Literacy and Longing in L. A. (21 page)

Something Occurred to Me

“Books are good enough in their own way,
but they are a mighty bloodless substitute for life.”

~
Robert Louis Stevenson (1850–1894)
~

T
he next morning at seven a.m. the doorbell rings. I stagger to the door with a major headache—must have been more wine than I thought. My mother’s right, all I need is a fuzzy bathrobe, ratty slippers, and a cigarette hanging out of my mouth and I fit the image perfectly. The lush next door.

“Is everything okay in there?” It’s Victor. I open the door.

“Hey, Victor. Everything’s fine. What’s up?”

“One of your neighbors called the front desk last night around midnight and complained of banging. She thought you were hammering something into the wall.”

“At midnight? Come on. She must have heard my television.”

“James came up and listened and it was quiet, so he didn’t want to disturb you. As long as everything’s all right.”

“Definitely. Thanks for checking.”

I shut the door and survey the damage. It looks like an earthquake in a bookstore. I glance at the gashes in the plaster. Or maybe more like one of those bizarre avant-garde installations at the Whitney. I bend down to pick up one of the books. Ugh. Maybe later. I need my coffee and aspirin. On the way to the kitchen, I check my e-mail.

Another message from Brooke. I hope it’s good. A little more bad news will send me right over the edge. One might argue I’m already there.

Hi, Dora. Hate to HOUND you but just wanted to let you know the piece is DOGGONE good. An intriguing bit of DOGGEREL. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.) No kidding. They’re impressed. Could get an offer soon.

P.S. The scuzzball photographer thinks you’re cute.

I call Virginia. I’m sure I woke her up last night.

“Sorry about last night. I was a little overwrought.”

“I’ll say. Did you really trash all your books?”

“Uh-huh.”

“God, Dora. What set you off?”

“I don’t know. Mother and I had this heart-to-heart in the park and it was upsetting. She accused me of being emotionally handicapped because of our charmed childhood.”

“Oh well. You know, Mother is into this whole AA thing now, where she’s apologizing to all the people she’s fucked over.”

“A lot of good that does. Anyway, I’m worried she’s right. Maybe I’ll never be happy.”

“Of course you will. You just have to think about what you want.”

I did think about it. I thought about it all night. I thought about it as I hurled each book into the wall. I thought about it as I threw down a bottle of wine and then soaked in the steaming hot tub until it turned cold. I thought about it as I reread Fred’s pathetic e-mail. I thought about it as I replayed the torrid nights that always seem to go along with weak, spineless, self-absorbed lying pieces of shit. I thought about it as I ordered Harper’s new bedding online, pink, ruffled, dotted Swiss duvet with matching twin pillow shams and very expensive, imported boar’s-bristle hairbrushes for Bea. Right before I passed out, I thought about what mother said in the park. About her wasted years. And my wasted years.

Then something occurred to me.

It occurred to me that what I really want is a mother like Bea and a daughter like Harper. Fred was right about something. I did want to adopt them. But it wasn’t because of him or even them. It was because I wanted to be like everyone else. I picture my sister’s face. My devoted, caring, nutty sister.

“I want a job. I want a family that’s warm and that
loves me. I want to be normal and belong. I don’t care if that sounds bourgeois. That’s what I want. There.”

“Oh honey. Just like when we were kids. You’ll find that. I promise you, you’ll find it.”

I start to sniffle.

“Are you okay? I can come over.”

“You’d freak out if you saw the mess here.”

“I’ll help you clean up.”

“Virginia, I love you but I really don’t want to deal with this now.”

“Then maybe I should pick you up. We’ll go somewhere fun.”

“No. Really. I’m fine.”

I pull myself together. “In fact, I have some promising news. I may get my job back at the
Times
.”

“You’re kidding. That’s terrific!”

We talk a little more about the possibilities, when this could happen, and then we hang up.

Two minutes later the phone rings. It’s Virginia again.

“I forgot to ask you. Did you get the invitation from Palmer?”

“No. Well, maybe.” I look at the stack of unopened mail.

“He’s being honored at the Museum of Contemporary Art and he’s asked us to be his guests. I’d love to go…it’s this Saturday night….”

