Snapped (17 page)

But I forgo my imaginary suite at the Ritz and instead trudge up the street to the
depanneur
to buy cigarettes and then to George’s to celebrate and make myself drunk enough to sleep on the floor of my new home.

I don’t see George Jr. when I come in and I’m relieved. He puts me on edge; he’s never impressed. There’s a stack of
Snap
s by the door and I pick one up, slip into a booth and wedge my body into the corner for optimum privacy and darkness. I order a double vodka soda. Ativan dissolves into my system as I wait for my drink and open the magazine. I scan the masthead and am surprised to find my name there, at the bottom, under the title
cofounder
. That was nice of Ted. I consider calling him to say thank you for the recognition, for making the buyout deal happen so fast and so smooth, but then I remember what a shit he is and change my mind. I wish I could talk to Gen.

I flip to page six, where my DOs and DON’Ts once were, and there they are. I read the fine print. The shots have been sent in by readers; there’s an editor’s note announcing the new system and soliciting pictures.

Eva B.? As in Eva B., the home-wrecking cunt? I turn the page and there it is:
Eva B.’s Life of Style
. I flip back to the masthead.
Eva B., associate editor.
This is bullshit. This is wrong. And didn’t she just leave me a message wanting a referral? What is wrong with Ted? How can he do this to Gen? I close the magazine and turn it over. On the outside back page is an ad:
Coming soon: Snap TV. Watch for it.
There’s a list of credits on the bottom of the page, like on a movie poster. Produced by Ted, produced by Jack.
Inaugural online broadcast hosted by Eva B.
This is bullshit. This is wrong. This is going to make me crazy so I go outside to smoke.

A million scenarios race through my head but none make sense. Maybe Eva’s blackmailing Ted. That can’t be right. Gen already knows about the affair. Maybe Gen has finally come to her senses and left Ted and he’s clinging to Eva and promoting her is his way of making sure she won’t leave but she is because she wants me to give her a reference. I stamp out my cigarette and head back to my booth. I catch a glimpse of George Jr. behind the bar but scurry by unnoticed.

I finish my drink and order another. I take my cell phone out of my purse and punch in Eva’s number. It’s close to midnight but who the fuck cares. She’s probably fucking some married guy; she deserves to be interrupted.

“Hello?”

“Eva. It’s Sara.” I know she knows it’s me; she has call display.

“Sara, hiiii. Thanks for getting back to me. I wasn’t sure if you would.”

“So what can I do for you?” Saying this makes me nauseous but I want to—I need to—know what’s going on.

“I know this is a delicate situation but I was hoping I could use you as a reference.”

“Yeah, I got that from your message. Didn’t you just get a promotion or something?” She doesn’t know what I know or how I know it. Ted could have told me. She doesn’t know I have to pick up the magazine to know anything about the company I started.

“That. Yes. And it’s great and amazing to be working with Ted and Jack, but I have another offer.”

The mention of Jack’s name stings. “Another offer?”

“From Apples Are Tasty. They want me to be their new style editor.”

“Apples Are Tasty?”

“They’re expanding and it’s a great opportunity for me to really get my name out there and put my stamp on something. And after everything that’s happened at
Snap…
”

“Yeah, everything.”

“I couldn’t believe it when Ted wanted to keep me on after, well, you know, and I totally admire his commitment to the brand and not wanting to let personal issues interfere with that, and you were amazing to hire me in the first place, and I’ve just loved working with Jack this week, but I have to do what’s right for me.”

I hate her. I want to hang up. “Does Ted know? About Apples Are Tasty?”

Eva laughs. “No way! You know how he is about them. That’s why I can’t ask him for a reference—I need you.”

She’s talking to me now like we’re old friends, war buddies,
colleagues, equals. I hate her more. I want to hang up. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“Could you let me know by Monday? I’d really appreciate it. And, Sara?”

“Eva?”

“I’d really appreciate your discretion. I know you don’t talk to Ted or Jack and that you and Gen aren’t friends anymore, but if you could keep this under your hat that would be great. And hey, what are you doing for work now? I was talking to Ben and he said he ran in to you. He got the impression that you were taking some time off?”

I hate her. I hang up and throw the phone down on the table.

“Stood up?” George Jr. is smiling down at me holding my double vodka soda in one hand, a full bottle of beer in the other.

“No. Just work.”

“I thought you didn’t do that anymore.”

“I don’t. It’s complicated.”

“Of course.” He says this like it’s a given—that everything with me is complicated and weird and fucked up.

“Can I have my drink?”

