Nobodies Page 2

Along with my magic carpet, I concluded, I must have shaved off my tan. In one night, I’d gone from King Kong to King Kong Having An Identity Crisis.

  I couldn’t let her see me like this. If I thought things would go badly before, imagine how they’d go now. And it’s not like I could cancel our date. God knows when I’d get another one.

  I stared, eyes watering, at my reflection and drew the only possible conclusion: I’d have to shave my legs as well. Yes, I’d look like a child, but it was better than looking like a lunatic.

  If only I was a competitive swimmer. I could’ve passed the whole thing off as a badge of athleticism. Instead, it was just a mark of insecurity.

  I hopped in the shower and started shaving. This time, the hair slid off like it had never been attached in the first place. My legs were bare in fifteen minutes. As were my forearms. Yes, I decided to shave those, too.

  I dried off and assessed the damage. As predicted, I looked like a boy whose balls hadn’t dropped, but at least my look was consistent.

  I left my pubes intact, for obvious reasons. I wanted to appear polished, not pornish.

  And I’m not trying to brag, but in the right light, from the right angle, I kind of looked like a Greek god. Hairless, except for a tasteful pubic puff. Like the statue of David, with a decent-sized dick.

  My legs felt strange—tingly, cool, oddly damp, as though I couldn’t stop sweating. When I touched them, however, the skin was dry.

  I got dressed and ran to the drug store across the street. Every time my skin touched cloth, it recoiled.

  Twenty minutes later, I was lathered up, lying naked on the couch.

  The leather stuck to my skin, but it was still more comfortable than wearing clothes. I just had to remember to keep my ball sack elevated, so it didn’t get glued to the couch.

  I looked at the clock. Thirty-one hours until the date. I closed my eyes and prayed to every deity I could think of. I atoned for my sins, gave thanks for my blessings, and begged for my suffering to stop.

  Friday arrived with a whole new set of anxieties. What should I wear? What should I talk about? What if she doesn’t show up? The usual pre-date worries.

  Luckily, none of these concerns were hair-related. By 7:30PM the rash had faded, the itchiness had become tolerable, and the tingly sensation had been minimized by hourly applications of lotion. In less than a day I went through half of the bottle. And since I forgot to buy the unscented kind, I spent the day smelling like a flower shop.

  By 7:59PM I was at the bar, ready to make history.

  She was five minutes late, of course. Fashionably dressed, fashionably tardy. She wore her favourite blazer and a matching scarf. Think what you want, but she was herself, through and through.

  When the waiter arrived, she ordered her usual, as did I. Then we started talking.

  For a while, things went well—better than I’d expected. She even seemed nervous, and, for a moment, I wondered if she was as confident on the inside as she was on the outside. The thought passed quickly, and I returned to worshipping her every word, look, and gesture.

  After eleven months of semi-friendship, things were finally starting to unfold as they were supposed to. That is, until I rolled up the sleeves of my sweater and she saw my hairless arms.

  “What happened?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

  “Oh, nothing. I just did a little shaving.”

  “You shaved your arms?”

  “And other stuff too.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, you know . . .” I could feel my hands starting to shake. “My chest . . . my legs . . .”

  “Your legs?” A smile broke out on her face. She was trying hard not to laugh. “Why would you shave your legs?”

  “Uh. Well . . .” I searched for the right words at the bottom of my glass, finding nothing but bubbles. “It was . . . something you said.”

  She didn’t know what I was talking about.

  “The other night. You said you hated hairy men.”

  She laughed. “I was drunk. You shouldn’t take these things seriously.”

  I could feel my cheeks heating up. My pits were sweating, too. A wave of irritation swept over my skin, and I wanted nothing more than to go home and cover myself in lotion.

  “For what it’s worth,” she said, “I don’t hate hairy men. I was probably thinking of back hair. And nose hair. And all the other gross kinds of hair. Chest hair is fine. In fact, I kinda like it. Makes me feel like I’m fucking a man. Gives me something to hold onto.”

  I’d never heard her use the word fucking before. At least, not as a verb. It threw me off-balance. As did the image of her straddling some macho idiot with enough chest hair to grab.

  “So you have zero body hair?” she asked, clearly astonished.

