The Album: Book One (14 page)

Representatives from the 9/11 Memorial Fund and the Pediatric Cancer Unit of Mt. Sinai Hospital sent lovely bouquets and representatives to honor their most generous donor, Dr. Claire Parker.

Well played, my friend, well played.

After the funeral, Aunt Patty hosted a gathering of close family and friends at your house. Oh shit, some of the stories I heard nearly made me pee my pants. Did you know Claire was a model during med school? Like a nude model? Like she hung out at Studio 54, NUDE? Wow! We spent the night passing around photo albums, drinking wine and sharing charming stories of the great Claire Dumas. And maybe I was plastered, but I just knew she was somewhere laughing with us.

All and all, you would have been very pleased. Never apologize for not being there, Zach Parker – you were everywhere.

I love you.

No regrets,

Nat

PS- Chloe has this thing with records. And if there is some sort of investigation to its whereabouts, Chloe is the one that shanked it.

I can’t believe Jack spilled all the info, but Nat is extremely tenacious and almost always gets her way. I take the square package and flip it over in my hands. My finger traces over the return address, thinking about the events of the past few months.

I rip open the package and pull out the record I know so well. The cover is worn and faded and there is a large rip near the opening – but it tells a story. I find a large Post-it note stuck to the backside with Nat’s horrible handwriting and a pencil drawing of boobs.

From the sardonic wisdom of Edith Piaf:

“After it’s all over, we’ll go out and have a drink together.”

XO

Nat

I look up at the dark sky filled with giant, laughing stars and immediately know what I have to do.

I flip over the Post-it and scribble down the date, but then I quickly scratch through it. This isn’t a dated love letter, I’ll write that later – this Post-it is my last letter . . . my safety net. I tap my pen against the Edith Piaf record, thinking of how to express future sentiments when my journey comes to an end. Either in the arms of the girl I love, or buried in a box of memories, this note will be the
last
.

Ma femme,

Je ne regrette rien, because I found everything.

I love you.

the album

side B

Chloe

July 3, 2003

“C
HLOE!
G
REAT NEWS – HUGE!”
Natalie leaps across our tiny kitchen, clumsily knocking my bowl of cereal into the sink. “Oh, sorry.”

“What’s up, Nat? I gotta leave for work in five minutes,” I respond lazily.

Nat is an assistant event planner in a trendy SoHo office and our schedules never seem to mesh. I’m usually on my way out the door to the bar when she comes bouncing in from her day job. But who cares? We’re living in New York City in an amazing TriBeCa apartment with anything we want in a one-block radius. (No really, an illegal ferret dealer and Cuban cigars are within one-block from our front door.)

“Tomorrow is your birthday and we’re doing it up New York-style. The Fourth of July is like a big deal around here and you’ll have to get used to sharing your day with America.” Natalie fishes for a Snapple from the refrigerator and continues excitedly. “You know Molly, my boss? Well, she graciously gave me the keys to her bungalow on Fire Island! We leave in the morning and won’t be back until Sunday!” Natalie grabs my hands and jumps up and down, forcing me to jump along with her.

“That’s awesome, Nat! Is it like the Hamptons?” I ask, still confused with the layout of New York. It’s taken me three months to realize Houston Street is pronounced
House-ton
.

“No way! The Hamptons are sophisticated and snobby, but Fire Island is a hedonistic orgy of booze and bad decisions. It will be so much fun!” Natalie walks to the hall closet to grab our travel bags while I devise a plan to get out of work early tonight.

“I really have to go, Nat. I’ll try to be back by eight. Thank you, it sounds perfect!”

Natalie drops the bags in the hallway and runs toward me. “Chloe, you will love it, but – well, how do I say this in the nicest way possible? Um, how’s your lady garden?”

“Meaning?” I ask. I know my garden hasn’t been plowed or trimmed in several months, but it’s not like I’m an undiscovered rainforest.

“Meaning – I’m making you an appointment with Sue Ling. She’s on Eighth, next to the Au Bon Pain with the rats. Promise me you’ll get there by nine?”

“Fine. Can you pack my bag?”

“I will, just for my favorite cousin with the amazing body, gorgeous green eyes and a voice that can melt a hockey rink.” Natalie smiles and flutters her eyelashes.

