Hot Shot: Let the adventures begin…
Scaredy Cat: Oh, dear.
CHAPTER 12
Wonderland
Los Angeles, California – Late 1980’s
“Approaching Los Angeles International Airport,” I hear the captain announce over the intercom. The chime-like “pling” noise above my head alerts me that it’s time to buckle up. I fasten the belt, simultaneously keeping my eyes focused on the enormous sea of lights below, as we ascend into the Heavens. Tears of partial joy and boundless anxiety advance down my cheeks. I think about the amount of stories this town holds, stories of angels, many fallen ones. The fact that some of those very gleams down there indeed connect to Hollywood stars feels unfathomable.
Blushetta: Ja, ja…those American actors with their üBER confidence. Lucky them, they’ve never blushed a day in their lives. How do they do it? I mean…dance, sing, act, and look fantastic with such ease all the time? Wish I could be as cool as them someday. Maybe living here will make some of that rub off on me. California, I’m counting on you.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have landed. Please exit the airplane to your left. It was a pleasure having you, and thank you for flying with us.”
I proceed to the baggage claim, excited to finally meet Stanley who, to my knowledge and according to his photo, should be a cute Caucasian male in his forties with brown eyes and hair and the overall image of an established musician.
Fifteen minutes pass. I’m still standing in the same spot, several pieces of luggage towering next to me on the cart. Knowing that we just spoke by phone a week ago, although for the first time, I recall he confirmed that he would give me a lift and be taking me to his house tonight. My eyes nervously scan the crowd again.
Doubt Cloud: What if you’re not going to make it in this cutthroat city?
Tough Gal: Shut up. There is no such thing.
I believe her. I have to. And frankly, I am virtually too exhausted to argue with anyone.
Another fifteen minutes go by.
Scaredy Cat: Looks like he’s standing you up.
Tough Gal: Time to implement plan ‘B.’
My forehead wrinkles in frustration. Sluggishly, I stroll over to the pay phones near the exit doors. I dial Stan’s number. Someone on the other end claiming to be his roommate tells me that Stan-man skipped town and that he owes him a bunch of money.
Ragelina: It isn’t that I haven’t been warned about scam artists out here. Verdammter Scheißdreck.
With taxis excluded from the budget, I decide to meet my challenge using public transportation. Standing in the middle aisle of the bus to Santa Monica sandwiched by yapping strangers brings renewed meaning to the word agitation. Each time a patron enters, I wrangle my barrage of luggage out of the way. The driver’s snotty answers to my simple questions about the route mute me indefinitely, resulting in accidentally exiting at one stop before the one I had planned to get off of.
Extremely annoyed, I haul my life in bags several blocks down Santa Monica Boulevard, calling the driver a fucking “you know what,” over and over again. I pass by a couple of homeless folks who hit me up for “spare change.”
Big Shot Mama: These people are pestering. Gross.
Following Tough Gal’s advice, I maintain the facial expression of a Sumo wrestler all the way to the hotel. Fighting a good cry, I drop depleted onto the Queen-size bed inside the room at the Rosemont. I feverishly budget numbers in my head unable to calm down.
Doubt Cloud: I don’t think you’ll get far on the two thousand bucks you brought.
Scaredy Cat: This country freaks me out. I need something to take the edge off, and I need it now.
I get dressed this instant and stroll down to the liquor store on the corner, bringing back a bunch of pastries and candy bars. Feeling nice and full and safer now that the sugar is taking effect, I fall asleep within the hour.
Not at all ready for it, morning arrives. Too fatigued to fetch a clear thought, I name this week “vacation.” I spend most of today tanning at the strand, as well as tomorrow…and the day after that…and two more days after that.
This morning, inside the lobby of the Rosemont I make the acquaintance of Katia, a gal from the Netherlands who also resides at the hotel and seems to be driven by the same agenda as mine. We hang out a lot from now on. With money seeping through my hands like sand through the hourglass, the urgency to initiate phase two turns into an absolute priority.
Nanny on the Run
Today, Katia moves from the hotel to a family in Monterey Park but before she leaves, she hands me her number. Happy for her but feeling slightly left out, I immediately search for more of my own opportunities.
To my great relief, I secure a nanny gig today. The couple, who are the proud parents of a toddler, a little girl, lives in an upscale part of Santa Monica. They provide me with room, board, an allowance, and access to a bicycle.
Today is day two on the assignment. Once four o’clock hits, the time my shift ends, I sense an all too familiar restlessness creep back in.
Lustania: I can’t take it any more. I need relief…before day’s end.
I grab the bicycle from the garage and shoot over to Venice Beach, commonly referred to as Muscle Beach. Strolling down Ocean Front Walk in tights, and a cut off top, I covetously soak up the stares of men’s craving eyes. I hold out in front of the open-air gym, best known as The Cage. In fascination, I watch how several bodybuilders push around huge amounts of metal. Their loud moans and groans, as they pump and lift the heavy loads, play with my senses.
