It’s Just Brunch
Immoral. Unethical. Most likely illegal.
I berate myself as I speed walk down Clark Street. I’d sprint, but that’s not possible for a variety of reasons.
Queasy. Don’t forget queasy.
This is literally the worst thing I’ve ever done, as a doctor, as a person, and, to a lesser extent, as a sister.
Yet I couldn’t stop myself.
There Geri was, head tipped back on my couch, all bloated and snoring. She wouldn’t move to a proper bed, no matter how hard I tried to persuade her. She kept saying, “Nooo, is too squishy-fantastic!” in reference to the buttery cashmere throw she was drooling all over.
So anyone who’s priced contemporary sofas lately couldn’t blame me for what happened next.
Right?
Technically, this is Trevor and Bryce’s fault anyway.
“Hey, Dr. B!” Trevor poked his head out into the vestibule after I’d wrestled Geri up the front steps last night. “Kind of late for you. Burnin’ the midnight oil, son! Or were you out with a playa, playa?” Then he spotted Geri under my arm and promptly lost his marbles. “Yo, yo, yo—where my G-spot at?”
Which prompted Geri to point at herself and crow, “G-spot’s right here, bitches!”
Then Bryce scrambled out and the three of them pretty much danced up the stairs while spouting gibberish, a bottle of their current libation in tow.
Cupcake-flavored vodka.
They were drinking cupcake-flavored vodka.
I’d recently perused a journal article about how kids have been imbibing via a method called “butt chugging” which involves a tampon soaked in liquor and a lack of back door inhibitions. At the time, I couldn’t understand why anyone would ingest alcohol from that end until learning that cupcake-flavored vodka was indeed a thing now. Frankly, the feminine-protection angle seems like the lesser of two evils.
I felt it behooved me to provide the three of them with drinking glasses, given the alternative. They did their shots and brayed like a pack of jackasses until Geri nodded off.
“Okay, boys, I need your help putting Geri to bed,” I said.
“Why can’t she sleep on the couch?” Trevor asked.
“Because a couch is not a bed,” I replied.
Trevor seemed confused. “That’s like saying an apple is not a bong. Maybe that’s not its intended purpose, but, y’know, ingenuity and shit.”
To which I replied, “Trevor, tell me you never vote.”
He said, “Nah, no one watches American Idol anymore. All about The Voice, playa!”
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—I weep for the youth of this nation.
“Please help me roll Geri’s ponderous bulk into the guest room.”
“Totes would, but the thing is? My mom says I’m hypoglycemic, and I can’t lift anything until I have a snack.” He held up his trembling hands. “See? Weak as a kitten. Couldn’t even swat away a fly.”
I’m not sure what it was about the word “swat,” but it caused something in Bryce to come unhinged. “Swat? You say swat, son?” He burst into song. “You can do the Brooklyn Swat!” and then he began air humping my ficus tree while Trevor slapped at the air in front of him as though to simulate a spanking, ironic because I’m sure this kid never received corporal punishment a single day in his life. Even Geri (who I thought was deeply asleep) managed to shimmy her shoulders against the back of the couch.
This continued for a solid thirty seconds until it stopped, as inexplicably as it started, right as I was about to dial 911 to report three concurrent seizures.
Is this some kind of meme?
Is this what I missed by not attending parties in college and not using the Internet for anything but research?
Then the guys both made a mad dash for my kitchen. “Time to bust a grub, son!” Bryce exclaimed, throwing open the pantry door. “Yo, jelly beans!” He opened a glass jar of pinto beans and stuffed a handful into his mouth, before promptly spitting them all over the floor. “Yo, not jelly beans.”
“Where’s all your casseroles?” Trevor asked, his not-currently-chugging butt sticking out of my Sub-Zero.
“Were the two of you raised by Philistines?” I demanded, grabbing a whisk broom and dustpan.
“Yeah, Main Line, baby! Gladwyne represent!” Trevor shouted.
Weep.
“This is a travesty and shit,” Bryce proclaimed, examining the spare shelves. “Gonna do a Kickstarter because you broke, son. Otherwise, you’d have snacks.”
“I am definitely not broke, first of all. Plus, see? I have Greek yogurt, almond milk, blueberries, pasture-raised eggs, chickpeas, peppers, and fresh kale.” I despise feeling like I have to defend my healthy choices, especially to two uninvited guests.
