by STEVE MARTIN
“I’m meeting Mr. Ray Porter,” she chances.
“Ah. Nice to see you again. Right this way.”
He leads Mirabelle past several red leather banquettes and around a lattice. In a booth too large for two people sits Ray Porter. He is looking down at a notepad and doesn’t see her at first, but he looks up almost immediately. The incandescent lighting, filtered through the red lampshades, warms everybody up, and to him, she looks better than at Neiman’s. He rises to greet her and guides her into the booth, and sits her to his right.
“Do you remember my name?” he asks.
“Yes, and all the exciting times we’ve had.”
“Would you like a drink?”
“Red wine?” she questions.
“Do you like Italian?”
“I’m not sure what I like; I’m still forming,” says Mirabelle.
Ray Porter is relieved that he can desire her and like her at the same time. The waiter attends them and Ray orders two glasses of Barolo from the wine list, as Mirabelle plays with her spoon.
“So why did you go out with me?” He cascades his napkin open and lays it on his lap.
“I think that’s an impolite question.” Mirabelle puts the right amount of coy in her voice.
“Fair enough,” says Ray Porter.
“So why did you ask me out?” says Mirabelle.
The fundamentally simple answer to that question is rarely spoken on any first date ever. And the real answer doesn’t occur to Ray, Mirabelle, or even the waiter. Fortunately Ray Porter has a logical reply that prevents a silence that would have been awkward for both of them.
“If it’s impolite for me, it’s impolite for you.”
“Fair enough,” says Mirabelle.
“Fair enough,” says Ray Porter.
And they sit, each in a tiny struggle about what to say next. Finally, Mirabelle succeeds.
“How did you get my address?” she says.
“Sorry about that. I just did, that’s all. I lied to Neiman’s and got your last name, then one call to information.”
“Have you done that before?
“I think I’ve done everything before. But no, I don’t think I’ve done that before.”
“Thank you for the gloves.”
“Do you have anything to wear them with?”
“Yes, plaid shorts and sneakers.”
He looks at her, then realizes she has made a joke.
“What do you do?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean besides work at Neiman’s?”
“I’m an artist. I draw. I can draw.”
“I can’t draw a line. A sheet of paper is less valuable once I’ve scribbled on it. What do you draw?”
“Usually dead things.”
At this point, Ray Porter imagines an entirely different iceberg beneath Mirabelle’s psychic waterline than the one that actually exists.
The wine arrives. The waiter pours it as they sit in silence. When he leaves, they speak again.
She asks him about himself and Mr. Ray Porter tells her, all the while his eyes drifting down the line of her neck to her white starched blouse, which, as she breathes, bellows open and closed. This half inch of space allows him a view of her skin, just above her breasts, which nestles into the white of her bra. He wants to poke his hand in and leave a light, pale fingerprint on her. His glances toward her take place between Mirabelle’s own glances toward him, so that these looks to each other are effectively woven together, yet never intercepted by either.
They make it through to the end of the evening, with the conversation lasting just until the check comes, at which point they run out of topics. Then they deal with the business part of the evening, that part where phone numbers are exchanged and hours indicated when it is best to call. Ray Porter gives her his Seattle number as well, the direct line, not the office. As they leave the restaurant, he places his hand on the small of her back in a gesture of assistance as she passes through the door. This is their absolute first physical contact and does not go unnoticed by either’s subconscious.
Mirabelle’s car comes first, and she troops around to the open door, where she begins to fumble in her purse for a tip. “It’s been taken care of,” says the valet.
She drives home, not sure of what she is feeling, but filled with what is probably the first truly expensive meal of her life. When she gets home, there is a message from Ray Porter asking her to dinner next Thursday. There is also a message from Jeremy asking her to call him back, that night. Her responsibility gene kicks in, and she phones him, even though it is twenty-five minutes short of midnight.
“Yeah?” Jeremy believes this is a clever way to answer the phone.
“You wanted me to call?” says Mirabelle.
“Yeah. Thanks. Oh, hi. What are you doing?”
“You mean now?”
“Yeah, wanna come over?” says Jeremy.
Mirabelle thinks of Lisa. She wonders how he can be addicted so soon. They hardly did it and she hardly cut it off. One sloppy evening of flaccid sex and Jeremy is begging for another soggy dog biscuit. Lisa’s phone must be ringing off the hook. She must have endless messages of coercion on her machine from sad-eyed lovers.
“Come on over,” continues Jeremy.
This inquiry reverses every electron in Mirabelle’s body, causing her attraction to Jeremy, which was at one time a weak North-South, to become a strong North-North. It is the perfect wrong time for Jeremy to do to Mirabelle what she had done to him––call him up for a quick fix––because, in a sense, she is now betrothed. Her first date with someone who treated her well obligates her to faithfulness, at least until the relationship is explored. She does not want to betray this unspoken promise to Ray Porter. But Mirabelle is polite, even when she doesn’t have to be, and she thinks she owes Jeremy at least a conversation. After all, he wasn’t so awful, and she continues:
“It’s too late,” she says.
“It’s not too late,” he counters.
