Bicoastal Babe
CYNTHIA LANGSTON
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTERS
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10
11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20
21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31
About the Author
Copyright © Cynthia Langston, 2006 All rights reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living, dead, or undead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
ISBN:978-0615608099
Edition: February 2012
This book is dedicated to Madeline, my best friend and biggest fan.
Chapter 1
If you ask any guy to complete the phrase “drive-by_________,” he’ll blink twice before stating the obvious: “drive-by shooting.” He might even follow it up with a few supplementary descriptors such as “drug deal,” “ghetto,” “gang war,” or “Biggie Smalls,” whoever that is. But if you ask a single woman to complete the phrase “drive-by_________,” she won’t even blink. “Drive by the asshole’s house late at night to see if he’s home, and what he’s doing, and if there are any strange cars in the driveway that might belong to potential new girlfriends.” Supplementary descriptors included.
And this is where my story begins. On a dark summer night, pedal to the metal, flying through the streets of suburban Chicago. I’m on my way, once and for all, to find out what my ex-boyfriend Steve Dunbar has been up to since he broke up with me. (The fact that I’ve driven by every night this week and haven’t learned jack shit doesn’t matter, because tonight’s the night. I can feel it.)
“Five more blocks,” I whisper to myself, “Let’s see how honest you were.” I turn the corner, feeling my senses perk up like a hyperaware animal’s. “I’m sure you’re sitting all alone, watching TV, just you and the remote. Mmm-hmm. We’ll see about that.”
Steve and I had dated for almost a year, and everyone, including me, was certain that this was It. We met at a party and followed a very typical path that began with dating, then dating a little more, then forming a mutually comfortable unit called “relationship.” I-love-yous were exchanged at some point, parents were met, and many cute photos were taken of the cute couple, always in the same cute arm-in-arm pose. There was nothing very different or unusual about our unit, and there was nothing very different or unusual about the way it ended. “It’s not you, it’s me,” I was informed, just like millions of other unsuspecting women, hearts torn out since the beginning of time.
Part of me enjoyed the quiet security that I felt with Steve. Each day was predictable, but age thirty-one is about the time that a girl realizes that the ability to predict is the ability to depend upon, which is essential for any kind of unit to mature. So I never complained, not for one second. But the other part of me ached for crashing cymbals and sweeping orchestras – sounds that heralded the approach of a gorgeous prince just over the hill, coming to slay the snarling dragons, sweep me away in his chariot, and give me multiple orgasms before making me breakfast in bed.
I know: A girl can’t have everything. So once in a while, we have to clam up and settle for the best that’s offered. Until it dumps us, that is, and we’re left with absolutely nothing in life except our box of Count Chocula, our 1996 Toyota, and the ability to closet-smoke Marlboro Lights all damn night if we damn well please. Which is exactly how my night has unfolded up till now.
My heart is pounding as the car approaches Steve’s street. I slow down a bit and turn onto his block. Safety precautions are now needed. Toss out half-smoked cigarette and roll up all the windows. Turn down Air Supply heartbreak song until only slightly audible. Tuck hair underneath baseball cap. Decrease vehicle speed to a slow crawl. It’s the moment of truth.
Back in high school, drive-bys were a weekly event. There was always someone who had just gotten dumped. She’d sit home and cry, analyzing every word of the breakup, driven half-mad by the notion of his arms around someone else. As her friends, it was our duty to motivate her, to get her out of the house for a while. But there’s really nothing to do on a Tuesday night after homework… so drive-bys became a staple activity. Informative, fun, and a stab at the old-school passivity of waiting by the phone. This was the modern woman, taking things into her own hands, refusing to sit home and wonder.
By now, of course, most of these women are married, and look down on the notion of the drive-by. They consider the drive-by “immature,” “pathetic,” and “insane,” and can’t imagine how a single woman could resort to such desperate, psychotic measures.
“You’re acting like a psycho stalker,” my sister, Anne, said after the first time I drove by Steve’s apartment.
“Need I remind you of all the times we drove by Kevin Benson’s house after he cheated on you with that slut from the Dress Barn?” I pointed out to her.
“Yes, Lindsey, but we’re adults now.”
“We were adults then. You just weren’t married yet.”
“This is really pathetic, Lindsey, and you need to grow up. You wonder why you’re not married? Look at yourself. Look at what you do.”
Look at yourself. A suggestion of astonishing patronization. Married people should be shipped to their own island. Since when did a harmless drive-by qualify someone for the insane asylum? It’s not like I actually got out of the car and tried to listen at his bedroom window or anything. (I haven’t tried that one in a long time. You end up standing in the bushes, scratching your legs to holy hell, and you can’t hear anything anyway.)
So screw the married people. I don’t need their help, and I don’t need their approval. And I definitely don’t need their hypocrisy. When Anne’s husband leaves her for his secretary, she’ll be begging me to take her on her drive-bys for moral support, and so she can duck if he happens to look out the window. We’ll see who’s pathetic then.
