Dear Girls Above Me: Inspired by a True Story (16 page)

I went out on a limb and assumed that the Katie of today did not have jet-black hair and had probably not grown about a foot and a half since high school, nor was she
really
into snakes (that picture still haunts me). I was now down to four. I noticed that one of the Katie Rosenfelds lived in Burbank. I distinctly remembered overhearing my Katie discussing Burbank with one of her friends senior year: “The party’s in the Valley? Only crackheads live over there.” I was relying on the presumption that Katie did not become a crackhead. So, I crossed Burbank crackhead Katie off the list. Down to three. Okay, now things got a little more difficult. One of the profiles had a picture of a pig with a baby monkey on its back (quite cute), another was a painting of the late/great Tupac Shakur (RIP), and the last one didn’t have a picture at all (lame). I decided that no attractive girl would have a Facebook account without posting a visual to at least hint at the fact that she’s hot. So I said my good-byes to No Picture Katie: “I wish you the best of luck. Hope you find the right JPG one day.”

And then there were two. Baby monkey on a pig or Tupac … 
Tricky? Perhaps to someone of below-average intelligence. You see, I came up with the ingenious idea to send the same message to both girls. One of them was bound to be the “real” Katie, and I was sure the “fake” Katie would feel so sorry for me that she’d probably just avoid the message altogether. It went a little something like this:

Katie,

Hola, como estas? It’s Charlie McDowell from AP Spanish class! How the hell are you? I think the last time we saw each other was on grad night when an ambulance whisked you away to get your stomach pumped. Still have a hangover? Just kidding! Anyway, you popped into my head the other day, so I thought I’d send a hello and see how you’re doing. Hello. I’m sure you’re still turning the heads of every guy you pass. I still have neck pains! Hope you’re well.

Ciao (I’m speaking Italian now),

Charlie

And … 
SEND
. There was no turning back. My precious message was now in the hands of the Facebook gods; unfortunately, it wasn’t long before I realized that I was a strict Facebook atheist.

“You’ve got mail.”

Wait. Shit, did I just admit to still using AOL e-mail as my primary account? This book is now a tell-all.

Anyway, I saw my e-mail: “Facebook notification message from Katie Rosenfeld.” It worked! It was a message from Baby Monkey on a Pig Katie:

Charlie,

Hola, como estas too (whatever that means). I took French in high school. I believe you’re looking for someone else. Good luck in your mission to get laid.

Sincerely,

Katie

I was a quarter of the way done with cursing the fates when the computer sang again: “You’ve got mail.” I froze. “Facebook notification message from Katie Rosenfeld.” I was cautiously excited. I opened up my Facebook, only to discover a message from the Tupac Katie:

Charlie!

What a pleasant surprise! Thank God my hangover is gone from that night! I do hope that’s not how you remember me. It wasn’t one of my finer moments, but I’m happy to report no more trips to the emergency room since, or Disney for that matter.

(Something we both had in common. Back to her letter.)

Where are you living? I would love to see you sometime … As for the head turning, I don’t remember you even glancing at me. Trust me, I would’ve noticed that … Hope to hear from you soon …

Ciao bella,

Katie R.

What an incredible turn of events. Many thoughts were smashing up against my head. Like the fact that the most beautiful thing ever to grace the halls of my high school not only recalled my insignificant presence but actually wanted to see the “all-grown-up” me. Was she still the same? Did she expect me to be the same? And on what number date would it be appropriate for me to question her thought process behind the oddly chosen Tupac profile picture without running the risk of offending her?

More important than all of those questions, I couldn’t help but realize that reaching out to Katie was something I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing yesterday at this time. For a brief moment, I was curious as to what inspired this great change in me.… But then Marvin peed on Bridget’s sweater and now I actually did have to go and get it dry-cleaned.

THE GIRLS KNOW THEIR CURRENT EVENTS

Dear Girls Above Me,

“I don’t get it, why do all these people want to live on Wall Street? Soho is such a better area.” You’re right. Occupy Soho!

Dear Girls Above Me,

“I’m so sad. I couldn’t live a day without my iPhone. Rest in peace Bill Gates.” Let me lend a hand, rest in peace Steve Jobs.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“So I guess they found Obama Bin Laden pretty much dead at a house in Iraq.” Literally nothing in that sentence was correct.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“Doesn’t global warming just mean more warm weather vacation spots?” You’re sounding an awful lot like President Bush.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“So I missed that eclipse thingy last night. I’ll just catch it next year.” The previous solstice lunar eclipse occurred in 1638.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“It’s Wear Purple Day? Now I have an excuse to match my new bra and panties!” Putting an end to teen bullying one thong at a time.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“Did you hear that all these kids were rescued in Chile after being trapped in some mountain?” Miners, not minors.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“What oil spill? I thought I heard there was a flood somewhere.” Current events must feel like a Rubik’s Cube to you.

Dear Girls Above Me,

“Did you see that Schwarzenegger’s in a new movie? Is he allowed to do that when he’s Mayor?” Only if Governor Obama OK’s it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

One of the many annoying parts of living in an old apartment building is the constant surprise maintenance. If one person clogs a toilet with a tampon or someone’s pilot light blows out or someone loads an outlet with too many plugs, Mr. Molever hangs up freshly laminated signs that announce “emergency water shutoffs,” “gas deactivation tests,” and “electricity drills.” Of course, I rarely pay attention to these notices, which often comes back to bite me in the butt. Especially the water-shutoff ones.

