Notes From the Backseat

by Jody Gehrman

  Instead I have to stumble forward blindly, getting ambushed by the Dannikas of the world, never knowing what’s around the next hairpin turn. Will I like Phil and Joni? More importantly, will they like me? Will this weekend prove to be the first of many for Coop and me or will it be our swan song, our final number before the stage goes black?

  Only time will tell,

  Gwen

  September 19

  1:46 p.m.

  Dear Marla,

  I’ve completely alienated everyone around me within my first forty minutes on Mendocino soil. This is good. If I stick to this path, I’ll be a full-on social pariah by dinnertime.

  Coop hates me.

  Right, okay, I hear you—back up, calm down, tell you what happened. I will, just let me perform minor oral surgery here to extract my big foot from my even bigger mouth.

  So we got here a little after noon, completely famished. I guess being bludgeoned with ice-cold wind for hours works up an appetite. In spite of my ongoing confusion about whether or not I’m sleeping with a liar, I was allowing a thin trickle of optimism to seep into my system, something along the lines of until he proves himself a total dick, let’s have a good time.

  As we came around the corner and caught a postcard-worthy glimpse of Mendocino, I caught my breath in surprise. I haven’t been up here for years—since I was a teenager, at least—and the sight of those quaint little weather-beaten pastel buildings holding their own on the wind-ravaged bluffs made me suddenly, unreasonably happy. The layer of clouds above the ocean was sliced into thin wedges like the exposed rib cage of a whale, and that made me happy, too. I looked from the clouds to Coop’s dark hair growing ever-messier in the wind and somewhere beyond logic a little flame flickered to life inside me—a tentative promise to myself that everything was going to turn out just fine.

  Dannika almost missed the turn, but at Coop’s urging she swung a hard right onto Ukiah-Comptche Road and sent us cruising inland. The street was lined on either side with dripping ferns and towering redwoods. There were houses here and there, but most of what I saw as I peered past the huge, hairy trunks was the deeply shadowed world of forest. I rested my chin on Coop’s surfboard and squinted at the scenery flying past. I’d forgotten what a fairyland it was up here. Columns of dusty gold sunlight slanted through high branches, illuminating miniature cosmos of frenetic bugs. The farther east we went, the more we got whiffs of warm, oak-scented air competing with the ocean breezes pushing at our backs. I was struck by just how far we were from the sprawling parking lot of L.A. I felt fully immersed in the adventure, then; I wanted nothing more than to make Coop’s friends love me and to return home on Sunday with his lifelong devotion tucked into my hatbox for safekeeping.

  We drove at least fifteen minutes inland, another ten or so on a narrower side street heading southeast, then spent another twenty navigating a muddy, unpaved route through an even darker, denser forest. In places the road was barely passable and I had to just stare straight ahead and pray we wouldn’t plunge down the steep, forested grade that loomed in my peripheral vision. At last we curved our way into a clearing, where lemony sunlight poured lavishly over a small orchard of gnarled apple trees. When I’d stopped breathing dust, my lungs were rewarded with sharp, clean air thick with the sweet, cloying perfume of decaying apples.

  We got out of the car, yawning and blinking in the sunlight. Dannika did a somewhat involved series of neck stretches while Coop peed in the apple trees and I applied a coat of lipstick. Next to the orchard there was a two-story house shrouded in nasturtiums, hollyhocks and morning glories. It was a modified A-frame made of redwood, with big glossy windows and upstairs balconies facing north and south. As I took it in, a woman surged through the front door, down the steps and toward us, her reddish-brown dreadlocks bouncing as she moved.

  “Joni!” Dannika sprinted for her, almost knocking her over with the force of her hug.

  “Hey, girl,” I heard Joni say. “Long time no see.”

  Coop finished peeing, came over and wrapped an arm around me. I shrugged off the mink stole and left it on the backseat, feeling a little self-conscious as my kitten heels made sharp indentations in the soft, damp earth.

