Fiction by Lee Matthew Goldberg
I decided to take a staycation.
I called in sick for the week to my supervisor, an asshat named Malcolm who was thirty like me but made double the paycheck. Anyway, I mimicked retching sounds and said I’d caught a stomach bug. I rarely took off so he didn’t question, just mansplained about the BRAT diet, like I didn’t fucking know that. My plan was to rewatch Socialites over and over, binge through the season each day leading up to the season-two premiere.
I ordered Seamless for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Hey, I was on vacation, so money would be no object. The Sunnyside Up Diner by me was great so I got pancakes for breakfast, a roast beef sub for lunch, and spaghetti for dinner. The liquor store by me delivered as well so I stocked up on Stoli. I had enough little blue pills to last until I went back to work and could swipe some more samples. I was all set.
I didn’t want to shower or clean the apartment. I wanted to stew in my filth. I wore pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt the entire time. I slept only after finishing the season of Socialites each day, usually by around three or four in the morning. I didn’t brush my teeth. I thought about buying diapers so I wouldn’t even have to get up to go to the bathroom. That was what my mother did. She’d been in an oxy coma for the past decade. Before that, she’d ingest anything to numb. She blamed it on my father, or my lack thereof. My father was some guy she took home from a bar. He was a trucker passing through my hometown Brewer and she thought his name was Al. But it could be Hal. Or Tal. Jesus, she was a mess. Growing up, I learned from a very early age to take care of myself. I lived off of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, bologna and mustard if she remembered to stock the fridge. Always Wonder Bread. She’d gotten in a car accident when I was little and lived off disability. The only work I’d ever seen her do was bringing a cigarette to her lips. She watched soap operas all day and Fox News all night. She’d be the last person you’d want to sit next to at a dinner party.
College got me away from her. Since I graduated, I rarely returned to Maine. Occasionally, she would call but it usually consisted of her humming into the phone while inhaling an entire cig in one suck. She’d become a die-hard Republican. She hated immigrants. She believed in the Deep State. She was a peach. I turned off my phone in case she decided to call.
I knew there could be a scenario where Steve tried to contact me. There was still hope. Someone like Steve needed to stew. A more energetic me would’ve stalked him, seen if he was lying about Tawny, but I was too lazy. The couch was more appealing than anything else. Besides, if he called and I didn’t answer for a while, maybe he would rush over to check on me. He’d pick up my pieces, and I’d lie about how sick I was. “You made me this sick by leaving me,” I’d say, and he’d feel so bad he’d swear to never leave me again.
On day five, after watching Socialites to the point where I could say every bit of Magnolia’s lines, a knock rapped against the door. I looked at the clock, five p.m. I had a joint in one hand and a martini glass with a little blue pill stuck in the olive in the other. The windows were closed and the apartment hot boxed. Sammi’s litter hadn’t been cleaned in too long and the air smelled of dung. Well, I had lit a candle so it smelled like lavender dung.
Steve, I thought, my stomach swimming. The mirror on the wall revealed a horror show. My hair stood straight up and my forehead was full of fresh blackheads. My eyes had purple bags and my nose was raw from blowing.
“Who is it?” I asked, in my best voice.
“It’s Pria. You haven’t answered your phone in days.”
Pria. My best friend, well — my only friend really. Pria and I grew up together. Awkward me and unibrow Pria in Brewer, Maine, where we were regulated to the uncool kids table in the cafeteria by the age of seven. It was a friendship of convenience, much like Magnolia had with her friends, only that was a different circumstance entirely. And sure, Pria and I had some good memories. Like the time we baked an upside-down cake and left a spoon in the batter, and then ate the entire thing and felt all metally. When I got chicken pox, Pria already had it and rubbed my bumps with salve. She could be sweet when she wanted to be.
“Lexi,” she shouted, from the hallway. “Are you okay? I hear the television.”
I swung open the door. Pria did data entry at some boring company. Honestly, I didn’t know exactly what she did every day, but she was dressed in smart pants and a blouse. She wore a kerchief like she was a stewardess and her mop of black hair was put up in a bun. She looked like she could be a thousand years old. I eyed her like she was a mess, but she was eyeing me way worse.
