Disconnected

By J. Cafesin

© Copyright by the author 2008

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’d 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 20 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 hear a click on the line.

“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. 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 lies 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 lightning 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 toward 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. Tour buses even stop by to give the Midwesterners a thrill.

To be honest, I didn’t exactly meet Lee at Jerry’s. Not technically, anyway. He was one of the last to call on a personal ad I ran in the Daily News. Los Angeles in the 90s — everyone was doing it. It was the new hip, slick and trendy way to connect. Over 20 men had responded to my ad, and Lee sounded like he was reading from the same Disney script. If they were all so blissfully fulfilled, then 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 at your insides incessantly. I existed for the future, when I had a partner to share life with, someone to save me from living in exile, shield me from poverty, protect me from the cold, harsh world. Everyone I knew was pairing up to live happily ever after. I’d been looking for a very long time, but in all my searching, only one man I’ve known came close to meeting my desire. 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 cool, 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 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 then, 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 hitting on a joint. And Desire sucked me in. “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 froze 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 crude 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 been high in weeks, since my last connection quit dealing when his band signed with MCA. I’d been looking, too, asked Jon, but he was waiting on his source, even checked the recording studio (though I felt like an asshole every time I asked someone). But I craved freedom from caring, the autonomy that comes with high, that smooth, rhythmic effect where everything slows and becomes abstracted, far from Lonely, Fear and Want. “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 evening, which just happened to be Halloween.

I kept the passenger window half open for Face, even though I froze the entire drive to the deli. She stuck her long nose out and craned her neck to snuffle in the cool, crisp wind. 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 sucks. Clumsy, stilted chitchat, and after the initial exchange of vital stats, unless I continually drill questions, the dialog degrades to punctuate silence. That’s when I check out, crawl inside my head and create a scene to my liking, perhaps replace the guy across from me with a tall, slender man with a baby face and bedroom eyes that are riveted on mine, and we are connected. Sadly, this fantasy remains illusive — case in point, my last few coffee dates in which I was less than amicable, annoyed with the classic dialog that never got beyond all about them. Only the corporate lawyer, proselytizing capitalism over my subtle slams, called back for a real date. My father is right. Typically, men still expect to be revered.

Tonight I hoped to get through the pleasantries quickly, score and leave. I didn’t have to be demure, or pretend to be dazzled, or even interested. I was meeting to connect, and practically salivating in anticipation of the buzz as I drove to Jerry’s. It didn’t matter that Lee wasn’t my knight. What he offered could save me. Getting buzzed would surely aide me in my Quest. On dates, I’d 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 put on the façade men expected, be what most wanted me to be. I could pretend to be simple, vivacious, bubbly. And most men prefer sparkly to bright.

I waited for 10 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 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, near a wrought iron bench against the side 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 and 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, on par with stealing. Time is all we own in life.

“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 cool wind gusted, and 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 a 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.

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 10 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 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 north of San Francisco. It’s a series of different-size wood and glass circular living spaces, all connected by glass-domed corridors. Too bad land in Marin 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 smiled softly. “So, what do you do exactly? You said on the phone you’re a writer?”

I was taken aback that he had turned my question around, and I smiled at him. “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?”

“As long as I can remember, starting with diaries when I was a 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. It’s about a hotshot pilot and first alien contact, a cross between Top Gun and Close Encounters, with commentary on social and global 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 Hawking’s 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. If you’re passionate and persistent, 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.” Most everyone claimed to be.

“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 by fulfilling my request to score, he was a conspirator in my corruption. Married, divorced, dealer, stoner, 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 speak freely, confess my desires, even reveal the depth of my longing 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. “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.

“I want a life partner, a cohort in the chaos. I need a man who wants me beside him, not behind him, and returns the attention and affection I give in equal measure.” I flashed a quick grin and continued. “I want a best friend forever, until death do us part. Share everything. Withhold nothing. Super two. 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. 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. There’s an underlying manic quality to the masses that scares me.

“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 the visor. 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 chilling 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 the last couple of years. But he’d become flaky with his latest romance, so I was desperately seeking a new partner I could count on. Racquetball was my only 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 humiliated right then 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.

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you.” His soft smile took on an amused grin. “So we’re on for a game tomorrow at 4:00?” It was more a statement than a question.

“Sounds good. I’ll see you then.” 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 and am shamed and disgusted when women use sex to get what they want.

Lee watched me, like he was studying me. “It’s Halloween. 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.”

“Good.” 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.

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 wander on my drive home. Face craned her neck from the back seat and stuck her nose out the passenger window and got lost in the smells of the night. Ahh . . . to be a dog. 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 north of Ventura Boulevard, Coldwater Canyon, lined with old pines and quaint two-story apartments, was no place for street racing. The wind and road sounds faded 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, interviewing. For that fleeting time we were together, I was safe inside because I wasn’t alone.

Twenty-foot-tall palms and pines line 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 backyard. 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 10 minutes ago was getting me high. And the foundation I was constructing in my head to rationalize dating him 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 my dog 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.

To stop myself from falling, I willed my mind to play a different scene. I’m entering 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’m safe. And for a second, I have ground. Then a branch scrapes the windowpane in that nails-on-chalkboard type way, and I’m back in the sparse room getting sucked 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 echoed with resonance in the empty square enclosure. Lee gushed over my voice, told me multiple times I sounded astounding. And though kudos were always nice, the range and power my voice could sustain impressed even me. I sang often, but mostly in private, in my car, in my room, the shower, and refused Lee’s request for me to at least finish the song he came in on.

We always met at the courts, rallied hard for an hour or more, then chatted over Diet Cokes for five minutes. Then we 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 insisted 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. “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 you 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.

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 certainty.

I searched for something to say. I’d dismissed him as dating, potential mating material. He was a newly divorced, short, stocky stoner and my new connection, 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.

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 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 camera’s 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, the rich, luscious aromas of sauces and baking bread filling the air as I savored 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 point of view, 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 tired 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 Boulevard 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. 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 gotten drunk twice in my life, and it wasn’t just nauseating, but I couldn’t control the high and be straight when I wanted to like I can with weed. Plus, alcohol has this revolting taste 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 laughed. “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 bowtie 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 sated.

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. I’ve mostly played with men, and they’re 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 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. 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 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.” He looked away and shook his head. “I have learned, though. I can be taught!” Lee flashed me a quick grin. “I now know I need to be with someone who’s ready to commit to staying together and working things out no matter what. Before I marry again, I need to trust my partner is on my side, know 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.” 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 his Cheshire grin, 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 ribbons 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. You don’t even know me.” (I may look like a wayward, middle-class white girl, but I’m not all that nice.)

“On the contrary. We are of like kind. Can’t you feel it?” He took a bite, wrapped spaghetti precisely around his fork before consuming neatly. 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.”

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. He’d never meet my family, anyway. Throughout the rest of the meal, we exchanged histories. I spoke 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 mandel 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. I needed to be with a normal guy, a successful pragmatist who could teach me how to box my messy feelings, to shelve them away like most people do, control desire with reason, defuse my passion with practicality and limit the battles in which to engage. The problem was, most normal, successful, goal-oriented 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.
—————————-

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 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 rocker 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 and looked at him. The view was nice, familiar now, 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. 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 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 in Eaglerock, about 10 minutes east 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 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, took his jacket and tossed it on the end of the couch, then led him through the dining room and 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. And 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. He was right, of course. I’d been a tomboy from the start. I was a late ‘50s child, grew up in the ‘60s and 70s and got it very early on that men were kings, and women . . . were not.

“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. 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 copywriting is better than living poor, spending my days writing to get people to feel, and think.” I flashed half a grin.

“It’s been my experience 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.”

“God, I wish I had your problem. I got fired or quit my first four jobs out of college. I don’t play well in corporate environments.” I flashed him another quick grin. “After that, I went freelance and have been for 12 years now. 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, 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 with a knife and cutting board to the table, stood at the end, adjacent to Lee, and cut the apples into thick slices. “There are three ways for a fine writer to make it. Friends and family 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. Music swells to crescendo. Then bushes scraped the bay window in the dining room with a screeching pitch, and suddenly I was 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 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, then gathered it 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, trying to focus on 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.

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, leaned into the ball with his palm and flattened it, then picked up the rolling pin. He rubbed flour up and down the wood cylinder, 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. I should be grateful Lee was a head. He brought me the tension 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 lit the gas jets, then joined him on the couch as he sparked a joint.

He sucked deeply, deftly and smiled his Cheshire grin as he blew out a perfect thin stream of smoke. It seemed to dance around his hand as he extended the joint to me. “Is that a backgammon board?” He pointed to the wood board I’d picked up in Athens 10 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, sucked deftly as well and then blew out a stream of sweet smoke before handing 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 of 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. I was exhausted.

“That was great!” he said excitedly. “It was wild. I could feel when I was controlling the dice. 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’d lose focus and miss my number. 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 took a quick hit and looked down. He focused on setting up the board and didn’t look up as he moved the counters into place while he casually explained why he never got past his first semester of junior college, why the condo he ‘owned’ was in his father’s name, and why, because of his gambling problem, 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, 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 a poker face on. He seemed unfazed by what he’d just told me, like he’d been discussing the weather. Through the veiled haze of high, I could hear me screaming at myself to get away from this guy. Say good night 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 playing, 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, and I moved to the bookcase to put the board away and some distance between us.

“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 features softened by 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 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. Even if you just want to talk, vent about family, call me. I’m here.” 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 I felt my walls go up. Back off, my intuition warned. Lee was not the knight I’d been holding out for.

I pulled back and gave him a reserved smile. “Just friends, right?”

He wore his 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 as I opened the door. “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, at a small table in the small kitchen of a bachelor flat eating a TV dinner. The melodrama of the tragic scene irked 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, like a basset hound, 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 couldn’t get Lee out of my head. I pictured his wayward look, his punk look, his Cheshire smile. He was adorably cute, and cute counts no matter how much women pretend it doesn’t. I saw him playing racquetball, his smooth command on the court, witnessing him practically suck the oxygen from the room when he focused on the game. And in moments during a rally in perfect rhythm, or after, over Diet Cokes sharing some experience, or during dinner last night, or over the backgammon board tonight, I felt connected to him like no other, not even Michael. And Lee was a 37-year-old divorcee, flat broke and in debt, a stoner, and a gambler, and possessed if not a crazy heart, an obsessive one at best. He was a charming distraction, nothing more. Fundamentally, I was still alone.

I shriveled inside at the prospect of continuing my Quest, sitting across the table at some diner interviewing another 20 guys who never turned questions around. I was so tired of the games, the roles, the antiquated rules of engagement. With Lee, I didn’t have to keep it light, be sparkly but clueless. I could be sharp of mind, quick of wit and tongue, and instead of challenged, he seemed enamored. I flashed on him laughing over something I’d said, and smiled. He accepted me as I was. Only problem with that was I had no desire to be part of a club that wants me as I am.

I lay snuggled under the blue quilt I’d had since childhood and stared up at the stucco ceiling. It vibrated with light from the streetlamps shimmering through the palms as their huge fronds swayed with the wind. And Lonely consumed me. It physically hurt, my head ached, my heart ached and made it hard to breathe, my eyes burned, then filled, and I felt tears slide down my face and into my ears, though I swear I wasn’t crying. I wiped my eyes on my blanket and curled onto my side.

Disheartened almost took me, as if I were falling through the bed, but then Determination threw me a line. First thing in the New Year, when I got back from the Rockies, I’d put another ad in the Daily News. Third time is charmed, right? I flashed on my last ad in the Daily, the one Lee had responded to, saw the words scrawled across my journal as I’d read them over the phone to the personals editor:

Attractive, passionate, creative pro, 5’7”, 135, SWF, sks secular, imaginative, pragmatic, independent thinking SM, with a wild and crazy heart, who’s ready for the real thing.

I’d keep the same first line in my new ad but nix the ‘secular’ part because most men claimed they were and turns out they weren’t, or they thought secular had something to do with sex. I’d keep the first part of the second line but get rid of ‘wild and crazy heart’ because look what that got me. I got excited by the prospects and let Hope in. I considered writing out the ad and calling it into the paper right then, but there was no point since I was leaving in a few weeks and not going to be back until after New Year’s.

On January 2nd, 1992, I’d place a normal ad in the Daily, get back in the dating game. But until then, I had time to kill. I could play. I deserved a break after over 30 coffee dates from two ads, nine actually dates and two short-term flings in the last year, one of them with my old boyfriend, Tim, with whom I’d often played the rebound game. I was done for the year. And I decided to take a vacation from my Quest through the holidays.

11/27/91

Men are the freight train comin’ at ya.

Women are the poison in your food.

Chapter Four

The sweet, cloying scent of age and illness was veiled by the sharpness of cleanser in the antiseptic lobby of the ‘home.’ Chrome handrails lined the 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. 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, even though I don’t like Victorian and it’s 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. 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 off 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 rose bushes 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, and that I too knew that pervasive fear of the future, but didn’t. “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 anger 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, and I didn’t have to get there if I chose not to. 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 mandel bread, slammed the hatch shut and walked to my parents’ 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-foot-3, 250-pound father. Both men watched the fire and were in profile to me, their faces bathed in bright yellow 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 8-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 6-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 a portable car seat that 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!”

“Happy Thanksgiving,” Carrie and her daughter said in unison, but I didn’t hear Scott.

I set my stuff down on the stovetop above the oven where Mom was bent over basting the turkey. She straightened and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. I had to bend to receive it. She was barely five feet tall and shrinking with age.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Dolly.” Mom had three terms of endearment for me. Dolly, Face and ‘my baby,’ as I was her last born. She looked hot. Beads of sweat were gathered on her forehead and ran along the side of her gaunt face onto the plastic frame of her large glasses. Her aged, sun-baked skin glowed with wetness. She pushed the turkey back in the oven and shut the door, then wiped her forehead on the dishcloth she kept in her apron. “Wash your hands, Jessie Lee,” she instructed her granddaughter. “Then see if you can help your mother with the coleslaw.”

“I’m feeding Adam now, Mom.” Carrie was in a huff. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get to it. I told you I should have brought Maria to help.”

Mom didn’t respond. She was focused on prep and tuned out, a technique she’d honed to avoid conflict. She went to the fridge and pulled out a carton of whipping cream, then got a bowl from the pine cabinets below the white linoleum countertop. I took the apple pie and mandel bread off the bean casserole on the stovetop, brought them to the kitchen table and caught Scott sticking a custard-filled finger in his mouth. “Is the pumpkin roll good, Scott?”

The kid narrowed his green eyes — my sister’s green eyes — on me. Betrayer, traitor, his seething glare screamed. Fine blond hair scattered in his eyes softened his face but only slightly masked his outrage. He took his finger from his mouth and buried his hands in his lap, and I could almost feel him flipping me off under the table.