  “Hey, Cooper—what’s going on?” Joni and Coop greeted each other with a long, warm hug; I noticed that she was standing on her tiptoes and he had to crouch down, just like he has to with me. She was short—maybe even shorter than me by an inch or so—and when they pulled away from each other I saw she had a pretty face with well formed cheekbones and rich, caramel-swirled eyes. There was a quarter-sized, beige birthmark on her forehead, but even that looked sort of good on her.

  “You must be Gwen.” I was relieved when she offered a hand instead of hugging me. I hate it when strangers want to skip the handshake and go straight to the embrace; it’s an aspect of California I’ve never quite gotten used to, even though I’m native. “I’m Joni. Welcome to FUBAR Ranch.”

  “FUBAR Ranch,” I said. “Interesting name.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Phil’s invention. Never hook up with an ex-marine-turned-anarchist.”

  “Where is he, anyway?” Coop asked.

  “In the studio.” Joni tilted her head vaguely behind her, to where the dirt road disappeared around a sharp bend. “He should be back any minute. Come on in; I’ve got lunch.”

  We filed into the house two by two, Dannika and Joni followed by Coop and me. Dannika was full of animated sounds—girlie squeals and whatnot—touching Joni a lot and making a fuss. I got the general impression that she and Joni weren’t really that close and that Dannika was making up for that by being extra solicitous.

  “Cool digs, huh?” Coop nudged me, and I nodded.

  “Really cool,” I agreed. Everything about Joni and Phil’s house was deeply bohemian. Even the way it smelled—like yeast and pot, dust bunnies and good coffee—evoked an artistic, rugged, off-the-grid lifestyle. The downstairs had a completely open floor plan. From the entryway we could see four separate living spaces, partitioned artfully with plants, furniture and counters. To our right was a spacious living room filled with ferns and trees and orchids, a cushy red-velvet couch, three huge suede beanbag chairs in buttery yellows and a long, low, tile mosaic coffee table. There was a large counter behind the couch that looked like it was used as a workspace, and behind that was a big pool table surrounded by more cozy chairs and a somewhat abused-looking loveseat. Jutting off to the left was a beautiful kitchen, also cordoned off with work counters, and in front of that was a casual dining room with a big oak table lit by a domed skylight. The hardwood floors were a smooth, satiny amber and there were thick jewel-toned Persian rugs here and there. On the walls were big, colorful paintings of twisting flowers and crooked little beasts that evoked, more than anything, Dr. Seuss. In the center, at the nexus of each separate space, was a wrought-iron spiral staircase curling up to the second floor. It wasn’t my style—you know me, I prefer white picket fences and porch swings—but there was no denying that the place had a charm all its own.

  “So,” Joni said, handing us each a Corona. “How was the drive up?”

  “Great,” Dannika chirped just as Coop said, “Long.”

  I smiled weakly, sensing it wasn’t wise to add what I was thinking (“Torturous”). Joni caught my eye, though, and a knowing look passed between us. Her golden eyes seemed to say that thirteen hours in a car with Dannika couldn’t be easy; I suddenly wanted to hug her, even though minutes earlier I’d been relieved about the handshake.

  “Yo, Homes, Dan, whattup?!” A tall, gangly guy in ragged jeans and an orange striped sweater exploded through the back door.

  “Scrappy!” Dannika pounced on him, nearly strangling him with her hug. When she released him, he and Coop exchanged a hip, hand-slapping-bicep-squeezing sort of guy greeting.

  He turned to me, assessing my outfit with a quizzical once-over. “You gotta be Gwen,” he said. “Awesome fucking threads.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I guess.
”

  He laughed a loud, explosive laugh that was part AK-47, part horse. I couldn’t help but smile at that. He was a skinny guy, a little older than the rest of us, and as he pulled off his stocking cap I could see his head was shaved totally bald. He had on horn-rimmed glasses and something about him made me think of Elvis Costello.

