Things I can’t Explain Page 22

  I rap my knuckles against the glass to get her attention. She glowers at me.

  But I glower right back. Then I crook my finger at her, not Bruce Lee kung fu–style, but the closest I get to that. “Let’s talk,” I mouth. “Now.”

  Maybe Rodgers is right. Maybe I do have a death wish.

  Roxie storms out of the bar and in the next heartbeat, we’re standing nose to nose. “What do you fucking want? I’m sick of you following me around. You’re giving me a bad reputation,” she bellows.

  “I want to know why you came after Nick and me. And if you’re so into him, what’s all that in there about?” I spit out, pointing to the guys in the bar.

  To my shock, she actually starts laughing.

  “You think Nick and I are together?” She laughs. “Nick and I have been shit for a long time.”

  This brings me up short.

  “Then why the big scene at the wedding?” I ask.

  “Why? I guess I just wanted to finally see the famous BRB for myself.”

  “BRB?” I have no idea what she’s talking about. I think “be right back,” but that hardly applies here. “What are you talking about?”

  Roxie finds my confusion amusing. “You’re totally clueless, you know that? Blond Reporter Babe. BRB. That’s what Nick used to call you before he knew your real name. When he talked to his friends and the studio staff about you, he would be like, ‘The BRB this and the BRB that.’ You were his favorite topic of conversation. It made me want to puke.”

  So the CCG had a nickname for me? BRB. I would smile if I weren’t so damn stupefied.

  “He would yammer on and on about all your crap. From your cutesy wardrobe to your beverage of choice to the fact that you have a really great rack.” She grabs a cigarette from her pocket and pokes it between her lips. “The guy has been in love with you since the first time you ordered a cup of coffee from his cart.”

  I stagger. It’s heartbreaking to hear Roxie of all people say it flat-out like that. How could I be so unaware?

  “Nick and I, we gave it a shot, but when the record dropped and went nowhere, we both got creeped out. Sure, I got a few benefits from time to time. After all, Nicky boy has a great ass.” She smiles in that way that makes me want to punch her.

  “I only went to that stupid wedding to see for myself what the hell was so irresistible about you.” She lights the cigarette, inhales, and looks me up and down. “He was right about your rack.”

  I have no idea how to respond to that one.

  “I gotta say, for a chick with such a brainy job, you’re pretty fuckin’ stupid.”

  I watch her take another long drag as all this new information sets in. After a minute, Roxie stubs out her cigarette beneath the sole of her pointy patent leather boot.

  “Now, if you don’t have any more questions, I’m busy,” she says, glancing back at her fanboys inside.

  “Just one,” I say. “Why is HeadSpace closed?”

  “Because Nicky skipped town. All he left me was that box of my CDs and some other shit.”

  This news sends a chill through me. “Where did he go?” Please let it be the Bronx. Or Chelsea. I’ll even settle for Hoboken. Just let it be somewhere close by.

  “Fuck if I know. As you can imagine, we ain’t exactly talking. He was pretty pissed off after my motorcycle stunt up there in prepster heaven. My best guess? LA. That’s where his brother lives. He has great connections in the music biz. He’ll probably make it big out there without me draggin’ his ass down. Look, if you don’t mind, my entire fan base is sitting drinking in there without me,” she says, pointing to the boys watching from the bar. “All six of them. And to be clear, I actually like getting fucked up. But for the record, you’re really fucked up because your head is so far up your ass you don’t even know how fucked up you are. So get the fuck out of here.”

  “Okay, I get it,” I say and honestly I do and even in a perverse way agree with her. “But there’s one more thing…” And using every bit of my body weight and every ounce of strength, I haul off and slug her across the jaw, knocking the cigarette out of her mouth and landing her on her drunken ass.

  Okay. I don’t do that. But I think about it. Instead, I nod slowly in recognition of my loss and her sorry state. As Roxie turns away I think I see the slightest hint of remorse flicker across her face before she returns to her fan club. Or who knows, it might have been gas and she was about to belch.

  Like a zombie, I head back to the subway. Los Angeles. LA. California, I think to myself walking down the subway platform.

