I'm with Stupid (39 page)
Richard is shielding his head with his hands. I whip him across the forehead and his beret falls off. I stop and stare at him in horror. “What happened to your hair?” I ask in disgust. There is a shaved patch running from his forehead to the crown of his head. It’s like a reverse Mohawk. The sides have been dyed red and yellow.
Richard picks the beret off the floor and puts it back on his head. “Don’t look at it,” he grumbles. “I had a misunderstanding at the place where I get my haircut. Some new guy came in, didn’t speak English. I hate the French. Now I can’t get the dye out. Don’t look at it.”
I tell him that he should do himself a huge favor and get out of here. Richard mumbles something and starts to walk away. “I hope you enjoy the flowers,” he bitterly says and reminds me that they were expensive. He continues down the stairs. It’s lonely at the bottom. He points an accusatory finger: “You’re a big bitch, you know that?” Bitch, huh? I stand on tiptoes and cup my hand over my mouth. “Fuck you,” I call after him. “Nice hair, assbag!” I slam the door.
I am walking toward the couch when, not two minutes later, my front door flies open with a bang. I turn with a start. Richard? A figure with a short white beard, dressed in a blue sailor’s suit, like a maritime captain or the Gorton’s Fisherman, runs in holding a clear bag full of deflated balloons. It takes me a minute to process it. I lean in. “Max?” I ask. The bearded one pulls down the white beard, which was held in place by a black elastic band. “It’s me, Noreen!” Noreen says in her mousy voice. Noreen? Just then another identically dressed maritime captain runs in. He’s tall, like William, and thin. Who? The captain pulls down his beard. “Kas!” Henryk says. “Heard about Richard. No one does that to my sister!” My mouth falls open when a third captain comes flying in. I can tell by the way this one is running who he is. “We need to use your sink!” Max says, grabbing the bag from Noreen’s hands. He turns on my kitchen faucet and starts filling up balloons. When they swell to the size of volleyballs, he hands them off to Noreen, who collects them in her arms. Henryk pulls a small plastic orange water pistol out of his pocket and fills that up, too. Max looks over his shoulder. “We’ll be out of here in a sec!” he says. I ask what they are doing. “We followed Richard here from his house!” he says, filling up more balloons. “We’re going to whip water balloons at him right now! We’re in a rush!” Well, I should have known he wouldn’t stop. And now he’s got my brother involved.
In a flash, Max gathers up an armful of balloons and heads for the door. “Love you!” he calls out. “Bye!”
Captain Noreen trails behind with her own booty. “Your friend is so cool!” she gushes. “This was the best breakup I’ve ever had!” Oh man, she totally wants to be his fag hag.
Henryk waves the pistol in the air and fires off a round of water. “Come join us!” he says. I nod. “By the way,” he adds with a little smile, “I’m nearly done with the second novel. It’s written from the perspective of a girl, about your age, who gets a surprise visit from a one-night stand. I’m calling it
I’m with Stupid
.” I grin. Max hears this and turns. “Go with a female pen name this time,” he tells Henryk. “I’m seeing you as an Eileen, or an Elaine. I’ll work on it. If you widen your readership I expect a kickback.” Henryk fires more water. This is the weirdest group of vigilantes in history, I think as they file out.
I race into the hallway and shout to Max, who is sliding down the banister. Henryk and Noreen are thundering down the stairs two at a time. “Do I even need to ask if you had anything to do with Richard’s haircut?”
“Whee whee! Of course I did!” Max answers, jumping off the railing. “This is my last hurrah and then I’m done!”
“I thought you learned your lesson?” I shout.
“I’ll learn it tomorrow!” he shouts back. “Today I’m in it to win it!”
The downstairs door slams shut. Libby opens her door. She has green clay smeared on her forehead, cheeks, chin, and nose. Someone’s giving herself a facial. She stares at me blankly. “Babe, was that the pizza man?” she asks. “Was he cute? I didn’t want to show my face.” I shake my head no, not the pizza man. I quickly explain what is happening. She pats her cheeks, hesitates, then says the hell with it. “Let’s go see!” she exclaims. Then the phone rings. I tell Libby to hold on and run inside and check the caller ID. It’s Newland. I pick up.
“Mouse ears, do you want to have dinner with me tomorrow night?”
I say sure. ButIhavenotimetochatnowsorrygottarun. I slam down the phone and point at the cage. “Don’t break anything while I’m gone,” I tell the mice.
Libby and I race out of the building. She does pretty well considering she is in four-inch heels the width of pins. We look left, then right. In the middle of the block three maritime captains have Richard up against a building. Each is holding a water balloon. “Apologize for the way you treated me!” Noreen screams. She’s in the midst of a bra-burning moment. Richard responds that he has nothing to be sorry for. “Wrong answer!” Max shouts back. The water balloons go flying and Richard gets down on his knees and covers his head. Come to think of it, I’ve never heard Richard apologize for anything; not even when he canceled plans with me at the last minute (presumably to meet up with his fiancée or some other victim) did he say sorry.
“I want my engagement ring back,” I hear Richard say to Noreen. “Don’t think you’re keeping it after everything you’ve done to me.”
Everything she’s done to him?
Libby and I arrive on the scene. The captains stop throwing balloons. Sopping-wet Richard looks up. His beret has again come off. His hair is truly repulsive. That cut and color job should curb his misogyny for at least a while. “Hi Libby!” Noreen says. “Thanks for all the makeup tips. I feel great!” Libby waves. She can’t smile because of the clay, which has hardened into a mask. Richard looks confused. He asks if we all know each other. I nod. We do. I tell Henryk to give me that orange water gun. He puts it in my hand. It’s a cheap little thing, worth about twenty-five cents. I turn it over and take a step toward Richard.