  Over a delicious lunch of Joni’s Thai coconut soup, chopped salad and chicken wings, I listened as they caught up. Joni was writing poetry and teaching a night class at the local community college; Phil was recording bands in his studio, which was only about twenty yards from the house; Dannika told them about her latest DVD and a morning show that was in the works; Coop gave them a modest account of his furniture-making business. Joni asked me questions about my shop and my work in costume design, which I answered between bites.

  By the time we got to Joni’s incredible chocolate brownies and big, rough-hewn mugs of honey-sweet chai, the catching up was more or less completed—at least, the abridged version—and Dannika started talking about the wedding.

  “I just think it’s so wonderful that you guys are getting married.” She reached over and squeezed Joni’s wrist. “At least someone from our circle is taking the plunge. Coop and I will probably be single forever.”

  I glanced up and saw Phil looking at me. His face was hard to read; his expression hovered somewhere between sympathy and amusement. “I don’t know,” he said, turning to Dannika. “Coop’s the settling-down type, if you ask me.”

  Coop’s eyebrows arched. “I’m right here. No need to use the third person.”

  “Seriously, man. I can totally see it: you got the pipe, all you need now is a worn-out pair of slippers.”

  Dannika laughed. “Yeah, and a girl who’ll put up with you.” Her eyes slid over me dismissively.

  Coop squeezed my knee under the table, changed the subject. “You guys got everything set for tomorrow?” he asked Joni and Phil. “Need any errands run?”

  Joni shook her head. “It’s okay. We’ve got it under control.”

  “What I don’t understand,” said Dannika, “is why you guys decided to actually get married—like, legally. I mean, don’t get me wrong—I’m not criticizing—I just thought you were sort of against the institution or whatever, back in college.”

  Phil downed the last of his brownie. “We figured, what the hell, you know? We like to party, we want to bring our friends together, why not just go for it? Plus, we want to pop out a kid or two….”

  Joni started clearing the dishes.

  Dannika made a high-pitched sound of delight. “Really? That’s so exciting!”

  Phil watched Joni’s back as she stood at the sink. “Yeah. We’re pretty excited.”

  Dannika jumped up from her chair and bounded over to Joni, squeezed her tightly. “That’s so great, Joni! You’re going to be a mom!”

  “Well, someday.” She allowed herself to be hugged, but as soon as she was released she turned back to the dishes. “We’re not sure when, exactly.”

  Coop said, “The important thing is, we get to party tomorrow and Scrappy here’s got to buy the champagne.”

  “Yeah. I paid good money for that shit and I don’t even drink it. Does Jackie O here smoke?” He jutted his chin in my direction. I might have been insulted, except that behind his horn-rimmed glasses his eyes glittered with impish affection.

  Coop wrapped an arm around me. “She travels with her own cigarette holder, but no, she doesn’t smoke.”

  Joni laughed as she came back to the table for more dishes. “I love your style,” she said to me. “You’re like a walking anachronism.”

  It was a relief that Phil and Joni didn’t mind talking about my attire. Often, my clothes make people uncomfortable—I know that. It’s impossible to walk into a room and say, “Hey, I’m Gwen and all my clothes were created between 1952 and 1963. No, you can’t touch my mink. What’s your name?”

  “Coop,” Phil said, standing and pulling a pack of American Spirits from the pocket of his baggy jeans. “Let’s go.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen door.

  “No way!” Coop shot a look of disbelief at Joni. “You finally got Scrappy to smoke outside?”

  “It was gross.” She made a face. “Our house smelled like a bar.”

  “Now you can’t even smoke in the damn bars!” Phil tapped a cigarette out of the pack and stuck it between his lips. “You coming, or what?”

  Coop put on his coat and foraged in his pocket until he produced his pipe and tobacco. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, just relax.”

  Dannika put her fork down and stood up. “Anyone want to smoke a bowl?”

  Phil cackled. “That’s my Dan. Sure, it’s only—” he glanced at the clock “—one o’clock, but what the hell? Let’s start the party right now.”

  “Phil,” Joni said, “did you call about the tables?”

