“Well, that’s very gracious of you, Ted. But here’s the thing.”
“What?” said Dr. Ted.
“We’ve never slept together.”
“What? How’s that possible? I’ve nailed everyone.”
“I dunno. It just didn’t happen. But here’s what I want.”
“You want to do it now?” said Dr. Ted.
“No. Whatever we have… and I’m not sure that I could call it a friendship… it’s over. Don’t call me, email me, instant message me. If you see me, pretend that you don’t know me.”
“Oh… You got it all figured out,” said Dr. Ted, his voice a little too loud and a little too agitated. Our volleyball Viking waitress looked over at us.
“You know that’s not true,” I said.
Dr. Ted’s face began to get red.
“You think you’re too good for me,” said Dr. Ted.
“You must be joking.”
“Who are you to say this to me? I’m not even attracted to you. I get to say when it’s over. Not you. Me. I do that.”
“What’s it, Ted? And what’s over?”
I picked up my bag and walked toward the door.
“Take care of yourself, Ted.”
“Where do you think you’re going?” he yelled. “You don’t get to walk out. I do.”
The Viking volleyball-player waitress in the UCLA shirt looked at me with concern.
“You OK?” she said.
“Yeah, I’m OK.”
I walked out the door and didn’t look back.
16
Low Love
When I got home it was 8:30 p.m.
One email. It was from Leslee.
“You’ve probably heard about Hobeck. I’m attaching my resume as a PDF. Can you send it around? Thanks.”
Leslee’s law firm, Hobeck, Berman, had dissolved. The firm had been open for over 100 years. Leslee no longer had a job. Harvard Law grad June, from the Book Group, had already sent me her resume.
Five calls from the Breather on cell and voice mail.
Message six on my voice mail. “Group needs your fi… engaging spirt. We’d… all right, I’d… like you to come back next week,” said Roberta. “Will you call me?”
I wondered if Roberta’s checking account was running low.
The phone rings. I had given up answering my phone because of the Breather’s calls. The caller I.D. was no good. No matter who called, it always said anonymous.
Oh, why not take a chance.
“Courtney.”
“Yeah…”
“It’s Aaron.”
“Aaron?”
“Remember. We met at that speech you made for California Lawyers for the Arts.”
Now I remember why I never pick up my calls.
“Did I give you my home phone number?”
“No. But I found it online.”
“What can I do for you?
“Well, if you ever have any free time, I’d love to meet for coffee and pick your brain. Career advice, you know?”
Aaron. I remembered Aaron. No sickly green skin, no chicken chest, no prematurely gray hair. He wasn’t an attorney. Six foot one. 170 pounds. A college athlete. Cheekbones which reflected the light. Light brown hair, with golden streaks (natural) from his mornings surfing in Malibu. Crystal-blue eyes. Flirted with me after my speech, so I hoped. A beautiful smile, glistening white teeth. Placed one hand on my back. “Great Speech…” “Really?” Hand on my shoulder. “Well yeah, and you were so much fun.” I did remember Aaron.
“What are you doing right now?” I said.
“Now?”
“C’mon over. Bring some wine and a bathing suit. I have a hot tub. I’ll give you all the career advice you ever wanted. Where are you coming from, anyway?”
“Close to you.”
“How do you know that?”
“I got your home address online too.”
A tiny red flag.
I acknowledge that I knew this is the way you meet Ted Bundy.
Thirty minutes later with wine.
“You are close by.”
“Hey.” A hug. Lasting long enough so that I could smell his toothpaste.
“You look great,” he said. Yes, I always had the shirt, the one shirt, which made me look like I had boobs, and one pair of jeans with strategically placed rips in it.
“Vino?” he said.
“Ab-so-lutely.”
