This Ugly Dog's Life

New Ugly

2007-04-18T20:53:00.000-04:00

I am still updating this blog, but I have moved it to its own website with a new - yet ugly - design.

Please update your This Ugly Dog's Life bookmark to its new url, www.getugly.org/blog. Or you can wait for this page to auto-direct to the new site in about 10 seconds. You will also be able to modify your RSS feed over there if you read the posts that way.

This page will remain for the next few months as I migrate my posts and readers to the new site.

The Hand That Feeds

2007-02-26T17:41:00.000-05:00

Aggravation. That and fatigue. That, and coming down from a huge alcoholic buzz after a five hour flight. Those three things – aggravation, fatigue, and the fading effects of the buzz – didn’t make for a pleasant departure from my aircraft into Philadelphia airport.

The aggravation was almost self-explanatory: I hated flying. I hated it so much that the only way I knew to deal with it was through mass volumes of alcohol. If I was lucky I’d fall asleep and miss out on the flight entirely but that was rarely the case. This time the aggravation was even more so after finding out from Jenna at Wired that I could only get on a flight as a standby passenger, and that always meant the worst seat on the plane, as if there was any other.

Fatigue was almost self-explanatory as well: From the moment I got off the phone with Kevin Kelly of Wired magazine regarding his assignment, I’d been racing to get things ready and make arrangements to leave town 24 hours later. By the time I was at the airport I realized I’d left half of the things I’d meant to pack at home. I’d forgotten to make some phone calls. And when I made the most important one – to Stacy, the girl I had been dating recently – she didn’t sound the least bit surprised when I told her we’d have to postpone my promised weekend in the mountains.

“This sounds like a blow off,” she coldly replied after hearing my story about Kevin Kelly, about Wired, and about Philcon.

“No, I really have to go. He called me on the way home from your place last night. The guy who was all lined up for this convention backed out. It came together at the last minute. Really.”

“So, if I were to call Stephanie this weekend I don’t suppose she would know where you are? She wouldn’t roll over in bed and hand the phone to you?”

“Jesus Christ, I can’t believe we’re still talking about this.” For a woman who maintained that she wasn’t jealous, she sure wavered a lot.

“Well, are we? Are we?” she questioned.

“I don’t have time for this,” I replied. “I have to go. My flight’s just boarded the first class passengers and they’ll begin loading the rest of us any minute.”

She started to say something but was drowned out by the overhead speaker in the terminal announcing a gate change. When she repeated it she’d backed off her stance.

“I’m sorry. I can be passive-aggressive at times. Especially when I suspect somebody else is involved.”

The term is delusional, I thought to myself. Still, I thought better of burning the bridge. She did have her moments when she could be as sweet as a schoolgirl with a crush. And she had a body to die for.

“I have to go,” I responded, not acknowledging her last comment. “I’ll call you once I am back in town and my story has been filed.”

“You’re gonna forget,” she teased.

“I am not going to forget,” I maintained.

“I’m joking. Okay, have a good trip. By-” I hung up on her before she finished.

The fatigue factor usually resolved itself through sleep, but being that I was going to fly, rest would have to wait until I was good and liquored up. Usually that meant having a stiff one at home, taking a cab to the airport ahead of schedule so I could plop down in the terminal bar and have some overpriced Jack and Cokes while watching SportsCenter repeats and waiting for my flight to board. Today’s plan fared differently, however. The planned early arrival was cut short due to heavy traffic on the 405 freeway, and by the time I’d reached the check-in counter I was just a half hour away from the scheduled boarding time. That left time for only one drink in the bar, and I knew I had to make it count. I had barely downed my double Ketel One martini when the overhead PA announcement went off for my flight. Now I’d be nervous; nervous, fatigued, and far below my consumption level for flying. I felt sorry for the poor person who would have to sit next to me.

Luckily a modicum of rescue came in the form of Jeannette, the statuesque flight attendant servicing the rear of the plane. When she saw the fear in my eyes she leaned in to calm me.

“First time flying, hun?”

“No, but every time I wish it would be the last.”

“That’s so sad to hear! Fear of heights?”

“No.” I paused and looked around at the people in the surrounding rows. Some were so bored they strained to listen, as though we might be sharing some great news from the outside world. We’d been in the air for not even an hour and already it felt like it had been days.

“I’ve never gotten used to the idea of being comfortable in a flying metal death trap,” I told her.

“Now now,” she said while she curled her bronzed hair behind her ears and stooped a bit lower to talk, as if speaking to a child, “it is a well established fact that airline travel is one of the safest ways to get across the country.”

“That was in Rainman, and this isn’t Quantas we're flying,” I scoffed. I was getting more nervous. I gripped both arms of the seat hard.

“Well, you’re stuck with me for the next few hours,” she replied. “How do you normally deal with your flying fears?”

“By getting housed.”

“Excuse me?”

“Housed. Sauced. Stinking, filthy drunk,” I responded.

She nodded in acknowledgement. “A lot of people do that.” She removed a hand from her knee and stood upright, adjusting the wrinkles in her uniform sweater vest.

“I don’t suppose at this point you’d be the discriminating type. I’ll see if I can bring you a bottle of Johnnie Walker to help you cope.”

I smiled faintly. Most people would shun the alcohol for some alternative form of treatment like pills, but the flight attendant understood my needs. She also understood that if the booze made me a calmer passenger, then those around me would likely be more at ease too.

“Thank you, uh…”

"Jeannette.” She tapped at the plastic golden name badge pinned to her vest. “The name is Jeannette.” She leaned in again. “And don’t think you’re going to be able to suck down as many bottles as you like. The airline has a strict policy regarding alcohol consumption while traveling and enforcing it is no laughing matter.”

I held my palms outward in a Mea Culpa manner. “I understand. And if there’s more drinking to be done you and I will just have to get a cocktail once we’re on the ground in Philadelphia.”

She smiled. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Tiger. I already have plans with my fiancé once we land. But don’t worry – I have a few single girlfriends who are as presumptuous as you. Maybe I could arrange something.” She laughed and walked towards the service area of the aircraft.
___________________________________________________________________

“Hey buddy, where to?”

“Wherever the nerds hang out.”

“Huh?”

I smiled as I plopped my carry on onto the seat beside me. “Marriott downtown.” I paused while I consulted my itinerary sheet. “The one on Market Street.”

“Relax buddy, I know where it is.” The cabbie started the meter and pulled into traffic.

After a few minutes of silence he spoke up again. “You attending that convention there?”

“Yes, but not as a fan. I’m covering it for a magazine.”

“Yeah? Those whack jobs actually get some press attention?” he asked.

I laughed. “Whack jobs, huh?”

“Well,” he began, his voice gravelly with the bass of lifetime chain smoker, “you know…Mammas boys. The guys playing their computer games. They never get laid.”

“That’s a lot of assumptions there, pal. What if I told you I was one of those guys?”

He paused for a few seconds, clawing at the skin under his five o’clock shadow. “But you’re not, are you?”

I shook my head.

“Yeah, I knew it, see. You look like the type of person who gives a crap about how he looks. You’re getting laid – somewhere, somehow.”

“Well, as long as you’re sure.” He laughed a loud, bellowing guffaw.

“So,” I continued, “what’s there to do in this town that’s fun?”

The cabbie started to slow. “Hold on, I gotta take this turn onto Broad Street slow, because…” he slammed on the brakes and honked, waving his fist at a car that cut him off. “…’cause there’s this blind spot where assholes cut you off!” He shook his head. “Sorry, you were saying? Oh yeah, what to do. Stay inside and drink, that’s what there’s to do.”

“Charming. That’s it?”

“Believe me, after a day with your nerd friends, that’s what you’ll need,” he laughed. “Seriously though,” he continued, pointing out the window, “it’s winter in case you hadn’t notice. A lot of stuff here shuts down.”

“Too bad,” I commented.

“You can still find stuff to do. I mean, you can’t go to Constitution Center or Independence Park because of the weather – or Carpenter Hall or Washington Square or Logan Square, come to think of it – but you can still do other things, like eat. We know how to eat.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said disappointingly. “Cheese steaks.”

The cabbie dismissed the notion. “Nah, that’s what everyone thinks we’re about, but it ain’t. You like Russian food? There’s this place on John Kennedy Boulevard that has the best borscht and goose with apples. Don’t know how we ended up with a street named for JFK. He ain’t from around here, he never did anything special here. He’s from Massachusetts, and New York has an airport named for him. So why we have a JFK anything is beyond me.” He turned around and grinned at me through the plexi glass divider. “The irony of having a Russian joint on his street is damn funny, though.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I replied.

The cabbie turned the car onto Sansom Street and in the distance I could see the Marriott sign.

“If you just want to grab a bite, go across from your hotel to the Gallery Market. You can find all kinds of stuff.” He paused. “Though I have to warn you, a lot of your fellow conventioners will be there, on account of them being afraid to venture too far out from the nest.”

We pulled up to the hotel driveway. “The Marriott Downtown…on Market,” he announced.

The doorman opened the door. “Welcome to the downtown Marriott, sir.”

“On Market!!” the cabbie added from inside the car with a howl. I shook my head and stepped out of the cab, trying to hold down a laugh. The cabbie was right; it was winter, and it was cold. Not as cold or with the accompanying biting winds that I remember of Toronto winters, but cold nonetheless. A giant thermometer mounted on the wall above the valet desk read low forties. A dusting of snow was on the ground, and in the airport on my way out to the cab line I’d noticed a newspaper headline promising more snow this weekend. I paid the cabbie, tipped the bellman who was loading my bag and carry on onto his cart, and asked the valet to point me in the direction of the Philcon registration desk.

Once I checked in I found my way to the registration desk. I was handed a packet with somebody else’s typed name blacked out and mine written off to the side with a Sharpie pen.

“Last minute replacement,” the guy running the table asked. It was more a statement than a question.

“Yes. Wired called for relief from the bullpen,” I replied, trying to make it sound like I was somebody they should care about.

The ploy worked. The man sat up in his metal folding chair and smiled. “Well, to give you some quick background we not only are a gathering place for writers and fan groups of the horror, fantasy, and science fiction genres, we’re also one of the largest exhibitors of science fiction themed art.”

“Is that a fact?” I asked, trying to sound interesting.

“It is, it is,” he repeated, “both in flat and 3D artwork,” he added. “There will be a charity art auction on Sunday. You can contact Joni Dashoff for more information on that. It’s all in the packet.” He paused and frowned. “Don’t you want to write this stuff down?” he asked.

I tapped my forefinger to my head. “It’s all up here.” I smiled. “I won’t forget.”
___________________________________________________________________

It was only three hours into the Philcon convention and already I was maxed out on a lifetime allotment of nerd lifestyle, nerd philosophy, and nerd culture. I’d just come from a keynote address in the main ballroom delivered by sci-fi writer David Weber, who lamented the death of pacifism in the sci-fi writer’s community. He felt the passive voice in stories of galaxies at war had been supplanted by the need to be graphic in order to sell more books. I looked about the half-filled room and thought, he’s selling books? I picked up a copy of his latest, In Fury Born from a table in the rear where they were being sold and read the reviews on the back of the jacket: “Packs enough punch to blast a starship to smithereens,” said Publishers Weekly. That didn't sound like something a guy bemoaning the death of pacifism would write, I thought, but then again, at least the guy was getting published.

I walked towards one of the breakout rooms where the next symposium, a discussion on Star Trek founder Gene Roddenberry’s universe and its impact on the science fiction genre, was to occur. Kill me now.

“Hey,” said a voice, and I looked up just in time to avoid colliding with her. She was dressed up as a sci-fi princess of some sort. “You’re with Wired? That’s so cool! I read that magazine all the time.” She’d made out the overly large “WIRED MAGAZINE” printed on my credential pass swinging from my neck lanyard.

“No, not the magazine, it’s their website component. Wired blogs, if you will,” I said.

“That’s still cool. It’s cooler than being paid to dress up as the princess from the Hyperverse comics.”

“I don’t know,” I started, “the last time I was paid to dress up like a princess…” she laughed.

“I’m Lynda,” she said. “Glad to meet you, Tom.”

“Tom? Why do you think I’m a Tom?” I realized she got it from the badge. I never noticed they hadn’t updated the credential badge after the last guy – I guess his name was Tom – bowed out.

“They didn’t change the badge after the first guy Wired got to do this had to cancel. I’m Reed,” I told her.

“Well, nice to meet you Reed. That’s a much better name than Tom, anyhow.”

“Watch it, Lynda, flattery gets you everywhere,” I joked. “So what do you do here, exactly.”

Lynda sighed. “Oh, you know, you get your picture taken with the fans, you learn the chronology and storylines so you can answer the fan boy questions. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had my ass squeezed in the last day. But then again it’s probably been ages since any of them have seen a girl.”

I suppose where you live determines the levels to which beauty is equated. I think the women of Los Angeles - where the importance of looks, beauty, and fashion are paramount - would blow the women of Philadelphia out of the water on the quality scale. That being said, Lynda was still a very good looking woman, likely no older than 21 or 22. She was used to hanging out with a certain crowd, and the fan base of Philcon was definitely not that crowd. That was probably the reason she approached me to begin with: I was more in her comfort zone.

“Do you have to go listen to all the seminars?” she asked.

“Yeah, a good sampling of them. My strategy will be to jump from room to room and get a good overview of the place.” I dug a schedule out of my packet and handed it to her. “It’s a good thing too, because some of these topics are simply horrendous.”

She giggled as she read over the seminar schedule. “Time Travel for Idiots. Dark Matter and Dark Energy. Harry Potter and the Menace of Puberty. Fun With Drawing Robots. My Other Car is a Rocket. God, these are horrible!”

“They are, aren’t they,” I agreed. “How long do they have you parading around for the masses?” I asked.

“They have me ‘parading’ until 6,” Lynda responded.

“Well then, would a space age princess be interested in escorting a lowly member of the press to a nearby bar for a drink or a bite to eat?”

She laughed again. “Okay, but I’m changing first. You’re nuts to think I’m going out in the cold like this.” She tossed her blonde hair over her shoulder and slightly adjusted the girdle under her princess dress. Girdle aside, she looked like she needed to adjust little to look good. She looked like the type of girl who was used to looking good and got places because of it.

“Where do you want to go?” She asked. I never got a recommendation from the cabbie on decent bars in the area, only the Russian restaurant on JFK Boulevard. There was no way I was going to woo a girl over Russian food. That spelled failure from the start.

“I don’t know. You’re from around here, right? What do you suggest?” I asked, turning the tables on her.

Lynda stroked her chin in thought as if challenged to come up with the premier spot in town. “Standard Tap over on Second Street is always a good one. Good beer and hanging out.”

"There you go,” I said in agreement.

“Hold on mister, I’m not done yet!” Lynda exclaimed, planting a mock slap on my wrist. “Standard Tap isn’t the only place where we can have a good time. There’s Fergie’s Pub just down the street from here, and then there’s Tattooed Mom on the other side of town. Good burgers there when the kitchen is open. Let’s see…umm, there’s also Johnny Brenda’s in fishtown, but that’s not really a bar.”

Lynda attempted to keep going but I stopped her, putting my arms around the edges of her shoulders and squeezing.

“I’m sure all those places are great. Tell you what – I will put myself in your hands and you can be my guide tonight. Pick a place, a place you would want to go to. Don’t try to guess what I would like.”

She smiled.

“It will be fine,” I reassured her.

“So, I suppose a hot-shot media type like you is staying here in the hotel, huh?”

I nodded.

“I’ll pick you up around 7:30 then.” She winked and gathered up the bottoms of her princess outfit so she wouldn’t trip.

“Have fun making nice with the nerds today.”
___________________________________________________________________

I was going to take my life soon, I was certain of it. Plunging a ball point pen through my rib cage and into my heart never seemed as genius an idea as it did now. I’d navigated an insufferable afternoon of nerdish love topics, culminating in a seminar entitled “Logical Language Group Meets the Klingon Language Institute,” a juxtaposition of English and the made-up farcical language of the villains of the Star Trek television shows and movie franchise. Most of the banter involved a heated conversation around the finite levels of Klingon math and how its numerology compared with its real-life counterpart. With each utterance of their gibberish I found myself coming up with new and inventive ways to roll my eyes. By the second half of the session I had given myself a headache.

The session ended with little fanfare and as I packed my notes and laptop, the moderators approached me.

“Hey you, you’re the guy from Wired covering Philcon, right?” the lanky one of the bunch asked.

I nodded.

“We know you guys don’t think much of our event,” interjected another, a much shorter and stouter young man.

“Is there a question in there?” I asked.

“No, a message,” responded the lanky one. “You can tell your bosses to not make so much fun of us.”

“Yeah,” the stout one chimed in.

The third guy, a bearded stoner looking college kid, remained silent.

“You got anything to add, Cheech?” I asked the third guy, who remained silent.

“You’re probably some hired gun, because every year it’s a different person coming out here, but just because we are Star Trek fan boys and comic book readers gives you no right to write us off like second class citizens,” added the stout one.

“Well, at least you know what you’ll be in for when this gets published,” I said with a wince. I didn’t know these guys and I had no personal reason to mock them, but after spending an hour being tortured with the finer points of a fictional language with no practical use, I was ready to blast these guys in print. Apparently I wasn’t the first to come away from the convention feeling this way.

“Why? Why do you have to be like that?” asked the lanky one.

I finished putting my items into my Coach messenger bag as I answered. “That you guys are approaching me right now means you’re expecting it to happen. And why? Because you are easy targets. I assume you know that as well. So while I have you here let me ask you – and you’re on the record by the way – why allow yourselves to be such easy targets?”

“There’s no shame in liking science fiction,” the last one finally said.

“I’m not saying there is,” I responded.

“Sure you are!” exclaimed the stout one. “You, and everyone ever assigned to come in from the outside and cover these conventions. I see how you all are, with your chin held high and you feel just fine looking down on us, sneering down the end of your nose as we do things that seem foreign to you, that seem pointless.”

I chuckled, which only made the threesome angrier.

“You think it’s funny?” one said.

“No, I think you’ve been waiting a long time to say that to someone, and unfortunately for you you said it to someone who really doesn’t care.” I fastened the buckle on the bag and turned around. “Look, you know it’s weird and nerdy to everyone outside of this convention hall by our reactions. There’s a saying that goes 'if you can’t change the world then change yourself'. You’re never going to get people like me to come around to this Klingon nonsense. That’s a fact. The vast majority of people watching Star Trek end their relationship with the subculture the minute they switch off their televisions. You’re not going to make any of them embrace your goofball language.”

They scowled.

“My point is since you can’t change them, change the approach of this show. Look at this sheet,” I said, picking up the event schedule from its spot on a nearby chair. “I see events about literature, events about movies, events about art, events about comic books.” I stopped. “Okay, that’s pretty nerdy. But the first three are not. They’re quite universal in fact, and have an innate appeal. Hype those aspects of your show and you won’t seem so geeky.”

“That would be a front,” the lanky one said, finally relaxing his stance and leaning against a chair. “We embrace it all equally.”

I reached around and unbuckled my bag, reaching around blindly until I found my notepad. I flipped it open to my last partially filled page and then removed the Cartier from my inside coat pocket.

“All of it equally,” I repeated as I screwed the cap off my pen. “That’s great, it really is. I see here on the schedule there are a number of seminars littered throughout the weekend about writing in the science fiction genre and ways to go about getting published. How many of you do any writing?”

The last one, the bearded one who had been silent until moments ago, reluctantly raised his hand.

“Good for you, don’t be shy about it. There are plenty of people outside the doors of this convention who aspire to be writers of literature and poetry. You know who's not out there? People fluent in Klingon.”

I scribbled a few things on the pad. “So tell me Goethe, do you write short stories or some form of intergalactic poetry?”

“Um, I write short stories mostly, but I want, you know, maybe to string them together into some longer story someday.”

“Ah, an epic. You’ll have your work cut out for you. So who do you draw upon for inspiration?” I asked.

“The usuals: Battlestar Galactica, the Star Trek world, Star Wars, Robotech -”

“I meant writers,” I interrupted. “Who do you pattern yourself after? Your style, your approach. Those things.”

He paused and scratched the back of his neck, and then stroked his beard. “I dunno, I don’t really read that much, except Marvel comics and some Dark Horse stuff.”

I stopped writing. “You don’t read? How can you ever improve yourself as a writer? How can you develop – I mean, really develop – a story with legs if you don’t immerse yourself in text? You can’t learn any other way.”

I scribbled and muttered under my breath “doesn’t read. That’s ridiculous.”

I put the pad away for the last time and slipped the pen back into my coat pocket. “It’s a damn shame too, buddy,” I said, addressing the bearded one, “at least as a writer of poetry, a constructor of words, you’d have a leg up wooing the gals, because knowing the Klingon math structure isn’t a marketable skill.” I grabbed my bag. “Good luck to you guys, I really mean it. Just don’t go dipping into the Wired blogs if you know what’s good for you.”
___________________________________________________________________

There’s a stereotype most of us grew up with, a stereotype of nerdy teenage boys in their parents’ basement playing epic length, Pepsi-and-Bugle-fueled Dungeons n’ Dragons games while the rest of us were experiencing life. As we’ve grown up the occasional thought has passed: Whatever happened to these dateless, fashion-backward individuals? Did they all really turn into some variation of the Comic Book Guy from The Simpsons? Unfortunately they never moved on, never evolved like the rest of us, and they gather yearly in the City of Brotherly Love to celebrate Philcon, a national conference on science fiction and fantasy. A gathering where no comic book is obscure, no sci-fi plot line obtuse, no fictional costuming off limits. Abandon hope all ye who enter here.

“Oh my god, what the fuck is this, Becker?” exclaimed Kevin Kelly, the managing editor of Wired. I removed my Bluetooth earpiece and held the phone to the side while he continued.

“You completely alienated the attendees!” he yelled. I had to hold the phone away from my ear intermittently.

“You asked for sarcasm,” I said in my defense.

“Yeah, but I didn’t ask for a total character assassination!” Kevin paused as he went through the report I'd filed. “I mean, it’s in every paragraph. This is extreme. I’d hate to cross you.”

“Come on, these guys knew it was coming. They even approached my about it. They were already bracing for the inevitable.”

“That doesn’t give you license to go right at them, Becker.” He dropped the phone and cursed in the background as he retrieved it. “And don’t think the intent of the Dante line didn’t escape me.”

“But that’s exactly how it was, Kevin, it was a decent into hell. A decent into a pointless convention of freaks and geeks.”

“Those freaks and geeks make up a sizable amount of our readership, both in print and online. Especially online. God, I can see it now, they start checking out their RSS feeds and there you are, firing a shot right between their eyes. And then word makes it to the message boards. And then everybody gets pissed.”

“You’re not being a little hyperbolic?” I suggested.

“No,” he said with a sigh, “it’s happened before. It happens a lot with the freelancers we bring in. They aim a little too high and try to impress a little too much but it ends up backfiring. And I’m left to clean up the mess.”

We were both silent for a moment while Keving stammered, starting and stopping. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way I can publish this. I will pay your expenses for the flight and hotel as agreed, but I can’t pay you for this piece. And there’s no time to re-write it. If it doesn’t post now, then it’s old news and there's no point.”

Crap. I didn’t exactly need the money, but it would have been nice to say I’d been published by Wired.

“Well, if that’s how you feel,” I concluded. “Personally I think you’re overreacting, but you know the business better than I.”

“Believe me, I’m not overreacting. If I forwarded the hate mail you’d quickly see my point. Maybe another time, Becker, another opportunity, okay?”

I smiled to myself, trying not to let the sting of rejection get to me too much. “Certainly,” I replied with as much grace as I could summon.

“And Becker?”

“Yeah?”

“Next time, don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

Exile in Nerdville

2006-11-11T18:24:00.000-05:00

I’d been straddled.

For a moderate-sized girl there should have been less weight crushing down on me but for some reason she felt heavy. I couldn’t blame it on something secondary like excess clothing, because there wasn’t much she was wearing at the moment. She swayed from side to side while trying to keep her balance, using her thighs to anchor herself to my body. She’d been drinking the wine with more speed and efficiency than I and was feeling the effects whenever she swayed. I cupped my hands around her waist and ran my fingers across her silky skin while trying to help her with her balance issues.

“Nuh uh, no touching. That’s part of the rules,” she said as she slapped the backside of my hands away from her body. I retreated, all in the name of fun and games, and she continued to rhythmically grind her pelvis into various parts of my body while she groped my chest and ran a hand through her hair with her free hand. This went on for another few minutes until whatever Keith Sweat album she had playing in the CD player came to an end.

Normally this would be some sort of a seduction, a great lead-in to sex on the couch, the kitchen table, the counter, and any other relatively clutter-free surface, but that had already taken place on our last date. Still, for some reason she thought it was still part of the routine this early into whatever type of relationship you wanted to term this thing.

After thirty seconds of music-free quiet she clumsily rolled off me and stood up on wobbly legs, pausing a moment to get her bearings before bee-lining for the stereo to make another selection.

“Any requests? Anything you want to add to the night’s soundtrack?” she asked.

“Whatever you want, Stacy. I’m pretty good with most music,” I replied. She flipped through a rack of discs in her entertainment unit, and then ripped one out of its cataloged spot with a squeal of delight. She’d made her choice.

She returned to the couch where I’d moved to avoid another cow wrangling exercise, and within moments Fleetwood Mac came over the speakers in hushed tones. Perhaps I should have spoken up when I’d had the chance.

“I’m so glad you took me up on getting together when I called you in Santa Barbara. I know all the magazines are saying that dating is making a return to traditional basics and women shouldn’t be pursuing men like we have been, but I totally wanted to get together with you after meeting you at that party in the hills.”

“Uh huh.”

“And for a while I debated whether you’d even call me back. I mean, in hindsight I know now, but I was totally questioning myself, going back and forth on it.”

I nodded. She took that to mean please continue.

“There was this voice in the back of my head that said ‘he won’t be interested, he won’t call.’ And I know that you should be easy going and all about the situation since you’re tight with Stephanie, but it still makes us girls wonder, you know. There’s always that stigma about people who work in adult entertainment. It scares away a lot of promising people you meet.”

“Guess I put that to rest,” I replied.

“And how, mister!” she exclaimed, adding punctuation with a little peck on my cheek. “I mean, I don’t want to come off like a total slut or anything just because I work on those productions. I’m on the other side of the camera. I’m not a performer, you know? But still, people think that just because you’re involved in the industry that automatically means you have daddy issues or were abused as a child, and that you regularly do orgies and double penetration like it’s just another day. It’s crazy the misconceptions some people have!”

Jesus, this girl talked way too much.

Stacy sensed by the look on my face that she was losing me.

“Am I boring you right now?”

“No,” I lied in response.

“Good!” she exclaimed as she climbed over my leg and resumed straddling me on the sofa. There was that weight again. What was she carrying in her ass? I did like having her heaving breast squarely planted in my face, however.

Stacy planted a deep kiss on my lips with a wide open mouth, slowly pulling away to grab on to my lower lip and hold it between hers as she sucked away at it.

“Well hello Mr. Tongue,” I said with a smile when she finished.

She giggled in return before rolling off me and hopping off the couch. She traipsed away into the kitchen, calling out over one shoulder “are you interested in any more wine.”

“No,” I replied loudly. I wanted to tell her she should stop as well but I didn’t want to sound preachy. I raised my arms shoulder high and rested them on the sofa’s back cushions. I took a cursory look around her living room as I heard the clanging in the kitchen from Stacy opening and closing her refrigerator door and later the tink of glass striking glass while she fished through her cabinets for a clean wine goblet with which to start anew.

Her living room was normal and every bit like an ordinary single girl’s apartment would be: Off-white walls sparsely decorated with art prints purchased on sale at Frames Plus, and a few artsy-veined things bought at a crafts fair or cobbled together from ingredients purchased at Michaels. There were some definitively girly things visible, too, like her well-worn copy of He’s Just Not That Into You on an end table next to some framed, dated photos of Stacy as a teen posing with a cat she’d owned. On the opposite wall there was a photo from her prom, and another of her parent’s wedding. Candles of varying scents from Party Lite littered all areas of the room as if she was expecting an oncoming blackout or a conversion to a monastery.

Stacy returned to the sofa and placed her wine glass on the chrome and glass tabletop before resuming her position on top of me. There was the weight again. I was convinced it was from her ass, though she didn’t have a disproportionately large one or any bubbling size that would have suggested the bonus weight. It was a mystery. But the weight was most definitely bottom heavy.

“Now, s-s-sexy, where were we?” She arched her back and flung her long hair to one side of her neck before lowering her mouth to within a few inches of my earlobe. “S-s-such a s-s-sa-weet piece of skin.” Great, now she was slurring from going Mario Andretti on the wine.

The truth was Stacy was right: I was having second thoughts about all of this. Much of her soliloquy about the stigma of those working in adult entertainment industry was on my mind, and had been since the moment I’d picked up the phone and called her to first go out. I wanted to think Stacy was a good girl and exhibited none of the baggage the women on the starring side of the camera were notorious for carrying, but I couldn’t be certain. As much as the little voice inside my head told me that she probably was not in the porn danger zone and that in time the facts would come out once she was comfortable sharing them, another voice asked if I was really going to stay around long enough to find out? Likely not. And it wasn’t as if I was some shining pillar of moral and sexual virtue, but in Stacy’s case I was thinking it took one to know one. Something wasn’t right, and I didn’t like it.

Before she could lower her lips to mine again, I held up a hand between us. “This is going to sound so strange, me being a guy with a woman on top of me three quarters naked and ready to go, but we should call it a night.”

The blood dropped out of her face. “Why? What’s-s-s wrong? What did I do?”

I started to roll my weight under her and placed my hands on her thighs, shifting her weight to one side to indicate she could get off me now. She flopped over to the right and sat on the couch beside me, looking straight ahead with crossed arms and one leg tightly crossed over the other.

“It’s the porn thing, isn’t it?” she said in monotone, never taking her gaze away from the wall on the other side of the living room. She called it porn, not adult entertainment. Perhaps she was trying to make a point. Either that or there was no room for political correctness at a time like this.

Sidestepping that issue I opted to cover another, one that was bothering me almost as much.

“I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

“What?” she took her eyes away from the wall and turned to me.

“It’s like this: I have a difficult time respecting somebody who is drunk. It’s the way I’ve been for as long as I can remember. It’s a non-gender, non-sexual thing. Doesn’t matter who you are; if you can’t hold your liquor it repels me.”

“So, what – you think because you don’t get drunk you’re better than everybody?” she fumed.

“I know, it’s incredibly judgmental, but let’s face it – we live in a judgmental world. It’s not you.”

Stacy shot me a cold, steely look.

“Okay, point taken, in this case it is about you. But what I mean is, it’s more about what the inebriation says to me. It tells me that person has an issue with self control. If they can’t say no to a couple of extra drinks and deal with the damage done, what does that say for their self control and decision making when it comes to bigger things?”

Stacy paused, and then curled some hair behind her ear. “Oh. That's awfully big picture, don't you think? I just got caught up in the fun we were having.” She gave me a playful punch in the shoulder. “You don’t have to be a stick in the mud.”

“I know. It’s just one of my things.” I got up and put my shirt back on, smoothing it out along the sides before tucking it into my pants.

“So you won’t reconsider?” Stacy asked, biting her bottom lip.

I shook my head.

She paused, and while looking down without directing her gaze towards me, said "I'm only going to ask this because it's been bothering me and I have to know. Call it crazy woman stuff, but I have to know: Is this because of Stephanie?"

I was puzzled. "Stephanie? What does she have to do with it?"

Stacy threw her arms up in frustration. "I mean yeah, she's Sunrise Adams, and she's beautiful and smart, and has a great body. You two hang out a lot." I gave her the I give up gesture so she continued. "I tell myself I'm not going to get jealous, but it's so hard. And with a body like that, who wouldn't want to fuck her? Which is fine, because it's not like we are anything else but casual, but still..."

I held up a hand and cut her off. "You're running around in circles over nothing. Nothing," I repeated. "Stephanie and I are just friends. We go out. We have a few drinks together. Sometimes, we hit a party or a club."

"Right. So you're telling me you're not sleeping with Sunrise Adams."

"That's exactly what I'm saying." I started rubbing my temples with the tips of my forefingers. Couldn't I just tell her I was uncomfortable with her working in adult entertainment?

"There's no way!" Stacy exclaimed. "I've seen the type of men she's been with. And I see how she acts around you. There's no way you're not screwing her."

"Well I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but we are strictly platonic." Wait a minute, why wasn't I screwing her? Stay on topic, the little voice said to me.

“Let’s just scrap tonight," I continued. "Tell you what – why don’t we go out this weekend. I know this great spot in the Santa Monica Mountains where Malibu canyon opens up to the Pacific Ocean. It’s a gorgeous view, yet private enough for a nice little picnic, maybe a little wine – a little,” I said, wagging a cautious finger towards her, “ – as well as, you know. Other stuff.”

She giggled. "That sounds lovely.”

I pulled my jacket from its spot on the couch, folded it over one arm, and turned to go. As I reached for the door I felt a tug on my shirt sleeve.

“I’m sorry I let you down.”

“If you let me down I wouldn’t want to see you again,” I replied.

A bittersweet smile slowly appeared on her face. She knew she’d have to take her lumps tonight.

I’d barely made it down to street level before my phone rang. “Sure I can’t coax you to come back up?” she asked.

“No,” I sighed. “We’ll just try it again this weekend, okay?”

“All right. I’m not going to push you. I don’t want to do anything to drive you away,” she replied.

That damage may have already been done, I thought. “I’ll call you later. Good night, Stacy.” I clicked the phone off and slipped it back into my coat pocket.

Five minutes later it went off again. She wasn’t going to push me, eh? I clicked the talk button and, perturbed, said “Now what?”

There was a pause and then the voice on the other end cleared his throat. “Oh,” he began, slightly startled, “I was looking for Reed Becker. Did I get the wrong number?”

“No, no,” I assured him. “Sorry about that, I was expecting it to be somebody else. This is Reed; what can I do for you?”

“This is Kevin Kelly. I am the editorial operations manager for Wired Magazine.”

I shifted my phone to the other hand as I continued driving. “Cool magazine,” I replied.

He ignored the assessment. “You know, for a while I’ve been reading bits of that dog thing you write, and the whole time I’m thinking to myself that this can’t be the only thing he’s ever written. He must have done this for something or somebody else. Maybe he's on somebody's payroll. So I started sleuthing around, and I finally figured out who you are.”

“Oh?” I replied, half expecting him to tell me I was John Grisham or Tom Clancy.

“Once I traced you to All Music I thought I’d find a way to get to the next stepping stone, but you don’t write for them regularly, do you?”

There was a garble of frequency noise over the phone as he said something and once it was gone he was still talking. It sounded like he wasn’t looking for an answer.

“Then I found the hockey stuff, but that only led me back to All Music. Luckily their supervising editor told me how I could get in touch with you, so here we are.”

“Here we are,” I repeated while turning on to Highland Avenue. I still had no idea what this phone call was about.

“You write for anybody else, anyone I’m leaving out?” he asked. He sounded very pleased with himself over solving whatever case he thought he had solved.

“I’ve written off and on for Go Fug Yourself,” I replied nonchalantly.

“Yeah? I didn’t catch that one."

“Well, when one of their founders is a girl you dated in college and you want to help them get their site going with content, you do what you can. I did those for free. I guess it didn’t pop up on the grid.”

“Suppose so,” he replied. “So...you ever ghostwrite anything for your uncle?"

I changed hands between the wheel and the phone and switched over to the other ear. "No. Well, no comment."

"Fair enough. So, have you done anything that's gone to print?” he asked.

“Nope, it’s all web stuff. Nothing like Wired.”

“Well, funny thing about that. What I represent isn’t Wired as the general public knows it, it’s Wired’s Online News page. It’s still part of the Conde Naste empire, but it’s a smaller entity called Conde Net Enterprises. We contract regularly with lots of writers from all over the U.S. to write stories for the page. The very best ones even make it in some distilled form into the magazine under the 'Dispatches from the Wired Frontier' section.”

“That I’ve heard of.” I made a right on Sunset and began the long straightaway that would take me towards Brentwood.

“So, Mr. Kelly, you want me to write for the Wired Frontier?” I asked.

“No, to be clear, we want to pick you up as a correspondent for an event that you’ll cover for Wired Online News. I could dangle the carrot that your story might make it into the pages of Wired as well, but with so many writers vying for so little space, you can do the math.”

He paused and I could hear him writing some notes on a pad. “Should I be discussing details with your agent, Becker?”

I laughed. “There’s no agent. Like you just said, I don’t have any demand.”

“Touché. Here’s the nitty gritty: There’s a science fiction show that goes on every year in Philadelphia. It’s called Philcon and it’s from the ninth to the twelfth of this month.”

“That’s this weekend,” I interrupted.

“Right. Anyway, it consists of a couple of sub headers like anime, gaming, writing – anything under the banner of science fiction. So the gig is you get out there, cover it, and turn in a 1000 word piece summarizing the vibe and topics of the event. It needs to be littered with some quotes from the public or a key speaker.”

“Sounds like a nerd fest,” I said.

He laughed. “It is, but they also represent a sizable portion of our readership. We’ll pay for the plane ticket and expenses – within reason – as well as $1,500 to write the piece. It’s late notice I realize, but are you available to do it?”

I hadn’t been working for the past few months so scheduling wasn’t a problem. Going meant I’d have to postpone things with Stacy, which would make it look even more like I was being driven away from her, or sleeping with Stephanie.

I slowed the car to a stop at a red light. “Sorry to sound like a dick, but why not get somebody who already lives in Philly to do the gig?”

“We already tried that, but our guy canceled on us earlier today. Thus the reason I’m talking to you. Plus, I like the undercurrent of sarcasm you bring to your stuff, something I’m hoping you can incorporate it into this piece. Nothing too heavy, just that magic you do so well.”

“The phrase is ‘the voodoo that you do so well,’” I replied, correcting him. I thought quietly for a moment.

“I suppose you need an answer now,” I said.

“You’ve done this before,” Kevin laughed.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want the job. It had been nearly six months since I’d had a job – any job – so the prospect of working again albeit briefly came as a shock. The little voice inside my head told me I was being lazy. It was moving me to action.

“Okay,” I told Kevin, “I’m in.”

I heard a quick exhale through the phone. “Fantastic. I need to send you a bunch of forms to fill out: Independent contractor stuff, indemnification, deal memo, et cetera. Give me your email address and it will be in your inbox in five minutes.”

I gave him my address, spelling it out for him three times before he got it right.

“Oh, looking at it on paper now, I get it. Ha. Once you’ve filled out the forms I need them faxed back to my attention at the number I’ll list in the email. Also, I’m going to forward along a number for Jenna Wortham. She’s one of my intern assistants. Call her in the morning and she can take care of all your travel details – flight, hotel, and so on. I’ll let her know to expect your call.”

It hit me then that I was going to have to fly. In an airplane. I hated that.

“Got it. Jenna Wortham,” I repeated.

I pulled to the gate of the community where my mother lived and lowered the window to wave to the guard before he raised the reflective candy cane striped entry arm.

“Good, good, we’re all set,” Kevin said, glad he’d found his last-minute fill in.

“And Becker?”

“Yeah?”

“Have fun at the nerd fest.”

Union

2006-10-24T23:00:00.000-04:00

Remember what I said previously about how being a best man was a thankless take-one-for-the-team act of charity? I was wrong, very wrong. It might be one of the best things a guy can do for his fellow chum. And the perks...I’m getting ahead of mysef. Let me explain.

The phone rang far too early, during the fleeting moments when the body knows it will soon be roused and yet manages somehow to get its best sleep. Those moments when REM cycles flash at a feverish pitch and the mind concocts visions both real and make believe. It was early enough that it was still dark outside, but presumably late enough for my phone to be ringing. I let it go a few times before reaching an arm out from under the covers to retrieve it.

“Mmm mmm,” I mumbled.

“We have a problem,” said a nervous voice on the other end. It was Vanessa, the bride-to-be who was getting married in only a matter of hours.

I shot up in my bed half expecting to find lying next to me one of Vanessa’s bridesmaids or a visiting relative from Australia who I’d scurried off to my room during the alcohol-filed haze of the previous night. Seeing nobody, I felt around the blankets and bedspreads to confirm the visual before responding.

“We do? What’s the problem?” I tried to sound horrified and concerned but what I was really felt was relief.

“My maid of honor is missing.”

“Come again?”

“Samantha is missing along with Anita, the girl who came over from home. They went out last night and they didn’t come back to the hotel this morning.” She was beginning to race through the words as if frantic, as if fighting off tears.

"Are you certain?"

“They’re not here and we need to go to the hair salon and then the makeup place and I don’t know where they are and nobody’s heard from them and they haven’t left a message with anyone, and, and”

“Let’s hold on now, Vanessa,” I began as I got out of bed and put on a shirt. “I’m sure they’re fine. I tell you what – I will grab Ken and the both of us will track them down, okay? Don’t worry. We'll will find them.”

Her breathing came through heavy and rapid on the other side of the phone, as if she was in a hyperventilating state.

“Okay...okay. Thank you Reed.”

“No problem. Best Man at your service.”

Before I hung up she urged me to wait. “Please don’t say anything to Aaron about this. Please. Everything has to be perfect today. Promise me.”

“Okay.”

When I called over to Ken I was greeted with an unceremonious “Jesus, do you know what time it is? Did you not notice we all drank tankers of booze last night?”

“I know. Believe me, I’d much rather be sleeping. We have an assignment.”

“An assignment? Who the fuck are we, The Untouchables?” responded Ken.

“It’s more reconnaissance,” I replied. “We have to find two AWOL broads from the wedding party.”

When I picked Ken up at the hotel he was wearing golfing shorts, a sweater and sunglasses. At 8 in the morning.

“This better be good,” he hissed as he opened the car door and poured himself into the passenger seat.

Just as I was about to pull out of the carport Aaron came outside and flagged us down. “Where are you guys off to?”

“Vanessa is missing a maid of honor.”

Ken leaned over the center console. “Yeah, we’re Holmes and Watson.”

Ignoring Ken, I said, “We’ll be back in a bit, I think I know where they are.” Just as I pulled away, I added, “Oh yeah, Vanessa didn’t want you to know that, so do me a favor and don’t mention any of this to her.”

One of the best kept secrets in all of the Santa Barbara area is a natural hot springs just outside of town and to the north of Goleta, halfway to the Santa Ynez wine country that's glorified in the book and movie Sideways. Most of the locals don’t know of the place and the weekend tourists certainly don’t know the springs exist as it wasn’t in any travel brochure or Sunday paper roundup of getaway vacation hotspots. The secret of the hot springs was one kept and guarded by UC Santa Barbara students, mostly because of the urban myths about the springs hosting impromptu hot tub orgies. Every year a new batch of students went hoping for a re-education in carnal knowledge, and every year they went away disappointed. But the springs were a good place to open up the pores and relax, and as early morning was the best time to hit the springs, I was fairly certain Samantha and her new friend stole away to help relieve whatever hangover they still suffered from.

“You really think that’s where they went?” Ken asked when he learned where we were headed.

“Pretty sure.”

“I was thinking maybe Samantha and this girl Anita were in some threesome with one of the guys from the bar.” Ken smirked as the visual flooded his head. “Yeah, I could go for some of that. I bet Samantha does that kind of shit, too.”

“Uh huh,” I said to placate him.

We parked the car by the road and hiked the hundred or so yards of path leading to the big oaks which shrouded the springs. We found Samantha and the other girl in the far spring, wading about.

“After all this time, still predictable,” I said, announcing our arrival. The girls looked up, startled.

“Don’t you keep your cell phone on?” I asked.

“Goddammit Reed, you startled us!” shouted Samantha in response. “And, can you give us a little privacy here,” she added, “we’re both naked.”

“Well then let’s get this party started right!” exclaimed Ken. “I didn’t get up early for nothing.”

Samantha shot him a death stare, a not-if-you-were-the-last-person-on-earth glare.

“Look, right now you have a very worried blushing bride-to-be waiting back at the hotel, whose cheeks are reddened with fury because two of her girls went sneaking away from camp on the day she needs you most.” I went over and picked up the towels draped over a nearby rock. "Let’s get out of here and back to the hotel, okay?” I tossed a towel in each girl’s direction.

Ken went to the edge of the closest pool to the road and looked out at the highway. “How did you two even get out here?” he asked.

The Australian girl spoke up. “My mum gave us a ride on her way in to town.”

“You might want to let her know you won’t need a ride back.” She nodded.

Inside the car Samantha had moved into Queen Bitch mode and continued the entire ride back.

“I don’t know why Vanessa is freaking out,” she began. “Really. It’s so early and the wedding isn’t even until four. There’s plenty of time to get our hair done and put up, and the makeup, and the nails, and the dresses. I don’t know what the big deal is. There’s still plenty of time left before the ceremony for pictures and...”

Ken shook his head from his spot in the passenger seat before leaning over towards me, away from Samantha.

“Bitches, man. Seriously, I swear,” he said with another shake of the head.
________________________________________________________________________________________

After dropping the group off at the hotel I looked at my watch and adjusted my schedule. By my calculations I would have enough time to gather up my things from my brother’s place and have breakfast with his family before having to move into the hotel for the night.

I quietly pulled the car up to the garage and gently opened their front door, taking special care to walk softly on the terra cota entry pavers that led down into the living room. No such luck; Marie was already awake and sipping coffee while she read the morning paper at the table.

“Are you just getting home?” she asked. “What was her name this time, or did you even get a name? Aren’t you getting a little too old for this?”

I waved my hand about. “No, this time it was honorable. The bride sent us out on an errand.” I took another look at my watch. “I was hoping I’d be quiet enough to not wake anyone up.”

“Not with your car, mister. I heard that thing coming up the driveway,” she replied.

Marie offered coffee, which I thankfully took before heading for the guest bedroom to pack up my things. Soon the whole household was in full swing and Tyler came in, dressed in his tae kwon do outfit.

“You will bow down to me!” he exclaimed in a deep, pseudo-heroic voice before kicking his leg upward and into me, narrowly missing my crotch. My niece Lena, standing in the doorway, squealed with delight. Kids never tire of the take-it-in-the-nuts comedy display.

“You’d better watch it with that foot,” I warned him.

“Pretty cool, huh? It’s a lethal weapon!”

“It’s a guaranteed way to get smacked is what it is.” I organized some clothes on the bed and felt around the end table for a gift I’d need later.

“Uh, Tyler? Where is the little package we picked up yesterday?”

“It’s in my room. Lena and I were playing with it.”

“Go get it for me, will you?” Tyler returned moments later with it and handed it gently to me. I looked at its dull shine, then examined it further when I noticed one section was more hazy than the rest.

“Jesus...Lena, were you putting this in your mouth?” I asked, holding it out in front of her. Between laughs she tried grabbing at it.
________________________________________________________________________________________

My phone rang at the same moment I burst through the doors of the hotel with the valet in tow. I should just wear the earpiece this morning, I thought.

“Hello?”

“We’ve got a problem.” This time it was Aaron.

I looked at my watch. It was barely ten thirty in the morning. What could have gone wrong now?

“In all of our preparations and running around taking care of the little things we forgot a very big thing.”

“Don’t tell me you left the ring at home, Aaron. Don’t say that.”

He laughed nervously. “It’s not that, but it’s almost as bad. We don’t have a song.”

“A song?” I asked.

“You know, a song for the bride and groom's dance, the first dance at the reception when we box step like fools around the parquet floor.”

Oh, that song. Aaron and Vanessa had often mentioned needing a song and that they had to set aside some time to find their perfect song, but that time never came. And now it was getting to be too late.

“Um...okay. I guess I can find you something,” I said with hesitation.

“You can?”

This time I tried sounding more resolute. “Of course I can. I know what you two like, I know what kind of songs get played at weddings.”

“Thanks man. We’d do it ourselves but there’s just no time.” He laughed. “I just realized we’ve been saying that for the past six months.”

“Don’t worry about it, you’re in good hands.”

“Great,” he said. “Just don’t pick out anything like ‘Baby Got Back,’ okay?”

“Have a little faith. It will be fine. Unless I hear back from you I’ll meet up at the church at 2:30. Cool?”

“Cool. And thanks again.”

“Always a pleasure,” I replied before clicking off.

The valet, who’d heard the majority of the conversation, was not impressed. “They’re getting married today and they still don’t have their own song?”

“They’ve been busy,” I shrugged.

“Yeah, but still, what kind of dopes don’t decide on their song while they’re dating or at least while making all the wedding plans. That’s just, well...stupid.” He was making his tip evaporate right before his eyes.

“I guess not everybody has it as together as you will when your day comes, skippy.”

He frowned when he heard me call him that.

“Got any songs you can suggest?” I asked of him while he opened the door to my room.

“Hmm. Maybe 'Can You Feel the Love Tonight', or perhaps something by Chicago?” I turned back and looked at him to make sure he wasn’t laughing or making a joke. He was doing neither. I guess he was serious.

I handed him his tip. “Those are awful.”

Inside the room I gently laid out the Jill Sander tuxedo on the bed and opened up the overnight bag, fishing around for my iPod. It was lucky for me I traveled with 60 gigs of music. Furiously scrolling the wheel with steady pressure, I scanned the list of artists for a possible suitor. Etta James, maybe. Dean Martin, sure, but his songs were filled with double entendres that might offend the wrong person. It had to be the right song. Sarah Vaughn, Harry Connick – I was finding the right types but not the right match. I put down the iPod and picked up the phone, pressing the voice recognition button on the side.

“Aaron,” I announced loudly. The phone began dialing.

“I need the DJ phone number from you, Aaron.”

“Did you find a good song?” he asked enthusiastically.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. First things first.” He said he’d have to call me back and within moments of putting down the phone and picking up the tuxedo to unwrap and brush, my phone began ringing.

“Here’s the number,” Aaron proclaimed. “And thanks again, buddy. I’ll see you at the church.”

After the tuxedo was brushed I tried the DJ, phone in one hand, iPod in the other. When he answered I explained the situation.

“If I gave you an iPod do you have the means to hook it up to your rig and play back a song?”

“Certainly, we do it often. Just tape a piece of paper to the back of your iPod with the name of the artist and song, and track number if it’s relevant. And thanks for letting us know. We can usually roll with the punches just fine but if we have advance notice there won’t be any problems pulling this off smoothly.”

I thanked him and hung up just as I landed on the perfect song. I smiled as a fleeting vision shot through my memory banks and I remembered the last time I had heard this song. One problem – it was a song meant to be for me and somebody else.
________________________________________________________________________________________

“These things always have a start time on the invite, but how often does a wedding really start on time?” The question was being posed by Ken as we sat in the church rectory with the rest of Aaron’s groom’s men, waiting for the groom to arrive. Ken and Mike tossed a tennis ball back and forth.

“Did you ever think Aaron would settle down with a girl like Vanessa?” asked Mike. “I mean, she seems nice and all, but almost too good for him.”

Ken scratched his chin before tossing the ball back to Mike. “I know what you mean. If you could go back to when we were all in school and see some of the women Aaron dated you’d really be amazed he found anyone worth settling down with.” He paused. “Hey Reed, who was the girl he dated with the dyed red hair and the tattoos running all the way down one of her arms? The one who screamed like a banshee when they'd have sex.”

Mike looked confused.

“We all lived in a frat house with paper thin walls so you either told the girl you were screwing to keep it under wraps, or else everyone would hear it. Hey Reed, what was her name?”

I was standing by the window playing lookout. It was 2:40 and Aaron was running late. Heck of a day to be late.

Turning from the window just long enough to answer Ken, I replied “Erica. No wait. Lorna. That was it, Lorna.”

“Yeah, that’s right, Lorna.” Ken paused. “What a train wreck she was. I think she had to transfer to a JC by junior year because of bad grades and s bad home life.” Ken caught a return toss of the ball from Mike.

“Come to think of it,” Ken continued, “Most of Aaron’s girls have been disaster shows. There was the one with the nose piercing who was all into the earth and naturalism but she pretty much just got high all the time; there was Kathy – that cunt – who emasculated Aaron and every guy she was around; there was that little tiny girl freshman year when we were still in the dorms, the one who was two-timing Aaron most of the time they were together, and even when he and Vanessa were dating early on there was that time"

“Do you think we can do without the play-by-play recap?” I interrupted. “This is supposed to be a happy day, a celebration. So let’s not bag on all the terrible relationships Aaron has been in. He’s not the only one.” I pointed at Aaron. “You’ve been there. I’ve been there.” I took the tennis ball from Mike’s hand. “Instead, let’s celebrate and congratulate Aaron on finding the one perfect girl for him, a girl he is wholeheartedly ready to spend the rest of his life with and make the sacrifices that come with it. Don’t pick apart and analyze his past fuck-ups; laud him for the one good choice he’s about to make.”

The guys muttered something in agreement before splitting apart to continue dressing in opposite corners of the rectory, finishing just as Aaron walked into the room.

“Hey hey, man of the hour,” Mike said from the back.

“Sorry I’m late, guys – my parents insisted they drive me here and they weren’t ready in time. Leave it to the parents to fuck with your shit all the way up to the last.” Aaron slung his clothes over a chair and began getting dressed. It was three o’clock and the guests would begin arriving in the next half hour.

When everyone was dressed, primped and preened, Aaron gathered us in a huddle and handed out the traditional groom’s men gifts – monogrammed Coach liquor flasks.

“I want to thank each of you for being my wingmen today. It means a lot to Vanessa, our families, and especially to me.” He clasped a couple of us by the shoulders. “I can’t think of a better group I’d want standing by my side up there.” He shook some hands and we bullshitted about in the rectory until 3:30, when the groom’s men made their way into the church to begin seating the arriving guests.

Aaron withdrew some at this point and sat in a lone chair in the middle of the room.

“I’d ask what’s on your mind,” I began, “but that would be a stupid question.”

He mussed his hair some and looked up. “What do you think, man? About all this?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. What matters is what you think.”

“I know, I know. I love Vanessa, there’s no doubting that. And while I’m not nervous about marrying her, I am nervous about...” he waved his hand about in the air. “All this.”

I pulled over a chair, its wooden feet squealing some on the cold marble floor, and sat down next to Aaron. “I don’t think you are nervous about marriage either. I think you’re nervous because for the first time in your life you have to worry about someone other than yourself, and that’s a big step.” I started chuckling. “And you’ve succeeded in getting my opinion out too, so much for that.”

Aaron slumped in his chair and stretched out his legs. “Now that you’ve started you can’t stop. Do you think I am marrying the right girl?”

I cautiously approached the question. I held no ill-will against Vanessa; I never saw a red flag in her behavior to give me pause, yet I didn’t want to say anything Aaron could construe as a curve ball only moments before saying “I do.”

“Only you know the answer to that question, but I’ll say this: I don’t know two people better suited for each other than you and Vanessa. People romanticize marriage and forget it is a partnership, it’s a business. And you need the right partner to weather the stormy times. You couldn’t have come up with a better partner.”

“Thanks, Reed. That means a lot to me.”

“No problem. Best Man at your service.” I stood up and smoothed the wrinkles in my tuxedo. “Hey, look at the time,” I said, pointing at the clock high on the bland crème rectory wall. “It’s almost the witching hour.”

Aaron stood and in similar fashion adjusted his tuxedo. “We’d better get out there. How do I look?”

I brought my finger to my lips, balancing the elbow of my left arm in my right hand. Giving him the once over I checked off the list in my head: Boutonnière, check. Properly tied Windsor knot, check. Wrinkle free Jill Sander tuxedo, check.

“You got the ring?” I asked.

“I do,” he said, reaching into his pant pocket. “I suppose I should remember that phrase,” he added with a laugh before producing the ring and handing it to me.

“I think we’re all set,” I replied. “Oh, one thing – shoot your cuffs. You have no shirt cuff showing below the jacket arm. You look like Pee Wee Herman.”

He smiled and adjusted his sleeves. “You couldn’t shave off that beard,” he said, “not even for my wedding?”

“It’s not time. Besides, I did give it a trim. It’s cut back some and better groomed.”

“It still looks full and heavy. And ugly.”

“Now it’s less Unabomber and more Dan Fouts. Let’s go get you married, all right?”
____________________________________________________________________

“I want to introduce Reed, the best man, who will give the traditional first toast. Reed, come on up.”

The DJ/MC of the evening motioned for me from the makeshift podium placed at the center of the table. I’d been talking with some wedding guests, many whom I hadn’t seen in years when I was summoned to the front. Excusing myself with a smile and a handshake, I ran a hand through my hair, making sure it was acceptably styled and made for the podium at the center of the head table. As I approached I started to run through the game plan and quickly realized I had no game plan other than to open with a light and deprecating story about Aaron. The rest I hadn’t planned out, instead hoping I’d be struck by some divine inspiration at the last minute. The best parachuters learn on their first trip down.

The crowd looked warm and inviting as I looked into the eyes of what would be my audience and critic, and then took the microphone from the DJ’s outstretched hand. The microphone body was clammy and eel-like to the touch, its dull metal casing holding back all of the heat from the transistors within. Before moving the microphone closer to my mouth I cleared my throat, and with my free hand reached into my pocket to confirm my visual aid was still there.

“Good evening everyone,” I began with a warm and heartfelt smile. “Aaron and Vanessa along with their families want to thank you for sharing in such an important day. You flatter them by being here, and if I may say so Aaron, you flatter me by honoring me with the job of being your best man.”

I took a quick visual of the room and darted my eyes from one random person to the next, trying to gauge if the crowd thought I was sucking up too much too soon. My glances were met with smiles. I hadn’t lost them yet.

“When Aaron first asked me to be his best man, he told me that when it came time to give the toast I’d have to speak slowly and annunciate clearly,” I continued, “because Vanessa’s family would be here and they are from Australia.” I shot Aaron a sly grin. He looked a bit puzzled.

“That’s when I had to break it to him the Australians are known to speak English, quite often in fact.” Scattered chuckles started about the room. “That’s one of their commonalities that draws them to us.” More laughter. I paused and added as an aside - “Well, that and our shared love of Russell Crowe, who is so dreamy.”

The room laughed in unison and Aaron began turning red in embarrassment.

“I kid, I kid. When Aaron and Vanessa asked me to share in their special day I knew this moment would come – this one right now, with me up here speaking. And I didn’t know if I would have anything witty or insightful to say. I racked my brain trying to think of something, and then yesterday afternoon I found myself in my nephew’s room thumbing through – of all things – a collection of fairytales. And that’s when it hit me, the importance of this day.”

I took another quick scan of the room. They were still with me.

“A woman dreams of this day – this moment right here as we stand – as a little girl. The dress, the perfect moment and the perfect people here to share it with her. For her it’s the stuff that dreams are made of.”

I shot Aaron another look. He had a blank stare of utter confusion on his face.

“Guys, on the other hand, are a little slow to catch up. Our dreams consist of growing up to be a baseball player or a fireman or astronaut. A few of us even want to be rock stars. When we realize that we will likely never be a single one of those things, usually around age 18 or 20, we begin to look at the bigger picture and with whom we want to share it.

“Vanessa, your father told me something earlier in the week that provided a wealth of insight.” I paused and gave him a slight nod of reverence before I continued. “He told me marriage is something where you have to have each other’s back and be a team as you go through life. You need that kind of friendship, as you grow older. I think that’s beautiful and I want to thank him for sharing his wisdom.

“Now I’ve seen the receiving room and the stack of gifts already there, but I want to present you with what I hope is your first gift.” I pulled the item from my pocket and handed it to Vanessa.

“It’s a quarter,” she said.

“It is a quarter, yes. Leave it to the woman to know her money.” A flurry of laughs, mostly from the men, erupted around the room. I motioned to Vanessa: “Would you tell me what’s different about this particular quarter, Vanessa?”

She flipped it over a few times and examined its surface. “It’s got two heads to it,” she proclaimed.

“That’s right. I was out spending time with my nephew when I saw it in a shop window and it at once spoke to me about the two of you. About how you are two sides of the same coin. About how I have never met two individuals better suited for each other.”

A few “aahs” leaked out at the tables in front of us.

“And so, before I allow this to become any more sappy,” I concluded, taking the glass of champagne in my hand, “let’s raise a glass to Aaron and Vanessa. To this perfect team, to a long life of happiness and laughter, and to the stuff that dreams are made. Many happy returns.”

A scattering of “here, here” and the clinking of champagne flutes followed. When I put down the glass I caught the DJ out of the corner of my eye holding up my iPod as a reminder that the newlyweds still had their dance to get to.

I picked the microphone back up and when the toasting stopped, continued: “We made the horrifying discovery earlier today that Vanessa and Aaron didn’t have a wedding song to dance their first dance to. So we decided to take care of it for you. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s give the newlyweds a little encouragement as they come to the center of the dance floor for their first dance as man and wife, huh?”

The crowd started clapping and whistling as Aaron whisked Vanessa from her hair, gingerly leading her by the hand to the dance floor. I looked over at the row of girls on Vanessa’s side of the table. They all looked incredibly beautiful, especially Samantha. There was always an unmistakable wow factor when Samantha wore a formal dress. She was definitely a head-turner.
I spun around to find the DJ shooting darts at me with his eyes. Unbeknownst to me I’d just stolen some of his MC thunder.

Once Aaron and Vanessa were on the dance floor and in position I continued: “This song is very near and dear to me, but consider it yours for as long you want it.”

I lowered the microphone and moments later the first strains of the song began: I’m gonna love you, like nobody’s loved you, come rain or come shine, began the plaintive moan of Frank Sinatra.

While Aaron and Vanessa danced around the floor of the ballroom I slipped towards the back where the bar was.

“You were pretty slick up there,” said the bartender, an early-twenties blonde with her hair pulled back in a ponytail while she shifted around bottles of Sierra Nevada in an ice tub.

“Thanks. I was starting to think I was rambling so I cut it short.”

“I think you could have talked for another five minutes and not lost anyone’s attention,” she replied, looking up to make eye contact and smile.

I returned the smile and was about to order when I heard a voice behind me. “So, can a girl buy a guy a drink at these things?” I turned around and Samantha was standing there, a hand on her hip and one strap of her dress starting to come off her shoulder.

“Hey you,” I responded, “pony up to the bar.”

She hunched over the bar and got comfortable. “That was a good toast up there. Still got the charm.” She called the bartender girl and ordered. “I’ll have a vodka gimlet and he’ll have a Scotch, neat.” When the girl grabbed a bottle of J&B Samantha added, “no no dear, single malt preferably.” She turned to face me and leaned against the bar.

“You remembered. I’m impressed.”

“I’m told I have that effect on people,” she replied nonchalantly.

“You forgot modest,” I added with a smirk.

When the bartender came back with the drinks and the tab, I instinctively reached for my wallet. Samantha waved me off.

“I said I’d pay for it. Consider it your keep for the good toast.”

I eyed her suspiciously.

“Seriously, put the wallet away. You men and your darned gender roles.” Samantha took a quick look around to make sure nobody was watching, and then shoved an arm down the front of her dress and came up with a $20.

“Awesome,” I remarked. “You keep Tic Tacs in there too?”

“Look at this outfit I squeezed into. Do you think there’s any place I can stow money away?”

“Oh, I’m looking. I could stare at you all night in that outfit.” I took the Scotch and brought it to my nose for a cursory sniff. “What can I say, you’re the bees knees.” I touched my glass to hers. “Cheers. And thanks again for the drink.” Samantha nodded in return.

Across the room one of the bride’s maids was motioning our way, at first we thought for Samantha, but then realized she was motioning for me and pointed towards where Vanessa was. They’d already begun the dollar dance. I excused myself and headed to the front of the line.

When I cut in Vanessa had been waiting for me. “You know, I’m starting to feel like I’m not the one getting the most attention here. I mean I am the bride and yet someone is stealing my thunder,” she said with her light Australian tone.

“Oh?”I said innocently.

“All my friends, instead of falling over themselves trying to congratulate me and take photos are instead asking about Aaron’s friend the best man, and whether he’s single.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And those are just the married gals!”

I tossed the idea aside. “It’s all puppy love. You’re still the center of the universe today.”

“You really hit it out of the park, Reed. It had everything – kids, fairy tales, companionship, Sinatra. Oh, thanks for that, it was the perfect song. I think you could have your pick of almost any woman at the reception after that toast.”

“How heavy is your dress?” I asked her.

“I am not one of those women, in case you haven’t noticed.”

I stuck out my tongue playfully. “No, I’m going to dip you. Let’s wait until the beat is right. 1,2,3, now!” I lowered her gently while sliding my hand down her back to cradle her waistline before popping her back into place.

“Let’s see Aaron do that!” I proclaimed.

“He’s no dancer, that’s for certain,” Vanessa agreed. “Let’s see you do what he does and balance the state budget in 10 hours while finding a windfall.”

“Uncle,” I declared.

Just then I felt a tap on my shoulder. We turned around to find Samantha.

“Mind if I steal him away for a dance of my own?” she asked.

“Ladies, ladies – I am not going to come between two women unless it means a tickle fight and I get the television rights.”

“Oh god,” Vanessa exclaimed, “Take him. I don’t think I can pump up his ego any more than it already is.”

“I’ll have to make due,” Samantha replied, leading me away.

“You’ve just pissed off several women, I’ll have you know,” I told her.

“Yeah? How many?”

“At least two. Maybe three.”

“I can take ‘em.”
_________________________________________________________________

The knock on the door came far too early, during those fleeting moments when the body knows it will soon be roused and yet manages somehow to get its best sleep. Those moments when REM cycles flash at a feverish pitch and the mind concocts visions both real and make-believe. It was early enough that it was still dark outside, but presumably late enough for someone to be knocking on the door to my room.

“Mmmph,” I mumbled in some gobbelty-gook.

