by Karen Karbo
He found himself waiting up for Sather and Darryl, just to have someone to talk to.
He found himself thinking about asking the waitress at the little café out for lunch.
He found himself mixing up pitchers of martinis, which he drank alone on the deck as a way to pass the long chilly spring evenings. After a few days, he dispensed with the glass. After a few more, the Vermouth and the twist went. He put the bottle of gin in the freezer before the soaps and took it out after Oprah.
Finally, nearly a month after his precipitous departure, he broke down. He rang Mouse to see if perhaps he’d left the shirt he was currently wearing at Mimi’s. It was either that or start in with the gin before it had even been chilled.
He got the answering machine. There was a new message. It was Mouse’s voice, calm and competent. Tony’s heart worked as though it was servicing a marathon runner and not a man making a simple phone call.
“Hi, if you’d like to leave a message for either Mimi, Mouse, or Carole, please do so after the beep. If this is Ivan, I picked up the stuff and I’ll see you there.”
Tony hung up without leaving a message. He went to the kitchen, pulled the gin from the freezer, rested it against his cheek. Mouse was still seeing Ivan. She was supposed to be a heartbroken wreck. Instead, she had picked up the stuff and was meeting him there! Tony twisted the cap off the gin, put the bottle to his lips right there in the kitchen, the freezer door yawning open, numbing his eyeballs.
No, he thought, no. There was degenerate and there was degenerate. A drink before dinner was one thing, but it was two-thirty in the afternoon. He replaced the gin, pulled out the milk and drank straight from the carton.
On impulse, he strode to the phone, redialed, punched in Mimi’s message code, 22. There might be a message for him. One never knew. Not everyone knew he had moved. V.J. might have gotten confused and called him there. His parents might have called. Noni Bertlestein might have called. He would not be averse to having a drink with her. From the way her owly eyes roamed over him the night of the fundraiser, chances were she’d even come and pick him up. He took a long swig of milk.
There were no messages, save one for Mimi from someone called Eliot. Tony realized that he had half-expected, half-hoped, to hear a message for Mouse from Ivan; something lewd, opportunistic and uninspired, which would confirm Tony’s worst opinions of him. Only after Tony hung up did he realize the milk was sour. A few curdled chunks lingered on the back of his tongue. He swallowed, repulsed. Mouse was still seeing Ivan.
All right, fine! This was fine! It was not only fine, it was just as well. It said volumes about her hardheartedness as a woman. She was tough, tough and mean. Fine. He was lucky he was able to get out when he did. In years to come he would look back with relief. Saved from the jaws of marriage to a sociopathic bitch. Whew.
He rang the waitress at the café. She appreciated his invitation but as a lesbian wasn’t really interested. Tony hung up and dialed Ralph. Ralph was on the other line. “KeddyWebb’s office can you hold?” he greeted him.
Tony was suddenly disconcerted that he had hitched his wagon to a bloke who sounded as obsequious as a chambermaid when he answered his boss’s telephone. He held. Suddenly he was glad Love Among Elephants had turned out as it had instead of as a paean to his doomed romance with her.
“Keddy Webb’s office, can I help you?”
“It’s Tony.”
“Where in the hell have you been?”
“Here, of course, keeping busy –”
“You got my message about the meeting? Today, four-thirty.”
“Today? It’s two-thirty now. I’m without wheels.”
“No one told you about the machine, did they?” Ralph explained about the cheap phone, how you knew someone called only if you checked the message machine. “I’ve been trying to get you for days. The executives read the script. V.J.’s got a VP willing to go to bat for us. They want a few changes but are still very very very hot on the project. I can’t remember whether V.J. said two verys or three. No car. Shit. You know where that restaurant is on Beachwood, bottom of the hill? I’ll swing by, pick you up, three-thirty.”
“This is the news we’ve been waiting for, isn’t it?”
“We’re still on the roller coaster,” said Ralph, his voice more sour than usual. “I liked the new ending a lot. I always thought the wedding was the weakest part. Didn’t have the bite the rest of the script did.”
“Good,” said Tony. “This is marvelous.”
“Three-thirty, by the restaurant.”
