Miss Misery (19 page)

MY BRAIN WOKE UP before my eyes did. I could feel it lumbering its way into consciousness, clawing its way through the mud and fog I had drowned it in the night before. Freed, finally, of sleep and excess, it lay there in my skull curled up like a turtle stripped of its shell, huddled and afraid. Good morning, it said to me in shallow, gasping breaths. Please don't ever do that to us again. And for good measure it sent the stabbing pain of a hangover headache rocketing through my nerves.

I opened my eyes. The digital readout on my alarm clock said 12:28 p.m. It was the Fourth of July and bright sunlight was streaming into my room. I wiggled a finger to see if my body still worked. Pleased with the result, I dispatched a distress call to my entire arm: Wake up, the message said. Reach for the glass of water on the table and bring it to our mouth. We need to drink something productive for a change. After some muscular grumbling, my arm obeyed, and I tipped the water glass to my lips without sitting up. Better, I thought.

I swallowed and returned the glass to the table. As I did so, I noticed the raw and cracked redness of my knuckles. Oh yes—my introduction to the “sweet science” the night before. I wiggled my fingers, which grudgingly obliged. No harm done. To my hand, that is. I sat up and instantly regretted it, as the headache chose that moment to turn itself up to eleven. I slunk back down to the pillows.

In addition to the roar in my skull, there was a small niggling pain in my palm; a sharp woodwind note to contrast with the timpani between my ears. I held my hand up to my eyes. The pain centered on a tiny black spear embedded in the meat of my palm, just above my wisdom line. A splinter, I thought. How the hell did I manage to get a splinter? In addition to bathroom fistfights, drug abuse, and ill-advised flirtation had I also been chopping wood? Unlikely, but so was everything about my life these days. I resolved to get to the bottom of it.

But not right away. I tabled the issue by closing my eyes and attempting to go back to sleep.

This worked for about thirty seconds, during which time I remembered not only Amy's message but also my crazed and desperate response to it. The uncomfortable lump of plastic underneath my right shoulder was, I realized, the telephone. On what must have been my thirty-fifth day of waking up alone, I finally surrendered to the reality of it: to the unconscionable ache, the tsunami of sadness and regret. I raised my hand to my face to block the tears that wouldn't come but should have and managed to smash the splinter farther into my skin. The pain was so severe and specific that my eyes actually watered. “You're a wreck,” I said out loud. And slowly—very slowly—I pulled myself out of bed and stumbled toward the bathroom.

I hadn't shaved in days, and my hair was a Ph.D. dissertation on scatter art. There were purplish circles under both of my eyes, and my pupils were swimming in a white sea flecked with blood. But I recognized myself in the mirror. That was a start.

I pulled open the medicine cabinet and let my eyes adjust to the chaos. There were shelves of facial creams and facial washes. Exfoliating agents and defoliating agents. Toothbrushes, tooth flossers, and toothpastes. Prescription bottles that had expired years before and small blocks of foam whose purposes were obscure even to me. This was the realm of Amy, and I was utterly lost in it. But these were desperate times. I had a splinter—an injury that I had assumed disappeared after puberty like loose teeth, skinned knees, and chicken pox—and if there was an instrument in the house to cure me of it, it was lurking somewhere in this cabinet. I took a breath and dove in.

Five minutes later, I had overturned a box of Q-tips, knocked tampons all over the sink, and found a pair of sunglasses I thought I had lost back in college. But no tweezers. Amy had eight different brushes, and even now hair scrunchies were scattered on every table and every counter in the house, but she didn't have tweezers? I looked at the splinter, embedded in me and throbbing, redder and angrier by the moment. My God, I thought, I really am helpless.

I took a step back and considered my options:

1. The emergency room. Pros: effective, hygienic, responsible. Cons: public-humiliation factor quite high.
   
2. Calling a female friend. Pros: unusually sociable! Cons: public humiliation guaranteed.
   
3. Ignoring the injury. Pros: consistent with recent behavior, would increase the chance of eating something large, greasy, and hangover-killing within the hour. Cons: eventual death by gangrene.
   

