I picked Lulu up at the airport in the Duster. The car was clean. I even waxed it. I wore jeans and a white T-shirt and my hair was falling just right. I was a little unshaven, which made me look older, wiser, maybe a little tougher, I reckoned. I was sporting a stash, too, a peach fuzzy little thing you might expect to see on a child molester.
Driving down La Tierra, I rehearsed my air of casual self-possession. I checked my hair in the mirror at every light. The stash was looking a little sad, a little wilted, but nothing a bit of attitude couldn’t
fi
x. And I had the recipe for attitude: two cups of aloof, a dash of dry wit, and a sprinkling of cruelty to taste.
Hard as I’d tried to convince myself that I’d
fi
nally escaped Lulu’s gravitational pull, the minute I saw her standing at the curb next to her duffel bag, with her mess of hair piled on top of her head, and her bright lovely face, and her knees poking out of her ladybug skirt, I knew I was still hopelessly captivated by her. Just the way her little white
fi
ngers clutched a cigarette, the way her pouty little lips puffed on it. She looked bored standing at the curb, but I knew she had plenty of things occupying her. By the time she spotted the Duster, I was already grinning ear to ear. Just as I honked my greeting, a tall guy with a goatee and a plaid
fl
annel shirt strode out of the terminal carrying a guitar case and stationed himself right beside Lulu, with a little pat on the rump.
The blood rushed out of me so fast that I was dizzy as I pulled to the curb. Before I could pop the trunk, the guy with the goatee opened the passenger door and stuffed his guitar case and bags up front with me, and he and Lulu both climbed into the backseat.
I laid some rubber pulling into traf
fi
c.
When I
fi
nally spoke, my voice came from somewhere else, down a well, or at the end of a tunnel. “So
…
this is, like, a surprise, then?”
“I invited him,” said Lulu.
“My mom works for United,” said the guy. “I get tickets mass cheap.”
“No smoking in the car,” I said.
Lulu cracked her window and tossed her cigarette. “This is Dan,”
she said. “And this is my brother—”
“Will,” said Dan. “I’ve heard a lot about—”
“Stepbrother,” I said. “Did you get rid of that cigarette
?
”
“Yes!” she said.
“I’m sorry, were you saying something, Pat?”
“
Dan
,” smoldered Lulu.
I turned on the radio. Jaime Jarrin was doing play-by-play in Spanish on KWKW. Vin Scully had lost his luster for me the afternoon he’d forsaken me in Fatburger. Jaime Jarrin was my man now.
I couldn’t understand what the hell he was saying most of the time, but I liked the way syllables popped out of his mouth like jumping beans and his sentences built up steam until they couldn’t possibly come out any faster, and old Jaime would slam on the brakes, turn on a dime, and start a new sentence, just as Grif
fi
n rounded third with a head full of steam, or Sax threw the ball into the right
fi
eld bleachers. On this occasion, however, I wasn’t so much listening to Jaime Jarrin as just hearing him.
“That’s killer,” said Dan. “Mexican radio. Dude, it’s like ninety degrees here. That’s so killer. Hey, check out that dude with the shopping cart.”
Nobody checked out the dude with the shopping cart.
“Sweet,” observed Dan. “Hey, man, thanks for picking us up.”
“Yeah, it’s cool,” I mumbled. I snuck a peek at Lulu in the backseat, the side of her face squashed up against the window. I could only see one of her clear blue eyes, and it was looking about two feet out the window, like it couldn’t see anything beyond that.
Dan saw everything. And it was all killer. I’m still not certain if he was just oblivious to the tension, or if he was painfully aware of it and trying desperately to compensate.
“Dude, check out the fat guy with the oranges! That guy’s killer!
How far is Santa Monica? Whoa, check out that Pontiac! Hey, so, these friends of ours from Seattle are playing at the Whiskey on Friday. They rock. We should totally check them out.”
“Tacoma,” mumbled Lulu.
“Same dif,” said Dan. “Anyway, we should see them. They’re killer.
I can get us on the list, no prob.”
“I’m busy,” I said.
“Oh,” said Lulu. “Are you working the
line
or the
register
that night?”
“Ouch,” said Dan. “Roastola.”
I couldn’t have summed it up better.
“Neither,” I said. “Actually, I’m hanging out with a friend. You remember Troy.”
A glance in the rearview mirror revealed Lulu glowering at me.
I got butter
fl
ies and chills at the same time. “He’d love to see you,”
I said. “He never stops talking about you, and all the great times you had together.”
“Who’s Troy?” said Dan.
“Troy’s nobody,” said Lulu.
“Troy’s Lulu’s boyfriend,” I explained. “Well,
of
fi
cially
he’s her boyfriend, anyway. She never actually gave him the courtesy of
breaking
up
.”
Dan looked to Lulu.
