Girl Act (17 page)

After I’d made myself presentable, I walked back to find a huge shock—Gabriel had won $10,000. It was surreal. They were checking his ID and giving him his money voucher and offering him a birthday drink on the house. He ordered a draft beer. I rushed over and took a dozen cell phone pictures as proof. I mean, who’d believe this? Birthday- dropout-wins-big; only in the movies, right?

“Buffet meal on me,” he said, as if he’d suddenly become seven feet tall.

“Now you’re talking,” I said, still totally amazed about his win.

The buffet was out of this world. FYI, you can have grilled vegetables, exotic fruit, seafood, meat, gourmet pizza, Sushi, Chinese food, even Mexican food and beautiful desserts. Everything! We filled our plates and the waiter took our drink orders. We had just started to eat when Gabriel launched into a hefty explanation about artificial insemination. Yup!

He walked me through the process as if I had a penis. He told me about sperm banks, and how they offer pornographic material so that the donor can ejaculate after stimulating his mind. He kidded me about becoming a manager of a sperm bank. I would be in charge of buying the sex magazines.

“How would you buy them? In person, or just order them online?” he asked.

It’s true I’m not shy with a guy, but I’m actually totally a private woman. I’d never be able to buy a Playgirl, let alone a vibrator in front of a cashier—I’d be too afraid my photo would be taken and uploaded onto Facebook, Twitter, Ning, Taxed, Orkut, or friendster. Okay, so I’m paranoid.

Gabriel laughed; he had bought a stack of vintage Playboy issues.

“That’s because you’re a guy, guys are supposed to buy that stuff. In fact it makes you look healthy.”

“It’s called third party reproduction, when a woman gets impregnated by a sperm donator,” he said; he was on a roll. I nodded as I continued on my second plate; he was treating, so the least I could do was act like a good listener. He told me sperm banks were modern day baby supermarkets where a woman could select anything she wanted—from blue eyes to olive skin to even an ‘Ivy’- educated sperm donor. He told me how the upscale sperm banks collect a voice sample of the guy and print out a fact sheet about his education, race, and religious background, even his choice of fashion, favorite color and zodiac sign. “Virgo,” he said. And I just looked at him.

What could I say, I wasn’t a Virgo. Okay, so I had dated a Virgo once, but without McKenna (the LA astro-queen/art model) around, I knew nothing about Virgos.

“It’s the sixth astrological sign in the Zodiac. Symbol is the Virgin Maiden. It’s an earth sign…blah, blah,” he said. I zoned out. Gabriel noticed.

“You’re a jerk; I’m telling you something important,” he said.

“No, you’re rattling off Wikipedia info as if I can’t Google it,” I countered.

That’s when he explained that the reason he was talking about artificial insemination was because he was a ‘sperm’ donor baby. His so-called biological dad was just a printout and a voice-recorded message lasting only minutes.

“So, you’ve got nobody when your mother dies?” I asked and he nodded. Now I know why the character Charlie Brown, says “Good Grief.” My favorite animated films are
Pinocchio
,
Bambi
,
Fantasia
and
Toy Story.

We walked back through the casino so he could smoke his first cigar and collect his money. Let’s just say, after coughing nonstop during his first several puffs and exhales, he put out the cigar, but kept it as a symbol.

Then I watched him collect his $10,000 in cash—it was first-rate. The funny part was when he stuffed it into his knapsack. For a second I thought I was on a reality TV show, because it was just so bizarre.

We stood staring down at the parking lot, now dark, and debated about driving to New Haven or staying in the casino’s hotel room, but Gabriel said, “Let’s drive, I’m a great driver, and you can always take a nap in back.” Since it was his birthday I said, “Sounds good,” and off we went. We waved goodbye to Foxwoods and hopped back on the freeway.

We got to New Haven by eight-thirty and dropped of the fashion designer’s red BMW at a modest home a mile-and-a-half away from Yale. Her father offered us the guest room, but we both wanted to head back to Boston, so he dropped us off at Union Station, where we bought one-way train tickets.

No sooner had we sat down on the train when Gabriel started talking about Herman Hesse’s novel
Siddhartha
.

“Siddhartha realizes that time is an illusion. Do you believe time is an illusion?” He asked with complete earnestness.

