Carrie Pilby (33 page)

I put down my pen and pick up my copy of
Mr. Smith Goes to Washington
to return to the video store. I was disappointed in this one. Politicians today cite Jefferson Smith as if he's some great role model, but in truth, all he does is hang around with young boys and beat up reporters. That's just not cool.

When I get outside my apartment, I see Ronald.

“Carrie!” he says.

“Ronald!”

“What kind of food do you want to get tonight?”

“I don't know,” I say. “What do you think?”

He shrugs. “Italian? Chinese? Mexican?”

“Not Mexican.”

“It's going to be fun,” Ronald says.

His unassuming optimism is kind of charming.

“You want to meet me at the coffee shop at six?” I ask.

“Sure. Hey, what movie's that?”

“Oh,” I say. I hold it down, at my side. I guess he has forgotten our earlier discussion. “I'm sorry. I just don't like to say what movies I'm renting. It's nothing personal.”

“Okay. I'm sorry.”

“No, don't be sorry. Lots of people ask me that. I'm just a strange person. It's not your fault.”

He grins. “I'm glad you're strange.”

“Well, I'll see you soon.”

“See you,” he says.

I walk to the video store, return the DVD and take out a couple of musicals. My project right now is to make Cy think I'm an expert. I like being the dumb one. It's a nice change. A challenge.

(By the way, I
didn't
have sexual intercourse with him that night, if that was what you were thinking. Yeah, we did a lot of things, but we stopped short of that. See how jaded you are?)

When the cashier hands me the movies, she doesn't offer me a bag, so I have to ask for one. They'll never learn.

When I get home, I write in my journal, “You should never give up on a principle that is logical, sound, important and integral to your constitution, even if the world seems against it.” Just as true now as it was three months ago.

I close the journal, pop in the movie, pull on some toasty new socks, and curl up on my bed. The movie's all right, but I fall asleep nevertheless.

I am tremendously grateful to the following people:

Cheryl Pientka, my agent, for her unparalleled wisdom, humor and patience; Farrin Jacobs, for superior editing and wit; Marc Serges, a true literary sage, for insight and persistence; Matthew Greco, Jeff Hauser and Stacie Fine, for their many invaluable suggestions; Dawn Eden, Eileen Budd, Dan Saffer, Jim Damis, Barry Macaluso, Mary Beth Jipping, Julia Hough, Jonathan Blackwell, Michael Malice, Robert Donnell and Jodi Harris, for advice and longtime literary support; Lucha Malato, Dave Unger and Joe Barry, for keeping me clothed and fed; Jennifer Merrick, for artistic ideas; my brother, Todd; my parents; and Al Sullivan.