Psychic Junkie (12 page)

It didn’t take long for me to be completely smitten—and completely drunk. I wanted to touch his lips, and literally had to hold my hand down so it wouldn’t reach up and feel them. At one point the boys excused themselves, and I decided now was the perfect chance to write down my number so that at the end of the evening I could sexily and suavely hand it to him, impressing him with my moves and sophistication. I asked the waitress for a pen, and Gina, perched beside me, elatedly handed me a napkin.

I leaned in close to the napkin, maybe two inches from its surface, and painstakingly wrote the number. I tried to make it as legible as possible, but ultimately was just too drunk to trust my handwriting, or my vision for that matter. Strangely, no matter at what angle I held the napkin, what I’d written just didn’t look right.

“Gina? What’s wrong with this?”

She glanced at the napkin. “For starters it’s not your number.”

I tried again and displayed it for approval.

She shook her head. “Uh, no. Try again.”

I crossed it out and made another attempt.

Gina watched with anticipation. “Nope.”

One more attempt and she began laughing so hard she had to cover her mouth not to spit out her wine. I told her I could do this and got back to work. But I just couldn’t. Even when I did remember my number, I’d start to write the digits, and they’d morph on their way out, becoming different numbers entirely. I had no idea why this was happening, but soon we were both laughing hysterically at my drunken state and all the napkins on the bar with messy fake numbers. Perhaps that was it, we decided. I was so used to giving out fake numbers to men that when pressed for my real number, my very being simply rebelled. “No!” my well-trained hand was trying to tell me. “You give him this number and you’ll be screening your calls for weeks! We’ve been through this before! Think back to the ‘Your Skin Is Like a Song’ guy! Don’t do it!”

By the time Wilhelm and Dustin returned, I’d written out something Gina promised was my phone number. Though at that point I didn’t even trust her, as I’d noticed she had a bad case of Wine Lip, the telltale stain that indicates more than a couple glasses of red have been consumed. I watched Wilhelm take his seat, and that was when it hit me: He looked exactly like the Knight of Wands. It was as if the knight had sprung to life, climbed from the cards, and perched himself on a barstool.

It was too much. It was freaking me out. He was twenty-five; I was thirty. This couldn’t be my knight! There was no way this was going anywhere! I knew there was no way he wanted to settle down and have kids. My clock was furiously ticking away while he didn’t even have a clock.

Though he did seem much older. The problem, I realized, was that I was used to actors, who are basically perpetual children. Wilhelm only seemed beyond his years because he had an actual career and direction in life, a quality I’d never experienced in anyone I’d dated. Essentially he was a mirage of an older person, and I worried it was only a matter of time before his sophistication crumbled to a pile at his feet, leaving behind a true twenty-five-year-old boy pounding his fists on the bar and shouting, “Drink, drink, drink!” No, I couldn’t let myself be fooled here.
Remember your Superman shirt,
I thought,
and be strong. Embrace your superpowers.

I leaned in to Gina. “He’s
twenty-five
,” I slurred into her ear. “And he will be my play toy.”

She smiled. “Famous last words.”

I laughed, turned to Wilhelm, and, without an ounce of sexy, stuffed what I hoped was my number into his hand.

Gina had indeed helped me write down my real number, because the next day I heard Wilhelm’s voice streaming through my machine. I was shocked. The cards I’d been pulling all morning, well, ever since my hangover had subsided enough that I could see, had indicated fast communication, but this was unheard of. Had he not been told, upon entering the United States, that men were required to wait at least three days before calling a girl? That it was practically a mandate to call only once the girl had panicked, cursed the guy’s name endlessly, and then given up, figuring she’d never hear from him? Who was this guy? And how had he passed, undetected, into the U.S.?

