“What’s wrong, Wynn?” obsequious assistant #1 asks.
“This costume … It’s stupid.”
“It’ll be really funny, though!” Kelly tries.
“It just seems dumb,” Wynn continues. “Who would have a lobster for a mascot?”
In the background, one of the production people is urgently calling the director. “Wynn doesn’t like the lobster … Okay … okay. You’d better get down here.”
“The basketball team is the Central High Lobsters!” another guy from the production department says nervously.
“Yeah, I know,” Wynn snaps. “But, why would a team call itself The Lobsters?”
“It’s funny!” Kelly cries.
“Lobsters are quite fierce and aggressive,” the first production person says, hitting redial on her cell phone.
Obsequious assistant #2 jumps in. “Wynn’s right. It’s stupid!”
“What do you think?” It takes me a second to realize Wynn is addressing me.
“Uh …” I can feel Bruce’s eyes on me. Obviously, it’s in all our best interests to talk Wynn into wearing the lobster costume. If he refuses, I’ll have to drive back out to Burnaby to look for a tiger or a bear or whatever they come up with next. But I simply can’t deny that the lobster-as-mascot idea is preposterous.
“It’s preposterous. No high school basketball team would call themselves The Lobsters. They’re bottom-feeding crustaceans.”
“Yeah!” Wynn says, extricating himself from the red foam. “It’s preposterous.”
Just then, Kev flies into the room. The stress is written all over his twenty-eight-year-old face. “Hey, Wynn fella, what’s up?”
“The whole lobster thing is stupid,” Wynn begins.
I take this as a cue to duck out. Bruce is there to protect the lobster costume, and I’m sure I’ll be the first person he tells when they agree on a suitable mascot.
On the way back to my office I step into the women’s restroom. As I expected, all the lobster-lugging exertion has made my face a little shiny. I wet a paper towel in the sink and dab at my forehead. It seems the lack of expression lines has increased the shine factor. My forehead looks a bit like the side of a porcelain toilet now. But I’m still looking better than I have in months, maybe even years. If Trent had had the decency to come over for enchiladas, he would have seen that. The last time he saw me I had red eyes, a red nose, and was still living in frown-line city. Tossing the soggy towel in the bin, I head into the hall.
I’ve almost reached my office when I hear, “Hey!” I turn, and am startled to see Wynn Felker loping toward me.
“Uh … hey,” I say, glancing quickly over my shoulder to make sure he’s actually talking to me.
Wynn walks right up. “Thanks for the support back there. I’m Wynn.” He holds out his hand.
“Yeah, I know,” I say, taking it briefly. “Lucy.”
“Nice to meet you, Lucy.”
He’s smiling at me in that charming Hollywood way, probably expecting me to faint or start crying at any moment. Instead I say, “What did you decide about the mascot?”
“They’re taking it back to the writers. All I know is that I’m not gonna be lobster-boy.”
“Good for you.” I prepare to continue to my office, but Wynn seems in no hurry to leave. He does, however, notice that I seem a bit anxious.
“So … do you want to grab some lunch or something?”
Lunch? Is he joking? Why would Cody Summers want to have lunch with me? What would we possibly talk about? Acne medication? What to wear to the prom? Of course, Cody Summers is just a persona, but I doubt Wynn Felker and I would have much more in common. We could discuss various school mascots, but how long would that take? Ten minutes? It would be awkward and strange. “I’m just gonna eat at my desk. I’ve been trying to get home early for my daughter.”
“That’s cool. How old is your little girl?”
“Fifteen.”
“No!” Wynn says, and he really does look shocked.
“Yes!” I say, imitating his tone.
“It’s just that … you don’t look old enough to have a teenage daughter.”
“Well, I am. And she’s a big fan of yours.”
This prompts the return of his Hollywood cockiness. “Tell her I said hello.”
“I will.” And I hurry on to my office.
