23⎜The Condo

I stared at the cream-colored carpet as I pressed down, my arms folding at the elbows. My palms were against the floor, as were the tips of my feet. It was about six or so in the morning, and because I was me, I had naturally woken up around this time, the only thought in my mind being, “I need to workout.” And so, here I was, doing my pushup regiment like every other morning, only without the comforting familiarity of the UWBDC.

           “What number was that?” a voice said, ruining my concentration as I supported my entire body weight with my arms and parts of my legs. I glanced up, though I already knew who the intruder was. She was dressed in a simple white T-shirt and gray sweats. I was slightly embarrassed to only have on a pair of mesh shorts myself, but then I remembered that my upper body was about as close to perfection as one individual could come, so my qualms easily evaporated.

           “Three hundred sixty-eight,” I replied, figuring that my workout routine would be cut short today. I stood up so that I wasn’t awkwardly on the ground, and offered up a small smile to the girl.

           “What time did you wake up?” was the next question that fired out of her mouth.

           “Eh. Five or so, maybe?” I guessed, estimating when exactly I had fallen out of sleep.

           She grinned. “Do you want breakfast?”

           I shrugged. “Sure.”

           Instead of immediately bombarding me with another inquiry, she just nodded, leading me out of the room in which I had slept during the previous night, past a concise hallway, and into the sunlit kitchen. The place that was commonly associated with the preparation by food looked to be almost untouched—all the stainless steel appliances still having a tint of newness to them. There were closed cabinets, a fridge, an oven, a microwave, a sink, and an array of granite counter space that stretched all around.

           “My dad doesn’t cook a lot,” Ari explained, catching my drifting eyes. She moved over to the refrigerator, and opened it, then asking something that would’ve come across as rude if asked by anyone but her. “So, what do you want?”

           “I’m really fine with whatever,” I said, trying to be an easy and gracious guest.

           “Well, we don’t have ‘whatever,’ but if you want fruit or cereal, I’m sure we can find that,” she replied, closing the stream of chilled air and going over to a cupboard.

           “Uh, if you have cereal, then I’d eat that, thanks,” I gulped, stretching my arms so that they were interlocked and tension was applied to the shoulder region.

           “With milk?” she probed, pulling out two boxes—one yellow and the other blue.

           “Yes, please,” I answered, my manners on hyper drive.

           “Eric, you can chill with the manners,” she said, practically reading my mind. She moved back over to the fridge and extracted a boxy carton. “I’m going to judge you more if you act overly polite rather than if you just be yourself. How did you sleep?”

           “Fine, th—” I began, catching myself before I added yet another unnecessary thanks to my repertoire. “Yeah, fine.”

           Yesterday, after revisiting the school that Ari Remon spent all four of her high school years and that her father happened to coach football at and her ex-boyfriend still attended, we went to her dad’s condo. On the road to the condo, there was no explanation about what had transpired on the field with that Brett kid, or any of the like. Ari was just silent, her mood slightly off—as if something was distinctly puncturing her normally impervious demeanor.

           We got to her dad’s place at about four in the afternoon or so. He wasn’t there, and Ari gave me a brief tour of the small yet modern and clean place, and then showed me where I would be staying: the guestroom. It was a pretty typical room to house temporary individuals on a mere sojourn. Equipped with all the essentials one needed (a bed, plugs, drawers, a closet, a random chair, and a window that overlooked some body of water), it was fine for me, and since I was a grateful college student who wasn’t in any position to do so, I didn’t complain.

           After getting settled, it was about five, and Ari suggested that we head out and get some dinner, because her dad was apparently out, and wouldn’t be back until much later. I complied, and she took me to this pizza place that was within walking distance of the condo complex. We ordered an entire pizza (cheese—neither Ari nor I were that adventurous when it came to foods, as it turned out), and though the grease made me cringe inside, after wiping a good amount of it off with a napkin like I had seen so many girls do before, I ate about half of it. Ari surprisingly had about three or so pieces out of the whole eight, and I ended up eating the last slice. I paid, and then we went back to the condo.

