Disconnected
Disconnected
Epilogue
I sat cross-legged on my bed, too tired to cry anymore, staring at the gun. Twenty-five dollars on the corner of Van Nuys and Oxnard. Same price as the eighth of weed I was in search of. The gun turned out to be easier to come by. I toyed with it a while, held it with both hands and pointed it at the TV on the big deco dresser in front of me. For a second I felt tough, strong, male. Then my focus drifted to the round mirror and I felt stupid, and fat, even though I wasn’t anymore, according to my mother, who is an authority on proper facades. My skin looked very white framed by my mess of short, dark hair. Blackness surrounded my swollen eyes, and with my blurred vision I looked translucent, almost transparent, which modeled how I felt most of the time. I aimed the gun at my reflection, felt for the trigger and squeezed slightly.
Stop, my intuition whispered.
No point in arousing attention or wasting bullets. I put the gun down on the comforter so the barrel stared at me. It looked innocuous cradled in the soft blue quilt. I always thought I would do it with carbon monoxide poisoning. You know, go in the garage, get in my car and turn on the ignition. Just go to sleep and never wake up, as long as some asshole didn’t come along and open the garage door before I was dead.
This new opportunity presented itself an hour ago outside the recording studio just as I was leaving. Some black guy across the street in front of the mortuary was selling handguns out of his backpack to a car full of Latinos. There was no great flash of insight as I stood there watching the deal go down, only a moments consideration until their car pulled away. Then I crossed the street and connected.
A gun was fast and simple. I mean, slowly suffocating in a car for god knows how long, I might just have time to change my mind. I didn’t want to change my mind. I wanted to turn off, kill the gnawing pain. I was so lonely, it physically hurt.
The glass wall that damned me to the outside looking in was almost opaque. I was so fucking tired of wishing and wanting and waiting for my knight. And I was so goddamn sick of Lonely. Between getting high or getting dead to shut down, there didn’t seem that much difference. I lit a cigarette and tried to pretend it was a joint, but my brain wouldn’t play. It probably wouldn’t have mattered — weed didn’t seem to be working anymore, anyway.
The phone rang. I just stared at it. There was no point in talking to anyone. If it were Frankie or Jon, they would probably ask me what was going on. And I would probably tell them. I couldn’t make something up quickly right then. My mind wasn’t processing at its usual manic rate. Fragments of ideas popped into my head and then drifted away to dead space. Waves of exhaustion dragged me under. The phones ring was jarring. Go away! People could be such a bother. Who was it that said they loved humanity, it was people they couldn’t stand? I think it was Snoopy.
My answering machine finally picked it up. No message. They hung up. A minute later, it rang again. Machine picked it up again. They hung up again. Another minute and the phone rang again.
I grabbed it. “What!?”
“Hi.” Lee practically stammered. “I’m back. Why didn’t you pick up? What’s going on?”
“Nothing. What do you want?”
“Nothing.” He was defensive. “You left three messages on my machine. I’m calling you back. I just walked in the door five minutes ago or I would have gotten back to you sooner. What’s going on?”
“I was looking to score, but I don’t want to anymore.”
“You’re out already? You went through that entire eighth I got you before I left for Vegas?”
“Yes, Mom. And thanks for caring. I’m going to hang up now.”
“Yeah, OK.” He ignored my bitchiness. “I’ll stop by Carl’s and pick some up. I should be there in 20 minutes. Oh, and I can’t wait to tell you about the great place I found about five miles south of the Strip in that new development where my dad liv–”
“No. Don’t come.” I picked up the gun again and rubbed the barrel against my cheek. It felt cool. “I don’t want to get high. I don’t want to hang out.”
“Why don’t you want me to come over?”
I didn’t want to tell the truth and I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I didn’t say anything. I pointed the gun at my reflection again, forgetting I held the phone with my other hand until he spoke again.
“Are you mad at me?”
“No, Lee. Not everything is about you. Go figure.”
“What’s going on then? You sound really weird.”
“I’m tired . . . Sick and tired of being — sad.” I reminded myself to breathe, inhaled slowly and exhaled sharply. “Look, Lee, we have nothing to say to each other anymore–”
“Is this about us breaking up? I mean, I thought we were past all that. Let’s not forget how many times we tried to be together and why we’re not anymore.”
“God, you are an arrogant son of a bitch.”
“Maybe, but isn’t that one of the few things you actually loved about me?” I sensed his mocking grin. He sounded so happy.
“Until I found out there wasn’t anything supporting your bloated self-image.”
“Right back at ya, sweetie, though I’d use ‘benevolent’ instead of ‘bloated.’”
“Bye, Lee.”
“NO! Don’t hang up!”
“Why not?” I felt way beyond tired. Distant. Disconnected.
“Because I’m your friend. I care about you.”
“Right.” Asshole. “Whatever. I don’t want to talk anymore, Lee. Let’s just say goodbye.”
“Look, Rachel, I don’t know what is going on here. You sound really upset. I’m coming over, whether you want me to or not. I’ll be at your house in a few minutes and we can talk. OK?”
“No. You’re not listening to me. Don’t come—” I heard a click.
“I have another call. Hang on. Don’t hang up!”
He put me on hold to take the other call. I hate call waiting. I fiddled with the gun. It was really light. I tapped it with my fingernail. Plastic handle. Figures. No quality in craftsmanship anymore. I hung up the phone. Jerk. I checked the chamber. Only three bullets. That’s all the guy would give me when I bought it. I guess it only takes one, like he said. I put the gun in my mouth, just testing, and crunched on metallic grime.
The phone rang. I knew it was Lee. When the machine picked up, I took the gun from my mouth to listen, but he hung up. No message. I waited. Moments passed but the phone did not ring again, and I knew he was on his way. It was now or never. I looked around the room. Nothing of value I was leaving behind. My black ring notebook lay on the blanket within arms reach open to the journal entry I’d written earlier.
10/28/92
Nothing lives on when we die.
There is no such thing as a soul.
At death our energy simply disperses, back into that which is all.
What makes us unique - different from one another, is simply our combination of chemistry, which begins at conception and ends at death.
Awareness - pleasure, pain, love, lonely is chemical and only exists while physical.
When we die, our chemistry evaporates, our bodies decompose, the atoms that remain scatter, and we are no more. We feel no more.
And somehow, there is peace in that.
———-
I flipped the journal cover closed with the barrel of the gun, then looked out the window. My dog, Face, ran around the yard chasing a squirrel. Her strong, sleek shepherd build moved like bolt lightening with fluid grace. Of all the things in my life, I regretted leaving her. I knew my family would take care of her, though, so I wasn’t feeling overly concerned for her welfare without me. And being as linear as she is, she’d probably never miss me.
No time left to leave a note. Fuck ‘em. Let them figure it out for themselves. There were only a handful of people who would give a shit anyway, and after a while, they’d get over it. I wiped my tongue on my linen shirtsleeve to rid it of grime and used the bottom of my oversized blouse to clean the gun barrel, then stuck it back in my mouth. It still felt grimy. Pull the trigger and feel nothing, ever again . . . Ready? And there was a battle in my head to which I was not privy. Instant overload and I checked out.
I angled the gun so it pointed toward my brain and fingered it until I found the trigger. Every microscopic movement of my fingers registering in my head, but it felt unreal, like it was happening to someone else and I was just watching. Or like I was playing a game and even if I pulled the trigger and the bullet ripped the back of my skull out, it would only be temporary, like in a dream or cartoon, and after, I would get up, go into the kitchen and get a Diet Coke while I tried to figure out what to do with the rest of my evening. I squeezed the trigger very slowly. I could barely hear my intuition screaming at me to stop, but I didn’t. I never listened to my intuition anymore, anyway, why start now. . .
Chapter One
10/30/91
Intuition is like a flash of light. In that instant of pure white, all understanding is present. The whole idea. Complete.
But the vision only lasts an instant. And only fragments of the complete idea remain, in the form of feelings. And the feelings talk to the brain. And the brain begins the [sometimes lifelong] process of defining the feelings generated by intuition.
Intuition is never wrong.
If you’re lucky, your brain will generate answers that clearly define the feelings, thus confirming your intuition.
If you’re not so lucky, your brain will resist the process of definition by intellectualizing, try to bury the feelings, and you will eventually learn to mistrust your intuition.
But intuition is never wrong.
When you believe the second route, you’re basically fucking yourself.
