1. Mayonnaise I loved Mayonnaise. That is, I loved a girl like her.

She lived down the hall from me in college and sang opera at seven in the morning on weekends because we were all recovering from parties she hadnt been invited to. This Mayonnaises story begins on the last birthday she celebrated, as a young police officer who had forgotten his belt that day, began speaking into a digital recorder. and thats pretty much it, he was saying while shuffling his hips so that his pants didnt continue their inevitable slide. Again, this is officer Chris Ramsey. Scene of the crime. Two injured. Serious gunshot wound to abdomen. Fruit everywhere. Officer Ramsey checked to make sure the device was on before continuing. The date isApril eleventh, two thousand and nine. Right now, no ones saying much. Accidental shooting, possibly. Jealous boyfriend. Motives yet unclear. Waiting to conduct questioning. Jesus! Because television shows like CSI New York have already desensitized this generation of twitterers, we can assume that Officer Ramsey saw this crime scene as the usual: blood, broken glass, and feathers. The young policeman gripped the small, pregnancy test-sized digital recorder firmly as his older partner, Bill, neared. The graying mustache of the man seemed to curl as he nodded grimly. Theres a lot of red from the big one. Where are those stretchers? Theyre coming now. No elevator. Go downstairs and direct them up, Ramsey. Should be three. Three? Thats right. Three. How would it look if we loaded the little guy with one of the others? The two glanced into the apartment. Bad karma or something--thats what it is. Bad karma, the young policeman said. Say, Bill, you want to get a drink after shift? Sure. Bill smiled, revealing a healthy stretch of receding gum line. He didnt really care very much for Ramsey, but figured he could probably squeeze a beer or two out of the kid. People in shock tended to be generous, in his experience. Helluva bad day for us all, he said. Them more than us, of course, but still... Half-heartedly, Bill patted Ramsey on the back, remembering the awkward goodbye hed had a few years earlier with his son, who was at a freaky college in the Midwest where you could practically major in sodomy. And considering the matter further, Ramsey had always reminded him a little of his son. It made sense hed always been hard on Ramsey. Lets get that drink, Bill said. But listen, Ramsey. None of that cider shit. Youre a cop. The young policeman shook his head. But I like cider, he admitted sadly. Bill continued to dwell on his son--it wasnt the boys fault. This was Marthas doing. Baby Yoga and Capoeira for children were direct paths to fruitiness. Fruit--there was a helluva lot of fruit spread around the apartment, a cantaloupe split open, a pint of strawberries, a few bad apples. The group had been celebrating a birthday, but there was only a single cupcake. Something fishy going on, for sure. Bill figured a jealous ex had decided to surprise her. Most shootings were ex-boyfriends. But who was the shooter?

The lard ass? The Unabomber? The skinhead? Either way, something had gone seriously wrong. Questioning would begin after the paramedics arrived. Until then, they had to play the game and wait. Bill regarded Ramsey, who was staring off quietly. He placed his hand by his mouth and whispered, Cider. Shit--who doesnt like cider. Its goddamn delicious. Just dont let the boys down at the station hear you say that. The older policeman tried to smile pleasantly, but he hadnt had much practice and flubbed it, so the two men stood silently as the paramedics came up the stairs. Bill indicated the apartment in question. On the floor was a crumpled piece of notebook paper. He picked it up, and then stood to the side as the paramedics came through once more with the stretchers. Crumpling the paper, he tossed it in the corner of the hallway. Tell you what, kid. That ciders on me. Glancing back at the apartment, Ramsey grimaced. Bill, I swear Ive seen her before. Bill handed Ramsey a piece of paper. Found this in the apartment. Try to make sense of it. Obviously thats the address. Ramsey furrowed his brow, studying the paper. Mayonnaise?

