Undiscovered Gyrl: The novel that inspired the movie ASK ME ANYTHING (Vintage Contemporaries) (3 page)

Monday, November 12, 2007

 

Even though Veterans Day was yesterday, it was officially celebrated today. Most stores were closed but Glenn said he had no choice but to open up, because his flyers were already printed and they said today was the grand opening. He predicted that we would still get many customers and he was right. Unfortunately we weren’t fully ready for them. There were a lot of books still in boxes and the credit card machine didn’t work.

“Grand openings never run smoothly,” Glenn said.

When things finally slowed down around 3:00, we ate yummy fattening deli sandwiches in the back room. (I had corn beef and he had egg salad. He’s a vegetarian.) Glenn did most of the talking, not because I was shy or anything
but because I love listening to him so much. He’s so fucking smart. He told me all about a writer named Norman Mailer who died recently. He called him a “hardworking brilliant buffoon” who wrote “one very good novel about war and fifty other books about himself.” Then since he mentioned war, I asked him about Veterans Day and what it meant.

He explained that Veterans Day was created at the end of World War One, the worst, most tragic, bloodiest war ever, which ended on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month in 1918. Glenn says what most people don’t know is that when the sun rose on that last morning, even though all the officers knew the war would be officially over at eleven o’clock, many decided to go right on fighting until the deadline. Some did it because orders are orders. Others did it hoping for last-minute medals. And others did it, believe it or not, because they didn’t want to lug all those heavy bombs back to headquarters. I know, I know! I couldn’t believe it either. Anyway, guess how many soldiers were wounded or died that last morning? Eleven thousand. Creepy, right? Can you imagine being the mother or father of one of those soldiers who died that last morning for nothing? I’d be so mad, I’d probably go berserk and kill a general with my bare hands.

I liked learning this because Veterans Day has never meant anything to me. I don’t know a single person in the army. Glenn knows four soldiers in Iraq right now and one
in Afghanistan. Three are sons of old friends and one is a customer’s daughter.

Walking home I was really happy not only because I have a wonderful new job but also because it was cold out and I could finally smell winter. Just thinking about Christmas makes me want to cry with joy. It reminds me of being a little girl. Of the time before my mom kicked my dad out, back when I thought we were a happy family. He moved out a week before Christmas, the day after my seventh birthday party. What’s weird is that I have a genius memory and remember many things from when I was just a baby, but I have no memory at all of him leaving. I hope we get snow early this year.

All the way home I couldn’t stop thinking about Dan and how much he would love what Glenn taught me about World War One. You should see how many books Dan has in his apartment. The first time I came over I said “Have you actually read all these or are they just to impress people? He replied “Both.” At least he’s honest.

Dan would be so proud I’m working in a bookstore. Once we were watching a brilliant film called
All About Eve
, which is about Broadway theater people and I said that maybe I would become an actress one day and he said “Don’t even joke. You have way too good a mind to waste it.”

I squeezed one of my boobs and made a cheesy
Maxim
pose and said “But what about my body? Wouldn’t it be a shame to waste this too?”

He said “Beauty’s commonplace. Intelligence isn’t.”

A pretty big compliment, right? I think so.

I feel like calling Dan right now and telling him that before we officially never see each other again we should make love. Just once. How could he refuse that? Impossible.

Knock on my door. Somebody bothering me. Stand by.

LATER: 11:58
p.m.

 

I’m so disgusted. It’s one thing to enjoy a bad movie because you know it’s bad and another to enjoy it because you actually think it’s good. Rory brought over a movie tonight that was awful to the extreme, like it was written by a retarded man on the toilet. I already forget what it’s called, but it starred Adam Sandler. Rory loved every asinine minute of it! Watching him laugh his ass off while he crammed cheese popcorn in his mouth made me hate everything about him. I could not believe I had ever made love to this red-haired dope. Usually I think his freckles are adorable, but tonight they looked like giant flakes of fish food. Thank god he brought some beer with him, because it was the only way I got through it without strangling him.

As soon as it was over, I kicked his ass out. He couldn’t
understand why I was being such a bitch. He was baffled and bewildered. I told him that I am a mysterious gyrl. That’s the problem with dating somebody you’re not truly in love with. Every few weeks the pressure builds and you turn into a monster. You’re not sure who you hate more for the lie you are living, him or yourself.

Dan says people who cheat these days almost always get caught off their cell phones or cell phone bills. He says it’s the modern-day version of lipstick on the collar or the motel receipt in the pocket. That’s why I’m not allowed to call him ever. And I can only email if absolutely necessary. He’s afraid Martine will be looking over his shoulder when it arrives.

“Just tell her I’m one of your students,” I said. “Too risky,” he replied. “She’s paranoid by nature.” I’m going to email him right now and tell him I found a great job but I won’t say what it is. (Just so he’ll know I’m not trying to get him in trouble, I’ll write “your last lecture” in the subject line.) Maybe he’ll be so curious to know what my new job is, he’ll write back or call.

