The Harm in Asking: My Clumsy Encounters with the Human Race (23 page)

The second thing I thought to consider was whether Gina might have mafia connections. Because, well, she did seem
as
Italian American as any human could. I was both excited and terrified by the idea, and made a promise to myself that come hell or more audible sex with my roommate, I would work to stay on Gina’s good side. I would not piss Gina off.

“Well! Hello, Gina!” I said, just as warmly as I could. “It’s really nice to meet you! Would you like some
pro-SHOOT
? Or perhaps some
ri-GOT
?”

Gina grimaced.

“Nah,” she said. “I’ll just have cereal or whatevah. It’s too early for
pro-SHOOT
.”

“Totally,” I said. “I’ll just
fuhgeddaboudit
then.”

GINA, LIKE TOMAS
, appeared one day, and then just pretty much moved in. I thought things could go differently between us, however; that in the case of Gina and me, the deference I showered upon her would preemptively put her in a headspace to be kind and respectful toward me. But as the days and weeks progressed, it seemed rather that Gina wanted to challenge my deference by being annoying. Her personal habits included nicknaming Roy’s forearms her “nibble sticks,” as well as making frequent reference to her levels of vaginal moisture. When I asked her how she and Roy had met, she’d said, “I’ll tell ya. I was atta bar, and I sawr him, and I said to my girl, Adriana, ‘Oh my
gawd
, Adriana, check him
out
. Get me a paper towel
now
.’ And Adriana was like,
‘Why?’
And I was like, ‘Because: My snatch is floodin’, bitch! I wet my seat! I need to wipe!’ ”

My main point of interest here was not Gina’s physical response to the emaciated Roy. It was rather that Gina had a close friend named Adriana. Which, I’ll remind you, is the name of Chris Moltisanti’s ill-fated fiancée who (spoiler alert) IS KILLED BY THE
MAFIA CAPTAIN
WHO IS SUPPOSED TO BE HER
FRIEND
.

Hello
.

I had become the kind of person who cannot separate the characters in her favorite daytime soap from the real-life actors who play them on TV. When Gina said “my girl, Adriana,” what I heard was “I have a friend who’s engaged to the protégé of the head of the New Jersey family.”

In which case:

And also:

In light of points 1 and 2 above, I considered how at
any
second of
any
day I might find myself in the inconvenient path of a stray bullet. Civilians who move near those mafia circles
can
be harmed in this way, and so did I consider whether to treat myself to a bulletproof vest.

Gina went, “My girl, Adriana …”

And I went, Maybe I need a bulletproof vest.

I considered it. Not a lot, but a little. Eventually, though, I realized I was jumping to conclusions, and that the money I’d put toward a bulletproof vest could be used to more practical effect if I put it toward sanitary wipes instread. In light of Gina’s excitable vagina, I figured they’d be good to have around.

Gina discussed her vagina nonstop. Everything was “my snatch” this and “my snatch” that.

“My snatch gets swamp damp when I see my boyfriend.”

“My snatch is a horny jellyfish.”

“My snatch is wet ’n’ wild. LIKE THE LIP GLOSS!”

Now, I am nothing if not a woman who loves a little vaginal comparison now and again. But it was just too much when combined with Gina’s other affections: vanilla-scented Yankee candles, as well as a Jessica Simpson home spray called Fancy Nights. The candles were always burning, and as for the home spray, anytime anyone made a bowel movement—or rather, any time Gina
thought
she
smelled
a bowel movement—she would shout the phrase
“Fancy Nights! Fancy Nights!” and grab the spray, and spray it everywhere within ten feet of the toilet.

I felt about this behavior as I felt about the vaginal comparison: enjoyable in the right circumstance, and from the right person. But a woman living rent-free in my apartment is neither. Not when she has a boyfriend and I myself do not. Under this particular circumstance I am destined to be less receptive. I’ll hear her Fancy Nights turd alarm and become thoroughly annoyed.

I AM HAPPY
to tell you that things did turn around eventually between Gina and me, and that I owe that turnaround to the excessive length of Gina’s vagina.

Yes. The excessive length of Gina’s vagina.