They hung up. Tony changed his clothes, debating about replaying the messages. In the end he did it only because there might be something important for his roommates. He replayed them while he watched the end of a soccer game, pulling on his cowboy boots.
Darryl’s mother had called. Lisa had called for Sather. Mohammed Akmanzaadi had called for the rent. Auntie Barb, returning his call, said she’d love to play golf, but she wasn’t driving all the way to the top of the city to pick him up. There were mud slides and mass murderers up there.
There were also three messages from Mouse. They were opaque, her voice stern. The messages all said the same thing: “This is for Tony. Could you please ask him to call Mouse when he’s got a chance? Thanks.”
So, begging me to come back! he thought gleefully. He took mincing steps down the hill. His thighs ached, sweat rolled down his scalp and into the collar of his shirt. True, Mouse had sounded a bit more angry than lovelorn, but she could be a hardhearted bitch, so what could one expect? If she was lucky he might hear her out.
He stopped at the little store and bought a carton of cottage cheese and a package of crackers, which he ate standing waiting at the corner. It was a large intersection, where five wide streets became one, then funneled down into the city. The hills were spotted with bright patches of orange and magenta bougainvillea. He inhaled deeply. He hadn’t felt this good in weeks. She had called three times. And three times, in his book, bespoke urgency. He smiled at a Basset Hound tied to the leg of the bus stop. He’d call her back when he got around to it. Three times. She must really miss him.
V.J. WAS SUBDUED. Tony was surprised to find him not in his usual neo-Peace Corps getup. Rather, he wore a simple pair of khaki chinos, plaid shirt, and loafers. The shirt still had creases in it and the cuffs were Roman-collar stiff. He sported a new pair of teal-blue contact lenses that caused him to hold his eyes open very wide when he wasn’t blinking furiously.
V.J. seemed to have forgotten all about what had happened at the fundraiser. At the auction he’d purchased a few new African pieces for his office: a soapstone bowl with zebralike striping and an elephant carved in ebony, which he showed Ralph and Tony while they waited for Allyn Meyer, the executive who was very very very hot (Tony, optimist that he was, preferred to think there were three verys involved) for the script. He noticed that the ossified Olduvai turd was gone from its former place on the end table.
Tony asked if they’d made a lot on the auction. “Not that my, er, introduction was as inspiring as it might have been.” He pulled on the end of his nose, forgetting it was still sensitive.
“It was a great success. Next week I’ve a meeting with Michael. We’re going to put something together to take to the networks. A dramedy about the ivory situation. Maybe do a Mr. Ed kind of thing, only with a talking elephant.”
Ralph explained to Tony who Mr. Ed was. He explained what a dramedy was. Ever since Ralph had moved back in with Elaine, he did not seem his old self. He was like a razor gone dull. Today he’d forgotten his baseball cap. His few threads of beige hair did little in the way of disguising his bald pate. Tony thought he looked fed up.
“Did you raise a lot of money?” askcd Ralph.
“Money?”
“For the elephants?”
“Sure. I don’t know.” V.J. leaned forward in his chair and pressed his intercom. “Lauren, if Michael Brass calls, put him through.” Lauren was V.J.’s new secretary,
an au naturel beauty fresh from Bryn Mawr.
Allyn Meyer was forty minutes late. She wore her hair pulled back in a ponytail and a minimal amount of makeup. She was old-style athletic, when that meant having thick thighs and wearing tennis socks with little balls on the back instead of being an over-aerobicized sex kitten. She possessed the rare look of someone who could have risen to her position of power only through competence. Tony was in awe.
“Allyn, can I get you some –” V.J. leaped to his feet, blinking madly, beckoning Lauren from the outer office.
“Nothing, I’m fine.”
“Nothing for me,” said Tony, following suit.
“Nothing,” said Ralph.
“As I’m sure you’ve heard, I shoot straight from the hip. So let’s not waste time. I like this script. I love this script. Frankly, it’s terrible, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t good. Good scripts are all good in the same way. Bad scripts are bad in their own unique way. That’s what I’m after. This unique quality a bad script has. Unique, but recognizable. In our rewrite, we want to hone that uniqueness, that badness that makes it good, but lose the badness that makes it bad, so that it will be not just good but great.”
