Will looked at me through the rearview mirror again, but this time he smiled and gave me a flirty wink. “That’s good advice—put that on your list, Spector.”
For a moment, I actually considered making it number eleven.
Will changed the subject. “I’m driving. That means I’m in charge. Time for a game.” He spoke in an earnest tone. “No half-ass answers, either, ladies. Keep ’em black and white.”
I figured that should come naturally to me.
“I pick the topic,” he said. “Music. You’re first, Susan. Best album of all time.”
What a ruse! He was delving into my area of expertise to bait me into vulnerability. Sneaky bastard. “Easy. Led Zeppelin III,” I said. I remembered my well-played copy of that disc, sitting back in the apartment I’d never see again.
A smug Will said, “You’d pick Zeppelin III over Zeppelin IV? Interesting. Calliope, your turn.”
I’d hoped she’d choose something lame and predictable to make me look good, but as usual she stumbled into brilliance with annoying ease. “What’s that one Beach Boys record? My dad had it—it was really good. Something about animal noises.”
Damn her. “Pet Sounds,” I said in a snotty tone, careful not to admit the significance of the album’s experimental and sophisticated vibe.
“Great album,” Will said. “But not as good as U2’s Joshua Tree.”
The game continued with “worst song ever,” “best song ever,” “best breakup song,” “best ’80s power ballad,” and by the time we made it to the Nebraska border, we were on “best soundtrack ever.”
When the topic of movies came up, Will became more intense than usual.
“So, Will, what movies have you been in?” I asked, genuinely interested.
He looked as if he’d expected the question. “I haven’t worked for quite a while, but the last project I worked on was Tremors IV,” he said with a forced, embarrassed smile. “Very highbrow.”
“I thought I recognized that shake,” I laughed. “How do you prepare for a role like that? Hang out with someone who has Parkinson’s?”
I laughed alone, then felt horrible when Will answered.
He was expressionless. “My mother died from Parkinson’s.”
“Sorry.” My chest tightened and I held my breath for a few seconds.
“Don’t worry about it.” Will stared through the bug-stained windshield. “She was suffering a lot in the end, so …” He cleared his throat. “So per her request, I put her out of her misery on a cloudy Sunday morning with the help of an oversized down pillow from Sears.”
Calliope hid her face in her hands, humiliated for me, but I had to say something.
Part of me felt guilty, but mostly I felt thankful we’d slept together without pillows.
“Sorry, Will. Really.” I started to babble. “Comic timing has never been my thing… It was a stupid joke … I was kidding.”
Will finally looked back at me and his straight face grew a sinister smile. “So was I.”
“You ass!” I hollered.
Calliope emerged from hiding. “Well done!”
Will was proud of his stunt and, I have to say, I was impressed with his acting. He began speaking in an English accent. “Despite my obvious talent as a thespian,” he said, “I’m moving on to something new.” It turned out Will wanted to be on the other end of the camera, and had set out to film a documentary.
“What’s it about?” Calliope asked.
“Nothing yet. I was just getting started when you two showed up in my kitchen.”
“Nothing? That’s cool! Make a documentary about nothing—very avant-garde,” Calliope said.
“Too Seinfeld,” Will answered.
I had a better idea. “How ’bout we let you out of the car right here and you can walk across the country—just you, your sneakers, your camera, and your passion … Here’s five bucks.”
Will smiled. “Too Forrest Gump.”
Calliope tried again. “I’ve got it. You can document the inequities of middle-class America—”
“Too Michael Moore,” he said with an irritated sigh.
That’s when it hit me. Will Hudson was chronically unimpressed—with everything and everybody. To him, it had all been done before.
Calliope put her hand on Will’s leg. “I don’t care what the topic is—just make sure Suze and I are the stars.” She reached into her bag and took out a digital camera. “Because if we’re not, we’ll be forced to put this on the Internet.” She scooted close enough that he could get a good look at Big Willy.
