Disconnected
Disconnected
Epilogue
I sit cross-legged on my bed, too tired to cry anymore, staring at the gun. Twenty-five dollars on the corner of Van Nuys and Oxnard. Same price as the eighth of weed I was in search of. The gun turned out to be easier to come by. I toy with it a while, hold it with both hands and point it at the TV on the big deco dresser in front of me. For a second, I feel tough, strong, male. Then my focus drifts to the round mirror, and I feel stupid, and fat, even though I’m not anymore, according to my mother who is an authority on proper facades. My skin looks white framed by my mess of short, dark hair. My eyes are sunken and swollen, and with my blurred vision, I look translucent, almost transparent, which models how I feel most of the time. I aim the gun at my reflection, feel for the trigger and squeeze slightly.
Stop, my intuition whispers.
No point in arousing attention or wasting bullets. I set the gun down on the comforter so the barrel stares at me. It looks innocuous cradled in the soft blue quilt. I always thought I would do it with carbon monoxide poisoning. When I’d had enough of living, I’d go in the garage, get in my car and turn on the ignition. Just go to sleep and never wake up (as long as some asshole didn’t come along and open the garage door before I was dead).
This new opportunity presented itself an hour ago outside the recording studio just as I was leaving. Some black guy across the street in front of the mortuary was selling handguns out of his backpack to a car full of Latinos. There was no great flash of insight as I stood there watching the deal go down, only a moment’s consideration until their car pulled away. Then I crossed the street and connected.
A gun is fast and simple. I mean, slowly suffocating in a car for god knows how long, I might just have time to change my mind. I don’t want to change my mind. I want to turn off, shut down, kill the gnawing ache of solitude. The glass wall that damns me to the outside looking in is almost opaque now. And I don’t care anymore. I’m so fucking tired of chasing illusions, of wishing, wanting, waiting. I stare at the gun still nestled in the blanket.
I’m done waiting. Exhaustion encases me. I’m done . . . Pick up the gun.
But I don’t. I light a cigarette and try to pretend it’s a joint, but my brain won’t play. It doesn’t really matter — weed isn’t working anymore, anyway, and even if it still was, between getting high or getting dead to disconnect doesn’t seem that much difference.
The phone rings. I just stare at it. There’s no point in talking to anyone. If it’s Frankie or Jon, they would probably ask me what’s going on. And I’d probably tell them. I can’t make something up quickly right now. My mind isn’t processing at its usual sonic rate. Fragments of ideas pop into my head and then drift away to dead space. The phone’s ring is loud and jarring. Go away! People can be such a bother. Who was it that said they loved humanity — it was people they couldn’t stand? I think it was Snoopy.
My answering machine finally picks it up. No message. They hang up. A minute later, it rings again. Machine picks it up again. They hang up again. Another minute, and the phone rings again.
I grab it. “What!?”
“Hi.” Lee practically stammers. “I’m back. Why didn’t you pick up? What’s going on?”
“Nothing. What do you want?”
“Nothing.” He’s defensive. “You left three messages on my machine. I’m calling you back. I just walked in the door five minutes ago or I would have gotten back to you sooner. What’s going on?”
“I was looking to score, but I don’t want to anymore.”
“You’re out already? You went through that entire eighth I got you before I left for Vegas?”
“Yes, Mom. And thanks for caring. I’m going to hang up now.”
“Yeah, okay.” He ignores my bitchiness. “I’ll stop by Carl’s and pick some up. I should be there in twenty minutes. Oh, and I can’t wait to tell you about the great place I found about five miles south of the Strip in that new development where my dad liv-”
“No. Don’t come.” I pick up the gun again and rub the barrel against my cheek. It feels cool. “I don’t want to get high. I don’t want to hang out.”
“Why don’t you want me to come over?”
I don’t want to tell the truth, and I can’t think of anything to say, so I don’t say anything. I point the gun at my reflection again, forgetting I hold the phone with my other hand until he speaks again.
“Are you mad at me?”
“No, Lee. Not everything is about you. Go figure.”
“What’s going on. then? You sound really weird.”
“I’m tired . . . sick and tired of being — sad.” I remind myself to breathe, inhale slowly and exhale sharply. “Look Lee, we have nothing to say to each other anymore-”
“Is this about us breaking up? I mean, I thought we were past all that. Let’s not forget how many times we tried to be together and why we’re not anymore.”
“God, you are an arrogant son of a bitch.”
“Maybe, but isn’t that one of the few things you actually loved about me?” I sense his mocking grin. He sounds so happy.
“Until I found out there wasn’t anything supporting your bloated self-image.”
“Right back at ya, sweetie, though I’d use ‘benevolent’ instead of bloated.”
“Bye, Lee.”
“NO! Don’t hang up!”
“Why not?” I feel way beyond tired. His voice sounds distant.
“Because I’m your friend. I care about you.”
“Right.” Asshole. “Whatever. I don’t want to talk anymore, Lee. Let’s just say goodbye.”
“Look, Rachel, I don’t know what is going on here. You sound really upset. I’m coming over, whether you want me to or not. I’ll be at your house in a few minutes, and we can talk. Okay?”
“No. You’re not listening to me. Don’t come–” I heard a click.
“I have another call. Hang on. Don’t hang up!” He puts me on hold to take the other call. I hate call waiting. I fiddle with the gun. It’s really light. I tap it with my fingernail. Plastic handle. Figures. No quality in craftsmanship anymore. I hang up the phone. Jerk. I check the chamber. Only three bullets. That’s all the guy would give me when I bought it. I guess it only takes one, like he said. I put the gun in my mouth, just testing, and crunch on metallic grime.
The phone rings. I know it’s Lee. When the machine picks up, I take the gun from my mouth to listen, but he hangs up. No message. I wait. Moments pass, but the phone does not ring again, and I know he’s on his way. It’s now or never. I look around the room. Nothing of value I’m leaving behind. My black ring binder notebook lay on the blanket within arm’s reach, open to the journal entry I’d written earlier:
10/28/92
Nothing lives on when we die.
There is no such thing as a soul.
At death our energy simply disperses, back into that which is all.
What makes us unique — different from one another, is simply our combination of chemistry, which begins at conception and ends at death.
Awareness — pleasure, pain, love, lonely is chemical and only exists while physical.
When we die, our chemistry evaporates, our bodies decompose, the atoms that remain scatter, and we are no more. We feel no more.
And somehow, there is peace in that.
—————————-
I flip the journal cover closed with the barrel of the gun, then look out the window. My dog, Face, is running around the yard chasing a squirrel. Her strong, sleek shepherd build moves like bolt lightening with fluid grace. Of all the things in my life, I regret leaving her. I know my family will take care of her, though, so I’m not overly concerned for her welfare without me. And being as linear as she is, she’ll probably never miss me.
No time left to leave a note. Fuck ‘em. Let them figure it out for themselves. There are only a handful of people who’ll give a shit, anyway, and after a while, they’ll get over it. I wipe my tongue on my linen shirtsleeve to rid it of grime and use the bottom of my oversized blouse to clean the gun barrel, then stick it back in my mouth. It still feels grimy. Pull the trigger and feel nothing, ever again . . . Ready? And there’s a battle in my head to which I am not privy. Instant overload, and I can’t make out any clear voice above the screeching din.
I angle the gun so it points towards my brain and finger it until I find the trigger. Every microscopic movement of my fingers registers in my head, but it feels unreal, like it’s happening to someone else and I’m just watching. Or like I’m playing a game, and even if I pull the trigger and the bullet rips the back of my skull out, it’ll only be temporary, like in a dream or cartoon, and after, I’ll get up, go into the kitchen and get a Diet Coke while I try to figure out what to do with the rest of my evening. I squeeze the trigger very slowly. I can barely hear my intuition screaming at me to stop, but I don’t. I never listen to my intuition anymore, anyway. Why start now. . .?
Chapter One
10/30/91
Intuition is like a flash of light. In that instant of pure white, all understanding is present. The whole idea. Complete.
But the vision only lasts an instant. And only fragments of the complete idea remain, in the form of feelings. And the feelings talk to the brain. And the brain begins the [sometimes lifelong] process of defining the feelings generated by intuition.
Intuition is never wrong.
If you’re lucky, your brain will generate answers that clearly define the feelings, thus confirming your intuition.
If you’re not so lucky, your brain will resist the process of definition by intellectualizing, try to bury the feelings, and you will eventually learn to mistrust your intuition.
But intuition is never wrong.
When you believe the second route, you’re basically fucking yourself.
—————————-
I wasn’t listening to my intuition when I got involved with Lee one year earlier, almost to the day. We met for the first time on Halloween 1991 at Jerry’s Deli in Studio City. I picked Jerry’s for most of my blind dates because it was always crowded, which fed into the illusion of safety in numbers. The place is famous for its pickles and pastrami, and the Hollywood types — actors, producers and the like that hang out there. A few tour buses even stop there to give the Midwesterners a thrill.
To be honest, I didn’t exactly meet Lee at Jerry’s. Not technically, anyway. I met him through a personal ad I ran in the Daily News. L.A. in the 90’s — everyone was doing it. It was the new hip, slick and trendy way to connect. On the phone with him, Lee didn’t impress me very much. I’d already spoken with over 20 different men who had responded to the ad, and they all sounded like they were reading from the same script. How fun and happy and active their lives were. How much they loved their careers. What great friends they still were with their ex’s. So why exactly were they answering personal ads at $5 a pop?
Personally, I was lonely, the kind of lonely that resides in your guts and gnaws incessantly at your insides. I existed for the future, when I had someone to share life with. I placed the ad to find a partner, a man to marry and father my children. Everyone I knew was pairing up to live happily ever after. I’d been looking for as long as I could remember, but in all my searching, only one man I’ve known came close to what I see in my head and my heart. And even he didn’t live up to expectations. ‘Man’ is the operative word here. I don’t think I’ve actually met one. I hope not, or I’m really screwed.
As I drove to the famous deli that warm, windy night, I remembered why I agreed to meet Lee, and smiled in anticipation. He’d tried hard to sell me during our first phone conversation. He was 30-something and “at a great space in his life”. . . etc. All he wanted (not ‘needed’– I guess ‘wanted’ makes you better adjusted) was someone to share his wonderful life with. He spoke nicely, though. His voice was deep. His words were chosen, with a measured, almost rhythmic delivery.
“What are you doing right now?” His question felt invasive, like he was peering through the phone at me.
“Writing. What are you doing?”
“Writing what?” He kept the conversation focused on me. And it actually felt like he was listening.
“Nothing important. I’m just screwing around.”
“I bet it’s fun — screwing around.” He paused, and laughed, deep and filled with resonance. “Inside your head, I mean. I imagine it’s a blast making up stories.”
Now I laughed. What an odd thing to say. “Yes. It is. I love writing. It’s probably why I’m 32 and still single. I make up the worlds I want instead of living in the real one. What about you? You seem nice enough. Why are you still single?”
“I’m not.”
I should have hung up right there, said thanks for the chat and goodbye. But I didn’t.
“We’ve been separated almost a year. I live in Glendale, she lives in Long Beach. I haven’t seen nor spoken to her for over nine months. We’ve already filed. We’re just waiting on the final papers.”
No meeting this guy, my intuition screamed at me. He was one of the hordes who made a commitment for life and didn’t follow through. But worse, this guy wasn’t even divorced yet. Red flags went up. “I don’t date married men.” I wasn’t about to be added to that list of stupid-women stats.
“I think that’s very wise. I don’t date married women. You sound like a very bright lady, and I would really like to get together for coffee or something. My marriage is over. If you’re worried about that, don’t be.” He said it softly, but with conviction.
I sat in my small, cozy living room at my grandma’s Queen Anne table in front of my computer. I had a fire going, and light danced on the stucco walls and ceiling. I was writing a sci fi screenplay in an effort to justify the expense of my UCLA Film School education, and feeling like I should get back to it.
“What should I say to convince you to meet me?” He taunted. I could almost hear him smiling.
I didn’t know exactly what he should say, but I knew he hadn’t said it yet. The blinking cursor on my monitor beckoned me to tell it more story. I thought about how to disconnect politely, but then I heard the unmistakable sound of him sucking on a joint. Desire instantly overwhelmed me and shut out the voices of reason. “What are you doing right now?” I asked.
He laughed knowingly. “Why?”
“Are you getting high?”
“Would it matter to you if I was?”
Time stopped, everything seemed to freeze in the room while my brain battled with his question. HANG UP! Don’t meet this guy. He’s poison. Stoner at best if he still indulged at his age, but more likely, he was addicted. Obsession times two serves no one. I’d been searching for someone to modify me, better than me, and my intuition screamed at me to dismiss this man. Say goodbye and hang up. But I didn’t. I chose to listen to the part of my brain that craved escape from myself and the weight of my ordinary life. “Do you know where I can get any?” I practically whispered.