“Damn it, Scott.” My sister sounded more disappointed than mad as she got up and examined the damage to her dessert. “I made it for everyone, not just you. Why is it always about you? How old do you have to be before it’s not all about you anymore?”

It has to be learned, taught by example, sister of mine, I wanted to say, but didn’t.

“This is ridiculous, Mother.” Carrie picked up the pumpkin roll and put it at the end of the table, away from her son. “There is nothing for the kids to do here anymore except get into trouble.”

Or you could actually discipline them to be considerate.

“They don’t want to be here, Mom. And I don’t blame them. They have all their stuff at home. They can entertain themselves all day there.”

Or they can actually help, and interact with family for one night a year.

“We should just have Thanksgiving at my house from now on.”

“No way!” I looked at Mom standing at the counter near the sink, poised with handheld mixer over the metal bowl filled with cream. I saw her pinched expression and felt her rush of anguish. Her thin painted lips were pursed, her jaw tight, making her narrow face somewhat skeletal. Her short, stiff brown hair was woven with gray and framed her face in a way that seemed to amplify her torment. I glared at my sister as she sat back down in front of Adam and resumed feeding him. “We’ve been having Thanksgiving here since we were born, Carrie. I don’t want to have Thanksgiving at your house.”

“You have no idea what a total hassle it is dragging three kids everywhere. You only have yourself to worry about. It’s harder for everyone having it here. If you won’t think of me, then think of Mom.”

“I am.” I looked back at Mom. She looked down, switched on the mixer and focused on whipping cream, and the noise of the beaters shut the conversation down. Thanksgiving was the only holiday Mom still threw. My sister had co-opted all birthdays, Hallmark occasions and every religious holiday from Yom Kippur to Passover at her 5,600-square-foot home in Agoura Hills. Maids and caterers graced these parties, which made it easier for all of us in some ways. But what Carrie didn’t get is that we all need to feel needed, and slowly but surely, she was robbing our mother of purpose.

I went to the fridge and got out the coleslaw my sister brought and took it back to the kitchen table. A baby bottle filled with dressing was on top of the cabbage mixture, and I poured it over the shredded leaves until the bottle was drained. Jessie sat down at the table next to her older brother and started coloring, but within moments, they were fighting, hording crayons and refusing to share. My sister ignored them, but their bickering annoyed the hell out of me. I knew Scott would get aggressive and Jessie would undoubtedly get hurt if someone didn’t step in, and we all knew my sister rarely did.

“Knock it off, you guys.” I spoke loudly to be heard over the mixer, and with command. “Scott, give Jessie half the crayons. And Jessie don’t grab. Ask.” I had Jessie’s attention, but Scott ignored me and grabbed a purple crayon out of his sister’s small hand. She tried to grab it back, nearly knocking the pumpkin roll off the table, and my tension spiked. “Stop! Now! That goes for both of you.” I split the pile of crayons Scott was hording and set half in front of Jessie. “For Christ’s sake, learn to share, and use words to get what you want.” The last bit sounded like I was screaming because Mom had switched off the mixer. Carrie looked up from feeding Adam and narrowed her eyes at me, but I didn’t care. At least the kids stopped fighting.

“So, I hear you’re dating someone.” The words seemed to fall out of my mother’s mouth as if to fill the exaggerated hush. She didn’t look at me. She scraped the sides of the metal bowl with her rubber spatula, gathering whipped cream, then banging it off back into the bowl.

I glared at my sister. She didn’t look at me, either. She stood and cleaned Adam with a cloth she kept on her shoulder. I’d mentioned Lee on the phone earlier, told her we made the pie together and I was bringing it, even though she’d called to tell me there was no need for more dessert. Carrie’s childhood friend, Nancy, got engaged last night and was taking her parents to her fiancé’s family for dinner. “Well, I’m not exactly dating. . .”

“What do you call it, then?” Carrie picked Adam up out of the car seat as she spoke. “He took you out to Maria’s Tuesday night. He’s at your house helping you cook last night. If that’s not meant to impress, I don’t know what is.” She held her son to her and stroked his back in slow circles. He laid his chin on her shoulder, looked at me and burped. “I’m going to go put him down, Mom.” And she left the kitchen with her sleepy baby boy.

“’Night, beautiful.” I whispered to him softly as he passed, his tiny head rested on her shoulder, his saucer blue eyes half-mast. I stood at the table tossing the coleslaw and once again fell into the black hole of Want. I wanted everything she had, from our mother’s affections to her pampered lifestyle. Straight out of college, never having lived any place but home, Carrie married a millionaire at 22 and was living happily ever after. My sister had never really known want.

“Well, are you seeing someone or not?” My mother was still on my case. She took the beaters off of the mixer and handed each of the kids a whipped cream-coated circle of blades. She used to give them to Carrie and me. My mouth literally watered as I watched Scott and Jessie lick off the cream.

“We’ve been playing racquetball for about a month. We went out to dinner after our game on Tuesday, and he offered to help me cook last night, and I accepted.” It was one of many truths, so I went with it to soothe her. But the deception was not lost on me, and I knew it would come back to bite me.

Her thin lips stayed in a tight, flat line, but I felt her smile inside. “And what’s he do?”

“He runs his own company shipping freight. He’s a consultant, sort of like me, but a lot more successful.”

“What’s his name?”

I had her attention and smiled. “Lee.”

“Is that it? Does he have a last name?”

“Messer. Lee Messer.”

This time, she did not hide her smile.

I shook my head. “He’s Jewish like I am, Mother.” Like not at all, or at least that he’d demonstrated to me.

Her pinched expression returned, and tightness seemed to consume her as she scooped the whipped cream into the crystal serving goblet. “You can deny your heritage all you want, but when they come for Jews again, they’re taking you and yours.”

“Why do we always have to have the same tired argument? I’ve never denied you’re Jewish, Mother. All I’ve ever said is that I’m not.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you are.” She covered the cream with clear wrap and put it in the fridge. “I’m your mother and I am a Jew, which makes you a Jew, whether you like it or not.”

I screamed in my head but managed to keep it from escaping my lips. “Just because you believe that, doesn’t make it so. Judaism is not a race, no matter who says it is. Its followers are culturally diverse. It’s a religion, a spiritual choice, Mom, a monotheistic belief system handed down through generations. I’m sorry it hurts you that I won’t take the torch and pass it on. But I don’t believe in god, or the bible, or five out of the Ten Commandments. I’m an atheist, Mother.”

“Then you’re an idiot.” She said it deadpan, like the words just fell out of her mouth without filtering through her brain. She didn’t mean it mean. It was almost a term of endearment she used only with family. She’d meant ‘idiot’ sort of like ‘my beautiful baby. . .’ “You set yourself apart and condemn yourself to the fringes and then complain you’re lonely. And I know you are. Why can’t you just accept who you are and embrace your community like your sister. I guarantee if you did, you’d find the life you’re still looking for.”

Ouch. But she was asking me to tell my brain not to think. And I can’t do that. “I have no desire to be entrenched in a community of like-minded believers, drowning in social obligations with people I share nothing in common. I don’t want Carrie’s life, Mom. I’ll admit to wanting some of the things she has. Who wouldn’t? Three beautiful kids. Houses and cars and maids and money to do whatever she wants. Sounds pretty good to me. But I can’t be like her, even if that’s the only way to get all that.”

Mom moved to the stovetop and stirred the big pot of chicken soup. “I don’t want you to be like your sister, Rachel. I want you to be happy and taken care of.” Her expression was flat line, like she was stating the obvious, then she frowned and shook her head. “My beautiful Face, why do you always insist on the hardest path.” She set the ladle on the griddle, then took my bean casserole off the stovetop and put it in the broiler below the oven, then straightened and resumed stirring the soup.

We’d been down the religion road a hundred times, starting when I was 10 and got busted for ditching Sunday school and crossing Wilshire Boulevard to eat treats at the Copper Penny across the street from the temple. That day, I announced that I hated religious school and the ugly stories and lies they told. There was no god, I’d insisted, and if there was, It sure wasn’t a he or the vengeful, spiteful narcissist described in their bible.

My mother’s been trying to bring me back into the fold ever since. She’s convinced I’ll see the light of her faith when I marry and have kids. But on this, I can not appease her. I have no faith in anything besides death and taxes. We live. We die. And in between, we feel. If we’re compassionate, we reproduce to give others the opportunity to feel, and if we’re wise, we empower all we touch to advance our existence. On this, I am certain.

She stood just feet from me, with her pursed expression on, and I felt the weight of her disappointment. I’d blown it again. I’d pushed her away. And suddenly I was falling through groundless, black aloneness I so often felt with my mother. I finished tossing the coleslaw and set it aside in front of Jessie. She was coloring a house with stickish, smiling people inside. Scott’s picture showed planes dropping bombs and people on the ground getting blown up. He looked up from his coloring.

“I don’t believe in God, Grandma.” He stared at me when he said it.

“Oh, of course you do.” Mom glared at me over the rangetop as she spoke to Scott. “You don’t know what you believe at 8.”

“I did. I knew by 7.” I’ll admit I was being contentious, but she deserved it. It annoyed me she was so dismissive of anyone’s reality but her own.

“Don’t encourage him, Rachel. Your sister is working very hard to teach her kids what’s right. It’s a shame you haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Where is Keith, Mom?” I attacked back with a razor tongue meant to cut.

“What?” Her expression took on that pinched look again, tight lips almost frowning. It was hard to see her brown eyes glaring at me behind her large glasses, but I felt her frustration. My mother had a way of transferring her feelings viscerally, proceeding from instinct rather than intellect.

“Where is your son, Mother? Why isn’t he here with his family celebrating Thanksgiving–?”

“Are you two at it again?” My father scowled at me as he came into the kitchen. I felt that familiar twinge of fear, not only from his sheer size, but growing up, I’d seen him out of control and felt the wrath of his temper. “You still fighting windmills, baby? Don’t confuse your mother with facts, Rachel Lynn.” Dad winked at me, reminding me to take my mother with humor. He claimed he did.

Mom stuck her tongue out at him in a coquettish kind of way, just the tip, without sexuality, childlike. Dad laughed. Mom smiled, and so did I. And for a second, I felt their deep connection. Fundamentally, I knew they felt the same, though they saw things from very different points of view. My father was an empiricist, and a closet non-believer, but he too was an advocate of religion. He felt it useful for [control of] the masses, a Machiavellian kind of thing.

“Grandma and Larry are cowering in the living room so they don’t have to listen to you two go at each other. And I don’t blame them.” Dad went to the liquor cabinet above the utility closet in the pantry and got the big bottle of gin, brought it back in the kitchen, got four glasses, set them on the countertop and made martinis.

“Are we almost ready to sit down?” My sister came into the kitchen, and Dad handed her his first complete martini. “Thanks, Dad.”

“Dinner will be ready in 10 minutes.” Mom opened the oven and pulled out the turkey. It was big, and perfect — golden brown and dripping with gravy, and it looked heavy. It surprised and impressed to watch my seemingly fragile little mother straddle the open oven door and haul that huge bird out of the oven and onto the stovetop. “Eddie, I’m going to need you to carve this.”

“Let’s enjoy our drinks first. I’ll get to it in a bit.” My father handed her a martini, complete with green olive stuffed with red goo coming out the middle.

Mom wiped her hands, then the sweat from her face with the dish towel, then took the wide-rimmed wine glass with a gracious, “Thank you honey.” She leaned back against the counter and sipped at her drink.

I stood at the kitchen table and decanted jellied cranberry sauce from the suction of the aluminum can, trying to get it onto the crystal platter without chopping it up too much. My father finished making martinis for himself and Larry and carried them back into the dining room.

“Why don’t you and your sister put the salad on plates and go put them on the table at each place setting.” Mom contentedly sipped her martini.

“Can I help? Please! I want to help.” Jessie jumped off her chair, came around the kitchen table and hovered around me.

“Sure.” I got the salad from the fridge. The small plates were stacked in the center of the kitchen table, and I loaded the top one with greens. I was about to hand it to Jessie so she could bring it into the dining room, but my sister took it from my hand.

“I’ll help Aunt Rachel, Jessie Lee. Go into the dining room and get everyone to sit down for dinner. Scott, go help your sister.” Carrie set the salad plate down.

Jessie’s little shoulders sagged. She looked angelic in her black velvet dress with her long strawberry blond hair cascading around her shoulders and down her back. She stared at me, frowning. I shrugged, and after a moment, she turned away and walked out of the kitchen. Scott didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge his mother had spoken.

“Scott!” Carrie shouted, and I jumped. “I don’t want to have to ask you five times.” She used her low grumbling tone, the one reserved for her kids, and me.

Her son hesitated another second before getting up, and he gave me a snide, victorious little grin as he crossed the kitchen threshold into the dining room. My sister caught the exchange and seethed at me.

“You know why I’m having such a terrible time with him? Because he’s just like you. He’s hyper-aware of everything around him and mocks any version but his. Keep your damn opinions about religion to yourself. He is being raised in a Jewish household, one I work very hard at maintaining, and you are being totally undermining when you deny who you are in front of my kids.” She didn’t give me time to respond. She walked out of the kitchen, half-empty martini in hand.

I watched her walk into the dining room. Through the kitchen doorway, I could see a small portion of the heavy white drapes that covered the back glass wall. The satiny fabric glowed warm and shimmered with firelight. Carrie disappeared into the dining area, but I heard her husband Larry ask if she was okay, and I heard her say she was “dandy,” but she was “just so tired of her (my) crap.”

I looked at my mother because I felt her glaring at me. She stood in front of the sink with her pinched face on, emptied her martini and put the glass in the sink behind her, then turned back to me. Her displeasure wrapped her like a shroud, and she shed it on to me as she spoke. “Please serve the salad now, Rachel Lynn.”

I did. I turned my back to her and scooped salad onto plate after plate until the kitchen table had no space for more, then I carried them two at a time and set them in front of everyone seated at the dining room table. I avoided eye contact with everyone but the kids, and I didn’t let anyone see me cry.

For the rest of the meal, I did my best to keep my mouth shut. I helped serve every dish, cleaned up after every course and busied myself with tasks as much as possible to avoid conversing. And it worked for the most part. I served the pumpkin roll sliced to hide the damage. Scott stuck his middle finger in the custard swirl of the slice I put in front of him, then stuck his cream-covered finger in his mouth and held it there, and I almost burst out laughing, but I didn’t. Carrie was watching, and I knew it would just piss her off.

During dessert, we had another quick row when I could no longer silently tolerate my mother’s derisive comments about her [evil] Christian daughter-in-law and ‘her coward of a son.’

“He has put a scism between us that can never be repaired.” My mother spoke with conviction but all too often in gross exaggerations.

“He didn’t put anything between you. You did, when you denounced his choice.” I instantly regretted engaging but felt so agitated, I lost control of what left my mouth.

“What choice?” Larry snapped, miffed enough to engage. “You can’t choose your heritage. You can’t pick your parents, or your genetics.”

