Intermission (9 page)

Manhattan. It’s . . . well, I – I distinctly remember my teenaged-self lounging in front of the television drinking tiny bottles of Evian and inventing my future-self. I imagined I would be this mature and refined pop star, sipping wine with celebrities in my sexy black cocktail dress. Discussing politics and fine art while being photographed for the Style Watch section of
People Magazine
. Hordes of rich men would line up and beg to whisk me away to London for the weekend. Of course, I wouldn’t accompany them because of my weekly performances at Carnegie Hall and the movie deal that would contractually forbid me from dating non-celebrities. My apartment in Washington Square would be an upscale, modern space but I would never be too good to slum it with my friends, Monica, Rachel, Phoebe, Ross, Joey and Chandler. Like, it totally made sense years ago.  I even prepared a speech for my GrammyEmmyOscarTony.

Reality bites. Being twenty-four in New York City goes more like this . . .

Last night I wore overall shorts I found for three dollars at a vintage clothing store, and by that I mean the Salvation Army on the corner of 6
^th
and 7
^th
. I wear crappy clothes while waitressing at the bar because of all the vile shit that splatters on me throughout the night, but it also seems to give me the apathetic edge of
I don’t
give a fuck
. I had a black tank underneath my dated denim and I thought I was rocking the Demi Moore-pottery-scene, but Natalie overtly pointed out that I looked like a Village hobo. (The Village is actually rather chic, so I took that as a compliment.) She is notorious for speaking her mind at the most inopportune moments, but I love her and she did manage to snag a pretty awesome apartment in TriBeCa.

If I told Nat I was actually three months overdue for a wax, she would disown me. I did find a rusty razor in the shower this morning, but it only managed to slightly scrape my legs. There was no way I was risking armpit hemorrhaging, so my appointment with Sue Ling will be more of a medical precaution rather than a luxury. My hair looks okay, if summer sweat can be considered the latest fad in glossy hair serum. The sun is normally good to me, leaving me with golden skin, but I still have the remnants of a farmer’s tan on my arms from wearing a Blue Jays t-shirt to a Yankees game – karma. Oh, and I don’t discuss my guitar-picking nails. Aesthetically, I’m a slob, but I look like the rest of the twenty-somethings.

My current place of employment is an understated bar located in TriBeCa. I can walk there, which is awesome, and the owner has a small crush on me, which makes it easy to get the best shifts. It’s near the Holland Tunnel, but ironically named The Bridge, provoking my need to hum
Under the Bridge
by the Chili Peppers
every single time I go to work. The bar has a steady stream of customers and the happy hour is very popular, mainly because it’s a nice place to hang before going to a real bar. My Tuesday through Saturday shift allows me to mingle with an eclectic crowd: underage NYU students, dating couples (or cheating couples) and a shitload of Uptown too scared to go all the way Downtown (
that’s what she said
.) Rarely are there hordes of handsome men, and not once have I been asked to run away to Europe. And oddly, record moguls aren’t breaking down the bar door to sign a sarcastic, Canadian slacker wearing thrift-store jeans and concert t-shirts.

Honestly, it fucking sucks. I was raised as an only child and educated by television and aversion – aversion to anything realistic and uncomfortable. It’s embarrassing to admit that I feel like I’m owed something in this world; by just going to college I would eventually own my own applesauce empire. And simply traveling around in a van pouring out my emotions on a rickety stage would reward me with a record deal. Or by just being me, creative, pretty and unique, I would score a hot guy and live in Beverly Hills with awesome clothes and the Peach Pit.

But with each day struggling as an adult, the enchanting visions of my future start to implode. The world is faced with new problems now, bigger problems and relevant people with realistic ideas. The new millennium of plastic, technology and fear has distorted and mocked my teenaged fantasies, forcing me to hide in a bubble of the
whatevers
. But I’m not alone, oh no, there’s a whole fucking generation of exceptional, over-educated, turgid pricks like me, waiting for the future to fall in our laps. I’m not lazy or depressed, I’m a byproduct of false idealism and Saturday morning cartoons. I get that now, on the eve of my 25
^th
birthday – and it’s all about to change.

 
 
July 4, 2003

“Molly’s house is three blocks east past the bait shop. Good thing I brought the rolling bags!” Natalie exclaims.

