"Guess what card I just turned over for you?" Sugar Pie asked. "The Five of Cups. That card whips you every time."
Maybe my big mistake in moving to New York was not in breaking up with Shrimp but in not demanding that Sugar Pie accompany me on the journey. I have Danny here, I have Autumn here, but in the soul connection sweepstakes, Sugar Pie wins hands down, despite the May to December gap in our friendship. But considering that Sugar is a first-time bride at age seventysomething (courtesy of my genius fix-up skills), sharing true love with Fernando, Sid-dad's right-hand man, and given her recent reverse retirement move from an assisted living facility to Fernando's apartment at the side of my family's house in San Francisco, I guess I could understand if now wouldn't be the time for her to take on Manhattan with me. I'd have to settle for a cell phone Sugar-cup.
I said, "Five of Cups haunts me! What do you think it means this time?"
"False starts. Choices that have left you with a bereft feeling. But the Five of Cups tells you to be thankful for what those choices have left you with. Don't worry about what cannot be changed. Turn what you think holds you back into a step forward instead."
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"You're saying I have to step back into that restaurant with George? Because you don't understand. For all that he is a very, very cute guy, we have nothing to talk about! And he was trying to play footsie with me under the table! I hardly know him!" George's footsie game was not only highly unwelcome, it also derailed any flirtation I might have thrown back his way. Too bad George lacked X-ray vision, because if he had been bestowed with that superpower, he might have seen inside my shoe to know that his foot action had knocked against the kiwi ring I wear on my toe, the customized CC ring that Shrimp designed and carved himself. Shrimp gave it to me when he proposed. Each time George grazed that ring, he unwittingly pinged my heart, and grazed farther away from any interest I might have developed in him. Also, George might want to invest in some breath mints.
Sugar Pie asked, "How do you know you have nothing to talk about? Did you really give this George a fair chance?"
"I know all I need to know already. When George came to the apartment to pick me up, I asked what he was listening to on his headphones? He was listening to a mix of jam bands like the Grateful Dead and Phish. Gross! We're musically incompatible. There's no hope left once that's been established. George and me: DOA."
"You don't think you're being too hasty in your judgment?"
"Absolutely not. Right now we're--well, he is--eating at this
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British restaurant that he chose. It looks like the living room set on one of those BBC America shows, with ugly wallpaper and ceramic figurines, and the restaurant's tables are like two inches apart. So not only am I bored to death listening to George talk about his summer vacation with his buddies trekking to concerts of THE WORST BANDS EVER, but we're seated way close on either side by British expats who sound really smart and are having way more interesting conversations than ours."
"In other words," Sugar Pie said, "George is no Shrimp."
There it was. "Exactly. He's cute. He's nice. Don't want to kiss him. No chemistry."
If I were sharing this night with Shrimp, first of all we wouldn't call it a "date," we'd call it "hanging out" (obviously) followed by "fooling around" (implied). We probably would have passed the afternoon in Colma, where Shrimp likes to sketch the graveyards of San Francisco's "dead city" to the south, then maybe we'd trek a little farther down Highway 1 and stop at the cliff-top perch over Maverick's, to watch the pro surfers in all their glory ride the gigantic-dangerous-awesome waves at their sacred spot near Half Moon Bay. Shrimp and I wouldn't close out the not-date by going to some trendspot for dinner either; we'd share a vegetarian burrito from a taco stand somewhere along the highway and consume many espressos, because that's what true loves do. We'd end the night at any random vista point overlooking the ocean, in the backseat of
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Shrimp's Pinto, TCOB after our TCBY froze yogurt stop. "Burr-ito," Shrimp would whisper in my ear, after, as he held me tight to keep me warm in the Pacific fog chill.
"Won't George be wondering where you are?" Sugar Pie asked.
