Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book (26 page)

So there I was, standing on a banquette with my toilet paper sword in my right hand, scanning the room. And then BOOM!

My body slammed against the carpet and my weapon went flying from my hand. I hadn’t seen him coming, but Roman had tackled me.

“Babe!” he shouted, pulling me up from the ground. “We’re leaving. NOW.”

“What are you doing?!” I screamed back. My body
writhed and flailed as Roman dragged me across the floor like a hooked fish fighting for its life. Genevieve was giving random, scared patrons twenty-dollar bills and apologizing for my behavior. I let out one more extremely drawn-out pterodactyl screech as I was pulled through the door and out into the street.

The light glaring down Seventy-sixth Street that day was blinding. Pure whiteness. I actually thought I’d perished as I passed through the hotel’s threshold to the street, which wouldn’t have been so surprising. Death by psychotic insanity.

Roman let go of my arm, I made some sort of half-growling, half-grunting noise, and the next thing I remember is Genevieve’s voice: “Okay, Babe. You’re wearing a trench coat over pajamas, you have really unfortunate bangs, and you just behaved like a wild animal in a classy restaurant.”

“Gen, get off my dick. I’m fine! And you know I hate the word
classy,
so please!” I shouted.

“You are out. Of. Control,” she said loudly and slowly.

“You can really go blow yourself,” I said as I prepared to walk away. But before I had the chance to, Genevieve dropped her bag on the street (which I don’t think she’s ever done), wound her arm back, and open-palm slapped me across the face. Everything went white again. I stumbled a couple feet backward and put my hands on my knees. It had been a long time since I’d been slapped like that. I was physically shocked, but it was exactly what I needed.

When we were in seventh grade, Gen and I began a tradition of slapping each other, based on our own private Fujita
scale of cuntiness. If either of us was ever being what we used to call an F-5 Bitch Storm, the other would slap her as hard as humanly possible. It’s like stabbing someone who’s having an allergy attack with an EpiPen, without anyone’s skin breaking. I mean, slapping is really the only way to snap someone out of a proper bitch fit. I would know, Genevieve is the queen of F-5s.

On occasion a single slap can birth a series of slaps. A slap war, if you will. I found my balance, assumed a steady position facing Gen—who stood there ready to take what was coming her way—and slapped back. She stumbled backward, allowing a highly unattractive tennis-groan to come out of her mouth. She quickly recovered, and before I knew it, we were throwing one slap after the next. It was on and I was committed to slapping Genevieve and getting slapped until I felt better. The blows got harder and harder as we took turns back and forth.

Roman obviously knew exactly how important this moment was, so he stood guard, making sure that no Good Samaritan tried to intervene and fuck everything up. It all went on for another minute or so, until I was drawing my hand back, ready to clap another one on a completely red-faced Genevieve, when I realized I’d forgotten about the note on my compact. My tunnel vision had cleared and I’d broken free.

“I’m done,” I said, and lowered my hand to my side.

Roman turned around to face us, lit a Marlboro, and shot me a look of relief.

“It worked. I’m okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

“Are you sure?” Gen asked, taking Roman’s cigarette from
his hand and taking a drag. “Because you were not okay inside. It wasn’t cute and it wasn’t safe, for anyone.”

“Yeah, I know. Not cool.” I took the cigarette out of Gen’s hand and helped myself to a long inhale. “But you shouldn’t have said anything about Thalia possibly being out on bail.”

“I know,” Gen said. “That was rude. I was just fucking with you. She’s already been deported back to Russia.”

Roman took the cigarette from me as soon as I finished my pull. “So we can be normal now?” he said.

“Yes. But why did she target me? I don’t understand.”

“I think it’s kind of fun.” Gen smiled, pulling out her own pack of Marlboros and lighting one.

“Ew, you would think it’s fun. Try having a stalker.”

“Don’t ew me right now, Babe. Honestly.”

“Ew to you telling me not to ew you, though.”

