Life As I Blow It (16 page)

If you've ever owned a cat, you know that they don't do well with change. Any time that you move a cat from one home to another, you need to keep them indoors for a couple of weeks so that they can get used to their surroundings;
otherwise they'll make a run for it. I don't know if they are trying to find their old home or just get the hell out of their new one, but either way they are not pleased being uprooted.

Both of the cats got out of the apartment within hours of being under my care. The area we were living in was known for having many coyotes, so the situation wasn't good. I didn't know how they escaped, but if faced with having to tell Neil, I planned to blame Tilley. Luckily she was also worried that they'd disappeared and joined me on a neighborhood hunt for Mischief and Malki. It was early afternoon and Neil was coming over that night to “visit” them, as if we were a divorced couple and these were our children. I needed to find them before he got there. He wasn't going to be in the mood to finally have sex with me if he found out I'd lost his cats.

Cats don't respond to being called by their name. They don't even really respond to being called. They just do what they want to do on their time and if you would like to get them to do something for you, well good fucking luck. The worst part was that I didn't even really know what they looked like. I knew that they were black. That was it. Tilley and I drove around the neighborhood and if we saw a black cat we'd yell “Mischief? Malki?” out the window. No response didn't mean it was or wasn't one of them. It just meant we'd seen a black cat. It was sort of racist.

After a few grueling hours of searching, we returned to our apartment. I had decided that I would just have to come clean with Neil about the cats being gone. That is—I was still going to blame Tilley.

Defeated, we pulled into our parking spot. Tilley told me she was sure that Neil would understand, although she agreed that this was not going to help the sex situation. When we
got to our front door, both of the cats were there. They were staring at us expectantly, with a look that said, “Open the door, assholes.”

I couldn't believe those little shits had come back! How did they even know where the apartment was? I quickly decided that cats were geniuses and I made a mental note to donate lots of money to cat organizations as soon as I had some extra cash. I needed to reward them for coming back. We didn't have many groceries, but once we got inside I popped open a can of ravioli and let the two of them go nuts. Neil was coming over in an hour and he'd never need to know that for a few hours I had misplaced his beloved pets.

I felt like the return of his cats had earned me some sex, but since I didn't want to tell him the story, I couldn't use it for seduction. Instead I simply enjoyed a movie and some shitty Chinese food with Neil. I found myself sleeping peacefully next to him that night. I realized I must really be falling for him, since not doing it actually felt like the right thing to do.

A few weeks later, our improv class was about to have its first big show. We rehearsed weekly and other classes acted as our audience, as we'd do for them, but this was going to be the first time we had a real
paying
audience. I invited my dad and Shirley, along with a few other friends.

I was nervous about the show, but Neil calmed me down. Something about him made me feel really secure and the night went off without a hitch. The audience had a great time and my dad thought I was hilarious. I was sure it had
nothing
to do with us being related.

The next day I decided to reward myself. I went to Melrose Avenue to go shopping. I also had a date with Neil that
night, so I figured I might as well look really cute. A good outfit could only help my chances for premarital sex.

When you move to L.A., people tell you that Melrose is the place to shop but they are lying. Maybe they aren't intentionally lying; maybe they are just misled. Either way, shopping on Melrose is dumb, and it was even dumber in 1998. It seems like it's cost-friendly and you're getting a good deal, but really it's cheap, shitty clothing made to look decent by stores that play cool music and have hip-looking people working in them. I tried on a million outfits before I decided on a pair of brown and green plaid pants that way over-accentuated my already meaty thighs and a tank top that felt like it was sewn together by the blind. Those stores hire the right people, though. I walked out of there feeling confident that I had spent that ninety-five dollars well.

That night, Neil, his friend Ryan, and I went to the Hollywood Improv to see Chelsea perform her first semiprofessional stand-up set. It was a blast and everybody was gracious enough to not mention that it looked like my pants were splitting above the knee.

