Graduates in Wonderland (2 page)

I can't believe you're already in love. Oh wait, actually I can. You've fallen in love with every male barista who ever smiled at you. I don't know how you're going to handle the Astrid-­Maxwell-­You triangle. I think this needs to be said: You and Astrid are such completely different people that it seems to me if Maxwell is in love with her, then he could never be the guy for you.

Okay, I love and miss you and (not so) secretly want you to come home. Write back and I will tell you what happens next, just as soon as it happens to me. Does Vince find this e-mail and fire me? Will I order six cups of drip coffee from Starbucks and pour them into the coffeepot at work to make it look like I learned how to make coffee? Do I move back home to Wisconsin when I realize I can't hack it here?

Shit. I just noticed a huge run in the back of my stockings that goes from my heel to the control top...and it's probably been there all day. I work in a beautiful art space, but I feel like a sloppy ice-­cream cone melting all over the designer carpeting.

Love always,

Rachel

SEPTEMBER 3

Jess to Rachel

I can't believe Buster moved in with you and Rosabelle! I never pegged them as loud fornicators. Don't you remember that after being repeatedly woken up by Astrid's sexual escapades with her boyfriend, the play I wrote based on the experience was performed in the “Once Upon a Weekend” festival? That's my advice to you—­write your angst into a play, enter it into a contest, and have it performed in front of Rosabelle and Buster. It works! Also, earplugs.

As for my daily life, I typically wake up at 6 
A.M.
because my Mandarin course is all the way across town. I sleep on the subway, next to a bunch of Chinese people also sleeping on their commutes, and then I have intensive Mandarin classes all morning. I'm trying to master the language's four tones (long and flat, rising, undulating, and sharp), but the only way I can pronounce them correctly is by moving my head in the direction of the word's tone while I'm speaking (for the third tone, which rises and falls, I swoop my head up and down). The language classes are fun, but lack a lot of practical information. For the vacation lesson, there's no vocabulary about boarding a plane or booking a hotel room—­suddenly you're just climbing a mountain somewhere. I'm great at remarking on imaginary snow peaks, but I struggle to buy a subway ticket.

Then I come home to inevitably find Astrid and Maxwell hanging out in our apartment.

So, it's official—­Astrid and I are both secretly in love with Maxwell. He's around all the time, so it's difficult to get away from it all. He's up for any adventure and can make anything into a funny situation. I wish he'd stop being so likable, so I could move on. It pisses me off that he's so great. Asshole.

I've always objectively known Astrid was beautiful, but until now, I've never felt directly threatened by it. I'd never compared our hair or our smiles, and I don't like thinking about her this way. Things are tense when it's the three of us, but when Astrid and I are alone, I'm glad she's here to navigate life with me.

I've taken to pretending that I like Maxwell's best friend, Jason, to throw everyone off. He's American also, and the rest of the group thinks he is definitely not interested in women. I just think that some people love to dance. He's not my type at all—­blond, muscular, blue eyes—­but he took me to an art quarter in Beijing called the 798 District. It has a million tiny galleries, and free wine, cheese, and crackers, and it was mostly foreigners, so it felt eerily like Brown. It was also like Brown because I was with a guy who is probably gay and ill suited for me. But he did give me the best moment I've had in China so far.

Last night, Jason and I were leaving Maxwell's apartment at the same time. I was just going to walk home, but Jason offered to let me ride on the back of his bicycle. Although this isn't the safest method, I managed to ride with him with some balance and by clinging on for dear life while he did all the leg work. He pedaled me back to my apartment at 3 
A.M.
in the misty rain. I asked him to take the long way home, and it was surreal as we silently traveled down the deserted streets with my arms wrapped around him. I swear if Wong Kar-­wai could have seen us, he would have definitely re-­created the scene for his next film.

Overall, Beijing is such a strange bubble. The expat community feels really small because I'm running into the same people again and again. I'm meeting French people, Italians, Russians (you wouldn't believe how many Russians there are in Beijing), Brits, other Americans, everyone. I always thought that Brown was so international—­which it was, after Texas—­but it seemed like there was only one person per country (examples: Beautiful Norwegian Astrid, Hot South African James, Cruel English Tristan, That One Belgian Girl).

