Disconnected Page 5
He surprised me, first remembering what I'd said about my college education in a casual conversation weeks ago. Second, beyond just soliciting my knowledge, he was interested in art history, one of my passions. I looked down at my Chicken Caesar and suddenly resented the hell out of it, and me— my body— for storing everything I ate to fat, requiring I eat mostly salad to maintain trim, even with playing hard ball at least three days a week.
"Lee,” I began, but hesitated, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “I really love playing racquetball with you. And I, too, would love to play more— three, four times a week if you're up for it.”
“Love to.” His eyes sort of twinkled, I think, and his full lips took on a tentative smile.
“Thing is, I don't want to lead you on." The twinkle in his eyes dimmed, so I tried to soften my delivery. “You're great company, and easy to be with, Lee. And I'd love to continue hanging out after we play, like we have been, like we are, as long as we keep it just friends.” Truth was, he was glorious lightness in my persistent gloom, and more fun than I'd had with anyone in years, but I didn't say it, hoping to keep my message as unambiguous as possible.
His eyes glimmered again. "I enjoy hanging with you too, Ray. I love our connection, how much we have in common— that you think, and you don't drink, and you're not a blind believer.” Lee flashed a quick grin. “You are wildly provocative, and wickedly evocative, my dear,” he said, totally serious.
The compliment empowered me for a second, till trepidation countered. I got that he really wasn't hearing me. “Lee—”
“Look Ray, I'm happy to just hang out together when we can. No pressure, no worries, and with no expectations of anything beyond the friendship we're building." He kept his eyes fixed on mine, our connection only broken by the waiter clearing our plates. And even though my intuition knew his interest exceeded his words, I decided to believe him right then, and pretend we could just be friends.
---
On the 101 heading down to Laguna Beach at 10:00 a.m., Lee reached up to his visor and pulled out the Marlboro Red's box, extracted a joint, then flashed a grin. "Care to join me?"
Intuition mocked me. There was no doubt Lee was an addict. Friends we were becoming, and must surely remain. And since friendship was all we'd ever share, there was no need to wear a façade with Lee. I took the joint he extended and inhaled deeply, hoping to shut down my bewildering disappointment, and simply enjoy his company and the moment at hand. I relaxed into the soft leather seat, stared out at another sunny day in L.A., took a quick hit and handed Lee the J.
Driving under the influence of THC didn't phase me. In all the years I'd been driving high, or been with other drivers who are, if anything, weed seems to heighten caution behind the wheel. It knocked back flash anger at idiot drivers— a universe away from drunk, which seems to evoke blankness, or induce virulent testosterone reactions. Wasn't really all that concerned about a DUI either. I'd never known anyone detained or even ticketed for weed with the few cases I'd heard of someone getting pulled over while smoking. Apparently L.A. cops corroborated my observations of weed vs liquor while driving. And they should know, spending all day “scraping people off the road,” a CHP officer once said to me about his job.
Lee got off the 405 at Newport Beach and took Hwy 1 down the coast, along the rim of the Pacific. I unrolled my window and sucked in the salty sweet air of my beautiful ocean. Down by the sea was my absolute favorite place to be. He turned me on to Brian Ferry, among the many tunes he'd complied onto the cassette we were listening to. I sang along softly to Phil Collins and Sting.
“Oh my god. Your voice is fantastic,” he said after I finished singing Long, Long Way to Go.
“Thanks.” My voice was one of the best bits about me. I had perfect pitch and entertained myself often.
“You should make a tape. Send it to producers. See if you can get any traction.”
“Yeah. Along with a fine arts career. Music would leave me equally homeless.”
Lee scoffed, shook his head. “I love this tune,” he said, turning up the live version of Hotel California. “This song isn't really about California. The words are a commentary on the ephemeral women of L.A. Thank you, for not being one of them.”
Don Henley's melodic tenor rang through the Bose stereo. "She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys she calls friends." I thought about Jon, and Tim, and Marc, and Michael, and now Lee. Most people swept into my life like waves, crashing in and slowly drifting out, and I wondered if Lee would be one of them. In my experience, eventually everyone moves on, even if they never leave Los Angeles.
