So Easy To Love
J.A. Pak
Copyright 2012 J.A. Pak
Smashwords Edition
Cover credit: Ben Earwicker, Garrison Photography
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***
For all those with broken hearts.
***
Table Of Contents
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It was odd. This happened — like my brain was getting slowly unplugged. I couldn't move. People were talking to me and I couldn't move my head. And my eyes — I could see fine, but it was like my eyes were stuck in somebody else's body. The whole experience was so odd and so spectacularly novel, I began slowly meandering through its landscape.
It was odd. I was braced for it. Getting fired. But when it happened, my brain refused to believe it. It just wasn't real.
I should have kept my mouth shut. I shouldn't have said anything. I should have waited. Stayed in the restroom five minutes longer. And then I would have been saved.
My Boss
When she hired me, a month before my college graduation, Daniella took my hand in both of hers and said, "I think we're kindred spirits, Smithie. I know we are. I'm going to love having you here."
I wanted to be Daniella. Tall, serene — you felt so good when you were around her. She knew everybody's name and everybody's birthday. She never forgot to send a birthday or anniversary card. Her handwriting was so beautiful, so warm — we all treasured her cards and all the little personal notes of encouragement she'd leave on our desks. And god she was smart. A linguistic genius, she spoke eight languages like a native. Her fluency in Mandarin had made the company famous in China.
I loved this thing she used to do — Daniella had this way of coming up from behind you as you walked down the hall — she'd put a friendly arm around your shoulders and quote a poem or invite you to lunch.
It's difficult to explain. What happened.
Innocuous
It's usually a look or a word. The relationship could continue for a long time after that, but when it's over and you look back, you know what look or word had ended it all. When you lost faith and stopped believing in someone.
At The Annual Christmas Party
In the hotel restroom, I run into Daniella. She's coming out of one of the stalls and sees me at the mirror. She smiles and says warmly, "I love your dress, Smithie. You look fantastic. You are such a lovely girl to look at. I love that lipstick color."
She dries her hands and I babble on and on about stupid, irrelevant things. She opens her silk evening bag and takes out a tiny bottle of moisturizer. Slowly, methodically, she rubs the moisturizer all over her large hands, wiping the excess off with a towel. I watch mesmerized.
Daniella checks her makeup. Everything is perfect. She winks at me and turns to leave.
And then I see it. Her silk taffeta skirt is tucked inside her pantyhose, inside her beige, control-top underwear.
"Daniella!"
I run to her, and without thinking, grab the skirt and lift it out of her undergarments, smoothing the silk out like I'm a bridesmaid.
"There. That's better," I say.
Daniella whips around. I step backwards, defensively, as if I expect her to hit me.
She doesn't say a word. But her eyes, all jagged ice, make me gasp.
My End
It began very slowly. Little rebukes in front of people. Small mistakes tabulated into a warning. Within a few months, I went from being the teacher's pet to being the company pariah. I thought about quitting. But I couldn't. I was angry. And stubborn. And I did something you should never do. I tried to regain her friendship. When someone hates you, it's the worst thing you can do because they'll only hate you more.
Home
I lost heart after that. And I guess I was shell-shocked too. About a month after getting fired, I packed up my bags and flew home. Back to my parents' house. I hadn't told them I'd been fired. I didn't even tell them I was coming home.
Want Ads
Weeks went by. And then I just got sick of being depressed. Sick of having nothing to do. Sick of my parents whispering about me. Sick of the walls of my bedroom. Sick of me.
I found a job and moved into a studio apartment.
Interview
The job was at a small company. They needed a number cruncher. At the interview my potential boss told me I was superbly overqualified.
"You'll be bored out of your mind," he said. He was so soft-spoken, so shy, I had to lean in to hear what he was saying.
"Boredom is what I need," I heard myself saying.
He gave me a second look. So surprised by my words, he actually looked me in the eye. But I was too far away to appreciate it.
My New Life
No one believed me when I said I was happy. My apartment was completely bare with the exception of a sofa sleeper — what could be more a testament to complete despair than an absence of consumer goods? My parents became so distressed, they immediately went to Costco and bought me a TV and a microwave. The microwave was convenient. And the TV gave my blank stare a focus.
My New Boss
His name was Rafe Tatum and he wasn't much older than me, maybe five years. Thin, with a kind, boyish face. He should have been a balding overweight guy in the middle of a midlife crisis with a tie half undone and maybe an ugly mustache. Someone with a round, little head and a round, little body, huffing and puffing on round, little legs. My boss was even a bit glamorous, half American, half English, not seeming very much of either. He didn't take his job seriously and he didn't take himself seriously. He was parked like me.
There was also his assistant Debbie, and they did this weird thing. They called each other Mr. Tatum and Mrs. Ray, like they were in a fifties office musical. Sometimes Mr. Tatum would give his orders to Mrs. Ray by singing a recitative. She'd answer the same. It could go on for twenty minutes. If I hadn't been so battered by Daniella, Mr. Tatum and Mrs. Ray would have driven me insane enough to blow my head off. Instead, I calmly crunched numbers. I wasn't really very much inside my body. I'm not sure where I was.
The Ward
Debbie barely looked at me the first month. It wasn't the sort of company where people stuck around. Employees came and went so quickly, nobody invested even a smile on you until after the first six-week period.
"You always wear a white shirt and a black skirt," she said to me one day in the restroom. "It makes you look like a waitress."
I couldn't tell whether she was trying to insult me or give me sage advice. I think it was both. I suppose a way of welcoming me to the company while, at the same time, letting me know of her top-dog position. Which was fine.
Debbie
She applied her makeup with a trowel.
Her fake eyelashes were more than an inch long.
She could be thirty-five. She could be forty-five.
She was territorial.
She was out of her head in love with Rafe.
"Everyone in the building is in love with Rafe," she said matter-of-factly while explaining some paperwork from human resources. I think, again, it was some kind of territorial act.
