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Giselda stepped out of the strip club, silently steaming. Her boyfriend had been in there, popping cash into some girl’s g-string. Bastard. She struggled to think of a good choice, something that fate could decide for her. After a moment, she came up with her options.
If she saw a person in red first, she’d go straight to the grocery store, buy lactose-free milk, and dump her boyfriend over the phone. If she saw a person in white first, she’d go back inside, smack him, and tell him off, perhaps allowing him to grovel before she dumped him.
When she was a child, her favorite TV show was Batman and her favorite character was Two-Face, a severely bipolar character who flipped a coin to make decisions. She did basically the same thing, though she had grown bored with coins long ago. She resolved her persistent indecision by cars on the street, by sounds, by advertisements, by songs on the radio, by what people were wearing.
A woman in a slinky red dress passed her on the left. She ran to the grocery store, almost hitting someone as she threw the door open. The someone was a girl about her age, with long straight black hair and soft brown eyes. Giselda smiled at her and walked over to the milk.
(I wonder if she knows I am Italian, that I like to read and that I’m in a tumultuous relationship. I wonder if she is like me. Maybe she is trying to decide who I am based on my decision. If I buy the soy milk, I’m an artist at Pratt, studying to be an illustrator. I have a girlfriend named Shana and I cheat on her with a girl from a club. I read science fiction in the library and am amazingly good at checkers. My mother and grandmother collaborate to send me weekly care packages from home. I will grow up to do layout for a magazine. Or maybe if I buy the rice milk, I’m an ancient history major at Columbia. I’m going out with a guy who’s about to dump me. My father’s ditched us but still paying for my college education from his new house with its new wife in California. I live alone and send out Emails to my best friend back home every night. I will transfer to Boston University.)
She carefully weighed which persona she wanted to be. She chose the soy milk and decided that if the woman left without buying anything, she’d follow her, but if she bought something before leaving, she’d never see her again. Giselda walked over to the line and paid for her milk, keeping her eye on the girl who was casually making her way back to the door and leaving. Holding the milk under one arm, she chased after the girl, finally catching up to her about a block away. Without waiting for a sign as to what she should do, she gave the girl a kiss on the cheek. (If the girl is delighted, I will give her one of my rings. If the girl is horrified, I will run back to the dorms to sleep.)
The girl laughed, blushed. Giselda handed her one of her rings, said it was for good luck, maybe they would meet again sometime. Smiling, she left the girl standing dumbfounded on the street and headed back to the dorm to put the milk into her tiny freezer.
Her answering machine was blinking at her, laughing at her. She knew the message was from him, but she didn’t want to hear it. She pressed the button.
“Listen, babe, what about our date tomorrow? Are we still on for that?” he had asked at some point. Giselda thought that all recorded music, all CD’s, were just people in boxes singing, over and over again. It was that same moment, someone in a box, continually replayed.
She sighed and looked out the window. If the next car went left to right, she would call him back. If the next car went right to left, she would throw the damn answering machine right out the window.
A car went from left to right and she called him back. She asked him what he’d been up to that evening, he said he’d just been lying around the apartment. Liar. She told him she’d seen him at the club, that she’d wound up being on that street because she’d seen a Taurus instead of a Focus, that she’d followed one of his friends inside because he’d been wearing boots instead of sneakers, that she hadn’t confronted him at the time because she hadn’t seen anyone wearing white.
He was silent. (If I hear a car beep first, I’m going to give him another chance. If I hear a screech, I’m dumping him.) She heard a screech.
It’s over, she told him.
I hate this, he replied. You doing everything based on random events. Why the hell can’t you make your own decisions? Just give me another fucking chance.
She stared out the window, reached into her pocket, pulled out a penny. Heads, she’d just hang up, tails, she’d inform him again of their new status then hang up.
How about this, he asked. Let’s both flip. If I get heads and you get tails, I’ll tell everyone I dumped you. If you get heads and I get tails, you can tell everyone you dumped me. If we both get tails, it’ll be mutual. If we both get heads, we’ll give it another shot, okay.
I thought you hated playing by my rules, she said. She flipped; it turned up heads.
Tails, she lied.
Tails, he replied, sadly.
She hung up the phone and went back outside.
(Next advertisement I see for a live band, if it’s for a band starting with a-m, I’m going to a coffeehouse. If the band’s name starts with n-z, I’m going to Soho for Chinese then seeing the band whenever it’s playing.) She noiselessly walked along the street, her clothing blending in with her surroundings but her pink hair standing out. She pulled it into a ponytail.
If she had said heads, as it really was, he would have said heads as well. Free will hurt; she wasn’t sure why she’d used it. Maybe she was learning to live for herself. She didn’t know if she wanted to.
The “Automatic Agriculture,” perhaps a punk band, were playing in Brooklyn tomorrow night. Giselda crossed a street and walked into a warm, sweet-smelling café that was getting rather good business for eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night. (If the person in front of me orders a coffee, I will sit by the window. If the person in front of me orders anything else, I will sit on one of the sofas.)
The person in front of her ordered a french vanilla cappuchino.
When her turn came up, she was startled. She hadn’t made any decisions as to what to order.
You, miss? an elderly woman with gray hair and smile lines asked her.
She panicked.
A french vanilla cappuchino as well, madam, she said quickly, watching the woman in front of her grab hers. She pulled out her wallet full of ones.
She had decided to go to Barnard over Fordam because the picture on the tarot card she had pulled out of its deck had been female.
That will be $2.37.
Giselda paid, took her cappuchino and sat on the nearest sofa.
It’s you, the person beside her said, smiling.
The person beside her was the girl from the grocery store. They stared at each other for a long moment.
What a coincidence, Giselda whispered.
Fate, the girl said, taking her hand.
Giselda flipped a coin to see whether or not it would turn out all right. It came up heads.