“Forget about it. They’re mine and therefore cheap. Sit down.” I steered her toward the couch, then returned to the cupboard for two fresh glasses and grabbed a bottle of white from the refrigerator as I put Daphne’s in to chill. Like my wine glasses, my bottle was cheap, but not too bad. I returned to Daphne (slumped on the sofa ... or some other descriptor) and handed her a glass. As I twisted the corkscrew I realized I was going to have to tell all my friends about Nate soon. I wasn’t trying to be deceptive, but sometimes it takes a while for the right time to admit you’ve maybe made a mistake. And I was really thinking I may have made one with Nate. I don’t know... .
“Why do I pick such losers?” Daphne moaned. She lifted up her empty glass and I attempted to pour about an inch into its depths. Her wrist was limp as a noodle and the glass waved in front of me. Wine sloshed over the rim of her glass and onto her hand but she appeared not to notice.
I was beginning to think I was the one who needed a drink. Might even cure my headache.
“I’m not going to make it to my chewing gum audition at four,” she said on a desperate sigh.
No shit,
I thought, unless the commercial was hawking the benefits of wine-flavored gum. To Daphne, I said, “This is a new look for you. Part soused chic, part dewey-eyed desolation.”
“Don’t make fun,” she said. “Could I have more wine?” she asked in a tear-choked voice, holding out her glass.
I took a long, hard swallow from my glass. “We both will.”
We spent about an hour finishing off my bottle and working our way through hers. Wonder of wonders, my headache disappeared.
A little hair of the dog,
I thought happily, then momentarily worried that maybe all I did was drink. A moment later I shrugged that off. At this point, I didn’t much care. Drinking comes in waves for me. My social drinking is rather sporadic, as I have a tendency to sometimes hole up and insist on being alone. Occasionally I’ll have a glass of wine by myself, though to me, it never tastes as good when you’re alone. But with Daphne dropping by in her current state of depression, this would qualify as commiseration drinking and, if you’re any kind of friend, commiseration drinking is a total must. I couldn’t let her down. Yes, I could have made the phone calls I’d been planning when I’d schlepped into the condo, but after enough Chardonnay I found I had no interest in doing much of anything. In a replete, half-drunken voice, I stated, “Why do today, what you can put off till tomorrow!”
“I did Leo yesterday.” She hiccupped.
I gave her a penetrating look. At least I thought it was penetrating. I sometimes fantasize that I’m more interesting than I am. “You must forget about Leo. He’s a Huge Waste of Time.”
Daphne closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. I remembered, faintly, that drinking this early is generally a very bad thing. I had another moment of clarity: I was going to feel really rotten about eight o’clock this evening. More hangover. Hangover on top of hangover.
Daphne said, “I want ...
someone
. It doesn’t have to be forever. But I want to be half of a couple, like Jill and Ian.”
“Jill-Ian is—are—unworthy of envy.”
“I just want a good guy.”
“You’re going to have to get away from actors, then.”
“They’re not all bad.”
“No ...” I faded off. I didn’t want to argue with her. Daphne’s problem had always been men. We all had our Ex-Files, I guess. Mine were just more noted, for some reason. I tried to concentrate on this but my wine-addled mind couldn’t take the pressure. I started thinking about food.
Daphne planted her face into a pillow on the couch, sprawling out. I was once again seated in Nate’s chair. In a muffled voice, Daphne said, “Tell me about Charlie.”
“I’d rather have a root canal.”
“Tell me, Blue.”
“We had sex on the fifty-yard line after a high school football game.”
For a moment nothing happened, then she started laughing. Her whole body shook. She looked up, flat out howling now. She couldn’t get her breath. Tears of hilarity ran down her cheeks.
I started laughing, too. Why we both found this so hysterical was a mystery later on, but we totally cracked up for a good five minutes. When we ran down, we were both out of breath.
“Anything else?” I asked, which sent her into renewed peals of mirth.
“I think that about covers it,” she finally gasped. “Can I tell you about Leo, now?”
I waved a languid hand. “Fire away.”
By dinnertime I’d heard the entire story of the Huge Waste of Time several times over. I must confess that my mind wandered. I mean, what was so compelling about this guy, anyway? He was a sometime actor who worked at a coffee shop and constantly hit on all the female employees. Not my dream date by a long shot. He hurt Daphne over and over with his awe-inspiring self-interest. There wasn’t room for anyone but Leo in the room. Ever. I couldn’t understand what Daphne saw in him, but then, love is strange.