“Only if you’ll let me join you for a moment. It’s been a long night. The ice machine went on the fritz and I had to run out to the gas station and buy bags of it.”

“Did you just say
fritz?”

“I think I did. Not cool? Sorry.”

“No. It’s fine. Sit down. I have no idea what’s cool.”

The Ativan combined with the vodka makes me slippery and I stop after one more double, before things get too
Valley of the Dolls.
I start drinking coffee and George is still sitting across from me as I explain the complexity of my situation
minus the part about Rockabilly Ben the paperboy or the parts where I’m a total asshole.

“It sounds like you’re ready to move on from all of that.”

“All of what?” My eyes narrow and I slide my elbows forward. I cannot have enough analysis. George could not possibly talk to me enough about myself.

“The magazine and the people and the drama—it’s too much. It would be too much for anyone. Let people sort out their own problems. Move on.”

On to what?
“But it seems so unfinished. There’s no
closure.”

“Did you just say
closure?
”

“Shut up.”

“Sorry. But seriously, Sara, I think you’re just making excuses and that’s holding you back.”

From what?
“From what?”

“From doing the things you really want to do.”

“All I want to do is read magazines.”

“Then read magazines.”

“And find a bed.”

“I may be able to help you with that.”

I think that George wants to fuck me and I’m flattered and he’s cute and I like the banter thing we have going but I seriously need a bed. Maybe he means that we should go back to his place. Or maybe he means he has a beat-up futon couch in the back office that folds down into a bed that he’s going to let me borrow until I find something more suitable. This, unfortunately, is exactly what he means. There’s no innuendo, no hidden meanings, there’s no flirting when you’re carrying a futon down the street at 3:00 a.m. on a Friday night. At least the booze and tranquilizers are wearing off and I can speak without slurring, but the gallons of coffee are kicking in and
I’m jittery. This must be what people mean when they say
you just can’t win
.

We drop the futon behind the counter on the main floor. “You don’t want freaks staring in here at you—or maybe you do.”

I have no window coverings. I put that on my mental to-buy list, along with a bed and plates and a sofa and everything else. I feel a pang in my stomach. I’m going to miss my peacock-feather-print wing chair.

I have nothing to offer George because I don’t have a kitchen or a fridge, which I quickly add to the list in my head.

“So this is where you’re going to read your magazines?”

“Yup.”

“It’s a great space. I have a guy if you need one.”

“A guy?” George is gay? He has a guy? He wants to share or lend him out? The guy must be bi. George must think I’m desperate. None of this is good.

“A
designer
. He did my place and we’re talking about giving the bar a makeover.”

“You have a designer?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I also have magazines.”

“What kind of magazines?”

“Magazines I think you’ll want to read.”

“Really.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And what do I have to do to take a look at these so-called magazines?”

“Kiss me good-night.”

He’s serious and I do and it’s nice, soft—no tongue. He says
he’ll be by tomorrow with the mysterious magazines and as I lock the door behind him I question my liflong aversion to cheesy repartee.

I am awakened by pounding on the front door. It’s light but I have no idea what time it is. I scramble to the front window and peer out. It’s George. “Sorry. I didn’t have your number.” I let him in and walk immediately to the counter, pull a Sharpie out of my purse and write my cell number on his hand. I say nothing. I am not a morning person.

“What time is it?”

“Ten.” He hands me a coffee and a bagel and a small square napkin from Connections. Good thing the Connections people didn’t know George was buying the coffee for me or one of them—that counter girl, probably—would have surely spit in it.

“I can’t believe you kept that.” George points to the
Satin Rules
board.

“What? It’s brilliant.”

“If you say so.” He sets his coffee down on the counter and heads for the door.

“I’m sorry,” I call after him, although I’m unsure for once about what I’m apologizing for. Maybe I smell. I haven’t had a shower even though that is one of the few things the space does have: a fully functional bathroom. “I’m not a morning person.”

George props the door open with a box. “That’s not a shocker.” He disappears for a moment then walks back through the door carrying two boxes. He goes outside and collects two more, and two more after that. Finally, he picks
up the box that he’d used to prop the door open and it swings shut. “As promised.”

“The magazines?” I rush over and tear the top off the first box. “Holy shit!” I tear the top off another. “Oh my God!”

“You really love your magazines, don’t you?”

“Do you have any idea what you have here?”

“Yeah, I grew up with them. My Dad was quite the connoisseur—all those long nights at the bar, I guess.” There are hundreds of them. I’m overwhelmed. There are copies of
Nifties, Spree, Sir, Carnival, Knight, Dude
—I love
Dude
the most. Men’s nudie pin-up magazines from the fifties and sixties fill the boxes. “There’s some classier stuff in there somewhere, too, like
Esquire.
And a few copies of
GQ
from the eighties—I think those were mine.”

