Unrequited—One Girl Thirteen Boyfriends and Vodka. Read online

  UNREQUITED

  ONE GIRL, THIRTEEN BOYFRIENDS, AND VODKA.

  ALL WORDS AND TEXT

  CONTAINED HEREIN ARE THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF

  CHRISTINE ELIZABETH HERON

  (A.K.A. CHRISTY HERON)

  © UNREQUITED 2014

  ISBN: 0578137569

  ISBN 978-0-578-13756-8

  US Copyright TXu 1-890-979

  Unrequited is dedicated to my mom, Kathy, even though she’ll probably never be able to endure what is written between this page, and the last.

  I love you.

  You are magnificent.

  UNREQUITED

  PAGE BY PAGE

  May 1, 2008

  October 28, 2004 / Four years earlier

  February 2005

  April 16

  July 11, 2005

  February 2006

  June 3, 2006

  August 2006

  September 16, 2006

  October 10, 2006

  January 10, 2007

  July 5, 2007

  September 10, 2007

  January 2008

  April 15, 2008

  June 7, 2008

  September 14, 2008

  September 17, 2008

  November 13, 2008

  December 5, 2008

  February 2009

  February 23, 2009

  April 8, 2009

  May 19, 2009

  October 6, 2009

  May 2010 Pismo Beach

  September 24, 2010

  October 22, 2010

  2011

  The B’s Where are they now?

  Thank you Thank you Thank you

  A Dictionary For Drink, Drank or Drunk

  Credits for quotes, song lyrics, and poetry

  He ate my heart, then he ate my brain.

  That boy is a monster.

  — Lady Gaga

  May 1, 2008

  I blame Frank Sinatra.

  Years ago I watched a movie about the Rat Pack starring Ray Liotta as Sinatra and a bunch of other guys starring as the rest of the Rat Pack. At one point, the pack attended a fancy dinner at a boozy Kennedy’s house. The stupid-rich grande dame of the party, with her sexy, middle-aged drawl, explained the appeal of Sinatra to an intrigued redhead sitting across from her. Milky Chanel dress, too much makeup, a haze of smoke surrounding her, she commanded the gold-rimmed table while Redhead leaned in. Chanel elegantly growled a smoker’s growl, her eyes never parting from Sinatra’s:

  “You want to fuck him; you want to mother him; you don’t want to piss him off.”

  The dialogue she exhaled legitimized everything I felt for Jack. Her lyrical bluntness stoked my own personal bonfire, which I feared might never be extinguished, or feared would be. Chanel, with a snow-white cigarette filter a fingerbreadth from her mouth, stylishly sashayed around my head. Because of her pragmatic and subjective exclamation, I plotted. I pressed pause on the remote and grabbed a pencil.

  A direct route to constant, uninhibited sex with Jack was the easy part. Next.

  I created maps and studied instructions, malleting together an Ikea furniture friendship. From my studies, I honed my radar. Collecting information and relaying back anything I thought he would enjoy (and respond to) became my mission. Reconnoitered Intel went into specific files: songs, articles, photographs, movies, TV shows, sex preferences, family tree—anything to up the daily communiqué and constrict the gap between whatever kept us apart that particular week.

  After I nailed together this rickety rapport, I attempted the rash, stupid, and intolerable quest: the nurturer role.

  Soup, house calls, and sex when he was sick (he loved fucking when he had the flu). Pep talks when he was down: You rock. It will work out. Hang in there. I’m here for you. Compliments when he was up: Amazing. Wonderful. Funny. You are great in bed. You are God. I offered him me: every painted toenail, pound, blemish, and highlighted hair. I wanted to devote myself to him, and I did.

  I thought this was love.

  With love, a simultaneous hatred treaded a few steps behind. As I pursued Jack with an anorexic hunger, my stomach wrapped two sticks of dynamite with furies and duct tape. This contention held a determination I couldn’t know as my finger grazed the lighter’s thumbwheel.

  A cliché was part of the problem.

  “January, guys like the chase. They don’t want to be pursued; they want to pursue you,” my brother theorized between swigs of a Fat Tire.

  While pulverizing beer and nachos, he admonished me and zoned out to an episode of The Amazing Race above our heads. I whined, drank Ketel One and soda, and didn’t acknowledge the nachos. My brother looked like Brad Pitt—a taller, non-manicured, childless version.

