Bicoastal Babe

by Cynthia Langston

  I look at his friends and they look at me. “Is he serious?” I ask nervously. They burst into laughter.

  “Oh, my God, you are so cute!” One of the women, a thin redhead, squeezes my arm, then motions for a glass of champagne for me.

  “Victor didn’t mention you. How long have you two been dating?” another woman asks me, this one a petite blonde who twirls the enormous rock on her finger and grips like Cling Wrap onto the man next to her.

  “Uh… just a few weeks, I guess,” I stammer.

  “Victor is terrible. He didn’t even introduce us,” says the redhead. “He just threw you at us and lumped us together as ‘his friends’.”

  “That’s because he thinks we’re all the same!” the third woman says, and the men laugh.

  “That’s because we are,” the blonde’s husband says flatly.

  “We are not!” The redhead stamps her foot. “I will tell Lindsey exactly who we are.”

  “Here we go,” her man mutters, and signals the waiter for another round of champagne.

  “I’m Carrie, by the way, and obviously I am the Career Woman. Darcy over here is the Soccer Mom.” The petite blonde pretends to punch her. “And Lauren is the Pie Chart. She does some of everything: wife, mom, works part-time, studies African art, is working on her elusive first novel, and hosts dinner parties every first Saturday of the month. You can divide her up, just like a pie.”

  “What flavor?” one of the men asks.

  “Cherry. Definitely cherry,” the other one answers.

  “I’d say pumpkin,” the other guy says. “Look at her hair.”

  Lauren leans toward me. “Carrie loves to put people into buckets. That way she doesn’t have to really get to know anyone on an intimate level.”

  “So not true,” Carrie retorts, as Victor walks up and pokes my elbow.

  “Is she at it again?” he asks, pointing to Carrie. The group nods.

  “Come on, Carrie. Do the guys,” Darcy says.

  “Okay, the guys. Well, my husband, David, is the Tunnel Vision Entrepreneur. He thinks about nothing but building his law firm bigger and bigger, and every moment of his day goes into it.” I can hear a twinge of resentment here, and am not surprised when David pulls away a little and retorts, “Not every moment.”

  But Carrie plows forward.

  “Richard is the New Dad. He’s like David, but his tunnel vision is all about the baby. Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby.”

  “Fewer diapers for me to change.” Lauren laughs.

  “And Michael, Darcy’s husband, he’s the Now What Guy.”

  Michael stands back. “I’m the huh?”

  “Well, his kids are toddlers by now, and let’s face it, they annoy him to hell with the running around and destroying the house all day. So he’s definitely over the New Dad phase. His career is mundane, and he’s stuck in one routine after another like a pit of quicksand. So he sits around, flipping channels and trying to ignore the kid noise, thinking, ‘Is this all there is? And if not, now what?’ So he’s the Now What Guy.”

  While Michael doesn’t look too pleased with his bucket, he’s not really denying it either.

  Satisfied with herself, Carrie lets out a huge breath of air and smiles at me. “So that’s us.”

  “But wait,” I say. “What about Victor?”

  “No, thanks,” Victor holds out his hand. “We can skip Victor.”

  “No. No, no.” Carrie shakes a finger in his face. “Victor. Hmmmmm…”

  We all watch her ponder for a minute, as if she’s a psychic who can’t quite feel the vibe. Then she looks up and says, “Of course! Victor is the Lag Behind.”

  “The Lag Behind?” Victor clearly doesn’t like where this is going.

  “All his friends are married and having kids, but Victor is the one who resists it all until the last possible second.”

  “I’m just waiting to learn from all of your mistakes,” he tells the group.

  “He hates his job with a passion, but has himself convinced that the money makes up for it. And it’s all about him. His toys, his golf, his women…” She looks up at me nervously, but I shake it off. “He’s the guy who hides his fear of growing up behind his selfishness, because for some crazy reason he thinks that selfishness is a more admirable quality than immaturity.”

  “Carrie, the only craziness about this whole thing is you.” I can’t tell if Victor is upset, or merely going along with a game that obviously is played just about every time this group gets together.

