When Jenna received Billie’s Evite to May’s sixth birthday party, her first thought was how badly she wished Eric could go. After all, if things were different, if they were an “out” couple, he’d be her date. Jenna already knew they worked in work situations and in her apartment. Now she was itching for Eric to see her real-life experiences.
And quietly, she couldn’t help but wonder how he’d react to a scenario full of parents and kids. Would he embrace the family thing? Would it bore him—or turn him off completely? Or, hope of hopes, maybe he’d love it! She didn’t know.
The Plan came to her in the middle of an editorial meeting, while Mitchell was delivering a Dr. Seussian soliloquy about a picture he’d received from a babe with a brown bob in a beaded Balmain blazer. From Birmingham.
Jenna Jones
iMessages
April 16th, 2013, 11:49 AM
Jenna: It can’t just be you and me all the time.
Eric: Threesome?
Jenna: Please, I’m a terrible multi-tasker. No, I need you to be my plus-one at May’s birthday party!
Eric: You and me, in public? How?.
Jenna: Remember how we’re shooting a Perfect Find with Elodie in June?
Eric: A detachable ‘Clash of the Titans’ braid, smh. How does it stick on? This series has taught me that I don’t know shit about women.
Jenna: Tiny comb. Anyway, Elodie will be there. So bring your handheld. To the parents, and anyone else who sees us together, it’ll look like…
Eric: …we’re shooting B-roll for her video.
Jenna: How cunning am I? Also, it’s a costume party.
Eric: A costume party at a park in April? Mad random, I already love this kid. What should I get her? What’s she into?
Jenna: The afterlife.
Eric: * insert blank-faced emoji here *
Jenna: She’s Wednesday Addams with Billie’s smile.
May’s party fell on the following Saturday. It was a clear, beautiful afternoon perfect for an outdoor celebration. The festivities were being held where most spring/summer Brooklyn kiddie parties went down, at the glorious Brooklyn Bridge Park. A man-made attraction built on a formerly trash-cluttered section of East River beach, the park was an urban oasis. At each pier was a different kid-and-adult friendly attraction: a cute, smallish beach with unsullied (for New York) sand; a preternaturally green grassy knoll perfect for picnics; high-tech volleyball courts; and gourmet taco and gelato stands. Looming above it all was the underside of the mighty Brooklyn Bridge, stretching from the park to the never-not-awesome Lower Manhattan skyline, glittering just beyond the river.
May had chosen to have her party surrounding the park’s main attraction—Jane’s Carousel, a hopped-up version of the garden variety amusement park ride (the horses were the sizes of Clydesdales, and painted by MOMA artists). The Carousel was surrounded by picnic tables where Billie and Jay had set up hot dogs, hamburgers, and beers for the harried parents.
It was a costume party because May’s birthday parties always were. (Halloween was her favorite holiday.) May was Black Swan. Because her friend’s parents were mostly fancy Brooklynites in the arts, they took their kids’ costumes dead-seriously. The children had no choice in the matter. Little Sebastian wanted to be a Power Ranger? Nope, he’d be the Empire State Building, complete with custom-made taxi-cab shoes.
All of the adults were in over-the-top costumes, too—including Jenna, who was waiting for Eric by a cupcake vendor, hidden away from the picnic tables (they decided to come separately, so they didn’t look too couple-y). She was Jennifer Beals from Flashdance, which was admittedly uninspired since she basically already had the hair. She wore it half-wet, so it hung as if she was sweaty from dancing like crazy to “Maniac,” and added a grey sweatshirt, fuzzy legwarmers, and Capezio jazz shoes. Plus, ‘80s makeup—rainbow shimmer eyeshadow and bubble gum pink lipstick.
Jenna felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around to see Eric standing with his camera in one hand, a gift in the other—and no costume.
“Well…hi!” she said.
He gave her a friendly wave. “I’d kiss you, but it’s against the rules.” He looked at Jenna’s get-up, laughing. “What’s your costume? Whitney Houston? Why’d you go all out?”
“Look,” she said, pointing over to the crowd. “I told you it was a costume party!”