I want to hug him, kiss him, I’ll drop to my knees and give him a blow job if that’s what he wants as a thank-you. “George, this is incredible. Thank you. I’ll go through them and get them back to you as soon as possible.”

“Forget it. They’re yours. Keep ’em.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. They’ve been sitting in boxes taking up space in the bar for years. Consider it a housewarming gift.”

“You’re sure you don’t need them.”

George laughs. “No, I don’t
need
them. The Internet serves my needs just fine.”

“Ooh, porn talk. And so early in the morning.”

“I always say, it’s never too early for porn talk.”

I want to kiss him but I want to brush my teeth first. He steps closer. There will be no minty freshness. He kisses me. “Thank you,” I say. We pull apart and I realize that he probably thinks I just thanked him for kissing me, which would be
pathetic and make me seem sadder than I already am. “No, not for that.” I correct myself. “I mean thank you for giving me your dad’s spank mag collection.” I clasp my hand over my mouth. I’m an idiot, an asshole, a retard. I’m not cut out for romance and cheesy repartee. But George just laughs and peels my hand from my mouth so he can kiss me again.

George’s guy is Australian and calls himself Timotei. I assume it’s a nickname and that he wasn’t named after shampoo but I don’t ask because I know that anything is entirely possible. “You can call me Tim,” he says and I am relieved.

Tim takes me shopping and brings me photos. He finds a guy—no,
the
guy, according to Tim—to build custom shelves for my growing vintage magazine collection.

George comes by in the mornings on his way to work and brings me a coffee and a bagel from Connections. I stop by the bar around seven and we eat together. Some nights I have a nap on my new, very proper bed so I’m rested if George comes by after the bar closes for a drink and a kiss. I haven’t fucked him and he always goes home after a quick visit. But it’s nice and I think it’s normal and I have no other friends except Esther and Ellen so I’ll take what I can get.

The new, custom-built shelves are spectacular. I run my hand along the grain of the dark stained wood and sigh. It’s almost erotic, which would make me a freak, and I make a mental note to look that up online. There’s a name for every fetish.

Esther comes by to help me unpack the magazines and put them on the shelves. Watching her bend and lift the heavy stacks makes me nervous, but she wants to help and I don’t see how I can’t let her. Tim shrieks when he sees what I’m holding.

“What?”

“My lord, Sara. Is that an original copy of
Flair
magazine in your hands?”

“Uh-huh.”

Tim scampers over and takes it gingerly from me. “Do you know how many people would die—absolutely
die
—to put their hands on this?”

“Uh-huh.”

“My friend Martin—he would
kill
.”

“Bring him by. He can take a look if he wants.”

“Oh, he’ll want.”

“That Tim’s a funny little guy,” Esther says after he’s gone and I’m cooking my first meal in my new kitchen.

“That he is. Can you pass me the Velveeta?” I’m making Lila’s casserole.

“He was awfully excited about those magazines.”

“There are lots of us out there.” I want to tell her about George but stop myself out of respect for superstition, or because she was friends with his dad, or maybe because I like him. I don’t know.

“You know, I could ask around. I have a feeling there are boxes of these things collecting dust in my friends’ closets and basements. They’d probably be glad to be rid of them.”

“You think so?”

“Sure. People keep the strangest things for the longest time. I’ll ask around.”

“And books—ask about books, too, like those trashy paperbacks Stephen wrote.”

I’m too wired to nap. I made Esther and I espressos with my new ridiculously expensive machine after dinner and made the mistake of having two. Now I’m shaky and tempted to pop an Ativan but opt for a beer. Since Esther was coming for dinner I haven’t seen George since this morning and he was in a hurry. I could go down to the bar, keep him company, but that might make me look needy and like a loser with no life, which I sometimes think I am, but I prefer to keep that information to myself.

My cell phone rings and I jump. My intuition says it’s George. It’s not. It’s Eva, wanting who knows what. I let it go to voice mail. I didn’t get back to her about being a reference and her name is still on the masthead at
Snap
and nowhere to be found on the Apples Are Tasty site, so I guess she didn’t get the job. Not that it matters, not that I should be reading
Snap
or logging on to Apples Are Tasty. But I can’t help it and I know it’s wrong and I always hide the evidence, burying
Snap
at the bottom of my recycling pile, clearing my Internet history after my daily visit to Apples Are Tasty, irrationally hoping that if no one knows, it didn’t happen.

