The Dating Bender Page 12

  “You can’t force us to raise our children that way if we don’t want to,” he had said.

  Ah, the good old days. You mean the days when you laid the foundation for ruining your life by marrying outside of your religion?

  “So, does that sound good, Samantha?” Father Sigfried said, ending the onslaught of memories.

  “What? Sorry, Father, when I’ve got a migraine my head throbs and it’s hard for me to concentrate. And my mind wanders. What was that last bit?”

  “That’s not all that wanders with her, Father, which points to the larger problem at hand,” my mother said.

  “As I mentioned, an annulment is a simple agreement that states the marriage never happened,” Sigfried said.

  He appeared to be such a sane man—aside from the part where he suggested that I denounce a marriage that he officiated.

  Unable to listen to the drivel any longer, I ran out of the rectory, blaming my headache. My mother eventually followed while apologizing over her shoulder. I enjoyed the uncomfortable silence during the ride home. She drove two miles over the speed limit for the entire trip, a sure sign that she was miffed at me. Aside from binge drinking, she never broke the rules—until today, when she gunned it through our neighborhood and down the driveway. To annoy me, she repeatedly stopped short on the brakes, her passive-aggressive way of f’ing with me.

  She parked the car on the lawn and waited. Then she got out and walked into the house swearing to the sky, or was it God? I straggled behind hoping the icy temps would freeze me out of my misery. By the time I reached the front door, my father and Penelope were waiting to greet us with boozy breath and wet paws.

  My mother reappeared in the doorway and stuffed her fake Gucci between me and the door in an attempt to block me from entering.

  “Samantha, I would like you to explain to your father why you refused to get an annulment,” she said.

  How could I put this into terms these drunkards could understand?

  “Well, Daddy, it’s just, you can’t wave a wand over something and pretend it didn’t happen when people witnessed it. I also don’t think, as a non-Catholic, Sheldon would appreciate the whole annulment process.”

  My bout with candor drove my father inside and into his rendition of exercise—pacing around our living room. And not your mainstream pace. He preferred a bob and weave style, reminiscent of Rocky Balboa in my father’s favorite flick, Rocky. Unlike the Italian Stallion, my pop’s moves were more about beer buzz than boxing. It amazed me how much he staggered after only his first few Miller Lites. This man had put down at least 10 a day for as long as I could remember. You would think he might have built up a tolerance.

  “Well, that’s his own damn problem. Nothing you’ve told me has done anything to explain why you won’t correct your mistake. How can anybody possibly be this stupid? Let me correct myself, choose to be this stupid,” he said.

  Then he dragged poor Penelope up on his lap. He petted her as if she were a sateen treasure. The fact that she was a matted mangy terrier did not seem to bother him. She was the only thing I had ever seen him cherish besides his corduroy OP shorts—birthed back in the Reagan era.

  Like the dad I knew and often disliked, he was completely unaware that spit flew in my face as he ranted—the consummate sloppy speaker. He headed toward the kitchen, likely to get Penelope a treat. It wasn’t long before his boozy state caused him to stumble to the ground. He just missed squishing her. She seemed unfazed, always the loyal soldier. I wished her no harm.

  “See what you do to me?” he said as he pulled himself upright and waved my mother and me toward the kitchen.

  Mom tried to divert attention away from my father by clacking around stuffing pots into the pantry. I used the disruption as a means of escape to the den. Sitting on the worn denim couch, I swatted at dust mites and prayed the jolt from my dad’s tumble would prevent the next tirade.

  My dad had turned into his father, who used to bark and growl every time we opened the fridge, but instead of being worried we were snagging one too many Ding Dongs, I suspected my father was more worried about his booze stash.

  Pops defied the odds by maintaining a silent stare, refusing to blink. Until he made me cry.

  “Oh, Christ, what now?” he said. “Do you see this, Susan? Our full-grown baby is crying. What kind of game do you think you’re playing, anyway? Are we supposed to believe that you actually feel bad about this whole ordeal? Please, give us some credit.”

