![On BFFs, Frenemies, and WackquaintanceBFFs
I’ve written about her before, because for me, she was That One Friend, a person who is probably an angel, probably actually a sister-by-cosmos. Parting from her had been so painful that we avoided saying good-bye altogether[1]. Now I have no idea where she is[2].
Wackquaintance
Use this word when there’s someone in your life that maintains your curiosity, someone for whom you feel a fondness or connection, but about whom you will always struggle to understand; why do they say and do the things they do? One way of knowing you have a wackquaintance is if the individual disappears for long stretches of time, and then reappears when there’s cheese and wine and a chance to dress up sparkly (always to a roaringly epic time, though). Also, if that individual repeatedly has recollection (of events) that differ greatly from yours/others. The main distinction between these individuals and acquaintanceship with others is that, while the affection is the same, others are less colorful and more reliable and have a stronger grip on reality. Therefore, making wackquaintance with a flavorful personality is a good way of adding depth to your social repertoire.
Frenemies
As someone so weary, so wary, there’s only one way this could have happened. Her name is N—— K—-, and we were twelve when we met. I’m trying to compile a list of things that happened to me, to her, and another list of things that happened to the both of us[3], to explain how it came to be that on one of those hot September days when I’m in my hometown, in spite of everything, I accept her invitation to spend the day with her at The Mission Inn. But it’s hard to give an accurate picture of our frenemship, because at one point I considered her my BFF, she considered me her frenemy, and it was all actually just a wackquaintance I eventually forgot about until, years long after The Formative Trauma[4], her older hotter boyfriend taunted my moronic, younger boyfriend into a drag-race (while I was in the car). That’s when she became someone I LOVED to hate, and, also, hated that I cared about her not dying in an alley somewhere.
She calls and says, “Come for a drink,” so I arrive at The Mission Inn around 3:30 in the afternoon, teetering on teal and silver platforms, maxi dress filling me statuesque, and I saunter into the dark and velvet lobby. The Inn always bustles, but on this burnt three-day weekend in the almost-desert, entire families swarm the pool and spa, couples drink margaritas in the shade by the caged parrots, ladies lunch in the cool of the dim steakhouse. She’d told me to meet her at the Inn’s bar, the Presidential Lounge, where I hunch over a glass of wine until she arrives; when she does, she is led first by breast implants. She’s in shorts and a tank and hoodie but mainly her accessory is the implants. She’s not made up and her eyes shift with embarrassment as she acknowledges my dress. I wave it off, but I’m also insecure, always taken aback by her beauty.
The first thing she says is, “Don’t say anything, he’s coming down to sit with us.” I fill in the gaps of information, realizing I’m about to meet her benefactor, a man I was told looks like “the scientist guy from Back to the Future”. She explains that they’ve been living here for a couple of weeks, no departure date set, having come by way of a seedy motel they’d been living for an even longer period. These are the reasons I stick around, to see how other people—especially, who are not stable, who do not have 9-5’s, with strong destructive impulses, who require reserved or merciful judgments—live. My writerly instinct is to observe and not try to change a damn thing.
When he comes down to sit with us, I stand and shake his hand, and he doesn’t look at all like Christopher Lloyd; he looks like Donald Sutherland if Donald Sutherland had blood-shot eyes and hair down to his biceps. He is in basketball shorts and a sleeveless jersey that bares his multi-tattooed arms, enormous intricate pieces drawn during his Royal Navy days, all of which are turned blue from black with age. His accent is a thick, British crackling noise that becomes harder and harder to understand as we enjoy champagne split after split. Eventually, the bar runs out of champagne[5] and Almost Donald Sutherland retires to leave us to our lady talk. We decide to visit the pool, where she takes in the last of the burning sky on a deck chair. I swim a few laps, the halcyon blue of the water as temperate as the electric air. Palm trees, palm trees. When we’re done, it’s back to the bar.
Part of the reason it’s significant for me to write about this and her is that when I eventually hung out with her several months prior to the Inn, I felt like I was again in front of a possible sister-by-cosmos[6]; she was scarily relatable. It’s not that her stories were general and funny, because they were actually specific and tragic and miserable. But that’s me. I tell stories like that. In fact, her stories are so much like mine, told with the same desperate fear and vanity, from the same level of esteem for ourselves—that is to say, low—, that it was almost like I now know what I would’ve been like if I had been born to different people. The way she spoke of being in love with Almost Donald Sutherland, an alcoholic, perverted parasite who cares little for her inner life, reminded me of the ways I’ve deluded myself about men. Holly Golightly and Lorelei Lee, dipped in darkness, traipsing as members of Generation Why Not. How does a girl get into so much trouble and not be the only one getting inasmuch? More importantly, how long have I been a fuck-up on a scale proportionate to N—— K—-?
We begin by talking about fashion and shopping; my present (though short-lived) job is a fashion editor for a start-up. She’s living out of suitcases. “Can you please take me shopping tomorrow? I need help. I hate shopping, but I need to look nice. I don’t, like, know how. And”—she shrugs—“You clearly know.” I’ve lived out of suitcases a lot, too, so I say I’m happy to help. I ask her how she fills her days, and she talks a little bit about visiting the spa, going for walks; after a while, she remembers she is reading a book by Deepak Chopra.
