Story Girl (5 page)

“God, you’re stubborn. I was just wondering if you were gonna come home for the anniversary?”

“You know they don’t want a big fuss.”

“Of course they want a big fuss, especially after thirty-five years.”

“They really probably don’t.”

“They do so.”

“I can’t afford it.”

“Luke and I can offer you a low interest loan.”

I wanted to gouge her eyes out with a corroded spoon.

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“Call me later then.”

I hung up without saying goodbye.

Damn it to hell.

I tried to conjure Patrick and the box and the ambience, but it was too late; the mood had been completely tasered. I comforted myself with the thought that tonight I could be alone with frozen vegetables and my own friggin’ fantasies, the last enjoyable thing in my dung life that I was truly in control of.

And then, as if a gift from a pitying universe, traffic started moving. Slow at first, but soon I was moving along at a bearable clip.

The phone started vibrating again and I did not hesitate to scream into it, “I said I’d think about it, Jenny!”

“It’s Jason.”

“Oh.”

Mr. Perfect
.

“I was just wondering if you got the job at William Morris because I’m at the showroom and I have some slacks here for you. They’re a size twelve but we could easily take them in. And there’s a dark blue Escada blazer here with your name on it. You’ll be an absolute smash on your first day.”

“I didn’t get the job.”

“What?”

“A wham-bam – no thank you, Ma-am.”

“Oh – I’m sorry. They don’t know what they’re missing.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Why don’t you let my boyfriend and I make you a meal. Something with lots of vegetables – good wine.”

“I think I need to just fantasize my way through a box of Ding-Dongs.”

“Really?”

“Yup – preferably in a pair of stretch underpants.”

“You’re really sure?”

“Yes.”

“Take care then – sweet Tracy.”

“You too.”

You too… perfect gay Jason
.

I was sick with a new kind of grotesque despair. But then I started thinking that such a gay man may well be perfect, but he surely wasn’t perfect for me. And did I really want a boyfriend anyway? Was I really letting stress and a few nasty hives dictate my future?

I was so deeply engaged in matters of such profound importance that I didn’t notice the car stopped dead in front of me.

chapter
7

T
HE EMERGENCY ROOM
reminded me of a teleplay I’d once written.

Dr. Stetson McQuaid
was the only script I’d ever burned, but this place had the exact look of what I’d been trying for on paper. The place was packed with all manner of injury, mine being by far the least gory.

The ambulance had insisted on taking me in because of the severity of my expression. The officer on the scene said he’d never seen anyone look so utterly dopey – not at least without some form of brain injury. They were afraid I might be suffering from intense whiplash or a blow to the head. I withheld the impulse to reveal that my expression had more to do with the gathering stench of my life than any trauma I might have sustained.

The driver of the crappy car I hit would apparently be arriving any moment. I was already preparing my defenses, although I wasn’t too worried, as I’d heard emergency workers talking about the need to take such junk heaps off the freeways.

As I was figuring ways to retrieve my own car from the towing company, a younger cousin version of McDreamy limped into the waiting room. He sat across from me between an elderly woman and a small child who had a mouth stuffed with gauze.

He nodded at me with recognition, “I’m really sorry about that.”

Even his head slanted in the exact same way as McDreamy, “Pardon?”

“Weren’t you the one that smacked into me?” he asked.

“Oh yes, sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.” God was I a buffoon, blowing my entire defense just because a cute guy asks me a question.

“Oh no, it was my fault. You had no reaction time. My engine just died on the spot. It was dead. That car has over 200,000 miles on it.”

“200,000 miles? Okay, it was
your
fault.”

“Told you so.”

“But still. I should have been paying more attention. I could have stopped a couple of seconds sooner.”

“Not really possible. My car just up and died. I always wondered what that might feel like on an L.A. freeway. Anyway – don’t worry about it. I have insurance. Or I can pay you out of pocket.”

Cute
and
nice.

“Well, I’m hoping the damage to my car isn’t too bad.”

“But the front didn’t look good, and it’s totally my fault.”

“Maybe.”

He shrugged and we both sort of laughed in a goofy way; then he extended his hand. I immediately scanned the powerful forearms – steel cord pulsing. My hand in his hand felt strangely intense; the textured flesh was not of my imagination this time.

“And my name is James, by the way.”

“Are you straight?”

Fool – why not just pounce on the poor guy?

“Uh – yeah – although sometimes my shoulders droop.”

So maybe we were both a little asinine.

“Anyway – it’s sometimes hard to make ends meet, but I really shouldn’t have been driving that thing. And all the stop and start stuff is hard on a good car, never-mind a bad one. My parents warned me a million times. It’s a ’78.”

“My God, I was still in diapers. How does it pass the smog test?”

He started to tell me and I really wanted to listen but I was far more interested in analyzing his sexiness – it was low-key in a lanky sort of way. He had a huge head of wavy brown hair that was so healthy it gleamed purple at certain angles.

“So I’m thirty-one and sometimes I think I should just hightail it to Hawaii and make puka shell necklaces on the beach.”

“Where are you from?”

“The east coast. Washington… my parents are political people.”

