Nowhere but Here

Page 11 Never Start a Sentence with “So”

After traveling most of the day and scribbling the article down on the back of a couple of flyers I grabbed from the rental car company, I finally made it back to my cold, dark Lincoln Park apartment. I immediately opened my laptop, shot an e-mail off to Jerry, then went to sleep and stayed that way for the next two days.

To: Jerry Evans

From: Kate Corbin

Subject: Fuck it!

This is it, Jerry. I don’t even know what to call it. This is all I have. I’m sure I’m fired or severely demoted. Maybe I can be the coffee cart girl? I know R.J. won’t approve of this, so I feel like I’ve totally let you down. I have some vacation time accrued and I’d like to take next week off if I still have a job. I need to get my head straight. I fucked up, Jerry. I shouldn’t have gotten involved with that guy. I fucked up and I’m sorry. —Kate

UNTITLED ARTICLE ON R. J. LAWSON AND WINERY

So you have two birds. One is long, lean, and powerful, with sheer physical strength on its side. The other is colorful, small, and fast, and prized for its beauty. Who will win? First, you must know that the challenge is the game of business, otherwise known as deception, and the winner of this game will always be the more cunning player, regardless of his physicality. Forget what you’ve seen—looks can be deceiving. You have to search inside the competitor’s heart. You have to detect the rhythm that drives him, what fuels the challenger’s willingness to sacrifice dignity and integrity for money. That’s what it all comes down to in the end. The winner of this game gets a gold, diamond-encrusted cage. But success comes with a price—in this case, the freedom to fly. He may have the promise of admirers, but his majestic wings will never dance across the sky again.

The world wants to know why everything R. J. Lawson touches turns to gold. Well, I’ll tell you: he’s the more cunning bird. He was a genius who peaked at eighteen, made his money, and now proudly waves his wallet at anything that interests him—in this case, wine. I spent one week at R. J. Lawson’s famed Napa Valley winery during the harvest season to learn more about him and his seemingly worthwhile cause. While there, I observed that he spent little time at the winery, but he does take credit for all the work. He described his approach as hands-on, yet I didn’t see him complete a single task during my visit, with the exception of sipping a glass of Pinot.

His image is held together by a few loyal pawns who are willing to do his dirty work. I saw right through it. I saw that R.J. had mastered the game of buying people and buying success. Maybe inside the man there is a boy whose curiosity earned him a great deal of adoration and money, but there is no trace of that exceptional wonder and gift in the man I met.

If R.J. had shown me a modicum of brilliance or even humanity, aside from rapping off the many charities he’s donated to, maybe I could write a nicer article about him, but the truth is this: he acted as though I wasn’t worth his time. He was misogynistic and degrading toward his staff. He was pompous and put out while answering a few questions. From afar, one might envy what R.J. has acquired. It’s no lie that the wine is fantastic and the winery itself is something of a shining gem among the hills of Napa Valley, but that doesn’t mean R.J. is not paying a price for all of that perfection. His shrewd cunning has condemned him to the confines of a cage. He may sit perched above all that beauty, but he’s in that cage alone.

The staff at the winery made a pathetic attempt at hospitality in the wake of my awful experience with R.J. Sadly, I found their strategies to be somewhat elaborate. So, my conclusion is that R. J. Lawson’s big ego was probably responsible for orchestrating all of the backpedaling and ridiculous behavior from the others at the helm. Although the facility seems unmatched in the region, you might be gambling with your happiness by taking a trip to R. J. Lawson. Before you do anything, you have to ask yourself about that bird, the one who is willing to sacrifice the freedom to fly for the material facade. However mesmerized you are by the glittering gold of that cage, the only question you need to ask is: Where does that bird shit?

My advice about R. J. Lawson would be this: drink the wine, but don’t drink the Kool-Aid.

Kate Corbin

Chicago Crier

• • •

On Monday morning, when I finally woke from a depressing slumber, I opened my computer to find a new e-mail from Jerry. He always gave it away in the subject line; maybe that’s why he made a better editor than writer. I appreciated it in that moment and was able to let out a huge sigh of relief when I realized that, at the very least, I still had my job.

To: Kate Corbin

From: Jerry Evens

Subject: You still have a job!

It’s brilliant, Kate. I don’t know what we’ll do with it, but it’s the most inspired work I’ve seen out of you and that’s all that matters. R.J. may have done his best to make getting the details nearly impossible, but you proved that as long as you can capture the essence of a situation, a story will be born from it.