Spurred into action, I picked up the phone. I noticed—now that I didn’t have his pretty face as a distraction—that his accent was a lot stronger than I’d remembered. It was cute.
He
was cute. As he spoke, I pictured his full lips forming the words.
Stop it, Sarah. Pay attention.
Evidently he wanted to do something that night, and as soon as we’d made plans for him to come over at eight, I tornadoed my way through my room, on a mission to embody the perfect combination of “sexy” and “refined class.” Essentially I needed to be a Gucci-clad librarian with an impeccable French manicure and come-fuck-me heels. It wasn’t easy, and I definitely didn’t have time to do my nails. Finally I settled on a pink cashmere sweater, distressed jeans that had cost a fortune, faux diamond stud earrings, and elegant red lace under-things (such preparation thus ensuring nothing would happen). There. Outfit secured, room a wreck, I looked at the time: four o’clock. I had just enough time to clean up (shove everything into the closet or under the bed), soak in the tub for three hours, search the house for any presents China may have stashed, and then carefully apply a bunch of makeup that would make me look natural.

It wasn’t till I was in the tub that I realized it had been exactly two weeks since Erlin had made his prediction. I craned my neck toward the bathroom door and debated about getting out, grabbing the phone, getting back in, and having a nice long conversation with Erlin as I relaxed in my detoxifying rosemary fango mud bath. He could tell me what the evening had in store, and thus I’d be prepared.
No,
I told myself,
I can do this. I can charge forth into the unknown.
And though I’d like to say it was sheer strength and willpower that kept me from getting out of the tub and calling for a reading, it may have also had something to do with the fact that a couple days prior I’d heeded some advice I’d read in a magazine and frozen my credit cards in a big bowl of water, and I knew my bath would be cold by the time I got those suckers thawed. That, I must say, was some great advice, and I made a mental note to nuke the bowl in the microwave the second the date was over.

At exactly eight o’clock the doorbell rang. I waited a bit, so it didn’t look as though perhaps I’d been staring out the window for the last twenty minutes and had just now seen his car pull up. Then I took a deep breath and answered the door.

There he was. Smiling and looking very…clean. I don’t think I’d ever seen anyone look so clean, so shiny. I also don’t think I’d ever been on a date with a man wearing a pink button-down shirt. But there he was in pale pink, a selection he’d paired with black dress pants, a shiny black leather belt, and black shoes so polished I could’ve used them as a mirror. I suddenly became very conscious of my chipped nail polish and distressed jeans, and decided I should find a way to slip into the conversation that these jeans had cost a fortune and were
meant
to look like this, were in fact coveted by many
because
they looked like this. As I led him upstairs, I worried he was looking at my purposefully frayed back pockets, pockets that to the untrained eye could simply look used, as if I had spent the majority of my life sitting on rough surfaces. It hit me that for the first time ever I was with a man who made
me
look like a slob, and the realization was both impressive and profoundly disturbing.

Once he settled on the couch, it became clear he had no intention of taking me out. Apparently the date was to happen here, and it seemed this had been established in our earlier phone conversation, perhaps right around the time I’d been picturing his lips moving and had zoned out his actual words. Crap. Staying at my place was a twist to the evening I was not prepared for, since I’m in no way the consummate hostess. I knew I should’ve called Erlin. Erlin could’ve told me to buy food, wine, plates, and wineglasses that weren’t from Mexico with the thick blue rims that only margarita glasses should have. Erlin could’ve told me the night would involve my standing in the kitchen, panicking, as a sous-chef in a pink shirt waited patiently on the couch for something that wasn’t a half-eaten carton of chow mein.

Thankfully I managed to find a bottle of Two Buck Chuck that Gina had ignored, because she claimed even the fumes gave her a headache.
Whatever,
I figured.
If I can drink it, so can he.
I grabbed two glasses, making sure to pick the ones without chips that, the way my luck goes, could easily have led to an emergency room visit. Now, looking back on the night and knowing what a wine aficionado he was, I cringe to think that on top of my seemingly slovenly appearance I then proceeded to present him with a bottle of $1.99 merlot in a glass that looked as though it should be dipped in salt. Despite my best intentions, I was not off to a rip-roaring start, and in truth might as well have been in sweatpants and about to pour him a mug of Night Train.