  “Almost. I still have my pubes.”

  She laughed, harder than before, then held up a hand in apology.

  She changed the subject, and for the next two hours we discussed the usual topics. Books. Movies. Current affairs.

  Eventually, she went home, and I never saw her again. Romantically, I mean. I saw her, platonically, every Wednesday at pub night. And even though we seemed to get along, I could never quite tell how she felt about things.

  When I’d texted her, three days after our date, she said she had a great time, but would rather be friends. She didn’t say why, and I was too afraid to ask. But I always wondered.

  Was it my lack of chest hair, leg hair, and arm hair?

  Or was it the insecurity underlying that lack?

  I never really found out. Maybe it had nothing to do with either. Maybe I said something offensive during our date. Maybe I should’ve walked her home.Or worn a sweater with unrollable sleeves.

  Maybe. Maybe not. I guess we’ll never know.

  MY COFFEE WITH JIM

  Dr. BlahBlah, PhD Candidate

  youraveragepostmodernhipster.blogspot.com

  Posted: 4:44PM, 08/18/2014

  Another date. Another disaster.

  This time, with a decent guy. A guy I might actually see again.

  We met for coffee after a few days of chatting online. Nothing too indepth or risqué. Just the usual getting-to-know-you chit-chat.

  First thing he said: “Hey, if you could live anywhere in Europe, where would it be?”

  I was intrigued, mostly by what he didn’t do. He didn’t reference my breasts, my butt, or my looks in general. He didn’t throw me a bullshit compliment. He didn’t call me something stupid, like “gurl,” “hot stuff,” “sexy,” “hoe,” or “bitch.” He didn’t offer his dick on a platter. He asked me an interesting question. A question he probably copied and pasted 1000 times, but an interesting question nonetheless.

  (In case you’re curious, here are some of the comments I received today, from complete fucking strangers: “yo slut” (from crazy_ballz69, whose interests include “chillin” and “pimpin”), “what colour r ur nipples? send pics” (from donkeypuncher, who seems to enjoy posing shirtless beside his Honda Civic while wearing sunglasses and a backwards hat), and “whaddya say?” accompanied by a blurry picture of what looks like a penis but might be a mouldy hotdog (from Hoe_Fsho, who claims to know “the secret to keeping bitches happy”).There are literally 56 others (just as bad or worse) that I could include, but you get the picture.) So I reply, for no particular reason, “Amsterdam.” And he tells me about his vacation two years ago when he went to Amsterdam and saw the Anne Frank house and visited the Van Gogh Museum and smoked weed at this coffee shop in the Red Light District, etc. etc. etc.

  So I ask him (jokingly) if he hooked up with any prostitutes while he was there.

  And he says “No lol Of course not” and then a few minutes later adds a long paragraph saying he doesn’t have anything against prostitutes and thinks their profession is completely respectable and
legitimate as long as it is well-regulated and there is no coercion or mistreatment involved, and then a few minutes after that he sends another paragraph claiming that he feels unable to reconcile his feminist inclinations with the implicit objectification that prostitution would entail even if such objectification is consensual and the agency of the prostitute in question has not been compromised.

  So I tell him I was joking.

  And he says he knew that, but he wanted to make his position clear anyway, just for the record.

  So I say okay.

  And he says okay. And he asks if I’d like to grab coffee.

  Before I say yes, I double-check his profile. Self-summary: refreshingly bland. No bragging, no self-absorption, short and sweet, with a dash of humility and a hint of humour. Goals: admirable. Interests: acceptable. He likes (more or less) the same bands, the same shows, the same authors. (The fact that he even reads is a plus these days . . .) And under I spend a lot of time thinking about he writes, “how much time I waste when I think about how much time I waste.” Not bad, right? Overall assessment: decent guy.

  (And his pictures are cute. No sunglasses. No backwards hat. No Honda Civic.)

  So I say yes, and we grab coffee, and everything goes well until we get to the park . . .

  (I just realized that I probably shouldn’t mention his real name. Or mine, for that matter. Let’s call him Jim. And we’ll call me Jan. And we’ll call the other girl Jen. Okay. Here we go.)

