Tell It to Naomi

by Daniel Ehrenhaft

  And remarkably, it didn’t even bother me.

  I didn’t need Celeste Fanucci’s help. I didn’t even need my sister’s help. I could handle the entire “Tell It to Naomi!” operation on my own. I had a system: Talk to FONY for five hours; write the column for someone else in five minutes. Ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom. It was easy. And for what got printed, I stuck mostly with the kids I’d known from the beginning, like S.O.M.B. I advised her to put her foot down. Her boyfriend had to start showering and brushing his teeth. He had to respect her.

  Occasionally I’d even keep in touch with Hospital Girl. Not that I ever used those e-mails for the column. No … I still couldn’t make up my mind whether she actually existed. So I refused to discuss her father. If she was playing a joke, I wouldn’t go that far. Instead, I tutored her in the subtler nuances of the word G. (Example:”Whaddup, G!” as opposed to “Not cool, G. “) I basically made fun of her “slangs.” I told her that if she liked Yo! MTV Raps, she should also purchase Vanilla Ice’s seminal To the Extreme. It was a true classic. Word to your mother.

  Real or not, she seemed grateful. Or at least she pretended not to catch on that I was ragging on her. She wrote that she hated talking about her father. It only made her sadder. (At least, that’s what I think she wrote.) She loved chatting with me because it took her mind off him. She wrote that she loved to chat about “THINGS NOT UGLY THAT IS TO SAY I SHOULD LIKE TO TALK ABOUT DR. SEUSS AND VANILLA ICE ICE BABY!”

  And I was happy to oblige her.

  Yes, even with a potential fraud like Hospital Girl, I channeled the chick inside me.

  I know that sounds deranged. But it kept my mind off a certain ugly thing: namely, that I was still a loser. Or it did—until I started seeing pumpkins in every apartment window and cheap plastic skeletons in every bodega. Because that was when another ugly thing hit me.

  Halloween is right around the corner.

  Which meant that Cheese’s birthday was right around the corner, too.

  * * *

  “Hey, look who it is! Dave Rosen!”

  I’d just rushed home from school Wednesday—the last Wednesday in October—when I nearly slammed into Cheese’s father on the stairwell, coming the other way.

  It was about four o’clock. Normally I would have stopped to make some polite chitchat. But I knew there would be a FONY e-mail waiting for me upstairs. My feet kept moving.

  “Oh, hey, Mr. Harrison,” I said with a laugh. “How’s it—”

  I froze.

  Cheese was lurking in the shadows behind him.

  “We’re just on our way out to pick up supplies,” Mr. Harrison said.”You in the mood for anything special?”

  My eyes narrowed.

  I didn’t get it. Mr. Harrison wasn’t the kind of guy who ran errands for people, especially not me. He was the kind of guy who yelled at people. Me included.

  “Uh … no thanks,” I said uncertainly. “I’m fine.”

  Mr. Harrison smirked. “I wasn’t offering to pick up a pizza for you, Dave. I meant for the party. You know, Saturday?”

  The party?

  I felt a strange tightness in my chest.

  I stole a quick glance at Cheese. As usual, his hair covered his face. His gaze was fixed squarely on his Doe Martens.

  I shook my head.

  “Well, I know you like Sour Patch Kids,” Mr. Harrison said, continuing down the steps.”I’ll grab a bag. How’s that sound?”

  I nodded. My heart pounded.

  I stared at Cheese as he shuffled right by me. He didn’t say a word.

  “Oh, and tell your family that they’re invited, too, of course,” Mr. Harrison added. He chuckled. “It’ll take some of the pressure off them. For once, somebody else in the building will be blasting loud music…”

  He and Cheese rounded the corner to the lobby.

  “See you Saturday night!” he called. “Nine p.m. sharp! Get ready to boogie…”

  The building door slammed behind them

  I stood there on the stairs, my eyes wide.

  I could barely breathe.

  My God.

  I’d always thought … I mean, I’d never imagined … There was just no way Cheese could ever celebrate his sixteenth birthday without me. It was the most important birthday of his life. He could start driving now. He was one year away from not having to sneak into NC-17 movies. The situation had gotten that out of control.

  It’s my fault, isn’t it?

