A Total Waste of Makeup (16 page)

Nooooooooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My home phone rings. Okay, stay calm. Maybe it’s Jordan calling me. After all, I did just say my number was on the call sheet. Maybe he doesn’t know I only have one phone line, and that my Internet access is connected to it.

I read the caller ID: Private caller. I pick up, and answer flirtatiously, “Hello?”

“Is there any way I can give money to the Brentwood Police Department without it looking like a bribe?” Drew asks.

I don’t like the sound of that. “Drew, why didn’t you call me on my cell?”

“I tried. But your phone went straight to voice mail. So, do they have, like, a policeman’s ball or something?”

“What did you do?” I ask accusingly.

“I didn’t do anything!” Drew says defensively. “But Cindy might be having some issues with her new home.”

I’m just going assume Cindy is the new elephant. “What happened?”

“Well…first of all, did you know that female elephants can
roar
? Actually, it’s kind of a combination of a roar and a cry. Kind of like how a puppy cries the first night you bring her home, and she realizes she can’t sleep with you…mixed with a jackhammer.”

I am speechless. Utterly speechless. But I have to say something. “I thought we agreed that Cindy…is that her name?”

“Yeah. It’s short for Cinderellaphant.”

“Very witty. I thought we agreed that Cindy was going to stay with her trainer until we got all those pesky little things like zoning laws worked out.”

“Yeah, but then I started thinking about how nice it would be to come home to the pitter-patter of big feet, and, I don’t know, I just had to take her home.”

I hear a deafening roar on the other end of the phone. Then I hear Drew yell, “Daddy will be right out, sweetie!” He returns to his normal voice. “Anyway, Cindy’s very upset, and I tried to let her into the house, so she’d calm down, but she didn’t fit. Then the neighbors called the cops, and they were so nice about the whole thing, but they did tell me that it would be in my best interest to find Cindy a new home. Now. So, long story short…”

Too late.

“…I need you to come over and call whoever it is that takes refugee elephants and tell them to come get Cindy.”

Goddamn it! I have got to look for a new line of work. I mean, doctors should be on call. I understand that, they save lives. But no one should be called in the middle of the night to deal with a homesick elephant.

Before I leave, I quickly get back online and try to IM Jordan.

AngelCharlie: I’m back. Did you miss me?

I wait. Nothing.

AngelCharlie: Hello?

I see “You Have Mail” lighting up my mailbox. I click on. A note from Jordan. I download it onto my hard drive, so I can save it for our future grandchildren.

Jordan1313: Hey, it’s me. Where did you go? I guess I should be going to bed anyway. Thanks for the chat. See you Monday.

xoxo
Jordan

I spend the rest of the evening helping move Cindy to a zoo, and debating what Jordan’s “xoxo” means.

Twelve

You gotta fight for your right to party.—Beastie Boys.

I spent most of Saturday checking my e-mail every twenty minutes to see if Jordan had written back. Last night, I sent him a quick note explaining that I had been bumped offline, that I was sorry, and that I would love to talk with him again sometime via e-mail.

The e-mail was light, flirty, and only a few sentences.

It only took me an hour and a half to write.

Jordan hadn’t written back as of 6:52
P.M
., but I checked the status of the e-mail I had sent him, and it turned out he hadn’t checked his e-mail all day. So, really, his lack of response was no reflection on me.

That night, the last Saturday night of my twenties, the limo took Kate, Dawn, and me out to a fairly trendy Western bar on Sunset Boulevard. Yes, that’s right—a Western bar. There’s a mechanical bull and everything.

At the risk of sounding like a Hollywood snob, never go to a bar that’s been featured on
E!
and
Sex and the City,
unless it’s (A) Monday afternoon, when there’s still parking available, or (B) you have the uncontrollable urge to talk to pasty-looking tourists who are here because they “heard Madonna hangs out here” or want to know “what Jennifer Lopez is really like.”

Now that I’ve done my official “oh, I’m too hip for the room” spiel, I’ve got to admit…I love the place. They serve a margarita the size of a trough, and they have the hottest straight bartenders in the city (male and female). The bartenders not only look good, they’ll do shots with you occasionally, which doesn’t make you feel nearly so stupid late in the evening. And did I mention the mechanical bull?

