American Babe

by Babe Walker

  “You haven’t gained any weight,” Roman acknowledged graciously, looking out at the Hollywood Hills. His new house was up on Appian Way in the hilly, cuter, smaller-houses, West Hollywood part of the hills.

  “Did you expect me to have gained weight after spending less than one week outside of LA?”

  “Um. Yeah.”

  “Okay, fair. Anyone else might be susceptible to that risk. I mean, Romie, there are virtually no smoothie places there.”

  “None? At all?”

  “None that don’t use dairy,” I assured him.

  “Jesus.”

  “I know. Which is really why it’s so insane that he’s turned out like this,” I said, pointing inside toward the kitchen, where Knox was working.

  “Babe, he’s a cute little gay kid from a small town. He came into this world looking for a chic way out. It’s in his blood.”

  “First of all, that’s just not true. Not every gay person is born chic. You of all people should know not to generalize your people that way. You’re not even chic sometimes.”

  “Ugh, fine. But you know what I mean—”

  “And secondly, shhhhhh, please, Romie. We haven’t talked about that yet.”

  I hoped Knox hadn’t heard Roman’s comment from the kitchen. TBH, I thought Knox was gay, too. But he’d have to talk to me about it in his time for it to be a productive experience. I’ve seen too many people forced out of the closet at the wrong time to make that mistake with Knox. He was only ten, remember?

  “But you agree, right?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “The boy is totally gay, Babe.”

  My phone ding’d. A text from Veronica.

  Veronica Babe. I know you’re with him. I’m freaking out. Please let me know what’s happening? Are you guys okay? Just bring him back.

  Veronica CALL ME

  “Fine,” I whispered harshly, flustered, putting my phone facedown and leaning in toward Roman’s head in the massage table’s cradle. “Yes. Of course I agree. He has no interest in girls whatsoever and his idol is fucking ME. But I’m not gonna act like his gayness is something he needs to confess to me. Hello? That’s fucking bullshit. He’s a free bitch and he’ll figure it out in time. Little Knoxers has enough on his plate right now between meeting his idol/cousin/possible sister and the MasterChef audition tomorrow morning and being here for the first time, not to mention the fact that his sad, underprivileged, Maryland upbringing must be a constant weight on his shoulders. A burden to bear. A mountain of basicness to climb. And he’s doing a really good job, okay? So why does gay or not gay even matter?”

  “I mean, I was just saying. You can relax. You’re not like his mom or something.”

  I backed away and pulled an American Spirit from Roman’s pack that was sitting on the tiled table next to me. Lit it. “It’s the weirdest thing,” I said. “I feel something for this little queen that I’ve never felt for anyone. Like if he gets hurt or if someone fucks with him, then I’ll have failed.”

  “So you, like, care about him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And want him to be safe?”

  “Right.”

  “And if one of you had to get hurt, you’d choose yourself over him, right?”

  “That’s dark. But yeah.”

  “Babe,” Roman said with a pause that inspired weight.

  “What?”

  “You really think he could be your brother?”

  “It’s possible—”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Knox said. He was standing in the door holding a platter of food.

  I just smiled. No idea what to say. This was not how I wanted Knox to hear about my sneaking, suspicious, and probably completely inaccurate theory. Luckily, Roman saved me.

  “Babe was being sweet and helping me with some lines I need to memorize.”

  “Oh, amazing. For a movie you’re in?” Knox asked.

  “A TV show I would like to be in.”

  Knox came out on the terrace and put the platter down before us.

  “Very cool. Babe didn’t tell me you were an actor, Roman. What’s the show about?” he asked.

  Roman smiled at me. “Knox, you’re such a gentleman,” he said. “I mean, I’m not an actor. But you don’t need to be to be, you know what I mean?”

  Knox looked confused. “Not really,” he said.

  “A lot of actors these days, especially the ones that come out of Los Angeles, aren’t really actors. They’re just interesting people. That’s what people want these days. They want to watch people on TV that they can relate to, not stuffy actor types to whom they can’t relate for shit.”