“Saturday! Are you kidding me? These things go out weeks in advance. You know what happened? Somebody probably canceled last minute or he just felt sorry for us.”

“Whatever. It sounds like fun. Andy’s out of town and I want to go.”

“I don’t know…”

“Dora, he’s asking you. It’s a big deal. It would be really rude not to show up…after all he’s done for you…lately…”

So, what’s he done? Just rescued me from my bender, treated me to a great dinner, drove me to Darlene’s place to get Brawley, schlepped me to the hospital, and took care of the dog for a week.

“If you want to go…okay.”

“Oh good. Why don’t we go shopping? You like that. It’s black tie and I don’t have a thing to wear. Meet me at the mall around three, okay? And I’m not spending a fortune.”

A fortune to Virginia is two hundred dollars. So this is going to be a long afternoon.

I hang up and decide to deal with the pile of mail sitting on the kitchen counter. Buried near the bottom is a calligraphy-embellished, cream-colored envelope. It’s an invitation to a party at the Museum of Contemporary Art honoring Palmer and celebrating the new Warhol exhibit. It’s addressed to me and a guest. And guest? Who should I bring? Virginia got her own invitation and Palmer’s bringing Kimberly, of course. Maybe I can rent someone. Hah! Better yet, I’ll call Darlene. She’ll keep it light and funny and not let me spiral down into maudlin, negative thoughts.

We pull up to Grand Street. It’s obvious the sponsors spared no expense. I heard the city and a lot of private organizations donated funds to the event with the hope that the exhibit would attract thousands of tourists to downtown L.A. Three city blocks have been closed and the street that connects them is tented with diaphanous, white, billowing fabric. There must be over a thousand people attending, from the looks of the valet line, which snakes around the corner and continues down the block.

Darlene is wearing what she calls “an homage to Warhol,” which consists of a gold tulle miniskirt, platform shoes, and a silvery blue top with appliquéd planets and stars. And then there’s Virginia and me. It took all day to find Virginia’s outfit. She finally decided on a long black silk skirt and a white satin blouse. She now looks exactly like the musicians strolling through the cocktail area. I’m ready to hand her a violin. I’m in my usual long black dress, simple in the front, deep scoop in the back. Very sexy, I think.

The party planners have modeled the event after Studio 54 and hired tons of freaks and transvestites dressed up as disco dancers to greet the guests. Hanging from the ceiling are cages with go-go dancers, frugging away, while performance artists, sprayed silver from head to toe, do their thing on stages around the perimeter. Huge portraits of famous Warhols are projected on the walls and ceiling and keep changing like a slide show. It’s all very dramatic and, for once, Darlene does not stand out. I hear a lot of jokes about “fifteen minutes of fame” as I
scan the crowd for a glimpse of Palmer. It seems that every hip celeb in town has shown up.

We go to our assigned table, which is near the stage and definitely an A spot. My sister and Darlene are tripping on the famous VIPs surrounding them and all I can do is worry about whether this will be awkward. Oh. There he is. With Kimberly at his side. Shit, she looks unbelievable. I’ve seen that dress. It’s an emerald-green Valentino that probably costs four grand. Maybe I should have worn a color. We’re at a studio table and the two couples across from us obviously know each other. After a polite hello, they don’t say another word to us.

The event begins with the head of the museum thanking everyone for all their hard work. He then introduces Dennis Hopper, who knew Andy Warhol when, and then rolls into Palmer’s intro. Palmer’s evidently getting the award for his fund-raising efforts on behalf of the museum…I didn’t even know he liked art that much. Well, I guess when you’re head of the studio…Dennis goes on, Palmer did this and Palmer did that, and by the time he’s done, everyone, including Virginia and Darlene, is clapping wildly as he walks to the stage.

The audience quiets down as Palmer begins to speak. He always was a good speaker. Kimberly sits in rapt attention. Like Brawley. Wait. What is that on her finger! It’s on her left hand, for god’s sake. Virginia spots it at the same time. She puts her glasses on. It’s a very big ring, an emerald with giant diamond baguettes.

“Do you think they’re engaged?” Virginia whispers.

