Notes From the Backseat

by Jody Gehrman

  “Look at it this way,” I said. “Coop and Dannika have been friends since college, right? They’ve probably known each other—what? Seven, eight years?”

  She nodded, frowning.

  “If they haven’t gotten together in all that time, they must not have chemistry. I mean, otherwise, they’d have at least given it a go, right?”

  “Riiight,” she said, drawing out the word in a way that implied she wasn’t convinced.

  “You know how it is. Sometimes you’re just not attracted to someone, no matter how hot they are. I bet it’s like that with them. They’re like brother and sister—absolutely no fizz.”

  “Or maybe it’s more like seven years of foreplay,” she grumbled. “By the time they get it on, the simultaneous orgasm will probably blind them.”

  I laughed. “Stop being neurotic. Do you hear me? Coop is crazy about you.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know.”

  She pulled off one of her gloves and fretted with it. “The thing is, if I go on this trip, he’s going to see how wiggy-jealous I get. He just will. There’s no way around it.”

  She looked so small and vulnerable, I wanted to put my arms around her. “Gwen, it’s not the end of the world if he sees you at your worst. He’s probably not going to run screaming just because you’re human. Be honest with him. You’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “I’ve got Coop to lose!” she pouted. “Not to mention my pride.”

  “Yes, I know, but if you can’t be yourself with him, there’s really nothing there worth saving.”

  She replaced her clip-on earring and forced a brave smile. “You’re right. I’m being stupid. I’ll go on this trip, meet his friends, everyone will love me, I’ll love them, and we’ll all live happily ever after.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “Now, can you please help me find some clothes that don’t make me look cheap, dumpy or American? I realized today I can’t possibly meet Jean-Paul’s parents in my Mickey Mouse T-shirt.”

  “What?” she gasped. “Confirmed slob seeks flattering attire?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I said. “Whatever. Just, can we get this over with?”

  An hour later, Gwen had found me three versatile, elegant, wrinkle-proof outfits that made my thighs look slimmer, my bones more pronounced and my split ends fashionably intentional. She’s a genius. I tried to force my credit card on her, but she wouldn’t hear of it.

  As we were hugging goodbye, I got my brilliant idea.

  “Listen,” I said. “I’ve got something for you. Wait here.” I ran out to my car, checked the meter, and grabbed the little journal from my plastic Rite Aid bag. Then I dashed back to Gwen’s store and pressed it into her hands.

  “What’s this?” She looked at it and then at me with a quizzical expression.

  “Take it with you on your trip. If you start to feel anxious or threatened or even slightly inclined to dump Coop, just write out your thoughts until you calm down, okay?”

  She laughed uneasily. “Is this some sort of New Age therapy?”

  “It’ll give you some perspective, that’s all.”

  “Okay. Well, thanks. It’s…really nice.”

  “It’s a going away present.”

  Her eyes searched mine. “Diaries have never been my style, but I’ll give it a try.”

  “If it doesn’t work within the first ten pages,” I said, “invest in some Valium.”

  Thirteen days later, the journal arrived at Jean-Paul’s parents’ house in Paris, wrapped in plain brown paper. It wasn’t alone, though. There were three others: a tiny spiral-bound notebook, a legal pad and a slick journal with whales on the cover that said Mendocino Coast. Every page had been filled with Gwen’s old-fashioned, elegantly loopy cursive. As I flipped though them, I saw that sometimes her perfect handwriting gave way to harsh, nearly-illegible scribbles and in places it looked like she’d pressed so hard into the paper that it threatened to tear.

  I pretended I wasn’t feeling well and urged Jean-Paul and his parents to visit yet another museum without me. It was just as well. If I had to “oooh” and “ahhh” over more Matisse, I feared I might lose it. After they’d gone, I stuffed all four journals into my bag, went to a café down the street, bought a cappuccino and sat down to read them cover to cover.

  Thursday, September 18

  7:10 a.m.