2. The Name There are some days that cant be forgotten, days that move us like puppets on the march, days that must be remembered, that change, accentuate, even distort character. Mayonnaises day was April 11th, 1989, her ninth birthday. Warm Florida sunlight peeked through the windows. Disney has already ruined the perfect spring morning, so we can say it was seventy-two degrees and multiple birds were whistling in harmony. Did you wash your hair last night? Katie looked down to hide from her mothers lie-detector eyes. Yes. Really? Yes, she said. I did last night. I used the fruit stuff. Dont lie, Katherine. Your father lied, and now hes in prison. You want to go to prison like your father? Katie shook her head emphatically. In prison you had to wear the same clothes every day. In prison they never ever had pizza lunch. Mayonnaises mother kissed her daughter on the forehead. Of course you dont, my little sugar angel. Now, brush your teeth. As the sound of her mother singing came from the kitchen, Katie brushed her teeth in circles, because her father had brushed straight, and now he had no gums. Also, she must never let the toothpaste foam build up, because once it had stained her best outfit. When she was finished, she ran to her mother. There was a tin of cupcakes on the counter. These are for your class, mother told her. Dont tell anyone what they are until you give them to Ms. Simmons. Otherwise, the boys will try to take them you for them. Okay? Have a great day, baby. Come straight home afterwards. Were going to Red Lobster tonight. Really? Katie yipped with joy. Red Lobster! Taking the tin of cupcakes reverently into her hands, she peeled back the waxed paper slightly. Delicious cream cheese frosting covering spongy red velvet. Her favorite. The playground brimmed with bright-faced little people whom we call children. Katie was watching a boy playing on the jungle gym with a few others. She didnt get along with most girls because she didnt like writing notes with fortunes inside, because the girls at school wrote such stupid things, like about boys theyd marry and how much money their husbands would make. Her mom had always said that life should be more than simply existing to satisfy a man. A baseball came out of nowhere and landed in the grass beside her. Anthony yelled for her to throw it back. She rolled it like a bowling ball. The boys laughed. Everyone knew that boys had cooties. Still. The fourth grade carnival was coming up and Katie was hoping that someone would ask her. And Anthony would probably be pretty funny at the carnival, and hed probably win a lot of the games. He was pretty good at games. Maybe he was a little cute. Okay, so she liked him, but what should she do? In school, girls told boys they liked them with notes or through friends. Some girls hit the boys they liked. She just wanted him to talk to her. Earlier in the year Anthony and Katie had been in the solar system play, singing, Here Comes the Sun. She was the Sun. Anthony was Neptune.

Neptune was a good planet. What a great color, blue-green. Like his eyes, or almost, which were hazel-green. She watched him dangling like a monkey with his friends, Joey and Emilio. They were mean, those two. They teased people. But not Anthony. Anthony wasnt like the others. He was noble. Now he was chasing after Emilio, trying to slip through the bars to cut him off, but he was going too fast and fell. Katie almost ran to him, but stopped as Anthony yelled out, Shit! He got up. He wasnt hurt! Her eyes lit up and she ran towards him. You cursed, she cried. He stared at her, dusting off his bottom. No I didnt. Come chase me or Im gonna tell Ms. Simmons. Dont tell, he said, turning back to Joey and Emilio, who were oohing. Katie stood there. I wasnt really going to tell. Yes, you were, Emilio shouted. Katies a teachers pet, Joey added. The first bell rang. Five minutes until class, so Katie ran across the field. Ms. Simmonss desk was full of objects she had picked up while traveling in Africa, figurines, statues, posters, and bead necklaces. For Black History month, she wore an African dress with yellow stripes that was really pretty. Ms. Simmons was great. Almost all of the class had come in from recess. Just not Anthony and Emilio and Joey. The second bell rang. Katie was sitting in the second row from the front, three pencils neatly before her. Her trapper keeper, with pictures of the solar system, was under the desk. Finally Anthony and Emilio came in, explaining that they were just getting a drink of water. Ms. Simmons was going to punish them, until Emilio mentioned that our bodies were seventy percent water but theirs were only fifty percent until they got a drink. This answer seemed to satisfy Ms. Simmons, because they had learned this from science class the other day. She told the boys to sit down. Class. Today is Katherines birthday, she said. And she was nice enough to bring cupcakes. Ill pass them out after I take up homework. Half the class oohed, the other ahhed. Katie looked back, because Anthony had not done either. Even Emilio had oohed. Ms. Simmons picked up the tray of cupcakes and peaked. Class, what do have to say to Katherine? Thank you, Katherine, the class said, their reply echoed and disjointed. Ms. Simmons tisked. Never can get that all together, she thought. Anthony was doodling in his notebook. Why hadnt he thanked her too? After all, she hadnt turned him into Ms. Simmons, even though she could have. She raised her hand. Ms. Simmons? Ms. Simmons? Yes, Katherine. Anthony didnt turn in his homework today, so he doesnt get one, right? Ms. Simmons set the tray down and took off the sheet of wax paper. Now the cupcakes were exposed, eliciting more noise from the fourth graders. If I thank Katherine twice, do I get two cupcakes? the fat kid, John Dusack, asked.

