartment, I felt like being naughty so I pulled a joint out of my bedside drawer.
Pot has a tricky way of making me want to fuck like I’m sixteen and the world is ending. So there we were: stoned, making out, ripping each other’s clothes off, and then having The. Best. Sex. Of. My. Life. He was on top, then I was on top, then we were side by side, then we were scissoring, then I was riding him reverse cowgirl, then we were on this rocking chair I have that turned out to be amazing to fuck on, and I was looking into his eyes and I didn’t know whether I was going to come or die. I started screaming.
“I fucking love youuuuuuuuuu!”
Immediately after saying that, I regretted it. Too soon? No. Robert was into it. Really into it.
“I fucking love you too! I fucking love you, Babe!”
“No I love you. I love you!” I panted, fucking his brains out.
“I LOVE YOU, BABE WALKER!” he roared. “Oh my God!”
“AGHHHHHHHHROBERRRRRTTTTTTT!!!”
We must have both passed out after that, because the next morning I woke up and Robert was gone. Fuck. I knew it—I’d freaked him out. He was gone forever, and I was about to be that crazy chick who dropped the “I love you” way too soon in the relationship. I choked back a scream-cry, rolled over, grabbed my phone, and sent a text to Robert.
Babe 9:27AM Where are you?
I was about to speed-dial my therapist when all of a sudden I heard a toilet flush and Robert walked out of the bathroom.
“Where the hell were you!?” I demanded. Whoa, I thought to myself, where did that come from? I hadn’t meant to sound so harsh. “Sorry,” I said. “I got scared that you left and you were never coming back.”
“I was just in the bathroom, Babe. Are you okay? Come here.” Robert got in bed and leaned toward me for a kiss.
I pushed him away.
“No way, Jose. I don’t like kissing you first thing in the morning. Especially when you’ve brushed your teeth more recently than I have. It’s just one of my insecurities, so next time just tell me when you’re going to brush your teeth, okay? Is that so hard?”
“Um, will do, Boss,” Robert said, laughing.
“So you’re mocking me now?” I didn’t know what was happening, but I couldn’t stop the words from coming out of my mouth.
“What?”
“First you abandon me, then you won’t kiss me because I have morning breath—were you texting someone in the bathroom?” He definitely hadn’t been texting anyone—his phone had been charging on the nightstand the entire time.
“Babe—what’s going on?”
“I don’t know. You tell me, cheater. Let me see your phone.”
“Wha—”
“PHONE!”
“Here!” he yelled, grabbing his phone off the nightstand and handing it to me. “What is up with you right now? You’re acting crazy.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “I just want to see who you’re sexting with. Okay, here it is. One text, two minutes ago, from me. ‘Where are you?’ . . .” I trailed off.
Something was wrong. Really fucking wrong. I mean, I definitely wouldn’t classify myself as a low-maintenance dish, but psycho is never on the menu when it comes to my dating style. What in the world was happening to me?! I loved this guy, so why was I acting so mental? Then it hit me: Babette was back.
BABETTE (2 syll. ba-bette, bab-ette) [the girl’s name Babette is pronounced as BahB-Et (French origin)] : stranger; traveler from a foreign land; foreign woman
You know that feeling when you’re in a relationship with someone and you know you’re acting totally irrational and weird but you just can’t stop? Babette is that version of me. She does whatever she wants, whenever she wants. Babette is hyperemotional, needy, sensitive, erratic, and tacky—you name a negative quality and Babette’s got it. She completely takes over my entire personality when I’m legit in love with someone, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Babette had been in hibernation until this moment. From this point on, I feel it necessary to refer to Babette in the third person, as none of the following actions are a true representation of who I am as a human being.
Robert hustled out the door shortly after my interrogation that morning, running off to a business brunch. The rest of the day went by and I didn’t hear from him at all. Didn’t he even care? Babette decided to call Robert and check in a few times. The phone went straight to voice mail, so she left messages.
8:00PM: “Hola Roberto. Just checking in on you. Give me a call when you get this. I miss you. What are you up to? How was brunch?
My day was pretty good. Where are you? Okay, well hopefully you get this and call me soon. I love you!”
8:30PM: “Honey where are you? This is so unlike you—should I be worried? Do I need to call the police? Just text me and let me know you’re okay.”
9:00PM: “Okay mister, now I’m pissed.”
9:30PM: “I’m pregnant. I hope you’re having fun. P.S. We’re broken up now, so don’t you dare call me back.”
I wasn’t pregnant, and I’d had no intention of telling Robert a lie of such epic proportions, but Babette was in control, and that bitch does whatever she wants. She even called him one last time at 10 P.M. and left one final voice mail consisting of sniffles and whimpers for two minutes and forty-nine seconds.
Robert was at the door of my apartment the next morning. Babette answered, wearing a tank top and underwear.
“Hey you,” she said to Robert. “What a surprise! You look really tired and cute. I have a great idea—let’s go get a Jamba!” Babette loves Jamba Juice.
“No, Babe. I don’t want a Jamba. Are you really pregnant?” Robert asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“You left me a voice mail last night saying you were pregnant.”
“Oh, that? False alarm. I got my period this morning. Such a good thing too, because being a single mom is hard, and I don’t think I could trust you enough to marry you right now. Where have you been? Why are you wearing those shoes? You know I hate them. You need a Jamba.”
“Babe,” Robert said, looking concerned, “I don’t know what’s up with you, but I think we should take some time and not talk for a few days, and then touch base when you’re feeling more like yourself.”
“We’re not even together anymore, Robert, so do me a favor and stop acting like my dad. God, you’re so possessive,” Babette said, shutting the door in his face. “Byeeeeeee.”
That night, Babette thought it would be a great idea to surprise Robert at a Knicks game. She got all dolled up in thigh-high boots and a Knicks jersey that she belted and wore as a dress. She told her cabdriver to “take her to the basketball place.” Babette got to Madison Square Garden and finagled her way into the locker room, where she found Robert hanging out with some of the players.