“What?” Darlene says. “Who’s engaged?”

“Shhhh,” I say. I’m mortified. The couples at our table are looking at us like “how rude.”

Darlene leans over, points to me, and mouths, “Ex-wife.”

“We’re separated. How can he be engaged?” I hiss.

“Anyone can be engaged…” Darlene says.

“Or maybe it’s just a friendship ring…” Virginia says hopefully.

“I’d like to be his friend,” Darlene laughs.

“That’s not funny, I can’t hear his speech. Be quiet,” I admonish them.

Palmer’s winding up. He’s looking at Kimberly, with a sickeningly sweet smile.

“And now I’d like to thank Kimberly, who worked so hard to make this evening a success, stand up, Kimberly.”

How perfect. I smile and applaud like the rest of the audience. This is truly turning into a crap evening, not unlike the rest of my week.

They don’t seem to be pouring refills on the wine. I need a drink. I go to the bar and order a vodka—straight up. When I get back to the table, Palmer’s sitting in my seat talking to Virginia and Darlene.

“There she is,” he says to me as he stands and gives me a warm hug.

“You look beautiful,” he whispers.

The four of us talk about the event, we thank him for the tickets, he asks about the dog, blah, blah, blah. Virginia and Darlene are mesmerized by him and I’m feel
ing, well, I don’t know what I’m feeling. Definitely jealous. Definitely insecure. Something’s changed here. I’m thinking about my life with him. I hated these dinners. I wonder why I hated them so much. Phony and bullshitty. A waste of energy. No one ever had any fun. But these people look like they’re having fun. Why did I make such a big deal about it? It’s his business. I could have been more supportive. I bet Kimberly’s very supportive. She probably even supervised the flower arrangements.

I hear him say, “Dora, give me your parking ticket. My secretary’s going to give them all to the valet so you won’t have to wait.”

“Thank you. That is so nice of you,” gushes Virginia.

I start scrounging through my beaded evening bag. I thought I put it right in the side pocket. Oh god. It’s not there. Maybe in my wallet. Now I’m dumping things on the table. My lipstick, my mirror, my gum.

Palmer starts laughing.

“Please tell me you didn’t lose it, Dora. There’s like a thousand cars out there,” Darlene moans.

“I lost it.”

“Do you know your license plate, Dora?” Virginia asks.

“Of course she doesn’t, do you, Dora?” Darlene challenges.

“Well, who knows their license plate number?” Nobody answers me. I’m fucked. Now what? Quite an impression.

To make things even more humiliating, the crowd is
starting to stream out and Kimberly floats up, a vision in green.

“Hi, hon. You about ready?”

Palmer tells Kimberly that he needs to help us get our car, like we’re pathetic spinster hags. Then he asks me to come with him and he’ll talk to the guy who’s supervising the event. He takes my hand and leads me to the curtained-off area, which looks like a NASA control booth. I describe my car and they tell me to wait out front and they’ll find it for me.

It’s funny at events like this. One minute there’s a thousand people crowded in the room, and the next, the place is deserted except for my sad little group. As we head for the table, he puts his arm in the small of my back and says, “There. It’s all taken care of.”

This gives me the courage to say, “Are you engaged?”

“What? How can I be engaged? We’re separated, Dora. Anyway, would you care?”

“Yes. I’d care.”

“Well, that’s something. When we were married, I was always trying to figure out that question.”

What do I say now? Do I apologize? Do I tell him I’ve changed? No one ever believes you when you say it. I know that I want him. Should I tell him? Okay. I’m going to tell him. I’d better hurry, here comes that fuckface Kimberly.

“Palmer, I want us to try again. What do you think about that?” I blurt out. I see his face register complete surprise. He’s quiet for what seems like an hour, and
then he says with half a smile, “I still find Shakespeare dull, Dora.”

Now, I know you want to hear the end of the story. So do I, but Kimberly walked up and ruined the whole thing. Palmer politely said good-night, gave me a peck on the cheek. Always the gentleman. The valet guy ran up with my key. Virginia and Darlene came over and said, “Thank god, I thought we were going to be here all night.” And everyone merrily headed for home.

