Although we were minimalists on the commune, I always knew that this was a matter of choice rather than deprivation. Never in my life had I met someone whose car broke down. Automotive death was not a part of the Coronado car life cycle. Everyone we knew always had relatively new cars that were quietly replaced every few years.
Greta and I passed two seemingly unattended young children playing with remote control model cars on the sidewalk in front of Vicki’s house. The apartment complex was sea green concrete with wrought iron bars shielding every window. From one window hung a bright red planter box with a few rotted stems bent hopelessly.
Before we’d reached the second story of the apartment building, we heard shouting from Vicki’s apartment. It was hard to hear exactly what she and her boyfriend were fighting about, though we could easily get the gist of the discussion. He was a loser; she was a bitch. When I knocked on the door, I half expected Marlon Brando in a sleeveless undershirt to answer. Unfortunately, I did not get the Hollywood sanitized version of the abusive lover.
In an instant, I understood why Vicki had never mentioned a boyfriend before. He was disgusting both to look at and to listen to. The man literally had a head in the shape of a papaya, gaining girth during the long journey north. His eyes were covered in crust at eleven in the morning and his face looked as if it hadn’t been shaved in four days. The same time must’ve elapsed since his last tooth brushing as I could see scraps of food clinging to coffee and tobacco stains.
“What!” he said.
“Shut up, you dickhead!” Vicki shouted. “These are my friends. I’m going to play soccer, remember?”
“How could I forget, Bruiser?” he snapped. His arm acted as a door chain, allowing us to see his limp black armpit hair draping from his undershirt “You better not get any more marks, you hear me? People think I’m beating up on you.” Vicki grabbed her cleats from the chair beside the door and brushed past him.
“Where’s my kiss, Mia Hamm?” he called after her.
“Kiss my ass,” she shouted.
The three of us were silent for the first ten minutes of our car ride, then Greta and I simultaneously burst into questions about Vicki’s boyfriend. “I’m sorry, Vicki, but that guy is gross. You have so much going for you, I can’t understand why you’re with that creep,” I said.
“It’s temporary,” she said tersely. “Just until I get back on my feet.”
Greta couldn’t resist a little sarcasm. “He seems like just the guy to help you with that.”
“Jimmy’s not that bad,” Vicki said.
“Compared to what?” I asked.
“Come on, you guys. We’re not all on the same boat here. I’ve got an exit strategy. If I keep dancing, I’ll be able to move out in another two or three months. Jimmy knows I’m leaving, which is why he’s pissed at me. Ever since I started making money, he says I’m too big for my britches. Says I think I’m too good for him.”
“You do, don’t you?” I asked.
“Do what?” she knit her brows. Greta pulled into the soccer field parking lot and turned off her ignition, but none of us got out of the car just yet.
“You
do
think you’re better than him, don’t you?” I asked.
“I think he’s a dickhead,” she answered.
“And you know that you’re better than a dickhead, right?”
Without thinking, I insisted that Vicki stay with me for a few months while she decorated the downstairs bedrooms. “Don’t even go home tonight. We can go to your apartment Monday morning while Creepo’s at work and pick up your stuff. You’ll stay with me, do the downstairs rooms, and keep dancing until you get some cash reserves.”
Vicki laughed.
“What?” Greta turned to her. “I think Mona’s right. It never fails to amaze me how many beautiful young women with so much promise and talent wind up with men completely and totally unworthy of them. You need to get yourself out of there today. That guy is trouble.”
I nodded, and without further discussion insisted that Vicki move in immediately. It was not without some guilt that I began to worry about Vicki’s ability to decorate my home with her limited knowledge of interior design. I hated myself for such snobbery, but quietly fretted that she might make my grandparents’ dated (but undeniably regal) estate look, well, cheap.
After the Kickin’ Chicks’ worst loss of the season, the team and friends gathered at the Big Kitchen for their end-of-season party. By one, most of Judy’s other patrons had cleared out of the breakfast joint and went about their day. The gravel-voiced goddess emerged from the kitchen to personally serve coffee for everyone.
