Literacy and Longing in L. A. (8 page)

To make matters worse, Palmer started in with the “wouldn’t it be great to start a family” thing. That frightened me. Another absentee father? I don’t think so.

In the beginning, Palmer said he respected my feelings and he could wait. Just how long was never specified, although I somehow knew it had nothing to do with my biological clock. As far as I could tell, I didn’t have one. Why I didn’t was a different matter, which Palmer eventually felt compelled to bring up whenever we’d have an argument about something else. The resulting interval of tense noncommunication would go on for at least two or three days, and the more he brought it up, the angrier I got.

When I look back, I’m sorry I didn’t realize how ambivalent and conflicted I was about having children and even sorrier I didn’t share those fears with Palmer. What I had observed from my childhood only confirmed my disheartening belief that happiness is unattainable within a traditional family.

I put off the inevitable for months before Palmer finally took the lead and announced that he was leaving. By this time, we both wanted out. “The terrible thing is,” he said, “I would stay, if you gave me just the slightest bit of encouragement or hope. I suppose I could go on like this forever.” But, of course, he couldn’t. And
then he met Kimberly. There had been no other emotional outburst on either side. In the end, I was the one to move out. I didn’t feel right keeping anything that Palmer and I had acquired together. I knew what it meant to him and it meant nothing to me.

Now it’s two a.m. When I was married to Palmer, this was the hour when he would stir and then I would stir, then he’d turn over and I’d turn over, and we’d settle into a comforting embrace where our bodies fit together like pieces of a puzzle. That I do miss.

The Beauty Thing

“Was this the face that launched a thousand ships?”

~
Christopher Marlowe (1564–1593),
Dr. Faustu
s ~

I
n West L.A., as one closes in on forty, and by that I mean thirty, one feels compelled to start having “consultations” and a few little “procedures” (they’re never called surgeries) in order to avoid the big one, which women always end up doing anyway. My appointment has been scheduled for several weeks, ever since I scrutinized the monotonous perfection of a gamine young actress on some talk show, swearing she never had anything done, and knowing the doctor who did it.

I am ushered into Dr. H.’s consultation room by a slim, overly solicitous Asian man in his early twenties. The room is stark white with an oversized leather den
tist’s chair in the middle and nothing else except a little stool placed directly in front of it. I sit in the large chair and wait. This is the only doctor’s office that has brand-new magazines, usually
Vogue
and
Bazaar
,
along with
Variety
and
Entertainment Weekly
. Dr. H. breezes in about fifteen minutes later with a white coat over his khakis, a white dress shirt, and one of those miner’s lights wrapped around his forehead. He’s handsome, soft-spoken, about fifty, and acts as if he has all the time in the world to just stare at my face. Women uniformly rave about what a nice man he is.

I start the conversation a bit tentatively, trying very hard not to stare directly into his face, but he IS sitting smack in front of me and there really isn’t anyplace else to look. “I’m here because I hate my neck and I’m in my thirties. I’m not getting any younger, lord knows, so I wanted to know what you think about the possibility of maybe, well, you know, doing some sort of a lift. I’ve had, oh gosh, what’s the name of that filler?”

“Collagen?” he says.

“No, it’s like that, but…”

“Restylane?”

“No, not that, although I did try that and it was painful and didn’t even last….”

“Fascia? Perlane? Radiance? CosmoPlast?”

“That’s it. CosmoPlast. But it’s so expensive, and lately, even that doesn’t do the trick. You know what I mean.”

He takes a small pair of silver tweezers out of his pocket and hands me a mirror so I can see my face. He lifts some skin I didn’t know I had from my upper eyelid. “We could
get rid of this excess skin and then you’d look younger and fresher.” Meaning, of course, that I look old and tired now. “This is the perfect age to start a program.” He smiles. “I can’t make you look twenty again, but we wouldn’t want that anyway, would we?”

I hate it when doctors talk to you in that patronizing tone. Where do they learn this crap, from some half-baked bedside-manner medical finishing school?

I smile back at him and say, “Sounds great! I have a few more questions.”

“Take all the time you need,” he says. Wait! Are his hands shaking? I think his hands are shaking. Yes. They definitely are. He sees me furtively staring at them.

I want to say, Do you think you can make me beautiful, happy, meaningful, committed, and confident so that those episodes of self-doubt that now string together to form my days will be replaced by renewed aspirations and heart-stopping conviction? But instead I say, “Are your hands shaking?”

