by James, David
She put the caller on hold and looked up at me from her desk. “Amanda, would you hand me my crystal ball so I can find the house this jerk is looking for?”
Margie was thumbing through the company’s book of listings, being careful not to break her obscenely long nails. She reminded me about tonight’s cocktail party.
“Another one?” I replied, looking over a flyer sporting a photo of an agent with tremendously large, teased blond hair and an obscenely large crucifix around the agent’s neck on a gold chain. And this agent was a man. No wonder Realtors had the reputation of used car salesmen.
“Oh, sweetie, this isn’t just another cocktail party. Marcus Featherman is having one at one of his listings in Aqua.”
“And I should be impressed why?” I replied, throwing another termite-detection brochure into the trash.
“Marcus always has the best booze, hors d’oeuvres, and jazz group in the desert.”
“I see.”
“And the best men,” Margie added.
“Are any of them straight?”
“Oh, yes, sweetie. Some of the most eligible bachelors in the Coachella Valley will be there,” Margie added, finally turning back to her caller on hold. “Marcus is queerer than a three-dollar bill, but the guys he gets to come to his parties . . . woof! Marcus has a thing for gorgeous straight men—just like me. Does that make me a gay man? Last year, I heard that Ben Affleck came to his Christmas party.”
I paused my mail purge. Let’s see . . . I could stay home, backed into the only room in my house that was habitable—my bedroom—and watch Seasons 1 and 2 of Sex and the City on DVD, or go to what might be a fabulous party in a subdivision of overblown mega-homes that held out the promise of a potential date and the possibility of ending my too-long period of sexual abstinence. Believe it or not, I actually weighed the plusses and minuses of seeing Carrie Bradshaw again throw a Filet-o-Fish at Mr. Big. But in the end, I convinced myself that it was time to get out and get back into circulation. I needed to get a life.
CHAPTER 6
And the Roof Caved In
That night, I took a long soak in the tub, lighting candles and listening to calming music while I picked out my outfit to wear, mentally constructing the perfect, killer outfit. I settled on a skintight, knee-length black leather skirt from Thierry Mugler (a Christmas present from Alex one year). Alex called it the Bondage Skirt because it was covered with a dozen straps and metal fasteners . . . and it was skintight. I paired the skirt with a white silk blouse, pearls, and stiletto patent-leather CFM (come-fuck-me) pumps. That should do the trick. This would get me noticed as I studied myself in the mirror before departing. I would be the most glamorous woman there—or the best-dressed fag hag. In either case, I was bound to be surrounded by gorgeous men. A few more makeup touch-ups to hide the knot on my head, and I was off.
I got in my car and drove through south Palm Canyon to Aqua. Aqua was a new breed of developments here in Palm Springs. Modern was the name of the game, but the other key operative word here was cavernous. Like the West Nile mosquito virus, the McMansion had arrived in the desert. Great sheets of uninterrupted glass were poised under tilted, intersecting planes of metal walls and roofs large enough to land a plane on. These structures sat defiantly on the desert floor, facing the stupendous San Jacinto mountain range with a fuck-you attitude. Built mainly for childless or gay couples, the homes were terrifying behemoths that perfectly echoed the current American mantra: Nothing succeeds like excess. They had refrigerators big enough to store a cow in, walk-in showers that could accommodate an entire Ecuadorian soccer team, and living rooms you could shoot skeet in—the American dream.
I pulled up at the valet stand, left my car in the hands of a very attractive valet, and vamped my way past the thousands—and I mean thousands—of votive candles in frosted glass holders that lined the ground all the way to the front door. I entered the house and true to what Margie had promised, the music was a very sophisticated jazz, the finger foods that sailed by on chrome trays looked fabulous, and the men, well, they were as succulent as the food being offered. Now, if what I’ve just described sounds more like a nightclub than an open house to sell an expensive property, you win the prize for your perceptiveness. These kinds of cocktail parties rarely ever sold houses. Their real intention was for the listing agent to impress the hell out of their clients and other agents. And for this purpose, they worked like a charm.
