Three Questions

by Meagan Adele Lopez

Charlie made it simple. Whether it was three in the morning and I had just gotten into an accident by slamming my car into the wall of the freeway, or my boss needed a DVD made of every single digital movie she had ever filmed of her twins, he was there helping me along. Some of Tess Goldman’s requests were crazy even for me, but he still helped me no matter what.

  My heart melted as I watched Music and Lyrics, and I’d thought maybe there was some truth to what Chelsea said about how we all are always looking for love. I’d told Chelsea about the movie before she’d arrived, and we’d both bought the soundtrack. We’d been hooked for a week, calling one another when we had a break from work and blasting it in our respective cars.

  During the drive, Chelsea and I played the song over and over until we finally learnt all the lyrics. When we got the lyrics right where we wanted them, we opened all the windows on the I5, passing by Zzyzx Road and the rolling haystacks, blasting the music so the dead in Death Valley would awake from their unrest, and belted out the words of a song that embodied what we felt at that precise moment to the high heavens and to the depths of the Grand Canyon.

  We ignored the finger given to us by the 8-year old boy in the backseat of his mom’s Range Rover as we zipped by the world’s tallest thermometer to our left, and resisted the row of outlet stores lined up on our right that were begging for us to rack up our credit card bills. We just sang. We sang right up until the last casinos before the light of the Luxor Hotel pyramid shone – which rumor had it was so bright that astronauts could see it from space. We didn’t stop until the ache that we felt in our souls became lighter, and the bond we had shared as little girls sharing each other’s diaries, leapt into the present time.

  “Del?” Chelsea turned to me and paused the music. “Where the fuck have you been these past five years?” And with that, she clicked the song back on. It was good to be back with Chelsea. I didn’t dare ask where she had been these past five years. Now was not the time. But we both understood - we were back now, and that’s what mattered.

  We sang that song about ten more times after we had gotten the lyrics down and before we moved back to the oldies. As cheesy as it might have been, we couldn’t help but feel empowered by it. Something I loved about living in France was the complete utter disregard for any word related to being cheesy. There is, in fact, no direct translation for the word cheesy. It doesn’t exist, which is refreshing.

  How exhilarating not to have to worry about a word that’s only use was to make you feel less of a person or completely uncool? The French simply live their lives under the verdict that nothing is cheesy, for all is a part of the human spirit; for them, cheese was merely a food that came in over a thousand varieties, and could be matched with wine.

  I honestly didn’t care if this weekend consisted of Chelsea and I watching Dirty Dancing, Sleepless in Seattle, and An Affair to Remember over and over again on my uncle’s sofa, because I had been to Vegas at least a dozen times over the past five years. Perhaps I could do without the extreme hangovers, dry cottonmouth from the desert air, and loss of all our money. Although I had never really gambled, one never knew what could happen when the youngest Bell and Cruz girls were out and about.

  “Oh my God. What is that?” Chelsea gasped, winded from our eleventh rendition of Way Back into Love, as we started our descent into the devil’s lair known as Vegas. This was always my favorite part on the drive, and although I kind of wished we were making the trip at night so she could see the extreme discrepancy between the pitch black desert and the neon lights of Vegas, the views of the canyons and cacti on the way were well worth it.

  “That is what we like to call - duh duh duh duh - LAAAAHS BAAAYGAHS!” I responded in my best Mexican accent.

  “Holy shit - I had no idea it would just pop up like that. It’s freaking huge. Is that a roller coaster?” She pointed to one of the hotels; I forgot if it was Paris or New York, New York.

  “Yup, and there’s the Flamingo where we’re headed tomorrow night. My favorite.”

  Her eyes sparkled wide with delight, reflecting the thousands of lights from the moneymaking (or losing, depending on which side you were on) casinos littered before us.

  Wednesday, June 11th2008

  Dear Guy,

  How’s Cape Town? Are you enjoying yourself? How are the people?

  I have to run to work in twenty minutes - this last week has been pretty busy, so I wanted to write while I could.