I listen to Eva’s message. Her voice is chirpy, which means she must want something. And she does. She’s heard from her friend Martin that I have this library of vintage magazines at my new place and she’s working on this project and it would really, really help if she could come by and take a peek. I delete the message.
Come by? Take a peek?
Oh, fuck off, Eva. I pick up the phone again and enter my password. My service has a message retrieval system so you can undelete deleted messages within twenty-four hours of deleting them. It’s a feature custom-made for people like
me. I undelete Eva’s message and listen to it again.
What fucking project
?

I distract myself with beer and unpacking. My magazines, Lila’s magazines, George’s dad’s magazines and the books—they’re all organized and shelved. All that’s left are the
Snap
boxes.

Some of the boxes are numbered, some say
Personal
or
Misc.;
they each have
Sara
scrawled across the lid and the sides. I open box number one and find the earliest issues of
Snap,
even the old photocopied ’zines we made before we had a name or any money. Box two holds issues from nineteen ninety-five, our first year on newsprint and as a weekly, box three is ninety-six. There are fourteen numbered boxes, every issue we ever made, all in order, a perfect archive. I choose a random box and pull an issue off the top. January 4th, 2000, the
We’re Not Dead Yet
issue. I flip to the DOs and DON’Ts page. I remember the DON’Ts—the guy in the tight silver jumpsuit at a New Year’s party, the girl who tried too hard to be Bettie Page—but the DOs are a jumble in my head. Everyone always remembers the DON’Ts. People, when they meet me at parties, tell me about this DON’T or that DON’T and how they laughed so, so hard.

I get another beer from the fridge and go through every issue in the box, looking at the DON’Ts. I make myself look at their unsuspecting eyes and remember that the second after the picture was taken and the release was signed they’d bound off to tell their friends how they’d been shot for
Snap
, thinking they were going to be a DO. There were never any promises, but no one assumes they’re a DON’T.

By the time I’m through the third box I’m drunk and my
hands are black with newsprint. I glance at the clock because I have one now and it’s after two. I haven’t heard from George and he should have closed up by now; it’s a Wednesday. I’m nervous calling the bar—I haven’t before—but it rings and rings and rings, no answer, no machine. He has call display on the phone in his office and the possibility that he’s screening sinks in. I will march down there and demand to know why he wouldn’t take my call. The reality is more of a weave than a march but I make it to the bar. It’s dark and closed and I return home to more beer and my archives.

I sift through the DON’Ts of box eleven and there he is, in his dark suit and white socks. The socks make me wince, I can’t help it, but it’s George and the white socks shouldn’t matter. It was years ago. He said he never did it again. We don’t talk about the DON’T. He’s made a joke of it once or twice and I didn’t respond or laugh and he stopped. I’m dating a DON’T. But I don’t care about DOs and DON’Ts anymore, I shouldn’t, I can’t.

I put the George issue aside and continue looking through fifteen years of DON’Ts. I do the math longhand in my notebook: 3,560 DON’Ts. I am personally responsible for making 3,560 people feel like shit. Most of the girls probably cried. Then there’s the shunning and the therapy bills and the creeping thoughts that everybody knows, everybody at work, on the street, everybody in the universe knows. Three-thousand, five-hundred and sixty people hate me, they must. And George. It’s a joke, it’s a game, it’s his revenge to date me—are we even dating?—and dump me. Giving me his dad’s old magazines is part of the ploy to sucker me in, make me like him so he can hurt me, abandon me, mock me. He’s the hero of the DON’Ts. They’ll lift him up on their shoul
ders and carry him through the square. They’ll burn an effigy of me using matches from his bar. I understand now why he didn’t come by.

I pack a single suitcase and call a taxi at 8:00 a.m. I ask the driver to take me to the Queen Elizabeth Hotel, to the single room I’ve reserved. Taking a suite at the Ritz was too grand and I’m too small. I ask the driver to drive faster and take shortcuts—karma is right on my tail.

I take a shower and climb naked into the hotel bed because I can and call Ted on his direct line. I’m still drunk. He picks up on the second ring. “Let me guess—you want your job back?” I can tell he’s joking, but he’s not funny.

“You’re funny. Look, I was wondering if I could get copies of all of the releases signed by the DON’Ts.”

“From the last issue?”

“No. All of them.”

Ted whistles. “That’s a whole lot of paper, Sara.”

“Can you do it?”

“I don’t know. Everything’s in chaos right now with you leaving and the Apples Are Tasty deal….”

“You hate Apples Are Tasty.”

