Chapter Two
CINDY
I couldn’t believe the little shit had done it to me again. There I was, sitting at Café Strada, and Biff was nowhere to be seen. I looked at my watch. Almost 2:30. I knew he had a class at three. His sociology class. So, he wasn’t coming. Again. What a little fuckface poophead. I hated him. If he wasn’t so cute, it really would’ve been over right then. Over. Shit, this was embarrassing.
Café Strada is one of those places where everybody is with somebody. It’s right across from the UC Berkeley campus so students go there between classes to study or hang out or just to be seen. I was being seen. By myself. The only one alone at Café Strada.
I looked around the café. Nope. Didn’t know a soul. I couldn’t believe none of my sorority sisters were there. I was totally alone. Great for my image. Just great. Shit. I really did hate the bastard.
I looked to my right. There was a teaching assistant running his discussion section outside. Boy, was he cute. I couldn’t remember his name, but I had had his discussion section when I took anthro. I never understood a single word that came out of his mouth, but he always looked SO cute saying them. I remembered how he always wore the same clothes week after week. It made me wonder why grad students always seemed to dress so poorly. This one wore a tweed blazer and jeans. Same tweed blazer. Same jeans. The jeans hung great, though, and he had the cutest little buns. We all thought so. I remembered sitting in his class with Bunny and Jane just staring at those buns every time he turned to write on the board. They were amazing.
Uh oh. He looked over at me. Probably noticed I was alone. Probably thought “that poor twit can’t even find someone to sit with at Strada.” Shit.
To my left was a group of—it looked like Italians—laughing and talking (and gesturing) in Italian and drinking their macchiatos. They looked like they were having so much fun. Italian boys are such babes. Babe-alicious, Jane always says. The one sitting on the bench with the brown eyes and the brown shoulder-length hair was a real doll. Oooh. Total babe. He looked really thoughtful, too. Like he was thinking about important issues and world events. He’d probably never give me the time of day. At least Biff treated me like I was important. When he wasn’t standing me up. Shit.
I had just finished my second cappuccino of the afternoon, and my head was spinning. I should really never drink caffeine, let alone two cappuccinos. It was three o’clock now. Biff was in class. It would be at least an hour before I could happen to pass by his classroom and run into him. Why was he such a fuckface? He hadn’t always been like this. I remembered the first time we went out. It was SO great.
Biff and I met through a set-up. I was in this sorority that was, like, the best sorority on campus. I felt really lucky to be in it. We had three big parties every year. Date parties. Had to have a date. I had never been very good at asking guys out. I dunno. I was just not very comfortable about it, you know? I’m not very comfortable around boys in general. I come from an all-girl family, and in high school, we always just did things in groups. That’s why the sorority was so great. I had SO many friends and they were going to be my best buds for life. But boys… they always seemed like a species from another planet. Regular old exchanges—which are, like, casual parties where a fraternity comes over and we all hang out—were okay because I could talk to boys with my best bud girl friends at my side.
Bunny, especially, was good to have at my side. She was SO funny. People always liked Bunny right away. Boys REALLY liked Bunny. It seemed so easy for her to talk to them, too. I liked that she took me along a lot when she was going out. Bunny was the one who set me up with Biff.
The party was a pledge-active. That’s where the pledges throw a party for us actives. They had come up with this really clever theme, too. It was “come as your favorite drink.” I liked that. Bunny was going as a Blue Nun, which is like this wine brand that was big in her mom’s day. So funny and retro, right? Her current boyfriend, Clay, was going as Christian Brothers, which I guess is a brandy, but they thought it was cool because they were, like, going as a nun and a monk.
I had decided to play it safe and go as Scotch on the rocks. I had this kilt that was my grandmother’s, and I would carry around some rocks. Not too exciting, but it would do. I had no idea what Biff would go as. I didn’t even know what he would look like. Some of the guys I’d been set up with were real nimrods. Anyway, Biff was a friend of Clay’s from the frat so that would make it more comfortable.
Bunny wasn’t at the house when Biff came to pick me up. She was over at Clay’s, and they would meet us there. Bummer. I would have felt better if she were there. I was so totally freaked. I paced my room. I felt really stupid in the kilt and carrying the rocks. I wanted to die. I heard the doorbell ring from my room, and Debbie called up that my date had arrived. I walked downstairs and looked toward the front room. There he was. And wow, what a sight.
Biff was wearing a Budweiser suit. Like, a suit covered with Budweiser logos. Like they were part of the fabric. It was SO rad. I couldn’t believe it. And I couldn’t believe Biff. He was super gorgeous. I couldn’t believe how I had lucked out after all the losers I’d been stuck with. Biff had these green eyes that just burned right through me and this sandy-colored hair that waved just a little. He was tall and slender and, well, just perfect.
“Hey, baby, don’t you look a sight.”
And, oh, the words that came from Biff’s mouth. Wondrous words. He was just wonderful. And he seemed to think I was okay. How cool was that? He said that Clay had told him that I was pretty cool, and he thought Clay was pretty cool so it had to be true. See what I mean? Just wow.
