The Harm in Asking: My Clumsy Encounters with the Human Race (25 page)

I HAVE ALREADY
mentioned that I do not like pets of any kind and, as a result, have never had any conscious ambition toward dog ownership. The neediness, the odor. The chewing, the mess. It all just annoys me, and that’s to say nothing of the fact that the only thing that’s ever made me
truly
gag is the smell and gelatinous texture of wet dog food.

Eleanor emerging from my subconscious was therefore surprising. But it was also, strangely, not surprising. As a child, I invented some orphan teen models. As an adult, I came up with a dog. The manifestations were different, but the motivation was the same: I was lonely, and it helped to have someone around.

I did not feel ashamed of my bulldog. I rather felt resourceful
because
of my bulldog. I had found a solution to the loneliness with all of the benefits and none of the problems. Eleanor never puked or emptied her bowels. She never needed to go out unless I myself was going out. So it was that having Eleanor around never felt like “Oh. I’m having a breakdown.” It was more like, “
Well
. Aren’t
I
the lucky duck? I’ve got a brand-new friend who doesn’t cost me any money.”

Eleanor became my frequent bedmate and travel companion. I noticed her in early October, and by the time Thanksgiving rolled around, I’d taken to inviting her into my bed. The reason I know it was Thanksgiving was that I’d been at my parents’ house in Chicago. I remember I was in my childhood bedroom, and I remember I whispered, “Do you like it in Chicago? Here, Eleanor, come cuddle up with Mommy!”

We had a lovely time together that holiday weekend, although over the course of it I made the intelligent choice not to introduce her to my parents. They’re just not animal people, you see, and furthermore I was not up for the possibility of being labeled schizophrenic. Talking to myself is and was an enjoyable part of my day. I did not care to have it sullied by parental disapproval.

One afternoon, I went out for coffee with my friend Maggie. It was winter now and I had recently gotten into this new habit of using a hot water bottle to keep myself warm. Not only that, I had taken to projecting Eleanor
onto
the hot water bottle. So instead of existing as an undefined air mass, she now existed as an object. I debated whether to buy her one of those dog-shaped hot-water-bottle cases, but eventually decided against it. I thought doing so would make the whole thing too bizarre, and was now leaning (hot-water-bottle-wise) toward something in the teal family. Something patternless.

“So,” Maggie said, “what have you done today? Anything?”

“I read
Seventeen
magazine,” I said. “And … I have a dog I’ve been talking to. So I talked to her for a while.”

Maggie looked up.

I continued, “I’ve been doing this thing where I pretend my hot-water bottle is an imaginary dog.”

“Are you having a breakdown?” Maggie asked.

“I don’t think so,” I answered. “I mean, I understand that she’s not real. I know that she’s not there. It’s more like …”

“You need someone around,” she said. “You need someone to talk to.”

“Yes,” I said. And Maggie shrugged.

“Well, then I think it’s nice,” she said. “Then I think it’s probably good.”

The chance to talk about my situation made me feel good about it, even better than I had before. I felt encouraged and understood, and two weeks later wound up treating myself to the dog-patterned hot-water-bottle holder after all. I thought, What the hey: it’s
really
cute. Not long after, I treated myself to a throw pillow upon which was an embroidered bulldog face. The pillow I kept on the couch while the hot water bottle stayed on my bed. This way, Eleanor was everywhere.

When I left the house without her, I’d see other dogs—real dogs—jumping up on people, barking, peeing, and
pooping like they do. And I would whisper, “Eleanor would never.” Or, “I have raised Eleanor better than that.”

ELEANOR NOT ONLY
was
my dog, she
is
my dog. She has stayed with me, my loving companion. She has remained forever true. We get along great, and it’s not surprising, really, since Lovable Master with Zero Responsibility is the job that I was born for. The companionship’s good too, I think. It’s the bare minimum required to keep me feeling sane.

It had been two years since I had moved into my studio apartment in Bushwick. It had been one year since discovering—and then embracing—the bulldog, Eleanor Barron.

It was summer, and I was sweating. Every day, I sweat
a lot
.