  Glad to finally talk to you, but you’re so right about that horrible delay on the line between our words. Makes talking on the phone not a pleasant experience. I mean, I’m talking to you, so of course it’s pleasant, but the constant “What?” pause, pause, “I was saying…oh, no, you go ahead…huh?” makes it unpleasant. Makes me feel like kind of an idiot. But yes, another six weeks and we won’t have to worry about that any longer. Well, for two weeks at least…

  I cut off a lot of my hair this weekend. It’s a bit shorter. Honestly, the blonde just killed the ends, so I had to. It makes it much nicer for summer. I was sick of dragging all this hair with me wherever I went.

  Anyway, don’t forget it’s Father’s Day on Sunday. Heading to Long Beach to spend it with my adopted father of the West Coast (although I’m not Catholic, I also consider him my godfather) - Charlie.

  My trainer is not allowing me to eat wheat, cakes, or anything with carbs in it. So, I can just imagine the good mood that will put me in this weekend. Wish me luck.

  OK, questions, before I run out of time.

  1. For the injuries question, three things come to mind- all when I was little. The first was probably when I was about five and went head first over the handlebars of my bike while going as fast as I could. Scraped all the skin off my face, my two front teeth got knocked out, and my hands were blistered. Didn’t break anything though, never have.

  I was bitten by a spider on my face and the entire right side of my face swelled so much that my mom thought my throat would close up. I couldn’t see out of my right eye for a couple of weeks. I was probably eight.

  And the third is embarrassing, but since we promised full disclosure, truth and no holding back, I’m telling all. It was when my sister pushed me into the pool.

  One leg got caught on the rim of the pool, the other went into the water. Needless to say, I needed to be rushed to the emergency room with lots of paper towels up my skirt. All has healed very well up there, thank you for asking.

  2. If I won the lottery? Invest, invest, invest. I would get my houses or apartments sorted out in the cities of my dreams - Paris, Los Angeles, Baltimore, London. Definitely go traveling more, and I like the idea of having a ‘friends house’ where my friends can meet up and stay as long as they like. I would love to start an arts school or donate money to the one I attended…I think there is nowhere better for teenagers in the arts than the school I went to. And then, make sure family is sorted. And maybe I’d let you have some if you were nice. Lots of fancy new clothes would be cool, considering the most expensive item of clothing I ever bought was my prom dress in 2000.

  3. I used to be very, very superstitious - but now I believe that superstitions come from fear, so I do my best not to have any. I’ll still kiss the ceiling when I drive through a red light and hold my breath when I walk by a black cat - but yeah, no reason to be afraid of shit that is hocus pocusy.

  Good luck on your climb up the table. I swear, I had never heard of Table Mountain before. I know, I know. It’s supposed to be big and iconic. I’ll have to Google it.

  Talk soon.

  xoxo,

  Adele

  TO GO OUT OR TO STAY IN

  “What do you feel like doing tonight?” Chelsea asked me, as we pulled into Uncle Daly’s driveway. I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. I knew that we would be getting here on Friday night, but figured we would be too tired to actually do anything. I certainly was. When I looked over at her, I could tell her eyes were pleading with me to stay in. Saturday night was our only real night out
in Vegas, however, I didn’t want her to look back and wish she had done more.

  “My uncle has a hot tub out back, we could get in and have some glasses of wine, but-”

  “Perfect.” She cut me off.

  “Are you sure? Remember we only really have tomorrow to go out then since we have to go back Sunday night,” I reminded her. She was not to be dissuaded from staying in that night. She had been out the night before and I was sure she was still a bit jetlagged. My uncle was out as well, but I had his key on my keychain.

  As I entered, I set off the house alarm and had to call him. Although having firemen come might have been a nice addition to the evening, I’m sure my uncle wouldn’t have looked at it that way. Uncle Daly calmly walked me through the codes, and we were in.

