Seth Baumgartner's Love Manifesto (8 page)

Intro Music: “Area Codes” by Ludacris

Hey there, I'd like to welcome you to the second episode of
The Love Manifesto.
The second episode ever. Someday, when I have my own syndicated show—you know, with big advertisers and everything—you can say you were here when it all began. You watched the tiny acorn grow into a mighty oak.

Right…

That last song was “Area Codes” by Ludacris. It's about the women he's got all over the country—in all different area codes. And an excellent song to open up the topic for today.

But first I want to talk about something else. Earlier today, someone asked me to list all the reasons why I loved my ex. That got me thinking. And since I like a challenge,
I'm going to share the list with you, my loyal listeners. Don't you feel lucky? Let's see…the first reason I love my ex is because she always leveled with me, good news or bad. Sure, it blew up in my face when she dumped me, but she'd been straight with me before that.

Reason number two is the way her face lights up when she gets her McDonald's French fries. Of course, I just got fired from a French fry place, so I'm still a little fragile. But, honestly, is there anything more perfect than that little bit of fried sunshine?

Now before I bore everyone with more stories about my girlfriend—sorry, my ex-girlfriend—I'm going to talk about another subject that is cutting me deep. And, yes, it's all tied into this topic of love. The topic is parents. You might be wondering what parents have to do with the song “Area Codes” by Ludacris. Just hang in there.

Thinking about my parents and their relationship skeeves me out. Thinking about them having sex totally skeeves me out. I mean, can anyone out there even look at their parents kissing? I think we're hardwired to be disgusted by that. But I'm getting way off topic here.

At first I wasn't going to mention this one on the air, but I've decided to keep it real here on
The Love Manifesto.
And there's no way I can keep it real without bringing this up.

I saw something the other day that freaked me out. No, it wasn't my parents kissing. No, it wasn't finding condoms in my father's nightstand. No, it wasn't my folks hooking up on the kitchen counter—that was when I was five. God,
that was disgusting. What I saw the other day totally blows all that stuff out of the water.

It was much worse.

If you want a hint, just listen to the song I just finished playing.

But if you want to hear all the gory details, you'll have to stay tuned….

All I can say is if my dad is so unhappy with my mom, why wouldn't he just tell her he wanted a divorce? Why wouldn't he suggest they go to counseling to try to work things out? I mean, he must've been head over heels for her once, otherwise they would never have gotten married, right?

Well, before I reveal too much too soon, I'll let you guys listen to another tune. And when we return I'll share some feedback I got from a listener about what “too comfortable” means and maybe list a few more reasons I love my ex. This one is called “Last Time” by Secondhand Serenade….

Outro Music: “Last Time” by Secondhand Serenade

T
he two-story brick buildings of the Schuyler Village condominium complex sit on the hill behind the hospital. The complex isn't far from Dimitri's house and is nothing like the high-end condos they just built down the road. The place is bordered on two sides by a chain-link fence and on another by the highway. We trawl around until we find the Acura parked next to a row of blue Dumpsters. I pull into a space and stare at my father's girlfriend's car. It seems to be in pretty good shape for an '01, with only a few small scratches on the left rear bumper and a hairline crack in the taillight on the same side. Peeling tribal decals stretch along the side from the front wheel well. The moon roof is open, and the windows are down. A colorful CD hangs from the rearview mirror. The disc turns in the breeze and catches the sun with each rotation.

“I still don't understand why you want to test-drive a
pimped-out Integra.” Dimitri pats the dashboard. “The Red Scare here is running just fine.”

“Camrys are granny cars,” I say. “I want something that makes a statement.”

“Well, that thing certainly makes a statement,” Dimitri says. “Unfortunately, that statement happens to be ‘Hey, everyone, look at me. I'm a guido!'”

“Racist much?”

“My mom's grandfather was off-the-boat Sicilian. I'm one-eighth Italian. That makes it self-deprecating humor, not racism.” Dimitri fidgets in his seat. “So, what are you going to do with the Camry when you buy that Acura?”

“Who's saying I'm going to buy it?”

“Well,
if
you buy it.”

“I guess I'd sell the Camry. Actually, I would have to sell it.”

“You should cut me a wicked deal, Seth. Most of the fries between the seats are mine anyway. That gives me partial ownership. I'd just be buying out my equity.” Dimitri rolls down his window and rests his elbow in the sun.

“Shut that,” I say. “You're going to let out all the air-conditioning.”

“There's no air in here to start with. How do you condition something that's not present? What time did you say you were going to meet this lady?”

“One o'clock.”

“We're only fifteen minutes early,” he says. “Let's knock on her door. The car's here. She's got to be home.”

Last night I did a reverse lookup on her phone number
to find out her name. It's Luz Rivera.
What kind of name is Luz anyway? How do you pronounce it? Is it “Luhz” like
lug nut?
“Looz” like
loose?

The number 1103 is painted in faded yellow at the foot of the Acura's parking space. I look for the apartment numbers on the brick buildings and locate hers. The curtains are closed on the windows of all four units, and there is no sign of movement inside.

“Come on,” Dimitri says. “Let's go.”

“Nah,” I say. “I'd rather wait until one. No surprises, you know?”

“Suit yourself, but I'm heading down the hill for a swim. That pool we passed on the way in looked sweet.”

“Knock yourself out,” I say. “Most of these condo complexes have pool memberships, though. You might get checked on your way in.”

“What do you know about condo pool memberships?”

“My uncle up in Halfmoon lives in a place like this. He bitches about them raising the fees all the time. You have to show a badge and stuff.”

