Relationship In Love

Clueless in Manhattan

There are worse things than being thirty-five, single, and female in New York. Like: Being twenty-five, single, and female in New York.
It’s a rite of passage few women would wantt to repeat. It’s about sleeping with the wrong men, wearing the wrong clothes, having the wrong roommate, saying the wrong thing, being ignored, getting fired, not being taken seriously, and generally being treated like shit. But it’s necessary. So if you’ve ever wondered how thirty-five-year-old, single, New york women get to be, well, thirty-five-year-old, single, New York women, read on.
A couple of weeks ago, Carrie ran into Cici, a twenty-five-year-old assistant to a flower designer, at the Louis Vuitton party. Carrie was trying to say hello to five people at once when Cici materialized out of the semidarkness. “Hiiii,” she said, and when Carrie glanced over at her, she said, “Hiiii,” again. Then she just stared.
Carrie had to turn away from a book from a book editor she was talking to. “What, Cici?” she asked. “What is it?”
“I don’t know. How are you?”
“I’m fine. Fabulous,” Carrie said.
“What have you been up to?”
“The usual.” The book editor was about to talk to someone else. “Cici, I…”
“I havn’t seen you for so long,” Cici said. “I miss you. You know I’m your biggest fan. Other people say you’re a bitch, but I say, ‘No, she’s one of my best friends and she’s not like that.’ I defend you.”
“Thanks.”
Cici just stood there, staring. “How are you?” Carrie asked.
“Great,” Cici said. “Evcery night I get all dressed up and I go out and no one pays attention to me and I go home and cry.”
“Oh, Cici,” Carrie said. Then: “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a phrase. Now listen, I have to…”
“I know,” Cici said. “You don’t have time for me. It’s okay. I’ll talk to you later.” And she walked away.
Cici York and her best friend, Carolyne Everhardt, are two twenty-five year olds who, like most now thirty-five year olds, came to New York to have careers.
Carolyne Everhardt is a nightlife writer for a downtown publication. Came here from Texas three years ago. She’s one of those girls with a beautiful face, who is just a bit over-weight but not concerned about it—at least not to the point that she’d ever let you think she was.
Cici is the opposite of Carolyne—blone, bone-thin, with one of those oddly elegant faces that most people don’t notice because she isn’t convinced that she is beautiful. Cici works as an assistant to Yorgi, the acclaimed yet reclusive flower designer.
Cici came to New York a year and a half ago from Philadelphia. “Back then, I was like a little Mary Tyler Moore,” she says. “I actually had white gloves stashed in my purse. For the first six months, I didn’t even go out. I was too scared about keeping my job.”
And now? “We’re not nice girls. Nice is not a word you would apply to us,” Cici says, in an East Coast drawl that manages to be sexy and apathetic.
“We mortify people all the time,” Carolyne says.
“Carolyne is known for her temper tantrums,” Cici says.
“And Cici doesn’t talk to people. She just gives them dirty looks.”

Arabian Nights
Carolyne and Cici are best friends through the usual conduit of bonding female friendship in New york: Over some jerky guy.
Before she met Cici, Carolyne met Sam, forty-two, an investment banker. Carolyne kept running into himj every time she went out. Sam had a girlfriend—a Swiss girl who was trying to get into broadcasting. One night, Sam and Carolyne saw each other at Spy and they were drunk, and they started making out. They ran into each other another night and went back to Sam’s place and had sex. This happened a couple more times. Then his girlfriend got deported.
Nevertheless, the “relationship” continued along the same lines. Every time Carolyne and Sam ran into each other, they would have sex. One night, she saw him at System and gave him a hand job in the corner. Then they went outside and had sex behind a Dumpster in an alleyway. Afterward, Sam zipped up his pants, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “Well, thanks a lot. I’ll see you later.” Carolyne started throwing trash at him. “I’m not through with you, Samuel,” she said.
A couple of weeks later, Cici was at Casa La Femme, when she saw two guys she knew. A third guy was with them. He was dark and he was wearing a thin, white, button-down shirt and khakis; Cici could tell that he had a great body. He seemed shy, and Cici began flirting with him. She’d just gotten her hair cut, and she kept brushing her bangs out of her eyes and looking up at him while sipping a glass of champagne. They were all going to some girl’s birthday party at a loft in SoHo; they asked Cici to go with them. They walked. Cici kept giggling and bumping into the guy, and at one point he put his arm around her. “How old are you?” he asked.
“Twenty-four,” he said.
“Perfect age,” he said.
“Perfect? For what?” Cici asked.
“Me,” he said.
“How old are you?” Cici asked.
“Thirty-six,” he said. Lying.
The party was crowded beer in a keg, vodka and gin in plastic glasses. Cici had just turned away from the bar and was about to take a sip of beer when she saw an apparition barreling toward her from the other side of the loft. A large girl with long dark hair, wearing red lipstick and, rather in-explicably, a long “dress” (If you can call it that, Cici thought) that appeared to be made of flowered chiffon scarves. Arabian Nights.
The guy gurned just as she was about to run into them. “Carolyne!” he said. “Love your dress.”
“Thanks, Sam,” Carolyne said.
“Is that that new designer you were telling me about?” Sam asked. “The one who was going to make you a bunch of dresses for free if you wrote about him?” He smirked.
“Would you shut up?” Carolyne screamed. She turned to Cici. “Who are you, and what are you doing at my birthday party?”
“He invited me,” Cicisaid.
“So you just accept invitations from other girls’ boyfriends, huh?”
“Carolyne. I’m not your boyfriend,” Sam said.
“Oh yeah. You’ve just slept with me about twenty times. What about last time. That hand job at System?”
“You gave someone a hand job at a club?” Cici asked.
“Carolyne. I have a girlfriend,” Sam said.
“She got deported. And now you can’t keep your greedy little hands off me.”
“You mortify me,” Carolyne said to Sam. “Get out and take your cheap little slut with you.”
“You have a girlfriend?” Cici asked again. She kept repeating it, all the way down the stair until they were out on the street.
Two weeks later, Carolyne ran into Cici in the bathroom at a club.
“I just wanted to tell you that I saw Sam,” Carolyne said, applying red lipstick. “He got down on his hands and knees and begged me to go back to him. He said I was beyond.”
“Beyond what?” Cici said, pretending to check her mascara in the mirror.
“Did you fool around with him?” Carolyne asked. She snapped the top back on her lipstick.
“No,” Cici said. “I don’t fool around with anybody.”
Sure enough, Carolyne and Cici became best friends.

