“Who’s this?” I snapped m my telemarketer-defense mode.
“This is Karen from Salon. We received your submission There’s Something About Barney, and we love it.”
I peed. The downside of having recently given birth was the incredibly poor bladder control.
“You did?” I said, hoping she’d spend the afternoon on the phone telling me exactly everything she loved about my piece.
“Yes, it’s just what we’re looking for. Smart, sharp, and edgy.”
“Thank you.”
“No, thank you for thinking of us. Do you mind if I ask how you came up with the idea?” I told her about the Barney birthday party and how Dr. Lee showed up at the end to facilitate a therapy session for the kids. “Wow, that’s pretty bad. I thought the one I went to in Los Angeles was weird,” Karen said. “A three-year-old slugged the photographer and called him ‘paparazzi.’ Prince Charming refused to eat a piece of cake because he was on Atkins.”
“You’re kidding?! What about the princess?”
“Oh she had two slices. I’d never seen a porky princess character before,” she said.
“Well when you’ve got all those royal feasts to attend, who can keep trim, right?” I said desperately hoping she wasn’t a calorie Nazi who’d snap that Cinderella was a lazy, fat cow who should join a gym.
“Amen to that,” she said instead. “Maybe that should be your next article, Lucy. Anyway, my editor asked me to see what else you’ve got. We like your style. What are you working on now?”
Ummmm.
Desdemona stormed into her room and burst into tears. “Now I will never get my cup of tea!” she cried.
“I actually just started working on a piece called ‘It Takes a Village to Nurse a Child,’” I bluffed.
“Pitch me,” said Karen.
“Traditionally breastfeeding is something that was taught by one generation of mothers to the next, right?” I heard her grunt in agreement. “But our mothers weren’t encouraged to breastfeed, so there’s this whole gap in knowledge between today’s grandmothers and new moms. There’s a whole community of breastfeeding consultants, though, from La Leche League mothers who will drive to your house and help you, to paid lactation consultants, and specialty shops just for breastfeeding. How ’bout if I write something about my experience struggling to nurse and how this subculture of breastfeeding experts was there to help. The whole village concept in the context of nursing a child.”
“Write it,” she said.
“Write it?”
“Yeah, it rocks. Give us seven hundred words in two weeks and we’ll run it in May. We like your edge, Lucy. There’s not a lot out there with your utter lack of treacle sentimentality about motherhood.”
I felt pressure to say something that would maintain this image. What unsentimental thing could I say to show her how edgy I am? “Alrighty then, two weeks it is,” I said. Oy!
Four hours later, I finished my story.
When I was pregnant, the Nature Channel aired a video safari through Africa. I watched the animals effortlessly nurse their young and arrogantly recalled a friend’s suggestion that I take a breastfeeding class. Who needs a class in the most natural thing in the world? Why would anyone waste their time and money on a breastfeeding class? Be careful what you ask, because very soon, you may discover the answer. Breastfeeding may be natural, but it’s not always easy. It’s a skill that was once passed down from generations of mothers, but as I soon learned, today it takes a village to nurse a child.
I went on to tell about Mary and her boob-shaped car, and how the thrush was diagnosed not by medical doctors, but by another mom who took the time to come to my house one night with her La Leche League Big Book of Answers. Since I opened with a reference to Africa, and the village proverb was African, I’d continued with this theme. Mary was likened to a chimpanzee while I made Candace into a cheetah. The other women in the La Leche League meeting took on characteristics of other jungle animals. I spared no one the comparison, least of all Adam and myself mama and baby baboon.
Two weeks later, Karen called to say the magazine accepted my article. “I love the part about the word ‘you’ being synonymous with your nipples. Our readers are going to love your style,” she said. I adored Karen. I couldn’t re member the last time someone forecasted my success or said they liked my style.
