Literacy and Longing in L. A. (18 page)

Save Me!

“…always read stuff that will make
you look good if you die in the middle of the night.”

~
P. J. O’Rourke (1947–), American Political Satirist
~

H
ow could I think that I’d just get on the freeway and all my fears would be gone? The glaring headlights from oncoming cars are blinding, like hot, laser streaks of white flashing across my vision. I’ve slowed down to forty and I’m still totally freaked out. I can’t do this! I have to get off! I was so elated when I left the O’Connors’. I knew exactly what I was going to write. I even had my lead. But now, it’s all turned to shit.

I need intensive therapy…. A lot of good that does me now. Oh, thank god, there’s an exit. Hell, no one’s letting me in. What rude people live in L.A. In Nebraska, they probably slow down for you. I should live in Nebraska or Kansas or some other place you fly over where it’s mostly one-lane country roads.

What’s this semi doing? Aren’t they supposed to stay in the far lane? Jesus! Now he’s tailgating me. His headlights look as if they’re two stories high. “Just go around, you moron!” Damn! He’s still there. He lays on his air horn, which sounds like the USS
Liberty
approaching port.

I put on my blinker. Great. He changes lanes and blocks my exit. I’m trapped. I can truly understand road rage. If I had a gun I’d shoot out his tires, all twenty of them. Then I’d aim for his head. There, thank god. He’s gone. I’ve had it. I’m just going to pull over onto the side. But weren’t all those girls raped and murdered when their cars broke down on the freeway? Guys impersonating police officers with giant nightsticks approach the car and then it’s all over. The next thing you know, your corpse is found stuffed in the trunk of your car. Or thrown in a deserted ditch. I think I can hang on until the next exit. I slowly drive down the off-ramp to safety.

It takes me a few minutes to calm down and stop shaking. I pull into the 7-Eleven and do what I always do when I hit rock bottom. I call my sister.

“I need you to come get me,” I say, my voice audibly trembling.

“What’s happened? Where are you?” Virginia says. I can hear Camille squawking in the background.

“I’m in San Bernardino somewhere. And I can’t drive home. I tried but this big truck bullied me, well, I was scared before that, but that didn’t help and it’s dark…” I’m starting to lose it.

“Okay. Calm down. Tell me where you are. I’ll throw Camille in the car and come get you.” She doesn’t hesitate when she says this. I love my sister for that.

I glance at my watch. It’s almost nine p.m. Way past Camille’s bedtime. I’m relieved but depressed. I’m awash with failure.

By the time Virginia pulls up, it’s after ten and I’ve eaten at least two Little Debbie sweet rolls, nachos with melted cheese, and a frozen cherry Slurpee. I tell the young Indian cashier about the car and he says it’s okay to leave it until tomorrow. I’m going to call my driver to come pick it up with one of his people.

Camille is asleep in the car seat in the back, her little body swathed in a stretchy sleeper and covered with a pink-and-white-checked blanket. I open the car door, get in, and immediately burst into tears.

“Oh, sweetie. Come on. It’s not that bad.”

“I’ve been sitting here for two hours because I’m too psycho to drive home. I thought I was over this. I’ll never be able to do this job. I have no life. I’m totally fucked.” The tears are streaming down my face. My clothes are stuck to my body. I smell like a mixture of mulch and sweat and rancid cheese. Virginia looks at me. She’s clean and crisp and together.

“Don’t be so dramatic. You were a little unnerved on the freeway. That’s all. It’s a process. You can’t expect to be normal overnight. Well, not normal. I don’t mean normal. But you know what I mean. Anyway, your job isn’t about driving. It’s about writing. You can work out the other stuff.”

I’m quiet for a minute. I take a deep breath. Maybe she’s right.

“Dora, where have you been for the last three days? I must have called you a dozen times.”

“I was reading.” I sniffle.

“That’s what I was afraid of. Why do you do this? You make everybody crazy.”

“Sorry, Ginny. Really. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“Everybody has problems. Everyone’s been disappointed. They don’t sit around for days doing nothing, bingeing on books.”

“Everyone does have problems, but this is the way I deal with mine. I’m happy sitting alone in my room reading.”

“No you’re not. Anyway, books can’t fix your life. You should know that by now.”

