Milk Carton Kid
"Hello?"
Chandler slowly opened the door to his mother's apartment and looked around to see if anyone was home. He stepped inside and tilted his head as if somehow that would improve his ability to hear someone if they were responding to him from another room.
"Mom?"
Standing with one foot in the hallway and one in the foyer, Chandler felt like an intruder. He decided to only wait for a moment before he walked into the spacious Manhattan apartment that his mother has owned since his parent's divorce. He slipped off his jacket and tossed it over the back end of the couch as he moved around his old home. It felt like a lifetime ago when he was last inside this epicenter of avarice that was a quintessential reflection of Nora Bing.
He looked around, trying to remember what it felt like to live here. It was hard to conjure up those memories; as if he locked them away in a vault deep within his mind and threw away the key. A childhood that was anything but typical, and a home that was anything but warm and inviting.
He frowned as he scanned his mother's sparsely, yet fashionably decorated home. The walls in her living room were white; matching the shag carpet and leather furniture. White couch, white chairs, black iron and glass end tables. It was a sterile, cold, alien environment. Just like it was when he was young. It hardly ever looked like the home of a single mother. It never felt like a home that a child was welcome in. It looked like something from a magazine; it was what the home of a celebrity writer was supposed to look like. Homes like that had no space for a young, confused boy who was still trying to make sense of his life.
He moved further into the apartment and entered the kitchen. More black and white. Everything was spotless, immaculate, untouched. Chandler had no doubt that this room was seldom used after he moved out. Although, if he were being honest, it saw very little use when he lived here as well. More often than not, he ordered food deliveries from the local restaurants where his mother had a charge account available. There were more nights than he cared to remember when he dined alone while she was either out of town, or out on the town. He would consume meals from take-out boxes as he watched television in his room. The kitchen now seemed even more abandoned then when he was living here. It looked to be put away like a relic once he was shipped off to his all-boy boarding school.
Relic. That seemed to be a fitting word to describe this entire apartment. A place that felt more like a museum than a home to him. Filled with beautiful things that you were not allowed to touch and the memories of a life that seemed like ancient history. A life that belonged to someone else that he merely read about in a book. A life of a boy who roamed around these halls in search of something to help him pass the time. Where he watched old movies and comedy specials that he would stumble on late at night flipping through the TV channels. He played records on the stereo of soundtracks to musicals that his father left behind after he scampered off to Las Vegas. He focused on his schoolwork or played some game he made up using the furniture as a playground. He did anything he could to distract himself from dwelling on how lonely he really was.
"Chandler?"
He spun around as he saw his mother, wrapped tightly in a robe, step into the hallway from the bathroom. She smiled as she walked over to him and kissed his cheek as a greeting.
"Am I early?"
Nora Bing looked at her son with a confused expression on her face. "For what dear?"
"You wanted to go to dinner tonight."
Nora lifted her hand to her face and let out a regretful sigh. "Oh my, I completely forgot."
"That seems on brand. So, then, what are you getting ready for? A Party? A Date? A business meeting?"
"Fingers crossed that it might be all three." She chuckled at her joke, but noticed the dour look beginning to form on her son's face. "Oh, I'm so sorry sweetheart. I must have missed this on my calendar."
"Well, I was probably only penciled in." Chandler winced a bit at his tone. He didn't like feeling like this again. Bitter. Short-tempered. Acerbic. It seemed lately; he only reserved this version of himself for his parents. Ever since he moved into his new apartment, he'd been less cutting and more charming with his wit. He preferred himself that way.
"Don't be fresh. Look, I have a few minutes before I need to get ready. We can catch up before that. How was your friend's wedding last month? What's his name? Rusty?"
"Ross."
"Right. The tall Jewish boy."
"That's what we call him."
Nora shook her head and fluttered her eyelids in an attempt to shake off her son's joke. "Was it fun? Did you have a date? Did you get to go home with a girl?"
"You have to love a mother who wants to know if her son scored. No. I spent most of the time hanging out with Ross's sister."
Chandler's mood lifted for the first time since he entered his mother's apartment. He looked down and smiled as he thought of dancing and laughing with Monica throughout Ross and Carol's reception.
Nora picked up on his changed demeanor and smiled slyly. "Oh, is this someone special?"
