Disconnected

by J. Cafesin

  It was almost dark out by the time I emerged from the bathroom with my hair blown dry, my eyebrows and chin plucked and my teeth brushed. I scavenged for what to wear. Dress, per his request, or pants... I went with something in-between, an ‘80s style Flashdance look— my big, burgundy silk blouse that fell to just below my butt, over sheer black tights. I decided against heels, choose my flat, black, pointy-toe boots to avoid the Amazonian look next to Lee.

  I sucked in my stomach, threw back my shoulders and then combed both hands through my hair. It fell around my face in shiny waves. I looked tight, L.A. chic. Not beautiful, but not bad. It would have to do. I may not want to be with Lee, but I still wanted him to want me.

  We exchanged a joint and listened to Brian Ferry's Don't Stop the Dance as Lee glided through the last few curves of Benedict Canyon. He'd said I looked ‘stunning' when he'd arrived, promptly at 7:00p.m. "Simply stunning," were his exact words as he openly sized me up. He looked pretty cute, too, a skinny white tie against a loose black shirt tucked into black jeans, topped with his black leather jacket. Black is forever chic.

  Women in evening gowns and men in business suits lingered on the curved red carpet that followed the line of the enormous marquee above. Love Letters in white cursive was scrawled across a ruby banner. The actor's names were printed across the top, Heston's considerably larger than his wife/actress Lydia Clarke, the other lead in the show.

  Lee took a last hit off the joint, dropped it in the ashtray and suddenly punched the accelerator. He swung a sharp u-turn that instantly made me nauseous. I swallowed back barfing as he pulled into the parking space across the street from the theater where a Lincoln Continental had just pulled from the curb.

  The queasy feeling returned about a third of the way through the play. The two actors on stage revealed their love story through letters, beginning as childhood sweethearts. Michael and I were big into letters after his family moved back east, right up until his last one, explaining why he'd proposed to someone else.

  At intermission Lee led me outside for some fresh air, which turned out to be damp, freezing cold air.

  "You okay? You look a little...white."

  "I'm fine. Just cold." I huddled into myself, bit my lip to stave off tears, tried to swallow back the lump in my throat that always rose when I thought of Michael.

  Lee moved close, put his arms around me and gently pulled me in. He was warm and snuggly, like a favorite quilt, and I rested my head on his shoulder. "If the play is upsetting you, we don't have to stay." He practically whispered in my ear.

  I was humbled, grateful he was paying attention. I pulled back to look at him, met his eyes, momentarily shutting out the world around us. His soft, wavy dark hair framed his sculpted face, now becoming rather chiseled, with a strong, square jawline and high cheekbones as he dropped weight. Almost every part of me wanted to kiss him right then—fall into his arms, abandon what I knew was right and be with Lee, let him shelter me.

  I looked away. One kiss would launch our relationship, past the friendship my intuition insisted we maintain. Lee'd been only kind. And I was basically using him, knowing he was hoping for more from me than I ever planned to give him. And I was suddenly encased in shame.

  “Hey,” he said softly, as if he'd felt my sadness, his expression tentative, questioning. The lights blinked to indicate the play was about to resume. "Say the word and we'll take off." He continued to scrutinize me. The lights blinked again.

  "It's okay. It was just stuffy in there. I'm fine now. I'd like to see the rest." I wasn't sure I meant it, but I didn't want to spoil the show for him. I'd talk to him later about us. I'd explain that friendship was all I could ever offer him, how getting together would be a disaster for both of us, since two addicts would spend a lifetime enabling each other, and modeling obsession to our kids. And I absolutely refused to damn my children to addiction.

  Letter after letter the lovers/actors read on the sparse stage unfolded two very different lives from me and Michael, but ignited memories of him anyway. I'd be married with kids by now, living the life I still sought if only I'd gone back east with him. Or maybe not. And I'd never know because I hadn't played that hand. At some point, tears welled and I turned my head away so Lee wouldn't see. He put his hand atop mine on the armrest, wove his fingers between mine and squeezed slightly. His warmth radiated through my hand and up my arm and spread through my body, giving me ground.

