Gone Bitch (2 page)

But then a little thing called the Internet started blowing up, and a little thing called e-cards started blowing up along with it, because people didn’t want to buy a two-dollar card and a 45-cent stamp when they could send an e-card for free. Because $2.45 was way too much to spend on the person who’d been responsible for putting you on the Earth. So I got laid off.

Three weeks after I lost my job, Amy lost her job. At least that’s what
she
would tell you.
I’d
tell you that she lost her “job,” because her “job” (annual salary = $0) was being an Elite reviewer for Yelp. For those of you who aren’t “Yelpers,” Yelp is a website where regular people like you and me can review whatever we want. If you post enough reviews you get the coveted “Elite” status and get to be a “Yelp Elite reviewer.” As far as I can tell, the tangible benefits of this position consist of being invited to two parties a year, neither of which Amy attended. But being a Yelp Elite reviewer gave Amy something that to her was the greatest gift of all: a way to say she was better than other hot girls, which was every hot girl’s main goal in life.

Amy blamed me for making her lose her Yelp Elite status, and for once her blaming me for something was actually somewhat justified. The average Elite Yelper reviews 23 restaurants per day. This is why Elite Yelpers tend to be trust fund kids, or wives and girlfriends of trust fund kids. When I lost my job, there was no way for us to support both our elite West Village lifestyle and her Elite-mandated 23 restaurant meals per day, so the Elite status had to go.

To show her displeasure with my role in her losing Elite status, Amy started posting Yelp reviews of me.

BUSINESS NAME: Nick’s Penis

PROS: Is a penis, fits inside my vagina.

CONS: Is small, doesn’t give me an orgasm.

RATING: 1 star (out of 5)

Like I said, she’s a bitch.

I could keep going and tell you how Amy and I got from New York to Missouri, but that would be a digression, because I began with a story about me waking up already in Missouri. And I’m a really good writer, so I will avoid such a digression. But don’t worry, I’ll catch you up on everything later.

After reading the paper over coffee and taking a shower, I headed off to work. When I’d moved back to Missouri (where I’m originally from), my sister and I did the thing we’d always talked about doing: we opened a cat cafe. We’d borrowed $80,000 from Amy to do this, which was once nothing to her but was now almost everything. I promised I would pay her back with interest,
and
with her choice of any two cats.

It was a practical decision. My previous job had showed me the danger of going all-in on something for which people’s tastes could change. But I knew there would always be a demand for an eight-dollar latte that you could drink while being annoyed by cats.

We named the cafe Doggie McDoggerton’s to be ironic. My sister and I especially liked the idea that nobody in Missouri would get our irony. That assumption lasted all the way up to when our first customer walked in. “I dig the name,” she said. “It’s like that pizza place next door that’s called Not A Pizza Place.” Oops.

As I parked my car and walked toward the cafe that morning, I immediately became much happier than I had been at home. This phenomenon happened every day. I think it might’ve been because I was getting no love at home from Amy, whereas here, I was getting love from 63 cats, albeit in a 1 to 10 ratio of love to aloofness and sometimes outright hostility. It was great to have such a fulfilling job, but it was depressing as hell to know that at the end of the day I had to go back home.

My gut twisted, and I rushed to get the key in the door and go inside. I needed a shot of espresso and an American Shorthair.

AMY ELLIOTT: January 8, 2005

Tra and la! I met a boy! Well, I mean, I always meet boys, because I’m hot. But this is a boy that I can tell my friends about and make them feel jealous! So maybe I should start again:

Tra and la! I met a boy-I-can-tell-my-friends-about-and-make-them-feel-jealous!

Let me set the scene. My friend Carmen (by “friend” I mean a hot girl I met two weeks ago and haven’t yet known long enough for us to start hating each other) invited me to her friend’s party (probably because she didn’t want to look bad by going alone). Her friend is a writer, and Carmen told me there were going to be a lot of writer guys there. Immediately my expectations for the party dropped through the floor. “Writer” = low non-steady income (if any), embarrassingly futile attempts to be fashionable by wearing a blazer with a T-shirt, and in general not someone I want to be associated with, because my association with them has no potential to make my friends jealous.

