“I can’t believe you have the same rusted Volvo that you drove around Long Beach in high school with.” I told Leah several minutes into our drive, what I loving referred to as my Dale Earnhardt Chaperone Services. “I can’t believe it still runs. A little more masking tape to hold the dashboard together than I recall, but it still runs.”
“Are you calling my car a clunker?” Leah slurred her words together. Oncoming traffic lights illuminated her face in shifting patterns of white, with occasional splurges of red and green. “What are you saying about Swedish engineering?”
“Yeah, what are you saying about her car, wed-ding pho-tog-ga-fer?” Either Savannah or Olivia, I couldn’t remember who-was-who, leaned forward from the backseat, seething toxins of alcohol through her teeth, and then fell back into Alex’s arms.
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“I’ll have you know, mister,” Leah drunkenly jabbed her finger on my arm, “that my car is a clunker. That’s her name, you know, Clunker. It used to be called Bob Dole. Then I changed it to Albino Cave Dweller. From this moment on its just Clunker.” She lifted the jabbing finger inches from her nose and motioned that I lean in. “You want to know something else?”
I leaned in. But instead of whispering into my ear, she dialed a knob and flipped the tape deck on. MAN! I FEEL LIKE A WOMAN, a slighted warped Shania Twain announced to the world.
“All these years and you’ve never gotten rid of Shania?” I laughed at the lunacy of it. “I can’t believe she still works.”
“What are you saying about feeling like a woman?” Leah scrunched her face together. “Are you telling women to go back to the nineties where they belong or something… with Swedish engineering?” Her words all seemed to mesh together.
“I don’t get it,” Alex said from the back seat. “What’s so great about this song?”
“Yeah, wed-ding pho-tog-ga-fer, explain.”
“It was Leah’s and my senior year of high school, nearing graduation. I remember we’d just finished listening to side one of The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Californiacation. Remember? We were on Signal Hill. It was a spectacular sunset and we could see all the way across Los Angeles to the Hollywood sign. That’s when we slid this single in, only it never spilled out again no matter how many times we pushed the eject button.”
“It got stuck.” Leah started to laugh irrationally. I thought there might have been a double meaning in the way she used the wording of it and got and stuck.
“That happened to me… once…. with a man.” ” Olivia or Savannah cleared up the metaphor.
“And then someone stole my antennae along with mister Jack-in-the-Box antennae-topper,” Leah spoke in rolling waves. “And then the radio broke. So if I want to listen to music, Shania tells it like it is in my one remaining good speaker. I’m just glad it wasn’t Chumbawumba.” She finished her thought, turned to me, and raised one caterpillar finger over her nose again. “You know what?”
I leaned in. “What?”
“This.” She jammed Shania up on its one good speaker at the gunshot kick-off of its next rotation. LET’S GO GIRLS! Shania claimed immediately after its eight unmistakable beats plumed feathers in high-heel stomping cadence for women everywhere who knew what it was to go out for an all-nighter after dealing with a man. The bridesmaids howled with cheer and applause.
That’s pretty much how the rest of the drive went, lather, rinse, and repeat, on the I-93 from Boston to Bedford, an entire carload of women and one drunk-as-a-skunk second-photographer singing about how much they felt like a woman. My connection on the I-90 westbound sounded much the same. Leah and her girlfriends screamed MAN! I FEEL LIKE A WOMAN from beginning to end, rolling over with laughter whenever the song concluded, crackled with the silence of dead-air tape ribbon, and kicked into full (though slightly warped) gear again.
“Come on, Joshua.” Leah slapped my arm in-between song rotations. “It’s Man! I Feel Like a Woman. Sing along!”
“I can’t. I’m still sober.”
“What?” Leah rolled her head onto my shoulder. “You think I’m drunk?” She slurred her words together, barely keeping her eyelids up. “If you think I’m drunk, I’ll have you know, mister… I’m not drunk.” She jabbed her finger on my chest with each pronunciation of I’m not drunk.