That “really rotten” feeling I’d worried about began to set in about seven (I was an hour off), so we ordered in Chinese food to combat it. The order came on a wave of mouthwatering scents, tucked into a half a dozen little white boxes. What is it about those Chinese boxes that makes it feel like a surprise every time you open one? I scooped a heapin’ helpin’ of Szechuan chicken onto a plate and decided it was time for my standard anti-actor speech.
“Y’see,” I mumbled over a mouthful, stabbing my chopsticks into the air for punctuation, “Actors are always a problem for one obvious reason, they’re always acting.”
“The guy you dated was FAMOUS,” Daphne declared. “That’s totally different. Leo’s not—”
“Doesn’t matter,” I cut her off. “They’re all the same. Successful, struggling, working, not working ... they’re actors. They act. That’s the common denominator. I’ve dated some struggling ones, too. You have to stay away from
all
of them.”
“I don’t think so.”
“This is something I know, Daphne. They’re self-absorbed and always need to be the center of attention.”
“I’m an actor,” she reminded.
“You’re not a male actor,” I pointed out. “And besides, you’re not like that.”
“Well, that kind of goes against your whole theory, doesn’t it? Wow, my head hurts. And this Chinese food isn’t making me feel good.”
“Don’t puke. We’re not in college anymore.”
“I’m not going to puke. I’m just going to feel bad.”
I eyed her carefully. “You’re going to puke.”
“Shit ...”
She ran for the bathroom, barely made it. I cringed at the urping noises that followed. Made me a little queasy inside as well. I had a fleeting thought of teenage boys who find this kind of thing the height of hilarity and wondered if I was turning into an old stodge at age thirty-two.
At that moment the key turned in the lock. Shocked, I raced to the door and called out, “Nate?” before I realized it was Kristl. I was disappointed, then felt terrible when I realized she looked like hell.
I said, “You were with Brandon last night.”
“And most of today,” she said on a long sigh. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Me?”
“You look like hell.”
I was annoyed, vaguely, that I hadn’t got to be the one to say that to her first. And I was getting pretty damn tired of people telling me I looked awful. Nevertheless, I turned immediately to the hallway mirror to see. I would have shrieked if I trusted my eyes. Why hadn’t Daphne told me my makeup had run all over my face? “I was laughing,” I said lamely.
“Looks like you’ve been crying.”
“I was crying I was laughing so hard.”
“About what?”
When I didn’t immediately answer she stood there and stared at me, somewhat impatiently. There was no way I could relate the whole story and expect her to find it as amusing as Daphne and I had, so I just kind of shrugged. “Nothing, really.”
Luckily, she’d already lost interest. “We had sex again, but don’t worry. We’re not engaged.”
“Yet,” I said ominously as she headed for the stairs.
“I’m trying really hard to break my bad habits, so don’t lecture me, okay.”
“I wasn’t lecturing.”
“I’ve got to take a shower and get to work.” At the sound of renewed vomiting, she froze, then glanced in the direction of the bathroom door. “Who’s bulimic?”
I almost said, “Jill—sometimes,” but decided to answer the obvious question instead. “Daphne mixed Szechuan chicken with cheap Chardonnay and bad romance.”
“Hmmm ...” Kristl was distracted. “I think I’m going to quit bartending.”
“And do what?” I called after her as she disappeared around the upstairs landing. “Bartending jobs are hard to come by these days. One of the places on Wilshire put out an ad and got 400 applicants. You’re lucky to be at Pink Elephant.”
“I have years of experience, Blue,” she called back.
“This isn’t about Jackson Wright, is it?” I yelled. “Because he came into your bar and made you feel like there was something more out there?” My voice grew louder with each word but Kristl didn’t respond.
Daphne stumbled from the downstairs bathroom looking green around the gills. I had just enough time to squeeze in and wash my face before the doorbell rang again.
“Geez, Louise,” I muttered.
Daphne, now on the couch, waved a limp hand at me, as she pressed a damp washcloth to her forehead with the other. I answered the door, acutely aware my face was scrubbed clean of all makeup and I was not looking my best. Of course, this time it was Nate.
We stared at each other a moment. Finally, he shrugged, a bit awkwardly. For my part, I managed a crooked smile of welcome.
“I came for ... my chair,” he said, glancing behind him toward the street where a truck sat tucked up to the curb, its engine idling. “I’ll get my table and lamps later.” He gestured around the room.
