A Gay in the Life of Melinda Finch
Published by Siobhan Minty at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Siobhan Minty
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Dedicated to Marc
Who showed me what real love is...
Fool
The August moonlight illuminates my white silk scarf. In the front seat of Nick’s pickup truck, I lean over to stroke his hair. A grey one sticks out of his sideburns, and I pluck it out.
“Ouch!” he yelps and rubs his right sideburn.
I laugh. “You’re such an old goat.”
Nick is just two years older. He’s uniquely hot. He wears T-shirts with peculiar little symbols on them, similar to the one he’s wearing now with the mechanical chicken that’s laying not an egg, but something that looks more like a screwdriver. I love his tanned skin, his muscular body, his thick, dark hair and those puppy-dog eyes he makes when I stroke his head.
I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Maybe about that one guy, Rocco, until he tried stuffing an anchovy up his nose. I feel like some pathetic schoolgirl when I’m around Nick, only I’m thirty-one. I have an animalistic attraction when it comes to him, like how my Persian cat, Bitchy, purrs with rapture when she sniffs her litter box.
I lightly kiss Nick’s forehead and then his goatee. Then I lick a path from his chin to his ear, spending a few moments sucking on his ear lobe. Nick bites his lip and shivers. I can tell he loves it when I do this to him because his leg shakes. This is our routine every time we park at the abandoned SLM Incorporated warehouse building on the outskirts of downtown Toronto, although police cars pass by every so often.
“Don’t want any cops hearing,” Nick says as he reaches across me to roll up the passenger window.
I turn my head to the right side and realize my scarf has caught in the window. I try to free it as I feel Nick’s tongue run across my eyebrow. I push him away.
“Playing hard to get?” Nick squints in the sexy way I’ve become accustomed to since I started seeing him. I know that’s the cue he’s about to unbutton my shirt, but I can’t seem to get my damn scarf out of the window crack. I fumble with the handle to roll down the window, gagging for air. Oh my God—I can’t breathe.
“Mmmm. . .sexy,” he moans as he plays with my flower-shaped, white buttons. “Do that weird sound for me some more. You’re turning me on.”
He gets turned on by sounds that resemble a walrus in heat? I yank at the scarf, but it’s no use. Why do these things always happen to me? His full weight is on me, pinning my arms down as he ravages my mouth. Doesn’t he realize I’m suffocating?
“So sexy,” he mumbles.
I’m crazy about this guy, but sometimes he can be an utter dimwit. The seductive white fabric tightens around my throat and sucks the remaining air out of my lungs like a python going for the kill. Black spots dart around me. Who is going to feed Bitchy if I die? I manage to free one arm and make a feeble attempt to pull at the scarf once more. My head hits the edge of the panel above the passenger window. The last thing I hear is Nick cursing while he attempts to rip the scarf away.
* * *
“Melinda! Mel!”
I feel Nick’s hand squeeze my shoulder as he shakes me back to consciousness. In the other hand, he holds the menacing silk.
His forehead furrows. “You all right?”
“Oh my God, I’m alive! Couldn’t you sense something was wrong?”
“I’m sorry. I was so into it—I didn’t realize. It’s alright, Softy, you just passed out for a few seconds.” He calls me Softy because he thinks my skin feels like velvet.
He rocks me back and forth. My head feels like a grenade has exploded inside of it. I have to ignore the pain, though, and cherish this moment. I know I won’t see Nick during the weekend. Weekends are reserved for his girlfriend. I try to avoid using that word because the whole thing seems surreal. I never wanted to be the other woman.
Nick’s going camping with her on Saturday. During the week, she works in Guelph, moulding clay pots. He religiously spends the weekends with her. The rest of the week—including time spent in abandoned parking lots—is saved for me.
Her name is Gwen.
* * *
The day I found the courage to introduce myself to Nick, we connected instantly. I worked part time at the Java Hut, the coffee shop just down the road from where I live. I knew I wasn’t moving up in the world, serving coffee with grounds at the bottom of the mug, but I needed the job.
The atmosphere reminded me of a little piazza café in Sienna, not that I’d ever been to Italy, but I enjoyed looking at photos in travel books. The lights in the café were dim, almost like candlelight, and beige cobblestones lined the floor. Potted philodendrons hung on the walls, but my favourite part was the ceiling. Whenever I walked into the café before a shift, I would look up at the fresco of the night sky. Small specks of light shimmered through the painting of the moon over the ocean. A silver border accented the ethereal spectacle. Too bad Mariah Carey’s high-pitched squeal ruined the effect as Vision of Love blared from the sound system. I couldn’t understand why Bryce, the owner, was so obsessed with the Diva. He played her albums from the moment we started brewing coffee until we drained the last urn.
I also worked as a phone-line tarot card reader. The only thing my tarot card instructor hadn’t taught us was how to ward off the creepy aura of callers who wanted phone sex. That was the reason I took the job at the coffee shop, to find another way to pay my bills.
I had seen Nick around Java Hut mostly on my morning shifts. He always had sawdust in his hair from his woodworking job. He consistently ordered the medium Chai tea, teabag out, with double milk.
One morning my co-worker, Carlene, asked him if he wanted to sample our new Raspberry Tickler flavour. She offered him a small paper cup filled to the top with steaming red liquid. He smelled the beverage before taking a sip. After the sip, he gulped the rest of it down.
“So, you going to buy a cup of the raspberry instead of the Chai this morning?” Carlene said as she took the sampler from his hand and put it back on her round tray.
“It’s good, but nope. I’m going to stick to what I know.”
Carlene rolled her eyes and puckered her lips, her typical sarcastic expression. “Have it your way.”
As I dusted out the Tooty-Fruity crumpet crumbs from the three-shelf pastry case, a rush of adrenaline shot up my chest. I had to ask what his name was, but I was afraid that might be too forward. Instead, I focused on the number six on his T-shirt. “Why do you have a number sex on your shirt?” Did I say six or sex? I shoved the handle of the duster in my mouth and shut my eyes in mortification.
“Are you on drugs?” Carlene asked.
