Her Wild Oats (6 page)

Her wallet, with dollar bills and business cards stuffed into every opening; a small makeup case containing mascara, lipstick, eye shadow and liner; an old packet of Kleenex (the overpriced kind with a cute zebra-striped pattern); a packet of mints; another packet of mints; the antacids she always kept on hand for Jerry; a long-expired Vicodin prescription from her dentist; a small day-planner (backup in the event of a iPhone system crash); a Swiss army knife; a hairbrush. In a “secret” zippered compartment she found a tiny velvet bag in which she had once, in her single days, stashed a couple of Trojans. They were still there, bursting at their festive little wrappers, longing to join in someone’s fun. Arizona wondered if Jerry’s condoms could have had equally as innocent an explanation. She folded them back up into their velvet container and put them away. She carefully put everything back and closed her purse, glancing one more time at her phone’s display screen before tossing it in along with everything else. Then, too tired and full to move, she sat and stared at the bathroom stall’s door for a while, thinking about the events that had brought her here.

*

“Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof!” broke her reverie, as the special ring she had programmed for Kira Brantley, wife of Bart Brantley, the multimillion-dollar star of
Fang!
and
Fang II: Dental Revenge
. In addition to her many official duties as executive assistant to Grayson Lathrop, there were unofficial ones as well, and taking care of Kira’s “urgent” needs when Bart was busy either on or off the set was the biggest time-suck of them all. A renowned workaholic and womanizer, Bart did not want to have to worry about his wife’s petty concerns when he was on the job; it had somehow fallen to Arizona to plan Kira’s travel itineraries and spa treatments, book her limo pickups, help her choose her outfits for film premieres and charity balls, and provide a girl-friendly ear when Kira just wanted to shoot the breeze. Mr. Lathrop had let it be known that Bart Brantley was a top priority, always. And if Bart wanted his wife taken care of, then Arizona was expected to do the caretaking.

Under normal circumstances, Ari enjoyed Kira’s company, though she couldn’t help thinking the woman had been raised on another planet—the planet where they breed the spectacular-looking women who end up marrying movie stars. Kira was drop-dead gorgeous, a petite size two with shimmering raven hair and the best wardrobe, boobs, and nose that money could buy. She was also under the expert care of Dr. Ralph Friedman, a Hollywood tradition in himself. Dr. Friedman had administered his indispensable healing arts to at least three generations of musicians and movie stars. One of Arizona’s regular Kira-related chores was arranging her consultations with the good doctor. Blowing the woman off was a firing offense, family funeral or not.

“Hey, Kira, what’s up?” Arizona tried to sound upbeat.

“I don’t know how I let this happen, but I seem to be out of Vitamin V.” Kira sounded shaky, on the verge of tears.

“Wow, that was fast…didn’t we just get you thirty tens last week?”

“I know. That’s why I was so surprised when I opened the bottle and they were all gone! Then I remembered the decorator.”

“Huh?”

“You know, silly. I’m having my bedroom redone. I want the walls the exact same shade as a ten-milligram Valium. So I got out my bottle to show William, and he took some home to match the color. I’m fresh out.”

It sounded like a crock of shit to Arizona, but what could she say? Keeping this woman happy was a very big part of her job.

“OK, Kira. I’ll call Friedman and ask him to phone a ‘scrip into your pharmacy. They deliver, right?”

“Thanks, Ari. Really, what would I do without you?”

Maybe stop overmedicating yourself and get out of that weird relationship
, was what Arizona wanted to say—but of course did not.

“Promise me you’ll make these last awhile, OK? No handfuls of V washed down by Cuervo before you take the BMW out for a spin, right?” (This very thing had happened the last time Kira had opened the
Hollywood Tattler
one morning and seen several photos of her husband making out with his co-star.)

“Of course not, silly. And hey—thanks.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Arizona said goodbye, then called the doctor’s office and the pharmacy. Shaking her head at Kira’s bullshit, she caught a fish-eyed glimpse of herself reflected in the metal handle of the restroom stall.

Where did she, Arizona Rosenblatt, come off judging another woman’s relationship anyway? She was one to talk. Just for a minute, Arizona leaned back and closed her eyes.

