by Sarah Lassez
We took the beach route back to our hotel room, shoes in our hands, our feet caressed by the softest, most cloudlike sand I’d ever experienced. I eyed a little cove not far off and thought with longing how nice it would be to have our own little From Here to Eternity moment: lying in the soft sand, the surf slipping around us, our eyes filled with yearning. I smiled and turned to Wilhelm, about to suggest a late-night sandy excursion, when he patted his pocket, announced he’d left his smokes in the room, and quickened his pace. Alas, I thought as I hurried to catch up with him, some things never change. My amorous contemplations were so far off his radar that I might as well have been pondering a jaunt into outer space, a little tour of Pluto and a spin around Mars.
Once back in the room, I freshened up with a shower while Wilhelm relaxed on the balcony, smoking and rigid in one of the hard straight-backed chairs. Though I’d already taken inventory of all the little hotel freebies I’d walk away with, the second I undid the cap of the plumeria-scented shampoo (a heady feminine floral that made me want to rinse and lather the whole night long), I knew I’d have to take serious action. I’d have to tuck all bottles in my bag, religiously, so the maid would be forced to replenish the supply, and then I’d have to stalk the maid and her cart. And Wilhelm, Wilhelm with his barely-there hair, was not allowed to use any. It was mine.
Walking back into the living room, I was about to inform my balding boyfriend of the plan, when I saw him on the balcony. He watched my approach with a smile, his hand on a silk pink tote bag. Well, hello there, little present, I thought with nervous excitement. How are you doing?
“It’s for you,” he said, a point I obviously didn’t need stated, since by the time he’d completed the word “It’s,” I’d already flown onto the balcony, torn into the tote, and extracted a multitude of gifts.
Everything was pink. I squealed with joy. Being a quintessential girly girl who is hopelessly drawn to glitter and gloss and sparkle and shine, pink is my color. There was a pink beach towel to luxuriate on, a pink notebook to record my memories, a pink sundress to look relaxed yet chic in, and a pink body lotion I recognized from Wilhelm’s favorite discount store since it was a brand that had recently been discontinued.
Then he revealed pink champagne, and my heart really started pounding. Oh my God…What could be both sparkly and pink? A pink diamond! That would certainly be a ring that would surprise me, but one that I would absolutely love. Clearly he’d tapped into my love of pink. I’d never considered a pink diamond before, and wondered if they were cheaper. I bet they were. Hence I could get a bigger one. One people would call a “stunner.” Yes, I wanted a ring that stunned people, one that made them stumble backward and blink and then gather their composure and shriek, “Oh my God, let me see that! Holy shit!”
Wilhelm poured me a glass of champagne, and I studied his shirt pocket for the shape of a monster pink ring.
“It’s a family custom,” he said, waiting for the fizz to settle, then pouring a bit more. “Every time we go on vacation, we give a gift.”
I’m included in “family.” I’ve been brought into the fold. I took my champagne and smiled, trying to look radiant and memorable. He looked into my eyes. He held out his drink for a toast, and I did the same, my heart pounding.
In my mind I’d already started telling the story of the proposal. “Well, there we were in our pretty-much-five-star hotel, a resort to end all resorts, sitting on the balcony, listening to the waves crash on the rocks below. The ocean was glittering, the palm trees were rustling, the air was like lotion, my hair smelled like flowers. He handed me a glass of pink champagne—Wilhelm knows how I just love the color pink, he’s so thoughtful—and then he raised his glass, and with love in his eyes said—”
“Here’s to a great vacation.” Our glasses clinked. “And lots of good food.”
And with that he took a swig, sat back against his hard straight chair, and lit another cigarette.
The next day was torture. Every step we took landed us in the perfect setting for a proposal, and soon I was exhausted from looking radiant and memorable. The road to Hana was an almost three-hour drive that wound us through rain forests and scenery that made my breath wedge at every turn; it took us to red sand beaches, black sand beaches, waterfalls, pools, and so many romantic settings that I knew in my heart it was going to happen. That morning I’d considered calling Erlin while Wilhelm was in the shower, but decided maybe in this case a surprise would be good. After all, Wilhelm had put so much work into this trip that spoiling his plans seemed cruel.