Everyone thought this was very funny. Ms. Simmons addressed Katie. Oh, well, Anthony is having a tough day, Katherine. Dont worry about it. But isnt that the rule? Katie pressed. If you dont do your homework, you dont get the days surprise? Isnt that the rule? How about Anthony helps you pass them out? Wouldnt that be nice? Yes, Ms. Simmons. Anthony looked up from his drawing and stared at her. She glanced back quickly as Ms. Simmons began talking about how good the cupcakes looked. Then she told Anthony to pass out napkins. Katie followed behind him, carefully placing a cupcake down on each desk. They were a team! Katie looked for guidance from Ms. Simmons, who nodded, so she placed a cupcake on Anthonys desk as well. A hand shot up from the fat kid again. Yes, John? I didnt get a cupcake. The back of the class broke into giggles, because there was icing all over his mouth and crumbs littering his desk. Ms. Simmons rolled her eyes, imagining the fizzle of a gin and tonic. Okay, class. Enough silliness. Who remembers your free-writes from earlier this morning? Similes? Remember? What is a metaphor? Anyone? Anyone? Okay, Ill help a little. Metaphors are images that help describe other things. So, lets play a little game. If your classmates were food, what would they be? Anyone? Yes, Jenny? A little girl pointed to the boy next to him, who was wearing a purple shirt. Eric is like a helicopter. The class laughed. Eric raised his hand. Robbie is like a banana cause hes so tall. Which one is Robbie? a small boy with glasses whispered. Liz is pizza. Tonys a skate board cause Anthony was staring blankly at her. She looked down at her fingers and licked off the rest of the white frosting. Then she smiled. He was looking at her with such mean eyes. She just wanted him to like her. Mother always said to avoid mean boys, and that all boys were mean, but once when Katie told her friends what her mother had said, they called her a thespian, which meant she liked girls. Anthony was still staring. His eyes made her nervous. After class, maybe she would give him one of the leftover cupcakes and invite him to come swing with her. Ms. Simmons, the fat kid John Dusack moaned. Can I have another? Sam is like a salami! A smile appeared on Anthonys lips. He pointed at her, stood, and declared, Katherine is mayonnaise. The class erupted, calling out the new name. Katie burst into tears. A boy stood on his seat, pointing, laughing loudly, then fell onto the tile. Everyone, Ms. Simmons stepped in. That is enough. Enough! John Dusack had snuck behind the teacher and was stuffing cupcakes into his mouth. Ms. Simmons did not see him. She was busy trying to regain control of her class. The next person who Mayonnaise!