We step off the ferry and onto the rustic dock to take in our weekend paradise. The smell of the salty ocean is overwhelmingly fresh compared to the subway steam and curry that penetrates our neighborhood. Ocean Beach is gorgeous in its natural environment, and the gentle swaying of the sea oats is like a mystical trance of tranquility. Breathe in, breathe out . . . holy shit this is amazing!

We spent the entire train ride chatting with a group of college kids from the Upper East Side. They mentioned to us at least a million times that they’re renting a house in the Hamptons and consequently, I have a massive headache from rolling my eyes. They turned their snobby noses up at the mention of Fire Island, even though Natalie boasted about our mansion that was once owned by Elizabeth Taylor. By the time the train stopped in Bayshore, those stupid kids thought we were two rich socialites that were simply partying for the weekend. Idiots.

I follow Natalie on the walkway, taking the time to read the large signs she seems to be ignoring. Oh shit.

No swimming beyond floats.

No food or drinks.

No disrobing.

No radios without earphones.

No ball playing, kites or Frisbees.

No sexual abstinence.

Okay, so the last one is just my interpretation from the article I read in Time Out New York about the
Land of NO!
Apparently, people come to this island for two things: gay-friendly shenanigans and freaky, no limitations, sex. (As long as you don’t fly a kite or drink a beer.)

“Hey Nat, did you bring a Frisbee?” I joke.

Natalie stops abruptly and spins to face me. “Why the fuck would I bring a Frisbee? I swear Chloe, if you don’t get laid this weekend, I’m shipping you back to T.O.” She continues walking toward a green picket fence surrounding a gray shingled cottage. The front door is the color of butter, and tiny seashells dangle from the door frame. “Yes, there it is. How adorable is that house? Chloe, this is going to be so much fun!” Natalie picks up her pace and I trail behind her with a giddy smile.

“Did Molly tell you where to meet people?” I ask.

“Of course she did! We’ll have lunch and hang by the beach. She said parties are always popping up and tonight there’s a huge fireworks show.”

We roll our bags into the little cottage and tour the space. There are two small bedrooms, one large bathroom and a kitchen tinier than the one in our apartment. The living room is actually in the back, overlooking the sand dunes and the foamy waves of the Atlantic Ocean. Molly’s home is cozy, comfortable and at least a million dollars.

Natalie and I plop down on a white linen sofa and stretch out our legs. Our relaxation is interrupted by a shadow moving outside the large window and I nervously grab Nat’s hand. We quietly get up and move toward the figure, my heart racing and her hand squeezing the circulation out of mine . . . but it’s just a deer! Oh wait, there are two cute little deer, staring at us with their big brown eyes! It’s cool that the wildlife can flourish even though their habitat is disrupted by ferries full of visitors and drag queens. I could watch their innocent faces nuzzle against each other all afternoon, not a care in the world, not worried about a job or a music career or finding someone to love, these deer inspire me.

And . . . the bigger one just mounted the female. He’s humping the shit out of her and his eyes are rolling to the back of his fuzzy head. The female on the other hand, appears frightened. Her doe eyes are now the size of saucers and she’s making a weird sheep noise. They don’t seem to mind the audience and yet I can’t look away.

“Everything gets laid,” I joke.

“On Fire Fucking Island,” Nat retorts.

 
 
7:45 p.m.

We met a few of Molly’s neighbors on the beach earlier and they graciously invited us over for cocktails on their patio. Now, math is my worst subject, but I can manage simple calculations to determine that one husband, one wife and one girlfriend equals a threesome. And two gays plus two LeGrange girls equals no sex for Chloe. I would never judge someone’s lifestyle or sexual preference, but Nat and I might be in a sexual conundrum.

The owner of the house, Mr. Hughes, has one hand on the ass of his girlfriend Susan, and the other hand tightly around my waist. His gorgeous wife, Mrs. Hughes, is busy drunk-flirting with Natalie, and I’m pretty sure her left boob is about to pop out of her super slutty top. Natalie is so sarcastic and crazy, that she charmingly plays along with the flirtation, even commenting on Mrs. Hughes’ lovely top. Benjamin and Travis are the hottest gays ever, and I have a very, very dirty visual going on in my head right now that includes me, the gays and a steamy shower – but, I didn’t spend two hours getting everything waxed for lousy bourbon and an awkward swing party.

