Come Up and See Me Sometime. Erika Krouse

      Come Up

       and See Me Sometime

      Erika Krouse

      

       Praise

      Miss West … you are the greatest female impersonator of all time.

      —George Davis

      

      It’s just lousy enough to be funny.

      —Variety reviewer of Mae West’s The Constant Sinner

       For my girl Meghan

      Contents

       Cover

       Title Page

Praise

My Weddings

No Universe

Drugs and You

       Mercy

       Too Big to Float

       Other People’s Mothers

       Her First Earthquake

       Impersonators

       Momentum

       The Husbands

       The Fast

       Via Texas

       What I Wore

       About the Author

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

      Endless thanks to Sarah McGrath, Mary Evans, and Daniel Wallace for all their help with this book. Thanks also to the magazine editors who first published these stories, especially Michael Curtis and Will Allison. Big thanks to the Alps Boulder Canyon Inn, the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, and the Sewanee Writers’ Conference. And last, thanks to all my friends for their support.

       My Weddings

      I’m single because I was born that way.

      —Mae West

      My first wedding was Aunt Marcia’s second. I wore a straw hat with a baby blue ribbon. The church was like an old schoolroom. Before the “I do,” before the kiss, I fainted away in the pew. My mother carried me out the back door, rolling her eyes.

      Queasy, I sat on the cement steps. “You’d better not do that at your wedding,” my mother told me, and spat on a handkerchief to wash my face. I started to cry, because I was confused, and because I had lost my hat. My mother touched my tears with the corner of the handkerchief. “There,” she said, “that’s a little more appropriate.” When I got home, before I even unbuckled my patent leather shoes, I opened the big blue dictionary and looked up “appropriate.”

      MY FRIEND Pamela liked to play Bride. She was usually the bride, since we played at her house. I was usually the minister.

      We had wrapped her head in a bedsheet with lace doilies stapled to it. Her bouquet was green and red tissue paper. She wore her best dress-up clothes—orange beads, and a pink evening gown that trailed behind her. The only trouble was, she kept stepping on it in front. “This stupid thing,” she said as she walked down the hallway, while I sang, “Here comes the bride,” in my loudest, most celebratory voice.

      “Hey,” I said as she approached the cardboard box altar. “Your dress isn’t white.”

      “So?”

      I tried a different approach. “When can I be the bride?”

      “After I’m the bride,” Pamela said, adjusting her veil.

      I knew that this offer meant nothing. A second bride was no kind of bride.

      “Do you take this man to be your awfully wedded husband?” I said in a bored voice.

      “I do.” Pamela was demure, holding her bouquet lightly in her fingers.

      “Kiss the bride.”

      Pamela kissed the air passionately.

      After the kiss, I stood at the altar. Pamela looked at me. The bouquet dangled from her hand.

      I suddenly remembered. “Oh—throw the bouquet.”

      She threw it, and I ran from the altar to pick it up. It withered in my clutch. Pamela’s ankle suddenly lopped sideways, and her foot fell out of the large shoe.

      “What happens next?” I asked.

      SAM VISITED me in September, and I drove him to Rocky Mountain National Park. Sam wanted pictures of elk, bighorn sheep; he wanted a mountain lion. I pulled the car over for every herd of animals. Sam jumped out with his point-and-shoot every time. He paused. The elk stared right at him. The bighorn sheep tossed its big head in Sam’s face. One after another, the animals stood perfectly still and then finally leaped away, disgusted, as Sam lowered his camera. “Missed it.”

      We walked down the street in Estes Park with fresh-bought ice cream cones. “My wife,” Sam said, “will be intelligent, educated, and ambitious—yet,” with a finger raised, “will want to have approximately five to seven children.”

      “Bullshit, Sam,” I said, hitting his hand as if it were a tennis ball. A penny fell from the change in his grip. He bent to pick it up.

      “Does it work the same when it’s your penny? Do you get good luck when you pick it up?” I asked.

      “No, but I’ll drop it again if you like. You can pick it up and get lucky.” He dropped the penny. It made a cheap sound on the pavement.

      I bent down to pick it up. It was shiny and new. When I straightened up, Sam held out his hand. I put my hand there, and he pulled his away. Then he held it out again. I dropped the penny in the center of his palm.