Out to Lunch (25 page)

My jaw drops open. “I had no idea.”

“Look, all those Dungeons & Dragons geeks you remember from high school? They are the Steve Jobses and Wozes of today. Forget the meek inheriting the earth, it’s the techno age, the GEEK shall inherit the earth. Computers and technology are where the money lives. And all those geeks, those very rich geeks, they want really cool events and they are willing to spend loads of money to get it right. They want
Buffy
birthday parties, and
Doctor Who
Christmas parties and Star Wars weddings. They want Lord of the Rings bar mitzvahs for their kids, and off-the-chain Tim Burton Halloween parties. And if they could get the details right, they will pay for it. That’s what I want to do. I know the details and I’m connected in the geek world for clients. But I don’t know shit about parties. YOU know about parties. You would know which cake artist would have made this cool looking AND delicious.” He points at my half-eaten cake. “Look, I know I have all kinds of schemes, but I’ve really been thinking about this one, and I’ve been going to the fair-to-middling versions of these parties for years. I KNOW that with my connections, and your party planning, in three years? We’d be printing money. Everything from the private parties for individuals to premiere parties when new movies come out? Events at all the Cons? This one isn’t even a big one; wait till you see San Diego, the original Con! There were like one hundred and fifty thousand people last year! And so many parties the whole weekend, and they don’t ever get that level of awesomeness that you and Aimee always brought to your parties. And I know that she was a big part of that magic, but I feel like it was her taste and elegance and details that were her part. And you have a lot of that, and I have the rest.”

I’m stunned. I’m looking at Wayne, Half-Brain Wayne, with his endless idiotic ideas, and his eager puppy eyes, and I? Don’t hate this idea.

“But Wayne, you keep saying you and I. But this is your business, your idea. What if I’m not ready to get back into work like this? What if I don’t want to start all over?”

“Look, if you like the idea and you are behind me when it comes to figuring out the financing, and you really don’t want to be involved at all, then maybe I’ll talk to Andrea or see if I can poach someone from Peerless. But I think it doesn’t really work its best without you. I know you only technically have to deal with me for another eight months if you want. I’m asking you to give me eighteen. Give me a year and a half to work together to get this off the ground, fifty-fifty, and then if you hate it, we’ll figure out a way for me to buy you out.”

I take a deep breath. My heart starts racing, and I wait to see if I’m going to have to run to the bathroom, but I suddenly realize I’m not having an attack. I’m excited. I’m excited at the prospect of a challenge, of meaningful work, of building something again. I smile. “Wayne, I actually think this is not a bad idea, and I’m not saying no. But I’m not saying yes either. I need to look at my contract with Peerless and see what it says about noncompete. And you need to come up with a serious business plan that includes numbers so we know what we are talking about financially for you. I’m not going to let you bankrupt yourself on a risky business venture. I’ll give the accountants the go-ahead to pay for consultation for you to develop a business plan, but that’s all I can commit to right now. Let’s both get our ducks in a row, and talk in a few weeks when we know more.”

Wayne leans over and gives me a huge hug. “You won’t be sorry, Jenna.”

I look at him. “You called me Jenna.” It sounded so strange.

“Yeah. Elliot asked me earlier if anyone else calls you Jenny and I realized that I’ve never heard anyone else call you Jenny and he said maybe that’s because you prefer Jenna.”

“I usually do.”

“You could have said.”

I think about this. “I could have. So I guess I don’t mind when you do it.”

He grins. “Like my own private name for you.”

I nod. “Just for you.”

“Like you and Aimee called each other schmoopy.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Jenny?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For everything. Aimee always said that her life was infinitely improved by your presence in it, and now I really know firsthand what she meant.”

“Thank you Wayne. She always said the same about you too. And I’m starting to see why.”

And I am.

“Told you so.”

Don’t push it.

* * *

E
lliot’s car drops Wayne off first, and then heads for my place. I finally figure out that the town car and driver that he sent for me on New Year’s are actually not from a service, but are his, full-time.

“Why the driver?” I ask after we drop Wayne off.

