The History of Great Things (7 page)

Y
ou graduate from GW in December, a semester late, because of the drinking and not going to class sometimes. It's almost remarkable that it's only one semester, but you pulled it together when you were on the verge of flunking out—drank only on weekends after that, which helped improve your grades, anyway. Junior year you switched your major from English to broadcasting, when you realized it was the only major that would get you out of school before 1992. Not that you have any big ideas about what to do with this degree. You don't even have any small ones. You might like to be a newscaster, if it didn't require hair spray and a suit. The truth is, all you really want right now is a job where you don't have to wear a suit. I try to tell you that you have to at least have one suit for interviews.
Why should I spend money I don't have on a suit I'm never going to wear? It's an investment. That's not what an investment is, Mom. An investment is when you expect or hope to get more money back than you put in. Don't be smart with me. Everyone needs a suit sometime, Betsy. I don't want to need a suit. I'll take you to Jersey to the outlet malls, my treat. You always want to treat me to things you think I need, never what I really need. You're twenty-two years old. You don't know what you need.

You move back into your old room at home with us even though this is not ideal for anyone. Our apartment hasn't gotten any bigger in the last four years. After a few weeks you land an entry-level job at CBS News; unfortunately, they put you on the graveyard shift. One night, during your three a.m. lunch break, one of the local weathermen sits down next to you in the commissary, asks if you mind having some company. You tell him you don't mind at all; the weatherman is super cute, even though it's hard to tell with the suit and the combed hair and the moustache, which you are way not into. It's 1984. Didn't people stop having moustaches about five years ago? You're not really up-to-date on weatherman style; maybe this is überhip on the weather scene. The commissary is a bleak landscape at three in the morning. The room has no windows, dropped ceilings, and fluorescent lights; it's like a grade school cafeteria without the noise, which would be a welcome relief from the odd, steamy silence. The only other person here is a janitor eating some pudding on the other side of the room.
Roger McMenamee
, the weatherman says. You say
Hi, Betsy Crane, yeah, you do the weather, right?
I do, but at 3:25 a.m. I'm sort of the tree falling in the forest of weathermen.
You smile.
So . . . if you talk about the weather, is that like, work?
Exactly. Esoteric subjects are wide open, though. Oh good. I was hoping to talk Derrida tonight.
He laughs and asks what you did to get yourself on the late shift.
I guess I graduated from college with no previous work experience?
He nods.
Oh, that's good. You have a chance of getting out then.
You aren't really sure what he's talking about.
I drank my way onto overnights
. You smile, assume he's joking. You are not yet at the point where you might talk about your own drinking mistakes. Everyone drinks in college. When you do talk about your drinking mistakes, it's with a certain amount of pride. That time you and your friends got lost
on the Beltway back to DC after a house party in Arlington and mistook the Peruvian embassy for your dorm is still hilarious to you, even though it was not hilarious at all to the Peruvian diplomats, who nearly had you taken away by the cops. Roger the weatherman has a curious smile on his face as you tell him this story, nods in a way that you can't totally break apart, and you're usually good at reading people. He asks what department you're in; you tell him you're sending facsimiles in the traffic department, ask if he knows what a facsimile is. He laughs, says he knows what the word means. You say
Well, it's like sending a letter over the telephone very slowly
. He thanks you for educating him, you tell him you didn't know until you got there that traffic wasn't traffic, like car traffic; he laughs again, finds you charming.
Would you like to dine together again, perhaps somewhere with fewer mayonnaise-based choices?
You say
Sure, I'd love to
.

Dinner with Roger the weatherman is surprisingly fun. He's funny. You are big into funny.
So did you study . . . weather in college? It's called meteorology
, Roger says.
But no.
He tells you he didn't go to college at all, that he was a comic before he was a weatherman.
No kidding? Actually, all kidding. Okay, I gave you that one. So . . . how did you get into weather then? Believe it or not, I was recruited
, he says.
They found me at a comedy club, where I also happened to be bussing tables, and when they told me what the salary was I told them I had always wanted to be a weatherman. I used to bus tables!
you say.
I knew we were soul mates
, Roger says. He's kidding, but he's flirting-kidding, and it's fun.

