Everybody Prefers Iceberg Lettuce by Geneviève Goggin

Everybody prefers iceberg lettuce. That’s always been true, but these days it’s bougie to admit it. Before, if someone told you they favored romaine, or worse yet kale, they were lying, but at least it revealed their rank. I’m not white trash, they’d tell themselves. Iceberg is what you eat if you live in a trailer park, it’s what they put in gas station sandwiches.

Now I rely on less dependable tests to confirm a man belongs on The List—the one I made in honor of my friend Frannie. Country music: either you love it, or you secretly love it. If a date puts on some jazz, chances are he’s got country on his Spotify, but jazz is the indicator of status.

For the record … wait, you’re recording, right? OK, good. For the record, let’s say my name is Rose. I prefer iceberg and country music. Doesn’t mean I’m hiding other deep, dark secrets. I just do what I need to do to survive in this doggy-dog world. Yeah, I know it’s dog-eat-dog, but as a kid, I thought it was doggy-dog, and really, isn’t that the kind of world you’d rather live in?

Fine, it’s a dog-eat-dog world and I’m a Doberman. But it wasn’t always the case—more on that later. First, I need to tell you the story of what happened. I met a guy at the Liquid Lounge. Let’s say he’s a Pitbull. In the North End where I grew up, that’s the dog of choice if you want people to think you’re the shit. The Pitbull was on The List. How was I to know he was the snuggle-and-watch-the-game kind of Pittie? I’m used to the tear-into-the-jugular type that destroys first, then stares at the mess it’s made with satisfaction, or at best, confusion.

Dean was his name. That’s important; you’ll see why in a bit. I sat next to him at the bar and gave him an inviting glance—cliché, I know, but that’s how it happened—and before long, he was flashing cash and counting chickens. There’s only so many drinks you can accept before the point of no return. What can I say, those G&Ts hit the spot.

I got in his car and that’s when I thought to think, should I? But by then I was invested and he was invested and we were heading west on Broadway, then left on Third, left again on Elm. I’ve changed the names of the streets to disguise this dump of a town.

A quarter mile down Elm, he slowed, turned into a laneway, pressed the zapper on the window visor, which opened a noisy gate to an underground parking, the sort of dim place you tell the soon-to-be-victim on CSI not to go in, no matter what. We entered the gaping mouth and pulled into stall 1612; not that this matters—wherever he parked, the outcome would have been the same.

We went up to his place, one of those pretentious condos with mid-century modern furniture, a charcuterie board with special knives, and a fridge that makes its own ice cubes. I know all about luxury household items, or at least you won’t catch me looking like I don’t. I’ve made it my business to learn the ways of the rich. When I left home thirty years ago, the first thing I bought, before linens for the stained futon I found in an alley, before pantry basics like vegetable oil or steak seasoning, the first thing I got was an old set of encyclopedias from the Sally Ann. Despite missing the Q-R-S volume, the glossy white tomes contained knowledge, bits of information to help one slip into the world unnoticed. Now, thanks to Google, I can toss around words like credenza, hygge, and umami.

Anyway, I digress. His apartment was swanky. He offered me a drink, but I said no. I needed what was left of my wits for this delicate mission. That’s what went wrong with the first one on The List, Frannie’s ex-husband, Bob. I’d let myself get plastered, so when I pulled out my phone, I fumbled long enough for him to clue in. You’ll see what I mean in a second. What happened after that is another story, but it firmed my resolve. All the guys after Bob were a breeze, give or take a few bruises.

Anyway, back to Dean. He went to the can, so I had a minute to snoop. Not sure why I inspected the space-age fridge. There wasn’t much inside, most notably, no condiments. And no iceberg lettuce, not that this means anything, iceberg now being the great equalizer of the classes.

The toilet flushed and I catapulted back to the mustard-yellow sofa. My fingers traveled across the velour, soft as butter. One day, I’ll have one just like it, but in beige so it goes with everything. Scratch that. Mine will be cerulean blue.