“Never learned to drive.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. Couldn’t afford a car in high school or college, then I moved here and public transportation was fine and cabs when I needed them. Just got used to not driving. And then I met Teddy here a few years back when he drove me for a whole weekend at the San Diego Con, and it turned out he was from here and had family here and wanted to move back, but needed a job to do it. Seemed like a good fit, and infinitely easier on me.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s a little weird, but Teddy really takes care of me.”

“I’m his Alfred,” Teddy says from the front seat.

“I’m no Batman.” Elliot laughs. “But it’s true, Teddy does most of my errands and stuff, and it means that I can work in the car, which is helpful.”

“I keep telling him I need a red phone,” Teddy says.

“And I keep telling you that’s only for the Commissioner,” Elliot quips back. It’s clear that they genuinely like each other, and I like the thought that Elliot met a nice guy and helped him come home. “Wayne said he talked to you about his new big idea.”

“He did. It’s a really interesting idea. If his take on things is right. What do you think about it?”

“I think if I’m going to spend six figures hosting a party for the San Diego Con every year, I’d like it to be more awesome.”

“You do that?”

“I do that.”

“And do a lot of people?”

“Yeah. They do.”

“And his thoughts about private parties? Theme weddings and birthdays and stuff?”

“My buddy Ryan did a Renaissance Faire thing for his fortieth. I think he spent nearly 200K. He’s trying to figure out how to top it for his forty-fifth next year.”

“Wow.”

“And the weddings can be even more major.”

“So you really think it can work?”

“I think it would need someone to take what Wayne has to offer in consulting on theme and turn it into viable executable plans. I think it needs you, and if you aren’t willing to do this with him, then you need to let him down gently. All or nothing. If you let him go it alone, for all his good intentions, it will fail. You have to be all-in on this, Jenna, and no one will blame you or think ill of you if you can’t or just don’t want to do that.”

“It’s a lot.”

“Yes, it is.”

“But if I were in, you think we could be successful?”

“If you were in? I think in five to six years you might very well be able to sell the company again to one of your competitors, maybe even to Peerless again, and settle in for an even more lovely retirement than you are enjoying at the moment. I’ll tell you what, if you want to do a sort of a test run, I’ll hire you and Wayne to do a party for me.
The Avengers
is coming out, and I always try to do a theme party when comic movies get released, invite my high rollers. I can get a buddy of mine to send you a DVD screener of the movie. You and Wayne plan the party. Carte blanche. Whatever budget you think you need to make it great. See how it goes; if you can find the right people, the right resources, and you don’t end up wanting to kill my buddy, that might help you make your decision. Especially if you get nibbles to do more stuff from the people who attend.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“I try to be.”

And he really has become a good one to me too.

We pull up in front of my house. Teddy parks and gets out to open the door for me. Elliot gets out on his side to walk me to the door, carrying my small bag of the regular clothes I wore all day and my larger bag of purchases and Con swag.

I lean over and kiss his cheek. He smiles at me and places a hand softly on the side of my face, and then turns and walks down the stoop.

I turn and open the door and walk inside. I drop the bags on the floor, my purse on the table, and my coat on the rack, kicking off my shoes. I hear a whooshing noise and turn to see the orange blur launching himself into the air, and barely have time to brace myself for the impact. He knocks me on my ass, which is protected by layers of crinoline and plenty of fat trapped in a Spanx prison. “Hi, boy, hi, I know, how are you? You missed me, huh?” He is stomping all over me, licking my face, biting my hair, rubbing his big square head on me. I realize it’s nearly one in the morning, and since Benji picked him up at seven, this pup is way due for a walk to burn off some puppy energy. I push him off me, and stand up. Then I look in the mirror. I’m a hot mess. Slobber all over my dress, half my makeup is licked off; my hair is pulled into a wild nest.

My doorbell rings.

“Hi,” Elliot says.

“Hi.”

“What happened to you?”

I preen. “What? You don’t like it? I call it ‘attacked by puppy.’ It’s replacing heroin chic and grunge as the new alternative hot.”

“It’s a look, alright.”

I laugh. “So much for Sophia Loren! Did you forget something? Did I leave something in the car?”