There is no way to answer this, because no matter what’s going on in my life, I will always need a book. Nevertheless, after all that’s happened to me this past year, I’ve come to the conclusion that for me, reading is not purely an escape. It’s more of a search for some kind of meaning in this world. Now when I read, I think I might open to any page and find the truth. I just can’t stand the fog of not knowing. Whether you love someone or not, what you are willing to do to make it last, how you come to terms with the people who leave you or disappoint you, or how you deal with people with whom you feel a deep connection but who ultimately may not have anything to do with your life. I don’t know. The answers are there. Somewhere. Each author has their own vision, whether it be transforming, unnerving, inspiring, or devastating. It’s comforting in a pathetic sort of way and I have wallowed in this comfort for most of my life.

But now it’s different. Something’s shaken me up, skewed my priorities, and it’s not so easy to disengage and let the world be damned. Like Fred. Enthralling, infuriating, disappointing Fred. His insular behavior toward Harper and Bea really makes me mad. And to further cloud the issue, along comes Palmer, who is, I remind myself, now unavailable. And the damn dog. How do I explain all this to Virginia?

“So, did Palmer reach you?” Virginia probes.

“You know he did.”

“So. How was that?”

“He was great. He picked me up. Fed me. Saved me. Everyone is saving me. I’m a worthless human being.”

Virginia starts laughing. I start laughing.

“You’ll be happy to know that there’s a new book
^*
out that says there’s no correlation between high self-esteem and being a good person. Juvenile delinquents have high self-esteem. Sociopaths have high self-esteem.”

I’m looking at her like she’s nuts. “So, you’re saying it’s a good thing I think I’m worthless?”

“Oh, forget it. All I’m saying is you’re terrific but you’ve been in a coma for the last year. Ever since the split with Palmer. And we all want the old Dora back. You used to be fun. Like Dad. Now you get into this negative, downer stuff…and the whole scenario is not flattering, Dora.”

“So, what do you want me to do? Like poof? Everything is okay now?”

“Why not? Palmer is back in the picture. Sort of. You’re getting a job. Sort of. You’re driving on the freeway. Sort of.”

“Okay. I’ll try to be sort of less depressing for everyone.”

Just as I feared. I’m turning into my mother. Even though there have been times when I drop out and read, I could always get back my momentum. Palmer used to say that despite all my quirks and weirdnesses, he thought I was funny and endearing. Endearing. Can you imagine? I wonder what he thinks now.

We pull up to my apartment. Luckily, no one is taping my comings and goings. I grab my notebook. The story is due tomorrow. Even if I have to work all night, I’m going to make it a damn good one.

Princes and Toads

“I can resist everything but temptation.”

~
Oscar Wilde,
Lady Windermere’s Fan

A
fter a glass of wine (or two) to quiet my nerves, I write furiously until midnight, decide I hate every word, throw it out and start over. I used to bang these stories out in an afternoon, but there’s a lot at stake here. I finally finish at god knows what hour, wake up early, revise it again, and e-mail it to Brooke on deadline, 9:00 a.m.

An hour later the phone rings. It’s Brooke.

“Is this Dora? RIVET! RIVET! Hey, it’s not easy being green—get it?” I hear her collapse in laughter and other people in the background laughing as well. This doesn’t sound good.

“Does this mean you hated it or what?”

I hear her clearing her throat. “Oh, excuse me, I have a FROG in my throat.” She snorts. “Maybe it was the GRENOUILLE I had for lunch.” She can hardly talk, she’s laughing so hard.

“Okay, cut it out, will you?”

“You’re right, I better stop before I CROAK.”

“Brooke, that’s not funny.”

“Oh, yes it is. But I’ll tell you anyway. Here’s the story. The editor said too much frog, too little people. Well, what he said exactly was ‘Frogs 10–People 0,’ but don’t take it too hard. He also said it was a well-written piece and he wants to use it. You just have to tweak it.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning, more neighborhood reaction, not so toady, maybe put a call in to the conservation board. You know what to do. Got to run. Hey, Dora. One more thing…don’t WARTY, it’ll be all right.” She starts laughing again and hangs up.