———-
I wasn’t listening to my intuition when I got involved with Lee, one year earlier, almost to the day. We met for the first time on Halloween, 1991, at Jerry’s Deli in Studio City. I picked Jerry’s for most of my blind dates because it was always crowded which fed into the illusion of safety in numbers. The place is famous for its pickles and pastrami, and the Hollywood types — actors, producers and the like that hang out there. A few tour buses even stop there to give the Midwesterners a thrill.
To be honest, I didn’t exactly meet Lee at Jerry’s. Not technically, anyway. I met him through a personal ad I ran in the Daily News. L.A. in the ’90s — everyone was doing it. It was the new hip, slick and trendy way to connect. On the phone, Lee didn’t impress me very much. I’d already spoken with over 20 different men who had responded to the ad, and they all sounded like they were reading from the same script. How fun and happy and active their lives were. How much they loved their careers. What great friends they still were with their ex’s. So why exactly were they answering personal ads at $5 a pop?
Personally, I was lonely, the kind of lonely that resides in your guts and gnaws incessantly at your insides. I existed for the future, when I had someone to share life with. I placed the ad to find a partner, a man to marry and father my children. Everyone I knew was pairing up to live happily ever after. I’d been looking for as long as I could remember, but in all my searching, only one man I’ve known came close to what I see in my head and my heart. And even he didn’t live up to expectations. ‘Man’ is the operative word here. I don’t think I’ve actually met one. I hope not, or I’m really screwed.
As I drove to the famous deli that warm, windy night, I remembered why I agreed to meet Lee, and smiled in anticipation. He’d tried hard to sell me during our first phone conversation. He was 30-something and “at a great space in his life . . . etc.” All he wanted (not needed — I guess wanted makes you better adjusted) was someone to share his wonderful life with. He spoke nicely, though. His voice was deep. His words were chosen, with a measured, almost rhythmic delivery.
“What are you doing right now?” His question felt invasive, like he was peering through the phone at me.
“Writing. What are you doing?”
“Writing what?” He kept the conversation focused on me. And it actually felt like he was listening.
“Nothing important. I’m just screwing around.”
“I bet it’s fun, screwing around.” He paused, and laughed, deep and filled with resonance. “Inside your head, I mean. I imagine it’s a blast making up stories.”
Now I laughed. What an odd thing to say. “Yes. It is. I love writing. It’s probably why I’m 32 and still single. I make up the worlds I want instead of living in the real one. What about you? You seem nice enough. Why are you still single?”
“I’m not.”
I should have hung up right there, said thanks for the chat and goodbye. But I didn’t.
“We’ve been separated almost a year. I live in Glendale, she lives in Long Beach. I haven’t seen, nor spoken to her, for over nine months. We’ve already filed. We’re just waiting on the final papers.”
No meeting this guy, my intuition screamed at me. He was one of the hordes who made a commitment for life and didn’t follow through. But worse, this guy wasn’t even divorced yet. Red flags went up.
“I don’t date married men.” I wasn’t about to be added to that list of stupid women stats.
“I think that’s very wise. I don’t date married women. You sound like a very bright lady, and I would really like to get together for coffee or something. My marriage is over. If you’re worried about that, don’t be.” He said it softly, but with conviction.
I sat in my small, cozy living room at my grandma’s Queen Anne table in front of my computer. I had a fire going, and light danced on the stucco walls and ceiling. I was writing a sci-fi screenplay in an effort to justify the expense of my UCLA Film School education, and feeling like I should get back to it.
“What should I say to convince you to meet me?” He taunted. I could almost hear him smiling.
I didn’t know exactly what he should say, but I knew he hadn’t said it yet. The blinking cursor on my monitor beckoned me to tell it more story. I thought about how to disconnect politely, but then I heard the unmistakable sound of him sucking on a joint. Desire instantly overwhelmed me and shut out the voices of reason.
“What are you doing right now?” I asked.
He laughed knowingly. “Why?”
“Are you getting high?”
“Would it matter to you if I was?”
Time stopped, everything seemed to freeze in the room while my brain battled with his question. HANG UP! Don’t meet this guy. He’s poison. Stoner at best, if he still indulged at his age, but more likely he was addicted. Obsession times two serves no one. I’d been searching for someone to modify me, better than me, and my intuition screamed at me to dismiss this man. Say goodbye and hang up. But I didn’t. I chose to listen to the part of my brain that craved escape from myself and the weight of my ordinary life.
“Do you know where I can get any?” I practically whispered.
He laughed again. “Yeah. Why don’t we meet tomorrow night, and I’ll bring some.”
I sighed. He didn’t get it.
“Look. I don’t mean to be cruel, or rude or anything, but I’m not looking to date you. I told you, I don’t go out with married guys.”
Or stoners, but of course I didn’t say that.
“So until you’re not married anymore, the only reason to meet is for a connection. If you’re not OK with that then—”
“I get it.” He said it with that same taunting tone as earlier. “First things first. Meet me tomorrow night, and if you like what I bring, I’ll set you up with some more.”
“Are you a dealer?”
“Nope.” Again the sucking sound of hitting a joint. “Though it just so happens my neighbor is.” He laughed, deep and resonant. “Got lucky, I guess.”
“Very lucky. It’s been hard to come by lately.” I hadn’t gotten high for a month, since my last connection quit dealing when his band signed with MCA. I hungered for high again, that smooth, rhythmic sensation, free of Lonely, Fear and Want. Again I let my craving win. “OK. Let’s meet — as long as we’re on the same page here.”
“We are. Totally. I’ve been there. Until I bought my condo and met my neighbor Carl, I hadn’t had any for quite awhile. It’s definitely getting harder to find good connections the older I get.”
His comment cut, but I tried to let it slide. I willed away my disgust at the junkie I swore to myself I’d quit modeling and focused on the anxiety release that I knew would come with the first few hits. One quick meeting to connect worked for me. So Lee and I agreed on Jerry’s at 8:00 p.m. for the following night, which just happened to be Halloween.
I kept the passenger window half open and Face stuck her long nose out. She stood in the back on the folded down seat and craned her neck to snuffle in the warm, dry wind as we drove to Jerry’s. Ahh, to be a dog . . . to be so idyllically simple as to actually enjoy the moment instead of suffocating under the weight of fabricated complexities.
To say I looked forward to meeting Lee wouldn’t exactly be the truth. I anticipated the prize, not the show. Dating is depressing at best. Clumsy, stilted chitchat, and after the initial exchange of vital stats, unless I continually drill questions, the conversation invariably stalls. That’s when I check out, crawl inside my head and create a scene I prefer, perhaps replace the guy across from me with one to my liking — a tall, slender man with a baby face and bedroom eyes that are riveted on mine, and we are connected. I get snippy when disturbed from my fantasy with drivel — case in point, my last few coffee dates in which I was less than amicable, annoyed with the typical dialog that never got beyond all about them. Only the pompous, emotionally void lawyer called back for a real date. My father is right. Normal men need to feel revered.
Tonight I hoped to get through the pleasantries quickly, score and take my leave. I had no desire to waste another evening with Mr. Wrong. I was in search of a hero, a savior to resurrect me from my precarious existence and redeem me from myself. Besides being a stoner, by fulfilling my request, Lee was a conspirator in my corruption and therefore unacceptable to date. He wasn’t what I sought, but he had what I wanted. As I drove to the deli, I tried to convince myself getting high really wasn’t so bad — a harmless frivolity. It might even aid me in my Quest. I could put on the façade men expected when I was high, be what most wanted me to be. High, I could pull off perky, or at least present and attentive. And guys love to be the center of attention. High, I could pretend to be simple, vivacious, bubbly. And most men prefer sparkly to bright.
I waited for ten minutes just to pull into the parking lot and another five on that for the valet — wearing only a Tarzan loin cloth (with the build to pull it off) — to give me a parking pass. He refused to park my Civic with my German shepherd in the car. Five minutes later, I pulled into the first available space, in the business park used for overflow parking quite some distance from the restaurant. I gave Face a quick scratch on her head, on the black diamond marking between her big, ‘rocket’ ears, and told her to stay as I got out, locked the car and then walked the quarter mile to cop a fix, slamming myself the entire way for succumbing to destructive desire and agreeing to meet Lee at all.
Now, the patrons of Jerry’s Deli are strange enough, but on Halloween, every celluloid wacko comes off the streets to make their exclusive appearance. Bonnie and Clyde ran across the parking lot with toy machine guns and slowed as they neared the crowded entrance. Bonnie lifted her gun as if to shoot the group of nuns blocking the entryway, and for a moment, my mind played out that scene, blood and gore and all. Then she pushed her way past them, and I lost her and Clyde to the crowd. Mostly everyone was white, in their mid 20s to late 50s. A lot were in costume, though most were not.