“Good thing the bed’s mine,” I said lightly. “Guess this means you’re not sticking around for a goodbye chat.” I worried I sounded pathetic and cleared my throat.
Another shrug.
I watched him head into the room. Daphne gave him a desultory, “Hey, Nate,” to which he smiled quickly, sheepishly, and darted me a look. He hefted the chair and I noticed the strong muscles in his arms.
“You don’t waste any time,” I said.
“We wasted a lot already.” He looked me up and down. “Didn’t we?”
I nodded, aware that Daphne’s head had swivelled my way in surprise. He carried the chair through the front door, then set it down on the cement walkway outside. We stood there for a few uncomfortable minutes longer. For one terrible second I thought he might actually kiss me good-bye, but he thought better of it and hefted the chair once again. I waved at his disappearing back and my headache returned with a crash.
“What was that all about?” Daphne asked when I returned. This time I stretched out on the area rug in front of the couch. She turned her head and gazed down at me.
“Nate and I broke up. I should’ve probably mentioned it last night.”
“Oh, my God.” Daphne declared, surprised. “When did it happen?”
“Yesterday,” I said, and suddenly, irresistibly, I wanted to cry. I struggled. Managed to hang on. Just barely.
“Fucking bastards,” she said softly.
“Yep.”
That effectively ended our conversation for the night. We watched a little TV together, then Daphne pronounced herself well enough to go home. I didn’t try to stop her, and I didn’t have the energy to walk her to the door. It was several hours before I felt like I had enough strength to haul myself to my feet, lock the door, and head upstairs to my bedroom.
I heard Kristl’s tread on the stairs as she left for work. Much later, somewhere around 3 A.M., I woke from a fitful sleep to the sound of her clattering around in the kitchen, which is directly below my bedroom. I wondered if she’d really put in her notice at work. I wondered also, despite her words to the contrary, whether she would keep to her pattern and marry Brandon, or if Jackson Wright had somehow derailed her.
That sent my thoughts spinning toward Jackson and I actually pulled the pillow over my head and fought valiantly for a few hours of blessed sleep. It was over with Nate, and that was okay. It was going to have to be.
Chapter
5
I
headed to work sporting another hangover; this one more emotional than the first. Luckily, we put in an uneventful day. Still, I felt weary by the time I was off work, and it took me a moment or two to recognize that it was Friday night, the beginning of the weekend. Two full days of leisure time stretching out in front of me. Normally this filled me with expectation, but tonight my first thought was a kind of panicked: what the hell am I going to do? Without Nate I had a lot of hours to fill.
For most of Friday night I watched TV. Nameless, flickering programs crossing the screen that I couldn’t remember as soon as they ended. Saturday morning was better. I got ready for our group’s usual Saturday morning get-together at Sammy’s. Jill had called and said she couldn’t make it; something to do with Ian, naturally, the
fucking
asshole.
“Figures,” Daphne muttered as she slid into her seat and I relayed this information.
“I asked Kristl to join us,” I said. “But she was sleeping in. Last night she threatened to quit her job,” I mentioned, remembering that Daphne had been in the bathroom during my discussion with Kristl. “But I don’t think she’s had time to go through with it.”
“She’s planning to stick around LA permanently?” Daphne asked. “I thought it was just an extended visit.”
“She took that job at Pink Elephant.” I shrugged. “But she could be engaged by tonight for all I know.”
“Oh. Right.” A pause. “Ya think?”
“She says not. But it’s early in the game.”
“She really marries every guy she sleeps with?”
“Damn close.”
At that moment CeeCee strolled in, pink-tipped platinum hair more spiky than usual. She wore a pair of painter’s pants and had a bottle of Arrowhead water tucked into the loop at her left thigh. She sat on the chair next to Daphne’s, across from me. “California omelet,” she said to the waiter.
I grunted an agreement. The California omelets were wonderful, full of avocado and tomato and goat cheese and delivered with a small bowl of salsa and another of black beans. CeeCee and I never varied our Saturday morning meal. Daphne, however, pored over the menu. I said, not trying to be bitchy, but for expedience, “You know you’re going to order granola with yogurt, so just do it.”
“Don’t push me,” Daphne muttered.
CeeCee pulled out a cigarette and played with it, turning it over and over again against the white formica tabletop. One of the waiters swooped by, opened his mouth to give the State of California no smoking rule, felt the power of CeeCee’s baleful look, and skittered away in silence.
“You’d think they’d know us by now,” CeeCee complained, incensed. If she’d actually been allowed to smoke, disdainful twin streams of smoke would have issued from her nose at this.
