Authors: Kristina Shook
I left his office feeling semi-better. Back in the city, I took Shadow to Central Park, telling myself to write it out. I knew I needed to scribble out 100 fears, and that’s just what I did. I scribbled out 100 fears on Post-its. Okay, so not exactly 100 different fears—I repeated some of the same ones over and over.
After that I went to dinner with Diego, Paloma’s brother, who is super good-looking, as in ‘hot’. First we headed down to SoHo to walk around. As I said, Diego is hot looking. That means not only do women check him out, but men do, too. He’s 5’8”, 180, toned, with stunning Latin skin and razor-cut hair. And he’s a construction worker. If they ever do a construction worker calendar, he would be the hottest one.
So I asked him, “What’s it like being hot…hot-looking?”
He smirked, and then said, “It’s all right.”
“What’s going on, dating-wise?” I asked, carefully.
I asked carefully because Diego had gotten herpes when he was twenty-three and Paloma and I were nineteen. He credited getting herpes to saving his Latin ass from getting SIDA (AIDS). He had to stop racking up the numbers and opt for a ‘real’ relationship. I think what happened to him protected us, because neither Paloma nor I do ‘it’ without a raincoat on the—you know what.
We sat on a stoop on Mott Street and a woman flirted with Diego, her gestures begging him to flirt back. He said nothing. Diego doesn’t talk much. He had only dated a non-Latina once, a Chinese girl when he was in high school, until her parents and friends found out. He actually got badly beaten up by a Chinese gang that her brother ran with. After that, he just started dating like a mad dog with rabies. And then he got herpes, and only had long-term girlfriends. But he was suddenly single again. After a long while of silence, I asked my next nosy question.
“Do you believe in true love?”
He stood up and glanced down at me, but I wasn’t going to budge until I got an actual answer out of him.
“Yeah, I do believe in it. I’m searching for it. Besides, I have to give my mom some grandkids.” I nodded, and we headed into a Chinese restaurant, where he quizzed me on what qualities a guy had to have to be ‘my’ true love man. It was fun. I had only a basic list: nice guy, no baggage, wants an LTR that turns into marriage, great sexual ability, and family oriented.
“All right, shut up,” he said, and I did.
Third ritual: guy list. So that night, with a glass of white wine, (Paloma’s choice) I wrote out what my future ‘true’ love needed to have and be. It took me two hours. I mean, I really wanted to think about it, and I did.
Meanwhile, Paloma was choosing clothes for her ‘online’ picture; she had decided that she wanted to try a dating site. Paloma is fearless. I fell asleep before she chose between a deep blue dress and a purple jumpsuit.
When I woke up, Paloma was gone. I glanced at my Smartphone. The Tennis Actor had emailed me some nude shots, which was very sexy to see at eight in the morning. I deleted them and told him in an email not to ever post any online ‘nude’ photos to anybody now that he’s on a TV show. In LA, gossip sells—it sells better than water or food or humanity. No public bathroom is safe in Hollywood, not with the camera phones in everyone’s pocket.
Well, he always looked yummy naked, but it was over and the ‘love’ had only been casual. Casual, as in my heart never raced. On top of that I had never felt that he was the one ‘true’ one. I had spent time with him and all the other guys always knowing that it was all ‘causal,’ as in casual affection—as in temporary and fleeting.
Why had I done that? Why? Okay, so I knew I was starting to think too much, and I looked over my true-love-guy list and reminded myself that I have three years before thirty—that equals possibility, but only if I stay open and un-jaded—that meant a 50-50 chance at finding ‘true’ love. Who is he? Who is this future guy?
Paloma said we couldn’t ‘fork-it up’. She felt she had been going down the same street because she stayed close to her family because she kept the rent-controlled apartment, and because she didn’t really move out of her ‘comfort’ zone. And now she wanted us both to get ‘it’ together and walk down the street of TL (true love) towards the ‘true’ guy, not the ‘temporary’ guy. Paloma has read every biography and autobiography of every major actress, established singer, or successful business woman—and she wants to be remembered as they will be.
She had decided that online-dating was the only way guys who would never see her otherwise, could see her. So when Paloma called, wanting her purple pumps, I had to race over to the West Side and meet her at the photo shoot. Okay, so most people just take a regular photo and uploaded it on Facebook or on a dating site and that’s that, but not Paloma. She does photo shoots. She gets character shots, glamour shots, and now ‘online’ dating shots. When Paloma vows to do something, anything, to improve her life—she does it to the fullest.