*

“Excuse me, excuse me, ma’am?” The rattling of the latch on Arizona’s bathroom stall woke her, drooling and disoriented.

“Um, yeah, just a minute…”

“You’ve been in there an awfully long time, ma’am.”

“Oh! Sorry, I’ll be right out.” Arizona tried to stand up and lost her balance, spilling the contents of her recently organized purse all over the floor. “Shit!” she exclaimed.

“Really, ma’am, I need you to open the door. It’s our manager’s request.”

Arizona realized she had fallen sound asleep in the third stall on the left in the ladies’ room at Murphy’s Corned Beef ’n’ Cabbage Emporium. Her whole body felt stiff and cranky as she stretched and opened the stall door.

A woman in the Murphy’s uniform stood there, looking concerned.

“I’m OK, really,” Arizona stammered. “I just must have been exhausted.”

“Well, we don’t allow sleeping in the ladies’ room; I mean, who would? If you want there’s a motel across the parking lot. Their rates are reasonable.”

“Thanks.” Arizona felt herself tearing up. “Hey, I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t get you in trouble or anything.”

“It’s OK, honey.” The woman softened. “No big deal, really. It’s just—rules are rules. And if you ask me they have way too many of them here. Hey, would you like a cup of coffee? On the house.”

“No thanks.” Arizona knelt down and scooped up the contents of her purse. She walked unsteadily out the door toward her car.

There it was, brightly colored and stuck to the back bumper of her Volvo: a fresh, new My Boss Is a Jewish Carpenter sticker, printed in fire-engine red on a shiny white background. Jerry must have placed it there last night after he’d arrived home.

Furious, Arizona sat right down on the asphalt and once again began digging through her purse. She pulled her Swiss army knife out of its little leather holder and began cutting and peeling the sticky paper until there wasn’t a trace left on her car. She crumpled up the torn bits and threw them across the parking lot as far as they would go. Then she picked them up and threw them again. She fantasized burning a large stack of Jews for Jesus bumper stickers right there in the parking lot, watching the flames go sky-high, high enough for Jerry to see back in Santa Monica.

Shaking herself back to reality, she found her keys and unlocked the car. Gertrude the GPS popped awake when the engine started.

“Make the first available U-turn,” she chirped helpfully, still programmed to lead Arizona back home.

“I don’t think so, Gertrude. There’s no turning back now.”

Arizona fully intended to drive out of the parking lot and continue on down the highway. She had a plan, sort of. But somehow she found herself driving across the parking lot instead and stopping the car directly under a sign that said “Sleepy Time Motel: Vacancy.” As she got out of the car, she thought she heard a little chirp of relief from Gertrude. Finally, someone was following her directions. “Thanks, Gertrude,” Arizona whispered as she grabbed her small bag off the back seat and walked into the musty office to see about a room.

She turned the key in the lock of room 207 and cringed at the smell, a combination of disinfectant and stale air. She opened the window as far as it could go—at least three or four inches—and wandered into the bathroom. A paper strip on the toilet, indicating that it was hygienically safe for use, and a small bar of soap were the only amenities offered. The towels were stingy—thin and small. There was a cramped shower stall but no bathtub. She couldn’t help remembering the last hotel she’d stayed in, the Four Seasons in San Francisco. The tub had been deep and large enough to swim in, with Jacuzzi jets and a little rubber duck providing a touch of whimsy. The array of body lotions and hair products was dazzling; some even better than the stuff she used at home. With a sigh, Arizona broke the hermetic seal on the toilet seat, brushed her teeth, and fell head-first onto the hard, unforgiving double bed.

She woke the next morning in a pool of sunshine, still dressed and lying on top of the covers. She had every intention of showering and getting back on the road, but remembered as she soaped up that she’d never actually bought any licorice—the one thing she’d pulled off the road to do. So she conscientiously put the few belongings she’d used back in her bag, and drove across the parking lot to Murphy’s. Gertrude, always lobbying for a retracing of steps, seemed delighted as she chirped awake and put in her two cents.

Arizona had every intention of dashing into Murphy’s, buying some licorice, and dashing out again. But the enticing aroma of fried meat and potatoes reminded her that she hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. Once again, the same kindly waitress settled her into a booth and took her breakfast order, soon delivering piles of greasy comfort food.

