A friendly but bleary-eyed couple on the other side of us seemed to be doing a booming business cooking and selling cupcakes. Except replace “cupcakes” with “meth.” “Cupcakes” sounds nicer, though. Unless you’re really into meth. Then I think you kind of lose a taste for cupcakes. Unless they’re meth cupcakes. Which honestly sounds awful, but would probably sell like hotcakes. Which would actually be a great name for meth cupcakes if they existed. Oh my God, this business plan writes itself. Someone find me a venture capitalist.
The first time my mother visited us in our new apartment, she seemed worried that she’d made a huge mistake in pushing me to move out, but I reassured her that we were happy, and that (in a way) it was kind of an unorthodox neighborhood-watch program, because technically the meth cookers and shut-ins were always at home to sign for our packages and to keep an eye out for neighborhood burglars (who we all suspected lived in the apartment directly underneath us). It was an uncomfortable, involuntary community, but we were young and didn’t know how much it hurt to be shot yet, so we shrugged off the danger, and we began the process of learning how incredibly difficult it is to live with someone who is totally anal and slightly OCD (ahem . . . Victor). And someone who is perpetually accidentally hot-gluing herself to the carpet, and who is sort of mentally unstable, but in an “At-least-I-still-remember-how-pants-work” kind of way (cough . . . that’d be me). Victor remarked that comparing myself with the sometimes naked hermit next door wasn’t exactly a strong mental-wellness benchmark, especially since I often ended up pantsless myself. I raised my eyebrow at his seemingly seductive remark until I realized he was referring to the time he found me half naked because I’d just hot-glued my jeans to the carpet.
Still, in spite of everything, Victor seemed to love me in a strange and bizarre way that was never more evident than the day that he proposed to me. But that’s the next chapter.
(Aren’t you glad you’re not paying for this book by the chapter? Because then you’d feel totally ripped off that you paid for this chapter and then it leaves you hanging like Pirates of the Caribbean II. I would never do that to you guys. Also, did you know there are some places in Russia where you have to pay to use the toilet? It’s not really on the same subject, but honestly, what the fuck? I would never pay to use the toilet. That’s like paying someone to let you throw away your own litter in the mall trash can. If I ever go to Russia I’m going to pee on the floor all the time.)
No One Ever Taught Me Couch Etiquette
Before Victor could tell his parents that we were moving in together, he insisted that I go meet them personally in Midland, Texas, which was a few hours’ drive away. Midland is a big oil town, and in my mind, everyone who lived there was some sort of millionaire. Victor assured me that his family was not really wealthy, but he kept drilling me on how to tell the fish fork from the dessert fork, and then when I walked into his parents’ house I noticed that they had a giant, fancy floral centerpiece on the table and a skylight, and that’s when I started to hyperventilate a little. Victor’s stepdad was out of town, but his mother was very polite, in a way that made me feel like I should have worn tiny white gloves to meet her.
Bonnie, his mom, invited me to sit on the couch. And so I did. But when my back grazed one of the little couch pillows, Victor’s eyes widened at me in horror as if I’d just stabbed the family dog through the ear. He cleared his throat at me, and I sat up quickly as he surreptitiously restraightened the pillow and whispered, “Those pillows are only for decoration.” And that’s when I learned my first rule about rich people. They never use their cushions. Which is sort of fucked up, because that’s kind of what cushions are for.
Bonnie excused herself to mix us some drinks and, I imagined, to telephone her husband about the low-class drifter that her son had brought into her home. “You’ll love this one,” I could hear her saying in my mind. “She can’t even use a couch properly. I suspect she might be some sort of a hobo.”
I pulled anxiously at Victor’s arm and whispered that we should sneak out now before I did any more damage, and he looked at me as if I’d gone insane. “We’ll leave a note,” I explained. “We’ll leave a nice note saying that we saw a monkey outside, and that we need to catch it.”
“Are you high?” He looked suspiciously at my pupils. “Seriously, calm the hell down. She’s gonna love you. Just don’t sit on the couch cushions.”
I looked at him in confusion, and he patted my hand and gave me a strained smile as he told me to relax. Then I sighed in resignation and slid down onto the floor, sitting cross-legged, which was fine, because I was wearing jeans and honestly I felt more comfortable there anyway, and Victor whispered, “What the hell are you doing?” and I’m all, “Dude. I can’t do this. I’m intimidated by your fucking couch. Clearly this relationship is not going to work out.”
He anxiously tried to pull me back up before his mother got in the room, but I wasn’t worried, because it always takes a long time to make Kool-Aid. “You can’t sit on the damn floor. What’re you, seven?”