After watching him swing on a vine and do an odd impression of a German Tarzan, I found a perfect spot to just sit and relax. To do nothing. For a while I did nothing, just watched my boyfriend swing through the trees. Eventually I mustered the energy to eat some banana bread, which was so delicious I found the energy to eat all the banana bread and then scrounge for crumbs. Full and absolutely content, I leaned back against a black rock and closed my eyes. I felt the sun through the foliage, the slight mist of the waterfall. In the air was the fragrance of the tulip tree’s flaming red blooms, the sweet spice of white ginger, the fresh, clean scent of rainbow eucalyptus. I don’t think I’d ever experienced it before then, but it was the feeling of pure bliss.
When I opened my eyes, Wilhelm was before me, on bended knee.
I sat up, my heart pounding. It was happening! I didn’t know what to do. I tried to conjure my Proposal Face, but suddenly forgot how to look radiant and memorable and so instead simply grinned like a fool and stared expectantly. He was facing me, on both knees actually, which was perhaps some odd German tradition? I waited. Maybe I’d cry. Would I cry? I felt like I might cry.
And then, with a slightly pained look on his face, he put one hand on the back of his hip and slowly got up. What the hell? “What are you doing?”
He raised his right arm above his head in a stretch. “I think I pulled something on that last swing. I was trying to stretch it out. I think it’s okay, don’t worry.”
I stared. “Oh.”
“We should go, though. It’s getting late and I don’t want to drive back in the dark.”
On our return we opted for a different route, one that was surreal in its stark contrast to the scenic road we’d taken earlier. Somehow we’d found the dark side of paradise. The land was barren, black, and foreboding, and I knew without having to be told that there would be no proposal now. Soon we’d fallen into complete silence, as if harboring a fear that the sound of our voices could alert evil beings to our presence. Hands folded stiffly in my lap, I concentrated my energies on keeping the car safe, the tires full of air, the gas from running out. I did not want to be stranded there in that spooky place while back in the land of blue water and coconut trees my pink sparkling diamond was waiting and lonely.
After driving for what seemed like forever, we came upon a policeman, who greeted us with the fun news that a flash flood had submerged the road, and therefore we needed to turn back around. We looked at each other, and then peered past the cop to assess the situation ourselves, as at this point nothing short of the Rio Grande was going to keep us from getting back to our hotel as fast as possible. Sure enough, the pavement stopped at one point and then started back up a great distance away. In between there was what looked like a raging churning river, as if some lazy schmuck had been meaning to build a bridge but just hadn’t gotten around to it. A few Jeeps with four-wheel drive were braving the rapids, fighting their way to the other side, but all the little cars were doing awkward three-point turns and heading back toward us, the drivers’ faces dejected and slightly shamed, like kids embarrassed in gym class.
I thought of my ring. I thought of my pot stickers. I did not want to turn around. Yet there we were in our little rented Kia Rio, a car that appeared barely capable of taking on a slight rain, much less a flash flood. We had no choice but to go back through the creepy dark land.
Or so I thought. I looked back at Wilhelm and saw in his eyes what I ca
n only describe as an insane flicker. He grinned, faced the road, whooped like a cowboy, and hit the gas.
I screamed. I grabbed the armrest, the seat, the ceiling, the window, anything. We met the water, and our car churned, lurched, and struggled. Beside me Wilhelm was still whooping, though now he was whooping rather frantically, like a cowboy on speed. We were going to be swept into the ocean. Such an unromantic and stupid way to go. So yes, all in all Sarah had a wonderful life, and then she was swept into the ocean in a rental car. That was that. They only ever found her pink beach towel and a pine tree air freshener. So senseless. I mean, a Kia. Who would brave a flash flood in a Kia?