I had graduated from waiting tables at the Olive Garden and was now waiting tables at a trendy, more upscale pizzeria. This had provided me with my second blip of a wage increase, and I was putting the extra money toward living in a more extravagant style. Which is to say I was putting it toward this Lancôme under-eye cream that did not nearly enough for me, but that I continued to buy because I wanted to believe it did. I had nothing left over
for any additional treats. When finally I accrued a week’s worth of vacation, I had no choice but to stay on in New York.

My initial plan was to spend the time exploring the city in a budget-conscious way. I’d do all the touristy things you never get around to when you live here. I’d visit the Statue of Liberty, followed by a stroll up the West Side Highway, followed by a visit to TKTS to see if there were any $30 seats to
Mamma Mia!
But then that first morning of the scheduled staycation my alarm went off at nine a.m., and I weighed my plans against the prospect of sleeping two more hours, getting a bagel and cream cheese, and watching
The View
.

The second option beat the first.

I chose it, and stuck with it. For four days in a row.

I slept, I ate, I watched TV.

I slept, I ate, I watched TV.

The time went by and I spoke to no one. No one other than Eleanor, that is, who (I’m sad to say) faltered in her duties. She was usually so adept at mitigating the pitfalls of living alone, but that was when I spent forty hours a week at work among my fellow human beings. That was when I had coworkers to talk to. Without them, an imaginary dog was very much the Band-Aid on the gunshot. Very “Who needs the epidural? Try a Tylenol instead.”

After four days without human interaction my need for conversation had become so hugely overwhelming that I left my apartment and went to the corner deli for the singular purpose of chatting to the man behind the counter.

“Hello!” I’d said. “How are you? What time did you start work today? Shit! That’s really early! I live around the corner. I think this deli’s really nice.”

The man found my neediness alienating, as men so often do, and it hurt my feelings when I clocked it, when
I saw him give the ol’ widening of the eyes to his coworker behind the register. They were all, like,
HELP
, his eyes. They were all like,
RING HER UP AND GET HER OUT
.

So then I walked back home. I decided maybe I’d call my parents, but then I remembered they were visiting Sam at college in New Orleans. So I called my mother’s cell phone. She didn’t pick up. She did, however, respond via text message two hours later.

“We are with Sam! We are eating beignets! Your brother has NEVER looked better!”

Along with the text came a photo of Sam eating his beignets, and he hadn’t ever looked better. He’d lost all last reserves of baby fat, and looked, as a result, like Mark Wahlberg with a bit of Bradley Cooper mixed in.

Sam’s handsomeness enraged me. I debated how best to handle it. I decided to go up to my roof to work on my tan. I thought a little tanning might relax me.

So I climbed up the stairwell and went up on the roof. There was a small garden of geraniums there, as well as a full view of Manhattan. It was not an awful place to be.

I’d brought a towel up with me, and put it down now on the section of roof near the geraniums. I lay down and looked at the skyline.

I tanned for a while, and
as
I tanned I thought about my brother’s newfound angular features.

It was not a sexual thing. It was just that I was angrily obsessed.

An hour passed, at which point an unknown neighbor appeared on the roof. She wore shorts and a tank top. She accented this otherwise standard outfit with knee-high socks and one of those Davy Crockett hats. I do believe it’s called a “coonskin hat.” She carried a watering can and began watering the geraniums.

I hoped she might introduce herself of her own volition. When she did not, I said, “NICE DAY, TODAY, HUH?”

The unknown neighbor looked up.

“Oh, uh, yeah,” she said.

“I AM SARA, BY THE WAY,” I said. “I LIVE, WELL, HERE, RIGHT? HA! I LIVE HERE.”

“Right. Well, hi,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m Annie.”

“ANNIE! GREAT! I LOVE THAT NAME! MY BEST FRIEND IN GRADE SCHOOL WAS AN ANNIE! SHE WOUND UP AT PRINCETON! SHE’S FLUENT IN KOREAN NOW, I THINK!”

Annie nodded. She shifted the position of the coonskin. She looked forlornly at the flowers.

“Right. Well, I should go,” she said. “Bye.”

“OH! OKAY! BYE!” I shouted back. “IT WAS REALLY NICE CHATTING WITH YOU!”

I waved good-bye. Then, though, I started to wonder if perhaps the neighborly thing might not be to accompany Annie and her coonskin on her walk back into the building.

I decided it was, packed up my towel, and followed her back in.

