I Came Out for This? Read online

  When I was getting ready to go home, I said to Terri, “So how is that— uh— person you were going out with?” Terri smirked and said, “If you’re talking about Sandra, we’re going to a movie on Sunday.” I said, “Oh, how nice,” and Terri said reassuringly, “I haven’t slept with her yet.” But then, when I tried to kiss her goodbye on the lips, she turned her lips away and gave me her cheek. Fuck her.

  I was so distraught after I left that I started to walk home before remembering that I had taken my car. The evening started so nicely and ended up with a big thud. She hasn’t slept with her “yet”? That’s a big fat comfort. I love the bitch but I really have to start meeting other women. The message of this evening is clear, even to me.

  Jerome lit a match under me today. I was lying in bed this afternoon, staring at the ceiling, and he strolled into my room, asking to borrow ten bucks and a winter scarf. (The sky dumped a couple feet of snow on the city over the weekend.) I told him to stay awhile and he lounged across my little bed with his big back against the wall and his big feet on the floor and I told him about my aggravating night with Terri, and he said, “I keep tellin’ you, she’s a player. It’s time to toss this one out and shop for a fresh head of cabbage.” I burst out laughing and said, “I wouldn’t even know what to do with a fresh head of cabbage,” and Jerome replied in his Barry White baritone, “I’ll tell you what you do with it. You nibble it leaf by leaf until you get to the meat and then you plunge in for the kill.”

  After Jerome left with my scarf and 10 bucks (neither of which I will get back), I snatched the Washington Blade up off the floor and started looking through the personal ads. Lesbian personal ads infuriate me. I wish that just one of these bitches would run an ad that says, “Come with your drama,” “Baggage welcome,” and “Me: a fucked-up neurotic mess. You: Not ready for relationship because you’re still all hung-up on your last one.” Instead they all say, “No drama,” “No baggage,” and that kind of stuff. It’s okay for them to have baggage and drama, but you can’t. Fortunately there were a few ads that sounded okay, and I answered them using the 900 number.

  I don’t know if I’m ready to go out with other women. I’ll probably just end up being friends with them. It’s typical of me, to end up as everyone’s good buddy. That’s even what Terri wants me to be. Fuck all that. I’m sick and tired of being everyone’s buddy and having nobody to rock my boat at night. What do I look like, one of those Sesame Street fuzzballs? I have a libido too, for God’s sake. Friends are not the staples of your life, like meat and potatoes and vegetables. They’re more like cereal. If you try to subsist on Cheerios and Raisin Bran and Special K all day long, year after year, eventually you start to feel hollow and empty, and everyone keeps telling you how lucky you are to have all these different cereals, and how good you are at keeping yourself stocked in cereals, and one day you realize that you’re completely malnourished while they’re sitting around fat and happy from dining on prime rib every night or, as Jerome would have it, stuffed cabbage.

  But it was my fault. I took the path of least resistance. I’m good with friendships. My favorite thing to do is get together with my friends and talk for hours. I always want to know what’s going on with them and I’m a fantastic listener. On the other hand, I was never able to succeed at romance, for obvious reasons. I went on all these dates with men and I couldn’t figure out why I never looked forward to them. I hated opening my closet and trying to decide what to wear. I didn’t give a shit what I wore. I always wished I could just get into bed and forget the whole thing.

  I’ll never forget looking in my closet to decide what to wear for my first date with Terri. I could live in that moment forever.

  I am utterly hopeless.

  I made a date with a woman who ran one of the ads. We didn’t talk long, but I liked her lush, gentle, African-American voice, and she liked that I was a writer and I liked that she was an advocate for troubled kids, and we arranged to meet at the Persian restaurant on 18th Street. The next evening, I walked over there at our agreed-upon time and found Dee Williams, the hostess of our potluck, sitting at a candle-lit table. This is an example of what gay women are always talking about. It’s a small community. (Actually, they always say it’s an “incestuous” community, but I haven’t experienced that, as yet.)

