rent-a-friend

I arrive feeling as though I’m going to meet the in-laws for the first time. Acutally, remember that episode of Sesame Street where everyone finally got to meet Snuffy? More like that. Exactly like that.

For the longest time, Ari’s parents have thought I was a figment of her imagination. Her Snuffalupagus. And so, to determine the extent of my ‘realness’, I’d been invited to Sunday brunch.

I show up wearing flip flops and a wilted white corsage that Ben found for me on the sidewalk earlier that morning. My hair is wild from a surprise morning rain shower and the cuffs of my pants, still wet from frolicking in the fountain at the Natural History Museum. Mr. and Mrs. Ari will soon see that I am real alright. A real piece of work.

Though, in the Piece of Work category, it must be said that I am seriously outdone. Ari’s parents are out of control.

Mr. Ari speaks with one of those accents that makes everything he says seem wise. Every story like scripture verse. “When we went to Norway,” he begins, and already my mind is preparing for a meaningful ending, complete with moral. When there is none (it is nothing more than a story about a hotel room television), I still feel wizened, like I’ve brunched on parables.

“This is what an immigrant looks like,” Ari tells me over the mozzarella and fresh basil. “And when they tell you that not all Middle Easterners are terrorists, you now see that is a lie.” She points, swooping a manicured finger up toward her father. “They are all crazy. Lunatics!”

Her mother has gotten herself worked up into a fit of laughter trying to tell me about a book report Ari wrote in the fourth grade. She can’t speak, except to use Ari’s nickname. I have armloads of new ammunition now. Family nicknames that sound like poodles or deranged hobbits. Stories about pool tables and porn.

Mrs. Ari paces a bit while we watch the baseball game. She pauses behind the chair where I sit and begins to play with my hair. I lean forward to let her have at all of it. The Yankees take the lead while she idling combs her fingers through my now-dry hair. I have been adopted for the afternoon.

We hug and cheek-kiss good-bye as Ari promises to remember my model number the next time she calls the Agency (I am no longer imaginary, but a rent-a-friend) and we foolishly decline her father’s offer of an umbrella. Half an hour later, rainsoaked and sniffling (I’ve pulled off the corsage – it made me headachey) we’re home at our common coordinates.

I love knowing where people come from. Prior to brunch, it was my ‘realness’ that was in question. But having passed the afternoon with her parents, it was Ari who somehow became even more real to me. At least in the sense that should I feel inclined to blackmail her, I’ve got a hell of a lot more to work with.