My Mandarin program only lasts for another week, and I don't have a clue what my next move will be, but I met someone who does voices for Chinese cartoon characters and she thinks I'd be great at it. I can't wait to put that on my résumé. My parents are going to be thrilled that this is what I've done with my college education. I'm trying out next week.

Your life does sound really far away from mine, but maybe you will eventually figure Vince out. Or are you positive that he is always going to be an asshole, in which case this may be good character building? Now tell me all about New York. And send me some bagels.

Love,

That One Chinese-­Texan Girl

SEPTEMBER 20

Rachel to Jess

Jess,

I'm writing from my desk at work; outside it's getting dark. It's about 7 
P.M.
right now, and I'm waiting for the cleaning lady to come in—­that's the glamour of the second assistant's job. Basically, I'm a million miles from you riding bicycles in Beijing.

I get Beijing being a strange bubble—­New York feels smaller by the day. Rosabelle, Buster, and I went to a party this weekend that was a complete flashback to college. People from Brown congregated in the kitchen to hear a guy who graduated with us talk about his internship at the
New Yorker
. The jealousy was palpable. I got out of there before someone stabbed me out of sheer frustration.

Somehow, even though I know so many people in the city, adjusting to life here has been hard for me. My favorite thing right now is coming home to watch old movies—­it's my escape from real life.

This is so hard to explain, because I can write cheerful e-mails to other people and show up at work and seem perky, and I don't think the people I see on a daily basis realize how down I really am. I don't even think Rosabelle does. I am going to tell you this because we promised that in these e-mails we would not gloss over the bad stuff, because then what's the point of staying in touch?

Over the past few weeks, I've become unable to walk into work without feeling overwhelmingly nervous. Last week when an artist Vince had been courting left him for another gallery, he calmly acquiesced on the phone and then, after hanging up, became so angry that he punched a hole in the wall. Then he walked out and said, in a soft and dangerous voice, “Cancel your plans. You're staying late tonight.” When Vince does these things, Melanie laughs it off and accepts it, but my fear of him just starts to go into overdrive. Meanwhile, did you know that the cable company itemizes porn viewings by date and time? Neither did I—­until Vince handed me his cable bill. So now I know what the mysterious four-­hour block in his calendar last week actually was....

To pass the time and to make us feel better, Melanie and I fill out quizzes to identify psychopaths online, and answer them on Vince's behalf. In case you were wondering, the answer is always yes
.
Although it seems like the answer would be yes for most bosses who are driven and narcissistic.

And I still have to smile and chat with him, who for the record looks and smells like Tony Soprano would (a mixture of cigars and salami), and who says things like, “Who punched the holes in this report? It looks like a retard did it! Are you sure you went to Brown?” Whatever, Vince is a psychopath, and I have the test to prove it.

It's strange to have a job where if I can get a mug full of coffee to Vince's desk, steaming hot, one minute before he arrives and slams his door, I've succeeded. I need to be invisible to be good at my job, which is hard when all we've ever been taught is the importance of standing out from the crowd.

While I know my life isn't great right now, I've had shitty jobs before and they never bothered me once I'd left for the day. I thought it was just my job, but while Melanie doesn't like her job either, she seems happy in other aspects of her life. I feel like I'm in a rut I just can't shake. Everything feels really gray right now.

I struggle to get out of bed when I'm not in the office. And on the days when I do have to go to work, when I wait on the subway platform, I find myself growing anxious and tearing up. Everyone around me stares straight ahead. Even once we're on the train and I'm crying on their shoulders (because, honestly, the C train is super crowded in the morning). Clearly, this is because it's New York and I'm just as likely to stab them as to do anything else. But still. People! Help a Wisconsinite out. We're so friendly!