Nick stared at me while stroking his goatee. Surprisingly, he laughed, and I just stood there with the fluffy blue duster protruding from my mouth.
Nick turned back to Carlene. “Your friend there is kind of interesting.”
“She’s been here for two months.”
“I guess I’m in too much of a hurry in the mornings to see who works here.”
“She only works on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, so maybe that’s why.”
I hate it when people talk about me like I’m not there. I yanked the duster out of my mouth and extended it to Nick. “My name is Melinda; what’s yours?”
Nick grabbed the blue fluff and rigorously shook it.
“You’re funny, and it’s Nick.”
I snatched his cup and scribbled my number on the side of it. I then drew a lopsided heart on the lid with the same black marker. Carlene snickered. Nick looked at the designs on his beverage as if someone had just mutilated his best friend. I couldn’t believe what I had just done, but there it was and there was no turning back.
“You could have just written it on a piece of paper,” said Carlene.
“I guess.”
“Thanks,” Nick said as he turned to make his exit.
“Call me. I mean, if you want to. I’d love to talk with you.”
“Yeah, sure.”
The glass door eased shut as I peered at Nick climbing into his truck and speeding down the lot into the stalled traffic. From the corner of my eye, I saw Carlene staring at me and shaking her head. “Stop undressing him with your eyes.”
“I’m not.”
“Yeah right.” Carlene tossed the empty sample cups into the trash.
“I didn’t think I was going to see him again. I had to say something.”
“He comes here almost every morning.”
“But what if he didn’t?”
“You know he has a girlfriend, don’t you?”
My heart felt like it was crumbling into the pastry case. I squished a crumb with my finger in a futile attempt to crush out my disappointment.
“I haven’t seen his girlfriend. Are you sure?”
“Yeah, she looks like a dyke.”
I snickered. “Come on. Stop fooling around.”
“I’m serious. She has this short, Three Stooges, Mo haircut and she always wears black business jackets with shoulder pads. Sometimes they come in on the weekends together when you’re not around.”
No competition. What would a guy like Nick see in a stooge when he could spend his time with a girl like me? Large blue eyes, shoulder length hair, stylishly flipped up at the ends—ok, slightly short with a chunky bum, but we weren’t all destined to be in fashion magazines. Just then, I shuddered at my selfish thoughts. How could I even consider someone who was unavailable? But he was so hot.
“Do you think he’ll call?” I said. I couldn’t help myself.
“One word of advice—if he does call, don’t throw yourself at him.”
Two days later, Nick did call. It’s been a rollercoaster ever since.
* * *
The reason I keep holding onto Nick, besides the great sex, is because he’s convinced me more than once he needs a more affectionate girlfriend. He tells me that Gwen is cold. She doesn’t even hold his hand, much less do anything else, meaning absolutely, positively no sex. Their relationship has been unstable since before we met, but he’s too cowardly to confront her and tell her it’s over. He keeps reassuring me he will, but it’s complicated because their parents are close friends who want nothing more than to see their children unite both families.
I have no idea why there always has to be a glitch when I meet men. Since I was ten years old, all I ever dreamed about was getting married to the man of my dreams. Nick is by far the closest match when it comes to my dream guy. I keep visualizing him in a tuxedo waiting for me at the altar, flower petals scattered down the aisle, as I march down in a spectacular wedding gown with a sweetheart neckline. Then we’d happily settle down into marital bliss, living the suburban life, with a swing set in the backyard for our children and of course, a cat house for Bitchy.
Maybe one day.
* * *
I’ve done the dating thing for years now. Eight months with Nick is now my new relationship-longevity record, the shortest being two hours.
One of my many experiences was with Stosh. He was…how shall I say it? Fat. I know that’s mean. Ok, I guess I should say horizontally-challenged to be politically correct. He approached me in the Zellers department store diner one day while my friend, Shardelle, and I browsed our menus. Our girls’ day out had been a flop and after purchasing a pack of gum and some tampons, I thought we deserved a break. As we scrutinised our choices, Stosh waddled up to our table, a glob of dried mustard pasted to the corner of his glasses.
“Can I take your order?”
“I’ll have the Biggy Yum-Yum burger with the Wam-Bam fries.” I put down my menu and waited for Shardelle to order.
“Excuse me, but you have something nasty on your glasses,” she said.
“Oh damn.” Stosh took the corner of his soiled white apron and vigorously cleaned the right rim.
“Just trying to be helpful,” Shardelle said. “I’ll have the Caesar salad.”
“Ok.” Stosh grabbed the menus and shuffled off.
While we ate, I noticed him glancing at me from behind the counter. “Does that guy have a lazy eye, or is he staring at me?” I whispered.
“Stop being paranoid,” Shardelle said as she stuffed a soggy brown lettuce leaf in her mouth.
“This salad tastes like fridge.”
“What?”
“Like the lettuce has been deteriorating in the fridge for a week. I’m not eating this. They must be trying to poison me cause I’m Black.”
I covered my mouth to avoid spitting out my Wam-Bam fry. “You’re the one who’s paranoid.”
Shardelle waved her hand in the air to get our waiter’s attention. Stosh scuttled up to us, his belly rolling back and forth like a frantic tide.
“Excuse me, but this salad is brown.”
“Oh damn.”
And so our afternoon at the diner went, until Stosh dropped us the bill, only the bill read zero and had the name Stosh scribbled on the top in red pen. A phone number was written underneath, with the words, “To the girl with the pretty brown hair and blue eyes”’
“Looks like somebody likes you,” Shardelle said as she chewed on her stale complimentary mint. “You going to give him a chance?”
“He’s not my type.”
“Stop being so shallow.”
“I’m not being shallow,” I said as I searched my crinkled white plastic bag for the pack of gum I’d bought.
“Yes you are.”
“No I’m not. Anyway, it’s easy for you to say. Your boyfriend’s hot.”
“This isn’t about me.”
I ripped open the yellow bubble gum package and flattened the pink, mushy cube between my fingers, in preparation to chew. “Why do you want me to go out with this guy so badly?”
“Because it would be so much fun to go out on a double date, girl.”
