“Yeah. I’m pretty sure ‘trophy wife’ is a top-five fetish for underemployed artist types.”
“What are the other four?”
“Debutantes and cheerleaders—I count those as one type since there’s so much overlap. Lead singers of all-girl punk rock bands. If the guys are white, then black girls with natural hair—I can’t pull off that one. And fixed-gear bike-riding girls with lots of memorial tats to their dead daddies—of course.”
“Of course,” I murmured. I was too impressed to say anything else.
“That last one’s not my strong suit either. May I ask—did you get fired? I mean, after the crumb cake incident?”
“Nah, two weeks’ suspension. I mean, my boss fired me, but then I blackmailed him.” I didn’t want to admit to myself that I hoped she was impressed.
“I did you a favor. You’re destined for greater things than that job.”
I studied her. I had the bizarre, delightful, and slightly intoxicating sense she could really see me. “I hope you’re right about that.”
“Oh, girl, I am. You’ll see.”
“One thing: Why did you say ‘Mmmm, crumb cake’ when you ate that piece of tuna burger?”
“When I’m trolling Whole Foods as my trophy wife alter ego, I go totally in character. You think a rich housewife so desperate for a hot lay that she’d fuck a Whole Foods cashier in the parking lot could stand her life if she was actually sensorily grounded in her body?”
“Wow,” I said. I was stunned we’d had the exact same thought—it was as if we’d experienced some kind of intense (if limited) mind-meld.
Artemis glanced at her watch. “My shift’s almost over. I have to head out to go teach my aerial dance class.”
An aerial dance class sounds exciting! It made me realize I haven’t had the mojo to actually try anything new in months. I suddenly imagined Artemis as a gateway to adventure, to a wellspring of energy I haven’t been able to tap into of late. “Well, it was nice to meet you,” I said.
“It went better this time, didn’t it?” She winked at me, and then she was gone.
I changed out of the tights and biked off slowly, thinking about the strange encounter. When I got home, I found a pair of Lululemon shorts stuffed in the bottom of my backpack. And while I would give myself a gold star for stealing something out of that shit den, I didn’t take them. I wouldn’t be caught dead in public in them either (less because of brand disloyalty and more because the shorts don’t have the sculpting power of the tights), but I’m wearing them around the house right now because they remind me of my new Great Work.
And I can’t seem to get Artemis out of my mind. Her sassiness, her alter ego, the fact that she has no trouble quenching her libidinous urges with real-live guys rather than a purple merman. I have a feeling she has much to teach me. It’s ironic the first woman I’ve wanted to befriend in ages works at a store I’m beginning to feel it’s my destiny to vanquish. But perhaps she could help me somehow in my quest to drive that stupid fucking store from that revered location. I’m sort of kicking myself I didn’t ask for her number!
Everett, the more I think about it, the more I feel sure—I need Artemis (a.k.a. the Artist Formerly Known as Crumb Cake) to be my friend.
Exhilaratedly yours,
Roxy
CHAPTER TWO
July 6, 2012
Dear Everett,
Those fucking tweakers kept me up all night! They were on their patio, talking and blasting music—which I’m guessing you didn’t hear since you sleep like a darted elephant. I went outside at 2 a.m. and told them to shut the fuck up, which was met with a volley of “Ooooh! We are in troubles!” from the tweaker minions, and a resounding, “You shut up, cunt!” from Captain Tweaker.
Afterward, I lay in bed wide awake with rage and did not sleep until dawn. This morning when I finally dragged myself from bed, you had already left the house without picking up the beer cans the tweakers lobbed into our backyard. Several tweakers were still partying on the patio, but Captain Tweaker was loudly leaning a ladder against the roof of his house. Once he was on the roof, he disappeared out of sight, so I ducked into your bedroom to see if I could see him better from your window. That’s when I noticed you’d left behind my backpack that you borrowed.
I liberated it and inside I found—along with spare change, receipts for ThunderCloud Subs, and the other usual detritus that follows you everywhere—a box of blue medical gloves and a fifteen-minute lab timer.
Everett! Why didn’t you tell me you are in school? I imagine you putting on your gloves and timing how fast it takes you to draw blood from your patient. Or maybe you are studying to be a vet tech? You are so good with the furballs. Their love for you is the reason you still have a roof over your head, and it makes cosmic sense that the benefits your love of animals brings to your life would expand to include a steady job. Or perhaps you are in school to be a vet acupuncturist and you have fifteen minutes to needle each animal? I cannot wait to grill you about this, but since you once again aren’t home (I swear we hang out less now than before you moved in!), I’m taking my pen to paper as I sip my morning coffee.
“Who? What? When? Where? Why?” I demand. Tell me everything.
But wait—perhaps you haven’t shared your return to school because you fear failure. You worry if I know of your aspirations and am rooting for you, it will become a sort of pressure that will inevitably create a block preventing you from doing your best work. You’ve told me about your brief stint at community college, how your mother’s high hopes and your abusive stepfather’s disdain percolated in your subconscious until you could not pull it together to drag yourself to class, much less complete your assignments. And when you received your grades, that row of Fs proved to you what you had always suspected about yourself.
Don’t worry, Everett. I will never let you know how proud I am of you. I will root for you silently and with all the love a friend, former lover, and landlady can provide. I will not let on that I understand how hard you are working to improve yourself, your situation, your income, your life!
But in my heart I know you are striving to overcome the abuse you have suffered, as well as the low self-esteem that arrived in its wake. And I will eagerly await the day you come home with a certificate or diploma from whatever trade school or technical program you are currently attending. Then together we will celebrate your victory over the deep darkness of the unconscious mind, that writhing octopus that seeks to wrap you in its tentacles and drag you down to the watery darkness. Until then, Everett, I am deeply and sympathetically,
Your friend,
Roxy
P.S. After I found the backpack, I again peered out your bedroom window to see that all the tweakers had gone inside, leaving their idiotic leader, Captain Tweaker, alone on the roof, likely taping a brick of meth to the inside of his chimney. As the chimney did indeed block his view of both my house and his side yard, I ran outside and through the gate. I swiftly pulled his ladder from the roof and laid it on the ground before darting back inside. I then enjoyed my second cup of coffee while peeking out the blinds to watch him wailing, grinding his rotten teeth, and shaking his fist at the sky until his brethren emerged to once again raise the ladder so he could climb down. I also called 311 and reported that the meth heads next door are always cooking in that decaying van permanently parked in front of their house.