Miss Fortune (2 page)

“Maybe that wasn't a great story for you to hear,” I finally said.

He got out of the car and waited for me to turn it around so he could drive it back down the street. The quiet in the car for the rest of the lesson was very loud. I was so desperate to know what he was thinking that I considered offering him fifty dollars if he told me how hearing the story made him feel, but he was with me the last time I took money out of the ATM. He knew I'd have to “wait for a few checks to clear” before I could make good on my bribe.

On the bluff, I'm convinced that I've ruined my relationship with Jack and probably with David. I realize I will never be a “wife” or a “mother” to them because those titles have already been taken.

Here's what's going to happen: I'm going to go do a show in a new town—be a big hit, feel like a big star, and ride that confidence into the courage to be on my own again. I'll use the money I earn to move out. It's all too hard. Who knew that being part of a family would matter to me so much?

During Joe Biden's inauguration speech he spoke about how after he lost his first wife in a car accident he'd gone through hell but was able to love again, and when he brought home his next wife he said in his direct “everyone calls me Joe” style, “Boys, you see this woman? I love her. She's my wife now and your stepmother. That's how this is going down. We're a family now. Boom.” Boom. And they were. Because he said it. Boom. This was not something I could ever imagine David doing. The only thing he had in common with Joe Biden was his hairstyle. Of course, maybe I didn't warrant that kind of statement. Maybe Mrs. B. was such a great lady it brought it out in him.

David doesn't seem to be making any effort to make our last day romantic. He's lying on his back, shoving salami in his mouth.

“Jesus, the ocean bugs me. It's so endless,” I say.

David's eyes are closed and he says nothing . . . to me anyway.
In his head I'm fairly sure he's saying, “Don't worry, Hannah. She's almost gone.”

My first night in Pittsburgh, I listen to a girl sobbing in her car. The only words I can make out are “
noooo
” and “
whyyyyyyy?
” It's been going on for so long I've started to sing along with her like you do with a car alarm that's been going off for a long time. “
Nooooooo
 . . .
whyyyyyy?
” There is also the occasional sound of throwing up and beer bottles being thrown. By the time it starts to get light out, I'm in bed thinking, forget this “love of my life” shit. I just want a warm body next to me.

Staying in bed and eating the smooshed PowerBars I brought with me sounds good, but I think about how David would have us up and out the door looking for a little Pittsburgh joint to have some breakfast. In his honor, I set out, forgetting the most important rule of exploring a new neighborhood—stay away from the streets that are littered with beer cans, crusty throw up, condoms, and dead baby birds.

I see two dead baby birds, which seems like one too many. It's the “morning after” on Carson Street, the city's biggest party stop. The only “joint” that is open is Schultz's market. When I walk in, I suddenly miss the dead birds and dried throw up. The market is what my friend Narver would call “an ice cream and porno store.” I don't see any porno—but I feel it. Later, the people at the theater tell me, “Oh, don't buy anything from Schultz's. They make their own meat.”

After five weeks, I'm finding being in this city tougher than I'd imagined. David and I talk on the phone every day but don't say much. Performing eight times a week for audiences that are shuttled in from their convalescent homes hasn't quite been the diva-making machine that I'd hoped. During my curtain calls, I start mouthing “I'm sorry” as I bow to an audience of confused-looking old people. I've gone from deeply depressed to morbidly depressed.

