So get the money from your father, I say.
I can’t, she goes. He’ll kill me. What about Dean? she says.
Right, I say. I’m going to hit up this guy I just met two weeks ago for five thousand dollars? Think again, babe.
What are we going to do? Jeannie says as she bends over the mirror and snorts a big line.
I’m going out to do the town with Dean, I say. Then Dean’s going to do me. The question is, what are you going to do?
That sounds harsh, but I mean, really.
Dean has tickets for this hot play but first he takes me to Petaluma for a drink. The waiter’s Mike from my acting class, he tells me that Didi showed up at closing time last night, really fucked up.
She was probably just waking up, I say. She’s not really good till after midnight.
Girl has a problem, Dean says.
The play is Fences, I’ve been wanting to see it all spring and I’m definitely not disappointed. It’s basically about how a father can screw up the life of his kid and I’m like, absolutely.
There’s this one incredible scene where James Earl Jones’s son, spits in his face. My acting teacher told us that at rehearsals for the play the guy who was playing the son couldn’t bring himself to spit in James Earl Jones’s face so the director started to insult him and spit in his face and tell him that James Earl Jones was nothing special. Right. That guy’s so powerful he’s like the ultimate father where you can’t tell if he’s God or Satan or what, and when the boy spits in his face you think lightning’s going to come down and zap the kid into ashes. Afterwards Dean keeps talking about the structure and character development and I wish he’d shut up, I’m just thinking about that moment.
After the play we go to Nell’s. I’m looking forward to showing up with Dean, making it sort of official, you know, like—here we are, everybody. Okay, so I’m an exhibitionist. Of course, it could be dangerous. On any given night there could be eight or ten of my old flames slipping around in there.
My friend Whitney is working the door. Whitney was like Phi Beta Kappa at some Ivy League school, she was really straight, studied all the time and then she went to Columbia Law School but one night Francesca introduced her to this guy in Elvis Costello’s band and she disappeared for about two weeks and now she works the door and does some modeling on the side. She has two big guys with her. She points to people and the boys pull back the rope to let them pass. There are about fifty people waiting. I feel bad walking right in, but what can you do? Okay, that’s not true, I feel good. It’s a mean old world, right?
Whitney checks Dean out, winks at me and goes, not bad.
It’s pretty crowded inside, considering it’s only midnight, but we get a table. A guy comes over and gives Dean a big hug and Dean goes, Alison, this is Phil, Didi’s cousin. Phil’s a big, athletic-looking guy. He’s wearing a black T-shirt so you can see he’s got this great young body but his face looks ten years older than the rest of him, like forty or something. He’s got crow’s-feet, wrinkles, skin that looks like it’s seen a lot of wind from high-speed living.
And Phil goes, so you’re a friend of Didi’s. How is she? I haven’t seen her in ages.
I look at Dean and he looks at me and we’re both like, what do you want, the truth?
So I go, to tell you the truth I’m kind of worried about her.
What’s the matter, Phil says, she looking for AIDS in all the right places?
You know how you don’t like some people right away? Well, I don’t know why but immediately I can’t stand this Phillip.
She’s been doing huge amounts of blow, I say. Every night, all night. She’s got a real problem, I tell him.
Didi? he says, as if he doesn’t believe me. Little Didi? I’ve seen her do a few lines but I can’t imagine she’d really go crazy with it. What exactly are we talking about here? Because you’re talking to somebody who ended up in detox for three months.
I’m like, good for you. I’m really impressed that you were such a major-league fuck-up.
Dean jumps in, he’s such a diplomat, can’t seem to stand unpleasantness between people, that’s one of his big problems, he’d rather be pleasant than honest, I guess he didn’t grow up like me where people were screaming and throwing cutlery at each other. Anyway, he goes, I’ve got to say I agree with Alison. Didi is pretty strung out.
Well, he goes, I’ll check into it.
Hey, don’t do us any favors. I’m really mad at myself for saying anything to this guy, and if he hadn’t really pissed me off I would’ve made a joke out of it, but now I feel like I’ve betrayed Didi or something.