It was March and Natalie and Jack had kidnapped my child yet again. They took my baby to the playground, so I decided to grab lunch at Lo Fats before attempting to revive the tale of Desdemona the waif whose husband had forgotten her. I’m not sure why I continued to go to Lo Fats when the menu was clearly anything but. I liked the idea of dieting far more than the reality. And truth be told, I loved to watch the chef throw food onto the flaming wok. The kitchen was an open one, so I could always admire his muscular arms and defined chest through his white undershirt. He had brown skin that could have either been Puerto Rican or Native American and black eyes that belonged to no particular race or creed, but were rather a universal feature of sex gods. Every time he saw me enter the restaurant, he’d come to the counter to take my order. He’d shake his black curls out of his eyes even though they were secured under a backward, light-blue Yankees cap. Most of the time, the manager, a miserable scoop of lard, ordered him back to the kitchen, then revealed his inflamed gums as he took my order. Yes, I was chunky, okay chubby, but this guy was downright amorphous. His overall appearance seemed almost defiant. It was as if he was saying, “Look how vile I can be!” He wore greasy blond hair and had pimples on his chin that somehow sprouted hairs from them! And his misshapen red nose had so many blackheads, it actually looked like a strawberry. Whoever decided to put Lard Scoop up front and lock the brown-skinned love god in the back was indeed a moron. But on this day in March, the snow had melted, the sky was blue, and Lard Scoop was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 23
“Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. I’m not Catholic, is that okay?” I saw the priest’s silhouette nod that I was welcome to confess at his church. “I’m Jewish. We don’t have this kind of setup, but it seems like a good idea. Like therapy where you don’t actually need to analyze every little nitty-gritty detail of my psychological makeup, but just do your penance and move on. Anyway, what I guess I’m trying to say, father, is that I think you Catholics are on to something here.” I wanted to suck up to the priest before I dropped my adultery bomb on him. “I had sex with a man who’s not my husband, which is not the part I need to confess because my husband is actually okay with me having sex with other men. I mean, really, he’s had at least two girlfriends over the last year, so he’s hardly one to judge. It’s just that I feel so violated. I feel like I violated myself by having sex with this stranger. I mean he isn’t a stranger stranger. I’ve seen him cooking behind the counter before and we’ve exchanged a few words. Okay, I guess that would make him a stranger. I just didn’t want you to think I just met him that day. It’s been a few weeks that we’ve been flirting. But anyway it was supposed to make me feel young and sexy, but I ended up feeling raped. Raped by myself, does that make any sense at all?” I paused.
“Father? Father, you’re going to need to help me out here. This is my first time at confession. Is this interactive, or do I have to wait till the end to get your feedback?”
“You’ve been very wicked,” he said.
“Well I’m not sure I’d call it wicked, father. My husband and I have an arrangement, you see. He says it’s okay for me to, um, to fornicate.”
“Your husband is not God,” the priest replied.
“Yeah well, someone forgot to give him the memo on that one. Anyway, I’m hoping you can give me a little wave of that ash wand thing or give me a few prayers to say to make me feel better.”
“My child, have you ever heard of the show Real Confessions?”
“Have I ever heard of it? It’s the number one rated show in America! My friend Zoe is a producer. I actually wrote the tag line. Real Confessions, missing it is the r
eal sin. Wait a minute ... am I on TV?!”
Okay, none of this happened, but there are sprinkles of truth throughout my mid-morning horror fantasy. First, by the end of March, Real Confessions was the number one hit television show in America. Zoe was raking in the bucks because not only were advertisers clamoring for placement on the show, but everyone knew about it because of the storm of controversy it had caused. They spent almost no money promoting the show because it was covered by news media everywhere you turned. Catholics protested in front of FOX, priests blasted the show in their sermons, and finally the crowning jewel of controversy, the Catholic producers of the show were all excommunicated. Of course, this attracted a flurry of national media coverage. When the Vatican issued a statement denouncing the show, it became headline news. Tabloid shows of rival stations couldn’t help but cover the controversy. Dateline, 20/20—they were all there to gobble it up. One priest made the mistake of implying that Zoe had an anti-Catholic agenda because she was Jewish. This angered the Jewish community, so the Anti-Defamation League got involved. Within hours the Ku Klux Klan got into the fray, issuing a statement saying that while they hated Catholics, Jews were even worse. Who knows what their position on the show was? Of course, this pissed everyone off, especially when the ACLU weighed in and said that the KKK had every right to voice its opinion. The civil liberties union stood by the white-hooded lunatics, saying that simply claiming to hate Catholics (and Jews) wasn’t technically hate speech. For two weeks in March, Real Confessions was the hot topic on everything from Capital Gang to the O’Reilly Factor. The only clear winner was the show, which had everyone’s attention.