  “Everything’s set up, babe.” Phil pulled Joni to him and for a moment his jaded persona fell away, leaving a look of naked adoration behind. I tried not to stare, but the closeness between them was palpable right then and it made me happy just to see it. “It’s going to be great, trust me,” Phil told her. “Don’t you worry about a thing. All you got to do is show up and say I do.”

  “Or, I do, as long as nothing better comes along,” Coop said, opening the door.

  “Shut up, man,” Phil told him before kissing Joni and following him outside.

  When the boys were gone, Dannika went to the big backpack she’d slung onto the couch and unzipped a side pocket. She pulled out a small black film canister and a delicate glass pipe that reminded me of the miniature animals I used to collect when I was little. “You want to smoke?” she asked us.

  I stood and started helping Joni with the dishes, hoping she wouldn’t take Dannika up on her offer. The last time I got stoned was at that Halloween party in college, when I ended up cowering in the arms of a towering Greta Garbo in drag. You know I become a paranoid idiot with one hit, but I didn’t want to be the only one abstaining.

  “No, thanks.” Joni squeezed Dannika’s arm as she passed. “Get Phil high, though. He needs to chill.”

  “Roger that.” She slipped out the door.

  There was a pause, filled only with the sound of dishes clunking around in the sink. I shuttled plates and cups from the table to the tile mosaic counter beside her. “How did you two end up here?” I asked, picking up a dishtowel to dry while she scrubbed.

  “I’m from here,” she said. “My parents actually live on the property. They’ve got an old Finnish farmhouse down the road about half a mile—the house I grew up in.” She looked out the window, wistful. “Never thought I’d come back, tell you the truth.” Her smile was a little sad. “But here I am.”

  “Brave girl,” I said. “I could never live within a hundred miles of my parents.”

  “Where are they?” she asked.

  “My mom’s in Sebastopol. That’s where I grew up.”

  She looked at me. “And your dad?”

  Oh, God, why did this keep coming up? I’d have to learn to steer conversations more carefully. “He’s up here somewhere,” I said evasively.

  “Up here?” she echoed.

  “Yeah, this area. I haven’t talked to him in four years.” Somehow, saying it, I felt the weight of those years in the pit of my stomach. I lost my grip and the dish I was drying shattered into tiny pieces as it hit the terra-cotta floor.

  “Shit,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No problem.” Joni got out a broom and dustpan; within minutes, she’d whisked it all off into the garbage and had her hands once again in the sudsy water of the sink. She might look like a Rasta-hippie, but she was efficient. I liked that about her.

  When the dishes were all dried and put away, she said, “You want a tour? I can show you the recording studio, the farmhouse, the sauna—the entire estate.” She said this last word mockingly.

  “Sure,” I said. “Sounds great.”

  She cast a dubious glance a
t my shoes. “It’s a little muddy out there. You want to borrow some boots?”

  I looked down at my kitten heels. Already, they were a little dirty just from walking to the front door. It dawned on me then that I’d been encased in L.A. for nearly half a lifetime, now. I mean yeah, I went home on occasion, but I made it a point never to stay more than a day or two and we limited our activities to holiday meals or the occasional rented movie. In my world—the one I lived in day to day—it was all sidewalks and carpeting, marble foyers and taxicabs. Seeing the mud staining my leopard-print heels reminded me of being little and wanting to wear things I couldn’t because my mother insisted I feed the dogs or rake the lawn. I always despised tennis shoes. To me, they were hideous symbols of mediocrity, the antithesis of elegance.

  “What size shoe do you wear?” Joni asked, rousing me from my thoughts.

  “Size six.”

  “Perfect!” she said, clapping her hands together. “Me, too.” She pursed her lips and squinted at me thoughtfully. “I think I have just the thing,” she said, and ran up the spiral staircase to the second floor.

  I was sure she’d return clutching a pair of clunky hiking boots, probably in something practical and weatherproof like Gore-Tex, for God’s sake. I shuddered at the image. When I heard her footsteps pattering down the stairs again, I was surprised to see her holding pale clothing in one arm and a beautiful pair of English riding boots in the other.