Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Single (20 page)

“Vee see you haf not chosen to participate in zee program,” she would say. “Vee see you haf gained two pounds, hafn't you—you leetle piglet!”
Whap!
She cracks her riding crop against her boot.

At this point she could offer up a whole host of horrifying punishments. She could threaten to post a naked picture of me under fluorescent lights online, or she could even threaten to kill a kitten. If I knew that upon any weight gain, no matter how insignificant, a
kitten
would be killed—I would never gain an ounce again. Fear and shame I respond to. “Whoopsie boopsie” I do not.

My Lee, this pretty Hmong girl without an extra pound of fat on her anywhere, gets on the scale. “Well, My Lee,” Indra chirps, “congratulations! Once again, you're well within your recommended body weight!”

My Lee looks disappointed. “I didn't lose anything?” she asks. “I was at a hundred and twenty-two last week, and this week I was trying to get to a hundred and twenty-one.”

Indra gives her a sympathetic little pat on the back. “That's all right,” she says. “You keep trying. Our ideal weight is whatever we want it to be.”

“Even if it's medically unsound?” I ask.

All the women shoot looks at me and Indra ignores the comment.

“We can up your dose of ephedrine,” she says and makes a note on her chart. “You'll have that pound off in no time.
My Lee
gets to pick My Lee's ideal weight. No one else.”

After everyone weighs in, the gold star goes to Babsie, a battery-shaped woman from Kentucky. Babsie is trying to lose eighty pounds, but her mystery allergy to vegetables and the fact that her husband hasn't touched her in three years is slow
ing her down. She bursts into tears when she is declared the “biggest loser” of the day and tell us all that we are her best friends.

“Okay, ladies!” Indra says. “That's all the time we have. You all did great. I'll see you next week and remember our motivation quotation!” Then the whole group answers in unison, “I can be the ideal me. Through change and love and un-i-ty.”

I leave early. I think this is a cult and not in a good way.

 

Sunday afternoon,
four days
after our fight, Brad calls. Why even bother? I'm nearly dead with worry at this point. I've spent my nights drinking red wine, crying, journaling, and doing terrible things to the Tinkertoy family. I gave them an earthquake by briefly rattling the house with both hands, made oversize plastic novelty ants invade their living room, and gave the children drinking problems by scattering miniature beer cans all around their rooms.

My hands are shaking while I'm on the phone, but I try to stay cool. Brad asks me to meet him at some Mexican place tonight so we can talk. I say sure.

I hang up.

He's definitely breaking up with me.

• 1. He asked me to meet him there, not drive together.
  
• 2. He knows I hate Mexican food.
  
• 3. No one has ever said, “We need to talk” and meant about something good.
  

This is all besides the fact that David dumped me in a Mexican restaurant and to this day I can't even see a burrito without feeling sick.

I smell trouble. I smell big, big trouble.

I prepare myself by having a three-hour talk with Christopher, drinking two glasses of wine before I leave the apartment, and popping a Vicodin in the car.

I hold my head high as I walk through the grimy glass doors of the restaurant and into the humid smell of oily taco seasoning and beer. There's a sign at the hostess stand that says,
INDIAN TACO AND BINGO NIGHT!

Instant headache.

“Jen!” Brad waves to me from across the crowded room. He's early, which is suspicious action number four. I smile weakly, feeling all my plucky resolve draining out of my feet. This is going to suck. This is going to be up there with my top three bad, regrettable, terrible no-good memories, possibly locking in at number one, depending on how much I drink.

I sit down at the faded red-and-white-checked tablecloth. A lone red candle flickers.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hey.” He leans over and gives me a quick, awkward kiss on the cheek. He says something about how cold it is outside. Great. We're already talking about the weather. The short, bored waiter arrives and asks us what we'd like. “What's an Indian taco?” I ask.

He doesn't look up as he answers. “Corn,” he says. “No beans.”

“That's it?”

He shrugs. “Free bingo card too.”

“Great, we'll have the Indian tacos,” Brad says, obviously already annoyed at how much time this breakup is taking.

