by JA Huss
The pretense under which we’re at my old house is to bring Diane and Caroline a bottle of champagne. There’s a liquor store nearby and as we were passing it, Tyler suddenly pulled into the parking lot and said, “Let’s bring Caroline and Diane something for New Year’s!”
I asked him why and he talked again about having been kind of a jerk to whichever one he was a jerk to – he still can’t remember for sure which one it was – and about what he and I talked about with wanting to help them somehow, and how they were good friends to me, and stuff like that. And that’s all nice, and possibly even true, but the real reason we’re making a pit stop is because he’s nervous about seeing Jack. I’m already starting to know these things about him without him having to tell me.
We hop out of the Tesla and walk up to the front door. It looks like they’re both here. Both of their cars are parked outside. I’m holding the champagne bottle and as we land on the front steps, I am suddenly overcome with the strange impulse to ring the bell. Because it’s not my house. I’m a visitor. A tourist. And my polite impulses take over. But in a split second I decide that it would be way, way more uncool to declare myself as someone who’s apart from this place than to just walk through the damn door like I have every other time before, so I pull out my key and put it in the lock.
“Hey!” I say brightly into the room as the door opens. And here’s what we see as we cross the threshold: Caroline is sitting on the sofa, hunched over a laptop. Diane is pacing behind her, tapping on a bottle of beer with her ringed index finger, which is causing a clicking sound. Both of them look incredibly focused and neither one responds to our arrival.
“Read it back?” says Diane.
Caroline fans up on the laptop’s track pad and says, “‘Agatha, Christie, Deborah, and Mona. Three call girls and a stripper. That’s what they were. Christie and Deborah looked at each other and their shared expression told the story. ‘How did we get here?’ Neither one of them said anything aloud. They didn’t have to. They both knew. It was time. Time for something to change.’”
I turn to look at Tyler and he shrugs at me, raising his eyebrows.
Diane takes a sip of her beer. “I dunno. It feels clunky.”
“You think?” says Caroline. “I like it.”
“It’s kind of the seminal moment. It needs to have impact. Gravitas.”
“I agree. That’s why I broke it up into short sentences. To punctuate it.”
“Yeah,” Diane says, taking another sip, “just something...” Then she looks over and sees me and Tyler, seemingly for the first time. “Oh. Hey,” she says. “What are you doing here?”
“Um,” I say, offering the champagne, “we wanted to bring you guys this for New Year’s.”
“Aww. That’s so sweet. Thanks!” says Caroline, standing up and reaching for the bottle. Then she sees what it is and says, “Guys... really? This is like a four-hundred-dollar bottle of champagne.”
If there’s one thing strippers and call-girls know about, it’s how much expensive booze costs.
“Oh, yeah, well...” I say, suddenly kind of ashamed about it.
“Thanks,” says Diane, stepping over and taking it from Caroline. “Appreciate it.”
She manages to be both genuinely gracious in her thanks and kind of cold about it all at the same time. Which is an amazing skill and I wonder if she knows it’s her superpower.
“What are you guys doing?” I ask.
They share a furtive look with each other. Caroline tilts her head in a ‘should we?” way. Diane shakes her head in a ‘no’ way. Then Caroline’s eyes widen in a ‘come on’ way. And finally, Diane just outright says, “Fine,” and turns with the champagne to place it on a side table.
“We’re working on our memoir,” Caroline says with a shrug.
“Your memoir?” I ask.
“Yeah,” says Caroline. “We quit our other job.”
“You did?” I don’t know if the surprise or the excitement is what comes through more in my voice, but both are certainly present.
“Yeah, we did,” says Diane, stepping back over. “So that we can work full time on this.”
“Yeah. And also because, you know, our jobs were...” Caroline trails off.
“Sleeping with people for money sucks. Bad,” Diane says, and then takes another swig of her beer.
Then Caroline looks past me and says, “Tyler?”
