“Slowly climb out of the car, hands first! Lie down spread-eagle on the ground!”
I did as I was asked without looking around. I lay like that for several minutes before I finally found the courage to look up. I heard someone yell out, “False alarm.”
Moments later, I saw black police shoes milling around me. Suddenly, I was hoisted to my feet. The police officers explained without apology that a car with an identical description as mine had been involved in a fatal drive-by gang shooting earlier that week. With a few pats on the back and accompanying guffaws from the officers for being a good sport and a few uncomfortable smiles from me, I was on my way. My first run-in with the L.A. police cops left a bad taste in my mouth. I didn’t drive away a fan. Over time, I got used to the traffic stops and felt secret pleasure when the police discovered I was white and relatively square, as far as they were concerned. I grew to love the Buick and take extra good care of it. Having few friends in Los Angeles, I became good friends with Stan and Maribel, and they became one of my regular stops every so often, Maribel always stuffing me with wonderful home-cooked Mexican fixings.
The memory of my first few days in Los Angeles, all the promise they contained, brought a smile to my face. I’d come a long way, even if I was going through a bit of a rough patch. I passed Whitley Heights to my north—a bunch of old houses built on the steep hills right up against the Hollywood Bowl with stair access only. I followed Franklin until it dead-ended at an out-of-place cemetery. My only option was a left turn onto Sierra Bonita, a small street that led me down to a stretch of Hollywood Boulevard, far from the commercialization and tourism of the storefronts and street performers and panhandlers further east. This section of Hollywood Boulevard was marked by semi-expensive homes on the north side and multi-unit dwellings on the south side. The road narrowed to two lanes, one of which was taken up with parked cars on the weekends and nights. As I passed the cemetery, I wondered if anybody famous was buried there.
A short trip on Hollywood led me to Laurel Canyon Boulevard, one of the key canyon pathways to the Valley. I turned right and followed Laurel upward, traversing its winding narrow path. I’d read stories about Jim Morrison when he was living in his Laurel Canyon apartment with his on again, off again lover Pamela Courson. He didn’t have a car and depended on rides from others to get places. His drinking bouts were legendary. He would often wander down Laurel Canyon from his apartment to get drunk at one of several bars on Sunset, making the bar his home for the night as long as they’d let him stay.
Soon I was descending Laurel Canyon, northbound into the Valley. I made a left from Laurel onto Ventura Boulevard, entering an architecturally much less interesting section of Los Angeles. I drove west on Ventura, passing the various storefronts and businesses lining either side of the road as I made my way back to my apartment. As my car closed in on the apartment, for a moment I considered driving over to Sara’s house and taking apart her new boyfriend as payback for what Williams had put me through. I pulled up to the light on Woodman and Ventura. If I made a right turn, I’d be home in one block. Or I could keep going. The light turned green and I didn’t move. A driver behind me sounded his horn. I was frozen. Then I heard Izzy’s voice, “You promised.” I took a breath, turning the wheel clockwise toward my apartment.
I pulled into my garage, my thoughts moving in a productive direction, now on my writing. I’d shoved Sara deep into a mental corner, sure she’d pop up again soon enough. I wanted to get to work on “The Coffee Shop Lovers” and finish it before I had to fly back to New York. I was about to open my door, when the last twenty-four hours rushed back in a flash. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to look around to make sure no one was lurking in the garage or up in my apartment. I poked my head out of the Buick, but seeing nothing out of place, I climbed out and exited the garage to the exterior stairwell leading up to the first-floor hallway. I entered the building without incident, almost expecting Williams to be standing at my door again. He wasn’t. I opened my front door and stepped inside. I looked around the room, making sure it was in fact empty, which it was. I knew I was being neurotically cautious but, strangely enough, a tingling sensation told me I was enjoying the fear. I went to my computer, turned it on, and headed to the fridge, the interior light welcoming me home. The fridge was empty except for a few cans of soda. I grabbed a can, popped it open, then went back to my computer and sat down. I took a deep breath, opened the Chicago couple’s story and stared at it. The preliminaries were done, but I had a lot more to add, plus a solid cleanup of what I had already written. I stared at the screen, took a breath, put my fingers to the keyboard, and asked God’s creative muse to grace me with His Presence.
