Girl Act

by Kristina Shook

  He took my clothes off, felt me up and down, spread my legs, and wrangled for my G spot, which he found (I mean there really is a spot that, when touched properly, releases everything; it’s so fantastic).

  “I’m DYING,” Aunt Helen said loudly, snapping me back into the reality of the current situation.

  “I don’t want you to,” I said, and she reached out and we held hands.

  “Twenty-seven, three years before you turn thirty; this is a very important time in your life,” she cautioned.

  “Yeah, if I don’t mess it up,” I said, suddenly feeling extra sorry for myself.

  “You’ll hold out for love, and you’ll go from being an ‘I’ to being a ‘we’. And you’ll like it very much,” she proclaimed, like a fortune teller.

  “You didn’t become a ‘we’,” I said, not trying to hurt her feelings.

  “My biggest mistake,” she said, and that sentence hung in the room over us, like the start of a rainstorm that doesn’t happen, but you can feel it wanting to pour down.

  “Not true,” I said, wanting her to agree.

  “Very true,” she replied.

  And that’s when Gabriel got up and stood in front of her door with his 6’1” back to us. He was like a human door.

  “We’ll talk it about it another time; you have to hit the road for Connecticut before it gets too late,” she said. I got up and folded the road map. I asked with fear, “You’ll be here?”

  “I’ll be here, but be back by tomorrow morning,” she said. I agreed.

  All at once I understand the expression ‘to walk with lead in your feet’. It was so hard for me to walk out of her room. Gabriel followed me.

  “Can I go with you?” he asked. I looked at him. “I’m fond of long drives,” he added. Twenty and wearing grudge clothes that looked as if he slept in them, but he didn’t; it was just his style.

  “Sure,” I said, because I didn’t know how to say no, and maybe I would get to pop his zits for fun.

  “Let me get my knapsack,” he said.

  “Look, we’re not staying overnight. We’ll hop on a train back to South Station,” I said, not wanting to spend too much time with him.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, as he entered a room four doors down. I waited in front of it. The truth was, I had glanced in during one of the days I was visiting and I had seen the woman in it. She was dying, like everyone else in the care center, otherwise known as a hospice. My father had said care center, because even he couldn’t say hospice. Hospice!

  The art of movie making is about creating illusions, and then selling them to the audience. I’ll buy illusions over reality any day. Terms of Endearment is way up there on my ‘dying’ movie list. Not that I would have ever told Gabriel to watch it, but I knew when he walked into the room why he was hanging out in the place. There’s a line that Shirley MacLaine’s character, Aurora Greenway, says in the movie when her daughter’s dying, “Come close…come close…come closer.” And suddenly I understood it, and I wanted to share it with Gabriel so badly.

  19

  GAMBLE

  I drove as Gabriel took over the road map. I had left Shadow at Laurel’s with a promise from my father to walk him twice and feed him, so I was free to just enjoy the mini trip. Unfortunately Gabriel made wise cracks about the fashion designer’s red BMW—for its over-the-top wealthy look; he hated everything that was flashy or trendy.

  “What would you buy if you had to get a car?” I asked, not really caring.

  “A Volvo,” he said, and went onto explain the reasons why he thought it was a well made automobile.

  If any driver tailgated us or nearly cut us off, he’d yell, “You jerk!” I tried to explain that the word jerk was dated, and that it was best left to comedian Steve Martin to re-use, but he didn’t listen. He had theories about everything, and he went on and on about eating organic food, the cost of shipping tomatoes, and the antibiotics fed to chickens and cattle.

  When we stopped at our second gas station, I said, “Gabriel, I get it, you’re a college kid, but just shut up for some of the ride.” His face got red, his whiteheads looked terrible, and his eyes watered; I swear he was about to cry.

  “I have to wash my face,” he said, and off he went with his knapsack.

  I stood there at the Rhode Island rest stop and felt like screaming, “So this is what failing feels like? This is what not being a working film actress feels like? This is what having almost no family feels like? This is what single feels like?” I would have continued, but the car behind me, honked. So I got back in and parked, and went through the convenience store to the bathrooms and then waited for Gabriel. He came out with a pinkish complexion. He had attacked his acne and shoved the Proactiv bottle back into his knapsack.

  “You look better,” I said, trying to sound supportive.

