The Break-Up Diet: A Memoir (34 page)

“Are you sure it's safe for us to be driving around here?” Bonita asked.

“Of course it is.” I giggled. “We can use you as our cultural liaison.”

“Very funny, pinche pendeja,” Bonita shot back.

“Just keep driving east, I'm sure the neighborhood will get better,” I said to Valerie.

We passed Los Angeles City College.

“Oh m'god, we're in East L.A.!” Valerie shrieked.

“I think that's it.” Bonita pointed from between the seats.

Valerie pulled to the curb.

There it was. El something-or-other Coyote. A boxy cement hut that was surrounded by a wire fence in the middle of a parking lot of broken asphalt. The squat gray building was flanked by brightly painted metal picnic tables chained together with rusty links.

A window sign read:
Two For One Fish Taco Tuesdays
.

We burst out laughing.

“I am
not
getting out of this car,” Valerie said.

“Are you sure we don't need reservations?” Bonita asked, trying hard to appear serious.

“Well, a fish taco
is
Mexican seafood,” Valerie chimed in, picking up Bonita's game.

“This is not what I remember,” I offered in defense. “The information operator gave me two listings. This is just the wrong one.”

Valerie accelerated, leaving the taco stand behind. “Why isn't there a single u-turn lane in this horrible city?” she asked, after driving a few blocks.

“Just make a right here at the corner, then go around the block to the next light. We can make a big circle and go back the way we came,” I said.

Halfway around the block, we found ourselves on a cramped residential street flanked by rundown apartments. A used car graveyard packed the curbs on both sides.

“Odelaaayyy.” A carload of gangbangers in a blue Chevy Impala whistled and yelled out the window, gesturing as our cars passed closely on the small street.

“Don't look, don't look,” Bonita hissed. “Just keep driving.”

“Another great idea, Annette,” Valerie whispered tightly.

“Don't be such a chicken shit.” I laughed at their melodrama. “Just think of it as an adventure.”

Back on the main street, we stopped at a red light. “I'm driving the nicest car around here and we obviously look like we should be somewhere else,” Valerie said. “The last thing I want is to be shot and car jacked.”

BAM!

We all jumped when the delivery truck in the next lane released its air brakes. Then we looked at each other and laughed.

I dialed the second number. “The other El what-ever-it's-called is on Melrose a half block from Beverly Hills,” I said.

“At least that's in a decent area,” Bonita said.

The funky shops on Melrose rolled past the window like a silent movie. Tragic looking youth lounged in iron chairs outside coffee shops. Traffic crawled from one short cycle stoplight to the next.

We pulled up in front of the restaurant. “This is cute,” Bonita said, peeking out the window.

“Much better.” Valerie switched off the ignition.

We breezed through the entrance like formidable, slightly aging, but well-preserved Charlie's Angels. All we needed was a wind machine, 70s style pantsuits, and the right theme music.

The restaurant was completely empty: too late for lunch, too early for dinner. The staff of waitresses loitered by the bar, chatting with the cute bartender.

The hostess settled us into our seats and we perused the menu. Bonita and Valerie ordered two margaritas apiece. Each glass was the size of a ten-gallon fish tank. By the time the food arrived, the conversation had become an exercise in man bashing.

“Men suck,” Valerie said.

“They're all stupid,” Bonita added. She took another sip through her straw.

I sat silently with nothing to contribute, and picked at my cheese enchilada with the edge of my fork.

“They all cheat,” Valerie said. “Every one of them.”

Her thoughts obviously still dwelled on her ex-boyfriend and it fouled her birthday mood.

“Worse than that, they promise they'll commit and they never do. I hate that.” Bonita's face contorted in disgust.

I took a sip of my cranberry juice, moving the ice around in the glass with the straw. “Maybe you shouldn't date men who aren't available. Every time it ends, you're miserable.”

“Well, not everyone is perfect like you,” Bonita said, taking another drink of her margarita.

Valerie fixed me with a hard stare and then looked away.

Ok, so maybe it was a little blunt to come out and say it, but it was hard to hear Bonita cry about getting her heart broken on a regular basis when it wouldn't happen as much if she dated available men.