“Ha ha. I get what you’re doing, and I promise I won’t embarrass you. I clean up real nice, gee golly gee.” I kiss her cheek and head out the door to work.

“Fire Fucking Island!” She chants through the door.

I moved in with Nat back in April after a year-long, uneventful tour with an unknown band (think Canadian
Toadies.
) I’d made a deal with Dad that if I finished my degree in business, he would support my career in music. So basically, my poor dad supported me while I spent twelve months in the backwoods of Canada playing taverns and hippie festivals. I made approximately six hundred dollars and slept with every member of the band. I was traveling and performing . . . but mostly, I was waiting – for something. After a year living as a slutty bohemian and the constant nagging from Natalie to move to Manhattan, I finally made the practical decision to get my ass in gear and try to be an adult. Dad supports this decision 100%.

Manhattan. It’s . . . well, I – I distinctly remember my teenage-self lounging in front of the television drinking tiny bottles of Evian and inventing my future-self. I imagined I would be this mature and refined pop star, sipping wine with celebrities in my sexy black cocktail dress. Discussing politics and fine art while being photographed for the Style Watch section of
People Magazine
. Hordes of rich men would line up and beg to whisk me away to London for the weekend. Of course, I wouldn’t accompany them because of my weekly performances at Carnegie Hall and the movie deal that would contractually forbid me from dating non-celebrities. My apartment in Washington Square would be an upscale, modern space, but I would never be too good to slum it with my friends, Monica, Rachel, Phoebe, Ross, Joey and Chandler. Like, it totally made sense years ago.  I even prepared a speech for my GrammyEmmyOscarTony.

Reality bites. Being twenty-four in New York City goes more like this . . .

Last night I wore overall shorts I found for three dollars at a vintage clothing store, and by vintage, I mean the Salvation Army on the corner of 6
^th
and 7
^th
. I wear crappy clothes while waitressing at the bar because of all the vile shit that splatters on me throughout the night, but it also seems to give me the apathetic edge of
I don’t
give a fuck
. I had a black tank underneath my dated denim and I thought I was rocking the Demi Moore-pottery-scene, but Natalie overtly pointed out that I looked like a Village hobo. (The Village is actually rather chic, so I took that as a compliment.) She is notorious for speaking her mind at the most inopportune moments, but I love her and she did manage to snag a pretty awesome apartment in TriBeCa.

If I told Nat I was actually three months overdue for a wax, she would disown me. I found a rusty razor in the shower this morning, but it only managed to slightly scrape my legs. There was no way I was risking armpit hemorrhaging, so my appointment with Sue Ling will be more of a medical precaution rather than a luxury. My hair looks okay, if summer sweat can be considered the latest fad in glossy hair serum. The sun is normally good to me, leaving me with golden skin, but I still have the remnants of a farmer’s tan on my arms from wearing a Blue Jays t-shirt to a Yankees game – karma. Oh, and I don’t discuss my guitar-picking nails. Aesthetically, I’m a slob, but I look like the rest of the twenty-somethings roaming the streets.

My current place of employment is an understated bar located in TriBeCa. I can walk there, which is awesome, and the owner has a small crush on me, which makes it easy to get the best shifts. It’s near the Holland Tunnel, but ironically named The Bridge, provoking my need to hum
Under the Bridge
by the Chili Peppers every single time I go to work.

The bar has a steady stream of customers and the happy hour is very popular, mainly because it’s a nice place to hang before going to a real bar. My Tuesday through Saturday shift allows me to mingle with an eclectic crowd: underage NYU students, dating couples (or cheating couples) and a shitload of Uptown too scared to go all the way Downtown.
That’s what she said
. Rarely are there hordes of handsome men, and not once have I been asked to run away to Europe. And oddly, record moguls aren’t breaking down the bar door to sign a sarcastic, Canadian slacker wearing thrift-store jeans and concert t-shirts.

Honestly, it fucking sucks. I was raised as an only child and educated by television and aversion – aversion to anything realistic and uncomfortable. It’s embarrassing to admit that I feel like I’m owed something in this world; by just going to college I would eventually own my own applesauce empire. And simply traveling around in a van pouring out my emotions on a rickety stage would reward me with a record deal. Or by just being me, creative, pretty and unique, I would score a hot guy and live in Beverly Hills with awesome clothes and the Peach Pit.

