My Bestie Beastie

When I drag my weary carcass home from work on Friday afternoon, it is almost seven. The house smells of incense, not of cooking food. Dinner is going to be take-out again.

Trish is lounging on the couch, surrounded by her purchases. Payday. She always goes on a shopping spree the minute the money hits her account, as if inflation were going to steal its buying power overnight. It’s none of my business what she does with her assets, of course, but it is annoying when she asks me to cover her half of the rent or the internet or electricity because she’s maxed out. More often than not, she “forgets” to pay me back.  I’m afraid to remind her because she’s my bestie and I don’t want anything to interfere with that.

“Look!” she coos, holding up a slinky green camisole with far too much lace on it. “Isn’t it adorable? And it was on sale, too! Only forty-two dollars, and it’s real silk!”

I want to tell her that I laundered eight of her camisoles on Tuesday night and she doesn’t need any more, but I know she wouldn’t listen because she’s always on a big high right after her spending sprees. Spending money she doesn’t have for things she doesn’t need is her cocaine.
She’s tossed her coat and purse on the chair beside the couch, so there’s no room for me to sit. I shift from foot to foot as she burbles on, wondering if I should hang up her coat ask her to do it or wait for her to notice that there is a problem. She’s my bestie, and I don’t want her to get pissed off at me, or my weekend won’t be relaxing at all.

She goes on burbling and I stand there, a determined smile pasted on my face, waiting for her to wind down so I can ask about dinner. I’m hungry because I had to skip lunch for an emergency staff meeting. I hadn’t brought a bag lunch because I was planning to meet my cousin Katie for lunch, and the stuff in the vending machines is revolting. I want to have a nice normal dinner and tell Trish about the bombshell about the new computer software upgrades and “staff restructuring” which means that somebody is going to be declared redundant and pushed out the door.
She hands me a pair of purple sequin-covered slippers, beaming. “Here, Nance – for you. You need a little glamor in your life.”

I respond with a squeal of delight, as is expected. They’re far too narrow for my elephant feet, but I’m not going to disappoint her.

She frowns at the mess around her, lips pursed. “Where am I going to put all this stuff? There isn’t an inch of storage space anywhere. Can I put it in your room?”

I shake my head. “No space in there, either.” Half my closet and a couple of my dresser drawers are already stuffed with her overflow, and there are several bulging cardboard boxes sitting against the wall.

She pouts, as if this were a big surprise. “Damn! What am I going to do?” Her forehead wrinkles as she ponders her problem. Finally she looks at me with that Eureka expression, as if the pieces of her life have just joined together seamlessly. “There’s not enough space in here. What do you say – are you ready to move out?”

I stand rigidly, frozen with horror. How could she betray me like that?

“Whatever,” I say, because I can’t think of anything else, and I retreat to my room.

Three hours later, I’m still stuck there, afraid to come out. Trish knocked on the door and asked If wanted anything from the Burrito Barn, and I said I wasn’t hungry. I can’t face her right now. I’ve eaten two nutrition bars and half a box of chocolates, and I feel nauseated and starving at the same time.

Trish has too much stuff, so I’m just supposed to move out to make space for it. Are you ready to move on?  she said, as if it were no big deal. And there’s nothing I can do about it, because listened to my mother, who said that it would be better if my name were not on the lease. Technically, I’m just a visitor in Trish’s home.

What am I going to do? Go home to Mom? She has a live-in boyfriend now, and all kinds of things could go wrong. I’m not completely ignorant of how the world works. I read advice columns all the time. I’m not a pin-up girl by any means, but I’m younger and my breasts don’t sag.

It’s awfully quiet out there. Either Trish has gone to bed, or she’s out partying somewhere. It is Friday night, after all, and she needs an excuse to wear that silk camisole.

I ease open my door and tiptoe into the hall. Everything is dark except the hall light and a lamp in the living room.  I pick up Trish’s litter and shove it into two shopping bags and hide them in the front closet. The coats can’t hang properly now, but I need a tidy place to think.

I make myself a cup of Sleepeze Tea and hope it will help me settle down. It doesn’t work. My thoughts are stampeding through my brain like a herd of crazed buffalos. I try to relax with my weighted blanket, brooding, wondering what I can say to convince Trish to change her mind, speculating about what my options are if she won’t. When I hear her outside the door shortly after 2 AM, I retreat back into my room. We’ll have to talk about this, but not tonight.

At 4:30 AM, I’m still awake. My heart is pounding and there’s a rushing sound in my ears. Should I call 911? It’s so embarrassing when they tell me there is nothing wrong with me. But what if I’m really sick? I could die. It would serve Trish right.

I’m trying to read a self-help book I just bought, entitled How to Navigate a Challenging Conversation. My therapist recommended it. He says I need to learn to be more assertive and tell people what I expect from them. I haven’t found anything useful in the book so far, but I may have missed something because I’m not able to concentrate. I’ve read the introduction four times and the first chapter twice. Nothing useful has jumped out at me.

