Bone to Pick

BONE TO PICK

On Friday, I rush home after school to shower, blow-dry my hair, put on makeup, put on the dress, accessorize. I wear my black boots, black stockings and a black faux-leather jacket. I wear my mother’s earrings, black diamond studs. I even wear red lipstick.

But then I change my mind and wipe it off.

On the drive over, I’m too nervous to listen to music. I listen to my phone calmly providing directions and to my own heart anxiously throbbing.

I open my mouth to speak words of affirmation like You can do this! or something along those lines, but what comes out is “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!”

My hands are so sweaty I can barely grip the steering wheel.

“Get it together,” I snarl at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I take a few deep breaths as I pull into the parking lot. I find a space far away from the restaurant, hoping it’ll give me time to walk off my nerves. I don’t let myself linger in the car. I force myself out into the frigid November night.

Having to slog across the parking lot doesn’t do much for my nerves. My sweat freezes my hair to my temples. I almost twist my ankle in a pothole. By the time I open the door to the restaurant, I’m even more agitated than I was before.

It’s a kitschy place. A lot of wood. Ceiling beams wrapped in colorful lights. There are ambiguous flags on the walls, many of them featuring lions or crests, many of them both. The tables are close together and people are drinking out of beer steins. It might be German themed.

I might be on a blind double date at a German-themed restaurant.

Am I going to have to eat sausage in front of strangers?

“Annie!” Jill is waving at me from the bar, her ponytail going wild.

There are two men next to her. One I recognize from the photos on her desk. He’s pretty standard-looking. Guessing that he watches football on Sundays in his lucky sweatpants and that he enjoys trips to Home Depot. He probably has strong opinions about women in politics. I don’t know what they are. But I bet he has them.

The other guy, the guy behind Jill’s husband, is . . . not bad-looking. He’s got a stubbly half beard and dark hair that he’s obviously put some effort into styling. His nose is substantial, and I like it. I want to touch it. Run my fingers over it. He’s got full lips and big eyes. Almost a unibrow but it works.

I walk over, nearly smashing into a waitress passing by with a tray of food. I choose to play it off like it didn’t happen, as the waitress huffs away in her truly unfortunate lederhosen-inspired uniform.

“Hey,” I say to Jill.

“Hi!” she says. “Can I hug you?”

“Sure.”

She throws her arms around my neck. I guess I never realized how short she is. I feel like a giant. I should have worn flats.

“This is my husband, Dan,” she says.

Dan stands up and shakes my hand. I knew he would. He looks like a handshaker. I bet he’ll give his children handshakes instead of hugs.

Maybe I’m projecting because my dad never hugged me. I’m familiar with parental affection in the form of an awkward pat on the back, a firm handshake. The occasional coveted high five.

“And this is Pascal,” Jill says, her voice lilting.

Pascal doesn’t stand up. He waves. “Hi,” he says.

I can’t tell if he’s shy or disappointed.

“Hi. I’m Annie.”

“I know,” he says, and sips his drink. So, not shy.

“Let me check if they’ll seat us,” Jill says, and skips over to the host.

“So,” Dan says, “heard you used to live in the Big Apple.”

“Yeah,” I say, “for twelve years. I just moved here.”

“I never understood why anyone would want to live there. Smells like garbage!”

“Not all the time,” I say. Once you’ve lived in New York, it becomes like a sibling. I can bash it, call it names, but no one else can.

“Table is ready,” Jill sings.

Dan chugs his beer. Pascal doesn’t say or do much of anything. I can feel my anxiety metastasize. My legs go weak underneath me, and I’m afraid I won’t make it to the table. I’m afraid they’ll give, and I’ll fall flat on my face in front of the entire restaurant.

Maybe the other diners are too busy eating giant pretzels to notice.

I get to the table and am seated next to Pascal and Jill, across from Dan, who appears to be scrutinizing me.

“You’re pretty tall,” he says.

“Your server will be right with you,” the host says before quite literally running away from us.

“How tall are you?” Dan asks.

“Five nine,” I say, putting the menu up in front of my face. If he can’t see me, maybe he’ll forget I’m here.

“That’s tall for a girl,” he says.

I shrug. “It’s not that tall.”

“Did you play basketball?”

“Nope.”

“Volleyball?”

“No,” I say, “I played soccer.”

“Soccer?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“Huh,” he says. He sounds skeptical.

“Pascal, did you play any sports in high school?” Jill asks.

“Erm,” he says. “I ran track. And I was the captain of ski club.”

“Ooh, that’s cool,” Jill says. “Annie, do you ski?”