Upon driving here, I had promised myself to let her offer her stories organically, and it’s here that she finally mentions that she had met, at some point since I last saw her, a handsome surfer with a bit of money, a lot more baggage. One particular night, when he got so drunk he scared her she called the only person crazy enough to think he could rescue her: Almost Donald Sutherland. She’s been motel-hotel-hopping ever since.
“Well. What do you want to do with your life?” I ask her.
“I don’t know what I’m good at. Maybe I’ll be a nurse. [Girl from High School] makes a really good living being a nurse.”
I really want to tell her picking careers isn’t like trying on an outfit your friend is wearing, but what the fuck do I know about careers. I nod my head comfortingly.
We start talking about men and what we prefer in coupling. I told her I prefer a genuinely nice guy, outer traits/income variable[7]. She points to a guy in a suit who’s just walked in with his friend, and says, “OH. MY.” She leans forward and turns to me. “GOD.” And then, “Can I have some of him?” too loudly and he looks our way.
She wants to know how we can talk to him. The lounge is basically empty. Easy. “Watch.” I stand up, and without looking at him, say clearly to N—— K—-, “I’m going to go get some cigarettes.” When I come back with a fresh pack, the two are talking to her, as expected, but the guy in a suit asks to bum a cigarette as I head outside. I text N—— K—- to come out with us, that she should talk to him in my stead. But, once she and his friend (who turns out to be his brother) join us, she just stands there, hands in her pocket, looking away. I’ve always known that, as a result of not making friends with girls, I know very well how to talk to men[8], but I didn’t realize that the inverse would be true for other people. When I discover this guy is a veritable catch[9], I use N—— K—-’s name as often as I can, to help her find footing in the conversation, but she’s jiggling her leg and looking down the street, not looking at him, even though she later hisses, “SO HOT,” through clenched teeth as we make our way back indoors.
We come back outside once more for a cigarette break, but, eventually, our friends have to make their way back to the wedding reception where they’re supposed to be giving toasts, but they want to meet up later. I’m pretty happy with myself at the notion of having succeeded in getting N—— K—- Suit-Guy’s number, and as he’s ready to give it, I feign difficulty locating my phone. I gesture at her with my head, but she shakes her head, and I end up storing the number myself. After he’s left, she admits she wants his number, but doesn’t want Almost Donald Sutherland to find the number in her cell. I realize the outcome would be that he would stop paying for the champagne splits and hotel stays, which are mainly for her, because he has his own properties. At this point, she’s ready to dress for dinner so she leads me upstairs to the suite; past red-tiles, stucco walls, thick wood beams. I take dozens of pictures with my phone of the view on the enormous rooftop where the suites are located off to the side by a garden; a little neighborhood of arched doorways, greenery, decadent mosaic, and the periwinkle tint of the extinguishing day in the distance. Downstairs, someone is getting married.
When we enter the suite, the bathroom door is open and we can see Almost Donald Sutherland through the doorway standing near the one-person balcony attached to the bathroom; he’s holding a pipe to his lips, his back turned away from the door. Stenched plumes escape as he exhales. N—— K—- rolls her eyes. When he reclines on the bed, the crook of his right arm cradles his head, resting on the pillow, and his other hand attempts to maneuver the remote control. N—— K—- and I rummage through her suitcase, where I locate a beautiful one-shoulder gauzy dress of lavender which she’s worn only once. She showers, and I putter around the suite. He offers me a hit by waving his arm toward the pipe, near the stainless steel ice bucket where a full bottle has been chilling.
When N—— K—- declares herself dinner-ready, I almost don’t believe what she’s said about needing help with doing herself up. If her confusion is disingenuous, she had me fooled. I compliment her hair and makeup. “See? You know stuff,” I say “You don’t need anyone, especially not me.” She is silent. The three of us open the bottle and stand around deciding what to eat. I let them discuss it, as I’ll probably run into problems, because I’m trying to eat vegan. They decide to eat at one of the restaurants on-site, an outdoor Mexican food restaurant comprising part of the hotel’s façade. The wait being 40 minutes, we return to the Presidential Lounge, which is now packed with older professional-types enjoying the jazz band in the corner. We decide to try the watermelon margaritas, and by now I’m familiar with the contempt that registers on N—— K—-’s face when Almost Donald Sutherland cracks a flat or inappropriate joke; she nods her head to face away from him, sometimes muttering through a closed mouth. On the second round of margaritas, we’re summoned to a table in a corner where we feel the balmy Riverside night on our shoulders. The menu is trouble, and I don’t know if I should order anything at all. I prefer to pay for my own dinner, always, but especially if I’m undecided about whom I’m dining with. I don’t want to pay $20 for lettuce and tomato.
