Jackie's Week

by M. M. Wilshire

  "Maybe the son of a bitch will give me a new lease on life," she mused aloud.

  "And which son of a bitch is that, dear?" A brisk man of indeterminate years came through the archway. Jackie sized him up--smooth shaven, perfect skin, with a full head of bright, shiny, short-brown curls, slim and quick, in a lemon silk jersey over jeans and Reeboks.

  "I’m Vito."

  "Jackie."

  "Enchanted. And don’t look embarrassed. I can be a real son of a bitch at times. And it appears that you are a bit of a stinker yourself."

  "Sorry."

  "These lilies on the table are for you. They’re Casablanca lilies. Donna told me how much you like the film, so I ordered them special."

  "I must say, I’m overwhelmed. As you can see, however, this is all just a gigantic waste of everybody’s time. My hair is hopeless."

  "That is for me to decide. You’re not the first person who has managed to achieve the homeless look by her own hand. By the way, how do you like the champagne? It’s the latest thing from South Africa."

  "It’s perfect. Very creamy."

  "I buy it because it has the most bubbles. Don’t you think the whole point of champagne is bubbles?"

  "I’ll tell you what I think," Jackie said. "I think I’d like a refill. Unless, of course, you have some vodka."

  "Scotia will keep your glass full—of champagne, not vodka. I think you have had quite enough vodka for a lifetime. Now let’s get down to business." With probing fingers, he began exploring her hair and scalp. He gently touched the scar which ran from her left eye to her ear. "You’re face tightens when I touch this. Does it hurt?"

  "What do you think?"

  His fingers began working themselves across the top of her head towards the back.

  "Ouch."

  "Sorry."

  "So what’s the verdict?"

  "What disturbs me is I can tell your scalp hasn’t been cleaned properly in months. It is scaly, with oily white flakes and emits a very unpleasant odor. On the positive side, you’ve got a beautifully shaped head."

  "That’s the first time anybody’s ever told me that."

  "I’ll go think some thoughts about this and see you after you get cleaned up."

  Scotia appeared. "Jackie, your bath is ready. "

  "I was afraid you'd say that."

  "I know you’re phobic. But your phobia stops here and now, if I have to wrestle you into the tub. Here’s your robe. Put those filthy old sweat clothes outside the door. I’m tossing them. I’ll have something sent over from Neiman’s. Call me when you’re done with your bath and we’ll do the massage. Oh. And here’s a razor. After the bath, use the shower to shave. What’s it been, six months?"

  Alone, and with no way out, Jackie eased herself slowly into the tub, filled to the brim with its heady brew of scented suds. For awhile, she sat their, rigid, feeling unsafe, as though the door would fly open and a monster would rush in. There was something vulnerable about being alone and naked. It was damned unpleasant. Nonetheless, she closed her eyes and slowly felt herself begin to relax, aided by the pleasant weight of the heated water, the crisp crackle from the foam, the soothing smoothness of polished marble, and more than a little champagne. It almost made her feel young again.

  Here I am, she thought. And why? To be made pretty again? And for whom? Donna? Bienenfeld? Myself? The World? Johnson? Oh, I can’t believe I invited him for dinner! What was I thinking? Me, dating a cop? A cop with a dog, no less. Johnson is a beast, an anachronism. He probably listens to the Chi-Lites and shoots pool in some cop bar. Worse yet, he’s the old-fashioned type. He’ll open doors for me and light my cigarettes—and I don’t smoke! I can’t imagine his circle of friends. Wait. I can imagine them! Help! Other old cops with severe smile impairments!

  After her tub soak and a good half hour battle shaving in the shower, she dragged herself out and wrapped herself in a thick, oversize towel and hit the speed dial on her phone. "Johnson, it’s Jackie. I’m getting cold feet about tonight. I’ve had a lot of stress just now and—"

  "—It’s only dinner. We’ll be chaperoned. You’ll have a policeman right at your table."

  "Thank you for that. You probably won’t recognize me. I just shaved my legs for the first time in months. I’m at Donna’s day spa. They’re knocking themselves out to get me beautiful. I think they’re burning my sweat pants as we speak."