The waitress comes to take your drink order. You ask for a vodka and soda. Roger says he'll just have the soda. You try to hide your disappointment that he's making you drink alone, but he gets it.
Trust me, you don't want me to drink. I don't? Well, maybe you do. Are you into drooling and public nudity? Not so much
,
you say.
Yeah, not too many women are.
He said “women.” Weird.
Also, my employers didn't care for it so much. They gave me a choice between overnights and nothing. So you just quit? Well, the network sent me to rehab last summer, that helped. They sent you to fix up a house?
Roger looks as confused as you do, takes him a beat to realize you don't know what he means by “rehab.”
No, rehab, like, a facility, a place people go to dry out. I've been sober for seven months now. Wow
, you say
.
What do people say to this? “Congratulations”? That seems weird. “Hey, congrats on . . . the most boring existence possible?” Definitely weird.
Huh
, you say.
So, you like,
never
drink? That's what sober means, yeah. Huh.

You're not quite sure how you and Roger are going to move past this, but he changes the subject and you manage to pace yourself over dinner so you hopefully don't look as buzzed as you are. Roger's not an idiot; he's counted how many you've had—four, to be exact—and yes, you did sit there for a good hour longer than most dinners because it's been so fun, but he definitely knows you're buzzed. He also really likes you. Which tonight means he puts you in a taxi and kisses you on the cheek.

But this job pretty much sucks, because you're trying to sleep during the day when I'm trying to practice. Fortunately for everyone, it lasts only four weeks; a career in news holds zero interest for you, the very word “career” is one you're uncertain about, as it implies commitment and ambition, which you've told me more than once is
not what you're about
, so you sign up to take a bartending class, less to forge a career in bartending than to buy some time in which you hope a brilliant noncommittal career plan will come to mind. When no such thing happens in the next week, you get a bartending job, which lasts roughly the same number of weeks as the CBS job, which is to say not many. This takes you into spring, when you take a job with a children's
talent agency. It doesn't pay well, but it holds some small promise for career advancement, and as desk jobs go it's not the most boring ever, and you like your coworkers, and you now have a tiny bit more than zero dollars in your savings account. Thank god, because you can't take living with us much longer and we can't either.
You can't stay here forever. It's unhealthy. What does that mean? It's bad for our health? It's bad for our mental health, yes. Victor lived at home until he moved in with you. No he didn't, he had an apartment. He lived there for a week. Well, it was different. Yeah, it was longer. His parents had a bigger place. With one bathroom. I'm not discussing this any more, Betsy. You have a month. And then what? You'll put my stuff on the street? Don't test me.

T
he summer after you turn twenty-four, you're unemployed again; Nina suggests you get a job on Fire Island. The idea of a summer at the beach is never a bad one; you spend a lot of weekends out there as it is, why not three months? Nina says that one of the families on her block is looking for a mother's helper. She knows this is something you wanted to do back in high school: you love kids, and working with them in some way has always seemed like a vague career idea that might get you to a less vague career idea. Unfortunately, there's nothing vague about the pay: there is none. Instead, you get to live with a family at a beach and get one day off per week. You give some thought to this, but you still have rent to pay in the city. Specifically to me and your stepfather. You have overstayed your post-college welcome by a year, and have agreed to our “you'll pay us two hundred dollars a month for our troubles or you can go find another place” rental terms, but you're already behind three months, and unlike your father's handouts, your mother's loans always come due. So the plan is modified. Nina convinces her parents to let you stay with them for the summer, so the revised plan is that you'll get a waitressing job. You have experience, but one after another of the more upscale restau
rants turns you down (you are not big on putting on so much as a decent blouse and slacks for these interviews, figuring that if they like you they like you), and you turn one offer down when it's suggested that the shorter your skirt, the better the tips. You're finally hired as a server at one of the diveyer bar/restaurants in town, the kind that smells like beach and stale beer and serves burgers to people without shoes. Good enough. You get to tell me you were right: someone has hired you for who you are, in a T-shirt and a ratty jean skirt. Bonus: you can wear that same costume to work, you don't even have to pull your hair into a ponytail, and you get a meal before every shift and a free pitcher of beer after you cash out.