“I
bought
Apples Are Tasty.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“So can you do it? Get me the releases? I’m staying at the Queen E. Just courier the originals if you don’t want to copy them. I’ll have them back to you by the end of the week.”

“Tomorrow is the end of the week.”

“Right. Well, Monday, then.”

“What do you need them for?”

“I just need them, okay?”

Ted sighs. “Okay. But I need something from you. I need you to let Eva take a look at those magazines we’ve heard about, and Brian, too.”

“Art director Brian?”

“Yes, art director Brian.”

“Why?”

“They just need to.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t fire Eva.”

“Don’t go there, Sara. It was a strictly business decision.”

“And Gen’s all right with that?”

“I can’t talk to you about Genevieve.” Ted only uses her full name when he’s very serious.

“Fine. Just send me the releases.”

“And I’ll tell Eva and Brian you’ll be expecting them when?”

“Monday. We’ll do it Monday. In the afternoon.”

Next I call Tim. He doesn’t ask me why I want a threefold card designed with the third fold being detachable by perforation with a blank outline of a body—not too sexy, more like my body, a regular body—with my face resting atop it. I shouldn’t be smiling. I tell him I’ll take a Polaroid and have it sent over to him. I dictate the text of the card. The front should be simple, no script lettering, but no Helvetica, either—something classic, a meaningful font. It should say:
DO accept my apology
…And on the inside:
You were never a DON’T
. “At the very bottom of the page it should say,
Now it’s your turn to make me over
—that should be in parentheses. Then have my address printed on the back of the paper doll thing so people can mail it in. And I’ll need envelopes and postage for all of them—two stamps for each, one to mail it out and one to go on the back of the paper doll thing so
they can mail that back. Got it? And find a printer who can do it today.”

“This really isn’t part of my job,” Tim says hesitantly. I tell him I’ll pay him a thousand dollars and now it is his job.

I go into the bathroom and take three Polaroids of my face. I pick the ugliest one, fasten myself into a bra, slide one of Lila’s rayon dresses over my head and take the photo to the concierge. I have no envelopes, no courier slips. I hand him a fifty and a crumpled Post-it with Tim’s address and he says he’ll take care of it. Then I take the elevator back to my room, turn my phone off and sleep until the boxes of releases arrive.

The cards aren’t perfect, the font doesn’t say
meaningful
to me, but there are 3,600 of them and they’re paid for and obviously nonrefundable. The makeover paper doll is good. My body is a bit blobby, but my body
is
a bit blobby and my face looks tired, my makeup is smudged.

Tim personally delivers the boxes of cards. His friend Martin, the one who came to look at the magazines, has tagged along. I take the first release form off the top of the first of three piles I’ve made on the desk by the window.
Alain Gagne
. I open a card and write
Dear Alain
and sign my name at the bottom. I grab an envelope and copy out Alain’s address. One down. Three-thousand, five-hundred and fifty-nine to go. I can do this. I have to do this.

Tim and Martin stare at me in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?” Tim asks.

“I have to do this.”

“You’re gonna need some help,” says Martin. “If you’re hiring, I’m very good at addressing envelopes.”

“I need to do this on my own.” I am a selfless martyr. I must fight sleep and hand cramps and all other distractions to
be granted absolution. It is my responsibility. My mind flashes to the aisles of self-help books at Connections. Maybe this is my
journey.

This is insane. My hand is shaking, my head pounds and no matter how many times I stretch my palm out it springs back into a gnarled fist. And then I get to Gen’s card. I want to fill all the white space, write a thousand apologies, but I don’t, and sign hers just as I have the boxes of others.

My eyes hurt and I can barely hold the pen, but there are so many more to do. Reluctantly, I ring the front desk and request a wake-up call in two hours—at 3:00 a.m.—and climb into bed. I sleep with my sore hand flattened under my pillow and dream of George.

I wake up sweaty and start again. My hand is stiff but I soon get a rhythm going. I try to block the pain with happy thoughts: images of rainbows and unicorns, magical fairies and butterflies. But all I can think of is George and Jack and Ben the Rockabilly Paperboy and Ted’s mushroom-head dick and all the years I spent finding possibilities in impossible men who wanted me because I was bitchy and got to go everywhere for free. I’d boss them around and they’d do what I wanted, then they’d talk baby talk and whine that I didn’t pay them enough attention so I’d tie them to my bed and fuck them until they shut up. It was always then that they’d tell me they loved me.

The concierge says he’ll take care of the boxes—the ones of cards all stamped and ready to be mailed, and the ones of release forms to go back to
Snap
. I give him two more fifties for his trouble. I like this part—paying people to do things and the no-questions-asked.