The Awesome Girl's Guide to Dating Extraordinary Men (5 page)

I waited for an answer, and the Universe stared back at me, silent as a happy Buddha statue.

That night after work, I stripped out of my work clothes and threw on a denim skirt and a purple tank top. No makeup and simple accessories: a long necklace and the turtle studs that my sister had gotten me as a souvenir when she and her family went to Hawaii. I didn’t even bother to do anything cute with my hair.

Four years of casual dating in L.A. had taught me that I should never go all out on a first meet. In fact, I tried to understate. That way I didn’t risk attracting guys that valued looks over everything else. Avoiding shallow guys hadn’t been a problem in any other city I had lived in before moving to Los Angeles. But the City of Angels was rotten with them and under-dressing was the only way to preempt getting asked out by someone who expected you to keep everything cleanly shaven and/or waxed at all times and for you to never leave the house in anything less than full hair and makeup.

But as I was getting ready to leave, I reconsidered my stance on never looking my best on a first meet. My relationship quest had begun because I was tired of being myself and wanted to be someone else now, someone who
didn’t trade in guys every month and didn’t have visions of throwing herself off the top of her office every workday.

Also, hadn’t Davie Farrell said there wasn’t anything wrong with putting in some effort when it came to seeking out love?

I braided my hair into a neat rope down my back. Then I applied some lip gloss and eyeliner that made my large brown eyes pop above my dimples. I looked different, I decided, surveying myself in the mirror after I finished with my mild makeover, like a woman who knew how to be in a long-term relationship. Like the woman I wanted to be now.

Benny pounded on my door then, yelling something in Scottish that I assumed meant it was time to leave, and I grabbed my green vinyl purse thinking,
Here we go
 …

About forty minutes later, Benny and I stood at one of the places where the escalators deposited newly arrived plane passengers, watching Abigail scroll down the automated stairs. Her English Rose pastiness made her stand out in the crowd of tanned and/or brown Californians waiting for their friends and loved ones.

A tall and shaggy guy with sandy-brown hair stood beside her on the escalator and then followed close behind her as she made her way over to us. He wore large, tortoiseshell seventies-era glasses, but he wasn’t rail thin like a hipster—who is just a high-maintenance guy in ironic disguise. No, this guy looked to be kind, considerate, affable … like someone I could see myself running down in a crowded farmers market and yelling, “Okay, okay, I’ll marry you.”

When Abigail got to us, she pecked Benny on the lips and said, “Oh, I’m glad to see you.” Then she kissed me on the cheek. “And you, too, mate.”

I kissed her rosy cheek, English style, deeply aware of the shaggy guy as I did so. When we were done with our greeting, Abigail said, “This is Caleb, the music supervisor on our film. Is it okay if we give him a ride downtown? It’s not too far out of our way, is it?”

Downtown L.A. was actually way out of our way. Completely different freeways, and it would add at least thirty minutes, maybe forty, to our return trip. But before Benny could answer, I put on a happy-go-lucky smile and said, “No problem.”

Then I stuck out my hand and instead of announcing that he wouldn’t want to date me because I was fucked up and emotionally unavailable, I said, “Hi, I’m Thursday.”

My offer of a handshake caught him by surprise, just as he was squirming out of the lightweight brown sweater that he’d worn on the plane. When he pulled it off, he revealed that he was wearing a faded Sweet Janes T-shirt underneath.

I lit up with the delight of already having something so big in common. “You like the Sweet Janes?” I asked him.

“They’re one of the most underappreciated bands of the decade,” he answered in the authoritative way that white guys with good taste in music often have. By the way, I adored authoritative white guys with good taste in music.

“The lead guitarist is one of my best friends,” I said.

“Risa Merriweather? Are you serious?” he asked. “I heard she had some kind of solo project going these days. I’ve been meaning to go out and see her.”

“Maybe you can come with me to her next show,” I said with a friendly smile.

At least that’s what I said on the outside. Inside I said,
Thank you, Universe, thank you, Universe, thank you, Universe!
Because this guy Caleb definitely felt like a win.

RISA

O
ne of the Top Ten Rules in my Future Rock Star Manifesto: Never let anybody outside of you dictate your playlist.

That’s exactly what I told the manager at Space Camp when he called to make sure that I’d be playing the classics at my October show.

And by the classics, he didn’t mean Joan Jett, even though I did a pretty bitchin’ cover of “I Hate Myself for Loving You.” He meant the Sweet Janes classics.

I happened to be standing in front of the cover art for the first and only Sweet Janes album when he asked me this question. It was eleven years ago, and everybody in my old band looked so much younger than they did now. Ramen noodle–diet thin and dewy fresh, the four of us lay naked on a red circular bed, with nothing but guitars, hair, and other band members’ body parts to cover up the money shots.

I was wearing a long, neon-green wig and my eyes were aglitter with defiant anger. Why was I so angry? I had a contract, and money in my pocket, and buzz. Sweet buzz. Where the hell did I get off being angry about anything? But there I lay, full of piss and vinegar.

A lot of people thought I was the lead singer of the Sweet Janes back then. But of course I wasn’t. Somebody had to handle lead guitar, let the guy bands know through hard-driving riffs that my group wasn’t one to be fucked with. No, the lead singer was Samanthe, a posh and daring pixie-cut of a woman, who preferred boys but let me kiss and grope her in front of the cameras, claiming a connection with me that went beyond her heretofore-stated heterosexuality.

The year was 2001.
Will & Grace
was the highest-rated sitcom among adults eighteen to forty-nine. Rosie O’Donnell hadn’t left her popular talk show yet. Lesbians were supposed to be the next big thing, until they weren’t.