“Hey, uh... Car-o-line?” He draws it out and kind of makes it a question. I close my eyes and shake my head the tiniest bit.
“Wow,” she says. “You shaved.” And then she gets sort of self-conscious. It’s sweet. On most other women it would be out of place and the kind of thing that might raise my ire without me being able to help it, but you just gotta love Caroline.
“I didn’t,” he says. “Rodney shaved me, but...” I look over my shoulder at him and he stops and just says, “Thanks.”
“So now you’re just...?” I start to ask.
Diane says, “We’re gonna work on the memoir. We’re just gonna bang it out. We figure we have probably enough saved to get us by for two, three months. So we’re gonna do this and see if we can sell it. If you’re worried, don’t be. We’ve changed everybody’s names.” She says that last part kind of snarky.
“I wasn’t worried,” I say, quietly.
“You’re Mona now,” Caroline offers. “I’m Christie, Diane’s Deborah, and Annie is Agatha.”
“Wow,” I say. “Have you talked to Annie?”
“About the book?” Diane asks. “Yeah, she thinks it’s awesome.” She takes another swig from the bottle.
“Oh. Cool. But I meant, just, how’s she doing?”
“She seems great,” Diane says, her voice ringed around the edges with annoyance. “She’s terrific. Everybody’s doing great. So. Thanks for stopping by and for the champagne and yeah. Thanks. See ya.”
She turns and makes for the kitchen. I’m about to say something, but before I can, it’s Tyler’s voice that stops her.
“How are you guys gonna get it published?”
“What?” Diane asks, turning around and glaring. Tyler finally told me the story of what happened last week. How he got all angry at her and how she seemed scared. So I don’t blame her. I’d still be pissed too.
“Do you guys have a publisher or an agent or...? I’m just curious.”
“We’re just gonna self-publish it,” says Caroline. “One of the girls we work with—”
“Used to work with,” Diane interrupts.
“Right, used to work with, um, she loves romance novels? And she told us that independently published romance novels are like the biggest sector of the publishing industry.”
“Really?” I say. I don’t know why I find that surprising. I just do.
“Yeah,” she goes on. “These writers, some of them do really well. And, well, we both took some creative writing courses in school, and we figured that we could probably just give it a shot. But then we decided... y’know, our real-life story is also probably just as interesting—”
“More,” says Diane.
“Yeah, maybe more,” Caroline continues, “and it’s a crazy story. Four girls who all graduated from college together with degrees and stuff and we all became...” She trails off and bites her lip. “I mean... we just think it’s a good story.”
“Wow,” I say again, “That’s... That’s amazing. Congrats, you guys.”
“Thanks,” says Diane. “We do have degrees in fuckin’ econ. We should be able to figure out how to grab some of the co-ed-turned-prostitute-turned-memoirist market share. It can’t be that glutted.”
Was that a joke? I think Diane may actually just have cracked a joke.
“Um...” That’s Tyler’s voice again. “Can I help?”
All three of us look at him.
“What?” asks Caroline. “Help us write it?”
“Oh. No. God, no. I just... I know a guy. A guy in New York from when I was living there. Good dude. He’s an
editor at one of the major publishing houses.”
“Which one?” asks Diane.
“Um... Tran-ton-feld?”
Diane and Caroline look at each other. “That’s not a thing,” Diane says.
“Oh. Well, one of ’em. I know it’s a good one because dude has a sick apartment. I can call him and ask which.” Tyler goes to pull out his phone.
“No. No. That’s fine,” says Diane. And there’s a beat while Caroline and Diane – Diane mostly – try to size up how full of shit they think Tyler is. “Go on,” she says.
“I dunno. I mean, I can give him a shout and ask him to take a read of it when you’re done. If you’re interested,” he says. “But if you wanna go this other route, that’s fine too, just trying to give options.”