PHO-TROG-GRA-FER! PHO-TROG-GRA-FER! Savannah pronounced each syllable from the back seat, which then spun all three girls into a leg slapping broken rhythm of chanting: PHO-TROG-GRA-FER! PHO-TROG-GRA-FER! Alex joined in.
I refused to scream along.
“Shhh, shut up. The songs starting!” Savannah or Olivia said, and soon the entire assembly, minus its driver, had succumbed to belting Shania’s words in wild rolling bellows.
Leah slapped my belly with a fistful of flimsy fingers and pointed to Bedford’s Route 225 off-ramp only seconds before the exit. “That’s it. That’s where we’re staying. Slow down, mister, or you’ll miss it.”
“Thanks for the warning. Hold onto your butts everyone!” I grinned, horsewhipping Clunker across four lane-lines, recklessly dodging a line-up of orange cones and squeaking the breaks to make the turn. A pair of red and blue lights glimmered in the rearview mirror.
“Now look what you did, wed-ding pho-tog-gra-fer.”
I pulled into the parking lot of a PANCAKE HOUSE, silenced Shania, removed keys from the ignition, rolled down the window and set them on top of Clunker.
“Look what I did? Look what you guys did! Now I’m the one with the traffic violation.”
“Hey, that’s blame shifting, pho-tog-gra-fer,” Olivia said.
“We’ll have none of that in Albino Cave Dweller.”
“I thought it was Clunker, now.”
“Who you calling Clunker, wedding pho-tog-ra-fer?” Savannah said.
A black officer, probably seven foot tall with a polished baldhead ascended from his car, strolled over, looking very much like the Jolly Green Giant as he towered over the drivers-side window.
“License and registration,” seven-foot tall officer said.
Leah Bishop giggled carelessly with dilated eyes as she thumbed through the glove department. “Are these them?” She pulled out a messy bundle of paperwork. “Here, hand them to black Obama.”
“No, those are receipts, dear. And that’s a parking ticket. Please tell me it’s paid for.”
I opened my wallet, slid my California driver’s license out, reached over Leah’s neck, and retrieved the yellow registration from its cabinet.
“Are you trying to get frisky, mister?”
He looked the papers over.
“Do you understand why I pulled you over?” The officer said.
“Yes sir. I’m trying to follow these ladies directions the best I can. Whatever you saw happening back there, I was following it to the letter.”
Seven-foot tall officer flicked a flashlight on and shined its beams on my eyes, and then Leah’s. We squinted from its sting. He turned it on the eyes of the three drunken passengers in the back.
“Are you intoxicated?”
“No sir. I’m driving.”
“Course not,” Leah added, slurring. She leaned over my shoulder, letting her breasts almost fumble from her braless gown. “He’s our wed-ding phot-ag-gre-fer.”
“You’re their what?” He looked at me.
“CHAMBERLAIN Studios, at your service.” I opened my wallet and retrieved my business card; name, cell number and website engraved. “In case you or anyone you know is getting married, be sure to give me a call.”
“And you came all the way from California for a wedding?” He wanted to know.
“I’m at America’s service, sir.” I showed my pearly whites.
“You realize I had to pull you over after you swerved over four interstate lanes without using a signal.”
“That’s because I’m taking directions from these lovely ladies,” I smiled, nudging my chin at Leah.
“Hey, that’s blame shifting, phot-tag-gre-fer,” Olivia or
Savannah said.
“He’s our wed-ding phot-tag-gre-fer,” the other Savannah or Olivia said to the police officer.
“And I just so happened to photograph the wedding of a cop,” I said in a hushed tone, as if the very word cop was itself the bribe in the place of money.
“A Boston cop?”
“Mm-hmm. Jay Carter. Do you know him?”
“Jay Carter?” The officer revealed two rows of pearly whites. “No way. I didn’t know that was this weekend.”
“Well, there you have it.”
“Wasn’t he marrying that girl from Broadway?”
I nudged my head at the carload of girls. “Where do you think these young ladies came from?”
