Deathbed Dimes

by Naomi Elana Zener

  Copyright © 2014 Naomi Elana Zener

  Published by Iguana Books

  720 Bathurst Street, Suite 303

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada

  M5V 2R4

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of the author or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  Publisher: Greg Ioannou

  Editor: Terra Arnone

  Front cover image: Jane Goodwin

  Front cover design: Meghan Behse

  Book layout design: Meghan Behse

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Zener, Naomi Elana, 1978-, author

  Deathbed Dimes / Naomi Elana Zener.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77180-043-3 (pbk.).–ISBN 978-1-77180-052-5 (epub).–ISBN 978-1-77180-053-2 (kindle).–ISBN 978-1-77180-054-9 (pdf)

  I. Title.

  PS8649.E562D42 2014 C813’.6 C2014-900994-1

  C2014-900995-X

  This is an original electronic edition of Deathbed Dimes.

  REVIEWS

  “Deathbed Dimes is a funny, acerbic, and raucous read written by someone who clearly knows the world she’s so vividly created.”

  - Terry Fallis, author of award winning Best Laid Plans

  “Deathbed Dimes' humorous and heartwarming urgency will have you turning pages and up all night rooting for the novel's neurotic narrator. Readers of Naomi Zener's entertaining and hilarious debut will lose themselves in the fascinating world, and recognize themselves in the novel's honest and revealing portrayal of one woman's desperate search for a place in the world.”

  - Julia Fierro, author of Cutting Teeth: A Novel

  “Deathbed Dimes is a sassy and energetic novel about women making the best out of the worst. With Naomi Zener's satirical edge, even 'rock bottom' is hilarious.”

  - Angie Abdou, CBC Canada Reads 2011 finalist, author of The Canterbury Trail

  “Deathbed Dimes is an edgy and witty debut novel - I can't wait for the sequel.”

  - Paula Froelich, NYT best-selling author of Mercury in Retrograde

  “This book is a hilarious, incredibly well-written, shrewd insider's look at the zeitgeist of greed predominating battles people fight to inherit wealth. Reminding me of Nora Ephron's quick wit…I couldn't put it down.”

  - Rebecca Eckler, author of Knocked Up!, How To Raise A Boyfriend and The Mommy Mob

  “…a hilariously witty novel that proves you can't keep a strong woman down.”

  - Bunmi Laditan, author of The Honest Toddler: A Child's Guide to Parenting

  “The characters jumped off and page…so fun and suspenseful, I wanted to be in the story.”

  - Ophira Eisenberg, author of Screw Everyone: Sleeping My Way to Monogamy and host of NPR's “Ask Me Another”

  For the absolute loves of my life,

  Isadora Layal and Sebastien Finian.

  You both inspire me daily to fantasize, dream, believe and create.

  CHAPTER 1

  I’ve Been What?

  As I walked home, weighed down by a large greasy bag of Chinese takeout, a laptop bag and my purse, I yammered on to myself about my shitty day. I’m sure those around me thought I was crazy. I pushed open my apartment door with my hip, expecting that Yan would stride over and ease my burden. I made it halfway into the living room before realizing that we had been robbed bare, right down to the walls. I had no art, no furniture, no flat-screen TV.

  Spinning frantically for the phone, I saw a little yellow square where the portable used to be. Fantastic, I thought to myself. My friendly neighbourhood robbers left a thank-you note. That ought to help with my insurance claim. As a stain of leaky orange beef spread across my blouse, it occurred to me that the handwriting was familiar. Yan had left me a Post-it.

  Obviously Yan had been abducted. I returned to the remnants of a twisted home invasion. What’s the term for snatching a grown man? Adult-napping? I dropped the takeout and ransacked my purse for my iPhone. With the unread ransom note stuck to my index finger, I dialed 9-1-1. After an eternity, a surly dispatcher answered with a tone that implied my crisis had interrupted her efforts to bring about an end to world hunger.

  “9-1-1. What’s your emergency? How may I help you?” the operator inquired.

