Charmed Thirds

  “I guess you don't need electronic intervention like the rest of us,” William continued. “But we all can't be like you, Darling, Jessica. Juggling two, three guys at once.”

  Bastian sat up in his beach chair. “Really?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Oh, don't be modest,” William said, enjoying my discomfort. “You want to hear a story? I've got a story . . .”

  “You can't tell a story about me!” I said, instantly knowing what he was up to.

  “Why can't I?” he asked. “It says, TELL US A STORY. There's no qualifiers on it saying, TELL US A STORY, BUT IT CAN'T BE ABOUT JESSICA DARLING.”

  I pleaded with Bastian. “I don't really see how this is helpful.”

  Bastian looked at William, then returned his eyes to me. “He is right. He can tell whatever story it is he wants to tell.”

  “Gracias, amigo,” William said.

  And so, for the next, oh, I don't know, bizillion years or so, William told, in excruciating detail, the story about how we had come up with the Barnard T-shirt bet and how he was relieved when he was wrong and I was right because it meant that guys had bought me many drinks and that I had gotten drunk enough to let down my defenses and finally act on the sexual tension that had been building between us and stop being so sanctimonious about the purity of my relationship with my long-distance boyfriend, whom I only spoke of with worshipful reverence when it sounded like this guy was as flawed as every other guy, if not more, and how it was so like me as a typically needy, love-hungry girlie girl to blame William for the subsequent breakup between me and the long-distance boyfriend, when I really should have been looking inward, and so much more that I can't bring myself to write it down because it's just so disturbing that this asshole has a better understanding of my weaknesses than I do.

  “Well,” he said when he was finished. “I'm sure that this story will prove to be relevant for many future generations of naive college girls.”

  “Don't you have one of those girls waiting for you?” Bastian asked, as I had lost my will to live, let alone speak.

  “Oh, right,” he said. And with a swagger, he was off.

  “So is his story true?” Bastian asked.

  “What did his face say?”

  Bastian, it should be noted, is writing a dissertation titled, “Facial Metacommunications: How Physiognomy and Microexpressions Influence Interpersonal Perceptions.” (English is not his first language, but all dissertation titles sound like this.) A large part of it is devoted to the tiny, involuntary facial movements that reveal people's true emotions. Most people can't detect them because they flash past in a blink, but Bastian can.

  “He did not seem to be lying,” he admitted. “But I did not want to believe it.”

  “Well, believe it,” I said. “Because it's true.”

  Bastian laughed. He has a very loud laugh for someone so soft-spoken. His laugh bounces off walls and almost seems to echo, as if he's filling up all the world's open empty spaces with his joy.

  “You, bella,” he said, “have very bad taste in men.”

  the twenty-ninth

  It's said that there are eight million stories in the naked city. Well, it's not true. By my count, there are exactly nine. They can be categorized as such:

  1. Urban legends involving cockroaches and/or other vermin and the unlikely human orifices in which they decide to seek shelter and/or reproduce

  2. Intoxication tales involving the breakdown of crucial bodily functions

  3. Family sagas that seek to explain why the narrator is in therapy

  4. Wistful childhood nostalgia for a time when life wasn't so damn complicated

  5. Sexual hyperbole

  6. 9/11/01

  7. Eulogies (unrelated to #6)

  8. Character sketches of crazy New Yorkers

  9. Romances with crazy New Yorkers gone horribly, horribly wrong

  I'm not saying that other stories don't exist, it just seems that these are the types of stories that people care to share with others. The truly fascinating thing about New Yorkers, or, I suppose, humans in general, is that we assume that we are far more interesting than we really are. Why we think total strangers want to hear about the mundane minutiae of our small world, or banal observations about the big world, is beyond me. I guess it's the same compulsive creative impulse shared by bloggers and, to a lesser degree, diarists like myself.