“It’s too late for me. I have to get up.”
“Come on.”
“I can’t.”
“Come on.”
“No.”
“It’s not too late.”
“No.”
“Want me to come over there?”
“It’s too late.”
“I can be over there in ten minutes.”
“No.”
“Wanna meet somewhere?”
“I can’t.”
“We could meet somewhere.”
“I have to hang up.”
“I could come over and then leave early so you could sleep.”
Mirabelle convinces Jeremy that no way, not now, not tonight, not ever, is he getting her in bed when it isn’t her idea, and finally she gets him off the phone. This incident has sullied the events of the evening, and she has to concentrate to get herself back to her earlier buzz.
She putters around the kitchen, remembering this or that about her dinner with Ray Porter, also noting that this was one of the first evenings in a long time that hadn’t cost her anything. She is pleased that she had been her best self, that she had entered a new world and had been comfortable in it. She had given something back to the person who took her out. She had made jokes, she had been wry, she had been pretty for him. She had turned him on. She had listened. And in return, he had put his hand on the small of her back and paid for her parking and bought her dinner. To Mirabelle this exchange seems fair and good, and next time, if he asks, she will kiss him.
Ray Porter’s faithfulness ratio is somewhat different. While he also had a good time, meaning that the evening was charged with little invisible ions of attraction, this does not mean that any devotion is in order at all. What it does mean is that they will have several or many dates, and until something is indicated or promised otherwise, they are independent of each other. But this is such a routine thought for Ray Porter that he doesn’t even bother to think it. He had called her from his c
ar phone with an invitation for Thursday not only because he liked her but also because there is a riddle in his mind. Upon reflection, he cannot tell if the surface he glimpsed under Mirabelle’s blouse was her skin or a flesh-colored nylon underthing. As he weighs the evidence, he decides that it had to be a nylon underthing as what he saw was too uniform, too perfect, too balanced in color to be skin. On the other hand, if it was her skin, then she possesses his particular intoxicant, a heady milk bath he can submerge himself in, and soak in, and drown in. He knows that this riddle will probably not be solved on Thursday, but without it, there will be no Saturday, which is the next logical step in its solution.
He gets in bed, and instead of letting the streams of data pour through his mind, he lets the symbols of sex form their own strict logic. The white blouse implies the skin which implies the bra which implies her breasts which implies her neck and her hair. This leads to her stomach which necessarily invokes her abdomen which leads to her inner thigh which leads to her panties which leads to a damp line on white cotton that he can press on and gain a millimeter of access to her vagina. This access leads to further access and implies taste and aroma and a unification of his self made possible by the possession of his very opposite. This logical sequence is plotted against a series of intermittent days that spread over several months. The entire formula is a function of whether the square inch in question is skin or nylon, and if it is nylon, what then is the true texture of the square inch hidden beneath it?
Gloves
MIRABELLE STRIDES CONFIDENTLY PAST THE working stiffs on the first floor and heads to her sanctuary on the fourth. She takes the stairs two steps at a time, and oddly, she is in the mood to work. She is even thinking of ways to sell more gloves by laying a few out on the end tables and display cases throughout the store. Then she gets to her department, takes her post, crosses her legs at the ankles, and stands there. And stands there. No management comes by all day for her to spill her idea to. There is more for her to look at, however, as the pre-Thanksgiving nonrush means more people pass by her counter on their way to somewhere else. Lunchtime comes, and she has a definite feeling that she has not moved for three and a half hours.
She decides to take a two-hour lunch. This is accomplished through lying. She explains to her immediate boss, Mr. Agasa, that she has an appointment for a female problem and that she tried to schedule it for another time but that this is the only time the doctor can take her. Mr. Agasa stammers while she adds that things are slow and that she has asked Lisa to keep an eye on the counter, and he nods a concerned okay.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“I think I’m okay, but I should be checked.”
And she leaves the store. Hitting the flats of Beverly Hills, she pops into a yogurt shop on the premise that she can have an entire meal for three dollars, and she takes her brimming cup outside and vacations in the sun on Bedford Drive. In the hard sunlight, her hair shines a deep maroon. She angles her wire chair toward the low-rise that houses all the Beverly Hills shrinks, hoping to spot a few celebrities. This is the building where she goes to renew her medication, so she recognizes a few of the nurses and receptionists who file in and out. Next to her sits a woman so repulsive that Mirabelle has to turn her body uncomfortably so as to edge her out of her peripheral vision. The woman converses on a cell phone while shoveling in contradictory amounts of low-calorie yogurt. Her fat droops over the chair and hides all but its legs. Her hair is brassy from chemicals designed to make it look golden, and her smoker’s face has a subtle gray cast. However, what she speaks about on the phone is in fact quite gentle. She is concerned about someone who is ill, which makes Mirabelle squirm a little over her lie to Mr. Agasa. The woman speaks, stops, then after what must have been a long speech by the person on the other end of the line, says,
“ . . . just remember, darling, it is pain that changes our lives.”
Mirabelle cannot fathom the meaning of this sentence, as she has been in pain her whole life, and yet it remains unchanged.