The second truth is far less exciting. I did wind up having sex with the Lo Fats chef. Eddie was his name, which I learned minutes before my underpants were pushed to the side of my crotch in the back seat of my Ford Windstar. Let me rewind. I was sitting in a booth at Lo Fats, enjoying a book that was so hilarious I felt like an utterly inadequate scribbler of fluff. I sat in my booth giggling with every page when I heard a voice from the kitchen shout, “You getting off now?” The chef was talking to Eddie, and I don’t mind admitting that I had a physical reaction to the question about him getting off. I peeked up from my book to see that Eddie had nodded yes. I confess that earlier I called Lo Fats and pretended to be a job applicant. I said I was interested in a position as a cook and asked when the shifts were. When I found out that the day shift ended at 5:00 p.m., I made sure to stop by at 4:30 on my free day, and park myself at a booth. I put on just enough makeup to look as though I wasn’t trying quite as hard as I was, and squeezed into my pre-pregnancy jeans. I sat trying to look as casual as I could with the circulation in my legs cut off.
“Hey there, Chicken Salad,” he said. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but when you’ve been sex-deprived for more than a year, you take your opening lines as they come.
“Oh, hi,” I said.
“You read in’ something funny?”
“Um, yeah, it’s called Sellevision. It’s about this home- shopping network that -”
“ʼCause you crackin’ up over there.”
“Where?” I wondered aloud.
“Here at the table,” he said.
“Oh, here.”
“Yeah, that’s what I said,” Eddie said.
“No, you actually said there so I wondered where you meant because we’re both here, not there.” Jesus Christ, Lucy! End this utterly moronic conversation and say some thing flirty and fun. “So, do you know where I can get a car wash around here? My minivan’s a mess.” Merciful God, kill me now.
“You need a car wash?” he asked. Thankfully, since Eddie was legally brain-dead, he didn’t notice anything particularly odd about my request.
“Yes, I need a car wash,” I said.
“I know a place you can get a car wash,” he said. Okay, clearly, this isn’t going to be the man I have a deep and meaningful relationship with but, when he wasn’t speaking, he was so incredibly sexy.
“And what do I need to do to get this information from you?” I smiled. If this guy asked for payment, I was seriously going to go to the supply room of Lo Fats, fill a bucket with water and detergent, and stick my head in it until I drowned.
“Aw, you don’t need to gimme nothing for that,” he said. It wasn’t a rejection, but he either was ignoring my flirtation because he was disinterested, or he missed it altogether. “There’s a car wash right on the corner here, um, there.”
Okay, now what?! Great goddamned plan, Lucy. Step one: Ask for the nearest car wash, proving you’re an unaware rube to have missed the one on the corner. Step two: Have him give you the information. Step three: Say, “Oh thanks. Bye!”
“Is it any good?” I asked. Please God, strike me dead right now. I do not deserve to live! I am simply a waste of food.
“Yeah, they cleaned my mom’s car real nice,” he said.
“Great, I’ll give them a try!”
“You think you could give me a ride home? I don’t mind stopping off at the car wash with you. I need to pick me up some smokes anyways.”
What am I doing? I panicked. I’m advancing the flirtation with an imbecile, thinking it will actually help me feel good about myself. Tell him no. Tell him I’m in a rush. Tell him I need to just get my car washed and go home. Then he smiled and no words came out of his mouth. “Okay,” I smiled.
As my minivan passed the black strips marking the entry of the car wash, Eddie turned to me. Manufactured sheets of rain sprayed the headlights, then hood, then windshield of my minivan. Something about the sound of the rushing water and the absence of Eddie speaking had the effect of a glass of red wine. I ran my fingers through my hair and relaxed my head back on the seat, hoping he would catch my vibe. I glanced at him and smiled slightly, hinting for physical contact.