“We'll see about that.” Dimitri flings open the door and heads down the hill, his flip-flops still
thwap, thwap, thwap
ping long after he makes the turn around a row of tall bushes. I press the button and close Dimitri's window. I need something to settle me down, so I crank my tunes. As usual, “Dueling Banjos” comes on. It pumps through my speakers so loud, I'm afraid I'll awaken President Chester A. Arthur's corpse down at the Albany Rural Cemetery. I fumble with the dial to jump to the next song.

Before I have a chance, my cell phone vibrates in my pocket. I yank it out. It's Veronica. She's called a few times today but hasn't left a message. It's funny that I was the one who wanted to keep in touch, and now she's the one calling all the time. I snap the phone shut and toss it on the passenger seat. If it's important, she can leave a message.

A glint of light catches my eye. At first, I think it's the CD spinning on the Integra's rearview, but it's coming from higher up. The door to building 1103 swings open, and the Applebee's woman—Luz Rivera—walks out with a towel over her shoulder. Her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. She sticks a pink Post-it note on the window of her door and lets her tanned legs carry her down the concrete steps.

She turns away from her car.

Toward the pool.

Toward me.

I slouch lower in my seat and hope it's enough to hide me. I know it's not. I stay still and hope the woman walks by. I stare at her through the corner of my sunglasses.

She is wearing black low-heeled sandals. Her toenails are painted ruby red.

She looks at me and stops.

My breath catches somewhere between my lungs and the back of my throat.

“Is that ‘Dueling Banjos'?” she says through my closed window.

I nod. My hand scrambles for the Pause button as I stare at her. The straps of a baby blue bikini peek out from under her tank. I knock the iPod to the floor and lean forward to
grab it. I fumble with the buttons and finally just yank out the cord. I must look like a total idiot. I sure feel like one.

“I haven't heard that song in years,” she says. “What're you, some kind of redneck or something?”

I roll down my window because it's the polite thing to do, but all I want is to hit the gas and get out of there. “Nah. It's my friend's mp3 player,” I lie. “I'm just screwing around with it.”

“Are you the kid coming to look at my car this afternoon?”

“Not me,” I say.
Damn! I chickened out!

“At four grand it's a steal. I'd love to keep her, but…”

I want to let her finish, but her pause goes on so long that it starts getting even more uncomfortable than it already is. “I'm just waiting for a friend,” I say.

“The ‘Dueling Banjos' friend?”

I force a smile. “That's the guy.”

“Well, if you see someone poking around my car, tell him to come find me at the pool,” she says. “I've got to unwind a little.”

“Will do.”

The woman smiles and walks on, her shoes
click, click, click
ing down the hill and around the row of hedges.

I drop the Camry into gear and hang a U-turn. I roll down the hill, past the woman, and around the bend. I pull up to the pool. It's surrounded by a chain-link fence and a dozen or so sunbathers. Dimitri is sitting on a recliner next to the lifeguard, who is perched on the edge of a wooden bench. Her blond ponytail pokes through the hole in the
back of her baseball cap. Dimitri is a sucker for the whole ponytail–baseball cap thing.

I honk the horn twice.

Dimitri looks up and waves me over.

I honk again and motion him toward me.

Dimitri gives me the finger.

I honk again, this time longer. A few of the sunbathers turn their heads.

Dimitri gets up and makes a show of walking through the gate to my car. He opens the passenger door. “What the hell?” he says. “Come hang out for a few minutes. Jill over there is pretty cool.”

“We've got to go.” I glace in the rearview mirror. Luz Rivera is just rounding the building at the top of the hill.

“What's the matter? You look like you just saw a gorgon.”

I don't have time to argue that if I just saw a gorgon I would have been turned to stone and entirely unable to drive my car. “I'm fine,” I say. “We just have to get out of here.”

“It's a no-go on the car?”

“Not a good fit,” I say.

“Give me your pen.”

I hand Dimitri the leaky felt tip I keep in my armrest. He trots back to the pool and talks to the girl some more. He jots something on her hand. Then he jots something on his own.

My eyes shift to my side-view mirror. It states clearly on the mirror, “Objects Are Closer Than They Appear,”
and Luz Rivera looks damn close. Too close. I slouch down again. She walks by my car without a glance and heads toward the pool. Dimitri holds the gate open for her and takes a good long look at her from behind as she struts past. He's clearly not looking at her face because he shows no sign that he recognizes Luz from the flower shop yesterday.

“I thought the pool at the golf club cornered the market on all the grade-A hotties, but that place rocks.” Dimitri slides into my car. A line of sweat darkens his Polo shirt from his chest to his belly. “Did you see that lifeguard?” he says. “Smokin'. We swapped numbers. I bet she's got a hot friend for you, too. You know how it is; hotties travel in packs.”

“I already told you, Dimitri; I'm off the market.” My words come out sounding terse. I pull away from the curb and head to the end of the driveway. My tires chirp as we head onto the main road.

“Who gave cleats to that rhino?” Dimitri says.

“What rhino?”

“The one doing a tap dance on your nuts,” he says. “What's with the attitude?”

“I wanted to leave,” I say. “You mooch rides off me all the time. The least you can do is move your ass when I want to take off.”

“Jesus,” Dimitri says. “You got the runs or something?”

I don't answer.

“Come on,” he says. “You can tell me. Was it that Rosie O'Donnell burger you had at Poindexter's yesterday? That
thing always gets my intestines doing the Charleston.”

“Sometimes I think you're speaking another language,” I say.

“The Charleston. You know. That dance from the twenties the flappers used to do.” He grabs his knees and starts wiggling them back and forth.

Dimitri goes on to regale me with stories of his bowel habits and what he knows about the Charleston. I crank up my music. It's not hard to drown him out, but no matter how loud the music gets, I can still hear that woman's voice in my head:

I've got to unwind. I've got to unwind. I've got to unwind.

Applebee's. The flower shop. Who knows where else. Hasn't she been doing enough unwinding with my dad?