Generation X (23 page)

' 'Excuse me?' I say. 'I can quite deal with our breakup, thank you.

Don't flatter yourself. I'm thinking of
other
things.' " 'Like what?'

' 'Like I finally know for sure who I'm going to fall in love with. T h e news came to me while I was sleeping.' ''
' S h a r e
it with me Claire.'

' 'Possibly you'll understand this, Tobias. When I get back to

California, I'm going to take this stick and head out in the desert. I'm going to spend every second of my free time out there—dowsing for

water buried deep. I'm going to bake in the heat and walk for miles and miles across the nothingness—maybe see a roadrunner and maybe get

b i t t e n b y a r a t t l e r o r a s i d e w i n d e r . A n d o n e d a y , I d o n ' t k n o w w h e n , I'm going to come over a sand dune and I'll find someone else out there dowsing for water, too. And I don't know who that someone will be, but
that's
who I'm going to fall in love with. Someone who's dowsing for water, just like me.'

" I r e a c h e d f o r a b a g o f p o t a t o c h i p s o n t h e t a b l e . T o b i a s says to me, 'That's really
g r e a t ,
C l a i r e . B e s u r e y o u w e a r h o t p a n t s a n d n o p a n t i e s a n d m a y b e y o u c a n h i t c h h i k e a n d y o u c a n h a v e b i k e r-sex in v a n s w i t h s t r a n g e m e n . '

"But I ignored his comment, and then, as I was reaching for a

potato chip there on the glass table, I found behind the bag a bottle of Honolulu Choo-Choo nail polish.

"Well.

"Tobias saw me pick it up and stare at the label. He smiled as my mind went blank and then was replaced by this horrible feeling—like something from one of Dag's horror stories where a character is driving along in a Chrysler K-Car and then the character suddenly realizes there's a murderous drifter hidden behind the bench seat holding a piece of rope.

"I grabbed for my shoes and started to put them on. Then my jacket.

I curtly said it was time I got going. That's when Tobias started lashing into me with this slow growly voice. 'You're just so
sublime,
aren't you, Claire. Looking for your delicate little insights with your hothouse freak show buddies out in Hell-with-Palm-Trees,
aren't you?
Well I'll tell you something, I
like
my job here in the city. I like the hours and the mind games and the battling for money and status tokens, even though you think I'm
s i c k
for wanting any part of it.'

"But I was already heading for the door; passing by the kitchen I saw briefly, but clearly enough, two milk-white crossed legs and a puff of cigarette smoke, all cropped by a door frame. Tobias was close on my heels as he followed me out into the hallway and toward the elevators.

He kept going, he said, 'You know, when I first met you, Claire, I

thought that here might finally be a chance for me to be a class-act for once. To develop something sublime about myself.
Well fuck sublime,
Claire. I don't
want
dainty little moments of insight. I want
everything
and I want it
n o w .
I want to be ice-p i c k e d o n t h e h e a d b y a h e r d o f angry cheerleaders, Claire. Angry cheerleaders on
drugs.
You don't
get
t h a t , d o y o u ? '

" I h a d p u s h e d t h e e l e v a t o r b u t t o n a n d w a s s t a r i n g a t t h e d o o r s , which couldn't seem to open soon enough. He kicked away one of the

d o g s t h a t h a d f o l l o w e d u s , c o n t i n u i n g h i s t i r a d e .

" 'I want action. I want to be radiator steam hissing on the

cement o f t h e S a n t a M o n i c a f r e e w a y a f t e r a t h o u s a n d -car pile up—with acid rock from the smashed cars roaring in the background. I want to be the man in the black hood who switches on the air raid sirens. I want to be naked and windburned and riding the lead missile of a herd h e a d i n g over to bomb every little fucking village in New Zealand.'

"Fortunately, the door finally opened. I got inside and looked at Tobias without saying anything. He was still aiming and firing: 'Just go to hell, Claire. You and your superior attitude. We're all lapdogs; I just happen to know who's petting me. But
hey—
if more people like you choose not to play the game, it's easier for people like me to win.'

"The door closed and I just waved good-bye, and when 1 began

d e s c e n d i n g , I w a s s h a k i n g a b i t —but the backseat drifter was gone. I was released from the obsession, and before I'd reached the lobby I couldn't believe what a brain-dead glutton I'd been—for sex, for hu-miliation, for pseudodrama. . . . And I planned right there never to repeat this sort of experience ever again. The only way you can deal with the Tobiases of this world is to not let them into your lives
at all.

Blind yourself to their wares. God, I felt
relieved;
not the least bit angry."

We both consider her words.

"Eat some of your cheesecake, Claire. I need time to digest all this."

"Naah. I can't eat; I've lo st my appetite. What a day. Oh, by the way, could you do a favor for me? Could you put some flowers in a vase for me in my place for when I get back tomorrow? Some tulips, maybe?

I'm going to need them."

"Oh. Does this mean you'll be back living in your old bungalow again?"

"Yes."