He smiles benevolently. “A little too much coffee.” I guess.

Then there’s always the obligatory consultation after the consultation. That’s the one where you sit in a pleasant little office to talk over the cost with the doctor’s assistant/girlfriend/ex-wife/sister, whatever. She has a perfect face and flawless complexion. The poster girl for the office. Why not? She gets every procedure for free. She acts like your big sister and smiles a lot. She explains a breakdown of costs and aftercare facilities, and then pulls out three big books of before and after pictures. All the
women in the “before” pictures look like jowly old hound dogs as opposed to the “after” pictures, where they look serene, youthful, and tight.

“What date were you thinking of?” she asks, assuming this is a fait accompli.

I look at my empty calendar and say, “I’ve got a hectic few months, but March would be good.” I’ve always thought March was a crap month. Nothing like the Ides of March for a face-lift.

“Well, our first opening is in April, but I’ll put you on the wait-list for a cancellation.” She hands me a folder full of legal documents that look suspiciously like a last will and testament. It is a business, after all.

You know, now that I think about it, this shaky hand thing bothers me a little. Maybe I’ll call the next guy on my list. The one that Pamela says is so great.

What to do next? I’m feeling a little down and haggy. Too early to go home. I don’t want another cappuccino. Maybe I’ll walk over to Rodeo and check out the cruise line at Barneys. Cruise line, what an anachronism…conjures up images of Vuitton trunks and black tie dinners on yachts, when in reality it’s just Disney at Sea.

The streets are crowded with tourists in pastels laden with digital cameras and shopping bags. I amble by the expertly dressed windows of Valentino, Dolce & Gabbana, Armani, and Prada. I had a dream once, as a child, that I was shopping with my mother on Madison Avenue at Christmastime. All of a sudden, the window displays started opening up onto the sidewalk and mannequins beckoned me like sirens to take whatever I
wanted. Most children would have been terrified, but in my dream, I was overjoyed.

I told Palmer about this once and he said it was a deep-seated, latent shopaholic complex, and then he gave me a wicked smile.

I walk into Barneys and my salesgirl, Ellen, spots me across the room. She’s in her early thirties, blonde, fifteen pounds overweight, and quite attractive. She lives in an apartment south of Wilshire with her mother, who is a school administrator. She greets me with a big smile.

“Did you get my message? I’m holding those shoes you looked at a few weeks ago. They’re going on sale Thursday, 40 percent off.”

“Gee, I’m not sure.” I can’t even remember them.

She presses on. “They are such gorgeous shoes. I just couldn’t sell them to someone with cankles.”

“Cankles?”

“You know, those cows whose ankles are the same size as their calves. Cankles.”

It wasn’t like Ellen to be this unkind. She’d better get out now before she turns into one of those resentful women who work in high-end stores from Rodeo to Madison and have nothing but disdain for their wealthy customers.

She brings out the shoes. Tall strappy plum sandals with jewels glistening across the metallic leather. $495 on sale for $300. A bargain.

“Do you want to take them home on approval?”

I feel cornered, so I tell her okay and take the sandals
I didn’t like enough to buy retail, but maybe I’ll like them better now.

What I usually end up doing on days like this is going on endless errands so that by five p.m. I’m totally exhausted, even though I’ve accomplished nothing. Little things become so important. I remember there is a jacket in my car that I meant to return before all the sales started, but I don’t have the sales slip, which means I have to go home first and then start all over. By the time I finally get home, the thought of going back into town is out of the question, so the merchandise will probably sit in my trunk where it’s already been for a couple of months. I probably lost the sales slip anyway, so maybe I’ll just keep it.

I check my messages as soon as I get back to my place. Nothing from the
Times
. Another message from my sister, who wants to come over with the baby. And then the phone rings.

“This is McKenzie’s calling. We found the book you wanted.”

It’s Fred. “Oh, hi. Thanks a lot. How late are you open?”

“Until eight. I’ll put it in the North room under your name.”

“Okay. Thanks. I’ll try to get there before you close.”

“Sure. Great.” He doesn’t care.

Stop Me If You’ve Heard
This One Before

“There are two motives for reading a book;

one that you enjoy it, the other that you can

boast about it.”