They order, and I don’t, apologizing for being so specific about my meals. I decide to make up for it by entertaining my hosts with stories as they eat. I tell them about hiring interns, holding auditions for casting a TV show, living in Santa Monica. At some point I realize N—— K—- is not looking at me, her food, nor benefactor. She’s jiggling her leg again, and not saying anything. I’m probably too inebriated to be talking, I think. So I stop talking. And now, no one is talking. I look at Almost Donald Sutherland, cocking my head. He clears his throat and asks a general question. I look at N—— K—- as I reply, and decide to make it a short answer. Eventually, after dizzying minutes of silence, she starts talking about how she hates to waste so much food, and asks for a box. She hasn’t brought her fork to the plate once.
“Maybe you should eat it all.”
“I mean, this is really, just so. Why do they make the portions like this? So big? It’s so fucked up. There are kids starving around the world. I mean. I just. It’s so wrong. Starving. They’re dying.”
I see I’ve messed up by not eating with her. “No, no. This is not how you fix it, by not eating.”
“I just don’t. It’s so sad, and here we are, just, we don’t even care. We should care!”
“You’re a very caring person.” I look to Almost Donald Sutherland for help, but he’s seen this before apparently, he’s leaning back, picking food out of his teeth.
We go around like this, discussing starving dying kids, N—— K—- glaring at the white box of food in front of her. Eventually she jumps up. Ladies Room time. Here’s another fun fact I don’t know already, from having spent very little time with women: I’m supposed to attend the restroom with her. Almost Donald Sutherland suggests I go.
“Is she ok?”
“I think she’s feeling a little insecure, it’s going to get worse in a bit.”
“OH!” I jump up.
I run into the bathroom. Nothing. I walk into the Presidential Lounge. The boutique is closed. I walk all flights of stairs, peering down each floor hallway, each dark wood-paneled interior, mysterious, chambered, and reticent, like a secret the hotel gives its passing guests. The entire time, her phone doesn’t yield to my persistence.
Eventually, I run into Suit Guy, who’s taking a break from the reception. “I was looking for you,” he says.
“Oh, really, well, actually, I’m looking for my friend right now. Have you seen her?”
“No. But. I’m about to leave.” Then, “Wanna meet my mom?”
What is this night?
“Sure.”
I take his arm, and he leads me out by the caged parrots, where his mom, a short, smiling woman, is waiting. Pleasantries are exchanged, after which she tells him she’ll be with his dad at the valet.
“So. It was lovely meeting you. Can I take you out some time?”
Crap. “Aw, thank you. But the whole boyfriend thing, you remember.”
“Yeah, but here’s the thing. He didn’t bring you to a family wedding. That’s where he is, right?”
“Exactly. In Arizona. He didn’t invite me.”
“Well, l think, that’s a faux pas. I mean, you just met my mom. Weddings are the place. In such a beautiful place, like this, beautiful things happen. If you decide it’s a faux pas, too, I can take you anywhere you want. Where do you want to go?”
Behind him, a tour of the mission begins at the parrots, where they are being taken out of the cages.
“The zoo,” I say. Why hasn’t N—— K—- walked by or called me?
“The zoo? Done. You’re an animal-lover, right? Vegetarian?”
“Yeah, I’m always hanging desperately onto my vegetarianism.”
“Well, no disrespect to your boyfriend, but I hope to hear from you.” I say good-bye, and turn on my heel, locating a corner to sit. As I wait to figure out what to do next, I think about what the hell has happened since I first met N—— K—- and why I feel kindred chaos as much as I think she’s nuts. I feel like I’ve pulled this stunt before, whatever she’s feeling, to someone else, perhaps; I may know a little bit about it. I can’t really be sure, though, because she’s disappeared, and I can’t ask her. At this point, I call my brother for a ride home. I’m getting the hell out of this beautiful place.
The next morning, I get texts and voicemails apologizing (“I’m SO sorry I flipped out” and “Please call or text are you ok” and “I was immature…It’s my relationship with [Almost Donald Sutherland], it has spawned this insecurity….”) I wait several hours to reply, to make her suffer a little bit. And that’s the difference between frenemies and other types of relationships. They all require permission to be a part of one’s life, but with frenemies, the worst comes out in a person, and only rarely is it mixed with a little shot of you at your best.
-2011
[1] Does anyone else DO these things?
[2] If you know of a Shikha Saberdwahal, please contact me at my cell 24/7 or text me “911 I found her!!!” I pray this happens one day, because, oh, of course, I would make friends with someone who so violently detests technology.
[3] Circumstances Necessary For Me To Waste My Time Like This With N—— K—- When I Already Need To Focus On My Established Meaningful Friendships
· N—— K—- and I meet in choir class at Chemawa Middle School and I insist she stop wearing her baggy green sweater and shave her legs; full makeover ala Princess Diaries ensues and we discover she’s stunning
· I tell N—— K—- to date my exboyfriend, because he’s popular, and she cares about that stuff.
· I form an all-girl singing group called Artificial Flavaz (I’m already blushing, no need to tell me how hard you LOLed) with the girls in my circle, and I write some songs, record the different harmonies on different tapes for them to learn, and we meet at N—— K—-’s house for singing and choreography rehearsals. Eventually, N—— K—-’s mom tells us we’ll never make it, and she nags N—— K—- into disinterest. “Party All Nite” never hits radios worldwide.
