Movado Watchmen
"Are you sure you want to quit?" Chris asked, dressed in all black, heavy set and mouth breathing, narrowing his eyes. "You bring in the most money of any girl here."
I knew I was giving up a lotโoodles of cash. Now, I had to rely on what I'd saved to get through my final year of university. I constantly calculated in my head whether my savings, combined with my scholarship and Chase Sapphire credit card, would suffice.
My platform heels tormented me. "Yes, I can only work this week. I promised to leave."
"Who did you promise to quit for?" Chris questioned. "Let me guess, a man. Well, lucky guy. He better be stellar."
Was he stellar? Maybe. Did he have to be?
"I just want to be dateable, Chris," I explained. "I can't do this forever."
"What are you talking about? You have so many options," Chris seemed flabbergasted. "You're too young to think that."
"I just don't want to end up forty like Tits McGeeโwith a gut, road rash, and bad ink. My soles burn, my pupils dilate, and I miss sunsets. It destroys me."
I called my then-boyfriend to inform him I had finally quit my so-called sordid job. He sighed with relief. The truth is, I was giving up a lot. For the first time in my life, I felt self-reliant, and I could fully pay attention to my classes. I didn't have to sneak or dumpster dive for food, thrift every garment, or skip meals. Or have a rich boyfriend. Now, I risked facing these problems again during my last year of university, all because of some nebulous construct of romantic love.
It seemed like a fair arrangement. Love happens to you, but it's also a decision you make every day. Love is a mental illness, and it is sacrificial. Besides, I wanted to be normal and not an unlovable freak.
"Babe, Iโm excited to visit you soon," my then-boyfriend said over the phone. It was his turn to visit me. "Iโm so proud of you. Youโre wrapping up your studies and moving on to bigger and better things."
It didnโt feel like it. I had no desire to work in anything related to my major or my double minor. Most of my friends knew where they were headedโJ.D. programs, MD/PhDs, MFAs. They had family support and seemed ready to slot into top consulting gigs with solid exit opportunities.
I had put all my eggs in one basket for this man, my then-boyfriend.
Two weeks later, during the spring segueing into summer, he flew down and crashed in my shabby apartment. It was so close to the waterbed that roaches and white worms frequently wriggled their way inside. My roommate, a filthy former ballerina turned weightlifter, made matters worse. Her loud Turkish dentist boyfriend brayed like an ass when they railed, and she would scream, "Aลkฤฑm."
She was detestable. She left salmon and chicken-encrusted plates, pots, and pans in the sink. With no dishwasher, the sink clogged and smelled putrid. Hummus floated in the water. Plates were often stacked to the high heavens, a veritable Tower of Babel.
One day, she graduated early and left me with heaps of unwashed dishes. I couldnโt be bothered to clean and scrub them, so I quadruple-bagged the dishes in black trash bags and hauled them out to the trash.
If I ever see that bitch in Istanbul, I will gut her.
When my then-boyfriend visited, my insufferable roommate still occupied the apartment. We resorted to getting intimate in the restroom adjacent to the complex's pool. We nearly got caught by the property manager and had to keep it down.
I treated my then-boyfriend during his visit, overjoyed at the chance to nurture a normal, loving relationship and envision a future beyond my dysfunctional family. This was why I decided to quit my night job.
One evening, we dined at my favorite restaurant, Vin Rouge, eating Dijon and panko-encrusted salmon on braised lentils and trout amandine with broccolini and bรฉarnaise sauce. My then-boyfriend asked, "So when am I meeting your parents?"
"Soon," I replied, though my heart raced. It felt like someone pried open my ribcage and trampled my heart. I dreaded that any meeting with my parents would go awry.
He didn't fully grasp my strained relationship with my family. Since the incident at nineteen, I had deliberately distanced myself, maintaining the connection with biweekly, terse ten-minute calls, mostly with my mother. I hadn't seen them in person since then.
My mother, whenever I updated her on my relationships, would only advise, "Get married," with no concern for the relationship's state. I had mentioned Ben before, and now I had to tell her about my then-boyfriend. I knew my family was planning to meet my younger brother, Danny, who had also distanced himself but still saw them a few times a year. They were likely in denial about his homosexuality. If I played my cards right, my parents could seamlessly meet my then-boyfriend. He'd see that, despite their emotional shortcomings, they weren't entirely dysfunctional. At least, he'd see that my mother was beautiful and understand that Iโd age well.