Lustania (snarling): Yum. I wonder what some of them can deliver at close contact?
Several of the muscle-packed hunks zero in on me, but Lustania says it’s too soon to get locked in, so I keep on shopping. Further down the strand, I set foot into a small shoe store where I am heavily intrigued by a broad-shouldered Latin man who is dressed in sexy denim and a tight black and white striped T-shirt. Eavesdropping on his conversation with a co-worker, it appears to me that he must be the owner of the enterprise.
Lustania: He’s hot.
Fast-forward…He asks me out to dinner, and soon we are off to the restaurant and from there, straight to his house. Barely through his bedroom door, wild foreplay erupts. The rest escapes me.
Romy: Wait a minute. I want him to fall in love with me.
Lustania: Who’s got the nerve for all that Schmaltz? So many men, so little time.
I do not recall how I get back to my place in Santa Monica, but who cares as long as I arrive.
Ten days go by. By now the responsibilities at the work site weigh me down. In a desperate moment, I convince Ron, the one who pulled the Bible crap on me on my initial visit to the U.S., to let me stay with him for a short while again. After his initial reluctance, he eventually allows me to room with him for another go-around.
One week goes by. Today, I move into a fancy-schmancy residence in the Hollywood Hills owned by a married couple with a fourteen-year-old son and three fluffy dogs. My responsibilities include cleaning, cooking, and caring for the animals. Tonight, the second day of working my bones to an ache, the woman of the house asks me to follow her on a walk-through. She stops right in front of the bookshelf, shines the flashlight onto one spot and runs her index finger across the surface.
Ragelina: Insulting.
“There is dust right here…you need to be more thorough than that,” she says in a condescending tone of voice.
Big Shot Mama (indignantly): Bloody hell. Who the fuck does she think she is?
Ragelina: I don’t think I can stand it here much longer.
Doubt Could: Well, smart-ass. Where are ya’ gonna go without a car and loads of cash?
Scaredy Cat: Yeah…trapped inside these hills? I’m all alone in this wicked city.
Putting great energy into cleaning even more thoroughly this morning, I catch myself visiting the food pantry on the bottom level of the house in unusually high repetitions. Realizing that chances of staying at
Ron’s place again remain out of the question, an idea pops into my head. “Handyman,” the thirty-something-year-old fellow that comes by every Tuesday to perform maintenance around here will just have to help me escape.
Pretender Babe: That’s gotta be it. It’s gotta be.
Doubt Cloud: If he can’t get you outta here, you’ll have to move back in with the “adults”.
Miss Vanity: Hell no. Can you imagine having to face all the naysayers? The ones that told me, I’m not going to make it out here? They’re gonna be laughing their asses off. I can’t let that happen.
Starlight: Ew. Let’s just not think about that right now, okay?
Pretender Babe: I don’t know about you. But ‘Handyman’ sounds like he’s the ticket.
The weekend passes quickly. Today, the handy fellow shows up to fix a few things. I brief him on the precariousness of my situation. Lo and behold, an hour later, my belongings and I are on the way to his place somewhere in jungle town, wherever that is. When evening rolls around, several of his buddies show up at his medium size studio apartment for an outdoor barbeque. Everyone gets hammered, but not me.
Doubt Cloud: You are fucked. This is the end.
It’s eight o’clock, and the last person finally leaves. Exhausted, I drop onto the pull out couch in the living room. Handyman joins me, spoons my body. I lay frozen, afraid to think of what he will do next. Seconds later, I feel his cold hand slide into my panties. I remove it at once.
Scaredy Cat: He’s gonna ravage me.
Pretender Babe: Tell him you are on your period and that he may get lucky tomorrow.
Doubt Cloud: It’s not gonna work.
I present the excuse anyway, exhale when he accepts it and instantaneously turn to the other side.
Tough Gal: Call Katia first thing in the morning and find out if you can room with her a while.
I wake up around seven, fagged out from the shortage of sleep. Watching Handyman get ready for work instills hope in me. When he actually does dart out the door, I hurriedly dial Katia’s number. I explain what happened and luckily she shows up within the hour.
Like a Wirbelwind, I stuff my kazoo of luggage into her station wagon and board the ride. On the way to her room in Monterey Park, she confirms again that the owners of the house she resides in do not mind my staying until I can secure a new situation. Greatly relieved, I make myself at home in her spacious domicile, albeit the awkwardness of feeling at someone’s mercy again intensifies my love affair with food more with each passing day.
Whip Cracker: If you don’t cool it with the candy, you’ll turn into an ‘Average Girl.’
Hot Shot (crying): I guess I better hang up the modeling dream for good.
Scaredy Cat: Wished I could help ya’, but I just can’t stop snacking. I get so happy on sugar.
