Maeve in America Page 8

  I met Stormy when my friend Jim borrowed him for a walk. You can easily borrow a dog from this shelter—all you need to do is wander in and find a volunteer. The volunteers are often teenagers who would rather not meet another person’s eye. I get nostalgic around these teens; it’s as if they’re from the 1990s, so different from the confident teens of today, with the vocabulary to deal with their mental health and access to wonderful dermatologists. Anyway, you find a volunteer and they get whichever dog needs a walk, no questions asked. You sign your name on a list and leave your email address, and just like that you’ve got a dog for the afternoon. The email address list seems like an empty formality—there’s nothing to stop you from giving a fake email address. Even if you give your real one and you keep the dog, what can they do? Sign you up for Pottery Barn promotions as punishment?

  I guess nobody steals the dogs, despite the shelter making it easy to the point of encouraging us to. I had never borrowed a dog for a walk before the day Jim got Stormy, but it was one of those worthy things I talked about a lot and intended to do. I told everyone I know in the neighborhood that they should do it. In fact, I proposed that a whole group of us borrow dogs and have a big get-together in the park on a Saturday evening. “Hey, it’ll be like the olden days, as if we are starting a dog-fighting ring!” I said to my friend Emma. She narrowed her eyes in a way I know all too well, a way that says, Maeve, I know you’re joking, but that’s a bit much.

  Jim made it happen. He’s that kind of person. Very functional and good. He is a doctor who is constantly trying out new ways of physically improving himself. He experiments with diet and exercise, and all of it works. He looks like the statue of David, if David dressed really sharp and had blond curls cut tight into his beautiful head. Sometimes, when Jim is talking, I get distracted because of the shape his body is making, or the way his elegant brow furrows just enough. Now, listen, I’m not trying to have sex with him, it’s not like that. It’s more that I enjoy admiring him in the same way I would a cherry blossom tree in May, or a plate of perfectly cooked short ribs. You know? I see him as kind of an object to appreciate. Not sure if there’s a word for that. I also treasure his intellect and humor, it’s just, you should see his arms. Everybody falls for him. Once, I told him that a woman whose dinner party we’d just gone to had organized the whole thing just to be close to him for an evening, and he demurred. “I’m telling you,” I insisted as we waited for our train. “She is obsessed.” He pouted. “You’re making me feel like one of those secretaries who just gets promoted because she’s pretty so she’s never sure if she’s good at her job!” Meanwhile, two tipsy women sitting across the tracks of the subway platform strained to get a better look at him; one of them even got out of her seat and teetered closer to the edge of the platform, well over the yellow line, squinting to see him more clearly, then nodding back at her friend with her lips pursed like, Mmmm.

  Jim told me to meet him at the park, so I waited there while he went to the shelter to get a dog for us to walk. He was assigned Stormy. You don’t get to choose your dog, and I suspect this affects the quality. It was a busy Saturday, with many families dropping by, eager to find a forever dog. This naturally means that the dogs that have a good chance of being adopted stay at the shelter, showered and ready, making their best come-hither eyes. Stormy was an old boy, a heavy sort of hound. One of his eyes bulged and he panted and drooled constantly, even after sitting in the shade for half an hour. He stood close to my legs, and I petted his coat, which was greasy yet somehow also dry. I couldn’t tell if he liked being touched. He just stood, silent except for the heavy breathing and drip-drip-drip of his dribble. Stormy was misnamed; behind his eyes was nothing but a flat calm. Any tempest that had raged within him was long since over. He didn’t react to anything, didn’t seem happy or sad, or really anywhere in between. Occasionally he pulled on the leash and we followed him, but then he stood stock-still again, so we sat back down to allow him to rest. I wondered if he was depressed, and if I was as dull and irritating to be around when I was depressed. I watched him carefully. Were his nails bitten to the quick, had he put on thirty pounds in two months, was I possibly projecting a little? Stormy didn’t flinch at physical contact, but he didn’t show any signs of enjoying it either. He radiated ambivalence, and I identified with that on a level I found uncomfortable. At least I don’t do that panting thing, I thought.