Valerie turned back to me. “So. How are things in your little world?” Her tone was sharp and aggressive.

It was then that I realized I had stopped talking to them about Steven, but I couldn't remember exactly when. I'd discovered that anytime I mentioned something wonderful, it was met with disdain. And there are only so many times a person will reach out to touch a hot stove.

“Fine,” I said. “We have to get going or we'll be late.” I pushed back my chair.

Sobriety dictated the car seating assignments. On autopilot, I navigated the SUV through the city traffic.

While I waited for a stoplight to turn green, a guy on the corner caught my attention, and I couldn't stop staring. He was wearing rub-faded jeans, and stood bare-chested. My eyes traveled up his frame. Washboard abs, square pecs, ripped biceps, chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, piercingly beautiful eyes, with hair tousled across his forehead. I really love men. Fascinating creatures. So very—

A car horn honked.

I pulled forward and almost rear-ended the car stopped in front of us.

“Stop staring at that stupid billboard,” Valerie said, “or you'll end up crashing my car and we'll never get to the theater on time.”

I heard Bonita mumble from the backseat, “That's okay, he's probably gay anyway.”

A man with a gray flag waved us into the parking lot a half block from the theater. I walked away from the car, briskly stepping over the gold-outlined stars embedded in the sidewalk along Vine Avenue. Audrey Hepburn. Jackie Coogan. We crossed Hollywood Boulevard toward the Pantages; Bonita and Valerie trailed slightly behind me. None of us spoke.

I handed my ticket to the usher at the door. In a mocking tone, he lisped and gestured to our boots. “Oh now isn't that so cute. Did you call each other and decide to wear them together?”

“Real fashion police make more than minimum wage,” I snapped at him in response. “Just stick to tearing tickets.”

I wasn't sure if I was more irritated by his attempt to ridicule us or by my feeling that he was implying that we were all the same.

more than a foreign accent

Sunday, May 18

“Thank you guys so much for coming all the way up here.” Bryce's tall, wiry frame pulled me into a bony embrace. He continued to mug for the flashing cameras, the diploma case held tightly in his hand.

“Congratulations.” Steven shook Bryce's free hand.

Bryce continued to pump his arm exuberantly. “Thanks, man. I never thought I'd finish.”

I gave him another hug. “I knew you could do it.”

We joined the rest of Bryce's friends, navigating through the pedestrian traffic surrounding the Loyola Law School. Steven and I climbed into his Suburban to follow the celebration caravan to a trendy Japanese restaurant in Huntington Beach.

When we walked through the front door, “What I Like About You” by The Ramones blasted through the speakers. Everyone headed for the back room toward the teppan grills.

While we waited for the hostess to seat us, Steven and I stood at the bar next to Bryce's college buddy, Neil. With one sweeping glance, I could see Neil was a typical nightclub hound with a freshly minted law degree. Once he ditched the cap and gown, he sported a swing-era bowling style shirt of black satin, a pair of zebra-print creepers, and an attitude.

Neil pulled a tall bar chair away from a woman who was about to sit on it. Then he settled himself onto the seat. His beer bottle dangled from his hand as he rested his arm on the edge of the bar.

He responded to our stunned looks, “The way I see it, if women want all this feminism stuff and equal opportunity, then they have to deal with the consequences.” He shrugged and swigged his beer. His motioning with the bottle made the contents slosh out.

He continued defending his moronic wisdom. “See, if my girlfriend is mad at me and expects me to sleep on the couch, I tell her if she's mad, she can go sleep on the couch because I'm not getting out of my bed for her.” He punctuated his statement with another splash of beer.

“So, where is your girlfriend tonight?” Steven asked, angling for the inevitable answer.

“Well, we kinda broke up,” Neil said.

I smiled into my glass of cranberry juice.

“So, how long have you guys been together?” Neil asked, using his beer bottle like a pointer.

“Almost six months.” Steven leaned to kiss the top of my head and snaked his arm around my waist.

Neil directed his attention to me. “So, I bet when you met him, you were really turned on by his accent. I bet that's why it was easy for him to hook up with you. Chicks dig guys with accents.”

A flat, humorless smile pressed my lips together. “No, that wasn't it,” I said. “I could just tell by the way he was sitting that he had a big dick.”

