Eye to Eye (22 page)

So now, I decided to joke about it to Doris. Something was happening between Earl and I, but I didn't know what. “You're kidding, right? It's bad enough that you and I are going to this thing—with Ian. Adding Earl would tip the situation over to surreal. We have you, who has time traveled from the seventies, who seems to be going through a glam rock phase, Ian, who seems to not even
like
me, but who I nevertheless feel very responsible for, and Earl, who, I swear, thought I was talking about a children's book about bunnies when I first said the phrase hip-hop. Besides, he's got something going on tonight. He bartends late and then he's off to some weird party with Jake. I wish I could see that, Earl at a Hollywood party.”

“Speaking of surreal,” Doris says. “I'm ready. I can't wait to meet Mr. Sixteen-Year-Old Badass. Get my hands on that little piss ant.”

 

I hear tell that there is always a moment when a person recognizes that they're no longer a child, that they're no longer able to get by on the charm of youth. It's taken me a while, this epiphany. Not even when I was teaching undergrads, who first heard Madonna on their Fisher Price cassette players, while I first heard her my last year of high school, did I feel that I was no longer a child. You're in your teens, and then you're twentysomething, and then suddenly you're thirtysomething, but you still feel like you're a kid trying to figure stuff out. But then it hits you, rudely and squarely on the mouth.

When Doris and I pull up in a Honda that is so not bling-bling, get out of the car to see what in the hell we've gotten ourselves into, we see it's a parking lot full of people. All young, all black.

“Whoa,” Doris says, “one of these things is not like the other.”

“What'd you expect?” I lock the car and stand by the driver's door while Doris makes her way to me. “This is a hip-hop showcase. Besides, black Doris would be down, would blend.”

“Yeah, but white Doris was thinking hip-hop in a suburban, white boy, we wish we could be from the streets, too, kind of hip-hop. Like Ian. Damn, I got a rock in my shoe.”

We stand by the car like outcasts who are afraid to walk into the big high school dance. Almost all the guys look like some version of my nephew, Blake. Sagging jeans and a white T-shirt. Cornrows. And all the girls had
their girls
out. Most people ignore us but some stare at us like the freaks we are when they pass by. I keep looking for Blake and Ian.

Doris hands me a foil package full of little cubes of gum. “We look insane,” she says. She surveys my outfit again. “The hip-hop hick, you look like.”

“Shut up, Ziggy Stardust.” I pop out two pieces of gum and chew frantically.

“Well, we can't stand here like idiots all day.” She sighs. “Let's at least walk around like idiots.”

“Blake!” I see my nephew walking toward us in his usual lazy swagger. Tonight he's not wearing cornrows, but is sporting a medium-size afro with an afro pick stuck on the top of it. “Your dad would give you so much stuff if he saw you with that hair,” I tease when he reaches us. “‘Cut your damn hair boy!'” He pats his hair on the sides and top, clearly proud of it. “I know,” he says, grinning.

“This is Doris. Doris, my nephew, Blake.”

“Hey, Doris,” Blake says, giving her a hug.

“Did you just say ‘stuff' instead of ‘shit'?” Doris asks. “Puhleeze.”

Blake laughs. “Aunt Ronnie think I don't know she cusses.”

“Yeah, well, somebody has to be the grown-up, the good example and all that. Space Girl doesn't count.” I turn around, full circle checking all the cars in the lot. “I don't see Ian, the kid I told you about.”

“Yeah,” Doris comments, shifting her weight on her tall shoes. “I'm dying to meet the little angel. Your aunt has been a true grown-up, since she hasn't knocked this kid on his ass for giving her so much shit.”

I give Doris the shut-up eyes. I don't want Blake to know about Ian's and my rocky relationship because I know that if he knows, he won't be nice to him. I just want everybody to play nice this evening.

“Damn, that's a nice car,” Blake says, “that must be somebody with real bank coming to check out the show, give a brother a contract.” And the BMW I know to be Ian's pulls into the parking lot.