  Of course, I felt for Stormy. If he was pretty, someone would fall in love with him. Extraordinarily ugly, and he’d be snatched up by someone who wanted a remarkable dog, or was eager to buoy up their online presence by owning an Instagram personality. If he was ill, someone would see the challenge and the cost and jump right in, what a transformation story! All he needed was a double lung transplant and a face-lift—and look at him now! But Stormy was not particularly anything. He was just . . . there. Barely there. It’s usually impossible to have a dog in the city and not get approached by strangers. New York is not known for chattiness, but everyone is united in their adoration of dogs. Businesswomen kneel on the sidewalk to lovingly run a kind finger over an elderly schnauzer’s little back, old men do baby voices to a stranger’s puppy, and children shyly approach and pet your French bulldog as if he’s a magical creature from another land. Which he is: France. But nobody stopped to meet Stormy. At one point a toddler rushed toward us excitedly crying, “Doggy, doggy,” and stopped comically close to Stormy, pointing at another dog, a leggy spaniel frolicking in the grass twenty feet away. I wondered if people could even see him, big as he was, our poor old ghost dog. Other dogs, usually so keen to get real close and make a friend, trotted on by without a second sniff.

  It was funny at the start. Jim and I riffed about how being an invisible dog could have its advantages, like if Stormy used his lack of powers for good, or at least to meet his own ends. He could spend his days sneaking into butcher shops and spiriting away the best bones, then taking an illicit pee on a NO DOGS ALLOWED sign. Besides, we agreed, not everyone can be the star of the show, the one who lights up a room and dazzles at a dog park. We came to a sort of conclusion that maybe going unnoticed is wonderful, because any creature, dog or person, who flies under the radar is more likely to observe the world as it actually is, without the world bending to them. A low voice, aimed at Jim, boomed, “How the fuck would you know?” and I looked at Stormy, stunned that he could speak, shocked that he would drop the f-bomb just like that. Turns out he didn’t say it, and neither did I. It was just a thought I had. I want to be the star of the show, the one who lights up a room and dazzles at a dog park. I don’t want to be invisible and I don’t want this special quiet vantage point. Going unseen is ideal if you’re a documentary maker trying to minimize your gaze, but what about a fat teenager, or a middle-aged woman in a wheelchair, or that old man on the park bench opposite me that I only just noticed because he sneezed? Ultimately, being seen is a huge part of life, other people acknowledging our existence is like the sun shining on a little sapling; if those warm beams are missing, the sapling will find it impossible to flourish.

  There’s this Dustin Hoffman interview I watch online from time to time. It’s a straightforward show-business chat where he is discussing his long career and what the various roles he’s played have meant to him over the years. When he talks about the film Tootsie, where he plays a frustrated actor who has to play a woman to get a job, he starts to get choked up. Hoffman says that he wanted to be as beautiful a woman as possible, but when he watched his own screen test he realized he was not beautiful, and never would be. It’s then, all at once, that the value placed on a woman’s appearance strikes him. I wonder if he was better off learning the truth in one wrenching moment, a ripping off of the lip wax, as opposed to the way I learn it, a daily tweezing that makes my eyes water still. Maybe the rush of realization was necessary for him, because at that moment he had an epiphany and began to cry. Hoffman felt like the woman he was playing was an interesting woman, and he knew that
if he met that woman at a party, he would never have bothered talking to her. He understood then that there were too many interesting women he never experienced knowing in his life, because he had been brainwashed into not seeing them.

  Sometimes when I watch the interview I feel deeply sorry for him and all the other men who miss out on whole people, snuffling past them in search of an available doll who really doesn’t exist. Other times I feel a great wave of pity for myself, because I have been that interesting woman at a party, and I have felt those eyes see past me. I’ve experienced those one-sided conversations with a man who had no use for me, I’ve been there saying clever and funny things, bursting with opinions and ideas that may match or bolster or challenge his own, while being completely aware that he cannot hear a word I am saying.

