Freudian Slip (5 page)

T
IME TO GET YOU OUT
of this apartment,
Kate thought to herself.
Sitting here crying isn't helping matters.
She walked to her bedroom and opened her closet doors.

Her closet was just a few inches short of a walk-in—a rarity in Manhattan. The rest of the apartment was small, just shy of 550 square feet. Still, she was beyond lucky to have it. Her father had always been so cautious and insured himself through the New York Fire Department. Plus the settlement she and her mother received after his death. And then the money her grandfather on her mother's side left her. She knew it was astounding that she had this place at all at her age, in this city. That she owned it—albeit with a hefty mortgage was even more astounding. She would have bought it for this closet alone—let alone the proximity to the park.

She began pushing aside shirts.
No, no, no, they're all wrong.

She frowned. What, exactly, was wrong with her clothes? She had never particularly cared. A jeans and T-shirt gal, she had been a tomboy growing up. Softball, soccer, field hockey. Her dad came to as many games as he could. Now, working in Manhattan, she wore pantsuits in black. Black. Black. Grey. Adventurous was the camel-colored one.

None of this stuff is sexy. You've got a great body, you need to show it off a little. Get playful.

She rolled her eyes and searched deeper into her closet, passing by white blouses. While she used to believe you couldn't go wrong with a fitted white blouse, nothing dangling from the multitude of hangers seemed right. Then, way near the back, a low V-neck, fitted T-shirt with a funky Asian graphic on it. She never thought the shirt was “her,” but it had been a gift when her cousin Mallory went to Hong Kong on business. Mal was always the wild cousin, sneaking off at family gatherings to smoke cigarettes when they were fifteen, running off to Paris for six months after college to drink wine, eat cheese and make love with sexy European men—including an Italian soccer star.

Kate pulled the shirt out of the closet and held it up. With a pair of black jeans, it might be what she was looking for. Not that she knew what it was
she was going to do beyond getting out into the fresh night air, away from her apartment. It was unsettling to her that someone had broken in. The super had come to change the lock already, but still, she was creeped out.

She pulled on the top and dug out a pair of True Religion jeans that fit her pretty well. She padded, barefoot, to the bathroom door, on which hung a full-length mirror.

There you go, Kate. Own it. You're fuckable.

“Jesus!” she said aloud. “Where the hell did that come from? Too much wine yesterday.”

She brushed her teeth and, uncharacteristically, dabbed some lip gloss on her lips. She stared into the mirror. Her eyes were still puffy, so she shrugged and added concealer and then two coats of mascara.

“That's better,” she said and smiled.

Walking through her apartment, she grabbed her keys, and tucked them and three twenties into her pocket, grabbed some fliers and some tape, and headed out the door.

Even on the way down the stairs, she had no real idea of where she was going, an aimless feeling completely unfamiliar to her. She taped some fliers in the laundry room and next to the mailboxes, and then by the stairwell. Then she burst through the building's front door like a second-grader on the
first day of summer, and a warm breeze stroked her face. It almost felt like a man's fingers gently touching her. Feeling unexpectedly buoyed, she set off toward her favorite pizzeria to grab a slice and a Diet Coke.

At the corner, she headed east to Gino's, passing countless NYU students in T-shirts and shorts. Even in summer, the university had plenty of students filling the sidewalks and pizza places and bars of Greenwich Village. Gino's was a favorite haunt, and the place stayed open nearly twenty-four hours, taking advantage of late-night student munchies. She walked in, the bell on the glass door tinkling slightly. The scent of fresh dough and tomato sauce caused her stomach to remind her that all she'd consumed in the last twenty-fours was yogurt and wine.

“Hey, Carlos,” she said to the owner. He had long ago explained to her he bought the place from Gino and kept the name. “Two slices. Burn 'em. And a Diet Coke.” She sat down at the long bar.

Carlos, of the smoldering dark looks, black eyes and rock-star bald head and earring, stared at her.

“What'd you do, Kate-Baby?”

“Hmm?” she asked.

“What'd you do? To your face? New haircut? Something.” He leaned back and folded his arms
across his muscular chest. His tattoo of Jesus on a cross flexed along with his biceps.

