***
The final date of the season is mind-numbing, and I have senioritis like never before. My body is electric with impatience more than giddiness as Roz and I thread through the candlelit, murmuring crowd. Roz is a local aspiring model (slash retail worker) and the eighth contestant of the show. I accidentally call her Rox more times than I can count, and surely more times than she wanted to hear. She’s as cute as a button, an unusually young and alternative-looking girl for this brand of television. She wears a loose-knit beanie and a cheap-looking striped dress with sandals. Over drinks, I really try to be interested in her college experience.
In the ride over to the chic little coffeehouse, The Tiny Tea Rack, Roz says, “So, seriously, what are my chances of winning the show?”
I laugh uncomfortably. “Why would you ask me that?”
“After Greece?” Roz says. “And Roxanne?”
“We held a press conference,” I remind her. “Roxanne’s pregnancy is a coincidence.”
Roz chuckles knowingly. “Right.”
“Is the experience not good enough?” I ask with a forced smile, and Roz laughs louder now.
“Right,” she says again. “The experience and the paycheck.”
We arrive at The Tiny Tea Rack, a local poetry bar, and the smells of patchouli and wine are strong in here. On the show, it will seem to be an intimate setting, filled with low lights and murmuring patrons, but that is because the viewers at home aren’t able to see the fringe of cameras following us everywhere, turning every room into a stage. At least the lights are very low, too low to even tell what someone really looks like, unless they’re up on that stage, sitting on the stool, reading bad poetry.
As we sit and chat and I try to listen and absorb the American experience–as if I’ve never been here before, although, admittedly, I’ve never been here before–my mind drifts back to Roxanne in spite of my best efforts. I think about the next time I’ll see her.
I wish I could call her. We haven’t spoken in almost a month, and I only know she’s okay because Candace claims she is.
I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to go two months without a phone. They pass slowly. There isn’t much to actually do around that fake mansion. It’s mostly a blur of stand-offs with Candace and breathing exercises, covering cameras so I can masturbate and think about Roxanne, and pantomiming interest in these grotesque renditions of Americanized dates. I went to a dance in a barn in Appalachia. I visited the monuments of Washington, DC. Something tells me these aren’t typical first dates for the average American, but I went anyway, doing exactly as Candace needs, as per our arrangement.
Now there is only one episode left: selecting my favorite date, and sweeping her off on the vacation of her choosing.
And Roz is right. She doesn’t stand a chance. I’m sure the Internet will go up in flames, but I don’t give a shit. I’m going to choose Roxanne.
The next poet to ascend the stage and perch on a stool in the limelight is a young and dramatically pregnant blonde girl. She wears glasses, pigtails, and a plaid maternity shirt with little maternity skinny jeans, which I did not know existed. Her belly could pop at any moment, and my heart instinctively aches for Roxanne. This has been the longest month of my life.
The pregnant girl waddles over to the stool and slowly situates herself on top of it. “Hey everybody,” she greets, shoving her large glasses up her nose. A cheer ripples through the crowd. Maybe she’s one of their regulars.
“Lulu!” someone calls out in encouragement, and she blushes. I guess she is a regular performer.
“I’ve got a new one,” she announces bashfully.
“Lulu with that new-new!” someone else calls out.
Lulu clears her throat and settles up against the mic, beginning to read. The imagery is dark, lonely, and feminine. There are tons of allusions and references to natural phenomenon. It dawns on me that the poem is really about being pregnant and alone–pregnant and single.
“But this is my cross to bear,” she finishes, “and my hatchet to bury.”
Everyone extends their arms and snaps for her instead of giving applause. Feeling clumsy, I snap my fingers along with the crowd, and Roz twists to ask me if I’ve ever written poetry for fun before.
I say no. I can barely focus on what she’s saying, though, and she does have to repeat herself.
As I watch Lulu saunter off the stage, so small with her big belly protruding out in front of her like a piece of furniture being toted, I imagine Roxanne in her place, and my heart softens. I don’t know if I can do this anymore.
I don’t know if I can wait one more goddamn week to see her.
“You know, I don’t know how anyone does what that little girl is doing,” Roz offers contemplatively.
“What?” I ask.
“I don’t know how women can just be pregnant and alone. It’s so…so sad. Almost scary, you know? It’s just not right.”
I swallow thickly. “Right,” I say.
The room feels like it’s closing in on me, breathing down my neck. I’ve got to get out of here before I really snap and just disappear.
“That little baby is so vulnerable,” she goes on, still staring after Lulu as the young girl threads through the crowd. Her eyes turn to me and she watches closely as she adds, “It needs its daddy.”
My jaw clenches. I don’t know if this girl is trying to test me, but if she is, she’s won. I break. That’s it. That’s enough.
I shoot up from the table and barge through the crowd, abandoning Roz as she yells after me, confused about the sudden veer this episode is taking.
Well, Shannon or Sharron, or whoever could tell her all about it. This is just what a date with Blake Berringer is like. Someone out there loves it, even if most women find the unpredictability pretty infuriating.
“Try and follow me,” I dare the camera crew as several of them jostle through the crowd, struggling to keep up with me without damaging their equipment. “I’m about to introduce you to the winner of season six, everybody.”
Candace is screeching so loud through one cameraman’s earpiece, I can hear her myself.
I grab a cab and let the driver know that I’m heading to a little jazz lounge called Fancy’s.