  “Spend some time with us, Lindsey,” she invites with a knowing smile. “And then tell me if I’m wrong.”

  Victor pulls at my arm. “Come on. I’m going to introduce you to the sane people in the room.”

  “We love you, Victor!” the girls shout as we walk away.

  As we cross the room, I look at Victor quizzically. “I didn’t know you hated your job that much,” I start. Victor pretends he doesn’t hear me.

  But then a second before we reach the sane people, Victor pulls me aside. “I want you to know something about what she said,” he tells me.

  Wow. He’s going to reveal a deep, dark secret about himself. He’s going to explain his inner makeup: his fear of commitment, his anger at his parents’ dysfunctional relationship, his endless search (until now) for the girl who would sweep in and change everything about his life…

  “I hang out with a lot of single people,” he says. “That Lag Behind thing is a crock of shit. Those are my only friends who are even close to being married. I’m not lagging behind anything.” I can tell he’s embarrassed, and doesn’t want me to view him as the dorky reject kid on the playground.

  “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “I understand.”

  And suddenly I do understand. But not about Victor. I suddenly understand what it is that I need to change about the course of my trend newsletter – the missing link that’s going to make all those confusing numbers and percentages finally make sense. The new perspective that advertisers will use to create their ads and place their media. The new revolution of trend-tracking: buckets!

  Chapter 21

  I’ve had a lot of sexual fantasies in my day, and some of them pretty racy. But in my wildest dreams, I never imagined lying totally naked, getting felt up by an enormous, grunting, hairy Russian woman who speaks not a word of English. But you know what? It feels pretty damn good.

  No, no. It’s not what you’re thinking. Carmen and I are at Beverly Hot Springs, the place that certain Los Angeles insiders consider the crème de la crème of pampering day spas. We just spent a relaxing hour soaking under their hot-springs waterfall, and now we’re lying on our stomachs on parallel tables, getting rubbed and scrubbed by twin babushkas with matching mustaches.

  “So how was the teen panel?” Carmen asks, as the large hands knead her butt like two mounds of bread dough.

  “Exhausting,” I tell her. “Ten hyper teenagers jacked up on caffeine and Hostess cupcakes, demanding that we do the panel in the swimming pool.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yeah. It was great, though. I got fantastic pictures and quotes for the newsletter, and we did a little mini-focus group on some of the agency’s new commercials.”

  The Russian women start pounding their fists on our backs, then they reach into a giant vat of sea salt and begin slathering it into our skin.

  “Hey, wanna go out tonight?” Carmen asks.

  “Sure. Where do you want to go?”

  “Anywhere there’ll be gorgeous men. I’m on a mission,” she says.

  “What mission?”

  “I’m going to get laid.”

  That’s a little strange, considering she has a boyfriend. “What about Tommy?” I ask.

  “We broke up.”

  I look up in surprise. “Really? When? You didn’t tell me that.”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  She’s very matter-of-fact about all this. Actually, she doesn’t seem upset at all. And because the Russian wo
men can’t understand a word we’re saying, I press on.

  “I’m really sorry, Carmen. What happened?”

  “Nothing happened.” She shrugs. “Tommy’s a really great guy. I like him a lot.” She pauses. “But I can do better.”

  • • •

  Carmen wasn’t kidding about being on a mission. Ever since we walked into the Circle Bar, a hip spot down by the beach, she’s been like a hungry tigress searching for vulnerable prey. And this is going to sound really mean, because I think Carmen is absolutely beautiful, but I have never seen such a heavy girl get so much guy attention in my life. It’s her attitude. She’s so confident about herself that despite an extra fifty or so pounds, she’s probably the sexiest girl in the bar.

  “So tell me about your buckets,” she says. “You see? I knew you’d figure it out. I think it’s fantastic.”

  “Carmen. Why are we talking about buckets? You’ve already been approached by three cute guys. I thought you wanted to get laid!”

  “I do. Just not by them.”

  “Why not? There’s nothing wrong with them! Take the first guy. The one in the orange T-shirt.”

