Reinventing Mona (17 page)

“Why not? Weren’t you still in love with her?”

“Yeah, she was my wife, of course I loved her. But she was getting boned by some other guy and had her mind made up, so there was nothing I could do about it.”

What Mike didn’t know was that if Rachel begged him to say those things, there must have been more that she left unsaid. How could he not understand how humiliating it was for Rachel to lay emotionally naked before him, and have him counter with indifference? I imagined Mike shrugging his wide shoulders at her questions about what went wrong. Mike’s recount is that his wife cheated on him and left for another guy, but the reality is that Mike cheated Rachel of intimacy and left her for the cold comfort of macho detachment.

“God, you’re an idiot!” I shouted. “This is like a romantic tragedy with your big fat head causing all the trouble, Dog. She hadn’t made up her mind. There was plenty you could’ve done about it. You could’ve just said you’d try, then done it.”

“Nah. That would’ve bought me six months, then she’d’ve taken off with that other guy anyway,” Mike dismissed. “Mona Lisa.” He sighed. “Why do I always end up telling you more than I want?”

“Because you can.”

“That it?” Mike returned.

“You know it is. Know what else? I think we never tell people more than we really want.”

“Getting a little deep on me here, Mona Lisa.”

“Mike?”

“Yeah.”

“From what you’ve told me, it sounds like you left her long before she had an affair.”

“That’s what she said.”

“Are you ready to hear it this time?”

“I don’t know. Listen, before we switch roles entirely and you become my girl coach, I’m going to get my sorry, dumped-on-Valentine’s Day ass some chow and hit the sack.”

And with a joy I shouldn’t have felt, I smiled that he was going to bed alone that night. Before I went to sleep, I led the Adam Ziegler pep rally, enthusiastically listing all of the reasons it was him not Mike—who would make the perfect lifetime companion for me. Attraction is fleeting. Love is solid.

I left my stomach on the ground floor of Adam’s office building as the elevator to the eighth floor of a mirrored downtown high-rise lifted the rest of me. The receptionist sat unassumingly at the front desk, humming as she stuffed envelopes, then lifted her head with its mass of white cotton candy hair.

“Good morning,” she honked. “May I help you?”

“Mona Warren to see Adam Ziegler, please.” I borrowed Mike’s introduction for his Claudia Schiffer visit.

“Ah yes, Miss Warren.” She smiled. “I’ll let Mr. Ziegler know you’re here.” I assured myself I was just being paranoid and that she was not smirking at me with pity, thinking that Adam was out of my league. I wrote it off to a one-two punch of fatigue and anxiety. Plus, I was looking pretty good these days, I thought. Even Mike said I had almost reached my “babe potential” thanks to shedding a little excess baggage, waking up my wardrobe, and applying a little color to my face. I was boxing twice a week, which scared the fat off of my arms entirely and left me with a nice little cut under my bicep. I was now able to make it through an entire class without inexplicable bouts of crying, but still crept off to the sauna afterward to drop tears on the hot coals. I was nervous that laser teeth whitening would hurt, so Vicki promised if I went through with it, she’d get me a special surprise. To complement my new pearly whites, Vicki bought me a lip pump, a little gadget that looked frighteningly similar to a speculum. After the first two disastrous attempts, I finally got it to work without bruising my face. I placed my lips into the mouthpiece and watched my lips get sucked forward like a duckbill. It was such a powerful force, the pump even sucked some saliva from my mouth, which should have let me know it was time to release the suction. But I figured if the instructions recommended two seconds for “pouty, kissable lips,” ten would make me a regular Angelina Jolie. Instead I looked like the finalist in one of those blueberry pie-eating contests where people aren’t allowed to use their hands, much less silverware.

I loved Greta without question, but what I liked about Vicki is that she accepted my vanity without analysis. She didn’t automatically assume that because I wanted to improve my appearance, I was a shell of a woman, pathetically unaware of any inner life. I also appreciated that Vicki pulled no punches. When I told her I didn’t like my lips, she didn’t do the old
Oh no, they’re lovely
routine. Vicki agreed immediately, without even doing the pro forma examination before commenting. She wasn’t even looking in my direction when I told her I hated my lips. She didn’t need to turn around when she said, “They are thin.” Then she bribed me with a lip pump.