  Dear Marla,

  I decided it’s just too daft to fill a book with notes to myself. It’s so egocentric—I’d feel like some kind of New Age narcissist—so I’m going to address all my self-absorbed narcissism to you. How’s that for passing the buck?

  Actually, I probably won’t write in this at all. I feel very optimistic about this whole trip, now. The freak-out I went through yesterday is a distant memory. It’s early morning, I’ve had my tea and I’m all packed. The light in Los Feliz is unusually golden and (here’s the real miracle) I managed to fit all my clothes for the weekend into the leopard-print luggage set: one large case, one medium, a handbag and a hatbox. Not bad, eh? I’m sure Coop will be impressed that I travel light.

  Of course, the shoes had to go in a separate trunk, but so what? I’ll just slip that in casually when no one’s looking.

  All in all, I’m the picture of the elegant, poised traveler.

  Hope your journey to Paris goes well today. So exciting! I can’t wait for you to come home so we can swap stories.

  Kiss, kiss,

  Gwen

  Thursday, September 18

  8:45 a.m.

  Shit! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God!

  Okay, I know, breathe. If I hyperventilate back here they won’t even notice. I’ll be a blue-faced corpse and they’ll have no idea until we hit the first pit stop. Marla, I don’t want to die alone, in the backseat, wedged uncomfortably between a surfboard and a trunk full of my best shoes!

  Then again, at least my white go-go boots will be with me in my last hours.

  They suck. Totally, utterly.

  Coop and Dannika that is, not the go-go boots.

  Why did I ever think I could seriously be with Coop? If he’s in league with this Satan in Organic Cotton, I want nothing to do with him.

  Oh, there they go laughing. Ha ha ha ha ha. The world is so deliciously funny when you’re a big, gorgeous guy riding shotgun with your delectable supermodel hippie chick behind the wheel. Never mind the lump of a girlfriend pouting in the backseat. She’s just there to keep the surfboards from flying away.

  Marla, what am I going to do? I’m being held hostage by a couple of excessively beautiful bohemians with no appreciation whatsoever for fine luggage, vintage travel wear or—in short—me.

  Right. I know what you would say. Just back up, slow down, start from the beginning.

  I’ll try. Thank God I never get carsick. I have a feeling putting pen to paper at the moment is the only thing between me and double homicide.

  So, back to the beginning. Let’s see…where did I leave off?

  As I mentioned, early this morning my outlook was bright and my outfit was impeccable. I was wearing my low-belted chemise suit in autumn green, my leopard-print car coat, and my signature leopard-print kitten heels. I’d tied a green scarf over my hair and at the last minute I added those huge, Jackie O sunglasses you love. No point in modesty here, I looked positively elegant. I surveyed myself in the mirror and was convinced that no matter how glamorous Coop’s best friend might be, I’d give her a run for her money.

  Dannika was driving up from San Diego, and since I live farther south than Coop, she was picking me up first. I heard her car pull up, but by the time I got to the window, she was already out of view. I waited for the doorbell, took a deep breath, turned the knob and pulled.

  There she was. All the air left my lungs and I stood in the doorway dumbstruck. I know you have her yoga tapes and she’s enough of a D-list celebrity, what with her new show and all, to warrant casual recognition from most people, but seeing her in person is a different experience
entirely.

  She’s stunning. There’s no other word for it.

  I wish I could say her teeth are showing signs of decay or her boobs need propping up—that the way she looks onscreen is all make-up, lighting and flattering camera angles—but the truth is, in person she’s five million times more beautiful than she is on TV. Is that just slit-your-wrists depressing or what? Her hair is so shiny-blond, so long and healthy and shampoo-commercial-bouncy, it hardly seems real. I swear the Los Feliz light was caressing every strand, spilling sparkles into the air around her until her whole head was surrounded by a lemon-hued halo. Her skin was dewy-fresh, lightly tanned and radiant. Her eyes were a deep ocean color—Malibu on a good day. She was at least five foot eight and her body was so fit and toned, it’s hard to imagine any inch of her succumbing to sag or cellulite. She was wearing a tank top—one of those sporty little REI numbers with spaghetti straps and a built-in bra—and loose-fitting, wide-legged yoga pants that hung just low enough on her slender hips to reveal an inch of brown belly and a pierced navel. Flip-flops on her feet, sunglasses propped in her hair, a few fleamarket silver bracelets on her arm, a string of jade beads around her neck and a tiny diamond stud in her nose; those were the accessories that set off her features with the irritating minimalism of an all-natural hippie bombshell.