Chandler flustered a bit and then shook his head quickly. "What? No, no. Noooo. I mean, sure, she's special, but she is just a friend. She's Ross's little sister and she lives across the hall from me. I don't even think about her like that."
"Oh. Well, at least you're making friends with women. That's a step in the right direction." Chandler rolled his eyes as his mother turned around to walk away. "I have to go get dressed, but if you want, when I am done you can tell me all about your new friend. If you're hungry, I think there's a menu from the Italian place down the street in the drawer near the stove. Just charge it to my account. I'm sure there's something to drink in the refrigerator. Make yourself at home."
Chandler looked around the apartment one more time as his mother closed her bedroom door behind her. He glanced at the bare white walls in the kitchen and shook his head. This was not his home anymore. There's a chance, it never was.
"Hello?"
Monica walked into her parent's home and looked around quickly to see if anyone was there to greet her. She was surprised by the silence in the house that served as her only answer. Her smile turned into a frown as she glanced down at her watch. She already knew she on time, but she liked to check her watch anyway; it felt very empowering when she had tangible evidence of her promptness. She also relished the fact that she could use that information later to point out how tardy everyone else was compared to her.
She paced from the front door to the kitchen, looking for a sign that someone was home. It was oddly quiet for a Saturday morning. Her mother and father were supposed to be here waiting for her arrival. They were the ones who called her to visit. They had convinced her to switch out her early shift at Iridium today for a later one this evening so she could be here early in the morning for what apparently was an important task. They had compelled her to make the trip out to Long Island and insisted that her presence was required. Monica hated to give up a rare Saturday night off from the restaurant but hearing how vital she must be to her parents today was enough of an incentive to persuade her to go through with the swap.
She looked around the kitchen and smirked as she thought about all the time she spent in here, cooking and practicing her culinary skills. Honing her craft. When she was younger, she could lose herself for days on end trying to perfect new dishes and combining recipes in an attempt to create new flavors. It seemed so much bigger in her mind when she replayed those memories than it was in reality.
Her parents never seemed to think much of her plans to go to culinary school. They considered her cooking to be a hobby, something she would abandon when the time came to pick a sensible career. They assumed it was just a phase. Some leftover remnant from her days of being an overweight, overeater who was obsessed with food. It always seemed that her dreams and ambitions were overlooked by her mother and father. That there were pieces of her that were invisible.
She cast her eyes down and ran them along the surface of the small table in the kitchen. She remembered sitting there with her mother when she shared her plans to enroll in culinary school and train as a chef. Monica had hoped her mother would be excited that her daughter had found something she was passionate about. Her mother's initial reaction was to tell Monica how hard it would be to find a husband if she came home every night stinking like a greasy kitchen. As usual, Judy Geller only had criticism to offer instead of telling her daughter how proud she was. Her father was not much better, focusing his skepticism on how much money she would make and how hard it would be for her to etch out a living and save money for her future. He did put some cash in her hand, and he told her to call her grandmother about staying with her at her apartment in the city. Which turned out to be life-changing.
Before she knew it, she was living in Manhattan. It seemed like it all just started yesterday, but it's been almost two years since she moved out. She was a totally different person when she embarked on her journey into adulthood. She was so timid and afraid of the challenges that lay ahead. She was still shy and insecure about who she was, especially so soon after the weight loss. Yet, this morning, walking into this house, she feels like a woman transformed by her time on her own. She was now much more confident in her abilities. Despite her parent's misgivings, she was proud of the life she chose to live, and happy to have a friend in her life that she could confide in who did not make her feel bad or second guess herself.
She pulled out a chair and sat down. She let her eyes travel the length of the stove. It was strange for her to think about how intimidating that appliance was when she first started cooking. How worried she was that she might burn the house down. She shook her head slowly; every memory of cooking in this kitchen was met with some doubt her mother had sowed into her. She recalled how her mother would lose patience with Monica during her first few attempts to make dinner. Judy Geller would gently push her aside so she could finish the meal. Always focusing on what Monica might have screwed up, which only compounded her low self-esteem. Her mother's actions in those days only served as constant reminder that this was not Monica's kitchen. It would never be her kitchen. It would always belong to her mother.
Even now, well on her way to one day becoming a respected chef, she was keenly aware that the kitchen at Iridium did not belong to her either. She was now just another faceless white coat in a long line of cooks. She still dealt with criticisms, demands, and doubts from her superiors, but she has confidence that one day she will become a head chef, and have a commercial kitchen of her own. That all her hard work will pay off, and maybe her parents will finally be proud.