  “Too butch. I don’t like all that muscle.”

  “Okay, so what about the one in the black jacket?”

  “Gay in denial. Did you see the way he was holding his beer? That’s a girl-hold if I’ve ever seen it.”

  “You’re crazy.” I roll my eyes. “What about the blue-baseball-cap guy?

  “Maybe.” She ponders. “He’s definitely a maybe. I just want to see what else crops up. So in the meantime, tell me about your bucket idea.”

  “I mapped it out on the plane and sent it to Liz this morning. I hope she likes it. What if she doesn’t like it?”

  “She’s gonna love it. Or your money back.” Carmen drains her martini.

  “Hey.” I poke her. “Here comes Baseball Cap again. He’s a persistent one, isn’t he?”

  “He certainly is.”

  Blue Baseball Cap blows right past me, all eyes on Carmen, and I notice again how good-looking he is. “I see your drink is empty.” He smiles at her. “Can I buy you another one?” He takes her glass and walks over to the bar.

  “Go for it,” I tell her. “He’s hot!”

  “Yeah?” I can tell she’s getting close to a yes.

  “Definitely. He really likes you. Unlike me. I hate you.”

  “You hate me?” She laughs. “Why?”

  “Because you have your pick of the guys in here, and I haven’t even been approached once.”

  “You’re not open to it,” she points out. “You’re not giving off the ‘I’m open’ vibe. It makes all the difference.”

  Baseball Cap returns with her drink, and she demands to see his wallet. She reaches for a pen and writes down his name, address, and driver’s license number on a napkin. “Here.” She hands me the napkin.

  “If I don’t call you by ten tomorrow morning, this is what you give the cops.”

  I grimace at the whole thing, but Baseball Cap doesn’t seem to mind. “It’s okay,” he tells me. “She’s attractive and smart. Can’t go wrong with that.”

  Carmen smiles and downs her drink. “Will you get home okay?” she asks, and I nod.

  Watching them walk out of the bar, I’m struck with a sudden sense of emptiness. I know I should stay, meet people, listen to them talk, and pick their brains about trends… but I don’t feel like staying.

  Then again, driving back toward the apartment a few minutes later, I realize that I don’t want to go home either. It’s only midnight and I do want something, but I don’t know what that something is. I find myself turning up into one of the canyons, driving up the steep slope of the Hollywood Hills. Up, up, up, until I finally hit Mulholland Drive at the very top.

  I park the car at one of the scenic overlook areas and get out. From up here you can see a breathtaking view of the city. My eyes sweep over the glistening lights, which stretch as far as I can see, and I’m overwhelmed with the feeling that I’m not just gazing out at the city of Los Angeles, but at the entire glittering, magnificent world. Sort of like standing at the top of the Empire State Building, but different. Up there you’re above it but still sort of surrounded by the noise and energy of the city. Up here it’s dark and silent, and it feels like time has stopped in a perfect moment of stillness and tranquility.

  After a while I get back into my car and coast down the hill, then turn right and begin heading west on Sunset. It’s a long and winding drive, and I’m not even sure where I’m heading. But something’s pulling me in this direction, and I know I have to follow.

  As I drive, I find myself wondering about happiness. What it is, what it means, and how we’re supposed to know if we have it. It seems like people are always chasing happiness, like it’s always just one step ahead, and they can never quite catch up to it. If I get this job, I’ll be happy. If I get the promotion, I’ll be happy. If I find the right guy and get married, then I’ll be happy. If I buy my dream house and have two kids and retire at an early age, I’ll finally be happy. But does happiness even exist? Or is it just an elusive tease, always held just out of reach, ensuring that we keep plugging along through life and perpetuating the cycle of nature?

  I want to know the answer. I want to know very badly. I begin to think of all the people I know, and weed out the ones who are either a.) obviously miserable, or b.) secretly hiding their misery behind other qualities such as ambition or responsibility. I try to think of someone – anyone – who strikes me as truly, genuinely happy and content with life, regardless of their situation or their surroundings. Someone who might have the answer, or who could at least hint at the answer, so I can maybe see it all a little more clearly.

