Carrie Pilby (19 page)

I remember something similar I did when I was little. When I was nine, I realized that perhaps every single thing we did in life, even sitting down or humming, was predestined. As soon as I thought of this, I jerked my arm so that I could do something sudden and gum up the works, maybe throw the rest of my life off that predestined course. But after I did that, I wondered if it was even predestined that I would jerk my arm. So I did a quick yell. But then I realized that maybe the yell was predetermined, too. So I suddenly turned my head. I realized that that also might have been predestined. So I pounded the table. But I realized that that could be predestined as well. So I had to give up.

I decide that I should call Kara after all. She probably is home, right?

I go to the kitchen table. After more deliberation, I dial her number. There's no answer. Of course, she found somewhere to go. Who wouldn't?

I guess I could have, too. I could have visited my father's friends. But I'd still have been lonely. Being lonely isn't about wanting to be with other people—it's about wanting to be with people who really care about you.

 

Out of ideas, I sit on my couch.

I use the time to think about a lot of things.

I think about why most people would find it appalling to ask a stranger for a dime but they're perfectly willing to ask for a cigarette.

I think about the big Thanksgiving conundrum: What exactly is the difference between a sweet potato and a yam?

This one I need to know. I get up and look through the dictionary.

The dictionary says a sweet potato is “a tropical American vine cultivated for its fleshy, tuberous orange-colored root.” It reports that a yam is “the starchy edible root of a tropical vine.” Maybe the sweet potato is the vine
and
the edible part, while the yam is just the edible part—but it notes that a sweet potato is American, and a yam is tropical. Oh, so many mysteries.

As I doze off at night, I think again about holidays, and family, and Matt, and Kara, and the comics, and yams, and kindergarten assignments, and Separatists, and chicken, and turkey, and that ingredient in turkey that's supposed to make you tired, and then I try to remember its chemical composition, but I'm not wholly successful in calling it up.

 

On Saturday, I get a call to go in to Dickson, Monroe. I instantly recognize it as Kara's firm. “I've been there before,” I quickly tell the legal proofreading assignment person, just to seal the deal in case she suddenly decides to change her mind about my worthiness. I don't know whether Kara will be there, and my heart races. I make sure to look extra neat. I don't know why.
Maybe I just like the challenge of impressing her. Maybe I like the idea that she doesn't look at me and instantly know I'm a misfit. It's like I've pulled something off.

When I get there, I'm thrilled to see that Kara is there. So are two other proofers: a heavyset guy in his twenties, and a shorthaired girl who's about five feet tall. Kara gives me a big smile. “Carrie!” she says. She's apparently already been regaling the guy and girl with tales of the daily grind at Dickson, Monroe, and she says to them, “This is Carrie. She rules.”

The guy asks if I'm an actress, and I say no, and he and the girl both say, “Good.” It seems that the guy, whose name is Billy, is an actor who's trying to get into stand-up comedy. The woman, Tina, is an actress and hand model.

Our supervisor comes out. “What we thought we were going to have you do isn't ready yet,” he tells us. “We do have something less challenging, if you're willing to do it. We have these spiral-bound booklets and we want to make sure there aren't any sections missing. So all you have to do is flip through each page just to make sure they're all there. I know that you guys are proofreaders, so if you think the work is beneath you, you don't have to do it. But if you stay, you
will
get full proofreading pay.”

“I'm in,” says Billy.

“I'm in,” says Tina.

“I'm in,” I say.

“Good.” The guy sets up a desk with piles of boxes, and he steps out. Kara stands across the table from me, where I can see her; she looks lively and sharp today, in ultrahip cat glasses. Billy stands next to me.

“What was his name again?” Tina asks after our supervisor has left.

“Eric,” Kara says.

“Eric the bee?” Billy pipes up.

“Eric the half bee,” Kara says. “He had an accident.”

