Clearly, I Didn't Think This Through : The Story of One Tall Girl's Impulsive, Ill-conceived, and Borderline Irresponsible Life Decisions (9781101612255) Page 10

  I spotted Ricky across the field and he trotted over, giving me the hugest hug.

  “Ricky! Hey, buddy!” I smiled as I looked him up and down. He hadn’t changed one bit since I’d last seen him. It was like no time had gone by. I’m pretty sure the last time I’d seen him he wore the same thin Pavement T-shirt and dark Levi’s. It was classic Ricky.

  “Anna Banana! So glad you could make it. But you missed the whole thing.” He had dust and dirt on his shirt and pants. Ten bucks says that he slid into a base at some point during the game to crack his team up, because he would totally do something like that for a laugh.

  “Yeah, the subway was being a little bitch. But I’m finally here. What’s everyone doing now?” I looked around the field to see if there was anyone else I recognized.

  “I think we’re gonna retreat for a few hours until we meet up later for drinks.” Apparently, Ricky was the social director of this event. He should’ve had a clipboard and a whistle. “Where are you staying?”

  Oh shit. I knew I’d forgotten something.

  “Actually, funny story: I have no place to stay.” As the words left my mouth, I realized that I sounded like a moron.

  “Really?” Ricky seemed amused. “So, you clearly put a lot of forethought into this weekend.”

  “Well, I always stay with Oliver when I come to New York, so I didn’t even think about making other plans. And, with starting school a few weeks ago, what can I say? It honestly slipped my mind. In other news, I’m an idiot. Do you know anywhere I could stay?”

  “Let me think. Steve might have some room at his place. You know him, right?” He whipped out his cell phone and started dialing Steve’s number.

  “I don’t think I know him, but, yeah, if you could hook that up, that’d be great.”

  Ricky explained my situation to him. After nodding a lot and exclaiming, “Great!” three times, he snapped his cell phone shut. “He said you could totally stay with him. It’s perfect because he lives two blocks from the park where the ceremony is tomorrow. Steve is a cool guy. You’ll like him. He used to play with Oliver in Right Way Wrong Turn.”

  “Cool. Ricky, you’re the best.” I gave him another hug. After he explained how to get to Steve’s house, we parted ways and said we’d catch up in a little bit.

  Steve met me outside his house. He was sitting on his stoop strumming an acoustic guitar. If he was trying to avoid the common Brooklyn hipster stereotype of being a shaggy, affected music-loving nerd, he was doing a terrible job at it. Even sitting down, you could tell that he was tall and skinny. I swear to God, there must be a tree in Brooklyn where these kinds of guys are grown. Either that or they fed one of them after midnight and they multiplied like gremlins and took over the first five L train stops.

  He was wearing the standard indie-issued thrift-store green T-shirt and raggedy brown cords. It wouldn’t surprise me if you told me that he spent his free time riding around in a van with his buddies solving crimes with the help of his dog, Scooby Doo. He was a total ringer for Shaggy, complete with scraggly chin hairs. Good thing he had a mop of red hair so I could at least have a chance of picking him out of a police lineup if it came to that.

  “Are you Anna?” He smiled at me.

  “I sure am. Are you Steve?” I extended my hand, but he stood up and gave me a hug instead.

  “Yup! Any friend of Oliver’s is a friend of mine. Welcome to our humble abode. Come on in.” I followed him into the building. “Watch your step,” he warned as he pulled aside a clear, thick plastic tarp that hung from the ceiling. “The landlord is doing some construction in the foyer, so I apologize for the mess.”

  “No problem. I’m just so happy that you were able to give me a place to crash. I really appreciate it.” I gingerly stepped over the dirty planks of wood and shards of concrete as I followed him into his apartment.

  For Greenpoint standards, the place was awesome. I could already picture the Craigslist description:

  Spacious, sunny Greenpoint house available for rent. Ideal place for adorable indie guys with huge record collections. The newly rehabbed kitchen is perfect for making hummus and/or veggie burgers from scratch. The brand-new, brushed-steel refrigerator is well suited to store cheap beers and several varieties of hot sauce. Additionally, there’s plenty of room to store dusty musical instruments salvaged from a hometown thrift store and lots of natural sunlight to read Kerouac and pretend that you like it.

