Disconnected

by J. Cafesin

  "It's built on rollers. I was here during the '89 quake and it just swayed a lot. It's really quite safe." Mitchell handed Lee a can of Diet Coke, then extended another to me. "I wanta move out of here because it's really lonely." Nice looking, mid-thirties with dark brown eyes and brown hair worn short, slightly receding on the sides, Eastern European heritage, maybe ethnic Jew. He wore black jeans and a tight black tee-shirt that showed off his flat, toned stomach and braided muscles of his arms. "There's no one around and nothing to do. It's stupid to go for a walk at night. It's like asking to be mugged. You have to stay in or escape the area. Nothing is open except for the Pantry which never closes and caters to truckers and aging traveling salesman with food like brisket on mashed potatoes." Mitchell stood within inches, gave me an amused smile and sipped his white wine. He was tall, close to six feet and stood straight, though casually, like an athlete.

  Lee sat on the couch popping grapes into his mouth, plucking them from a crystal bowl filled to the brim that sat on the Lucite table in front of him. He inquired about Mitchell's new cable TV show focused on the L.A. music scene. Apparently, twenty years playing guitar and a BA in Music Theory didn't pay off, so Mitchell gave up on being a rocker. He went back to school, got a MBA at UCLA and was now using his education and connections to market other musicians.

  "Sounds like a worthy endeavor," I assured him, then looked at Lee to confirm but he scowled at me.

  "So what's the plan, Mitch?" Lee said. "When are you offing this place and out of here?"

  "I should be out by summer at the latest. Looking in the Valley mostly. Studio City area. I want a house this time. Four bedroom minimum. I can cover the down payment with what I get from this place."

  "You ready to lay out close to a million?" Lee narrowed his brows at Mitch. "You oughta consider something smaller to start, think about going in with someone, sharing a place maybe."

  "Oh, I'm looking to share, with a wife preferably." Mitchell smiled at me then looked back at Lee. "I'm not planning on staying single forever. Four bedrooms is a good starter house. I'm trying to get my life in order, ya know, stabilized. I want to have something to offer a woman when I find her."

  "Fancy degrees and family money aren't enough anymore?" Lee shot Mitchell a quick look and they exchanged some shared knowledge then Lee looked at me. He pat the empty place next to him on the couch, like he was calling his dog, his bitch to come. But I didn't.

  "So, how will you know when you've found the right woman?" I asked Mitch almost mockingly, it laughable he believed there was such a thing as the one. Lee may be my knight, but only because his timing was right and not because he was the only one for me. Reason assured me our obsessive natures would likely come to the fore again somewhere down the line, but I was out of time to find a man without glaring frailties that wanted to be with me, or to try and establish the intimate connection I felt virtually from the beginning with Lee.

  "I don't believe in 'the right woman,' Rachel. I am eternally grateful to my family for showing me what real love is—that it's not a given with a marriage contract, but must be earned. Daily," Mitchell said. "My parents will be celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary in April. My older brother is married ten years and has two amazing kids. My twin sister is married four years now and has two year old twins that I'm mad about. Ask any one of them and I believe they'll tell you they're happy." Mitchell paused to sip his wine. "I hope, well, plan to model my family's examples."

  That was probably the highest compliment I'd ever heard anyone say of their family. And I flashed on marrying into a family like Mitchell's that would adopt me into their fold and supplement all that was missing from mine. Lee sat perched on the edge of the couch draining the crystal bowl of grapes. I considered asking him if there was anyone in his family he'd like to emulate, but with what I knew of his history I doubted there was. And though I could sympathize, the notion felt rather disturbing.

  "So, we going to dinner or what?" Lee smiled at me with his cheeks full, and vaguely reminded me of a chipmunk.

  We agreed on Langer's, one of the oldest delis in L.A., just west of downtown across from McArthur Park. Urban legend had it that every year when they dredge the tiny lake they'd find at least a couple of dead bodies down there, which says something about the neighborhood, but Langer's was the only place open for miles worth eating at.

