The first night we met, Arnie came home with me. It was that simple and that right. The only thing that disturbed me was the mistrustful glance Samson cast in Arnie’s direction, but I decided that he was just being protective of me. Since Samson usually slept on the couch in the living room, there was no problem when Arnie slept in the bed with me. It was wonderful. He was wonderful. I never felt so natural in bed with a man before. There was no tension of any sort, not even the typical sexual tension that often produces heightened passion. It was just so easy to cuddle, to talk, and eventually to kiss and make love as though we had been doing that very thing for years.
It was magic right from our first real date—on the Wednesday after the Saturday we met. Arnie arrived to pick me up in a limo, with a dozen perfect red roses and a beautiful gold watch, which seemed too much to accept so soon, but he insisted. Then we went to dinner at a local Chinese restaurant. How funny they must have felt, wondering who we were to arrive in a limo to eat Kung Pao Chicken. Then Arnie took me to the Schubert in Century City and to Hy’s afterwards for drinks. It was such a fun evening and he was so thoughtful and caring that I was overwhelmed by the extravagance of gesture that he found so normal.
Arnie and I fell into a rhythm together and it was like we both naturally assumed that we’d be together forever, from the first moment. He was devoted and caring, always worrying about my welfare and my pleasure. Every night he took me out for dinner, and when I would protest about the cost in the fancy places he preferred, Arnie would laugh and leave an even bigger tip. I’d never seen anyone leave a bigger tip than the amount of the bill and I didn’t want Arnie to go broke trying to impress me.
Eventually he opened up to me, in an effort to set my mind at ease. He felt an obligation to treat the neighborhood merchants well, because often he had to entertain at those places and their treatment of him could be important to business. Arnie was a millionaire, involved in several different area, like real estate and various investments, and he could well afford to take me anywhere we wanted to go. He could easily afford the limos that he hired to transport us, even if we were only going to the movies. He could afford the flowers and fancy presents that he liked to give me. So stop worrying!
I couldn’t believe it. I had hit the jackpot in a really bit time kind of way, and the amazing thing was that it didn’t matter at all. I loved Arnie and each moment with him was as wonderful and comfortable as anything I had ever dreamed in my most romantic fantasy. We were completely in love, and no matter how deep my own well of feeling and devotion, it seemed that it was a mere drop in the bucket compared to the passion that Arnie felt for me. He told me he loved me a hundred times a day. It didn’t matter that we had known each other for only a few days—this was True Love.
Every moment we were together Arnie kept after me to move into his Malibu beach house. He told me all about his fabulous home, with its wonderful indoor Jacuzzi. At first he seemed to say that the Jacuzzi was brown with gold faucets and very ornate styling. When I looked a bit askance, implying that I thought that was a little gaudy, which I definitely did, he changed the description to a blue Jacuzzi with ultra modern appointments, which I liked better, saying that he was glad that he hadn’t gone with the gold after all. Only for a second did I pause to wonder about the seeming discrepancy in his descriptions and the way he changed the story, but he did it so effortlessly that I assumed the brown/gold scheme was an original plan, one that he had changed before construction. The house did sound beautiful and spacious, and I was dying to see it, but there never seemed to be time for us to get there. We were too busy running around, having fun, riding in limos and making love.
Arnie was having a problem with his insurance on a new car he’d just bought. He had a fleet of cars, from a Porsche to a Z, but I never saw any of them. Usually we just rode in limos. One day we were hanging around my place while he made a few calls to make sure that delivery of the new Jaguar was available and that it would have insurance. Everything was set, but we had to go pick up the car. Arnie had ordered a limo to meet us at my place, but strangely, it never came. I offered to drive him to Santa Monica in my Poison Pink Pontiac, but he decided we might as well take a cab. After all, this car was going to be for me, and he planned to put it in my name. I couldn’t believe it and I didn’t really want it. I liked my own car, and it felt wrong for me to take a car from a man, even if he was my True Love.