But with each day struggling as an adult, the enchanting visions of my future start to implode. The world is faced with new problems now, bigger problems and relevant people with realistic ideas. The new millennium of plastic, technology and fear has distorted and mocked my teenaged fantasies, forcing me to hide in a bubble of the
whatevers
. But I’m not alone, oh no, there’s a whole fucking generation of exceptional, over-educated, turgid pricks like me, waiting for the future to fall in our laps. I’m not lazy or depressed, I’m a byproduct of false idealism and Saturday morning cartoons. I get that now, on the eve of my 25
^th
birthday – and it’s all about to change.

July 4, 2003

“M
OLLY’S HOUSE IS THREE BLOCKS
east past the bait shop. Good thing I brought the rolling bags!” Natalie exclaims.

We step off the ferry and onto the rustic dock to take in our weekend paradise. The smell of the salty ocean is overwhelmingly fresh compared to the subway steam and curry that penetrates our neighborhood. Ocean Beach is gorgeous in its natural environment, and the gentle swaying of the sea oats is like a mystical trance of tranquility. Breathe in, breathe out . . . holy shit this is amazing!

We spent the entire train ride chatting with a group of college kids from the Upper East Side. They mentioned to us at least a million times that they’re renting a house in the Hamptons and consequently, I have a massive headache from rolling my eyes. They turned their snobby noses up at the mention of Fire Island, even though Natalie boasted about our mansion that was once owned by Elizabeth Taylor. By the time the train stopped in Bayshore, those stupid kids thought we were two rich socialites that were simply partying for the weekend. Idiots.

I follow Natalie on the walkway, taking the time to read the large signs she seems to be ignoring. Oh shit.

No swimming beyond floats.

No food or drinks.

No disrobing.

No radios without earphones.

No ball playing, kites or Frisbees.

No sexual abstinence.

Okay, so the last one is just my interpretation from the article I read in Time Out New York about the
Land of NO!
Apparently, people come to this island for two things: gay-friendly shenanigans and freaky, no limitations, sex. (As long as you don’t fly a kite or drink a beer.)

“Hey Nat, did you bring a Frisbee?” I joke.

Natalie stops abruptly and spins to face me. “Why in the hell would I bring a Frisbee? I swear Chloe, if you don’t get laid this weekend, I’m shipping you back to T.O.” She continues walking toward a green picket fence surrounding a gray shingled cottage. The front door is the color of butter, and tiny seashells dangle from the door frame. “Yes, there it is. How adorable is that house? Chloe, this is going to be so much fun!” Natalie picks up her pace as I trail behind her with a giddy smile.

“Did Molly tell you where to meet people?” I ask.

“Of course she did! We’ll have lunch and hang by the beach. She said parties are always popping up, and tonight there’s a huge fireworks show.”

We roll our bags into the little cottage and tour the space. There are two small bedrooms, one large bathroom and a kitchen tinier than the one in our apartment. The living room is actually in the back, overlooking the sand dunes and the foamy waves of the Atlantic Ocean. Molly’s home is cozy, comfortable and at least a million dollars.

Natalie and I plop down on a white linen sofa and stretch out our legs. Our relaxation is interrupted by a shadow moving outside the large window and I nervously grab Nat’s hand. We quietly get up and move toward the figure, my heart racing and her hand squeezing the circulation out of mine . . . but it’s just a deer! Oh wait, there are two cute little deer, staring at us with their big brown eyes! It’s cool that the wildlife can flourish even though their habitat is disrupted by ferries full of visitors and drag queens. I could watch their innocent faces nuzzle against each other all afternoon, not a care in the world, not worried about a job or a music career or finding someone to love, these deer inspire me.

And . . . the bigger one just mounted the female. He’s humping the shit out of her and his eyes are rolling to the back of his fuzzy head. The female on the other hand, appears frightened. Her doe eyes are now the size of saucers and she’s making a weird sheep noise. They don’t seem to mind the audience and yet I can’t look away.

“Everything gets laid,” I joke.

“On Fire Island,” Nat retorts.

7:45 p.m.

We met a few of Molly’s neighbors on the beach earlier and they graciously invited us over for cocktails on their patio. Now, math is my worst subject, but I can manage simple calculations to determine that one husband, one wife and one girlfriend equals a threesome. And two gays plus two LeGrange girls equals no sex for Chloe. I would never judge someone’s lifestyle or sexual preference, but Nat and I might be in a sexual conundrum.