I started where I had left off.
8 Late September – New York – 2nd Trip
My second plane trip to New York was more relaxing than my first for two reasons: 1) I had less anxiety about what, or who, was waiting for me there—I had no intention of meeting Marco alone again; and 2) the night before I left, there was a momentous shift in my relations with Sara.
After returning from my first trip, nothing much had changed between Sara and me. She remained aloof and distant most of the time. If I tried to discuss our relationship, she dismissed the subject with a wave of her hand. A few nights before my second trip, she spurred me into a heated one-sided discourse. My outburst lasted for several minutes and included the phrases “I love you so much” and “You’re the love of my life” and “I’m nothing without you” and “How can we survive like this?” I fell apart, dropping any pretense of pride or ego.
“Jon, nothing in life is perfect. This is how things are right now. Can’t you just accept the status quo?” She patted me on my head and gave me a kiss on my cheek. “I’m going to bed.”
I tried justifying her behavior. She’d been working long hours, and, if the stars lined up for her, she would make partner within the next twelve months, becoming the youngest and only female partner in her law firm. I begrudgingly gave her behavior a wide berth. But that understanding did nothing to ease the ever-present fear that any day Sara would do something drastic. By mid-September, I had become hyperaware of my fear-filled discontent. I was analyzing every single interaction we had, whether at home or on the phone, in an email or a text message. Something had to change. I couldn’t handle the suspense much longer. I needed to take control. Then, the night before I left on my second trip to New York, Sara threw me for a complete loop.
She showed up at home after a company function, dressed in a sexy skirt suit, plopping down beside me on the couch. With my computer on my lap, I was working on “The Coffee Shop Lovers,” but, as usual, having a terrible go at it. I could tell she was tipsy, her movements loose. She tossed her purse on the coffee table where my bare feet were propped. I dropped my feet to the floor by force of habit. She hated it when I put my feet on the furniture.
“Hi, Jonny Boy.”
She hadn’t called me Jonny Boy in over a year, a nickname she laid on me early in our romance.
“How’s your writing coming along?”
I was taken off guard by her affectionate nature. She leaned her head against me, one hand on my shoulder, her left leg resting suggestively on my thigh. I sat frozen, not wanting it to stop but afraid if I said the wrong thing she would stand up and disappear into the other room.
“It’s fine. Been stuck on this couple’s story, just can’t get the hook.”
“Oh, don’t worry, you will. You always do.” Her right hand was fondling my ear, her left hand moving slowly back and forth on my left thigh. “Do you want to have sex?”
Of course I wanted to have sex! But I feared she was teasing me. I gently leaned forward, setting my computer on the coffee table, then slowly reversed directions, settling back into her embrace. I stared at her, nodding, not saying anything for fear the sound of my voice would break the spell. A moment later, she was unbuttoning her blouse with her righ
t hand and getting me excited with her left. Not even a minute later we were naked on the couch fully engaged in passionate love play. It occurred to me that Sara was probably closer to drunk than tipsy, but I didn’t care. We were having sex. It had been so long that I was unable to sustain myself, hitting my climax before she did, but Sara barely seemed to notice. She led me to the bedroom, laid me down, and started engaging in several methods of excitement that worked me back up to a level of proper use. As our bodies worked on each other, I couldn’t stop the thoughts running through my mind, that now things would get better, Sara had turned a corner, our downhill slide was over. In the throes of passion, as Sara reached her second climax, I had an epiphany: I needed to buy a ring.
