Girl Act (15 page)

I needed a new place to stay. It was day eleven and my days crashing with my lonely, overeducated father were numbered, so I called Laurel. She was the first rich friend I met during high school, and her parents had just moved to Martha’s Vineyard, leaving her their four-bedroom Cambridge house (a few blocks from Harvard Square). Her parents also own a condo in Palm Springs, and, of course, a treasured summer home on Martha’s Vineyard. Money is freedom—when there’s millions of it. Laurel looks like the ‘all-American’ girl, with blonde hair and blue eyes. She majored in business in college, but her minor has always been in men. Fact of the matter is that these days, she does less business and more men.

“I’m off to make love to a divorced, Italian banker, I met him on Facebook,” she screamed into the cell phone, skipping hello and how are you.

“Laurel where are you? I need a place to stay while I’m in Boston,” I hollered into my cell phone.

“I’m at Logan Airport, en route to Italy,” she boasted, as if this was normal.

“Right now? Oh, bummer,” I said, at a loss.

“Perfect timing, you can house sit for me for a few weeks.” she said.

“Like totally yes,” I said, acting like a California valley girl to cover up my depressed feelings.

It was pure relief. Laurel is one of those girls who doesn’t wait for opportunities to happen to her; she makes them happen. Laurel quickly went onto tell me where she had hidden her spare house key. Incidentally Laurel won’t talk about sex, but she’ll talk non-stop about being ‘in love’. Whereas Paloma and I have always gabbed loudly and obnoxiously about sex—even going so far as creating a list of sexual categories. #1, a GUNNER (100% sexual, but with an evil twist of violence—avoid and run fast. #2, an ACCESSORY (a guy who agrees to ‘do you’ on your terms and likes it). #3, a ZIPPO (as in I should have gone shopping, that was really ‘dumb’ sex). #4, NAPLOEY (short for Napoleon, as in not well-enough-endowed) or as in “Shit, I couldn’t feel a thing.” #5, a ONE-ER (as in one time only, don’t ask for details). #6, a NEWEY (as in inexperienced, couldn’t find my G-spot if it spit at him). #7, a ROMEO (an equal partner/a guy you could spend your whole life with, a Mr. Darcy-type through-and-through).

Okay, so maybe Paloma and I have had too much time on our hands. Okay, also maybe we’re foolish actresses who believe ‘Romeo’ exists, one for each of us. Maybe?

It was Laurel who once asked, “What is life, if you’re not in love? What is it?” At twenty-two I thought this was a totally ‘dramatic’ question, but now at twenty-seven, it suddenly seems so profound. I mean, what is life without it?

“Shadow, we have a new home,” I shouted as I clicked off my cell phone. Dogs can temporally replace the feeling of being alone, as in ‘single’. TG for that. The fact that Shadow was my dog was a precious thing in itself. Of course, you’ve got to not mind having your face licked by a warm tongue. And you’ve ‘gotta’ speak dog (the language), which thanks to LA, I can do. I had found half a dozen stray dogs in LA that my friends Mitch and Gary would foster ‘til homes were found. They were a couple I met because Shadow liked to rumble with their boxer, Lips. They were both infected with the AIDS virus. At the time I first met them, they were trying all sorts of remedies including drinking their own urine. FYI, people who don’t want to die will do anything to live longer. Luckily, they had already cheated death by nine and ten years, put together, nineteen. It was Gary who said, “Dogs make you go outside, and they make you meet people you wouldn’t have ever met.”

Fortunately thinking about him saying that—was what made me come up with a way to trick my dad. Not wasting a second, I put Shadow in Laurel’s house and sped off in the red BMW (it was due for a drop off in Connecticut in a few days) over to an animal shelter. It was less than half an hour before closing, when I rushed in.

“I want to adopt a medium-sized dog with short hair, if possible. Shaggy if that’s all you have,” I said. The guy pointed to the back room, “Go pick one out,” he said. He was a muscular type, the kind that looks as if he works out 24/7 and drinks protein shakes four times a day.

“What? I don’t want to see all the dogs waiting to be adopted, knowing that not all of them will get adopted and some will die. I won’t be able to sleep or eat, and this will cause a major depression that might last months, even years. I can’t. I won’t. You have to help me. That’s what you’re being paid for in the first place, to help people like me,” I said in my most hysterical voice. Being an actress has its perks and I still had an actress living and kicking inside of me.