· Probably because I was annoyed, I suggest throwing a party at her parents’ house when they’re out of town, and N—— K—- gets her cousin to agree to pick up guests in the limo her dad had bought at an auction to make money on the side. I tell my parents I’m spending the night at the K—-’s but the limo never arrives, and I later find out the party hadn’t been cancelled like she had eventually called to tell me. I find this out the following Monday in class, after I overheard kids eagerly share details about how Robbie got the most wasted , thereby ruining any chance for me to develop healthy relationships with girls in the near future.
· I stop talking to N—— K—- and, eventually, even all the girls in my circle. The library, with its literature and fashion magazines, becomes my friend.
· I get a boyfriend, somehow, I have no idea how this happened, and he encourages me to confront her. I do, and she ignores me.
· Drag race. At some point, our cars were trampling over lawns (it was ugly).
· I hear she dropped out or got expelled or something that means I don’t have to see her on a daily basis. I’m secretly (maybe openly) thrilled to hear she’s doing poorly.
· When I’m at USC, she friends me on MySpace and starts sending me wall comments along the lines of “Miss YoU! Rememmber Artifical Flavors!” and “LUFFF YOU I can’t wait to see you, let’s hang!” Eventually she moves the conversation over onto private message, and I’m like, fuck it. I give her my number. Three weeks later she calls. We’re talking for about two minutes, when the line goes dead. I don’t hear from her for several days, when she private messages me to say, “I’m so sorrrrrry! I dropped my phone in the toilet! FUCK!” I ask my new boyfriend at the time if that’s weird.
· Several months pass and she asks for my number again. I give it to her and we text to meet up. In my inflated nervousness and state of terror, I purchase a Marc Jacobs bag worth twice my rent and plead my boyfriend to let me borrow his Bentley. Doesn’t matter. She stands me up.
· A year passes and she starts messaging me that she’s leaving for Bangladesh, and could I please visit her there in February? Part of me wishes I could afford to fly there, if only to say I’ve been to Bangladesh, but I don’t go. In February, random pictures start showing up of her in Indian wedding garb. Her husband is only a few years older and handsome. While she never outright admits she had an arranged marriage, she friends me on Facebook and sends me a note saying she’s in Montreal all of a sudden. I stop hearing from altogether, and soon after, her MySpace and Facebook accounts are deactivated.
· Months pass before I randomly get a message from her suddenly reactivated account with the words remember my ex? I say no. The account gets deactivated again.
· At some point, long after I have stopped trying to make sure she is ok, she messages me and says she’s back in our hometown for good. If I want to, she says, I’m free to say hello at The Elephant Bar where she is training to be a bartender. Other days, she can be found working as a waitress at TGIF. I’m very happy, for some reason, to hear she is ok.
· About a year passes before I eventually call her to say I’m in town and can meet up. I drive to the same house where we held band practice over a decade ago. Over a bottle of wine, she fills me in on her life since she left for Bangladesh; how she tried to be happy as a wife but was expected to cook and clean and not drink and she had to smoke cigarettes in the bathroom standing on top of the toilet by the air vent. He moved her into his parent’s home, for some help in preserving their marriage, but it wasn’t happening, so he hit her. He also hacked into her Facebook accounts. For that, she said she had to visit her family for her birthday, and then she never went back. She quickly found a job as a bartender where she met Almost Donald Sutherland, an alcoholic entrepreneur who bought her a BMW, her implants, and an apartment, and also who eventually turned out to be married and still fucking his wife. It was not this, nor the fact that champagne was his (and eventually her) breakfast, lunch, and dinner, that dismayed her, though; it was the way he literally ran and ditched her when his wife confronted N—— K—- and the way he ran and ditched her at a Ralph’s in Palm Springs when his personal assistant emailed him a photo of N—— K—- “hugging” a guy (I’m sure she wouldn’t lie or anything like THAT). This last maneuver left her entire face bruised and swollen, because as she tried to run after him to hop into his Escalade, he locked the passenger door and stepped on the gas, lurching her onto her face at some miles per hour. The Palm Springs Police were not, upon reviewing the parking lot tapes, happy.
· She leaves him and goes back to live with her mother. This is where I eventually, after almost ten years, sit down with her to catch up. She already has a new boyfriend, whom she loathes.
· For the next several weeks, I get calls and texts at all hours of the night and day, sometimes in dire need of something, like a ride or place to hide out because of her current boyfriend’s rage, but whenever I ask for directions or start the car, the line goes dead, and I don’t hear from her for several days.
· After several months of this, she calls me and asks me to visit her at the Mission Inn.
[4] See fourth bulletpoint in FN3.
[5] How does a hotel with three major restaurants, a lounge, a chapel, a spa, a boutique, a museum, catacombs, and pool run out of champagne splits? I dunno, but the bartender went across the street to Mario’s to see what they could borrow.
[6] Maybe the right phrase is step-sister-in-cosmos
[7] This is my problem. I need to stick to assholes, because I’m an asshole. And raise my standards to an incredibly specific degree, to keep me on my toes.
[8] A sport I have perfected. Major leagues.