“Go back to bed, I’ll get it.” She slipped out from under the covers and put on my tuxedo shirt and jacket before making for the door.

“Good morning guys.”

“Uh, hey, good morning Samantha.” It was Ken. “Is Reed in there?”

“Yes he is, but he’s still asleep. Do you boys mind if he calls you in a couple of hours?”

“Umm…okay, sure.”

“I’ll tell him you stopped by.” She closed the door and came back in, depositing the jacket and shirt on the nearby chair.

She sat down on my side of the bed and ran her hand across my chest. “I’m going to take a shower. Want to join me?” she coyly asked. With that she walked towards the bathroom and I watched her bare ass sway back and forth as she left the room. I got out of bed and walked over to the table where I had set my cuff links and watch the night before. There was a voicemail on my phone. Upon checking it I found out it was Stacy, who I'd met at the party in the Hollywood Hills a few nights earlier. She was calling to say she hoped we could get together sometime during the week, maybe for a small bite or a drink on the Promenade.

“Reed, you coming?” asked Samantha from the bathroom. I could hear the shower heads pulsating.

I listened to the message a second time before erasing it and running off to join Samantha. Best Man duties – it’s not all as bad as it’s cracked up to be.

I'm the Narrator & This is Just the Prologue

2006-08-12T16:26:00.000-04:00

It’s hard to say who saw the other first. Amidst the partially cloudy room crowded with pockets of people talking in loud and boisterous voices, it’s a wonder the connection was made at all. Some called her blondie because of her goldilocks-like cascading curls, but the pink cowboy hat atop those locks earned her the nickname by which she was referred for most of the evening: Cowgirl.

After sharing numerous glances from across the room, Cowgirl decided to make her move. Perhaps she wasn’t entirely grossed out by the way my eyes tirelessly poured over her body, sizing her up for the vixen I’d made her out to me in my mind. She calmly pushed a few in her path out of the way as she slinked towards my side of the room where I relaxed on a couch next to some random guy whose girl was perched on the couch’s arm as she balanced her weight delicately on his shoulder while whispering lewd comments in his ear, comments just loud enough for me to hear. Every so often she would pull back from the hand she had cupped over his ear and gauge me for a reaction. I smiled as fake a smile as I could muster.

Cowgirl continued to draw closer, the cosmetic glitter she’d applied around her exposed navel now reflecting in the ambient light. She was tanned, toned, and clearly on the hunt. I ran across a mental checklist to be sure I wouldn’t appear too repulsive. A quick, nonchalant huff in the hand revealed I needed a Certs or the like; with no mints on me I took a quick gulp of Scotch and swished it around in my mouth before smoothing my beard around the chin with my other hand. A hundred scenarios ran through my mind at breakneck speed as she approached: What are you doing in a place like this? This isn’t really your vibe, is it? Why have you been staring at me like a maniac for so long? Don’t you have any game? I started to panic and adjusted my posture to keep from sinking further into the hot leather of the couch. I was getting shorter, I was sure of it. She probably thought I was some pervert getting off on the hot talk going on next to me, as if I were into voyeurism or whatever that latest hot shit was these days. She was probably coming over to tell me I was creeping her out and to stop before she dispatches her muscle-bound oaf of a boyfriend-slash-part time model-bouncer at the Viper Room to teach me a lesson. I shot her another look to see how far away she was and we locked eyes fiercely, her gaze holding mine and refusing to let it go. I felt like prey, like somehow I’d given away the upper hand without ever really knowing I had it. What could a woman looking like she did in a place like this want from me? Would she ask me to introduce her to some strapping youth she’d seen me joking with earlier? Was she waiting for me to make fun of her hat as so many had already done this evening? I noticed my pulse increasing and suddenly I was very aware of how muggy the room had become. My feet felt like they were sinking into the deep shag of the carpet. I looked down to make sure they weren’t already fully engulfed.

“Hi,” I heard from directly in front of me. I looked up and Cowgirl stood there, her left hand on her hip and the other dangling to the side.

I took a deep breath. “Hi. Uh…nice hat. You don’t normally see that shade of, uh, pink in a non-satin hat. Usually those straw numbers are brown.”

She smiled a sickly sweet smile. “Thank you. Mind if I sit down?”

Before I could answer she turned and plopped down on the hot leather. I had to move quickly to avoid her planting her ass all over my leg. In my haste to clear some real estate for Cowgirl I shoved into the couple talking naughty on my left.

“Hey!” they both said in unison as the girl’s connection with her beau was severed and she tumbled onto the ground. She stood up quickly and shot me a mean stare before carefully re-balancing herself on the arm of the couch.

“So,” I said, turning my attention back to Cowgirl, “what brings you over? I figured you’d stay in your corner of the party all night.”

“It was the shirt, I could tell you’re a fan,” she replied, still smiling.

Oh god, I thought, she caught me staring at her chest. It was nice – I won’t lie – and firmly held in place by the best that Victoria’s Secret offered. And for a half shirt it stopped in the perfect spot, giving off just a peak of her floating ribs and that gorgeous, flat belly that culminated in what I call “hip cleavage,” those upside-down L indentions running along the hipbone. The girl worked out and proudly showed it, otherwise her belly piercing wouldn’t have been so audacious. But she had caught me, nonetheless, and either was flattered or amazed that somebody could be so crass and obvious in staring down a pair of breasts. I knew I’d done it too much too often; it was as if I’d been trying to beam her images through my eyes as if her chest and my brain were telekinetic. Oh well, I was caught and there was no use in trying to deny it. Since I was in such straits I subconsciously made the decision to take one look down the top part of her shirt before answering, the part where she had hand-notched a “v” below the collar line to let some cleavage peek through. Her skin was sinfully smooth and the areas closest to the crease in her chest were marked with freckles, surely from years of overtanning. I was in heaven.

“Yeah, a fan, well you got me,” I confessed.

She hopped excitedly on the couch and curled a leg under the other. “Cool, I’m a fan too. Big fan.”

Wait a minute – what the hell were we talking about?

“We’re like totally from the same era. What’s your favorite song?”

Then I realized what she meant by being a fan and the shirt: Her modified half shirt number was an early 80s vintage tour shirt from the Canadian rock band Rush. Moving Pictures was the tour, to be precise. I smirked and looked down. Underneath my white unbuttoned Armani party shirt was a Rush Grace Under Pressure shirt, with the tour’s trademark image of an egg in a vise gracing my chest.

“Rush, right, big fan,” I stuttered, trying to get the conversation teetering back on track. I was stupid. I took another breath and told myself to calm down, she’s no different than any of the other women in this room. I took another good look at her and noticed her eyes – green and brilliant even in the low, hazy light of the room. I didn’t know if they were natural or color contacts, and I didn’t care. She had a wholesome, fresh face, the kind untouched by outpatient laser surgery and the latest vanity fads. A touch of baby fat remained in her cheeks and embellished the dimples that appeared when she smiled. With her body it’s a wonder I happened upon any of her facial features at all.

“Subdivisions. Analog Kid. The Body Electric,” I finally answered once I composed myself and flattened my beard one last time against my chin. “I guess I’m not your typical Rush fan because I don’t gravitate towards Limelight and 2112 or Closer to the Heart.” I shrugged. “Oh well.”

“That’s cool,” she nodded. “I prefer their later stuff too, like The Big Money.” She held out her hand formally. “I’m Stacy.”

I took her hand and shook it with equal formality. “I’m Reed.”

“Cool name!” she shrieked.

“Not really, but I’ll play along.”

“Who are you here with?” she asked. Stacy had decided it was time to cut to the chase and see if I was worth her effort.

“Stephanie,” I replied, and quickly added “but she’s just a buddy. She got me in here.”

“Who?”

“Stephanie.”

Her nose wrinkled as she ran through the names she’d heard and the people she knew. Stephanie hadn’t registered.

“Who?” She again asked.

It suddenly dawned on me that in this place more people would likely know Stephanie by her stage name rather than her actual name. Her actual name was reserved for moments outside the surreal spotlight of adult entertainment.

“Sunrise,” I finally replied with some emphasis. Stephanie and I had met a couple months ago by chance at Trader Vic’s lounge at the Beverly Hilton and hit it off right away. I learned of her work in the world of porn and the stage name she appeared under – Sunrise Adams – that first night. Unless there was some previous engagement or work-related situation we couldn’t get out of, we started meeting up for drinks once a week ever since. Tonight we were supposed to meet at one of our usual haunts but instead Stephanie steered us towards this party, which she had heard about at the last minute.

“Oh, you’re a friend of Sunrise Adams? Cool! She’s such a sweetheart.” When I told Stacy she didn’t have to kiss up to me with lines like that she protested. “I’m not kissing your ass! I met her twice at parties last summer and she was so friendly and so nice to anybody who walked up and said hello. So you guys came together?”

I shook my head because I knew what she was fishing for. “I came along with her. We just hang out every now and then. It’s not like you think.” Stacy nodded with an easygoing nod. “We also came with a buddy of mine who’s getting married this weekend,” I added, turning around and realizing I hadn’t seen him in nearly half an hour. “I wonder where the hell Aaron went off to.”

As if on cue, the door to kitchen swung open and out came Aaron, led by the hand by four model quality women who paraded him to the center of the room before the shortest of the bimbettes spoke up: “Hey everbody, this is Aaron. Everybody say hi to Aaron.”

A clamor of joyful “hi, Aaron” and muddled tones of various chatter rang out in response.

The short bimbette in the far-too-high heels continued: “Aaron is getting married to the love of his life this weekend, his soulmate…” she paused. “What is her name?” she asked.

“Vanessa,” Aaron responded.

“Vanessa. Ooh, pretty name!” the girl mentioned as an aside. “Aaron is marrying Vanessa,” she resumed, “and we want to send Aaron out with a bang, so on three everybody say ‘congratulations, Aaron!’”

The bimbette counted three and half the room shouted congratulations in response, while others completely ignored the event. Some muttered, “sucker” after the room quieted. One of the four gave Aaron a huge kiss on the lips as her going away prize before the group parted. Aaron spun around dreamily for a moment before he realized he was standing a few feet away from me.

“Speak of the devil,” I said to Stacy as I motioned for Aaron to come over.

“Holy shit,” Aaron began as he arrived in front of the couch, “look at the women in this place!! I swear to god, this place doesn’t exist. It’s impossible. This is all a dream. Why are all the incredibly hot women all in porn?”

Stacy leaned forward and started to speak but I interrupted her before she could answer. “They prefer the term ‘adult entertainment.’ Don’t call it porn, it’s frowned upon.”

Aaron shrugged and Stacy backed down.

“Besides, impossible is nothing,” I responded, then after a pause added as a punch line: “Nike.”

“I’m Stacy,” Stacy began, holding out her arm to Aaron. “Congratulations on your soon-to-be marriage.”

Aaron wiped a faint bead of sweat from his brow. “Thanks Stacy. You a friend of Reed’s?”

She smiled and looked at me. “I soon hope to be,” she replied in a husky voice.

“We just met,” I added. “So how’s Mr. Groom feeling?”

“Pretty damn good Mr. Best Man,” Aaron replied. “They have bottle after bottle of Crown Royal in the kitchen. You know how much I love Canadian whiskey.”

“Yeah, she’s mistress to us all.” I made eyes at Aaron to hit the road so I could continue with Stacy. The last thing I needed from Mr. Off-the-Market was a cock block.

Stacy pointed at me. “You’re his best man? That is sooo sweet! What are you going to say for the speech?”

The truth was I didn’t have a clue what I was going to say to commemorate Aaron and Vanessa’s union and it was worrying me to no end. Public speaking was never a problem for me but this was different. Being a best man requires a combination of style and calm that a lot of guys cannot pull off. The role itself mandates a certain amount of planning and steering to and from events. From a logistics point of view it’s runner up to the amount of things the bride has on her plate. And that speech – ugh – that speech looms over all post-ceremony events. It has to be touching, heartwarming, and memorable. Get nervous and it will show; bomb with a joke and you’re a putz. Speak for too short a time and you’re not thoughtful enough, but go on too long and you’ll be considered a blowhard. Being best man is something most men will never have to be and they don’t know how lucky they have it.

I smiled and took in the vision of Stacy again before answering. Boy, the things I’d love to do with her. “The speech is in progress so I can’t share anything just now, especially with Captain Howdy here hanging over our shoulder. I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”

Aaron stood up and tried to act offended. “Fine, I know when I’m not wanted.” He slowly turned his head toward the kitchen. “Besides, there’s plenty more Crown Royal in the kitchen waiting for me.” He sulked off in the direction of one of the bimbettes still waving at him.

“Hey,” I called, trying to catch him before he got too far away. “Find Stephanie and ask how long she plans to stay.”

Stacy looked hurt. “You’re going already? It’s just getting fun around here.”

I slid back the cuff on my shirt and checked the time on my IWC. “It’s almost three AM on a Wednesday night. Thursday morning. Whatever. Aaron and I have a big weekend ahead of us that begins not too long from now. I still have to pick up our monkey suits and drive up to Santa Barbara.” I paused and took Stacy and her golden curls in one last time. “I also have to finish a speech.”

She pouted unsuccessfully as I pulled an old business card from my back pocket and scratched out the information in typeset on one side. I flipped the card over onto its blank white side and wrote out my cell number.

“Here,” I told her as I handed over the card. “Now the ball’s in your court. I’d love to get together with you some time, especially if you live on the Hollywood side of Laurel Canyon.” I got up from the hot leather sofa, ready to track down Aaron and if possible, Stephanie.

“Love that hat,” I added. I leaned down and flicked the brim with my forefinger. “No matter what anyone tells you, never get rid of that hat.”

________________________________________________________

The car’s engine whined with a growl of urgency as I sped along the 101 freeway towards Santa Barbara. Aaron was getting married in about 48 hours and there was so much still undone. There were tuxedos to pick up, a speech to come up with, dinner with Aaron’s groom’s men, and at some point I was going to have to squeeze in some visiting time with my brother’s family. After all, they were putting me up for the night.

I pulled out my phone and fished the wireless earpiece out from the glove box and situated it around my ear. Bluetooth was a godsend. It was bad enough that people in California couldn’t drive, so much so that every trip to the market had become an exercise in defensive maneuvering. Put those same people on cell phones and you were gambling with your life. As the thought ran through my head I looked over on the shoulder in the traffic opposite me and saw two cars pulled over with each of their owners yelling loudly into their cell phones, likely in a mad rush to be the first to phone in their side of the story to their insurance company. I tapped the power button on the Bluetooth device and waited for the voice prompt to respond.

“Aaron. Cell phone,” I yelled. After a longer than usual pause the ringing began on the other side.

“Hey dude,” he answered, “I was just thinking about you. How’s that for timing? I was thinking ‘I wonder when the fuck my best man is going to call, being that I’m getting married in two days and there’s so much shit to take care of.’”

“I know Aaron, it literally took everything in me to pack up and get going this morning. I’m on the road right now and probably just under an hour away. What’s the plan?”

There was a pause on the other end. “I thought you could tell me.”

“I have to get your tux and mine, and there are various errands I have to run. That reminds me – when and where is Kate picking up the flower corsages? I have to check with her on the boutonnieres.” Kate was one of the bride’s maids and Vanessa had entrusted her most anal retentive maid with the task of keeping the smallest and easiest to overlook details in check.

“I dunno,” Aaron responded. “I’ll call Vanessa and find out.”

“Whoa, hold the phone chief, you don’t want to do that. She left those chores to other people, so by calling for a status check on something she’s not involved in that will lead her to believe there’s a bunch of monkeys running the show. And with the wedding day so close I can’t think of a better recipe for turning her into Bridezilla.”

“Yeah, good point,” he agreed. He remained silent. The weight of Saturday was starting to settle on his shoulders and it was clear I was going to have to do all the problem solving today.

“Give me Kate’s number and I’ll get to the bottom of it. If you don’t have her number then I’ll take Samantha’s. She’s bound to know Kate’s cell number.” Samantha was the maid of honor in tomorrow’s festivities and someone with whom I’d had one too many trysts during our college years. I couldn’t help myself; her tanned, leggy volleyball player physique and ever-blonde hair called to me like a beacon on campus, and whenever I found myself between relationships she was always inexplicably available. But she knew just as well as I what she was getting into back then, and if she didn’t realize it the first time, then she had to have known the drill the second, third, and fourth time. I was rather eager to see her in her bride’s maid gown myself.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Aaron asked.

“We’re both grown ups here, it’s not like we fling ourselves at each other whenever we are in the same room together.”

Aaron was still silent on the other end before replying. “That’s exactly how most of us remember it, Reed.”

“Relax Aaron, that was a long time ago. Besides, we have both been off each other’s radar for so long that I’m sure our collegiate urges will be under control when we see each other at the rehearsal tonight.”

Aaron fished around in his day planner for the number and we covered remaining details.

“Remember,” he reminded me, “dinner Friday night with the guys at Epiphany. That’s on Victoria Street. It’s jacket and tie. Reservation is at 6:30.” He hung up.

I got off the phone with Kate after first spending fifteen minutes talking to Samantha just as I pulled up to my brother’s house in Carpinteria. The boutonnières were all taken care of and would be waiting in the groom’s dressing room at the church rectory. As for the other minor details, Kate had them under control and we checked almost everything off the to-do list while on the phone. I clicked off the Bluetooth earpiece and revved my car slightly to announce my arrival as I ascended the sloping horseshoe-shaped driveway leading to my brother’s front door. I stopped the car and popped the trunk to fetch my bag, and as I shut the trunk the door to the house flew open and a boy who didn’t look as young as I last remembered came running out.

“Uncle Reed, Uncle Reed!” He manhandled my leg, clutching it with the bravado of a horse wrangler. “Mom! He’s here!”

His mother came out after him, carrying a dish towel and smiling. “I can see he is here, Tyler.” She mussed his hair and extracted the boy from my leg. “Hello, stranger. How was the drive?”

“The same as usual, Marie: All the Angelinos escaping to somewhere else.” I leaned down and got on eye level with Tyler. “How old are you now, Tyler.”

“Nine years old!” Tyler enthusiastically replied.

I stroked my beard around the chin. “Uh huh, so you must be getting older. Any girlfriends yet?” I teased.

Marie rolled her eyes.

“Ooh, gross. No way, dude!” Tyler exclaimed.

“Ah, decided a relationship is too much right now and instead you’re just playing the dating game. Smart guy. I knew there was some Becker logic passed down to you.”

Tyler crinkled his face as if to indicate the idea of him dating girls was a gross one too.

“What?” I shrugged. “I assumed it was natural for manly men like us to go conquer all the girls in the schoolyard.”

Tyler shook his head.

“No? I must have a problem with the intelligence I am getting. I’ll have to check on the reliability of the reports from your sister.”

Tyler laughed. “Lena can’t give reports. She’s only two.”

“Well, duh.” I tested the weight of my bag. “Want to show me how strong you are by taking my bag inside?”

“Okay!” Tyler went for the bag with both hands and he needed them, as he lifted first with his back and additionally had to walk on his tip-toes to get the bag through the door. The moment he got over the threshold he dropped the bag flatly on the fire glazed terra cotta tile lining the entry.

I put my jacket on the entryway ottoman and followed Marie into the kitchen, Tyler at my side the whole time.

“Where’s Lena?” I asked.

Marie put the dishtowel on its hanger and began putting some dishes away. “She’s sleeping, thank god.” She sighed a long sigh, a revealing sigh. The type that tips a person’s hand, in this case perhaps as if to say parenthood might not have been everything Marie had thought it would be. After another sigh she added, “It’s been so hard to establish a sleeping pattern with her.” She shook her head for emphasis.

Tyler poured himself into a vacant chair. After a few moments of silence he began kicking one of the chair legs with the end of his tennis shoe, the contact resonating in a squeaky noise every few seconds.

After bearing with it for what I thought had been too long, Marie told Tyler to stop it. “But I’m bored” was his defense.

“Hey Tyler, I have an idea. I need to go into town and pick up a few things. Maybe you can come with me and help out.”

Marie’s eyes widened as she gazed at me with the desperation of somebody at their wit’s end. “Yes,” her eyes seemed to plead you must take him out of here for my own good. Just for a little bit.

“What’s in it for me?” Tyler shot back.

“Tyler James Becker!!” Marie shouted. “You do not talk to guests like that, especially family!”

I put out my hand like I was stopping traffic. “It’s okay.” Then, to Tyler: “We’ll see how much of that attitude you have in public. What if when you’re done helping me I help you land a new girlfriend? I figure since you’re such a big man and all, it won’t take much.”

“That’s gross!” Tyler asserted.

I walked over to the table and pulled him by the shoulders from his chair. “Come on, kiddo. One of these days you’ll thank me for all this.”
_________________________________________________________

“Is this ceremony going to be performed by candlelight?” whispered Ken. He looked around the barren room nervously and waited for his next set of instructions from the pastor.

“What do you have against fire?” I quietly joked. I locked eyes with the set of beauties across from us while they fidgeted with their practice bouquets and tried their best to pay attention. At the head of the group Vanessa stood in a very rigid and proper pose, hinged on every word coming from the pastor’s mouth.

“…and then you will turn away from each other and walk over to the candle.” He repeated it for emphasis and moved in time with the bride and groom to show them the proper way it was to be done. “Turn and walk over to the candle,” he repeated.

“See, the candle!!” Ken said again out of the corner of his mouth. “The freaking candle again.”

“Knock it off. We’ll be done here soon enough and it’s all easy street from there,” I reminded him.

The pastor came over and instructed us where to move and how to face. “The bride and groom are the focal point, gentlemen. If they move down altar you turn and keep your gaze fixed upon them.” He looked at me. “As best man you are giving a reading. Do you know what passage you will be reading?” he asked.

“Yes. First letter from Paul to…his sweetheart.” The rest of the guys in line laughed and the girls looked over to see what the noise was about. The pastor frowned.

“Sorry. I’ve always wanted to say that. I’m reading from the Gospel of Mark.”

The pastor looked over his notes. These things were scripted and he wanted no surprises or hiccups. “Yes, I see it here – The union of houses passage.”

I nodded.

The pastor walked back to the couple to guide them further and as soon as he left Samantha slid over to take his place.

“What do you make of all this?” she asked, widening her eyes and cocking her head towards the altar.

“Well, Ken here thinks the candles are a little too gothic, but I’m good with it. I like a little tradition.”

Samantha smiled. “Aww, are you getting soft on us?” she teased. Then, changing the subject. “See the blondie on the end, the Australian bird who flew in from Sydney?”

I craned my neck and gazed down the line of bridesmaids. She stood out at the end, tall and radiant, full of understated beauty. I don’t think she was even wearing any makeup.

“Nice. Who is she?”

“Alison. Anita. Crap, I can’t remember. She asked about you and it took everything in me to not tell her how much of an asshole you are.”

“Thanks, that’s sweet. I feel special. Or are you just marking your territory?”

“Don’t flatter yourself. If you keep that thick and ugly beard of yours you’ll never get laid again. You might as well be the Unabomber.” She wrinkled her nose and smiled mockingly before moving back over to the girls’ side of the altar.

Ken leaned back over. “She looks like she’s gained about 15 or 20 pounds since college,” he commented.

“Like we’re all physical fucking specimens of mankind,” I replied. “Shut up and go back to your candles.”
_________________________________________________________

During the rehearsal dinner I got the sense that Aaron was tightening up with nervousness and fear, so like a good Best Man I steered him away from the crowds and, after stopping off quickly to pick up some beer, over to a hillside east of Isla Vista, a place we used to go hang out occasionally when we were students at nearby UC Santa Barbara.

I pulled the car to the edge of the road where we’d have a gorgeous view of the Pacific Ocean and Los Olivos below. I went outside, cracked open a beer and laid back on the hood of my car. Soon Aaron followed suit.

“So what’s up?” I asked.

“What’s up?”

“Yeah. I got the feeling you were uptight earlier and could use a breather.”

Aaron took a gulp of beer. “What would give you that idea? I’m only getting married on Saturday and changing my entire life.”

I took a swig of beer. I had no words that could console, nothing to let him know I’d ever been down that road myself.

“Yep.” It was the best I could muster.

“I shouldn’t be nervous about this, Reed. It’s the bride’s place to worry during weddings.”

“Afraid the cake won’t have raspberry filling like you ordered?”

“Funny. Vanessa can fret over those details. I’m a big picture kind of person.” He took another gulp of his beer. “I mean, I don’t even have a job and I’m still finishing my Masters Degree. How am I supposed to support a spouse like that?”

This was no place for a you should have thought about this earlier speech but still I had to say something. He was expecting a reassuring, calming word.

“You’re a resourceful chap. You’ll come up with something.”

“That’s the thing, what if I can’t? It’s not just me anymore. I have somebody else I’m responsible for. What if I make poor choices?”

“Then hopefully Vanessa is right there to see them for what they are and guide you. You’re a team now. Take the rough patches together. I’m sure she’d want you to do the same for her.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ve just felt so much out of my element this week. At certain points I feel like I’m in the background and at other times, forgotten. It’s like my life is going on right before my eyes and I can’t reach out and take control of it.”

I knew exactly what Aaron meant. I had felt that same way many times in the month following my father’s death, like I’d been the narrator of a story I wasn’t a part of and yet there were things that demanded my attention and involvement. No amount of soothing words would put him at ease. I knew what Aaron needed, and it wasn’t a beer, or advice, or a view from the hill. Aaron needed to feel like he was in his element, somewhere he could wrap his head around things he knew about. The guy was an economics man so I needed to speak to him in his language.

I finished the beer and slid the can back into its paper cardboard case. “You know what I don’t get,” I began, “it’s all those people who invest in blended mutual funds that are invested across fifty or a hundred different companies. How can they possibly make any money in the short term?”

“Money in the short term from that sort of investment is a pipe dream.” Between swigs of beer he added, “Unless a heavy proportion of the fund’s blend consists of bond investments. Blended mutual funds work off the principle of dividend reinvestment, so there’s no hope for any short term gains.”

“What good is that?” I asked. “Why wait 30 years to cash in on that action?”

“Because you are contributing to the greater good, globally speaking.”

“Greater good?” I asked.

“The money you invest gets invested across global economies. Electronics, livestock, textiles, the energy sector, et cetera. What these investments do is help strengthen the infrastructure of goods every nation relies on – superpower or third-world – and in turn fuels the global economy. That’s how it works.”

“I prefer cold cash.”

Aaron nodded. “There is nothing wrong with that either. A steady allocation of funds for buying treasury notes, precious metals, and foreign currencies is always a good move.”

I laughed and shook my head. “No, I mean my dead presidents, especially Presidents Grant and Jackson.” I reached into the cardboard carrier and fished out another beer.

“It figures,” Aaron replied with a grin. “You never change.”

“Hey, I resent that! Two years ago I would have said you’re crazy if you suggested I’d care about the stock market and economics; one year ago I would have said you’re crazy if you suggested I’d be a best man in anybody’s wedding, let alone yours; and two hours ago I would have said you’re crazy if you suggested I’d be atop a hill with you instead of chasing down the four single women who are Vanessa’s bridesmaids.” I popped open the beer, it’s contents exhaling with a giant whoosh that decompressed the can and sent suds flying everywhere. “Like it or not buddy boy, I’ve changed.”

Aaron laughed and nodded slowly, repeatedly. “I guess so. I guess we’ve all changed in certain matters of speaking.” He remained quiet and in thought. I let him have his moment to work out whatever gears needed to grind inside his head.

As he gently shook his can to determine how much of the beer remained, he said, “Thanks dude. Thanks for everything. Especially this – the ride up here, the beer, the bullshitting – I needed to get my head out of the wedding fog. I guess I was starting to feel the weight of it all, you know?”

“I hear ya,” I replied. “And thank you guys – you and Vanessa – for everything you’re doing for the bridal group and guests. You didn’t have to pay for the tuxedos and bridesmaid gowns, you know.”

“I know. It’s some Aussie custom or something. But picking up the tab for the hotel rooms was my idea.”

“Was the reception location your idea?” I asked.

“No, Vanessa wanted to have it at the Ritz Carlton, so it only made sense to get your rooms there. With a hosted bar you never know who will overdo it.”

“This is costing you a pretty penny, I’m sure.”

Aaron shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

“You’re right, I don’t. But some of the guys have a bet on how much they think it’s running you.”

“Yeah? Who is the closest to one hundred and fifty grand?” Aaron asked.

“Holy shit, is that the price tag?” I reached into the carrier and handed Aaron a fresh beer. “You’re going to need this,” I said, presenting it to him.

“Thanks. So you understand my nervousness. You don’t get a second run-through on these things. You get what you get, and then people go home and make their own memories and stories of it.”

I shook my head. “Nah, it will always be your story. Despite being best man I’m only the narrator.” I clapped him around the neck. “Don’t forget that, buddy. It’s your day. You can only attend to the people and details so much. That’s why you have a bridal party.”

Aaron cracked open his beer and eased his upper back onto the hood of my car, a big exhale emanating from him. You knew when Aaron was relaxed and in the zone, and it came always in the form of a heavy and weight-releasing sigh. Aaron had always been like a dog in that way.

“I love this car,” he finally said. “Don’t ever get rid of this car, Reed. We should enact a law requiring you to always keep this car. But if you do sell it, sell it to me.”

“You wouldn’t be able to afford it,” I countered. “You have a wedding to pay off.”

After a few extended periods of silence, Aaron piped up again: “Remember when we had just started school, before we really got to know all the little hotspots in town that were secluded? Before we discovered the happening places? We’d bring dates up here to admire the view, hoping this grand vista would get us laid. We were pathetic.”

“Speak for yourself. I was getting laid, nice view or not.”

“Bullshit! Talk about your revisionist history!” he shot back.

“I am serious,” I calmly replied after downing another gulp of beer. “I brought at most, three women up here, and all three got horizontal with me.”

“Yeah? Who are we talking about here? I want names; no hiding behind your suave ‘a gentlemen doesn’t name names’ crap.” Another gulp. “It’s not like you see any of them anymore, right? Just some names between friends.”

“Actually, one of them was Samantha – your fiancée’s maid of honor – so oops, there goes your quantum theory. But the other two were…” I admit I struggled to remember their names. “Bridget and Emma. I think.”

“You smooth son of a bitch!” said Aaron, swatting me on the middle of the back with an open hand. “That’s one thing you had over the rest of us. There was never a shortage of women for you.”

“Yeah,” I laughed, “and look how well that’s worked out for me now: I’m on a hilltop in the middle of nowhere sharing stories with another guy.”

We both laughed and took another swig in unison.

“Those glory days, they’ll pass you by,” Aaron said. “Springsteen was right.”

“We haven’t yet come into our own,” I countered. “The golden age isn’t upon us. Not yet.”

Aaron held up his beer can in a toasting position. “Then here’s to the glory days yet to come for all of us.” I smacked my beer to his, the dull crunching noise of aluminum cans sounding across the barren hillside.

“Remember when we were rushing ATO, and had to streak down (insert street name here) street between the house and Freebird’s?” Aaron wasn’t done reminiscing.

“God, I had blocked that from memory.” I crumped up my now-empty can and replaced it with a fresh cold one. “It looks like I’m going to need a few more of these in order to block it out once more.”

“We really had some great times – crazy times – in that frat. Hey, what was the worst hook-up you’ve ever had?”

“What is this,” I asked, “truth or dare?”

“Two guys a few years removed from college can reminisce about things, you know.”

I frowned.

“So who was it?” he again asked. “The one who the very next morning you thought ‘man, I have really sunk low,’ either because she was too ugly or fat or skanky or, something.”

I pointed at him. “I do not do ugly. No uglies, no fatties, no hard up cases where I have to fuck something. They have cold shower cures for that. It’s far better than besmirching your reputation.”

“Come on, there had to be one instance.”

I broke open my new can and took a long drink. “Okay, but you have to promise to not make a big deal of it.”

Aaron sat on edge. “This sounds juicy!”

I took another abnormally long pull from my beer can. “It was Courtney.”

Aaron sat for a moment or two completely unfazed. Then it hit him. “Courtney…OUR Courtney?” He jumped off the hood of my car and began pacing around. “You…and Courtney? Holy shit!” His mind was racing. “How is that even possible? You’re completely repulsed by her!”

“It just happened. It was a one-night thing and the details are hazy. I was drunk, she was drunk. We just started in on each other one night during one of their Delta Zeta parties and took it upstairs. I don’t remember any of it. I don’t think I was very good. I don’t remember her being anything special either. We both erased the incident from our memory banks.”

“But you hate her. I mean, she is a beautiful girl – we don’t call her the Hawaiian Barbie for nothing – but dude, this is earth shattering!”

I took another drink. “Thanks for not making a big deal out of it like I asked.”

“It all makes sense! This explains the years of animosity and why you jump down each other’s throat. Holy shit!” Aaron smiled with the satisfaction of an adventurer who had just made a grand discovery.

“No, you’re reading all kinds of things into what happened. Besides, I hate myself for what happened more than I could ever hate her. I don’t like her because she has no self-sensor button and doesn’t think through what she says or believes in. To her, people are there to serve her and the sun revolves only around Courtney. She’s just one of the many self-centered stuck up trust fund cunts we have in Los Angeles.”

“And you’re angry you spent the night with someone like that. You, of such refined taste and discretion fell in with someone like her.” He grinned.

“You don’t have to gloat about it,” I scowled.

“I feel for you, I really do. It’s just that it’s finally hit me now. I’ve realized something.”

“What?”

“No matter how well guarded your rep might be or how your highly regarded you come off in the public eye, nobody has a perfect track record. Nobody. All of us stumble from time to time.”

“Don’t I know it,” I replied. “It’s been five years, and I still realize it all the time.”

“Think anybody else knows?” Aaron asked.

“My guess is Michelle knows. After all, she and Courtney are best friends.”

Aaron nodded. “You’re probably right. Besides, women can’t keep quiet about anything. They always have to tell at least one of their friends.”

He saw I was staring at him with some question.

“But don’t worry Reed, I’m not going to say anything. If I did I’d just be looked upon as some married dolt who’s trying to vicariously carry on through the exploits of his friends. It’s funny how quickly you get dismissed as such. They don’t even wait until you are married to tag you with that label. It begins as soon as you move in together.”

“In a short while from now it will be official and everything will be new,” I said.

“And in quite another way,” Aaron said with a nod, “nothing will ever again be the same.”

Two Worlds Collide

2006-06-11T14:58:00.000-04:00

The saying “two worlds colliding” has its roots in Kipling, the odd duck responsible for the Jungle Book stories of Mogli and Rikki Tikki Tavi. What Kipling was trying to describe was the feeling of culture shock, the unnerving uprooting of one person’s mindset amidst somebody else’s. When two worlds collide, there is always a subsequent tenuous period. When two worlds collide, often there is misunderstanding. When two worlds collide, the outcome is seldom pretty.

The previous day I had run into some former co-workers I shared job duties with at Chiat/Day advertising, one of whom – a wallflower named Amy – had always captured my attention despite her rather plain appearance and demeanor. There was something undeniable below her surface, a frightened girl at odds with her smoldering sexuality. I’d always thought there might be a way to flip the internal switch on Amy and reveal the woman inside who she kept walled up, but I had a self-imposed rule about not dating co-workers. Call it disaster aversion; the last thing I needed given my speed dating style was to be in an office filled with exes. But now that I no longer worked there I was free to pursue whatever course Amy was willing to take, and when I ran into her at Starbucks I leapt at the opportunity to ask her out for the following night to dinner, something simple, something I could ease her into. Amy’s type couldn’t be rushed, as it would only cause her to retreat further behind the wall she put up. She would have to be calmed coaxed and moved along at a comfortable rate. Amy wasn’t long for the Los Angeles social scene and its parties, clubs, or long rosters of dateable people. She was very un-L.A, unlike myself. We were from two different worlds.

When Amy took me up on my dinner offer I told her I would take care of all the dining details. Nothing fancy, I assured her, but in the back of my mind I thought about how fancy I could arrange things to be without them seeming overtly so, as if to tell her yes, you are in fact worth all of this.

I got us a table for 7pm at Flemings, the venerable steakhouse situated at the convergence of Beverly Hills and West Los Angeles. It wasn’t the best chophouse, but it wasn’t informal by any means. I figured it was just enough to put Amy at ease. Besides, given Flemings’ stature within the Zino Davidoff family of business, it was one of the last places in town that had allowed cigars. Always have your options. As soon as I was off the phone with the restaurant I phoned Amy and left a message telling of our plans, promising to pick her up by 6:30, and to call me if she needed to change anything. If I didn’t hear from her, I’d be by to pick her up as arranged.
________________________________________________________

“Let me go on the record and tell you how phenomenally bad this idea of yours is,” declared Devin between bites of his sandwich. “And I know bad,” he added. “I authored bad. Me and bad are old friends.”

“Don’t you think you are being a tad overdramatic?”

“Hell no! Let’s recap the details: This chick Amy has the hots for you. 100 percent confirmed hots for you. She always has. And you like her too, at least enough to get horizontal with her. Right so far?”

I nodded.

“So already you have a clear path to the finish line. You take her out, be your usual self, let her be her usual self, and then when the time comes you lower the boom. If she’s into you and you haven’t been an ass there won’t be any resistance. And I means lots of fucking. Advantage: You.”

“That’s too easy,” I replied, dismissing his analysis with the wave of my hand. “And you’re missing the point,” I added.

“Missing the point?” he exclaimed, pausing before taking another bite of his sandwich. “You get to dip your wick. What point am I missing?”

“Here’s how I see it: She’s this great, unique person, who with a little help and a little coaching could be this entirely different, even greater person. Think of it – more beautiful, more refined, more graceful.”

Devin put down his sandwich and sat back in the chair, slowly easing it back so he could cross his long legs under the table. “Ah, I see. And what’s better than a decent woman on your arm? A stunner. Somebody who is good in every way. It’s not that it’s making her look better…in the end it’s making you look better.” He dropped his legs in front of him and let gravity plop the front legs of his chair on the floor.

I smiled. “Nice spin, but I think you have it wrong.”

Devin smiled back. “I don’t think I do. You know, it’s funny that this comes from me since I don’t care at all about the different layers people have. I just want to get laid. But dude, either you like them or you don’t. And you like them for who they are right now, not who they could be. Jesus, that’s a classic chick move, the old let’s turn a person into somebody else bullshit.”

“It’s for her own good. She could be a happier and livelier person.”

Devin polished off the last of his sandwich and clapped his hands together to get rid of the bread crumbs. “Aren’t you the magnanimous one? You should listen to yourself. Don’t you think that decision is hers to make? Just because you can do it doesn’t mean you should.”

“When the hell did you grow a conscience? I feel like I’m talking to Michelle or Aaron.”

Devin laughed. “It comes out every so often. It can smell bullshit from a mile away, that’s what usual prompts it.”

I snorted.

“Admit it, I’m right and you know it. Just be careful dude, it’s usually right when we are near the finish line that it blows up in our face.”

The waitress came by our table, dropping the check on the formica table top as she continued on towards the table behind us. Devin flipped the check over and reached towards his back pocket for his wallet.

“I got this,” he said as he eyed the check.

“Holy shit,” I responded, “ain’t this a day of firsts! You take the moral high ground and then you pay for a meal. When was the last time you paid for a meal?”

Devin pointed the tip of the check at me. “Fuck you Becker. I paid last week when we were at the mall for lunch. With Michelle and Courtney and a lot of boring conversation.”

“Yeah, but twice in two weeks. That’s monumental. What’s the occasion? I know you haven’t got any new work lately.”

Devin pushed back again on his chair. “It’s alright, I can handle your barbs. I’ve adopted a new outlook, to spend money when I have it. I have it now, so I’m spending it.”

“What happens when the money is gone and you still haven’t landed any new gigs?” I asked.

“Calm down, we’re talking about 18 dollars for lunch here.”

“Yeah, but a few lunches, some new jeans and a shirt, and a little more gas in the tank all add up.”

“I’m not worried,” Devin maintained. “Besides, the Nivea people said they want to shoot something in the next month, and it’s going into print too so that’s extra money.” He paused and flagged down the waitress. “And there are always auditions. My agent is good in ferreting out opportunities.”

“So what happens when all those opportunities dry up? What do you have to fall back on then? Ever given that any thought?”

“Yeah, I have,” Devin replied. “I guess I fall back on Mom and Pop,” he said sheepishly, looking away.

“That’s no plan,” I responded. “Don’t you think you’re at the point in life where you should do it on your own?”

“What kind of question is that?” he scoffed. “Of course I do. But if hard times fall I can always go back to them and they won’t say no. Why would they? It’s not like they have a shortage of money.”

I shook my head.

"Our parents have enough money to last through their lifetime and ours, and we’re not bad seeds or anything, so if we stopped working today they could support us with no problem," Devin said. "But you always act like you’re ashamed you come from a well-off family, like you want nothing to do with their money. When your mother goes she’ll be the last thing standing between you and –"

“I know! I know! I’ve heard you spin this tale before!” A few people stopped eating and looked at me in response to my raised voice and I embarrassingly smiled in their direction before lowering my voice and continuing. “The difference between us and people like Courtney is they have no qualms or conflict of conscience being trust fund babies. They don’t aspire to greater things. As long as they’re on the family payroll everything is a-okay. I don’t work that way, and you don’t either. Don’t you want something meaningful? Don’t you want something that’s all yours, every last bit of it? You don’t act just because it pays the bills, you do it for a satisfaction you know wouldn’t feel if you were acting on the side while earning your dime from your parents. To throw your thought from earlier back at you, just because you could doesn't mean you should.”

“Funny," he scoffed. "It would make the month-to-month expenses easier to swallow, though.”

“Point taken, but in the end don’t you want to be able to emerge from your struggle and when looking back be able to say ‘yeah, I conquered all that and came out for the better.’ Isn’t that what life is really about?”

Devin covered his eyes with his hands. “All I want to do right now is pay for a lunch without hearing a lecture. Unless your platinum card is burning in your back pocket.”

“Fine,” I huffed, and sunk into my seat.

Devin flagged down a waitress and she left with his money on one of those battered plastic trays the receipt is usually delivered on. As she left she shot Devin an extra look and sly smile, the type that either says “I know you from somewhere,” or “I’d like to get to know you.” Devin caught her gaze and held it.

“Well howwww-dy! She’s not half bad. I’d fuck her. And Reed – listen up, because this is the important part – I wouldn’t try to change her before I fuck her. I don’t even know two squirts about her and she’s good as is.”

“I’ll take that under consideration, Casanova,” I grinned.

Devin swished around in his chair and in response I blurted, “What’s the matter, did the waitress drive-by give you a woody downstairs?”

Just as I delivered the line a woman no older than us walked by the table and slowed as she heard what I said. She turned and delivered a disapproving scowl.

“Yes, this is in fact what guys talk about when we’re out and about,” I joked.

She frowned and walked by.

“Hard case,” I commented loudly.

“Eh, she’ll get over it,” Devin remarked with a wave of his hand.

The waitress returned with our receipt and slid it onto the table while eyeing Devin and smiling. He smiled in kind, added an informal “hi, how are you” and she disappeared to help out customers at another table.

“So what are you doing about graduate school? Figure out where you want to go?”

I pulled out my keys and laid them upon the table, then adjusted myself in the booth. “Yeah, I’ve decided I’m going to chase an MBA. I figure that’s the best thing for me, considering I haven’t figured out just where to focus my career.”

“An MBA is a pretty damn good calling card. Where are you going?”

“If I do this it has to be done right, which means I can’t go to any middle tier programs. I have to aim for the top. People look at your resume and if the letters MBA are followed by a top ten school, then you are half way through the door.”

“That takes serious coin,” Devin commented.

“I know, I’m still working on that.”

“Your mother would pay, you know.” Devin stirred in his seat and looked down the aisle for our waitress. “Any ideas which of the top ten you’ll apply to?” he asked.

“USC because it’s local, and Columbia because the networking you get out of that school is so goddamn good.”

“New York, huh? That’ll be different.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure how I’ll feel about that.” I paused and stirred what was left of my ice tea with the overly tall spoon they always bundle with the drink. “I think I’m going to try for Stanford too. It was my father’s school and I think he would have liked that.”

Devin paused, then looked one more time for the waitress. “With all the money and all the things your dad gave Stanford through the years, they should roll out the red carpet for you. The family alumni thing alone should get you in no sweat.”

“We’ll see.”

Devin looked one last time around the place for our waitress, then with a look of obvious disappointment turned back to the table.

“What do you keep looking for?” I asked.

“Our waitress. Look at this.” He held up the receipt to show a handwritten note under the check total that read “I’ve seen you on TV in those skin commercials and thought maybe sometime we could get together for a drink or a cup of coffee. No big deal, just a get to know you thing.” Under the note was her name – Julie – and a phone number.

“Who says this kind of shit never happens in real life?” he grinned.
________________________________________________________

I was running late. If I kept this up there’d be no way I’d ever get across mid-city to the side of town where Amy lived to pick her up. Part of me wanted to phone her and tell her to call a cab so that she wouldn’t be left waiting, but the little voice in the back of my head said I promised to pick her up. The BC slacks were a no-brainer; I didn’t know what space age shit they were made of but they never showed a wrinkle. The shirt was proving more of a problem.

“Which one Sophia?” I asked while holding in one hand a plain blue Nautica button-up like you’d wear to the office for a conference call with the boss, and in the other a slim cut D&G shirt with a surprisingly modest print pattern for the Dolce and Gabana guys. We often played this game, Sophia and I. I would hold up my wardrobe choices and she’d sniff at them and bounce them around with her nose. Whichever she showed the most interest in was the piece I’d end up wearing. It was real quality time for us.

Sophia sniffed at the Nautica but didn’t show much interest. The D&G number was easily her favorite, as she batted the arm cuff about with her nose and licked in the mid-chest section.
“We have a winner,” I declared, removing the shirt from its wood hanger and draping it over my shoulders.

“I’m glad we can make these quality decisions together,” I told her as I leaned in and quickly stroked her coat below the neck. She stretched and then licked my cheek.

“What quality decisions are those?” came a voice from behind me as my mother entered the room. She walked a little bit slowly today, with a groggy malaise that accompanies a person who’s been sleeping for most of the afternoon.

“Did I wake you? Sorry about that.”

“No,” she responded, “I just haven’t seen you much today and wanted to check how you’re doing.”

“Good. Got a date tonight,” I smiled.

“Oh? What’s her name?”

“Does it matter?” I asked.

She shook her head. “You never change. I thought maybe with age you’d smarten up some.”

“When she’s become important enough to me, you’ll get an introduction.” I smiled. “Maybe I’ll remember her name by then, too.”

“You’re terrible.”

“I know.” I pulled my shoes from the closet before I continued. “Since you are here and it’s fresh on my mind, I wanted you to know I’ve made a decision about college.”

“Oh?”

“MBA. I think it’s the smartest thing I can do with myself right now. I mean, I’m not working and I don’t know if advertising is the end-all be-all career for me. There are so many industries out there and any one of them could be a better fit, but I just don’t know. I figure an MBA will help no matter what path I choose for myself.”

She smiled faintly and slowly approached the closet doors where I still stood. “It sounds like you’ve given it some serious thought, and some smart thought at that.”

“I want you to know that I am only going to target the best programs, and though they will cost a lot, I don’t want your money. I want to pay for this on my own.”

“Let’s see what kind of programs want you first before worrying about the tab, okay?” she replied. She turned and slowly walked towards my bed, a little more labored in her movements, a little more mechanical in her steps than she had been in previous weeks. When she finished making herself comfortable on the bed she continued: “Where do you plan to apply?”

“I’ve been researching the top programs and I whittled them down to three: USC, Columbia, and Stanford. I figure USC will be the best bet because it will allow me to stay close and look in on you.”

My mother waved her hand in protest. “Don’t let those details keep you from going to the very best school you can get into. Don’t automatically relegate yourself to USC if there is better.” She paused and for a brief moment I thought I caught her eyes tearing up. “Your father would be proud that you are considering Stanford.”

“Well, you know the school’s penchant for legacies. Besides, Peter went there too.”

She nodded. “And Peter went there too. I am certain you will fare just fine no matter what institution you end up calling home.” She rose from the bed and Sophia rose from her stay position on the carpet in time, as if to escort my mother to wherever in the house she might go next. “Enjoy your date,” she told me as she started for the door leading to the living room. “And good luck. Maybe you will find your next Carolyn.”

“Gee, thanks for setting the bar so high,” I muttered. I inspected the shoes still in my hands. They really needed a quick buff but there wasn’t enough time for that. Amy was waiting, and if I didn’t hurry I wouldn’t have to worry about any future introductions to anybody because she’d be done with me.

“I have to go,” I told my mother before she made it out of the room. Then, to the dog: “Be good. Watch over her tonight.” The dog leaned forward and tried to move my hand onto the top of her head but clumsily ended up pushing my fingers into her eye. I laughed and grabbed my keys off the nightstand, then kissed my mother on the cheek and made for the car.
_______________________________________________________

Flemings looked every bit as it was described in Zagat’s online review: Warm, inviting, and draped in deep color courtesy of the striped blood red and crimson velvet wall coverings. The crowd tonight was posh, as men in suits entertained dates or tables full of business clients while in hushed corners people not wanting to be in the public eye whispered, enjoying the privacy the room’s engulfing shadows provided. The din of the place was low as we entered, and a young doorman held the large wooden frame doors ajar while telling us to enjoy our evening, as if on command. Inside I smelled the subdued scent of a cigar, perhaps a Fuente, and smirked as I remembered the restaurant’s cigar friendly status.

“Gosh, it’s so nice,” gawked Amy as we approached the hostess podium. Tonight she was radiant: Her hair, more curly and styled than usual, and her face void of the makeup regimen she’d normally show up to work with. Her skin appeared more tan and free of any makeup, as if she was eschewing the blush and foundation for a healthier and more glowing look. She wore an evening dress that revealed a little more leg than she would normally be comfortable with shedding at the office or anywhere else, and the mid-high stiletto was the perfect accent to her freshly waxed and shiny legs. She’d obviously taken more care and put a little more daring into her appearance tonight and it was paying off for her. As we were escorted to our table men passing by stopped for an extra moment to soak in Amy’s essence while others smiled and nodded in her direction. Maybe she did it because of the occasion. Maybe she did it because of me. Or maybe she did it so if for only one night she could live like the other half in this town.

The young hostess pulled out Amy’s chair and delicately sat her with the precision of somebody who’d been trained their entire life to do just that one task. Before she could come around to my side of the table I pulled out my own chair and sat down. The girl tersely smiled with regret when she saw I’d beaten her to the punch. I didn’t know it was a contest. She quickly mentioned some specials not on the menu this evening and disappeared.

I watched Amy as she looked at all the people in the restaurant. Some made eye contact with her and when she smiled they smiled back. I looked at the way she gazed at them, and it wasn’t the same as she’d do at the office. At work her eye contact was fleeting and passive. Tonight it was focused and with purpose. She looked at our fellow diners this evening as equals, not somebody whose lives she had temporarily intruded upon. I marveled at the change I was seeing and it only furthered my resolve to mold her into something else, something better, something divine. I could have watched her all night, just gazing upon her beauty and her newfound sense of presence. But I realized how creepy and perverted that would seem and broke the silence with small talk.

“Ever been here?” I asked.

“Me? Lord no, I don’t think I’ve ever been to a place like this.”

“Never? Not even growing up? Not even to mark some great passage in life, like high school graduation or an engagement or the like?

She shook her head. “Nope.” Then she leaned in a bit as if to offer some bottled-up secret: “It’s too fancy.”

I smiled. “It’s not that fancy a place.”

“Well, in my book it is.”

“It’s always good to broaden your horizons,” I offered.

“I suppose.” She picked up the delicate parchment listing tonight’s menu items and gingerly held it while scanning the choices. “Gosh, I don’t even know what to order.”

“If that’s the case would you permit me to pick for you?” I asked. As soon as I said it I realized how incredibly stupid the suggestion sounded but it was too late to retract it. “If you don’t mind,” I added. She shrugged. “Are you a steak, chicken, or veal person?”

“Steak.”

“Excellent,” I replied as I returned the menu to the table. When the waiter came by I quickly ordered two center cut dry-aged steaks.

“Oh, and a bottle of 2000 Chateau Sovereign Cabernet,” I added just before the waiter turned to leave. He turned and smiled, but it was a condescending smile, the kind that implied, that’s not one of the better ones here.

As we waited on our entrees I learned a number of things about Amy: She had a twin sister who died of Hodgkin’s Disease when they were in 8th grade; she once had a pet pig on the family farm named Brutus; she was Miss Corn Festival not once but twice, and placed 3rd another year; and one time in high school she beat a freshman boy up, prompting rumors to start that she was a lesbian.

I sat back and watched as Amy opened up like a flower basking in the first focused sunlight of the day. It was as if she’d been waiting all this time for somebody to tell these things to and now that she had an audience she wasn’t going to stop. I smiled in admiration as I watched, excited in the discovery that somebody so shielded and so pure still existed in Los Angeles.

She continued talking as the waiter brought our Caesar and anchovy salad. “Outside fork,” I said when she grabbed the fork closest to her plate setting.

“Excuse me?”

“The fork. Your salad fork is the fork furthest out in the setting,” I told her, pointing at the correct fork she should be using.

“Oh,” she responded, blushing lightly as she discarded the entrée fork for the correct silverware.

“It’s so official,” she added.

“When in Rome,” I said, then adding, “they usually give you a pre-chilled fork when having dinner salads like this.”

“Pre-chilled? Whatever for?”

“It helps keep crisp lettuce crisp, and reduces that slimy feeling of having too much dressing in your salad. And that’s probably too much info from me,” I laughed.

She giggled in response. “That’s what I miss about you, Reed; the style factor. There is a serious style void in the office now that you aren’t there. The guys who are there are so, so…plain.”

I laughed and dismissed the obvious irony.

I picked at my salad and continued to listen to Amy tell of her childhood years growing up in Iowa. Most of the time the conversation needed no steering or prompting, as Amy filled me in on the more momentous events in her life. The waiter showed up with my sub-par wine choice, uncorked the bottle and poured a small draw. I sipped and let it run between the cleft of my mouth and my tongue. It wasn’t nearly as bad as the waiter made it out to be. I nodded and he continued dispensing.

“You know, there are many times during the day when I think to myself ‘what are you doing out here girl, you don’t fit in.’”

“How long have you been living in Los Angeles now?” I asked.

“Just over two years.”

“Hell, that’s longevity by our standards!” I ruled.

She smiled timidly. “It’s just…places like this. I don’t see how a person like myself could ever fit in places like this.”

“Have you ever considered stopping that train of thought and just going with the flow?”
Amy looked away. She was beginning to fall back into her shrinking violet self. I had to move fast.

“The problem with a lot of people who feel they are on the outside looking in is they analyze the situation too much instead of jumping in,” I said hastily. She still eyed me with a bit of hurt, as if I’d cut her to the quick. “So much in this town is done in passing, so why not just jump in with both feet and assess later? Besides, so much of it is trivial detail – we’re not earning ourselves a Nobel here – so why analyze. You won’t be making any calls that compromise your character and you don’t have to even worry about if you’re being the real you.” I waved my hand around in the air, calling out the wall coverings and the prim and proper people seated around us. “Not in this place, not around these people.”

“I’m confused. Are you saying I should be phony?”

I shook my head. “No, not at all. I’m suggesting you play up one side of yourself, one that only exhibits one or two specific characteristics.” She still looked confused. “Everybody does it.” I paused. “I’ll give you an example: Suppose I meet a person and in talking to that person I pick up things about their character, such as the way they talk and which words they choose, the way they dress, the way they recline into a chair, the way they make eye contact…the things they say outright that express an opinion on something, and what they don’t say when certain topics are broached. All these things form an opinion in my mind about who they are, and what’s more – the type of person they expect to come into contact with. Now most of the time these people expect to meet someone just like you or me, but to a degree. There is some aspect about your personality or mine that they are expecting to see immediately. So I play that aspect up and bring it to the forefront.”

She nodded in response periodically but I could tell she wasn’t grasping the concept fully.

“Take that last setup I just laid out for you. Let’s put it into real world terms. I meet someone at an upscale party, the type with martinis and people in cocktail dresses and sports coats. I know going in this is a refined crowd or at least that is the personal characteristic they are playing up, and it is the same characteristic they are looking for in me. So I tap into what I know about the arts, literature, fine living, and so on. Maybe if I hit it off with someone I suggest a night at the Philharmonic, not because that’s where this person necessarily wants to go, but because it’s a suggestion they’re expecting to hear from a person who would be at a party like this. When I get to know said person more in depth down the road I can pick something more in line with their actual tastes. If it were a block party or something crass I might instead talk sports and television and then take it to a pool hall for some longnecks and stick. It’s the environment that is the determining factor.”

Suddenly Amy grew visually sad as I made the last statement. “You asked me shortly after we started working if I wanted to shoot pool one night after work. Does that mean you never meant you were interested in doing that?”

“Of course I was interested, otherwise I wouldn’t have asked. But keep in mind, at the time that was the vibe I got from you and what’s more the environment helped determine the activity. If I suggested the opera you would have turned me down. Come to think of it you turned me down anyhow.”

“I don’t know,” she continued, “it sounds so phony.”

“Los Angeles,” I added. “Ta-da!”

Amy grew quiet again, uncertain of what to make of this new information she’d been given just as the entrees and side dishes arrived. Flemings has always been about presentation, and tonight was no different. The waiter and his assistant appeared in their trademark spotless bleach white outfits carrying our steaks on sizzling oversized platters draped in thick white napkins. The assistant draped another large napkin over the table in front of Amy before the waiter delicately laid the steak platter in front of her, cautioning Amy against touching the sides of the plate. “Far too hot, Miss,” he added with a smile. They repeated the fanfare on my side of the table and as they lay the steak in front of me I smelled the salts used to dry-age the cutlets. The assistant then disappeared briefly before returning with an oversized spoon and a side dish of asparagus and a side dish of creamed corn. After a quick admonition to enjoy he vanished as fast as he had appeared.

I decided to change the subject to keep Amy active. “So, two years in this place, huh? How many dates have you been on in that time if you had to put a number on it?”

Amy reached for a fork to begin, and then subsided and looked at me as if making sure she was employing the right fork. I nodded gently and she continued. “Oh it’s not a big number. Two dates, I think.”

I coughed as I put down a sip of my wine. I hadn’t expected such a low number. “That’s it? Two? I’ve been on two dates in the past two weeks, Amy. Were you at least the one who asked them out?”

“Lord no, I couldn’t do that! Where I come from it’s the man who does the asking. The only boyfriend I ever had was the man I married after high school and any time we went out it was he doing the asking. The other times it was just understood since we’d been boyfriend and girlfriend for so long. Besides, if I asked a man out, what if he said no? What if he laughed in my face? I don’t think I could handle that kind of rejection.”

“Welcome to every guy’s life, Amy. It’s not pretty, but it’s not difficult either. The worst thing a person can say to you is no. That’s it. You’re no worse off than you were a night ago when you didn’t have a date.”

“I don’t know, I can’t just shrug it off as well as you can.”

“Well, what’s your technique?” I asked.

She cut a piece of steak and chewed while she thought of a response. Then: “My technique? What do you mean?”

I watched as she transferred a few asparagus spears to her plate and took a little more creamed corn. The noise in the restaurant was growing louder as tables filled and waiters were now more noticeable in their rush to make sure everybody was being taken care of.

“Your style for asking a person out, for closing the deal.” I moved in closer to her. “The body language you exhibit that tells someone you want them and aren’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Amy shrunk back, blushing. She hadn’t given these ideas any serious thought.

I leaned back in my chair and took another sip of the Chateau Sovereign. The flavors of casis and leather were immediately perceptible. “You and I have a lot of work to do,” I replied.

“You don’t have to do this,” she urged, still a little embarrassed.

“Nonsense.” I put down my steak knife. “Show me your technique. I want you to ask me out.”

She put down her silverware and looked around the room. “We’re already out.”

“It’s a hypothetical. Say we just met and things are going pretty good, and now you’re going to ask me out.”

“I can’t just ask you out!” she gawked, the red returning to her cheeks.

“Why not?” I asked. “Give me what you got,” I said as I reclined into my seat. The waiter came by to check on our progress and Amy turned away so he couldn’t see her in this flushed state.

“I don’t know about this Reed, I don’t like this idea.”

“Look, at some point in your life you will have to ask a man out, either because society will have progressed to the point where such a thing is commonplace, or because you are tired of waiting for someone you truly like to ask you out.” I picked up my chair and moved it around the circular table so Amy and I were less than a foot apart. “Come on, let’s have at it.”

Amy took a long sip of wine to bolster herself and started stammering: “Uh, okay…so, it’s like this…er…I was thinking…”

“Good,” I cut in, “start with thinking. Thinking helps.”

Amy frowned before gulping down the last of her wine. I refilled her glass as she continued.
“So…I was thinking – like I said – maybe we’d enjoy each other’s company sometime, like…you know…a date, sometime.”

“Gee, a date, it sounds so official,” I responded.

“Godamnit Reed, you’re making this so embarrassing!”

“It’s not a bad start,” I commented. “Okay, continue.”

“Continue? That’s all I’ve got!” she huffed, her cheeks still flushed as she cut an asparagus spear and washed it down with a rather big swig of wine. “I’m a lost cause, aren’t I?” she sheepishly asked.

I moved my chair back around to my place setting and continued with my steak. After cutting off a hunk and savoring the flavor in my mouth for longer than I should have, I put down the cutlery and answered Amy: “I think I know what your problem is.”“What, besides that I absolutely stink at it?”

“You don’t stink at it, you’re just unrehearsed. I think your problem is in your head; you are placing too much importance on the idea of what a date is, as if it’s some great event. This isn’t the courtship of Scarlett and Captain Butler, Amy – it’s just two people hanging out and enjoying similar interests. That’s it.”

“But what about sex?” she exclaimed. A few people turned in response when they heard her and Amy shrunk away when she realized she had asked the question a little more loudly than she wanted.

I smiled as the people around us responded with scoffs and indignation. Then I said purposely loud, “No Amy, I am not going to have sex with you. It’s only the first date. What kind of slut do you think I am?” Many of the same people turned in their chairs once more.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” Amy repeated as she tried to bury her head further into her napkin.

“I’m sorry, I’m having a bit of fun at your expense.” She still hid behind your napkin. “You can come out know, everybody is back to their meal.” She slowly withdrew the napkin and looked around, seeing it was safe.

“That was a mean thing to do.”

“I know. Accept my apologies. It’s not like me to beat a person when already down.” I returned to my steak and between pieces tried some of the corn. Everybody says Ruths Chris or Gullivers’ versions of creamed corn are the best, but I think Flemings can hold their own just fine.

“I realize I never answered your question Amy, the one that led us to all of this: What about sex. Well, what about it? Sex is the ultimate in two people enjoying similar interests, wouldn’t you say?”

“I guess, but that’s not what I meant by the question. How can I not get all wrapped up in what a date is about if there’s the possibility of sex?”

“You can’t approach every date you ever go on as having an end event of sex to close the date. Just go with the flow of each date and see where things progress. As soon as you are comfortable with the person, then start thinking about it, but until then just keep the idea of bumping uglies out of your head.”

“That’s a good way of dealing with it, I guess. Is that what you do?”

I shrugged it off. “Me? No, I expect to get laid every time.” I followed it with a loud laugh.

Amy shook her head in disgust. “You’re awful, just awful.”

We cut down on the talking so that we could finish our meals before they grew cold and just as we were nearly finished I poured the last of the wine into our glasses and resumed the teaching.

“Let’s work on your asking out technique some more, shall we?”

“Oh Reed, I don’t know. I’m no good.”

“Sure you are, you just have to be more direct and have some confidence in yourself.” I moved my chair closer to hers once more and I could see her face growing hotter as the prospect of having to run another drill became a certainty.

“Couldn’t we talk about something else instead?” Amy suggested. “Couldn’t we talk about some of the people at work who have asked how you have been and what you’ve been up to?”

“If I want to hear from them I’ll pick up the phone,” I responded. “Right now I want to talk about you.”

Amy shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“Think of it this way: Approach it knowing that whether you are the one doing the asking or not, it’s somebody you’d be excited to go out with. The asker and askee are irrelevant here, okay?”

Nervously crunching her napkin, Amy nodded while focusing her vision on a stripe of the crimson wall opposite our view. If she needed to psyche herself out that was fine. Sometimes that is all that’s required.

After a few starts and restarts she lowered her shoulders and buried her chin low. “I’m sorry, I just can’t. It’s not for me.”

I was exasperated. “Jesus, how are we ever supposed to get you laid, Amy?”

As soon as the question was free of my lips her demeanor immediately changed and I instantly regretted it. Suddenly Amy wasn’t subdued, as she sat up straighter and adjusted her posture. The look on her face changed from disbelief to offended, and her body language with it appeared less the victim and more of a person ready to attack. Whatever switch deep within Amy I had activated with those ten words was on, and her pump was primed.

“How in the hell would you know what my sexual needs are? Who are you to speak for me? What if I wanted a dry period for a while?” When she saw me roll my eyes she added. “That’s right, you heard what I said. Why does it always have to be about sex? Why can’t two people just go somewhere to go somewhere? My ex-husband never understood that. For him it was all about getting his rocks off. Before we were married that’s all our dates ever turned into, just another place to have sex without getting caught. And once we were married, he took it upon himself to have sex with me anytime he felt like it – whether I wanted to or not – though when you’re married and have sex unwillingly it’s not considered rape. Hell if I even wanted to tell somebody in town they would just say it’s my ‘marital responsibility.’ So he’d just come home drunk on a Friday night after an evening bowling with the guys and take advantage of me. Rouse me from my sleep. Make me do…things.”