“No, I realized that it was very late and you might need to walk your dogs, and I didn’t want you to be out this late alone.”

“That’s so sweet, Elliot. I do have to walk them. But I think I have to change first . . .”

“And you’ll need different shoes.” He points at our feet, where Chewie is mangling one of my pumps as if it is filled with peanut butter and hamburgers.

“Oy. Yeah. I guess I will. Do you mind waiting five minutes?”

“I don’t mind at all. Waiting is one of my best skills.” He smirks at me, and I run upstairs to change.

22

I
look down at the little pale blue oval in my hand. One of my five precious Xanax. I’ve never been a bad flier, but I’ve already had two miniattacks today, and something tells me that perhaps this is the time. I woke up at four thirty this morning in a cold sweat, my heart fluttering like a little hummingbird. After rapidly downloading the contents of my intestines in a noisy and unladylike manner, I couldn’t fall back to sleep, even after my pulse finally settled down. At six I gave up and went downstairs to find that while the dog gate was still locked and Volnay sleeping behind it, Chewbacca was crashed out on the living room couch, and two of the three cushions had been completely mauled beyond recognition. Great. Now he is big enough to jump the fence. I packed him up and drove him to Doggie Days, as much for his own safety as for my convenience, paid the kennel fee, and said I would be back to fetch him Sunday evening, and in an emergency to call Wayne. Andrea is house-sitting to take care of Volnay, and to have a romantic weekend with Law, and I couldn’t in good conscience leave the Demolition Pup in the mix. I think she wants to get a dog, but Law isn’t so interested, so she volunteered so they could do a little trial run.

Elliot sent Teddy to drive me to the airport and save me a car service, which was very lovely of him. I had a second attack in the middle of the security procedure, and almost gave the TSA guys a real dirty bomb to discover, but made it through the other side and into the nearest bathroom in time. And after a clammy hour at the Admirals Club, I am now on my plane to SFO, staring at a little bit of numb that is looking very tempting.

“Why are you so freaked out? They’re just your parents.”

I dunno. I haven’t seen them in almost eight months. I haven’t seen them since . . .

“Since I croaked? Shuffled off this mortal coil? Bit the dust? Expired? Missed the curve? Became formerly animated? Crossed over? Danced the last dance? Ran off with the reaper? Became living-challenged?”

You talk a lot for a . . .

“Corpse? Ex-parrot? Worm food?”

And this? Right here? Is why I am going to take this pill as soon as the flight attendant brings me my water.

“You’re fine. They’re your parents. It’s Passover. You’ll make matzo balls with Eileen and debate the state of the election with Mike, and watch a lot of taped old-people shows like
NCIS
, and get a cramped back from that horrible guest room pullout bed, and then you’ll come home and you’ll see them again in the fall for Rosh Hashanah.”

The flight attendant delivers my water, and I don’t hesitate. I swallow the pill, finish the glass and lean back in the seat, closing my eyes.

“It’ll be fine. You’ll see. They’re fine. It will be a great weekend.”

And then I am gone.

* * *

O
ne thing about Xanax if you aren’t used to it? It makes everything deliciously fuzzy. I don’t remember takeoff, and barely registered landing. I floated to baggage claim, was greeted by Jorge, the driver I arranged, who took my bag and led me to a car that was the twin of Wayne’s monstrosity. I have to give credit, though; they are comfy to ride in. I watched the world go by, the Voix was blissfully quiet, and I just started to come into focus as we pulled into my parents’ Berkeley driveway.

“Sweetheart!” My mom comes to the door and grabs me in a hug, planting multiple kisses on my cheek and neck.

“Hi, Mom,” I say, thinking that her hair seems to be getting blonder, and that she is definitely noticeably shorter than the last time I was here.

“Hello, pumpkin.” My dad comes into the foyer to give me a hug, his gray curly hair bushy around the sides of his head, scalp shiny above. But his hug is still strong and comforting, and his eyes have lost none of their twinkle.

“Hi, Daddy.”