Daphne, in a non sequitur that left me mildly shell-shocked, asked, “Did you ever sleep with Jackson Wright?”
CeeCee leaned forward. “Why?”
Slightly intimidated, Daphne said, “It’s just that we’ve always wanted to know.”
“We?”
“Hell, yes,
we
,” I declared when CeeCee turned her lethal gaze on me
She casually lit the cigarette, said, “No,” rather flatly, and strolled out of the restaurant. Our waiter fluttered around her heels until she and her smoke were safely outside.
After that, the waiter wouldn’t serve us. Just goes to show you. Regular customer or no, you don’t screw around with the state antismoking laws. Everyone’s a policeman at heart.
Daphne said, “Sometimes I don’t think CeeCee likes me.”
“CeeCee doesn’t like anybody. She just puts up with us because she hates us less than others.”
“Oh, I don’t believe that, and neither do you. She just likes to be tough.”
“She is tough,” I pointed out.
“So, what happened with Nate?” she asked.
“I told you the other night.”
“You just said you broke up.”
I shrugged. “That’s about all there is. I was really toying with the idea of ending things, and then he beat me to the punch. Not fun,” I added.
A different waiter finally came to take our order and we lapsed into silence. CeeCee deigned to return and demanded her California omelet before our new server escaped. Our original waiter looked down his nose at her from across the room. CeeCee stared right back at him, slid her sunglasses on her nose, then pushed them upward with her middle finger. She capped this off by pulling her still skyward-pointing middle finger away from her face, holding it out to him in case he wasn’t into subtlety. His nose twitched and his cheeks reddened.
“Gay,” Daphne decreed, having watched the whole incident.
“Nah,” I said. “If he were gay, he’d be more fun.”
“No, he’s that really non-fun, judgmental type,” she insisted.
“He’s straight,” CeeCee said. “I know him. God, this town is just too small.”
We both stared.
“The fucker worked at the radio station as an intern. Hates me because I got the job. It pisses me off that he took a job here. Makes coming to Sammy’s a chore sometimes.”
CeeCee had worked at KULA for six months. She was a fill-in DJ for the afternoon guy who specialized in techno songs and pop psychology. I loved it when she was on the air, because sometimes the “bleep” machine went nonstop. On her off-air hours she was a whatever-you-wanted-her-to-be around the station. Sort of like being a PA on one of our commercials.
“How do you know he’s straight?” Daphne asked.
“Because he grabbed my ass hard when I was on air one afternoon.”
I gave the ex-waiter an admiring look. “Didn’t know he had it in him.”
“He only did it once,” CeeCee revealed, pulling out another cigarette and turning it over and over on the table again. She held it up for inspection and added, “Because afterwards I ground one of these out on the back of his hand. Did you notice the scar?”
We turned collectively, as if pulled by a string, and the ex-waiter strode stiffly out of the room and into the kitchen. “What’s his name?” I asked.
“Who-The-Fuck-Cares.”
“Couldn’t he, like, sue you, or something?” Daphne asked.
I was a little horrified by CeeCee’s casual account of physical violence, but then, serious ass-grabbing wasn’t something anyone should have to put up with. I would have probably found some more peaceful means of dealing with the situation, but it might not have been as effective as her choice of retaliation.
“I don’t care what he does as long as he stops ass-grabbing.” CeeCee was unrepentant. “He still comes around the station.”
“Oh.” Daphne looked in the direction he’d gone. “Maybe he likes that kind of thing.”
“Maybe he does,” CeeCee said, her voice a challenge.
“Maybe you do ... too?” Daphne suggested carefully.
“This sounds like a dangerous relationship.” I wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“He wants to grab my ass, he’s gotta ask first. That’s all.”
I started laughing. I couldn’t help myself. As our food came, delivered by waiter number two, my amusement scared a small smile out of CeeCee. I told her that Nate and I broke up and she said he wasn’t right for me. Daphne shot me a look and we both wondered what kind of guy was right for CeeCee.
I was glad she hadn’t slept with Jackson.
That night I drove Daphne and Jill to Pink Elephant to see Kristl tend bar. CeeCee was filling in on the night shift at the station, although she wouldn’t be on the air, but we tuned in anyway, on the off chance the DJ of the hour would engage her in some kind of lively conversation. No such luck. He was one of those guys who hovers between reality and that land of music only true afficionados or crazies seem to have a pass to. We were subjected to alternative rock, and though I like most of it, tonight’s selections just seemed blaring and tuneless.
