Chapter Twelve

F*ck-Ups Three-Hundred-Eight through Three-Fifty-Six

Lying to Yash, Ethel and Some Patchouli-Stinking Scumbag

 

 

 

Mel, Yash and I pulled up to my apartment building. Oh, excuse me—

308. My and Mel’s apartment building

Mel jumped from the cab and sprinted to the door. I followed with my eyes, puzzled and anxious, until I realized that she now stood squarely in front of the buzzers, which listed me as D. Kostopoulos.

309. Good thing I had an accomplice

310. Who was smarter than I

I shoved Moaning Myrtle into Yash’s arms to distract him while I paid for the cab. I hurried after him just in time to hear him ask, “Do you not have keys?” to Mel.

“She’s always forgetting them or losing them,” I offered.

I let us in and we proceeded to the elevator.

“Yes, I’m a total idiot,” Mel agreed. “I can’t even clean a bathroom, so Giselle has to do it. Forever.”

Yash laughed and stood before us, facing the doors, holding the cat a foot in front of him. I clutched my stomach. Mel kicked me. I was going to get an ulcer and a clot from this adventure. And dishpan hands afterward. Today had already been such a carnival of emotions, I think I left my lungs on the Ferris wheel and my kidney in the fun house.

311. Life had become a clown car, and I was driving Bozo off a cliff

We piled into my place. The moment we got in, Mel ran to confiscate the ‘me’ in the apartment. After she kicked me in the butt. Literally.

I rubbed the smarting area in question and grabbed Yash’s arm as he began to walk by. He handed Myrtle’s box back to me with obvious relief. I said, “Let’s—let’s start her out in the kitchen.”

Without explaining why—

312. Less evidence in there

—I pushed Yash that direction. We went through the swinging door and I set her box down and sat next to it. I tapped the floor, and Yash sank straight into sitting cross-legged. I opened Myrtle’s prison to release her into her new home!

I opened the box and waited. And waited. We stared at the box, but no kitty head appeared over the lip. We stared. Yash sighed. We stared. Maybe she’d gotten too used to life on the inside.

I took her moment of reticence to clean up my cat scratches. I was gaining new burns, marks, and scars at an alarming rate. The fast lane was rife with dangers.

When I’d finished, Yash started to rise. “I could use a—”

“No!” I yanked him to the floor, a lot harder than I’d intended. He yelped in pain—guess everyone would have an ass clot by the end of the day. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be so rough.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “If you want to be rough with me, at least ask if I prefer to be blindfolded first.”

I smiled, then I thought about that…

“Uh,” I gasped, out of breath, “you stay with the cat. I’m going to get the litter box and stuff.”

“What? No! I—”

“Would you like to set up the poop box?”

His face fell as he contemplated these horrific options. He sported the most disgruntled eyebrows I’d ever seen, even from Mel. “I’ll stay,” he finally offered. Clearly, only the promise of one kind of pussy kept him in the presence of the other.

“Thank you, you wonderful, giving, handsome man.”

He grunted.

“Here—” I grabbed him a beer from the fridge. “Here’s a better thank you. I’ll do everything. Just sit tight.” I backed away. “Sit. Right there. Just…”

Mel peeked her head in and gave me a look.

“Sit!” I ordered Yash.

“Woof,” he replied with another look.

313. Oh, quit judging me

314. Like you never lied to everyone about everything all the time

I laughed it off with a charming head toss and ran through the swinging door.

Mel met me in the living room, where my ancient landlady, Ethel, stood. Oh sh—

“Dagmar,” she said in entirely too loud a voice. “What was that I saw going up in the elevator?”

“My two friends,” I said. “They’re with me—I vouch for them.” I tossed my head again, but it didn’t seem to appeal to her the way it did Yash.

“There was an animal carrier, Dagmar.”

Holy hell. Every time she said my name, it seemed to get louder. This lady couldn’t walk past three doors in the building without wheezing—how did she have the stage projection of Meryl Streep?

“Yes, I got a cat,” I whispered. I drew Ethel away from the kitchen. “It was a spontaneous decision today—isn’t it wonderful when we rescue helpless animals from being butchered and murdered?”

Her lips tightened.

Guess not.

Ethel said, “Dagmar.” Why. Must. She. Keep. Saying. It? “You need to pay a pet deposit and fill out the necessary forms.”

“I’m so, so happy to,” I assured her. I wound my arm around her shoulders and started us toward the front door. “I have cash on hand. I’ll bring it down to your apartment in no time and sign those papers.”

She nodded and finally smiled. “It’s five hundred, and I’ll be waiting.”

“Five hundred dollars?” That was all my emergency cash. This Myrtle had better bring the purring and unconditional love shit ASAP. “Uh, yes, of course.”

Yash pushed through the kitchen door. “What’s five hundred?”

I gasped. Mel gasped. Ethel gave him a lusty once-over.

Words blurted from my mouth. “The pet deposit. I’m taking care of it. You please look after Moan—”

Ethel made a rickety beeline for Yash. “Who is this? A new boyfriend?”

Yash smiled a wide, winning, landladies-love-me grin. “Uh, just a new friend of the roommates here.”

Ethel turned slowly toward me. “Roommate?”

315. No!

316. Nooooooooooooo!

I burst into laughter, the kind they ship you to Bellevue for. “Why…the cat, of course! New kitty roommate!”