All the color dropped from my face. “Oh Amy, I’m sorry. I had no idea…”

“Don’t patronize me, Reed. Or are you just saying something to play up some side of ourselves because you think that’s what I want to hear?”

Before I had a chance to qualify my remark she continued at break-neck speed. “You try getting a divorce in a small backwards town because your spouse is a selfish drunken bastard who slaps you around and takes advantage of you and see how many people sit there and judge you and make snippy comments after you pass by, like I’m the bad person! You listen to hearsay and talk around the local market that I’m some kind of ice queen and that ‘I must have driven him’ to sleep around with other women! All because I wanted a little respect and to be treated with some dignity! And I come out here to escape that but all I find is more selfishness and streets teeming with people who mock you and judge you just for trying to meet their gaze while you walk down the street. And the men in this town are just the same as the type I left at home. Big city or small town, it doesn’t matter. And what happens when I call up a girlfriend from home to talk and complain about how I don’t feel like I connect with anybody or anything in this place? She tells me I need to get laid. Well I have had enough of trying to find a special connection in Los Angeles. I tried to change but I can’t. I am who I am and the rest of the world will just have to accept that!”

I sat silently and Amy started to cry. “Oh God, now I am crying. Great. It’s ruining my makeup.” Before I could say anything she stood up and ran for the ladies’ room. A few people watched and then judgingly turned their eyes to me.

“Sorry folks, I said something to upset her. I can be an ass like that. I apologize if it interrupted your meal.” A few of the older clientele huffed before re-focusing their attention on their meals.

I slipped a hand into my inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small pad and pen. I wouldn’t have much time to act; Amy surely would come out and want to go home, not desiring to be an embarrassment to herself at Flemings any longer. I clicked the pen’s end and began writing:

Amy, any disaster that resulted tonight is wholly my fault and in no way should you feel responsible. I had no idea those feelings were pent up inside of you, and yet I am touched you chose to share them with me despite the manner in which they were unleashed. You see, one of the great things I admire about you is your authenticity. In this town of phonies it’s a rare find. I should have valued that, but I didn’t. Instead I saw something that wasn’t there, something I wanted to be there, something I thought I could create. And so I thought I could change you, maybe even refine you. Take a beautiful thing and make it more so. But I completely forgot that who you are already makes you a great person to me and that's good enough. I had made up my mind that helping you with this change would make you a better person. But that wasn't my decision to make. I got caught up in the idea that I could do it when instead I needed to consider whether I should do it.

I shuddered as I realized I was using some of Devin’s wisdom from our earlier lunch. I lowered the pen and quickly wrapped up:

Don’t ever change – not for me or anybody else. Only do it when you want to.
I folded the note and quickly slipped it into her coat pocket just as she returned from the ladies’ room. “I’m sorry, I’ve completely ruined dinner,” she said.

“No, don’t blame yourself, this is all my fault.”

“No, I’m embarrassed to be at such a nice place with you and totally ruin it. I’ve called a cab to come get me. I can’t sit here in good conscience and finish a meal and have all these people looking at me. Besides,” she laughed, “my makeup is ruined and I look horrid.”

“You still look fantastic, running mascara and all,” I said. “And that’s no line. Look, let’s get out of here, I can take you home no problem. We don’t have to cut this short.”

The hostess approached our table as I tried to plead my case. “Miss, the cab you called for is here.”

Amy thanked her and took her coat from the back of her chair. I helped her with it, wrapping it delicately around her bare shoulders while verifying the note was still in the same pocket as her purse.

“Are you sure I can’t persuade you one last time to let me take you home.” She shook her head. As she brushed past me she started tearing up again.

I sat back down, alone, defeated and with a cold unfinished meal. The waiter came by some moments later and asked if he could clear the meals.

“Will there be anything else?” he asked.

“Do you have any Gispert Robustos in your humidor?”

“I’m sure we do, sir.”

“I’ll have one, then. I suppose you might as well bring the after dinner drink menu too.”

“Very good sir.”

A few people dining at nearby tables looked over at me periodically, and I tried my best to put on a brave face and smile every time before they turned back to their table and made their own gossipy comments.

The waiter returned with the cigar on a silver tray, and in the other hand he carried a squared, squat tumbler partially filled with the golden brown haze of Scotch. “Sir, it came to the attention of the management that your companion left abruptly and in poor spirits. We hope everything is all right. Please accept a Morangie aged 18 year single malt Scotch with our compliments and best wishes.”

I removed the cigar from the platter, smiled, and nodded as the waiter placed the glass in front of me.

“Thank you, that’s very generous of you,” I responded. I pulled the Dupont from my pocket and began lighting the Robusto.

“If I may ask sir, is everything all right?”

“It’s just a date that didn’t go as planned. They all can’t be good ones, you know.” The waiter nodded in agreement.

“Even in this place,” I said between puffs of my cigar, “even in La-La Land, not every ending is a happy one.”

My Fair Amy

2006-02-23T17:42:00.000-05:00

Amy is an average woman in every sense of the word. Average height, average build, average facial features, average boob size, average ass size, average personality. Two specific features defy the rest: Her smile and her legs. Both are stellar and almost out of place when compared to the rest of her. Amy is a shrinking violet, the kind who stays out of the way at parties yet yearns to talk to anybody giving her more than a quick glance. Amy is a small town girl who was once “Miss Corn Fair” in some backwater county of Middle America. Amy was married once but is now divorced, maybe because her husband didn’t show her enough attention, or possibly because every now and then he smacked her around and told her she was no good for anybody, even herself. On the day she last saw him he swore that nobody would ever love her and said the kind of hateful things that make a person die a little inside. Amy moved to the big city to get away from him but in many ways never moved on. She still shies away from a person’s touch and most times won’t hold your gaze for long.

Amy is stunningly beautiful when you look past all of those things. She is the only one to strongly challenge my “no dating co-workers” rule when I worked at Chiat/Day. And now Amy was standing in front of me outside a Starbucks in West L.A.

“Reed! It is you!” she exclaimed as she threw her arms around me in a loose embrace. The hug ended almost as soon as it began as she pulled back quickly, sensing the contact and privately scolding herself for letting it play out too long.

She looked me over, grinning that gorgeous grin of hers. It was all one needed to see to believe the issues hidden behind that exterior of hers had melted away.

“That’s some beard,” she commented, drawing closer but not too close and sniffing. “It smells.”

“It’s probably me and not the beard. I need to go home and shower. What are you doing here? This isn’t anywhere near the office.”

"We have a breakfast meeting near here and you know how those things are – you get so busy talking and going over your AV materials there’s no time to eat – so we decided to grab a coffee and something to munch on ahead of time.”

I raised an eyebrow. “We? Who is here with y-”

Before I could finish the sentence my answer appeared in font of us in the flesh: Melinda Davies.

“Wow, talk about your raised from the dead!” said Melinda as she turned our corner and approached. “Though I can’t say that beard is very becoming; it’s downright nasty and covers too much.” She leaned in and looked for a bare spot of cheek on my face to kiss.

For the longest time Amy had what was little more than a schoolgirl crush on me, and of this I was well aware. But given her track record with men I never acted on it or tried to exploit the situation. Some streams aren’t meant to be fished in. But there was always a “what if” lingering in the back of my head. What if I could break down that wall. What if I could change her.

Melinda however, in all of her queen bee fashion, knew full well about Amy’s little secret crush, the latter having confided in Mel one afternoon around the copying machine between rapid and quickly hushed girlish giggles, and exploited the point whenever she could just to enjoy the satisfaction of seeing Amy squirm over the issue. It was if Mel was trying to tell Amy this one’s mine, and if I can’t have him, you sure as hell can’t either. I realize how stupidly cocky that makes me sound, but I never asked for Mel to treat Amy like that. On more than one occasion I specifically asked Melinda to stop.

“The high bitch in charge act should really stop,” I recalled saying to Mel one day in passing almost a year ago.

“What do you mean?” she asked innocently.

“You know full well. I am talking about Amy. It’s not bad enough she’s a wallflower – you have to turn the screws just a little harder to make sure she stays that way, huh?”

“She doesn’t even know what’s going on. I mean, the girl is sweet but so much goes over her head.” Melinda tried her standard diversionary tactic at this point: Sitting on the edge of a nearby counter or desk and tightly crossing her legs to show off whatever short skirt she might be wearing and her toned, ex-cheerleader legs.

I’d seen the move enough to not let it faze me. Usually I’d give it right back. “How is it with you having been a cheerleader that Amy has a better set of legs than you? I’m thinking it’s the stairmaster, because she doesn’t have runner’s legs and yet still they are toned and shapely beyond what you’ve got downstairs.”

She shot me a scowl and I leaned in, lowering my voice. “Whatever you’ve been doing, drop it. She’s a nice girl and doesn’t need her head fucked with. Save that for somebody on equal footing with yourself. This is an unfair fight.”

As Melinda gently lifted her frame and leaned in to kiss my cheek while we stood on the corner outside Starbucks, I could see her watching Amy, trying to get a rise from her. When Amy saw Melinda lean in to make contact she averted her eyes. Mel then wrapped her arm around me and opened the distance between Amy and the two of us.

“This is just like old times, isn’t it?” Melinda declared.

If by ‘old times’ you mean making Amy feel insignificant, then yes I thought.

“Uh, I guess,” Amy replied. She was beginning to shrink; she realized she was in the presence of an alpha female who commanded more attention than her and quickly retreated behind her wall. I had to act quickly.

“I’ve wondered how you have been doing, Amy,” I began. “You’re not the kind to pick up the phone and call me out of the blue,” I said, “unlike this one.” I nodded in the direction of Melinda, her arm still wrapped around my shoulders and our bodies gently touching at the hip. “This one will email you and tell you shit you didn’t even ask about,” I said, continuing the thought, “but in the past few months I’ve often wondered what you have been up to and what new things are happening in your life.”

Amy perked up and smiled. “Really? That’s so strange, because I’ve wondered the same things about you!” It was if the dark clouds over her had parted for the faintest of moments to reveal a ray of optimism.

We stood silently sharing smiles until Melinda broke in. “That’s not true, I don’t continually bother you. I haven’t talked to you in months. You don’t even know that I have a boyfriend now.”

I stepped out from under Mel’s arm and turned to face her. “Really? That’s great. I’m sure you two have a great time together.” Then I had a thought, an idea that would really hit Melinda in the breadbasket. I turned to address Amy.

“Hey Amy, what if we got together and caught up on what you’ve been doing, what I’ve been doing, work, play – all that. Say dinner, we’ll call it tomorrow night.” I turned back towards Mel. “I’d invite you too, but I know how you don’t make last minute plans and I’m sure you already made arrangements with your beau. Perhaps coffee one afternoon would work.”

I shot Melinda a quick checkmate, bitch look and turned my attention back to Amy before Mel could respond. “So what do you think?” I again asked. “You, me, dinner tomorrow night? No assumptions, no expectations. Just two people sharing a meal and catching up. I’ll take care of finding a place.” Amy started to blush while she tried to contain a giggle, the sort a fifteen year old would get when asked out on her first date.

As I awaited an answer I thought about the potential this girl had. Now that I had no ties to the ad company I was free to test them. There was something undeniable about her. All the components for something great were already there. This modern-day Eliza Doolittle could be a real head-turner with the right encouragement and proper motivation. Then she’d have no problem attracting attention, although I wasn’t quite sure that’s what she wanted or needed. But refining was in order, no doubt.

“Okay,” she finally replied after a good amount of silence. “It’s a deal.”

I promised to make all the arrangements and phone her later in the day with the details. The two walked away giggling, already late for their breakfast meeting. Mel shared in Amy’s delight though I was unsure whether or not it was genuine.

As I got into my car and fired up the engine I felt good for the first time that morning. It was a guilty type of happy, the kind that comes knowing your happiness will be at the expense of someone else who might not share in it. This was going to be my social experiment, my opportunity to mold someone into the right kind of woman, my little Frankenstein project.

My fair Amy.

From All Sides

2006-02-03T19:27:00.000-05:00

A strange personal chemistry quirk: I do not get drunk enough to vomit repeatedly or black out. Long stretches of time don’t go unexplained as I usually remember everything and remain in control of myself. I do get hangovers the next day, however, and currently I was grappling with a pretty bad one.

“Aren’t you supposed to have a bloody mary or something like that? You know, hair of the dog,” remarked Paul Sorvino after seeing me sucking wind trying to make it over from the fairway.

“Normally I would say yes, but right now the thought of any alcohol is revolting.”

“You kids, you have to watch what you do to yourselves.”

“Uh huh.”

We needed a fourth that morning to round out our group of Paul, his neighbor Mickey Vance, and myself. The regulars were busy and couldn’t make it out last minute, so the two turned to me and I knew of only one person who golfed and would be awake that early: My friend Devin. But there would be conditions.

“Remember the rules,” I reminded him when he arrived and met us with his golf bag in tow.

“I know, no prodding Sorvino for any acting gigs.”

“And?” I added.

Devin sighed like a homely high school girl just finding out the one person at her school who was uglier had a crush on her. “No bringing up acting unless he starts. I am not here to job hunt.”

I nodded. “Good. Just want to make sure we are hunky dory.”

We started playing and as usual I stunk up the place. Whenever it was a par 5 the others would shoot between 6 and 8, while I brought up the rear with a 9 or 10.

“Where is your discipline?” asked Paul after another bad showing by me. “You have no control over your body. Everything I have taught you you’ve thrown out the window with baby and the bath water.” He lowered his head and shook it in disappointment.

“I wish I could blame it on the hangover, but I can’t. This is no different than all the other times,” I confessed.

“Hell, sometimes a bloody mary or two helps my game. Maybe you should take the cart back to the clubhouse and visit the bar,” Mr. Vance suggested.

My stomach turned. “No, I couldn’t. Not today.” I pulled my driver from the bag and stepped to the tee. Delicately I placed the pin into the damp earth and gently balanced the Titleist ball atop it. Lining up the club’s center with the ball once, then twice, I looked into the distance at the flag softly waving above the hole some two hundred yards away. Concentrate, I told myself, don’t think about all the booze you had last night or the verbal jabs from the bunch, only think about the ball and that flag at the other end. For a moment my mind wandered into the ‘be the ball spiel by Chevy Chase in Caddyshack and I briefly imagined myself as Danny Noonan. I would have screwed Lacy Underall too, I thought. Really given her a good going. When I snapped back to the present the guys were waiting impatiently.

“You gonna line up that shot all day?” asked Paul. Devin was behind him wearing a grimace and shaking his head.

I stopped the practice swings and again looked towards the flag. Control your body, control your body I chided myself. I swung the club back until it was just above my shoulders, and in one fluid motion brought it down and swung through the ball.

The ball made a whoof sound as it made contact with the club and flew off at a tangent to my intended course. A slice. A collective groan came from the guys behind me.

“Well, at least I know I won’t be bringing up the rear today,” laughed Devin.

“Come on, Devin, let’s see your stuff,” Paul prodded.

Devin stepped to the tee and as I had previously done, placed his pin into the ground and rested his ball atop the pin. After a couple of practice swings he deftly whacked the ball, sending it shooting down the center of fairway.

“Nice, very nice,” Paul and Mr. Vance commented when Devin’s ball came to rest some hundred-plus yards away.

“Thanks,” Devin replied as he bent over to grab the tee pin and returned it to his pocket. He shot a grin over my way. “You know, maybe we are being too hard on Reed this morning. He’s had a lot on his mind of late.”

“I have?” I asked.

“Sure you have, like that little blondie of yours.”

Paul and Mr. Vance piped up. “Is that right? Who is she?” they asked, squawking like hens. Previously I had mentioned to Devin that Paul Sorvino loved to vicariously live through people’s stories, especially the lurid ones involving women and high times.

Mr. Vance readied himself to take his turn and Devin switched places with him before turning to face me. “Well tell us Reed, tell us all about poor little Carolyn, the fish that got away. The one who's half a world away,” he mocked.

“I think you just did it for the both of us,” I scoffed.

Mr. Vance whacked his shot and it followed along the same path as Devin’s, coming to rest a few yards away from Devin’s ball.

“You see fellas, when our hero here was transferred to Toronto for work he did what any of us would do in his situation: Learn the lay of the land, meet its women, and then really learn the lay of the land, if you get my drift.” Paul and Mr. Vance chuckled in response as they drew closer to Devin.

“I’m with you guys – there’s nothing wrong with doing that. So one day he walks into some bar or restaurant and sitting off to a corner is a woman he catches a glimpse of from the corner of his eye. Sure, she has the looks and she’s put together correctly like all the others, but this one has that inexplicable something that sets her apart. She’s someone who gives him pause, who freezes everything around him. I am sure each of us has been there. Am I right, guys?”

Paul and Mr. Vance both nodded furiously like bobblehead dolls.

“So our boy falls. He falls hard. And he thinks she falls hard too. Except she isn’t there for the reasons he thinks she is. At least that’s what I think.”

My smile disappeared. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Devin?”

“It means she played you. Used you. Strung you along.” He walked over to me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Dude, she knows you come from a family with money.”

“Careful,” I cautioned.

“Who was so quick to agree to go to Europe with you over the summer, especially after you offered to pay? I like the girl and all, but I think she was in it all along for the free trip.”

I dropped my club and grabbed Devin by the lapels of his shirt, pinning his back against the side of the golf cart. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do but cut the crap,” I hissed. I could feel my face turning red. “You are insulting me and embarrassing yourself. You don’t even know her or what I put her through for that ‘free trip.’”

Paul and Mr. Vance lost interest, figuring no lurid details would be in the offing. Returning to the game, Paul piped up. “Hey ladies, do you mind? We have a game to play here.”

Devin tore himself away from my grip and shimmied away from the cart. He calmly reached down and retrieved his driver. “Relax, I didn’t mean anything by it,” he replied, pointing the handle end of the driver at me. “It’s just another point of view. Think of it as devil’s advocate stuff.”
________________________________________________________________

Whenever my ego took a hit and I needed a quick bounce back, I’d head over to the Starbucks on Robertson in the orthodox Jewish portion of West Los Angeles for a cup of coffee. Their joe was no different from what one would find at any other of the thousands of Starbucks in the state; it all came down to the clientele and employees. This particular Starbucks was frequented by teenage girls who attended the surrounding private Jewish high schools and they always gathered in groups of six or eight for frothy caramel macchiatos while they did their homework and engaged in people watching. The latter activity is what made things so easy; I’d go into the shop, order my coffee, flash a smile their way and maybe drop some glib comment that would send the group into a tizzy, and then sit within earshot and intermittently listen for the next few minutes while they talked about me. Sometimes things would go too far and I’d get embarrassed and feel sleazy hearing 15 and 16 year old girls talk what they’d want to do to me, but it was always a good shot for the ego and never failed to get me thinking the world was once again firmly spinning around me by the time I left the coffee shop.

There was another perk to seeking out this particular Starbucks: An aspiring brunette actress named Suzette who worked part time as a barista when she wasn’t shuffling off to auditions. She and I usually engaged in light and flirty banter whenever I was there. It only helped to stoke the ego.

I headed straight for Starbucks as soon as our round of golf finished. It was still early and traffic was congested by the commuters making their way through the Pico Boulevard corridor. As I pulled onto Robertson I was reminded by the random graffiti tagging how this was a rougher section of town than its populace let on. It was gritty, it was dirty. It was the sort of place you wouldn’t be thrilled about being in late at night. Homeless people regularly lined the streets. As I turned into the alley behind Starbucks and looked for an open parking spot I remembered how one Christmas my friend Courtney, in a rare act of selflessness, went into this same Starbucks and spent about $150 dollars in gift cards, and then went out on the street and gave the cards to the homeless people wandering this part of town. At the time I thought it was a waste of money and let her know it. A couple of months later Courtney and a female friend exited a sushi bar further up the street only to be tailed by some shady character. A homeless guy trying to hole up for the night under a storefront marquee recognized Courtney as the girl who had given him the gift card and scared away the would-be thug. It turns out in addition to the good deed, Courtney had bought herself some protection in a roundabout way. Karma can be like that sometimes…roundabout. Take care of others and they will take care of you.

I pulled into the last open parking spot. Today I wasn’t feeling taken care of, and so I had to pull a lame tactic from my bag of tricks. I shut off the engine and sat in my car silently, contemplating whether I really wanted to go through with this.

A homeless person walking by startled my focus back to the present as she rapped on the window. “Spare some change, mister?” she asked through the closed window.

I opened the door and stepped out. “Sorry,” I began, “I don’t have any loose change. Maybe hit me up on the way out after I’ve ordered my coffee, okay?” I tapped the alarm button on the remote and my car chirped twice in response. The woman didn’t respond, likely used to what would be one of a hundred rejections she’d get today. We began to part but after taking only a few steps I paused. What are you doing, man? She’s a human being. Everybody is good enough for some change, dude. Give her a fucking dollar.

I turned back in her direction. “Hey there, come here. I’m sorry I dismissed you like that.” I dug into my pocket for a dollar. “Here. Take this and have a good day.”

I put the dollar bill into her dirty, gloved hand. She looked at it for a moment in silence. Maybe I threw her for a loss. Maybe she had written me off as being like all the others who dismissed her with a wave and a look of disdain. Maybe this was the first thing that had gone right for her all morning.

She raised her head so that we were eye to eye. “Thanks mister, thanks.” She waved her hand that held the dollar. “Enjoy your coffee,” she added as she turned back to her cart and started walking away.

Inside, Suzette was manning the counter. “Well look who it is,” she began, a smile slowly widening across her face. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? And what’s with that beard of yours? It’s so wild and bushy.”

I approached the counter and rested my elbows on the cold brushed metal. “Good to see you too Suzette. Have you tackled Hollywood and wrestled it into submission with your charm and good looks?”

She blushed slightly. “Nope, not lately. I get the auditions, and I’ve even had a few call backs, but something always happens and I don’t survive the final rounds.” She punched at the counter. “So I keep at it. Oh well, that’s how it goes.” She reached forward and stroked the side of my beard. “It’s so rough. Why on earth did you grow it?”

“Careful, something might jump out and bite your hand,” I joked. She laughed nervously in response.

“So, what girls are in your life?” she asked.

“None currently.”

“Really? You must be between girls,” she added with a laugh.

“A guy can’t take a break?” I asked.

“A guy can. You can’t. You don’t have an off button. Whenever you say you don’t have any women back stocked I think something is wrong with the world.”

I leaned in towards her. “It could be I am changing for the better.”

“Right, like that will ever happen!” she exclaimed. She calmed and changed her tone. “I mean that in a positive way. The world needs people like you who can take the superficial and make it work for them. It reminds the rest of us what is important in life and what is not.”

“There’s probably an insult in there somewhere but I don’t feel like dissecting your comment.”

Suzette rubbed my hand. “Then don’t,” she grinned.

“And how is your love life?” I asked. “Any Mr. Right Now to brag about?”

“No,” she said with a harrumph. “All my time is filled with work and school and auditions, there’s time for nothing else.”

“You know, we could always go out,” I suggested.

“Oh no, we’ve been there before. And what did I get? Breakfast in bed and no phone call for almost two weeks.”

“Hey, people get busy. Besides, the breakfast should have counted for something.”

She shook her head in disbelief. “You better order your drink and go before you run afoul of me.”

I put in my order and found a two person table to sit at across from some young Jewish girls who were putting the finishing touches on some homework before scurrying off to school. As I sat down they looked over en masse and I shot them a toothy grin and said hello, quickly adding “finishing up last night’s homework?” They all covered their mouths and giggled.

My coffee soon came and I listened to their comments going around the table while I added a packet of equal to my cup:

“He’s so cute.”
“But he looks like he’s thirty or something.”
“Did you see that beard? It’s so wiry and gross!”
“I know, it looks like my Dad’s!”
“I bet he’d look good without the beard.”
“You’re like totally in love with him!”
“I am not! He’s like, my brother’s age.”

I chuckled silently while the banter continued for a few more minutes. One took a look at her watch and then they all squealed in unison over how late they were going to be. The group got up and quickly threw books and papers into their backpacks and messenger bags, then grabbed their sugary coffee drinks and darted towards the door, a few of them stopping momentarily in front of my table to smile the smile of a teen with a schoolgirl crush. I smiled back and they darted their eyes embarrassingly before skirting out the door.

Suzette came over to clean up their mess. “Looks like somebody has a fan club,” she commented as she passed by.

“Yeah, and the safest type: The sort you aren't tempted to touch because you’ll go to jail.”

“Haha, 15 gets you 20,” she laughed.

“It’s too bad people don’t react in the manner the girls did to other people when they are our age. By then the naiveté is gone and the jadedness has just begun to set in. Sometimes the teenage abandon is nice.”

“Teenage abandon is a transition, nothing else,” Suzette replied. “It’s a reflection of the insecurities we all have as we grow into our adult skin. As soon as our childhood and our pubescence is gone, the abandon goes away with it.” She came over and rubbed my shoulder, adding, “I am sure your dry spell will be over with soon enough. Don’t fret.”

I milked my time and slowly finished my coffee while watching the traffic at the intersection from my vantage point. As the time drew closer to nine the place got more and more busy. Pretty soon Suzette and her co-workers were totally consumed with customers. I tossed the cup out and silently exited Starbucks without saying goodbye to her. She was busy, she’d understand.

I was about to turn into the alley when a voice came from behind me. “Reed? Is that you hidden beneath that beard?”

I turned around and came face to face with Amy, a former co-worker of mine from Chiat/Day. She stood a few feet from me, a wide smile planted upon her face. She looked good.

“It is you! This is so cool. I am so happy to run into you!” She threw her arms around my shoulders and squeezed tightly. I smiled. That’s the thing about the randomness of life; like Karma, it’s just so roundabout.

Meet Me in My Dreams Tonight

2006-01-30T19:55:00.000-05:00

Ewan McGregor sat inside the Mercedes SL 500 next to me as we waited for the green light. He wasn’t taking much caution to hide his appearance, but after considering his vehicle, maybe recognition was what he was after. I focused on the red light and tried not to gawk like some starstruck tourist, but when our glances did meet, I silently nodded to indicate I know who you are but I am sure you would rather not be bothered. He returned the nod and just as I turned my attention back to the light he smiled that boyish trademark grin of his, the one he's dazzled audiences with in nearly every movie in which he's appeared.

When I looked his way again he motioned at me to roll down the window.

“Hey there, is that a six or an eight under your hood?”

“Supercharged six,” I replied.

He nodded. “Nice. I wish the German boys wouldn’t load this car down with a V-10, but I like it too much.”

He was fishing for a compliment, so I obliged. “It's a beautiful car. They do know how to make ‘em, don’t they?” I responded.

“Indeed,” he said. “I wouldn’t trade it for the world.” The light turned green and before speeding off he nodded again, this time bringing his forefinger to his forehead. I could hear the roar of his Mercedes many car lengths ahead as he shifted from gear to gear.

For the past few weeks, whenever I needed time alone to think I would grab the keys to my father’s convertible Jaguar, put the top down and go for a drive. Most of the time I found myself on Pacific Coast Highway at the edge of Santa Monica, driving the stretch extending from the McClure Tunnel to the Palisades near Pepperdine University. When I was younger my father took me for weekend drives along this same path. It was his idea of together time, and I was allowed to talk about anything I wanted without fear of the information being passed on to other family members. I used to talk about classmates I hated and ways in which my brother and sister pissed me off. When I hit puberty we talked about the uncertainties and awkwardness of being a teenage boy, and during my high school years we discussed the responsibilities that went hand in hand with becoming a man. Along the way my father learned of my women troubles – both the times when none would give me the time of day and the times when I had to beat them off me with a stick. He listened as I complained about my sister Alexis pushing my buttons; when I nervously rationalized what colleges to apply to; what career path to take; and general criticisms about daily life. He never judged and he never tried to assert his opinion or belittle mine.

The one constant of the weekend drives was the music. My father played the same album without fail – Brian Wilson’s solo debut – first on tape cassette and later on CD once tape decks became passé in cars. It was a good album, released in 1988 after Wilson emerged from many years in seclusion under a psychiatrist’s care. The song hooks were catchy, and the harmonies everything you would expect from a Beach Boy. As a matter of fact, the album was essentially a Beach Boys record with less surf guitar and more cheesy 80s synthesizer. But my father loved that album and in time I grew fond of it as well, and so to fully recreate the mood I played the CD whenever I pulled his Jag on to Pacific Coast Highway.

As “Melt Away” ended and the first notes of “Little Children” began, I came to the stoplight where Sunset intersected PCH. The midday sun brightly pierced the clouds and I reached for the tortoise-shelled sunglasses hanging from the rear view mirror. What was I going to do with myself? I wondered. Where did it all go from here? I hadn’t started looking for work. I didn’t know if I wanted to continue a career in advertising. As much as I liked what I had done so far, I was uncertain if I could stay in the field for the rest of my working life. The light turned green but I failed to notice, so the Lincoln behind me honked impatiently. I sped off towards the original Gladstone’s that sat on the Malibu shoreline thinking of how I could productively use this downtime. Perhaps I could return to school to earn a masters’ degree. Higher education was in my family’s blood. My father had earned a masters and a doctorate, while my brother had a masters and a law degree. My sister would have gone to graduate school had she not settled down with her husband first, and he himself was a PhD. But what field of study would be the ideal one for me? And what would I do with it? It was a decision that required more thought and much wider investigation.

I turned the Jag around somewhere near the Malibu Colony and started towards home just as the pitch bending keyboards of “Meet Me in My Dreams Tonight” came through the speakers.

Tonight I'll drive home all alone
And maybe later we'll talk on the phone
But it takes a little more to get me through
If we can't get together here's what we'll do
Hold on, and meet me in my dreams tonight

“Ain’t that the truth,” I muttered. As sappy as the lyrics and sentiment were, they couldn’t be any more on the money. The dreams that started in August had continued, although the subject matter had become less about stumbling through graveyards in the dark and talking to the dead and more about a different, singular topic: Carolyn. My dreams had become totally consumed by her and the random memories my brain had stored away. Most of the time the dreams began as genuine moments we shared, but then my imagination took over, creating conversations and moments that never happened. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Perhaps it was some sort of longing or regret. Regardless, it was an overactive imagination and I was losing sleep as a result. On a good night I was lucky to get three to four solid hours.

The entire way home, from the McClure tunnel to the Santa Monica freeway to Wilshire Boulevard, I could think of nothing else but Carolyn: The bounce of her blondish-brown hair, her ever-present smile, and the even more ever-present camera hanging from its strap on her shoulder. I smiled and thought about the last time we messaged each other:

T.O Caro: I was thinking, if we are supposed to get on with our lives without each other, how come we somehow find our way back to each other?
Myfavoritereeder: We keep leaving our toothbrush at each others’ place?
T.O Caro: I’m serious, Reed. How can I get past you if I can’t over you?
Myfavoritereeder: I don’t know. I know you think I have an answer for everything. I don’t. Not this time.
T.O Caro: I wish it could be something as easily solved as me coming to see you, or you coming here. But every time we do that, there’s something to separate us once more. And each time I think I’ve learned to deal with the distance it becomes a harder thing to handle.
Myfavoritereeder: Separate lives, separate wavelengths.
T.O Caro: Yes despite what the heart wants, we are both too smart to know this can’t work. The circumstances have the best of us.
Myfavoritereeder: And two people who pride themselves on being cool and in control are just the opposite.
T.O Caro: That’s why it’s so hard to deal.

When I returned my mother was on the living room sofa reading, Sofia firmly entrenched at her feet. The dog didn’t even move when I entered. Lately she had turned her attentions to protecting my mother instead of me. The pecking order had gone matriarchal.

“Darling,” she said as I entered the room. “Come, sit down, I want to talk to you about something that’s been on my mind.”

“Give me a minute,” I replied as I disappeared into the bathroom that was attached to her bedroom. During the last few miles of the drive a stinging sensation started above my right eyebrow and hadn’t stopped until just before I reached the driveway. I looked into the mirror, frowning and crinkling my forehead muscles in the attempt to reveal a hidden bump or bruise beneath the skin. No luck. As I turned to leave the bathroom I noticed some of my mother’s prescription medicine bottles on the counter. Two of them were empty: Melphalan and Chlorambucil.

“Your Melphalan and Chlorambucil medications are empty,” I said when I returned to the living room. “How come?”

“They are? I guess I lost track and didn’t call in time for a refill. I’ll take care of it later.”

“These are important, Mom. You can’t put off getting a refill.”

She nodded. “I know, thank you for your concern. Now come, sit down.” She patted her hand on an open spot of sofa. I sat beside her and reached down to scratch Sofia along the scruff of her wrinkled neck. The dog didn’t even flinch.

My mother leaned back into the sofa cushions and took a deep breath before she began. “I am not judging you, and I am not prodding you, but with all this free time and no responsibilities at hand, have you thought about what you are going to do with your future?”

“All the time, several times a day. The problem is I can’t decide.”

“What thoughts have you entertained?”

“I considered whether or not I want to continue working in advertising. I like it and all, I just don’t know if it is a career I can make 40 or 50 enjoyable years of. I am at loggerheads there.”

“Are there other careers you feel qualified to enter?” she asked.

“Maybe, I don’t know for sure. I enjoy writing, but could I make a career of it? Probably not. I enjoy music, but to work for a record company right now is suicide – they’re a dinosaur too busy trying to make sense of the new ways in which music is delivered and marketed. And when they aren’t doing that they’re busy firing people left and right for not knowing who to sue over copyright piracy. I think it’s too volatile a field for me.”

She adjusted herself on the sofa and reached for her glass of ice tea. “Have you considered any other options?”

“I’ve considered returning to school.”

“Really?” She responded, very interested in the turn the conversation had taken. “In what capacity?”

“Grad school,” I replied. “A masters of something, in something. I haven’t worked that out. I barely started looking at schools and requirements.”

My mother stood up slowly and started towards the kitchen with her now empty glass of ice tea. Sophia got up and provided her an escort into the other room.

“What schools interest you?” she asked from the kitchen.

“I imagine I should keep it local so I can be near you,” I suggested.

When she returned the dog was still locked in step. “Don’t limit yourself like that.” She sat down on the sofa and Sophia reclined again at her feet. “We are talking about your future and you cannot bind your hands like that.” She tucked her feet under herself. “Besides, I won’t always be around, and you are good for another forty years at least.”

“I am not going to stop looking after you,” I said.

She grinned. “I know you’re not, you take that job very seriously. And I am not asking you to. You must think about the bigger picture, however. Think of yourself and think of where you want to be, where you want to go. Then think of how you can get yourself there.”

She stood up and the dog quickly rose to her feet in unison. My mother reached forward to pet Sophia and the dog aided her by arching her back to meet my mother’s touch.

“That’s a good girl,” she said as she stroked the dog’s back. “I think I’ll call in my prescription refills and then take a nap.” They usually need an hour or so to fill the order anyhow.” I walked with her into her bedroom and made sure she had everything she needed before shutting the door. In the living room Sophia sat, waiting for me, and as I approached her tail uncurled and began whacking the carpet loudly.

“Oh no, it’s too late for kissing up you little Benedict Arnold,” I told her. I walked over to the patio doors and threw them open. “Go work it out of your system,” I said, adding a sweeping hand across my body and towards the door to indicate I wanted her to go outside. Sophia waited a moment, then hung her head and sulked out the door and into the back yard.
_________________________________________________________________

“I can’t believe it, you’re here! You even took a plane to get here. You hate planes!”

“I do.”

“That means so much to me! I’ve been waiting so long for this!”

“For what?”

“For this moment. You and me, just like this.” Carolyn leaned into me and kissed me deeply as she stood on her toes and wrapped her arms tightly around my neck and shoulders.

“You know this isn’t real,” I said.

She put her forefinger to my lips. “Shhhh. Not a word. Don’t spoil the moment. We’re going to go back to my place and close ourselves off from society. Only you and me, that’s all that matters.” She removed her finger and replaced it with her lips, planting another long and soulful kiss upon my lips. She smelled good, and her lips were soft. I wrapped my arms around her and she did likewise, and our bodies entwined like a vine with feelers and extensions shooting everywhere.

When we broke our embrace she leaned in closely to my ear. “If you only knew how much I love you.”

My eyes shot open and I flipped over in bed, hoping to find Carolyn asleep next to me. The bed was empty. I had been dreaming again. The clock atop the dresser across from me read 4:05 AM. I tossed and turned for another twenty minutes, but much like the past few times I’d awoken in the wee hours of the morning from a Carolyn dream, I couldn’t get back to sleep. The gym opened at five; I probably needed a good workout.
_________________________________________________________________

I was having lunch at the Beverly Center when I found myself in the middle of a battle of the sexes over what I thought was a harmless comment I threw out in an innocuous oh by the way manner.

It began with an equally harmless question. “So, your friend Carolyn…anything left to pump from that well? I mean, with the distance involved the odds have to be stacked against you for anything successful to come of it, right?”

The question was asked by my friend Michelle, who added a sheepish grin as if to say ‘I’m not asking to be the nosy girl I am, it’s really out of genuine concern. Really it is.’

I took a bite of my shrimp tempura before responding. Michelle was the type of woman you could fluster just enough to blow her cover. “My my, somebody is nosy today. Or is it jealously in action?”

“Pfft, I know how to deal with your little mind games a lot better than you give me credit for,” she responded.

“…but this isn’t small talk,” I maintained.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Michelle said with a flirty grin. “You planning to see her anytime soon?”

“No. As you said, the well has dried up. Not from a lack of desire, mind you - we’re too geographically undesirable for each other. We also have career tracks that would drive an even bigger wedge between us.”

“Too bad,” she replied curtly while winding a pasta noodle around her fork. “Oh well, it’s not like you have ever had a shortage of women. You’re an old dog, so I’m sure you'll settle back into your old tricks in no time.”

I shrugged and took another bite of my shrimp. “You know, she told me she loved me.”

Michelle put down her bite of pasta and looked up. “She did what? That’s big Reed, that’s…”

“Let me qualify the statement before your woman meter blows off the chart. She did not say the three little words in the way you think. She wrapped it into some other context by saying things like ‘I love the way you make me laugh,’ or ‘I love how you’re always thinking of me,’ or ‘I love how passionate you get about the Dodgers.’ Not ‘I love you.’”

“It’s one in the same, Reed. It’s a girl trick of ours to veil it in something else but we mean the same thing. You doofus, you claim to know our inner working so well but when it comes around you let it fly right over you!” Michelle calmed herself and blotted the edge of her mouth with her napkin before continuing. “So, what did you tell her?”

Before I could answer Devin decided it was a good time to inject himself into the conversation. “Whoa dude, tell me you didn’t say it back to her!”

Michelle turned in her chair to face Devin. “What is that supposed to mean? If he felt the same way why shouldn’t he say it?”

“Listen Michelle, you never say it, especially when they haven’t told you point blank ‘I love you,’ or ‘I’m in love with you.’ You never ever say it before they do. Otherwise it’s game over man. Game over.”

Devin turned to look at some women walking through the food court but Michelle stuck her fingers in front of his face and snapped them repeatedly to turn his focus back to the conversation. “What kind of bullshit rule is that?” she exclaimed. “That’s even more dumb than the three day moratorium on calling a girl after you get her phone number.”

I piped up. “It’s five days, actually.”

She shook her head. “I’m surrounded by idiots. It’s not a game, these are feelings we are talking about. We don’t play games with our emotions,” she added.

Devin and I both exploded at almost the same time. “That’s the biggest load of horseshit I have ever heard,” Devin began. “Women do nothing but needle us and push us with their mind games, all the while using emotion as a weapon, so cut the crap.”

“And god forbid you don’t have the ability to read their mind and have the right answer ready for whenever that moment of female tenderness does happen," I added. I pointed a finger at her. “You’d better watch what you’re shoveling, missy.”

“Whatever. We’ll call it a Venus-and-Mars difference in the sexes,” Michelle declared. “So back to the question at hand: Did you or didn’t you?”

I sat back and balanced myself on the back legs of the four-post chair. “I did not. She wasn’t looking for that affirmation. Not yet.”

Devin smacked his hands together. “That’s what I’m talking about!” He held his arm out. “Give me some, man. Up here.”

I shook my head. “You want to high five over that? C’mon.”

Michelle held her forehead in her hands as she returned to her lunch. “Idiots. My best friends are idiots.”

“You’re making too much of this, Michelle. She’s the kind of woman who would have come out and said it. She wouldn’t wrap in some disguise. That’s not her style. Besides, why do you care? Five minutes ago you were taking a jealous line of questioning, so what gives?”

Devin cut Michelle off before she could answer. “It’s because they’re all sisters. They have to look after each other and their reputation. They’re a sisterhood; if one disagrees with the actions of another then all of the sudden they’re not as perfect as we guys make them out to be. Then they’re flawed, then they’re just like us, and no woman will ever let that happen to another woman, whether they are friends or not.” He tapped his finger on the table as he repeated it. "A sisterhood.”

“Okay Mr. Know-it-all, you keep telling yourself that. It’s a wonder you don’t have a girlfriend.”
Devin tapped his at his temple. “This is Southern California and at our age you can’t be tied to any one person. I know what I am doing. I’m crazy like a fox.”
__________________________________________________________________

I was again driving on Pacific Coast Highway just north of Santa Monica where the last stretches of public beach are. I pulled out my phone and began dialing, and after a long pause of silence it began ringing on the other side.

“Hey, it’s me,” I said after the message greeting announced the caller wasn’t there to take the call. “Just had you on my mind and thought I’d call. Where are you? Pick up, pick up, pick up…”

There was a clunking on the other side while the machine recording was being manually overridden and the phone snatched from its cradle. “Reed?” she said. “What are you doing?”

“Just thinking of you. You a hard habit to break.”

She laughed which in turn made me smile. “Hold on mister – did you just quote Chicago lyrics to me? More importantly – why are you calling on the phone, the roaming charges are so expensive. We usually IM during the week.”

“I know, but I wanted to hear your voice, if even for a brief moment.”

“You’re getting all mushy on me, Reed. Have you been drinking?”

I switched hands on the wheel so I could hold the phone with my other hand. I really needed to get myself one of those hands-free Bluetooth devices. “Hardly. I’m intoxicated only by you.” I waited a moment for her laugh that I knew would be coming.

“That was so corny and lame!”

“I know. I did it for the laughs.” I switched hands again. The wind generated from driving with the top down was wreaking havoc on my conversation. “But I was thinking about you.”

“I think about you too. All the time.”

“I was thinking, what if I came out there to see you in the next few weeks?”

“Don’t joke with me like that, it’s not funny.”

“I am serious.”

The other side was silent. Then: “You hate flying. You won’t do it.”

“I hate flying, but I would still do it. So whaddya say?”

“Nothing would make me happier, but you know we can’t.” She sighed heavily. “The whole thing is draining me emotionally. Do you know hard it is to see you for just a few days and then have you ripped away when I am most happy? Do you realize how difficult the following weeks are for me after you leave, trying to get back to some normal semblance of my life, only to have Hurricane Reed blow back through town just when I’ve gotten used to life without you again? As much as I want to see you and be with you, it’s killing me this way. I can’t just have you around a little here and there. I need something consistent.”

“There’s a few thousand miles of distance keeping us from the reality of that dream, Carolyn. Add to that the responsibilities of your job and finishing your degree, and my responsibilities here. It’s no win-win, but it’s a compromise. That’s all I can offer.”

“I can’t deal with a compromise. I have been on an emotional roller coaster. Do you know how that feels, to wake up and long for the touch of somebody you know won't be there? To want to race home after work or class and share my day only to find an empty apartment and nobody to share it with?” She started sobbing softly, every so often stopping her train of thought to stifle a tear. “I can’t do it. I thought I’d be stronger but I’m not. Not when it comes to you.”

I pulled off the highway and onto a shoulder carved into a cliff top overlooking the ocean. The Santa Monica Bay looked picturesque today, not at all like the cesspool of oil spills and pollution usually reported on the news. Carolyn was right: There was no salvaging anything between us. The feelings were as strong as ever, but the distance too great to overcome. Any attempt to deny that fact or act oblivious to it only prolonged the torture. What we had known and at times, even joked about had finally come to pass. Ours was a relationship on life support and the time had come to pull the plug.

“So what now?” I asked.

Carolyn sniffed into the mouthpiece and wiped away some tears. “Now we do what we always said we would do – move on. Start dating other people. Start making new friends. Slowly wean ourselves off each other.”

“Are you sure that is what you want?”

“Of course it’s not, but it will be in time,” she responded. “And in a few weeks you’ll go to that wedding your friends are having, and you’ll give some fantastic best man’s speech which all the women there will go gaga over. I’ll be jealous, but there won’t be anything I can do about it. It’s just how things are.”

She paused for a moment while I turned off the car’s engine. “It’s so weird it is ending like this. Every guy I have dated, every guy I ever called my boyfriend, ended because he was a sleaze or a liar or too much of something I didn’t like. There’s none of that with you. That’s why it’s so…”

“Weird,” I said, finishing the thought. “I know.”

“But you know,” she said, perking up, “if you’re ever in town or I’m in town, the people we are dating will have to know they go on the back burner during those times. I jump to the top of the list.”

“Of course,” I responded.

“And who says this has to be an end? In a few years when circumstances have changed, maybe things will be easier to come by and one day I’ll look you up.”

“I hope you do.”

“Besides, I don’t think we will ever stop talking to each other. We’ve grown too close.”

Even though she couldn’t see it I smiled from my side of the phone call. “Agreed. You have done so much for me that I don’t know what I would have done had you not been there in the way you were over the summer, Carolyn. For that I could never turn my back on you.”

“I know. I think because of that we have a bond that transcends the run-of-the-mill relationship.”

I told her I’d message her in the next few days and we could catch up. I wanted to hear everything. I missed that aspect of our time together. Carolyn got very animated and excited when sharing things about herself and her work. It was an energy I always enjoyed seeing in her.

Just as I was about to hang up she cut in. “I love how you can put me at ease, even now, when it’s all falling apart.”

I tilted my head back in the driver’s seat and pressed the cell phone to my ear. “I know what you’re doing, and I know what you mean to say. It’s all right. I love you too.”

That’s when I woke up. Damn, I’d been dreaming again.

Helpline Operator

2005-12-19T17:14:00.000-05:00

The car sped down the fast lane of Wilshire Boulevard towards an unknown destination, bending with the artery that bisected the high-rent and low-rent sections of West Los Angeles. Inside the car, I racked my mind and tried to think of any decent places hosting a midweek happy hour. In my efforts to get out the door as quickly as my mother could push me I accounted neither for locale nor any enforceable dress code. I looked slightly posh in my thin gray v-neck sweater and overdyed black khakis, but I knew better. In some parts of town my wardrobe would not be good enough. My car followed the wide curve of Wilshire through the L.A Country Club, and continued east until I found myself at a light at the Santa Monica Boulevard intersection. To my left I spoted the Beverly Hilton, its whitewashed cement walls a beacon against the overcast sky. It was likely that Trader Vic’s, the hotel’s famed restaurant and bar, still had a nightly happy hour and Vic’s seemed as good a stop as any in this town. The story was the Mai Tai was invented at Vic’s following the Second World War, after all the servicemen stationed in the South Pacific returned to San Pedro and Los Angeles only to discover they missed more of the south seas than they thought. And so Vic invented the exotic drink. I wasn’t one for the tropical drink myself, and even a bad bar menu could be compensated by the amount of people watching I could do at Trader Vic’s. It was a destination for tourists and Hollywood’s beautiful people alike. At Vic’s it was commonplace to see your average out-of-towner seated next to a movie studio power player seated next to an art colony wunderkind seated next to a burgeoning starlet waiting to grace the local trade magazines. Vic’s was everything people loved and hated about Southern California. It was as original and hip as it was hackneyed and superficial.

The light turned green and I swung a wide left turn into the Beverly’s valet lot and was quickly met by an early 20s-UCLA undergrad parking boy with perfectly styled hair. His uniform was freshly pressed and void of any wrinkles, and you could tell the kid took great pride in how he looked, something I am certain was instilled in him by the hotel’s management. He cheerfully opened the door and said an obligatory “welcome to the Beverly Hilton Hotel,” and I had to hold back a snicker when he addressed me as sir. The guy was at most three years younger than me.
Inside, sign after sign pointed the way towards Trader Vic’s, and as I followed through a maze of hallway after hallway, I reminded myself that the number one demographic of this hotel was the over-55 retired set and they can lose their way. When I arrived at the entrance to Trader Vic’s I was greeted by soft Polynesian muzak pumped through the house speakers and a large sign announcing the appetizer special was crab rangoon. Just below the sign on a smaller wooden sign attached to the wall was the following message I tried my best to ignore: Slacks and jacket attire required.

Vic’s was packed. For just after 5 on a weeknight you’d think this bar was Cinch, White Lotus, or Cinespace. Even a more accessible place with a less affluent clientele like Father’s Office in Santa Monica wouldn’t have a room filled to this degree. People stood shoulder to shoulder taking up all the available walking space, while others sat sardine-packed in booths. The ten or so people lucky enough to secure a spot at the bar looked to be rethinking their position, as they were continually bombarded from all sides by row of people leaning over and around them trying to get the bartender’s attention. Waitresses with trays held high above their heads moved in and out of the crowd pockets with military-like precision before disappearing behind saloon style swinging doors.

With a crowd this size I thought it would be no trouble getting around the dress code restriction. They would have a hard enough time trying to pick me out of this mass of humanity. I was quickly proven wrong.

“Hey you, didn’t you see the sign when you came in?” shouted one of the bartenders from behind the bar. A hostess who I hadn’t seen when I entered appeared out of nowhere at my side.

“Sir, our policy is to allow only those in slacks and a jacket.” She was young also, probably 23, and her hair was two toned – dyed black on top with streaks of bleach blonde showing through below. Likely a Bruin as well.

Under the dim lighting of the place there was no way the girl was going to contest my overdyed khakis not being slacks, but it was obvious I was sans coat.

“I am aware,” I began in my best apologetic tone, “and came totally unprepared. Although I live a quick ten minutes away I would prefer not to have to go home during rush hour for fear this place will fill to near fire hazard capacity. Is there any chance I could trouble the concierge or the restaurant host for a house jacket for the next few hours?” I flashed an inviting smile meant to signal I was serious about both their policy and my intent to stay.

The woman smiled in response. “I’ll see what I can do. You certainly know how to work the system, don’t you?”

“I confess I may have absentmindedly come without a jacket once or twice before.”

She giggled. “Then I’d say you owe me,” she added flirtatiously. She disappeared behind the saloon doors and into the restaurant. When she didn’t return immediately I took it as my cue to try carving out some small place for myself in the packed room. As I squeezed between bodies and yelled loud ‘excuse mes’ meant to part the crowds, I started getting a better look at the people: Old people and young people; middle aged businessmen in power suits and trophy wives fresh out of the salon sporting the latest over-30 fashions; hipster college grads with retro style zoot suits and long metal chains hanging from their front pockets; young female secretary types with tight 50s skirts looking like Donna Reed or Diahann Carroll straight out of the movies; waiters in post-war period penguins suits efficiently moving about the room, and cocktail waitresses in frumpy maid outfits. Trader Vic’s was both a subculture unto its own and a place that drew in all types from far and wide.

I hadn’t moved very far into the room and the hostess found me with little problem. As she handed me the jacket I looked her over. Not too bad. Her two toned hair and the traces of baby fat in her face didn’t exactly make her a catch in my eyes, but her friendly attitude and otherwise fit body was enough to make some lucky guy happy. That’s the thing about this town – no matter how preoccupied we might be with physical looks and a person’s lot in life, we all know that one person’s trash is another’s treasure. A person who isn’t beautiful to me is somebody else’s dream come true. And it’s that perspective that keeps us grounded in this city of fakes. I smiled as I took the jacket and thanked her. She smiled back. Yeah I thought, some guy will do well by her.

“This doesn’t get you off the hook,” she said. “You still owe me. And don’t think I’m not going to forget the next time you come by Vic’s.”

"If you remember me."

"I'll remember, I have a good memory. Besides, you aren't the type of person someone forgets easily."

I smiled at the compliment and squinted a bit as I made out her name in the dim lighting: Brandy.

“Well Brandy, then I will count upon you to cash in when you feel the time is right.” I held out my hand to shake hers. “Reed. I look forward to next time. And thanks again for the jacket.” She blushed a little when she withdrew her hand. Later that night she’d tell me in passing that I was the first guy under 50 who hit on her in the past month. She called me an ego stoker.

With dress code no longer a concern I turned my attention back to finding a seat. I wedged myself between two people deep in discussion over some merger between two clothing wholesalers and came out on the open end of the room where there was a little more space to roam. To my left, people shot me the move along eye as I looked from booth to booth and chair to chair for an empty spot. The back of the room offered no help, as people stood almost on top of each other as they tried their best to enjoy the overpriced drinks. As a last resort I inched toward the direction of the bar and stepped between two people who moved their drinks out of the way at the last minute, not so much to accommodate me as to make sure none of their Manhattans spilled onto the floor. There, in front of me, with a faint light softly shining down like a sign from the heavens, was an empty chair. As I approached I saw why it sat empty: A Coach handbag lay there, and turned towards the bag and chair was a statuesque woman with the tightest and most revealing dress I’ve seen aside from what’s on the Playboy Channel. The ends of her golden brown hair danced on top of her bare, tanned shoulders, and the spike of her heels were too extreme to put them in the “fuck me” pumps category. Her face was mostly free of makeup, and bearing only the Neutrogena sunless bronzer she used to match her face to the hue of her shoulders and arms. As I approached the chair she caught me out of the corner of her eye and threw me the briefest of looks, as if to say I was insignificant and not who she was looking for. Obviously she was waiting for somebody; a woman doesn’t dress like that to help her own self esteem.

The empty chair was my only chance for a seat in the entire place and whether she wanted me there or not was no important. There was no way I could enjoy happy hour if I was stuck standing in the back with the other wallflowers, all the while at the mercy of an occasional waitress making a round to that overcrowded part of the room.

With my hands on the faux leather backing of the chair, I addressed the woman: “I know this is probably a dumb question, what with this room jam packed, but you are saving that seat for somebody else, aren’t you?”

The woman waited in silence for a couple of seconds, then turned and gave me the once over, running her eyes over me like a jungle cat sizing up dinner before finally making eye contact. “Yes, I am,” she replied in the most disinterested of tones. Her body language was harsh; both arms folded tightly with her tanned elbows resting on the edge of the bar and her body leaning slightly into it, suggesting I was the last person she wanted seeing her in that outfit.

“Ho-kay,” I slowly responded. “Somebody who’s already here or somebody you’re waiting for?”

She stared at me again with a cold, clinical look on her face, wondering if I was even worth answering. She gave the idea some thought for a few moments and then answered, “A date I’m waiting for.”

“Nice, good luck with that. Tell you what – since he’s not here yet and I really don’t want to be bumping bodies with all of the people standing around, what if I sit here until the guy shows up and once he’s here I’ll leave? I won’t even bother you.”

Again the woman gave me the once over, calculating whether or not I posed any threat to her or was some random loser trying to hit on her.

“He’ll be here in less than ten minutes. I’m kinda early.”

“Understood. As soon as he’s here you tell me and I’ll be out of your hair. Deal?”

With one final once over she nodded and a little of her icy veneer began to melt. “Okay, deal,” she replied as she cleared away her purse.

“Thank you.” I took my seat and tried my best to flag down the bartender who was busy fielding orders from four upper-20s traveling business men in navy blue suits, all of whom looked to be hiding their wedding rings from view. I held up a hand, waved, gave our bartender a nod – all to no avail. The woman beside saw I was having trouble.

“Here, let me help with that,” she offered as she uncrossed her arms and slightly pressed her cleavage together, forming an impressive valley between her breasts that any man would have stopped the presses to stare at. With her chest pressed together she stood up just a bit and leaned over the bar to get the bartender’s attention. It worked; within seconds he was front and center.

“Something I can get for you, maam?” he asked.

She nodded in my direction to indicate he’d been had by the bait and switch, and resumed her original position in the chair while I spat out my rye and water request to a now dejected bartender. He turned with a ‘harrumph’ and fetched the whiskey.

“Thanks for that,” I told her, giving a slight nod. “What’s your name anyway?”

“Why?”

“Because I’d feel really bad saying ‘hey you’ whenever I address you.”

She laughed and smiled for the first time. It was a warm smile, inviting and everything a smile should be. It was the kind of smile a person is taught, the kind an actress is trained to deliver on cue.

“Stephanie,” she replied, extending her hand.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Reed.” I took her hand in mine. Soft and silky. Hours upon hours of lotion and conditioning crème I was sure.

“Reed. Huh. That’s a name you don’t hear every day.”

“Well I’m not the kind of person you meet every day,” I responded. I let the bad pickup line sit for a moment and then began laughing. “I’m sorry, that sounded like I am so full of myself. And it was cheesy.”

“Yeah, very cheesy.”

The bartender interrupted, reaching between us to place the drink in front of me. He eyed me quickly with a little bit of envy and then quickly disappeared into a sea of people looking to get in their drink orders.

I took a slow sip of the rye and shared a few moments of uncomfortable silence with my tanned chairmate who had suddenly become interested in her own cocktail, a fruity pink thing that looked like some martini derivative. The opposing wall of the bar had mirrored tiles placed randomly and through a few we could see ourselves staring back at each other, both wondering who would be next to attempt to help along the short conversation we’d begun.

As she swirled her drink with the pink plastic stirrer I decided to step up. “So this guy, what’s the story? First date or someone you already know?” I paused. “By the way, if I’m prying just tell me to fuck off and that will be that.”

She laughed as she waved her hand. “No, it’s not private or nothing. It’s somebody I know – somebody who I work with sort of – we’ve been fooling around here and there and finally decided we should go out on a proper date.”

“So you’re doing this bass-ackwards. Work colleague, hmm? That’s something I won’t do. I have a strict rule: Don’t dip your pen in the company ink.”

“I know, my friends have told me the same thing, but there’s just…something about him that I can’t deny. ‘Dip your pen in the company ink.’ I like that! I may have to use it.”

“So you two got together on a couple of occasions, and you’re being secret at work. Stuff like that?” I took another sip of the rye while awaiting her response.

Stephanie looked towards the door for any sign of her date before responding. “Yes, but no slinking around in private. We don’t work a whole lot together anyhow. We see each other from time to time. He’s a director.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Ah, a director. Big Hollywood type. And you’re an actress?”

Stephanie again looked towards the entrance. After seeing no sign of him she turned back towards me. “Yes, but not Hollywood. The Valley.”

“The Valley? I don’t follow.”

She sighed. “He’s an adult entertainment director and I’m an adult entertainment actress.”

“You mean porn? You’re kidding, right?”

She frowned and crossed her arms over her midsection, pushing her breasts up in her dress. “We prefer to be called adult entertainers.”

“I actually knew that. Sorry,” I replied, doing my best not to stare into her top. She uncrossed her arms and returned to her drink. Another uncomfortable silence passed.

“So,” I continued, “he directs videos and you…act in them? And now you’re going to try the dating thing?”

“Yeah. I mean no. He hasn’t directed anything I’ve done. Not yet at least. You do so many scenes that somehow your paths will cross.” She tilted her wrist to look at the pale silver watch around her thin wrist. “He’s so late,” she wondered aloud, “what’s keeping him?” She started fishing around in her purse as she continued talking. “Do you think you can watch my seat? I’ve got to call him and there’s no way I’ll be able to talk to him with the noise in here.” She found her Nokia and slung the purse strap over her bare arm.

Before I could respond she stood up and moved the chair out of her way. As she brushed by me in the direction of the door the crowd along the bar parted for her and stood with their mouths agape as this vision in a slinky, provocative dress made for the exit. While she was outside a few people came by to inquire about the empty chair beside me and I shooed them away like the murder of crows they were. When she returned five minutes later she wore a look of disappointment that I almost didn’t notice at first. As she approached I was completely taken with her look, this Hollywood-femme prototype with a dress suggesting every sexual innuendo ever mentioned in an Adam Ant song. He legs were perfectly toned and had just the right combination of flesh and muscle. Her chest softly bounced in time with her steps, and I softly licked my lips for a few seconds before realizing how obvious I looked. If Vic’s was a jungle and she was the jungle cat, Stephanie could pounce on her pick of the room – man or woman – and I don’t think a single person would object.

“All I got was his voicemail!” she huffed as she slid into her seat. I stole a quick look to see if her already too-short dress had hiked up as she sat but it amazingly stayed in place with her ass. She sat in silence for a moment, awaiting some consolation remark.

“Maybe he’s on the way over?” I suggested. It was a dumb return and I knew it, but I had been temporarily blinded by her raw sexual energy when she came through the door. I had to shake it off. I was acting like she was the last beautiful woman I’d ever see, which was stupid to think because if I took two minutes to look around the room I would find another five or six of near-equal beauty. I was in Beverly Hills after all.

“No, he always answers his phone. I mean always. He better not be blowing me off! I went to a lot of trouble to make myself look this good.” She grimaced and finished off what remained of her pink drink.

“I get the idea it would take very little time, if any, to look as good as you do Stephanie. That’s not a come-on line, that’s just the truth. And I know you know because there is no way you could have been blind to the attention you just got as you sacheted in here.”

She ignored the comment. I was probably the billionth person to have said this to her and she’d heard it so many times it was no longer necessary to respond, regardless the sentiment.

“The thing is, why would he chicken out now? And like this? You’re a guy – why do guys do that?”

“Thanks for noticing my gender,” I replied. “Seriously though, let’s not count your chickens before they are hatched. He could be in traffic, running late, cell phone battery dead. It could be a number of things.”

“I don’t’ know, this isn’t like him at all.”

“If it isn’t like him then why don’t you at least give him the benefit of the doubt?” I suggested.

As if deflecting the comment she only replied, “I need another drink. How about you?” Stephanie reached over my arm and grabbed the Trader Vic drink menu. “What else do they have,” she said loudly, “I don’t want that pink thing again. It was too sweet.” When she found her poison she snapped the booklet shut and let it fall flat on the bar.

“So what do you do?” she asked between bursts of impatient drumming on the bar with her thumb and forefingers. If this guy didn’t materialize in the next few minutes she was going to explode.

“Right now, nothing. I was in advertising prior to that. I got back from spending the summer in Europe.”

“Sounds fun,” she responded, half listening.

“It wasn’t a pleasure trip.”

“Oh.” Another burst of drumming. “What the fuck? Where is he?” By this time the crowd had thinned enough to be able to carry on a cell phone conversation and so Stephanie again dug her phone out from the purse.

“You don’t want to do that,” I advised, “you’ll appear clingy and overbearing to him, even if all you want to know is where the hell he’s at.” She threw me an angry look. “Hey, you wanted a guy’s point of view, so that’s what I’m offering.”

She shoved the phone back into the purse. “Okay, we'll try it your way.” She tried to simmer down and changed the topic away from her date-in-waiting. “Advertising, like…commercials?”

“Yes, and print and outdoor billboards.”

“Funny how we’re in related industries. We both try to get people to spend their money on unnecessary stuff. But it figures I guess. La la land.”

“Yeah, la la land,” I repeated. I flagged the bartender down and gave him our drink orders.

“So I suppose I should ask what screen name you go by. Is it some clever pun like the others?”

She smiled tightly, her mouth closed. “Afraid to disappoint you, it’s pretty plain. My name is Sunrise Adams.”

I sat back in my chair and thought about the name. I racked my brain for any kind of instant recall. Truth was, I had never heard of her.

She deciphered the same as we sat in silence. “Never heard of me?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Really? Have you seen anything made in the past five years.”

“I’m sure I have.”

She brushed some hair from in front of her face. “Ever hear of Vivid Video?”

“Who hasn’t?” I replied.

“Well I’m one of their girls, so you’ve had to see me in something.”

I shrugged, disinterested. “Maybe. Nothing rings a bell. How long have you been in the biz?” I asked.

“Five years.”

“Get the fuck out of here!” I exclaimed. “How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-three,” she responded.

“Get the fuck out of here!” I again said. Truth was, she looked more like 25 or 26, but I wasn’t going to say that. No woman wants to hear she looks older than she is, especially when she is done up to the hilt in an outfit like this and already in a vulnerable position given her no-show beau.

As the bartender returned with our drinks and placed them in front of us – a regular vodka martini for her and another rye and water for myself – she fished around in her purse until she produced a small cigarette-style metal case, the top of which was covered in a zebra-like fur. She popped it open and handed me a card.

“Here, take a look for yourself,” she said, handing me her driver’s license. I looked at the laminated Texas issued card; her picture wasn’t all that different from how she looked right now, save for the shorter hair arranged in a different style. Her name read ‘Stephanie Thomas,’ with a Como-Pickton, Texas address and a 1982 birth date.

I handed the card back to her. “Well okay Stephanie Thomas, I believe you.” She flashed a smile of self-satisfaction and returned the license to its place in the card case before dumping it back into her purse.

“So how did you come up with the name?” I asked.

“Well, my aunt was in the business in the 80s, and her name was Sunset Thomas, so it just seemed logical to have a similar name like Sunrise.”

I shook my head. “I meant the last name, Adams. How did you settle on that?”

“Oh that? I don’t know, I think one of the directors of my first or second movie gave it to me in the credits and it just kind of stuck. They liked it because it was plain and Caucasian and it matched my look.” She paused and tapped her forefinger against the stem of her martini glass. “So you’ve really never heard of me?”

“I’m sorry, none of it’s ringing a bell. It should; the timeframe and the producer and you being this golden-haired seductress all should fall in line with what I’ve seen, but I can’t place the name, Stephanie. I probably wasn’t paying attention, I was probably, um…preoccupied with other things at the time.”