He laughed again. “Yeah. Why don’t we meet tomorrow night, and I’ll bring some.”
I sighed. He didn’t get it. “Look. I don’t mean to be cruel or rude or anything, but I’m not looking to date you. I told you, I don’t go out with married guys.” Or stoners, but of course I didn’t say that. “So until you’re not married anymore, the only reason to meet is for a connection. If you’re not okay with that, then-”
“I get it.” He said it with that same taunting tone as earlier. “First things first. Meet me tomorrow night, and if you like what I bring, I’ll set you up with some more.”
“Are you a dealer?”
“Nope.” Again the sucking sound of hitting a joint. “Though it just so happens my neighbor is.” He laughed, deep and resonant. “Got lucky, I guess.”
“Very lucky. It’s been hard to come by lately.” I hadn’t gotten high for a month, since my last connection quit dealing when his band signed with MCA. I hungered for high again, that smooth, rhythmic sensation, free of Lonely, Fear and Want. Again, I let my craving win. “Okay. Let’s meet — as long as we’re on the same page here.”
“We are. Totally. I’ve been there. Until I bought my condo and met my neighbor Carl, I hadn’t had any for quite awhile. It’s definitely getting harder to find good connections the older I get.”
His comment cut, but I tried to let it slide. I willed away my disgust at the junkie I swore to myself I’d quit modeling and focused on the anxiety release that I knew would come with the first few hits. One quick meeting to connect worked for me. So Lee and I agreed on Jerry’s at 8:00 p.m. for the following night, which just happened to be Halloween.
I kept the passenger window half open, and Face stuck her long nose out. She stood in the back on the folded-down seat and craned her neck to snuffle in the warm, dry wind as we drove to Jerry’s. Ahh, to be a dog . . . to be so idyllically simple as to actually enjoy the moment instead of suffocating under the weight of fabricated complexities.
To say I looked forward to meeting Lee wouldn’t exactly be the truth. I anticipated the prize, not the show. Dating is depressing at best. Clumsy, stilted chitchat, and after the initial exchange of vital stats, unless I continually drill questions, the conversation invariably stalls. That’s when I check out, crawl inside my head and create a scene I prefer, perhaps replace the guy across from me with one to my liking — a tall, slender man with a baby face and bedroom eyes that are riveted on mine, and we are connected. I get snippy when disturbed from my fantasy with drivel — case in point, my last few coffee dates in which I was less than amicable, annoyed with the typical dialog that never got beyond all about them. Only the pompous, emotionally void lawyer called back for a real date. My father is right. Normal men need to feel revered.
Tonight I hoped to get through the pleasantries quickly, score and take my leave. I had no desire to waste another evening with Mr. Wrong. I was in search of a hero, a savior to resurrect me from my precarious existence and redeem me from myself. Besides being a stoner, by fulfilling my request, Lee was a conspirator in my corruption and therefore unacceptable to date. He wasn’t what I sought, but he had what I wanted. As I drove to the deli, I tried to convinced myself getting high really wasn’t so bad — a harmless frivolity. It might even aide me in my Quest. I could put on the façade men expected when I was high, be what most wanted me to be. High, I would be hyper-vigilant to be perky and light, or at least present and attentive. And guys love to be the center of attention. High, I could pretend to be simple, vivacious, bubbly. And most men prefer sparkly to bright.
I waited for ten minutes just to pull into the parking lot and another five on that for the valet — wearing only a Tarzan loin cloth (with the build to pull it off) to give me a parking pass. He refused to park my Civic with my German shepherd in the car. Five minutes later, I pulled into the first available space, in the business park used for overflow parking quite some distance from the restaurant. I gave Face a quick scratch on her head, on the black diamond marking between her big ‘rocket’ ears, and told her to stay as I got out, locked the car and then walked the quarter mile to cop a fix, slamming myself the entire way for succumbing to destructive desire and agreeing to meet Lee at all.
Now, the patrons of Jerry’s Deli are strange enough, but on Halloween, every celluloid wacko comes off the streets to make their exclusive appearance. Bonnie and Clyde ran across the parking lot with toy machine guns and slowed as they neared the crowded entrance. Bonnie lifted her gun as if to shoot the group of nuns blocking the entryway, and for a moment, my mind played out that scene, blood and gore and all. Then she pushed her way past them, and I lost her and Clyde to the crowd. Mostly everyone was white, in their mid 20s to late 50s. A lot were in costume, though most were not.
Lee stood outside Jerry’s, near the wrought iron bench along the wall. I knew it was him right away. You can always tell someone who is waiting for a blind date. They’re stiff but keep shifting about, striking poses to appear casual, apprehensively glancing at any woman who is alone, working on a legitimate excuse to leave early if the date is ugly or weird or otherwise unacceptable. He looked pretty much like his description. He was on the short side — 5′8” maybe 5′9”, a little heavy — what most people call ‘stocky’ on a guy, with a full thick head of wavy dark hair (which was unusual. Most guys in their 30s were doing comb-overs). As I approached him, I noticed deep green eyes and a nice smile. He wore 501 jeans, a black T-shirt and a beautiful black silk blazer. And he was cute, in an odd sort of way.
I knew he liked the way I looked when he saw me walking up. Guys are pretty easy to read. When they don’t like your looks, there’s this awkward little silence as they try to figure out their exit strategy. Lee smiled slowly, tentatively, almost hopefully. He looked me straight in the eye as I walked up to him, and his gaze never wavered.
The first thing he said was, “Well, you managed to make it. Miracle,” as if I was late or something. I should have known right then and there he was passive-aggressive. I wasn’t late. I never am. It’s selfish and rude.
“Hi. I’m Rachel.” I stuck my hand out to shake his and smiled. “Am I late? Parking was a bitch, but I don’t think I’m late.”
Lee took my hand as if to shake it but held it. “I’m Lee. Lee Messer.” And he smiled this ear-to-ear Cheshire grin. “And you’re exactly on time.”
I was suddenly warm, and flushed, and then took my hand back. Then the warm Santa Ana’s gusted, but I was chilled. I’d dressed in black leggings, a low-cut, sleeveless black rayon shirt and a thin black linen blazer. Freezing, but thinning. I like black.
A hostess came outside and called Lee’s name. She was dressed as a waitress in “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” with the tiny flared skirt and four-inch spiked heels. Our table was ready. She led us through the maze of booths, tables and people to the bar area and seated us in the smoking section, which was the only seating available. We sat in the small dark red patent vinyl booth and for a moment got caught up in the bizarre.
It was packed in there. The restaurant was big and bright, with a large square dining room stuffed with rows of maroon booths and a classic linoleum countertop complete with short, rotating stools. The bar area was to the far side of the room, towards the back of the huge dining area. It had dark red carpet and a short brass fence that paced a row of booths that separated the bar from the restaurant, but it all seemed to fuse together anyway, like the smoke that drifted everywhere.
Our waitress came over. She was dressed as a Playboy cocktail server, bunny ears, bushy tail and all. She was perfect — her long, bare slender legs were exposed up to tiny skin-tight black satin shorts; her flat belly accentuated her perky round breasts cupped by the lacy pushup bra under her prim white blouse. She knelt to our level to hear us above the noisy diner, and her cleavage demanded notice, but Lee looked her in the eye as he gave his order, then looked at me as I gave her mine. He kept his eyes on me as the waitress straightened, stuck her notepad into her waistband and turned away, then wove through the maze of booths and tables to the swinging kitchen doors in the main dining area.
A naked man with a feathered cap, groin and ass was being escorted out of the restaurant by two large kitchen workers. He stopped, took off his cap and bowed low to a robust woman dressed as Queen Elizabeth as they passed each other in the narrow entry lined with glass cabinets filled with elaborately baked treats. I looked at Lee, and we both laughed. Don Quixote came in next, and there was a small round of applause, but not from me or Lee since neither of us knew the actor. We shrugged at each other, and I looked back out at the floor show. I felt his eyes on me as our waitress set down our tea, and the room seemed to fade with her when she left.
“Why did you run that ad?” Lee asked me. “It seems to me you could date any guy you want.”
I smiled at him. In the ten or so meetings I’d had from the ad so far, not one of the guys had ever asked why I placed it, or given me so nice a compliment with almost their very first words. He was good. “How old are you?” I had to ask. He had a baby face. It was hard to tell.
“Thirty-six.” He furrowed his brow in a mock irritation. “Now would you please answer my question? Why’d you place the ad?”
“To find what it said.”
“A ‘secular, imaginative, passionate, pragmatic, independent thinker, with a wild and crazy heart.’ Lee quoted my ad with a haughty smile.
“‘Who’s ready for the real thing.’” I quoted the rest of my ad and returned his Cheshire grin. “I’m looking to find a man capable of making, and keeping a lifelong commitment, someone who’s ready to get married and start a family.” I said it to rile him, but he didn’t flinch. I know you’re not supposed to mention marriage and kids on a first meeting, but what the hell. It wasn’t like I was looking to date him or anything.
“So you’re after the white picket fence, the whole nine yards?” He kept a soft smile.
“I’ve never been into fences.” I smiled back. “I prefer a lot of land around me.”
His smiled broadened, and a dimple appeared in his left cheek only. “Me too. Preferably beachfront, or close to it, with a lot of trees around.”
Now my smile broadened. “I drew plans of a house I want to build in the coastal hills of Marin. It’s a series of different size wood and glass circular living spaces, all connected by glass-domed corridors. Too bad land in Northern California, or anywhere desirable, is so expensive.”
“Lucky I’m good at making money.” He stayed fixed on me. His green eyes were speckled with brown. They were large, almond-shaped and spread wide on his face, the lids weighted but not sleepy, what my mother called “bedroom eyes.” His long lashes nearly touched the base of his brow. His eyes never wavered from mine regardless of the commotion around us. He was really good.
“What do you do exactly? You mentioned some kind of shipping on the phone.”
“I run a small consulting business, out of my home. Shipping freight. I deal with trains and trucking — getting stuff back and forth across the country. It’s afforded me a very nice living, with a lot of free time to do what I want. I’ve been lucky so far.” He looked out at the show in the dining room. He knew I was watching him, smiled softly and looked back at me. “So, what do you do exactly? Are you an architect or a writer?”
I was taken aback. Hardly anyone ever turned my questions around. “I’m a dreamer.” I wasn’t trying to be flip. I meant it self-effacing, but I realized it may not have come out that way. “I create worlds I’ll never have with words and sometimes pictures. Much more with words than pictures these days, though it used to be the other way around.”
“How long have you been writing?”
“I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember, starting with diaries when I was a little kid. Now I write to get published — essays mostly.” I paused and took a sip of my tea to assess if I still had his attention.
“What was your last essay about?” He kept his eyes on mine.
His attention, though titillating, felt invasive as I sat there trying to recall the last thing I wrote to publish. It was for Playgirl, titled “The Best Sex I Ever Had.” It was about my sexual escapades with my friend Jon. “I don’t remember the last essay I wrote. It was a while back. I’m working on a screenplay now, science fiction. It’s about a hotshot pilot and first alien contact, a cross between Top Gun and Close Encounters, with commentary on social responsibility with the expansion of technology.”
He flashed a gentle smile. “Sounds interesting. I like sci fi, got into it in my teens, and it never wore off. Robert Heinlein, Arthur Clarke. I just finished Stephen Hawkins’ A Brief History of Time, but I think I missed most of it. I’d like to read your screenplay when it’s finished.” He stayed fixed on me as if awaiting my response. When I didn’t offer my work for his perusal, he looked away, prepared his tea with milk (like me) and took a sip, then glanced out at the dining room as he spoke. “Do you still keep a diary?”
Again, a touch of lewd invasion. “I still keep a journal, though I don’t write in it everyday like I used to.”
“I bet that would be an interesting read.” He raised only one eyebrow and grinned.
“Probably not. Most of it’s rants with only an occasional insight. I write in it less and less the more I write stuff for publishing.”
“So you’re a real writer. That is so cool.”
“Not exactly, if you mean ‘real’ as in supporting myself with it. I make my living writing copy — advertising copy.” Selling people shit they don’t need, I wanted to say, but didn’t. “Fine writing for a living is fairly close to topping out my list of fantasies — right up there with kids and a best friend for life.”
He smiled this adorably cute grin, and his dimple was back. “I have no doubt you’ll find a way to ‘fine’ write if that’s what you really want to do. You can have it all. It can be done.”
I flashed a quick, tolerant smile. “And how do you come by this insight? Wait! Don’t tell me. You’re a writer, too.” When I say I’m a writer, invariably people profess to have a book in them, though most never seem to get it out.
