Roberta P. Is Missing

Not again? Damn that Roberta. She’s the most irresponsible girl I know. My name is Gina. I am Roberta P’s sunglasses. I don’t know what the “P” stands for. It’s her registered name—you know, [email protected].

Can you tell I’m Italian? Si. I lost my accent after I’d spent a few months at the Sunglass Hut at the Cherry Hill Mall, which was where a lot of new immigrants go, for some reason. I was designed by Tom Ford, (we Fords never go on sale), and I look sleek—a little bit square, and a little bit cat’s-eye. Roberta looks like … everyone. Her hair is long and sometimes she wears it in those beachy waves. She wears tank tops, skinny jeans, and wedge sandals and she’s about 25 or 30. God, you can’t tell anymore. The last time she gave me a break, I was on the granite counter of her summer half-share in Bridgehampton, but that was yesterday, before she put me on the top of her head at the clambake. And it was after 9 p.m. I mean, who was she kidding?

It’s the drinking. When she’s doing a lot of it, I get lost, forgotten, or shoved into that black hole of a bag. (If I could, I would buy her one of those tiny flashlights. I’m saying it’s dark in there.) And I hate her little Ricolas. She has about six or seven of them down in the depths, and sometimes their wrappers come off and then they want to stick onto everything and everyone. They’re so needy; I can’t take the need.

I first met Roberta at her place, which is 212 yards east of Second Avenue at 33rd Street in Manhattan. Very noisy. Too close to the ramp off of FDR Drive. I don’t know why anyone would want to live there. It’s a four-room, one-bath with a Juliet balcony, two walk-in closets, for a total of 980 square feet. She has two roommates. It’s listed on Curbed so you can see how much she, Cindy, and Andi are overpaying for it. (Actually, Andi’s parents are paying for half the whole rent so Roberta and Cindy are getting a deal.) No wonder Roberta could buy me. Andi wears Gucci and Cindy’s are Ray-Ban aviators, but they don’t suit her, in my humble opinion. Not that she asked me, or cares.

The girls are sorority sisters. Andi was Cindy’s “big” and Roberta was Cindy’s “little.” I could practically pledge Phi Sigma Sigma at Maryland, I know so much about the chapter.

Last week we were at a house party up in Hudson, New York, in Columbia County (Columbia Street between 5th and 6th Streets). Everyone was there: three Wayfarers, seven Warby Parkers, a Dolce & Gabbana, and a pair of Michael Kors. There was a huddle around a Weber grill, and I ended up in a pile with a couple of iPhones. It could have been worse; I could have broken something, instead of just getting a scratch. Roberta wasn’t paying attention to me. I wondered how she’d like it if our situations were reversed.

It got a little crazy. Some people went over to Oakdale Park and the lake there. A girl called Jodi (the Michael Kors) tried me on. And then her fuck-buddy Jeff (Warby Parker) grabbed my arm and practically yanked it off. He was gross. Roberta was “taking a walk,” which meant she was texting Belinda for advice. Whatever. Someone threw a FitBit near the fire pit, and everyone thought it was so funny. Roberta’s friends have the comedic sophistication of 5-year-olds. “Look, I discovered fire!” I would have been embarrassed for them all, except I was still hurting.

Here’s what I found out. Cindy never bought her sunglasses; one time she was taking the Hampton Jitney and her seatmate had this Ray-Ban case that fell on the floor while she was napping. Cindy kept her eye on it, and never told the lady about it. When the lady left, Cindy was one pair of aviators richer. I’ve never trusted her. Never.