Sara fell asleep with her naked body against mine. When I awoke the next morning, she was gone. A curt note said she went to the gym, and then work, that she loved me. Nothing about the night before. I would be on a plane soon, so I couldn’t say goodbye to her. But it didn’t matter. Things were going to improve. I could feel it. Both my drive to the airport and my flight east went by in a blur, and I was lost in the pleasing haze of the night before.
Later, standing on the curb at JFK, waiting for Joey to pick me up—Vespucci had insisted this time, claiming Barbara had given him a dressing down for not doing so on my first trip—I could still smell Sara’s perfume, see her naked on top of me. A self-satisfied smile crossed my lips. Expecting a Lincoln Town Car and lost in my reverie over the night before, I didn’t notice the Mini Cooper pulling up just in front of me at the curb. I was gazing at the oncoming traffic when, from the corner of my eye, I saw a mane of dark hair climb out of the driver’s side door. Maggie caught the grin on my face as I turned her way.
“Happy to see me instead of Joey?” she asked, as cheerful as ever.
Flustered and blushing, I couldn’t speak at first. My tongue wouldn’t work. My smile had been for Sara’s naked body, but the sudden surge of emotion I felt when spotting Maggie made me feel instantly guilty.
I blurted, “No.”
Maggie’s smile faded.
“I mean, yes, I’m very happy to see you.” This wasn’t much better, considering Maggie was my employer. “I mean, sorry, I was lost in my thoughts. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” I mentally kicked myself, basically insinuating I’d been having sex.
“My father needed Joey’s driving skills, so he sent me in his stead. I’m your chauffeur. I hope that’s okay.” Moving around to the back of the car, she opened the trunk. Mechanically, I tossed my bag in the back.
Maggie looked more stunning now than she had on my first trip. Her hair was loose, carelessly hanging on her shoulders, a black formfitting t-shirt and similarly worn denim jeans accentuating the curves of her waist, hips, and legs. I was flustered, my stomach doing the same somersaults it did the first time I’d met her, unable to understand what was happening. She was a client, clearly spoken for, taken. I could still feel Sara’s touch on my skin. The whole thing was absurd. I took a deep breath, trying to manage the physical gyrations occurring in my body. I rallied, getting my feet planted securely beneath me, pulling it together.
“What a great surprise,” I said. “You’re way more fun than Joey. He never talks.”
“Joey’s not a big one for chatter,” Maggie replied, laughing.
I laughed with her and climbed into the passenger seat.
“How’s the prince of romance?” she asked.
“Prince of romance?”
“My colleagues at work gave you that nickname after I told them what you do.”
“I wish it were accurate, but I’m sorry to say it’s not even close.”
Maggie pulled away from the curb, navigating her Mini Cooper in and out of the mass of traffic flowing thru JFK.
“How’s the planning coming along for the wedding?” I asked.
Maggie’s look told me all I needed to know. Like many brides I’d met over the years, she was hitting the burnout point. Even with her mother and sister-in-law handling most of the planning, Maggie said the minutiae of it all was getting to her. She tried to brush off my question with a wave of her hand.
“I don’t want to talk about the wedding. It’s completely in my face at the moment. All I think and hear every day is wedding this and wedding that. I need a bit of quiet on the matter. I can’t say that to any of the family. But you’re not family. And you won’t tell, right?” she said with a conspiratorial look.
“As long as you don’t tell your father I wasn’t doing my job,” I added.
“Deal.”
This was not the first time I’d heard something along these lines from a bride. As the impending date loomed closer and closer, I’d seen brides and grooms express their stress and concern in many and varying ways. Maggie’s phone erupted noisily between the two front seats. She glanced down at it.
“Oh, geez, it’s Caroline. She and my mother want to use pinks and blues for the wedding colors, and they’re putting in the final orders but they need my approval. I hate the color pink. Maybe you should help me pick the colors.”
“No can do. I make it a point never to interfere in any way with my client’s decisions regarding the wedding. It’s a personal safety issue,” I answered.
Maggie laughed. “A personal safety issue?”