I agree that it’s best you take a week off. Apparently you left your luggage at the airport. There was no name on the tag, just the address to the paper, so the airline delivered it here. I opened the suitcase when it arrived today and realized quickly that it was yours from all of your notes and belongings. I’ll lock it in the storage room until you get back, unless you need it right away. Just let me know.

I’m worried about you, Kate, but I know how strong you are, and I know we’ll get you back on track soon. Beth has some ideas.

Your Loyal Editor,

Jerry

There was nothing particularly heartfelt or touching about Jerry’s e-mail, but for some reason it made me cry. The truth was that I didn’t want anyone worrying about me or pitying me. I wanted to stop feeling like I was searching for something else or some answer to the meaning of it all. The expectation that life should be more than waking up alone, riding the train to work, and then going home to fall asleep alone had been weighing on me for so long, but I always found myself back at my apartment . . . alone. Everything in between was just heartache.

I shuffled down my short hallway to the kitchen, where I scanned the barren refrigerator. Staring at the same jar of jelly for ten minutes, I contemplated eating it with a spoon. There was little I was willing to do to keep myself alive at that point. I hadn’t showered in two days, and aside from a couple of stale crackers and an old skunky beer that had been in my fridge for a year, I had consumed nothing. The jelly seemed appropriate, until I finally allowed my most basic survival instinct to kick in. I threw on a pair of sweats and a jacket and headed to the market and produce stand on the corner. There was an older man at the counter making fresh homemade salsa, so after picking up a banana, some Fig Newton–like cookies, and a bag of pretzels, I figured: What would go better with all of that than salsa? Am I losing my mind?

“Excuse me?” I asked. He looked up through his dark lashes. His eyes were almost identical to mine. A hazel that looked spectacularly green in the light, but sort of a dull brown in the shadow.

“Yes, ma’am, what can I help you with?”

“Are you my father?”

He chuckled but stopped immediately when he saw how serious I was. “Oh, hmm, no, dear. I’ve been married for almost forty years and we have three children. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, well, shot in the dark, you know?” He nodded, but his eyes still held the same pitying expression he had on before. “Do you sell beer here?”

“No, but there’s a wineshop about half a block down.”

I shook my head frantically. “I’m detoxing, I can’t have wine.”

“Okay, well, there’s a liquor store about three blocks from here that sells beer.”

“Yeah, I know that one. Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome.”

The liquor store was more like five blocks, but I skipped along, eating my banana and fig cookies. I felt extremely pissed at the universe when I saw Stephen and some chick about half a block down, walking in my direction. Hoping they didn’t see me, I slipped quickly into an alley. As I waited for them to pass, I scanned my attire. I was wearing the oldest pair of gray sweats that exist on this planet, a yellow T-shirt with the sunshine Care Bear on it, and my powder blue skiing jacket, although that wasn’t the worst of it. I had on two different socks, one black and one light purple, and an old pair of black Chucks with black laces. I was the twenty-six-year-old Punky Brewster. I quickly felt the top of my head. Phew. No pigtails, but it was topped off with a messy bun. Please do not let them see me.

“Kate?”

Fuck!

I shoved the last cookie into my mouth and mumbled, “Hey, Stephen.”

“This is Monique. I work with her.”

“Hi, Monique.” He never hung out with female colleagues outside of work. She was a tall, blond beauty wearing an extremely narrow pencil skirt and stilettos. There was a brief moment where I thought how perfect she and Stephen looked together, the epitome of working professionals in Chicago. My disheveled ass had taken sulking and letting myself go to a new level, and I could tell that Stephen had picked up on it.

He squinted. “Are you okay, Kate?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking dandy, Stephen. You?”

“Fine. Where are you off to?” he asked. I glanced over at Monique, who was scanning my clothes. I saw sadness and pity wash over her face.

“I’m going to get a forty.”

He pinched his eyebrows together. “What’s a forty?”

“A forty of beer.” He still looked dumbfounded. “It’s forty ounces of beer in a bottle. Not everyone can afford to indulge in expensive spirits.”

“I’ve never seen you drink beer.”

“Well, I guess there’s a lot you don’t know about me. Why would you care anyway? You never loved me, remember?”

Monique’s eyes shot open. Stephen’s jaw twitched. “I said I wasn’t sure. Plus, we were fighting when I said that. This is not the time or place to pick at old wounds.”