Dissatisfied with the options before me, I opted to go with number four: Make do with what you've got and gouge the motherfucker out of there. Reaching underneath a box of butterfly bandages, I chose my weapon: a pocket fingernail trimmer. Lacking the traditional bullet to bite down on, I steeled myself, armed the trimmer, and went in for the kill. Using my left hand, I managed to get the splinter between the teeth of the trimmer, and, bracing myself for the pain, I squeezed.
Snap.
I opened my eyes. The trimmer had done the job it was created for: It had trimmed the splinter, leaving the rest of it tucked comfortably inside my epidermis. Fuck!

I sat down on the toilet and took another deep breath. Focus, I said to myself. Just do something right. Try again. And ever so carefully, I positioned the trimmer for another strike, squeezing gently this time and pulling away from my pierced hand. Slowly but surely, I felt the splinter leave my body. I looked down. I was free. I had done it.

I'd like to blame the wildly fluctuating levels of serotonin in my brain for the ecstatic rapture I felt in that moment, but that would probably be inaccurate. What I felt then, more than anything else, was a supremely satisfying sense of
competence.
I hadn't run. I hadn't hid. And I most definitely hadn't gone to the emergency room.

Today truly was Independence Day.

 

After a shower, four Tylenol, and a gargantuan egg-and-cheese sandwich from the bagel store, I was once again feeling close to human. There was still an odd hollow echo in the back of my head and a rough patch at the back of my throat to remind me of the night before—but it wasn't like I needed reminding.

I had bought a copy of the
Post
when I was out and opened it now on the coffee table. Bryce had been reacting to something on the gossip page, “Page Six.” I scanned through the barren holiday dish: apparently Paris Hilton had slept with someone, P. Diddy had attended some sort of party, and human beings still inhaled oxygen and exhaled carbon dioxide for survival. But there, on the bottom right-hand corner of the page, underneath the headline
SPOTTED
! I read:

I sat back on the couch. What was more embarrassing? I wondered: to have an asshole doppelgänger hooking up with almost-famous rock stars or to be labeled a party promoter by the
New York Post
? Truly a modern dilemma.

I laughed a little, but it was a sick laugh, sad and tiny. I desperately hoped that the
Post
didn't get picked up by a wire service in the Netherlands. I rubbed my sore right hand. What to do?

I had tried beating him. I had tried joining him. Neither had worked, and both had left me poorer—emotionally, physically, and financially—than I was when I started. What was left? Killing him? I didn't have the stomach for that, and I had a sinking feeling that when Jack referred to his “friends” in the Russian Mafia of Sheepshead Bay he was kidding. Besides, I was opposed to assisted suicide. Rimshot.
Sigh.

What about retirement? Retreat back to these safe apartment walls and let the doppelgänger live—or ruin—my life at his own pace? No one would notice I was gone, and the few friends I had would probably end up being like Pedro and prefer the new me to the old. I felt empty, hollow, and washed-up. Yes, retirement and surrender were probably my best bet. Why mess things up further?

Just when I was beginning to get some real traction in feeling sorry for myself, my cell phone beeped from the next room.

It seemed that her David vacation hadn't even lasted twenty-four hours. Forcing my thumbs to do my bidding, I texted her back:

A moment passed, and then:

I felt strangely elated. I was back on the grid; the lights were on. But I had to be sure. I wrote:

The answer arrived almost immediately.

I leaned back on the couch and felt something strange and unfamiliar on my face: a smile. I was invited to a party—me, not the other version of me, not somebody's misconception or bad idea brought to life. Hungover, circle-eyed, recently de-splintered me.

I should thank Cath, I thought. Really thank her. She had been put through the ringer by me—and by the other me. And for her to reach out was something special. She deserved a present. Something to show my appreciation. But what would a newly lonely, skinny, sardonic media professional in New York City give a woman as a gift?

That's easy: a mix CD.

