Leaving Unknown (24 page)

W
ithin two weeks, life in LA had settled into a pattern. Naturally, the studio job offers that Laura promised would fall like golden rain never materialized. After a few conversations that felt like trying to capture mist in a box, I gave up pressing her. Clark set me straight. No past experience, no rich uncle, no dice. He’d keep an eye out but I wasn’t hopeful.

Unworried, I’d hit Main Street, starting with the Italian restaurant closest to Laura’s place. You could always get a job waiting tables. Except, apparently, in LA. The manager coolly
informed me that the shortest timer on their staff had been with them fifteen years. At Enterprise Fish Co. they asked for my resume. After I created one at the public library, fluffing up my donkey-suit leaflet passing into “food service manager of public relations,” I was informed that they could not consider any “candidate” lacking experience in a Zagat-rated establishment. The manager at Urth Café directed me to a central screening agency. Zanzibar required a bartending school certificate. Even the Coffee Bean had a waiting list. In a town teeming with aspiring actors, service jobs were gold. I wandered into a trendy clothing store, but left without a word after perceiving the clerk’s disapproving appraisal.

Surprisingly, Laura was unconcerned. “Don’t sweat it,” she said. “It took me a while too.” Living with her wasn’t terrible, though the outfits were hard on the eyes. For a while, she and Minka dragged me along the party circuit, where we were invariably turned away from the first venue we attempted, ending up in the back corner of a second-choice joint, with Minka and Laura whispering how much better it was than the first, which was generally agreed to be “last season,” “pretentious,” and “beastly hot.” They didn’t look at each other when they talked, heads on constant swivel for celebrities, of which there were none (presumably enjoying the beastly hot, pretentious venue that wouldn’t let us in). I mostly sat mute until I could beg off and go home. Occasionally, some fellow would offer to buy me a drink, driving Laura mad when I declined. I wasn’t up for forced conversation or dating. After a while, Laura stopped protesting when I elected to stay in, and I spent most of my nights reading or watching movies.

In the mornings I would feign sleep while Laura pulled herself together for work. Because she overslept and Red Bull was an easy breakfast to prepare, it passed quickly, and she was gone in a tacky whirlwind. Then I would rise, release Oliver,
and start my day of rejection at local restaurants and cafés. When I spiraled into the inevitable panic, I would stave off hyperventilation by going for longer and longer runs.

The marathon was going to be a snap. It was pretty along the boardwalk, but unchanging. The sky was blue, the sun shone, the sand was white, and the waves rolled. Even the boardwalk characters were predictable: the roller-skating electric guitar player; the bodybuilder in the red, white, and blue thong; the bowler-hat-wearing mime; the Jamaican tumbling crew; the man with no legs and only one arm scooting himself along on a skateboard. We’d nod in recognition as we passed, day after day the same except for my socks. In Unknown, the meadows were constantly changing. One day full of butterflies and varied buntings floating through still air, the next a frenzy of breeze-whipped grasses or surprising new blooms.

The only variation in the California scenery was whether I ran north toward Malibu or south toward Manhattan Beach. Either way, I clocked the end of my run by the same landmarks—the giant predator metal statue, the “pizza by the slice” sign, the cluster of smokers outside the community center, the hookah café. I would slow to a walk in front of my favorite tattoo parlor, Do You Tattoo, and study the tattoos through the window, feeling farther from permanence than ever, a dandelion fluff with no home, no job, no tattoo. If I ran and never stopped it wouldn’t matter to anyone but Oliver. I considered getting a tattoo of Oliver but discarded the idea as pathetic, like the old lady with a hundred cats.

“You can’t get a tattoo through the glass.” A voice made me jump one day.

“Christ! You scared me!” I accused. The speaker was a tattoo-covered Mr. Clean in a sleeveless Hannah Montana concert shirt—intricately inked designs on his bulging forearms a stark contrast to the tween queen.

He shrugged. “No scarier than watching you lurk outside every morning.” He looked at his watch. “I’m guessing about sixteen to eighteen miles today?” My mouth dropped open. He laughed, and tapped the window. “It’s glass. You can see in, we can see out.”

In my solitude, I sometimes forgot I was visible.

“C’mon in. I’ll make tea.”