  There were two bedrooms upstairs to choose from and we chose the bigger one with the walk-in bathroom. I was wary about walking around my uncle’s house in a towel, for fear of his friend Armando. Armando was a creepy Italian father of two who drew pencil pictures of horses and car accidents, and always wanted to stop and talk about the pain he was in - emotionally and physically. Each time I saw him he would stop me to describe in detail his last hospital visit, the drugs they gave him, and the scars they left on his soul. I never actually saw any real scars.

  Those descriptions usually led him to recount stories about his childhood playboy antics; how he would pick up girls and the fights he got in to defend their honor. Then, that would lead to descriptions of women he was currently sleeping with, and at some point he would stroke my face. Shudder. I always tried to leave but he was like one of those leaches - the more you tried to pull it off, the more they would stick to you and suck out your blood. He was an energy vampire, as my mother called those people who knew how to eternally bring others down to their level. She had told me to picture white light surrounding me to protect me from these people. I didn’t think white light could protect me from his kind. No. I definitely needed more than that.

  I prayed he wasn’t here today. Didn’t look like it. So, we enjoyed the rest of our evening alone; opened one of the hundreds, possibly thousands, of bottles of wine that my uncle had stored in his cellar, and drank away in the hot tub.

  ***

  As we approached the hotel, my stomach did a couple of flip-flops. I looked around wondering if there was danger imminent. Nope, just Chelsea and I running late. We were feeling dangerous ourselves in our heels. Chelsea was feeling energized and young. We both felt sexy.

  It was Saturday night. We had both opted for short black dresses; Chelsea, because she wanted to feel alluring and young again after having been married for two years; me, because some attention from a man might be nice after all. Chelsea’s dress was paired with some strappy black heels. Mine was a one-shouldered tight black thing with thigh-high black boots.

  Smoldering dark eye makeup and big, voluminous hair helped the look, and obviously, the red lipstick completed the look. I tried to hide as much of my pee-colored, straw-like hair as possible by sweeping it up and placing the thickest headband in the world on it. Didn’t help really. I had mistakenly taken a look at myself in the mirror before I left, and what I saw before me resembled more of a small-breasted Dolly Parton than the sex bomb starlet I was hoping for. But one sugar free Red Bull and vodka later, and I had forgotten all about it. We danced and fluttered to the will call booth.

  It was the wrong show. So, we pranced around the corner to the next one the concierge so politely led us to, and the kind lady escorted us to our own private booth big enough for a family of eight.

  The show had already started. Mr. Wallace was already on stage. Champagne was brought immediately to the table and Chelsea squeezed my arm and let out a tiny squeal. Either way, our teeth were shining, and our hair was standing tall. Two or three champagne glasses later, I couldn’t tell if he was funny or not. He definitely didn’t seem funny, but we were in the mood to laugh, so laugh we did.

  Our dresses were tight. That didn’t stop us. The food seemed to be coming in one continuous motion. Gregory hadn’t told us this would be an all-you-could-eat conveyor belt. Fried calamari, vegetable dumplings, blackened chicken pasta, salmon and mashed potatoes, as well as crème brulée and strawberry cheesecake for dessert. Food coma.

  The act was still going on, but we decided to “loosen our belts”, so to speak, uncrossed our legs and devoured the last of the champagne. A phone vibrated on the table. Gregory again. Sweet, sweet man. Another phone vibrated on the table. I glanced at Chelsea. She glanced at me. Victor. She pressed ignore.

  “Hello Gregory,” I whispered, bending my head under the table so as to be out of view. The last thing I wanted was to be picked on by this comedian.

  “Got your glad rags on sweetheart?” he answered, staccato-tastic into the phone.

  “Gregory, I have no idea what that even means. Please speak English.”

  “It means, do ya got your gams out? You hitting on all sixes? Out on the town looking hot, as the kids say these days.” I thought he was speaking in shorthand.

  “Ohh. Yes sir, we have our LBD’s on and lipstick slapped on our pouts.”

  “Don’t know that one. How’s everything else?” Generation gap.

  “The food has been amazing,” I said into the phone as discreetly as possible, “and let me tell you, that champagne that you brought to the table….”