She smiled triumphantly. “Say no more, I understand. I guess that’s mission accomplished on my part, huh.”

I looked at my watch. An hour had passed since I’d first arrived and there was no way any guy looking to date a woman who looked like Stephanie could run this late. She was officially stood up, and I didn’t want to be the one to break it to her.

The crowd had now died down to a respectable size, the size I had expected when I first arrived. Stephanie polished off the last of her martini and signaled the bartender for another. She might have decided to drink the night away but there was no way I was going to keep up with her by drinking rye and waters. It wasn’t the sort of beverage you consume quickly. It demanded time and patience. I took a final big swig of my drink and asked the bartender to change things up with a Jack and Coke. Beside me Stephanie sighed.

“I can’t believe it, he stood me up. Why would he do that? Why now? He knows me, I know him. Hell, we’ve already slept together!”

Bingo, I said to myself.

“Does he think he can do better?” she continued. “Why? What’s wrong with me? Gawd, I’m so stupid!” The bartender arrived just in time with a fresh martini and in one fluid move she took it from his hands and brought the glass to her mouth, smearing a faint trace of lipstick along its rim as she took a large gulp of the drink.

“Stop, stop, stop,” I commanded. “Don’t beat yourself up like this. Every woman does this to herself, thinking the blame is with her. It’s all on him. Don’t worry about it.”

I must have said the wrong thing because my remark opened the floodgates.

“It’s not just him, it was another guy before him and another before that. Do I wear a sign on my forehead that attracts these guys? What is it?” She turned to me and put her hand on my arm. The booze had loosened her up. “Tell me what it is. You’re a guy, so lay it on me. Be honest.”

“Again, thanks for noticing the gender. For the second time.” I paused and studied her for a moment to make her think I was diagnosing the situation, even though I already knew the problem - more of it was due to her than any guy she ensnared in her net.

“Okay, but I’m not going to hold back. And all I have to work with is what I know about you right now and what I see you wear and how you act…”

“Stop making excuses,” she said, moving her hand in a circular manner to get me to hurry up. “Just tell me!”

I took a look around the room, making a mental inventory of the people who remained in the bar. In one corner a group of 30-something country club wives were huddled closely around a table, cackling and bursting with laughter every so often. Somewhere in another part of the city their husbands, all probably doctors and 25 to 30 years older than these women, were wrapping up another day in the office and giving their 20 year old receptionist/secretaries a quickie before hitting the road. This night out appeared to be the lone thing keeping this group of wives going, as if it was the one thing they lived for, the one thing they longed for the entire week. In another part of the room two men were commiserating over a lost business deal and the untold thousands of dollars in quarterly bonus money it would have netted them. Neither of them would leave sober tonight; theirs was a demoralizing pain, the kind which only alcohol could remedy. A few seats down from us at the bar a woman in a slinky black cocktail dress sat alone, and though it was clear she was waiting for her date to meet her, she occasionally peered over at me, making eye contact and frowning plainly in such a way to suggest that you fucking men, you're always keeping us waiting.

When I turned my attention back to Stephanie the look on her face was equal parts hope and desperation as she awaited my assessment.

“It's two parts: Mental and physical. Let’s tackle the mental parts first. I know you got into this thing with him all backwards, and that being the case if you’ve slept with him once you’ve probably slept with him twice, right?”

She nodded reluctantly.

“So the rules are off the board, and the way the guy was approaching this was like ‘hey this is all easy going, no expectations, no labels, so let’s take it as it comes.’ I mean, your profession alone is enough to relax some of the relationship mores, wouldn’t you say?”

Again Stephanie silently nodded.

“Your taking it to the next step is causing him to back off a little. Granted, it’s a tiny step, but telling him “let’s make this thing official and go out on a date” has scared the guy into thinking you want to put take this thing on the fast track towards the status of a relationship.”

“But I don't!”

“Maybe. It’s just hang-ups over semantics. You could have easily said ‘let’s hang out sometime, maybe drinks or something’ and he wouldn’t have been put off by that.”

“Even though that’s all we were going to do here?”

“Right. Like I said, semantics. Venus and Mars. He-said, she-said mumbo jumbo.”

Stephanie shook her head and laughed. “You men are really something. That is nothing to get scared over.”

“Some of us can roll with the punches. Others throw up their hands and run for the hills. You won't know which you are dealing with until it happens, unfortunately. That's that.” I wanted to switch topics because I was eager to talk about her outfit. The thing was so borderline inappropriate for a place like this that I wondered if she took the dress from the Vivid wardrobe department.

“Now for the physical, in your case the clothes. We’ve established the guy has already seen you naked. He’s been pressed against you between the sheets.” She giggled as I said this. “That being the case, this outfit isn’t necessary. What fruits do you have to tempt him with that he hasn’t already tasted?” She frowned when I said this, more saddened than angry or disappointed.

“Okay, that might be a little harsh,” I offered. “My point is that you don’t have to go to this length to tease him. No point in looking like a tart. Why not go the other way and dazzle him with some sophistication? Nobody expects that out of a porn st – sorry, adult entertainer. A little mystery is good, you know?” I took another gulp of my drink. "Instead of messing with him here -" I held my hands out over my chest to simulate boobs - "stimulate him here," I said as I gently tapped the side of my head above the ear. "The right guy will respond just as well."

Stephanie’s demeanor suddenly took a turn into the seductive, the flirty: “So, if you were dressing me from head to toe, what would you cover my naked body in?”

Through the accumulating haze of rye and waters and Jack and Cokes, I had to hold back the visual to keep my head focused. “V-neck sweater showing a touch of cleavage but really accenting the curves and breasts under the sweater; some type of casual jeans – not frayed or ripped, but casual – like Lucky 7 or the like, and some heeled boots to draw attention to your height and the entire package. There’s no way you can set foot in here wearing that sort of outfit and not have every guy checking you out.”

“Hmm, that’s something to think about,” she mused. “You’d think a guy would want to see me the same way he does on video.”

“Nah. Besides, that’s what the video is for,” I added with a wink. “Give them a chance to wear out their hand in the privacy of their own homes. When you are wearing something like that what do you think guys are going to do? They make a mental note and save it for the right time.”

She laughed. "Good point. I suppose I don't need to make it look like I'm at the AVNs." She paused. "That's the Adult Video Network Awards."

"I know. I'm not that out of it."

“So is that what you do too?” she giggled.

“I’ve had two hours with the real thing. Is there any comparison?”

She smiled. “You’ve been a real help. I’m still pissed, and he’s still a jerk, but even drunk I can see the whole picture. You’re like my helpline operator.”

I raised what was left of my drink and clanked it off hers. “Cheers.”

Zeroes & Ones Will Take Us There

2005-11-23T18:44:00.000-05:00

“Swing through it, not across!”

I pulled back and swung forward with what I thought was one fluid motion and whacked the ball somewhere along its upper third, sending it in line-drive fashion towards one of the giant elms that lined the fairway.

“Again!”

Bringing up the head of the club behind the ball and lining the two up, visually noting where the club had to sit with regard to the ground and the tee to hit the ball in this fashion, I slowly brought the club back, and then down once, then twice, making sure I kept the needed trajectory. With one final back swing, I brought the club down quickly as fast as I could, striking the ball and sending it careening from its tee.

Straight into a tree 30 yards into the fairway and off to the left.

“Dammit!” I yelled.

“It’s okay, just calm down and get a handle on things. Let’s take a five minute time-out, okay?”

Paul Sorvino had woken me early this morning to drill more golf schooling into me, determined to turn me into a capable golfer, at least capable enough to hold up one end of the four-man squad he previously organized with my father. I needed to get an “A” game, and quick.

“Want some ice tea?” he asked as he reclined in his chaise lounge chair. His patio opened onto the 13 fairway and at this time of the morning the golfers were still on the front nine. We’d have another half hour before old men in loud clothing started showing up.

“Thanks, no,” I replied, easing back into the other chaise lounge. I removed a cigar cutter from my pant pocket and then pulled the Davidoff petite carona from the pocket of my shirt. As long as I was awake this early I may as well enjoy the moment. I gently cut away the cap from the cigar and rolled the cut top around delicately in my hand, firmly pressing the sides to ensure the Connecticut shade wrapper didn’t unravel. When I was finished I slipped the cutter back inside my pant pocket and pulled out the Prometheus lighter my father had given me when I graduated from UC Santa Barbara. It was such a small token, a keepsake produced once in a while but ever so briefly to ignite a cigar. A few times it had been a conversation piece while in a restaurant or club, but to me it was a keepsake signifying a bygone era of style and class.

I puffed at the cut end of the cigar as I lit the tip. Wisps of smoke encircled me as I puffed and then backed my mouth off the cigar, allowing the stick to take life.

“You want one of these?” I offered. “I brought another if you’d like. They’re Davidoffs.”

Paul waved me off. “You know I can’t have those. It does smell good, though. Very cedary.” He cursed under his breath. “Damn asthma.”

I puffed on the cigar for a few more minutes while Paul Sorvino sipped his ice tea in silence. When he was nearly done he turned to me. “You know, my kids can’t play golf very well either. They never showed any interest in taking it up.”

“You mean Mira?”

He cleared his throat. “You know, I have two other children besides Mira. None of them play too well. Amanda, Michael, Mira – all of them. Me? I like this game, I can play it the live long day. You’re in privileged company.”

I stood up and rolled the cigar between my fingertips. “My father was the same way, except half the time he would be schmoozing people and making business deals. Very little golf was being played.”

He laughed. “That’s where the best networking gets done, kid, not the boardroom. I can’t tell you how many roles I’ve landed on the links.” He stood up and went over to his golf bag, resting on the tripod-shaped stand. Removing a club from the bag, he added, “Learn this game, Reed. Learn it partially for the game itself, but mostly for the networking and contacts you’ll glean from it.”

So much for it being a selfless, relaxing, reflective game.

“Let’s get back to it, okay?” Paul suggested.

“Got an ashtray? I need to tap my ash.”

He shook his head. “Got rid of them right after I quit smoking. I don’t need the reminders.”

“Oh crap, well if this is a problem just say so and I’ll…”

“No, no problem. I would have already said something if it was.” He looked around the patio for something, anything that could double as an ashtray. Finally he said, “just use the planter over there, the one with the evergreen shrub. It will be fine.”

I walked over to a plaster planter with a faux-weathered paint job and pointed. He nodded. I carefully lowered the cigar and gently tapped the edge against the side of the planter. When I finished I took up the club once again and followed Paul out to the tee on the 13th fairway.

“The trick to teeing off perfectly is keeping the body straight and in line with the tee. Think of the club as an extension of your arms and keep them parallel to the body.” He demonstrated a proper stance and waved a hand over his body so I would note the display.

“Back straight, shoulders slightly relaxed but not rounded,” he explained, “and when you swing, don’t twist at the waist. This isn’t the batting cage. To power through with a really good swing, think of it as a follow-through of your backswing.” He lifted his club back. “Get your club to a good height, you’ll know what’s good because you’ll feel gravity and inertia begin to slow the club. When you feel that, then come forward swiftly and in one fluid movement, striking the ball.”

He brought his club down and struck the ball. “Whack!” It went screaming from the tee, splitting the center of the fairway like an arrow. He smiled as he watched it sail out of our end.

“There. Just like that,” he remarked. “Now you try.”

“Just like that,” I mimicked, approaching him. He held out a tee pin for me and I snatched it from his hand.

“How is this game relaxing?” I demanded. “You just whack a ball and get pissed off about where it ends up going. Then you chase after it and whack it again, get more pissed off when it ends up in the sand or water, and by the time you make it onto the green the people behind you are complaining that you take too long. That’s relaxing?”

Paul smiled. “You’ll see. In time the game will open up to you.”

I put the ball atop the tee and took a swing. “Whack!” Way off course again.

“Here, maybe this will help you.” He approached me and placed a tee in the ground and then a ball atop it. “Watch what I do.” He stood behind the ball and lined up his shot. “If you silently count while you go through the motions it will keep your concentration and movement focused.” He brought the club slowly back and uttered “zero.” When his club was at the top of his backswing he swiftly brought it forward, saying “one,” and hit the ball with a loud thump.

After we watched the ball sail away Paul again stood in position next to the tee, brought back his club, and swung through an imaginary ball over and over, reciting “zero and one, zero and one” each time.

“Why zero and one?” I asked. “Why not ‘one, two’ or just ‘fore’?”

“There is a cadence to ‘zero, one.’ It’s soothing and rhythmic. Start incorporating it into your game and you’ll see the results. I’m going to turn you into a golfer and you are going to help out our team if it’s the last thing I do. Just go along with what I say and do what I do. Zeroes and ones will take us there.”
___________________________________________________________________

One golf lesson, a shower and a cup of coffee later, I sat in the living room of my parents’ house, watching the sun through the French doors slowly begin its ascent behind the foothills which separate Brentwood from Santa Monica and Malibu. I didn’t know what Paul Sorvino saw in me, if he perceived any true ability to play golf on my part. Maybe I was a quick fix, a finger to stick in the leaking dike, but he was determined to turn me into a wunderkind. I would play Happy Gilmore to his Chubbs Peterson.

My mother found me relaxing on the sofa and joined me. “Care for some company?” she asked.

“Sure, it’s your house. You make the rules.” I looked around the room. “Where’s Sophia?” I asked.

An alarmed look came over my mother’s face. “Oh lord, I forgot to let her out of the crate!” she exclaimed. “Poor thing. She probably has to relieve herself.” She quickly got up and disappeared down the hallway. Within moments I heard the familiar jingle-jangle of Sophia’s collar as she came tearing down the hallway and into the living room.

“Ugly Dog!” I announced as she came into view. Sophia zeroed in on my location and went into full gallop, launching herself onto the sofa and onto me. She shoved her walrus-like muzzle into my face and began licking.

“Okay, okay,” I said between laughs, “I’m glad to see you too. Now get off the couch!” I commanded, adding a point towards the door so that she would get the message. She adjusted her jowls and hopped off.

“Sophia, outside,” my mother motioned with a wave of her arm, drawing the dog towards the French doors. Sophia eagerly ran outside and sniffed around the landscaping, looking for any uninvited rodent that may have taken up residence during the night.

My mother returned to the sofa and sat beside me, holding her coffee mug. “You’re in cheerful spirits this morning,” she commented. “Have a good time golfing with Mr. Sorvino?”

“No, I was my rotten self as usual,” I replied, shaking my head. “If he expects me to improve by leaps and bounds he is in for a shock. I’m terrible. You could beat me.”

“Well he must see something in your game. So if that’s not the reason for your mood, then what is? Perhaps that woman who came by a few nights ago when you went out?”

Mothers don’t change. It doesn’t matter how young or old you are, their tricks are still obvious.

“Stop fishing for information, that was Courtney. You have met Courtney before.”

“Well you ushered her out of here so quickly that I didn’t get a chance to see who it was. All that was left was the scent of her perfume in the air.”

“I bet it was a cheap one at that,” I responded. “I’d like to take a frying pan to the back of her head. That’s the extent of my desire.”

My mother shook her head disapprovingly. “Oh my. Then why do you spend time with her?”

“I find myself asking the same question. It’s always in the context of the group. There is no way I could even handle spending an evening with her one-on-one. Any Courtney talk brings me down so let's change the subject. What have you got on the schedule for today?”

She sighed. “I really need to go through your father’s things like his clothes and pack them up to give away.”

“Would you like any help? All I have on the schedule is lunch with Devin.”

“No, this is something I should do myself,” she replied. Translation: She didn’t want anybody around in case she became emotional.

“Besides,” she added, “now that you’ve broken your hermit’s vow you should be going out and having a good time, spending time with your friends and so forth.”

I grinned. “That’s what college was for.”

She pushed at my arm. “You know what I mean. Within reason. Everything at its proper pace. Besides, if you do go out how will you ever meet that special someone?”

“Ah yes, the one who restore order to me and right the wrongs, cure the ills and so forth.”

“That’s not what I meant,” she responded.

“I know. It seems we have each finally returned to our pre-June states. I am reverting to senseless playboy, and you to incessant matchmaker. We may be all right just yet.”
___________________________________________________________________

The cart had a wobbly wheel and loudly announced my presence every time I turned a corner. For all of their investments in hip, popular products and organic vegetables, Gelsons market had no desire to bring their shopping cart fleet out of the 1970s. Gelsons was a Southern California past time, a highbrow market that attracted the affluent set of West Los Angeles. I pushed the rickety cart down the aisle with one hand while balancing my cell phone against my ear with my shoulder and engaging in another Southern California past time: Talking on the phone while shopping.

“Dude, what are you doing grocery shopping in the middle of the day?”

“It’s the best time to go, I have the place to myself,” I responded.

“Well hurry up, I’m over here waiting on a table for us.”

“Relax Devin, it’s Johnny fucking Rockets we’re talking about, not Lawrys.”

“Alright, but if they seat me and become impatient about waiting for you, I’m going to order.”

I murmured something under my breath. He was being a drama queen and an ass. Ever since he started getting noticed in public for the Nivea commercial he had done, he whined about his time being too important for foolish idleness. I hated that in his backhanded way he was also saying my time wasn’t important.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be there.” I clicked off and shoved the phone back into my pants. I looked around the store; despite offering the least busy time to shop, lunchtime at Gelsons brought with it the appearance of West Los Angeles’ lowest common denominators. These were the people who managed to stay in the area because they’d been willed a home in Carthay Park or maintained generations of rent control below 3rd Street in Santa Monica. They really had no business infiltrating this part of town and most knew them for what they were: A sham. These were people whose connection to high life were finger holds on some property that was sucking them dry. Their appearance, their sense of fashion, even the contents of their shopping carts gave them away. Any money they made was directly deposited into their living quarters. They were house poor, and all because they felt it so important to maintain the appearance of living in a high rent part of town. A sizeable portion of Bel Air was filled with these people, and you knew them all too well by the cheap spaghetti sauce and ramen noodles occupying their cart.

My way of dealing with – or rather, not dealing with – the midday riff-raff at Gelsons came in electronic form: The iPod. Apple’s technological wonder had its true value not in storage size, instant music recall, or playlists, but in its ability to isolate the listener from the rest of the world. Tune in, tune out. Apple should employ that marketing strategy and forget the artsy pastels and silhouettes of their current look. Instead, show a person sitting on a bench waiting for the bus or something, with all of life’s unbearable noises and pressures bearing down on him, but instead of showing worry, the guy is wearing a big shit-eating grin. Why? He has on his iPod and he is in the zone. Apple iPod. Tune in, tune out.

I took the iPod out and turned it on, quickly running my finger clockwise along its scroll pad. Rapid clicks tried to keep up with the circular motion of my finger until I found what I was looking for: Rahzel. I queued “Make the Music” to play, put on my headphones, and let Rahzel’s rhymes wash over me.

It was two aisles over where I first spotted her. She looked to be in her mid-20s and clearly confused by the layout of the store. She probably didn’t live around here. Maybe she worked nearby and stopped in on her lunch break. She had light mocha skin, very fair, and curly jet black hair with a nice natural looking wave to it. Still, I couldn’t tell if it was natural or good work with a curling iron. She wore one of those velour J-Lo style track suits that should have been out of style six months ago were it not for magazines like Lucky and Good Housekeeping. Any new clothing style goes through its phases - first chic, then glamorous, then innocuous. That last stage is when housewives and those with the – ahem – wrong build dive in and make the purchase. Still, she wore it well, and were it six months ago I’d be impressed.

As she drew closer I got a better look at the contents of her cart: Weight Watchers Smart Ones frozen dinners, South Beach diet sandwich wraps, lots of canned soup, and fresh vegetables. No snacks, no power bars, no fruit juice or beer. She was single. And a reasonably healthy eater. Maybe she was trying to keep her weight in check. Perhaps that was the reason for the track suit, as an inconspicuous way of hiding the flab. I watched as she scanned the aisle and then turned to look behind her at something. She was lost. As our carts passed I flashed a half-smile. Sometimes a smile is all it takes.

She slowed her cart and waved her hand as I passed to get my attention. I lowered the volume on the iPod and pulled off my headphones.

“Sorry, I’ve never been in this Gelsons before and I’m totally turned around. Do you know where they hide the coffee around here?” She smiled nervously, a little embarrassed to let out her secret.

I gave her the once-over as I answered. “Back two aisles and in the middle. They have one of those stations where you can grind your own blend.”

She laughed nervously. “Yeah, I have to get my coffee fix. Thanks.”

I started to go for my headphones when she again stopped me. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are you listening to?”

I offered the headphones. “Here, listen for yourself.”

She reached for the headphones, adjusting them first for the right size, and then tucking away her hair behind her ears before finally putting them on. I raised the volume slightly and when she realized what she was listening to, she frowned.

“Rap music? Are you serious?” she asked as she pulled the headphones off and handed them back to me.

“Why not? It's honest music,” I responded.

She twisted her mouth into a disappointed expression. “Rap is repulsive and demeaning. How do mean it is honest music?”

“Rap is the one style of music that honestly portrays the male agenda,” I said with a sly grin. Most women misinterpret that phrase and confuse it with male chauvinism.

“The male agenda. What kind of sexist idealism is that?” she asked. She seemed to read it incorrectly too.

“It’s nothing like that,” I responded, shaking my head. “Let’s compare. How often do you hear R&B or rock songs that try to woo women with 'You'll be my everything,' 'You're my shining star,' 'I'll sing to you on a mountaintop,' 'I'm forever yours faithfully,' and so on? How do women respond? They eat it up. They swoon. They get that goofy look in their eyes. But as soon as the band is off the stage, however, they are knee deep in groupies they're going to screw and toss aside ten minutes later. It's a sham - a ploy for sex rolled up in a love song. And they are sending a message to you through their actions that you, as woman, are a number and disposable.”

The woman renewed the twisted, disappointed look on her face. Taking her eyes off me, she reached into her cart and stood a frozen entrée upright to make space. Her foot began tapping impatiently.

“And rap music is not like that?” She asked. She wanted to say something more damning, but restrained herself.

“It is not. Rap music is honest and upfront about advancing the male agenda. They know what they want and they are not shy about selling it to that end. It's not tonight let's set the night to music. Listen to the lyrics. They are explicit and direct. It's 'back that ass up.' It's I'm into having sex not into making love so come give me a hug if you're into getting rubbed. It's got me wanting to put hickeys all over your chest. Those are actual lyrics and they send a clear, unclouded message.”

She shook her head. “But the result is all the same, they want to get into your pants just like the R&B singers you cite.”

“You’re right,” I nodded, “but they don’t roll it up in bullshit. And there’s my point: Honest music.”

She began laughing. “My god, you've really thought this through. You must have a lot of free time on your hands.”

“Guilty as charged. It’s that obvious, huh?”

She continued laughing. “Pretty much.”

“Well then thanks. Thanks for laughing it up over my deep level of lameness.”

“Oh, don’t be hurt, I don’t mean it like that.” She forced herself to stop laughing and covered her mouth. “I’m Tina.”

I extended a hand. “And I’m Reed. I’d continue on the lame track and ask if you come around here much, but I know you don’t.”

“Just stopped in. I don’t even get over here really. I live in midcity, around La Brea.”

I nodded. “Ah, so you gravitate towards the high life of The Grove, yes?”

“You know it, I take it.”

“I’ve been there a few times. The area around it has really changed from when I was younger.”

A smile crept across her face. “So you are a native. It’s becoming harder to find locals who are not a transplant from somewhere else.” She paused and looked at her watch. “I grew up in Culver City.”

“Is that right?” I was through with small talk and her obvious glance at her watch told me she was as well. “I should really let you get to that coffee station, I'm sure you'll have to fight for the good beans,” I began, “but since you are into French Roasts and the like, maybe we can get together sometime over coffee and I can share with you some more lame ideas of mine.”

“Lame huh?” She hesitated, thinking over the proposition. “Sure,” she started, reaching for her purse, “sounds like fun.” She fished a business card out of her purse and handed it over. As I looked it over and examined the embossing on the print she started to push her cart away. “Most of the time you can catch me at that work number, otherwise try the cell. I’ll talk to you later. Hopefully next time it won’t be about rap music.”
___________________________________________________________________

“I think I’ve come up with the great idea to end all great ideas.”

Devin sat on the other side of the booth from me, beaming. Normally when Devin lets loose with a claim like this it’s reason for concern. He’s not a linear thinker.

I reached for my glass of water and fished out the lemon wedge before taking a sip. I didn'’t understand the phenomena of putting a wedge of fruit in a glass of water. The water in California was already suspicious, and the citric acid in a slice of lemon wouldn't kill whatever called my glass its home. Lemon wedges don't fool anyone.

I unfolded a napkin and placed the wedge on it. “Fucking lemon. Adding a lemon to the water doesn’t make this place high brow. It’s Johnny Rockets for Christ sake.” I looked at Devin. I could tell he was waiting on pins and needles for a chance to explain his Next Big Idea, so I got back on topic.

“What’s the idea?” I asked, playing along.

“You know how my schedule is totally crazy and frantic? If I don’t have a gig then I’m going to cast calls and auditions for a gig, and if not I’m hustling my agent to find me something?”

“Yeah…”

“And I have to go to the gym often because all of this – my body and my face – is an asset to my career, and affects what kind of jobs I get so there’s a chunk of time invested in that...”

“Uh huh.”

“Well I got to thinking – with that kind of crazy schedule how am I expected to have any kind of social life? Or dating life? There’s no time to go out and meet people, really meet people and get to know them.”

I tapped my hand on the table. “What the fuck is the idea?”

“Okay, are you ready? Here’s my new dating philosophy: Date only single mothers.”

“Oh Jesus,” I replied, rubbing the bridge of my nose. I tried to change the subject. “Is this guy going to take our order or what?”

“He already came by and I told him to come back. Anyway, listen. It’s a good plan. I’m busy, they’re busy. Their time is valuable and they know what they want. There is no monkeying around and playing games. They’re on the clock so they have to go after what they want.”

“What they want?” I asked.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” Devin spat back. “If you put out the vibe that you are equally busy, they respect that, so when it comes down to going out you both know what you are there for: Adult conversation and horizontal shuffling.”

I shook my head in disapproval. “That’s a con job, and you are conning yourself. There’s no pursuit involved. Where is the fun in that?”

Devin drummed his hands on the table a few times. “You and your fucking pursuit are overrated. I don’t know about you, but this cat wants to get laid. Oh! Here’s the best part. When the two of you are done, there’s no awkward post-coital bullshit, there’s no unplanned inconvenience of one of you staying the night, no figuring out if you have enough eggs in the fridge and Bisquick to make some breakfast the next morning. She’s gotta go; there’s the sitter to pay and drive home, diapers to change, a place to clean up. I’m telling you, dating a single mother cancels out all the unnecessary junk built into the system.”

“That’s not even dating, that’s more like a one-night stand.”

“No, you have to build it up over a date or two. Date one is to decide if she likes you enough to screw you. She won’t make you jump through any special hoops or hold out for some tender moment – she’ll take it where she can get it. And date two is bedtime for Bonzo. Boom. Done. Over. If she wants you to call her in a few days, great. You beocome a fuck on retainer. If not, then move on and start again.”

“And women wonder why they are constantly bombarded by zeroes,” I declare.

“Don’t knock the system, dude. It works. Give it a chance.”
___________________________________________________________________

By the time I returned to my parents’ house it was nearly four and I was glad all of my purchases at Gelsons were non-perishable. Inside I found my mother surrounded by piles upon piles of my father’s clothing. Her eyes were bloodshot and the dark patches under her eyelids heavily pronounced. She’d been crying.

“Are you okay?” I asked, sitting beside her on the one open spot remaining on the bed.

“Oh, you shouldn’t see this, dear,” she responded, wiping her eyes and trying to erase any lingering evidence of crying.

“Shouldn’t see this or shouldn’t see you like this?” I offered.

“A little of both I suppose.” She let out a deep sigh. “I thought I would be ready for this, I really did, but I look at his clothing and can remember places and moments and events when they were worn. So many memories and happy feelings.” She started getting misty-eyed again.

“Here,” I said, reaching for the tissue box on the night stand. She took a couple of tissues and smiled. “Why are you doing this? There’s no hurry.”

“I know, but it has been nearly four months. I can’t let these things hang in the closet
forever.” She daintily wiped the corners of her eyes and folded the Kleeex in her hand.
“I wish the whole process wouldn’t be so difficult. Some aspects of daily life you get past, and you become accustomed to it just being you. Others…well I guess the great mystery is you don’t really know what will be a mountain and what will be a molehill until you are in the thick of it. The only thing you know for sure is nobody gets out of here alive.”

She dabbed at the sides of her eyes again. “You were gone a while. Out having fun? That’s good. You should get back into that habit with the free time you have. As a matter of fact – go out tonight. I am going to be here sorting through more of your father’s things so I’m sure I won’t be in the most joyous of moods. But it shouldn’t stop you, so go out and have fun. Meet some new people, make some new friends. Sophia can keep me company. Won’t you dear?”

The dog poked her head up from behind the other side of the bed. She let out a huff and galloped around to the side we were on.

“Where did you come from?” I asked, rubbing Sophia’s head. She let her tongue slide out the side of her mouth where it dangled freely in the air.

“She’s been one tired dog today,” replied my mother.

“That’s nothing new. Sharpeis sleep 16 to 18 hours a day. Why is today different?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. But she’ll be awake to keep me company this evening. And as for you,” she said, her thin finger pointed squarely at me, “get on. Go have some fun.”

I looked at my watch. “It’s too early for dinner. I could go find a happy hour bar someplace,” I suggested, aloud.

“See, a plan is already coming together.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Have a good time. It’s very important you do that.” She grabbed onto my arm. “You need to have fun.”

Last Cup of Sorrow

2005-11-16T17:22:00.000-05:00

The Lupo was on her way. I clicked off the phone and set it down on the table. Outside the wind was beginning to pick up, and through the French doors I could see low-lying shrubs in the garden lean with the breeze, their dead thatch and loose leaves giving way to the gusts.

Lupo. I laughed. It was the nickname we had given our friend Courtney while in college. Lupo was Hawaiian for “wolf,” and with her being half Hawaiian and socially on the prowl any time we went someplace public like a restaurant or club, it was a fitting moniker. Courtney had always been the kind of person one would dub the social director: Always eager to meet new people, try new things – and the icing on the cake – always the center of attention, something I never failed to point out to her. Courtney and I bumped heads in the past. My problem was that she had no tact, and was no substance and little style. Courtney’s problem with me was every girl’s problem: Why was I not paying enough attention to her? She was a friend but a friend at arm's length. She had a way of annoying to the point of going along with the program just to shut her up, the very reason Aaron and Devin dispatched her this evening.

“How many spot lights do you need shining upon you?” I asked, recalling an exchange from years ago. “You realize that half of the men in here think you are an embarrassing idiot and the other half only wants to get laid, right?”

“You’re such a jerk, you could be a friend and hang out with me.”

“And do what? Part the crowds as you make your way from the dance floor to the bar, making sure people only direct their gaze towards you and the beauty you radiate? Your only usefulness is as a wing woman to draw others in closer, but why do I need to do that, I’m not pathetic.”

“I see you in the back of the bar mister, hiding out with girls you knew from long ago who don’t even matter. At least I go out and broaden my horizons and meet new people.”

At about this point she would normally reposition her half shirt or arch her back a little to make sure I was staring at her chest, because after all the focus was always supposed to be on her. I never bit. I generally would say something to annoy her further.

“You should really get those things reduced; they’re going to cause excruciating back pain someday. That is, unless you have your brains partitioned between them and you run the risk of the procedure making you dumb.”

“You are such an ass.” She would always have that response ready along with a shake of the head. Sometimes she would deliver the line half laughing. “I don’t know why we even hang out.”

“Because you need the attention of a good looking guy,” I’d say. “You really don’t, but you haven’t figured it out for yourself so I have to mention it over and over. Maybe that’s why we get thrown together – so I can play Captain Obvious.”

If you got to know Courtney you’d find she was like every other Redondo Beach girl – long wavy hair, perfect smile, tan skin, leggy, athletic build - but that attitude, that “me first” mentality she employed, really got under my skin. And she was on her way here. They knew how to play her against me, too. The longer I held out the longer I would have to hear her go on about how my holdout was undermining her night out and her chance of being in the public eye. And there was no talking sense into this one; as far as she knew, hers was the only voice worth hearing. She wouldn’t leave no matter how polite the request. The one thing she did well was follow directions; once she was sold on the program she was in tooth and nail. The only way she would leave my place was with me in tow. Their plan was a flawless chess game and she was the checkmate waiting to happen.

When she arrived I was dressed and ready, looking as suave and dapper as a person who was about to eat donuts could be.

“Hey you!” she said as I held the door open for her, “you look good, really good.” She always started out pleasant. It would sour as things progressed.

“Michelle said you hadn’t been taking care of yourself but I gotta say, for a shut-in you clean up pretty well, mister,” she added. I ushered her out the door before my mother could come out of her bedroom and make Courtney indulge her in an unnerving game of twenty questions.

“I’m driving,” I said.

“Is this a macho I can’t ride in the car if a woman’s driving kind of thing?” she asked.

“No, it’s a I don’t know if you can drive a car safely and talk at the same time kind of thing, so I’m not taking any chances.”

“Funny,” she added, poking her tongue out. She motioned to my car. “I see you still have the car.”

“I do,” I replied. I opened the door and she slid into the passenger seat.

“Such a gentleman. There should be more guys like you.”

I shut the door and walked around. “No way,” I replied once inside, “that means more competition.”

I fired up the engine and within seconds the tunes came blaring over the speakers. “What are you listening to?” she asked.

“Jody Watley. I’m indulging this recent fascination I’m having with late 80s and early 90s music. The stuff that was in just before grunge dropped the hammer.”

I forwarded the disc to another song. “I remember this one!” Courtney squealed. “This one had some guy rapping on it but he was low key and sort of down, not that bitches be up in here style you always hear.”

I shook my head. “You’re talking about Rakim. That's not his style, always sounds like he does on this song.”

Courtney began grooving in her chair to the beat, and joined in the chorus with Jody:

Friends will let you down
Friends won’t be around
When you need them most
Where are your friends
___________________________________________________________________________________

Grace is a restaurant on Beverly Boulevard between the Hancock Park and Park La Brea sections of mid city which dates back to the 1950s when the restaurant was called Muse. Since then it has undergone renovation after renovation and slick marketing ploy after slick marketing ploy. In the 60s the place became a hangout for the anti-war crowd; in the 70s it was a hip late night after hours watering hole for the disco set; and the 80s brought about another change in ownership and marketing strategy, emerging as the cool ultra-hip “it” place for bankers, analysts and other higher wage earners. In the 90s there was more of the same – new owners, new fads, new menus – but the same result. The property just couldn’t get a new lease on life.

Somewhere around 2003 the group that owned the Westwood Restaurant & Grill bought the place and renamed it Grace. The menu was different and the decorations were eclectic, but the gimmicks remained the same, thus Wednesday night’s “Donut Night.” People would come far and wide just to have a donut and a cup of coffee in a sit-down restaurant after nightfall. The wait would extend out the door regularly. To an outsider the ritual seemed silly – and it was – but for somebody knee-deep in Southern California pop culture, this was one of the better places to hang out and be seen. This was the place Courtney and all of the Courtney clones in the southland clamored to go.

Inside the place looked just as I remembered, its décor as every bit chic and eccentric as the first time I walked through those doors. Black and white glass chandeliers hung in the waiting area like earrings, dangling just above my head. Drowned flowers floated effortlessly in towering test-tube like cylinders, a few with black lights behind them to alter the colors of the flowers. People sat impatiently in the waiting area while outside the entrance others paced back and forth while quietly enjoying the solitude of a cigarette as they waited. Tonight we had a reservation, as it was the only way to get a seat on donut night. Inside we found Michelle, Aaron and Vanessa in the restaurant’s poor excuse for a bar. I once read the reason Grace had a small bar was for keeping the emphasis on the menu and not the spirits, which is a curious thing for an establishment with over 5000 wines on hand to say.

“Well look what we have here!” exclaimed Aaron as I pushed past a few people to get to the group.

“You got me out of the house. Pat yourselves on the back, you got me,” I responded to the four of them.

Michelle pointed at me. “Lupo. I knew it would work. It always works on you. You could have just been more receptive. Otherwise you wouldn’t have to deal with a night of...”

She nodded in the direction of Courtney, who had already carved out a place for herself at the bar and was making flirty eyes with the guy on her left. “What’s good here, any drink specials tonight?” I heard her say. God, she was so fucking obvious.

“I guess it’s a lesson learned the hard way.”

The place was getting noisy and it was barely past seven. As one of the few restaurants in Los Angeles that served food past eleven it was a popular place, but things usually didn’t pick up until after nine or ten.

Aaron leaned in, trying to close the distance so he could be heard. “Devin called, he’s running a little late.” He shrugged. “You know, the life of a star.”

“What’s going on with that?” I asked. “I thought he no longer did Burger King commercials.”

Aaron shook his head. “He doesn’t. They got rid of all the people doing those commercials. Now they use a guy dressed up as the Burger King mascot, except he has this really huge plastic head. It looks kind of creepy. Anyway, he’s inserted Forrest Gump-style into football games, so he intercepts the ball and returns it to the house, or runs onto the field and does a dance. It’s sort of funny. How could you not have since that commercial? It's always on.”

I gave Aaron an I don’t know motion with my hands. “I just haven’t, I don’t say why. So what...is he doing something else now?”

Michelle broke in. “He’s doing commercials for Nivea skin cream. They have a whole men’s line that's been launched, and Devin is sort of their spokesmodel. He’s in a commercial where it’s like he’s been out partying all night with his girl, and then the next day she’s in tub detoxing with cucumber slices on her eyes, and he’s in front of the mirror putting on Nivea under his eyes.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

“So he stands in front of the camera and puts lotion under his eyes? And that’s working?”

“Dude, it’s been on TV all of the time,” Aaron rejoined. “And he’s already done another two commercials that they haven’t put out yet. He is the face of their men’s line.”

“He’s the poster boy for metrosexuals!” exclaimed Michelle. “They even made him better looking than you,” she added, winking.

From behind me I heard Courtney: “Guys, guys, the bartender said beginning at eight he is going to make some specialty drink that’s blood red and has five kinds of alcohol. We totally have to order some.”

I smirked at the group as if to say “I may have forced your hand to bring her into this, but now you have to put up with her for the rest of the night.”

The hostess came into the bar and flagged us down. As much as the restaurant world was going hi-tech, Grace shied away from employing pagers or those illuminating, buzzing coasters.

The woman led us into the main dining room past a couple leaning too far over their table to feed each other a shared plate tandoori quail, past a booth filled with harajuku girls done up in blue and red, with the frilly, stringy white material hanging loosely around their sleeves and reflecting brightly off the low lighting, and past another table occupied by two couples dressed in 50s-era bowling attire. Grace never failed to attract subculture upon subculture, each convinced the tiny restaurant was just the place to receive their personal stamp.

I stood while Vanessa and Courtney slid into the booth, and eyed one of the harajuku girls across from us. She had bleached hair with jet black tips which were tied off in pony tails. The makeup was overdone as per the style, but she really went overboard with the eye liner. I took a good look at her and the glitter in her hair that reflected the light before taking a seat.

“I assume you are here for donut night?” the hostess asked.

Before any of us could answer, Courtney piped up. “Um, yeah, and we also want whatever the drink special that cute bartender makes on Wednesday nights. He was talking about it earlier. I don’t know, do you think I should get his phone number? He seems sooooo nice.”

“Mark is married, or wasn’t the ring on his finger clear enough for you?” the hostess spit out as she walked away, shaking her head.

Courtney looked us over. “What?”

Devin showed up just as our waiter came around with coffee for the table. “A waiter?" I excalaimed. "You drag me out of the house and can’t go to the trouble of getting us a seat at one of the girls’ stations? Who am I supposed to ogle?”

Courtney perked up and ran her forefingers from top to bottom to top again of her outfit. “Um, hello?” She said with a bewildered look on her face. She was wearing the same kind of ensemble that she’d always put together, a half shirt with either a skirt or low riding jeans. Tonight it was jeans. The girl had no imagination; if it weren’t for the Sunday paper ad inserts for The Gap or Macys, she wouldn’t be able to dress herself.

“Some things don’t change,” Devin interrupted.

“And some people are still never on time,” I shot back as I got out of the booth. “How are you, you old smoothie? I hear you are Hollywood’s next sex symbol.”

“I can only hope, I’d certainly welcome the work,” he said as he slid in past me and gave Courtney a pinch on the arm. Devin was the only one in the group who ever indulged Courtney. Half the time I thought he was keeping his opportunities open in the event he needed a quick fuck.

“You seen it? The commercial I mean.”

“He hasn’t seen it, Devin. You’d think mister health-and-beauty would have run across it by now,” Michelle responded.

I shrugged. “I haven’t seen it. Ex-cuuuuse me,” I said in Steve Martin fashion. “I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, busy doing nothing,” Aaron chimed in. “You’ve spent weeks in that house doing nothing, just growing old with the pictures on the wall. It’s creepy.”

“That’s not true,” I responded. “Every so often I go to Gelsons and pick up groceries. So there, I get out.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

The waiter came by a second time with more coffees and a dessert menu. “Again with the waiter guy?” I looked around the main room. “They really need some talent for us to leer at. I can’t deal with the sausage fest and the forty-something hostess with a perpetual scowl carved into her face.”

Courtney piped up again. “You could buy me a drink at the bar, Reed.” She twisted in place on the booth bench to look cutesy. She smiled as she turned from side to side.

“No thanks,” I said with a wave, “I’m only on the joe tonight.” She frowned a baby-like pouting frown. “You’re no fun.”

Devin began sliding out of the booth. “I’m in the drinking mood. Care to join me?” He extended a bent arm to Courtney.

“Ooh, Mr. Nivea Man, how could a girl say no?” She crinkled her nose and winked. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the entire table roll their eyes in unison. Courtney slid out and hooked her arm in Devin’s.

“That’s right Devin!” yelled Michelle once the two were across the room and swallowed by the din of the place. “Act like you want to get into her pants!” She lowered her voice and turned to Vanessa, who had been silent since we had arrived. “Sorry.”

Vanessa and Aaron had been dating since just after Aaron, Michelle, Courtney and I graduated from college. Vanessa had been in California on a study abroad scholarship from Australia, and to hear the two of them tell the story, it was ‘love at first sight.’ It’s funny they chose to be revisionist with their tale, because I knew the real story, the one in which Aaron tried on four or five occasions to hit on Vanessa only to be shot down every single time. I knew the truth, that during attempt number six following a night of heavy boozing by both of them at a party did they finally hook up. Another love story brought to you by alcohol – lowering inhibition and self-doubt for centuries. I let them tell their version of the story although I’m forced to stifle a laugh every time.

Vanessa and Aaron were getting married next month in Santa Barbara, and though it seemed like years ago, it was only the previous October when Aaron asked me to be the best man. It felt a little strange standing up for the two as I knew so little about Vanessa. I never took the opportunity to get to know her and soon I would have to stand in front of a room filled with people and tell them how perfect and in love the two were. With as little as I knew about her and in a greater way the two as a pair, I felt like I would be lying.

Aaron tugged at Michelle’s sleeve. “Tell our boy here about next week.”

“Next week? Oh, next week, duh! We want to do a dinner thing for my birthday.”

I scratched my neck. “You’re birthday is next week? Wow, it didn’t even cross my mind.”

“It’s okay, you’ve been pre-occupied.”

“So where’s the place going to be?”

“That’s the problem. I wanted to go to Crustacean but we can’t get in, so I’m thinking, I don’t know, maybe Mastro’s?”

Crustacean was a restaurant off little Santa Monica in Beverly Hills that specialized in French colonial era Vietnamese seafood. It was very popular and very exclusive. It was the kind of place you went just to see the other beautiful people who would be dining. It was also the kind of place where the bill could grow out of control if you were not careful.

“Crustacean is cool, but I would stay away from Mastro’s. It’s become too trendy from what I hear. It's jumped the shark.”

“But we can’t get into Crustacean,” Michelle replied. “I’ve tried.”

“We all have tried,” added Aaron. “They are flat out booked up.”

“Who did you talk to?”

“Like a name? I don’t know, just anybody who answered the phone.”

I shook my head while reaching into my pocket for the phone. “You have to know how to play the system, and never take no for an answer.” I paused while the phone rang. When the woman picked up on the other end I tried to sound as polite and soft spoken as I could. “Good evening, may I speak with Rene, please.”

There was a pause and then I was temporarily placed on hold. A moment later a man’s staunch voice filled the speaker. “Good evening, this is Rene.”

“Rene, good to hear your voice. Reed Becker here. It has been a while, how are you? I’ve meant to come in sooner, but I have been away for some time.”

“Mr. Becker, I am so happy to hear your voice.”

“Rene, Mr. Becker is my father. Don’t try to make me feel old.”

“And we are deeply sorry for your loss. Your father and Mrs. Becker came to the restaurant perhaps once, twice a month. He was very well liked here, and we were all in awe of his wine expertise.”

“Thank you Rene, that’s very kind of you to say.” I smiled in silence for a moment, and then tried to change the subject. “And how have you been Rene? How is that marvelous little girl of yours, I think her name was Candace?”

Aaron, Vanessa and Michelle sat back and listened as I worked Rene, though what they thought of as “working the man” was anything but. In truth Rene was a nice, knowledgeable guy with whom I enjoyed talking. That I used his status as beverage manager at Crustacean to get a table...that was different.

“Candace is growing every day. I am amazed by how quickly it passes. I feel as if I’ll turn my head one day and boom! she will be in kindergarten.”

“It does go quickly,” I agreed. “Rene, I don’t mean to impose upon you, and I know you are always overbooked, but I’m hoping you can do a favor for my friends and I.”

“Yes?”

“A good friend of mine is celebrating her birthday and she has always wanted to dine at your restaurant. I wonder how much of an imposition it would be to get a table for next Thursday for...” I paused and mouthed “how many” to the group. Michelle held up 6 fingers.

“...for six people,” I continued. “It doesn’t need to be in any great location, just wherever you can put us. You would be doing me a great favor and I would be in your debt.”

There was a pause on the other side of the phone and I heard the flipping of pages, then: “Can you do an 8:30 reservation time?”

“I can do whatever time is necessary to make things easiest, Rene,” I replied.

“Then 8:30 it is. I shall write you in.”

“You are a life saver, Rene.”

“I know. I look forward to seeing you next Thursday.”

I clicked the phone off. “8:30 next Thursday. Since I got you in I assume I am one of the invited six?”

Michelle sat back in amazement. “Whoa. That was so cool. I mean really.”

“What I tell you, he’s not dead yet,” proclaimed Aaron.

A different waiter came by with a plate of jelly-filled donuts. “Who ordered the jellies?” Vanessa raised her hand and the waiter used his tongs to transfer two donuts from his plate to hers.

“The glazed?” Aaron and I motioned to the guy and he put the plate in front of us.

“Aren’t you getting anything to eat, Michelle?” asked Vanessa in her thick Aussie accent.

“I am, I think I am going to get the pastry-wrapped hoisin duck. You should really try some Vanessa, it’s very good.”

Vanessa cracked a reserved, conservative smile, very proper and polite. “I think I will brave the jelly donuts and coffee tonight, thank you.”

Aaron gave me a quick elbow in the ribs. “Here it comes...” he whispered.

“I don’t know if I should even eat these donuts,” Vanessa continued, “since they are jelly filled and all. I can’t jeopardize being able to fit into my wedding dress this close to the date.”

Aaron gave me a knowing nod. “What did I tell you?”

“My god, it’s so close, you must be totally excited!” exclaimed Michelle. “Is your maid of honor helping you out with the details, there must be so many.”

Vanessa nodded with her head down, as if reminded by Michelle of all the details still unfinished. The two began to talk in earnest about the wedding and Aaron turned his body towards me.

“She totally drives me nuts with the whole ‘I can’t eat this or I can’t eat that because I’ll look fat in the dress’ thing. Come on, look at her. She’s rail thin!”

“What can you do, it’s perception,” I replied. “And totally subjective.”

“Hey man, I’m really glad you came out tonight. And if you feel like we’ve been badgering you with the phone calls and emails then sorry, but we care, dude.” He took a long gulp of coffee.

“I’m just glad Devin’s been able to get Courtney away from the table,” I grinned.

Aaron looked over my shoulder. “You spoke too soon.”

Before I could turn I heard her voice. “These are the yummiest things ever, they’re just so good!” she yelled to nobody and everybody. A few tourists at the table across from us looked up from their dish of oysters with truffled ponzu sauce, their faces wrinkled in anger over having been interrupted. Courtney even bumped their table as she walked by.

“Scoot over hot stuff,” she urged me, “I need to sit down for a moment.”

I instead slid toward her and got up. “Take my seat, I need some air anyway.” As I maneuvered around her I took a bill from my pocket and calmly slid it under my plate without anyone noticing. I excused myself and went to the restroom at the far side of the bar.

While standing in line a guy approached me. “Hey buddy, are you part of that group with the noisy brunette, the sorta oriental-looking one?”

“She’s Hawaiian.”

“Yeah, whatever. She’s a noisy broad.”

“She’s the type that thinks she’s the center of the universe no matter where she goes, and all attention should be squarely focused on her.” I cracked a half grin. “Los Angeles, what are you going to do?”

The guy mumbled something under his breath and walked back in the direction of the bar. When I emerged from the men’s room Vanessa was standing off to the side of the bar. She smiled as I approached.

“I didn’t know such a small and – um – kitschy kind of place could be so popular,” she began.

“It’s not my cup of tea,” I replied. “Don’t get me wrong, I like noisy popular places as much as the next chap, but I never bought in to this fascination with donuts. I mean, despite the line at the door, the music, the atmosphere, and the vibe, at the end you are sitting in a restaurant eating two dollar donuts. That’s not for me.”

“Me either,” she quickly added. “Like I need to be stuffing myself with sugar right now.” She added a quick, nervous laugh.

“Please. Are you fishing for a compliment? You could eat a dozen and not have a thing to worry about.”

She smiled. “You might think so, but it goes straight to the thighs.”

“Who cares, they’ll be hidden by six layers of wedding gown.”

“I care,” she said as a be-all, end-all to the discussion. We stood there in silence. It was the most we had ever said to each other.

“Since this place isn’t your vibe, and it sure isn’t mine, what do you say we get out of here?” I suggested.

She looked alarmed. “You mean leave?”

“You Aussies really pick stuff up fast,” I responded. I nodded in the direction of the group. “They won’t miss us, we’ll only be gone for a little bit.”

I could see from the look on her face she was thinking over my proposal.

“There it is,” I said, pointing towards the door. “All we have to do is walk through.”

“Oh alright,” she said finally.

“The trick is to remain incognito,” I explained, slowly inching towards the entrance, “which is why it really helps that this place has a separate bar entry.” Vanessa followed behind, quietly slinking her way towards the exit.

When we emerged outside she smiled. “That wasn’t so hard,” she announced in her thick accent, adding “I don’t even feel bad about it.”

“Let’s walk,” I suggested. We started down Beverly going toward Fairfax.

“I have a confession to make,” I began, “and I don’t know if you want to hear it. But I feel I should tell you, regardless.”

Vanessa perked up. “That sounds so forbidden. Out with it then, what is it?”

I laughed. “It’s nothing like that.” I bent over to pick up a pebble and tossed it into the bushes. “I am going to play a pretty large part in your wedding a few weeks from now and I know nothing about you.”

She stopped walking as soon as she heard it. “That’s so strange, because I’ve been thinking the same thing. I was even going to say something to Aaron but I thought he’d get defensive about it.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He’s been under a lot of stress – both of us have – with the wedding plans and making arrangements for the out of town guests, but he’s also under a lot of strain because he’s going to start his master’s program in January and then he’ll be looking to change jobs to get into his career. And then there’s the cost of the wedding.”

“I thought his parents were paying for most of it.”

“They are, but there is still a portion we are paying for and it has been a struggle to cover all the loose ends.”

I scratched my head. “Well, he’s doing an ace job of holding it together.”

She smiled. “He is.” We walked twenty or thirty feet in silence. “Have you thought about what you are going to say at the wedding?” she asked.

“No. Sometimes my best thoughts come to me the night before or morning of. It’s a strategy that has worked before so I am sticking with it.”

“Oh,” she replied. We continued to walk in silence.

“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything embarrassing. I’m not the kind of person who looks for a cheap laugh at the expense of the bride and groom. It's your moment in the sun, not mine.” I stopped and pointed to the other side the street. “We should cross here; the sidewalk ends just ahead.” We waited for the light and made our way across.

“He talks about you. Aaron talks about all of his friends, but he talks about you more than the others. You can tell he feels a special bond with you.”

“We’ve known each other a long time. We have gone through a lot,” I responded.

She stopped walking. “Then why is it we’ve never hung out? Why don’t you ever come around? It’s almost like you are avoiding me, it’s like you don’t even want to get to know me as a person, as the woman one of your best friends is going to marry.”

“Yeah, that does sound bad, it does sound like I’m avoiding you. I’m not. I’m respecting your space. I’ll tell you something about me: Girlfriends, fiancées and wives get very nervous around me, and it has nothing to do with my stunning good looks.”

Vanessa laughed nervously.

“Jokes aside, there’s something disturbing about my outlook on relationships. They see that I go from one woman to the next without looking for anything extended. Just get what I’m after and move along, to put it bluntly. Then they fear that my point of view is going to rub off on their man and then it will be back to single life for them. So they usually don’t ask me to join in a group night out on the town and I end up hanging out with my single friends. The funny thing is that my view on relationships is a personal guideline. I don’t go around seeking converts.”

“Oh,” she softly replied.

“So of course I grouped you in with that set of women. I thought that as soon as you saw me out with the crowd and behaving the way I do, you’d want Aaron to have nothing to do with me for fear of losing him.” I shoved my hands into my jacket pocket. “Fear of losing him to the dark side of decadence and debauchery.”

“You never even gave me the chance to make that impression,” she protested.

“It was a forgone conclusion on my part. Am I wrong? If so then I’m sorry, I’ve missed out on somebody who Aaron thinks is wonderful.”

We arrived at another stop light. Vanessa ran a hand through her long golden brown hair, trying to untangle some strands that had been thrown about by the mild evening breeze. I watched her as she pulled at her skirt to straighten out the wrinkles. The girl took great care in her appearance. I’d never once seen her with either too much or too little makeup, or even dressed down for an occasion.

“I should be angry over how you lumped me in with the other women. I take pride in being unlike most women. They are insecure if they think their man is going to up and bolt over something like that. It makes you think those women are the ones with something lacking, you know?

“The truth is I adore Aaron, and encourage him to go out and spend time with his friends, with or without me,” she continued. “I think the notion that a woman is dead weight holding a guy back is moronic. Any guy who thinks that way has allowed his girlfriend to do it to him.”

“I agree.”

“Good! Common ground. The truth is you and I are not so different, Reed. When I was single I cut a large wake and went around with a lot of different people. I sowed my oats.”

I bristled. “I really hate that term. The implication is that you have to get out there and work something out of your system, like there is a behavior to unlearn. That’s so far from what it is, at least for me.”

She nodded. “Okay, I’ll buy that.”

We walked crossed Fairfax and continued walking. “Since you have my undivided attention and we’re going through what lawyers would call ‘the discovery process,’ why don’t you tell me something about yourself. Pretend it’s one of those speed dating places where you only have 60 seconds.”

She raised an eyebrow. “How would you know how those dating places operate? Trouble getting a companion?”

“You wish. And stop stalling...go.”

Vanessa lit up with a smile and radiance meant to draw in the listener. It was as if she were in an interview and this was her moment to sell herself to the employer.

“Okay. I love the outdoors. I love to cook. I take pride in making myself look good but I don’t like frilly girl things like overpriced salon products and shoes.”

“Bullshit,” I interjected. “Every woman loves shoes. It’s a known fact.”

Vanessa laughed. “Okay, I confess,” she began, holding up her hand, “I love shoes. I just don’t feel any need to spend gobs of money on them like those Sex and the City girls. Get real.”

“I can buy that.”

She stuck out her tongue playfully. “I’m not selling. Anyway – I don’t see marriage as a business relationship or the end of a woman maintaining her beauty and weight just because she’s reeled in a man. I don’t play games. I don’t use sex as a weapon against Aaron. I’m usually the one who initiates.”

“I didn’t need to know that,” I responded.

“Now you know. I love my friends and would do anything for them. Just because I am about to get married doesn’t mean I have to play matchmaker for my girlfriends on the assumption my happiness is the correct happiness for everyone to experience. I miss my family but I am glad to be here in California. I hate the people who have relocated to Los Angeles yet do nothing but complain about how nothing here is like how it was at home. If it’s so great then move back, you know? I wish my boobs were a little larger. We’re not talking Pamela Anderson, just something more than the small b-cup I have going on. I don’t like my chin. I wish I could go jogging more often but I am not a morning person and it gets too hot later in the day.”

She paused and removed a piece of lint from her pocket, stopping to take a quick look at what it was before flicking it away into the breeze. I tried to imagine her in a wedding dress, the veil pulled over her face and her hands hidden by flowers. She’d make a beautiful bride. Aaron was a lucky guy.

“I like Aaron’s friends, the ones I have been able to meet at least,” she continued. “Um, what else...my favorite color is crimson red. I have no idea what the fascination is with American football. I want children, but no more than two. Aaron might want three, but we are still working that out. Most of all, I’m tired of hearing whispers behind my back that I am too thin or I’m starving myself. I don’t. Sometimes I eat like a pig. I just have this rail-thin body and that is that. Some people have it, some don’t. Get over it.”

She turned to look at me. “How was that? Did it provide you with some good insight?”

I smiled. “That’s a lot to sift through.” I paused. “B-cup, huh?”

Vanessa grabbed my arm and pushed playfully. “Sheesh. You men are all the same.”

“Hey, don’t group me in with the heathen. Mine is a special kind of stink,” I joked.

“So a serious question for you – actually, two: Why are you single? You seem level-headed and outgoing, which somehow in California are elusive qualities few of the beautiful people have. As one of the beautiful people with that advantage you should have women throwing themselves at you, no?”

“If I were attached, women wouldn’t be throwing themselves at me. Besides, you said you weren’t a matchmaker.”

“No matchmaking here, promise. I was just curious is all.”

A trio of cars whisked by us, the lead car honking as guys hanging out the window yelled “hey mama!” and “oh baby!” towards Vanessa as they flew by. She mumbled something under her breath and shook her head.

“I mentioned earlier about how I don’t go looking for a relationship,” I started. “I am not one of those people who feel they are defined by whom they are attached to or how long they last in relationships.” I folded my hand into a hitchhiker’s thumb and pointed in the opposite direction to indicate we should turn around. Vanessa nodded and spun around. “I define dating as two people maximizing pleasurable time together with no obligation necessary. You get what you want out of the person, be it time well spent, good conversation, some laughs...”

“Sex,” she interrupted.

“Sex is an eventuality, it’s part of our chemical makeup and you can’t deny that, no matter how much you try to preserve your sense of morality or some perception that you are or are not a ‘slut’ according to the popular standard. So yes, sex. I just have a good way of sniffing it out so that it happens sooner than later. Over time you come to expect it’s going to happen right away.”

“Uh huh,” she responded skeptically.

“Okay, maybe I do a few things to help push the process along. You said it yourself, I’m one of the beautiful people.”

“Fair enough.”

“Besides, I am sort of seeing somebody currently.”

Vanessa nodded knowingly. “Ah yes, the mysterious Canadian woman Aaron told me about.”

I laughed. “Not mysterious. I don’t even know what she is. She’s nearly three thousand miles away. She has her own life and ambitions, I have my own. We spend hours on end trying to convince each other that we should be dating other people – people who are in our own geographic area. We keep trying come up with reasons why there’s nothing worthwhile for us to pursue.”

“Long distance relationships are trying. Believe me, I know. There was a period of four months where I had to go back home to Perth and it was unbearable, not to mention the phone bill between there and the States. Have you ever thought that your inability to come up with a good reason why it can’t continue means there’s something there after all?”

“Well thank you captain obvious,” I mocked.

“Yes, but I am being serious. Lots of people can’t see the obvious right in front of them.”

“I am not one of those people.”

“Okay, next question, I told you I had two. I know what happened to your father and how you went overseas to bury him during the summer and I'm sorry to hear that. Everybody said that since you have come back you’ve been a different person – more negative, more withdrawn, and any helping hand extended your way you’ve slapped down. Why? We’re walking and talking now and you don’t seem anything like that. So why forsake your friends?”

That question stung. I stopped walking and pulled the zipper higher on my jacket like I wasn’t going to let anything in. That was the problem; that was entirely the problem. That was why July, August and September were essentially lost months. I had become a miserable, dormant person and had shut out everything and everybody – my family, my friends, and everybody else along the way. ‘No man is an island’ said John Donne, though I had tried in vain to prove the 17th century poet wrong. During a quiet evening one night after I had returned to Los Angeles, my mother told me that a strong base of friends is something nobody should ever let go to waste, be it in times of joy or times of sorrow.

“They won’t always be there,” I remembered her saying, her perpetual smile lighting up her face, “and the time will come one day where your friends will feel you are no longer worth the effort. Especially if it goes unrequited. They are the cushion for when you fall in ways your family can never be. Value the friendships you have and keep those bonds strong before it’s too late. And irreversible.”

A beat passed before I responded, as my mother's words still echoed in my head.

“I am slowly coming around and emerging from my shell. But the truth is they are right, I have been a real asshole. For months I walked around in a zombie state where I didn’t notice what land I was in or what day it was.” I stared giggling uncontrollably. “Did you know that when I was in Europe, I traveled from Dundee in Scotland, to London, and wasn't even aware of it? I was in a cloud. I remember being in Germany days after having left London and asking Carolyn – she's the ‘mysterious Canadian’ you referenced earlier – when we were going to London. It made her cry. She just held me close and wept. That’s how out of touch I was.” I paused. “You’re the first person I have mentioned that to.”

“Wow,” was all Vanessa could say.

“I didn’t do things for myself. I didn’t reconcile the reality, and the reality was that things were no longer going to be like they were when my father was around. It was time to grow up and time to get serious about life. It was time to re-plot a course for the future and follow that path. I spent an entire summer listening to people tell me how I should be instead of deciding for myself. Oh, I know they all meant well but that isn’t the point. I sat on the sidelines waiting for things to happen when I needed to make them happen myself. I only came to this conclusion recently. Now I am slowly putting things in order and trying to take charge. But it’s not going to happen overnight. It’s not a flip-of-the-switch process.” I tapped at my temple with a forefinger. “Now I know. And I’m fine with that.

“And I will embrace my friends,” I continued. “I realize the error of my ways, to answer your original question. It’s a journey, it’s all a journey. One big fucking journey. Maybe I won’t be as confident going about it as I was in the past. Maybe any grace I have will falter, and maybe I’ll take a step backward or slip along the way. I’ll break more eggs trying to make my omelet, that’s for sure, but it will get done. And once it is, watch out!”

Vanessa smiled warmly. “Now you’re going to make me cry.” She reached into her pocket for a tissue. “Dammit, no Kleenex. I left my purse in the restaurant.” She quickly wiped the edges of her eyes so as to not smear her mascara.

“This was a good idea, I’m glad we had this private moment to get to know each other.” I leaned in toward her. “I know now Aaron couldn’t have made a better choice in a wife. You two are going to be very happy. And I will be honored to share in your wedding day.”

She fanned at her eyes frantically with her hands. “Would you shut up! Now you are really going to make me cry!” she exclaimed, half laughing.

We were half way back when my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“What the fuck? Where did you disappear to?” It was Aaron. “And do you know what happened to Vanessa?”

I shook my watch free of my jacket sleeve and looked at the time. We’d been gone just over thirty minutes.

“She’s with me Aaron, we’re taking a walk down Beverly Boulevard.”

“What for? Wait, you’re not trying to skip out on the bill, are you?”

“Please, that’s bad form. Besides, Vanessa left her purse in the booth. Hey, check under my plate, the one with the barely-touched glazed donut covered in huckleberry jam.”

There was silence on his end and I heard utensils clang together as he lifted the plate.

“Fifty bucks, huh?”

“That should cover a chunk of the bill. Give us about fifteen minutes and we should be there.”

“What are you guys doing, anyway?” asked Aaron. He sounded puzzled and a little fearful.

“I have whisked away your fiancee into the night. Her radiant beauty is more than you deserve and I must have her for my own." I held my hand over the mouthpiece and made a face at Vanessa. She returned in kind with a funny face of her own.

I removed my hand from the mouthpiece. "Relax Aaron, let’s just say I was interviewing Vanessa for the job of your wife.”

“How’d she fare?”

I looked at Vanessa and smiled as I replied. “Passed with flying colors, buddy. We’ll see you in a few.” I clicked off and slid the phone back into my pocket.

I pointed at a row of apartments lining the corner of the Stanley Avenue and Beverly Boulevard intersection. “Has Aaron ever told you about the time, while at a party at those apartments over there, when he managed to outmaneuver me for the attention of some pretty little thing, about how he managed to outsmooth this smoothie?”

She shook her head, laughing. “Oh really? Mister politics and current events? You’ll have to share that one with me.” We crossed the street and continued moving in the direction of the restaurant. “I think I’m going to like having you as a friend of the family.”
__________________________________________________________________________________

When we arrived back at the restaurant we found the group seated at the booth and broken off into pocketed segments. At the far corner of the booth, Michelle was listening to Courtney as she waved around her arms describing what was undoubtedly some fantastic high point in one of her recent nights out. Michelle took quick, short sips of her cosmo and tried her best to keep up with the rapidp-fire pace of Courtney’s storytelling. Closer to us, Devin was showing Aaron some pictures stored in his camera phone as Aaron, while was watching and pointing to certain details of the photos, went on excitedly about something, likely politics or economics.