Ethel laughed because Yash was laughing. I was laughing because I’d jump out of the window otherwise. I took Ethel firmly by the shoulders and opened the front door. “I’ll be by with that money.”

I grinned when I closed the door on her.

317. Which totally made it better

Mel whooshed out a long breath—her face had become a horrible shade of purple. I had a feeling I resembled a distraught blueberry myself.

I clutched my racing heart and turned back to Yash. “I have to deal with the pet deposit. How’s Moaning Myrtle?”

“She’s peeking up over the edge of the box.”

“Progress!”

He shrugged. “Why don’t you come in and be with her? Maybe Mel can take the money to your landlady.”

Yes, that would be a great plan, if Mel lived here. She couldn’t sign my lease addendum.

I shot a panicked gaze to Mel. She said, her voice full of venom, “Uh… I… I…hate that bitch Ethel!”

Yash’s eyes went big.

Mel licked her lips. “Yes. That horrible gold-digging, homewrecker lured my…uncle out of his happy marriage and then ruined his life! I’d own this building myself if it weren’t for that hussy.” Mel turned away, her hands clutched around her stomach. Her shoulders shook. Obviously, she was overwhelmed with the emotion that came with telling such a tale.

That emotion being laughter, of course.

My beau backed away from the both of us, which was the only sensible thing for him to do, really. “I’ll… I’ll just…” He licked his lips. “Beer.” He exited into the kitchen.

I let out a huge breath and Mel flopped onto the wooden chair near the door.

Mel grinned and whispered, “And the award for best performance by a fake roommate goes to…”

“Thank you,” I replied.

“You will now be scrubbing my oven. I have never cleaned it, and a burning smell happens every time I use it.”

I put a hitch in my voice. “But I’ll be at your house so much that Moaning Myrtle is going to be a latch key kitty.”

“You made your cat bed, now lie in it. Get it? Lie?” She slapped her knee.

I gave her comedy routine a C-minus at best. I asked, “So—how’s the apartment cleansing going?”

She nodded. “The mail is hidden in your closet—you should open your mail more often.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much. Okay, will you please go and watch Yash while I sign the cat papers?”

“My floors need a serious mopping.”

“Argh! Okay! You know, the next time you lie horrifically to your boyfriend and expect me to participate in an elaborate, time-wasting ruse, I’m going to charge you cash.”

Cash. What a good idea!” She grinned wickedly. “I have a five-hundred-dollar deposit for future shenanigans.”

“I’m ruined.” I yanked my emergency cash out of the hollow book in my bookcase.

She sauntered over to me, a maddening smirk on her kisser. “And…boyfriend?”

Before I could digest that Freudian slip, Yash stuck his head through the door. “Did I hear the word boyfriend? Do you have a secret, Giselle?”

I froze.

“Do you have a secret boyfriend?” he continued with a cheeky grin.

Whew. I grasped at my chest again. This day was going to give me a heart attack.

318. I had hoped that today I might die of orgasm overload

“Maybe I do, and maybe I don’t,” I said.

“All right.” He came slowly toward me, that look in his eyes. No, not that one, the good one. The very, very good one.

319. The one that ended up with me ass over head

His perfectly executed panther stalk ended right next to me. “Any other secrets, mysterious Giselle?” he whispered into my ear.

I shivered.

Mel said, “Oh, barf. I’d rather watch the kitten poop.” She grabbed the litter box and huffed into the kitchen.

Yash yanked me into his arms. “I thought these people would never leave.” He planted a hot, dirty kiss to my open lips and…and…grrfflsh ajdjdhdhha unnffffff.

320. Maybe I could write a literary erotic novel

321. The hero threw the hussy onto the couch and grrfflsh ajdjdhdhha unnffffff-ed her

When he let my dizzy body up for air, he said against my mouth. “Can I at least be in the running for the boyfriend position? My résumé special skills section is most excellent.”

Let’s make something perfectly clear:

322. What I said next wasn’t my fault

323. It was the hormones released from such good kissing

324. Such sexy, nasty, sweet kissing

325. The kind of kissing that kills everyone in a Shakespearean tragedy

326. It was his perfect butt’s fault

327. It was the economy’s fault

328. It was caused by the big bang billions of years ago!

329. It just plain was not my fault when I said…

“Yes, please be my boyfriend.”

A crash sounded from the general area of the kitchen, and I knew Mel had heard. Or maybe God had heard, and he was breaking my collection of Beyoncé coffee mugs to teach me a lesson.

330. A lesson I’d soon forget

“Giselle,” Yash said, “you are really starting to drive me crazy.” He picked me clear off the ground and held me to him. I clung to those giant shoulders like a life raft in the Waterworld my life had become.

331. My life had a forty-two percent rotten rating at rottentomatoes.com

Mel stuck her head into the room. “You’d better take that cash to Ethel, Giselle. She’s a lying Jezebel getting in over her head, you know.”

Yash was really starting to regard Mel as if she had a few screws loose.

332. Ironic, for it was my loose screwing that had gotten us into this situation

“Yes,” I chirped. “You two play nice,” I told her and only her.

It took about fifteen minutes to give Ethel the pet deposit, sign the lease addendum, and dodge her highly invasive questions about Yash. Look, I appreciated the fact that she was old and didn’t give a crap about anyone’s opinion, but I still think there’s no age at which “How big is his cock?” is an appropriate question.