And by the way, I have looked at myself. Up and down. In a full-length mirror. And what I beheld was a thin, attractive babe with long, dirty-blond hair that Bobby (my stylist) calls “lustrous.” I also beheld a pair of pretty green eyes, a flat tummy, and tits that kind of looked like Elle MacPherson’s before she had her first kid. Overall, the girl in the mirror was someone I was pretty damn happy with – someone I admired for her independence and liked to be around. Of course, that girl also had her hand around her fifth raspberry cosmopolitan. The next morning I looked in the same mirror and saw a wee bit of a different image. So it varies. Whatever. A girl’s gotta learn when not to look in the mirror, that’s all.
But back to the task at hand. As the car creeps toward Steve’s house, my eyes do a quick dart-around, making sure that there are no signs of him in the yard or outside the house. His street is pretty dark, and I’m squinting and concentrating so hard that my forehead bangs into the dashboard. “Ow!” I whisper, then sit back for a moment to mentally prepare for the impending result of my investigation.
There are two possibilities of outcome when doing a drive-by. Based on the presence of his car in the driveway, you will either discover that a.) he’s gone out (surely on a date with some blond, size-two, rebound whore), or that b.) he’s home (surely on his couch, making out – or worse – with said whore). Either scenario will inspire hot flashes of anger that will cause you to hurl obscenities in the direction of his front door as you jam your car into reverse. And then you hold your b
reath for the “double check,” in which you drive by a second time in the other direction, just to make sure that either a.) his car was indeed not there, or b.) it really was his car (and not some other gray Saab with a similar license plate).
And then you will feel like shit. Defeated. Either way. Because no matter where he is or what he’s doing, he’s not with you, and he’s probably with someone else, and one thing is for sure: He is not wasting his Sunday evening driving by your house, but you are wasting your Sunday evening driving by his.
On a really bad night, you might circle the block and drive by yet again, in case he arrived home while you were around that block, and is currently walking from car to house with the whore. Just because this hasn’t happened yet doesn’t mean it couldn’t. It is very feasible.
On a really, REALLY bad night, you might even pull up to the curb a few doors down, cut the ignition, and step onto the sidewalk. You might ever so quietly tiptoe toward the house, holding your breath, aware of every sound and movement around you. Danger is certainly in the air, but what are you looking to accomplish? Who knows. Maybe to see if the kitchen light is on. Maybe to relive your childhood fantasies of being an international spy. Or maybe just to feel for a few seconds what it used to be like, walking up to his house, warm with anticipation of the wonderful evening ahead.
Tonight was a really, really bad night.
I can’t believe this. What am I thinking? Why am I doing this to myself? What if he sees me? This makes me a psycho. Anne was right. I need to just turn around and get back into the car.
But then I suddenly get the better of myself. I have every right to be here. Steve Dunbar is an asshole. The jerk who dumped me and broke my heart. The liar who broke his promises, the selfish mo-fo who wasted a whole year of my life. The–
“Lindsey?”
Oh, my God. Steve is walking around the side of the house with a bag of garbage for the curb. I freeze, a look of holy terror on my face.
“What are you doing here?”
For a split second I have an out-of-body experience. I drift up and over my own form, horrified to see myself standing on the sidewalk in long underwear, my eighth-grade Forenza sweater (with merlot stain on front) and duckie slippers, hair in the baseball cap, no makeup, reeking of smoke.
“I came to get my… my…”
Shit. There’s nothing for me to get. He brought it all over when he dumped me.
Steve comes closer until he’s standing right in front of me. I take a step back.
“Your what?” His voice is more curious than angry. “My…” SHIT!
He raises an eyebrow.
“My folders that I stored in your attic.” Here we go. Very imaginable that I would have stored folders in his attic.
He is confused, as he very well should be. “You put folders in my attic?”
“You told me I could. I didn’t have room for them in my apartment.”
“When?”
“A long time ago.”
“Oh. I don’t remember that.” He shrugs it off. No big deal. “Well, okay, come get them.”
Pause. Sniff.
“Have you been smoking?”
“Steve,” I stammer. “Listen. I don’t need the folders right now.”
“But you came all the way over here for them.”
“Well, I was in the neighborhood, so I…” I have to get out of here.
He takes another step closer and a smile flashes across his eyes. “You were in the neighborhood?”
Now I’m getting exasperated. I don’t need this. Can’t a girl be left alone to stalk on her own time and free will?
“Look, Steve. I thought I was up for rummaging through your attic, but now that I’m here, I’m not in the mood. So I’m going to go, okay? Let me know if you find the folders.”
I can feel the buildup of tears, beyond the point of no return. I turn to go, then feel his hand firm on my shoulder. “Lindsey.” I don’t turn around. I can’t. There’s too much hurt and caring in his voice. But then he says quietly into my ear, “You should call first next time.”
I run to the car, tears streaming down my cheeks. I can’t believe he caught me. I can’t believe he saw me like this. He knew that folder thing was bullshit. He knew I was doing a drive-by. But he’s too nice to call me on it. Or too guilty. Or too embarrassed for me.