  I drag myself home and drop into bed, slithering back under my pile of blankets—the Clueless Blond Reporter Babe (CBRB) once again in self-pity wallow mode.

  LA, huh? Might as well be Mars.

  CHAPTER 36

  You know when there’s a ringing or a buzzing sound coming from somewhere and you’re sleeping and it seems to go on and on forever? You have no idea if it’s from the alarm by your bed or the doorbell in your dreams or some television show you saw before you went to sleep or your cell phone? It goes on so long, in fact, that you don’t even hear it anymore, not really, and you think you’re just dreaming it?

  I can’t sleep anymore anyway so I decide to drag myself to the kitchen and face my morning coffee versus tea dilemma and the fact that Elvis has apparently left the building for good. I’m kind of surprised to hear an actual knock on the door and realize it wasn’t a dream at all. I open it a crack and find Norm.

  “Hey, Clarissa, I…”

  But I don’t hear the rest because I slam the door on him.

  It doesn’t take long for him to begin knocking again.

  “Come on, Clarissa,” he says through the door. “Everyone’s trying to get in touch with you.”

  “Well, I’m pretty tied up right now. What with the sleeping, the moping, the staring out the window, not to mention feeling like a worthless piece of absolute shit—I’m kind of busy being depressed. Do you have any idea how long it takes armpit hair to grow? Come back in three years,” I say.

  “MT sent me. She really needs to talk to you,” he says.

  “Well, you can tell her I’m sorry the piece wasn’t better and it didn’t work out. I still need the kill fee. God knows when I’ll get work again.” I glance over to the calendar on the fridge and I realize I’ve crossed over into the dreaded third month of rent delinquency. Gee, I wonder how Mom and Dad will feel about me showing up at their door with my rollie suitcase because I’ve declared bankruptcy at twenty-six after my landlord kicked me out and I’ve defaulted on my student loans. How’s that for an education in finance? Nothing like spontaneously combusting all your bridges at the same time. I’m so fucked. But I try to muster the last modicum of my goodwill.

  “I just can’t talk now but I hope you and MT are still good. No hard feelings. I’d love to keep hanging out on the other side of the door with you but I’ve got a lot of hiding under the covers to get back to.”

  “MT and I are fine,” he says through the door. And my ears perk up. I’m struck by the curious use of the pronoun “I,” as if he’s finally learned third-grade English. I guess having a girlfriend who hobnobs with the Windsors is enough to straighten you out. Then I realize the article I was writing was about his career and he’s probably bummed it didn’t go anywhere.

  “Look, I’m sorry I got your hopes up with that article,” I say, bending over to speak through the space beneath the door so he can hear me. “I did my best to help your enterprise, I really did. And Norm, honestly, you’ve come a long way. You deserve to have an article written about you, but I’ve got to go. Or stay, I mean, and you’ve got to go and leave me alone. I’ve got wallowing to attend to.”

  I stand up with effort; my back is killing me. This is the most exercise I’ve had in a while, but I open the door a crack to be civil and say good-bye when I see Norm … wearing … like, clothes … from Steven Alan or Acne Studio or some other cool store. No shredded cutoffs, no bowling shirts.
>
  “Hey, wait a second,” I say. “You’re wearing normal clothes.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been shopping with MT a couple of times.”

  “And you’re not speaking in the third person.”

  “Third person? What do you mean?” Okay, he’s learned to speak English, not how to write it.

  “Your name, Norm. You used to talk about yourself as if you weren’t there, remember—‘Don’t do that to poor ol’ Norm’?”

  “Oh yeah, that. She made me stop. It was driving her crazy.”

  Ya think?

  “But you did stop?” I say.

  “Yeah, sure. I don’t see what the big deal is.”

  “It was that easy?”

  “Well, no, but she asked me to.”

  Oh, jeez, why didn’t I think of that? Well, too late now.

  “The MTV guys got kind of creeped out, too. After the first two shows were taped and it was like ‘Norm this’ and ‘Norm that’ and they had a big meeting and decided I should stop or they wouldn’t move forward.”

  “MTV?”