Just sent it. 12 seconds ago. No answer yet. Hahaha!

My whole life, my father promised to buy me a car when I turn 18. That’s 33 days away. If my dad ever kept his word, I would soon be able to drive over and see Dan whenever he
wanted. How amazing would that be? With my new job and Jade getting back from Manila soon, I would have the ideal life.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

 

No call or email from Dan yet but I did get a voice message from a kid named Joel Seidler who was two years ahead of me in school. (When I was a sophomore, he was my geometry tutor. After he went off to Princeton, I never saw him again.) The message he left was friendly but weirdly intense. He always had a crush on me but he never told me about it because he assumed I would never like him back. He assumed right. Joel is scrawny with a gigantic nose, big black-ringed eyes and hips wider than his shoulders. Oh, and he’s bow-legged. Next!

On the other hand, Joel is really smart and funny and loves to talk about serious things. He’s back from college for some reason and wants to hang out with me. I would love to see him but if Rory found out, he would go ballistic. It’s not worth the stress. I swear, there is no worse quality in a guy than excessive jealousy. Except maybe cheapness. Rory is cheap too.

I’ve only been writing this blog for like three weeks but according to my tracking site it gets between 450 and 500 discrete visitors a day. Is this good? Sure seems like it. I wonder
who the hell you all are. The most popular blog search terms that lead you to me are gyrl, high school, sex, oral sex and bliss.

If you guys want me to answer your emails, please stop calling me names. I’m not proud of cheating on Rory. And normally I would never mess around with a guy who has a girlfriend. I had no idea Martine even existed until after the third time Dan and I fooled around, when I found a brand-new box of tampons under his sink. I got really mad and asked why he didn’t tell me. He said because they were going to break up any minute. When I left that night I was positive I wasn’t coming back. But I couldn’t do it. I already liked him too much. I was hooked. If that makes me a slut, too bad.

I got 12 emails this week asking me to send a pic of myself. They were all from guys, except one from a black lesbian in the Air Force. Because she is risking her life for our country I emailed her a topless self-pic of me. No face, of course. She can tape it to her cockpit and try not to crash. Ha! As for everyone else, use your imaginations.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

 

Last night I went to this college bar to eat stale peanuts, drink watery beer and listen to Rory’s band, Epiphany
Cream Assassin. Between songs I went to pee and not even planning it, I walked right past the bathroom door and into the back alley and called Dan. I know, desperate, dumb, drunk and deviant. Well, guess what? Martine answered. I’m serious. I was so surprised, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

She said “Allo, Allo, who is zees? Allo?”

I hung up in her face, which was the stupidest thing I could have done. I should have just pretended it was a wrong number. If she told Dan about the call I’m already dead because my mom’s name comes up on Caller ID. (She pays my phone bill.) When I got back to the table I must have looked like I’d smoked crack in the bathroom or something, because all the other band girlfriends asked me what was wrong.

I replied “Not drunk enough.”

They laughed and poured. By the time the gig was over I was totally shit-faced. I was so sure Dan would never speak to me again that I was really grateful to have a boyfriend, even if it was only Rory. I dragged him back to my house, ripped his clothes off, and sat on him without a condom. I told him it was a safe time of month. Which was true but when I woke up this morning, I regretted not making him at least pull out early. If I get pregnant, no way Rory would want me to abort it. He’s liberal about everything but abortion. He thinks it’s murder. How can it be murder when you’re killing something the size of an olive? But
he goes berserk on the subject because his mother almost aborted him. She even went to the clinic, but it was a week too late.

Working all day with a hangover was a nightmare. And not a word from Dan. Why does he let that crazy bitch answer his cell phone anyway? God, I wish I hadn’t called. Someone shoot me in the head. Pretty please?

Thursday, November 15, 2007

 

I pour my heart out but all notme58 wants to know is how Rory’s band got its name. Well, notyou, the story goes like this. The three founding members each wrote down five words on five separate scraps of paper and put them all in a hat and pulled out three at random. The words came out in exactly that order. Fascinating, huh? It’s an awesome name, isn’t it? Although I think Assassin Epiphany Cream would have been even better. But fate decided it.

You guys, please stop accusing Glenn Warburg of wanting to bone me. It’s so sad that every time a man spends more than ten minutes talking with a hot girl everybody assumes it’s sexual. Ever heard of platonic? Or maybe he likes women his own age. Or maybe Glenn’s into guys. I don’t know and you sure don’t either. So shut the fuck up.

•    •    •

 

Thanks to all of you who wrote to tell me my number of discrete visitors is completely phenomenal. I had a feeling it was. Yay! I’m finally good at something!