“Ew to you having a stalker in the first place. It’s so nineties.”

“Your tits are so nineties.”

“Whatever.”

“Whatever.”

Silence.

Before one more surprise slap could be added to the war, Roman put his arms around us and drew us both in for a limp, three-person hug. It was actually more like Roman was hugging us and Gen and I were just smushing our bodies together with our heads down and our hands at our sides. Inside the hug, I stole Gen’s cigarette out of her hand and took a drag. I did feel better. Still shaken up, but better.

It was a relief to know that my best friends would always care about me even when I was acting like a righteous cuntface.
I was also happy that, unlike Thalia (may her poor soul rot in Russia forever), they’d never ask to borrow my clothes because they had their own. That’s true friendship. That’s genuine love. So I guess we’d come a long way, and I was sad that Gen and Romie had to go back to LA that night. Roman was performing live on
Access Hollywood
the next day.

I
arrived at Charlie’s apartment building with one objective: smoke a joint, weigh myself, take a bath, eat something small, weigh myself again, and fall asleep watching a black-and-white movie. So needless to say I was less than pleased to see Robert, or rather Roberto, sitting on a chair in the corner of the lobby. He was wearing a suede beret, a mock turtleneck with those weird scrub pants, and Crocs. It was so hard to see him dressed like that, which just goes to show you that even the hottest guy can be repulsive in the wrong outfit.

“Are you crazy? You can’t just show up here and wait for me in the lobby of my boyfriend’s building. You look like Art Garfunkel.”

“I know, Babe. I’m sorry.”

“Where did you even get that turtleneck? It’s scaring me.”

“Banana Republic,” he said softly, eyes downcast.

“I knew it.” I was devastated. “You need to leave. This is too hard.”

“Wait. Babe, at least take these.”

Roberto reached behind him and handed me a bouquet of rainbow roses. They were not chic.

“You can’t be here, Robert. Please go home. We’ll talk later, but right now I have something I need to do.”

I swear to God a single tear rolled down his cheek. He was definitely on the verge of having a nervous breakdown. Donald the doorman eyed him suspiciously.

“Miss Walker, is this man bothering you?” he asked.

I sighed. “No, he’s fine.”

“Babe . . .” Robert pleaded.

“WHAT?” I blurted out far too loudly.

“I love you.”

“I know. But I have a lot of shit to take care of. Let’s talk later.”

I turned and walked away, and my mind began to race. Was I being an idiot/bitch? Robert may have been in the middle of a psychotic break, but he was basically telling me exactly what I’d always wanted to hear. I turned to look back at Robert only to discover that he was standing right behind me.

“Hey.”

“Holy fuck, you scared the shit out of me!”

The elevator doors opened and Robert followed me inside. As soon as the doors closed in front of us, he reached into his scrubs pocket and pulled out a napkin covered in black scribble.

“I want to read you this poem I wrote.”

“Oh my God.”

“Babe. My queen. My soul.”

“Stop, Robert.”

“ ‘My body is a cage and you are my heart. My mind is a museum and you are my art. I promise I’ll never fart. Let me love you.’ ”

“You’re kidding me.”

Robert dropped the napkin to the ground dramatically and looked right into my eyes. Either the color was coming back to his face or the elevator’s lighting favored his bone structure, because he looked less sickening. And then he started kissing me. Roberto was just as good of a kisser as Robert was, but this couldn’t go any further. I certainly wasn’t going to hook up with him in Charlie’s bed. I’m not some kind of she-devil. I just couldn’t actually cheat on Charlie. He was too sweet and too caring for me to hurt him like that, so I removed my lips from Robert’s and pulled the beret down over his face.

“I can’t do this with you right now. We need to stop.”

He said nothing. And just stood there with his face really close to mine, one thin layer of brown suede between us, until the elevator doors opened. I pulled the beret off his face and put it on playfully.

“I thought I was a freak, but you are next level.”

We walked down the hall to Charlie’s door.

“Are you sure that you want me to come in?” Robert said.