"You'll join the club," she told me. I guess I was free to fall in love with Rafe too, as long as I understood that I was way back at the end of the line. It was all about knowing my place. I shouldn't even sneeze without a nod from Debbie. And I was okay with that. After Daniella, I had absolutely no confidence about things and welcomed Debbie's authoritative guidance.
"You know, I knew he was going to hire you the second I saw you," she continued. She was liking my submissive posture. "You looked so depressed. So defeated. Rafe likes to take in strays. Like me. Cried all the way through the interview. Mascara running down my face, my neck, false eyelashes on my chin, snot everywhere. I was such a mess. Husband — gone — dumped me for a newer model. Couldn't get a penny out of him. Four children. Couldn't find a job. If Rafe hadn't taken me in, I don't know what I would have done. He's a saint. He really is. I'd do anything for him. I'd kill for him."
Fifties musical to film noir in a heartbeat. More versatile than Barbara Stanwyck. I was in awe of Debbie.
And she did have this small dagger in her purse, which she used to open mail and trim her nails. Her first boyfriend had given it to her, so she said it had real sentimental value. She never let it out of her sight. She never let anyone touch it. And she kept it razor sharp. She said she was planning to give it to her eldest daughter on her wedding day. But I couldn't see her handing it over.
But then this was Debbie. She did and said a lot of things for theatrical effect. Debbie was a semi-professional singer. The world was her stage. And she didn't need a microphone. Or sequins.
So would Rafe kill for Debbie? Relationships are rarely reciprocal. But I think Debbie knew that by heart.
Getting To Know You
Suddenly, it was my three-month anniversary. Rafe stopped me in the hallway to congratulate me. I guess I was now eligible for all kinds of exciting benefits. Including 10% off at a local toy store.
"It's phenomenal how time just disappears," Rafe observed philosophically. "I'm sure you feel like you've been here forever."
I did.
Rafe got lost in his own head for a moment. And then he said, "Debbie had an emergency. Nothing serious. Jonny, her youngest son, chipped his tooth at school. On a lunch tray. She'll be out for the rest of the day."
Debbie had four kids and there were a lot of home emergencies. There were her auditions too. It didn't really matter if she was at work or not because Rafe didn't really need an assistant. My job was superfluous too. Just typing an endless stream of handwritten numbers into a spreadsheet. The handwritten numbers appeared mysteriously on my desk every morning. Even Debbie wasn't sure where they came from. After a while, the spreadsheet spat out a calculation and the numbers disappeared into some vacuum. The endless data was like a vestigial tail still being produced because it always has. I was probably the end link of some obsolete process predating the computer era; it probably didn't matter whether I entered the numbers or not. Who would know or care?
My body performed the job automatically. My consciousness just slept. But somehow I always knew when it was five o'clock, when it was time to go home. Not that I looked forward to going home. It was just a studio apartment with a sofa, TV and microwave. But somehow, my body had set itself to a schedule and that was okay.
My Boss And Me
Another accidental moment that somehow becomes important to me.
It was pouring and I was waiting at the bus stop for my bus home. I had my umbrella but it didn't matter, the raging winds making sure I got thoroughly soaked. I didn't have a car. I hadn't even bothered to exchange my New York license for a local one. I still found it hard, buying things, doing things. So I stood there, in the rain, forty minutes going by, waiting for a bus that I was sure was never going to come. I thought about walking home. I'd almost be home by now if I'd started forty minutes ago. But it was easier. Just standing and waiting and getting wet.
A car stopped in front of me. The window rolled down. It was Rafe.
"Smithie? Get in!"
I hesitated. He smiled and extended his hand. I slipped inside.
"I didn't realize you took the bus," he said. "If I'd known, I would have offered to take you home. This is horrendous weather. Look! There's lightning over there."
"Usually there's a bus every ten minutes at rush hour. I guess the weather's screwed everything up."
"You're all soaked. How long were you out there?"
He turned up the heat and got me Kleenex from the glove compartment to help dry my hair.
"I was just on my way to get some dinner," he said. "Would you like to come? There's this pizza place — does great burgers. My treat."
"Oh, no — I mean, I don't want to intrude or anything."
"What would you intrude on, Susanna Yu?" he asked in a gentle, ironic way. "Besides, you're now a permanent employee. That's something to celebrate. And I have a company expense account. They don't like it if you don't use the company expense account on a regular basis. It looks odd to them. So, how about it? The burgers are the best in town. Or am I intruding?"
Intruding: To enter with unintentional consequences. Yes. I suppose he was.
The burgers were as good as Rafe had promised. Grilled in the coal-burning oven along with the pizzas so there was this smoky, burnt-cheese quality to them. The beer was great too.
We had a second round, and then he asked me about my name.
"Smithie isn't the usual variant of Susanna?" he said.
"No. I had a volleyball coach. In high school. I went to a Catholic school. She liked to shout out people's last names. She had some kind of sadistic drill-sergeant fantasy. Only, she could never remember mine. So she just called me Smithie. Which was okay with me. I've never liked Susanna."
"Susanna Yu?"
"My dad is half Korean and half Japanese. My mom's Swedish. I think that's why Coach couldn't remember my last name. She couldn't place me. Sort of a weird kind of racism."
"So she gave you a generic Anglo-Saxon name in direct opposition. I am a descendent of Raynald de Châtillon, a most despicable knight. He used to hurl his captives from his castle walls. With boxes over their heads. So their bodies wouldn't go limp."
"How would a box matter?"
"Raynald, being a most despicable knight, had a whole theory worked out. He thought that if a captive's body was limp, the force of impact from the fall wouldn't always be effective. Without a box over his head, the victim could see that he was about to hit the ground and his body would go limp with resignation. With the box, the victim was always scared witless with anticipation and the body would remain rigid."
"I don't suppose we should have children together," I speculated. "I think I have Genghis Khan in my bloodline."
"No. I don't suppose we should."
He grinned at me.
I really liked him. I had to step back and close the door.
Making Friends
This happened without me noticing.
