Getting Over Jack Wagner (23 page)

Win and I had had minimal contact over the summer. He was in Montana, backpacking from ranch to ranch. I was at home, temping for a podiatrist, hearing about Hannah's life-changing semester in Africa, and watching my mother walk down the aisle, all three of which inexplicably made me feel like bawling. I had received just two postcards from Win, each with a peace sign dotting the “i” in his name and the return address “Somewhere, Montana.”

Despite our lack of contact, picking up where we left off was easy. Too easy, it seemed. Win read me some of his new lyrics, most of them involving dust and prairies and the recurring phrase “lasso my soul.” I drowned in “Heroes of Women's Literature, Post-1945.” For two weeks, the Band changed their name to Win Brewer and the Range. Although Win was still passionate and offbeat and frequently nude, our life in the commune was starting to feel a little hollow. Silly. At night, I noticed his dreadlocks were spawning tiny, curly children.

Then, one Saturday morning in October, we were crawling out of the sleeping bag toward coffee when Win asked, “Feel like a road trip?”

I was too startled to come up with an answer.

“I was just thinking,” he continued, slow as a dripping faucet. “We could crash with my 'rents upstate. Chill with my high school friends. Hike. Hang.”

All I could come up with was “drool”—some botched combination of “dude” and “cool”—when what I actually meant to say was “Maybe we should spend some time apart” or “I'm not really in a road-tripping kind of place right now.” Instead, an hour later, I found myself driving to St. Clair, New Jersey.

The five-hour ride in a borrowed RV was the longest period Win and I had ever spent together conscious. It was also the first time we'd ventured anywhere farther from the commune than Barry's Used CDs or Ronnie's Organic Foods. When we hit highway, ten miles outside Wissahickon, I could already feel the hypnotic pot-and-bongo haze of the commune beginning to lift. In the real world, the moving world, Win's routines were more pronounced and much more annoying: stopping every hour for another hit, chugging water to stay hydrated, playing me tapes of the Band and pointing out all the totally fresh (and seemingly identical) new chords and riffs.

Three joints and six tapes later, Win steered our graffitied car/boat into what looked like the entrance of a posh country club.

“Where are we?”

“Home sweet home,” Win said, leaning on the horn.

My very first thought (not that I'm happy about it) was: Mom would be so proud. After years of living vicariously through
Knots Landing
and
Benson,
I had arrived at a mansion. A real-life mansion. The stuff
Entertainment Tonight
is made of.

Naturally, the RV looked completely misplaced. I felt like I was trapped inside one of those junior high games of MASH when you watch a circling pencil and suddenly find yourself living in Paris with a BMW, fourteen kids, and a shack. All I could hear were my mother's frantic warnings about salad-fork etiquette as Win pulled up to the gold-knockered front doors.

Mrs. Win was waiting for us in the foyer, which resembled an enormous, shiny checkerboard. She was wearing a silky purple pantsuit and high heels. Silvery eyeshadow climbed to her brows, which were thin as nail parings.

“Winny!” the woman squealed. Somehow, I had been expecting something more like “Winston, dahling.” Win dropped his duffel as his mother grabbed him and planted a squishy kiss on his cheek. “Who's your friend?” she asked, heading my way with her arms flung wide.

“That's Eliza,” Win said.

“Eliza!” The woman had obviously never heard of me in her life, but wrapped me in a perfumed hug anyway. She was like an overeager den mother, in Gucci. “What a neat name! Is it short for Elizabeth?”

“No. It's short for Eliza. I mean, it isn't short for anything,” I blabbered, feeling inadequate in every way.

Win's mother didn't seem to notice my idiocy, which was kind. Maybe she was totaling up my pierces. She herself was wearing diamond studs the size of hams.

“Well, it's just great to meet you, Eliza,” she said, then walked back to where Win was slouching by the door. To my surprise, she reached out and grabbed two of his dreadlocks in her fists. “Winny,” she sighed, flopping the locks back and forth. “When are you going to cut these things off?”

