Literacy and Longing in L. A.

by Jennifer Kaufman

The pitch of the party is rising in direct proportion to the massive amounts of tequila that the guests are distractedly swigging. I notice that two women who I happen to know haven’t talked for four years are now in a cozy conversation in the corner.

  Meanwhile, William is yelling across the table to Heather’s date about the new Viacom acquisition and how his partners figured it out a few months ago and “made a few mil on that one.” The other guy starts talking about all the consolidations, even in the agency business. William’s radar perks up as he tries to figure out where the next big merger is and whether the latest public offerings are already too expensive. The conversation drifts to real estate, which is where it always drifts in Los Angeles. William talks shopping centers and anchor stores and adds that his partners are looking into some deals in Texas, Louisiana, and Tennessee.

  Fred keeps excusing himself to escape outside to the Giddy-Up Saloon, where he belts down something else on the rocks and chats for an oh-so-long period of time with the bartender, who, by the end of the evening, is his newest best buddy.

  He looks cute, though, more than cute. He made a point of not wearing anything that could even remotely be called western. In fact, he looks suspiciously preppy. It doesn’t matter. When we first sit down, Pamela gives Fred a broad, open smile, and says, “I really love wandering through bookstores. It’s such a feast.” A feast? Fred does have that effect on women. He hands me a shot glass filled with tequila and says, “Bottoms up, baby.”

  Meanwhile, Heather, whose lot in life is to make everyone feel comfortable, looks up at Fred with her dolce vita face and asks, “So, what are the latest books…What do you recommend?”

  He smiles at her. “What kinds of books do you like?”

  “I don’t like anything depressing. I like reading happy books.”

  I see the mocking and slightly flirtatious glint in Fred’s eye. The minute you say something like this to a serious reader they think you’re a complete lightweight. You might as well tell them you want to be a Laker Girl.

  “Nothing depressing, eh? There are some new novels…” And he offers up some featherlight, frivolous fluff.

  “You might like these,” he says disingenuously.

  Then he gives me a knowing, complicit nod. This is beginning to feel like something out of an Edith Wharton novel. Snobby men toying with women they think are beneath them. Heather doesn’t get it. She thanks him and they continue talking, but I am annoyed.

  Later on, during dinner, Pamela’s husband, William (who we all put up with because he’s so kind to Pamela), starts regaling everyone about their trip to Florence. They stayed at the Grand, of course, had a great paglia e fieno at this restaurant and scored an exquisite bottle of fourteen-dollar Chianti at that restaurant (forget about the fact that they’re paying six hundred dollars a night for the room). He went on in a buoyant, booming voice about their tour guide who was a university art history professor and conspiratorially whispered the name of the fabulous shop where you can get leather purses made in the same factory as Prada for half the price.

  Fred stifles a yawn, at which point Heather asks him in a sweet honey bunny sort of way, “Have you been there, Fred?”

  “No, I don’t much like traveling. I think it’s a lot like golf or tennis. There are certain activities that people feel obligated to engage in when they reach a certain status in life. I’d rather just sit home and read Death in Venice.”

  After a moment of awkward silence, I try to gloss things over and keep the conversation going. “Sort of like that book The Accidental Tourist. Remember, the guy who wrote travel books for people who didn’t like to travel? He advised his readers on how to avoid human contact, where to find American food, and how to convince themselves they haven’t really left home.” I look around. No one’s buying it. Everyone knows that’s not what Fred meant.

  Everyone except Heather. “Oh, was that a book? I thought it was an old movie. Didn’t what’s-her-name star in that? You know…”

  “Maybe Annette Bening?” says another guest.

  “No. No. It definitely wasn’t Annette Bening. It was, you know, that girl from Thelma and Louise.”

  Now the whole table’s involved.

  “Susan Sarandon?”

  “No. The other one.”

  “I can just picture her. She’s a big girl, dark hair. Really tall.”

  “Wasn’t that guy from Body Heat, what’s his name, William Hurt, in it?”

  “Yes. Is he deaf?”