He put on some Louis Armstrong. What can I tell you, it confirmed he belonged on The List. We sank into the cushions and inched closer. His cologne should have been a hint that something didn’t add up. Axis Mist. I’d recognize the cheap crap anywhere on account of my brother bathing in it for the better part of a decade.

I turned to Dean and he put his arms around me and traced what I guessed was his name on my neck. You’d be surprised how many mark their territory. His other hand crept up my blouse to the lower fringe of my best bra. He took his sweet time. I didn’t have all night. His lips finally made their way to mine, and that’s when I stuffed a hand in my pocket, pulled out my phone, and snapped a selfie.

“What the hell are you doing?” He sprang away like he’d scalded himself.

I pulled the hurt look men love so much. “I’m sorry, I thought we were having a nice time?”

He glanced over at the patio doors as though someone might appear from his sixteenth-floor balcony and catch him in the act. He stood and stared down at me. There are two reactions I get at this stage of the operation: those who are into it, who want to star in a porn movie, and those who are married.

Dean towered over me, planted, frozen, deciding how to put me in my place—because regardless of which camp they fall in, they all conclude I’m too big for my britches. I posted the picture on Instagram, then pulled my shirt down and smoothed it. This was the trickiest moment, when I needed him to see reason before he did my face in.

“How’s your wife these days?”

He made a little o with his lips and his arms went slack. I waved the photo of the two of us. I’d fine-tuned the art of taking selfies with the man’s face visible but featuring only my L’Oreal copper curls. This shot wasn’t my best—more of a side view.

It was time to leave because he had the look. Or did he? Better not to risk it. I moved toward the door, slowly so as not to trigger the Pitbull response.

“Don’t leave.” Whether he was pleading or menacing, I couldn’t tell.

He leapt toward me. His foot slipped on the zebra hide rug. He wobbled. He fell backwards and hit his head on the corner of the marble coffee table. The blood seeped across the zebra stripes—pink, black, pink, black, pink. Maybe he was dead, maybe he wasn’t. I didn’t stick around to find out. That was a mistake. No, not a mistake. A sin. Though I did anonymously call 911—I’m not a monster. Of course, they can trace phones, so.

My other screw-up was the picture. Taking it down from Instagram made me look guilty as fuck when the police did their forensic thing. Did you know Instagram stores deleted images for thirty days? Note to self.

I got remanded while I waited for my murder trial. I had plenty of time to think about how this all went tits up. Turns out the chic apartment hadn’t been Dean’s. He got an Airbnb elite suite to entertain a potential business partner. Like me, Dean was trying to edge his way into a world where he didn’t belong. In fact, he grew up in my neighborhood, in those townhouses with the red-and-white-striped awnings meant to make the shabby place look like a beach resort. Lipstick on a pig.

So, there I was in the detention center, surrounded by hardened criminals, waiting for a judge to determine if it was an accident. It was an accident, but someone else would decide what to do with the truth. On the first day in pre-jail, I sat across the lunch table from a lady with Be Kind tattooed across her neck.

“Whatcha looking at?” she asked, not so kindly.

“I’m not looking,” I said, even though I sorta was.

“Are you the one going around killing dudes and putting it on Insta?”

I’d been in the joint five seconds and was already a legend. I didn’t correct her and gave her a tough glare. I’d only practiced a meek look and the gotcha smirk, but it did the trick because she shut her gob. Jessica was her name, though she seemed more like a Bernice or a Tempest.

The chick next to me inched away, almost imperceptibly, but I smelled fear on her. Or it could have been BO. Either way, she didn’t seem like a hardened criminal. She had the look that gets you picked up by the cops—as in skin some shade of brown. Sorry, can I say that on the record? Whatever. It’s true.

Anyway, the next day, I had women lining up to add their Misters to my tally. Jessica was first in line.

“His name is Oscar.”

“As in the Grouch?”