I slinked my way over toward the open bar and ordered a martini—slinked, mind you—there was no other way to move in this dress than to slink. That’s why Alex bought it. He said there was nothing more beautiful than a beautiful woman, beautifully dressed, and in motion. The red-carpet arrival of the Academy Awards was his favorite part—to see the women arrive with their husbands or paramours. After the walk down the carpet, he usually went into another room to read. “Not much worth watching now,” he would say, and pad off to the bedroom to pick up a novel by his favorite crime writer, Kinky Friedman. Of course, now that I think back, I wonder if Alex was picturing himself in one of the actresses’ gowns. Naw. Of all the time Alex was married to me, he never once displayed any leaning toward cross-dressing.
The waiter made my martini exactly as I had ordered: shaken, not stirred. I took a sip and immediately spotted Alex coming in the door of the house. I should have run right up to him, but something made me fade back into the gargantuan furniture and watch Alex from afar. I couldn’t figure out why I did this. Was it to see if he came with another man? Or to see if he was going to cozy up to someone in attendance? I watched for a while, and while he was his usual sociable self, I detected no sexual sparks flying, no knowing glances or upraised eyebrows. Nope. Alex was still the loner. It was one of the things about him that really turned me on. He was so independent. So sure of taking the different path. So sure of himself. For a person like me, with the confidence of Kafka, his assurance was intoxicating.
I still remember the day Alex walked into our real-estate office in Bloomfield Hills, Michigan. It was a cold, rainy day in October. Alex was introduced to the staff during our Tuesday morning meeting, and you couldn’t help but stare at him. He was striking. He stood six foot one (my regulation height for sexy men), was dressed impeccably in a dark blue, pinstriped suit (another sexy plus) of exquisite tailoring, with eyes so icy blue, you felt you could swim in their crystal-clear depths. Although he was quite young, he shaved his head not because his hair was thinning prematurely, but because he knew he looked better with his head treated that way. And he was quite right. Plus, he had what I felt was the most perfectly shaped head in the world. In Michigan, men desperately held on to their hair, wearing it either too long for the times if they had it, or, if they didn’t, clutching on to a few loyal strands and whipping it up into a combover that would only fool Helen Keller. But it wasn’t his looks that made him seem so formidable. He just projected an air of overwhelming confidence. He looked kind but formidable at the same time. It was quite extraordinary.
I wasn’t the only one who was affected. It seemed every woman in the office (and a few men, I found out after the fact) wanted Alex in the worst way. From then on, the bras were worn tighter, desserts were routinely skipped, and local tanning booths experienced an onslaught of new customers.
As for me, I felt that there wasn’t much of a chance, since I wasn’t the flashy type of woman a guy like Alex would naturally go for. I had made up my mind that he went after the Teutonic warrior, Brigitte Nielsen type of woman. You know the kind. They wore breastplates instead of bras, could kill a man with a piece of chewing gum, and could change their panty hose while doing seventy-five miles an hour on a twisting country road without missing a curve. I might have been naturally blonde, but similarities between me and an Amazonian woman ended there.
Don’t get me wrong, I was no skanky ho. I stood six-feet one-inch tall, had typically blond hair, thanks to my Lithuanian ancestors, a spattering of freckles across my skin and face, sky-blue eyes, and a good se
t of teeth. In a sea of thirty-one flavors of Baskin-Robbins, I was solidly vanilla.
I pretty much went about my own business while Alex went about his, which, by the way, was phenomenal. In just six months, he managed to surpass the top producer in our firm. Best of all, as frightened agents scrambled to catch up with Alex, he did the unthinkable: He took time off. He’d go off rock climbing in Needles, California. Motorcycling over the Alps. Or hiking on the Torres del Paine in Chile. Always something exotic. This guy didn’t go to Disney World.
He fascinated me more than any other person I have ever met. Or ever will.