We got to his car, and it was a convertible bug. Total coolness. Biff told me he wanted to make one stop before we went to the party. He took me up to the top of the Berkeley hills where there was this lookout point. The sun was about to set behind San Francisco, and it was just beautiful. Biff pulled out a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses, and we sat and watched the sun set. It was so hyper-romantic that I thought I was gonna die.
And we talked. Mostly about our childhoods. Biff was from Hillsborough. His real name was Robert Billingsley V. Whoosh. With a name like that, I could see why he would want to be called Biff. He didn’t look like a “fifth” of anything. He just looked cute. I told him about growing up in Santa Rosa. How boring it was. How I couldn’t wait to come to the city and start my life. How I loved Cal and the sorority and my classes and my friends and Café Strada. He was so easy to talk to that I just kept talking and talking and talking.
Finally, though, we had to go to the party. The party was a hoot, mostly because of Biff. He was just so funny. Biff and Clay could sing all these songs. Mostly they were dirty and some of the girls—the ones taking women’s studies—kept saying they were sexist and misogynist, but I thought they were funny. And he looked SO cute singing them. It was also fun to see what everybody was wearing. Some of the costumes were pretty neat—there was a Blue Hawaiian, Cold Duck, Dr. Pepper, Shirley Temple. Everyone laughed and drank and danced, and I felt amazing. I was with the cutest guy at the party, and he was with me. I really didn’t think that life could get any better. But it did.
The party was at this really really big (like HUGE!) house in Bristol Oaks. Bristol Oaks is right next door to Hillsborough, where Biff is from. Biff said that his parents were out of town and did I want to see his house. Wow. Did I? I was a little scared because, you know, I’d never really “been” with a guy. Like I said, I’d kind of had a sheltered life. But Biff didn’t seem like a guy. He was, like, this GREAT guy. Biff invited Clay and Bunny, too. We’d have a little after-party party, he said.
Biff’s parents house was really, like, old. I don’t mean it wasn’t pretty, but it was kind of like a museum with all this old stuff that you were afraid to touch. His mother actually had ropes up in front of some of the rooms with little notes that said, “Biff, stay out.” I guess she knew w
e were coming.
We went down to his basement. They had this great game room with pool and ping-pong tables, big couches, a big TV and stereo system, a bar—everything you could want.
We had a few drinks, and Clay and Bunny just kind of disappeared. Biff and I were sitting on the couch listening to a song. I think it was Coldplay. The one with the really cool video. I really liked the song. Then Biff kissed me. I didn’t know what to think. I had been kissed before, you know, high school prom and all that. But not like this. It was like—WOW! These weird vibrations thundered through my body. Like I was melting or something. We just kissed and kissed and kissed. A lot of different songs kept playing—I remember wondering what Spotify list it was and what great taste he had in music.
By then we were lying on the couch. It was funny ‘cuz Biff was still wearing that Budweiser suit. I started to giggle. Maybe it was the champagne. I dunno. All I could think was: Here I am in this incredibly beautiful house with this incredibly gorgeous guy, and he’s wearing a Budweiser suit. I think I was a little scared, too. I wasn’t sure if I should tell Biff that I had, you know, never “been” with a guy before. I decided I should. I didn’t want him to think I was some sort of sex expert or anything. He was so sweet about it, too. He said he was surprised.
“But you are so sexy,” he said.
I totally blushed. “No. I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. Didn’t you notice all the guys scamming on you in your little kilt tonight?”
“No.”
“Yes. I can’t believe you didn’t know. Didn’t you hear them telling me what a lucky dog I was to be with you?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Here I was feeling so lucky to be with him, and he’s telling me how lucky he was to be with me.
“Biff, do you mind if we don’t, you know, tonight? I mean, I really like you. Really, I do. But, we just met and I am kinda drunk. I’m just not sure I’m ready and . . .”
Biff cut me off.
“Cindy, I would love to make love to you tonight. But, if you want to wait, that’s okey dokey with me.”
I couldn’t believe he was so understanding. God, he was just perfect.
“If you want,” I continued, “we could, you know, sleep next to each other without, you know . . .”
“If that is what you want, babycakes, I think that would be rad.”
Wow. We were pretty spent so we went upstairs to his room. He gave me a nightshirt to wear, and I fell asleep in his arms. Well, he fell asleep. I lay awake watching his face and looking around at his room—the room he grew up in. There were pictures of him as a kid. God, he was SO cute. I looked over at his face again. The lines were so perfect the way they moved together to form his incredible face. I was lying next to this incredible creature. And, for this night at least, he was my incredible creature.
The four of us spent the weekend at Biff’s parent’s house. They had a pool and a Jacuzzi and a tennis court. I never knew that places like that really existed. Sunday evening before heading back to school, Biff and I had sex. What can I say? It was SO great. He was so great. I felt so great. I was in love. I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t care about midterms or school or the sorority or life. If I would have died at that very moment, I would have died happy.
That was two years ago. Now I felt like wringing the little bastard’s neck. I was standing outside the building where his sociology class was held. It was humiliating, tracking down my boyfriend. The shithead. I just hoped nobody saw me.
“Cindy!”
Oh shit, it was Bunny.
“Hi, Bunny.”
