Disconnected Page 2
I eyed him, but couldn't resist smiling. His last remark was characteristically female, like he knew what it felt like to count every calorie.
“Jerry's Deli is right around the corner and they have great sandwiches, soups, salads. My treat, to celebrate my new membership here, and our new partnership." He drank the last of his soda and tossed the can in the trash next to the soda machine. “Come on. Join me, if you've got nothing else going on. I'm lusting after a pastrami on rye.”
My stomach rumbled. No need to rush back to my empty house. My roommate had been staying at her boyfriend's for the last month. Having dinner with my new racquetball partner seemed harmless. And eating an actual meal was far more preferable than one more dry baked potato topped with carrot sticks— the dog, and TV my only companions for the evening. And to Lee's point, we earned dinner after that workout. "Friends only, right?" I watched him careful for any change in demeanor.
"Just friends." He held up his index and middle finger in the Boy Scout salute. And the smile that spread across his face was infectious.
---
I followed Lee's silver Mercedes west on Ventura, towards Jerry's, and the setting sun. Even with the heater blasting I was freezing with the passenger window half open. Face was in doggy bliss though, her long snout stuck out as far as possible, craning her neck to snuffle in the cool, crisp air, her jowls puffed with wind. I smiled, glad to have her with me, continually enamored by her unfettered joy in just being.
The orange sunset lit up the smoke intermittently billowing from the sunroof of his Mercedes. The sweet smell of colitas floated into my car and sparked my relentless craving for a buzz— that sublime lightness of being— for just an evening shutting out fear and Lonely, and engaging exclusively with my muse.
Lee accelerated through the light at Laurel Canyon just before it turned orange. I was right behind him, then a BMW cut me off and I slammed on my brakes to avoid hitting him. The idiot turned left in front of me, leaving me at the intersection just as orange turned to red. Waiting for the green light, reason went to battle with desire inside me. Racquetball, even the occasional dinner after a game could spark a friendship, as I had with Jon, but intuition insisted that was as far as I should ever take it with Lee.
Halloween, 1991, Los Angeles was typically clear and crisp out. As a native of the land of perpetual sunshine, I'd never missed trick-or-treating from bad weather. A fanatic fan of all things sweet, I used to be so excited for this day to come every year, though I probably shouldn't have been. My weight issues were surely caused by my inability to control what I ate. Paradoxically, through most of my youth, eating, preferably in front of the TV, felt more like the solution to feeling sad.
A beater car slowed to pace me as I took my place in the line of cars turning into the deli. Primered and dented, I couldn't make out the car model, or see the driver through the tinted windows. I called Face in and rolled up the windows, practically held my breath till they passed. Though Studio City was considered one of the better suburbs of L.A., even with the recent drive-by there, violence was spreading everywhere.
Heavy, audible sigh of relief when I finally pulled into Jerry's parking lot, then waited another five minutes for the valet—wearing only a Tarzan loin cloth (with the build to pull it off) to give me a parking pass for the business center lot. I pulled into the nearest available spot in the office complex, retrieved the pen stuck inside the metal coil of the spiral notebook on the passenger seat and flipped open the black cardboard cover to a blank page. As with all entries, I titled the prose simply by date.
10/31/91
Ah, to be a dog...to be so idyllically simple to thoroughly enjoy living instead of suffocating under the weight of fabricated complexities.
-----
Closed the notebook, gave Face a quick scratch on the white diamond marking on her muzzle, locked my car and went to meet Lee. Several cars down the row of parked cars I was passing, a guy was hunched over the front of a Datsun Z. He was dressed in a fringed leather jacket, his jeans gathered around his calves, his bare white ass pumped back and forth as he humped the woman under him. She lay splayed on the long hood, panting and moaning, her sparkly blue party dress gathered up past her hips, her legs wrapped around his waist.
Neither seemed to noticed me. I took off running, passed the next row of parked cars, and the next, finally slowing to walk when I got to the deli's crowded entryway.
