Authors: Elisa Lorello
Faking It (19 page)
"It went well. Good turnout. And yours?"
"I dropped one of my pages and made a terrific save."
"Tanya couldn't get the Power Point to work."
"I had nothing to do with it," I blurted, then felt my face turn red.
He turned an eyebrow in, and moved on in conversation. "Are you here with anyone?"
"Um, yeah. In fact, I should be getting back to him."
Thank you, God, THANK YOU, GOD, for letting me be here with a him!!!
Neither of us moved or spoke. Then, Andrew broke the silence.
"Married life isn't all it's cracked up to be."
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
"Yeah, well, you knew what you were getting into," I said.
"I convinced myself otherwise."
"
Bull shit
, Andrew."
"Cutch--"
"What the hell is 'Cutch'? You don't get to call me that anymore--you've lost the right to be cute and endearing with me. And you got exactly what you wanted, so don't you dare stand here and tell me you made a mistake."
"I'm not saying that."
"No? Then what are you saying?"
"Forget it," he muttered.
"You know, you haven't changed, Andrew. Still avoiding the hard questions. Still in denial about how you really feel. You lied to me. That's too bad."
"Yeah? Well, you changed too late. And
that's
too bad."
What did he mean by that? Had he made an assumption that I'd had sex with someone since him? Had my body language given away some sort of hint? Had faking it become so second nature that he actually believed something had changed? Or had something, in fact, actually changed in me?
"Maybe so." I tried to stay cool, but could feel myself unnerving. I wanted a comeback, one that would leave his mouth hanging open--hell, one that would make him cry like a two-year-old. But I couldn't think of anything to say, dammit.
"Get bent, Andrew."
Without waiting for his response, I left him and went back to the ladies room. Standing in front of the mirror yet again, I took deep breaths and dabbed my eyes with a tissue, quickly composing myself. Minutes later, I exited and walked back to my table, where Sam was waiting for me with two fresh ginger ales and a smile on his face. God, his eyes were blue.
Chapter Nineteen
February
T
HE EMAIL EXCHANGES BEGAN THE NIGHT AFTER THE Language Arts Conference ended, when Sam returned to his home in Amherst, Massachusetts. He had initiated them by asking me the questions used in the questionnaire at the end of every
Inside the Actor's Studio
episode. I responded the next morning.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: the essentials
Hey Sam. Here ya go.
Q: What is your favorite word?
A: soccer
Q: What is your least favorite word?
A: rape
Q: What sound or noise do you love?
A: The ocean.
Q: What sound or noise do you hate?
A: Balloons popping.
Q: What turns you on?
A: Junior's cheesecake
Q: What turns you off?
A: ignorance
Q: What profession would you like to attempt?
A: Cake taster
Q: What profession would you not like to attempt?
A: Flight attendant.
Q: What is your favorite curse word?
A: rat-bastard
Q: If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say as you enter the Pearly Gates?
A: Welcome to eternity; thank you for choosing us.
Your turn.
Andi
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: the essentials
Andrea,
You asked for it...
Sam
Q: What is your favorite word?
A: batshit (runner-up: apeshit)
Q: What is your least favorite word?
A: frothy
Q: What sound or noise do you love?
A: The sound of rain hitting a window pane.
Q: What sound or noise do you hate?
A: The sound of brakes screeching (and no, I didn't steal that answer from Robin Williams).
Q: What turns you on?
A: Right now? You. (see big smiley)
Q: What turns you off?
A: bad speling and no good grammer.
Q: What profession would you like to attempt?
A: travel writer
Q: What profession would you not like to attempt?
A: construction worker
Q: What is your favorite curse word?
A: fucknuts
Q: If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say as you enter the Pearly Gates?
A: Long live Sam Vanzant!!
Later that afternoon, I called him at his office from my own, and added a question.
"What's your definition of 'Hell'?" I asked.
"The Republican National Convention," he replied after a beat. "What's yours?"
I thought for a second. "Jimmy Buffet marathon."
"Ooh, that's harsh!" he said with a laugh. I could picture him holding his chest, as if he'd been shot by an arrow.
I groaned. "You're not one of
them
, are you?"
"Does that mean I've lost my chance with you?"
Unfortunately, he couldn't see the classic, electric Devin smile I was radiating.
"If the deprogramming works, you're all set."
***
More emails followed:
From: [email protected]
Subject: NY vs. NE
Sam,
The fundamental difference between NYers and NEers are the pedestrians and drivers. In both cases, the pedestrians are equally rude, knowing they have the right of way, and they exercise this right by crossing traffic at any hour of the day and any part of the road and they expect all traffic to stop, bow down, and worship them -- if they could, they'd pump their fists in the air and proclaim "I am God." NE drivers are sissy enough to stop. But, the thing is, NY drivers are not willing to concede this right, and they will assume control by the sheer fact that they are operating a moving vehicle at 50 mph in a 35 mile zone. If the pedestrians are proclaiming their divinity, then the drivers are sure to be admitting (at the same time) that they are, in fact, the devil.
(We also have better cheesecake, but you have way better clam chowder...)
Andi
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: NY vs. NE
Andi-
You're damn right about the chowdah. I'll bet you miss the chowdah. I'll bet right now your mouth is salivating for one spoonful. When you come to see me (when are you coming to see me, by the way?) I'm taking you to this little corner cafe in Amherst that has chowdah so good it'll make the Soup Nazi look like Mr. Rogers.
