Story Girl (6 page)

“It wasn’t a date,” I coughed. My military neck was throbbing.

He squinted at me and then at Sheila.

“I keep telling her to just come out already, but whatever. It’s her decision, not mine. I mean, I was also against outing Jodie Foster.”

Sheila smiled across at us in the most enticing way possible, and it required all of my will power not to stick a fork in her eye.

“I must admit I like the boys, the men, the stronger sex,” she said. “Love their hands and feet, love the sexy line of their neck – the bobbing apple, the contour of the muscles, the way they walk, their masculine musty scent, and the casual charisma.”

“Is that all?” I asked.

She ignored me without once taking her eyes off of James. It was obvious that she was trying for Marilyn Monroe but came much closer to Rue McClanahan.

“Now, if you’ll both excuse me, I’m off to the ladies room where I’ll powder my nose,” she said, and choked a little. The throaty whisper must have got stuck in her throat.

James turned to me, “Is she out on a day pass?”

“Probably.”

“Really kinda wacky.”

I relaxed instantly, almost grateful for Sheila’s antics. She was making me seem relatively sane.

“But did you really go out with a woman? Because if you are gay, I’ll be really bummed out.”

“You will?”

“Yes.”

“I went out last night, with a woman – who just happens to be pregnant. It wasn’t a date, though.”

“What was it?”

“Research.”

“You’re not reassuring me, Tracy.”

“I’m not gay – trust me.”

I also wanted to admit that my stomach was now a frantic dance of the willies, thanks to the big sexy veins that were almost bulging free of his hands.

“But I do have to tell you something, James.”

“Okay – you’re seeing her again because men suck?”

“No, although they do suck – sometimes.”

I wasn’t sure how to continue.

“Continue.”

“I’ve just been feeling a little stressed lately and a little gross.”

“And?”

“And that’s enough.”

He was quiet – just looked at me as though I might be as mad as a hatter.

“What do you think of that?” I asked. I figured the only way to deal with my insecurities was simply to present them, air them out in the open.

“I was just admiring your green eyes, alabaster skin, perfect nose, and sweet little mouth.”

Alabaster skin?

“Othello?” I asked.

He nodded and downed a packet of artificial sweetener.

I was thrilled. Not only had I never thought of myself in those terms, but how many hotties – plucked from the freeway – can quote Orwell
and
Shakespeare, “Thanks, but I don’t have a shred of lip and my nose is crooked.”

He studied me to see if I was kidding, “You’re a little delusional.”

We said nothing further on the topic – just studied our menus. And it was all okay because I could literally feel his attraction for me, and it felt rather overwhelming – especially since it matched my own for him.

“Just how many hours were we in that hospital?” I asked.

He looked at me the way Rob Lowe looked at Demi Moore in
About Last Night
, “I don’t know – I’ve lost track of
almost
everything.”

Oh yes, indeed.

Sheila came back and positioned herself into the booth so that her breasts literally surged forth, threatening to overspill her fuchsia tank top. Now that James and I had firmly re-established ourselves, we began to giggle. The laughter started off mild but quickly strengthened in intensity until we were both roaring and crying and struggling for air.

“What’s so damned funny?” Sheila asked.

“I was just telling James how much I love beaver.”

“And it kinda grossed me out,” he said. “Being, of course, that I’m also gay.”

Though my eyes were spurting tears, I could still see the black rage cloud that had engulfed her face. She was on to us, and our rock-solid alliance.

“You two queers can find your own way home,” she cried, and fled the restaurant in a major huff.

We watched as she broke a heel and nearly flew into the backseat of a restored convertible bug. A parking attendant grabbed her and steadied her and folded her into her own car. She sat there at least five minutes before driving away.

I stared at my phone until the angry text arrived: YOU ARE A FIRST CLASS FUCKING COW!

chapter
9

T
HE HEAVENS WERE
full of winking stars.

Not that I could see them in the L.A. sky – but I knew just the same.

James and I were walking west on Franklin, all the way to my room. We didn’t hold hands, but I could tell that we both wanted to. I also noticed that his limp was gone.

I invited him up, and he smiled a big happy yes. It was at this point that I regretted not washing my hair for three days – not even when I’d been stuck in the tub with hives. Not even before my desperate date with Jason. I was also aware of the two small nests of underarm hair that had been left untouched for the past three weeks. Perhaps I had been in a funk – as Jenny had so generously suggested.

I placed the key in the lock with near palpitations; the place was small and cat-smelly and Lucy had probably added a few droppings to the shambles. She was never consistent when it came to using her proper potty. I opened the door and turned on my new ecofriendly bulb, which set the entire mess ablaze in a Wal*Mart glow.

“It’s one big litter box,” I said, trying hard to sound as cool and indifferent as Janeane Garofalo. As if this wasn’t really my life, and I didn’t really care.

“At least you earn the rent,” he said. I could tell he really meant it, and I was again at ease with my bare self. No bells, no whistles.

I heated tea in the microwave. James looked around at my books and pictures and the tiny toothpick people I handcrafted when bored or depressed.

“I have never seen so many toothpick people,” he said. “You literally have a forest worth of wood in here.”

“Yep.”

We sat on the floor near the big window – overlooking a square of the adjacent building – and sipped chai from large beige pottery mugs.

I didn’t want him to feel guilty but I had to be honest, “I don’t know what I’m gonna do for money now. I was fired for not showing up today.”

“Oh fuck.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Maybe this whole accident thing is a sign from the universe.”