I had tidied up (I hid Abyss’s second box). I managed to clean the water stains off two wine glasses. Fortunately, there were two matching wine glasses that were not broken. I had even located some cheese—cheese—not Velveeta (a little too early to spring this on him) to serve: brie. And I had opened my emergency can of smoked oysters to serve on the emergency box of fancy British too expensive pepper crackers which I had in reserve. I even sliced my reserve emergency pear, more like an apple, because pears were never ripe when I needed them to be.
Of course, I hid the Hostess Ding Dongs. The creamed corn. The Fritos. And the baloney, a little bit of a problem because if Mr. Yum stayed too long the baloney, hidden outside the refrigerator in a dish underneath my sink, might begin to sweat.
A girl never knew when she was going to need to be swanky.
I remembered the dates—especially Andre—the ones who had needed to search my refrigerator “just to see what kind of wine I was drinking.” Where the cheap wine used for cooking, OK maybe for drinking, was always located. “You’re drinking this? This?” Too loudly, in front of guests. The one who had found the Ritz Crackers—“Ohmygod, you eat these? Nobody eats these. No-bo-dy.” Holding up the box like a dead rat. The one who had found the creamed corn. “How sweet, you’re eating creamed corn? I didn’t know that you could still buy creamed corn. Did you get it from your Grammy?”
As if buying food that was not stocked by Whole Foods Market instantly eliminated you from the eligible dating pool, this generation’s declaration of a class stigma.
It just wouldn’t do in West Los Angeles.
Of course I hid the Velveeta.
If it had been up to me I would have served a ground beef noodle casserole, broccoli with mayo topped with crunched Cheese Nips and Jell-O, tri-colored—with a pile of Cool Whip on top.
And I would have been nice. No attitude. Genuinely Interested. A Stimulating Conversationalist.
I placed the swanky food—smoked oysters, the brie, and the hard pear—on my recently (20 minutes ago) cleaned glass coffee table. Mr. Yum walked over to the couch with the wine. Pale Yellow. Interesting nose. Was that the wine, or had Abyss done her bi-monthly spraying of the place before Mr. Yum, Aaron, had arrived?
“What are we drinking?” I said, sweetly, smiling. In the background I can hear Abyss scratching at her box, the beginning of a compulsive 20 minute process ensuring that she covers her recent deposit. And I smell… Abyss, or is that the baloney, getting ripe?
He can hear her, too.
“I have two cats,” said Aaron, “The Captain… and Tennille.”
“A little before your time,” I said, “and even mine.”
“My mom had some of their albums.” Bringing the wine bottle over. A California Chardonnay from the Russian River area—that was nice. “The guy at the store told me this was good.”
Sitting down next to me. “Prost,” I said, taking a sip. “Not bad.”
“So what can I do for you,” I said. He moves in close to me and places his hand on the rip at my knee and slips his hand through the rip so that it is on the skin, his hand on my bare skin, just above my knee, sliding up my thigh, slightly bunching my jeans up.
“Uhhhhhhhhh…” I said.
Abyss is still attacking her plastic cat box and I’m beginning to wonder if I really didn’t wish that I had a big ol’ attack dog, maybe a German shepherd, named Peetee, or a Rottweiler named Bruiser.
“You know that I didn’t come here, now, to get career advice,” said Aaron.
“You could’ve. People always want career a
dvice in this town.” Trying to convince myself.
“Yeah, but you know when I met you at your speech, I could tell that we had a connection.”
“We did?”
“Don’t deny it, you felt it too and you want this…” Leaning in for… his lips brushing my…
“What is that smell?”
I jumped up, suddenly aware of ripe, ripe, baloney like—cat box—smells. “You know, I think it’s time to move to the hot tub portion of tonight’s program.”
“OK,” said Aaron, “that could be fun.”
“Why don’t you go into the bathroom and put on your bathing suit.”
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Oh no—I think the baloney was attempting to make a break from the cupboard beneath the sink or…
“What’s that knocking sound?” said Aaron.
“I don’t know.”
I knew what it was—Abyss had discovered the baloney. Aaron—thank you Lord—graciously disappeared behind my swanky French doors and hopefully went into the bathroom.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
“There it is again,” said Aaron.