Arizona ate slowly as she skimmed the local paper and watched groups of travelers come and go. A weary-looking middle-aged couple in golfing clothes sat, ramrod straight, at a table for two, sipping tea and reading the
Wall Street Journal
in silence. Next to them, a plump blonde discreetly nursed a baby under a pink wool shawl while her husband drew pictures on his paper placemat for identical twin toddlers. The husband looked trim, tan, and rested. The wife looked puffy and exhausted. A loud, large group of teenagers rolled in, yelling, playfully shoving each other toward a big round table. A petite girl with shaggy black bangs stopped to look at a display in the gift shop; a lanky boy with acne and braces came up behind her and held his hands over her eyes, growling, “Guess who.” The girl turned around, startled, and as he surprised her with a kiss on the cheek she blushed deep scarlet. Arizona almost wept, watching that. She quickly looked down, pretending to be fascinated with a story about the local football coach being prosecuted for selling kiddie porn and an ad for the upcoming county fair, listing the bands scheduled to appear. Next to the ad was a smiling photo of a handsome guy in a cowboy hat, captioned “Bobby Lee Crenshaw and the Hell Bent and Whiskey Bound tour.” She found herself idly wondering what it would be like to live here, to work at some ordinary job and look forward to seeing the bands at the county fair, because that was the most exciting thing there was to do.

She finished her breakfast and stopped to use the ladies’ room on her way out. Once again, Arizona found herself sitting paralyzed and weepy in the third stall from the left, fielding a call or two from Grayson Lathrop’s office, and noticing, for approximately the four-hundredth time, Jerry’s apparent lack of interest in contacting her.

You Can Leave Your Hat On

6

It took the band longer than it should have to get to Gilroy, due to some traffic around San Jose and an argument between Pete and the driver about the best route, so they almost missed sound check altogether, not the best plan for making everyone feel relaxed and confident, especially when it’s the new guy’s first gig—whether or not the new guy is thirteen years old. Oats would have been anxious no matter what, but everyone else being uptight didn’t help much. He tried to lie low, listening to the songs on his iPod and burning the parts into his memory by osmosis, practicing silently in his head, the way Hoagy Guitarmichael had taught him to do when you couldn’t practice for real.

Hoagy was the lead guitar player in the Dewdrop Drifters, the house band at the Dewdrop Inn. He’d started teaching Oats about music and tuning and the discipline of daily practice before the boy was out of diapers and he was the kind of honorary uncle who would slip you a whoopee cushion and tell jokes that parents consider questionable. This made him even more fun, of course, especially when the kids got to spend time with him alone. There’d been many a campout on Clear Lake when he’d light a fire, roast marshmallows, and tell scary stories, like the one where the young couple finds a guy’s severed hand hanging from the outside of their car. Then Hoagy would pull out his old Martin guitar, Oats would play blues harp, and Hank Wilson would bang on something and they’d all sing old songs with new lyrics.

On top of spaghetti, all covered with cheese

I lost my dear meatball, when somebody sneezed

It rolled off the table, and fell to the floor

And the last time I saw it, it rolled out the door

When the boys got a little older Hoagy introduced them to the concept of “rhyme expectation,” which means the song sets you up to expect a dirty word to rhyme with the lines you just sang, but you get another word instead. A baby version of rhyme expectation went like this:

Lulu had a tugboat, the tugboat had a bell,

Lulu went to heaven, the tugboat went to Hell…

Lo! Operator, give me number 9

If there is no answer, I’ll cut off your behind…

the ’frigerator…

There are many raunchier, more adult versions of the same kind of song, and once Oats really started playing the blues, Hoagy was the one who pointed out the double meanings in lyrics that pretended to be about animals and food.
I’m like a one-eyed cat, peekin’ in a seafood store,
or
I want a hot dog for my roll, I want it hot, I don’t want it cold
— – that sort of thing. Oats got more than a few coolness points in the playground over at Lakeport Elementary, once he explained them to the other guys.

“Hey,” Bobby Lee asked as he lowered himself into the seat next to Oats, “penny for your thoughts.”

“I was actually just thinking about Hoagy. You know him, right?”

“Sure, who doesn’t? The man’s a legend. What about him?”