  I fucked up the whole date with Dee, who looked adorable in a tight floral skirt and silky blouse that showed off her small bust. Dinner wasn’t so bad because Dee talked about herself, telling me that she grew up in DC and attended school in California and moved around a bit, and finally returned to DC, where she became a professional advocate for children who are “in the system.” She’s been single for a year, ever since her girlfriend left her for another woman. (Dee reported this with admirable restraint, although when I looked at her eyes they were two fresh wounds.) I liked everything about Dee and sat there feeling awful that I didn’t want to jump her bones right there over the table. After dinner, we went to a bar called Larry’s for a drink and I drank three rum and cokes and then the date really degenerated further because I started talking and couldn’t stop. Specifically I couldn’t stop talking about Terri. I went on about how she was my first love, and it was like a big explosion, and I moved here to be with her, and blah blah blah blah blah, and I even went into how divine it was to have SEX with her, and whereas Dee’s story about her old girlfriend took about ten minutes, my story about Terri, who wasn’t even an actual girlfriend, took about an hour. I would have kept going but Dee interrupted me finally and asked me if I was ready for a new relationship, and I looked her bravely in the eye and said, “Oh yes, oh yes, I’m definitely ready for a new relationship, I mean there’s no way things can work out with Terri,” but it was so obvious I was lying, it was pathetic.

  I was too depressed to go home, so I announced that I needed a cigarette, and Dee needed one too after listening to my yammerings all night, so we went to the Seven-11 and bought a pack of Camel Lights and went back to Larry’s and smoked a bunch of them and talked about whether flies sleep. After we left and parted ways, I was very drunk. The snow was melting and there was a warm breeze and I decided to find a place to hide my cigarettes, since I didn’t want to smoke them. I wandered over to New Hampshire Avenue and found an apartment building with a bench outside of it and buried the cigarettes under the bench, thinking how cool it would be to take Dee there the next time we went out and retrieve the smokes like a magician. That’s how looped I was, to think that Dee would be the least bit impressed with a woman in her 40s who digs up a pack of cigarettes she’d planted, not to mention the absurdity of thinking that she would even go out with me again in the first place.

  After my evening with Dee, I didn’t want to talk to anyone about it, my mom or my sisters or my friends in Cleveland or Jerome or anyone. I just lay on my bed and chastised myself for five days. And then, today, Terri called and it was like the re-opening of a theater that had gone dark. “Hello, Knadel?” Voom! Floodlights. She remembered that Sunday is my birthday, and she invited me to go with her to brunch and a play. She also said she bought me a cell phone. That’s my Terri; she’s so stodgy and practical, she has to tell you what she’s bought you for your birthday instead of having a normal sense of whimsy like other people and wrapping it up and giving it as a surprise. But the best part of our conversation wasn’t about the cell phone, but when, after I asked her (against my better judgment) how Sandra was, she told me they were “just friends.” To be suddenly relieved of all the graphic little images that had been plaguing me for weeks was the best birthday present I could ever have.

  After I hung up with Terri, I started calling everyone I knew and telling them about my disastrous date with Dee and that Terri and the publicity agent are just friends and that she’s taking me out on my birthday. Nobody sounded all that thrilled about it. My mom politely said, “That’s very nice” and my sister said, “Oh, fuck her” and Tommy said I’m a sputnik and she’s my earth and I will spend the rest of my lif
e circling around her and when I told Jerome he said I blew it with Dee and I’m going to end up getting my female companionship in an old age home. But I don’t care what they all say. Well, I do. But if they can’t encourage me on my great quest for love, I’ll just have to go it alone. The greatest heroes listen to no one. They forge ahead on their own, and public opinion be damned.

  February 2000

  My birthday was perfect. It was like a symphony by Mozart or Tchaikovsky, without the melodrama of Rachmaninoff or— who’s that guy who wrote The Rite of Spring?—Stravinsky. It was Haydn, not Wagner. It was Brahms, not Beethoven during his hysterical deaf period. But maybe I’m getting a bit carried away, to compare my birthday to a great symphony. I suppose it was more like a movement, not a whole symphony. But a movement can be memorable, too.