“That’s why you’ve got no junk in your trunk, Dr. B. Time to chow mein! Men like something we can hold on to,” Trevor explained. “In bed, I mean.”
“So I gathered.”
“Mo’ booty, mo’ cutie,” Bryce added, nodding sagely.
I struggle to maintain my composure. “Tell your parents I’m raising your rent at the first of the year.”
“’S’cool,” Bryce replied. “Obvs you need the dolla dolla bills, y’all, to grocery shop. I’mma introduce you to my friend Joe. He’s a Trader.”
That’s when I reached critical mass. I grabbed my purse and pulled out a twenty. “Okay, kids, party’s over! But the Wieners Circle’s still open. Char dogs on me!” Then I herded them out the door so quickly and forcefully that I forgot I’d wanted them to carry Geri down the hall.
Related note? I need to convert this place to a single-family dwelling, like, now.
Anyway, after I determined that moving Geri under my own steam wasn’t possible, I tried to behave in a sisterly manner, thus proving that I absolutely have more class than she might have demonstrated were our circumstances reversed. I brought her a bottle of water and a couple of ibuprofen and I made her swallow both.
As she lay there on my couch, cradling a cashmere throw, I felt an odd stab of affection for her and I wondered if maybe, just maybe, I hadn’t been too quick to judge her. After all, until this week, I had no idea she had even a modicum of ambition, nor was I aware that living back at home wasn’t all peaches and cream. Perhaps since every single person in my orbit seems to feel affection for her, it’s possible that I’ve overlooked her better qualities.
Maybe it wasn’t so easy for Geri to grow up in my shadow. I set a high bar, at least in terms of academics. Although we went to different high schools, she had all my old teachers from kindergarten through eighth grade. If memory serves, I was quite the little apple polisher. I bet the nuns were all, “Reagan’s sister? We expect a lot out of you!” and she couldn’t deliver.
My parents have always been quick to highlight Geri’s achievements, lowly though they may be, but it’s possible that they do this not because she’s the favorite, but because they’re trying to compensate and protect her self-esteem.
Maybe Geri’s more of a delicate flower than I assumed.
I’m not a parent. I’ve never had to balance the needs of three very different daughters. I’m sure my folks did the best they could. I bet when I’m not around, they champion me like they do Geri and Mary Mac.
What if underneath it all, Geri really loves me and she’s never quite understood how to capture my interest? What if her quest for negative attention is simply an offshoot of her desire for my attention? What if she grabbed Lilly-Lizzie because she wanted me to finally play with her and that was her best shot?
Then she opened one sleepy green eye and reached for me. She brushed my hair out of my face and said, “It must suck to be you.”
Yeah.
That’s when I snapped.
And that’s why I’m currently walking down Clark Street in a Geri suit.
I’d planned on running to her/my brunch date because, frankly, she could use the cardio. However, apparently Geri’s not that kind of coordinated. Also, I’m battling a monster hangover for her. While she dreams all snug in my bed, I’m trying desperately not to vomit nachos and cupcake-flavored vodka.
This feeling?
Right here?
Is why I never drink.
Perhaps by teetotaling, I’ll never lose my inhibitions enough to belt out the best of Steve Perry from an alehouse bar top, but I’ll also never run the risk of tossing my cookies in a public trash can.
I’m not entirely sure what my next move might be, after I meet up with Kassel. I probably should have come up with some sort of plan before placing the amulets around our necks and taking a Thanwell.
Yet here I am.
Fortunately, I was able to cram Geri’s posterior into one of my stretchiest pairs of yoga pants and Sebastian’s old Blackhawks jersey. I threw her hair in a ponytail and didn’t bother with makeup because I’m not giving her a single advantage on this date. I didn’t even shower. Hope Kassel likes his women earthy.
Kassel spots me as soon as I enter the restaurant. He kisses my/her/our cheek. “I was worried I didn’t specify which Original Pancake and you’d go to the Bellevue location.”
I’m so rattled by his pure joy in seeing Geri that I can’t help but respond, “I’m not great with following directions because I’m a bit dim, so frankly I’m as surprised as you are.”
But instead of being turned off by my statement, he simply laughs and his eyes crinkle up. Damn it, why is stupid Geri’s naked face making his eyes crinkle? “I love your self-deprecation. Rough morning?”
