Vonnie wondered why Chloe hadn’t asked for his.
“I thought about asking him for his, but I never know if they’re married. Oh, check it out, our company picnic is at Magic Molehill!”
Chloe laughed and Vonnie would have joined her if she could. They were not good amusement park people. The last time they’d gone was back in New York, on the fourth of July.
“Remember last time we went? On the fourth of July? What were we thinking!”
They’d hoped for light rain so nobody else would go and they’d actually get on the rides but—
“It was like 95 degrees and all of frickin’ Newark was there? We were talking about how things would be with Clinton gone, and I was reading Moby Dick? Even on the rides! Remember? The one roller coaster we were like whooo!”
And everybody seemed annoyed, like they were talking through a movie or something. Yeah. Vonnie remembered.
Every day Chloe came and had these conversations, these monologues. Vonnie wondered what she’d done to be so lucky. Who gets friends like this? Friends who not just read your mind but seem to share it.
But she’s not in that second defining scene, Vonnie thought. Chloe had still been in New Jersey the second time Vonnie tugged at her father-in-law’s shirt tail.
They’re arguing, Vonnie and her husband. For a year they’ve been arguing, about everything and nothing. This time they own the house (though it’s still tiny) and it stands on the West Coast, and this time it’s “Bagga” and not TJ. He’s gotten signed and is just about to become famous; you can taste it in the air around him.
They stand—stand-off—in the dining room, where a sliding door leads to the back yard. Her father-in-law is visiting from New Jersey, is smoking a cigarette on the porch. Still a slab of concrete, but the back porch this time, just off the dining room.
Vonnie hisses something at her husband; she won’t yell with Frankie around. And suddenly the furniture is upturned, the TV is smashed. Well, she’s sure hollering now! And everything slows down, like it does in car crashes and house fires. She feels it before her words finish coming out of her mouth, the break in tension that marks the apex of TJ’s black anger. And up comes his arm, crossing his snarling face and there it goes back again. His rough knuckles catch Vonnie’s cheekbone. Her head snaps sideways. The force of the blow sends her sprawling.
She sprawls into the dining room chairs with a yelp and clatter. And when she gets up from her knees, it is in the dark shadow of her father-in-law. She bolts to her feet and out the door. He catches her, clutches her to him. Wipes the blood from her face with his denim shirt.
And this time she whimpers “Frankie, please.…Kill him.”
These memories flooded Vonnie’s mind—TJ’s stricken, bruised face the following morning, their counselor-aided trek back to decency, the horrible news of what happened in New York City in September, long nights on the phone to Chloe, and then that final phone call about Chloe’s mom. Anyone else would have broken in half. Not Chloe. She was off-kilter when Vonnie helped her move, but even through that obscured lens her optimism showed. She’d chatted with cab drivers and made brownies for the movers.
TJ had once described Chloe as terminally optimistic. Vonnie’s favorite example of this happy disease involved them getting stranded in Silver Lake just after Chloe moved West. A forgotten purse? Angry date? Something. As a result, they’d had to walk home nearly seven miles, part of it through the barrio, in heels and club clothes.
Vonnie complained and was also genuinely frightened. But Chloe waved and smiled to the non-English speaking strangers, even the ones with neck tattoos who whistled appreciatively but never advanced, except one, who gave Chloe a big red apple and a big cute smile.
“I’m happy to be able to walk,” Chloe said. “You know there’s people who can’t.”
She scored the apple with her thumbnail, paused in her stride just for a moment and cracked it into two neat, red halves.
“Somewhere right now there’s a guy stuck in a wheelchair who used to be able to walk and now he can’t.” She handed Vonnie half the apple. “He got into a car crash or maybe fell down the stairs and he’ll never walk again, poor bastard, all he can do is sit in that chair and think about when he was whole. I gotta walk seven miles? Gladly.”
Gladly.
Vonnie sputtered and choked. She struggled to sit up and her arms moved but couldn’t pull her all the way.