"No. I told him to be patient cuz my stomach was having issues from the Welsh rarebit I ate, which is a very fancy way of describing bread with melted cheese, tomato, and mustard, by the way. And did I mention how George chose the British restaurant because he said it had the best mac and cheese in the city? As anyone in their right mind knows, there is no macaroni and cheese better than the Kraft kind from the box, and if you're going to a restaurant specifically for its Britishness, why wouldn't you try bangers and mash--"
"Cyd Charisse?"
"Yes?"
"Your last card. Ah, I like what I see now. The High Priestess. Her power is hidden in mystery. She is the path to realms that we may never fully comprehend or master."
"I love her," I sighed. I had no idea whatsoever what Sugar Pie meant, but I could get on board with having my fate guided by a higher being shrouded in mystery. That'd be fuckin' awesome.
"The High Priestess seems to me to represent a sign of the hidden side of your personality that no one sees, and that you yourself could be unaware of. She's opening your powers to you. The
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Priestess here could indicate passivity in a situation, hanging on to the veiled mystery. Like she's telling you, it's not always necessary to act. Sometimes goals can be realized through inaction."
"So I can bail on this date?"
"Personally, I don't advise it. Poor George deserves better than that. The cards, however, seem to be giving you the green light."
One more phone call and I had the green light I needed.
Danny arrived at the restaurant within minutes of my return to it. "Thank God you told me where you were having dinner, CC," he said, breathless from the sprint over from our apartment nearby. "I've got an emergency. The super at the kitchen space I rent for the cupcake business just called to tell me there was a major water main break in the building. I have to get over there right away to salvage the baking equipment and I really need a second person to help. You understand if I frisk her away, right, George?"
And before George could tell me, "Cheerio, you won't-be-my-mate," Danny and I were outta there.
"Thank you so much," I told Danny. I leaned my head into his shoulder as he wrapped his arm around me.
"You get one Get Out of Jail Free card from me," he said. "Now you've used it, and now you're gonna have to make it through the tragedy of future dates with hot guys on your own. But for now ... there's this joint down the street that makes great steak-cut fries, and they show episodes of The Simpsons on the bar TV, but dubbed in
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foreign languages like Hindi and Finnish. It's even funnier than watching the show in English."
"Brilliant, mate!"
We stopped at a crosswalk--red light--but we both took one look at traffic and dodged across the street anyway. As Danny has informed me, I am a New Yorker now, and jaywalking is not only my right, but my responsibility.
And I will totally walk the line for Danny.
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***
EIGHT
I met Sugar Pie because of a court-ordered community service
stint following a little shoplifting problem back in the day. But she and I got on so well, I kept visiting her even when I was no longer legally obligated to do so. We became family.
The lisBETH and Frank ends of my bio-family here, I've decided, are my new community service project. Visiting with them can certainly feel like a chore.
At least with lisBETH the time is not a complete waste. Manicures and pedicures are important community service projects in the public interest of not having ugly hands and feet. But with Frank there's no getting around the fact that the time with him serves no purpose other than ... passing time.
Frank has weird rules about his apartment. He'll sometimes but not always ask guests to remove
their shoes upon entering the front
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hallway, since in his advertising-man-CEO heyday he took many business trips to Asia and decided he liked their footwear policies as much as he disliked their undervalued currencies. Last year when I visited Frank, shoes were acceptable. Now, no. Frank's never been one for consistency, according to my mother. He is consistent in requesting that guests who join him for lunch at his place arrive promptly by 11:45, because he is deep into punctuality, and into leaving enough time between shoe removal and the basic exchange of "How ya doin'?" pleasantries to allow for sitting down to lunch at noon exactly.
Despite his worldliness, Frank doesn't seem to know the one basic rule of welcoming his illegitimate eighteen-year-old bio-daughter who's only recently moved to his city and possibly into his life: She might not welcome an invitation to lunch at his stuffy Upper East Side apartment. I mean, Frank, dude, take me somewhere good! We could as easily have taken our shoes off at a swank sushi restaurant, where we could sit on pillows on the floor, get ripped on sake, and try to determine the ranks of the Japanese businessmen in relation to one another by the depth of their bows, as Sid-dad once taught me to do to keep my attention deficit problem in check while awaiting the arrival of appetizers at a fancy restaurant.