Just then she sees the heartthrob Trey Bryan enter the shrinks’ building. Trey Bryan is hot as a pistol, which qualifies him for immediate psychoanalytic care. She had seen him once in Neiman’s buying what looked very much like doilies for his girlfriend’s shoulders. She has witnessed heartthrob shopping many times, and she knows it is a ritual that is very refined. It requires a girlfriend who, if not already famous, is comfortable with becoming famous. She has to look bored, and therein lies the purpose of the shopping trip: the heartthrob must dance around laying gifts at her feet, trying to lift her spirits. Mirabelle could never figure out why the receiver of these gifts is so bored. Mirabelle loves to get gifts.
An important part of the celebrity-couple shopping ritual is that the two shoppers appear exclusive; their world is so extraordinary, so charged, that their movement through the regular, unexclusive world scatters little dewdrops of diamonds. Mirabelle had once waited on such a couple, when she stood in at the Comme des Garcons section, and felt her own transparency. It was as though she were a chalk outline of herself, animated by an inferior life force.
Today, though, with her extra hour and fifteen minutes, and the sun beating down on her in spite of it being November, she decides to visit the competition and check out the glove departments at a few other stores. She can at least empathize with other sad, lost girls who stand in solitude behind their counters. Her first stop is Saks Fifth Avenue on Wilshire Boulevard, where she sees an impression of herself standing vacantly in the lonely distance, hovering over merchandise that no one wants. She says her name and identifies herself by job description, and the clerk is so excited to have someone talking to her that Mirabelle considers offering her a Serzone to level her out.
Next stop is Theodore on Rodeo Drive. This is a hip, sexy store and features gloves so youthful and spirited that Mirabelle longs to deal in them. She can imagine the coolest people coming to her, swapping fashion tips as they try on the merchandise. To take advice from her current customers would be fashion suicide, unless she somehow wanted to be mistaken for fifty.
As she drifts around Beverly Hills, she finds herself a block from La Ronde. This arouses no particular emotional response, it is not “the place where they rendezvoused,” but it does make her feel less like an outsider in Beverly Hills. She has actually eaten in one of the actual restaurants, which is what 90 percent of the out-of-towners roaming around this afternoon haven’t done. She wanders into the Pay-Less and buys sanitary napkins, because she needs some, and because it will reinforce her lie to Mr. Agasa should he see her purchase.
She goes back to Neiman’s, where Lisa tells her that someone has been looking for her. “Who?” asks Mirabelle.
“Well, I don’t know, a man.”
Mirabelle assumes it is Ray Porter. Perhaps canceling. She will call her message machine at her first break.
“What was he like?” Mirabelle asks Lisa.
“He’s a man, over fifty. Normal.”
“What else?”
“A little overweight. And he asked for Mirabelle Buttersfield. By name.”
Ray Porter is not overweight and would not ask for Mirabelle by her last name, which she is not even sure he knows.
“He said he’ll come back,” adds Lisa, vanishing toward the stairwell.
Mirabelle slides back into her berth behind the counter. She stands there a minute and is suddenly struck by an overwhelming wave of sadness. This causes her to do something she has never done at Neiman’s: she pulls out a low drawer in the counter and sits on it for several minutes, until she recovers.
Lisa
LISA CRAMER’S BODY IS GOOD enough for any man or woman on this planet, but it is not good enough for Lisa Cramer. She believes that she has to be flawlessly pleasing to a man, and that she has to be an expert at fellatio. This talent is fine-tuned and polished through extensive conversations with other women and the viewing of selected “educational” porno tapes. She even once attended a class gi
ven by Crystal Headly, a down and going sex-film actress. She is not reluctant to roll out this expertise, either. Within several dates, and sometimes sooner, Lisa will demonstrate this skill to the lucky fella, thus making herself feel that she is the kind of woman any man would want. The men, however, feel confounded by their good fortune. Who is this person who goes down on them so easily? Lisa can only judge her success by the frequency of follow-up phone calls from the men, who are eager to take her to dinner, or a play. The fact that they are willing to take her to a play––low on the list of L.A. date priorities––demonstrates just how far they are willing to go. Lisa knows it is the sex they are after, but it is sex that is the source of her worth. The more they want it, the more valuable she is, and consequently, Lisa has made herself into a fuckable object.
Lisa is not interested in sex because it is fun. It is the fulcrum and lever for attracting and discarding men. They come to her because of a high hope, an aroma that she gives off, as delicious as baking bread. But when she’s done with them, they are limp and drained, and ready for their own bed. She has literally absorbed all their interest, and she wants them to retreat before they discover some horrible flaw in her that will repulse them. Thus Lisa, with all her power, never feels quite good enough for anything beyond her ability to create desire in men. In fact, several prohibitive compulsions appeared in her early twenties that keep her from widening her circle of experience. She cannot get on an airplane. Fear of flying grips her so intensely that she has forever banished air travel as a possibility. She also cannot ingest any medicine of any kind. Not aspirin, not antibiotics, not even a Tums, for fear of losing her mind. And she can never, ever, be alone, without worrying that she will suddenly die.