Cupcake (9 page)

"Shut up," I said, and fell into the sleep of the dead.

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"Cupcake?" Danny asked zombie CC several hours later, dusk time, vampire time, HAMMER TIME, after I'd awoken and pulled off the miraculous feat of a return lap across the Walk of Shame, this time to the living room. Danny held out a tray of the previous night's party cupcakes to me. He must truly hate me.

Stomach. Lurch.

My love affair with cupcakes: Officially. On. Hiatus.

I fell onto the sofa and placed a throw pillow over my eyes. "Be gentle, Danny," I murmured. "Please?"

"Gentle?" Danny asked. I felt him plop down onto the end of the sofa. He placed my bare feet on his lap. "Gentle to the same girl who ditched the party that was being thrown in her honor last night? Gentle to she who disappeared for hours with no explanation?"

"I tried to tell you," I whispered. "I went back up to the party after hanging out with Max. I was going to tell you I was meeting up with Luis. But you didn't see me. You were making out with Jerry Lewis. You were--"

"I'm not finished," Danny interrupted. "Be quiet because I have a lot to say, and I don't want to hear your sorry defenses."

Ah, here was the harsh. Brother, that is.

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***

FIFTEEN

Rules
.

In my mind I'm eighteen years old, independent. In Danny's mind we may not have grown up in the same household, but I'm still his little sister, and he's "responsible" for me.

And so he decreed: If I'm going to stay out all night, I have to check in to let Danny know where I am. I shall never be thrown a party again, or invited to one he's going to, if I'm just going to ignore everyone, and then bail. The broken leg drama is over, done,
finito,
and given that I'm enrolled for only one culinary class (um, right), I'd better get myself a damn job to get some structure for the rest of my time, or I should think about moving back home to San Francisco until I'm grown up enough to accept the responsibilities that come with sharing this apartment with him. And by the way,

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CC, you're not independent if your parents are paying your rent and you're not being held accountable for your actions.

Also, drunken hook-ups are not cool when brought back to an apartment shared with a roommate--especially a roommate who's a brother. Don't do it. He wouldn't do it to me, so I shouldn't do that to him--that is, leave Danny in awkward morning-after conversation with the object of my previous night's affection, or leave him to answer phone calls on the house line from my mother wanting to know if I made it home safely, and at what time.

Lastly, said Danny, "When I first met you, I thought the 'Little Hellion' label pinned on you by your family back in San Francisco was perhaps a bit unfair. Now I get it."

Ah, the return of the Little Hellion. Cheap shot. Maybe I deserved it? Last night I was a pretty cheap date. All it took was a bag of salty fries to make me go rated X. I mean, the sex part, at least what I remember of it, was quite nice. But was getting trashed so necessary to get me there? The problem with "quite nice" was that, despite keeping a Just in Case condom available in my purse, the not bothering to actually use said condom when the case called for it could bring about quite a few unpleasant consequences. Not such nice ones. And one in particular that I fully remember.

Don't anybody dare sing "Oops! ... I Did It Again" at me.

So. My whole life I waited to live on my own in Manhattan,

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and this was the person I had strived to become? Chick-flick-lit girl moves to Gotham, meets charming rake, charms rake with her spunk and quirky sense of style. Wacky hijinks involving sea green cocktails and spicy stud-boys ensue. Bleh.

This transition to living in Manhattan was supposed to be easier. On TV it always is. When the spunky gal takes on the big city, she encounters certain obstacles but always survives through a combination of wit, fabulous shoes, secondary character friends who are far more interesting than she is but whose looks don't meet the network's beauty standard, and that grit and determination thing. Where was the dialogue for the strung out still-teenage girl getting chewed out by her brother--and he didn't even know the worst of her offenses from last night?

"Any questions?" Danny asked, his list of decrees finished.

Yeah. Where's the closest Planned Parenthood office?

"No," I mumbled. I pressed my face into the couch, so it would look like I wanted to rest, but really what I wanted was for Danny not to see my tears. I cried because I saw myself reflected back in Danny's eyes, full of disappointment. The hangover in my heart felt worse than the one in my head.