Chelsea wanted to go out after her show and I wanted to go with her. She had such a great set, it felt like we needed to celebrate. Neil wanted to go home. I found myself, as I often do to this day, not sure how to please a boyfriend and a girlfriend at the same time. I looked at Neil for help with my decision.

“You should go with her,” he said.

“Really?” I was confused. “That's so sweet. Are you sure?”
Why is this so easy? Shouldn't he want me to go home with him? Usually guys are jerks about this. Wait, did he just break up with me?

“This is a big deal, and she's one of your best friends. I just don't feel like going out. I'll go home with Ryan.”

I kissed Neil on the cheek. “You're pretty great,” I told him. Then I hopped in the car with Chelsea.

We had so much fun that night. We toasted her success and more to come. Between her and Neil, I felt like I was really getting involved in the world of comedy. I was so glad I had these two people in my life.

The next day I went to Palm Springs with my dad. He had some friends there and they had invited us down for the day to swim and lie around by their pool. Those were two of my favorite things to do, so I was excited. I reminded Dad over and over that I had to be back early evening, though. We had improv rehearsal and Neil and I had planned to go together.

I kept trying to call Neil all day to figure out what time to be ready, and to find out if we were doing something after so I'd know what bad outfit from Melrose to wear. I also wasn't enjoying Palm Springs, which made no sense since I'd been so looking forward to the trip. I just wanted to get back to L.A. It didn't help that my many attempts at reaching Neil went unanswered. I figured that even though he said he was fine with it, he must have been mad at me for going out. It was driving me crazy that he wouldn't return my call.

Later that night, after still no response from Neil, I got a call from his roommate, Mark. Mark wanted to let me know that Neil wasn't mad at me.

“I know you've called him a bunch of times. I just wanted to get back to you,” Mark said.

“Oh, thanks,” I said, confused. “Sorry if his phone was going off a ton. Did he forget to take it with him?”

I tried to sound upbeat but I knew it wasn't good that Mark was the one calling me. It kind of felt like when I used to call people on three-way when I was in high school in order to bust one person saying bad shit about the other, but it didn't seem like Neil was secretly on the other line.

“Neil was in an accident,” Mark told me. “I'm sorry I didn't call you back earlier, but I've had to call a lot of people,” he said.

“Oh my God!” I said. “This is awful. Tell me what hospital he's in. I'll go right there. I feel so dumb, I've thought all day that he was mad at me, when he's just laid up in a hospi—”

“He didn't make it,” he replied. “He's dead.”

I just sat there. All day there'd been that unexplainable feeling in the pit of my stomach. I'm not claiming that I have some sort of ESP, but I do think sometimes when bad things happen to people we love, we know before we really know.

“Is Ryan … how is Ryan?”

“He's dead, too. They were driving the convertible. A drunk driver hit them on Laurel Canyon. I'm sorry, but I have to go. His family has been calling all day. I don't know how to handle it.”

Mark hung up.

Laurel Canyon Boulevard is one of those narrow, curvy roads. He and Ryan had no chance when the other guy crossed the centerline. Now a man who had never had a drink in his life had been killed by a drunk driver. And I had told him to go home without me.

I didn't know Neil for years, so I don't want to make his death about me. He had a mother and he had family and he had friends who had loved him for a long time. I am so glad I got to know him for the short time that I did.

My mom told me that if something would have happened to me right after I moved away from home she would have been even more sad to think I felt alone. So I wrote his mom a letter to let her know that that wasn't the case for Neil. That he had friends.

A couple weeks after sending the letter, I got one back. It wasn't from his mom, though—it was from Jenny, his ex-girlfriend. The only difference between Jenny and what Neil told me about Jenny was that when she wrote me the letter, she referred to herself as Neil's girlfriend. She said that they were together up until the night that he had died, and that he had told her a lot about his “friend Sarah.”

He had never broken up with her.
Maybe that was why we never had sex
, I thought. All this time I assumed it was his conservative ways scaring him off when in fact he had a girlfriend. I tried to look at the bright side: At least he didn't cheat on her. He lied, but he didn't cheat—well, he didn't fully cheat. I assume that was his logic, anyway.

