Eye to Eye (5 page)

“Don't say it,” she said. “You're the new neighbor come to kill me over that freakin' parrot.”

“Excuse me?”

“That.” She gestured to the corner of her apartment, where a parrot the size of my right forearm was suspended upside down from a cage that took up half the wall. The bird flapped its wings, nonplussed, and let out a sound that was part police siren, part car alarm. “My ex-boyfriend's idea of a gift to me. He found it in the classifieds and said that he wanted to give me something to last as long as our love. We dated two more months. But that freakin' parrot is for-freakin'-ever.”

“A parrot is making that noise?”

“Nice gift, right? He gets it from this guy who bought it with his lotto winnings. It can mimic police sirens, ambulances and,” she looked at the parrot and asked, “What's your favorite thing to say to the ladies?”

The parrot perked its head up and said, “Nice ass, beeatch.”

Toni shook her head, and I couldn't keep myself from laughing.

“That's the funniest thing I've ever seen,” I said. “What's its name?”

“Lotto,” she said. “They probably had a dog named ‘Bingo' and a goat named ‘Craps.' But I guess the winning streak finally ended because they couldn't afford to keep him. So now the traumatic beginnings of his life have become the soundtrack to my own. I kept hoping that you couldn't hear it through the walls. I'm really sorry if it's disturbing you. I haven't quite figured out yet how to make him stop.”

I walked over to the parrot's cage and tried to rub its beak through the metal grid.

“Fatties rule,” the parrot said. “Fatties rule.”

Toni shook her head. “I choose to believe that he means people.”

“Can you get him to learn new things?”

“Only obscenities seem to take,” she said. “We've been working on ‘foxy lady' for the past week, but all I get back is ‘nice ass, bitch.'”

“Nice ass, beeeeatch,” the parrot corrected her, and started dancing from foot to foot, craning its head from side to side with spastic glee.

“I think he might have a personality disorder,” Toni muttered. “So let me take the wine. You want a glass?”

“I'd love one.”

I sat down on the overstuffed cranberry couch and Toni took the matching overstuffed chair to its right. She handed me an oversized wineglass, filled about an inch and a half with chilled white wine. I felt a bit like Alice in Wonderland, with giant furniture and giant utensils and a mad parrot bobbing in the background.

“So what do you do?” she asked.

“I'm a writer,” I replied. “I write poetry, and I'm just starting a job teaching at Atlanta State.”

Toni pulled a bottle of nail polish from a basket underneath the coffee table.

“Very cool,” she said. “You mind? I need to do my toenails. I had an ex-boyfriend who couldn't stand to look at feet.”

“I have nothing against feet.” I immediately thought of Zach, who was prone to cutting his toenails in public. “So what do you do?”

“Long version or short version?”

“Doesn't matter.”

Toni fanned the toes of her right foot as wide as possible and deliberately painted a thin coat of metallic champagne across the toenails. “So I did my undergrad at Vassar, in sociology, and thought I wanted to go abroad and study different people, all that. Did it for a year and hated it. So I thought maybe first-world social work was the thing for me. Didn't hate that, but it didn't pay the bills, either. So now I work at that part-time, consult for private industry part-time, and in my downtime, I'm writing a book, but it's a book with a sociological bent.”

“Really,” I said. “That's very cool. What's it about?”

“Dating. It's sort of half–Susan Faludi, about how the world is out to make single women in their thirties feel like they should be taken out and stoned and just put out of their misery, but I'm also interested in age, race, class and education and how they play out in Internet dating. So it's sort of a performance art piece, as well. I have about twenty profiles up on dating sites in the area. In some I'm young, in some I'm older. You know, twenty-eight, thirty-two, thirty-six, thirty-eight. In some I list myself as white, in some as “other,” in some as African-American. And I change my education level, too, just to see if people spin themselves differently. Then I go on the dates to see how people act, what they say. What the white boys have to say when white Toni asks them why they only date white women, things like that.”

“Any broad and sweeping conclusions?” I ask, sincerely curious.

