by Babe Walker
So . . . I was at Baltimore/Washington International Thurgood Marshall Airport at 6:15 a.m., alone. I had a few options: fly back to LA and leave this mess behind me like Donna would do, stay at a hotel in Baltimore (LOL!), or Scott?
Babe Hi!!
Scott Why are you awake?
Babe Why are you awake?
Scott Just heading home from the pool. Where are you?
Babe Scott!!!! DON’T text and drive. You’ve already died once this week.
Scott That’s true. Are you here?
Babe STOP TEXTING.
My phone rang.
“Hi.”
“Are you back in Maryland?”
“Yup.”
“Was Veronica still upset?”
“Oh, yeah. Piiiiiissed. Can you pick me up?”
“Um . . . where are you?”
“At the airport. I’ll drop a pin. United Airlines.”
“Where do you need me to take you?”
“I’m not sure. I’m kind of feeling sad. Can you come get me and take me back to your place?”
“Sure. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Try not to make any racist comments to anyone before I get there. K?”
“You know what, never mind. I’ll take an Uber to a hotel or just book a flight back to LA.”
“Stop. I’m kidding. I was joking at lunch, too, by the way. I don’t think you’re racist. Which I would have explained if you hadn’t freaked out and bolted.”
“You’re fucking weird, dude.”
“So are you, Babe. See you in a few?”
“Yeah.”
Scott drove an old Land Rover Defender. Google it. It’s one of the only cars on the planet Earth that can actually make a guy hotter. It’s like the kind of vehicle you would get if you were going on a safari in Tanzania. It’s rugged, not at all flashy, and death is guaranteed if you were ever to get in a wreck in one. I was instantly ten times more attracted to him when he pulled up than I had been when I met him for lunch. Scott gave me a hug when I got in the car. He had Led Zeppelin playing on the car stereo. It was all working for him. Wet hair from the pool. Clean shaven, soapy-smelling, heaven. I really must have wanted to fuck him because I never say or think of the word “heaven,” on account of it being sick.
“Was Knox upset that he wasn’t able to audition?”
“Oh, he did get to audition. He snuck out of my house in LA yesterday and convinced Mabinty to drive him.”
“Wow! Oh my God, that kid. That’s pretty crazy. How’d he do?”
“He made it. He’s gonna be on the show.”
“If Veronica lets him.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, when she called me freaking out when you first took Knox to LA, she was going on about how she felt like Knox wasn’t ready for anything like this.”
“That’s fucking stupid. He is soooooooooooooooooo talented. You should’ve seen how well he was doing at the audition.”
“That may be,” Scott said. “But I don’t think she approves of the whole concept of him being on television. She said that the limelight had already wreaked enough havoc on her family, and that she wasn’t about to subject Knox to that whole world.”
“I mean . . . I guess? I think that’s pretty small-minded. But whatever.”
“He’s her kid, Babe.”
I didn’t feel like getting into the whole thing with Scott. Especially not before confronting Veronica about the fact that I had confirmed she wasn’t Knox’s mom. I felt more torn than ever about whether or not Knox should know the truth. But I at least knew I needed to have a face-to-face with Veronica, without anyone else around. I knew that she would understand where I was coming from about the whole kidnapping if she took a second to listen to me.
It was still only 8 a.m. when we got to Scott’s cute little townhouse. It was in Annapolis, which basically looked like a town from the eighteenth century. Colonial or whatever. Quaint, quiet, boring. His house, however, was really nice. Like, super minimal, clean furnishings. Tons of light. Not at all what I pictured. He had some incredible photographs on the walls that he said his sister took. Unclear on that. Scott seemed like he had it all together. I wasn’t used to being around a guy who had no “agenda.” Scott “was” who he “was” and he wasn’t changing that because he was around me. Like the version of yourself that you normally present to someone when you are interested in them is “manufactured” to be more appealing. But this guy didn’t know the first thing about that. I liked it.
“You tired?” Scott asked.
“Kind of.”
“You can nap in my bed. Door at the top of the stairs.”