Half-submerged, we fought against the raging current. I couldn’t look. I squeezed my eyes shut, but then couldn’t help but envision our car crashing and sinking into the Pacific. Stop! Traction. Picture traction. See the tires gripping something, anything, propelling us onto dry land. I tried. I really did. I fought to picture us moving forward, but all I saw was us moving sideways, floating slowly at first and then faster and faster toward a white rumbling ocean.
It took me a bit to realize that not only were we moving forward, but we were moving forward quickly. That meant either our car had turned and angled toward the ocean, or we’d hit dry land. Cautiously I opened one eye first and then the other, as if opening both at the same time would have yielded a different result. We’d made it. We were on dry land! At the top of the hill we paused, looked at each other with astonishment, and then looked back at the policeman, who’d turned from us with disgust, most likely calling us crazy haoles—“pale-skinned foreigners” in Hawaiian.
Wilhelm was exhilarated, completely breathless from the thrill. I’d never seen him that excited; it was as if he’d just conquered nature at the wheel of a Kia Rio. I loved this side of him. So sexy, so brave!
Unfortunately, it was also a side that was rather short-lived. The next day we went snorkeling, and Wilhelm became instantly frightened and fled back to the hotel. I stayed in the water, happy as could be, though now and then I’d glance up toward the balcony, at the little speck that was my boyfriend, a speck that was apparently afraid of fish and masks and snorkels and was now chain-smoking and keeping an eye on the ocean from a safe distance.
A few more days of pot stickers, piña coladas, sunburns, and no ring, and it was time to leave. Saying “Aloha” to Hawaii—a phrase that means both “hello” and “good-bye” and would, I’d imagine, be cause for much confusion—we packed our bags, raided the maid’s cart one last time, and then found ourselves standing miserably at LAX, watching our luggage plummet onto a conveyer belt.
Back at home, surrounded once more by smog and traffic and my messy apartment, I called Erlin. Again he said the engagement would happen soon, and that I needed to be patient. Patient?
Patience, clearly, has never been my strong suit. Actually, that’s not entirely true. I could be extremely patient when it came to one thing, yet when it came to another, I could snap without warning. If anyone had carefully examined my childhood Rubik’s Cube, they would’ve seen evidence of this, for although I’d lasted only five minutes before determining that the stickers indeed needed to come off, I’d then spent over an hour removing and reapplying them carefully, so as not to be detected. Perhaps, I suppose, it’s not a patience issue at all but a focus issue. My brain stubbornly refuses to follow the logical, trodden path. Instead of sliding those cubes around, as the game intends one should do, I’d embarked on sticker extraction. While another child might have seen fifteen minutes as enough time to get all the yellows in order, I saw it as enough time to get the water boiling for the steam bath my Rubik’s Cube was about to have.
Annoyed with Erlin, I called Gina.
“Please tell me you got laid,” she said right off the bat.
“Yeah, when we landed at the airport. I got a really pretty pink and orange one.”
“No. I meant the other kind. Jesus, has it really been that long?”
“Oh, that. Yeah, once. It took him swinging on vines like Tarzan and then charging through a flash flood like a cowboy to put him in the mood, though.”
“Wilhelm swung on vines?”
“I know. It was hysterical. He was the whitest Tarzan ever, just this white flash through the trees. By the way, why don’t people have compatible sex drives?”
“If everything were perfect, we’d have nothing to talk about? A cruel trick of the universe?”
“I’m thirty and my hormones are out of control, and I’ve got a guy who wants to stay up all night smoking, drinking fancy wine, and chatting.”
“Does he call it ‘chatting’?”
“No, that’s me.”
“Well, there’s hope, then. And at least you’re not screaming at each other in the street, like with Jonas.”
“True. We totally get along. I just need to find some vines in L.A.”
