Excavation: A Memoir

by Wendy C. Ortiz

  Jeff stood by the doors as the families filtered out into the sunset. When he spotted Laurie and her family, he approached them with congratulations. I stood by until he introduced me as the ex-student who saved his life by getting him there, since he was without a car.

  “Wonderful!” Laurie’s mother exclaimed, taking my arm. Laurie smiled at me and I saw the glimmer of innocence, the openness in her face that told me she and Jeff were, I thought, simply a student, a teacher, nothing more. I breathed a sigh of relief and let Laurie’s mother, Barbara, chatter at me about Oakcrest School, the Valley, the summer ahead.

  Barbara and Laurie’s father, Larry, treated us to dinner at Ed Debevic’s. I couldn’t help staring at them, their youngish faces, Barbara’s platinum blond hair and twinkling eyes, Larry’s handsome fatherliness. They joked, laughed and engaged me in conversation. When I retreated to the restroom, Barbara followed.

  In the small quarters of the sitting area by the restroom, she lit up a cigarette.

  “Want one?” she asked, offering me her pack. I hesitated.

  “Really, now, what is there to hide? What’s a cigarette between us girls?” she said gently with her perfect lipstick smile.

  I took a cigarette, and she reached over to light it for me. We talked about my high school, what classes I was taking, and my bus. I forgot that I had to pee and leaned against the clean white wall of the bathroom, letting my mature side take over, forgetting my tie-dye shirt and patched up jeans, letting Barbara see the side of me I enjoyed sharing with adults.

  We said our goodbyes in the parking lot. There was hand-holding and cheers and laughter, and for whatever reason, I felt like I’d been included in a very special way I didn’t totally understand. I almost forgot Jeff was there, I was so engaged with Laurie, the poet genius girl, and Barbara, her beautiful and understanding mother.

  After I slammed the door of the bus and Jeff turned the ignition, I remembered I had to pee.

  “Really?” Jeff asked as we pulled out into traffic. Barbara and Larry’s convertible was ahead of us, and Laurie was waving and smiling.

  “Yeah, and I need you to stop somewhere so I can buy some cigarettes,” I said, waving back at Laurie.

  At the first stoplight, Jeff threw open the door and jumped out of the bus. He ran over to the convertible and motioned to me, talking and smiling, and Barbara nodded.

  “Follow us!” Barbara turned and called out. Jeff jumped back into the driver’s seat as the light turned green and we tailed the convertible through the streets.

  Barbara and Larry lived in a condo in Beverly Hills. They poured glasses of champagne, which I made sure to sip daintily. I found myself talking to Larry, who, after ten minutes of happily chatting, was eager for me to meet his younger brother who would be traveling out from New York for the summer.

  “He’s seventeen, Wendy, and I think you two would really hit it off,” he said with unbridled enthusiasm. I nodded, smiling, and said, “Sure. That sounds fun.” I noticed Jeff out of the corner of my eye, laughing with Barbara. When I looked, his eyes told me he was listening. I thought I saw encouragement in them until Barbara interrupted by suggesting that she and I take their dog Oliver for a walk.

  She picked up the leash, attached their poodle to it, and we headed outside.

  “Let’s get some cigarettes,” she said once we were out the door, her eyes bright. I found myself listening to her voice, answering her questions, enjoying each pause and interjection, the laughter and adult asides she granted me.

  When we returned, Larry and Jeff were standing in the kitchen and Laurie looked as though she was ready to fall asleep. Her blond hair fell against her shoulders and her eyes were half-open, a slight smile on her face.

  “Excuse us for a second,” Larry said, ushering Jeff into another room. “I have some old albums I think Ivers here would be most interested in.”

  When they returned, I could smell a faint scent of pot smoke and I decided not to mention it when my eyes fell on Laurie, who had since curled up on the couch while Barbara and I talked.

  As we prepared to leave with a second round of goodbyes, Barbara scribbled their phone number onto a piece of paper. Larry handed it to me.

