Story Girl (8 page)

The damned alcohol went straight to my eyes, but I wouldn’t let him see me cry.

“Tracy, it’s okay. I’m not expecting you to be every woman.”

His gentleness unnerved me somehow, as if he were meddling with the core that even I’d been denied access to.

“What are you gonna do with the rest of your life, James?”

“What are you gonna do with the rest of yours, Tracy?”

“Well, tomorrow I’m going to the spa.”

The waiter placed another citrus delight in front of me, and I instantly gulped it down. The tears could come if they wanted to – I didn’t care anymore.

“After that, maybe I’ll sleep for a month and then deal with that space thing again.”

“Is that really the level of passion you have for your writing?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I still don’t believe you. Not at all.”

“Don’t then.”

“Maybe you’re just scared. Maybe you don’t feel worthy of your own voice.”

“Don’t lecture me on issues of worth. You’re an adult man who acts like a ten-year-old. Do you really think that’s attractive to women? When Mommy and Daddy Warbucks swoop in to take care of your doodie poos? And rather than appreciate your fabulous karma, you find a way to hate them for it.”

I couldn’t believe I had uttered
doodie poos
nor could I believe my dream date was now swirling down the shitter. All thanks to me and my runaway mouth. It was like my damn opinions had a mind of their own.

James was silent, wounded to the core by the big bad scary woman. I had just unloaded nearly six feet of Amazonian terror on him, and now felt like the most unattractive thing ever to be tolerated in Beverly Hills.

“I didn’t realize you were so angry,” he said.

“Neither did I.”

We sat in silence as he was served plates of meat and I was served plates of greens.

“James, I’m really sorry about that. Sometimes I just go off like a wing-nut. Maybe I do want a husband and kids. Maybe I thought I was too cool for it before, maybe I thought it would be some sort of boring trap. I mean, maybe I was thinking marriage isn’t even necessary anymore.”

“Maybe it is, maybe not. Maybe you don’t have a clue what you want. Maybe you’re just as wishy-washy as I am.”

“Maybe,” I said, as sweetly as possible.

I was trying hard to salvage the evening and heal the puncture wound I’d delivered, but he looked as though he’d lost his essential spark. It bothered me to know I could snatch it from him so completely.

“You know, I already feel bad enough about myself. And you make me feel worse, Tracy.”

My tongue licked at the sides of my empty glass.

“I have my struggles too, you know,” he said.

“Like what?”

“Stuff.”

Despite my better, lust-driven self, my smart-mouth was not going to let him sit and whine about his life predicament, “Where to go on vacation? What stocks to invest in?”

“It’s a struggle for meaning,” he said.

“Well, it’s a luxurious struggle then.”

“But it is a struggle.”

“I just really don’t care.”

“You don’t like me then,” he said. “Why the hell are you here when you don’t even like me?”

“Yes, I do like you,” I said, unsure of myself. “It’s just that your self-pity is boring and your so-called struggle has about as much depth as an ingrown hair.”

“You’re an asshole,” he said.

“Probably so, James. But no one is ever gonna feel sorry for you – not ever. And maybe it’s that fact – more than any other – that makes you feel so sorry for yourself.”

He nodded at me and drained his cocktail.

I’d been looking forward to the most extraordinary evening of my life, but my romantic interest in James was disappearing like a magic act. He was a lost little boy, and I guess I’d been hoping for a man.

“Do you want me to give the money back?” I asked.

“It’s not my money, Tracy. Besides, didn’t I ruin what was left of your life?”

His scar was beckoning, inviting me to touch it, “You wish.”

We had the Spago feast wrapped to go, and left all of our hopes for each other on the luminous patio beneath the cold black sky – as if the stars had all abandoned the heavens to sit and be seen in this eatery.

Oh well. Another crushed possibility left to die in a La La Land landmark.

James dropped me off outside my lonely room, and I spent the rest of the night crying into my dirty pillowcase. Maybe I was only content if my chances for happiness were on life support. Lucy licked my tears with her rough little tongue, and I thanked God for not pulling the plug completely.

chapter
11

T
HE NEXT DAY
I bit the bullet, and decided to drown myself in clichés.

I bought a ticket home for my parents’ surprise anniversary celebration. With the newfound money, this was simply the way the ball had to bounce – but I was hopeful I’d find a silver lining in even the darkest cloud of whatever it was I was in for.

I called to let them know I’d be dropping in for a long overdue visit. They were both ecstatic that I’d be coming home, and I was careful not to drop any hints, although the timing of my trip would surely make them suspicious. I was happy that I didn’t have to rely on Jenny’s faux charity, and decided I would no longer answer her calls. Nor would I answer any calls from Sheila or James.

Oh, God. James.

I sat on the floor next to the window, exactly where we had sat the other night. The view was the same, but everything looked different. I still couldn’t believe how sarcastic I had been to such a sweet guy, but he disappointed me in a profound way. And that’s probably because I disappointed myself in the same way. I was really no different than he was, and would endure precisely the same struggles if I’d been lucky enough to be born into his life.

Maybe he was right about me – perhaps I didn’t feel worthy enough to succeed. I stood up and skulked over to my floundering
screenplay – the way one might move towards a killer spider. It felt light and meaningless in my hands.

Lucy and I sat on the bed, and I closed my eyes until all I could perceive was black. My perfected ability to fantasize now took me deep into the heart of a movie theater. With extra buttery popcorn in one hand and an iced cold Coke in the other, I found a seat as far back as I could. I sat through preview trailers until a serious score finally took over, signaling that
Space Boy
, a film written by Tracy Johnston, had indeed begun.