Then in a split-second daydream, I envisioned him accompanying me to my upcoming, unearthly destination. We strolled among the clouds while Will insulted me and held my hand at the same time.
And then in an eerie coincidence, back in the real world, he said, “You think there’s room in heaven for a girl who takes naked pictures of a total stranger, then attempts to blackmail him?”
He was right. Heaven was much more discriminating than I wanted to admit. In fact, contrary to what most people think, the majority of us are not going to heaven. Even the Bible tells us so. For my sake, I’d hoped that some heavenly architect could design a new wing for heaven, like a home addition—of, say, another billion square feet—to allow a higher level of heaven occupancy. Why couldn’t He (or She) lower standards a bit, and start some new construction? I wouldn’t even mind if they separated the less-than-holy into their own sub-development. I’d rather be in the ghetto of heaven than the penthouse of hell.
I stopped daydreaming. “What are you, Will? The perfect man? Heaven might not have room for someone with your ego.”
“I’m not a bad man,” he said, raising one eyebrow. “I’m just a shitty knight.”
Feeling more affected by Will Hudson than I knew I should be, I decided it was my turn to be in charge. “Stop the car.”
Will pulled to the side of the road and we switched places. For the first time, I was in the driver’s seat.
yel•low
(adj)
Definition:
1. a primary color, shade similar to the sun.
My definition:
1. the sensation I get when I hear Elvis Costello.
SEVENTEEN
I read in the World Almanac that the lifespan of an average American is 75.8 years, while the lifespan of a rock star is 36.9 years.
No big surprise there, but it made me wonder who lives more: Ted from Wichita, who eats right, takes only calculated risks, and lives a long life, or the ball-breaking rock star who’s ready and willing to say “fuck it all” at any given second and lives a much shorter existence? What about Mick Jagger, who defies all statistics by lasting sixty-odd years (and counting) despite his penchant for hard living, and still manages to prance around onstage, flaunting his six-pack midriff at the rest of us schmucks? Has his carefree attitude contributed to his unlikely longevity? Nah. I bet every time he banged a blonde model half his age, he stole a few years from her, robbing her of life like a vampire sucks blood, tucking his newfound vitality into his hip-huggers.
I was thinking of this as we listened to a classic rock radio station, the only non-country station we could find in the cultural Mecca that is Nebraska.
“Try to look cute, Spector. Film is running.” Will’s digital camcorder rested in his right hand as he filmed me from the backseat. “Oh. That is your cute look?” he said. “Yikes.” To me only, he mouthed, “Kidding!” as if saying something nice to me in front of Calliope might threaten his manhood.
I shrugged. “Hey, I’m not the one making a documentary that is currently documenting absolutely nothing.” I shook my head. “Calliope, I don’t think Will’s little movie here is going to advance our starlet careers.”
“Speak for yourself.” She reached into the back seat and turned the camera toward her face, which she’d contorted into a supermodel pout and followed with a sexy hair toss.
I should’ve been worried about a handful of more threatening
things. After all, I was dying. But seeing Will breathe deeply and press the zoom button as he focused on stunning Calliope, radiant in the sunlight, made my stomach knot up, and when I spoke, my jealousy was transparent. “Where’s a pole when you really need one?” Oops.
Will put the camera back on me as if to say I was in trouble.
Calliope spoke in a sad, calm voice, “You don’t look good in bitter, Susan.”
Will, amateur director, rescued us from the tension. “Cut! Take five, ladies.” He pointed at Calliope. “You are ravishing, darling. Don’t change a thing.” Then he directed his attention at me and scowled. “And you … are f-ing adorable but naughty. Go to your trailer. No more being petty.”
I had to change the subject. “I think you were on to something, Will, about things working themselves out. Calliope would say that’s why you need to stop planning this documentary—let Fate find the story for you.”
Will put the camera down and rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “No, I like it, I like it. It hasn’t been done before. We’ll document the experience of living in the moment, letting external components dictate what we do next. Totally organic. No planning.”