           It was seven or so, and not wanting to be a bad hostess, Ari asked if I wanted to watch a movie (I suspected that it was just to burn the awkward time). Unsure what to answer, I said that I’d watch one, only if she wanted to. She said that she did, and then asked me what movie I wanted to watch. I said that I didn’t care. Thankfully, she didn’t reply back with an indecisive, “Well, neither do I,” but rather took charge of the situation and put Mean Girls right on.

           Through the duration of the entire movie, we had one short, cumbersome conversation:

           Ari: “I don’t like movies.”

           Me: “Why not?”

           Ari: “Because the endings are always unrealistic. In movies, everyone ends up being happy. That’s not how real life is. There aren’t happy endings—just misguided people who think they’re either happy or it’s the end.”

           I didn’t say anything after her pessimistic declaration, and neither did she. Instead of uttering even a single other word or quoting a single line, she cried, which confused me a great deal. The first time I saw Mean Girls was with Mackenzie Collins. We weren’t dating at the time, but rather just going through the friendly best-friend’s-older-sister/little-brother’s-best-friend phase. She was absolutely obsessed with the flick, and literally jabbered away the entire time, reciting practically the whole movie verbatim to what the actors were saying. The girls themselves were pretty hot, and it wasn’t a terrible movie—well, that was my initial response to it, at least.

           After my first time, I saw the movie at least seven more times with Mackenzie before we actually started dating. Any time I was over her house and her brother wasn’t home or even if her brother was home, she would insist that we watch it. She had confiscated control of the TV from us, and threatened that we couldn’t pursue our dear video games unless we watched Means Girls with her first. It could have definitely qualified as “cruel and unusual punishment.”

           Then we started dating, and whenever we hung out, it involved four main things: Mackenzie, making out, munching on food, and Mean Girls. The four M’s. By the end of my relationship with Mackenzie Collins, I had easily seen Mean Girls over twenty times—no, that was not an exaggeration. More of an understatement. I hated the movie with all my heart, not just because it reminded me of Mackenzie, but more that I was a teenage guy who had pretty much memorized every line. Oh, and I also couldn’t stand it because like most things, I OD’d, and was done. And there I was, watching Mean Girls once again with Ari.

           The thing about watching Mean Girls with Ari versus watching it with Mackenzie was that Ari didn’t laugh or smile or talk—she cried. I had seen Mean Girls quite a few times. It was not a sad movie. Maybe she was empathizing with Cady (Lindsay Lohan’s character), but I had a hunch that that wasn’t it. She wasn’t crying because of Mean Girls. She was crying because of something else, and it killed me that I didn’t know what and that I couldn’t stop it.

           Something about the way she was silently weeping told me that she wasn’t in a place to be physically comforted by another human, so I restricted myself from hugging her or any action in the category. All I could do was watch her mutely crumble from this strong and apathetic person into a pool of vulnerability. I wanted to help—but I couldn’t. Like everyone, Ari had her own problems of which I was unaware, and there was nothing in my immediate power that I could do to prevent them. I was powerless, and Ari was crying.

           When the movie was over, Ari told me that she was drained, but all I noticed were the track of tears that the water had created on her face. She said that she wanted to go to bed, and asked if I minded. I said no, and then retreated to the guestroom after getting ready for bed myself. After doing a few crunches, some sit-ups, and a couple of push-ups, I had physically tired my body out, and then turned off the light of my room, plugged some headphones in, and put my music on shuffle. I didn’t listen to the random tunes that played in my ears, though—instead, I thought. It was one of those times that my brain decided to make every connection it could, and I mentally revisited some pretty tough places. Eventually, I somehow fell asleep. And here I was now—about to eat breakfast with Ari Remon. Quite an interesting turn of events.

           “Are you a breakfast person?” Ari snapped me out of my tumultuous thoughts.

           “Uh, no,” I replied, merely watching as she brought the boxes over to a table in a room attached to the kitchen. She placed them down, and then went back into the kitchen, taking out a bowl and spoon. Silently, she urged me to follow her over to the table, so I did.

