I emerge, ten minutes and one hairless body later—my mother equates shaving with kowtowing to male standards of beauty; my take on it is I prefer not to look as though I’ve missed several rungs on the evolutionary ladder—my apartment once again looks like someone reasonably civilized lives here and Ted and Randall and Alyssa are nowhere in sight. The Blockbuster box, however, is. Which means, yes, the movie’s now so late, I’m surprised they haven’t sent their goons after me. On that cheery note, I grab another cookie (huh—looks like they took a few back with them) and I think how much I love this silly little place, with its Barbie kitchen and high ceiling and two big windows looking east across Second Avenue to the apartment directly across from mine.
Five years ago, I sublet it from a costume designer named Annie Murphy for six months while she went out to L.A. to do a movie. Only, she kept getting work out there and never came back. And over the years, her sister from Hoboken would come to cart off Annie’s furniture—with Annie’s blessings—and I’d replace it. The place was truly mine now, in every sense but the lease.
But I would have been happy in suburbia, too. I was going to get a dog. A big dog. Something that slobbered.
Oh, well.
Anyway, while I’m musing about all this, my mouth clamped around half a cookie, I make myself open one of the bags I’d packed for the honeymoon, where whatever clothes I do have reside. All sorts of slippery, shiny, weightless things—some new, some old favorites—wink at me when I flip back the top. I spend my working day in simple, neutral outfits: black, beige, gray, cream. Nothing that would distract my clients—I want them to see my designs, not the designer. On my off hours, I go wild. Salsa colors. Bold prints. Stuff that makes me happy.
Licking crumbs from my lips and telling myself I do not need another cookie, especially on top of the Häagen-Dazs bar, I slip into a pair of brand-new, fire-engine-red bikinis and matching lace bra that are more concept than substance, a short purple skirt, a silk turquoise tank top. I may have pitiful tits but my legs are good, if I do say so myself, especially in this pair of gold leather-and-acrylic mules that make me nearly six feet tall. On my Favorite Things list, shoes rank right behind food and sex. Although sometimes, on days like today, sex gets bumped to third. I turn, admiring my feet. God, these are so hot.
A pair of combs to hold back my hair, a spritz of perfume, a slick of lip gloss—
I look at my reflection and think, God, Greg. Look what you’re missing. Then the intercom buzzes.
And I just think, God.
Three
The tile floor in the bathroom in my first apartment, a fifth-floor walkup way downtown off First Avenue, was so caked with crud that everyday cleaning agents were worthless. So one day I hauled my butt to the little hardware store around the corner and explained my plight to the stumpy old man on the other side of the counter who’d probably been there since LaGuardia’s heyday. From behind smudged bifocals, he seemed to carefully consider me for a moment, nodded, then vanished into the bowels of the incredibly crammed store. A moment later he returned bearing a jug of something that he reverently placed on the counter, still eyeing me cautiously, as if we were about to conduct our first drug deal together.
“This’ll cut through anythin’, guaranteed,” he said.
Muriatic Acid the label proclaimed in ominous black letters. The skull and crossbones was a nice touch, too.
“Just be sure to keep windows open,” Stumpy said, “wear two pairs of gloves, and try not to breathe in the fumes, cause’, y’know, it’s poison an’ all.”
Undaunted, I trekked back to my hovel, suited up, pried open the bathroom window with a crowbar I bought at the same time as the acid, and poured about a tablespoon’s worth of the acid on a really bad spot by the bathtub. The sizzling was so violent I fully expected to see a horde of tiny devils rise up from the mist. For a moment, I panicked, wondering if the acid would stop at devouring roughly a century’s worth of dirt and grime, but would also take out the tiles, subflooring, and plasterboard of my downstairs neighbor’s ceiling, as well. After a few mildly harrowing seconds, however, the fizzing and foaming stopped, and I was left with what had to be the cleanest three square inches of tile in all of lower Manhattan.
And that, boys and girls, pretty much describes what happens when my mother and I get together.
The instant Nedra enters my space, or I hers, I can feel whatever self-confidence and independence I’d managed to accrue over the past decade fizz away, leaving me feeling, temporarily at least, tender and raw and exposed. Which is why I avoid the woman. Hey, I’m not into bikini waxes, either.
It’s not that she means to be critical, or at least not with malicious intent. It’s just that, unlike the vast majority of her peers, Nedra hasn’t yet lost her sixties idealistic fervor. If anything, age—and a few years as a poli-sci prof at Columbia—has only fine-honed it. I, on the other hand, am a definite product of the Me generation. I like making money, I like spending it, preferably on great-looking clothes, theater tickets and trendy restaurants. The way I figure it, I’m doing my part to keep the economy from collapsing. Not to mention supporting entrepreneurship and the arts. Nedra, however, cannot for the life of her understand how her womb spawned such a feckless child. Nor has she yet been able to accept the hopelessness of converting me.
The good news is that the stinging usually doesn’t last for long. Underneath the insecurities, I’m not the piece of fluff I appear. I can survive a Nedra attack, much as I’d probably survive a tornado. And while that doesn’t mean I have the slightest desire to move to Kansas, I have also learned how to play the game.
Take now, for instance. I open my door, glower at her. Take the offensive for the few seconds she’ll let me have it. After all, she doesn’t know I’ve been tipped off.
“Nedra! What the hell are you doing here?”
“Oh, would you just get over it and let me be a mother, already?”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
She barges in, a grocery bag banging against her leg.
“I thought I told you I didn’t want company?”
“You’re distraught,” she says. “You have no idea what you want. Or need. And right now, you need a mother’s support.”
Except then she scans my outfit, disapproval radiating from her expression. Not because of the way I’m dressed, but because she knows I spent big bucks on it. She, on the other hand, is in full aging-hippie regalia—print broomstick skirt, white T-shirt underneath a loose embroidered blouse (no bra), Dr. Scholl’s wooden sandals.
I cross my arms. Glower some more. “Don’t worry. They’re all made in America.” Never mind that my avowal is full of bunk, and we both know it—the shoes, especially, positively scream Italian—but even at her lowest, Nedra isn’t likely to yank out a tag and check. Instead, she gives in to five thousand years of genetic conditioning and goes all Jewish Mother Affronted on me.
“Did I say anything?”
“You didn’t have to. And how old is that skirt, anyway?”
She waves away my objection and clomps toward my kitchen, and I once again—much to my chagrin—stand in awe of my mother’s commanding presence.
On a good day Nedra reminds me a lot