  “Yeah, I got my own series. The announcement has kicked up deck orders like crazy. It’s been amazing for business.”

  Oh, great, now I really feel like a total failure. Even Norm has skyrocketed past me.

  “Well, congrats, I have no idea how you pulled that off, but it couldn’t happen to a better guy. Well, as I said, I have to go visit some of my new friends on Second Life who want to see more of me, the virtual me anyway. Besides there’s a big sale of some new virtual clothes that will look great on my much better virtual body. Then I have to go cry some tears in my milk. Part of my daily quota.” I begin to close the door but he puts his foot in the way.

  “It’s because of your article,” he says. “That’s what MT wants to talk to you about. Your pictures and the piece put Nuzegeek on the map. Something about aggregators and click-through syndication. Everyone in the skate world reposted and blogged it. All sorts of other websites picked it up. Even WSJ, whatever that is. Your snaps made me look really good. MTV loved it. Something about an option. I don’t really understand but everyone else does … except you, I guess.” He peeks around my shoulder into my apartment. “Whoa, it looks like you’ve been eating ice cream out of containers for a really long time.”

  “No! I just started that.”

  “Well, I’ll wait outside while you change out of your PJ’s and clean up. MT is waiting downstairs,” Norm says like a perfect gentleman. It’s shocking what she’s done with him. I’m more impressed than ever with MT.

  “Really?” I ask.

  “Really.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Okay, so let me bring you up to date. First of all, I respectfully declined an offer to appear as the ex-girlfriend on Norm’s show. Everyone tried to get me to change my mind—including MT, who is exec-producing, and even my mother. There was actual pay involved but I couldn’t even dream of doing it. Besides, the option money for my article was enough to bring me current on my rent and begin to catch up on the loans. I have to say MT was generous; Nuzegeek could have totally screwed me on the deal.

  Dad stood by my decision and Mom let it go. Yeah, Mom and Dad, together. They haven’t solved all their problems, but Dad’s back home in a real and different way. Apparently they continued on for some time after I left the shrink lady in shock at Café Angelique. It was an intervention, all right. Just not mine. Mom and Dad shared lots of weepy hugs and kisses and Madame Schmeud hightailed it back to the airport later that evening completely baffled as far as I can tell, but more than willing to collect her fee, expenses, and take all the credit.

  Although they’re not remotely the way they used to be when I was a kid, things seem to be working out. Dad’s regaining his self-respect and is taking time to explore new career options. Mom is way more considerate about the money situation. Who knew that all those years they kept separate bank accounts? It might have been a good idea when Mom was worried about being financially dependent and maintaining a sense of autonomy, but I see how that definitely could create problems for Dad, who was left with no money and had refused to ask Mom for help.

  They worry about Ferguson, but how could you not? Even I do. Once in a while he sends them a secret piece of marzipan from some far-off region of the Baltic or Kazakhstan as a sign that he’s okay. I regularly comb the newswire, trying to read between the lines on anything to do with the Russian Mafia and the SEC, looking for hidden evidence of his exploits. Considering the turn in Russia-U.S. relations and all the sanction-bound Russian billionaires in Putin’s inner circle, who knows where Ferguson might pop up next. Every one of those Ruskies has to be looking for something to do with their riches. Knowing Ferguson, he might be in the middle of all that. We heard through one source that he even met with Edward Snowden about a proposed business venture. I hope it’s not that Internet dating thing for evangelicals in prison. I think more highly of Snowden than that. It could ruin his reputation. Got to admit my little brother certainly gets around in some weird wide circles.

  Meanwhile, I’ve become the queen of DIY. God help me, I’ve written about so many Indiegogo and Kickstarter entrepreneurs that I really do want to write about the Federal Reserve, the new FICO scores, and Janet Yellen at this point for a change of pace. Janet Y. is totally cool.

