The Decent Proposal (13 page)

Richard sensed she was taking the whole thing too seriously, which was typical of her. He'd simply been looking for an excuse to make the “I'll have what she's having” joke, which he always felt the urge to make inside big diner-y restaurants. The actual people at the other table were beside the point. If Mike were there she would have
bah-dum-dum
'ed, or pretended to sock him in the jaw, and they would have moved on immediately. Elizabeth's failure to
get it
was an unwelcome reminder of their incompatibility when it came to their senses of humor, like the episode with the ducks . . . except this time there was something else at play, something unpleasant he could no more than dimly acknowledge. She would
never
enjoy a joke at someone else's expense, no matter how clever it might be, because she was too thoughtful, too empathetic. “Too boring,” he could hear Mike sniping inside his head. But was that really true? Annoyed that she'd made him feel like a bad person for what should have been a blip of a joke, his tone grew peevish:

“I'm just kidding, jeez. It's from
When Harry Met Sally
, in the diner—”

“I know. I've seen
When Harry Met Sally
. I get it,” she said with her habitually wooden cadence, which he had never found so maddening as in this moment.

“Anyway I don't ever want to become one of those parents who need a nanny,” he said.

And I'm sure you'll pitch in just as much as your wife
, thought Elizabeth.

“There's something so depressing about the idea of paying someone to raise your kids, you know?”

“I
don't
know,” said Elizabeth, slicing the black-and-white cookie crosswise into four perfect quadrants. “And I can't really judge anyone for it. I don't want kids.”

“None?”

“Nada.” She cut her chocolate quarter down the middle, into eighths, popping one of the miniature pie slices into her mouth.

“Let me guess. You're one of those people who think the world's too shitty to bring kids into.”

“No,” she replied, swallowing. “I just don't think I'm cut out to be a parent.”

What the hell was
that
supposed to mean? “Well, even if
you
don't want kids, you have to admit it made a difference for your mom to stay at home, right?”

She didn't answer him.

“I mean otherwise that pretzel story never would've happened.”

She regretted ever telling him that story. “My mother never stayed at home,” she said, enunciating slowly, so that the words came out sharp and pointed, lethal little shards of ice. “Both my parents worked once we were old enough to go to school. My mother lost a day's pay that day, taking the day off.”

“Ah,” he said, for once looking properly humbled. But she wasn't done with him.

“We had to go without milk for two days because my father got the same virus I did, and had to take a day off too. And when we did our big shopping trip at the end of the week, my
mother wouldn't let us get a treat. There wasn't enough money. My brother cried the whole way home.”

“That must've been a pretty painful ride back home,” he said, attempting to lighten the mood.

“You mean in our car?” she asked. “Sitting in the backseat?”

“Exactly,” he said, his unflappable grin returning.

“We didn't have a car!” she yelled, loudly enough for the mother and nanny to glance over at them. She watched Richard's grin fade; it was impossible to keep the triumph out of her voice as she continued, not as loudly as before, but higher than her usual volume:

“You really think if we couldn't buy
milk
we had enough money for a car? I know you think everyone in L.A. drives, but have you ever actually gotten off the 10 at Crenshaw? Or Normandie? Instead of just driving past it on your way downtown? Have you ever even seen that half of the city? Believe me, not everyone who lives here is rich enough to own a car, even if you barely realize those people exist.”

She shoved the other chocolate slice in her mouth, chewing her way through the stunned silence. Already she felt the urge to apologize, but she forced herself to keep chewing. If she said she was sorry she might as well have never said it in the first place.

“I never said everyone drives.” Richard's voice sounded small now, pinched with hurt and surprise. “You should see this area”—he waved his hand a little shakily toward the window—“on Friday at sundown. The Jews are out in full force. You can barely drive without hitting them.”

She suspected this was an oblique reminder that he too was a minority, if nominally—a pathetic attempt to level the playing field.

Their eyes met, bouncing off each other, and the silence grew longer, expanding slowly, painfully, like a rubber band
pulled tighter. The longer they waited, the harder it was to end it. So they just sat there, waiting for the rubber band to snap.