  Of course it was. There was no denying it. Dealing with problems had never been Cheese’s specialty. Not even as a kid. Instead of wiping his nose, he’d rather just twirl in circles. It had been up to me to fix things all along. I was the one who should have called every night until we’d hashed this out. I should have gone down there and pounded on his door until he’d answered. But after I’d tried that first time, I’d been too embarrassed—

  Enough. There was no need to turn this into a calamity. Screw that. Relationships went through ups and downs. I’d seen enough e-mails to know that.

  If Cheese wanted to ring in sweet sixteen without me, that was his prerogative. He had his own friends now, just as I had mine.

  Right. What was I even thinking?

  I turned and sprinted up to the fourth floor, taking three steps at a time.

  * * *

  You have 104 new messages

  Time: 9:11 am

  Subject: hello??? anybody home???

  Time: 9:12 am

  Subject: there’s a dog on the next block whose spitty

  Time: 9:13 am

  Subject: this is the 8th e-mail I’ve sent you. how come you don’t answer …

  Time: 9:14 am

  Subject: eating, drinking, smoking, failing

  Time: 9:14 am

  Subject: i’m scared of my shrink and think i’m in love with you

  Time: 9:16 am

  Subject: those butterflies you get when you pee in the library

  Time: 9:20 am

  Subject: your column sucks so bad

  Time: 9:21 am

  Subject: this is the 9th email I’ve sent you.

  Time: 9:22 am

  Subject: (No Subject)

  Time: 9:28 am

  Subject: FONY needs help this time

  (to view messages 11—20, click here)

  My eyes zeroed right in on FONY. I was barely able to sit—in large part because I was still wearing my book bag. It hadn’t even occurred to me to take it off.

  I might as well have been panting over her e-mail.

  Thank God FONY couldn’t see this. In that instant I understood what a crack addict must feel like when he’s about to light up. I was that hooked on her. (I know; I know … again with the crack. They really shouldn’t make us watch those videos at school. They get to you. Let’s say I felt like one of those fat guys on the wall of Don Vito’s right before he’s about to take a big bite of veal parmigiana.)

  I perched on the edge of Naomi’s chair—ignoring the algebra textbook digging into my spine—and clicked on the e-mail.

  Dear Naomi,

  This time you’re really going to think I’ve lost it. I have to warn you up front: for once this has nothing to do with dreams, or with New York City and my irrational/natural fear/love thereof.

  It has to do with a question I asked you a long time ago. Remember when … ?

  Sorry. I’ll stop procrastinating.

  I have this boyfriend. I know this may seem surprising to you, seeing as a) I never mentioned him, b) I’m a total nutcase, and c) I don’t really have any other friends besides him. Anyway, he’s nice and smart and … okay. Can I be frank? He’s HOT! He’s smoking!

  See, that’s what I really like about him. Sounds sick, I know. Bet you never knew how shallow I was. (Or did you?) Maybe that’s why I’ve never mentioned him. I’m not sure how serious I can be about him. He doesn’t have the greatest sense of humor. This is a BIG PROBLEM.

  I also think he might be cheating on me.

  Oh, yeah. T
hat.

  So Naomi… any advice for your old pal FONY?

  I reread it. Then I clicked on the mouse again, exiting the program.

  Naomi’s computer went blank.

  Interesting, I thought. FONY has a boyfriend.

  I tried to settle back in Naomi’s chair. I couldn’t, because of the book bag. So I did what any professional advice columnist would do: I removed my book bag and hurled it against Naomi’s wall in a single,violent, deft maneuver: smack!

  The floor shook.

  Now … did I have any advice for my old pal FONY?

  Yes. Yes, in fact, I did.

  It was fourfold:

  Dump cheating boyfriend; meet Dave Rosen; fall in love with Dave Rosen; marry Dave Rosen.

  But how to word it …

  Oh, right. I couldn’t. I was Naomi. The chick. FONY’s online gal pal.

  Hmm. This was difficult. This was not the kind of e-mail from FONY I’d been hoping for. I’d been hoping for something along the lines of another new five-letter word for diarrhea. But I was not going to get upset. No. That would be unprofessional. And at such a pivotal moment a professional advice columnist like me starts to realize something very very important …

  A girl you’ve never met before could be hideously ugly.