It takes another hour to make the calls, plug in the changes, and it’s gone. They liked it this time, but they still couldn’t resist throwing me a last-minute Kermit joke. Who knows what the guys on the headline desk are going to do with it.

Okay, I can’t put this off any longer. Time to call Fred. What to say? Maybe he’ll do all the talking. I call him at the bookstore.

“Hi, Fred. Thanks for the roses. They were beautiful.” (Darlene liked them a lot.)

“Hey, Dora.” He’s obviously happy to hear from me. “We need to talk. Can you meet me for a drink later?”

I guess I’m stuck. I say okay and he tells me to meet him at the Brentwood Grill at six. At least it’s not coffee.

He gives me a faint smile as he walks in the restaurant and orders a bottle of wine. Looks like we’re going to be here a while. It starts out with small talk. I tell him about Darlene being in the hospital, leaving out the part about Palmer. He tells me he’s been reworking a few scenes in his play and maybe the New York people had a point. He’s feeling better about it.

Then he cuts to the chase.

“I’m sorry, Dora. I had an awful time in New York, and the family stuff has been stressful. I didn’t mean what I said. Can’t we just kiss and make up?”

I take a sip of wine.

“How’re Harper and Bea?” I say.

“They’re fine. They’re still crowing about what a great time they had with you and Darlene. And I was wrong. I AM glad you took them. It was a big help. Can we just forget about what I said in the car?”

I look at him. I want to forgive him. I’m not one for confrontations. And he WAS tired and pressured. And he had just come back from a rotten trip. I’m still attracted to him. It’s his shoulders this time. Everyone deserves a second chance.

“How about dinner?” he asks.

What’s this? He lays his hand ever so lightly on my thigh. How crass. It’s burning a hole through my dress. Well, I do have to eat. And I know where this is leading.

In my experience, makeup sex has nothing to do with making up. It’s all about pent-up passion and unre
solved issues that are temporarily put on hold—the fierce, false ardor of a one-night stand culminating in waves of remorse the next morning. That’s when those nagging thoughts, those doubts, those worrisome intrusions insinuate themselves in the afterglow as he rolls over to stroke your back and whisper sweet nothings. It’s not a resolution, more like a truce, a white-flag night of passionate sex.

Last night I was insatiable. Everything he did made me want him more. I wouldn’t say he roughed me up exactly, maybe we roughed each other up. “Come here,” he said as he grabbed my wrists, pinned me down on the bed. “Talk to me. Tell me what you like,” he whispered. And I did. I wanted this fuck. I slammed against him, yanked his shirt open, and felt his skin on mine. Mouth to mouth. My nails digging into his back. I could have gone on for days. I was wet before he even started to caress my neck, my breasts, my abdomen, his tongue moving up my inner thigh, back and forth, up and down, flicking over me, until I couldn’t stand it anymore, my moans lasting longer and louder until I could hear myself scream. When it was over, we collapsed against each other, heaving and panting and not talking. And then a flash of something plowed into me, Palmer caressing my neck as we walked along the beach. I tried to will the memory away; I closed my eyes, he was still there.

A guy once told me that it isn’t true that men avoid women with baggage. In fact, they look forward to it. There’s a tacit understanding that the sex is better, hotter, more erotic when the woman is beleaguered with rage
and bitterness directed at someone else. Why does sex have to be so complicated? Why CAN’T you have a night of total abandon without consequences, feelings, and self-analysis? Why can’t it just be fun, like it used to be?

And now, here I am, on the cusp of dawn, with the same issues I had before. I’m certain Fred wants me. And I want him. But has anything been resolved? Well, he apologized…I don’t want to think about this anymore.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says as he smoothes back my damp hair. “Let’s go to Mexico, spend a week, just you and me. See what we have without the outside world intruding.” He is looking at me, waiting for an answer.

“I’ll have to think about it.”

He traces my lips with his fingers. “My friend has this place in Cabo. Right on the beach. We’ll take walks, make margaritas, I’ll work on my play.” His fingers teasingly trail down my neck. “You’ll work on me.”

I’m at a disadvantage here. He’s cute. He’s sly and charming. He’s used to winning over women like me. “Okay,” I say. I’m not exactly sure what I’m doing. But okay.