Six months into Gina’s relationship with Roy—which, then, was six months into Roy’s stint of unemployment—Roy was busy drinking in his bedroom, while Gina and I sat chatting in the kitchen. We’d been discussing those more scenic sections of Weehawken, New Jersey, when suddenly a light snow began to fall. In response, Gina shouted “HOLY SHIT! SNOW!” and then tried hoisting herself onto the kitchen table—it sat right beside a window—in the hope of getting a better view. However, her jeans were too tight to allow her to do so, and so she removed them, as you do. She took off her jeans and was therefore in only the snuggest of underpants when she succeeded in getting herself up there on that table. Gina perched there, squatting froglike, watching snow.

The view from behind was astounding. Just … astounding. A large tongue, was what it looked like, sandwiched by a puffy bun. I have to admit that I loved it, and by this I mean that I loved the experience of seeing it. What with my limited real-life lesbian experience as well as my general pornography aversion, it was the first occasion
wherein I’d struck that delicate balance between distance
and
proximity—in other words, the balance one needs to get a proper look. When finally I did, I was delighted. For I thought, Well, I might be hefty of neck, waist, and ankle, but at least
that’s
not happening. Then it occurred to me that maybe it
was
happening, it was just that I didn’t know it was happening since I don’t ever see myself from that particular angle.

Ultimately, though, I abandoned that line of thinking, and that is because occasionally—and for reasons unknown—I manage effective steps toward self-preservation. Sometimes I think, Sara, you don’t need a bulletproof vest just because you live with an Italian girl who has a friend named Adriana. Or, Sara, let it go. Your vagina length is perfect.

The knowledge of the long vagina did a lot to improve my relationship with Gina. It provided me with a much-appreciated bump to my self-esteem and, as we all know, a person who makes us feel good about ourselves is a person we enjoy. Furthermore, it helped to humanize Gina. This was the natural side effect of seeing her in so raw and vulnerable a state. Something shook loose in my head, and I got it. I was like, Oh. Gina’s not some scary mafioso. She’s just a nice girl, with a long vagina.

I felt less afraid and was therefore able to be more direct. So when, for example, Gina started hand-washing her underpants and hanging them to dry on the shower rod, and when this particular action resulted in water dripping on my person from the crotch areas of Gina’s underpants whenever I entered or exited the shower, I was empowered to say something about it rather than cower in fear. I said, “Hey, Gina. Can you do me a favor and hang your underpants somewhere else after you wash them?” and Gina answered, “Huh? Oh. Sure,” and started laying the
underpants across the kitchen chairs instead. It wasn’t the optimal location, but the point is that we were communicating, and that that communication was helping our relationship.

The same could not be said for Roy and Gina. Their honeymoon period was over by this stage, and the sound of their intercourse had been replaced with the sound of inebriated attempts at conversation.

“I wanted a cone.”

“What? I don’t know you.”

“You know me, baby!”

“Fuck it. Want a sandwich?”

“What? No! I wanted a
cone
. Ice cream is
fun
in a
cone
.”

Most of the time, these exchanges would start out drunk and relating in some way to food, before devolving into something hostile, and relating in some way to money. Gina was angry because she’d lent Roy an indiscernible amount and he had failed to pay her back. He also drank too much, although I’m paraphrasing by writing it that way. What Gina said exactly was, “Roy! Ya’ too drunk! Ya’ don’t take the snatch no more! Just
take
it! Be like, ‘Who’s your boss, bitch?
Roy’s
your boss!’ ”

I myself had overheard this particular argument countless times, and had taken it upon myself to devise a solution. The old me might’ve warned Roy that an unpaid debt to an Italian was a really bad idea, but the new me was direct with those around her, and not at all beholden to Italian American stereotypes. The new me had mature solutions, and wondered whether Gina, who was living with Roy and me full-time, should perhaps forgive the debt as repayment for the previous months’ rent. More to the point, I wondered whether she should pay rent moving forward.

I returned home from work one night and decided to be bold, to bring up my idea. Roy was in his bedroom
drinking. Gina was in the living room watching TV. I said, “Oh, hey, Gina. How are you?” but she did not respond. So I walked closer to her. I could see that she was drunk.

I tried again.

“Hey. Gina,” I repeated.

“Whaaa?” she slurred.

“Oh! Good! You’re awake,” I said. “I thought maybe you were doing that thing where people sleep with their eyes open. Have you ever seen it? It’s super weird! Anyway, care to chat? Woman to woman?”

Gina, still, said nothing.