His house was exceptionally clean, considering he had no idea that I would be with him when he returned to it.
“That’s really sweet of you.”
“It’s fine. Sheets are clean. Fresh towels in the bathroom if you want to wash up.”
But I wanted to sleep with him. I really, really wanted to fuck Scott. He’d just rescued me from the airport, and his place wasn’t dirty? That equals let’s fuck now.
I then had a moment of incredible insecurity.
Scott was not the type of guy that I normally fucked. Most importantly, he didn’t care about anything that the guys I normally sleep with care about. He didn’t care what kind of car I drove, what clothes I was wearing. He probably wouldn’t have noticed that I was a couple of days overdue for a wax. It just made me feel uneasy. Like we were speaking two different languages. But the things that freaked me out about him were the things that made me want him. I just had to own my differences and put myself in the power position. I went from feeling insecure to feeling pretty liberated, actually. Knowing that he didn’t really care made me feel completely free.
“I’d like you to come join me for a nap.”
“Sure,” Scott said, in a completely matter-of-fact way.
“I want to fuck.”
“Babe. I can tell when a girl wants to fuck me.”
“And?”
“You’re hilarious. Yeah. I want to fuck you too.”
Then Scott just walked over to me, kissed my neck, and lifted me right off of my feet. I was straddling him and kissing him back. He literally ran up his stairs, threw me on his bed, and ripped his shirt off. He was really in great shape. Swimmer body can sometimes look gross, but not in this case.
When I say that Scott was aggressive, I’m playing it down. He completely dominated me in the bed. Like, out of nowhere. The following words were going through my head on repeat the whole time he was fucking me: Oh Shit, Oh Shit, Oh Fuck, Oh SHIT! It was on a loop in my brain. I was being controlled by him. Scott was doing all of the work. I honestly don’t even know how big his dick was because we were staring into each other’s eyes for almost every second we were in that bedroom. I wouldn’t have dared take my eyes off his for one second to catch a glimpse of his peen. It felt biggish inside me, but, like, size actually didn’t matter. Whatever size it was was making perfect sense to my vagina. And maybe this is impossible, but I could tell just by the way it felt that it was the perfect shade of pink.
He gave me three ridiculous rocket orgasms. It just never happens, or rarely. We all know how insane that is. So all the claps go to Scott. This was an absolute first for me. Scott gave me the first two without really breaking a sweat—they were gifts. Then on the last one we climaxed together.
“That was really nice, Babe. I like you.”
That’s what he said to me, with a huge grin on his face, after we finished.
“That was better than nice. That was fucking phenomenal.”
“That makes me feel good to hear. I’m starving.”
“Me too.”
WHO AM I RIGHT NOW?
EIGHTEEN
Babe of Pigs.
“Hi. I’m Babe Walker. I’m here to see Veronica.”
“I’m sorry?” said the receptionist at the front desk.
“Babe Walker. Author, friend, philanthropist. I know it’s weird t
hat I’m here, but it would take too long for me to explain why so I’m gonna skip that part and just let you deal with the reality of my presence.”
She had her hair in the style of a mullet. She didn’t look happy.
“Who did you say you were here to see?”
“Veronica. She’s a nurse here, right?”
“Are you here to see a patient?”
“No. I’m here to see Veronica. Is there more than one nurse named Veronica that works here?”
“One second, please,” she said, picking up an old beige phone and pressing a few buttons on the number pad. “Miss, you can sit down over there. Vee will come get you when she’s able to.”
“Oh, it’s okay, I’ll just wait here. I prefer to stand.”
“Suit yourself.”
I offered her a smile, leaned against the counter, and examined my nails. My navy-blue manicure was chipping, but I was kind of dying for it. The perfect hint of grunge to complement my otherwise neopreppy look: a ribbed Proenza sweater in chartreuse, an asymmetric Maison Rabih Kayrouz miniskirt, and metallic Robert Clergerie espadrille chukka boots. I was giving you mature youth and wise vulnerability.