“No,” I say. “Sorry.”

The waiter comes by. Dan orders another beer and Jill gets a vodka cranberry. Pascal gets a whiskey neat, which is telling. I also order a whiskey.

Jill asks for the pretzel appetizer and the beer cheese dip. Beer cheese doesn’t sound too appealing to me, but I’m operating under the belief that this dinner is a bad dream, and soon I’ll wake up in my apartment with a lump on my head. It seems to be an effective coping mechanism.

If I were to accept this situation as reality, I’m fairly certain I’d immediately be crushed like a bug under the sheer force of unpleasantness.

“I love this cheese,” Jill says, understanding her role as the load-bearing wall. “I love all cheese, but this cheese is my all-time favorite. Dan says I’m cheesy.”

“You are cheesy,” he says.

“See?” she asks.

Where is my whiskey? I wish Sophie were here. I’d love to see the look on her face as she witnessed this conversation.

I understand now why she would choose to live mainly in isolation. I understand now why I spent years content to stay home with Sam and not interact with other people. It’s too much of a gamble. Some people are terrible.

Like Dan, who is blatantly staring at me.

“What do you teach? Math?” he asks me.

“English and ASL,” I say.

“What’s ASL?”

“American Sign Language.”

“Can you say something in sign language?”

“Yes,” I say.

The waiter sets my whiskey down. Pascal reaches for it, thinking it’s his, and our hands touch.

I look up at him, and he’s looking back at me. His face is void of expression. A brick is more emotive.

He retracts his hand. I gulp my whiskey.

“What’s everyone getting for their main?” Jill asks. “I was thinking the brat with the potato salad. Or maybe the schnitzel.”

Nothing on the menu calls to me. I think my appetite has been permanently destroyed by this interaction.

A pretzel that’s so large and twisty that it resembles a crusty brown octopus is plopped down in the center of the table, along with a cast-iron bowl of bubbling orange cheese.

Jill and Dan dig in, ripping at the pretzel and dunking it in the cheese. Double-dipping. Pascal stares into the depths of his whiskey. Mine’s already gone.

When the waiter comes back to take our order, I ask for another whiskey.

“What will you have to eat?” the waiter asks.

“Oh,” I say, “I guess the mixed green salad. With chicken.”

“A salad?” Dan asks.

“Is that not acceptable to you?” I ask, because the whiskey’s in me now, lowering my tolerance for bullshit.

Dan raises an eyebrow. Jill laughs a nervous, high-pitched giggle. Pascal pulls a classic Pascal move and does absolutely nothing.

The waiter flees. Dan gnaws on a chunk of pretzel and says, “One of the things I liked about Jill was, on our first date, she ordered a cheeseburger. I like a girl who eats.”

“I definitely eat!” Jill says. “I can eat.”

She takes another piece of pretzel and drenches it in cheese, then pops it into her mouth as if she’s trying to prove a point.

“So,” I say, desperate for a change of subject, “how long have you two been married?”

“Three years,” Jill says. “But we still act like newlyweds.”

Something happens under the table and they both giggle and squirm. I throw up a little in my mouth. I swallow it back down, chase it with whiskey.

I shouldn’t have allowed myself to hope that this night would go any better than the way it’s going. That was my mistake.

I see the picture. Sam. Shannon. Her on his lap. Their faces so close. Their cheeks red and slick with that happy glow.

“How did you meet?” I ask them.

“We met in college,” Jill says. “He played football and I was a cheerleader.”

“I was dating her friend at the time,” he says. “Then I traded that one in for a better model.”

I gasp midsip, spitting a little whiskey back into my glass. I guess I’m the only one offended by this comment. Jill seems tickled by it.

“Excuse me,” I say. “I’ll be right back.”

“Are you going to the bathroom? I’ll go with you,” Jill says.

“No,” I say. “I . . . I forgot something. I have to make a call.”

I book it to the bathroom and lock myself inside a stall. I press my forehead against the door, let it hold my weight.

“Don’t cry,” I whisper to myself. “Don’t cry.”

I pull my head back and notice the graffiti on the stall door. I put the toilet seat down and sit on top of it with my head in my hands. I read the graffiti to distract myself.

RL NJ

Jess & Rocky 4everrrr

I love Dick!!!

It’s okay, Annie.

I stop. Read it again.

It’s okay, Annie.

“Sophie?” I say, tracing my fingers over the words written in what looks like red Sharpie. When I bring my hand away, the red has transferred to my fingertips. I rub my fingers together. It spreads. It’s fresh ink.

“Sophie? Is that you?”

Don’t worry.