“Well. So. Here’s the thing,” I said. “I’ve overheard you and Roy these past few weeks discussing how he owes you money for … a case of beer, I think it was, and tickets to see Coldplay. But seeing as how you’ve been living here full-time, I thought maybe the thing to do would be to call it even on the money. I thought that maybe moving forward, you’d pay a portion of the rent.”

Gina looked confused at this stage, and backed her head into her neck. This had the overall effect of giving her a double chin.

She belched loudly in my face.

“Bless you,” I said.

“
Fuck
you,” she said. “Just, like, fuck.
You
. I ain’t givin’ you money. Or Roy money. Or anybody money.”

The “fuck you” felt out of left field and unnecessarily aggressive. Nonetheless, I chose not to make an issue.

“You’ve had a long day,” I said. “I can see that, and I blame myself, as a matter of fact, for choosing a stupid time to bring this up. Let’s discuss it in the morning, maybe, when you’re in a better frame of mind to—”

“JUST SHUT UP!” she screamed. “JUST LEAVE ME ALONE! WHY CAN’T
EVERYONE
LEAVE … ME …
ALONE
?”

I threw my hands up, not in exasperation, but so that I might convey an overall mood of compliance.

“Yes, okay,” I said. “I am leaving you alone.”

Gina took a deep breath, marched toward Roy’s bedroom, and slammed the door behind her.

I took a deep breath, sat down in the living room, and watched
The Sopranos
. It felt different this time, though, as I felt atypically distracted. I kept reviewing what Gina had said:

“Why can’t EVERYONE leave me alone?”

I found the sentence disconcerting. Who did she mean when she said “everyone”? On instinct, I pictured a sociopathic brother with a chip on his shoulder who’d be angry at his sister’s deadbeat boyfriend. I pictured someone who would swing by soon to beat Roy up. Or, if things went wrong, to shoot him. And he’d shoot me too, by the way. He’d shoot Roy because Roy had been disrespectful, and he’d shoot me because I had seen him shooting Roy.

I was jumping to conclusions and I knew it.

Sara
, I told myself.
Lemon. Asshole. OUT
.

There was no reason to be nervous. I channeled the better version of myself, the one who knew that this was not how people behaved just because they were Italian American. I reminded myself of the progress I’d made in my relationship with Gina. She was someone with whom I had a rapport. Gina was no one to fear. Gina was almost a friend. And if she, a friend, made reference to an unspecified “everyone,” well, then she probably meant, like, I don’t know … her mom? Yes. She probably meant her mom. Her totally normal, nonthreatening mom.

I was smart enough—now—to understand this. I was rational. I was
mature
.

THE FOLLOWING MORNING
I slept in, treated myself to a bacon breakfast, and went to the bathroom for an
on-schedule morning movement. As I exited the bathroom, I prepared for Gina’s usual Fancy Nights turd alarm, and was therefore surprised when I heard a loud knock at the door. Gina went to the door, opened the door, and there before her stood a man—shirtless—wearing only tracksuit pants.

This man, I would learn, was Gina’s brother, and his name was Dinosaur Dante. Why? you ask. Because he had stegosaurus back plates tattooed along his spine.

“Dinosaur Dante!” screamed Gina. “Whatta ya doin’ here! Whatta ya doin’ in my home?”

In
my
home? IN
MY HOME
?

I would’ve found the phrase more audacious, but I was too terrified by a certain aggressor who had just been allowed in my home.

In
my
home. Because I, of course, paid rent.

Dinosaur Dante did some nasal breathing.

“Get outta my way,” he said to Gina. “Just tell me where to find that skinny bitch.”

One thing I don’t evoke is “skinny bitch.” If Dinosaur Dante had come to our apartment looking for a “skinny bitch,” then he was surely there for Roy. He had surely spoken to his sister about the status of her current relationship, and was surely here to seek revenge.

I write “surely,” although what I mean is “presumably.” Because I could only presume. I could only use my knowledge of
The Sopranos
and, therefore, of all Italian American families, to make an educated guess as to what had happened. Gina had presumably complained about Roy in front of Dinosaur Dante. Gina had presumably mentioned Roy’s continued unemployment, or the fact that Roy had borrowed money, and failed to pay her back. And in light of Dinosaur Dante’s proclivity for fits of shirt-removing aggression, shouldn’t Gina—presumably—have thought that through a little more?