Pleasure Unbound

RED & WOLFE

RED

Dear Grandma,

I’ve never written you before, so this is weird.

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Dear Gertrude,

I know you don’t know me, but I know you. And I sound like a stalker.NôvelDrama.Org owns this.

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Dear Gertrude,

Hi, it’s me. Your granddaughter. The one you’ve never met. I know it’s been a long time. My whole life, in fact, but

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Dear Gertrude,

My name is Red. I am your granddaughter. I’d like to meet you. I know you and my mom were estranged. She told me you didn’t want to see us when I was younger, but it would be nice if you would give me a chance. I’m a writer, like you. Okay, not like you per se. That would be something of a stretch. I haven’t won a Pulitzer, and I’m not a poet, but I worked for the Boston Journal until recently, when I was laid off. I was a court reporter, then an art critic.

I don’t have any family except you. I need money. Or a friend. Or both. But I’ll get nothing because I’m too proud to send this email.

My rent is late. Like… late. I’m eating ice cream by the gallon and over-using Mr. Happy, my huge, purple, LELO rabbit vibrator. That’s because my boyfriend left me…for a dude. Yeah, I know. It’s fucking weird. It sucks.

I wonder why the hell you and my mom were estranged. She didn’t like to talk about it. I can’t believe you didn’t come to her funeral. Or did you? I’m not even sure what you look like. I think your Wiki picture is about sixty years outdated. Maybe you could visit me in Boston and take a new one.

Wonder if I’ll ever really write you. I doubt it. I bet I get my pride from you, you old coot. ~Red

I slam my Macbook shut and race for the bathroom. The bathroom I’ve been using as seldom as possible because I’m running out of toilet paper.

I leap over a pile of dirty clothes beside my tan recliner, dash past a three-foot tall stack of paperbacks in the hallway, and narrowly avoid tripping on a pair of ice skates before I punch through the bathroom door.

Pink. This small room looks like the inside of a Bubble Yum bubble. I drop down on the pale pink toilet, let out a sigh, and blink at my reflection. Me: naked in front of an oyster-shell sink, surrounded by pink tile. I look thinner. More like I did in college. And it’s not just the leanness. A few weeks ago, shortly after I lost my job, I hacked myself some brand new bangs. I’m wearing them longish, almost in my eyes, the way I did my senior year at Northwestern. The rest of my bright red hair is long like college, too. Past my shoulders, hanging just over the swell of my breasts.

They look part right now, and full. I’m an apple, with more weight on my tummy than my legs, and my breasts are a generous “C” cup. I’ve been irrationally proud of this since I hit puberty the summer after eighth grade.

But there’s no point admiring my new, thinner figure or my bust. These boobs haven’t done a damn thing for me lately. Suddenly I can’t even stand to look at my naked body. I tear four squares of toilet paper off the roll and wipe quickly. I flush and look into the basket beside the toilet: six more rolls. That’s not so bad. With any luck, I can make that last three weeks. Maybe more like two. If I run out, I’ll sneak back into the Journal and steal more.

I tuck my hair behind my ears, frown at my freckled, blue-eyed reflection, and pick my way back into the little living area.

Boston is expensive, so when I leased this place two years ago, a studio was all I could afford. And even then, rent was $2, 200 per month. My landlord, a ball-cap-sporting, glasses-wearing hipster named Dursey, raised it to $2, 250 this past fall. At the time, I barely thought about it. Carl had moved in a few months prior, so I was only paying half.

Now I look around the hardwood den and kitchen area and wonder how long until someone else’s dust is piling in the corners.

I sink into the nest of pillows and blankets on the couch, where I’ve been sleeping since I sold my canopy bed, and ask myself if it was worth it, being ‘house poor.’ I never minded not having a lot in savings, because I never figured I would need it. Before January 30, I spent most of my money on clothes, food, and utilities. Just the basics. I’m not a very materialistic person, which is good, because I guess I’m not very good with money, either.

