She spun around, expecting to see smoke blowing from Walt’s nose, horns growing from his head, and a stack of complaints up to his waist.
Instead, a large brown upright piano greeted her. Behind the instrument she could see Jimmy’s shag haircut. A cigarette dangled from between his lips. “Lemme try to push it through, man.” He had company. She felt a flicker of hope that he’d brought Max with him. Then she realized that she was in her pajamas and wearing her reading glasses. She hadn’t even wiped the crust from her eyes from when she woke up six hours ago.
“You sure you don’t want me to get on the other side and lift it?” A male voice called. It wasn’t Max’s voice, and she felt a strange combination of relief and disappointment.
“No. I think I can slide it.”
Elise watched as Jimmy pressed his skinny body against the piano, his bony shoulders shoving the wooden frame. The little wheels beneath the instrument jolted over the doorframe.
“Hey, what’s up?” he said when he noticed her.
“We have a piano?”
“Yeah.” He continued wheeling it toward the empty half of the living room. “And a drum set.”
His friend followed, carrying large drum pieces in each hand.
“Just set those over there, dude.” He turned back to Elise. “We just got kicked out of our studio, and we don’t have anywhere to store this stuff.” He motioned toward his friend. “Elise, this is my buddy Elliott Potter. He’s the drummer for our band.”
She recognized him from the flyer. He was stocky and had a head full of curly dark hair and long sideburns that extended to his chin. He wore jeans and a T-shirt that read, “Say No to Drugs.” They shook hands before he headed to the couch and proceeded to roll a joint on their coffee table, right next to five lighthouses.
Last week she was making herself dinner when Justine had presented him with one of the lighthouses. Elise had slyly eyed them from the kitchen while he opened the gift.
“Another lighthouse,” he’d said with a polite twinge of fake happiness in his voice. “Cool.”
Beaming, Justine had kissed him on the cheek before they’d proceeded to make out right there on the couch. The lighthouses never moved.
“I really need to get high before we unload the rest of that stuff,” Elliott said. The rest of that stuff? What else did they have?
Elise remembered an episode of Oprah she’d seen the previous week. It had been one of those Let’s Take Cameras Inside the Homes of the Rich and Famous So the Rest of the Country Can Feel Totally Poor and Unstylish for an Hour episodes. They had toured makeup guru Bobbi Brown’s house and discussed heated towels and the television set in her bathroom before they were off to the grand designer of Pottery Barn’s home where she showed off her kitchen island and chic little chalkboards in every room. Watching this episode had unleashed a craving for heated towels and chalkboards that she couldn’t explain.
As she stood in her living room while they passed a joint across her coffee table, she wondered what it would be like if Oprah had an episode about them—those who can’t afford their home let alone heated towels, but rather roll joints next to a row of trinkets.
She wanted out. She wanted her own place with a matching set of dishes and fluffy white couches. She was too old for this. Five years ago she probably would’ve thought it was a blast to have a couple of musicians turning their living room into a studio and offering her pot. For a moment she considered a career change. Real estate? Pharmaceutical sales? But she was doing what she loved. Unfortunately, it was a career that involved a lot of sacrifices in the beginning—and had a very long beginning, for that matter.
She was about to tell Jimmy about his fine and the notice, but he left to gather more instruments. He returned with a giant electric keyboard. Their parade of instruments continued until four guitars, two trumpets, and several amplifiers occupied the empty space in their dining room. Within minutes, their apartment had become the Grand Ole Opry. Elliott sat down in front of the drums and banged out a drumroll loud enough for people in Mexico to appreciate. His curls shook over his forehead, and his mouth turned to a contorted line as he threw his heart and soul into the set. The whole time she couldn’t help but imagine the next visit from Walt.
“That’s awesome!” Instantly, Jimmy slid onto the bench in front of the piano and began to play music to accompany the drum set. She had to admit, they sounded great. She found herself caught in the moment, tapping her feet. She was about to ask the name of the song when she remembered the fine and notice in her hand.
“Uh, Jimmy. I hate to interrupt, but um . . .”
He continued to play while Elise spoke.
“You need to move your truck. A man came by here a little while ago with a fine and a notice saying that you had forty-eight hours in which you needed to move your truck.”
“Shit. Really?” He still tapped away on the keys. “How much is the fine?”
“Seventy-five dollars.”
“Man, that sucks. My truck doesn’t start.”
“Listen, I have to hop in the shower. It’s my brother’s birthday, and I’m going out to dinner with my family tonight. But I’ll set the stuff right here on top of the piano.” As she headed back to her room, she prayed he wouldn’t forget.
She had just stepped out of the shower when the doorbell rang for the second time that day.
“Coming,” she yelled. She threw on her robe and wrapped a towel around her head. She glanced at the clock just to make sure she wasn’t running late. Her parents weren’t due for another half hour.
When she opened the door a three-hundred-pound grizzly faced man with stubble and pants that were too small for him invaded her view. His hairy stomach bore a striking resemblance to a mohair sweater she had recently turned over to the Salvation Army, and his belly button was as deep and dark as the drain in her bathroom sink. She tried to remember if the helicopter that had been combing the area that morning had been looking for him. No. The fugitive du jour had been a young Mexican male, mid twenties, on a red bike.