Lee stood by the wrought iron bench near the deli's entrance, a dozen or more people loosely gathered near him. All were White, mid-20s to late 50s, in-shape, and in vogue—dressed tight and revealing, some even in costume, likely on their way to a party after their appearance at the frequented studio industry hangout. I still wore my skin-tight black leggings, topped with a loose black T, my standard racquetball wear. If I'd meant to impress, I never would have agreed to play ball our first meeting.
"That took a while,” Lee said dryly. “Started to think you changed your mind and went home.” There was a hint of anger in his tone. “I put our name down for a table already.”
“Thanks.” And I should have left it at that, but I felt a need to defend my honor. “I told you I'd meet you here, and I do what I say. Took me 15 minutes to get a spot in the business lot. Where'd you park?”
“Across the street.” He stared at me with glassy eyes. “I have an in with the parking gods.” He flashed a quick grin, which lightened his initial contention. “Anyway, glad you made it.” His dark hair blended into the folds of the hooded sweatshirt he'd put on and framed his baby face. He looked like one of the Sibyls surrounding God in the painting on the Sistine Chapel.
A hostess came outside dressed as a maid from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, with the tiny flared skirt and 4" spiked heels, and called Lee's name. Our table was ready. It was packed inside, and loud. The deli was one large, bright dining room, complete with the classic chrome lined linoleum bar and rotating stools. The hostess led us through the crowds and seated us at a small maroon vinyl booth along the back wall. And for the moment we both got caught up in the bizarre.
A naked man, except for his feathered cap, groin and ass, was being escorted out of the restaurant by a large Black bouncer. He stopped before exiting, took off his cap and bowed to a woman about to pass him in the narrow entryway lined with glass cabinets full of treats. Both Lee and I laughed. He had a deep, resonant laugh. I liked it.
"It's definitely manic in here," he said, surveying the scene. "Thanks for coming, joining me for dinner tonight. Sorry about the timing.”
“Don't be. The floor show is way more entertaining than another night of TV.” I'd never have confessed this if I was looking to garner his interest, but I didn't have to pretend to be busy. I wasn't looking to impress Lee.
He chuckled knowingly. “I totally get it. I'm there. I've been hiding in my condo for a year now, since being back on my own. My friends are all on my case to get out and about. Which is why I was looking in the personals." He kept his focus on me as a slender young waitress/model/actress dressed as a Playboy bunny, floppy ears, bushy tail and all came to our table.
She was gorgeous—long, slender legs, her flat belly accentuated her perky breasts. Her cleavage demanded notice as she bent to hear us, but Lee looked at me as he ordered a pastrami on rye, and stayed fixed on me while I ordered a cobb salad. He kept his eyes on me as the waitress straightened, stuck her notepad into her waistband and turned away.
"I hope you don't mind my asking,” Lee said. “I'm wondering what kind of response you got to your ad?"
“Why?” I smiled. “Thinking of putting one up?
“Well, as my racquetball partner, would you recommend it? I mean, were the guys, like...normal?”
“What's your metric? Are you normal?” I teased. “I don't think any were psycho-killers, if that's what you mean. But most were on par with all the other self-appointed omnipotent males I've met.” I heard myself say it aloud, and Lee laugh. I babbled on to cover the slam. “I only met a few
of the guys for coffee. And I went out with just one, and only once."
“And who was this lucky guy? And why didn't you keep dating him?” Lee kept the conversation on me, as he had on the phone our first exchange. It was unique being on the other side of the interview. Felt...nice.
So I described a date from the previous weekend with a lawyer, who after meeting for coffee called back and asked me out. It got more complicated than intended to explain why even though he took me to Dar Maghreb on the Strip for dinner, I had no desire for a second date with a guy who insisted the homeless were out there because they're lazy, and in America we all have the same opportunities.
"The silver spoon up his ass clearly affected his brain." I joked, sort of. "From our chemistry to our environment, we are mostly the hand we're dealt."
"Spoken like a true cynic."
"I prefer realist."