How do I explain to Trish that I can’t possibly move out now? We’re crazy busy at work, and there won’t be any slack time to hunt for an apartment and pack and make all the arrangements. I just can’t do it. Surely she will understand that.

Even if I did have the time and energy to move, it’s not fair. We were going to be roomies forever, our own little family, with no need for anyone else. At least that’s what I thought she meant when she told me how awesome it would be if we were living together. But what do I know? Maybe I misunderstood. I was so happy when she asked me to share her apartment that I couldn’t think straight.

Maybe I should suggest renting a storage unit. But it would be an endless hassle going back and forth, and I’d probably get stuck with the bill. She needs to put a brake on her shopping, and get rid of some of her things instead of dragging more and more into our limited space. But how am going to explain that to her without getting in her face? She throws a fit whenever we disagree about anything, and I wonder if this is the Big Deal-Breaker, and our bestie relationship is over.

At 6:30, my nausea has eased. I go to the kitchen to make myself breakfast. I haven’t slept at all. I can’t decide whether to have oatmeal or pancakes or bacon and eggs or frozen waffles. I finally make an omelet with toast and chai tea, and hope I don’t throw up. I usually throw up when I’m upset. And I’m really upset now. So upset that I’m shaking.

I eat the omelet and throw up, as I expected. I rinse my mouth and brush my teeth and nibble on some crystallized ginger. I change into sweats and go power walking, trying to ease my tension. I know I have to talk to Trish about how impossible she is making things for me, but what am I going to say?

Please don’t abandon me – you’re my bestie and I need you? That sounds awfully needy, like I’m trying to put her in a strait jacket. I want her to like me for me, not just because I’m hopelessly pathetic. We were great together when we were in junior high, but maybe the glow has worn off. She’s out almost every night, and never invites me along. When she brings friends home, she suggests, directly or indirectly, that I should make myself scarce. Out of sight, out of mind.

We really have to talk about this. She may think that extra storage space is more important than I am, but she needs me to help her stay organized. Left to herself, she’d be in total chaos all the time. I don’t know how she even manages to hold a job. Maybe she has a secret identity – Trish the SuperLegal, who can leap over a pile of legal documents at a single bound and file them with a quick twitch of her nose. She’s had two promotions since she started working at that law office. I’m still stuck where I started, smiling at the patients in the cancer clinic, checking their documentation and asking them to take a seat. I hate doing that because I can see that they’re worried and I want to comfort them and tell them I know how they feel. I don’t have cancer, but I worry all the time.

I come home, my eyelids drooping. Trish is in the kitchen in her bathrobe, drinking coffee. I make blueberry pancakes for both of us. I eat slowly and carefully, and manage to keep them down. Just when I am psyched up to talk to her, she wants to go biking with me. How could I say no? She’s my bestie, after all. I can’t afford to overlook an opportunity for bonding.

The weather is great, and it is almost like old times, when we used to have fun together and I never worried about her dumping me. I was so grateful she wanted to be my friend. When she asked me to share an apartment with her, I thought I had won the lottery. And now it’s almost two years later, everything is going sideways, and I don’t know why. If I can figure out what went wrong, maybe I can come up with a plan. But the more I think about it, the worse I feel.

When we get home, I crawl into bed. When I wake up, it’s dark outside, and she’s gone again.

I made another attempt to conquer the self-help book. I start crying and the words dissolve in my tears. I’ve looked at all the chapter titles, but none of them explains WHAT TO DO IF YOUR ROOMIE DUMPS YOU.

Sunday morning, I sleep in. Trish sticks her head into my room and asks if I want to have breakfast at Peony’s. I tell her to go on her own, because it would take me at least an hour to get ready. She laughs and says I have twenty minutes, or she’ll throw a pail of cold water on me. I hate Peony’s because it’s overpriced and pretentious, and Trish is perpetually flirting with the male clientele. But I get up, even though I feel like death warmed over, because I want her to be in the best possible mood to have The Talk.

The Talk finally happens at three o’clock in the afternoon.  We’re sitting on the balcony sipping iced tea. I’m trying to figure out how to approach the subject, when she says, “So what do you think? Our lease expires in six weeks. Should we look for a bigger place?”

I choke on my tea and start coughing. How stupid could I be? She doesn’t want me to leave, she wants US to leave! I should have asked for clarification, but instead, I assumed the worst, as I always do.

When I get myself settled, I say, casually, as if the whole thing were no big deal, “Do you think we can afford a bigger place?” Actually, I could, even though I make less money than she does, because I am careful with it and have built up a nest egg. But she would have to put a serious brake on her indiscriminate spending.

“I was thinking of a townhouse,” she says with a dreamy smile. “I was looking at ads, and the rent is just a couple of hundred dollars more, and we would have a basement for storage.”

“We’d have to pay for heat, and water, and garbage collection,” I say.

She looks puzzled. “Really?” 

“Really,” I say. “And it will be pricey in the winter.”

“So maybe we should buy a house. It’s an investment. Instead of burning money every month, we’d be building equity.”