  I'm barely two weeks into this gig and bored out of my mind because most people just have no idea how to tell a captivating story. And I disagree with my adviser, who has said that my boredom stems from raging narcissism. I mean, I keep waiting for the teller to get to the good part, or the unexpected plot twist, and more often than not it never comes. Inside, I'm dying to ask more questions, to dig a little deeper, but we're not allowed to influence the storytellers in any way. And so, I find myself embellishing these tales inside my head, just to make them more interesting: “I'm banging this girl and she had a heart-shaped birthmark on her ass . . . which means she's my long-lost twin sister!”

  Bastian is an extremely sensitive soul, so it's no wonder he has picked up on my disinterest. He's tried to keep me engaged by quizzing me on speakers' microexpressions. He's trying to teach me to see what he sees.

  “Did you see how he tugged the corners of his lips down with his triangularis, then raised his chin by flexing his mentalis?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Then he contracted his zygomatic major in a classic smile, just for a split second?”

  “No.”

  “He wanted us to think that he was sad when talking about the death of his stepfather, but actually he is quite happy about it.”

  “Really,” I said, more of a statement than a question.

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Words lie. I see the truth.”

  Wouldn't this be useful if Marcus were here?, I thought. I could have Bastian read his thoughts without him having to say a single word. And then I hated myself for thinking about him at all.

  At that moment, Bastian gently stroked my wrinkled brow with the very tips of his fingers, as if to wipe away my concerns. I, too, could be heard without saying a word.

  “Don't worry, bella.”

  I felt comforted, knowing that someone, anyone, was paying attention.

  I reached up to touch this man's hand. I let it hover over his for a moment, still unsure if this is what I wanted to do.

  I did.

  I pressed my hand against his. His fingers twisted into mine and I was surprised by how soft they were. We let them fall, entwined.

  And I wondered, Is this a story I haven't already heard?

  the thirtieth

  Dexy is a madcap beauty right out of a screwball comedy—with emphasis on the “screw” part. Have I mentioned that Dexy is kind of a slut? Well, uh, she is. But she's also my new best friend at school since I kicked Jane to the curb. Through Dexy, I've learned that prolifically promiscuous free spirits are incapable of embarrassment.

  “So I'm blowing the Phishhead I met at the final show,” Dexy said tonight at Mama Mexico's. “And not two seconds into it it's like . . .” She grotesquely contorted her features into what I now instantly recognize as her imitation of the male “cum face.” She then broke into what I now know is her favorite “cum song.”

  “Ooo eee ooo ah ah ting tang walla walla bing bang!”

  As someone who's only kissed five guys, dry-humped four, jerked off three, gone down on two, and had sex with one, I often find myself asking questions that someone of her ilk might be able to answer.

  “So Dexy,” I said, shoveling a chip into guacamole. “Would you ever have sex with a married man?”

  “This wouldn't have anything to do with your Spanish boyfriend, would it?” Her eyebrows did the hula. She affected a country twang. “Tell me a lie, say you're not a married man . . .”

  “Shhhhhhh!” I said, thrusting a chip into her open mouth. “Someone who knows him might overhear.”

  “Don't
worry,” she said, spitting tortilla across the table. “The more openly and loudly you talk about something, the less interested people are in hearing it.” She dramatically lowered her voice. “It's when you start whispering and acting all sneaky that people try to eavesdrop.”

  I doubted her logic.

  “So what do you think?” I asked. “What would you do if you were me?'

  “Okay.” Her overloaded fork suspended in midair. “Am I me, but you on the outside? Or am I really you?”

  “Uh . . . what?!”

  “Because if I'm really me on the inside, but you on the outside so that everyone thinks I'm you, then I as you would fuck him, because that's something I would do.” She loudly chugged her beer, then went on. “But if I were you as you, then there would be no difference between the you as you we know in reality and hypothetical me as you, in which case I wouldn't sleep with him because that's not something you as you would do.”

  I took a moment to process this.

