Reinventing Mona (14 page)

“You sure know my business, Mona. I’m impressed, but not surprised. You always seemed to understand the financial matters I explained to your grandmother. You are a very smart woman.”

“Not that smart, Adam.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I’ve let seven years go by without telling you how I feel about you. That’s pretty dumb in my book.”

“Oh, Mona. I have been in love with you since the day we first met, but your grandmother forbade me to pursue things with you until she passed away.”

I hadn’t worked through why Grammy would make such a ridiculous request, but for the sake of the fantasy, I went with it. There was something wildly romantic about the reconciliation of forbidden love. Years of separation bred a passion between us fed by hunger. Adam and I then hang up our phones, jump into our cars, and drive toward each other, unable to be apart one moment longer. As he’s driving to Coronado and I’m heading toward downtown, we stop right in the middle of the bridge. We run toward each other in slow motion, arms open and waiting. He gallantly jumps over the concrete divider and embraces me, lifting and twirling my bow-arched body as my newly straightened hair whips gracefully in the breeze. Car horns blow and people cheer. Adam gently holds my face and looks deeply into my eyes. “Marry me, Mona Warren. Make me the happiest man alive and marry me.”

“Yes.” I laugh, my hair still blowing in the wind, but never getting caught in my lipstick. “Yes, Adam Ziegler. I will marry you!”

A lacy cursive line begins writing. “The End.”

“Adam Ziegler’s office,” a nasal female honking interrupted the rolling credits.

“Oh, yes, um, thank you,” I struggled. “May I speak with Adam, please?”

“May I tell him what this is regarding?’’ she grilled.

“Oh, yes. Please tell him it’s Mona Warren. I need to make an appointment to discuss my taxes.”

“You don’t need an appointment, dear. I’ll fax or e-mail our questionnaire and we’ll handle everything electronically.”

Certainly this nasal woman had no idea that my life, my future happiness, was hinging on this tax appointment. She couldn’t possibly know the panic, angst, and rage her words were causing. I took a deep breath and remembered Greta pretending she was Claudia Schiffer’s assistant. She must have had at least a mild case of the jitters, but she did it anyway. To get through this call, I would pretend I was cast in the film
Life of Mona
, playing the role of crafty and resourceful Greta. I’d mix in a bit of Vicki’s confidence and create my own character that could handle this situation far better than plain old Mona.

“You can e-mail the questionnaire, but I really do insist on an appointment with Mr. Ziegler. My grandmother passed away and he’ll need to fill out a 706 form this year.”

“He can do that without your having to come in, dear. Our new office manager organized a system that helps us maximize efficiency and save our clients’ valuable time,” she honked her canned response.

Breathe deeply. Do not cry.

“Please put me through to Mr. Ziegler. Tell him it’s Mona Warren.” Remaining silent after this was the toughest part. I wanted to apologize for my tone of privilege and entitlement. I wanted to confide in her, woman-to-woman, that I loved Adam and
wanted
to be as inefficient as possible with last year’s tax returns. Instead, I said nothing and listened to the thick dead air of offending the receptionist.

“Good morning, Mona. What can I do for you?” It was Him. He knew it was me on the phone demanding to speak with him, and he still thought it was a good morning. The sound of his voice uttering my name made me regret that I wasn’t taping the call for repeated replay later. His sound was warm and deep with the slightest undercurrent of sleepy crackle, like a thunderstorm. And he wanted to know what he could do for me. Marry me. Love me forever. Enter my Christmas scene proclaiming that, with me, it’s a wonderful life. See the world with me. Father children with me. Grow old with me. Be devastated when I die at 106 and follow me three days later, so our great grandchildren can tell future generations about the greatest love story ever. But first, forgive me for being such a bitch to your receptionist.

“Good morning, Adam. I’m sorry if I was a bit pushy with your secretary, but she didn’t seem to understand that we always do our taxes with you in person.”

“No problem,” he said. “But I believe you’ll enjoy our new system, where—”

“I realize it’s quicker with your new system, but I really feel more comfortable doing things the old-fashioned way.”

You know, hire a male consultant, reinvent myself, meet for taxes, get married, and live happily ever after.

With no hesitation he replied, “Of course, Mona. That’s not a problem. It’s always a pleasure to see you. Let me grab my calendar. Let’s wait until after February fifteenth when your interest statements are in.”