Oh no. I can already tell that this is some comedy skit I've never heard of, and that neither Kara nor Billy will explain it. People are never willing to tell you what they're reciting when you ask. You have to ask like three times, and then you sound like an idiot. That's what they want. But then again, I kind of understand, since it ruins a joke if you have to cite sources.

Tina asks, “What's that from?”

True to form, Kara and Billy ignore the question.

“Can you sing the song?” Kara asks Billy.

“Of course,” Billy says.

“Wait,” Tina says. “Stop. Hold on. You cannot sing ‘the song' unless you tell us what ‘the song' is from.”

“Monty Python,” Billy says wearily.

Damn! It's always Monty Python. I have to go rent some Monty Python movies. Everyone recites those damn things and I'm left standing there silently like an idiot.

The two of them sing the song. I'm jealous of their rapport.

Eric, the supervisor, returns and gives us the rest of what we need.

He leaves, and we set to work.

“Carrie, how much money have we made already?” Kara asks me.

“Seven-fifty,” I say.

Billy and Tina instantly crack up.

“She didn't even look at her watch!” Tina laughs.

“I had just looked at it right before she asked,” I say.

“Yeah, Carrie's great,” Kara says. “Hey, how much have we made in this discussion alone?”

“About twenty-five cents more.”

“All right! Now how much?”

“Another two cents.”

“There are worse ways to make money,” Kara says.

“I know,” Tina says. “I just did Shakespeare in Detroit.”

“Ugh,” Billy says. “That's awful.”

“I prefer Shakespeare in de park,” Kara says.

“Now,
that's
awful.”

“You know what's impossible?” Billy says. “Mercutio.”

“Oh, I know,” Kara says. “I never would memorize that.”

“My friend does it for auditions.”

“That's like running your first marathon with encyclopedias strapped to your ankles.”

“Sounds kinky.”

“Ha!”

“Hey, do you know anyone who does good headshots?”

“Speaking of kinky.”

“No, seriously.”

They talk actor talk for a while. I watch Kara, who manages to look lively no matter what the topic.

Suddenly she smiles at me.

“What?” I ask.

“What are we up to?”

“Fifteen dollars.”

“All right!”

She slaps me five.

“I had the worst acting teachers in college,” Billy says.

“Oh, I made sure I got good ones,” Kara says, “especially since I had to pay for it myself.”

“You paid for college yourself?”

“Well, I mostly got grants,” she says. “My parents were out of the picture at a certain point, so I had to pay the rest.”

“Did you have to get yourself declared an ‘emaciated minor'?” Tina asks.

Billy and Kara instantly crack up. “Emaciated minor!” Billy says, falling over the table. “Yeah. She had Abraham Lincoln sign her Emaciation Proclamation.”

“I meant ‘
eman
-ci-ated,' or whatever it is,” Tina says.

I'm surprised that Kara and Billy laughed, seeing as I had to train myself for years not to laugh at people who use the wrong word.

“I didn't have to get myself declared,” Kara says seriously. “I just explained the situation to financial aid. My parents were both fighting, and neither of them wanted to pay. They deserved each other.”

“Too bad,” Tina says solemnly.

Suddenly Kara says, “Oh my God! I forgot to feed my tarantula!”

“What?”

“My ex-boyfriend gave me this tarantula last week. He was talking to me on the phone, and he mentioned he had this tarantula and couldn't keep it. And I was kind of pissed at him in general, but then I thought, hey, free tarantula.”

From her, this stuff comes out of nowhere. I smile.

“I'm getting back together with
my
ex-boyfriend,” Tina says.

“I would have talked you out of it a couple of months ago,” Kara says. “But now I know what being alone's like. It's boring not having anyone to shave your legs for.”

Billy rolls his eyes.

“What?” Kara asks.

“That was more than I needed to know.”

“That women shave their legs? You get into a serious relationship someday, and you'll have to watch.”

“Great,” Billy says.

We talk more and more about our own lives, and Kara discloses more and more.

“My therapist says that I talk too much,” Kara says.

