Innocent Little Crimes (32 page)

That night, Lila found an unlocked car in an
apartment parking lot and curled up in the backseat and slept. She
realized she’d have to buy some clothes and find a place to stay.
She also needed a job. Beyond that, planning was impossible. What
was she skilled to do? Nothing. The only experience she had was
waitressing and washing dishes. She had to distance herself from
Olympia. Sam was kind enough to give her a written recommendation
to help her get a new start. She could go anywhere; restaurants
always needed waitresses.

In the morning, she stuck out her thumb at
the interstate and headed south. After a few hours and several
rides later, she ended up in downtown Portland. Fortunately, the
last driver had compassion on her and palmed her a twenty.

She went from business to business asking for
work and finally lucked out. A family diner, Sonny’s, needed a day
waitress, and she started the next morning. After a week in the
youth hostel, she earned enough to rent a room in a dilapidated
house on the south end of town. Three other women lived there but
she rarely saw them. She kept to herself. As much as she yearned
for someone to confide in, she had learned the lesson well: trust
no one.

At night, she familiarized herself with all
the bars and comedy dives across town. She needed something to
laugh at, and soon blended in with the clientele that frequented
those places. They were like her–losers—and she found comfort in
shared misery. By keen observation, Lila imitated the bar crowd. At
the restaurant she wore her hair up, applied some makeup, and kept
her uniform ironed. But at night she dressed like the regulars at
the bar, wore loose clothes, and mussed up her hair. She learned
the names of drinks: kamikazes and merry widows and gin slings. She
made up a different past each time someone sat beside her. She was
an air stewardess, a dog trainer, a stunt woman. She came from
Mississippi, Ohio, Canada. It amazed her how, with a few drinks,
she could fall into another role, become someone else. These
strangers never questioned her stories.

Over the months, she grew to have a
reputation in the bar circuit around town. Lila became known for
her biting sarcasm and outrageous monologues, and when she entered
a bar or club, people cleared a stool for her and gathered within
earshot. In the absence of friendship, she found power in the way
she controlled her small but faithful audiences. She received
attention and accolades, but kept all at arm’s length. Never would
she allow anyone to get close enough to hurt her—ever again.

Lila ate what she could off the plates at
Sonny’s, and in the bars devoured baskets of peanuts and pretzels.
She bought groceries on whim, buckets of ice cream, and Sara Lee
chocolate cakes. Over three months, she gained forty pounds. But
even that gave her more power. People took notice and no one ever
messed with her or tried to pick her up.

One club she frequented—The Hot Spot—featured
a small stage for a weekend jazz trio. But Wednesday night was open
mike for anyone who wanted to sing or do a comic skit. Sometimes
someone with real talent graced the stage in the smoky, dingy room,
but usually the entertainment was just plain bad. Lila never cared.
She sat at the bar, sprawled over two stools, and chatted with the
bartender, cracking jokes and telling stories. Every Wednesday,
Lila drank until she passed out, and Len, the owner, would find her
a ride home to her shabby little room.

One evening, Lila sat with Len at a table by
the stage. The club was busy for a Wednesday night and most of the
regulars were there. The tape deck blasted from the bar but no one
took the mike. Len crouched over Lila, his big cigar dangling from
his mouth.

“Why are you wasting your life away, drinking
like this? You’re young. You’re talented. Go back to school.”

Lila laughed. “Yeah, school’s what got me
into all this trouble in the first place. Give me another
idea.”

Len thought for a moment. “Wanna be a
bouncer?” He chuckled, then coughed.

“Thanks a lot. I knew I was destined for
great things. When are you gonna quit the cigars?”

“When you quit drinking.”

Lila snorted and downed the rest of her
drink—her third vodka.

“How ’bout comedy? You’re a natural, you
know. I’ve watched you rip people to shreds with your sharp
tongue.”

Lila shrugged. “I’m not funny, I’m bitter.
There’s a difference.”

“I don’t see it.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“So, let’s hear it.” Len pointed to the empty
stage. The mike stand stood under a single spotlight. “I dare you.”
His eyes shined as he smiled, and ashes dropped from his cigar onto
the table. “I’ll bet you fifty bucks you’re too chicken.”