Surveying the complicated get-ups, he grimaced. “Oh no. I thought only the kids were dressing up! But, I mean, I’m low-key the Hulk. I have on a Hulk T-shirt, see?”
“You’re not the Hulk, you’re Eric in an ironic tee that says ‘Hulk Le Incredible.’” She pointed to his snapback. “And why are you wearing a Yankees fitted?”
“Cause it’s fresh?”
“I know how to fix this.” She reached in her purse for the portable sewing kit she kept with her. “Do those jeans matter to you?”
“No,” he said, and then seeing her rip scissors out of her kit, he changed his answer. “Wait…yeah! They matter. A lot.”
“Oh please, they were a freebie at a Rick Owens men’s fashion event. Plus, they’re already a little distressed. Come here, Hulk!”
Because Eric wanted to please her, and because it happened mind-bendingly fast, he allowed Jenna to cut wide slashes in his jeans and tee shirt, rip off his sleeves, and then use them to make a tattered, ripped-up headband—which she tied across his forehead, leaving the remaining material dangling to his shoulder.
When she was done, Jenna stepped back to appraise her project, and burst out laughing.
“What did you do to me?” asked Eric, miserable.
“You look like a member of Full Force!”
“I’m out, yo, I can’t go through with this,” he said, turning to walk away. Jenna grabbed his arm, giggling.
“No, I’m kidding. You look exactly like the Hulk. And I love you.”
Eric looked down at himself, shaking his head. “And I must really love you. Come on, let’s do this.”
When Jenna and Eric—keeping a benign interpersonal space from each other—walked up to Billie (who was Dionne from Clueless, in a yellow plaid miniskirt, matching blazer, and a long micro-braid wig), she was standing with the mothers of two of May’s school friends. One was dressed as the World War 2 feminist icon, Rosie the Riveter; the other was Chiquita Banana. From what was visible through their intricate costumes—they were older white women, in their late-forties, who were in svelte, yoga-fied shape.
“Jenna! Hi Eric!” Billie gave them both hugs. “Guys, you remember my good friend, Jenna-fer Beals. And this is her co-worker Eric. Who’s dressed as…wait, what are you, Eric? A member of Parliament Funkadelic?”
“Hey Billie,” he said, with a sad sigh. “Actually, I’m the Hulk.”
Jenna beamed. “Don’t you see it?”
“You are such a sport,” said Billie, patting him on the arm.
“Great to see you again, Jenna. I always love talking to you at Billie’s parties,” said the woman in the Rosie the Riveter costume, who was wearing denim overalls, and a 1940’s updo wrapped with a red kerchief. The forty-eight year-old single mother was a VP of visual merchandising at NBC—and quite intense.
Giving Eric an air-kiss, Rosie said, “You know, you look very familiar.”
“I know who you are!” said Chiquita Banana, a Danish wood designer. Her reed-thin body was outfitted in a rainbow-striped flamenco dress, which she accessorized with banana earrings and a basket of real, edible fruit tied to her head. “StyleZine, right? You and Jenna do those fun Perfect Find videos. Loved the New York magazine piece.”
“Yep, that’s me. Great to meet you,” he said, bending down to receive her air kiss.
“I’m sorry, this is so rude, but you are too cute,” she said with a laugh, nudging Rosie the Riveter.
Eric’s exposed chest and arms in his insane ripped tee had not gone unnoticed. He felt more naked than naked. He wanted to hide behind the carousel.
“What he is, is very smart,” pointed out Jenna, feeling territorial.
She didn’t bring him there to be eye candy for horny MILFs.
“Smart?” Rosie the Riveter faced him. “Great, we’d love to get a young person’s opinion on the monstrous new Common Core testing system in New York public schools. We were just talking about it.”
“Already? Eric just walked in,” said Billie.
“But it’s so important,” said Rosie, scrunching up her rolled denim sleeves past her elbows. “Kindergartners are expected to read like second-graders by the end of the year, or they’re left back. And they’re all held to the same standards, no matter their learning style. The only reason you should be held back in Kindergarten is if you have severe social issues, not academic ones. Like, if you’re a little psychopath.”
