Pushing Upward (2 page)

After a week of returning calls, sneaking into the back room of Martha's Boutique, where I worked as a salesgirl, and speaking to Maria and fifteen men with all kinds of arrangements and ­proposals, there were three I seriously considered: Mr. McKeilly, Mr. Kapoli, and Mr. Wilson. None of them sounded great. But they were the best of the calls. I would meet them all on Thursday. Martha was renovating, so I had a few days off.

Thursday morning I jumped out of bed, put on my clothes, grabbed the bran muffin that had been sitting on the kitchen counter for I don't know how many days, and ran out of the apartment. I climbed into my cobalt-blue, on-its-last-legs Fiat, checked the rearview mirror to make sure my mascara hadn't smeared—and sat there for a moment, knowing I must be out of my mind to even think about living with a stranger, let alone a male stranger. On the other hand, there was a certain relief. I was leaving a stale existence and entering unknown territory. If I didn't take these chances now—step outside of my comfort zone—what kind of an actress could I expect to become? I had to take the leap—for myself
and
for my career.

The winding streets of Benedict Canyon were elegant and sensual. Gunning the Fiat up curving streets between wooden ultra-mods and stucco Spanish colonials, I was greeted by yards burgeoning with shrubs and tall, spiny flowers, hugging close to the sides of pink mansions. As the tires of my car caressed the smooth, banked roads, richly colored leaves swayed to and fro. I inhaled the scents and took in the sights, not wanting to miss a chimney, a tree house, a flowerpot. There were octagonal windows and lawns that seemed to go on and on, trees and bushes bearing early spring blooms of all kinds. I kept driving until I found Kurt McKeilly's street. I eagle-eyed the house numbers looking for #24. Kurt said I'd have no problem seeing the numbers from my car. “They're gold-plated,” he'd pronounced distinctly. “Just look to the right of the door,” he'd added in his seductive English accent.

Twenty-four.
There was the house number, in gold, just like he said. I pulled the old Fiat into the massive circular driveway, turned off the engine, and sat there.
Holy shit!
My eyes scanned the sprawling white ranch that was really more like a mansion. A long wooden fence circled the back of the house, where two beautifully groomed saddlebreds grazed on high grass.
I hope he doesn't think I'm going to take care of these horses. I know nothing about animal care.

I was tempted to slam the oversize gold-plated knocker down on the elaborate carved door. But I had an aversion to loud noises, particularly self-inflicted ones. They always felt like sharp pins penetrating my skin. I rang the doorbell instead.

I could hear dogs barking on the other side of the door, and then footsteps. A tall, wiry man with a pointy gray mustache opened the door, one hand cradling the bowl of a pipe. The pipe was long and oddly shaped, definitely from another country. He opened the door wider. Now in full view, Kurt was tanned, good-looking, and wore khaki safari clothes. His gray hair and mustache glistened in the sun.

“You must be Sandra.” He stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “Kurt McKeilly. No problem finding the house?”

“No, the directions were fine, thanks.”

“Well, then. It's a beautiful spring day, isn't it?” he said, standing there on the paved entryway, his hands on his hips, inhaling deeply. He could have easily passed for a successful English actor, and sounded like one. I remembered his silky voice from the phone, and the way he took long pauses after each sentence.

“Yes, it
is
a beautiful day,” I agreed, trying to keep the conversation moving, wondering why he was just standing there.
I have no time for pauses, Mr. McKeilly. I have two more interviews after this one.

“Why don't you come in and have a look.” He gestured me in with his pipe, which appeared not to be lit. “By the way, I did mention to you my family of animals, did I not?”

“Ah, no.”

Kurt swung open the oversize door to the flagstone entry, where two black Labrador retrievers, a Great Dane, three Samoyeds, two white cats, and six ducks greeted my feet, calves, and thighs. Taken aback by the unexpected sniffs of welcome, I proceeded through the door with tiny, mincing steps, making sure not to tread on a paw or anyone's webbed feet.

“Down, Greta. Jennifer, you, too! Don't squash Sammy. Sammy's the duck with the spotted beak,” Kurt explained. “Be good, girls. This is Sandra. She's our guest.”