I know what you’re thinking: “But Amy, aren’t
you
a writer?” Yes, I am. A
working
writer. I write
for
the Yelp Elite Squad. Try asking those writer guys who they’re writing for. Hope you like staring at a blazer and T-shirt in silence.

Carmen and I headed to the apartment in Chelsea, and before we even walked in the door I could tell it was gonna be one of those parties where no guy is on my level. Absolutely no potential date material here. I don’t even have to look inside to know this, or talk to a single person. I just know. It’s a special talent we hot girls have.

Speaking of hot girl talents, another talent we have is shutting down guys
before
they even start talking to us. Hey guys, you ever notice that the moment you start thinking about approaching a hot girl at a party, she walks away or hugs another guy or gets on the phone? Not an accident. Next time don’t even think about it and save us both some time.

Unfortunately there are still a few loopholes in this preemptive shut down method, one of them being if you don’t even know the guy is there. And that’s how I fail to preemptively shut down Nick. I’m standing by myself at the food tray because I’m hungry (and I’m also pretending to text so it doesn’t look like I’m standing alone). Suddenly I hear a guy behind me say:

“Back away from that tray, ma’am. Do
not
take a step closer.”

Ha ha ha, what a funny writer you are. Back away from
me
and do not take a step closer. I look around to find a gay guy I can hug, and I catch a glimpse of the person who’d spoken to me.

Omigod. He’s cute enough to make my friends jealous! But hold on, is he a loser? I allow myself five seconds to talk to him so I can judge this.

“But if I don’t eat this, what else is there?” I say.

“I can make you an olive with mustard,” he says. “But just one olive.”

Omg he insulted me! He must not be a loser, because loser guys (i.e. 99.99% of them) don’t insult me!

Omg omg omg! I met a cute guy who insulted me!

Nick and I start talking, but in my head I’m focused on the calculation all hot girls face when they meet a guy: what’s the farthest I need to go with this guy to maximize my friends’ jealousy while avoiding my friends’ criticism that I “went too far”? Make out? Bj? Further?

My initial calculation is that we’re at least gonna kiss, so I leave the party with him. As we’re walking down 6th Ave., I see a sugar delivery truck, and I steer Nick over to it because I know we can have a romantic moment where there’s sugar flying through the air and we kiss through the cloud of sugar and then I can tell my friends about it and make them feel bad that they didn’t have such a romantic moment.

When we get to Nick’s place, I finally make my decision: I’ll sleep with him because I see him as long-term material. That is, someone who can make my friends jealous in the long term.

It’s gonna be so fun telling my friends about this over $27 craft cocktails!

NICK DUNNE: The Day Of

I turned my key in the lock of the cat cafe door, and then realized the door was already open. My sister Go (short for Margo) had gotten in a few minutes before. I went over to the bar and gave her a kiss on the lips. Yes, on the lips, with a little tongue. So what? No biggie. To answer your question, no, we don’t fuck. We’re just really close. We do a lot together: work, go to movies, mutual masturbation, bjs, 69ing...but we do
not
fuck. So you can get that sick thought out of your head right now.

Go looked at me and poured me a shot of espresso without asking. I took a sip, and Go pointed at my mouth. Apparently I had some foam on my lip. I wiped it, and Go pointed at it again, and I wiped it again. Go rolled her eyes and just grabbed my face and slowly licked the foam off my lip with her tongue.

Our behaving in this manner had begun to gross out the customers, so finally we had buttons made up that said, “We’re not fucking. We’re just close.” That seemed to calm people down.

“What’s up, you look terrible,” Go said.

“Today’s my fifth anniversary,” I said. “So I’ve gotta deal with Amy’s anniversary shit.”

“Awwwwww, I feel so sorry for you,” Go said. “You married a complete bitch just because she was hot, and now she’s five years older and a little less hot and thus even more of a bitch. Poor baby.”