           Ari sat down at the head of the table, closest to the kitchen. I sat to her left, facing a wall with my back to the hallway and basically everything else. She pushed the carton, yellow box, bowl, and spoon over to me, and then took the bright blue item for herself. “Neither am I,” she finally said, referring back to the question that she had asked me. “I hate eating in the morning. My brain is barely on, and the same goes for my stomach.” She then opened the blue article, and pulled out rows of blackish circles with white in their middles that aided in holding them together.

           “So you eat Oreos?” I grinned, watching as she took a single cookie, inserting it into her mouth fully. She didn’t rip the top off, only to scrape the cream off, or eat just the chocolate part. No, instead, she ate it all as it was meant to be consumed—whole. On the rare occasion that I actually ate Oreos, I did the same. I ate them as one cookie, opposed to multiple variables. Maybe it was because I was exceptionally boring and American, or maybe it was due to a subconscious desire to pay homage to how the sweet was initially prepared—whichever the reason, I ate my Oreos together. And so did Ari.

           “So I eat Oreos,” she affirmed, sliding the container over slightly, offering them to me.

           Tentatively, I accepted, knowing fully well that I didn’t have anything to be concerned about in regards to weight and that one Oreo wouldn’t give me a cholesterol problem. It was just that Oreos weren’t generally part of my daily dietary procedure, and it felt even stranger eating one at such an early hour. I took a single cookie from the plastic tray encased in blue, and then brought it up to my mouth, biting down so that half of it was in my mouth, the cream and cookie still intact perfectly. Ari watched me, and smiled.

           “You know, the way you eat an Oreo can say a lot about your character as a person,” Ari Remon said. I wasn’t entirely sure if she was joking or being completely serious. There was a fine line between sarcasm and reality when it came to that girl.

           “Really, now?” I asked with a smirk.

           “Uh huh,” she nodded. “Take Scott for instance: he only eats the middle cream because he likes the sugar and is too lazy to chew the hard cookie part. Houston only eats the chocolate, which is probably why he and Scott’s friendship works so well.” Ari paused, grinning widely as she talked about the two boys with whom we both happened to be friends. “And then there’s Kay. She takes forever to eat a single Oreo—she eats it with both the cookie and cream, but still.”

           “And how do the ways that they eat Oreos link to their personalities?” I questioned, enjoying the current conversation at hand.

           “Well, Scott’s lazy and has always opted for the easy and fun route—digesting the cream,” she began, a list about to be formed. “Houston’s tough…a tough cookie, and he’s just a very sturdy person. And then there’s Kay. She’s meticulous and precise in every endeavor that she pursues.”

           I bit the edge of my lip, and then poured a sizeable amount of the doughnut-shaped cereal into the bowl provided. After adding the milk and thinking long and hard, I finally asked a lingering question that was pulsating through my mind. “And what does it say about you and me that we like eating Oreos in the boring, traditional way?”

           Instead of replying, she just shook her head with a grin and got up from the table, walking away. I didn’t take it personally—it was just Ari being Ari. She left the kitchen parameter, leaving me alone with just the cereal, milk, and Oreos to keep me company. I dunked my spoon into my main form of morning nutrients, and then placed the end into my mouth, savoring the average taste of Cheerios and milk. Yum.

           “Who the hell are you and why aren’t you wearing a shirt?” was the inquiry that caused me to stop chewing and freeze. Ari wasn’t the one who was asking. It was someone else. Slowly, I twisted my head so that I could look at the person behind me. It was a guy—about my parent’s age—with graying hair and worn face. He was wearing sweats, a sweatshirt that said “CHA,” and a menacing glare fixed my way. The next thing that exited his mouth almost caused me to spit out my Cheerios, but I somehow managed to keep them down: “Are you having sex with my daughter?”

           “Mr. Remon, I presume?” I offered up a weak and hopefully amiable smile.

           “Actually, I go by Eli. Who the hell are you, why aren’t you wearing a shirt, and are you having sex with my daughter?” Well, this was certainly one way to meet the man whose condo I had slept in the night prior and with whom I would be sharing Thanksgiving. Quite the introduction.