  “No. He’s not deaf. It was that role he played in God’s Children.”

  “It wasn’t called God’s Children. It was Children of a Lesser God and it was like thirty years ago.”

  Oh god. They need to stop. Where’s Fred going? Back to the bar. At which point Pamela says triumphantly…

  “Geena Davis! That’s who it was. Effing Geena Davis!” (Pamela can’t quite ever bring herself to curse. She also whispers the names of diseases.)

  At this point, one of the band members grabs the mike and yells, “Cowboys and cowgals, now is the time to change pardners. I want all the cowpokes to take their napkins and glasses and move to the right three seats.” Everyone is laughing as the men get up and move three seats clockwise.

  William is now seated next to me and Pamela, the birthday girl, has a conspicuously empty seat to her right. I quickly say, “Oh, I think Fred went outside to make a phone call. I’ll be right back.”

  Where the hell is he? I smile confidently as I whisk by the blur of guests and head for the bar. No Fred. Shit. I swing around and look out toward the parking lot. Maybe he left. Not that I can blame him. This party is truly over the top.

  I finally spot him seated on a brick wall behind the kitchen entrance. He and the bartender are having a smoke. The storm seems to have eased a bit, but, there is a dark gray smear of fog out in the horizon and I can feel my hair frizzing up. When I finally reach him, he gives me a transparent smile and introduces his new buddy, Chad, a loose-limbed, dopey-looking guy with frosted-tipped hair who’s studying to be an actor.

  “Hi!” I say nonchalantly, attempting to at least keep up a veneer of “hey, we’re all having fun here.” “Everyone’s changed seats for the cake and you’re seated next to the hostess. Would you mind coming back in?”

  “Yeah. In a minute.” There is a chill in the air as I register his rebuff. A fine film of rain sifts down on my face and I absently untie my bandana and begin mopping my brow.

  “Fred, they’re all sitting there and it’s kind of embarrassing.” The bartender gives Fred a look that, I know, means “Jesus, is this chick uptight.”

  “Dora, I’ve tried but I have nothing to say to these people. Why don’t we just sneak out the back, Jack?” he kids as he slides his arm around me and tries to give me an inebriated nuzzle. I am not in the mood. This is really not very nice.

  “What’s wrong with you, Dora? Lighten up.”

  “Okay. Never mind,” I throw back. The bartender is now smirking.

  “Catch you later,” Fred says to the bartender, obviously changing his mind. He grudgingly squashes his cigarette butt into the wall and follows me back in about five steps behind, like a chastened schoolboy.

  We get back to the table just as the lights are dimming. A cart pulled by a dwarf pony and bearing a fancy tiered cake is dramatically closing in on Pamela’s seat.

  “Oh, we all thought you guys had left,” Heather blurts out in a treacly, well-meaning tone as a round of long-winded, drunken, teary toasts begins.

  We sit down and Fred barely speaks. I should have let him sit outside. This is so bad. But he could try just a little. In the bookstore, he has an effortless grace with every stranger that walks in the door—a literary wonder with a dashing streak of charm and an uncanny ability to quote verbatim relevant passages. Now I watch him fidget with the bobble-head doll and then blankly stare into space. Is it only obvious to me or does everyone realize he doesn’t want to be here?

  Pamela is currently in a conversat
ion with the woman across the table about preschools. Pamela tells the woman that Madison’s school is very conscious of building self-esteem and has banned games that are hurtful to feelings. In fact, she proudly tells her, they don’t play tag, instead they play Circle of Children, where no one is “out.” It seems that even dodgeball is under a cloud. She goes on to elaborate that there are no red marks on tests because that too is stressful to children…lavender is much more calming.* Fred gives me a look.

  Pamela, oblivious, leans into him and says, “So I hear you’re a playwright?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your play about?”

  “It’s kind of complicated.”

  “Oh. How long have you been working on it?”

  “A few years.”

  Pamela is struggling here to engage him.

  “So, is it really true what they say about the death of the novel?”

  He looks at her incredulously.

  “What exactly do they say?” he replies, putting her on the spot.

