A Year Straight (8 page)

“I have to go,” I said, and I got up to gather my clothes.

“We can just sleep,” he said, turning on the light. That's actually pretty sweet, I thought, as I was pulling on my socks. Then I glanced at the night table. The bottle he'd brought
in from the bathroom indeed started with the letter
L
—for Lubriderm. Hand. Lotion. I glowered at him, astonished.

“Can you please call me a cab?” I asked. He dialed a car service and accompanied me to the lobby of his building.

We sat down on the curb outside.

“This isn't how I'd imagined this turning out,” he said, wrapping his arms around his knees. “I was hoping to be eating breakfast together in the morning.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “This just isn't really who I am. I don't usually go home with someone I just met. I don't even know you. God, I don't even know myself these days.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “To think of my younger sister going home with some guy she just met makes me shudder. You really shouldn't do that, you know. It's not safe.” As my cab pulled up to the curb, he mumbled the sweet send off, “Good luck with that guy!” I got in, rolled down the window, and rode home with the wind in my face.

 

 

“I THINK HE might be gay,” I told Megan the following day over brunch. “His house was spotless, and he had really nice kitchen appliances,” I said, feeling convincing. I leaned in closer to her. “And he wanted to have anal sex,” I whispered. “On the first date, if you can even call it that.”

“Or he's just a dumb rich guy with a maid,” Megan replied. “How nice was his appliance?” she asked, eyebrows raised.

“He used Magnum condoms, so I guess it was big.”

“You guess it was big, Elena?”

“Listen, when you've been with women for years, using any size your little heart desires, you get a bit spoiled, if you know what I mean.”

“Wow, that's right. Maybe I should try women,” Megan said.

“Want another reason to reconsider? Right in the middle of having sex, he got up, left the room, and returned with a bottle of
Lub-ri-derm.
Which he then tried to use as lube.”

“Elena, he is definitely not gay!” Megan laughed so hard that she nearly choked on her crepe. “Gay men know to use lube. You go, Miss Lez! You went and found yourself a frat boy.”

I walked home from the café feeling defeated. I was more confused than ever, yet everything was starting to make sense. My limited yet highly bizarre experiences with men helped explain why so many great women were still single in the city, and why so many others ended up with dimwits. Take Megan, for example. There you had a gorgeous, smart, successful woman who seemed to know everything there was to know about men, yet she wasted her time pining over a guy who didn't deserve her.

Their story was so cliché it was painful. I'd been Megan's ear for over two years and the scenario had barely changed. She and Jared were both successful employees in their respective positions at work, each highly sought after, in both the professional and personal sense. Megan was gorgeous inside and out,
and I didn't just notice as Miss Lez. Funny and kind, at five eight (six feet in heels), her hair slicked back in a ponytail, and a mock turtleneck dress accentuating her curves, she turned everyone's eye when she walked by. She had her pick of the office staff of 150. And she picked Jared. Or rather, she was his “staff pick” during a business trip to Chicago. And though he'd since moved on, her four-inch heels were planted firmly in place.

It was the typical case of wanting what you can't have. But it was more than just that. I had witnessed too many women pining after guys who treated them like crap while there were seventeen other “nice guys” making unreturned calls. I'd done it myself, and I still couldn't solve the mystery. The last boyfriend I'd had before I met Amy was a complete mess of a man. Our courtship lasted five months, which sounds like an acceptably short amount of time to spend in a bad relationship. But it's really not, especially when it's so bad that rather than tend to you when you've just had all four wisdom teeth removed, he steals your Percocet, downs them with vodka, and then crashes and breaks your beloved vintage Schwinn (also stolen while you were sprawled out on your bed in a fog).

There was a sea of men out there, but finding a keeper, for even a one-night stand, was going to pose a challenge. Perhaps I was spoiled, having been surrounded by great men growing up. My expectations were, as Megan was constantly reminding me, too high. My dad and brother had been nothing less
than a rock-solid foundation. I'd always been able to look to them for an ear, and a warm bowl of risotto, in the midst of heartache. But I seemed to be a rare breed—one of the few to have been blessed with such present, supportive male figures. I didn't have an answer for my sudden interest in men, but one thing I knew for sure was that I wasn't fishing to fill a void. I'd been fishing my entire life.