“Forget it.”
“Come on, stop being so fickle. What have you got to lose?”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“All I’m saying is that he could be your future husband and you’ll never know because you can’t see beyond the surface.”
I looked at the bill again. I didn’t want to be as superficial as my mother, living a life of appearances, but this was even beneath my standards. I searched Shardelle’s pleading eyes and a twinge of guilt overcame me. It was only one date. Weren’t friends supposed to make sacrifices for each other? Against my better judgement, I dolefully gave in.
* * *
My first, and last, double date with Stosh was at a Greek restaurant called Prometheus. Shardelle and her boyfriend at the time, Leon, looked like the perfect couple. They had been seeing each other for three years. He was tall, with a cocoa-coloured complexion and chiselled biceps, evidence of his daily weight lifting regime. I found it peculiar that he always wore a black bandanna on his head for every occasion, but I assumed it was because he was trying to hide a bald spot or some weird deformity.
Beside me, Stosh dipped his pita in a bowl of hummus. He licked the sauce off his lip and scratched his nose. “Oh God, this is good. This is some good stuff.”
He kept repeating it over and over. It sounded like he was going to come over a bowl of mashed chickpeas.
“Do they have any olives?” he asked me.
“You can have some of mine,” Shardelle said as she scooped two black ones off her plate and put them on Stosh’s.
“Oh yeah, that’s good. Oh God. So good.”
In that moment, I wondered if Stosh was more attracted to the hummus than he was to me. My mind leapt ahead to years in the future. I pictured Stosh, married, with two little Stoshes and a Stoshette running around the house like a stampede of elephants, denting the hardwood floors.
I saw him sitting at the kitchen table while his wife served him three plates of pancakes and a dozen scrambled eggs, with a platter of pita bread and hummus on the side. She would be an over-sexed, middle-aged woman willing to do anything to get her husband’s attention, including sprawling out naked on the kitchen table, smearing hummus on her face and chest.
“Hey big boy, want to dip some of that over here?” she’d say.
“Why’d you waste the hummus?” he’d groan. “I was going to eat that.”
* * *
The putrid smell of decaying olives jolted me from my nightmare. Stosh leaned forward, clutching his stomach with a constipated expression on his face. Then I heard it. At first, it sounded like a pricked balloon slowly oozing toxic gas into the atmosphere. Then, the sound augmented into something that paralleled an old, rusty motorcycle speeding down a back alleyway in full throttle.
“Excuse me.” Stosh belched.
Leon pinched his nose. “Damn. What you eat, brother? Spaghetti and shit balls?”
At that moment, the thought of being shallow didn’t seem so bad after all.
* * *
Before Stosh, there was Rocco the anchovy guy, then Darryl the ladies man, then Chad the maniac, then Justin the preppy, then Sheldon the mama’s boy, then Matthew the traitor, then Carlos the foreign exchange student, then Ben the commitment-phobic. I think I’ve lost track. When I look back at each person, I wonder why I ever got involved, but somehow I believed that one of them would prove to me that true love existed, that I wouldn’t have to be lonely anymore, that I’d have someone to come home to every night and plan camping trips with on the weekends.
* * *
“You sure you’re ok, Softy?” Nick says.
I rub my head. “I really wish you didn’t have to go camping and could spend the weekend with me.”
He wraps his arm around me and sighs. His musky cologne tingles in my nostrils. “I know, I wish I could spend it with you too, but she’ll know something’s up if I bail.”
“And so what if she does? Don’t you think it’s about time you told her the truth?”
Nick’s leg begins to shake again. This time I know it’s not because I’m turning him on. “I don’t know how. I don’t want to hurt her feelings.”
“Somebody’s bound to get hurt. This is about what you want now. It’s not fair to keep stringing both of us along,” I say a bit more gently.
“The only reason I’m still with her is because I don’t want to create friction between our families.”
“Is that worth being with someone you’re not completely into?”
Nick switches on the radio. Coldplay’s Yellow vibrates throughout the truck. He plays with the volume. At one point, he turns it up so loud the bass sounds like it will shatter the windows. He quickly turns the knob back down.
“So, what are your plans with her when you go to Big Beaver Park?” I say.
“Why do you do this to yourself, Mel? It only makes you more upset.”
“I’m just curious.”
“We just do what people do when they camp; sit by a fire with friends and drink.” Nick pulls his arm back from across my shoulder and massages his own with the other hand. He yawns and checks the digital clock on his stereo. The blue-lit numbers glow in the darkness. 1:17am.
My eyes begin to water. “I don’t want you to leave.”
“I don’t want to, either, but things will work out, I promise. Just give me some more time.”
I want to say, “Forget it, I’ve wasted enough time on you,” but the thought of losing the man of my dreams because I didn’t have enough patience to wait a bit longer is more than I can bear.
He wipes the tears from my cheeks. “It’s just a weekend, then we’ll be together again.”
I nod.
Nick starts the car. The headlights beam a blinding light across the grey brick wall in front of us. I shield my eyes. He reverses. I wrap my scarf around my neck, coiling it again and again as if bandaging my wounded emotions.
* * *
I open the door of my basement apartment. Bitchy’s yellow eyes glare at me from across the darkened room. I flick on the light. She perches on top of my red couch, orange hair shedding on the pillows and claws extended, like a demon ready to possess its next victim. She is such an ill-tempered animal. She’ll do anything to make my life hell, which includes finding every opportunity to urinate on my furniture, floor and shoes. At first, I thought she had some type of severe bladder infection, but over the years, I’ve concluded she suffers from a chronic case of PMS.
She hates to be left alone. Whenever I talk to my mother long distance, she asks me if I’ve sold the “little stinker”. I can’t bring myself to give her away though. It’s strange, but Bitchy is the only one I can rely on. At least I know she’s consistent.
“I hope you didn’t ruin the couch.”
Bitchy stares like a disgruntled homemaker who’s been waiting around all night for her man. If she could talk, she’d probably tell me she wanted us to get couples counselling. I chuckle at the thought.