“No,” she said, puzzled.

It's the shirt. Told you. Nice rack.

“What is it?” Carlos asked again.

“Hmm?” She shook her head to quiet this suddenly obnoxious inner voice. What the hell was in that wine last night? They were breasts, or even boobs. But never a rack. What was wrong with her?

“Maybe it's my breasts…um…shirt.”

Carlos nodded appreciatively. “You should wear it more often, angel.” He propped his elbows on the bar and leaned forward.

Kate felt herself flush. Carlos was one of those guys that it would never, in a million years, cross her mind to date. He oozed sex. Right down to the ever-present bulge in his Levis. She had never been one for meaningless sex, no “friends with benefits.” That was Mal's thing.

“Okay,” she heard herself say.

The slices came out of the oven, burned the way she liked them. She bit into the gooey cheese and promptly burned the top of her mouth, causing tears to spring to her eyes. She quickly took a sip of ice-cold soda.

“Burn your lips, angel? I could kiss them for you.” Carlos winked at her.

Oh, for God's sake. Is that the best this grease-ball can do? Finish up and head out the door.

Kate blew on her piece of pizza, and ate it, savoring the perfect combination of cheese, crust and tomato sauce. Carlos continued to flirt with her, and Kate made a mental note to drag out the shirt from Hong Kong more often. She didn't want Carlos so much, but the attention was rather nice. After last night with David, she had wondered if she was pathetically unlovable.

She finished her pizza, paid her bill with a twenty and waved goodbye to Carlos, who was, typically, onto his next flirtation.

Kate strolled home, starting to feel a bit better. She stopped in Washington Square Park to watch the speed chess players. Sometimes she played a game or two, but this evening, as dusk settled over the sky, she was content to watch. On one end of the park stood one of NYU's buildings, its deep purple flag flapping in the summer breeze.

She was an NYU alumna. She remembered wistfully looking at the university and knowing there was no way her family could afford it. But her father worked his off days as a carpenter for his uncle's construction company, and saved every dime. Between that, grants and student loans, she'd been able to attend her dream college.

Three in-line skaters went past. A guy strummed
a guitar, playing, she listened carefully, a Radio-head song done as a slow acoustic number. She saw a few skateboarders, more students and a few people in professional clothes, eating take-out dinners. She loved the park.

She walked the rest of the way home and entered her building and then climbed the staircase to her apartment.

As she started down toward her door, she saw the guy from across the hall holding Honey.

“Oh my God.” She felt a sob escape and raced toward her dog.

“Found her just sitting on my doorstep about fifteen minutes ago when I went to do the laundry. Just sitting there, looking up at me. Patiently waiting.”

He placed the now wriggling little dog in her arms, and she could feel Honey trembling—what she always did when she was excited. Her little tail was wagging, and she “yipped” once.

Tears in her eyes, she spontaneously hugged her neighbor. “Thank you, Zack. Thank you so much.”

“I didn't do anything,” he said modestly.

That's right he didn't.

“Oh, but you have no idea. I was just lost without her.” She kissed her dog on the nose.

Dog germs.

Kate furrowed her brow.

“What?” Zack asked her.

“Nothing. I…I just have been out of sorts. Don't know if you heard—my apartment was broken into.”

“I did. I'm really sorry. You know, if you ever need anything, or you're just…scared to go into an empty apartment, knock on my door and I'll check around the place for you, or whatever. Anything you need.”

He looked down awkwardly, but she touched his arm. “I will. Thank you. I mean it.” She squeezed his arm slightly. He was so handsome, she thought, and it was such a shame about his wife.

Holding her dog, she turned to enter her apartment. Once she shut the door, she set down Honey, who proceeded to run from one end of the room to the other, yipping and barking.

Shut up.

Honey barked insistently, almost like she was trying to tell Kate something.

“Why are you barking? That's not like you, Honey. I bet you were so worried and scared when you saw the robber. It's a good thing you were just lost and he didn't hurt you.”

Honey moved toward Kate, but seemed to look past her, focusing upon one spot and yipping incessantly.

Go away. Tell the dog to be quiet. Tell it.