  Lee ordered a corned beef sandwich dripping with jack cheese and mayonnaise. I ordered the smoked fish platter. Mitchell got an omelet, with fruit instead of the hash browns, and he and I shared some of our college experiences, then exchanged stories of our travels around Europe and the Middle East. Lee didn't have much to contribute since he'd never gone anywhere except for Vegas. I tried to orient the conversation to a common thread and focused on TV. Mitchell and I recapped our favorite episodes of Thirty-Something, then critiqued a new cop show, Law and Order, where sometimes the bad guys actually got away with the crime. Lee claimed he only watched Nick at Night, and was rather monosyllabic with his responses throughout the meal. He insisted on paying the bill and Mitchell didn't argue.

  The boys sat at the baby grand piano in the corner of Mitchell's living room and played show tunes together. They weren't brilliant, but could follow a song and Lee goaded me into singing tunes from West Side Story, Man of LaMancha, and finally Funny Girl. Mitchell gushed over my voice and picked songs to keep me singing, but when Lee ran through his repertoire and went and sat on the couch, I feigned tired and quit.

  "In olden days a glimpse of stocking was looked upon as something shocking, but now God knows, anything goes." Mitchell sang the classic tune with exaggerated cadence as he stood at the piano and played. "Good authors too who once knew better words, now only use four letter words, writing prose anything goes." He laughed and gestured for us to join him.

  I joined Mitchell in the chorus but Lee did not. "The world has gone mad today, and good's bad today, and black's white today, and day's night today." We were spot on key and blended beautifully. "When most guys today, that women prize today are just silly gigolos." I stopped singing with Lee's piercing glare.

  "And though I'm not a great romancer." Mitchell continued, though toned it down, as if tiptoeing around the lyrics. "I'm bound to answer when you propose, anything goes."

  "Will there be an encore or are you ready to go?" Lee kept his eyes on mine.

  He gave Mitchell some excuse about being tired and we left. He was silent going down in the elevator and remained so in the car driving home.

  "What's going on, Lee? What are you so upset about?"

  "Like you don't know." He snapped.

  "No. I don't." But I did. I wanted him to talk to me instead of me having to pull it out of him, but he remained silent. "Am I supposed to guess or are you going to talk to me?"

  "I saw the way you were looking at Mitchell."

  "What are you talking about? I wasn't coming on to him in any way. We were all screwing around with singing until you stopped—"

  "I saw desire," he said flatly.

  I flashed on lying then thought better of it. Can't build a foundation on lies. "I'd be lying if I said I don't respect Mitchell's choices, like getting degrees, traveling the world, looking for a house and planning for the future." I saw Lee's eyes narrow but he didn't look at me. "But I don't even know him. He's your friend, Lee. And I'd never date him, unless you like... died or something."

  "Oh. So now you want to date him."

  "I didn't say that."

  "Do you know Mitchell's parents paid for his education, his rent, food, his dates, everything, so he took five years to graduate with a BA and another three on that for his MBA. He bought that condo with daddy's help too. He has a different job every other month. I make more money than he does, by a lot. I've given Mitchell thousands of dollars to get this cable show he told you about off the ground, and a year later I still haven't seen anything. Mitchell is a sponge. He mooches off of everyone."

  "Wow. Those are pretty harsh words to s
ay about a friend."

  "All I'm saying is if I had the kind of support at home that he does, I'd probably have gone to college, and traveled the world too. I was on my own by 17 and have supported myself since the day I moved out of my father's house."

  I felt miffed Lee expected kudos for gambling himself into debt since I'd been on my own since 19, paid for college and traveling without any support from my family. "Lee, I am not interested in Mitchell." I said with certainty, though part of me knew I'd lied. Sometimes lying helps sustain a foundation.

  "Right." He practically whispered then pushed on the CD changer and we listened to The Cars, Heartbeat City as we drove the rest of the way to my house with the music between us.

  By the time we pulled into my driveway it was after 1:00a.m. but the lateness of the hour did not dissuade him from wanting to get it on. He got on top of me when we got into my bed and slammed his groin into mine again and again. I felt him get hard, paused our passion to pulled a condom from the wooden box on my nightstand and fumbled to slip it on him but he grabbed it out of my hand and did it himself. He was back on me, and then pushing inside me. Small though he was, it was still quite stimulating with him bumping and grinding against me. I hoped he'd stay inside me, connected, but he lost his hard-on almost instantly, a common occurrence if he didn't get off inside me within moments of putting the condom on. Lee rolled off me.