The words have changed.

And they change again.

It’s one night.

“It’s miserable,” I say. “How did I ever think this was a good idea?”

It’s okay. You’re okay.

“It’s okay. I’m okay.”

The night is yours.

“What do you mean?”

Take it back.

Give them hell.

I run my fingers over the words again, and this time they disappear from the door altogether. There’s nothing there. It’s all on my hands now. They’re covered in sticky red ink.

I come out of the stall, and there’s a woman there with a flat mouth who’s looking at me like I’m a foul creature.

I wonder if she heard me talking. She must think I was talking to myself.

Or she sees my hands covered in red and thinks I’m indecent.

I avoid her on my way to the sink.

It takes a long time to wash the ink off of my hands. It requires a lot of soap, an aggressive lather. As I wash them, I look at myself in the mirror.

I hear Sophie’s voice in my head.

Take it back. Give them hell.

Why should I let these people ruin my night? Why should I let stupid Dan make me feel bad?

When I get back to the table, I sit up straight and pull my chair in. They’re all looking at me like I owe them an explanation. I don’t give them one.

“We were just talking about jobs,” Jill says. “Pascal works for his family’s logging business. In accounting.”

“Cool,” I say in a tone that makes it very clear I do not think it’s cool. I finish my whiskey and wave over the waiter. “May I have another, please?”

“What’s that?” Dan asks. “Your third?”

“You can count!” I say.

Jill does her awkward laugh. It sounds like a dying motor.

“Logging,” she says, “is really lucrative. Right, Pascal?”

He nods.

“Pascal is from Vermont. Vermont is beautiful,” Jill says. “Have you ever been, Annie?”

“I don’t think so,” I say. “Too busy burrowing in my NYC trash mountain.”

I look at Dan, who is busy examining the cheese he’s spilled on his shirt.

It occurs to me as he dips his napkin in his water glass and begins to pat away at the congealed orange glob that maybe this isn’t the best approach. Maybe I should accept that this night isn’t going my way and take the loss with grace, instead of getting drunk and sarcastic, doubling down on the unpleasantness and actively contributing to a collective misery.

When the waiter brings my next whiskey, I ask for a ginger ale and push the whiskey away. But it’s too late. I know I’m already buzzed by the motion of the room, by the way my eyes are reluctant to focus. I’ve been too nervous to eat anything all day, and while I’ve built up my tolerance over the past few months of excessive drinking, it hasn’t made me insusceptible.

I take a deep breath and spread my napkin across my lap.

“Did you grow up in the city?” Jill asks me.

“No,” I say. “I grew up in Connecticut. But I went to the city for college and never left. Well, until now, I guess. Obviously.”

“Why leave?” Pascal asks. It’s the first question out of his mouth all evening, and it’s rude.

“Personal reasons,” I say.

“What’s that code for?” Dan asks.

Code for “none of your damn business.” “Long story.”

“We’ve got all night,” he says.

But then the food comes, and everyone’s distracted.

I stab at my sad salad. Droopy romaine. Pieces of tough gray chicken. A pool of watery dressing at the bottom of the bowl. My stomach withers.

The good news is that the rest of the table is preoccupied with eating, so the quiet that ensues isn’t painful; it just is. I let it exist, find some sanctuary inside it. I’m getting through it. I’m doing it. I’m surviving.

“How’s your salad?” Dan asks.

“Good,” I lie.

“Here,” he says, leaning across the table and plopping a greasy chunk of sausage on my plate. “You need some meat on your bones.”

I gawk at the sausage, at its charred skin peeling away to reveal a too-pink center, the most unappealing, cratered texture. It oozes liquid onto my already damp, overdressed salad.

I push the plate away, unable to stomach its appearance.

“Uh-oh, better call the guidance counselor,” Dan says. “We’ve got a problem.”

He points to me and then mimes making himself throw up, indicating he believes I’m bulimic.

Jill slaps his hand, a playful rebuke.

“Fine,” Dan says. “Don’t take my advice. But if you’re wondering why Pascal is so quiet . . .”

“Dan!” Jill says, but it’s through laughter. She’s genuinely charmed by everything he says. It’s mind-boggling.

“All right,” I say. “Thanks for the tip.”

“There it is! Some gratitude. You’re welcome,” he says, smiling. A big dumb, self-satisfied grin. He has no idea how much of an asshole he’s being. I imagine it started in his youth, a few bad off-color jokes that people laughed at to be polite, or because they had terrible senses of humor, or because they were family and loved him so much they’d marvel at anything he said or did, or because his primary audience was a bunch of prepubescent peers. And as time went on, he continued to get this positive reinforcement. If the occasional person didn’t laugh at his bad jokes or bullying or general shtick, he’d assume it was their fault, that they were no fun, sticks-in-the-mud. In adulthood, he’s surrounded himself with like-minded idiots to insulate himself from any negative feedback.