Tyler sighs. I love him so much right now. Not because he’s trying to do a nice thing, but because it’s clearly hard and awkward, and I know how he feels. It’s one thing to make all these great, philanthropic, altruistic plans. It’s another thing to put them into motion. Or even to really know how to start. This is a start. This is a way we can help Diane and Caroline.
We can encourage them.
We can foster their ambitions and encourage them to try. We don’t have to ride in on a white horse and save the day. We can just be supportive friends. At the end of the day, that’s what Raven did for me, even if I had no idea she was doing it, and even if, at the time, it looked nothing even remotely like generosity... that’s what it was. And offering to give somebody hope, which is what Tyler’s doing right now, sometimes that’s all a person needs.
“And also, if you guys want to take some extra time to make sure it’s really, really perfect so you can slam-dunk it, I can bankroll you while you do that.”
And sometimes you can offer to give someone a whole shitload of fucking money. That’s another way to help people, I guess.
“What?” asks Diane with a sharpness in her tone.
“I just mean... if this is something you really want to do and really care about and believe in, you shouldn’t have to just bang it out and hope for the best. You should be able to take your time with it, and make it great, and all that shit. Right? I mean, this is your story. I imagine you’d wanna make it as perfect as possible.” No one says anything as we all process this offer he’s making. “But shit. Fuck do I know? I ain’t never made anything. Except messes. And I do that for free.”
There’s another long beat where Caroline looks back at Diane. Diane doesn’t make eye contact, just keeps staring at Tyler.
“Whatayou get?” she asks.
“What?” says Ty.
“We gave up the whore business. That’s what this whole thing’s about. We’re not interested in working for another pimp.”
“Oh!” he says. “Oh, God. No. No, of course. Of course not. I just...” He takes a breath. “I want to help you. That’s what I want. That’s what I get out of it. Helping somebody.”
“Why?” Diane asks, suspiciously.
I look at him and touch him on the arm. “Because you helped me,” I tell her. Which is only part of the story, but it’s not bullshit.
“Yeah,” says Tyler. “Yeah. I’d be like your patron. Like in Elizabethan England and shit, didn’t playwrights and stuff have patrons? Rich assholes who paid for Shakespeare and Marlowe and all those guys to just write? Without having to worry about day jobs and shit? Just for the sake of feeling like they were doing something important even though they had no talent themselves? Well... I’m a rich, talentless asshole. Lemme be your patron. Please?”
I’ll take issue with one thing Tyler just said. He may be rich, and he may be an asshole, but he is not talentless. His talent is persuasion. And that pitch was just about as persuasive as it could be.
Caroline looks excitedly and expectantly at Diane. Diane continues just looking at Tyler. Her left knee bounces where she stands.
“And you don’t want shit in return?”
He shakes his head. “Just for you to do the best with it you can.” She starts to nod. “And maybe a thanks in the credits if it gets made into a movie.” Her eyes dart up to meet his again. “Or not. Either way. No problem.”
She puts both hands in front of her lips in a prayer position, her left knee still juddering in place. After a long moment, she finally says...
“K.”
“K?” he repeats.
“K,” she says. “It’s the least you can do after being a dick the way you were.”
“Agreed,” says Tyler.
“Well, OK then!” chirps Caroline.
“Um... OK then,” I say.
“So...” Diane starts.
“Champagne?” asks Tyler. “Toast the adventure?”
Diane smirks a little and says, “Sure.”
She grabs the bottle off the side table and carries it into the kitchen. Caroline starts to come give Tyler a hug, then stops, then starts again, then stops, and then finally Tyler just reaches down and hugs her instead.
“Thank you,” I hear her whisper.
“Glad to be able to do it,” he says. And glad is the right word.
We should all be glad.
Caroline trots off to the kitchen as well and I turn to Tyler, wrap my arms around his neck and say, “I love you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” I smile.
“Thank fucking God, because I love the daylights out of you.” We kiss. And then he says, “Fuck.”
“What? What’s wrong?”
