Literacy and Longing in L. A.

by Jennifer Kaufman

  There’s a fine line between interesting literary discussions and pompous bullshit. It’s one of those areas where you’re either fascinated with what someone has to say or you feel that if they don’t shut the hell up that instant you’re going to blow their brains out.

  It’s fitting that when I’m busy thinking about all this, a man dressed in a white silk T-shirt, Armani jeans, and three-thousand-dollar crocodile loafers (which he wears like bedroom slippers, crushing the backs) approaches Fred and pronounces triumphantly that he has finally polished off the Brits and is “doing” the Russians.

  “And just which Russians have you been doing?” Fred answers as he looks in my direction. I know that he’s really talking to me, and as the customer starts rattling off a syllabus of long Russian names ending in “sky” and “kov,” Fred takes my arm and leads me to another aisle.

  “Excuse me, I’ll be back in a minute,” he tells him. “Jesus, this guy is such a pain,” Fred whispers. The man peers around the corner, looking impatient and a bit suspicious.

  “Is there anything else I can find for you?” Fred asks me, hoping to keep the guy at bay.

  I’m beginning to enjoy the game. “My sunglasses, the black cashmere sweater I left in the restaurant the other night, and the key to the trunk of my car, which I haven’t been able to open in three months.”

  Fred’s eyes start to sparkle. The Russian is still hovering. Fred leans into me and says, “How about Anna Karenina? There’s a new translation over here. Terrific story. The plot’s a grabber from the first page. Beautiful insatiable drama queen, marries a loser, hooks up with another loser, falls into ruin, confesses all, flees to Italy with her lover. Who can blame them? I don’t want to give away too much.” He hands me the novel and winks.

  I wink back. “Thanks. I’ve read it. Great story, though. Sex, lies, infidelity. Sounds like my neighborhood.” Fred gives me a good long look as the czarist finally snaps and lumbers over. I hand him back the Tolstoy and just as he is about to say more, Darlene comes up behind me and declares, “I’m starved. Let’s go.” She’s obviously been listening to our conversation and in her dingbat mode suggests, “Gee, Dora, maybe you two can have a drink sometime and talk about it.”

  Fred flashes one of those amused half-smiles as he looks Darlene over. I know what he’s thinking. Not your typical Brentwood housewife. Darlene happens to be wearing a pair of jeans with enormous embroidered bells and a tight T-shirt that says “Angel.” Her long blonde hair is even more in need of a dye job than usual. I’m mortified and quickly gather my things to leave. Darlene jabs me with her elbow, and nods in Fred’s direction.

  “Killer smile,” she says in a too-loud voice.

  I push her out the door.

  “Well, that was fun,” Darlene says as we walk to the parking lot. “I think he likes you.”

  Ivanhoe

  “I think reading a novel is almost next

  best to having something to do.”

  ~ Margaret Oliphant, Scottish novelist (1827–1897) ~

  When an invitation says “festive attire” I am always stumped. What is festive, anyway? Is it about color or mood? My mood is “I don’t want to go,” so I figure I’ll focus on color. I swipe at the clothes lined up in my closet. Grim, grim, grim. I seem to have fallen into the Barneys all black, slightly black, or off-black lately. Nothing festive about that. So I throw on my little black Dolce and add a pilled pink cashmere sweater. That’s the festive part.

  This is the L.A. Public Library’s main fundraiser, not as chic as its New York sister, but just as grandiloquent. My old college roommate, Pamela, is running the show and I’m at her table. The event is held in the elaborate rotunda of the downtown Central Library, a grand old edifice with stately domed ceilings, Italian marble floors, and two-thousand-pound chandeliers, built eighty years ago when libraries were as honored as places of worship and downtown L.A. was still considered center city.

  The rotunda is turned into a ballroom befitting a movie set. Elaborate tables are scattered around, covered with twelve layers of linens, enough silver for the duke of Windsor, and an amazing array of crystal. Violinists stroll through the crowd, playing music so patently corny that it reminds me of music last heard at Dome of the Sea, a tacky restaurant in Las Vegas that features strolling Venetian violinists. I scan the crowd, trying to find Pamela. It seems that at this event “festive” means Chanel jackets, Chanel suits, and Chanel handbags. The library has turned into a trunk show. She’ll fit right in.

