Bitter Is The New Black Part 29

But there's little joy of travel at the bus station. Everyone looked sad, weary, elaborately tattooed, and pointedly NOT excited to be there. Like on the verge of violently-not-excited-to-be-there. I imagine a lot of this had to do with the atmosphere. The bus station was not a cheery place, and it lacked the charm, warmth, and sanitation of, oh, say, a third world country's sewage treatment plant.

Actually, after having a good look around, I realized why the scene was vaguely familiar. It reminded me very much of HBO's prison show Oz, both in atmosphere and clientele. I broke out into a cold sweat when I noticed that some of the "inmates" were eyeing me. I wondered if I should immediately "take someone out" with a weapon I'd fashioned by whittling down a plastic spork. Then I figured they'd eventually realize I was no better than the rest of them since I was taking the bus, too, and would leave me alone. And even if I had been ha.s.sled, nothing was going to keep me from getting to my mother. So, I bought a cheeseburger, opened a book, and waited for my ride.

Now here's where I'd like to begin to detail The Journey from h.e.l.l...

...but I can't.

The bus was OK.

No, actually, it was very nice. It was clean, comfortable, and cool. No crying babies. No foul stinks. No erratic driving. As an added bonus, a Greyhound employee was deadheading to a different station, so he sat up by the driver and they quietly gossiped like sorority girls about stupid customers.

While the miles rolled away, I popped open my roasted almonds and closed my book. I noticed that I had an excellent vantage point; I never realized that from a bus you could see inside of every car! I amused myself for almost an hour by spying on other drivers. I was a bit disturbed to see how many people smoke pot while they're driving. I started to record their license plate numbers but then realized that I am not the Hall Monitor of the World. I had no idea what I'd actually do with the information. Maybe if I'd had a phone with me I could have called the police? But I'm thinking since these cars were going about 12 miles an hour on the expressway, there's a good likelihood of them being caught without my help. And if I called the police four hours later when I got to my house, they'd just think I was a kook.

Besides, Jack Kerouac would have never been a narc.

Jennyslvania

To: [email protected] From: Cal Canter Date: September 12, 2003 Subject: Little Blaster Jennifer-aka "Little Blaster,"191 Some time ago your brother told me about your web site and being the arrogant sn.o.b I am, (also very busy and very impressed with myself), I never bothered to look it up. Hopelessly bored tonight, I found a sc.r.a.p of paper with your web address on it (actually, didn't even remember that it was yours), so I dialed it up. Several quick observations, if I might- 1. Credit should be given to your character that being unemployed for almost 2 years has not made you bitter. Heh.

2. Perhaps you are setting your sites too high for a job in retail. There is always opportunity in fast food that can lead to management positions.

3. I didn't get a chance to read all of your web site (specifically the article about Peggy Noonan, and I might add that next to the bible on my nightstand is a copy of Ronald Reagan, When Character Was King ), simply because I do work and could not possibly have to time to read the entire thing. (I will have my secretary read it tomorrow and summarize it in a memo for me.) Try to remember George Orwell's 6 rules to better writing-1. Never use a long word where a short word will do-2. If it is possible to leave a word out, leave a word out, etc.... This might add a little brevity and make the reading go quicker.

4. Remember, if you go 5 years without meaningful employment, you live in Chicago, where panhandling is not only an option, it is an opportunity.

5. Your writing is both good and entertaining, however, Stephen King is the exception to the rule about financial success of writers (while they are living). If you become cla.s.sified as a successful writer you will either starve to death or someone will turn up some dirt on you and you will go the way of Bob Greene, leaving the literary scene humiliated and divorced, faced with unavoidable litigation.

Jen, Al Gore invented the Internet. It is grossly overrated. If Survivor wasn't over, only one episode of The Bachelor left, Joe Millionaire all but forgotten, myself and the rest of the world would not be sitting at a computer tonight.

Volunteer at the Church, help the illiterate, do something.

Nice web site, Calvin, a friend of your brother's.

P.S. I have recently started a management company to manage my portfolio of commercial real estate properties. We are looking for several in-house maintenance people. Feel free to forward your resume, or we can fax you an application. GED or equivalent required.

"Are you going to dignify this with a response?" Fletch asks. We're in the den, and Fletch is standing over my shoulder, rereading Calvin's e-mail.

"Maybe. When I read this the first time, I thought it was funny. Nothing like a little ribbing between old friends, you know? But then I reread it, realized he was actually being mean, and got mad."

"Regardless of shared history, no one has the right to talk to you like that. If you reply, what are you going to say?"

"I'm thinking about it now. When I come up with a response, I'll run it past you." He heads out to walk the dogs.

I grab a Diet Dr Pepper and a tumbler of ice and settle in front of the computer to craft a snappy retort. As I try to string together the perfect response, I begin to reminisce.