“Why does anyone drink?” I ask.
He places his hand on the small of my back as the hostess leads us to our table. “Believe me, been there. You had a lot to celebrate. You were amazing with Georgette. Life changing. By the way, sent the dailies to DBS and they lost their minds. They worship you. Never witnessed such a reaction. Big. So big! Keep it up, and you could find yourself with a spin-off. Someday.”
The whole room begins to swim and I have to clutch his arm to stay upright until he can help me into my seat. How is this possible? How does Geri have the whole world handed to her based on one ugly haircut?
Kassel notices my distress and immediately orders us a couple of coffees. “I’d suggest a little hair of the dog, but you may not be able to handle a Bloody Mary.”
“Oh, God, no,” I agree. A busboy quickly appears with our beverages. “This is just what I need.” I take a bracing sip of the steaming liquid. If I drink fully caffeinated coffee, which is rare, I tend to be a purist. I’m never one for sweetener, and if I add anything, it’s almond milk, but today straight black is borderline nauseating. I need to cut the bitterness, lighten it up. I reach for the little white pitcher and pour in a splash. I can tell from the thickness that this is heavy cream, which would normally turn my stomach. Yet today, it almost seems like a salve, as does the spoonful of sugar. I stir and then sample.
How can something so wrong feel so right?
I’ve temporarily gotten my bearings, so I return to the business at hand. “Explain this whole spin-off concept,” I say. “What might that entail?”
Kassel laughs. “Ambitious, eh? Let the show air first and then we’ll see.” He opens his menu. “What looks good to you?”
Um, nothing?
This whole menu is revolting.
I see no indication that they use farm-to-table, local, or organic products, and from the description, everything’s either basted in butter, comprised of white flour, or full of pork products. The Three Little Pigs in Blankets are the worst possible offenders. Our special links wrapped in light buttermilk pancakes and lightly dusted with powdered sugar. Served with whipped butter and hot tropical syrup.
Disgusting.
So . . . why is my mouth watering?
Kassel says, “There’s nothing like a greasy breakfast to cure what ails you. Although in college I was all about McDonald’s after a wild night. Fountain Coke? My frat brothers and I were convinced it had healing powers.” He peruses the offerings. “Anyway, I’m having corned beef hash, plus a side of chocolate chip pancakes.”
The waitress approaches and I have Kassel order first because I’m undecided. And by “undecided” I mean “deeply appalled.”
“Do you have any muesli?” I ask.
“I’m not sure what that is,” she replies, chewing on the edge of her pen. Her name is Brandi. There’s a little flower drawn over the “i.”
Bless her heart.
“Nothing with flaxseed, then?”
Brandi shifts and begins to nervously eye the other tables. “’Fraid not.”
“What kind of fruit do you serve?”
“Um . . . we have banana and peach pancakes.”
I squint at the laminated menu. “Ugh. No. Is there any chance your eggs are pasture raised? I’ll take free-range in a pinch, although some farms do engage in beak cutting, which is certainly regrettable. Also, talk to me about your orange juice—is it freshly squeezed or from concentrate? And it’s not artificially colored, right? Because that’s patently unacceptable.”
Kassel begins to laugh and lightly bats me on the knee. “Your Reagan impersonation is uncanny. I assume you’re having your usual, yes? You said that’s why you wanted to come here.” He tells Brandi, “Give her the Three Little Pigs in Blankets. Thanks!” Brandi ambles off and he turns his attention to me. “So . . . are we having fun yet?”
No, not right this minute, not until the room stops spinning and not until I figure out how to elegantly avoid placing Blanketed Pigs anywhere near the vicinity of this mouth. But it occurs to me Geri’s always superannoyingly (possibly artificially) upbeat, so I reply, “I imagine so, yes. This is a social situation and that’s my kind of thing.”
Kassel nods and I’m struck again by the cut of his jawline. I have to ball my fists in order to keep from running my fingers across his face. I appreciate how even though this is a lazy weekend brunch date, he still took the time to shave. He missed a tiny spot up by his ear, which is oddly charming. And how is this man still tan in December? Is that the end result of having lived in California for so long?
