American Babe

by Babe Walker

  “What’s a mantra?”

  “Google it. So while I’m here I’m staying with Veronica—my aunt and Knox and Cara’s mom—all of whom I’d never even really heard of until a week or so ago. It’s just a lot of newness, a lot of wondering how I’m related to these people, and a lot of deep, deep, deep introspection.”

  Scott shot me the warmest of smizes and was about to tell me how he’s been thinking of nothing but our upcoming date for the last day and also that my hair looked effortlessly sexy and I smelled amazing when—

  “Hey, guys. What can I get you to drink, sir?”

  The waitress who’d gotten me my wine was standing over the table and grinning at Scott. She put a glass of water in front of him.

  “Hey. Thanks. Yeah, I’ll have a beer. Whaddya got?”

  “We’ve got Sam Adams, Bud, Bud Light, Heineken, and Yuengling on tap and Natty Boh and Modelo cans.”

  I touched Scott’s hand.

  “I don’t really love when people drink beer around me. It’s so burpy,” I said quietly but with a sternness to let my date know that I wasn’t requesting, I was insisting.

  “Oh man, really? That sucks for you,” Scott said with a squint of the brows to feign sympathy. He looked back up at the waitress whose name was 100 percent Quinn. Blond. Teeth. Scrunchie. Etc.

  “I’ll take a Yuengling, thanks so much.”

  “You got it, darlin’,” Quinn said and left.

  “You think I’m funny?” Scott asked.

  I knew what he meant.

  “You’re the funny one. Jesus!” he said.

  “I’m nothing if not honest. And I honestly needed you to know that if a beer was ordered, then my comfort level would plummet. But you seem to be fine with that.”

  “I think you’re stronger than you realize. I think you can manage.”

  “I hope so.”

  Quinn was back with Scott’s spiteful beverage. That was fast. Did everyone hate me today?

  “So,” Scott said after licking a thin coat of beer foam from his upper lip, “speaking of you being funny.”

  “Look,” I stopped him, “I’m feeling very attacked by both you and Quinn at this point and I just don’t think I can take much more bullying.”

  He looked like he felt bad. But then he said, “Who’s Quinn?”

  “Our waitress.”

  “Her name is Beth.”

  “How the fuck do you know that? Did you guys used to fuck? God, this town is unbearably small. I don’t know how you cope.”

  “She’s wearing a name tag.”

  “Oh.”

  “It says: BETH.”

  “Oh. Okay. Fine. That’s probably her name, then, you’re right.”

  I wrapped both of my hands around the glass of rosé in front of me and lifted it to my face like I was sipping a hot mug of tea and trying hopelessly to catch some warmth in the cold wilderness of this now very awk lunch. He was so cute and probably had the most handsome of dicks that he took great care of and I was fucking it all up. Fucking it all right up. So typical of me. I thought I’d learned this lesson. Why must I ALWAYS self-sabotage? As soon as I’m attracted to someone I immediately—

  “Babe.”

  Scott’s voice was a distant echo in my head. But it was booming.

  “Babe.”

  It grew closer. He was pulling me out of my shame spiral.

  “Babe. Are you all right? What the fuck?”

  I broke out of my paralysis.

  “I’m . . . I’m sorry, I just spaced out hard core.”

  “I saw. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I think I’m fine.”

  “Okay, cool. I thought you were going Babette on me,” Scott said, relieved, taking another sip of his beer.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh yeah, I read your books. Should I not have done that? You look upset.”

  “I’m not upset,” I told him. I wasn’t, really. But I felt weird. Exposed. Vulnerable. Naked.

  “So you know all about Babette.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And Robert.”

  “Mmmmm-hmm.”

  Side note: Babette is the version of me that I become when I have feelings for someone. Transformation into her form is typically sudden, fast, and unavoidable. She is also a reptilian succubus from the part of hell where they keep actual monsters and gargoyles.

  I took a deep breath. Why did I write those fucking books? Why am I a writer? Can I keep nothing as sacred? Whatever. Fuck you, Scott. You’re hot, but fuck you.