“Yes, quite,” said Tony. He heard Ralph exhale wearily beside him. V.J. paced around the room, jingling the change in his pockets. He moved the zebra-striped soapstone bowl from its place atop the credenza to the coffee table, then back again.
“What we’d like to do is play up the love story,” said Allyn.
“The love story,” said Tony.
“Play down the thriller angle. Lose the elephant poaching altogether. Lose the intrigue, but don’t lose the tension. It’s too plot-driven. We want a classic love story. Boy meets girl, boy gets girl, boy loses girl, they live happily ever after.”
“Romeo and Juliet go to Kenya,” said Tony.
“Yes.”
“Ending with a romantic wedding high in the Rwandan mountains, in the fog, among the gorillas.”
“Is that what happened?” She looked down at Tony and Ralph sitting cheek by jowl on the faux cheetah-skin loveseat with the accusing stare of a school principal. V.J. moved the soapstone bowl from the credenza to the edge of his desk, his eyes blinking wildly behind his lenses.
“Well –” said Tony, thrown. “Metaphorically, I guess you could say.”
“This is a true story. That’s part of what makes it so attractive to us. The head of production comes from documentaries. He’s aIways looking for something rooted in fact but not crippled by it.”
“What about a romantic wedding high in the hills of Beverly? Would that suffice?”
“Where?”
“We’re getting married,” said Tony. “We were reconciled in Rwanda, and swore our undying love there, but, with all our Africa adventures, haven’t gotten around yet to tying the knot. The wedding’s next month.”
Ralph, who had been uncharacteristically silent, looked over at him, confused. “You are?”
“Whatever you feel comfortable with,” said Allyn. “Just keep in mind that while truth is essential, it should always serve a dramatic purpose. Truth with jiggle is what we’re aiming for.”
“Right-o,” said Tony. He crossed his legs nonchalantly, broke open his toothy smile. He didn’t know what in the hell she was talking about. He realized finally that he didn’t need to.
“You won’t want to show this to the head of production until we do the changes, though, right?” said Ralph.
“Exactly. We want it to be more than perfect.”
“I figured,” said Ralph.
“It’s almost there now,” said Tony. “Lose the thriller, play up the love story. Lose the plot, but don’t let it go soft.”
“Yes,” said Allyn. “You do that …” She went to the door, turning at the last minute to underscore the importance of her pronouncement. “You do that and you’ve got a thousand screens at Christmas. That’s what kind of picture this is.”
The instant the door shut behind her thick calves, Lauren’s young voice floated over the intercom. “Vincent, it’s Michael on one.”
“Gotta take this, guys.” V.J. plopped into his big leather chair, his hand on the receiver. A kid with his hand on the bow of his largest birthday present couldn’t be full of more joy or anticipation. “Get busy on the changes, we’ll talk next week.” They were out of the office in less than seven minutes.
“THIS IS WORKING out quite nicely,” said Tony.
They bumper-to-bumpered over Laurel Canyon, behind a low-slung red Italian sports car. The vanity plate said LUCK. Tony imagined when their deal was finally struck he would be able to afford to buy one. With cash.
“I got a kid on the way,” said Ralph. “I can’t keep writing for nothing.”
“It’s not for nothing. It’s on spec, but it’s not for nothing.”
“I been doing this for too long. You don’t know.”
“We’ll just show her the old draft. It’s no work, really.”
“It’s psychological work, having hope.”
Ralph’s radio had been stolen so they drove in silence.
“I thought you and Mouse called it quits,” he said.
“We did. You know how it is.”
Ralph laughed. “Do I.”
“In fact, I was wondering, could you be a sport and drop me at Mimi’s?”
“On the corner I’ll drop you.”
“Haven’t talked to her yet, then?”
“She hasn’t been to class in two weeks. I haven’t seen her. When I see her, we’ll talk.”
“Perhaps you should ring her up?”
“Perhaps you should stay out of it.”
“Right-o.”