  "And all for me, right?"

  "Not."

  "Jackie, I hate to bring this up. Bout’s lawyer is screaming for his release."

  "Oh no. Already?"

  "Oh yeh. Did you talk to your psychiatrist about doing the lineup?"

  "Sort of. She said she would help me if I decided to do it. Johnson, what if Bout is released."

  "Don’t worry about it."

  "Don’t worry about it? I think my stomach is trying to crawl out of my throat. I don’t think I can handle doing the lineup. No. Make that I know I can’t handle it. If I have to see Bout in person, I just might lose my mind completely."

  "Hang in there. I’ll see you tonight and we can talk about it over an Old Fashioned."

  "Nobody drinks those anymore."

  "I do. I drink the real ones, not the fake brandy spritzers the bartenders do nowadays. I make them myself sometimes. I dissolve a small lump of sugar with a little water in a whiskey-glass; add two dashes Angostura bitters, a small piece of ice, a piece of lemon-peel, one jigger whiskey, and mix with small bar-spoon and serve, leaving spoon in glass. I’ve got a cop friend named Mulroney who owns a bar in Van Nuys. I taught him to make them."

  "Johnson, is there no end to your talents? I’d feel a whole lot better if I lived on another planet with you. But maybe having an Old Fashioned at your dog ranch is the same thing."

  She entered the massage cubicle and stretched out on the table face down. Scotia began applying a soothing lotion.

  "Your fingers are like steel," Jackie said.

  "Too hard?"

  "No. I need it hard. I can feel the kinks coming out of my back. You should become a professional."

  "I am a professional," Scotia said. "I’m a certified massage therapist. But around here, I also do a lot of other jobs because our team is small. Our clientele is smaller than a lot of salons, because Vito doesn’t want to sacrifice the quality of the experience here."

  "Whatever it is, it’s working. I feel places relaxing I didn’t know I had."

  "Some of what you’re feeling may be due to the Oil of Malacia we put in your bath. Relaxation is very important to Vito. If the bath and massage doesn’t do the trick, he might put you through some guided imagery to try and cut down on your internal chatter."

  "My internal chatter never stops."

  "A big part of why you’re so tense. Did you know most internal dialogue is negative? We’re always telling ourselves we could’ve done better, or we can’t stand ourselves. Vito tries to eliminate some of it so you’ll be more open to his creativity."

  "I can’t stop worrying about my date tonight. It’s like I’m a condemned woman about to have last meal."

  "Stop worrying."

  "At my age?"

  "Why not? You’re very attractive underneath this bag lady disguise you created."

  "Sorry about that."

  "It’s nothing new," Scotia said. "There are a lot of neurotic, wealthy women here in Hollywood. You’d be surprised how many movie stars come here to get put back together after they fall apart for a year or so."

  "It’s that common?"

  "It’s very common. Do you think Lindsay Lohan shaved her legs when she went on her most recent bender? I think not."

  "Scotia, I thought you had the optimism of the young. Instead it appears you have already begun to look forward to the day when your own life begins to turn into a nightmare of disease, loneliness, helplessness and poverty."

  "Not me. I plan to take care of myself. You know what I think? I think you should try just being an ordinary person for awhile. You’ve probably been working t
oo hard at being the perfect victim after your attack. You can stop living up to the event. Try letting go of it entirely. It’s okay to have weakness. Everybody is weak. And enjoy being your age. Try and divorce yourself from the L.A. youth-worship culture. Think Lauren Hutton."

  Scotia’s words exploded in Jackie’s head like a bomb. Especially her speech on being the perfect victim. She felt the truth of it cutting into her shell.

  "Everybody is a shrink lately," Jackie said. "But you’re probably right. I think I turned into a bag lady because I did not want any man to target me."

  "You’ll feel better after your haircut. And you might be surprised by what life has in store for you. Maybe you’ve finally come to the place where your life is beginning to really take off. Don’t give up before the miracle happens."

  "I used to hear that phrase in AA."

  "You were in the Program?"