Lee stood outside Jerry’s, near the wrought iron bench along the wall. I knew it was him right away. You can always tell someone who is waiting for a blind date. They’re stiff but keep shifting about, striking poses to appear casual, apprehensively glancing at any woman who is alone, working on a legitimate excuse to leave early if the date is ugly or weird or otherwise unacceptable. He looked pretty much like his description. He was on the short side — 5′8” maybe 5′9” — a little heavy, what most people call ‘stocky’ on a guy, with a full thick head of wavy dark hair (which was unusual. Most guys in their 30s were doing comb-overs). As I approached him, I noticed deep green eyes and a nice smile. He wore 501 jeans, a black T-shirt and a beautiful black silk blazer. And he was cute, in an odd sort of way.
I knew he liked the way I looked when he saw me walking up. Guys are pretty easy to read. When they don’t like your looks, there’s this awkward little silence as they try to figure out their exit strategy. Lee smiled slowly, tentatively, almost hopefully. He looked me straight in the eye as I walked up to him, and his gaze never wavered.
The first thing he said was, “Well, you managed to make it. Miracle,” as if I was late or something. I should have known right then and there he was passive/aggressive. I wasn’t late. I never am. It’s selfless and rude.
“Hi. I’m Rachel.” I stuck my hand out to shake his and smiled. “Am I late? Parking was a bitch, but I don’t think I’m late.”
Lee took my hand as if to shake it but held it. “I’m Lee. Lee Messer.” And he smiled this ear-to-ear Cheshire grin. “And you’re exactly on time.”
I was suddenly warm, and flushed, and then took my hand back. Then the warm Santa Anas gusted, but I was chilled. I’d dressed in black leggings, a low cut, sleeveless black rayon shirt and a thin black linen blazer. Freezing, but thinning. I like black.
A hostess came outside and called Lee’s name. She was dressed as a waitress in “The Rocky Horror Picture Show” with the tiny flared skirt and four-inch spiked heels. Our table was ready. She led us through the maze
of booths, tables and people to the bar area and seated us in the smoking section, which was the only seating available. We sat in the small dark red patent vinyl booth, and for a moment got caught up in the bizarre.
It was packed in there. The restaurant was big, and bright, with a large square dining room stuffed with rows of maroon booths and a classic linoleum countertop complete with short, rotating stools. The bar area was to the far side of the room, towards the back of the huge dining area. It had dark red carpet and a short brass fence that paced a row of booths separating the bar from the restaurant, but it all seemed to fuse together anyway, like the smoke that drifted everywhere.
Our waitress came over. She was dressed as a Playboy cocktail server, bunny ears, bushy tail and all. She was perfect — her long, bare slender legs were exposed up to tiny skin tight black satin shorts; her flat belly accentuated her perky round breasts cupped by the lacy pushup bra under her prim white blouse. She knelt to our level to hear us above the noisy diner and her cleavage demanded notice, but Lee looked her in the eye as he gave his order, then looked at me as I gave her mine. He kept his eyes on me as the waitress straightened, stuck her notepad into her waistband and turned away, then wove through the maze of booths and tables to the swinging kitchen doors in the main dining area.
A naked man with a feathered cap, groin and ass was being escorted out of the restaurant by two large kitchen workers. He stopped, took off his cap and bowed low to a robust woman dressed as Queen Elizabeth as they passed each other in the narrow entry lined with glass cabinets filled with elaborately baked treats. I looked at Lee, and we both laughed. Don Quixote came in next, and there was a small round of applause but not from me or Lee since neither of us knew the actor. We shrugged at each other, and I looked back out at the floor show. I felt his eyes on me as our waitress set down our tea, and the room seemed to fade with her when she left.
“Why did you run that ad?” Lee asked me. “It seems to me you could date any guy you want.”
I smiled at him. In the ten or so meetings I’d had from the ad so far, not one of the guys had ever asked why I placed it, or given me so nice a compliment with almost their very first words. He was good.
“How old are you?” I had to ask. He had a baby face. It was hard to tell.
“Thirty-six.” He furrowed his brow in a mock irritation. “Now would you please answer my question? Why’d you place the ad?”
“To find what it said.”
“A ‘secular, imaginative, passionate, pragmatic, independent thinker, with a wild and crazy heart.’” Lee quoted my ad with a haughty smile.
“’Who’s ready for the real thing.’” I quoted the rest of my ad and returned his Cheshire grin. “I’m looking to find a man capable of making, and keeping, a lifelong commitment, someone who’s ready to get married and start a family.” I said it to rile him, but he didn’t flinch. I know you’re not supposed to mention marriage and kids on a first meeting, but what the hell. It wasn’t like I was looking to date him or anything.
“So you’re after the white picket fence, the whole nine yards?” He kept a soft smile.
“I’ve never been into fences.” I smiled back. “I prefer a lot of land around me.”
His smiled broadened, and a dimple appeared in his left cheek only. “Me, too. Preferably beachfront, or close to it, nestled in rolling hills with a lot of trees around.”
Now my smile broadened. “I drew plans of a house I want to build in the coastal hills of Marin. It’s a series of different size wood and glass circular living spaces, all connected by glass-domed corridors. Too bad land in Northern California, or anywhere desirable, is so expensive.”
“Lucky I’m good at making money.” He stayed fixed on me. His green eyes were speckled with brown. They were large, almond-shaped and spread wide on his face, the lids weighted but not sleepy, what my mother called “bedroom eyes.” His long lashes nearly touched the base of his brow. His eyes never wavered from mine regardless of the commotion around us. He was really good.
“What do you do exactly? You mentioned some kind of shipping on the phone.”
“I run a small consulting business, out of my home. Shipping freight. I deal with trains and trucking — getting stuff back and forth across the country. It’s afforded me a very nice living, with a lot of free time to do what I want. I’ve been lucky so far.” He looked out at the show in the dining room. He knew I was watching him, smiled softly and looked back at me. “So, what do you do exactly? Are you an architect or a writer?”
I was taken aback. Hardly anyone ever turned my questions around. “I’m a dreamer.” I wasn’t trying to be flip. I meant it self-effacing, but I realized it may not have come out that way. “I create worlds I’ll never have with words and sometimes pictures. Much more with words than pictures these days, though it used to be the other way around.”
“How long have you been writing?”
“I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember, starting with diaries when I was a little kid. Now I write to get published — essays mostly.” I paused and took a sip of my tea to assess if I still had his attention.
“What was your last essay about?” He kept his eyes on mine.
His attention, though titillating, felt invasive as I sat there trying to recall the last thing I wrote to publish. It was for Playgirl, titled “The Best Sex I Ever Had.” It was about my sexual escapades with my friend Jon. “I don’t remember the last essay I wrote. It was a while back. I’m working on a screenplay now, science fiction. It’s about a hotshot pilot and first alien contact, a cross between ‘Top Gun’ and ‘Close Encounters,’ with commentary on social responsibility with the expansion of technology.”
He flashed a gentle smile. “Sounds interesting. I like sci-fi, got into it in my teens and it never wore off. Robert Heinlein, Arthur Clarke. I just finished Stephen Hawkins’ A Brief History of Time, but I think I missed most of it. I’d like to read your screenplay when it’s finished.” He stayed fixed on me as if awaiting my response. When I didn’t offer my work for his perusal, he looked away, prepared his tea with milk (like me) and took a sip, then glanced out at the dining room as he spoke. “Do you still keep a diary?”
Again a touch of lewd invasion. “I still keep a journal, though I don’t write in it everyday like I used to.”
“I bet that would be an interesting read.” He raised only one eyebrow and grinned.
“Probably not. Most of it’s rants with only an occasional insight. I write in it less and less the more I write stuff for publishing.”
“So you’re a real writer. That is so cool.”
“Not exactly, if you mean real as in supporting myself with it. I make my living writing copy — advertising copy.” Selling people shit they don’t need, I wanted to say, but didn’t. “Fine writing for a living is fairly close to topping out my list of fantasies — right up there with kids and a best friend for life.”
He smiled this adorably cute grin, and his dimple was back. “I have no doubt you’ll find a way to ‘fine’ write if that’s what you really want to do. You can have it all. It can be done.”
I flashed a quick, tolerant smile. “And how do you come by this insight? Wait! Don’t tell me. You’re a writer, too.” When I say I’m a writer, invariably people profess to have a book in them, though most never seem to get it out.
