After the lesson, Adonis works with Marie and me for an extra forty-five minutes. He’s patient with both of us, attentive,
and he points out that I have a tendency to round out my shoulders and don’t finish my lines with my arms, though my hips
move well; and it’s just the right touch with the criticism, less about him showing off and being a know-it-all and more about
helping me get better. Of course, it helps that Jason’s the one who has to hear all this, not Mitch. I imagine it’s somewhat
like it was for Paul Hewson, when he was just a young lad, and he and his band got together to make some godawful racket in
someone’s garage, and the guitarist might get pissed off because Paul forgot a lyric and kick over the amplifier and bark
out something uncharitable like, “Hey, Bono, you sound like bloody rubbish. Feelin’ okay, mate?” and Paul could just smile
and say, “I’m okay, Edge, I’m okay,” and he
was
okay, because Bono had mucked up, not him.
When we finish for the evening, Marie and I head out to the parking lot together. I make a beeline straight to my car and
lean against the trunk.
“I drove,” I say.
“Hmm,” she mumbles. And that’s it. Of course, maybe I’m expecting too much, since as far as she knows, I’ve had this car long
enough to change the oil a few times, have the tires rotated, replace a timing belt or two. Still, it seems flimsy.
“What do you think of this color?” I ask. “I’m thinking about getting it painted.”
“Really? It looks nice to me.”
“Yeah. You might be right. Sometimes I get a little bored with it, is all.”
It’s almost ten, but still warm and humid out. Music from the nine-o’clock waltz seeps through the windows.
“Any big plans for the weekend?” she asks.
“Nope. Not really.” Cardinals game tomorrow night with your brother. “Birthday party tomorrow night for my aunt. It’s a surprise,”
I add, unnecessarily. “You?”
“I’m off tomorrow night, then work Saturday.”
“That’s right. Last Saturday you had a free pass for shoe shopping.”
“Good memory,” she says, then realizes it was only last week, and I was with her, so it’s not such a good memory on my part.
She laughs a little awkwardly.
“So no plans for Saturday night?” I ask.
“No. Nothing. How about you?”
“Same. Nothing. Not that I know of. Things have a way of popping up, though. You know how it is.”
“Yep. Sometimes they just come out of nowhere, don’t they?”
“They sure do.”
She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and stares at my shoes. I kick at a clump of pebbles.
“Shoe shopping was fun, wasn’t it?” I say.
“Yeah, that was fun. And lunch, too.”
“Man, that pizza was great. I loved that pizza. Didn’t you?”
“It was good pizza.”
“I loved it. Oh, and I hope my question about hair wasn’t rude.”
“No, it was fine.”
“So no hard feelings?”
“No. None. Really.”
“Good.”
She tucks another piece of hair behind her other ear and stares at my shoes again. I kick at more pebbles on the lot.
“Well, I guess I should be going,” she says.
“Yep, me too. Enjoy the weekend.”
“You too.”
She starts to walk away.
“Hey Marie.”
“Yeah?” she says, turning quickly.
“You know, uh… I feel like I keep doing the same thing with my hair. Wash, dry, comb. I was thinking maybe I should do
something different, maybe get some gel or something to shake it up a bit. You have that stuff at your shop, right?”
“Tons.”
“So maybe if I came in, you could help me pick something out.”
She pulls out a card and walks it over. “Here’s the address. Come by on Saturday and I’ll help you out.”
“Great. Thanks. Not that I know for sure I’ll be coming, but in case I do, I’ll look for you.”
“Okay. Then maybe I’ll see you there.”
We get into our cars about the same time, as you might expect, but I let her back up first. Then, as she’s getting ready to
pull off the lot, she gives me one of those friendly little toots, and I toot right back, because she started it and it seems
like the thing to do.
Bradley and I’ve been spending squat for quality time lately—rare comings and goings at the apartment, phone tag—so I’m looking
forward to the ball game. We have an early dinner at Colchester’s, then hop on MetroLink (he has no idea about my car, since
I park it three blocks over), but I’m still wrapped up in my thoughts about my mom and dad and the affair, and I guess it
shows because on the way down he asks why the look, and am I constipated. I don’t want to tell him the truth, since I haven’t
even told Scott yet, and as much as he drives me crazy sometimes, he deserves to know first (if anyone does). So I just shrug
and say, “It’s nothing.” Bradley, however, interprets “It’s nothing” in a different way, more as “I’m lonely and desolate
since Hannah dumped me,” and assures me that now that I’ve issued my cry for help, he and Skyler will get right on it. As
in find me a date. Fine. It could be a lot worse than having Bradley and Skyler track down my love connection. As for him
and Skyler and their love connection, things are going well. Great. In fact…
“One of these days,” he says giving me one of those ear-to-ear, not-even-trying-to-play-it-cool grins.