I laughed; he really was odd in the coolest way, but I would never tell him that.

“Gabriel, I read that book a long time ago, try Freshman year in college and, all I can remember is the river, it seemed so vivid that I could actually picture it.”

“Me, too,” he said smiling.

“You’re not alone,” I said. It just flew out of me as if I was sensing some search, some unspoken worry emanating from his pimply face.

“I think people try to distance themselves too much,” he said.

“I’m going to adopt you as the kid brother I never had. I’ll draft up the papers and you can sign them,” I said, half-joking. That’s when he pulled out a super small Swiss Army knife, “Forget the paper work. Let’s seal it—”

“Wait a second! I guess there’s one thing you don’t know about. Like, we can’t mix our blood, not with HIV around. I’ve been tested already and maybe you have or you don’t need to yet, still that old custom is over for good. So let’s do a hand shake with a double hug,” I said. And we did just that.

Wow, I was eager to have family, and anyone who thought as deeply as he did belonged in my family, or I belonged in his.

The next morning, I showed Aunt Helen my Facebook page on the Apple iPad with my new-brother pictures all over it, and she clapped. I had made her so happy, as if she had wanted this relationship to develop all along, but was afraid to imagine it. I wasn’t sure if Gabriel would really act like my kid brother, or if he had just been caught up in ‘winning’ at Foxwoods, but it didn’t matter. I mean, a brother for a day is better than not having one at all.

I helped her sit upright. Her two Trader Joe’s canvas bags were on her bed, and she was anxious to show me things while she still had enough stamina. When a foreign film ends, the screen usually has ‘fini’ and sometimes I think that looks better.

“I haven’t got long, that much I know,” she said in a hoarse voice.

“I don’t want you to leave, I’ve just gotten back and things are starting to click,” I said.

“You can always keep me with you by thinking of me.”

“Like Jill?” I asked.

“Yes, just like Jill and Finch,” she said.

Jill had gone to the same high school I did, and I had gotten a two-week crush on a guy named Finch (his real name was typical and boring, so he took the nickname Finch from the purple bird well-known in Massachusetts). Okay, so I even tried walking behind him to high school, you know, trying to casually ‘bump’ into him. And my then-new high school friend Cheryl had cut out a picture of the Purple Finch for my locker, but all of a sudden Jill and he became high school sweethearts—they just fit together. So I was done with my crush. Then she and I ended up at Sarah Lawrence College, and she taught me body sculpting and the best way to stay physically fit. She even designed an exercise floor routine that I still do eight times a month.

SLC was made up of many anorexic/bulimic women and Jill hated that, so she taught a lot of them how eat well and work out (five days a week). She was pixie in size: small boned and slim. Jill had promised when I ‘made it big in the movies’ that she’d fly out and be my personal trainer from time-to-time. We used to laugh about that dream.

Jill once lent me her room for the weekend. And, well, I used her bed for the coolest sex I ever had! The super-amazing kind where my eyes rolled back into my head from sheer bliss. Wow! It all happened because Jill was by then not dating Finch, and had gone away to try to forget him. And I went to the local dance held in our college cafeteria with my redheaded friend Gemma, who wrote poetry. Incidentally I was on crutches because of an aerobics accident; last time I ever did aerobics. Gemma made me go with her, so she didn’t have to walk in alone. Well, anyway, one really chiseled-faced guy from Purchase College came over to me. “Want to dance?” he asked. “I’m on crutches,” I answered. “So what,” he said. And onto the dance floor he led me. Standing in the middle of the dance floor, me holding my crutches as he danced spastically all around. He had that Abercrombie & Fitch photo-shoot look—so he could get away with bad dancing. His name was Erickson, and his older brother was on a soap opera that filmed in Manhattan. He was planning on becoming a businessman like his father.

He helped me hobble back up to my college house, a non-dorm style living space that SLC offered. I led him into Jill’s room. It was after midnight, and I felt excited to be in her room and with him. I sat on Jill’s bed, which was covered in white sheets (ala Shabby Chic style) and seven white fluffy pillows.

“Let’s take our clothes off,” he said.

“Okay,” I said.

I was wearing a black skirt and a jade colored blouse. He took off his jeans and shirt and his pinstriped CK boxers. He stood in front of me naked. Having never yet bought PLAYGIRL, he became my November, December, January, February, March, April, and all the rest of the months.