We enter the bar, a Universal Studios version of a tavern from the wild, wild West. A man who looks like Brad Pitt’s younger brother yells to us from behind the bar, “Ladies, what can I get ya?” It’s still early, so we snag seats at the bar, and introduce ourselves to “Bob.” He recognizes Dawn (yeah—what else is new?), and gives her a big hug that seems genuine. I order a margarita, Dawn a Long Island Iced Tea, and Kate a daiquiri. “All right.” Bob flashes a smile at us, then goes to make our drinks.

Bob reappears with shotglasses of murky green liquid which he calls “an apple martini,” then beams, “on the house, ladies. Who’s drinking with me?” He puts four shots of the green goop down on the bar. We each take a shot, and Bob takes the fourth.

Bob lifts his glass. “Who wants to get drunk tonight?”

We yell, “We do!”

“Who wants to get laid tonight?”

We yell, “We do!”

“Who wants to get me tonight?”

We laugh, then down our shots. It’s going to be a night to regret. I love nights like this!

Once we have our drinks, Kate starts scanning the room. “Okay, so how does this whole meet market thing work? Is it like college? Do the men walk up to us, or can we walk up to them?”

“It’s a hideous process of degradation designed to make us go running back to our apartments screaming for our self-help books,” Dawn says.

“Which, of course, we would never admit to owning in a place like this,” I say.

“I’m serious, guys,” Kate nearly whines. “I haven’t been out there in almost a decade. Just go over a few quick rules.”

So we do:

Don’t talk to new guys after one
A.M
. If he hasn’t made the move before then, he’s out.

Don’t go for the cutest guy in the room. If he says he doesn’t have a girlfriend, he’s lying. Or gay.

And finally:

Advice is like a sandwich. If you know someone is hungry, you can offer them a sandwich. They may even ask for a sandwich. But if you put the sandwich in front of them, and they don’t eat it, there’s nothing you can do. You can’t force someone to eat a sandwich.

I say this because, within one minute—one minute!—a gorgeous man is waving to Kate from across the room.

Kate smiles and waves back.

Dawn pushes down Kate’s hand. “What did we just tell you about the cutest guy in the room?”

“But I know him. That’s Mike. He’s one of the other hosts at the station.”

Dawn and I stare at the gorgeous man across the bar. “That is
not
a face for radio,” Dawn says, and I shake my head up and down in agreement.

Kate hops off her bar seat. “You guys are so silly. It’s just Mike,” she says, then leaves us.

We watch as she gives the blond Adonis a hug. “She’s in here two minutes, and does better than we do in two years,” I say, only half jokingly.

“I can only take solace in the fact that, on the inside, she’s shattered and heartbroken right now,” Dawn says sarcastically.

We watch Mike smile, and kiss Kate on the cheek. “Right,” I concur.

“Can I buy you ladies a drink?” Drew says from behind me.

“I’m afraid we’re waiting for someone,” Dawn answers, staring right at him, her voice dripping with irritation.

“Dawn!” I exclaim, and quickly turn around to apologize for my friend’s rudeness. Standing before me is a new, less improved version of Drew. He looks awful. “What did you do…to your face?” I ask gently, trying not to sound too horrified.

“You like it?” Drew says proudly. “I had Vic do it.”

Vic is Drew’s makeup artist, and he has made Drew up to look like he has a large, broken nose and a double chin. Drew doesn’t look bad, he just kind of looks…normal. But for Drew, that’s awful. Dawn squints her eyes, and juts her chin forward, trying to get a better look at him. “It is you. Why the hell did you do that to yourself?”

“Well, I figure this way, we can do whatever we want tonight, and no one will care. No one will ask for my autograph, no one will try to buy me a drink, or try to get some personal information out of me that they can sell to the
National Enquirer,
no one will hit on me…”

“You got that right,” Dawn exclaims, looking disgusted. “You go wash yourself up, boy.”

“No,” Drew insists. “I want to be a normal person tonight. This way I can be.”

Bob the bartender comes up to Drew, now sitting in Kate’s seat, and asks him, “Can I get you anything?”

“Yes. Get me a shot of Maker’s Mark followed by a Sam Adams chaser.”

Bob stares at Drew quizzically. “Have I served you before?”

Drew fidgets in his seat nervously. “I don’t think so.”