“But you can your religion. Genetics govern only physiology, Larry, not spirituality. Religion is a spiritual choice and should be studied to find a fit. Keith did just that. He goes to church, works hard, is generous with charity and is active in his community. You should applaud his choice if it serves him and the world at large.” Again, I am certain of the truth I spoke.

“It is absolutely wrong to deny your child his culture and his family.” My sister was definitive on this point.

“Keith isn’t denying anyone anything. He doesn’t come to family events anymore because his wife got sick of Mother trying to convince their kid he was really a Jew when they’re trying to raise him Christian.” My heart raced, and I felt like I was on rails, trying to derail crazy. “Keith celebrates both Hanukkah and Christmas. And he may not celebrate Passover, but he brought his family to many of Carrie’s seders, even in the face of ridicule. He’s more Jewish than I am. He even calls himself a ‘born-again Jew.’”

“That’s asinine.” My father grumbled, then he glared at me from his seat at the head of the table. “Rachel, now you’re fighting your brother’s windmills? Choose your battles, baby.”

“Truth seems worth defending,” I retorted.

“Whose truth, Rachel? Yours?” Carrie seethed. “I follow what God tells me to do, not your warped version of what’s right.”

Sanity was my only remaining ally. “Have you spoken to god lately, or ever, Carrie? How do you know what It says to do? Did It tell you your brother is an infidel, and to shame him his choice and use it as a weapon to divide you? Or is that just you being sanctimonious?”

“Would you all please stop!” My grandmother’s sharp delivery shut us all up. “I’ve had enough. I want to leave.”

She was right, of course. I’d enough of the absurd for one evening, too. I backed off, apologized for banging on the glass wall that shields my sister from herself and supported Grandma’s request to exit the scene. I served up an excuse about being on deadline for some job and needing to be up early. We all hugged and kissed and said our goodbyes, and I took Grandma back to the ‘home.’ I felt as if I could breathe for the first time that evening as the heavy iron screen shut behind us.

It was raining, pouring actually, and Grams paused on the small covered porch and looked back at the warm, dry house, then proceeded off the concrete step into the downpour falling in sheets and flooding the driveway. I think she was glad to get out of there, too. I held her close to me, buried her under my arm, inside my leather jacket to shield her from the rain as I guided her to my car. We didn’t exchange five words between us during the drive back to the home. As we pulled out of my parent’s driveway alongside the island of rose bushes, I shoved in a cassette tape of the new Genesis release, We Can’t Dance. I kept it low so I wouldn’t disturb her, but when we got on the freeway, the music blended with the road noise, and she asked me to turn it up. Grandma liked Genesis. Cool.

Chapter Five

He woke me from a dreamless sleep 10:30 Friday morning. “Today’s my 37th birthday, and tonight some of my friends are taking me out to Musso and Frank’s to help me celebrate. If you don’t have anything else going, I’d love you to 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 patting Face 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, and then I politely declined his offer.

“Then come out to dinner with me tomorrow night and help me ring in the first day of my 38th year. I like the Chart House in Malibu, but we can go anywhere you like.”

I smiled. “My father turned us on to the Malibu Chart House. It was always in the top three choices for celebrating birthdays and special occasions growing up. I haven’t been there in so long, probably 15 years or more. Best dinner rolls on the planet, if I’m remembering right, and pretty good fish, too.”

“Is that a yes, then?”

I had nothing to do all weekend. No dates, no more coffee meetings from the ad. Everyone I knew was out of town or with their significant other. Lonely or Lee. It was up to me. 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 fog-shrouded morning.

Lee sighed. “I heard you the other 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.”

“Well, I don’t really, either. Most everyone I know is married and making babies now. I bet you’re up against the same thing. And like you, I’m lonely, too.” He almost whispered the last line. “Come with me Saturday night if you don’t have anything else going. We can share a good meal, some stimulating dialog and pretend to be witty.” I could feel his Cheshire grin through the phone.

I smiled then. I couldn’t help it. “Okay. Sure. Why not.” Intuition be damned. Besides, I was on vacation from my Quest for the holidays.

“Great! I’ll pick you up at around 6:00 tomorrow night.”

“Okay. I’ll see you then. And hey, happy birthday. Have a good one.”

“Thanks. Talk to you later.” He paused, felt like hesitated. “One request.”

“Go on.”

“Would you wear a dress tomorrow night?”

Shit. So much for just friends.

“Any dress. It doesn’t have to be fancy or anything. I’d just like to see you in a dress. I think you’d look stunning.” He said it matter-of-fact, but I swear I felt sexual tension travel the line and hit me in the head. “And it’s Malibu on Saturday night, and everyone will be dressed to the nines.”

Danger! Warning! But I didn’t address his request. I jokingly told him he sounded like my mother, then said I’d see him at 6:00 tomorrow, and we disconnected. Face rested her head on my bed and stared at me with her big brown almond-shaped eyes in hopes of getting more strokes, but I was done. I put the receiver in the cradle of my red Princess phone, went to my drafting table and sat cross-legged on my tall chair and swiveled it side to side. Maybe I’d misinterpreted Lee’s meaning. He was just looking out for me, and there were no sexual implications in asking me to wear a dress.

I swept my hair away from my face, letting the soft strands run through my fingers. Was it at all possible there was someone out there who saw me as potentially stunning? I could dress to kill, and in my head, I played the scene, walking up to him in slow motion in black pumps and my Jessica McClintock maroon lace, and smiling at his drop-jaw expression. I couldn’t help smiling. Even though a part of me suspected it a lie, being seen as beautiful made me feel beautiful.

Casual sex with Lee. How would that be? Friendship sex, like I used to have with Jon. Best sex I ever had, no complications, no impressions to make, more focused on personal pleasure than pleasing. Friendship sex with Lee . . . I could barely hear my intuition screaming, No! He wanted more from me than I wanted to give him, making sex a complex play that always ends tragically. I pictured him facing me, standing before me in my living room the night before Thanksgiving. He was maybe an inch or two taller. If I wore a dress, I’d have to wear heels, which would make me taller than him. I hate that look. I feel like a gawky amazon with a shorter guy, so I’d never dated them. And I flashed on Lee’s short stature and wondered if it belied the size of his dick.

I killed a few hours Saturday morning watching “The Twilight Zone Marathon.” It was an L.A. tradition on Channel Five to run 48 hours of episodes during Thanksgiving weekend. It’s my all-time favorite show, and every time I see it, I am more humble than ever by Rod Serling’s exquisite mind. And his creativity finally motivated mine. I turned off the TV around noon and for the next several hours got lost in writing my screenplay, but as the afternoon wore on, the emptiness of the house became invasive and disrupted the crowded world of the future I was trying to create.

Around 4:00, I shut down the computer, went back in my room, flopped on the bed and turned on the TV to fill the growing void. A new “Zone” was just opening with that eerie pluck of guitars and the black-and-white image of stars in the heavens gave way to a room inside a space ship and a man sitting on a metal bed. I’d seen this episode many times. “To Serve Man” was about aliens who come down to earth and promise man they want to help us, but it turns out they’re eating us. The aliens were large and stocky, yet moved with an effeminate grace. For some reason, they reminded me of Lee. And the analogy that Lee was a wolf in sheep’s clothing was not lost on me.

I looked out the side window. The sun was setting, and bright orange bands of light cut through the trees, creating long shadows and that surreal effect. The TV was showing a U.N. meeting where the aliens are giving man magnificent technological gifts, but I knew what was coming. I left it on but got up and went and took a shower. I seared my skin; it turned pink, then bright red with the scalding water, but I enjoyed it. Hot showers and backrubs are literally half of what makes life worth living.

It was almost dark outside by the time I emerged from the bathroom with my hair blown dry, my eyebrows and chin plucked and my teeth brushed. I went into my room and rummaged through my closet and drawers for what to wear. I picked understated with just a hint of sexy, dressed and then stared at myself in the round mirror. Tight black jeans, Mary Jo’s big grey sweater — so big, it came off my shoulder — and my pointy black flat-heeled boots. My fitted black leather jacket would finish the ensemble nicely. To hell with a dress. They were uncomfortable, and cold, and you always had to remember to keep your legs closed. I flattened the pockets of my jeans and ran my hands down my sides, sucked in my stomach, threw back my shoulders and then combed both hands through my hair. It moved through my fingers like silk and fell around my oval face in soft waves. I looked tight, L.A. chic. Not bad. Not beautiful, but not bad. It would have to do. It didn’t really matter, anyway. It wasn’t a real date or anything. It was only Lee.

“You should have come with us last night. It was so fun.” Lee drove deftly through Malibu Canyon on the way to the restaurant. He did not mention my clothing choice but did say I looked ‘stunning’ when he picked me up. “We went to Figaro’s off Melrose for espresso after dinner, and they have backgammon boards there. I showed everyone your dice technique, which blew them all away. I missed you there. You should have come.” He took a hit and handed me back the half-smoked joint. “Why didn’t you?”

The car swayed gently with the winding roads, exaggerating the dizziness that comes with high. I didn’t feel I could make something up quickly. “You want the truth?”

“Of course.”

“Because I felt lame, and fat.”

He laughed.

“It’s not funny.” I instantly regretted confessing.

“Yes, it is. And I understand completely. I have ‘called in fat’ myself once or twice when I used to work at my dad’s company. You know, like some people call in sick. Then I would spend the next few days fasting and working out obsessively so I could tolerate being in my own skin. I know exactly how you felt.” He glanced at me, and we connected. He did know how I felt. We were of like kind. He smiled, then laughed, then looked back at the road ahead as he wove the Audi through the dark hills. “The thing is, my dear, you’re not fat.”

Right. A part of me was instantly belittled by bullshit. Another part of me pretended what he said was true, and somewhere in the background, I felt pretty. I tightened my stomach and straightened in the seat, then folded one leg over the other in the demure, feminine style and felt a pinch at the waistline of my jeans. “I have empirical evidence of what I should look like, and I fail by 10, 20 pounds to meet model requirements. And according to my mother, and seemingly society at large, heroin chic will always be in and is the gold standard for all women.” I took another hit off the joint. The smoke was sweet, rich, filling. Among its other benefits, weed was a great diet aid. It stifled my hunger because it made me more viscerally aware and therefore more self-conscious of my body.

“Why do women have such a warped sense of beauty?” Lee glided through the last few curves of the canyon before it spilled onto Pacific Coast Highway. I handed him the end of the joint as he stopped at the red light. He took one last hit, then put it out in the ashtray and then stuck it in his cigarette pack before proceeding through the green. “You all want to be rail thin and flat, which doesn’t really make much sense because men like curves.”

“That’s bullshit.” I retorted. “Curves, as in large breasts, but fat, even heavy or bulky strong are rejected on sight. Men choose flat over fat without fail. The fat guy invariably ends up with some skinny blond chick. But if the woman’s overweight, she ends up alone.”

Lee did not respond as he pulled into the restaurant parking lot and two hard-bodied valets in Hawaiian shirts and jeans waited like sentries to serve us. The scent of the ocean washed over me like the sound of the waves as I got out of the car and walked with Lee to the restaurant built into the side of the bluff. Inside, it was crowded, and dim, with the most light focused on the beachfront outside, spotlighting the waves crashing on the shoreline just feet from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

We got a table by the wall of glass and lingered over our dinner, sharing our histories as we watched the waves. I gave him a detailed account of my Thanksgiving, and he laughed in all the appropriate places. “Are you close with your family?” I asked over tea.

“I get along with my dad okay. We’re a lot alike in some ways. He spent most of his life as a professional gambler. He doesn’t gamble anymore, though. He runs a bingo casino on an Indian reservation near Phoenix somewhere, so we don’t see each other very often. My mom and I hardly ever speak. I don’t think she likes me very much. I think I remind her of my dad too much.”

Warning! Any guy who thinks his mother doesn’t like him, you can bet is a misogynist. Psych. 101.

Dessert came. I secretly told the waiter it was Lee’s birthday. All the staff came over with a piece of mud pie and a candle in it and sang. The restaurant joined in song, and Lee was sufficiently embarrassed but, I hoped, secretly pleased. “God, do I feel like a jerk. But thanks. This is really sweet.”

“You have only one wish a year, so make one that counts,” I joked.

He thought about it a while and then blew out his candle.

“Here’s to many more happy birthdays to come,” I toasted him with my water glass. “What did you wish for?”

“That 20 years from now, you’ll be celebrating my birthday with me.” He leaned over the table and gave me a quick kiss on the lips, sat back down without acknowledging the action and started eating the enormous slice of coffee ice cream piled five inches high in a chocolate graham cracker crust, topped with warm fudge and whipped cream. He savored the bite with a big happy grin, then handed me my spoon and motioned for me to indulge, and I did. Cold, smooth, sensual sweetness filled my mouth and coated my throat, and after a few bites, the sugar gave me a quick rush of blood to my head. My scalp tingled, and I grinned, too. We shared the pie in reverent silence, every last bite.

He insisted on paying when the check came, and we went for a walk along the beach after dinner. The moon was three-quarters full, the ocean reflecting its silver line to the black horizon. The night was warm and wonderful, just like in the movies, and for that moment, I let myself be in the scene. He took my hand in brief interludes, grabbing it to pull me back from the water’s edge, or to join him in running along it, but eventually he’d slide his hand from mine as naturally as he’d put it there. We walked the length of the short beach, which took about a half hour round trip, got his car from an eager valet and then left the coast for home.

The first thing Lee did back in the car was light a joint. And disappointment filled me with despair. He was so close, yet so far from the man I wanted him to be. As he turned onto Malibu Canyon, he pressed in a Brian Ferry tape and then handed me the joint, and I took a deep hit and pretended I didn’t care.

Forty minutes later, we were sitting in my living room over a backgammon board, sharing a game and another joint, when my sister Carrie called. She reminded me of her upcoming Hanukkah party and then asked me to bring a dessert. I repeated everything she said to Lee so he could be privy to the conversation. When I reiterated Carrie’s request for bread pudding, I stuck my middle finger up, and he cracked up laughing. Carrie heard Lee and asked me to invite him, and I did, and he laughed and said, “Sure,” but I told my sister, “Maybe,” to tease him, and her, too, I suppose. I told her I’d let her know and hung up.

“You don’t want to come to my sister’s Hanukkah party. Trust me.” Though the thought of my mother’s face if I came in with Lee pleased me.

“Yeah. I do. It’d be a kick.”

I imagined bringing Lee to my sister’s party and introducing him as my friend. That probably wouldn’t go over well. Lee would be adorable, come off charming and bright, and my mother would wonder the entire evening what was wrong with me.

“Come on, Ray,” Lee implored, his eyes sparkling with humor. “Your sister must have heard me say I’d like to be there. Don’t make me disappoint her. Besides, I want to come. It sounds like fun.”

Fun wasn’t a word I’d associated with my family since I was 10, and rarely even then.