Trent
“ANOTHER ROUND?” the waiter asks. He’s all chiseled and tanned and Ashton Kutcher-ish; obviously, a wannabe actor.
I look to Annika. “What do you think? One more?”
Annika giggles. “I don’t know if I should. One more of these martinis and I won’t be able to drive home.”
“I’ll get you a cab.”
“Come on,” Ashton Kutcher says, giving her a blinding smile. “One more.”
“Okay,” she says gleefully. “If you two are gonna gang up on me.”
The waiter leaves and I lean across the tiny table toward Annika. “What a cheeseball.”
“Who?”
“The waiter. Where do they get these guys? Do they grow them in a lab or something?”
Annika peers toward the bar. “He is really good-looking, but I thought he was nice.”
“He’s gotta be an actor,” I continue, watching him punch in our drink order. “I think I recognize him, actually. Yeah … he was Alien #3 in the last episode of Star Hunter.”
“You watch Star Hunter?”
“No … I was just joking.”
“Oh.”
There’s a moment of tense silence. Lucy would have laughed at that joke. But if I was with Lucy the joke would never have been made, since we’d never be having drinks in this hip bar with the handsome waiter. It’s only 5:30. If I was still with my family, I’d be heading home to make Sam dinner and Lucy would still be at work for at least two more hours.
I look over at Annika, who’s fishing a cranberry out of her martini glass with one finger. It suddenly occurs to me that bashing our good-looking server is probably making me look really old and insecure. It’s not like I feel threatened by Ashton, but I have to admit, he’s probably more suited to Annika than I am. I struggle for something to say … something light and fun that will show her I’m not jealous of some two-bit actor. But what? I’m about to mention the upcoming Justin Timberlake concert when Annika speaks.
“So … have you talked to your wife lately?” Her eyes are downcast, staring at the last two cranberries in her drink.
“Yeah,” I say, affecting nonchalance, “just about Sam … making sure she’s okay.”
Annika looks up. “And is she?”
“I think so. I’m going to see her this weekend.”
Her eyes return to the table and she fiddles with her coaster. “Have you and your wife made any plans … about the future?”
I’m not exactly sure what she’s asking, but I try to placate her. “We’re not rushing into anything, but … I rented an apartment a couple days ago.”
“That’s great,” she says, beaming as though I just won the lottery. “Why didn’t you say something?”
I shrug. “I just did.”
“It’s just that …” She looks shy suddenly, girlish. She’s even blushing a little. “I’ve been fighting my feelings for so long because you’re married, but … I really like you, Trent. I just don’t want to move forward with this if you’re still trying to work things out with your wife.”
Fuck. What am I supposed to say to that? I don’t see Lucy and me working things out anytime soon, but one day? I can’t deny that it’s entirely possible. I mean, we have a history together— not to mention a daughter, a house, a couple of cars … “I really like you too.”
“I want to fuck you tonight,” she says, causing me to choke a little on the last sip of my drink. Annika laughs at me, not in a mean way, but I can’t help but feel foolish. It’s got to be dead obvious that I’m not used to such an overtly sexual expression.
I clear my throat. “That sounds like
a good plan,” I manage.
Annika laughs again, just as Ashton appears with two more martinis. I’m thankful for the booze and the distraction.
“Here you go,” he says, placing the bright red concoctions before us. “You two have fun now.”
“Oh, we will,” Annika purrs, suddenly not shy and girlish at all.
Lucy
“OH MY GOD!” Camille squeals. “Wynn Felker invited you out for lunch?”
“Shhhhh!” I peek out the doorway of the props room to make sure no one has overheard. “He said we should grab a bite,” I whisper, after confirming the all clear. “It was just casual. He wanted to talk about the lobster costume.”
“Yeah, right!” my friend replies, not following my sotto voce lead. “If it was just about the lobster costume, you could have talked about it in the office.”
“Maybe he was hungry. Why are you making such a big deal about this?”
“Uh … because the Choice Hottie asked you out for lunch.”
“The Teen Choice Hottie.”