Arnie was adamant, so we went off to get the Jaguar, which Arnie insisted that I drive home. I sat in the car while he attended to the business of paying for it and signing papers. Then we took off. The plan was to drive up to Malibu and check out his house, so that he could show me just how much room there was and how happy we’d be there. Eventually we did head up the P.C.H. and it was an exciting adventure to be going to see this fabulous place which would probably become my home. And it was fun to drive the Jag. They drive great. I began to think that everything was settled, that Arnie and I could begin our life together. He’d offered to give me money to pay bills or buy anything I needed in the past, and I always declined, but I decided that if we were going to live together, and ultimately marry that it might be OK after all. I mentioned that I might just quit my job and be a concubine for a while, just as he’d said he wanted a million times. Despite the fact that he smiled happily, there seemed to be a flicker of distress that crossed his face which I recognized and dismissed rather too quickly.
When we got to the house, it was completely dark, and Arnie discovered that he had forgotten his key. He was furious. Apparently his cousin, who had been staying there, had neglected to leave the key under the mat the way he was supposed to, and Arnie had no way to get into his own house. So we went back to my place, where I packed most of my clothes and the other things that seemed essential, including Samson’s food and kitty litter. While I packed, Arnie walked about cheerfully overseeing the whole operation.
“Listen, Delilah, I want to give you the pin code for my bank accounts so that you can get money whenever you need it. All you do is punch in 786857 and then 555 and then 789. That accesses my money market account that will let you withdraw the maximum daily amount. Now have you got those numbers?”
“What? How come you have so many numbers. All I do is punch in 333 at my bank.” I doubted that I could ever remember such a complex code, and besides, I didn’t want to be withdrawing his money anyway.
“At the level account I have, they require a more complex code but you can memorize it easily enough. Come on, try it.” Arnie insisted, and so I repeated the numbers a few times without trying to learn them.
By then we were ready to load my things into the car and to head out to Malibu again. Arnie made a call to his cousin to make sure that everything was in order, but he learned of the unexpected death of his grandmother, which sent him into deep shock. She was the only member of his family to whom he had been close and now she was gone. I offered to go with him to wherever the family was gathering, but he said there was nothing to do tonight but go home together and get settled in. Then he took me in his arms and held me for a long time for closeness and comfort.
When the Jag was loaded with my stuff, Arnie, I, and Samson in his cat carrier, headed out toward Malibu. It was a bittersweet ride, with Arnie recalling all the special times he’d had with his grandmother. We both were tired and looking forward to collapsing in his big bed under the skylight that was built above it purposely to let in the starry night. But once again we were locked out. Arnie was more furious than ever and I was exhausted. Even Samson looked weary. The only thing to do was to return to my place, get some rest and call a locksmith in the morning. That’s what we did. Except that Arnie never could get a locksmith who was available, oddly enough, although I saw him make call after call from the yellow page listings, and we both were beginning to feel the strain and frustration. Finally Arnie informed me that a couple of them were going to call back when their services contacted them, and he went to shower.
When the phone
rang, I grabbed it, expecting a locksmith, but it was the man at Tip Top Leasing, saying that the checks for the Jag had bounced, and that furthermore there was no insurance on that vehicle. I was perplexed, but it was clear that there was some mix-up that Arnie would have to clear up himself. His reaction was pretty much the same as mine. He would settle the problem easily. Obviously the guy at Tip Top was crazy. It didn’t even occur to me to ask about the fact that it was a leasing company when I had been told it was a purchase.
The next calls were from family members, to whom Arnie had given my number, telling them that we lived together. It was strange the way that Arnie spoke to his mother, as though she were yelling at him and he had to defend himself. Yes, he was young to be a millionaire, but successful men don’t usually have mothers who treat them like ne’er-do-wells, do they? I couldn’t understand what was going on, but it was clear that several things were amiss and I couldn’t make sense of the situation that was beginning to unravel before me. It was time to go to work, and so I had to leave. Arnie left at that time also, driving off in the Jag to attend the funeral in San Diego without unloading my stuff. We figured he’d be back later that night and we’d move at that time, if ever a locksmith did get in touch.