I raced back up to the apartment as fast as the elevator would climb. When I pushed into the kitchen, Moaning Myrtle sat in Mel’s lap swiping at a catnip mouse dangling from two of Yash’s fingers.

Relieved as all get out, I fell against the kitchen door. And crashed through it straight onto my behind. “Ow!” I yelled, pain jarring from my tailbone through my skull. I rolled onto my side and clutched my butt with my free hand, certain I’d never sit pooperly again. Or properly. Aaaaagh ooohhhhh.

“Are you okay?” my people asked in unison on either side of me.

I burst into laughter. “Yes. Oh, hell, that hurts.”

“Your ass is going to be as black and blue as my shins,” Mel said, rubbing my affected area.

“Thanks, bestie. It takes a real woman to rub her friend’s butt.”

“Any time, Jezebel. Whoops, I mispronounced ‘Giselle.’”

I felt a scratchy, wet spot on my forehead, and I opened my eyes to see Myrtle sitting right in front of my face. Her soft, gray fur fluffed every which way—she looked too adorable to really exist. Kind of like Yash. She licked my forehead again and I giggled. “Thanks, Myrtle, darling.”

Yash took my hand and helped me to sit up. It hurt, but was bearable. I held out my palm to Myrtle, who sniffed at me and began to lick my fingers.

Two adult humans in the room said, “Awwwwwwwww.” The third abstained.

Myrtle allowed me to pick her up, so I collected her into my lap. Her purr was a hoarse, wee motor boat and made us all laugh. My entire being seemed to want to burst with happiness. My best friend at my side. An adorable new companion. And a boyfriend so hot he melted my butter.

Butter-melter fixed a butter-melting stare on me. He smiled. I smiled. He asked, “What does the ‘D’ stand for?”

“What?” I asked.

He pointed to the wall. Where my giant ‘D’ hung.

I whipped my head to Mel—Dagmar elimination had been her job!

Mel whipped her gaze to the cat, and ignored me to pet her, the traitor.

I said… I said… “It’s Mel’s.” Ha! Take that!

Yash smiled while he awaited a no doubt colorful explanation.

My best friend lifted her head and gave me a death stare. At this rate, I would be Mel’s indentured maidservant for the rest of time, and in the grave, I’d have to polish her bones.

Mel took a long, deep breath. “It stands for…” she said, “for…d-d-d-d…dddddd…Daniel Craig! Yeah, Daniel Craig. Because he’s so hot—he inspires all my fanfic. Which is what I write. Because I’m a writer. Like Giselle told the cat people.”

“Yup!” I blurted.

Myrtle leaped from my arms and bolted behind Yash.

“Help!” Yash blurted while dancing away.

“Be brave, Yash, and she might not eat you.” Oh, who was I kidding? I wanted to run at Yash too.

And lick him, like Myrtle was now doing to his shoe.

333. But I didn’t

Yash turned to Mel. “I’m a writer too. Have you been published?”

Mel looked askance at me and picked up Myrtle, who was a little storm cloud of loving fluffy wuffy widdle biddle adorableness!

334. I am killing this crazy cat lady thing

“Nope, not published,” Mel said. “But I’ll get there someday. I have a popular blog, see…” She took the cat back into the kitchen while loudly hinting that anyone who wanted to grope another person in the house should stay out of the kitchen to do so.

Yash slid his arms around me from behind. “She couldn’t have possibly meant us?”

“Of course not. Everyone wants to watch us kiss.”

He spun me around and pulled me into his hips. He began slowly pumping them against mine, and my brain began to slide out of my ears.

“Hey, Giselle?” he started.

“That’s definitely my name.”

“Will you do me a favor?”

He brushed his lips across the nape of my neck. I shivered from head to humping hips. “I will do you all the favors.”

His laugh tickled my collarbone and I died, the end.

He asked, “Will you put on your air hostess outfit for me? I need to rip it off you.”

335. “Sure, baby”

A loud cackling sounded from the kitchen door, and I wondered why Mel was making that obnoxious sound and oh, God, what the hell had I just agreed to do?

I yanked my head up, knocking my forehead into Yash’s.

“Fuck!” He stumbled backward into the wall, where a framed picture nearly clocked him on its downward path to the floor. It crashed, Yash crashed, and Mel’s laughter crashed like triumphal cymbals.

Yash mumbled, “I bit my tonbue.” Now he clutched his forehead and mouth.

At least he wasn’t thinking sexy thoughts about fake air hostesses anymore.

“Let’s sit down.” I drew him to the couch and deposited him thereon. “I’ll get you a cold drink—that will help your poor tongue. We can’t have that thing sprained.”

He flashed me a lopsided grin and I ran to fetch him a soda with ice.

As soon as the kitchen door swung closed, Mel said, “So when are we going to the Internet café?”

“Ugh! I forgot all about that. I was too busy—”

“Lying?”

“No! I was adopting an unloved pet, like a literal saint.”

I sat down on the floor next to her and Myrtle. I collected the storm cloud into my lap, where she mewed and purred as long as I stroked her head. My shoulders fell—wow, cats really did help you relax.

336. No wonder pussies are so popular

337. These jokes never get old

“I have to get Yash a cold drink. He bit his tongue.”

“I thought he was biting your tongue.”