One day, my then-boyfriend and I traipsed through Duke Gardens, hand in hand. We found a secluded spot by the pond in the Asiatic Arboretum, where a large willow tree draped its branches over the water, creating a natural canopy. We spread a blanket on the soft grass, and I lay back with my head resting on his lap. He gently ran his fingers through my hair as we gazed up at the sky, watching the clouds drift by. Then my mother called.
"Hello," I answered. "You guys are driving up soon to visit Danny, right?"
"Yes,"she replied, "You still donโt vant to see us?"
"Actually, I do,"I confessed. "Thereโs someone you should meet. My very serious boyfriend."
"Okay, is he ze one?"she asked. "Iz zis vone also Jewish?"
"Yeah, he is. Iโm pretty sure heโs the one. He really wants to meet you. Thereโs this nice taqueria in Carrboro with amazing empanadas and nachos. You and Baba would like it. Letโs meet there at seven p.m. this Sunday."
"Deal," my mother said.
Sunday arrived, and we prepared to meet them. At six-thirty, my mother called while I was fixing my hair.
"Hello," she said solemnly, "Ve vill not see your boyfriend because he iz just a boyfriend, and he iz not engaged to you. Ze ozer boyfriend vas also not engaged to you and look how zat ended up."
Anger flared. "Do you understand why I refuse to have a real relationship with either of you? You cling to your turd world ideals and alienate everyone by acting like fucking freaks. Thereโs a reason why I try to replace you both. You constantly pull this sort of shit."
This devastated my then-boyfriend. We decided to go to M. Sushi in Durham instead and indulge in Grand Omakase.
"Iโm sorry, hon," I said, stabbing at miso cod. โDonโt take it personally. Itโs their stupid Arab culture."
"At first, I didnโt believe you when you described your parents," he admitted. "I thought you were being too harsh, a bit histrionic, maybe too callous. But they really do abandon you at every turn. I never want to meet them."
"Thanks for stating the obvious," I sighed, feeling relieved. He finally understood. We shared yuzu semifreddo and mango crepe cake in silence. I felt like a criminal for not having a family. After I settled the bill, we took a night stroll to digest our food. Passing by my former workplace, I wondered how Chris and the girls were doing.
Then, I unmistakably saw two familiar figures in the dark. I recognized that ridiculous sheitel from miles awayโa beehive with a fringe. I saw a young-ish man with tzitzit swinging and a pram with a child.
"Esty? Dov?" I called out, holding my then-boyfriendโs hand. "What are you guys doing here?"
Esty looked me up and down, then my then-boyfriend, and seemed uncomfortable. "Oh sweetheart, Iโm here for a wedding."
"Whose wedding?โ I asked. "Benโs wedding?"
"Was it Benโs wedding?" I asked again.
"Yes," they said in unison.
"Oh," I was crestfallen. "Just now? Was it a nice wedding?"
"It was beautiful," Esty admitted. "Ben and Sophia rented out the entirety of 21c."
I imagined Ben and Sophia canoodling by the art exhibits in 21c, sharing dessert in the Counting House, making love in a plush bed in a master suite, and smashing glass under a chuppah.
Dov interrupted my thoughts. "Who is this young man?"
"This is my boyfriend. Heโs from Toronto, well, actually Winnipeg."
My then-boyfriend introduced himself.
"Oh, so you guys met on J-Swipe?" Esty said. "Well, be nice to her. She seems serious about her conversion."
We said goodnight and parted ways.
"Iโm sorry, babe," I told my then-boyfriend. "Sorry you had to witness that pathetic behavior, and sorry I cared about my exโs wedding. It all seems so unfair."
"No, I get it," he said, trying to console me. "Just because their life looks good from the outside doesnโt mean itโs perfect. Heโs probably treating her like garbage too if he hasnโt already. You canโt hide your true self."
"Thatโs ridiculous," I retorted. "I donโt know if there is a โtrue selfโ or a โdeeper selfโ or a โselfโ at all. Karma doesnโt really work that way. Maybe he genuinely respects and treats her better. Maybe I was just a tight young hole to him."
When we returned to my apartment, I upchucked in the toilet.
A few months later, I began my last year of university. It was my turn to visit my then-boyfriend in Winnipeg for Rosh Hashanah. The flight was smooth, but security stopped me for carrying a pink keychain mace.
"Why do you have this?" a Sikh security guard asked.
"I live in America. This is barely a weapon."
"Itโs still a weapon," he insisted.
"But itโs pink."
"Okay, Iโll let you off this once, but you could get into serious trouble if it happens again."
