Best to Laugh: A Novel (14 page)

25

“
L
OOK
AT
WHAT
MY
COUSIN
SENT
ME.”

“Greetings from Ravenna!!” Solange read aloud. “(See pic of it on other side!)”

“Is she serious? She really thinks you don’t understand the concept of a postcard?”

I shook my head. “Read the rest.”

In a breathy voice, Solange brought to life Charlotte’s childish handwriting:

“Got a couple hours in port so I thought I’d write to tell you
I’VE
FALLEN
IN
LOVE!!!
Cray’s his name, and he’ll be coming home with me, helping me to turn the apartment into a
LOVE
SHACK!!!
We’ll be getting in on the 30th and you have my permission to use my car to pick us up! Call you when we land!!! XX, Charlotte.”

“You know what that means, don’t you?” I asked.

“That your apartment’s going to turn into a love shack?”

“Exactly,” I said, leaning back in my office chair. “And how much do you want to bet that I won’t be welcome in it?”

I
N
SYMPATHY
WITH
MY
LOUSY
MOOD—AND
because everyone else was out of the office—Solange told me I might as well leave early.

“I’ll hold the fort down while you go pout,” she said. “Which I thoroughly endorse, by the way.”

With my roller skates crammed into my backpack, I dawdled my way down Hollywood Boulevard. At the Broadway Department store, I held out my wrist at the fragrance counter, accepting a spritz of a new perfume called Star Power!

“If I smell like it, does it mean I have it?” I asked the spritzer, a woman who in her white coat looked like a glamorous doctor. Her response was a pitying smile.

I bought a roll of Necco Wafers at JJ Newberry’s and while looking in the window at Samuel French, the bookstore that catered to Hollywood historians and those determined to make Hollywood history, I saw out of the corner of my eye a gaunt figure shambling by.

“Here,” I said, impulsively handing Slim the candy, and while he accepted it as easily as a runner taking a relay baton, he made no eye contact, said nothing.

At the cosmopolitan newsstand on Las Palmas, I passed a guy in a Tyrolean hat who was reading
Der Spiegel
and was standing in front of the newspaper section, when I was tapped on the shoulder. I assumed it was by the beefy cashier who permitted browsing, but on a limited basis, subject to his stopwatch.

“Hey Mayhem!”

“Hey to you,” said the scrawny guy with the purple mohawk. “What’s got you so hypnotized?”

“Oh, I’m trying to figure out what paper has the best rental listings. I think I’m going to have to leave Peyton Hall.”

“Bummer. I’d say you could move in with me, but right now I’m crashing in my sister’s den, which doesn’t thrill my brother-in-law—a total douche, by the way—I mean, the guy’s favorite band is White Snake!”

“Help you with anything?” asked the cashier, folding his big hairy arms across his chest.

Mayhem’s voice was as sweet as the cashier’s was not. “No thanks, but I appreciate the offer.”

He angled his arm and I took the crook of it, and under the squinty-eyed observation of the cashier we walked like dignitaries along the length of the newsstand.

“Can you believe that a-hole thought I was a shoplifter?” asked Mayhem after we’d turned the corner back onto the Boulevard.

“I don’t know that he thought that.”

“Well, he should have!” With a gleeful cackle, he pulled the latest issue of
Crawdaddy
from under his loose coat.

“Geez, Mayhem.”

“What? There’s an article I really need to read.”

“You’re lucky you weren’t caught because—” I didn’t expand on what punishment the cashier might have meted out, distracted as I was by the sound and fury of a battling couple charging up the street.

Following my gaze, Mayhem asked, “Who’s that?”

“My landlord. And his wife.”

I couldn’t quite decipher what the pair was saying to one another, but it was obvious from their flailing arms and dark faces that they weren’t discussing where to go for tea. Jaz grabbed his wife’s arm, and it was when she shook it away that their conversation became audible.

“Bastard!” said Aislin. “Get your fucking hands off me!”

“You don’t tell me when to take my fucking hands off you!”

“Let’s cross the street,” I suggested, too late.

“Hey!” said Jaz, stumbling toward us. “Hey, look who’s here, our little subletter! En garde!” He lurched forward in a clumsy thrust, like Robin Hood after one too many flagons of mead.