~
Bertrand Russell (1872–1970),
The Conquest of Happiness ~

A
lmost eight p.m. I’m having a tough time getting myself together. Maybe I should forget the whole thing and pick up the book in the morning. I actually do feel kind of junky, my throat feels thick; and it hurts a little when I swallow. I pop two Tylenol and flop into bed. At times like this, I usually call the doctor. It’s a strange thing. Just calling and having him recommend something makes me feel better, even before I pick up the prescription. Sometimes I’ll go through the motions of driving to the pharmacy and picking up the drug, but then, I often don’t even bother to take it. Just having it is enough. I’ve talked to my friends about this, and they say this is the
reason doctors tell you to “take two aspirin and call me in the morning.” Medical professionals know all about this phenomenon which I call Auditory Relief Syndrome (ARS). It’s the soothing power of the doctor’s voice. He makes you feel better simply by talking to you.

Maybe some tea. I pad to the kitchen and pour some Evian into the teapot. Which tea would be best for this situation? Chai Light, Tropical Green, Chamomile, Earl Grey? This one sounds good. “Lemon Booster, for those pre-cold aches and pains.” I need to relax. I’m just exhausted. That’s the problem. The tea sucks, so I go back to the kitchen, brew some strong coffee, and pour it into a glass with some ice. I take a sip, then add some vodka. Much better.

I pull my hair back into a ponytail and select a jean skirt and a baggy sweater (which is old, but not in a good way). Why bother with makeup? It’s just the bookstore. I glance in the mirror, satisfied. Basically, I look like shit. Who am I fooling? This is one of those times when I float into something rather than actually making a decision. I’ll get a notion in my head that doesn’t really make any sense. Next I get ambivalent and then I just want to get it over with. The decision is beside the point.

I get into my car and head for McKenzie’s. It is now eight fifteen and the place looks pretty deserted. Maybe I should forget it. The store is locked, so I knock on the door. Fred appears from around the corner and opens up. He’s obviously combed his hair and slicked it back somehow, maybe with water. “Come on in,” he says. I try to step around him to get in the door and accidentally kick
over a pile of books. They go flying across the room and Fred mock winces. “Whoops,” he says. He picks up one of the books and tosses it like a basketball into the corner.

“The Iain Pears, right?” He heads into the back room to get the book and adds, “Where’s your friend?” I have to think for a minute and then I realize he means Darlene.

“She’s working tonight. She’s a Teamster.” I can tell he’s intrigued. He comes back with the book and lays it on the counter.

“Does she drive a semi or what?”

“She actually drives the stars around in limousines, although she had to qualify in big rigs.”

“I like that in a woman.” He grins.

Now is the time for me to say something provocative. So much easier to talk about someone else. “Before she was a driver she was an animal trainer and she used to keep a humongous iguana and a trained rat in her apartment.” I can tell he’s liking this.

“Are all your friends this unconventional?” Like he’s not.

“Actually, Darlene’s not all that weird when you get to know her.” A total lie, but it sounds good. He hands me the book and I start combing through my purse for a credit card.

“Well, what do you consider weird?”

I am beginning to feel a little pressure to come up with something clever, but my mind is a total blank. “How about some of the people you work with?” Shit.
That was a mistake. Criticizing his coworkers. They’re probably his best friends.

“But they’re supposed to be weird,” he says good-naturedly.

I should leave. “Well, thanks for the book,” I say casually.

“You’re welcome. How about a drink?”

Whoa! Where did that come from? It’s not as if I didn’t want this to happen, but still, I’m not all that sure that now is the time to start something. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a drink, not a marriage proposal…ha ha ha. Oh shit, why not. What else do I have to do—did I put on mascara? Did I even brush my teeth?

“Okay. Sure. I’d love to.” There. That sounded reasonably normal.

Fred locks up and suggests we cross the street to the neighborhood Starbucks. By the time we emerge into the courtyard, it is dark and the streetlights bordering San Vicente Boulevard are ablaze with a soft, billowy light. Fred slings his backpack over one shoulder and then extends his hand. “You know, I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced. I’m Fred.”

I take his hand and feel his strong, firm grip. “I’m Dora, glad to meet you.”

We jaywalk across the boulevard into the center parklike divider which is lined with two-hundred-year-old endangered flowering pepper trees that have now been declared historic landmarks. In the daytime, people use this greenbelt for picnic lunches, jogging, and tai chi
lessons. Right now, however, it’s quiet and serene, except, of course, for the cars whizzing by on both sides.

This Starbucks, unlike most, has expensive espresso machines for sale and leather armchairs arranged around little wooden cocktail tables. Fred tosses his backpack onto one of the chairs and gets in line. “What would you like?”