After Gina convinced me that encouraging Wilhelm to drive across the Los Angeles River during the rainy season wasn’t the answer, we hung up and I fixated on my relationship. Everything would be fine. Really, all was good, better than good in fact. Other than the incompatible sex drives—and honestly, I didn’t know any couple that was perfectly matched in that department—our relationship was pretty ideal. We weren’t screaming at each other in the street, police weren’t being called to put an end to our dates, we had fun together, and wanted to spend time with each other. This was, in truth, the best, most easygoing relationship I’d ever had.
And actually, not one psychic had predicted the proposal would take place in Hawaii, so that meant it was still coming. Wilhelm probably figured proposing in Hawaii would be too expected, too typical; I bet hordes of people got engaged on vacations. What was unique about that? For all I knew, his goal was to truly catch me off guard, to sneak in the proposal in a way I’d never see coming or in a way that was much more true to who he was. Perhaps he’d nestle the ring with parsley on a plate or bake it into a chocolate soufflé. After all, platinum and diamonds can withstand high temperatures, right?
8
Pandora’s Box and Other No-No’s
NATURALLY, AS ANY NEUROTIC GIRL WHO’S JUST come to the realization that her relationship is bordering on perfection would do, I self-destructed.
It couldn’t be as good as it seemed. Hidden beneath the surface of our seemingly ideal relationship had to be something horribly, horribly wrong. I’d never had such a good relationship, so that in and of itself was a fluttering bright red flag. Nothing was this good. Somewhere, I knew, was a loose thread that could unravel our relationship, and by God, I had to find it.
The first order of business was to embark on intensive snooping sessions. This involved my staying at his house, waiting till I heard the click of the door that told me he was safely on his way to work, and then ransacking his apartment. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I knew with certainty I’d find it. Just keep looking, I told myself as I finished rummaging through his desk and turned to face the closet.
And indeed, the second I hit the closet, I found something. Up at the very top, accessible only by stepladder and buried beneath mounds of sweaters he never wore, was the obligatory shoe box filled with photos of unidentified women. Every guy has this, the shoe box being their version of a photo album, and though they never have the good sense to actually throw these snapshots away, they do have the wisdom to hide them. Though I must say this wisdom is part of a catch-22, since anything that’s left in the open is grounds for scrutiny and alarm, but anything that’s hidden naturally becomes violently suspect and cause for terror. Perfectly innocent pictures of female friends or relatives thus become immensely threatening as a result of the location in which they’re stashed, and hence there is no way a guy can have any evidence of a past without running the risk that at some point his girlfriend will go absolutely loony, shove a picture of his great-aunt Edna in his face, and scream, “Who is this? Just who is this!”
I pored through every picture, torturing myself,
comparing their attractiveness with mine, picturing Wilhelm gazing into their eyes. Naturally, I determined that the prettiest one was Nadja, the Aryan Goddess. Nadja I’d actually not been overly concerned about for a while, because Gina and I had determined that she wasn’t a threat; she was simply a girl with whom he barely kept in touch. Besides, we figured, if he considered her more than a friend, he’d never have told her about me. Reassured after this deduction, I’d tucked the Aryan Goddess into a corner of my mind and only brought her out when in need of another log to toss on a panic session’s fire.
But now I held a photograph in my hand. Was this her? Blond and wearing a tennis skirt? Since when did Wilhelm play tennis? Or was this her, a girl in another picture, gracefully holding a glass of white wine as she should, by the stem? I, on the other hand, tended to get my warm little hands all over the bowl and send Wilhelm into a tizzy. In the wine drinker’s other hand was a cigarette, and in her eyes was a look that said, “Hello, Sarah, nice to meet you. I’m perfect for Wilhelm and you’re not.” I flipped to another picture, and then another, trying to determine, based on the intensity of their smiles or the gleams in their eyes, if these girls were in relationships with Wilhelm. I hated them all.
Once every nook and cranny in his closet had been inspected, and I’d recovered from the horror of learning my boyfriend owned more pink shirts than I deemed acceptable, I moved on to the bathroom. Hair products abounded, and bottles of cologne had jurisdiction over an entire medicine cabinet. Good God, my boyfriend was vain. Then I opened the cupboard below the sink and found…porn.