The waiter scribbles down our orders. His apron is greasy, and acne pebbles his face, but he has a thick wedding band on his finger. He probably has a happy wife at home and three brilliant kids. He's probably been married since he was eighteen.

“Jen, are you listening?” Brad asks. “Do you want just one margarita or should we get a pitcher?” The waiter is still there tapping his pad with his ballpoint pen.

“Whatever's biggest,” I say. “Bathtub, goat bladder, pitcher, whatever. Perfect.”

Brad smiles tightly. “Pitcher then.”

The waiter leaves and some other guy walks up. “Hi, fucker!” he says to Brad, pounding him on the shoulder.

Brad beams. “Hey, asshole!”

Then the guy leaves. That's it. That's the total of their conversation.

“What was that?” I ask. “Do you hate each other or something?”

“That's just how guys say hi. It's a form of flattery.”

“Isn't flattery a form of flattery?” I ask. “And a more direct route?”

“You wouldn't understand it. Girls don't get it.”

“Girls don't get it because it's stupid.”

Brad rolls his eyes and scoots his chair out farther so he can see the horrible band. Conversation over. Communication done.

Maybe I should just tell him I never want to see him again right now over the oily tortilla chips in the red wicker basket. Maybe I should blurt it out first, so I can be the one who dumped him. So I can say to people, “You know, it just wasn't working out. We weren't right for each other, so I told him it was over.” Then I could pretend not to care, and talk about true paths and destiny. I could tell people I'm ready for whatever wonderful plan the universe has in store for me next, even though what I'm fairly certain the universe has in store for me next is another humiliating crack on the jaw.

Brad drums his fingers on the table to the music. So this is what the slaughtering field looks like. Yes, this is definitely
a breakup. I list the things I don't like about him in my head to try and make this process easier.
He snores like a Kodiak Bear
,
he picks his nose without looking to see if anyone is watching
,
I caught him downloading porn on his laptop
,
he farts without apologizing
,
he's selfish, and he expects me to give him oral sex, rarely with any reciprocation.
(Don't get me wrong, I don't mind giving head, but there's a limit. Twenty minutes actually is the limit. If he doesn't cum after twenty minutes of me having my jaw unhinged while fighting my gag reflex, I get up and turn the lights on.)

A pretty girl walks by our table, a tight little blonde, and I study Brad out of the corner of my eye to see if he looks. Of course he looks. Very briefly, but he tries to be all clever by not moving his head, only his eyes. Like I can't see that.

“Is it really
that hard
not to look at other women?”

“What?”

“I asked you if it was that hard not to look at other women.”

“I don't think I did.”

“Oh, you did, Brad. You definitely did.”

“I don't know. Maybe it's a knee-jerk reaction?”

I snort. A knee-jerk reaction? What is he, a feral dog or a domesticated raccoon?

The waiter sets our Indian tacos down.

“I'm glad you finally called,” I say casually, poking at my food as though it looked fabulous. “I was starting to think we were never going to speak again.” I'm hoping to convey an insouciant ambivalence here and not sheer terror.

“Of course I was going to call,” he says, shoveling a forkful in his mouth.

“Could you not talk with your mouth full?” I ask.

He rolls his eyes.

What do I care? It's not like I'm ever going to see him again.
“So if you were going to call me, what did you do for three days?” I ask.

Brad takes a sip of margarita. “I just spent some time with my mom. She wasn't feeling good.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“No. Migraines. She's all right now.”

“Well, thank goodness for that.”

We eat in silence. The mariachi band stops and the bingo announcer tells us about all the amazing prizes we might win. Wow. I might go home not only single tonight but with a waffle press and a trip to Grand Casino to see Merle Haggard perform.

The sad part is, I would love that.

The announcer says that the game will begin shortly, so we should all get our cards ready. Before that though, we'll be enjoying the soothing sounds of some acoustic guitar.

Our plates are cleared, we've finished most of the margarita pitcher, and there's still been no mention of breaking up. I start to think maybe I've imagined the whole thing. Maybe Brad isn't about to publicly humiliate me, but then he takes my hand and says, “Jen, we have to talk about us.”

