Citizen Girl (24 page)

‘Sorry?’

‘You barely made it. Were you stuck in traffic?’

‘Oh, no. Just the airport.’ I settle back. ‘My boss didn’t account for how long security lines are when you’re not flashing a business-class ticket.’

‘Raisinette?’ he offers, as he clicks his seatbelt open to grab his
Hudson News
bag.

‘Sure.’ I accept the handful he pours and pop a few in my mouth. ‘Thanks.’

‘I hear ya. My boss has no sense of the whole space-time continuum. He asks for work in hours that takes weeks, and gives us
months
for something that requires one phone call.’

‘I’ve worked for her.’ I watch the city falling away as we climb higher, breaking through the cloud cover to the burst of unexpected sunshine hidden above –
I have. I have worked for her. And this is not that. Where did Doris ever take me? Not even Toledo
. Heartened, I stare out the window, watching the country pass below us, as we keep pace with the sun.

‘Don’t let your boss get you down.’

‘Sorry?’ I turn back to my companion, addressing me from behind his copy of
Barely Legal
, whose cover proclaims in fluorescent block letters, ‘Ouch! Eyes too big for her coochie!’ He drops the magazine for a moment. ‘Life’s too short.’

‘Welcome to Los Angeles. The local time is four twelve. Local temperature is a balmy eighty-two degrees Fahrenheit.’ By the time I make it off the plane Guy and Jeffrey are already waiting at the baggage claim exit. Guy leans against the glass, unwittingly tripping the sliding doors,
which glide open and close, bursts of warm air from the palm-tree-lined arrivals sidewalk wafting over us. ‘Hi, I just have to pick up my luggage.’ I gesture to the dormant carousel.

‘You checked it?’ Guy tugs his tie off and stuffs it into the pocket of his blazer.

‘I had to.’ That’s how it works in Coach.

‘Well, four’s a squeeze anyway.’ Jeffrey steps through the doors, blowing a kiss to a buff male lounging behind the wheel of a silver Porsche, hazards flashing.

‘Here’s the address of the hotel.’ Guy tears off a sliver of the first page of his itinerary, giving it a careful onceover before he hands it to me. ‘Find me at the pool after you check in.’ He plods out on his loafered heels to Jeffrey, who swings the car door open, the sun bouncing off the chrome finish, blinding me.

In the semi-circular driveway of The Standard a porter effortlessly lifts my suitcase from the trunk and wheels it inside the lobby, where customers and employees, equally gorgeous in a made-by-Mattel way, weave around an artistically arranged obstacle course of dangerously sharp, knee-high plaster sculptures.

On the unsettling Miro-blue Astroturf patio I locate Guy sitting pretty amid a thonged-bikini ass-scape. ‘So I’m all checked in,’ I say, stepping into his Ray-Banned line of vision. ‘What’s the plan?’

‘Oh.’ He looks up, or rather, over me, his greased face registering a beat of disappointment. ‘Of course you don’t have a bikini.’

‘No, I – sorry, will the client be joining us here or —’

‘Nah.’ He shuffles the papers in his lap before flipping them against his hairy chest. ‘That’s tomorrow. Relax. Have the concierge send you somewhere.’ He waves his fingers towards the horizon. Outer space?

‘What time tomorrow?’

He sighs. ‘Christ, I don’t know. Not everything can be planned to the minute just because you’re a little anal. You’ve got to
relax
.’ He taps my thigh with his pen to make his point.

‘Okay. Well, I’m in room four one one, so just call.’ I turn away, then swivel back, nearly raking the preening toes of a tanning wishesshewas. ‘Guy, isn’t there anything I should be preparing? I can put my proposal into PowerPoint.’

He slides off his Ray-Bans, leaving a little white ring where the sunscreen congealed on his skin, his pen dangling from his mouth like a cigar. ‘The big pitch isn’t till Friday, so I just need you relaxed. Jesus, this is LA. Loosen up.
Re. Lax
.’

‘Okay!’ I salute him. ‘You got it! I can definitely relax,’ I cheer. Guy closes his eyes and drops his head back, effectively finished with me.

The automatic doors slide open into the lobby, where I’m surprised to find Seline at the deserted concierge’s desk, hair pulled back in a ponytail, nervously tapping her Gucci lacquer slide against the marble floor. She looks equally ‘relaxed’.

‘Seline?’ I call. ‘Hi, you may not remember me —’

‘Sure, you’re doing that charity initiative for Guy.’ She
smiles distractedly as she flips through the concierge’s Zagat.

‘Were you on the plane? I didn’t see you.’

