from model-mugging (assault scenarios simulated by mock-attackers in padded suits) to Krav Maga (hand-to-hand combat training based on the principles of the Israeli national army). An even more unfortunate habit of hers was using Spanish words and phrases when trying to convince me of something. She was reminding me of that additional camaraderie all ethnic women supposedly shared. It was unforgivably manipulative. Sure, I had thrown in the occasional Schmoopie or Honey when trying to steer a steak-loving boyfriend toward a Thai restaurant (because the variety would make him a better man), or to convince him that rubbing my feet could stave off the effects of carpal tunnel (I swear, I had read that somewhere). But I would never have stooped so low as to use any of these tactics on my girls.
Pam, on the other hand, hailed from a very different school of thought; a school that didn’t bear the burden of rent. Her father—still guilt-ridden over leaving her mother for an au pair twenty years ago—bought her a one-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side as a college graduation present. The arrangement kept her in clothing that Cristina and I wouldn’t dare buy for ourselves, even though we each earned roughly three times Pamela’s salary. But I guess Pam needed it more than we did; Chanel, Gucci and Polo were standard dress code at Windsors, the devastatingly upper-crust art auction house where she worked for pennies, and the occasional invite to some of the swankiest social events this side of the Riviera. It was a good arrangement for Cristy and myself, too, since some of those invitations trickled down to us. Each event held the promise of champagne and the company of international aristotrash who probably assumed that our presence meant we were royalty ourselves.
“None taken.” Pamela waved the comment away like so many pesky fruit f lies, and then scrunched up her nose and peered suspiciously into the whipped cream covering my Caramel Macchiato. “Is that decaf?”
“Yes. It is.” I stirred the caramel carefully, trying not to risk whipped cream deflation. Then I realized I should probably have resented the judgment in her tone. “So what?”
Despite the god-awful preppy clothing Pamela had seemed to know it all nine years ago, when she strolled into my freshman dorm room. It was day two of the fall semester. She breezed in, made herself comfortable among my unopened boxes, pointed to a literature textbook and asked if I was taking the Friday class with Professor Feineman. I nodded. It was a bad idea, she told me, unless I wanted to miss out on Thursday-night parties just to be awake in time for the only 8:00 a.m. class requiring attendance. As effortlessly as she said it, she lifted a heap of Ramen noodles neatly into her mouth, using chopsticks. Never having seen anyone my own age handle them properly before, I naturally assumed this was a woman from whom I could learn. Time cured me of that misconception, but Pamela’s perspective had narrowed while her opinions had sharpened with age.
“So…you never drink decaf.” Cristina sided with the enemy.
“Yes, I drink decaf.” I scrolled through old messages on my BlackBerry.
“When?” Pam asked, picking imaginary lint off of my shoulder. “When do you drink it?”
“I don’t know…sometimes. Who cares when I drink it? Why does it matter?”
“Hijole…because you’ve been acting weird lately, and we’re worried about you.” Cristina thrust her chin out at me.
“Why?” I asked. “What’s the problem? Maybe I don’t want to get myself all riled up.”
“All riled up…with coffee? Most of your blood has already been replaced by it, Vina. And do you even hear yourself? You sound like you’re about sixty years old.”
“Decaf is not like you, Vina,” Pam interrupted, “any more than letting your parents set you up on a blind date is. And you know that I don’t have anything against you meeting potentially compatible guys. However, we want to talk about what’s really been going on with you. You’ve been frazzled lately.”
Frazzled? I thought. If they had any idea what I had gone through before I arrived at Starbucks that morning, they would consider me incomprehensibly composed.
Three hours earlier, I was feeling even more exposed before a larger and more sympathetic audience. I probably could have been better prepared, but who would’ve guessed that there were so many “Closeted Claustrophobes” in New York City?
“I, umm…my name is Maria,” I had stuttered when thirty pairs of eyes collided upon me. “And I’m a Closeted Claustrophobe. It’s been about eight hours since my last attack.” I cleared my throat, making a mental note to make sure none of these weirdos tried to follow me home.
Admitting that I had a problem was difficult enough. I didn’t see the need to share my name with the motley crew who had gathered in the basement of St. Agnes’ 13th Street Church that Sunday morning. I could just imagine being outed when I bumped into one of these lost souls while strolling through Bergdorf’s with my mother. You wouldn’t have to struggle to fill your time with such silly things if you were married and settled into life, she would explain, before shaking her head at whatever heels I was considering, and strolling off in search of a Talbots.
Emotional problems, according to my parents, were a luxury of the lazy, self-indulgent American. I had learned this early about my parents, and decided around the same time that the best way to maneuver my Indian and American cultural identities would be to keep certain things about myself to myself. I knew that I had overreacted in the coatroom. And I was as sure that I needed help as I was mortified to have finally come looking for it. Twisting in my plastic seat, I cupped the bruise on my knee while committing the Five Cs of the Closeted Claustrophobes to memory: Check for exits, Close your eyes, Count to ten, Calm your nerves, Center yourself.
Delilah, the middle-aged receptionist who spoke before me, teared up twice while describing the torture of her cramped bus ride. Arthur, the elderly man preceding her, explained how his frustration over claustrophobia had resulted in an anger management problem, which was magnified by his Tourettes, and had effectively ended his acting career. Already I was glad that I had come, since I didn’t have it nearly as bad as any of these freaks. Things were going smoothly, especially in comparison to my first attempt at one of these meetings. Three months earlier I stopped short of entering the doorway when I overheard the Rage-aholics director threatening the Claustrophobes director with physical harm unless he surrendered the larger, first-floor room to the Fear of Heights support group, whose director was his ex-wife.
I was wondering how the albino to my left could call himself claustrophobic, given such a determined obliviousness to my right of personal space, when I saw a familiar figure coming through the door. It was my cousin, Neha.
“The government stole my shoes!” Arthur announced without warning, startling everyone, including himself.
I was halfway to the Starbucks before my seat had probably gone cold.
“He’s gay?” Cristina blurted out, nearly choking on her drink. “Wow…I knew your parents were a little out of touch with what you’re looking for in a man, but that’s ridiculous!”
“Obviously they didn’t know he was gay.” I spoke up to dismiss the uninvited pity rushing at me from our neighbors.
“Do his parents know?” Pam leaned in and whispered, as if the topic were a ref lection on her.
“Of course not.”
“Que locura,” Cristina decided. “That’s pretty twisted. So much for counting on those underground, Indian-network background checks.”
“There
