This One Is Mine: A Novel (10 page)

“So you’ve heard of him.”

“No fucking way! Ultra has the sickest jazz catalog. Ray Charles, Stan Getz, John Coltrane.”

“Yep,” Violet said. “Back in 2001, David saw into the future that the kids and every generation thereafter wouldn’t pay for music. So he set about buying publishing catalogues and jazz labels. Old people’s music. He’s done quite well.” It felt good, sticking it to Teddy with David’s accomplishments.

“But he’s also a big rock-and-roll manager.”

“Yes, David is the star.”

“Fuck. I can’t believe David Parry’s wife just tried to kiss me!”

“I’ve got to go to the market. David said he wanted pasta for dinner.” Violet fished the keys from her pocket.

“I’m fucking depressed,” Teddy said.

Her heart leapt: had he already regretted letting the moment pass? Would he try to win her back? “I’d give anything for a home-cooked meal,” he said.

“Here’s your putter. Sell it for gas money.” Violet checked her watch. It was four o’clock. She could easily make it to the market and get dinner on the table by the time David returned home. She walked off, with a lightness to her step, immensely relieved that her abasement, though grotesque, was so short-lived.

F
IRST
people said “I love you,”
then
they get engaged. It was this sequence of events Sally pondered as she sat in the teetering forest of shoe boxes stacked from floor to ceiling. She had already picked out some cross-trainers for herself. (That was ninety-five dollars she’d never see again!) Now it was time for the true purpose of the foray. . . .

“Hey,” she said to Jeremy. “While we’re here, maybe
you’d
like some new shoes!”

“I already have these.”

“I think you need some new ones,” volunteered the marathon-running hippie who had been helping Sally. He had long hair, leathery skin, and an emaciated body. He looked like someone who’d been stranded on a desert island. “See how you’re over-pronating your right foot?” The castaway pointed to the sole of Jeremy’s gigantic docksider, which had, in fact, worn out at the inner heel.

Jeremy studied it. Sally liked where this was going. Her best strategy was to hang back and let the castaway fight this battle for her. “But these shoes are perfectly comfortable,” Jeremy said.

“
Now,
maybe,” said the castaway. “But if you don’t get some stability in that right heel, you’re looking down the barrel of a lifetime of heel spurs, plantar fasciitis, and shin splints. If you’re lucky.”

“Really?” Jeremy said.

“Absolutely. What size are you?”

“Ten,” Sally said. The castaway disappeared into the back. She called after him, “Make sure they’re dark! With dark soles!”

I love you
. How would Sally get Jeremy to say the words? He was a man of habit. Saying “I love you” wasn’t part of his habit.

He took a quarter out of his pocket and started flipping it. “Do you have a pen?” he asked.

“I love you!” Sally said, mortified at what had just squirted out of her mouth. “I mean —”

Jeremy looked at her. “Me, too.”

“What — you do?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, when were you going to tell me?”

“I thought it was obvious.”

This was all too odd and fabulous. But Sally couldn’t rest. Jeremy still hadn’t said the words. “You thought
what
was obvious?”

“I love you.”

She gave him a shove. “You are
such a guy!
Do you realize how much of a guy you are?”

“Yes.”

“Jeremy?”

“Sally?”

“Does it scare you?” She took his hand. “Our love?”

“No.”

“I’m not scared, either.”

“You shouldn’t be,” he said. “Real love, like the kind we have, is hard to find. We should be happy.”

Sally’s heart swelled with tenderness. It filled this cluttered little store, bursting through the wall, spilling out into Encino, and expanding up into the heavens. Everything that just moments earlier had annoyed her — the sun blisters on the castaway’s cheekbones, the turned-over shopping cart blocking the good parking space, the drizzle that had started out of nowhere and would cause her hair to frizz — all of it was dissolving fabulously skyward.

Jeremy got a pen from the counter and fished out a piece of paper from the trash. He flipped his quarter several times and wrote out the results. T-H-T-T-T-H-H-T.