  I squinched my eyes at this detested, modern-American, you-must-follow-the-rules-enforced female mentality. A “no control over my own romantic (or sex) life and might not get what I want” philosophy set forth for the stupid and desperate. Set forth by whom? Who can I blame for this colossal waste of time and advice? Parents? Dumber than a dartboard girlfriends? Movies? Books? Shrinks on Nancy Grace and Dr. Phil? Me? DNA? The boys themselves?

  The “January still doesn’t get the fucking hint” conversation repeatedly played itself out with my brother (Childless Brad Pitt) or one of my suffering girlfriends. What followed was a duel between my vodka/soda/with three limes and my phone, wondering,

  Would Short Fat Fuck be here tonight?

  Whether at an afternoon barbecue, concert at the beach, or in a noisy, dark bar with friends (or on a date) eventually I’d sneak away to tipsily dial Jack’s number and announce my desire, or love, depending on my blood alcohol level. On Friday or Saturday nights (years’ worth of Friday or Saturday nights) his voice mail became my confessional.

  Press 3 to delete.

  My voice wasn’t the only criminal.

  In the last few years our texts became a symbiosis of violence and pornographic obsession that didn’t want to be tamed.

  On the Childless Brad Pitt/Nachos/Fat Tire day, I wasn’t blackout drunk, so I texted Jack. As I walked outside “Owner,” the owner of the Shack, flirted with a hand outstretched, tugging on one of my unbelted belt loops. A pageant smile plastered my face: fair skin, chin-acne free for that day at least, and blushed from Sunday afternoon cocktails. I lowered my head, kept walking, and started typing.

  Me: I’m an idiot. Why do I leave my boyfriend in Pismo to come see you? And then you fucking bail as soon as I ask about what bar you’re at. What is your problem? Am I that horrible you don’t want to be seen with me in public? Instead of just being upfront, you just don’t respond to my texts. Really classy. Am I too available for you? What the hell have I done to you to deserve to be treated like a piece of shit?

  Jack: Sorry sweetie the lady showed up.

  Me: Go fuck yourself.

  I lit a cigarette.

  Jack: Ur really being that mean.

  Me: you treat me like a whore and a piece of shit. What do you expect? Do you care about my feelings even somewhat? I stupidly assumed that you had broken up...there’s a lot more I’d like to tell u.

  Jack: i am sorry. I thought u knew what was going on. I apologise.

  Me: And the worst part is I’m dating a great guy and its getting serious and I leave him last nite bc I wanted to see u!! I’m a fucking idiot. Don’t apologize. Its my fault. And how would I know “what’s going on”? You don’t tell me shit! Anyway, I gotta go.

  Jack: Sorry. Have a good day.

  I tossed the Parliament Light and walked back inside the Shack. I didn’t know what to do with myself. Drink? Call the current boyfriend? Eat
?

  “What happened to B11?” (Current boyfriend = B11) Childless Brad Pitt ordered a sandwich and fries in the time I was gone.

  “Exactly,” I sighed and pulled out my stool. During a silent pause on the jukebox, my chair scraping the floor of the bar reminded me of where I was, and my previous 24 hours of mistakes.

  I nodded at Too Tan, the bartender. After a few sucks on my straw, I set it down on my napkin and grabbed my Blackberry, again. I deleted his contact with fingertip-spraining gusto, smelled finality and rebirth, and couldn’t feel any worse than I did at that moment.

  Omg Omg Omg.

  I hate him I hate him I hate him.

  Short Fat Fuck. Short Fat Fuck. Short Fat Fuck.

  A few years ago one of my oldest friends, St. Croix, nicknamed Jack “Short Fat Fuck.” Most of the time I couldn’t say Jack’s name out loud, so Short Fat Fuck he would be for weeks and months and years, in whispers, laughs, slurs, screams, and tears. Jack. Short Fat Fuck. SFF. One and the same.

  But that day, the “Sorry Sweetie, the lady showed up” day, he was asshole asshole asshole.