  "For 90 days when I was younger," Jackie said. "I was one of those crazy kids who went in on a DWI program. I sat there in the back with a frown on my face the whole time. But I did learn a few things."

  "I’m a 12-stepper," Scotia said. "Except my whole world was crystal meth. But everybody is in a different place in life. You’re at the place where you need a good cut."

  "Is that all it takes? Is that what the entire universe boils down to? A good cut?"

  "Sometimes. I think Einstein was working on that theory. That’s why his hair was the way it was. Your hair is more than a piece of material covering your scalp. Your hair says everything about you. It tells the world who you are. It represents the battle we all must face to live in this world. You’re not here only to get it cut. You’re here to give your soul a new breath of life. The great haircut is the frosting on the cake."

  Scotia’s fingers located an inflamed nerve and began to work it.

  "Oh, the pain that refreshes," Jackie said.

  "So where’s your favorite place?" Scotia said.

  "Right where your fingers are now."

  "No. I mean your favorite place in the world."

  Jackie sighed. "I used to have a favorite place, but not anymore. It was my house in Van Nuys. It’s a two-story cape cod with a pool. My favorite place was poolside under the arbor. It’s got a really great old guava tree covering it, and in the summer I could sit there in the shade. And there were mockingbirds singing all night long. Of course, after the attack, I’ve been afraid to return. So I guess you could say at the moment, I have no favorite place. This guy I am interested in has one, though. But it’s a dog ranch in Dos Palos."

  "You need to find a new favorite place. Everybody needs one."

  "I bought a new car last night. I love the interior. Maybe that will become my favorite place."

  "Sometimes, when we can’t have a place on the outside, we have to find a place on the inside. Even if it is the inside of a car."

  "Oh my, Scotia," she breathed. "Scotia. Lower. Oh my God!"

  Chapter 18

  "You’ve lost a lot of hair," Vito said. "It tells me your body has been through enormous trauma in the last six months. I’m also quite sure you haven’t been eating normally. You need to start eating a healthy diet rich in vitamins and minerals, with lots of vegetables and fruit."

  "Are you my hairdresser or my mother?" Jackie said. She was in a small, back bedroom in the middle of the hardwood floor, sitting, draped, wearing her new shorts and a T-shirt from Neiman’s, on a low, cushioned stool.

  "I’m neither. Just think of me as a friend."

  "So how come I’m in here all by myself instead of being out with all the other ladies?"

  "We do nails and facials in the living room. Which you also need to have done before you leave today. At least get the nails cut and painted. But I must have complete privacy when cutting. I cannot be disturbed by ringing phones or other factors which could break my concentration." He extended a silver dish with assorted bon-bons. "Take one—it’s a reward for making it this far. It’s no small thing you’ve arrived in my cutting room. It means your life is about to change."

  Jackie popped a tart orange candy into her mouth and felt her saliva glands explode from the tang. "Oh man, that’s good. I could eat a dozen. By the way, why are there no mirrors in this room?"

  "When I am creating a new style, I need complete control of the artistic process. The creative process is a right brain activity. I tap into an altered state when I work. I took the mirrors out of the room because I don’t want your existing insecurities to spill over into my head. I don't want to be drawn into your reality. If you watched me in a mirror, it might cause me to fog over when I pick up your rigid fears and preconceptions."

  "You’re a smooth customer, Vito, but you can save that ying-yang crap for your Beverly Hills brats. I’m just a Valley girl. The only preconception I have right now is I’d like another bon-bon."

  "Nerves."

  "Can you blame me? I mean, it seems like all of a sudden the entire universe is focused on my impending haircut."

  "Jackie, I’m going to suggest we go short."

  "Short? How short?"

  "Very short."

  "Oh man. We can’t do that. I’m too old to pull off a Sigourney Weaver. And my scar will show."

  "Actually, you look a bit like Sigourney. And even she was able to get a date, even though it was with a fang-dripping alien. There’s a lot of those in this town. I used to do her hair, until we had a violent disagreement about that little flip job she wears now. Don’t worry about your scar. It gives you character. I find it exciting. It’s modern. People are into highlighting their flaws now. Look at the huge glasses everybody is wearing. Like wearing a huge sign that says, ‘I Am Blind’."