Plus, he must have walked here, too, as his cheeks are flushed. I appreciate a man who’s not afraid to hoof it. Even though Sebastian biked and played volleyball, he still used to drive to my place and he was three blocks away. Made me crazy. Lazy is the opposite of sexy. I breathe in and I can smell the fabric softener coming from his chambray shirt. I lean in closer and note he’s wearing cologne with undertones of cardamom and black pepper.
This?
This is what I’d like for breakfast.
His dark eyes twinkle as he says, “Speaking of kinds of things, ‘I thought I’d go for the “helpful gay pirate” kind of thing.’”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Helpful gay pirate?”
This is sincerely puzzling. I understand each word as an individual concept, but strung together? Not so much.
I ask, “Are you at all familiar with the term glossolalia? Because it means fluid vocalizations of—” Wait, Geri would never have any cognizance of the concept of speaking in tongues. But there’s weirdness afoot here; that much is evident.
As the waitress approaches with a fresh pot of coffee, Kassel grabs my hand and says, “‘Can you look me in the eye and can you promise me that it all means something and that my whole bullshit life is just a bad start to a really incredible Cinderella story?’”
I can feel my heart beating almost out of my chest, and for a minute, I forget that I’m not exactly who I appear to be. In this one moment, it’s just me and Kassel and his strong wrists and intoxicating fragrance. He and I should be together and we could have it all—we’d have witty banter and tanned, toned children and a mantel full of Emmys. This could really be my Cinderella story, because if you consider it, she dealt with some awful sisters, too, and—
“Best. Show. Ever!” Brandi exclaims, slopping coffee into my cup.
And just like that, the spell is broken.
She prattles on, “Every day I scan the trades to see if there’s anything happening with the Party Down movie. Rob Thomas promises there’s a script in the works, but no word on an actual movie yet. Hope springs eternal, though!”
Wait, so he’s just been quoting some stupid television show at me?
“Up on the trades? Must be an actress,” Kassel notes. He doesn’t seem to be flirty so much as friendly, but the distinction doesn’t offer much solace.
“Trying to be,” Brandi replies. “‘I think maybe I’m going to quit.’”
“‘Nobody ever accomplished anything by quitting. What if Ronald Reagan quit?’”
“‘Quit acting? He did.’”
“‘Yeah, that’s actually where I got the idea.’”
Then they laugh and fist-bump and the people at the table next to us join in because apparently they’re fans, too, and I’m left sitting here like an asshole who’s not only incapable of expressing my interest in a man, but also has never seen some esoteric television show because I was busy trying to establish a career.
Story of my life.
Kassel finally returns his focus to me. “Sorry about that. Could have sworn we’d discussed our mutual love of Party Down, but I must have imagined it.”
I really did not consider all the ramifications of this whole body swap/date crash before I slid into Geri’s body like a pair of old jeans. Granted, I grew up with Geri, so I’m aware of our shared history, but I haven’t exactly been paying attention to the rest of her life. I’ve no clue what she likes or how she spends her free time. (Although I would place money on much couch surfing.) I can’t impersonate her because I don’t know her.
Kassel smiles at me and sighs like he’s so enamored he can’t even find words. Realizing it’s Geri giving him this reaction and not me makes my heart feel like it’s ripping in two.
Okay, that might be a trifle dramatic.
But it’s true that his interest in Geri hurts both my feelings and my ego. What’s the draw? And it’s not just Kassel; everyone falls all over themselves for her. It’s . . . almost unnatural and makes no sense. What’s it like to live in Geri’s world? (I suspect there’s a low stress/high snack element.)
How does she hold everyone in such thrall? What sort of black magic does she practice? How is she always so damn happy?
For all intents and purposes, I should be the one on top of the world.
I’m the one who put in the effort. I’m the one who made the huge sacrifices to get ahead. Why is no one sighing deeply over my unwashed butt at breakfast?
Well, if Deva’s to be believed—and I believe she’s proved herself credible—nothing happens by accident. There’s no such thing as happenstance. So here I am on hiatus, with a couple of weeks to kill before Christmas and the means to step inside Geri’s world to conduct a proper investigation.
This can’t be a coincidence. Deva couldn’t have given me these tools without a quiet understanding that I’d use them. This is like on those cop shows where someone really needs info and the detective can’t officially share it, so he leaves the file on his desk to grab coffee while the sassy private investigator is alone in his office with her mini spy camera.
What’s so all-fired great about Geri?
Even if it’s immoral, unethical, and most likely illegal, I intend to find out.