“That's Ian.” My nephew raises his eyebrows and I shrug. “I told you he was loaded.” Ian parks off in the distance and we wait a while for him, looking for his head to pop up between the cars. It never does. “Let's go over there. I don't know what's taking him so long.”

“Great, more walking in these stilts.” Doris takes off her shoe and puts it back on, as if that will help.

“I'm not a nice enough person
not
to say I told you so.” I let her lean on me while she adjusts her foot. Blake walks a bit ahead of us, no doubt going to check out Ian's ride. He reaches Ian's car before we do. When we get there, he's knocking on the door, but Ian doesn't open it until he sees me. He looks as though he's seeing his best friend in the world and it actually makes me feel sorry for him.

He gets out of the car and locks it with a series of beeps and clicks that tells everyone within earshot that it's locked and alarmed up the ass, impossible to steal.

“What were you doing, sitting in the car? This is my nephew Blake,” I say, before he has time to answer.

“Oh. Hey, man,” Ian says, holding his hand out. Blake hesitates before he shakes it.

“I was knocking on your door, man.” Blake gives Ian a hard stare.

“I know.” Ian looks at me and then looks down at his torn black Converse.

“Ian, this is Doris. She's visiting from Atlanta.”

“Hey.” He gives Doris a half-hearted tilt of his chin and shoves his hands in his pockets. He's trying hard not to look miserable and she looks at me as if to say, I can't believe
this
pitiful kid is the one who's been giving you so much shit.

“So Ian knows music,” I say, trying to loosen everybody up. “Knows some folks.”

“Yeah,” Ian agrees. “That's what I was doing when you knocked, listening to music.”

“I didn't hear nothing,” Blake says. “I saw you looking around like you were scared to get out the car.”

Okay.
Maybe the playing nice wasn't going to happen just yet. I see something in Ian's eyes. That stubborn look he gets when he's had enough of my shit. A pretty girl walks by, dark, smooth skin, her hair in long braids and a miniskirt showing off her long flawless legs. When she passes the back bumper of Ian's car, Ian glances at Blake and then says, “Damn, baby, you look good. Come here and let me holla at you for a minute, mami. You looking finer than a motherfucker.”

“Fuck you,” the girl says and keeps walking. Doris nearly chokes on her gum and Blake looks at
me
like I'm the crazy one. I turn my palms up and shake my head as if to say I have nothing to do with this dumb-ass white boy.

“Ian!” I frown. “What the hell was that?”

“What? She was pretty.” Ian looks absolutely clueless.

Much like Ian, Blake has an excellent bullshit detector and he has had enough. My crafty little ebony and ivory hip-hop plan is a bust. “You know what?” Blake says, “I'ma be late for my show. I'm out. See you in there, Aunt Ron? Doris?” Blake completely ignores Ian and leaves us.

“So let's go in now,” Doris suggests. “Get this party started. We don't want to interrupt the good times we're all having here. And by the way? This
so
doesn't count as us going out in L.A. What next? A teen disco-seminar on race relations? You really know how to have a good time.”

“Ian?” I pull on his black T-shirt, the image of Tupac large and plain on the front. “Let's go.”

“No,” he says quietly. “I'm going home.”

“What do you mean?” Doris and I exchange glances. “You drove all this way. To
Corona,
for God's sake. You love this music. It's going to be a good time.”

Ian shakes his head. “I don't feel like it anymore,” he says. He points his key ring at his car and unlocks it with the same series of beeps and clicks. “Nice to meet you, Doris,” he says, and then gets in his car and drives away.

“Man,” Doris huffs as we walk to the show. “I actually feel sorry for the kid. He is only sixteen. It's practically
illegal
to have a lick of sense at that age.”