They all tried not to look at Chiquita Banana, whose daughter Ansel, a complete menace, had brought a safety pin to school and stabbed her classmates in their butt cheeks during Valentine’s Day assembly. She told people she was Cupid.
“I have some thoughts about Common Core,” said Jenna, hoping to save Eric from having to pontificate on something parent-oriented, not even five minutes into the party.
“Well, I’m dying to hear Eric’s perspective,” said Chiquita. “He is far younger than us and was in school more recently.”
“I don’t know, man, it sounds like madness,” he said. “Whatever happened to valuing creativity? You’re producing little robots if you’re forcing them to memorize SAT-type shit…I mean, information…when they’re five. To me, the academic thing should be, like, a journey. Not a destination.”
Jenna and Billie raised their eyebrows.
Under pressure, with no real information on the topic—and in the universe’s most emasculating outfit—Eric managed to produce an amazing response. Jenna beamed with pride.
Twenty-two, twenty-three, doesn’t matter, thought Jenna. My man can fit in anywhere! He’s getting a blowjob the second we leave.
“A journey, not a destination,” said Rosie the Riveter. “If that doesn’t nail it, I don’t know what does.”
“Told you he was smart,” said Jenna with a wry smile. “Now ask him about Obama’s foreign policy.”
“I feel like I’m auditioning for the debate team,” said Eric, and everyone laughed. Eric didn’t find it so hilarious, though. Why did Jenna keep emphasizing that he was smart? “It’s just that I really enjoyed school. Like, I had fun learning stuff. It’s not fair that, umm…Baudelaire doesn’t get to feel that.”
“I agree,” said Jenna. “And I hope, when I have a child, that this insane curriculum is overturned.”
“And when is that happening, doll?” asked Chiquita Banana. “Do you have a fabulous man in your back pocket? Any plans to procreate?”
“Why does she need a man?” asked Rosie the Riveter. “I didn’t. If you want to do it alone, there are ways. In vitro treatments and donor sperm made me a mom.”
Jenna let out a twinkly laugh, in the hopes that this would mask how uncomfortable she was. How could she have forgotten how momcentric—and pushy to the point of rudeness—this crowd was?
“Oh, when it happens, it happens,” she said.
“We’re in our forties,” said Rosie the Riveter. “Too old for ‘when it happens, it happens.’ Doctors never really tell women the truth about how drastically our fertility decreases with age. You want a baby? Don’t wait. Freeze your eggs. Get donor sperm. Adopt.”
“Those options cost thousands,” said Billie-as-Dionne, just wanting her to shut up. But it was hard for her to look authoritative wearing a bewigged waterfall of synthetic braids. “Not everyone has an NBC salary, sweetie.”
Rosie the Riveter reached into the pocket of her denim overalls and handed Jenna her card. “Listen, call me anytime. I can refer you to a brilliant fertility specialist at Mount Sinai.”
Jenna caught a quick glance at Eric, who was rubbing a temple and looking like he wanted to be anywhere but there. Her stomach flip-flopped when she imagined what he must be thinking.
Chiquita Banana looked at him. “I’m assuming you don’t have kids yet, right?”
“Nooo,” he said. “Not me. Not yet. One day…I guess.”
Jenna cleared her throat and quickly changed the subject, addressing Chiquita Banana. “So, did you finally move out of your apartment?”
“I did! We’re in Prospect Heights now. Are you still in the West Village?”
“No, now I’m a Brooklynite, too.”
“And where are you, Eric?” asked Chiquita.
“I live at home. Like, in my mom’s condo.”
Jenna grimaced. It was the truth, but his answer made him sound like a teenager. “I’m between places right now” would’ve been just as accurate.
“Adorable,” cooed Chiquita Banana. “Your mom!”
“It’s only temporary,” said Jenna. “You know, just to save money.”
“I think it makes great financial sense,” said Billie.
“My nephew lives with my sister,” said Rosie the Riveter. “He’s twenty-five. I get it, the economy’s bad. But in their case, I think she just doesn’t want to let go of her baby boy. His room still looks like a pre-teen’s. So infantilizing.”