“Yeah, well, maybe you pay your therapist too much,” Billy says.

“That was one of the things that struck me as so weird when
I first came to New York,” Tina says, “that everyone freely admits they see therapists.”

“That's because there's probably something wrong with you if you
don't,
” Kara says.

“I don't,” Billy says.

“I don't,” Tina says. “But I probably should.”

“Why?” Kara says. “What's your therapy problem?”

“Every time I get down my stairs, I have to run back up at least twice to make sure I locked my front door.”

“Where do you live?” Kara asks.

“Avenue C.”

“Well,
duh.
” Kara says. “Move! That'll be fifty dollars. Next!” She looks at Billy. “What's
your
therapy problem?”

“Well, whenever I see a cop, I fantasize about taking his gun.”

“Get your hands amputated,” Kara says. “That'll be a hundred dollars.” She looks at me. “What's
your
therapy problem?”

“I have too many to name,” I say.

“You win,” Kara says. “There's no hope for you. You're in the club like me.” She comes over and gives me a big hug, then goes back to her side of the table. I can't help but feel happy. Even though I'm not as loud or quick as Billy, I've still won.

The whole time we're saying all of this, we're still flipping through our booklets.

“I'm barely even looking at these now,” Tina says of them.

“I haven't even read an actual word in a half hour,” Billy laughs.

“Oh my God,” Tina says. “Which of these are the done ones and which are the undone ones?”

We all stop.

“This pile…” I say.

“I've been putting my checked ones there,” Billy says.

“Those are my unchecked ones, I thought,” I say.

“You've been checking my checked ones.”

“I was checking those,” Tina says.

“You're checking her checked ones,” Billy says.

“Oh, no,” Kara says.

We all look at each other. For a split second, I'm sure, we all contemplate just making an educated guess as to which ones are checked and putting them aside. But we all have at least a shred of a conscience. We have to start over. We're being paid for our time, anyway.

Billy sighs, and we push them across the table to start again.

We stay a total of six hours. Kara and Billy do improv. Then they mangle Shakespeare. I briefly wonder if they're going to go out at some point, but Billy has a fiancée. Tina seems a little out of the loop, but she smiles a lot.

When Billy, Tina and I are ready to leave, Eric asks Kara to stay another two hours. I'm a little disappointed. I was secretly hoping to go eat with her—I have no other plans. I don't know what it is, but she's just funny. And she says anything that comes into her head. I could never be like that, even if I wanted to. I'm not that brave. I guess being close to her is a way to experience that vicariously.

When I leave, she says she'll call me.

As I head home, I feel confused. About the kiss, and about everything. I could talk to Petrov about it, but I sure am not going to tell him about that night in her apartment. In fact, I haven't wanted to even think about it. It's not bad or anything—it's not immoral, and it certainly doesn't hurt anyone—but it's just not something I'm used to. And it's something that makes me feel different from everyone again.

 

Next time I see Petrov, I choose to skip all mentions of the kiss, but I do tell him about Kara in general and that she strikes me as an interesting person. I also tell him about my day of legal proofreading.

“What you just described,” Petrov says, “sounds like an afternoon of fitting in.”

“Huh?”

“From how you're telling it, you didn't seem to feel out of place at all,” he says. “You didn't feel like the people around you were beneath you or above you. All of you had a great time.”

“I guess,” I say. “But you see, that proves my point. We were in a situation where all we could do was talk. And it was a situation where the people, because they were proofreaders, had to be smarter than normal. So it shows that if I do feel like I fit in somewhere, it might have to be an unusual situation.”

“Possibly,” Petrov says. “But it also might be a start for you. The one girl, who didn't know the difference between ‘emaciate' and ‘emancipate,' you didn't seem to mind that she was there.”

“No. She wasn't bad.”

“The more you get used to people, the more you will accept different kinds of people,” Petrov says. “You have to realize that even in those who are different from you, there are things to admire.”