  “So you're saying that sleeping with a married man is something you would do, but not something I would do?”

  Here's the insane thing about that quote: At the time, I said this defensively, as if an attack had been made on my character.

  Dexy heaved a labored, bored-with-the-world sigh. “What if I told you that I've already had sex with a married man?”

  I dropped my burrito. “You did not!”

  “Would I lie to you?” she sang. “Would I lie to you, honey?”

  “When?”

  “Last winter, when I did that community theater thing. When I was in the chorus for Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.”

  I nodded, remembering how shocked I was that anyone had cast her in a show that people would pay money to see.

  “I screwed the director, who, shockingly, was both straight and married.”

  Well, that explained how she got the part.

  “So how did it happen?”

  “He said I needed more vocal coaching, so we started spending extra rehearsal time together. And then he started griping about how his wife didn't understand him and how they didn't have sex anymore and how he missed being with someone so young, and with so much fire inside and, well, you know it doesn't take much to woo me, so it was like, ‘Okay, let's do it!' so we did.”

  She took a huge bite out of her chimichanga, and greasy cheese oozed down her chin.

  “Bastian complains about his wife, too,” I said. “When we first started working together, he insisted that we do very little talking to each other and focus all our energies on listening. But lately, he fills the time in between subjects with stories about how his wife is just a mommy now and doesn't want to talk about art or philosophy or politics or anything important, which is just so bizarre because this is exactly how I pictured it in my fantasies.”

  “Of course it is,” Dexy said, holding up a sour-cream-covered finger. “They've all got the ‘my wife doesn't understand me' rap. Every single one of them.”

  “I know,” I said. “I've done my research.” I'd Googled every women's magazine article on the subject of adultery. “Did it feel weird to do it? To know you were responsible for destroying the marriage vows?”

  Dexy snorted. “Since when have you become such a traditionalist?”

  “I'm not,” I said. “It's just . . .”

  “Look, I did the guy because he was hot as hell and I knew he would worship my young, nubile body,” she ran her hands over her own breasts for emphasis, leaving oily R-rated prints behind on her geometric-print shift dress. “It was the ultimate fling because I knew he would never leave his wife, no matter how much he said he couldn't stand her. It was fun. And then it was over.”

  “I'm not so sure that I could be so . . .” I wanted to say “slutty.” But she was my best friend. “Cavalier.”

  “I doubt you would, Dah-ling,” she said, patting my head with her moist hand. “You're still freaking out over hooking up with Mini Dub, which wasn't even sex and happened almost a year ago! I love you, but you're a bit too tightly wound for adultery.” She balled up her dirty napkin and threw it on her plate as if to say, and that's the end of that.

  I didn't say much on the walk back to the dorm because I was so irritated. Why should Dexy be so carefree, so guilt-free about her life, while I agonized over the tiniest transgressions? She said and did whatever she wanted and never suffered any negative repercussions. When I said or did something unexpected, or even thought about saying or doing something unexpected, it always seemed to come back to haunt me. There isn't a television set large enough to house all my psychological poltergeists.

  Case in point: When I got to the dorm, there was something in my mailbox. Dexy noticed it too, and knew what it was.

  “It's a sign, J! A sign!” She shimmied in her go-go boots, she was so excited.

  I was more cautious. I slowly stuck my key in the lock and pulled it out, picture up. On it, a photo of the earth from outer space, beneath which were the words: Nuestro mundo.

  I flipped it over. It was postmarked Nuevo Viejo, California, on June 20. It read:

  Jessica—

  OUR

  —Marcus

  I . . . WISH . . . OUR . . .

  Sitting there, postcard in my hands, I made a wish of my own:

  Stop, Marcus. Go, Jessica.

  * * *

  July 4th

  Dear Hope,

  Let me be the first to wish you an early Happy Bastille Day! Your last letter was so vivid that I almost felt like I was atop the Eiffel Tower with you, looking down on the famed City of Lights.

