by Larry Brill
Now it was New Year’s Eve and she had set up a virtual video party on Google Hangout to celebrate. By eleven thirty, he had put on a clean shirt, combed his long, gray hair and pulled it into a neat pigtail. He even shaved before he settled into his father’s leather Barcalounger with an iPad tablet on his lap, its camera pointed at his face and a tall floor lamp three feet in front of him and a quarter-angle to the left in a Speilberg-esque attempt to light the picture properly. He hadn’t spent all those years hanging around movie sets for nothing. Eight faces in individual boxes with various backgrounds filled the screen.
“Oh, my God. Evans, you scuzzy hunk. What a surprise,” Eppie said when he saw his own face pop up on the screen to join the others. Since everyone else had been in touch through Eppie’s Facebook group for a few years, they took turns catching him up. Nine classmates sharing their past thirty-plus years, mostly for his benefit. Most of them, like Eppie, still lived in San Jose, or near enough that they could have held this little party in person. Nate got a twofer from Gerry and Shirley Summers. They married right out of high school, and, still married, they wrestled with the web camera on their computer so that first one and then the other was featured on the screen, kibitzing when they were not.
For his part, Nate deflected questions with vague answers about his stalled career as a Hollywood scriptwriting legend and glossed over the years he’d spent teaching English at the community college to fill in the gaps between sales. Married? Divorced. Yeah, been there. Done that.
Teasing and banter continued through the stroke of midnight. The talk took them on frequent trips down memory lane. Nate got a glow from the journey.
Remember who had the coolest car?
Remember how Lisa Lyttle and Bobby Hurst went steady all four years at Mt. Hamilton High and everyone thought they’d be the first to get married? It turned out Bobby was totally gay.
“Bobby Hurst? Quarterback and captain of the football team Hurst?”
How about Senior Cut Day? Half the class came down with the flu and tried to get better by spending a day at the beach.
And how, if you were a pretty girl on Allen Schmidt’s good side, you could go into the Dairy Barn when he was working and get a milkshake just for a smile.
“If the boss wasn’t looking.”
Nate settled deeper into the chair. The living room hadn’t changed much, so familiar and so comfortable as if he had returned to a place that was as close to a cocoon as an adolescent could have. Nate absorbed the scene; except for the disconnect by conversing online instead of in person, he could be seventeen again. Once again, his imagination tickled him.
“What if?” it asked.
So he Frisbeed the question he had put to the geezers at Ginny’s Church of the Holy Brew weeks earlier.
“If you could go back, back to high school, and do it all over again, would you?”
The score was three for, two against, and one “What, are you kidding? It was the worst time of my life.”
“In a heartbeat,” Nate answered when they turned the question on him before his brain went into overdrive.
Holy shit! How hard might it be to recreate those days? He could do that. He would start with finding a copy of the poster of Raquel Welch to hang again on the ceiling. The more he thought about it, the funnier it got. It wasn’t a long-term solution, but recreating his youth, at his age, would keep him distracted for a few months until life stopped beating him like a redheaded stepchild. It would be a giggle and he hadn’t had a good giggle in forever.
“Okay, guys,” he said. “Something’s come up. But let’s get together soon, maybe we can throw a real party just like we used to. Eppie, I’ll be in touch.”
He flopped down on his bed with his notepad and began scribbling with more focus this time, plotting how he would recreate those days. Or, rather, how his fictional character Nate would do it. He used his own miserable life for the backstory and his dream of getting his mulligan for Fictional Nate’s motivation. The plot thickened.
He would write out a plan of action in a story form and then act it out. Script first, and then perform. It seemed more coherent than a simple “to do list” that he was likely to ignore. That was his story Mulligan, script your life before you live it. If he had done that the first time he wouldn’t have been such a screw up. It was obvious now, he was just one of those people who needs a dress rehearsal.