“I Hate Miami”
Carrie met Cici around this time last year at Bowery Bar. Carrie was sitting at one of the booths, it ws king of late and she was kind of fucked up, and this girl bounced over and said stuff like, “You’re my idol” and “You’re so beautiful” and “Where did you get your shoes I love them.” Carrie was flattered. “I want to be your best friend,” Cici said, in a voice that rubbed up against her like a cat. “Can’t I be your best friend? Pleas?”
“Now listen, er…”
“Cici.”
“Cici,” Carrie said, a little sternly. “It just doesn’t work that way.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve been in New York for fifteen years. Fifteen years and…”
“Oh,” Cici said, slumping. “But can I call you? I’m going to call you.” And then she bounced over to another table, sat down, turned around, and waved.
A couple of weeks later, Cici called Carrie. “You’ve got to come to Miami with us.”
“I hate Miami. I will never step food in Miami,” Carrie said. “If you ever call me again and mention Miami, I will hang up.”
“You are just so funny,” Cici said.
In miami, Cici and Carolyne stayed with some rich-guy friends of Carolyne’s from the University of Texas. On Friday night, they all went out and got drunk, and Cici made out with one of the Texas guys, Dexter. But she got annoyed at him the following night when he follwed her around, putting his arm around her, trying to kiss her—like they were a couple or something. “Let’s go upstairs and fool around,” he kept whispering in her ear. Cici didn’t want to, so she sort of started ignoring him, and Dexter stormed out of the house. He came back a couple hours later with a girl. “Hi y’all,” he said, giving Cici a wave as he passed by the living room on his way upstairs with the girl. The girl gave him a blow job. Then they came downstairs, and Dexter made a great show of writing down her phone number.
Cici ran out of the house screaming and crying just as Carolyne was spinning up the driveway in a rental car. She was also screaming and crying. She’d run into Sam, who just happened to be in Miami as well, and he had wanted her to when menage a trois with some blond, stripper bimbo, and when Carolyne said, “Fuck off,” he pushed her down on the sand at South Beach and said, “The only reason I ever went anyplace with you ws because we always get our pictures taken at parties.”

Page Six!
Two weeks later, Carolyne ended up in the Post’s “Page Six” gossip column. She went to some party at the Tunnel, and when the doorman wouldn’t let her in, she started screaming at him; he tried to excort her to a cab, she punched him, he wrestled her to the ground, and the next day she made the publisher of the downtown publication she worked for call up the Tunnel and try to get the guy fired, and then she called up the Tunnel and try to get the guy fired, and then she called up “Page Six.” When the item came out, she bought twenty copies of the paper.
Then Cici got kicked out of the apartment she was sharing with a lawyer from Philadephia—the older sister of one of her high school friends. The woman said, “Cici, you’ve changed. I’m really worried about you. You’re not a nice person anymore and I don’t know what to do.” Cici yelled at her that she was just jealous, then she moved to Carolyne’s couch.
Around that time, an unfortunate item came out about Carrie in one of the gossip columns. She was trying to ignore it when Cici called up all excited.
“Omigod, you’re famous,” she said. “You’re in the papers. Have you read it?” then she began reading it, and it was awful, so Carrie started screaming at her. “Let me explain something. If you want to survive in this town, never, ever call anybody up and read something terrible about them from the papers. You pretend you never saw it, okay? And if they ask you if you did, you lie and say, ‘No, I don’t read trash like that.’ Even though you do. Get it? Jesus, Cici,” she said, “whose side are you on here?” Cici started crying, and Carrie hung up the phone and felt guilty afterward.