I brushed the crumbs off the coffee table and hummed to myself, awash in all the exciting possibilities.

With the sunlight pouring in through my windows and the air-conditioning providing a calming wave of white noise, I sat down at my desk. Self-consciously, I slid the picture of Amy under some papers so it couldn't see what I was doing. Europe or no, she'd never approve of me making a mix CD for another woman. I put my headphones on and opened up iTunes on the computer. I felt another strange rush of contentment; maybe it was chemical, but I didn't mind. It felt good to have a task again, to be productive. I rubbed my hands together and started in earnest.

Four hours later I was done. This was the mix I made for Miss Misery:

• 1. “The Trial of the Century”—French Kicks
  
  • (A quietly pulsing, insistent opener. Sets the mood: pensive but still vaguely groovy. Nice quasi reference in the title. Message: It's been hard but we've seen it through. Subtler message: I care!)
    
• 2. “The Two Sides of Monsieur Valentine”—Spoon
  
  • (Topical! Relevant! Obscure! Irresistible!)
    
• 3. “I Know I'm Not Wrong”—Fleetwood Mac
  
  • (An all-time favorite, poppy and just shy of insane. She made a joke about all the Mac on my iPod at the club; little does she know what she's in for! Sets a pleasant, workable mood.)
    
• 4. “Cinnamon”—The Long Winters
  
  • (Overlooked pop gem—nice segue from the Mac—acoustic but with a little oomph to it. Also: Lyrics about skin, marriage, honeymoons, etc. are flirtatious but in a genteel, nonthreatening way. Work that Gouldian charm!)
    
• 5. “Head Full of Steam”—The Go-Betweens
  
  • (This one took a while—it's always difficult to pick one song by a favorite band. Can't get too obscure; can't try to impress. Better to be safe: Pick a popular number and hope it leads to an interest to hear more. Relevant lyric: “To chase her/a fool's dream.” Apologetic and forward at the same time—story of my life!)
    
• 6. “If You Knew Her As I Know Her”—The Mendoza Line
  
  • (Who could resist the title? Goal: admitting the fact that I am kind of stalkerish but repositioning it as a POSITIVE. I am blessed with perspective! And canny musical taste! Right? Right??!?)
    
• 7. “July, July!”—The Decemberists
  
  • (Helpful tempo quickener—short but sweet. Also deft reminder of when the CD was made…)
    
• 8. “Fourth of July”—Galaxie 500
  
  • (Spacey and weird—total tempo change. But come on, who could resist the title? This is the sound of NYC sometimes: bizarre and droning and a little bit haunted. If Cath doesn't recognize it by now, she will before the summer is over.)
    
• 9. “There's Glory In Your Story”—Idlewild
  
  • (Gloriously poppy B-side from underappreciated Scottish band. Choice lyric: “Independence Day comes when you're down.”)
    
• 10. “Sympathy”—The Get Up Kids
  
  • (Ashleigh turned me onto this one, actually—I'm not usually much of an emo fan. But there's something churning and yearning about this song that gets me; I listened to it on repeat in the days after Amy left.)
    
• 11. “Y Control”—Yeah Yeah Yeahs
  
  • (Purpose number one: Look! I'm hip! Purpose number two: This is what I thought nights out sounded like before I actually experienced one. Now I know that they sound noisy and sweaty and that the music sounds good no matter what it is. But I still like the way I think this makes me think I feel. Or something.)
    
• 12. “Ladyflash”—The Go! Team
  
  • (This song is punky and funky and exciting and mysterious—and if I ever get the chance to dance with Miss Misery again, I want it to be to this song.)
    
• 13. “Calm Before the Storm”—The Bats
  
  • (Another all-time favorite and a nice stroll back down-tempo before the close.)
    
• 14. “Look Up”—Stars
  
  • (A bold move on two counts. One: It's Canadian, so she might know it—or even worse, she might hate it. Two: It's sappy and hopeful and romantic and all of the things that I am but try not to be. I had this song on and off the CD seven times before burning it. But if I go down, at least I go down my way.)