“I’m sorry. I know I’ve left you alone all night. I’ll make it up to you. How about a can of those sardines you like for breakfast?”
She springs off the couch, her tail pointing upright, and prances behind the translucent partition that separates my bedroom from the rest of the apartment. I flop down on my sofa. The creak of a bedspring from upstairs grabs my attention. The bedroom of my landlords, Roger and Kelso, is positioned directly above this spot. Sometimes when I watch TV at night, the ceiling shakes. The shaking has gotten so loud at times I’ve had to stuff toilet paper in my ears and count to ten backwards in a futile effort to block out the graphic images in my mind. The bungalow really belongs to Roger. His partner, Kelso, moved in three months before I did.
* * *
When I first viewed the home on Ninth Street, I was surprised when two Asian men answered the door. The section in the Toronto Star classifieds advertised a young couple looking for a single tenant. At the time, I thought they were brothers. When the shorter one with the spiked hair started nuzzling the arm of the one with the long ponytail, I recognised more than mere brotherly love.
As I walked down the narrow flight of stairs into the basement, the first thing I smelled was mould. The basement had concrete floors and walls. A single light bulb dangled above the doorway. A washing machine and dryer rested against the left wall to the side of the door and in full view, I saw a tub, sink and toilet at the back corner of the rectangular room.
“How am I supposed to get any privacy?” I said.
“You can put dividers up in the basement,” the one with the ponytail replied. “We have to share the laundry room though.”
I couldn’t complain. I needed a place and the price was right. If I thought positively, the apartment had a modern, industrial, loft style, minus the penthouse view. But I had to consult my tarot cards to be certain.
“Can you excuse me for one moment? I need to use the bathroom.”
“Roger, let’s leave her to look around,” the man with the spiked hair said.
I knelt on the cold floor, a ray of light streaming through a tiny window encased within a block of concrete. My heart pulsed and a sudden burst of warmth infused my body. I rubbed the cards. “Should I move here?”
My Svadhisthana Chakra drew me to select each card (Svadhisthana actually means spleen, but it sounds smart). I pulled the Moon and the Fool, two cards in opposition of each other. Yes, it all made sense. Although I feared moving, this would be a sanctuary of new beginnings for me. I had to rent the apartment. On the more pragmatic side of things, I had one week before Shardelle kicked me out of hers.
* * *
The creaking finally stops, giving way to the tick of the scratched wooden-framed clock on my coffee table. The clock had been part of my inheritance when my grandmother died. It was the ugliest thing I had ever seen, but I felt bad at the thought of throwing it out.
My deck of tarot cards lies face down beside the clock. I focus on them while an image of Nick’s face flashes through my head. I remember how he dropped me off tonight, kissed me then zoomed off while I dug through my purse to find my keys. His last words were, “Have a good weekend. I’ll call soon.” I still don’t understand why he doesn’t tell Gwen he’s met someone else.
Sometimes, when I’m too lazy to set up a complete spread, I like to play a tarot card game I invented called Instant Fortune. Tonight, I reflect on Nick and if we’re meant to be. I scatter the cards across the table, shut my eyes and pick one. When I open them, I see a large pine tree covered in icicles. Tormented faces are entangled in the tree’s roots and jagged, snow-covered mountains stretch across the horizon. It represents the Earth Element of Loneliness. I shove the card underneath my couch and select another one.
The Lovers, just as I thought.
Bitchy squats on my black and white swirl rug. Yellow fluid shoots out onto the black circle in the center. Bull’s eye. She licks her paw, as if congratulating herself for a mission accomplished and strolls over to her water bowl at the side of my couch. She laps up the clear liquid, savouring each refreshing splash on her tongue. After the ninth or tenth slurp, her body tilts to the right and her legs give way under her. She snorts in deep slumber as trickles of drool leak from her mouth. Bitchy likes vodka. I’ve tried flavouring her water with raspberry and lime, but it doesn’t seem to work as well as the booze.
When I first brought her home from the breeder, I had to force feed Bitchy with a squirt tube while I held her gaunt body in my lap. She refused to eat. I kept calling my mother for advice. My mother’s close friend, Lesley, had given me the kitten because she thought Bitchy was a social deviant who riled up the other cats. Bitchy scratched the other kittens anytime they neared Mother Cat, a prelude to her possessive nature. Unfortunately, Lesley couldn’t help me. She had been admitted to the hospital after being attacked by a berserk Chihuahua with rabies.
At that time, Shardelle and I were roommates. We lived in a two-bedroom apartment, three blocks away from my tarot card class. We had met a year earlier in an Interior Design program. Although I liked the creative aspects of design, measurements and sketching bored me. I dropped out before completing the final project, but not before Shardelle brought up the idea of sharing an apartment. Being the eldest of four children, she was desperate to have her own space. Since I knew the college would boot me off campus in a month, I agreed.
As we stood in our tiny kitchen, Shardelle discussed her idea of redesigning it using an Art Deco motif. I cradled Bitchy in a woollen blanket, while Shardelle stirred us up some Screwdrivers. She sniffed the orange-vodka. She passed me a glass. Suddenly, Bitchy’s ears perked up. As if rising from the grave, her head drifted toward the drink beside her.
“I think that cat wants some,” said Shardelle.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah, give it some of this.” She poured a drop of vodka into the bottle cap.
“That stuff’s going to kill her.”
“Look how skinny it is. It’s dead anyway.”
Bitchy licked up the liquor. I felt her flex underneath my arm then relax. She then licked my glass, anticipating another swig.
“You still have that squirt tube? Something tells me I’m going to be whipping up another one of them drinks for your cat,” Shardelle laughed as she gleefully clapped her hands.
I sighed. “Why can’t my life be normal? Go figure—my cat’s an alcoholic.”
* * *
The closing credits of Three’s Company scroll across my TV screen. Bitchy is still passed out beside my couch. I blow my nose with a used tissue and swipe my pulsating, wet eyes with the back of my hand. Pathetic, Melinda, stop thinking about Nick. I could be outside right now, enjoying the sunshine and doing something constructive, like gardening, although I only ever read the how-to manuals. Roger would never allow me to touch the unique utopia of weeds and cigarette butts in the backyard, though. I overheard Kelso mentioning the idea of planting pansies, but Roger insisted they gave him hay fever. Using the yard as an oversized ashtray seemed to be the better option.