“This place is wayyyy less disgusting than I thought it would be. No offense at all. I just always imagined assisted-living homes to be more like hospitals. This is, like—”
“Miss?” scowled our Royal Mulletessa de la Front Desk.
“Yes, Queen?” I shot back.
“I have work to do, so you talkin’ me up like we’re in line at Starbucks waitin’ to order our Pumpkin Spice Lattes ain’t gonna work, hon.”
“I totally understand, and you are being heard. But before I walk away and sit over there to wait for my aunt Veronica, I’m going to need confirmation that you understand one thing about me.”
“What’s that?”
“I have never and will never order a Pumpkin Spice Latte from Starbucks.”
She looked at me for a long, awkward amount of time. I felt imprisoned by her blank stare. It was odd. Then she simply pointed to an empty row of chairs against the far wall. I put my bag over my arm and walked over. I called her a whore in my mind.
As I sat down it occurred to me that at one point in my life, not too long prior, I would’ve just called her a whore out loud, caused a scene, slapped someone, and I probably would’ve just left without talking to Vee. I wasn’t sure if containing my emotions and exhibiting some restraint for the sake of the greater good made me a better person or a more boring person. On one hand—
“Babe?” I heard Vee’s voice say.
“Heyyyyyy . . .” I said, my voice trailing off slowly into a low “ehhhhyyyy.” Not cute.
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
“What do we have to talk about?”
“A lot,” I said, standing my ground. I wasn’t going anywhere. Knox needed us to have this conversation, so have this conversation we would.
“Okay. Give me, like, fifteen, and we can talk outside. I’ve gotta wrap something up.”
“Love it. Go save some people. You’re an inspiration,” I offered, trying to be nice.
She rolled her eyes and walked away. Without turning back to face me she just said, “Outside by the garden in fifteen,” and the saloon doors flapped closed behind her.
I wasn’t going to wait outside and be sweaty for our meeting so I decided just to wait here and meditate a little bit. I shut my eyes and positioned my hands in an open lotus mudra (that’s Sanskrit for “hand pose”) and just let my mind run wild. I found myself atop a Himalayan mountain peak, standing stark naked at the edge of a sheer cliff, weathering the blustering winds with grace and fortitude. Floating past me, or swimming, rather, were extremely small pigs. And when I say small I mean they were like fit-in-the-palm-of-your-hand small. Thousands of them swimming through the air. Some pink, some black, some a marbly mix of pig skin tones, all kicking their little feet through the icy textures of the storm. It was a wonder to see, really. The color story was gorgeous. It was reminiscent of Chanel’s aviation/airport-themed Spring/Summer 2016 show. (Not clear on that show or that collection, BTW.) I felt so connected to the airborne swine that I had the urge to step off the cliff and join their migration. As I shifted my weight to step off, I felt a tap on my knee.
The tap wasn’t in my meditation.
I opened my eyes and saw an old woman was sitting next to me. She was tapping my knee. We were now looking right at each other. I was clearly responding to her, yet she was still tap-tap-tapping on my li’l knee.
“Can I help you?” I asked, glancing at the clock on the wall across from us in hopes that I’d been meditating for almost fifteen minutes, meaning I could excuse myself for my meeting with Veronica. It had been one minute.
“You know,” she said in old-lady voice that might’ve been slightly southern, “I don’t want to bother you.”
“You’re not,” I lied.
“But I was on my way outside to have a check on my lilies and I couldn’t help but see you settin’ here all alone lookin’ so damn pretty with your little eyes closed and all this gorgeous hair.”
I decided I liked her.
“And I know he doesn’t like me doing this,” she continued, “but my grandson . . . Here, let me show you a picture.”
She pulled an iPhone 6 Plus out from a pocket in her polar fleece jacket and before I even go on I want to acknowledge two insane things: 1) This lovely old bitty was wearing a fleece jacket to walk outside into an unusually humid May day, and 2) She was at least 112 years old and had the same phone as me.
As if she wasn’t senile, she slid her phone unlocked and searched through her photos, by date and location, mind you, to find a photo of her grandson. Maybe she wasn’t senile? But she looked so old. And she said “settin’ ” instead of “sitting.” But it was possible that she was totally with it like my Tai Tai had been, may she rest in peace. Loved that for her.