“Lay off, Mom.”

“But you always had such
cute
haircuts…”

“Mom,
stop,”
Win scowled, glancing quickly at me.

But it was too late: I could feel the transformation beginning. Win Brewer was starting to morph before my very eyes. His slow, angst-ridden drawl was suddenly sounding like a whine. His drab, baggy pants simply didn't fit him right. Flopping in his mother's hands, the dreadlocks which had cemented his rock-star status at Wissahickon were starting to resemble cute, fuzzy marionettes.

By bedtime, Win's authenticity had been chipped away bit by painful bit. His father, a kielbasa of a man stuffed into a metallic suit, arrived home just in time for dinner (duck smothered in creamy French sauce). Win, of course, refused to eat meat. Out of loyalty, I avoided the duck and stuffed myself with wine and rolls. Getting drunker by the second, I listened politely to his parents' conversation, while realizing that everything I'd taken most seriously about Win Brewer was, according to his mom and dad, a hilarious family joke.

a) His vegetarianism. “You know I don't eat meat,” Win objected to the duck.

“Oh, Win. Are you still on that?” his mother said, rolling her eyes. She turned to me and launched into a detailed description of Win's favorite childhood snack: beef tips.

Mr. Win merrily speared some wing meat. “Winny's first words?” he announced, and the two of them crowed in unison: “'Home of the Whoppa!”'

b) His band. “So, picked a name yet?” Win's father asked, chuckling.

“We're working on it,” Win muttered.

His parents exchanged an amused smile. “How about Indecision?” suggested Mrs. Win.

“Or Academic Probation?” from Mr. Win.

If they hadn't been wrecking my love life, I could have really gotten to like these two.

Multiply the dinner conversation by four smoking jabs, nine dreadlock jabs, and one long reminiscence about the year Win believed he actually
was
a Mutant Ninja Turtle and you'll understand why, by the end of it all, I'd abandoned the commune and was shoveling in the damn duck.

“Winny always was a showman,” his mom said, pressing her hand against mine so a pound of diamond ring dug into my knuckles. “Oh, Gary. Remember when he had that magic act?”

“The squirting tulip,” Mr. Win moaned. “God help us.”

“You've got to go roll the tape, Gar,” Mrs. Win said. “Eliza needs to see this.”

“No,” Win said. “No way.”

Though back in the commune Win's words were like gospel, here it was a different story. “Five minutes, Winny,” his mother said, in the same firm tone I'm sure she once used to send him to bed without beef tips.

“Rolling tape” was a serious understatement, since “tape” was a professional-quality montage set to the
Chariots of Fire
theme, and “rolling” entailed a movie screen descending from the ceiling as if by magic. The tape was like an upper-upper-class
Wonder Years:
Win in a headdress running around the mansion naked, Win in swim goggles running around a pool club naked, Win a little too old to be running around anywhere naked. Then, a montage of fashion faux pas: a flash of little Win wearing neckties and Richie Rich shoes. A fake mustache and magician's top hat. A zillion zits and an AC/DC muscle shirt.

“He's always been finding himself,” Mr. Win said, with a wink tight as a dime.

I guess it was then that I knew for sure what I'd been suspecting for a while: things would be ending between Win and me. Even so, I would wait out the weekend before making it official. I would wait out the five-hour, four-joint ride home. I would even wait out the rest of the fall semester. In December, Win and I had a long talk about his
confused place
and my
restless place
which seemed, miraculously, to satisfy us both.

“Intense,” Andrew said afterward, as we toasted with Big Macs.

 

The day I left the commune, Win and I stood on the porch with a duffel full of sweatshirts and a crate full of English textbooks, gazing down at the mound of fur sleeping on the hammock.

“Which one do you want?” he said.

At seven weeks old, the kittens were still pretty indistinguishable. They looked a lot like a giant dust ball clinging to the side of Sarcastic Nancy. I was about to randomly extract one from the fluff when I heard a scratching noise and looked up. There was the renegade: gray-furred, yellow-eyed, wiggling his butt as he prepared to hurl himself from a hanging ivy plant into an empty guitar case.