  “Well, you know, that people just want to watch TV and rent movies.”

  “Those people probably never read to begin with.” An uncomfortable silence as she changes the subject.

  “What’s hot now? What are people reading?”

  “The usual New York Times booklist stuff.”

  “Oh. Like…?”

  “Baldacci, Steel, Roberts, Clancy, things like that.”

  “Oh, I like Tom Clancy.”

  “Lots of people do.”

  Pamela stretches as she covertly loosens a notch on her belt and takes out her compact. She meticulously reapplies her lipstick and says, “Well, it was nice talking to you, Fred, but I guess I better mingle a little.”

  It’s at this point that a couple at the next table, who had apparently been having a minor dispute, explode. She’s yelling, “Fuck you!” He’s shouting back, “Fuck you too!” She then races out into the rain in tears. He briefly apologizes to no one and runs after her.

  Pamela mouths “uh-oh,” pointedly ignores the outburst, and continues her hostessly duties. Fred looks at me and rolls his eyes.

  Okay, so it’s not the Algonquin Round Table here. He could at least have made an effort. Granted, it’s a bad party. But not in a good way. Like in Tender Is the Night when Dick Diver said, “I want to give a really bad party…where there’s a brawl and seductions and people going home with their feelings hurt and women passed out in the toilet.”

  There is no way to salvage this evening.

  Where the Wild Things Are

  “The fawn lifted its face to his.

  It turned its head with a wide, wondering motion

  and shook him through with the stare of its liquid eyes.”

  ~ Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings (1896–1953), The Yearling ~

  All things considered, last night was a disaster. We ducked out after the cake and when we got in the car, instead of just letting it rip—me telling him he was a jerk, him telling me that my friends were bourgeois and boring—we both avoided the confrontation. I’ve learned that this is usually a mistake, but by this time we had already morphed into sullen passengers exchanging pleasantries in an excruciatingly civil manner.

  “Do you mind if I turn on the music?” Fred asks with a benign smile.

  “Oh no, not at all,” I answer evenly.

  “I think we’ve heard enough country-western,” he says, which might have been funny had our moods been different.

  Then he drops the bomb. “What’s the best way to get you home?”

  Now I’m mad. I was the one who was going to say “Take me home.” But instead, I politely respond, “First get on the 10, and go north on the 405 and get off at Wilshire. Take Wilshire West to San Vicente and I’ll give you the rest when we get there.”

  “Would it be better for me to take the 10 straight to Twenty-sixth Street, then go up to San Vicente?”

  I don’t know how much longer I can take this. “No, Twenty-sixth is usually pretty crowded, so the 405 would be best.” If he asks me one more question regarding directions, I’m going to snap.

  “Your friends are very nice.” He doesn’t mean it. Why is he saying this?

  “Thank you.” (You prick.) He drops me off saying he has to get up early, but we both know it’s bullshit.

  Darlene puts up with my rants all day. She called me this morning informing me that we couldn’t go on our usual walk because there was a giant squid infestation and all the beaches were temporarily closed.

  “Are you joking? What’s a squid, anyway? Is that calamari?”

  “Yeah, without the olive oil. How was last night?”

  “Oh god, let’s see. We go to this corny, expensive theme party in West Hollywood that was supposed to be a hoedown and which, I admit, was in poor taste, even for Pamela, and he proceeds to patronize all my friends and hang out with the bartender. When I asked him to please come back to the party and act like a grown-up, he went into a funk and was basically mute for the rest of the evening. He hates my friends.”

  “So what? I hate your friends.” She laughed. “Just kidding. Not really.”

  “Well, it was uncomfortable as hell.”

  “Did you fuck him?”

  “No, I didn’t fuck him. He dumped me off at home. Couldn’t wait to get rid of me. And personally, I couldn’t wait to get rid of him.”

  “Why did you throw him into that kind of gonzo scene anyway?”

  “It was the birthday party of one of my oldest friends,” I huffed. “He could have been more cordial. I kept waiting for him to say something trenchant and provocative—lord knows, he had plenty of opportunity between Heather asking him about books and Pamela prodding him about his work, but instead he just sat there looking all judgmental and sanctimonious.”