  He fixed his combover that had un-overed itself when he fell. He steadied himself enough to walk back into the kitchen to crack open another beer as though nothing had happened. Happy hour started early at the Serrano pad. On his way back into the den, just to torment me, Dad burped loudly. Then he stopped short, lingering in my personal space and staring at me as if he expected some sort of explanation for the waterworks.

  I said nothing. I tried to stop crying but failed.

  “Why do you refuse to make this god damn divorce deal right with the church?” he said.

  I tried to channel my mother by not making eye contact. Always one to outdo me, he continued to drink and not speak to me for the next fifteen minutes. Then he loosened the belt that held up his ratty OP shorts. This, his signature move, indicated a lecture would soon follow.

  “You’re a misfit of a daughter, you’ll never be anything more. The state of your life makes me want to curse.”

  As if he needed a reason.

  I tried to come up with something to make him stop. I contemplated socking the arm of his tattered plaid La-Z-Boy, just to rattle him, but couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  “She’s a lost cause, dear, just forget about her and get over here…my feet ache and need some attention,” my mother said.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ, rub your own damn toes, Susan. They stink,” he said. Then he turned back to me. “We’ve wasted a lifetime on you. Either go to church tomorrow and get the annulment, or start packing your bags. I swear I will lock the god damn doors for good this time.”

  Spoken like a true Catholic.

  He wrinkled up his reddish-purple face, which made it look like he might erupt at any moment. I couldn’t tell if his freakish tone was because of all the booze or that he was dangerously close to having a heart attack. I felt like I should say something, run away, or better yet, confront him. Instead, just like a battered wife, I sat there and took it.

  Three hours and hundreds of barbs later, somebody had to stop the verbal abuse.

  “Daddy, I’m going to bed.”

  In my mind, I spat in his face before I walked downstairs, but in reality, I crept into my childhood bedroom and crawled under the pink Strawberry Shortcake canopy of my old bed and tried to dismiss all of the hateful things my father had spewed at me. It was probably just the booze talking, but still.

  After a few minutes of contemplation, as the ever-sweet Ms. Shortcake stared down on me with her goodness, I packed a small duffle bag with a few must-have essentials and peeked out of my room to confirm the exit route was clear.

  I panned my room one last time as a tapestry of memories, none of which were pleasant, came into focus. I grabbed my bag and snuck out the back door. In the pitch black of night, I crept along the long driveway of shame, and then hoofed it down the street with the speed of an Olympic racer, running on foot from everything and everyone.

  I wasn’t sure where I was running to, but I was quite clear on what I was running from.

  Chapter Twenty

  I chose the Peter Pan bus as my transport out of hell and into what I hoped would be anything but. When I stepped into the chariot, though, I had a moment of buyer’s remorse about the decision. I’ve never understood why buses felt seedy, but they did. It seemed as if everybody onboard was hiding out or running away from something or someone, so I’d probably fit right in.

  The rainstorm that followed me from Maryland to New York felt fitting—and since my stint back home brought me back to an almost infantile state, so
did wearing the red floral romper I had stitched during my days with the 4-H Club. It was one of the few outfits I could find in my haste to get out from under my father’s roof. At least this abrupt departure didn’t involve a marriage. I prayed that New York would be everything that Frank Sinatra belted it could be. So what if he was my father’s favorite crooner.

  To forget my monsoon-like experience at home, I got chummy with my seatmate, Jan, who knew a friend who had another friend who needed to sublet an apartment. She made it sound fab. Then her sister, Janey, sitting across the aisle, thrust her phone in my face to show me pictures of the building, which looked nice enough. I had nowhere else to go, so I agreed to rent it for the month. Anything would be better than living with my parents.

  I spent the rest of the ride fixated on the dismal weather. The rain turned to hail, reminding me that nothing stays the same, except for my parents. And my inability to cut them out of my life. I still hadn’t figured out why I had continued to allow them to reign over me.