  Right? She could have a beard of zits. She could have fat thighs. She could even look like Aunt Ruth’s friend Joan—a woman who from certain angles resembled a tortoise. So the solution was readymade. I had to find out what FONY looked like. Immediately. And in order to do so, I would have to trick her somehow…

  I let out a deep breath.

  What was I worried about? There was no problem here. I’d already had plenty of experience tricking FONY.

  It was all I’d ever done.

  The old adage is true: nothing is ever as easy as it seems.

  I tried to trick FONY three separate times over the next two days before I finally had sense enough to give up. If nothing else, I can say this: I stuck to the A-B-C format. I tried three times, and three times only. I think FONY would have appreciated that.

  A) THE TIME I OFFERED TO JUDGE HER BOYFRIEND

  This was in direct response to her e-mail. I wrote to her: a bad sense of humor was a big problem. The biggest. Only If her boyfriend was dropdead gorgeous—an ancient Greek statue come to life—could she have an excuse for staying with him. So? I had to see him for myself. As a mentor and an older woman, I alone could make such a judgment on beauty. I suggested that we arrange a secret viewing; I had to remain anonymous. But if she could pick a street corner and plan to he there some time that afternoon with her boyfriend, I would sneak past and take a peek. What a crazy idea! she wrote. How about on Broadway right across from City Hall? In half an hour? Yes! I replied. I hopped on the subway, full of anticipation. There was a burst of static from the loudspeaker. The train was being rerouted. Next stop, DeKalb Avenue. The doors closed. I couldn’t escape. The train sailed out high above the East River, lurching to a mysterious halt on the bridge, where it stayed for an hour. I watched the sunset over sparkles and skyscrapers and heats. Somewhere down below, FONY and her Adonis waited for me, then left. Later, when the train arrived in Brooklyn, the voice on the loudspeaker apologized “for the inconvenience.”

  B) THE TIME I SAID I WANTED TO GET MY BELLY BUTTON PIERCED, TOO

  I was positive this would be a slam dunk. FONY still wanted a bellybutton pierce, but she couldn’t muster the courage to defy her conservative father. So I wrote to her: I had the same problem with my lunatic mother! I’d been thinking about a bellybutton pierce for years now! We both just needed allies. Thursday, I suggested we make back-to-back appointments at the House of Body Art on 8th Street—a piercing/tattoo parlor and infamous haunt of some of the city’s most frightening derelicts. Once again, we wouldn’t meet in person. The plan? I would get pierced first and leave a photo of my belly with the proprietors, “proving” I’d done it. (In reality, of course, I’d just hide nearby until she showed, then run away once I’d identified her.) Agreed? What a crazy idea! she wrote. Will the piercing hurt? By the way, what did I think of her boyfriend? I never got a good look at him, I replied. (The truth.) Unfortunately, when I went to 8th Street a few hours later, I found it completely blocked off by fire engines and police cars. All that remained of the House of Body Art was a charred hole in the ground. A cop in a surgical mask told me that some homemade tattoo ink had exploded on the premises, and unless I wanted to breathe a “lungful o’ toxic I-dunno-what,” I should evacuate the area immediately.

  C)THE TIME I TOLD HER TO GO TO OPEN-MIKE NIGHT

  Strange forces seemed to be conspiring against me, so Friday I decided to play it safe I doubted there would he a tattoo ink explosion at the Spiral Lounge. These sorts of catastrophes never occur two days in a row. Plus, the Spiral Lounge was within walking distance of my house. There was no danger of getting trapped on the subway. I wrote to FONY: she should give her boyfriend one final test on the humor front. She should take him to open-mike night! If he laughed at the silly fools who actually got up there and performed, then his sense of humor was fine! (Also, if she caught him checking out other chicks, she’d know he was a cheater.) Oddly, I never heard back from her. I decided to go the Spiral Lounge anyway. I spotted Zeke Beck half a block away, sitting on a stoop with some tall Asian girl. Zeke was caressing his guitar case. The girl was caressing Zeke. Strange, I thought. Maybe he and Celeste had broken up. Or maybe they were into free love. Whatever. I didn’t care. What I did care about was the bombing possibility of having to sit through Zeke’s music. Still, the chance to identify FONY outweighed all other considerations. Or so I believed … until I saw Olga Romanoff laughing with her crew in line outside the club. “Hello? Is tonight not the perfect night for me to unveil my ‘Naomi’ stand-up routine? I mean, come on. You guys have read David Sedaris.”

