Carrie
By Erik Lewin
I was in Las Vegas doing guest spots at a comedy club — I perform stand-up — and met this cute girl in the green room. She was a visiting comic, a thick-hipped thirtysomething with long brown hair from New York. Her name was Carrie, and we struck up a nice banter.
After the show, Carrie and I left together and parked ourselves at a blackjack table. I sipped a cocktail, she had soda, (she was a recovering addict), though this did not interfere with her pronouncement that earlier, she’d smoked some fabulous weed.
At the table she held a cigarette to my lips, like a mobster’s mole, and gushed to the dealer how funny I was at the show, that he’d missed the time of his life. I pressed a hand on her knee, and when she didn’t flinch, I moved to her thigh.
She tucked her arm through mine and we strolled the casino floor to a nearby lounge. Her mascara had smeared a little, but her eyes still glowed. We kissed.
I suggested we leave the lobby in search of a quieter place, like my room. Once inside we both played it cool, politely sitting on the bed. I soon felt with my hand at her hip and suddenly she took my body in one move, like a jiu-jitsu master, pinning me on my back.
“I’d like a shower,” she said, pulling off me.
I wriggled out of my jeans and joined her. It was a lovely way to get better acquainted.
“Let’s dry off,” she said.
Once on the bed, the soapy foreplay gave way to sex, our rhythm already in tune, as if we hadn’t just met a couple hours ago.
Afterward, her head nestled on my chest, we spoke softly before drifting off to a peaceful slumber. In the late morning she dressed to leave, but not before we kissed and she left her number, saying she had a great time and we should be in touch. I told her I felt the same. It had all the hope in the world.
Back in L.A. I went about my business, but Carrie was on my mind. I’d lay on the couch, sunlight streaming through the blinds, and look out into the distant sky thinking, she’s out there.
lI told her I wanted to come to New York to see her. She suggested I stay with her in Brooklyn. It was Chrismas time, and all this good fortune was enough to make me believe in an adult Santa. We discussed the details:
“I have a show when you land. Just come there straight from the airport.”
“I’ll have my luggage,” I protested. “Plus I’m gonna smell like an airplane.”
“Gotta run, I’ll text you later,” she said.
She sent a text an hour later:
I really don’t know why it’s such a big deal to come to my show, nobody’s gonna take your stuff, but whatever, you can pickup the key to my place at the laundromat next door. It’ll be under a brick in front.
It was a bizarre instruction, but I refused to let reason be a stumbling block. At this point, it would’ve taken a declaration of syphilis to derail me. As it happened, another troubling scenario materialized.
“Carrie.” I coughed into the phone. I was supposed to fly the next day when I caught this terrible bug. Damn it!
“Are you okay?”
“I’m a wreck. Can barely get outta bed.” Cough. “I don’t think I can make the trip.”
“That so sucks.” She paused for a long moment. “Tell you what - what if I came to you? I’d love to get out of the cold weather. I could even make you soup. What do you think?”
I almost felt cured.
“Are you kidding? I’d love that. As long as you don’t mind a convalescent patient.”
“Great! I’ll fly out in two days, on Christmas Day. There’s just one thing - cash is pretty tight - do you think you could cover my ticket to LA?”
“No problem. I’ll reimburse you when you get here.”
“Ok cool! I’ll text you my flight details. See you soon! I’m so excited.”
“Me too. Thanks for doing this.”
I clicked off, snotting into my pillow and dreaming of dancing bowls of chicken soup and naked boobs.
On Christmas, I woke to the following text:
About to head to airport, but just so you know, I’m bringing my dog, Sugar. She’s a chihuaha and when she’s alone she gets anxiety and shits the floor. She’s super cute though, you’ll love her.
I’m sure she’s delightful, but I’m not allowed to have any pets in my — I’ll get kicked out.
Trust me, your landlord won’t even hear my little boo. Gotta run, my uber’s waiting.”
I’m at Bellevue. Against my will. You gotta get me outta here! This is a mistake! Come now!!
This dog thing was sprung on me last second, but so what, I liked dogs, and what were the chances I’d get busted? If her biggest flaw was caring about an animal’s welfare, then I was coming out way ahead.
After two hours, I got another text:
omg this uber guy took me to an empty parking lot and said I had to blow him. I screamed and Sugar barked so he did drive me to the airport but I got here too late so missed the flight. Promise to make next one in two hours, kissesJ
This was alarming for many reasons, but the flu overtook me before I could process it any further and I fell asleep. I still believed my Nightingale would be in the air, coming to my rescue. When I awoke, a new text from her:
Stuck In a bathroom stall at JFK. They threw me off the plane. Cops after me. Hiding. So scared. CALL ME!
I stared dumbly at the screen and finally texted:
VERY concerned that you’re not ok. . .
The phone went quiet for an hour. Then, another text:
I’m at Bellevue. Against my will. You gotta get me outta here! This is a mistake! Come now!!
Bellevue was the psych ward in New York City. I’d represented clients there as a criminal defense attorney, those who needed immediate commitment on account of psychotic episodes. Now she was one of them! It was a little rushed — I liked to wait until the third date before Bellevue — but now I was thrilled she missed those planes!
I texted:
So sorry to hear that. I wish you well-being, and hope you’re well, but I’m inconveniently three thousand miles away.
She called me. “I did this for you, Erik — I wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you! And you promised to pay for my flight! I need you to pay for that!”
It was beyond shocking. “I was going to reimburse you once you landed in L.A. The last I checked, Bellevue wasn’t in Beverly Hills.”
“You liar! You said—“
The phone clicked dead. So did our relationship. I don’t know if the whole thing was a set-up, but I don’t think so — she texted two days later, once released from the psych ward — and she admitted to having taken a strong narcotic cocktail that morning, and didn’t remember much of what happened. Amazingly, she still demanded payment for the flight! The one she never took! In the end, I didn’t succumb to such a hollow plea.
It was almost impossible to comprehend that in a long line of crazy dating experiences, this was on a whole other level. It might be time to move to a monastery. I was ready to shave my head. I was terrified of single women, but at least they’d never find me in Tibet!
And yet, in spite of it all, I kept my hair, and prepared to try it all over again.
Like what you just read? Check out Lewin’s novel, Son of Influence now available on Amazon.