“With race, whether they want a Nubian queen or a princess to pamper, the words may change, but the melody remains the same. The age thing is for real, though, and I'm trying to figure out whether or not the media generates ageism on the Internet, and whether or not men even really recognize when they're being ageist.”

I find myself nodding along, Lotto style.

Toni reaches into the drawer of the mahogany end table next to the couch and pulls out a stack of magazine and newspaper articles. “If you don't mind me asking,” she asks, “how old are you?”

“Thirty-two. Birthday's in a few months.”

She considers this for a moment. “You've got plenty of time. But hear me on this, when you turn thirty-six, thirty-eight, the prospects get drier than the desert in August. And look at this, none of this is made up.” She passes me an article that I skim quickly, making the case that men are happier marrying women who make less than they do and have no careers. Then she passes me a magazine clipping making the case for women under the age of twenty-five having the smartest and healthiest babies, then she hands over one about the chances of a woman over the age of forty getting married, and her waning fertility. By the end of the stack, I feel slightly dizzy.

“And people still argue against feminism,” she scoffs. “You tell me the world doesn't still have a chip on its shoulder against a strong, successful woman.”

“How recent are these?” I ask, looking for the dates.

“All within the last year,” she answers. “I'm trying to compare societal attitudes against the real world. But the man online who is well over thirty-five, but won't date a woman over thirty-two, is alive, well and multiplying at a rapid rate. So you might as well get in the pond while you're still one of the sought-after fish.”

For the first time since yesterday, I feel actual fear at the thought of Zach disappearing back into the alpha-male ocean.

“So what's your real age?” I ask.

“Thirty-four,” she says. “Cusp of undesirability.”

“That is sooo depressing. And you're still totally gorgeous.”

“Age may be nothing but a number, but it's another of those real fictions. In Atlanta, today, you live the number.” She finished applying a second coat of polish and gingerly placed her feet on the brown shag rug—very '70s retro-chic. “And because you're probably too polite to ask, I'll tell you my real race shakedown. My dad was Japanese and Swedish, and my mom was African-American and Irish, so I'm just about anything anyone thinks I am.”

When I look at her face, I suppose that I can see all of it.

“What are you?” she asks.

“Irish, German, French, Native-American, and a little bit of Swedish for good measure.”

“McMutt,” she says. “American white girl.” Then she yawns. I take this as my cue to make a polite exit.

Making new friends is never easy. Back in my apartment, I feel guardedly optimistic about Toni, but there's nothing like the ease of an old friend. I pour the dregs of a three-day-old bottle of chardonnay into a juice tumbler and dial Ronnie.

“Hello,” she whispers.

“Ronnie,” I say. “Why are you whispering?”

“Earl's asleep. He's working nights at the bar. Hold on, I'll take this outside.”

There's a long pause, and I hear the faint drone of Lotto in the background doing his best will-the-ambulance-make-it-on-time screech.

“Okay,” she says. “I'm outside. I have to drive over to Beverly-fucking-Hills in an hour to spar with Ian, so I'm gonna have to go in about ten. Teenagers with BMWs and personal trainers. Kid probably gets more in allowance money than they're paying me. So. Atlanta. You all moved in?”

“Unpacked the last box yesterday and even talked to the neighbor.”

“So?”

“She was nice enough, I'm going to start a slow campaign to make her be my friend.” I take a sip of my chardonnay, which has turned overnight from “oak-y” to “ass-y.” “So tell me more about what you two are doing? Is that kid as bad as you say? Remember that girl I had at Langsdale, the one who was later picked to be on
The Real World, New Orleans?
I was teaching that class on autobiography and identity, I had them all reading
The Autobiography of Malcolm X,
and she looked at me with her terrible blond perm and god-awful Texas accent and said, ‘Miss Weatherall, I think Malcolm X was a whiner!'”

Ronnie laughs. “I remember that. Ian's the other kind. Down-with-the-people from his mansion on the hill. I'm not sure which is worse.”

“One-on-one is probably always worse. How about Earl? Is he going over as bartender to the stars?”

I conjure an image of Earl, in his mail-order Camel Lights T-shirt and tight jeans, trying to make an organic apple martini for a gaggle of starlets with surgically attached cell phones and Ugg boots, wearing those bizarre ruffled miniskirts that look like ass-doilies.