They all broke out into laughter again, chanting Mayonnaise, Mayonnaise. Ms. Simmons thought, well Ill be damned--little buggers finally got something all together. Then she noticed the tears coming out of the pale girls eyes. Oh Katherine, Katherine. Honey. Its just a joke. Besides, you cant have a tuna fish sandwich without mayonnaise. Tuna fish! Fish and Mayonnaise. Super gross! Mayonnaise! By now, John Dusack had finished off the remaining cupcakes. Katie was sniffling and wiping tears from her eyes. Ms. Simmons had already ordered the students who couldnt stop singing Mayonnaise to stand in the back. Then she went to check on Katie, who had not touched her cupcake and was sitting very still. Worse, John Dusack was headed for his desk. But before he could get there, he doubled over, hurling right in front of Katie. The kids nearby immediately stood yelling Yuck! She looked down at her cupcake, covered with specs of vomit. When she got home, she told her mom what had happened. No one likes me, she said. This is the price honorable people have to pay, her mother replied. There are a lot of cruel people in the world, Katie. Its best you learn that now. Besides, there are more important things then being liked. Thats why its there are people like us, people who stand up against the wicked and spiteful. If we dont stand up against bad people, baby, who will? Do you understand? Yes, Mom. Mayonnaise lay in bed, and stared at her Spin Doctors poster. Thered be war now, maybe her whole life. This was something she would just have to accept. At least she had a purpose, because her mom was always saying that most people went through life without direction. Itd be hard work, but she wasnt afraid. She would endure it all with a certain stoic dignity. Mayonnaise had never seen herself as beautiful since that day, and it seems fair to say that this inability had prevented her from viewing the world as such.

3. Falling in Love Perhaps the greatest tragedy of Mayonnaises story is that, until nearly the very end, she had never tasted the sweet forbidden fruit known as love. When did she first taste it? A mere few months before her 30th birthday, which incidentally was also her last. She was sitting before her computer screen, happier than she had ever been in her miserable life. Her long, thin fingers were dancing across the keyboard, typing. She was snickering. There is no word like snicker. In Spanish it is risita, which is basically a little smile. In Dutch, the snicker is called a giechel, which doesnt quite have the same je ne sais quoi, or in Spanish, algo, which doesnt have the same, I dont know, ring to it. Because there is just something delightfully wicked about snickering, and this was what Mayonnaise was doing when she realized she was in love. I heard my Mayonnaise snicker once. Then she made a girl cry for not signing a volunteer form. I dont remember what the cause was, only that signing it brought me one step closer to her cherry-blossom perfume, and that when I lingered too long, I barely escaped with my life. Now my right ear is often flooded with white noise. I still wear the shirt she stretched out. This Mayonnaise turned from the computer, her slender white hand lifting a mug of Blue Sky Natural Cola. She lowered the mug from her lips and continued to type. In the mug were two ice cubes, and this was no coincidence. Mayonnaise had made a habit of refilling at the perfect intervals so that the ice never completely melted yet neither was the Cola watered down. In fact, she excelled at these types of pointless customs that convince us that we are in control of our lives when so clearly we are not. After restoring the Cola to its proper level, she snickered again, putting her pointer between her teeth as her fingers moved to delete what she had just written--which was only mildly suggestive but to Mayonnaise pure pornography. The fortune cookie from the Chinese restaurant that night had read: Good things come to those who wait. She had added, as is American custom to corrupt all of the bountiful wisdom of the Chinese, in bed. Then she began to type again. Mayonnaise was on the friend site Frogpond, a site amongst hundreds offering a non-committal friend/date service. The two had met for the simple reason that most people meet online; both were horny, unfulfilled, and lonely. His screen name was Purplecow. Mayonnaise had liked the name instantly because of the song her mother used to sing to her as a child, before she became a wretch, before Mayonnaise became Mayonnaise, before the world turned against her. Purplecow said all the right things--and what a catch! A musician with a day job! He also liked artsy movies. He shopped at farmers markets and bought organic when he could. He even had a small plot in a Brooklyn community garden. At the end of their conversation that night, he sent a song he had written on acoustic guitar entitled, Lily. The line Its night in the forest of your firefly eyes made her blush. Mayonnaise wasnt used to that kind of sweetness, and usually she despised such saccharine poetry. But she didnt mind it so much from him. Had he not made the disastrous mistake a few weeks later of asking to see her in the flesh, our modern day Evil Queen and her confused Prince Charming would have been sinking lily pads well before her infamous 30th. The evidence is all there.