Gladly!
A ragged intake of breath then, “Help. Please? Help.” To Vonnie it sounded so small but the nurses came running, both of them followed closely by the meds nurse.
“Balasang ko, you’re awake!” The older nurse pulled Vonnie to her and all that thick black hair covered Vonnie’s face. It smelled delightful, like jasmine. The nurse squeezed her with joy. Vonnie went into another coughing fit. She gasped and choked and flailed her arms like a madwoman. Gladly.
* * *
Vonnie switched the TV’s sound off. “All these reporters? They’re all saying I killed myself because I was going to have to get a job.”
“They’re saying you’re dead? I got you Roscoe’s.” Chloe held up the bag and Vonnie could smell the perfect fried chicken. Chloe settled herself on Vonnie’s hospital bed and unwrapped the food.
“They’re saying I tried to ‘cause of the job. That is complete horseshit!” Vonnie shouted at the television. “I wanted to work. That was part of the problem! He wanted me to lounge around the house in lingerie. Wow, this chicken is good.”
“I tried to get the nurses to give you the Kripsy Kreme IV but they wouldn’t.”
“Did you bring any?”
“Of course. Junkie.”
“And then he had the nerve to accuse me of being a whore! He said I was giving it up to whoever came over and why don’t I go work in porn!”
Chloe sipped her soda and nodded. “I know.”
“Maybe I should have. At least then I’d have some money. You know, of my own. Those chicks make bank.”
“I’ve heard.”
“Plus you can do girl on girl, which means no penetration which means less money, you know, but no penetration.”
Chloe giggled around her chicken leg. “It’s good to have you back!”
“Thanks.”
Chloe gestured to the TV “What’s TJ saying about all this?”
“To his credit, he’s refusing to comment.”
“That’s something.”
“At least until his publicist tells him otherwise. That guy’s a real prick.”
“When can you leave, anyway? I wanna take you to this improv comedy night thing I’ve discovered.”
“I dunno. Psychiatric evaluations or some crap. They say they need to turn me over to somebody. Insulting.”
“Okay, but you did try to kill yourself.”
“Yeah, there is that.” Vonnie suddenly fought tears.
Chloe’s voice dropped. “You could have called me, you know.” It wasn’t an accusation, just a fact. A fact rimmed with hurt Chloe tried to cover.
“I could have called a lot of people.”
“I talked to Frankie.”
Vonnie sighed audibly. “I can’t…even look at him. I feel terrible.”
“Maybe think about that next time this—” she waved an arm. “—crosses your mind.”
“But you don’t see that when you’re down in it. Besides, there’s not going to be a next time.”
“Good. Anyway, Frankie’s on a plane. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
A long pause while Vonnie picked her chicken clean.
“What, uh…what did he say exactly?”
“The same thing I did.”
“That I could have called him?”
“Yeah. And we both feel like we somehow let you down. Like he didn’t ema
il you enough or I didn’t hang out enough or whatever.”
“Nobody let me down but me.” Vonnie looked up and saw Chloe wiping her eyes. “I mean it. And it’s not gonna happen again. I mean that, too. This is like my second chance. I’m sure as hell not going to blow it.” She tossed a chicken bone into the empty take-out bag. “But I’m not sure what’s next. I’m done with TJ, obviously.”
“They’d probably hire you at Survivanoia. They’re supposed to be getting some new President in like four or six months. It’s some big coup apparently, the stockholders are all up in arms but evidently this woman—it’s a woman! She’s in tight with the mystery founder-partner. They think she might be the mystery partner. And they say she’s planning to—”
“None of this helps me, Chloe, I have no experience at anything. I can’t even type!”
Chloe sniffled and grinned. “You could learn.”
First thing the next morning, Frankie threw his arms around her and clutched her to his billboard of a chest. She instantly felt safe and cared for and valued. How could she have been so stupid?
