“Oh please. I’ve been slumming for years,” says Dash.
“I know. You’re the type of person who will be talking on his car phone and say, ‘Could you hold on please? I’m in the middle of getting a blow job on the Palisades Parkway and I’m just about to come,’” Stanford says.
“Sunset Boulevard only,” Dash says.
They sit down right in front of one of the platforms. In a little bit, a woman comes out. She’s carrying a bouquet of daisies that looks like she plucked them out of a crack in the sidewalk. She’s totally nude. She’s also skinny with cellulite. “You know something’s really wrong when you see a skinny girl with cellulite,” Kitty says, whispering in Dash’s ear.
Dash looks at her and smiles indulgently. Okay, I can handle this, Kitty thinks.
The woman grabs a feather boa and begins dancing. She plucks out the flower petals. She’s totally sweaty. She lies down and rolls on the dirty platform, and when she gets up, she has bits of chicken feathers and ragged petals and dirt stuck all over her body. Then she opens her legs and thrusts herself toward Kitty’s face. Kitty is certain she can smell the woman. But she thinks, Okay, I’ve survived this.
Then a dyke couple comes out. They perform. The little woman moans. Then the bigger woman starts choking her. Kitty can see the veins sticking out on the little woman’s neck. She’s really being strangled. I’m in a snuff club! Kitty thinks. Stanford orders another glass of white wine.
The big woman grabs the little woman’s hair and pulls. Kitty wonders if she should try to do something. The woman’s hair comes off, and it’s a wig and underneath she has a fuchsia crewcut.
“Show’s over,” Dash says. “Let’s go home.”
Outside, it’s still hot. “What the hell was that about?” Kitty asks.
“What else did you expect?” Dash says.
“Goodbye, Kitty,” Stanford says smugly.
THE CRACKUP
By the tenth day of the heat wave, Carrie was too attached to Mr. Big. Way too attached. That was the night that she had her breakdown. It started fine: Mr. Big went out alone to a business dinner. No problem at first. She went to her girlfriend Miranda’s. They were going to sit in the air conditioning and watch taped segments of Ab Fab. But then they started drinking. Then Miranda called her drug delivery guy. It continued from there. Carrie hadn’t seen Miranda for a while because she’d been busy with Mr. Big, so Miranda started in on her.
“I’d like to meet him, you know. Why haven’t I met him? Why haven’t I seen you?” Then she dropped the bomb. Miranda said she knows some girl who was dating Mr. Big during the first month he was dating Carrie.
“I thought he only saw her once,” Carrie said.
“Oh, no. They saw each other several times. Se-ver-al. That’s why I didn’t call you for a whole month. I didn’t know whether to tell you or not.”
“I think this is bad stuff,” Carrie said.
The next morning, after the freakout, when Carrie was lying in Mr. Big’s bed, she tried to think about what she really wanted. Life felt like it had changed, but had it really? She thinks: I’m still not married. I still don’t have kids. Will it ever happen?
When?
It’s the zone or Mr. Big, she thinks. The zone or Mr. Big.
That afternoon, Mr. Big sends her flowers. The card reads: “Everything will be okay. Love, Mr. Big.”
“Why did you send me flowers?” Carrie asks him later. “That was so sweet.”
“I wanted you to know that somebody loved you,” Mr. Big says.
A couple of days
later, on the weekend, Carrie and Mr. Big go to his house in Westchester, so Mr. Big can play golf. He leaves in the morning, early. Carrie gets up late, makes coffee. She goes outside and walks around the yard. She walks to the end of the street. Walks back. Goes back inside the house and sits down.
“Now what am I going to do?” she thinks, and tries to imagine Mr. Big on the golf course, swatting golf balls impossible distances.
18
How to Marry a Man in Manhattan—My Way
A couple of months ago, an announcement appeared in the New York Times that “Cindy Ryan” (not her real name) had gotten married. There was nothing particularly interesting or unusual about it, except to people who had known Cindy and lost contact with her, like me, to whom the news was astounding. Cindy had gotten married! At forty! It was nothing short of inspirational.