The next morning, she bounded down the stairs, fresh from a particularly steamy dream involving Purplecow. There on the stoop outside her apartment building were two stoners named Casey and Ellis, talking softly about their lives. Back then, Mayonnaise hated them and did not know or would have cared to know that they had both lost their jobs in the slowdown, no doubt the most flagrant distortion since yellow cake uranium. That day, however, her rare good mood made it incredibly difficult for her to clear her throat and bark, Dont you two losers have anything better to do than to sit here wasting your lives? They looked up slowly, afraid that she would finally call the cops. The face that met them at the summit was strangely beautiful in its cruelty. Casey, blinded by the harsh winter sun, shielded his eyes. Ellis braced himself for an attack that did not come, as she took the remaining steps in a huff. By the time Mayonnaise reached her office, she had managed to worsen the day for eleven people, who would no doubt spread their black moods to other victims through the Mayonnaise virus. Yes, this is precisely the type of effect she had on the world. And must I remind you--this was with theoretical love in her heart. It wasnt until after lunch that the morning storm clouds dissipated. She was crooked over the computer screen, responding to a Purplecow message, and then quickly hid the chat window as her incompetent boss paused to talk about a few upcoming conferences. The rest of the day, she gazed at her Fields of Italy Calendar, dreaming, dreaming, dreaming. At home that evening, she poured a container of Whole Foods yellow pea soup into a bowl, reheated it over the stovetop (because microwaves caused cervical cancer, said her mother) and brought the steaming bowl over to the computer screen. There she waited for him, their ritual. They talked for hours. Purplecow told her a bit more about his parents, his father, a music teacher and mother, a caterer. Mayonnaise secretly envied his normal family life. They discussed the recent presidential election, the state of the world, the wars, global warming. Here Mayonnaise revealed her innate pessimism and Purplecow his artistic optimism. Each moderated the others extremes. Nearing the end of their session, the two wifi-crossed lovers stumbled on the subject of dreams. Mayonnaise had always wanted to visit Florence. Purplecow wanted to tour the world playing music in town squares. Each fantasized of traveling somewhere together. They could not know that Mayonnaise would be dead within the year. A nameless philosopher I came across in a Dove chocolate wrapper once claimed that to love someone deeply gives you strength, and being loved by someone deeply gives you courage. This is true, for at almost eleven-thirty, Mayonnaise sent him a brave email: by the way--loved the song! Until tomorrow Of course, we know what she really meant. Signing off, she brushed her teeth, and went to bed, smiling. She slept soundly that night, and why wouldnt she? Mayonnaise was in love for the very first time. Only a fool would not envy that feeling. The day I met my Mayonnaise, I giggled all night while I nursed my pride and iced my knee. But maybe Im wrong. Is it possible that, like in a fairy tale, the two were in love from the very beginning?

Mayonnaise had liked the screen name Purplecow instantly--it reminded her of her before the nickname. Purplecow had found Lovelilys profile untraditional and mysterious, so he sent her an IM: Purplecow: Like your flower. Lovelily28: Thanks. Why Purplecow? Purplecow: Embarrassing tattoo. Lovelily28: Ha! Purplecow: Why no profile picture? Lovelily28: I could ask you the same question. Purplecow: Smart girl. Lovelily: So Purplecow, are you real? Purplecow: Sometimes. That was it, ladies and gentlemen. Love. Pure and true. I will never forget the first words my Mayonnaise spoke to me just after she had tripped over my crutches. If you leave those damn things in the hall one more time, she said. Im taking them. Yes, take them--and my heart, I remember thinking. You could have it all, my dear. You could have it all.