Lulu looked two feet out the window. “I thought I made it pretty clear,” she said. “I’m done with that.”
It was an ending worthy of Big Bill. The old Big Bill, that is.
“Well, anyhow,” I said, “I’ll be sure and tell him you said hello, Lu.”
“I’m sure you will,
Will
.”
“You guys want to stop and get a beer someplace?” said Dan. “Play some pool, or something?”
“Sure,” I said.
“No,” said Lulu. “You’re the only one who could get in, remember?”
“Oh yeah,” intoned Dan. “Bummer. But I thought nobody cards in L.A.?” he added hopefully.
“I know where we can get in,” I said. “That place in Venice by Troy’s new apartment. We could call him.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“I’m sure he’d be happy to pop down for a beer.”
“Go to hell.”
“Maybe you could take the opportunity to
fi
nally dump him.”
“Quit it.”
“
Dude
,” said Dan forcefully, but diplomatically. “She doesn’t want to go. Drop the whole Troy thing. Know any other places?”
“Not really.”
“Forget it,” said Lulu. “I’m tired. Please, let’s go home.”
After the initial surprise, Willow and Big Bill both seemed to relish Dan’s presence, hopeful, perhaps, that Dan might lend some insight into the current state of Lulu, or maybe even offer himself up as a tool for Lulu’s persuasion. He seemed malleable enough. If nothing else, Dan took some of the focus off of Lulu, a function bene
fi
cial to everyone involved.
Willow was putting out a meat and potato spread for dinner to commemorate Lulu’s homecoming. Even Big Bill was to be granted a little leniency with regard to his dietary restraints. Willow wanted it to be perfect. We were already sitting around the table when the doorbell rang.
“Oh, that must be Troy,” I said. “Shoot, I forgot. Can he stay for dinner? I sort of invited him.”
The air was brittle. Even Doug stopped chewing.
“What?” I said, innocently. “I can’t invite my best friend to dinner anymore?”
I got up and answered the door. When Troy brushed by me into the foyer, I could smell his aftershave. He was pickled in it.
Willow hurriedly set him a place.
Troy couldn’t even look at Lulu when we walked into the dining room.
Willow set Troy a place strategically across from me, and between the twins. Lulu was on the other side of Ross—that is, Alistair—who was on the far side of Doug. If Troy ever did summon the moxie to venture a glance at Lulu, he’d have to lean way back or way forward in his chair.
Doug wrinkled his nose when Troy sat down. “What smells like Listerine?”
“Pipe down,” said Ross. “You smell like the inside of a dead raccoon.”
“Whatever,
Alistair
. Isn’t that a girl’s name?”
Big Bill cleared his throat. “So, how goes things, young man?” he said heartily.
“Great,” said Troy. “Thanks. And thanks for dinner, too. I don’t get much home cooking these days.”
“He’s a bachelor,” I observed.
“Going to Santa Monica, are you?” inquired Big Bill.
“Yeah,” he said. “Transferring to UCLA probably. Or maybe UW, I’m not sure.”
“Will went to Hamburger University,” said Doug.
“Yeah, well, where do you think
you’re
gonna go?” said Alistair.
“
Meathead
University?”
Doug didn’t have a comeback for that. He started chewing harder.
“What’re you studying?” inquired Willow.
“Uh, I’m not really sure as far as majoring,” said Troy. “I kind of like astronomy.”
“That stuff ’s all fake,” said Doug. “Those horoscopes and all that mumbo jumbo. That stuff ’s made up.”
“That’s
astrology
, you Cro-Magnon,” said Alistair.
“That’s what he said,
ass-lips
!”
“He said
astronomy
!”
“Did not.”
“Did too.”
It was like old times again.
Poor Dan, I was thinking.
“What about you, Dan?” said Willow. “What are you up to?”
“I’m in a band,” he said. “Well, I do other stuff, too. I paint some—not like Lulu or anything—just sort of fooling around, mostly. Latex on beaverboard, stuff like that. I also manage the Comet.”
“The Comet?”
“It’s a tavern. It’s like the most famous bar in town. It’s okay. But being a musician is who I
really
am. I mean, pretty much. I guess.”
“Is that why you hauled your bass along, even though you’re only going to be here thirty-six hours?” I inquired.
“Pretty much. It gets depressing, otherwise. I can’t live without music.”
“Heavy,” I said.
“It just so happens that I strum a little six string myself,” said Big Bill.
Suddenly, the image of Big Bill and Dan “jamming” in the living room after dinner
fl
ashed in front of me, and I wanted to puke.
“What kind of stuff?” said Dan.
“Oh, you know,” said Big Bill. “Greasy kid stuff.”
Dan guffawed. I wanted to puke again.
“Will plays the spatula,” said Doug.
“Yeah, well, you play the sausage,” said Alistair.
“Do not.”
“Do too. Don’t forget, I live downstairs. I can hear you shining your sausage up there.”