I schlep my suitcase inside and take it to the guest room cum office where I stay when I am here. The dreaded pullout couch is already unfurled and made up, room has been made in the closet, my mom’s laptop pushed to the side on the table that serves as her desk to make room for me. There is a pair of dark chocolate squares on a little doily on the pillow.

I unpack quickly, avail myself of the bathroom just outside the door of my room, and get their gifts and the other treats I brought out of my carry-on bag. I’ve brought a tin of homemade chocolate-covered toffee matzo, which my dad loves even though he’s always at risk of pulling off a crown. A second tin of coconut macaroons, my mom’s favorite, in a new configuration, an experiment from the Notebook, using large dried flakes of unsweetened coconut instead of the little sugary shreds that are most common. The result, as I hoped, was gorgeous little craggy mounds of golden-brown coconut, crispy on the outside, chewy inside, barely held together with sweet goo, tasting mostly of coconut and not cloying like so many of these traditional sweets. Half of them I dipped in dark chocolate, and half I left plain. I found a great wrap sweater in a shade of green that is going to make my mom’s eyes pop while it keeps her warm, since she apparently has no circulation, based on the house always feeling like a sauna. For Dad, an antique harp-shaped multitool, his favorite thing, something that shows old craftsmanship, has inherent patina and beauty but is still enormously functional.

I open the window in my room and turn on the ceiling fan. This is when we begin the thermostat dance. The thermostat is right outside the room where I’m staying. It currently reads 78 degrees. As in, my parents have set the temperature of their house for a level of heat that when it hits that temp outside, SANE people turn on their air conditioning. I turn it down to 70. For the next two and a half days, this shift will occur at least eleven times a day. None of us will speak of it.

I head out to find my folks in their charming kitchen. The Spanish-influenced home was built in the 1920s, and retains the original terra-cotta tile floor in the kitchen, as well as the original tile counters. My parents opened the back wall and added French doors to lead into the back garden, so the kitchen gets wonderful light and breezes on the rare occasion you can get Mom to agree to leave the doors open. It isn’t a foodie kitchen or a chef kitchen, but homey and warm, and really the kind of kitchen you want your parents to have.

“Come sit, schnookie,” Dad says, patting the chair next to him at the rustic farm table.

“Do you want a cup of tea? The kettle is still hot,” my mom says, getting a mug off of the weird wire mug tree they keep on the counter, and rendering the question sort of moot.

“Sure, Mom, thanks.”

One thing about Mom, she might not remember what she had for breakfast or where her keys are, but she remembers how you take your coffee or tea, whether you like a “real” martini (gin) or a “weird” martini (vodka), and whatever it is you might be allergic to. In moments, I have a steaming cup of Constant Comment with precisely one and a half packets of Splenda and a splash of milk sitting in my hands. Of course, as it is a thousand degrees and I’m already sweating, the hot beverage has somewhat less appeal, but then I remember Jasmin telling me that in tropical climates they drink hot tea in hot weather to make themselves sweat so that they can cool off. Maybe it will work.

“So, what’s going on? How is everything and everyone? How are our grandpuppies?” my dad asks. Thank goodness. These are easy and safe conversations. I tell them about Andrea and Law, about everyone at the Library, about Noah’s winning his school science fair, and Benji’s new three-month stage at Conlon, a two-Michelin-starred fine-dining restaurant that is owned by my friend Alana’s business partner Patrick. Benji is starting in a couple of weeks, and is giddy at the thought of learning from the team there. I also think he already has an epic crush on Patrick, who is very handsome, but also seriously straight.

I relish sharing the adventures of Volnay and Chewbacca, ending with the couch-eating incident of this morning.

“Oh my,” Mom says, wiping a tear from laughing so hard. “What a naughty dog!”

“He sounds like a real handful,” Dad says, shaking his head. “What was Wayne thinking?”

“Well, it is actually sort of widely held that older dogs can be rejuvenated by the presence of a younger dog, so Wayne just thought it would be good for Volnay to have a puppy of her own. And a friend of Noah’s mom raises this breed and had someone back out on a purchase, so . . .”

“So Wayne just jumped in willy-nilly on your behalf,” Dad says.