  And then my stomach does a somersault. Because I know exactly why I am still in my car, I know exactly why I am heading west, and I know exactly where I am going.

  • • •

  Twenty minutes later my car is parked on a narrow street in front of a big white house on a slight hill about a mile away from the beach.

  I glance down at the thin white page that I ripped out of a phone book at Marks Mini-Mart: 819 West Seabreeze Drive. It’s Danny Wynn’s house, and I’m surprised to see that he lives in such a nice place, given that he made reference to not making much money. Most of the lights are out, but I can see the blue glare from a television set in the main room.

  My heart is pounding through my chest as I get out of the car and close the door as quietly as possible. It’s now one o’clock in the morning, which I realize is not the most appropriate time to stop by for a quick hello. But I am propelled forward as if being pulled by a strange gravitational force.

  I tiptoe up the stairs to the door. It’s so quiet that I can hear the crickets chirping in the bushes. As I stand there, I can feel the warm, salty ocean breeze on my skin. I bite my lip and consider turning back, but then ever so softly I knock. When no one comes, I knock again, a teeny bit louder.

  After a minute I can hear tired footsteps trudging toward the door; then it opens a crack to reveal a young woman with long blond hair. She’s got a deep tan, crystal-green eyes, and a naturally pretty face, like the stereotypical surfer girl.

  “Yes?” She rubs her eyes and tries to focus on me, and I can tell that I woke her up. Oh, God. This is Danny’s girlfriend. He lives with her. Maybe he’s even married. This was a huge mistake. Huge. I have to get out of here.

  “Sorry,” I whisper. “I must have the wrong house.” I turn to leave.

  “Who are you looking for?” she asks, confused.

  I turn back, feeling like a royal ass. “Oh, I, uh… I was looking for Danny.”

  “Danny lives upstairs. In the attic apartment.” She points to a stairway on the side of the house. “Up there.”

  “Oh! Okay. Thank you,” I whisper. “Sorry for waking you!”

  She shuts the door and I can hear the lock click into place. I look up the stairs and see that there is definitely a light on. He�
�s still up. I know he’s up. I can feel he’s up. He has to be.

  I begin to climb the stairs, very slowly because each one seems to creak louder than the last. When I get to the top I try to peek in the window, but it’s covered by a beige curtain. However, I think I can faintly hear music, so I hold my breath and knock softly. Again, I can hear footsteps, and this time my heart skips a beat.

  He opens the door, and out of nervousness I take a little step back. He’s wearing sweat shorts and a wrinkled white T-shirt, and his blond hair is a rumpled mess. He’s holding a half-eaten, bright red Popsicle.

  He sees me and says nothing, just looks at me curiously and waits for me to speak. And out of the entire range of potential eloquent openers in a situation like this, here’s what I say: “Hi.”

  Danny squints, not sure what to make of this lunatic standing on his doorstep at one in the morning. But then he breaks into a slow smile, steps back, and opens the door wider. “Come on in.”

  I walk into his apartment and look around. It’s clean and simple, with minimalistic furniture, but lots of surfing stuff lying around.

  “I know it’s late,” I stammer. “Well, really late… But I was in the neighborhood and… Well, I mean, I was down around here and I looked up your address because I thought… I mean, I wanted to –”

  Danny holds his hand up to quiet me, then reaches around to close the door. He turns back, and I can feel every heavy inch of space between us.

  “I wanted to… well… first I wanted to thank you for everything you did for me that day at the beach. That was really, really nice of you. And I would be, you know, dead if it weren’t for you, so that’s something I really wanted to thank you for.”

  He nods.

  “And I wanted to apologize for not listening to you during our lesson. That was very stupid of me, and I just… Well, I wanted to… Well, anyway.”

  He nods again, looking faintly amused.

  “And I wanted to apologize that it’s taken me so long to say this. I should’ve called you or come to find you a lot sooner, but I guess I…” I stop.

  “You what?”

  “Well, actually I did come to find you, down at the Surf Shack a couple weeks ago, right before I left for New York. But you weren’t there.”