  At that point, I called it quits and fled.

  * * *

  When I slunk back home, Mom and Aunt Ruth were waiting up for me. It wasn’t late, maybe nine-thirty but I could tell they were upset. They sat face to face in their pajamas at the kitchen table, hunched over mugs of decaf. James Brown hummed quietly from the stereo.

  “Where have you been?” they demanded simultaneously

  I sighed. “You guys. I told you. I went to that open-mike thing.”

  “Don’t ‘you guys’ me,” Aunt Ruth said sternly. “We have a rule, Dave. Remember—”

  “Ruth, please, I’ll handle this,” Mom interrupted. She looked me in the eye. “We have a rule, Dave. Remember?”

  “What?” I said defensively. “Before I went to school this morning, I told you I might go to the Spiral Lounge tonight. Remember that?”

  Mom shook her head. “You mentioned it in passing. You said you might go. And you never gave any indication about how late you would be. You didn’t call or leave us a note. We had no idea where you were. What concerns me even more is that you went alone—”

  “All right, all right,” I muttered.”I’m sorry. Jeez.”

  “Dave, you have to leave a note or borrow Naomi’s cell phone when you’re out this late,” Mom stated. “You could learn a thing or two from your sister. Naomi always calls or leaves a note when she’s going to be out. Particularly if she’s going out alone.”

  I laughed. “How can I borrow Naomi’s cell phone? She’s never home long enough for me to say hi to her.”

  “She’s home right now,” Aunt Ruth said. She sipped her decaf, eyebrows raised.

  “She is?” I asked, genuinely shocked. “Why?”

  “She lives here. Dave,” Mom said dryly.

  “Could’ve fooled me.” I turned and hurried down the ball. If she was here, at the very least I knew she could shield me from the wrath of the Dueling Pajamas.

  “Dave?” Mom called. “This conversation isn’t over!”

  “Let him go,” Aunt Ruth moaned. “He can’t escape now.”

  Indeed, Naomi was sitting on her unmade bed. The downsi
de: she wasn’t alone. He was sitting right next to her. Make that practically on top of her. I stood in her doorway fighting off the instinct to gag. I’d always hoped that some of Naomi’s influence would change Joel Newbury for the better, that the shaved-and-black-leather look was just a tiny step (albeit an off-kilter step) toward self-improvement.

  But he’d regressed. He’d gone back to the air tie.

  A bald head, a leather jacket, and an air tie. God help us all.

  Naomi kept jabbing at him, trying to unbutton the top button—but he kept squirming away, holding her arms back.

  They both giggled hysterically. They didn’t even notice I was there.

  “Why do you do it?” she squealed.

  “Because I like it.”

  “But it looks so stupid.”

  She lunged at his throat again. He spun away.

  “Stupid as compared to what?” he asked. “Your hair? What’s the problem with buttoning up my shirt? It’s getting cold out. Your hair looks like that tattoo parlor that exploded on Eighth Street.”

  Naomi burst out laughing—then froze.

  “Oh, hi, Dave!” she exclaimed. Her cheeks reddened. She pulled her hands back to her lap and slid away from him.

  “Hey, Dave!” Joel cried. You’d think we were lifelong buddies.

  Hey, dork! I answered silently.

  “Speak of the devil,” he said. “We were just talking about you.”

  I nodded. I didn’t want to risk speaking. There was no way in hell I would call him Mr. Newbury. Not when he was in my house.

  “Naomi says you’ve been helping her out with the column,” he said. “She said if it wasn’t for you, she wouldn’t be able to do such a good job.”

  “She said that?” I asked.

  Naomi grinned at me.

  I almost grinned back. It was pure poker. She was daring me to break down and tell Joel the truth because she knew I wouldn’t. (Not that he would have believed me, anyway.) But she was good, my sister. She was brilliant. She could a) control me, b) make her lame boyfriend feel like part of the family, and c) tell a convincing lie—all without even having to open her mouth.