And through this lifelong cycle of validation and fortification, his ego has transformed into something large and dangerous. I picture a Godzilla-like creature with an enormous, destructive body and a teeny-tiny brain. Terrorizing those smart enough to recognize it, entertaining those too stupid to realize they’ve created a monster— and monsters can’t be unmade.

Watching him chew, opening his mouth to shovel more food in before he swallows what’s already inside, I’m certain he doesn’t have an ounce of self-awareness. I’m also certain it’s no excuse, though nothing I can say or do in the next hour will magically change him. Make him realize that he’s been horrifically rude the entire night and apologize profusely.

Pascal, too. If he’s not attracted to me, fine. Ouch, but fine. The least he could do is make minimal conversation. Not sit there making small, erratic movements like a malfunctioning animatronic puppet whose memory has been wiped of words.

I think about Sam, about what it would be like if he were here. We’d be making fun of the decor, drinking soda because we’d be too embarrassed to drink out of beer steins and too happy to have any need for hard liquor. We’d order cheeseburgers and he’d get fries and I’d get onion rings and we’d share. We’d speak to each other in bad German accents. Maybe we’d call each other Hansel and Gretel.

“How’s everything?” the waiter asks.

“Great!” Jill says.

“Can you bring more of the cheese?” Dan asks. “And another pretzel.”

“Okay,” the waiter says. “I’ll be right back with that.”

“Are you still going to be hungry for dessert?” Jill asks Dan. She turns to me. “They have the best dessert here. Have you ever had Black Forest cake?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Yeah, right,” Dan says. “Look at her. She’s never had a piece of cake in her life.”

I open my mouth to defend myself, to say that I eat cake all the time and that I’m just naturally thin. That this is the way my body looks and has looked since I was about fourteen. But I zip my lips back together. What difference will it make?

My insecurity comes knocking. Maybe I am so thin it’s repulsive. Maybe Pascal is disgusted by me. There was this guy in high school who told me he thought having sex with me would be like having sex with a pile of bones. I cried about it for weeks. Years, even. I’ll probably cry about it tonight.

“Ow,” Dan says. His face, which has been locked in the same dumb-happy expression all night, has suddenly changed. His eyes are dark, small and concerned, his eyebrows sinking. His lips bulge along with his cheeks, his mouth full of too much food.

“What is it?” Jill asks.

He reaches up, puts his fingers to his lips. Something thin and sharp and pale begins to protrude, to stab itself through. He grabs it, holds it up to the light.

It’s a bone. A tiny white bone.

“What is that?” Jill asks. “Is that a bone?”

It’s so small; it’s like a fish bone or a bird bone. But I thought he was eating sausage?

He sets the bone down on the table, then returns his hands to his mouth as it births another bone. This one is considerably larger.

“Oh, my God!” Jill says.

Dan sets the second bone down next to the first, then goes back to his mouth to pull out yet another bone. This one is so big I don’t know how it fit in his mouth in the first place.

Jill gasps so loudly that it gets the attention of the diners at all of the surrounding tables.

Dan sets the third bone down. I think he’s going back for more, but instead he grabs his napkin and spits the rest of the contents of his mouth into it. When he pulls the napkin away, his mouth is dark, and I realize the darkness is blood. He’s bleeding from his mouth. He plops the napkin down on his plate, and it unfolds to reveal the beigy pulp of chewed pretzel, chunks of pink sausage, tiny spiky white bones and a lot—a lot—of blood.

Jill is horrified. Her hands are on her face; her mouth is contorted into a scream position, though no sound escapes. Pascal’s eyes are wide, nostrils flared. Dan looks utterly exhausted. He’s ashen, eyes barely open. Blood drips from the sides of his mouth.

I look at the bones, back at Dan, back at the bones. And for some reason, the reaction that rises from inside me, from the core of me, is laughter. I start laughing.

It’s quiet at first. But . . . it builds quickly.

I can’t control it. The look on his face—I can’t describe it.

I’m laughing so hard my obliques begin to ache. Tears drip from my eyes, travel with a delightful sensation down my face.

I’m aware they’re looking at me. Jill’s horror is now directed toward me, along with Pascal’s big eyes. And Dan, of course, is staring at me in complete shock, his expression wounded and stupid.