“Whatever. Do you know how many women enter radio contests and stuff, just to meet that guy for two minutes?”
“Not women,” I correct her, “girls. Cody’s a teen heartthrob. Grown women are not lusting after him.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Trust me. Sam and her friends worship him.”
“I still think you should be really flattered,” Camille says, digging through a box of plastic creepie-crawlies. “A super-hot TV star is into you. Maybe you should tell Trent about that, next time he’s too busy to come for enchiladas.”
I can’t deny that she has a point. But would Trent care that another man is interested in me? I have a bad feeling not. My husband has been an endless source of disappointment since our pointless couch reunion. He said he’d call Sam and she still hasn’t heard from him. It’s one thing to blow me off, but quite another to do it to our daughter.
Luckily, I hadn’t told Sam that he was planning to take her out for a burger, so she wasn’t disappointed. She’s been really pouring herself into her piece for the art show in two weeks. I’m at least thankful she has that positive, creative outlet instead of drowning her sorrows in a lunchtime bottle of liquor.
After twenty minutes of fruitless digging, I volunteer to drive out to the Burnaby prop house to look for the plastic frogs we need for Cody’s science class to dissect. A glance at my watch tells me it’s already 5:30. By the time I get out there, find the frogs, and drive back to the studio in rush hour traffic, it’s going to be at least eight. I try to shrug off the wave of guilt that engulfs me, but to no avail. Sam’s father walked out on us, and I can’t even get home to make her a grilled cheese and a bowl of soup. What kind of mother am I?
As I head to my desk, I combat the tears that are threatening to come. But giving in to self-pity won’t help anything. Instead, I decide to channel my emotions into anger. Samantha wouldn’t have to be left alone if Trent would step up to the plate. Before my outrage subsides, I call him at the office.
“Hi,” his cheerful recorded voice says. “You’ve reached Trent Vaughn. Sorry I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“It’s me,”I snap. “I’m going to be home late tonight, so I need you to be with Sam … When you get this message, call me back so that I know you’re going to pick her up or whatever.”
When I hang up, I dial my daughter at home. “Hi honey,” I say brightly. “How was your day?”
“Fine.”
“Good. How’s the art project coming along?”
“Fine.”
“I can’t wait to see it! You’ve really put a lot of hard work into it.”
I hear her exasperated sigh on the end of the line. “What do you want, Mom? I’m trying to watch TV.”
“Okay, well, I’m going to be a little bit late tonight. But I left a message for your dad, and I thought you two could have an evening together. Maybe get him to take you for dinner?”
“I already ate.”
“Oh … What did you have?”
“Chips.”
I almost start crying again. My little, fatherless child is home alone eating chips for dinner! It’s like some sad movie about life in the projects. I can’t do this. “I’m going to see if Camille can do the Burnaby run. I’m coming home now.”
“No, it’s okay. I can hang with Dad.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ve gotta go, Mom.”
“Okay, sweetie. Will you do me a favor?”
“What?” She sounds irritable.
“Please eat some carrot sticks or something with some vitamins in it?”
“I will. See you later.”
She’s fine, I tell myself as I gather my purse and car keys. It will be good for her to spend some time with Trent. He’s a selfish asshole, but he’s still her father and she loves him.
I’m almost out the door when I hear my name. “Lucy!” The voice is immediately recognizable. But it can’t be. I turn and see him striding toward me.
“Hi Wynn,” I say, a little nervous for some reason.
He joins me at the door. “Hey,” he says, pushing it open and ushering me outside. “Are you heading home?”
“No, no. I’ve got to get some frogs for your science class shoot tomorrow.”
Wynn rolls his eyes. “Right. So, I wanted to let you know that we’re not doing the lobster thing. Bruce says he can get a polar bear costume or something. Still funny, but slightly less nonsensical.”
I can’t help but be pleasantly surprised that he just used the word nonsensical. “And slightly less degrading for you.”
“Slightly.” We both laugh.