“How else do you explain trickle-down economics?” I heard Aaron ask as we came within earshot of the table. “They practically say in the name that they are pissing on you. They essentially say ‘as we frivolously piss away the vast amounts of money we have, anything that lands on you, the little people, you are free to have.’ Honestly, who is going to buy into that concept? So you have to tweak it a little, like Ron Reagan did, and sell the optimism behind it and the possibility of you becoming one of the fat cats if you work hard, invest, and spend wisely. You can be one of the people pissing instead of the pissed upon.”

“Whatever man, I just think Greenspan’s a fucking genius,” replied Devin. I laughed. Devin was talking about the economy. Devin knew nothing about economy beyond what was in his bank account. The guy didn’t even vote. I shook my head in disbelief.

Aaron looked up from his diatribe. “Hey, you guys made it back.” A waiter slid between the booth and us, deftly depositing a check on the table. “And just in time to help pay the check,” Aaron added, waving at the bill resting in its tray.

Vanessa moved around Devin and sat down next to Aaron, grinning. “What?” he said.

“Oh, nothing,” Vanessa responded. I knew she was thinking about Aaron and any pickup moves he might of tried at the party I mentioned earlier.

Standing there, I looked over the group one by one, and remembered what my mother had said. Then I thought back to the Jody Watley song that played in my car earlier as Courtney bopped around in her seat trying to sing along. Friends will let you down, friends won’t be around.

Devin noticed me standing there, smiling. “What’s up with you?” he asked.

“Nothing, I’m just taking this all in. Hey, give me your camera phone for a moment.”

“Why, what gives?”

“I want to get a picture of all of us, this moment, right now. I want to remember this just as we are.”

Devin slid his Motorola across the table. I palmed it and approached the table across from us where the harajuku girls were seated.

“You must all be good with cell phones. Would one of you mind taking a picture of my friends and me?”

The entire table covered their mouths politely and giggled softly. Finally one stood up – a girl outfitted in powder blue with a matching electric blue wig. Earlier I had noticed her sizing up Devin. I handed her the phone and pointed out the button to push.

Everybody moved in closely and I slid in on the far side, wrapping an arm around Michelle. She had tried so hard to get through to me during the past few months – much more so than the others – and withstood every roadblock I used on her. I smiled at her and she leaned in and kissed me quickly on the cheek.

As the harajuku girl motioned for us to move closer together and smile, I decided Ms. Watley had it wrong all along. Friends will be around. When you need them most, there are your friends.

The Goodfella

2005-11-09T23:07:00.000-05:00

The health club experience where you live is nothing like the cult of personality we call Southern California gym life. The atmosphere is one-of-a-kind, its people a subculture all their own. It has its own style of dress. That’s right – sweating and getting messy involves a particular dress. Proper grooming is also required. Health clubs aren’t about dropping pounds as much as they are about being seen. Friendships are made, relationships are formed, and fuck buddies are introduced at SoCal clubs like it was an ordinary nightclub. I have seen it and have been party to it. If health clubs were any closer to meat markets, the people scanning gym IDs at the door would hand out cleavers and hooks on your way in.

I decided I would spend the rest of the morning giving my midsection a workout and doing some cardio work. In past months I’d fallen badly off the wagon and had stopped working out altogether during the two months I spent in Europe. It showed too, as the area around my abs had grown flabby, and the cut look across my torso in which I took such pride was quickly disappearing. Damn drinking – I remembered a magazine ad that read “there’s no such thing as Scotch guy.” My body was proving otherwise.

For having the reputation as a hardworking up-and-at-em community, most of West L.A shuffles off to the local gym at around 11AM daily. I was reminded of this phenomenon as I drove past an L.A Fitness lot on Santa Monica Boulevard and an overfilled parking structure - with a “full lot” sign staked visibly at the entrance, to boot - at Gold’s Gym in Beverly Hills. By the time I pulled into the local Ballys health club, I was teetering dangerously close to running into the extended lunchtime crowd that comes in for midday workouts.

Just past the entrance to the lot an attendant waved his hands about to flag me down. A valet is an inevitability at Southern California gyms. There is an easy way to calculate the number of valets a gym carries on staff: The closer the gym is located to Beverly Hills, the greater the amount.

I rolled down my window. “Hello, we are parking cars today on Barrington,” the Valet says. Barrington was the street two blocks over.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked.

The valet shrugged. “Today must be a good day to work out, I guess,” he responded in a tone to suggest “I really don’t care either way but I have to make nice with the customer.”

I got out and flipped him the keys before reaching into the back seatfor my bag. I barely had the bag out before he shut the door and sped away. “Nice car,” I heard him spit out just as the door closed.

The inside was a carbon copy of what I’d seen outside, with every machine in use, every mat taken, every Swiss ball between somebody's legs. I surveyed the floor from the men’s locker room entrance and let out a sigh. If you carved through the place and removed the people who were here for the eye candy and not serious about giving their body a proper workout, half the crowd would disappear. It’s amazing how many people shell out fifty dollars a month for such a frivolous reason.

Inside the locker room I unzipped my bag, pulled out the towel and my iPod, and threw the bag inside an empty locker, slamming the door shut.

The guy next to me who had just finished his work out leaned back from his opened door.

“Hey, take it easy buddy. Save the gym rage for out there.”

“That’s if I can get on a machine,” I replied.

The guy grinned. “I love days like this when everything is in use. What I do, see, is find the hottest chick in the place using a Nautilus machine and ask her if she wants to trade sets. That way I’m exercising, she's exercising, and you're checking each other out so eventually you start talking. Makes for a great workout and who knows, maybe more.”

I laughed to myself. A meat market indeed. The sad thing? His method works. I have seen him and a dozen other men execute it to perfection. It’s hard to lay blame; every woman who comes through those glass entry doors knows exactly what to expect of the men here. And sticking it out is almost like condoning the behavior.

I wished the guy good luck with his strategy and went out to the exercise floor. What I really wanted was to sit on an exercise bike for about half an hour but they were all in use. A nonchalant walk behind the back row of bikes revealed every rider had at least twenty minutes to go, so getting in any quality time was ruled out. After warming up and following up with reverse crunches on the crowded practice mat it was high time to hit the cage for butterfly curls.
I approached the cage and saw a line. A fucking line! To do curls! This was even worse than the commute to the cemetery. I had enough. I cut my visit short and went home. There was even a line to wait in for the valet to bring the cars around.
___________________________________________________________________

As it had done the previous four days, my cell phone rang at just after two in the afternoon. Which one of them would it be this time, I wondered. A quick glance of the call ID revealed today's caller: Aaron.

“Are you the one they’ve sent for me today, Aaron?” I answered.

“Funny, to the last. I see you are in high spirits.”

“I’m in my prime,” I responded dryly.

“Great to hear it. I’m checking up on whether or not you are going to make Grace’s tonight. I’m sure Devin filled you in on the details yesterday, hmm?”

I hated being talked to like an infant, even more so by friends.

“I’ve given the matter due diligence,” I deadpanned, “and must respond in the negative. Sorry.”
I waited silently for Aaron to respond, to fire back with something angry, or spiteful.

“Sorry to hear that,” he said with a cool, disaffected tone. “Vanessa was looking forward to seeing you. You know with it being a month away from the wedding it will be hard to get an uninterrupted chunk of free time with the bride, especially when she is going out of her mind coordinating details, guest lists, party favors, and family coming from out of town.”

“The guilt trip isn’t going to work today, Aaron.”

“I just hope this isn’t how you’re going to be when the wedding day arrives. I need an outgoing upbeat friend as best man, not a shrinking violet. Which are you going to be?”

“Time will reveal all,” I cryptically answered, and hung up.

“Another call from your friends?” my mother asked as she entered the room carrying a platter with two glasses of ice tea. She offered me one and I waved her off.

“Yeah. I wish they would really leave me alone. I am getting sick of the daily check up call.”

“Careful,” she cautioned, “the day will come when the phone calls stop and you’ll wonder why no one calls you any longer.” She held up her glass in a ‘cheers’ fashion and took a sip. “You know,” she continued, “there is someone here who needs some checking up on, some attention.” She motioned to Sophia, laid out on her day bed at an angle, her head hanging off the edge. “She looks like she could use some quality time with her best friend. It’s no complaint of mine if you choose to blow off your friends, but don’t do the same to her. The girl doesn’t deserve it.”

I stood up and walked over to where Sophia was laying. She raised her head from the edge of her bed as I approached, her tail curling into its familiar curly-queue and bouncing.

“So, what do you think, girl? Want to spend some quality time – well, time, considering I have no life?”

She raised her head a little higher and I knelt down to meet her half way. I got a wet lick on the cheek in response. The comforting thing about owning a dog is they don’t throw curve balls your way. Nothing is a surprise. Feed your dog, walk your dog, and throw some attention its way and you will have one happy pet. There are no mood swings or temper tantrums with which to deal. In some ways I prefer my ugly dog to some people.

Outside she was eager to do some exploring and pulled at her leash more than she usually does. I could see the focus of her attention, the man on the other side of the street pulling weeds and dead flowers from his garden. He was wearing what I’d come to term “retiree lounge wear”: A pastel Bermuda-style shirt about one size too large, Dockers shorts with an abundance of room in the seat, and white cotton athletic socks pulled high enough to test the limits of its elastic band. Today he was wearing a fisherman’s hat complete with dangling lures, and it was enough to make him appear different to the dog, and thus a threat. As soon as we were clear of the yard she made a bolt for the street in his direction.

“Sophia, heel!” I commanded. She started yipping and getting worked up. The guy heard the dog’s noises and turned to see the cause of the commotion.

“Hi there,” he beckoned, “your dog is sure excited about something.”

Sophia continued her pulling until we were on his side of the street and on the sidewalk. She parked herself squarely in front of the man and began growling a low growl.

“Cut it out,” I told her, giving a yank on her collar to reinforce the command.

“Sorry, I think she feels the hat makes you a little too sinister,” I responded to the man.

He laughed and took off his gardening gloves. Sophia resumed growling and I pulled harder on the choke chain to rein her in.

“Sinister, huh? Can’t really blame the dog, just doing it’s job of protecting you.” Once he had the gloves off he changed topics. “You’re awfully young to be around here, are you visiting?”

“No, I am on a bit of an extended stay.” I freed a hand and held it out. “I’m the Becker's kid. I am staying with my mother for a while.” Who was I kidding, with the way my motivation had left me completely the thought of being there for the rest of my days crossed my mind regularly.

The man shook my hand firmly, tightly gripping my forefinger and pinky at the sides. “Yeah, right. Hey, I am deeply sorry about your father. It came as a shock to all of us. We might be a bunch of fat cats, but we are a tightly-knit community of fat cats.”

I silently waited for the he looked so young comment which I had heard from a lot of my mother’s friends who had stopped by the house recently.

“Your father and I played golf as part of a foursome. We were pretty good.” He laughed, dwelling on the thought for a moment. “Such a shame,” he added with a shake of his head, “the guy took good care of himself. He looked so young.”

I nodded.

“Anyway, I’m glad to meet you. I’m Paul, Paul-”

“I know who you are Mr. Sorvino,” I interrupted, “I really enjoyed your work in Goodfellas, and I was particularly impressed with the job you did as the smacked-up singer in The Cooler. Oh! And Nixon. Very cool Mr. Kissinger.”

He smiled. “Thanks. Thanks a lot. That’s very kind of you. So are you helping out your mother?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Good. Good man. She’s proud of you,” he said, pointing at my chest.

“Hope so. The whole thing has been a life-altering ordeal, in ways I can’t even say. Actually, in ways I’m not going to waste your time boring you with.” I nodded my neck towards Sophia. “I’m going to keep her moving along so she doesn’t get any more ideas that my safety is in jeopardy.”

“Fine, fine. I need to get back to this mess I call a garden anyway.” He reached in back of him and brought up an unlit cigar to his mouth. He chewed on the end a bit before putting it in his mouth.

“You know those are much better if you light them,” I joked.

He shook his head. “Can’t do that anymore. Asthma. It’s too much of a risk. Hey, do you play golf? Your father has left us down a person and why not keep it in the family, you know?”

The truth was I was a terrible golfer, mostly because I never had any patience with the sport. It was just as George Carlin said, a waste of real estate and a numbing game of hitting a ball, walking after it, and hitting it again. With Scotland being the birthplace of golf, my father always shook his head in disbelief over my inability to play the game. I would be the laughing stock of any team put together for pleasure or competition.

But I didn’t reveal this to Paul Sorvino, the actor, standing in his pale khaki Dockers shorts and white athletic tube socks with an unlit cigar with one chewed end hanging from his mouth.

“Sure, why not?” I replied.

“Great! You’ll have to give us some time to put another round together. It is becoming harder and harder to get the group together, and now is the time of year people around here start traveling or taking visits to see their children and grandchildren. But I will bring it up the next time I talk to the guys. And you’ll really like them too, which I know might seem far-fetched given your age and our age, but once you get to know them I think you’ll find…”

Somewhere in the middle of Mr. Sorvino’s diatribe I lost focus and my mind wandered. Maybe I lost interest. Maybe I couldn’t shake the sound of Ray Liotta’s narration from “Goodfellas” running through my mind as Mr. Sorvino talked.

At some point during my mental drift he realized I wasn’t listening any longer. I must have had some glazed and dopey look on my face because he stopped mid-thought. “You alright?” he asked.

I blinked and refocused. “What? Oh, yeah, fine.”

“I thought I lost you there for a moment.”

“Honestly, I had Ray Liotta’s “Goodfellas” narration running through my mind as you were talking. I must have thought this was a real Hollywood moment.” I smiled. As far back as I can remember I always wanted to be a gangster.

“Heh,” he added with some uncertainty, a partial smile showing from the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t the kind a person cracks when they are laughing with you; it was more along the lines of is this guy okay or is he a crackpot? kind of smile.

He gave me a wave and turned his attention back to his yard as I left with Sophia, heading further up the street. When we reached the corner I turned and walked down another corridor of homes with the dog locked in step by my side. This neighborhood, besides being swanky, was quite nice because most of the homes were unique. Far too much of Los Angeles was silently being torn down and replaced with homogenized carbon copies of the same thing a street over. The city was losing a part of its history and a larger chunk of its identity. It seemed that only behind the walls of private communities, country clubs, and historic districts - where all the demolition being done in the name of progress could be stopped - the real history, identity, and diversity of housing was preserved. I stopped in front of one home, a colonial style charmer that was likely built in the 1940s. Homes like this were far too rare for Southern California and it was a shame, but in the country club homes like this were common place.

By the time I returned home with the dog it was almost four and the sun was just beginning its decent behind the Santa Monica foothills in the distance. We walked through the door just as my cell phone began ringing. Sophia barked.

“Yeah, I know, I wish they’d stop calling too. It’s overkill.” For a moment I hoped it was Deirdre, looking to reestablish the control and fear she she had exercised for so long. I was eager to rip into her again in the hope it would drive her away for once and for all, but when I looked at the call ID I frowned. It read ‘Devin.’

I hit the connect button: “Hey Devin.”

“So I heard you turned us down again when Aaron called. That’s fine, it was expected. You’ve forced us to go to plan B.”

“What’s plan B?” I asked.

He spoke sternly: “I’m sending Lupo, should be there in about half an hour. Don’t fight it, just get dressed and make sure security at the gate knows it’s cool. You brought this upon yourself.” He hung up.

Crap.

The Ties That Bind You Will Unwind to Free You One Day

2005-11-06T18:00:00.000-05:00

"The truth is that monsters are real and ghosts are real, too. They live inside us, and sometimes they win."

- Stephen King

It had been two days of off-and-on icing for my fist, still swollen and reddened from punching the projectile gossiper at the country club gala. I felt bad about the commotion I had caused. There were witness reports to fill out, people to calm down, and a general feeling that I had in fact detracted enough from the party, something I originally wanted to avoid by taking the guy outside. The man turned out to be an uninvited guest looking for some dirt to drum up. For what cause I’m not quite sure; neither my family nor I are interesting or important enough to warrant it.

Like clockwork, my cell phone rang at just after 2pm, as it had done the previous four days. My friends were still determined to get me out of the house as a cure for my ills. So far I’d been able to turn away all of their advances, but it did nothing to lessen their determination.

I looked at the caller ID: Devin. Great, I thought, it’s like a daily wake-up call.

I hit the answer key and let out a heavy breath. “Hello?”

“Okay, before you hang up like you’ve done all the other times, just know we’ve got something good tomorrow night, something worthwhile.” Devin sounded excited.

“Yeah?” I tried to sound as unimpressed as possible. I flipped the ice pack over and applied the coldest part across my knuckle.

“You, me, Michelle, Aaron, maybe his soon-to-be wife Vanessa. Ready? Ready for it? Grace’s. Huh, huh?” Devin was very pleased with himself.

Mentioning Aaron gave me pause. He was marrying Vanessa little more than a month from now and he had asked me almost a year ago to be his best man. I hadn’t thought much about it since the morning he brought it up over breakfast at John O’Groats, but the day was creeping ever closer. The thought of standing in front of a hall filled with people bearing ear-to-ear smiles as I delivered some kind of toast, some congratulatory blessing to commemorate their foray into marriage, gave me the shivers not because of anything I had against marriage – I didn’t – but because it would be the first time speaking to a full room of people since delivering my father’s eulogy.

Devin shook me back to the present. “C’mon, what do you think of that? Are you going to decline Grace’s?”

“Grace’s? What for?” I waited a beat. “Hold on, is tomorrow Wednesday?” I pulled the phone away from my ear and checked the readout on the touchscreen. Sure enough, Wednesday.

“Gawd,” I said, returning the phone to my ear, “how can someone get so fired up over donut night at Grace’s restaurant?”

“Hey, the stuff is better than Krispy Kreme and one-half the calories. It’s like powdered opium.”

“It’s a campy tradition that has managed to survive because of people like you,” I responded.

“It’s not about the cuisine, it’s about friends hanging out. I will even offer to buy.”

“You, the barely scraping by actor?” I asked. “I thought the people who do the Burger King commercials dropped you.”

“They did, they revamped their whole campaign. Doesn’t matter, I have a new gig. Look, I’ll tell you when we are at Grace’s. This way you have to go.”

“Sorry, no dice.” I flipped the ice pack over again and applied it to a different reddened section of my hand. “Besides, I don’t have to go in order to get the story. You are terrible at holding back information about yourself. Your sense of shameless self-promotion knows no bounds.”

Devin was silent on the other side for a moment. Then: “You can’t see it from you end but I’m flipping you off through the phone.”

“Ooh, actor IQ. I like it.”

“Whatever. You in or out?”

“I am most decidedly out,” I replied. “I’m nursing a swollen hand, I wouldn’t be able to lift a cup of joe anyhow.”

“Excuses, excuses,” he responded.

“Well this was fun, it’s been what – four days now? I eagerly look forward to tomorrow’s exchange.” I went to hit the disconnect button and as I did I heard Devin start to say “if you don’t wise up there are other things we will do!”
___________________________________________________________________

The note from my uncle said he wanted to meet at 4 this afternoon for tea at the clubhouse. He’d been in town for a while and my mother had given my aunt and him guest passes to the club so they could come and go as they chose. I knew they wouldn’t be staying in town much longer – my aunt and uncle split their time between Manhattan Beach and Hawaii, where they lived six months and one day in order to capitalize on the state’s income tax loopholes – so it wouldn’t be wise to duck out on the inviation. I saddled up my parents’ golf cart and sped off towards the clubhouse a few streets over.

Parking a golf cart in front of a clubhouse at just before 4 in the afternoon on a weekday when nobody works anyhow is quite the daunting task. Most of the time all spots are taken and you are stuck trying to create a spot for yourself someplace where the cart interferes with people's ability to get by, or you have to attempt the end all of squeeze jobs as you try to carefully navigate the teeny tiny space left for you between two carts parked by people who don’t know how to park a cart or don’t care. As I eyed the row of carts, all customized to look like BMWs, Mercedes Benz sedans, Cadillacs, and even Hummers, I spotted the one remaining spot on the end. I floored the cart and made for the parking space, but hit the breaks when I realized it was beside a hydrant. I guess the same rules apply here. I stopped the cart, crossed my arms over the top of the steering wheel, and lowered my head to my arms.

“Hey, are you looking for a spot?” The man appeared from nowhere. I didn’t even hear his approach. He waved a “hey there” wave as he stepped to the cart’s side.

“We’re leaving right now if you’d like our spot.”

“That’s awfully kind of you,” I responded and tipped my ballcap towards him to punctuate the gratitude.

“I haven’t seen you around here,” the man responded. “Don’t tell me people are retiring at your age now!” He laughed a wheezy laugh and then ran his hand over his thin, silvery mustache.

“Sadly, no. I’m Reed. Reed Becker, the son of –“

“Oh, yes yes, Becker, that’s right!” he interrupted. “Very sorry about your father, dear boy, very sorry. Your mother is in good hands?” he asked.

I hated questions like this, where the person asking wanted to know if I was being the good son and helping her get through the rough period of afterglow. The truth was my mother was holding things together better than I had been able to. Help her? Who was going to help me?

“Very much so,” I lied. “We do what we can.”

“Well you tell her that Bob and Eunice from Evergreen Street send warm wishes. She’ll know who we are.”

I smiled in response. “Will do. A pleasure to meet you.”

The wife spoke up. “I hope we will be seeing more of you. A healthy young man like yourself should get out more and be active. Golf, play tennis.”

Drink, chase skirts, fuck, I said to myself, finishing the thought.

“Perhaps I will,” I said. I didn’t want to tell them I couldn’t play golf worth a lick. The two got into a cart outfitted to look like an old 60s-era Ford Mustang, and backed away, waving again as they drove off.

Inside my aunt and uncle were already seated and awaiting me.

“Sorry, there was a parking situation,” I explained as I took a seat and removed my cap.

My aunt leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “I don’t know about this beard you have, Reed. Your uncle has had one for over 20 years against my protests.”

“You have protests? I suppose I would have to listen to you to have heard that,” he responded, laughing. My aunt feigned a hurt look and my uncle relented. “Just a cheap joke at your expense, my dear,” he said, leaning to put his arm around her shoulder. “I’m trying to get the youngster here with the ultra-serious look on his face all the time to crack a smile.” I didn’t.

My uncle removed his arm from around my aunt, leaned back in his chair, and sighed. “It was worth a shot.”

A waitress came around to serve us tea. I’d seen her a few times before: A tall, waifish, thirty-something single mother named Colleen. Very leggy. Pretty, in a handsome put-together-well way, but not an outright beauty. Definitely too pretty to be working in a retirement community like this, though when I though it out, being a single mother waitress at a place where you were out by 8pm, special events the exception, didn’t seem like a bad deal.

She made her way around to my side of the table and smiled as she poured my cup. “Hi Reed, how is your mother?” For the first time I got a good look at her eyes. Green and very shiny, even in the low light of the room.

“She’s good, thanks. How are things with you?” I didn’t know a thing about her. I made small talk as best I could.

“No complaints. Not yet anyway. Are you going to give me trouble, buster?” she mocked. “I heard about your fisticuffs at the gala, Sugar Ray.”

I rolled my eyes. “Please. It was one swing, and the guy fully deserved it. Ask around.”

She flashed a quick smile again, this one more flirtatious. “I always had you pegged as a lover, not a fighter.” She finished pouring, placed what was left of the kettle in the center of the table, and left. I rolled my eyes towards my uncle, who was brimming at the rim, ready to explode.

I held a hand up. “Don’t.” She’s just an easy going woman. Besides, I’m the only one around here within 10 years of her age.”

“I wasn’t aware today’s women made themselves so obvious,” my aunt replied.

“Don’t you know, everyone is busy these days, you can no longer skirt around things anymore,” my uncle responded, then adding: “Maybe you and her can do things around her skirt, eh?” He slapped his knee and laughed.

“Always funny,” I grunted. I gazed across the room to where Colleen was and saw her looking at us, but when she noticed me watching her she didn’t dart her eyes away like most women would. She held my gaze for a moment and then smiled before turning her attention back to the table in front of her.

“Your mother asked us to talk to you because she is concerned about you,” my uncle said.

“She what?” I asked, turning my attention back to our table.

“Asked us to sit down and talk to you about things, about you and your father,” he repeated.

“Oh. I see.”

“Your mother is concerned. She told us you don’t go out unless it’s the once a week trip to the local market, or to walk your dog. I remember a different man, a friendly, active, social butterfly.”

I bristled at the description. “That’s such a horrible phrase – social butterfly – it sounds like you’re some brainless moron all aflutter, gravitating from one party to the next.”

“Be that as it may, you have undergone a change for the worse and she is concerned,” he responded.

“We are all concerned,” my aunt reiterated.

“That’s right, and I want you to know first and foremost that it is okay to feel this way. I am not over the whole thing myself. The loss of one so close is nearly unbearable. But the one thing you can not let it do is overtake your life. You cannot allow it to consume you to the point that it becomes your identity.”

I took a sip of the tepid tea and said nothing. The clubhouse kitchen staff had stopped serving tea at its customary temperature after receiving numerous complaints about it burning the roofs of mouths. Senior citizen skin is thin.

“You are a nice young man,” my aunt interjected, trying to sound less ominous than her husband, “and you are charming and talented. People take to you well. It would be a shame to throw those things away and have a perpetual stormy sky following you around.”

“Here here,” my uncle agreed, tapping his Dundee-style walking stick firmly on the carpet. “Part of the grieving process is putting feelings, memories, and unresolved emotions behind you so you can move forward. You need to get on that highway out of yesterday and start moving toward tomorrow. Your future should not be about things in the past you were unable to change.” My uncle nodded in agreement with himself and my aunt did likewise.

“If somebody asked me to instantly recall one memory of you that summed everything up, I would go with the graduation party your parents held for you when you completed college. Do you remember it? I recall you moving about the room, talking with everybody – both your parents’ friends and your own – and the ease with which you did it. I remember the grace and the confidence that flowed from you. In fact I turned to your aunt and commented about your ability to work a room, and how that is something many go an entire lifetime without mastering.”

“He’s right,” my aunt agreed, patting my uncle’s hand with hers.

“And now to see you like this, withdrawn from society and not giving a lick about how you look or who sees you like this, well it breaks my heart.”

I took another sip.

“You might think that one day you will wake up and everything will be all right, everything will be back to normal. It won’t. How things were back there,” he paused and waved a hand behind him, “they’ll never be that way again. Only the best of us can roll with the changes and move on and make a new reality for ourselves. It’s the human function, boy. Otherwise we would have given out thousands of years ago. Something you need to realize is the one thing that separates us from the rest of God’s creatures isn’t our ability to rationalize and choose, or show compassion, or criticize, or build great things or even put people in space; it’s how we respond to and emerge from the worst of life that’s thrown at us.”

My uncle paused and rubbed his eyes a little. This discussion was stirring up some emotions that were hard to keep at bay. He took a few quick sips of his tea and blotted at the sides of his mouth with a napkin before returning the cup softly to its saucer. Of all the things Scotsmen were, they were proper and traditional. Both my father and my uncle were sterling examples in this regard.

“The worst thing a man can chase is a memory, and believe me I know. It beckons on the horizon like a flickering light dancing in the distance, and every time you feel your pursuit is bringing you closer it skirts away again, opening the distance between. Its flicker becomes something you feel you must have and you search in vain as time steals away a day at a time. But still you don’t relent, and you keep at it until one day you’ve become all about the pursuit and can’t even remember the memory itself.”

He took another sip and my aunt, seeing his cup was empty, refilled it before pouring herself another cup. My uncle leaned forward and tapped my chest.

“The memories you have – both the good and the bad – are the very things you should keep. Keep them alive inside you. But don’t let them become you. Don’t let them win. People say ghosts exist but nay, they are wrong. They are alive as memories in every one of us. They are a part of you, but you cannot let them win out and become you.”

I remained silent, with my head down, my hands shaking a little. My aunt fished around in her purse and placed a small packet of tissues in front of me. It was the first time I had shed any tears over my father. I had tried so hard not to in the hospital, and when he came home, and at his funeral, and when I buried him in Scotland. It was all part of being a proper Scottish man – and I had learned from the best.

I wiped the corners of my eyes with a tissue and then again with a fresh supply. My aunt put her hand gingerly around the back of my neck.

When I finished wiping the tears and regained some composure I met their gaze. “So what am I supposed to do? How do I move on?”

“You fake it a little, and put up a bit of a wall so you don’t seem like an outward emotional catastrophe. More importantly you look to your friends for support. I am sure you have many to choose from and I bet they want to help. Don’t refuse that offer. And lastly, get your closure.”

“But I had my closure,” I objected, “My mother discussed the whole issue with me.”

“Maybe you had it in the traditional sense,” my uncle responded. “Maybe he had his chance to say everything he needed to say to you. Maybe what you missed out on was being able to say everything you needed to say back.”

He stood and reached for his cane, my aunt right behind him. “I think they are about to clear us out and get ready for the dinner crowd,” he observed. “No matter, we’re done. You know we are going back to Hawaii two weeks from Friday.”

“I had the feeling you might be.”

“We will have to have dinner one night before then,” my aunt added. “Somewhere new, somewhere fabulous and well-reviewed. And I will not accept a ‘no’ from you,” she said, wagging her finger. I fished around in my pocket for a few dollars to leave for Colleen and followed them out to the guest lot where their car was parked. I kissed my aunt and shook hands with my uncle. I didn’t thank either of them, but then they weren’t looking for a thank you. They were expecting me to do as they said.

“Do not put it off too long,” my uncle said as he opened the door of his Lexus. “You know what you have to do, where you have to go. The sooner you do it, the better you will feel.”
___________________________________________________________________

The morning air was cool and crisp, and the fog settled densely across the back nine of the golf course. I tried to leave as early and as quietly as possible so as not to wake my mother or Sophia. Lately the dog had been hypersensitive to sound, especially when she was sleeping. This morning, to my luck, she didn’t stir.

I kept my car speed at about 5mph until I was two streets over and had turned onto the main road that ran in and out of the country club. When I got onto San Vicente I opened it up and sped off towards the 405 freeway and then the 101. Forest Lawn was in an area called “Hollywood Hills” which technically didn’t exist. The area overlooked the Disney and Warner Brothers studios, a green rolling expanse offset by the cement studio scenery and water towers of the movie lots. Moreso, this was the valley, and if there was one place I hated driving it was the valley. I despised the San Fernando and San Gabriel valleys and avoided them as much as I could. But today wasn’t about geographic quibbles, commute time, or the 15-degree difference in temperature between the valley and the coast, so I kept driving and didn’t think about the locale, only the destination.

By the time I got off the 134 freeway and navigated the side roads into the cemetery it was after nine. Had it been any other day I would have been fuming over the hour-plus commute it took to go 18 miles. Southern California, I reminded myself. I drove through the gates and made my way to the Court of Remembrance on the west side of the park, where row after row of cremation plaques lined a mammoth wall.

I’d cleaned myself in preparation, taking care to shave my beard and fun some styling gel through my hair for the first time in a month. I chose my black and gray pinstripe suit by Theory to wear, which I had last donned in August while at the opera in Vienna, and matched it with a traditional bluish-gray tie. I gave my Zegnas a quick polish in the morning before leaving and though I didn’t do too great a job I told myself women would be the only ones to notice anyway.

As I exited the parked car I had a twinge of fright and uncertainty, like I shouldn’t be there, like I was unprepared. I didn’t even know what I would say, if anything worthwhile would come of it. But I didn’t hesitate. My uncle was right, this had to be done.

I found the copper and iron plaque, still shiny and new from its recent engraving, and sat at a sprawling marble bench facing it. This section of the park was quiet; no sound echoed off the walls, nobody walked its halls. I was as alone as one could be facing a wall containing hundreds of cremation urns.

I sat for roughly five minutes in silence, looking periodically up and down the hallways for any signs of life. Nobody approached. After another few minutes I relaxed my posture and leaned to the side.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” I said aloud to the air. The sun was still on the other side of the cemetery and some of the mist still remained trapped within the U shape of the court. I stood up and began pacing.

“I want you to know that mom is doing well.” I shrugged. “Well, well enough. If she is not, she doesn’t let on. Maybe she cries herself to sleep at night, I don’t know.” I returned to the bench. “I wish things didn’t have to be like this with you and me. All I know is I feel no ambition to do anything. There’s no impulsiveness on my part. Nothing is exciting to me anymore. And I feel bad about having to feel bad.” I started laughing hysterically. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel bad about anymore.”

I leaned forward, still sitting, and began wringing my hands. “There is one thing that has crossed and re-crossed my mind: Success, and how it relates to our family. You were a successful businessperson and family man, as was your brother. Peter is successful, Alexis and Roger are on their way, and they’ll be successful soon enough. That leaves me. I don’t have any of the tools they have. I’m not as smart and I’m not as savvy, so I can’t help but wonder how I will fare out there. I don’t want to be a disappointment to you, yet with every new day I fear more and more that’s exactly what I’ll become. I could use your guidance now, it would be a big help.”

I reached into my coat pocket for the packet of tissues my aunt had left with me the afternoon before, and pulled a tissue from its pouch. “I wish it didn’t all have to change, you know? You were supposed to be around for a while! You were the one who took care of himself, ate right, and exercised. The fear was never with you, it was with mom! What kind of sick twisted joke is that, to kill off the healthy one who played by the rules!”

I stood up and walked towards his placard. Its letters were perfectly formed, and I ran a finger along the valleys and curves in the metal that made out his name. “I know the great irony is that we don’t know what we can’t know, and it’s not right. It’s not fair. You both were supposed to see me fully move into adulthood, maybe get married, start a family. You both were supposed to travel the world and really enjoy the perks of retirement. You worked hard your entire life and for what? This happens. What’s the point of it all? Why bust your hump if this is the end result?”

I heard the shuffle of feet and quickly wiped my eyes before turning toward the sound. An elderly cleaning man with a trash can on wheels approached in the distance. When he was a few yards away he stopped and lowered the wheeled can, resting his push broom against it.

“Visiting someone you know?” he asked, smiling.

“Father, yes.”

“I imagine a great many fathers are contained behind that wall,” he added with a laugh. “If only we could hear the collective wisdom they share.”

“What are you, a fucking philosopher?” I scoffed.

“No need to be short with me, and I sure don’t appreciate the language.” He picked up his broom and began sweeping a corner of the courtyard walkway.

“You’re right, that was out of line. I’m sorry. It’s been a trying morning,” I said.

“I’m sure many visits to this wall have been very trying for each person who has stood where you do now. But I don’t stand for foul language. Never have, never will. Especially in this place. It’s disrespectful.”

“I know. My apologies.”

The man put down the broom and walked a few steps towards me. “So what were you talking about just now?”

“What do you mean talking?”

“I mean talking,” he replied. “Opening your mouth and speaking.” He opened and closed his mouth like a grouper in Bill Cosby-style embellishment. “Everybody comes here to talk to somebody. It might be a dear friend, a family member, a loved one, but everybody talks. Everybody.”

“Oh.”

“So what were you talking about?” he again asked.

“Don’t you think that’s a little private?”

He inched a little closer. “Oh, I don’t know – do you think you are keeping to yourself when you talk aloud in a courtyard with echoing walls. Does that sound private to you?”

“Point taken,” I responded. I sat down on the bench and he joined me.

“I have seen thousands of people come in here and sit down just as you are now, and every one of them has had something to say to the piece of metal in front of them. Some of it was happy, some of it was sad, and some of it was even uplifting. But the one thing that it was every single time was the truth. Nobody can come in here and lie to the wall.” He held up his hand, fingers apart, and motioned towards the wall. “There are too many memories at stake to lie.”

“My father’s death was sudden an unexpected. None of us were ready for it. I’m having a hard time making sense of it, you could say.”

“Death never makes any sense, does it?” he asked, laughing. I didn’t answer. I expected the question was rhetorical.

“Which one is his?”

“Center and to the right with the newish-looking ones.”

“Uh huh. Good man?”

“Yeah. You can put him in the ‘hard act to follow’ category,” I replied.

“No use going through life trying to follow somebody,” he said. “You’ve got to follow your own act. That’s hard enough in itself.”

He stood back up and began walking back to his wheeled trash can and broom. “I’ll leave you and your father alone. Besides, I’ve got the whole west side of this park to clean up. Every sanctuary, every reflection nook. I can’t stay here and talk the live-long day. They’d fire me for sure!”

I smiled as I watched the elderly man make his way back to his supplies and pick up the broom. I got up and walked towards him as he began to leave.

“What do you think they’d say,” I began, motioning with my head towards the cremation wall. “The people on the other side of this wall. What do you think they’d say if they could talk back?”

The man turned and smiled. I saw an ageless quality about him despite the deep wrinkles around the eyes and the leathery, toughened skin of his face. “They would want to know that you’ve made a clean slate and moved on. They’d tell you that everything is temporary – even life itself – and you have to make the most of what you have. Everything that binds you unwinds in time, and once that happens you are free to write a new story for yourself.”

He turned with his trash can and began walking away as I stood and watched. When he was almost at the end of the court he turned, and before heading around the corner looked at me and added, “I think he’d just want to know that you are doing okay.”

Projectile Gossiping

2005-11-02T16:26:00.000-05:00

The one thing I’ve found to be the rule rather than the exception is that retired folks don’t care much for younger people. Grandchildren of course are the exception, but even at the end of the day they go home. It seems that 50-60 year olds feel they have earned the right by virtue of their years of hard work and laboring away to live somewhere where their only human exposure is folks of their own age.

I say this because whenever I take the dog for a walk I notice the high amount of grimaces and sour stares thrown my way as Sophia and I make our way down the block. I knew their discontent wasn’t about the dog – she’s a dog, who hates a dog at that age? – and soon came to the realization their dour spirits were because of me.

The theory was confirmed by my mother. “Don’t take it personally. Old people are not used to change and are very slow to adapt, so when they see a new person in the neighborhood it’s their natural reaction. And since you refuse to go out and be visible they see you even less and become more suspicious. All they have to go on is somebody who is there one day but not there the next.” She smiled and patted me on the shoulder. “All retired people want is the very thing they’ve worked their entire lives to enjoy: Peace and quiet. Young people are loud and boisterous. You threaten their peace and quiet.”

I drew back the curtain and looked out beyond the front yard at the row of houses along the street. Old men in Bermuda shorts and brown socks pulled up to jut below their knee caps were tending to their lawns, while others pulled up still living plants to replace them with taller and brighter versions of the same thing. Two elderly couples in matching jogging suits met up presumably for their daily jaunt through the neighborhood, while another pulled up in a golf cart customized to look like a Rolls Royce and yammered away to the group using grandiose hand gestures. This was retirement living at its finest, and if you managed to hang on long enough to the wealth you spent your entire life accumulating, you could purchase a home and a lifestyle complete with golfing and society functions in a place much like this. As much as I wanted to laugh at these people, at their dress and daily activities, I knew every one of these people paid through the nose to be part of an elite establishment.

I went back into the guest room that had been converted into my bedroom. I still needed to unpack some things and make space for a few more items that I chose not to sell when I moved out but for the time being it was home. There’s an overused phrase in the American lexicon: “You can’t go home again,” and though I wasn’t exactly home again – I’d never lived at the country club to begin with – the phrase echoed eerily in my head as I repositioned things and put out a few creature comforts in the attempt to make it seem like I was in fact home again. What nobody tells you is that once you are home again it never really feels like home.

While leafing through some magazines I fell asleep and awoke abruptly to the ringing of my cell phone. I wiped a little drool from the side of my mouth and hit the answer button.

“Hello?”

“Wow, you sound dead. Did I wake you?” It was Devin, my actor friend. He sounded wiry and hopped up on coffee. He wasn’t over the deep end enough for it to have been something else.

“As a matter of fact you did wake me,” I replied.

“The life of an unemployed bachelor,” he responded with a laugh. “Sleep all day, fuck all night.”

“You’ve got to get me on that plan, brother, because right now it’s sleep all day, sleep all night, turn pasty white from staying indoors all the time.” I rubbed my beard stubble and checked the time. It was just after two. I still had another four hours of nothing to do before dinner, and then another four to five hours of nothing beyond that. Maybe even more; it came down to if my mind would let me sleep tonight.

“Well I can’t guarantee to get you on the rock star plan but here’s a start: Come out with us tonight.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and tilted my head to the side for a few moments while mulling it over. Go out with the gang. Talk and laugh and drink and try to act like nothing has changed, like everything has been on freeze frame since the last time we saw each other.

“I don’t know,” I began.

“Come on, dude,” Devin interjected. “Don’t be that guy. Don’t be the ‘um, I’m afraid to go back out and rejoin the human race, I’m gonna be a shut-in instead and avoid having to face anything that could be a struggle or a challenge or a risk.’”

“Thanks for the support,” I dryly responded.

“Admit it, you are afraid of the risk. You are afraid of having to face the world now knowing the dice haven’t already been cast, that things change and that not everything has a happy ending. I’ll tell you something – it’s always been like that. Maybe you are just realizing it for the first time, maybe you’re just coming to terms with it.”

I flipped open a magazine and started perusing the photos as Devin continued to read me the riot act.

“I don’t share your enthusiasm in this area but thanks for looking out for me nonetheless,” I responded when he finished.

“Fuck, hyou’re not even listening, Reed. Don’t do this. Don’t withdraw. Every day you withdraw is another day you will have to dig for ground level once you decide to resurface. I’m not the only one noticing this behavior from you. I’m not the only one whose calls you don’t return, whose plans you don’t show up for. People are concerned, and people are talking.”

“Let them talk. What do they know?”

“They know you are not you. And you not being you, you aren’t out there to keep the gossip in check. And pretty soon the gossip gets accepted as truth because that’s all anyone hears. By the time you get your hands around it and separate the truth from the stories, nobody cares and the damage is done. You’ve become another person to everybody. Some kind of freak.”

I finally reached the point where I had had enough. It was something I probably should have addressed earlier, but I had neither the drive nor the desire to do it. Now my hand was forced.

“You know what Devin? Can I tell you how sick I am of all this? How I have had it up to here,” I paused and placed a flat hand in front of my chest despite knowing there was no way for him to see, “with the way I am being treated? I know you want to help. I know all of you want to help. And even though it doesn’t seem that way I appreciate it. But have you ever thought about what I want? I want to be left alone. I want to be able to keep to myself and be alone in private and not have to feel bad about it. The chrysalis will shatter and I’ll emerge from the shell when I am ready, okay? Stop making me feel bad about feeling bad. And for the last time, when I do go out in public – I have and this has happened more than once – stop treating me like the guy who has some disease, the guy who’s still ‘one of us’ but still you feel a need to keep at an arm’s distance. Okay? Think you guys can do that?”

Devin remained silent on his side for a moment after I finished. “I don’t think you are being fair at all,” he began, “not at all. We are just trying to help.”

“Then give me space, please – that’s all I ask. You know we are all going to be fine, right? It just takes time. And for god’s sake, quit it with the gossiping. There’s no story, all right?”

“All right. Just do me a favor and think about tonight, okay? Give it more than five seconds of consideration.”

“Okay, we’ll see,” I responded. Devin sighed on the other side of the line. He knew a ‘we’ll see’ was tantamount to a ‘no’ in my book. He signed off and hung up.

I set my phone down and resumed organizing my room, but no more than five minutes later it began ringing again. Figures, I thought, this was round two. Maybe this time Devin got Michelle or Ken or Aaron to call and do the persuading. Without looking at the caller ID I picked up the phone and hit ‘answer.’

“Yeah?”

“Quite informal answering the phone these days aren’t we, Reed?”

I stiffened and I felt a shock run along my spine. I knew this voice, female and breathy. Months had gone by and the suspended sentence, fines, and community service should have been enough to keep her at bay but apparently she thought otherwise. I always knew in the back of my mind her sentence wouldn't be enough to shut her down.

“Hello Deirdre,” I began. I spoke tersely. “I can’t say I am surprised; it’s been what – five months? – since you’ve decided to break your parole, Ms. MacKenzie?”

She paused for a moment as she searched for her next words. I always thought those who went the stalker route would never be at a loss for words. I guess I was wrong. Perhaps she thought my first reaction would be fear and was taken aback by how I was acting.

“You are one smug bastard, you know that?” she finally said.

“It’s part of my charm. Now, what is so important you felt it necessary to break the terms of your sentencing and contact me?”

“You’re not the only one, I’ve talked to your two cohorts as well.” The two cohorts to which she referred were two guys in Delaware who she had been bothering for an even longer time and had charges brought against her. “It’s just a reminder that you’ll never be able to get rid of me, court system or not.”

I sat back in a chair and let out a deep exhale, much deeper than any ordinary sigh. She was right. There was no ducking Deirdre as long as she had a way of reaching any of us, and as long as she felt she held power over us she would continue at it. It had caused me cancel email accounts, change and re-change phone numbers, erase online profiles, and go into an anonymous witness protection-like state. I never learned why she kept it up, if it was sort of rush for her or a sick diversion.

She interrupted my train of thought. “No snappy response, Reed? Are you thinking of a witty comeback as you pace about your apartment or pour yourself another Scotch?”

A smile broke across my face and in an instant I realized Deirdre didn’t know I was living with my mother across town. She didn’t know she no longer had a valid address to exploit or work number at which to harass me. All she had was my cell phone number and an email address, but I had blocked her account long ago. That was all she had. As soon as I hung up she would be gone and would continue to be as long as I didn’t answer. But that in itself was a little disheartening, that I’d have to live in fear of my own phone because of who might be on the other end. My life was quickly turning into one ruled by fear: Fear of going out, fear of my friends and how they would treat me, fear of Deirdre popping back up on the radar. There had to be a solution to all of this, I thought. And in that brief instant when the mind is busy jumping from one random non-sequential thought to another, it grabbed a foothold, something I’d read months ago in Toronto while waiting for Margot and her daughter Corrine to get ready for a wedding we were attending. Maybe it was Glamour, maybe it was Shape. Maybe it was even Cosmo. Regardless, the piece returned to my memory crystal clear as the day I originally read it. In the article, a psychologist broke down the anatomy of infatuation-driven relationships and stalking. The two things I remembered most – and honestly, guffawed at the time, stupid me – were in order to disarm the person you had to make them believe you were the one holding the power over them and you had control of the conversation, which further bolstered point number one. It seemed so easy, so obvious. Sometimes we eschew the answers that are most obvious while we waste time searching for a greater truth. There was no greater truth here; Deirdre was some sick chick who got off on making people squirm and enough was enough.

As with Devin, the time had come to make a stand and let her no in no uncertain terms that whatever I am, the thing I am most is unafraid. Unafraid of her and her tactics. Unafraid of her badgering. Of all the things she had taken over the course of eight months with her unwanted emails, phone calls, and harassment, what I wanted back most was my time. And the time had come to begin collecting.

“There has to be a reason you persist with the phone calls and emails, Deirdre, and I think I know what it is: You just really dig me. You shouldn't be afraid of admitting it. Perhaps when you were younger you were the type of woman who never really knew how to pursue a man, who never really knew how to work within the social conventions of guy-and-girl chemistry, so this is how you went about it.”

“Now wait just a minute,” she began, but I cut her off before she could say anything else.

“So you keep tabs on me with a phone call now and again, and some emails every so often, and you think you are playing it all fair and square. Find out where he lives, who he sees, how he acts…I mean, you have to know everything there is to know about the person you like, right?”

I paused just long enough to get a breath. I had no idea where this was going but I knew as long as I could keep her from speaking it would send the message that this wasn’t her game any longer.

“And once you meet me in the flesh I know you’ll really want to get to know me, if you take my meaning. So why not ditch the formalities, MacKenzie, and say what you’ve been wanting to say for a while now: You want me to fuck you.”

“Shut up!” she screamed but I talked louder to drown out her protests.

“I bet you’ve been dying to have some man in your life who can overpower you and beat you into oblivion sexually. And you know what I am capable of so naturally your interest is piqued. Why not, you think I’d love doing it to you, and that really gets you off. I bet you are the type who likes public thrills too, so maybe we’ll get a room and bend you over in front of the glass balcony sliding doors while you scream out in ecstasy, half begging me to stop but not really meaning it. We all know 'no' means 'yes' anyway.”

My voice kept getting louder and louder. “In truth you want me to be that guy, you need me to be that guy for you. But I don’t think you have it in you, I think you are one of those broads who secretly relishes the opportunity to have a scandalous sexual lifestyle but are too afraid to pursue it. So come on, here is your chance.” I paused and for shock value I added, “Maybe I have some friends who will want to take turns with you. Who knows, that could be the way you get off. We'll have to see what you like and what they say. If I use women and toss them aside like you think I do then why not be my biggest conquest?”

Click. She hung up. I wish she could have seen the smile on my face. Things were looking up.

There was a rapping at the door. It was my mother. “I heard yelling, is everything okay in there?”

Oh, nothing mother, just the most satisfying phone sex I have ever had. Finally I got the finish I was looking for. I opened the door and strolled out, smiling. “No, it was nothing. Just getting rid of an unwanted caller.”

I sat down and she joined me on the couch. “Well, you seem very chipper. Since you are in an upbeat mood I suppose this is as good a time as any to ask. There’s a dinner at the club tomorrow night, a black tie affair. I thought maybe you could make an appearance so people don’t think you are some sort of reclusive Boo Radley.”

I shook my head and laughed. Even my mother was giving it to me.

“Charity ball?” I asked.

“No, it’s a twice yearly thing the ladies’ society puts on. It’s a grand menu, here I’ll show you.” She went over to an end table and sorted through a few leaflets before returning.

She held out her arm firmly with an invitation dangling from her fingers. “Take a look for yourself.” I took the stiff ivory paper and began reading: “Brentwood Country Club ladies’ society cordially invites you to the 23rd annual Fall Ball, a night of gourmet dining, dancing, and entertainment.” I followed the invitation further down to the menu.

Dinner to include:
Pumpkin soup with Creole lobster
Smoked turkey with cane syrup-coffee glaze & breaded oyster corn dressing
Sweet potato gnocchi with pecans and brown butter
Crème Fraiche biscuits
Red velvet cake with cream cheese ice cream

Wines to be served with dinner courses include:
2004 Chateau Soverain Savignon Blanc
2003 Castle Rock Pinot Noir
2002 T-Vine Petite Syrah

After dinner cordials and dessert wines available

“What do you think?” she asked. “Consider it a favor to me. This will be the first function the club has held since your father’s passing. Remember, he was a well-liked guy in these parts, and there may be a lot of reminiscing. I might need someone to lean on.”

If I declined I would be declining not just my mother, but the ladies’ society of which she was a member. And then there was the part about my father. How could I refuse a request like that?

“Okay mother, count me in. I wouldn’t want to disrespect the ladies’ society. What would they say about me then?” I mocked.

“They gossip enough about you already, since you keep to yourself. Just show up, be sociable, and I am sure everything will be fine,” she replied.

She stood up almost in anticipation of the rap at the door which followed seconds later. She walked over to answer and I stood up and smoothed a thick wrinkle in my jeans.

“Gertrude,” I heard her say, “You’re early. Come in, come in.” The door creaked shut and my mother came back into the living room followed by a matronly woman of about the same age. She was wearing a polyester powder blue and pink blouse with some kind of white rayon slacks. Ultra white Reebok walking shoes poked out from the slack bottoms.

“Reed, this is Gertrude Lowenstein. She is on the ladies’ society with me.”

I came forward and held out a hand. “A pleasure.” She took it and shook weakly.

“We are going to the clubhouse to check on some last-minute items for tomorrow night. I have a list of things we need from the store on the kitchen counter. Would you mind picking them up from Gelson’s?” She turned and started heading for the door, followed by Gertrude.

I bent my fingers at the knuckles and put them in my mouth, biting down to appear caught in a dilemma. “But if I do that I will have to – gasp – go out in public. Out there, where people are. But I'm the type that hides away at home, keeping far from prying eyes. If I go out, what will they say about me then?” I let a slow smile form across my face as I said the last sentence. Gertrude's eyes met mine, a sour scowl on her face. The last thing I saw as they made their way out the front door was my mother slipping me a quick grin and a wink.
__________________________________________________________________

If galas weren’t big enough in and of themselves, galas planned by and attended by retirees might take the prize as the event with the biggest deal made by its attendants. As far as galas go this one wasn’t any more grandiose, lavish, or lively than any other I’d previously attended. All the gentry was represented, with men dressed to the nines in tuxedos, black suits, and a wide variety of ties from the dapper bow to the classy black-and-gray striped formal tied in a Windsor knot, while ladies walked about in a assortment of formal gowns, opera house wraps, and sequined numbers. Being a party for and of the retired, they made a big deal of the occasion. Despite the formality it felt like the Lawrence Welk Show without the bubbles and Mr. Welk himself.

After shuffling through the door following a solemn introduction of “Mrs. Becker and son,” I mingled through the crowd, attempting to find our table. Everything was assigned of course and my mother, being on the committee, knew exactly what table in a high visibility spot in the north-northeast corner was ours. I mowed through the crowd and endured a number of “good to see you, son” and “so glad you could make it” from assorted unfamiliar people before the masses parted and I located our table.

The night was everything I thought it would be, given the age difference and having nothing in common with any of them: Long, boring, and were it not for the ample supply of alcohol, uninteresting. Every old coot’s presence was announced via their over applied perfume or cologne, long ahead of their appearance in the flesh. Every gent smelled of Aqua Velva and lime after shave; every woman of jasmine, cocoa butter, and Liz Taylor’s White Diamonds. By the time the evening began winding down and I was done acting interested in what these people had to say, my cheek muscles were frozen in place from the smile I had been forced to wear as I listened to their stories.

I made for the bar at the back of the room, nursing my jaw and hoping the bartender had a strong Glenlivet or something to help ease the throbbing pain in my face. He made small talk while he reached above him for the bottle and poured me a generous amount, adding with a smile that he hoped the evening had been everything I’d expected. He was trolling for a good tip. I brought out a few bucks from my inside jacket pocket and thanked him for the liquid relief.
When I turned away was when I first heard it: “That’s right, his name is Reed. Youngest son of the Beckers. You know the Beckers, they live here at the club. Scottish family. Father made a living in defense contracting and patented a few designs in the 80s. He died a few months ago.” The voice was male, and young. I turned to see who was talking. A blue-haired woman looking like every other lady retiree in the ballroom was listening to a short, stout man of about thirty in an ill-fitting suit which was too tight across his chest. His face was reddened in various areas, a little bit like a pickled beet, a little bit like an eczema rash. He swirled his half empty drink and continued speaking, apparently not aware I was turned towards him and listening in on the conversation.

“He’s a very strange one. Since returning from burying his father overseas he’s done little more than withdraw from society, hiding out in his mother’s house most of the time. Doesn’t even come out. He’s shut down altogether.” He continued facing the woman and swirling his drink, still unaware he was speaking above earshot and that I was standing right behind him.

“The boy will be in line to take over the Becker fortune – whatever the family has made from the patents – and you know what they say about eccentricity and the rich.”

I cleared my throat to speak up. “No, I’m unfamiliar with that proverb. How does it go?”

The man seized up a bit and turned slowly to face me. He came up to just past my shoulders, surrendering to me a good six to eight inches in size. He looked at me, unfazed. “Do I know you?” he asked, smiling.

I returned his smile. “The question really is, do I know you?” I responded. “Reed Becker. I heard my name being cheaply thrown about.”

The man turned back towards the woman whose attention he had been engaging, a hand reached outward as if he were to make a presentation. “Ah, Mr. Becker, I see you…”

I didn’t let him finish. “Here’s what I am having a difficult time wrapping my head around: See, to my knowledge we have never before met, and yet here I find you, not knowing me one bit, and dragging my name through the mud based on who knows what you have heard from somebody second hand or in passing.”

The man tried to cut back in. “I was only telling her –“ but again I didn’t let him finish.

“What have I ever done to you?” I asked. I nodded towards the elderly lady. “Or you. Have I begrudged either of you in some way I’m not aware of? Is there anything wrong with maintaining some privacy and some decorum when you are a grieving family trying to return your lives to normal?” I leaned in towards the man. “How dare you?”

I waited for the man to say something – anything – but he remained silent, his eyes firmly locked on the parquet floor beneath us. Luckily I had managed to keep my voice low enough to not attract unwanted attention or detract from the night’s hoopla. Despite my boredom it was a memorable event for these people and they didn’t deserve to have it cheapened by our dispute.

When I was certain the man wasn’t going to say anything, I turned and flagged down the bartender for another scotch. The bartender was halfway through his pour when I heard him behind me again:

“Oh yes. The rich and their sense of entitlement, it makes me wretch.”

I shook my head and sighed softly to myself. Approaching him again, I tapped him on the shoulder this time. “Might I have a word with you, over here?” I did an ambiguous circular point towards the corner where the exit was. He shrugged and began walking as I followed behind, a scowl on my face. From her corner of the room my mother saw me leaving with the man and mouthed a what towards me. I motioned a come here in response.

When the man reached the corner I shook my head. “Uh-uh. Outside.” I opened the door and motioned him through. When we were both outside he stopped and began turning towards me.

“I don’t know what we have to talk about,” he started.

Have you ever punched a person in a fit of rage, as a premeditated action you’ve thought out minutes before actually carrying through with it? It’s nothing like what you see in movies, where a clean hit across the jaw sends your recipient crashing to the ground in a mangled heap. It is also nothing like any fight you might have had in childhood, where the schoolyard laws of fighting were less boxing match and more mixture of slapping, half-punching, kicking, and tackling. One adult punching another is an action carried out in an instant, one where the hand is pushed back from the face by the force of action-reaction physics, and both people feel pain.

I balled my right hand and swung around just in time to meet his turn as he finished saying we had nothing to talk about. Just before my fist connected with his nose and cheek I saw his eyes register what was going to happen and the muscles in his face go limp. My fist made contact first with his nose and then with his cheek, moving deeper and deeper into the valley between the two before the reaction force coming off his cheek bone pushed my fist backward. My arm recoiled and instantly I felt the pain of bone-to-bone contact in my fist. The man dropped to his knees and immediately grabbed at his face, screaming. I opened, closed, and re-opened my fingers, trying to get the pain to subside. Before long I saw some drops of blood dribble between his fingers and fall to the ground.

I stood above the guy as more and more blood dribbled from his fingers. A small crowd began to gather outside, my mother among them.

“Don’t ever come in here looking to degrade me or my family based on hearsay and gossip, especially when you don’t have the guts to confront me straight-on with it. I don’t ever want to hear you’ve besmirched my family’s name, got it?”

I came around to his front side to face him, and jerked a tuft of his hair so that he would be forced to look at me. Blood dripped from his nose, and his entire cheek shared the same reddish pink hue as his eczema. “And if you are going to gossip, at least get reliable information. You want to come at me, then fine. But leave my family out of it. And do your research next time. We're Scot and Greek. Lie about something that can’t be verified, asshole.” I let go of his hair and his head dropped back into his hands. I looked over the faces in the crowd for the blue-haired woman the guy had been talking to inside, but she wasn’t there.

A security guard hired for the night emerged from the crowd. “What is going on here?”

My mother broke from the group and stood in front of me. “This man on the ground is trespassing and harassing club residents. He may have been invited, but as one of the organizers of this event I want him thrown out for causing interruption to an otherwise lovely event.”

The guard reached down to help the man up. He didn’t resist, as he continued holding his face in his hands. We watched as the man was led off towards the security building and in the distance, the country club gates.

My mother turned to face me. I was still messaging my fingers and knuckles. They weren’t feeling any better.

“Sorry about the mess,” I started.

She held up a hand. “You are not a violent person, so I know whatever reason you have is a valid one. It sounds like you were defending family honor; how can I scold you for that?” She ran a hand across my cheek. “It looks like you sustained some damage as well. Let’s go home and get you an ice pack for your hand.” She wrapped her more tightly around her shoulders and took my uninjured hand in hers as we began walking.

“Standing up for yourself and your family takes a lot of courage, Reed. It stirs deep pride within the soul. I think you might be coming back to life just yet.”

Square One

2005-11-01T16:29:00.000-05:00

Darkness. The air is thick, its moisture dissipating on my face. As I inhale I can feel the wetness coat my throat. I hold up the lantern but see nothing in any direction. My vision is wrapped in a blanket of pre-dawn darkness.

I’m standing in the middle of the Monifieth city cemetery, trying to focus my vision enough to keep from running into grave makers, many of which have been in this Scottish yard for over half a millennia. I move with caution, shifting my weight gingerly from one step to the next, as grass crunches underneath with the brittle snapping sound of breaking bones. Stopping, I curse the sound, and then realize there is nobody around to hear. Re-aiming the lantern’s beam towards what I believe to be the correct direction, I continue on through the crunching grass.

Before long I’m on more solid footing, and the dense mist begins to thin. I am getting closer, I can sense it. My breathing hastens and I speed my pace. Just as the darkness gives way to faint traces of light I feel the ground give way under me, and I fall straight down, landing hard on solid earth. The lantern breaks and the beam quickly dies. After tossing around a few obscenities I stand in the darkness and do the best to shake the dirt from my clothes. I take two steps forward and am met with a face full of dirt as I collide with a hardened, clay-reinforced wall. I feel to my left until I meet a corner, then another, and then another. It’s rectangular. Great. I’ve fallen into an open grave.

I cup my hands over my mouth and begin to shout for somebody’s attention but before any sound can escape my throat I hear the voice inside my head: “Why are you crying out? Who is going to hear you? Who is going to help you in this place?”

I lower my hands and look around. I can see nothing, no evidence I am not alone in the plot. I feel around once more in the darkness, uncertain I want to find anything. When I am convinced I am alone I cup my hands to my mouth once more.

Then it grabs me.

It starts at the ankle, and for a moment I think I’ve caught my pant leg around a deep-growing root, maybe an errant bottle tossed aside one night by a drunken caretaker. By the time I feel the fingers wrap around my arm I know I am wrong. Light begins to break above me and through the faintest beam cast into the grave I can see the paled arm, caked with dried layers of Earth and smeared with wet grass. The skin hangs off the arm revealing bone, and the free hanging skin bounces about like a cheap gag out of an episode of Creep Show. The other arm emerges – from where I don’t know – and grabs me around the torso, the skin on its fingers decayed and falling away from the hand as it struggles to tighten its grasp on me. Again I start to yell out but the voice in my head – foreign, old, and unsettling – cautions me before I can say a word.

“No need to cry out, boy. Nobody will hear you. Nobody will help you, not here. Don’t fight it, this is where you should be. This is where we all end up.” I continue to struggle, fighting the rotting hands as I try to rip them free of my body.

“We all get what we deserve in the end, every time.” I hear a cackle from above us and as I look up I’m met with a pile of dirt and leaves, heaped into the plot by the graveyard’s caretaker. I spit the earth from my mouth and continue fighting the bodiless being as the old, saintly looking Scottish caretaker shovels more dirt upon us. Just as I tear an arm free of my torso the clayed wall separates and a body emerges. It moves forward into the plot and is met with another pile of dirt and leaves from above. Frozen with fear, I instinctively back away until I am cornered in the far end of the plot. The shoveling from above abruptly stops and as the dirt and dust clears I make out the face of my undead attacker.

“Holy jesusfuckingchrist!” I screamed as I threw the sheets away from me and sat straight up in bed in one fluid motion. My breathing was fast and shallow. My face felt flushed. I’m slightly sweating. Carolyn is on the bed beside me, wide awake.

“Another nightmare?”

“Yeah,” I responded. I use the pillowcase to wipe the sweat from my forehead.

“Your arms were shaking and you were thrashing about. You’ve been going at it for about five or six minutes now. It woke me up. Was it the one where you are in the graveyard?”

“Yes.” I turned over onto my back and took a deep breath, holding it in before letting out a labored exhale through clenched teeth. I did it twice before rotating onto my side to face Carolyn.

“I don’t know what is wrong with me. This is what, five now? Same premise, same setting. Maybe Roderick was right, maybe I need medication.”

“Don’t be silly,” she responded, “He was talking about clozapine. That’s for schizophrenia. Definitely not your problem.”

She drapes her arm over me and I move closer, resting my head on the section where her waistline meets her hip. She smells good, and the soft, thin cotton fabric of her camisole feels soft against my face.

“It’s okay,” she reassures me. “Don’t dwell on it. It’s just your mind playing with you.”

“But it was different this time, Caro. I saw it, I saw the face.”

“Shhh,” she says as she raises her arms and wraps them around my back to hug me. Her touch is soothing, her voice calm. I raise my head and look around the room. I recognize the layout – the secretary desk and chair in the corner, the couch on the opposite wall, the armoire dresser across from the bed. It’s our hotel room in Salzburg. I lie back on the bed and try to relax. I close my eyes and breathe deeply, then rub my temples slowly. When I open my eyes Carolyn is leaning over me, smiling. I don’t even notice her morning breath.

“Just take it easy,” she says. “And relax, we’ve got all the time in the world.”

That’s when I frown.

This too – the hotel room, the conversation, even Carolyn – is a dream, and I know it. It’s been over a month since I left Salzburg, and weeks since I left Carolyn in Toronto. I’m fully aware of my semi-consciousness state, that REM phase when you realize you are not quite asleep but not fully awake, that ambiguous point where thoughts and dreams entwine and can be manipulated. For a moment I consider going with the moment, but then relent, not wanting to torture myself.

“Fuck.” I sit up and turn the bedside table light on. I’m in the guest bedroom of my parents’ house. I fall back on the bed and let out a huff. I grab a pillow from behind my head and cover it, pressing hard as if to muffle a scream. I can’t believe the tricks my mind is trying to play on me, its attempts to concoct a sick laugh. And for what? What pleasure can possibly be derived from it? I feel my blood begin to boil and I close my fingers, balling them into fists before letting fly with multiple punches into the pillow. Then I throw it in the direction of the bedroom door.