“That long?” I sounded disappointed. Trying to rehabilitate, I said, “I mean, I really wanted to wrap up my taxes early this year.”

“You want to do them right, though, Mona. I don’t want to have to come visit you in prison.” I remembered the scene in
Midnight Express
where the incarcerated American drug smuggler’s girlfriend comes to visit him in the Turkish prison and shows her breasts through the glass divider of the visitor’s booth.

This prompted another ill-timed giggle. “Okay, how’s the sixteenth for you then?” I asked.

“How does ten sharp sound?” Adam asked.

Like a symphony. Like eternity. Like heaven.

“Sounds frine,” I said.

Frine? Did I just say frine? This is why I have always chosen to evaporate from social settings. I say things like “ten sounds frine.”

“Okey dokey. We’ll see you at ten sharp on the sixteenth. Do you need a confirmation call?”

I refrained from laughing. “No,” I said calmly, careful not to butcher the two-letter refusal. I dared to continue speaking. “Thank you. It’s on my calendar. I won’t forget. I’ll look forward to it.”

See how responsible I am? I’d never forget your birthday, your dry cleaning, or our children’s piano lessons.

I hung up the phone and began jumping around my kitchen like a game show contestant who won the big spin. With fists tightly clasped, I jumped up and down, kicking my own butt. “Eeeeeeeyyyy!!!!” I squealed. “I’m going to see him. Just twenty-one long and painful days standing between me and Adam Ziegler. I could die. I could just die from the thrill.”

I stepped into the sun-flooded backyard and called Mike, who said he was on his way to the gym. I was so happy about everything that his boxing match sounded fascinating. Mike sounded like a prince. Birds were actually singing my favorite song and a butterfly landed on my shoulder. Okay, maybe not, but I was utterly euphoric, which must explain why my next statement seemed true. “I’ve always wanted to try boxing,” I bubbled.

“What’s got you so excited?” Mike asked flatly.

“Well, if that’s as interested as you can pretend to be, then I’m not telling,” I teased.

“Okay. Why don’t we talk when I get back from the gym? We can slate our next meeting and go over some notes I jotted.”

I playfully whined, “No! Pretend you’re dying to know what I’m so happy about. Ask me. I’ll tell you this time, I promise.”

His pause shoved me away. Then he sighed, tolerating me for the money. “All right,” he rallied only slightly. Then with the over-the-top phony enthusiasm of a radio commercial, he continued. “Gee, Mona! What’s your big news? I’m on the edge of my seat.”

I deflated. My news seemed trivial. “Never mind.”

“Tell me or don’t tell me. I’m not in the mood for another chick fucking with my head this morning.”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Who knows?” he said. “I never know what you people are talking about.”

“Maybe you should hire me as a female consultant.”

No response.

“No, seriously, Mike. What’s going on?”

“My girlfriend’s bitching that I don’t ‘communicate’ with her. Says I’m an emotional tightwad, I don’t know. I don’t know what you people want from me. I talk. I listen. I communicate.”

“I didn’t know you still had a girlfriend. In your column, you said your girlfriend moved out.”

“Yeah, well I write those three months in advance. Lucky me found someone new to mess with my head.”

“Someone who’s telling you the same thing the U-Haul girl did?”

“Fuck off, Mona.”

I hung up. “No, you fuck off, Mike,” I said to the dead air. I dialed Greta’s office. Answering machine. “Hey Greta, it’s me. I did it. I called Adam Ziegler and made my tax appointment. I’m beyond excited. And nervous. Anyway, call me when you can. I’m dying to talk to you. This is all starting to feel very real now and I’m in total knots about it. Oops, my other line is ringing. We’ll talk later, okay sweetie pie?”

Click.

Sweetie pie?

“Hey,” Mike said. I said nothing. “Sorry about that. Can we let it go?”

I couldn’t help smiling. “Yeah, we can let it go, but I want you to know that I refuse to be treated like that. I am not a doormat, Mike Dougherty. I’m a person with feelings and it really hurt me when you—”

“I thought we were gonna let it go,” he said.

“Mike. In case you haven’t noticed, I am a woman. This
is
letting it go. Anyway, I am a person with feelings and you cannot just curse at me when I say something you don’t want to hear. Do you think I want to hear that I’m not sexy? Do you think I want to hear that my clothes look frumpy? No, but I listen because for some unknown reason, I think you have some valuable insight for me. You can listen to what I have to say every now and then, got it?”