  He held my hand to guide me through the packed crowd exiting the theater after the play, and all the way to his car, even opened the passenger door for me. I felt sated, safe, glad to be with him as I watched him come back around his Mercedes, suddenly dreading the relationship talk I was planning for the ride home. It was quite likely after I told him the truth, he'd want to part ways, move on, forgo our friendship, even stop playing ball. And right then it felt as if I couldn't bear losing him.

  Lee got behind the wheel, shut his door and started the car. Then he pushed in the lighter, reached for the Marlboro box atop his visor and extracted a joint.

  It felt like he slapped me. Lee was so close, yet so far from the man I needed him to be. A great playmate, to be sure, but he was not the facade he wore, nor the safe harbor in the life partner I sought.

  He slid the box back onto his visor, then lit the joint when the lighter popped out as he pulled away from the curb. "Thought we might get a bite. I've been craving a piece of apple pie,” he glanced at me with a wink. “The Apple Pan in Culver City has the best around, other than ours, of course. And they're open late." He handed me the J.

  I sighed, resigned reason to privation. "I know the place. Sound's good." I took a deep hit and held it in my lungs hoping to feel the high as quickly as possible, let the buzz disconnected me from the intensity of my conflicted feelings. I handed him back the joint, then released the smoke slowly considering how to ease into the discussion of our friendship without causing it irrevocable damage. “I'm picking up the tab since you paid for the play.”

  He smiled. “Fair enough,” he said, then his thick lips puckered softly around the joint like a passionate kiss. "I got the impression you didn't care for Love Letters." Smoke came out with his words and got sucked out the sunroof.

  "It's not that." I'm scared out of my mind I'll be alone forever. "The play reminded me of a guy I used to know. He lived around the corner from my parents' house when we were growing up. We were best friends for 30 years, until I called it quits."

  "Why would you walk away from a 30 year friendship?" He took another quick hit and handed me the joint.

  "I didn't, exactly. Michael did, when he married his roommate." I took a long draw, smoke filling my lungs. My head tingled. Feelings dulled, regret distanced. "Took me four years after he married to finally figure out sharing our lives like we'd done since childhood wasn't serving anyone. His wife had to be his best friend, his most intimate confidant once he married. Not me anymore. For my 30th birthday present, I asked him never to contact me again. I had to let him go for both of us to move on."

  "Wow. Harsh. For both of you, I'm betting." Lee turned off Wilshire and on to Robertson. Steel and glass monoliths became two-story brick facades with restaurants and beauty salons, then turned to liquor stores and tattoo parlors as we moved south. "I get it now. I know why you're still single." He half-laughed and shook his head. "The unbearable cost of love is losing it. And you're scared out of your mind of it happening again." He said it like a fact and did not look at me for confirmation.

  Whitewashed buildings glowed blue from the harsh streetlights and flashed by like a cartoon backdrop. "Maybe. Partially, I guess. But there's more to it than that. Intellectually, I know I'll never have another relationship like it, from childhood forward, sharing everything, with no gender stereotyping, or resentments from past relationships." I took another hit to reinforce the disconnect. "The thing is, now that I know what's possible, I can't help wanting that level of intimacy." I handed him the joint. "Anything less now just won't do."r />
  We stopped at a red light and Lee finally looked at me. "My god, girl, you really are a dreamer." He said it serious, but his eyes kind of twinkled with gentle humor. The light turned green. He followed the compact in front of us. "Michael's a hard act to follow, but I'll see what I can do." Lee glanced at me, fixed his eyes on mine for an instant before turning his attention back to driving.

  I smiled, more outside than in, sitting there trying to figure out how to explain the boundaries I knew we should maintain without hurting him. Even high, reality assured me Lee could never replace Michael, but every other part of me wanted him to be my new best friend, my second chance. His kindness, his interest, the connection we shared, in moments even more intimate than with Michael, gave me ground. Obsessive, addicted, whatever, Lee made me feel valued and safe, and I was glad to be with him right then. Time slowed, stretching my intuition into inaudible echos as I relaxed into our now casual familiarity.