So I wasn’t in the best frame of mind as I entered Pink Elephant, a kitschy, retro kind of place that actually had some class. Kristl, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, red highlights catching the overhead lights, was busy lining up martini glasses and filling them with blue curacao. The row of them, electric blue and shining like liquid aquamarines, was a visual feast. I love looking at martinis. They’re so geometrically. . . triangular, and in today’s world, infinitely colored: Red, gold, green, blue ... utterly inviting. But personally, I can’t bear the taste of blue curacao. It’s too ... metallic, or something. I ordered my old standard: a Ketel One vodka martini.
“Hey,” Kristl greeted us with a nod. She was too busy to do more. The colorful martinis were dispersed to a sleek group of women sitting at the bar. They all wore short skirts and showed trim thighs, toned by 24-Hour Fitness or Bally’s or maybe even a personal trainer. They clinked their glasses and drank. I noticed there was a fifty-cent tip on the bar.
“Oh, shit ...” Daphne whispered and I turned from a view of the pretty cheapos to the direction of her gaze. My heart sank as Nate walked in with Tara, whose ID was examined very, very closely by the bouncer. She was allowed in, however. Must be one helluva good fake. These bouncers generally know what they’re doing.
I smiled at Nate, though my lips felt stretched and frozen. Through the smile, I muttered in an aside to my friends, “He knows Kristl works here. He knows it’s on my list of places to go.”
“It’s on
your
list,” Daphne agreed indignantly. “He shouldn’t use it now that you’re broken up.”
Jill, who’d been brought up to speed about my breakup on the drive over, said in disgust, “He doesn’t have his own list, so he has to poach on yours.”
Daphne snorted. “The bastard.”
“I should feel sorry for him,” I said.
“Not on your life! The
fucking
asshole,” Jill spat.
“I thought only Ian was the fucking asshole,” Daphne said.
“They’re all
fucking
assholes. Sicko, fucko, shits.”
She managed to steal my attention from Nate and Tara, which was something. “What’s wrong with you?” I asked her.
“Nothing.” Jill clammed up tight.
“Give,” I demanded.
“Where’s Ian tonight?” Daphne put in.
Our dual attack broke open Jill’s reserve. “Don’t talk to me about him. He’s totally pissed me off and all I want to do is drink and swear.” She glanced predatorily around the room. “And flirt. Are there any decent males here?”
A cluster of three attractive men was holding up a section of Pink Elephant’s pink bar. They didn’t look over at us when we gave them the eye. Male bonding was on the menu du jour, apparently.
“What happened with Ian?” Daphne insisted.
My gaze wandered toward Nate and Tara. Having seen me, they were acting very circumspect. I did an inward check of my feelings, prepared to thicken the wall of insulation around my heart, if necessary. I’d gotten myself all worked up about him, but seeing him there, the curve of his back, his wrinkly pants, the way he kind of hunched when he sat at the bar stool ... I felt surprisingly disengaged. Not thrilled for my freedom as I had fantasized in the shower, and not angry or melancholy as I’d definitely been feeling the last few days ... now I just felt distanced.
This made me happy. I’d been right after all. The breakup with Nate was the smart thing to do.
“Which Ex-File is Nate?” Daphne asked, reading my thoughts.
“Ummmm ... I guess he’s number six. Seven, if you count Charlie.”
“Did you count Mr. Famous Actor?”
“I never count him.”
“Then Nate’s really number eight,” Jill declared. “You have eight Ex-Files.”
I shook my head, feeling depressed all over again. “Jesus. Eight failed relationships. And that doesn’t even count the near misses.”
“I’m glad you recognized Charlie on the list,” Daphne said.
“He was my first,” I said. “No matter how hard I try to forget.”
“Who was number two?”
When I didn’t immediately reply, Jill said, “Come on, Blue. Get it all out there. Consider it therapy. And count them all.”
“Kane Reynolds was number two,” I finally admitted. “Right before graduation. I think we all agreed the other night that high school does count, so Kane’s on the list.” In an attempt to get off my Ex-Files, I added philosophically, “Sick as it is, those relationships shape how we feel about the men the rest of our lives.”
“We don’t meet
men,”
Jill said. “We meet
fucking
assholes.”
“If you’re not going to talk about what happened with Ian, don’t make comments like that,” I said reasonably. “We have no criteria to base your opinions on.”
She snorted. “You’ve all been dating for years. Think back on those guys. There’s your criteria.”