One album. That was all the Sweet Janes got. Every rock station played it. The record company sent us everywhere, and that’s how I met The One. She lived in L.A. at the time but, funnily enough, I met her at a New York movie premiere. The two of us locked eyes across the room, and that was it. A U2 concert went off in my soul, full of lights and special effects all screaming, “She’s The One!” I’d never forget that first look.

I moved in with her a few months later. We were happy. We were in love. We were successful. And that’s when everything began to fall apart.

Samanthe didn’t turn out to be on the same page regarding our relationship. I had thought she was faking it, while she had thought she was in love. Maybe she was. Sharing copious amounts of coke and ecstasy with a person. Drinking out of the same bottle when you take that Jack Daniels straight to the head. That might be love. I’d heard of relationships based on less.

Recording the second album didn’t go so well. There were disagreements and a lot of “I just worry that” grinded out between clenched teeth. I eventually had to pull Samanthe aside to have a long talk in the parking lot outside of the recording studio. But what I had expected to be a reasonable conversation turned into Samanthe sending the record company an e-mail announcing that she no longer wanted to be in the band due to creative differences with me. I knew this was what she said, because she cc’d me on the e-mail.

I went home from the studio and wrapped myself around The One’s warm body, telling her everything was going to be fine. I had done most of the writing for the band anyway. I could take over the singing duties, too—I’d been wanting to take the band in a more acoustic direction anyway, blah, blah, blah. Somehow I spun it like our lead singer quitting was the best thing that could have possibly happened to the Sweet Janes.

Looking back on it now, though, it felt like the album had flopped even before the reassuring words were out my mouth. Actually, I can’t say it flopped, because the record company didn’t hear a single “single” on the
album of thoughtful love songs I turned in. Progressive rock, which had been so hot in the late nineties, had begun to death spiral. Indie bands couldn’t sound thoughtful or fall in love anymore. They had to be ironic. Electric.

Even though they weren’t on the same label as me, my A&R guy had the Strokes playing on low in the background as he explained this to me.

And so the Sweet Janes broke up, meandering off in different directions. I put away my acoustic guitar for good and started playing around with my electric guitar, using my synthesizer as backup, and I decided that I liked that sound way better. And maybe that would have been the end of the story. But I checked my bank account a few months later, and it only had a couple hundred dollars in it. That’s when all the crumpled receipts for withdrawals and my charge statements came marching out of the trash cans that I had thrown them in. They piled up behind me, snickering and pointing while I stared at the ATM’s balance screen, mouth hanging open.

When I got home from that ATM train wreck, I said to The One, “Let’s go out tonight. I need to get wasted so bad.”

But The One answered that she wanted to stay home because she had to get up early the next day.

And at that moment I decided I was sick of her bullshit. She still hadn’t told her family about us, and she never wanted to go anywhere, even when I promised not to touch her in public. She said she didn’t believe me. There was that time a few months ago, when the third single off the original Sweet Janes album premiered on KROQ while we were idling at a red light with her in the passenger seat. I had smacked her on the lips with a huge “Mwah!” and she had been embarrassed. Had insisted that our relationship stay indoors ever since.

That arrangement had been all right when I was on the road. But I was going stir-crazy in the place we shared. I let her know that she needed to come out with me that night or I was going to accidentally fuck somebody
else. “That’s the way it works with musicians,” I told her. “You either keep an eye on us or you lose us.”

I’d always been really good at saying the wrong things. People usually laughed when I said things the way I said them. But not this time.

The One’s face flashed from hurt to fear to anger before she said, “I don’t think this is working.”

And so, less than two years after dropping out of Smith College and moving to Los Angeles for a record deal, I found myself broke, with no label and no girlfriend, living in the shittiest apartment complex that Silver Lake had to offer.

Samanthe changed her name back to Samantha and got married to some insurance company executive. She grew out her hair, and she now lived in Plano, according to her Facebook account. I didn’t hate her. But I also didn’t sing Sweet Janes songs on demand just because some clueless club manager asked me to.

“You engaged Supa Dupa, not the Sweet Janes,” I told him, going out to my balcony and lighting a cigarette. Supa Dupa is what I called myself, even though my act consisted of me, a mic, an electric guitar, and a synthesizer. Much like Owl City, Passion Pit, and Five for Fighting, I considered myself more of a “project” than a solo singer. Also, not-so-secret industry secret, it was easier to book shows if people thought you were in a band.

“Yeah, but you know how it goes,” he said. “A lot of people are buying advance tickets, and I don’t want them to be disappointed.”

Not for the first time, I found myself jealous of Dave Grohl, Nirvana’s former drummer and the current lead singer of the Foo Fighters. His follow-up band was still going strong; he made lots of money and lived in a nice house. And most of all, he didn’t have to deal with any club managers trying to dick around with his set list.

“Listen, let’s have a conversation about this. I’ll swing by the club,” I said. “I’ll come by tonight before work.”

After I hung up with him, an unexpected loneliness set in. Yes, this was business, but I didn’t want to go to Space Camp by myself. I need some backup. So on my way out the door, I called up my posse to see who could come out. I called Tammy first, because, let’s be brutal here, if I was going to be seen out with anybody in L.A, I wanted it to be with somebody at least semi-famous. But she didn’t pick up. So I tried Thursday, who was a better choice anyway, since she liked indie music.

“I’ve got to pick my roommate up from the airport,” Thursday said. “And we might be doing something with this guy she wants me to meet afterwards, so I don’t know. Let me call you later.”

Okay, so I tried Sharita, even though I knew that was a longer than long shot.

“I’m already in for the night,” she said.

“Put away the ice cream and turn off
The Big Bang Theory
and come out anyway,” I answered.

Guilty silence, then: “It’s the season premiere.”