“En garde,” I said with a weak wave of my hand. “Hi, Aislin.”

“I say,” said Jaz, lifting his sunglasses off his face to give Mayhem an exaggerated once-over. “Is this little piece of shit bothering you?”

“Jaz!” said Aislin. “For Christ’s sake!”

“No, I’m not bothering her, “ said Mayhem, and mimicking Jaz, he lifted invisible sunglasses off his face. “But, I say, I’d be happy to bother
you.
”

“I’ll bet you would, you little punk,” said Jaz, but as he staggered toward Mayhem, Aislin grabbed his arm, forcing him to take two clumsy steps backward.

“Oh, never mind.” Realizing he was in no condition to strike a blow, let alone land one, Jaz clasped his hands to his chest. “I apologize. I apologize for my boorish behavior. That better, Aislin?”

His lovely Irish wife, who reeked as much of alcohol as Jaz did, said nothing with her mouth, but her eyes were telegraphing all sorts of profanity.

“So let me make it up to you,” said Jaz, with a deep nod of his head. “Be our guests this evening. Come and join us.”

“Jaz,” said Aislin, “let’s go.”

“Yes, let’s go,” said Jaz. “Let’s all go.”

“Go where?” asked Mayhem amicably.

Seeking better balance, Jaz replanted his feet in a wider stance.

“I am inviting the two of you to join us at an exclusive club, a club at whose doors many clamor—”

“For Christ’s sake, Jaz!” said Aislin, pulling at his arm.

“Please tell me you’re not Scientologists,” said Mayhem.

There were often recruiters in front of the Scientology building on the Boulevard, asking passersby if they’d like to take a free personality test. Not especially thinking my personality needed testing (or grading), I’d always ignored them.

Jaz laughed. “Hardly. Plato’s is much more exclusive and a lot more fun.”

“Are you talking about Plato’s Retreat?” asked Mayhem.

“Right-o, bright boy.”

“Jasper, come on!” said Aislin. She yanked his arm with a socket-separating force and hauled him away like an irate schoolmarm. Half-turning as he stumbled alongside her, Jaz gave a jerky wave, and Mayhem and I watched as they reeled down the Boulevard.

“Holy shit, Plato’s Retreat!”

“What’s Plato’s Retreat?” I asked.

“Are you kidding me? It’s a sex club! A place for swingers.”

I stared at him, and the expression on my face must have matched the shock I felt because Mayhem tipped back his serrated-hair head and laughed.

“Look at me,” I said quietly. “Consorting with shoplifters and swingers.”

“Well, Candy,” said Mayhem, taking my arm. “You’re not in Milwaukee anymore.”

“Uh . . . Minneapolis.”

I
SPENT
THE
MORNING
of Charlotte’s arrival doing housework, and after making the bed I folded my clothes into a pile and set them on top of the bed. I had taken all my stuff out of the closet and the dresser and now had no idea where to put it. Would Charlotte let me stay on her couch—at least for the night? But then what? Another night? And after that?

My anxiousness was aided and abetted by the coffee I glugged down, and when the phone jangled, I practically yelped.

“Ciao, Candy!” came my cousin’s voice.

“Hi, Charlotte,” I said, without the exclamation points. “You know, it would have been nice if you told me in advance when you were coming in because now it’s going to take me awhile to get there—what airline are you on, by the way? My friend Ed says it takes about forty-five—”

Charlotte’s laugh interrupted my scold.

“Candy, I’m not in L.A., I’m in New York!”

“Huh?”

She laughed again.

“It’s so wild! We were all set to come back, but then on our last day of work, Cray got a ship-to-shore phone call from his agent! Telling him he
had a big audition for
Bellwether
—you know that show about the crime-solving English butler? Anyway, they’ve written in a part for the new Scottish constable and Cray auditioned for it two days ago. And guess what, Candy? He got it!”

“Well, that’s great—”

“—and I met his agent and he’s agreed to represent me, too! He says I’m perfect for commercials! Isn’t that fantastic?”

“Wow. Yeah. Congratulations.” I took a deep inhale; it seemed I’d been holding my breath. “Does that mean you won’t be moving back here?”

Charlotte laughed again; honestly, it was as if the girl were being tickled.