“Blow me,” I said. Go shrugged and started pulling down my pants. “Go, I meant it figuratively, not literally,” I said. “Anyway, I’m not in the mood. I’m freaking out about having to do another one of these treasure hunts.”

Every year on our anniversary, Amy made me do a treasure hunt, in which she scattered clues throughout the city which eventually led to my anniversary present. But the clues were impossible. So every year without fail, Amy blamed me for spoiling our anniversary because I couldn’t figure out the answers to her impossible treasure hunt clues.

For example, here’s one from last year:

The drinks at this bar are really great

But more important, it’s where we had our first date!

Our first date was
six years ago
. What, am I supposed to remember everything I’ve done for six years? What were you doing on this day six years ago? Can’t remember? Thought so.

Amy had eventually tried to make some of the clues easier, but they were only easier for her.

This clue will be an easy one all right,

It’s the restaurant where we ate last night!

Earth to Amy: when I eat, like most people I pay attention to the food, not to what some stupid sign says on the front of the building.

Today’s treasure hunt was thus doomed to be a failure. But Amy still insisted on doing it, because to a hot girl, anything you could call a “hunt” or “adventure” was worth doing, since you could tell your friends about it and make them jealous that
they
weren’t getting to go on hunts or adventures.

“So what did you get her for her anniversary present?” Go asked.

“I haven’t bought it yet,” I said. “Whenever I think about buying her an anniversary present it reminds me that I’m married to her, so I stop thinking about it. But I’ll go to the mall on my lunch break and grab something.”

“Maybe you should get her something that can’t be bought in a store,” Go said.

“Like what?” I said. At which point Go started pulling down my pants again.

Look, this is the last time I’m gonna say this: we don’t fuck.

Before I could get to orgasm the stupid phone rang. I answered it by saying, “Doggie McDoggerton’s, this had better be worth me not orgasming.”

It was my neighbor Carl, calling to tell me my dog Bleecker was cruising down the Mississippi River in a canoe. I told Carl this wasn’t any cause for concern, because Bleecker has taught himself how to untie the canoe and take himself for rides in it. But then Carl said the front door had been sitting open for a couple hours, which was a cause for concern.

I drove back to the house. Since Bleecker still had the canoe, I had to hitch a ride with a passing fisherman to actually get there and see what was going on. The door was still wide open. Amy would never have taken off and left the door open: she got too much mileage out of criticizing me when I did it. So she had to be home. But we always kept the door closed when we were at home so sea otters wouldn’t wander in. Why hadn’t Amy realized the door was open for so long?

“Amy? Hello?” I went inside and searched the entire place.

Amy was gone.

Hooray!!!!!

AMY ELLIOTT: September 18, 2005

Well well well, guess who’s back? Nick Dunne, Master of Disappearance. After our one night together in January, I never heard from him again. I certainly had a right to be upset about this, but I wasn’t, because I’d classified him as a “player,” which is a term girls invented to make themselves feel better about a guy who fucks them and doesn’t call afterwards.

So anyway, I was walking in Central Park today and I’d stopped to look at some of those shitty paintings that “artists” in Central Park sell, and I heard from behind me:

“Back away from those paintings, ma’am. Do
not
take a step closer.”

I knew immediately who it was, of course. I wanted to be angry at him, but I liked that he remembered his first words to me, and I turned around to say hi. But his face showed no recognition of me, and he said:

“I can buy you a painting, but just one.”

“Um, hello?” I said. “Nick? It’s me, Amy? The girl you fucked but didn’t call again?”

“Amyyyyy!” he said. “That’s right,
now
I remember! How are you? You look great!”

It turns out that he’d wanted to call me but he’d lost my phone number
and
the contact info of everyone he knew at the party who might know my name so he could look me up on Facebook
and
the party invitation so he couldn’t contact the host. But now that he’d found me, he said we should grab a drink. And of course I said yes. This guy clearly must be awesome and have tons of amazing shit going on for him to ignore me—
me
!—for eight months. How could I say no?