Precious baby boy? Infantilizing? thought Jenna. I don’t want the love of my life associated with some random loser. Can’t we discuss Common Core again?
“You know, I have a great real estate agent,” said Chiquita, “for when you’re ready. Want his info?”
“No, it’s cool,” said Eric, bothered by the antsy expression on Jenna’s face. “I’ll move out as soon as I save enough.”
“Which will be very soon,” emphasized Jenna.
Eric raised an eyebrow. “It will?”
“Of course,” she said, though they’d never once discussed his living situation. “Eric has such a bright future as a filmmaker. He’s got his own Wiki and IMDB pages! He definitely won’t be in his mother’s house for too long.”
“Good for you!” said Rosie. “And if you’re looking to build your resume, we need someone to film our upcoming Parent Flash Mob. It happens every year on the last day of school, during lunch. The kids love it.”
The kids did not love it. It freaked them out, seeing their moms pop out from under cafeteria tables and shimmy with Principal James to “Living La Vida Loca.”
“Interested, Eric?” asked Chiquita. “We can’t pay, but it would be a fun little job. Great for your resume.”
Jenna bristled at them speaking to Eric like he was a cute kid with a hobby. As if he were a person for whom filming a collection of jazz-handsy elementary school moms—gratis—would be a resume-builder.
Before he could say accept or decline, Jenna said, “Guys, forgive me, but Eric’s the lead director on all our productions at StyleZine. I’m almost certain we will have a shoot that day.”
Eric was trying to think of a response when a text buzzed through from Tim. Perfect timing—anything to escape the surreal awkwardness of the conversation.
“Sorry, one second,” he said, and threw himself into a thread with Tim about their latest Zelda game, while the women carried on around him. After a couple of minutes, Jenna pulled him aside.
“Put your phone away,” she whispered.
“I can’t. Tim thinks I owe him $150 from our game last night,” said Eric, continuing to text. “Why do I do this to myself? Yo I hate playing with him.”
“You’ve been on your phone for five minutes; you haven’t spoken to anyone.”
Eric looked at Jenna. “Can I at least finish my sentence?
Damn.”
“It’s rude! You just started texting mid-conversation.”
“Everyone I know starts texting mid-conversation.”
‘Cause they’re kids, thought Jenna. And now you’re acting like one.
“Why are you being so weird?” hissed Jenna.
“Me?” he whispered back. “I don’t even recognize you right now.”
“You’re actually pouting.”
“Forgive me,” he said. “I just spent twenty minutes being dissected by middle-aged women dressed like historical pop culture icons. I’m running out of ways to pretend I’m cool in this environment.”
“I know, we’ll leave soon. But while we’re here, just try to stay engaged. For me.”
“For you? I’m dressed like a Chippendale dancer for you. I killed that whateverthefuck Core thing for you. The Banana thinks I’m adorable. If you’re dissatisfied with my performance, I’m happy to bounce. UNC plays Duke in an hour, and there are three idiots from my eighth grade class waiting for me at Tim’s house with Hennessy and Funyons.”
“Your performance?”
“Seriously, how many ways are you gonna try to convince them I’m awesome? I feel like a one-legged poodle at a dog show.”
“I’m just a proud girlfriend, that’s all!”
“You’re acting,” he whispered, “like a deranged publicist.”
“Hey Eric,” said Billie, realizing it was almost time for her to set out May’s birthday cupcakes. “Can you take a picture of us? We look hilarious, this has to go on Facebook.”
“Sure,” he said, relieved to end his conversation with Jenna. “Whose phone?”
“Here, use mine,” said Jenna, handing it to him.
Eric took it from her, and then entered the password (she’d never bothered to change it after he set it up, way back when she first got her iPhone and didn’t even know what an app was). The screen sprung to life, broadcasting a Firefox tab. It was the last thing she was looking at, before it faded to black.
Eric squinted, hoping that he wasn’t seeing what he was seeing. Forbes.com. Eric knew what it was before he opened it: “The Business of Being Brian Stein.” Without reacting, he clicked the camera icon, raised the phone and took a photo.
She had the fucking thing bookmarked.