  Those days would soon be over. By the time we crossed into New York City, I had reached some conclusions. First, sitting by the bathroom on a five-hour bus ride was not an ideal position for someone prone to barfing. Second, I had no life plan. But at least I had a place to live. Hopefully, it wasn’t a hole.

  The bus pulled into Penn Station and I felt as if I were on another planet. The chaotic pace refreshed me—an opportunity to be amid everyone else’s mayhem instead of my own. I used my lone leopard duffle bag to flag down a friendly cabbie who charged forty dollars to get to the Lower Eastside. He should have paid me to ride in his taxi because his body odor smelled like nothing I had ever sniffed before. He overcharged me, but it was worth it since I realized, stepping out of the cab, that I was finally free.

  Some of the excitement wore off when I peered inside my new dwelling. The tiny abode elevated the meaning of the words “studio apartment” to new or lower levels, depending on how you looked at things. I wasn’t totally convinced that it was legal to call a closet-free three-hundred-square-foot room an apartment, but it would have to do for the short-term. New York magazine was right: Two thousand dollars didn’t buy much in this town. I needed a job and fast.

  At least the pad had a bathroom, which counted for something; I’d heard some places charged extra for such perks. On the downside, only a stick-thin person could fit inside of it, because when you opened the door more than six inches, it hit the sink. Did I miss the Good Housekeeping issue that said pint-sized potty rooms were the new pink?

  Sitting in my windowless one-room apartment, a mantra materialized in my mind: new city, new rules. I had gotten way too serious in the relationship department—with disastrous results. I would take Candy’s advice and have meaningless sex with younger men who I would ditch before they had a chance to break up with me. Light and loose, that was how I would roll.

  Janey texted me later that night. I had only talked to her briefly on the bus when she and her sister were doing the hard sell on the apartment. She went as far as promising me friendship if I took the place. I needed a gal pal in the city almost more than I needed a place to live, so I agreed.

  When I didn’t respond to her text immediately, she rang.

  “Sam, where are you?”

  “I’m at the apartment trying to make it feel like a home. I bought some flowers at the bodega downstairs. I’m painting myself happy!”

  “Oh dear God. What are you still doing there? Nobody ever stays home in Manhattan. The annual fireman’s bash under the Brooklyn Bridge is tomorrow night. You’re going with me. Jan warned me about you and your family problems, but no worries. Nobody is more bitter than me. Alcohol and men make everything better.”

  Surveying my one-room pad, I understood why nobody stayed in. I guess scantily clad firemen wouldn’t be a bad way to get to know the city.

  “That sounds like fun. What should I wear?”

  “Something tasteful, short, and skimpy,” she said.

  I wasn’t sure how one didn’t contradict the other, but whatever, I’d pull something together. The more I talked to her, the more I liked Janey. She sounded like the consummate city girl—bawdy and boy crazy. Nothing at all like Candy, who I was desperately missing. But maybe if I was lucky Janey could be a stand in.

  I flopped onto the air mattress that I’d scored at the CVS down the block and disappeared into the buzz of the city with taxicabs and street talk busting through the paper-thin walls. The raucous undertones lulled me to sleep, much like my parents’ bickering always had.

  I didn’t wake up until two p.m. the next day. I guess the weight of my trip—or maybe the last year of my life—had taken more out of me than I thought. I pulled on my old fuzzy pink tracksuit so I could roam the building and introduce myself to some of my neighbors.

  That took all of five minutes. Not a welcoming bunch. Not a single one of the eight doors I knocked on opened. I did hear an obscene word or two. The mildewed ceilings and brown, faded wallpaper matched the lackluster welcome. But at least the hallway had windows so I could see that a sun-filled day awaited.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon running around my neighborhood getting familiar with the surroundings—which, beyond the bodega, included a pizza shop across the street and a bagel store two streets away—eats on the cheap. My kind of town. The East Village seemed to be on the cusp of another re-gentrification process, much like the makeover I had in mind for my own life.