  “You’ve gotta help me!” I shrieked into the phone. “I am the victim of a robbery and … and an adult-napping!”

  “Please try to remain calm. What is the nature of your emergency?” the operator stated flatly. A grating sound in the background suggested she was filing her nails.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind? How can you tell me to be calm?” I shrieked.

  “Ma’am, there’s no need to swear at me,” the operator retorted.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” I was incredulous. “There’s nothing left but a Post-it Note. All of my stuff is gone. Everything that was here this morning is gone. Gone, gone, gone!” I screeched, “Put down your goddamned nail file and send me the cops!”

  “Ma’am,” sighed the operator, “you’re going to have to calm down. We get a lot of cranks, honey, and for the record, there’s no such thing as an adult-napping.” I swear I heard her chuckle to herself. “I think you’re in a state of shock. Why don’t you read me the note?”

  I quickly voiced the words stuck to my finger.

  “Excuse me. Ma’am, please read the note more slowly. I’m not sure I understood you correctly,” the operator said. I detected a note of disbelief in her voice and wondered what the IQ requirements were for her position.

  I reread the letter to the operator as though she were a four-year-old. “It says ‘I’ve moved out. Don’t worry. I am safe. All my love, Yan. PS: I’m gay and I want the engagement ring back.’”

  “You ain’t been robbed, honey. You’ve been dumped, with a capital D.” The operator howled with laughter. “You don’t need 9-1-1; you need a therapist!”

  I hung up the phone and paced my shoebox apartment. “Yan left me?” I asked myself out loud. “Wait, Yan is what—? Oh my god, Yan is gay!” I screamed. My neighbour pounded our shared wall and yelled at me to shut up. I snapped back from the brink of a massive coronary, determined not to drown in the quicksand into which I was slowly sinking.

  Seeking emotional reinforcement, I went to the kitchen. Rooting through the freezer yielded an unopened pint of mint chocolate chip from Baskin-Robbins, which I chiselled from the back corner. I was sure my ice cream had been spared Yan’s marauding only because he was convinced that cellulite was the only ingredient in it. I grabbed a wooden spoon for the ice cream — my Martha Stewart-obsessed mate had taken the flatware, too — and tried to decide whom to call. I scrolled through my contacts and dialed the number for my rock, my ally and also my biggest critic. No, not my mother — in that case, I’d have said “the root of my neuroses.” Instead, I phoned my roommate from first year university and best friend, Coco.

  Coco had always been the kind of woman who never shows any chinks in her armour. Her unyielding attitude was the primary reason I had any self-confidence. Her parents were Japanese immigrants whose purpose in life was to turn their little girl into a highly educated and respected prize. After earning the requisite number of prestigious degrees from Ivy League colleges, it was expected she would then become a traditional doting wife like her mother. Mr. and Mrs. Hirohito could not have been more gratified when Coco became a lawyer. They were far less pleased, howe
ver, with her exhaustive rejection of her traditional Japanese heritage. Petite, with porcelain skin, long raven-black hair, and delicate features, Coco was often assumed to be a docile geisha girl in the making. Glance at her the wrong way, however, and you would meet a brash, self-possessed woman ready to carve you a new one.

  Coco dated all the wrong boys before moving on to all the wrong men, as did I. But unlike me, she disposed of them faster than she won trials. Coco had only one goal — to be the best litigator in her field. Everything — and everyone — else was secondary.

  Her role models were Alan Dershowitz and Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and both her ambition for wealth and her staunch feminism were overt. She practiced civil litigation at a Century City law firm in Los Angeles. When it became evident that she was hired to fill the firm’s affirmative action quota, Coco used her advantages — being both ethnic and female — shrewdly. Her role at work was to be trotted out as a token, the firm’s poster girl for diversity. But Coco had a trump card the partners could not ignore — she was a winner. Never having lost a case, she billed fifteen percent higher than the most senior partner. Coco was wily and she could sculpt any system to her advantage. Coco went for the jugular.

  A sultry voice answered the phone.

  “Coco, my life is ov—” I started.

