Bicoastal Babe (13 page)

Carmen picks up my cell phone, which has been waiting patiently (and quietly) on the table since we got here. “Here – call him right now.”

“Now? It’s a terrible time to call him!”

“It’s the perfect time,” she argues. “You’re really busy, so you can only chat for a minute, but you wanted to check in and ask if he found the… calculator that you left in his apartment.”

“Calculator?”

“Okay, your watch. You lost your watch. The silver one with the rose trim.”

“I don’t have a silver watch with rose trim.”

“But he doesn’t know that!”

“I’m not sure about this.”

“Nonsense. If you wait, you’ll lose the courage.”

“What courage?”

She shoves the phone at me sternly. “Call.”

Maybe it is a good time to call. I’m out and about, surrounded by fun, cool people, having the time of my life. Clearly
not
sitting home, pining for him, waiting for him to call or anything of the sort.

I tap his name to dial the number. My heart is beating a mile a minute. Carmen is smiling, giving me the thumbs-up sign. It’s ringing.

And ringing. And ringing. Then, his voicemail.

Voicemail
I mouth to Carmen. She nods, encouraging me forward.

Leave a message!
she mouths back.

Then just as Victor’s voice mail beeps and I take a breath to start talking, someone sideswipes me from behind, knocking the phone out of my hands. The phone smashes down and slides across the floor.

“Shit!” Carmen jumps up and dives after the phone, but it’s too late. The flip part is cracked, and the face has gone black.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” she says. “If you take it in, they can probably fix it.”

I sigh. “Fantastic. I’ve got a broken phone, and now there are two caller ID hang-ups from me on Victor’s line.”

“Call him from mine.” Carmen reaches into her bag and pulls out a smart-phone with red sequins and silver glitter on the case. So cute.

“Explain what happened, that’s all. Just tell him the truth and stop being so wigged out by every little thing you do.”

“This is a sign. I knew I shouldn’t have called.”

“It’s not a sign.” She wraps my hand around her phone. “Call him back. Be aggressive. You want him; take him. Now
move it!”

I dial Victor’s number (which I know by heart), mentally replaying what I’m going to say on his voicemail, but suddenly he answers!

“This is Victor.”

I hang up quickly and toss the phone back at Carmen.

“What happened?”

“He answered.”

“So why didn’t you talk to him?”

“Don’t you see? He’s answering when he doesn’t recognize the name on the caller ID—because it’s
your
name. But he’s
not
answering when he sees that it’s me!”

“I’m sure that’s not it. He was probably in the bathroom or something.”

“Oh, come on. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk to me, and he’s going to
know
it was me, calling from a different phone. It’s still a California area code.”

“You’re not making any sense. You just said he answered because he
didn’t
know it was you.”

“Oh, my God. He’s going to think I’m a complete lunatic and he’s never going to call me back now. Ever. Dumped Woman Walking. That’s me on the way back to New York.”

Carmen sighs. “Are you finished?”

I pout, then nod slowly.

“Good. Because we’re going to the Beauty Bar now. It’s a hair salon by day, cocktail lounge by night. Very hip. And no more talking about this. There are other things in life besides worrying about when a guy’s gonna call.”

She’s right. I can tell already Carmen is going to be a good influence on me. She doesn’t initially look like someone who’s part of the L.A. scene (I hate to say it, but particularly with all the extra weight), but she carries herself like the most confident, attractive person in the world. I like her. And for some strange, unexplained reason, she seems to like me too.

T
he next day I take my phone into the Verizon store.

“Why don’t you just get a new phone?” croaks the zitty teenager behind the counter. “This thing’s ancient.”

“It’s a year and a half old,” I tell him. “And I know you can fix it.”

He admits that yes, he can fix it, and I can pick it up in a day or two.

“Which is it?” I ask. “A day, or two?”

“Come in tomorrow.”

Luckily I can still check my messages from a landline, or I’d never know if Victor was trying to call me. Or to be precise, I’d never know that Victor isn’t trying to call me.

Back at the apartment, Jen calls with a new list of topics to interview on.

“Game night among couple friends. Heavy-metal bowling. The tropical-fruit diet. Cowboy chic. Organ donation.”

