Bicoastal Babe (23 page)

“Anywhere there’ll be gorgeous men. I’m on a mission,” she says.

“What mission?”

“I’m going to get laid.”

That’s a little strange, considering she has a boyfriend. “What about Tommy?” I ask.

“We broke up.”

I look up in surprise. “Really? When? You didn’t tell me that.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

She’s very matter-of-fact about all this. Actually, she doesn’t seem upset at all. And because the Russian women can’t understand a word we’re saying, I press on.

“I’m really sorry, Carmen. What happened?”

“Nothing happened.” She shrugs. “Tommy’s a really great guy. I like him a lot.” She pauses. “But I can do better.”

•   •   •

Carmen wasn’t kidding about being on a mission. Ever since we walked into the Circle Bar, a hip spot down by the beach, she’s been like a hungry tigress searching for vulnerable prey. And this is going to sound really mean, because I think Carmen is absolutely beautiful, but I have never seen such a heavy girl get so much guy attention in my life. It’s her attitude. She’s so confident about herself that despite an extra fifty or so pounds, she’s probably the sexiest girl in the bar.

“So tell me about your buckets,” she says. “You see? I knew you’d figure it out. I think it’s fantastic.”

“Carmen. Why are we talking about buckets? You’ve already been approached by three cute guys. I thought you wanted to get laid!”

“I do. Just not by them.”

“Why not? There’s nothing wrong with them! Take the first guy. The one in the orange T-shirt.”

“Too butch. I don’t like all that muscle.”

“Okay, so what about the one in the black jacket?”

“Gay in denial. Did you see the way he was holding his beer? That’s a girl-hold if I’ve ever seen it.”

“You’re crazy.” I roll my eyes. “What about the blue-baseball-cap guy?

“Maybe.” She ponders. “He’s definitely a maybe. I just want to see what else crops up. So in the meantime, tell me about your bucket idea.”

“I mapped it out on the plane and sent it to Liz this morning. I hope she likes it. What if she doesn’t like it?”

“She’s gonna love it. Or your money back.” Carmen drains her martini.

“Hey.” I poke her. “Here comes Baseball Cap again. He’s a persistent one, isn’t he?”

“He certainly is.”

Blue Baseball Cap blows right past me, all eyes on Carmen, and I notice again how good-looking he is. “I see your drink is empty.” He smiles at her. “Can I buy you another one?” He takes her glass and walks over to the bar.

“Go for it,” I tell her. “He’s hot!”

“Yeah?” I can tell she’s getting close to a yes.

“Definitely. He really likes you. Unlike me. I hate you.”

“You hate me?” She laughs. “Why?”

“Because you have your pick of the guys in here, and I haven’t even been approached once.”

“You’re not open to it,” she points out. “You’re not giving off the ‘I’m open’ vibe. It makes all the difference.”

Baseball Cap returns with her drink, and she demands to see his wallet. She reaches for a pen and writes down his name, address, and driver’s license number on a napkin. “Here.” She hands me the napkin.

“If I don’t call you by ten tomorrow morning, this is what you give the cops.”

I grimace at the whole thing, but Baseball Cap doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s okay,” he tells me. “She’s attractive
and
smart. Can’t go wrong with that.”

Carmen smiles and downs her drink. “Will you get home okay?” she asks, and I nod.

Watching them walk out of the bar, I’m struck with a sudden sense of emptiness. I know I should stay, meet people, listen to them talk, and pick their brains about trends… but I don’t feel like staying.

Then again, driving back toward the apartment a few minutes later, I realize that I don’t want to go home either. It’s only midnight and I do want something, but I don’t know what that something is. I find myself turning up into one of the canyons, driving up the steep slope of the Hollywood Hills. Up, up, up, until I finally hit Mulholland Drive at the very top.

I park the car at one of the scenic overlook areas and get out. From up here you can see a breathtaking view of the city. My eyes sweep over the glistening lights, which stretch as far as I can see, and I’m overwhelmed with the feeling that I’m not just gazing out at the city of Los Angeles, but at the entire glittering, magnificent world. Sort of like standing at the top of the Empire State Building, but different. Up there you’re above it but still sort of surrounded by the noise and energy of the city. Up here it’s dark and silent, and it feels like time has stopped in a perfect moment of stillness and tranquility.