The owner of the house, Mr. Hughes, has one hand on the ass of his girlfriend Susan, and the other hand tightly around my waist. His gorgeous wife, Mrs. Hughes, is busy drunk-flirting with Natalie, and I’m pretty sure her left boob is about to pop out of her super slutty top. Natalie is so sarcastic and crazy, that she charmingly plays along with the flirtation, even commenting on Mrs. Hughes’ lovely top. Benjamin and Travis are the hottest gays ever, and I have a very, very dirty visual going on in my head right now that includes me, the gays and a steamy shower – but, I didn’t spend two hours getting everything waxed for lousy bourbon and an awkward swing party.

“So hey, Nat, we should get to those dinner reservations,” I say casually.

“Reservations? No, you have to come with us to Frankie’s by the docks! It’s
the
spot to watch the fireworks.” Travis pulls me away from Mr. Hughes and spins me slowly. He’s making one of those
mmm hmm
faces and motions for Benjamin to join him. “Chloe, you have amazing curves! Benji – Rita Hayworth, am I right?”

“Oh yes, the real Rita Hayworth, not that poor queen dragging at The Pines!” Benjamin quips and they both laugh at some sort of inside joke. But whatever, Rita Hayworth was smoking hot – and real men appreciate curves.

“Chloe, I love you in that dress!” Natalie squeezes between Benjamin and Travis and winks at me. “In fact, I’d say whoever packed that dress is a goddamn genius.”

It’s true. Natalie is an evil genius. I feel amazing in this knee-length vintage purple dress – an actual vintage piece of clothing from a shop in SoHo that sells Broadway costumes (in my mind, it belonged to Raquel Welch.)

“Travis – I have a brilliant idea! Let’s introduce the girls to the Decker twins,” Benjamin squeals.

“Yes! I would love some double Decker peckers,” Natalie jokes.

“Oh honey, they are pretty to look at, but incredibly dumb!” Travis adds.

Honestly, I don’t give a shit if they grunt like cavemen, I desperately want to escape the Hughes and their
bow chicka wow
wow
pretense. Mr. Hughes keeps winking and licking his lips and Mrs. Hughes’ left nipple has finally made its way into the party.

“Great, let’s go to Frankie’s!” I shout.

8:25 p.m.

The seven of us make our way to Frankie’s by the dock. The swingers up front, fondling and giggling, followed by Nat and Travis debating over the sexiest Superman –
Lois and Clark
or
Smallville.
Benjamin hangs in the back with me, breathing in the fresh air and catching fireflies.

“Don’t you just love the Fourth?” Benji asks.

“It’s my birthday, actually,” I say.

“No shit! I’m buying you a drink, my little Yankee Doodle Dandy.” Benjamin puts his arm around my shoulders and rustles my hair. He’s exactly the kind of guy I’m attracted to, tall, dark and the muscular forearms of Popeye. But he’s also sincerely sweet and protective, qualities of a true gentleman.

“Benji, can I ask a favor?” I say quietly.

“Of course, my pet.”

“Don’t let me do anything stupid.”

“But it’s your birthday and a holiday!”

“Please,” I say firmly.

“I promise. Look, we’re here – Peccadillo Circus!”

Holy shit.

Natalie and I walked past Frankie’s this morning on our way to Molly’s house. It’s a cute little bait and tackle shop that sells worms and Vera Bradley bags, but tonight, it’s been transformed into a breeding ground for all that are unholy and horny. The once pristine and peaceful dock is now swallowed by huge red and white striped tents, like a circus, only no clowns, just very bad things. My eyes have never witnessed this kind of stimulation, and my heart is throbbing to the obnoxious beat of horrible club music.

Mrs. Hughes takes a white pill from a dude dressed as George Washington and pops it in her mouth. They start kissing, but their tongues are totally missing the mark. His powdered wig and her floppy left tit are enough to erase my patriotic perceptions of the founding fathers forever.

Natalie spins to face me, her eyes huge and her mouth hanging open. She nods in the direction to her right where two girls are on their knees giving a guy a blowjob – directly below one of the signs that forbids disrobing and Frisbees. Benji grabs my hands and waves them in the air as Natalie mock-dances to my side. She leans in to speak, but I can’t hear a thing she’s saying.