Guess what, Danny? My real mistake was so way bigger than ditching our party, or pursuing the desire for casual, uncomplicated sex that seems to make a brother-roommate so uncomfortable. That's what!

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The real mistake was the drunken lack of inhibition, when Jell-O prohibition--or at least moderation--could just as easily have led to "quite nice," only without the complicated variants of an "uh-oh" hangover. But after hearing Danny's tirade of rules, I couldn't confide in him about the real mistake. Or wouldn't. Not after he'd thrown the Little Hellion label in my face.

But if the Little Hellion had been ready to go hog wild with the big fessing up, she might have found the not-chick-flick-lit girl dialogue to silence her Gotham roommate's tirade.
Danny, I assume you think you're being all Protective Big Brother, setting down the law about responsibility, but I know plenty on that subject already, I assure you. I just fuck up sometimes. Don't you? And if you had any idea what it feels like to sit in a clinic, alone, chewing on fingernails while your heart palpitates and your soul disintegrates, waiting for a nurse to call you inside the saddest of procedure rooms, to then wait for a doctor whom you don't even know to undo your body's accountability to your irresponsibility, you would back off. Except you're a boy with no ovaries to worry about, and maybe you think you could imagine it, but really you couldn't. I've been there--I don't have to imagine it.

Danny stood up from the sofa. He placed a blanket over my body, and a quick kiss on the back of my sobbing/throbbing head.

I cried because I had wanted so much to live here with my

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hero new-older brother Danny, but despite our
ka-pow!
soul connection, we had not yet experienced the investment of time and trust that might have clued him in that the real reason for my tears had nothing to do with my hangover and his disappointment in me, but with a New-Old frustration with myself.

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***

SIXTEEN

Turns out there is decent coffee to be found in this city. I just

didn't look hard enough. The perfection was right under my nose-- literally.

The perfection could be found thanks to a voice mail left on my cell phone in the middle of the night by my friend Helen back in San Francisco.
"CC, oops you did it again is right! But don't panic. Pharmaceutical conglomerates more likely interested in positive profit margins rather than in selflessly serving women's health crises have devised a solution to your negative situation. It's called the morning-after pill. Ask for it at Planned Parenthood ASAP, and have a nice, relieved day. Call me after. Dumbfuck."

My heart and head eased by Helen's message, I stumbled out of bed at noon on The Day After, only to be urgently informed by my stomach that the last step on my hangover recovery program would

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require a pizza slice. Although the corner pizza place was not the best place to grabba slice in the neighborhood (the best place would be Pedro's place of employ), it was the nearest, as hangover head demanded a slice within a one-block walking radius of the apartment (catch up with you later, Pedro). So imagine my shock when I took on the hardship of this half-block walk to the pizza place, only to see a sign taped in the window: CLOSED TODAY DUE TO ELECTRICAL FIRE. Horror.

And yet, my nose was not entirely displeased. Because from where I stood, at this corner block that usually smelled of cheese, tomato sauce, and beer, my nose picked up instead the scent of rich, pungent, heart-rate-racing coffee. What the Kona? Perhaps the upside of the posthangover haze was a heightened sense of smell, but... holy cowabunga caffeination!

I eyed the neighboring shops, trying to home in on the heavenly scent's beacon. My eyes spied a faded sign with missing letters at the shop next door to the pizza place.

LU_CH_ONE_TE

Really?

Somehow in all my time either visiting with Danny or living with him on this block, I'd never taken particular notice of this rundown lunch shop; it flew completely off the radar of this San

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Francisco coffee snob. If it's true that people judge books by their covers, then I had judged the luncheonette by its exterior window, which offered a view inside of a long old-fashioned Formica counter, Dairy Queen--type booths against the side walls, and fold-up bridge tables and chairs randomly strewn around the rest of the available space. The place was peopled by a smattering of old folks playing chess or cards, and blue-collar worker types, the work-boot-wearin', regular coffee drinkin' folk who definitely do not flock to the decaf skim vanilla soy latte establishments of the laptop/cell-phone-using student or yuppie set. It was the kind of ancient, real-deal cool mom-and-pop place you just knew was on its way out--soon to be replaced by yet another Gap or Starbucks, once the lease ran out and the building owners jacked up the rent in order to get the old tenants out. Why go in and get attached only to get your heart broken when the LU_CH_ONE_TE sign got replaced by one that would drop no letters to spell out: L-I-Q-U-I-D-A-T-I-O-N.