So it just so happened that I was out hiking early one Saturday morning, thinking about cosmic decay, when the skies opened up and the rain came pouring down with a vengeance. Instead of running the mile or so back to my car, I walked back with a slow resignation, knowing that my clothing held more water than the marsh I was coming upon, when lo and behold, I spotted Alex standing in the middle of the marsh wearing knee-high Wellington rubber boots, smoking a cigar under the protection of a very large umbrella, and smiling contentedly between each puff. His eyes were closed.
I stood watching him from the banks of the marsh, not knowing what to say. I just stood there for an eternity and a half, just observing Alex as the rain continued to fall. He looked so peaceful, I hated to disturb him, but eventually I did. I wanted him to know that I was the kind of person to visit a place like this, that we both had so much in common. That, and the fact that I would make a perfect wife for him.
“Are you okay?” I yelled out to him, my voice drowned by the falling rain.
Nothing.
“Are you okay, Alex?” I asked more timidly this time.
“I’m fine, Amanda. I heard you the first time.”
Desperate to keep my tenuous connection with Alex, I tried to connect again, to show sympathy, that we were kindred souls.
“Are you meditating?” I asked.
“I was.”
Oh. I was too desperate. I was annoying him. I blew my chance because I couldn’t shut up. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” was his reply. “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing, standing here in the rain in rubber wellies, smoking a cigar?”
“Well, the thought had entered my mind.”
“Because I can. There . . . the rule of my life. Now you have me figured out. There’s no more than that.”
My heart began racing. He spoke to me . . . at length! I waited for him to continue, but he merely stood there, slowly puffing great clouds of lavender-tinted smoke out into the rain. It seemed that our conversation, such that it was, had ended. I walked away from the marsh slowly, hoping Alex would call me back, but he didn’t.
When I reached my car, I climbed in and just sat there in the early morning light, just listening to the rain and the sound of my quickened breath.
Just as I was about to turn the key in the ignition and drive away, I saw Alex’s form appear over a small hill and slowly make its way to my car. He knelt down next to my window and tapped on it with a tenderness that surprised me—he always seemed so forceful.
I rolled down the window and stared at him, waiting for him to say something.
He started first. “Hello.”
“Hi,” I replied.
This was followed by the longest—and most pregnant—silence in the history of the world. The minutes passed, the rain tumbled down, and still, nothing was said. After eternity passed into oblivion and the clock of the universe ticked by an eon, Alex stood up, reached into my car, and took hold of my hand. He coaxed it gently out into the rain and raised it to his lips, where he kissed my hand.
“There’s one just like it at the end of my other arm,” I said.
“You just always have to crack a joke, don’t you?” Alex remarked.
“It helps to defuse uncomfortable situations.”
“This situation is uncomfortable?”
“My life is uncomfortable. I’d give anything to feel good in my own skin.”
Alex snorted a good laugh. “Why so?”
“You weren’t raised Catholic, were you?”
“No, my folks raised me as a pagan.”
“Well, no wonder you seem so well adjusted.”
“Is it all that bad?”
“It is when you were brought up with a Lithuanian grandmother who thought Stalin was after her and had a mother who is clearly insane.”
“But aren’t all mothers insane? I mean, to take on the responsibility of raising children and putting up with a husband. . . . What’s the old saying, ‘You don’t have to be crazy, but it helps.’ ”
“No, my mother is insane.”
“I see. Amanda, may I cut to the chase?”
“Yes, Alex.” My heart started pounding like a woofer at a heavy metal concert.
“Amanda, will you be . . . I mean, will you . . .” Alex trailed off, leaving me at the edge of a cliff.
“Yes!?”
“Amanda . . .”
“Yes?” Oh my God, he barely knew me and he was about to ask for my hand in marriage. I knew what my answer would be—yes, of course—but this was all so sudden. I wanted to marry him, but now that the event was staring me in the face, I found myself wishing that I had a little more time . . . you know, to have a buildup.
“Okay, here goes. Will you team up with me?”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. “You what?”