I mull that over. Joint ownership would constitute a commitment. Walking away would be a lot harder. Maybe that’s exactly what I need to feel more secure.

Then I remember that Trish has no savings at all.

“How much can you afford for a down payment?” I ask, trying to nudge her out of Fantasyland and into the real world.

“We can borrow that, can’t we?” she asks.

“I don’t think so. But you can check that out.”

Her face falls. “I was hoping you would look after the business end. You know I don’t have the brains for that.”

“You’re a paralegal,” I remind her. “You are not stupid. We can go to the bank together if you like.”

“I wouldn’t have a clue what questions to ask,” she says, eyes round and innocent. “Why can’t we just use the money you inherited from your uncle? You’re not doing anything with it.”

My stomach starts to cramp. Ever since I got that money, she’s been nagging me to spend it. We need a car. We should vacation in an all-inclusive resort in the Barbados. Let’s go to the five-hundred-dollars-a-plate Regency ball to see and be seen. And each time I resisted, the pitch of her voice kept rising and rising, until everyone within a half mile got the message, loud and clear, that I was a selfish bitch, refusing to share my good fortune with the only friend I had in the world.

So here it is again. The resentment in my guts starts boiling. I open my mouth a couple of times to lecture her on the responsibilities of home ownership, and then close it again. She’s waving brochures, telling me how idyllic our life would be if we only had a house. We would have unlimited storage space, and could hang anything we wanted on the walls.  We could have parties without worrying about the noise. We could grow our own vegetables. We could even have a dog.

I tune out her voice and retreat into myself. Miraculously, I experience a moment of crystal clarity. I finally understand what my therapist has been trying to tell me.

You can’t change other people to suit yourself. That’s their responsibility. What you can do is change your own behavior. It’s like a dance. If you change the steps, they will be forced to adjust. They may match your steps, trip you, fall, or choose another partner. Whatever happens, you’ll be out of your rut and start moving where you want to go.

Investing in a house isn’t such a bad idea. My sister Leanne is living in a dump with a predatory landlord, and is afraid to leave. She’s even more OCD than I am. Tidy, punctual, and obsessive about honouring her commitments. There would always be a meal on the table on the days she agreed to cook, and she would never leave wet towels on the bathroom floor. I start to get excited about the idea of living in a house with someone who is not Trish.

She finishes her sales pitch and looks at me expectantly. “What do you think? Shall we go shopping?”

“Are you coming to my therapy appointment on Tuesday?” I ask. “I think we need help to develop more  effective communication.”

“You know I would love to be there for you, but I can’t get time off from work.”

I say nothing. She has Tuesday afternoons off, which is why I make my appointments then. She has agreed to come four times, and backed out each time.

I look back at our relationship and see mountains of unpaid bills, insane unilateral decisions, and broken promises.  There were some good times -- usually expensive for me  – but that doesn’t balance out the constant aggravation of being both her Cinderella and her fairy godmother. Life with Trish has become a torture chamber.

I’ve put up with it because I am afraid of being alone. Every time I start bonding with someone other than Trish, she gets possessive and finds a way to wedge us apart.

I’ve made excuse after excuse for her, hoping for better days. It’s time to stop.

My mind is still now, unclouded and logical. I know exactly what to do.

“This isn’t working for me,” I tell her calmly. “I’m moving out when the lease expires.”

She stares at me incredulously. “You’d never do that to me! You’re my bestie.”

“You’re right,” I say. There is no fire in my voice, only sadness. “I have been your best friend. But you are not mine.”

She looks at me, shaking her head. Then she stands up, towering over me.

“You can’t live without me and you know it. Go ahead and leave. You’ll come crawling back two weeks later, and the door will be locked!”

She stalks back into the living room, leaving me alone to drink my tea, feel the breeze, and listen to the birdsong. I don’t know whether to cheer or cry.

Eventually, I have to go to the bathroom, so I go back inside. Trish has gone out. I grab a couple of garbage bags from the kitchen and take them to my room. There are still some flattened packing boxes in the back of my closet. I take four of them out and set them up. Two for Trish's stuff -- one for stuff I want to donate -- and one for non-essentials I will take with me when I leave.

It doesn't take long to fill the first two -- no sorting required or decisions to be made. I have to squish her clothing to make it fit, but I don't care.

The purple slippers are sitting on my bedside table. I wonder if I should add them to one of Trish's boxes before I tape them shut, and decide that would be unnecessarily cruel. I put them in one of the garbage bags instead and start sorting through my stuff. A few minutes later, I take the slippers out of the garbage bag and stare at them. The tag is still on them, covered with red SALE stickers. The top one says $5.00. I peel it off and uncover $15.99. Then 24.99. Finally the original price, 49.95. I throw them into the DONATE box, just in case there is a thriftshopper out there who will enjoy them.

 I resume sorting and discarding. A huge part of me has been ripped away. The pain is awful, but I know that my emptiness is a gift, creating space for something new, something of my own choosing.