Phil makes like a tree, which is good because I could feel a major battle coming on. What an asshole, I say. What does he do besides aggravate people?
He’s a stockbroker, Dean says. Relax, he says, and orders a bottle of champagne from the waitress with the soup-bowl haircut. I don’t know, these downtown artsy coifs may get attention, but not necessarily the right kind. I don’t think most guys are too keen on running their fingers through a fashion statement.
Anyway, suddenly I get a little tingle of tornado warning, like the air pressure drops radically around our table and sure enough a familiar voice screams Alison from a few yards away, then Francesca drops into the seat next to me, a natural freaking phenomenon—is that the word?—in green sequins and red beads. She’s wearing this button over her tit that says THE DESSERT CART STOPS HERE.
I love Francesca, she’s about the only person I know who has a sense of humor about herself.
My God, I’m so glad to see you guys, she goes, there’s absolutely no one important or interesting here tonight, I was just getting ready to leave. Somebody told me Bono was here but I didn’t see him. Hello, Dean darling, you’re looking completely edible tonight. I’m absolutely starved. We went to some horrible Thai restaurant that just got a great review in the Times, me and Trey Burton and a bunch of other people and the restaurant had no bread. I told the waiter it’s the fucking staff of life for Christ’s sake. Can you believe it?
Rather ethnocentric of you, Dean goes.
You filthy boy, Francesca says, wash your mouth out with soap. She pauses to take a breath and do a quick surveillance of the room. Francesca is like one of those cartoon characters, I swear she can swivel her head three hundred and sixty degrees when she wants to see who’s around.
Dean goes, so what are Mick and Jerry doing tonight, Francesca? I heard they were having a big party.
I take back all the nice things I said about you earlier tonight, she tells him. You’re a jerk. When I have a party I’m leaving your name off the list.
Then just for good measure she turns on me and says, Alison, you’re actually wearing a skirt and heels for a change. Did someone steal all your sneakers and sweatshirts?
It’s true, I’ve got a little black leather skirt on, black silk top and decent heels.
And Cesca’s like, you almost look like a grown woman. The way you usually dress, I mean, Dean may be a jerk, but unless he’s really rotten in bed he deserves better than that.
He’s fanfuckingtastic in bed, I say.
Go ahead, Cesca goes, depress me.
Have some champagne, says Dean.
And Francesca says, I don’t drink, alcohol’s got zillions of calories. Literally zillions. Later for you guys. I’m going home to try and scrape my makeup off. That’s one way to lose five pounds quick and if I’m lucky it’ll only take a couple of hours.
She kisses Dean, then me, then like a big green cruise ship she casts off her lines and steams away, blowing a kiss.
Speaking of weight, Dean says, there’s no way you’re a 34-B. He’s wearing his extraspecial shit-eating grin, the one that he gets after a blow job.
What? I say.
And he goes, bra size.
How do you know what size I wear? I go.
He goes, I looked this morning before you woke up. You’ve got to be about three sizes bigger than that, he says.
&nbs
p; I tell him, you don’t know what it’s like walking down the streets of New York alone with your tits. So I wear really small bras. It hides ’em. I can’t believe you looked at my bra while I was asleep. You’re weird, I say.
Dean and I are just getting kissy when suddenly out of the corner of my eye I see somebody ooze up out of the crowd and this familiar oily voice goes, Dean, how the hell are you?
Dean looks a little queasy, but I love it. I’m really glad to see Skip at this particular moment. I’m like, Skip, what a wonderful surprise. What an honor. I mean, gee, the great Skip Pendleton. Would you care to join our humble table?
Skip isn’t exactly thrilled to see me, I don’t think he realized who it was with her tongue down Dean’s throat. But Mr. Polite takes a seat and tries to make the best of it. Dean’s squirmy, but he offers Skip a glass of champagne and Skip says great! with this big fake heartiness. Men are so stuck inside these codes of behavior, they’re like musicians who only know three chords. Emotionally they’re punks. Dean and Skip are both playing at being good sports right now while mentally they’re circling around each other like attack dogs. Skip’s mind is going, I pissed here, this is my territory, how dare you piss here? And Dean’s really upset because Skip got here first. So what does that make me, guys, the fire hydrant?
