Story Girl (2 page)

Some other voice had now seized control of my head, and it had started chanting:

Old and alone
.

Immediately after the birthday phone call, I remembered running to the bathroom and staring at my reflection. All I could see were crows-feet and sun damage. I would soon end up an old woman, living in a cardboard box, and without the love of sweet children or a brawny prince. Yes indeed, I had forfeited the fairy tale. I was a shrew in the making, and all because I’d been stubborn and unbending.

I’d spent the rest of that treacherous day in bed. My dreams had been filled only with crows, carrying away my youthful green eyes with their big ugly feet.

And now, almost a full day later, I was sprawled in a tub covered in ghastly anxiety. The memories of the phone call had ignited more tingling. Luckily, I had a large supply of flour in the kitchen – a holdover from an ancient goal of baking muffins. Muffins had never materialized but I was happy to have a reason to finally slit the bag open. God knew I needed to slit something.

I doused my entire body in the baking staple, face included, and wandered around my studio apartment – wet, pasty, and inflamed.
My cat seemed nervous, as though she’d encountered a stranger or a lunatic, but ultimately, all she could do was lick the sticky powder from my aching body.

This was clearly my punishment for floating through my youth with such arrogance – so oblivious to the perilous path I’d been traveling, the one that ended up right in the center of Spinsterdom. I had been so damned determined to transcend my biology, but now shuddered to finally understand what so many before me had always known – no woman could ever transcend her biology. It would be forever impossible, similar to setting up ice colonies on the sun. I had played such a cruel trick on myself, and pilfered away non-renewable years.

My mother had successfully unleashed the monster within, and it was now playing nasty with my immune system. I could always kill myself, but I really was afraid of guns and knives and usually gagged when trying to swallow any more than two pills at a time. To make matters worse, the studio ‘room’ I lived in was located only on the second floor; a jump may not even guarantee a broken bone, let alone the finality of my misery.

So if I were going to jump at all, it would be onto that popular bandwagon. It was a terrifying thought but I could not allow myself to wander any deeper into the petrified forests of barren despair. I now knew what had to be done. The mission was as clear as my aversion to it.

It was time to smarten up and find myself a man.

Pronto.

chapter
2

T
HE DATE WAS
going super well; dates driven by desperation usually don’t.

But this was something close to a miracle. Jason – the guy sitting across from me – was utterly, painfully gorgeous. He was the kind of gorgeous that inspires double takes and jaw drops. I had to pinch myself under the table to make sure it was really happening. And I still wasn’t quite sure how this breakfast meeting had come to be – especially considering the online ad I’d posted:

DESPERATE GAL SEEKS HUSBAND.

And this rare Adonis actually responded with EQUALLY DESPERATE FOR WIFE.

So perhaps it was time to rethink my avoidance of all things traditional. As I watched him smile at me with snow-white teeth and healthy-pink gums, I had to wonder if the universe was paying me a royal bonus for finally coming around and reclaiming my senses. After all, it was plausible that I could see myself shacking up with this guy – in a formal sense – and maybe even having a kid. As long as he took care of it – as I’d be way too busy writing or something.

I certainly didn’t have to tell him all that just yet.

“So what do you do for a living?” I asked.

“I’m a trainer.”

“Where?”

“Just down the street – Guy’s Gym.”

“Cool.”

Maybe he could also help me get in shape. I’d certainly have to be in some kind of shape if I was going to be appearing regularly on his well-toned arm.

My cell phone was vibrating frantically in my battered purse, the one covered with small rips and fraying threads. God willing, it would be good news from my last job interview. I was one of three people short-listed for a receptionist job at the William Morris Agency. It really was the last hope I had for getting a script developed in this town.

“So – Tracy – your ad really intrigued me.”

“Thank you, Jason – your reply intrigued me more.”

“Why are you desperate for a husband?”

I looked down at my cold, shriveled eggs, “I’m afraid that – well – I think it’s time to try something new.”

He studied me with his shiny brown eyes, “That doesn’t exactly scream of desperation.”

“No – I guess not.”

Even his eyebrows were sexy.

“So – should we treat this breakfast as some kind of weird interview?” he asked.

“Sure – why not.”

He cleared his throat and smiled at me, “So – Ms. Johnston – do you have any dreams, goals?”

I looked out the window and thought about the William Morris Agency again. I would be hired as a receptionist and would quickly befriend one of the top agents. We’d casually go for lunch and I’d bring up my latest script. He or she would become increasingly excited as I pitched the story. They would interrupt me with an excited yelp, and demand that I have a copy of the script on their desk without delay. The project would be fought over by all the major stu
dios. It would eventually go on to dominate the national box-office for a full season, and triple its numbers in the international market. I would be catapulted into the dizzying stratosphere of fame and glory where only fellow A-listers were ever welcomed.

But no, I couldn’t alienate this guy so soon.

“I don’t know, Jason. Dreams? I’ve never really thought about it.”

“Really? You look like a woman with dreams.”

“I do?”

“I can almost see them swirling around in your eyes. You should think about it – I’m sure you have a lot to offer the world.”

I’d also have to reconsider my disdain for the concept of perfection.

“Wow – thank you.”

“I’d like to own my own gym one day. Maybe even a spa.”