“No. I’m just a businessman.” He paused, took a sip of his tea, then set it back down. “I love to read though. Can I read something of yours, one of your essays, maybe?”
I heard ‘No,’ in my head, but I said, “Sure. I write to be read. I’d be honored.” I smiled at him. I win. It was a hollow challenge. I knew I’d never show him anything. No matter how cute Lee was, and he grew on me as we sat there talking, we could never be. I was there to connect. And he was the connection. He wasn’t better than me. I needed a hero, a man I could perceive reverently. Stoner, dealer, either/or, whatever, and I sat in the patent leather booth reminding myself why dating him was out of the question.
“Tell me what you’re looking for in a man?” Again his question felt too intimate, but I played along.
I could say anything, reveal my deepest desires, confess my fantasies, expose myself because I didn’t care how I came off to him. I knew we’d never be anything real to each other.
“When you were a little kid, did you ever have a friend that you shared everything, held nothing back, knew you could because you thought you’d be friends forever, no matter what?”
He shook his head slowly. “No. But it sounds nice.” His attention was still focused on me.
“Well, I’m looking for a partner, a man who wants a woman beside him, not behind him. I want to be with someone who cares as much for me as he does for himself, and returns the attention and affection I give in equal measure.” I gave him a soft smile and he returned it and I continued. “I want a best friend for life. Share everything. Withhold nothing. Total trust. Cohorts in chaos. A daring duo. Separate, but better connected, like photons and light.”
He smiled and nodded. “’Photons and light.’ I like that.”
He stayed fixed on me and I stared back at him, trying to figure out if he was for real, or mocking me. “So, what about you? What do you want in a woman?”
His smile softened and seemed to extend across his entire face. “Someone like you, I think.” He arched both eyebrows and his eyes lit up. All I could do was smile back.
Someone in the dining room screamed with delight, and everyone started to clap as rock legends Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain entered the room. The actor who played Jim looked familiar but I couldn’t place him. He was young and even more beautiful than Val Kilmer in The Doors movie. Kurt Cobain looked identical to the real one — strung out on heroin and rail thin. The actor was either very good or very high because crossing the room, he stumbled and almost fell in the lap of a patron before taking his seat at one of the chrome-framed Formica tables set below the glass windows along the front wall.
The volume seemed to ramp up as the restaurant got more and more crowded. I’ve never been into crowds. There’s an underlying manic quality to the mass that scares me. In my teens, I did the big parties and even went to a few stadium rock concerts, but more to be a part of the scene than because I liked them.
“Let’s get out of here,” Lee yelled across the table. He leaned in closer. “Go in my car and smoke a joint.” He took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and dropped it on the table as he stood up and looked down at me. “Ready?”
It was why I’d come, after all. I followed him out of the restaurant, and as we emerged from the noise and mayhem, I sucked in the crisp night air. Lee had somehow managed to park right across the street from Jerry’s, on the curve where no houses or businesses were. He grabbed my hand and I pulled back, but he held it until we ran across the four lanes of Ventura Boulevard. We only pissed off one road-raged driver. The guy was still on his horn a block away, long after Lee and I had gotten into his silver Audi.
I sat huddled in the plush leather passenger seat, cupped my hands and blew into them, then rubbed them together for warmth. Lee retrieved a pack of Marlboros from his visor. I saw only one cigarette inside the box as he took out a joint among many and with a quick glance around stuck it between his thick red lips and lit it. He took several hits and handed it to me. The smoke drifted off the end of the joint in a thin, graceful stream until he turned on the car and unrolled the sunroof. A warm gust blew in and cleared the air. I looked around before taking the joint. Cars whizzed along Ventura Boulevard on Lee’s side. Only someone on the sidewalk could see into his car. And no one walks in L.A., especially at night.
We spent an hour in his car getting high and talking — about nothing, really, just general jive about current events, favorite movies, books, sports. The conversation flowed easily from one topic to another. My body warmed and relaxed into the soft seat. My world slowed with the smoke, and details became vivid. The car was clean, unlike mine. The interior was done in burl, with a high-gloss polish to show off its tight, twisted grain. The stereo had a CD changer in it, and was Bose. Lee sat sideways with his back against the edge of his seat in an attempt to face me. His left hand rested casually on the steering wheel. With his right, he brought the joint to his mouth, pursed his lips softly in what looked like a sensual kiss, and sucked. He gave me a soft but wily smile as he blew out a stream of smoke. His hair hung in his hazel eyes. And honestly, he really was quite charming.
“Favorite sport is definitely racquetball.” His dimple appeared. “Started playing in high school. Kind of gave it up in college but would love to get back into it. It’s a great game. Fast. Focused. A lot of fun.”
It was my game, too, my only game since I’ve never been much of an athlete. I played to stay in shape. Period. But Lee was right. Racquetball is fast and fluid and a lot more fun than running on a treadmill. It was trendy, though still on the fringe because it’s a tough game to play and even harder to master.
“I play racquetball. It’s a great workout. I’m not really into playing for points, starting and stopping for serves and all. I like to keep the ball moving, burn as many calories as possible. Except finding consistent partners who aren’t out for blood is like trying to find a good connection.” I gave him my quirky grin.
He laughed. “I’ll play you. Anytime. As much as you like. And we don’t have to play for points. Good rallies are like good sex — hot — and ramp to exhaustion.” He flashed a quick grin, and for the first time that evening, I felt a twinge of scared, wanting to avoid any sexual innuendos. He must have picked up on my tension because he continued talking in an easy, rambling sort of way. “There are courts in Studio City on Ventura near Vineland. It’s a private club, but you can rent court time. It’s on me. And the courts are all regulation, great floors. We can play tomorrow. I’m off by 3:00 most every afternoon.”
God, it was tempting. Up until late summer, I’d been playing with Jon, two, three times a week for years. But he’d become flaky with his latest romance, so I was desperately seeking a new partner I could count on. Since cutting back to random games every week or so, I’d been feeling gross, bloated, flabby, and more racquetball was a quick and healthy fix over starving myself chasing-thin. “OK. I’ll play ball with you tomorrow. I know the courts you’re talking about. I can meet you there at 4:00.”
He smiled, victoriously(?). “Great! I’ll be there.”
“I’m only talking about racquetball here.” I kept my eyes on his. “We meet at the courts. We leave after we play. We don’t hang out. Just racquetball. OK?”
“Fine by me.” He hit the joint again, sucked on it a few times and inhaled deeply. Then he blew a thin, tight stream of smoke out the sunroof. He handed the end of the joint to me, but I declined.
“Thanks, but no. I really should go.”
He stared at me with glassy eyes and frowned. “If you feel you must.” Then he dropped the roach in his ashtray and took his Marlboro pack from the visor and handed it to me. “As promised — for you.” He gave me a gentle smile. “It’s just a sample, few joints. If you want to connect for more, let me know.”
“Thank you.” I took the cigarette pack and put it in my blazer pocket. I felt shamed right then, and sad, and chastised myself for my weakness as I reached up to grip the door handle. “I had fun tonight. Thanks.” I meant it. Lee had been a gentleman and a man of his word, and he seemed like a nice guy. Too bad straight out of the gate he’d joined me in the mire.
“So we’re on for a game tomorrow?” He said it more like a statement than a question.
“Sounds good. I’ll see you tomorrow at the courts at 4:00.” I opened the passenger door and did not lean over to hug or kiss him goodbye, even though overt displays of affection are trendy in L.A. The original agreement for meeting was to connect, and that was all. I’d been totally up front about that. I abhor the idea of a prick tease, disgusted that most women use it to get what they want.
Lee watched me, like he was studying me. “It’s Halloween. It’s L.A. The Santa Anas are up and the lunatic fringe is out tonight. I’d like to take you to your car. May I?” He cocked his head to the side. His hair hung in his eyes and caught up in his lashes.
“OK, I guess. But let’s walk. I’m over in the business park, and I don’t want to get stuck sitting in all that traffic in Jerry’s lot.”
He smiled. “OK then. Let’s go.” And he got out of the car and came around to the passenger side as I got out. Then he took my hand, and we ran back across Ventura. He guided me through the crowds, past Jerry’s parking lot to the business park’s lot. His grip was firm. His hand was warm and soft, his touch familiar, not invasive. He let go of my hand when we got to my Civic, and I was suddenly chilled.
I stared at him an awkward moment before opening my door to get in my car. My dog leaned out to greet us. “This is my dog, Face.” She wagged her tail wildly, pushing past me to smell Lee, excited to meet someone new.
“Hi, Face.” He gave her the obligatory pat and looked at me. “She’s shepherd but mixed with something. Do you know what?”