  “I’m not used to being with girls,” he said. “Girls that I don’t know,” he corrected himself.

  “No worries,” I said. It was a gamble, but I wanted to try and connect if we could; I mean we were both about to lose people we loved. I bought us bottled water, oranges, and trail mix.

  “Can we go to Foxwoods?” he asked, as we crossed the Connecticut state line. He took out a Wikipedia computer printout about the largest gambling casino on the East Coast. He talked with accelerated speed about why he wanted to go there and try out the Wheel of Fortune slot machine. We were only a few miles away, so I said, “Okay, why not!”

  I mean, I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to drop the BMW off at the fashion designer’s parent’s house in New Haven; I also wasn’t in a hurry for anything, because the clock was ticking for my aunt and I wanted to delay it. I know you’d think I’d be in a mad rush to return, but in the movies you get to re-watch the ending. In real life you don’t. It just ends.

  So off we went to Foxwoods, and that’s when Gabriel informed me that he had dropped out of Harvard, like Bill Gates and Mark Zuckerberg. Only he wasn’t dropping out to invent something, he was just saying a long goodbye to his mother.

  “Academia isn’t going to be my life,” he said, like he had figured it all out. Meanwhile I tried to explain to him how great college is, not only for the education, but for the experience of learning with peers and professors. He started laughing. Yup, I sounded like my father. Gee, how did that happen? I mean, you plan on not being like your parent or parents, and then suddenly you say or do something they would do. Go figure.

  “Do whatever you want,” I said, as we pulled into the level one parking area of the Great Cedar at Foxwoods. A very shiny, gigantic MGM Grand building that stood out like the Empire State Building. The elevator by the outdoor parking lot was surrounded by handicap parking spaces, the most I’ve ever seen any where. Either the architect had handicapped family members, or just knew that if you add enough spaces, they will come.

  I pulled out my camera and took a shot of us for my Facebook page that I had been neglecting. Gabriel didn’t have a Facebook page, or a blog, and wasn’t on social networks—just an email account.

  “Do you have any friends?” I asked, after his long-winded rant about the invasion of privacy via the internet and how information is tracked and gathered and can be used for defacement scams or worse. He didn’t elaborate on what ‘worse’ meant and I didn’t ask.

  Oh well. Foxwoods. Wow, what a mammoth place. When we got into the Great Cedar Casino, we were like kids at a candy store. FYI, there are two other casinos in the same building and the place looks like a massive indoor mall, with a movie theater and shopping and exotic food. It’s amazing!

  Gabriel wanted to be in the smoking section, because he had brought along a Cuban cigar and wanted to smoke it.

  “You’re a bit young to smoke a cigar,” I said. Shit, a second comment that sounded like my father. Help me!

  “I’m twenty-one as of this morning,” he said. He then went on to tell me how marvelous it felt to be in the casino. I was going to sing him happy birthday, but I didn’t want to sound like m
y father once again, so I just said, “H.B.” And he said, “Thanks,” and then pulled out four hundred dollars in twenties. His mother had sold her house and given him his inheritance, which he was keeping in a safety deposit box at a local bank; he didn’t believe in checking accounts or ATMs. Go figure!

  “Where are the Wheel of Fortune machines?” he asked a guy, who looked like he had just lost his shirt gambling, but seemed eager to show us the slot machines. He was in his seventies, with hair and eyebrows dyed brownish red, and wearing a suit jacket with slacks. He limped a bit, just enough to give him character. I would have cast him as a co-star in a gambling movie. Maybe an indie ‘gambling-shake-down’ film set at Foxwoods. Maybe filmmaking will be my next career.

  The old guy told us which machines he had won on and lost on. Gabriel was grinning, and I realized it was the first time I had seen this college-dropout smile.

  Still, the poker tables seemed more exciting, and I wished Gabriel knew how to play or at least wanted to try them. But he had read about a man winning on the Wheel of Fortune machines two months ago, and he had a theory it was time for another big win. We stood in front of the Wheel of Fortune machines and Gabriel said he needed time to study them. So I wandered off.