He took a bite of his egg white spinach omelette and I poured more syrup on the large pancake that came with my jumbo breakfast.

“Actually, Jason – I lied just now. I’m a writer… I want to be a writer. Make some sort of a living at it.”

“That’s more like it. I was gonna say that you’re the only person in L.A. without a dream.”

“Well, exactly.”

“But I bet you’ll achieve yours.”

“You do?”

“In the five minutes I’ve known you, I can tell you’ve got heart. And just for the record, I’d certainly support you in all you do.”

“You would?”

“Yes. And I can cook.”

“Well, that’s good… because I don’t.”

“Italian is my specialty.”

“And I don’t eat meat.”

“I make the best vegetarian lasagna this side of the Valley.”

My God, I was ready to get on both my knees and start begging.

“Do you want kids?” he asked.

“I’m not sure.”

“That’s okay. I’m not either.”

“The truth is, I don’t really know what I want. My mother thinks it’s time for me to settle down or end up alone forever. And she may be right. I feel like my life needs a jump-start.”

“I totally understand. You’re treading water in the rough seas of expectation.”

“Yes.”

Wow – this guy was a cinch to talk to.

“And I just had my thirtieth birthday and broke out in hives – big horrible splotches all over my body. Red itchy bloated little bastards. I was gonna take pictures of myself and take them to the clinic, but I’ve actually put on a couple extra pounds and felt I looked too disgusting – like the pictures might cause trauma.”

I stared down at my pancake. Oh my God – what was I doing – where was my OFF button? I was going to frighten this guy away before I finished my first dose of caffeine.

But when I looked up, he was laughing – and not in a mean or mocking kind of way, “Oh, Tracy – I can totally relate. I used to get stress headaches and my left eye would twitch at the worst moments – and so, I’d devour macaroni and cheese by the barrel full – to make myself feel better. That’s what I love about the gym. It’s a better way to deal with my fear and insecurities.”

“You have insecurities?”

Jason sighed, looked around the diner, “I often feel inadequate. Like I’m not worthy of my existence unless I’m perfect. Unless I have everything figured out – and I really don’t have anything figured out.”

“Uh – yeah. I get it.”

“So what do you do for money?” he asked.

“I’m a garden-variety production assistant. But I’m really trying for a receptionist job at William Morris. It’s a way to make connections and try to get my scripts read. Although, if I do get the position, I’ll need to upgrade my wardrobe – doubt they’ll let me wear flannel shirts or boxer shorts.”

Jason threw his head back and laughed, and I had little doubt that he also possessed exceptional tonsils.

“I am kidding about the boxer shorts.”

“Oh, Tracy – you’re refreshing. And if you do get the job, I think I can help in the wardrobe department.”

“How’s that?”

“A friend of a friend is a designer. He specializes in upscale women’s business attire – not the size zero glam stuff.”

“That’s a relief – ‘cause I don’t do zero.”

“More like a ten?”

“On my good days.”

“And you’re tall?”

“Yes.”

“Anyway, he often has extra showpieces. He usually has one or two extra blazers hanging around.”

“That would be fantastic – especially on my budget.”

“And let me guess – you hate shopping for clothes?”

“Loathe.”

We smiled and giggled and let the waitress fill up our coffee mugs.

“You’re a very special girl. And I can see why you’d have some trepidation about trudging down the
path
.”

I solemnly nodded my head and we sipped our coffee like we were founding members of some sort of resistance movement.

“So you wouldn’t care if I wore slacks on our wedding day?” I asked.

“Not at all.”

Finding this guy was like winning two jackpots in one day.

“Which brings me to an important question, Jason.”

“Yes?”

“Why are you desperate for a wife? Seems you could have them lined up around your block.”

“Well,” he sighed. “That’s the rub.”

For the first time all morning, Jason seemed to deflate – just a little.

“My parents are major players in the Christian church. And I mean
major
– and I’m not talking about the Unitarian church. I’m talking about the conservative values, hyper-traditional variety.”

I suddenly felt queasy.

“Anyway, I just turned thirty-five and they’re extremely suspicious of everything. Why don’t I have a wife and children, why don’t I volunteer at the church – on and on. The thing is, I love my parents dearly and I don’t want to hurt them. They’ve literally built their life around a very specific idea of who I should be. And part of me would really love to fit into that idea for them – at least make them think that I do.”

“Okay?”

“And you and I could solve both our problems in an instant – with one quick trip to city hall. You could have your own life, of course – sleep with whomever you wanted to… or not.”

He paused and I had to stifle an urge to reveal that it was him I wanted to sleep with.

“I could cook your meals, lay out your clothes, pay the bills. All I’d ask is that you accompany me to a function now and again – maybe come with me to church once a month.”

“I don’t get it.”

“I’m talking about an arrangement that works for both of us.”

“But…?”

“Tracy – I’m gay.”

Well, somebody order me a crap soufflé. I should have known – the guy could write a manual on how to be super-fabulous. I imag
ined the cosmos laughing at me – for daring to think I could do a quick fix on my life by having one measly breakfast with a gorgeous guy in a grimy booth.

“The thing is, Jason, I’m trying to – well – I’m going for my truth.”

“Then why let your mother dictate it?”

“Good question.”

I left perfect gay Jason with some reluctance and the absolute certainty that the William Morris job had gone to someone else.

chapter
3