By God, he hadn’t felt this good in a long time. Tomorrow would be New Year’s Day and things were turning for him. Mulligan. Maybe he would get an honest-to-God usable script from it, send it to his agent or anyone else who might be interested in something like Grumpy Old Men meets Back to the Future—minus the Delorean time-travel hot rod. Well, maybe not. Who cares? If it didn’t amount to anything? Hey, there was nothing wrong with living in the past—as long as you stayed in the present.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Auld Lang Syne, Jules
“Wow. Julie, you look fabulous.”
Larry Almeida stood on Julie’s front porch with a sappy grin. “So good, in fact, if I wasn’t a married man, I’d eat you up right here and now.”
Carla elbowed him before she passed Julie at the door. “Keep that up, Larry, and you won’t be married much longer.” She reached up and gave Julie an air peck on the cheek. “Happy New Year, Julie. Ignore my hubby but you do look great.”
Julie nodded, trying to take the compliments lightly, all the while blushing inside like a schoolgirl from head to cherry-painted toenails. She felt beautiful and she wanted to shine. It was nice to know her bedroom mirror wasn’t the only friend to tell her so. She was happy with the way she looked and happy with the way she felt. It was a full-body sort of joy that touched her just about every way she could imagine. Russell didn’t always notice the times when she put on her Superwoman outfit and makeup, shedding her practical mom and school administrator persona. Carla liked to needle her, suggesting she do it more often. Maybe she was right.
Russell dropped a hint about how much he was looking forward to tonight and that it could be special. It was odd the way he said “could be special.” It lacked the coy inflection someone used as an exaggerated hint meant to tickle a person with anticipation. There was no teasing in his voice, but one of the things about Russell she loved was his direct nature. Seldom was there any guesswork involved.
Unless he was getting ready to propose.
That would fall into one of those times when the playful Russell came out and left her guessing. The anticipation was romantic in its own way. So while Russell didn’t always notice when she put a little extra effort into her appearance, if he missed the signs tonight, there was no hope for him. If he was going to propose, and she was going to accept, she wanted to be dressed for the part.
Carla led the way to the living room. “That dress. Isn’t it everything I told you it would be?”
Julie ducked her head and smiled. Carla had dragged her to half a dozen consignment shops from Los Gatos and Menlo Park all the way up to San Francisco to find the perfect dress for that night’s New Year’s Eve party. Julie couldn’t justify paying full price for designer labels, so the compromise was to find an outfit that was gently used but guaranteed to knock a boyfriend’s socks off. She had approached Carla’s dress safari with guilty skepticism before she fell in love with a silk China blue number that she pulled off the rack at one of Carla’s favorite stores up in San Francisco, an out-of-the-way consignment boutique in the Nob Hill section of “The City.”
“Where else are you going to find a two-thousand-dollar Vera Wang outfit for under two hundred dollars?” Carla asked when Julie dithered. It wasn’t until after Julie got home that she noticed the label was that of a designer named Velma Wong, and not the designer of movie stars and first ladies.
“So? Wang. Wong. Nothing wong with that. It looks great on you,” Carla replied when Julie pointed it out to her.
Julie glanced down the length of the dress to the hem at her knee. “It does look good, do
esn’t it?” She admired the expensive Jimmy Choo sandals Carla had talked her into. The shoes cost more than the dress and lacy undergarments she bought combined. Though after getting the Wong Wang, Julie did a Google search to confirm that her Choo shoes weren’t a knockoff as well.
Carla performed a pirouette in the middle of the living room. “Besides, who reads the labels? No one’s going to notice or care that this little outfit is a Don Karan original.”
“You mean Donna Karan.”
“Nah. This was designed by Don. I think it’s her brother. All that matters is that we look good. Right?” Carla completed her outfit with a cheap, WalMart-grade plastic headband. It was covered with glitter and the year 2018 carved out of the crown. She adjusted it with her hands, swiveled and asked, “So tell me, does this tiara make my butt look big?”
“Of course not,” Julie replied.
“Good answer.”