  In the movie Casino, Sharon Stone’s character is dressed sexy and I looked at myself, blue jeans with the word ‘HOPEFUL’ on them didn’t cut it, nor did my black wrinkled blouse. Fortunately, I had my Chanel purse and so I went to the bathroom to re-vamp my makeup and hair. Not that I thought I would meet Mr. Darcy/AKA Romeo, but I would at least appear not so loser-ish. I applied cover-up, cheek powder, and eyebrow pencil, made my eyelashes extra thick, and put on brown lipstick, which made my lips look dramatic. Paloma had given me a travel pack of mini hair products, because she knows how to keep it styled even on weird or sad days. So I poured gel goop into my messy hair and made it seem like I was a rocker wanna-be, a better role than an actress-going-nowhere.

  After I’d made myself presentable, I walked back to find a huge shock—Gabriel had won $10,000. It was surreal. They were checking his ID and giving him his money voucher and offering him a birthday drink on the house. He ordered a draft beer. I rushed over and took a dozen cell phone pictures as proof. I mean, who’d believe this? Birthday- dropout-wins-big; only in the movies, right?

  “Buffet meal on me,” he said, as if he’d suddenly become seven feet tall.

  “Now you’re talking,” I said, still totally amazed about his win.

  The buffet was out of this world. FYI, you can have grilled vegetables, exotic fruit, seafood, meat, gourmet pizza, Sushi, Chinese food, even Mexican food and beautiful desserts. Everything! We filled our plates and the waiter took our drink orders. We had just started to eat when Gabriel launched into a hefty explanation about artificial insemination. Yup!

  He walked me through the process as if I had a penis. He told me about sperm banks, and how they offer pornographic material so that the donor can ejaculate after stimulating his mind. He kidded me about becoming a manager of a sperm bank. I would be in charge of buying the sex magazines.

  “How would you buy them? In person, or just order them online?” he asked.

  It’s true I’m not shy with a guy, but I’m actually totally a private woman. I’d never be able to buy a Playgirl, let alone a vibrator in front of a cashier—I’d be too afraid my photo would be taken and uploaded onto Facebook, Twitter, Ning, Taxed, Orkut, or friendster. Okay, so I’m paranoid.

  Gabriel laughed; he had bought a stack of vintage Playboy issues.

  “That’s because you’re a guy, guys are supposed to buy that stuff. In fact it makes you look healthy.”

  “It’s called third party reproduction, when a woman gets impregnated by a sperm donator,” he said; he was on a roll. I nodded as I continued on my second plate; he was treating, so the least I could do was act like a good listener. He told me sperm banks were modern day baby supermarkets where a woman could select anything she wanted—from blue eyes to olive skin to even an ‘Ivy’- educated sperm donor. He told me how the upscale sperm banks collect a voice sample of the guy and print out a fact sheet about his education, race, and religious background, even his choice of fashion, favorite color and zodiac sign. “Virgo,” he said. And I just looked at him.

  What could I say, I wasn’t a Virgo. Okay, so I had dated a Virgo once, but without McKenna (the LA astro-queen/art model) around, I knew nothing about Virgos.

  “It’s the sixth astrological sign in the Zodiac. Symbol is the Virgin Maiden. It’s an earth sign…blah, blah,” he said. I zoned out. Gabriel noticed.

  “You’re a jerk; I’m telling you something important,” he said.

  “No, you’re rattling off Wikipedia info as if I can’t Google it,” I countered.

  That’s when he explained that the reason he was talking about artificial insemination was because he was a ‘sperm’ donor baby. His so-called biological dad was just a printout and a voice-recorded message lasting only minutes.

  “So, you’ve got nobody when your mother dies?” I asked and he nodded. Now I know why the character Charlie Brown, says “Good Grief.” My favorite animated films are Pinocchio, Bambi, Fantasia and Toy Story.

  We walked back through the casino so he could smoke his first cigar and collect his money. Let’s just say, after coughing nonstop during his first several puffs and exhales, he put out the cigar, but kept it as a symbol.

  Then I watched him collect his $10,000 in cash—it was first-rate. The funny part was when he stuffed it into his knapsack. For a second I thought I was on a reality TV show, because it was just so bizarre.

  We stood staring down at the parking lot, now dark, and debated about driving to New Haven or staying in the casino’s hotel room, but Gabriel said, “Let’s drive, I’m a great driver, and you can always take a nap in back.” Since it was his birthday I said, “Sounds good,” and off we went. We waved goodbye to Foxwoods and hopped back on the freeway.