“Old wounds? That was six fucking days ago.” He shook his head in a warning gesture. “Well, you two enjoy each other,” I said as I walked away.

Still within earshot, I heard Monique ask, “Who was that?”

“Nobody,” Stephen said. Ouch.

At the liquor store, I purchased a giant can of Budweiser, some tortilla chips, and a total of eighty lottery scratchers. My thought was that each scratcher would take me roughly thirty seconds to complete. That meant that it would occupy at least forty minutes of my time. Forty minutes I wouldn’t have to think about Jamie. It was two thousand four hundred heartbeats I wouldn’t be listening to.

I walked back to my apartment, sipping my can of Bud from the crumpled paper bag it was housed in. When I entered my apartment, I could hear my cell phone ringing incessantly from the bedroom, but I didn’t answer it. I finished my beer at 11:43 a.m. and then went back to sleep. The doorbell startled me awake. I glanced at the clock on my nightstand. It was six thirty p.m. As I slowly inched my way to the door, I breathed into my hand. My breath was horrid. Had I brushed my teeth in three days? Probably not. The doorbell rang again.

“Coming.” I opened it one inch and peeked through the sliver of space into Beth’s peering eyes.

“What up, sister? Are you gonna let me in?”

I slammed the door shut and removed the chain and then opened the door wide for Beth to enter.

“Christ, Kate, you look like death warmed over.”

“Thanks, Beth.”

“Dear god, what is that smell?”

I lifted my shoulders to my ears. “I don’t know.”

“It smells like burnt hair.”

Then it hit me. “Oh yeah, Dylan from 5B came over earlier and we smoked some pot. You know Dylan, that kid who plays the bucket on the corner? He lives in my building.”

“Isn’t he a teenager?”

“He’s twenty.”

“Since when do you smoke pot?”

“Since earlier, when Dylan from 5B came over.”

Beth shook her head in disapproval. “Did you do anything else with Dylan from 5B?”

“Jesus no, Beth—who do ya think I am? He just showed me some rare comic book he bought with the money he made on the corner, and then he pulled a tiny bong from his pocket. I said what the hell, why not, and took a hit, but I didn’t really know what I was doing with the lighter.” I pointed to the half of my eyebrow that was completely singed.

“Oh shit, girl, you need to pencil that in.”

“It could have been worse. He asked me if I wanted to do X and then go roller-skating.” I shrugged. “He’s a nice kid, though.”

Beth walked through my apartment, scanning the disarray. She opened the refrigerator. “You have no food in here. Let’s go get a hot dog.”

“There’s salsa, plus I’m a vegetarian. Actually, I’m a pescetarian, but that’s just semantics.” Then I smiled really wide. “You know what? Fuck it! Let’s go get a hot dog.”

We went to an old hot dog joint called the Dogfather. It looked like something out of an episode of The Sopranos. The room was dark with red leather booths. They served every kind of hot dog imaginable. You ordered at the counter, where they had about a hundred different toppings and thirty different kinds of beer. I chose the foot-long spiced dog called Sal’s Hit. Beth got the kielbasa named the Kill Mob Bossa. We slipped into a booth and ate in silence for a few minutes. After the initial disgust I felt over chomping into meat encased in pig intestines, I decided it was the best goddamned food I’d ever had.

I washed Sal’s Hit down with three twenty-four-ounce Belgian beers, none of which I could name. I was thoroughly drunk. Beth talked me into hitting up a gay bar with her that Friday night, and staying true to my motto of the day, I told her, “What the hell, why not? So you’re outta the closet, I take it?”

“I was never in the closet. I just don’t do relationships. I’ve kept my life simple.”

“I totally get that,” I deadpanned.

“I’m worried about you, Kate.” I had never seen Beth that serious.

“What are you talking about?”

“I just think you spend a lot of time alone.”

“That’s not by choice, Beth. And anyway, you do, too. You just said you don’t do relationships.”

“But I go out and have fun and cut loose. You used to, remember? We used to do karaoke? You laughed more then.”

“Everyone keeps telling me I’m lost and my spark is gone and I’m crazy, but every time I take a chance, every time I go out on a limb, I fall. I slept with a guy I didn’t even know. I mean I really slept with him, Beth.” I opened my eyes wide for emphasis.

“You mean, fell for him?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean. I’m always the one to fall.”