Today is a day of profound meteorologic interest. Dust tornadoes have struck the hills of Thunderbird Cove down the valley where the Fords live; all desert cities are on a flash-flood alert. In Rancho Mirage, an oleander hedge has made a poor sieve and has allowed a prickly mist of tumbleweed, palm skirting, and desiccated empty tubs of Big Gulp slush drink to pelt the wall of the Barbara Sinatra Children's Center.

Yet the air is warm and the sun contradictorily shines. "Welcome back, Andy," calls Dag.

"This is what weather

was like back in the six-ties." He's waist deep in

the swimming pool, skim-ming the water's surface

with a net. "Just
look

at the big big sky up

there. And guess what—while you were away

the landlord cheaped-out

and bought a secondhand

cover sheet for the pool.

Look at what happened—"

IWhat
happened,
was that the sheet of bubble-wrap covering, after years of sunlight and dissolved granulated swimming pool chlorine, has

reached a critical point; the covering's resins have begun to disintegrate, releasing into the water thousands of delicate, fluttery plastic petal blos-soms that had previously encased air bubbles. The curious dogs, their golden paws going
clack-clack
on the pool's cement edge, peek into the water, sniffing but not drinking, and they briefly inspect Dag's legs, the list. It'll be fun. That's assuming, of course, that the winds today T H E T E N S: The first

d o n ' t b l o w a l l o f o u r h o u s e s t o b i t s . J e s u s ,
l i s t e n
to them."

decade of a new century.

" S o , D a g , w h a t a b o u t t h e S k i p p e r ? "

" W h a t a b o u t h i m ? "

" T h i n k h e ' l l n a r c o n y o u ? "

"If he does, I'll deny it. You'll deny it, too. Two versus one. I'm not into being prosecuted for felonies."

The thought of anything legal or prison oriented petrifies me. Dag

can read this on my face: "Don't sweat it, sport. It'll never come to that.

I promise. And guess what. You won't believe whose car it was . . . "

"Whose?"

"Bunny Hollander's. The guy whose party we're catering tonight."

"Oh, Lord."

* * * * *

Fickle dove-gray klieg light spots twitch and dart underneath tonight's overcast clouds, like the recently released contents of Pandora's box.

I'm in Las Palmas, behind the elaborate wet bar of Bunny Hol-lander's sequin-enhanced New Year's gala.
Nouveaux riches
faces are pushing themselves into mine, simultaneously bullying me for drinks (parvenu wealth always treats the help like dirt) and seeking my

approval—and possibly my sexual favor.

It's a B-list crowd: TV money versus film money; too much attention given to bodies too late in life. Better looking but a bit too flash; the deceiving pseudohealth of sunburned fat people; the facial anonymity found only among babies, the elderly, and the overly face-lifted. There is a hint of celebrities, but none are actually present; too much money and not enough famous people can be a deadly mix. And while the party most

definitely roars, the lack of famed mortals vexes the host, Bunny Hollander.

Bunny is a local celebrity. He produced a hit Broadway show in

1956,
Kiss Me, Mirror
or some such nonsense, and has been coasting on it for almost thirty-five years. He has glossy gray hair, like a newspaper left out in the rain, and a permanent leer that makes him resemble a child molester, the result of chain face-lifts since the nineteen sixties.

But then Bunny knows lots of disgusting jokes and he treats staff well

—t h e b e s t c o m b o g o i n g —s o t h a t m a k e s u p f o r h i s d e f e c t s .

Dag opens a bottle of white: "Bunny looks like he's got dismembered
METAPHASIA:
An inability

Cub Scouts buried under his front porch."

to perceive metaphor.

"We've
all
got dismembered Cub Scouts under our front porches, Honey," says Bunny, slinking (in spite of his corpulence) up from behind
DORIAN GRAYING: The

and passing Dag his glass. "Ice for the drinky-winky, please." He winks, unwillingness to gracefully allow

one's body to show signs of

wags his bum, and leaves.

aging.

For once, Dag blushes. "I don't think I've ever seen a human being with so many secrets. Too bad about his car. Wish it was someone I

didn't like."

Later on I obliquely raise the subject of the burned car to Bunny,

trying to answer a question in my mind: "Saw your car in the paper, Bunny. Didn't it used to have an
Ask Me About My Grandchildren
bumper sticker?"

"Oh
that.
A little prank from my Vegas buddies. Charming lads.

We don't talk about
them."
Discussion closed.

The Hollander estate was built in the era of the first moon launches and resembles the fantasy lair of an extremely vain and terribly wicked international jewel thief of that era. Platforms and mirrors abound. There are Noguchi sculptures and Calder mobiles; the wrought iron work is all of an atomic orbital motif. The bar, covered in teak, might well be identical to one in, say, a successful London advertising agency in the era of Twiggy. The lighting and architecture is designed primarily to make everyone look/a-bulous.

In spite of the celebrity shortage, the party is /a-bulous, as just about everybody keeps reminding each other. Social creature that Bunny is, he knows what makes a joint hop. "A party is simply
not
a party without bikers, transvestites, and fashion models," he sings from beside the chafing dishes loaded with skinless duck in Chilean blueberry sauce.