Story Girl (4 page)

“Hi, Sheila – yes?” I said, hoping to get back to my tawdry scene before the imminent fade-out.

“Whuzzup, girlfriend?” she asked. I hated it when she tried to sound cool or hip, being that she was a tall lanky white girl like myself. Although – truth be told – her boobs were extravagant.

“Worming to work on the 101.”

“Anyway, listen, I met a man for you. His name is Fly-Dawg and he manages some upstart hip hop band.”

“Fly-Dawg?”

“More emphasis on the ‘w’.”

“Sheila, please.”

“So what do you say?” she asked.

“No.”

“Why not? He’s cute, sexy,
not
broke.”

“I’m still recovering from Jason.”

“Who’s Jason?”

“The perfect guy who got away.”

“Okay, whatever. Anyway, listen – Fly-Dawg leaves for Atlanta in two days. So get over yourself – he’s really cute.”

“Is he African American?”

“How did you know?”

“I had a feeling.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still not over last time,” she said.

I put the phone in my lap and stared down at it. After a count of twenty, I brought it back to my ear.

“Did you hear me?” she asked.

“I was changing lanes.”

“Just because a couple of black girls accuse you of ruining their chances of ever finding a husband.”

“It was a big deal, Sheila. I didn’t even know the guy, and all of a sudden I’m guilty of depriving unborn African American children of a father.”

“Don’t be such a wimp. All of my couple friends are either interracial or gay. Cool
cool
people. And that reminds me, I have this friend – Anita – who says she’ll go out with you – as long as you pick up the tab.”

I was stunned.

“Well?” she asked.

“Sheila!”

“Don’t yell in my ear, Tracy!”

“Now you’re hooking me up with lesbians?”

“I’m more concerned that she’s cheap.”

“Are you for real?”

“What?”

“I’m straight! And am I really so pathetic to you? You sound just like Jenny. Maybe you guys could hook up and take notes on the best ways to rub my nose in the dung that has become my life.”

“What are you talking about? Excuse me for thinking you were progressive, adventurous, cutting-edge – willing to try something new or different at least once.”

“But I’m not gay.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I like guys.”

“In what way?” she asked.

There was really nothing more I could say.

“She will be calling you in one hour,” she said, and hung up.

chapter
5

T
HE LESBIAN AND
I were facing each other in
Tacos Tacos
.

It was a bit of a dump, but it was the best I could do on my dung-life budget. Anita was a rather calm seeming girl with large blue eyes. Not so bad for my first ever Sapphic date. Except that this really wasn’t a date at all. Women had never really entered into my fantasy realm, except as peripheral characters or to function as reminders of just how truly fabulous I was. But maybe Sheila sensed something in me that I didn’t. Maybe I
was
gay. It would definitely explain a lot – like why I didn’t seem to want much of what other straight women did.

Unfortunately, I didn’t believe it.

What I really wanted was to feel better about shirking my feminine responsibilities. For one night only, Anita and I could be united in our man barren, childless life. Maybe she could even make me feel empowered by my wayward choices.

“Sheila tells me you’re straight. That true?” she asked.

“Uh, yes,” I said, feeling my cheeks flush. “Very true.”

“I was straight too, until last year.”

“What happened last year?”

“I met Gwyneth,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Paltrow?” I asked. It wasn’t an unreasonable question in Hollywood.

“Of course not, although I did meet Ethan Hawke once – at a rummage sale in the Valley.”

She shifted her cleavage with a middle finger, and I took a gargantuan suck of Corona.

“Anyhow, this other Gwyneth – well, she knocked my socks off. Literally.”

“Wow – that’s great.”

“And now, Tracy, I’ve ditched the dogs for a little pussy.”

She looked at me tentatively until we both giggled. I was relieved that she had a sense of humor, but when she used her tongue to get at the dribble of enchilada sauce working its way down her chin, I squirmed in my seat hoping the tongue aerobics weren’t meant for my benefit.

“Don’t get me wrong, I still love men. It’s just nice to know a girl’s got options.”

I raised my beer, “Here’s to the possibility known as full-fledged lesbian.”

I was trying to be funny, but she didn’t laugh.

“I despise that word.”

“What word?”

“Lesbian. It sounds icky and slimy, like something that just crawled out of a slough.”

A small rush of satisfaction pulsed through me as I realized this woman could use the word
slough
in a sentence.

“Why not just call me a sticky swamp thing?” she asked.

“Exactly,” I nodded.

“I think lesbian is a sexist word. Gay is better, easier on the ears – more sophisticated.”

“I think the word comes from that island – you know, Lesbos or something.” I had read it one day when I had nothing better to do than look up controversial words on Wikipedia.

“Lesbians are usually sloppy and broke,” she said. “At least that’s the stereotype, and I think it all stems from that damn icky
word. Words define how we think about ourselves. I mean, when you think of the word God, don’t you automatically think of a man, Tracy?”

I reached for my old dusty constructs, and was incensed to discover that my image of ‘God’ was something like Dick Cheney with a long flowing beard. Something had gone terribly
terribly
wrong. I guzzled back the last of my Mexican beer and tried to focus on Anita.

“Listen, Anita – I’m definitely not gay.”