“What butt?” her husband asked.
“Bad answer.”
“Trick question,” Larry said. “If I say no, you won’t believe me. If I say yes, I’m sleeping on the couch tonight. Can’t win. Say, Julie, is that champagne in that ice bucket on the table there?”
“Yes, it is,” she laughed. “I want to save it until Russell gets here. But I have some wine in the refrigerator if you’d like.”
When they settled in again, Julie said, “I can’t remember the last time I was up at the Mountain Winery; it’s been years. I have really been looking forward to this.”
“And not just the party, I assume.” Carla gave her husband a wink big enough that you couldn’t miss it from a block away. “So you think tonight’s the night?”
“Carla, you’re the only one who thinks so. Really now. Sometimes I think if he doesn’t propose, you’ll be more disappointed than I will.”
“Can we take that as a yes?” Larry said.
“I doubt he will with the two of you gawking at us in public.”
“Julie, that’s exactly how he would do it. When have you known him to ever worry about who’s watching what? He’ll just bull ahead as always, oblivious to everything else,” Carla said.
Larry corrected her, “No, hon. I think you meant to say he would be focused. Focused on Julie, here, swept up in her beauty and so overcome that nothing would distract him from declaring his love. Am I right or am I right?”
Julie blushed. “Can I clone you? Carla, can I clone him? That was a much more romantic way of putting it.”
“See what happens when you pull an IRS auditor away from his computer? They have this pent-up romantic energy. I swear, most days Larry thinks nothing is sexier than a faulty tax form.”
The conversation drifted off to small talk and mindless bits of time-killing observations while Julie checked her watch every five minutes and Carla and Larry exchanged glances as the evening got later. Julie dialed Russell’s number, but the call went straight to voice mail. Twice. Finally she suggested the couple go to the party without her.
“We’ll catch up with you there.” And then Julie apologized.
Carla Almeida, Queen of Snark and Patron Saint of Sarcasm asked, “You don’t think he got the dates mixed up, do you? I mean, it’s only New Year’s Eve. Easy to get that wrong on the calendar.”
“Something must have come up. You know what’s going to happen. Russell will show up two minutes after you’re gone. So we’ll be a little late. But if you leave now, you can still make it in time for the dinner. Don’t let this spoil your fun.”
Three hours later, she opened one bleary and bloodshot eye and focused on the champagne bottle barely a foot from her nose. She was on the sofa. The bottle was on the coffee table. Both were lying on their sides, horizontal and empty.
She reached down and picked up the champagne cork from where it had fallen on the carpet, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger slowly in front of her eyes before flinging it halfheartedly at the television. In his run up to the rocking stroke of midnight in Times Square, Ryan Seacrest was interviewing some underdressed and overly painted singer. Or maybe she was an actress. Maybe she was a comedian. She could have been a hotel maid or a sales clerk at a beauty supply store for all Julie knew. Thank God the sound was muted. The digital clock in the corner of the screen counted down the time. Twenty-three minutes, seventeen seconds to midnight.
Julie wiped her fingers across the corner of her mouth where she had drooled after nodding off and then sat up to check her cell phone. No call. No text. No Russell. What had happened? This wasn’t like him. Something important must have come up. Or…vague visions of car wrecks infiltrated her thoughts. She fought them off. Nonsense.
The room spun gently like the last slow movement of a carnival ride before they opened the gates to let everyone off as she made her way to the bedroom to undress. She didn’t like what she saw in the mirrored double doors to her closet. Rumpled and rejected, she had such high expectations for a fun evening with friends. Instead she was ringing in the new year with Velma Wong, Jimmy Choo and Two-buck Chuck—knockoff designers and cheap wine. Not much of a celebration. Oh, not to mention Victoria’s Secret. Carla had goaded her into something fancy. At least that was justifiable, Julie reasoned, considering the possibilities of the evening. But as she tenderly removed the black lace, she couldn’t understand how in the world she had let her daughter, Tiffany, talk her into the bikini wax to go with the sexy underwear. Tiffany hadn’t been to blame for that much pain down there since the day she was born. In fact, childbirth was a piece of cake. And at Julie’s age, bikini wax? Really? Well, for sure Russell wasn’t going to see it.