‘I came out yesterday.’ She adjusts the mother-of-pearl disk in her black bandeau top. ‘Guy invited me to spend my birthday with him.’ She looks toward the pool where the setting sun is bathing the valley in a pink glow, Guy’s flat feet coming into view as he angles his chair to catch the last light. ‘We really needed some time together.’

‘Yeah,’ I nod in agreement. Time with Guy … who can get enough of that?

‘Huh,’ I exclaim as my gaze lands on the glass tank set into the wall behind the concierge desk, displaying, not fish, but a real-live scantily-clad female lying eerily still on a bed of bright green Easter grass, her breasts pointing suspiciously skyward.

‘Don’t worry,’ Seline says drily, ‘it isn’t a design element carried through the rooms.’ And she’s funny. ‘It can’t be a bad job, though,’ she continues. ‘You don’t have to talk to anyone. No one talks to you. You just have to look hot and sleep. Where is he?’ Seline taps the service bell. ‘I just want a massage.’

‘A massage? Oh, wow, yes, me, too.’

‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting.’ The concierge returns to his post.

‘Hi, yes, we’d like a massage,’ she says, taking charge. ‘I’m in six zero two and she’s in …’

‘Four one one,’ I add.

‘I think we’re fully booked for today … Wednesdays are always hectic.’ The concierge shakes his head as he
peers into the computer. ‘But let me see what I can do. In case I can arrange it,’ he leans in, ‘would you prefer a man or a woman?’

‘Either,’ we say emphatically.

‘Okay, I’ll see who I can rustle up.’

‘Thank you.’ She gives him a courteous nod. ‘See you later,’ she tosses over her shoulder as she strides out to the aqua Astroturf to rejoin her Guy. He leaps up at her approach, offering a fresh citrus-colored cocktail to her outstretched hand.

Despite not yet having any actual ‘business’ on this business trip, it’s so far been a raging success. Following a soothing soak, I don a fluffy robe, recline on Frette sheets, sip a supple brandy from the mini-bar, all while contentedly clicking through CNN, CNBC and Fox-News on my flat screen. All that’s missing from this Donald Trump scenario is the cigar. A
knock-kn-knock-knock
at the door announces the perk-de-resistance. I gingerly pop a steaming scallop into my mouth, return the room service cover, and pad over to let in the masseur.

‘Nine thirty, right? The last customer kept me late.’ The stocky man speaks to my feet from a squat so as to balance multiple suitcases. Dressed in a golf shirt and warm-up pants, he instantly reminds me of my eighth-grade gym teacher. Looking up with annoyance, he readjusts his grip. ‘You want to let me in?’

‘Oh. Right.’ I set down my brandy and pull the door wide as he drops the suitcases next to the bed with an unceremonious thud.

‘Watch your feet.’

I stand aside as he sets up the table, puts out the lamps, lights a candle, and saturates the air with noxiously fragrant essence. ‘Patchouli.’ He drops the little glass vial by the sheeted table, walks wordlessly to the bathroom, shuts the door, and leaves me standing in the near darkness feeling suddenly weird. A few minutes pass before I decide to knock.

‘Everything okay?’ I ask tentatively.

‘What?’

‘Um, you okay in there?’

He opens the door. ‘You want to get undressed and hop on the table?’ he gestures with an unmistakable ‘duh’.

‘Oh! Sure. Sorry, I thought – yes, I’ll just lie down.’ He closes the door. I pull my robe off, freezing momentarily as I get down to my underwear. Panties/no panties? As I’ve already revealed my hotel massage virginity, I’m now inexplicably compelled to demonstrate my confidence in his services, and opt for ‘no’. Hopping on the table, I squiggle under the towel, and plop my face into the headrest.

Yeah, I’d just plain feel better if I was wearing underwear. I start to hop down, but the door opens, and I freeze like a relaxed person. While he circles round me in preparation, I focus on making minute adjustments to the position of my face so as not to choke. Which I am. Very quietly.

Suddenly, flute and cricket music blasts into the room so loudly my pelvis lifts off the table.

‘Shit.’ The crickets are lowered. ‘Damn thing is busted. I haven’t had time to get it fixed and it keeps jamming.’

‘No problem!’ I say into the sheet-covered doughnut. He oils his hands and presses firmly onto my back. Ahhhhhhh. Goodbye Guy, goodbye Jeffrey, good—

‘So where you from?’ Wha? Huh?

‘Um … New York.’

‘Oh yeah? My cousin lives in Queens. Cool. You here on business?’