I indicate my car with my thumb. “Well, I’d better get going. I’ve got a long drive ahead.”
“Yeah …,”he continues, something hesitant in his bearing. “So, I was just gonna say that we should grab a drink some time … you know, when you’re not rushing off to buy frogs?”
My face is hot with embarrassment, awkwardness, excitement. Did he really just ask me out for a drink? Did he just sound nervous and not at all cocky or annoyingly Hollywood? He’s not nearly as cheesy as I’d originally thought. I mean, yes, he is borderline “pretty,” but there’s also something manly about him that I hadn’t really noticed before, a subtle magnetism that—
But I can’t do it. I’ve only been separated two weeks! Six short days ago, Trent was screwing me on the living room sectional! It’s too soon. And while it might be fun to have a drink with Wynn, in my heart of hearts, I know I still want things to work out with my husband. “Thanks but … I’m really busy with work and … my daughter and …” I scramble for one more thing, finally coming up with “my scrapbooking hobby.”
“Oh.” He sounds taken aback, as though it never occurred to him that I might turn him down. Come to think of it, it probably never did. “Right. Okay, see ya.”
He turns and, without a second glance, walks back into the building.
Trent
THE CLOCK RADIO CLICKS OVER TO 6:45 A.M. In fifteen minutes the alarm will go off, signaling that I should be in the office in about an hour. If I go in, that is. But I have to go in. I have a client coming at 9:30. What am I going to do, call in sick? Quit my job so I don’t have to see Annika again? That’s ridiculous. Just because the sex was an unmitigated disaster, I can’t hide out here forever.
I get up and fill the tiny coffee pot with water. Of course I’ll go to the office. It’s not like I’m some high school kid who can’t face up to his humiliation. At least if I were some high school kid I’d have an excuse for the disaster that was last night. But I’m not a horny teenager who can’t control his bodily functions: I’m a middle-aged guy struck down by performance anxiety.
I stick the prefilled coffee filter into the basket and go take a shower. The beads of hot water do nothing to wash away the guilt, the shame, the embarrassment. The fact
that I’ve had only three hours sleep probably isn’t helping. But how can I sleep when every horrifying second of the night keeps looping through my brain like a YouTube video?
It started out okay. Annika had made her intentions exceedingly clear when she came back to my room with me. There was no room for misinterpretation when she flopped onto the bed and pulled me down on top of her. I’d waited so long to be with her. It was new and yet somehow familiar. I mean, we’d been working together for over a year, so it wasn’t as if we were total strangers. And I had fantasized about having sex with her so many times that it was almost as though I’d been there before, in a way. So, it was all going pretty well—the making out, the clothing removal. The lamp was on, which made me feel a little uncomfortable. It’s not that I’m ashamed of my body, but it’s been a long time since I’ve hit the gym. It was really cool looking at Annika though.
It wasn’t until she said “Do you have a condom?” that things went off the rails. “Uh … yeah,” I said, having had the foresight to pick up a pack prior to our date. I crawled off her and walked naked, in the lamplight, to the bureau. I could feel her eyes all over me, a disturbing sensation. I guess I could have been flattered, but I just felt awkward and vulnerable—like I was walking around naked with a boner in front of a co-worker. Which, I guess, I was. Grabbing the box of condoms, I hurried back to the bed.
“Get it on,” she said, or more appropriately, growled. I hadn’t used a condom since 1990, so it was a little challenging, getting the packet open and trying to get the thing on, especially with Annika watching every move like she was doing some kind of research study. And suddenly, all the tension and the guilt just got to me. My dick was just lying there like a sea cucumber.
“It’s okay,” Annika said, diving on it like a lifeguard intent on bringing it back to life. And it did work, to some degree. But when I made another attempt at putting on the condom, I could feel the nerves getting to me again. Annika tore the rubber disk from my hand. “Forget it,” she said. “Just do me … now!”
Chronicles of a Midlife Crisis Page 6