“What type of political people?” I asked.

He shrugged like he didn’t want to talk about it.

“Involved in the daily running of government?” I pressed.

“More like lobbyists, both right-wing. Sixties backlash stereotypes. Every time I take money from them I feel like a sell-out.”

I stared at his purple clean hair, “Why don’t you stop taking their money then?”

He winced at the obviousness of the question, and I was amazed at how quickly this beautiful man could be hurt by a stranger – even one who ate dinner on her bed every night, alone but for her cat.

“I’ve tried and tried and then things get so tough.”

There was the unmistakable trace of a whine in his voice. I wondered if Mr. Clooney would accept parental charity, but then I remembered his aunt Rosemary and thought about family dynasties. Nothing was going to dampen James for me, even if he was a spoiled brat.

“What do you do?” I asked.

“Screenwriter,” he said, without a trace of embarrassment.

“Yeah, I can see why you need help.”

“Last three months they’ve paid the entire rent plus utilities plus car insurance, gas and groceries.”

He was looking a little less dashing. I quickly conjured a vision of Rosemary helping little Georgie, sending him out the door with a Superman lunch box.

“Makes it hard for me to argue with their neo-con ideology,” he said.

“Are they really neo-cons?” I asked, amazed.

“War is peace, right?”

“Neo-cons indeed,” I said incredulous, as if he’d just presented some rare species of dinosaur. I also loved anyone who could quote Orwell in the proper context.

He nodded but not without a touch of sadness.

“Makes my parents seem progressive,” I chuckled.

“Makes me feel like I’m taking blood money and it depresses me something fierce.”

“Couldn’t you get a job?” I asked.

He shrugged and sighed as though such a thing was out of the question, as though I was being unreasonable.

“You look like a strong, healthy guy.”

“Can’t give up my dream.”

“Lots of people have dreams and zero money, and so they have to work at jobs in the meantime. You know,
jobs
.”

“I know. But it’s like there’s a money tree in the front yard. It makes any sort of struggling seem pointless and unbearable.”

“If taking the easy way out makes you sick, then what’s the point?”

I could barely believe I was being so argumentative – maybe it was because he just ruined my car and probably lost me my crummy job.

“I just want to be respected, you know. I want to really move people, like a visionary. Can you dig that?”

“Isn’t a visionary more concerned with something
other
than being considered a visionary?” I asked.

“Not necessarily.”

“Oh, okay.”

“All I’ve ever wanted to do is move people,” he repeated.

“Do you move
you
?”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Tracy – guess we missed that in the intro.”

“No, Tracy – I don’t move me at all. Some days I can barely look myself in the eyeballs.”

I absolutely loved the way he said my name.
Tracy
. It made invisible hairs quiver, “Well then, how do you expect to move me or anyone else, James?”

“You’re quite blunt, Tracy.”

There it was again.

“Maybe it’s time to uproot the money tree.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe it is.”

chapter
8

W
E WERE EVENTUALLY
released back into our separate streams.

But we wanted to stay together – so Sheila picked us up outside the emergency entrance. We were only waiting at the curb fifteen minutes, but standing together while ambulances passed made him feel like my boyfriend. There was an easy energy between us, and I didn’t once feel like I had to ‘people please’ him. Perhaps I was just running out of energy, but I’d never felt more real.

James and I had neck x-rays taken, but the doctor could immediately tell that we’d both suffered military neck – which I assumed meant bad whiplash. I’d already started nagging that I’d never be able to handle the medical bills. I don’t know what it was about him, but I was having no problem being fearlessly authentic.

We carefully contorted ourselves into the backseat of Sheila’s Paseo, and everyone agreed on Thai Town for noodles. I checked my messages: my sister wanted an answer regarding the anniversary, and work informed me that I’d been officially replaced.

All I could do was look on the bright side – maybe now I’d have the time to feed my long starving characters. The panic would probably come later, when I was no longer in the dizzying state of my newfound orbit.

After a quick drive, James and I bent our way out of the backseat to find Sheila standing before us in a miniskirt and heels. Her
make-up looked like it had been professionally applied, and in one sexy move, she pulled her long hair out of its scrunchy. I wanted to charge her like an enraged bull, and ram her into the next car until she was nothing but a heap of crushed bone and flesh.

Instead I said, “You look nice.”

Earlier in the waiting room I had text messaged her that I had just met a gorgeous heterosexual man and that he’d be accompanying us for lunch – apparently, a big mistake on my part.

She led us into the restaurant, and I watched James stare at her toned calf muscles, made all the more pleasing by the four-inch pumps she was struggling in. In the five years I had hung out with her, she had never once worn any footwear other than fancy sandals or Asian slippers.

James and I sat beside each other in a booth across from her, and I couldn’t even try to hide my scowl. I should have expected that she’d betray me like this. Women could be cutthroat when it came to snatching up the dwindling resource known as cute and single straight guys. Small wonder she set me up with a lesbian.

“So, how was your date last night, Tracy? Anita’s her name, right?” Sheila looked right at me when she asked the question.

I was so shocked that I couldn’t speak.

James turned to me, “You’re gay?”