“Everyone loves Earl. Maybe even more than they did at the Saloon. He's got the other bartender ready to buy cowboy boots and ride off with him into the sunset.”

“Does that mean you're going to have to play sheriff? Knock some heads in the nouveau Old West?”

Ronnie gives a confident half-chuckle, which I remember well.

“So what's going on at school? Sounds crazier than Langsdale. And you have to fill me in on Zach. I can't believe you two would actually call it off.”

“It's more like we called a time-out, but you know what that means.”

“Maybe with someone else,” Ronnie says. “But Zach may just need some time.”

“Why do you say that? Did Earl talk to him?”

“No. But remember, as hard as it is to leave someone, sometimes it's even harder to be left behind. Try to remember how he might see things.”

All I can see is the accusatory black typeface from Toni's headlines of horror—MEN DON'T WANT A MORE SUCCESSFUL WOMAN. “I am,” I say. “But it's not making me feel any better.”

With all my worrying about not having a job, I hadn't even thought about the fact that Charlie, who'd gotten me my job in the first place, would be after my ass, as well. He hadn't wanted to suggest me to the Bernsteins at all until I'd convinced him that I did know how to teach, that all my time in grad school hadn't been spent drinking and writing stories that nobody wanted to read. He'd never really understood the whole MFA thing in the first place. “What was that, exactly?” he asked. “So you, like, study writing, and that's it? They give
degrees
for that? And what are you supposed to do with that degree anyway? What kind of job? You couldn't possibly make any money with that sort of thing, could you?” I had sat next to Earl at their long dinner table that had been battered and sandpapered and then stained so that it would look as if they'd just found it in a barn somewhere and had not paid, Bita told me, three grand for it.

Bita, my best friend in L.A. who had known me longer than anyone, took one look at my face, said, “Charlie,” and Charlie said, “What?” and held his fork and knife up, like what do you want
me
to do about the fact that she wasted three years of her life? Earl was still on good behavior—we'd only been in L.A. for a few weeks when we'd had that dinner—so he just squeezed my thigh under the table and didn't tell Charlie to “Hold on there, now, buddy,” which is Earl's way of saying shut the hell up. Instead, he said, “Nice table. My mamaw had a table like this in her kitchen. Made it herself from wood out in the yard.”

Charlie took a sip of wine and grinned at Earl. “Well, this is a four-thousand-dollar table, Earl.” He stroked the table. “I doubt your, what'd you say, ‘Mamaw'? I doubt your
grandmother
would have had anything like this.”

Bita gave Charlie a look with her green, darkly lined eyes, which said,
Stop being an asshole,
but I didn't say anything. Though I was wanting to point out the fact that the table's price had somehow gotten inflated. Or had she been embarrassed and low-balled the price? That was possible, too. Charlie chewed his salmon, satisfied that he'd put Earl in his place. It's been the good old boy versus the Hollywood exec ever since the two met. But Earl knew how to fight his own battles. I was waiting for his comeback.

“Well…” Earl said, and took a sip of
his
drink, a Miller that Bita had bought a whole six pack of because she knew it was Earl's beer of choice. He let that “well” linger a little bit, as if the discussion was over. He crossed his arms and leaned into the table with them and I couldn't help it. I ran my hand up and down his arm and he covered my hand with his and squeezed. He gave me one of those sly grins where only one of his dimples was showing. “Well,” he said again, finally. “You're right about that, Charlie. Mamaw would've never spent that kind of money on a table. Always told me, she said, ‘Earl, nothing but fools throw away good money behind stuff that only fools don't know how to make their own selves.'”

“Charlie,” Bita said, standing up and putting her napkin on the table. A cloth napkin with little cherries scattered everywhere that complimented the soft white stain of the table perfectly: a crisp, ironed cotton. “Honey, help me with the salad.” And Charlie gave Earl one last glance before leaving the table with Bita.