“Somebody call Triple A?” he asked.
“Oh yeah. That would be my roommate’s boyfriend. He should be here any minute.”
His face remained blank, but something about the way he sighed made her believe that he didn’t want to wait.
“I’m towing the Toyota in the front, right?”
“Yes. That’s the one.”
She heard the sound of wheels rolling over concrete as Jimmy swiftly glided toward the driver on a skateboard. His bangs were blown back, and he held a paper bag in his hand.
“Hey man. Sorry. I had to go get a brew. You want one?”
“No. I don’t drink on the job.”
Elise left them to sort out Jimmy’s truck issues. Minutes later, she heard the door open again. Only this time it was Justine. “I got here just in time,” she said, out of breath. “The guy almost wouldn’t tow Jimmy’s car without my Triple A card. I had to leave work.”
She set her purse on the counter. “I got the cable bill and electricity bills today.” She reached for them inside her purse. “I just split them in half. You can look them over if you want. But I’ve written down how much we each owe on the top of both bills.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll write you a check.” She was heading for her checkbook when it occurred to her that Jimmy had practically moved in. He watched television more than anyone, which used both cable and electricity. Furthermore, it didn’t seem as if he planned to leave until he went on tour next month. They should divide the bills three ways. And for that matter, they should be dividing the rent three ways as well. She suddenly felt as if she were being taken advantage of. The idea of confronting Justine seemed terrifying. However, if she wrote a check for half the bills, she’d feel like a spineless doormat, and that was worse than facing her roommate.
“Justine, um, do you think it would be possible for Jimmy to contribute? I mean, he watches television more than anyone and he, well . . . it seems like he
, um, lives here.”
Justine stared at Elise, her eyebrows twisting into a sinister shape that Elise had not yet become familiar with. Maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned it. After all, he was leaving for his tour. Perhaps he was just a guest who had free rein of their television and refrigerator. She didn’t want to be The Evil Stingy Roommate that charged Justine’s guests rent.
“Well, if he doesn’t have the money now, I understand. He can contribute another time.”
“Fine,” Justine said. Her long nails curled over the bills, and her voice was as chilly as a polar bear’s breath. “I’ll tell him you mentioned that he should contribute.”
Elise wrote a check for her half of the bills, feeling as if she had just pulled a sweater from the sales rack at Nordstrom only to find when she’d paid at the cash register it had been full price.
“I have to go back to work,” Justine said. “So I’ll just mail the bills on my way.”
Her parents arrived sharply at six o’clock. Her father wore a sport coat with crisply ironed gray slacks. Her mother had on one of her signature monochromatic matching pant and sweater sets. She had a million of these outfits. This one was various shades of pink. The sweater, made of fine silk, was a light rose, while her pants were a deeper mauve hue and didn’t reveal a single crease or wrinkle. A baby pink shawl was draped over her shoulders, and she wore expensive Ferragamo sandals. She was the utter image of sophistication combined with comfort.
Elise was dressed more appropriately for the Mexican restaurant Stan had selected in Ocean Beach. She wore jeans with flip-flops and an off-white peasant blouse.
Her mother’s round eyes immediately darted over the living room as if she were searching for some kind of evidence. “Where is he?” she whispered. “The boyfriend?”
No sooner than she had asked did Jimmy come strolling from Justine’s bedroom, bare chested and beer in hand. Unaware that Elise had company, he belched loud enough to raise the dead while scratching his crotch. “Oh, hey!” he said. “These must be your parents.” He set down his beer and wiped his hand on his pants before offering it to her mother.
“Yes. I’m Marjorie Sawyer,” she said, holding out a delicate hand. “Elise has told us quite a bit about you.”
He lifted his brows before shaking hands with her father. “Really. Well, I gotta say, it’s been great staying here. Elise is the coolest roommate Justine has ever had.”
“You’ve got quite the collection of instruments there,” her father said, surveying the new studio at their apartment. “Is that a trombone?”
“Yeah. We got kicked out of our studio today. Luckily, we can store our stuff here for the time being.”
“Used to play the trombone in my high school marching band,” her father said. This was something Elise had never known about her dad. “Do you practice here?”
“We might.” This was when Elise would no longer become the “coolest roommate ever.” They couldn’t have band practice here. She had to write, and he didn’t even pay rent!
“That’s an interesting collection of lighthouses,” Marge said. “Are those yours?”
“Uh, yeah,” he said before discussing trombones with her father. They visited with Jimmy for a few minutes before Elise shuffled her parents out the door.
She slid into the backseat of her father’s Mercedes sedan. As soon as he started the engine, the voice of a talk radio host joined them, as if he were riding along with the Sawyers to Rancho’s.
Her parents listened to talk radio so often that Elise imagined what it would be like to ride with them in the car without the sound of an aggravated and excited radio host. Furthermore, she often wondered why they listened to it. From what she could tell, it mostly just put them in a bad mood. If they heard something they didn’t agree with on a program, they’d spend the remainder of the ride fuming and ranting about the idiocy of the views expressed. Talk radio was so much a part of their lives that they spoke of the hosts as if they knew them, like they were personal friends they’d had lunch with that afternoon.