  “No. It’s totally cool,” I said, trying to convince myself that I actually felt that way. “Now I don’t have to tell you about myself ’cause you basically know everything already.”

  “I don’t think I know everything there is to know. I mean, I’d like to think that there’s more to you than a series of botched vacations in exotic locales, stints in rehab, random sex around the world, and a stereotypically racist depiction of your Jamaican nanny.”

  It felt like Scott had literally just slapped me across the face. I slowly backed my chair away from the table and stood up. I smiled at him.

  “I’m gonna run to the bathroom really quickly. BRB.”

  “Uh, okay.”

  I was embarrassed. He knew he’d crossed the line. I turned and walked toward what I thought was the bathroom door. Turned out the door was to a dark broom closet. Flustered, I asked a busboy if he could direct me to the bathroom, which he kindly did. I literally ran there and slammed the door behind me. After squeezing my eyes tightly shut for ten meditative breaths and chanting the words “Anna Dello Russo” with each exhale (she’s the editor-at-large at Vogue Nippon and if you didn’t already know that, then honestly put this down and read something else), I found the light switch with my hand and flipped it on.

  There I was in the mirror. My white Saint Laurent jeans and Baja East light cashmere poncho looked flawless, but in my face I looked like a scared child version of myself. Get it together, flawless child Babe. You’re fine. You’re a master of words. You are not Babette-ing. Go out there and fucking set this asshole straight. He doesn’t know you. He doesn’t know SHIT about your life.

  The next thing I knew, I was standing in front of Scott, my mouth was moving, words were coming out, and basics at neighboring tables were side-eyeing me, probably wondering why the model was screaming and making a scene.

  “. . . but the thing that really boils my blood, Scott, is your complete disregard for the fact that Mabinty Latreece Monette Mylandra Jones is a REAL human being whom I’ve spent the majority of my life looking up to. The fact that you think I’m ‘funny’ is frankly offensive if you don’t have the brain capacity to appreciate the true nature of my relationship with my actual ONLY mother figure on this entire planet. Where do you get off? Racist?!”

  “Babe—”

  “You think you know about the world because you’re a ‘teacher’ at a shit school in the middle of literally nowhere hell shithole America—”

  “Hey, lady. Watch it now!” a man yelled from behind me.

  “NO!” I yelled back at him. “This is my moment!”

  I grabbed Scott’s beer and poured the rest of it down my throat, swallowing with a gulp.

  “Beast mode!” Quinn shouted from the across the room.

  “No, I’m not done!” I announced. “You should know better. YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER.” I couldn’t believe how loud I was getting. This was definitely not Babette, but it may have been a new version of her, a newly discovered species of cunt from Hades. I had no control. I’d lost it.

  “Babe,” Scott pleaded. “Please. I’m sorry, really. Let’s go outside and talk.”

  “Are you crazy? Go outside with you? Why would I want to go anywhere with you? You have zero respect for me. You clearly don’t appreciate the things I’ve been through in my life. My journey means nothing to you. I know that now. No. You don’t care that my mom abandoned me before she even gave me a name. Or that I was basically forced to rape m
y gay male best friend in order to have sex for the first time because the rest of the guys at my school were all such enormous fuckboys. Or that my best friend Genevieve is a genuinely evil person. Or that I had a crippling shopping addiction that sent me to an EXTREMELY unchic rehab center with no robes and no koi ponds. Or that I was stalked literally across the entire European continent for months. MONTHS! Or that I’m just meeting the majority of my living family for the first time in my entire life because they were basically kept secret from me and I had to come here of all places to do so. Imagine what this place looks, feels, and smells like to someone who doesn’t leave the coasts while in this country?! Can you imagine what this place is like for me? No! You can’t. Because you live in your little bubble of a life where nothing scary happens and no one rips you apart on social media or gives your book horrible reviews or calls you racist. You have NO IDEA who Babe Walker is.”

  I grabbed my chair and pulled it to me, stepping one foot at a time up onto the seat. I’m not even joking, this really happened.

  “Babe Walker is a queen,” I said. “Babe Walker is a warrior queen!”

  ELEVEN

  Bless Up.

