Twisted Sisters (10 page)

And Then That Happened

As we exit the studio parking lot, I find myself in the back of a stretch limo with
Ashlee and Gary. To this point, I’ve known Gary as “the second cameraman,” as I see
him only on the rare occasions when we’re shooting on location.

We haven’t officially started taping yet, so none of the crew are available in the
studio for this mission, save for Gary, who, up until three minutes ago, was napping
on the same couch where a pint-sized action star once jumped up and down, declaring
his unquestionably heterosexual love for a well-compensated ingenue (like you do).
And then, two minutes ago, Kassel loaded him and his camera in the car with us with
the instructions to “Film everything!”

“Why were you sleeping in the studio?” I ask.

He rubs a bit of crud out of his eye and says, “I was tired,” like this is a perfectly
reasonable explanation.

“What’s wrong with your house?” I ask.

“It’s hot.”

“Turn on your air conditioner.”

“I’m not sure I have one.”

What does that mean? “You’re not sure? Have you checked your thermostat to see if
you have the AC setting?”

“No. But someone must have checked or I’d have known, right?”

“Do you have roommates?”

“No.”

“Then who would have looked at the thermostat and told you anything one way or the
other?”

“I don’t know.” He scratches his chin. “That is indeed a puzzler.”

“Maybe until you determine the status of your whole-house HVAC, you could purchase
an air conditioner for your bedroom so you don’t have to sleep on the couch where
we film the show?”

He peers at me as though I’ve just revealed all the secrets of the universe. “Huh.
I guess I never thought of that.” As he looks around the back of the limo, he focuses
on Ashlee’s head. “Have you always been bald?”

She simply scowls in response.

I can’t blame you there, sister.

The driver lowers the privacy screen and asks where we’re going. Ashlee rattles off
an address in the vicinity of the Mag Mile and our ship of fools sets sail.

Minutes later, we’re idling in front of the Peninsula Hotel, apparently waiting for
Ol’ Rat Nasty to make an appearance. Ashlee tells us he has a show at the Allstate
Arena tonight, and, like many visiting celebrities and dignitaries, he makes the Peninsula
his hotel of choice when in town.

Although considered luxury lodging since its inception, the hotel established itself
as the undisputed leader when America’s Golden Girl, Jennifer Aniston, checked in
while filming
The Break-up
. Which I then heard
all about
because Ma was able to finagle a set visit for Geri. (When the mayor’s office asks
for a favor? Grant it. That’s the real Chicago way.)

I’m told Geri charmed Jennifer, and they ran all over town having margaritas and manicures
and massages together, leading me to believe Jennifer is more pretty than smart.

I notice a fleet of Maybachs lined up at the entrance, dozens of paparazzi, scores
of groupies behind a velvet rope, and a handful of beefy bodyguards milling about,
signifying Ol’ Nasty’s imminent arrival.

While we wait, I admire the hotel’s impressive facade with its giant stone fu dogs
standing guard at either side of the doors. Impeccably white-suited doormen in little
pillbox hats scurry to and fro, ushering posh guests through the revolving doors.
Watching the high-heeled, scarf-wrapped socialites enter laden with bags from Chanel,
Gucci, and Cartier, I’d be hard-pressed to discern this Chicago street from one in
Paris. That is, until a thickly mustached construction worker strolls by eating a
Maxwell Street–style Polish dog piled high with grilled onions and topped with mustard.

So many nitrates.

I’m not really sure what Ashlee’s plans entail, so while I wait for some sort of cue,
I observe an impeccably appointed family exiting their Rolls. They’re immediately
set upon by the bell staff. Never in my life have I witnessed so much Louis Vuitton
luggage in one place, and I’ve traveled with Wendy Winsberg, so that’s saying something.
Watching the privileged clientele conduct their business in front of the velvet rope–contained
fans makes the scene all the more incongruous. Yet somehow there’s something inherently
pleasing about the contrast between the groups. In fact, this dichotomy is one of
the reasons I love this city so much—Chicago encompasses so many different worlds
living side by side under the same sky.

I’ve never stepped inside the Peninsula, but it’s been on my list of places to frequent.
Sebastian and I were supposed to meet up for drinks a while back, but he had to bail
on me at the last minute. Ooh, that reminds me—I need to check my texts.