“I’m serious. Weddings tend to bring out the best, and worst, in those involved. There is a heightened awareness of the importance of opinion and hierarchy. I’ve learned that, in the end, my opinion falls at the bottom of the hierarchy, even if the bride herself asks for my suggestions. Mother, mother-in-law, maid of honor, sister, sister-in-law, the wedding planner, maternal grandmother, paternal grandmother, father, father-in-law, groom, brother, cousin, other friends, usually in declining rank of order. I’m last on the list, below those aforementioned people. If I make my opinion known, then I will surely anger someone in that group. If you’ve ever been punched in the nose by a grandmother, you’d understand why I’m careful.”
Maggie didn’t notice the light change from red to green because she was laughing so hard. A honk from behind motivated her to punch the gas. “You rolled that list off like you had it memorized.”
“I’ve seen that list in action. I’ll never give my opinion, even if you twist my arms behind my back.”
“Don’t worry, Jon Fixx, I won’t ask you for any wedding advice. But I don’t think my grandmother will punch you. Not her style.” With a pause, she added, “She’d use a gun.”
I laughed, imagining Maggie’s grandma holding a gun. My laugh faded when I suddenly wondered if she was half serious. Unexpectedly, images of my lovemaking session with Sara flashed across my mind, pulling my attention away from the close quarters of the car, away from Maggie and our conversation. I tried to squelch the thoughts. As pleasant as they were, they were too distracting to allow me to stay focused on Maggie’s words. I glanced out the passenger window, taking a deep breath, hoping to empty my mind of images I would rather enjoy while alone. Without warning, the images of my lovemaking session became ever more vivid, my fingertips tingling with the feel of Sara’s skin, my eyes traveling up her naked body, past her tight tummy across her breasts up past her breastbone suddenly settling on Maggie’s face. I reacted by clenching my fists, falling into a coughing fit to cover my discomfort.
“Are you okay, Jon? Do you need some water? I’ve got a bottle here.” She handed me a bottle of Evian from between the two front seats. “Here, drink this.”
I stuck my hand up palm out, protesting, pointing at the bottle, then her.
“Oh, don’t be silly. Drink it,” she insisted.
In that moment, I realized I could no longer ignore this attraction I had for Maggie. Sooner or later, I would have to figure out why I was having these feelings. I dismissed the possibility that I was considering Maggie as a possible mate. Not once in my life had I been interested in a woman who was spo
ken for. It was not my M.O. and it made no sense for that to change now. Maybe I was testing my faithfulness to Sara with someone I knew I could never have. I took a deep swig of Maggie’s water, trying to clear my head.
“Thank you,” I said, trying to explain away my coughing fit. “Not sure what that was, just felt like I got something stuck in my throat.” I looked out the window and stared at the pedestrians crowding the streets.
Maggie’s voice pulled my focus back into the car. “Mind if I ask you something personal?”
“Sure.”
“Why aren’t you married yet? I mean, given what you do for a living, one would think by now you’d have that all locked up.”
Before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Funny you should ask that. Before I left L.A. last night, I decided it’s time to take the next step. I’m buying a ring when I get back to Los Angeles. I’m going to propose.”
“Really? Have you and Sara discussed it?”
“No, we haven’t discussed it yet. I don’t believe that’s the way to do it. A man should just propose.”
“So you’re sure she’ll say ‘yes’ ?”
I confidently nodded, though I had no idea if that was true. I hadn’t given much thought to what Sara would say. In fact, I hadn’t given any of it much thought, but I wanted to turn the previous night with Sara to my advantage. Strike while the iron’s hot.
“I’m sure it’s what she wants,” I said.
“You don’t sound so sure,” Maggie answered, perceptibly.
“It’s the right time.”
I realized I felt defensive, but I wasn’t sure why. I decided to change the subject, but before I could do that, Maggie asked, “Where did you meet Sara?”
“At a wedding.”
Amused, Maggie asked, “A client’s wedding?”
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