  “Really, you and Joseph will get along great. He’s into meditation, he’s a vegetarian, listens to the Grateful Dead. He’ll love you!” He laughed and cried out, “He’ll propose to you!” I laughed, blushing, wondering what Larry could see that I could not.

  “And we’d love to see you again! Do call us,” Barbara added.

  Next thing I knew, Jeff and I were back on the freeway, eventually pulling up in Jeff’s driveway. I moved over to the driver’s seat and said goodbye to him absently, my head filled with laughter, the thought of family, and a sense of normalcy that I found strangely exotic, and even appealing.

  SUMMER

  1989

  The heat split the morning in two. It was Sunday. My eyes felt heavy from sleep, sweat already forming on my upper lip before ten a.m. I had a special date with Jeff, and I was not afraid to think date as I leaned toward the mirror in my bra and panties and applied a little gloss to my lips, which looked to me, smooth, sexy, worthy of kisses.

  I pulled on my new favorite dress, one that testified to the coke, sleeping pills, and cigarettes I’d been ingesting pretty regularly. It was teeny-tiny short, and clung to my hips and chest. I examined myself in the mirror, turned myself around to look at my ass. My white underwear created a slight line on the curve of each cheek. My strapless bra created the desired effect on the white sleeveless cotton dress, sprinkled with tiny pink flowers.

  I slipped on my suede sandals and pulled out a small white purse that hung in my closet, hardly used. When I stepped into the living room, my mother said, “Wow!”

  I had already told her Nicholas was taking me out to brunch.

  “I’ll be back this afternoon sometime,” I said, letting her take in the fact that I was wearing a smidge of make-up, which she always prodded me to wear. I could tell she was proud that such a tiny dress fit me. I looked feminine, which was what she wished for me. This made me both angry and satisfied.

  I picked up my keys to leave. We kissed goodbye and I smiled at her as I put on my sunglasses. The bus started up and I waved. Halfway to Sherman Way I realized that I meant to look at the window across the street from my house, wanting the man inside to see me, all dressed up, on my way somewhere.

  I imagined Jeff’s new apartment as an oasis but for the din of the city that drifted in from his tiny balcony overlooking a parking lot and mini-mall. The apartment complex felt populated yet safe; neighbor’s faces were absent, though their movements registered in bumps and overheard television shows, canned laughter and applause beaming through the walls.

  Alone. Jeff lived alone now, and I felt it was my influence, the plateau we had reached, where our relationship warranted more time, more privacy, more eye contact and attention to nuance.

  I buzzed Jeff’s apartment and he answered groggily through the intercom. The door unlocked for me and I headed down the hallway to his front door. I knocked and then opened it without waiting and found him scratching his back, yawning.

  I suddenly felt young, overdressed, maybe even ridiculous.

  When he took a good look at me, though, I saw something wake up in him and he disappeared into the bathroom to get dressed.

  His apartment was a shambles. Boxes still lined the walls and counter space, and only the small black and white television and a stereo were plugged into the outlets. I sat uncomfortably on the sofa and waited for him, jingling my keys.

  I was there so he could make good on a favor I did for him. My bus, loaded to the gills, had rumbled back and forth between his previous rental house and this new apartment. “I’ll take you out for brunch,” Jeff promised as he heaved one last load off the bus, his glasses falling down on his nose. My sanda
l tapped the carpet as I thought of his promise, and I wondered where we might go.

  When Jeff put out his hand, expectant of the keys, I handed them over with a petulant look, silent. As we headed east, bitterness crept into my voice as I answered his questions, until finally I was silent. He asked what was wrong now, and I looked out the window, angry that he didn’t trust me to drive, and yet I did not insist. I wondered what kind of lame excuse he’d come up with if we were pulled over.

  “Look,” Jeff said slowly, staring at the road after minutes of silence, “if you sit through this meal without saying a word, I’m going to throw you off the fucking mountain.”

  I looked out the window and pouted. My arms were crossed against my chest. Mountain? I thought. My lower lip trembled even as I felt my body responding to the anger I incited in him.