After slipping into sweat pants and a flannel top, Julie stood in the living room with a small glass of Listerine-spiked water, alternately dipping a toothbrush in the water and working it in her mouth, while she watched the television countdown to midnight. Less than ten minutes to go. The doorbell rang. Julie set down the glass and picked up her phone in case she had to call 9-1-1. Then a heavy hand pounded on the door. She approached it cautiously and peeped through the security hole. Julie could make out Russell’s thinning patch of hair on the top of his head. He was leaning with one hand against the door with his chin resting on his chest.
“Julie, I made it. Let me in, honey.”
She was glad she hadn’t turned up the volume on the television. She could ignore him. Better to let him think she hadn’t been waiting on him all night. Julie resisted the temptation to open the door just for the satisfaction of slamming it in his face. She leaned with her back against the door and slid down until she was sitting on the floor. Her phone pinged an alert.
Where R U? Russell texted.
Julie waited what she thought would be a reasonable amount of time. Not home. Where are you?
Russell replied he was at her place and asked why she wasn’t home.
Julie: Party. Remember?
Russell slapped the door, causing Julie to flinch and spit out the toothbrush that she had tucked in the cheek of her mouth. The aftertaste had lost its minty flavor and now coated her tongue with something closer to rubbing alcohol. He swore loudly and Julie was glad she had the door between them. It wasn’t much, but for all Russell knew, they could be miles, instead of inches, apart. Silence. Then her phone pinged again.
Russell: Had beers with buds wa ching football.
Russell: Sooners won. Boomer Sooners!!!
Well, la-de-da!
Russell had done his undergraduate work at the University of Oklahoma, and even after living on the West Coast for so many years, he still bled red for the football team. But they had a date. A special date, he’d indicated.
Russell: Lost track of time. My bad.
He misspelled every third word, a drunk slurring his text. Sorry, he typed three times in a row. Back and forth they went. A lover’s quarrel separated only by a few feet, a wooden door and billions and billions of bits of computer code shooting like caustic stars in cyber space. Julie and Russell sniped at one another in rapid-fire text messages.
>
Bitch.
Bastard.
That stopped him. There was a long pause between messages. Julie took the moment to scroll through the exchange. God, it stung to see how juvenile it had become.
Finally, Russell: But we WON. Come home n tell you all about it. Said this would be a special night. Boomer Sooners!
It might have been special to Russell, but it did nothing to ease the hurt inside.
Russell: Bsides. I have a present for you.
No. He wasn’t going to propose via text. She could count the number of times she had seen him out of control on one hand. Actually, two fingers would do. Both involved sports and alcohol. He was rock solid and predictable every other day of the week, so she couldn’t imagine he’d Tweet a marriage proposal and prayed that he wouldn’t be that insensitive when she asked: What is it?
She stood and watched him through the peephole in the door. Russell had stepped back, just off the porch, and was little more than a shadow playing with something in his hand. She could open the door and confront him. She had let the charade of distance go on too long. He was standing only a few feet away, and she was in no mood to accept his engagement ring no matter how much he tried to make it up to her. Then again, maybe it was better to let him stew and see how long it took him to go home while she took a day to collect herself before they talked this out.
Russell: Present. Scored two tickets to Super Bowl. You and me.
That’s it? The big surprise was the Super Bowl? There was no appropriate text response for that. Crushed, she was such a fool. A teardrop rolled off her cheek and plopped onto the face of the phone in her hand. Russell had gotten her hopes up. Carla had gotten her hopes up. Julie had gotten her own hopes up that he was going to propose. Maybe he wasn’t serious after all. She hated herself for falling into the trap of thinking otherwise.