“Hush, Honey. What are you barking at? Was the robber there? Can you smell him?”

The dog wouldn't budge from the one spot. Kate reached down to reassure her little dog. Honey quieted, but still stared, fixated on a spot on the ceiling.

Kate went to the kitchen and set down a bowl of food and one of water. “Come on, Honey,” she coaxed. “Don't you want to eat?”

Honey still wouldn't move. Puzzled, Kate walked over to her dog, scooped her up and carried her to her dog dish. Finally, Honey picked at the kibbles and drank some water, then she went over to her green plaid dog bed, turned around three times and settled in for a nap.

Kate walked toward the stereo.

Nothing depressing, Kate. How about the Clash? Or better yet, what about a shower?

Shrugging, she changed her mind about the music. She stood and shed her T-shirt, walking toward the bathroom.

Now this is more like it.

“I swear I need Prozac or something. Shut up!” she said to herself.

Not a chance. We've got things to do, Katie Girl. We've got things to do.

“W
AKE UP
, K
ATE
. W
AKE UP
, wake up, wake up, WAKE UP!”

On night two, even after peeking into other apartments—and not finding any sex, lesbian or otherwise—Julian found himself next to Katie's bed, longing for her company. Night seemed interminable again. His old life schedule was a collision of work and partying with odd hours here and there for sleep, as long as it didn't interfere with his Patron consumption. He liked the 1800 Silver 80 Proof version, perfect for drinking neat. If there was a woman around to do a belly shot off of, even better. He loved licking a sexy belly button. He liked a woman's stomach, that area below the belly button. He also, for some reason, was fascinated by a woman's clavicle. Liked to lick along the bone, so delicate. Liked the hollow of a woman's neck.

Face it, he thought, he loved a woman's body, period. It was all the emotional shit he couldn't
handle. He stared at the hollow of Kate's throat, wondering what it would be like to lick it. To kiss her.

Then he wondered what his own body was doing. His assassination attempt had to be big news. He wondered if Kate got the paper in the morning.

“Wake up, little Katie, wake up!” He started singing it, plugging in her name for “Susie” in the old song by Simon and Garfunkel.

He knelt down close to her and sang it in her ear. He watched as the flickers of a dream crossed her face like a shooting star. He had never been this close to a woman before—not in this way. Sex was different. Sex he'd had so close it was claustrophobic, like in the cramped bathroom on a flight from New York to London with a Swedish model. Or that time he had two women in the stall of the bathroom in CBGB's before it shut down. He would also never forget the time he did it with the wife of his former station manager in the front seat of her Porsche Carrera. The stick shift kept ramming into his butt as she straddled him on top.

But close like this? Never. He didn't cuddle after sex. He didn't even like to kiss during sex. He liked it raw and fast with no talking—except for dirty words and moaning. The dirtier the better, frankly.

Kate rolled over, facing the middle of the bed, so Julian walked around to the other side and lay
down next to her. He liked listening to her breathing because he felt so lost in Neither Here Nor There. It was contact with a human being. He had no idea how long he'd be stuck in God's stupidly named in-between world. And he also knew he could find himself ending up
there.
In Hell, if he died. Or Heaven. One or the other. But he preferred to go back to living in the real world. Where there was Patron tequila. And people who could see him.

“Wake up, little Katie, wake up!” He started singing again. Louder and louder. And finally she stirred. He leaned up on one elbow, thrilled for the company.

She stretched, yawned and punched her pillow. Then she sat up and stared at the clock and groaned.

“God,” she exhaled. “Four in the morning and I wake up with a song stuck in my head. Shut up!”

She punched the pillow again and then flopped backward.

“Don't go to sleep, Katie Girl. Sit up. Talk to me. Come on. Talk about anything.”

She stared up at the ceiling in the half-darkness—the illumination from the clock radio and city lights outside kept her tiny bedroom a deep gray. She had managed to get the mattress back on her bed that morning. Julian had watched her struggle, unable to lend some muscle.

“Aren't you happy Zack found your dog? And you can get a new TV. Now we just have to get you over this boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend. Kate, you should have deleted his picture. Don't agonize over this guy, this jackass who screwed you over. He's not worth it.”

