Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men - By Regan Wolfrom Page 0,52
of death would be a much-needed improvement.
In theory I could have lived in that bus, but I chose to stay at Mom’s place in Worcester. But I still ended up spending most of my time on the road.
My next gig was at an apartment just off-campus from Yale. I’d done my research by phone and Facebook, and I’d already gotten to know quite a bit about her, an existential Master of Fine Arts student with no urge to finish her studies.
They start with the light stuff, screenshots on Reddit with quotes from Ricky Gervais or Richard Dawkins. Then they move onto the hard stuff, full-on books from Hitch and friends. Some people don’t think a universe without any gods is a wondrous thing. Some of those people get depressed and lose their sense of purpose... and some of them see my ad for life-ending counselling. It takes a few weeks to weed out the rotten fruit, but it’s worth it in the end.
I parked the old school bus a good block away. She was supposed to be waiting at the door, but I couldn’t see her; it’s not unusual to get cold feet. I buzzed her and she asked me to come up. I figured it was probably around 70/30 that I’d be getting my money and meat tonight.
But then the door opened to four dreadlocked women armed with frying pans and duct tape. One of them was my precious Eleanor. It wasn’t going to be my night.
“Get her!” one of the women screamed as the others tried to corral me into the kitchen.
“Meat is murder!” another one shrieked as she tried to brain me with a skillet.
I ducked to the ground and somersaulted past them, coming up against the deadbolted door. As I made my way through the locksets I felt them grabbing me.
“I help people,” I said as I finally pulled the door open. “Please don’t hurt me.”
But they had me then, my arms forced behind my back as they started to tape me up.
“You don’t help people,” Eleanor said. “You were going to eat me, bitch.”
I wondered what they’d do with me, if they were going to beat me up and leave me in a dumpster, or if they were going to drag my bound ass down to the police station. Either way, I knew I wasn’t going to be reimbursed for mileage.
As they started to shuffle me out the door a stocky man appeared from the hallway, stepping alongside me. He was wearing a ball cap and carrying a square leather bag over his shoulder. He looked at me and smiled.
“Hazing?” he asked as he started to unzip the bag. “I love college girls.”
“We didn’t order any pizza,” Eleanor said.
“I’m pretty sure you did. Cheese and bacon.”
“We’re vegans, asshole.”
“I don’t judge.”
I took the opportunity and pulled away from my captors. I pushed past the delivery man and ran out into the hallway and down two flights of stairs, almost falling a few times since I couldn’t grab onto the railings.
By the time I reached the bottom, the pizza guy was right behind me. The vegans were nowhere to be seen.
I’d made it out.
“I’ll help,” he said. He started to tear at the tape and any of my attached arm hair. “My name is Michael.”
“I’m Marie-Claire,” I said between curses.
“It’s nice to meet you. Would you like to have coffee sometime?”
I felt like I owed him so I told him yes, despite his being at least thirty and oddly unashamed of being an overgrown pizza boy. And maybe because he was nothing like the men I’d dated before, by the end of our first date I knew I’d want to see him again.
So that crazy bitch Eleanor wanted to kill me and somehow that made me want to date a guy who delivers pizza as a career.
It’s funny how the universe conspires against you sometimes.
I dated Michael for three months before I told him what I did for a living. I figured by that point that if he really was husband material he’d be too comfortable with me to let an alternative lifestyle get in the way; I’d been more than open-minded about his foot fetish.
We were laying on his pull-out bed after a really good home-cooked dinner and even better sex; he had one arm wrapped over my hip and the other cradling my head.
I felt safe with him. That’s not something a girl’s supposed to say these days, but that’s still how it felt.