  “Champagne? What do you mean? Chhh…” I think this was the first time I had ever heard Gregory stutter. “They really brought champagne to the table?”

  “Well, yeah, we’re on our third bottle at least. They just kept bringing it and….” I couldn’t get the last of what I was saying out, because Chelsea was furiously tapping on my leg. I bumped my head on the table as I was edging out, and would have scoffed at her had it not been for the fact that her face had frozen in the middle of eating a fried tail of a squid, her eyes securely planted on three ladies scooting into our booth. My heart started beating faster. I had the phone in my lap. I needed a distraction, so I just started punching numbers into it. Muffled words interjected with digits beeping. I quickly threw it into my purse.

  Was that…? Is that…?

  Every other VIP booth had at least four other people sitting in them, but we figured since Gregory had set this up for us that we got the special table all to ourselves. We even had a little giggle about our luck. What we didn’t consider was the fact that Britney Spears was planning on coming half way through the act and was heading in our direction with two other friends, her entourage waiting outside.

  Chelsea went on autopilot, meaning that instead of continuing to watch the show or turn and say hello to our new arrival, she began speaking as rapidly as words came to her. I couldn’t really hear what she was talking about because I was too fascinated by the ladies being seated at our table. But Chelsea went on about something to do with a mutual friend of ours whom she “didn’t know why she chose those type of friends” and “surely could have at least dyed her roots.” I tried to calmly ignore my perspiring armpits and the twitch that was developing in my left eye.

  The waitress stood staring at Britney as she popped over to our table. Chelsea and I scooted over, keeping our heads turned towards each other. Since the table was moon shaped, the angle gave us a perfect peripheral view of the train wreck.

  She seemed incredibly dressed down for a Saturday night in Vegas, with a green and black striped, short sleeved, cropped shirt, her tiny belly showing. She was wearing tight, light jeans and heels and was shorter than I ever thought she would be. Those famous extensions were falling out and in plain view, and her only attempt at makeup was smeared red lipstick (maybe her grandmother had taught her the strength of that color as well, but forgot to show her how to apply it).

  As Chelsea was talking, I was figuring out how to turn and at least acknowledge her presence in a casual, woman to woman way without making her feel like I wanted to be another “friend.” My logic was that she would appreciate a friendly smile or the k
nowledge that there was someone out there who wasn’t after her for her fame. I thought I could comfort her, knowing I had a special gift for putting people at ease around me. Those four years in casting had taught me how to be around famous people and how to treat them just like normal people, but with an extra bit of sensitivity. After all, these were fragile people, and poor Brit Brit had had a tough couple of years with the shaving of the head, the pregnancies, that silly marriage.

  “Hey Chelsea,” I whispered. I had a brilliant idea. “Should we buy her a drink?”

  “What? Are you crazy? Why would she want a drink from us? Plus, we shouldn’t be feeding her drug problem. Don’t you think she gets enough people feeding her drinks?”

  I guess I didn’t fully comprehend the severity of my suggestion. OK, so no drinks. Back to the friendly smile game. I composed myself and breathed in and turned towards her. Waited for her to look my way. Almost there - her entourage turned in my direction. My smile was getting ready. They looked back towards the stage. Maybe if I tilted my head at an angle she would catch my casual gaze.

  “Psst…what are you trying to do?” Chelsea hissed at me. “You look like you’re going to have a stroke. Why is your mouth half smiling like that?” Gotta give it to a best friend to tell you how it is.

  Just then, Britney looked my way.

  I wasn’t prepared. I half flashed my grin, half waved and half gave a thumbs up, which ended up looking more like a thumbs sideways, and with how much I was shaking probably came across as a so-so sign. She shot an annoyed look my way and I swear she must have rolled her eyes. This was going to be unbearable. Maybe my self-proclaimed calming persona was wearing off. I went back to my champagne and my purse.

  Mr. Wallace luckily didn’t notice the celeb - either that or he knew she was coming and was asked not to say anything - and the show droned on and on and on and on. This was probably the worst show I had ever seen. He seemed like a dried up old… well… Vegas act.