“She’s a pound hound. Could be a lot of things. I’ve seen her go into a full point when she’s after something, so it could be some kind of hunting hound, especially with her thin hindquarters.” I stroked Face’s neck, and she nuzzled her head against me with my touch.
Lee watched us. “Well, I’ll admit it. I’m jealous. Backrubs are my favorite, too.”
That was about as far as I wanted to take that conversation. I thanked him again but felt too small to specify for what, said good night and got behind the wheel.
“See you tomorrow.” He stood a few feet from my car with his hands shoved in his pockets. “Drive safely.” He smiled again, like he had a secret, the dimple cutting deep into his left cheek. He really was adorable. He watched me back out and pull away before I saw him start back to his car in my rear view mirror.
The smoke let my guard down and my mind wander on my drive home. I tried to fight it, rolled all the windows down and let my hair blow around. Face craned her neck from the back seat and stuck her nose out the passenger window and sucked in the night. Ahh . . . to be a dog. I leaned my head toward my open window and let the wind tingle my scalp, but the action wasn’t distracting enough to silence my inner chorus. Very few things took all of my attention and shut out the voices in my head. Only three, in fact: racing a car, fine writing and sometimes music.
Too much wind noise for music, and the Valley side of Coldwater Canyon, lined with old pines and quaint two-story apartments, was no place for street racing. The wind and road sounds turned to white noise and The Wish Factor crept in. Lee was really cute. He was funny, articulate, attentive, and he seemed present, right there with me. He actually asked me questions, and listened to my answers. We had an even exchange. It felt nice, empowering. I mattered. I wasn’t on the outside watching. For that fleeting moment, I’d been inside, and was safe because I wasn’t alone.
Twenty-foot-tall liquid amber trees lined Moorpark Street, and their tops bent with the strong easterly winds. Twigs, small branches and lots of leaves swept down my street in twirling gusts, then settled before scattering again. Face yelped as something struck her nose. She backed up into the car and lay down with her head just behind me in easy reach. I glanced back at her quickly and stroked her for obvious injury as I drove but found none, then rolled up the windows to shut out the debris. The air felt charged and in fact was electric. I got a hell of a static shock when I pushed on the stereo, then Pete Townsend’s acoustic guitar commanded my attention and I got sucked into his music until I pulled into my driveway, drove all the way back and parked in front of the detached garage.
I sat in my car and stared out at my long, dark backyard. The wind
whistled through the old oaks and pines and bucked the two-door Civic
around. High was wearing thin, and in its wake came tired. I played out the evening in my head and flashed on how adorable Lee was with his soft, dimpled smile. Then my hand grazed the cigarette pack in my blazer pocket, and I felt a charge of carnal excitement. I pulled it out, Marlboro Reds, and opened the box top. Three, four, five joints. Last me about a week. And Lee was the connection who ten minutes ago was getting me high. And the foundation I was constructing in my head to rationalize dating Lee crumbled.
Face stood and shook out, sending dog hair flying everywhere. I got out and she followed, and we crossed to the back door of our rented ’40s Spanish style, three-bedroom, single-story ranch. I tread through the empty kitchen as quietly as possible, even though I knew my roommates were gone for the night, crossed the creaky wood floors of the small dining and living room, got to my room and turned on the light.
I stood in my doorway and listened to the trees scratch against the glass of the aged metal-framed windowpanes. Between the two large double-hung windows sat an enormous art deco dresser. A 27-inch TV sat atop it to the right of the big round mirror in the center. A drafting table and tall swiveling stool were in the corner, between the side and front left windows. A double bed with a light blue down comforter was across from the dresser, up against the opposite wall. A few feet from the foot of the bed on the right side was Face’s beanbag. She curled in it, buried her long nose in her tail. Five things were all that occupied the textured stucco bedroom, and only she mattered. And the ugly truth was that Face would be just as happy with another as with me. Other than the rustling from the wind, the house was dead quiet. And Lonely consumed me.
For a minute, I let my mind play out a different scene, coming into my own home, filled with the noise and frenzy of family. My husband cooks dinner, glazes teriyaki on the salmon in the broiler. The kids, eight-year-old Kyle and six-year-old Sara, are setting the table. The dog is curled in the pillows on the floor in the playroom. I set the final draft of my latest novel on the granite island before making my rounds with hugs and kisses. I smile. I have it all. No more searching. No more waiting. No more Lonely. And for a second, I’m filled up. Then a branch scrapes the windowpane in that nails-on-chalkboard type way and I’m back in the sparse room and falling into the black hole of Want.
God, I need someone to save me.
Chapter Two
11/20/91
Imaginative, passionate and pragmatic are not an easy combination to find in one individual. In sharp contrast to Creatives, Pragmatists are generally directed, without a lot of silly emotions diverting them from their goals.
So I go after the lawyers, accountants, dentists — pragmatic, financially successful men who are reasonable, and dependable. We may never share what’s on the inside, but they go to work everyday and provide a lifestyle conducive to raising a family.
Passion for Stability is the exchange. And I keep telling myself it’s worth it.
The problem is pragmatists bore me. Eventually I exit the scene, first mind, then body, and I’m right back to being alone.
———-
We played every Tuesday and Thursday for almost three straight weeks. He showed up every time, on time, except for today by about three minutes. He was smooth on the court, where he needed to be when he needed to be. He had great timing. I was pretty good by then, playing as much as I did, but Lee was better than me, by quite a bit. Even though I was faster, he had much more control.
We met at the courts, rallied hard for an hour or more, then chatted over Diet Cokes for five minutes, and then went our separate ways. Every now and again, he’d entice me out to his car to share a joint before going home. We kept the chats basic, light, mostly about work and news gossip. The most intimate I ever got was in his car one day where I described a bad date from the previous evening with that attorney from my ad. It turned out to be more complicated than intended to explain why. even though he took me to Dar Maghreb on the Strip for dinner, I had no desire for a second date with a guy who insists most homeless were out there because they’re lazy and, in America, we all have the same opportunities.
Lee laughed. “Good to know you’re not dazzled by money alone.” He sucked on the joint in that passionate kiss sort of way.
“Money is good. I like money. I hope to have a lot of it someday. But I don’t do well with pompous, rightwing conservatives born with a silver spoon and supportive family who are clueless of how the rest of us live.” I knew I was ranting, but it was hard to stop, feeling as passionate as I did about social injustice. “You’d think their excessive education would have taught them some compassion for the less fortunate. They don’t seem to get that the human race isn’t sustainable if we only take care of ourselves.”
“Are you now, or have you ever been, a member of the communist party?” Lee gently mocked. He gave me a second to respond, and when I didn’t, he leaned toward me and continued in a whisper. “Truth be told, I bend to the left myself.” That was about as personal as he ever got. He never talked about his soon-to-be ex-wife, or dating, or any other women, and we never spoke outside of racquetball.
“I want to show you something,” Lee said to me softly by the soda machine in the club lobby after our game this afternoon. He put his Diet Coke on the floor, scrounged in his gym bag, pulled out some stapled papers and handed them to me.
They were his final divorce papers.
“I just pulled them from my mailbox on my way here. I was looking at them in the car, which is why I was a little late.”
I handed them back, and he flipped the pages until he got to the signature page and then pointed to her signature and the blank space for his. “Our first phone conversation you said you don’t date married men. I’ve respected that and kept my distance.” He held the papers up. “And as soon as I sign this, I’m divorced.” He stared at me — searching, I think — then walked to the front desk of the racquet club and asked the guy folding towels behind the counter for a pen. Then he signed away his marriage.
Watch out, my intuition warned. He was making a point with his grand gesture, one I had no desire to engage in with him.
Lee set the pen on the counter, folded the papers neatly and walked back to me. “Getting to know you these last few weeks, both on the court and off, I find you passionate, smart, funny and fun, and I feel even more strongly about wanting to get to know you better. I’d like to take you to dinner. Will you go out with me?” He fixed his eyes on mine and I felt his conviction.
I searched for something to say. I’d dismissed him as dating, potential mating material. He was a newly divorced stoner, not exactly the knightly image I had in mind. A week after that first meeting at Jerry’s, he gave me an eighth of the same weed he’d rolled in the sample joints he’d given me. I never asked for it, and he wouldn’t let me pay him. A gift from a friend, he’d insisted, sealing our fate that that was all we could ever be. The man I longed for would never wallow in obsession with me. He would pull me from the depths and deliver me to my better self.