Meeting my then-boyfriendโs family was the polar opposite of the non-meeting with my parents. Their home was warm and welcoming, sweet like the honey and apples on the table.
When my then-boyfriendโs mother met me, she clutched my hand and said, "Youโre lovely."
That was it. I always do well with other peopleโs parents, which makes me question why I never clicked with mine, and then I fret because I wonder when theyโll see me as a fraud. It is a curse, the mark of Cain, and it sets me apart in a way that others instinctively sense.
Not having a supportive family is worse than being a murderer. People with loving families see it as an indictment, even if subconsciously. Every time I meet someoneโs parents, I wish I could steal them for myself, and then I feel guilty for thinking that way.
I gravitate towards effete men who are cherished by their mothers. I crave that maternal affection and wish their mothers could love me as mine never did.
Perhaps this cathexis stems from a loss of status or an unrelenting pursuit of it. I envy this middle-class naivety, a life unmarked by "real" trauma, or perhaps I thirsted for a specific kind of pervasive middle-class trauma where identity dissolves.
Iโm drawn to individuals who, like empty Ferrero Rocher candies, present a gilded exterior but contain nothing within. Iโm captivated by boys who are the spiritual equivalents of these empty wrappersโnothing but the lead poisoning of disappointment.
I love boys who are the spiritual equivalents of Movado watches.
When people read about the men I date, they never uncover their inner lives or what drew me to them. It's always just about me.
Finally, the moment arrived for our journey to Peru. Upon arriving in Lima, we settled in at a hotel near the airport for our first night. Clad in Lululemon hiking shorts and Danner hiking boots, I carried my Osprey backpack. Walking toward the elevator with my then-boyfriend, ready to rest for the day ahead, a diminutive mestizo hotel employee placed his hand on my shoulder and muttered something disparaging. I must have appeared foreign, not the typical hiking white gringo. Perhaps he mistook me for a prostitute, despite my obvious hiking attire. It took my then-boyfriend too long to grasp the situation, his response delayed.
Though the incident upset me, I brushed it aside.
We arrived in Cusco at the Palacio del Inka and secured exclusive use of the spa. Throughout my time in Cusco, I was constantly buzzing from coca leaves and tea, so much so that I nodded off into my chili chicken soup at a restaurant.
Our next plan was to meet Eduardo, our hiking guide, as we embarked on the Lares and Inca trails over the coming week. The hike proved challenging at times, yet mostly manageable due to the assistance of Quechua and Aymara locals and their alpacas carrying our belongings. Each meal was a feast of crudo, tiradito, tacu tacu, ceviche, and causa a la limeรฑa, meticulously prepared by others. It hardly felt like an arduous journey.
Even relieving myself became a revelation, feeling the wind on my bare skin and witnessing paso horses galloping across the plains.
Despite these luxuries, I began to notice my own odor and the dwindling supply of clean underwear. Somehow, my then-boyfriend still found me attractive, but beyond Aguas Calientes, the smell became unbearable, at least to my own senses.
Eduardo, shamelessly flirtatious, persistently made advances toward me, to which my then-boyfriend never reacted. Eduardoโs humor made us overlook it, but during a soak in the Aguas Calientes springs, he leaned in close, taking a bold sniff.
"Those boys can't take their eyes off you in that red bikini. You really brighten their day, don't you? Ever been with a Latin man? We have passion," Eduardo quipped.
"You're more Indio than Latino, Eduardo," I corrected him, hoping my then-boyfriend would intervene.
"You know, when I first met you, I thought you were a eh-stupid bimbo with great tits, but you seem to have a lot of knowledge about the world," he snickered.
"There are no toilets here, Ed, but Iโd really like to go Shining Path on your assโ cop a squat and pinch one out in your mouth, but unfortunately, I think youโd like that."
He shut up for the rest of the trip, Wiรฑay Wayna and Machu Picchu. We tipped him well.
After thoroughly cleaning up in Lima, I found myself in urgent need of more underwear and clothes. Unfortunately, my debit card inexplicably failed at the stores in Centro Comercial Larcomar. Consequently, my then-boyfriend stepped in to purchase my essentials, leaving me with a wave of guilt knowing I owed him money. Throughout our trip, we had split expenses evenly, and I felt a desperate urge to repay him immediately. And I did.
I never wanted him to see my financial struggles or the reasons behind my occasional late rent payments, forced by my inability to work my night job due to our relationship.
That's how I found myself feeling dependent once more, and how I inadvertently accumulated credit card debt.