I Know What I'm Doing (5 page)

Instead of sending this e-mail to my husband, I sent it to Kevin.

Somewhere over the Midwest Kevin e-mailed me back and said that he didn’t want to start anything. He wasn’t looking to steal another man’s lady and he thought he saw a wedding ring on my finger, but he wasn’t sure if it meant there was just a ring on it or if there was “a ring on it.” Then he told me that he just went through a divorce and that he knew exactly how I felt. He warned me that my married friends would not understand how I felt and that they might only speak in clichés like “marriage takes work.” He said he could be there for me. I didn’t write back.

I mean, I didn’t write back on that flight. We eventually became fast friends, platonic pen pals. And then one time when I went to pull out my BlackBerry to text Kevin, I ended up summoning a black cloud.

4

TAKING LOTS OF GAMBLES

Gambling can turn into a dangerous two-way street when you least expect it. Weird things happen suddenly, and your life can go to pieces.

—HUNTER S. THOMPSON

W
eeks before we went to couples counseling or even broached the subject of divorce, Matt and I just existed in our home together. We had a few tiffs that ended with one of us daring to tip over the whole house of precariously placed cards called our life—by saying, “I just feel like we aren’t working out.” Then we would return to our separate rooms and not elaborate.

Kevin and I had been e-mailing about once a week. He had been really helpful in pointing out all of the different types of people one can be post-divorce. Would I be a woman who doesn’t believe in monogamy? Am I someone who thinks marriage is unnecessary or am I just in the wrong marriage? I never told Matt about why my friend Kevin and I e-mailed. He just knew that I had a new friend. But I have lots of friends and besides, Matt wasn’t the jealous type. Now that I think about it—probably because he wished someone would just e-mail me and take me off of his hands.

In March of 2011 I had to do a weekend of stand-up at Foxwoods Casino in Connecticut. I ran it by Matt that I would go to New York City after that gig just to clear my head. I wanted to go to New York City to see if I missed Matt. I know that doesn’t make much sense but New York City is where I always go when I need to think. It calms me. L.A. is too calm all of the time. It’s the type of calm that gives me the creeps. It’s the type of calm you look back on and say, “Wow, things were so calm right before that enormous earthquake that swallowed my apartment building.”

My parents have found a pseudo retirement community at Foxwoods Casino. I’ll never understand why two people in their seventies want to spend their weekends inside pulling the germ-riddled handles on slot machines—watching their hard-earned money turn into a series of lights, sounds, and rotating pictures of cherries. My mother assures me, “It’s about the Wampum Points, Jennifah.”

When I get overly critical of my parents’ spending their time gambling and hanging out with people who smoke cigarettes in their mouth while breathing oxygen through their nose, my parents play the Native American Card. “Jennifah, we are supporting the Wampum tribe. Do you know what our ancestors did to these people when they landed on Plymouth Rock? We have to pay them back at the slots.”

Or my parents will argue, “What? Do you want us to just sit at home rotting in our rocking chairs? Is that what old people are supposed to do?” No. I don’t want my parents to rot, but in my fantasy they take up something that doesn’t involve them collecting so many Wampum Points that they keep getting free off-brand iPad tablets or coffeemakers—the iPiddle and the Monsieur Coffee.

There’s a comedy club inside Foxwoods Casino (and most casinos in this country). Normally I don’t like performing for crowds of people who only decided to take in a comedy show because they’re taking a break from betting on red and losing, but my parents, when not personally making amends to the Native American community for the sins of early America, have taken to acting as my publicists and agents. If they had a publicity firm it would be called Why Are You Writing About [insert name of comedian here] And Not My Daughter? Inc.

My mom convinced the booker of Foxwoods to let me perform for a weekend of shows—and she got me a great rate. I couldn’t say no. And it would be a nice little weekend getaway with my parents. It’s fascinating how when my parents are in their element, we all tend to get along great. I try to let go of the knowledge that these days their “element” involves befriending ex–Boston mafioso fatsos and their third wives who are younger than their first daughters.