Around midnight, I begged off from playing, exhausted from focusing on dice. I’d still beat him more than not, but the games were closer. Only rarely did I gammon or backgammon him during the course of the evening.

“You’re still taking me.” Lee said it with humor, but there was an edge. “When I start taking you, I’ll be ready for craps.”

I had the sensation of falling again, as if the couch suddenly vanished and I was oozing through the wood floor before being sucked underground into suffocating blackness. “I thought you said you gave up gambling?”

“I did. Serious gambling. I still tinker in it every once in a while. I just think it’d be a trip to see the dice technique work in craps.” He glanced at me and laughed, heartily, like he was in on a joke I was missing. “Don’t worry about it, Rachel. It’s minor at best — horse racing with some friends a couple times a year is pretty much it. I have it under control.”

Right. “For your sake, I hope so.” My heart was coming through my chest. To counter the edge in my tone, I reminded myself I didn’t care what Lee did with his money beyond concern for his welfare as a friend. “I have excessive expectations of the men I date,” I told him. “But they’re almost equally extreme of friends. I don’t like to see anyone I care about hurting themselves.”

His smile vanished and his disappointment was clear with his heavy sigh. His green eyes no longer twinkled.

I closed the board, got up and put it on the bookshelf to put distance between us. Captive to his invasive stare, I stayed rooted to my spot across the room.

“It’s late,” he finally said. “I’m exhausted. I guess it’s time to call it a night.” He looked around the living room, then rose from the couch slowly, stretched out the kinks and ran his hand through his hair. It tumbled into his eyes and framed his baby face in wild waves. “Thanks for another great evening.” He gave me a reticent smile. “I guess I’ll see you on the courts on Tuesday, then?”

“Sure. I’ll be there.” I felt Lonely lurking, but glad he was leaving. The weight of his demeanor felt too heavy to bear. “Thanks for a nice night. It was fun. I look forward to playing Tuesday. I really enjoy our games.”

“Me, too.” He smiled, got his silk jacket off the end of the couch and put it on as he moved to meet me by the entry. Face came over and stood between us for her obligatory pat, and Lee obliged. “Hey, what do you say we start playing three days a week — get a game on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays from now on? I need the workout. You up for it?” Again, his eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief, or challenge, or both.

“Yeah. Sounds good.” I meant it, too. Racquetball was good for both of us. I was getting back in shape, and noticed men noticing, and reveled in the attention that comes with tight. “I’ll meet you at 4:00 at the courts on Monday, then.” I put my hand on the doorknob but paused. Open the door, and he’s gone, and I’m back to alone. Don’t open the door, and I’m inviting him to stay, sex implied. I opened the door.

He looked at me, searching again. Then he reached out and pulled me in for a bear hug. He held his arm around my shoulders and neck and squeezed gently, wrapping me in his warmth. I instinctively reached up and returned his hug in the manner given, tried to transmit my affection without sexuality, but I felt the sweet drop-out of surrender with him holding me, shrouding me from the cold night.

“I’ll see you Monday. Be ready to rock,” he whispered practically in my ear, then pulled back, stared at me another second and then turned away and walked out the door. Again, he waved without looking back and gave me only a quick glance over the top of his car before he got in and drove away. I shut the front door and stood in the living room stroking Face. She nuzzled into me, stood perfectly still, resting her body against my legs, but her huge ears popped up at the whine of Lee’s car backing out of the driveway. I watched his headlights through the dining room bay window until they disappeared behind the wall of five-foot-tall hedges bordering the front lawn.

Chapter Six

I spent most of my free time with Lee the better part of that December, more by happenstance than design. Racquetball on Monday, Wednesday and Friday usually led to dinner after the game, which led to my house where we played backgammon and passed the night. On days we didn’t play ball, we met up after work and explored some new restaurant, or turned the other on to an old favorite.

Our lives started to mesh, and Lonely receded further each day. I looked forward to his calls and seeing him most afternoons. I loved playing racquetball or backgammon with him. I have never seen anyone focus like that in my life, paling even my manic intensity. He seemed so powerful, so in control.

He treated me with kindness and respect and paid for everything we did together. Dinner, racquetball, movies, whatever, if it cost money, he insisted on paying. I let him, too, even though I felt weird about it, but we both knew I couldn’t afford to eat out, or even go out a fraction of the amount we did. To compensate, I had him for dinner several times a week, but it never seemed to make up for how much he put out when we went out, which was the other two-thirds of the time.

We still weren’t sexual. We kissed and hugged hello and goodbye, but in the trendy L.A. way, a greeting between good friends. I tried to ignore that Lee was getting more physical, in subtle ways — you know, the hand on the knee to accentuate a point, or grabbing me for a quick hug while walking and keeping his arm around my shoulders a few paces too long. It was empowering that he wanted me sexually. He made me feel pretty.

“Get off here.” I instructed Lee to exit the freeway at Kanan Road on our way to my sister’s Hanukkah party Saturday night. “This was a stupid idea.” I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I couldn’t hold in my growing anxiety as we got closer to Carrie’s.

“Why? I won’t disappoint. I promise.” He shot me a soft, knowing smile as he brought his Audi to a stop at the end of the off ramp. “You’re going to have to tell me the way.” He stared at me, waiting.

I stared back at him, and then it occurred to me he was asking for directions. “Right. Turn right. Then over the hill and left at the second light.”

His smile broadened again for just a second, then he looked away, focused back on driving as he turned right onto crowded Kanan Road. We passed the glowing strip malls to the endless maze of houses that lined the rolling hills. He placed his hand gently on my knee to stop me from bouncing my leg. I clamped my hands between my knees and forced myself to be still as we wove our way through the McMansions of the Morrison Ranch housing development.

Bringing Lee to a family affair was a bad idea. He looked ‘put together’ in his black Dockers and maroon sweater, and adorably cute with his soft, wavy hair scattered in his eyes and framing his baby face. He’d win their affections before he opened his mouth. This little charade was sure to come back and bite me when they found out Lee and I weren’t dating.

He swung the car around at the end of the cul-de-sac and pulled up against the curb in front of my sisters white, six-bedroom, six-bath, two-story, prefab colonial. He turned off the car and looked at me as he retrieved a box of assorted chocolate truffles from the back seat. “Don’t worry, Ray. I can be anyone you want me to be tonight and still be your friend in the morning.” He raised his eyebrows quickly and grinned. “You ready to go party with your family?”

I shrugged and shook my head.

He laughed. “They can’t be all that bad. They produced you.” His grin remained, and his eyes kind of twinkled as he opened his door.

I had the urge to kiss him, or him kiss me, before getting out of the car. He didn’t. He got out and I followed suit, and we walked side by side up the slate landings to my sister’s massive front doors. I glanced at Lee, and he gave me a soft smile, then I yanked down on the long brass doorknob and opened the door onto the marble entryway of Carrie’s house. A grand sweeping staircase out of Gone With The Wind graced the left wall and wrapped up to the second-floor open hallway that bordered five bedrooms.

Of course, I was under-dressed in tight blue jeans and loose black sweater, but not by much. Family and friends gathered in the entry and spilling into the dining room were in casual clothes, though more skirts on the women and khakis or pressed slacks for men. I was the only adult in jeans. I spied my mother standing with my dad and brother-in-law Larry in the back of the entryway. My mom looked at Lee, then looked at me, and her eternal tight-lipped smile extended slightly. She had her public face on. It was hard to tell she felt anything beyond her sparkly facade.

My sister came from the kitchen through the dining room to greet us, well, Lee. She wore a loose, white cotton dress that hung to mid-calf and cinched at the waist with a thick red bow. Her flaming red hair was pulled back with another thick red bow, the ends of the silken ribbon brushing her shoulders. She extended her hand, and Lee shook it and introduced himself and did the same with my parents, my brother-in-law and a few family friends. After the canonical pleasantries, Carrie excused herself and walked back through the dining room to the hallway that led to the kitchen. She looked at me quickly before exiting the scene.

“I’m sure your sister can use your help in the kitchen.” My petite mother stood next to me, in her fitted navy dress and reasonably-heeled white pumps, martini in hand. My father was next to her, big and imposing in his coal sweater and cream khakis. He stood facing us, holding a martini in his huge hand. His long, artisan fingers spread around the wide rim of the glass, and his stance took on an actor’s pose as he began his dissertation about what makes a good martini and then tried to convince Lee to try one.

Lee emphatically declined the cocktail, but with grace and humor. He flashed his tongue at me in mock disgust and then winked. He clearly had it under control. I left him to chat and followed Carrie into her enormous country kitchen to help her and Maria display dinner.

“Lee seems very nice.” Carrie was at the oven, unloading casseroles to dinner rolls onto hotplates built into the rangetop.

“He is.” I didn’t extrapolate on purpose. I was playing.

She wasn’t. “Could you help Maria with the stuff in the fridge?” She said it more like a command than request. We had no further exchange. I helped unload the huge brushed-steel refrigerator of its contents. Carrie manned the ovens and toasters. We crammed the butcher block island with platters of roast turkey and corned beef, sweet noodle kugel, cranberry-jello mold, pumpkin roll and pecan pie. More platters were already crowded on the kitchen table, filled with everything from crackers and cheese, olives, pickles and red onions to slices of lox and chunks of smoked white fish. There were wicker baskets filled with fresh baked bagels and one with a sliced rye bread.

When everything was off the stoves and out of the ovens and the freezers and the fridges, the three of us paused and looked at our efforts. The amount of food in that kitchen bordered on obscene for a guest list of 18, six of whom were children under 10. What my sister blew on excess that night alone would feed Maria’s family back in Mexico for a month.

Carrie nodded approvingly and spoke to her maid (in Spanish). “Thank you, Maria. I think that’s all for now. We’ll serve ourselves.”

Maria glanced at me as she walked by, out of the kitchen across the back of the entry hall to her small bedroom off the family room. I turned to my sister to inquire again why she didn’t think it appropriate for Maria to eat with us, but she was already on her way to the dining room where I heard her invite everyone to get a plate and serve themselves dinner in the kitchen.

I preferred self-serve at my sister’s house. Festival seating was the perk, and after Lee and I filled our plates, we sat together at the far end of the mammoth walnut table in the dining room, away from the hordes in the kitchen. Within a minute, my brother-in-law Larry put his plate full of food down in front of him and sat at the head of the table on the other side of Lee. My father had tracked him to the table, on some diatribe again. He set his plate, piled with food, on the table across from us and sat facing Lee and me, but continued to talk only to Larry.

“. . .Sanctions don’t work with these people. We need to go in there with brute force and bombard the hell out of them, find out where Hussein is and bring him to justice. The world is watching if we’ll follow through — live on TV. Saudi Arabia is watching. All of Asia is watching. The United States must not appear weak.” My father looked at Lee. “Saddam Hussein is a maniacal terrorist, and if we don’t stop the bad guy, then what the hell was the Gulf War for?”

“To free Kuwait, which coalition forces accomplished in February, Ed.” Larry gave my father a tolerant grin, then took a bite of his half bagel spread with cream cheese and layered with slices of pink lox.

“Mark my words, this man and the fanatic Muslims he represents will come back to haunt us if we don’t take him down now.” My father bit into his bagel, equally adorned as Larry’s, except he’d added a slice of red onion as a topper. He looked at Larry and Lee but not at me. He never engaged women in politics.

“Personally, I’m not a big fan of war.” Lee looked at me, then glanced at Larry but spoke to my father. “But I tend to agree with you, Ed. What was the point of going over there if Hussein just takes power again and Iraq is right back to being a fascist dictatorship? Conversely, maybe after thousands of years as a nomadic people, most Muslims are just not ready for a capitalistic democracy.”

I practically choked on my mouthful of whitefish. They all looked at me, and I felt myself shrink back as I tried to swallow and keep the smile off my face. Lee was playing them, taking all sides without ever stating his point of view, a sales technique for winning friends and influencing people. I grinned. They just stared at me. “You know what I don’t get?” I started babbling to cover Lee’s little joke. “Dad, shouldn’t we be eliminating our dependency on oil instead of killing for it? You’re willing to pay the incomprehensible price of war by voting for candidates controlled by lobbyists looking to keep the status quo instead of investing in alternative, more renewable technology. I mean, how bizarre is that?” I was on a roll. “And Larry, you should know sanctions only work on the poor; that’s how ‘trickle down’ really works. So don’t you think we should come up with a better plan than slaughter or exacerbating starvation and disease?” I looked at them. My dad surveyed the bagel in his hand, his long fingers like spider’s legs gripping the cream-cheesed rim.

“Do you have a better plan than sanctions, or war, Rachel?” Larry glared at me. “I’m sure the White House would love to hear it. They have top minds working on it 24/7, but if you think you have an answer to the Middle East problem, I’m sure they’d love to hear about it. We’d all love to hear it.”

I flushed, burned red hot inside. My father didn’t look at me. He savored another bite of his bagel as if he hadn’t heard the exchange. I couldn’t look at Lee after my brother-in-law’s verbal lashing, so I looked down. I felt the rest of the partially filled table watching us now, plugged into our conversation.

“A better plan might include the will of the voters to decide if the U.S. gets involved in or starts another war.” Lee spoke to Larry and my father, but his words backed me up. “After all, it is my tax dollars, and I’d like some say in how it’s spent. I mean, is another 60 billion and god knows how many lives lost necessary to fight Bush’s war?”

“So you’re a Democrat.” Larry said it with disdain.

Lee game him a tolerant smile. “I’m a humanist.”

My knight is a humanist.

I stared at him. Lee looked at me. We connected, and I felt my smile match his. He’d just saved me from another row with my family. I looked back at Larry, then at my father, still seemingly lost in his food, then got up and went into the kitchen to get a Diet Coke and breathe. Larry could be such an asshole. Lee was engaging, articulate and in control. It was no wonder he was successful at his own business. He was an excellent salesman.

I pulled a cold can from the fridge door and stood at the sink, looking out the kitchen windows at the dimly lit back patio. The jacuzzi glowed red and looked like molten lava with the tub sunk into the concrete like it was. A half circle of wide clay tiles separated the hot tub from the swimming pool, which stretched across the width of the yard and glowed a phosphorus blue-green. The quarter-acre manicured yard that spread out to the left of the pool area faded to the night just beyond the ambient light from the house.

“Lee is adorable and very charming. I see why you like him.” Carrie came into the kitchen, stopped within two feet of me, got the sponge from the sink and then sponged away the endless parade of ants streaming along the back seam of her granite countertop. “How are you guys doing?”

“We’re fine, I guess.”

“What does ‘I guess’ mean?”

“I don’t know, Carrie.” I was trapped by my own big mouth. Tell her Lee and I were just friends and she’d be angry for the betrayal. I’d never brought a man I wasn’t seriously dating to meet my family. Say we were dating and I’d have to come up with another lie to tell her why we stopped. I went with something in between. “I think Lee may not be good for me. He’s got a lot of problems.”