  "I can't feel anything. It's like wearing a fucking glove. I can't feel you. I really hate this." He was mad, shamed. "I don't think I can do this. I can't continue like this. I feel inadequate, and I'm starting to resent you for it. Can we please just do it without the condom?” He wasn't really asking. “I'm absolutely sure it'll be better for both of us, Ray.”

  'You're not just sleeping with the guy, you are sleeping with everyone he's ever slept with,' the AIDS mantra was in my head, especially since Lee had previously confessed he hadn't worn a condom since high school.

  "Look Rachel, if we're building a relationship on trust, you're just going to have to trust that I don't have AIDS or any STDs.” He read my mind again. "I trust you."

  It was easier to trust me, knowing I'd slept with only five guys in my entire life, all of which had been with a condom. "I trust you, Lee, but I'm pretty sure neither one of us is ready for me to get pregnant?"

  "You're right on top of your period. I can always tell."

  It was true. And he'd know if I lied just by the timing. "OK, I guess, just for tonight."

  Lee rolled on top of me, put his hands on my breasts, leaned on his elbows and stared down at me as he pushed his pelvis into mine. I felt him stiffen and grow. Hard to make out his expression in the dim room but I thought I saw him smile as he entered me. Crushing me under his weight he pumped harder and faster. He came in a surge with a loud grunt. I couldn't wait for him to get out of me, off me so I could breathe. I arched my back and groaned, faking an orgasm, then put my hands on his shoulders and gently pushed him back. He took the hint and rolled off of me. I inhaled and exhaled sharply.

  "Thank you." He kissed my forehead and snuggled into me. "I love you. I love the way you make me feel. We're finally on the road to something real. I was starting to think we'd never make it together if we couldn't get it on without a rubber between us."

  I practically stopped breathing, the bed beneath me suddenly disappearing and I was free falling. Lee had considered breaking up because he hadn't fucked me to fruition. His implication was skin on skin intercourse tonight insured we'd have a tomorrow. But sex was an immature and fragile thread to hang a lifetime commitment on.

  03/27/92

  Sex is 5% of the relationship when it's good and 95% of the relationship when it's not.

  -

  Chapter 23

  Saturday morning we headed east on the 134, up the hill towards Pasadena. Sunlight sparkled off most every surface slick with dew. We were on our way to Tucson to see his father and step-mother. The weekend trip was my spontaneous idea, as Lee hadn't ever visited his dad's place in Arizona, even after multiple requests to do so. And Mitchell's laudatory commentary on his family had me wondering the family I'd be marrying into with Lee, the other reason I'd motivated this road trip. It was also an easy excuse to escape my manic city for a couple of days. The escalating violence was invading my psyche of late, igniting my outrage daily with every altercation, especially without weed to disconnect from the anger around me. Reality was becoming too sharp, making me edgy most of the time. And though Lee sheltered me, it was hard to feel safe anywhere in L.A. these days.

  We listened to music and chatted in our typical fluid fashion. I avoided bringing up my gnawing desire to get high, scared of Lee acknowledging his, lacking the strength to help him battle his cravings, and my own simultaneously. I didn't bring up last night's sex either, but felt afraid of repeating it. Unwanted pregnancy always haunted me with intercourse, birth control or not. I didn't want a repeat of my mother's early life with an abusive ex-husband who left her penniless with a genetically manic-depressive son.

  Crossing the California border into Arizona, Lee expanded on his family history, first recapping what I knew of him growing up in Chicago until his parent's divorce, then about living with his dad in Culver City, a rather rough L.A. suburb from 13 to 18 yrs old. He too was laudatory of his father's achievements— starting his own business from nothing and turning it into a successful freight company.

  “But that was years ago.” He paused, glanced at me with what seemed like trepidation, then focused back on driving. “My dad was, well, compelled into making a deal with the devil for partial ownership in the Indian Casino he runs now— payback to the mob for gambling debts he accumulated in Vegas.”

