by Annette Fix
“No, I got it. I can do this, let's just go.”
Steven sat beside me on the lift bench. I linked my arm through his and curled it tightly. With my other hand, I death-gripped the metal frame of the seat.
The biting wind from the ascending lift chapped my cheeks and I shivered.
“Look at how beautiful everything is.” Steven nudged my side.
“That's okay. I'll take your word for it.” I kept my eyes squinched closed. The board dangled from my right leg and felt heavy enough to pull me off the seat.
I could just see it. Me, free-falling hundreds of feet directly into a pine tree and being carted away on a stretcher to a waiting medevac helicopter. Now, that's my idea of a great winter vacation.
“Get ready to step off,” Steven said as the ski lift reached the top. “Hold out the leg with the board first and step into it with your other foot as you come off the seat.”
WHOMP.
I tripped over the snowboard and found myself facedown under the lift.
The next bench was empty and narrowly missed hitting me in the head. I stood up quickly before another seat arrived and hobbled off the angled mat, one leg free, the other still snapped into the binding.
Steven held out his hand to help me step into the snow. “Are you all right?” he asked.
A cute, young blonde with a bright pink scarf tucked into her resort staff vest lifted a camera in my direction. “Would you like a picture?”
I brushed the dirty slush from the front of my jacket. “No,” I smiled with gritted teeth. “I would not like a picture.”
Steven helped steady me as I snapped into my bindings. I swiveled my hips toward the run and nudged my board forward. I skied ten feet and promptly fell over.
My bottom buried in the snow, it was like dropping anchor. I couldn't move until Steven came over and hoisted my anvil of an ass off the ground.
I stood unstably until he snapped back into his own bindings a few feet away. And then I fell over again.
“See if you can get up on your own,” he said.
It was the most absurd exercise further proving Newton's first law of physics. Forget the apple, just use my ass. There seemed to be some sort of magnetic field in the snow pulling me down. I fell every six feet, sometimes less. Once my butt landed in the snow, there was little I could do to lift myself. I struggled like an upended turtle.
On another three-foot distance ski, I fell forward onto my hands and knees. I pulled to a crouched position and clawed at the edge of the snowboard until the weight of my bottom pulled me over backward into the snow again.
It took forty-five minutes just to get far enough away from the lift so I couldn't see it anymore. It felt, only slightly, like progress.
“When you want to turn, point your arms in the direction you want to go,” Steven called out.
The grade of the hill changed and I started to pick up speed. My snowboard was headed straight for a large, rough-barked tree trunk along the side of the run.
“Turn! Turn!” Steven yelled.
By then, I was flapping my arms like Super Chicken. I knew I needed to stop, but wasn't sure how. I kicked my legs out from under myself and the board spun in the snow. I landed hard. When my ass hit the ground, I bounced. My beanie and sunglasses flew off, and I slid thirty feet headfirst down the hill.
Yard Sale. Snow accessories. Finders-keepers.
I lay still in the snow, staring up at the clear blue sky. Hot tears filled my eyes.
“Are you okay?” Steven plowed to a stop beside me.
Quickly, I reached to wipe away the tears. I didn't want him to see me cry. When I pulled my gloved hand up to dry my eyes, it dropped a dusting of snow across my face.
Steven unclipped his boots from his board and crouched beside me. “Ready to try again?” He took off one glove, brushed the snow off my cheek, and leaned to kiss my forehead. “I love you,” he said.
“I love you too.” It came out in a whisper. I couldn't trust my voice wouldn't break.
I felt like such a failure. All I wanted to do was be perfect for him. I wanted so much for him to love me because everything about me was right. And exactly what he wanted.
This beautiful, wonderful man loved me and had so much patience. But all I wanted to do was scream down an avalanche by kicking my feet and pounding my fists into the snow.
Josh slid to a stop a short distance away. “Geez Mom, this is the second time I've passed you. And you still haven't made it down the hill once yet?”
Steven shot Josh a warning look, shaking his head slightly, and waving a hand low to signal Josh to shut up.