  Babe Pack your shit

  That was the text I sent Knox right before my cab, which smelled like soup, peeled out of the restaurant parking lot where I’d met Scott.

  Knox OK

  Knox Why?

  Babe The MasterChef LA auditions are in two day, yes?

  Knox OMG

  Babe I’ll be at your house in ten minutes. We’re going to Los Angeles.

  Knox Already packing.

  Babe Don’t tell your mom

  Knox Never

  A few minutes later, I was back at Veronica’s house manically throwing clothes into my bags. We were getting le fuck outta Dodge. I realized when I was with Scott that I’d lost track of myself. I was being Boring Bitch Babe, not Fun Bitch Babe. I had to do something irrational and expensive to bring myself back to reality. So I booked two seats on the next LA flight for Knoxie and myself while I was on my way to pick him up and grab my shit.

  We were at the airport an hour later. To get through security and everything, I’d forged Veronica’s signature on a note that stated that I, Babe Walker, was his temporary legal guardian and his mother had given me permission to fly with him. I was basically an FBI agent.

  I was drinking a gin and tonic, he’d ordered a beer (which I did not let him have because I was being responsible) and then a ginger ale. The place was pretty empty—it was a Tuesday evening, after all. Travel tip: travel on Tuesdays if you can. Less noise and fewer sad families.

  “Your travel look is wonderful, by the way,” I told Knox as we sipped our drinks in the lounge preflight.

  “Really? Thanks. I’m not loving it.”

  “What’s not to love?”

  “I don’t know, I feel like these Missoni Chucks are played. And I wanted to wear this Haider Ackermann hoodie knockoff that I found on eBay but I couldn’t find it anywhere. I think my mom might’ve thrown it out. She says it looks like something they’d wear in Star Wars on the desert planet. Whatever, I had to settle for this tracksuit, which I guess is serviceable . . .”

  “First of all, those sneakers are classics, they will never be played,” I assured my young protégé. “And in regards to Veronica’s opinion of said sweatshirt, I truly hope she wouldn’t do something like that. Throwing away someone else’s clothing is a hate crime, if you ask me.”

  “I agree. Like, let me live.”

  “Yeah. Let me live, Mom!”

  “Mom!! Ughhh!”

  Knox and I were literally best friends at this point. I wanted to cry. So emotional. So real.

  “Well, cheers,” I said, holding up my tumbler for him to clink it with his soda.

  “Cheers, Aunt Babe.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Don’t ever call me that again. Please. I’m not even your aunt.”

  “I know, I was kidding. Felt like a good time for a ‘you’re old’ joke.”

  “It’s never a good time for that. I’ll lose it. I’m way too close to thirty to laugh at anything involving age. You’ll see. It’s a complete horror.”

  “Why? You’ll make a cool old lady.”

  “Literally stop talking.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Ma’am?!”

  “Okay, okay! I’m done.”

  I flipped open the copies of Vogue and Harper’s I’d grabbed from the magazine rack. I like to read two magazines simultaneously when I have the space. One on each knee. And waiting in airport lounges for a flight is the perfect time and place for me to do that.

  “How do you process two articles at once?” Knox asked, leaning in to have a look at what I was reading.

  “I do editorials first, like this. I mentally dog-ear the articles that I want to read in the future and normally have one of my interns recite them to me while I stretch or sometimes when I’m sleeping. I still totally get it all.”

  “Got it.”

  “What time is it?” I asked, looking at my phone.

  We had to go.

  The plane was new, thank God. I’m so sick of old, scary, beige planes.

  “This plane is cool as shit!” Knox announced to a full first class cabin of old people who turned their old heads to look at him. So many neck wrinkles displayed at the same time in such a small place. They must be from here and not from LA, I figured, because you just don’t really see that amount of neck skin in LA. We do something about it there.

  “Is this your first time in first class?” I asked with literal glee. Charity work gets me so high.

  “Babe, this is my first time on a plane.”

  “WHAT?” I shouted, wringing out the cabin’s necks once again. “What a blessed day this is for you, if I may say so for myself, Sir Knoxwell.”

  “It’s an amazing day. I almost don’t care about how insanely and irreparably angry my mom’s gonna be about doing this without telling her. It’s worth it.”