I planned to meet up with Kevin in New York City. Just to have a drink in person. It wasn’t going to be an affair or anything like that. I also needed to see my East Coast bestie Allison—much like I needed to be around Kevin to see if he moved my meter, I needed to look in the eyes of a woman who had known me since I was twenty-three years old and had seen me through so many boyfriends and so much love both requited and “un.” She would be able to tell me for sure if I mean what I’m saying. She would brush off my suggestion that she’s intuitive and say, “No, I’m not. It’s just that when you’re not happy your eye twitches and I notice these things.”

After my late show, my parents and I hit up the
Sex and the City
slot machine. My dad never watched the show and so he had a lot of questions. “Jennifah, is that Mr. Big a good or a bad guy?” Oh, Dad. You’ve asked so much.

My BlackBerry was blooping. Kevin was texting me.

LET’S MAKE A PLAN.

I AM NOT IN NYC YET.

JEN, DON’T WORRY. I WON’T TRY ANYTHING.

I’LL MEET YOU FOR A DRINK BUT NOT SLEEPING WITH YOU.

I JUST SAID I WOULDN’T TRY ANYTHING. YOU’RE THE ONE TALKING ABOUT SEX.

SORRY. I’M PARANOID AND WANNA MAKE CLEAR—I AM STILL MARRIED.

My dad was getting agitated that I wasn’t more supportive that he just got a bonus pair of shoes for Charlotte on his machine. “Jen, why are you always playing with your phone? Concentrate on the game.”

My mother also got annoyed at my texting. She doesn’t text. She doesn’t know how but she claims it’s because, “It’s too expensive.”

“No, Mom. You can get unlimited texting.”

“No, Jennifah. Our phone company doesn’t do that. You don’t understand.”

“Mom, you have AT&T. Just like me. There’s unlimited texting. I should know. I have it.”

“Oh, well. I don’t know. Your father set up these phones and you know your father, he doesn’t know about anything modern.”

My mom was getting really angry at a machine that had betrayed her by, as she says, “leading her on” that it “was a hot one but then acting cold to her touch.” It’s hard to see your mom act like a frat guy toward a slot machine that was a total tease. “Let’s go,” she said in a total “this party blows” way. I gave up on
Sex and the City
and followed my folks to some machines that apparently would actually put out.

After five minutes of winning and losing on
Wheel of Fortune
, I went to text Kevin again. My phone was gone. I checked pockets I never used. I got on the floor and dumped out my purse like a crack addict looking for something in the lining. I ran back to those no-good slot machines. My BlackBerry wasn’t there. I asked every cocktail waitress. I persuaded every person to stop pulling that slot and stand up to let me check the seat. I was in a panic. The Lost and Found said that they couldn’t help find anything until the morning. I went to bed but I didn’t sleep. I tried to soothe myself.
What’s the big deal? I can get another phone. I’ve lived without a phone before. It’s not like someone was going to see the phone and suspect me of having an emotional affair. That would be insane.

Until it happened.

In the middle of the night, I thought to call my cell phone from my hotel room phone hoping against hope someone would answer it and say, “I’m downstairs! I’m a nice old woman who has your phone right here with me. I’ll wait for you, dear.” But instead someone answered who was a slick-talking younger man with a thick New York accent.

“Hello.”

“Hi. Um, you have my phone? You’re talking into it right now?”

“Yeah. I’m José. I’m in Queens. My dad found your phone tonight at Foxwoods.”

“Wait, your dad was at a casino in Connecticut and instead of turning it in to the Lost and Found he somehow gave it to his son, in Queens?”

José laughed. “That’s right,
Jen Kirkman
.”

“Okay . . .”

“So, you’re married, huh?”

“Um, yes.”

“You have some texts on this phone that I bet you wouldn’t want your husband to see.”

Oh my god.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I was joking around with a friend.”

This reminded me of the time that my parents found my cigarettes in my Jean Naté powder and when my dad picked me up at my friend Heather’s house, he pulled my Camel Lights from his pocket and said, “Are these yours?” If they weren’t mine, I would have said, “No. What is that?” Instead I started to sob and yelped, “WHY ARE YOU GOING THROUGH MY ROOM? THOSE AREN’T EVEN MINE. I MEAN THEY
ARE
MINE. THEY ARE PROPS FOR THE SCHOOL PLAY.” The school play was
The Crucible
and I was trying to convince my dad that those women in Arthur Miller’s masterpiece were not only witches but also chain-smokers.