That's when Josh became the target for a motherly iron-melting glare.
He caught the look. “Well, I'm gonna go.” He waved. “See you in a few minutes.” Josh maneuvered his board and shot down the hill.
Steven reached under my arms and lifted me to my feet, turning me around like a propeller until I faced the right direction.
Again, I skied ten feet and fell. I sat in the snow and unclipped my boots from the bindings.
Steven looked into my eyes for a long moment. Without a word, he stepped out of his bindings and shouldered both snowboards. He leaned to kiss my cheek and we walked the rest of the way down the hill holding hands.
There was just too much of a gap between my sheer force of will and my technical abilities. Maybe there are just some things that I really can't do.
golden girls take the scenic route to hollywood
Thursday, May 8
Yesterday, I called Valerie on the phone. “You're old!” I cackled like a witch and then hung up.
The annual pre-birthday telephone assault.
Today, I gifted her with my traditional birthday song. It was “Happy Birthday to You”—with a twist that included comments about her living environment, as well as, her odor and facial resemblance to a small primate. I crooned the song off-key at the top of my lungs, dragging out all of the vowels in yooou, zoooo, and monkeeey. She laughed, as did her partners at the firm and the rest of the staff that were apparently standing in the room while I was singing.
You've got to love speakerphones.
We planned to meet at Bonita's condo in Costa Mesa. Slated for Valerie's thirty-seventh birthday: a drive up to the City of Angels, dinner at a Mexican restaurant, and then over to see The Producers at the Hollywood Pantages Theater.
We arrived at Bonita's—all wearing the same suede boots.
Isn't there a proverb: birds of a feather shop together, or something like that?
“No one will notice.” I waved off the minor social disaster.
We climbed into Valerie's SUV for the road trip. Bonita hopped in the back. I rode in the shotgun slash navigator position—the perks of getting carsick like a dog.
“Which way should we go?” Valerie asked.
She rarely ventured north of the Orange County line.
“Take the 405 Freeway North to the 605 North to the 5 North to the 101 Freeway,” I said. “It's the fastest way with the least traffic.”
For the first thirty-five minutes, we drove in silence, definitely some sort of Guinness Book world record.
“How about some music?” I hoisted my bulging, leather CD case, opened it in the middle and flipped the pages. Bob Marley, John Mayer, Natalie Merchant, Nelly, Next, Nine Inch Nails, Pet Shop Boys, The Police, Puddle of Mudd…
Eclectic, yes. Alphabetically OCD, absolutely.
“Do you have any jazz?” Bonita asked, leaning between the seats.
I faked a cough. Excuse me whilst I remove this bone from my throat. “Um…noooo,” I said. “My CD collection would rise up in mutiny and shrink-wrap me in my sleep.”
“How about something Top 40 that we can all sing to?” Valerie said.
I slid a blood red CD into the player and advanced to the third track so we could all sing along to my favorite codependency theme song. In unison, we belted out the lyrics, earnestly promising we would be there to save some guy and take him away from his
life.
“We should go to a karaoke club some night,” Valerie said, “but first we should stop off to pick up a case of ear plugs and pass them out before we start singing.”
I ran with the idea. “Let's just buy a karaoke machine, hook it up to my big screen and we can have singing slumber parties.”
“And we can bring a few bottles of wine,” Bonita said.
Can you get evicted for singing like a drunken dog with its tail caught in a door?
“Exit Santa Monica Boulevard and turn right,” I said to Valerie.
“What's the name of the restaurant?” Bonita asked.
“El something-or-other. I ate there once with a friend's family.”
“Is it open for dinner this early?” Valerie looked at me. “You called to make a reservation, right?”
“I called, but it was hard to understand the guy who answered the phone. I think he said they changed owners and now they serve Mexican seafood. When I asked, he said we don't need a reservation.”
“Mexican seafood sounds good,” Valerie said. “For lunch, I had grilled Ono brushed with a rosemary marinade. Fish is on my diet. I didn't eat the rice pilaf though, too many carbs.”