“No. I’m just a businessman.” He paused, took a sip of his tea, then set it back down. “I love to read, though. Can I read something of yours, one of your essays maybe?”
I heard ‘No’ in my head, but I said, “Sure. I write to be read. I’d be honored.” I smiled at him. I win. It was a hollow challenge. I knew I’d never show him anything. No matter how cute Lee was, and he grew on me as we sat there talking, we could never be. I was there to connect. And he was the connection. He wasn’t better than me. I needed a hero, a man I could perceive reverently. Stoner, dealer, either/or — whatever, and I sat in the patent leather booth reminding myself why dating him was out of the question.
“Tell me what you’re looking for in a man?” Again his question felt too intimate, but I played along.
I could say anything, reveal my deepest desires, confess my fantasies, expose myself because I didn’t care how I came off to him. I knew we’d never be anything real to each other. “When you were a little kid, did you ever have a friend that you shared everything, held nothing back, knew you could because you thought you’d be friends forever, no matter what?”
He shook his head slowly. “No. But it sounds nice.” His attention was still focused on me.
“Well, I’m looking for a partner, a man who wants a woman beside him, not behind him. I want to be with someone who cares as much for me as he does for himself and returns the attention and affection I give in equal measure.” I gave him a soft smile, and he returned it, and I continued. “I want a best friend for life. Share everything. Withhold nothing. Total trust. Cohorts in chaos. A daring duo. Separate but better connected, like photons and light.”
He smiled and nodded. “’Photons and light.’ I like that.”
He stayed fixed on me, and I stared back at him, trying to figure out if he was for real or mocking me. “So, what about you? What do you want in a woman?”
His smile softened and seemed to extend across his entire face. “Someone like you, I think.” He arched both eyebrows, and his eyes lit up. All I could do was smile back.
Someone in the dining room screamed with delight, and everyone started to clap as rock legends Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain entered the room. The actor who played Jim looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. He was young and even more beautiful than Val Kilmer in The Doors movie. Kurt Cobain looked identical to the real one — strung out on heroin and rail thin. The actor was either very good or very high because crossing the room he stumbled and almost fell in the lap of a patron before taking his seat at one of the chrome-framed formica tables set below the glass windows along the front wall.
The volume seemed to ramp up as the restaurant got more and more crowded. I’ve never been into crowds. There’s an underlying manic quality to the mass that scares me. In my teens, I did the big parties and even went to a few stadium rock concerts, but more to be a part of the scene than because I liked them.
“Let’s get out of here,” Lee yelled across the table. He leaned in closer. “Go in my car and smoke a joint.” He took a $10 bill from his wallet and dropped it on the table as he stood up and looked down at me. “Ready?”
It was why I’d come, after all. I followed him out of the restaurant, and as we emerged from the noise and mayhem, I sucked in the crisp night air. Lee had somehow managed to park right across the street from Jerry’s, on the curve where no houses or businesses were. He grabbed my hand and I pulled back, but he held it until we ran across the four lanes of Ventura Boulevard. We only pissed off one road-raged driver. The guy was still on his horn a block away, long after Lee and I had gotten into his silver Audi.
I sat huddled in the plush leather passenger seat, cupped my hands and blew into them, then rubbed them together for warmth. Lee retrieved a pack of Marlboros from his visor. I saw only one cigarette inside the box as he took out a joint among many and, with a quick glance around, stuck it between his thick red lips and lit it. He took several hits and handed it to me. The smoke drifted off the end of the joint in a thin, graceful stream until he turned on the car and unrolled the sunroof. A warm gust blew in and cleared the air. I looked around before taking the joint. Cars whizzed along Ventura Boulevard on Lee’s side. Only someone on the sidewalk could see into his car. And no one walks in L.A., especially at night.
We spent an hour in his car getting high and talking — about nothing really, just general jive about current events, favorite movies, books, sports. The conversation flowed easily from one topic to another. My body warmed and relaxed into the soft seat. My world slowed with the smoke, and details became vivid. The car was clean, unlike mine. The interior was done in burl, with a high gloss polish to show off its tight, twisted grain. The stereo had a CD changer in it and was Bose. Lee sat sideways with his back against the edge of his seat in an attempt to face me. His left hand rested casually on the steering wheel. With his right, he brought the joint to his mouth, pursed his lips softly in what looked like a sensual kiss and sucked. He gave me a soft but wily smile as he blew out a stream of smoke. His hair hung in his hazel eyes. And honestly, he really was quite charming.
“Favorite sport is definitely racquetball.” His dimple appeared. “Started playing in high school. Kind of gave it up in college but would love to get back into it. It’s a great game. Fast. Focused. A lot of fun.”
It was my game, too, my only game since I’ve never been much of an athlete. I played to stay in shape. Period. But Lee was right. Racquetball is fast and fluid and a lot more fun than running on a treadmill. It was trendy, though still on the fringe because it’s a tough game to play and even harder to master. “I play racquetball. It’s a great workout. I’m not really into playing for points, starting and stopping for serves and all. I like to keep the ball moving, burn as many calories as possible. Except finding consistent partners who aren’t out for blood is like trying to find a good connection.” I gave him my quirky grin.
He laughed. “I’ll play you. Anytime. As much as you like. And we don’t have to play for points. Good rallies are like good sex — hot and ramp to exhaustion.” He flashed a quick grin, and for the first time that evening, I felt a twinge of scared, wanting to avoid sexual innuendos with him. He must have picked up on my tension because he continued talking in an easy, rambling sort of way. “There are courts in Studio City on Ventura near Vineland. It’s a private club, but you can rent court time. It’s on me. And the courts are all regulation, great floors. We can play tomorrow. I’m off by 3:00 most every afternoon.”
God, it was tempting. Up until late summer, I’d been playing with Jon two, three times a week for years. But he’d become flaky with his latest romance, so I was desperately seeking a new partner I could count on. Since cutting back to random games every week or so, I’d been feeling gross, bloated, flabby, and more racquetball was a quick and healthy fix over starving myself chasing thin. “Okay. I’ll play ball with you tomorrow. I know the courts you’re talking about. I can meet you there at 4:00.”
He smiled, victoriously(?) “Great! I’ll be there.”
“I’m only talking about racquetball here.” I kept my eyes on his. “We meet at the courts. We leave after we play. We don’t hang out. Just racquetball. Okay?”
“Fine by me.” He hit the joint again, sucked on it a few times and inhaled deeply. Then he blew a thin, tight stream of smoke out the sunroof. He handed the end of the joint to me, but I declined.
“Thanks, but no. I really should go.”
He stared at me with glassy eyes and frowned. “If you feel you must.” Then he dropped the roach in his ashtray and took his Marlboro pack from the visor and handed it to me. “As promised — for you.” He gave me a gentle smile. “It’s just a sample few joints. If you want to connect for more, let me know.”
“Thank you.” I took the cigarette pack and put it in my blazer pocket. I felt shame right then, and sad, and chastised myself for my weakness as I reached up to grip the door handle. “I had fun tonight. Thanks.” I meant it. Lee had been a gentleman and a man of his word, and he seemed like a nice guy. Too bad straight out of the gate, he’d joined me in the mire.
“So we’re on for a game tomorrow?” He said it more like a statement than a question.
“Sounds good. I’ll see you tomorrow at the courts at 4:00.” I opened the passenger door and did not lean over to hug or kiss him goodbye, even though overt displays of affection are trendy in L.A. The original agreement for meeting was to connect, and that was all. I’d been totally up front about that. I abhor the idea of a prick tease, disgusted that most women use it to get what they want.
Lee watched me, like he was studying me. “It’s Halloween. It’s L.A. The Santa Anas are up and the lunatic fringe is out tonight. I’d like to take you to your car. May I?” He cocked his head to the side. His hair hung in his eyes and caught up in his lashes.
“Okay, I guess. But let’s walk. I’m over in the business park, and I don’t want to get stuck sitting in all that traffic in Jerry’s lot.”
He smiled. “Okay, then. Let’s go.” And he got out of the car and came around to the passenger side as I got out. Then he took my hand, and we ran back across Ventura. He guided me through the crowds, past Jerry’s parking lot to the business park’s lot. His grip was firm. His hand was warm and soft, his touch familiar, not invasive. He let go of my hand when we got to my Civic, and I was suddenly chilled.
I stared at him an awkward moment before opening my door to get in my car. My dog leaned out to greet us. “This is my dog, Face.” She wagged her tail wildly, pushing past me to smell Lee, excited to meet someone new.
“Hi, Face.” He gave her the obligatory pat and looked at me. “She’s shepherd but mixed with something. Do you know what?”
“She’s a pound hound. Could be a lot of things. I’ve seen her go into a full point when she’s after something, so it could be some kind of hunting hound, especially with her thin hindquarters.” I stroked Face’s neck, and she nuzzled her head against me with my touch.
Lee watched us. “Well, I’ll admit it. I’m jealous. Backrubs are my favorite, too.”
That was about as far as I wanted to take that conversation. I thanked him again but felt too small to specify for what, said good night and got behind the wheel.
“See you tomorrow.” He stood a few feet from my car with his hands shoved in his pockets. “Drive safely.” He smiled again, like he had a secret, the dimple cutting deep into his left cheek. He really was adorable. He watched me back out and pull away before I saw him start back to his car in my rear view mirror.
The smoke let my guard down, and my mind wandered on my drive home. I tried to fight it, rolled all the windows down and let my hair blow around. Face craned her neck from the back seat and stuck her nose out the passenger window and sucked in the night. Ahh . . . to be a dog. I leaned my head toward my open window and let the wind tingle my scalp, but the action wasn’t distracting enough to silence my inner chorus. Very few things took all of my attention and shut out the voices in my head. Only three, in fact: racing a car, fine writing and sometimes music.
Too much wind noise for music, and the Valley side of Coldwater Canyon, lined with old pines and quaint two-story apartments, was no place for street racing. The wind and road sounds turned to white noise and The Wish Factor crept in. Lee was really cute. He was funny, articulate, attentive, and he seemed present, right there with me. He actually asked me questions and listened to my answers. We had an even exchange. It felt nice, empowering. I mattered. I wasn’t on the outside watching. For that fleeting moment, I’d been inside and was safe because I wasn’t alone.
Twenty-foot-tall liquid amber trees lined Moorpark Street, and their tops bent with the strong easterly winds. Twigs, small branches and lots of leaves swept down my street in twirling gusts, then settled before scattering again. Face yelped as something struck her nose. She backed up into the car and lay down with her head just behind me in easy reach. I glanced back at her quickly and stroked her for obvious injury as I drove but found none, then rolled up the windows to shut out the debris. The air felt charged and in fact was electric. I got a hell of a static shock when I pushed on the stereo, then Pete Townsend’s acoustic guitar commanded my attention and I got sucked into his music until I pulled into my driveway, drove all the way back and parked in front of the detached garage.
I sat in my car and stared out at my long, dark back yard. The wind whistled through the old oaks and pines and bucked the two-door Civic around. High was wearing thin and in its wake came tired. I played out the evening in my head and flashed on how adorable Lee was with his soft, dimpled smile. Then my hand grazed the cigarette pack in my blazer pocket, and I felt a charge of carnal excitement. I pulled it out, Marlboro Reds, and opened the box top. Three, four, five joints. Last me about a week. And Lee was the connection who ten minutes ago was getting me high. And the foundation I was constructing in my head to rationalize dating Lee crumbled.
Face stood and shook out, sending dog hair flying everywhere. I got out and she followed and we crossed to the back door of our rented 40s Spanish style, three-bedroom, single-story ranch. I tread through the empty kitchen as quietly as possible, even though I knew my roommates were gone for the night, crossed the creaky wood floors of the small dining and living room, got to my room and turned on the light.
I stood in my doorway and listened to the trees scratch against the glass of the aged metal framed windowpanes. Fit between the two large double-hung windows sat an enormous art deco dresser. A 27-inch TV sat atop it to the right of the big round mirror in the center. A drafting table and tall swiveling stool were in the corner, between the side and front left windows. A double bed with a light blue down comforter was across from the dresser, up against the opposite wall. A few feet from the foot of the bed on the right side was Face’s beanbag. She curled in it, buried her long nose in her tail. Five things were all that occupied the textured stucco bedroom, and only she mattered. And the ugly truth was that Face would be just as happy with another as with me. Other than the rustling from the wind, the house was dead quiet. And Lonely consumed me.
For a minute, I let my mind play out a different scene, coming into my own home, filled with the noise and frenzy of family. My physicist husband cooks dinner — glazes teriyaki on the salmon in the broiler. The kids, eight-year-old Kyle and six-year-old Sara, are setting the table. The dog is curled in the pillows on the floor in the playroom. I set the final draft of my latest novel on the granite island before making my rounds with hugs and kisses. I smile. I have it all. No more searching. No more waiting. No more lonely. And for a second, I’m filled up. Then a branch scrapes the windowpane in that nails-on-chalkboard type way, and I’m back in the sparse room and falling into the black hole of want.