Now, I've always been a stickler for maintaining eye contact during a conversation, but there was no way I could look this guy in the eye. I was too engaged in the sights and sounds of the panorama unfolding before me. Snuggled between lush green foliage and S-shaped ponds was a virtual village of cages containing two-and four-legged animals. Circular rock slabs became pathways leading creatures of all kinds from one habitat to another. And this was just the front hallway. I followed Kurt into the sunken living room from which his richly decorated jungle motif radiated outward, craning my neck to see how tall the treetops were. Between overgrown leaves I could make out majestic beams where two ropes hung down and formed knotted loops.

All of a sudden, two russet monkeys jumped from one rope to the other and then raced each other to the top. As I watched them run up and down the rope trying to catch each other's tails, Kurt McKeilly's Labradors were sniffing away. One had his nose jammed into my crotch; the other had his nose between my buttocks. I tried to push them aside, but they persisted in finding each other's nostrils somewhere in the middle. Kurt finally noticed their innocent game.

“Shadow! Janelle! Stop this immediately!” Reprimanding the dogs, he escorted them out by their collars to another wing of the house.

I was now left alone in this African jungle.

Wait till Rachel hears where the ad led me this morning.

From the other side of the room, I heard: “Pretty girl, pretty girl, what's it gonna be? What's it gonna be?”

I jumped, spun around, and saw two multicolored parrots sitting tall and straight in their silver cages.

“Pretty girl, pretty girl, what's it gonna be?”

“I don't know,” I snapped back, and then wondered why I'd even replied.

“Are you ready for your tour?” Kurt asked with great enthusiasm, suddenly reappearing at my side.

“
Ah-h-h-choo!
I'm not sure.”

“Handkerchief?” Kurt pulled out a white cloth from his shirt pocket.

“No, thanks. I have Kleenex somewhere.” I searched my purse and pulled out a wad of tissue. “What do you do for a living?” I'd been dying to ask.

“I sell insurance to third-world countries and collect rare artifacts.” He dipped into a humidor sitting on the bookcase and began to pack tobacco into his pipe. “During my travels, I started falling in love with these magnificent creatures and began, well … collecting them.”

“How long are you away when you go?”

“Up to three months.”

“
Ah-h-h-choo!
Look, Mister,
ahhh,
Kurt. I should tell you from the get-go, I am highly allergic to animal hair.” I blew my nose again, stuffed the tissue inside my purse, and headed toward the door. “I could easily get an asthma attack here. Have you ever seen anyone experience an asthma attack? It's not pretty. Your lungs flare up. You can't breathe.” I reached for the door handle, and turned the knob. “What if you're out of town and I need to go to the hospital—who'd look after the animals?” I reached out my hand to shake his. “I know you'll find the right person.”
It's just not me,
I said under my breath.

I didn't wait for a response. I opened the door, walked quickly to my car, jumped in, and left skid marks on my way out of Kurt's driveway. Then I proceeded to West L.A. at no less than thirty miles over the speed limit. It wasn't a total lie. I did have asthma … when I was younger. It just never escalated like I'd described it.

One down, two to go! As I looked at my watch, my stomach felt queasy. I didn't know if I was sick because of the last interview or worried about the next one. Whichever it was, I had to ignore these feelings and keep moving. I didn't want to be late to meet Saul.

I'd only spent a few minutes with Saul on the phone. His voice was cryptic, distant, as if he were disguising his true identity. Maybe he had a cold. Maybe he was a spy, or worked for the CIA. In either case, I felt uneasy. Sure, I wanted to spend weeks exploring my alternatives, process each candidate, make an intelligent decision. But there was no time. I needed to be living with one of these callers within the next two weeks.

No matter how desperate my situation was, my first glance upon walking into Saul's place told me
this
was not an option. The apartment was stacked to the ceiling with magazines. Small Saul, with long white hair and a long white beard, looked like he'd stepped out of a Saturday-morning cartoon. He looked totally wild, Einstein wild. Only this animated character was no crazy genius. He was just crazy. It appeared as if he'd saved every magazine he'd ever read, categorized them all by number, and color-coded them by year on ten-foot-tall, built-in library shelves. I had to suppress my laughter as he rolled along on a wheeled ladder, sliding from shelf to shelf.