“One of these of these days what?”
But we both know what. Yep.
That
. On bended knee and something with carats.
Women of the world, this is the part where you’re supposed to jump up from your sofa and scream at the top of your lungs:
“But guys don’t commit! They’re commitment-phobes!” Right. Now, if you’re done with that, I’ve got news: they can commit.
It’s easy. They do it all the time. They commit to jobs and insurance plans and IRAs and sports teams and cars and jogging
routines and dogs and friends and children. And, yes, they even commit to women. Sure, there may be two guys in your state
to whom this doesn’t apply—and George Clooney—but the rest of us are like Bradley: when we meet someone we love and she loves
us right back, we’re in. We’re good. We’re committed. So if you have a guy, and you’ve been sexy and smart and funny and loyal
and compassionate and honest, and he still won’t commit—and he’s not George Clooney—it’s not because he can’t trust his feelings,
or he got burned by his last girlfriend, or he just needs space, or his mom wore pearls when he was a baby, or any of the
other 101 bullshit reasons you see on TV or in movies or read about in magazines. There’s a simple reason for it: he doesn’t
love you enough. Because if he did, he would. It’s brutal, it’s harsh, but it’s true. So dump the bastard already.
The Cardinals win the game by five, and we leave in good spirits with forty-five thousand other people, and the only hiccup
of the evening occurs as we are getting back on the train, when Bradley asks about my book.
“Which one?”
“The one with chick-lit woman. Katharine what’s-her-name.”
“Oh, that one. Hmm. Yeah, I guess I’ve done a little.” Only seventy-five pages in two weeks. And a complete outline of all
the scenes. And all the character sketches. “I’m still working it out.” Which is true.
“Did you wind up going to those dance classes?”
Suddenly English is my second language. “Uh, dance classes?”
“Yeah, Mitch, dance classes. My sister, Adonis, you screaming at me when I brought it up…”
“Ah, those dance classes.” Just tell him. Just get it all out there—the shoes, the Showcase, Jason—have a good laugh, come
clean,
finally
—maybe ease some of that guilty conscience about stringing along everyone at the studio—“Jason” this, “Jason” that—not to
mention keeping your best friend in the dark, even though he and Marie don’t run in the same social circles and you could
probably keep this up for the next two years, scot-free.
“Yep,” I say. “I sure did.”
He just stares at me. Kinda like I’ve smacked him. “And you didn’t fucking tell me?”
Idiot
. What are you doing? He could get pissed that you didn’t tell him sooner, or that you’re duping Marie now, and he might tell
her, which would ruin everything. Then you’d never get the book done. Or get your money out of those shoes. “Only one time,
though. And the wrong night, I guess. There were lots of old people doing the fox trot. Your sister’s not seventy, is she?”
Now he looks disappointed. “And here I thought it would help.”
“Don’t blame yourself.” I give him a clap on the back. “Actually, it wasn’t a total loss. I did get some things I could use.”
And since I’d rather end it on this kernel of truth, and a friendly pat on the back, and a silent promise to fess up
everything
soon… someday… before I die, that’s when I zip it and lock it and toss the key to the other side of the tracks.
The address on the card Marie gave me says 42 Wilshire Boulevard, but it may as well say 42 Ickety Bickety Boo. I don’t know
this area. The salon could be in some strip mall sandwiched between a Dollar General and a Big Lots; it could be in the lobby
of a Ritz. When I do finally find it, a little after three, it turns out to be near an open-air farmer’s market, in one of
those white- washed stone buildings that shares the same sleepy street with an antique store, a florist, and an Italian bakery.
I like it.
The first thing I notice when I step in the place is the smell. Roses. Of course, it’s Rosie’s in Bloom, so that makes sense.