One day I was enjoying a perfectly satisfying morning poo, and when I flushed the toilet … silence. The metal handle jiggled but yielded no water. I went to the lobby to get some answers and found a warning sign that read
TODAY WE CELEBRATE OUR “FIXING A BURST WATER PIPE DAY.” PROPER WATER CIRCULATION WILL RESUME LATER TONIGHT
.

Pat must’ve used the one bonus courtesy flush you get after they shut off the water. You know, for a guy who’s constantly leaving me little notes that I don’t care about, a Post-it in this case might’ve
been a good idea. Well, fortunately, I was dressed and ready to take on the world because there was absolutely no chance I was going to spend the entire day in my apartment with that floater lurking in the bathroom.

The biggest (non-girl-above-me) problem with my apartment is the shower. I feel comfortable admitting that bathroom upkeep has not always been my top priority. I mean, it’s not a frat house lavatory, but it ain’t the Four Seasons either. However, one of the luxuries I’ve become rather accustomed to in my life is hot water. Recently, that comfort has been taken from me and replaced with a stream of pure glacier water piped directly from the Arctic. Even prison inmates get hot water. They may get gang-raped while trying to wash their hair, but the water raining on their violated bodies when it’s over is always nice and warm.

I asked Pat, who was on a much later showering schedule than I, whether he was experiencing a similar problem. He responded, “My showers are as steamy as an episode of
Gossip Girl
.”

“Is that … hot?”

“Ohhhhhh yeah.”

The gentleman I needed to speak to concerning this predicament was the one they call Stanley. He heads all of the maintenance for the building and is also the biggest weirdo on the property. I don’t know much about him personally, but I have a sneaking suspicion that he illegally dwells in the janitor closet that happens to be on the same floor as my apartment. One day I was walking Marvin, and I happened to peek into Stanley’s maintenance room. The door was ajar, just enough for me to see him lying on a fold-out cot, staring up at the ceiling humming the Britney Spears song “Circus.” I felt as if I were trapped in a second-rate horror flick. Thankfully, he didn’t notice me; otherwise I’m pretty sure he would’ve chopped me up
and worn my reconstructed skin as a costume, or worse, started a conversation with me.

Stanley has a bizarre connection to the apartment building. I’m convinced he can feel what the building is feeling. I have often found him with his ear up against the wall in the hallway as if he were communicating with the building. I’ve tried listening myself, but all I hear is Pat watching
Judge Judy
. I can’t imagine the pain he must endure during an earthquake. But as long as the building is still standing, I’m sure Stanley will be as well.

I stood in my foyer, mentally preparing myself for this awkward interaction. Ever since my breakup, I’d found it much harder to chat with people I don’t know, something I used to be able to do with ease. I don’t know if my confidence had been adjusted since my ex had ended things or whether my overall outlook on life had become much more pessimistic. Either way, at that moment, having to ask Stanley to fix my water heater was not high on my list of dream activities.

CHARLIE’S LIST OF DREAM ACTIVITIES

1. Being the official sunscreen applier for a
Baywatch
reunion movie.

2. Being the official taste tester at Krispy Kreme headquarters.

3. Being the official sex therapist for the Pitt-Jolie household.

4. Being the official test driver every time Batman gets a new Batmobile.

5. Not having to ask Stanley to fix anything or whatever.

But it needed to be done, as ice-cold showers were beginning to give me a permanently high-pitched voice, which hampered my ability to effectively sing along with my Barry White records.

As I opened the front door, leaving my quiet room behind (the girls were shopping in Beverly Hills), standing directly in front of me, as if he were psychic, was Stanley. I was taken aback to see him so soon, although he did not seem to be startled in the slightest. It was as if he knew I was on my way to pay him a visit. The building must’ve told him.

“I haven’t been getting any hot water in the morning,” I said.

“I know,” he responded.

“How did you know?”

“Come with me.”

Stanley turned around and walked with his bowlegged strut down the underlit hallway. I gave Marvin one last pat on the head and off I went, to either find out about my shower or get murdered by my handyman.

When we reached Stanley’s janitorial closet, he pulled from his pocket a chain of what must have been fifty keys. All of the keys looked the same; none had any distinct markings or colors. He intuitively knew which one opened the door to his room without even looking. I stood behind him, not sure if he wanted me following him into his private area or not. He disappeared into the dark closet. I heard the sound of a striking match, accompanied by the faint aroma of a candle that smelled like pumpkin. He popped his head out and motioned for me to enter.

His rectangular closet felt more lived-in than my own apartment. From what I could see in the candlelight, he had a vintage army cot for a bed that was folded up and propped against the wall. I assumed he did that every morning when he woke, giving himself enough room to move around during the day. He had a few workman jumpsuits hanging from a plumbing pipe that ran from one wall to the other. Besides that, he had mostly tools, rusting appliances, some
mops, and a couple of mysterious contraptions that were in the middle of restoration at a small table in the corner.

“I don’t have any electricity,” he said in a gruff voice.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? It’s not your fault.”