“Everyone has problems, Rachel, especially if they’re still single at your age.” She went right for the jugular, held nothing back. And I don’t think she thought twice about the words she chose. “You’re 32 years old. You’re out of time. I’ve read women have a better chance of getting hit by lightning than getting married for the first time after 30. If you really want a family, you’d better get off your high horse and learn to be more compromising. You find something wrong with everyone you date. Do you judge yourself that harshly?”

“Yes.”

She stared at me. “I believe you do, which is part of your problem.” She shook her head, moved next to me to reach the sink and rinsed the dead ants off the sponge. “Maybe you should focus on what’s right with Lee instead of what’s wrong with him so you don’t end up alone.” After squeezing the water out of the sponge, she left it on the back of the stainless steel sink and turned back to me. “You know, sometimes I wonder if a family is what you really want.”

I leaned back against the butcher block island to put some distance between us. “Yes, Carrie, I really want a family.” It was the truth. I’d wanted one since I was a kid, when Michael and I used to play in the fort we built at the end of the block and pretend we were married with a baby. “I just don’t think I should have one with Lee. He’s not what you think. He’s really screwed up. He is completely irresponsible with money. He owes thousands of dollars to the government, and he isn’t paying them, even though he makes a fortune. He owns nothing, Carrie, has nothing saved for the future. He’s 37 years old and still thinks he’s young. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. Does that sound like someone I should set up house with to you?” I left out the stoner part, and the gambling part. If I divulged this, I’d be shamed into severing all relations with Lee.

“Look, do what you want to do. All I’m saying is that you’re never going to find the perfect man. ‘Happily ever after’ doesn’t exist. It’s a fairy tale. Relationships are hard. You have to sacrifice some things for others.” She stared at me. I looked down. “Watch out, Rachel. Time is moving forward whether you are or not. Good luck finding a rich, young, smart, sensitive, single guy interested in dating a struggling, aging artist. You ought to start living in the real world and realign your expectation with what you have to offer.”

I looked at her, searched for compassion, or at least some awareness of how devaluing her words were, but saw neither. She stared at me like I was the clueless one. I glared at her. She knew nothing about the real world, in her colonial McMansion, all her desires met by her honey and his money, but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have the chance to. She went back into the dining room to join the other guests. I did, too, sat down next to Lee and ate my bagel and lox and listened to the boys argue politics and then merge into religion, in which Lee confessed to being an apathist on religious issues, though agreed with my mother that he was Jewish, too, being born of a Jewish mother (who claimed she was atheist). At one point, Lee suggested that they legalize drugs and tax them like alcohol to help resolve the federal deficit, and my father jumped on that bandwagon, though for an entirely different reason than Lee. I knew, and Lee knew I knew, that he was taunting me when he broached the subject. My parents always had a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy. My father didn’t much care what I did as long as the right things were getting done. My mother didn’t want to know because she cared too much.

After stuffing myself to the brink of barfing, I opted for clearing the dinner plates scattered with unwanted remains. I brought them into the kitchen, still piled with smoked fish and slices of rye, and mused over the appalling waste. We’re all gluttons at heart, grabbing whatever we can. Most of the women got up from the dining table after eating and started cleaning up. Other than Bob Greene from next door who participated with the women and Lee who went and played Duke NukEm on the computer with my nephew Scott, the rest of the men sat there, waiting on coffee and dessert to be served.

Get up! I wanted to yell. Get off your ass and help, I almost screamed, but I didn’t. I served coffee and pecan pie with a dollop of whipped cream.

Twenty minutes later, I made our excuses, said our thanks, and Lee and I left. He kissed my sister goodbye, which I thought was kind of weird but didn’t mention it. Outside, the air was cold and crisp. I blew steamy breaths on the way to his car and wished I was exhaling smoke. I craved a buzz, anything for some distance from my mother’s parting speech this evening, gushing over how gorgeous and smart and nice Lee was.

He started his car and let it roll slowly down the hill as he reached up to his visor. “I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for this now.” Lee retrieved his Marlboro pack, pulled out a joint and grinned at me, and we connected, like an electric arc suddenly linked us.

I smiled. At the stop sign two houses down from my sister’s, he handed me his Bic and the joint. With contact came a static spark, and I recoiled. He laughed, and I did, too, as I took the lighter and the joint, lit it and sucked. The smoke was sweet and gently scorched my lungs, and my brain tingled as it rushed through my bloodstream. Tension washed away with the surge. I took a few more hits and handed Lee the joint before he turned left onto the 101 Freeway.

The car accelerated rapidly, pinning me to my seat. Lee was focused on driving, in profile to me. His nose was straight, more Caucasian than ethnic Jew. He took a long suck on the joint, then released the smoke through his nose and mouth slowly, his full lips only slightly parted, forcing the smoke out in a long, thin stream. It twisted upward in an elegant dance before him until he opened the sunroof slightly and it vanished in a gust of wind. He seemed lost in thought and wore his poker face.

Outside, the occasional lights nestled in the Malibu Hills flashed by, but other than the lights on the freeway, it was mostly dark. The car was a warm sanctuary. “Thank you for coming tonight.” I meant it, too. “It was amusing with you there, watching you wrap them around your finger.” I hadn’t actually meant to say the last bit. I gave him a cocky smile and tried to soften the remark. “You were very impressive tonight. Honestly, you made it fun. It was nice having someone on my side.”

“I am, ya know. I just wish you believed it.”

“I do.” But my intuition didn’t.

He glanced at me, felt like scrutinized me, then looked forward. “My sister Colleen is coming to town with her partner next weekend for a wedding. We’re meeting at the Baked Potato, that jazz club on Ventura around the corner from the racket club next Friday night. Come with me. We can go straight from our game. I’d love it if you joined us.” Lee stared ahead and focused on driving as the traffic on the freeway sped up when we came out of the hills and into the Valley. “You’d really be helping me out. She’s been on my case a lot since my breakup. She’s afraid I’m isolating too much.”

“Are you?”

“Not since I met you.” He flashed me a quick smile. “And I can prove it if you come to dinner. Come on. Help me get my sister off my back.”

He had me. I knew what it was like to bear the weight of a loved one’s concern. I recalled my mother’s dour expression every time I caught her eye on Thanksgiving. But not tonight. She’d been positively effervescent at Carrie’s Hanukkah party. I’d have to tell everyone eventually that Lee and I were just friends, especially when I went back to dating at the beginning of the year. But for now, I was on vacation from my Quest and could savor the incredible lightness of the night with a partner-in-crime to share it. Lee pushed in a Cars tape and we listened to “Drive” the rest of the way back to my house.

Chapter Seven

12/13/91

I want to find a man who understands we are what we do.

I need a man who already knows it’s actions, not ego that defines you.
—————————-

Monday after racquetball, we went to dinner at Maria’s, and after, we went back to my house and played backgammon until close to midnight again. Tuesday, we met for dinner at Rive Gouche, a new bistro near me. Wednesday after our game, he came over and I made him teriyaki chicken. Thursday, he came over with arms full of groceries and made me a damn good pasta dish with artichoke hearts and sun-dried tomatoes. Friday after our racquetball game, I met his sister and her lover.

It took five minutes to get from the courts to the Baked Potato, and of course, we got high on the way. The modest restaurant was set in the center of a courtyard shrouded in trees and surrounded by vine-covered stone walls that blocked the view as well as the noise of Ventura Boulevard. Lee had made a reservation, and without delay, the anorexic hostess led us into the dining room to our table. Five-foot-wide redwood-framed French windows wrapped three sides of the cozy room. It held only 20 or so tables, somewhat arbitrarily placed, the candles in the center of each casting the only light for dining. A row of small lights ran along the edge of the cramped stage up against the back wall, the view of the garden though the French windows its backdrop. Musical instruments lay about in stands and on the worn red carpet. A bright brass trumpet leaned up against a Fender amp. We were seated at a small wooden table for four to the left of the stage.

Lee waved to his sister and her lover as they emerged from the crowded entrance. I stood to greet them as they approached our table. Colleen looked like Lee. She was about his height and heavy, with long, straight brown hair worn loose that fell over her shoulders and brushed the tops of her ample breasts. Arleen was lean, verging on petite, and virtually flat, with short, wavy auburn hair worn wild. They were both dressed casually, jeans and the like. Colleen’s sweatshirt said “Northwestern” on it, which turned out to be true. She graduated in ’78 with an MS in microbiology. When we were all seated inside the dim jazz club, she referred to her school days as ‘life simplified’ and the real world as a statistician for the CDC akin to being stuck in the Ninth Circle of Hell in Dante’s Inferno. She was smart, articulate, funny, and I liked Lee’s sister a lot.

Arleen was equally engaging. She was a forest commissioner for the state of Oregon. During dinner, over our stuffed potatoes filled with everything from bacon to salmon, she vehemently expressed her anger at big-business lumber and used mostly superlatives to convey her frustrations. Colleen and Arleen did most of the talking while we ate. Lee and I interjected only to get clarity. They gave a detailed description of their ranch house nestled in the huge, old-growth redwoods just north of the California border outside Medford, a tiny hamlet in the middle of nowhere. And both women extended hearty invitations to come and visit them there.

“Why don’t you come for New Year’s? It’d be a blast to hang out, get drunk, get buzzed, cook some huge elaborate meal, play board games all night. Come on up, both of you.” Colleen seemed very excited by this, especially after Arleen echoed her words, and they began discussing between them things to show us and stuff to do if we came.

“It sounds like fun, but I go to Colorado during the holidays.” I felt sorry that I did at that moment. Hanging out over New Year’s with Lee and his sister and Arleen in the middle of the redwoods seemed more fun. “I stay with a friend of mine and do Christmas with her family. I’ve plans to stay through New Year’s.”

I felt Lee staring at me and looked at him. His disappointment was clear. He had his hangdog face on. “I didn’t know you’d be gone over the holidays. I’m sorry to hear that.” He looked away as if shamed, stared down at his plate, at the remains of steak chunks mixed inside a baked russet potato.

There was a moment of awkward silence, and then Colleen tried to convince her brother to come over New Year’s by himself. Arleen chimed in, and during the rest of the meal, they talked Lee into visiting them and then offered up plans from cross country skiing to mountain biking. When we left the restaurant, both women hugged me, as if I were part of the family, or like they wished I would be.

Lee reached above his visor for the Marlboro pack and stuck it between his legs as he put the Audi in motion. The lighter he’d punched in when we got in the car popped out. He slid a joint from the box and lit it with a long, deep draw. He did not look at me as he blew out the smoke, put back the lighter and pulled rather abruptly out of the restaurant’s driveway onto Ventura Boulevard. “When are you leaving for Colorado?”

“Hopefully, no later than Friday. I have to finish my work and close out the year.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“I should be home around the 2nd, depending on the weather.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re going out of town?”

“I had no idea it mattered to you that I was going to be gone for a few days.”

“Ten days, including New Year’s Eve.”

“We didn’t talk about New Year’s. You never asked me about doing anything. I assumed you had plans with your friends for the holidays.”

He sucked on the joint, flaring the tip. “No plans.” Smoke escaped his lips as he spoke. “Everyone I know will be with their mate, their kids, or both.” He blew the rest of the smoke from his lungs and took another hit. He seemed calmer, but distant, lost inside his head. He looked forward, the oncoming headlights cast his face in a soft, pulsating glow. “It’s going to be lonely over the holidays, again. I was hoping for something different this year, with you.” He did not look at me as he spoke, not even a glimpse. He kept his attention focused on driving.

“I’m sorry.” I was, too. I knew what it felt like to be the one left behind.

“I’m really going to miss you, Rachel.” He practically whispered.

“I’ll miss you too.” I meant that, too. I felt him pulling back, disconnecting, and I continued talking to break the wall of tension building between us. “I go to Colorado every winter during the holidays to visit my friend Chris. I’ve done Christmas with her family for the last eight years. I’m expected there now.”

Lee pulled into the racquet club driveway and into the parking space next to my car, put his car in park and then turned it off but didn’t look at me. He stared straight ahead and hit on the joint. “I’ve always wanted to see the Colorado, especially in the winter. I hear it’s extraordinary.”

“It is.” I pictured the huge, granite, snow-covered monoliths along the ridgeline of the Rockies. I remembered many frigid days being trapped alone in Chris’ cabin, and suddenly Lonely was lurking again. For the first time in weeks, I felt it looming in the background. “Want to come?” fell out of my mouth. Even I was surprised to hear my words.

He handed me the joint without taking his eyes off mine, and his dejected expression slowly became a tentative smile. “You serious?”

No. Yes. NO! I took a few quick hits in succession, filling my lungs to capacity. Why not? Colorado had always been a diversion from spending the holiday alone, but the truth is, I never once outran Lonely. “Why not?” I exhaled the smoke in a long stream and choked on the excess, then continued once I caught my breath. “You said you want to see Colorado. Now is as good a time as any, right? Carpe diem and all that.” I gave him my quirky grin and took another hit. “I’ll check with Chris, but I’m sure she’ll be fine with it. She works most days, and I don’t ski, so I’m usually just hanging out by myself, anyway. Come play with me. It’d be great!”

His smile soured, and his eyes narrowed. “Is that what we’re doing, Ray? Playing?”

Fuck.

“Because I want more with you than that.”

I know, but I didn’t say it. I had the distinct impression if I told him I never wanted to be more than friends, he wouldn’t want to be with me anymore. A battle immediately ensued in my brain. Tell him the truth and risk losing him, or tell him what he wanted to hear. I handed him the joint, and he brought it to his lips, like a Pavlovian response to it being in his hand. I watched him take a hit and saw his beauty and knew his beast and was so overwhelmed with opposing voices in my head, I was speechless.

“I don’t know if you’re messing with my feelings on purpose or not. You invite me in, but keep me away.” Lee shook his head slightly and looked forward, outside at the almost empty parking lot. “I need more, Rachel. I can’t keep pretending this is enough for me. It’s not. I want to be with you, all the way, in every way.” He looked at me. “I’m ready to commit, to kids, the house, the whole nine yards. The window of opportunity for a family is closing. I don’t know about you, but I’m running out of time.” His words cut. I got the feeling they were meant to. “I want to be with you, Ray — touch you, hold you, caress you, turn you on. I want to show you how great we can be together.”

I wanted to believe, I really did. He said what I’d been waiting to hear. He watched me, and just beyond, his poker face belied his punk expression. And the smarter part of me knew his offer was one he could never fulfill. And the better part of me couldn’t tolerate crap. “And in this fantasy of yours, we live happily ever after. Right?” I paused for dramatic delivery. “Except we’re both undeniable stoners, we live on the edge of broke, you’re a self-proclaimed gambler, owe thousands of dollars in back taxes come April and clearly irresponsible with money. Not the best setup for kids when the parents are still acting like children.”

