Hills Like White Elephants-2009

I’ve been saving this story until I thought enough time had past so as not to trouble the main character, so to speak. We met in New York through a friend during my first semester of grad school.  Fresh on Broadway via the Pacific Northwest, I welcomed the touch of home from Fiona, a native Portlander ensconced in Harlem. We were to meet for the first time in Chelsea for some gay exhibit. No, it was really gay with a selection of portraits depicting gay couples that hardly seem radical these days (thankfully), but the mocking of convention was much appreciated.

I was 45 minutes late, and extremely angered by my ignorance of weekend subway timetables. Although it shouldn’t have mattered, I was even more upset with myself when I saw her wide blue eyes staring back at me with understanding. My friend neglected to mention how attractive she was.

I convinced her to let me buy her a vegan cupcake as penance. I had never dated a vegan before, and until Fiona, I had thought the practice a deal-breaker of sorts. Vegans are too good for me, I thought. I would love to live so ethically, but I am a slave to my taste buds, a sucker for blue cheese and filet. Yet she was not militant, despite working for an animal rights organization. I felt comfortable around her, and even tried a wheat grass concoction with her urging at Liquiteria in the East Village one day. To my surprise, I liked it, almost as much as I liked her.

After a couple of leafy green gay city adventures, I wasn’t sure how she felt about me, and I was shy about finding out. One night, I worked up the courage to ask her on a real date over the phone. During the ensuing silence, I felt I could’ve done my laundry and come back. Painful. Then, she said it.

“I’ve been thinking about how to tell you this, so I’m just going to come out with it… I’m pregnant.” She probably did her dishes while she waited patiently for the news to filter through my heady hamster wheels.  Short of marriage, red flags are hopelessly lost on me. I am optimistic to a fault—sometimes cocky. Hmm, preg-naaaant, I thought. I let the word spin around for a bit, resting long enough to form one question—does this mean no date? (I hope I didn’t say that out loud. Of course it means no date you selfish moron! Her life is soon to be completely transformed.) Then, as if reading my thoughts, she added, “And I’m moving back to Portland.” Thwap!—red flag #2 hit me in the face. Even I could not argue my way around that one.

I honestly do not remember what I said to her in that moment. I must’ve congratulated her because she was excited about it. I dimly recall asking about the father, as I had known her to be mostly gay—a factor adding to my shock. I do remember feeling mildly depressed, thwarted by a fetus. Of course, her daughter is clearly the best thing that ever happened to her—and I am genuinely happy for her and long since over my little crush. And as the New Year unfurls, I wonder what red flags will be on the horizon. What novel warning signs will bruise my brow? Or maybe, just maybe, some lovely will ask me out for a change, and I will say yes. I will lift her baggage, and she mine, but there will be neither hills like white elephants, nor unforgivable bastardizations of Hemingway.