Notes From the Backseat (15 page)

Ohm was just greeting Portia and Miranda when Dannika emerged from the bathroom. She held out a hand and flashed her perfect teeth at him. “I'm Dannika.” She had a fresh coat of lip gloss on and she looked beguiling. “You must be Ohm. I've heard so much about you.”

Ohm gave her a quick once-over. “Pleasure's mine,” he said, but it was gratifying to see that his face didn't light up for her the way it did for me.

“Great,” Joni said in her matter-of-fact way. “Now we're all acquainted. Let's get drunk.”

 

After we left Dick's, the six of us wandered around the corner and up the street until we landed in a cheerful little Irish pub filled with a pink-faced, slightly rowdy crowd that looked to be well on their way to inebriation. There were peanut shells all over the floor and a rotund man in suspenders pouring pints of Guinness behind the polished mahogany bar. It was warm inside from the many bodies. We were lucky enough to nab a booth just as four dour-faced German tourists were leaving.

Looking around the room, I decided the coastal uniform was depressingly pragmatic. Tennis shoes or hiking boots, bulky sweaters, down vests and waterproof parkas were everywhere. An occasional jewel-toned scarf or an off-the-shoulder sweater were the only concessions made to fashion. Some of the patrons were obviously visitors; even if they'd aped the locals' jeans and sweaters, their hair was too expensively cut and their shoes too urban to quite fit in. The coastal hairstyle was the ubiquitous long gray ponytail. Every man and woman for miles seemed to be sporting one and even the youngsters looked like they were just biding time until they could sprout their own.

Ohm went to the bar and ordered a pint for each of us except Miranda, who asked for Perrier. While he was standing there, waiting for the Santa Claus bartender to finish pouring, a cute little blonde in hip-hugger jeans sidled over and started laughing hugely at everything he said. Joni saw me watching, leaned in close and said, “The guy's a chick magnet.”

“But don't they know?”

She shrugged. “Pickings are slim out here. They figure he can be converted.”

“Does he have a boyfriend?”

She pursed her lips, thinking. “Not really. There was a guy who'd fly out from New York every now and then, but I think that's cooled off.”

“He shouldn't be here,” I said. “I should abduct him, drag him down to L.A.”

Joni scoffed. “Great—just waltz right in and steal my best friend.”

“You know it's true,” I said.

“Yeah,” she admitted, “he's not exactly thriving here.”

Her expression was a bit gloomy, so I changed the subject. “How are you enjoying your last night as a free woman?”

She looked around the room. “Honestly? I'm panic-stricken.”

“No, you're not.”

She turned and looked me in the eye. “Yes. I am.”

“What are you panicky about?”

“Put yourself in my position. Just look around the room at all these men.”

I did as I was told. The breakdown at the pub was roughly seventy-thirty in women's favor, and some of the guys were decent-looking. There was a tall blond guy sitting at the bar with great forearms, and a lumberjack type in a nearby booth who happened to be a dead ringer for Elvis—before the bloated years, of course. Though their fashion choices were disappointing, at least three or four of the specimens in that room probably had
the smell.
It's weird, you know, because intellectually and aesthetically, I'm attracted to clean, crisp forms, but when it comes to men, they've got to have a specific, slightly dirty smell, or my pulse stays as calm as a corpse's.

Coop's got the most amazing smell.

Somehow he takes the essence of sawdust, pipe tobacco, varnish and wool, then mixes them together with his own secret ingredient and—voilà! You have la crème de la crème of
the smell.

“Now,” Joni said, when she was satisfied I'd assessed the room thoroughly. “Tell yourself:
I'm going to have sex with just one man for the rest of my natural life.
”

Ohm reappeared with our beers before I could reply. Anyway, I don't think Joni expected me to comment. The look she gave me just before she picked up her pint and downed half of it indicated that she'd just summarized everything I needed to know about her current state of panic.

The disconcerting thing: this thought
didn't
make me feel like gulping my beer in one swig. For the first time in my life, having sex with just one man forever seemed almost natural. I mean, sure, if I had to pick one of these guys—even the well-built Elvis in the black T-shirt—I'd be hyperventilating. But when I told myself,
I'm going to have sex with Coop and only Coop for the next half a century,
the prickly sensation it left me with was more like pleasure than panic.

As Joni and Ohm gossiped about mutual friends, I looked around the room again, and this time my gaze fell on Dannika. She was sitting across from Joni, staring vaguely toward the bar. Her long fingers toyed absently with the red straw in her drink. Miranda and Portia's heads were bent toward one another, locked in conversation. Dannika looked completely alone. I suddenly felt sorry for her.

As if she sensed a shift in the air, her eyes found mine and she studied me for a moment. I'd like to say we exchanged a look of mutual understanding and sisterly bonding, but that would be a lie. Her eyes were shining with cold, reptilian calculation. She reminded me of an alligator in a National Geographic special, luring the prey closer through stillness but preparing all the while to attack.

“Idn't that right, Gwen?” Joni was starting to slur a little.

“Sorry?”

“You little scamp,” Ohm scolded. “You haven't been listening to a word. I swear L.A. girls have the attention spans of gnats.”

“Oh, please,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Don't even start with the NorCal SoCal thing. I was born and raised in Sebastopol—I'm totally native.”

“But you chose L.A., didn't you?” Ohm raised a scolding finger. “And now look at you. You're L.A. to the bone.”

“And I should be ashamed of that?” I sipped my beer. “I live in the middle of the only city on earth where the major exports are sex and illusions. I love that. Nobody cares who you are, as long as you're
somebody.
You can reinvent yourself every single day, if you feel like it.”