I'm done
, thought Richard, resolving not to say another word. He was reminded of those couples he saw sometimes in restaurants—glum old pairs who don't have anything left to say to each other. If there were no books or movies to discuss, he realized, he and Elizabeth would be another one of these couples.
What a nightmare
, he thought.
I honestly can't wait for this year to be over.

The silence ended, but only when they said their goodbyes.

They did not complete their two hours that week.

SOME PARTS OF L.A.
are exactly what they seem: neighborhoods within a larger city. Others are independent municipalities with their own government and police force. It's impossible to tell one of these miniature kingdoms from a regular neighborhood; Santa Monica, Culver City, and Beverly Hills are technically cities separate from the City of Los Angeles, whereas Venice, Century City, and Silver Lake are neighborhoods inside of L.A. It makes no sense and those who know better don't bother looking for sense in the first place. To love L.A. is to love a mess: a jumble of sand, concrete, sunsets, and strip malls; a snake's nest of highways on top of which the full emotional spectrum, from rage to carelessness, may be witnessed inside every single hour of the day; suburban sprawl punctuated randomly by urban markers—museums, hotels, nightclubs—that in other cities would exist in one concentrated area; a metropolis associated persistently with the darkness of literary noir despite the starched-white sunlight
that drenches it most every day, and the pink polluted sky that lasts into the dead of night; a city so expansive it encompasses a little bit of everything,
but only a little bit
. L.A. is all breadth and no depth—most of the buildings here don't even rise higher than a story or two—and there are many who believe this shallowness to be its fatal flaw. But shallow waters run clear and are easier to tread, and if L.A. sometimes feels like a million desert islands, the water between these islands isn't very deep at all—a folly more easily crossed than it would appear to be from a distance, which is why that old chestnut about L.A., like a palm tree or an aging starlet, actually looking
better
from a distance has little truth to it. The chestnut perseveres because, to those who merely visit, this city doesn't look like
anything
up close, doesn't look like a city at all. It's up to those who live here to imbue it with whatever character they like—or don't like—which is why Los Angeles has that singular, precious ability to accommodate each and every person who chooses to make a life here.

West Hollywood is another one of these miniature cities masquerading as a neighborhood, and just west of its City Hall on Santa Monica Boulevard lies its greatest treasure: a walkable strip of bars from San Vicente to Robertson. It's possible to hop from bar to bar and make a debauched night of it without ever getting in a car. Many cities are full of areas like this, but in L.A. there are only a handful, and most are tourist traps. The WeHo strip, however, does not cater to tourists. It belongs to the gay men and women who live there and those who wish to party with them, and all the bars and clubs along it—Trunks, Revolver, Rage, Motherlode, Here (to name only a few)—are a reliably good time.

At the end of August, Richard's business partner Keith was celebrating his thirtieth birthday at the Factory on the western end of the strip, during a Friday-night dance party called “Popstarz.” Mike was returning to L.A. the same day from a week-
long vacation with her parents, and before she left she extracted a promise from Richard to bring “the DP” to Keith's party. (Over time, the code word “DP” had shifted from referring to the proposal to Elizabeth herself.) After two months, Mike and Elizabeth still hadn't met.

Richard had intended to invite Elizabeth the previous Saturday, at Factor's, but the evening had gone so badly he'd abandoned his plan. He hoped Mike would forget about it too. It wasn't that he was angry with Elizabeth; he was constitutionally incapable of holding a grudge, and had more than enough white man's guilt to blame himself for his perceived insensitivity to her challenged upbringing. Still, he was by no means eager to see her again. Saturdays were more than enough.

It was with a sinking heart, then, that he read Mike's Facebook message the Monday after Factor's, five days before Keith's party:

            
Ugh so bored up here going nuts. 1 week + 2 parents = HELL. Yesterday my mom asked me when I was getting married, Jesus H. . . . My dad is good thx for asking. Anyhoo you'd better make sure the DP comes Fri I'm counting on it you PROMISED. It's all I have to look fwd to mwah.