There was a pregnant pause between us, and for a second, I thought I may have crossed a line beyond repair. He looked at the joint in his hand and then extended it to me. I flashed on him handing me a gun, a small one, like a Saturday Night Special, and I declined with a shake of my head.

He dropped the roach into the steel ashtray inset in the burl console. “I object to the ‘undeniable stoner’ remark. Getting high is a frivolous indulgence and has never had any major impact on my life. It may have yours, but not mine.” He shot me a glance, then looked back outside. His hair hung in soft waves, but in profile, his baby face seemed hardened. “I don’t get what the hell difference it makes, anyway. Half the nation is on Prozac, or alcohol, or energy drinks and power bars. Most everyone uses something to get through the day. Besides, marijuana isn’t even addictive.”

Right. “Bullshit.”

“I can quit anytime, and have many times, for years in a row.”

Ahh . . . the addict’s lament. “I’ve used the same rationalization.” Prickles crawled up my neck and spread into my skull with his piercing glare. “Look, Lee, you called it that first time we went to dinner, the day you got divorced. You and I are the same. And I don’t want to end up hating you in a month or a year down the line because you possess the very same frailties I hate in myself.” I finally did the right thing. “We are womb-to-tomb addicts. And nothing you say will convince me you’re not.”

Lee laughed. “Lighten up, my dear, and cut the drama. Nothing is laid in stone. We’re not ‘womb-to-tomb’ anything. We are what we choose to be.”

“God, please don’t quote me Pollyanna tripe. From our chemistry to our environment, we are mostly the hand we’re dealt.”

“Spoken like a true cynic.”

“Said the idealist,” I mocked and flashed him a grin, but he didn’t smile back.

“We have free will.” He looked back outside. “We choose how to be, what to believe, who to love.”

“Do we? How we are, how we behave is more reaction than actions of choice. And most people adopt their parent’s religion without ever considering any other. And maybe we choose who to love, but we can’t choose for that person to love us back.” I meant Michael choosing back East over staying with me, but I got that Lee thought I was referring to him, and I instantly regretted saying it. I tried to soften the perceived slight. “It’d be emotional suicide if we got together, both of us forever wanting more. We need partners who control obsession, not feed it. I’m crazy enough. If we got together, you’d take me right over the edge.”

He stared at me. His eyes were glassy, his expression placid, though I’m sure I saw a glimmer of humor. “Your fear is unwarranted, my dear. And I’m not the one making you crazy.” He stayed fixed on me another second, then looked back out at the incandescent night of the parking lot. “Thanks for the Colorado offer, but I think I’m going to my sister’s for the holidays.” He did not look at me as he spoke. “I pictured being with you, but you won’t let me.”

A rumbling loud Harley passed on Ventura, but the sound deadened fast, sucked into the spinning void growing in the car. We sat three feet from each other, but I could feel him leaving the scene, checking into his head. He suddenly seemed a million miles away, and I felt myself crave him all the more as he withdrew. I stared at him, but he did not look at me. Say something, anything to sate him. “If this is all just about sex, well, that’s doable you know, and it doesn’t have to be synonymous with commitment.”

He looked at me, studied me, and I thought I caught a flash of that mischievous twinkle in his eyes, but it could have been just a passing car. At least I had his attention back. “I don’t want just sex. I want to make love with you, Ray. And though I wouldn’t impose a lifetime commitment upfront, with physical intimacy, fidelity is a must. I’ve had many fuck buddies over the years, my dear. I want more than that with you.”

We were clearly not communicating. Casual sex was out. I was sorry I’d broached the subject. He wanted more than my mind and body. He wanted my heart and soul, and those I could not give him. He couldn’t be trusted with them, to care for them before his own needs. The siren of obsession was intertwined in his nature, with him every time he hit a joint, rolled dice, ate. I could feel it. See it. My intuition screamed it. And I had no intention of competing with that muse. I already spent too much of my energy battling her in me.

“I’m going to take off.” Lee put his hand to his keys dangling from the ignition. “I guess I’ll see you on the courts on Monday.” He started his car and looked at me.

NO! Don’t go, I wanted to beg, but didn’t. It was Friday night. I’d expected to still be partying with his sister and Arleen, or back at my house over a backgammon board by now, tossing ideas around for the weekend. Last Saturday, we’d gone up to Wheeler Hot Spring north of Ojai for private jacuzzis before going to my sister’s Hanukkah party. Sunday, we’d gone to Laguna and perused the galleries, even stopped for a frozen banana on Balboa Island before heading back. My heart was coming through my chest, pounding in my ears and in my throat as I sat silently in his car.

“’A man never knows how to say goodbye.’” Lee gave me a sad smile.

“’And a woman never knows when to say it.’” I finished the quote from Helen Rowland, the early 20th century writer.

He shot me a quick grin. “Touché.” His eyes glimmered, locked on mine, and we connected, like he plugged in and was suddenly in the car with me. “Rachel, you are brilliant, and beautiful, and broken, my friend, if you can’t move beyond your fear.” He stared at me one more second, then added “Good night,” reached over me and opened my door without touching me. An icy wind swept over me like death as Lee drew back into his seat, retrieved the roach in the ashtray, lit it and hit it and stared at the smoke as it twisted up from the glowing tip.

The void in the car became a black hole, and the event horizon sucked me into the blackness. I was being dismissed, and Dignity insisted I leave. The only thing allowing me to exit the scene was his promise I’d see him on Monday. “Good night.” I counted to three, hoping he’d say something, but when he didn’t, I got out. I paused another second or two before shutting the door, and the separation felt as if scissors cut the cord.

Lee took off slowly, almost hesitantly, as he left the parking lot. He stopped a beat too long before entering the boulevard, and then he sped across Ventura and vanished into the fray of traffic. I froze inside, suddenly chilled to my core, and was shivering so hard when I got to my car, it took focused effort to get the key in the door and unlock it. I sat behind the wheel, started the engine and huddled into myself as I waited to crank the heater until it warmed.

The lights of the racquet club flicked off, and my breath caught in my throat as I watched one of the front desk guys come out. He glanced at my car, but I slunk down behind the wheel so he couldn’t see me, then he turned and locked the glass doors before going to his car, getting in and driving away. Except for one other vacant car, and me, the lot was empty. I cranked the heater before putting the stick in drive and left the club for home, but even with the heater blasting, I could not shake the cold.

Chapter Eight

Monday, I woke from a crow’s cry at dawn. The big black bird sat perched on the pine tree in my neighbor’s front yard. Fog grayed the outside and seeped inside me. I lay in bed all morning, vaguely following the comedic antics of the newscasters on KTLA and then reruns of Family Ties, wishing Elyse and Steven Keaton were my parents.

The phone rang around 10:00 a.m. I considered the few people it was likely to be and silently begged it to be Lee, calling to say how much he missed me, but I felt too afraid to pick it up. Maybe he wanted to cancel ball later today. We hadn’t spoken since he’d dropped me at my car at the racquet club on Friday night. I’d spent the last two days in my bedroom, with my dog and TV for company, frozen in utter terror of life alone.

“Hi. It’s me,” Carrie said flatly into the answering machine.

I scrunched down deeper into my bed and pulled the light blue quilt over my head and hid under the indigo world as I listened to my sister.

“Just wanted to remind you about the get-together tonight for Mom and Dad’s anniversary . . . which is today, by the way. Anyway, Keith and his family are actually coming. And of course, Lee is welcome to join us. It’s at 6:00. I’m making spinach-ricotta ravioli. It’d be nice if you made something, too. Your chocolate cream pie is always a hit. Call me.” She clicked off, and the machine stopped a moment later.

It was hard to breathe. I pushed the blanket off my face and gulped in fresh air as the phone rang again. Again, I said a silent prayer to Hope it was Lee calling to save me from Lonely.

“Hi, Dolly.” My mother’s high-pitched lilt was on my machine. “Thank you for your beautiful card and lovely words. Dad and I look forward to seeing you and Lee at Carrie’s tonight. Until then, enjoy the beautiful day.” She paused as if waiting for an answer, then hung up.

Shit. Carrie must have told Mom I was bringing Lee. I flushed, felt prickles ripple through my chest and into my hands. My dear sister was always setting me up to look pathetic. I sat up, leaned against the wall behind me. The phone rang again, just once, and the machine picked it up. “This is Rachel. Leave a message. Thanks,” I heard my voice say, then beep!

“Hi again.” Carrie talked to my machine. “You need to let me know if Lee is coming as soon as possible. This is a sit-down dinner, and I want to get the table set–”

I grabbed the phone. There was no sense in calling her back and having to pay long distance charges. “Lee isn’t coming, Carrie.” I tried to keep the edge out of my tone, but I heard it, anyway. “And I won’t be there tonight, either. I’m leaving Wednesday morning for Colorado, and I have to finish some work before I go.” It was bullshit. I’d finished the job yesterday, and it was in an envelope on my drafting table, awaiting FedEx pickup.

“Oh,” she said after an extended delay. “I thought you weren’t going until Friday.”

“I decided to leave sooner.” Bullshit. I hadn’t decided anything. A part of me didn’t want to go at all. What was the point when I was feeling so crappy? “And it would be nice if you didn’t tell Mom I was bringing Lee when I told you I wasn’t sure and that I’d let you know. I was going to call you about tonight right after I showered.” Bullshit. I totally spaced out her party. I’d have remembered later in the day, around 3:00 when it started to nag me that I had to do something later in the evening, but until then, I could not escape darkness.

“And it would have been nice to know a little earlier that you weren’t coming.” Carrie did not keep the edge out of her tone, either. “Too bad you won’t be here tonight. Keith said he was looking forward to seeing you. And I know Mom and Dad will be disappointed.”

“Dad could care less. He’ll be happy with good food and a lot of it. Mom would only be happy to see me if I brought Lee. And I haven’t seen Keith in two years. He is 10 years older than me, and we have virtually no relationship beyond familiar strangers. He won’t miss me.” Reality won out over Guilt. “I can’t make it tonight, Carrie.” There was simply no way I was going to my sister’s party in which I would be the only single adult there. I could handle my mother’s concerned face all night, or my sister’s condescending smirk, but I could not bear another evening on the outside looking in.

“Do what you want to do, Rachel. You always do.”

So do you. Much more than me, but I didn’t say it. But I wanted to. How dare she scorn me. She had no concept what it meant to be self-sufficient. I felt my ire rise with her disdain and wanted to exit the scene. And the only way to shut the conversation down was to be consolatory. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier that I wouldn’t be coming. I waited to call because I thought I’d have this work done by now, but it’s taking longer than I thought. I can’t get out there tonight. I’ll miss you all, but I’m sure your party will be just great, Carrie. I’m sorry I can’t be there with Lee.” I was surprised to hear my voice kind of crack and felt tears rush up and spill from my eyes.

“Are you okay, Rachel?” Carrie asked softly, like she was talking to a lame horse.

I stared at the TV as holiday commercials flickered by. “I’m fine.” I managed to sound convincing as I wiped my eyes on my flannel shirt sleeve. “I just want to be done and get out of here.” Run. I still had a huge amount of shit to do, like billing, and year-end accounting, and laundry, cleaning, packing, car check . . . etc. And ostensibly, racquetball at 4:00 with Lee. I really had to get off the phone and out of bed. “Please give Keith and his family my best, and extend my apologies for missing them. Have a nice time tonight. And have a good New Year’s. I’ll call you when I get back.”

“Okay. Drive safe.” Her delivery seemed uncertain, as if she had more to say.

“I will. Thanks.” I paused, searching for an appropriate sign-off. “Talk to you in ‘92. Bye.”

“Bye.”

I disconnected and felt a sudden surge of energy as I dropped the phone in its cradle. “Bye, bye.” I said aloud, and smiled. Face stood up and stretched in her beanbag and then shook off before coming over for a pat. She laid her head on the bed, and I stroked her, then ran my hand the length of her sleek body to her tail and then dismissed her. Then I gathered dirty clothes off most every surface in the room and threw it all in the white plastic laundry basket, left on my flannel nightshirt but picked out a pair of ripped jeans and put them on. I was walking out the bedroom door with my basket filled to the brink with dirty laundry when my phone rang again. Knee-jerk reaction, I picked it up as I passed. “Hello?”

“Hi, honey.” It was my father. Something was up. He never just called to say ‘hi.’

I set the basket of clothes on the bed. “Hi, Dad. What’s up?” I muted the TV showing a movie trailer for something called Fried Green Tomatoes. I heard my heart pumping, felt it pounding in my chest.

“Well, I thought maybe we could get together for dinner tomorrow night.” He paused, like he was lost how to continue. I sure was. My dad had never called and asked me out to dinner. Lunch a couple of times a year, but only if he was near my house or looking for someone to eat with when my mother wasn’t around.

“Why? What’s going on?”

“Nothing is going on. Your sister called and told Mom you wouldn’t be there tonight, and you’re leaving on a long trip soon, and I’d like to see you before you go. Is that okay?”

“Sure. I guess.” Not really, though, for a variety of reasons, notwithstanding the impromptu coffee date I’d scheduled for tomorrow night. “I’m meeting with someone at 8:00 tomorrow night.”

“Then why don’t we meet at Antonio’s at 6:00, and you can still make your date.” It was my father’s favorite Italian restaurant, right around the corner from his house on Ventura in the heart of Sherman Oaks. Though I found most of their dishes uninspired, they did have killer pizza — thin, crunchy crust, sweet, tangy tomato sauce, topped with just the right amount and different kinds of cheese and baked to bubbling perfection. “We can share some pasta, a pizza, a bottle of chianti.”

“I don’t drink, Dad,” I reminded him, though I shouldn’t have to after all the ridicule I’d endured from him over the years when I toast with water instead of wine. “But I’ll share a pizza with you tomorrow night. I’ll meet you at Antonio’s at 6:00.” As pervasive as my trepidation was becoming, Obligation insisted my only choice was to accept his invitation. He was my dad. “And hey, Papa — happy anniversary! It’s your 35th, isn’t it?”

He laughed. “Something like that.” He had no idea. “Thank you, baby. I’ll see you tomorrow night, just you and me. Here’s your mother,” was the last thing he said to me before handing the phone to my mom.

“Hi, Dolly.”

“Happy anniversary! Thirty-five years! Wow. That’s quite an achievement.”

“You bet it is. Thank you, sweetie. So, you’re not going to be at Carrie’s tonight?”

“No, Mom. I have to work. I’m sure Carrie told you that, too.”

“Your dad just mentioned something about you having a date tomorrow night after dinner? Is this someone new, or are you still seeing Lee?”

“I said a ‘meeting,’ Mom. Dad called it a ‘date.’ It’s not. It’s nothing.” Every part of me crawled with tension. I wanted her off my case, to get away from her, hang up. I was never seeing Lee, Mother, but I didn’t say it. The explanation would have taken longer than a convenient distortion of truth. “Lee and I probably aren’t going to work out to a long term thing, Mom. We decided to stop dating and move on.” I paused, waiting for some wry comment, but none came, though I could feel her displeasure. “I’m meeting a new guy tomorrow night for tea. He answered my ad from a while back in the Daily, just like Lee. I’m back in the saddle on the Quest for my Prince, Mother. Does that work for you?” I shut my mouth before something else bad came out of it.