My work day was uneventful and soon I was home, waiting to hear from Arnie. When the phone rang, I reached for it with anticipation. But it wasn’t Arnie. It was the guy from Tip Top, saying that nothing had been done, that the bank refused to cash the check from Arnie’s grandmother that Arnie had dropped off that morning.
“Wait a second,” I answered with confusion, “Arnie’s grandmother died two days ago. You must be mistaken about that check. Why would he give you her check anyway?”
“Oh boy,” sighed the leasing agent, “I think I’m in trouble. That check is dated today, but the bank wouldn’t honor it. Now I see why. Do you have an address for Arnie?”
“I know he lives in Malibu, but I don’t have the exact address. What address do you have?”
“I have a listing in Hollywood.” I started to feel sick. There were too many discrepancies coming to light as we began to compare notes. Arnie had told the leasing agent that he was a film recruiter, one of those guys who stands on corners asking people to go to screenings in order that the producer can gauge audience reaction. He had shown pay stubs that indicated that he could afford to lease the Jag. I told Joe, for by then I knew his name, the story about the Malibu house and the plans that Arnie and I had made together. We both were worried. Arnie was off driving an uninsured car, one that was beginning to look like a stolen car, and he had all my things in the trunk and back seat, things I needed and couldn’t afford to replace. I assured Joe that I would do whatever possible to help him recover the car, and that as soon as Arnie called, I would convey the importance of returning the Jag. But what would happen if he disappeared forever? I’d have nothing to wear but the clothes on my back—and my fat clothes that I hadn’t packed.
Reaching for one last ray of hope, I dialed a number of a friend of Arnie’s mother that he had used and left by my phone. Maybe she knew where he was and what was going on. Maybe Arnie’s mother was there and I could speak with her, but no, his mother was no longer there, having returned to her home in Arizona after the funeral last week. Last week? Apparently Arnie had known of his grandmother’s death all along and the fact that he hadn’t bothered to show up for the funeral was why his mother had been berating him so. Gloria, the friend, had little sympathy for me. She said that Arnie was another Baby Face Nelson, and no doubt right now he was probably selling all of my things for any amount he could get.
I thought I would throw up then and there. How could I have been so foolish? But the really stupid thing was I still loved Arnie and believed in him, and hoped that he would return to say something that would rescind this whole crazy set of circumstances. Well, he did return, and I did get my clothes back, and although he tried to say something to set my mind at rest, it was clear that he was lying. I had never met such a smooth liar before, and for the first time I could see through him, realizing at last that he was truly pathological. How else could he have gotten away with all of it.
I had to break it off. There was nothing else to do. Arnie left then and I looked around at all the stuff which now needed to be unpacked. What a waste. Why did he make up all those lies anyway? I didn’t care if he were a millionaire. We could have gone on with our romance just as we had been, with him sleeping over at my place and us dating. Why did he make up all that stuff about Malibu? What a pathetic waste.
I called in sick at work and took several days off to heal my wounds. By then it was Saturday and I decided to retreat to the movies where my mind could be distracted. Before buying my ticket, I went to the bank’s cash machine, and then I realized my ATM card was gone. Arnie! With fear and apprehension, I called their emergency number to learn that over the last several days, both my accounts had been cleaned out. I didn’t have a cent and besides my rent check had bounced. That son of a bitch.
The bank closed my account and because I had given out the pin code, they were not liable to return the money. The police took a report on the theft but offered little hope of finding Arnie or the money. My boss agreed to give me an advance to cover the rent and some spending money for the future, but I knew that I would be in debt for a long time before it would be paid off. There was despair and misery in my heart for days, and each night Samson and I would snuggle in front of the television and even in that act there was little solace. The only good thing was that I was too depressed and too poor to eat, so I didn’t gain any weight.