“Organ donation?”

“Yeah, ever since Drew Barrymore got out of a speeding ticket because she had a donor sticker on her license, people are lining up in droves at the DMV.”

“Hey, I have one we should throw in.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Have you heard of pole-dancing classes?”

“In big cities they’ve been around forever. But I doubt they’d be popular in Middle America.”

“I was talking to this girl who takes the class.”

“Who?”

“Her name is Carmen. She lives in the building.”

“That fat chick who’s always out by the pool? She takes stripping?”

“Look, just because she’s a few pounds overweight doesn’t mean—”

“Fine, Lindsey. If Chubs can shake her ass in a G-string, maybe there’s hope for the rest of the world. Go check it out.”

“You mean, go take the class?”

“Yeah, what the hell. It’ll be a fallback in case you ever quit your day job.” She laughs evilly. “Now hop down to Melrose. We’re crunched for time, so see if you can get me fifty interviews by tomorrow night.”

I spend the rest of the day typing up questionnaires, watching
Gossip Girl
reruns, and stretching a six-inch sub from Subway into a five-hour meal. I need some ideas. I need to come up with a big brainstorm for how to uncover new cultural trends in ways and places that no one ever thought of. The only problem is, every time I close my eyes and try to concentrate on how, I end up falling asleep. It’s now five twenty-three, and I’ve taken four naps since I woke up this morning. The Subway sitting in my stomach is not getting along with the cup of chili and barbecue chips that accompanied it on the way in. My hair is greasy and I’m still hung over from one too many cocktails last night with Carmen.

This day is shot. Best to just give in, go to bed, and start over tomorrow.

•   •   •

After picking up my repaired phone the next morning, I decide to get an early start on the interviewing. Walking toward Melrose Avenue, I can’t help but wonder if
Melrose Place
is anywhere near here. That’s the kind of question a really cheesy Middle American tourist would wonder about, but I can’t help it. Was Melrose Place a real street? Or was it just the name of the apartment building that Heather Locklear owned? Or was it an “area” of Los Angeles that they lived in? I want to know right now. But who would I ask? These people look way too young and hip to remember
Melrose Place.
Asking the question would scream, “She’s not from here.” And I swear, if I hear that one more time, I’m going to drown myself in the ocean. Actually, the pool. In the pool, my dangling body parts won’t get eaten by mysterious, hostile sea creatures. But I digress.

The real Melrose Avenue reminds me more of New York than L.A., in that it feels more urban cutting-edge than sunny delight. But people here are laid-back and much more willing to talk to me than they were in Manhattan. Popping into the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf and buying fifty certificates, each good for one small iced latte, probably helped. All I know is, after five hours, I’ve already gotten thirty-seven interviews done. And Jen was right: People really are into this organ-donor thing. It’s the do-good revolution of the year. As far as I’m concerned, they can be selling their own livers for the newest trend in gourmet pate, because finally, finally,
finally,
I am having a productive day. I’ve got blisters on my feet the size of meteors. And I told Carmen I’d meet her at the studio for her pole dancing class. But I don’t care. I am getting something productive done, for the first time since I began this job.

I decide to take a break and use one of the Coffee Bean coupons for myself. As I watch the passsers-by, I wonder what pole dancing class will be like. I’m a little nervous, being the new girl and all. But Carmen assured me that the underwear and bra stay on at all times, and that it’s easier than it sounds, and that I’ll love it.

It looks like a regular exercise studio, but with ten or so stripper poles right in the middle of the floor. Carmen’s not there yet, and the other girls are all stretching and warming up. Every single one of them is small, thin, blond, and cute. Then the instructor walks in, also small and thin, but with flaming red hair and freckles.

“Are you Lindsey? I’m Jaden. Carmen said you were coming. She’s going to be a little late.”

“Uh, I’ve never done this before.”

She points to the floor. “Just follow along. You’ll pick it up fine. It’s a great confidence builder. You’ll see.”

She takes her position next to one of the poles. “Okay, ladies, let’s do some warm-up!”