Both Calliope and Will dozed off in the afternoon sun as our coach soared east down Interstate 80. Calliope was nestled against a pillow she’d lodged into the space between the passenger’s window and the front seat. Will was sprawled out in the backseat, and, much to my dismay, not snoring. I tried not to, but I kept looking into the rearview mirror to watch his chest move up and down. Even his sleeping position had “tough guy” written all over it. His muscular forearms were folded across his chest, ready to defend him, and us, conscious or not. I ate up the sight of him like a kitten laps up warm milk.
I nodded and gave myself a silent pep talk. Start checking things off. Time is running out. No more flirting—it’s out of the question. I got so fired up, I spoke out loud to my reflection in the rearview mirror. “Stay focused, Susan. Get it done. Go out on your own terms.” I shook my fist in the air. “Go out blazin.’”
To my horror, my soliloquy wasn’t as solo as I’d hoped—it was more of a monologue—because the next time I looked in the mirror, I saw Will sitting up in the backseat yawning.
“‘Go out a-blazin,’ huh? Am I about to die in a fiery Thelma & Louise suicide crash?” His smile was always different when Calliope wasn’t looking, as if he saved a special smile just for me. “Cuz if this is it, the end I mean”—a serious stare replaced his friendly smile—“there’s something you should know, Susan Spector.”
I was striving for my “couldn’t care less” look, but when I tried to relax my face, it ended up more like my “coy schoolgirl” look. This was it. A beautiful boy was going to profess his love for a dying girl in … Nebraska? God, Nebraska. The longest damn state in the union.
I pinched my left thigh, warning myself to quickly prepare my “I’m not looking for a relationship right now” speech. But mid-pinch, the sight of him naked, on bended knee in front of the swing set, flashed in my head and the memory of his smell overwhelmed me.
“Susan?” he said.
“Yeah?” I whispered.
He pointed to the gas gauge. “Hate to ruin your plan for a dramatic exit, but you’re out of gas.”
I’ve always loved the smell of gasoline. I used to carve out secret moments to enjoy a good whiff. Mother thought I was being helpful when I offered to fill up the station wagon in the dead of winter or suggested topping off the lawnmower in the sweltering heat. But in fact, I was stealing away with my toxic fume friend like a good girl hiding under the bleachers with a bad boy.
There I was at the Conoco, desperate to reunite with my combustible companion. With death looming in my not-so-distant future, and my situation with Will turning out to be more of a complication than a relationship, I needed to take the edge off. And what better way to do it than with premium unleaded?
“I’m gonna grab a Pepsi. Want anything?” Will asked. “Coffee, tea, me?”
I wanted a lot of things: a bottle of anything 80-proof. New lungs. A chocolate river to drown in. “No, thanks,” I said.
As I watched Will walk toward the store, I caught myself staring at his butt and wondering about his ability to maneuver his way around touchy, hard-to-get-to spots. In an attempt to shake inappropriate thoughts of him, I purposely overfilled the tank and, when the excess gas spilled into a mini-reservoir, I sopped it up with paper towels meant for cleaning windshields. Then, pretending to be looking for the gas cap hiding in my clenched hand, I crouched down by the tire and breathed in with fervor.
Within seconds, I became anesthetized and happy, and my mind began making parallels between my two boyfriends—the one inside the convenience store, and the one flowing out of Pump #6. Both were a guilty pleasure. Both could be described with adjectives ending in “oxious.” Both were bad for me. And both otherwise defied classification.
Gas: Is it a solid? Is it a liquid? Neither!
Will: Is he a knight in shining armor? Is he an ass? Hmmm … A little of both?
After the next whiff, things got naughty again when I blushed thinking about another shared trait: Both had the ability to expand indefinitely. I thought about the picture of not-so-little Will and let out a dreamy sigh.
“Suze? What are you doing?” Calliope was standing in front of me. “Can I help you?” She frowned in embarrassment. “Please?!”
She helped me to the back seat as I blathered on. “Out of gas?” I said, shaking my finger in the air with the zeal of a drunkard. “He has no idea!”