I hardly know Frank, but I understood him enough to know better than to expect him capable of such an experience with me-- um, like an interesting experience. When I'd been cooped up for six
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weeks with a leg cast, Frank didn't visit me once, didn't perch himself next to my bedside and offer to play board games with bored me like Sid-dad used to when I was little and sick in bed with the chicken pox. I don't take Frank's lack of face time personally. Frank moved into the city after his wife died a few years ago, but Danny told me Frank hasn't visited Danny's apartment in years because of the five flights of stairs, so given Frank's advancing age and senior moments, I shouldn't have expected lunch on pillows or sake shots. Lunch at his apartment did spare me having to watch his womanizer self checking out the hostess ladies in geisha costumes. Ew, just the thought of.
Frank is learning consistency with the phone calls. He didn't stay in touch much from that first time I came to visit him in New York up until I graduated high school and moved here. However, now that he's discovered the modern wonder called the cell phone, he can't ring-a-ling-ling me--and lisBETH and Danny--enough. I also don't take these calls personally, as Danny says Frank's cell phone habit has nothing to do with Frank mastering the new technology so he can keep in touch with his kids. It has everything to do with his utter boredom since being forced into retirement.
With Frank, you take what you can get.
Frank called regularly during my leg cast experience, matching his consistency in calling with his consistency in having very little to say to me.
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Frank: "How are you feeling, kiddo?"
Me: "Fine." Do you not recall I don't like being called "kiddo"?
Frank: "Do you need anything?"
Me: "No." I'm bored! I need to be entertained while Danny is out during the day! And I know you're bored too! Do you not sense the solution to our two problems here?
Frank: "You don't need money?"
Me: "I'm sitting around with my leg propped up on a pillow all day watching movies. What would I need money for?" Because we all know asking me if I need money is really your way of saying "Here's a check with some zeroes at the end. The fact of your ol' bio-dad ignoring your existence for the first sixteen years of your life feels better now, doesn't it?"
Nothing felt good in Frank's apartment, except for the quiet hum of the A/C. It's not the type of place where a new daughter would feel comfortable reclining on a leather sofa, for instance, or throwing water balloons down to the street from the balcony. In Frank's world the furniture and surroundings looked corporate and
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stiff--except for the high-rise view overlooking Central Park, which was totally ace.
Lunches of New York deli sandwiches, I guess, were what Frank had to offer at this point in our relationship. Having spent a career mastering the art of the business lunch, well, lunch is what Frank knows. And frankly, Frank probably doesn't know what else to do with me. Again, I choose not to take it personally. I don't know what to do with him.
"Why are your fingernails green and blue?" Frank asked me as he poured tea for us following our pretty much silent lunch experience, catered courtesy of Frank's morning walk across the park to Zabar's.
'"Why are yours not?' is the better question, I would say," I answered.
Frank shook his head in confusion. A guy in his late sixties really should have the dignity to be balding and graying, or at least to not have that aging debonair movie star look about him. It's freaky for me how, along with my movie star name to go with his movie star looks, I look so much more like him than like my mother. I doubt there's anything about Frank I would hope to emulate.
"Would you like to make a regular date of us having lunch together?" Frank asked.
Because this silent experience had been so much fun!
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I said, "I believe in randomness over regularity. Let's play it by ear?" I wiggled my outstretched green-blue pinky and thumb fingers in the Call me! gesture.
"Huh?" Frank said.
"Never mind," I said.
The Rule of CC: Frank will have to learn to take what he can get from me, too.
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***
NINE
There's a big city out there waiting to be explored, sure--but
Autumn and I prefer our Central Park hideaway. We're California spawn. We need to be outside while we can, before that fearful experience called winter sets in. Even if meeting that need means ditching school.