I followed him. The shop was empty but for a gothically pale, skinny man in black jeans and a black T-shirt with a Lite-Brite skull on it. He squealed when he looked up. “The little chicken came in!”

“Be nice, Jacob,” Mr. Clean said. To me, he said, “This is Jacob. I’m Marion.”

“Maeve,” I said. “Are you hiring?”

“Nope. But there’s no charge for hanging out.” And just like that my routine expanded to include Marion and Jacob. I still had no job, but now I had something to do in the afternoons: drinking tea and pestering them to let me try my hand at tattooing.

Friday night I was stir crazy, so I joined Laura and Minka, preferring their chatter to isolation. We were at a dive called the Dime, having been turned away from Hyde (again). I was at the bar buying drinks for Laura and Minka, who were swiveling and whispering in the corner. Despite my dwindling reserves I bought a lot of drinks. Freeloader’s guilt. It also let me escape from the minutiae of revisiting every word expelled by gossip blogger Perez Hilton, Laura’s personal barometer for where to go (and be turned away), what to wear (clearly misinterpreted), and who to stalk (Score: Laura—0; celebrities—infinity). Laura was one step away from posting a grainy online sex video taken during a DUI arrest in her efforts to become a celebrity.

“Did you invite all these people? I thought it was going to be just the two of us,” a voice said. I turned to face an attractive blond man.

“Did the voices in your head tell you to come and talk to me?”

“My friend over there sent me. He wants to know if you think I’m cute.” He grinned.

I did. His roguish smile was appealing. I didn’t think too hard about why I liked it, of whom he reminded me. I decided to work on my people skills. “Maeve.” I stuck out a hand. His smile widened.

“Bill.” His touch was lingering.

“So, Bill, are you somebody?” I leaned on the bar, facing him.

He laughed, blue eyes bright. “I’m an accountant.” There went my stereotypes about accountants. “And you?”

“Female impersonator.”

He laughed again. “I’d say you’re
definitely
somebody.”

“New in town,” I said. “The possibilities are endless.”

He settled himself more comfortably against the bar. “I’m all ears.”

Where to begin? “I’m sort of on a trip of self-discovery,” I said. “It figures that the year I decide to pack up all my stuff and my bird and drive across country to change my life, the nation would be in the middle of the worst gas crisis I’ve known since an ill-chosen entrée at Chi-Chi’s, but what can you do? I’ve always had rotten luck. See, I had cancer in college, and I sort of froze, you know? Just when I was finding my independence and growing up, wham! Perpetual adolescence. Other people did all my thinking and I showed up on time. Kind of like a stereotypical 1950s housewife—smile at everyone, do what you’re told, worry about nuclear annihilation, buy Forever Fuchsia lip gloss from the Avon lady. Except for the Avon
lady. Makeup on a cancer patient looks as garish as earrings on a monkey. Obviously I made
some
decisions. Like what movies to rent—anything with Julia Roberts, I don’t know why, but I always liked Julia Roberts…and that hot Tom Cavanagh who used to be on that show
Ed
—or not to buy the red Guess peeptoes, even though I really liked them, because they were narrow width and those never stretch.” I was word-vomiting, and Bill’s smile was long gone. I tried to reclaim my point. “But I didn’t make any decisions about my future. I mean, if you might not have one, what’s the point? Better living through denial, I always say! I try to have a positive attitude about my destructive habits.” The words spewed faster, tripping over each other as they poured out of my mouth. “So I just floated along, everyone’s favorite medical pincushion, and then wham again—that’s a lot of whams!—I was twenty-six and hadn’t made a single choice about what to do with my life. And I need to because I’m totally healthy…I mean, healthy like a normal person, I get coughs and colds of course…but anyway, I have to do something. So I drove across country in Elsie—that’s my car—do you like old cars? I like old cars. Elsie’s a 1978 Plymouth Road Runner…with the stripes…And I love the desert…and…am I rambling? I’m rambling. So here I am…ready for adventure…a new LA girl.” I smiled brightly. “Maeve Somebody, work in progress.”

Bill had straightened, looking past me towards his buddies, alarm stamped on his face. I’d misstepped.

“So, who is Bill Somebody?” I tried. “Did you ever want to be a lion tamer?”