Nothing.

Argh, so annoying.

Anyway, when I mistakenly mentioned our missed connection, Geri prattled on about
how the truffle-oil fries in the lounge were to die for and how the whole lobby turns
into Chocolate at the Pen on the weekends, boasting buffets full of pastry chef–created
delicacies.

Three points to make here: (1) Sebastian and I need to get on the same page about
our “break” and soon, (2) I would be very careful about loading up on truffle-oil
fries or chocolates if I wore Geri’s pant size, and (3) if the Wicked Witch of the
South keeps crossing over into my northern territory, I’m going to have to find me
some flying monkeys.

As we wait in the car, Gary and I quietly regard Ashlee taking an enormous swig of
champagne, straight out of the bottle. Sensing our gaze, she offers a sip to Gary,
who refuses only after he feels the weight of my glare.

I have a sinking feeling about this whole enterprise, so I try to offer Ashlee my
counsel. “Please walk me through your plan, Ashlee. What I’m hearing you say is you’d
like to start a relationship with Mr. Nasty. You believe that the only factor keeping
you apart is physical separation, so when you see him, you’re planning to”—I pause
to make sure I quote her correctly—“‘Get down on his jock.’ I’m wondering if there
aren’t more appropriate ways to demonstrate your interest. Perhaps you could post
on his Facebook wall.”

Then I remember her NC-17 tweets and reconsider the idea.

Regardless, my gentle guidance falls on deaf ears. Instead, she spits, “Why, do you
think I’m a whore or something?”

“Ashlee,” I calmly reply, “what’s motivating you to ask that question? Perhaps you
can tell me, how would you define the term ‘whore’?”

But the short answer here? Yes, yes, God, yes, I think you’re a whore! You tweeted
four million Twitter followers in-depth details of your “panty hamster”!

Quick sidebar? It’s a myth that mental health professionals don’t judge their patients.
As human beings, we find it almost impossible not to let our values seep in and color
our opinions. The key here is keeping that information/judgment to ourselves. Even
though we’d love to say, “You are as effed up as a soup sandwich,” we don’t.

Yet I wonder what would happen if we did?

Before Ashlee can answer, the first members of Ol’ Rat Nasty’s entourage begin to
materialize. With their shiny grilles and low-hanging pants, they’re dressed in stark
contrast to the rest of the guests, yet their confidence clearly projects the message
We belong
.

Wave after wave of handsome young men gather outside the vestibule’s doors, posturing,
smoldering, and posing up and down the sidewalk. Then they do their best Red Sea impersonation
and part, allowing Ol’ Rat Nasty to step out.

And that’s when, in the words of Chinua Achebe, one of my favorite writers, Things
Fall Apart.

Seizing the opportunity, Ashlee leapfrogs over me and flies out the window of the
limo, pushing aside a dowager clad in head-to-toe Lagerfeld. Fortunately, the bell
staff rights the woman so quickly as they sweep her away, later she won’t even be
sure that she’d fallen.

Then, instead of, say, introducing herself to Ol’ Nasty or perhaps shaking his hand,
Ashlee chooses the more unconventional approach of reaching up under her minidress
and removing her underwear, which she promptly
tosses in his face
.

My first thought is, Not enough hand sanitizer in the world.

After some contemplation, I find Ashlee’s action shocking, largely because I didn’t
peg her for the kind of person who opts for any type of undergarment in day-to-day
situations.

Shame on me for prejudging.

But trust me, we shall cover
this
in therapy. As extensively as time allows.

Then, in an entirely unforeseen turn of events, and like Rafiki displaying baby Simba
in the “Circle of Life” song, Ol’ Nasty cups the wisp of fabric and holds her undies
up over his head for the crowd to behold. While his audience is still gasping, he
tucks the panties in his shirt like the world’s most perverse pocket square.

This is the point when I reconsider my decision to leave private practice.

The paparazzi are collectively losing their minds, not only for the act in and of
itself, but also because this is the first time they’re received visual confirmation
of the rumor that Ashlee shaved her head in a state of rage over having been seated
at an undesirable table at the Ivy.