“What happened?” she asked, storming inside and taking stock of the disarray. “Are you sick?” She held her hand over her mouth.
I could lie to her like I did to Malcolm, but I didn’t have the energy. I had three little blue pills swimming through my bloodstream.
“Steve dumped me.” Saying it out loud brought up the pain. I heaved. Nothing came up except for dried tears. I was all cried out.
“Oh no.” She placed her hands on her hips. I retreated to the couch as I caught her sniffing the air and her face turned sour. “Let’s air out this room.”
She opened up all the windows. The fresh air actually felt good. It had been several days since I’d been outside, and my body buzzed from the self-imposed captivity.
“And I see Sammi needs a change.”
She kicked at the litter box with her toe. Sammi curled around her leg, pleading to be saved from her mom’s despair. Pria cooed at her and then placed her down to throw out the cat shit in a Hefty bag tied tight. She picked up all the tissues from the floor, got out a broom and swept the dust. In a matter of minutes, the place seemed aired out, the smell lingering but not as putrid. She lit two more lavender candles.
“There,” she said, satisfied. But when she caught sight of me, her mouth turned. I was on the couch, remote gripped in my hand, Magnolia paused on the TV about to tear into Bella. “Have you been bingeing the whole time?”
I gave one precise nod.
“And drinking?”
“And smoking. And pilling, pillaging, whatever they would call it.”
“Unhealthy,” Pria said, with a grumpy huff. “The same thing happened when Jeremy — ”
“No, no.” I sat up, waving my hands around. “No, no, I don’t wanna talk about Jeremy.”
“Sweetie, you locked yourself in your apartment and watched Vanderpump Rules until your eyes fell out.”
“Untrue.”
She sat down next to me, delicately moving the hair from my face. She was close enough to kiss. Sometimes, I felt like Pria wanted it. One time when we were about fourteen we fingered each other. I just jabbed away, not really caring about what was happening, but for Pria, I could see it was like she was awakening, telegraphing every millisecond so she could commit it to memory for later use. That was why I never let her do it again.
“Does your job know you’ve called out?” she asked.
“Yes, mom. God, Pria, I’m not, like, inept. I’ve made it thirty years without imploding.”
She scanned the room, which still somewhat looked like it had imploded. “I know how hard it was for you after Jeremy — it just took you so long to get back on your feet.”
“Don’t talk in clichés. You know how I hate that.”
“I’m sorry.”
I left my body and saw how I was treating Pria, but it had always been like this between us.
“And Steve,” she said, summoning the courage. “He wasn’t good for you. He was too focused on his work, you always came second. And you hated being outdoors. That’s all he wanted to do.”
She was right. A dream day for Steve being a hike in the woods and grilling franks and beans over a fire, farting in a tent we’d set up all night, fucking and watching the sunrise.
“I thought we would get married,” I said, quietly. I wanted this desperately, someone to take care of me and soothe my anxiety. It was tough on your own, especially in New York Shitty. At thirty, I wanted to be planning my wedding, thinking about having kids. Now I would have to find someone all over again to get that train moving.
“Maybe it’s for the best?” Pria said, shrugging. “Do you need a hug?”
“No, I don’t need a fucking hug. You’re so weird.”
She hugged me anyway and I snotted on her shoulder. Her blouse was ugly anyway and deserved it.
“There, there,” she said. “Let it out, let it out.” She picked up the remote. “And let’s turn off this TV and get you outside.”
My heart twisted as the TV snapped off. The ghost image of Magnolia remained on the screen before vanishing as well.
“Are you going back to work Monday?” she asked, and I nodded. “Good, let’s get you dressed and I’ll buy you breakfast for dinner.”
I wondered if it was an excuse to see me semi-clothed. She found jeans and an off-the-shoulder sweater. I stepped out of my soggy sweats.
“Or do you want to shower?”
I nodded again, and she led me to the bathroom in my bra and underpants. She turned the water on scalding hot.
“I’ll leave you be.”
“Okay,” I said. I was to about to reply, thank you, but didn’t want to give her that power. I liked it all to myself. She went to shut the door, but I left it ajar as I stripped so she could watch — like I would do to Steve when he bathed — so I could feel the electric charge of being wanted.
The water burned so good, turning my skin bright red.