“We didn't get bingo cards,” I blurt out. “Why didn't he give us bingo cards? He said bingo cards came with Indian tacos. I think if we're going to eat racist food, we should get bingo cards.”

“Jen, it doesn't matter.”

“Oh really? It doesn't? Why don't you tell that to the Board of Native American Affairs? I don't think they'd care for the name ‘Indian tacos.'”

At this point I realize everyone around me is staring at me.

“Oh God,” I say and run to the bathroom, where I think I might be sick. I suspect Brad's consulted some kind of “breakup
advice” Web site because he seems to be doing this with great caution and very calmly. I myself have read these sites often, so if and when a guy starts to break up with me, I'll know the signs and can beat him to the punch. Brad has already executed the top two breakup tips.

• 1. Always break up in public, but never at a bar or restaurant you like, because it'll spoil one of your favorite places.
  
• 2. Never break up at the beginning of a meal. Wait till after you eat or you'll have a very awkward/hostile meal.
  

I urgently text-message Christopher from a bathroom stall.

Me: He's breaking up with me!

Christopher: Good riddance.

Me: No! I don't want to break up!

Christopher: Oh just get it over with. We hate him. Everybody hates him.

Me: Not helping!!

Christopher: Spill a drink on him. He won't break up with you if it looks like he peed his pants.

When I go back to the table a musician is onstage painfully plucking out “La Cucaracha” on his guitar, which will now and forevermore be the soundtrack of the Brad breakup. “The Cockroach.” How perfect. The guy is playing horribly, like maybe he isn't a paid musician, but somebody's unemployed cousin who needed a gig.

Brad looks nervous. He's gearing up to say something.

I bump my margarita, hoping to knock it over, and it wobbles momentarily but then infuriatingly rights itself, so I pick the glass up and drink the fizzy, salty drink down whole. If it's not going to help the situation one way, it'll help in another.

Won't be enough, though.

The waiter flashes past and I grab him. I mean I physically lean out and grab his arm with my hand. Waiters hate this more than they hate anything. I know because I waited tables at a pub in college and anytime someone touched me I spit in their beer. I tell him I want a shot of tequila, no two shots. Spit be damned. Spit is the least of my problems right now. There's nothing left to do except let this happen.

Just breathe. Relax.

I can do this.

Brad takes a big sip of his margarita and clears his throat.

“What man drinks margaritas?” I ask suddenly.

“What?”

“Seriously. I've never met a man who drank margaritas. They're too girly.”

“Jen, I have to say something.”

I want to throw up. The waiter plunks down two shots of tequila in front of me. There's a special place in heaven for this man. He's delivering essential field medicines to the mortally wounded. I slam the tequila. Both shots. My heart is hammering in my chest and “La Cucaracha” tap-dances on my last nerve.

Brad starts to talk but I cut him off.

“No,” I say, holding up my hand. “I don't want to do this.”

He's perplexed. “Don't want to do what?”

“I don't need a man, I don't want a man, I'm fine without a man, I'm
better
without a man.” I stand up and sling my purse over my shoulder.

“Jen?” he says. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere
that man
isn't playing the guitar,” I say, pointing at the stage.

I pause. Again, the music has stopped and the whole room,
including the musician, is staring at me. “Oh, come on!” I say and storm out.

Brad follows me outside, where I pant in the cold air, while trying to remember where I parked my freaking car. A guy in a full-length safety orange snowsuit is leaning against the window smoking a cigarette. I can't help noticing him, because his snowsuit is the exact same color as the Scout. I briefly wonder if he
is
the Scout, in human form.

“Jen,” Brad says, “please, let's talk.”

I put my finger in his stupid face. The tequila is thrumming deliciously in my head. “I get it,” I say, “it's over, but let's spare each other the speeches, okay?
I get it.
You love me but you're not
in
love with me. We've grown apart. You don't feel that spark anymore with me. You met someone else. You need to be alone right now. You're moving across the country. You have a disease. Whatever it is, you want to move on. I don't care.”