Bob tilts his head, thinking, “You look really familiar. Did we audition together?” He snaps his fingers and smiles. “That’s where I know you. You auditioned for the Budweiser ad, didn’t you?”

Drew immediately covers himself. “Wow. I did. You have a great memory.”

“Sure. You’re the guy who kind of looks like Drew Stanton. What’s your name again?”

“Ken,” Drew says, putting out his hand for a handshake.

Bob shakes his hand. “Ken. I never forget a face. Hey, you know my friend said he saw Drew Stanton a few weeks ago over at Revolver.”

“I’ve never been…” Drew starts to say, but stops himself. “Isn’t that a gay bar?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m pretty sure he’s gay. I heard he broke up Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman.”

Before Drew can refute that statement, one of the women bartenders says, “That’s not true!” in a tone to let Bob know she thinks that’s the stupidest thing she’s ever heard. “My friend Cheryl says he’s quietly been dating Bruce Willis for about a year.”

“Bruce Willis?!” Drew snaps his head around to her, as I whisper, “Don’t go there. No one knows who you are. Remember?”

Drew turns to me and whispers back indignantly, “If I were gay, I could do a hell of a lot better than Bruce Willis.”

Dawn bursts out laughing. “I like you,” she says to Drew. “You crack me up.”

Drew smiles, and all is forgiven with the bartenders.

“Let me get you that drink, Ken,” Bob says. “Do you want to start a tab?”

“I do,” says Doug, joining us. “It’s all on me tonight. I’d like a Bass, please.”

As Doug puts down his credit card, I suddenly remember how handsome he is. His hair is looking a little less gelled tonight, and he’s in jeans and a nice T-shirt. And those eyes—they look like clear emeralds.

As Bob hands Doug his beer, I say, “Weren’t you guys supposed to be coming later this evening?”

“What can I say?” Doug says, shrugging sheepishly. “When I see something I want, I have a problem waiting for it.”

So charming. I sigh. I want to kiss him hello. I am suddenly remembering that kiss Thursday night. It was a nice kiss. His lips slowly parting, not too much tongue right off the bat, him smelling like a cookie…

“Are you going to ride the bull tonight?” Doug asks, jolting me out of my daydream.

“Excuse me?” I’ve never heard it put quite that way before.

Doug jerks his head toward the mechanical bull. “Nothing sexier than a woman riding a bucking bull,” he says seductively.

“Baby, if you think that, we got to get you to some strip clubs,” Dawn says in her “I’m so over you” voice, and takes a sip of her Long Island Iced Tea.

I laugh a little too loud in front of Doug, then turn to Dawn and mutter under my breath, “Knock it off.”

She mutters back, “I’m sorry, but why doesn’t he just open with ‘I’m looking for a slut with skills?’”

“Back o-off…,” I say in a quiet, lilting voice.

Doug laughs and says, “No, she’s right. That line might have been a little weak.”

Dawn raises her glass to him, they toast, and a truce has been forged. Doug turns to me. “So what’s your best line?”

I think for a minute, and smile. “Hi, I’m Charlie. Do you want to go outside and make out?”

Doug laughs, and Drew stares at me. “Have you ever said that to a guy?”

“No,” I admit. “But it’s still my best line.” I turn to Doug. “What’s your best line?”

Doug takes a moment to think about it. “Well, it has to be said a little while into the evening…But I think it has to be, ‘So, Charlie, what are we going to name our children?’”

I roll my eyes and smile. “How drunk does the girl have to be for that to work?”

Doug chuckles. “Oh, she not only has to be wasted out of her mind, but we have to be at a wedding.” He looks over at Drew. “What about you, Drew?”

“It’s Ken,” Drew reminds him. “Drew’s evil twin brother with the double chin.”

“Sorry…Ken,” Doug corrects himself.

Drew looks over at Dawn, clearly debating whether he really wants to give her his best line. He smiles. “Hi. I’m Drew Stanton.”

Dawn and I both groan in disgust as Drew defends himself. “Hey, I’m telling you, nine times out of ten, it works. Women have an image of me that has nothing to do with who I really am, and whether they like me or not has nothing to do with who I really am. I might as well use it to my advantage.”

Dawn and I groan again.

“And I’ll tell you something else—I am just like every other guy out there. You want us or you don’t want us based on what you imagine us to be. It has nothing to do with who we really are. At least not at first.”