The pillow knocks the clock off the dresser and skids to a halt. The time reads 3:16 AM. I’m wide awake and hating my over productive mind.

I get out of bed and make my way to the other side of the room where the dresser sits. I plant my hands on each of the dresser’s edges to hold my body up and stare into the top-mounted mirror. I look bad; more and more gray is seeping into my hair and the five days of beard growth I’ve accumulated. The bags under my eyes are becoming more pronounced with each passing day. The wrinkles are emerging more and more, no longer masterfully disguised behind tan skin and a good moisturizing regimen. I barely recognize the reflection staring back at me. I am the oldest 25 year-old I have ever seen.

My thoughts drifted back to Carolyn, my head abuzz in hundreds of isolated thoughts, moments and things said and done over the past few months. I remember our last day together, our trip in silence as we drove to the Toronto airport for my flight back to Los Angeles. I remembered all the things I could have said and should have said, but didn’t. There would be no changing things; she had a degree to finish and a career to pursue, a career that finally seemed to gain firm footing. I had no job to return to in Toronto after months abroad on what amounted to a personal leave, and additionally had to return to Southern California to take care of my mother and keep a promise to a dying man. It was a bittersweet irony: She couldn’t go, and I couldn’t stay. And so she quietly hid her face, not able to look at me, and shed tears as the overhead announcement called for final passenger boarding of my flight. There would be no reprieve, no Garden State moment where Andrew Largeman gets off his flight and races through the airport to find Sam crouched in a phone booth and crying over losing her next great thing. As much as we both knew we were each other's next great thing, there would be no Hollywood ending.

It seemed two things had been bled from me these past few months, and I’d never see either again. In anger I slpped aside some toiletries and various items on the dresser, and they hit the side wall with an emphatic *thud.*

I heard the loud woof of the dog and soon after footsteps creaked on the wood floor in the hallway, followed shortly by a rap at the door.

“Everything okay in there?”

“I’m fine Mom, it was just some things on the dresser. I’m sorry I woke you. Do you need to take any medication while you are up?”

“No. Perhaps in the morning,” she responded from the other side of the door. “Good night.”

I went back to bed and flipped on the TV. This was becoming commonplace; tonight was officially the tenth in a row that I have had sleep problems and dreams. My window for getting over the European time change closed weeks ago and still I couldn’t get a restful night of sleep. As with nights past there was little on television at this hour aside from infomercials and bible school lectures, and so I found myself watching the National Geographic channel’s study of a lion cub raised in captivity and later returned to its natural habitat.

“The lion finds itself in a natural state, but a state foreign to this point. Whereas the cub had its entire routine and sustenance provided by others, here he will have to fend for himself or join up with a pride. The zoologists have done their best to correctly identify both the pride and the geographic area from which the lion originated, and now their hunches will be put to the test, a test where lives may be at stake.”

The lion was shown slowly entering the territory of a pride and male lookouts circled behind, keeping close tabs on the invader.

“The cub enters a new territory, one that has already been claimed by a lion clan,” the narrator continued. “Here we see the border protectors of the pride take notice that this cub is not one of their own, and thus must be watched with suspicion as a threat to the other lions. The cub wanders deeper into the territory, and more and more of the pride are coming to the front in noticeable view of this trespasser. Our zoologists, watching the interaction, notice that one of the adult lionesses bears a tracking tag from their zoo and are now certain that they have found the cub’s pride of origin.”

I turn up the volume a bit and watch the cub playfully approach one of the adult lions. Here the narrator takes on an ominous tone.

“The cub has been raised in captivity to believe that any fellow member of the species is friendly and a playmate, but in the wild the rules are different. Here we see the adult beat back the cub and chastise it with a roar and a stare, signifying that he is not automatically welcome back into the pride. Other adult lions join in to reinforce the behavior. It appears the cub will not be so easily welcomed back into its natural habitat.”
____________________________________________________________________________________

The meeting was innocuous enough: A lunch rendezvous and a little catch-up talk, how I’ve been, how they’ve been, and how the agency has been going. Of course I’d enquire about any open positions, it would be silly not to. But I wasn’t holding my breath.

I arrived early as usual and made for the reserved booth at the rear of the restaurant. As I passed a mirrored pillar I briefly took stock of my outfit. I had never dressed more casual for a business lunch; Overdyed Nyne jeans offset by a Banana Republic tweed jacket with blue two-tone thin striping over a eggshell colored Calvin Klein shirt. Magazines term the look “shabby chic.” I ran a hand over my beard stubble, sat down, and ordered a J&B on the rocks from the slightly cute but very overweight drink server dispatched to the booth. I don’t even think I let the girl get through her spiel. She walked away with her tray parallel to her legs and beyond in the distance I made out Gloria Simms.

She was just how I had remembered her, oozing power. The pants suit hung off her with the look of a professionally tailored job, the slacks showing off a perfect break along her feet. She removed her sunglasses and smiled warmly as she slid into the booth.

“Reed.”

“Gloria, you look like a million bucks.”

“I’d better, that’s how much the facial at Elizabeth Arden costs these days,” she quipped. When she smiled I could tell she had her teeth bleached recently. She waved a server over and ordered a glass of pinot blanc.

“You look well,” she began.

“Ha,” I laughed, “you are clearly lying.”

“No, I mean it. It’s a good look. You see it on every male D&G model. It says ‘extended vacation.’ Speaking of which, how was your time abroad?”

I paused and rubbed my chin. What do I tell her, and what do I withhold? She knew so very little about me, about my family and anything that transpired over the past few months.

“It was fine,” I concluded. A waitress returned with our drinks and took our order.
“Try the Ahi salad,” suggested Gloria as she gently brushed my hand, “the cut is exquisite.”

Soon after it was down to business. “So what are you going to do now?” she asked.

“Well,” I slowly began, “I don’t know. Right now I am still adjusting and trying to get used to being back in my natural habitat. It’s been a long time since I’ve sat here at a table with you, you know.”

“Yes, I know. But I am not talking about us having lunch. I’m talking about what you do tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after.”

I decided to feel out the situation. “I was rethinking my position regarding staying in the advertising field. I’m still young and I haven’t climbed enough rungs on the ladder to be in a spot where changing fields would be detrimental.”

“True,” she responded with some question in her voice. She wasn’t sure where I was going with this.

“Maybe I could go back to school for my MBA while I’m young. USC and UCLA have highly-ranked national programs. I suppose Pepperdine would do in a pinch, but if I’m going to do it I have to go top ten for the networking contacts alone.” I took a final swig of scotch from my near-empty glass and continued. “Still, I did like what I was doing at Chiat and the people with whom I worked. If anything were to ever open up in the near future, perhaps a new account...”

Gloria set down the glass and fixed her gaze squarely upon me. “We’ve talked about this before, Reed. I’d like to help, really – you were a good employee and very talented – but my hands are tied. My head count is maxed out, and there are no additional accounts requiring extra positions any time in the near future. You’ve got to understand that your transfer and subsequent decision to stay on at the Toronto office in a freelance capacity, coupled with the leave you took following your family emergency, left me no alternative but to fill your spot. You’ve been away from our office for nine months. Yes, it was bad timing the way the Toronto freelance situation coincided with your personal life, but in the end we had to move forward without you.”

There it was, the finality of the situation. I really had no job, no chance of getting back in. I wasn’t angry and I didn’t feel cheated because I had brought it upon myself. I had made the decision to resign and come back aboard in Toronto as a freelancer at the beginning of June right before my father suffered his heart attack. I took the leave and the Los Angeles office gave it to me even though I hadn’t worked there in the previous six months. They felt on the hook technically since I hadn’t issued a resignation to them at the time. They warned me about the chance I wouldn’t have a job to return to, they warned me they needed a person in that spot when I was running all over Europe. I didn't blame anything but myself and pure dumb luck. I just needed to hear the words "no chance" from someone else. I needed somebody else to carve my fate in stone.

“It was worth the shot,” I muttered. Our lunches arrived and I eagerly dug into what would be my last meal on the Chiat tab.

Somewhere among my third J&B, her second pinot blanc, and the halfway point of the meal, she resumed the work talk. “You know who is going to miss you most? I mean, we’ll all miss you, but I think Melinda has been the most affected by your absence.”

“I figured you’d say that about Mel.” I thought about how she’d always sit at the edge of my desk while we’d work, playfully showcasing her legs while she tightly crossed them, always right over left. Her legs were her prized possessions and she went to great lengths to keep them toned and tanned. For so long she had worked on getting people in the office to take her seriously based on her looks and cheerleader personality. It never worked. All she ever needed to do was turn up the charm and her business acumen. It was always there but she kept it well-hidden under the surface.

“It’s true. I can tell she feels overwhelmed, like she’s missing a partner to help carry the load. She is sharp, though. I will give her that.”

“She is,” I agreed. “And smarter than people give her credit for, myself included. She reminds me a lot of you in a way.”

“Oh?” Gloria questioned, eyebrows raised. “I don’t remember ever having been a peppy, leggy cheerleader,” she began.

“Fair enough, but I am sure you remember what it was like to be out of college and in a male-dominated industry where you had to prove yourself, where you had to show that you had the stuff and weren’t just another pretty face.” I shifted in my seat and leaned in towards Gloria. “Mel’s problem isn’t that she lacks the brains. She’s very smart. Do you know she got a 1500 on her SATs in high school? How many cheerleaders do you know who got a full ride to USC because of their brains? Her problem is that she’s gone through life for so long using her body to get people to notice her that she’s forgotten how to use her brains to the same end. And that’s sold her short. It’s made her just another piece of ass in the meat market of life, pardon my French.”

Gloria stifled a chuckle as she blotted her mouth with her napkin. “I know what you mean, and yes, I too have been there. I may not be the femme fatale that Melinda Davies is, but I had my time.”

“So you must understand the benefit of having some direction in her professional life," I continued. "I know she looks up to you, Gloria. What better role model could she have, and right there in the office? She’s asked me dozens of times about how you got to where you are, how a woman gets to be a power player in the corporate world. She wants in. And with you there to guide her, she could do it. She could pull it off in spades. She just needs for someone to see her potential as more than a smoking hot body. It’s going to take a woman, Gloria. Someone like you.”

Gloria rolled the stem of the wine glass in her fingers and mulled the proposition. I’m sure she’d had protégés in her life before, but likely not at the behest of a third party.

“That’s quite the idea. I have seen flashes of brilliance from her, there’s no doubt about it. But I know so little about her. Maybe I need to sit down with her or go to lunch and find out where she’s coming from. Find out what makes her tick.”

“Given the chance, I’m sure she would shine.”

“That’s very decent of you, you know. Here you are, no job, no prospect of coming back and yet you are talking up the people who were once around you. You're not all bad, mister.” She winked to punctuate the sentiment.

“Let’s keep that between the two of us. It is a dog-eat-dog world and once I’m back on top I don’t want news like that sinking me,” I retorted with a smile.

Gloria picked up the tab and as we walked out she gave me a quick hug, adding “keep in touch, I always like to hear where our people end up,” as the valet pulled her car to the curb. I closed her door and watched her drive off as I waited for the valet to pull my car around.

“Nice ride,” he said as he held the door for me. He was fishing for a better tip. I guess the lunch rush in Beverly Hills today wasn't as lucrative as it could be.

“Thanks,” I said, adding, “too bad it’s become the friggin’ Honda Civic of the mid-twenties upper class trendy set.” I gave him two dollars, cranked the stereo, popped the clutch hard and sped on to Wilshire heading west towards home. Ice-T played on the CD changer:

That attitude is rude, you won't get far
Cos they'll turn on you quick, you'll drop like a brick
Unemployment's where you'll sit
No money, no crew, you're through
You played yourself,
That's right, you played yourself,
Ain’t nobody else’s fault, you played yourself.

“Shut up, Tracy,” I said aloud to nobody as I punched the power button with my knuckle.
____________________________________________________________________________________

It’s been a long time, a decade at least, since I’d last received a postcard in the mail. In today’s age of instant electronic communication a postcard is such an antiquated notion. But there it was, alone in the mailbox awaiting me. I removed it and held it in my hands. It was oversized, much larger than the customary five by seven postcard one finds at tourist attractions. On the front was a picture of the earth with the North American continent in view. Over California was a hand written comment in black ink: “You.” My eye drifted across the continent until I saw another comment written above one of the kidney-shaped great lakes: “Me.” I turned the card over and read the card’s short message:

“What’s wrong with this picture?” A frown was drawn next to the comment.

I concentrated on the handwriting for a while, admiring the curves and lines of the letters. The gesture was as sweet as it was simple: Carolyn wanted to talk.

I waited until later in the day when I knew she’d have returned from class before I looked her up on MSN messenger. We had been doing this for the past week, almost nightly. It was becoming a habit.

Myfavoritereeder: Got your card.
T.O.Caro: I went downtown a few days ago to the mile loop around the lake you used to walk with that old guy. It made me think of you. Then I went over to Stewie’s and it reminded me of you even more. That’s when I bought the card. I can’t help it. I think about you, about us, a lot.
Myfavoritereeder: I’d be lying if I didn’t say the same, but we’ve got to stop doing this Caro, it’s just going to make us feel worse.
T.O.Caro: So what do you suggest?
Myfavoritereeder: The same thing I suggested before I got on the plane; forget about me. Start over with somebody else. It’s not fair to think there is going to be a happy ending.
T.O.Caro: Why couldn’t there be?
Myfavoritereeder: Listen to yourself, you’re there. I’m here. You’re not going to quit your master’s when you’re so close, and I’m not going to go out there if I don’t have a work visa.
T.O.Caro: You could come here for six months. The interior ministry won’t check on you until after six months if you aren’t working by then.
Myfavoritereeder: You know I can’t leave. I have to take care of my mother. I’m not going to send her to live with my sister and brother in law. They have their own family to start.
T.O.Caro: I know, we’ve been through it before. It’s just wishful thinking. We had a good thing though.
Myfavoritereeder: I know. We’re the victims of poor circumstances.
T.O.Caro: I just wonder over and over if what we have is too strong to die, or if we are just too weak to kill it.
Myfavoritereeder: A little of both. Have you been going out? Meeting anyone?
T.O.Caro: Right. It’s hard enough getting back into the swing of things, you know. Work, school, other. The other has suffered as a result. You? Any new fans to report?
Myfavoritereeder: No. I’m finding that being re-introduced into your habitat can be a difficult thing.
T.O.Caro: Only if you resist. Are you resisting?
Myfavoritereeder: Well...I’m not quite ready for prime time.
T.O.Caro: Reed, you can’t hide behind the scenes forever. That’s what Europe was for. To nurse you back to health.
Myfavoritereeder: And what about you, sending me cards and re-hashing the past when you should be out meeting new pieces of ass?
T.O.Caro: Don’t change the subject. I know that you’ve got to get back out there. Don’t shelter yourself inside your mother’s house. Don’t withdraw. You’re not that kind of person, and I’d hate to think what would happen if you did become that person.
Myfavoritereeder: I’ll be fine.
T.O.Caro: Still having the nightmares?
Myfavoritereeder: Yes. How did you know?
T.O.Caro: I figured as much. You’re forgetting I spent eight weeks in a bed next to you, during which time you either couldn’t sleep, or you’d have nightmares on the rare occasions you did sleep.
Myfavoritereeder: You say that like you regret it.
T.O.Caro: I’d run away with you all over again, circumstances aside.
Myfavoritereeder: So now? We can’t keep messaging each other and telling each other we wish this or wish that. How can you move on like that?
T.O.Caro: Who says I want to move on...
Myfavoritereeder: Jeez.
T.O.Caro: I shouldn't be this way. I am the first to admit the long distance thing won’t work. Maybe I’ll meet some dashing Canuck in the near future on the streets of Toronto and he’ll sweep me off my feet, but until then I can think about the American who did the same, can’t I?
Myfavoritereeder: I get your point.
T.O.Caro: Maybe we can get together at Christmas. I’ll be on break from school. Perhaps I can come out to Los Angeles if you can’t leave.
Myfavoritereeder: The pessimist in me wants to say that’s a horrible idea. We’ll have just gotten used to not having each other in our lives and then *poof* you’ll appear and all the old feelings will be stirred up.
T.O.Caro: I don't like the pessimist. What does the romantic in you have to say?
Myfavoritereeder: When does your flight arrive?
T.O.Caro: HA! I knew it.
Myfavoritereeder: You’d tire of me soon enough.
T.O.Caro: You sell yourself far too short.
Myfavoritereeder: ...and you need to start meeting better men than myself.
T.O.Caro: I’d like to think I can pick ‘em just fine.
Myfavoritereeder: We’ll do this again in a few days, I’m sure.
T.O.Caro: Ciao.

I found my mother in the living room propped up on the sofa and surrounded by throw pillows, reading the latest issue of Vanity Fair. My dog was at the foot of the sofa curled into a ball, catching up on her favorite past time, sleeping. The magazine in my mother’s hand was folded back awkwardly so that I could see one of the advertising inserts, and when I saw it I laughed. In a vertical advert running a third of the page was an Aveeno ad featuring that girl Patricia I’d met months ago at an art show preview. I was glad to see she was still getting work. I guess Aveeno still wanted to get their mileage out of her.

I kneeled down and ran my hand along the neck of Sophia as she slept. She adjusted herself, briefly raising her head to see who dare disturb her slumber, and let out a breathy Marge Simpson-like sigh as she fell back asleep. I sat on an ottoman opposite my mother as she lowered the magazine and removed her reading glasses.

“Come closer,” she said, “let me get a good look at you. I don’t think I have since you’ve returned.” I slid closer and she turned on another light.

“You have much more gray hair than I last remember you having,” she began. She ran her hand along the side of my face and rubbed my whiskers. “And I don’t know about this beard of yours. It’s shabby and undignified.”

“It’s temporary,” I told her. “But I know what you are getting at. I’m letting myself go, and you’re right. There are times when I walk by a mirror and don’t even recognize the face looking back at me. Suddenly I’m this old, leathery, sad sack of a person. I’m the oldest twenty-five year old I know.”

“It’s not just your face, dear, it’s your clothing and how you present yourself. You have always taken great pride in your appearance – it’s a trait you picked up from your father – but ever since you’ve come back your clothing, your appearance...it’s quite shabby.”

“I don’t think any of that matters to me anymore. Why should I care how I look to others?”

My mother adjusted herself on the sofa and set the magazine on the end table. “Your appearance is a reflection of how you feel about yourself, and when I see you looking like this I know you feel lowly about yourself. Do you want to tell me why that is?”

I let out a long sigh that rivaled the dog’s. She awoke and looked up at me to assess the ruckus. I looked away and caught my reflection in the glass of the patio French doors. Even at this distance I could see my disheveled look. I used to look good. I used to be somebody. I remembered a time in May when Carolyn and I went to a crowded bar to get a drink and everybody stopped to take notice. Whenever I wanted the waitress’s attention it was little, if any, trouble. People took notice. I was engaging and charismatic. I then thought about another time two months later in Scotland, in a town brought into the industrial age by my forefathers, in a place where most everyone knew who I was and why I was there, and how I’d enter a room and nothing would happen. About how I’d talk to people and lose their attention mid-sentence. I used to have presence when it came to things like that. Now I was just present. It was a subtle but noticeable shift and I was having a difficult time adapting to the new environment.

“I’m having a hard time coping with the new terrain,” I began. I had to choose my words carefully, as I was about to steer into delicate waters. “I went from a situation where I had a good job – one with promise and potential – to none. I went from a good deal with a good woman – one with whom I felt the type of connection I haven’t felt in who knows how long – to a situation best described as ‘geographically undesirable.’ I went from having my own place and my own life, to none of the above. My life has become a none of the above life. I don’t blame you, and I don’t blame Dad. Individually these things would have been a little easier to deal with. But together and all in the same span...” my voice trailed off.

My mother sat up fully and placed her legs on the ground. Her Yves Saint Laurent velour track suit made a funny sound as it rubbed the sofa upholstery. “It sounds like you are blaming us.” she said, “I can hear the regret in your voice.”

I shook my head. “The only thing I could have controlled but didn’t was running out on you in July the way I did.” I ran my hand across the short hairs growing back on my head where I’d shaved months ago while in Germany. “Fulfilling Dad’s, um, postmortem wishes only took two weeks, and instead I dragged it out into two months. I should have been back here with you and Alexis and Peter. I made a promise to look after you that I didn’t keep. For that I am sorry.”

She took my hands in hers. I could see the wrinkles around her eyes and the mature, matronly glow about her that all women her age have. “You did what you needed to do,” she said, “and I would want you to spend as much time as you need to make your peace with your father. No matter how you feel about how much time you took, realize you were given a great opportunity. We all were. We each had a chance for closure and to say what needed to be said and hear what he had to say.” A tear started forming in her right eye and she quickly wiped it away.

“And that’s lucky?” I said.

“Do you know how many people lose a loved one and never have the chance to say a simple goodbye, never get the chance to tell them all the things they want to say and hear things they have longed for their entire lives to hear? The opportunity to hear that person tell them how much they were loved, respected, admired? Or even a thank you? People who get cheated of that last moment carry it around unresolved in their hearts until it becomes resentment and anger. You’re very lucky indeed, you had an opportunity many would give an arm to have had.” She reached for a tissue and blotted more tears from her eyes.

“I think I’m just angry in general, angry at circumstances and angry at the cards I’ve been dealt on all fronts. I have that right – I read in Kubler-Ross’s book that anger is the first stage in all of this. It’s the main reason I stayed in Europe for as long as I did. It wasn’t only about resolving any issues I had regarding Dad’s passing, it was just as much about Carolyn. Europe was the end of our line. I knew that the minute I set foot in North America everything we had was done for. So we held out and tried to hold off the inevitable for as long as we could, and because I could see the end of the line coming all the while it made me angrier and a lot of that time I directed that anger right at her.”

“Oh no, you didn’t,” she said.

“If I wasn’t distant because of why we were there to begin with, then I was distant because of what would happen once we returned. I was moody, and bitchy, and a real pain in the ass. And that wasn't only when I was tearing into her. I was like any teenage pre-menstrual girl.” I paused and smiled. “I was like Alexis when she was in high school,” I added with a grin.

My mother smiled tersely, as if to say she remembered but didn’t view the memory so fondly.

“When we were in Freiburg I thought I was going to wake up one morning to a ‘dear John’ note saying she’d gone back to Toronto, that she couldn't take the abuse any longer, that this wasn’t what she signed up for. I was waiting for her to tell me that there were millions of guys out there, all of whom could treat her better than I had in the past few months.” I got up and started pacing a bit, something I was prone to doing when I thought things out aloud. Usually the act made my mother nervous, but she said nothing this time as I pivoted back and forth. “There’s a song by the rock group Pink Floyd called “Take it Back,” and in the song the singer laments how he ‘made her prove her love for me, he gave her all that she could take,’ and ‘pushed her to the limit, to see if she would break.’ I did the exact thing. Of course, he was talking about Mother Nature; I am talking about someone real and tangible. But she didn’t budge, she didn’t break. She stayed the whole while.”

“That is because she really cares for you. She wanted to help.”

I pivoted again, turning to face my mother. As I moved from right to left and then left to right, the dog kept watched my movement, trying to sense what sort of game this might be and how to play.

“I know. But in a way that’s the dream all women have when they are young girls, isn’t it? A hurt, brooding boy in need of rescue, someone she can nurse back to life. Someone she can mold into her little prince.” I stopped pacing and waved at the air to dismiss the idea. “None of that matters. She has a career to go after and a degree to complete. She can’t give that up. I wouldn’t want her to give up that dream; I know I couldn’t if the roles were reversed. And things being the way they were, with no job prospect to think of and an expired visa, I couldn’t stay. Plus, I have to take care of you. So there we are. She’s on her side of the continent, and as fate would have it, I am on mine.”

“It is a pickle,” my mother responded. “I’d only met her once during the ride to the airport, but she seemed like a very beautiful and bright young lady.” I laughed. My mother called every potential female prospect she approved of a bright young lady.

I stopped pacing and returned to the ottoman. “It wouldn’t be such a difficult thing to grapple with if the connection weren’t there. I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I’ve dated a fair share of women.”

“Really,” she responded with a roll of her eyes.

“I know you’re shocked, I can see it. Even I have had to break up with women, call it quits, throw in the towel – whatever euphemism applies.” I became more serious. “The connection couldn’t be denied, it was there for both of us. I haven’t felt that close to someone in about seven years.” I thought more about the last one I felt this way about. “Yeah, about seven years. The last one I felt this way about was Sharon.”

“Sharon was very nice, a very bright young lady.” There it was again. “Your father and I liked her very much.”

“Yeah, well...Dad liked her because she had big cans and looked good on my arm. She was a great visual accessory.”

“Reed! No need to be crass!” She rolled up her Vanity Fair and feigned smacking me. “It’s true, your father placed great importance upon appearances, but I am sure he saw more in Sharon than just her bosom.”

I chuckled. “Let’s agree to disagree on that one, okay?” I got back on subject. “Carolyn will be a hard one to forget. I just wish it wouldn’t be such a difficult thing.”

“Good things always are. If they were such an easy thing then you’d see every simpleton in town with a special someone on their arm. Anything good always carries with it struggle and the opportunity to grow and learn, so that the next time you know where to go from here.”

“And where do I go from here?”

My mother grinned. “That’s the question, isn’t it?” She pointed at me emphatically. "I will never be able to answer that question for you. Only you can."

I looked at the door and out towards the back yard and the 14th fairway beyond. This place was so foreign. I hadn’t grown up in this house, it was a retirement home meant for empty nesters looking to reinvent themselves. It wasn't any different than the average home - it had every amenity any ordinary person would require - but it wasn’t my home. Somebody once told me the idea of what ‘home’ is regularly undergoes renovations and revisions in your head, but not in mine. My home was an idea whose time had passed.

“So what now?” I asked my mother.

She paused and messaged her ankles before answering. “You finish moving in whatever items from your apartment you want to keep, and then, like you said earlier, you figure out where to go from here.” She smiled a sad smile, the type you see from people who savor the moment but at the same time think about when that happy moment will cease to be. She reached for her slippers and stood up.

“I think I am going to bed, it’s late enough,” she said as she watched her feet slide into her slippers.

“Do you need any of your medicine?” I asked. “Abraxane? Levaquin?”

“I took them earlier. I will be fine until the morning.” She kissed me on the cheek. “Don’t stay up too late. I know you are still having difficulty sleeping. Don’t let it beat you.”

“Thanks.” I looked down at Sophia. “Maybe I’ll take her for a walk. Would you like that girl? A little walk?” The dog snapped to and started panting, her tongue out to one side. I attached her leash and she was ready to go.

“What say we let you pee all over the 14th green so the groundskeepers will be teed off when they see all the whitened, acid-ridden grass. Would you like that?” Sophia let out a little squeal of excitement.

As I stood on the sidewalk in front of the house I looked down the empty, gloomy street. The ocean fog had made its way over the Santa Monica foothills and settled into the country club as it does every night at this time, making the place look like The Exorcist movie poster. And there I stood in front of the home, just like Father Karras did in the poster, and just like him I was unsure and a little frightened by what uncertainties were inside the house - a house I didn’t know filled with memories I couldn’t reconcile.

No job.
No girl.
No direction.
No place to call my own.
No life.

Square one.

Cracks

2005-07-29T00:54:00.000-04:00

It looked dark outside, but I wasn’t going to check to be sure. I’d been sitting in my chair for most of the day and didn’t want to get up. Take it on faith it was dark outside and my curtains had held back the sunlight for another day, I thought. The dog was on the floor beside the chair, sighing loudly and often as she waited for a command, a sign, or something that meant she was getting out of the house, if only for a little while. She’d grown accustomed to the disappointment and lay motionless.

I was reaching for the unopened bottled of Glenfiddich when the buzz of the intercom sounded. Somebody was back to bother me.

I pressed the button. “Yeah.”

“Let me in, it’s Michelle.”

I was too tired and too drained to fight her off so I buzzed her in. She set her purse down and went into the kitchen.

“Are you hungry? Is there something you want me to…aw Jesus!” she exclaimed. “You didn’t even clean the stuff I left for you last time I was here!” She opened the dishwasher. “And you didn’t empty the last load I washed.” She let out a groan.

“You my mother?” I asked.

“No, but you could show me a little respect and actually fucking listen when I ask you to do something, you know?”

She came around to the living room and looked at the new collection of empty bottles collecting on a table in the corner. “Where in the hell do you get all this booze? And drink it?” She picked up a bottle and sniffed it. “You should be legally dead by now. How long has this been here?”

I shrugged. She let out another groan of frustration. Sophia came alive as Michelle approached, her tail bobbing and whacking the floor with a “thump thump thump” sound. Michelle knelt down and pet the dog for a while. Sophia gave her a lick on the hand in appreciation.

“Put the dog in the bedroom,” I told Michelle. “And close the door,” I added while she was there. Michelle returned and I heard a whimper from Sophia as the room was sealed off.

Just as Michelle was about to lecture me about who knows what, my cell phone rang. I debated answering it but when I saw the call ID I knew she’d just call back if I ignored it. I tapped the answer button.

“Reed, I’m here! Give me directions from the airport.”

I handed the phone to Michelle. “Give her directions from the airport.”

“Who’s this?” she asked, nodding her head towards the phone.

“Your backup.”
____________________________________________________________________________________

The two sized each other up at the door. I didn’t care. I wasn’t even watching them. Between the terse pauses and carefully-chosen words, I could tell they were three misconstrued words or three subtle girl-insults away from a catfight. Both wanted the role of nurturing rescuer.

“I’m Carolyn…you are?”

“Michelle. Friend from back in college. Reed has probably mentioned me before.”

“Nope, never came up.”

Michelle paused. “Hmm. Likewise.”

“He asked me to come,” Carolyn added.

“Really? He hasn’t asked anybody for anything as I recall. That’s been part of the problem.” I remained silent.

“Well, it’s more like I politely persuaded him,” Carolyn replied. Looking to shift the focus back on me, she asked, “What’s he been doing lately? Or not doing?”

Michelle crossed her arms and walked into the living room to address me. “Just how many nurses do you need?”

I put my palm of my hands over my eyes and ran them slowly towards the back of my head. “I don’t need any! Can’t you get it through your heads? Go, don’t stay around on my account!” I pointed towards the door. “Clear enough for you? Am I sending mixed messages?” I took a gulp of scotch and went back to staring at a blank spot across the wall from me.

“Well he’s all yours!” exclaimed Michelle. “I’m smart enough to know when I’m not needed.” She shoved a dish towel into Carolyn’s hand. “Have fun, he’s been such a ball of joy lately!”

She picked up her purse and as she made for the door, added “I hope you aren’t turning into somebody else, Reed. I’d hate to think this is the new you.” She walked out and Carolyn softly closed the door behind her before returning to me, smiling.

“Your friend…Michelle – she means well. She’s frustrated is all.”

From down the hall Sophia was alternating between panting and whining. She was eager to get out and investigate the action. She still had a house to guard, after all.

“That your dog?” Carolyn asked, motioning towards the hallway. “I should probably let her out.”

At first I ignored the comment completely, but then in some dark corner of my head, one of the few gears still working slowly began to turn. The dog won’t take lightly to a stranger on her turf.

“Carolyn, don’t let her out,” I said aloud, still seated. It was too late. As soon as the door was opened, Sophia sprung free and began growling and barking, at Carolyn, her fangs bared. I stood up and still in my zombied state, slowly made my way down the hall. Upon seeing me matters got worse; as far as Sophia was concerned, this stranger was now close to me, threatening the alpha. Sophia stuck out the end of her tongue through clenched teeth, her short hair standing and forming a small mohawk along her back.

Carolyn stayed calm the whole time. If she was afraid she had a good way of not letting it show. “I’m guessing from your blog this must be Sophia, or ‘the ugly dog.’”

“Carolyn, stay calm. Don’t move,” I urged. Sophia barked in protest to hearing Carolyn say her name, as if to utter ‘you don’t know me, you have no right to use my name.’

“Sophia! Heel!” I said. I repeated it. The dog wasn’t listening.

“It’s okay,” said Carolyn. She balled her hand into a fist and presented it to the dog palm side up, her hand tilted downward at the wrist. At first Sophia didn’t know what to make of it – she continued her low, gravelly growl with teeth bared – but then, smelling the hand, she slowly let down her guard, approached the hand, and sniffed it. Soon I saw her tail bob.

“Sophia!” I said again. The dog looked at me and tried to give me the sad eyes look of having made a mistake, but I kept my eyes locked on hers with a stern look on my face.

Carolyn stood up and Sophia jumped back, on guard. More growling.

I walked over to the ugly dog. “All right, enough of this shit!” I grabbed her by the collar and pulled the dog into the living room. She yelped as her legs slid along the floor. When we reached the living room I grabbed a tether and shackled Sophia to the corner of the entertainment armoire.

“Calm the fuck down!” I told her. Sophia alternated between looking tough and wagging her tail.

I sat back down in my chair and resumed swigging my drink. Carolyn kneeled to the side of me and softly kissed my forehead.

“I’m glad to see you too. Don’t you want to know how my flight was?”

“I’ve had enough action for one day.” I shook my fist at Sophia, as she lay on the floor looking totally defeated.

“Your dog is meaner than you describe her in your blogs.”

“You said you don’t read them,” I answered.

“No, I read them until I started making an appearance. Then I had to stop because it felt too weird. I mean, why do you even write it, why do you open yourself up like that?”

I shrugged.

“There has to be a reason,” she said.

“It’s my form of therapy. Better than shelling out thousands of dollars so a shrink can listen to you tell your story. I don’t have to pay for an audience. Besides, if I can see it on paper I can see where I’ve gone wrong in my life. I can map it out.”

“Most of us can tell where we’ve gone wrong without writing it down.”

“Yeah? Well I can’t,” I replied. “Did you come here to find out how I know when I’ve fucked up, because if so then here’s your answer: I blog it.”

Carolyn sat on the arm of the chair and took her hand in mine. “No, no, that’s not why. I’m worried about you. Look at you, look at this place – it’s all in ruin. You look horrible. You’ve lost some weight, I can tell from your face. You haven’t been eating. It looks like you haven’t been sleeping either. Your kitchen counters are covered with empty beer and alcohol bottles, and your dog has been neglected. This isn’t normal. And I’m worried.”

I didn’t answer. I continued looking at the spot on the wall.

“I know you need your time, but please, there are healthier ways to grieve.”

I took another gulp of scotch. Reaching for the bottle, I refilled.

Carolyn stopped me in mid pour, forcing the bottle back to the table. “Look at me Reed. Look at me. Please.”

My eyes wandered over to hers only for an instant, but it was long enough to see the fear in her eyes. I remained silent.

“Don’t do this Reed. Don’t shut me out. This isn’t you, this isn’t the man I fell for in that small Italian restaurant in Toronto.”

“The man in Toronto isn’t here. The man in Toronto was living somebody else’s life. He was living and acting how he was expected to act.”

Carolyn backed away from me. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked.

I leaned forward and resumed pouring my drink. “It means that my entire life was spent acting how others expected me to act. I was brought up to be somebody else. I never was I asked how I wanted to do things, how I wanted to run my life. I can’t do it. This isn’t who I am.”

“And who are you?”

I shrugged. “I’ve gone so long trying to be who they wanted me to be that I don’t know the real me. So whomever you’ve grown closer to these past months isn’t me.”

Carolyn patted me on the arm, then stood up and went into the kitchen. “That’s the fatigue talking. You’ll make more sense when you’ve had rest.” I began hearing the clang of plates and glass.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I’m cleaning up. Somebody has to do it. Then I’ll run the shower for you, because you’ve smelled better, frankly. And it will do you some good. And then you’ll get yourself a good night’s sleep. In the morning breakfast will be waiting.”

She walked back to me and ran her hand along the side of me face. “Wow, that’s a lot of white hair you have in your beard stubble.”

“It never even had a gray phase, just straight to white,” I replied. I reached for the glass of scotch but Carolyn blocked my hand.

“Well I think it makes you look distinguisted.

I grunted. “Distinguished is another way of saying ‘old’. You know that, right?”

She shrugged. “Whatever. You can shave it off when you’re in the shower if it makes you feel old. Just soak in the shower and try not to think about anything. And if you can’t sleep I’ll run down to the store and get you some sleeping pills.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve got enough to keep me busy.” She walked over to where Sophia was still incapacitated, and knelt down to her level. The dog tried to sit up and when she did, Carolyn made the same fist and thrust it in Sophia’s muzzle to smell. After a few moments of sniffing, Sophia’s tail curled up in its familiar curly-queue shape and wagged.

“Don’t worry,” replied Carolyn, “us girls will be just fine.”
____________________________________________________________________________________

I awoke the next morning and made my way into the living room. Carolyn was lying on the couch reading a book, and Sophia was spread out on the floor chewing apart one of her toys. As I entered the room the dog jumped to her feet and came over, her tail swishing to and fro.

“How did you sleep?” Carolyn asked as she put down her book.

“Like a log. I didn’t wake up once.” I looked at the view from the opened patio door and saw it was dark outside. “Wait a minute, how long have I been asleep?”

“Just under 24 hours. I told you it was needed. Your body agreed. Sophia and I have been having a grand old time, right girl?” The dog bounded over and Carolyn scratched her neck.

“And how have you managed to get the dog to like you?” I asked. “Sophia doesn’t like anybody. Yesterday the dog wanted to kill you, now she’s your best friend.”

Carolyn smiled. “You don’t last as a nature photographer without learning how to take care of yourself in the wild. I know how to handle some animals.”

I sat down in my chair and began pouring myself a scotch.

“Why don’t you lay off that. Just for tonight, okay?”

I frowned.

“The booze is part of the reason you’ve been a zombie. Let your body get back in its routine.”

I put the bottle down. “Fine, we’ll try it your way.”

“I’m sorry I don’t have anything ready for you to eat. You don’t have anything in the cupboards and I haven’t gone shopping. We’ll have to go and get something.”

“That’s all right, I’m not hungry.”

“No, you need to eat. You haven’t been eating, and you are dehydrated. Look.” She grabbed some skin on the back of my hand and pinched, letting the skin go.

“See how it doesn’t snap back? You don’t have enough water in your system. And when you are dehydrated you don’t want to eat. It’s a vicious cycle. We need to get you something simple, like soup.”

“Why do you give a fuck?” I asked.

“I’m hurt you even have to ask,” she responded. “I’ve invested too much time in you. I care about you. I’m falling in love with you.” She came over to my chair and sat down in my lap, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Is that so bad,” she asked, “that a girl can fall for a suave, good looking man?”

“Whatever you think I am, I’m not,” I replied.

“I don’t understand the hesitation and self-doubt, Reed. What is going on? This goes beyond dealing with a death in the family.”

“It’s nothing.” I replied.

“Oh no, I didn’t spend five hours on a plane to be told to my face to forget it. Spill it, mister.”

“How much have you read of the blogs?”

“I stopped reading after we met on Valentine’s Day. I didn’t want to know how you portrayed me and our time together. I’ve wanted to read it, but I’ve forced myself to stay away. I know points of view can be different, but I didn’t want to read something I didn’t agree with.”

I lifted her off my lap and stood up. I paced back and forth along the length of the couch, Carolyn and Sophia both intently watching me.

“Well, what?” Carolyn again asked.

“Before my father died, he told me that he put a clause in his will regarding how he’d be…uh…disposed of.”

“Disposed of?”

“Cremated ashes. Half reside here in a memorial at Forest Lawn. It’s the other half that’s the issue.”

“And the issue is…?”

“He wants me to take his ashes to Scotland, to a town his family came from and where some of them still live.” I stared breathing heavy. It was becoming more and more difficult to get the words out. “He wants me to transport his ashes to Scotland where they will rest in a Becker family memorial outside the city of Monifieth. I’m the one who has to do it.”

“That’s wonderful! He must have really felt a close bond with you to entrust you with this request.”

“It’s not! It’s no such thing! I am dreading having to go there. I can’t do it.”

“Sure you can. You’re just nervous,” she replied.

I shook my head. “No, that’s not it. I don’t think I can do it. I’m not strong enough. Whatever my father thought of me, no matter how tough he might have thought I was, I’m not. I don’t have the will or strength to do this. I can’t do it.”

She stood and hugged me. “Yes you do. Whatever self-doubt you have, I know you can do this. I’ve seen you – you have this natural charisma that people gravitate towards – and your father knew this too, I’m sure that’s why he asked this of you.”

I buried my head in her shoulder and shook my head.

“You can do it. I believe in you,” she said. “I’m certain it will help you come to terms with the events. But you have to want it to happen. And you have to let the people who want to help along the way be allowed to do so. Your father knew what he was doing, otherwise you wouldn’t be going.”

“I can’t do it. I can’t carry this out myself. I’ve avoided my family since the funeral because I’m afraid all they’ll say is that I’m running out on them, that I’m leaving when my mother needs looking after. I’m splitting apart the very thing my father meant to honor. Whatever kind of person he knew me to be, I’m not. I’m failing, Carolyn.”

She calmed me down. “Shhh, small steps. First we get you ready to face the world, then we conquer it. Let’s get you something to eat, and then some more rest. Monday we’ll reintroduce you to the outside world, maybe do a little grocery shopping so you have something to eat.” She looked at Sophia. “Maybe something special for your dog, she’s stood by you these past few weeks.” She turned back to me, smiling. “And then we’ll go from there. No assumptions, no expectations.”
___________________________________________________________________________________

The next day Carolyn prodded me into calling my mother to check in on her. I felt bad. I felt I had abandoned her. She didn’t disagree. She asked me to come over. I couldn’t refuse.

I took the dog with me, she never failed to cheer up my mother.

“Mind if I log on to your computer and do some web surfing while you are out?” Carolyn asked. It didn’t mind.

My mother was happier to see the dog than me. The dog wasn’t there this time just for cheering her up. On the way over I had decided it was time my mother got a roommate.

“If I’m going to Monifieth then somebody needs to look after the dog,” I said. “I wouldn’t ask, being that you just finished watching her for almost five months, but I read that the elderly and uh…widows…respond well to the company of a pet. And Sophia loves you. So…if you are up to it…”

My mother smiled, wrinkles appearing around the edges. It was the first smile I’d seen from her since before we brought my father home from the hospital. It was a fragile smile.

“Of course I will take Sophia.” She wiped away a tear as it slid down her cheek. “When are you going?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. I still have to look at flights, and I don’t know who to talk to in Monifieth. I have no idea who to contact about putting Dad’s remains in the city memorial. There are so many details.”

She nodded. “Better talk to your uncle. He’ll have names and numbers, I’m sure.” We made small talk about little things, and then I excused myself. It was time to put the events into motion and do what had to be done. I’d run from it long enough.

“Reed darling, take as long as you need. Don’t feel the urge to rush in and out of Scotland. Take your time, your father would have wanted that. He would have wanted you to make your peace with him and learn about his family and their land.”

I hugged my mother. She saw me out to the car. “I hope you can find your smile along the way,” she said. “Don’t forget about it. It is a very powerful thing. This trip will be more a personal journey for you more than carrying out your father’s request. Don’t lose track of that.”
__________________________________________________________________________________

The dream was vivid. I stood before a plot, the urn containing my father’s ashes in my hands. A clergyman read from the bible as a few faces, none of whom I’d ever previously seen, looked on, some crying, others bowing their heads in prayer. When the clergyman had finished he pointed at the plot, a sign I thought to distribute the ashes. Two men grabbed me from behind and threw me into the plot along with the urn as the group watched. I reached out for help but nobody came forward. As the men began shoveling dirt onto me I shot out of bed, my forehead beaded with sweat.

“Holy shit!” I yelled. I was out of breath.

“What? What is it?” Carolyn asked. She sat up to look at me. “You’re forehead is on fire. Bad dream?”

“I was being buried alive with my father,” I said. “I don’t know what to do any longer, I can’t run from it, and I can’t embrace it. I’m screwed either way.”

Carolyn went to the bathroom and returned with a cool cloth. She tried comforting me as she applied the cloth. “Nobody can be a superhero when it comes to this. The mind sorts things out in its own fashion. All you can do is deal with the bumps along the way.”

“My mind is telling me I can’t do this, that I’m going to screw things up if I go to Scotland. It’s telling me this is a disaster in waiting.”

“No, your mind is trying to sort out what it can make sense of. Everything else it fills in the holes, until you can make sense of it yourself when the time comes.” She leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. “Nobody said it was easy.” She took the cloth back to the bathroom.

I laid back down and she curled up beside me. “I still don’t understand why you are doing all of this for me, why you haven’t hopped back on a plane and gone home.”

She wrapped her arms around me tightly. “Because a father once told his son that we have to be strong for the people who can’t be strong themselves.”

I sat back up and looked at her, startled. She smiled at me weakly, the kind of smile a person gives you when they are trying to be empathetic.

“How did you know about what he said?” I asked, knowing she had read the blogs.

“I caved in. I’m sorry. I read through your blog while you were with your mother. I wanted to see what you had written, even it was something I didn’t agree with. Your father was right, and you should let those of us who want to help you help. Not everybody has the luxury of a shoulder to lean on. And you don’t have to go through this hell alone. It breaks my heart to see you like this. That’s why I’m here.”

She curled up beside me as I stretched back out on the bed. In time I began to feel sleepy, the effect of weeks of little or no sleep. My body had enough of trying to fight it. The last thing I remember hearing Carolyn say as I drifted off was “if only for a few nights, if only for a limited time, let me be your guardian angel.”
__________________________________________________________________________________

“I was thinking about what you said last night about having a shoulder to lean on,” I said as I sipped my coffee the next morning. The crowd at Daily Grind was busier than normal.

“Uh huh,” Carolyn replied in a husky voice.

“I’ve resigned myself to doing it, to going to Scotland. It would be more cowardly and disappointing if I didn’t honor my father’s wishes, even if I am uneasy about it.”

Carolyn nodded in agreement. “It’s good you think so.” She looked at me and saw that I was staring at the placemat and fidgeting a little. “What, what is it?” she asked.

“I can’t do it alone, Carolyn. I can’t go by myself.” I lifted my head and met her gaze. “Will you go with me?”

She stayed silent for a beat. “Oh, wow…this is unexpected,” she said. She started twirling the end of her hair. I’d seen her do it once before when she was nervous. “I don’t know, I have school and work and…” she trailed off.

“When does school start?” I asked.

“Last week of August.”

“And how about work?” She was a freelancer and took the jobs as they came up. There was no set schedule.

“I haven’t taken anything yet.” Oh, except for that thing at Air Canada Centre, but that’s not until the first week of September. But I don’t know, that’s a lot of potential work to give up.” She paused and I could see the wheels spinning. “How long would it be for?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know, as long as it takes. If it’s a question of money for a ticket, I’ll pay for it.”

“That’s sweet of you to offer, but that’s not what I’m thinking about, it’s paying rent and paying for my last year of school and all the other bills in the coming months. When I left I figured I’d be here a few days, maybe as many as ten.”

“And then you’re as good as gone,” I replied in a somber tone. “I’m not going back to Toronto. You’re going to have your life there while mine will consist of looking after my mother here. I don’t know what happens after now.” I sighed. “That’s the problem, I don’t have the faintest idea what happens after now.”

Carolyn reached across the table and took my hand in hers as she continued to think. I tried not to pressure her by staring her down so I turned my focus towards my half-finished coffee.

“Well hell,” she finally said. “I talk about being there for you and wanting to help you, and then I up and go at your first sign of progress? That’s not right. Of course I’ll go. I’ll be there for you, right behind you all the way and ready to catch you.”

I shook my head. “I’m no leader, and I haven’t the faintest idea what we’re going to do once we get there. Don’t walk behind me, walk beside me. I need somebody to be my partner in this.”

She smiled. “That’s so sweet.”

“I’m serious. There are arrangements to be made, and I don’t have the faintest idea how to carry them out or who to talk to. I’m going to need help.”

“I’m going to need to go back to Toronto first,” said Carolyn. “I need more than five day’s worth of clothing.”

“Okay. First Toronto, then Glasgow.”

Descent

2005-06-27T16:02:00.000-04:00

The hole was large, the damage sizeable. It was a looming void, enveloped by darkness and plunging far beyond what the naked eye could see. The walls appeared corroded and damaged, the charred remains of a battle lost. Rugged wrinkles ran haphazardly across the face of the walls like veins, emerging from the darkness in some corners and trailing off into others.

The rescue party threw its line into the darkness, listening intently for a “thud” of rope against the cavern floor. No sound echoed back. Undeterred, they assembled their lights atop their hardhats and carefully lowered themselves into the void, uncertain of what they would find, if anything.

Their lights shone upon the blackened and scarred walls. It had been a great struggle, they surmised. Where there once had been something of substance - something promising - there was now a barren waste. Once these walls were bound by words like charismatic, optimistic, and happy. Now they had been replaced, pushed aside in favor of such words as hesitant, broken, and defeated.

One worker touched down on a ledge, somewhere in the midsection of the cavern. His feet felt around the burred edges of the crevice. More lights were set up, revealing the extent of the scoring on the walls, and the vast waste of the cavern. It would take work, it would take a dedicated and loving hand. Already some had tried, yet failed. This time would have to be different.
___________________________________________________________________________________

Somewhere around 11am. “Pick up the phone, Reed. I know you’re there. No? I’m going to keep calling back until you pick up, goddamit. This isn’t normal!”

Closer to noon. “Look, I know you’re not in the mood to talk to anybody, but I’m your friend. Jesus, I just want to know how you’re holding up, is that so wrong? Call me, I’ll have my cell. I’ve got an audition at one-thirtyish, but I’ll check in afterward. Seriously, call me.”

In the three o'clock hour. “I know you are there, you haven’t left your apartment in over a week. Pick up the fucking phone. C’mon man, this is serious!”

I looked at the message machine as it blinked “9” over and over. Devin continued screaming into the speaker as I sat there. I finally reached over and clicked on the phone, answering with a single word.

“Devin.”

“Holy shit Reed, why don’t you pick up a goddamn phone? We’re worried. I’m worried. It’s not healthy to stay cooped up in your place like that. You’ve gotta move on, get back to the land of the living.”

No response.

“Look, nobody expects you to spring right back, but you can do little things each day. Take baby steps, you know dude?”

Silence from my end. I dropped the scotch glass to the carpet. I’d been holding the empty glass for the past hour or so.

“For God sake Reed, it’s a difficult thing to go through, but you have the support of everybody who was there at the funeral. I know, I was there with you. I know what you’re going through.”

I sat up. “You were there with me? You were there that week he was slipping away, you were there when he died in the next room and was carted off by medics? You were there when he sentenced me to live his life and give up mine and everything I've wanted?”

Devin cleared his throat, coughing. “No, I wasn’t. What I meant was...”

“That’s right, you weren’t,” I interrupted, “so don’t tell me you know how I feel inside. Just shut up. Shut the fuck up.” I picked up the glass and went into the kitchen, my eyes zeroing in on the half-emptied bottle of Johnnie Walker Red.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. But I want you to know it doesn’t have to be that way. Get out of the house, take your mind off things. You know, I saw your billboard today, the one you worked on in Toronto. It’s on the 405 freeway, somewhere in Carson. The ad that reads ‘find your flavor’ and has the different colored bottles.”

I briefly thought about Toronto and how far in the past it seemed. “Do you have anything constructive to say, because if not I’m hanging up.”

“Wait, don’t! Let me take you out and get your mind off things. We can go to Liquid Kitty and have those huge martinis they serve. All on me.”

“You don’t have money, Devin. You’re an actor.”

He laughed. “Not this time. The Burger King stuff has been pretty good, I’ve got five commercials with them under my belt. And I’ve been in a quicksilver commercial too, so the money’s been a constant for the past three months.”

Silence.

“Liquid Kitty not high class enough for you? Fine, we can go to the Grand Havana Room. My buddy is a member and can get us guest passes. Think about it, relaxing with a scotch and a fine cigar on leather high-back chairs with butler service and the whole nine! What do you think?”

“I’m hanging up now, Devin.” CLICK.
__________________________________________________________________________________

The second party entered, more ambitious and armed with the tools of their failed predecessors. One by one they lowered themselves into the cavern, cautiously spelunking from the walls as they made their descent. This new group continued downward, plunging further into the darkness, far beyond what previous parties had attempted. The slope of the depths was slippery, and their footing uncertain.

One felt the bottom beneath her foot and touched down, setting up a light on the floor of the cavern. She calculated the depths, made the adjustments. This was deeper than she had anticipated. Bringing daylight to these levels would be a demanding challenge. The worker would have to persevere.
___________________________________________________________________________________

Buzz! Buzz!

The din filled the deadened room with noise, the sound bouncing off the walls and reverberating, slow to die. Somewhere a dog barked, the first sounds the animal had made in nearly a week.

Buzz! Buzz!

The noise repeated, demanding entry. The visitor outside at the complex entry gate was not going away.

I remained seated in my chair and leaned over to touch the intercom button. I didn’t say anything. I let the white noise on the other side inform the visitor somebody was there.

“Reed? Reed? Say something.” It was Michelle. I’d last seen here a week ago at my father’s funeral. She didn’t say anything the whole time, just hugged me a lot and held my hand for the entire service.

“Reed?” she repeated. “Buzz me in, I need to check on you. I need to see how you are doing.” I clicked down on the intercom to respond, and as I did the dog recognized Michelle’s voice and begin barking, then whining. I lifted my finger off the intercom button.

“Sophia recognizes me. She knows I’m here for a good reason. Now let me in. Please.”

Buzz! Unlock.

A few moments later she was banging on my door. “Let me in. Come on.”

I unlocked the door, turned, and went back to my seat as she came in.

“It’s about time, Reed, I...” she stopped as she stepped inside and was immediately engulfed by the darkness of the room. “My God, it’s so dark in here! And it’s stuffy. It smells.” She turned on a light, then went to the patio door and threw open the curtains. I recoiled from the light.

“It’s no good hiding, you’re going to have to face it,” she said, pointing at the traffic and people walking on the street below. “Life keeps going, whether you choose to or not.”

“Go away.”

“No way. I’ve finally gotten a foot in this stronghold, you think I’m going to retreat so quickly?” She made her way towards the kitchen, stopping to pet Sophia as she intercepted Michelle's course. The dog planted herself in front of Michelle and tried to soak up as much attention as possible, having been neglected and isolated in the apartment for so long.

Michelle looked at the bottles upon bottles littering the counter. “Been at this long?” she asked. I didn’t reply.

“Oh, and what’s with giving Devin the cold shoulder? He called me all worried that you’re on death watch or something. That’s why I came.” She knelt down again to scratch Sophia under her muzzle. The dog trusted so few people; any attempt to pet her anywhere near the mouth was risky.

She turned back to the bottles. Empties of Dewars, Johnnie Walker, J&B, and Chivas lined the counter. On top of them were various bottles of beer and club soda, making a clear view from the living room to the kitchen near impossible. Michelle started clearing the area.

“I don’t need a maid,” I said.

“Yes you do. And don’t insult me,” she responded. “The sink is full of dishes, the counter's cluttered with pots and pans and empty bottles. When was the last time you picked up anything?”

I shrugged.

“And when was the last time you’ve eaten?”

I shrugged again.

“Have you eaten?”

“Not much. Not lately. Just this.” I held up the half-filled glass.

She came around to look at me as I sat there in my t-shirt and jogging pants. “You’ve lost weight, I can see it in your face. The cheek bones show a little more. And you have black bags under your eyes.” She brought her hand to my face and ran it along the side of my jawbone. “This isn’t healthy. You should eat something.”

“Not hungry.”

“You can’t stay like this, Reed.” She went back into the kitchen and fished out a trash bag, filling it with the empty bottles. Afterward she rinsed the dishes and filled the dishwasher.

“There,” she said, turning the dishwasher cycle on, “you can empty that when it is done. It will give you something to do.”

She walked down the hall and assessed the damage in the rooms.

“Your bed is made,” she said when she returned.

“I haven’t been sleeping in it.”

“Where do you sleep?”

I pointed at the chair I was seated in. “I haven’t been really sleeping.”

Michelle stood in front of me and held out her hand.

“What?” I said.

“Come with me. You’re going to bed.”

“I’m not tired.”

“Stop fighting yourself,” she replied. Michelle pulled me up and led me down the hall to the bedroom. She pulled back the sheets and plopped me down in it. The dog immediately jumped on the bed and situated herself.

“You know,” Michelle began, smiling, “right about now you would have made some sort of crack about me trying to get you into bed.” She laughed.

I remained silent. She pursed her lips and went into the bathroom, returning with a cup of water.

“Here, these will help you sleep. I brought them from home,” she said, slipping the pill into my hand. “I’m only giving you half of one because of all the booze you have ingested. The two together will knock you out good.” I didn't want to take the cup. She forced it into my hand. “Please, you may have been neglecting the signs but your body needs this.” I swallowed the pill and followed it with the water. The fluid burned my throat. It had recently grown accustomed to only alcohol.

“Now rest,” she said. “I’ll check on you tomorrow. Or the next day.” She gave Sophia one last rub on the head and left.
__________________________________________________________________________________

“You haven’t answered the phone or returned my calls in a week. What is going on?” she asked, her voice filled with fright and concern.

“Nothing is going on Carolyn, absolutely nothing.”

“You’re a terrible liar. You’re drifting, I can hear it in your voice.”

“I just want to be left alone.”

She sighed into the phone. “You can’t hide behind a wall like this.”

I didn’t respond.

“Have you been sleeping?” she asked.

“No. Well, only after taking half a sleeping pill. That only got me six hours.”

“And before that?”

“I don’t know. An hour a night.” I paused. “Maybe.”

“This isn’t good Reed. Is there anybody you can go see?”

“No.”

“No there isn’t, or no you won’t?” she asked.

“Does it matter?”

“Of course! Everybody grieves, but this isn’t a healthy way of doing it, Reed. It’s destructive. You need to snap out of it and if you won’t do it yourself then somebody has to help you.”

“I don’t need anybody’s help,” I replied.

“Yes you do, and trying to push everybody away is just another sign of how bad it’s become.” She paused and I could hear her flipping through a book or something paper-bound. “I could be there in three days.”

“No. Don’t.”

“Yes. You need it. You are slipping away.”

"I’m not anything.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem,” she said. “Three days. I’ll be there. I’ll call for directions once I’ve landed.” Her voice became stern. “And when I call, don’t ignore me.”
__________________________________________________________________________________

This team was but one. Proud, defiant. Expeienced in navigating difficult terrain. With a fearlessness unseen in the previous groups, she boldly threw her rope into the abyss, and without waiting for the ropes to reach the bottom, began her descent into the cavern. Not taking note of the damage and where previous groups had come up short, she continued her drop into the depths, letting her light bounce randomly off walls as she made her way further and further down. In moments she reached the bottom, landing with a thud and quickly casting aside her ropes. She loosened the harness and let it drop to the floor, and then moved along the sides, feeling the cavern walls for a weak spot, a place where the walls might give and the materials beneath could be unearthed. When she found her mark she paused, and then retrieving a chisel and hand sledge from her belt, drove the spike hard, hitting its mark. It was only the first of many blows she would have to deliver to the hardened surface. The cavern began to shake, and she smiled in response. It was progress.

Before the Diaspora

2005-06-24T18:58:00.000-04:00

The room was everything it was built to be: Impersonal, cold, and enveloping. Darkly stained mahogany and walnut outlined the wainscoting along the walls, while high chair rails and stubby shelves supported imposing objects projecting downward stares, a reminder of your insignificance, your mortality.

The tiled marble floor was cold, serving as an obvious disconnect between the warmth of the outside world and the chill held within these walls. Candles upon brass and gilded metal frames adorned the corners, while large crosses hung on opposing walls, the Christian symbol of suffering and redemption.

It was everything a mortuary was supposed to be, life celebrated within walls sealed off by death. The ante room served as a sanctuary, a spot where grieving families could shelter themselves from well-wishers during more fragile moments. The chill of the stale air felt like the reaper himself was in the room. The three stained glass windows shone with the pale, fading glow of the outside sun. In a corner were three children, stealing a private moment while people outside spilled into pews of the eighty year-old monument to death, readying their moment to grieve and relive the passing of a friend, a co-worker, a neighbor, a relative, a husband, a father.

The door opened and Peter walked into the ante room, coat slung over his arm. Ordinarily he would have donned his Armani three-piece suit and Zegna shoes for opening day in court, a superstition he kept ever since winning his first piece of litigation. No opening court date since had gone without an appearance in his trademark suit, but today wasn’t about fashion. There would be no opening statements, no motions for dismissal, no grandstanding before the magistrate.

Peter approached the three children, kneeling down a bit to peer from their level. “Your parents are looking for you I’m sure. Why don’t you find them outside.”

One kid looked up. “It’s boring out there. It’s just a bunch of old people.”

“Ah, one day you’ll understand. Just go back out there, it will all be over soon enough.”

The children got up and shuffled out of the room as Alexis and I entered. I looked at them as they filtered out and saw in their faces the same look I remembered having the first time I went to a wake, my maternal grandfather’s. Why are we here? What does this all mean? Why is everybody so old, and so sad? Questions nobody seemed willing to answer at the time. Questions I’d have to find the answers to myself, just as these three would.

I closed the door and the three of us stood in the pale white room staring at each other. It was the first time since the three of us – just us – had been together since Peter’s high school graduation seventeen years ago.

“I saw Mrs. McEwen outside,” said Alexis. “I haven’t seen her since Mom and Dad moved to the country club.”

“I think she is hosting something after the wake,” I replied. I looked at the stained glass window of Saint Michael, his body clad in shining armor, fighting the demons of hell. His sword was a variation of an Armenian cross, his armor reminiscent of the crusades. I wasn’t fascinated with his dress or his deeds, however; it was his face, filled with sorrow and pain despite the nobleness of his actions that stirred my curiousity. He was a man in battle, but by the look on his face the demons he was trying to hold at bay were within him.

“Hey Reed, you there?” my brother asked, snapping my fingers. I must have filtered him out while staring at the window.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked you if that’s the Zegna suit you wore at graduation.”

I looked at my coat, black and hanging from my frame with a classic cut. My father’s word for it would have been dignified. The cuffs hung past the coat arm their traditional quarter inch, and I took a brief look at them before shoving my hands deep into the pockets of my slacks.

“Yeah, Zegna.” We weren’t here to discuss designers so I changed the topic. “Do you realize the last time just the three of us were together like this was Peter’s high school graduation in 1988?”

“My lord, has it really been that long?” asked Alexis.

“Couldn’t be,” replied Peter. “What about when I graduated from Cal?”

“No,” I said, “you had Marie with you. I remember her at the ceremony because different schools walked on different days. The last time was your high school graduation. The last time the three of us were together like this. You know, without wives or husbands, girlfriends and boyfriends. Just us, just like now.”

Peter took a seat at the first row of pews. “Well, not exactly like now.”

We stood there silently, staring alternately at each other and into the blank space of the room. For all the past experiences and memories we shared, for the blood ties that bound us together, we couldn’t find anything to adequately fill the air with, at least anything of consequence in this place and on this occasion.

I finally broke the silence. “I don’t understand why I’m the one who has to give the eulogy.” I turned to my brother. “It should be you. Or you,” I said, nodding at Alexis. “You’ve lived with him longer. You have more memories to draw upon.”

“It was in his will, it was what he wanted. We should respect that,” Peter answered. “I wish I had a more meaningful answer, but I don’t. I don’t know the reasoning behind it.”

“I don’t know if I can do it. I mean, what can I say? There will be a church full of people waiting for me to say something insightful, waiting to give some kind of meaning or relevance to his death. I don’t know if I can do that.”

Alexis put her hand on my shoulder. “I know it will be difficult. I’ll be honest with you, I wouldn’t want to trade places, but we have to honor his final requests. Search for a happy moment, something you’ll carry with you forever as an example of the kind of person he was. Let that be your guide.”

I sat down on a pedestal that looked like it used to hold oversized candles. I put my head down and locked my fingers behind my neck. I exhaled slowly. That nauseous feeling was starting to return.

Alexis tried to change the topic to happier matters. “How much do you think Dad's patents are going to total?” she asked.

Peter shot up from the pew. “He’s barely dead and already you are cutting up his assets? Alexis, that’s low.”

I looked up and caught Alexis looking sheepishly at Peter, giving him a shy schoolgirl’s I'm sorry gaze. “That’s not what I meant. I just wondered how much there was, is all.”

“What does it matter?” I joined in. “He worked very hard to develop those things and get them patented, and as a result we grew up having almost anything we wanted. We lived in a nice house, we had nice clothes, and we each got cars by the time we were out of high school.” I pointed at Peter. “And don’t forget, without that money you wouldn’t have been able to go to Cal and Stanford.” I turned and pointed at Alexis. “And you wouldn’t have been able to go to Georgetown and tool around Europe for a summer after graduation.”

“I wasn’t talking about that,” replied Alexis. “I’m aware of all that, and I’m thankful for every bit of it. What I’m talking about is inheritance. How much there is, how it’s going to be split up, how he partitioned it.”

“That’s not in the will?” asked Peter.

“No,” I replied rubbing my temples, “it’s in a separate financial will. It won’t be read until after the stateside burial.” They all looked at me in disbelief. “Hey, his request. All things being equal I hope Mom spends it all. I hope she goes around the world on cruises and enjoys the rest of her time. It’s hers before it’s ours. Besides, the whole point of going to good schools and getting into good careers was so that you wouldn’t need to live off their money. You’re a lawyer, Peter. You’re married to a doctor, Alexis. You have your own money.”