  “Finally, you’re here.” I knew Pamela would point out that I was late.

  Pamela is my age but is married to a retired real estate magnate in his seventies. She always wears a nubby tweed Chanel something and I’m always nagging her to put on some weight.

  Then there’s her six-year-old daughter, Madison. Pamela is obsessed with her. I continually have to endure every brilliant pearl that falls from her daughter’s lips, every nuance, every sneeze. So many women fall into this trap and end up boring everyone to death with details that parents should keep to themselves. It’s almost as if parenthood sucks up every available brain cell, and like the canary, whose brain cells regenerate every year, all previous data is erased forever and all you hear is this year’s song. I read about a scientist in Upstate New York who keeps thousands of canaries in an aviary behind his house and slaughters hundreds of them semiannually to study their brains. Not that I am recommending that or anything, but people do tend to get single-minded after they have children. And it only gets worse. You go from sleeping problems to potty training to preschool, prep school, adolescent angst, tattoos and piercings. Then they start boring you with their child’s first fabulous internship or job and how brilliant little Johnny is and how everyone loves him at the office. It’s all so predictable and tiresome. Even if you like the person, and I do like Pamela, there is only so much of this you can take before you want to throttle them. I usually tell my sister when I’ve heard enough about Camille, but I don’t want to hurt Pamela’s feelings.

  “Dora, are you listening to me?” I guess I zoned out. She is pointing to our table. The hook for this event is that every guest gets to sit with an author, who is usually promoting their latest book. The authors love it. Free trip to L.A. And the patrons love it because they get to have a semi-intimate conversation with semi-important authors. I notice that another friend of ours and her husband are seated in Siberia behind a pillar. Their author, a musicologist from Columbia University, is seated at the other end of the long narrow table. I can see even from this vantage that my friend is clenching her jaw and her husband is staring out into space. Pamela will hear about this tomorrow. The A-list authors such as David Halberstam, Scott Berg, and Frank McCourt are seated up front. I walk over to my table. Since Pamela is on the dinner committee, I thought I’d get someone interesting. Unfortunately, my author is a San Francisco gynecologist who sometimes hosts the “Your Health” segment of the nightly news. Pamela has also put the requisite single guy at our table to “balance it out.”

  This man is a fairly well-known television agent with bulging eyes and a thinning crown of hair. He also has one of those barrel-waisted bodies with thin, spindly legs, a birdlike affliction that affects so many sedentary, high-powered urban men and makes them look like Armani-clad pregnant chickens. He is also a good twenty years older than I am. Of course. I knew it. I knew they’d stick me next to someone like this. I can just hear Pamela now: Oh, Dora, you have so much in common. You both like books. You both like the theater. Meanwhile, he asked for Perrier. He doesn’t drink. What a bore. When the salad arrives, he asks for it with the dressing on the side. I hate when people do that. Oh no. Here it comes. The South Beach Diet. Save me. I’m glad I didn’t waste my new Prada jacket on this dud of an event. Now the agent is launching into an endless discussion concerning the SAG retirement plan, which interests the gyno, and the two of them then get into a serious discussion about the state of off-network shows, particularly those concerning bodi
ly functions. I sip my wine. It’s not great but it’s getting better.

  Just as the beef tenderloin with risotto cakes is being served, I notice Palmer and his girlfriend seated at one of the A-tables on the other side of the podium. How could I have missed him? But I forget, he usually strolls into an event just as everyone is being seated. He catches my eye and waves. Oh Christ, he’s pushing out his chair. Dammit, I’m not in the mood to deal with this now. Palmer leans over Kimberly’s shoulder, sweeps back a frosted blonde tress, and whispers in her ear. I see her squeeze his hand in an annoying, knowing sort of way and then I am sure of it. He’s coming over here to fulfill a social obligation or, maybe, pay his respects as if I were his dowager aunt. I watch him walk across the room. There is this wealthy, sunny sparkle to his demeanor that I remember admiring when I first met him. He’s wearing an expensive, imported, impeccably tailored tuxedo with a trendy white pleated shirt, the kind that the young male turks of Hollywood wear to the Oscars and that require no bow tie. I’m certain that she picked it out for him. His sandy, gray-flecked hair is longer than I remember, and he has onyx-and-diamond studs and matching cuff links. He looks tall and victorious, moving with the graceful stride of a man who no longer has to worry about success or status. He stares straight at me with a kind of quiet resolve while the rest of the room stares at him.