“But maybe you’re bisexual.”

I shook my head, “I would have had an inkling by now. So I really don’t want you to think of this as a date, because I’m not thinking of it that way. I’m actually sort of thinking of myself as a covert agent.”

“A covert agent?”

“Yeah. I’m trying to get an insider’s perspective on what it means to completely buck the system. And I’m thinking you and I could be friends. You could offer insights into what it’s like to navigate through life without the need for a man. And when I’m really low, I can turn to you and feel better – knowing that you forged ahead in your own way – as an individual first, woman second. I really admire you – just to know that there are women out there who can live a man-less, childless life and not suffer one iota of guilt over it. Not have a nervous breakdown over it. And you know what, I’m starting to feel better already. I really am. So good, in fact, that I could actually go home and write a page or two. So thank you, Anita. Thank you.”

“Uh – Tracy?”

“Thank you.”

“I should tell you something.”

“Oh – okay. Anything. Lay it on me.”

“I’m pregnant.”

I could feel the hard shell of my vegetable taco slicing through the tender supple stuff lining my throat. Anita saw my distress and
passed me her apple juice. I immediately gulped it all down to keep from choking to death.

“Yeah, my last encounter with a male was a potent one.”

“Oh. My. God.”

“Are you okay?”

“Not exactly.”

Anita would actually be a mother before I would. Now I really felt on the verge of some sort of major collapse.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“You’re
pregnant
? For real?”

She nodded her head apologetically.

“I just had breakfast with the perfect guy who turned out to be gay, and now I’m having dinner with the perfect lesbian who happens to be pregnant? I mean, somebody – anybody – cut me a break. You were supposed to make me feel better.”

“Excuse me?”

“About my choices. My man-free, childless life.”

“Oops.”

“Don’t you want to be with the father of your baby?”

“Turns out I’d rather be with Gwyneth. But she’s moved on and I’m trying to do the same. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”

“Forget it.”

“I really am, Tracy.”

“I’m okay – just give me a minute.”

As she began chatting about environmentally friendly baby clothes and new age toddler camps, I came face to face with a new version of myself. I’d won some bizarre contest that was happening only in my head, and I was indeed the last woman standing. But I was forever standing on the outside, perpetually looking in. And my prize was a nice big bag of empty.

“So I’m excited about all the organic stuff – especially the apples and pears.”

Suddenly estrogen was the last thing I wanted to deal with. I wanted my fantasies back.

“Can you just, like, morph into Johnny Depp?”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

I put my head in my hands, “No, I’m not alright. Even
you’re
not reneging on your biology.”

“It’s not like I was planning on getting pregnant.”

“Just forget it.”

“I think you need a stronger drink.”

“I think it’s time for me to go home.”

“Because I’m pregnant?”

I shook my head like a spoiled child.

“I’m sorry, Tracy. I’m clearly not turning out to be the person you wanted me to be.”

“It’s just that I thought you might make me feel better about being an outsider. You know, someone who is comfortable not following the rules?”

She tried to speak but I shushed her, “And now I discover that you’re
with child
!”

“Have you maybe thought about therapy?” she asked.

“No, but I think my throat is bleeding.”

Anita watched as I put five fives on the table, picked up my paper plate of food, and walked out of the restaurant. I drove back to my room with less cash, but at least I’d reaffirmed my never-in-doubt heterosexuality.

chapter
6

A
FTER AN ENTIRE
night of bizarre visions, I awoke in a very odd mood.

My dreams had been filled with bisexual horses galloping through unknown galaxies, and pregnant lesbians were busy re-writing the English language – the word for God was now Utera.

It was six o’clock, and I had seven minutes to get out the door – but Lucy was splayed across my chest. She was purring at me in the most comforting and unconditional loving sort of way. This was just exactly the kind of acceptance I needed right now. I could easily call in sick, but I knew there were countless others who’d be willing to take my place – those dreamers who’d practically beg to work for nothing if it gave them a chance to climb the Hollywood ladder.

I scarfed down leftover mushy tacos at the sink, and put a Dodgers cap on my unwashed hair – nothing in me felt even remotely guilty as it seemed the appropriate attire for the character description known as
typical, unsuccessful ‘artist’
.

Traffic wasn’t moving and the radio was still dead. The commute would give me time to wrap things up with McDreamy. I rewound the production and started at the beginning with Anita now co-starring as the woman rejected by the doctor, in favor of myself.

My phone started vibrating just as he was leaning across the table with a tiny suede mahogany box (if I had to bite the bullet, this is how it would have to go down). I almost didn’t answer but assumed it was Sheila calling – since she usually calls when I’m jammed and helpless on the freeway.

“So what’s the deal, Sheila? That girl you set me up with is pregnant.”

Silence.

“Sheila?” I asked.

“It’s your younger sister – the one who’s supposed to look up to you.”

I turned my mute button on.

“Sheila set you up with a
girl
?”

Mute.

“Is there something you’re not telling me, Tracy? Do I need to prepare Mom and Dad? No wonder you don’t have a boyfriend. It’s all starting to add up.”

“What do you want, Jenny? I’m really busy.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

Many seconds passed in absolute silence.