  Her fashion choices are diametrically opposed to my own. She’s Zen simplicity, I’m Catholic excess. She’s flip-flops, I’m kitten heels. She’s hemp and organic cotton, I’m wool gabardine and cashmere. She’s green tea lip balm, I’m candy-apple-red lipstick.

  I wish I could feel disdain for her aesthetic, but let’s face it: the look works for her. And then some.

  The moment I laid eyes on her, I could feel the ugly tide of envy and insecurity poisoning my blood. She just stood there, beaming at me. She took a step toward me and before I knew what was happening, she had me wrapped up in a hug that smelled of some heady essential-oil mixture—maybe jasmine cut with ylang-ylang. When she pulled away, I could see her lips moving, but I couldn’t quite make out the words. I was in shock, I guess. Somehow I managed to mumble a generic response that I hoped would match her greeting in some vaguely logical way. She went back to beaming at me, so I guess I succeeded.

  When she saw my luggage, her big, radiant, white-toothed smile died on her lips.

  “You taking…all this?”

  I nodded. “It is a wedding, right? I couldn’t very well go to a wedding without a hat or two.” I patted my hatbox affectionately.

  “Well, it’s a…casual wedding,” she said, looking worried. “Are you sure you’ll need this many suitcases? Phil and Joni are pretty low-key. They live in the woods.”

  “I brought casual, too. I like to be prepared for every circumstance.”

  “Yeah,” she said, still eyeing my cases uneasily. “Right. Well, let’s just drag it all out to the car and see what we can do.”

  You know how I’ve always wanted a convertible—obviously an enormous, gas-guzzling beast from the late ’50s? Of course, the fact that I can’t drive and have no desire to learn puts a slight damper on this yearning, but occasionally I peruse eBay’s classic car pages anyway, just for fun. Well, when I saw Dannika’s car, my heart, already dangerously close to failure, dropped two stories and bounced hard in the pit of my stomach. It was the most beautiful vehicle you could possibly imagine: a ’57 Mercury convertible, fire-engine red, totally cherry. Propped up in the backseat with its fins in the air was a slightly battered lemon-yellow surfboard. The whole tableau was achingly California, right down to the chrome hubcaps glittering in the sun like precious gems.

  I should have been excited. Here I was, about to ride shotgun in the car of my dreams. In a matter of minutes we’d be heading up the coast to spend the weekend in a rugged seaside village, where I’d bond with my new beau and his incredibly hip, glamorous friends. Dannika’s car should have filled me with hope. I should have been thinking about how great my leopard-print car coat and oversized glasses were going to look peeking out of that Mercury with the top down.

  But that’s not what was running through my brain. The single, white-hot, stomach-churning thought that was tearing through my consciousness was this: if you like the same car, you like the same guy.

  Period.

  Dannika had popped the trunk by now and was wrestling with my suitcases. Her shoulders were pure, sculpted muscle and they rippled as she heaved the largest case into the cavernous trunk. I could see no problem; the boot on that Mercury was so enormous, we could have fit five times as much luggage. All she’d brought besides the surfboard, as far as I could tell, was an old, weather-beaten backpack and a wet suit. Seeing all that room, I was tempted to run inside for my mink, since I know it can get chilly in Mendocino. But I could tell by the way Dannika was huffing that she wouldn’t appreciate an additional item added to the cargo.

  “Wow,” she said, loading the medium suitcase. “What have you got in here? Cement?”

  “Mostly toiletries.”

  That’s when I remembered the trunk of shoes I’d left in the hallway.