Mr. Residue
“I’m going to introduce you to a guy, and I know you’re going to fall in love with him, but don’t,” Carolyne said to Cici. So she did.
Ben was forty, a sometime restaurateur and party promoter who’d already been married twice (in fact, he was still married, but his wife had gone back to Florida) and been in and out of rehab a dozen times. Everyone in New York knew about him, and when his name came up, people would roll their eyes and change the subject. After all his drinking and coke snorting, he still possessed a residue of what he was before—charming, amusing, handsome—and Cici fell in love with the residue. They spent two great weekends together, even though they never actually had sex. Then they went to a party, he disappeared, and Cici found him rubbing up against a sixteen-year-old model who had just come to town. “You’re disgusting!” she screamed.
“Oh, come on,” he said. “You’ve got to let me live out of my fantasies. I have a fantasy of being with a sixteen year old.” He grinned, and you could see that his teeth needed to be rebonded.
The next morning, Cici turned up uninvited at his apartment. His three-year-old daughter was visiting. “I brought you a present,” she said, acting like nothing had happened. The present was a baby bunny. She put it on the couch, and it peed several tijmes.
Meanwhile, Carolyne sort of moved in with Sam. She kept her apartment but spent every night at his and always left something—shoes, perfume, earrings, dry-cleaned blouses, six or seven different kinds of face cream—behind. This went on for three months. The night before Valentine’s day, he exploded. “I want you out,” he said. “Out!” He was screaming and breathing heavily.
“I don’t get it,” Carolyne said.
“There’s nothing to get,” Sam said. “I just want you, and your stuff, out of here now!” Sam cranked open a window and began throwing her things out.
Carolyne said, “I’ll fix your wagon, buster,” and she smacked him hard across the back of his head.
He turned around. “You hit me,” he said.
“Sam…” she said.
“I can’t believe it… You hit me.” He began backing across the floor. “Don’t come near me,” he said. He cautiously reached down and picked up his cat.
“Sam,” Carolyne said, walking toward him.
“Stay back,” he said. He grabbed the cat under its armpits so its legs were sticking straight out at Carolyne; he held it up like a weapon. “I said, get back.”
“Sam. Sam.” Carolyne shook her head. “This is pity-ful.”
“Not to me,” Sam said. He hurried into the bedroom, cradling the cat in his arms. “She’s a witch, isn’t she, Puffy?” he asked the cat. “A real witch.”
Carolyne took a few steps toward the bed. “I didn’t mean…”
“You hit me,” Sam said in a weird, little-boy voice. “Don’t ever hit me. Don’t hit Sam no more.”
“Okay…,” Carolyne said cautiously.
The cat struggled out of Sam’s arms. It ran across the floor. “Here kitty kitty,” Carolyne said. “C’mere kitty. Want some milk?” She heard the TV click on.

“He Was So Mortified”
Carrie was always promising Cici and Carolyne that she’d have dinner with them, so one day, she finally did. On a Sunday night. Her only free night. Carolyne and Cici were sitting back on the banquette, their legs crossed, stirring their drinks, and looking very smart. Carolyne was talking on a cellular phone. “I have to go out every night for my job,” Cici said, souding bored. “I’m just so tired all the time.”
Carolyne flipped her cellular phone closed and looked at Carrie. “We’ve got to go to this party tonight. Downtown. Lots of models. You should come,” she said, in a tone that suggested she definitely should not.
“Well, how is everything?” Carrie said. “You know, like Sam and…”
“Everything is fine,” Carolyne said.
Cici lit a cigarette and looked off in another direction. “Sam went around tellingeveryone that he and Carolyne had never slept together, even though tons of people had seen them making out, so we mortified him.”
“We found out he started seeing this girl who has diseases, so I called him up and I said, ‘Sam, please, as a friend, promise me you won’t sleep with her,’” Carolyne said.
“Then we saw the two of them at this brunch place.”
“We were dressed to the nines. They were wearing sweatpants. We went up to them and they asked us for a cigarette and we said, ‘A cigarette? Oh please. Get one from the waiter.’”
“We sat right next to them. Intentionally. They kept trying to talk to us, and Carolyne kept making calls on her cellular phone. Then I said, ‘Sam, how’s that girl I saw you with last week.’”
“He was so mortified. We sent him notes saying, ‘Herpes simplex 19.’”
“Is there a herpes simples 19?” Carrie asked.
“No,” Cici said. “Don’t you get it?”
“Right,” Carrie said. She didn’t say anything for a minute while she took a long time to light a cigarette, then she said, “What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” Cici said. “The only thing I care about is my carrer. Like you. You’re my idol.”
Then the two girls looked at their watches and each other.
“Do you mind,” Cici said. “We have to go to this party.”