How are you, Alison? Skip says.
Never better, I say, looking at Dean.
Will you guys excuse me for a minute? Dean says. He heads downstairs. I don’t know, maybe he’s being nice and giving us a chance to make our separate peace or something, or else he’s uncomfortable with the situation and can’t deal with it. Or maybe he just has to take a leak.
You going out with Dean? Skip asks.
Yeah, I am, I say. He’s great.
That’s good, Skip says. I’m glad.
I’m thinking, sure you are, Skip, and then he waves to somebody on the other end of the room. He’s always got his eye on the next thing, always checking to see if something better isn’t just around the corner. He’s ten times worse than Cesca. The only way to keep Skip’s attention is to talk about him.
So Dean must’ve told you about the great time we had the other night, he says.
And like an idiot I go, when was this? I could’ve kicked myself as soon as I said it. Now Skip’s got me. Whatever he tells me, he’s going to know I didn’t know it before. I hate to have him get the satisfaction of telling me anything about Dean.
It was wild, Skip goes. I think it was Thursday. I ran into Dean here about one. Neither of us was feeling any pain by that time, but we had a couple of bottles of champagne and then we went with our dates down to Automatic Slims. Had a great time.
I hear our dates and I know that was the whole point of the story but I’m not going to bite, I won’t give Skip the satisfaction. He’s going to tell me anyway. Thursday was the night I kept calling Dean and getting his machine. I woke up at ten and called and the machine was still on. He told me he’d been at a business dinner.
Skip’s going, you know Cassie Hane, don’t you? Nice girl. Model. Not exactly a rocket scientist, but she’s a lot of fun. I know Dean isn’t really serious about her, though. Obviously he’s a lot more interested in you.
I’m thinking, excuse me, Skip, but would you mind, like, stepping into an open elevator shaft on a high floor for just a second? I’m wondering if he suspects he got burned on the abortion deal. Or does he just think like three-quarters of the men in the world that any girl who sleeps with him should go to a nunnery afterwards and cherish the memory, or throw herself on a fire, or declare her vagina a national historic landmark and seal up the secret passageway forever after.
Anyway, he’s out for revenge and he scored. He knows it, too. I’m so pissed at Dean I could cut his dick off. Not because he went out with this bimbo and probably screwed her. I’m mad because he lied and put me in a position where Skip could humiliate me.
My party’s over at the front booth, Skip says. I really should rejoin them. Great to see you, Alison. Give a call sometime.
He winks in a way that makes me think he’s serious. Probably he sees me as desirable again, now that Dean wants me.
This was definitely Thursday night? I ask.
I’ve already lost this round so I might as well get the information I need.
Let me think, Skip goes. Yeah, definitely Thursday, I had my tennis game the next day and I remember being hungover.
As soon as Skip clears out this guy Chuck Harnist sits down and starts hitting on me. Like an idiot I slept with him one night so now he thinks I can stand the sight of him. Not that he’s bad-looking, he could practically stand in for Tom Cruise, but when he opens his mouth he makes you wish you carried a roll of electrical tape in your purse. He’s telling me about some stupid project supposedly in development with Paramount, like I could care less. Chuck’s supposedly a screenwriter. He’s one of these people who’s always talking about deals, he’s made a deal here and he’s negotiating a deal there, but after you’ve known him a while you realize these deals are like a daisy chain where nobody ever actually has an orgasm, it’s just a lot of lubricated friction. You sell an idea to a producer and he sells it to a studio and then the idea changes and then the studio changes and nothing ever happens except a lot of checks get written. Yada yada yada. Chuck has bored me to tears with this stuff a bunch of nights. Unfortunately, the last time it happened I was at his apartment when the drugs ran out and I was too lazy to go home, but if Chuck thinks I want to repeat the mistake he’s out of his mind. I mean, it wasn’t that good, honey. Frankly, I’ve seen bigger matchsticks.