She looked very thoughtful for several moments. “At least you get to enjoy the view, even if it’s brief. I don’t think taking chances is such a bad thing. Maybe you’re stronger now. I just don’t want you to give up.”

“This, coming from the girl who doesn’t do relationships.”

She bit her bottom lip and nodded. “I might change that and check out the view sometime.”

Beth walked me to the door of my apartment. I took one step in and then my body reminded me that I hadn’t eaten red meat in ten years. My stomach rumbled and turned violently. I honestly didn’t know which end it was going to come out of, and then to my absolute horror I realized it was both. Sitting on the toilet, I managed to puke into the sink. And even though there was about three inches between my mouth and the edge of the porcelain, I was able to projectile vomit perfectly into the basin.

Beth stayed with me for part of the night, bringing me clean washcloths and water. My body thoroughly rid itself of Sal’s Hit. I swore off meat for another ten years and then told Beth she was free to go. She left but came back ten minutes later with Popsicles, Seven Up, and saltines.

“You’re a good friend,” I told her.

“I just want you in tip-top shape so I can take you to Lady Fingers on Friday.”

“Are you kidding me? That’s the name of the place?”

“You won’t be disappointed.” She smirked. I hiccupped and burped and wondered what I was getting myself into.

After she left, I slumped onto my bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about Jamie. I thought about him whispering, “I’ll take care of you,” and then I cried myself to sleep.

Tuesday and Wednesday flew by. Dylan from 5B came over on Thursday. I didn’t smoke any pot, but I let him hotbox my apartment so I was even more completely stoned than I was the time before, except this time my eyebrows remained intact. We watched three episodes of Whose Line Is It Anyway? and laughed our asses off. Dylan was actually pretty cute. He was tall and skinny and pale with buzzed hair, but he had these really blue eyes. That night he helped me carry my laundry to the basement.

“Hey Kate, you wanna go to the skate park with me tomorrow night?”

“I can’t, I have a date with a lesbian.”

His eyes shot open. “Oh, cool.”

“It’s not what you think.”

He smiled and shrugged. “It’s your business. Aren’t you still dating that douche wad in 9A?”

“Stephen? No, he dumped me last week. He’s dating someone else already.”

“His loss.” He said it so quickly and nonchalantly that I almost believed him.

We got to the basement door. Dylan pushed it open and walked in but paused in front of me. I leaned around his body and saw Stephen making out with a different girl than he had been with earlier that week. At first I didn’t recognize her, and then I saw her token pink scrunchie bobbing above her head. It was the bimbo from the sixth floor. Every time I saw her she was with a different guy.

Stephen turned and spotted me. “Kate, I thought you did your laundry on Mondays?” I contemplated sharing my thoughts on women in their thirties who still wear colorful hair pretties, but I chose to take the high road. Anyway, one or both of them would undoubtedly have a venereal disease by the end of the week, and that was my silver lining.

“Don’t talk to me, Stephen.” I coughed and mumbled, “Pencil dick” at the same time. Dylan stayed near the door. Everyone in the room watched me as I emptied my laundry bag into a washer. I added soap, stuck some quarters in, closed the lid, and turned to walk out. Just as I reached the opening, Dylan pushed me against the doorjamb and kissed me like he had just come back from war. I let him put on a full show until he moved his hand up and cupped my breast. I very discreetly said, “Uh-uh” through our mouths, and he pulled his hand away and slowed the kiss. When we pulled apart, I turned toward Stephen and the bimbo and shot them an ear-splitting smile.

“Hey, Steve”—I’d never called him Steve—“Will you text me when the washer is done? I’ll be busy in my apartment for a while.”

He nodded, still looking stunned.

I grabbed Dylan’s hand and pulled him into the elevator. Once the doors were closed, we both burst into laughter.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said.

“I wanted to. That asshole had it coming.”

“Well, thank you. You live with your mom, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Please don’t tell her about this. I can’t imagine what she would think of me.”

“I’m not that much younger than you, Kate.” He jabbed me in the arm playfully and smirked. “You need to lighten up. Anyway, my mom would be cool with it.”

“Well, I hope I didn’t give you the wrong idea.”

“Nah. We’re buddies, I get it. I’m kind of in love with that Ashley chick from the fourth floor. I just have to wait until next month when she turns eighteen, you know?” He wiggled his eyebrows.

I laughed. “You two would make a cute couple.” If only it were that simple.