"That's what all cynics say."
I smiled. So did Lee.
"Some would argue we have free will," Lee said. "We choose what to believe, how to be, who to love."
"Well, that's poetic and all, but most people adopt their parent's religion without ever considering what they believe. And how we behave is usually more reaction than conscious choice." I knew I was coming off strong, an egregious sin in women, according to my father, the purveyor of human behavior. Lee stared at me with rapt attention, unlike most men who seemed to mentally check out when I expressed an opinion. "And maybe we choose who to love, but we can't choose for that person to love us back." I was referring to Michael choosing Allison over me, but Lee's expression hardened.
"So, you believe our lives are predestined then?"
"No. Not at all. The laws of physics withstanding, we have quite a range of choice. People rise from poverty, overcome adversity all the time."
"Yes. But most people don't."
"Ah... You make my point. Thank you." I gave him a cheeky grin. I felt no need to be sparkly but not too bright with Lee, as the media, and social convention insisted women should be.
"Your date was unworthy of you, my dear. You're better off without him. You deserve someone who shares your vision, and passion, so you can't help but love him back." His green eyes were speckled with brown. They were large, the lids weighted but not sleepy, what my mother called 'bedroom eyes.' His long lashes nearly touched the base of his brow. "So, the lawyer's out?"
"Yup."
A scream of delight and everyone clapped as rock legends Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain entered the deli. The actor who played Jim looked familiar but I couldn't place him. Kurt Cobain looked identical to the real one—strung out and rail thin. He fell into the lap of a stylish middle-aged woman sitting at a small table along the front windows of the restaurant, and kissed her, on the lips, until her husband, or date pulled him off. He left her smiling, though, and even more so when the crowd cheered as the musical duo were shadowed to their booth by the big Black bouncer.
A tall, trim young waiter, every bit as gorgeous as the waitress, dressed in swim trunks and a Hawaiian shirt delivered our meals. "Enjoy," he said with a quick glance to each of us then gave a little bow and left. One of the few remaining perks of L.A. was all the beautiful people on display. Just going to the store was like a fashion show, with eighty percent of the population that had come to Hollywood seeking fame perpetually auditioning.
"Struggling actor, or lead in a pop band." Lee grinned, then picked up half of his five inch thick sandwich and took a big bite. He ate ravenously, and with sheer delight. "Mmm. Excellent." He took another bite and I started on my salad.
We were quiet for a moment while we ate and watched the floor show. I assumed his exaggerated appreciation for his sandwich was for my benefit and would wane, but it didn't. Lee savored each bite like the very first, bite after bite without restraint. He ate like my father did, like I would have liked to eat, and probably would have, if I were a man.
Conversation came easily, without hesitation or awkward silences. We kept it light, talked about favorite shows, movies, books, our interests. We had an even exchange, his focused attention and continual barrage of questions fully engaging. An hour or more went by in what felt like only minutes since we'd been seated. There were moments when the room and mayhem disappeared, like we were the only two people in there, absorbed in each other, chatting away while we ate.
Lee finished everything on his plate from the coleslaw to the bagel chips and pickles. I left a few forkfuls of my salad, as is Weight Watchers' recommendation for at least the perception of controlled eating.
“So,” he said, dropping his paper napkin on his empty plate. He sipped his water, then held the glass on the table between us with both hands, watching me intently. "I assume you're back to looking for 'the real thing. The white picket fence, the whole nine yards?"
I knew I was breaking a supreme law of dating edict engaging in dialog of marriage and kids on a first meeting, even in the abstract. But I could say anything to Lee— be as flagrantly honest as I wanted to be. We weren't on a date. "I've never been into fences. I prefer a lot of land around me, a safe haven for a family, flush with trees and spectacular views of the Pacific. I fantasize about the Zuma cliffs, or the rolling hills north of San Francisco."
"It's gorgeous up there, to be sure. But pricey.” His Cheshire grin emerged. “Lucky I'm good at making money." He paused, possibly to drive the point home. "Turns out shipping freight is very lucrative."
