MC Lenny
I’m a little bit disappointed that this isn’t a personal message, a shout out or joke just for me. But the video intrigues me, as always. I plug my headphones into the phone and click on the link, which takes a moment or two to load.
Leonard is a friend from high school with whom I reconnected last year at our twentieth reunion. The regular rules of high school were suspended for him. While I was stuck in my B-plus crowd of above-average-but-not-quite-awesome people, Lenny was allowed to move effortlessly between cliques, from the cool varsity basketball team to the hip jazz band, from the geeky honors society to the even geekier Stock Market Club, and back again. No questions asked.
Good looks combined with athleticism, wit, and smarts can do that to a person, catapult them to unfettered popularity. Everyone wanted a piece of him and was happy with whatever time or attention they got from Lenny. Including me.
Only, I didn’t get much.
Until senior year, when luck had me working side by side with Lenny as coeditors of the yearbook. I used to cancel staff meetings and “forget” to tell him, just so he and I would end up alone in some science classroom after school, talking about nothing and everything at the same time. There was one intense month of work—March, I think—when we had to finalize all the photos and cram to get all the layouts done and submitted to the printer. We pulled a bunch of all-nighters at my house, the cut images and graphics spread out before us in a jumbled mess, the soft glow of basement light making the damp, unfinished space seem almost romantic, and I’d think, Now he’s going to kiss me.
But he never did.
But then he’d look at me and smile, and our hands would touch just the tiniest bit as we passed the Scotch tape back and forth, and a current would pass up my arm. And then I’d think, Now he’s going to ask me to the prom.
But he never did that either.
Which is why this online attention I’ve been getting from MC Lenny Katzenberg since the reunion is most unexpected, although not, in fact, entirely unwelcome.
Lenny’s video comes up on YouTube. He is dressed in jeans and a graphic tee. He’s this tall, kind of nebbishy Jewish kid from Westchester, who went to Yale and now spends his days as an accountant. He spends his evenings and weekends putting together rap lyrics with synchronized music. Then he records himself and edits together an iMovie to put up on YouTube. Sometimes his skits and songs are performed alone, and sometimes with others, like random New Yorkers, or an on-again, off-again girlfriend. A few have been politically charged. Others have been crude or somewhat sexual. Sometimes these mini-movies involve rather complicated choreography. They are always really funny and cutting-edge.
This one doesn’t disappoint. It’s about the latest health care bill being voted on by Congress. It’s typical Lenny: left-wing and liberal, with clever rhymes and a touch of Justin Timberlake.
I’m slightly distracted by Lenny’s companion. A woman with the longest legs I’ve ever seen is wearing a tight, white, short-skirted nurse’s costume and gyrating her hips around him while he raps his way around HMOs, PPOs and HDHPs (“How the fuck am I supposed to know which one is right for me?”). I wonder who this “nurse” is, and if they’re more than friends.
But then Lenny’s hazel eyes shine, and I’m back in the moment with him. He looks right through the camera and into my eyes, like this is all just an elaborate private joke between the two of us. A playful smile turns up one corner of his mouth, into his trademark impish grin.
I forward it to Kat. This should give her another needed pick-me-up.
“Who knew a smart dweeb could be so friggin’ hot?” she had commented the first time we watched one of Lenny’s videos. We were huddled together in the back corner of the middle school’s computer lab during a free period, staring thirstily at the screen as Lenny shook his ass at us.
“I did!” I had exclaimed. “Always! I had the best time on those temple retreat weekends!”
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure I’d brag about that.” She’d then grabbed one of her curls, pulled it out straight, stuck it into her mouth, and sucked on it. She turned back to study the screen in contemplative silence. “Although, that guy does have something. I just can’t put my finger on it.” Silence, except for the sucking of hair. “Wait! Is he married?”
“No. He’s thirty-nine and single, never been.”
“I got it! He’s gay!”
“Kat, he’s not gay. He’s just funny and unafraid of busting a move on the international Internet circuit.”
“Yeah. Children, are you listening?” She had pretended to address a class of kindergarteners. “That spells g-a-y.”