Lila scrutinized Len’s face. Fifty bucks
could come in real handy. “Better unlock the till. Five
minutes—fifty bucks. A deal?” She held out her hand. Len laughed
and shook it.

“Better think fast, Li.”

Len pushed his chair back and walked onto the
stage. He waved a finger at the bartender, who turned off the
stereo. He tapped the mike.

“Uh, friends. We’ve got a local talent for
you here tonight. Known around Portland for her wit and sarcasm.
Played in clubs all over the country.” Len shot Lila a sly glance.
“Please welcome Lila Carmichael.”

A few hands clapped as Lila ambled to the
stage in a daze. She was drunk, but the alcohol relaxed her, gave
her confidence. She stood under the one bright bulb and glared into
the dark room. Most of the bar’s patrons were talking and drinking;
few paid her any attention. But Lila didn’t care, she could rattle
some story for five minutes. She was in her element.

The last time she stood on stage was in
another lifetime. She remembered Davis’s arms around her, so-called
friends looking on with feigned admiration and respect. Her heart
flooding with love and happiness. As she scanned the faces of the
losers of the town, she saw the real world: hard, dirty,
disappointing.

She cleared her throat and spoke in a
commanding voice.

“My boyfriend dumped me the other day.” She
looked around the room. “Don’t look so surprised—just because I’m
fat and frowzy . . .” She fluffed up her frizzy hair and did a bump
and grind. “. . . doesn’t mean I can’t attract a man. Well, I was
thin and gorgeous when we met, but you know how it is.
Relationships really take their toll. And this one was heavy, like
a Mac truck. You can still see the tread marks on my back. Anyway,
it’s his fault I look like this. Some guys drive you to drink. He
sent me running to the ’frigerator. He said he was bored, can you
believe it?” Lila fluffed her hair again. “I couldn’t compete with
the peroxided chicks on TV, you know—the ones with the nose and
boob jobs. Well, I’ve got plenty of both, but maybe I should have
worked a little harder on my hair. Never mind about the cute sexy
thing at the office. He denies she had anything to do with his
decision to dump me.”

Lila noticed as she spoke, the room grew
quieter. People were listening. She detached the mike from the
stand and started pacing the narrow stage. Hey, this was almost
fun.

“At first I thought, okay, that’s life, who
needs him anyway, but it really ate at me, so I ate back, you know
what I mean? My shrink says I should work out my anger. Run or
exercise or something.” She grimaced. “Run? Exercise? Me? Was he
crazy? Those words weren’t in my vocabulary. Big Macs I know.
Cherry cheesecake. Ben and Jerry’s chocolate fudge. Those, I know.
So I steam-shoveled those calories in and the anger went out.
Garbage In, Garbage Out. And then I thought . . . why am I
suffering when it should be him? I decided to take the better path
to stress-reduction—revenge.

“Now for any of you who’ve tried it, you’ll
swear by it, am I right?” Some heads nodded. “You know the
delightful satisfaction that comes from revenge. Revenge is
great—you can get back at your parents for all the nit-picky things
they made you do as a kid. I visited my folks last week and the
first thing I did was turn on all the lights in the house. Then I
raided the fridge and left the door open. I even used the potty and
forgot to flush. It felt great. Already my stress level was cut in
half.” Lila paused and took a long breath. She scanned faces in the
crowd and saw smiles. Words tumbled through her head.

“But the best satisfaction was what I did to
my ex-boyfriend. I still had the key to his place, you see. So when
he was at work, I made my move. First I went through the medicine
cabinet. A little sulfuric acid in the aftershave cologne, a little
glue in the styling mousse, a little hot chill oil in the
toothpaste.” Laughter erupted in the audience. “That took a little
doing. You gotta mix it in with a toothpick. Then I had a field day
with the refrigerator. I took out the mustard and mayonnaise, the
ketchup and relish, and added all kinds of interesting additives.
Sweet and Low is a good one; it dissolves easily. I put three
packets in the salsa. Now, in the fridge was this side of beef,
marinating in some winey-smelling stuff. I think I invented a
masterpiece: one part rubbing alcohol, one part nail polish
remover, and two parts brown shoe polish. Funny, when I called him
at work the next day, he was out sick. Imagine that.”