  For the 500th time, the next few hours blurred into grays, whites, and lime greens, as I hunched on my saddle under The Amazing Race. It didn’t matter if the B’s (the boyfriends) trickled down around me like rain on an umbrella. Or if one, secure, agreeable, current boyfriend—B11—provided SFF substitutes for conversation, hands, and lips. Writing, days and nights, breathing—my whole world —crippled into melancholia and made no sense if I didn’t have Jack.

  When my brother asked if I was texting Jack, I told him I was asking Vanity Fair a question about a fundraiser we were organizing next week. I tippled as I lied, and gold-medaled at each. Only the black plastic container in front of me—with its cherry, lemon-and lime-slice, and straw compartments—knew how (truly) sad and war-torn I’d become in four years.

  I rubbernecked, swilling the ice in my glass. “You ever notice this place looks like a high school cafeteria?” Childless Brad Pitt rotated a centimeter left and right and grunted.

  Here was the Shack, but it was also Moondoggies or the Roost. Those were just three of the varied establishments (luxe weaving into divey) dotting the Central Coast, a section of California mapped with numerous towns as consequential and small as bits of dust. Pismo Beach was the best bit of dust: less agriculture and fewer blue collars, more resorts and polo shirts. The vibe, people, beach, pier, and six-foot-tall clam sculpture greeted me as I veered right off one of its two freeway exits. Eight thousand people lived along the 101’s palisades—a beach town without beach weather. Colder than most. I’d rather be cold than hot.

  Pismo’s three bars lay a proud claim to the divey end of the spectrum. The Shack, Moondoggies, or the Roost’s patrons and vast vineyards became my discipleship as I drank, cried, and experienced pure elation at all of them. Since getting slizzard in one of the three bars usually led me down a glazed pathway to Jack—and the possibility of the two of us entangled—the stools I sat on and the hops-drenched air I breathed were essential. We now shared these establishments—a factor out of his control—and, irrationally, in mine.

  I silently demanded a recount from my brother while splashing vodka on my knee. Why do I have to wait around for Jack to call me, text me, want me? I would be the exception to the rule. All of the rules. My amorous mania shoulder-convinced me (an Eminem-like “rap, tap, tap” on my shoulder from behind) that I would, eventually, get what I wanted. I was smart, somewhat easy on the eyes, and good in bed (according to him and others) so why wouldn’t he want me? Why the hell couldn’t I pursue him?

  So, I did. And here we are.

  Jack. Short Fat Fuck. I wanted to die over him. I thought this was love. I loved him, and I needed to know, now, if he felt the same.

  It’s not Sinatra’s fault.

  I blame Ray Liotta.

  May 7, 2008 / One week later

  “I need to ask you something.” My makeup smeared into the phone. I switched hands and lit a cigarette. Slouched on a step leading up to my house, I stared through the Parliament Lights box.

  “Oh no.” Jack giggled.

  “No, no, it’s not bad. I just—.” Lie.

  “Ok, Sweetie.” His pitch consisted of the usual corrupted mix of high, soft, and kind. Unconsciously, I must have already known the answer so difficult to pull from his teeth. Did I want the pain of this? From the masochistic “talk.” A final anti-Elysian twist, if I didn’t hear it out loud, I would never, ever stop the repining wrapped around my entire existence, cauterizing me at the head. If I didn’t ask, I would be alone in the end. Alone—with a “fuck buddy.”

  “Look, I just need to end this and move on. Or take it to another level, I mean, don’t you feel anything for me?” I inhaled. “Don’t you—”

  Politely, unflinchingly, laughably and institutionalizingly, he cut me off: “I’m sorry, I just don’t feel that way about you. And honestly, I never will. I just don’t feel that spark.”

  His was a simplified declaration, cooked down to the brown bits on the bottom of a fry pan.

  What. The. Fuck.

  That “almost had a car accident” feeling hot-flashed from my chest to my knees. I smelled metallic toast. Am I having a stroke?

  He continued, butchering me with sentences.

  “I’m sorry I kept having sex with you. I thought we were both having fun with each other ... .”

  I rubbed the splinters on the wooden step with my free hand.

  Four years? Gone. Relationships? Irrevocably destroyed. Self-respect? Evanescent. The penny-sized amount of happiness and hope I had left? Titanically placed on his bookshelf of sadistic souvenirs.

  More moronic sentences.