Mike looked surprisingly well-rested, though he didn’t show up to the game until halftime. I tried to keep my eyes on the field and not allow my head to turn every few minutes, checking for his arrival, though I was not entirely able to control the impulse. His hair was still wet, which meant that while I was sitting in my fold-up fan chair, dutifully cheering for his sister, Mike was likely showering with HER. “Good morning?” I accidentally asked instead of stated when Mike arrived.
“Hey, morning to you, Mona Lisa.” He leaned to kiss my cheek.
Just morning, ay? Not a necessarily good one for you? Or was it going well until you realized you had to show up to the game and tear yourself away from HER?
“What’s the score?” Mike asked.
You everything; me squat.
“Three, nothing, we’re down,” I said, keeping my eyes locked on the field for the first time.
“That sucks.” He secured his chair legs into the soil and plopped into his seat beside me.
What sucks is that I’ve completely and totally fallen for you when you are unavailable to do anything other than break my heart. I cannot afford to fall in love with you. I simply do not have the emotional reserves to do it, and that is what sucks, not the Kickin’ Chicks being three goals behind at halftime!
“Yeah, totally sucks,” I returned.
“Hey, it’s a game, kiddo, don’t sweat it.” He punched my arm. “Don’t take it so hard.”
A game?! Kiddo?! Arm punching?! I wanted to kill him, then cry.
* * *
At the Big Kitchen, Mike sat his well-rested, clean-smelling self next to me. “What’re ‘ya having, Mona Lisa?”
Heartache
. “Um, probably the sautéed veggies with tofu and brown rice. How ‘bout you?”
“Not sure yet,” he said as he continued looking at the menu.
The indecisive jerk doesn’t even know what he wants for breakfast!
After Judy took our breakfast orders, Brooke stood at the head of the table and toasted the end of a successful soccer season and awarded each player with a special designation. Greta won the “Brick House” award for allowing only ten goals to be scored against the team in twelve games. “Unfortunately, four of them were today,” Brooke said as she winked. “But we still love our little Tokyo tomboy.” Vicki won Rookie of the Year, which she accepted with a self-mocking round of blown kisses around the table. “And the reason I named these two last is because Greta and Vicki not only brought their love of soccer and their athletic prowess to the team, they also brought us our two most loyal fans.” All heads turned toward Mike and me. “When we met Mona back in January, she played a scrimmage with us and let’s just say she had a lot of spunk. We knew she’d be a valuable asset to any team as long as she stayed off the field.” The group laughed good-naturedly as Mike patted me on the back.
“You’re next, buddy,” I muttered through my smile.
“Anyway, Mona has been to all twelve games, which tells us that she’s either a true blue Chicks fan or,” she paused for effect, “she’s got a crush on one of the players.”
Through the laughter of the crowd, Mike announced his sheer delight with this idea by patting his heart with his hand. “Lesbian soccer groupies, now we’re talkin’.”
“I’ll get to you in a minute.” Brooke held court with her hand on her waist and her head moving back and forth like a talk show panelist. “So it gives me great pleasure to give a special award for our number-one fan, Mona Warren, who, by unanimous decision, we name an honorary Kickin’ Chick.” The table erupted in a round of “awwww” and applause. Thankfully, before I could get mushy at the thought, Brooke quickly turned her attention toward Mike. “Now you, Dog,” she placed her hand on her hip again. “We had our doubts about you when you showed up for Vicki’s first game and started going off about this one’s a lesbian and that one’s a dyke. And God knows you don’t do much to dispel that machismo image in that punk-ass column of yours. But Mike, I’ll give you this. You show up at the games and you are a true blue fan.” The team laughed and nodded in agreement. “The time you really won me over, though, was when you showed up with pink face paint to one of our games.”
“Hey, it takes a secure man to wear pink,” Mike heckled.
“It takes a loser to wear face paint,” Vicki shouted from across the table.
“Hey, it shows commitment to the team.” Mike laughed. “I’m a guy who’s not afraid to commit. Or wear makeup. Or pink. Shit, I’m queer,” he said, sliding into his seat and feigning embarrassment over his self-outing.
“Well, Mike,” said Brooke with a tremendous lipstick smile, “so am I.” She winked. “And as a special gift to our most dedicated male fan, I’m going to give you what you’ve been waiting for all season.” Dramatically, she flipped her long black hair behind her back and strutted around the side of the table to Nadia, our angelic-looking brunette midfielder. She placed her hands on Nadia’s full cheeks, turned to Mike and asked if he was ready. Before he finished nodding, Brooke leaned in and gave Nadia the most passionate, soulful kiss I’d ever witnessed—live or celluloid.