“I want you to be my business partner.”
Boy, did I read that situation wrong. I was halfway down the aisle with him in a Vera Wang when my procession came to a screeching halt.
“Your partner?” I asked. “Do you always kiss the hand of people you’re about to ask to team up with you?”
“No, only those that I’m interested in romantically. Otherwise, I’d be sexually harassing you. I’m just being continental.”
After that, we teamed up, dated, then eventually married. His apartness, his desire to march to the beat of his own drummer was what fascinated me about him. It still does.
I watched Alex and he looked around at the house, chatted briefly with a few people, then headed outside to the pool without noticing me.
As I took another sip of my martini, I heard a sneering voice over my shoulder.
“Amanda, I saw your little appearance on the news at noon today! I didn’t know that Stevie Wonder was cutting your hair. What happened to Roberto?”
The comment came from none other than Andrew MacCallister, Scottish agent and all-around cunt. Yes, you heard me right. A cunt. Like the warning colors of a venomous coral snake or the rattling tail of a diamondback pit viper, the first signs that you’re heading for trouble can be seen from afar. His shocking-white, full Santa Claus beard is meticulously trimmed, giving his face the appearance that it’s resting in a benevolent, white cloud. The benevolence ends there. He’s over 6 feet 5 inches tall—a height that he uses to full advantage to intimidate his clients. If that’s not enough, his clothing is the final, thumb-in-your-face warning. It’s not his occasional kilt or immaculately tailored pants, his customary button-down shirts, or even the ascot that he wears in cooler weather that signals that this man is a 100 percent, bona fide cunt. It’s his signature footwear that gives it all away: black, embroidered velvet slippers with a skull-and-crossbones motif on the instep stitched with real gold thread. Custom-made in England. Sun or rain, the cool of winter or blazing heat of July, Mc-Callister always has on his slippers of death.
You’d think that his toxic personality would make him about as welcome as a tell-all hooker at a televangelist convention, but it had quite the opposite effect. Andrew found that certain clients wanted to be abused and humiliated. Others signed on the dotted line with MacCallister because he would play hardball on their behalf. He had a well-deserved reputation of reducing weaker agents to tears. And he got away with it because he would restrain his acerbic comments and concentrate on finding the tiniest technicality overlooked by an agent that h
e would blow up into a matter of gross negligence, making the Realtor look like a fool in front of his client.
Andrew harbored hatred toward all carbon-based life-forms, but he had a very special bone to pick with me. Alex and I had a run-in with him a year ago where his client lost out on a bidding war on a house that, once the sale closed, tripled in value in a matter of four months. The lost deal cost Andrew over $30,000 in commissions, and his client, hundreds of thousands more. And Andrew never forgot it. Tonight, he was out for blood—mine.
“Andrew, how good to see you,” I muttered while taking a sip of my martini and looking away. Rule number one: Don’t argue with a borderline personality. It only throws gasoline on the fire.
“Amanda, you’ve cut your hair since they found that dead man in your listing this morning!” I noticed that he had raised his voice so that all could hear of my misfortune. “Your TV appearance was really special. It looked more like you had a lawn service as your stylist.”
I gave him a withering look, but he wasn’t going to let me go.
“And that outfit, Amanda . . . I never get tired of seeing you in it.” Andrew lobbed the statement at me like a fragmentation grenade.
Andrew was about to release another poisonous line at me when he went down like he had been shot. He wasn’t hurt—enough—but his ego was about to take a bruising. The plate of food he had been carrying in one hand was now all over the front of his ruffled white shirt.
“Goddamnit,” he hissed, “a grape! Someone dropped a grape and hadn’t the manners to pick it up! What a bunch of low-class morons!”
Just as I was about to laugh, I noticed Alex standing silently about thirty feet away, popping a grape or two in his mouth. You had to love this guy.
“Thank you for the rescue, Alex,” I said as I walked over to him.
“You’re welcome, Amanda.”
“I wanted to haul off and clobber him one, but I restrained myself.”