  I guess it all starts at the picnic bench when he asks, How’s OKCupid treating you? Not bad, I tell him. Better than Plenty of Fish. Yeah, I tried that one too. How long did you last? A few weeks. You? A few hours. Too many creepy messages. I can imagine. Apparently I look like I’m sixteen. And apparently that’s a good thing. According to who? Men over 30. Jesus. One guy wanted me to get on Skype and eat a cookie. Like a chocolate chip cookie? I think he asked for oatmeal raisin. [Jim laughs.] Suddenly, I feel so much better about myself. You should. You’re not a pedophile. I’ll drink to that. [He raises his cup.] Cheers. [We clink cups and drink.] I have to say, I was impressed by your movie list. Why, thank you. I noticed you’re a Woody Allen fan. Oh . . . Yeah. Kind of. Midnight in Paris . . .Vicky Christina . . . I made the account a while ago. You don’t like them anymore? No, I do. I’m just . . . I’m trying to avoid his films these days . . . given all that’s happened. You mean the Dylan Farrow thing? Yeah. I feel like I shouldn’t support him anymore. Ah.You disagree. Well . . . I mean, whatever he did doesn’t change the fact that Annie Hall is a great film. Or Manhattan. Or I can’t watch Manhattan anymore. The thing with the high school girl . . . You mean Tracy? She’s almost legal. [He can tell that I’m offended.] I’m not saying it’s okay. I’m just “She’s almost legal?” You know what I’m saying. It sounds like you’re saying statutory is fine n’ dandy. I’m saying it’s complicated.Oh boy . . . I’m saying—first of all, it’s a movie. Okay? Tracy is a fictional character. His daughter isn’t. Adopted daughter. I can’t believe you’re defending him. I’m not defending him. I’m just Mansplaining him.We have testimony, okay? Not facts. He said, she said. I think Dylan’s story is pretty convincing. And I think Allen’s story is convincing. That’s the point.All we can do is speculate. Because Mia dropped the case. And why do you think that is? It’s obvious. She didn’t want Dylan dragged through the That didn’t stop her from using her in court in the first place. “Using her in court?” She was molested for Christ’s sake! Again, that hasn’t been proven. You’re such a guy. Defending the heroic male artist, whatever the consequences. And you’re such a girl. Defending the wounded female victim. Don’t call me a girl. Don’t call me a guy. What should I call you then? I don’t know. Jim works for me. Fine. What’s your name again? [I respond with my best bitch face.] I’m kidding. Jesus. I think I should go. Come on, I didn’t mean to Offend me? Just . . .Please? I’m sorry, okay? We’re just talking. That’s all. Just chatting. [He desperately searches for something to say.] What are your thoughts on ISIS? [I sigh.] Better question: What was the last good book you read? Gender Trouble. Oh, right. You’re in Women’s Studies. And you’re a filmmaker. Well, I don’t know about “filmmaker” . . . That’s what it said on your profile. [I take out my phone and start reading.] “Aspiring filmmaker. I’ll show you my short film if you show me yours.” Riiiiiight . . . How short is “short”? Uh . . .about average. Five, six minutes? Seven, actually. Eight, with the credits. What’s it about? Oh, you know . . .this and that. What’s your thesis on? Misogyny in mainstream American culture. Ah. That makes sense. What makes sense? Uh, you know, the whole Woody Allen thing. No wonder you feel so strongly So I have to be a women’s studies major to feel strongly about a child molester. Alleged child [I let out a rage-filled sigh.] Look, I’m not saying I want him to babysit my kids. You don’t have any kids. How do you know? What are their names again? I’m just trying to make a point. About your hypothetical kids. About hypocrisy. About our society’s obsession with scandals and our inability to empathize With pedophiles? Yeah. No empathy whatsoever. Even if you’re right: let’s say he’s a horrible human being who should be locked away forever—is it really our business? Yes. Why? Fifty years ago, that wouldn’t be the case. Public figures Public figures are people. They’re not animals in a zoo. What about politicians? Politicians are politicians. Artists are artists. And artists are above the law. You know what I mean. So if you raped me right now, I should still pay to see your short film? Woah! Okay there . . . Hypothetically. Jesus . . . I know how much you like hypotheticals. I like arguments that make sense, not inflammatory character assassinations. You like well-reasoned viewpoints that aren’t biased by personal experience. Exactly. Regardless of how relevant that experience might be. It tends to distort more than it clarifies. I see. I’m sensing sarcasm. No, not at all. I’m finally aware of my subjective bias, of how my personal experience has distorted my perspective. What personal experience? Oh, no, it doesn’t matter. No, really, I’m curious. [I look away, trying to seem nervous.] You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but My sister was molested. [He’s speechless.] She was twelve. Her gym teacher . . . My God. I’m sorry. So you can see why I’m . . . Yeah. Completely. I’m so sorry. [A long silence.] So now my perspective’s valid? Hmm? It wasn’t a minute ago, but now that I have a personal investment Well, if your sister was molested . . . I don’t have a sister. What? Another hypothetical. You don’t have a sister. Nope. You’re fucking crazy. No more than most. You’re just like Farrow. Which one? Does it matter? They’re both fucking nuts. [I let loose a wide, wonderful grin.] Now who’s the judgmental one? I think I’m going to go. Why? We’re having so much fun. [He looks at his phone, pretending to check the time.] I have a lot of things to do. But I want to keep talking about hypocrisy and my inability to empathize. [He avoids my gaze.] Or the creepy guy from OKCupid. Remember? The one who made you feel so much better about yourself? We could talk about him, if you’d like. [He hangs his head.]Or we could talk about your short film.You still haven’t told me what it’s about. [He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks down at his cup, then into the distance.] It’s about online dating. It’s called “My Coffee with Jen.” Autobiographical? Based on true events. OKCupid or Plenty of Fish? Plenty of Fish. Uh-oh. It didn’t go well. Was it better than this one? About the same. Did you see her again? What do you think? [I smile enigmatically and finish my coffee.] We should do this again sometime. [He furrows his brow, truly surprised.] What are you up to this weekend? Work. Writing. Drinking. You want to see a movie? Sure. Which one? Can’t remember the title. But I like the director. Anyone I’d know? [He grins.] Oh, I think so.