  “I guess I know what you’re saying. Like Nicole Richie?”

  “Exactly like Nicole Richie.”

  We all smiled in agreement that while Nicole Richie may seem to be a talentless hack, she’s actually a chic, enterprising, bright powerhouse of style and humor.

  “I used to despise Nicole,” I shared, putting my cigarette out. I’d forgotten how I hated American Spirits; they tasted like rhubarb. “I had to shave my head once because of her. But we’ve moved past that phase of tomfoolery and shenanigans. I guess I can say I’m okay with her now. She’s a succubus from hell, but she’s chic and enterprising so it’s fine.”

  Roman’s massage was done and he hopped off the table. Ray folded it up and was gone before I could say “lace front.”

  “Anyway,” said Roman, taking a seat at the table with us, “Babe tells me you’re quite the chef. What have you got for us here?”

  “I just made a quick, easy brunch from what you had in the kitchen. Which was actually a lot of really great and really expensive stuff. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “It’s fine. I don’t use that room. Knock yourself out.”

  “Oh, I did. I actually Knoxed myself out.”

  I laughed so hard at his sweet, dumb joke that my eyelids started to hurt. It was like one of those moments when a parent is clearly too obsessed with their kid to even see clearly so they make a huge deal over the dumbest shit.

  Once I’d recovered, Knox pointed at a clump of food on the plate.

  “Here we’ve got a potato-and-onion frittata and some super yummy banana grain pancakes. . .”

  The meal looked like a photo from one of those magazines about food that I’ve never really looked inside of, but could imagine. Roman was stunned. He gave me a look, then back to Knox, then back to me, Knox, me again.

  “Why are you?” he finally asked Knox.

  “Why am I?” Knox asked back.

  “Yeah, like, why are you like this?”

  “Um . . .”

  Knox looked at me. I think he was intimidated by Roman, a gay marvel in his own right.

  “I mean,” Roman said, “how did you learn to cook like this? You’re so young. I don’t understand.”

  “I think it’s insane, too,” I added. “Everyone knows I was an extremely old and wise soul as a kid, blazing trails in both the fashion and art worlds, but this is next level. When I was ten I was still into people doing things for me, not doing things myself. Doing things is an immensely adult concept and cooking is such a do.”

  “I don’t really know,” answered Knox. “I got into it at first because my mom would ask me to cook for the three of us. Yeah, since I’m, like, five or six, she’d have me get dinner together. And I got sick of eating pizza and Chinese food. We don’t have that many cute options around where I’m from.”

  “It’s all so tragic,” Roman said.

  “But hopeful,” I chimed in, putting a soft hand on Knox’s shoulder.

  The three of us ate brunch in silence. It was that good. I was officially someone who enjoyed food now. I knew it wasn’t chic and that it went against everything I’d built for myself over the span of my preciously curated lifetime, but I ate for Knox. Oh, Roman and I got a little rosé-drunk, too.

  Maybe Everyone eats food or they die is my mantra?

  Next on my agend
a was a quick jump over to Barneys Beverly Hills.

  “Don’t, like, buy me tons of shit, Babe. Really. I’ll feel bad and my mom will super, crazy, totally freak out and make me sell it all and, like, give the money to charity.”

  “I won’t. I promise. I mostly just need things for myself,” I lied.

  That afternoon, I ended up buying myself a really good Loewe basketweave tote, and for Knox: two pairs of Dolce & Gabbana wool pants, six Paul Smith shirts (three striped, two polka-dotted, one floral), a down Moncler jacket, a down Moncler vest, down Moncler pants, four Orlebar Brown polos that I thought would be great for school, adorable Stella McCartney “Days of the Week” briefs, a Y-3 baseball cap, a pair of Y-3 striped sweatpants, two pairs of Margiela Replica sneakers that were too big but he can grow into them, and a Vetements hoodie, which almost made Knox cry when he tried it on. They were born to be together. It was a dress on him, but we both liked it that way. Especially with the reflective Dior sunglasses I bought him but didn’t list above because I love a fashion secret.