I glance at the coffee table, where my laptop sits, adorned with stickers I put there in college. I keep telling myself I might have to sell it, too, but honestly, I’m not sure I can. I kind of think I’d check myself into a homeless shelter with it hidden inside a blanket if I had to. I know I’m not a great writer-I’m not famous like my grandmother, Gertrude O’Malley-but I love writing.

Whatever, though.

Enough moping.

I spent the morning job-hunting, the afternoon reading the latest Richard Powers novel, and the early evening typing up a meal plan, just to be sure I make the food in my pantry last as long as possible. I’ve got one bottle of Sauvignon Blanc left, and I’m thinking about downing it. Goes well with everything, even tonight’s dinner: a little bowl of Insta-mac and cheese.

I hop up, slip into the red silk robe hanging on the couch’s arm, and walk into the kitchen to microwave the mac and cheese when my iPhone rings.

I turn a circle, skimming my gaze over the granite countertops and mahogany cabinets, then dash back into the den, where it looks like the women’s section of a large department store has vomited everywhere.

“Damnit…”

I can’t find anything in this- There!

I pluck the phone from between a cereal bowl and a copy of The New Yorker on my coffee table and see that “Katie Underpants Danger” is calling. My BFF’s name is Katie Stranger, but everyone from the Journal calls her Katie Danger, which makes sense because she’s a police reporter. Unlike my amoral self, Katie believes in never going without your underpants, so that’s how she got her middle name.

I press the green button. “Cat-yyyyyy!”

“Red!” Katie has a prim, little old lady kind of voice. She sounds like your grandmother crying out your name from the first row of fold-out chairs at the seventh-grade spelling bee. This makes it super funny when she curses.

“Whatcha doing?” I ask, plodding back into the kitchen.

“I’m at the KSC.” The Kendall Square Cinema is a little mom-and-pop place in Cambridge. “Ronnie and Betsy and I. And you, if you can come.” Shit.

Katie keeps inviting me out, and I keep having to tell her ‘no,’ because I can’t afford it. I bite my lower lip. I’m going to have to tell her something like the truth, or she’s going to think I’m dodging her.

I sigh. “I would love to come with you guys, but I’m running a little low on funds.” I twirl a lock of hair around my finger, figuring there’s no need to elaborate. I’ve been nine weeks without income. I’m footing the entire bill for an apartment I used to share. I’m also having to use a bunch of my unemployment money to pay for an emergency room visit after spraining my ankle ice skating at the Frog Pond on New Year’s Day. “Oh, okay. Well, I see. I’m sorry.”

I shrug, adding water to my mac and cheese. “I didn’t mention it. And no problem. Is tomorrow Saturday? Yep, tomorrow’s Saturday. Come by on Sunday. We’ll go…I dunno. We’ll go walking or something. Something super cool. And tell Ronnie and B I’ll see them next week at Hugh’s.”

A few minutes later, I’m sliding the phone into the pocket of my robe and pouring cheese powder into my steaming noodles. I stop to pop the cork on my last bottle of wine before I even stir the powder in. It’s Villa Maria Sauvignon Blanc: my favorite, which I used to buy maybe too regularly. I take a long swig from the bottle and pinch my lips together.

My robe vibrates. The phone. Katie again.

“Red, OMG, I forgot to tell you! True Crime channel, twenty minutes! Can you DVR for me? They’re doing a special on James Wolfe, and Rob told me they’re using some footage from the Times!”

“Sure.” I nod. “No prob.”

“Thanks, Red. And hey…we miss you.”

“Ditto. TTYL.”

I hang up before I can get all dumb and emotional. I see Katie at least twice a week and the rest of the gang at our Wednesday night bingo game at Hugh’s. I have nothing to cry about.

Except that I don’t see them every day.

And this week, I realized I can’t even afford to go to the MFA to see a traveling collection of “W” paintings. A few months ago, I’d have gotten a private tour. Shit, I might have even gotten to meet the reclusive “W.” Okay -maybe not, but still.