Two and a half physical-therapy-and-journal-writing-filled weeks later, Chloe wheeled Vonnie to the hospital exit and they ran shrieking like teenagers to Chloe’s lemon-yellow Volkswagen Gopher.
“So Frankie is staying?” Chloe asked once they got inside. Vonnie had explained how the doctors had released her into Frankie’s custody.
“At least for a while. There’s plenty of room at the house.”
“What’s he gonna do? Frankie’s not one to sit around all day.”
“Chloe, he drives a cab. He can work anywhere.”
“They generally like you to know the place you’re driving.”
“The Valley is a grid. Frankie is smart.”
Chloe considered this, then raised a shoulder and let it drop.
“Okay, then. Over the hill?” she asked, meaning should they leave the Valley and go to Hollywood.
“And far away!”
Chloe put the car on the 101. “What are you going to do now?”
“Let’s get drunk!”
“Okay, but I meant in the larger sense.”
“I have no idea. But thanks to the wonders of modern chemistry, it doesn’t bother me not to know.”
“Ah…what are you talking about?”
“In order to be released, even into the custody of my father-in-law? I had to convince the doctors that I had returned to a state of reasonable happiness and wouldn’t try it again. And to aid this process, they apparently put me on Zoloft. While I was still in a coma! They I.V.’d me Zoloft!”
“I think the Krispy Kreme would have worked better.”
“I agree! But like I said, err’ting irie now, mon. Where are we going?”
“Lunch at Wolfie’s, shopping on Melrose, then the dinner show at Adlibs. No talk show offers yet?”
“Wolfie’s and Melrose? What are we, tourists? Yes, talk show offers, but I’m not interested. I don’t want to go on Okra and sob about how mean TJ—”
“Bagga. You’d need to refer to him as Bagga in public forums like that.”
“That right there is reason enough not to do it! Who wants to air their dirty laundry like that anyway?”
Chloe snorted. “Bagga’ Chips got blindingly rich airing your guys’ dirty laundry, did he not? Oh, and did you know Adlibs has a new owner? It’s much cooler now. And I have to put the heater on now or the car will overheat.”
“The heater? Chloe, it’s like ninety degrees outside!”
“Ninety-six actually, but the car is broken, I’m sorry. You wanna be stranded? On the hill?”
“I’m just sayin’.”
“I know what you’re saying. I‘m already well aware. Think I like it?”
Vonnie stuck her head out the window and let the breeze dry the sweat from her brow. “Are we there yet?”
Lunch was always good at Wolfie’s. But Vonnie told Chloe-the-cook what she knew was exactly the right thing: “Yours is better.” And she meant it.
Shopping on Melrose proved disappointing.
“I recall,” Chloe said, stalking back to the car with only one bag, “there was a time when I used to find things here I liked, not just shit I thought I should be seen in.”
“You got that shirt from Von Schmidtt.”
Chloe gave her one-armed shrug. “I have a weakness for Von Schmidtt.”
“It’s your boss, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“You need to look cute for your boss?”
Chloe glanced at her quizzically over the top of the yellow car. “Did I tell you about Geo?”
Vonnie hadn’t yet admitted to anyone that she heard everything while she was “out.” And suddenly she found she didn’t want to. “You must have.” She ducked inside the car. “At some point.”
The last time Vonnie had been at Adlibs, the nightclub looked exactly like the renovated bowling alley it was. Graffiti- and-gum-riddled plastic tables sat on damp carpet, and only a worn drape separated the lanes from the rest of the club.
All that had changed. She didn’t even recognize the entrance. Inside, a young woman offered to take their sweaters and umbrellas—funny!—while another sold them tickets.
“Have you been here before?” she asked, handing them oversized yellow tickets.
“I have,” Chloe told her. “But my friend hasn’t.”
“Adlibs amateur night,” the girl chirped, “has a strict pick-a-fight, face-the-spotlight policy. This means that if you are overheard jeering or mocking a comedian, you are expected to go perform yourself. Oh, and the raffle is at the end of intermission now. Enjoy!”