God, I need someone to save me.
Chapter Two
11/20/91
Imaginative, passionate and pragmatic are not an easy combination to find in one individual. In sharp contrast to Creatives, Pragmatists are generally directed, without a lot of silly emotions diverting them from their goals.
So I go after the lawyers, accountants, dentists — pragmatic, financially successful men who are reasonable, and dependable. We may never share what’s on the inside, but they go to work everyday and provide a lifestyle conducive to raising a family.
Passion for Stability is the exchange. And I keep telling myself it’s worth it.
The problem is pragmatists bore me. Eventually I exit the scene, first mind, then body, and I’m right back to being alone.
—————————-
We played every Tuesday and Thursday for almost three straight weeks. He was smooth on the court, where he needed to be when he needed to be. He had great timing. I was pretty good by then, playing as much as I did, but Lee was better than me, by quite a bit. Even though I was faster, he had much more control. He showed up every time, on time, except for today by about three minutes. He caught me singing. I have almost perfect pitch, and my tone was right on and echoed with resonance in the empty square enclosure. Lee gushed over my voice, told me multiple times how astounding my singing was, and though kudos were always nice, the range and power my voice could sustain is what I found entertaining.
We always met at the courts, rallied hard for an hour or more, then chatted over Diet Cokes for five minutes and then went our separate ways. Every now and again, he’d entice me out to his car to share a joint before going home. We kept the chats basic, light, mostly about work and news gossip. The most intimate I ever got was in his car one day where I described a bad date from the previous evening with that attorney from my ad. It turned out to be more complicated than intended to explain why even though he took me to Dar Maghreb on the Strip for dinner, I had no desire for a second date with a guy who insists most homeless were out there because they’re lazy and in America we all have the same opportunities.
Lee laughed. “Good to know you’re not dazzled by money alone.” He sucked on the joint in that passionate kiss sort of way.
“Money is good. I like money. I hope to have a lot of it someday. But I don’t do well with pompous, rightwing conservatives born with a silver spoon and supportive family who are clueless of how the rest of us live.” I knew I was ranting, but it was hard to stop, feeling as passionate as I did about social injustice. “You’d think their excessive education would have taught them some compassion for the less fortunate. They don’t seem to get that the human race isn’t sustainable if we only take care of ourselves.”
“Are you now, or have ever been a member of the communist party?” Lee gently mocked. He gave me a second to respond, and when I didn’t, he leaned toward me and continued in a whisper. “Truth be told, I bend to the left myself.” That was about as personal as he ever got. He never talked about his soon-to-be ex-wife, or dating, or any other women, and we never spoke outside of racquetball.
“I want to show you something,” Lee said to me softly by the soda machine in the club lobby after our game this afternoon. He put his Diet Coke on the floor, scrounged in his gym bag, pulled out some stapled papers and handed them to me.
They were his final divorce papers.
“I just pulled them from my mailbox on my way here. I was looking at them in the car, which is why I was a little late.”
I handed them back, and he flipped the pages until he got to the signature page and then pointed to her signature and the blank space for his. “Our first phone conversation, you said you don’t date married men. I’ve respected that and kept my distance.” He held the papers up. “And as soon as I sign this, I’m divorced.” He stared at me — searching, I think, then walked to the front desk of the racquet club and asked the guy folding towels behind the counter for a pen. Then he signed away his marriage.
Watch out! my intuition warned. He was making a point with his grand gesture, one I had no desire to engage in with him.
Lee set the pen on the counter, folded the papers neatly and walked back to me. “Getting to know you these last few weeks, both on the court and off, I find you passionate, smart, funny and fun, and I feel even more strongly about wanting to get to know you better. I’d like to take you to dinner. Will you go out with me?” He fixed his eyes on mine, and I felt his conviction.
I searched for something to say. I’d dismissed him as dating, potential mating material. He was a newly divorced stoner, not exactly the knightly image I had in mind. A week after that first meeting at Jerry’s, he gave me an eighth of the same weed he’d rolled in the sample joints he’d given me. I never asked for it, and he wouldn’t let me pay him. A gift from a friend, he’d insisted, sealing our fate that was all we could ever be. The man I longed for would never wallow in obsession with me. He would pull me from the depths and deliver me to my better self.
Lee put the divorce papers in his bag, picked up his soda and took a long draw, then leaned against the wall behind him and looked at me. “It’s almost 6:00. I’m hungry, and I don’t want to eat alone tonight. Not tonight. Come get some pasta at Maria’s with me. It’s not a date. It’s just dinner with a friend. A newly single friend.” He looked away like he was embarrassed. “I’d really appreciate the company. We can have an early dinner and call it a night. I have to be up at 4:00 in the morning to deal with back east clients, so I generally go to bed pretty early. How about it? You like Italian?” He stood slouched against the wall, staring at me. He’d trimmed quite a bit since we’d started playing, like he’d dropped at least 10 pounds. His dark gray T-shirt was loose and soaked with sweat around the collar and chest and draped flat against his belly. His navy shorts hung on his hips just right. He looked like an ad for Nike.
I framed the scene through a cameras eye in my head. Click. And suddenly I was starving, though I had no desire to go home to my empty house and make dinner. Italian food is my favorite. I imagined sitting across from Lee in the warm, dim restaurant, with candles on every table; the rich, luscious aromas of sauces and baking bread fill the air as I savor bite after bite of penne drenched in tangy marinara. I preferred that scene to alone on my bed eating a potato in front of the TV. I often saw my life from camera P.O.V., an affect of growing up just over the hill from Hollywood, I guess.
Lee slouched against the wall, drinking his soda, and waited patiently for my answer. He really was adorable. “Friends only, right? I can’t do more than that with you right now.” Or ever, but I didn’t want to be crass, so I didn’t say it.
“Friends only.” He held up his index and middle finger in the Boy Scout salute and gave me his Cheshire grin.
I couldn’t help smiling. What the hell. He’d been kind to me so far. Plus I kind of owed him. And I was so damn sick of alone. “Sure. Let’s go get some dinner.”
The smile that spread across his face was infectious.
I laughed. “Maria’s on Ventura, right?”
He confirmed and offered to drive, but I wanted to meet there because the restaurant was close to my house, and I didn’t want to have to go back to the racquet club to get my car. I followed him west on Ventura towards the setting sun. The orange sunlight lit up the smoke that rose in small billows intermittently from the sunroof of his car. Every once in a while, I’d catch ‘the warm smell of Calitas’ through the thick L.A. air, and I imagined his sensual lips sucking on the joint.
Good idea. I opened my glovebox and got the Marlboro pack he’d given me, pulled out one of the joints I’d rolled from the eighth he’d supplied, found a lighter and lit it. The snapshot of him leaning against the wall bathed in the blue light of the soda machine, his thick hair scattered in his green eyes and framing his soft face in loose waves popped in my head, and I felt myself smile. ‘Careful,’ my intuition whispered as I stopped behind him at a light and saw smoke rising from his sunroof again. He was someone new to hang with, that was all, to break up the monotony of solitude.
I took another hit and felt the sudden rush to my head, and all tension washed away with the surge. The evening could be interesting. It might even be fun. I could be exactly who I wanted to be because I didn’t want anything more from Lee than what we already had. I was sated with racquetball and our light chats while catering to decadence in his car afterwards, and again I smiled at the thought of my accidental connection. He really was adorable. But most likely, in a few months, he’d be in my past, and I’d remember him (or not) as a nice guy I hung out with for a while. Most people slipped through my fingers like grains of sand. I took another hit, pushed in a cassette tape of The Fixx and got sucked into “Ink” the rest of the drive to the restaurant.
We met in the front of Maria’s. Lee managed to park two spaces from the restaurant entryway. We took a table outside in the courtyard in back. I was still in my leggings and sweaty T-shirt, but Lee had exchanged his shorts for jeans and put on a black, hooded pullover. His dark, wavy hair blended into the folds of the hood and framed his fair, baby face. He looked rather angelic, like one of the sibyls surrounding God in the painting on the Sistine Chapel by Michelangelo.
We sat at a small square wood table next to an ivy-covered column, one of many that supported the trestle patio. He stared at me across the table with glassy eyes. I wondered if my eyes were as fucked up as his and looked down. Did he know I was high? Did he know I knew he was? Would he care? I sure as hell did. The smarter part of me felt a surge of revulsion for myself (and him) for caving to addiction to maintain cool.
“Would you like a drink?” Lee spoke softly. “I don’t generally drink hard liquor, but I’d share a bottle of wine if you’d like.”
“I don’t drink alcohol.” I liked revealing this. I knew it roused curiosity, and I enjoyed letting people conjure their worst, especially if they didn’t bother to ask why.
“Why don’t you drink alcohol?”
I smiled. “I can’t stand the high — way too out there, harder than any drug I’ve ever done. I’ve had acid that didn’t fuck me up as much as alcohol.”
Lee laughed. “So weed isn’t your only drug of choice?”
“I tried a lot of different stuff in my teens, but I never really liked any of them. I don’t like highs I can’t control. I’ve gotten drunk twice in my life, and it wasn’t just nauseating, but I couldn’t turn it off when I want to and be straight like I can with weed. Plus alcohol has this revolting edge to it that everyone told me I’d grow to like but I never have.” I scrunched my face in disgust to emphasis my point.
He smiled. “I don’t drink much, either. A beer or glass of wine every now and then, and always socially, but I can definitely live without it.”
A slender young waitress wearing tight black slacks, a white blouse and a red bow tie came to our table to take our drink order. She looked like she just stepped off the cover of People. She barely acknowledged me, but flicked her long, tawny hair back over her shoulder and gave Lee a flirtatious smile. “What would you like,” she paused a beat, “to drink?”
Oh brother. Everyone’s an actor in L.A. “I’ll have hot tea.” I interjected. “English breakfast or Earl Grey. With a bit of milk, please, no lemon.”
Lee watched me. “I’ll have the same.” He looked at our waitress. “And ‘a bit o’ milk’ with it, too, please.” He spoke with a thick Irish accent wearing that Cheshire grin, but softened it when he looked back at me.
Our waitress left, and Lee picked up his menu and opened it. “The lasagna is good here, and so is the gnocchi. But the best thing they make is their angel hair pomodoro. It’s light, but very tasty.”
I read along in my menu. Pomodoro was a mix of Roma tomatoes, garlic and basil with light olive oil over angel hair pasta. “Sounds good to me.”
“And they have a great chopped salad. It’s huge, though, so you may want to share it.” He folded his menu and put it aside.
“Sounds great.” I put my menu aside, too, and felt awkward in the moment of silence. Lost for words, I looked around. The patio was surrounded by high stone walls covered in ivy. Soft light glittered from the small glass-encased candles in the center of each wooden table. The rich aroma of roasting garlic and the subtle, sweet scent of basil permeated the air and teased my taste buds. I was in the scene I’d imagined, and for the moment, I felt . . . happy.
The waitress came back with our teas, and a Latino busboy set some French bread and butter on our table. Lee ordered for both of us, looking at me only once to confirm, and when the waitress left, there was another little moment of silence.
“Good game today. You played well,” Lee spoke softly across the table.
“Thanks. I do feel much more in control, thanks to you. You’re a good teacher.” I meant it. He was. Patient. Encouraging.
“Thanks. You’re an easy student because we’re not competing. So many people I’ve played with are out to win with racquetball. It’s nice to play just to sweat calories. I’ve lost 14 pounds since we started playing.” He gave me a broad grin.
“Fourteen pounds in less than four weeks. Fuck you. Guys have it so easy.”
He laughed. “You’re right. We do. In so many ways.” He practically whispered the last line, and I thought I saw his eyes sparkle with mischievous humor. “I used to be a lot thinner. I gained like 40 pounds during the two years I was married. I’ve lost about 30 since we separated. I have around 10 more to go.”
I’d yet to hear his ‘divorce story.’ How he told it would tell me a lot about him. “Why are you getting divorced?”
“Not getting. I’m there. Single, just like you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Well, let’s see . . . We dated for three years. I told her I didn’t want to get married. But she did.” He spoke softly but succinctly. “Sharon wanted the romantic picture — the large wedding in front of family and friends, the flowing white dress, the whole nine yards. All her friends were getting married at the time, and I think she wanted to keep up. Even though I told her that I didn’t think it was going to work out, she wanted it anyway. So I gave it to her.”
Ahh! The Nice Guy syndrome. He was painting himself as a martyr. Not a good sign. I smiled at his telling, and he caught it. He studied me a moment, then looked down and prepared his tea as he continued speaking.