Kirsten lived two doors down from me. And she said:
"That's the problem. The only place you meet people these days is at work. So you end up fucking the boss. I mean, who else are you going to fuck? The janitor?"
Some women collect mangy dogs. Kirsten collected mangy men. Her apartment was a refuge for male vermin. She called them her Lost Men. They came and went, using Kirsten like a crutch. Sometimes she gave them money, but mostly, they just wanted a breather from life.
"So what's he like?" she asked me.
"Kind of sexy in a literary, distracted kinda way."
"Office Casanova?"
"No. I don't think so. I don't think Debbie's ever slept with Rafe," I speculated. "Not possible. She's way too reverential. She really does think he's a saint. I bet she'd wash his feet if she could."
"And dry them with her hair?"
"Absolutely."
Kirsten was also the bartender at Scrambles, the generic little restaurant on the ground floor of our building. If business was slow, and it usually was, she'd call me up and demand I go downstairs to keep her company. Kirsten slipped me free food and drinks so I didn't mind. And Kirsten was very funny in her angry-comic way.
Jack
Jack was the new chef at Scrambles. Like some hungry bear fresh out of the cave, he'd come out of the kitchen and grab Kirsten, shouting in her ear, "Kirsten, try this!" He had no concept of personal space. And he was really into Kirsten.
"It's really gross," she said. "It's like he's fattening me up. Like I'm some sort of goose — you know, the kind they nail to the floor and force-feed for the liver?"
So Kirsten had this plan to get him fired.
"Make him look like a total fuck-up. Trip him up when he's not looking. I'm not alone. The waiters hate his guts. See the way we're all signaling to each other?"
"Is that what that's all about?" I'd been noticing sly hand signals and surreptitious winking.
"Sous chef's in on it too. Not that he's a horrible guy. I've known much worse. And the food here's gotten a helluva lot better," Kirsten admitted.
I agreed. The potato gnocchi I was sharing with Kirsten was absolutely delicious. Light, airy, buttery. I was hoping to get more because Kirsten was eating most of it.
"Love makes you do horrible things," Kirsten contemplated, holding her fork just above her lips. "But he stepped over the line."
Kirsten wasn't the kind of person I'd ever want to mess with. She had this amazing way of banding people together against a common cause. Some magnetic charm of hers.
War Stories
Kirsten was also ex-NYC so we bonded trading war stories, mostly about NYC vermin. Cockroach stories were always good.
"God, the first apartment I had was this shitty little hole-in-the-wall in Brooklyn," Kirsten told me. "Cockroaches everywhere. One night, I was cooking dinner and I just lost it. This fat roach came my way and I just whacked the hell out of it with my Ginsu."
"Once I was steaming some dumplings," I said. "When I opened the basket, it was steamed cockroaches. Their antennae were still moving. Like they were in a sauna."
"Did I tell you my mice stories? One day I put my hand in my oven mitt and I feel this weird thing running up my arm — baby mice. Uhhhhh..."
The Refuge Of Lost Men
At first I didn't recognize him. Just because I wasn't expecting it. Running into Carter. In my apartment building.
I was in the lobby — I'd just said goodbye to Kirsten for the night — and the elevator door opens and a guy comes out and we accidentally brush shoulders. The guy turns around. He stops the door from closing. And I know him.
"Smithie?"
"Carter?"
"Don't tell me you live here," Carter said.
"Oh god," I said. My heart dropped.
"I just moved in today."
Ethan Carter and I had a kind of karmic chokehold on each other. Same elementary school, same middle school, same high school, same college. And now the same apartment building. It was more than that. No matter where I was, no matter how odd the place, Singapore, Reykjavik, I was always running into people who knew Carter.
"So, what are you doing back in town?" we both asked simultaneously.
The last time we'd seen each other was college commencement day. He was heading off to L.A. — film school. I didn't think I'd ever see him again. He hadn't changed at all.
"Long story," he said.
"Me, too," I said.
"Don't ask," we said simultaneously.
It wasn't that I didn't like Carter — I genuinely couldn't stand him. The feeling was mutual.
The elevator door kept jamming against him. He stepped back out and the door quickly closed.
"See you around!" he yelled.
Shit. Was Carter moving in right across the hall from me? I'd noticed someone was moving in. Our doors stared right into each other. And the hallway was not big.
"Could be worse," Kirsten said. "He could be living above you. Or below you. Or right next to you. It's not like this building is the best soundproofed building in the world."
Welcome Back, Carter
The thing was, I liked Carter too.
Carter was one of the most immature guys I'd ever known. In school, he'd been part of a pack, a pack so bad the nuns had begged Rome for extra-strength holy water. He was also incredibly intelligent and ambitious. And squishy soft. Which made him prone to mad fits of love. Unreciprocated love. He didn't seem to be at all interested in girls who actually liked him, appreciating the glamour of the unattainable.
The last time we'd had any kind of conversation was a couple of days before commencement. He suddenly called me up. He'd never called me up before. And he asked if I wanted to go get a cup of coffee or something. I was in so much shock, I said yes. I couldn't imagine why he'd want to get a cup of coffee with me. What he'd want to talk about. That whole afternoon was odd. Words tumbled out of him. About how much he was in love with Kellie Barboza — we'd gone to high school with her, cheerleader type — and how she was using him — he'd ask her out, she'd say yes, they'd spend the date doing her psych paper. And knowing all this, he still couldn't help but like her.
I drank my coffee and didn't say a word. We were more used to trading insults, really juvenile stuff we'd picked up in kindergarten. Around each other, we were always five years old. It was too sudden to be talking about his heart. I just wanted to kick him in the shins and stick my tongue out.
It wasn't until my coffee had gotten cold that I understood: I was the only one he felt comfortable with. Because we'd grown up together. And I suppose that makes you care.
Like Any Other Part Of Town
I was on my way to the convenience store for some milk and yogurts and I run into Rafe.
"Smithie." He's surprised to see me. And I'm surprised to see him. "What brings you to this part of town?"
"I live in the neighborhood," I said. "What about you? You don't live around here? Do you?"