  “… being naughty together.” He had me where he wanted me: a chance to make me aware of everything. A chance I gave to him.

  Wow, this is sucking much worse than I imagined.

  “You’re joking, right? Fuck, come on, all of this time? You’re ridiculous, Jack. Jack. I can’t believe this. I can’t believe you. I don’t. I don’t believe you.” I stood up and walked down to my backyard so I could pace. My mouth hurt. A fireplace smell blew by, and I heard a neighbor call my name. “I’ve told you before how I felt, right? There, there was always an excuse with you, always. I’m just sorry I didn’t see you for what you are sooner. What you were doing…to me. Oh my god…no spark? You have to be kidding! Am I that fucking disgusting to you?”

  “Sweetie.” Jack never said January: never texted it, spoke it, emailed it, or let it out in a wet, alto breath during sex. Jack never said girlfriend, dinner, yes, come here, or love. His words were naughty, friends with bennies, no spark, and quite honestly never will.

  Sweetie.

  My disbelief pressed the red “end” key. Fantastic. Disney and John Hughes movies had infected my unconscious. When I pinned that contaminated unconscious to a lonely dependency on fictional characters, then to my writer’s imagination, I was unprepared for the consequence of a fresh, dirty reality.

  Jack side-carred more of my emotional and physical triumphs (and failures) than any other man before him. After four years of lasciviousness, faces and necks fused together, cocktailed encounters, sober encounters, thousands of keystrokes (some reciprocated, some ignored) and after I proclaimed every visceral, cognizant idea and sensation I possessed, I was nothing to him. We were bonded only by orgasms.

  Fragments of my life dissolved into a rayless hole as I walked back upstairs. He wasn’t like me; he didn’t know me, yet he would have the world.

  Jack. Short Fat Fuck. SFF.

  I wanted to die over him. I thought this was love.

  He was the Grand Canyon. I was the tourists’ spit below.

  May 8, 2008 / the next day

  I brainstormed.

  Easy. Simple. Obviously zero gruesomeness and zero agony.

  A painless suicide? Jesus, I’m a suicidal pussy.

  Nothing appealed to me. You wouldn’t know it by looking at me whi
le I drove to Los Angeles for work, but I was sea foam of “What the fucks/Just kill me nows” up the bendy 101 next to the ocean’s rocky shores. Seals and piers on one side, hills and vultures on the other. California land/seascapes had no effect on my muted flesh with sunglass exterior.

  Drive off a cliff? Where? In Goleta? The Cachuma Pass in Santa Barbara had bridges and roads on which a driver could easily over-correct and outmaneuver. Businessmen, dumbass teenagers, and moms with kids in the backseat died there every year—self-inflicted or not: action-movie-worthy soars into goldenrod prairies where only the demi-mountains, freshwater, and cows knew the truth.

  Eh. I didn’t want to wreck my car.

  Shotgun? Chin, mouth, chest? Too messy. Not a fan of breathing, but not really a fan of ending my life as a contortionist, shoving cold metal in my mouth while attempting to squeeze a trigger. Seems like a ton of fucking work. Plus, where would I find a gun?

  Xanax. I had a full bottle at home. Chalky peach ovals paired well with white wine, right? How many did I need? Five? Ten? Thirty? Should it be red wine?

  Wait. Garage. Yes! The old “car running in the closed garage” bit.

  Fuck me. I didn’t have a garage.

  Fuck. Me.

  A smart girl leaves before she is left.

  — Marilyn Monroe

  October 28, 2004 / Four years earlier

  Jack wasn’t always Short Fat Fuck.

  Every few months, I visited my brother and dad in my hometown of Pismo Beach, a couple of hours north of LA. I left seven years earlier—I didn’t belong, and never intended to stay. Pismo was a layover, a pit stop before college in Santa Barbara. I was born in Pismo, but I didn’t grow up there, in Childless Brad Pitt’s or my dad’s world. My brother and my dad had their company to run, dirt to farm, and boulders to move. I grew up on the other side of the country, in Chicago—without dirt or a farm—and with a nanny. My mother called her my “governess.” I wasn’t better than Pismo, and high school was a beachy, corduroyed blast, but pregnancy, a Kmart, one movie theater, and a first marriage by age 23 didn’t have the pizzazz I bit nails for.