The man on the phone,
my phone,
continued.

“Listen, I know you from
Chelsea Lately
. You’re famous.”

This was absurd because I was NEVER recognized from
Chelsea Lately
. Ever. People would approach me at airports when I was with my fellow cast members and hand me the camera saying, “You’re so lucky to be friends with these guys! Can you take our picture?”

“I’m going to be in New York City tomorrow. I want my phone.”

“I know you’re going to be in New York City. You’re going to see Kevin.”

“I’ll give you a reward. Fifty dollars.”

“Fifty dollars? I want five thousand. And I should get more since you’re rich and on television. And if I don’t get that—maybe I’ll just call your husband and tell him what I read. Or send it to one of those websites.”

I was shaking. How would I explain to my husband that I had to withdraw five thousand dollars from our joint bank account? Just to get my phone back? What is so important about that phone, he would ask?

“You want the phone? Meet me outside of Radio City Music Hall at four in the afternoon.”

I said yes.

I don’t like having secrets. It makes me feel like a monster.

The only thing I knew how to do was lie facedown on my bed and weep. I wanted out. Out of everything. In the morning, I cried through breakfast
^I
with my parents. I told them that I was feeling bummed out with my life and I didn’t know what to do. I could never tell them the truth about why I was so sick over my missing phone. My mother tried to offer comfort by saying, “This is why I don’t like all of that texting, Jennifah. It takes you out of the moment. And you were doing so well on that slot machine until you put your nose in the phone. Always, always keep your eye out for those bonus spins.”

I
. Free croissants at the Players Club.

5

MAKE NEW FRIENDS BUT KEEP THE OLD. ONE IS SOME GUY YOU BARELY KNOW, THE OTHER WAS ONE OF YOUR BRIDESMAIDS.

It’s the friends you can call up at four a.m. that matter.

—MARLENE DIETRICH

O
nce I got to my friend Allison’s office in New York City, I told her the whole crazy missing-BlackBerry-with-text-messages-that-could-end-up-on-
TMZ
story. At the time, Allison worked at a television network situated in a Midtown Manhattan building guarded by a doorman who was a retired undercover cop. Like most doormen, in between signing for Amazon packages what he really wants to do is hear some gossip. Allison gave him an earful when she told him about my dilemma. He immediately called two of his buddies who were currently “on the force” and told them that he needed them for about an hour for an undercover sting. I got no further details from Allison, as she got no further details from the doormen. All I knew was that an hour earlier I was exiting a train from Penn Station and now—shit was going down.

Allison, a friend since my first day moving to New York City in 1998, was a bridesmaid in my 2009 wedding. She delighted in being a part of my wedding but I don’t remember us ever talking about it from the perspective of “Jen, you have met the man of your dreams and I can’t imagine your life without him.” It was more like, “Check us out! I’ve known you since we used to traipse around the Lower East Side doing open mic shows and now you’re doing this very normal wedding thing and I’m wearing a pink dress of my choice from J.Crew and carrying flowers with your kooky family whom I’ve adopted as my own.”

Allison took a long lunch and we went somewhere to talk over a cheese plate and lots of wine. We have our own version of saying grace before we sit down to eat and drink. We take a moment and she’ll ask, “Do you want advice or do you want me to just listen?” And I knew that this was going to be one of those talks where I would say, “Just listen. But then, yes, please, tell me what to fucking do because nobody has been answering my prayers.” I told Allison that I’d even been rolling up little pieces of paper that have the question “What should I do, angels?” and putting them in this little dream box under my pillow every night.

“Well,” Allison pointed out, “what do angels know about marriage? They’re just flying around without any genitals playing harps all day. But honestly, if the only box in your bed getting filled is your dream box, there’s your answer.”

We were looking at a two-cheese-board, two-glass-of-wine situation. I was overcome with guilt, shame, and embarrassment. I don’t know why people call it a “shame spiral.” I feel it’s more of a shame X-ray—a situation where you feel so transparent, like everyone can see through your chest and into the horrible person you really are.