"No. I live clear across town. By the Wain Building. I came to visit my piano," Rafe said.
"Piano?" I wasn't sure I was hearing right.
Rafe smiled. "Come and see. Do you have time?"
"Sure."
"This way."
We walked for two blocks. Down a street I'd never noticed before, there was a small piano store. Well, it looked small because it was so long and narrow. The front room was mostly digital pianos and cheap uprights. But the back room had a small selection of exquisite grand pianos.
"There's more downstairs," Rafe told me. A wonderland of pianos.
"Here he is!"
I turned around and a tall elderly man greeted us. He was wearing a bow tie. I don't know why, but whenever I see an elderly man in a bow tie, I always want to take a half step back.
"You're late so I wasn't sure if you were coming," the man said, smiling. He looked at me and then looked back at Rafe.
"I tried not to come, but I couldn't resist. It is still here?" Rafe asked.
"Oh, yes. I just had to move it. Right over here. Just tuned it."
"You gave me a real scare," Rafe said.
"I have another potential buyer. Rafe, this piano and you belong together. Don't let it get away."
"I'd like to buy it, but —"
The man shook his head and threw up his hands.
Rafe sat down at the piano.
"This is my Bösendorfer," he said, introducing the piano.
Rafe lingered over the instrument for a few minutes. And then he began playing. Just with one hand at first, his fingers running delicately over the keyboard.
The room was warm, almost hot. I took off my coat and sweater. Sitting on the floor, I watched him play. He'd forgotten all about me. Two hours, completely lost in his music. And then he stopped and just stared at the keyboard.
The Major And The Minor
Directed by Billy Wilder
Adapted from a short story by Fanny Kilbourne
Kirsten and I start to have movie nights. We were looking over a list of the top one hundred classic movies and there were only ten titles we recognized.
"I hate being this ignorant," Kirsten said.
So we start looking up movies on IMDb and we decide to rent The Major And The Minor, which goes something like this:
Ginger Rogers dresses up as a little kid to get a cheaper train ticket. She's had it with the Big Rotten Apple and she wants to go home. Back to small-town Midwest. On the train she meets Ray Milland who falls in love with her but doesn't know he's in love with her because he thinks she's a kid. Ginger's pouring it on as the little kid with sex appeal.
"Okay, this movie is creeping me out," Kirsten says, halfway through.
The movie only works because Ray Milland was so good playing stupid.
"We're just jaded," I say.
"Come on, they weren't that stupid," Kirsten says.
"Technically, he's not a pedophile."
"Now this is what people should get Oscars for."
"What do you call a guy who's in love with a piano?" I ask.
"There's gotta be a word. Why?"
"I'm in love with a guy who's in love with a piano," I confess.
"Are we talking piano plural or piano singular?" she asks.
"Singular."
"I bet there's a web page. Pianos. And guys who fuck them. What's the piano like?"
"Great legs. First-class broad."
"At least he's got good taste."
"He kissed me. Rafe. On the cheek. We went to dinner. I ran into him and he took me to see the piano. And then we went to dinner. At this tiny restaurant right next to the piano store. Steak and spaghetti. Really good. He always seems to know where to find good food. Then he walked me home. And he kissed me. On the cheek. That's bad, isn't it?"
"The cheek is bad," Kirsten agrees. "Just found out Danny's been forging my checks."
She was always having trouble with the Lost Men. She'd been sleeping with Danny.
"Wow. How long?"
"A couple of months now. Started off really slow, just a few bucks. And then he got a little too confident and forged checks for a hundred here, a hundred there. I really should check my bank statements more often."
"How much did you lose in all?"
"A couple thousand."
"Did you call the police?"
"Like they're going to do anything about it. He said he'd pay me back. Right before he absconded."
"You'll never see him again."
"Thank god." She chuckles. "Jack offered to beat him up. And he could. You should see the muscles on that guy."
Kirsten was checking out Jack's muscles. "I thought you were trying to get him fired."
"Still am. Like I said, he's not a bad kind of guy. He's a great chef. Only he doesn't understand boundaries. He's got to go."
"Rafe wasn't at work today," I say. "He's off somewhere in South America. Debbie says he does that sometimes, just takes off and we're supposed to pretend he's at work."
"Oh. That's good. Very good, Smithie."
"You think?"
"South America is pretty far to go for a cold shower."
"Coincidence?"
"In movies, there are no coincidences."
"I always hated my name but whenever Rafe says Susanna — it feels so wonderful."
"When did he start calling you Susanna?"
"Over steak and spaghetti."
"And a little wine?"
I nod.
"South America," we say in chorus.
Fun facts about South America (which I discover surfing continuously on the Web at work):
It has the smallest orchid (half a millimeter in diameter).
Llamas are the oldest domesticated animals.
Women used to wear spiders as fashion accessories.
Nietzsche's sister Elisabeth was part of an Aryan cult in Paraguay.
They have the largest and smallest everything.
For the first time, I see just how mind-numbingly boring my job really is. Which means I'm starting to wake up. Which isn't good, is it?
The Past Catches Up While I Eat A Burger, With Fries
Carter and I are sitting at the bar at Scrambles and he asks, "So what have you been up to?"
"Today?"
"Today's good."
"Went to work. Back from work. What about you?"
"Same. Yet again we find ourselves on the same path to enlightenment. When did you get back in town?"
"Couple months ago. How about you?"
"Three months. My girlfriend wanted to come back home. We were living together in L.A. but she wanted to be near her family."
"Still making documentaries?"
"Still my passion. But it has a nasty habit of maxing out your credit cards and keeping you in lifelong debt. Apparently, lifelong debt is not good. That's why the real stuff is on hold while I go around doing private documentaries for hire."
"Private documentaries?"
"Yeah. People hire me to make a documentary about their parents, you know, for a 60th wedding present, that sort of thing. Feel-good stuff. Feel-good stuff that makes pretty good money, I'm finding out. And I have to say, it's kind of nice being around feel-good stuff. A really good change. And you? I heard you were in New York making mega money? Investment banking? What are you doing back?"