  “I was raised in a White, middle-class suburb of Chicago. After my parents' divorced my mom couldn't afford both me and my sister, so my dad brought me out here when I was 12. My junior high school was mostly Latino and Black.” Lee extinguished the tiny end of the joint and turned onto a residential street lined with small, single-story pueblo-style houses. “Since we're in the neighborhood, thought I'd swing by my old house, show you where I used to live.” He turned onto another small street. The streetlights dimly lit the long front yards and pastel painted houses in eerie blue. “It wasn’t the greatest area when I lived here. Hasn't changed much.” His entire countenance tightened, from his jaw to his grip on the wheel when we noticed a group of seven, maybe ten Black guys gathered around a shinny black car, like a Camaro, in the driveway of a small house toward the middle of the block.

  “That used to be Mr. Jackson's house. He and his wife worked at the studios, in props, and they'd decorate their yard with the coolest sets for every holiday. They were good people,” Lee lamented. “They practically raised their grandson, even though he was a real wack job.”

  Lee pointed out his old house, cruised by slowly, and did not speed up as he passed the party house next. A fat guy holding a brown beer bottle moved down the driveway towards the street and glared at us as we passed in what felt like slow motion. I looked away and thought I saw something running across their front lawn then dart out into the street. Lee slammed on his brakes.

  “Shit!” he snapped, and I frantically looked to see what he'd hit, if anything, because I didn't hear any impact. Lee looked around too, then in his rear view mirror, then took his foot off the brake and let the Mercedes roll. That's when I saw it, laying in the street. So did he. His eyes got wide, his expression sallow, but he didn't stop the car.

  “What is that?” I asked, panic mounting, heart pounding.

  “I don't know,” Lee said cautiously. “I think it may be a dog.”

  “Stop the car!” I yelled, but he let it roll. “You can't just leave it there.”

  “They'll take care of it.” He kept looking in his rear view mirrors, all of them. “We need to get out of here, Ray.” And he began slowly accelerating.

  “STOP!” I yelled louder, then opened the door, which was less dramatic than it sounds since the car was only going 10mph.

  Lee slammed on his brakes again and I released my seat-belt and got out of the car before it came to a complete stop.

  “Get back in the fucking car, Rachel,” I heard Lee yell as I ran to the dog laying in the road several car lengths back. The gang from the party house were all watching us, but oddly, they stayed loosely gathered around the Camaro in driveway and didn't seem phased that we'd just hit their dog. In fact, a few of them were laughing, and I was instantly filled with disgust, outrage.

  It's eyes were open when I stopped within a yard of the short-haired black lab, having enough experience with dogs not to spook them by getting too close when they're injured. “Hey, baby,” I said to the dog soothingly as I bent down, almost to the ground to get on his level.

  The dog's nose incessantly twitched. He blinked a big, black marble eye at me. I put my hand in front of its snout and he licked it. “Good boy,” I said softly. Then his tale started wagging.

  “No. No. No. You're not supposed to wag your tail,” a Black cop, in full uniform, though the shirt was unbuttoned exposing his ripped torso, walked up to me kneeling by the dog. A few of the guys from the group came meandering over, beers in hand, smiles plastered on a few faces. I stood, trying to look at tall as I could. “And you're not supposed to lick her,” the cop added, glaring at the dog, comically exacerbated. “Get up. Come on. Get up, and get on outta here you mangy mutt,” he casually commanded, and miraculously the dog did. Well, he got up anyway, then licked my hand again and stood there waiting for me to stroke him. So I did, stunned and thrilled the dog seemed fine.

  “You OK, baby? You seem OK,” I addressed the dog, who preened like Face with my touch. “I am so sorry.” I began to the cop who looked more like an actor. “We didn't see him—”

  “Oh, George Micheal is fine. He does this all the time. He's a stunt dog, always thinks he's training. He'd goes after anything if I let him. Get over here, George.” The dog loped over to his master, who flashed an adorable dimpled white smile. “I'm his handler. Oh, and I'm also a stunt double. I'm not really a cop. We were just coming home from the lot and he saw your car cruising by. Sorry if he freaked you out.” He stroked Mr. Micheal vigorously. The dog clearly liked it, its tail up, ears back, butt raised. His shirt fell open as he leaned forward to pat the dog and only then do I notice he had a gun clipped to his hip, or a fake one, in a small leather case attached to the waistband of his pants.