They passed from the lobby to the main room, where a raised stage graced the back wall which had once been the bowling lanes. A fancy, well-stocked bar lined the front wall and mid-sized round tables, each with its own candle, filled the sloped floor.
“No bad seats!” Chloe picked a table near the back as if to prove her point. “They made the floor like at a movie theatre.” She held a hand at an angle.
A waitress appeared and took their drink orders. While they sipped absinthe martinis, Vonnie watched a guy wearing a headset manipulate the curtains around the stage, redefining the space. “That stage is huge.”
“Yeah, they do fully staged productions here now. Oscar Wilde, Neil Simon. All comedies.”
The headset guy left and a slender, tall, caramel-colored man strolled onto the newly-intimate stage. He had a happy, crooked grin and slightly bugged eyes, and just seeing him made Vonnie smile.
“I’m Jarvis Brown. Hello.”
The audience responded like school children. “Hello Jarvis Brown!”
“I’m certain that by the end of the night I’ll know quite a few of you by name, since we always bust somebody and our motto, of course, is ‘if you jeer, you come up here’.”
He held a wide hand out to the audience, who responded, “Hello Johnnie Cochran!”
Vonnie thought of Rocky Horror.
“Are we ready?”
Jarvis introduced the first comic, who was funny enough to be entertaining; at least Vonnie thought so after her absinthe martini. “And if you’re reviewing the show,” the stocky redhead finished, “It’s S-H-A-W Shawn. I don’t care what you say about me, just please spell my name right!”
A husky woman’s voice came from the audience, “Are you sure you can spell it yourself?”
Jarvis was on the stage before the words were out of her mouth. “Who’s that? Miss Jackson? I didn’t mean to make your daughter cry. But hike your ass up onto this stage, ma’am!”
Miss Jackson was a handsome milk-white woman wearing a red dinner dress. Her ringlet curls matched her throwback humor—she borrowed heavily from Mae West. After her were two more
men from the stage, not the audience, and one young, skinny heckler who told three jokes as he crept toward the edge of the stage and then escaped. Vonnie laughed so hard she cried.
“Isn’t this awesome?” Chloe howled. “I love this place.”
“How’d you hear about it?”
“Oh, one of the string of single-date guys brought me here. I thought it was funny and he found it childish and appalling. That’s why we didn’t have a second date.”
“Clearly a douche.”
Of course, this came out just at the moment when the rest of the crowd went quiet. Vonnie gasped, glanced at the stage from where, sure enough, Jarvis Brown grinned back. “We got us a live one, ladies and gents!”
“No no no no no! That wasn’t—I was talking about her boyfriend!” She pointed an accusing finger at Chloe.
“I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“You’re not helping!”
Jarvis Brown cocked his head in mock consideration.
“Uhmmmm…nope! Get your cute butt up here!”
And the audience called out practiced lines. “Tell us jokes or face the rope!”
“Don’t make us call the comedy cops!”
“Get on stage or face our rage!”
“Are they serious?”
Chloe laughed, nodding. “Yeah!”
From the front: “Just get on stage already!”
“I gotta go up there and tell jokes?”
“Sure. You’re funny. Or just tell them the truth about TJ, you’ll have the room in an uproar.”
“Like tell them his real name?”
“Yeah, or that he’s from Newark!”
The girls fell into shrieking laughter, just as the young comic Vonnie had not actually scorned passed their table. “Hope the audience finds you as funny as you find yourselves,” he snapped.
Vonnie and Chloe stopped to glance at him, gaze at each other, and laughed even harder. Then suddenly Vonnie was up on the stage. She couldn’t see much for the glare of the spotlight. She set her eyes down and to the right, like when a car came at her with its high beams on.
“So, I’m doing stand-up? Because I was kicked out of porn.”
This got a laugh. And also a comment. “You’re not in porn. You’re Bagga’ Chips’ slut wife!”
Survivanoia Page 6