“A bad sign,” I said, slurping mightily at my chai.

“Maybe we were both on the wrong track, heading in the wrong direction. And the accident derailed us.”

“But you were headed for Hawaii,” I said.

“Not really.”

“Are you saying we saved each other from something?” I asked.

“Well, were you happy with the status quo?” He smiled big and wide, and his eyes sparkled accordingly. I could see his nipples under his baby blue cotton shirt.

“You did save me from a crappy day on the set. Although I guess some hotshot was set up for a cameo.”

“Do you like hotshots?” he asked.

“Sometimes.”

He shook his head and sipped his tea. He didn’t slurp.

“What?” I asked.

“You don’t strike me as that type.”

He was mostly right. And now was not the time to reveal my marathon fantasy life, not when I had the real thing alive and breathing in my room. I absolutely had to see this guy’s nipples.

“Are your nipples pierced?” I asked.

“Of course not.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He lifted up his shirt and showed me his pectoral muscles, just exactly as I’d predicted he would. They were hard and soft and hairless and masculine all at the same time. I had to look away for fear of lurching across the carpet and chewing at a handful of his chest.

“See,” he said. “No piercings.”

“I stand corrected.”

To my absolute and secret delight, he took off his shirt and tossed it across the floor.

“The walk made me sweaty, and now I feel gross,” he said.

“You’re not gross.”

I was sitting on my hands much like a guy in a strip club awaiting a lap dance. It had been quite some time since I’d been with a man – unless I count John. John and I had great chemistry until I found out that he was one of those sorry souls who have to stand on the corner dressed like a sandwich. He explained to me that he really enjoyed waving to people, and that the ‘gig’ was only two days a week. I felt bad for being such a snob, but I could no longer allow the pastrami king access to my privates.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“That I’m topless.”

“Not at all. Topless is good.”

“Okay.”

“I mean, feel free. Whatever.”

James began to stretch his upper body, giving me an eye-full of his torso. I had more body hair than he did.

“Do you shave your arm pits?” I asked.

“Yeah, just an old habit. I used to swim.”

“And so that makes you faster?”

“Something like that.”

Now I felt beastly – once again aware of all my overgrown

“Hey – there’s half a script over there,” he said, as if talking areas. about one of John’s uneaten sandwiches.

“Want some?” I asked blandly.

“You never told me you’re a writer.”

“I’m not.”

“You are so, unless your cat wrote it.”

“Lucy deserves more credit.”

“What’s it called?”

The damned script was the last thing I wanted to talk about.

“Space Boy. I’ve completed fifty-one pages in one hundred and fifty three days. That does not make me a writer.”

“You keep track.”

“I do not.”

“So is that like one page every three days?”

I watched him calculate the math in his head, and I made a hurried scan of his features: thick black eyelashes, ice blue eyes, and a small vertical scar running the length of his cheek.

He looked right at me, caught me in the act, “What?”

“Would it be rude of me to ask how you got the scar?”

“Oh, that.” He ran his finger along it. “I was a little kid – tried to shave with a knife.”

“How little?”

“I think it was the day before kindergarten,” he said, looking instantly sad.

“Did you get much sympathy?” I asked.

“My parents were pretty worried.”

Despite his primo ability to feel sorry for himself, I immediately wanted to lick the scar, give it the good ol’ Popsicle treatment –
up and down, circle, and again. I imagined it would taste like thick skin – smooth, hard, and salty.

“Are you okay, Tracy?”

“Now?”

“Of course now.”

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Why?”

“You look a little dazed.”

I couldn’t admit that I wanted to Popsicle his scar.

“Well gee, I was just in a car accident,” I said – amazed at my ability to transform my goofy moment into his.

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

“Plus – I’m just not a writer.”

“Why not?”

“Because I fooled myself into thinking I had a passion for it, when it was really just a mad dash scramble to get out of Bumble Fuck.”

“Otherwise known as?”

“Small-town Minnesota.”

“Tell me more.”

“I really don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not? I’ve told you my stuff.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“Fine. My father drove a rig. He hauled grain and sugar beets across the plains. Blah blah blah, he’s retired now. And my mother was Betty Crocker homemaker. There. Nothing too exciting.”

Now he was running the side of his thumb down his scar – I could almost feel it on my own cheek.

“Oh, and they think I’m insane for not copying the life they have. They think I’m just wasting my time here.”

“Are you?” he asked.

The light was changing angles, casting enticing shadows across his chest. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“So what do you like about being here?” he asked.

I wanted to throw myself at him, and declare that the only thing I liked about being here was the fact that he was right here with me – but I chickened out at the last second.

“I like the energy here, all the ambition and drive. I like to be around it, but I can’t really say that I have it myself.”

An image of me scaling the wall of the William Morris Agency flashed through my head.

“I don’t really believe that,” he said.

Thoughts regarding my complete lack of success threatened to drown the sex hormones that were wildly raging.

“But I do get it, Tracy. Sometimes I know that I don’t have the stamina for this place, but yet it’s the only place that feels like home. It’s the only place that makes me feel alive.”

I pulled my knees up to my chin and hid my face from him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Tell me.”

“Do you ever feel like you’re just trying to stay afloat in a pool of self-absorption?”

“What?”

“What if we’re just splashing around in our own narcissism?”

“Is that really how you feel?”

“Not really.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah – I was just wondering.”

“It’s not a crime to want to create stuff and express yourself.”