“Hey, this isn’t about working for me, Dolly. I’m married 35 years today. Your brother is celebrating his 14th this year, and your sister her 10th.” She sighed heavily, sending the weight of her disappointment through the line. “Why do you make it so hard, Rachel Lynn?”

I wasn’t sure if she was referring to me and her, or just me in general, but I didn’t ask. I didn’t care. I just wanted to disconnect. “I’m fine, Mom.” I said it with my best Pollyanna lilt, but we both knew it a lie. “Sorry I’m going to miss your party tonight, Mom, but I have to work, which I need to get back to now so I can get out of here sooner than later.”

“Oh. Okay.” She sounded confused, seemingly unprepared for me to disengage. “Well, I hope you have a safe trip and enjoy your time in Colorado. Give Chris and her family my best.”

“I will.”

“And drive safely!” Mom’s tone was full of command but did not disguise her tenderness.

“I will, Mom. Have a great anniversary, and a good New Year’s at Carrie’s, with the usual gang, I assume?”

“Well, Dad and I, of course, and Stella and Mike, and Sherry and Lou. And Nancy Ann is bringing her fiancé this year, who I understand is a very nice kid. Of course, he’s not a kid. None of you are anymore.” She paused only a beat. “It’s just amazing how fast the years pass. It would sure be nice if you joined us one of them. God be willing when you find someone you’ll settle down.” She paused, leaving an opening for me to speak, but I kept my mouth shut. “I love you, Dolly.” She paused again, as if lost for anything else to say, and then disconnected without goodbyes. It always irked me, her just hanging up like she did. It left me continually waiting for closure.

I hung up the phone, found the remote on the end table and clicked off the TV. It suddenly occurred to me what the dinner with my father tomorrow night was all about. I was going to get dressed down, examined, deconstructed and found lacking. For sure, he’d blame me for my ‘breakup’ with Lee and then go on a diatribe about how I should be that I’m not. I knew it was coming. We’d done the scene many times in other iterations. Men really are the ‘freight train comin’ at ya.’

I’d been using the laundromat in the 7-Eleven strip mall around the corner from my parents’ house since I moved out. (The day I left, my mother informed me I was not welcome to do my laundry there, nor to show up for meals unannounced, nor stop by and raid the fridge. If I insisted on living on my own, then I should do just that.) I sat on the linoleum bench in the large, brightly lit room filled with rows of washers and walls of dryers and watched my clothes bob in thick, sudsy water through the round window on the industrial washer in front of me.

The place was empty, and mirrored my life. The two-day weekend took a month to pass without Lee. Time slowed to a crawl, and like the clocks on classroom walls, sometimes it seemed to move backwards. All weekend, I craved his powerful presence, his Cheshire smile focused on me, his sweet, carnal scent. I missed him, most everything about him, from his casual demeanor to his laconic laugh, to the attention he lavished on me and the intimate connection we’d so often shared. I considered calling him every other second, use the excuse of just checking to make sure we were still playing ball, but didn’t want to give him the opportunity to cancel, so I didn’t call. I was afraid of losing my best partner ever, going back to soft, and starving to kill calories, and the futile search for someone remotely like Lee to play with.

The first spin cycle on the washer began and ramped in velocity, making a high pitch whine. My clothes clung to the sides of the metal canister as it spun, opening a dark hole in the center. I wanted to jump in, want no more, hurt no more, be no more, and for a minute, it felt like I was, since no one saw me sitting there. Cars parked on the other side of the glass wall of the laundromat, and people went and out of the 7-Eleven, but nobody noticed me.

I was suddenly consumed with the need to be acknowledged, so I got up and went outside to the pay phone mounted to the wall between the laundry and the 7-Eleven and called Jon. He picked up on the second ring.

“This is Jon. Talk to me.” His voice was familiar and soothing.

For the next 15 minutes, I stood at that payphone and whined to Jon about the nature of men. Balding, beer guzzling, with a pot belly and limited prospects, and they still thought they were a great catch. Most were looking for a mother who doubled as their whore. I wanted more. The partnership I envisioned was drug-free, debt-free, with a binding connection based on mutual trust and respect. I defended my position with Lee and insisted I’d done the right thing for both of us in resisting the temptation to settle. But without him, Lonely consumed me again. And Desperation was on its heels, which is never pretty when dating. And if I stopped playing consistent ball, fat would surely follow, which makes dating downright ugly. So I implored Jon to tell me how to keep Lee as a friend, a racquetball partner and my only connection of late. And somewhere in there, Jon said he had a solution for at least one of my issues.

“I got a half ounce of some amazing smoke a while back. Most of it’s been sitting up in my closet for months. I’ll split whatever is left with you. I have to go in to work this morning. Where are you going to be in 30 minutes or so?” Jon was a film editor at Match Point Productions in Universal City, also known as Studio City (since Universal City isn’t a city at all but MGM Studios), 10 minutes from my house. And like most everyone back in high school, everyone in the [film] industry used. Coke and weed were staples, but drug of choice ran the range from anti-depressants, anti-anxiety, alcohol to amphetamines to X. Most everyone in the industry used something. It was de rigeur in the ’80s and ’90s in L.A.

“My clothes should be just finishing in the dryer, and then I have to fold them, so I’ll probably still be here at the laundromat. Why?”

“How about I swing by there in half hour or so on my way to the studio? I can’t really hang out, but I can turn you on and say bon voyage and all that.”

“You bet. Thanks Jon.” Yea! Jon was going to save me. And I never had to ask. After confirming my location, we disconnected and I went back to my laundry, pulled my clean damp clothes from the washer and put them into a dryer among the row of many. A quick search of my pockets yielded only two quarters, and I inserted two of them into the dryer and pressed high heat. Then I sat on a beige plastic chair attached to a steel rod connecting it to four more identical chairs and watched my clean clothes go ’round and ’round.

The idea of getting high burrowed into my brain and infected it with Want. I’d been straight all weekend, and I’d craved it as much as Lee. It too saved me from Lonely. Desperation would wane with high. I’d be free from caring too deeply. I’d absorb myself in writing, drawing, building, photography. It wouldn’t matter I was back to alone. I didn’t notice when I was with my imagination. With creativity came autonomy.

I couldn’t wait for Jon to get there. I stared out the floor-to-ceiling glass wall at cars come and go from the lot. The fog had cleared to a perfect bright blue sky. Not a cloud in it. As the morning wore on towards noon, the only person to come into the laundromat was an old Chinese woman from the dry cleaner’s next door. She hobbled in every 15 minutes or so rolling a metal cart with a big bundle of stuff, threw it all in the row of extra large machines, started them and then rolled the empty cart back to her cleaner’s.

Come on, Jon. I could taste it, smell it, the sweet, pungent smoke. I felt a hint of dizziness and imagined the heated rush of blood to my brain, followed by the anxiety drain, and smiled. Come on, Jon! The five parking spaces in front of the 7-Eleven were empty for what seemed unusually long. I tried to embrace the silence, but it didn’t work. The pings and dings of coins and such rattling around in the dryer with my clothes annoyed the hell out of me. There was no point in stopping the machine and collecting every single thing in there making noise. I couldn’t do anything about zippers and buttons and such.

Accept the things you cannot change. The problem is knowing what is unchangeable. I could, in fact, put only soft clothes like sweaters and such in the dryer and hang dry anything with hard components, but there was no way in hell I was doing that. Too much work, like trying to change Lee, though I still sat there considering the possibility. Perhaps with a little coaxing, he could become everything I wanted him to be. Maybe he’d change for me, we could help each other be better, and be happy together. I stared at the round window of the dryer door and watched splashes of color twirl in the sea of black clothes. I imagined what it’d be like to be in that swirl of clothes, spinning, spinning, spinning out of control.

You are, my intuition whispered.

The dryer came to a slow stop, and I stood and looked back out the glass wall, hoping to see Jon pulling up, but no such luck. The idea of having to wait around to connect was appalling and degrading. I always hated the hassle of scoring. It felt like whoring, soft whispers in dark alleys, exchanging money for pleasure. I bet people buying booze never feel that way, and acid never fucked me up as much as alcohol. I’d like to be able to walk into a liquor store and pick up a pack of joints instead of living scared I’d get busted with one. Our legal system was so full of shit, catering to the wealthy minority and the Christian reich. Bush’s little drug czar, William Bennett, could shove it up his ass. I got a metal basket and wheeled it over to my dryer, opened the door and took out my clothes. I dug my hands deep and pulled out an armful of warm jeans and sweaters and sweats and dropped them in the basket. They were soft and fluffy and smelled fresh and clean. Then I went back for more.

“Is this mine?”

I hadn’t heard him come in and startled when he spoke, banged my head on the metal rim of the dryer as I stumbled back with another load of clothes.

Jon held up his fleece shirt, one I’d borrowed one night after friendship sex and it never got back to him. He stood on the other side of the open dryer door, examining the shirt he’d removed from the basket between us. “This is mine, isn’t it? I’ve been looking for this for months.”

I finished clearing the dryer of my clothes and shut the door. Jon stood three feet from me, still holding his shirt. “It’s yours. Take it. It’s clean.” I smiled. “Good to see ya.”

“Good to see you.” He leaned forward and kissed me on the lips, closed mouth, asexually, and then straightened, keeping his eyes on mine as he spoke. “You look great! Very tight. Playing a lot of ball works for you.”

“And I just may lose the only partner I’ve had since you abandoned me.” I wheeled the cart piled with my clothes past him and over to the folding table. Jon followed.

“I didn’t abandon you. We just stopped playing. I’m right here, my dear.” He said it sort of slyly, then moved up behind me and grabbed me around the waist with one arm. “I miss playing with you. I do. I do.” He pressed up against me, pushing my crotch into the edge of the linoleum shelf, and gently moved his pelvis and hardening penis against the crack of my ass.

I whipped around and pushed him back. “Stop it, Jon. Get off,” I insisted, but tried to keep my tone light and jokey. It’s true, Jon and I had gotten into some wild sex in the past. It had always been just for fun with never any thought to commitment. We were safe and always used a condom, and that was about the only two rules. We’d play for months if neither of us was seeing anyone. And right then, ostensibly, neither one of us was. But for some reason, it felt dirty — him touching me like he was. It made me feel cheap.

“I’d love to get off with you. Name the time and place — yours or mine?” Jon smiled at me, his hazel eyes flickered with humor, his gaunt face even more angular from his twisted, thin-lipped grin. He stood in front of the row of connected chairs against the glass wall. His tall, thin, tight frame was somewhat silhouetted with the noon sun blazing down outside. His straight brown hair hung on the shoulders of his loose black T-shirt that he’d tucked into worn 501s. He held a black leather organizer under his arm. Very chic. Jon generally looked hip, slick and trendy. Most of Hollywood did. It’s part of the price of admission.

“So, you said on the phone that you and Mary are through? What happened? I thought you were so sure she was the one,” I asked as I turned back to folding my clothes.

“She said she couldn’t trust that only my eyes wandered. I should never have told her about Allison, and Leslie.” Jon flashed a quick grin, put his fleece shirt on a chair and moved next to me, then put his organizer on the folding table. He unzipped it and took out a pack of Marlboro Lights, extracted a cigarette and lit it with a sterling silver lighter, then put the lighter back in the case and pulled out a baggie of buds. “Here.” He handed me the weed, plain as day, as if he were giving me a bag of cookies.

I took it and pocketed it. “Thanks. Looks yummy.”

“It is, trust me.”

I did, too. For the eight years I’d known him, Jon was a recreational user of just about anything. He wasn’t an addict, except with work and women, and the latter were for their entertainment value, and interchangeable. Jon wasn’t emotionally wired. It’s why we were still friends. He never took me to heart. I don’t think it’s possible for Jon to really take anyone or anything to heart, which is why I’d never considered him for more than just a friend.

“Mary was right. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. She’s beautiful and smart and accomplished. And she’s still not enough.” Jon took a drag off the cigarette and exhaled it, and the bright room clouded with harsh tobacco smoke. “It’s just that there are so many women and so little time.” He delivered the line with Hollywood cadence and gave a little shrug before zipping his black case, sticking it under his arm and turning back toward the glass wall. He leaned back against the end of the table and stared outside, still seemingly lost in his own thoughts.

“Maybe you’re just not ready to settle down, Jon.” And you probably never will be, but I didn’t say that because he already knew it, and there was no reason to be contentious. “Mary is a big-time producer and gorgeous and all, but honestly, she has a stick up her ass right through her brain. I love her ‘success breeds success’ rap, like no one knows who her daddy is. She really is a bitch, Jon. You’re better off without her.”

“Like you are without Lee?” He stared at me, his head cocked to one side.

Ouch. It felt like he slapped me. “I was never with Lee. We were just friends, like you and me, friends and racquetball partners.”

“And all-night backgammon games, trendy dinners at expensive restaurants, making elaborate meals together. You even took him to meet your wacked-out family. It was like you dropped off the planet when you met him. Come on, Rachel. Lee was more than just a replacement for me.”

He could be right, of course. But I’d be damned if I’d admit it. “No one can replace you, honey.” I gave him my best mocking grin. “You’re one of a kind, Jon.” I softened my smile to let him know I meant it.

He smiled back at me. “And you’re an original, Ray. It’s one of the things I love about you.” He leaned over and gave me a quick peck on the lips and then pushed off from the edge of the table where I stood folding my clothes. “I’ve gotta jam. I have to work all day.” Jon worked most every day. “Have fun in Colorado. And take it easy out there.” He pulled me in and hugged me in his warm yet separate way. “I’ve missed you.” He spoke softly in my ear. “I’ll see ya when you get back. Maybe we can get a game on — get back into playing.” Jon released me, and we stood a foot from each other for a second. “You worry me, kid. Hardcore coating with a marshmallow center.” He sighed and shook his head. “Be careful. Take care.”

“I will.”

“Good.” Then he put the back of his hand to my face and gently guided his fingers over my cheek. “See ya,” he said before turning away, picking up his fleece shirt off the chair and walking out.

I wished him a good holiday and thanked him again as he left the laundromat. And I was back to being alone in there. But I didn’t care. I piled my clean clothes into my white plastic basket and went home. And got high. I sat on my bed, on top of my blue quilt, flicked on the TV, pulled out the Frisbee with rolling papers and a lighter in it from under my bed, rolled a joint and smoked it. I went through most of it during the two hours I sat there watching reruns of the sit-com Taxi. I thought to get up and do something creative a hundred times, but then my absolute favorite episode came on, the one where the main character, Alex, buys a painting and then all the others buy a piece of art, too, to prove they are as cultured. The storyline is witty and the writing taut as each character explores and eventually discovers the beauty and purpose of fine art.