“How long ago did you say you were here?” Bonita asked, looking out the window at the passing shops and pedestrians.
“About fifteen years ago,” I said.
I took a second look at the neighborhood we were driving through. Bubbled and stick letter graffiti decorated the walls. Gray wrought iron bars covered the murky store windows.
“Are you sure it's safe for us to be driving around here?” Bonita asked.
“Of course it is.” I giggled. “We can use you as our cultural liaison.”
“Very funny, pinche pendeja,” Bonita shot back.
“Just keep driving east, I'm sure the neighborhood will get better,” I said to Valerie.
We passed Los Angeles City College.
“Oh m'god, we're in East L.A.!” Valerie shrieked.
“I think that's it.” Bonita pointed from between the seats.
Valerie pulled to the curb.
There it was. El something-or-other Coyote. A boxy cement hut that was surrounded by a wire fence in the middle of a parking lot of broken asphalt. The squat gray building was flanked by brightly painted metal picnic tables chained together with rusty links.
A window sign read: Two For One Fish Taco Tuesdays.
We burst out laughing.
“I am not getting out of this car,” Valerie said.
“Are you sure we don't need reservations?” Bonita asked, trying hard to appear serious.
“Well, a fish taco is Mexican seafood,” Valerie chimed in, picking up Bonita's game.
“This is not what I remember,” I offered in defense. “The information operator gave me two listings. This is just the wrong one.”
Valerie accelerated, leaving the taco stand behind. “Why isn't there a single u-turn lane in this horrible city?” she asked, after driving a few blocks.
“Just make a right here at the corner, then go around the block to the next light. We can make a big circle and go back the way we came,” I said.
Halfway around the block, we found ourselves on a cramped residential street flanked by rundown apartments. A used car graveyard packed the curbs on both sides.
“Odelaaayyy.” A carload of gangbangers in a blue Chevy Impala whistled and yelled out the window, gesturing as our cars passed closely on the small street.
“Don't look, don't look,” Bonita hissed. “Just keep driving.”
“Another great idea, Annette,” Valerie whispered tightly.
“Don't be such a chicken shit.” I laughed at their melodrama. “Just think of it as an adventure.”
Back on the main street, we stopped at a red light. “I'm driving the nicest car around here and we obviously look like we should be somewhere else,” Valerie said. “The last thing I want is to be shot and car jacked.”
BAM!
We all jumped when the delivery truck in the next lane released its air brakes. Then we looked at each other and laughed.
I dialed the second number. “The other El what-ever-it's-called is on Melrose a half block from Beverly Hills,” I said.
“At least that's in a decent area,” Bonita said.
The funky shops on Melrose rolled past the window like a silent movie. Tragic looking youth lounged in iron chairs outside coffee shops. Traffic crawled from one short cycle stoplight to the next.
We pulled up in front of the restaurant. “This is cute,” Bonita said, peeking out the window.
“Much better.” Valerie switched off the ignition.
We breezed through the entrance like formidable, slightly aging, but well-preserved Charlie's Angels. All we needed was a wind machine, 70s style pantsuits, and the right theme music.
The restaurant was completely empty: too late for lunch, too early for dinner. The staff of waitresses loitered by the bar, chatting with the cute bartender.
The hostess settled us into our seats and we perused the menu. Bonita and Valerie ordered two margaritas apiece. Each glass was the size of a ten-gallon fish tank. By the time the food arrived, the conversation had become an exercise in man bashing.
“Men suck,” Valerie said.
“They're all stupid,” Bonita added. She took another sip through her straw.
I sat silently with nothing to contribute, and picked at my cheese enchilada with the edge of my fork.
“They all cheat,” Valerie said. “Every one of them.”
Her thoughts obviously still dwelled on her ex-boyfriend and it fouled her birthday mood.
“Worse than that, they promise they'll commit and they never do. I hate that.” Bonita's face contorted in disgust.