"Hedge fund. Spat me out."
"Burn out? Yeah, I hear it's mental. Your parents still here?"
"Yup."
"Your dad still at St. Anthony's?"
"Yup. He's head of surgery. And Mom's still teaching at the university."
"How's your little brother doing?"
"Dentist. Married. With a three-year-old kid."
"Married? With a kid? Woah."
"A little boy. And he managed to do it all without getting disinherited."
"Disinherited?"
"Family tradition. Marrying someone who's so repugnant to your parents that they disinherit you. I can't tell you how wealthy we'd be if it wasn't for the string of disinheritances. It's usually the firstborn male. Since I'm the firstborn and female, I might have broken the curse. My dad says we should wait to see what I eventually bring home before proclaiming victory. I'm thinking about never bringing anyone home. Remain single. I think I owe it to the family fortune."
"You've never told me any of this. Holding back on the good stuff. Getting to know more about Smithie. I like it. So what started the curse? What was the first domino?"
"You don't want to know."
"I do. I really do."
"It's complicated. But here goes. My dad is half Korean and half Japanese. His dad is Korean and his mom is Japanese. His dad, my grandfather, got disinherited for marrying someone Japanese. As a special fuck-you to his family, my grandfather ended up making ten times the money his family had, and his family was not exactly poor. But then ole grandpa disinherited my dad for marrying someone Swedish. Luckily, my dad had already graduated from medical school by then. That is, luckily, he didn't tell my grandfather until he'd graduated from medical school. Only fools don't learn from history."
"Wait. What's the deal with being Japanese?"
"A big deal if you're Japanese."
Carter rolls his eyes. "Come on."
"Japan invaded Korea. Attempted cultural annihilation. Slavery. Koreans didn't like that."
"I didn't know that," Carter says.
"Did you?" he asks Kirsten, who's wiping down the counter and sneaking us free refills of beer.
"Who doesn't know?" she asks.
"So what's wrong with Swedes?" Carter asks.
"Not Asian?" I speculate.
"But you'd think your grandfather would be a bit more understanding. Duh. What was his problem?" Carter asks, astonished.
"Man, you really don't know anything about human nature, do you?" Kirsten comments.
"Does that make sense to you?" Carter asks.
"No. But that's humanity in a nutshell," Kirsten says.
"That's just fucked up," Carter declares.
"You know, you're the third Asian plus Swede combo I've met," Kirsten says to me. "God, that's a spectacular gene combo. Produces the most beautiful offspring. If I were a blond Swede, I'd go get an Asian. For the sake of my offspring."
"Look. This is me. Squirming under the microscope," I complain. "Your turn, Carter. How about your parents? How are they doing?"
"My mom passed away three years ago. My dad's living in one of those assisted-living places. He likes it. Nice people. And he's still pretty fit for his age. He loves to brag how he can still get around unaided on two feet. That's one of the things on the back burner, my documentary on growing old and having to live in places like that. Done right, they don't have to be depressing places. What are you doing now?"
"Working for some weird company that doesn't seem to do anything except sell and buy companies. My boss says the CEO likes scrapbooking. Something about collecting newsprint."
"Okay with you?"
"Just what the doctor ordered."
"It's strange we've ended up living right across the hall from each other," Carter says slowly.
"Too strange."
"Destiny?"
"You believe in destiny?"
Carter shrugs. He turns to Kirsten. "How about you? Believe in destiny?"
"Just karmic entanglements. And only because there just doesn't seem to be any other explanation for the weird shit that goes on in my life."
"I was thinking the other day how weird it is that people just disappear out of your life, people you grew up with, and then I run into you," Carter says to me. "I was really glad to see you."
"Really? Why?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"We hated each other."
"I didn't hate you. I liked you. I mean, you could be really irritating, but I did like you."
"When was this? I think you're getting me mixed up with somebody else."
Carter laughs.
"We used to say the most awful things to each other," I say.
"I only did it to get a rise out of you," Carter says. "You were such an easy target. Man, you had a temper. Anyway, didn't you think that was kind of fun?"
"No. It always ended up getting so personal. So nasty. Maybe you think that's fun, but I don't."
"You did say one or two things that kind of blew me away," Carter says, smiling ruefully. "Home-truth kind of stuff. I think that was part of why I liked you. You always got to the heart of things. Life wasn't just a big fat joke to you. I wish it could be."
"I thought you liked sucking milk up your nose."
"When I was eight."
"You were still doing it in high school."
"Okay. It took me a while to grow up."
"God, Carter — you're weird all grown up."
The Latin Dance
Rafe was back, all rejuvenated.
"Did you have a good time?" It takes me a while to talk to him. I feel shy around him. Maybe because he kissed my cheek. Maybe because I'm in love with him. Maybe because I think he might be in love with me too.
"I had a fantastic time."
"Where'd you go?" What else could I ask?
"All over Peru. And parts of Ecuador."
"Ecuador is one of the largest exporters of roses." It just came out of me.
"How did you know that, Susanna?"
"I — I don't know."
"You're full of surprises."
"What did you do in Peru?"
"Lots of traveling. Backpacking. I have friends in Buenos Aires. We met up in Peru and did a lot of hiking. Have you ever been to South America?"
"Just Central. To Belize. With my boyfriend. My ex-boyfriend."
Rafe stares at me, as if trying to see me in a different light.
"We went on vacation. Just to a resort. So it wasn't really seeing Belize at all." I don't want him to see me in that light.
"Try Peru next time," he says lightly.
"I will."
My Ex-boyfriend
I hadn't thought of Brett in months. We lived together in New York. He was a photographer, but that was more a hobby because he was a trust-fund baby and didn't need money. He didn't really understand needing money or working. He thought it was great that I was fired. More time to ski. That's when I realized my life was all wrong. When I realized I had to go home. Start all over again from as near to zero as I could.