Lenny breaks out the Michael Jackson pelvic-thrust-with-hand-cupped-over-genitals move, and I snort heartily in response. Kat is going to die when she sees this.
Someone is suddenly tapping me on the arm. I look up from my phone and notice that all the jurors—plus the bailiff—are staring at me.
“Having a good time, miss?” Delilah accuses.
“Yes! I mean, sorry. Just a funny video on YouTube. I’ll turn it off now.”
“You do that. Then follow me.”
“Why? Am I in some sort of trouble?” I panic. “I know I’m not supposed to have my phone…”
Several jurors chuckle. Delilah does not. “No, miss. Every one of you is supposed to follow me. Judge Banks has called you into the courtroom.”
“Oh! Great. Guess I didn’t hear.” I gather my belongings and line up between jurors three and five. Then Delilah opens the door and we file through.
The judge is standing before us in her black robes, and so we remain standing. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she begins, “I am Judge Banks.” She looks to be about sixty or so, with the kind of Hillary Clinton hair popular with power-women of a similar age. “I would like to thank you for your time. This case has been settled. You are free to go.”
“Yes!” Carrie hisses under her breath. Others clap.
Crap! This can’t be happening. But here we go, being led like sheep by Delilah, back out of the courtroom and through our waiting area. “If you’ll all follow me downstairs, I’ll hand you the official paperwork saying that you’ve been dismissed after two days of service.” My heart is beating out of my shirt. My mind is a tornado of thoughts, a whirlwind screaming, Disaster, disaster! Delilah keeps talking, but I can’t make out the rest. We follow her down the elevator and to the administrator’s office. I think I might faint.
All around me, people are smiling and congratulating each other for getting out of trial. I stand frozen in place and have to be nudged by Sweetheart.
“Whatsamattah, honey?” he asks. “This is a great day! You look spooked.”
“I…” I glance up at him and meet his eyes for the first time. They are round and blue, and actually seem to be emitting warmth of some kind, maybe even sympathy. In that moment, I decide to trust him. “I just don’t want to go back to work, is all,” I exhale.
But now that I’ve said that much, the rest pours out of me. “I got passed over for a promotion I really wanted—head of the English Department, which I’ve been working toward for years—and someone from the outside got the job. Apparently, she’s the superintendent’s niece or cousin or something illegal like that, and she hasn’t even finished her master’s degree yet! Now I can’t face my colleagues. I’m completely humiliated. I’m kind of lost. And so, I pretty much hate my job. Every time I step foot in that school, I want to puke.”
I’m feeling better now, as if someone opened a window and let in some air. I keep going. “The principal flat out lied to me, said I’d get the position, that I was the natural next choice. I jumped through all these hoops, took extra grad school classes to get the right certifications. Got all dressed up and sat in the hot seat, was interviewed by parents, community members, friends of mine, for God’s sake, with classrooms down the hall. She even made me teach a demo lesson in my own class, even though I’ve been tenured forever! And then, the c
ommittee didn’t choose me.” I shudder at the memory of myself in heels and a tailored pantsuit, squirming as Martha called me into her office to break the news—delivered cold, of course, without emotion. I had to picture her in flesh-colored granny panties to keep myself from crying. “I can’t go back. Not right now, anyway.”
“Talk about your verbal diarrhea!” he jokes. Great. Of all the people in the world to confess to, I pick this asshole.
My husband doesn’t even know the truth. I keep putting Doug off, telling him that Martha hasn’t made the decision yet. He kept talking about how my new salary would help take some of the financial burden off of him. The plan was to sit down and tell him over dinner, except that in the past six weeks we haven’t had one of those dinners. And the more time slips away, the harder it becomes to remember what the truth is anyway.
Sweetheart’s eyes suddenly look confused. “Wait a second…did you say, go back to work?” He laughs. “Who said anything about going back to work? My boss thinks I’m on trial for the whole week!” He leans toward me and I smell the tobacco clinging to his clothing. “And what he don’t know…” The rest of the sentence lingers in the air between us. He winks. Sweetheart grabs his walking papers, waves them theatrically over his head, and starts walking.