  Terri was all excited to give me my cell phone, which she had already programmed with her and my parents’ numbers on speed dial. To tell the truth, I never really wanted a cell phone, figuring it would just complicate my life, but Terri insists that I need one because I drive all over the city for my job. Knowing me and my mouth, I’ll probably become one of those obnoxious people who traipses around the street talking to people in a loud voice.

  After Terri gave me the phone and a very funny card, we drove up to Silver Spring, MD (about 20 minutes away) and we met Tiny and Lou for brunch at the Indian Gardens. They had a birthday balloon set up on my chair and gave me a homemade card with an elephant on it—Tiny remembered that I like elephants. The Indian meal was outstanding, which surprised me because it was a buffet and I usually hate buffets because the food gets cold and lumpy, but the buffet food at this place was hot and fresh and spectacular. The wait staff were attentive and filled our water glasses, and the nan was crusty and warm, and the company was delightful. It was nice to see Tiny again and I liked her girlfriend, Lou. We sat and laughed ourselves silly about Terri’s father, who goes into excruciating detail about every moment of his life and doesn’t ask Terri anything about herself, and Tiny’s father, who eats mashed potatoes with his hands— he picks them up, makes little balls from them, and pops the balls in his mouth— because that’s how he learned to eat them in Poland. Tiny has told him, “Dad, they do not eat mashed potatoes that way in Poland, I have Polish friends and none of them eat their potatoes that way,” and he says that her friends don’t come from some specific region in Poland where it’s the custom to eat potatoes that way.

  There was one briefly annoying moment, when, during a lull in the conversation, Tiny gave Terri a little smile and said, “Have you seen Sandra lately?” and Terri said yes, and then gave her a look like Let’s not talk about this. Sandra is the publicity agent. I don’t know why Tiny brought up this Sandra person since Terri isn’t even dating her; they’re just friends. Tiny can be annoying sometimes. She thinks I’m a crazy to be in love with Terri; the last time I saw her, when she came to Cleveland for Terri’s mom’s funeral and I had recently fallen in love with Terri and was totally hysterical, she said, “Protect your heart,” and I thought it was the most idiotic thing I’d ever heard. Tiny was in love with Terri for three years and she said it was “three years of hell.” At least I’m not in hell. Or if I am in hell I like it, so it’s better than her hell, which to hear her tell it was exceedingly unpleasant. Anyway, she’s not in hell anymore because now she’s with Lou and they seem happy together.

  After brunch, Terri took me to see A Midsummer Night’s Dream at Montgomery College. It was a fine performance, with a lot of crazy improvisation, and I felt so contented sitting there next to Terri. I think she was contented too. Our arms were touching throughout the play and it was comfortable. The whole time I had not one moment of fear, not one moment of thinking, well, when is this all going to blow to smithereens? I think it was from watching all those idiotic fools in love, acting even more ridiculous than I, with their jackass heads.

  After the play, we went back to Terri’s and watched TV in her room. We lay on her bed and drank some wine and then I cuddled against her and she put her arm around me. We found an animated show called South Park and I wanted to change it, but Terri said, “No, no, Knadel. You’ll love this.” I couldn’t believe this crazy cartoon. All these little characters were running amok, cursing one another out and dissing the principal of the school and making allusions to drugs. We were in hysterics over it. After the show, Terri turned off the TV and we lay there talking for a while. At one point Terri looked at me and said, “I wonder if you’re going to start getting under my skin.” And I said, “Count on it.” I know she was drunk, but I think she meant it anyway.

  That was yesterday, and I’m still high. She’s going to be mine. I know it. Oh come on, Joanna, how many times have you thought that and then she slips away— usually that very same day? But how can she run away from such irresistible music? Right now, the violins are shrieking gratitude and the piano is bouncing along like a hobo with a full belly and the tuba is oom-pah-pah-ing and I’m the music pouring forth. Suddenly I know what Tommy means about classical music being superior to rock ‘n’ roll. Classical music doesn’t just stay down here. It starts down here and then goes all the way up and out.

  I suppose Tommy would say, “Werm, you know nothing about classical music.” And he’s right. I should stop writing and call some people on my cell phone. When it comes to talking on the phone, I’m a maestro.