“Hey,” said Big Bill. “Cool out.”
“Ass-bag,” said Doug.
“Troglodyte,” said Alistair.
“So, Dan,” I said. “How does it feel to be in the bosom of the Miller family?”
“It’s cool. You should see
my
family.”
Lulu wouldn’t look at anybody. She wasn’t eating, just
fi
ddling with the food on her plate like a kid, rolling a pea up a mountain of mashed potatoes.
“Glad to see that you’re up and around, Mr. Miller,” said Troy.
“How sweet,” said Willow.
“Thanks, Tony,” said Big Bill.
“It’s Troy,” said Lulu.
“Oh, right,” said Big Bill. “Thanks, Troy. I feel great. I’ve been getting some much-needed rest.” Then, turning his attention back to Dan: “Now, Dan, tell us about the band. Have you got a name?”
“Um, yeah.”
Still chewing, Big Bill encouraged Dan to divulge said information, waving a forkful of turkey meatball around like a traf
fi
c baton.
“Well? What is it? Inquiring minds want to know.”
Dan desperately sought Lulu’s eyes, but she was still looking down at her plate.
“Uh, Cum Dumpster,” he said
fi
nally.
Willow dropped her fork.
“B-but we’re changing our name,” he hastened to add.
“Good move,” said Big Bill. “Don’t want to send the wrong message.”
“We’re gonna call ourselves My Mother’s Machine.”
“What a stupid name,” said Doug.
“Shut up,” said Alistair. “You don’t even know what it means.”
“Do too.”
“Do not.”
“What
does
it mean?” inquired Willow.
“Uh,” said Dan. “Nothing, really.”
“It means his mother’s
dildo
,” I said.
Doug chortled.
“Oh,” said Willow. “I see. Cute.”
Dan smiled sheepishly. “Brett made it up. He’s the singer. I just play the bass.”
“What kind of groove?” said Big Bill.
“
Groove
?” I blurted. “Did you just say
groove
?”
“Well, yeah,” said Big Bill. “You know, like, what’s your
thing
?” he clari
fi
ed. “What’s your
bag
?”
The steroids had gone to his brain. Or was it the LSD?
“Greasy kid stuff,” quipped Dan.
Big Bill and Dan shared a chuckle. I almost puked.
“We’re pretty much hard rock,” explained Dan. “With kind of a post-punk infusion. Like Zeppelin meets the Dead Boys, but faster.
Brett knows one of the guys from Sub Pop. We’re talking to them about releasing an EP or something. Which would be killer.”
Big Bill looked mildly impressed. “Mmm.”
“Congratulations,” said Willow. “Is that like an
L
P? What does the
E
stand for?”
“Uh,
extended
, I think. Like
extended play
or something like that.
I’m not sure. It’s like a record, but shorter. Longer than a single, but shorter than an album. Smaller, too, I think. I mean, size-wise, smaller. Like a single. Sort of like an album on a single, I think. Brett mostly handles that stuff.”
“Interesting. So, when do we get to see these paintings, Lulu?”
said Willow.
“They’re really good,” said Dan. “I mean,
really
good.”
“I don’t save them,” sighed Lulu. “I get rid of them.”
“She gives them away,” explained Dan. “There’s one hanging in the of
fi
ce at my work.”
“Well, how about snapping a picture sometime?” said Big Bill.
“Yeah, okay,” said Lulu. “Once I get better.”
“I’ll bet you’re really good,” said Troy, who
fl
ushed immediately.
God, what a wuss.
“I
keep
telling
her that,” said Dan. “She did this one, you should see it. It’s of these amazing cloud stacks, like all purple and silver, and it looks like the clouds are actually churning and tumbling over each other in the painting, like these big thunderheads rolling in, or something. It’s like they’re
really
rolling, though. And the colors are
really
ominous,
really
amazing.”
“
Really
,” I said.
“It’s ugly,” said Lulu. “It looks like dog vomit.”
Doug guffawed. “You should call your band
that
.”
“Well, anyway, send us a picture,” I said. “I mean, if you ever get halfway decent.”
“I’ll bet she’s great,” said Troy.
“Totally,” concurred Dan. “She’s
really
,
really
good.”
“
Really
?” I said. I was at the end of my rope. I suppose I could have tied it around my neck, but that wasn’t my instinct. “Well, isn’t that supportive,” I said. “That’s just killer. You rock. So, what’s next for Mr. and Mrs. Going Nowhere Fast? Are you moving in together?
Consolidating Lulu’s assets? Any two-car garages and white picket fences on the horizon? Or is it food stamps and
fl
annel diapers?”
Lulu dropped her fork with a clank, piloted her chair back with a squeak, stood up, and left the table without a word. We could hear her footfalls retreating up the stairs.
The air went brittle again. All eyes were on me.
“What?” I said.