Free Miss Misery by Andy Greenwald Page A

miserable. The ‘OK’ was letting her leave.”
    I laughed. “No way! That’s completely the opposite of what the movie was supposed to be about!”
    â€œYou almost had me convinced, dude. Almost. But this morning I called my aunt and she agreed with me. Face it. You’re just wrong.”
    The jukebox shuddered and “Charlotte Sometimes” by the Cure started playing.
    â€œDude,” she said. “I love this song.”
    I almost said, I know , but instead I said, “Cath, I have to tell you something kind of strange.”
    She scratched her arm. “Do you have herpes?”
    â€œWhat? No!”
    â€œOK then. What?”
    I laughed and felt like my stomach was itching. “The person you were hanging out with the other night…that wasn’t me.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œYeah, I don’t know what I’m talking about either. But listen: We’ve never met before.”
    â€œDude, you’re really starting to weird me out.”
    â€œ I’m weirded out. I don’t understand it. But I think…well, I don’t know what I think. But it’s like someone is impersonating me.”
    â€œIf that wasn’t you, how come you knew how to find me?”
    â€œBecause…well, because I read your livejournal and—”
    She rolled her eyes. “Eeeeesh.”
    â€œAnd I read mine, too, and someone has been updating it for me. And it’s really creepy, I know, but I need to figure out what’s going on.”
    She lit another cigarette. “Look, David—I mean, what the fuck? Are you schizo? Seriously.”
    â€œNo. I don’t think so.”
    â€œAre you bipolar?”
    â€œLook, I’m not lying to you. We’ve never met before. You said I look different—can’t you tell that it wasn’t me? That it was someone else?”
    â€œDude, you look different because it’s daylight and you’re not wearing leather pants. Also you shaved. But it was fucking you that was in my fucking bed! Jesus!”
    â€œCath, it wasn’t me.”
    â€œIf you didn’t want to see me again, that’s cool, but this mindfuck thing is getting really old.”
    â€œListen to me: On Saturday night I watched the Mets game in my apartment by myself. I didn’t go out. I don’t know what to say either, but…”
    She was fumbling through her bag now, frantically. I felt it all slipping away; it did sound ludicrous. I could feel my words melting in the humid air of the bar, dribbling all over the walls and floors.
    â€œLook, David.” She pulled out her cell phone and started flipping through the menus. “If you weren’t with me on Saturday night, then who the fuck is this?” She thrust the phone into my face. There was a photo on the screen with Saturday’s date in the bottom corner. It was of me. I had too much product in my hair, too much scruff on my cheeks, and a rolled up five-dollar bill wedged up my nose as I leaned in to snort something off of a red tabletop. But it was me.
    I leaned back. “Whoa.”
    â€œYeah, fucking whoa!” She snatched her phone back. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
    It felt like a car accident, really. In the sense that car accidents are those things that you think so much about before they happen—the chaos, the fear, the slow motion—and then when you’re actually in one, everything just kind of makes sense. There’s a loud noise, maybe. But very little surprise, very little drama. It’s just what they are. It’s what happens. That’s what this moment felt like: Weird as it all was, it wasn’t surprising. It was just what was happening.
    â€œI don’t know what’s wrong with me. Maybe something is wrong with me.”
    â€œYeah! Maybe!” She finished her drink.
    â€œListen,” I said. “Did he—did I give you any way to get in