The clock on my VCR’s LED read 3:45. I hustled off the left side of the bed to the laundry basket I’d dropped by the closet door and pulled out my standard workout wear. I dressed in black, skin-tight leggings, black bra and a black cotton tee while watching the end of the show, where each character is admiring their own art selection. I was so fully captivated by Taxi, I didn’t notice the red light on my answering machine blinking until I went looking for my keys, which I finally found on my drafting table, and by then, I was running late and didn’t take the time to replay the message.

Chapter Nine

I got to the courts at 4:02, ran from my car, past the empty front desk, and stopped at the center of the long narrow hallway. Six doors extended to either side of me, three on each side. Which one was he in? I listened for the echoing bounce of a ball in play but heard none. I stood there another second, then went left, checked the little window in each of the three doors, but no one was on those courts. I checked the right three courts. They were empty as well. I waited in the long hallway for a few minutes, then went to the front desk.

There was no message for me. I waited another 10 minutes for Lee to show up. When he didn’t, I got back in my car and drove home. Intuition mocked the folly of Faith all the way back to the house. And I hated myself right then, knowing I’d just lost another friend. I had so few, yet kept chasing people away. At least that’s what my mom would say.

“I have to cancel our game today. I’m not feeling well.” Lee’s deep voice resonated from the tape of my answering machine. “I swear I’m not making this up, Rachel. I went mountain biking with some friends yesterday, and I just feel wiped. Forgive me.” He paused, and I thought disconnected, but then he said, “I’m not sure about our Wednesday game, either. I banged my knee up in a collision with a rock, and it’s really messed up. I know you’re leaving on Friday, so I guess we can play when you get back. I mean, I hope we do.” He paused again. “Hey, have a good New Year’s. And I’ll talk to you in ’92.” He remained on the line for several beats. I heard rustling, then the soft click of my machine stopping the tape.

I stared down at my machine. When it remained quiet, I looked outside. Lee and I were through, before we ever got started. Most of my dating life, including the three years I’d been placing ads, I had no connection with any of the men I met except Lee, and I’d just blown it with him. He might be the greatest guy on the planet and I’d dismissed him because of some stupid voice inside me, which was probably Fear masquerading as Intuition. I was an idiot. And I was truly alone again, with no possibilities, and without Lee to thwart Lonely. Then my skin started to crawl with the frenzied anxiety that comes from withdrawal.

I focused out the side window on my neighbors’ manicured lawn to find some ground. The sun had already set, and pines and palms were silhouetted against a twilight sky that blended from emerald to azure. It cast the bedroom in soft blue. “Tangled up in Blue. . .” I heard Dylan in my head, and I crumpled inside. Tears streamed down my face, and I stood there with my hand over my mouth, silently crying. Face was curled in her beanbag sleeping and didn’t notice. Typical. Dogs missed too much to fill the void of alone. The TV was dark, and beckoned. I needed a distraction before blackness consumed me.

After erasing his message and resetting the machine, I found the remote and clicked a few channels before landing on Close Encounters of the Third Kind, one of my all-time favorite movies. I took off my Nikes, sat cross-legged on top of my quilt, got the Frisbee from under my bed and put it in my lap, then rolled a joint and smoked it. Fear, desire and shame slowly ebbed. And as I let the movie absorb me, it wasn’t so hard not to feel.

I promised myself I wouldn’t use all day Tuesday, and I didn’t. I needed to be sharp for dinner with Dad. I paid bills and billed clients, cleared my desk of unwanted printouts and edited articles, technical pens and pads of ruled paper, straightened my room and packed. Since I owned no real winter wear, with no need of it growing up in L.A., I threw just about every piece of clothing and pair of socks I had in my backpack to keep me warm in Colorado. I took care of what needed to get done so Wednesday morning I could get up and go. Every time I thought of Lee, or meeting my father for dinner, or my mother’s concerned face, or my sister’s patronizing one, I tried to focus on the tasks at hand and road trip ahead and the freedom that came with leaving my real world behind. It didn’t work, though. Most of the day, I felt lonely and scared and fought the craving to get high, which has always been my only way of compartmentalizing.

The only thing good about dinner was the pizza. I sat across from my father in Antonio’s dark dining room. Bundles of fake red and white grapes hung from the trellis ceiling over the dark, patent leather booths lined in two long rows crowding the room. We had a middle booth against the outside wall with its narrow set of windows displaying Ventura Boulevard. I stared beyond the warped wood frames all evening, wishing I could jump through. My father spent almost two hours straight with his solemn face on, trying to convince me I would never find someone to spend my life with if I didn’t change.

“You’re like a tornado, sucking everything in around you. You come off too strong, too smart, too intense, Rachel. And if they stick around long enough to get to know you, and what you seem to require, they run for the hills.” He stared at me with sanctimonious, green-grey eyes as he delivered the line, then he looked down at his pizza, picked it up and balanced it on the tips of his long, elegant fingers as he took a bite.

“I didn’t chase Lee away, Dad. At least not like you think.” The truth of what happened with Lee empowered me. “He didn’t leave me because we were never together. My choice.” I felt somewhat vindicated and allowed myself a bite. The pizza crunched between my teeth, and the tangy tomato sauce shot into my mouth and blended with the sizzling baked cheese as I chewed. Sweet, crunchy, salty, smooth all raced to my brain and tickled pleasure.

“Lee is a waste of your time. He’s a salesman, and he’s trying to sell you, and you don’t need that. Especially you. You have no tolerance for crap. It’s one of your problems. You see too much. And then you seem to have the need to share your observations, and then expect them to be appreciated. But every time you show a man you know more about them than they do, they’ll resent you for it. Nobody likes to be told what they’re feeling before they know themselves, Rachel. Most men don’t want your insights. They want a safe place to come home to.” Leave it to my dad, hell, my entire family to diminish my few assets by including them in my faults.

“Insight is not a curse, dad.”

“It sure as hell is if you never figure out how to use it to your advantage. The only power in knowledge is in its use. Exposing hidden truths and so vehemently professing them doesn’t win friends and influence people. All it does is alienate.” He took another bite, a deliberate pause for dramatic delivery. “No man wants to be with a woman who challenges him. You insist on holding up a looking glass, and maybe one in a thousand won’t turn away. And you just don’t have the time left to play those odds.”

“So you’re telling me to shut up and settle?” I didn’t let him answer. I was wound tight as a wire. “Well, I don’t think I’m expecting too much wanting a man who has evolved beyond omnipotence.” But even as I said the words, I didn’t believe them.

“Keep dreaming, baby.” He took a sip of his chianti, then swirled the ruby red liquid in his glass and took another sip before putting the wineglass back on the table. “Antiquated though they may seem, the roles — the dance — of men and women has worked for thousands upon thousands of years. And the fact is, men still want to look strong and smart and powerful to women.” He took another slice of pizza and balanced it nimbly on his fingers again and then took a bite off the tip and savored it. “Larry and Carrie are so good together because your sister provides what he needs. She doesn’t probe him for how he’s feeling or what he’s thinking about. She doesn’t ask him about his business or finances. She lets him ponder the larger issues, and she keeps her opinions to herself. She lets him run the show. And in turn, he provides her with a nice home and a stable environment. He lets her run the family, raise the children.”

“I need more from my relationship than Carrie does. I want to be more than someone’s wifey.”

“Don’t say it with such disdain. It isn’t such a bad setup. Your sister is happy. Can you make the same claim?” He ate a last bit of crust and wiped the grease from his mouth and chin on his cloth napkin.

“I don’t want Carries life, Dad.” I should have just dropped it, but I was on a roll. I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. “And just as a heads-up, Carrie isn’t all that happy. She complains to me constantly that Larry is distant and how hard she works to get him to pay attention and participate with the family. She’s scared and lonely most of the time, and she’s always frustrated and angry just below the surface. I have no desire to emulate her life.” I finally shut up and ate my pizza.

He smiled this wily, gentle grin. “Your sister will always find something to complain about. She doesn’t know what else to do with herself between her many distractions. Larry has been more than tolerant catering to her flights of fancy.” He took another bite of pizza and chewed like a lazy, happy bull. “Rachel Lynn, you are not 10 years old anymore, playing in the fort at the end of the block with Michael. He was another waste of your time. Michael was a typical kid who grew up to be an average man, and you wasted way too many years trying to recapture your unencumbered youth while berating him for being the archetype he is.”

“I didn’t berate him. I let him go. I didn’t go with him back East after college because I finally figured out he was like most every other guy, a consummate hedonist.”

“Why do you label it like that? The fact is men are born autonomous. Women are naturally maternal. And the burden falls on the woman to bring a man to her and even his children — to steal him away from himself. And you’ll never get there with tactical assaults.” He seemed completely oblivious to how his words damned me.

I suck at Poise and Demure — two character traits my father feels all women should possess and all real men want. He was setting me up to fail in my Quest if the only way to secure a relationship was his antiquated approach. “Men no longer get to sit on high, looking down when they care to. And I don’t want to steal a man. He should come to me of his own volition, with an open mind and an open heart he’s looking to share.” On a white horse, and I sighed, and sagged, disheartened to hear myself think it.

“You know, baby, you can push the boundaries your entire life, but people who do usually live and die lonely.” He must have noticed that I was shrinking from him because he sighed heavily and his expression softened. “My beautiful daughter, why do you insist on fighting windmills?” He shook his head as if to himself, then picked up his glass, twirled the ruby wine in it and then took a long draw. He stared at me as he swallowed, then took another gulp, emptying the glass. It didn’t seem fair he could legally relieve his tension with alcohol and I was denied the right to spark up a joint to alleviate mine.

Tomorrow, my intuition whispered. Tomorrow I could leave, exit this scene with a puff of smoke. I too would become autonomous, tune out the world and my role in it, focus on myself alone. I’d let my imagination carry me down the road and pretend to be a man, wear my 501 Levi’s with that space in the crotch for male parts and imagine I have them. I’d feel tough, driven, powerful, strong and self-contained. I’d want for nothing while engaged with my creativity. Tomorrow I’d be free.

I didn’t even taste my last few bites of pizza. All those calories for naught. I went into the dim, cramped bathroom covered with yellowing posters of Italy glazed onto the walls, stuck my finger down my throat and threw up — a neat little trick I learned from my sister when she confessed her anorexia to our mother 10 years back. I’d done it every few months since, in an effort to minimize the damage of caloric excess, but beyond that, it often felt like I was trying to purge everything inside — get rid of me.

Back at the table, Dad’s credit card sat in the little tray on top of the dinner bill. My father wiped his mouth again and then folded his napkin into a small tight square as I spoke. I thanked him for dinner, made my excuses to leave and stood. He stood, too, and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and a long, enveloping hug. For a second, he transferred his love and I felt safe, and then I sensed his disappointment and felt sad and wanted to run, but I released myself from his arms and held his hands instead.

“I love you, Dad.” I looked him straight in the eyes and felt it to my core, hoping I was transferring and he was receiving.

“I love you, baby. Be safe out there.” And he smiled and winked, then let go of my hands, distracted by the proximity of the waiter who came to our table to collect the bill. I seized the moment for my exit, bid my father goodbye and left the restaurant.

When I turned the engine on, the clock on my car stereo read 7:15 in deep red LED display. Only forty five minutes before my coffee ‘date’ with David? Darrell? It started with a D . . . or maybe a B. I couldn’t remember his name to save my life. He’d called last week with some story about losing my number from the Daily ad until now. He sounded nice enough, said he worked in the video industry, was a resident of Westwood and a native of Beverly Hills. I agreed to meet him then, always open to new prospects since Lee and I were just friends. But after dinner with Dad, I had no desire to go out with yet another blind date. How was I ever going to get to sparkly and light after my father’s verbal lashing?

I pulled into my driveway and all the way back to the garage and parked. I felt as dark inside as it was outside. My father is right. I expect — ‘require’ was his word — too much. I’d be single the rest of my life unless I killed the notion of finding a man who pays as much attention as I give. Women’s senses and psyche naturally extend outward — ‘maternal,’ my father had called it. We require bonding, which is why, in part, we are driven to have kids. I’d been searching for a man to meet me halfway, in most every way, hoping to prove my father wrong. The problem is, he isn’t wrong. Most men I’ve known think being the breadwinner absolves them of further obligations. It gives them the right to be narcissists. And I don’t know how to pretend that works for me.

Bruce, my 8:00 p.m. coffee date, left a message on my machine ‘just checking in’ to make sure we were still meeting and to call him if we weren’t, and he left me his number. If he was coming from Westwood, he’d have left already. There was no way to reach him to cancel, and I had a strict rule about never standing anyone up if at all possible. So I sat on my bed flipping through the channels and smoked a joint for the half hour before my meeting. It was the only way I knew to get to at least attentive without too much resentment.

We met at the Lamplighter on Van Nuys, a small coffee shop with good pie and friendly waitresses who knew me. Bruce was almost 20 minutes late. I sat there nursing my tea, thinking he wasn’t going to show up at all, and felt mad at him and all men for being such self-centered pricks. When he finally did show up, I wasn’t perky, or self-confident, or strong. I wasn’t high anymore. I was just tired.

He apologized profusely, said he got lost easily, especially in the Valley. I ignored the slight and told him he was forgiven, even though I still felt pissed. He was sort of cute, ethnic features of Eastern European descent, with deep brown eyes and thick brown hair. Tall and very thin (the way I like them). We talked for a couple of hours. I asked simple, direct questions without innuendo and tried not to be too probing or too challenging. He was articulate, told me he’d graduated Berkeley with an MA in social work only two years earlier, was passionate about film and loved his job managing a sizable chain of Warehouse video stores his daddy owned. He rarely turned questions around. I gave him only a brief synopsis of what I did for a living but went into more detail about my upcoming trip when I tired of interviewing him. When we said good night, he asked if I would like to go out with him after I got back from Colorado. I said I would, only to soothe both our egos. He hugged me goodbye at my car, but his hug was stiff and awkward, like hugging a stone column, and left me cold. I knew then I’d never see Bruce again.

Damn me. I missed Lee. I missed his touch, his smell, his smile, his focused attention. I wanted him with me, wanting me, pursuing me, and I fantasized about him kissing me, remembered his hug and feeling safe. And I cursed myself all the way back to the house for wanting to be with him, knowing I should not.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. I repeated it endlessly as I lay in bed, then finally smoked a joint to kill the voices in my head. Tomorrow, I could escape, leave behind Lonely, make believe I was a man and reach autonomy.

J. Cafesin, a native Californian, is a freelance writer of fiction, essays and copy. Disconnected is her second novel. The first was Reverb, the story of a man who is consumed by his music until he undergoes a bizarre journey that awakens him to the world outside himself. She also has written a science fiction screenplay and a collection of young adult short stories and has a website, j. cafesin. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and two children — a son, 9, and a daughter, 6.