Madmantype said the only reason I’m getting so many views is because I sound hot and I let Dan have oral sex with me. Hey, whatever it takes to get ahead. That was a joke. Get it? LOL!

Friday, November 16, 2007

 

I just called my dad and asked if we could have lunch tomorrow, just the two of us. This is code for “leave your pathetic Indian girlfriend at home.” He said yes but I could tell he was annoyed. He hates being alone with me. I don’t know why. He didn’t used to. Up until junior high we did things together all the time. Maybe it’s because now that I am older I often want to discuss money. The subject is unbearable for him because it reminds him of what a deadbeat dad he is.

Let me explain. When my parents got divorced the judge ordered my dad to pay $1,600 a month in child support. That was almost eleven years ago which means by now he should have paid us a fortune. You do the math. Well, guess what? He’s paid a total of $300! Which was the amount of the check he wrote my mom in the courthouse hallway three minutes after the divorce papers were signed! He asked her to be patient about getting the rest, because he’d just handed
in a story to a magazine and there was going to be a delay. Well, the delay lasted forever. Great guy huh? Today he’s too sick from drinking to even work, so he lives off Social Security checks and his hardworking Indian girlfriend. He also gets occasional handouts from his rich aunt Dorothea in Florida.

What irks the shit out of me is that my mom doesn’t really care that he’s a deadbeat dad. I think she actually sort of likes it. It makes her feel even more superior to him. She loves to say that after she kicked him out she never took a red cent from him. But she never needed to! She’s the director of human resources for a big insurance company and makes awesome money and benefits. I, on the other hand, am broke off my ass. My life would be so much better if I had just a small percentage of the money he owes us. I could buy a car, for instance.

What’s really sad is that even though my dad is poor, he could get me a car so easily. All he’d have to do is call up Dorothea and tell her it’s an emergency, because I can’t function without one. She’d make him eat a little shit first but she would definitely write a check.

Still no call from Dan. Maybe French Fry never told him about the hang-up call. How lucky would that be?

I got paid today. 32 hours × $12 an hour = $384.00 cold hard cash.

•    •    •

 

If my dad complains tomorrow about us eating at a restaurant, I’ll tell him to relax. It’s on me. Ha!

Saturday, November 17, 2007

 

Yesterday when I called my dad he was so drunk he forgot that the Michigan-Ohio State football game was on today. So instead of us going out to eat we stayed in and watched TV as usual. Which means I dressed up for nothing.

My father is completely in love with sports. I’m sorry but I think a semi-racist middle-aged white man wasting a whole day in front of the tube, watching a bunch of poor black kids chase a ball around a field is just plain pathetic. And it’s even worse that he does it wearing dirty pajamas, with a belly as big as a pregnant lady’s. Last year Jade’s older sister Mylene, who’s a telephone triage nurse, told me it’s not fat that makes my dad’s gut so huge. It’s his liver. She said “Go to your computer and look up cirrhosis.” I did. It was horribly sad. He is also diabetic now too. He has to shoot up every single day.

Unlike baseball, when football is on I’m only allowed to talk during the commercials, so I had to tell my dad about my new job in two-minute chunks. He didn’t say much back. He hardly talks these days. He is very sick. He is so skinny he can barely lift his beer mug with his skeleton arm. He hasn’t cut his white beard and white hair in ages. He looks
like he’s 100 but he’s only 54. He is definitely going to die pretty soon.

When he does talk it’s usually to crack a lame joke. For example, when I told him I work at Elysium Books, he said “It’s all Greek to me.” When I said World War One was called “the war to end all wars,” he said “Too bad Hitler never got the memo.” And when I told him Glenn was paying me 12 bucks an hour he said “Does that include hand release?” I used to think it was cool I had a dad who makes sex jokes. Now I just think it’s inappropriate and tragic.

The whole time I was there, his Indian girlfriend Affie (her real name is Aafreen) walked in and out of the kitchen with trays of appetizers, smiling like one of those happy robot moms from the old sitcoms, only she’s chubby, wears a sari and has a mustache. (Both my parents are dating people with mustaches. Only Mark doesn’t wear a sari. He is sorry. Ha!) I don’t know where Affie comes up with these recipes of hers. She served us weird crabmeat in little pita breads, squares of stinky cheese toothpicked to sweet pickles, egg-salad sushi rolls and macadamia nuts covered in bacon and curry.

While she’s feeding us this garbage, my dad’s insulting her right to her face and she doesn’t even care. He told her that her crabmeat tasted like cat puke. I asked “When’s the last time you had cat puke?” He said “The last time Affie made tuna fish.” Ha! Later he said “I never thought I’d eat a
pig in a blanket worse than the one I met in that Mexican whorehouse in 1974.” Later he said “It’s not that Affie’s a bad cook. It’s just that she’s not used to cooking with American ingredients. We use shrimp. They use crickets.” Affie smirks at these insults like he’s some naughty boy instead of a grown man who basically hates her guts.