Fuck
, thought Richard. He was still in bed, and his leg shook so violently the mattress began to squeak. Mike affected an amused curiosity about “the DP” that allowed her to ask as many questions as she wanted, but Richard knew perfectly well she hated this weekly standing engagement that had nothing to do with her. She was a jealous friend, and had been ever since breaking up with him. It was almost as if her possessiveness was meant to make up for her pushing him away, and in a way it
did
, because he'd never had a problem with any of the men
who'd come in and out of her life over the years—never felt as though he might be toppled from his privileged perch as “the best friend” by any of them. It was funny to him, yet unsurprising, that Mike should feel threatened now, and he knew that if he didn't introduce them soon there would be hell to pay. He clicked over to his inbox. Elizabeth wasn't even on IM, so the only way he could contact her besides texting was old-fashioned e-mail. (Calling her was unthinkable.) This message was a bit too substantial for text, so he gathered his courage and clicked the “new mail” button:

            
Hi Elizabeth,

            
Happy Monday!! Hope your doing well and work isn't too crazy?? Looking fwd to Sat (movie night!!), but wanted to invite you to a party this Fri also. It's Keith's bday and alot of my friends want to meet you (they've heard good things!!) esp Mike. Do you think you could make it?! Would be great to see you let me know and I'll send you all the details.

He pressed
SEND
before he could read it over. The mouse arrow swirled over his inbox in tiny, agitated circles:
what have you done?
it asked him in a language only he could understand. He'd taken Elizabeth's acceptance for granted when he promised Mike she'd be there, but after their last session and this horrendous e-mail (he read it over now—what was with all that double punctuation?!), he wasn't so sure.

He refreshed his inbox: no answer.

RICHARD'S MESSAGE ARRIVED
at Slate Drubble & Greer in the midst of an electronic war. One corporation was selling off the shares it held in another, and long-simmering resentments were froth
ing to the surface via rapid-fire e-mails. It was up to Elizabeth to get the two sides to calm down. Richard's lone message with a distinct subject heading (
Fri Night?!
) appeared in her inbox like an innocent child teleported magically, and horribly, onto the battlefield. His e-mails were always off-putting to her anyway; she knew it could have been much worse, but she wished he were a
slightly
better writer. Why, for example, did he have to abbreviate so many words? All she wanted to do was get it out and away. What's more, it was obviously an overture, and she felt duty-bound to reciprocate:

            
R,

            
Of course! Would love to come, thanks for asking. Work indeed crazy today so that's all for now—

            
E

Her response popped up on the fifth refresh. Something burst behind Richard's eyes, and he actually went dizzy for a moment from the relief. Crisis averted. He rewarded himself by watching six episodes of
Family Guy
back-to-back off his DVR.

HOURS LATER, WHEN
the battle (not the war) was over and Elizabeth was concentrating on nothing more engrossing than preventing turkey-club bread crumbs from falling between the letters of her keyboard (she imagined that once trapped there, they would remain forever imprisoned in an eternal bread crumb hell), she allowed herself to wonder for a few minutes what meeting Richard's friends would be like. She assumed he entertained them weekly with updates on their time together, which they pronounced “amazing” and “fascinating.”
They must
be itching to get a glimpse firsthand
, she thought, dropping guard over her keyboard long enough to allow a dollop of mayonnaise to lodge between the
l
and
o
keys.
Great.
Now she'd have to get a replacement board from the misanthropic IT guy with body odor issues, who'd yell at her—again—for eating at her desk.

RICHARD AND MIKE
made plans to meet up for a drink before the main event. They chose the Abbey, which was the only gay bar on the strip that straight people patronized regularly, since it happened to be a great bar—though Richard, who relished the ample and obvious admiration gay men routinely bestowed on him, would have been comfortable in any gay bar. Arriving a few minutes before Mike, he ordered two gin-and-tonics and took a double-fisted turn around the place, feasting his eyes on its considerable amenities while pretending to ignore the sidelong glances he inspired. There were four separate bars (three indoor, one al fresco), a kitchen, a café, two patios (one covered, one open), a six-foot-high fireplace, a dance floor, and a faux-cathedral tableau including an altar to Elizabeth Taylor. (In her final days, the Abbey was the only place she ever went; there was even a glossy painting signed by the dearly departed legend herself.) Beyond the iron palings separating the outer patio from the sidewalk, he caught sight of Mike flashing her driver's license at a bouncer, pleased to have been carded.