My anxiety grows as I near the office. Once I'm in and I've had my first contact with Vince, I'm anxious all day—­afraid of his beck and call and his inevitable criticism and fury. I count the hours until he leaves for the night and then I feel temporary relief, and then I make my way home at 8 
P.M.

But I can't think of a better alternative to this. There's either back at home with nothing to do or unemployed in China with you, probably also in love with Maxwell. I am at the bottom of a HOLE.

Once I realized that this just wasn't getting any better, I got the number of a therapist here from a family friend. I am not sure I see the point of this but I'm really hoping it will pull me out of my days spent staring fearfully into the void of Vince's office and crying on the subway.

I miss you more than you miss bagels.

Love,

Debbie Downer

SEPTEMBER 21

Jess to Rachel

Did you know that if you dig that hole deep enough you'll end up all the way in China?

Sorry. I don't know what to say. You know I'm a tough-­love kind of person. So I guess if I were in New York right now this is what I would do: I'd turn off that Simon and Garfunkel that I know you have on repeat, I'd drag your sorry ass out to eat something that isn't frozen pizza (I know you too well), and we'd go to the movies so that you have a dark, warm place to sob your eyes out. It's cathartic and more socially acceptable than crying on the subway. (Even as I write this, I am regretting this hypothetical promise because I am still traumatized from seeing
The Notebook
with you. No, really, fellow concerned audience members, she's okay. No, she didn't lose the love of her life to dementia. She just has a lot of feelings. Okay, I'll tell her it's just a movie.) And then we'd go out and eventually the night would end with us laughing on someone else's front steps and being shushed by their neighbors.

Sometimes when I have been low, very low, I have emerged from the slump by forcing myself to go on an escapade with an outgoing friend who really listens and cares. I know that sounds too simple, but I promise it gives you perspective—­more perspective than watching TV alone. Go with me on this. Just imagine skydiving with Amélie! Or solving a complicated mystery with Jon Stewart! Or just going on a weekend road trip with Rosabelle. Does she know how you're feeling yet?

And you have to remind yourself that new opportunities exist, and will always exist. Remember: You can always look for a new job. But for right now, if you're really struggling, I think seeing a therapist might be a good idea too.

I really wish you were here. I keep thinking that if you were here, we could have so much fun. Something to cheer you up:

I completely bombed my children's cartoon voice-­over audition. I can't seem to fake being incredibly happy again and again and again unless I'm on drugs. I also, apparently, do not realistically react in the way that a six-­year-­old cartoon girl does to candy and puppies. It was pretty humiliating. I've been bombing a lot lately. We went to a bilingual improv (anybody can speak any language) that is held in the middle of a tiny bar in one of the oldest areas of the city. Let me just say that I suck at improv and everyone, including the Chinese people who don't speak English, felt really sorry for me. So that's two professions I can cross off my list: voice actor and comedian.

I know this makes me sound like a theater person, but trust me, I am still most definitely not. Remember how I was so shy in my Spanish class that I almost failed? In Beijing, I have no choice but to speak Mandarin (okay, and by that I mean miming ridiculous things like “watermelon” or “flip-­flops” or “tampon”). I have to make a fool of myself daily to get anything done, including buying food and toiletries. Because of this, I'm losing my self-­conscious shell, and it's so freeing.

I've started another Mandarin program, but I still have to wake up at 6 
A.M.
to get there on time. It doesn't help that I go to bed at 2 
A.M
. I have sold my soul to the Mandarin language.

But on to the big stuff.

Astrid and I ended up in a huge fight in the middle of an outdoor technology market. We spent three hours trying to buy phones and a modem for dial-­up Internet—­no one could understand exactly what we wanted. I wanted to just go home and ask a Chinese friend to help us but Astrid's stubborn and needed to have the Internet RIGHT NOW (we've been stealing it from neighbors, but they're onto us). The air was hot and humid and my T-shirt was slick with sweat and starting to stick to my back. I was on the verge of leaning in really close to her and saying in a low voice, “I will end you.” But I knew she'd lean in closer and hiss, “I will end you first.” And she would manage to end me first. You know how intense she is.