Expensive homes began dotting the rolling hills as we came into Laguna. Hwy 1 became dotted with galleries and chic eateries. We indulged in pastries as walked the small seaside hamlet, and spent the afternoon examining some of the finest original art from around the world. Lee purchased an original Patrick Nagel for $5,500, a three by four foot ink and gauche drawing of a woman with short black hair, in a purple halter top walking a Doberman. He said it reminded him of me and Face.
We stopped at Crystal Cove on the way back and spent an hour or so combing the tide pools, then went to Balboa Island for frozen bananas. After a stroll on Newport beach, we took the car ferry across the harbor to get dinner. We indulged in teriyaki chicken with mudpie for dessert at The Chart House. I insisted on paying the bill, a gesture of friendship for his birthday, I'd told him, though it was more to even the field since he'd been continually treating me. I avoided choking over the $160 tab, left my credit card in the billfold and went to the bathroom, where I put a finger down my throat to get rid of the expensive calories I'd just consumed— a rare practice these days, when I've been particularly indulgent, like I was all day.
Lee pulled into my driveway close to 10:00p.m., blocking my roommates dented, dark green Chevy Vega. He put his car in park and looked at me, searching. "I had a great time today. Thank you for joining me, for turning me on to fine art, and for sharing my birthday weekend." His eyes drifted from mine to beyond me, and I followed his line of sight to Suzanne coming out the front door in a tizzy.
“Hi! Hellooo,” she waved wildly. “I need to get out. Can you please move your car?” Wearing her usual black slacks and loose black long sleeve shirt which exaggerated her beanpole form, she carried a bunch of loose papers, dropping quite a few as she closed the front door behind her to keep Face inside. She bent to pick them up and dropped some more in the process. I couldn't help smiling with a shake of my head.
I looked back at Lee. He, too, was smiling at my roommates antics. “She's a bit scattered, but she's reliable with the rent, and a damn good musician.” I suddenly felt pressured to get out of his car with Suzanne waiting for him to move it. “I really should get going. Happy birthday, again. And thanks for today.” I opened the door to let her know I was coming, and Lee was going.
“Thank you. And for dinner too. See you tomorrow on the courts at 4:00? We're on for Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays now, right?”
“You bet. Look forward to working off some of the gluttony we've been engaging in.” I gave him a weak smile. “Well, goodnight." I got out of his car.
"Goodnight," he said softly.
I thought I sensed disappointment with his last look before I shut the door, though I may have been projecting the reaction I got from most guys. I had no intention of inviting Lee in and going to bed with him, as so many of my contemporaries did these days after a date or two. I'd had sex with five men so far, and only rarely for entertainment. I'd turned masturbation into a fine art, and did not need a man to satisfy me sexually. I've never confused sex and love, like so many women who give into lust harboring an unconscious hope for commitment. Our desire for sex is an evolutionary imperative. Fucking won't form a meaningful bond if none existed before the shared orgasm and momentary tenderness that follows.
After the last time with Jon, I decided the next guy I had sex with would be the last guy I'd ever sleep with. It wasn't exactly about waiting until
marriage, but I was counting on my next sexual relationship to be with the man I intended to spend my life, and who was ready to make that kind of commitment to me. And my intuition assured me that would never be with Lee.
11/09/91
Obsession times two serves neither.
-
Chapter 6
For the next several weeks, Lee and I spent almost every day together. He called me most mornings before 9:00 to confirm racquetball on days we had a game, or to convince me to join him for dinner if we weren't playing ball. I didn't take much convincing. I thoroughly enjoyed being with him— felt alive, awake when we were together, wide awake, like I used to when I was a kid on adventures with Michael. After ball we'd turn the other on to a new restaurant, or meet up after work at an old favorite. I coped the check at the dives I consistently chose. He insisted on paying for the trendy places he picked, since he made five times my income, so he claimed. I humbly accepted his generosity, even though I knew it a bad practice with our just friends status.