“Thanks for telling me.” Like thank you for telling me, “that skirt makes your hips look enormous.”
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
“Abyss… Abyss.”
There she was, attempting to open the cabinet below the sink with her paw and letting the door bang shut.
“You silly fool, leave the baloney alone.”
Abyss looked up from the cabinet and let it bang shut again. Bang. I went to the refrigerator and got her special treat.
“Here,” I said, putting some in her dish and moving her away from the baloney-hiding cabinet. Honey-baked ham. The emergency stash. Six months ago, when Frank had left and Abyss had started her bi-monthly spraying of my apartment I had hired a behavior specialist for cats who thought Abyss had a bad relationship with her box. To turn this around and create a positive cat box experience he had me place bits of special food on the rim of her box. Turkey, she sniffed at and wouldn’t touch. Roast beef, she knocked off and ran away. Honey-baked ham, she jumped in her box, ate every piece, and sat in her box, meowing, until I put more ham down. She was not Kosher.
“I’m ready,” said Aaron. He was wrapped in a towel.
“I’m hoping that there’s a bathing suit in there.”
“Who needs a bathing suit.”
“Me. I’m not ready for show-and-tell tonight.”
“Sorry. Forgot to bring one.”
“OK. Ready to go.” I picked up some towels. “I put mine on under my clothes.”
“Leave the baloney alone,” I whispered to Abyss. We walked up the stairs to the roof, opened the door and walked to the hot tub. I prayed that the tub had been recently cleaned. Did the water temperature really kill all of those germs? I looked around. Not a lover of heights, it was slightly disorienting seeing L.A. from this angle, four stories up. We got in the tub.
“Why so far away,” said Aaron.
“I’m fine over here.”
I was sitting across from him next to a jet. I was beginning to feel a little nauseous. Cheap wine, height, heat, and oysters. Aaron moved next to me and started rubbing my back.
“You seem tense,” said Aaron, “but I think I know how to make you feel better.”
“You might be mistaken tonight. Aaron, I think I want to go…” He placed his tongue in my mouth and started kissing me. He pulled the straps down on my bathing suit and started feeling my breasts. I didn’t feel well at all.
“I think that we could have a lot of fun together—exploring, experiencing, no rules, no promises,” said Aaron. My stomach was cramping and I pulled my legs to my chest.
“How old are you?”
“24,” he said.
24. 24. 24. I’m 35. No rules, no promises—no future. I’m pathetic. Someone who would sexually involve herself with a person—a person who probably was looking for career help—and was deluded into thinking this was how to play the game. This seemed very familiar. But now I was the older person.
I had become Gene Jenny. How had this happened?
“I think I’m going to…” I turned away and stood up, leaning over the side of the hot tub on the pavement as the vomit burst out of my mouth and on to the ground… cheap wine, height, heat, and oysters all combining to make swanky vomit, retching four times before I was done.
We walked downstairs without saying a thing. I opened the door to find a large swath of grease across my plush gray shag carpeting, littered with baloney trailing from the kitchen to the northeast corner of my sunken living room, where sat Abyss. She had dragged the entire package of baloney from the cabinet to the corner, in the process eating so much that she was covered in grease, fur slicked back, whiskers stuck to her face, fur matted to her head, face, and chest, only making it worse by trying to clean herself with tongue and paws that were also covered in baloney grease.
“Oh, Abyss.”
Aaron had slipped away and returned with clothes on and a piece of paper with various numbers on it.
“Home, cell, work, email,” he said, handing me a piece of paper with various numbers on them. “I meant what I said up there.”
He walked toward the door, and stopped.
“Are you going to be OK?” said Aaron.
“No. Never.”
“Call me tomorrow.”
I didn’t call. Three days later, he called me.
“You didn’t call me. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. You didn’t really think I was going to call you, did you?”