As I fling the car door open, my eyes glance up toward the stars. For a brief second I stop to take in the majesty of the sky, the brilliant constellations shining down and laughing at my idiocy. I used to look out the window every night and wish on the first star I’d see that Steve and I would get married someday. Now it occurs to me that on all those nights, in the midst of all those wishes, I forgot one little detail. I forgot to wish that we’d get married to each other.
Not noticing that the car is already on, I turn the key. The ignition squeals, and Steve, who has started to walk back toward his house, stops and turns. Just go, I tell myself. Just get the hell out of here. I jam the car into reverse, peel out onto the street, yank the wheel to the right, and promptly proceed to smash into a parked car, whose alarm begins to blare and honk.
I look up at Steve and he looks back at me. My sister was right on the money. I am psychotic.
After Steve’s neighbor comes out to scream at me and call me one of “these crazy women drivers,” after the police come and the reports are filed and the insurance companies called, I drive home. I’m not crying anymore. Now I just feel frozen. Steve had seen the real me, the one he would’ve dumped a long time ago if he’d known it existed.
Home at last, I make myself some tea, crawl into a hot bath, and think about my life. As my tears drip into the bubbly water, I realize I’ve never felt so conquered and crushed. You see, the problem with Steve Dunbar is that he isn’t an asshole at all. He’s not a jerk, or a liar, or a selfish mo-fo who broke any promises. He’s a pretty nice guy, actually. A kind, caring, honest man who just happened to wake up one day and realize that he’s not in love with me anymore.
I sink down farther into the hot water. I can never go near his house again. The relationship is over, and so are the drive-bys. And so is my hope and faith that it was all just a bad dream. As my eyelids grow heavy, I begin hearing phrases echoing through my mind that seem to have been written just for me: Time heals all wounds. This too shall pass. It’s all uphill from here. The sun’ll come out tomorrow…
And the next morning, as luck would have it, I get laid off from my job.
So now you’re caught up on the backstory. Five weeks later, my real story begins. I am tired. I am alone. And I haven’t left my apartment in more than a month.
Chapter 2
Something is wrong with me. I know that. I know it because on Tuesday afternoon, the pizza guy, for no reason at all, smiles at me in a very sympathetic manner and asks, “Are you okay?”
Being what I consider above and beyond the call of duty, this is a question that almost—not quite, but almost—breaks through my numbness and threatens to piss me off. I hate “added value” in the service industry because I feel pressure to give a higher tip. And then I feel cheap if I don’t. The pizza and bread sticks came to $11.65, so I brought fourteen dollars to the door, which is more than enough because the pizza place is only one block away, and the pizza guy does not have to bust too much tail to bring that pie over. But when he throws in his own personal concern, I now feel like the net value of the service increases beyond $11.65, which renders my tip too small. So I’m faced with a choice. I either hand him the fourteen dollars, look like a complete cheapskate, and out of embarrassment, never order from the place again, or I ask him to wait, go back in, and scrounge up another dollar. Like I said, normally this situation would really piss me off.
But not today. I am too numb to feel. I have no emotion, just an anesthetized awareness that it’s time to order another pizza because the remains of the last one have melted in the box, soaked through, and stained the floor. So I stand there blankly and stare at
him. He’s wearing a bright red baseball cap that says, PIPING HOT! and it makes me wonder if he ever gets beckoned into lonely women’s apartments like in the porno movies. I begin imagining invitation possibilities containing the words “saucy,” “spicy,” and “hot sausage,” when I realize that he’s waiting for an answer concerning his inquiry into my health and well-being.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I tell him, with a tone that might very slightly and subtly suggest that he is an asshole for asking, but whatever. I am numb, so I am letting slide the extra-tip thing and I’m not going to worry about it. Hell, I’ll even order from there again. But then he pushes it one inch too far. I watch the words forming on his lips, as if in slow motion, and I just can’t fucking believe he’s going to do it.
“Are you sure?” he asks.
His question lands like a pillar hitting a concrete pavement. I look up at him slowly, glaring, with death in my eyes. But like a typical male, he mistakes it for God knows what, clears his throat, and asks again.
“Are you sure… that you’re okay?”
“Look, just give me my fucking pizza, all right? Why would I not be okay? Does it look like I’m not okay? Does it sound like I’m not okay?”
“Well…” He’s looking doubtful.
“Why would you say that to someone? Am I okay. What does that mean? You don’t even know me! You know nothing about me!”
His hands shoot up in surrender. “Hey, lady. I was just trying to be polite.”
“Yeah, well, if I had fifteen dollars lying around, I would’ve gotten the two-liter bottle of Pepsi in addition to the pizza and bread sticks. But I don’t.” (This is a lie.)
He is confused. “Don’t what?”
“I don’t have fifteen dollars! I have fourteen dollars.”
Bicoastal Babe Page 1