“I didn’t love her, not in the way she wanted me to — all the way like I should have.” Lee didn’t look at me until he delivered the entire line. “She scared me. She had wild mood swings, went into a rage at the drop of a hat. She came from a really screwed-up background. Both parents were alcoholics. Her father was abusive. Her teenage brother committed suicide when she was 10. I met her in Vegas when she was 22 and a voluptuous, raving beauty. She was a dancer in one of those chorus line shows, and a cokehead and addicted to speed to stay thin. She was looking for someone to save her. I thought I could, but she just brought me down with her.” He shook his head, again as if to himself, and then continued with a compact discourse on why they were a bad match from the start. He made her sound volatile, with explosive emotional outbursts in inappropriate environments, subtly relieving himself of all culpability.
My buzz was fading and let in a sharp twinge of disappointed. I tried to shake it off as I sat there sipping my tea, but my intuition would not be silenced. Watch out! screamed in my head. No matter how Lee rationalized his breakup, the fact is he made a vow he did not keep. He only blamed her, though he’d committed to the marriage and pledged his word in front of witnesses to stay with her the rest of his life, and then not followed through. Fundamentally, he could not be trusted, a character flaw not likely to change without some profound awakening, and his words did not reveal he’d had one.
I wanted to force him to confess he’d fallen for the transient lure of beauty, damn him his frivolity and compel him to examine the cost, then thought better of it. My father is always telling me no one wants my insights, or to scrutinize themselves as critically as I do. Divorce, to me, was akin to abortion as a method of birth control. Sue me for holding all parties responsible to their promises and expecting them to endure the consequences that should have been considered before getting naked in bed together.
A tall, slender young man came out of the glass door of the restaurant with a small round tray and brought it to our table. He was every bit as beautiful as our waitress, dressed in dark jeans and tight black T-shirt, with a chiseled body and face and shaggy sun-streaked hair that hung in soft waves to his shoulders. He smiled at me as he set the large chopped salad between us. “Enjoy,” he said with a quick glance to each of us, then gave a little bow and left.
Lee stared after our waiter, with what seemed more interest than our waitress earlier, then he looked at me and smiled. “Struggling actor, or lead in a pop band.” He said it with a wink, then picked up his fork and started eating. I followed suit. We ate off the same plate. And he was right. The salad was great. Small chopped pieces of tomato, hearts of romaine lettuce, olives, garbanzo beans and celery covered with this tangy, sweet Italian dressing. Lovely. And virtually guilt-free. I expressed my appreciation, and we were quiet for a moment while we savored it all.
“Thank you for joining me tonight. It’s one of those life events that record on your psyche, remembering the day you got divorced. Or at least it is for me.” He paused to munch, swallowed his bite and wiped his mouth on his white cloth napkin.
“I’m sorry. It must be really painful. I don’t ever want to know what it feels like.” I didn’t mean it as a slam, though it could be construed that way, as could the next line that slipped out. “When I give my word, especially on such a profound promise as my fidelity for the rest of my life, I better be damn sure I’m prepared to keep it.” I felt the urge to justify my pejorative statement, but suppressed it, fearful if I opened my mouth again, something else derogatory would come out.
He took a sip of his tea and stared at me across the table. “I did not, and still do not, take marriage lightly. I know Sharon and I never should have married. I knew it then. What I didn’t know was how to walk away. Not before the wedding, and not after. Sharon initiated the divorce. She was having an affair with my father’s business partner and wanted out of our marriage.”
“Wow. How fucked up is that?” Again the words sort of fell out of my mouth.
“Pretty fucked up. It got very contentious for awhile before we separated. I’m just glad we didn’t have kids together. Divorce is simply not an option with children. I come from a broken home, and I don’t want that for my kids.”
“How old were you when your parents divorced?”
“Ten. Before then, they fought all the time. They had a really bad dynamic, just like Sharon and I. Monkey see, monkey do, I guess. I have learned though. I can be taught!” He flashed a quick grin. “I know I need to be with someone more stable now, who’s ready to commit to staying together and working things out, no matter what. Before I marry again, I need to know my partner is on my side and trust that we’ll deal with whatever comes along together, as a team. I want to cheer each other on to be the best we can be. Better together. Inseparable . . .” He half shrugged and gave me a soft, dimpled smile. “You know what I mean.”
Get back! He was too cute. He’d just recited my definition of Love. And I had the urge to lean across the small table, gather his face in my hands and kiss him right then. But I didn’t. I smiled at him, locked eyes and felt a connection between us, almost like an electric shock that took my breath away. He stared back at me with just the hint of a smile, like he felt it, too.
Our waitress broke our connection as she brought a large round tray with plates of pasta to our table, set it on a stand, cleared the empty salad plate between us and served us our meals. A pungent, tangy aroma wafted from my plate in ribbon of steam, and my stomach growled. Again I waited for Lee to start on his before lifting my fork and eating mine. It was delicious — pure, simple goodness. The sweet yet tart tomatoes blended perfectly with the slices of garlic and strips of fresh basil, and the delicate taste of the thin spaghetti completed the symphony of flavors.
“You like?” Lee asked with a quick raise of an eyebrow.
“Yes. It’s very nice.”
“It is. Especially from where I’m sitting.” He stared at me with a soft smile.
The line was straight out of the movies, and for a second I was flattered, but then I felt annoyed. “That is a ridiculous cliché if you’re referring to my looks, and an asinine assumption if you’re assessing my character. I may look like a wayward, middle-class white girl, but I’m not all that nice.”
“I beg to differ. I think you’re just too scared to show it.” He paused, took a deep breath and released it. “Rachel, the only way to combat fear is to face it.” He paused again and stayed fixed on me. “Give me three good reasons why you don’t want to date me. Just three and I’ll back off, won’t hold it against you, we’ll do racquetball only. I promise.”
Three good reasons? Easy. He was divorced, had reneged on his commitment. But, his ex could be crazy, like he said. And she was the adulteress and had initiated their breakup. He was a stoner. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe he only used recreationally and he could quit upon request and never crave it. I took another bite and stared at him. He waited for me to respond and took a few small bites, wrapping spaghetti strands neatly around each forkful before consuming. I only had one reason not to date him. My intuition. And I wasn’t about to tell him that.
Lee put his fork down and wiped his mouth on the cloth napkin from his lap. “If you’re questioning my motives, I confess to only one. I’m lonely. I have been for a long time now, even during my marriage. I find you attractive. We share common goals and interests. We both want kids, to create a family. And we’re both single. That seems like a pretty good foundation to build on to me.” He spoke matter-of-factly, like an attorney making his case, looked away only for an instant to retrieve his teacup, took a sip and gracefully returned it to its place on the table without taking his eyes off me.
He was saying everything I wanted to hear, had been waiting to hear for so long. I felt that electric charge between us, and we connected again. I imagined him reaching out and cradling my face in his hand, then leaning across the table and drawing me to him for a sensual kiss. But then I flashed on him sucking on a joint, countless times in various iterations, his thick lips pursed around it, and it irked me. I had to ask. “How often do you get high?”
“I used to use everyday.” He answered without hesitation and kept his eyes on mine. “Now it’s just occasionally, every once in a while when someone has something really good. I score half an ounce or so and smoke it until it’s gone and wait for something good to come along again. It’s getting really hard to find anything good these days. Carl’s been pretty reliable, though I’m not quite sure if that’s good or bad.” He cocked his head. “Why do you ask?”
I’m jealous, but that’s not what I said. It’s not what I really felt, either, just my twisted brain being flip. I had no idea if his explanation meant he controlled his use, or it controlled him, but my intuition confirmed the latter. “Stoners scare me,” I told him. “And I know it sounds hypocritical because I get high, but maybe it’s because I do that they scare me.”
“Do you scare yourself?”
“Yes. All the time. Don’t you?”
“Not so much anymore. I’m not near as reckless as I used to be. I’m much more in control. I trust myself more now than ever before.”
“I’m scared of everything all the time. Especially myself.” I said it with humor, but I meant it. “My brain lies to me constantly. Everyone’s does; most people just don’t admit it.”
Lee finished the last bite of salad and gave me a reserved smile. “I’ll admit it. I struggle with the voice inside my head that tells me doughnuts aren’t bad for me, or the one that insists exercise is too taxing, or the one that says relationships are just too damn hard. I fight those voices all the time.”
Watch out! He got it. And only true obsessives know how insidious the mind can be to justify bad behavior.
“Rachel, I don’t drink. Like you, I don’t use any other drugs anymore, and marijuana is not addicting.”
Ha! Right.
He stared at me, studied me again. “Smoking weed is a frivolous indulgence for me. I can walk away from it whenever I want to. I can, and have quit many times.”
Ahh, the addict’s lament. I’d used the same rationalization.
“I’m not now, nor have ever been a drug addict. Don’t let some misguided fear stop you from going out with me and giving us a chance.” His delivery was gentle but filled with conviction. His thick, wavy hair hung in his eyes and framed his baby face, and he looked angelic again. He sat across our tiny table, staring at me, and he was adorable.
I stared back at him, searching, caught a twinkle of humor in his eyes, and we connected again. I wanted to believe him. Maybe he was better than me, or could be with some gentle coaxing. Maybe we could help each other be the best we could be. In the three years I’d been placing ads, I had no connection with any one of the men I’d met. Lee could be the greatest guy on the planet and I was dismissing him because of some stupid voices inside me, which were probably fear masquerading as intuition.
“Why me?” I asked. “I mean, you’re adorable. You’re smart, articulate, seemingly successful. Nice. There are probably tons of smart, attractive women out there who would love to date you.”
“Not like you. I’ve never known anyone quite like you. Before I got married, I was somewhat of a playboy. I’ve known a lot of women. But none like you.” He gave me his mischievous grin. I didn’t know whether to smile back, or run.
“It scares me when you say shit like that. You don’t even know me.”
“On the contrary. We are of like kind. Can’t you feel it?” He stared at me, but it felt like through me, like he could see inside my head.
“If we are of like kind, then we’d best stick to just racquetball because I don’t want to be who I am anymore.”
“Yes, you do. You just don’t know how beautiful you are yet.” His poker face returned.
I laughed. “Right.” The lines were hokey, but his delivery wasn’t. He said them as statements of fact. Either he was being sincere (which made him either blind or nuts) or mocking me. I could pass as L.A. trendy, but I am not beautiful.
“You are beautiful,” Lee responded, as if reading my thoughts. “You just have to believe it.”
“Belief doesn’t make god real.”
“Spoken like a true cynic.”
“I prefer realist.”
“That’s what all cynics say.” He smiled at me like he’d just won a volley.
I smiled. “You sound like my mother.”
“Is that good or bad?”
I felt my smile twist into a sardonic smirk. “My mother does her level best to avoid critical thinking and labels me a pessimist because I dare to look beyond the surface.” I was revealing too much, coming off too strong, and tried to soften with humor. “You don’t really sound like my mom. She would tell me life is as hard as I make it, to ‘turn my frown upside down,’ and ‘make lemons into lemonade.’” I gave him my best Pollyanna smile and finally shut up.
Lee laughed. “Clearly, you don’t subscribe to clichés. I find women who value knowledge over presentation fascinating and refreshing.”
Again, I wasn’t sure if he was mocking me. I looked down at my half-eaten plate of capillini and then around the dim patio.
“Your mom sounds like a kick,” Lee said gently. “Tell me more about your family, about where you grew up and what it was like.” He seemed sincere, genuinely interested, but for some reason, his questions felt more like a challenge. He watched me, too closely, his green eyes fixed on mine.
I picked up the gauntlet. What the hell. I was free to talk about anything because Lee was just passing through my life, like meeting a stranger when traveling, and you can tell that person anything because it’s likely you’ll never see them again. Throughout the rest of the meal, we exchanged family stories. I talked of the fiery relationship with my mom, and the contentious one with my sister, and the tender but marginal one with my father, and the lack of one with my born-again Christian half-brother. I whined about the Thanksgiving holiday coming in two days and tried to paint him a picture of the scene.
“It’s part of my job to pick up my grandmother at Loony Toon Farms and bring her back to my parent’s house, and she complains the entire way about my driving, though she’s never driven a day in her life. My mom cooks the turkey and stuffing, but my sister and I are responsible for most of the extras. I’m obliged to make mondel bread, an apple pie and my green bean casserole for Thursday.”
“Sounds fun. I love cooking. I’m happy to help if you need it. I’ve got nothing else going. I don’t have any family around. My mom is in Chicago, and we don’t really talk anymore. And my dad and his wife live in Arizona.”
“My parents still live in the same house we grew up in, less than three miles from the one I’m renting.” I smiled to cover my embarrassment. “I know it sounds lame, living so close to them, but Sherman Oaks is very central. It’s just over the hill from UCLA, 20 minutes from downtown and 30 minutes topping out without traffic to the beach. It’s perfect for freelancing.”