“I sure hope they don’t suck. This was very impulsive.”
I smile and take him by the hand into the kitchen where Diane is finishing pouring the expensive champagne into four water glasses.
“To new beginnings!” Caroline says.
Yeah. To new beginnings.
I will definitely drink to that.
And then we all lift our glasses to the sky. And we do.
Chapter Seventeen - Tyler
Pulling up to Frank’s feels like a collision of past and present. Frank’s itself is something out of a time capsule. I don’t know if it was actually built in the fifties or if it was built as a nostalgic homage, but either way, it harkens back to a bygone era in Vegas. An era of shiny suits and hair gel. Of people dressing up for a night out on the town. Of the Rat Pack. All that shit. But here it still sits. A little older, a little more run-down, but still going.
When I was a shorty, we’d swing in here on Saturdays as our “Saturday thing.” After Little League games, win or lose, me, Mom, and Jack would stop in for milkshakes. Frank’s is where I learned about a Black and White. It was Mom’s flavor. Chocolate and vanilla swirled together and poured into a tall, ridged tumbler.
This is the kind of joint where they also slap down on the table the metal container they used to make the shake itself. So that when you’ve consumed all the creamy dairy goodness in your glass and can’t possibly take in one more sip, you still feel like you have to give it a shot. And then you lift that frosty, condensation-ringed metal to your mouth, polish off the contents, and throw up all over the table.
(OK. It only happened the once, but it’s the memory that sticks with me. I mean, shit, I was seven, gimme a break.)
And just like Frank’s, here I still sit. A little older, a little more run-down, but still going, too.
OK. Let’s do this thing.
I glance at the clock on the Tesla’s massive computer screen (the car itself is actually just a computer on wheels, which makes me wonder what the fuck happens if it gets hacked) and see that it’s three fifty-five. I look around the parking lot, but realize that I have no idea what kind of car my dad drives, so I wouldn’t know if he’s here or not. But through the windows, I don’t see him inside, so I guess we’re here first.
“How you doing?” Maddie’s voice pulls my attention back to now.
“Fine. Good. Too good, really. How’s it with you, Pop-Tart?” I know that I’m overdoing it with the charm offensive, but I don’t care. I kind of don’t want to
hide that I’m nervous. I figure if I can’t be real when I’m with Maddie then when the fuck can I be? And I’m tired of not being honest about my feelings. There’s enough in my life to make me tired, I don’t need to add to that shit.
“Yeah,” she says, “you seem too good.” She smiles and rubs her hand on my arm.
“Thanks for coming with me,” I say and then blow out a breath.
“Hey, I go where you go.”
She winks, and I take my whole hand and spread my palm out over her face. “I fuckin’ love you. I just wanna crush your head.”
“Yeah, well, that’s love, I suppose.”
I don’t crush her head. Instead, I take my hand away, lean over, and give her a kiss that’s half-want, half-need. She moans a little.
My lips still on hers, I say, “You wanna blow this off and just go... I dunno....”
“Fuck?” she mutters back.
“Capital idea!” I say, hitting the ignition button and popping the car into reverse.
She presses the park button and turns the car off. “Later. Promise,” she says.
I make a plane propeller sound with my tongue, nod my head, and say, “OK. Fuck. Let’s get our reporter hats on.”
Stepping out of the car, I can smell Frank’s. It’s that burger and fry smell emanating from the kitchen’s exhaust fan out into the desert air. It makes me immediately hungry. I don’t think I’ve eaten today. I’ve been that preoccupied with this whole get-together. I stroll to the door and pull it open, holding it for Maddie.
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” she says.
“M’lady,” I offer back along with a deep bow at the waist and a flourish of my hand. Seriously, I would’ve been a fucking baller in Elizabethan England. Probably woulda been an earl or some shit. Maybe I was. I should get a past-life reading from one of those fortune tellers who work out of their houses and find out. Anyway.