[9] Has own car, house, two dogs, totally available, and a police officer in Long Beach. (Uniform!) Also, loves babies. Awesome.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lemv8kNDMP1qzxa5bo1_400.jpg)
On BFFs, Frenemies, and Wackquaintance
BFFs
I’ve written about her before, because for me, she was That One Friend, a person who is probably an angel, probably actually a sister-by-cosmos. Parting from her had been so painful that we avoided saying good-bye altogether[1]. Now I have no idea where she is[2].
Wackquaintance
Use this word when there’s someone in your life that maintains your curiosity, someone for whom you feel a fondness or connection, but about whom you will always struggle to understand; why do they say and do the things they do? One way of knowing you have a wackquaintance is if the individual disappears for long stretches of time, and then reappears when there’s cheese and wine and a chance to dress up sparkly (always to a roaringly epic time, though). Also, if that individual repeatedly has recollection (of events) that differ greatly from yours/others. The main distinction between these individuals and acquaintanceship with others is that, while the affection is the same, others are less colorful and more reliable and have a stronger grip on reality. Therefore, making wackquaintance with a flavorful personality is a good way of adding depth to your social repertoire.
Frenemies
As someone so weary, so wary, there’s only one way this could have happened. Her name is N—— K—-, and we were twelve when we met. I’m trying to compile a list of things that happened to me, to her, and another list of things that happened to the both of us[3], to explain how it came to be that on one of those hot September days when I’m in my hometown, in spite of everything, I accept her invitation to spend the day with her at The Mission Inn. But it’s hard to give an accurate picture of our frenemship, because at one point I considered her my BFF, she considered me her frenemy, and it was all actually just a wackquaintance I eventually forgot about until, years long after The Formative Trauma[4], her older hotter boyfriend taunted my moronic, younger boyfriend into a drag-race (while I was in the car). That’s when she became someone I LOVED to hate, and, also, hated that I cared about her not dying in an alley somewhere.
She calls and says, “Come for a drink,” so I arrive at The Mission Inn around 3:30 in the afternoon, teetering on teal and silver platforms, maxi dress filling me statuesque, and I saunter into the dark and velvet lobby. The Inn always bustles, but on this burnt three-day weekend in the almost-desert, entire families swarm the pool and spa, couples drink margaritas in the shade by the caged parrots, ladies lunch in the cool of the dim steakhouse. She’d told me to meet her at the Inn’s bar, the Presidential Lounge, where I hunch over a glass of wine until she arrives; when she does, she is led first by breast implants. She’s in shorts and a tank and hoodie but mainly her accessory is the implants. She’s not made up and her eyes shift with embarrassment as she acknowledges my dress. I wave it off, but I’m also insecure, always taken aback by her beauty.
The first thing she says is, “Don’t say anything, he’s coming down to sit with us.” I fill in the gaps of information, realizing I’m about to meet her benefactor, a man I was told looks like “the scientist guy from Back to the Future”. She explains that they’ve been living here for a couple of weeks, no departure date set, having come by way of a seedy motel they’d been living for an even longer period. These are the reasons I stick around, to see how other people—especially, who are not stable, who do not have 9-5’s, with strong destructive impulses, who require reserved or merciful judgments—live. My writerly instinct is to observe and not try to change a damn thing.
When he comes down to sit with us, I stand and shake his hand, and he doesn’t look at all like Christopher Lloyd; he looks like Donald Sutherland if Donald Sutherland had blood-shot eyes and hair down to his biceps. He is in basketball shorts and a sleeveless jersey that bares his multi-tattooed arms, enormous intricate pieces drawn during his Royal Navy days, all of which are turned blue from black with age. His accent is a thick, British crackling noise that becomes harder and harder to understand as we enjoy champagne split after split. Eventually, the bar runs out of champagne[5] and Almost Donald Sutherland retires to leave us to our lady talk. We decide to visit the pool, where she takes in the last of the burning sky on a deck chair. I swim a few laps, the halcyon blue of the water as temperate as the electric air. Palm trees, palm trees. When we’re done, it’s back to the bar.
Part of the reason it’s significant for me to write about this and her is that when I eventually hung out with her several months prior to the Inn, I felt like I was again in front of a possible sister-by-cosmos[6]; she was scarily relatable. It’s not that her stories were general and funny, because they were actually specific and tragic and miserable. But that’s me. I tell stories like that. In fact, her stories are so much like mine, told with the same desperate fear and vanity, from the same level of esteem for ourselves—that is to say, low—, that it was almost like I now know what I would’ve been like if I had been born to different people. The way she spoke of being in love with Almost Donald Sutherland, an alcoholic, perverted parasite who cares little for her inner life, reminded me of the ways I’ve deluded myself about men. Holly Golightly and Lorelei Lee, dipped in darkness, traipsing as members of Generation Why Not. How does a girl get into so much trouble and not be the only one getting inasmuch? More importantly, how long have I been a fuck-up on a scale proportionate to N—— K—-?
We begin by talking about fashion and shopping; my present (though short-lived) job is a fashion editor for a start-up. She’s living out of suitcases. “Can you please take me shopping tomorrow? I need help. I hate shopping, but I need to look nice. I don’t, like, know how. And”—she shrugs—“You clearly know.” I’ve lived out of suitcases a lot, too, so I say I’m happy to help. I ask her how she fills her days, and she talks a little bit about visiting the spa, going for walks; after a while, she remembers she is reading a book by Deepak Chopra.