“Well yeah. How often does a 24-year-old guy like me call you wanting you?”
As Roberta would have said, I was feeling an Ancient Pain.
“You know Aaron, attractive as your offer is, I just don’t see what we have in common. I mean, you’re 24. Go do your 24-year-old things.”
“You’re kidding me, right? Women like you don’t turn me down.”
“Women like me. You’ve done this before?”
“Sure. And it worked out really well. Sometimes they’re married. Sometimes they’re not. Always they’re a little older. And alone.”
“And what do you get out of this?”
“A car. An apartment. Help with my career,” said Aaron.
“And they get?”
“Sensuality. Romance. All their desires met.”
“I’m looking for something else.”
“Don’t tell me you think you need a boyfriend?”
“That’s a start.”
“A husband?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Some of the women I’ve been with have been married, or even gotten married, and then returned to me. It’s not like being married is going to solve any of your problems.”
“It’s not like being or having a sex toy with a pulse will either.”
“God, you’re puritanical. And you think too much.”
“Do they recycle those lines every generation? What’s next? If it feels good, do it?”
“Didn’t you feel something when I was kissing you?”
“Aaron, I threw up.”
“You’re a mess. I’m going to give you a couple of days to think about it. Alone. You’ll call me once you realize what we could have.”
“Hmmm.”
“No woman has ever turned me down.”
I’ve often thought if I could just go back to age 15, read the classics and like them, study Latin, summer in Martha’s Vineyard, apply to a school like… Vassar… Dartmouth… Princeton… or Stanford… it would’ve all been different.
Like I could have been reborn as the daughter of Todd, a Yale grad, a tax partner at a large law firm, and Carolyn, a stay-at-home mom who began chairing the fund-raising committees of local art museums when I entered Andover at 15, residents of some very leafy area of Connecticut, say New Canaan, where they owned a 10,000-, no, too big and not tasteful, 7500-square-foot two-story home on three acres of land, where they had a le
afy fall during which they all wore beige and earth tones, and then celebrated a very white, and very Episcopalian Christmas with a big, real, not aluminum, Christmas tree, at which the women wore red and green plaid skirts, red sweaters and black tights, and served egg nog and sugar cookies with little sprinkles on them. And Todd and Carolyn stayed married, didn’t die, and didn’t divorce, so I never had to see them date someone else, and certainly didn’t see them (mom or dad) date, or attempt to date, my boyfriends.
And after Andover, I, with Todd and Carolyn’s help, visited all the Ivy-League schools (so in case everything failed, I could be a member of the Ivy & Elite) and decided that I would apply to the appropriate school in an appropriately leafy area, on the east coast, like Wellesley, which I got into, where, somewhere between my junior and senior year I met the big brother of one of my friends from school—John, who was in his third year at Yale Law—and we started dating. We dated until I graduated and started working in publicity or marketing for DKNY or Calvin Klein, and then after he finished his federal court clerkship and started working for Sullivan and Cromwell we got married in a 200-person wedding at my parents’ place in The Hamptons during June when everyone looked very pretty, like tall, thin, high cheek-boned golden-haired models, like in the Ralph Lauren ads.
Or,
Wait a moment…
Was this entire fantasy an ad for Ralph Lauren? Yes, I already knew someone from Andover—Frank—and his prep school slacker life didn’t at all resemble a Ralph Lauren ad, but I’m sure that mine would’ve turned out differently.
All right, so it was a few, make that many years later and I was starting to read the classics. I figured it was never too late to start down the right road.
First book up—Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake.
First book down—Joyce’s Finnegan’s Wake.
One more try.
First book up—Edith Wharton’s Age of Innocence.
No, seeing the movie, even the director’s cut DVD, does not count as reading the book.
But I was hungry.
So I made my recipe for Velveeta junior pizza, slathering mayo and grated Velveeta on some La Brea Bakery rosemary and olive bread. Somewhere, I was sure that Nancy Silverton was going into anaphylactic shock.
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