Saul came down from his ladder and showed me the rest of the place. Every room was stacked with more magazines, more newspapers. Not as high as the ones in the living room. Still, newsprint, in all shapes and sizes, was the prominent feature of decor throughout his abode. The coup de grâce was when he showed me “my” room, the room where I would sleep if I were to accept his offer. It was a five-by-ten-foot walk-in closet with an old dusty mattress on the floor. Picky or not, I needed a tad more creature comforts than Saul's apartment would provide.

On my way out the door, I tried to be diplomatic. “You have a fascinating lifestyle here. I just don't think I'd fit in.”

I closed the door gently behind me and ran down the three flights of stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. I walked around the block twice before I decompressed enough to get into my car. And then I collapsed into the bucket seat, rested my hands on the steering wheel, and whispered to myself and to whoever happened to be listening, “I'll brush my teeth three times a day. I won't swear. I'll volunteer at the children's hospital down the block. Just make this next guy normal. Let him be the one.”

Fortunately, traffic wasn't too bad. Most people were at work. I just wished the smog would disappear so the sun could peer through.

Frank Wilson's condo looked impressive from the outside. It was nicely landscaped. The wood-paneled exterior was newly stained, shutters freshly painted. I was feeling hopeful. But when Mr. Wilson opened the door, the interior was not as well maintained. His condo looked more like a Dumpster with windows. Dirty clothes were piled on chairs, on the floor, on the couch. Dried Italian takeout was stuck on dishes spread over coffee tables, and Frank himself was seedy-looking. He was gangly, had atrocious posture, and slumped before me, chewing on a half-smoked cigar.

I should have turned around and walked out right then. But Frank ushered me into the kitchen and asked me to sit for a minute. Since I was dripping sweat and the air-conditioning cooled my face and lymphatic orifices, I sat and listened to Mr. Wilson confess that he'd just gotten divorced and lament how lost he was without a woman. How he wanted someone to talk to when he returned home from work. While Frank talked, I glanced at his gray hairs, noticing how unevenly they had mixed with the few remaining black strands of youth; then I spotted thirty or so transplanted dark strands poorly placed at the center of his scalp.

The tall man with no spine unfolded from his seat and asked me if I'd like to see his new rare amethyst. The fact that I loved rare gems, coupled with my desire to demonstrate compassion (a virtue I'd been working on the last few weeks), convinced me to accept his offer.

As I followed him down the corridor, I thought,
How much compassion should I be displaying here?

The hall smelled of mold, the linoleum floor gave under our weight, and the walls were conspicuously bare. There were no pictures, no wall hangings, no tokens of any present or memories of a past. He opened the last door on the right. It was his bedroom.
What have I done?
I tried to stay calm as he reached for the stone sitting on his dusty dresser top.
Deep breath, Sandra.
He brought it close to me and put it in my hand.
Look interested
. I raised the amethyst to the light, and was surprised to see how magnificently deep and rich the color was.
What's this guy doing with expensive crystals? He should be spending his money on housekeepers.

As I stood searching for my voice, hunting for a cautious phrase to express my appreciation, Mr. Wilson grabbed my shoulders and pushed me onto his bed. Within seconds, he was on top of me, like a dog in heat, undoing his pants. I could hardly breathe. All I could see were his nostrils, flaring wide; his nose hairs lodged instantly in my memory. My body locked with fear. Terrified that he might pull out a knife or tie me up with some itchy rope, I flailed around mentally for a way out. How the next set of words stumbled out of my mouth, I'll never know.

“Mr. Wilson, I could really get to like it here,” I whispered in his ear as I tried to squirm my way out from under his rancid flesh. “I'm just going to the bathroom for a minute … you know.” Like I was going to insert a diaphragm or a take a pill or something. “I'll be right back,” I breathed into his ear. “I
really
like you.”

One more squirm and I was off the bed. I smiled, coyly, with a wink.

“Hurry back!” he shouted.

I left him fondling himself in anticipation, closed the bedroom door behind me, and then ran like hell down the hall to the front door. I tried to open it, but it had some weird lock I'd never seen before.
How am I supposed to unbolt it?
I kicked it quietly, then loudly. I looked around the cluttered living room for something, anything, that would help me force the door open. Could I grab one of the wooden chairs, swing it back with all my strength, smash the picture window, and jump out?
I sure as hell can!