After shows I start making videos of myself where I look in the camera and say, “I'm so lonely. I've never been so lonely in my life.” They're just three-second videos of me staring into the camera—“I'm so lonely”—looking around the room for someone to talk to, and shutting it off. Gradually the videos get longer as I add a second on each night: “I'm so lonely . . . I want a dog.” In my thirst for knowledge, also known as filling up the endless eternity of my days, I was on
Huffington Post
reading about a woman who'd found a slug in the bottom of her juice carton when I noticed an article about Joe Biden. The article talked about Joe Biden's second marriage and how nervous he'd been to introduce Jill to his kids. He hadn't pushed Jill at his sons, with some “This is my new wife, call her Momma!” demand. In fact, it was the opposite; he'd waited months before introducing her to his sons and worried constantly about bringing her into their lives too soon. What? How was it that I remembered what he'd said as being so completely different? I must have stopped listening right after he said they'd gotten married and shut the curtains on reality and spun off into my own “Everybody gets married and has a family except for me” story line. It makes no sense, though, because I don't want to get married. Only weak girls who want to feel “loved” and “safe” need that ceremony of lies. Not me. I don't need that. I'm NEEDless. It's one of my selling points right before beatboxing and speaking Dutch.

The article also mentioned how Jill had slowly carved out a relationship with his sons, cooking them meals, driving them to their sports games. She earned her position as a family member. The only thing I'd done was teach. I'd taught Jack how to drive to one end of an empty street.

It's closing night. The show is sold-out—most of the tickets were bought by one woman bringing a large group. Hopefully, she's one
of the wealthy Pittsburgh patrons of the arts I've been hearing so much about. Perhaps she's looking to produce a show in New York to impress all her friends. You never know. Plus, the theater is having a closing-night shindig for me, so people will at least pretend to love me for the sake of a good farewell party.

The patron of the arts turns out to be a twenty-four-year-old who brings twelve of her closest drinking buddies for a bachelorette party. Apparently, she thought the show,
Bust
, would be a madcap comedy about boobs. It's actually about my experience volunteering with women at the Los Angeles county jail. The bachelorette crew has clearly been out drinking on Carson Street since eleven
A.M.

They sit in the middle of the theater and spin their lit-up whips and yell “woo-hoo” whenever they think the show has gotten remotely sexual. A character in the play who's been arrested for prostitution reveals that she'd been molested, and there are “woo-hoos” and twirling whips lighting up the audience. When the prostitute character gets released from jail, I hear one of them drunkenly whisper, “This isn't like ha-ha funny. I have to pee.” They all click their way out on high heels and take a group of men from the front row with them. One of those girls is about to be married. She's the love of somebody's life.

Chances are, by the time you meet anyone at any time, they have already had a love of their life. You will never be their first love. Nor do you have to be.

That's the problem with the “love of my life” thing. I'd never thought I was worthy of it. I do not expect to be someone's anything. I'm the funniest person in some of my friends' lives; there are definitely people I know who can claim me as the only person they know who took a shit in her own hand. So I'm not without note. Not without some stature. But love of a life? No.

“Loves of lives” are a type. They're quiet. Mysterious and unattainable. I'm done with this love thing. I'm into like. “You're the thirtieth like of my life.” Who needs more? If you're the love of a life, all you can do is go down, be demoted. Being the thirtieth like of a life means you can go up the list. “After you picked me up from the airport you became the twenty-second like of my life.”

In the dressing room after the show, the house manager apologizes for letting in a group of drunk women. “You know, when I saw that one girl sucking on that penis straw, I thought, uh-oh.”

My phone rings. It's David.

“Something horrible has happened. Oh my god, Lauren. I'm not even sure how I'm supposed to tell you this.”

He sounds completely hysterical.

My first guess is that he left the clothes in the dryer. Or that he lost his water bottle.

“Jack crashed your car,” he says. “He stole it and he totaled it. Oh my god, I can't handle this. I honestly can't handle this . . .”

The words “crash” and “Jack” stun me. The image of him even wincing in pain makes me feel sick. I cannot stand to think of him in pain. This isn't David doubled over, clutching his sides, hungry for breakfast—this is graphic, real pain. I'm longing for the simple times of misunderstood molestation and penis straws when David finally lets me know that Jack wasn't injured.

Thank you, Jesus and Mary and Peter, Paul and the Mamas and the Papas, he's okay.