I grab mine and do the same.
Chapter 7
Clearly, I am not going back to work today. That much I know. It’s ten o’clock in the morning on a beautiful Tuesday and I am free to do as I please. Leaving my car in the juror’s lot, I walk around downtown Alden. When I pass the new hair salon in the Ritz Carlton hotel, I decide to go in.
Jodi texts me while I am sitting with streaks of white hair color under the hot lamps.
Free 4 lunch?
Yes, I text back, looking at the time. NM at 1:15. She always forgets that I work, and usually texts me like this once a week.
Good. I need to find something to wear Sat nite!
C U there, I write, finishing our conversation for now.
I put the phone down and try to rip a page out of a magazine without anyone noticing, but my hairstylist, Brandon, catches me in the act. I tear the page out just as he tears it from my hands.
“What have we here?” he lisps, even though that sentence doesn’t have any S sounds in it. Unlike Lenny, Brandon is definitely g-a-y. “Botox! Juvederm! Fabulous!”
I turn bright red and shush him. “I’m just, you know, thinking is all.”
“I see that, honey,” he says, touching the protruding frown lines gathered like Mount Kilimanjaro between my eyebrows, waiting for someone to climb them. “Looks like you think too much, I’d say. Botox will take care of your forehead in less time than it takes to count the candles on your birthday cake.”
“Yeah, but…my husband would kill me. He likes me natural, you know, no plastic surgery, very little makeup…” I trail off.
“Sounds like a real scumbag.” When my eyes widen, he adds, “Hard to debate that one, huh? Truth is—and I’m sure he’s very nice, in that vacant way straight men have, don’t get me wrong—but he won’t even notice if you do a little maintenance. Do you know how many of my clients have had minor work done? Injections, mini lifts, whatnots to their hoo-has? These dimwitted husbands just think their wives have had pedicures and facials. That all the exercise really does lift foreheads and shape butts. They are none the wiser, and you are all the better. Olé!” He strikes a final pose, clippers in hand.
“Dear God, Brandon, put out the fire. She’s new here and you’re scaring her!” another male stylist sings, coming to my rescue.
“Hush, Priscilla,” Brandon sings back. “This woman is in need. I can sense it. I’m channeling my inner diva to help her find her own diva, lost deep down inside, hidden under years of mediocrity.” He looks at me. “How’d I do?”
“Not bad. Pretty fair assessment, actually.”
“You and I are one and the same,” Brandon sighs, leaning over the back of my chair to look at us side by side in the mirror. “We’re stereotypes. I’m the flaming gay male, and you’re boring suburban mom.” He pumps some mousse into his hands and re-fluffs his spiky hair. “It happens.”
“That’s kind of harsh!” I balk. “Suburban and mom, yes. I wouldn’t call me boring, necessarily.”
“But you’d call me flaming, right? Just what you’d expect from your hairdresser?”
Of course, he’s right. But being honest seems mean, especially to someone I’ve just met. It’s like the Jewish American Princess principal: I can call myself that, but if anyone else does, I’m offended. So I give a tentative smile and continue on, not answering him one way or the other. “I’m just used to things a certain way. The rhythms of my day have become predictable, regular. I’m just living the way I think I’m supposed to, the way people around me do.”
“Well, then, if mediocrity is what you’re used to, I’d suggest bangs to cover that forehead. But if you’re looking to break out of the same old ho-hum, I’d say take this card”—using sleight of hand, Brandon produces a business card from up his sleeve—“and go for Botox.”
“What is this?” I read the typeface on the card and see that’s it’s advertising my very own dermatologist. “Dr. Grossman? He’s the ancient guy who burns off my warts!”
“Now, that’s the kind of thing one shouldn’t be ‘out’ about,” Brandon notes, checking my hair under the lamp. “Dr. Grossman is a genius. And look! So am I. You’re a blonde again. Let’s go wash and blow.”
Jodi passes by my table at Neiman Marcus several times. I actually have to call her over, and even then she’s not sure whom she’s walking up to.