  "I bet you find a lot of things exciting."

  "One amuses oneself the best one can. It’s past time you made this move. You need to show the world you’ve got a new attitude. And by going short, we eliminate the need for any chemicals, which will avoid your head being designated an EPA Superfund emergency site."

  "But what about my gray?"

  "You haven’t cared about your gray up to now. Look, gray hair isn’t for everyone, but you’ve got the face and skin color to pull it off. You’re about 50 percent gray now, so you’ll have a nice salt-and-pepper look. But the choice isn’t about going gray, or going short—it’s about whether or not you’re ready to start being yourself for the first time in your life, instead of trying to be whatever it is you think they want you to be."

  "Well okay. I already bought a red car when I was blacked-out drunk last night. I might as well cut off all my hair today."

  "Beautiful. I’ll sculpt you down all the way past the damage and the frizz and then do a tight, geometric cut. It’s going to be outstanding." The scissors in Vito’s skilled hands began to snip away and the hair fell like dirty snow around Jackie’s draped form.

  Chapter 19

  "It’s not as easy as it looks maintaining a dog this size," Johnson said. "Finding a good restaurant can be a challenge, even in L.A. But, with a little ingenuity, any dog can have his day in the City of Angels. Of course, we can’t go shopping at Neiman Marcus anymore, not since somebody’s poodle bit the forefinger off one of their shoppers."

  Johnson, accompanied by Heinz, had shown up in his white van at the Spring Oak Drive residence about 7:30. At Bienenfeld’s insistence, they all piled into Jackie’s Lexus and hightailed it to Chillers at the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. It was a perfect night to sit outside. The evening ocean air was well-oxygenated, smogless, warm and soft, halo-like under the combined fusions of mercury vapor lamps and fritzy neon sign displays.

  Heinz, coat freshly groomed, in harness and tied to the other side of the patio railing, watched with intelligent interest the ambient crowd of evening mall traffickers, most of whom moved well away from the large canine.

  Jackie felt like a new creature. She had to admit to herself that her hair looked fantastic. Radical, but full of life.

  "Dogs are actually good for restaurants," Johnson s
aid. "A lot of people don’t know this, but many of the finest hot dog stands in L.A. provide dog-friendly accommodations to give their food stand a competitive edge."

  "Because the owner always buys a dog for his dog," Jackie said.

  Everybody chuckled, fueling the fire of Jackie’s feel-good moment. It had been a long time since she’d had a simple evening out with good friends and was free to joke around and be herself. This was the other side of life she’d almost refused to believe existed anymore, and yet here it was, laid out before her for the taking. She was proud of Johnson. He looked sharp in his suit, and he mixed easily with Donna and Bienenfeld. She began to size him up for serious relationship potential, and he sized up nicely. The thought of being with him suddenly began to feel very right.

  "I like your dog," Bienenfeld said. "One good thing about bringing him here is that we don’t have to worry about some homeless psycho sneaking up and grabbing our food out from under us."

  "You got that right."

  The waiter arrived with a round of Old Fashioneds.

  "Take mine back," Jackie said. "And bring me a Coke."

  "You’re not drinking?" Donna said.

  "I met a lady today who’s in AA," Jackie said. "I’m trying it on for size. I’m admitting that I am powerless over alcohol and my life is unmanageable. One day at a time, of course."

  "Oh please," Bienenfeld said. Don’t take the drink back. Just set it right here. I’m practically ready for my next one anyway." He drained his first tumbler and hoisted his second in a toast. "To Jackie’s new car. Which, I may add, is cramped and uncomfortable as hell in the back seat."

  "Well we can’t all ride around in our personal limo, Bienenfeld," she answered, raising her water glass. "But thanks for the toast anyway. Here’s to you for being here for me. And here’s to the untimely death by hanging in his cell of one Viktor Bout."

  An awkward silence ensued.

  "What, we can’t talk about it?" Jackie said. "We’re just supposed to sit here and make small talk?"