Imitation Of Life
Directed by Douglas Sirk
Adapted from the novel by Fannie Hurst
We were twenty minutes into this film when I realized that I'd seen it before, when I was about eight or nine; I didn't understand it then but it'd always been with me, like a conversation I'd overheard, the emotions and mood seeping into me until it all got caught up with my own.
It's an ambitious movie, wanting to say so many important things, all in a very glossy, profitable Hollywood way. Actually, as Kirsten pointed out, it was pretty daring for 1959. Lana Turner plays a young widow with a little girl. She has one driving ambition in life — she wants to be a great actress (okay, who doesn't, right?). One day, at the beach, she meets a woman in very similar circumstances: widowed, with a young daughter, trying to survive without money in New York. Naturally, with so much in common, they should become friends. But it's not so easy. One woman is white, the other colored. In this world, it's much more natural that the black woman becomes the white woman's housekeeper.
The great Juanita Moore plays the poor colored woman. Out of necessity, she follows Lana Turner home, calmly and soothingly insinuating herself into Lana's life: yes, you can't afford a maid, but that's okay — we'll live together and I can take care of the apartment and children while you concentrate on becoming an actress — just see how our children are friends already! She even scrubs the building's staircase so the landlord will reduce Lana's rent.
Many years go by and Lana does become a great actress. But she loses her daughter's love in the process because a woman can't have a child and a career. Juanita loses her daughter too. Because her daughter is so light skinned she can pass as white and she wants desperately to be white. So she discards her mother, the only identifiable marker of her black heritage.
A heartbroken mother has to die. Juanita sacrificed everything for her daughter but her daughter doesn't want anything she has to give because she doesn't want to be the daughter of a colored housekeeper. She wants to be the daughter of the rich, glamorous white woman. In an ironic twist, she even follows the white woman's footsteps into show business, becoming a showgirl in a sleazy nightclub.
The ending is a bit strange. The humble housekeeper has one wish, a bang-up of a funeral. Horse-drawn carriage for her coffin, a band, hundreds of mourners following the procession. Her daughter crying hysterically as she runs after the coffin.
Kirsten got really pissed about the funeral: "So why did the housekeeper wait until she died to get so flamboyant? Maybe if she'd been a little bit more flamboyant while she'd been alive, her daughter wouldn't have run away and become a sleazy showgirl? What the hell!"
I wasn't so sure. Flamboyant moms are scary things.
Never Fall In Love Again
Carter's girlfriend situation was a bit more complicated than he'd first let on. The riff was something like this: Carter's in love with Stephanie who's in love with Per who's in love with some other girl who's in love with some other guy, etc. Stephanie had really come back home to be with Per — they'd had an on-again-off-again thing since high school. Frankly, I think the real reason Stephanie moved was to get rid of Carter. Per was just a bonus. Carter in love was grossly clingy. And disturbingly optimistic. He was sure Stephanie would take him back so he packed all his bags and followed her home. And she did. They lived together for three months. Then she kicked him out and now she was entering her on-again phase with Per.
Stephanie's game with Per turned Carter obsessive. He called her every hour, wrote her emails and letters, sent flowers, cards, showed up at the door with stuffed animals — just everything gross.
"You're pathetic," Kirsten said.
"Tell me something new," Carter replied.
"You're not getting off on this?" Kirsten asked. "I mean, you have to ask yourself what you're getting out of this."
"Haven't you ever been in love?"
"Man, Carter, you're always in love," I said. "It's disgusting."
"This calls for an intervention," Kirsten said. "What this situation needs is some Billy Wilder."
She was really into Billy Wilder now. The Major And The Minor, Some Like It Hot, Sabrina, Stalag 17, Double Indemnity, Irma La Douce, The Apartment. Billy Wilder, aka the Viennese Pixie. 5'11 according to the IMDb (I don't know why but I always imagined him short — something about the writing makes me think he was short — don't ask me why). Screenwriter, director. Originally planned to become a lawyer. Part of the great German exodus pre World War II. Born 1906. Died 2002. He made a lot of movies.
"What would Billy Wilder write?" Kirsten asked herself. "Okay. Here's what you do, Ethan. Don't call Stephanie. Wait for her to call you."
"Then I'd be waiting for hell to freeze over," he lamented.
"No. You're not getting the Billy Wilder here. You don't understand the psychology. Stephanie is as addicted to the whole situation as you are. If you don't call, she's going to wonder why you aren't calling. Because you always call. So sooner or later, she's going to call you. And I suspect it'll be sooner than later. When she does, act like you haven't noticed you haven't been calling. Sound happy to hear from her, but seem like you have a life."
I laughed. Kirsten gave me a stern look. She continued.
"She'll ask what you've been up to. Say you just got back from a fantastic vacation. Say you spent an amazing week in Cancun. She'll ask if you went alone. Be coy. Hesitate. Say you went with a friend. Then she'll ask if it was a male friend or a female friend. Continue being hesitant. Say a female friend. And then quickly get off the phone. Leave her hanging. And thinking. Can you handle that?"
"I don't know. I don't know if I can act like I have a life," Carter joked.
"Try your best," I said. "The stakes are high."
"We'll rehearse," Kirsten said.
Carter seemed encouraged. He even ordered dinner.
Bait
Waiting for Stephanie to call almost killed Carter. But after a little over a week, Stephanie did call. It was like Kirsten had masterminded the whole thing. She was now Billy Wilder and Carter's romance was her film. No other creative input allowed.
"It was amazing," Carter said. "Everything happened just the way you said it would. I'm really glad we did all that rehearsing. You are brilliant, Kirsten."
"Now stage two," Kirsten said. "Let's channel Billy Wilder."
"The bait," I said.
"Yes, the bait," Kirsten agreed, thinking out her plot. "You need a girl. To make Stephanie jealous. Someone you can hire. Someone unusually stunning. You."
She pointed at me.
"No," I said. Kirsten could Billy Wilder Carter but she wasn't going to Billy Wilder me.
"You think she's stunning enough?" Carter asked Kirsten.
"Like you should be so lucky," Kirsten snorted.