I slowly raise the gun and take aim between his eyes. “You people are crazy,” he moans. Everything around me goes still. I curl my finger around the trigger. Richard cheats, then uses me, then comes to my house and calls me a “big bitch”? I don’t think so, pal. Women aren’t bitches. An unnecessarily elaborate revenge scheme, however? Now that’s one badass bitch.
I snarl at him then pull the trigger, just as he mumbles the word “Sorry.” Too late. I fire four times. Squirt Squirt. Squirt Squirt. The water rolls down Richard’s nose. A single drop hangs off the tip like snot. Noreen storms over. “And I have your ring right here,” she says, pulling it out of her pocket. “I planned to give it back. I’m not a jerk like you.” She sticks the ring up Richard’s nose, sideways. It expands his nostril to the size of a quarter. Pretty. Richard gets up off his knees and pushes out the ring. He begins walking away. He looks nervously over his shoulder then picks up the pace. Noreen cheers. She gives Max a hug and words of thanks and admits she’s never felt better. We wave down a cab for her and she gets in, still talking excitedly.
The cab pulls away and I raise the plastic water gun to my lips. I blow on the barrel to cool it. Better get out of here. I turn, tuck the gun into my jeans, and walk silently back to the apartment. Dating is hard. It really is. Most people are not a fit (see my time with William Johnson for more info), but you try, if only to experience that single flicker out of the darkness, that possibility of a flame. In the event that it burns out fast, well, at least you felt heat. And you know you want to feel heat, so stop showing off like you don’t. In the meantime, there are friends. They got your back. I know mine do. I don’t have to turn to know that right now my friends and brother are, in various states of disarray, marching close behind.
And then I see a water balloon sail over my head. And then I feel one hit me. It explodes between my shoulder blades. Pop! I stop. Fuck that’s cold. I whip around.
Max raises his arms and laughs. “It totally slipped! I’m sorry!”
I stand there shaking my head, which is when the three begin walking toward me. Yup, these are my people. There’s no doubt.
I’m with Stupid
is my first book, and it was written thanks to booze: I began it after returning from a press junket in South Africa sponsored by an alcohol company. I can hear certain members of my family now:
Why tell the people that? Don’t talk about booze! It’s not nice! Talk about where you came from! Talk about your schooling and career! And make sure to stress that the book is fiction so no one thinks you’re loose or that your mother is pushy like the mother in the book!
All right, I’ll try not to mention booze again, though what I said is technically true.
I was born in Kraków, Poland, and immigrated to Chicago, Illinois, with my parents, Maria and Stanislaw, three months before the country was placed under martial law by the communist government. (Not a good time to be a Polish writer, to understate a point.) I graduated from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign and began my writing career at the
Financial Times
, as an assistant, and currently serve as editor of
Kirkus Reviews
, a book review journal.
I’m with Stupid
is a work of fiction; I am not loose; my own mother is not pushy. She’s delicious. And so is my father, and my brother, Robert. But more about that press junket . . .
My friend Patty, at the time working for a men’s magazine, had been invited, along with a few other writers, and mentioned that the company was looking for one more person. I called the public relations department at her suggestion, not at all convinced anything would come of it, and the next day stood in my apartment holding round-trip business-class tickets to Africa and an itinerary. I was going to Johannesburg, Cape Town, and on safari—all for free. I had three days to pack.
When the news sank in I began to laugh maniacally like a black-gloved villain who got away with bank robbery, which is how I felt. That evening, while buying travel-size toiletries, I volunteered to clerks and shoppers, in a casual, slightly bored tone like this happens all the time, that I was “off to Africa.” I even told a guy at the video store. I might have sighed.
The weeklong trip found Patty and me bonding with two other journalists (conveniently named Elizabeth and Elizabeth, and now my close friends) and exploring the land. There was some official business but mostly we hung out and had fun, giving me ample time to consider scenarios, both real and imagined, that would inform the writing of
I’m with Stupid
, a book in part inspired by South Africa, where I never would have traveled had it not been for booze.
5 items to pick up at a
Polish Deli
1.
Oszczypek
Shaped like a football, oszczypek is a hard, smoked cheese traditionally made from unpasteurized ewes’ milk by highlanders living in the Tatra Mountains. At Polish get-togethers, it’s usually found next to the vodka bottle.
2.
Paczki
Doughnutlike pastries—minus the hole—paczki are filled with marmalade or jam (flavors include plum, raspberry, and strawberry) and topped with icing. They are offered year-round but are especially popular on Fat Thursday (
tlusty czwartek
), before the start of Lent.
3.
Kabanos
A long (about one to two feet), finger-thin hunter’s sausage that resembles beef jerky, kabanos is made from pork and seasoned with spices, then smoked and air-dried. It’s eaten alone or with rye bread.
4.
Barszcz
A sweet vegetable soup made from beets and beet root, barszcz, prepared hot or cold, is sometimes served with croquettes or dumplings called
uszka
(the word literally means “little ears”). It’s my favorite Polish soup, not that you asked.
5.
Oplatek
Part of a centuries-old Roman Catholic Christmas tradition, oplatek is a delicate, rectangular wafer embossed with religious images. Before the start of Christmas dinner, families share pieces of oplatek, offering good wishes for the coming year. (My dad’s tidings generally include the words “make a lot of money.”)