“So hey, Nat, we should get to those dinner reservations,” I say casually.

“Reservations? No, you have to come with us to Frankie’s by the docks! It’s
the
spot to watch the fireworks.” Travis pulls me away from Mr. Hughes and spins me slowly. He’s making one of those
mmm hmm
faces and motions for Benjamin to join him. “Chloe, you have amazing curves! Benji – Rita Hayworth, am I right?”

“Oh yes, the real Rita Hayworth, not that poor queen dragging at The Pines!” Benjamin quips and they both laugh at some sort of inside joke. But whatever, Rita Hayworth was fucking hot – and real men appreciate curves.

“Chloe, I love you in that dress!” Natalie squeezes between Benjamin and Travis and winks at me. “In fact, I’d say whoever packed that dress is a fucking genius.”

It’s true. Natalie is an evil genius. I feel amazing in this knee-length vintage purple dress – an actual vintage piece of clothing from a shop in SoHo that sells Broadway costumes (in my mind, it belonged to Raquel Welch.)

“Travis – I have a brilliant idea! Let’s introduce the girls to the Decker twins,” Benjamin squeals.

“Yes! I would love some double Decker peckers,” Natalie jokes.

“Oh honey, they are pretty to look at, but incredibly dumb!” Travis adds.

Honestly, I don’t give a shit if they grunt like cavemen, I desperately want to escape the Hughes and their
bow chicka wow
wow
pretense. Mr. Hughes keeps winking and licking his lips and Mrs. Hughes’ left nipple has finally made its way into the party.

“Great, let’s go to Frankie’s!” I shout.

 
 
8:25 p.m.

The seven of us make our way to Frankie’s by the dock. The swingers up front, fondling and giggling, followed by Nat and Travis debating over the sexiest Superman –
Lois and Clark
or
Smallville.
Benjamin hangs in the back with me, breathing in the fresh air and catching fireflies.

“Don’t you just love the Fourth?” Benji asks.

“It’s my birthday, actually,” I say.

“No shit! I’m buying you a drink, my little Yankee Doodle Dandy.” Benjamin puts his arm around my shoulders and rustles my hair. He’s exactly the kind of guy I’m attracted to, tall, dark and the muscular forearms of Popeye. But he’s also sincerely sweet and protective, qualities of a true gentleman.

“Benji, can I ask a favor?” I say quietly.

“Of course, my pet.”

“Don’t let me do anything stupid.”

“But it’s your birthday and a holiday!”

“Please,” I say firmly.

“I promise. Look, we’re here – Peccadillo Circus!”

Holy shit!

Natalie and I walked past Frankie’s this morning on our way to Molly’s house. It’s a cute little bait and tackle shop that sells worms and Vera Bradley bags, but tonight, it’s been transformed into a breeding ground for all that are unholy and horny. The once pristine and peaceful dock is now swallowed by huge red and white striped tents, like a circus, only no clowns, just very bad things. My eyes have never witnessed this kind of stimulation, and my heart is throbbing to the obnoxious beat of horrible club music.

Mrs. Hughes takes a white pill from a dude dressed as George Washington and pops it in her mouth. They start kissing, but their tongues are totally missing the mark. His powdered wig and her floppy left tit is enough to erase my patriotic perceptions of the founding fathers forever.

Natalie spins to face me, her eyes huge and her mouth hanging open. She nods in the direction to her right where two girls are on their knees giving a guy a blowjob – directly below one of the signs that forbids disrobing and Frisbees. Benji grabs my hands and waves them in the air as Natalie mock-dances to my side. She leans in to speak, but I can’t hear a thing she’s saying.

“Jesus Christ, Chloe. This is fucking crazy!” she screams.

“What?” I scream back.

Travis starts grinding Natalie from behind and playfully pushes her toward Benjamin. They sandwich her between them, joining their hands at her hips. Nat has always wanted two guys at once, and I’m beginning to understand why . . . that is the hottest thing I’ve seen since that episode of Buffy and Spike screwing on the roof. Travis pulls Nat’s head back into his chest, allowing Benji to lick her shoulder before landing sensually on his lover’s lips. Natalie glances at me while the two of them tongue each other and thrust against her. I shrug my shoulders, unsure of what to do, but she reaches out her hand, asking for help. I tug at her body until she is able to slither into my arms. Benji and Travis don’t even seem to notice us walking away.