I stumble up from the couch, white cheddar popcorn crumbs tumbling down my ripped t-shirt, and drag myself over to the kitchen. I swing open the fridge door: leftover tuna salad, half-eaten cherry cheesecake, low fat cream cheese, a stale bagel, an empty bottle of wine and an unused condom. What the hell? I snatch the condom out of the bottom corner of the fridge and chuck it in the trash. Where did it come from? And then an image flashes in my head of Nick pressed against me, me pressed against the fridge, while rain pelts against the window, and shadows dance across our naked bodies, my Buddha-head candle flickering on the counter.
* * *
It was a rare occasion, when Roger and Kelso went away for a week to a resort in Mexico. Nick always hesitated to come over when my landlords were around. Two men living together made him uncomfortable. But with my landlords away, we had the house to ourselves and we made full use of it.
He drove to my place after work and stood on the front porch holding a pizza box, his hair tousled by the chilly winds. “To my beautiful lady,” he said as he presented the grease-stained white box.
He reeked of sweat and sawdust, a scent I found oddly appealing. I threw my arms around him, nearly knocking the box out of his hand and kissed him. “I missed you so much. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
“We just saw each other on Monday, Softy,” he laughed.
“I know.” Stop being so clingy, Melinda, I thought to myself.
“I just need to use the washroom.”
“Third door to your right,” I joked.
“You mean behind the divider.”
“Uh huh.”
While the toilet flushed, I lit two tea light candles on the coffee table, a beeswax candle suspended in a holder beside my front door and Buddha head. I poured two glasses of Pinot Noir a la bargain price. While Nick’s silhouette crept over the gauzy partition, I pulled out a golden condom package from my jeans pocket.
“The place looks nice,” Nick said as he slowly walked toward the kitchen counter where I stood.
I clutched the condom. “The pizza is getting cold.”
“What pizza?”
We embraced. I felt simultaneously swept up in a tornado of lust and at peace now that he held me. I tugged on his wrinkled shirt. Backing me into the fridge, he yanked off my sweater and brassiere, exposing my pale breasts to the warm touch of his hand. His other hand grasped the door handle. Clothes, piles of clothes were scattered across the floor. My lacy underwear covered Bitchy. Her tail stuck out from a leg hole. Then she scurried off. The fridge door pressed cold against my behind as he devoured my mouth. Suddenly, he jerked open the fridge, sending a blast of frigid air up my arm.
“Oops. I guess a pulled too hard on the handle,” he said.
My arm caught as he shut the fridge door. “Ouch.” I dropped the condom.
“Sorry.” He felt hard, throbbing, ready.
“Wait.”
He hesitated. “What is it?”
“I dropped the condom.” I pushed him away and fell to my knees. “Shit. I can’t find it and it’s my last one.”
“Why don’t we just do without?”
“No.”
“Fine, I’ll help you look.”
Needless to say, we never found it, leaving the mood as soggy as the cold pizza on the counter.
* * *
I slather a mound of cream cheese onto the stale bagel and stuff some in my mouth. Maybe Nick doesn’t like my chubby bum. I pinch it. Maybe that’s why he doesn’t spend the weekends with me. Mother’s clichéd phrase taunts me: “A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.” Oh, I’m just being silly.
“Bitchy?”
She snores.
“Bitchy, wake up, you good-for-nothing drunk.”
It’s no use. The booze shows no signs of subsiding. I lean against the counter. I wonder what he’s doing with her right now? Do I really want to know? Cupping my ears and closing my eyes, I try to block them out. Don’t think about him and her together because it will only sting more. But the thoughts flood over me anyway.
I envision Nick and Gwen together in the wilderness as they watch the midday sun suspended over the majestic pines in the distance. They drink beer, laugh and talk.
I see him ruffling her Stooge hair and her pulling away.
“Save that for the wedding night,” she says.
Envy washes over me.
They talk about what happened during the week, as I always picture them doing. She tells him about her clay pots, then she asks about his week.
“Same old,” he says as he takes another gulp of his beer.
“How’s work going?”
“I finished some cabinets for a client. Glad that’s done, but let’s not talk about work anymore.”
“I’m looking forward to coming back to Toronto. Just a few more months and my contract will be up.”
A few more months. Nick told me Gwen would return in the winter. At that time, I assumed he would tell her about our relationship way in advance. He would sit her down in a quiet place somewhere and hold her hand, a glazed expression in his eyes.
“I can’t be with you anymore,” he’d say.
“What are you talking about?” Her chin would tremble in bewilderment.
“I’ve met someone else.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Who is she?”
“It’s not important. Gwen, I care about you, but I can’t deny my feelings for her anymore. We were made for each other.”
I never imagine Gwen crying. It makes me feel too rotten. Somehow, she would simply disappear and Nick and I would live happily ever after.
* * *
My head jolts forward as the phone rings. Nick? “Hello?”
“What’s up, girl?”
It’s only Shardelle. “Not much, just hanging around.”
What’s wrong? You sound sad.”
“No, just tired.”
“It’s him again, isn’t it?”
I always wondered why Shardelle never got into tarot card reading. She must have a sixth sense.
“He left me alone again this weekend.”
“That’s what I thought. You’re wasting your time with him.”
“Shardelle…” My voice trails off as fresh tears spring from my eyes.
“Oh, Lord, here we go again. When will you kick that boy’s ass to the curb? He’s a dirty cheat.”
“But I think I love him.”
“You think you love him?”
“I don’t want to talk about it right now.”
A loud drum beat reverberates on the other end of the line. I hear something that sounds like 50 Cent’s P.I.M.P in the background.
“What’s going on over there?” I ask.
“Hold on a second.”
Bang. I jerk the phone away from my ear as Shardelle drops the receiver.
“Floyd, what’s wrong with you? Turn down the music. You deaf?”