The photographer Neal was a serious techno-geek with vibrant tattoos, ear piercing, and wearing Paris chic and Saks Fifth Avenue. He had turned his Upper West Side condo into a photo studio, and had his fashion photos framed on all the walls. It was furnished with a black sofa, white modern chairs, and a Plexiglas coffee table covered with a stack of expensive photo books by five world-renowned fashion photographers. Paloma’s makeup artist friend Andre was already set up when I arrived. Paloma was wearing her sapphire satin bathrobe, looking like a true princess. Or an over-the-top-crazy woman. Paloma gave me a hug, grabbed her pumps and ordered me to watch her photo shoot all in one breath. I plunked down on the white shaggy rug and watched Paloma transform. Okay, so no feathers or leopard print layouts; just classic photos of her from the waist up—real and pretty. She only had wanted her purple pumps because they made her feel ‘extra’ confident. Go figure! The photo shoot was digital of course, so Neal, Andre and I got to review every single photo.
“Remember, this is for ‘true’ love, no hookups or friends with benefits bullshit,” Paloma warned us.
I selected the seventh and fifteenth shots, because she looked so relaxed and genuine. We voted, and in the end she chose number fifteen. Sometimes it feels good to be right. Then she had Andre, who not only does hair and makeup, but computer stuff as well, set her up on the ‘online’ dating site. All of a sudden, Paloma’s private password was selected, her personal profile was written, and her TL (true love) photo uploaded.
After that, Paloma treated us (her and me only) to a manicure/pedicure back on the Upper East Side. We laughed out loud. FYI, waxing the pubic hair is trendy in NYC, too. However Paloma’s boycotting it and keeping her bush. She told me, “I don’t want not to be untrue down there. And no guys ever complained neither!”
Anyway, I felt such an urge, such a desire, to stay in NYC and not to go to Cambridge, not to face my ‘single’ father and his broken heart or my dying Aunt Helen—but I see life like one big movie with a million scenes in it. I want my life to not be an XXX rated one, but a better rated one (like a decent R). So that meant I had to face my family.
I had only the next morning to do my final ritual; walking across the Williamsburg Bridge and hollering whatever came to my mind towards the East River, and the air. I got up super early, walked Shadow and then marched down to the bridge. There’s nothing like walking in NYC.
The odd thing that happened to me was that the only word that came out of my mouth while I raced across the Williamsburg Bridge was—‘RESCUE’. A peculiar word. I wasn’t sure if it meant I needed to be ‘rescued’ or if I was going to be a ‘rescuer’. Then I remembered what my dentist Dr. Underly told me, “You didn’t fail. Now you just have to wait and see what happens. Don’t be surprised if it’s better than what you imagined.” And I mumbled, “Let him be right, please let him be right,” over and over on my way back to Palmoma’s.
Films shot in Massachusetts are
The Friends of Eddie Coyle
and
The Verdict,
some of which was filmed in NYC. And wow, Paul Newman delivers a ‘soulful acting’ performance, top-rate. And
The Brink Job
, (my father made me watch it four times).
Jaws, The Paper Chase, Good Will Hunting, Monument Ave, Next Stop Wonderland, The Crucible, Mystic River,
and
The Departed,
just to name the VCR’s in my yard sale box—like I said, it was a large box. Oh, and the make-you-cry film that I watch when I really want to sob is
Love
Story
, filmed in Cambridge. In that movie, the character Jennifer Cavallier really knows how to love unconditionally and the character Oliver Barrett IV has to learn how to love on a more profound level and that was the problem that I thought about on my four-hour drive from New York City to Boston.
I went right away to the elder care facility on Mass Ave to see my Aunt Helen. She had moved in there, having decided to give up her own home. I waited at the front desk, while they announced that she had a ‘guest’. There were fake flowers in vases and an oil painting of a summer-scenic-beach-scene, none of which helped get rid of the feeling that the place—was and is—the final stop before death. If I could play God’s role, I’d put an age limit on aging. I’d top everyone off at a hundred. Ugh! Next life—I’ll be back to coordinate the future.
“Ms. Helen will see you, in suite 21, located on the 2nd floor.”
I wrote my name into the ‘guest’ book, which had only eleven signatures in the last two weeks.