Upon driving here, I had promised myself to let her offer her stories organically, and it’s here that she finally mentions that she had met, at some point since I last saw her, a handsome surfer with a bit of money, a lot more baggage. One particular night, when he got so drunk he scared her she called the only person crazy enough to think he could rescue her: Almost Donald Sutherland. She’s been motel-hotel-hopping ever since.
“Well. What do you want to do with your life?” I ask her.
“I don’t know what I’m good at. Maybe I’ll be a nurse. [Girl from High School] makes a really good living being a nurse.”
I really want to tell her picking careers isn’t like trying on an outfit your friend is wearing, but what the fuck do I know about careers. I nod my head comfortingly.
We start talking about men and what we prefer in coupling. I told her I prefer a genuinely nice guy, outer traits/income variable[7]. She points to a guy in a suit who’s just walked in with his friend, and says, “OH. MY.” She leans forward and turns to me. “GOD.” And then, “Can I have some of him?” too loudly and he looks our way.
She wants to know how we can talk to him. The lounge is basically empty. Easy. “Watch.” I stand up, and without looking at him, say clearly to N—— K—-, “I’m going to go get some cigarettes.” When I come back with a fresh pack, the two are talking to her, as expected, but the guy in a suit asks to bum a cigarette as I head outside. I text N—— K—- to come out with us, that she should talk to him in my stead. But, once she and his friend (who turns out to be his brother) join us, she just stands there, hands in her pocket, looking away. I’ve always known that, as a result of not making friends with girls, I know very well how to talk to men[8], but I didn’t realize that the inverse would be true for other people. When I discover this guy is a veritable catch[9], I use N—— K—-’s name as often as I can, to help her find footing in the conversation, but she’s jiggling her leg and looking down the street, not looking at him, even though she later hisses, “SO HOT,” through clenched teeth as we make our way back indoors.
We come back outside once more for a cigarette break, but, eventually, our friends have to make their way back to the wedding reception where they’re supposed to be giving toasts, but they want to meet up later. I’m pretty happy with myself at the notion of having succeeded in getting N—— K—- Suit-Guy’s number, and as he’s ready to give it, I feign difficulty locating my phone. I gesture at her with my head, but she shakes her head, and I end up storing the number myself. After he’s left, she admits she wants his number, but doesn’t want Almost Donald Sutherland to find the number in her cell. I realize the outcome would be that he would stop paying for the champagne splits and hotel stays, which are mainly for her, because he has his own properties. At this point, she’s ready to dress for dinner so she leads me upstairs to the suite; past red-tiles, stucco walls, thick wood beams. I take dozens of pictures with my phone of the view on the enormous rooftop where the suites are located off to the side by a garden; a little neighborhood of arched doorways, greenery, decadent mosaic, and the periwinkle tint of the extinguishing day in the distance. Downstairs, someone is getting married.
When we enter the suite, the bathroom door is open and we can see Almost Donald Sutherland through the doorway standing near the one-person balcony attached to the bathroom; he’s holding a pipe to his lips, his back turned away from the door. Stenched plumes escape as he exhales. N—— K—- rolls her eyes. When he reclines on the bed, the crook of his right arm cradles his head, resting on the pillow, and his other hand attempts to maneuver the remote control. N—— K—- and I rummage through her suitcase, where I locate a beautiful one-shoulder gauzy dress of lavender which she’s worn only once. She showers, and I putter around the suite. He offers me a hit by waving his arm toward the pipe, near the stainless steel ice bucket where a full bottle has been chilling.
When N—— K—- declares herself dinner-ready, I almost don’t believe what she’s said about needing help with doing herself up. If her confusion is disingenuous, she had me fooled. I compliment her hair and makeup. “See? You know stuff,” I say “You don’t need anyone, especially not me.” She is silent. The three of us open the bottle and stand around deciding what to eat. I let them discuss it, as I’ll probably run into problems, because I’m trying to eat vegan. They decide to eat at one of the restaurants on-site, an outdoor Mexican food restaurant comprising part of the hotel’s façade. The wait being 40 minutes, we return to the Presidential Lounge, which is now packed with older professional-types enjoying the jazz band in the corner. We decide to try the watermelon margaritas, and by now I’m familiar with the contempt that registers on N—— K—-’s face when Almost Donald Sutherland cracks a flat or inappropriate joke; she nods her head to face away from him, sometimes muttering through a closed mouth. On the second round of margaritas, we’re summoned to a table in a corner where we feel the balmy Riverside night on our shoulders. The menu is trouble, and I don’t know if I should order anything at all. I prefer to pay for my own dinner, always, but especially if I’m undecided about whom I’m dining with. I don’t want to pay $20 for lettuce and tomato.
