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after the fruit baskets had rotted and the veils on the mirrors
were lifted. He would tell me later that he was sorry that he
didn t know what to do and that he didn t err on the side
of kindness and generosity. I acknowledged that the timing of
our discovery that  moving out but staying together was a
veritable Fudgie the Whale of a lie that we pretended was a
real possibility at the time of our transition-easing. But our rift
stung as it revealed itself in the face of a loss of a family mem-
ber I d looked up to for as long as I was alive.And I don t look
up to people just because I share a last name with them: Adele
Klausner was the kind of person you identify with so totally
that you see what you like about yourself in them, and it makes
you think you re all right by association.
Adele was the one who would take me to the New York
Public Library and make me walk five blocks to Ray Bari
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pizza afterward, which felt like the Trail of Tears to a suburban
creampuff used to riding five minutes to get to Italian Village.
She survived breast cancer before it was a cause you wore a rib-
bon for, worked for the Nurses Labor Union until retirement
demoted her to commie volunteer, and taught the aerobics
class she took at the 92nd Street Y when the teacher was sick.
She d bake her own pies from scratch and wouldn t let me win
at cards. She lived alone in a high-rise apartment building and
walked three miles every day, even if it was shitting sleet. And
when she said she loved me, she smiled with all her big teeth.
Then, one day, she was gone. And so was Patrick. I lived
alone, and I was trying to get used to it. As I moved furniture
around and threw things away, I thought about the advice my
grandmother had given me a year earlier, when I told her I was
moving in with my then-boyfriend. Patrick and I had been
looking at apartments in the East Village together, and con-
sidered pooling our rents for a bigger place instead of mak-
ing room in my one-bedroom for his stuff. And Adele said
to me, with the authority of a woman who had lived alone
in Manhattan since her husband left her a widow at forty-
two,  Don t give up your apartment. It was the best kind of
advice prescient and blunt.
I missed her and Patrick like crazy, but I didn t like think-
ing about it. My mind was far more content to spin sultry
yarns about an actor I hoped would ravish me with the same
conviction he funneled into his bloody stage performances. It s
unwise to underestimate the macabre fascinations of a grieving
mind or the sexual fantasies of the recently heartbroken.
SINCE OUR one-way obsession-fueled exchange, I ve met
Sweeney a couple of times. He s always been extremely kind to
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me and has never mentioned the e-mails, which I appreciate.
Read from top to bottom, I m sure they make a clumsy bit of
fan fiction, collaboratively penned by two people well-versed
in theatrics. But at the time, they kept me, if not sane, at least
more human. And I see Patrick all the time, since he quit that
job he hated to do more of what he loves. We re not friends,
but I still like him.
People forget in the moment that breaking up isn t an ac-
tion; it s a process. Not a deus ex machina, but a whole show, and
a big one too the kind with time elapsed and flash-forwards,
and sometimes a stage manager has to put talcum powder on
your head to age your wig. It s not just a click of the mouse
to change  In a Relationship to  Single, or the command
 Send, when you re trying to tell Sweeney Todd you think
it would be fun to have coffee sometime. It takes a long time
for relationships to shift their contents, and then change their
very makeup. Before Patrick and I had that conversation on the
beach, I d been quietly packing up the stuff that belonged to
him, in my head. And not just his dresser. I was picturing what
it would be like to come home to just the cat, cook for myself,
date other guys. By the time we talked about him moving out,
I had some of my feelings in boxes already. It wasn t easy, but
it got better. Not every breakup is scored by Tina Turner and
ends with you wiping your hands, That s that. Adult relation-
ships, even with guys you think are immature, dignify more
gradual separations. And mine from Patrick took a long time,
even after Sweeney and Adele were gone.
YEARS LATER, Tim Burton s film version of Sweeney Todd came
out, starring Johnny Depp. I liked it, though I ll never under-
stand the goth inclination to erase all humor when adapting
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to film what is technically a musical comedy as though jokes
and tan skin together are responsible for everything that s of-
fensive to people who like The Cure. But it was awesome to
see that story told on the big screen, and it was a pleasure to
hear those soaring, familiar melodies in surround sound while
throats spurted and roaches scurried into pies. I also realized,
watching Depp do his best  Bowie Todd, that I was super-
attracted to him in a way I d never been before. I guess I m
one of the rare girls who never had a thing for Johnny Depp
weird, I know: Even lesbians like that guy. But I had a crush on
Dana Carvey, remember?
But Depp as Todd did it for me, and when I figured out
why, I had the kind of moment that makes you actually sur-
prise yourself with how nerdy you are. I realized when I saw
that movie that I, in fact, have a crush on Sweeney Todd.The
character. It sort of made that whole mystery of  Why me,
why then, why him, when it came to that actor, a cold case.
Because  him could have been anybody in that role, to some
extent.A ton of guys like Catwoman, whether she s Eartha Kitt
or Julie Newmar, right? I guess I just like Sweeney. Is that the
worst thing in the world?
As I watched Depp croon to his razors and waltz with
his conspirator, I thought of the guy kind enough to e-mail a
lonely girl who liked hearing him sing.And then, I thought of
Patrick, and remembered, as I do every day, my grandmother
the one who made her own pies from scratch.
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:
lex and I met online Christmas Day, because the only
thing more festive than rallying around a tree with loved
Aones is frying your eyes by the glare of a laptop screen
alone in a dark room, because all your friends are out of town,
and you re bored to tears in the house you grew up in, and the
loneliness of not having somebody to love during the holidays
rapes your face every quarter hour, on the hour.
This was my first Christmas alone for a couple of years.
The year before I d gone home with my then-boyfriend to
listen to his mother read a  letter from Santa to her full-grown
kids, citing their accomplishments of the past year. She/Santa
referenced me to Patrick when it was his turn, adding,  Well,
well, well!  Santa always exclaimed in threes  It looks like
you have a special visitor here today!
A year later, I was home with my own family and
I DON T CARE about YOUR BAND
online in my brother s old bedroom turned mom s new of-
fice, looking for faces on what was at the time a gleaming
new social networking site. There s always a pathetic glint
of  Now It s Different  based optimism when you get a
new toy; as in  Now I ll be able to find the career I always
wanted, or  Now I ll be able to lose weight or find a guy
to fall in love with as soon as you get access to a new job
counselor, exercise gadget, or website you hope will bring
you closer to the dreams you ve had since you were old
enough to want things.They keep you from thinking you re
the same as you ever were and spare you from the respon- [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]