“I'll take that one,” I said.

I
have stopped writing the book. Not because I'm unable to write the book, but because there is nothing new or interesting to write about. Five months after I dissented from Win's commune, I graduated from college and my life became pretty much what it is today: living in a tiny apartment, raising Leroy, avoiding my mother, obsessing over vacation typos (e.g., Carribean versus Caribbean), and frequenting The Blue Room, where I've ushered in a parade of wannabe rock stars. They are edgy. They are indie. They are Karl, just with different earrings and tattoos and haircuts and mothers.

Concerns About the Book:

• a) every relationship ends the same (or is that the point?)
  
• b) the musicians/boyfriends are kind of one-dimensional (or is that the point?)
  
• c) story is becoming kind of predictable (maybe that's the point)
  
• d) book has no clear point.
  

It is not good. I am wearing sweats. I am watching
Webster.
I have abandoned the book altogether. I have recurring flashbacks of last night's date with Donny. When I hear The Piano Man playing “Chopsticks,” I consider the possibility that my life has actually become a VH1
Behind the Music
and I have arrived at the 9:30
P.M.
decline.

 

I resort to lists.

 

Words to Outlaw If I Were President:

• 1) “announcement”
  
• 2) “prom” (with no article)
  
• 3) “securities analyst”
  
• 4) “and a bag of chips” (suffix)
  

Words to Reinstate If I Were President:

• 1) “sike”
  
• 2) “no duh”
  
• 3) “gross me out the door”
  

Sunday night I have a recurring series of nightmares. In one, I'm being beaten over the head by a giant garlic breadstick. In another, I'm being doused with a giant bottle labeled “Hair Pomade,” clutched by a super-sized, grinning Donny Osmond.

 

Monday morning, I call in sick to Dreams. It is 6:30
A.M.
, early enough that I can avoid speaking directly to Beryl and being overcome with guilt when she quizzes me about the date and clucks sympathetically over my imaginary illness. Instead, I speak to the recorded message: a snatch of “Kokomo” followed by Kelly chirping, “Hello and thanks for calling! Let us make your dreams come true!”

“Hi, everyone,” I speak after the beep. I add a weak cough, for effect. “It's Eliza. I'm sick.” The way I see it, this is not untrue. I
am
sick, in a way. Sick of working. Sick of dating. Sick of writing cheerful captions for celluliteless women wearing thongs. “I'll call in when I'm better. But from the look of things, it might be a while.” I add an exaggerated sniffle. “Happy Monday.”

 

Leaving my apartment to stock up on essentials requires my very last ounce of strength. I keep my head down, my eye contact minimal. At Value Video, I rent all things John Cusack. At the all-purpose drugstore, I buy tampons and entertainment magazines. I slog through the crammed food aisle, regressing to the forbidden foods of my childhood: Jolt, Pop Tarts, shredded green Big League Chew. I buy cereals and cookies with generic brand names like Crunchy Octogons, Berry Breakfast Nuggets, and Crispy Chocolate Wafers. Unlike most things in life, they tell you exactly what you are getting.

*  *  *

Back in the apartment, buoyed by cookies, I commence hibernation. I think this is the life I was cut out to live. It is easier than trying to date rock stars, and infinitely easier than trying to understand the screwed-up, oedipal-musical psychology
behind
my trying to date rock stars. As it turns out, I don't need—or want—anyone but myself.

I adjust quickly to the formlessness of never leaving my apartment. I let dishes sit unwashed. I stop wearing makeup. I lose track of what day it is, never mind what date. I stop shaving my legs, and ignore the messages glutting my answering machine. My cicadian rhythms are dictated by cans of Jolt: surge and crash, surge and crash. I sleep during the day, do crossword puzzles at dawn. Eat Chocolate Wafers for breakfast, Berry Nuggets at night. I am defying someone, I'm just not sure whom.

 

Message from Hannah: “Alan and I are back from the Amish country. You have to see this incredible quilt I found. How was your big date? We're dying to hear all about it!”