It was a no go. “Hey, listen, I’m really sorry about the cancer,” he said, like apologizing for dirty dishes in the sink. “But you look great now! Um, that’s my buddy waving. I’d better get back. Have a great night!” With a cheery wave and fake smile,
he stepped away faster than you could say
contagious
, leaving only the memory of an attraction.

I ducked into the bathroom. I rested my forehead on the mirror, cheeks burning. Idiot. He didn’t want to hear about cancer. No one did. It was like being an ex-felon. If you didn’t tell, you were lying by omission, but if you did tell, you freaked people out. Where was the balance? And why the hell didn’t I know it by now?

I called Vi.

“It’s two
A.M
.,” she mumbled.

“Shit, sorry. I forgot the time difference.”

“Where are you?”

“In the bathroom at a bar.”

“Tell me.” I did.

“I’m proud of you,” she said. “It’s a big step.”

“He ran faster than drugstore pantyhose,” I protested.

“Forget about him. He’s some guy in a bar. What’s important is that you shared.”

“But…”

“It was the first time. Of course you overdid it. It’s like a first date after a breakup. It’s a cardinal rule that you don’t talk about your ex, but it’s all you can think about, and you’re word-vomiting before you know it. Then you never hear from the guy again. Everyone does it. The problem isn’t the sharing. The problem is being emotionally slutty—too much, too soon. It’s no different from sex, really. You have to figure out when the time is right.”

“So you’re saying I shouldn’t have given Bill an emotional blow job during our first conversation?” I was feeling better.

She laughed. “I’m not a hundred percent sure about cancer chats around the watercooler. You may have to defuse some kinds of assumptions. Ease into it. Telling someone you’re a
survivor, or that you detest broth because you overdosed during treatment is first-base kind of stuff. Busting out with your struggle to come to terms with a fear of death is more home-plate material.”

When I returned from the bathroom, Bill was chatting up a pretty brunette. I heard her saying “…so I said, ‘my house is right up the road,’ and just like that the whole band packed up and we headed to my place at three in the morning for quesadillas and late-night dance party…”

Sounded like she was telling a third-base-level story to me, but Bill was listening avidly. The rules were different for funny stories, apparently. I sighed. There was a lot to learn about this communication business. No wonder I’d avoided it for so long.

“It was a disaster,” I moaned. “Can you tattoo a verbal-diarrhea shock collar onto a person? Otherwise I’ll never meet Mr. Right.”

“I read something once that said love isn’t about finding the right person, but about finding the right wrong person.” Marion was concentrating on the design he was drawing.

“Is this the beginning of an Abbott and Costello routine?”

“Why don’t you listen instead of talking for a change, and you might learn something?”

I listened.

“The idea is, we’re all different flavors of wrong…”

“Can I be Rainbow Sherbet Wrong?” I giggled.

“I want to be Triple Pistachio Wrong,” Jacob called from his perch near the cash register.

Marion pinned us each with the look the real Mr. Clean gave shower scum. I shut up in a hurry. The shower scum always lost.

“Cranky Monkey Wrong is your flavor,” Jacob muttered. I suppressed my smile. Marion returned to his drawing and story.

I couldn’t resist. “I think that line should be curvier.”

Marion ignored my brilliance, and said, “By the time we’re mature enough to have a relationship, it’s because we’re all a little wrong. We’ve done some livin’, got our quirks and issues, and know what they are. That’s essential for a real connection. If you haven’t faced up to your crap, you don’t know yourself. If you don’t know yourself, you don’t know what works with you. It’s when you’ve figured out
how
you’re wrong that you can best find a mate who complements that.”

“I thought you were supposed to end up with the person who thinks you’re perfect.”

“Sounds exhausting and impossible to me. Can’t change what you are, and you can’t go back to who you were before life stamped some problems on you. It’s like a tattoo—once you got it, you got it. Even if you remove it, there’s a different kind of mark.”

“Know thy scars?” I was intrigued.

“Doesn’t that sound better than trying to undo what’s done?”

“So we’re looking for someone who fits nicely against our unsolvable problems?”

“’Zactly. I got a cadre of persistent demons who like the real estate in my brain and plan to stay. If I ignore them”—a look at me—“then I don’t know my true shape…”