  I should call it what it is: misogyny, that mad rule stating women are contemptible. That is what stuck in poor old Dustin Hoffman’s throat, and it sticks in mine too. One summer night in Prospect Park a band was playing on the bandstand and my friends and I were dancing on the grass, dancing quite badly and stopping to chat a lot, as is our way. I noticed my friend Joe, a man who’s handsome in a regular sort of way, talking animatedly with a woman who had approached him. I thought to myself that it was quite mean of him to engage with her and lead her on, because I judged by her appearance that he would not be interested in her. These thoughts crowded into my head within seconds, and when I caught them I almost gagged. This learned self-loathing, this misogyny right inside me, felt like a tapeworm creeping up my throat, and I hated it. And, of course, the woman may have been wholly uninterested in Joe, what did I know? The assumption I made, that she was interested, that she had to be, was the very one that drives me crazy when it’s made about me. There have been many social situations, from when I was a teenager to the present, in which I’ve wanted to take a man with a hunted look in his eyes gently by the shoulders and scream at him, “Do not be alarmed, I do not want to sleep with you. I’m just a person, talking.”

  The sun shone on Jim that morning in the same park, and he appeared to be golden. I looked at him, as he tried in vain to make Stormy drink some water from his canteen. He could be Stormy’s savior, the one to bring this dull mess of a creature over to the bright side. What a lovely thought! “It’s funny, the contrast between you,” I said, though I didn’t mean to. “What do you mean, like how we’re different species?” he asked, smiling his beautiful, innocent smile. “Kind of.” I wasn’t quite sure what to say. “I mean, like, physically he’s a wreck and you’re in such great shape. You know, like, your bodies are just opposites . . .” I trailed off, and in the little silence that followed I smiled in what I hoped was a natural way. I guess my smile could have been interpreted as creepy. Jim’s girlfriend certainly shuddered a little, despite the warm day. I beg your pardon, did I forgot to mention she was there this whole time? Anyway, she was, and she said, “C’mon, big guy, let’s take you home.” I was about to tell her that I was perfectly capable of going home by myself when I realized she was hauling on Stormy’s leash, and was more than likely speaking to him, not me. We said our goodbyes. I didn’t hug Jim like I usually do. Instead I high-fived them both, which is deeply out of character for me. If you ever see me with one hand raised, please assume I’m signaling danger and alert the authorities. After their awkward departure, I sat back down on the park bench and pulled my baseball cap over my eyes, picturing the rest of their day. They would bring Stormy back to the shelter, where he would blend in with all the other dogs not desirable enough to find a family. Then Jim and his beautiful girlfriend who said very little would go on about their successful, healthy routine of shared newspapers and long runs and familiar snuggles.

  Months later, I went back to the shelter on a lonely Sunday to find a dog to walk. I was assigned Amiga, a shy terrier with watchful hazel eyes. She grew more confident when we reached the park, and after tussling with a stick and barking at a skateboarder in his forties she grinned up at me. I returned the grin. I felt like if we went to a party together and someone was mean to me, I could rely on her to immediately get her coat as soon as I said, “Come on—we’re leaving.” In fact, the longer we stayed in the park and the more squirrels she eyed up, the easier I could picture her being the campy type of bitch who would turn and glare at the rest of the party before we swept out together. I know she would throw her drink at anyone who dared to giggle in the silence. My true Amiga. We stayed in the park for hours, playing around, lying on the grass, sharing water and beef jerky, and then slowly walked back to the shelter. I wasn’t upset as I handed her back to the shelter volunteer, who hung his head down so his blue hair covered his eyes. Amiga will be fine. Someone will fall in love with her, and treat her well, and she’ll live a long and happy life. I know this because her tongue permanently hangs out of her mouth, and it’s ugly-cute in the best possible way.

  I looked into the kennels before I left and couldn’t see Stormy anywhere. I wanted to see how he was doing, but he wasn’t there. Someone had chosen him: that is the only way out of this shelter. I checked with the volunteer, and Stormy had indeed found a home. Blessed day! The person who chose Stormy must not have minded his dry coat, his dull temperament, his heavy breathing. Perhaps today there is some life flickering back into his gauzy eyes, now that someone is beaming sunshine into them. I was wrong about Stormy: I had felt in my bones that he would never be seen, but he was. How unlikely, how lovely! I didn’t even mind being wrong. It felt like the time I explained in somber tones to my little nephew that the bouncy castle in their grandparents’ garden would be gone in the morning, because the party was over and the bouncy castle man had to take it away that night. Turns out the “bouncy castle man” didn’t bother collecting it for two more days. Such a happy mistake I’d made. The baby didn’t even question the castle, this sweet rift in the natural order of things, he just jumped on and had another brilliant day, and another.