And Doris is right. Part of me was trying to do something cool for both Blake and Ian. Blake would have gotten some exposure, and Ian would have gotten some exposure, too, in a way. But part of me also knew that the night might turn out exactly as it has, Ian being put in his place some kind of way. And that makes me a bit of a playground bully, luring the unsuspecting to the bathroom stall to get his ass kicked. Okay, not that dramatic, but still. And part of this is Ian's fault, pretending, putting on the verbal blackface. But knowing him, I should have seen he'd do that, too. And I should have asked Earl to come. I didn't because I was afraid of all the different negotiations that all of us would have to do: Me, Earl, Ian, Blake, Doris. So different, individually, and yet
together.
That's how it should be, no matter how uncomfortable. I should have known a lot, and now I do. Like a grown-up.

Surreal, I think, as Ronnie drives me around on the tourist's tour of L.A. Not just the landscape. Though it is surreal with its gigantic billboards, the bilingual signs and colorful murals of the Virgin of Guadalupe next to the free clinics, and the beautiful rise of the Hollywood Hills and the promise of beaches not far away. Surreal, too, that a mere two days ago I was on the couch alone listening to the wail of Lotto, pet to my half friend, Toni, leaving behind Maxwell, Paige, Asa, and the whole mess of folks I barely know, yet constitute my fledgling attempt at a new life, so that here I can sit next to my real friend Ronnie, dislocated but seemingly happy. More surreal, not two months ago I had a boyfriend whom I loved, whom I still love on any given bad afternoon in spite of my fledgling attraction to Maxwell, who unfortunately, has yet to call or otherwise contact me. Zach, at this very minute is probably lounging on his futon, plotting the grand opening of his movie palace, watching his half girlfriend put on her Bonnie Bell lip gloss and text message the other nymphets about an end-of-season sale at Forever 21 on her Hello Kitty cell phone. And alas, that final image, while surreal, is probably true.

“I'm having Zach thoughts,” I tell Ronnie, who expertly navigates the narrow streets that snake up and down the hills, past precariously perched mansions that put the fanciest Buckhead, Tara rip-off in Atlanta to shame. “Remind me again why we decided it was a bad idea to say run-of-the-mill girl things like ‘men suck'? What if they actually suck? God, it feels good to say ‘suck' without the word-police looking at me like my brain is rotting out of my head.”

Ronnie makes a last-minute left turn on red, something I've learned that's part of L.A. driver's etiquette.

“What would be the worst thing?” she asks. “What if you did go back to Langsdale to help Zach out with opening the theater? For the summer, at least. Teaching's clearly making you mental, and you can make a dollar go further there than in Atlanta. You'll have to do better than me and Earl. I've had more eggs than Cool Hand Luke. And if I never see another peanut butter and jelly sandwich, it'll be too soon.”

“Which is why I'm buying you lunch. That and to help us both recover from the disaster that was last night. I know I'm supposed to hate Ian, but you gotta admit, even with the Beemer he looked kind of pathetic. Like the sad kid in gym class just waiting to get his ass bombarded with dodgeballs.”

Ronnie looks sympathetic for a moment, then her face changes.

“I know, Doris. But remember this. That might literally be the one day out of his entire life where he's stuck outside his comfort zone. And let's not forget that young Ian can still have the last laugh. He can fire my cow-ho ass any day of the week, so just be glad your space-ho self has a job.”

“How could you have let me wear that out of the house, Ronnie? How?”

“The better question is how you could have purchased those shoes with actual American dollars. I think some of the brothers thought they were being punk'd, not too many thirtysomething Judy Jetson types around.”

I try not to bore Ronnie with all the minutia of my neurotic brain, but I seem to be having some kind of clothing identity crisis. I have no idea what to wear in Atlanta half the time, and given the chance to cut loose in L.A., it seems the only thing that I lost was my last iota of judgment. Then I start laughing because I think about what Zach would have said if he'd seen me.

“It's walking that fine line between novelty and circus freak. And for lunch, pick someplace decadent where we can gawk at celebrities and decide whether they're really as short and less-pretty-in-real-life as I hear. And where we can overhear their conversations if they start talking about their favorite Scientology centers or diet pills. But to answer your question, I am
not
going back to Langsdale. I spent the better part of a decade trying to get out of that place. Clearly you've forgotten what it's like there.”

