Dear Girls Above Me: Inspired by a True Story (13 page)

THE GIRLS ON PENISES

Dear Girls Above Me,

“I don’t care how big his cock is, Claire, he still uses Myspace!” But an average size penis on Facebook is okay, right? Phew.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“I really want a penis just for a day. All I would do is flop it around.” Sorry, did you say something? Was busy slapping my dick.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

NOTE TO SELF:
Find the architect who designed my building and kill him.

SUBCATEGORY OF THE NOTE:
If the architect has a wife and child, do not kill them. They must live to pass on the cautionary tale, and it would be dishonorable to take the life of a woman or child. Unless a woman or child designed the building, then it’s okay to kill them.

The reverberations coming from the party above seemed to be even louder from the comfort of my own apartment. How was that even possible?! But instead of the normal two girls chattering aimlessly, I was under attack by a horde of mind-numbing conversations. I felt like the Grinch on Christmas Eve, forced to listen to the city of Whoville … if the citizens of Whoville spoke like this: “Give
me my tequila back, or I’ll shove my stiletto up your ass.” Whoever that was, she was no Dr. Seuss.

I fought back with earplugs, two different types of sound machines, a rickety old fan, and the opening scene to
Saving Private Ryan
at full blast, but the party, full of intoxicated Whos, roared louder. There was no stopping them. The techno music was not music to my ears and was decreasing the size of my heart with every beat played. I’ve heard the old saying “If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.” Of course, nobody came up with that saying after having taken the time to join ’em and failing miserably. I’m going to coin a new phrase.

Dear
Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations
,

I would like to come forward as the author of the latest hot phrase to hit the streets:

“If you can’t beat ’em, and you didn’t do a very good job of joining ’em, then accept that you’ve been defeated and distract yourself by purchasing a new pair of Nikes or something.”

No doubt this variation on the old proverb has made its way to you already, as it improves a tired old phrase and updates it for the new millennium. Please direct all credit to Charles McDowell, and forward all royalties accordingly.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t even follow my freshly coined advice, because it was two
A.M.
already and Niketown was almost definitely
closed. I stood in my living room wearing the maroon Snuggie my aunt Nancy had recently sent me for my birthday. Underneath my especially comfortable blanket with sleeves, I was in the nude. I apologized to Marvin profusely for the view of my backside, where there was no cloth covering. He didn’t seem to mind, although longterm effects are still to be determined. But that’s one of the many benefits of being single. You can wear whatever you want, whenever you want, and in any position you want. For instance, if I wanted to put my legs behind my head in a pretzel position while naked and wearing the Snuggie, I could. No one would be there to judge me. Apart from God and Marvin … in that order.

A LIST OF BENEFITS TO BEING SINGLE

I don’t have to watch all of the
Real Housewives
series (including Atlanta) unless I want to. (I want to, it just feels nice not
having
to.)

I can play Fantasy Football without sneaking off to the hallway closet.

I can play with myself without sneaking off to the hallway closet.

I don’t have to eat only kale salads and drink coconut water.

I can wear Patagonia, even in public.

I don’t have to lie about wanting to go to Las Vegas “just to see Cirque du Soleil’s
O
.”

I can gain a pound or two and not be reminded of it. Actually, scratch this one. Mr. Molever can be quite passive-aggressive.

To better “focus my organizational skills” I’m not constantly pressured to “make lists” anymore—oh.… Shit.

As I sipped a cup of hot water with freshly squeezed lemon juice (my nighttime drink), I reveled in the possibilities of my newfound freedom. There was no one there to dictate the parameters of my life. Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with a desire to express the ownership of my freedom. I could continue sitting there, drinking my nighttime drink. I could trash the whole apartment like a punk rocker (and then carefully clean it before Pat returned from his trip). I could do most anything.…

I began bobbing my head to the rhythm of the party music. Slowly, I introduced a couple of leg movements into my routine. A few pelvic thrusts later, I had placed my hot drink down in order to prevent any more spillage. With the extra free hand, I was able to incorporate finger snaps and knee lifts into my number. I paused for a moment, wondering if this was the beginning of my path to insanity or a career with Debbie Allen. But my shimmying hips had a mind of their own.

Marvin got up from his very comfy position on the top of the couch and went into my bedroom. The poor bastard had seen enough. In retrospect, it was probably a good thing that he wasn’t there to witness my attempt to ride a bicycle around the coffee table. No animal needs to see that.

I had broken into a sweat from all the movement, which felt like my cue to get some much-needed sleep. The party was slowly starting to die down, thank God. I figured it would remain somewhat
active as long as Luke was still there, but the volume was low enough that I could probably go to sleep with just two white-noise machines tonight.

I finally crawled into my place of rest at three fifteen
A.M.
And as I lay in bed, I was able to hear Luke and Claire in deep conversation. Since I knew Claire’s room was directly above mine, I figured Luke was well on his way to a night of copulation with my neighbor. This was the conversation:

CLAIRE:
As you can see, I got the bigger room because Cathy pays less rent.

LUKE:
It’s really nice. I like the color of the walls. Gray, but with a hint of purple.

CLAIRE:
Elephant’s Breath! That’s what the color’s called. I did it myself—well, I mean I didn’t actually paint the walls myself, Mexicans did that, but I chose the color.

LUKE:
It’s really great.

CLAIRE:
Thanks.

(a moment of silence)

LUKE:
Hey, you, get over here.

CLAIRE:
Who? Me?

LUKE:
Yeah, you. Come next to me. I feel like you’re a million miles away.

CLAIRE:
Yeah, I guess I am kinda far.

(high heels)

LUKE:
Can I be brutally honest with you about something?