  Compliments Girl on Your Kiss

  MY FRIEND EMMA and I took a car home on one of those hot summer nights when the subway was not running and the MTA had put some shoddy excuse on an official-looking sign that made everybody feel even more furious. THE F TRAIN ATE DINNER TOO LATE AND ISN’T FEELING GREAT. MEANWHILE PLEASE ENJOY THE DEMISE OF THE INFRASTRUCTURE OF THIS GREAT NATION BY TAKING A CAR HOME INSTEAD. Emma had played music that night (she is a singer-songwriter), and I was complimenting her work. I had been drinking and I was flowery in my language. You’re putting into words things I didn’t even know I felt until I heard them; your work is shimmeringly beautiful and almost decadent in its generosity; etc., etc. Emma slid down in her seat, almost melting beneath her seat belt, her knees buckling. For a moment I thought she might slip under the driver’s seat and disappear for good.

  She didn’t, instead gripping the edge of the seat as she made a sound of pure pleasure, a trill of being thrilled, that high excited whine made by a dog who really needs to pee when it sees its owner finally appearing with a leash. She squeezed her eyes shut and I kept up my steady stream of compliments. I was kind of joking, but I also meant what I was saying. I’m calling it right now—your work is exquisite, it’s like music with a melody at once familiar and somehow new, it explores the unrelenting divergence of the human condition. Emma’s squeal rose and rose as I spoke, until we both stopped to draw breath and began to laugh our heads off. I love compliments so much! she said, almost sadly, before closing her eyes and laying her head back on the headrest.

  The perfect compliment is actually contained within the receiver, and to be good at uncovering it you need to shuck the person open like an oyster. Using your mind and your instinct (not a knife) you need to get at their pearl, that part of themselves that started off as an irritant and became beautiful only when they themselves embraced it. My pearl is my weird hair. It is frizzy, curly, and straight all at the same time. Mainly, I resent it and punish it with heat treatments and various flattening techniques, but some days I leave it a
lone and think it looks . . . totally fine. And on days like that, when I don’t tug on it with a ceramic straightening iron or lacquer it down with an expensive potion, instead letting it do its own gravity-defying thing, and someone smiles and says, “I love your hair,” I am extra-pleased. Once, when I walked into a greenroom with my hair down, a middle-aged male comic said, “Well, that’s competition-winning hair,” I thought immediately, Oh, this guy is wonderful. There’s no such thing as hair competitions, but a compliment doesn’t have to be logical to do its job. It just has to identify the pearl and add a little luster, enough to make people feel good for a few seconds.

  I love compliments, but can only handle a small amount of them myself. I much prefer to be the one giving them. Like a celiac baker who insists on using gluten, I cannot stand what is in my own product. I physically wince. I trash the compliment I’m offered, and sometimes the person offering it. “This hair? It’s like seaweed, and you’re mentally deficient if you think otherwise.” I can’t put my finger on exactly why it bothers me. I’m not cynical about compliment-givers, and don’t often suspect ulterior motives on their part. I know that the compliment-giver is more often than not as guileless as a Labrador, the wind whistling clean through their head, unburdened by any nefarious machinations. I trust that they mean what they say, and somehow that makes it worse.

  I suspect part of my “no thank you, now put it away” attitude toward compliments is the fear of what would happen if I accepted them. Not being second-rate is scary, because it means you’re good to go, there’s no more waiting around required. God help the person who pushes compliments at me, because that makes me scared and mean. Oh, I’m clever and funny and pretty and good, am I? I guess that means I’ll have to step up and do a great job at life. How dare you? I am but a wilted flower being blown around by a fickle wind, and I must wait here meekly until death. So keep your compliments for someone who cares, you absolute clown! Compliments don’t jibe with my natural style, which is lamentation and self-pity, so I throw them back like a too-small fish, and while I’m at it I curse the river that sent them my way.