I find that there is very little about NY that can be considered quaint. Even those places you described in Sag Harbor, for example, don't sound authentically quaint as much as they're trying to make the cover of some magazine that sells quaintness.
Sam
P.S. So, when are you coming to see me?
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: NY vs. NE
Sam,
The word you're looking for is "cosmetic," or "cosmopolitan," even. And I don't even know if "quaint" is the right word. My memory of NE houses is chipping paint and stone walls. Sure, you've got your new cul-de-sacs (or is it culs-de-sac?) in Dartmouth and Taunton that are full of vinyl siding, and I noticed more and more landscapers and less ride-on mowers from the time I left as opposed to when I first arrived. I remember how I couldn't get over all the ride-on mowers for lawns the size of my classroom. NE used to be so low maintenance -- what happened?
Andi
P.S. I'm coming to see you tomorrow.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: NY vs. NE
Andi-
The Red Sox won the World Series, that's what happened. We kicked your Yankee asses in your house and then swept the Cardinals and got drunk and knocked over telephone poles. We no longer have to feel inferior to youz guyz. We gave ourselves permission to be as hypertensive as you. Fuck quaint -- we're the WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS. That, and you guys got Bloomberg for a mayor. Or maybe it was you: your suburban high maintenance rubbed off on us.
Sam
P.S. When are you coming?
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: NY vs. NE
Two words: 26 titles.
From the cockles of my heart,
Andi
P.S. I'm coming tomorrow.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Question
Dear Andi,
What do you wear to school?
From: [email protected]
Subject: Answer
Dear Sam,
I swear I became a professor just so I could wear blue jeans to work everyday. You should've seen me when I was a kid, how I would practically fist-fight my mother everytime she made me wear a dress, which was to church every sunday, first communion, confirmation, weddings and funerals, and the worst, class picture days. I especially hated picture days because I would argue that the picture my mother would display was the one of me from the shoulders up; but I was one of the short kids in class so I always had to sit in the front row and have my legs crossed -- which warranted a skirt or a dress.
But, I digress. Ah, my blue jeans: Faded. Comfy. Sleek. Goes with any pair of shoes I own. Everyone looks good in blue jeans, don't you think? I'll bet you look hot in blue jeans and a black t-shirt. I'm a sucker for guys in blue jeans and black t-shirts...
From: [email protected]
Subject: Pictureday
And I'm a sucker for Italian NY professors who pick on current traditionalists...
What I remember about pictureday was the combs. This was supposed to keep us occupied while waiting our turn, and for boys with ominous cowlicks too, I guess. It was also supposed to be a reward for not doing anything obnoxious like crossing our eyes at the moment of CHEEEEZE, or pushing Dennis Kemper off his chair also at said cheese moment. But we took the combs and would slap the girls' asses with 'em - hard. Or we'd try to bite off the comb's teeth, or play 'em like kazoos, or we'd use 'em for desk hockey sticks or chinese football goalposts. But the cruelest use I'd ever witnessed was when Petey Lowenstein, the biggest bully-dick of 'em all, smothered the comb in his cole slaw, tackled said Dennis Kemper during recess, and combed his hair with it.
Alas, now I digress. You can wear your blue jeans any time you want. However, I would like to see what you look like in a dress. Preferably, a short one.
Sam
P.S. When are you coming?
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Pictureday
Hey Sam (or should I say, Armani)-
I have a little red number that you might like, so long as you don't make me wear it to church...
I'm wondering if I should curse you for uncovering those deliberately repressed memories about the combs. What I remember was that the teeth were too small for me to run through my own hair - I saved it for my Supersized Barbie's hair. And while we're on the subject, if you ever snap a comb against my ass, I'll comb your hair with melted Velveeta.
Andi, a.k.a. "The Fashionista"
P.S. Tomorrow.
***
I was absolutely smitten with Sam.
In addition to the almost-daily emails, we spoke on the phone about three times a week, or sometimes text-messaged each other, although we both hated text-message vernacular, so by the time it took us to spell out whole sentences, we could've called and left a voice mail or had a quick conversation. Compared to Devin, Sam was less shmoozy and more of a storyteller, less meticulous and more laid back. A true memoirist, he extensively narrated tales of growing up in Wayland, Massachusetts with his brother and spending a summer in Europe after college graduation and a skiing trip in Vermont when he was thirty where he broke his leg and hadn't been back to the slopes since.
Sam also had no qualms about telling me how he felt about me. His daily "when are you coming to see me" question, either via email or phone, was playful rather than pushy. All of our conversations, both verbal and written, were pithy, fun, and flirtatious. Although wary of a long distance relationship, I felt a new kind of freedom, a lack of reservation or discomfort that so often accompanied me when going through the courting stage of a relationship. And despite the physical distance, we were courting. Our "dates" consisted mostly of meeting at our respective coffeeshops and talking to each other on our cellphones. We tried other kinds of dates, but failed. One time we each rented the same DVD and tried to watch it at the same time while on the phone with each other, but we wound up chatting the entire time and missed the movie. An attempt to read the same Richard Russo novel also failed; our academic responsibilities quickly got in the way.
As the weeks passed and the semester kicked into gear, I found myself thinking more about Sam and less about Devin. And yet still, whenever Devin called (or, on rare occasion, we managed to get together for coffee or a movie), despite the fact that we were old friends by now, the butterflies in my stomach had never really dissipated.
One day Maggie came into my office, followed by Jayce, just as I finished reading Sam's latest email.