I smirk. Floyd is Shardelle’s fiancé. They moved in together last year, the main reason why I was kicked out of her apartment. I was surprised the first time Shardelle introduced me to him. She swore she was only attracted to dark men. Floyd was not the stereotypical white guy, however. He wore loose, baggy jeans that exposed his boxers, oversized shirts, and a pick comb in his curly, chestnut-coloured hair. Floyd dreamed of being a famous rap star. Eminem was his hero.
“You still there?” Shardelle pants as if she has run a marathon.
“Yeah.”
“You want to go out? Floyd’s doing his DJ thing tonight and I can’t be bothered going to the club.”
“Can you hold on a minute?”
I dash over to the coffee table to do an Instant Fortune prediction. I shut my eyes and pull a tarot card: the Star. It’s a symbol of renewed hope and healing of old wounds. Going out tonight will be good for me.
I pick up the phone. “Yeah, I can go. My man’s not in town, so I’m flexible.”
“He’s not your man. He’s hers.”
Sometimes Shardelle can be so brutally honest she doesn’t realize how much her words hurt. I pause. “Anyway, where do you want to go?”
“Blitz.”
“The martini bar? I haven’t been there in ages.”
“I’ll pick you up in three hours.”
“Ok. Bye.” Just as I hang up, the phone rings again.
“Hi, Shardelle, did you forget something?”
There’s heavy breathing on the other end. “Is this the tarot card prediction thing?”
The voice sounds gruff. I instantly switch into business mode. “May I help you?”
“Yeah, can you predict if I’m going to get laid tonight?”
Gross. I hang up the phone. I really need to pull that advertisement from the newspaper.
* * *
The first day of my tarot card lessons, I was forced to sit beside the instructor at the end of a narrow, oval table. I trudged in the ankle-high snow, ice pellets viciously whipping at my face, desperately trying to make it to class on time. As I searched for the paper with the address on it, my new deck of cards plummeted from my bag, sinking into a deep pool of slush at the side of the road.
“Oh no.” I sank to my knees, pulled off my woollen mitten, and plunged my hand into the river of polluted, arctic waste. I grabbed for the first item, a broken piece of beer bottle.
“Yuck.” I threw it back in.
“Hey lady, want a dime? You ain’t going to find no fish in that pond,” a slender kid with a nose ring snidely remarked as he passed by.
“Mind your own business.” Got it. I shook the wet box off.
When I finally approached the redbrick house on Eleventh Street, a large sign on the veranda broadcasted the name, Barbara Francis School of Psychic Phenomena. I hesitantly knocked.
Twenty minutes late. How embarrassing. A woman wearing a green turban answered. Her shrivelled cheeks were caked with blush, and her smoky gray eye shadow made her look like a stoned raccoon.
“Yes?” she said.
“I’m Melinda Finch. Sorry I’m late.”
“Nice to meet you, dear. I’m Barbara Francis.”
“I know.”
She rubbed her temples and stared at me, befuddled. “How did you know? Are you using some type of channelling energy to align yourself with my subconscious?”
“No. Your name’s on the sign.”
She let out a sigh. “Oh yes, of course. At times I forget that silly thing’s there. Well, come on in.”
From behind her a frenzy of cats dashed outside. Different shades of cat hair peppered the doorway, like confetti. “Don’t mind them, dear. They’ve been locked up all day. Follow me.” Barbara’s rotund hips swayed back and forth, dragging her floor-length chiffon skirt.
Six other students sat at a table in the dimly lit dining room. All of them seemed normal, other than the bald man with a triangle tattooed on his forehead. Their eyes studied my every movement, as if dissecting me from the inside. I sloshed over to the last empty chair leaving tracks of melted snow behind me. The tattooed man glared at me. I avoided eye contact.
“I apologize for the interruption, dears. Back to our cards.”
Barbara shuffled through her deck absentmindedly, her pointy, red nails embedded in the flesh of her pudgy fingers. As she discussed the history of tarot card predictions, for a split second, I wondered if I fit in. Tattoo man continued to glare.
After a thirty-minute lecture on the various types of chakras, Barbara introduced the principle of body, mind and soul. “This is an easy spread. You pull three cards and they indicate your present wellbeing. It’s useful in making quick decisions. Now try it. Remember to focus.”
Barbara circled around the table while we concentrated on our cards. She halted when she approached my seat. “Oh dear, your aura is blurred.”
A flurry of fear and admiration churned within my stomach. What did that mean? Was I going to die?
“Please pull a card.”
I did as she instructed.
“What type of deck is this?” she asked.
“I don’t know. They looked interesting in the store and they only cost me five bucks.” I handed her the cards.
“They have naked men on them.”
“So?”
“So, that’s not the deck we use here.”
“It’s all I could find.”
She inspected each one. “Oh no, these won’t do at all.”
The bent cards were smudged with mud. “I can’t return these now. They’re ruined.”
“That may be a problem.” Barbara patted my back sympathetically.
“I can make predictions with them. You’ll see.”
She appeared unconvinced. “You’ll need to get another deck by the next class I’m afraid.”
“Fine.”
“Carry on then.”
I never managed to get another deck. I suppose it had to do with the rebellious nature deep inside me. Barbara eventually flunked me for “Indecent exposure due to tarot cards.”
* * *
One more hour before Shardelle arrives. The seam of my dress pants rips as I squeeze my other leg inside. I stumble backward. Another pair of pants in the trash. Club Zero, the store I bought the pants from, had a sale five months ago. I picked up three pairs of pants for thirty bucks. They looked like they would fit. I figured that if I did one hundred squats each day, my butt would shrink, but I always found excuses not to exercise, a classic one being that squatting makes people infertile. Now I wish I had stuck to my goal.
Frantically, I sort through the hanging clothes on the rod beside my bed. Jeans—too casual. Jogging pants—too sloppy. Yellow rhinestone slacks—what was I thinking? Then, an idea pushes my creativity to the limit. A purple and orange, striped satin scarf with beaded fringe hangs from my desk chair. It was a souvenir from Mother when my parents visited Paris six months ago. Perhaps I can wear it as a miniskirt.