  “Dora, you look terrific.”

  “So do you, Palmer,” I say, and I mean it.

  He has a bemused smile, taking in the various people at my table and making the obvious assessment. He raises his eyebrows. “Can I get any of you a drink? I’m on my way to the bar.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, and then realize he’s making an offer. “But I’ll come with you if you’d like.”

  He takes my elbow and more or less escorts me out of the rotunda and into the vestibule, where there is a small bar set up. It’s an odd feeling, me standing there with him, both of us all dressed up, calm and decorous, and making pleasant conversation that is completely unrelated to what I imagine either of us is thinking.

  I flash on the night we met, an event much like this. I was busy interviewing someone when Palmer sent me a glass of champagne from across the room. The waiter pointed him out to me and we smiled. We ended up going to a late-night bar, discovered our favorite book was Huck Finn, and, well, I don’t feel like going down memory lane right now.

  One thing is clear. The quick, overbearing petulance is gone. So is the bitterness and disappointment. Palmer is back to his old enigmatic, charming, sexy self. And I realize that he couldn’t have done it with me. It occurs to me that maybe, somehow, he’s heard about my little clandestine visits to his house. But no, that’s crazy, he couldn’t possibly know. Could he?

  “So, how’ve you been, Palmer?” I say, testing the waters, avoiding any physical contact.

  “Fine. I’ve been thinking about you,” he says with an endearing smile. He leans in close, planting his hand against the wall as if he is an officer detaining me for a sobriety check. I register a twinge of surprise and then start rambling on about some silly topic, anything to get past the moment. He stands there silently and then lightly touches my hair. “So, Dora, do you ever think of me?”

  “Of course I do, Palmer,” I say, consciously squelching the urge to make some nasty remark about the girlfriend. To be honest, I’m actually relieved. No, this is not a shakedown. But I don’t want to get into what we really think about each other at the moment, not now, maybe never.

  “Thank you,” he says, suddenly serious. “I just wanted to tell you that I still care about you. I don’t want us to be total strangers. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, unconvinced. Does he really want that or is he just being polite? Why is it that with some men, once the relationship is over, it’s over, and with others, it leaves a trail of remorse, indecision, and endless fantasies of what could have been that plague you for years? It doesn’t even have much to do with sex. I had a lover in college who set me on fire every time he touched me, but when his conversations started boring me, I cut it off with a single message on his answering machine. Palmer is different. All that promise and earnestness and undisputed intelligence. I should have been content. I should have been patient. I should have overlooked the fact that after we were married he was a lover who cared deeply about having me but seemed to care more about having a new car, a good address, a service for twelve, and a membership in a country club. I suddenly feel guilty and uncomfortable and cornered like a rat. In a trap.

  “Call me sometime. At the office,” he says abruptly.

  “Okay, Palmer.” I smile tightly. Like I’d really call him at home.

  “By the way, how did you get down here?” he said. He would ask me that. He’s also one of the few people who knows My Big Freeway Secret.

  “I managed.” (My version of “I called a car service.”)

  “That’s my girl.”

  We finish our drinks and return to the ballroom like any complacent married couple taking a breather. He squeezes my shoulder as I turn my back on him and head to the table. The high-pitched din of the room jolts my nervous system like a car backfiring on the highway and I focus on half-eaten desserts, an array of cut-glass wine goblets, and women rummaging through their favor bags; the anticlimactic winding down of a long-anticipated event.