Calvin was in the same fraternity as my brother. I haven't seen or talked to Cal since he was a groomsman in my brother's wedding almost ten years ago. Cal and Todd's other fraternity brothers behaved rather inappropriately during the ceremony. Fortunately, they were so drunk none of them made it to the reception.

Todd's wedding was important because it marked a turning point in my "relationship" with Calvin and the rest of that crew. You see, when I arrived at college, I was a naive young girl, and I was impressed by, well, almost everything. I desperately wanted to leave my bourgeois roots behind me.

When I met Calvin and the rest of his clique, I was blown away by how smart and witty and worldly they were.192 They'd all grown up in wealthy towns like Newport and Greenwich and Alexandria.... Certainly no one had spent his teens in an Indiana farming community like me! And they'd all done things I'd previously only read about in The Preppy Handbook...attended prep schools, summered on various Capes, captained yachts. As for me, I spent summers straining leaves out of my parents' pool. Granted, there are worse fates than having an in-ground pool and needing to clean it, but I didn't know it at the time.

At that point in my life, I'd never met anyone who could slam a Little Kings beer AND quote Arthur Miller AND had a wardrobe full of Alexander Julian shirts. Naturally, I was enamored of Cal, as he represented everything that my seventeen-year-old mind considered "cool." But I didn't want to date him because at the time it didn't occur to me that I could even be worthy of his affection. (Ironic, because I was 125 pounds at the time and had done the local beauty pageant circuit in high school.) Instead, I foisted my adorable roommate, Joanna, on him and lived vicariously through their chaste flirting.

What I so desperately craved from him was his acceptance. He'd always been grudgingly nice to me out of respect for my brother and because he'd been raised well. Take these factors away, and I probably would not have even existed in his world. Yet I so wanted to be liked on my own merits. I tried everything within my power to gain his respect but didn't realize that the role I played was that of a door-mat, thus ensuring we'd never be equals. For example, in return for being allowed to hang out in his room in the fraternity house, I would voluntarily run errands and do ch.o.r.es. "Need a b.u.t.ton sewn on your shirt? Let me handle it!" "Want cute freshman girls at your next party? I'll round them up for you!"

My indentured servitude didn't last long. The more I made my own friends, the more I took back the power that I'd so freely given away. Don't get me wrong, I was still in awe of him. But I'd gained the tools to better mask it.193 Anyway, Cal eventually graduated, and I didn't see him again until my brother's wedding, although I'd occasionally hear an update about his so-called fabulous life.

So, when Cal and the rest of his cohorts acted like drunken buffoons at Todd's wedding-IN THEIR THIRTIES-the scales fell from my eyes, and I questioned why on earth I'd ever worshipped him.

I mean, really, on what planet is a cute and eager-to-please seventeen-year-old girl considered a liability?

I believe the last words I spoke to Cal before I received his e-mail were "Calvin, would you please shut the f.u.c.k up so we can finish taking these pictures?"

The seventeen-year-old Jen would have been crushed if she'd received a condescending note from Cal the Magnificent, even if it was just meant to tease her.

But what about the thirty-five-year-old Jen? The one with the big b.u.t.t? Who lives in the 'hood and has a pit bull and actually LIKES polo shirts from Target? Who doesn't have a job and is married to a regular guy from Indiana?

She just laughed and laughed.

To: Cal Canter From: [email protected] Date: September 14, 2003 Subject: Re: Little Blaster Hi Cal, I saw your name as the return address and a.s.sumed that my brother was playing some sort of trick on me. But as I read, I realized that Todd doesn't have the skills needed to fake your level of arrogance and that this email was indeed the real thing.

Aren't I a lucky girl?

I remain aware of your existence as Todd still starts the occasional sentence with the phrase "Calvin says..." You'll be pleased-although probably not surprised-to know that this phrase precedes his lectures on things I'm doing wrong in my life, so I hear your name a lot.

Thank you for your sage guidance on my job search. Sadly, I can't get a fast food job because I'm not bilingual, necessary in my West Si-ee-de neighborhood. We also own a pit bull, so I DO meet all the qualifications to begin rollin' with the Latin Kings. However, I'm keeping my gang-joining options open for now as a gal needs to choose her homies carefully, you know.

I have to disagree with you on a couple of points on my potential writing career. As for financial gain, I currently make NO money, so any money earned would be considered a success. And I can't see that anyone could find dirt or embarra.s.sing stories about me that I wouldn't first exploit myself, case in point, my Big Lebowski Night story on the web site. In it, I detail losing my shirt and vomiting on my neighbors.

Hey, doesn't it seem like just yesterday I was shouting at you to "shut the f.u.c.k up" at Todd's wedding?