But that smell. I had to take the risk.

I barged inside and walked up to the counter. A young goth-punk of unknown age--hard to tell specifically, what with his shaved head, goateed chin, tunneled ears, nose and lip rings, fully tattooed arms, and heavy black eyeliner--stood at the cash register, playing on a Game Boy.

"May I have a cappuccino, please?" I asked. I wanted straight-up

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capp simplicity. No flavored shots, no particular milk requests, no demands for diorama latte art formed in the coffee/foam mixture. Etc. My heart beat extra fast in anticipation. I knew I'd found the promised land. While my actions are often questionable, my instincts are impeccable.

"Nope," young punk said, not looking up from his Game Boy. "Excuse me?" I said.

Still not looking up, as if I should have known better, he said, "Rita. She quit last week. She was the only person who knew how to work the espresso machine." He tilted his head over his shoulder, indicating the cooking area behind him. "Fresh brewed pot of coffee over there on the regular coffeemaker. Help yourself."

I did. I stepped behind the counter, grabbed the towel from the rack underneath the coffeemaker, wiped down the counter, which seriously hadn't been given any attention in like a decade, found the mugs in like an insta-second, and poured myself a fresh one. An immediate and happy sense of déjà vu, normalcy by way of working a coffee establishment countertop, eroded the last vestiges of hangover.

The coffee taste banished the Jell-O aftertaste. Judging by my whizzed-up heartbeat: Perfection. Even without the foamed milk. I knew it. Kona. My nose does not lie. Someone here had a good connection to an excellent wholesale coffee distributor, as well as a good sense for how to grind and brew Java.

Still, I wanted what I wanted. "Do you mind if I make myself

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a capp, buddy?" I asked Game Boy. Perched like a grande dame on the counter, next to the coffeemaker, was a true vision of beauty: a La Marzocco espresso machine--only like the Cadillac of professional machines!

Now he looked up from the Game Boy. "You know how to work the machine?"

I did.

My delivery of a cappuccino work of art to his cash register stand got him to finally put aside the Game Boy. He took a sip. He did not smile, although a perfect peak of foamed milk resting on one of his lip rings warmed his face. He said, "Rita worked the afternoon shifts. You can have her shift if you want. Or just show up whenever you feel like it; I don't particularly care. But you should know, Rita quit cuz she wasn't making enough in tips. As you can see, this place doesn't have many customers. Rita was all uptight about money, man. She was like--"

"I'll take it," I said. Who cared about Rita? No job interview, no forms to fill out? I'm there. I pointed to his ratty T-shirt, which had a photo of a band performing on a ship plank with a masthead emblazoned with the words, "HMS Sucks-A-Four." I asked, "What does the shirt mean?"

"HMS Sucks-A-Four. My old band. Four guys. Punk covers of Gilbert and Sullivan opera shit. Sucky band, but good times, man. That's what it's all about, you know? Now I'm in a new band. We're

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called Mold. Much better than the old band. No more Gilbert and Sullivan, though. Bummer." He swilled another coffee sip. "Damn, that's one fine brew. You really know how to get a foam head on the steamed milk. So, you in school or whatever?"

"Nope. Just basic slackness."

"Cool. So you wanna start today or, like, some other day?"

"Today is good."

Game Boy-boy retrieved an apron from underneath the counter. When I put it on, a band sticker across the chest area read MOLD. Such an inviting advertisement in a food establishment.

"You have a name, Mold?" I asked him.

"Johnny," he said.

"Like as in Cash or as in Rotten?"

"Like as in Quest. Or, like as in my granddad. Old Man Johnny the First owns this place. Wants us to keep it open till he kicks it. Sentimental attachment and all. You got one of those name things?"

"Cyd Charisse. As in dancer. But my friends and family call me CC. As in myself."