  He drove us up, up, up until we were in a lot and there were nicely dressed men that wanted to take the bus and park it for us. “Whoa,” I said to myself when Jeff opened his door, and I opened mine. People were stepping into the restaurant wearing Sunday dresses, blazers, and high heels. Jeff was in jeans and a shirt. My thighs felt warm in the sun.

  “Go inside and get us a table for two,” Jeff ordered, and I started walking as he took a ticket from the valet.

  Inside there were long tables with white tablecloths, and glass bowls overflowing with fruits and muffins. Men with white aprons and chef’s hats stood by and whisked together omelets and frittatas. Crab and shrimp were displayed on ice. Assorted breakfast meats sizzled on tabletop grills and waffles took shape in hot irons.

  When we were seated, my eyes lit up. My silence was over.

  “I told you this place rocks,” Jeff said.

  Two plates later, my glass of champagne emptied and refilled countless times, I excused myself to use the bathroom. I looked at the floor as I walked, taking careful steps. I was happy and drunk and my dress felt too short. When I returned, we continued eating, letting the food absorb the alcohol.

  A woman with a camera that looked big and out of place approached us, interrupting my drunken ramble. I felt the shudder in my heart, the fear of being found out, accused.

  “Would you like your photo taken?” she asked.

  I tried not to laugh and stared at Jeff with a puzzled look when he started handing her money. Suddenly he was sitting on my side of the table, his arm around me. Two photos were snapped, and the woman moved onto another table.

  When I could only sip at the endless champagne and the plates were cleared, the woman with the camera returned. She handed Jeff two keychains. He handed one to me. I stared down at this keychain in my palm so the sudden inexplicable tears would go back to where they came from before I looked up again.

  In the keychain there was a picture of Jeff and I. On the other side was a small square of paper that read “The Castaway,” the name of the restaurant. I put it in my purse and looked at Jeff, finally, and I knew I was beaming.

  Jeff suggested we move outside to the terrace, and I laughed, thinking, How could this get any better? Jeff’s hand cradled my elbow as we carried our water glasses out to a table in the sun. I sat down and shook my sandals off. I expected Jeff to give me a look, but he just leaned back in his beautiful patio chair.

  “What’ll you have? Piña colada? More champagne?”

  I eyed his auburn stubble. “Champagne. I guess.”

  “A double piña colada and a half bottle of champagne,” he told the waiter.

  We stared out at the Valley, and I realized finally, at the age of sixteen, why it was called the Valley. My legs were crossed and I swung my bare foot in the air. A cigarette sounded delicious after such fine food, with the prospect of more champagne. I said this out loud, knowing the cigarettes were back in the bus.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” Jeff said, and headed off. The word love filled my mouth like a bubble. I leaned back and smiled at the people at other tables. I pondered the Valley laid out below us, the ocean in the distance. We were floating, like the waves of heat off blacktop, only we were just above Burbank on a brown hill. I thought of “Spanish Castle Magic,” a Hendrix song I loved, and hummed a few bars.

  Jeff returned and handed me my rescued cigarettes. He leaned over and used one hand to cup the tip of the cigarette as he struck a match and lit it. I stared boldly into his eyes as he did this, and his hand lingered on mine for a moment before I took it back to suck hard on the cigarette.

  My jaw felt loose and open. I listened to him tell me that he was sick of our arguments, that we were so beyond that. He put on his baseball cap and looked up toward the sun.

  “It’s tough listening to you talk about all your little boyfriends, all the men just lining up at your door, while we have petty arguments and lose our tempers over stupid, inane shit,” he said. I stumbled over his words, men lining up at my door? My calves were getting hot in the sun and I thought about Nicholas and how he seemed so very far away. I looked out at the Valley to see if I could somehow locate Reseda. I rearranged my legs under the table where there was shade and continued listening, a slight smile playing on my glossed lips.

  “I really imagine us having a future together, Wendy,” he continued, looking at me and then at his bag of chew on the table. I decided not to give him shit about the tobacco, or the fact that he was using the potted plant next to us as his spittoon. I poured more champagne into my glass.