Ronnie changes lanes in front of an actual Rolls Royce, barely glancing in the rearview mirror.

“I know you'll hate to hear it, Doris, but you might have done the right thing getting that Ph.D. I mean, I'm happy that my book's being published, but it hasn't been smooth sailing on that front. And I don't think any school's going to be knocking down doors to have a Burning Spear author, or author-ette, or authorina, or however they're marketing women these days, who're working at their institution. Don't let your head explode or anything, but I've even been debating going back to school.”

Now, don't get me wrong. There's nothing that I'd like more than to see Ronnie live her dreams, but I view my Ph.D. the way some women probably view abusive spouses, or sadistic, soul-destroying employers. I appreciate that it made me the person I now am, but otherwise, what a horrific way to waste one's youth. In fact, I still feel as if every day away from Langsdale is one of active recovery, in which everything I say or do is not being picked apart like some fetal pig on a dissection table.

“Ronnie. Are you totally high from California exhaust fumes? Do you even remember what it was like back there? I want you to close your eyes and conjure the stale, pungent smell of the microwave in the workroom. Listen for the sound of some whiny, tight-ass telling you why they threw away their television ages ago. See the cold fluorescent lighting of the Langsdale library, built totally without windows so as to aid in the pastyfication of all that doughy, white flesh. Is it coming back to you?”

Ronnie parallel parks the car near Mann's Chinese Theater, essential pit stop on any L.A. excursion.

“I do,” she admits. “But Earl seems, shall we say, distracted these days. He barely talks about law school anymore, and I don't think it's because he doesn't want to go.” She pauses and gives me a side glance. “I think it's because he's working so hard and still we can scarcely afford that proverbial pot to piss in. The Burning Spear money will help, but it's not like they've offered me a second book. I get no writing done, and I don't foresee a real break anytime soon. Don't get me wrong, I'm not moving back to no crazy-ass Langsdale, especially not after my book comes out, but I wouldn't mind finding some other smallish town or cheap city, cheaper than here, where Earl and I can get back on track. Because this, paradise that it is, is beginning to feel like a detour. And just look around you, Doris.” She gestures to sunbaked homeless faces crouched against the walls. “Second easiest thing to coming with a dream to L.A. is becoming L.A. roadkill.”

We've gotten out of the car and begun to walk the star-cluttered, if pee scented, sidewalk.

“You'll never be homeless. You and Earl can always come live with me in Atlanta. But I get what you're saying. What does Earl think?”

“I don't know,” she says, almost to herself. “I haven't really talked about it yet.”

I looked down at my feet, at the star on which I'd been standing, having one of those faux-philosophical moments where Hollywood is starting to make a lot of sense. Heck, Burning Spear Press is even making sense, with their nutsy escapist storylines and heroines who can afford to shop the nonsale rack. Who wanted to be stuck in their own life all the time, worrying about real problems like money, and frustrated ambitions and whether one was making the right choices in love? I was wrong to revise my Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks drama. It's not just verisimilitude we need, but outright fantasy. Isn't that what these stars were supposed to deliver? Cary Grant, the original metrosexual, bantering urbanely and charming the socks off deserving women. Humphrey Bogart and Robert Mitchum delivering rapid-fire dialogue and seducing the ladies with tough-guy exteriors and bedroom eyes. Heck, I'll even give Brad Pitt credit on a good day for raw sex appeal when he's not doing a valley-Roman accent on the beaches of Troy.

“Um, Ronnie, don't take this the wrong way. But I think you looooove Ian. I saw that glimmer in your eyes last night, as he rode off into the Bavarian Motor Works sunset.”

Ronnie gives me her patented eyebrow raise.

“Seriously. Desert island. Ryan Seacrest and Ian. With whose nubile young body would you rather wile away the afternoons. And no booze. Just ass. Whose do you pick?”

“I don't know, Doris. Let's make it challenging. You're on a desert island—Maxwell or Zach? The ass you know, or grab-bag ass?”