"I'm not for hire," I said again.
"Come on, Smithie," Carter pleaded. "Help me out."
"I'm strictly with the audience," I protested.
"Any place you can go where you know Stephanie will be there?" Kirsten asked Carter.
"Yeah. We've both been invited to my friend Mark's party. This Saturday."
"Perfect. Just think Billy Wilder. Smithie, you're Ginger Rogers."
"Ginger Rogers was in love with Ray Milland," I said.
"So he's Ray Milland."
I groaned. "My imagination isn't that good."
"Is it really that hard?" Carter asked me. He looked hurt.
"Carter, I've known you for so long, we're practically related."
"Just pretend Ethan's Rafe," Kirsten suggested. "That way, you get a rehearsal out of it."
This was turning into a crazy Billy Wilder film.
It's My Party
The party was painful — just a bunch of people who didn't really know each other drinking alcohol and sticking to their patch of the wall. I went because Carter promised me that if things worked out with him and Stephanie, he'd present me with a $500 gift certificate from the luxury-brand store of my choice. It turns out that I can be bought. Yes, I am a whore. A shoe whore to be specific.
We tried to be cool and arrived late. I had to drive because Carter had drunk three shots of tequila trying to stay calm.
"So who's Stephanie?" I asked.
Carter looked around the room. "There. Over there."
You never know what you're going to find when you finally run into the object of someone else's obsession. Stephanie was average, bordering on anonymous. Average looks, average height, average everything. What was there to obsess about?
"She with Per?" I asked.
"No," Carter said, surprised.
"Trouble in paradise. You're already ahead of the game, Carter. Let's get some drinks and blend."
Carter held my hand and we crossed the room to the makeshift bar. His hand was sweaty and he clung to me like it was the first day of kindergarten and I was his teacher. We got matching beers, drinking straight out of the bottle. I had no idea if that made us look more cute but what the hell.
"I think she's coming our way," Carter whispered. He put his arm around me. I tried to look happy. God, the room was hot.
"Ethan," Stephanie said, approaching cautiously. "Just get here?"
"Yeah, a couple of minutes ago. Oh. Hey. This is Susanna."
"Hi," I murmured. Try to look in love. Try to look in love. This was embarrassing. It was like a really bad high school play.
"Hi," Stephanie said coolly, checking me out.
She was obnoxious and I thought, "Okay. I can be territorial too." I stared her down. Who are you to be so obnoxious to Carter?
"So did you come with Per?" Carter asked. He shouldn't have acted so interested. Think Ray Milland, Carter, think Ray Milland. If you're going to ask, throw in some irony.
"No. He's off with his buddies on a camping trip."
With his true love so near, Carter was forgetting about the bait. I put my arm around his waist and squeezed him a little. He took the hint and held me tighter, even looking at me and ignoring Stephanie. I tried to smile like Carter was Rafe but Carter wasn't anything like Rafe. His face was harder, his features more pronounced. He was also six feet four which meant I had to bend my neck up at a hard angle just so I could stare adoringly at his face — my neck was beginning to hurt like hell. I don't suppose you notice pain when you're really in love. Love hormones must be a natural muscle relaxant.
"You know, I'm going to go," Stephanie said.
Yes, go, I thought, cheering her on. Go! Go! Go!
"Go?" Carter asked, alarmed.
"Yeah. I've been here a while. I have to meet up with someone. See you around."
"Yeah. See you."
Carter watched Stephanie leave. He looked so sad.
"Don't worry," I said. "That was a complete success."
"Success? She didn't even hang around."
"No need. She saw. She was perturbed. Notice the way she came to you? Notice the way she checked me out and then completely ignored me?"
"How's that good?"
"Because. If she hadn't been threatened by me, she would have talked to me. Tried to be nice to me. But she was so perturbed, she ignored me completely. She didn't even try to be condescending to me. Success, Carter."
Carter thought about it.
"You are much better looking than her. That would drive her crazy."
"So you do know the object of your obsession is sort of blah in the looks department?"
"Yeah."
"And she doesn't have much in the personality department either. So what gives?"
"I dunno. It's love."
"Carter, you mind?" I asked, wiggling out of his arms. "It's really hot in here."
"Oh, sorry. I guess I got used to using you as a coatrack."
"Thanks."
And then I saw him. Walking through the door. Rafe. My mouth dropped.
"What's going on?" Carter asked.
"Rafe," I stuttered.
"Where?" he asked.
Rafe must have heard me. He was looking right at me. He waved. I waved back.
"He's coming our way."
I was a deer in headlights. I couldn't move or think. I wanted to run.
Carter grinned. He held my hand, slid his arm around my waist. Snuggled me. He knew he had me trapped.
"Susanna," Rafe said.
"Rafe," I said. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm here with some friends." He looked around the room. "They're here somewhere."
He smiled at Carter and introduced himself.
"Hi, I'm Rafe. I work with Susanna."
"Gosh, I'm sorry," I said. "Rafe, this is Carter. My friend."
"Ethan," Carter interrupted. "Ethan Carter."
Now he was channeling James Bond. Great.
They shook hands, Carter trying to act all manly and Rafe not really understanding what was going on. He continued to smile and was so very nice.
"Have you been here long?" I asked Rafe, trying to pull away from Carter. Something in this very strange situation was making Carter hypercompetitive. He wasn't going to let me go. It was like I'd turned into Stephanie and Rafe was now Per. I'd forgotten how physically strong Carter was.
"Just arrived," Rafe said. "How about you?"
"Same. We just dropped by. To say hello. We can't stay long, though. We were about to leave."
"Then I'll see you at work, Susanna. It was nice meeting you, Ethan. Bye."
I watched him go — my heart twisted out of its slot.
"So that's Rafe," Carter said smugly.
I grabbed him and dragged him to the door.
"Hey, what's the hurry?" he asked mischievously.
"What the fuck, Carter? Why'd you drool all over me like that?"