4. Roles In addition to ruining the lives of others, Mayonnaise also had a day job as a junior associate at a top environmental lobbying firm. Those who might condemn her as a wholly destructive creature would do well to remember that ruthless people are exactly who you want on your side when humanity battles the very worst of itself--the corporations and governments who would gamble the world for cheap gasoline, Monsantos self-destroying seeds, and ninety-nine cents a pound boneless chicken breasts. In 2008 alone, Mayonnaise had been instrumental in pushing through Congress tax incentives for clean energy and a ban on illegal logging, tightening organic farming standards, and paving the way for the Tropical Forest and Coral Conservation Act. I maintain that only someone as vicious as Mayonnaise could have done it, because in the realm of environmental lobbying, to keep the world clean, one must get hands dirty. No doubt, the other employers of the firm were tired of Mayonnaises annoying snickers. But the two had been talking about movies they liked, and, as it turns out, they liked all the same movies. Of course, Purplecow didnt really remember much of Carrie, Election, or Mean Girls, but at this point he was very much infatuated with the elusive Lovelily, and like most players on the sidelines, nervously waiting and hoping for the chance to enter the big dating game, panting put me in coach, I can make her happy, Tommy was lying through his fingertips. It seemed to be working--that is, until Purplecow asked a question that made Mayonnaise suspicious of his identify. It was four oclock. Immediately, she closed her computer, rose from her desk, and, without ceremony, left the office. On the subway ride, she put her purse and jacket down so no one could sit next to her, glaring at countless banners assuring her that hemorrhoid help was on the way. She hated everyone on the train and showed it, stepped on the heel of a woman who had been applying lipstick, and tripped a man who had held open the closing doors for his girlfriend. At home, Mayonnaise made a Bloody Mary, despite what her mother had often told her--that her father had been an alcoholic and so she must never drink when upset. She popped in Chicken Run and curled up on the couch, trying to calm down. Mayonnaise had always loved the movie, though in truth she was perhaps more Mrs. Tweedy, the evil owner and general embodiment of pure evil, than Ginger, the plucky, brave heroine-chicken who led the others in her coop to safety. But alas we so often champion the characters in books and movies whose goal it is to defeat the villain that, subconsciously, we most resemble. Nevertheless, Mayonnaise found little comfort in Chicken Run that night, not even from the deliciously fat, clueless Babs who never seemed to realize that her neck was practically on the cutting block. Then again, Mayonnaise didnt either. So what had Purplecow asked Mayonnaise to upset her so? Purplecow: I just dont get it. Why wont you let me see you? Is the reason that you dont have a photo because youre a celebrity? She woke in the morning, having slept only a few hours. The lines of the couch pillows had left a crisscross pattern on her face. She thought about calling in sick. After a

scalding hot shower, she picked out an outfit while uttering the mantras of her mother, baloney like Success equals intelligence plus application. It was a typical winter day in New York: overcast, frigid, and drearya day that fit her mood perfectly. Glaring at her co-workers, who looked up as she entered (more out of surprise that she was late), Mayonnaise sat in her cubicle, ignoring their mindless prattle. She wrote memos and copy, busied herself with phone calls to potential donors, planned an environmental conference in San Francisco and another in Boston. She also insinuated to her boss that the secretary, who had apparently commented negatively about one of Mayonnaises outfits, was stealing office supplies. At lunchtime, after most of the other employees had left to get away from her, Mayonnaise logged onto Frogpond. The message from Purplecow read: Sorry if I said something wrong. I don't deserve you. talk tonight? Heres a song about Sebastian. As far as Mayonnaise was concerned, the rest of the day was gumdrops and sunshine. That evening, she finished two glasses of wine before eight o'clock. It was cold and raining. The weatherman had said it might snow. When she logged on, Purplecow was not online. She put on Pandora and sang along with her Yeah Yeah Yeahs station as she tidied the living room, putting away magazines, dusting, vacuuming, straightening paintings, and re-enforcing posters with sticky tack. Afterward, she watched a program about global warming deniers and another regarding Japanese whalinga new potential target. Then she heard a familiar, welcome sound:

Purplecow: Hey, sorry--I biked today and got caught in the storm. Lovelily28: About the other day. I was really busy at work. Purplecow: Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now you have to answer my next question, no matter what, okay? Lovelily28: hmm Purplecow: Come on. Live dangerously. Lovelily28: I dont know Purplecow: All right, then were finished, toots. Youre gonna miss me. Just one question, come on. An emotive of a face winking appeared on Mayonnaise screen. She probably cackled. Lovelily28: fine. Purplecow: You mentioned the other day that you wanted to be an actress. Lovelily28: Actor. Purplecow: Right, right. So, Meryl Streep, what was your best role?