Joni turned to Ohm with a little sulky turn to her mouth. “Gwen thinks you should move there.”

Ohm laughed uneasily. “Really? Why?”

“Your talents are wasted here,” I said. “You need a bigger pond.”

“You don't even know if I can act,” he said.

“I'm not talking about acting—I'm talking about living.”

“Great,” Joni said, “so what's that say about me? I'm a little minnow who's only good enough for this Podunk puddle?” Her tone was vaguely belligerent and irrational; I could see she was on the fast track to drunk, with no signs of turning back.

“You can move there, too!” I assured her. “I just thought you were happy here. I don't think Ohm is.” It was an odd thing to say about someone I'd only known a couple hours and as many rounds—for that matter, I'd only met Joni this afternoon—but something about them made me feel so at ease.

“I see you're married,” I said to Ohm, nodding at the ring on his left hand. “Any advice for the bride-to-be?”

He flashed a wicked grin. “Just lie back and think of England.”

“Seriously,” I said, “why do you wear that?”

He held out his hand and studied the plain gold band. “It's supposed to keep the girls from hitting on me.”

“Does it work?” I asked.

Joni snorted. Ohm shook his head. “Hardly. I'm beginning to think it
attracts
them.”

“Maybe you should wear more pink, or leather chaps or something,” I suggested. “Pink leather chaps, maybe?”

He cringed. “Too subtle for the girls I meet. They'd think I'm being ironic or sensitive or something.”

Joni said, “You could get a tattoo of a couple guys doing it.”

“Yeah, where? On my forehead?”

We laughed. The beer was making the whole room glow with a warm, golden sheen. Voices lapped against each other gently in the background. A couple wearing his-and-her leather coats came in through the glass doors and a cool tendril of foggy air drifted in then was swallowed by the steamy warmth of all those bodies. I could feel a happy little buzz starting in my brain, inching its way down to my limbs. For a moment, the awkwardness of my stay at Chateau de Dog Hair, the cramped drive up Highway 1, even the weirdness between Coop and I this afternoon all seemed distant and small—miniaturized, even—like images on postage stamps.

Just as I turned my head in search of the ladies' room, I caught another glimpse of Dannika. Her eyes were narrowed to slits as she sat watching me. Her face was quietly malicious. I told myself I was just getting paranoid. Still, I couldn't shake the sense that she was stewing in her own ylang-ylang scented juices, planning my imminent doom.

 

On the way north, crammed uncomfortably into the twins' backseat, Ohm explained to me the difference between Mendocino and Fort Bragg.

“Mendo's the beautiful, older, bitchy sister—classy, arty, postcard-perfect. Fort Bragg's the shit-kicking stocky chick with crooked teeth.”

“Which do you prefer?” I asked.

“Fort Bragg. I'll take dirty fingernails over latte-swilling, pinot-loving tourists any day.”

“I'm surprised,” I told him.

“Why?”

“You just seem too sophisticated to be into dirty fingernails.”

He shrugged. “It's kind of a ‘pick your poison' situation.”

When we got to the Tip Top, a seedy little bar two blocks off the main drag in Fort Bragg, I could see what Ohm was talking about; the ambiance was noticeably different from the cheerful Irish pub we'd just left. We made our way past a clump of gray-faced, stringy-haired smokers huddled on the sidewalk and stepped inside. It was a decent-sized place—not huge, but at least twice the size of Dick's—and you could tell it was popular. To our right was a large, horseshoe-shaped bar. Behind the chunky barmaid were several signs: Avoid Clean Living; Jägermeister and Complaint Department; 69 Miles Out, 2 Floors Down. There was a touch-screen jukebox blaring Shania Twain and a couple of pool tables where burly guys competed under cheesy lamps emblazoned with Miller Genuine Draft.

We got our drinks, and immediately a couple of hopeful bachelors in flannel shirts started chatting up Dannika. A flock of twentysomething women absorbed Joni, Miranda and Portia, squealing hellos. I decided I'd challenge Ohm to a game of pool.

“Ready to get your ass kicked?” I asked.

He smirked. “Whatever you say, Holly.”

Miraculously, one of the tables was free. We flipped a coin and he won the toss so I racked, arranging the balls carefully, solid-stripe-solid-stripe, the way my father taught me years ago. We used to play every night in the basement when I was a kid. It had been a while, but I was pretty sure my old shark instincts were just dormant, not dead. I sat down on one of the vinyl-padded benches that lined the walls, resting my feet. The go-go boots weren't exactly my most comfortable footwear.

Ohm took a seat beside me, sipping his drink. “I'm actually a champion pool player,” he said. “No one in this town can touch me.”

“Small pond,” I said, “big fish.”

“I'm just warning you.”

“Fair enough.”

When he broke, he sent every ball flying in a burst of color. He sank a solid on the break, another on his first shot.

“So, Joni tells me you lived in New York.” I had to speak up so he could hear me over the Metallica blaring from the jukebox.

“Yeah.” He bent over and took a shot at the three. It was a difficult angle, but he sank it anyway. “Lived in the Village for three years.”

“Did you love it?”

He squinted at the five, lined it up and drove the cue ball straight at it with surprising force. The five slammed into the pocket. “It's the greatest place on earth.” He tilted his head, considering. “Of course, it's also hell.”

“Did you have a hard time there?”

He tried a tricky bank shot and made it. He was running the table. I'd have to work hard to catch up—if I even got a chance. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” He slid his cue behind his back and took aim at the seven. I just shook my head when it slid into the corner pocket without a sound.

“And what's it like to be back home?” I asked.

He paused to rub chalk on the bulbous blue tip of his stick. “You want the truth?”

I nodded.

“I feel like a trapped animal.”