Alexis paced around the room. “You shouldn't bite the hand that feeds you Reed, you could benefit most of all from this. By the time it gets to you there will be enough that you’ll never have to work again, I figure.”

Peter interrupted. “That’s if you don’t mind money that was made on the backs of war victims and innocents.”

“Jesus Christ, Peter! How many times do I have to tell you that Dad didn’t build weapons?”

“Are you still in denial, Reed? Think about it: He worked for a defense contractor. He had a restricted clearance. He couldn’t talk to his family about anything he did at work. He was forbidden from traveling to certain countries throughout the 80s and 90s. You tell me what that means.”

I ran a hand through my hair and sat back down on the pedestal. “All it means is he built altimeters. And he built them so well that he patented two of the design specs he created. The royalties made from the mass-production of those altimeters over the course of almost thirty years has put you, and you, and me where we are today. Period. That's all it means.”

Alexis laughed. “You sound like you are trying to convince yourself more than us, baby brother.” She picked me up by the arm. “It’s okay, I have peace of mind about this whole thing. He didn’t drop the bombs and he didn’t build the detonators. He built one small component of a much larger thing.”

Peter brushed some lint from his suit. “Small. Really? The self-leveling instrument on short and medium-range surface-to-air missiles? The piece that tells a missile how high it is off the ground and the distance to its target? That sounds like an integral part.”

“Look,” I said, “Lockheed made a lot of components for a lot of clients. They built stuff for the DC aircrafts. I remember the first time I flew to Greece to meet Mom’s family. I was nine. When we were somewhere over the Atlantic the stewardess invited me to go in the cabin so the captain and his crew could bullshit with me and make me feel important. I saw that same altimeter on their instrument cluster. It stood out like a sore thumb. So don’t tell me Dad was part of the war machine. I know what I saw.”

Peter glanced at Alexis and the two decided to drop it. The memories were more important, not the truth.
__________________________________________________________________________________

The wake was a traditional Scottish one. The casket was to remain open. The deceased wore a traditional kilt and black argyle jacket, complete with a sporran connected by a gold chain strap. A white bow tie was tied around his neck. He looked as I remembered him over the past ten years – dignified. He had always been the silent type, talking only when necessary, and when he did it carried such weight and gravity. When my father spoke you knew it was important.

People came one by one through the processional line, each paying their respects. Some wept softly, others tried to hide their tears. A few whispered muted things to my father as they passed, while others proudly declared things in front of God and his remains. “A good man, a good friend.”

My mother sat alone in the first row of pews, her Greek widow’s wrap held tightly around her shoulders. I wondered how she had found that traditional wardrobe piece so quickly, then realized at their age she knew it would happen eventually. Everything decays, no matter how well you try to preserve it.

I stood at the back of the hall, shaking hands with well-wishers and listening to stories about my father. Many told me they knew me since I was “this tall,” as they held their flattened palm to their knee or waist. One woman, a close friend of my parents for as long as I had been alive, wept and told me how it was a travesty the lord smites those so good of heart and pure in spirit. She cried and cried as I tried my best to comfort her. As my father had told me in hospital, I had to be strong for those who couldn’t be themselves.

My uncle, my father’s youngest brother, pulled me aside when he saw I was having more than I could handle of my father’s friends. He shooed me off with a white lie about the pastor needing to see me.

“How are you holding up?” he asked.

“I’ve been better,” I coldly replied.

“Ah, the Becker family sense of humor,” he pointed out, “it never disappears. I know you are trying to put on a brave face in public but it’s a natural thing to grieve, so if you feel the need to let loose with a good cry, or even vent, it’s okay. Shows your human like the whole lot of us.”

I looked at him. He’d always been a kind man, an optimist and a romantic at heart. When his wife ran off fifteen years ago with another man he always held out hope she’d come back. She never did, and he had to withstand fifteen years of people laughing and talking behind his back about what a dolt he was for thinking that way. I admired him, probably because he went through it that way and really believed she’d return. That is something I would never have been able to do.

He waited for me to do something. Cry, or scream, or fall to my knees. “I haven’t been feeling...well, anything. I just don’t feel. I’m disconnected I guess.” I shrugged.

“It’s okay. It will come in time. But when it does, don’t let yourself be consumed by it. Better men than you and I have fallen without being able to get back up.”

He patted me on the shoulder. I’d say he was the hundredth person to do that today. “I hear you are taking your father’s ashes to Monifieth.”

I nodded.

“He’d be proud. Very proud. Know that. It’s no easy task he’s asked of you.” He paused and rubbed his chin, a quizzical look on his face. “What have you been told about my grandfather? Your great-granfather, Wallace.”

I shook my head. “Wallace McFadyen? Not a word.” I knew a little about my great-grandfather, random stories my father passed down to me, and the occasional photo hidden away in a shoe box. In every photo he was an old man, in every story a shrewd patriach to be feared.

My uncle scratched his ear. “Why don’t we sit down,” he suggested, pointing at some seats in a private section of the hallway. We made our way to the seats, pausing briefly to nod and say hello to a few people.

“You and your great-grandfather share some uncanny facial features.”

“We do?”

“You’re the spitting image of him when he was your age, my boy! Now given the heightened emotions surrounding your being in Monifieth to begin with, there are some older relatives who will be even more emotional when they see you. They will be sad. They will be taken back. They will think they are seeing a ghost. Realize it’s not you. Wallace was a well-respected man there. He was a patriarch. He was well known, and for a long time he was the face of that town. Seeing you will bring back those memories, and it may feel uncomfortable at times. Just bear with it.” He adjusted his suit jacket and stood up.

“Somebody should have made you aware. Your father most of all.” He patted my shoulder and went to find my mother.

This trip was sounding better and better all the time.
___________________________________________________________________________________

I couldn’t sleep. My mother had sent me to my apartment, confident that between the ladies society of the country club looking in on her, and the various friends and relatives come to town for my father’s funeral, she was in good hands.

“Go home,” she told me, brushing some hair from over my ear, “you need your rest. You don’t look well, and the day after tomorrow will be a very big day.” Where Wednesday’s wake featured a casketed, fully intact body, Thursday would be spent cremating the body and placing the remains in a ceremonial urn for display during Friday’s funeral.

“I’m more concerned about you,” I said.

“I’ll be okay.” She paused, then added “would you do me a favor and leave Sophia with me, darling. After everybody has left it will be so quiet alone in the house. I’d like her company.”

“Keep her for as long as you want.” I hugged my mother and left. As I made my way down the walkway I could here Sophia whining, certain I’d abandoned her once again.

The apartment was dark and stuffy. Without the dog it felt a little less inviting, a little less like home. I had absolutely no idea what I was going to say in front of my father’s friends and colleagues, no hint of a topic or story, no anecdote or fond memory. I was drawing a blank. I needed sleep but I wasn’t tired. And when in this state I usually resorted to drink.

The first empty bottle of single malt sat on the counter, a testament to Monday night’s sleeplessness. The second represented Tuesday's. Tonight I had gone through half of the bottle, slowly nursing it as I sat on the sofa and watched old Charlie Chaplin movies. Charles knew about isolation and feeling alone; an entire nation had turned its back on him, and though my situation by no means compared, I felt as if he and I were kindred spirits alone in my living room.

Somewhere around 8am the next morning the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s Carolyn. How are you holding up?”

What could I say? I couldn’t tell her I was fine, but I couldn’t worry her with my misery. She was thousands of miles away - what would she be able to do?

“I’m fine,” I flatly responded.

“If there is anything you need let me know. Anything. You need cheering up, then I’m your gal. Don’t let the distance bother you.”

I started to smile as I listened to her voice and thought about her touch, her face, her kindness. That immediately vanished once I remembered the three thousand miles separating us.

“I wish,” I started saying.

“Yes?”

I wanted to say I wished she wasn’t so far away, that there wasn’t that distance between us. I couldn’t.

“I wish...this all wasn’t happening.”

“I know, and I’m so sorry. I wish there was something more I could do.”

I begged off the call, too sad to go on. I went and laid in bed. I might have fallen asleep around 10:30, but I was awake by noon.
___________________________________________________________________________________

Westwood First Presbyterian church had been a place of worship for my parents for as long as I could remember. I stopped attending when I went off to college, when the parental chains of religion and faith were loosened and I was free to go as I pleased. They felt they had done their part as much as possible and instilled me with the morals of our faith to continue on my own. For all their hard work I’d gone to church a total of 10 times in the seven years since. Disappointment was becoming my specialty.

I walked inside and found my brother and his family waiting in a darkened hall. It was requested the family of the deceased come early to make sure all the arrangements were taken care of to their satisfaction. Alexis and Roger were directing the flower setup while Marie tried her best to keep her son Tyler in check as he tried wandering off into the cavernous body of the church.

“Peter,” Marie called, “would you keep an eye on Tyler? I’ve got my hands full with Lena.”

Peter didn’t answer. The finality of the day had hit him. Alexis said he had been in a daze all morning. Alexis seemed to be taking the day in stride. Maybe she had prepared herself properly for this day. I still felt disconnected from everything. I watched as Peter paced the hall, eyes focused firmly on the floor.

“I’ll watch after him Marie,” I offered. I walked over to where Tyler was. He was wearing the Ralph Lauren suit I’d spotted months ago in his closet back home in Carpenteria.

“Nice suit,” I told him as I approached his side. “You look dapper.”

Tyler didn’t say anything. In front of him was a portrait of Mary with the Christ child at her bosom. It was a baroque oil painting. Its gilded ornate ash frame probably cost more than my entire outfit.

“Mom says you are going to give a speech today.”

“It’s called a euology, Tyler.”

“What’s it going to be about?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“Don’t you have to write it out like a speech?”

I turned away from the portrait. I had never been one for religious icons. “No, I guess I’m going to just say whatever pops into my head.” I leaned in towards Tyler. “Can I tell you a secret?”

He looked up at me. “What is it?” he whispered back.

“I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t know what I’m going to say. I don’t even know if I can get up in front of all of your grandfather’s friends and talk.”

He looked at me and smiled. “One time we had to do show and tell at school and I didn’t want to do it because I didn’t want to talk in front of everybody. I didn’t like it when they all looked at me and I had to do all the talking, but one time when I did it I told a funny joke and everybody laughed, even Mrs. Sommerwaugh. She’s my teacher. And then when I started talking I didn’t feel bad, because it felt like when we hang out at lunch recess. And I didn’t mind getting up and talking to the class after that.”

Tyler started walking back towards where his father was. Peter still looked lost. Tyler took his hand and hugged Peter around the waist. Alexis and Roger finished with the floral arrangements and went to comfort my mother. This morning I had steered clear of my mother; I knew she’d be inconsolable, and I left it to braver people like Alexis. I still needed to focus and find something memorable and important to say during the ceremony.

I sat in a pew at the rear of the church and tried to think of an important story or memory I had of the man. Something I felt a need to share, something that served as an indelible stamp of who my father was. The problem was that between the lack of sleep and the growing fear I had of addressing the crowd, I was coming up with nothing.

“Reed. How are you my son? I haven’t seen you in some time! I just wish it was happier circumstances.”

I looked up and Reverend Orr, the church’s lead pastor for the past thirty-five years, stood over me. We shook hands and he took a seat beside me.

“Your mother told me your father wanted you to give his eulogy today. A fine choice. And he’d be proud knowing you've respected his wishes.”

He laid out the ground rules. “We’ll do a processional, I’ll lead the congregation in some prayers, and then I’ll say some words. As per the arrangements, there will be a bagpipe-led hymnal and then I will bring you up. You can take as long as you want,” he said, and raised his eyebrows to add, “but seeing as most of your parents’ friends and myself are no longer spring chickens, you’ll want to keep it in the five-to-ten minute range so as not to lose anybody’s attention.”

He stood up and patted me on the shoulder. “Everybody has their own way of grieving – it’s a very personal thing – but the best thing you can do for yourself and your family is be there for them. Be that shoulder to cry on, be that set of ears to listen and say ‘I understand.’ It is a very powerful phrase. It's a way of saying that this too will pass, son.”

I started feeling sick again. The funeral was due to start less than thirty minutes from now and still I had nothing meaningful to share with those who would be here. I sat down and tried breathing slowly to hold the nausea at bay. When I realized it was a futile attempt and my throat was going to become exit only, I bolted for the bathroom.

“Reed! What is it?” asked Roger as I darted past him, waving wildly at him as if to say later, another time.

I tore into the bathroom. The vomit and bile were coming; it was past the point of no return. I felt my throat muscles begin to spasm and realized I wasn’t going to make it into a stall. I turned sharply and leaned over the sink. The first heave emptied a fair amount into the sink, with some splashing against the wall behind the faucet. My body involuntarily kicked and thrashed as I held the sides of the sink and let loose with another hurl, then a third and a forth. I gasped for air as my throat muscles burned from the stomach acid. I remained hovering over the sink until I was certain nothing else was going to come up.

I had filled the sink pretty good, and the stench of stomach acid and undigested food was pretty potent. I grabbed a fistful of paper towels and cleaned off my face while the liquid portion of the sink slowly drained. I took the remaining towels and scooped up the solids, cleaning the sink as best I could. The entire room reeked.

Once the sink was clean I moved to the other sink and washed my face and neck, then leaned forward and force-fed myself water so I could gargle and wash out my mouth. When I stood up I felt woozy and when I looked at myself in the mirror I had double vision. I held the sink edge for balance and closed my eyes.

“Reeds don’t break, reeds don’t break,” I softly murmured under my breath.

“What are you saying?” the voice said.

My eyes shot open. Roger was standing next to me.

“How long have you been there?” I asked.

“Just came in. You were like hell on wheels coming in here.” He turned and looked at the other sink, mostly clean but still with traces of residue from what had happened earlier.

“It is rank in here,” Roger said, kicking the door open and hold it ajar with a trash can. “How long has this been going on?” he asked.

I wasn’t going to lie to Roger. He was a nice guy, a patient guy. He put up with a lot and had made 80 mile treks one-way so Alexis could be with Dad. He never complained. He never got angry. He had a good way of keeping it all together.

”About a week,” I said.

“Daily?”

I nodded. He took my pulse on my neck and felt behind my ears. I don’t know what the doctor was looking for.

“It’s likely nerves. But it’s also made you dehydrated. I bet you haven’t been eating much either.”

I nodded again.

“Very well. In another five minutes or so sip a little water. If you still feel queasy go to the rectory and ask for some ice chips to suck on.” He turned to leave, but as he reached the door he paused. “What were saying just then when I walked in?”

“It’s nothing. It’s...uh...just something my father once said to me.”

“Well then...maybe it’s something after all.”
___________________________________________________________________________________

I stood behind the screen separating the raised altar from the pastor’s room in the back of the church and watched people funnel into the pews. Some faces I recognized were a little older, a little more wrinkled than I last remembered. Other faces were new, a sign my parents had continued making friends well into the oft-mentioned ‘golden years’ of senior life. Some were family – aunts, uncles, and cousins from both sides of the family – while others were old working buddies and members of the country club where my father played golf. A few wore ceremonial kilts and the full accompanying regalia, an homage to their heritage and my father’s.

I looked at their faces and the sadness they all shared. I started thinking about why they had come and what my father meant to them. I started thinking about what I could possibly say to tie it all together. I saw people embracing people, people who after today I'd likely never see again. My father’s death set into effect a diaspora among his friends. There was one less tie to bind, one less road to travel. They were free to pick up with new people, free to move on to new friends.

As I watched from behind the veiled screen I saw my mother among those consoling and being consoled. It was then that it hit me, why there were all there. They all wanted the same thing. It wasn’t that they had come today to pay their respects to a friend or family member so much as they had come for consolation and closure. They needed desperately to hear that everything was going to be okay, that this wasn’t the end. They needed somebody to stand before them and be brave. They needed somebody to pick them up. They needed somebody to be strong for them when they couldn’t. Because this too would all pass. Because reeds don’t break.

It was why they had come today. It’s why we all had come. I didn’t know what I was going to say. I didn’t know what great moment would suddenly hit me once I reached the pulpit. It didn’t matter. I needed to be brave and show them the way, even if I felt no braver than the bunch. That was what they needed from me. That’s what was expected of me. And finally I understood the reasoning behind my father’s decision.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned to see the pastor. “We’re about to get started. Are you ready?”

Time's Running Out the Door You're Running In

2005-06-20T13:30:00.000-04:00

No amount of mental toughness can adequately prepare you for the moment you see a loved one in a hospital bed. I spent the entire flight to Los Angeles and subsequent cab ride to the hospital preparing for what I’d see. I tried to toughen myself up inside and talk through what I’d soon see so I could better accept the situation.

It failed miserably.

My father lay in a corner of the cardiac care unit, a myriad of tubes and intravenous lines zigzagging across his body. Clear fluids in plastic pouches slowly emptied their contents, while other machines with digital readouts beeped and adjusted their processes in rhythmic fashion. An oxygen mask covered the lower half of his face, and as I came closer to him I saw just how much equipment had been attached to him. I couldn’t tell where the human parts ended and the medical machinery began.

I put my hand gently on his forehead and ran it along his hairline, careful not to disturb the wires and sensors that ran along both sides of his body and behind the bed to various gauges and mechanical units. He didn’t move. His body remained rigid, his skin showing the lines of age. His eyelids were motionless, showing none of the movement one has when lost in a deep sleep.

I gently adjusted a telescoping light so the glare wasn’t directly on his face. I backed away slowly until I felt my back along the side wall of the room, and slid down until I was in a lump on the floor. This couldn’t be happening. He was a healthy man. He took care of himself. He exercised and ate well. He wasn’t overweight. He was supposed to have another twenty golden years of retirement, another twenty years of idle time walking on beaches in exotic countries. He had worked hard his entire life supporting a wife and three children. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t fair.

I felt nauseous.

The waiting room sat mostly empty. My mother, Alexis, and her husband Roger were being talked to by a doctor. There was no sign of Peter anywhere. Alexis and Roger corralled me into a corner as I approached.

“I came as soon as we touched down,” I began. I looked around again, hoping to see Peter returning from the cafeteria with a cup of coffee. “What’s going on? Where’s Peter?”

My sister hugged me and Roger shook my hand. “We’re getting an update now. Father is doing better.” Alexis adjusted her hair and wiped a wayward tear with a well-used tissue. “Peter’s gone back to Carpenteria,” she continued.

“What? Why? How could he do that?”

“He stayed all night. He’s talked to all the doctors, all the specialists. He’s kept Mom together. He’s had maybe one hour of sleep. He needs to go home, Reed. He needs to be with his family.”

“This is his family!”

“You know what I mean. He has to get back to Marie and his children and clear some things from his work calendar. He’ll be back tomorrow. It’s okay.”

We returned to the doctor’s side as he was just finishing his update.

“The first eighteen hours are always the most crucial, Mrs. Becker. He’s showing the type of progress we like to see from a patient, and his initial response to the medication is promising. Hopefully by Wednesday we’ll be able to discharge him, and he can begin his home convalescence. Then we’ll talk about putting him on nitroglycerin so there are no further infarctions.” The doctor said a few things to the nurse on duty and began walking away.

I had to know what had happened. I didn’t want paraphrasing. I didn’t want it sugar coated. I needed medical terms and full disclosure, and I needed it now.

“Doctor, a word?” I called out as I picked up the pace to catch up with him.

He stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“I just arrived from out of town. Youngest son. Could you catch me up to speed with what’s happened?”

The doctor looked me over, seeing the distress on my face, hearing the nervousness of my words. He probably dealt with people in the same state a hundred times a day.

“Your father was admitted last night after he came to the emergency room complaining of chest pains and numbness in his right arm, and while he was here he experienced a myocardial infarction – a heart attack, and a major one at that. Now, it wasn’t the kind resulting from clogged arteries and high cholesterol levels in the blood stream; it was a different type, called a coronary spasm. Sometimes one of the coronary arteries providing oxygen-rich blood to the heart can spasm, and if occurs often enough – and over a long enough period of time – the artery can clamp down on itself and cause an occlusion, or a blockage. The heart begins losing its supply of blood and nutrients in the immediate area and muscle tissue begins dying. His heart stopped, it fibrillated. Coronary spasms can happen to normal, healthy people. And if your father came in complaining of pain it means it has been going on for some time. He may have experienced a heart arrhythmia earlier in the day.

“Specifically what your father had was a circumflex occlusion. The damaged tissue was on the backside of the heart. “

I ran both hands through my hair. “Jesus. So he had the heart attack right here.”

“Yes. The occlusion caused the heart's electrical system to have serious rhythm disturbances, hence the fibrillation, hence the heart attack.”

I slowly digested his words, dissecting what he was saying and what he wasn’t, hoping for veiled signs of hope.

“What now?”

“Rest is of the utmost importance. His vitals are being monitored and he’s receiving necessary fluids and medications through an I.V. He’s also getting supplemental oxygen – the mask you saw – circulating oxygen around in his body and to his heart is important right now. We’re also taking regular blood tests to monitor the release of an enzyme called creatinine phosphokinase in his bloodstream. We’re monitoring the troponin levels in the cardiac muscle cells. These will tell us how widespread the damage to his heart was. We’ll continue the blood tests tomorrow and Tuesday. If this goes by the book, he should be good enough to go home come Wednesday.” The doctor adjusted a paper on his clipboard. “If not, well…let’s save that discussion for if it happens.”

Back in the waiting room, my Mother was being handed tissues one after another by Alexis as she wiped away tears. Her nose and cheeks were reddened from hours upon hours of crying, and she paused to quietly blow her nose as I sat down beside her.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner,” I told her.

She patted me on the knee. “I know you came as soon as you could darling. We have to hope for the best, we have to…” the tears began welling up in her eyes and she grabbed at the air until Alexis put a tissue in front of her.

“How long has he been asleep?” I asked.

“Since noon,” replied Alexis. “They’re forcing him to sleep with the muscle relaxants and other stuff they’ve been feeding into his system.”

“I’ll stay here tonight,” I volunteered. When he wakes up I want to see him.”

My mother put her hand on my shoulder. “All we can do is stay until visiting hours are over at ten.” I looked at the clock, it was close to eight. “Then we come back in the morning.”

I started to offer to take my mother home, but realized I had come in a cab from the airport.

“I’ll stay with you tonight, Mom.”

“We’re already staying with her,” replied my sister, then looking at all the luggage I’d left propped against a chair, added “but we’ll give you a ride back to your place, I’m sure you’ve lots to unpack and want to get settled.”
____________________________________________________________________________________

When I arrived the next morning my father was awake and a nurse had replaced his oxygen mask with a thin, clear tube taped in place underneath his nose. His body was still marred by wires and tubes, sensors and electrodes. He looked simultaneously bionic and helpless. His eyes were bloodshot and his face bloated as he nervously inhaled the secondary oxygen. An upside-down L-shaped table had been placed beside him, its table top covered by a flower arrangement. He didn’t look good, and I had a terrible feeling he wasn’t going to recover from this. Chances weren’t good: His side of the family had a long history of heart disease, so no matter how well he took care of himself the problem would always linger. He couldn’t outrun it any longer and I was afraid it would soon claim its prize.

He became aware of someone being in the room when he heard my footsteps approaching the bed. He struggled for his glasses at the edge of the table.

“Hello Dad. You’re looking great. The doctor says you are making a big turnaround.”

He stared at me for a moment, and then spoke with a slow and labored delivery. “I can tell by the look on your face that you’ve already written me off,” he said. He was fatigued. He averted his eyes and concentrated on inhaling more air from the tube.

I tried to hide my fear and muster any strength and hope I had left. “Written off? You’ll be out of here in no time, ready to tilt at windmills and play with grandchildren.”

He slowly smiled, his head in a groggy place somewhere between sleep and consciousness. “No, I see it in your eyes. Your eyes always gave you away.” He rolled towards me but I eased him back so he could lay flat on the bed. “No, you’ve mapped out your conclusions. You’ve taken this to its final outcome. It’s okay, I feel the same way.”

“Don’t talk like that, Dad. This is just a setback.”

“No, it’s okay, I have no regrets. Immortals for a limited time, that’s all we are.” He switched to breathing through his mouth and sucked at more air. His voice was dry and his voice cracked when he spoke. “We need to put on a brave face for your mother and sister,” he added. “We have to be strong for them. We have to be strong for those who cannot.”

The doctor came in followed by my mother, Alexis, and Peter. There were more tests to be run today, all of them routine measuring sticks for gauging the extent of the damage.

Outside in the waiting room Peter pulled me away from the group. “What do you think?” he asked.

I rubbed my temples. My head hurt and my eyes were burning. “Not good. Not good at all.”

He shook his head. “I know. This family's problem with heart disease is reaping what it’s sowed. I don’t want to sound like I’m incapable of holding out hope, but I don’t think he’s going to pull through.”

I fumbled around in my pockets for a tissue. I needed to blow my nose. As I dug deeper in my khakis I replied, “Yeah. The worst part is that Dad knows it. He doesn’t think he is going to make it either.”

“At least there won’t be a denial phase to struggle with.”

“I’m not worried about him so much.” I motioned with my head towards my mother and Alexis. “It’s them. Mom in particular. Her whole world was Dad.”

Peter scratched his ear and shifted his feet nervously. He fumbled about, trying to find the right combination of encouraging words. When that failed he simply said, “I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

I stayed with my father all day Monday until the nurses shooed me away to the confines of my lonely apartment, stale with the smell of dead air that had gone uncirculated for nearly five months.

Tuesday showed progress as my father became more responsive. His test results were promising, and the doctor was certain he would be able to leave on Wednesday. By Wednesday my father’s sense of humor had returned and by all accounts he was ready to begin his home convalescence.

He walked out the car, flanked on each side by Alexis and me, and we gingerly lowered him into the car while my mother watched from the driver’s seat. At my father’s request I was staying with them for a few days to take the pressure off my mother. She had waited on him hand and foot their entire married life. It also relieved my sister from duty so she could go back to south Orange County and try to sleep away the stress that had accumulated over the past few days.
____________________________________________________________________________________

Dogs rarely forget a smell or a location. Scents in particular; once they commit it to memory it is an everlasting thing. Sophia picked up my scent when I was about twenty feet from my parents’ front door, as I led my father by the arm up the walkway. She began whining and when that failed to produce a result high-pitched yipes ensued.

“Sophia!” I yelled, asserting my alpha position in the pack with her. “Quiet.” The whining stopped, though I could hear her panting from behind the gate.

I led my father inside and straight into the guest room which Alexis and I had previously set up for him to rest in. When he was settled my mother brought him a pitcher of water and a glass, setting it on a table just within his reach. Flower arrangements from well-wishers littered the room, some from friends living within the walls of the country club, others from my father’s former employer and various associates.

I went into the back yard and the dog nearly tackled me. Sophia was so excited to see me that not only did her tail wag, the whole back half of her body swayed furiously back and forth. It was if the excitement couldn’t be contained in her tail and spilled down into other parts of the body. I leaned down so she could inventory the scents on me, and she licked my face over and over. She was so excited I thought she was going to pee, just as she did when I first picked her up at the dog breeder’s house.

When she had her fill of playing kissy face she sat and rolled her body weight onto one hind leg in a lazy position and let her tongue roll out to the side, as if to say okay, you’re here, and I’m here! When do we go home?

I reached out and ran my hand along the wrinkled rolls of skin on her head. “Sophia, if only it were a happy occasion.” Just days ago I’d been consumed with moving us across the country and into Canada. Days ago I was nervous about how a dog without a thick coat of fur would cope with Toronto’s cold, unforgiving winters. Now all of that felt so far away. Sophia looked at me, her mouth agape and her marbled tongue to one side. “Sometimes ignorance is bliss,” I told her.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

My father was not taking well to being bedridden. As much as he wanted to be mobile – the doctor did advise short walks around the house to better circulate blood throughout his system – his biggest prescription was rest. By Friday he had gone through as many magazines and books as he could take. He needed other stimuli. I had been checking in on him regularly, but when I went into his room Friday afternoon he wanted to talk.

“Sit down,” he said, “and keep an old man company. I want you to know it means a lot to your mother that you are here to help out. Even if she hasn’t said those words to you, it’s how she feels.”

“I’m not here for her as much as I am for you.”

“She’s going to need you for support when I am gone,” he replied. He reached feebly for the half-filled glass of water on the table.

“You shouldn’t talk like that. You should have more optimism.”

My father finished off his water and picked up his watch from the table, checking the time. “Time for another batch of pills,” he said. Then, turning his attention back to me, “what I’m being is realistic. Heart disease killed my father. It killed his mother before him. And there’s a good chance it may kill one of you in time. You can hold it at bay for as long as you can, but if it wants in, it gets in.”

I pulled my chair closer to him and looked at his view of the back yard. Outside, Sophia was chasing after a bird that had flown into the yard. Apparently my ugly dog had annexed the yard as her own and was intent on defending it to the end.

My father laughed. “That dog. We’ve enjoyed watching her. Especially your mother, they’ve grown very fond of each other the past few months.” He paused and rubbed his eyes with a cool towel I had brought for him earlier. I took it from him, balled it up, and set it on his bed stand.

“She sure does sleep a lot, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah,” I responded. “It’s one of her better qualities.”

He shifted his legs and tried to get at the pillows propping him up.

“You want these?” I asked, removing them from his lower back.

“I just need an adjustment, I’m uncomfortable.”

“Yeah.”

He smiled. “You know, I’m glad we can talk like this. There are so many things I’ve wanted to tell you over the years, things I thought were important for you to know, but I never had the chance.”

I looked nervously at him. “You’re not going to confess that you killed somebody back in the 70s and disposed of the body, are you?”

He laughed a forced, deep laugh, one that sounded like it had fought hard to emerge from the depths of the old man.

“No, nothing like that. You grew up so far behind Peter and Alexis. The things they learned when you were young you had to wait so long before you could experience them yourself. You may have felt left out but I’ve found great value in your age differences. They grew up so quickly and rushed off to live their lives. Your staying behind allowed me to have a closer relationship with you, closer than I feel I have with either of them. That means a lot to me. It’s because of that closeness I’ve been able to pass on so much of my culture, tradition, and family history to you. It’s for those same reasons your mother and her parents imparted their Greek heritage and practices to you too. Every generation has a de facto family historian who gets passed down the stories, the anecdotes, and the origin of things. Among my sisters and brothers it was me. In your mother’s family it was your Aunt Katrina. Now it’s you.”

He fluffed a pillow and gently placed it behind his shoulders. “I’m telling you this for a reason, Long ago your mother and I decided that when we died, we would each be cremated.”

“Dad, I don’t know if I want to hear this,” I interrupted.

“You need to hear it, whether this happens tomorrow or in ten years.” He tilted his head back and partially closed his eyes. “It’s important you know our plans and how they involve you.”

“Me?”

My mother came in with more medication and a fresh glass of water. As soon as she entered my father clammed up, refusing to continue the conversation. My mother noticed the sudden silence, and as she left quietly said “I’ll leave you men alone to continue your secret discussions.”

When my father could see she was gone he continued. “Like I said, we decided to be cremated. Now listen Reed, this is important.” His voice cracked and I could see his eyes becoming flushed as he grappled with the reality of having to reveal decisions he and my mother made years ago.

“We are splitting up our ashes.”

“What do you mean splitting up, who’s splitting up?” I asked. I was dumbfounded. “How do you split up ashes?”

“The remains will be divided in half. One half will go into a joint burial plot at Forest Lawn. The other half will be placed at a memorial in Monifieth.”

“In Scotland?” I asked.

“Yes, it’s always been a desire of mine to have my remains at rest in the city of my forefathers. It’s a way of maintaining a connection.”

I wasn’t certain where this was going. “Why are you telling me this?”

He looked at me, a stern look on his face. “Because you are going to be the one to see that it happens.”

I shrunk back from him in horror, the implications of his request hitting me like a splash of ice water on a drunkard’s face. I was being charged with the job of carrying his remains to their final resting place thousands of miles away. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.

I couldn’t look at him as I spoke. “I can’t carry this kind of thing out. Why me? Why not Peter or Lexy?”

“Look at me,” he said. “Look at me,” he repeated. “Your mother and I knew this would be difficult for you to accept. It’s the right thing to do. We knew when the tame came, Peter and Alexis would be married and starting their own families. We couldn’t pull them away from those obligations and put that kind of stress upon them. You have been groomed for this for longer than you realize. You know the traditions. You know the people and the country. You can go through with this and you will. We’ve even put it in our wills, so it will be.” He folded his arms in satisfaction.

“We put it in?” I asked. I definitely did not like the sound of that.

“Yes. When the time comes for your mother, you will likewise place a part of her ashes to rest at Forest Lawn, and a part in her parents’ village outside Lamia, Greece.”

I shot out of my seat in a panic. I felt woozy. I felt sick.

“Excuse me, I’ve gotta...” I said, not able to finish as I cleared the room. I vomited twice.
____________________________________________________________________________________

I didn’t talk to him again until Saturday morning, when I saw him fumbling about for his slippers. I watched as he stood up and walked around his room. His movements were labored, like a patient with muscle atrophy relearning his steps. He got to the doorway separating his room from the den where my makeshift bed was set up on the sofa, and paused suddenly, leaning against the jamb for balance. I quickly shot up from the sofa and helped him over to a chair.

“It’s okay,” he assured me while I sat him down, “it’s just some dizziness. I have to be careful about moving too quickly. My equilibrium isn’t up to par.”

“Dad, about last night. Sorry about the way I reacted. It’s a lot for me to take in and digest. It’s not every day I go around hearing my parents’ last rites requests.”

He tapped his hand on top of mine. It was thin, and cold. “I understand. But you must understand that nobody is going to do this for you. It is for you to soldier through. We are both counting on you.”

I walked with him around the house, pausing near the kitchen so he could catch his breath. When we went outside Sophia was ready with a ball and dropped it at his feet.

“Sophia, heel!” I commanded. She quickly moved around to my left side and came in close to my leg. The three of us did three laps around the back yard, pausing to look over the wall at the fairway of the country club that backed against my parents’ yard.

“Ever get a wayward ball whacked over here?” I asked.

“No,” my father laughed, “the people who live here all know how to play the game, unlike you.”

“Eh, it’s a waste of time. If you want to hit a ball go to the batting cages. That’s my philosophy.”

Back inside it was time for more medication. I looked at the clock. I hadn’t slept for more than two hours at a time for almost a week. Anytime I heard any sort of noise from his room I was off the couch and in there checking on him. I realized this was how Peter and Marie must have felt when they became parents for the first time. It’s no longer just about you.

My father took a nap well into the afternoon and I thought I’d follow suit. I let Sophia in – I’d shown her so little attention since I’d been there that I felt guilty – and she promptly jumped on the couch and arranged herself over some blankets I set up for her. One turn, two turns, three turns, and she dropped herself in a half circle onto the blankets, leaning her body against my feet just like old times. In a couple of minutes she was out. In a few more so was I.

I brought my father dinner later in the evening and sat with him while he ate. His appetite was growing, a normal and positive sign the doctor said, indicating his strength was coming back as his heart adapted to the muscle loss.

“Have you eaten yet? You should eat, I’m sure your mother can fix you something.”

“No thanks,” I replied. “I haven’t had an appetite lately.” I looked out his window and watched Sophia dart back and forth in pursuit of another finch skittishly making its way across the yard.

“So has your mother put on her ‘relationship hat’ while you’ve been here? Any prodding?”

“No, she’s been relatively quiet and withdrawn. It hasn’t come up.”

“She does not mean to come off like a nag about those things. Your mother and I were brought up differently than today’s kids. Both of our parents were immigrants, and they brought with them the mindset of the old country. Women were supposed to marry young and have a big family. They laid down the law of the house and raised the children while the father was away at work. Your mother’s greatest joy has been the three of you. Mine too. It’s only natural that someone so happy would want their children to marry and experience the same happiness for themselves. Your mother doesn’t want you to settle down because there’s shame in being single, she wants you to marry because of the joy she believes it will bring you. Peter is happy. Alexis is happy. By extension she thinks the same will happen for you.”

I pulled forward a chair and sat beside him. “How do you know you are with the one who will make you happy and bring you that joy?” I asked.

“I can’t answer that question for you, only for myself.” He rubbed his forehead and took a sip of water. “The answer is different for every person, and each must find their own answer. Because of our age difference your mother sometimes forgets that I went out into the world and blazed my own trails. I traveled around Europe and learned about things. I met a lot of different women. By the time I met your mother, I pretty much knew what I liked and what I did not about the opposite sex. And with your mother, we came from similar backgrounds and we complemented each other. We shared the same goals and outlook on life. We both saw eye-to-eye on how to raise a family and valued the same things. I knew she was the one for me. When I proposed to your mother, I didn’t feel like I was making a choice. I felt it was a natural progression.”

He leaned in closer to me. “If you ever hear somebody say they hope they are making the right choice by getting married, then they aren’t with the right person.”

I sat back and smiled as my mind flashed to some of the women I’d dated in the past few years, some wise decisions, others not so much. “Mom would think I’m with the wrong people.”

“That’s for you to decide, not her. And if you realize they are wrong, then good for you. It shows you are making sense of it all and weeding out the ones who aren’t good for you. Whether she would like them or not is not the point. What she wants – what we both want – is to know you are happy and not settling for anything less than whom you want. Find that person, the one it feels right to be with for the rest of your life, and hold on tightly to them. Never let them go.”

I thought of Samuel, my widowed friend in Toronto, and the similarity of his words to my father’s.

“I know you date a fair share of women. Just tell me, are you having a good time, or is it leaving you more and more frustrated?”

I took his hand in mine, feeling along the deep ridges of the lines on the palm of his hand. The top of his hand was wrinkled and had lost some of its pinkish skin tone, the effect of age and having worked with his hands when he was much younger.

I looked into his eyes. He smiled warmly, perhaps for the first time since I’d come home. It was the type of smile that was a window to the soul, revealing the hope and confidence he had, not in himself but in me. The type of smile that oozes of self-satisfaction when you see your creation fully realized. The kind that says “you’re going to be alright, no matter what happens to me.”

“Are you having a good time?” he asked again.

“You would have enjoyed the ride, Dad.”

He adjusted a pillow. “Yes? Then tell me about it. Let’s forget for tonight that I am a sick father and you are a grieving son, and instead let's talk like two men.” He poured himself a glass of water and swallowed some tablet he was only to take at night. “Tell me.”

I spent the next hour divulging my dating life. I went through them all, starting with Kristie in high school, and moving through the years. I told him about the Delta Zeta girls in college. I told him about a few of my sister’s friends I saw behind her back. I told him about the girls from the Isla Vista beach club. I relived party flings and longer courtships. I brought up Sharon, one of the few I’d dated long enough to warrant an introduction to my parents.

“I always liked Sharon. She was nice to look at,” my father said.

“Yeah, she’ll make a great trophy wife for someone,” I replied. We both grinned in unison.

I told him about the more recent women in my life. I told him about the daughter from the country club’s social committee who worked months on seducing me, only to drop me when her ex-husband came back looking to reconcile. I told him about Monica, about Renee and Austin, about Katie, about Rebecca. I told him about what I didn’t like about each of them, and what attracted me to them to begin with. I talked about Melinda and a few women from work. I talked about what I looked for in a woman, and what raised red flags. I told him about my time in Toronto with Elizabeth.

He listened to it all as if my confessor. I told him about women I’d talked to and wanted to meet, and women I had no intention of ever meeting.

When I was finished he simply said, “and now?”

“Now there is somebody else. Her name is Carolyn. We’ve been seeing each other for a little over a month. I met her back in February.”

“And how is she?”

I sat back in my chair as thoughts of Carolyn flooded my memory. How she could look as beautiful in a t-shirt and jeans as she could in an evening gown. I thought about her smile and her tough exterior. “She’s something. Beauty, brains, very motivated.” I nodded my head. “She could be one of the great ones.”

He smiled and replied, “Then I hope she is.” He scratched the area of his neck just below the chin. “Hearing you talk about these women, and being able to reason what was right and what was not about each one – I can tell you are doing the right thing. Your head is screwed on the right way, Reed. The most proud any parent can be is when they see their child fly from the nest and make their own way in the world. And you three have. For that your mother and I are very proud. And if you feel that way about this Carolyn woman then maybe this time will be different.”

I thought about the distance between Carolyn and me and grimaced. “She’s in Toronto. And I am not,” I added.

He looked me over. “You’ve suddenly become very sad. What is it?”

“Last month, I knew I wanted to stay there. Last week, I knew I wanted to live in Toronto and work there. And now...so much has changed so quickly.”

He nodded. “I can’t force you to alter your future plans, but your mother is going to need somebody to look in on her and make sure she’s okay. This is new terrain. She’s never lived on her own. She went straight from her parents house to mine.”

I had been afraid of this topic since I’d returned. Now it was on the table.

“The thing about Toronto, Dad...I felt like I could be who I wanted to be. You talk about making my own way in the world? I felt like I was blazing my own path in Toronto. For my entire life I have been defined by this family. For once it felt like I’d stepped from behind that shadow. I felt like I was doing things on my terms.”

He nodded again. “Your family will always be a large part of who you are. There’s no denying or running from it.” He refilled his water. “I can’t ask your sister to look after your mother – it wouldn’t be fair to Roger. They’ve been married barely a year and already he inherits a mother-in-law? That’s not right. Alexis will try to bully you on the issue. She is the only girl so she feels a special attachment to your mother that you may not. But you live the closest, and you are still single. It will be up to you.”

That was that, his mind was made up. Just like that, I was stuck in California.
____________________________________________________________________________________

When I went in to his bedroom to check on my father Sunday morning, my mother was sitting with him. He was propped up in bed, rotating his left arm like a windmill as he held his shoulder.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Your father was complaining of pain in his shoulder. We’re trying to figure out if we should take him back to the hospital.”

“I don’t think it’s anything,” my father said, grimacing. “It’s a numb pain, but it’s not radiating through the limb like it was the last time. And I feel no pain in my chest.”

The two did a couple more tests and decided there was no need to call the hospital. I left them to talk and went outside to play with Sophia. I saw her frisbee on the lawn; it was time to see if she’d jump for me too or if she saved that trick only for my mother.

When I came back inside both of them were asleep. My mother was slumped over in her chair. I looked at her. She hadn’t been able to sleep much during the past week, who would? I tapped her on the shoulder and she awoke in a jolt.

“What? What’s happening?”

I put my forefinger to my lips and pointed towards my father.

“It’s okay, he’s sleeping. You should go to bed. I can watch over him.”

I sat down on the couch in the den at an angle where I could still see him and thumbed through an issue of Vanity Fair. Boring. Stale. Their writers always try to sound more stuffy and sophisticated than they really are. I’d had enough of the issue and threw it down on the table. I phoned Alexis and then Peter to give them updates, and then called Michelle to tell her I was back in town, and why.

“Anything I can do?” She asked.

“Turn back the clock,” I replied. “Thanks, but no. I have to wait things out.”

When my father awoke he called for me. “Walk beside me as I go to the kitchen and around the house. I want to do it on my own though, so don’t support me unless I start to falter.”

“How’s the shoulder feeling?”

“Fine.” He walked around the house at a pretty good pace. He didn’t need help. The dog barked, eager to be let in but I didn’t want Sophia in the way. When he had enough of walking my father sat down on the living room couch. He looked out the French doors and past the yard toward the country club fairway where golfers were taking practice hacks. The sun was shining. People were out and about. Everywhere else it was a beautiful day.

“I’ve been thinking Dad…”

“About what?”

“Going to Scotland. Taking care of your affairs. Why isn’t Peter doing it?”

“I’ve told you why,” he responded.

“But he’s the oldest, the firstborn. Wouldn’t the oldest child normally do this sort of thing?”

He turned his gaze from the golf course. “Peter has had the responsibility of being the first to go through everything for himself with nobody’s advice to fall back on. You and your sister have had his advice and experience to draw upon. He hasn’t and it’s been that way all his life. He’s had his own challenges to face alone. And growing up he’s always looked out for you and Alexis.”

I looked at him skeptically. I didn’t equate anything Peter had to face growing up with carting the remains of a parent around the globe.

My father saw the skepticism in my face. “What else did you want to ask me?”

“What?”

“You look like you have more questions. Ask me anything, anything you want to know.”

I thought of all the things I could possibly ask him, all the things I’d ever wanted to know. Nothing popped into my head. It was a void. Then, at last, something did.

“Why don’t I have a middle name?”

He laughed. I guess he wasn’t expecting that light a question.

“Little-known Greek tradition. Did you know that when parents name their children, many try to gauge what talents they hope their children will have and name them accordingly in hopes of instilling those traits in the child?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” I replied.

“It’s true. And it’s what we did. Peter was the first; first born, first son. We knew through Peter we’d write the rules for how we raised our children. He’d be the first to go through all the experiences a child goes through growing up, the first through puberty, the first to be a teenager, the first broken bone, the first college graduation. We realized this while your mother was pregnant with him. And so we named him Peter – the rock. Whatever we bound with him, we’d later bind with Alexis and yourself. And whatever was loosened...you know how it goes.

“When your sister was born she was beautiful, simply beautiful. I remember nurses in the maternity ward telling us how they hadn’t seen a child as beautiful in some time. And the first night she slept on her own in the ward she wrapped her arms over her head, as if she was protecting herself. The beautiful protector – Alexis. That’s what her name means in Greek.

“When you were born I wanted a strong Scottish name for you. Your mother got to name the first two, which resulted in the Greek names, but I wanted my heritage represented as well. When you were delivered you were crying and crying. The doctors cleaned you up and still you cried. They wrapped you, yet still you cried. You didn’t back down. It was defiant, and strong. When they placed you by your mother’s side you continued to cry, but it was a cry that sounded like an announcement, more pride than fear. When they took you away you resumed your crying and did not stop until the placed you back with your mother. Your unwavering resilience paid off.”

“That just sounds like I was afraid to be on my own,” I said.

“No. Your resilience made you stronger and more powerful.” He took a deep breath and coughed slightly, leaning forward to help the air out.

Have you ever heard about the reeds which reside in the gulf of Aqaba?” he asked. I shook my head.

“In Aqaba, along the gulf where the Sinai Peninsula, the southern tip of Israel, and the southwestern edge of Jordan all converge, there are reeds which live on a sandbar just a few feet under the water. Fields and fields of them, and they’ve been there for thousands of years.” He adjusted the glasses on his face and paused to watch a golfer in the distance whack the ball and curse his results in disgust. “Every year the plains that run off into the gulf flood, drowning the reeds. They should die. They should snap right in half and be carried out to sea, yet every time they survive. They are bent by the rapid, rising waters, and still they return to form, each time a little stronger, each time a little more resilient. Just like you.”

His face was serious, his stare fixed. “That is what you have in common with the Aqaba reeds – you have an unwavering flexibility. With each challenge you emerge stronger. Reeds don’t break. And that is how you got your name.”

He adjusted his glasses and began to stand. “And that is why your mother and I know you are the right child to carry out our final requests.”

I walked back with him to his bedroom and watched as climbed into bed on his own. “I wonder if you would be so kind as to retrieve my wife for me,” he said. It was odd. I couldn’t remember him ever referring to my mother as such.

I found her in the kitchen putting away some dishes and followed her to his room. She entered and I heard him ask her to close the door. I sat down and started reading a book on photography that I’d brought with me.

The door remained closed for hours. I’d wondered what they were talking about, what fond memories they were reliving. I let Sophia in and she immediately went into her play stance.

“No, not now Sophia.” She refused to listen, instead running around in a mild gallop.

“Sophia, come here,” I said. Still she didn’t listen.

“Sophia! Heel!” She stopped running and locked eyes with me. I didn’t avert my stare. I needed to assert my dominance in the pack. Within seconds she looked away, then slowly approached the sofa and sat at my feet.

“Good girl,” I told her. She huffed in contempt. We sat there for another hour in silence as the sky outside turned dark and the room followed suit. I didn’t turn on any lights; I sat on the sofa with Sophia at my feet as we watched the light leak from inside my father’s room out into the living room, where it spilled about the floor in an arc. Normally the dog would have gone off to sleep but tonight she stayed by my side.

“You know Sophia, I realize more and more whenever I’m around you how much we are alike.” She cocked her head and stuck out her marbled tongue to the side. “We both are stubborn and maybe we don’t listen as much as others would like us to, but in the end we always obey the commands. We’re right here by the side of whoever needs us.” I ran the back of my hand across her head and I could see her curly-queue tail start to shake.

“Thanks for understanding, girl,” I added.

My mother finally emerged from his room, wiping tears from her face. Whatever they talked about had taken its toll upon her.

“It’s dark in here,” she said, fumbling for the light switch.

“Does he need anything?” I asked.

“Just a refill of water, he’s likely turning in for the night,” she said as she shuffled across the room in the direction of the kitchen. I picked up my book and resumed reading.

She returned with the water and disappeared into his room. Moments later I heard the sound of glass shattering on the floor.

“Reed, he’s stopped breathing! Dial 911! Dial 911!” she screamed as she burst from the room. She began crying. In a flash I was on the phone to 911 emergency dispatch.

When the paramedics arrived they confirmed what we already knew: Her husband, her best friend, her partner in life, was dead.

An Ugly Dog In A House of Cards

2005-06-13T15:05:00.000-04:00

We're only making plans for Nigel,
We only want what's best for him
We're only making plans for Nigel,
Nigel just needs this helping hand

XTC’s ode to masturbation played on the stereo in the background as I cued the DVD again to the beginning. It had just been delivered to my room a little over an hour ago and already I watched it twice. I hit the pause button on the remote, pointed the remote at the stereo and muted Colin Moulding’s strained whining, and then turned the remote back to the TV, hitting play.

On the screen my dog was in her play position, ass in the air and tail wagging frantically, as she waited for one of my parents off-screen to throw a toy. Then from the side of the frame, a Frisbee went flying into the distance. Sophia took off with a tear, growling as she gathered speed in pursuit of the airborne disc. Just as the Frisbee started to slow and lose altitude, Sophia caught up just enough to fling herself into the air, and snatched the Frisbee.

From off camera I could hear my Mother. “Wonderful Sophia! Such a jump!”

Sophia had jumped over three feet off the ground for a frisbee. My sixty pound ugly dog had launched herself high off the ground. She had never done that before.

After a few rounds of frisbee she decided it was time for tug-of-war with my Mom. Again, she took one of her toys – a hot dog shaped thing with about four inches of rope attached to each side – and brought it to my Mom. When she tried to take the toy, Sophia growled and started pulling, relentless in her desire to not let go. There was no doubt she was playing, as her curly-queue tail wagged the whole time non-stop. Whenever the dog sensed my mother not having the strength or stamina to continue, Sophia would let up the amount of force she was using to pull the toy, and let my Mother regain the upper hand for a while before returning to her normal level of play aggression. Sophia eased up and clamped back down in succession for a few minutes until my Mother was tire out.

To the casual viewer the DVD was just another homemade movie of a dog playing, but to me it was a sign of something far more significant. My dog was taking steps, making gains. She had adapted to her new surroundings and was uncovering new talents. She also realized that others might not have the same amount of strength to play at the levels she did, and adjusted for it.

She was adapting. She was becoming flexible in her surroundings.

One hour ago, I didn't know she could jump, yet Sophia was regularly getting a good three feet off the ground. One hour ago, I didn’t know she had an aggression level other than “high” when it came to playing, but here she was backing off when she saw my Mother fatigued.

That’s how talented dogs survived. They adapted. They remained flexible.
____________________________________________________________________________________

I’d found a need to be flexible as well, having investigated a myriad of ways to legally remain in the country and still work and draw a paycheck from TWBA/Chiat in Toronto. My options were limited, but my best hope of staying on would mean resigning my current staff position and then being re-hired as a long-term freelancing independent contractor. The company’s term for it was “permalancing”.

“Are you sure you want to do it this way?” asked our manager Catherine, flanked by Suleman and Margot. The four of us tried to remain as comfortable as possible in her cramped office.

“I’ve investigated all the angles, and aside from a sponsorship-driven deal which Suleman and Margot have both told me won’t fly, this was the last option,” I replied. I shifted in my seat. My wallet was digging a hole in my ass and I wished I had transferred it earlier to my inside coat pocket.

“By becoming a permalancer it means you won't be receiving any of the benefits of a staff member. You won't be paying payroll taxes which mean you won't get a medical coverage card, and there’s no 401k TWBA will be contributing to. None of that.”

“Yeah, I’m aware all of that is up to me to fund on my own, but isn’t that one of the reasons I can negotiate a higher day rate for myself? You won’t be paying all that?”

“Somebody’s done a little research,” Suleman announced.

“Well yeah, if I’m going to do it this way then I want to know all the scenarios. But I figure if you’ll give me a day rate of about $325 then I’ll have a sum where I can pay my own taxes, contribute to an IRA, and be left with what I’m currently making after taxes. As for medical, I’m young and healthy. There’s no better time than now to exploit that.”

I looked around the room and watched the three of them wrestle with the numbers and the concepts in their head. There really wouldn’t be much hardball involved. They wanted me, and I wanted them. It was a simple equation.

Margot spoke first. “Legal will want a contract specifying term length and all the specifics.”

The three nodded their heads. “They’ll also want a rider for when the account drags out longer than eighteen months. We can’t assume that once the eighteen is done you go riding off into the sunset if work remains,” Catherine added.

“As long as I’m getting paid.”

Catherine looked over at Suleman as he nervously played with his beard. “What is it?”

“I’m worried about the x factor - Gloria. Once she finds out Reed is resigning, and why, she is going to raise holy hell. Gloria won't give him up so easily. I get that feeling. For all we know Anna’s already gone back to Los Angeles and announced your intended defection. Relations between us and them may take a hit for a little while.”

I went around the room gauging their silent responses. Apparently this was something the three had given much thought to, and though they weren’t willing to publicly admit the political hot button they were about to push, they knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

“You know guys, I’m going to have to return to Los Angeles in order to give my notice,” I began. “I’m also going back so I can pack and drive a Uhaul full of my belongings back here. While I’m there I’ll talk to Gloria. I’ll tell her my reasons and why this is the right fit for me. Besides, they’re not losing me forever. The Coke account could end a year-and-a-half from now and I might decide I want to go back. I’m sure they’d have no hesitation rehiring me. I’ve been a good employee.”

Margot shook her head. “You can’t think like that. That’s just engaging in 'what ifs'. A lot could happen between now and then. You could stay. You could go. You could even get released early from your contract, it has happened here before.” She put her coffee mug on the table. “Just keep an open mind and remain flexible about your opportunities.”

We agreed in principle to our plan. Suleman said he’d have to run it up the ladder but didn’t anticipate any resistance. He also had to get the ball rolling with legal. Soon I’d be able to fly home. I would have to resign and pack up my entire life. The clock was ticking.
____________________________________________________________________________________

I had lied to Carolyn. It was a little white lie, but it was a lie nonetheless. I’d offered to cook dinner at her place not as a nice gesture as I had claimed, not so I could coax her into her bedroom, just feet away, as I had declared, but because I was yearning for a home-cooked meal so badly that I was ready to do or say anything to get one. Don’t knock it; after four and a half months of eating at restaurants and cramming fast food down my pie hole I’d become so desensitized towards prepared food that the only thing that could shake me from the doldrums was a home-cooked meal, even if I had to prepare it myself. When Carolyn recommended a new Chinese fusion restaurant on the edge of Chinatown, I instead suggested cooking for her.

“Oh?” she said, eyebrows raised. “I can’t remember the last time anybody cooked for me. My own roommate doesn’t even cook for me.”

“Then kick her out for the night and it will be just us.” She eagerly agreed.

The sliced duck lay searing in the oversized skillet, awaiting the garlic and hoisin sauce I’d concocted from memory, having had it years ago at a nouveau-Asian restaurant in Newport Beach. I believed the proportions were correct. I poured a generous dollop of Coppola 2003 Pinot Noir into the pan, setting aside the rest of the bottle for the meal. Thank God online wine retailers shipped to Canada; the Canuck supply of wine was atrocious.

Carolyn sat in her living room, reclined on the sofa and going through a collection of photos.

“Are you sure you don’t need any help in there?” she offered.

“No, some of us guys can cook you know. We’re not all helpless idiots.”

“Okay, give me a shout if you change your mind.”

“You can set the table,” I said. “That’s not cooking related.”

Carolyn came into the kitchen and sniffed the air while she removed plates from a cabinet. “Mmm, smells good,” she declared. She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek on the way to her kitchen table.

“You know what’s been the best part of this week?” She asked. I shook my head. “Going to school and seeing my work on that big billboard overlooking Gardiner near Jarvis street. It’s so surreal, but so very cool. And Emmy, oh does she make that ad sing.”

“You did a good job. Everybody was very impressed with your work. Which one was it?”

"The one with her in the fur wrap on the balcony with the cart of Absolut Orange behind her. The flesh tones really came out nicely."

She made her way back into the kitchen for silverware, stopping to wrap her arms around my waist. “Can you believe that was just five weeks ago? And it was just four weeks ago I tackled you in the grass outside the church at Angie’s wedding.”

“Any regrets there?” I asked.

“Yeah, that I didn’t do it sooner.” She smacked my ass and opened the utensil drawer.

“Don’t distract the cook please,” I joked, sticking my tongue out.

Carolyn pulled the envelope from my back pocket that she felt when she smacked me. “What is this?” she asked.

“It’s an invitation. Well, really more a 'keep the date' announcement. My friend Aaron and his fiancée Vanessa are getting married. It’s not until September but I guess it’s all the rage to send an announcement ahead of the invite. You know what? You should come. I’m supposed to be the best man, that is unless Aaron has changed his mind.”

Carolyn smiled. “That would be nice, but how do you know we’ll still be seeing each other in September?”

“You think we won’t?”

“I’d like nothing better, but...uh,” she paused and took a sip of wine. “I know your penchant for short-lived relationships.”

“That was only in cases where the women were shallow and without substance. They were women who bored me.” I put the stirring spoon down. “Whatever makes you think you’re one of those kind of women?”

Carolyn shrugged and lowered her head. She was uncertain. She was thinking about 'what ifs'. I had to snap into action.

“Think about it,” I said, taking Carolyn by the hand, “you and me in Los Angeles. I could show you around the place, I could show you more out-of-the-way things than any tour book could offer. LACMA, the best restaurants, rooftop drinks at the Skyy Room, standing on the beach where Santa Monica meets Malibu and Sunset Boulevard ends its snakelike, downward turns in front of Gladstone’s. We would go anywhere you want to go. We could go south to Trabuco Canyon, where there’s nothing but wilderness and open trails, and then in the middle of nowhere sits a small bar with always at least twenty Harley motorcycles parked out front. It’s a city with the coolest and the hippest and the strangest and the most breathtaking all in one. And I want to show it to you.”

Carolyn raised her head and gave me a long kiss. Slow, long, forceful. When we broke she said, “That sounds wonderful. And there’s nobody I’d like to show it to me more than you.” She was coming around to the idea. It just took the right sell. Carolyn was a romantic at heart. Sometimes to be heard you just had to communicate on that level.

“Oh! I got you something.” Carolyn opened a cabinet and removed a box.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” I responded.

“Yes I did, and I wanted to.” She opened the box, which contained two smaller boxes, both wrapped. One was obviously liquor. The other, I couldn’t be certain.

I opened the first one, a bottle of 12-year single barrel Glenmorangie scotch.

“Wow. Do I have to share this with you?” I asked, a large smirk on my face.

“Mind you I know nothing about scotch, but I’m willing to learn.”

“You’ve started on the right foot,” I replied. I opened the second box. It was a sampler pack of Montecristo Toros cigars. I examined the branded print on the side of the cedar box: Hecho a mano en La Habana.

“They’re Cuban,” said Carolyn. “We have no embargo here so I thought you might like them.”

This girl was something.

“I didn’t get you anything,” I confessed.

“Sure you did. You are making me dinner and giving me the pleasure of your company.” She flashed a wicked grin. “Plus, I own your body tonight,” she added with a laugh.

She returned to setting the table and then came back into the kitchen while I finished the duck. “So what’s going on with the apartment search?” she asked.

“Not much success, but I’m remaining flexible with my expectations. There are two that I’d say are solid backups, but nothing that’s said ‘this is the place’ to me. There was one I was supposed to look at tonight but I blew it off. I can look this weekend.”

Carolyn put down her wine glass. “Wait. You could have gone looking for a place to live in for the next eighteen months but kissed it off to have dinner with me?”

“Yeah. Aren’t I thoughtful?”

“No! That’s boneheaded. Look, I like you – a lot – and I love the time we spend together but it’s important you keep the priorities you have. Don’t ever lazily cast aside a priority in your life for me. Never ever.” She grabbed my chin and turned it to face hers. “Got it?”

This girl was something, I repeated to myself. I’d already forgotten the name Elizabeth.
____________________________________________________________________________________

Saturday. June 4th. It would be a busy day. I rose bright and early, knowing I had a lot of apartments to look at if I expected to find something. My timetable was becoming cramped; originally I was hoping to have something lined up to move into on July 1st. I’d fly back to Los Angeles and turn in my resignation which would take effect by the 20th. I would pack up what belongings I wanted to move across the country and try to sell those I didn’t, and leave town by the 25th. I’d mapped out a route that would take me across the country and into Canada through Detroit. I’d arrive just in time to get the keys to my new place.

The longer the search, the longer the wait, and the longer the whole ordeal became. But today I was determined. Today I’d beat the pavement. I had a whole arsenal of apartment hunting magazines, and five-days worth of copies of both the Toronto Globe and Mail, and the Toronto Star.

As usual, the search started badly. The first place I looked at was literally a shoebox, the second a rat trap. The third had a kitchen and bathroom trapped in 1978, and was littered with brown, thick shag carpeting. I looked for signs of a disco ball having been there.

After lunch things began to pick up: An apartment in St. Lawrence Market situated atop a retail store had just gone on the market, and it was fairly spacious. I was surprised by how quiet it was given its location above a furniture store. But it wasn’t me. I didn’t require lavishness, but I did require something with a little personality. Another one, a studio in the Fashion District just up the block from King station offered more hope. It was a nice, open floorplan, with a generous amount of windows and cement flooring. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about the dog fouling the carpet. It was ultra-modern, ultra-industrial. It was also a straight shot to the office and its proximity to the streetcar station was ideal.

“No animals,” the landlord said flatly.

“Really. Not at all? Not even with an additional deposit?” I was puzzled. The floors were cement and everything else was either brick, stucco, or steel. What could a dog possibly do to this compound?

“No. It is our policy not to allow animals,” she replied. She sounded like she wasn’t going to budge. I had to take them off my list.

After checking another opportunity in the Fashion District I had to write the whole area off altogether. It was no use. The back page of one of the apartment guides showed a high rise in Queen’s West, but it looked a little pricey. I hated when they didn't list prices as a way of roping you in. I had no choice; I’d have to check it out.

“The apartment is well-appointed, with it’s south facing windows and open kitchen layout, and a separate bedroom/bathroom area divided by a long, private hallway. This gives you the freedom and privacy of having separate entertaining and living areas." She was right. It was a well-thought design. The kitchen wasn’t the most modern one I’d seen, but it did have all the must-haves. I slid the door lock on the dishwasher and lowered the door. Clean, well kept. The stove and microwave were in similar condition.

“Do you allow dogs?” I asked.

“Smaller ones, yes. There is an additional deposit we require.”

“Of course. My dog is about this big,” I replied, forming the general shape of Sophia with my hands.

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” she answered.

We walked around the apartment as I asked her all the questions she normally fielded: Broadband internet available? Gas or electrical appliances and furnace? Propane pilot in the faux fireplace? We walked into the lone bedroom. It was a good size, bigger than my bedroom back home. I pictured my bed and dresser in one corner and Sophia’s crate in another. The bathroom was good enough, and the hallway had a walk-in closet, the one thing my current apartment lacked. This was it. This was my plan A.

“Would it be available for move-in on July first?” I asked.

“Yes. Earlier if necessary,” she replied. “It’s already been cleaned. We just have to run a credit check and go through the regular formalities.”

I thought about what the next few weeks would bring. I thought about moving. I thought about having to disconnect all my services in one city and hooking them up in another. I thought about mail forwarding. I wondered how much a moving truck would cost. I hoped the walk from the apartment building to the streetcar station was close enough during winter to ward off the foul weather. I estimated how much additional clothing and miscellaneous things I’d acquired since I’d been here that littered my hotel room. They would need to be moved. I figured I’d have to buy Sophia some kind of dog coat; Sharpeis don’t have a fur coat by definition, it’s more fine hair. She’d need protection from the elements.

This was it. This was the opportunity I was waiting for and I had to run with it.

“Let’s fill out the credit app,” I told the woman.

I walked back to the hotel from the apartment; it was only three miles of zig-zagging through lower mid city but I needed the exercise. I knew once I touched down in Los Angeles the clock would be ticking and my time would be short. I thought of my friends and who I’d get the chance to say goodbye to in person. Of course there were some musts, like Michelle, and Devin and Allan; Aaron and his fiancée Vanessa; Melinda and Doug from work; and Samantha from college days. She’d be glad to know I was seeing somebody in Toronto, even if she wasn’t the one to fix it up. I’d go see Rebecca – she’d been looking in on my place while I was gone – and for a moment remembered the short but insanely erotic time we had together. I couldn’t pass up saying goodbye to Lisa, the bartender from Townhouse Bar. We had been each other’s shoulder to cry on for the longest time. If I could squeeze him in I’d go out to the peninsula to wish Ken Cross all the luck in the world. He was the most successful guy my age I’d ever known. There was no reason he wouldn’t continue to be that way. There were many others I’d met and talked to along the way. I hoped to have the opportunity to get together with as many as possible. I hoped I had the time.

