Boys Life

The next day I do exactly what you’d have done too. I Facebook her one last time. I swear, the last time I’ll do it. No more. After this cleaning up my act, not hollering at Ashley again. She does not reply, and I don’t embarrass myself further.

I break down one day and Facebook the girl I know who works with Ashley for some scoop. I just want some closure. I want to hear that she has a boyfriend, that she is a lesbian, that she has a cock, anything.

I’m sorry about the whole Ashley thing, I think you may have gotten the wrong idea…I don’t know how to explain it. It’s certainly an unusual situation.
Anyway, hope you are well too. Thank you for asking..

I reply that it didn’t seem that complicated, that I asked for her number at Bowery, got it, but we never got together.

hmmm…yes…I guess people do things like that after a few drinks when they are not being entirely honest about their situations.

I assume she is telling me this girl was drunk and has a boyfriend. Cool, case fucking closed. Finally. Closure.

My life remains Ashley free for a wile. A few different friends land gigs DJing where she works. I always contemplate tagging along, but I never do. I’m too embarrassed. I suggest they look out for the Twins. One brings reports of Emily but none of Ashley. I implore him to pursue the twin sister even though she’s totally out of his league. He knows she is but does anyway, I think just for me. Nothing.

It’s a Sunday in late December. Walking down Second Avenue one of my friends insists we hit Whole Foods for a walk around. He says he’s got a gut feeling, we have to stop through. We split up inside Whole Foods and right away I run into a friend and get invited to a promising holiday party. Dope. I head back to the prepared foods area and find my buddy talking to the girl who works with Ashley. The three of us cruise the isles and chat it up for a while. Finally, before we all split up and go our separate ways, I think of Ashley.

“So I never quite got the whole story on the Ashley chick, she have a man or what?”

“Oh well, I don’t work there anymore so I guess I can tell you.”

“Ashley and Emily are the same person. It’s some type of Social Experiment…”

The story comes out in fragments. These are not direct quotes only bits of what my mind held onto. Spill a pack of Skittles onto an elementary school desk, see how may you can catch. How many bright reds, purples, and greens are in your hands, and how many are rolling across nicotine yellow and off white linoleum, how may disappear under rotting bookshelves, under, pissy radiators.

Emily is super smart, she’s a writer.
She does this thing.
Her hair is crazy and attracts a lot of attention.
She wears a wig and goes out as Ashley.
This other character.
The second Facebook is for this alter ego.
She wasn’t into it, I guess.
I felt bad for you.
Yeah a wig.
I had to work with her that’s why I didn’t tell you.
I guess she just broke up with someone, a long term relationship.
She’s really smart.
A writer.
A writer.
So pretty.
Amazing bone structure.
Smart.
A writer.
Beautiful.
Social Experiment.

Skittles spill everywhere…

I am dumbfounded. In shock. In front of the chocolate display case, next to some crazy Adaptation type orchids, I’m almost catatonic.

I’m feeling it again as I write this. Re-living the story, remembering, then typing the details. Thinking about the texting, my decisions to try and be clever. Being candid about some shit via text to appeal to some Facebook apparition. I’m looking back at the pieces, and it’s so fucking obvious. In a movie you’d have known immediately.

First act: ASHLEY AND EMILY ARE THE SAME PERSON!

I go on Facebook and check out both her profiles. The real person Emily, and the not so real Ashley. God, it’s so obvious. I feel so dumb. I don’t know if I loathe her, or if I want to sleep with her more than anything, more than anyone. I wonder how damaged she is from that relationship my friend mentioned. If that’s why she goes out in a wig, playing dress up, toying with people. I’m sure she’s intelligent, probably too smart for her own good. That keeps going over and over in my head, my friend saying she’s so smart, that she’s a writer. I want to smoke cigarettes, to lash out at her, concoct schemes, trick her into communicating with Boys Life; lure in the writer. Ever lose a shit load of money gambling? I have. An overweight Midwesterner in a purple vest pulling my chips across green felt, plunking them into a drop box, gone forever. A week or two of work, instantly meaningless. My stomach is vibrating and I feel it in my whole body. Nausea, but something else too. Every dollar gone sates a voice. A voice that tells me to lose, to fuck up, to self destruct. At the ATM, then back at the green felt. As much as I win, eventually I’ll give it all back, to get that feeling. I’ve never gone very far with gambling, for whatever reason. Its call is not that strong. A scratch off once in a while, maybe Mega Millions. I’ve avoided disaster on the felt for years now. I’ll play in the occasional card game, but if it’s not about spending time with my friends and having fun I don’t sit down.

I’ve figured out an in, a clever way to get Emily communicating. I start framing a Facebook message. Plotting. The poker feeling wells, and a wave crashes inside my abdomen. I feel disgusting and I fucking know better. I click off the Boyslife Facebook and return to this story, to finish it, post it and be done with the whole thing.

BL