Calliope waved her hand in front of her nose. “Jesus, did you bathe in gas or what? It’s all over your shirt.”
The cool thing about sniffing gas is how quickly you recover. So, by the time Will came back to the car to witness Calliope leaning over me in the backseat, ripping off my “Lucky” T-shirt and smelling my bra, I felt stupid and sober.
Will tightened the cap on his soda, licked his lips, and gave us a wanton stare. “We should stop for gas more often,” he said, waiting for Calliope to get out of the back.
It was Calliope’s turn to drive, and as she made her way back to the interstate and turned the radio dial, I wondered if she’d come across Jackson Browne singing “Running on Empty,” thus supporting her theory that everything happens for a reason. But before I could find out, Will removed her hand and began filming again. “Okay, from here on, we take all our cues for what to do next from the radio.”
I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of having something as fickle as fate guide our trip, but I knew if I played the game well, it could help me get to where I needed without having to spill my whole sordid story.
He turned back to see me wearing one of Calliope’s tube tops, and asked: “Nice shirt. A bit smelly. You in? Don’t be lame. It’ll be fun.”
As long as the radio sent us in the direction of Grand Rapids, Minnesota, I was in. “Fine,” I said.
“Okay, Cal. Turn the dial,” Will said as he focused the camera on Calliope, who began the search.
The first thing she turned to was a commercial, so she kept going. The next song was almost finished, and thankfully I was the only who recognized it—the Beatles. White Album. “Why Don’t We Do It In the Road?” That would’ve been interesting.
Thank God Madonna showed up next.
“I love this song!” Calliope said as Madonna sang her earliest and best song: “Holiday.” I could almost envision Calliope, ten years earlier, in a Madonna-inspired ensemble complete with lacy headband and big hair. “Susan, how much did you want to be Madonna in high school?” She stopped for a moment, looking at me like she was about to inquire about my past.
Will gave me an inquisitive look, the kind of look that would soon lead to questions about my past, my present, and Mono and Clyde, and would inevitably lead him to find out I was sick and desperate. I needed a diversion, away from the confines of the car. So when I saw the roadside sign advertising a nearby Holiday Inn, I took my cue from
destiny via Madonna and told Calliope to make a quick exit. She swerved a hard right.
“What are you doing?” Will hollered, competing with the radio. “We just got back on the interstate.”
I pointed to the radio—“‘Holiday’”—then pointed to the sign as we flew past it—“Holiday Inn. It’s meant to be.”
Will filmed us as we settled into our hotel room. “Here we are in Omaha, Nebraska, our destined lodging spot thanks to Ms. Madonna Louise Veronica Ciccone.”
I looked at the camera. “All four of her names? Impressive, Will.”
Will laughed. “Out of work actors watch a lot of E! True Hollywood Story.”
Calliope lit up. “Ya think Madonna has her own Madonna and Child? Ya know—a painting of her and her kid?”
“If I were Madonna,” Will proclaimed, “I would make my kids bow down at my feet and say ten Hail Marys before they got dessert, just to live up to the holiness of my name.”
“What exactly is a Hail Mary anyway?” I asked. “I mean, what does it say?”
I was talking to Will behind the camera, but Calliope answered. “Well, the most important line is the last one: ‘Hail Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.’”
When I heard “hour of our death,” I wondered if I should take notes.
“And by the way,” Calliope continued, “ten Hail Marys is a joke. You’d need a lot more than that to prompt forgiveness. In fact, during the sixteenth century, it became the custom to recite a total of one-hundred and fifty Hail Marys in a series of ten repetitions, called a ‘decade,’ interspersed with prayers recalling the mysteries of Jesus’ life. Now in Judaism and Hinduism—” She stopped, as if she’d been caught knowing too much.
Was I in the presence of pure magic? From moment to moment, Calliope seemed to morph from mere mortal to magical muse, and then back again. I stared at Calliope with raised eyebrows, wondering how she knew all of that.
Black Eyed Susan Page 9