“No. But don’t try to kiss me again or read any more of your weird poetry. Some of us are natural-born writers, while others aren’t blessed with the gift of words.”

I unlocked the door. As we walked into the foyer, I noticed that the lights were on in the kitchen, which was weird because I was 99 percent sure I had turned them off before I’d left. I walked farther into the apartment, with Robert trailing me by just a few feet.

“You wait here. I’ll get you some water, but then you really need to go.”

“All right, my sweet.”

I went into the kitchen and walked to the shelf to grab a glass for water. When I turned around, Charlie was standing right before my eyes.

“Surprise!” he said, lifting me off my feet and hugging me.

“Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii . . .” The word trailed off into oblivion as I realized how totally fucked I was. Charlie lowered me to the ground, and before I could give fair warning, Roberto came walking through the door, hideous bouquet in hand.

“Babe, who is this?” asked Charlie.

“This is Robert.”

“Robert? As in ex-boyfriend Robert?”

“More like ‘Soul Mate Robert.’ ” Roberto chuckled to himself, as if he’d said a joke that no one understood but him.

“I, uh . . . I thought you weren’t coming back until next week?” I said to Charlie.

“Well, I was hoping to surprise you with a nice meal and an early return, but apparently you had other plans this evening.” I could tell by how quietly he was talking that Charlie was fucking pissed.

“It’s not as bad as it looks, I swear.”

“Oh, really? Not as bad as it looks, love? Well, that’s a bloody relief, because it looks pretty fucking bad.”

“I’m going to bid you two farewell,” Roberto said very quietly as he backed out of the kitchen.

“Brilliant idea,” Charlie replied condescendingly.

I shot Robert my best “please stop acting like a freak on a leash” look, and he mouthed “I’ll have you” to me before he left the kitchen. And with that, Robert was gone. I felt so bad for Charlie. I’d made a complete fool out of him. I was a monster, a ghoul, a goblin.

“Babe Walker. That was truly one of the most uncomfortable and humiliating moments of my life.” He seemed to have calmed himself a bit. Angry, but calm. “How long has this been going on?”

“Nothing is going on, Charlie. But I do think that we are in different places emotionally right now.”

“You think? I was planning on proposing to you tonight. Jesus! And you’re out and about with Robert? I would say we’re on different planets.”

“Excuse me, what? You were going to propose what tonight? Marriage?”

Without saying a word, Charlie reached into his pocket and pulled out a small green ring box and set it on the kitchen counter.

“Oh my God, no. This is not happening right now.”

“You’re right. It’s not happening.”

I opened the box to reveal the engagement ring of my dreams. It was a four-carat, emerald-cut perfect diamond resting on the most tasteful yet over-le-top vintage platinum setting I’d ever seen. Tiny pavé diamonds sat inside the filigree design. It was as if Charlie had incepted this ring inside my head before I saw it.
It was stunning. It was the ring of my soul. It was the ring I’d never have. I started bawling.

“Why are you crying? Clearly this was never going to work.”

“Charlie, I’m crying because I wanted this to work so badly. I’m crying because it’s pretty clear that I’ll never be in a normal relationship. I didn’t cheat on you. Well, I kind of cheated on you, but also kind of not.”

“What happened? Was it something I did? Have I been away too much? Were you lonely?”

“You did nothing wrong. This was completely out of your hands. Honestly, I just wasn’t ever sure that this was the right fit because of how tiny your penis is, and I think I put off dealing with my concerns because I really hoped it would just work itself out.”

After a long and very awkward staring contest, Charlie took a deep breath and continued. “Okay. I’m going to go out and get a drink. I’ll be back in two hours. It would be great if you and your stuff were gone by then.”

“I can do that,” I said through my tears. “You won’t ever have to see me again. I’m sorry.”

Charlie grabbed his keys, wallet, and phone off the kitchen counter. On his way out the door, he looked down at the gross bouquet of roses sitting in the entryway and then back at me with a steely-eyed glare.