On the weekends we ventured further—up to Hearst's Castle in San Simeon the Sunday after Laguna, then down to Sea World in San Diego the next. He always had weed, and always offered it. On the way to dinner after a game, or stuck in traffic on a Saturday, sharing a joint was in almost every scene. Our lives started to mesh together, and Lonely receded further each day. We didn't cross the line of friendship, sticking to a hug or a quick L.A. kiss when greeting or parting.
---
The Mercedes' headlights flashed through the bay window as his car pulled into my driveway at exactly 7:30 p.m. I'd been hesitant to accept his offer to help me cook tonight, afraid that inviting him to my place might give him the wrong message, especially with my roommate at her boyfriend's again. But being with Lee provided the desired distraction to the notion of being alone with my pervasive dread all evening, anticipating Thanksgiving with my family. He emerged from his car and swung his black leather jacket over his shoulder, then walked the narrow pathway to my front door with casual confidence. He'd dropped quite a bit of weight in the few weeks we'd been playing ball. His stomach was flat under his soft white shirt that rippled with his stride, tucked into worn blue jeans that hugged his hips just right.
"Hi," I said as I opened the front door.
"Hi." He gave me a quick kiss before acknowledging Face wagging her tail wildly. Lee gave the dog an obligatory pat, their typical exchange when he greeted her at my car or front door. He tossed his jacket on the end of the couch and I lead him through the small dining room and back to the kitchen. “What are we making?”
“Apple pie. I have to wait till tomorrow to make the green bean casserole or it'll get mushy.”
"Ahh. A knowledgeable chef I see. I really enjoy cooking, especially baking. I love the way it makes a house smell— that homey feeling it evokes.”
"Me, too. I hate the cleanup, though."
"I don't really mind that, especially if it's a team effort— sharing the cooking and cleaning. I think it's only fair for partners to split everyday tasks. Halving the pain leaves more time to double the pleasure." He flashed me a quick grin. "I'm ready to start when you are." He stood by my grandmother's linoleum table where I had gathered most of the ingredients and utensils. "Just tell me what you need."
“Recipe is in that Joy of Cooking book. Page 55, I think.” I filled the kettle for tea and waited for the water to boil. Lee found the correct page and got to work.
I pictured my father sitting at the head of the table in my parents' kitchen while my mother, after a full day teaching, cooked dinner and served it. After each meal my mom, sister and I cleaned up as dad read the paper or went to watch TV. At the very least, a life with Lee would not be a repeat of my parents' marriage.
The kettle whistle blew, like a warning to stop harboring such fantasies, and I smiled with the thought. I prepared our teas and brought the steaming mugs to the table before going to the fridge and retrieving the bowl of peeled and cut-up apples I'd prepared earlier. "I grew up with the promise women could become whatever we wanted to be. Except no one bothered to tell me that we can have it all, only as long as we do it all. Women get to have a career, but working or not, we still do the housework, cook the meals and raise the kids.”
"Thing is, it's not only unfair to women, it screws the guy, too." Lee added flour then vigorously mashed the ingredients together, and didn't look at me as he continued with conviction. "It's fucking 1991, and women still makes less than half of what men do in the same damn job, so the guy is stuck with being the breadwinner, which sucks. I want to be with my kids, there for them, as intricately involved in their lives as my wife."
I was glad he was absorbed in his task and didn't notice my enamored grin. I stood at the end of the linoleum table, perpendicular to him, mixing sugar, maple syrup, vanilla into the cut apples.
"Hope you don't mind if I use my hands." Lee set the fork down, went to the sink, washed and dried his hands then came back to the table and gathered the flaky chunks together, almost lovingly coaxing them into a sphere. He retrieve the rolling pin and cutting board at the end of the table, rubbed flour up and down the wood cylinder of the pin coating it in white, then rolled out the dough into a virtually perfect twelve inch circle.
"You've obviously done this before," I marveled.
"Many times. Sharon loved to cook. It was one of the few good things we did together, which is why I gained 50 pounds the two years we were married.”
He may have believed his words, but I knew them a lie. Blaming his wife, ignoring his culpability in the care of his own body reminded me again why we must remain just friends.
