Page 30 of Like a Love Story
“Of course,” the vendor says. “These pins are special. Fish represent life.”
“Do they?” I ask.
“Read the Bible!” the man says.
“We’ll take two,” Reza says. He pays for the pins and puts one on himself, then one on me. As he pins me, his hand grazes against my boob.Body language. I feel like one of those pretty girls in fifties movies, getting pinned by the guy in the varsity jacket. Except our pins have dead fish in them, and his varsity jacket is a Madonna shirt, and my cheerleader uniform is a fabulous sunflower yellow outfit. I take my last lick of ice cream.
And that’s when I look across the street at Manic Panic, and I see... her.
Debbie Harry.
She’s dressed in head-to-toe red. Red leggings. A body-hugging red dress, the back low-cut. Red boots, with stilettos. Her hair is ice blond, a red streak through it, like a punk Jean Harlow. She wears a chunky crossaround her neck, and another necklace with big silver Xs running up and down it. Her lips are ruby red, too. I say, “Holy shit Reza, that’s DEBBIE HARRY.” No, I don’t say it. I scream it. And in doing so, I alert everyone on the block. Debbie must hear me too, because she waves to me, then steps into a black car.
It’s a sign. It must be sign. When does this just happen? When does a guy bring you your favorite flowers the same night you see Debbie Harry on Saint Mark’s Place?
“Is that the backup singer you were telling me about?” Reza asks.
“No!” I say. “That’s the LEAD SINGER. That’s one of the most fabulous stars in the whole world. And we... saw... her.”
Art will hate that he missed this moment. He’ll act happy for me, but he’ll be green with envy as I describe her red perfection.
Don’t think about Art, Judy. This is your moment.
“I like to see you so happy,” Reza says.
My whole body feels alive, like a new life is beginning, like Debbie has transferred some of her energy to me. And that’s when I lean in and kiss Reza.
Rapture. That’s what it feels like.
I pull away. “I think I was supposed to let you do that,” I say. “If you even wanted to.”
He blushes, his eyes nervously darting around.
“Unless you didn’t want to... ? If so, I’m really sorry.” Suddenly I feel like the biggest fool on earth.
“Do not apologize,” he finally says. “I’m so happy you did that. You have no idea how good that makes me feel.”
Nowhepullsmein, his hands on my love handles. I understand why they’re called love handles now. It’s rapture.
December 1989
“Always be a first-rate version of yourself, instead of a second-rate version of somebody else.”
—Judy Garland
Reza
Judy’s home is everything my new home is not, by which I mean it feels like a home. There are no chandeliers. No gold, no crystal, no ancient paintings. I don’t feel like I’m in a museum in this place—nothing about it says look but do not touch. The pink and yellow flowers on the sofa fabric have long faded to gray. The wallpaper on the living room walls has started to peel at the edges, revealing the plaster and dried glue beneath it. The teacups don’t match, and they were clearly collected over many years as a family, from universities, tourist destinations, corporations, and concerts. The one I am currently handed by Mrs. Bowman reads “Dad of the Year” and it’s chipped. I will need to watch my lip every time I take a sip to make sure the cup doesn’t cut me. But I like that they have kept this chipped cup in their cupboards. I like that the dad in this house was dad of the year.
“Is it okay?” Mrs. Bowman asks me.
“I’m sure it is,” I say, as I blow on my tea, still steaming.
“I know you Persians are masters of the tea,” she says, with a playful smile that erases any possible offense I may feel at hearing her sayyou Persians.
“Mom, can you try being a little more sensitive with your words? How would you feel if he said, ‘I know that you Americans are masters of the...’” Judy pauses and sighs. “God, we’re not even masters of anything. It’s so depressing.”
“We invented musicals,” Mrs. Bowman says, holding her smile.