“He had been until Lady Laughs-a-Lot put in her two cents.” I made a face at her and rose with Myrtle. I put the cat on the counter and got Yash a Coke with ice in it. Myrtle seemed amazed at this new firmament she could explore. I let her pad around while I swigged the rest of Yash’s beer.

Mel grinned and said, “You’d better get into the living room to babysit your boyfriend.”

“Yes, I will. But I need to set up the litter box so my apartment—”

“Our apartment. I’m living here rent-free from now on.”

“Doesn’t smell like cat piss. I guess I’ll do it in the bathroom off the living room. If I put it in here, she might not be strong enough to push the kitchen door open yet.”

“I am not setting up the shit box for you, honey.”

I let out a desperate laugh. “Yeah, I know. Can you take this drink to Yash?” I handed her the Coke and whacked her on the backside to get her going.

“I’m sending you my hospital bill,” she muttered.

I followed her into the living room with the litter box in my arms. I’d have to do some major ass-kissing to make up for all this nonsense I was putting Mel through. And we still had to go to the Internet café to check on our other clandestine caper.

I bit my lip to suppress a giggle—it was kind of fun, really. All this…scheming. I’d gone from the kid who cleaned erasers for extra credit to a roofie-ing strumpet who strung along men. I knew it was wrong—boy, I knew—but it was as if my brain had just snapped. The teenage years I’d spent being a responsible adult had caught up with me. But being an irresponsible rebel when you’re an adult is so much better. There was sex! And booze! My giggle became full-fledged as I carried the plastic poop house into the bathroom.

My grin still plastered to my face, I returned to the living room to grab Myrtle and show her where to do her business. I found a puzzled-looking Yash, a panicking Mel…

338. And a Netflix account on the TV that said ‘Dagmar’ in bright white letters

“Shit!” I said.

“Nice,” Mel assured me with a thumbs-up. She petted Myrtle, sitting in her lap, and awaited the fallout.

“Uh, I can explain,” I told Yash.

His eyebrows rose, and I started breathing so hard, the room started to spin. “It’s…uh… That name… It’s mine.”

He stood, confusion thundering across his face, chased by the first hint of anger. No. Noooooooo. It couldn’t be over yet! He was the perfect man and oh, God, what was wrong with me? I wasn’t smart enough to be this devious! Giselle? What had I been thinking, creating an alter-ego—

“That’s it!” I blurted. “That’s it”—I pointed to the screen—“that’s my alter-ego, Dagmar. Dag. That’s my pet name for myself. It’s like…my sexy name. Sometimes I use it on flights with creepy guys, so they don’t know who I really am. Yeah. It’s an inside joke between me and Mel.” I whipped my head to her. “Right, Mel?”

She started laughing. The cat bolted to the arm of the couch. “Alrightey, Dagmar.”

Her acting skills were shit.

339. Mine, however, were amazeballs

340. Maybe I should be an actress?

Maybe I should pay attention to Yash, whose mouth hung open. “But,” he said, “Giselle is a pretty sexy name already, yah?”

I smiled. “Thanks.”

“Much sexier than Dagmar.”

My smile drooped. “Thanks.”

“I understand why you’d fib to strange men, though. There can be some really crazy people out there in the dating world.”

Mel fell off the couch, but she covered it super well by playing with the cat.

I cleared my throat. “It… It started a long time ago, when I was a teenager. It’s just a silly thing now, but it explains why you’d never see the name Dagmar around me.”

He lit up. “Like the ‘D’ on the wall! It could mean ‘Dagmar’.”

“Five points for Yash!” Mel said, helpfully. “I’m going to use the big girl litter box.” She sauntered off into the bedroom.

I’d just begun to breathe normally again when Yash came up to me, a photo of my family in his hand.

What new fresh hell was this?

He said, “Is this your dad? You look just like him.”

“Yes. That’s me, my twin Vanessa, and Dad.”

“Twin?”

He’d said it the way everyone always had. Incredulous, with a hint of ‘Why don’t you look like her?’

My teeth gritted, the way they always did. “Yes, she’s the golden child—beautiful, blonde, perfect—and I’m the one they didn’t count on.” I snatched the photo and started walking it back to the bookcase where it lived. Usually face down.

“What?” Yash fell into step with me. “What does that mean—the one they didn’t count on?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. Doesn’t matter. They both live in Connecticut, so—”

“No, no.” He gently turned me around. “I’ve upset you, and I’m sorry. I don’t see why she’s the beautiful one. You’re the more interesting looking of the two of you, and far prettier.”

I laughed. He appeared confused. I laughed again.

“Giselle, you are a lovely woman. Vibrant, sexy. Petite and sumptuous.” He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “With mesmerizing, mysterious brown eyes that haunt me. Seriously, I had a dream about your sparkling eyes.”

“Uh…” A stifling wave of heat overcame me, and I backed away. I didn’t know what to say.

Yash blinked helplessly at me, awaiting my saying something. “Your family…was not kind to you?”

I shook my head, my mouth dry. “My parents had only wanted one kid, but they got two. They struggled to make ends meet. My dad told me they resented me as the…the interloper. That the blonde, blue-eyed kid with the small nose like Mom was better than the Greek-looking one.”

His mouth had fallen completely open. “What the fuck? What the… What the fuck? That’s horrifying! Why would he even tell you that?”