They order, and I don’t, apologizing for being so specific about my meals. I decide to make up for it by entertaining my hosts with stories as they eat. I tell them about hiring interns, holding auditions for casting a TV show, living in Santa Monica. At some point I realize N—— K—- is not looking at me, her food, nor benefactor. She’s jiggling her leg again, and not saying anything. I’m probably too inebriated to be talking, I think. So I stop talking. And now, no one is talking. I look at Almost Donald Sutherland, cocking my head. He clears his throat and asks a general question. I look at N—— K—- as I reply, and decide to make it a short answer. Eventually, after dizzying minutes of silence, she starts talking about how she hates to waste so much food, and asks for a box. She hasn’t brought her fork to the plate once.
“Maybe you should eat it all.”
“I mean, this is really, just so. Why do they make the portions like this? So big? It’s so fucked up. There are kids starving around the world. I mean. I just. It’s so wrong. Starving. They’re dying.”
I see I’ve messed up by not eating with her. “No, no. This is not how you fix it, by not eating.”
“I just don’t. It’s so sad, and here we are, just, we don’t even care. We should care!”
“You’re a very caring person.” I look to Almost Donald Sutherland for help, but he’s seen this before apparently, he’s leaning back, picking food out of his teeth.
We go around like this, discussing starving dying kids, N—— K—- glaring at the white box of food in front of her. Eventually she jumps up. Ladies Room time. Here’s another fun fact I don’t know already, from having spent very little time with women: I’m supposed to attend the restroom with her. Almost Donald Sutherland suggests I go.
“Is she ok?”
“I think she’s feeling a little insecure, it’s going to get worse in a bit.”
“OH!” I jump up.
I run into the bathroom. Nothing. I walk into the Presidential Lounge. The boutique is closed. I walk all flights of stairs, peering down each floor hallway, each dark wood-paneled interior, mysterious, chambered, and reticent, like a secret the hotel gives its passing guests. The entire time, her phone doesn’t yield to my persistence.
Eventually, I run into Suit Guy, who’s taking a break from the reception. “I was looking for you,” he says.
“Oh, really, well, actually, I’m looking for my friend right now. Have you seen her?”
“No. But. I’m about to leave.” Then, “Wanna meet my mom?”
What is this night?
“Sure.”
I take his arm, and he leads me out by the caged parrots, where his mom, a short, smiling woman, is waiting. Pleasantries are exchanged, after which she tells him she’ll be with his dad at the valet.
“So. It was lovely meeting you. Can I take you out some time?”
Crap. “Aw, thank you. But the whole boyfriend thing, you remember.”
“Yeah, but here’s the thing. He didn’t bring you to a family wedding. That’s where he is, right?”
“Exactly. In Arizona. He didn’t invite me.”
“Well, l think, that’s a faux pas. I mean, you just met my mom. Weddings are the place. In such a beautiful place, like this, beautiful things happen. If you decide it’s a faux pas, too, I can take you anywhere you want. Where do you want to go?”
Behind him, a tour of the mission begins at the parrots, where they are being taken out of the cages.
“The zoo,” I say. Why hasn’t N—— K—- walked by or called me?
“The zoo? Done. You’re an animal-lover, right? Vegetarian?”
“Yeah, I’m always hanging desperately onto my vegetarianism.”
“Well, no disrespect to your boyfriend, but I hope to hear from you.” I say good-bye, and turn on my heel, locating a corner to sit. As I wait to figure out what to do next, I think about what the hell has happened since I first met N—— K—- and why I feel kindred chaos as much as I think she’s nuts. I feel like I’ve pulled this stunt before, whatever she’s feeling, to someone else, perhaps; I may know a little bit about it. I can’t really be sure, though, because she’s disappeared, and I can’t ask her. At this point, I call my brother for a ride home. I’m getting the hell out of this beautiful place.
The next morning, I get texts and voicemails apologizing (“I’m SO sorry I flipped out” and “Please call or text are you ok” and “I was immature…It’s my relationship with [Almost Donald Sutherland], it has spawned this insecurity….”) I wait several hours to reply, to make her suffer a little bit. And that’s the difference between frenemies and other types of relationships. They all require permission to be a part of one’s life, but with frenemies, the worst comes out in a person, and only rarely is it mixed with a little shot of you at your best.
-2011
[1] Does anyone else DO these things?
[2] If you know of a Shikha Saberdwahal, please contact me at my cell 24/7 or text me “911 I found her!!!” I pray this happens one day, because, oh, of course, I would make friends with someone who so violently detests technology.
[3] Circumstances Necessary For Me To Waste My Time Like This With N—— K—- When I Already Need To Focus On My Established Meaningful Friendships
· N—— K—- and I meet in choir class at Chemawa Middle School and I insist she stop wearing her baggy green sweater and shave her legs; full makeover ala Princess Diaries ensues and we discover she’s stunning
· I tell N—— K—- to date my exboyfriend, because he’s popular, and she cares about that stuff.
· I form an all-girl singing group called Artificial Flavaz (I’m already blushing, no need to tell me how hard you LOLed) with the girls in my circle, and I write some songs, record the different harmonies on different tapes for them to learn, and we meet at N—— K—-’s house for singing and choreography rehearsals. Eventually, N—— K—-’s mom tells us we’ll never make it, and she nags N—— K—- into disinterest. “Party All Nite” never hits radios worldwide.