For a few weeks, everything about this is fantastic. That Fire Island has no streets, and no vehicles bigger than a golf cart, makes it ideal, at least to begin with. By day, you lay out at the beach in a slick of baby oil and a string bikini, flirting with the lifeguards; by night you flirt with the bartender and the guy who sits at the door. You and Nina are both single at the same time (or, more accurately, Nina is currently as single as you always are), and she usually meets you in town after you get off work to hang out with friends, find other boys to flirt with, maybe go dancing. You're not saving a ton of your tips, but your back rent slowly gets paid down. You and Nina fantasize about living there year-round, writing novels about your mothers. You both know that the fantasy is very different from the reality: winters on Fire Island are bitterly cold, transportation on and off the island is limited, but the main thing is that very few people live there all year. The plan is to get boyfriends who would also live there with you to offset the need for other human contact. Nina sets this plan into motion as soon as you discuss it—not that it wasn't already in motion, at least to the extent that Nina is
rarely without a boyfriend. You set your eyes on a pair of brothers who already live there year-round. You've always liked the younger one, who has curly brown hair and dimples and some amazing dance moves. Really, his amazing dance moves are all that matter, until he asks you to dance one night and tells you you're a good dancer. This fast-tracks him into being a candidate for The One. Nina hasn't come out this night; she's out on a date with the guy who runs the produce market. Back at home you discuss your evenings: her date was a dud (she only went because she doesn't like to hurt people's feelings and couldn't think up an excuse fast enough when he asked); there's only so much to say about cucumbers, as far as Nina is concerned, but no, there are many different varieties, plus
Cucumbers can become all different kinds of pickles
, as Nina learned over the course of her two-hour dinner. You, however, are really digging that cute younger brother. You're both excited about the brother plan, but Nina will have to get to work on the older brother ASAP.

The next day, you're on the lunch shift. Lunches are usually kind of slow and you're always bummed to miss a sunny afternoon at the beach, especially for a crummy haul of tips. Nina's home on the back deck working on her tan and her novel. You're not too concerned about her getting ahead on that part of the plan for now; you're having too much fun. You've got plenty of ideas, you're just storing them up. Right now you're
living life
.

You're pulling your bike up to the Solomons' house and cute younger brother is just leaving. He says
Oh hey! See you in town later?
and you say
Sure!
As plan-making goes, such fuzziness on Fire Island is as good as a formal invitation to dinner. This is promising.

What you don't find out until after he walks away is that cute younger brother has just invited Nina to go all the way
over to the Pines for tea dance and dinner.
He's going to pick me up and take me in a water taxi! But Nina, that was
my
brother! I thought you liked the other brother! Nina, we talked about this just last night! Yes, I thought you meant the other brother! I didn't! Well, okay, maybe it won't work out with us. There are like sixteen things wrong with what you just said. What do you mean? I can't explain it to you if you don't already get it. But the other brother is so cute, are you sure you don't want to go out with him instead? Yes, I'm sure! All right, well, I guess I'll cancel then. Nina, it doesn't matter now. He obviously wants to go out with you and not me. Like every other guy who ever sees you ever. Betsy. Well, it's true. It's not true! It's totally true. Ed totally loved you, Betsy. That was almost ten years ago. And it was a fluke. Betsy, listen to what you're saying. No,
you
listen to what you're saying. Have a nice time on your date with your stolen brother. That's not fair. Nothing is, Nina. Welcome to my world.