“When he was tipsy at my sister’s wedding, I asked him why he’d treated us differently our whole lives. He just spilled it all.” I stared at the floor and shrugged. “Dad always took pride in his tall, golden daughter, especially after Mom died. Vanessa could do no wrong, and I—”

“Could do no right.”

He grabbed my shoulders, and I managed to pick up my head to look at him, tears in my lashes. I swiped at them—really, I should be over this by now, right?

“Baby, you do not deserve being treated like… Fuck, I don’t even know what to say. Hating one child because of eye color? It’s…like a dystopian novel. I’ve seen this sort of thing in Desi families—the light-skinned kids being preferred to the dark ones. But I’m a dark one, and I’m great the way I am. So are you.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “I’m not trying to say… I mean, I’m still a white girl. I don’t experience racism or anything.”

“I understand what you’re saying. But you have suffered, in your family, for not being some stupid ideal. For what it’s worth, I’m crazy for pocket-sized girls with dark, flashing eyes and weird senses of humor.”

He actually managed to make me laugh. It was worth a lot.

His hand under my chin, he said, “Fuck them if they can’t see that you’re a wonderful, beautiful person. Are you close to your sister, at least?

I laughed again—this one, short and unsweet. “No. She took on her role as the good one like a duck to water.”

“Then none of them deserve you.”

I searched his eyes for a sign of a trick. If any friend had come to me saying she was lesser than for being unlike Western beauty standards, I would have told her she didn’t need to conform, that she deserved love and was perfect as is. Intellectually, I knew I was fine the way God made me. I would say such out loud to anyone who asked. But deep down…

Deep down it’s hard to undo twenty years of Dad programming me to believe I was a big-nosed, olive-skinned, brown-eyed, short-statured bug on the windshield of his shiny life car, and if I just tried harder, maybe I could make up for my undesired presence on this earth.

Mel’s voice cut through my self-loathing. “Well, Dagmar… Giselle… Whatever, right? We need to get going. We have to get pedicures or something. Out of the apartment.”

Yash swept me into a powerful hug, and I clung to him far longer than was polite. “Yes, we’re getting pedicures,” I agreed over his shoulder.

He took a step back from me. “In the winter while it’s snowing?” He shook his head with a smile. “Being a woman is very difficult, especially with horrible fathers.”

“You have no idea,” I assured him.

Mel said, “Oh, yeah, her dad is a total piece of shit. Sexist, racist—”

“Okay.” I stopped her with a loving grimace while I swiped the tears from my eyes. “Enough thinking about my family.”

“Bless their hearts,” Mel agreed most savagely.

Yash’s hand lingered in mine. “Can I come over later on? I am dying to see your flight attendant uniform. On your short body with its sun-kissed skin.” He lowered himself until we saw brown eyes to brown eyes. “Please?”

The room began swaying again. “Hopefully I have one clean,” I hedged.

He picked me up into a hug and planted a rather chaste kiss to my lips.

“Thank you for not exploring her tonsils,” Mel said.

He left, and I collapsed onto the carpet. Myrtle came running over and mewed at me. I scooped her up, and she lay on my chest to purr and knead at my boobs. Aw. I would never hate Myrtle for being gray. She was the perfect kitty daughter just as she was.

Mel got down next to me. “I haven’t seen tap dancing like that since Singin’ in the Rain.”

“Thank you. I appreciated your Ode to Homewrecker Ethel. I wonder if she was ever half that interesting in real life?” I hugged Myrtle. “Although, she did ask a lot of cock questions about Yash, so…”

She sat up. “Shall we visit the Internet café to see about the home we wrecked?”

“He wrecked himself. But yes. And after that, I have to try to find a Lufthansa flight attendant uniform.”

She wrapped her arms around her eyes. “Why? Why did you say that airline?”

You said that airline, jerk bag!”

Without acknowledging her contribution to my mess, she continued, “And then we have to get pedicures. In January. And then go home in flip-flops.”

I hauled her to her feet. “The pedicure thing is your fault too. And we can probably get away with getting manicures. Or nothing. He’s a man, he won’t know.”

“Okay, but you know what?”

“Yes, yes. I’ll be paying. I’ll probably be paying for a long, long time.”

341. In more ways than one

 

* * * *

 

On the train ride to the Internet café, I typed a post for Craigslist asking for a flight attendant uniform. Said it was for a play. As soon as my cell service returned, I hit Send and hoped for the best.

It was nearly dinner time, and my stomach rumbled in anger. The only person I’d fed recently was the cat. Hopefully, she wouldn’t fill my handbag with poop.

I peeked into my bowling bag, and she booped me on the nose with hers. My squealing noise turned heads on the sidewalk, and Mel laughed at me. Myrtle hadn’t seemed to mind the subway, and I couldn’t bear to leave her at home. She needed affection from her captor after her ordeal of being kidnapped by strange women and the people to whom they lie.

342. I would need the cat to love me after my boyfriend eventually dumped me

343. I knew I wouldn’t get a happily ever after

344. Maybe a restraining order, though

I told Myrtle she must stay in the bag while we were in the café. She nodded and told me, “Of course, beautiful Mother Dagmar.”

345. Crazy cat lady step one: Hear it when they talk to you

We got to the café and found a spot at a corner computer. My heart began thumping, wondering what, if any, response we’d get. Soon we logged into the account and…there was a message!

“Oh em gee,” I said.

Mel turned green. “I’m afraid to open it.”

“Me too. Let’s make Myrtle do it.”