  I looked around the place, nodding my head in approval. “Wow! You guys have a great place!”

  “Aw, thanks. Yeah, we’ve been really happy here. We totally lucked out with this spot. A quick tour: My room is down those steps in the basement. You can put your stuff there for now. And”—he pointed toward a closed door twenty feet away—“Davy’s room is on the other side of the living room.”

  “Davy?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Davy Baxter. Short kid. He used to play with Oliver in a few bands, too, back in the day.” Steve put his hand level with his chest as if to approximate Davy’s height.

  I nodded. Oh, I knew Davy Baxter. He was my old college crush!

  “So, it’ll just be me, you, and Davy?” I asked.

  “Nope. We have one more guy staying with us. His name is Jackson. I think you might know him, too. He dropped his stuff off earlier. I think he’s out with Oliver right now.”

  Yes. I knew Jackson well because he was only my archenemy. Now I see that was being hyperbolic, but we had a huge falling-out years ago that was never resolved. Steve did not get the memo that we were archenemies, which I took as yet another sign of our maturity. It was nice to know that my social skirmishes were no longer newsworthy. I was proud of everyone for keeping him in the dark about it; it only helped me look saner.

  In yet another testament to how much forethought I put into this weekend, I completely forgot that Jackson would be coming to the wedding. It certainly never occurred to me that we’d be staying in the same place. Shit. I tried to keep my voice from giving away my anxiety. “Oh, cool. Yeah, I know Jackson. Cool, cool.” I repeated it, like it suddenly would be cool if I just said it out loud enough times.

  A little backstory: Jackson was a cocky, arrogant Southern dude who resembled a beefier version of Owen Wilson. He was a hit with the ladies because he’s a natural charmer, but I wasn’t interested in him. We seemed to have a mutual unattraction in college: He didn’t care for huge brunettes in cargo pants, and conversely, I didn’t care for smug Southerners. So it was a draw. We were both friends with Oliver, and that seemed like the only thing we had in common.

  Our pleasant acquaintanceship changed the summer before my senior year of college because he didn’t return a record player I’d lent him. Sure, it seems innocuous now, but it wasn’t my record player; I was watching it for someone else, which put me in a pickle. When I lent it to him, I explained that it wasn’t mine and that if he did borrow it, he’d have to return it within the week. He swore up and down that he’d return it right away. But he didn’t. He dodged my phone calls for almost two months until he finally returned it. The whole ordeal culminated with my calling him an asshole. Things had been chilly between us ever since.

  Since I was dramatic, I told everyone with a pair of ears what a dickhead he was. “I did him a favor and he abused my trust!” I’d say, my friends nodding along, commiserating. I declared him my archenemy and avoided him like the plague. Unfortunately, it made dorm room parties awkward. I tried to coerce my friends to pick sides, but no one did. They just shrugged and pretended nothing had happened because it wasn’t their battle to fight. I see that now. Besides, if I had pressed the issue, it would have just made me look like a psycho, so I buried my hatred for him so deep that he became my secret archenemy. It was so secret, I’m not even sure if Jackson knew about it.

  Last I heard, he’d run for mayor of a small town outside Nashville and lost. Even that story annoyed me because he was the type of guy to run for political office just so he’d have a quirky story to te
ll a beautiful woman at a cocktail party. He was also the type of guy who’d buy a girl’s friends drinks to win them over so she’d let her guard down and agree to date him. He was too calculating. The mere mention of his name made my skin crawl.

  Steve told me that there was going to be a prewedding drinkfest at the Levee on Third and Bedford Avenue, which was in the heart of Williamsburg. I tossed on a swingy yellow dress and little black flats. After enjoying a quick beer at his place, Steve and I walked over to join the rest of the gang.

  The Levee was a small, loud bar with a killer jukebox. As we walked in, “Born to Run” echoed off the sticky walls, a working-class anthem reverberating in a leisure town. This was the kind of bar where bad decisions could be made effortlessly. Every town has a bar like that, with great tunes and cheap beers. But every bar in this neighborhood felt like it was made to cater to bad ideas. I used to live in Williamsburg, so I speak from experience here. Brimming with artists and young professionals and generally beautiful people, these streets were best traversed by the young and carefree. Williamsburg is all about confidence, and I was confident that I was going to have fun that night.

