much intentional. Parker, when present, always went first. Why, you might be wondering, would the least reliable friend be allowed to go first? Very simple. Both Tess and I (and very likely even Parker) knew that she would quickly launch into a twenty-to-thirty minute monologue on the actual and tangential issues relating to her current crisis. She would insist vehemently (and completely unconvincingly) that this time she would cancel the wedding.
Meanwhile, Tess and I would simply nod or smile or frown, when appropriate, while we finished our breakfasts (French toast with lingonberry sauce for Tess; eggs Florentine with fruit salad for me). By the time she was finished, Parker would very likely have come to her own conclusions about her quandary or at least have exhausted herself by turning it inside out. Tess and I, now fully satiated, would have had enough time to properly caffeinate ourselves for our own respective rants.
I was polishing off my second bellini when I knew this was going to be a very specific type of Sunday affair. Every now and then, our brunch would extend well beyond the “meal” and turn into a messy, drunken, no-holds-barred, daylong event of relentless self-examination. And today was one of those days. It surely wouldn’t be over until one of us had cried, argued, or made a spontaneous phone call to an angry ex or an unsuspecting crush.
I knew this because, against my better intentions, I could hear myself unraveling the tightest knots of minutiae about my failed relationship with Nick to the rapt attention of Parker, Tess and Wanda the cashier, who had joined the table after her shift was over.
“Honey,” Tess said solemnly. She moved my head with her hands so that, had I not lost all ability to focus, I would be looking her in the eyes meaningfully. “You’ve got to stop romanticizing these boys.”
“You’re right,” I said. And she was. It might seem strange to take such advice from someone who had gauzy scarves draped over every light fixture in her apartment, but I had to admit where men (or boys as she stubbornly insisted on calling them) were concerned, Tess had figured some things out. She understood my problem. Hell, even Wanda understood my problem at this point.
“Sweetheart, here in New York he’s an artist with a sexy accent,” Tess continued. “I’ll bet you back home in Liver-pool, he’s just a short bloke with a coloring-book fixation.”
“Wait.” Parker put down her drink sharply and pulled herself back from the table dramatically. Tess and I looked at her expectantly.
“He’s…short?” Parker looked dumbfounded. “You’re getting this upset over a short guy?”
“I’m with Parker,” Wanda said, picking at Parker’s cold French fries. “Case closed.”
With that, glasses raised, we all burst into the gleeful laughter of four drunk girls, gaily skewering the male species for sport.
Oh, to bottle those moments of alcohol-induced clarity before they hit the wall of sober confusion. Why couldn’t those moments last longer than the hangover?
I didn’t make it back to my apartment until dusk. Not entirely drunk, though certainly not sober, I was getting that slightly apprehensive, sinking-stomach feeling I always got as Sunday night descended. Plus, having spent the majority of the day avoiding necessary errands, household chores and, of course, work, this anxiety was laced with a heavy dose of slothfulness.
Determined to at least portray the idea of productivity, I turned on This American Life, straightened up my disheveled living room and set up my computer. Whether I actually did work was less important than the comforting idea that I could, if necessary. I poured a tall glass of water and set about the not-too-painful task of answering e-mail. And then, this one caught my eye.
Hello Lena,
Chase Bolton gave me your name as the new contact person for my segment. Could you possibly let me know what’s going on with it? It’s been dragging on for some time now and I’m leaving town in a few days.
Thanks,
Colin Bates
I felt an inexplicable rage begin to well up inside me: Who does he think he is—writing me like this, pressuring me to get going on “his” segment? I found myself typing furiously.
Mr. Bates,
While I appreciate your predicament, I must also demand your patience. I was only recently handed this assignment and cannot be held responsible for the actions, or lack thereof, of my predecessor, Chase Bolton. I also do hope you’re aware that this segment will be quite short and has no determined airdate.
Regards,
Lena Sharpe
With a haughty sniff, I sent it off. Who did he think he was? He was just some no-name writer telling me how to do my job. I looked down at the screen—a new message was blinking—it was from Colin Bates. Suddenly I began to feel painfully sober. I read nervously.
Hey Lena,
Not a problem. Just let me know when you can. And please, call me Colin.
—cb
What? I was beyond confused. Why was he playing this humble act?
I picked up his book, realizing that I hadn’t even looked at it yet. It was plain and relatively thin, with the author’s name printed inconspicuously below the title My Indian Summer. Oh God, I thought, no doubt it was the poor little rich boy’s story of his fab summer vacation!
I flipped to the back—okay, so it had gotten some good reviews, even from the Times (but it wasn’t Kakutani so it didn’t count as much, I consoled myself). On the inside flap, there was a picture of a man’s legs from the knees down. Underneath, it read: “A view of the author from the perspective of his dog, Emmylou. The two reside in Grafton, Vermont, where they enjoy playing Frisbee and taking long afternoon naps.” I found myself smiling in spite of myself. I responded:
Colin,
Sorry for the terse message before. I was caught off guard when Chase handed over the story—just trying to get my bearings. Thanks for understanding.
Lena
Okay, so I wasn’t playing hardball, but Jesus, after my work drama Friday and my brunch catharsis earlier that day, I was feeling pretty drained. Colin responded in moments. This was getting weird.
Lena,
Please—you’re the one stuck with documenting my boring life! Anyway, I have to ask, what’s the deal with Chase? I think he probably left me 20 messages about what I should wear for the sit-down interview. Strange one, no?
—cb
I was starting to like this guy. I wondered if he lived in a farmhouse. I could almost picture him lounging on a front-porch swing looking out at an apple orchard…no! I scolded myself. I had made a pact with myself—it was time to face reality. This was business. I sat up straight and began typing purposefully.
Colin,
If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll need you to provide me with a list of friends, family members, fellow writers, etc. that we can interview for background material. You can forward me the information via this e-mail address.
Lena