  Terri just called and asked me to meet her for dinner at Sushi Taro on 17th Street. I’m going to wear my black jeans and purple and red sweater. I wonder what she wants to tell me. She had this tone in her voice when she called— a slight formality that suggests this is not an idle invitation. I think she’s going to tell me she wants to date me. Her father once said to her about me, “She seems like a nice girl; why don’t you give her a tumble?” A tumble? I laughed when she told me that. But if she wants to “give me a tumble,” I won’t object.

  Maybe she just wants to eat sushi. If that’s the case, I need to make sure we don’t sit at the sushi bar. If we do, Terri will spend the whole evening chattering with the sushi chefs and not pay attention to me. To keep her focused on me, I’ll wear a pinch of musk oil. I’ll put it behind my ears, and it will mix with the fake fur on the hood of my jacket and I’ll be able to smell it for weeks. I love that!

  I’m nervous. The walk will do me good. Forget driving. I’ll never find parking. That’s the one thing about this city that irritates me. You can’t just go somewhere, like in New York, where you automatically take public transportation. You have to plot it. “Do I walk? Do I drive? Do I take the bus or the train?” Often driving seems like the best option, but then you have to think, “Will I find parking?” And more often than not the answer is, “Not without a lot of aggravation.” So then you might simply decide not to go, like if it’s to buy a new watch-band. But when you have a date for dinner you can’t just not go, so you have to figure out how to get there. The advantage to me of walking this evening is that my hair curls up nicely in the moist chilly air and I will enter the restaurant looking healthy and glowy rather than pinched and stressed the way I would after driving around and around competing with all those yoyos for a parking space. It’s like a mad game of musical chairs out there. Musical Chairs with Cars. Sounds like the name of an album, don’ it? (Want a Hertz Donut? —Sure! Ouch! Hurts, don’ it? Ha ha ha ha ha …)

  I’m lying here in this teeny tiny room in Washington, DC with no friends, where I’m a nobody. It’s not funny. Stop laughing. Crying. Whatever it is I’m doing. I’m going to write because I can’t just lie here like wet cement the way I’ve been doing for the past three days.

  I don’t understand it. I don’t understand why she would want to date that publicity agent instead of me. She told me before that they were just friends. I suppose she just told me that so I wouldn’t be upset and so she could give me my cell phone, which she probably bought months ago and she didn’t want to be stuck with it. But Sandra didn’t even know whether or not she was a lesbian. Wh
at did Terri do to her to make her realize what she was? I can’t stand thinking about it. Thinking about it is worse than being eviscerated with a samurai sword. And I acted so wimpy when Terri told me at dinner that she and Sandra were dating each other and that she was scared to tell me but it would mean so much to her if she could have my support. And first I told her there was no way that I could be supportive, but she looked so crestfallen that I drank as much sake as I could and started joking around with her, giving her the impression that I won’t abandon her, but I will because I can’t even speak to her as long as she’s dating Sandra Finch.

  I wonder how long this thing will last. I hope not more than two more weeks, but even if it’s two weeks that will be two weeks of hell. Maybe she’s already realized that this person is not The One. Oh god save me. If she wants a relationship so badly, why isn’t she having one with me? I don’t understand it. But why should I have just assumed that we were headed toward a relationship? When I think about it, we haven’t done any girlfriend things since I moved here. We haven’t made out, we haven’t had sex, we haven’t even kissed or talked to each other like girlfriends. We went to a movie and a Vietnamese restaurant and talked on the phone about where to get my car fixed and we went to brunch and a play. We lay on her bed a couple of times, but we didn’t actually do anything on her bed. But still, she said I was getting under her skin. I know she loves me. I don’t understand why she would want to be with Sandra Finch and not me. The woman is all fucked up. She has an eating disorder and was even hospitalized for it at some point in her life. Of course, I was hospitalized for being a pyromaniac, but that was a long time ago when I was just a teenager, and anyway, I’m not setting fires to trash bins anymore, but I’m sure Sandra Finch still has an eating disorder. She probably runs in the bathroom and throws up every time she’s eating out with Terri, who takes her eating excursions very seriously and wants everyone with her to get as ecstatic about eating as she does.