“Because deep down he probably subconsciously knew that you would object, so by involving Noah and making it about giving a home to an abandoned dog, he could justify it in his own mind,” Mom says, dipping a little into therapist mode, as she is wont to do.

“I don’t know that it was that calculated. And it wouldn’t be what I would have done for myself. But at the end of the day, Chewie is sort of shockingly lovable, and it certainly has put a little spring back in Volnay’s step.”

“Lovable, but hard on the furniture,” says Dad, looking at the pictures in my phone of Chewie sitting proudly in the middle of his reupholstery project.

“Well, it’s just a couch. I e-mailed the girl who helped me at Montauk Sofa when I bought it, and ordered two new cushions.
C’est la vie.
Besides, as I recall, I had my own moments back in the day!”

“Oh, god, you were a DISASTER,” my mom agrees.

“Remember when she thought she’d help the painters?” Dad asks. They were painting their master bedroom when I was about seven, with buttery yellow walls and chocolate brown trim. Ah, the ’70s. The painters took a lunch break, and I went in and drew a field of brown flowers on the still-wet yellow.

“The painters? How about the hole she made in the wall next to her bed?”

When I was about ten, I once spent an entire rainy Sunday reading Nancy Drew mysteries on my bed, absentmindedly picking at a small crack in the plaster on the wall beside me. By the time I finished
The Secret of the Old Clock
, there was a foot-wide hole in the plaster, all the way down to the lathe.

Dad chuckles. “How about when she sent the pork chop into the wall?” At this the three of us crack up.

“It was not my fault! They installed the vent filter backward!” My folks redid the kitchen when I was in high school, getting a Wolf cooktop with indoor grill, and instead of an overhead hood, put in a backsplash downdraft vent that opened up behind the stove. I decided one night to make dinner for us; pork chops to test the grill. I opened the vent, turned it on High, and got to cooking. Already confident in the kitchen and having a little bit of flair, I went to flip one of the chops with a little bit of abandon, but instead of getting my spatula underneath the chop, it hit the bone with enough force to shoot the chop right into the vent. Where it got sucked into the wall, because the filter was in backward, leaving enough space for a prime piece of porcine deliciousness to slip right by. Let’s just say it was not an inexpensive or convenient thing to retrieve. And week-old wall-chop is not going to be the latest Yankee Candle scent.

My mom reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I, for one, adore this dog, I think it is the closest thing you’ll ever get to having a child just like yourself.”

And whatever else it dredges up for me, it is good to be a family again for a little while.

* * *

I
s the water boiling?” my mom asks

“Yep, ready for balls.” We are making the matzo balls for tomorrow night’s Seder. She mixed the batter earlier today so that it would have ample time to chill, and now that we have rolled them, it’s time to put them in the boiling salt water to cook. My mom brings over the plate with the balls, and I drop them carefully one by one into the boiling pot, reducing the heat to a simmer and covering. We have the brisket in the oven, braising slowly, and a large pot of chicken soup simmering as well. We’ll make the vegetables and matzo kugel tomorrow. The table is already set, and all of the various elements, the apple and nut and wine mixture called charoset, the freshly grated horseradish, and other Seder plate necessities are all set. My mom hard-boiled the eggs yesterday, unfortunately, so I expect they will have rubbery whites and powdery yolks surrounded by green. And since even I can’t bring myself to make gefilte fish from scratch, Mom picked up some from the local deli. It seems like a lot for just the three of us. But I’m sort of glad we aren’t hosting a big event.

“So, how are things with that Brian fellow?” Mom asks.

“Over. It wasn’t serious, we were just dating and it sort of ran its course.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, he sounded nice.”

“He is nice, just, I’m not really in relationship mode right now.”

“I would think that now would be the time you would most want to be in relationship mode.”

“I’m just not frankly much in the mood. Dating is hard and annoying. All those conversations, where you went to school and your career and all that. It requires energy I just don’t have these days. I think dating Brian just proved that I’m not ready.”

“Honey, I know it has been a rough couple of years, losing Jack and losing Aimee, and all of it. But you know we worry for you. We want to know that you are happy.”