“Holy Mother of God, you look gorgeous!” She leans across the table to kiss me hello. “Bitch,” she adds, grabbing a clump of my hair. From her, that’s the highest level of compliment. “Who did this to you? It’s amazing.”
“This guy at the new salon at the Ritz.” I shrug.
“Brandon blew you?”
I chuckle. “You know Brandon?”
Jodi tosses her long hair dramatically. “Lauren, I know everyone.”
We sit back to chat. “Did you notice anything else about me?” I lead.
Jodi’s doe eyes, always framed in mascara, bat once or twice as she thinks, taking me in. “No,” she concludes. “Other than your hair, you look the same.”
“It’s not my looks, dork. Try again. I’ll give you a hint. What time is it? What day of the week?”
Then it clicks. “You’re not at work!”
“Shh…I could be spotted by a mom of one of my students right now! We’re in dangerous territory here. That’s why I’m facing the wall.”
“You could just lie, you know, if anyone saw you. Say you’re at a conference, on your lunch break.”
“A conference for what? Cashmere?”
“Shakespeare, cashmere, same thing,” she dismisses. “Ugh, I’m so hot.” She peels off her sweater to reveal perfectly skinny arms and bony clavicles that make her fashionably gaunt.
“You get those arms from Pilates?” I motion.
“No way! You know I’m too lazy to work out.” She takes a sip of her water through a straw, leaving a ring of sparkly pink lip gloss on the plastic. “It’s just the way I’m built. It’s hereditary.”
“Jodi, we’ve been over this. Just because your grandparents were Holocaust survivors does not mean you are meant to be thin.”
“Say what you will. My grandmother always had weight issues before the war. After? Never.”
“But…” I trail off. Typical Jodi. Her logic is so flawed. And yet it’s delivered with such confidence that I don’t even know where to begin to untangle it and set her straight.
Jodi motions to the waitress, who nods her head and comes our way. “I’m starving.”
“The mandarin orange soufflé is great,” I suggest as Jodi opens the menu and looks it over.
“Jell-O mold? Gross.” She shivers theatrically, then looks up at the waitress. “I’ll just have a bacon ch
eeseburger with fries. And a Coke.”
“Diet?” The waitress asks.
“Ugh, no. Regular. And two pickles, please.”
I order the so-called gross lo-cal Jell-O mold and pass the waitress our menus.
Jodi continues our conversation. “Anyway, it’s spring and I’m bathing-suit ready. Even got waxed by my bikiniologist. Now, there’s someone with true talent. You should see what she can do down there.”
“I’ll just take your word for it, thanks.”
“True artistry. But that’s not why I called you for lunch.” She butters a popover, bites off a piece, and rolls her eyes skyward as she chews. “Ah. Strawberry butter. So good.” She finishes that piece and tears off another. “Here’s the thing. I need your help with something.”
“Yeah, with what to wear Saturday night. You already mentioned that in your text.” I stare at the basket filled with warm, crusty popovers and consider what my thighs would have to say about them. Instead, I unwrap the world’s thinnest breadstick and try to savor its crunchiness.
Jodi waves her hand in the air. “The outfit is a diversion. I need to talk to you about something serious.” She leans in close, across the table. I lean in, too.
Jodi whispers, “I want to go back to work.”
“What!”
“Quiet! Lee can’t know that I’m thinking about this.”
“Why do we have to whisper? Is he here?”
“You know what I mean,” she says, relaxing a bit and moving back to her popover. “He’d kill me if he knew.”
I have to process this for a second. Why would a husband not want his wife to work? “Because he likes you at home.”
She echoes it back, nodding solemnly. “Because he likes me at home.”
Oh, the irony of my life and hers. “Unbelievable!” I state.
“Isn’t it, though,” she adds, thinking only about herself. “I mean, I like making dinners and everything, don’t get me wrong. I’ve become quite the little homemaker in the eight years since I stopped teaching. And it’s been great to watch the kids grow up, finish preschool, go off to kindergarten…but before I know it Jossie will be in middle school…” She trails off.
Lauren Takes Leave Page 7