As I followed the receptionist back to Adam’s office, I adjusted the fluid filled “ex-plant” trying once again to escape from my bra. After the chicks-only Audrey Hepburn film festival in my living room, Vicki slipped me a Victoria’s Secret bag and advised, “Pop these babies under your boobs and they’ll give you an extra cup size,” as she winked. They definitely delivered the extra cup size, but seemed to have a mind of their own and had places to go and people to see—none of which were in my bra.

The door to Adam’s office opened and I swore a choir of angels sang. What was I ever thinking lusting after Mike’s silly shoulders? This man was very handsome and sturdy. If I told Adam I needed to talk to him, he’d be there, not busily, absently protecting his male ego. He glanced up from his desk and smiled brightly, genuinely happy to see me. Adam stood, then came around from behind his desk and extended his hand to shake mine. “Good to see you, Mona. Please have a seat.”

See! Talk about available.

Adam was shorter than I remembered, but I’m not exactly statuesque, so this wasn’t a huge deal. His red-and-blue-checkered tie arrived a full three seconds before the rest of him. Still, the sight of him was so incredibly welcoming, like an oasis.

“How have you been, Mona?” he said as he returned to his desk. “Anything new and exciting going on in your life?”
Make me an offer.

“I left my job in December,” I said, silently coaching myself to breathe slowly and steadily
. In. I am the sexiest woman in the world and he is lucky to be sitting across the desk from me. Out. In. I am calm, I am cool. Out.

“That’s big news. What are your plans for the future?”

I had to remind myself that this question was not actually a marriage proposal, and that I should not leap across his enormous mahogany desk and kiss him. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do,” I said.  
Sounds
flaky, come up with something.
“I mean, of course, I’ll be terribly busy volunteering for worthy causes.”
Sounds like a rich old lady.
“And partying.”
Partying? What are you, sixteen?
“I mean working for the party.”

“The Grand Old one, I hope.” He winked.

“Of course,” I bubbled back, hoping he would never find out that I’m a registered member of the Green Party. “So, what have you been up to, Adam? Did you have a nice Valentine’s Day?”
Could I be more obvious?!

“Life’s been pretty fair. Spent the good part of the morning trying to win Ozzfest tickets off the darned radio to no avail. It’s crazy how fast these things sell out,” he said, glancing at his watch as if the mere mention of time reminded him that he needed to speed things along with me.

“I’ve got tickets to Ozzfest,” I blurted in a moment of panic. “Do you want to go?” I asked, wondering what the hell Ozzfest was, and how I would produce the sold-out tickets. “Just as friends. It wouldn’t have to be a date or anything.”

In a second that would determine a lifetime, Adam smiled and told me he’d love to go. Well, he agreed to it, at least. The love would come later.

“I, uuh, you, uuh, sort of dropped something,” Adam said, darting his finger at my ex-plant that jumped liked a frog out of my bra and onto his desk. As I sat facing Adam, fully aware that one breast was noticeably fuller than the other, I groped for an explanation less humiliating than the truth. The gelatin-filled sack stared up, mocking me, laughing at its successful attempt to expose me for the B-cup fraud I am.

After far too long a pause, I explained that it was a cold compress prescribed by my doctor. “It’s to reduce swelling,” I said. “I have a breast infection.”

A breast infection?! A breast infection?! How completely unsexy is that?!

“It’s actually a sports injury. I play soccer and the ball knocked me pretty hard in the boob,” I stammered.
Stop talking immediately!
“Which is how this one got infected,” I gestured toward my left breast “But it’s almost better now. The cold compresses have helped a lot.”
Please shut me up!

Mercifully, Adam buried his head in my tax file and changed the topic. “If I’m going to go to a concert right in the middle of tax season, I’d better get moving on your filing, Mona,” he said. “Do you have all of your interest statements?”

Adam leafed through my papers, promising he’d do everything within the law to reduce my tax liability. “I’ll tell you, I think it’s criminal that people like you are hit with such a high tax bill. Your grandfather helped build this city. I think people who bring jobs to the community and build the local economy should really get a break, you know? If you have a lot, it means you’ve probably already given a lot.” He shook his head with dismay at the amount of taxes I’d need to pay. “That’s what I believe.”

“Oh, okay.” I filled the dead space, wondering why I felt like the Republican National Committee was courting me.

“No really, you worked hard for your money,” Adam said, his face still buried in papers.

“Well, I inherited it,” I reminded him. “And the life insurance.”

“Your grandfather worked hard for it then, with the tuna fish business,” Adam said.

“You’re from back east, aren’t you?!” I was thrilled to shift gears.