“Not for a while. Who knows—maybe not ever, if things work out. I mean, I might as well give Broadway a shot while I’m here, so if you don’t mind keeping up the sublet for a while–”

“—no, no, I don’t mind, but what about your—”

“—great! And we’ll figure out what to do with the car—anyway, ciao!”

I kissed this bearer of most excellent news before setting the receiver in its cradle and racing through each room—my rooms!—in a happy hoppy dance.

Charlotte wasn’t coming back! She was going to stay in New York where her boyfriend with the weird name got hired on one of the crappier TV shows dumbing up the airwaves! I was staying at Peyton Hall!

26

W
HILE
THE
FIRST
FRIEND
I had made in Hollywood was always generous with his advice and counsel, he had offered surprisingly little about his personal life of late. When he told me about Sharla West calling to invite him to a screening the night after they met in Taryn’s hot tub, his voice had been tinged with the awe one might expect from a novitiate meeting the pope or a tourist describing his first visit to the Grand Canyon—at sunset—but further updates lacked the details I was dying to hear.

“Has Ed told you anything about his weekend in Catalina?” hollered Maeve.

“Only that he and Sharla were going there,” I hollered back.

“You should hear what she told Mother.”

Thwack.

“Do tell.”

Splat.

“According to Sharla, they barely left their hotel room.”

Thwack.

“No,” I said.

Splat.

“She’s definitely the pursuer here,” said Maeve. “I mean, she’s the one who first asked him out.”

Thwack.

“I know. Ed was giddy over that.”

Whoosh.

“That’s it,” Maeve said as I failed to return the ball. “I win.”

It was late afternoon and we had tromped up to the Hills, a piece of wilderness one block north of our complex. Once an estate, the house had burned down to its foundation and on its vast and overgrown grounds was a cracked and weedy court on which Maeve and I were playing tennis. Maeve was a graceful and powerful player who smacked balls with such force my impulse was to dodge them rather than attempt returning them. She was out of my league skills-wise, but I was just as competitive and made a rallying effort to give her at least a semblance of a game. The balls I hit had half the velocity of those she sent over the net, but let the record show I almost won a set. We had played in steely, concentrated quiet, but by the end of the game, when Maeve’s victory was more than assured, we had relaxed enough to gossip.

After gathering up the balls, she pulled up her T-shirt to mop her face. I was impressed by the volume of her perspiration and told her so.

“Thanks for noticing. But don’t think it’s because you pushed me too hard. I’m just a sweater, that’s all.” Sighing, she shook the back of her damp dyed-blonde hair with her fingers.

“Not only do I get to be tall and awkward with a face that favors my professor father more than my movie star mother, but I get to sweat more than other people!”

“Maeve,” I said, hearing that familiar warble in her voice, “don’t even start. We’d just gotten to the good stuff—Ed and Sharla—remember?”

Her sniff was guttural, but she nodded.

“So what else did your mom say?”

“Well,” said Maeve. “She says Sharla can’t stop talking about Ed—in the dressing room, on the set, at the commissary—it’s all Ed, all the time!”

“And it’s our Ed she’s talking about?”

“Our one and only.”

Maeve put the lid on a can of balls and picked up her racket, and we began walking down a path narrowed by tall grass and weeds.

“I tell you, it gives me encouragement,” she said, whacking at a weed with her racket. “I mean, Ed wasn’t having much luck dating—and yes, he made a big mistake in not dating me—but now, now he’s getting it on with the star of
Summit Hill
!”

“‘Getting it on with,’” I said, laughing at the expression.

“And get this,” said Maeve, targeting another weed with her racket. “Sharla told my mother Ed’s the most sensitive lover she’s ever had!”

“No!”

“Those were her words!”

We giggled like two junior high girls whose health teacher has just announced today’s class will focus on human reproduction.

“Now, Mother made me take a vow to not tell anyone, so you’ve got to do the same.”

I held up my racket. “On my honor.”

We followed the path down the hill and toward Fuller Street, whacking at the snarled weeds like landscape architects on speed.

I
T
WASN’T
UNUSUAL
to hear shouts and exclamations coming from the Beat Street offices.

“‘Genie Girl’ is #2 with a bullet!”

“We’ve got the Brass Jar on
Midnight Special
!”