After a while I get back into my car and coast down the hill, then turn right and begin heading west on Sunset. It’s a long and winding drive, and I’m not even sure where I’m heading. But something’s pulling me in this direction, and I know I have to follow.

As I drive, I find myself wondering about happiness. What it is, what it means, and how we’re supposed to know if we have it. It seems like people are always chasing happiness, like it’s always just one step ahead, and they can never quite catch up to it. If I get this job, I’ll be happy. If I get the promotion, I’ll be happy. If I find the right guy and get married, then I’ll be happy. If I buy my dream house and have two kids and retire at an early age, I’ll finally be happy. But does happiness even exist? Or is it just an elusive tease, always held just out of reach, ensuring that we keep plugging along through life and perpetuating the cycle of nature?

I want to know the answer. I want to know very badly. I begin to think of all the people I know, and weed out the ones who are either a.) obviously miserable, or b.) secretly hiding their misery behind other qualities such as ambition or responsibility. I try to think of someone – anyone – who strikes me as truly, genuinely happy and content with life, regardless of their situation or their surroundings. Someone who might have the answer, or who could at least hint at the answer, so I can maybe see it all a little more clearly.

And then my stomach does a somersault. Because I know exactly why I am still in my car, I know exactly why I am heading west, and I know exactly where I am going.

•   •   •

Twenty minutes later my car is parked on a narrow street in front of a big white house on a slight hill about a mile away from the beach.

I glance down at the thin white page that I ripped out of a phone book at Marks Mini-Mart: 819 West Seabreeze Drive. It’s Danny Wynn’s house, and I’m surprised to see that he lives in such a nice place, given that he made reference to not making much money. Most of the lights are out, but I can see the blue glare from a television set in the main room.

My heart is pounding through my chest as I get out of the car and close the door as quietly as possible. It’s now one o’clock in the morning, which I realize is not the most appropriate time to stop by for a quick hello. But I am propelled forward as if being pulled by a strange gravitational force.

I tiptoe up the stairs to the door. It’s so quiet that I can hear the crickets chirping in the bushes. As I stand there, I can feel the warm, salty ocean breeze on my skin. I bite my lip and consider turning back, but then ever so softly I knock. When no one comes, I knock again, a teeny bit louder.

After a minute I can hear tired footsteps trudging toward the door; then it opens a crack to reveal a young woman with long blond hair. She’s got a deep tan, crystal-green eyes, and a naturally pretty face, like the stereotypical surfer girl.

“Yes?” She rubs her eyes and tries to focus on me, and I can tell that I woke her up. Oh, God. This is Danny’s girlfriend. He lives with her. Maybe he’s even married. This was a huge mistake. Huge. I have to get out of here.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “I must have the wrong house.” I turn to leave.

“Who are you looking for?” she asks, confused.

I turn back, feeling like a royal ass. “Oh, I, uh… I was looking for Danny.”

“Danny lives upstairs. In the attic apartment.” She points to a stairway on the side of the house. “Up there.”

“Oh! Okay. Thank you,” I whisper. “Sorry for waking you!”

She shuts the door and I can hear the lock click into place. I look up the stairs and see that there is definitely a light on. He’s still up. I know he’s up. I can feel he’s up. He has to be.

I begin to climb the stairs, very slowly because each one seems to creak louder than the last. When I get to the top I try to peek in the window, but it’s covered by a beige curtain. However, I think I can faintly hear music, so I hold my breath and knock softly. Again, I can hear footsteps, and this time my heart skips a beat.

He opens the door, and out of nervousness I take a little step back. He’s wearing sweat shorts and a wrinkled white T-shirt, and his blond hair is a rumpled mess. He’s holding a half-eaten, bright red Popsicle.

He sees me and says nothing, just looks at me curiously and waits for me to speak. And out of the entire range of potential eloquent openers in a situation like this, here’s what I say: “Hi.”

Danny squints, not sure what to make of this lunatic standing on his doorstep at one in the morning. But then he breaks into a slow smile, steps back, and opens the door wider. “Come on in.”