  As I walk back to the table, I spy a woman I used to work with at the Times. She’s married to a lawyer, has two angelic kids, and is now producing a hot new series on Fox. She sees me and says, “Hey, a blast from the past. How are you?”

  How am I? I feel like a complete loser. “Just great. How are you?”

  “Working like a maniac. Leaving for New York tomorrow.”

  “Really busy, huh?”

  “Yeah. And they all shoot away from L.A. Lots of traveling right now. What are you up to?”

  Spying on my husband, getting dumped on by a twenty-five-year-old editor, OD’ing on books. “Oh, same old, same old.”

  “Well, you look great. Really. Take care.” She gives me a sideways kiss and leaves. I pull my shoulders up into a rigid block and watch her walk off.

  I reach our table, take a long swig of somebody’s untouched wine, and make a big deal of looking at my watch. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I have a babysitter problem. I have to run.” Pamela shoots me a look, and with a guilty wave, I make my escape.

  Walking down the magnificent hallway, I pass a series of life-sized paintings illustrating Sir Walter Scott’s story of Ivanhoe, depicting the days of romance and chivalry. Everything depresses me now.

  I feel a rush of relief as I enter my apartment. I look at the clock; still relatively early considering I went all the way downtown and back. I rip off my clothes and throw on my favorite sweats, old faded Gap men’s with a drawstring waist and a baggy bottom. I pad into the kitchen, open the fridge, and grab a half-filled bottle of something—what is this? Sherry? Where did I get it? Must have been a Christmas gift. This is something you give to old people. Uh-oh. I hate when I start feeling over the hill. How old was Kimberly, anyway? She had that youthful glow that makes me crazy. I wonder what they’re doing right now. Oh, it IS only nine thirty, they’re probably still there. Although Palmer does like to cut out early. When we were dating, we actually devised our own rules for ducking out—that “never before the cake thing”…gone. I need something stronger. I pour myself a shot of vodka. I was so tense with Palmer I don’t remember drinking anything at all.

  What was up with him, anyway? I don’t know what to think of our conversation. I pick up Flaubert. Madame Bovary is in vogue these days, but at the moment, I am plowing through Sentimental Education because I heard a critic on NPR say that the book exposes all the hollowness and fragility of youthful ideals and is an insidious devaluation of the power of love. Naturally I ran right out and got it. I get a rush these days from the inevitable pitfalls of the human condition. Here we go. A young man’s passion for an older woman that goes on and on and on until the penultimate reunion at the
end with the white-haired Madame Arnoux. Oh god. I can’t take it. I’m beat.

  Palmer did look exceptionally attractive tonight. He looked like he was having fun. He always looked like he was having fun. That was part of my initial attraction to him. That, and the fact that he made me feel like I was the only one. When did he stop making me feel that way? Maybe when his career blasted into the stratosphere. Suddenly, it was a whole new world, cluttered with social obligations, speaking engagements, weekend business trips, and long absences.

  It all worked for Palmer, the new house, the decorators, the social secretary, the lingering effect he had on people, especially women, when he entered a room. I was happy for him. I just couldn’t figure out where I fit in. The more Palmer was away (and he was away a lot) the more I felt left behind. A therapist once asked me if it was the same way I felt when my father left home and my mother dissolved into dust. I don’t know. I just couldn’t snap out of it. The whole thing left Palmer baffled.

  To make matters worse, Palmer started in with the “wouldn’t it be great to start a family” thing. That frightened me. Another absentee father? I don’t think so.

  In the beginning, Palmer said he respected my feelings and he could wait. Just how long was never specified, although I somehow knew it had nothing to do with my biological clock. As far as I could tell, I didn’t have one. Why I didn’t was a different matter, which Palmer eventually felt compelled to bring up whenever we’d have an argument about something else. The resulting interval of tense noncommunication would go on for at least two or three days, and the more he brought it up, the angrier I got.

  When I look back, I’m sorry I didn’t realize how ambivalent and conflicted I was about having children and even sorrier I didn’t share those fears with Palmer. What I had observed from my childhood only confirmed my disheartening belief that happiness is unattainable within a traditional family.