When he slid inside me—both our eyes popped. I mean, he really just ‘fit in’ and it felt so incredibly fantastic and profoundly amazing. I daydreamed for weeks that he was going to become my college boyfriend, but unfortunately, he ended up as only a ONER.

Life’s not like the movies most of the time. Jill and Finch hooked backup after college ended, and they eloped, which everyone joyfully wanted—but what no one ever expected was that on their honeymoon they would be hit by a car and die instantly on the side of a quiet, serene Georgia country road. Gone a future doctor; gone a future veterinarian; gone their love. Gone her fun, kind and grudge-less friendship.

My Aunt Helen had closed her eyes and I was waiting for her to open them. A heavy set nurse came in with a bedpan; now, in Beverly Hills, she would have entered with a decorated hatbox with a bright ribbon (stylishly hiding the bedpan). I nudged her awake as the nurse took a position by the other side of the bed.

“I’ll wait in the hallway, and then we can look over the stuff in the bags,” I said, as I scooted out of her room.

The hall was off-white, (with a strip of frosted cream-tone paint, in the middle of the wall as if this was the finish to HEAVEN or HELL). Gabriel raced up the linoleum corridor to me.

“The doctor said I can take my mother for a day trip! We’re heading down to the Cape,” he said. I hugged him and then, as he turned towards his mother’s room, he said, “So long, Sis,” and I sighed. Family, I want it all.

The nurse bustled out in just the same way as she had bustled in. My aunt was still propped up, her white hair combed away from her face. I think white hair is cool.

“Would you put that coco butter cream on my hands and read to me?” she asked.

“At twenty-seven, I can multitask,” I kidded her. After I had lathered her veiny hands. I stood in front of her small collection of beloved poets.

“In the mood for poetry?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

I grabbed the heaviest book and plunked myself down in the chair that had once belonged in her living room, when she had a place of her own.

“At least you get to decorate your room as you like,” I said.

“When you’re tired and not feeling well, it really is a comfort,” she said softly.

“If you need a good yell, I can wheel you outside,” I said, realizing that I hadn’t seen her stand up once.

During my first year of high school, she had taught me the ‘Yelling Method’. Simply find a place outside, where there is a lot of traffic noise, and yell about anything you can’t stand. When I was in high school, the ‘yelling method’ meant I yelled every single school day. Yelling works!

She also taught me how to be able to recognize people who release their anger, frustration and sorrow and people who don’t. She named them Bottle-Neckers, people who hold every little frustrating moment in their body.

I once had sex with a Bottle-Necker. Most guys get pissed off and blow off steam, but I found one who didn’t. He worked at a café on Beverly Boulevard in the heart of Hollywood. He was an actor, of course and whose girlfriend of two years had dumped him. For some stupid reason, I was single and lonely. He took me to a traditional, petite Italian restaurant down on La Brea, just before Olympic Boulevard, where he tried to talk positively during our meal, but he was really pissed off about the GF dumping him. A warning sign! I should have listened to it! But I was new to LA and really, extra lonely. Go figure! Why would anyone talk about any ex during a date? Why? Anyway, he took me back to his Hollywood apartment and straight into his bedroom. He had a great looking cock, which he covered in a purple condom (a bad color for condoms, but that’s just my personal opinion). I think he was screwing his ‘girlfriend’ using my body. The screwing was ‘bang, bang, bang,’ style like a GUNNER, but without the violence.

Back to reality, I looked at my Aunt Helen.

“I have no more screams left. Please, read me a Daniel Kilt poem,” she said.

So I ran my finger over the index of poets until I found his page, then I read, ‘
Dirt on Mouth’ 

“Through the harsh blast of stoned wind

I fell across your path; Dirt on mouth, your gentle touch

Cupped hand to chin I lifted dirt on mouth to yours.” 

Later, I watched her shift a stack of letters around in one of the TJ canvas bags. Love letters—wow, I thought, a huge stack of them—the hair stood up on both my arms, my lips quivered, and I felt an urge to giggle with excitement.

“You must return these when I’m gone, along with a letter I’ve written; it’s important to me,” she said.

“I will,” I said, excitedly.