Don’t want to talk. ‘Umhmm.’ He slowly works down my arm until he gets to my hand. Stroking my hand. Holding my hand. Crouching down to peer up at my face and HOLDING MY HAND! Deep breath. Deep breath. Maybe he’s just checking the table, maybe …

‘You’re real pretty.’ He runs the fingernails of his free hand up my neck. ‘I hope next time you ask for me special.’ His voice takes on a suave, oily tone that, despite its rehearsed quality,
freaks me the hell out
.

‘Well, yes, that’s very kind,’ I affect my best Shirley Temple. ‘So kind of you. My husband’s with Special Forces, so I’m really just looking forward to getting home to him.’ I strain my neck and smile like a stewardess. ‘You know, catching up with him, celebrating our eternal love. That kind of thing.’ I drop my head back down, heart pounding. He stands, silent. Shit – I’ve pissed him off and now he will hurt me. ‘Feels great, though!’ I cheer.

He slides the sheet all the way down, allowing an air-conditioned breeze across my upper thighs. Okay, I should just sit up and say something.

Before I can move, he reapplies the patchouli stank to my goose-bumped skin. ‘Man, this has been a whacked-out night! My last customer was a pain in the ass. This dude just kept on grabbing at me! I don’t know what gave him the impression I was like
that
, but… phew.’ He kneads my lower back.

‘Well,’ I chatter, overjoyed to be off the topic of my next special trip to LA, ‘sounds like he was looking for more than a massage, which is crazy, ’cause who wouldn’t be totally, utterly satisfied with a good old-fashioned, classic massage? I know I’m loving this one!’

‘I just prayed he’d fall asleep, and Jesus listened. Jesus listened to my prayer.’ I count a few beats and then focus on quietly snoring. Soon, I’m devoting all attention to the host of sounds that would indicate my journey into deep sleep, complete with carefully timed dream twitching. He goes to readjust the sheet and I practically jump off the table.

‘You fell asleep.’

‘Yes, I’m just so relaxed!’ I lie back down and he pulls the sheet up into a wedge and stuffs it around my right butt cheek. I’d give my left one to have my panties back on. He works his way onto my upper thigh, his hand inching higher in slow circles towards my private sector. ‘So, did you dream about me while you were sleeping?’

‘Oh, no. No, I was dreaming about food! I dream about food all the time. Love to eat pasta.’ I nod rhythmically into the headrest for emphasis, so uncomfortable I could cry.

‘Yeah, pasta’s good.’ A buzzing noise plows over the crickets. ‘I’m gonna use this vibrating massage tool. I have to tell you that, you know, by law.’

‘Okay,’ I say meekly, beginning to leave the room all together. I’ll just float down to the lobby and have a drink, come back when he’s done with me.

He rolls the device down my rigid lower back and clamped thighs, while I get him – not a monumental challenge – to tell me about the screenplay he’s writing on werewolves falling in love, blow by intricate-plot-twist blow. ‘And I’m thinking Nine Inch Nails for the closing credits.’ Suddenly the buzzing is deafening. I open my eyes to a vibrator gyrating inches from my face. His head comes into view, his lips moving.

‘What?!’

He turns it off. ‘Are you
sure
I can’t finish this for you? I do a nice release. Only twenty bucks extra. I add it as a towel charge.’

‘No. No. Thanks. Thanks. But no. No, I’m all set with my towels. Me and my towels, we’re just really set.’

He drops the wand to the floor, announces he’s done, and disappears to the bathroom, instructing me to ‘take my time’. Jesus listened! Fully dressed with every light on and the front door ajar in a minute flat, I knock on the bathroom. ‘Okay, thanks! You can go now!’

He lounges against the doorframe. ‘That bread looks good.’

I follow his gaze to my now tepid dinner. I dart to the tray, stuff the rolls into a napkin, and dangle it out into the hall as if he were a puppy. ‘Take them!’

‘Cool. You gonna drink that wine?’ He saunters over to lift the untouched glass from the tray.

‘I guess not …’

He gulps it down, wiping his mouth before moving in exceedingly slow motion to pack his equipment. ‘I’ll just leave these here.’ I bend to put the napkinful of rolls on the hall floor, retrieving a note half shoved under the door. ‘I need to call my husband at the base before it gets much later so …’

He continues at his leisure. ‘What happened to your friend anyway?’

I slit open the envelope. ‘Sorry? My friend? Oh, she’s getting a massage in her own room.’

‘Oh. Okay.’ He stands from his final zip and nods at me in revelation.

‘What did they tell you at the front desk?’

‘Two ladies requested me.’

‘For a massage.’ I open the card. ‘Meet me out front at noon – Jeffrey.’

He lifts his suitcases to the door, pausing by the bed. ‘You want these?’ He points to the turndown chocolates on my pillows, stuffing them into his pocket. ‘Thanks. You can tip me on the bill.’