           “Eric, I was sleeping in shorts, did some push-ups, didn’t have time to put a shirt on, and no, I am most certainly not sleeping with Ari,” I said, trying to stress the last point as much as possible. “I’m, uh, her friend from Stanford. I’m originally from New York. I played football—”

           “Football?” I knew it would get his attention. Ari had mentioned on more than one occasion that he was a football coach. There was nothing in the world that football coaches like talking about more than football. It was their favorite word, and I was pretty convinced that their entire existences revolved around the sport. Unsurprisingly, when I had mentioned my former sport, it had definitely been a red flag for Ari’s dad.

           “Yes, sir, I was quarterback on varsity three years—first string the last two, and for those two years we won state championships,” I muttered quickly, giving the rap about my football history.

           “Are you playing at Stanford?” the man asked eagerly, dropping majority of his overprotective dad side.

           “No, sir,” I shook my head. “I was supposed to, but then this past spring I actually quit.”

           “You quit?” he reiterated the word as if it wasn’t in his native language.

           “Yes, sir,” I nodded, and then because I knew the unavoidable question of “why?” would soon arise, I just explained without the prompt. “I liked the game, just not the things that came with it, like the reputation, pressure I put on myself, and just the whole aspect of allowing a sport to define who I was as a person.”

           “It’s a respectable reason to quit,” he mumbled approvingly. “And you’re sure that you’re not having sex with my daughter?”

           Before I could deny the false accusation once again, I heard a blood curdling, “DAD!” as Ari sprinted back into the room, her face red as she just stared at her father in incredulity.

           “What?” Eli groaned. “Oh, by the way, it’s nice to see you again, sweetie.” He gave her a quick peck on the forehead, and she cringed.

           “Did you just ask Eric if we were having sex?” his daughter asked, her eyes bulging out as she anticipated an answer.

           “Yes,” her father replied simply, “I did. He said you weren’t. Is that true, Ari?”

           “Dad!” she screamed. “Eric is just a friend! We’re not having sex! I can’t believe you just asked him that! You’re going to traumatize him!”

           “He plays football, did you know that?”

           “Yep.”

           “You like guys who like football, don’t you, Ari?”

           “Yep.”

           “Did you know that he quit?”

           “Yep.”

           “So, are you two having sex?”

           “Ye-NO! No, we are not!” Ari recovered mid-sentence, her pattern of the single syllable screwing her up when the topic of, uh, screwing unexpectedly came up. She buried her face in her hands, and her dad just laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Clearly, they had one of those relationships where the parent enjoyed mortifying their child as much as possible. Thankfully, neither of my parents were of that variety—my dad was just overly rigid and held my image at too high an esteem, while I would always remain my mom’s “little boy.”

           “Where’d he sleep last night?” the father’s interrogation continued.

           “In the guestroom!” Ari exploded.

           “Was he alone?”

           “Yes!”

           “And you two weren’t having sex?”

           “Dad, we’re friends!”

           “With benefits?”

           Ari let out a stream of undetectable profanities, and then erupted with a loud scream. She turned to me, and very calmly stated, “Eric, we’re leaving. Sorry to cut your breakfast short.”

           “Uh, it’s fine,” I said, standing slowly, unsure if I was meant to place my half-eaten breakfast in the trash or disposal or just leave it as it was. Judging by the peeved beyond comprehension look on Ari’s face, prolonging our stay in the condo any longer wouldn’t be in my best interests at the moment.

           She began to walk over to where the door was, leading to the back stairwell that connected all the other condos together. Her dad was still laughing. She opened the door, and I stood beside her, wondering if she would say goodbye to even her own father. “Bye, Ari! I love you!” Eli called after her. “It was nice meeting you, Eric! I’m glad you’re not having sex with my daughter!” With that final jab, Ari walked through the door, and I did the same, allowing her to release her agitation with the loud slam of the entranceway that followed as we left the condo. She didn’t say goodbye to Eli.