  But, alas, I was not.

  As for my own European adventures, I'm heeding your advice and backing off Bastian for a while. So I'm in Pineville at the moment, just in time for the cicada invasion. Millions of these buzzing, red-beady-eyed insects have waited underground for seventeen years, before crawling up through the earth to see the light of the sun for the first time. The lucky ones go vertical to shed their shells—climbing trees, telephone poles, pant legs—before mating and propagating. The unlucky ones get squashed by bike tires, lawn mowers, and toddlers' tiny feet, never getting the chance to fulfill their instinctual urges. Pineville vibrates with their ominous presence, yet surrounding towns are totally unaffected. I'm not one to quote the Good Book, but these invaders do have biblical implications. Believe me, you're much better off on the other side of the ocean.

  Apocalyptically yours,

  J.

  * * *

  * * *

  July 4th

  Dearest Marcus,

  Happy Independence Day! Are you enjoying your freedom?

  Me, not so much.

  I'm writing because I'm thinking about you. I'm thinking about you because of the postcards, which is what you want, isn't it? I've waited this long to write you about them, which is pretty miraculous for me because I rarely show restraint when I should. I won't even ask you what you're trying to tell me because I know you won't reveal your secrets until you're good and ready, whenever that may be.

  And so, I'll reveal mine.

  I'm thinking about the first time we ever spoke. I was leaving the Pineville High professional counselor's office, having just convinced that desperately bubbly woman that the LIFE SUCKS, THEN YOU DIE graffiti on my book cover wasn't a death wish, no, but the name of an indie funk band with a hit called “Tongue Kissing Cousins.” You were on the other side of the door, listening to my lies, slouching in a plastic chair with your legs spread wide, waiting for yet another disciplinary meeting with the principal for some serious transgression that I imagine involved underage drugging or sexing or both, which would explain why you seemed so tranquil in a narcotic and/or postcoital way. Not that I would've even known what either was, being sixteen years old, with only a few half-finished beers and one sloppy kiss to my credit. Before I could flee—Oh! How I wanted to run away from you!—you called out to me, “Hey, Tongue Kissing Cousin . . .” in that undisturbed way of yours, eyes half-shut as
if you'd already seen most of what the world had to show you. You called me a natural con artist and asked me what other secrets I was hiding. I didn't answer because I already knew, in some deep, primal way, what furtive truth you were referring to:

  That I was destined to fall in love with you.

  I'm thinking about a lot of moments like that. There's not enough paper and ink for them all. But I'm also thinking about how annoyed I was last Fourth of July when Bethany and Marin horned in on what I had envisioned as a very amorous holiday weekend.

  If only I could be so annoyed right now.

  Marin loved you. She may not be able to put her stubby little finger on what's missing—MMMAAAHHHCUUUUUUSSS!—but she feels your absence. She doesn't say your name, but her bottom lip curls in disappointment when I show up at Grandma and Grandpa's house alone. It's a good thing she and Bethany didn't show up for the Darling family BBQ, because I don't think I could have handled that pout today. But no worries. From what I've learned about babies and long-term memory in Child Development, it will only take a few more months before thoughts of you vanish completely. She's a lucky, lucky girl.

  I'm still thinking about you. Yes. You. (Sorry. I couldn't resist this reference to our brief, beautiful halcyon days.) I think about you all the time, even when I'm contemplating having an affair with a married Spaniard. (“Nuestro mundo.” You couldn't have possibly known about the Spaniard before you sent that postcard, and yet . . .)

  So.

  How are you? I shouldn't care, but I still do. I just wanted you to know that. I'm still curious about everything I don't know about you. Buddhists see this unknowing as a positive aspect of long-term romantic love. It creates surprises and serves as an antidote to any boredom that sets in. The trouble is, most people don't make an effort to stay interested in their lovers, and mistakenly seek excitement elsewhere . . .