  I looked around the group of ten or more loosely gathered by us now. Many wore knowing smiles, and I was so glad the dog was fine I couldn't help smiling back. Several of them didn't look so enamored though.

  “Whats you doen here, girl?” one guy said.

  “Yo in the wrong hood, bitch,” a woman sniped.

  Lee came and stood next to me, slid his hand in mine. “We're good here, then. Dog's fine. We're all good?” he asked the cop/stuntman.

  “We're tight, dude,” the stuntman said. “Have a good night.”

  Lee nodded, then gently pulled me to start walking. The crowd dispersed. I heard a few chuckles, and grumbles, but no one bothered us as we got into his Mercedes and left.

  “You OK?” Lee asked.

  I hadn't had time to process what just happened. I'd simply reacted when I thought we'd hit the dog. I reacted. Lee didn't. He was ready to leave the animal lying in the road. And I suddenly felt ill.

  "I'm feeling kind of sick, actually." I swallowed back the burning bile rising in my throat as we stopped at a red light. "And not so hungry anymore. Do you mind if we just head home?"

  He frowned. "What's up? Is this about what just happened back there? We could have been seriously screwed. You get that, Rachel, right?"

  "But we weren't.”

  “We got damn lucky. I couldn't stop any one of those guys from raping you, robbing us. It was ridiculous for you to get out of the car.” He justified hitting a dog and not stopping to help it with scenarios of eminent danger.

  “Maybe.” There was nothing I could say to counter his position. The fact is, he may have been right, and we did get lucky. “Can we just call it a night?"

  "Yeah. No problem." But he was clearly disappointed as he got on the 405, north.

  I released a weighted sigh of relief up on the freeway, which was actually moving, making us less of a target in a drive-by. The trick was to never let anyone get too close. The infestation of people now inhabiting L.A. had destroyed the casual sunny siesta town I grew up in. Uncontrolled development turned paradise into a parking lot. I still clung to those languid times with Michael, when it took us 20 minutes to get to the beach, or we could get taquitos at night on Olivera Street without getting mugged. Then I heard Dylan's Don't Think Twice in my head, as I often did thinking of Michael. “You j
ust sorta wasted my precious time.” I'd likely have found Mr. Right by now if in my 20s I'd been dating like my friends were, trying on relationships to find a fit. I was ensconced with Michael back then, pretending he'd commit to a partnership with me, knowing all along he wanted a wifey.

  Wishing wouldn't turn Lee into my knight. He'd never be more than a temporary fix, and a corrosive one at that. And I thought about addressing this with him as I'd planned, but I had a splitting headache, and if I spoke more than a few words I was going to barf.

  “I was trying to protect you tonight, Ray. You got a problem with that, we should talk about it. I want to keep an open forum between us.”

  “I know.” I swallowed hard, pictured the dog he would have left to die, then fell into the void of cognitive dissidence. “I'm glad it all turned out OK. It's just late now, and I'm feeling really tired.” And shamed I'm doing to you what Michael did to me— wasting your precious time. And I want to talk to you about this but I'm feeling like shit, and afraid if I tell you you'll never be the partner I need you won't want to be my friend anymore. “Sorry about the Apple Pan.” And I'd be so very lonely again without you. “We can come back down here Monday or Wednesday after ball, or next weekend. Your call. My treat.”

  Lee shot me furrowed brows, his expression filled with doubt, but he didn't probe further. He lit another joint, then pushed in his lighter and the Brian Ferry CD. We shared the J and listened to the music most all the way home with only minor exchanges. Coming into the shimmering San Fernando Valley below Mulholland Drive, he reminded me of his scheduled bike ride with his friend, Mitch, along the strand from Venice to Huntington beach tomorrow. Lee asked me again if I'd like to join them. I declined, with the excuse of having to work. I considered elaborating, but I heard him sigh, sure he knew I'd lied, so I didn't make up any details.