Lee put the divorce papers in his bag, picked up his soda and took a long draw, then leaned against the wall behind him and looked at me. “It’s almost 6:00. I’m hungry, and I don’t want to eat alone tonight. Not tonight. Come get some pasta at Maria’s with me. It’s not a date. It’s just dinner with a friend. A newly single friend.” He looked away like he was embarrassed. “I’d really appreciate the company. We can have an early dinner and call it a night. I have to be up at 4:00 in the morning to deal with back east clients, so I generally go to bed pretty early. How about it? You like Italian?” He stood slouched against the wall staring at me. He’d trimmed quite a bit since we’d started playing, like he’d dropped at least 10 pounds. His dark gray T-shirt was loose and soaked with sweat around the collar and chest, and draped flat against his belly. His navy shorts hung on his hips just right. He looked like an ad for Nike.
I framed the scene through a cameras eye in my head. Click. And suddenly I was starving, though I had no desire to go home to my empty house and make dinner. Italian food is my favorite. I imagined sitting across from Lee in the warm, dim restaurant, with candles on every table; the rich, luscious aromas of sauces and baking bread fill the air as I savor bite after bite of penne drenched in tangy marinara. I preferred that scene to alone on my bed eating a potato in front of the TV. I often saw my life from camera P.O.V., an effect of growing up just over the hill from Hollywood, I guess.
Lee slouched against the wall drinking his soda and waited patiently for my answer. He really was adorable. “Friends only, right? I can’t do more than that with you right now.” Or ever, but I didn’t want to be crass, so I didn’t say it.
“Friends only.” He held up his index and middle finger in the Boy Scout salute and gave me his Cheshire grin.
I couldn’t help smiling. What the hell. He’d been kind to me so far. Plus, I kind of owed him. And I was so damn sick of alone. “Sure. Let’s go get some dinner.”
The smile that spread across his face was infectious.
I laughed. “Maria’s on Ventura, right?”
He confirmed and offered to drive, but I wanted to meet there because the restaurant was close to my house and I didn’t want to have to go back to the racquet club to get my car. I followed him west on Ventura towards the setting sun. The orange sunlight lit up the smoke that rose in small billows intermittently from the sunroof of his car. Every once in a while, I’d catch ‘the warm smell of Calitas’ through the thick L.A. air, and I imagined his sensual lips sucking on the joint.
Good idea. I opened my glovebox and got the Marlboro pack he’d given me, pulled out one of the joints I’d rolled from the eighth he’d supplied, found a lighter and lit it. The snapshot of him leaning against the wall, bathed in the blue light of the soda machine, his thick hair scattered in his green eyes and framing his soft face in loose waves, popped in my head, and I felt myself smile. Careful, my intuition whispered as I stopped behind him at a light and saw smoke rising from his sunroof again. He was someone new to hang with, that was all, to break up the monotony of solitude.
I took another hit and felt the sudden rush to my head, and all tension washed away with the surge. The evening could be interesting. It might even be fun. I could be exactly who I wanted to be because I didn’t want anything more from Lee than what we already had. I was sated with racquetball and catering to decadence in his car afterwards, and again I smiled at the thought of my accidental connection. He really was adorable. But most likely, in a few months he’d be in my past, and I’d remember him (or not) as a nice guy I hung out with for a while. Men of limited long-term interest slipped through my fingers like grains of sand. I took another hit, pushed in a cassette tape of The Fixx and got sucked into “Ink” the rest of the drive to the restaurant.
We met in the front of Maria’s. Lee managed to park two spaces from the restaurant entryway. We took a table outside in the courtyard in back. I was still in my leggings and sweaty T-shirt, but Lee had exchanged his shorts for jeans and put on a black, hooded pullover. His dark, wavy hair blended into the folds of the hood and framed his fair, baby face. He looked rather angelic, like one of the sibyls surrounding God in the painting on the Sistine Chapel by Michelangelo.
We sat at a small square wood table next to an ivy-covered column, one of many that supported the trestle patio. He stared at me across the table with glassy eyes. I wondered if my eyes were as fucked up as his and looked down. Did he know I was high? Did he know I knew he was? Would he care? I sure as hell did. The smarter part of me felt a surge of revulsion for myself (and him) for caving to addiction to maintain cool.
“Would you like a drink?” Lee spoke softly. “I don’t generally drink hard liquor, but I’d share a bottle of wine if you’d like.”
“I don’t drink alcohol.” I liked revealing this. I knew it roused curiosity, and I enjoyed letting people conjure their worst, especially if they didn’t bother to ask why.
“Why don’t you drink alcohol?”
I smiled. “I can’t stand the high — way too out there, harder than any drug I’ve ever done. I’ve had acid that didn’t fuck me up as much as alcohol.”
Lee laughed. “So weed isn’t your only drug of choice?”
“I tried a lot of different stuff in my teens, but I never really liked any of them. I don’t like highs I can’t control. I’ve gotten drunk twice in my life, and it wasn’t just nauseating, but I couldn’t turn it off when I want to and be straight like I can with weed. Plus, alcohol has this revolting edge to it that everyone told me I’d grow to like but I never have.” I scrunched my face in disgust to emphasis my point.
He smiled. “I don’t drink much, either. A beer or glass of wine every now and then, and always socially, but I can definitely live without it.”
A slender young waitress wearing tight black slacks, a white blouse and a red bowtie came to our table to take our drink order. She looked like she just stepped off the cover of People. She barely acknowledged me, but flicked her long, tawny hair back over her shoulder and gave Lee a flirtatious smile. “What would you like,” she paused a beat, “to drink?”
Oh brother. Everyone’s an actor in L.A. “I’ll have hot tea,” I interjected. “English Breakfast or Earl Grey. With a bit of milk, please, no lemon.”
Lee watched me. “I’ll have the same.” He looked at our waitress. “And ‘a bit o’ milk’ with it, too, please.” He spoke with a thick Irish accent wearing that Cheshire grin, but softened it when he looked back at me.
Our waitress left and Lee picked up his menu and opened it. “The lasagna is good here, and so is the gnocchi. But the best thing they make is their ‘Angel Hair Pomodoro.’ It’s light, but very tasty.”
I read along in my menu. ‘Pomodoro’ was ‘a mix of Roma Tomatoes, Garlic and Basil with light Olive Oil over Angel Hair pasta.’ “Sounds good to me.”
“And they have a great chopped salad. It’s huge, though, so you may want to share it.” He folded his menu and put it aside.
“Sounds great.” I put my menu aside, too, and felt awkward in the moment of silence. Lost for words, I looked around. The patio was surrounded by high stone walls covered in ivy. Soft light glittered from the small glass-encased candles in the center of each wooden table. The rich aroma of roasting garlic and the subtle, sweet scent of basil permeated the air and teased my taste buds. I was in the scene I’d imagined and for the moment I felt . . . happy.
The waitress came back with our teas, and a Latino busboy set some French bread and butter on our table. Lee ordered for both of us, looking at me only once to confirm, and when the waitress left, there was another little moment of silence.
“Good game today. You played well.” Lee spoke softly across the table.
“Thanks. I do feel much more in control, thanks to you. You’re a good teacher.” I meant it. He was . . . patient . . . encouraging.
“Thanks. You’re an easy student because we’re not competing. So many people I’ve played with are out to win with racquetball. It’s nice to play just to sweat calories. I’ve lost 14 pounds since we started playing.” He gave me a broad grin.
“Fourteen pounds in less than four weeks. Fuck you. Guys have it so easy.”
He laughed. “You’re right. We do. In so many ways.” He practically whispered the last line, and I thought I saw his eyes sparkle with mischievous humor. “I used to be a lot thinner. I gained like 40 pounds during the two years I was married. I’ve lost about 30 since we separated. I have around 10 more to go.”
I’d yet to hear his ‘divorce story.’ How he told it would tell me a lot about him.
“Why are you getting divorced?”
“Not getting. I’m there. Single, just like you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Well, let’s see . . . We dated for three years. I told her I didn’t want to get married. But she did.” He spoke softly but succinctly. “Sharon wanted the romantic picture — the large wedding in front of family and friends, the flowing white dress, the whole nine yards. All her friends were getting married at the time, and I think she wanted to keep up. Even though I told her that I didn’t think it was going to work out, she wanted it anyway. So I gave it to her.”
Ahh! The Nice Guy Syndrome. He was painting himself as a martyr. Not a good sign. I smiled at his telling, and he caught it. He studied me a moment, then looked down and prepared his tea as he continued speaking.