I'd protest every time, but my dad still woke me at the crack of dawn, for there were lessons to be learned, above and beyond how to tie a fly.

“Elena, I will be downstairs.” His voice always grew a little stern on the third attempt to wake me. I'd drag myself out of bed, pull on some pants over my pajamas, throw on a couple more shirts, and head down to the too-bright kitchen in a sleepy stupor. My dad would be pouring hot tea into a thermos. Red Rose tea with honey and milk—a hug in a mug. The car would be packed with the fishing rod I got for Christmas and my tackle box, a birthday gift. The tackle box had failed to compete with the Barbie Dreamtime set I'd asked for (complete with matching pajamas for Barbie and me). But when it came to fishing with my dad, I'd come to forget about Barbie Dreamtime, and time altogether for that matter.

Upon devouring our breakfast of homemade oatmeal with bananas, raisins, and sunflower seeds all cooked in, we'd hop into the burgundy station wagon that somehow
survived the towing of many a boat too big. As we'd pull out of the gravel driveway in the quiet of dawn, the only sounds would be the pebbles popping under the tires and our dogs barking in protest. By the time we'd reached the lake, only twenty minutes away, it would be day. Birds from every angle would be welcoming the sun, each other, and us. My dad would reverse the car onto the boat ramp. That was always my least favorite part of the excursion, second only to unpacking the car. I'd get out of the car and into the boat and hold it close to the dock as he backed the trailer into the oily water. It always looked like he'd go too far and back the burgundy wagon right into the water. Then, at what always seemed like the last possible moment, the boat would let loose and my dad would punch the gas, skidding up the ramp and off to park the car. I'd wrap the rope around the pole of the dock, just as I'd been taught, and await his return. At age eight, it was a hefty responsibility, and I felt proud. But inevitably, as I waited, I'd start to imagine the boat coming loose from the dock and drifting into the middle of the lake with me in it. It was a scary yet enthralling image. I was familiar with my dad's favorite Italian swears by then, and I would almost hear them from across the lake, as if I had indeed lost my grip on the rope and floated away.

“Porca puttana schifa eva!”
I never did drift away.

My dad would return from parking the car with our poles in one hand and the cooler in the other, the rest of the
stuff already in the boat with me. As he'd step into the boat, it would tilt precariously to one side, but I'd know how to shift my weight to help balance it out. It was an army green rowboat with a little motor and two oars (just in case). And yes, we'd had to use them.

“Porca puttana!” My dad would try starting the motor, tugging violently on the pull cord. It would always start up eventually, and he would always act as if it wouldn't. On particularly unlucky days, we'd end up using the oars, but not because the motor had died. No. Rather, it was because somehow, even from the boat, I'd manage to get my fishing line caught on a tree branch on the nearby shore.

“Porca puttana schifa!”

I never understood why, with all that open water, my dad insisted on fishing right along the shore. Apparently, that's where the fish like to hide out. Over the years, the fish certainly hid out, and I certainly learned my Italian. It was never the actual fly my dad was after, as he leaned over the edge of the boat, swatting at trees with the oar. He could have just cut the line. But my dad never cut the line. He'd stretch, sweat, and curse rather than cut the line. It was obvious, even to an eight-year-old, that he enjoyed the challenge—proving to me that you can do anything you put your mind to. Ultimately, it wasn't about catching fish anyway. I'm well aware those excursions would have been a lot easier without me in tow. But he'd invite me every time.
AFTER THE L word incident, I was ready to give up on men altogether. But being a determined Italian woman, I said, “Porca puttana” and set out on fresh water.

S
tartled to find a stranger sitting in my chair at work, I walked right past my cubicle and made a beeline for Megan's desk.

“Um, Meg, there's someone in my seat. Were we bought overnight? Have I been downsized?”