“
Rolling Stone
wants Summer Stephenson for a cover feature!”

If I were to shout out announcements pertaining to my particular office milieu—“The copier’s working again!” or “I updated the Rolodex!”— I doubt it would be received with the same sense of excitement.

More than once, Ellie Pop, who loved the record industry, asked me if I knew how lucky I was to have the opportunity thousands of people would have killed to have.

“Really?” I had asked the tenth or so time she said this. I was wrestling with packing tape as I boxed up promotional albums to send to a radio station. “Thousands of people would kill to get yelled at when they put someone on hold? Thousands of people would kill to make and then cancel lunch reservations or sign the UPS delivery forms?”

Crossing her arms in front of her suede-vested chest, Ellie Pop smirked.

“You know what I mean. To work in the record industry.”

“Which for me,” I said slowly, as if speaking to someone who didn’t share my native tongue, “means listening to people yell at me when I put them on hold, making and canceling lunch reservations, and signing UPS delivery forms.”

Still, for a temp job, it had its perks, and as the hours of my last day at Beat Street ticked away, I felt a little sad.

“So what should we see?” said Solange. We had decided to honor the occasion of my upcoming unemployment by seeing a movie, and she was sitting on the futon with the newspaper spread before her, looking through the listings. “
California
Suite
or
Superman
?”

“Ahh,” I said, “to laugh or to lust, that’s the question.”

“Isn’t it always. Or we could go foreign and see—”

The front door swung open and the small reception area was filled with a flurry of people—Neil, Ellie Pop, two worried-looking men in suits, and in leather and stacked-heeled boots the small and shaggy-haired Danny Day, whose debut album
Daybreak
had just been released.

“I told you,” he was saying in a nasally Cockney accent, “I ain’t gonna do no interview wif no fuckin’ Albert Ray!”

“But he’s got the biggest radio program in southern California!” said Ellie Pop. “More people listen to—”

“—I don’t care! And what the—” Danny Day made a face as if he had just stepped in dog poop, barefoot—“what the bloody ‘ell is that?”

Everyone froze and the twangy cowboy music we’d been listening to seemed to increase in volume.

“Uh, that’s Spade Cooley,” said Solange, rushing to turn off the stereo.

“Is that what kind of record company I’m wif?” said Danny Day. “A fuckin’ record company what’s playing fuckin’ hillbilly music instead of my record?”

Thrusting a pointer finger at Solange, he said, “Get me somefink to drink!”

Neil’s laugh was tinged with discomfort. “Danny, you’ve met our office manager, Solange, and this of course is Candy—”

“—did I ask for a bloody introduction? All I want is a fuckin’ drink! Somefink with whiskey in it!”

The curtain swished open as the tiny tyrant and his followers pushed past my desk and Ellie Pop, sotto voce said, “Never mind, Neil’ll take care of him.”

I was often called on to dispense coffee and sodas to visitors on the main floor, but Neil worked the bar that was upstairs in his office lair.

The thing was, we’d been playing
Daybreak
a lot in the office; it was a great record that featured hard-driving rock and roll and soulful ballads, several of which I’d find myself randomly humming.

“How can a jerk like that make an album like
Daybreak
?” I said as Solange tucked her cowboy cassette into its case.

“I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt. You know, he’s an insecure artist; he’s surrounding himself with the wrong people, etc., etc., but the simple fact may be that he’s a jerk.”

“Yeah, but really: I get tears in my eyes every time I hear the title track. And ‘Next to Me’—that’s going to be a classic.”

Shaking her head, Solange pulled at one of her perpetually inflamed earlobes.

“Why do you keep wearing those?” I asked, as she winced.

“Because of jerks like Danny Day.”

“Huh?”

“Take a look up close,” she said, leaning close to me.

I stared for a moment at the round little earrings I had always assumed were studs.

Squinting, I saw that the globes weren’t entirely round but had tiny lines and ridges in them. “Why, they’re—”

“—black power fists,” said Solange. “I don’t generally point that out to people—they’d think I was some sort of radical, looking to start a riot.”

“That pretty much describes your personality,” I said.

She smiled.

“But they do help me,” said Solange. “It’s like wearing armor that no one can see. They protect me and make me feel stronger—even if they do make my ears itch like crazy.”