Noah Cicero - Best Behavior

I liked Petra's emails. They were soothing. She showed me pictures of herself on Photobucket. She was an attractive half-Korean half-white woman. She had black hair, pretty lips, small Asian eyes, and a small Asian body. She also had an amazing butt.

We wrote emails to each other off and on. Sometimes we wouldn't write for months, but then we would write again.

She had a strange story: Her father was a soldier in the Navy. He was stationed in South Korea guarding the South Koreans from the North Koreans. He met Petra's mother at a bodega. A little stand selling coffee to soldiers. The two began having sex with each other even though they couldn't speak each other's language. Petra said her mother wanted to get to America no matter what. Her mother was obsessed with money and wanted to have security and wealth. So she intentionally chose to work at the bodega selling coffee to soldiers so she would meet one and get married.

Petra's parents started having sex and spending a lot of time with each other. Petra's mother eventually became pregnant with Petra. Petra's parents got married in South Korea and she was born. Her parents didn't care about her. Her mother viewed her as a way to get to America. Petra walked around South Korea in the slums talking to old men and throwing rocks through the windows of abandoned buildings. She spoke Korean and only heard English when her father would talk to her, which was rarely.

When Petra was three she came to America. Her father was from Tennessee, so that's where they went. Not to one of the fun states like California, Florida, or New York but to a godforsaken state like Tennessee.

When Petra and her parents arrived in America her father moved on. He hung around until she was eight but left because he didn't care. Petra didn't watch him leave. She came home from school and he wasn't there. Her mother cried and Petra cried. Little Petra was heartbroken. The first man that she loved (and supposedly loved her back) was gone.

Petra's mother brought her sister over to America and they opened a gas station together. Her mother opened and bought gas stations all over the Tennessee area. Her mother was a determined capitalist. She wanted money and figured out how to get it. Her mother understood that money came from owning businesses. That one needed to accumulate businesses and to pay the workers cheaply and offer good services. Her mother would work 12 to 14 hours a day to keep her businesses running. She wanted security and to own nice things. Her mother married an overweight lawyer when Petra was 12. The lawyer would sit and smoke cigarettes and not care about anything while watching television after work. He was polite to Petra though and showed her courtesy. He wasn't the type of man that sat with her and showed her how to play sports or brought her to museums. But he wasn't mean. When Petra was 17 he died of a heart attack. The second man that showed up, showed her love and she showed love to was gone. She was heartbroken again.

The summer before she went to New York City for a small vacation and fell in love with the place. She knew she had found a new place to live with new adventures. She saved up some money and found an apartment with a friend from Austin who had just moved there.

At that time she was running through her savings and still hadn't found a job. She was living on the lower-east side with a girl named Lyndi Wood. Lyndi Wood was a woman who grew up in Oregon. Her father was a big time lawyer and made a lot of money. He made so much money he sent Lyndi Wood to Stanford and Lyndi didn't have to take out any college loans. Her father was paying for her to live in New York City. He would put money in an account every week. The bill for the apartment was sent to him and not to her. She was supposed to be looking for a job as a journalist. She wasn't doing anything but drinking.

I buzzed the door and waited. Tom was looking down the street at a sign. Tom was wishing he was buzzing the door of a woman in her 30s. But we both knew that one day I would be 50 and not buzzing any young women's doors anymore.

The door opened and I said, “Tom, I'll see you in two days.”

He came over and hugged me; he said, “See ya in two days.”

I walked into the apartment building. There were stairs leading up. I looked up to see if she came out. She was standing on the third floor wearing no shoes, looking down at me with a small smile. I smiled back trying to be as pleasant as possible and walked up.

We stood within three feet of each other and Petra said, “I wish my vagina was a cappuccino machine.”

I replied, “I wish someone would pay my car insurance for me.”

We went in her apartment. It was small. It had a kitchen and two bedrooms. There was no television just a radio hooked to an iPod. There was no kitchen table. Some magazines and a book shelf, that was all.

Her roommate Lyndi came out. She had brown hair and pale skin. Her eyes were large and didn't look at anything particular. Lyndi said, “Petra says you're here to get your picture taken for a magazine.”

I said, “True.”

“Well, that is great. That is really exciting. Are you excited?”

I considered if I was excited or not and said, “I feel pretty good about it. It is better than not getting your picture taken for a magazine.”

“That's great. Well, I got stuff to do; I'll go back to my room.”

Lyndi went back to her small room.

Petra took me to her small room. Nothing could fit in the room but a bed and a computer. There was nothing but a cheap clock on the wall. It was very stark and cell like.

Petra sat down at the computer and checked things on the Internet.

She said without looking at me, “You know The Republic right?”

“The one by Plato or Cicero?”

“The one by Plato.”

“Yeah, who doesn't?”

“You know that line, 'finding it hard to die' in book three?”

“That's a good line.”

“The other day I had an interview with an employer. It was some silly thing, to work helping the mentally disabled for like 13 dollars an hour. I was sitting there and the boss guy kept talking and asking me these really nonsensical questions. Describing all these procedures and I all I could think was, 'finding it hard to die.' I couldn't focus. I kept stumbling through my answers.”

“Did you have a nice outfit on, that's what really matters in those situations.”

“My hair and make-up looked very good. I didn't look slutty and I didn't look proletariat. I looked like a woman who could work.”

“Did you get hired?”

“I haven't heard back from them yet. I walked home from the place. It was uptown. I just kept walking, talking to myself, saying, 'finding it hard to die' over and over again. Like if I said it enough it would extinguish me. It's December though: and no birds were singing. There wasn't any snow. There wasn't any rain. The sky was gray and had no point. People walked by. I looked at them. Many of them had jobs. I assume they had jobs or they wouldn't be living in New York. I had no job and they had jobs. That was the score. And since I was 'finding it hard to die' I had to get a job.”

I looked down at my shoes and said, “Maybe you will get a job soon.”

“I don't know if there are jobs. I'm not even sure what a job is. I came to this city to be a New Yorker. I wanted to drink and walk around looking cute. What a thing to want, to drink and look cute. To feel intoxicated and to have men look at me and think, 'boy she is cute.' While I am thinking, 'finding it hard to die.' Which leads to me drinking more than I should. It makes me feel better though.”

“The men thinking you're cute.”

“Yes, the men. I like when other people that are not me, think good thoughts about me. I have tried all my life to break that habit. But it so nice to be sitting there at a bar with a man telling you sweet things. I like to hear sweet things about myself. I like to be flattered. I like when men buy me drinks and dinner. It shows me that they are going to work at some stupid job not only to pay their bills, but they consider it important that they show up and perform meaningless tasks for the sake of buying me drinks and dinner.”