  We were both beat to smithereens from the running around, pulling sizes, prancing in different looks, drinking sparkling water, and crying. So this outing obvs called for a nap after. But it was a power nap.

  “Wake the fuck up. We’re going out,” I announced to the dark room in Roman’s house where we were slumbering. Knox was still asleep on the bed next to me. It was 9 p.m.

  “Babe. I’m ten years old. How many fucking times do I have to remind you that? I can’t go out to clubs and stuff.”

  “First of all, you’re not allowed to curse.”

  “You do it constantly.”

  “I know this, but it sounds weird coming out of your mouth. Give it a few months, you can say fuck and cunt and bitch and shit and pussy and cock when you’re eleven, deal?”

  “I don’t get it. But fine, deal,” Knox agreed.

  “Okay, so what are we wearing tonight?”

  “I don’t know. I’m kinda tired. The audition is tomorrow.”

  “Of course the audition is tomorrow. You think I forgot the sole reason why I kidnapped you all the way out here?”

  “So maybe I should just rest, then?”

  “What?! Knox, you are in Los Angeles, the best slash worst city in the entire world, for basically just one night. You need to see more of it. Trust me, you’ll be fine tomorrow. You’ll be totes inspired by our night and you’ll walk into that fucking audition with all of the charisma, uniqueness, nerve, and talent that it’s gonna take to win. I promise. I’m your manager, okay? You have to trust me. Going out will only inspire you to get that spot on the show. You’ll be lit like a glorious, burning torch. And it’s not like you’ll be hung over or anything.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay. What are we wearing?” he asked with a new hint of anticipation in his voice.

  I thought on it for a second. I considered us going in a neohippie direction, then I mentally dressed us in complete Hood by Air looks replete with chains, ties, zippers, and cutouts. I took a contemplative sip of the Vitamin Water Zero on the nightstand, and finally it hit me.

  “We’re wearing Prada.”

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asked. Knox looked at me like he was Pinky and I was the Brain.

  “If you’re thinking spring ’11, then yes, I am thinking what you’re thinking.”

  The two of us then erupted into what can only be described as pure romper room fuckery/shenanigans. Dancing on the bed, screaming, prancing around the house, and generally causing a raucous extravaganza of unadulterated fashion queerness. I broke a lamp. It looked Persian and expensive. Hehe.

  We did each other’s hair and makeup and, after a quick stop at my West Hollywood storage unit to pick up our looks, Knox and I were on our way to meet some friends for sushi at the SUGARFISH on La Brea for a rezzie at 10:30. We yassed the entire Uber ride there.

  So here’s the thing: I want to tell you that the night went totally smooth from this point on, but I can’t do that because that’d be a lie. I actually can’t tell you much about the night because as soon as we met Genevieve and a few other randoms that don’t matter at sushi, I got blackout wasted. It was not what I’d call cute.

  “Eat this!” I remember screaming at Knox and my friends whenever more fish would come, followed inevitably by an ear-piercing howl. Heads were turning, waiters were peacefully requesting our table to turn it down, it was a mess. But no fucks were given, clearly, because the photos from dinner are amazing and my hair was doing this thing it does sometimes where it looks blown out at the bottom but totally straight and tight at the top. It sounds crazy but trust me, it’s a glorious occasion when it occurs and the cameras were living for it.

  At some point one to four hours later, Knox and I, in our full electric, striped, tropical, twisty, monkey-printed Prada looks with bold feather boas, found ourselves in the back of Bar Marmont (they let me in with a minor because I’m me).

  “No, Superman Returns was your best work. I swear to God! You were my favorite Lex Luthor in history. I almost want to tell you you could fuck me tonight, even though I know you wouldn’t ’cause my dick’s not big enough for you!”

  Yep. That’s right. I shouted that at Kevin Spacey.

  Then my attention was drawn to my phone. It was a missed call from Scott. Maryland Scott? OMG yes—the only other Scott I had in my phone was Scott Weiland, and I knew it couldn’t have been him. Shit. This person had called me three times. It must’ve been morning in Maryland because it was already 3:30 in LA.