“Here he is. Jimmy,” she said, presenting her phone to me. On the screen was a photo of an average white male between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. He did have gorgeous eyes. They were eyes with a secret—I could tell he was a freak. He was sweating and wearing a running outfit with some sort of piece of paper clipped to his chest. It looked like he’d just finished running a marathon. I wondered if his nipples bled during the run; I’ve heard that can happen.
“Oh, wow,” I said, feigning excitement. “That’s great that he’s, like, in shape and stuff.”
“Quite handsome, isn’t he? He’s the sweetest boy in the world, I’m tellin’ ya.”
“And what? He’s single?”
“He is single! Can you even believe it?”
“No. I’m shocked.”
“We’re all shocked. And Jesus, is he a catch! He’s an accountant and he’s very, very good with money. You live around here?” she asked.
“No. I’m not from here. I honestly don’t even know where I am right now.”
She just smiled and nodded, confused.
“And besides, I just kinda started seeing someone. I’m not in the best place to be sleeping with new people right now, to be completely fucking honest. And you’re sweet for asking, really. But—”
I stopped talking. It occurred to me what I’d just said to her. The fuck? Did I just refer to Scott as someone I’d kinda started seeing? Where did that come from? I guess I liked him. But, like . . . what? No.
“I’m sorry,” I said, getting up from my seat. “You’re an angel and I love that you want me to marry into your wonderfully normal family, but I need to go.”
“Oh. Oh, yeah, sure. I’m sorry if I bothered you.”
“You didn’t. I’m just a bitch and when I get uncomfortable I stand up and leave.”
Smiles, nods, confusion. I smiled back and went to wait for Vee on the bench outside. One Marlboro Light later, Vee was sitting with me. I hadn’t noticed before, but she was wearing scrubs with little animals printed all ove
r. I refrained from telling her how I felt about this entire concept. I had the foresight to know that that wasn’t the best way to start this particular convo.
“I’ve only got about ten minutes. We had two major tumbles today so a couple of very fragile ladies are in need of extra care and we’re understaffed, as per usual.”
“I’ll be quick.”
“Okay. What’s up?”
“I guess if you don’t have much time then I should just get right to it.”
“That sounds like a good plan,” Vee said, not really putting up with one minute of my shit.
“Okay, I know you’re upset with me for taking Knox to LA, but I need you to know that I fucking love that kid, Vee. I only want what’s best for him. I’ve never cared about anyone like this, I swear. So I’m figuring out how to be a good role model and it’s weird and I get carried away and get drunk and fly to LA sometimes, but I’m learning, I swear.”
“You know what, Babe? I get it. You think you can come in and be a hero for Knox or whatever, but he is a kid. He’s a ten-year-old boy with a perfectly happy and safe life here. Do you not understand that? And he’s been acting differently since you got here.”
“Yeah, he’s been happy. He’s been so extremely happy and driven that he took it upon himself to make it to that audition and follow his dream of being a MasterChef! That’s a big deal, Veronica.”
She shook her head like I was only pissing her off the more I said.
“I won’t sit here and have you talk about my son like you’re his mother.”
“I know I’m not his mother, you psycho! But I’m his sister, and that’s worth something.”
“What did you say?”
“Oh, please, I’ve known since the birthday party. Your dad told me, and I confirmed it from another extremely reliable source in California.”
“Did you tell him?” she asked, terrified.
“I would never. But keeping this pot of boiling-hot truth-tea from him has literally been making me sick. I can’t do it. I can’t.”
“You think it’s been hard for you? I’ve lived with this for ten years.”
“And honestly, Vee, I think you are probably the world’s most amaze mom for how you’ve raised him. I don’t wanna fuck that up. I just want him to know the truth and honestly I think he can handle it. He’s literally a grown woman in his head. He’s not really a ten-year-old boy, you get that, right? He’s Padma Lakshmi. He’s Grace Coddington. He can handle the truth!”