I opened my eyes to the first scene, just as I had written it months ago. We, the audience, are seeing Earth through the eyes of *The Space Station*. This station isn’t really a place as much as it is a force. It beckons only to those who long for freedom – a freedom so vast that it can only be compared to space. It is neither a good force nor a bad force – but it is there, and it exerts itself on all those who would seek expansion. Like a mirror, the space station ultimately serves to reflect.

And then we CUT TO a young blonde boy who is standing alone on the balcony of a large house. He is staring up at the heavens through a large telescope – and when he pulls his face away, we can see that he is longing for something. We can also see the traces of sadness that he carries. Who knows who this child might be or who he will become, but it quickly becomes clear that his insatiable curiosity for the unknown will take him wherever he needs to be.

The phone rang just as I was about to advance my protagonist. Shit. I ignored the phone but the mood was lost. So far, the blueprint I had spelled out with words was translating well to the screen in my head. I would have to use my powers of fantasy to guide me through the first fifty-one minutes so that I could find the visual track to write the rest. And when it was done, there would be no guarantee that it wouldn’t just languish in a drawer or on a shelf – for the rest of all time.

Such would be a tragedy, similar in scope to the Taj Mahal or Eiffel Tower never having been built – only existing as stacks of
blueprints disintegrating into dust. Except it was almost a sure thing that my spectacle would never be built or seen, and the architect would never be admired or remembered forever throughout history. It was simply the way of Hollywood, a giant graveyard for lost and forgotten blueprints.

Maybe my ideas of self-importance were too grandiose – instead I should be humble, and just write without any regard for outcomes. That’s what all the wise people seemed to suggest. It was best to be without expectation and watch the magical moments unfold. But it was in these waters that I always capsized.

It was hard to do anything at all without an expectation of some kind, unless you were kidding yourself. I loved writing but it was so damn hard, and I needed incentives to continue. Fame and fortune were huge bonuses, but then I’d be writing for all of the ‘wrong’ reasons.

Now, with money in the bank, there was no reason not to write – unless of course, I lacked the sufficient passion for such a monumental endeavor. Or maybe I was just drained from the effort of piling up so much defeat.

My head throbbed, so I took a taxi to Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf and had a large fix of caramel flavored caffeine. I slurped and pouted – exactly like James might – until it was time to take another cab to the spa.

The waiting room at Spa-tastic felt very Zen-like. Birds chirped and a pan flute floated across scented air. Water gurgled gently from various fountains and white flowers soothed the eye.

A small elderly Asian woman appeared out of nowhere and gently guided me into a tiny room with bare walls and a massage table. She informed me that her name was Miss Tan and that she’d come here from Korea thirty years ago. Her countenance was sweet, but she was also no-nonsense – something like a cute but maturing tiger.

But nothing could dampen my anticipation. It had been a long time since I’d treated myself to such an indulgence and I could
hardly wait to feel her capable hands gently massaging away my broken heart.

Miss Tan removed her buckled slippers with great ceremony and then lit a stick of musky incense. I stood as still as possible out of respect for her ritual until she barked at me to hurry up, disrobe, and slip under the sheet – face up.

It was a mighty good thing that I’d shaved everything so pristine. I was expecting her to leave the room as is proper etiquette but she remained where she was, with hands on hips. I tried to undress as quickly as possible without giving her much visual access to my ample thighs and hips. Soon I was safely concealed under the cool sheet. But she promptly positioned herself over me – studying me with a very concerned, almost puzzled expression.

“You don’t need massage,” she said.

“I don’t?”

“You need reike.”

“What’s that?”

“I spin your circles – they clogged up.”

“Circles?”

“The chakras are stuck, the chi is backed up – like a clogged pipe,” she said, rather annoyed.

“Oh.”

“What wrong with you?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“We find out.”

“Okay.”

Before I could inquire further, she was pulling invisible bands of energy out of my chest.

“Spin spin spin,” she cried. “Spin the sex, spin the dust, spin the crown.”

I had no clue what was happening but my tummy felt the way it does when a roller coaster plummets.

“You squirmy inside,” she said. “A big ball of mix-up.”

“Yes – that seems about right.”

Tan closed her eyes and motioned her hands in slow ovals over my body – she looked like a human metal detector.

“Ahhhhhhhhh,” she said. “A-ha.”

“What?”

“You shut yourself off like a light.”

“I do?”

“You in off mode.”

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“How do I turn myself back on?”

“Only you know,” she said.

“Know what?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“How?” I asked.

She shrugged again.

“Miss Tan?”

“Call me Tan.”

“Tan.”

“Stop whining, child – this is half your problem.”

“Yeah, but – ”

“But nothing. The answers in your chest.”

“They are?”

“You not foolish – you know already.”

“But I’m confused.”

“No, you not confused. You stuck.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No, stuck is to know and not act.”

“So then what is confused?”

“To not know and not act.”

I scratched at the palm of my hand.

“Empowerment is to not know but act anyway.”

“Or maybe that’s the definition of reckless,” I said.

She ignored me and concentrated on wiggling each of her strong but tiny fingers.

“Do you have any juice?” I asked.

“Stop distracting,” she snapped.

“But I’m thirsty.”

“Distracted.”

“But even you said I was a big ball of mix-up.”

“Until I examined your chest.”

“What about it?”

“You in love. Simple.”

I was shocked. How could she possibly know such a thing? And how could it possibly be simple? But even more importantly, how could I be in love with someone after only a few hours together – a guy too spoiled to ever even hold a job.