As does the color scheme: hardwood floors, but the walls are painted the shade of pink you’d find on the petals of a China
rose, not too garish or flamboyant, but mild, pleasant. There’s a fireplace on one wall, chairs—the waiting area, I assume—and
trellises are stenciled on both sides of the hearth, with rosebushes creeping up. A little cottage-y for my tastes, but not
a deal-breaker. The music is a good touch, though: old Motown. But no sign of Marie or Rosie, just a few other stylists and
their customers, which worries me. Panics me, really. Maybe I’m in the wrong shop (who knew there was another Rosie’s in Bloom?).
Maybe they’ve left for the day. Maybe I should run.
“May I help you?” the young woman at the front desk asks. She’s a petite brunette, and I realize I know her: it’s Audrey Hepburn.
She could have the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen not in a magazine or on a movie screen. Seeing Audrey Hepburn in Rosie’s
doesn’t do much for my nerves.
“Uh, yes, please. I’m here to see Marie.”
“Great. And you have an appointment with her?”
“Er, no. Actually I don’t.”
“A walk-in, then.”
“Actually, not that either.”
She narrows her delicately arched brows. “But she’s expecting you.”
“I think. Maybe.”
Audrey gives me one of those patient smiles like she’s going to start this all over. “Marie’s in the back right now, and I’ll
be happy to tell her you’re here. Your name, please?”
“My name. Right.”
A couple of the stylists and their clients glance over, and I fear what they’re seeing makes me look nothing like Mr. Suave,
but a lot more like Mr. Creepy Stalker Guy.
“
Jason!
”
It’s Rosie, calling out from the back of the salon, with Marie behind her. They’ve just stepped out from whatever they have
back there—bathroom, break room, shopping mall?
Rosie makes an elaborate display of putting her hands on her hips. “Get over here and give me a hug.” But apparently what
she means is, “I’m coming over there to give you a hug,” because she bounds toward me, her breasts bobbling up and down like
mighty sea waves, and locks me up in a bear hug.
“Look at you, standing right here in my shop! The best-looking
salsero
in town!” She looks like she wants to pinch my cheeks, excited as she is. “Picture time!” she announces. She pulls a cell
phone from her pocket and tosses it to the front counter woman. “Samantha, be a dear and snap us, please. Marie, scoot over
here.”
Marie joins us and gives me a smile, then the three of us huddle together. Rosie drapes both arms around me like she’s giving
me a kiss, and after the picture’s taken, she plants the real thing on my cheek with a loud smack.
“So, you decided to come after all.” She turns to Marie. “See, I told you he would.” Marie starts to blush. “But enough with
the chitchat. Time’s a-wasting.” She grabs my hand and starts pulling me back toward a station. “Let’s fix you up.”
“No, wait, that’s not why I’m here.”
“I know why you’re here, handsome. And don’t be afraid. Rosie will be
very
gentle.”
I shoot Marie a look. “I thought you said I didn’t need a haircut,” I say in desperately low voice.
“It’s not a haircut,” Rosie chides. “We’re just going to style you up a bit.”
She brings me to one of the chairs, sits me down, and throws a poncho around my neck. Marie stands off to the side.
“First, look at your face. It’s long. Not Droopy Dog long, but long. So you don’t need any of that pouf on top.” She pats
my hair. “Makes your face look even longer. Second, we’re going to let these sideburns grow out a bit. That’ll give a little
more definition on the jaw. Got it?”
“Uh, sure.”
She mists me down with water, or whatever’s in those bottles, and combs it all flat.
“Now, your hair is very thick. I’m going to thin it out, give it some texture, but I won’t take off length.”
I look at Marie. She nods.
It takes Rosie all of about two minutes to snip off a bit here, a bit there.
“Done. And now we just need a little product.” She reaches for a jar on her shelf. “This is pomade. Ever used it?”
“No.”
“Then pay attention. Dry your hair about three-quarters, then rub it in. Get it nice and messy, as so. Then use your fingers
like a rake, pulling it forward. The product gives it a bit of a sheen, makes your hair sleeker, plus adds a little hold.”
“Will it be stiff?” I ask. I have an image of being in a windstorm and the whole thing lifting in one piece, like Trump hair.
“No. Touch it.”
I do. It’s not hard at all.
She dusts me off with a brush and holds up a mirror so I can see my new look, front and back. “Well… ?”