He'd had so many one-night stands, he'd lost count. But he wasn't misleading. He didn't need to lie to get women, and he had no problem with saying it was for sex and nothing more—not looking for a relationship, I don't need your number, let's not do lunch, there's the door. But he
didn't
lie.

He watched her, finding the entire voyeur experience strangely erotic. At the same time, she was his only companion, unless you counted Grandma across the hall, and right now, he needed Kate.

Her eyes remained fixed on the ceiling.

“What are you thinking?” he asked her.

She was silent for a few minutes as he studied her. And then she whispered aloud.

“God? It's me. I…know you aren't Santa Claus. I can't just make a wish and have it all get better. But it's been a really hard few years. First Daddy. And then Mom marrying that money guy. I've tried to like him, God. I honestly have, but he's…not my dad. Maybe that's what's so hard. He's
nothing
like my dad. Not heroic. Not handsome. Not funny. Not anything. He's like striped wallpaper. You barely notice him.”

Julian saw she had clasped her hands together on top of the blanket like a small child saying bedtime prayers. Not that he knew anything about that. He hadn't ever prayed in his life, he didn't think, which made his recruitment for this job all the more ridiculous. He wasn't even agnostic. The very word implied someone who had given some thought to the question of whether or not there was a God. He hadn't. Not ever. He was nothing. Not an atheist. Not an agnostic. Just apathetic. When would the Boss understand that and let him get back into his body and wake up?

Kate whispered again, “And David. I…feel like my guts have been literally ripped out from me. When I saw them together, I couldn't breathe. I couldn't even think past the pain. I don't think I want much, God. I am truly, truly thankful for the material things I have, the roof over my head, my health, a profession I adore, all of it. But to find someone who loves me. Deeply and totally and all of me. Is it impossible? Is a soul mate impossible?”

“You know, Kate,” Julian said, “if you had told me last week that I would believe in soul mates, I would have said you were fucking nuts, but…this
whole cosmic thing going on? Maybe God does exist and does know what He…She's…doing. Maybe there's someone out there for you.” He filled in his half of the conversation in the pauses.

“I can't sleep, God. It's like I hear this constant chatter in my head. It's driving me nuts. I know it's the stress of it all. At least I think it's stress. I don't want to go to work next to Leslie. It makes me want to throw up. On the good-news front, I
have
lost six pounds since this whole thing started—even after eating pizza. The stress diet.”

Kate pulled the covers up. “Please let me fall to sleep, God. Otherwise I'll be so tired and will look horrible and Leslie can have the last laugh knowing David picked her and I've become a hag.”

Leslie, Julian decided, needed to be put in her place. And there was no way Kate was going to do that tired and stressed. “It's okay, Kate. I was just…bored and lonely. I'm sorry I woke you. Go to sleep.”

He touched her cheek and watched as her breathing grew more shallow. Finally, she drifted off.

Now what?

He climbed from her bed and wandered into the living room. There were no phones in Neither Here Nor There, so what was he supposed to do if he had a question?

“Gus?” He said it loudly. “Gus!”

Nothing.

“Fuck me,” he said. Pissed at Gus, and at God for that matter, he sat down on the couch and waited for dawn. He wanted answers. Like when or if he was going back to his body.

He looked down at his arm. It looked like his arm—the same arm he always had—but when he touched it, he barely felt it. The tattoo of a heroin needle mocked him. He used to love heroin. Love and hate it. He'd be the first to admit he had abused his body, but now he wanted it back. If he could talk to God, wherever She was, he'd tell Her that he'd take better care of himself. A little less Patron, a little more broccoli.

He leaned his head back on Kate's couch. What did he miss about his body? He'd discovered that the longing for heroin never goes away completely, no matter how long you've been clean. He craved, constantly, the euphoric sense of well-being, or floating. That place where everything was like a slow-moving bubble of warmth. Coming down from it, every muscle, every inch of him, hurt. Even his eyelashes hurt. If Gus was right and the universe was made up of strings, in a quantum sense, his particles hurt. Every neuron, proton, every cell.