“Whatcha doing here? Waiting for Biff?”
I worked up an incredulous look on my face. “What? What are you talking about?”
“Isn’t this where his sociology class is? Remember? We met him here a couple weeks ago.”
“What? Here? Oh. Huh. Gee, maybe you are right. I’d forgotten all about that. Just passing by, you know.”
“Sure. Going back to the house?”
“Um, a little later. Gotta meet with a professor.”
“Okay. See ya.”
“Yeah. Bye.”
God, was that excruciating or what? Boy, was Biff gonna get it this time. I was really gonna give it to him. He just had to learn not to treat me this way. Never again. Nuh uh. He was gonna beg for mercy. Yes sirree bob.
There he was. Walking with . . . who was that? It looked like his sociology professor, Professor Hard Ass. Okay, so that wasn’t her name. It was something… what? Professor DeVillier. Monique DeVillier. Everyone just called her Professor Hard Ass because, well, she was a total hard ass. For some reason, though, the guys just drooled over her. I could never figure it out. I mean, I guess she was good looking. And, okay, so she had a French name. Big whoop. What did she have that I didn’t have? Biff Fuckface the fifth drooling all over her, that’s what.
“Hey, baby.” Finally, Biff spotted me. He stopped kissing Hardass’s butt and sauntered on over to me.
“Hello.” You can bet I was as cold as ice.
“Listen, sorry about Strada. Professor DeVillier could only give me two o’clock for office hours, and I just HAD to speak with her.”
“Sure, Biff. I understand completely. No biggie. Really.”
“That’s my girl. Come on, let’s grab a brewski.”
Chapter Three
KATHY
War Council. Wars Council. War Council. It was all Maggie could talk about. Argh! I was sick of it. And what was it, really? I kept trying to figure that out.
“A business,” Maggie said.
“A business?”
“Yeah. Like you go to them for help with your relationships.”
“Like a therapist.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Well . . . like you go to a career counseling service for a job, right? Why not go to experts for relationship advice?”
“Like a therapist.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Like you hire a team of experts to be on your side.”
“So, like the team from Mission: Impossible?”
“Yes, exactly, like if the Mission: Impossible team handled relationships. Think of The Bachelor, Dr. Phil, and Mission: Impossible all rolled into one.”
“Paramilitary relationship counselors?”
“Exactly.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Don’t you see? It’s just so logical.”
“It’s nutso.”
“No, it isn’t. Why should we be alone in a relationship when we can have a team on our side?”
“What about love?”
“Love is dead.”
“When did you get so cynical?”
“I’m not cynical. I’m realistic. We didn’t all marry our college sweethearts, Kathy. It’s a war out there, and in a war, we need some support. That’s why it is so logical. It’s so fucking logical, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it earlier.”
“Maggie, what has happened to you?”
“I’ve wised up. That’s what.”
Wised up. Hah. Wised up. Trying to make love logical. Love? Who was she trying to kid? And where did this all come from?
Then I remembered: the bridal shower. It was that stupid bridal shower that pushed her over the edge. I never should have made her go. Maggie has never been good at those types of events, but I thought it was important that she be there.
The shower was for a mutual friend from the communications department, where Maggie was now teaching, so, politically, it was a good idea for her to attend. That and Laura had been a friend of ours for a long time, and I thought she could use our support. It really wasn’t Laura’s fault that the shower was so excruciatin
gly bad, either. It just happened that she was marrying into a family with no taste.
Laura’s fiancé, Tobias, is a very nice man from a very wealthy family. A newly wealthy family, shall we say. Tobias has six sisters, and they were throwing the shower. It was mostly their friends and family and a few people from the department. I knew that Laura really appreciated our being there.
Of course, all of these great rationalizations and good intentions were lost on Maggie.
The shower was about as tacky as they come. It was held in this monstrosity of a house in a brand new luxury development called Bristol Oaks. Funny, too, because it is right next to Hillsborough, which is where those with, shall we say, more established wealth reside. So, while Hillsborough’s houses reflected an old-money WASP mentality (lots of polo shirts and loafers), the houses in Bristol Oaks attempted to reflect the newly acquired wealth of its inhabitants. The mentality seemed to be that if you couldn’t get into the closed enclave that is old money, you might as well flaunt the new.
Me, I like living in the city. Most of our friends live in the city. When you have lived in a city as long as we have, you tend to forget the suburban mentality. Not like we’re snobs or anything. Well, maybe we are. I don’t know. I just know that Brian and I will probably never leave the city. We love it. Every once in awhile, I think how nice it would be to have some real outdoor space, but then I go out to the suburbs and listen to the conversations and realize that the city is just fine.
The conversation at this party was especially inane. They salivated over the bizarre salmon mousse cake we had for lunch, cooed over the interminable party games (who invented those things, anyway?), then settled down to oooh-and-aaah over the gifts.
Actually, the conversations were quite fascinating, not in a scintillating way, but in terms of figuring out who these women were and how they thought. I mean, let’s face it, I became a psychologist because human nature fascinates me. I like to figure out just how people got to where they are. What processes lie behind their thoughts. These silly women were definitely grist for the mill.
The War Council Page 2