  We got to New Haven by eight-thirty and dropped of the fashion designer’s red BMW at a modest home a mile-and-a-half away from Yale. Her father offered us the guest room, but we both wanted to head back to Boston, so he dropped us off at Union Station, where we bought one-way train tickets.

  No sooner had we sat down on the train when Gabriel started talking about Herman Hesse’s novel Siddhartha.

  “Siddhartha realizes that time is an illusion. Do you believe time is an illusion?” He asked with complete earnestness.

  I laughed; he really was odd in the coolest way, but I would never tell him that.

  “Gabriel, I read that book a long time ago, try Freshman year in college and, all I can remember is the river, it seemed so vivid that I could actually picture it.”

  “Me, too,” he said smiling.

  “You’re not alone,” I said. It just flew out of me as if I was sensing some search, some unspoken worry emanating from his pimply face.

  “I think people try to distance themselves too much,” he said.

  “I’m going to adopt you as the kid brother I never had. I’ll draft up the papers and you can sign them,” I said, half-joking. That’s when he pulled out a super small Swiss Army knife, “Forget the paper work. Let’s seal it—”

  “Wait a second! I guess there’s one thing you don’t know about. Like, we can’t mix our blood, not with HIV around. I’ve been tested already and maybe you have or you don’t need to yet, still that old custom is over for good. So let’s do a hand shake with a double hug,” I said. And we did just that.

  Wow, I was eager to have family, and anyone who thought as deeply as he did belonged in my family, or I belonged in his.

  20

  TASKS

  The next morning, I showed Aunt Helen my Facebook page on the Apple iPad with my new-brother pictures all over it, and she clapped. I had made her so happy, as if she had wanted this relationship to develop all along, but was afraid to imagine it. I wasn’t sure if Gabriel would really act like my kid brother, or if he had
just been caught up in ‘winning’ at Foxwoods, but it didn’t matter. I mean, a brother for a day is better than not having one at all.

  I helped her sit upright. Her two Trader Joe’s canvas bags were on her bed, and she was anxious to show me things while she still had enough stamina. When a foreign film ends, the screen usually has ‘fini’ and sometimes I think that looks better.

  “I haven’t got long, that much I know,” she said in a hoarse voice.

  “I don’t want you to leave, I’ve just gotten back and things are starting to click,” I said.

  “You can always keep me with you by thinking of me.”

  “Like Jill?” I asked.

  “Yes, just like Jill and Finch,” she said.

  Jill had gone to the same high school I did, and I had gotten a two-week crush on a guy named Finch (his real name was typical and boring, so he took the nickname Finch from the purple bird well-known in Massachusetts). Okay, so I even tried walking behind him to high school, you know, trying to casually ‘bump’ into him. And my then-new high school friend Cheryl had cut out a picture of the Purple Finch for my locker, but all of a sudden Jill and he became high school sweethearts—they just fit together. So I was done with my crush. Then she and I ended up at Sarah Lawrence College, and she taught me body sculpting and the best way to stay physically fit. She even designed an exercise floor routine that I still do eight times a month.

  SLC was made up of many anorexic/bulimic women and Jill hated that, so she taught a lot of them how eat well and work out (five days a week). She was pixie in size: small boned and slim. Jill had promised when I ‘made it big in the movies’ that she’d fly out and be my personal trainer from time-to-time. We used to laugh about that dream.

  Jill once lent me her room for the weekend. And, well, I used her bed for the coolest sex I ever had! The super-amazing kind where my eyes rolled back into my head from sheer bliss. Wow! It all happened because Jill was by then not dating Finch, and had gone away to try to forget him. And I went to the local dance held in our college cafeteria with my redheaded friend Gemma, who wrote poetry. Incidentally I was on crutches because of an aerobics accident; last time I ever did aerobics. Gemma made me go with her, so she didn’t have to walk in alone. Well, anyway, one really chiseled-faced guy from Purchase College came over to me. “Want to dance?” he asked. “I’m on crutches,” I answered. “So what,” he said. And onto the dance floor he led me. Standing in the middle of the dance floor, me holding my crutches as he danced spastically all around. He had that Abercrombie & Fitch photo-shoot look—so he could get away with bad dancing. His name was Erickson, and his older brother was on a soap opera that filmed in Manhattan. He was planning on becoming a businessman like his father.