Lila wobbled around the stage. Now she saw
riveted expressions. “I felt I should do something. So I sent a
telegram to his office, where his bimbo secretary goes through the
mail, telling him how sorry I was I missed our hot date the other
day. I reminded him about our hot and heavy sex and how this was
the first week we’d missed in months. I promised some vile, lewd
rewards for him as compensation, then signed the telegram, Teresa.
Then I bought the most disgusting S & M rag I could find. Had
some woman chained naked to a doghouse on the cover with the dog
doing unmentionable things behind her.” The audience groaned
collectively. “I slipped it in a brown wrapper and had it delivered
by inter-office mail. The note on the cover said, thanks Bob, for
letting me borrow this. Like you said, it was the best issue of the
year. Your pal, Dick.” More laughter reverberated around the smoky
room. Lila looked at her watch. Two minutes to go.

“I really wanted to kill the jerk. There
should be a special hell for people who dump you for someone
prettier, don’t you think? Maybe all us homely ones get to date the
gorgeous angels once we croak. And the jerks in hell get the dogs.
Teach ’em a lesson. You know, this guy Bob is one helluva fox. Kind
of like Robert Redford but without the acne scars. He could make a
girl have cardiac arrest just by smiling. The bigger the smile, the
more dangerous. He oughta have a license to use it. You heard the
expression, ‘if looks could kill.’ Well, they do. He used that
smile on me and I ended up in the hospital. No kidding. I got this
great idea for torturing him. I’m gonna tie him up in front of a
mirror and make him smile. For twenty-four hours. With a gun at his
head. See how he likes it. And I’m gonna make his bimbo girlfriend
sit next to him and stare at the mirror too. I figure she’ll be
dead in two hours. If not, she’ll be so sick of that smile, she’ll
never want to see it again.”

Lila smiled sweetly. “I spend hours
thinking up these twisted plots, don’t you? When someone screws
you, doesn’t it just eat at you, night and day? You heard the
expression, ‘living well is the best revenge’? Well, I say to hell
with that.
Revenge
is the
best revenge. Period.” Lila took a slight bow. “Thanks and don’t
forget to stick it to them that sticks it to you.
Goodnight.”

Lila trotted off the stage and back to the
table where Len sat, chuckling. The crowd cheered and clapped
wildly.

Len pulled out a chair for Lila and poured
her a beer. She plopped down and held out her hand. “Dig deep, Len.
Five minutes, fifty bucks.

“Well, it dragged in the middle and could’ve
been funnier, but I know you didn’t have much time to prepare. But
I knew you had it in you, girl.” He handed Lila a fifty dollar
bill. “And I’ll do you better. How ’bout a regular gig? Every
Wednesday night. You can work up some routines and pack the place.
With a little prep, you’d knock ’em dead. Be good for my
business.”

“I can use the bread.” She stared him
down. “And you
are
going to
pay me . . .”

He laughed again, dropping cigar ashes on the
table. “You bet, sugar.”

After a few weeks, Lila grew more and more
comfortable on the stage. Her monologues became more lewd, more
daring. And the more they laughed, the more vulgar her speech. The
more outrageous she became, the more they loved her. The Hot Spot
packed to overflowing on Wednesday nights. Word got around and,
soon, talent scouts approached Lila with an offer to go on the west
coast comedy circuit. The following year she made her first
appearance on TV, and five years later, anyone who watched the
Comedy Shop recognized her instantly. She was a regular and a
loner. The other comics hung out backstage, waiting for their
introduction. But Lila would disappear in the back of the club or
in the audience and watch the other acts. She studied the way each
comedian moved and spoke and observed the audience to see what they
laughed at and what they didn’t. Her scrutiny paid off. She kept up
the drinking, but scaled back. She found being on the stage induced
a different sort of intoxication, and after a few hundred times,
the nervousness turned into keen anticipation.

Ten years after stepping foot on the small
stage at the Hot Spot, Lila signed a contract for a series on cable
television. By then, she had long left Portland for Los Angeles and
developed her eccentric wardrobe. And throughout those years, the
thing that drove her, that made her waking hours bearable and
catapulted her to become the most successful, sardonic comedienne
in America, was the memory of her year at college.