When they left, Earl turned to me. “Darlin', you don't have to work for folks that know Charlie. I'm bartending. We can figure it out until you find something else.” But I wanted to be working right away. One thing Earl didn't understand was that scraping by in Indiana ain't the same as scraping by in L.A. And this is why, in spite of my love for Earl and the kind of person he is—the no-bullshit kind—we are a strange match, partially because I was
slightly
more high maintenance than he'd ever be. Earl could really rough it, if he had to. Me, me no like-y. Earl could get by on a fire, a tent and a can of beans. Doris used to call him Mountain Man when we first used to see him at the Saloon. Little did we know.

I, however,
needed
to be able to get a coffee whenever I wanted one. I needed to grab a sandwich in the neighborhood whenever I wanted one. Nothing fancy, maybe a wrap at The Coffee Table or a breakfast burrito at Eat Well. I needed to buy something halfway cute at Gap or Old Navy on a whim, even if I didn't actually
need
those things. I needed a job. Period. I had an MFA, but I hadn't gone on the job market like Doris had, and it was too late—for now. I had to take what I could get. And I wanted to teach.

“Nope, Earl. I gotta have this job.”

“Well, did I mess it up for you then? Giving Charlie that little talking to?” Earl frowned and looked toward the swinging door to the kitchen.

I shook my head. One thing I was certain of. Bita would damn near castrate Charlie if he didn't help me out. He was the money maker, the guy with all the pulls and connections and the TV shows in the works, but Bita was the boss. I even thought I could hear her raise her voice in the kitchen, though it was hard to tell over Coltrane's frantic “My Favorite Things,” in the background. I hated having to rely on Charlie Flannigan for anything, but beggars—and caffeine addicts—can't be choosers.

The door swung open and Charlie came out holding an enormous ceramic bowl that they got during their last trip to Italy. Behind him came Bita with plates carefully stacked. “This is good salad. Everything organic,” she explained, winking at Earl who thought the whole organic thing was a little silly.

“I'll call the Bernsteins about that job,” Charlie said dutifully. And then he asked Earl with fake camaraderie, “Hey, Mr. Lo Vecchio. Get you another beer?”

“I'd be
de
lighted,” Earl said. “Thank you,” and then he turned to me to make sure I appreciated his gesture.

Now it has been exactly two weeks since Charlie has gotten me that job, and exactly five days since I've fucked it up. Earl has taken his bike out and is exploring L.A. even though I only allow him to do this after he promises that he won't get killed by an idiot driver. I'm lounging on the couch, flipping channels and hoping that the phone will ring and hoping that it won't. I'm waiting for Charlie to call and yell at me, or waiting for the Bernsteins to tell me that I will be getting my last check in the mail. On television, a couple is having to eat scorpions for the final fifty-thousand-dollar prize. That's good money.
Really
good money. Earl and I can try out for something like that. A little deadly, venomous creature, in comparison to Ian, ain't shit. Both are the same, actually, but one pays more money. And one, come to think of it, was less humiliating. At least with the scorpion, I wouldn't have to be working, literally, for Mr. Charlie and Mr. Ian.

When the phone rings, I have to follow the sound before I answer it. Where did Earl put it last? Our apartment is so small, every room you can see from the front door. The kitchen. I had it in the kitchen when I was boiling eggs for lunch. I'm budgeting now, two boiled eggs is lunch. I may even eventually be one of these skinny women running around town without an ass before too long. I grab the phone before the third and last ring and look to see who it is before I press the talk button. Bita Flannigan.

“You're calling to do Charlie's dirty work. I'm fired.”

“Now what? Who said what to who? Who's going to have to shake hands and say sorry, now?” Bita takes a drink from something. I can hear ice cubes clinking against a glass.

“I'm fired. At least I think I'm fired. Me and that Ian had a, uh, exhange.”

“He's a little shit, anyway,” Bita lisps.

“Hey, chew that already.” Bita loves to eat ice. It's a really bad habit she's had since college—it's in lieu of eating food, that she eats ice. The chewing made me want another egg. I had exactly two more eggs in the fridge, and two hundred dollars in my checking account. I'd save the egg for later. How sad. I was rationing.

Bita crunched in my ear. “You'll either get that job back or something else'll come up. It always does.”