Another terrible thing about hanging out at my dad’s is that he keeps all his windows closed even in summer, so his apartment, which is very small, reeks of cigarette smoke, incense and cat poop. Affie owns a stray named Tapu that is dying of leukemia. It must be invisible or the biggest coward of all time because even though it is an indoor cat I have never seen it once. The place is so stinky it makes me want to run out the door screaming and never come back. But you’re not allowed to do that, right? Honor thy parents.

Sometimes during the game, he looks over at me and I can tell he’s thinking something. Or feeling something. Something important. But I have no idea what. The only way I know he loves me is that every now and then I will hear him on the phone and he’ll say “Can’t talk. My gorgeous daughter is here,” or “Gotta go, the fruit of my loins and I are enjoying some quality time.”

You’d think maybe at halftime we might have some sort of conversation but not even then. He just sits there sipping beer, watching the marching band or the highlights like it’s
the most suspenseful thriller he’s ever seen. Like it’s
The Wages of Fear
and any second a truck is going to blow up. I usually don’t care—I’m used to it—but today he knew I had something I wanted to talk to him about. I was so pissed he wasn’t even curious what it was that I asked for a cigarette and a beer. I usually hate being self-destructive in front of him because it sets a terrible example, but today it was either that or stick my head in the garbage disposal.

Affie ran to get me a beer like it was the most exciting thing she’d ever done. My dad handed me one of his Kent Lights. Lately they are my brand too. They taste like car exhaust and burn as fast as fuses but I think this will eventually help me quit. I held in the first drag for about ten seconds. Ahhh! I felt so much better.

When the game was over, I said “Can we please talk? Or is this a doubleheader?”

“I know that tone,” he replied with a cruel smile.

“Huh, I wonder why. She only raised me. Yes or no? Otherwise I’m leaving.”

He was pissed for a second, then he looked at Affie. “Baby, how about giving me and my spawn a little privacy?”

Even though her feelings were hurt, Affie smiled all the way through the hanging wooden beads into the bedroom.

“Okay, lay it on me,” he said.

I told him how scary it is to defer college, and how I’m still not sure what I want to do with my life, and how hard it’s been for me with all my friends away at school, because I
depend on them for transportation, and most nights I just sit home lonely because I have no way of getting anywhere. My dad knew what was coming.

He said “So tell the bitch to buy you a car.”

My mom is always the bitch, the witch, the ballbuster, the shrew, the hag or the cunt. Why you ask? Why does he speak of her with such offensive disrespect? Because he’s still in love with her! Even Affie knows it and she doesn’t know much.

I replied “I’ve asked her a million times but she thinks I’m too much like you. She thinks I’m an alcoholic. She’s worried I’ll die in a fiery crash.”

This was total bullshit. My mom has no idea how much I drink. If she did, she’d ground me forever. The real reason she won’t buy me a car is that she thinks I am lazy. My 2.75 GPA makes her sick. She knows what I am capable of. But if I told my dad this, he would be off the hook.

“Neither of those accidents were my fault,” he growled.

“I know that, Daddy. But she thinks they were. She thinks they were caused by your excessive drinking.”

“Sanctimonious hag. If she had her way, we’d all be drinking holy water.”

“Out of the pope’s nutsack.”

This really cracked him up. He totally forgot that it’s his own line that he’s said at least three times. Boy, does he love it when I bash my mom. He was all buttered up now. I scooted over on my knees and squeezed his bony hand. The
fingernails were yellowish brown from smoking and he smelled of Old Spice and B.O.

“Daddy, my whole life you said you’d buy me a car when I turn eighteen. Well, I’m almost eighteen. Please keep your promise. Please!”

He looked at me with a gooey little smile.

“What about your rock star boyfriend? Freckle Face. Why can’t he squire you around?”

“We broke up.”

“Oh, too bad.”

“No, it’s not. He’s been pressuring me to … you know … go all the way. I’m not ready.”

Boy, did he love that! What dad wouldn’t? Hahaha!

He smiled even gooier. “Eighteen and still a virgin. I must have done something right.”

We both smiled at his miraculous achievement. Our eyes met. It was one of those moments that is really warm for like half a second then turns instantly uncomfortable. He reached for another cigarette. His hand shook.

“You know, when you were little, you promised me you’d never grow up. You said you’d stay my little angel forever. But you lied. I mean, look at you now. Tits and everything.”

When he saw how shocked I was, he looked really embarrassed. He covered it up with a smile and lit his cigarette. His dead eyes returned to the TV He blew smoke and took a big gulp of beer. Then he wiped his mouth with his pajama sleeve and said that at tax time he’d look over his finances
and get back to me about the car. In other words “Go home.”