“You could say that. He didn’t appreciate me taking what I was owed, with some serious compound interest. I always wanted a motorbike.” She closed her eyes and smiled, as though remembering the wind in her hair as she whipped down Highway 7. “He gave me a pounding before he called the po-po on me. Now I’m in here while he’s running around looking for the next hooker to rip off.”

I looked her straight in the eye—by day two we were on an eye-to-eye basis.

“The ones with the most cash are the cheapest,” she said. “I couldn’t let him get away with it.”

“That’s my jam. Going after the fuckers who think they’re untouchable.” I had her attention.

She told me to rearrange Oscar’s botoxed face. I told her I specialized in the public humiliation of privileged men who abuse vulnerable women. If she wanted a goon, I wasn’t her gal. Word got around. There were others. So now, between Oscar the Grouch and all the other gentlemen I added while I was inside, I have my work cut out for me.

The trial was fascinating. Nothing like on TV. If I wasn’t the one in the hot seat, I might have enjoyed myself. The lawyers rehashed details every which way. One minute, I’m a defenseless woman trying to escape a predator, the next I’m the predator. It was revenge, it was self-defense, it was premeditated, it was a mistake. Two lawyers, both men, telling a man-judge what I did or didn’t intend, what I did or didn’t do. Experts weighed in on what I could or couldn’t pull off, on my state of mind. The whole hearing was an out-of-body experience.

Then, just like that, I was out. I wanted to kiss the judge but didn’t, or it would’ve landed me right back in that horrid place. Turns out my story tracked with the medical examiner’s assessment. The cause of death was falling on the table, not being thrown against it. My legal aid lawyer successfully argued that a petite woman like me couldn’t toss a beefy specimen like Dean. Of course, they don’t realize Dobermans are slight but strong. But that’s beside the point because I didn’t touch the poor fellow.

I’m out, but on parole because I didn’t stay at the scene to attend to the necessities of life. Fair enough. It was an asshole move and I accept my punishment without protest. Well, I’ll complain a bit—the million restrictions are cramping my style. I can’t go to any watering holes. So here I am, drinking alone—fine, not alone because you’re here with a recorder in my face—but I’m here, having a G&T in my bachelor pad, which sounds grander than it is because it’s an illegal basement suite in a house that’s one complaint away from being condemned. But it’s my fire trap and nobody can take that away.

Last night I sat on this futon—one day I’ll have that velour sofa, mark my word—and I reviewed The List. Wait. We agreed you’ll never use real names for the podcast, right? I have my enterprise to protect. Women to avenge. Let’s shake on it.

OK, we’re good.

When I left remand, Jessica squeezed my hand and called me a bloody hero. No pressure or anything. She reminded me again about Oscar. All I can think of is that green Muppet from Sesame Street, so I can’t imagine going on a date with him. But I will because she deserves my best attempt after what he put her through. Another Frannie. At least this one’s still alive. In jail, but alive.

The Doberman in me lies dormant, resting, wishing it was a lap dog, one of those vicious-looking dogs that’s cared for, whose owner takes it to doggy day care rather than leave it alone to fend for itself. I was born an innocent pup like everyone else. Just like Dean. How could I have known there were two shorter-than-average Deans with receding hairlines who were regulars at the Liquid Lounge? Do I feel bad that I got the wrong Dean? That I got the sweet Pitbull, the exception to the rule? I do. Like I said before, what I did was a sin. A man died because of me. Sorry. I need a Kleenex. Give me a sec.

OK, I’m fine now, let’s keep going.

Earlier, you asked about the right Dean—Mean Dean, we’ll call him. He’s still on The List. I didn’t get justice for Frannie, but Mean Dean’s girlfriend is a Frannie too. I’ll wait until the dust settles and I can go back to the Liquid Lounge. For now, I’ve got Jessica’s green monster to snare. Whether or not he enjoys iceberg lettuce or country music, I’m coming for him. Let’s make him Episode 1.

Geneviève Goggin

Image: Cell phone camera showing two lenses a flash and part of a black mobile phone. From pixabay.com