  “He was insecure,” Darlene insisted.

  “No, he wasn’t. He was disdainful and snobbish.”

  “Okay. Then he was both. He’s still a hunk and a great fuck. What do you care? You know what your problem is, Dora? You turn all these stupid social things into major downers over nothing. You’ve been depressed since the separation and what are you doing now? Reading and going to doctors’ appointments. I’m sorry. I know you’re down. I don’t want to hurt your feelings. Did I hurt your feelings?”

  “No, Darlene. At this point I have no feelings.”

  “Okay. Let’s talk about something positive. What’s going on with the job?”

  Oh, that’s something positive. “I’m waiting to hear.”

  “I could call Sully, she’s still in Classifieds. She might have heard something.”

  “Thanks…but no thanks,” I say dejectedly.

  “Chill, Dora. You’ll get the job and the Bookprince will call you to apologize.”

  “No, he won’t.”

  “He’ll call you. They always call you.”

  “Not that I care, but they don’t always call. I’m not twenty-five anymore. I’m divorced. Twice. Almost. I don’t have a job. My money won’t last much longer. And Dr. H. told me I could use a little lift right here.” I point to my upper eyelid as if she could see what I was talking about.

  “Well, fuck them all,” Darlene said with a flourish. “Let’s go do something.”

  We decide to meet for a late lunch and then take one of my favorite hikes, a two-mile trek through the Santa Monica Mountains, finishing at Inspiration Point, which offers a 360-degree view from downtown to the Pacific Ocean.

  By the time we make it down the path, it’s twilight. Darlene and I are wet and slick and sweaty like horses coming down from a long trail ride and the cold moist air turns our breath to steam. The moon, a thin shaving of tin, is already visible in the sky as we pull out of the parking lot and head toward Sunset.

  Darlene spots him first—a hefty, black-tailed buck with ominous-looking antlers lying by the side of the road.

  “Dora, stop! I think someone hit a deer.”

  I pull over and she leaps out to investigate. I see her
bending over the body of the prostrate beast, peering into its dazed, gentle face. His fur is the color of a beagle, only matted and muddy, and there appears to be something black and sticky on his slightly pivoting, long, stiff ears.

  “Is he dead?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. Do you have a mirror?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Darlene is cupping the moist tip of the buck’s snout in her fingers.

  “I can’t figure out if he’s breathing or roadkill.”

  “Wait a minute.” As I get out of the car with my compact, I see the buck suddenly spaz out in a series of convulsive movements in an attempt to get up. God, he has huge teeth. Do deer bite? Darlene jumps back.

  “Well, I guess he’s not dead,” I say, a bit unnerved. “Maybe someone grazed him and he needs to, you know, just get his bearings,” I add hopefully.

  “Maybe, but I don’t think we should leave him lying here. Do you think we can fit him in the trunk?”

  “Darlene, he looks like he’s over six feet and he must weigh close to two hundred pounds.”

  “How about the backseat then? Mel’s about the same size.”

  Okay. Now I’m going crazy. I don’t want to be here. It’s cold and dark and I’m stuck. I suddenly long for a hot bath and a book.

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Of course I’m kidding. Pull your car behind the deer, put on your emergency lights, and I’ll try to flag someone down with a van or something.”

  I move the car, get on my cell phone, and start calling different wildlife agencies, all of which are gone for the day and have elaborate answering machines that are totally useless. I remember there is an emergency animal hospital down on Sepulveda and I call them next. The man gives me a bland, routine dismissal.

  “We don’t handle wildlife here. There’s Lyme disease up in the canyon. Also, it’s illegal to administer any drugs—if we fix him up and set him free and then someone shoots him and eats him, they could get poisoned.”

  I try to figure out the logic of what I’ve just heard. He goes on to tell me there’s a place in Torrance just off the 405 that might hold the deer until the Malibu Wildlife Agency opens in the morning. “Those people,” he says, “will handle anything.”