The nearby diners, too. All too curious to go back to their own bad meals and boring conversations.

It’s too much. I can’t catch my breath.

I turn in my seat so I have room to hunch over, so my spine can curl the way it wants to, so the tension in my neck releases. I stay like this, laughing, until the waiter comes over and asks if everything is all right.

“It is not all right!” Jill screeches. “There were bones in my husband’s food!”

“What?” the waiter asks.

“Look!”

My laughter begins to subside as I peer up to see what the waiter’s reaction is. I’d say it is mainly confusion.

Dan’s skin looks the color and consistency of cement. There are rust-hued stains on the sides of his mouth from the blood. He’s not bleeding anymore. His jaw is slack, and in the dark void of his mouth, I can see teeth. His teeth. Still attached. His tongue is extended slightly. Also still attached.

He’s fine. No major damage has been done. I use my napkin to dab away my remaining laughter tears.

The waiter stares at the bones.

“Well?” Jill says.

“I’m sorry about this,” the waiter says, reaching to clear the plate with the bloody napkin on it.

“This is ridiculous!” Jill says. “He could have choked and died! Are you okay, honey?”

Dan nods his head but doesn’t say anything. I bet it’s the first time in his life he’s ever been speechless.

“We’re not paying for this!” Jill says. “I want to speak to a manager. This is unacceptable. Disgusting.”

She’s shouting, and her voice carries throughout the restaurant. Silverware begins to clink, clink, clink all around us. The sound of people setting down their forks and knives and spoons, too afraid to take another bite.

The manager comes over and apologizes. She offers to escort Jill and Dan to her office, I assume to prevent the rest of the diners from hearing any further details about the fiasco. Jill helps Dan up, and as he stumbles to his feet, another chuckle escapes me. I cover my mouth, but it’s too late.

Dan looks at me, his eyes focusing after being blank and dead for a few solid minutes. His expression is a mix of confusion and fear. Or maybe it’s suspicion. Whatever he’s thinking or feeling, it’s definitely about me. Jill, too, only her feelings are clear. Anger. Disgust. She glowers at me as I sit with my hand clapped over my mouth.

The manager ushers them away. Dan now possesses a wobbly wide-legged gait, like he’s just had a colonoscopy. Jill follows at his heels, her hands placed on his back as if she’s pushing him or worried he’ll fall. They turn a corner and disappear.

I exhale and take a sip of ginger ale, and when I set it down, I realize Pascal is still here, sitting right next to me.

“Why’d you laugh?” he asks.

“Nervous reaction,” I say, proud of myself for coming up with a quick plausible lie.

“Huh,” he says.

A minute goes by, and in it I come to the conclusion that there’s nothing else to do but leave.

“All right,” I say, standing, “I’m going to go.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” he says.

“Nice meeting you,” I say. “Good luck with the logs.”

He seems offended by my words, which admittedly came out more venomous than intended. I do genuinely wish him luck with the logs. Without a personality, they’re probably all he has.

I hurry out of the restaurant to my car. I take off my shoes the second I sit down and toss them in the backseat.

I don’t know why exactly, but I feel good. I drive home singing a song I make up as I go.

By the time I pull into the driveway, I’m so full of energy it’s coming out of my ears. I leave my shoes in the car and run into the backyard, saying a quick hello to Mr. Frog.

The grass is dead and scratchy underneath my feet, but I don’t care. I like the feel of it. I dance on top of it, singing my song from the car.

And when you hate someone you meet,

they will get a tasty treat,

bones on their tongue and in their cheeks,

bones to make them hush and make them bleed.

Bones are the escape you need;

you can sing and dance alone,

all thanks to the bones.

Above me, the moon is full and shines silvery white.

So bright, so bright, so bright.

But the brightness isn’t just above me. It’s in front of me. Glowing toward me.

There’s a light on.

Downstairs.

The light is coming from a downstairs window.

I notice it now. The other car. It’s parked in the street in front of the house.

Lynn.

She’s home.

And she’s standing in the window, staring at me. She’s been watching me. I don’t know for how long. Long enough.

I should be mortified. Right now I should be experiencing the excruciating sting of embarrassment. I’ve felt it for less.

And yet.

I face the window. I step forward so I can be fully illuminated, so my smile is not masked in shadow. I wave to the face behind the glass. To Lynn.

With a quick swish of the curtains, she’s gone, and the light goes off.

“Oops!” I say to myself. And to the moon, “Oh, well.”

I lay myself down in the grass, waiting to feel some belated humiliation.

It never arrives.

I revel in its absence. It’s liberating.

I laugh and laugh.