But Myrtle said no, loudly, and denizens of the café gawked at us.

Her hand shaking, Mel clicked on the email from Abby.

 

I want to meet in person to hear about the origin of these photos. I checked with my resident geek, and they don’t appear to be Photoshopped. When and where? I always protect my sources.

 

I jumped in my seat. “Yes!”

“We can’t meet her,” Mel protested.

“We have to. For womanity, Mel.” I took a breath. “I’ll do it myself. You don’t have to come, it’s totally okay.”

“No way. We’re in this together.” She scooted closer to me. “I didn’t even tell you about his car, did I? It cost him a few hundred to get the fuel drained and stuff, and then they figured out that there was no sugar, so he knows it was a totally wasted expense.”

“Ha!” We shook hands and Myrtle lifted her paw out through the bag in my lap to swipe at us with her talons of solidarity. I disentangled myself and rubbed away the blood on my smarting wrist.

I checked my phone, and lo and behold, someone had responded to my Craigslist ad! God bless this city. A guy in Brooklyn said he had just such a uniform for two hundred dollars.

Mel read the phone upside down and whistled. “I’m not letting you go there alone. For all we know, he sells duplicitous young women into Greek slavery.”

“Doesn’t bode well for me.” I decided to meet him at a coffee shop a block from his apartment in an hour. I wasn’t such a fuck-up that I’d meet a weird dude at his sex dungeon.

346. Only non-weird sex dungeons for me

This expensive task completed—ugh, I’d be eating ramen for two weeks straight—we turned back to Abby, the intrepid journalist who would help us deal a blow against sleazebags everywhere.

Or at least one.

I slid the keyboard toward me, wishing I’d brought hand sanitizer.

347. What was that brown, crusty thing on the side of the 9 key?

I began:

 

Dear Abby,

We wish to remain anonymous, but will make ourselves available to answer questions.

 

I turned to Mel. “Let’s Deep Throat it.”

“The porn or the parking garage?”

“I love you, Mel, but I’ll keep my passion for you above the waistline.”

“Butt pats notwithstanding.”

I shrugged and returned to my important missive.

 

Let’s meet Sunday morning, 1am, at—

 

“Which parking garage?” I asked.

“There’s one near my place open all night.”

“How do you know?”

Mel blinked. “Because it has a big sign that says Open All Night.”

“You’re a genius.”

She set her head in her palm and let out a puppy whine. “One a.m., though? I have to work the next day.”

“After two weeks off, ya lazy bum. Adventure knows no sleep! Once more unto the breach! And/or parking garage.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

She looked up the address on her phone, and I finished the note to Abby.

Mel reached into the bag in my lap to pet the vicious adorable contained therein. “You’re feeding me a hot dog on the way. I’m starving.”

“We can’t have that.”

Hot dogs in hand, and one for Myrtle—my purse was a goner—we proceeded to the subway, then the coffee shop. Except…

I referred back to my phone, and yes, I had the address right. Oh, wow. This would be a new experience for me.

“Sexpresso?” Mel read the pink and black neon sign, accompanied by a photo of a hot blonde woman dripping coffee on her bikini-clad boobs.

I recoiled. “That’s how you scald the girls. How is that sexy?”

Mel crossed her arms over her chest. “This whole day is a mystery. Earlier, I helped you steal a cat. I told a heinous lie about an old lady. And now I’m going to assist you obtain a uniform for a job you don’t have to keep a man who doesn’t know your name…all while in a coffee shop strip club. Emily Post just doesn’t cover days like today.”

“Probably a very good thing. Come on.” We opened the heavy, wooden door and descended into a pink nightmare of darkness.

Everything looked…

348. Sticky

That’s the most positive word coming to mind. We proceeded through a black hallway (not touching anything, obviously) and soon found ourselves in a giant, warehouse-type room. Men of all sizes, shapes, and ick-levels sat around the stage, upon which two lovely ladies danced for definitely not enough money.

I leaned to whisper in Mel’s ear. “I wonder how much they make?”

She punched me in the arm. “I’m not dogging strippers, but you are not becoming a stripper.”

“Of course not. I’m not that talented a dancer.”

She nodded. “That’s true. You’d probably twirl off the stage and stab a scumbag in the eye with your stiletto. Speaking of… How do we know which one he is?”

We took a survey. Two fifty-something twins in tracksuits were harassing a very unhappy-looking waitress. Mob, probably, according to television. Another stick-skinny white fellow was clearly masturbating under his table, so…no. We passed a man muttering in Russian while playing with a switchblade. Mel nearly retreated then, but my lust motivated me. I intrepidly kept exploring. I was the Amelia Earhart of sleaze.

I met the eyes of the grossest man in the place—a handy achievement. It had to be him. If I Googled the word ‘weirdo,’ his be-speckled, long-ponytailed, lime-green plaid jumpsuit-ed mug would be pictured there. In his lap sat a plastic bag from a popular teeny-bopper clothing store.

“We’re going to be culted into the Manson family,” Mel said.

“We shower too much for them,” I assured her. “I have to meet him. I have to get that uniform.”

“And what after that? You’ll get you and Yash free standby seats to London so you can take your fiction on the road? And we have not even begun to discuss the ‘please be my boyfriend’ crap. You’re gonna bust his heart wide open, honey.”