“I have no idea. Ooh, let's go ask Jared. That new bimbo from HR was in his office when I got here. I need to show her who's boss.”

Megan bounced out of her seat and whisked past me on her way to his office. I knew that “Let's go ask Jared” meant let Megan go ask Jared alone in hopes of an on-the-clock kiss. I sat down at her desk.

“Promoted, I see?” Noah asked, strolling by while sipping his coffee, looking rather boyish from behind his giant vente Starbucks cup.

“Promoted? I thought I was already at the top of your list.” I shifted around in Megan's chair to face him. For the first time, I noticed the mole right under his left eye. It was kind of cute.

“Always. So when you want to change departments, let me know,” Noah said, winking and walking away.

Bimbo.
I hadn't heard a friend use that word in a very long time, and hearing it come out of Megan's mouth was jarring. I'd been living in a feminist lesbian bubble. My friends and I respected other women, celebrated them even. We did not see other women as rivals by default. Of course, there were bouts of jealousy here and there, friends dumped for other friends, but there lacked the general air of contempt for other women that I was witnessing in the straight world. It was not an unfamiliar concept to me, it had just been a while. There was a turning point in my teens when I realized I wasn't cut out for the divisive game of girl versus girl.

During my junior year of high school, this cute new girl, Jenny, arrived on the scene. I was threatened by her, showing up out of nowhere with her long curly auburn hair, sweet soft voice, and Kermit the Frog frame—at least that's how we referred to her, my friends and I, convinced we were fat at 120 pounds. She was one of those naturally thin girls, the ones who couldn't gain weight if they tried, as in retrospect I'm sure she'd attempted to. It was the era of fat-free foods—fat-free crackers, fat-free cookies, fat-free soups, fat-free ice
cream, fat-free cheese to put on the fat-free crackers, and fat-free breakfast bars that sat in your stomach like a brick. After school I'd splurge on my low-fat “healthy” cereal of choice, Honey Bunches of Oats. I'd stuff my face, but I was always hungry. The new girl, Jenny, looked so darn good in the baggy jeans and oversize hoodies we all sported. She attracted all the guys we liked, so obviously we didn't like her.

On one particular night, she had gotten especially drunk and was writhing around on the sticky floor of the eighteen-and-over club, giggling, inviting vomit with every sudden twist of her fragile body. The industrial beats of KMFDM clashed with the faint keyboards of The Cure leaking down from the second-story dance floor. The vodka and orange juice we'd gulped down in the cleaning supply closet had gotten the best of our red-headed friend. Tonight was her night. We'd all had ours. Humiliation was our hazing into the land of Doc Martens and hair dye, where all the boys were straight edge and we girls drank ourselves into comas.

Jenny lay squirming and flirting with her unfocused eyes from her compromising position on the floor. I laughed maniacally with the cooler girls surrounding me as we summoned the guys to come and see. I was trying on “mean girl” for a change, and, not unlike my outfit, it fit several sizes too big. I couldn't help but feel guilty.

A little later in the night, I caught a glimpse of myself under the interrogating light of the girls' bathroom. I tried to
block out the mirror, as well as the sound of Jenny puking in the stall behind me. Two other girls assisted her, one blocking the stall, the other holding her hair back. That's who I really am, I thought, as I faced myself in the mirror. I should be helping her. She blacked out that night. And I woke up. I would aim to be truer to myself.

Having tired of the feuds among girls, I spent most of my time with my best friend, Chuck. With a straight guy for a best friend, I didn't need to worry that we'd end up fighting over a mutual crush. (That was before I realized I liked girls, too; otherwise he would have had a run for his money.) We passed our summer days playing video games at the food court and exploring our town for new swimming holes, Naughty by Nature booming from the subwoofer of his red Honda CRX. On winter weekends we could be found hurtling down the nearby mountains on our snowboards, me racing to keep up with Chuck and his friends. The boys were competitive when it came to sports, and I preferred to let my combative nature loose on the slopes rather than the dance floor.