  She purred, “You have reached the voice mail of Coco Hirohito. If this is about work, please call my iPhone to leave a message. If this is my mother, how on earth did you get this number? If this is the sexy beast of a man who took my number last night, speak at will. For all others, please leave me a message and, if you’re very lucky, I might call you back. BEEP.” The high-pitched squeal was biting. Illogically, I was offended that Coco was either screening calls or not available for crisis management.

  “Coco, my life is over. Please pick up! I need you. Pick up if you’re screening. This is not your mother!” I bellowed desperately into her machine. “Pick-up-pick-up-pick-up! Yan is gay!”

  “Yan is gay?! I knew it! Ha! Spill. I want all of the salacious details. Now! Do not spare yourself!” she demanded. She was downright demonic. Schadenfreude should have been her middle name.

  “I came home to find my apartment empty. He took everything, even the toothpicks,” I babbled, clutching my iPhone for support. “I’m standing here like an idiot thinking Yan had been abducted and we’d been robbed. Then I saw the Post-it where my land line used to be. So I call 9-1-1 and this nasty-piece-of-shit operator asks me to read the note. Twice. I’m freaking out about my plight, and she makes me reread the most painful words I have ever seen in my life. Then she tells me that my ass has just been kicked to the curb and I’m in need of therapy.”

  “I told you he was gay when you were decorating your apartment. Chartreuse and salmon are not the new black,” she triumphed. “But you didn’t listen to me. And when he started going on those weekend antiquing trips with his friend Jake, I said ‘flaming,’ and you told me I was crazy. You thought the antique shopping was for you.” Coco cackled into the phone without empathy. “I told you so!”

  With a mouthful of ice cream, I crumbled to the floor and replayed the scenes from my life with a Liza Minnelli–loving flatware thief.

  “I get it. You told me so. Have you had enough fun yet?” I mumbled with the spoon in my mouth. Coco was silent. “Why does this keep happening to me?” I whined.

  Coco cut me off. “It’s because you don’t trust men. You don’t want to get emotionally attached, so you naturally gravitate to situations where that will never happen. Deep down, you know they’re not what you want,” she explained matter-of-factly. “You don’t allow yourself what you really want because you fear the loss of control and being hurt. You don’t want to be like your mother and your has-been, loser father …”

  “Listen, Coke, I know you’re a hard-ass litigator, but right now I am not interested in a cross-examination or life summation by my best friend. Right now, I need you to rip Yan a new one, not me.” I was terse as I cut her off.

  “Sorry, babe. Your best friend is a litigator, and I call it like I see it. Anyway, his man-friend is probably helping him carve a new one as we speak. I’m sure he’s enjoying that more than what I’d do to him!” Her tone was still jovial.

  “You’re disgusting!” I hadn’t yet contemplated the implications of Yan’s departure.

  “As your best friend and soul sister, I have to be harsh with you — out of love — so that maybe, just maybe, you will stop screwing around with the wrong guys. Or at least screw Chip, and then screw him over!” she brayed into the phone.

  “Why would you even suggest that I sleep with that elitist, inbred pond scum? Besides, I’ve been dumped by my gay fiancé. The last thing I want to do is have sex with anyone …”

  “And yet that’s the first thing you should be doing,” Coco countered.

  Lazy, entitled, super WASPy and Mein Kampf-toting Chip Hancock was the perpetual frat boy who swaggered around the office and took credit for my triumphs. He didn’t defy any stereotypes: Chip was a tall with a relatively athletic build, a mop of tussled blonde hair and blue eyes; he always sported a bespoke tailored suit and handmade shoes. Chip’s Aryan look could land him work in commercial modeling. The son of Scooter and Candy Hancock of the Park Avenue Hancocks, by way of the Mayflower on Plymouth Rock, Chip was reared by the prefects at Taft. He made the rowing crew at Yale (legacy, of course) and graduated with the lowest grade point average in the school’s esteemed history. His days at Old Eli were spent whoring, drinking and partying with the Bonesmen, and he only floated through by virtue of his daddy’s reputation, money and sailboat.