  “Oh, she’ll be fine. I texted her a few hours ago and cleared everything. We’re good.”

  “Really? Okay. Good news.”

  “How have you never been on a plane before?”

  “When I go to see my dad, we always drive. My mom doesn’t really like to fly. It freaks her out, I guess.”

  “I’ve never understood people that are scared of flying. Like, of course it’s scary but so is doing molly or trying uni for the first time. Who knows what’s gonna happen? But that’s what life is about: not knowing what’s gonna happen. Am I wrong?”

  The way I slurred my “I” into the end of “am” let me know I was drunk from the gin and tonic.

  “I think you’re drunk, Babe.”

  “I think you’re drunk, Knox.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yeah, whatever. I know you are. You’re not the same when you drink,” I said sarcastically. I was super funny when I was with Knox. It was almost like I was watching a movie and it’s me but I’m playing this other woman, a woman with kids and a life.

  “I’m already dying over you getting picked to be on the show and then literally slaying each and every last one of those little bitches week after week,” I said to him.

  “It’s not gonna happen.”

  I could hear true doubt in his voice.

  “Of course it is. I’m extremely good at picking the winner on the first episode of reality TV competition shows. And trust me, you are the winner.”

  “I just have no clue who the other kids will be. They might all be super good.”

  “They might be. And that would be annoying. But you are super good. Hello?”

  “Whatever happens happens,” he said, a bit of confidence leaking through.

  “When they meet you and see your commitment to not only your passion for food but also for just good taste in general, these dumb-as-fuck producers are going to shit themselves over you. I know how this business works and I know that the people who go far all have one thi
ng in common: they’re a brand. And you are, like, the best brand ever.”

  Knox didn’t say anything. He nodded and took out his iPod. I watched him scroll through artists and finally click on Demi Lovato. Then I made a quick mental jot to start steering him in a different musical direction.

  I think I might’ve overwhelmed him or gone over his head with the branding stuff. I forgot that he was just a ten-year-old boy. Ten is pretty young, I guess. I’d been collecting vintage Helmut Lang for two years by the time I was ten and I remember a friend of my dad’s having a look at my archive one day and telling me that he couldn’t believe I was only ten and so enterprising. He also told me that old souls ran in my family, and I never really knew what he meant. Until pretty recently, I’d fancied myself a young soul but maybe I was wrong. Like, a few days before I flew to Maryland I used my cigarette holder and told someone that they looked swell. And it made sense that Knox would also be so unique compared to his surroundings. Like me. Us old souls have a way of seeing things clearly but differently. But Knox really was still a baby. I had to remind myself sometimes.

  I decided I wasn’t going to tell him that I was lying about texting his mom. I hadn’t texted Veronica. She would’ve probably gotten me arrested before we even took off for LA. I legit kidnapped Knox. I had to. I was now his Sherpa, and MasterChef Junior was our Everest.

  When he woke up from his nap, we were almost there.

  TWELVE

  A Mountain of Basicness to Climb.

  I was sitting outside with Roman on his second-floor terrace. He was getting a massage from his forever-masseur, Ray. Ray is a small, pear-shaped man who has worn a lace-front weave of lustrous, brown, real Indian hair since I’ve known him. It’s a heinous sight, but the thing about massage therapists is that you don’t really have to look at them, so they’re free to look however they choose, so everyone’s happy.

  I told Roman that getting a massage while we hung out was rude, but he said he had no other time available, which I understood. It was a picture-perfect LA morning. The sun was burning as bright as God, and there was already a warm, smooth, creamy texture to the air. Normally that perfect blend of sultry temps and smog doesn’t mix well until middle of summer, but it was happening already in late spring and I was not mad. Global warming is chic in its own pesky little way. If you let it be. Not mad at all. Knox was getting LA’s finest treatment, just as he deserved. The little prince was inside fixing up some breakfast for all of us. We’d slept at Roman’s last night after we got in. Romie was even nice enough to pick us up from the airport, which was completely unnecessary and weird of him. Did he genuinely miss me? I’d missed my number one Queen of Studs bestie. He grounded me.