  And yes, even Dartmoor has begrudgingly begun to show me some respect as my stories have been driving major web traffic to the site. Honestly, I’ve changed my opinion of him—a teeny tiny bit, anyway. He deserves lots of credit for creating the best financial news site since Ezra Klein set up his own online feed after leaving the Washington Post. Beneath his perfectly pressed shirts, his perfectly knotted ties, and his perfectly slicked-back hair, the dude knows what he’s doing. Dartsy and I have even collaborated on an article or two. He’s even been a bit flirtatious, which I don’t mind as long as it doesn’t get out of control. I never in fact discovered the gender of the mysterious Aubrey. It’s just weird how he only refers to Aubrey by name and never a gender-defining pronoun. I’ve given up on trying to figure that out for now. I think they’ve broken up anyway.

  Apparently my story did go through to MT’s e-mail when I first sent it, even though I received that kickback notice. That was why Drusy was so adamant about trying to stop me from leaving. MT had already read my story and loved it. Maybe they were, you know, celebrating that evening in the employee lounge.

  It’s been months since the day Roxie told me Nick moved to LA. I muddled through a brief bout of self-pity, but my girlfriends didn’t allow it to fester. Rodgers gave me one full day of sulking, then a few nights later Piper; her new girlfriend, Hilary; Jody; and Rodgers appeared at my door with a bottle of champagne and an ultimatum.

  “Get out of bed and come party with us or we will break into your closet and burn every last one of your accessories, starting with your 1990s Doc Martens,” Rodgers said, and I could see they meant it.

  I couldn’t let that happen. So I partied. Rodgers took us on a series of late-night bright-lights, big-city adventures I’ll never forget. Who knew there were amateur molecular gastronomist cooks hosting legally questionable supper clubs and dinner parties in unofficial spaces throughout the Manhattan underground?

  “You’ve been writing so much about DIY, now you get to eat it,” Rodgers said. It wasn’t clear how she knew this inside foodie stuff. I figured it might be her Trinidadian pastry chef mom’s connections.

  On rooftops, helipads, in abandoned restaurants, and Masonic temples, we ate the food of top-notch, not-ready-for-prime-time, up-and-coming chefs from heavy-hitter restaurants.

  In one derelict synagogue we feasted on a midnight meal of lamb half buried under snippets of cat grass, sous-vide pork belly, and cheddar fritters. The temple walls were illuminated with massive dripping candelabras and mirrors, and we could see the Milky Way through the broken stained-glass dome. When we discovered the chef was Rodgers’s new squeeze, it became apparent how she had become such a gastronaut. W
hy she kept Bart (short for Bartholomew) Chance a secret I don’t know, but he’s a very friendly, lugubrious dude with tattoos up to his chin. He’s as sweet as his unbelievably delicious chocolate soufflé.

  I kept waiting to see if we’d have to know a secret handshake to get in, but apparently knowing Rodgers was good enough. Jody, Piper and Hilary, who’s actually a total kick by the way, and I were game to be led around on a crazy week of eating (and drinking) like I’ve never done before. Here’s my list of the weird things we sampled (or were afraid to):

  Okay, allow me to decipher my hieroglyphics. Escamole—which is ant larvae harvested from agave plants. They look like little cannellini beans and taste like really weird cottage cheese with a slightly nutty flavor.

  Sweet potato pancakes—way better than you’d think, especially dripping in coconut syrup and ghee.

  Grilled beaver tail—a mythical delicacy of Mountain Men—and I’m thinking pretty damn illegal—no comment on this one. I couldn’t bring myself to eat it.

  Artisan raspberry ice cream—actually changes color when you lick it, part of some mad science, gastronautic engineering experiment.

  And …

  Deep-fried Rocky Mountain oysters—I drew the line on this one as well. If you don’t already know what these are, I suggest you look it up yourself.

  As night turned to morning we finished up with a breakfast Bart staged with the Bubbles and Brunch Crowd on the actual L train—yep, the subway line everyone takes to Williamsburg, Bushwick, and environs. Breakfast included champagne and banana Nutella crepes.

  There was also a massive portable espresso machine on a wheeled cart that kept sliding across the subway car floor, offering anyone on board a killer coffee-and-coconut-oil combo called Bulletproof Coffee. Coconutted espresso was an experience I had never tried before. And there’s nothing like going nuts with a bunch of crazy people in bathing suits and bikinis on the L train at six a.m.