  EXHIBIT A

  TUESDAY, MAY 24—3:34AM

  Hello Stranger!

  It was so good to see you tonight. (Or last night. Technically, the party was last night, but I think we actually spoke around midnight. I spotted you earlier, but the night really began—for me—when we started talking.
) I loved what you said about meeting new people: how it’s exciting and scary at the same time, how you never quite know who someone is or what they’re capable of until you’ve spent some quality time with them. It’s so true. There’s always another layer to peel back and peek beneath . . .

  Would you like to spend some quality time with me this weekend? My schedule is pretty flexible, so whenever works for you will probably work for me.

  Sincerely,

  Samantha Dorkins

  WEDNESDAY, MAY 25—6:37PM

  I’m really sorry, but I just remembered that I’m having brunch with my mother on Saturday. I also have an archery lesson at 3 and a movie premiere at 5:30. (The premiere shouldn’t take too long. A half-hour, tops. I just want to see Ryan Gosling walk the red carpet.) Which means, unfortunately, I’m only free in the evening. Sunday is still open, however. Sorry for any inconvenience, and thanks for understanding.

  THURSDAY, MAY 26—7:03PM

  Did you get my email about this weekend? I don’t mean to rush you, but if you could respond ASAP I’d appreciate it. My friend Kimmy asked me if I’m free on Sunday for a Mario Kart Nacho Party, and I said I’d have to get back to her.

  7:08PM

  P.S. In case you’re curious, a Mario Kart Nacho Party is not much of a party. (Otherwise, I’d happily invite you.) We basically just play Mario Kart and eat nachos. Whoever passes out first loses. To be honest, it’s more of a competition than a party.

  8:53PM

  by the way, i just wanted to mention that you look so much better in person. the camera must add like fifty pounds, because you looked sooooooo dammmmn goooood the other night. just sayin.

  8:59PM

  (sorry, ive had a few drinks.)

  9:01PM

  i think i have a d-mailing problem. (drunk e-mailing.) i should have a designated typer! hahahahaha

  okay then. signing off for the night. talk to you soon.