“Silly woman,” I say, looking for a star of which I can be proud. Finally, I stumble on Mary Tyler Moore. “Who's to say that it's grab-bag ass. It might well be ass that has been both grabbed and bagged.”

“Nothing like an informed shopper.”

We're close to the actual theater by now. A theater I know well from Academy Awards shows on television and old footage of Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell vamping it up goddess-style even with hands coated in cement. Now that is the glamour for which I came to Hollywood.

“You know how you feel about talking about Earl and Ph.D.'s and the future and teaching Ian and all that? You know how I felt wearing my space shoes on the soul train last night? Take that level of discomfort, and that's the pit I have in my stomach when I think about choosing wrong. And it's like I'm paralyzed. Like there's a right choice to make, and I'll only figure out what it is when I don't make it.”

Ronnie and I push our way through a crowd of tourists who look straight from Langsdale. They're all ooohing and aaahhhing over Mel Gibson's tiny little paw prints.

“Remember that Lucy episode where Lucy's hands fit in all the different imprints, and Ethel's only come close to fitting Trigger's?” Ronnie bends over Ava Gardner's square, her hands expanding well outside their slender outline. “I think I'm more of an Ethel than a Lucy.”

I move from square to square, imagining what it was like to be Marilyn, or standing next to Gary Cooper when he signed off. “Look, I say. I think I fit Sylvester Stallone. How totally tragic.”

“Man hands,” Ronnie says. “Better put that in your Internet profile.”

“Rocky's hands,” I say. “It could have some homoerotic fascination for a slightly repressed yet still-straight jock. Don't kid yourself, m'dear. There is something for evvveryone on ye olde Internet.”

One of the old fellows from the Langsdale-esque group, whose mother clearly never taught him that it was rude to eavesdrop, gives me a knowing nod. For all I know, he might actually have
seen
my profile on the Internet. Deeply, deeply terrifying.

“Earl wants us to do karaoke tonight. You game?” Ronnie asks. “Barragans, this Mexican joint down the street, is Earl's new favorite L.A. stomping ground. He wants to show it off. Don't break his heart.”

“It's not his heart I'm worried about,” I say. “You ever heard me sing?”

“Noooooo.”

“With good reason. But it's not like I
know
anyone in L.A. And if it makes your fellah happy, who am I to rain on his parade.”

“Indeed,” Ronnie says.

 

Before returning to the apartment, Ronnie and I pit stop at a purely functional Internet café. Ronnie's computer is on the fritz again, and I am far too paranoid to be toting mine around, residual fear from hearing urban legends of disappearing laptops with non-backed-up dissertations. I weigh my desire to check e-mail against my irrational paranoia of someone taking my password, and sign on to a computer that looks like Fred Flintstone hocked it when the new models hit Bedrock.

“Classy,” I say to Ronnie.

“Welcome to poverty. Enjoy your stay.”

I'm actually nervous as I check my e-mail, mostly because having violated so very many of the dating commandments early in the evening, I violated the remaining few about playing hard to get, not putting out on the first date, and waiting for him to contact you. I dropped a “had a groovy time, am now going out of town” note as a last-minute gesture of self-sabotage before heading to the airport. So I'm curious, of course, as to whether the dating laws are right, or if one can, in fact, defy the universe and reap an occasional reward.

And as the universe so cruelly and frequently answers: maybe, maybe not.

Maxwell has, indeed, written back, but it's beyond cursory and doesn't really allude to a definitive future date. The requisite, “I enjoyed meeting you, too. Travel safely. Peace.” I resist the urge to send a long e-mail asking how Maggie Mae is holding up, and whether he's binging on kalebone to make it through the night without me. One cannot be one's version of funny with someone who might not even think that you are funny. Once upon a time, I might have moped slightly about the e-mail, but today I actually feel detached in that surreal way that makes Maxwell more like a character in some sitcom version of my life, not a man I actually considered a potential short- or long-term partner.