June 25, 2012
Dear Everett,
I made it to work early today, so I’ve ducked into the coffee shop of BookPeople to sip an iced matcha latte with almond milk and let the air-conditioning cool me down from the sweltering heat as I prepare myself for possibly being fired. I’m also going to take this time to write to you about an indignity that just happened to me, an indignity caused by your failure to fork over your prorated June rent. I need that money to pay down my credit card a bit. And if I don’t make a payment in the next few days, my interest rate will skyrocket. I’ve begun to doubt you will hand over the cash in time. So as a last resort, I decided to hit up my parents. I’d planned to call them after my shift today, but as usual, my mother had her weird mom ESP turned on.
I was riding my bike to work and had just passed by that hideous new artisanal water shop—certain to sell $6 asparagus-essence water—that’s going in on the corner where the Pronto Mart used to be, when my cell phone rang. Since you refuse to get a cell, you’ve never experienced this inconvenience yourself. I answered it while pedaling and put it on speaker. A precarious move, but I pulled it off with grace. And then I could hear my parents’ voices, in unison, on speakerphone, which is annoying. Either they talk over each other, or to each other, or else one of them leaves the room without telling me and I don’t know who’s on the phone. Sometimes I’ll start telling a story meant mainly for my mom, but she’s wandered off to start a load of laundry or something.
“Hello, darling,” my mother said. “We are just calling to see if you are going to be able to come to Peru with us.” Have I informed you, Everett, that in late September my parents are planning on visiting my brother for a month at his Peace Corps outpost in Peru? “I think we are going to stay at an eco-lodge,” she continued. “No internet, no cell service. Just long hikes and majestic mountains. But we need to know if you’re coming so we can get our plane tickets and book rooms. We’ll cover lodging if you’ll pay for your own plane ticket. There are some great deals on tickets right now for fall.”
If there’s one thing my parents love it’s a deal! When we all go to the movies together, my mom still tries to get me the kids’ rate by joking that I’m under twelve. Often the person behind the ticket counter is so embarrassed for me that they just give her the discount.
“I don’t think I can swing a ticket,” I said, “or the time off work. Roscoe’s vet bill was a real financial hit.”
“Paying for you to go on a gap year and then to the Plan II Honors College at UT was a financial hit, too,” I heard my father mutter. “But no one’s reimbursing me for it.” My dad is usually a dear, but ever since he retired from his dentistry practice last year he’s been bored, and thus crabby.
I took a deep breath and tried to brace myself to ask them for money. But I couldn’t even bring myself to make a direct plea for funds, so I went with the hint-dropping approach. “I’m so broke I even let Everett move in with me to help with the mortgage,” I said.
“How are you ever going to find a new boyfriend if Everett is living with you?” my mom asked. An astute question, and one I’ve been wondering myself.
“Well, I have to do what I have do, Mom. I’m also working a ton to try to pay off the vet bill,” I went on. “Really long shifts.” I hated myself for pushing so hard for a parental cash injection, but what choice did I have?
“Roxy, what is your plan?” my mother said in her tough-love voice, which always infuriates me. “You’re never going to get ahead in life working long hours at minimum wage. It’s past time you decided on some next steps.”
“I don’t have a plan!” I was almost yelling. “That’s the problem! Do you have any idea what it’s like to feel so stuck?” Suddenly I felt completely overwhelmed by the whole conversation, and by the fact that I’m broke, have a crap job, and haven’t made any progress on my painting or drawing.
“I know it can be hard for artists,” my mother said, her tone turning sympathetic. She always knows when she’s pushed me too far and needs to change her tack. “When you were a girl, all I had to do to keep you busy was buy you a bucket of sidewalk chalk. You’d stay out until dark. Even when the sidewalk was scorching, you’d draw and draw and draw. I couldn’t stop you.” She paused. “Have you done any drawing or painting lately?”
I was desperate to change the subject before it veered any closer to the fact that I haven’t made any art whatsoever in six months. “Please, please, ask me about anything else.”
“How are Yolanda, Rose, Kate, and Barclay? Have you seen them lately?”
“Not in a while,” I said lamely. The truth is, I haven’t seen my college besties in ages. They all seem to have moved on from our previous sisterly solidarity to the boring land of real adulthood and office-casual wardrobes—a place I doubt I’d like to visit, much less live! “What have y’all been up to?”
“Well, last night I went to one of those girls-only parties at Suzanne’s,” my mom said. “Maybe you could do that for extra money until you figure out your next move.”
Just then I pedaled out in front of a douche in a black BMW. He slammed on the brakes and honked at me vigorously. I regretted that, having one hand on the handlebar of my bike and the other wrapped around my iPhone, I could not shoot him the finger. “Fuck you!” I mouthed. I remember only too well when an old VW van was status symbol enough for the average Austinite.
“Roxy?” my mother said.
“Yeah, sorry, I’m listening. Have parties for extra money?”
“It was like a Tupperware party, but instead of Tupperware they were selling really naughty lingerie. I bought the cutest little—”
“TMI! TMI!” I interrupted before she could describe an image I would never be able to forget.
“It’s called a NaughtyWear party. Get it? Tupperware. NaughtyWear? It’s quite clever. You’d be great at it, and you could earn extra money.” She paused dramatically. “But for now, I’ll send you five hundred dollars.”
“Thank you,” I said, both relieved and totally ashamed to be twenty-eight years old and still hitting up my parents for cash. (And also a little disappointed she hadn’t agreed to send me more money.) “And I’m really sorry about Peru.”
“It’s okay. Derek will be disappointed, but he’ll understand. Anyway, I have to run to tennis, but really, next time Suzanne has a NaughtyWear party you have to come. You can’t mope around forever.”
I know it’s childish to wish I lived in a society that valued my skills as an artist when I haven’t even made art in ages. But I can’t help comparing myself to my parents. By the time my dad was my age he already had a thriving dental practice, and my mom had married him so she never had to worry about making money for herself again. I just wish I’d been born fascinated with some subject—like rotten teeth and sagging gums!—that would allow me to make a good living. But as it is, all my skills and interests are leading me down a road of obscurity and financial ruin. And the despair from my call with my parents will surely be compounded by my meeting with Dirty Steve, which starts in fifteen minutes. At best, he’ll yell at me. At worst (and more likely), I’ll be fired! Wish me luck.