  I caught sight of my friends in the back. They had taken over a few tables and were engaged in several half-hugs and belly laughs.

  I sat down next to Ricky and looked around the room. Oliver was at the bar surrounded by his high school buddies, pounding back shots. Steve hovered over the jukebox, hunting for a song to play. Then, it happened. I locked eyes with Jackson, my archenemy. I narrowed mine. And, to my shock, he widened his. His eyebrows practically flew off his forehead, they were arched up so high. He immediately came over and gave me a hug, totally thrilled to see me. I was in too much shock to resist. My former archenemy had extended an olive branch. If he remembered that he was my archenemy, he certainly didn’t show it.

  “Well, I’ll be! Anna Goldfarb as I live and breathe! It is so good to see you, darlin’.” He hugged me so tight it felt like he was genuinely surprised that I was still alive. As he hugged me, I stopped in my tracks and started wildly sniffing the air like a bloodhound, trying to trace the scent. Damn, son! Someone had invested in some fancy cologne.

  I’m not sure if it was a present from his mom last Christmas or from an ex with excellent taste or if he’d strutted his little butt down to Nordstrom and picked it out himself, but I just wanna say that smelling him was an absolute pleasure.

  I wish I could capture smells somehow because I would’ve uploaded it to my phone, e-mailed it to myself, printed it out, and framed it on the motherfucking wall. I want to live in a world where all men’s necks smell like his. Can we make that happen, please? Can’t Bono make a few phone calls and get that ball rolling? Fuck, I’d have paid a month’s rent just to roll around in Jackson’s dirty T-shirts. He smelled like a hip-hop mogul. He smelled the exact opposite of how I’d imagine Matthew McConaughey to smell like. Shiiiiiiiit.

  If this were a transaction on eBay, I’d say, “A++++. Would smell again!” And I’d mean every word. Bravo, sir. Bravo.

  “Hey, Jackson! Yeah, it’s been a while,” I agreed.

  “It’s been more than a while. Damn, girl! Hold on. Whatcha drinkin’? Let me get you something.”

  “Oh, wow. A beer would be great. Whatever you’re having, I’ll have.” He zipped over to the bar and quickly returned with both a beer and two double shots of Jameson whiskey, one for him and one for me.

  “Wow! Thanks, Jackson.” I followed him to a corner table.

  He raised his shot glass. “To old friends!”

  “To old friends!” I repeated, lifting my shot glass up. Was this guy for real? We gulped it down and quickly winced as it slid down our gullets.

  “So, tell me. What the hell have you been up to?” He leaned in close to me as he waited for my answer.

  “Well, after school, I moved to Philly. Right now, I’m into drinking and causing trouble.” He laughed at that.

  “That’s so funny. In college you were always so serious.”

  “Yeah, I was pretty uptight.”

  “Are you still writing?” He remembered that I used to be a freelance writer back in college. Sweet.

  “Actually, I just started journalism school at Temple a few weeks ago. So far I really like it. But enough about me. What the hell is up with you? Where have you been? I heard you ran for mayor. Whaaaaaat? That’s insane.”

  He took a slug of his beer. “Yup, I sure did. I would’ve been the youngest mayor in the town’s history if I’d won, too.”

  “Oh, wow. Was it a close race?”

  “Ha! Not at all. I got pummeled in the polls,” he laughed. “But, it was cool. I’ve also done some writing. I freelanced for Esquire for a while there. But, now I’m working for the AP as their Bolivia correspondent. I’ve been stationed there for, damn, almost a year now.”

  “That’s…amazing,” I stuttered. “Seriously, that’s amazing.” I was doing a terrible job of being unimpressed.

  “It’s all right. It pays the bills.” He took another pull from his beer bottle. “I’ll tell you what was cool. I got to meet Hugo Chávez for a story I worked on.”

  “No way!” My eyes were wide. “How’d that happen? That’s crazy!”