“The trick to a perfect crust is in the handling.” Lee retrieved the glass Pyrex and set it in front of him. "You have to get your fingers under the thin skin very gently," which he did as he spoke. "And in one fluid motion put it where it belongs. Then let it go." He separated his hands quickly over the Pyrex and the circle of dough covered the pie plate and fell softly into place. "Voila." He looked at me and smiled, then expertly fluted the edges between his nimble fingers around the rim of the dish.
I poured my apple mixture into his perfect crust, sprinkled brown sugar mixed with flour and pecans on top. He opened the preheated oven for me to put the pie in.
"Looks fabulous. Very professional. Save me a piece if you can," Lee said as we cleared the table and piled the sink with dirty dishes.
”It's unlikely. My family are big dessert people.” I knew he'd be home and alone for Thanksgiving, and an acute stab of guilt motivated me to ask Lee to join our family dinner tomorrow.
"Then we'll have to make another pie soon, just for us. Shall we relax in the living room— put a buzz on?" Lee flashed his Cheshire grin.
The impulse to invite him to Thanksgiving vanished with his suggestion. Inviting a male friend to meet my family would surely come back to bite me. Lee was adorable, smart, witty, successful. He'd win my parent's affections and they'd spend the evening pondering what the hell was wrong with their daughter that I wasn't engaged to him yet.
I led the way into the living room. Lee sat on the couch and sparked a joint. I knelt at the fireplace, struck a match on the brick cladding and lit the pyramid of twigs and logs I'd set up earlier.
"Is that a backgammon board?" He pointed to the wood board I'd picked up in Athens ten years back. It sat on its side on the bookshelf against the opposite wall from the couch, folded into a thin, rectangular box. Only someone familiar with a Tavli board would know what it was.
"You play?" I asked, even though I knew the answer. He sucked on the joint deeply, deftly.
"Yeah, just so happens I do." He blew out a straight thin stream of smoke. It seemed to dance around his hand as he extended the joint to me when I joined him on the couch. “Care for a game?” Lee got up and got the board, brought it to the couch and placed it between us as he sat back down.
We passed the joint back and forth as we set up the board. Within moments everything slowed. The ro
om glowed orange from the firelight, and warmed me. I felt safe with Lee there instead of hyper-aware of every car that passed or every creak of the house. Sweet scents of baking cinnamon and sugar wafted from the kitchen. The familiar pleasure of Lee's company sated me, and I relaxed and focused on the game. Within a few moves we established a fluid rhythm. And Lee was good, quick and intuitive, one of the smoothest I'd run across. But I was better.
"Where did you learn to play backgammon like this?" He wanted to know after I'd beaten him nine out of eleven games.
"In Greece. They call it Tavli, means 'table,' and it's a national past time there. I did a summer quarter at a college in Athens and played like seven hours a day."
"You play very well." He picked up the remains of the joint we'd left in the ashtray and lit it, took a hit and handed it to me. "I thought I was good at this game, but you're killing me."
"You've won two games. And you can clearly keep up with me. Most Americans can't. You're really quite good." I meant it, but then realized it could be construed as patronizing. "I've just had a lot more practice." I took a hit to stop anything else condescending escaping my lips, then handed Lee the joint and excused myself to get the apple pie from the oven.
It looked like a cover shot for Good Housekeeping. Lee's fluted crust was flaky golden brown. Thick, steaming fruit juice bubbled and oozed through clusters of melted brown sugar and tips of baked apples. I think I may have actually salivated as I transferred the pie from the oven to the stove top, fighting the urge to serve Lee and I up a couple of slices. We deserved it, as it was our collective efforts that produced this perfect creation. And I could always buy a pie tomorrow if I didn't have time after working to make one...
I came back into the living room showering accolades for our team effort, proud I'd resisted the siren of sugar, the buzz providing me a moment's pause of resistance to ravenously digging in. Lee humbly credited my management skills as I resumed my position on the couch. I sat cross-legged in front of the backgammon board and we resumed playing.