“Well, Dr. Christine mentioned that the problem with America’s youth today is all these working mothers,” her mother would say. “I always knew I was doing the right thing by staying home with you kids. Although sometimes I wonder about Stan. Maybe it was because I let him watch MTV. Dr. Christine says that’s a no-no, too.”
The other result of talk radio was that it unleashed a hostility inside her parents that most people outside the Sawyer family never caught a glimpse of. No one at their country club would ever suspect that smooth and polished Marge Sawyer with her monochromatic Neiman Marcus outfits and manicured hands had just been shouting some of the worst obscenities in the English language at a car radio only minutes before arriving at a tennis match.
“I hope you’re still planning on looking for a new roommate,” her mother shouted over the radio. “I don’t know how you can stand living there.”
“I will soon. I’ve just been busy finishing up my book and haven’t had time.”
“What?”
“I said I’m going to start looking for a roommate soon.”
“I can’t hear you.”
“Could you turn off the radio? Please,” Elise said.
“Hal, turn down the radio. I can’t hear Elise.”
“I just want to hear this one last comment,” he said before driving straight through a red light. Her mother’s scream made Elise’s ears ring. Elise covered her eyes and couldn’t hold back her scream, either.
“Good grief!” her father yelled as they miraculously avoided being broadsided by a Ford Ranger and made it through the intersection in one piece.
“Hal!” her mother yelled. “What were you thinking? How could you not have seen that light?”
This was the other thing about talk radio. Elise had some serious concerns that talk radio might hold the fate of her parents in its agenda. She’d lost track of how many times they’d both escaped fatal accidents by a mere millimeter. She’d witnessed dozens of separate occasions when each one of them had become so wrapped up in a program that they just switched lanes without even looking. Elise had begun to theorize that most accidents could probably be attributed to Dr. Chrstine and that conservative host Roger Tremwhatever.
Whenever Elise passed some poor soul on the side of the highway holding an ice pack to his forehead and miserably surveying the bumper he’d rammed into, she thought of one thing: talk radio.
“Please. Would you just turn off the radio?” Elise said, her heart still racing at the near-death experience she’d just been involved in. “You guys are going to really hurt someone one of these days. I’m serious. I’m really worried about you guys.”
Thankfully, they turned the radio down. “So, are you excited for the shower tomorrow?” Marge asked.
“Yes. And I’m bringing the cake.”
“Fantastic. I’m so glad you can be a part of this shower since you missed the last one when Melissa was pregnant with Jeffrey.”
“What? What’s going on?” her father asked.
“I was just saying that I’m glad Elise is back.”
“I am, too, but I don’t know why you don’t just move home,” her father said as he parallel parked in front of Rancho’s. “Rent is such a waste of money. You may as well just take your five hundred dollars and throw it out the window every month. You’re just paying for someone else’s investment.”
“Why don’t you and Stan go in on a place together?” her mother said. “Right now is a great time to buy property. When I was at the club the other day I played tennis with Vicky Landon. She’s one of the top Realtors in San Diego, and she said if you went in on a place with Stan, the two of you could probably afford a nice condo.”
“I love hanging out with Stan. But if we lived together we’d kill each other.” Elise was far from Justine on the neat scale, but Stan was in completely different realm of the solar system when it came to cleanliness. She changed the subject. “So Melissa isn’t coming t
o dinner?”
“No. They’re just coming for dessert. Jeffrey skinned his knee today.”
Perhaps this was the only benefit of having a child. It got you out of everything, whenever you wanted. All Melissa had to say was Jeffrey wasn’t feeling up to it, and there were no questions asked. Not that she wanted to miss having dinner with her parents, but there were other things in life she wouldn’t mind having a hall pass for.
They found her brother standing outside Rancho’s. He was also in jeans and looked as if he’d just woken up.
“Happy birthday,” Elise said, handing him the card and scented candle she’d gotten him. She thought a nice fragrance might add some appeal to his apartment.
Her parents gave him a hundred-dollar gift certificate to Jake’s. It was one of the best restaurants in San Diego, and her mother figured if Stan ever did go on a date he should pay. “Take someone out with this,” she said. “There has to be a nice girl you could take to dinner.”
The best part of Rancho’s was the menu. Of course it featured all the regular delicious Mexican entrees, carne asada and chicken enchiladas. But it also included vegetarian selections. Though she wasn’t even a vegetarian, Elise always ordered the shiitake burrito. The burrito was so good that she had actually debated abandoning meat for a healthier lifestyle. If things like this were so available, why not? Her father even ordered vegetarian, too, the shiitake chimichanga.
“So, how was that date you went on the other night?” Stan asked, reaching for a chip.
“Oh yes!” her mother said. “With the Realtor, right? Are you going out again?”
Elise really didn’t feel like going into it and quickly tried to think of something to divert their attention. “The date was not great, but I am kind of interested in someone else.” The moment the words left her lips, she regretted it. Her relationship with Max was little more than a crush, and furthermore, even if it did transpire into anything she’d have to gradually tell her parents about him.
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