Blanked on a witty retort as our waitress came by, collected our plates and left the bill. Lee picked it up immediately, glanced at the check, took a $50 bill from his wallet and dropped it on the table as he stood.
The bill couldn't have been more than $20. He was peacocking, or he was an advocate for waiters and had money to burn. Regardless, our server got lucky Lee paid the check tonight. I sagged with the weight of perpetually impending poverty. Freelancing paid my bills, but it would never get me that house in Marin, or the kind of cash it takes to raise kids. I followed him out of the packed deli. We emerged from the noise and mayhem, and I sucked in the crisp night air, suddenly free of the tension from the crowd.
Thanks again for dinner. It was fun." It surprised me how much I meant it.
"For me, too,” he said. “Thanks for joining me tonight. Nicest evening I've had in quite some time.”
“Me, too,” slipped out and my face got hot. “Guess I'll see ya on the court next Tuesday at 4:00,” I said more than asked, hoping he still wanted to partner.
“I'll be there. Look forward to it. Be ready to get it on next week." The Cheshire cat was back.
I smiled at his double speak. Wit was smart, and intelligence tantalized.
-
Chapter 3
Lee was already on the court, rallying by himself when I arrived at 4:00p.m. on Tuesday. We played for an hour and a half until thudded pounding on the thick door disrupted us, and we were forced to abdicate our court to the next reservation.
Sweat soaked and still breathless, we chatted over Diet Cokes in the lobby. He spoke about his weekend alone at home, boredom and guilt motivating him to spend multiple hours each day playing the $5,000 electronic keyboard he'd recently purchased. Then he asked me about my weekend.
I told him I worked on a novel from a script I started in film school. And I read, I said, but lied. I didn't tell him I'd wasted much of the weekend watching TV and getting off to sate the relentless ache of loneliness.
"Great rallies today. You really had me running, which is precisely what I need. I'm looking forward to getting back in shape." He took a drink from the frosted can and leaned against the wall behind him. "Gained like fifty pounds during the two years I was married. I've lost about thirty since we separated. Have around twenty more to go, though this last bit's been a bitch to drop.”
I was awestruck by his frankness, his willingness to confess a typically female struggle. In the 1990s thin was mandatory in women, but men not so much, especially if they made a lot of money, which Lee had indicated he did.
“Truth is, I'm kind of a connoisseur.” He flashed an arch of his brow. “Not exactly in the traditional sense. I just love food."
I laughed. "Me too. My dad turned me on to the joys of eating early on, so I was kind of pudgy growing up. Took a lot of crap for it too, from kids at school, even from my mom. Lost a bunch of weight in high school, with the help of Black Beauties,” I confessed, probably because he had.
“They were pharms, back in the 70s, right? But women were starving themselves to death, if I'm remembering right.”
“Yup. FDA pulled them from the market. Too bad, but better fat than dead, I guess.” I half smiled. Shrugged. “I use racquetball in lieu of speed now. Fat is worse than leprosy, at least for a woman, especially in L.A."
"It's true that men aren't under the same body scrutiny as women. But if a guy is fat, he's not going to attract women like you, even with a lot of money.” Lee eyed me. “You can have most any guy you want, Rachel, with that nouveau-punk wild-child look you've got going. You're really quite beautiful," He said boldly, and as statements of fact, without sexual innuendo.
I laughed to cover my embarrassment. "Right." Lee was teasing, or being patronizing, or he was crazy. I could pass as L.A. trendy, but I was not beautiful.
"You are beautiful," he said again, as if reading my mind. "You just have to believe it."
"Belief doesn't make god real."
"Ah. The cynic."
"No. Realist." I smiled. His eyes virtually twinkled as his Cheshire grin slowly appeared, a visceral awareness we were connected through a private joke we'd already established. I looked away, at the stud behind the front counter watching us.
"Don't you see the way men look at you?" Lee looked at the attendant, who went back to folding towels.