He hadn't gone to rehab. Instead, after an on-the-air rant in which he'd said some things that even for his show were pretty outrageous—and after the FCC scandal of it, the fines, the firestorm of criticism, he'd been taken off the air for thirty days. And in those thirty days, he and his producer had holed up in a hotel in Costa Rica, near the rain forest. He'd never gone through such pain in his life. Every day, an ancient native woman visited and brought him an herbal concoction to drink that their guide swore by. Julian sweated and cursed. At one point his producer, Frank, had literally tied him to the bed.

He emerged from that jungle hotel a couple of weeks later, clean but not sober. He drank more heavily, partied harder, screwed more women, chasing the demon of heroin.

Julian sighed. Then, with startling clarity, he realized that he didn't want heroin. Or Patron. He had lost his earthly cravings. It was as if this lion he wrestled with every day for the last several years had suddenly turned into a kitten. The desire for heroin was completely gone.

“Okay, Boss.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Nicely done. If I could be this way and be back in my body, though, that would be the key. I miss sex. I miss touch.”

Suddenly, from Kate's bedroom, her clock radio blared an old Britney Spears song.

“Crap, Kate,” he yelled. “Don't tell me you listen to pop radio garbage. The Ramones, baby. You need to listen to the Ramones. Or Pete Townsend. Or…well, we'll work on song selection.”

He rose and walked into her bedroom. She was hiding under the covers.

“Come on!” he yelled at her, standing at the foot of the bed. “I'm sick of these four walls. Time to get out of here. Let's see where you work. Where you go for happy hour.”

Eventually, after one more smack down of the snooze button, she rose and headed to the bathroom. As she undressed, Julian admired her naked form.

“Nice tits. Great ass, by the way. You must do squats at the gym. You know, you need to stop covering up.”

She turned on the shower until the tiny bathroom steamed up. She stepped into the stall and soaped up her body. He watched the way the water formed rivulets through the bubbles on her skin. Even without a scrap of makeup, her skin was perfectly clear.

He watched her and decided shower time might be his favorite part of the day in Neither Here Nor There. Oddly enough, he found himself erect.

“Okay…so, let me get this straight, I can still get a hard-on in Neither Here Nor There? But what am I supposed to do with it?”

Annoyed, he had to be content with watching her rinse her body and wash her hair. She emerged from the shower, cheeks rosy from the hot water, and proceeded to brush her teeth and towel-dry her hair.

“Now the clothes,” he said, following her to the closet.

As she slid hangers across the bar, he spoke, loudly and firmly, “No, no, not a chance, big fat no, what were you thinking? No, no, and no again.”

She put a hand on her hip and sighed. “What is it with me? I hate all of my clothes all of a sudden. Hate them!”

She reached way back in the closet for a skirt and flirty top. She held them up to her body in front of the full-length mirror.

“We can work with that,” Julian told her.

“Maybe since I've lost weight, this will fit better.” She scrunched up her mouth and wrinkled her nose. Julian thought she looked like a bunny.

“Put it on,” he commanded her, though he did like looking at her naked.

She padded to her dresser and pulled out a pair of panties.

“No!”
he screamed. “
No! No! No!
Cotton
briefs? No, Kate girl, no. Boy shorts, a thong, silk. Not that.”

He leaned over her shoulder and stared into her underwear drawer. Though he had seen lots of women's underwear, he had never been privy to the mysteries of a woman's underwear drawer before. He'd taken them off with his teeth, ripped off thongs and judged panty contests on his show. But a woman's apartment—the way she actually kept her things—that he wasn't familiar with. His underwear drawer was a laundry basket of clean—or semi-clean—clothes in his closet. Kate's drawer was, he decided, without enough silk. There seemed to be a shortage of sexy.
That
would have to be remedied.

She sighed aloud. “Maybe these.”

She pulled out a cotton pair—but at least they were bikinis. Then a bra.

“We're going shopping today,” Julian said. “I hope you have a high limit on your credit card.”

Kate dressed, fixed her hair, dabbed on makeup, grabbed a soft-sided briefcase and headed out the door with Julian close behind. He wondered if she took the subway. He loathed the subway. But, to his pleasant surprise, she walked to work.