Idiot - Laura Clery Page 0,22

is?”

My dad grumbled, “No one. Touch. That. Phone.”

RRIIIIINNNGGGGG.

We kept eating in silence until my dad got up, picked up the receiver, and yelled, “STOP CALLING, YOU PUNK! . . . mhmmm. Right. Fine.”

He hung up the receiver. “Some brand-new, never-heard-before information. Damon wants you to go to New York.”

I know what you’re thinking. “This dude sounds crazy, Laura! Block his number!” Hey, I hear you loud and clear. But at the time I thought Damon was harmless. It was flattering, really, that he wanted to photograph me! Not a red flag at all.

A few days later, Colleen and I got into a huge fight. I had worn one of her favorite shirts and “covered it with red wine.” I replied, completely factually, that her stupid face was the very reason I DRANK the red wine so who’s really to blame here. . . .

Now, I have NO IDEA WHY, but our civil, factual conversation turned into a yelling match. It wasn’t my fault! A.K.A. it was completely my fault! But suddenly, in the middle of it all, Colleen yelled this:

“I wish you would just leave!”

I clenched my jaw and said, “Well I don’t want to be here!”

“You know what?? You should go to New York. Just fucking GO. Just LEAVE.”

“Fine!!! I will go! Can I borrow money for a ticket!”

“Yes! Gladly!!”

It took me a second to realize what I had just agreed to. Shit. She bought me a one-way ticket to New York and I said the most menacing “thank you” I could muster up. I packed a bag, including her wine-stained shirt just to salt the wound a little. I guess I was going to New York.

I called Damon back. “Okay, I’m coming. I’ll be there in a week.”

There was a long pause on the phone . . . until I heard him say . . . “What??”

He really wasn’t expecting me to come. Whatever. It was going to be fine!

A week later, I passed my parents on my way out. My mom was reading in the dining room and my dad was sitting in his La-Z-Boy, watching CNN with a clenched fist.

“Bye, Mom, I’m going to New York to be a model.”

“Okay honey, have fun!”

My dad chimed in, too. “You’re going to kill it; you’re gorgeous.”

I yelled louder, for my sister to hear. “BYE, EVERYONE. I’M OFF.”

She yelled back. “Don’t fuck it up!”

I had one suitcase, one plane ticket, forty dollars in my pocket, and a napkin with Damon’s address written on it. I was off.

Here’s what I DIDN’T have: a cell phone or any kind of plan.

Looking back, I am now fully aware of how dangerous this was. This impulsive girl who hopped over to New York without a second thought is WAY DIFFERENT TODAY. Now, my idea of “dangerous” is binge watching Netflix until two a.m. because I might not get my full eight hours. (Good sleep is better than sex, you guys.)

But eighteen-year-old me was desperate for adventure. Which might just be a nice way of saying batshit crazy. Jury’s still out.

When I climbed off the plane at JFK Airport, I was basically a bright-eyed suburban girl hopping off a plane in the big city, carrying a big suitcase and even bigger dreams!

I was ready for my musical number to start. Hello angry people at baggage claim! Hello strange smells where they shouldn’t be! Hello homeless person squatting on the curb! The kindness of the city was everywhere! A friendly-looking middle-aged man with an exotic accent approached me, offering to drive me to my destination in his unmarked taxi. Shucks, how lucky am I!

I enthusiastically said yes as I politely asked him to watch my suitcase while I used the restroom. As I was peeing (and probably humming show-tunes to myself), I looked around the bathroom stall. Someone had written SUCK A DICK, GEENA on the wall. I suddenly noticed the traces of piss on the floor, the highly questionable brown smear on the stall door. Oh God, it’s disgusting here. Oh God, I let a random man watch my bag. Oh my God, oh my God. I wiped my vag and ran out as fast as I could.

He was still there, bag in hand. Whew. Great! This, of course, was a sign that nothing bad would ever happen to me! I hopped into his unmarked taxi and read the address of my—now wrinkled and torn—napkin, “Twenty-Second and Ninth, please.” Damn, I sounded official.

When we arrived, I asked the cabbie if he would let me