CLAIRE:
For sure, honesty is like my favorite.

LUKE:
Okay. Look, I could be making a complete fool out of myself right now, but you know what, I’m totally cool with that. When I saw you for the first time, over by that keg stand, I couldn’t take—

CLAIRE:
Oh my God, I’m so sorry. But I have to tell you, just now when you were talking to me, you rubbed your eye like you were a little kid and it was honestly the cutest thing ever!

LUKE:
Oh, really? I had no idea.

I couldn’t believe it. He’d told me all about this “move.” I didn’t think in a million years any girl would actually fall for it, but in this instance I was happy to be wrong. I could only imagine the smile he must’ve had on his face knowing that I was probably listening to their conversation. Clearly I was witnessing a true master at work.

CLAIRE:
I’m sorry. What were you saying?

LUKE:
I seem to have lost my train of thought.…

CLAIRE:
You were talking about noticing me for the first time.

LUKE:
Oh, right. How could I forget? [probably another eye rub] Baby, you took my breath away.

CLAIRE:
Reeeaaallly?

LUKE:
Really.

CLAIRE:
Well, I’ll admit I was pretty jealous when I saw you laughing it up with Bridget.

LUKE:
Who?

CLAIRE:
[laughing] You’re so funny.

I could tell he actually had no idea which girl she was talking about. In fact, chances were very high that he didn’t even know Claire’s name.

LUKE:
Do you mind if I just hang out in here for a little while to sober up?

CLAIRE:
Do you mind if I don’t even hesitate to answer that question?

LUKE:
Do you mind if I turn my phone off because there’s no one in the world I’d rather be talking to?

CLAIRE:
Do you mind if I slip into something a little bit sexier?

LUKE:
Do you mind if I kiss the nape of your neck first?

Do you both mind if I throw up a little in my mouth?

CLAIRE:
Do you mind if I … Okay, I can’t think of another one, so let’s just make out now.

LUKE:
Bring that nape on over here.…

I didn’t even know where the nape is! Was it located in the front just below the Adam’s apple? Or around back near the top of the spine? The sides of the neck didn’t feel very napelike to me, so I wasn’t even considering that. This is the sort of stuff you’re supposed to learn in grade school. Once you’re an adult, you can’t say to a girl, “Um, can you point out the nape of your neck, please?” You might as well ask her what that crevasse between her legs is.

I turned my noise machines at full volume to the appropriately selected “jungle sounds.” I figured orangutans, kookaburras, and howler monkeys were my best bet for drowning out the animal noises that were about to take place upstairs. I shut my eyes tight, forcing myself to fall asleep as quickly as possible, knowing that when the bed frame knocking against the wall started up, no animal in the entire kingdom could overpower the uproar. Sadly, trying to coerce myself into falling asleep quicker was only keeping me awake. The expectation of listening to Luke and Claire have sex outweighed the desire to not want to listen to Luke and Claire having sex.

Out of nowhere I heard a single
ding
. At first I wondered if it was
merely my imagination stepping in to save me like the stories you hear about people claiming to see the Virgin Mary right before experiencing something traumatic. But just as there were no literal virgins upstairs, there was no divine Virgin downstairs, and I became conscious of the fact that someone was at my front door.

Who the hell could possibly be ringing my doorbell at two
A.M.
? I thought. There was no way it could have been Mr. Molever; rent wasn’t due for a few more weeks. Tania wouldn’t have dared stop by for a doggie date at this hour, would she? I was hoping it was the FedEx guy delivering my new multipurpose juicer, but that didn’t seem very likely either. The girls above me forgot who I was thirteen and a half seconds after meeting me, so it couldn’t have been them.… Could it?

I didn’t feel like putting on any clothes for this unwelcome guest. So I slipped back into my Snuggie, which would at least shelter my front side and give me the opportunity to send them packing. As I came nearer to the door, I could make out pitiful whimpers coming from a sullen person on the other side. I stopped myself, realizing that no one was making me open the door. There was no reason I couldn’t just pretend as if I were an extremely deep sleeper and didn’t hear a peep. Or what if I was out of town? Then I wouldn’t even be there.…

“I can see your shadow under the door. Open up!” the mysterious voice cried out.

Stupid shadow. If I could have just one superhero power, being shadowless would definitely be my choice. Who wants a black empty figure following them around at all times of the day and night? Not me. Maybe if I let myself get vampired. I know vampires don’t have reflections, but do they have shadows? Something to look into.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
Oh right, the door.

As I cracked open the door, standing right in front of me was Bridget. She looked quite a bit more disheveled than when I had seen her earlier in the night. This may have been the result of all the crying she had been doing, which it didn’t take a rocket scientist to notice due to the mascara stains running down to her chin. Or maybe her drunken stupor was making her look especially unkempt. Regardless, she was much worse off than I.

“I’m drunk. Can I come in?”

All men have soft spots for moderately attractive women who are drunk with vulnerability and who are, you know, drunk literally. It’s built into our consciousness. So, Mother Nature took over and opened the door for me.

Bridget plopped down on my couch and let out a huge sigh of anything but relief. She was visibly distressed about something, and her sitting position made me feel as though I was about to play therapist until the sun came up, which has to be the one thing worse than the friend zone.… The shrink zone. After a few moments of childlike exaggerated pouting, she looked up at me. Her eyes were bloodshot from either crying or smoking pot, but they still had a uniquely round beauty to them.

“Are you wearing a Snuggie?” she said as her eyes shifted into a judging squint.

“I wasn’t expecting company.” (Who the hell does this girl think she is judging my Snuggie?) “Can I get you something to drink?” I offered.