“We don’t do that,” he replied.

“Do you want to save a dog’s life or not? I have cash,” I said, not backing down.

He gave me the glare that guys give when they think you’re a royal ‘b-i-t-c-h’ which didn’t bug me.

“Wait here,” he said, and got up and went into the back.

“Medium-sized, please,” I yelled, which was stupid, but I couldn’t take it back.

I waited and I waited. There were a row of chairs, all metal. The walls were tan, and the place looked as if was hosed down weekly. All the dogs were suddenly barking; he had left the door open, on purpose I think. So I stood there, plugging my ears as I thought about the late 80’s movie
The Accidental Tourist.
In the film, actress Geena Davis plays a really wacky dog walker/trainer and God, I swear I felt like I was suddenly playing her part. She ends up saving actor William Hurt’s character. So my father was next. I mean, sometimes life can be like a movie—if you cast it right.

The animal guy came back in with a low-to-the-ground-type mix (looking like something the director Tim Burton would have cast in a weird film).

“It’s a male,” he said, like he was fixing me up on a date.

I put my right hand out and the mixed mutt licked it. I patted his back and he responded with a sit. So someone had once spent some time training him.

“Is he neutered? Can I take him now?” I asked.

In LA, all dogs have to be neutered first before they are adopted, and that means picking them up at the vet in a day or two.

“He’s fixed. Fill out the papers and pay the fee,” the animal guy said, like he was impatient to get to the gym already. Maybe I was being too harsh. I mean, the guy has to hear the dogs yelp for adoption during his whole shift. Suddenly I felt for him, and I didn’t want him to think I was a real bitch. So after I had paid for the mixed dog mutt, I hugged the animal guy. I mean, I wrapped my arms around him, pulled him into me and hugged. He was shocked. Either it was unusual for a dog rescuer to do this, or he hadn’t been hugged in a really long time. I didn’t say a thing, I just walked out with the dog-mutt on a 99-cent leash I had in my Chanel bag. FYI, always carry a spare leash, in case you find a runaway dog.

The dog-mutt didn’t tug on the leash. In fact, he strolled, and that just proves he still had his spirit. I had to set the scene like any first-rate movie director would; my father can sniff plagiarism. But my mother always said that he didn’t change my diapers or blow my nose and ran away at the sight of vomit, so I knew he wouldn’t get near enough to smell the fake ketchup blood.

I dashed over to CVS, leaving the happily adopted dog-mutt tied to a pole. I bought gauze, medical tape—and Heinz Ketchup. After all, I needed the blood to look as real as Rachel’s period had. Then I got back into the red BMW and drove us quickly to my father’s place. I got out, picked up the sixty-pound dog-mutt and with one hand, squirted his belly and brushed him so that some of the fake blood was on the left side of his face. No one on the street watched us; if they did, I was too busy to care.

I wasn’t going to let my father near the dog-mutt until I had cleaned it off. Panic is what this ‘drama’ scene required, and I was game for it. I felt a rush that actors feel when they are about to step into the land of ‘pretend’ and make it real. I headed to his building, carrying the ‘bloody’ dog-mutt in my arms, and started breathing really fast as I banged on my father’s door.

“Dad, open the door, hurry up,” I yelled with fully ‘pretend’ panic rushing through my voice. My father swung his apartment door open.

“Some drunk just tried to shoot this dog and it was running down Mass Ave. It’s hurt bad. Oh my GOD,” I screamed.

He looked anxious and troubled. I was thrilled!

“You should take it to the vet right away,” he said, with great concern. Ugh, he’s so predictable. Wait a second, that’s what every good scene needs.

“All right, I will. You wait here. I’ll be back. I hope it doesn’t DIE,” I said, letting a super, emotional tremor go through my voice.

The dog-mutt whimpered, as if on cue. I mean, it was exactly what would have happened had this been a scene in a Disney movie.

“Damn it, I’ll come with you,” he said, and started to reach for his keys.

“No, no, no, wait here, I’ll do it, I’ll go. Just wait here,” I said, as I backed away and bolted with the dog-mutt in my arms before my father could tag along. I got out of the building and raced around the corner. The ketchup blood covered the sixty-pound dog- mutt’s paws and he was now licking it. I laughed, because we were technically off-camera. I love acting—it really works if you work it. Hey, I didn’t steal that line from my AA actor friends; it’s just true.

