Silicon Valley Girl — Stories to Read on the Shuttle
Michelle Sindha Thomas
I married young, divorced young, and threw myself deeply into work as a way of escaping my reality. I ran like this for five years until I hit utter collapse. Teaching painting to teenagers in a depressed neighborhood had become an emotional drain and I resigned a few weeks into the new school year, numbly extending my summer retail job. While this decision met the restrained horror of my immigrant parents, I had been a reliably overachieving youth and they gave me wide berth to work it out. I, however, was not to be trusted — I put my brain on hiatus and made only lame attempts to pull out of my stupor. Yes, mother, an idle mind is indeed the devil’s workshop: For the first time in my life, I had time for texting, time for new people, for long and languid lunches, for gossip, for lounging, for drama.
I never steal, but I have always been aware that if I were destitute I might, like Robin Hood, find a justification for theft. I stole him from a friend. My justification: She didn’t understand what she had in him. I did. I had every right to snatch the long-lost companion to my soul.
Initially, over the course of a San Francisco Sunday brunch, I found him comical and overwritten. Every twenty minutes or so, he picked up a British accent, but then he did grow up in Mumbai. He worked in the Financial District, drove a Mercedes, and wore custom-tailored suits (my friend had informed me on our drive into the city, all her boxes checked). A fiancée had left him for reasons unclear, and I was called upon to provide a second opinion. He wore the right sunglasses and chose a hip restaurant — So far, I, wise Indian guru-friend with brain-on-a-break, approved. He and my friend were flirting lightly and I was the clear-eyed third wheel. As the day progressed I wished for reasons to exit the situation, but I had been tasked with evaluating the prospect so evaluate I would.
The prospect would look deeply into my eyes every time my friend left the table to powder her nose. She disappeared to check her face quite frequently, both because she liked him a lot and because she didn’t find me threatening. Or maybe because she trusted me. I’m sorry. But it was mostly his fault, because this is my story. During the few minutes at a time that we were left alone that day, he told me I was beautiful, got my number, and fished out the details of my tragic divorce. I was hurting? Well, well so was he. And so we were fast friends.
The Eel was not tall, he was not intellectual, he was not my type, did not make me laugh, he was too distracted to adore me, but I loved him because he was like my uncles, a post-colonial prince — sleek, spoiled and proud and pouty. He was the definitive ladies’ man, every word dripping. His brothers were ladies’ men, even his 70-year-old father, that old perv, even he insisted on giving his sons’ girls full frontal embraces every time he saw us, even though I’m not sure that’s a culturally acceptable practice in old Bombay. But The Eel didn’t need to conform to the practices of Bombay, or San Francisco, or anyplace at all. I know this about my uncles and I knew this about him. He had grown up with so much more money than the common man that the common rules did not apply to him. In the old world, women pine for the opportunity to be associated with the post-colonial prince. They forgive him offenses they would not forgive a cash poor man.
But he had become a bit cash poor. Somehow, for some reason I don’t comprehend clearly, his star had fallen a little. Each time we bumped into one other at parties, our conversations grew longer. He had suffered in love. I had suffered in love. He had experienced financial shift due to his loss of focus, I was dealing with a pause in career due to sheer fatigue. I was climbing out and managed to cope with the help of a therapist. And he would learn to cope thanks to my bottomless well of empathy. I took on a new cause.
I became a 24/7 helpline. Of course, I’m not utterly selfless. I believed he would heal and be forever grateful and love me ’til death do us part, my good deeds rewarded. But he set me straight: His heart would always belong to the one who got away. He assured me that he would die without me; his greatest fear was that I too would leave him, and could he take me out for dinner that night? And in this way, I was seduced into girlfriend duty while signing away my right to demand even an ounce of affection. I was to accept that his heart was permanently broken, and I was to accept him as a beautiful but broken man who could offer me only exquisite dinners of exotic seafood and secret-menu dessert (compliments of the chef), prime seats at the symphony, gifts from business trips to Asia (that were not the best he could afford and not exactly my taste, as if he had purchased them with an aunty in mind but ran into me first). He once bought a piano so that his party guests could hear me play, he filmed and led the applause. I stayed on the phone with him every night until he fell asleep, feeling obliged by all this grandiosity, not realizing that the exchange was my companionship, that this was indeed an exchange and not a bestowal.
He somehow polished me, though. I had been a teenager during grunge and aspired for Marc Jacobs girl languor, but he nagged me like my mother until I learned to fling my shoulders back and stand erect. When we would run into his FiDi friends, he would introduce me as an artist and I began to believe myself as an artist in mid-caprice rather than a teacher in hibernation. I moved from the east bay to the city and started making more paintings. He gave me constant feedback through the process of setting up shop for myself, and proposed — business partnership. I took a corporate day-job in Silicon Valley which I started to like very much. I made new friends. Each time a love interest surfaced, The Eel grew devoted. When I shooed the love interest away, The Eel would recede too.
On days when he saw my devotion wavering, The Eel told me he would take it upon himself to be my publicist. He proposed — that we take my work to the international fairs. I had to share my art with the world, and he would be the purveyor of that art, why, he had the means to get me on the cover of SF Magazine. I’m the first to admit that I am incurably vain, always believing myself destined for a fashion shoot, and began a series of intense diets in the effort to be camera ready should his opportunity materialize. He preyed on that vanity, and observing my quick reaction to critique he began constantly tweaking me in the name of his project. I was ever on edge, but kept my shoes shined, my lipstick bright, and despite the protestations of my dear ones, went on swaying to his whims. I would continue to stay up until 2 am every night for two years, listening to him grieve over the past, over every daily tragedy, and reassuring him about the future, yes, if he died, people would attend his funeral. And yes, I would deliver the eulogy. And then, slowly, his grief must have begun to dissipate. I was still the receptacle for his tears, but he began taking other girls out on the days we did not see each other. He would take them out, take them home, then call me up. I wouldn't realize my stupidity until I woke the next morning to see the party pics clogging my feed. Girls and girls and girls, without rhyme or reason, smart girls, dumb girls, ugly, short, thin, tall, beautiful girls, all of us assuring him that yes, he was lovable, he was talented and he was wonderful, and that he was indeed the big man on campus.
He fancied himself a chef. Worst of all was the tiramisu phase, which began when he took down my recipe after a dinner party and decided to make it his own signature item. He drove all over the bay gathering ingredients from gourmet groceries and pinged me all night asking for details on the assembly of this particularly simple dish. I don’t think he slept at all, as he went on to make ten individualized tiramisu — cutting paper stencils and cocoa dusting them with initials or even whole names, depending on the size of container available — for ten different women. I met many of them over the next year. He left the city when we all started crying at him at the same time. We can hardly look at each other now for the shame.
And now, I have turned to see that there are other boys, nice boys whose minds are well. I am embarrassed that I kowtowed so desperately. I am ashamed that I was enticed by the fragrance of his materialism. I was blinded by the remnants of the money that slipped through his fingers. His cars. His three piece suits. His Rolex. His rich, occasionally British, voice.
And then I remembered. I have my mother’s rich postcolonial voice. When I finally sit still and remember all that I am and all that I have to offer, I will gain her regal bearing.
Today, for old times' sake, I went to his favorite restaurant in North Beach and tried to order eel with pickled mushroom and watercress, to show myself that I was truly over him, as if I could let the oily fish slide around my plate without association with him. They were sold out. I took it as a sign.