The group began clapping, but Mike just watched, agape with delight. Brooke emerged for air and winked at Mike. “My girlfriend,” she said playfully. “So what’d’ya think?”
“I think women’s sports are highly underrated,” he said.
Some lady wrote to the magazine and said I was a professional womanizer. I think she meant that as an insult, but it left me wondering, if that’s true, are all of these bullshit dinner dates a tax write-off?
—The Dog House, April
April was a whirlwind of dates with Adam and a complete overhaul of my two guest bedrooms and downstairs bathroom. Vicki chose warm summer tones for the walls that blended nicely with the floral bedspreads and curtains she chose. She had a remarkable gift for using every ray of natural light you never knew could find its way indoors. The rooms were bright but unimposing, like a garden. There was something more personal about them than your typical generic guest rooms.
We wound up buying the window Vicki found, but hadn’t yet figured out where it would go. It was deep red and had malt stripes around the curved top with a beveled clear face—perfect for a plantation, which my home was not. Still, a piece like this comes along once in a lifetime, so we snatched it up and stored it in the garage before we moved Vicki out of her apartment that night in March.
Much as I hated to admit it, the
Psycho
theme for the bathroom was so kitsch, it worked. Vicki framed a small black-and-white photograph of Janet Leigh screaming in the shower and matted it on a vortex print circled with a pencil thin, blood red Lucite frame. Inside the deep frame, Vicki mounted a kitchen knife. Vicki found another black-and-white shot of Janet Leigh counting her embezzled money—the scene before she takes her fateful shower—and placed it on top of ten dollar bills scattered behind the photo. Jagged edges of money erupted from every edge of the photo until it met the same red frame that surrounded the shower photo. Vicki had a shower curtain made that was clear with a silhouette of Norman Bates with his arm outstretched above his head, ready to attack. Vicki had vortex toilet seat covers and a rug custom made, and a hand-painted soap dish in the same pattern. Resting in the dish were red soaps she’d carved into drops of blood. Towels were plush deep red.
Adam would never fit in here, I thought. When he saw the
Psycho
bathroom the following week he said it was “disturbing.” This is the same man who decorated his own guest bathroom with Oklahoma Sooner football wallpaper, photos, and memorabilia. The toilet paper rolled off the facemask of a Sooner helmet. The bathroom in his bedroom was done in a rubber ducky motif. Unlike his living room, at least Adam’s bathrooms reflected a little personality. Problem was, I wasn’t particularly drawn to that personality.
There was no doubt about it, Adam was a decent, kind person, but so bland I could barely stand it. Once he actually asked if I’d like to take a “long, romantic sunset walk on the beach.” Sure, I’d like to take a walk on the beach with someone I love. Sure, I’d like the conversation to be so smooth and effortless that we both look at our watches and wonder where two hours went. But who plans for this? It all sounded so trite and contrived, like a verse from the Piña Colada Song. The thought of replacing my new housemate for my intended husband was deflating. And yet, on autopilot, I continued dating him, afraid to create a void in the space I’d put him. This was unfair, I knew. But the doing nothing, the coasting, the status quo was so comfortable, I convinced myself that I just needed more time to let my heart catch up with my head.
When Vicki finished the Psycho bathroom, she was so eager for me to shower in it, I should have known she was up to something. Naively, I assumed she was just excited about my experiencing her new creation, and was shocked into cries of terror when red paint shot from the showerhead. She tore the curtain back and held a butcher knife, laughing psychotically. “My mommy made me do it!” she screeched.
“You’re out of your mind!” screamed, laughing at her. Vicki jumped around like a twelve-year-old, thrilled with her prank.
“Mona Warren, you’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”
After twenty minutes, I was back to my normal color, and walked out into the living room with a towel turban and robe to see Vicki and Mike sitting on the couch together. “Oh hey, I didn’t expect you.” I inadvertently touched my headpiece and wondered if my mascara was running under my eyes. “Did your psycho sister tell you what she just did to me?”