“I’m sure it is.” Again with the wily grin.
“Okay. Truth be told, I like living close to my family. I feel safer having people who care about me near by.”
“You’re lucky to have your family close, and together. I grew up in a suburb of Chicago. My parents divorced when I was 10, and I moved with my dad to California. We had a house in Culver City for eight years, before it went low-income there. My sister stayed with my mom until she finished high school. My family is scattered now. Be glad you have Thanksgiving with family to go to.”
I secretly was, but I rolled my eyes and stuck out my tongue in mock exasperation. Whine about them all day, but I was still glad to have them. They were all I had, all I’d ever had. Everyone else came and went. L.A. is a transitory town.
We finished up our meals. It took conscious effort to leave some pasta instead of consuming every last bite (and then licking the plate). Our waitress came back, took our dishes and left the bill, which Lee insisted on paying. He filled the silent gaps with questions. He listened carefully and shared without much probing. Our exchange was even again, casual and totally enjoyable.
I’d parked several blocks down on Ventura, and he walked me to my car. It was dark by then, and cold. The air was thick with evening haze and glowed around the stark streetlights. My nipples were hard as rocks and felt like they were freezing off by the time we got to my car. I had no desire to stand out there for a chat, so I took the lead with goodbye. “Thanks again for dinner. It was really nice. I can’t play on Thursday. I’ll be cooking most of the day before I go get my wacko grandma.”
“How about playing tomorrow instead?”
Eating without too much guilt on Thursday made possible by playing as hard as I could on Wednesday. “Okay. Good idea.” As I spoke, I moved around my car to the driver’s door to avoid that awkward moment of proper touch etiquette. Kiss? Hug? Putting distance between us dissolved the problem. “I’ll meet you at the courts at 4:00?”
“Great.” He stood on the sidewalk, watching me with a hangdog face on, his disappointment clear. He stood huddled into himself, hands shoved deep in the pocket of his jeans, his thick hair wavy and wild with the evening dew. With an English cap, he’d look like an errant newsboy.
I smiled, thanked him again, got in my car and left. My heart seemed loud and reverberated in my throat most of the way home. ‘We are of like kind. Can’t you feel it?’ I heard him in my head, remembered feeling exposed with his deliberate stare, and a chill ran through me. We were alike alright. But it wasn’t a good thing. He participated in and promoted my delinquency. Lee couldn’t save me. I was holding out for a normal guy, a successful pragmatist who could teach me how to box messy feelings that lead to destructive impulses. The problem was most normal, healthy men don’t have the time or desire to deal with women who are not.
Lonely sucked me in as I turned onto my quiet street lined with single-story ranch houses filled with families. The fear of being alone forever seeped into every fiber of my being. To rid the suffocating weight of it, I lit the half-smoked joint I’d started on the way to the restaurant and sucked in a few quick hits. I relaxed with the rush as I blew a stream of smoke out the window, then shivered, then cranked the heater and tried to dismiss how enjoyable the evening had been, how comfortable I felt with him and how adorably cute he looked standing on the curb watching me drive away.
It was weird with Lee. Something I didn’t even know really existed, except in movies. Chemistry. From the moment we sat down at our table at Jerry’s on Halloween, it was like being with someone I’d known a very long time. I had heard friends talk about chemistry with this and that new guy they were dating. Whatever that meant. I thought they must be talking about physical attraction, infatuation, lust. I was beyond all that. I was looking for the real thing. Love endures. Lust fades. Until Lee, I looked at love as a controllable issue. You choose who to fall in love with. But then I wasn’t factoring in chemistry. Powerful stuff. Dangerous stuff.
Chapter Three
11/26/91
Intuition, unlike religion, is not blind. Its enlightenment is based on empirical evidence, consciously or unconsciously attained.
I want to find a man who understands we are what we do.
I want a man who already knows it’s actions, not ego that defines you.
—————————-
We played a solid hour and a half until Lee, red-cheeked and sweating, held up his hands in surrender. I may have worn him out, but he was still clearly in control of the ball and had exhausted me. I stood in the center of the cavernous white-walled room, panting and dripping with sweat. My black T-shirt was soaked through. I was ready to get out of there as well. I had things to do.
We went into the lobby for Diet Cokes and to cool down before taking off. Lee fed dollars into the soda machine, handed me the first one he retrieved and then got himself one. “Great game. You were on today, fast and focused. You seem kind of amped up. What’s going on?”
“I have a lot to get done before tomorrow night. And getting together with my family always kind of weirds me out.”
“Family dynamics can be really hard. Sometimes I’m glad that I don’t live close to my dad anymore. I love him a lot, but let’s just say we fail to meet each other’s expectations more often than not.”
“I like the family scene at Thanksgiving, right down to my father rising from his chair at the end of the dining room table and strutting into the kitchen to cut the turkey, as if he’d actually made any part of the meal.” I rolled my eyes to accentuate my point, and Lee laughed. “It’s the intimate view that bugs me — the anger and resentment just underneath. I have to be careful what comes out of my mouth so I don’t scratch the surface and piss everyone off. Makes me tense.” I felt stupid confessing and looked away, at the hot, young counter attendant watching me, staring unabashedly. He too had that flirtatious thing going. Another actor. They’re everywhere in L.A.
“When I told you yesterday you were beautiful, it wasn’t meant as a compliment. I was stating a fact. Don’t you see the way men look at you?” He stared at the guy standing behind the counter, who went back to folding towels when Lee caught him looking at me.
“Oh, he’s just a big flirt. I’m sure he stares at all the women here. He’s probably an actor, or the lead in a punk band or something — always looking for fans.”
Lee laughed and shrugged. “Whatever. Look, I know you said that you have a lot to do today. I’d like to help. Please let me. I’m bored, and lonely, and I take direction very well.” He was slouched against the wall again, his back straight against it, leaning on one hip, his legs crossed. He had that whole Nike thing going again, with the low-slung shorts, sweat-soaked T-shirt and tousled hair. Casual. Cool.
I sighed, slouched back against the wall, crossed my legs and looked at him. The view was nice, and familiar, and the thought of leaving him, going home to my dead empty house and cooking by myself all night left me cold. I preferred the sharing, caring holiday season experience shown endlessly on every TV channel since Halloween. And I could create that scene tonight if I wanted to. I held the clicker. “You can help me bake an apple pie if you want.”
His grin extended across his face into this big, happy smile. “Great. I have to go home and get cleaned up, but I can be at your house in an hour or so.”
“Make it two, around 8:00. I have to stop at the store, and I want to take a shower and clean up a bit, too.” I hardly ever had anyone over who didn’t know me. And my few friends simply accepted the fact that I lived out of my bedroom and often left junk around.
“Okay. 8:00 it is.” He picked up his black gym bag and slung the strap over his shoulder. “Can I bring anything?”
I was about to say ‘some weed,’ since I was almost out of what he’d given me a few weeks earlier, but I didn’t. I felt stupid asking him, though the reason eluded me. He was my connection, and my racquetball partner, and now my new occasional friend, and that was all. Still, I didn’t ask him to bring any, and I assured him I was in need of nothing but his company.
We walked out of the club together into the warm, thick air. The blue of twilight met the last of the thin orange band at the western horizon. Twilight is my favorite time in L.A., when the indigo sky silhouettes the ugliness of the dirty city. I gave Lee my address and directions to my house, then we said our goodbyes, got in our cars and left in opposite directions. He lived to the east, Glendale/Eaglerock area, about 10 minutes from the racquetball club.
I don’t remember the drive home, or what I bought at Ralph’s, but it’s one of those nights that lie on the surface in memory. It’s easy to recall and always evokes a smile and a sigh. When I got home, I straightened up my room, showered and put on my oversized bright red sweater and my skin-tight black stretch jeans. I zipped them as I walked into the dining room and saw Lee’s headlights pull into my driveway through the bay window. It was exactly 8:00 p.m. He emerged smoothly from his car, stood erect and threw his black silk jacket over his shoulder, then walked with casual confidence the narrow pathway to my front door. He was dressed in a soft white shirt that rippled with his stride, tucked into worn blue jeans.
I waited for him to knock before going the six feet into the living room to open the front door. Face ran out to greet him, wagging her tail wildly until Lee acknowledged her with the obligatory pat. He had that happy grin on, and I had to smile back as I let him in. I welcomed him as he threw his jacket on the couch and I led him through the dining room, then back to the kitchen. Face followed and curled on the small mat by the back door.
“Can I get you something to drink before we get started? Diet Coke? Water?”
“How about coffee?”
I shrugged apologetically and shook my head.
“No coffee.” Lee shook his head with me.
“Coffee’s another taste I never grew into. Coffee, chocolate and alcohol. But I have tea. Good, hard, black tea. Lots of caffeine. English breakfast, Earl Grey, Tetley’s-”
“English breakfast is fine. And a ‘bit o’ milk in it,’” he mocked me in a thick Irish accent, “would be grand.” He winked and smiled. “I thought women and chocolate were inseparable, almost synonymous — bittersweet.”
I gave him a wry smile. “It’s that bitter edge that turns me off. It’s probably why I don’t get on with most women.”
Lee smiled. “There are women who prefer the company of women. There are women who hang with the boys. You are definitely a guy’s girl.” He stayed fixed on me.
I smiled, flushed and turned away, filled the kettle and put it on stovetop, got two mugs from the cupboard and the milk from the fridge.
“Nice kitchen,” Lee commented. “Late art deco, with lots of Spanish mission influence.” He leaned back against the tiled counter by the sink. His fingers wrapped the end of the pink border tiles and rested on the maple cabinet below. His hands were unusually large for his stature.
“Very good. Did you study art history?” I prepared our teas and set his on the small linoleum table where I’d gathered most of the ingredients we’d need. “I need two sticks of butter, smoothed, then a quarter cup of sugar and a tablespoon of vanilla all mixed together, please.”
“No problem.” Lee moved to the table, retrieved a stainless bowl and set it in front of him, unwrapped a stick of butter and dropped it in, then did the same with the other. “Art history was my minor in college. Loved it. Forks?”
“Top drawer over there.” I pointed to the drawers at the end of the tiled counter next to the bulky white enamel stove. “It wasn’t my minor, but I took it all four years of college.” I busied myself peeling apples over the sink. “I hated history in high school. But art history is about our mental development, how we felt about what was happening around us. I learned more history and psychology in art history than I ever did in either of the other two classes combined.”
“So did I, though I liked psychology a lot, too, studying what makes people tick.” Lee held the bowl secure on the table as he mashed the butter with the fork. “Advertising is all about that, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I guess. But manipulating people to buy what I tell them isn’t exactly what I hoped to contribute to the world. I suppose it’s better than living broke and maybe homeless writing to get people to feel, and think for themselves.” I flashed half a grin.
“It’s been my experience that most people want be told what to think.” Lee smiled. “That’s what I love about sales.” While he spoke, he scooped the sugar from the bag into a tin cup, combed the top with his finger to level it and then poured it into the bowl. “I’ve been on my own for almost five years now, make close to a hundred grand annually and get to keep most of it because I have no employees and get tax breaks as a small business owner.” He got the vanilla and poured it in without measuring, but it looked close to the right amount, so I didn’t object. He seemed focused on his task and did not look at me. “My business has grown five-, tenfold every year now. My clients love me and recommend me all the time. I’m almost at the edge of what I can personally handle, and I’m either going to have to keep it small or get someone on board with me to handle more clients.”
“God, I wish I had your problem. I’ve been on my own for 12 years now, got fired or quit my first three jobs out of college. I don’t play well with the drones in corporate environments.” I flashed him another quick grin. “After that, I went freelance and have been ever since. I have a few consistent clients, but most come and go. Half the time, I’m actually writing copy and the other half I’m looking for work. It sucks, made even worse by the fact that I don’t want to be doing it at all.”
“Then you’re wasting time pursuing copywriting jobs. You should do what you want to do, find a way to make it work. Carpe diem. Seize the day and all that.” He gave me a broad smile.
“Right. It’s not that easy. Everyone thinks they’re a writer, and they’re all looking to be published. The competition is fierce.” I brought the bowl of peeled apples over to the table with a knife and cutting board, sat down at the end of the table across from Lee and cut the apples into thick slices. “There are three ways for a fine writer to make it. Friends and family connections in publishing. Independent wealth. Funding by public or private donors. I have none of the above.”
“You are a cynic. Maybe you’ll marry someone who makes enough money for the both of you so that you can write.”
“And not only support me, but our two-point-five children from birth through their doctoral college fund. Give me a break. I’m a realist, remember?”