As I approached the main concourse leading to the hotel I went over a revised timeline for the next few weeks. On Monday, perhaps Tuesday I would sign the contract with TWBA/Chiat here in Toronto. Towards the end of the week I'd put down a deposit on the apartment in Queen's West and by Friday I’d be on a plane back to Los Angeles and in position to resign from my post there at Chiat. By the 25th I’d be packed and on my way back to Toronto in a rented Uhaul stuffed high with my belongings, my car in tow.

It was now or never. I was ready.

When I got back to the hotel Olivia was behind the front desk killing time, talking with one of the bellman. I waved and she motioned me over.

“Think you want some company tonight?” she asked. She slightly licked her lips and played with hair, tucking it behind her shoulder.

I smiled and put my hands flat on the counter. “At the risk of you reading something into my response, I’m going to politely decline. You’re a fun person to be with Olivia, but tonight I prefer to seal myself off in my room. Maybe practice my guitar some, I’ve been negligent in that area.” I waved to the bellman and told Olivia I’d talk to her later.

“I wonder who she is,” I heard Olivia mutter to bellman when she thought I was out of earshot.
____________________________________________________________________________________

The ringing phone stirred me from my sleep. When did I fall asleep? What time was is it? Did I sleep through the night? I looked over at the clock; it read 12:07. Ugh. Who the hell was calling?

It wasn’t until then I realized it was my cell phone ringing. I hadn’t received a call on my cell in months. I didn’t even know why I left the thing on.

Without looking at the caller ID I picked it up. “Hello?”

There was a slight pause. “Hello?” I repeated.

“Hey, Reed! How are you?” It was my brother. He never called. And even when he had something important to talk about it was his wife Marie who made the call and he would jump in towards the end with his news.

“Peter...hi. It’s after midnight here. Saturday. At least I think it’s still Saturday. What’s going on?”

“Oh, just wanted to see how you are holding up,” he replied. Was he serious? At midnight on a Saturday night? “How’s life in Toronto? Are you coming back?”

“No. I mean yes.” I was groggy. How long had I been asleep? I didn’t even remember laying down. “I was going to be done with a project, but I latched on to another that’s going to keep me here longer. Long enough to require moving, but I’ll have to come home to pack and stuff.”

“How quickly could you come back?” Peter asked.

“Come back? Aren’t you listening? I have a life here. I’m getting my own place, I have a gig that will keep me here for another year, probably more. There’s a girl in town I’ve been seeing and that’s going well. Plus, to come back I would have to fly and you know how crazy I am about doing that. Sheesh.” Why wasn’t he listening?

“That’s great, kid...uh...but...they have daily flights out of Toronto, right?”

I bristled. I hated when he called me ‘kid.’

“Yeah, sure. Why, you wanna come visit? Just say so, it's a fun town,” I said. Apparently I was still too tired, too groggy to read between the lines.

Peter paused on the other line, and let out a heavy sigh. “No, I wish it were that. Can you get on a flight?”

I started to get concerned. “What’s going on Peter?” I raised my voice.

Peter paused again. He sounded so distant, so despondent, even though his voice was crystal clear.

“Well you see...it’s...tonight...and...how do I say this,” he trailed off.

“Peter, focus!” I got nervous. “What is it?”

Finally he focused and regained his composure. “It’s Dad. Heart attack. Just over an hour ago. They’ve got him at St. John’s hospital." He paused and I heard him take a labored swallow. Maybe he was trying to fight off tears. Maybe his nerves were shot.

"You’ve got to come home, kid. He’s dying.”

Get the Message

2005-06-11T02:05:00.000-04:00

As if the day wasn’t going to be draining enough with our Absolut shoot featuring actress Emmy Rossum, I decided to take an early morning swim in the hotel pool. I’d neglected using the pool and instead had concentrated on the weight machines, which was all well and good but I was passing up the opportunity for a great all-body workout program by swimming.

Early morning swims are great especially if you can get the pool to yourself. The last thing I wanted to do was swim laps while navigating around floating kids or a wading grandmother. This morning I was in luck, or so I thought. After two laps I realized why I had the pool to myself. The hotel maintenance staff had over-chlorinated the pool last night. My eyes were stinging. I attempted to hold out for a few more laps but by the fifth my eyes were burning beyond what I could handle.

When I got back to my room, my fears were confirmed: I looked like a fucking bloodhound. My eyes were completely red, and no small supply of Visine was going to fix the problem. This was going to be great – I’d show up at our early morning call looking like a heroin addict.

Downstairs Olivia stopped me, waving me over from her post behind the front desk.

“You look like crap! What happened, a late night? Or are you just coming in?”

“Neither. I went for an early swim in your pool and the staff must have really done a heavy chlorine job on it last night.”

“Oh!” Olivia exclaimed. “They’re supposed to put up a warning sign when they do that.”

“Yeah, well somebody forgot.”

“Sorry. You need some Visine.”

I pulled the bottle from the pocket of my slacks. “Already used damn near half the bottle. You could come by my room later tonight and help my eyes recover. I think the soft vision of your beauty would help.”

Olivia laughed and had to stop herself from snorting. “Gawd, what a horrible line.”

I nodded. “I know, I figured we could use a laugh.” I started for the door. “The offer still stands you know.”

“I’m sure not many women tell you no, but I'll have to be one of the few. Have a good day.”
___________________________________________________________________________________

Emmy Rossum stands under a bank of lighting, surrounded by an army of hair and makeup people. They spray, they feather, they lighten the areas they want ignored and darken those they want underscored. By the time they finish and back away, Emmy is left standing in a red gown with long white gloves one would wear to the opera, her hair teased up high. Her ever-present smile remains, and I can see why Absolut put her on their short list of celebrities for Suleman to look into. She’s a natural beauty no doubt, something easily seen despite the layers upon layers of makeup the crew continually applies and reapplies. Somebody off set says something and she bursts into laughter. I could see how she got her roles in Phantom of the Opera and The Day After Tomorrow.

I stood back and watched Carolyn begin to work. She was sizing things up, looking at angles and how Emmy appeared through her viewfinder while an assistant forever took reading with a light meter. At one point Carolyn stamped her foot on the ground, and the assistant layed out a piece of tape where she stood. The two then took a measurement from the mark to the turntable Emmy was perched upon. It all looked very by-the-book.

Anna, our Los Angeles production manager who accompanied me to Toronto spotted me from the other side of the room and made a b-line for me.

“So, this girl of yours any good? Is she going to screw the pooch on this one?” she asked, her voice raised just high enough for the assistants and PR people around us to hear.

“I don’t know Anna, why don’t you ask her yourself? I hear the newer models of woman can think and speak for themselves, a big upgrade over the old ones.” I loved getting under her skin.

“Fine, be an ass about it,” she replied and walked off, going for her cell phone.

I watched as Carolyn took a couple of test shots and made some adjustments to the lights off to one side. She was in control the whole time, and when ready, she approached Emmy, said something in her ear, and the two erupted into laughter. I guess it was an ice breaker. Then she was off taking photos, switching cameras with the assistant like it was some well choreographed ballet, as Carolyn moved in an arc around Emmy, directing her movement, pushing in and out. She finally stopped and walked over to where some storyboards were propped up on a chair. Looking them over, she nodded. “I got what we need,” she said. “Why don’t we get her into wardrobe while I take some background plates.”

The plates would later be replaced with stills of the Vienna opera, the New York skyline, a movie premiere, and whatever other options the art department had come up with.

While Emmy was attended to by the hoards of makeup and wardrobe people, Carolyn founds me sitting in the back. “Hey you.”

“Hey yourself. How’s it going up there?” I motioned with my eyes towards the set.

“Pretty good I think. At first I felt a little nervous but then I realized I’m the one in charge so I make it however I want it to be. And then as I started getting more comfortable I realized how similar it was to shooting in the wild. It’s not so bad. And Emmy, she’s adorable. It would be hard to make her not look beautiful.” She looked towards the set and saw somebody motioning for her. “Gotta run, we’ll talk later.”

During the next wardrobe change, which was also a set change and an adjustment to the chroma screens, I found Carolyn and Emmy talking over by a makeup table.

“Did you know Emmy here was doing opera at age seven?” said Carolyn.

“I only did it until I hit the teens, then I went to television,” clarified Emmy.

“Anything I’ve seen?” I interjected.

“A soap in the States called As the World Turns,” replied Emmy. She smiled her ear-to-ear grin at me.

“Oh yeah, my mother loves that show,” I said.

“It was a very good show for me.”

Carolyn introduced the two of us and then one of Emmy’s PR people called her away.

“She’s such a sweetheart,” said Carolyn. “It’s like being around a younger sister. I wish they were all like that.”

Margot had arrived late and found us waiting on the set crew. I introduced Carolyn to Margot and like the mother hen Margot was, she started right in.

“So where’d you two meet?”

“Valentine’s Day, Margot, she was at the same restaurant you and the girls skewered me alive at,” I replied.

“Oh.” Margot looked at Carolyn. “And how long have you been going out with Reed?”

Carolyn paused and turned a little red. “We aren’t dating. We’ve just hooked up for coffee and to talk about music a few times.”

“Oh. Pity.”

“You know Margot, if I didn’t know better I’d say you are sounding like a matchmaker,” I commented. Margot shrugged.

“Excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work,” said Carolyn. She found her assistant and started motioning to something on one of the cameras.

“Fucking fantastic,” I told Margot. “Thanks for scaring her off.”

“I didn’t scare anybody away from anything. Did you see the way she was looking at you? That wasn’t the look somebody who gets together just to talk over coffee gives.”

“Whatever. I can’t deal with that kind of stuff now. I might be going home in a few weeks.”

“I heard there’s a chance you might be sticking around, too,” replied Margot.

“Maybe, I haven’t really pursued it.”

“Well nobody is going to hand it to you, Reed. If you want it then do the work.” She nodded in the direction of Carolyn, who was changing film rolls. “That applies to her, too.”

The shoot continued along until everything was shot and Carolyn was confident we had it all. Suleman came strolling through the set just as they wrapped, walking with the swagger of a proud new parent.

“What I tell you, money in the bank. I knew this would go smoothly!” he lied. He made his way over to Margot and me. “Two for two!” he said as he smacked me on the back. “I sense good things. Have you thought any more about the Coca-Cola account?”

“Sorta...not much, really.”

“Well stop fucking around! We’ll need a decision soon. And L.A will want to know too. Start mulling it over.” Suleman strolled over to Emmy’s people to do a little glad-handing.

Carolyn stood off to the side with Emmy, who was now wearing a Juicy Couture track suit and a Ralph Lauren Polo hat. The two chatted a bit longer and then programmed some numbers into their cell phones. After a parting hug from Carolyn Emmy left with her people, waving as she exited.

Carolyn went over to a table and started breaking down her equipment. I joined her at her side.

“Thanks a lot for believing I could do this, it means a lot,” she said. Then, laughing, “the money is going to be sweet too.”

“Did you get all the releases and contract mumbo-jumbo out of the way?” I asked.

“Yeah, already taken care of. Emmy says she wants to see my picks first, not the client's. That’s flattering isn’t it?”

“Looks like you’ve made yourself a new friend.” I looked over my shoulder and saw Margot approaching. “Oh great, here comes one of mine.”

“Hey you two! I just thought of something. Reed, you know Angie in production services, right? Well she’s getting married next weekend and though the ceremony is limited seating she’s invited the entire office to the reception. You should come.”

I mulled it over for a moment. “The entire office? Why haven’t I heard about it?”

“The invites went out about the same time you arrived in town. I’ll jog her memory, I know she’ll want you to be there. I’m bringing Corrine with me. That’s my date – how sad is that – but it’s fine because Angie and I have been friends forever. She’s known Corrine since she was this tall.” Margot held her hand flat just below her waist.

“I don’t know...”

“Oh, it would be fun. Hey – why don’t you bring Carolyn here with you, since you are both friends and all.”

I frowned. “Gee, that idea just pop into your head?”

I started to say more but Carolyn put her hand on my arm. “It might not be so bad. I don’t think I have anything better to do that day...what the hell.”

“Goody, a wedding AND the chance to go as the consolation prize. You two really know how to win over a guy.”
____________________________________________________________________________________

As cosmopolitan and built up as Toronto was, I had no idea finding an apartment would be such a difficult challenge. Transitory rates were low in most Canadian cities and as a result people held onto their apartments. Initially I laid out a two mile radius from work as my net for finding a place, but condos for sale and rooftop penthouses way out of my price range were the only choices. Unfortunately not many rented out their condos. It was one of the prime income makers for condo owners on the west side of Los Angeles, by contrast.

After getting no results on my first sweep I widened my diameter to five miles. I’d still be able to take metro to work and minimize the use of my car. I’d planned to drive my car on weekends only or whenever I left town. When that search turned up nothing and I’d exhausted all possibilities I realized that Toronto might be like the San Francisco area when it came to finding a place to live. The high occupancy rates were killing me, so I branched out once again. I tried Brampton. I tired Vaughan. I tried Richmond Hill, and Markham. The available apartments weren’t stunning. Most were between 650 and 800 square feet and badly showed their age. I knew I wanted to err on the smaller size of size because it would allow me to save some money. I didn’t need to live lavishly. For all I knew I would be living there for a year, maybe a year and a half. I shouldn’t look past that time frame and foolishly buy something that needed to be filled with pricey furniture and electronics. I needed something large enough for my dog, myself, and some of the more important belongings I would haul over from Los Angeles.

With that new focus in mind I returned my search to the city limits, concentrating on the areas of Bickford Park, Grange Park, and Alexandra Park. Everything in the city was identified by the park it was closest to. Just when I thought I’d run out of options and would have to consider the lowly suburbs of Pickering or Ajax, a landlord called me with an opening on a one bed one bath with a garage near Grange Park. It sounded promising, but after looking decided it was at best a plan B option. Another few days went by and I received another call and once again it was another plan B. The backups were piling up, but I really was in needed of a first option, and fast.

My research into the residency requirements of the land proved cumbersome too. The rules were relatively easy to find and laid out in black and white – something Canada did much better than the United States – but what drew my attention was a blurb about needing a sponsor, usually the company you worked for (and you must work, showing proof you contribute to the system, i.e. paying your taxes, or back to whatever country you came from you go) and they must contribute additional taxes to an impound account should my immigrant ass become lazy. Canada felt it of the utmost importance everybody worked and payed taxes. It was understandable, how else would they fund their socialized medicine programs?

If I stayed past August I would need to file for alien residency, and in the 60 days it took for the application to be processed and checked I’d have to ensure employer participation. That was as difficult as it sounded.

“No way, there’s no way,” said Catherine, our brand manager. “Why would this place go to the added work and expense of sponsoring you? They’d just as soon hire a Canuck to do your job.”

“There’s got to be a way around that rule. If not, then I don’t think we’d process the transfer,” added Suleman days later. “I like you and I’ll go to bat for you, but when push comes to shove the brass will look only at the dollars and cents of it. Sorry.”

My meeting with naturalization services didn’t fare much better. “I’m sorry Mr. Becker, but if you wish to remain in Toronto and work as a citizen of another country then you will need your employer's sponsorship and you will need to be listed as an employee of the company. It’s the law,” a clerk told me.

“Wait a minute. You just said ‘listed as an employee of the company.’ What if I weren’t.”

“I don’t follow.”

“What if I weren’t an employee. What if I were a consultant or free-lancer?”

“Oh, oh. That’s different. A person working on a consulting basis pays their own payroll taxes, meaning it’s not deducted automatically from your check. You must handle that yourself in the country in which you claim citizenship. It also means that since you are not contributing to the Canadian tax base you can not claim any of its benefits.”

“But what does it mean with regard to employer sponsorship and legal stay in the country?” I asked.

“It frees the company from sponsorship because technically you are not their employee. It’s for the same reason they wouldn’t be obligated to pay anything should they lay you off. But under the law...” the clerk paused as he referred to some text on his computer screen, “you can legally stay within the country for eighteen months maximum without having to file for alien residency. It would be akin to being on an extended holiday as far as the government concerned. But go one day after the eighteen month period and you will have to file. You’ll be right back in the same boat as you are now.”

That was my in. All I’d have to do in the coming weeks was convince the brass at TWBA of my value as an independent contractor rather than as a full-time employee, and I would be able to stay on with the Coke account.
____________________________________________________________________________________

Angie was a beautiful bride. She glowed with a happiness and level of content that added a special something to her look. I know what women would say, that all brides are beautiful, but I disagree. Many pick the completely wrong gown for their body frame and instead of looking like a beautiful princess they look like a troll with too much makeup and an overdone hairdo. And don’t get me started on the hell they put their bridesmaids through with those horrendous teal and burgundy dresses.

Angie and her freshly-annointed husband Tony (apparently there was a little drama during the ceremony as he winced when called Anthony by the priest) finished a much-rehearsed twirl as Natalie Cole’s rendition of It Had to be You - their wedding song - drew to a close.

“They’re a good looking couple,” remarked Carolyn, clapping while trying to hold her wine glass in one hand. Carolyn was simply but elegantly outfitted in a spring dress with a modest shoulder wrap. Carolyn always seemed to be a simple, understated dresser. She was probably a tomboy growing up and never got used to being a girlie girl when it came to fashion.

She finished her wine and put down the glass. “It says on the menu the wine is from California. What is it?”

I looked over the list. “It says it’s from Churon Wineries,” I began. “I think that’s in the south, maybe Temecula. They make crisp Chardonnays. The region produces grapes that taste almost like they are being used a bit ahead of time.”

Carolyn followed along and then suddenly laughed. “Oh my God, I just had a quick flash of who you remind me of.” She covered her mouth in surprise.

“Are you going to keep me in suspense?”

“You totally remind me of Patrick Bateman, the character from American Psycho. Well dressed, well-versed in cuisine and music, pretty up on world events.”

“I don’t know. I’ve been told I’m more like Heath Ledger or one of the dudes from Blink 182.”

“I don’t see it. Hmm, maybe the Heath thing. But you so are Patrick Bateman. Well, without the psychotic killer part,” she added.

“Thanks, I guess. I’ve been called worse.” Carolyn flagged down a waiter and ordered another glass of wine for herself and Margot.

On the other side of the room Corrine was talking and giggling with some of her friends. Every so often she’d look back our way. Once she waved but when Margot waved back, Corrine frowned and turned away. By the time the dinner was served Corrine returned to our table.

“Who’s your girlfriend?” Corrine asked while her mother and Carolyn were using the restroom.

“She’s not my girlfriend, Corrine. Just a friend.”

“Do you like her?”

“Undecided.”

“Well, I can see why she likes you,” Corrine replied.

I stopped eating and turned my attention to Corrine. “Explain.”

“She looks at you like, like...”

“Like you do?” I asked.

Corrine's face started to redden. She reached for her water glass. “I guess.” After a big gulp she added, “and she’s talks about you when you aren’t around. And when my Mom mentions you, even just your name gets her all happy. I think she likes you.”

I tried to remain indifferent. “Interesting theory Corrine.”

Margot and Carolyn returned and as if on cue, the band resumed their playing. I put down my fork and stood.

"Who amongst you would care to dance?" I asked.

“You dance?” asked Margot. “I thought men loathe dancing.”

“Men who can not dance loathe dancing,” I declared. “Those who can, do.” I looked over the bunch. Carolyn was smiling, likely in part to the pace with which she was tearing through the wine. Margot had the same look on her face that she normally did, the one that says I've had my fun as a youth, now it's time to be the concerned parent. Corrine looked like the nervous high school student at her first dance, both thrilled and horrified at the prospect of anybody asking for a dance.

I turned back to Corrine. “I think somebody has been waiting a long time to be asked to dance.” I held out my hand to her. "Would you do me the honor?"

Corrine took my hand and we walked out to removable parquet flooring. As I turned to face her I caught Corrine making a face at her friends.

“They think I’m stupid.”

“For dancing?”

“No, for having a crush on you,” Corrine said. “You know that, right?”

“Yes. And though I’m flattered you know it doesn’t mean anything, don’t you? You know it’s not real. It's not anything you can act upon. I'm more than ten years older than you.”

“Yeah, I know. My mom keeps telling me that. But why can’t guys my age be more like you?”

I swung her around. “They will be soon, you’ve got to give them time. I wasn’t like this when I was your age."

Martin came by with Janet in his arms, spinning her in my direction. "Ha ha, you dog!" he said when he came within earshot. "Hey, check out the girl Les brought. Have you ever seen knockers on display like that?" He laughed and dipped Janet, clearing the area.

"Some men are still like kids even now," I admitted. "You want to hear a story? When I was your age I had a crush on my sister’s friend Monique. I was 12, and she was 17. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. And she was so cool. Anything she did was automatically the greatest thing in my eyes. When she said hi to me – when she just said my name – it would give me shivers. But nothing ever came of it. Nothing ever does, and I felt lucky enought that she even noticed me for ten seconds out of the day. What you’ve got to understand, Corrine, is the best thing about a crush or puppy love or whatever you want to call it is that it’s the first time you realize you can have feelings for somebody other than yourself. It's exciting and it's scary all in one. Later on, when you find somebody who returns those same feelings, it's really something.”

Corrine moved her arm closer around my waist. “I know. I know it’s just a dumb crush. But the only cool guys are older than me.”

I spun her away from me, slowly, and gently reeled her back in. “When I was in school the only girls who I thought were cool were the older ones too. Sometimes I still think it’s that way. But you are going to keep growing, getting more and more beautiful, and as long as you keep thinking with a level head like you are now, by the time high school is over I guarantee you’ll find somebody special. You’ll probably break a few hearts on the way there. And the day will come when you'll think of me and laugh - that's right, laugh - at ever having a crush on me to begin with. I'll be just another speed bump on your way to womanhood.”

I held her closer to me and I could hear her inhale deeply.

“It’s Michael Kors,” I said.

“What?”

“The cologne. You’re about to tell me I smell good – it’s the Michael Kors.”

“Oh. How did you know?”

“Let’s just say I’ve been there.” I continued to hold Corrine close and danced with her until the final note from the band hung in the air.

"Thanks for giving an old guy an ego boost." I leaned forward and softly kissed Corrine on the cheek. She immediately turned beet red. Her friends gawked and pointed from their table.

When we returned to our seat Margot grabbed my arm. “Well well, you two were very chummy.”

“If only I was half my age and she was older, we’d live on ice cream on Coney Island,” I softly sung. “I think your daughter will be over me soon enough.”

I excused myself, and as I left for the restroom I swore I could hear Corrine start saying to Carolyn, “I can see why you like him...”
____________________________________________________________________________________

A walk in the night air before driving home seemed like the best thing. Carolyn was smashed, not to the degree that causes sickness and blacking out, but certainly too much to allow her to drive home. I told her I would drive her and when she protested on the grounds I’d not be able to get back, I joked that she'd have to do better if she was trying to lure me to her apartment. I stole a glimpse of her smiling when she thought I wasn’t looking.

“I can take the rocket back to my room. I figure there’s got to be a station near your place,” I said.

“Take off your shoes and walk in the grass, it’s so fun,” she said as she slipped off her heels and made for a patch of grass. “It’s exhilarating when the night moisture has just kissed the tops of the grass blades.”

I took off my shoes and socks and followed suit. Not bad.

Carolyn came up beside me and held my arm for balance. “Let me ask you something, Mr. Reed Becker: How come you’ve never tried to put the moves on me?”

“’The moves’? That sounds so sleazy. I wouldn’t put ‘the moves’ on a person I respect.”

Carolyn moved her hand along my arm until she found my hand, and held it. “Well I’ll tell you something. I like you. I like you a lot. And it’s probably because I took the time to get to know you.”

“That’s likely the same reason why I haven’t tried anything with you. I liked getting to know you. I liked not having sexual tension in the way. It always seems to be in the way. This felt different, and it felt good, so I let it play out.”

“Wait, does that mean you’re not attracted to me?” She let go of my hand and started drifting away. I reached for her arm and spun her around.

“What it means is...look. I had just spent the past couple of months seeing a woman I had no business seeing. She was the last person on Earth I should have been dating. It was draining. It was hateful. It was something I had no reason being in yet I couldn’t find myself getting away from her. It was unlike anything I’d ever been in before. Every night I'd come back to my room hating myself for being with her. So when it was done I told myself no more women. You know, break time, slow down. Meeting you didn’t exactly come with good timing, you know.”

“You can’t always pick your time,” Carolyn replied. "Sometimes two people meet and the connection is made. The sparks fly no matter how much you try to hold back. You can't deny what you feel." When she sensed I wasn’t going to add anything, she continued. “Well I’ll tell you what. I am going to kiss you. If you aren’t going to grab the bull by the horns then I will.”

I laughed. “Announcing it isn’t exactly the most spontaneous way of – “

She charged me and took me down to the grass. I was surprised I went down that easily, and even more surprised she was able to bowl me over like that. Then, as promised, she went in for her kiss. Soft lips. Very fleshy. She rested her head on my chest as we laid on the grass, her sandy blonde hair scattered about my shirt.

“You know this is making the back of my suit wet,” I announced.

“Shh. Don’t talk. Let’s just lay here and enjoy the moment.” She kissed me again. “I’ll pay your dry cleaning bill.” We laid there for a few minutes. When I again tried to speak she hushed me once more. "Let the sparks do their thing."

We waited a few more moments, and then Carolyn did what any girl who has had too much to drink does: She passed out.

Begin the Begin

2005-06-09T20:24:00.000-04:00

Every dog breeder and handler will tell you that in order for a dog to be sociable and successful it has to have a job within its pack or family. A dog needs reinforcement and feedback that the job is being done well, too. Back home my dog had two jobs: Protection (me, currently my parents), and defending my apartment against the vile tyranny of the mailman. The way Sophia saw it, any guy who came by six days out of the week and dropped foreign objects through a slot into the apartment couldn't be an ally. Maybe there was an advance team hidden between the Pennysaver and various bills. Maybe there were spies under foot. This was what my dog believed and so she faithfully performed her duties daily, and she did a good job of it. I'd let her know often that she was doing a good job.

Like Sophia, I too needed a job to regularly perform well, and I started finding my niche towards the end of April. Our Absolut account had been floundering for a few months until our creative director, a skinny, underfed Nepalese guy named Suleman, had a vision during one of his chain smoking session where he’d fill his office with clousds of smoke going through one Djarum after another.

“Flags! Flags people,” he yelled emerging from his office only slightly ahead of a giant cloud of acrid European-produced smoke. Everybody working on the floor stopped and looked towards the catwalk where Suleman stood.

He repeated it again. “Flags. Don’t any of you get it?” He manically scurried down the stairs and came at us with the quickened pace of a jungle cat, ready to pounce.

“Reed, what kind of vodka do you drink?” he demanded.

“The good kind,” I said with a sheepish smile.

“Okay, fine. And where is the good kind found?”

“Russia,” I replied. I quickly amended my answer with “sometimes Sweden.”

“Exactly! Everybody knows the best vodka comes from European countries, and the manufacturers are making a killing exploiting that fact in their advertising, signage, and bottling marks. Anything of questionable origin is put aside. And why? Because the consumer can’t be certain it came from Europe. Russia, Sweden whatever.”

Suleman was so excited he literally could not get the words out fast enough. He stopped and ran a hand through his hair, trying to calm himself. “For all lines, for all brands, we put a Swedish flag on the bottle. This brand has been around for so long that for all we know Absolut could be made in Milwaukee. It wasn’t part of the vodka new wave that Vox, Fris, Ketel One and Grey Goose were, so it’s our job to remind people that Absolut is old school vodka from the old country. It’s OG, baby. Fucking A I’m good!”

Suleman stamped his feet on the cement floor and started walking back to his office. “Lots to do, new boards, new mockups,” he said out loud to himself. Suddenly everybody knew what was at hand and got busy with their work.

Just before Suleman reached the top of the catwalk he looked down at me. “Becker, grab the rest of your ladykillers posse and come in here. We’ve got to talk brass tacks.”

My posse? What the hell was this about? I went and found the others and met Suleman upstairs.

“Close the door!” he told Martin, hinting that whatever he was about to say couldn’t leave the room. “Ten minutes ago I realized that our best use of the five of you is not collectively as we’ve been doing, but individually. We need to tap your separate powers and skills, not treat you like the borg from Deep Space 9.”

Suleman stood and flattened a wrinkle in his slacks. They looked like they’d been through a cheap dry cleaning job. It’s too bad – Alfani wool slacks usually can hold their own.

“Martin, you are going to remain the point guy for account PR – that won’t change. Les will slide over and handle all bar relations for the remainder of our testing. Gary will now be concentrating on art direction with David. The two of you can knock out where this needs to go in a short period of time.” Suleman sat at edge of his desk in front of me. “Reed, you are off doing all the gladhanding with bars around town. You'll be working with Margot on product placement and customer psychology.”

“Why me?” I asked. The rest of them looked at me and I swore I heard a faint gasp, as if the thought of even raising the question was sin enough.

“Because you can fucking read people’s fucking minds,” Suleman replied, pointing a short, stubby finger into my shoulder. Before I could ask how he knew that, he added, “Gloria Simms – you know, your old boss – told me that. She said you're a fucking mindreader. She said you knew what people wanted before they knew themselves. When the fuck were you gonna share that with me, hmm? That’s a valuable talent to have in this industry.” The guys looked at me, puzzled. I was just as puzzled, too.

Suleman looked at our bewildered faces for a moment before returning to his chair. “So let’s go guys, chop chop. Time is money. We need ideas, and we need new places to test. Les, if I see one bar on the rundown sheet we have already been at I’m coming headhunting. So let’s move and take this thing somewhere, even if we’re burning the midnight oil. Order take-out, I don’t care.”

Martin piped up on the way out. “I know a good noodle house.”

“Best idea you’ve come up with yet, Martin,” I responded.
____________________________________________________________________________________

I sat in Margot’s office looking at some of the photos on the walls, mostly pictures of her snapped with various actors and celebrities who have worked on ad campaigns for TWBA. A few more personal pictures of Margot with Corrine at various ages were hung closer to her desk.

“I have an idea,” Margot began, “Working off Suleman’s idea of the flag, we should additionally look at the impact of colored bottles in our signage as a way of reinforcing the different flavors – citron, raspberry, watermelon, etc. – visually.”

“I like it,” I said. We could mock up something very simple on Illustrator and pass it on to the art department.”

“We should also look at some kind of forced perspective on the type treatment. Have you ever seen the materials Foote Cone and Belding did for Skittles candies and Skechers shoes? It’s very graphics driven, very linear, and as a result the one thing they managed to do was get the brand lost in the pretty graphics. We should get a hold of their work and use it as an example of what not to do.”

“Indeed,” I replied. “I’ll get a production assistant to dig it up.”

Margot leaned over her desk and put her hand on my arm. “Look at us, a regular one-two punch!” She grinned and gave my arm a little shake. “You know, Corrine is going to be so jealous that I’m working with you now.” She laughed and sat back down.

“Yeah, you know your munchkin hasn’t been around lately, though now we’re working together that will end the moment you tell her.”

“Yep. I remember when my first case of puppy love,” said Margot.

“I don’t know if I want to hear this,” I said. “Was this before or after electricity?” I joked.

“Quiet you!” Margot replied, picking up one of her Clio awards and faking like she was going to hurl it at me. “I’ll spare you all the sappy details this time. Just do me a favor Reed, let her down easy. She’s still going to have to date men in the future.”

“Hey, maybe I can turn her into a Lesbian and then you won’t have to worry about any guys coming around,” I laughed.

“I don’t think that would make things any easier.”

Corrine appeared the next day after her school let out. “Hi Reed, what are you doing today?”

“Today I’m working with your mother on some layout out ideas and colors. We’re also trying to identify some sections of town where we could display billboards and other signage.”

“Cool, I guess.”

I laughed. “You didn’t even know what that meant, did you?”

Corrine started turning red. “No.”

“It’s okay. Come over here, I’ll show you.”

Corrine quickly came behind the desk and stood next to me. “You smell good,” she said. “How come you don’t have a girlfriend?” she asked.

“How come you don’t have a boyfriend?” I asked.

“All the boys in secondary school are jerks. Half of them are nerds.”

“Yeah, that’s what I hear,” I said. “You know half the boys my age are nerds too.”

“Really? When do they stop being nerds?”

“I wouldn’t know.” I didn’t really want to continue circling the outer edges of the crush she had on me so I changed the subject. “Okay, color recognition. Did you know that certain colors trigger certain emotions and memories in people, and advertisers exploit that in order to get you to buy what they are trying to sell?”

“Really?”

“You bet. Example - guys always respond to blue. Always. It’s calming and non-threatening. It’s a proven neutral zone one can use to suck a guy in. There’s something in a guy’s chemistry that allows for this with blue more than any other color. That’s the primary reason baby boys have bedrooms and nurseries draped in blue.”

“Huh,” Corrine replied.

“Now get this. Research shows more men drink vodka than women, but we are trying to get more and more women to drink vodka. Men drink booze that’s either clear or brown in color. Women are more visceral so the solution traditionally has been to suck them in through the use of colored liquor. That’s why lemon drops, Cosmos, and appletinis have been so popular and all the women drink them. Men don’t care about crazy colors the same way.”

“I thought women drink them because they taste like candy,” Corrine replied.

“No doubt, that’s what makes them a repeat customer...but you’ve got to suck them in the first time and that’s where colors play their part.” I reached down below my desk and felt around for a couple of bottles. “Here, indulge me and play a little game with me Corrine. I’ll show you that everything I need to tap into as an advertiser has already been programmed into you. Ready?”

“Uh, yeah I guess,” Corrine replied.

Margot walked back into the office. “Oh, hi you two.” She saw me feeling around under my desk. “What are you doing?”

“Watch this Margot, I’m going to prove your daughter is a robot.”

My fingers came upon the first bottle I was looking for. “Okay. Passion, taboo, lurid, forbidden, risk-taking. What color do you think those words refer to?”

Corrine sat there for a moment, not knowing what to say, too embarrassed to let out an incorrect answer.

“Think about passion fruit. It’s the same idea. What color is it?”

“Oh! Purple, or violet.”

“Voila.” I produced the first bottle, a 750 milliliter bottle of Absolut Currant, housed in a translucent violet bottle. Corrine smiled.

“Okay. Now let’s say I’m a guy, and I’ve already told you how guys drink clear or brown colored booze. Vodka is clear, so if I walk into a bar and want vodka, which bottle am I going to order?” Next to the violet-colored bottle I placed a clear bottle of Absolut with its trademark blue type face.

Corrine pointed at the clear bottle immediately.

“Why that one?”

“Because you said guys won’t pick the goofy colors.”

“And?”

“And there’s blue on the bottle,” she added.

“You got it! See, it’s not hard to decipher at all.” Corrine smiled at Margot and me. “A perfect test subject,” I said. “I could kiss you.”

Corrine perked up. “Really?”

“Let’s not overdo it,” interjected Margot.
____________________________________________________________________________________

Work continued the next few weeks at a frenzied pace. All departments were humming, and all tests and mock-ups came through with flying colors. Signage began to pay off around the city, and bar tests showed more and more people responding to the bottle color changes and key tweaks in the text layouts. Suleman’s flag idea was a smash, a subtle reminder that some people still know their geography.

Absolut bought off on nearly everything, impressed we had turned things around so fervently. For them only one thing remained: A spokesperson and a photo shoot.

The gauntlet had been thrown down months ago when Coca-Cola strong-armed their advertising partner McCann-Erickson into dreaming up a campaign for Bacardi enterprises, in which Coke owned a huge stake. The resulting campaign was a hit, combining b-list stars with Bacardi-inspired drinks in a pool party setting. A subsequent campaign featuring runway models for Bacardi’s “0 grams sugar” sell also garnered rave reviews. Absolut had a simple request: Re-tool the idea, but make it more glamorous, more “night-on-the-town” inspired. Suleman had already signed actress Emmy Rossum to appear in the ads that would be placed on billboards and magazines in both Canada and Europe. It was going to make the agency rich, he said.

I sat in Suleman’s office with Margot the day before the shoot was scheduled to go down. He paced in front of us, head down and hands stuffed deep into his pockets.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck! What the fuck! How could this have happened?” he yelled.

“I’m telling you this guy is in breach. We can go after him later, but it does nothing to help us now,” Margot replied.

“I know! But we can’t be without a fucking photographer the fucking day before the fucking shoot!” Suleman stopped in place for a moment, thinking deeply. Then he resumed walking. “Fuck!”

Margot suggested options but was continually shot down. She even suggested pushing the shoot date – a last resort – but Suleman said that wasn’t even going to work as Emmy had to be in London the following week for principal shooting on her next project. Postponing the shoot would throw everybody, Absolut and us, way off our projected timeline.

I thought about calling Doug at the Los Angeles office and soliciting a name or two. Doug was a production scout, surely he knew some photographers. But the more I thought about it, the less it seemed a good idea. Getting someone out here on such short notice would be hard to do. Then it hit me.

“I know who we can get,” I said. I knew it would be a long shot, but right now long shots were all that was available. I’d seen Carolyn three times since we met on Valentine’s Day, and I found out she was a pretty damn good photographer, though her area was nature and outdoor still life photography. I didn’t know if she’d do it, but it was worth a shot.

“Are you going to let me in on your fucking secret?” said Suleman.

“Her name is Carolyn Perrotta. She’s local.”

“I like her already,” interrupted Suleman. He sat down at his desk and pulled a Djarum from a half-empty pack. Margot motioned a no with her head but Suleman ignored her.

“There might be a snag though,” I cautioned.

“No, no snags. That’s not the shit we need to hear,” said Suleman between quick puffs.

“What I mean is she’s an outdoors nature photographer. Still life stuff. I don’t know how she’ll do with this. And I don’t know if she’s already busy.”

Suleman stood up. “Can you get in touch with her?” I nodded. “Then do it. Explain the kind of bind we are in and tell her she can have any of the photos for her portfolio, even before the proofs get in the hands of Absolut. If she wants a fee boost because it's last minute I don’t care. Just get her.”
____________________________________________________________________________________

“I don’t know Reed, I mean how would you even know if I can do the stuff you’re looking for?”

“Because you’ve told me before that you can. Why would somebody claim that which they are not?” I replied.

“Still, I don’t do well in small enclosed places. There will be diffusers and scrims all over the place. And make-up people. They always get in the way. They mess up my concentration.”

I paused, tapping my pen on the desk as I listened. I needed a Mont Blanc, but I never got past the $225 price tag. Maybe a Dunhill fountain pen, they went for $100 less.

“You sound like you are trying to talk yourself out of doing it,” I said. “Why?”

“Because maybe I’m not good enough, maybe I’ll make a total ass out of myself.”

“I bet you’ll do fine. Better than fine. They’re in a bind, you’d really be making a big impression on them. Maybe it could lead to more work down the line. And you’d probably be able to gouge them for three times your price, too.”

Carolyn paused. It sounded like she was emptying groceries and putting cans and boxes away. “I’d have to go buy a ton of film for tomorrow, and give everything – all lenses and both cameras – a top to bottom cleaning tonight.”

“Then do it,” I said. “You’re going to clean them anyway eventually. And expense the film, it’s a work write-off. I know you can do this Carolyn. I’ve seen your photos, you do good work.”

“Fine. I’ll do it. Who do I need to talk to?”

I put her in touch with Suleman and within minutes he came running to my desk.

“That’s my muthafucka! Give me some love!” he said, putting out one hand for a high-five and catching the Kangol falling off his head with the other. He sat down beside me.

“Is she good? You know what, doesn’t even matter. Nothing is going to be delayed and that’s most important.” He pulled a Djarum from his shirt pocket and offered me one. I never liked the dry woodsy taste of Euro cigarettes so I declined.

“How much longer are you here Reed?” Suleman asked.

“That’s sort of up to you. When’s this project officially over?”

“I project...” he counted on his fingers, “mid-May. By May 15th or 20th you’ll be back on a plane for L.A...unless you don’t want to go.”

“Oh? What do you have in mind?”

Suleman turned his chair towards me and shifted his position, pausing to blow smoke out the side of his mouth. “It’s no secret I like your work. You’re a positive person and that intuitive sense inside your dome makes you a hot commodity. What do you know about Coca-Cola?”

“McCann-Erickson’s account. What of it?”

“It was McCann-Erickson’s account. Coke wants to market some new drink called “Coke Zero,” a zero calorie drink aimed at teens and young adults. It’s supposed to be like Diet Coke without the diet taste. Anyway, McCann couldn’t come up with anything to tap into the youth market, so Coke fired them.” Suleman leaned in close. He smelled like dirt and lighter fluid. “We pitched them, Reed. And we got it.”

He leaned back and smiled. “Billboards, magazine, television and radio. The sucker goes live late June in the States and late August in the rest of North America. But it’s big, terribly fucking big. We’d have to get rid of all our other in-house accounts just to have the manpower for Coke. It would be great to cut your teeth on and an excellent way of building your reputation in this field.”

I sat there, stunned by the prospect of staying longer in a city I was all too eager to leave just months ago. “How long does the account run?” I asked.

Suleman scratched his chin. “Twelve months for sure, maybe as long as sixteen, but you know how it works around here – when the fuck is anything ever delivered on time? So realistically it’s more like eighteen months.”

I didn’t know where to begin. “How would I even do it?” I asked.

“Well, you’d first have to get a transfer, a permanent one. Gloria Simms is not going to pay for you to work for us. And you’d have to find a place to live because the L.A office will stop paying for that hotel of yours the minute we announce we’re done with Absolut. I also imagine you’d have to get some kind of immigrant card down the line. I don’t know how long you can legally be here without paying taxes and whatever. You’d have to do some research. But think about it. I think you be a great asset here. If you like this town and what we do at TWBA then let’s run with it.”

He got up and started walking back towards his office. “Oh yeah, make sure your photographer shows up tomorrow or we’re all going to be looking for new jobs.”

Rewind Your Time

2005-06-08T20:00:00.000-04:00

Have you ever stepped back in time to revisit your memories of the one who got away, that special somebody who earlier in your life made such an impact that when it was over you felt a piece of you had been removed? If you could rewind your time, would you do anything differently, or would it all play out the same, for better or worse? I often thought about scenarios like this; little did I know I’d soon have my chance.

I’d first met her early on during sixth grade, just as I’d become interested in girls but had absolutely no technique or comfort with talking to them. It was an awkward time for boys, when manhood was still years away but the changes were coming anyhow. One day I opened my eyes and the girls around me appeared differently. And I felt differently. The idea of talking to girls and holding their interest was a daunting proposition, and I always got very nervous. Kristie was like the other girls at school in most ways – nicely dressed, a tan face and body, and as cute as any twelve year-old making her way into puberty could be – but when she smiled it made me melt. It was like she was smiling only for me. These were the stupid thoughts occupying the mind of a twelve year-old.

My inability to talk to Kristie in any meaningful way or follow through on my desires kept her out of my life. We ended up going to different middle schools and I lost track of my dream girl until high school, when she re-appeared as a fully developed and smoking hot tenth grader. Time had been good to her. Time had been good to me too as it turned out. My seventh through ninth grade years had been spent gawking at my sister’s beautiful friends, all of whom were cheerleaders. I listened to their stories and advice on how to talk to women. They taught me how to be comfortable around them and how to look past a woman’s beauty and engage her on other grounds. They taught me how to get over my teen insecurities. They taught me how to not let a woman’s beauty be cause for intimidation. They even taught me how to dance and respond to a woman’s body on the dance floor. By tenth grade I was ready, and Kristie didn’t even know what hit her.

We dated through high school, and after graduating we split once we realized there was no way we could maintain the relationship with me going to UC Santa Barbara, and her going to Texas A&M in the fall. It was the only amicable split I ever went through. We never fought. We never monopolized each other’s time, and always allowed time to spend apart with our friends. We saw eye to eye on nearly everything. We were just another sickly-sweet high school couple in love.

I never once regretted breaking up with her. If we hadn’t, one of us might not have ended up at the school of our choice. We might not have finished with degrees. Who knows, if we hadn’t broken up maybe we’d be married right now. Maybe children would be part of the equation. None of that happened, and I am very thankful we held the cards we were dealt.

“Why again are you telling me all this shit?” asked Les, the most reserved and withdrawn of our ladykillers group of guys at work.

“You’ve never had one of these when you were younger?” I replied.

“Nope, never have.”

“Well, it was fun while it lasted. And I think it’s because of her I don’t go looking for relationships. I think that’s why I’m a regularly single dude.”

“Because you are comparing them all to her?” he asked.

I thought about the implication. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Les ran a hand across his face. “Again, you’re telling me this because...”

“Because she’s here, Les. Right here in Toronto. And she’s found me. She called me yesterday.”

Kristie had been in contact with our high school’s alumni program, on which my sister Alexis was a board member. I didn’t even know my high school had an active alumnus group, but apparently Kristie was persistent, so Alexis gave her the hotel’s number.

“Wow, that’s a strange trip down memory lane,” Les replied. “Wouldn’t it sort of creep you out, this person you haven’t heard from in ages all of the sudden calling you out of the blue?”

“At first I was a little put off, but when we got to talking it was like revisiting old times. Good times. She’s here on business and wanted to get together for dinner and some catching up.”

“Watch it dude, there could be a little rekindling of old times,” he said. He made a circle with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand and put his right forefinger through it, laughing.

“Nope. She’s engaged. I think this whole meeting is so she can have closure.”

“Bummer. I’d rather have the rekindling.” Again he put his finger through the circle he made with his left hand.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

Soliciting Les’s advice was all well and good, but I needed a second opinion, preferably from an older and more sophisticated mind. I had been taking daily walks around a loop on the lakefront since February, and not too long after starting I met a retired widower named Samuel. Samuel never walked; he sat on the same bench in the same spot at the same time of day, watching all the people pass. He was there when it was snowing, and he was there when it was clear. After a few days of talking with him, I persuaded him to join me in my walks around the loop. Our walks became filled with drawn-out discussions about everything from politics, to personal stories, to the weather. Nothing was off limits, nothing was taboo. Samuel had been a widower for less than a year, and I got the feeling he had been spending time at the busy section of the lakefront hoping to make a new friend. I got the feeling Samuel’s wife had occupied the majority of his life.

It had been raining continually so I stopped at Ralph Lauren and bought two umbrellas, hoping to surprise Samuel with a gift. His umbrella looked like it had been through decades of use and expired long ago, though he always had it at the ready.

“It’s no use today, it’s coming down too hard,” said Samuel when I met him. Today he didn’t have his umbrella. He instead covered his head with a copy of the Toronto Star.

“Nonsense, I have just what we need,” I replied, pulling the umbrellas from their bag. “One for each of us.”

“Good show! But I can’t accept that, it looks expensive.”

“Don’t think of the cost, Samuel. Think of it as a thank you for walking around with me every day. Not many oldsters want to be seen with the likes of me. I’m quite cavalier,” I joked.

Samuel alternated between laughing and coughing. Smoking had taken its toll on him even though he hadn’t touched a cigarette in over twelve years, he’d proudly tell you.

“Cavalier. Bah! Talking to you reminds me of how I used to be when I was young and energetic like yourself.”

“Eh, I don’t know about young any more,” I replied. “Look at all these gray hairs appearing in my sideburns,” I said, motioning to the areas.

“You don’t want to go comparing gray hairs with me, son.”

“Good point. But there's a portrait of me sitting in some attic that's growing older as we speak.” Samuel laughed at the Dorian Gray swipe.

We strolled along the shoreline as the rain continued its downpour. Usually I avoided the water when wearing dress shoes but today I didn’t care. The positives far outweighed the negatives.

“When do you go home?” asked Samuel.

“I don’t know. Every time I think it’s getting close, our project gets extended. Actually, delayed would be a more accurate term. I don’t know, maybe mid-May?”

“Would anything keep you here longer?”

“When I first arrived I spent January and part of February pining to go back home. I dreamt up ways of getting sent home. I think I was still getting over the shellshock of being relocated and dropped into a foreign place in the dead of winter. In the past month or so it’s swung the other way. I like it here, I like it a lot. If there was a way to stay, I would. But I'd need to hook up with another long-term account and get a permanent transfer.”

“You should look into it,” he responded.

“Why? Are you going to tell me you have a hot, twenty-something granddaughter you want me to meet?”

Samuel laughed. “No, I only have grandsons. I ask because maybe this city is good for you. I’ve listened to your stories about Los Angeles and your life there, and it seems like you are not a happy person. It seems like there you are trying to perform to somebody else’s expectations and not your own. Here it feels like you’ve been able to be the real you.”

“And what’s the real me?” I asked.

Samuel stopped and shrugged under umbrella.

“Well, it’s an interesting thought nonetheless,” I offered. “Let me ask you something, drawing upon your years of knowledge,” I said, changing the subject. Samuel again alternated between laughing and coughing as I continued. “Did you ever have a first love or a special someone who had a big impact on you and the way you lived out the next ten or so years of your life?”

“Sure did. I married her, too.”

It was my turn to stop walking. “You mean your wife was your one and only?”

“That’s right. Minerva and me, we were high school sweethearts. After I did my two years in Korea following secondary school we got married.”

“Huh, how ‘bout that,” I replied. “How quaint. You never hear about it happening like that anymore.”

“That’s because people are so consumed with fear and doubt,” Samuel replied. “They don’t have enough faith in their emotions and the ability to make a decision. It doesn’t even have to be right or wrong. That’s how we learn. Just make a decision you can stand behind with conviction.” This guy was old school, and I admired him for it.

“Any doubts?” I asked. “Did you ever stop and think years down the line about what in your life would have been different had you not done it like that?”

“No, mainly because I never once thought I was making the wrong choice. I’ve seen a lot of things in life, and there’s always been one constant: People do not want to be alone. If you can find that one person you want to be with for the long haul, then be with them. That’s why I never thought twice whether I was doing the right thing or not. There wasn’t anyone else I wanted to be with.”

I’d gotten ahead of Samuel a bit so I stopped while he caught up. “Wow, Minerva must have been some woman,” I said.

“One of a kind,” he said, smiling. “They broke the mold after they made her.” He paused and looked out at the lake. “It’s choppy today because of the rain. There’s something brewing below the surface. Sort of like you today. Why are you asking me all of this?”

I told him about Kristie and our time together in high school, the reasons for our split and how I’d been since. I told him she was here and how she had tracked me down, wanting to get together to catch up over dinner.

“Hmm. Where are you having dinner?”

“Three Crowns.”

“Oh, I’ve been there. Good steaks. Always busy.” Samuel stopped walking and scratched his forehead. His wool slacks were growing damp. All I could think about was Smauel catching pneumonia and how it would be my fault because I had to walk him around in the rain while I asked his advice about my high school girlfriend.

“Revisiting the past always has its risks,” Samuel continued. “You want to remember only the good things, but in time you begin to recall other memories and all the frayed edges you didn’t focus on before. You remember why you broke up, and then the mind starts wandering off into ‘what if’ scenarios. You can’t do that. You can only occupy yourself with what did happen, not what could have happened.”

“So should I go see her?”

“What are you expecting will happen – you’ll rekindle some old flame and she’ll swoon in your arms, begging to pick up your romance where it left off? You were both children then. How long has it been again?”

“Almost seven years,” I replied.

“So what do you want out of this?” he again asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe I just want to see that she’s doing well and going our separate ways was the right thing to do.” I stopped and sat down on a wet bench. The water immediately began seeping into my slacks. I was going to have a fun time explaining my wet ass back at the office. “Maybe I just want to thank Kristie for her part in molding me into what I am today.”

Samuel stroked his chin, gruff with stubble from not having shaved this morning. “It’s a tough call. Wait until you hear that little voice inside you. You’ll know when you hear it. It rarely lies.” He looked up at the sky. “The rain is slowing down, so I’m going to make a run for it. Well, as close to a run as I can make. Same time tomorrow, Reed?”

“Like the postman, I’ll be here – rain, snow, or sun.”

Samuel laughed. “Sun. Let’s not get our hopes up.”

He was right about not getting my hopes up. I shouldn’t when it came to Kristie. Maybe she and I wanted the same thing, the satisfaction in seeing we each had made it into adulthood unscathed and for the better. And that’s when I heard it, that voice that resides somewhere inside us all. It told me she was doing well and living life on her own terms. She’d always been strong that way; she wouldn’t have changed. And I knew the moment I saw her my memories would be replaced with the vision of a woman seven years older, seven years a little more gray around the edges. And she would be seeing an older and gruffer version of whatever happy memories occupied her mind. We would no longer be peering through the looking-glass, we’d be shattering it. The best place for Kristie to stay was inside my head where it would always be 1998, where she would remain untarnished, eternally young and beautiful, and forever my high school love.

Brutal

2005-06-07T17:11:00.000-04:00

Most people don’t examine clothing when buying it. I mean really examine it, the textures, the density of the thread count, the stiffness of the fabric. People generally care about two things only: Color and pattern. Find something that satisfies both, and as long as it fits you’re walking out of the store with it. People think thread counts and density are irrelevant and applicable only to bed sheets, but they are wrong. You can tell a lot from the fabric quality of a piece of clothing. I usually check where the bottom of the sleeve meets the shoulder – it’s an area requiring a lot of support, but clothing makers tend to skimp because it’s not a part of the shirt people go looking at. That’s why cheaply made shirts thin or tear in the arm pit area first without fail.

DKNY has always been problematic in this area. Donna Karan has always made good-looking men’s shirts, but sometimes Donna doesn’t like to pony up in the durability department. What you are left with is something that looks good, even great, but it doesn’t stand the test of time. And hopefully you weren’t taken for an arm and a leg at the cash register.

I know what you are thinking: Is there a point here? There is. Relationships can be like clothing; two people who might look great together may not have the required durability to stand the test of time. Looks and constitution are two entirely different things.

The friction between Elizabeth and me had been growing steadily through February, and into March, and was now inflicting its venom upon April. Our fights were becoming legendary among the Expats, who began ostracizing us after having enough of our public bickering. Her anger fueled my anger, which in turn provided even more kindling for hers. But no matter how spiteful or how grating we were, we always ended up fucking like banshees by the end of the night. It was almost like a ritual: Elevate the anger and the passion to near-destructive levels, and then fuck it out of our systems.

I knew better than to keep this up. I’d known better in February, but for whatever reason I wasn’t tough enough holding my line and kicking Elizabeth to the curb. My complaints were always the same: She didn’t respect my free time. She was always goading me into doing things whenever I had something else already planned. I still couldn’t get her on the phone to save my life; she could call me, but whenever I’d try to call her it went straight to voicemail, a not-so-subtle way of saying “you’ll talk to me when I say it’s okay to do so.”

Any bar or restaurant I picked was never good enough, never expensive enough, never busy enough. And forget actual conversation; my knowledge of politics was pedantic in her view, my expertise in wine and scotch always was “so-called,” and any common ground there might have been to discuss things we found interesting wasn’t there. So why the hell did I continue being around her? Damn good question.

One Saturday night after a long and frenzied pub crawl from Pilot Tavern to Duke of York, to Brass Rail, to Toni Bulloni, I stumbled into the hotel lobby to find Stephen, the head of our Expat group, making arrangements with the bellman.
“Wow Reed, late night out?” asked Stephen. “You look worse for wear.”

“You can thank the bitch for that,” I replied, completely oblivious to anybody who may have been within earshot. “I was having a nice time with some beers, a few boilermakers, and an occasional scotch before Miss Beauchamp fucked it all up.”

“What did she do?” inquired Stephen.

“Opened her yap,” I replied coldly. I started walking for the elevators.

“Hey hey, don’t you want to know what I’m doing with the bellman and all these pieces of luggage?” Stephen asked.

I turned back around and for the first time noticed the luggage littered about the bellman’s feet. Stephen was leaving.

“Sorry, Stephen, I get so consumed with her sometimes that I have tunnel vision. I literally can’t see anything else.”

“That’s dangerous. Wouldn’t you say that’s not a healthy thing you two have?” Stephen asked. “If every time you are with her you come back to your room in fits of anger then why would you want to be around her?”

“I don’t know. A few weeks back I got on a train and went to Montreal for four days. It was fun. It was relaxing. And it was both of those things because I had stepped out from behind Elizabeth’s cold, sullen shadow. You’re right, I’m the one who’s worse for wear because of her and I don’t know why I keep doing it.”

“We don’t know why either,” replied Stephen. “It’s become uncomfortable being around both of you. Half the time you two don’t even acknowledge us. I imagine if we hadn’t run into each other tonight you wouldn’t have even noticed I left.”

I sat in a nearby chair and slicked back my hair. Stephen was right, I had forsaken the friendships of several people kind enough to take me in and make him a part of their enclave when I arrived here, and for what? A beautiful, emotionally haywire woman who was not much more than good piece of ass.

“So, on your way back home, Stephen?”

“My ship has finally come in,” he said. “GM has finally realized they can’t sweeten their deal here and the Canadian government is not going to ease any of their environmental restrictions, so it’s back to Detroit with me. Not a moment too soon,” he added, “it’s been just short of seven months. I miss my family. You have anybody special back home in L.A?”

I looked up at him. I needed coffee. I needed to dry out. “Nope, just a dog and a superficial lifestyle.”

Stephen laughed a nervous laugh, the kind people let out when they can’t tell whether you are being self-deprecating or feeling sorry for yourself. The problem was I didn’t know which I was being either.

I shook hands with him, traded business cards with him again – it had been the third or fourth time since I had arrived in Toronto but I kept losing them – and wished him all the best.

When I arrived in my room the message light was going off. “Hi, it’s E. I thought maybe you’d want to come over for a little champagne and late night fun.” Was this the same woman I’d just suffered through six hours of bars, booze and bitching with? I could never figure out this woman. Maybe that was how she wanted it.

When I called back I was even more mystified. “Hi babe, think you want to come over?”

I tried to turn the tables. “Why don’t you come over here instead?” I asked. Elizabeth never came to my room. If we ever got horizontal it was in her room or nothing at all. Well, that’s not entirely accurate, but let’s just says hers was the only hotel room we spent any time in together.

“But I’ve already got the champagne and the fun and games ready to go here.” She put a little whine in her voice for emphasis and pity.

“Nah, I’m tired. I’ve been drinking all day.”

“I’ve got something you can take for that. Besides, once things get warmed up you’ll work the alcohol out of your system.”

“How can that be? I’ll be swigging champagne. Garbage out, garbage in.” It was no use injecting logic into the conversation when it came to her.

Elizabeth changed her tone. “Fine, kill the mood why don’t you!”

“E, why can’t you take a hint. I’m tired, I’m nauseous. I’ve been drinking all night. I literally have no further constitution to be able to drink more and screw.”

“Well you could be a little more sensitive about letting me know!” Elizabeth replied.

“How many different ways do you want me to say 'no' so you can understand?”

“Fine.” And she hung up.

“Why don’t you just fuck yourself,” I said to the dial tone on the other side of the phone, “I’ll enjoy it more that way.”
____________________________________________________________________________________

The next morning Elizabeth’s tune had changed. “Come over to my room once you’ve had breakfast, we need to talk.” The tone of her message was ominous, so I was justifiably concerned. I cleaned up and made my way over, stopping first at Le Boulangerie for coffee and a beignet.

Elizabeth barely waited for me to sit down. “I’m late,” she said, tapping the point of her shoe on the carpet.

“Late? As in...”

“As in ‘no Aunt Flo’ coming to town.”

I took a big gulp of my coffee and tried to remain calm. Her being late could be due to a great many things – stress, lack of sleep, too much alcohol and barbiturates – so jumping to conclusions wouldn’t help the situation.

“I wore a condom,” I replied. “Every time. And you said you were on birth control,” I protested.

“I know,” she replied softly, possibly the first time I’d ever heard that tone of voice come from her. “I am on birth control still.” She walked past me and into the bathroom, returning with the bubbly plastic disk containing the month’s supply of pills and placebos.

“I don’t understand,” I continued, “how could you be late?”

“Condoms break, birth control pills can fail. Unless we’re rolling around on the bed in medieval chain mail, there’s always a chance.” The sarcasm and bite was gone from her voice. She was scared.

“Well, how late are we talking about?”

She paused before her response. “Five days.”

“Couldn’t it be something else perhaps?” I suggested.

“I am usually like clockwork down there. No surprises, no holdups.” She reclined on the sofa and held a pillow to her face. “I have a bad feeling about this.”

“Is there some over-the-counter test we could take?”

“No, it’s too early to be certain,” she replied. “I’m going to wait three more days and if there’s nothing I’ll get tested at a clinic. Then we’ll know for sure.” She grimaced.

I didn’t know what to say. Nothing was going to lessen the blow or comfort either of us so I just left.
____________________________________________________________________________________

Two days later she was in better spirits. “I’m so relieved,” she said as she walked into my hotel room. Wait a minute, what was she doing here? She never comes here.

“False alarm!” she exclaimed, sitting down on the sofa in the ante room. “I started flowing like the mighty Mississippi this morning. Seven days late and a lot of lost sleep but everything’s good now.” She saw the look of uncertainty on my face and added, “Jesus, Reed, if you don’t believe me I’ll show you the tampon the next time I have to switch them out.”

“Thanks but I’ve already had lunch,” I responded. “I’m wondering what caused the lateness to begin with.”

“Work, stress, you – take your pick,” Elizabeth said.

“Me? How?” I asked.

“You’re not exactly the most pleasant person to be around,” Elizabeth replied.

“I’m not? I’m not?” I paused and let the knee-jerk reaction of what I wanted to say slide. “I guess we have a way of bringing that out in each other. I’ve had third party confirmation of this.”

“Yeah, who?”

“Stephen. He says the rest of the Expats are sick of us, too.”

“I haven’t talked to Stephen in like, ages,” Elizabeth said. “Out of sight, out of mind. How is he?”

“Back in Detroit, that’s how he is.”

Elizabeth brushed back some hair that had fallen onto her cheek. “I’m sorry I didn’t know he was leaving, I would have said something. We’ve been in marathon discussions and I’m having a hard time negotiating the kind of deal the brass sent me up here to secure. It’s been my toughest one yet. So that, and you, and all these things combined must have taken their toll.”

I walked up beside her and put my arm around her, high on her shoulder. She shrugged it off.

“You do know if it had been positive we couldn’t have kept it.”

“You don’t think I know that?” said Elizabeth, her voice raised. “You think every woman who gets pregnant instantly throws reason to the wind and wants to become a mother?”

“You said it.”

She sneered at me in response. “You fucking men." She adjusted her hair and calmed herself down. "There’s more to it, though. You live in California, I live in Virginia. It wouldn’t work. It couldn’t work. And then –“

“I know, I know.” I interrupted.

“I wasn’t finished,” she snapped. “There’s more. You’d better sit down.” Her tone was urgent and almost demanding. I knew better than to question her.

“I have been meaning to tell you this forever – and I mean it, forever – but I never meant for this, you and me, to go on as long as it did.”

“Neither did I if that makes you feel less guilty,” I added.

“Shut up and listen. I’m trying to tell you something, Reed. I have a boyfriend. Fiancée, actually. Back home in Virginia.”

I shot out the chair like a bullet. “Why the fuck would you hold something back like that! You’ve been cheating on him with me? I’m just your little plaything while we do our time in Canada? Fucking great!”

“Don’t get hysterical about it. You knew all along what you were doing with me,” she replied.

“But I didn’t know you were already in a relationship. Someone about to get married.” She bristled as I said it. I should have known. Somebody as beautiful as her always has a boyfriend. Shit, women like her are born with a boyfriend.

“You know what it is about you Elizabeth? You always have to have a spotlight on you. You always have to bask in somebody’s attention. You can’t be happy off on your own, yet when you are with somebody you continually nitpick everything they do. You have no respect for me or anything I want to do. If it’s not about you it’s not important. And now on top of all that you’re going to be married. Fantastic! I bet your man is going to be in for such good times!” I mocked.

Elizabeth looked like she was on the verge of crying but I wasn’t buying it. She’d played the super vixen card for so long that I didn’t believe she could behave any other way.

“I don’t know,” she said, “I don’t know if I love him, I don’t know if I don’t. I wanted a connection, just something that would help me sort out how I felt for him. I figured if I felt something for somebody else it would put my feelings for him into proper perspective. I didn’t want a relationship – Christ, we’re two completely different people abroad for just a few months – and then you came along and I thought ‘here’s a fun guy to be with, I can see if he gets me feeling all those things I used to feel with Thomas.’”

“His name is Thomas?”

“Yeah,” she replied, “but the thing is, you didn’t make me feel those things. You made me feel guilty.”

“You should be...you cheated on the guy.”

“I know. I also realized that no guy is going to make me feel different and in turn that made me more and more angry. I discovered all men were going to make me feel like this. And it didn’t help to clear up any of the issues I had with Thomas.”

I sat back down next to her. “And the almost-a-pregnancy was the icing on the cake.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry, I really am. I wanted to hate you, I wanted to find something that would spin me back towards Thomas.”

“You hated me plenty, or weren’t you keeping track?”

“Not in the way I thought or wanted. I wasn’t angry with you, just about my situation. I guess it rubbed off on you. I hope you’ll find a way to forgive me.”

Never long on goodbyes, Elizabeth got up and collected her purse before walking to the door. I followed behind her and held the door as she left. Stopping to kiss me on the cheek, she added “if I can’t get this deal done by the end of the week then I’m going home. They don’t want to spin their wheels up here any longer.”

“Convenient.”

“I guess. If I don’t hear from you by then I’ll assume you’ve decided to deal with it in your own way, without me.” She ran her finger along the collar of my shirt. “I hope it won’t end like that.”

I watched her walk down the hall and out of my life. I tugged at my shirt, trying to loosen the tag on the collar that was scratching my skin as I craned my neck. DKNY. It figures. It looks good, but it scratches and irritates below the surface and it’s not made with the little things in mind that makes it last. Just like Elizabeth and me.