“Jesus Christ, Chloe. This is crazy!” she screams.

“What?” I scream back.

Travis starts grinding Natalie from behind and playfully pushes her toward Benjamin. They sandwich her between them, joining their hands at her hips. Nat has always wanted two guys at once, and I’m beginning to understand why . . . that is the hottest thing I’ve seen since that episode of Buffy and Spike screwing on the roof. Travis pulls Nat’s head back into his chest, allowing Benji to lick her shoulder before landing sensually on his lover’s lips. Natalie glances at me while the two of them tongue each other and thrust against her. I shrug my shoulders, unsure of what to do, but she reaches out her hand, asking for help. I tug at her body until she is able to slither into my arms. Benji and Travis don’t even seem to notice us walking away.

“Chloe! This is insane! Just keep walking,” she screams.

We start pushing our way through the crowd, aiming for the clearing by the boat slip. A massive number of people of every gender and orientation are bumping into us, touching us and even shouting crude obscenities – most of which sound physically impossible. A drag queen dressed as Tina Turner gets right in my face, licks my cheek and honks my tits.

“Oh honey, you’re gorgeous! Let’s party,” she yells. I’m not sure what
party
means to Tina Turner, but I can assume it doesn’t include a couple of beers and a game of cards.

Natalie yanks me so forcefully that I bump into a naked guy wearing only an Abe Lincoln top hat and a black thong. He waves a baggie full of white pills in my direction and asks, “Do you wanna hit? It’s the 1776 special!”

I’ve lost all rational focus. I hear Natalie’s voice, but I have no idea what she’s saying. The smells, the touching, the strobe lights – I think I might pass out. But not only did my mother nag me about wearing clean underwear at all times, she also warned me to not be caught dead in the following places: a rave, a crack house, an underground sex club or a virgin sacrifice. And until tonight, I thought she was crazy.

We reach the only empty space on the dock and hold onto each other. My breathing is loud and shallow, but I manage to get out a chuckle, and then a cackle. Natalie cocks her eyebrows and shakes her head, but then she starts laughing at the bizarreness of our situation.

“Too much?” she asks between snorts.

“No, of course not! Remember Jamie’s party in ninth grade when we smoked strawberry cigarettes and played spin the bottle? Same exact thing,” I say.

Natalie stops abruptly and shakes my arm. She’s staring ahead at a large sailboat with a Portuguese flag and . . .
him
.

Tall.

Handsome.

And quietly ignoring the peccadillo mayhem.

His white shirt is unbuttoned to his waist, exposing his brown, smooth skin and a lion tattoo. He’s leaning carelessly against the railing of a boat ramp, glaring at us. He seems angry or annoyed . . . but then he smiles and sexily bows his head.

“Happy birthday,” Natalie whispers.

He looks us both over, taking an eternity to trail his dark eyes all over our bodies. He finally nods in approval and leans his head in the direction of the sailboat. He turns and makes his way onto the deck, pausing to glance back at us with a sexy smirk. I never thought I would be so turned on by a man’s acceptance, but being wanted by a demi-god/stranger is thrilling.

“Nat, what does that mean?” I need to make sure I’m not imagining him. He’s the one. Everything I’ve been waiting for . . . the psychic was right.

“Chloe,” she sighs, “what are you waiting for? Go to him!”

I exhale deeply, not knowing what to expect. This is crazy, but it feels right and I’ve ignored my impulses for way too long. I’m twenty-five, it’s a summer night and I’m ready to live in my future.

“Okay, let’s go.” I drag Natalie with me as we board the ramp. “There’s no way I’m leaving you.”

We step onto the upper deck, holding hands and breathing simultaneously. Natalie and I have shared most details of our life together and this is just one more crazy adventure . . . I think.

The deck is dimly lit and quite cramped. To our immediate left, standing on the foredeck, a couple is hastily removing their clothing. The guy tosses his shirt at my head, making me feel less confident and extremely unwelcome. Just as I’m about to bail, two guys, both handsome and weirdly identical, climb up from the cabin below, smiling sweetly.

“Hey ladies, can we get you some champagne?” they ask. I hesitate, but Nat instantly shimmies between them and giggles.