Meanwhile you’re stuck in the house with Jimmy, whom you’ve been trying to avoid for days, to the point where he’s knocking quietly on your door not knowing if you’re even in there, asking if you need anything from the grocery store when he goes, because he knows the only food in the house is his. When you finally open the door to tell him Yes, that would be great, because you realize now that your existence here, were you to stay, would be limited to whatever might happen at home; you should just go ahead and grow long braids, claim your place as the Rapunzel of Laurel Canyon. Jimmy offers to help you get more comfortable behind the wheel, and mentions that he has a friend who knows about a waitressing job. You say Thanks, maybe, though at this point you’re pretty sure he knows that none of these things are going to happen, and as such, thankfully, whatever it was he wanted to talk about can be put off for a few decades, until, hopefully, you will have gotten your shit together.
— So, do I do anything besides mess up relationships during this time?
— I don’t know, do you?
—. .
— Seems like you’re kind of messing up everything during this time, no?
—. .
— You remember not telling me much of anything about anything, right?
— That part you have right.
NYC, 1960
Before I’m born, you and Dad take a trip to New York City. Fred’s parents have given you an extravagant weekend in the city as a pre-baby gift; they put you up at the Essex House and have arranged for orchestra seats for a performance of Manon Lescaut at the Met. You have a smart suit with three-quarter sleeves, which you can still wear if you let out the skirt just a bit, and you pick up a new pair of eight-button gloves to go with it. It’s your first time in the city, and at the Metropolitan Opera, and you’re giddy just thinking about it. Dad pulls the Buick up to the hotel on a Friday afternoon, not sure where to park; a valet offers to take care of it for two dollars, you and Dad look at each other wide-eyed, but since the trip is all expenses paid, you shrug and giggle and Dad takes out the suitcases and hands over the keys. The frisson of a lifestyle you wouldn’t hate moves through you; it’s physical. Another attendant comes for the suitcases; you haven’t thought about how much to tip; you whisper to Dad Twenty-five cents a bag maybe? He says Let’s make it fifty to be safe, handing over a dollar bill. Your eyes widen; under any other circumstances, handing out money like this would be unthinkable. You check in, and the bellhop escorts you to the elevator — operated by an elevator man! — then shows you to your room on the twenty-ninth floor, overlooking the park. You look out the window and put your gloved hands to your face like you’re in a Doris Day movie. You need something to do, right this minute, with this energy in you.
— Okay, look, I’m stuck. There should probably be sex right here, but you understand why I don’t want to imagine that, right?
— I imagined it when I was writing about you, Betsy.
— Not exactly.
— What do you mean? I’ve given you three sex scenes already.
— No, I’ve given myself three sex scenes as I imagined you would imagine them. But it’s still me imagining me having sex, not me imagining you having sex. With my dad.
— Your father and I had sex, you know.
— I do know, because you told me many times. Can’t I just summarize here, or skip over it? I don’t like writing sex, period.
— You have to write the sex.
— No I don’t. I don’t have to do anything.
— All the great books have sex in them.
— That isn’t true.
— I never heard of a book without sex.
— What?
— You can do whatever you want, but you may be missing an opportunity.
— I’ll take that chance.
In summary: you and Dad have sex, and it’s the best sex you’ve ever had. It’s not like anything different happens, move-wise; it’s not like anything different ever happens. But whatever was already in your body makes this time totally different. It’s the first time you realize you want more. Of everything.
— I’m going to eat a sandwich now and try to put this behind me.
The performance is spectacular. Renata Tebaldi is glorious, Richard Tucker is in top form, and you can feel their chemistry from your seat. You had heard their Andrea Chénier on the radio, which was riveting; hearing them together live is indescribable. You weep through half the performance, along with most of the audience. The Met orchestra is absolutely, divinely masterful. Tebaldi comes out for her bow, receives a standing ovation, wild bravas from the audience, roses are brought out, even Tucker bows to her.
Someday that will be you.
Wherein You Are Maybe Going to Be a Talent Agent
So you come back from Los Angeles after eleven days and move back in with us. Nobody’s too happy about it, but because you are both depressed and humbled by this adventure in cross-country problem solving, we refrain from getting on your case about moving out, at least for the time being, and you find a new apartment soon enough, a one-bedroom on Eighty-Fifth and Riverside. It’s one of those old buildings that doesn’t have much to say from the outside (or from the lobby, or from any of the grim, mud-green hallways), twelve stories so they wouldn’t have to worry about whether or not to have a thirteenth floor, neither prewar nor post-. It’s not as nice as the brownstone you lived in on Seventy-Third, by a lot, but it’s cheap enough that you don’t have to take a roommate. You’ve reached the point where the money from waiting tables is hard to walk away from, but the tables themselves, not so much. You’re just done, though you have no idea what’s next. Victor introduces you to the lady from human resources at the talent agency where he works, hoping you can get some work there while you figure it out. You don’t envision, from the get-go, that your destiny is to be a talent agent. You don’t envision an office of any kind being your destiny. You thought you were going to be a writer, which you still mention occasionally; you even tell people you’ve been writing, like it’s not something you’ve just been contemplating but something you actually do, which is true, though you admit you’re nowhere near ready to let anyone read it. It’s just not good enough. It’s not that you’ve totally let go of the famous-writer fantasy, or even the published-writer fantasy; you say you’re satisfied enough by the writing itself, though admittedly that’s kind of a cop-out. It’s not untrue that you enjoy writing. It’s the level of satisfaction in writing for no one but yourself that’s in question. Meanwhile, you have no health insurance, which at twenty-five seemed like nothing you would never need—Why should I pay money for nothing was once the totality of your big argument against it — but even three years later, when you learn how insurance works, and when your tiredness is hardly at elderly alert levels but ever-so-slightly hints that you may have need of medical care at some time or another, or like maybe it would be nice if you didn’t have to go further into debt to go to the dentist, and it is also pointed out to you that sometimes insurance even covers mental health (although in this case it doesn’t, which is a major oversight on the part of this talent agency, because the longer you remain in this job, the more you are certain that mental health care could be of great use to everyone employed there, especially you).