I walk into his apartment and look around. It’s clean and simple, with minimalistic furniture, but lots of surfing stuff lying around.

“I know it’s late,” I stammer. “Well, really late… But I was in the neighborhood and… Well, I mean, I was down around here and I looked up your address because I thought… I mean, I wanted to –”

Danny holds his hand up to quiet me, then reaches around to close the door. He turns back, and I can feel every heavy inch of space between us.

“I wanted to… well… first I wanted to thank you for everything you did for me that day at the beach. That was really,
really
nice of you. And I would be, you know,
dead
if it weren’t for you, so that’s something I really wanted to thank you for.”

He nods.

“And I wanted to apologize for not listening to you during our lesson. That was very stupid of me, and I just… Well, I wanted to… Well, anyway.”

He nods again, looking faintly amused.

“And I wanted to apologize that it’s taken me so long to say this. I should’ve called you or come to find you a lot sooner, but I guess I…” I stop.

“You what?”

“Well, actually I did come to find you, down at the Surf Shack a couple weeks ago, right before I left for New York. But you weren’t there.”

“I know,” he says.

“You know?”

“Yeah. I saw you. I was just coming in from the surf. I saw you leave.”

I’m so surprised that I don’t know what to say. Danny walks over to the refrigerator and pulls out two bottles of beer. He opens them and hands one to me.

“Wow, really? I had no idea.” I take the bottle from his hand. “So then… why didn’t you stop me?”

He takes a sip of his beer and then stands there, watching me curiously for a long moment.

“Because,” he says softly. “I wanted to see if you’d come back.”

I feel a sudden rush of heat to my face, and I realize that I’m blushing like an idiot. I blush very rarely and actually quite unpredictably – but it’s not a pretty sight to see. “Blushing” is actually putting it a bit gently. It’s more like a sudden onslaught of freakish red hives crawling up my chest and neck toward my face like the bubonic plague in fast forward.

“R-right,” I stammer. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Danny looks confused.

My eyes are darting around the room wildly, looking for a spot to stand that’s more shaded. Pitch-black would be ideal. But although it’s not by any means bright in here, I realize that at any second Danny is about to behold what he once described as a “pretty girl” now morphing into the new patient at a quarantined leper camp.

“I’ve gotta go,” I tell him, and shove my beer back into his hands. “Here.”

I turn, pull the door open, and clomp down the stairs, tripping a little on the third step.

“Wait!” Danny calls after me. “Come back.”

“I already did!” I hiss over my shoulder.

“No, I mean now.”

“I can’t!”

I reach the bottom and turn back to wave at him. He’s relaxed, leaning against the door with his arms crossed, watching me with a look of amusement.

“I’m sorry, Danny. I just have to go.”

“Then come back on Thursday. For dinner.” He smiles. “Cooked by me.”

I want to leave. Right now. Fast. And forget that I even came. But despite all that, I can feel a slow, foolish smile spreading across my face, and I know that I do want to come back. And then some.

“Fish tacos?” I ask.

“Is that what you want?”

I nod, smiling like a goofball.

“Well, then, tacos it is. I’ll see you on Thursday.”

I
’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. It’s six thirty in the morning, and I’ve been tossing and turning all night.

It’s one date. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s one stupid evening.

Four hours, five at the max. A few days later I’ll be back where I belong – in New York, painting the town harlot red with Victor Ragsdale, my wealthy, sophisticated Manhattan paramour. So I shouldn’t feel guilty or weird in any way about going on one little date with a poor beach bum whose rent for a month probably equals the amount Victor spends on a pair of silk boxer shorts. There is no comparison between these two men in my life. One is here; one is there.

So fine. I’m going to go over there and have some fish tacos and a few laughs. That’s it. We have nothing in common, so the conversation will die out just about the time the dishes are cleaned up, and then I’m out of there. Done. Easy.

But I like him. I do. There’s something soothing about him. He makes me feel calm. But at the same time he makes me feel nervous. And he’s got this spark in his eye—it’s hard to describe, but it makes me feel like I’m in for some kind of great, fun surprise. I don’t know. There’s just something about this guy. So you know what? It’s really lucky that he’s not my type.