Tracksuit Number One sidled up and rubbed his belly on me. I nearly screamed, but I was rescued by a blonde in a thong, who pulled him aside for a lap dance, bless her.

“I’m just a random hookup for Yash,” I assured Mel. “I’ll—I’ll end it by kissing his best friend soon, and then he’ll be happily rid of me.”

“Oh, did I say his heart? Because I meant you—”

“La la la!” I passed her and made a beeline for Weirdo. I didn’t want to consider breaking my heart or Yash’s heart. Especially after he’d been so amazingly perceptive and wonderful about my family situation. Blade had never told me I shouldn’t feel inferior to my sister—he’d actually once confessed that he’d hit that if he could.

But enough with assholes and on to weirdos. Up close, the guy reeked of patchouli and armpit stench. His feet stuffed into gold-spray-painted loafers and his hair was dyed gray over older purple dye.

I girded my loins—

349. And my nostrils—

And said, “Hi. You have a uniform for me?”

He twitched. “What’s your name?” His high-pitched voice barely sounded over the 80s hair metal pounding through the place. British accent, but not a real one. A Madonna-in-the-country terrible accent. He twirled the grease at the end of his handlebar mustache, and I fought back a barf.

Myrtle peeked her head above my bag, fixed on him, and hid again.

Smart girl.

I said, “My name doesn’t matter. Let’s see the uniform.”

He leaned forward. “How do I know you’re not the feds?”

Holy hell. “A fed? Here to arrest you for what, assaulting everyone’s eyes?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time!”

Mel and I exchanged a glance. Not a happy or hopeful glance.

I leaned down and grabbed the dirty plastic bag at his feet. Yup, it was the right uniform, current even, according to the airline’s website. It was a size too small for me, but that would probably be okay since it was a sex fantasy and not a job requirement I might need to wear on a deserted island after a crash.

I fished a wad of twenties from under Myrtle and held them out to Gross Guy.

He yanked them from my hand and counted them before stuffing them into a pocket on the chest of his horrifying polyester jumpsuit. His red-rimmed gaze flicked up to mine. “I want four hundred now.”

Mel groaned behind me.

“I’m not paying you more than two hundred,” I said. I stuffed the uniform in my bag. A smothered “Mewr?” sounded in protest. “And I’m leaving now.”

I turned to go. He grabbed the back of my jeans to hold me there. The waistband cut into my abdomen, knocking the wind from me. Panic gripped my whole body, and I melted into jelly. He wrapped his hand around my upper arm and twirled me around. “Give it back,” he said into my face, and I died of strip club buffet breath.

The disgusting man reached into my bag for the uniform. Oh, hell no. I gritted against my fear and stomped on his foot. He yelped and snatched back his hand just as Myrtle hissed after him—good cat! I backed up, gripping the bag with all my strength. His fingers dug into my arm and I couldn’t shake him off.

Mel bashed him over the head with her purse. “Let her go! Hark, a vagrant! You, sir, are no gentleman!”

People were noticing now. The tracksuit guys started toward us, their cigars dangling from their lips. “Help me,” I screamed to any and all denizens who felt chivalrous. Gross Guy would not let up—he started to shake me, hard, my head bouncing from shoulder to shoulder.

The two guys arrived to help and one of them immediately shoved against Gross’ shoulder. He finally let go of my surely bruised arm.

One final yank and I clutched the uniform to my bosom. Mine!

Mel said, “Run!” She pulled on my coat. “Come on.”

In a split second, I decided that his act of skullduggery should cost him.

350. I lunged for his chest pocket and tore out my wad of cash

Just before Tracksuit Number Two shoved him to the floor.

One of the waitresses poured a carafe of coffee onto his crotch, and his yells chased Mel and me from the place. We ran and ran, not daring to glance behind.

We stopped, breathless, a few blocks away. I gestured Mel into another coffee shop, this one with no naked people in it, and we took our drinks at a table in the back away from their doors and windows.

I opened my fist, and the cash scattered across the table.

Mel’s jaw dropped. “You took back the money?”

I grinned.

“You stole that uniform!” she gasped.

“I liberated it from a vomitus hustler who assaulted me.”

She burst into laughter. “Holy shit, Dag! I can’t believe you did that!”

I put my bag in my lap and peeked in to make sure poor Myrtle was okay. A surreptitious look around the coffee shop told me that nobody working was paying attention to us, so I liberated her from her leather prison and set her in my lap. She snapped at my finger, but quickly came around and accepted my love. “What a good kitty you are, Moaning Myrtle. You defended me against that horrible man! At least your life isn’t boring, cat.”

She bit my finger harder this time. Mel kept laughing and laughing. I yanked my digits away from my adorable hellion and returned to my coffee, which never bit me.

“You—” Mel sobered for a moment and peered deep into my soul with her clear green eyes. “You really have changed, you know that?”

I spread out the skirt of the ensemble across the table. “I have. I-I understand I’m not being Mother Theresa or anything, but it feels amazing to talk back against the bullshit that I used to just take.”

She picked up the stack of cash and fanned herself with it. “Maybe you should change your name to Giselle.”

My heart missed a beat, and the thump jolted me. I looked up, and she met my eye after she paused rubbing the cash on her face. She flashed a smile and put it back on the table.

I said, “I… Can I do that? Maybe instead of the inevitable horrible breakup scene with Yash—”

“Which was entirely preventable.”