Tony let himself in with his old key. No one was home. Sniffy stretched, his rear end high in the air, his bushy tail waving like a flag. He trotted over and stuck his nose in Tony’s crotch. Tony thought it was a good omen that Sniffy was eager to see him. He had never been particularly fond of the dog, and here he was, begging for a scratch behind the ears.
The wicker settee squeaked loudly as Tony sat down. He crossed his legs and waited. The blinds were open, the room lit by streetlight. He was tempted to turn on the box, but didn’t want his visit to appear cavalier.
No one came. Downstairs, he could hear the skateboard champ being chewed out by his mum over the nightly news. A tinge of overboiled cabbage wafted up through the window. On the wicker coffee table was a manila folder, Mouse’s neat printing on the tab. He riffled through it: receipts from Wedding March, miscellaneous notes. He knew he was in bad shape when he felt nostalgic for her bookkeeping. He should never have called off the wedding. He should have made a scene in his customary foolish fashion, gotten it over with.
He tiptoed down the hall to use the bathroom, carefully dropping the seat when he was done. He prided himself on that, always remembering to replace the seat. In the medicine cabinet were the usual female creams and powders, prescriptions. He took a whiff of each thing, searching for some fond odor.
In Mimi’s bedroom, tucked into the frame of the mirror hanging over her dresser, were two postcards, both from Africa, curling with age. He removed one from Mombasa, held it up in the rectangle of light shining between the thin, half-drawn curtains. After he and Mouse had finished shooting The New Stanley, they had taken a vacation together, and snorkeled for conches on the very beach pictured on the card. The postcard was from Mouse, reporting that she had met a wonderful guy: “Tony, cute, smart and decent.” He replaced the postcard, blotting the tears brewing in his eyes.
From downstairs, he heard a shrill female voice, over and over again, “No son of mine be hooligan!”
Mouse’s suitcase was open on the floor. He pawed through it, swimming in guilt, then felt justified when he found missing a certain pair of red satin panties.
He was about to return to the bathroom, to recheck the medicine cabinet for her diaphragm, when he heard the lonesome sound of water streaming against porcelain. He froze. Someone was in th
e apartment. He hadn’t heard anyone come in. Yet someone was home, using the bathroom, directly across from Mimi’s room. He looked over his shoulder slowly, praying his neck wouldn’t crack, praying the door to the bathroom was closed.
It wasn’t. It was wide open. There was Mouse, bathed in the dim yellow light of the tiny bathroom, perched on the loo, her jeans nesting around her ankles, the heartbreaking red satin panties stretched between her shins, Sniffy’s head on her naked thigh. She reached down to the wastebasket next to the toilet and retrieved an empty paper tube. She tapped Sniffy’s nose with it, then placed it between his narrow jaws. He wagged his body in mad delight. “There you go, Sniffer. Is that your favorite toy?”
Suddenly she looked up.
“Hi,” said Tony softly.
“Oh God.” She grimaced, leaned forward and slammed the door.
Tony scurried to the living room, threw on some lights. He could still hear the sounds of Mouse slamming around the bathroom.
Tony could think only of her delicate knees, the touching patch of dark where her thighs met, the cute red satin panties! All right, he would do the wedding movie. He would forgive her for her sins, of omission and commission both. Whatever had gone on with Ivan was in the past. After all, he had had a few indiscretions himself, hadn’t he? He would forgive her.
“The key?” she said flatly. She stood by the dining room table, her palm outstretched. She was wearing the green silk blouse he liked so much.
“You know that blasted phone they have up there. Doesn’t ring. No one told me you’d called. So thought I’d just pop around. Just had a terrific meeting at the studio. Some executives very hot for us, Ralph and me. You have on that blouse. I love that blouse.”
“You are scum. The key, please.”
“You’re thinking it’s sexist, my feelings for you in that blouse.”
“I read your script.”
“You read my … oh dear. When? How?”
“How? I’m reading at the third-grade level now. You didn’t know?”
“Mouse …” He had never seen her like this. Calmer than a professional assassin on Valium, eyes marble-hard, cheeks flaming. She hated him. He saw that clearly enough.