  “Oh, just one more thing,” I said, handing her the hat box. “I’ll be right back.” I was tempted to ask if she could get it, but I didn’t want to admit she was in better shape than me and I didn’t want her smile, which was already getting tight around the edges, to go completely rigid. I wished she’d picked Coop up first so he could load everything and smooth the tension with his warm, contagious laughter. Somehow, he’d find a way to spin it so he was the butt of the joke, not me.

  I came back out with my trunk and, let me tell you, getting it to the sidewalk was no easy task. Guess I never realized just how heavy shoes can be. To my horror, I was starting to sweat by the time I finally made it back to the car.

  When Dannika saw me standing there proudly with my trunk of shoes (which was, by the way, hardly any bigger than the mini-fridge we had in college, so what was the big deal?) she folded her arms across her chest and raised an eyebrow.

  As you can imagine, that look filled me with a fresh surge of resentment. First, the cocked eyebrow is my signature look. No one can pull it off like me, as I’m sure you’ll agree. But beyond that, she was using it out of context, which is never acceptable. The raised eyebrow is a form of punctuation and to use it without due cause renders it as offensive and sloppy as a random comma or semicolon dropped into the middle of a perfectly good sentence. To think that my innocent little trunk of shoes caused a raised eyebrow was, simply put, insulting. Not to mention stupid.

  “Everything okay?” I asked coolly.

  She slammed the trunk shut with more force than was absolutely required and jutted her chin at my final piece of luggage. “Why don’t you just shove that in the backseat?”

  “Oh, there’s room in the trunk, isn’t there?”

  “Coop needs some space, too.”

  I nodded. “Yeah, but he won’t bring much. You know boys—just a couple T-shirts and a toothbrush, I bet.”

  “Unlike some people,” she said under her breath. “Anyway, it’s fine, just throw it in the backseat.”

  I did, but not without tweaking a muscle between my shoulder blades as I tried to display how effortlessly I could haul it up off the sidewalk and into the convertible without even bothering to open the door. I don’t recommend it. The pain was unbearable and even now I can feel a dull, throbbing ache near my spine. Of course, my pride had more power than my chiropractic issues, so I slapped a smile on and settled into the passenger seat, reaching instinctively for my seat belt. There was nothing there.

  “Oh, no seat belts in this baby,” she said, throwing the Mercury into gear and lurching away from the curb roughly. “Sorry ’bout that. I never wear them, anyway. Just feels too restrictive, you know what I mean?”

  Marla, I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, so please don’t think I’m weird, but I love seat belts. Death by highway is one of my more potent fears and the feel of that strap creating a band of resistance acr
oss my chest is, to me, delicious and comforting. I mean, statistically, the 405 is about a thousand times more likely to get us than cancer or terrorists or psycho killers. Most people are in denial about this, but for me it’s all too real. Every time I ride in a car, I feel my mortality pressing in on me like sticky, oppressive heat. I suppose that’s why I’ve never learned to drive; if I didn’t plow into a semi out of sheer terror, I’d surely contract a terminal stress-related disease within weeks.

  Dannika apparently doesn’t share my road phobias. She tore through Los Feliz and over to Silver Lake like a New York cabbie on speed. Her hands rarely landed on the wheel. She was perpetually adjusting the radio, playing with her bracelets, swigging water, toying with her hair as it whipped about like a bright gold streamer. I gripped the armrest with one hand and pressed my feet into the floorboards to keep from flying through the windshield.

  The only thing that saved us from a four-car pileup was that everyone—men, women, babies—stopped what they were doing as she drove past and stared at her golden beauty. It kept other cars from ramming into her and it cleared pedestrians from her path. As she tore up onto the sidewalk in front of Coop’s, steering with her knees while she applied her lip balm, I started to see what people mean by the phrase a charmed life.

  “Hey!” Coop came bounding toward us, down the steps of his craftsman bungalow and over to the Mercury, a big smile taking up the better part of his face. “If it isn’t my favorite girls!”