“Shut up. Instead of that, I could just change my name to Giselle, get a job at the airline, and never see my family again!”

Mel sipped her latte. “I like that last part.”

We slumped in our seats and drank the restorative caffeine. After a couple of quiet minutes, Mel sniffed into the air. “What is that smell?”

I lifted up the skirt and took a whiff. Oh, hell. “Patchouli and…unknown. Ack, it’s so gross.”

“You have to rinse that whole thing out with vinegar and then dry it.”

“I guess I’ll be going home then. He’d better be very appreciative of this uniform. I’d better not have to wear it long.” I winked.

She groaned. “I feel obligated to warn you, Dag—”

I plugged my fingers into my ears like an actual child. “Nope. I don’t want to hear it. My life is made of lies and denial, and that’s the way I enjoy it.”

Myrtle meowed, and I took that as agreement. Two in favor of horrid living, one against.

The ayes had it.

Mel gave me a look tinged with sadness. I couldn’t take her pity. Pity? After all the fantastic changes I’d been making in my life? We were outing a serial rapist. I’d stood up for myself against multiple scumbags and had gotten a new job on my own terms. Heck, I even had a new cat and a boyfriend! I was no Kardashian, but I was pretty happy at the moment, even if some parts of my life had taken an…odd turn.

I scooped Myrtle back into her bag and stood. “I’m gonna go and wash this thing.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt,” Mel said, rising also. “Or Yash. He’s really nice, Dag.”

My stomach dropped. “I know he’s nice. Nobody minds having what is too good for them.”

“He’s not too good for you, so shut up, Jane Austen.”

I pretend gasped and she broke into a smile.

I said, “We’re not…serious, okay? And I’ve already been hurt, Mel. At least I’m the one in charge of it now and not a pathetic loser chasing after crumbs from the people running the show. I’ll see you Sunday night—I have to work tomorrow.” I swooped her into my arms for a hug to diminish the razor in my words and left the shop.

The air had become frigid and steam shot up from the subway grates, turning the night as murky as my thoughts. Mel’s words rang in my head, swirling and whirling on my walk to the train, on the train, on the way up to my apartment. I gathered my laundry stuff and nearly ran down the stairs to the basement.

No. No. I wouldn’t backslide. I’d overcome too many of my mousey, pathetic ways.

I plunged the uniform into the warm water of the laundry room’s washing machine and poured vinegar after. I slept better now than I had in years—decades even—because I didn’t lie awake worrying about my father’s approval, or my job, or if I needed to go to the gym more because I’d caught Blade ogling a model-waitress-nurse. I didn’t cry anymore when my sister tagged me in nasty jabs on Facebook. I didn’t spend half my weekend ironing ugly khaki clothing to make me look like an efficiency beast.

I had fun now. I was fun now. And I’d be damned if I’d return to that sad sack Dagmar. The very thought made hot sweats break out across my skin.

Maybe I really would change my name to Giselle.

I took the stairs back up to my apartment two at a time, and I didn’t set a timer for the wash. It took me twenty minutes, but I managed a French twist, then I set the jaunty pillbox uniform hat on my head and took a picture for Yash. He replied that my hair was going to get way too mussed to keep it on. My giggles filled the whole apartment.

Mussed.

Nope—no going back.

A couple of hours later, I informed Yash that his flight was ready to board. Yes, yes—eye-roll worthy, but I didn’t care. I ordered Indian food and hoped that it was good Indian food since he was, well, Indian.

The uniform fit tightly—very—but I did manage to get it on if I didn’t button the skirt. And the horrible smell had fled. I’d quickly used hem tape to hitch the skirt to a mini, and I slipped on black heels to complete the ensemble. No doubt the conservative button-down wasn’t meant to open so far over my cleavage. In my defense, however, it wouldn’t close over my not-so-massive girls.

All in all, I thought while posing in front of my mirror, not bad. And we wouldn’t even have to bang in a disgusting airplane lavatory.

I even put a black ribbon around Myrtle’s neck—it turned her into a French ingénue from the 1960s. Until she chewed on one end and covered it in drool. “He doesn’t like you as it is,” I told her, “so be pretty.” She licked her butt, which was the equivalent of a cat shrug in the face of unrealistic feline beauty standards.

While I waited for Yash, I blogged and prepped a few Twitter updates to time out over the next few days. It was fun to talk about getting the cat and the uniform, although I didn’t call it a flight attendant pretend job. I said I was pretending to be a nurse a.k.a. sexy scrubs. The instant validation that the Internet offered made me feel powerful. Yes, some condemned me, but many people, women especially, said they wished they had the guts to do what I was doing.

My intercom buzzed and I jumped in my chair. I closed the laptop and ran to the panel to let Yash up. Happiness nearly melted my bones to know he was on the way, in my building, in my apartment. In my bed.

351. But I didn’t really have feelings for Yash

352. Just overwhelming joy whenever he was around

353. And the feeling that I might die if I never saw him again

354. Whoops that was a feeling

355. But not feelings with an ‘S’

356. Better not think about that too hard

This logical flight of denial burst like a bubble when he knocked. I made a ridiculous girl sound, raced to the door, took a deep breath to calm myself, and opened it.

I swept the door wide and gave a curtsey. “Welcome aboard, sir. If you’ll follow me to the first-class cabin?”

He braced himself on one side of the threshold and fixed a hard gaze on me. “We have a problem, Dagmar.”