Fishbowl

Fuck.

I’m supposed to work on a presentation today about shoes for a Monday morning meeting. Is that fair? Why does my boss feel that she’s entitled to my weekend time?

Forget it. I’ll do it tomorrow. I have too much to do today.

“How about bringing me some juice?” I ask Jodine.

“What, are you crippled?”

“I’ll get it,” Allie says, and smiles at me. “I need some myself.”

Allie has a mild problem with orange juice. If there were an OJA (Orange Juice Anonymous) chapter in Toronto, she’d be its most frequent patron. She drinks it all the time. At lunch. At dinner. With a snack. I’m trying to figure out why she’s offered to bring me a glass. Does she really need some juice for herself, to wash away the smoke-stink in her throat? Or is she really the suck I think she is? Or is it possible she’s just plain nice?

She scurries into the kitchen and I throw the covers off my body.

“Where are you?” Allie asks, five minutes later.

How can it take five minutes to get a glass of orange juice? I mean, what can possibly happen on the way from my room to the kitchen? “In here!” I call from the toilet.

She walks through my room, into the bathroom, holding a small glass of orange juice. She blushes when she sees me and wraps a strand of her way-too-long hair around her thumb and puts the split ends in her mouth. That girl is always eating various parts of her body. I wouldn’t want to be left on a deserted island with her. We run low on food and I’m a goner.

She seems to be debating her next move. Should she leave? Ignore my position on the throne and continue talking to me?

Allie is working out quite well as a roommate, in spite of her obvious flaws. I even let her use my bathroom when Jodine is showering in theirs. And she’s a riot. A few days ago, when she was brushing her teeth, I couldn’t figure out why she said, “I still have my retainer, too!” Then I realized she must have thought my diaphragm was some sort of orthodontic contraption. It’s a good thing she didn’t find my vibrator—I wouldn’t want the poor girl to start singing into it or anything like that. Or what if she thought it was a hand blender?

“I think Jodine works out way too much,” she says to me while her eyes search frantically for something to rest on. They settle on the fuchsia floor mat.

“Every day does seem a bit excessive,” I answer, and fart simultaneously. Oops.

Allie giggles and turns bright red. She retreats into my bedroom, making herself at home again on the bed, this time lying vertically. “I think she’s anorexic!” she raises her voice to be heard.

“You think? Keep an eye on her at lunch. If she doesn’t eat the cake, I’d say there’s a pretty good chance you’re right.”

Allie and I are taking Jodine out for a late lunch, to celebrate her birthday. Her parents booked her for last night, and some guy, Manny, has booked her for tonight.

I’m sure that whatever Jodine doesn’t eat, Allie will polish off in no time.

An hour later, the three of us are seated around a table at a downtown Mexican café. “Nothing wrong with a birthday fuck,” I comment.

“No,” Jodine answers quickly, and condescendingly. “He’s an ex. I don’t make it a habit of revisiting past errors.”

Well la-di-da. “I don’t make it a habit of even talking to exes.” So there. “And that’s because when you go out with an ex on your birthday, you end up fucking your ex.”

Allie giggles.

“I don’t fuck my exes,” Jodine says, emphasizing the word fuck, and Allie giggles again.

Allie giggles anytime someone says “fuck.”

Allie giggles anytime someone speaks.

“Bet you ten bucks you do,” I say.

Giggle, giggle.

“You’re on.”

I’m on a mission here to remove the pole that is shoved all the way up Jodine’s ass. Maybe getting laid will help her.

“How will we know if you’re having sex?” Allie asks.

Jodine looks at her sideways. “Isn’t my word good enough? Do you want to see the videotape?”

“Oh, you do that, too?” I ask.

Jodine ignores me. “Why do you have to know, exactly?” she asks Allie.

“I meant, so I don’t knock and try to come in. We need a warning system.”

“First of all, I always make the guy take his shoes off at the front door. Who knows where his feet have been? Consequently, if you see a pair of men’s shoes on the front floor mat, don’t come in. But you realize all this planning is purely academic. I repeat, I do not have sex with my exes.”

“But how will I know if the shoes belong to a guy of yours or Em’s?”

“I doubt it would be a problem for tonight. You two are going out after lunch, right? And then later to a movie or something? So you’ll know if one of you decides to slip away and bring home a guy of your own. Second, this may shock you, but my long-term plan is to develop a monogamous relationship so that in the future, you’ll both be able to identify a pair of shoes with a corresponding man.”

“That’s not my long-term plan,” I comment. “I like the first scenario better. The part about sneaking off with a guy of my own.”

“Boys do have more than one pair of shoes,” Allie says, obviously still concerned about the logistics behind the plan. “This could get complicated.”

“I’ll tie a red ribbon around my doorknob or something,” Jodine offers.

I think about this for a minute. “Who has red ribbons? Use a scrunchie. We all have scrunchies, right?”

I know Jodine has one. She wears it in her hair every day. I’ve only seen her hair down once.

So we agree. Scrunchies on doorknobs equals don’t knock.

A waitress appears at our table. “Can I get a strawberry daiquiri?” I ask.

“Virgin?” Allie asks.

“No, you?” I say, and laugh.

Allie turns bright red and mumbles something to herself. Uh-oh. She’s had sex, right? She can’t be a virgin. Can she?

“I’d like a Diet Coke,” Jodine says.

Allie stops mumbling to herself. “Do you have any juice?”