· Probably because I was annoyed, I suggest throwing a party at her parents’ house when they’re out of town, and N—— K—- gets her cousin to agree to pick up guests in the limo her dad had bought at an auction to make money on the side. I tell my parents I’m spending the night at the K—-’s but the limo never arrives, and I later find out the party hadn’t been cancelled like she had eventually called to tell me. I find this out the following Monday in class, after I overheard kids eagerly share details about how Robbie got the most wasted , thereby ruining any chance for me to develop healthy relationships with girls in the near future.
· I stop talking to N—— K—- and, eventually, even all the girls in my circle. The library, with its literature and fashion magazines, becomes my friend.
· I get a boyfriend, somehow, I have no idea how this happened, and he encourages me to confront her. I do, and she ignores me.
· Drag race. At some point, our cars were trampling over lawns (it was ugly).
· I hear she dropped out or got expelled or something that means I don’t have to see her on a daily basis. I’m secretly (maybe openly) thrilled to hear she’s doing poorly.
· When I’m at USC, she friends me on MySpace and starts sending me wall comments along the lines of “Miss YoU! Rememmber Artifical Flavors!” and “LUFFF YOU I can’t wait to see you, let’s hang!” Eventually she moves the conversation over onto private message, and I’m like, fuck it. I give her my number. Three weeks later she calls. We’re talking for about two minutes, when the line goes dead. I don’t hear from her for several days, when she private messages me to say, “I’m so sorrrrrry! I dropped my phone in the toilet! FUCK!” I ask my new boyfriend at the time if that’s weird.
· Several months pass and she asks for my number again. I give it to her and we text to meet up. In my inflated nervousness and state of terror, I purchase a Marc Jacobs bag worth twice my rent and plead my boyfriend to let me borrow his Bentley. Doesn’t matter. She stands me up.
· A year passes and she starts messaging me that she’s leaving for Bangladesh, and could I please visit her there in February? Part of me wishes I could afford to fly there, if only to say I’ve been to Bangladesh, but I don’t go. In February, random pictures start showing up of her in Indian wedding garb. Her husband is only a few years older and handsome. While she never outright admits she had an arranged marriage, she friends me on Facebook and sends me a note saying she’s in Montreal all of a sudden. I stop hearing from altogether, and soon after, her MySpace and Facebook accounts are deactivated.
· Months pass before I randomly get a message from her suddenly reactivated account with the words remember my ex? I say no. The account gets deactivated again.
· At some point, long after I have stopped trying to make sure she is ok, she messages me and says she’s back in our hometown for good. If I want to, she says, I’m free to say hello at The Elephant Bar where she is training to be a bartender. Other days, she can be found working as a waitress at TGIF. I’m very happy, for some reason, to hear she is ok.
· About a year passes before I eventually call her to say I’m in town and can meet up. I drive to the same house where we held band practice over a decade ago. Over a bottle of wine, she fills me in on her life since she left for Bangladesh; how she tried to be happy as a wife but was expected to cook and clean and not drink and she had to smoke cigarettes in the bathroom standing on top of the toilet by the air vent. He moved her into his parent’s home, for some help in preserving their marriage, but it wasn’t happening, so he hit her. He also hacked into her Facebook accounts. For that, she said she had to visit her family for her birthday, and then she never went back. She quickly found a job as a bartender where she met Almost Donald Sutherland, an alcoholic entrepreneur who bought her a BMW, her implants, and an apartment, and also who eventually turned out to be married and still fucking his wife. It was not this, nor the fact that champagne was his (and eventually her) breakfast, lunch, and dinner, that dismayed her, though; it was the way he literally ran and ditched her when his wife confronted N—— K—- and the way he ran and ditched her at a Ralph’s in Palm Springs when his personal assistant emailed him a photo of N—— K—- “hugging” a guy (I’m sure she wouldn’t lie or anything like THAT). This last maneuver left her entire face bruised and swollen, because as she tried to run after him to hop into his Escalade, he locked the passenger door and stepped on the gas, lurching her onto her face at some miles per hour. The Palm Springs Police were not, upon reviewing the parking lot tapes, happy.
· She leaves him and goes back to live with her mother. This is where I eventually, after almost ten years, sit down with her to catch up. She already has a new boyfriend, whom she loathes.
· For the next several weeks, I get calls and texts at all hours of the night and day, sometimes in dire need of something, like a ride or place to hide out because of her current boyfriend’s rage, but whenever I ask for directions or start the car, the line goes dead, and I don’t hear from her for several days.
· After several months of this, she calls me and asks me to visit her at the Mission Inn.
[4] See fourth bulletpoint in FN3.
[5] How does a hotel with three major restaurants, a lounge, a chapel, a spa, a boutique, a museum, catacombs, and pool run out of champagne splits? I dunno, but the bartender went across the street to Mario’s to see what they could borrow.
[6] Maybe the right phrase is step-sister-in-cosmos
[7] This is my problem. I need to stick to assholes, because I’m an asshole. And raise my standards to an incredibly specific degree, to keep me on my toes.
[8] A sport I have perfected. Major leagues.
[9] Has own car, house, two dogs, totally available, and a police officer in Long Beach. (Uniform!) Also, loves babies. Awesome.