  I think my jaw dropped, but I'm not sure. What he'd just said sounded more surreal than real and I was having a hard time processing it right then. I knew his dad had a shipping company, and had moved to Arizona with his wife right after Lee graduated high school, but that was it. He'd neglected to tell me about his father's gambling addiction. Till now.

  “His 'business partners' take most of the profits, but my dad's not hurting, for sure. They set him up in Tucson after he was fired from the company he started for almost bankrupting the business to fund his gamble habit.”

  Like father like son? but I didn't voice it, nor did he address the parallel. And for the first time in a long time I heard my inner voice sneering at me for getting involved with Lee. “So you're father is in bed with the mafia?” And I flashed on Diane Keaton in The Godfather when she married Al Pacino.

  He laughed. “I guess you can say that.” He glanced at me with a quirky, guilty grin. “It's ain't like The Godfather, Ray.” He chuckled. “The men who funded my dad's casino are legally putting up casinos across the country on Indian land since gambling is legal on reservations if the Native Council says it is. And while it's true these 'businessmen' may straddle the line of the law, they don't shoot people, or leave horse heads in anyone's bed.”

  His words didn't soothe me. I stared out at the straight highway, the desert around us flying by at 90mph. I'd imagined my partner's father as a doctor or college professor, and a wise, benevolent man at that, but Lee's original portrayal of his dad as a successful businessman sufficed. Though my parents were what society, and even Lee had deemed normal— still married, had remained faithful and coveted the classic parental roles, I was hoping to marry into a replacement family, one that cherished me as I was, as I did them, my husband's parents' moral compasses, and trusted caretakers for our kids. I felt a growing irritation with his revelation that he'd neglected to fill me in on the details of his father's exploits before, though I didn't confront him on his lack of disclosure, afraid of putting more distance between us.

  We got into Tucson around sunset. It was windy, dusty, and cold as we crossed the parking lot of the Double Tree hotel and took refuge inside the large room with two double beds Lee's dad had booked and paid for. He'd left a message as well, to meet him at his casino for dinner so Lee coul
d finally see his 'show,' instead of meeting up at the hotel as originally planned. I couldn't help resent the man before I'd even met him for choosing to exploit weakness in others, and modeling addiction to his son.

  Lee put on his brights as we blazed through the black desert, lighting up the highway and scrub brush a few yards beyond, occasionally swerving to avoid a large tumbleweed that escaped the bramble along the side of the road. We continued along the arrow straight highway for about twenty minutes then came upon a huge sign in the middle of nowhere, blinking in five primary colors, ten feet across and at least six feet high flashing Apache Palace * WIN! WIN! WIN! * Bingo * Slots * Poker *

  The huge dirt parking lot was packed with cars. The building looked like a re-purposed supermarket. Rectangle box, flat roof, glass front. Christmas lights were still strung around the top of the building, or perhaps they were a permanent part of the façade. Inside was dense with cigarette smoke which mingled with the stench of stale fried foods. At least three hundred people sat at fifteen or more long folding tables with benches on both sides, arranged in rows that took up most of the enormous, brightly lit room. Everyone had bingo cards in front of them and several neon colored, fat-tip felt markers. Food was strewn about in the center of the tables and most everyone was munching something greasy, from burgers to nachos dripping with orange cheese. Hardly anyone noticed Lee and I enter, seemingly focused on their game.

  Along the back wall in the center of the room was a small stage with Christmas lights strung along the base of the deck. A man, a mix of Jackie Gleason and Vito Corleone, maybe 5' 9'', at least 300 pounds, wearing a loud-print Hawaiian shirt and navy slacks stood on the platform yelling letters and numbers into a mic in an excited tone. He waved when he notice Lee and I by the entrance. The MC was Al, Lee's dad.

  A few people in the crowd yelled "BINGO!" and held up their colorfully marked cards. Al handed the mic to his slender wife, easily twenty years his junior with a bad blond dye job, then came off the stage and went to each of the winners. After examining their card carefully he scrawled his initials flamboyantly across each with a big red marker. His gestures were gregarious, overly congratulatory though they'd won all of $10 bucks. He absolutely waddled when he moved. His eyes were narrow and sunken, his mouth tiny on his round face. He was sweating and panting when he finally approached us with a wide, welcoming grin.