Lee laughed. “Medical would be through the roof with the point-five kid, but we could probably handle it with the right insurance plan.” He grinned at me. “I’m ready for whatever is next.” He set the fork on the table and tipped the bowl toward me to prove he’d completed his assigned task and was ready for another.
There was a small mass of creamed butter in the bottom of the stainless bowl. I looked up at him and smiled. “Good job. You’re making the crust.”
“I kind of figured.”
I smiled. “Right. Sorry. Anyway, you need two and a half cups sifted flour.” I pointed with my knife to the screened colander and the bag of flour in it at the end of the table to his left. “You can sift it right on to the butter, but I’d suggest mixing it every half cup of flour you add so it blends completely.”
“Okay.” Lee poured tins of flour into the colander and shook them onto the butter in the bowl, then mixed — at first smoothly, then vigorously. His motion rippled the folds of his shirt.
I finished cutting the apples and put the slices aside. Then I got up and fetched the sugars and cinnamon and combined them to the apple slices with a squirt of pure maple syrup. The momentary silence between us didn’t bother me. I reveled in the scene.
Exterior. Night. Camera P.O.V. looking through window into bright, glowing kitchen. Camera pans slowly through window over sink to inside room where good friends prepare a pie for the holidays. The wind whistles softly through the peeling metal window frames. Then bushes scraped the bay window in the dining room with a screeching pitch, and suddenly I’m back at the kitchen table with Lee. He stroked his fork over the rim of the bowl to clean it of clumps, looked up at me and smiled.
“I’m going to use my hands if you don’t mind,” Lee said, held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. “I’ll wash them first.” He went to the sink and washed his hands, came back and started to massage the dough together. He stood over the bowl on the table, gathered the dough in both hands and squeezed it through his fingers.
It was disgusting, in a sensual sort of way. I stood three feet from him, holding my big wooden spoon, and tried to focus on my task of coating the apple slices with the creamy sugar mixture. “You’ll need one round ball that you can roll out to cover the bottom of that glass pie pan.” I nodded towards the Pyrex between us on the table.
Lee finished stripping dough from between his fingers and gathered the flaky chunks in the center of the bowl. He molded the clumps of buttered flour together and formed a ball, then patted it, coaxing it into an almost perfect sphere before gently cupping it in both hands and presenting it to me. “Is this what you had in mind?”
“Either you’re a very fast learner or you’ve done this before.”
“You are an excellent teacher. I need a cutting board and rolling pin.” He tossed the dough ball back in the bowl and smiled at me. “And I’ve done this before. Sharon loved to bake. Cooking was one of the few good things we did together, which is the main reason why I gained 40 pounds.”
“Pull the board out from under the cabinet over there, just above the drawers. The rolling pin is in the second drawer down.”
“I’m a pretty competent chef at this point.” Lee spoke as he retrieved the items he needed and took them back to the table. “I have to thank Sharon for that. I think it’s only fair for partners to split daily tasks. Halving the pain leaves more time to double the pleasure.” He sprinkled flour on the board before dropping the dough ball on it. He leaned into the ball with his palm and flattened it considerably, then picked up the rolling pin, rubbed flour up and down it, coating it in white, and rolled out the dough into an even, 12-inch circle. “The trick to getting it into the pie plate without breaking it is in the rhythm.” He retrieved the glass pie dish and set it to his right, virtually in front of me. “You have to get your fingers under the thin crust very gently,” which he did as he spoke, “and in one fluid motion lift it up and then let it slide off your fingers onto the plate.” He separated his hands quickly, and the circle of dough covered the pie plate and then fell softly into place. “Voila.” He looked at me and smiled, then started fluting the edges, gathering the dough around his middle finger as he moved it quickly around the rim of the pie dish.
I poured my apple mixture into his perfect crust, sprinkled brown sugar mixed with flour and pecans on top and put the pie in the preheated oven. We washed our hands and piled the sink with dirty dishes, and then Lee suggested we take a break in the living room and smoke a joint.
Desire drenched the spark of Disenchantment. He brought me the release I craved, and I never had to ask. I followed him into the living room. He sat on the couch, and I made a fire, stacked two oak logs on the iron holder in the fireplace and turned on the gas jets, then joined him on the couch as he lit a joint.
He sucked deeply, deftly. Watch out, my intuition warned. No matter what he said, it was obvious Lee was no casual user. He smiled his Cheshire grin as he blew out a perfect thin stream of smoke. It seemed to dance around his hand as handed me the joint. “Is that a backgammon board?” He pointed to the wood board I’d picked up in Athens a few years back. It sat on its side on the bookshelf against the opposite wall across from the couch, folded into a thin, rectangular box. Only someone familiar with the shape of a backgammon board would know what it was.
I smiled, blew out a stream of sweet smoke and handed him back the joint. “You play?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.
“Yeah. Care for a game?” He hit the joint and passed it to me, got up and got the board, brought it back to the couch and placed it between us as he sat back down. We passed the joint back and forth as we set up the board. Within moments, everything slowed. Extraneous concerns faded to the pleasure in the present, and I relaxed and centered my attention on the game. We left the joint in the ashtray while we played. And he was good, quick and intuitive, one of the best I’ve run across. But I was better.
“Where did you learn to play backgammon like this?” Lee wanted to know after I had beaten him 10 games in a row.
“In Greece. This game is about getting the right numbers. An old man taught me how to focus my concentration to control the dice.”
He laughed. “Right. You can’t control dice. It’s not possible. You would be able to make a fortune gambling if you could control dice.”
“It doesn’t work like that. The focus is intense and impossible to hold for extended lengths of time. But it’s a rush when you get there, even if you can’t only hold it. Want to learn how?”
“Okay. . .” He cocked his head and gave me a tentative smile.
“Just clear your mind of everything and think about the number you need. See the number in your head, how it looks on the dice right before releasing them.”
He tossed the dice on the table, gave a slight shake of his head as if the number wasn’t what he wanted, then moved.
“Give it time. Concentrate and you’ll get it.” I swept the cubes up, threw them and moved, and then he collected them and did the same. Within a few moves, we established an even rhythm, retrieving the dice from the board and tossing them back and moving our pieces around the table without pause.
He had amazing focus. I could literally feel him collecting and focusing his attention. We played all night, taking only one short break to get the pie from the oven, get more tea and smoke another joint. The room glowed orange from the fire, was warm and smelled of wood smoke and fresh baked pie. No words passed between us game after game. We finally stopped playing around 2:00 in the morning, exhausted.
“That was great!” he said excitedly. “It was wild. I could feel when I had the dice in control. What a rush!” He straightened his legs and sank back into the couch pillow. “It’s exhausting, though.” He picked up the half a joint in the ashtray and lit it. “Every time a thought would creep into my mind, I would lose focus and lose control. We have to play this often. I want to get better at this.”
“I played every day for two years at least four hours a day. I was as good as you can get at this game and still only able to control the dice 30 to 40 percent of the time, tops. I was a lot younger then, too. Life was simpler. It was easier to clear my head.”
“It does take an amazing amount of concentration. But it works! There has to be a way to master it to increase your odds.” I could feel the wheels in his head turning. “If I can control the dice here, then I can control them anywhere.” He looked at me and gave a quick laugh, but not like he thought it was funny. More like he’d been caught in a lie.
“The old man who taught me how to play like this said backgammon, or tavli as they call it in Greece, should be played to pass the time of day. He made me promise never to gamble on it, said the dice technique should be used to practice focused attention. I’ve never shown it to anyone before, and I’m feeling obligated to request the same promise from you.” I joked, sort of. Just beyond his natural excitement at accomplishing the extraordinary, I felt something darker, uglier.
He gave me a twisted smile and held up his hand in the Boy Scout salute. The end of what was left of the joint was stuck between his index and middle finger. “I give you my solemn word I will never bet on backgammon.” He stared at me and then took a hit. His dark, wavy hair hung in his eyes, and he looked punk. He handed the joint to me, but it was so small I’d surely get burned, so I declined. “I used to gamble. A lot.” Lee paused, searched me for response, then looked down. He focused on setting up the board to play another game and didn’t look up as he casually explained why he never got past the first semester of junior college, why the condo he ‘owned’ was in his father’s name, and why, because of his gambling problem, though making good money, he had no savings and was in debt to the government for $30,000 in back taxes.
It felt like I was falling, slowly sinking through the couch toward blackness as he spoke. Tired was hitting me like a ton of bricks. I focused on Lee. He sat sideways on the couch facing me. He was slouched into the big, fluffy cloth pillow, resting his upper arm on top of it and supporting his head with his hand. He watched me with his poker face on. He seemed unfazed by what he’d just told me, like he’d been discussing the weather. And through the veiled haze of high, I could hear me screaming at myself to get away from this guy. Say goodnight and send him home. But I didn’t. “I don’t believe in gambling on any level. I think it is fundamentally wrong.” I wasn’t trying to be contentious but didn’t really care that I was. “Win or lose, you still lose. When you win, you are winning the money of some poor schmuck who couldn’t afford to lose it. When you lose, you are the poor schmuck. Across the board, it’s lose-lose. So I don’t gamble. And I don’t respect people who do.”
“I don’t blame you. When I see people gamble now, I just feel sorry for them. That’s why I don’t gamble anymore. Some people have a drug problem. Some people become alcoholics. I didn’t become a drug addict or drunk. My problem was gambling. I’m glad it’s behind me now.”
Maybe it was, and maybe it wasn’t. I’d never personally known anyone with gambling issues, so I didn’t consider it a real problem. I’d heard the stories, of course. My half-brother Keith was a product of my mother’s first marriage to ‘a rambler and a gambler and a sweet-talking ladies man.’ But I held Mom accountable for that mishap. She was 19 and looking for anyone to rescue her from her tyrannical mother. If his gambling problem was real or not, it really wasn’t my problem. Lee was just a friend. Our finances would never commingle. It was his money. He could burn it however he wanted.
Lee picked up the dice and rattled them in his fist. “You ready for another game?”
I believe we’re already engaged in one, but I didn’t say it. “It’s really late, and I have a lot to get done tomorrow.” I put both hands on the back of the wooden box and waited for him to drop the dice in, then folded the board. The pieces clattered inside the box as I stood, then paused for him to rise.
He got it straight away and stood, too, not a foot from me. We were almost eye to eye. “Thank you for tonight.” He ran his hand through his thick, wavy hair and took a deep breath. “God, it smells great in here.” It did too, sweet, smoky, the scent of baked apples and cinnamon being drawn from the kitchen for the fire to consume. He lifted his black jacket from the end of the couch and stared at me as he put it on; his face glowed yellow in the dim firelight; in his eyes flickered the flames from the fireplace.
“She went her unremembering way.
She went and left in me
The pang of all the partings gone
And partings yet to be.”
“Wow. Who wrote that?”
“Francis Thompson. He was an English poet around the turn of the century.” He gave me a playful grin.
“Touché.” I smiled back and moved to the door. “Thanks for coming, and helping, and everything.”
“My pleasure.” Lee followed me as he spoke. “You need anything in the next couple of days, just let me know. I’ve got something going Friday night, but that’s it. Other than that, I’m around.” He stopped and faced me at the front door. “I’m serious.” He practically whispered. “Even if you just want to talk, vent about family, I’m here. Call me.” He gave a gentle smile, then rested his eyes on my lips before he leaned in, gently placed his hand on my cheek, pulled me in and kissed me. His lips were warm, his touch electric, and I felt that sweet dropout of surrender, but then almost immediately, I felt my walls go up. I say almost because he really did kiss great — soft, smooth, sensual. Back off, my intuition warned. Lee was not the man I was holding out for.
I pulled back and gave him a reserved smile. “Just friends, right?”
He wore a poker face as he took his hand from my cheek and straightened. “When can I see you again?”
My lips still tingled from his kiss. I put my hand on the doorknob but paused. Open the door and he’s gone and I’m alone again. Don’t open the door and I’m inviting him to stay, sex implied. I opened the door. Cold, crisp air rushed in and swept over me like death. “I’ll see you next Tuesday, on the courts at 4:00. I hope you have a nice holiday, whatever you do.” I pictured him alone on Thanksgiving. The melodrama of the tragic scene bothered me. But I wasn’t about to ask a guy I had no intention of getting serious with to meet my family.
Lee moved into the threshold and paused, turned back and looked at me. He literally glowed yellow against the black night. “Tell me. Where is the ‘good’ in goodbye?” He frowned, took on a hangdog face and shrugged, then took several steps backwards and turned around before stepping off the porch onto the walkway. He waved without looking back as he walked the narrow path, got in his car and left.