Steven coughed on his sip of beer.

“Wow, okay, hey, that's cool.” Neil gave Steven an awkward elbow nudge of approval.

“It was nice meeting you,” Steven said. “It looks like our table is ready now.” He guided me away from Neil and leaned to whisper in my ear, “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

“No,” I said playfully.

“That guy was being an idiot. Too bad he's too drunk and too stupid to know it.” Steven stopped in the aisle and turned me to face him. “You are so amazing to me. I love the fact that I never know what you'll say next.”

Steven pulled out my chair and we seated ourselves at the far end of a U-shaped table ringing one of the teppan grills. Bryce and his girlfriend, Sheila, sat along the curve, flanked by two of her girlfriends and their dates.

Our Asian chef arrived and sprinkled water on the hot iron grill. It sizzled and popped as he tapped an elaborate symphony using the side of his knives against the metal. He concluded by flipping the blades in the air and catching them. “Order, please,” he said.

Clockwise around the table, we called out our food selections.

Soon sautéed shrimp flew through the air and the naughty games began. Sheila pulled out the front of her shirt and a plump shrimp dropped between her bare breasts. Bryce dove face first after it. One of the girls next to Sheila one-upped her by leaning back in the chair and lifting the edge of her miniskirt. It was clear she had either forgotten or misplaced her panties when she dressed for the evening. The teppan chef, without pause, flipped a chunk of beef between her legs.

“What about you, Annette?” Bryce motioned to the shrimp bouncing like a paddleball on the end of the chef's metal spatula.

I laughed, waving my hands to ward off the suggestion. “No thanks. I always make a point of avoiding the possibility that any part of my body will ever smell like seafood.”

Steven and I shared a large square tray loaded with sushi. While we ate, we watched the sexy food fest like spectators of a foreign sport. At a nearby grill, another chef incorporated a cucumber carved like a giant phallus topped with sour cream. One of the guys in the group placed it protruding from the zipper of his pants. His girlfriend made a show of devouring the vegetable.

The room was loud with laughter and the pulse of chanting obscenities. Various couples started doing alcohol body shots and there wasn't a single person in the room who needed more alcohol.

I leaned my head on Steven's shoulder. He pulled my chair closer to his and slung his arm around my back. I nestled against him and watched the scene playing out in front of us. I felt old. Or maybe just older. And settled.

A few years back, it could have been Valerie, Bonita, Heather, and me wearing sizzling food like a hot chick buffet, but somehow it seemed like another lifetime, a time I could look back on with a wicked little smile, but not one I was ready to revisit.

I felt comfortable and content in my life with Steven. Whenever I was with him, my heart beat like a cat's purr. And I knew I was right where I wanted to be.

I lifted my lips close to Steven's ear. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Definitely,” he whispered back.

the choo-choo song for satan

My Birthday
Sunday, May 25

I heard Steven rustling around in the kitchen. The morning light seeped between my lashes. I snuggled deeper under the covers, pulling the down-filled comforter over my head.

Steven and Josh entered the bedroom singing the birthday song. I pushed myself up in bed as they came in. Steven carried a breakfast tray of croissants and berries. Josh held a glass brimming with orange juice in one hand, and a pink and green striped gift bag in the other.

“Good morning, Mom. Happy birthday,” Josh said, climbing onto the bed beside me.

“Happy birthday, honey.” Steven set the tray across my lap and kissed the top of my head.

Josh lifted his gift above the food. “Open my present first.”

I reached into the bag and withdrew an object wrapped in wrinkled yellow tissue paper, crisscrossed with scotch tape. I peeled at the reinforced wrapping and finally freed the present: a neon blue, light-up shift knob for my car.

“Now your car will look cool like
The Fast and the Furious,
” Josh said, his excitement bubbling over. “I can put it on for you if you want.”

I leaned to give him a hug. “Thanks, sweetie. It's a great gift.” I looked over in Steven's direction and he returned my smile.

Josh hopped off the bed. “Come in the other room. There's an even better present in there.”

I scuffed into the living room in pajamas and my Eeyore slippers.

On the table, I saw a red bow wrapped around a remote control with JVC printed along the top edge of the small black rectangle.