At times like these, your best idea, always, is to go back to the city. It's not going to be better there, but leaving where you are is always the very first solution to any problem. Nina convinces you not to go, says she's sorry; she goes on her date, you go to town and get drunk, which is a close second to your preferred solution to any problem. You remember nothing of this night, but when you wake up in the morning your left hand is the size of an oven mitt. There's a dull ache, but your head hurts worse, so at first you hardly notice. At the breakfast table, Nina reports that her date was a dud again, just no chemistry with cute younger brother, really, but he's nice and she thinks you and he really would probably be a much better fit. You've now had about a half ounce of coffee, enough only to look Nina in the face and hope she gets that you have problems with what she's just said.
Come on, Bets, what's the big deal, we've dated the same person before. Remember Paul Pearlman?
You manage a giggle.
It's
hard to forget a guy whose signature move is taking you to the pharmacy to buy you a Flower Power sticker and a packet of Sen-Sen. Will we ever figure out what he was thinking? No. But we must never forget
, you say.
Look, it's not Fire Island if you and your best friend haven't had some overlap
, she says
.
You decide it's not worth arguing, even though you will probably have to cross cute younger brother off your list now. You're reaching for the sugar bowl when Nina notices your hand.
Betsy! What? What happened to your hand?
You look down.
Hm.
I dunno. I think I might have fallen off my bike. I'm not really sure. It's fine. It's not fine! It's purple!
She rushes you over to the doctor's cottage; he X-rays it, sees your previous fracture, notices the way you brush that off when he asks about it, says it's just a sprain this time, bandages it up, gives you a half-dozen Darvon for the pain, tells you not to drink and to take off work for a few days.
Hooray!
Nina says.
We can both sit on the deck and write!

This is what comes of that:

           
Once upon a time there was a young woman still living at home whose mom ruined almost everything. So the young woman went to Fire Island to spend the summer with her best friend, but then her best friend stole the guy she was interested in, ruining almost everything else, so she went and got drunk and broke her hand. At this point, everything was fully ruined.

           
Once upon a time there was a young woman who dreamed of being a writer but somehow it was her mom's fault that she didn't actually do it. So one summer the young woman went to the beach with her best friend to write, but she realized she didn't have anything much to write about besides her mom
ruining her life. The young woman's second-best idea was that great writers drink, that if she took up drinking in earnest, she would soon be struck with brilliant ideas that weren't about her mom. But when this didn't happen, she drank more, because that's what drunks do. They drink more. Nothing any better happened after this, believe me.

           
Once upon a time there was a brilliant young writer in New York City in the nineteen-eighties who was discovered walking down the street by an important book editor who could totally tell that she was brilliant and a writer just by looking at her. The important book editor told her there was an opening in the literary brat pack and that she'd be perfect for it and that he would explain over a six-martini lunch.
You are expected to behave badly. It sells books, but you'll be rich and famous. Perfect!
said the brilliant young writer. She handed in her manuscript and got a six-figure advance for her first book, and was on the cover of
New York
magazine, which got her another six figures to pose for a liquor ad with a typewriter and shot glass. For a time she went on international book tours, had mad love affairs with everyone else in the brat pack, but then she discovered cocaine, blew all her money up her nose in just a few months, and had to move back home again with her mother. Whose fault this all was, obviously.

You knew before you started that when you try to write about me it always comes off bitter. And you are bitter, but you don't
want to come off that way. So you scrap your three paragraphs and work on your tan instead, offer to read Nina's pages while you're doing that.

What sucks harder than the fact that she has pages at all is that her pages are really good. You've always thought Nina was a better writer than you, and now you know for sure. Everything comes easy for Nina. She gets all the cute boys first, she doesn't have to work, and she's just naturally a good writer.
It's good
, you tell her. You fear adding words to this compliment, because more words will likely indicate resentment, whether you mean to or not, will quietly or not-so-quietly attempt to diminish her confidence. So you move straight to self-pity.
I suck
, you tell her.
What? You don't suck! You're a great writer, Betsy! I'm a lazy ass. I can't just sit around and write. I have to earn money. But someday we will earn money doing this! Don't be naive, Nina. What's naive about it? We will! You will, maybe
.
We both will! You don't know what will happen. I can't sit around writing and calling it work. My mother will ask me where my writing paycheck is and if I tell her it's coming in the future she will laugh in my face. She's a singer! She started somewhere. Yeah, but that's different. How is it different? I dunno, she told me it's different, that's all. Well, it isn't different, Betsy. It's the same.

By the end of day one, Darvon aside, your skull feels like it's three sizes too big for your head. You're sure one drink later tonight won't hurt a thing. The Darvon are gone anyway.