“Hey, what are you saying about Barge, wed-ding phot-tag-gre-fer?”
He thought about it, shook his head and returned my drivers license. He tucked my business card in his pocket. “I’m getting married next summer. I’ll look up your website, and since I’m letting you off the hook, seeing what you have to put up with and all, your work had better be good. Now get these three young ladies home in bed before I change my mind.”
“Yes sir.” I started the car.
As I pulled out of the PANCAKE HOUSE parking lot I watched the police officer stand there in my rearview mirror, baldhead gleaming under the light of the moon. Shania broke into MAN, I FEEL LIKE A WOMAN and the entire carload started chanting phot-tog-gre-fer over and over again. The police officer dropped his head, nodding sarcastically, and I think I even detected what might have been an uncontrollable display of teeth. And this time, when Shania invited girls everywhere to sing along, I was the one that said it.
Let’s go girls.
16
“Well, you did it.”
Leah leaned against the front bumper of her Volvo from the hotel parking lot. She was still drunk, and trying hard not to show it. She flicked a match, cupped it in her hands, lifted it to her lips and set a cigarette ablaze. For a moment her cheeks and nose dazzled me with illuminations of red. I liked the way the furnace in her bronze eyes burned through each lazy ascent of smoke.
“You safely transported Stephanie’s bridesmaids across town to their proper hotel accommodation, photographed an entire wedding day, I was very impressed by the way, and managed to talk a police officer out of giving you a ticket without a pair of traffic stoppers. Good job, sir.”
“Aw, gee.” I buried my head, kicking a pile-up of gravel across the pavement. “Gee golly whiz, Miss Bishop.”
Leah chortled under her breath. “I knew it. I always knew you were a dork or a nerd of some sort. I just couldn’t pinpoint it in high school.”
I studied the hotel with its many windows, some lit and others darkened. I looked down at my shoes, mind wandering into an unidentified room. I didn’t like the way that thought made me feel, as though it, or something, were staring at me.
“You want a cigarette?” She said.
“No, I don’t smoke, but thanks.”
“You quit?”
“Uh-huh, a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away.”
“Dork.” She choked on her cigarette.
When I gazed up at the hotel again that chilling feeling was still there, as though it was somehow staring down at me with the hidden secrets of its bedroom eyes.
“What’s the matter, still sick? Do you need to throw up again?”
“No…I guess I’m just a little disturbed. Did you see what my second in command did?”
“Yeah, he went into Savannah’s room. Right this very moment, if they’re not passed out, he’s getting the most incredible pair of soft-serve cones known to man. I should know. I’ve seen them backstage. Isn’t that what every guy wants?”
“Savannah’s breasts?”
“More or less. I could name some other body parts.”
“Leah, he’s married.”
“Figures.” Leah sighed with a lesser connotation of flirtatiousness, having invited an undercurrent of disgust to settle in. I thought her face looked scarred. “Just like every man I’ve ever known, including my own father. Can’t seem to keep their fun stick in their pants for one hour. I swear, men would hump a fire hydrant with or without a lubrication, so long as it had a hole.”
“I can’t even begin to tell you how disappointed I am in Alex right now. How can he do this to Gracie? I mean, the pain she’s going to feel if… no, when she finds out.” I didn’t like the emotional scar daggering her eyes. At least they weren’t two lifeless pieces of charcoal. Not yet. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“I think this happens in most relationships, Joshua, eventually. In my personal experience, I can’t say I’ve ever seen a pure relationship where people keep to their wedding vows. I know, I’m jaded, but I kind of figure couples that survive the life-long gauntlet of sexual betrayal just have to buckle up, deal with it, and not focus on the past. This really bothers you, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. Not so much the fact that he’s doing it right now, and I should be careful of early judgment calls because I don’t really know if all is as meets the eye, but the fact that he was so willing and blatantly open about it.”
“Isn’t that what all men want, what you want, getting to know every woman with a good looking pair of devil’s dumplings in the Biblical sense?”
“Certainly not. I don’t want to, you know….” I blushed. Blood rushed to my face, and my breath quivered.