By the way, have you completely morphed into Judge Smails from Caddyshack yet? You were well on your way the last time I saw you. Hope all is well at Bushwood.

f.e.c.klessly yours, Jen (Todd's sister)

I'm outside pouring water on the newly laid sod in front of my building. As I finish dumping my eighty-sixth bucketful on the fledgling lawn to make sure the roots take hold, I realize I'm being watched. I look up to see two shadowy figures, although I can't discern who they are because I'm temporarily blinded by the setting sun and the sweat pouring into my eyes. Then one of the figures barks, "HEY, JEN!" and I jump about four feet in the air, sending my bucket flying.

There's only one person I know who speaks with the kind of volume that makes people mentally construct storm shutters and tape up windows. "Joel! Fletch says you've been away for National Guard training. Did you just get back? And, Irene, how are you? What are you guys doing here? We haven't seen you guys for ages! Please come in!"

After hugs and a few more cheerful exclamations from all parties, I give them the tour. Fletch is equally delighted, and we gather on our deck. I'm so pleased to see them that I don't realize I'm clad in cutoff sweatpants and a ratty T-shirt until I notice the odd looks I'm getting from the child millionaires next door.

Before Joel arrived and I tossed my bucket, I caught a glimpse of the millionaires hosting their first dinner party alfresco. Their table was covered with an expensive spray of lilies so fragrant that I could smell them from our deck ten feet away. On their immaculately set Bloomingdale's for the Home outdoor dining suite, pricey red wine twinkled in their giant crystal goblets. Their purebred c.o.c.ker spaniel sat patiently at their feet, confident in the knowledge that a delectable sc.r.a.p of proscuitto had her name on it. And I'm pretty sure I noticed sorbet being served in frozen objets d'art between the pasta and grilled rainbow trout courses.

Their guests fit the scene perfectly, too. The women had glossy, swinging bobbed coiffures and Just the Right Amount of makeup, dressed like an Ann Taylor catalog brought to life, their small, tasteful gold-hoop earrings and blindingly large engagement rings flashed in the late-afternoon sun. The men were hale and hearty in their Brooks Brothers casual wear and Rockports. They t.i.ttered about their healthy portfolios while lame jazz lightly wafted through the air on the outdoor speakers. Small lanterns and little candles provided a warming glow while the sun set.

The scene is truly breathtaking.

Until we come outside to mess it all up.

Honestly, I try to keep Joel's voice a decibel or two below ear-splitting, but to no avail. Joel cannot be contained. That's why we went onto the deck in the first place. Had Joel been inside our house, the hippies downstairs would have blasted their Sgt. Pepper alb.u.m over and over.194 The evening continues and Joel's topics of conversation grow louder and more inappropriate.

"THE CALIBER OF STRIPPERS IN TIJUANA ARE..."

"YOU CAN FASHION ALMOST ANYTHING INTO A WEAPON. SPRAY STARCH CAN BE DEADLY WHEN YOU..."

"SINCE MOST FIREFIGHTS TAKE PLACE IN AN AREA OF LESS THAN FOUR HUNDRED YARDS, I FIND THE a.s.sAULT RIFLE..."

The glances from the other side of the fence are coming fast and furious now, and through narrowed eyes, they survey our soiree. "Wait a minute. Do they have a PIT BULL? That spastic dog is gnawing on the big black wolf-looking mutt and they're both demanding sips of beer! And what IS that girl thinking, wearing sweaty gardening clothes and a ponytail to entertain? Are they drinking beer? That isn't IMPORTED? Oh, my G.o.d, they're drinking directly from the bottle! Don't those savages own any pilsner gla.s.ses, for Christ's sake? How come the fat one is sitting on the AC unit? Why don't they just BUY more chairs if they don't have proper seating? And what is the loud psychopath shouting about now? Gah! How much longer until THOSE PEOPLE leave this neighborhood and we can have some peace?"

I guess it's official now. We're the white trash neighbors.

Why am I oddly delighted by this fact?

To: [email protected] From: NYHS Publisher Date: September 16, 2003 Subject: Rat Pack Jen, I ran across the Do We Need a New Ratpack? rant you posted on Craig's List and I went crazy for it. Everyone here read it and they peed their pants. With your permission, I'd like to reprint it in the new magazine I'm starting. Please contact me at the address or number below.

Thanks, Loren

To: From: Kate, DeFiore Literary Agency Date: September 18, 2003 Subject: Craig's List Postings Hi, Jen, I saw your To Every Company essay on Craig's List and I followed the link to your website, which I then perused for an hour or so. You have a strong voice and a great way with words.

I think you have a story to tell, and, as a literary agent, I may be able to help.

If you're interested, I've included my contact information.

All the best, Kate