An image came to Sally, something she remembered from childhood. It was from the Carl Sagan series
Cosmos,
something called Flatland. Flatland was this two-dimensional world where everything was flat, even the Flatlanders who lived there. They could only perceive left and right, front and back, but no above or below. One day, a potato flew over from another dimension — really, Carl Sagan had said it was a potato — and this potato looked down and said, “Hello.” The Flatlanders couldn’t see it because it was hovering over them and they had no up or down. And when the potato entered their two-dimensional world, all the Flatlanders were able to see was this weird changing potato slice appearing from nowhere. It totally blew their minds because they had no concept this other dimension even existed. Then, when the potato went home and the Flatlanders who witnessed it tried to explain it to their friends, they couldn’t. Because they literally didn’t have words for it. Jeremy’s “I love you” was like the potato materializing out of nowhere. Sally realized she had been living in a world where love equaled scheming, second-guessing, and game playing. Now she understood that there was a whole other dimension where love simply . . .
was
.

The castaway returned with a pair of dark brown hiking boot–sneakers with black soles.

Jeremy put them on and stood up. He smiled and turned to Sally. “These are more comfortable than any shoes I’ve ever worn,” he said. “Thanks for making me come here.”

Sally caught a glimpse of the two of them in a mirror. Jeremy and Sally. Sally and Jeremy. How she loved Jeremy, the kind genius. And how she loved that she loved a kind genius. And how she loved that the kind genius would no longer be galumphing around in those awful shoes.

V
IOLET
crawled up traffic-clogged Benedict Canyon, the words “I can’t believe David Parry’s wife just tried to kiss me” strangling her brain. Back at Whole Foods, she had to ask someone three times where the capers were, when she had been staring straight at them. She had to pull it together before she got home. What was she thinking asking Teddy to lunch? She’d never had an affair. If she did, it would certainly be with some genius rock star like Thom Yorke, not
Teddy Reyes
. She sat in traffic, her embarrassment so visceral she felt as if she were about to suffocate. She rolled down the windows. Her cell phone rang.

“It got pretty intense back there, didn’t it?” It was him.

“It really didn’t.”

“Do you have Sprint?” Teddy asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“I don’t concern myself with such things. We have people for that,” she said, pleased with how haughty she just sounded. “What’s it to you?”

“You’re so fucking rich,” he said. “I can talk for free to people who have Sprint. That’s why.”

“Do you work for them?” she asked.

“Do I work for them? It’s my phone plan! What does your phone say?”

It said Sprint.

“Good,” Teddy said. Without missing a beat, he started in. “How scary was that? Every time we see each other we almost fuck.”

“Hardly.” There was roadwork ahead. Hopefully, traffic would loosen once Violet passed it.

“I’m telling you, I’m totally hardwired for sex. Remember how you held my hand in the museum?”

“Yes.” She sighed.

“After I left you, I went to the men’s room in the park and jerked off.”

“You did?” This was difficult for Violet to imagine. Twenty years ago, maybe. But after sixteen years of marriage,? And that stomach! A few weeks after giving birth, Violet had been taking a shower and accidentally ran her hand over it and nearly shrieked at how squishy it had become. Sometimes she found herself actually tucking her stomach into her pants! What had once been an admittedly curvy body was now the shape of a troll doll, with fat showing up in the most dispiriting places, like her upper back! The thought of a stranger — a young stranger with a Kennedy for a girlfriend, no less — jerking off to that? Okay, she liked it.

“You like that, don’t you?” he asked.

“Are you a sex addict?”

“I don’t concern myself with such things. I have people for that.” Repeating what she said, that’s what made her twinkle. “What positions do you like?” he asked.

“Have we already graduated to ribaldry — if there’s such a word?” A horn blared. There wasn’t a car ahead of her. Violet stepped on the accelerator, rounded the bend, and caught up with traffic.

“You love this, coming down off your mountain and giving the junkie a hard-on. Tell me. What positions do you like?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you like doggy style?”

“I guess.”

“Say certainly.”

“I certainly like doggy . . . you know.”

“You know what you like even more?” he asked.

“What?”

“Getting fucked in the ass.”

“I should say not! I’ve never had the dubious honor.”

“That’s such a lie,” he said.

“It’s true.”

“Then you’ve got a real treat coming to you. Chicks like you who think they’re in charge are the ones who love taking it up the ass the most. What’s your pussy like?”