“I didn’t love her, not in the way she wanted me to — all the way like I should have.” Lee didn’t look at me until he delivered the entire line. “She scared me. She had wild mood swings, went into a rage at the drop of a hat. She came from a really screwed-up background. Both parents were alcoholics. Her father was abusive. Her teen-age brother committed suicide when she was 10. I met her in Vegas when she was 22 and a voluptuous, raving beauty. She was a dancer in one of those chorus line shows, and a cokehead and addicted to speed to stay thin. She was looking for someone to save her. I thought I could, but she just brought me down with her.” He shook his head, again as if to himself, and then continued with a compact discourse on why they were a bad match from the start. He made her sound volatile, with explosive emotional outbursts in inappropriate environments, subtly relieving himself of all culpability.
My buzz was fading and let in a sharp twinge of disappointed. I tried to shake it off as I sat there sipping my tea, but my intuition would not be silenced. Watch out screamed in my head. No matter how Lee rationalized his breakup, the fact is he made a vow he did not keep. He only blamed her, though he’d committed to the marriage and pledged his word in front of witnesses to stay with her the rest of his life and then not followed through. Fundamentally, he could not be trusted, a character flaw not likely to change without some profound awakening, and his words did not reveal he’d had one.
I wanted to force him to confess he’d fallen for the transient lure of beauty, damn him his frivolity and compel him to examine the cost, then thought better of it. My father is always telling me no one wants my insights, or to scrutinize themselves as critically as I do. Divorce, to me, was akin to abortion as a method of birth control. Sue me for holding all parties responsible to their promise and expecting them to endure the consequences that should have been considered before getting naked in bed together.
A tall, slender young man came out of the glass door of the restaurant with a small round tray and brought it to our table. He was every bit as beautiful as our waitress, dressed in dark jeans and tight black T-shirt, with a chiseled body and face and shaggy sun-streaked hair that hung in soft waves to his shoulders. He smiled at me as he set the large chopped salad between us. “Enjoy,” he said with a quick glance to each of us, then gave a little bow and left.
Lee stared after our waiter with what seemed more interest than our waitress earlier, then he looked at me and smiled. “Struggling actor, or lead in a pop band.” He said it with a wink, then picked up his fork and started eating. I followed suit. We ate off the same plate. And he was right. The salad was great. Small chopped pieces of tomato, hearts of romaine lettuce, olives, garbanzo beans and celery covered with this tangy, sweet Italian dressing. Lovely. And virtually guilt-free. I expressed my appreciation, and we were quiet for a moment while we savored it all.
“Thank you for joining me tonight. It’s one of those life events that record on your psyche, remembering the day you got divorced. Or at least it is for me.” He paused to munch, swallowed his bite and wiped his mouth on his white cloth napkin.
“I’m sorry. It must be really painful. I don’t ever want to know what it feels like.” I didn’t mean it as a slam, though it could be construed that way, as could the next line that slipped out. “When I give my word, especially on such a profound promise as my fidelity for the rest of my life, I better be damn sure I’m prepared to keep it.” I felt the urge to justify my pejorative statement, but suppressed it, fearful if I opened my mouth again, something else derogatory would come out.
He took a sip of his tea and stared at me across the table. “I did not, and still do not, take marriage lightly. I know Sharon and I never should have married. I knew it then. What I didn’t know was how to walk away. Not before the wedding, and not after. Sharon initiated the divorce. She was having an affair with my father’s business partner and wanted out of our marriage.”
“Wow. How fucked up is that?” Again, the words sort of fell out of my mouth.
“Pretty fucked up. It got very contentious for awhile before we separated. I’m just glad we didn’t have kids together. Divorce is simply not an option with children. I come from a broken home, and I don’t want that for my kids.”
“How old were you when your parents divorced?”
“Ten. Before then, they fought all the time. They had a really bad dynamic, just like Sharon and I. Monkey see, monkey do, I guess. I have learned, though. I can be taught!” He flashed a quick grin. “Now I know I need to be with someone more stable, who’s ready to commit to staying together and working things out, no matter what. Before I marry again, I need to know my partner is on my side and trust that we’ll deal with whatever comes along together, as a team. I want to cheer each other on to be the best we can be. Better together. Inseparable . . .” He half shrugged and gave me a soft, dimpled smile. “You know what I mean.”
Get back! He was too cute. He’d just recited my definition of Love. And I had the urge to lean across the small table, gather his face in my hands and kiss him right then. But I didn’t. I smiled at him, locked eyes and felt a connection between us, almost like an electric shock that took my breath away. He stared back at me with just the hint of a smile, like he felt it, too.
Our waitress broke our connection as she brought a large round tray with plates of pasta to our table, set it on a stand, cleared the empty salad plate between us and served us our meals. A pungent, tangy aroma wafted from my plate in ribbon of steam, and my stomach growled. Again, I waited for Lee to start on his before lifting my fork and eating mine. It was delicious — pure, simple goodness. The sweet, yet tart tomatoes blended perfectly with the slices of garlic and strips of fresh basil, and the delicate taste of the thin spaghetti completed the symphony of flavors.
“You like?” Lee asked with a quick raise of an eyebrow.
“Yes. It’s very nice.”
“It is. Especially from where I’m sitting.” He stared at me with a soft smile.
The line was straight out of the movies, and for a second I was flattered, but then I felt annoyed. “That is a ridiculous cliché if you’re referring to my looks, and an asinine assumption if you’re assessing my character. I may look like a wayward, middle-class White Girl, but I’m not all that nice.”
“I beg to differ. I think you’re just too scared to show it.” He paused, took a deep breath and released it. “Rachel, the only way to combat fear is to face it.” He paused again and stayed fixed on me. “Give me three good reasons why you don’t want to date me. Just three and I’ll back off, won’t hold it against you, we’ll do racquetball only. I promise.”
Three good reasons? Easy. He was divorced, had reneged on his commitment. But, his ex could be crazy, like he said. And she was the adulteress and had initiated their break-up. He was a stoner. Maybe, maybe not. Maybe he only used recreationally and he could quit upon request and never crave it. I took another bite and stared at him. He waited for me to respond and took a few small bites, wrapping spaghetti strands neatly around each forkful before consuming. I only had one reason not to date him. My intuition. And I wasn’t about to tell him that.
Lee put his fork down and wiped his mouth on the cloth napkin from his lap. “If you’re questioning my motives, I confess to only one. I’m lonely. I have been for a long time now, even during my marriage. I find you attractive. We share common goals and interests. We both want kids, to create a family. And we’re both single. That seems like a pretty good foundation to build on to me.” He spoke matter-of-factly, like an attorney making his case, looked away only for an instant to retrieve his teacup, took a sip and gracefully returned it to its place on the table without taking his eyes off me.
He was saying everything I wanted to hear, had been waiting to hear for so long. I felt that electric charge between us, and we connected again. I imagined him reaching out and cradling my face in his hand, then leaning across the table and drawing me to him for a sensual kiss. But then I flashed on him sucking on a joint, countless times in various iterations, his thick lips pursed around it, and it irked me. I had to ask. “How often do you get high?”
“I used to use everyday.” He answered without hesitation and kept his eyes on mine. “Now it’s just occasionally, every once in a while when someone has something really good. I score half an ounce or so and smoke it until it’s gone and wait for something good to come along again. It’s getting really hard to find anything good these days. Carl’s been pretty reliable, though I’m not quite sure if that’s good or bad.” He cocked his head. “Why do you ask?”
I’m jealous, but that’s not what I said. It’s not what I really felt either, just my twisted brain being flip. I had no idea if his explanation meant he controlled his use, or it controlled him, but my intuition confirmed the latter. “I don’t want to be with an addict. Getting high all the time is unhealthy, unproductive and a childish way to deal, or actually not deal with feelings.” I told him. “Stoners scare me. And I know it sounds hypocritical because I get high, but maybe it’s because I do that they scare me.”
“Do you scare yourself?”
“Yes. All the time. Don’t you?”
“Not so much anymore. I’m not near as reckless as I used to be. I’m much more in control. I trust myself more now than ever before.”
“I’m scared of everything all the time. Especially myself.” I said it with humor, but I meant it. “My brain lies to me constantly. Everyone’s does, most people just don’t admit it.”
Lee finished the last bite of salad and gave me a reserved smile. “I’ll admit it. I struggle with the voice inside my head that tells me doughnuts aren’t bad for me, or the one that insists exercise is too taxing, or the one that says relationships are just too damn hard. I fight those voices all the time.”
Watch out! He got it. And only true obsessives know how insidious the mind can be to justify bad behavior.