I was already up to my ears in caffeine and vodka and the last thing I wanted was another coffee. I’m thinking why don’t we just go to a bar and have a drink, but this is sort of a first date, I guess. You never do anything you really want and you never say anything you really think, so I tell him I want a latte. I wonder what
he’d
really like to drink. He orders a bottle of water. Great. Not exactly a signal we were going to sit around and shoot the breeze.

We sit down and he glances at the seven-hundred-page tome on my lap.

“Are you really going to read this?”

“Yes,” I lie. (Actually, I’m halfway through it already. When McKenzie’s didn’t have it, I picked it up at Borders. There is only so much I’m willing to tell him at this point. What to say?)

“So, what are you reading now?” That’s original.

“At the moment I’m reading some postmodern, edgy first novels by a couple of guys who teach creative writing at NYU. I love the style. It’s so sparse and abstract.”

I am speechless. I just don’t have anything to say about that. A voice from behind says, “Oh, don’t listen to him…. He’s such a pretentious bore. Anyway, the
word
postmodern
is so tiresome and passé. He should be ashamed.” I look up and see Sara from the bookstore, who plops down on the chair next to me. Her hair is even more disheveled than before, if that’s possible. Think extreme bed head, ten days in a student hostel, and a discount Eurorail pass and you start to get the idea of the wreck that was plopped on her head. She winks and pinches his cheek. I’m a little embarrassed about my earlier comment.

“So, who’s this?” she says, eyeing me.

“Her name is Dora and she’s straight. I think,” Fred replies.

“Too bad. Has anyone ever told you that you resemble Nicole Kidman?” Sara says.

Not recently. “Actually I think I look more like Virginia Woolf.”

Sara, like most nineteen-year-old hyperintellectual know-it-alls, says, “I thought that movie was pretty flawed, actually. But the public isn’t ready for the real Virginia Woolf of
To the Lighthouse
and the Bloomsbury crowd, where Victorian lesbians wrote passionate letters to each other and ran around the countryside wearing those ridiculous hats and offing themselves right and left.”

Fred interrupts. “This is Sara’s thing. Unappreciated dead gay writers.”

Without even looking at him, Sara retorts, “Okay, Fred likes more contemporary topics. Let’s talk about Ann Bannon, the queen of lesbian pulp, who’s ten times more interesting than your sophomoric, self-important,
patriarchal literati who think they’ve discovered the new wave of writing. Or then again, for you classicists, how about Willa Cather, or should I say William Cather, who changed her name at Sarah Lawrence, cut her hair, wore men’s suits, and took on a male persona for
My Antonia
.”

Fred, not at all offended, says, “I must have missed that.”

“Well, they don’t teach that in high school,” Sara retorts.

I look at the two of them and think, this is great. Maybe I won’t have to open my mouth at all. Not so fast. Sara leans in and searchingly asks me, “So, what kind of books do you like?”

“Yikes.” I start manically thinking aloud. “There are so many different categories, it’s impossible to just name a few, don’t you think?”

“Try,” Sara presses.

“Okay, okay, I’m thinking. I like stories about lovers, seduction, sex, marriage, violence, murder, dreams, and death, and also stories that focus on the family with all its dysfunction and grief. I love writers who make their women characters independent, smart, and courageous but also passionate and romantic. I love plots about bitter old men and women who turn all soft and mushy for the love of a child. I love writers who focus on women who reach middle age and then ask, ‘Now what?’ or lonely disappointed women who live in suburbia and can’t get out, or authors who write about the pain of growing up, searching for identity. But most of all I love
books about spontaneous love affairs that go wrong or veer off into uncharted territory. It’s the sudden twists of fate that I like and the unexpected outcomes. Doesn’t everyone?”

“Jesus, Dora.” Fred is taken aback. He’s quiet for a minute and then starts to say something.

I’m on a roll. I keep blathering on. “How about authors like Carson McCullers, Anne Tyler, William Styron, Mary Gordon, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Mary McCarthy, Alice Munro?” I look up and realize that they are both staring at me. How embarrassing. I’ve fallen into that god-awful abyss that voracious readers often fall into, a pious, smug, self-congratulatory, virtuous display of “what a thoughtful, superior, and sensitive well-read person I am.” They’ve probably heard this a zillion times. They work in a bookstore. I’m such a bore.

“My personal favorite,” says Fred, “is Dorothy Parker, who wrote lines like, ‘His voice was as intimate as the rustle of sheets and he kissed easily.’”

My god. Just kill me now.