 

Message from Andrew: “I'm watching pro billiards. Call me.”

 

Message from Camilla: “Eliza. I need to talk to you right away about the dates for a baby shower Dara's planning. Call me by Thursday. Friday, at the absolute latest. That's when she has to let the reception hall people know. Okay? Are you doing okay? Dating anyone new? Talk to you soon. Remember: Friday.”

*  *  *

Message from Andrew: “I'm watching
Nova.
Call me.”

 

My only human (sort of) contact is a) the cast of
The Real World,
b) Leroy, who I talk to more and more frequently (“You're in my book!” I shout at him, clapping my hands, “Leroy, did you know you're in my book?!”) and c) The Piano Man upstairs. I've actually come to look forward to his daily serenades. Usually he plays at night, around six or seven, and I curl up under an afghan and close my eyes to listen. Sometimes his music is light and mellow, sometimes rich and romantic. Other times, it is atonal. Anxious.

 

Message from the Queen Mother: “Honey, the girls tell me you haven't been in all week. Any chance you'll be back with us tomorrow? Our travelers need their travel news! Call us, talk to us, tell us you're alive. You had a big date, I hear?”

 

By Friday, it occurs to me that the Agents probably think my absence from work is post-coital. God knows what Donny said to Beryl, or if he's even spoken to Beryl. I can hear the Agents now, speculating about us around the Diet Coke and angel food: Donny and I taking off to Aruba and drinking out of hairy coconut halves, Donny and I taking off to Italy and sucking down sauceless pasta, Donny and I going to Vegas and getting hitched by Barry Manilow.

Obviously, I will have to find a new line of work.

Options:

• a) Cat lady. On the plus side, I wouldn't have to leave my apartment much. I could be as privately zany as I wanted. I could never shave my legs again. On the other hand, it might get expensive in the paraphernalia department, i.e., toys, treats, tiny mittens, fisherman's sweaters, holiday accessories (antlers, bunny ears). I don't think Leroy would take too well to being accessorized, or sharing his turf with any new cats (I'm pretty sure the minimum is around thirty) who would.
  
• b) FBI agent. I've always liked the stealth of it, the muted sarcasm, the all-black wardrobe. I'm just not crazy about the danger. I do love, however, the slim possibility of kissing David Duchovny (in my book, the only man in the world who looks good carrying a cell phone).
  
• c) Muse. Hm. Musing has potential. It's cheap, safe, unconditional love. A boost to the self-esteem. Endless amounts of free grapes. The only drawback is the constant nakedness, but maybe I can work around it.
  

As I'm considering the specific requirements of muse nudity, The Piano Man starts to play. The tune is something passionate, romantic—Rachmaninoff?—packed with sweat and crescendos. Come to think of it, I realize, burrowing deeper into my couch, this musing career could work out perfectly. I could be the muse, The Piano Man my musee. Maybe we could work out an arrangement where I don't ever have to leave my apartment. He'll drop grapes through the heating vent. I'll shout encouragement from below. I'm attempting to project inspiration through the ceiling (it involves a squinching of the eyes, a pursing of the lips) when the phone rings.

It rings, and rings some more. It doesn't even occur to me to answer. Finally Andrew's voice comes on, droning like a lawnmower. “Piccccck upppppp,” he motors into the machine. “Piccccck upppppp.” Then he pauses and, to my horror, begins to rap. “This is Andrew…callin' for my homey…wonderin' when she's gonna pick up the…phoney…”

He leaves me no choice. I grab it, as the machine unleashes a painful whine of feedback. “Never do that again,” I tell him, frantically poking buttons on the answering machine until the hideous noise cuts off.

“Hey, got you to pick up,” Andrew gloats. “What up, dog?”

Now that I am on the phone and have made both the rapping and the feedback disappear, I realize I'm not ready to have this conversation. I am not prepared to go public with the specifics of my life right now. A bombed date. A week spent in my pajamas. Four hundred Crispy Chocolate Wafers.