Annie noticed me behind her.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Oh! Ha! Hi again!” I answered. “I’m just, you know, all finished with my tanning.”

Annie nodded, and continued briskly down the stairs. She went into her apartment: #3R.

Noted, I thought, and continued one floor down to mine.

Once inside, I examined my tan. It looked pretty good. It looked
so
good, in fact, it convinced me it was time to go out.

I considered different destinations. I considered Williamsburg,
but then decided I didn’t feel like being intimidated by the neighborhood’s various hairstyles. I considered Greenpoint, but then I recalled that, for no discernable reason, most of my enemies live there. I considered the Upper West Side, but then felt overwhelmed by the prospect of an hour-long commute.

I decided, finally, to go to Greenwich Village. There’s a good gelateria on the corner of Bleecker and Carmine, and I thought it’d be nice to go get a cone, take a stroll, maybe solicit a heckle or two. Perhaps a “Damn, gurl.” Perhaps a “Can I get a lick?” I thought, if Sam can eat beignets and lose all last reserves of baby fat,
I
can eat gelato and have my sex appeal affirmed.

I called four different friends to see if anyone wanted to join me. Three of these friends failed to answer their phone. But the fourth picked up. She said, “What? No. I can’t. It’s two o’clock on Wednesday, Sara. Some of us have jobs.”

I committed to going alone.

I arrived at the gelateria forty-five minutes later and ordered a scoop of gelato (hazelnut) on a cone. I walked west on Bleecker, then north on Seventh Avenue. No heckles occurred naturally, so I tried, while walking, to think of Betty Boop. I suppose the thing to say is that I tried to
channel
Betty Boop
while
walking. I worked for a sexy side-to-side sway of the hips, but the dairy in the gelato had done a real number on me, gas-wise, and the hip-sway served only to force it all out. I passed the kind of gas where
so
much air shoots out of you at
such
a pace, you’re shocked—once the whole thing’s said and done—to find yourself still standing.

It made no noise to the outside world, but the aroma was another thing entirely. There was one lucky couple downwind, who began to grimace and insult me.

“Jesus
Christ
.”

“What the
fuck
?”

“Is that garbage or a person?”

“A person, I think. Some asshole fucking farted.”

“Jesus.”

“
So
noxious.”

“People are selfish.”

“And repulsive.”

“Honestly. They
are
.”

This couple made me feel bad about myself, and to compensate I attempted one last side-to-side sway of the hips. I hoped that this might throw them off, might convince them I wasn’t the culprit. I hoped that they might think, “True, I just smelled rotten broccoli, and true: I’m downwind of that woman’s ass right there. But surely
she
could not have done it! Why, just look at how she struts!”

So I strutted. I farted. I strutted some more. Finally, the couple and I parted ways. I cannot confirm whether they ever found me sexy or if, conversely, they ever identified me as the culprit of the noxious broccoli smell. What I can do, though, is tell you that within a moment of their departure, a flamboyant gentleman in Daisy Duke shorts walked toward me from the opposite direction. We caught each other’s eye, and he said, “You look CRAY, girl. Tone it down. Less is more.”

I can only assume the gentleman meant
my strut
was CRAY, and that it was
my strut
that needed toning down. And, well, if that was the case—if a man in Daisy Dukes felt
I
should tone it down—I can only also assume that the couple had found me not sexy but ridiculous. Or, as the Daisy Duke wearer might say, that the couple had found me “RIDIC.”

NEW YORK CITY
has a talent for seeming as though it is not a city so much as a giant human with a giant club she swings at you and you alone. It was true that if I went
back home I would be greeted with a level of solitude that felt like a physical ailment. However, it was also true that that level of solitude now looked like the superior option to being swatted in the face.

I walked myself back to the subway. It was rush hour by the time I got there and unsurprisingly packed. I did still manage to score myself a seat, however, and that is because I have a knack for spotting empty seats and beating other people to them. I’d squished myself in beside a woman with a kind-looking face; she looked, I don’t know,
employable
—very Ann Taylor Loft. I thought she looked nice. I wished I were her. I felt lonely and sad. I felt a fart coming on. Its predecessors of the last hour had been silent, so I took the risk and farted. It was silent, as expected. However, as was also expected, it smelled like rotten broccoli.