Epilogue

O
ne of the strangest things that happened in the days following my book rampage was that, somehow, I lost the desire to read. I dumped the debris of broken spines and disfigured pages into a box and delivered it to my neighborhood library. The librarian arched her eyebrows as I handed her my poor little darlings, but she didn’t mention their wounded appearance. As I drove away, I felt a wave of remorse, the way a parent must feel when dropping off their child at boarding school. A mixture of freedom, guilt, and loss, tempered by the realization that I was doing the right thing. I must admit, my abstinence only lasted a few months and then I was
back at Borders checking out the latest Booker Prize winners and National Book Finalists.

But it was different. Not like before, when my stupid, marathon zonk-out sessions plunged me into a deep and enthralling haze of complex, voluptuous portraits and mysteries, myths, dreams, deaths, human tragedies, ingenious plots, failed marriages, odysseys, ecstasies, meditations, hallucinations, and extended, strenuous, pulsating scenes of making love. But I do go on. That’s what I’m prone to doing. Going on and on, devouring novels at an alarming rate and losing my way. I regret that now. I truly do. But big-deal realizations often elude you. In any case, memories of the past year are all jumbled together now with nostalgic whiffs of vinegar and bath soap and Palmer’s tender calls and wounded bucks and tequila and a child’s wispy little voice. I can tap into any of these sensations and come out with the blunt, hard edge of what actually happened to me and all the people I love.

As for my books, the pathetic, picked-over state of my diminishing library is only half the story. Speaking of which, I probably had you fooled about the giveaway book thing. I actually went back a few days later and told the same librarian I had changed my mind and could I just give a contribution instead. She pointed to the untouched box behind the counter and smiled an indulgent little smile. What was she going to do with a load of mangled, smashed-up-against-the-wall books? I took them to Virginia, who said she’d work on them when she could. Then she went into her whole “I’m
exhausted, I have no free time, I’m so busy” routine and I felt better about everything.

I’ve driven by McKenzie’s countless times in the past year since Fred and I stopped seeing each other but I still can’t bring myself to go in. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t approve of my relationship with Bea and Harper. They rarely talk about him, and I doubt if they even see him that often.

On Harper’s last birthday, Bea and I gave her a tea party at Sally’s, a Victorian teahouse in Santa Monica, and we invited all of her friends, along with their mothers. I sent Fred an invitation, never expecting him to come, but he surprised us all and showed up in time for the cake. As he flashed that grin of his at the gathering of attractive young mothers, Darlene leaned over to me, looked at Fred wistfully, and whispered, “Too bad he was a dud.” Harper was happy to see him, though, and greeted him as one would a distant relative who sometimes drops in. She gave him a kiss and then ran off to play with her friends. He smiled. I smiled. It was awkward.

My advice to you concerning this matter is don’t be snowed by a handsome guy at a bookstore who quotes Cicero and Proust. They are often not the real thing. As with so many fleeting pleasures—travel in their company, enjoy them every so often, and then get on with your life.

The other day, my mother called to tell me she’s coming to L.A. to visit, maybe with Thomas. She suggested a literary trip to San Francisco to visit the old haunts of
Twain, Saroyan, and Steinbeck. I told her that I’d try, but I’m just not sure right now, what with my schedule at the
Times
and Palmer’s obligations at the studio.

Ginny tells me I’m almost normal now. (Ha!) Well, compared to before, I guess I am. But every now and then, when I can’t sleep, or when I’m at odds with the world, I have those urges. Sometimes I indulge. Sometimes I don’t. In any event, books still quell the longing one gets in this world and can tell a simple story that helps make sense of things.

Some nights, you’ll find me outside on our loggia, wrapped in my oversize terry-cloth robe, nestled in the big wicker rocker, with a steaming mug of hot chocolate—well, okay, laced with a little Kahlua—probably reading Alice Munro’s latest collection of short stories, or rereading Vonnegut, keeping another stack of books on reserve, like a child hoarding Halloween candy. I can usually hear the distant hum of the freeway as I look out on the view—the lights of Century City and past that, on summer nights, the surreal silhouette of Dodger Stadium, floating on the horizon like a low-flying saucer.