“It’s a real shame, but what can we do?” the fifty-something woman said, having read my disappointed expression. She had the picture-perfect face for being cast in a doctor drama TV series—for the scene where a patient is going into ‘code blue’. She’d say something like, “Now hold on. You can make it. You’ve just got to pull through,” and the camera would go in for a close-up on the dying person, as ‘hope’ slips away. Okay, back to reality.
“My dad said he thinks she’s near the end, uh-hum, that’s how he phrased it. Is that true?” I asked her.
She gave me one of those looks which makes you think you’ve accidentally said, “Motherf***er.”
She cleared her throat and said in a lower voice, “She’s doing fine. No one knows when they’ll get the call; that’s the Lord’s business.”
I nodded, because I couldn’t top a line like that. I mean, life really can seem like a movie, or at least like a TV show—that never ends until the final blackout. So I turned and headed for the stairwell. The way I figured it, I would see less misery or loneliness on the stairs than on the elevator.
As I rounded the corner, a geeky, college-age guy, with blackheads and whiteheads across his face, stared at me like he hadn’t seen a female in a really long time, if ever.
“Who are you here to see?” he asked, in a deep voice that just didn’t fit his soaring, lanky frame. It was hard not to want to imitate him.
“My Aunt Helen, room number 21” I said, grabbing the railing.
“She’s my friend. She sews a lot,” he replied.
“Yup,” I said as I climbed a step. Eek! He was following closely behind me.
“Oh, I just remembered she said you were coming. Your name’s Valerie.”
“No, it’s Vivien,” I said, wanting him to buzz off.
“Common enough name,” he said, like I was supposed to agree.
“No, it’s not, I was named after Vivien Leigh from the film
Gone with the Wind
,” I corrected him.
“That’s new information,” he said.
“And yours?” I asked, hoping it was awful or boring.
“Gabriel,” he said.
Cool name, so I couldn’t say anything mean.
“Names say a lot about a person, before they’re even a person. We shouldn’t get named until we’re at least five,” he said.
“Yeah, I guess,” I said, wanting him to go away. I felt like I was in a really bad made-for-TV movie and he was the annoying sidekick—the pimply, annoying kind.
“How come you have two last names?” he asked like he cared.
Ugh, he knew more about me than I wanted him to know.
“Some women don’t believe in losing their identity by using only a man’s last name for their child,” I answered.
“Are you one of those feminist types, too?” he asked, as if we were at a speed dating meet-n-greet. I didn’t bother to tell him about my penis envy and how I thought that canceled me out for the feminist label.
“I don’t know yet,” I lied. He knocked lightly at my aunt’s door. She didn’t answer.
“You’ve got a guest, all the way from the West,” he said, as if he was a radio announcer.
Aunt Helen was in bed with a quilt over her. Her hair was all white and fell past her shoulders. She looked a million years older.
“Vivien, come here,” she said as she stretched out thin, very veiny hands toward me. I hugged her bony body—what there was left to hug.
“You’ve got a choice; get sad or be okay with me,” she whispered in my ear so that the pimple-faced geeky college kid couldn’t hear. “Sit down, I have lots to tell you and I want to hear everything,” she added.
I didn’t look over at Gabriel as he slid a second chair over toward the bed, because I was trying to hide the fact that I was crying, which was really stupid and really impossible. I tried the ‘something’s in my eye’ routine. FYI, when you have to stop yourself from crying, there are only three things I know to do: pinch yourself really hard, force yourself to cough until you really cough, or picture something totally gross. So, I pinched my thigh while trying to cough, and pictured Gabriel pulling his pants down and mooning the nursing staff. Triple gross. Aunt Helen normally would have caught onto this, but she was too weak to notice. Ugh, reality!
There used to be a nursing home smack dab in the middle of Melrose Avenue in the heart of Hollywood (it would be like having one across from Macy’s in Manhattan or across from H&M on Newbury Street in Boston), and it used to make my skin crawl. I just don’t like the idea of aging while everyone else walks back and forth, shopping, eating and enjoying their lives. Awful, but what do I know? Maybe when I’m eighty, I won’t care.
“Gabriel, please hand me my bags,” Aunt Helen said. She had turned me on to using canvas shopping bags, instead of those plastic white bags—supermarket bags, way before that was in fashion. Because of her, I bought biodegradable poop bags.