At least now she has a space that is all her own; the kitchen back at her apartment. It may be small, but she can work uninterrupted. Where no one is pushing her to the side or telling her something doesn't taste right or that she put too much tarragon in her Bearnaise sauce. She was in charge at apartment 20. Not her mother, not her instructors, not her boss; just her. Where everything could be set up exactly as she wanted. Where it was clean and organized.
She even had the perfect guinea pig in Chandler. She could walk across the hall with a plate of food and, except for the occasional joke that would make her eyes roll, he would gladly partake in her cuisine. He always seemed so grateful, even if he was woefully uneducated about fine food. She looked down and smiled as she thought of him. His friendship and humor seemed to make everything just a little bit easier, even though he could be infuriating at times.
"Monica?"
Monica was shaken from her thoughts when she heard her mother's voice break through the silence of the house. She turned quickly to face her. Judy Geller looked confused and disheveled in an uncharacteristic way.
"Mom?"
Her mother ran her fingers through her hair to quickly straighten it out. "What are you doing here darling?"
"Uh, you told me to come."
Judy Geller brought her fingers to her lips and then nodded. "Oh my, I completely forgot. Yes. We have a box of some of your stuff for you to go through that we just packed up from your room."
Monica's eyes widened as her mother's words instantly sent a wave of exacerbation through her body. "That was the big emergency?"
"Well, we figured you wanted to make sure you didn't need anything before your father put it in the garage or threw it out."
Monica rolled her eyes. "Fine." Monica stood up and then stopped herself. "Wait, I don't understand. Why are you packing my stuff up?"
"Well, we need room for the elliptical machine."
"The what?"
"And the weight machine your father had delivered. Your stuff just takes up too much space now."
"You turned my room into a gym?"
"Well, it didn't make sense to keep it made up as your bedroom. You don't live here anymore."
"Ross doesn't live here anymore either. He moved out before me, why didn't you turn his room into a gym?"
"Well, he has so many awards and trophies. It would be a shame to pack those away."
"I have awards."
"Monica, please. Winning a pie eating contest is not the same as winning the science fair."
Monica shook her head and huffed.
"Now dear, don't be like that. It isn't like you are planning on coming back, right?"
"Well, I'd like to know it's still an option."
"If you have to spend the night, you can always sleep in the den."
"That's where the dog used to sleep!"
Jack Geller walked into the kitchen stuffing his shirt into his pants. "Judy, I can't seem to get this belt back on…oh, hello Monica."
Monica shuddered and tried not to dwell too much on the image of what her parents must have been doing when she first got here.
"Dad! You turned my room into a gym?"
"What? Oh, dear, you can always sleep in the den."
"I don't want to sleep in the den. I want to sleep in my bed."
"Well, then you'll have to talk to the Gundersons about that. We let them have it for their daughter's room."
"I can't believe this."
"Now, Monica, it isn't like this is your home anymore."
Monica folded her arms and seethed. She knew when she was younger that her parents hardly noticed her, but she did not think they would actively try to wipe the memory of her ever having lived in this house away once she left. With nothing here to prove she existed, it would be as if this were never her home.
Monica stopped opening her door when she heard heavy footsteps coming up the stairs behind her. She turned and saw Chandler who was making his way to their floor and flashed him a friendly smile.
"Hey, you're home late. Hot date?"
"Well, I was supposed to have dinner with my mother, but she stood me up. What are you doing home so late? I thought you were off tonight."
"I was, but my parents called me out to collect some of my old stuff since they converted my bedroom into a gym." Monica gestured towards the box on the floor next to her.
Chandler looked down and chuckled. "Hey, is that a kaboodle?" Monica wrinkled her brow in confusion as she looked at him. "Uh, I mean, I don't know what a kaboodle is. That's not a word I've ever used before."
Monica propped her door open and Chandler snatched the box up from the floor to carry it in for her.
"Just leave it on the table. Thanks,"
Chandler stepped inside and placed the box down. He looked over at Monica, who seemed to have a frown forming on her lips.
"What's that smell?"
"Huh?" Monica sniffed at her coat. "Oh, that's probably just twelve hours in the kitchen you're smelling."
"I like it. What were you making?"
"Uh, I was doing sauces."