“You don’t want to know me Biblically?” Leah was amused.
“That’s not what I meant. I’m just thrilled to have bumped into you again. No, not bumped. You know what I mean.”
Leah smiled again. “Yes, Joshua. I think I know what you mean.” She found ease in another long drag of her cigarette. “So, I’m curious, how long has it been?”
I had trouble saying it.
“Sex?”
“No, silly.” She slapped my arm. “Since we last bumped into each other.”
“It’s been too long.”
“Yes, but when was the last time that we saw each other?”
“September 10, 2001.” I rattled the date off like a courtroom typewriter in the know.
“But that was the day before the attack. It couldn’t….”
“It was. If I recall, you slapped me across the face. We were backstage at NYU. You asked me to leave, which I promptly did. We never spoke again.”
“Did you make it home safe?”
“Yes.” I forced a smile. “I did.”
“Joshua, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I must have had my head in the sand.” She sucked on her cigarette as she thought on it. I watched the fiery furnace of her eyes burn through the thin swivel of smoke. “I slapped you? I don’t recall ever having sore feelings for you at all. Why haven’t we talked since?”
“Most likely because I’ve been the only person between the two of us to pick up the phone and call. It was like that in college…. and in high school.” I affirmed it as affectionately as possible.
She considered that fact for a moment too. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I never realized. I didn’t have a whole lot of peripheral vision back then.”
I leaned back against the front bumped and shivered, wrapping both arms around my chest. Leah nudged me in the ribs. “Hey, mister, I just realized something. You promised me a dance back there.”
“I’ve got just the thing.” I dug her keys out of my pocket, opened the driver’s side door, and turned the ignition. Shania came on.
Let’s go girls, she said.
Leah choked on her cigarette again.
“Well you heard her,” I said. “Let’s go, girl.”
“I was kind of thinking of a slow dance.” She laughed. “Not a country brawl.”
“We’ll invent one.” I offered both hands.
She only accepted one hand, wrapping her left arm around my waist then tucking her head on my shoulder. “Alright, Al Gore, invent a dance for the both of us. But if I even suspect a hint of the Macarena….”
We danced like that, in tiny circles that I invented (though it didn’t fare so well with the rhythm of WOMAN, I’m afraid,) for the entire song, until Shania silenced herself to a crackle of tape. I turned the ignition off and returned to Leah’s arms. Her condition was degenerating. It was difficult for her to stay up and balanced, her skin was clammy, and her eyes were diamond shaped. She closed them regularly.
“Joshua, I want to start over again where we last left off… as friends. Only I don’t want you to call me. I want to pick up the phone and call you this time.” She looked up at me, brushing the hair from her face with one broad sweep of her fingers. “ I will call you. I promise.”
“I’d like that.” We were still turning in the little circles that I’d invented.
“And Joshua? Could you kiss me as a friend?”
I nervously swooped in and pecked her on the cheek.
“No,” she said, eyes clamped shut. “On the lips.”
“Is this another new invention?” My flesh shivered.
“Yes.” She bit her lips. “A friendly kiss on the mouth between two old high school friends. I even think we beat Al Gore to it this time.”
She was obviously drunk, despite the fact that she held herself well, but she wanted a kiss, and considering my current life circumstances, I didn’t want to pass up the opportunity. I tried to convince myself that it was purely platonic, even though everything about it spoke to the contrary. Then again, who knew what actually went on within the recesses of a woman’s mind? All I knew was what I felt, and this was so much more than friendly, if at all loving.
Anyhow, I was glad that she closed her eyes. I couldn’t have done it had those two bronze furnaces been staring back at me. I closed my eyes too, maneuvering my way back in, as if fumbling for a light switch in the dark. Then something gagged. I think it was the sound of a parallel universe trying to reel me back in, because as I opened my mouth and pressed down on her lips, she threw up on me. Actually, if we’re being technical, it happened in me.
Wrong Flight Home (Wrong Flight Home, #1) Page 22