“Can I ax you somethin’?” Eddie said.
“No,” I snapped. I was feeling so sensual and ready for a man’s touch, I knew whatever he had to ax me would, well, ax it.
“Shit, I never heard that before,” he shook his head, not knowing what to do next.
“Don’t ask, do,” I smiled invitingly. It took a few seconds for him to figure out what this highly complex sentence meant, but then he kissed me. This man was not a real thinker, but he was an excellent kisser. He was a genius, really. His thick, warm lips covered mine like a blanket as he gently stroked his tongue across my mouth. He was completely and totally in charge without being overbearing. Most guys kiss as though they’re in a sword fight with you, lashing their tongues around as if they get bonus points for taking out your teeth. Not Eddie. I’m quite sure I sighed, “Oh dear God,” which gave him the confidence to slide his thick fingers through the buttons of my blouse and graze my breasts. Rainbow colored suds began dropping down onto my windshield as a green light flashed, “Move forward.”
“Let’s go in the back where we have more room,” Eddie said.
“More room for what?” I was the idiot now. “Come on,” he urged.
Panicked that the incredible kissing would end, I complied. He unstrapped Adam’s car seat and tossed it into the back compartment where I put groceries and gallons of laundry detergent. Oh my God, he wants to ... before I could finish the thought, he leapt at me, this time far more aggressively. I landed on my back and heard what sounded like a duck being tortured. It was Adam’s chewy toy that quacked when squeezed. I pulled it from under my butt cheek and tried to forget that I was mid-cycle of a car wash in New Jersey, but nothing seemed to help.
“What’s your name? “ I asked, trying desperately to backtrack.
“Eddie,” he said.
“I’m Lucy.” I tried to sit up.
At any point, I could have stopped. While crass and uneducated, Eddie was not a rapist, and would have surely complied with my request to put his penis back in his pants and release me from his body pinned on top of mine. “Lucy, good to meet you,” he laughed, struggling, squirming to get his pants down. I wanted nothing more than for this to end, an
d yet I did nothing to stop it. “Can you slide your panties over for me?”
This is not what I wanted. “Eddie, why don’t we wait until we know each other a little better?”
“I can’t wait,” he said. “You’re so beautiful and sexy and I gotta be inside you.” And with those final words, I surrendered and he slid into me with ease. “See baby, you want it. Don’t worry, I’m going to give you what you need.” Not exactly what I would have scripted him to say, but I wouldn’t have set my hot sex scene in a car wash either. Could he give me what I needed? What did I need anyway? As I tried to convince myself that this tryst was liberating and empowering, I heard Eddie start to grunt like he was lifting heavy boxes. His skin was moist with sweat and his face scrunched up with a strained look. He couldn’t possibly be done so soon, could he? He let out a final howl that confirmed that Eddie, the dim-witted cook, was indeed coming inside me. He retrieved his slick flesh from my body, tucked it back into his briefs, and pulled his pants up from around his knees. He wiped his sweaty forehead with the sleeve of his white shirt with the Lo Fats logo embroidered on it. “Thanks, baby. That felt real good.” The final rinse of the car wash began and the colorful suds were washed away as my car began to roll forward on its own.
Thanks, baby. That felt real good? What happened to giving me what I need?
Seconds later, I heard the tornado-like wind of the dry cycle of the car wash as the artificial light was replaced by the natural evening sky. Tiny beads of water separated and clung to the window as they were blown toward the edges. A new light-sign read, “Your car has never been cleaner!” Eddie and I had a silent drive to his house, a trashy white home with expired aluminum siding and broken car parts strewn across the driveway. “Maybe we could do this again sometime,” Eddie said as he hopped out of my car. Maybe?! Never again in my life did I want to see this revolting creature. But what exactly did he need to consider? Why was it a maybe in his mind? He got no-strings, effortless sex and a ride home. What part of this deal was unfavorable to him? Maybe, my ass! For a moment of insanity, I thought about asking him to dinner that weekend and trying to convince him that I was someone he definitely wanted to see again. I was no “maybe” girl.
Tales From the Crib Page 15