He nodded and looked over at the overstuffed box of memories that she lugged all the way from Long Island, to her job, and back here.
"Hey, uh, I have tickets to the Jets game tomorrow. Do you want to go?"
Monica tilted her head inquisitively. "How'd you get tickets?"
"My job. They have all sorts of seats to events all over town. I mean, you wouldn't believe how good the seats were to Annie. But, of course, Linda in accounting had to get those so she could take her stupid kid."
Monica looked at Chandler and wrinkled her brow again, even more confused than before. "Uh, I mean, Annie? Blech! I don't even know what that is. I want to see the sport guys hit each other."
Monica couldn't help but smile, despite herself. "You don't have any guy friends from work to take?"
"Well, I was going to see if one of them wanted to go and then I realized, I'm not really interested in making friends with the people at my job." He looked down and chuckled. "Anyway, I'd ask Ross, but he is never around anymore. Come on. It'll be fun. You can yell at the players and no one will think it is weird."
"I do like to yell at people." Monica looked over at the box on the table. "Okay, let's do it. What time is the game?"
"Four."
"Okay, so, you should probably meet me over here ready to leave at twelve."
"Twelve? But the game is just over the bridge."
"Chandler! Do you know how many things could go wrong? There could be traffic, or a problem with the tickets, or maybe the car breaks down. We could get into an accident or the subway could have a delay. And you know we're going to want a beer before we get in our seats, what if the concession lines are long? We don't want to miss the kickoff."
Chandler nodded and smiled at Monica as she spoke and slowly backed out of her apartment, closing the door behind him before she could finish her litany of nightmare scenarios that could make them late.
"Oh come on O'Brien! You stink!"
Chandler almost fell backwards at Monica's wild arm swinging as she yelled at the men on the field.
"Monica, will you stop yelling at the players?"
She turned to him with a scornful look on her face. "What? But you said I could yell and it wouldn't look weird."
"Yeah, at the other team. O'Brien plays for the Jets."
Monica laughed and then playfully bumped her shoulder into him. "Look, I'm not going to reward underachievers. These guys have to earn my cheers."
Chandler rolled his eyes and looked over at a hotdog vendor who was walking up the stairs towards their row of seats. He held up two fingers and nodded at the stadium worker, who immediately deciphered his non-verbal intent to purchase food.
Monica looked over his shoulder and shook her head. "I don't want a hot dog."
"Yes you do."
"No I don't."
"Look, if you don't get a hot dog, then you're just going to want to split mine and I don't want to share. You already ignored me when I told you to bring a jacket, and now, I don't have a jacket because you're wearing mine."
Monica snuggled herself inside the oversized coat she was wearing. "But it's so warm in here."
The vendor reached their seats and passed down the two hot dogs. "Okay mac, that'll be six bucks."
"Can I have some mustard too?"
Monica waved the man off and shook her head. "No. You don't want mustard."
"Yes I do."
"No, it gives you heartburn."
"No it doesn't"
"Yes, it does." She looked at the vendor. "No mustard."
Chandler shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.
Monica returned her focus to the game. "Come on! You bums! I could have run that route!"
"Wow. This game really brings out a lovely color on you."
Monica twisted her lips in a mocking smile and shook her head. She sat back down and rested her head on his shoulder. "They're going to lose. I know it."
"They might pull it out. They're only down three points."
"We'll see." Monica took a bite from her hot dog. "I didn't know you were such a big football fan."
"What? Oh yeah. I love everything about it. The touchdowns, and the, uh, homeruns."
Monica closed her eyes and shook her head. "You don't know anything about football, do you?"
"That depends. Is the ball really made of pigskin?"
"No."
"Then, yes. I don't know anything about football."
"Well, when we get home, I'll teach you all about it. Ooo, we could make hot chocolate."
Chandler shook his head and chuckled. "Sure. Just, keep this between the two of us. I don't want everyone to know I learned about sports from a girl."
"I taught you everything else you know. What's one more thing."
He groaned, but Monica leaned against him again, and his mood lifted as he appreciated the warmth of her body contrasting the cold air in the stadium. Monica smiled as his frame allowed her to take some strain off her back which still ached from the night before in the restaurant. Soon enough, the game would be over and the two of them would go home. An apartment building that in many ways, is their first real home. The two of them finding a happy place, filled with the love of true friendship and laughter.
