Damn Girl—You a Lesbian?
By Neal Mackey
Stephanie added me as a friend on Facebook the following morning and posted, “I appreciated last night.” In an effort to be aloof, I didn’t say anything. A few weeks passed, and I was going to return to the city to see my friends again. I left a message on Stephanie’s wall: “hey, I’m gonna be in the city. Let’s hang.” She replied, encouragingly, “yeah, let’s – give me a call anytime after 4pm.”
When I got into the city, I met Jordan to see a movie and when we got out I gave Stephanie a call. No answer. I left a message. I called again three hours later. No answer. This time I didn’t leave a message. After feeling anxious for the necessary amount of time and wondering why she hadn’t called me, I decided to let it go.
The semester after that summer, I took a course on Modernist German literature. After class I was walking towards my apartment and I struck up a convo with a girl I’d never seen before, Glennis. Again, it was that friendly time of the year. As it turned out, we both knew Stephanie, and in fact Stephanie was her best friend. Then, turning the corner, who should we run into but Stephanie, on her way back to campus. We hugged and said hello, like we had known each other for ages. “Let’s hang out,” she said, not mentioning the last time she had flaked. My interest, again, was piqued.
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s talk soon.” I left it at that, and went on my way.
Before I even had the chance to make plans with Stephanie, I ran into her at a coffee shop where we were both studying. She approached me and asked me if I wanted to come to a potluck at her apartment the following Friday. Of course, I obliged. I felt encouraged by her, as if she unequivocally liked me, and there would be no song and dance about it. Naturally, if I were in the same situation today, I would feel no such sentiment, and assume nothing at all about her potential feelings for me.
The night of the party arrived. It was a brunch themed potluck, so I brought a nice Bloody Mary mix and a bottle of vodka. It was raining outside, and I brought along a big umbrella I had purchased in Munich over the summer while at language school. The bus took me to her neighborhood too early, so I had to walk around and occupy myself in the rain while I waited for the appointed start time.
I didn’t know many people at the party except a few acquaintances with whom I wasn’t close, but I still enjoyed myself. I spoke with Stephanie periodically throughout the evening, but she was occupied with cooking and with other host duties. Nonetheless, by the end of the evening, we were sitting next to each other on the couch, along with her friend Rose. We were having a conversation about something or other: I was probably talking about Seinfeld and its application to my life, or some other kind of media theory topic I was into at the time, and she was indulging me and giving her full attention. There was a palpable seriousness about the way she spoke to me – she was direct, thoughtful, and again, lucid for having imbibed copiously throughout the evening.
I made sure that my body was situated as close as possible to hers. Our feet – we had no shoes on – were touching. You know how sometimes these small gestures can be indicative of the potential for intimacy. I spoke with Rose, too, a girl with short, pixie hair that Stephanie had met at a political rally. Finally it was clear that I’d better leave because things were dying down. Stephanie walked me to the door. We expressed interest in seeing each other the next day, for brunch in fact. Well, I thought, this is a good sign. On the bus ride home, I realized I had forgotten my umbrella at her place.
The following morning, she was supposed to meet me in front of my place, and then we would walk around and choose somewhere to eat. She did not show up, and several phone calls and text messages proved futile. I was beginning to notice what I thought was a trend – she was extremely flaky, it seemed. A few days passed, and I received a Facebook message: “you stood me up,” it said.
I was taken aback. “You flaked on me,” I replied. Well, we concluded that it was a misunderstanding, and agreed to get coffee the next time I would be in her neighborhood, which was the following day.
I called her and left a message. I did not hear back at all that day. I was beginning to get frusturated and perplexed – just what was going on? Was she playing some elaborate game? Every time we spoke she seemed so interested, but it seemed like without fail she would flake. I consulted with my friends. Jordan said, “she’s Ms. Flaky pants.” My friend Anna just thought she was crazy. My indignation grew. My friends fueled the fire, particularly Anna. I felt offended at this person’s inability to comply with normal social procedures and regulations. If she just didn’t want to see me, all she had to do was ignore my calls totally. But instead, it seemed like she waited days on end, and then responded, encouraging me anew to pursue.
I remembered that she had my umbrella. “Hey,” I said in a text, “I’d really like to get that umbrella back. Can we meet for coffee and you can bring it along?” She replied, encouragingly as always, saying that we could meet the following Tuesday when she was free and get coffee. She added that she was looking forward to seeing me, because it had been a while. What nerve! I thought, indignation swelling up inside me. All the same, I wanted to see her.
She did not show up, and as always, a phone call to attempt and see what was going on proved futile. I was at a loss. Then one evening, stewing in my room, reading Baudrillard, I began ruminating over something my therapist had told me. She had said that I was being masochistic and not owning my emotions. God damn it! I said to myself. That’s the end of it!
It was 11pm. I borrowed my friend William’s car and drove over to her apartment. In the car there was a Cat Steven’s tape and the song “Don’t by Shy” was playing. I cranked it up. That seemed to fuel my indignation all the more.
I buzzed. Her roommate came down and answered. “Is Stephanie there?” I asked, politely. “Hold on,” he said. “She might be in bed.” A few moments passed and she came downstairs. She was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, as if she had in fact been in bed.
“Hey Neal, what are you doing here?” she asked, perhaps slightly off-put that I had come at that hour. Despite all of my anger and indignation, I was disarmed by the sight of her. I did my best to list all of my complaints and express my confusion over how she had been.
“Neal,” she said purposefully, “my phone has been having a lot of problems. I never get calls or voicemails sometimes until days after. I’m sorry.”
“Well I…”
“You know, this is kind of crazy. You’re acting crazy. It’s 11pm, I’m trying to sleep, I have to go to bed tomorrow, and you’re here for your umbrella.”
I felt like that one line in the Leonard Cohen song “Take this Longing”: “Your body like a searchlight, my poverty revealed.”
“Well, I thought…you know,” I mumbled. Suddenly, something seemed to register with her.
“Neal,” she said, less angry this time, but still exasperated, “I’m seeing someone. Remember Rose, from the party? She’s my girlfriend.”
I stood there. I felt embarrassed and humiliated, of course, but I realized that the situation had now totally come to an end in a comedic twist of events. Suddenly I found myself saying, “damn girl – you a lesbian?”
“Yeah, I guess,” she said angrily. “I’m going to get your umbrella and you can go.” I waited there for few moments, smarting. She returned and handed me my umbrella. “Here you go,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said. “I’m sorry,” I added. She closed the door.
I still don’t have that umbrella, because the next day I left it at a professor’s office, and I never got around to picking it up.