“I don’t know.” She rolled up the windows and checked her mirror to make sure nobody she knew was in the car behind her.

“Do you shave it?” he asked. “Is it big and hairy?”

“Big? You mean like men have big dicks?”

“Is it hairy?”

“I wax it a bit. Not too much.”

“David Parry likes hairy pussies! Ha! I knew we were brothers. Ask me some questions.”

“Where are you?” Violet turned a sharp corner. A cheery patchwork ball that belonged to Dot jingled under her feet. She picked it up and tossed it over her shoulder.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You have conversations like this while you’re driving, or are you behind a tree on the back nine?”

“I’m driving,” he said impatiently. “Ask me a question.”

“Will you recite a poem you wrote?”

“Not that kind of question!”

“Please?”

“Hey!” he said. “I have an idea. You put me on the payroll, and I’ll write poems for you.”

“I can be your Maria de’ Medici,” she said.

“Huh?”

“You know, the Medicis of Florence. During the Italian Renaissance they were patrons of Michelangelo and everyone. Rubens did those paintings of her that are hanging in the Louvre.”

“Four out of five dentists surveyed said” — Teddy went into a Red Foxx impression —
“What you just say?”

“Never mind,” said Violet.

“Don’t you worry. I’ll be writing plenty of poems for you, Violet.” She gripped the wheel with both hands so the flood of joy wouldn’t knock her car off the road. He continued, “Ask me something.”

“Why are you so broke all the time when you have an obvious talent for golf? Why don’t you become a golf pro?”

“Are you trying to make me lose my erection?”

“You’re driving with an erection? I didn’t know such a thing was possible.”

“Of course it is. Oh, my fucking God, will you just ask me about my cock?”

“I don’t know. What’s it like?” A fuzzy lamb stared at Violet from the passenger seat. She scowled and chucked it over her shoulder. When it landed, it emitted an ugly “Ba-ah! Ba-ah!”

“What the fuck was that?” asked Teddy.

“Nothing.”

“Well, what about my cock? Ask me some questions.”

“Is it . . . big?”

“Jesus, you have a lot to learn. Ask me if it’s hard. Ask me if I’m stroking it. Ask me what I want to do with it.”

“Can’t you at least become a caddy? They do well with tips, from what I gather.”

“I’ve been a caddy, and it doesn’t do it for me, okay? Tips! Thanks a fucking lot.”

“Aren’t we in high dudgeon over a perfectly reasonable suggestion? Couldn’t you — you know — do what you did today with that guy for money?”

“Hustle? That’s not exactly what we at Alcoholics Anonymous call ‘a manner of living which demands rigorous honesty.’ What we’re trying to do is live the life we’re meant to live, which requires a restoration of ethics and morals. My cock is waiting.”

“By the way, thanks for telling me that I’m responsible for you having to do an inventory.”

“Oh man!” Teddy laughed. “You should have seen your face! You looked totally . . .” He kept laughing.

“The word is
chagrined
.”

“You totally wanted me to say I was going to jerk off to you.”

“I can just hang up. You are aware that cell phone technology makes such a thing possible.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. You didn’t make me do anything. I’m responsible for my own actions.”

“He said, as if trying to convince himself.” Violet neared her house and slowed down.

“Hey, I want to apologize for not thanking you for fixing my car. You’re right, that was ghetto. So, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I just didn’t know how. You don’t realize how much sixteen hundred bucks is to me. I mean, the most I’ve ever had at one time was eight hundred dollars. I had a real job, selling sunglasses on the Venice boardwalk. And one day a bus of Japanese tourists gets out and buys my entire inventory. When I got home, I spread all the money out on the floor and just stared at it.”

“
Then
you spent it on drugs.”

“No! I was clean then. I bought a sleigh bed.”

“For the first time in your life you have money, and you go out and buy a sleigh bed?” Violet howled. “That has got to be the most low-rent thing I’ve ever heard!”

“Do you even know what a sleigh bed
is?
” he asked. “Those rad wooden beds with the iron metalwork.”

“Of course!” Violet couldn’t stop laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“It’s just so nineties!”

“It was the fucking nineties. What do you want?”