To my relief he took a sip of the wine and was kind with his response. Soon we were seated on my gigantic couch, talking about his job and his move from Germany a few years back. This lead to a discussion of all the places I’d been, and then, as is typical of any conversation of which I am a part, the talk migrated to my acting career. Clearly he’d never dated an actress before, because he actually listened. Not only did he listen, without fear, to my talk of my acting career, but he was impressed with what I’d done, with what I’d accomplished. He was especially impressed when I mentioned I’d been in not one but
two
films with Claudia Schiffer, Claudia being one of Germany’s national treasures. Yes, to Wilhelm I was a star.

Then, somehow, the conversation turned to tarot cards. Whereas normally on a date I’d learned to, to quote a friend, “hide the crazy,” this was different. Wilhelm revealed he tended to see ghosts, and once that was said, I dashed into my room for my cards, returning with the offer of a reading. I was thrilled. I mean, what better way to learn about a person than to read their cards? As he shuffled, I felt as if the universe were handing me a Wilhelm cheat sheet. It was great.

Immediately two cards jumped out: the Empress, which usually signifies an older woman, and the Devil, which tends to signify sex. Without thinking, I said, “You’re going to be involved with an older woman and have lots of sex.”

Silence fell over the room.

It was as though a bubble had appeared above my head, with an arrow pointing down at me and the words “Older woman! Older woman!” in flashing piercing-pink neon. And what if I weren’t the older woman? What if I was predicting the impassioned love affair he’d have with someone else? The whole thing was just too weird for me, and it was confirmed it was weird for him as well when I saw his face: a slight, embarrassed smile, mixed in with something I’d later learn was a mad conservatism, a German restraint one could almost classify as self-punishment. Clearly sex was not something he wished to speak of on a first date, which was fine, because I really didn’t want to think of myself as an older woman, either.

“I can’t read your cards right now,” I said. “It’s not the right time.”

He smiled, most likely relieved. “Okay.”

After chatting for a while longer, the one pathetic bottle of wine completely drained, it naturally seemed like the end of the evening. He got up to leave.

I was shocked. Not once had he made a move, and now he was
leaving
? Why hadn’t he made a move? It wasn’t like we were at a fancy restaurant with a table of fine china and considerations of public etiquette in our way. We were at my apartment, just the two of us, on the same couch…for hours. And we’d been getting along, laughing and having fun. What the hell?

I walked him to the door. This was not happening. I wouldn’t let this happen. If there’s one thing I am, it’s direct, so I cut to the chase. I smiled sweetly. “You’d better not leave without kissing me.”

And to my relief, he kissed me.

Within weeks we were seriously dating. Wilhelm was sweet, kind, entertaining, and, of course, an incredible cook. Despite the fact that I was now better fed than I had been in years, I felt lighter than ever. My every step was lifted with happiness, a happiness that, by the way, somehow commanded me to call psychics. I was pretty sure I knew Wilhelm liked me, as all signs and statements seemed to indicate the sentiment, yet confirmation from the psychics made me feel free to enjoy the feeling, to relish in his affection. “He’s afraid of the intensity of his own feelings,” I was told, to which I could relate, as I too was becoming afraid of the intensity of my feelings. “He finds himself daydreaming about you when he’s at work.” Again, something he and I had in common. Even though I was technically living on unemployment and wasn’t working, I daydreamed about him to the point where, if I’d had a job, I certainly would have been unable to get any work done. And then the best: “He’s in love with you,” in response to which I thought,
Yes, Wilhelm. I think I’m in love with you, too.

Still, I tried to keep my wits about me. Erlin had certainly been right that I’d be swept off my feet, but what he hadn’t seen was that I’d fight tooth and nail against that broom. I’d been hurt too many times to let myself go, and while I privately cherished the positive words of the psychics, I struggled to be rational and grounded. Sure, all evidence seemed to point to that I now had a serious boyfriend, but I couldn’t help being worried. I was suspicious of my own happiness and was determined to avoid injury.
Go ahead and tell me how much I mean to you,
I’d think,
but you are still only my play toy. You may be a play toy whom I need to see and talk to constantly, but you are nonetheless a play toy.

And then tragedy struck, and my fears were confirmed. One day, ever so casually, he informed me that, “All American girls are desperate to marry and are out to shackle men any chance they get.”