"Are you kidding? You should be thanking me. What works for Stephanie should work for Rafe. I mean, that is the guy you're all in love with, right? I should have tongued you right then and there."
"You haven't grown up at all, Carter. I'm so fucking mad at you."
He just laughed like it was the biggest joke. I punched him in the arm. He punched me right back, laughing.
Kirsten, of course, agreed with Carter.
"I'm with Ethan," she said. "You should be thanking him."
"Rafe isn't that kind of guy. God, now he thinks I'm with Carter."
"Then show up at work and say Ethan dumped you and cry all over Rafe's shoulder. That'll work too."
"Yeah," Carter agreed. "I'll be more than happy to play the bad guy."
"You know, that might work with Rafe," I said. Saint Rafe.
"All is not lost," Kirsten said, smiling.
Sometimes Kirsten could be strangely Machiavellian. She sent shivers down my spine.
Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind
Directed by Michel Gondry
Written by Charlie Kaufman, Michel Gondry, et al.
Are we doomed to fall in love with the same person over and over again, even with the slate clean? To make all the same mistakes because who we are doesn't ever change, even as we're touched by one person and then another? Perhaps each person who brushes against us makes us all the more entrenched in what we're not. All that wonder and optimism of a beginning, slashed and cut by experience — so why is the beginning so enhanced, imbued with magic dust, when its lightness makes it almost superfluous? Is it that possibility of being who we are not?
I Melt With You
Possibilities. I think that's why Rafe was always reading brochures. Usually brochures for classes. Like taekwondo. Meditation. Yoga. Web programming. Knitting.
"And this one's for music appreciation. And this one's for pet grooming. I like this one. 'No sweat cooking'."
"So you think you'll take a cooking class?" I could picture him in a white apron, chopping up an onion. Letting me taste his beurre blanc.
"I don't know. Are you interested?"
"I can't boil an egg."
"I can't either. Which makes us ideal students. Should we take a cooking class together, Susanna?"
"Seriously?"
He seemed serious. But sometimes he was serious when he wasn't. And if you didn't catch on, he'd go on pretending that he was serious. He didn't like to embarrass people.
"I'll sign us up." He started filling out the back of the brochure where there was a form. "It's only five classes. Not much of a commitment. But five classes ought to be enough to learn how to boil an egg, don't you think?"
Goofing Around
Carter makes a surprising announcement: "I think I'm going to try out one of those online dating services."
"You got a good pic?" Kirsten asks.
"No. Not anything recent anyway. Thought I'd take some new photos. You guys wanna help me take some shots?"
Carter has one of those professional cameras with extra big phallic lenses and Kirsten goes nuts snapping photos. We go all over town, shooting Carter from front, back, all around. He even takes his shirt off, doing Adonis shots. All those hours at the gym has made Carter's muscles very, very happy. Back home we scrutinize the pics. Kirsten finally says, "I think this is it."
It's perfect. The photo looks exactly like Carter, only with shitloads of va va va voom.
"You look hot, Carter," I say.
"I'd reply to that," Kirsten says. "And it'd be short and simple: Dear Ethan, bring a condom."
We scream with laughter.
It was a good day.
The Egg
The cooking class starts and we're in this old woman's home. She's a French woman with the forearms of Popeye The Sailor. She's great. Barking out orders, scaring the life out of us.
"This is the proper way to hold a knife," she yells out. She makes us pose with our knives while she goes around and corrects the angle of our fingers. "You don't hold a knife this way and you cut yourself! I don't want any bloody fingers in my kitchen. But if you do cut yourself, you must clean the wound and apply this! Yes, the bandages are blue. You must use blue bandages. Why? There is no food that is blue. That is why. This way you will not lose a bandage in the food. No one wants to eat a pudding with a blue bandage in it. Everyone understand what I am saying? Good."
We learn to whip cream. We learn to boil an egg. The class ends with an omelet. There's a lot of butter in a good omelet.
Rafe and I celebrated the last class with drinks at a bar.
"I'm going to miss our cooking classes." I was sad. I was never alone with Rafe but I was with him and he wasn't my boss.
"Did you really like the class?"
"I did."
Rafe sighed. "I'm so relieved. I thought maybe I'd sort of bullied you into taking the class with me."
I laughed. "I thought maybe I'd accidentally pressured you."
"Maybe then you'd be interested in this?" Rafe takes out a brochure from his coat pocket. Songwriting.
A Song In My Heart
The instructor was another woman. Rail thin with huge circular eyeglasses. She thought we could all find fame and fortune thinking up ringtones for cell phones. She was hilarious.
"I think we're going to end up subsidizing every crazy woman in the city," Rafe said. "It's fantastic."
It was.
It's Nice
Going to class once a week. Having dinner together. Drinks and coffee. It'd be around two by the time Rafe drove me home. He was amazingly sweet. Walking me to the elevator, kissing me on the cheek. And it wasn't just a polite kiss or a ritual goodbye kiss. It was affectionate and tender, and it was driving me crazy. Why couldn't he just tell me what he thought of me? What he felt for me? Did he think of me like I was some kid sister or did he think of me as something more? He was so impossible to read, the way he always nodded and said yes even before I'd finished like he already knew what I was going to say. Did he? Or was that some kind of automatic response system? He seemed so open, but then you looked into his eyes and saw his eyes were Teflon eyes. Highly reflective Teflon eyes.
"Just grab him and kiss him," Kirsten said. "Then you'd find out quick."
"And if it turns out he thinks I'm a sister? The last thing I want to see is repulsion on his face. Not to mention the small fact that we work together. He's my boss. Oh god, he's my boss."
"You realize you're as bad as Ethan?"
Jack came out of the kitchen with a small morsel for Kirsten. She seemed to barely notice him.
"Rafe's dad is from Alabama," I continued. "Don't you think there must be a karmic connection? You know. The song. Oh, Susanna."
"If it works for you..."
"Of course it doesn't."
"I think you're just turned on by the whole thing," Kirsten said.
"Are you kidding?" I protested. "It's driving me crazy. I can't even sleep."