“Rachel, I don’t drink. Like you, I don’t use any other drugs anymore, and marijuana is not addicting.”
Ha! Right.
He stared at me, studied me again. “Smoking weed is a frivolous indulgence for me. I can walk away from it whenever I want to. I can, and have, quit many times.”
Ahh, the addict’s lament.
“I’m not now, nor have ever been a drug addict. Don’t let some misguided fear stop you from going out with me and giving us a chance.” His delivery was gentle but filled with conviction. His thick, wavy hair hung in his eyes and framed his baby face, and he looked angelic again. He sat across our tiny table staring at me, and he was adorable.
I stared back at him, searching, caught a twinkle of humor in his eyes, and we connected again. I wanted to believe him. Maybe he was better than me, or could be with some gentle coaxing. Maybe we could help each other be the best we could be. In the three years I’d been placing ads, I had no connection with any one of the men I’d met. Lee could be the greatest guy on the planet, and I was dismissing him because of some stupid voices inside me, which were probably fear masquerading as intuition.
“Why me?” I asked. “I mean, you’re adorable. You’re smart, articulate, seemingly successful. Nice. There are probably tons of smart, attractive women out there who would love to date you.”
“Not like you. I’ve never known anyone quite like you. Before I got married, I was somewhat of a playboy. I’ve known a lot of women. But none like you.” He gave me his mischievous grin. I didn’t know whether to smile back, or run.
“It scares me when you say shit like that. You don’t even know me.”
“On the contrary. We are of like kind. Can’t you feel it?” He stared at me, but it felt like through me, like he could see inside my head.
“If we are of like kind, then we’d best stick to just racquetball because I don’t want to be who I am anymore.”
“Yes, you do. You just don’t know how beautiful you are yet.” His poker face returned.
I laughed. “Right.” The lines were hokey, but his delivery wasn’t. He said them as statements of fact. Either he was being sincere, (which made him either blind or nuts), or mocking me. I could pass as L.A. trendy, but I am not beautiful.
“You are beautiful.” Lee responded as if reading my thoughts. “You just have to believe it.”
“Belief doesn’t make god real.”
“Spoken like a true cynic.”
“I prefer realist.”
“That’s what all cynics say.” He smiled at me like he’d just won a volley.
I smiled. “You sound like my mother.”
“Is that good or bad?”
I felt my smile twist into a sardonic smirk. “My mother does her level best to avoid critical thinking and labels me a pessimist because I dare to look beyond the surface.” I was revealing too much, coming off too strong, and tried to soften with humor. “You don’t really sound like my mom. She would tell me life is as hard as I make it, to ‘turn my frown upside down’ and ‘make lemons into lemonade.’” I gave him my best Pollyanna smile and finally shut up.
Lee laughed. “Clearly, you don’t subscribe to clichés. I find women who value knowledge over presentation fascinating and refreshing.”
Again, I wasn’t sure if he was mocking me. I looked down at my half-eaten plate of capillini and then around the dim patio.
“Your mom sounds like a kick.” Lee said gently. “Tell me more about your family, about where you grew up and what it was like.” He seemed sincere, genuinely interested, but for some reason, his questions felt more like a challenge. He watched me, too closely, his green eyes fixed on mine.
I picked up the gauntlet. What the hell. I was free to talk about anything because Lee was just passing through my life, like meeting a stranger when traveling and you can tell that person anything because it isn’t likely you’ll ever see them again. He could deny it all he wanted, but my intuition knew who he was, what he was, and the smarter part of me knew we could never be beyond the moment.
Throughout the rest of the meal, we exchanged family stories. I talked of the fiery relationship with my mom, and the contentious one with my sister, and the tender but marginal one with my father, and the lack of one with my born-again Christian half-brother. I whined about the Thanksgiving holiday coming in two days and tried to paint him a picture of the scene.
“It’s part of my job to pick up my grandmother at Loony Toon Farms and bring her back to my parent’s house, and she complains the entire way about my driving, though she’s never driven a day in her life. My mom cooks the turkey and stuffing, but my sister and I are responsible for most of the extras. I’m obliged to make mondel bread, an apple pie and my green bean casserole for Thursday.”
“Sounds fun. I love cooking. I’m happy to help if you need it. I’ve got nothing else going. I don’t have any family around. My mom is in Chicago, and we don’t really talk anymore. And my dad and his wife live in Arizona.”
“My parents still live in the same house we grew up in, less than three miles from the one I’m renting.” I smiled to cover my embarrassment. “I know it sounds lame living so close to them, but Sherman Oaks is very central. It’s just over the hill from UCLA, twenty minutes from downtown and thirty minutes topping out without traffic to the beach. It’s perfect for freelancing.”
“I’m sure it is.” Again with the wily grin.
“Okay. Truth be told, I like living close to my family. I feel safer having people who care about me near by.”
“You’re lucky to have your family close, and together. I grew up in a suburb of Chicago. My parents divorced when I was 10, and I moved with my dad to California. We had a house in Culver City for eight years, before it went low-income there. My brother and sister stayed with my mom until they finished high school. My family is scattered now. Be glad you have Thanksgiving with family to go to.”
I secretly was, but I rolled my eyes and stuck out my tongue in mock exasperation. Whine about them all day, but I was still glad to have them. They were all I had, all I’d ever had. Everyone else came and went. L.A. is a transitory town.
We finished up our meals. It took conscious effort to leave some pasta instead of consuming every last bite (and then licking the plate). Our waitress came back, took our dishes and left the bill, which Lee insisted on paying. He filled the silent gaps with questions. He listened carefully and shared without much probing. Our exchange was even again, casual and totally enjoyable.
I’d parked several blocks down on Ventura, and he walked me to my car. It was dark by then, and cold. The air was thick with evening haze and glowed around the stark streetlights. My nipples were hard as rocks and felt like they were freezing off by the time we got to my car. I had no desire to stand out there for a chat, so I took the lead with goodbye. “Thanks again for dinner. It was really nice. I can’t play on Thursday. I’ll be cooking most of the day before I go get my wacko grandma.”
“How about playing tomorrow instead?”
Eating without too much guilt on Thursday made possible by playing as hard as I could on Wednesday. “Okay. Good idea.” As I spoke, I moved around my car to the driver’s door to avoid that awkward moment of proper touch etiquette. Kiss? Hug? Putting distance between us dissolved the problem. “I’ll meet you at the courts at 4:00?”
“Great.” He stood on the sidewalk, watching me with a hangdog face on, his disappointment clear. He stood huddled into himself, hands shoved deep in the pocket of his jeans, his thick hair wavy and wild with the evening dew. With an English cap, he’d look like an errant news boy.
I smiled, thanked him again, got in my car and left. My heart seemed loud and reverberated in my throat most of the way home. “We are of like kind. Can’t you feel it?” I heard him in my head, remembered feeling exposed with his deliberate stare, and a chill ran through me. We were alike all right. But it wasn’t a good thing. He participated in and promoted my delinquency. He was a charming distraction, but Lee couldn’t save me. I was holding out for a normal guy, a successful pragmatist who could teach me how to put all my messy feelings aside and reach my potential. But most normal, healthy men don’t have the time or desire to deal with women who are not.
Lonely sucked me in as I turned onto my quiet street lined with single story ranch houses filled with families. The fear of being alone forever seeped into every fiber of my being. To rid the suffocating weight of it, I lit the half-smoked joint I’d started on the way to the restaurant and sucked in a few quick hits. As I blew a stream of smoke out the window, I shivered, cranked the heater and tried to dismiss how enjoyable the evening had been, how comfortable I felt with him, and how adorable he looked standing on the curb watching me drive away.
It was weird with Lee. Something I didn’t even know really existed, except in movies. Chemistry. From the moment we sat down at our table at Jerry’s on Halloween, it was like being with someone I’d known a very long time. I had heard friends talk about chemistry with this and that new guy they were dating. Whatever that meant. I thought they must be talking about physical attraction, infatuation, lust. I was beyond all that. I was looking for the real thing. Love endures. Lust fades. Until Lee, I looked at love as a controllable issue. You choose who to fall in love with. But then I wasn’t factoring in chemistry. Powerful stuff. Dangerous stuff.
J. Cafesin, a native Californian, is a freelance writer of fiction, essays and copy. Disconnected is her second novel. The first was Reverb, the story of a man who is consumed by his music until he undergoes a bizarre journey that awakens him to the world outside himself. She also has written a science fiction screenplay and a collection of young adult short stories and has a website, j. cafesin. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and two children — a son, 9, and a daughter, 6.