I took a sip of my cranberry juice, moving the ice around in the glass with the straw. “Maybe you shouldn't date men who aren't available. Every time it ends, you're miserable.”
“Well, not everyone is perfect like you,” Bonita said, taking another drink of her margarita.
Valerie fixed me with a hard stare and then looked away.
Ok, so maybe it was a little blunt to come out and say it, but it was hard to hear Bonita cry about getting her heart broken on a regular basis when it wouldn't happen as much if she dated available men.
Valerie turned back to me. “So. How are things in your little world?” Her tone was sharp and aggressive.
It was then that I realized I had stopped talking to them about Steven, but I couldn't remember exactly when. I'd discovered that anytime I mentioned something wonderful, it was met with disdain. And there are only so many times a person will reach out to touch a hot stove.
“Fine,” I said. “We have to get going or we'll be late.” I pushed back my chair.
Sobriety dictated the car seating assignments. On autopilot, I navigated the SUV through the city traffic.
While I waited for a stoplight to turn green, a guy on the corner caught my attention, and I couldn't stop staring. He was wearing rub-faded jeans, and stood bare-chested. My eyes traveled up his frame. Washboard abs, square pecs, ripped biceps, chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, piercingly beautiful eyes, with hair tousled across his forehead. I really love men. Fascinating creatures. So very—
A car horn honked.
I pulled forward and almost rear-ended the car stopped in front of us.
“Stop staring at that stupid billboard,” Valerie said, “or you'll end up crashing my car and we'll never get to the theater on time.”
I heard Bonita mumble from the backseat, “That's okay, he's probably gay anyway.”
A man with a gray flag waved us into the parking lot a half block from the theater. I walked away from the car, briskly stepping over the gold-outlined stars embedded in the sidewalk along Vine Avenue. Audrey Hepburn. Jackie Coogan. We crossed Hollywood Boulevard toward the Pantages; Bonita and Valerie trailed slightly behind me. None of us spoke.
I handed my ticket to the usher at the door. In a mo
cking tone, he lisped and gestured to our boots. “Oh now isn't that so cute. Did you call each other and decide to wear them together?”
“Real fashion police make more than minimum wage,” I snapped at him in response. “Just stick to tearing tickets.”
I wasn't sure if I was more irritated by his attempt to ridicule us or by my feeling that he was implying that we were all the same.
more than a foreign accent
Sunday, May 18
“Thank you guys so much for coming all the way up here.” Bryce's tall, wiry frame pulled me into a bony embrace. He continued to mug for the flashing cameras, the diploma case held tightly in his hand.
“Congratulations.” Steven shook Bryce's free hand.
Bryce continued to pump his arm exuberantly. “Thanks, man. I never thought I'd finish.”
I gave him another hug. “I knew you could do it.”
We joined the rest of Bryce's friends, navigating through the pedestrian traffic surrounding the Loyola Law School. Steven and I climbed into his Suburban to follow the celebration caravan to a trendy Japanese restaurant in Huntington Beach.
When we walked through the front door, “What I Like About You” by The Ramones blasted through the speakers. Everyone headed for the back room toward the teppan grills.
While we waited for the hostess to seat us, Steven and I stood at the bar next to Bryce's college buddy, Neil. With one sweeping glance, I could see Neil was a typical nightclub hound with a freshly minted law degree. Once he ditched the cap and gown, he sported a swing-era bowling style shirt of black satin, a pair of zebra-print creepers, and an attitude.
Neil pulled a tall bar chair away from a woman who was about to sit on it. Then he settled himself onto the seat. His beer bottle dangled from his hand as he rested his arm on the edge of the bar.
He responded to our stunned looks, “The way I see it, if women want all this feminism stuff and equal opportunity, then they have to deal with the consequences.” He shrugged and swigged his beer. His motioning with the bottle made the contents slosh out.
He continued defending his moronic wisdom. “See, if my girlfriend is mad at me and expects me to sleep on the couch, I tell her if she's mad, she can go sleep on the couch because I'm not getting out of my bed for her.” He punctuated his statement with another splash of beer.