  “Where’s Knox?” I remember saying to Kevin. He’d just walked away at some point.

  I decided in that moment that calling Scott would stress me out but was ultimately the right thing to do because he might be able to help me find Knox.

  So I found a seat on some wet grass outside, lit a Marlboro Light, and called him back.

  THIRTEEN

  I’m Fucking Smart.

  “Hello? Babe?” Scott said through the phone. He sounded not drunk. Isn’t it hilarious how, when you’re wasted, you are hyperaware of how drunk or not drunk everyone else seems?

  “Hello. You’ve reached Babe Walker’s phone.”

  I sounded drunk.

  “I know whose phone it is. I just called it. And you called me back.”

  “Scott?”

  “Yeah, Babe.”

  “Oh my God, hey! What’s up? It’s Babe.”

  I wanted to sound as put together as possible.

  “Jesus. Hey. Are you okay? It’s super late there.”

  “I’m totally fine. Knox is fine. We’re gonna be fine. We’re out here making it in LA, okay?”

  “Well, Veronica has been—”

  “You can just relax. Tell Vee she needs to chill out. I’ve got this.”

  “You’ve got this?”

  “Yas, queen. I’ve got this. Knox is gonna do great. I’m making his dreams come true.”

  “All right, well, his mom has been basically hysterical trying to figure out where you took him and what’s going on out there. I know that Knox seems mature for his age and I think it’s great that he’s found someone that he looks up to, but you—”

  “I bought him the CUTEST shit. You’ll just die, Scott. I know you’ll especially die for the Y-3 stuff we picked up at Barneys today because it’s so sporty and you’re sporty ’cause you’re, like, a PE teacher or something, right?”

  “I teach English but I also coach,” Scott said flatly.

  “Right, that’s what I said. You’re a coach. Not a teacher.”

  “Yeah, uh . . . no . . . but okay.”

  “Hey, Scott?”

  “Babe. Can you tell me what you guys are doing right now? Where are you?”

  “I think that’s fucking hot. That you’re a coach.”

  “Are you out at a bar?”

  “Of course I’m at a fucking bar,” I said, waving good-bye to Alexa Chung, who looked very thin and very amazing. She
mouthed, “Call me” and was out of sight. Moments later, I could see a flurry of paparazzi flashes over the ivy-covered wall.

  “Babe? You still there?” Scott demanded.

  “I’m here, I’m here,” I assured him, lighting another cigarette. “You really called me at, like, the worst time ever. I’ve been received by LA with such warmth tonight, after nearly a week away, so a lot of people are trying to talk to me and fuck me and be my friend. I should go. Big night for me.”

  “Where is Knox?!”

  “He’s right beer.”

  “Right beer? What?”

  “HERE. He’s right here. I’m looking at him,” I lied.

  “Okay. Good. That’s good. We’re super worried over here.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about. I swear.”

  “Can I suggest something?” Scott asked.

  “Can I not listen?”

  “Sure. But for Knox’s sake, I really think you should.”

  “Okay, fine.”

  That hit me hard. I was drunk, yes, but I could hear a true sense of worry in Scott’s voice. He was afraid I might put Knoxers in a dangerous situation, which is NOT cute. The fact that I didn’t know where Knox was started to really settle in. I was basically positive that he was still with Roman and my friends inside, in a corner, but the truth was, I had no idea.

  “Can you find somewhere quieter to talk to me?” Scott asked.

  “Yeah, give me literally one minute. I’ll go inside.”

  “Okay, bring Knox with you. Don’t leave him alone.”

  “Obviously. Come on, Knoxie,” I said to no one.

  The place was almost empty by this point in the night but the usual hangers-on were stomping about, eyes wide, swigging gin and tonics and looking for an after-hours party at the closest house with a gate. Gates make famous people feel okay with their drug habits. I was looking for Knox but also for a quiet corner where I could talk to Scott.