* * *
Knowing I collected scarves, Mother purchased it from a classy boutique on Rue de Grenelle in Paris. When I untied the ribbon and opened the flat, rectangular box, a whiff of potpourri arose from the tissue paper inside, causing my nose to run. I snatched up a bunch of the tissue and sneezed into it.
“Melinda,” said Mother, “those tissues are not nose linens. They are elegant French papier.”
“They look like the same ones I get at Discount Dave’s.” I tossed the goopy paper to the side in a tightly crumpled ball.
Dad stared at it, his plaid Ralph Lauren shirt crookedly buttoned, his hair a thinning mess of silver strands. I don’t know why I made a point of blowing my nose on Mother’s gift. I guess my chakra wanted to regurgitate the negative energy I felt, namely, her snobby attitude.
Dad and Mother traveled a lot. Whenever they came back, Mother thought she had become a scholar on the country they’d just visited. Once, when they returned from Japan, she brought back a sushi kit. Sushi had suddenly become the new fad from her perspective, even though she was allergic to seafood. Every second day she phoned me with a new recipe. Where she found those recipes was anyone’s guess: pickled pork maki roll with mustard relish, sour kraut and chicken roll, and her trademark, pepperoni pineapple roll with a dab of wasabi on the side. My mother had joined the ranks of the sushi chef masters, although her knowledge was as small as a geisha’s kimono and her ego as big as a sumo wrestler’s diaper.
“Well, open the gift you silly girl,” said Mother.
I ran my hand over the soft texture of the scarf. Plucking it out, I rubbed the fabric across my quivering upper lip. Forgetting about my annoyance, I retreated into my tranquil, happy place.
“Melinda, are you just going to rub that scarf across your face all day like some sort of addict?”
I inspected the scarf more closely. “It feels lovely, but why does it look like a circus tent?”
“It’s high fashion, my girl.” My mother frowned. “Do you like it or not?”
“I do, thank you.” I flung the scarf over my desk chair (where it’s remained ever since).
Mom’s nostrils flared. “Tom, you have a very ungrateful daughter.”
Dad nodded submissively. Whenever I do something wrong, I always become strictly my father’s child.
“I’ll wear it, Mom. Don’t fret.”
I couldn’t bring myself to do it, though, until now.
* * *
I knot the scarf around my hips. It’s long enough that it falls just above my knees. I’ll make sure I keep them together as one subtle leg cross could spell disaster. I grab my purse and scuttle to the door, keeping my inner thighs in close alignment. As I climb up the stairs to the small main floor, I hear someone crunching.
“Oh my God! Where did you get that skirt?” Kelso shrieks. He stands at the top of the stairs, nibbling on the tip of a cucumber. I shake the phallic image out of my head.
“France.”
“Oh my God, get out of here! You bought that in France?”
“Yes, I mean no. My mother did.”
“She has good taste. It reminds me of the gypsy girl in Hunchback of Notre Dame.”
Sometimes I wish the men I dated could be as emotionally expressive as Kelso is, without the flaming gay part. I talk to him occasionally, mostly on weekends. Roger works a lot, and Saturday is no exception. He manages a Gap store. Kelso’s an actor and when he’s not auditioning for roles, I guess he eats cucumbers.
“Where are you going?” he says.
“My friend and I are going out for dinner and drinks.”
“Where?”
“Blitz.”
“Oh my God. Do not get the teriyaki shrimp there. They don’t take the veins out, so basically you’re eating shrimp shit because they poop through their veins. I learned that on Discovery Channel.” He licks the cucumber juice off his lips, his dark, almond-shaped eyes scrutinizing my scarf-skirt once more.
“Thanks.”
“Anytime.”
I turn to face the door.
“Are you just going to stand there and wait?” says Kelso.
“Yeah.”
“Did you want to come in for a cup of tea?”
“Maybe another time.”
“Ok, later then.” He slides open the frosted glass door on the upper level and disappears into their section of the house. I hope Shardelle comes soon. I need a few drinks to get my mind off Nick.
Shardelle waits outside by Floyd’s Hummer. I eagerly shimmy out to the SUV, my legs tightly squeezed together. I automatically shake my head at the Hummer, with its spray-painted lightning bolt splayed across the width of the passenger-side door to the trunk. Inside the trunk, Floyd has two built-in turntables that slide out on a wood plank whenever he feels like playing a vinyl record or two. Probably the most outstanding feature of the Hummer is the low rider hydraulic system that sinks the back tires to the ground. Their florescent rims give off a carnival effect every time the tires bounce down the road. The only problem is a person needs a stepladder to climb into the SUV—not great when your skirt is hitched up between your thighs. When I heave myself in, Shardelle witnesses the Full Monty of my polka dot underwear.
“You’re wearing granny panties to the bar?” she says.
“I forgot to do the laundry.”
“Ok, but don’t expect to get busy with anyone there tonight.”
I groan. “I’m not planning to get busy with anyone. I just need to get my mind off things.”
I don’t even try to compete with Shardelle when it comes to sex appeal. She wears a tight-fitting leopard-print shirt with black pants that compliment her curvy figure. Her curves fall in all the right places with her voluptuous chest and butt. Paired with her bee-stung lips, heads turn when she walks into a room. At times, I envy the attention she gets.
She starts the engine. “You feeling better? You sounded bad over the phone this afternoon. Why you keep doing this to yourself? He’s not worth it.”
I stare out of the passenger window. “I told you I didn’t want to talk about it.”
Big mistake. When Shardelle confronts you about something, she means business. If you try to avoid her, she’ll spread the sass on thick as mortar on bricks.
She clucks her tongue. “Excuse me, but we are not setting one foot into that bar until you get this out of your system. I’m not going to spend the rest of the night listening to you whine about that jackass.”
“Ok, I’m an airhead for wanting a guy who’s unavailable. You’re right and I’m wrong. Does that make you happy?”
“Oh no, you are not going to leave it at that. Nothing seems to be sinking in with you.” Shardelle slams on the brakes nearly sailing through a busy intersection.