The stone ledge bench outside the top level at Belvedere Castle, a small building built in the style of a medieval castle, could possibly become permanently engraved with our butt imprints, based on how many hours we've whiled away here. Our post at the top of the moat-encircled castle offered a dazzling display of hazy dusk sky flirting over the grand apartment buildings along Central Park West, as the sun prepared to set over that unknown westerly wilderness called New Jersey. What better way to pay tribute to the sun
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and the choicest spot in all of Manhattan than by neglecting our new lives to idle our afternoon there?
Adapting to New York turns out to be not so hard. So the buildings are tall and there are lots of people. The noise never stops, and the energy is unrelenting. Breathe. Then buy yourself a MetroCard, get some exploring going on, just try not to walk down dark alleys alone at night. Go with the flow. Because the hard part isn't the intimidating masses of strangers, skyscrapers, and energy. The hard part is that which you can't see--it's adapting to the expectation that you're supposed to Do Something with your new life.
Autumn said, "I don't quite understand how I was ranked fifth in my senior class, practically killed myself through four years of high school taking honors and AP everything, and now that I am Ivy League Girl--you know, the whole goal of all that ass-kicking study regimen--I am barely passing Lit Hum because I couldn't give less of a shit about so many dead white guy philosophers. And it's likely I will outright fail astronomy. Not to mention how broke I am. I ran through my summer savings in the first month here! I can't concentrate on schoolwork because I can't stop concentrating on all the debt I am accumulating to be here--and the fact that my meal plan only covers so much, and if I eat one more slice of Koronet Pizza to get me through the day, I might get turned off pizza entirely for the rest of my lifetime. Which would be very, very
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wrong. And for the record, you were right. The tamales and burritos in this city suck."
"I love being right," I said, "although it pains me to be right on that count. And you can come to Danny's and my apartment anytime and we will feed you for free. I can't study for you, but we'd love to cook for you!" As proof, I opened the lun
ch box of cupcakes Danny had prepared for my first day of culinary school. Much as I loved the lunch box effort, his attempts at brotherly kindness are kindly starting to suffocate me. I can figure out lunch on my own!
"Says the girl who made it through one day of culinary school," Autumn said, biting into the peanut butter cupcake.
"Shh," I said. "That will just be our little secret."
If I wanted to spill the real secret, I would confess I never intended to follow through with the culinary school part of the Manhattan adult girl life. One day of class fully fulfilled my expectations of the suckiness I'd encounter should I return for a second day. The gadgets and equipment and ovens and mixers were intriguing, I guess, but it was just way too much ... stuff. The other students, who all appeared at least five or ten years older than me, looked all confident and happy to be there, sure the class was the first step on a path to a dream career. I couldn't take my eyes off the rear window view: escape. I ditched the class during the break, called Autumn, who couldn't wait to escape her afternoon classes, and hello, Central Park--love ya.
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Here's what I'm going to do, until I figure out a better Plan. I'm going to let my family believe I am going to culinary school, but I am going to Do Something ... Else with that time instead. Possibly I will play Job for a Day, Manhattan-style. One day I will hand out the free daily newspaper outside the subway stops and I will be sure to offer that "Have a nice day!" California platitude ray of sunshine to all the scowly-faced straphangers who haven't had their coffee yet. The next day I will hang out at Strawberry Fields in Central Park and pretend to be a tour guide and I will give totally false information out to the tourists, like "John Lennon originally planned to pursue a career as a Scotland Yard bank robber investigator before his dreams were sidetracked by all that damn songwriting ability," or "If you come to this spot at two a.m. and point your binoculars toward The Dakota apartment building, you may glimpse Yoko Ono in a tawdry moonlit make-out scene with the graveyard shift doorman in that window there." The other days I will probably hang out on my bed, listen to music, and stare out that of rear window, pondering the injustice of the world that Dante, the legendary cappuccino man, apparently returned to Corsica during my leg cast convalescence and is personally responsible for my inability to find proper caffeination in this city. Jerk. When Danny comes home from work and asks, "How was your day, dear?" I will make up stuff about culinary school using an outstanding system of subterfuge wherein I tell him details about the fictional other students while