Two blocks away I set him down, and we ambled back over to Laurel’s place. After all, I couldn’t get back into the BMW with a ketchup covered dog. In Laurel’s backyard there were party lanterns hung around the fence. I found the switch that turned them on and then heard Shadow barking, but I had work to do. He, my beloved dog, would have to wait. I cleaned off dog-mutt and put him onto the porch, where I bandaged his right hind leg. Shadow watched from the window, no longer barking, because he knew I was just helping another dog. I stalled around until just before nine then I walked dog-mutt back to my father’s place. He opened the door after the first knock.

“He’s going to live,” I said breathlessly.

My father took dog-mutt from me and carried him into the living room.

“I can’t keep him, I have Shadow already,” I said in a very stern, but kind tone.

My father examined dog-mutt who whimpered a bit, this time, I think, from fatigue. What a smart dog. I mean, really, he whimpered.

“He needs water,” I said.

My father rushed into the kitchen. I pinched my face to keep from screaming, “Holy shit, you’re gullible.” He returned with a salad bowl filled with water.

“He’s skinny, the drunk was wicked to him…and blah, blah, blah, blah” I said, not really knowing when to stop myself. Once I get started acting, I never want to just say one ‘line’; I want to monologue it all the way.

“He needs to rest,” I informed my father. He hoisted the dog onto the sofa, and dog-mutt licked my father’s long fingers. That sealed the deal.

Best dog names from the movies that I really like are as follows: Toto from the
Wizard of Oz
, Asta from my father’s favorite (the
Thin
Man
films), Benji, because that film was called
Benji
, and, of course, Bruiser from
Legally Blonde
, Nannok and Thorn from
The Lost Boys
, and, of course, Shithead from Steve Martin’s film
The Jerk.

Aunt Helen was up early and I plopped down in a chair beside her bed. I was on my way to Connecticut to drop off the LA girl’s BMW. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes seemed extra alert.

“So it worked. Dad has a dog. I still have to pretend to take it back to the vet in a day or two,” I said, and I told her how the whole thing went down.

She clapped. We laughed at how gullible her brother really is, a fact that only she understood because she used to trick him all the time when he was a kid. Aunt Helen had raised her brothers and sisters when their mother became bedridden. No one ever said what my grandmother came down with, they just said she got sick, got in bed and stayed there, and one day she died. Everyone said she had been a very kind mother. Sometimes my aunt couldn’t stop talking about her childhood, and how important it had been for her to make sure all her brothers and sisters were married and settled into good lives, because she had promised her mother.

Gabriel came in, carrying a tray of natural food from her stash. He stared at me and I stared at him. Gabriel’s a typical college-looking guy, but he doesn’t seem to do anything about his acne. If it was only blackheads, okay, but his whiteheads were oozing. That was double gross—and I had to stop myself from wanting to squeeze them. He’s actually attractive in a geeky sort of way, but totally unaware. He sat down when no one asked him to, and acted like he was watching something interesting happening outside the window. I rolled my eyes at my Aunt Helen, hinting to her to get rid of him, but she just put her finger up to her lips to silence me.

So I pulled out my father’s map of Connecticut—he has a huge collection of maps and he figured I could skip using the GPS for once. I got my driver’s license in LA, so I wasn’t a seasoned East Coast driver. While I was running my finger across the map and drawing neon arrows along the route, she said, “My mother came to visit last night.” I looked over at her, a bit annoyed by the idea of my mother coming to see her and no one telling me ahead of time. So I started in on a long, mean monologue about my forgotten mother and her famous departure for ‘true love,’ and how I didn’t even think about her (blah, blah).

“Your grandmother!”

I stopped. Suddenly her room felt strangely cold. Even Gabriel had turned his head to watch both of us, which I’ll admit I didn’t like.

“She sat down where you are. My mother asked how I was feeling, and I said, ‘I’m tired, Mama’ and she told me it was time to rest, and—” I interrupted her on purpose.

“Rest, as in take your time to feel better, because your niece just drove a million miles to be with you,” I countered.

“I can’t walk anymore, I have to be bathed,” she explained, softly.

So I said. “A loofah scrub brush and Trader Joe’s French lavender soap is all you need, and I can help.”