Drop Dead. Strong Letter
to Follow.

“It is seldom indeed that one parts on
good terms, because if one were on
good terms one would not part.”

~
Marcel Proust (1871–1922),
Remembrance of Things Past
, “
The Fugitive
”~

M
ichael Kors has a great white dress with coral beads on top that would be perfect for dinner in Cabo. I looked all over for sandals to match and finally ended up with these fantastic gold ones from Valentino next door. Then there’s the two Eres strapless tank suits that look great as long as I wrap the pareo around my butt. Why stores have three-way mirrors I’ll never understand, particularly stores that sell bathing suits. Unless you’re sixteen, no one wants to look at the back of their thighs.

I’ve been shopping for two days and the booty is spread all over my bed, ready to throw in my duffel. I am really looking forward to this trip. I can’t remember the
last time I went to Mexico. It sounds so loose and cool and sexy. Maybe the Kors is a bit much. Fred will probably show up in wrinkled khakis and an aloha shirt. I hold up the white linen dress. It is gorgeous. But maybe a little too Southampton. I put the plastic back over it. I’ll wait until the salesgirl is off and take it back. She spent hours helping me. Oh well. I think of my sister’s only useful fashion advice: less is more.

I finally decide on a cotton skirt, a racerback T-shirt, and gold flip-flops. I fold everything and throw it in the duffel. I don’t have the patience to seal it in separate, gallon-size ziplock baggies like my sister always does. Not that it matters with her raggy clothes. So now I’m ready to go. Three hours early. Fred is meeting me at the airport at one. He’s coming from Bea’s because he needed to sign some papers for her.

I decide to call Darlene to say good-bye. She’s home but feeling funky and weak. Palmer still has the dog.

“I hope that’s okay,” she says in a scratchy voice. “What are you doing, anyway? I thought maybe you and Palmer were working things out.”

“Palmer has a girlfriend, remember?” I say coolly.

“Yeah, I remember,” she replies in a dopey, well-meaning tone that makes me suddenly feel guilty for some reason. “Don’t get mad at me, Dora. I’m only trying to help.”

“I’m not mad. I just don’t want to get sidetracked here. I think this is going to be fun.”

“Good, then. I’m happy for you. Have fun. I love you.”

“Me too,” I answer, then hang up.

I sit down on the bed, suddenly disoriented. The image of Palmer with the damn dog is jarring and confusing, and the fact that this IS an impulsive move puts somewhat of a damper on my mood. I decide to call Bea to say good-bye and check on Fred.

When Bea answers, I can tell she’s upset.

“Is there something wrong?” I ask.

“Things have gone to hell in a handbasket over here, honey.”

“Is Harper okay?”

“We’re all a little shaken. Hasn’t Fred told you?”

“No.” Shit. This sounds bad.

“Well, it was bound to happen, with Lorraine’s lifestyle and all. It seems she had some debts going with this boy Bobby D. He asked us to pay him back, but I don’t have that kind of money. And neither did Lorraine. I don’t know. I just told him to go away and he got mad.”

My heart is racing. “Did he hurt Harper or you?”

“No. That wasn’t it. He waited until we went out and then he and his friends smashed through the window with the old broom we have out there and tore up the place. Oh, and Harper’s new bedroom. It’s all such a mess.”

“Goddamn it, Bea. When did this happen?”

“Last night, when we were at Bible study. You know, with the trip and all, Fred probably thought it was better not to upset you. He went home to pack.”

“I’m coming right over.”

“Wait. Harper wants to talk to you.”

“Dora?” Harper says in her reedy little voice. There is a pause. “Don’t be mad. They messed up all my stuff you
gave me. My bed is bad now. They were mean.” She starts to cry.

“Don’t cry, honey. I’ll fix it. I’m coming there now.”

“Okay.” She sniffles.