I shut the door against a gust of icy wind. His headlights strobed the night as he backed out of my driveway and onto the street, then they swept across the front of my house and disappeared down the block. I deadbolted the front door and felt that familiar rush of fear being alone again. Face stood next to me, and I watched her for warning signs of impending danger, but after a moment, she lazily walked over to where she’d been lying near the fire and curled back into a sleeping ball. Only a small flicker of flame burned in the fireplace. The faintest crackling of burning wood could be heard above the wind whistling through the metal French frames. The house seemed to shudder, the floor creaked, and I was chilled straight through. I walked through the empty house, made sure the back door was bolted and all the windows were locked, then went to the bathroom to clean up.
Somehow I managed to wash my face and brush my teeth without actually seeing myself in the mirror above the bathroom sink. Face followed me into my room, and I shut the door, closing us in before climbing into bed. I located the remote under the clutter of notebooks and paperbacks on the maple end table I’d built, then flipped on the TV atop the big deco dresser. Face lay curled in her beanbag bed on the floor to my right, jerking and quivering, caught up in her dog dreams. I sat in my bed huddled under the blue blanket with the clicker pointed at the TV, clicking through the channels trying to find something to put me to sleep. It was working, too, with nothing worth watching at 2:30 in the morning, especially without cable. But then the bushes outside scratched the front windows and the wind whistled through the rusted sills, and fear stopped me from breathing as I listened for intruders. I wished my roommate, Susanne, was home, or I was away at my boyfriend’s, too, or just for someone beside me in bed. And who I pictured next to me was Lee.
I clicked the TV off, set the remote on the end table, pulled the blanket over my shoulders, curled up onto my side and closed my eyes. I imagined Lee’s arms wrapping around my shoulders, his body pressed up against me, spooning mine. And I melted into his warmth as I drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Four
11/28/91
There’s no such thing as god.
No one can prove it.
I believe in Entropy.
I see it all around me.
Structured chaos.
There is no such thing as fair, just luck;
And created equal is not the truth.
We begin with a random mix of chemistry,
Which dictates how we interpret our world.
Awareness; Autonomous;
Opportunity; Impossibility.
Most lean to one or another.
I’m frozen in the center.
Damned to consider all sides.
—————————-
He called me the next day, woke me from a dreamless sleep 8:30 Thanksgiving morning. “Friday is my 37th birthday and my friends are taking me out to Musso and Frank’s. Come with me, as my guest. I want you to meet everyone. I’ve known most of these people since high school. They’re all really nice and would love you — to join us.”
I lay in bed and played the scene in my head, sitting at a big, polished wood table in a dim, warm restaurant surrounded by young, hot, tight women and successful, athletic men. They’re engaged in the familiar banter of friends, and I sit alone, in front of a slab of grilled steak (which I don’t eat), pulling my shirt down to hide the bulge of my belly at the waistline of my jeans. “Sorry. I can’t. My sister is having a second Thanksgiving at her house on Friday night for her husband’s side of the family.” It was a total lie. My sister had written off her husband’s remaining family years back. “Hey, happy birthday, though. I hope you have a great one. It sounds like a lot of fun.” And it did, too. He had friends he’d known for 20 years. Wow. Wish I still had that.
“Then go out with me on Saturday night. We can go down to the beach and get some dinner. I like The Chart House in Malibu, but we can go anywhere you like.”
I smiled. “My family’s been going there since I was a kid. There’s one at Alameda Harbor in San Pedro, about a half hour walk from where we dock our boat. Best dinner rolls on the planet, and pretty good fish, too.”
“Is that a yes, then?”
“I haven’t been there in so long, probably 15 years or more.” Other than Thanksgiving, I had nothing else to do all weekend. No dates, not even coffee meetings from the ad. Everyone I knew was out of town or with their significant other. Lee was minutes away, asking to be with me, was a blast to be with, and he was adorable. And almost every part of me wanted to say yes, but I didn’t. I curled on to my side with the phone to my ear and stared out the side window at the blazing sunrise sending streaks of bright yellow light through the ambers and pines in the neighbor’s front yard.
Lee sighed. “I heard you last night. I get that you want to stay friends. I’m not trying to pressure you into anything else. I know you want to keep it low-key for a while, and that’s okay with me. We can hang out. I’ve got time.”
“I don’t.” I mumbled the words as they tumbled from my mouth. “Women don’t have the luxury of time after 30.”
“I don’t really, either. Most everyone I know is married and making babies now. I suspect you’re up against the same thing. And just like you, I’m lonely, too.” He almost whispered the last line. “Come see the play with me Saturday night if you don’t have anything else going. Why stay at home and watch life on TV when you can go out and live it. We can share a good meal, some stimulating dialog, and pretend to be witty.” I could feel his Cheshire grin through the phone and pictured his wry, dimpled smile.
I smiled then. I couldn’t help it. “Okay. Sure. Why not.” Intuition be damned. “But we’re just hanging out, two friends enjoying a meal together, right?”
“You’ve got it. I’ll pick you up at around 6:00. Hope you have a nice Thanksgiving with your family. See you Saturday night.”
“Okay. I’ll see you then. And hey, happy birthday, and have a good one.”
“Thanks. Talk to you later. Bye.” He paused like he was going to add something, and then disconnected.
“Bye.” I said to the dial tone. And I was alone. I rolled onto my back and hung the phone up in its cradle on the end table. Sunlight poured through the side window. Pinpoints of white light bounced off the neighbors’ dew-covered bushes and huge green lawn all the way out to the four-lane street. I snuggled under the quilted blanket and stared at the textured, stucco ceiling, listening to the soft chirping of sparrows most likely, and the low hum of passing cars outside.
Ahhh! my intuition screamed. I was a total idiot agreeing to go out with him. No matter what he’d said, I knew Lee wanted more from me than friendship.
I felt disgusted with myself right then. I was taking care of me, running from Lonely. I wasn’t looking out for him. I was modeling a prick tease, using him for the interim. Self-Loathing began battling it out with Self-Interest. I considered calling him back and telling him I didn’t think it was a good idea to hang out beyond racquetball and the occasional dinner, but I didn’t. I got up and started cooking for the evening’s festivities, and truth be told, a part of me felt excited to tell my mother there was a man out there that wanted to date me.
The sweet, cloying scent of age and illness was thinly veiled by the sharpness of cleanser in the antiseptic lobby of the Home. Chrome handrails lined the putrid pink walls, and a hunched elderly man clutched onto the railing as he shuffled down one of the halls. Each step looked pained, as did his expression. His face was deeply wrinkled, his skin was a pasty white, his eyelids drooped over his small black eyes.
God, old scares me.
Grandma sat perched on the edge of the faux-silk covered maroon ‘love seat,’ her ill-fitting floral print polyester dress pulled to her calves and gathered tightly around her short, crossed legs. She clutched the strap of her white patent vinyl purse between her bony folded hands resting in her lap.
“Well, it’s about time,” she sniped, as if I were late. Like I said, I never am. I think it’s socially retarded to make people wait. It was 4:00 p.m., exactly when my mother told her I’d be there.
“You look lovely, Grandma.” I leaned down and kissed her soft white cheek. She gave me a prideful, vain smile. At 84, she had flawless skin with virtually no wrinkles. Her steel grey eyes were still rather piercing as she glared into mine.
“And you look like you got your clothes at the Salvation Army. Why don’t you dress properly?”
I wore my hole-free black jeans and blousy off-white cotton shirt, which I actually tucked in. I even put on a bra for the occasion. If Grandma wanted more, she was expecting way too much. “You ready to get out of here, Grams?”
She stood and straightened her dress, then squared her petite shoulders and rose her chin up. “I’ve been ready to get out since the day your mother stuck me in here.” She spoke in a clipped English accent, though she’d lived in the States for almost 70 years.
I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. Two years ago, I helped clean out Grandma’s flat in West Hollywood after my mother had her committed. It had been the right decision. She’d almost killed herself overdosing on medication she’d taken twice within minutes by mistake. I kept her huge Queen Anne walnut dining table that she’d brought from England in the early ’20s, even though I don’t like Victorian, and it was a bitch to move. I figured if she ever got out, she’d want something left of her things, even though a part of me knew she was never getting out.
We walked to my car parked in the lot behind the building. It was getting dark, but bits of electronic blue sky peeked through the thickening clouds. The air was crystal clean, sharp but wet, filled with moisture. A storm was coming. It was easy to feel in L.A., maybe because they are so rare. I took a deep breath and released it slowly, trying to shake of my growing anxiety as I settled Grandma in the passenger seat.
“Try that lane. It’s moving. Don’t just sit here. Go around them. The side streets are faster. . .” Grandma had a lot of suggestions. Between driving tips, she talked incessantly about the ‘crazy’ people she lived with at the Home. She swore her roommate had stolen a necklace she’d never owned, one she claimed she got on safari in Africa, though she’d never been anywhere on the planet but Manchester, England, then the States, the East, then the West Coast. She was sure her neighbor across the hall was coming into her room at night to watch her sleep, though she had no explanation why. Then she was sure she’d forgotten something back at the Home but couldn’t remember what, then couldn’t remember where we were going to, then remembered after prompting, but then didn’t want to go to her evil daughter’s who had stolen everything she owned and had her ‘put away.’
I pulled into my parents’ driveway, alongside the row of rosebushes my mom and I had planted years back, a long narrow island of long-stem yellow and red roses that separated the neighbors’ driveway from theirs. I stopped behind my sister’s minivan, turned off the car and looked at grandma. She stared straight ahead and seemed unaware that we had arrived at her daughter’s home.
“You ready to go inside?”
“I told you, I’m not going in there. Why are we here?”
“For Thanksgiving, remember?”
“Well, I have nothing to be thankful for. Take me home.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Grams.” It was cliché and a lie, and I felt stupid for saying it, parroting my mother’s Pollyanna tripe. I considered telling her I knew what hopeless felt like, I too knew that groundless fear of the future, but could not reach that depth of despair within me right then. Anxiety overrode every other feeling. Tonight was not going to be easy. It’s never easy with my family. “Are you coming into the house with me or not?”
Grandma refused to get out, and I wasn’t about to make her. Besides, I’d had enough. She seemed more consumed with angry every time I saw her, and she fueled mine. I didn’t want any part of what I’d seen of old age so far. I got out of my car and sucked in the damp evening air as I walked to the back of my Civic, lifted the hatchback and gathered the apple pie, the bean casserole and the mondel bread, slammed the hatch shut and walked to my parent’s house.
The house smelled of roasting turkey and smoky firewood and buzzed with the presence of family. As I came through the iron screen door and onto the small slate entryway, I saw my father through the open fireplace, standing in the dining area poking an iron staff at the burning logs. Sparks flared and sucked up into the chimney. I ventured beyond the entrance, past the bookshelves and into the living room which spread out and wrapped around the centralized fireplace to the open dining area.
My brother-in-law, Larry, stood next to my dad. He looked short and narrow before my 6’3”, 280-pound father. Both men watched the fire and were in profile to me, their faces bathed in bright yellow from the firelight. They looked related even with 30 years between them. Both had speckled grey hair and short cropped beards and wire rim glasses. My father wore his canonical navy Dockers and long-sleeve flannel shirt. As always, Larry looked like he’d just walked off the set of The Big Chill — Levi’s, maroon Izod sweater and $200 tennis shoes.
“Hey,” I announced as I approached. “Happy Thanksgiving.” I set the food I’d brought on the slate bench that wrapped two sides of the fireplace, then kissed and hugged my father. He gathered me up in his big arms and drew me in against his barrel chest, and I felt safe.
“Hello, baby.” It was his only term of endearment for me. “Happy Thanksgiving.” He released me, and I felt alone amidst the pack again.
“Hey Larry. How you doing?” I inquired when he didn’t.
“Good.” That was it. Larry didn’t turn the question around.
“Grandma’s in the car and won’t come out. Can you please go talk to her, Dad?”
My father gave a heavy sigh and shook his head before handing the iron poker to Larry and going outside. Larry rested the end of the poker on the slate bench, held it like a staff and stared at the fire. There was no point in trying to engage him. Larry was afraid of me. He was a pragmatist — conservative, efficient, directed, one of his God’s chosen people. My mere existence rocked his foundation.
I collected my dishes and plates of food and went into the kitchen. My eight-year-old nephew sat at the kitchen table picking a hole in the side of the pumpkin roll my sister had made and eating it when he thought no one was looking. His six-year-old sister Jessie helped Grandma at the oven, sucking the gravy up into the turkey baster and squeezing the juice back on the bird. Baby Adam was strapped in the portable car seat which was on the kitchen table. My sister Carrie sat in front of him, feeding him spoonfuls of mushed-up yams that dribbled in orange globs out the sides of his mouth. Her long mass of flaming red hair was pulled back into a tight braid. She wore a Spanish-style gauze dress with a colorful, rather loud floral pattern of red roses and mid-cafe tan cowboy boots with sharply pointed tips. She was perfectly coiffed.
“Happy Thanksgiving, everyone