“Whoa!” After I catch my breath, I gaze at the stoplight. For a moment, I imagine the red light signalling me to stop my affair. She accelerates rapidly once the light turns green again, knocking me back to reality.
“Things are sinking in, but it’s just taking some time. If he doesn’t make a decision soon, I’m calling it quits. I promise I won’t mention his name for the rest of the night. Can we just drop it now?” I say.
“I’m going to hold you to that promise.”
I sigh.
“There’s plenty of good men out there, Melinda.”
“They’re not him though.”
She scoffs at me. “You’re waiting for the jerk to make a decision between you and his girlfriend, and I’m positive you won’t be the one he picks.”
“Why?”
“It’s just the way it goes.”
It feels like someone has just informed me my cat got run over. “But he wants to be with me.”
“All words. If you get rid of him, I’ll set you up with someone better.”
I slump my shoulders. “No offense, but the last guy you set me up with looked like an eighty-five-year-old Michael Jackson.”
“That was just one blind date. Why you got to be so judgmental?”
“The other one you set me up with was actually blind. His guide dog was better looking.”
She has no response to that one.
I despise the idea of another blind date. Other people have played matchmaker before and I was flabbergasted at their lack of common sense. It was as if they picked a name out of a hat and hoped for the best. Usually, the single girls described their friend as a guy with a wonderful heart. It made me wonder if he was really that terrific, why weren’t they going out with him?
I found ways to sneak in the inevitable question. “So, what does he look like?”
The matchmaker would hesitate and fiddle around with her hair to stall for time. “He has nice teeth.”
* * *
Blitz Martini Bar blasts with ambient music as a waitress places a large platter of teriyaki shrimp and jasmine rice in front of Shardelle. I stick to the grilled chicken.
The place is crammed with people chattering their lives away, most likely to forget every word during their hangovers the following morning. The seating arrangement is almost like a factory line: man on stool stroking woman’s hand, woman giggling while she seductively licks the fruit kabob garnishing her drink, man giving woman sex-eyes, woman biting her lip in anticipation. Everyone has their role to play in this intricate mating ritual. And then there’s Shardelle and me, the two useless cogs at the end of the conveyer belt. Shardelle crunches on the tails of her shrimp while I drown my sorrows in my martini.
“Why do you do that?” I say as I stir my chocolate martini with my kabob stick, a cherry stabbed at the end.
“Do what?”
“Eat the tails?”
Shardelle savagely disembowels another shrimp. “Can’t a sister enjoy her food without some white girl telling her what do to?”
I focus on the neon orange light above me as I suck back the remainder of my drink. “I wasn’t telling you what to do. I was just asking a question.”
“That’s discrimination.”
“No it’s not.”
“First you going to be telling me how to eat my shrimp, then before you know it, you’re going to be ordering my food for me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Whatever you say, Ms. Melinda. Is it all right if I eat my shrimp now, Ms. Melinda?” Shardelle taunts in an annoyingly, high-pitched voice.
I stare at her, confused as to how we got onto this topic. “You always jump to conclusions.”
“Yes’m, Ms. Melinda.”
I watch her lips flap up and down until they blur. Here we go again, Shardelle’s lectures on discrimination. She should be a human rights activist.
To block her out, I observe a couple sitting nearby. The muscular jock wraps his beefy, steroid-enlarged fingers around his girlfriend’s wrist. He guides her hand to his mouth and kisses it. Wistfully, I look at the girl. She’s dressed in a foxy, sleeveless cocktail dress. Although her boyfriend resembles an ape, I can tell he worships the ground she walks on.
He slowly scoops up some rice from his bowl. He scoops it ever so carefully, making sure he gets every last juicy morsel. As he guides the spoon toward her, I see a sparkle on the tip of the utensil. Even the food shines with his love—how perfectly romantic. The girl chomps down on the spoon and swallows the offering. She smiles, but something’s wrong. The jock seems panicked.
“Why did you do that?” he says.
“What are you talking about?”
“That belonged to my grandmother.”
“What did?”
“The engagement ring you just swallowed.”
Suddenly there is a shift in the girl’s mood. Her face changes from pale confusion to teary-eyed joy. “An engagement ring? You want to marry me? Oh Snooky, I love you so much!”
Engagements are wonderful occasions representing two lives merging as one, but for someone like me they can be bitter-sweet. I catch myself peeking at the left hands of other women on a self-defeating quest to tally how many of them have found true love. Then, I glance down at my own barren finger and reality hits. I’m thirty-one, going nowhere in my career and unmarried.
While the jock performs abdominal thrusts on his fiancé, Shardelle’s still off on some tangent. Instead of wallowing in my own self-pity, I suppose I could offer to help with the abdominal thrust maneuver. I have a CPR certificate, but the thought of CPR brings back dreadful memories. All I can see is the instructor, a bow-legged man with a buzz cut and a noticeable bulge in his pants.
The instructor requested a dummy, as he termed it, to show the class how to assist someone who was choking. No one volunteered.
“You,” he pointed at me. “Up here.”
Sheepishly, I crept up to the front of the room and lay down.
“Ok, so you have this victim here who is choking.” His drill sergeant voice bounced off the walls. “What do you do?”
I raised my hand. “Ask if I’m ok?”
The instructor’s freckled nose dove down to my face like a hawk attacking its prey. “Who said you could speak? You’re supposed to be near death.”
Stiff as a plank, I remained silent as he patted me from my feet to my neck. “Let’s just say this is a dude having chest pains.” He paused his frisking below my bosom. “You want to check for one life-and-death sign he’s not having a heart attack.”
I was expecting him to say a pulse.
“You want to check for an erection.”
Pulse, erection—same thing, I guess. The instructor never fully explained what he meant by his statement. I trusted he knew what he was talking about, since he’d been teaching the course for eight years. Afterward, whenever I walked down the street, my eyes drifted to the obscure regions of the male anatomy, ready to perform CPR in an emergency. Later on, I found out my instructor had been rushed to the hospital because of a heart attack. I concluded it had something to do with his chronic hard-on.