Here's the story. David was out of town for a few days working in Seattle. Jack's grandma came to stay with him. Her flight left at four
P.M.
to go back home and David's flight was arriving at five
P.M.
Jack was alone for two hours. During those two hours, he invited his friends over, took my keys, and pulled out into traffic.
Cops immediately identified teenagers behind the wheel and turned on their lights and came up behind them. Jack saw the cops and took off. As if he was going to lose them. As if he knew how to drive. The first corner he took, he lost control of the car. The car smashed into the gate of a Jewish preschool. Nobody was hurt, thank god, but now it was bordering on a hate crime. His friends were screaming for Jack to stay in the car, but Jack jumped out and started running.

The cops formed a perimeter around the area and when Jack tried to pass through it a cop asked his name and where he lived, and Jack said his name was “Lucky Lightening” and he lived on Castle Street. With that, Lucky was arrested, and when no guardian could be contacted, they put him in juvie.

“I can't take it. I'm going to faint. I'm going to pass out. I can't handle this.” David was losing it waiting for his flight to LA.

“Don't cry—get up and go take care of it,” I commanded him. Go get him out. You're not collapsing. You're getting it taken care of. You can handle it.

Of course this happened! Nobody taught Jack the life lesson of how when the cops show up, the party is over. My car is dead. Who cares? Everyone could have been dead. Jewish preschool children, Jack's best friend . . . Jack.

Why did I have to be the one who was teaching him to drive? Why didn't I just buy him some condoms or something?

“We can figure this out.” I hang up, walk out of the theater, and collapse on a stoop next to a drunk girl who looks like she's going to be sick. The main thing is that Jack is okay. No point going over all the variations of tragedies that could have happened. This is what happened.

The next day, before my flight home, I'm in a coffee shop when a call comes in.

A detective calls me to ask if I want to press charges. In a way, this is the moment I've been waiting for. A chance to show David and Jack what I'm willing to do for them. If only there was a way to videotape myself and talk on the phone at the same time. “No, no. Of course not. He's learned his lesson. I'm actually glad this happened, because now he will get some extra guidance and care. The only thing I ask is that he pay me back for the car, or make some gesture to pay me back. Not that I care about the money. It's not about that. It's about what he's learning from this. How this experience will help him mature.”

“You're not doing him any favors by not pressing charges. If you press charges, he'll have to do the things you're talking about. I can suggest the other things in court, but it won't necessarily happen. Not if you don't press charges. Are you his stepmother?”

“No, no. I'm the girlfriend.”

“Oh, okay.” He says it like now it all makes sense. As if I'm only not pressing charges because it's hard enough to get a boyfriend's teenage kid to like you without pressing charges.

“I have to pay for my coffee. Thank you for the call.” I hang up.

•   •   •

Back in Los Angeles, we're not allowed to visit Jack until he's brought to court, which is in three days. In order to not be charged for the storage for the scrap heap of a car, we have to get the car out of the police department lot and pay to have it towed to a junkyard. It's late at night and nobody is around. The officer on duty smiles when we give her the case number. “Oh yeah, Jack. I was a part of the perimeter.” She then tells us about Jack leaping from the car—dodging traffic and giving a false name.

“It's hard to run in all this gear,” she says, tapping her bulletproof vest.

I say, “I bet.” So does David, but the policewoman can't hear him because he's squatting on the floor with his head in his hands waiting for his dizzy spell to pass. David feels responsible for Jack being in there because he was out of town when it happened. That's why he was put there. If David had been home. Or if Jack had a second parent . . .

The detective I spoke to on the phone had pretty much pinned the blame on David for not being home in the evenings to supervise Jack and for not being stricter with him. Normally, I'm happy to throw David under the bus and even add a “Guess what else he's done?” or two for good measure, but the image of Jack in juvie takes the fun out of it.

The next morning we get a recommendation for a lawyer from Jack's girlfriend's father and are sitting outside his office waiting to meet with him so we can get Jack out of juvie ASAP.