I drive over there as fast as I can. I don’t even think about the freeway thing. I pull up to their house and see a broken glass window with masking tape and another window entirely missing with a piece of plywood covering it. There are shards of broken glass in the screened porch and thick black swirls of spray paint smeared like a hex across the front door. It looks like a house that has weathered a hurricane, except for the graffiti. Then Bea opens the door and I give her a hug. The scene inside is unreal. The vandals had evidently used some sort of blunt object to shatter Bea’s lamps, TV, and pictures, and the hall mirror has intricately designed cracks spreading across it like a web. The drawers to her sideboard have been yanked out and the contents dumped in a rubble on the rug. The floor is caked with a thick, dried-up coating of what looks like ketchup, maybe mud, I’m not sure which, and the whole place reeks of liquor mixed with detergent or possibly vinegar. The devastation oozes into the kitchen, where the walls are streaked with dirty handprints and the refrigerator door is hanging half off its hinges. A bunch of broken bottles and smashed dishes are piled up like a heap of garbage in the corner where Bea has apparently swept them.

I am speechless. Harper appears and runs into my arms.

“Come see what they did to my room.”

I try not to look aghast as she leads me to her room. I can already see before I get there that the bedsheets have been yanked off the mattress and dragged into the hall. Slashed-up clothes are sitting in a heap on top.

“You know what, Harper,” I say, looking around at the havoc, “I’m going to get you new stuff, okay? You and Bea are all right and that’s what counts.”

Bea seems overwhelmed and disoriented. As she absently sweeps the debris, she tells me the police were here last night and already have an idea of where to find the guys. She couldn’t reach Fred last night, but he came early this morning to help fill out the police reports.

“There was the nicest young man down the block, Eddie, I think his name is, who helped us board up the windows and sweep around a bit.” Bea goes on, “I want to send him a little something, what do you think is nice? Maybe a bottle of wine or some chocolates?”

My mind is racing. Where the hell is Fred?

I tell Bea that she and Harper can stay at my place tonight and that I’ll get on the phone and call a cleaning crew and glass company to repair the windows. She resists my help, but I can see that her hands are shaking and I’m insistent. She is relieved but reluctantly agrees.

“All right, dear. But it’s just for the night. And I’m paying for all this.”

Bea and Harper gather a few things as I step outside to call Fred.

He’s already in the car on the way to the airport.

“Hola, my little margarita baby,” he chirps.

“I’m here at Bea’s house.”

Silence.

“What are you doing there?”

“I called to say good-bye and heard what happened. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not your problem. We’ve been through all of this.”

What a jerk. “I don’t understand how you could just leave them like this. Bea’s a total mess. The house has been trashed.”

“Calm down. I’ve got it handled. I have a friend coming over this afternoon to help Bea clean up. Come on, Dora, we can fight about this on the plane. Don’t ruin everything.”

Is he serious? “I’m not going.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No. What’s the matter with you?”

“Oh, now I’m some kind of a monster because I don’t drop everything and hold their hands.”

“Fred, there are times in life when you do drop everything, and this is one of those. I can’t believe I even have to tell you this.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what, Dora. I’m going with you or without you. And I’m going to have a good time. This is the only weekend my friend can give us the place and I’m not going to fuck it up because my sister is still leaving a trail of shit for me to clean up.”

“No, excuse me, Fred. Not for YOU to clean up. For your seventy-five-year-old mother and your six-year-old niece to clean up.”

“If I remember correctly, you have your own mother and sister and niece. You don’t have to adopt mine.”

“Well, somebody needs to take care of them.” I am outraged. What a piece of shit. I hang up. He calls back. I see it’s him and don’t answer.

It rings and rings again. I still don’t answer it.

Bea and Harper come out of the house. I turn my phone off. Harper rolls a bright pink Little Mermaid wheelie suitcase. She’s holding her nose. “It smells yucky in there. Can we have pizza for lunch?”

I’m shaken up. I can feel my cheeks start to burn. This always happens when I get really upset. The big question is, will that motherfucker get on the plane or will he do the right thing and come home? The right thing—there are so many different choices when it comes to that issue. I know that there are times when you are willing to give it all up for someone you love and times when you are not. The times you are not often call everything into question and define what type of person you are. My view is, can you live with yourself when you make those choices? And Fred seems to be just fine.

Maybe Fred’s right. Maybe I have no business meddling in his family’s problems. But I know that I can’t get on that plane. So I’m just going to go with that and take care of Bea and Harper and let Fred do whatever he’s going to do. Maybe when I get back to my apartment, he’ll be standing there waiting for us. I actually hope he’s not.