The moment is captured by a dozen cameras except, ironically, the one belonging to
I Need a Push
, as moments before, Gary discovered the button to raise and lower the privacy screen
between the back and front seats and has been otherwise occupied.

I suspect some cognitive delays on his part.

As for Ashlee, I can’t speculate on what a mental health professional would normally
do in a situation like this because situations like this
don’t normally happen
. My first impulse is to protect
Push
, so I rocket out of the car and attempt to grab her. Ashlee feels as light and delicate
as a Hefty bag full of chicken bones in my arms, and she offers up little resistance
as I try to wrestle her back into the limo. However, my efforts to stanch the humiliation
(on both our parts) are waylaid by the groupies as they topple the velvet ropes and
we’re swept up in the melee.

Instead of Ashlee’s act bringing shame down on everyone’s heads, the NastyGirlz (a
skankier version of the Beliebers) are thusly inspired by her fresh, bold move. Suddenly,
the staid East Superior Street entrance to one of the nation’s premier properties
turns into the Running of the Brides at Filene’s Basement. Dozens of attractive women
wearing very big hoop earrings and very small shirts start dropping trou right there
on the sidewalk. Only instead of baring all in order to snap up a bargain wedding
dress, the NastyGirlz begin
tossing their own unmentionables
at Ol’ Nasty. I liken this to an explosion at a Victoria’s Secret sidewalk sale,
with thongs and push-up bras raining lace and leopard-print shrapnel all around us.

I suspect that in the future, when the CDC traces the virology of the plague that
wipes out half of the city, this spot will have been ground zero. I fear I’m contracting
genital warts from simply watching the scene unfold.

One of the doormen is returning from walking a guest’s dogs, and that’s when the four
prizewinning, Continental-clipped, tightly wound standard poodles enter the fray.
Any dog enthusiast will tell you that, despite the poodle’s being the smartest of
all breeds, there is no panic like Poodle Panic.

Let me repeat, lest there be misunderstanding:
There is no panic like Poodle Panic.

The dogs utterly, profoundly, and collectively lose their minds in the underwear storm
and wrench loose from the hapless bellman. Like giant puffs of cotton candy run amok,
they froth and foam and spin in circles, their stray fur floating on the air like
so many dandelion seeds. They pinball through the crowd looking for egress, yipping
at a decibel more often associated with dolphins.

At that moment, a family of Prada-panted, Disney World–shirted Japanese tourists exits
the building, thus alerting the dogs to their escape route. In a cloud of pom-poms,
fangs, and fury, the canines immediately dash underfoot toward the revolving door,
making a beeline for the safety and sanity of the Peninsula lobby.

As the dogs prepare to force their way into the building, they first have to slip
through the legs of Ol’ Rat Nasty’s entourage, who’ve since been frozen in position
by shock. Many of these men grew up in questionable neighborhoods and are well equipped
to not only maneuver but also protect themselves and their boss, having cut their
teeth in the highly charged East Coast/West Coast dynamic so prevalent in the last
generation of rap music.

But a Westminster Kennel Club throwdown?

Completely unprepared.

Because the men’s pants are flying at half-mast, and since a standard poodle can stand
twenty-five inches from the tips of his paws to the top of his head, the fifteen-inch
inseams prove no match for two hundred pounds of raging poodle.

One after another, the panicking poodles clothesline the entourage in their low-hanging
fruit, butting beribboned heads into denim-clad crotches and tumbling the gents like
so many bowling pins. Soon the ground is littered with flat-billed hats, unlaced Timberlands,
and the shame of the next generation of rap artists.

Fortunately, their falls are broken by a cushion of undergarments, so their only bruises
are to their egos.

And there’s Ol’ Rat Nasty, right in the middle of everything, grinning sardonically
and saying, “Okay, gurl, message received. Imma
do
this.” He grabs Ashlee and tosses her into the limo, much to the delight of TMZ and
much to the surprise of Gary, who’s been busy trying to tune in
SportsCenter
on the limo’s television. I’m still closing the door as we careen away from the chaos
Ashlee created.

“That was
awesome
!” Ashlee squeals as she sidles up to Ol’ Rat Nasty.

Gurl, we need to talk about your choices.