“We moved here when I was twelve. Why do you ask?”

“You said tuna
fish,”
I said. “People from back east call it tuna fish. It just sounds so funny, ‘cause of course it’s fish. Out here we just say tuna. The fish is assumed. It’s a silent fish.”

Oh God, please strike me mute right now.

“Tuna, then,” Adam returned flatly. “Anyway, I’ll look for some ways to help protect your money, Mona. We’ve got to watch each other’s backs. That’s what I believe.”

“Hallelujah!” I laughed.

He stared back blankly.

“It’s just that you said that’s what you believe, so I was like ‘Hallelujah! I believe.’ It was just a joke,” I shuffled. “I don’t know what I’m saying. The antibiotics make me a little loopy sometimes. Okay, well you’ve got everything, so I guess I’ll see you this weekend for the Oz festival.”

* * *

“Mike!” I shouted into my cell phone as soon as I saw the square of daylight allowing me to exit Adam’s garage. “It’s me, Mona Lisa. Guess who I have a date with?” I heard nothing. “Are you there? Mike, I’m leaving Adam’s building where he just asked me out on a date. A date! Do you hear me?”

“I hear about every other word you’re saying,” Mike said coolly. “Something about a date.”

“Yeeeesss!” I screeched. “A bona fide, tell-the-grandkids-about-it first date. The first date of the rest of my life. A pick-me-up, take-me-to-dinner D-A-T-E. Just one question for you, what’s Ozzfest?”

“You’re going to Ozzfest?!” Mike now matched my level of enthusiasm. “That concert’s been sold out for weeks.”

“Back up,” I said, my anxiety level rising. “Then tell me when it is, and how I get tickets.”

“Oh shit!” He laughed.
“You
gotta get the tickets?! What’s up with that?”

“I told him I had tickets already, okay? I offered to give them to him, but he insisted that we go together and that we have dinner beforehand. Somewhere quiet, he said, because he wanted to spend time getting to know me,” I lied.

“He said he wanted to get to know you? He talks like a girl.”

“Shut up!” I snapped. “I’m excited about this. Just tell me where this band is playing and how I can get tickets.”

“It’s not one band, Mona. It’s something like twenty heavy metal groups. Ozzy Osbourne, Metallica, Korn, Marilyn Manson, you know.”

“No, I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

Mike laughed. “Ozzfest is this weekend and the only way to get tickets at this point is from a scalper or off eBay.”

“What bay?”

“You’re kidding? You’ve never heard of eBay?” Mike gave an incredulous chuckle. “The online auction?” Silence. “eBay, eBay,” he said, as if repeating it would refresh my memory. “You’ve never heard of eBay? You don’t know about Ozzfest. Mona Lisa, I gotta ask, where ya’ been?”

“Listen, if I was worldly I wouldn’t need you, now, would I?” I shot playfully. “You’re cashing my checks, now answer the question.”

“Mona Lisa,” Mike danced me with his words, “I gotta tell ya, I’m
liking
this new attitude.”

* * *

Mike was freshly showered with his hair still wet when he met me at the house to show me how to register as an eBay buyer. He smelled like soap. Reaching his arms around my back to help guide my roller ball, he helped me set up my secret cyber-life as MonaLisa31. Mike also opened a PayPal account for me so I could simply tap the code “Monasbux” and money would painlessly transfer from my Visa to cyber-vendors. Something about the immaterial nature of the transaction and three degrees of separation between the actual cash and me gave eBay the distinct feeling of something clandestine and sexually charged. Like an affair of cash. PayPal did it with Visa, who got it automatically every month from the bank.

“Five hundred dollars?!” I shouted. “They want five hundred dollars for these tickets?! I thought heavy metal was a bunch of poor pimple-faced teenage boys. Who’s buying five-hundred-dollar tickets to this, this, this festival thing?”

Like a surgeon performing an operation through my keyboard, Mike remained steady with his hands and calm with his voice. “Let’s find out.” He rolled the ball around and started clicking to see who had bid on the tickets. Suddenly, I was looking at all of the other purchases the little pimple faces had made, and more important, their bidding style. “You got three snipers in on this auction,” he said. I raised an eyebrow as if to say If
I didn’t know what eBay
was, I certainly don
’t know
the jargon
. “Oh yeah, sorry.” He read me right. “Snipers come in at the very last minute and outbid everyone else. You gotta be right here at the keyboard ready to pound those fuckers.”