“Gibler!” he shouted, sucking down the remnants of his first drink and depositing it on a table.

This was another one of their codes: when the umpteenth person had mistaken her first name for Kim, he suggested she change it to “Kimmy Gibler” (the hyper next-door neighbor on
Full House
) and be done with it.

“Dick!” she shouted back. This one was more obvious, and it was usually what she shouted at him in gay bars, uttered in enough of a monotone that it sounded as though she were yell
ing for penis. They hugged fiercely, and he asked after her parents (they both knew he meant her dad). “They're good,” she said. “They say hi. So how's the DP? Ready to meet her maker?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I have no idea what that meant either,” she said.

He laughed. He'd missed her, even in a week.

“She's good. Word on the street, and by ‘street' I mean the e-mail she sent me, is she's excited to come, so that's good.”

“Sweet,” Mike replied evenly, motioning to the bartender for a vodka-soda. She watched him plunge a tall glass into the ice well, his tanned shoulders bulging outside his regulation Abbey tank top. It was always a bit of a shock to come back to the beautiful people after spending time away from L.A. Even if you happened to be one of the beautiful people yourself.

“What? You want a piece? I think that one might actually be G-A-Y, unfortunately,” he whispered, spelling out “gay” as if it were a dirty word. He looked down; somehow he was already halfway done with his second gin-and-tonic. “He was giving me the eye before. Looks like he could put away a mean kpenes if you know what I mean, and I think you do.” He elbowed her ironically.

Oh, Richard. She'd missed him too. Mike studied her best friend over the rim of her glass. He was looking particularly good tonight, in a tight-fitting polo and snug pair of Diesel jeans she'd never seen on him before. She guessed he'd bought them with his newfound income. A pair of aviator sunglasses were perched on top of his head like fashionable Mickey Mouse ears, rendering him both cool and adorable.
How does he do that?
she wondered. Pulling off the “man tiara” was no small feat.

“I cannot
wait
to meet this girl,” she said.

Richard gulped down the rest of his drink, leering in response. Mike could sense he was too buzzed for so early in the night, but there was nothing to be done about it now. If she
called him out on it he'd deny it, and this would only make it harder to persuade him to slow down in the hours to come.

“I see you're not losing any time,” she said. “Lemme chug this and we'll get the show on the road.”

A little before ten, Richard and Mike made their entrance to Keith's birthday party. Richard sailed through the Factory's lobby, bounding up a metal staircase two steps at a time and practically leaping into the front room on the second floor. (Mike plodded behind him, placating the bouncer at the top—who had eyed Richard an unheeded warning—with a head shake and a beseeching look heavenward.) He scanned the early birds for the birthday boy, spotting him soon enough at the bar. But Keith seemed to be the only one there as of yet. Richard felt a pang of apprehension. Were he and his “business” partner such losers that no one was going to show up? How embarrassing would that be—oh, God, especially with Elizabeth on the way? Was there time to call her, tell her it was canceled—

Keith saw him and Richard ran over, throwing his arms around his neck and shouting “happy birthday!” with the perfect blend of irony and sincerity. While they were ordering the first round of drinks, five more guests arrived, and by the second round (Richard stuck to gin-and-tonics despite Mike's subtle efforts to downgrade him to beer) there were at least thirty people there for Keith in addition to the club's regular patrons. By the
third
round, the room was packed, and Richard saluted his business partner across a sea of friends, friends-of-friends, frenemies, and strangers,
cheers!
-ing the air. He turned and saw Mike talking to a loathsome D-girl (a catchall term for the army of women who worked on the
development
of film projects in their nascent stages, rarely—if ever—getting to actual film production). They both saw him looking and waved. He waved back, pulling down the cor
ners of his mouth into a “yikes!” expression when the D-girl wasn't looking. Mike's eyes flashed, but she kept the conversation going without missing a beat. Next to him, a tall woman laughed, another friend of Richard's who'd observed the exchange. He began bantering with her, the party sounds swelling around his ears, the climax of the first movement of a magnum opus that would last for hours and hours: the sustained ecstasy of a successful party, filling him, as it always did, with a febrile joy he didn't dare articulate for fear that others would make fun of him for it.