“Let me rephrase,” Andrew is saying, as I stuff my mouth full of Big League Chew. “What are you watching?”

I look at the TV and glimpse David Hasselhoff. “Nothing.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Why haven't you returned my messages?”

“No reason.”

“Eliza. Help me out here. Where the hell have you been this week?”

I need to think fast. It shouldn't be too hard, right? I work in travel, for God's sake, an industry founded on where-the-hell-have-you-been. Aruba? Jamaica? I shake my head, clearing cookies from my brain. “I've been…dating somebody.”

“You have? Who?”

Not an unreasonable question. But the last thing I want to get into right now is the garlicky breadsticks…the cell phone…the nightmares. “You don't know him,” I stall, as the ceiling shivers with a Beethoven-ish thump. Then, in the long tradition of words traipsing out of my mouth without my conscious involvement—see “your skin on mine” (Chapter 4) and “Do you know the song ‘All I Need'?” (Chapter 6)—the next sentence is out before I can stop it: “He's a pianist.”

“From The Blue Room? Those are synthesizers, Eliza.”

“No. I mean a real pianist.” I bite my lip. “Classical.”

Andrew sounds skeptical. “Where did you meet a real classical pianist?”

“Upstairs.” Hm. This was actually easier than I'd thought. “I mean, he lives upstairs.”

“What's his name?”

This one, however, I was not prepared for. It's much too much pressure too soon. A name as important as an Imaginary Boyfriend's deserves weeks, months to decide.

“Junxdtk?” I blurt out, a knot of gum and consonants.

“Who?”

“Juchk?”

“Jack?”

“No,” I amend, clearing my throat and racking my brain. “It's Jacques.”

“Jacques?”

“Yes.” I am surprisingly satisfied. “Jacques. It's French.”

“Yeah, thanks. How old is this Jacques?”

Twenty-four? Thirty-five? “Twenty-nine.”

“Does he wear a beret?”

“Um, no.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“He, you know. Performs.” Obviously. “He has gigs. Around the world.” Okay. “Actually, he's taking me to Aruba soon for one of his shows.” I have no shame. “He doesn't want it to leak to the press, though. So you can't tell anyone. It's all very…understated.” That part, at least, is fact.

 

At last I have found him, the perfect rock star/boyfriend: Imaginary Jacques.

Imaginary Jacques can be anything I want him to be. He won't have an overbearing mother. He won't have reams of baby albums. He won't have nasty personal habits or offensive catchphrases or repulsive sleeping rituals. If Imaginary Jacques ever wore cummerbunds or Whitesnake tank tops in the '80s, I will never have to know. I get all the perks, none of the disappointments. There's no reality to bring me down.

I start to mentally revise my earlier, ear-haired version of The Piano Man. Imaginary Jacques is young, thin, dark. He has a patchy goatee, a silver hoop in his left brow. He wears scuffed moccasins and worn black jeans with sporadic, rust-colored paint stains on the knees. Before, I thought his reclusiveness was weird. Now, it makes perfect sense. Unlike other musicians, who need the stage to inflate their egos, Jacques needs nothing more than his keyboard and himself. He is the kind of musician who's in it for the art, not the chicks. Who doesn't answer his phone cause he's lost in his
fortissimos.
Who staples his thumbs to feel Beethoven's pain.

 

Message from Hannah: “Should I be worried, or was your date so good it hasn't ended yet? Could you just please call me back? Let me know you're okay?”

 

Dating will be much, much simpler with Imaginary Jacques. I won't have to worry about looking good for my Imaginary Boyfriend. I won't have to berate myself for not jogging or joining a gym. I won't have to wear makeup. I won't have to worry about sauces and cheeses and when I can and cannot eat them in public. At Dreams, I can field the Agents' questions with confidence, eloquence, waxing poetic about Imaginary Jacques's advanced degrees (MFA, Composing) and favorite pastimes (poetry, painting) and gourmet dinner recipes (insert name of seafood) marinated in (insert name of wine).