So Chuck’s yammering away and I’m thinking about how pissed off I am at Dean when suddenly I think, shit, where is he? Maybe he got really pissed off when Skip came over and actually left the premises. Or else he saw me talking with Chuck. He’s kind of the jealous type, which is something I don’t have much time for. I mean, what’s the point? It’s a lot of wasted energy, and my feeling when I’m out with a guy and I see some other girl hitting on him is like, great, if you can get him out the door, you can have him, I don’t care. But first you’ve got to get him out the door, honey.
So I’m like looking around and thinking I better get rid of Chuck so Dean won’t get all jealous on me and then I’m like, what’s wrong with you, Alison? What do you care what that liar thinks? Dean’s an asshole. Let him slink away on his belly like a snake. Good riddance.
Basically it’s just that I don’t want to be robbed of seeing the look on his face when I catch him up with his own lies. He can take a cab straight to hell as far as I’m concerned—I don’t have to be lonely tonight, there’s about eighteen guys here who would take me home in a minute. But I do want him to know that I know what a shithead he is.
Fucking Cassie Hane! That bimbo. That really pisses me off, I consider it a personal insult that I’d be placed in the same category as Cassie. A real smart girl, she’s only a little less articulate than Sylvester Stallone. I mean, if he’s going to fuck other women, fine, I don’t mind, really I don’t, but they better be at least in the as-wonderful-as-I-am category or how could he even consider it? Obviously the guy has no taste. That’s what really gets me. If he thinks she’s worth the price of dinner, how can he truly appreciate me?
Then I see him coming back across the room. I introduce him to Chuck and ask if he’s ready to go and he says, sure, if you are. So I give Chuck this huge kiss for Dean’s benefit, I can see him wince a little, he doesn’t like that at all. You just wait, honey. Dean doesn’t mind leaving early, though, because he thinks he’s getting nooky. Dream on, babe. You wish. In the cab he kisses me and I let him. He tells me about some people he ran into on his way to the bathroom.
Back at his place he asks if I want a drink and I say no and he winks and goes, bed? and I’m like, sure, that sounds cool. Of course, there’s bed and then there’s bed, right? Like—you’ve made your bed, now lie in it.
When I come out of the bathroom he’s lying between the sheets
with his clothes piled on the floor. I turn on the TV and climb in with all my clothes on. He watches the last few minutes of Letterman with me but I can feel him getting restless over on his side. He clamps a hand on my thigh. Very subtle. When I start switching the channels he rolls toward me and starts kissing my neck and chewing on my earlobe, rubbing his crotch up against my hip. There’s nothing sillier than a hard-on with no place to go.
I find an evangelical show. Brothers and sisters, Jesus loves you, blah blah blah. One of my mom’s redneck boyfriends took us to one these things when I was eleven. He was a landscaper during the day and a stud at night and on Sundays he went to these religious revival meetings and blubbered about Jesus while this geek preacher healed everybody, casting out devils and throwing away crutches, shit flying all over the place. Eleven years old and even then I knew it was all a crock. This preacher was an amateur, I mean, give me a break, starting with my father I’d grown up around a better class of liar and cheater and con artist than this cracker. I’ve been lied to by the best.
Which reminds me. I suddenly go to Dean, he’s kind of whimpering on his side of the bed, hey, I go, what are the three greatest lies in the world?
Is this a joke? he goes. He’s definitely not into it. He’s into getting into me.
But I’m like, no, not really. It’s just kind of an old proverb or something. You know. You’re an expert on this subject. (This goes right past him.) One, the check’s in the mail. Two, I promise I won’t come in your mouth, and what’s the third?
I forget, Dean says. I don’t think he’s trying very hard to remember. His eyes are glazing over. If you look closely you can see his IQ falling by the second. All the blood’s draining out of his brain, headed south. Pretty soon he won’t remember his own name. He’s working his hand up the inside of my sweatshirt.
It’s really bugging me what the third greatest lie is, but in the meantime I switch the channel to Star Trek . Dean works his hand up under my bra strap and slides his hand in.
So tell me about Thursday night, I go.
Story of My Life Page 9