  “So do I,” I heard myself say. “I want more than what we have now. I’m worried that our relationship is just based on sex.” The anxiety about voicing my feelings had already slithered away like drops of water drying on cement under an angry hot sun.

  And still, I held something back. A melancholy settled around my shoulders and I wondered if I was getting sunburnt. I rubbed my nose absently.

  “I’m afraid,” Jeff began, “but I love you.”

  I shook my head. I looked behind him at the clear blue sky. No. But yes. But no.

  “Yeah, it’s true,” Jeff continued. We were holding hands across the table and my foot glided along his below. I looked at him and suddenly didn’t give a shit that I was drunk and crying.

  He repeated the daydreams he’d shared with me off and on throughout our relationship that involved packing up all our stuff, running away together. I nodded, letting him know I imagined the very same things. He ordered me another half bottle of champagne and I wondered if this was a good idea. I felt sick thinking we were drunk, talking this way, that he might not remember the next day. And I suddenly knew.

  This conversation would be erased from his memory. By the next day, it might never have occurred.

  When we got up to leave, the sun was high west in the sky and I had to hold myself upright with as much energy as I could muster. Jeff drove, which made the most sense under the circumstances. When he stopped at a strange apartment, I didn’t protest. He asked me to wait for a few minutes while he went in to buy some weed, and I nodded, wanting to lie down, close my eyes. The bus sat silent in the sun outside the quiet apartment complex.

  It’s Sunday, I thought to myself. I threw my legs up on the dashboard and let my dress ride up to the top of my thighs. The sun eventually lulled me to sleep.

  When we arrived at Jeff’s, I rested on his sofa amid all the boxes. He stretched out on the mattress on the floor after opening up the sliding glass balcony door, letting in the breeze. After a while, I got up and drove home. My hair was knotted from the wind. I traipsed in, told my mother I had a great time, went to my room and passed out on the cushions on the floor that served as my bed.

  Later, I looked at the souvenir keychain. I have looked at this keychain hundreds of times since.

  Jeff has his arm around me and my hair is down, held back with a couple of bobby pins. He is wearing a t-shirt and cap and sporting a beard, smiling, though the way his mouth is placed it looks suspiciously like it contains chewing tobacco. I am looking gold
en, smiling loosely, white teeth against my tan skin creating a dramatic effect. My long hair covers my neckline. My favorite dress doesn’t even show up much in the picture.

  The next day Jeff said to me on the phone, “Everything I said yesterday? I meant it all.”

  The Castaway burned down years later. My mother told me this on the phone. I was a thousand miles away, years from that afternoon, but I remembered it all. And I have the keychain to remind me.

  NOTES ON AN EXCAVATION:

  EXORCISM

  Several relationships in my life have had the difficult and often unspoken task of exorcising Jeff.

  Each person deserves a fresh look at their fossil history, a cataloguing of their state of being and their relationship with the flora and fauna—what made them survive, what did not.

  There is a story, a book, for each, but they cannot be contained here.

  The men with whom I coupled, serial monogamists all, men who found they had to first wrestle with ghosts to get to my core (if they got there):

  My sincere apologies.

  LATE SUMMER

  1989

  Whether it was the marijuana or the semblance of having just experienced something I thought unattainable, I floated home many times that summer from Jeff’s apartment. Nicholas didn’t enter my head until the mornings after, when my journal writing resumed, having left off the previous morning after a secret night with Jeff in his apartment above Denny’s. J. might take me to a blues club, I wrote in my journal. Nicholas and I might go out Friday night.

  Arguments with Jeff didn’t cease with the presence of those nights. My forehead pulsed with pain after telephone conversations with him when our bickering had us slamming phones or growing silent around each other. I channeled my anger by spending more time with Nicholas, the adventures we had as normal teenagers in the summertime. We camped by the ocean, hiked the hills surrounding the Valley, lugged paper bags of beer and wine up rock croppings and hid from cops in the far reaches of parks after hours.