In her letter, Jenny offered to take the cats back. By that point Malki had already gotten back out into the canyon, but this time he did not return. I assume he went via coyote. I decided to keep Mischief, mostly because it seemed like trying to get a cat to Florida would be a pain in the ass. He wasn't very old, so I had to have him neutered, which drained my bank account. I cursed Neil and his lies as I signed the vet bill. That fucking cat still lives with me to this day and he doesn't appear to be aging.

Sometimes he looks at me funny when I'm naked.

S
everal months after Neil died, I was still working at Mirabelle when one of the regulars offered me a day job at a commercial production company. I was just going to be a receptionist, but he made it sound fancy by talking about how I would learn so much and that maybe one day they could even cast me in one of their ads. He didn't bother to mention to me that it was a Hispanic commercial company and that the fact I was white would probably keep me out of the running. He wanted in my pants, but at the time I didn't realize it. I've had lots of male friends throughout my life. I've never been one to assume that just because a guy wants to be close to me he wants to be inside of me. Sometimes that keeps me from being disappointed, and sometimes it gets me felt up in commercial production offices.

My new boss was named Mel. He was short with red hair and had several obvious insecurities. I thought it was funny to call him “Mellybean,” but he put the hammer down on that quickly. Apparently when he was little, kids would call him “Smelly Melly,” which scarred him for life. I personally thought it was hilarious, and I wish I had a friend named Mel now so that I could use that. Plus he needed to learn to take a joke; I was called “Colonna Bologna” all through middle school, and I turned out great.

I found myself behind a desk trying to type up invoices and send out FedEx packages five days a week. I had no idea what I was doing. Smelly Melly didn't seem to care, though. He was too busy trying to put his hand up my shirt.

Smelly Melly was married. His wife was a beautiful, busty blonde. The two of them together made absolutely no sense. I couldn't figure out what she saw in him, until one day I came across his tax return in the file cabinet. I was shocked to find out what kind of money people earned by simply making commercials, especially ones that aired on Telemundo. I felt sort of guilty for finding out what his income was, but at the same time I was relieved to know that his wife was a gold digger rather than a kidnap victim, which is what I had assumed. My fantasy went something like this: She was vacationing in Cancún and he was there filming a commercial for Jose Cuervo. He spotted her on the beach, but she walked right past him since he is two feet shorter and much less attractive than her. She simply hadn't noticed him, but he thought he was being snubbed. Suddenly all he could hear was the kids from his school chanting “Smelly Melly! Smelly Melly! You'll never find a wife that has a small belly!” He snapped. He followed her to her hotel and slipped in behind her when she went into her
room. He put a rag over her mouth and she passed out. When she woke up she was married to an angry redhead who had scared her into believing that if she tried to get away he'd kill her entire family. That was the only way he'd have been able to marry such a hot woman. That was before I knew that he was a millionaire.

It quickly became obvious that Smelly Melly and the blonde did not have a stable relationship. I often heard him on the phone yelling at his wife while I sat in my office and prayed that he would fire me. He acted like I couldn't hear a thing. Instead of making me contact therapists for the anger issues I am assuming he had, he grabbed me by my hips and sat me in his lap like he was a mall Santa. I'd get up and tell him to leave me alone, and he'd laugh it off like he was joking around and I was taking it way too seriously.

Nobody in the office was a decent person. One of the partners was a pudgy Hispanic man with a beard and a bad attitude. He was really picky about his lunch, even though it was always from Subway. One day he ordered his usual ham sandwich and asked me to make certain it was “Virginia ham.” I rolled my eyes and went to get him the same ham sandwich I'd gotten him every day for the past three months. When I returned I was in mid-thought about whether or not picking up lunch was actually the job of the receptionist when Angry Hispanic Partner Guy snatched the sandwich out of my hand.