  I started with a new outfit I found at a thrift store around the block: sensible leopard pumps, a stretchy robin-egg blue mini-tee, and denim capris. Perfect for an outdoor party. I got back home just in time to change and zoom down to the subway to meet Janey at the Brooklyn Bridge stop.

  The rain that followed me to New York had retreated and revealed a scorching spring evening. Despite all the sewage that supposedly ran rampant in Manhattan, I smelled lilacs and gyro meat.

  The subway was good for a quick ride, and apparently so were city boys, per Janey. As I stepped off the train, I saw her, arms waving almost as high as her skirt crawled up her thighs. She looked slightly more trampy than she did on the bus. When did tube tops and micro minis with spiked heels come back in fashion? Maybe they never went out, given the catcalls that followed us off the subway and out onto the streets.

  “Most of the guys at this party will be firemen, need I say more?” she snorted as she plumped her oversized boobs. I couldn’t be certain if they were real or not, but in either case, they threatened to topple her.

  “Cool,” I said.

  “I look forward to this party like every year because it’s like a surefire way to get laid. The men are hot and wasted. What could be better?”

  “Wow, how nice,” I said, thinking I had escaped such boozy behavior when I left my parents.

  “I never wear underwear to this thing. I hope you didn’t either. It makes for easy access,” she said.

  I think boy crazy for Janey meant crazy slut on heels. No judgment. You are the company you keep. This was uncharted territory. I didn’t know about most New Yorkers, but I kept my underwear on in public places. Anything less could be construed as classless, not to mention a bacterial nightmare. Sitting commando on a subway seat that God knows what or who went down on? Gross.

  We walked for fifteen minutes through a maze of cobbled streets and tenement buildings to the edge of the waterline, where, as if by magic, the Brooklyn Bridge appeared before us. It was a view I had seen in so many movies, none of which did any justice to the sight in real life. Its stance at the tip of Manhattan brought an air of bravado, which matched the throngs of muscled firefighters peppering the pavement.

  I fished for my compact to primp one last time. When I finished I looked up for Janey. She was gone, and I doubted it was to get up close and personal with the bridge.

  After ten minutes passed, I realized that she might not be coming back. I would have felt self-conscious about being at the party alone, but the drunk crowd seemed to barely notice m
y solo status. Cosmo encouraged us girls to find power in our solitary moments, so I popped open a Bud and took in the view.

  The minutes flew like seconds, especially after four beers. Armed with liquid courage, I set out to, as Janey had put it, “troll for men,” which might explain her disappearance. The city sweltered, even though it was only May. The heat rising off the pavement matched the smoking-hot firemen. At least, I hoped they were as hot as I thought. Beer goggles could be deceiving.

  I slurped down the last of my brew and took in the sights. A Long John Silver type babe-o-licious man strutted toward me. He had to be at least six-foot-four, topped with platinum blonde perfectly tousled bedhead hair and the looks and pecs of a soap star. I pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating. Nope. He stood practically naked before me, flexing those beautifully sculpted muscles, shirtless. And to think he fought fire and crime in the city. How sexy and hot was that? Did all men romp around topless here, or was that just a fireman thing? Not that I was complaining. I calmed my anxiousness with a quick nose scratch and vowed to make the most of my surroundings.

  My phone rang. I answered hoping it was Janey calling to tell me where she was hiding.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Where are you, dear? Hopefully at church taking care of your annulment. I have a clipping set aside for you when you get back, entitled Being Single is Not So Fabulous.”

  “Mom, I’m not at church, and like I said before I left, I’m not getting an annulment.”

  “You said no such thing. Don’t come home until you do it. P.S. I still love you. But not until you get the annulment.”

  She hung up before I got to mention I was never coming back. Had they still not figured out I had left for good?

  The lure of my surroundings called me back to Long John as he sidled in closer. I couldn’t be certain, but he appeared to be winking at me. I scanned over my shoulder to see if there was a tall blonde bimbo behind me, but it was mainly firemen. Was it possible that this beefcake had aimed his eyes at me? Maybe New York could be my playground after all.