Yikes, back off psycho girl. You need this man. If he quits, you’ll be a ship without a captain. Apologize before he—

“Okay.”

Okay?! Okay, okay? Or okay, I’m dismissing you and this subject because I’m sick of both?

“Okay,” I said, then pinned down my bottom lip with my teeth.

“Did you say you wanna try boxing?” Mike asked.

“Yeah, how come?”

“Cause I just got here and the schedule says there’s a class in fifteen minutes. It’s mostly chicks that take classes, so you won’t feel outta place or anything. Why don’t you take the class and by the time it lets out I’ll be done here, we can down some chow and go over the game plan with your boy.”

Down some chow. The game plan with my boy. When he spoke to me, I was like one of the boys. I got to see a side of Mike that other women didn’t. Or did they?

Mike gave me directions and I was on my way to his gym for boxing class, which was simultaneously terrifying and thrilling. When I arrived, Tio, the instructor, gave me bright red gloves and led me to a room with six other women warriors. I saw the reflection of myself and giggled. I felt as though someone should take a photo of me and hang it in a pizza joint.

The first time my glove hit the punching bag it was as if a part of me engaged, shifted gears. I gripped the metal rod inside the glove and threw my fist forward with an intensity that frightened me. I flooded with anger. When I connected with the bag, a shock wave traveled through my hand, then up my arm, then through my entire body. The feedback from my own hit rushed through my entire being. An explosion of fury took over and I became enraged at the punching bag. I stepped back and gave it another shot, this time following my right hook with an immediate left. “Take that, you useless sack of shit,” I whispered through gritted teeth. I tucked my chin into my chest and began moving back and forth as if I was trying to duck a punch from the bag. The thud sound of my punch was so pure it was intoxicating and addicting. As soon as I heard the smack of my punch, I instantly needed another. Inexplicably filled with insane hatred for this punching bag, I went into a trancelike state and have no idea how much time passed until I heard Tio’s comment.

“You’re a natural fighter,” said Tio. “I’ve never seen you here before, you new?”

“I’m a guest,” I said, never stopping my attack on the bag. I knew it was a half hour class and this punching bag was due a serious ass kicking. “My friend Mike comes to this gym.” Whack.

“You’ve got grit,” he said.

With that I excused myself and ran to the restroom. I frantically searched for a place where I could be alone, but the locker room and showers were filled with naked women. I thought about jumping into the pool fully clothed so I could scream at the top of my lungs under water, but knew Mike would get in trouble for inviting a lunatic as his guest. Finally I saw that the sauna was empty and ran into it, buried my face into my hands, and sobbed. “Five minutes,” I promised myself tearfully. “Five minutes of crying and that’s it.”

“Just calm down and tell us what happened, Mona. Then we’ll get Teddy’s side of the story.”

“Teddy’s side of the story? Teddy doesn’t have a side of the story!” I shouted. “That little shithead just chopped off half of my ponytail. My hair is gone! What side of the story does he have?”

I was twelve years old and had just started caring about my appearance. Jacqueline and Freddy’s nine-year-old devil child had decided to experiment with scissors against my sleeping head and left me with a paint brush-length of bristles just above my ear. We had no access to makeup, nail polish or stylish clothes. I had no subscription to
Seventeen
. None of us even had braces. The most we could hope for was good hair and more than anything I wanted long, flowing hair for Francesca to braid like Bo Derek in
10.
I wasn’t allowed to actually see the movie, but when we were in town, I saw the same movie poster that everyone in America was familiar with—the image of Bo Derek running down the beach with dozens of beaded cornrows framing her chiseled features. When the movie came out, I had a bowl haircut, but vowed to let it grow long enough to braid. Three years later, it was just long enough to cornrow—until Teddy decided to give me a partial Mohawk.

“We’ll see what Teddy has to say, Mona. First tell us what happened from your perspective,” my father said in a voice that was so calm it was infuriating. His daughter had been viciously attacked. Why wasn’t he upset by this? His diplomacy was supposed to breed tolerance, but had the opposite effect. I hated him for standing by passively and even entertaining the idea that there could be two sides to this Sampsonian butchering.