Then Arnie called. I couldn’t believe it. At first he denied taking my money, but then he admitted it, apologizing and telling me how much he missed me and still loved me. He sounded so completely sincere, it was easy to believe him. I asked him to return my cash and he swore that he would do that, that doing so was the only thing on his mind, because all he really wanted was my forgiveness and a chance to get back together because he loved me so much, but in the background I could hear a woman’s voice. Who was that? She was a friend, he claimed, helping him out with a project. They were staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel. He still had the Jaguar but he was planning to return it. Could he drop by and see me?
Not only did I want my money back, but I wanted to see Arnie too, and it was so tempting just to believe his declarations of devotion despite the woman’s presence in his hotel room. We had been so happy together and Arnie had treated me so wonderfully that it would have been impossibly not to fall in love, and despite everything, I missed him terribly. But I pretended that all I wanted was my money back. He came over and gave me every cent in his pocket, about a hundred bucks, and promised that he would get the rest tomorrow. I demanded that he do that, plus call Joe, who was still in constant touch with me and worried sick about the car. He arranged to let Joe know where to pick up the Jag tomorrow, and I felt huge relief. Maybe he was going to reform. Maybe I could forgive him and we could go on as we had been. Only he could leave smaller tips if he weren’t a millionaire. For all I cared, we could go Dutch.
The next evening I heard from the police instead of Arnie. Apparently the manager of the Beverly Hills Hotel had grown suspicious about all the money he and his girlfriend were charging on their bill there, particularly as the credit card they were using was in someone else’s name. He called the police, who picked Arnie up. Did I know his last name? He had given my number as his own, but gave a different last name than the one on the auto theft complaint. I couldn’t believe it. I gave them all the information I knew. Apparently he had a record a mile long and ties to the underworld as an errand boy. It seemed that he had been trying to get my money back by running a scam with his grandmother’s credit cards, buying things on credit and returning them for cash. And this was only one of his schemes. No wonder he so easily left those monster tips—easy come, easy go.
Then Arnie called me, complaining that I wasn’t supposed to give out his name to the cops. At t
hat point I was sorry not to be able to tell them more. This guy was a menace. Now he was in big trouble with the cops. And Joe had hired some kind of thug to track him down and beat him up for taking the car. He was scared and he needed my help. After all, it was really my fault since he put himself on the line for me.
I was worried about Arnie, but it was over. This clearly was some kind of lesson I was meant to learn—to pay better attention or something. It was a regrettable experience, but it was also wonderful. He was devoted and a truly loving person. The only thing wrong was that he was a psychopath and a pathological liar. The romance we shared was perfect except for that.
Maybe I’m too much like Joe E. Brown in Some Like It Hot, when he turned to Jack Lemmon and said, “Nobody’s Perfect.” Because I know that another romance, just like that, with a guy who will adore me and who will treat me wonderfully will come along. Just because this didn’t work out, it doesn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with love at first sight or true love. They are real and as possible as before. So in many ways, my romance with Arnie was the best thing that could have happened to me, because it reaffirmed my belief in true love. I just had to find a better partner.
Day by day I reclaimed my life and paid off the debt to my boss at the video store. Eventually I was free of the financial burden and the emotional burden that Arnie had placed on me. I was free of my love for him and ready to meet someone new.
One day as I was restocking the shelves, I saw him. It was The Pirate, the man I had admired so long ago in Bumblebee’s. He was walking toward me, hopefully wanting more than just a movie. I looked directly into his eyes, smiled my most becoming smile, and hoped for the best.
Lou
Love for Sale
Women in Los Angeles make money the old fashioned way—they fuck for it. Oh I knew what I was getting into—every creamy, golden inch I was getting into—when I met Tawny, but when a beauty queen falls into your lap, you can’t help wanting to fuck her, even if she is fucking you, if you get my drift.
The Sportin' Life Page 10