I say nothing. Bita is always flip about stuff like this. She has the attitude of someone who has never known what it's like to worry about money, and in spite of the fact that I would have NO respect for anyone else with the same attitude (Ian), I love this girl. I blame it on Charlie and his four-thousand-dollar table.

“Can you come over?” Bita asks. “I mean, since you're unemployed and all on account of being a smart-ass.” She laughs again. I look at my watch and see that it's 4:45 p.m., the beginning of rush hour, and I imagine the slow crawl of Sunset Boulevard all the way up to Kings Road, the street where Bita lives. I'll be stuck in all that west-side scenery, like the giant billboards advertising some new starlet's crotch, and then I'll have to pass that idiotic House of Blues with its fake rust and Disneyland colors. I wouldn't even be able to pop into Tower Records, the only reason for driving down to that end of Sunset, because it's closed now, making it really and truly not the same L.A. I calculate how long it will take from Echo Park and estimate my arrival time to be 6:30 p.m. Not even for Bita, can I do it. Not today.

“I can't. I just can't face the traffic. Just thinking about getting in my car exhausts me.”

“Jeez,” Bita says. “Indiana has made you soft. A traffic wuss.” I hear the clink of ice as she takes a drink of something. “No, wait. What are you, scared to leave Earl alone or something? Is he lonely without you?”

“Are you kidding? Earl's the goddamn life of the party these days. It's like L.A. would shut
down
if he wasn't around to oversee the place on that bike of his.”

“He gets around,” Bita says. And he did, too. When he isn't working at the Baseline, he is one with the city. He has really taken to the place. But Bita says it with a
tone.

“Around?” I know what Bita's thinking. It isn't my imagination that Earl is being chased by Katie. I made the mistake of mentioning something about it, and now Bita is putting my man in the same category as Charlie, which makes me mad. He's fine, Earl. Out with a couple new buddies at the bar. He's no Charlie.

“You let me worry about Earl,” I say. “You worry about Charlie.” It's a snarky thing to blurt out and I'm already sorry about it. Bita is silent on the other end. “Listen. I'll come by later this week,” I say softly. “Okay?” She's still silent. “Hello?”

“I'm nodding,” Bita says.

“Well, I can't see that.” I laugh.

“I don't know what's wrong with me,” she says, and I hear her crunching ice again.

“Next week. For sure,” I promise.

When I get off the phone, I decide to take a walk down to Echo Park to try to get at this Katie and Earl stuff that keeps bothering me. I find a piece of paper and a pen, and I write Earl a note:

I sign off “Veronica,” because Earl always says that it's my sexy name, and that “Ronnie” is my everyday, “gettin' around town” name. I'm almost out the door when the phone rings. Maybe it's Bita again. Or Earl.

“Yep?” I don't here anything on the other end. “Yep, yep, aww
yeah,
” I say again. That always made Bita laugh. It was my Vanilla Ice impersonation. He was always saying that as filler. I think it was code for “I'm being very black right now.”

“You sound insane. Drinking already? It's barely happy hour your time.”

“D. Oh my God, I miss you. If you were here, we would already be hammered by now.”

“Exactly,” Doris says. “I'm beating you, though. Two hours ahead of you and already on my first glass of wine.”

I sigh.

“What?” Doris asks. “No wine in the house?”

“No. I mean, yes, there is…it's not that.”

“Uh, oh,” Doris says. “What?”

I pause and consider not telling Doris. I'm always putting on a brave front whenever something's getting to me. And things with Earl are good. It's jerky to complain given he's come all the way to L.A., and when I know that Doris is having a hard time with Zach and finding somebody to run around with in Atlanta. “I think I'm jealous of that chick down at the bar.”

“You've got to be kidding me.”

“I wish I were.”

“Okay. Is this, like, some reverse-psychology tactic or something? Because I was all set to pour and rant for two hours.”

“I'm sure it's nothing.” I dangle one of my flip-flops off my big toe and jiggle my leg. “What kind of wine are you drinking?”

“The kind that works. Talk.”

“Nothing to say, really. I'm just feeling this weird, I don't know, dread or something. I saw Katie hug Earl at the bar the other night, and I got scared.”