  Chip’s less-than-stellar academic performance earned him a spot at Offshore Coastal Law School, a legal institution not accredited by the American Bar Association. Even Chip’s achievements could only be categorized as colossal failures: 121 is not exactly a strong showing on the LSAT. The only reason Chip had a job at all was the fact that the senior partners at my law firm went to Yale with the Chipster’s papa. The old boys’ club couldn’t let a young man of such strong stock fall overboard now, could they?

  I’m not bitter about his privileged upbringing. I came from money as well, though rather the gauche new Hollywood kind. But, unlike Chipwit, I never traded on my family name or connections. I managed to graduate summa cum laude from Brown and magna cum laude from Stanford Law without any family assistance. I had always wanted to make my own money and my own name, and to do both on my own merit. My love and talent for the law perplexed the partners, because I was a young woman.

  “Put the ice cream down!” Coco interrupted my thoughts. “You’re not doing yourself any favours by coating your problems in dairy fat. It’ll go straight to your thighs, and your mother will notice if you’ve gained even four ounces. She’ll have you booked in for lipo on your next visit before your plane touches down. Is that what you want right now?” she asked. Surmising from my silence that I had acquiesced, she demanded, “What time is it there?”

  “7:30,” I said darkly.

  “Do what you do best: get back to work. Prep for tomorrow so you can shine the floor with Chip’s ass, and he can’t one-up you again! Do not open the door for him to walk all over you for a second time. I’m sorry, but you know you do it to yourself.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk. I was going to bathe with the hair dryer later, but now I don’t have to.”

  The office was the last place I wanted to be after the partners had given Chip credit for my win in court today. My client, Trixie Bates, was an ex-stripper and the paramour of a very wealthy, now dead, man. Mistress Trixie had gradually isolated her loverboy from his family with S&M favours. Oddly enough, Mr. Wonderful’s prim country-club wife would not cater to his proclivity for auto-erotic asphyxiation. One night, while he was high from a roofied evening cocktail, he had changed his will in Trixie’s favour, trading an estate worth $35 million for the love of kinky sex. His aggrieved family, four children and a wife of fifty years alleged manipulation. Or
undue influence, as it’s known in legal circles.

  Somehow I had proven Trixie’s claim, fending off any erosion of her inheritance. A man’s Achilles heel had cost his family their legacy, but it was a coup for the firm. My coup. Copies of the written decision would be sitting on the partners’ desks by now. But while I contemplated Coco’s advice, I knew Chip was off celebrating with Trixie — a party that likely involved liquor and a more manual sort of labour. I cringed at the thought.

  “You are being a drama queen, and you know it. Keep it up and I will boast to your mama about your new career and your fantastic acting skills. I just know she’s going to land a role any day now,” she mocked, knowing she had the upper hand.

  “You wouldn’t dare!” I seethed.

  “Care to wager?” Coco took my silence as capitulation.

  “Fine. Back to the office, it is.” I carried the phone into the bedroom to change and realized that some of my clothes were missing. “That prick took my lingerie!” I muttered and continued rooting through my drawers. “No jeans here, either. I’ll bet my leather pants are gone, too.” I sighed to Coco. It was just as well. His ass looked better in them than mine. I’d have wanted to burn them anyway.

  Coco muttered a weak “love ya” before hanging up. I grabbed my attaché and the Chinese food and headed back out to the office. As I shut the door to my vacant apartment, I glanced back at the emptiness. So this is rock bottom.

  CHAPTER 2

  Mali-boo-boo

  I wound, head down, through the underground tunnel toward my morning ritual, MaliJuice. I ordered my usual blueberry-strawberry-wheatgrass-whey-vanilla-yogourt power shake, thinking I should perhaps be asking for a job application as well. I’d look cute in one of their carbon-copy corporate aprons, right? A tap on my shoulder jarred me from the thought. Despite a soothing soundtrack of ocean waves rippling through the overhead speakers, I remained agitated as ever.