  “Yeah, I had to bribe a few local officials to get access to him. He’s shorter than you’d think.” I’d never thought of Hugo Chávez’s height before, but I nodded along like I had.

  A waitress came by, and Jackson ordered us another round and began spinning tales of his work in Bolivia. Despite myself I was enthralled, hanging on every word. I’m not sure how much time had passed, but there was an army of empty beer bottles in front of us and the crowd at the bar had thinned out a bit. Oliver had left earlier, probably in preparation for his big day tomorrow. Damn! I didn’t even get to say hello. I guess I was so engaged by Jackson’s stories that I had tuned everything else out. But I did notice that every time we finished a round of drinks, Jackson would inch his chair closer to mine.

  He reached into a bag on the floor, pulled out an expensive bottle of fifteen-year-old whiskey, and rested it on the table in front of us. “I brought this for Oliver tonight, but he’s gone now and there’s nothing wrong with us having a little taste, is there?”

  “Nope. Nothing wrong with that,” I agreed.

  He looked both ways to make sure no bartenders were looking, and then he filled our shot glasses almost to the top. I figured that this would be a good time to clear the air.

  “You know, I hated you in college,” I blurted out.

  I watched his face as he took back the shot. He slammed the empty shot glass on the table. “You called me an asshole.” He definitely remembered.

  “You were an asshole!” I protested.

  “I was an asshole,” he agreed. “I’m sorry, darlin’. You’re right. I was a total asshole. What can I say? It wasn’t your record player and I should have respected that. I was a royal dickhead. Now, how can I make it up to you?” He leaned in even closer to me.

  “This whiskey is a good start,” I said as I slid my empty glass toward him. He laughed and poured us both another shot.

  His Southern drawl, which used to grate, now put me at ease. My eyes twinkled every time he called me “darlin’.”

  “You know, it’s a shame that we didn’t get a chance to reconcile sooner,” he mused. “Think of all the fun we could’ve had.”

  I didn’t say anything; I just let that soak into my brain. What was going on? Was I attracted to him? Maybe. I wasn’t expecting this to happen.

  Before I figured out how I felt about it, he stood up, grabbed the half-empty whiskey bottle, and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  I didn’t resist when he took my hand as we walked out.

  “Wait here, I’ll grab Steve,” I said, walking back into the bar to round him up. It didn’t take long to find him; he was arguing with a friend about Radiohead’s latest record review on Pitchfork, an influential music site. In case I wasn’t sure I was in Brooklyn
before, hearing two educated adults bicker over a record review pretty much laid it out. Thankfully, Steve was ready to take off, too.

  After saying our good-byes, we all walked back to Steve’s house giggling like young drunks. Steve retreated into his room downstairs, but Jackson and I made our way to the living room couch. Spoiler alert: We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. We stayed up all night, talking and kissing and talking and kissing until the sun came up, when we finally passed out.

  The morning light streamed in, illuminating the living room. We rubbed our eyes and got ready for Oliver’s wedding. Jackson headed over first; I stayed behind with Steve and finished dolling up. I tossed on a black wraparound dress and pearls and then scurried over to McGolrick Park just in time for the ceremony.

  As I took my seat, I caught sight of Jackson. He had red, tired eyes and was wearing a black tux. He was stationed at the front, by the altar. My God, I had just (inadvertently) hooked up with the best man! Did I win a prize? It felt like I’d hit the five-hundred-point hole in Skee-Ball. I won the Best Man Bingo!

  The wedding was lovely. I sat next to Ricky and cried a little bit when Oliver and Katya pledged eternal love to each other. Ricky gave me a crinkly tissue from his pocket and assured me that my mascara didn’t smear after I dabbed at my tears.

  The reception was down the street in a Polish reception hall. It felt like the entire building was made out of frosting; huge, frilly white moldings decorated the walls. Oliver and Katya had hired an authentic soul band to provide musical entertainment, and entertain they did. There were four guys in blindingly white zoot suits with full-on Jheri curls strutting around like they were on Soul Train. They had harmonies and choreography to spare. They also had a female singer who looked like Sheila E. with teased hair and white eye shadow, which expertly matched her white pantsuit.