The girls take position and I try to blend in, hoping no one will notice that I have no idea what I’m doing. From the corner of the room, a sexy Prince song envelops the room, and I watch as Jaden begins to sway her hips slowly but precisely to the beat, stretching and breathing deeply. The other girls are also swaying, some of them with their eyes closed.

I try to sway too, but I suddenly feel very exposed, like everyone is watching me. My gut is bulging out of these yoga pants, and I must look about as comfortable as a cow dressed up in a tutu.

“Feel the wave of the music, ladies. Let your hands explore your bodies as you stretch out.”

I peek out my clenched eyelids to see the other girls’ hands drift gracefully up and down their bodies as they stretch forward and backward.

“Feel your hands moving across your breasts and down your hips. Enjoy how your skin feels, the texture of your hair… Feel the air around you, the coolness of the floorboards under you…”

Whenever I am made to meditate or focus on how anything feels, I immediately begin to itch. It’s only one itch at a time, but it’s continual. My foot itches. I scratch it. Then my head itches. I scratch it. Then my back itches. I decide to rebel against it and just stop scratching. Eventually it’ll go away.

“That’s it, ladies. Grind those hips around in a slow circle.
Slower.
Your body should feel like it’s moving through thick chocolate fudge.”

My body feels like it’s moving through a thick farm of angry mosquitoes. My back still itches. Okay, fine. I’ll scratch it. Now my nose itches.

I’m distracted from my rampant itching only by Carmen slipping through the door and whispering, “Sorry,” to Jaden, the instructor. I say a quick prayer that she won’t come over by me, but God must be busy with more pressing issues.

“Hi!” she whispers, taking position next to me. “Having fun?”

I nod silently, as if to communicate a deep connection to the movement, one I can’t break by getting into conversation about it at the moment. I’m desperately trying to copy the moves of the other girls without letting them know I am looking at them – and, of course, be sexy and seductive at the same time.

After about a half hour of learning how to strut, crawl, squat, stand up, and floor-worm like a stripper, I’m starting to enjoy myself and get the hang of it a little. We’re lining up to do pole-spins, when suddenly a loud chirping sound begins to blare out from the pile of shoes and purses in the corner.

“Ladies,” Jaden says sternly. “You know you’re supposed to turn off your phones in here. Whose is that?”

We all look around innocently. I know that it’s not mine, because I have the Britney song still selected as my ringer, and this one sounds like a bug at a campfire.

But after a few awkward seconds, when the bug continues to chirp and no one makes a move to get it, I begin to wonder. Did the repair guy reset my phone options? Of course he did.

Jaden glares. “Please take it outside, and leave it off when you’re in the studio.”

I tiptoe out the door. “Hello?” Why did it ring so many times? Did the repair guy also forget to activate my voice mail? Now I have to go back to that place and waste more time. Annoying.

“Hey, babe.” Victor’s voice hits me like a Mack truck.

“Victor!”

“How’s LaLa Land?”

“Maybe you should come find out.” I twirl my hair coyly.

“Yeah, right.” He laughs. “I saw you called the other night. What’s up?”

I did call.
The other night.
And the night before that. I feel a bite of insecurity, and my coyness is replaced with a stream of bumbling self-consciousness.

“Oh, I… was just calling to say hi. My phone broke, though. I met this friend. It’s a long story. I’m at stripping class. I miss you.” Is it possible that last part sounded like an innocent cough or something?

“Did you say you’re at
stripping
class?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s a classic exercise trend in L.A.”

“Tsk, tsk, you naughty little slut. When are you coming home?”

“Monday night. So, what have you been doing?” And why haven’t you been calling me? And why haven’t you said you miss me back?

“Monday night, huh? And will I be getting a lap dance on Monday night?”

“We didn’t learn that yet,” I mumble.

There is an awkward pause, and then Victor covers the mouthpiece, but I can still hear him say, “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Where are you?” I demand. “Who are you with?”

“I’m out with some people.” A pause, and then, “That okay with you?” Victor’s tone is light, with only a twinge of defiance. But it’s there nonetheless, and maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s not my business.

Another awkward pause. “Sorry.” He coughs. “So. What else is going on?” he asks. “How’s work? Any more of those crazy interviews on the street corner?”