Another week goes by. Today, Sunday, I show up for an interview for a nanny gig in the tranquil woodsy neighborhood of Malibu Hills. The situation offers the use of a vehicle as well as other pleasing amenities. I move in within hours, relishing in the feeling of new hope surging through me.
Mecca of Brawn
Things are beginning to feel a lot more settled here at the Malibu Hills estate now that two weeks have gone by. I begin each new day with staring into the portable mirror that’s leaning against the rustic wood-paneled wall inside my shoebox-sized room, wondering with ample discontent why it is, that no matter how much I hike, bike ride or lift weights inside the fitness room on the premises, I do not seem to lose one ounce? Ironically, I appear even heavier.
Miss Vanity: We got to tackle this.
Hot Shot: That flab’s gotta go.
Terrified, I join a prestigious health club on Pacific Coast Highway called Pacific Gym this afternoon.
It’s morning, two weeks after having joined the gym. I purchase a day ticket to the testosterone mansion World Gym for even more inspiration. During the workout, I sense Lustania getting all fidgety, when hoards of buff guys show off their “Mister Universe” exteriors within my reach. Sven, an attractive, tall, blond fellow from Sweden who is by far not as buff as the others, seems impressed by the way I handle the machinery. He engages me in a dialogue that leads to a lunch date at the health food joint around the corner.
Romy: The touch of machismo suits his otherwise gentle approach.
“Do you use steroids to grow your muscles?” I inquire, while we sit across from each other.
“I inject myself about twice a day,” he admits.
Hot Shot: That’s so cool. What a man!
We sleep together after two more times of hanging out. The sex contents me and improves with each additional encounter.
Romy: It feels nice to have a boyfriend again, especially one as cuddly and sweet as him.
With the mutual attachment steadily growing, I now spend nearly every weekend at Sven’s Hollywood Hills apartment.
It is Friday morning, and I am on the phone with him. He invites me to attend a sports event this evening, suggesting that I meet him at his pad at eight. I show up at the planned hour but he’s nowhere to be found. Infuriated, I drive to the happening myself. Unable to track him down at that location either, I stay for half of the show and now make my way back to his house. I park my vehicle in an obscure spot and lay low. Two hours pass before I see Sven’s blue pick-up truck zoom around the corner.
Ragelina: I think he’s in some kinda company.
I hold out in ducked position, let three minutes go by and then charge into the entrance of his apartment. I knock insistently, but there’s no answer. I do it again, this time with more force.
Still, no answer.
Ragelina: I’ll show him.
“Open the fucking door. I know you are in there!” I holler, now banging on the piece of crafted wood so hard that my knuckles hurt. Five minutes and a bunch of infuriated thumps later, he finally props it open a tad, peering at me from above the drawn chain.
“What do you want? Don’t make a scene. Okay? You don’t wanna make me angry. I suggest, you go home now and sleep it off.”
“I know you have a girl in there. Why don’t you admit it, muthafucka?” I bellow.
“Keep it down,” he says in a real agitated tone of voice. “Leave.”
“Why are you doing this, you asshole?”
“I’m telling you…gooo home.”
He closes the door in my face. I hear Ragelina mumble, Die, Bastard, as I stomp off and board my ride. Buzzing mad, I make my way back to the nanny quarters. I cry for an hour as I lie in bed.
Avengelia: I know I’ve said this before, but this really blows the top off it all, dammit. As much as I want to…I can no longer be faithful…to any man—ever again—America or not.
Ragelina: Yep…they really, really can’t be trusted.
CHAPTER 13
Stare, or I’ll Die
Hot Shot explains that models measuring five foot six inches need to keep their weight at a hundred thirteen pounds. Natürlich…of course…of course. Weighing in at one hundred thirty six pounds, I at once immerse myself in the advanced Cardio Jam class at the club this morning. With each high kick, I picture beating that jerk Sven’s head to a pulp. Drenched in sweat and floating on a cloud of endorphins, I schlep my fatigued body to the juice bar. Armed with a bowl of brown rice diluted in lemon herb dressing, I plop into the chair that provides the best view of the front entrance. I am hungry, but not for edible goods.
Dear Life Preserver,
You must hurry because my cover will soon run out. After all, one pretentiously hides behind a bowl of rice for only so long. You probably don’t have a clue, but everything I do, I do to get you to notice me…from the way I position myself in the seat, suck in my tummy, arch my spine to make my butt look sexier, to flipping my hair from side to side to give it more oomph; it’s all done to hook you in. That jolt in you as I grace you with my eyes, wowing you to an extent that you feel incapable of leaving without first talking to me, gives me an instant rush. Mmmmh. Yes. Please, keep
staring. You know the kind of rubbernecking I’m talking about? The wordless one, saying, ‘Damn, that chick is fine,’ or ‘Wow, baby. Check you out.’ But if you must go, the simple triumph of your turning head as you give me one more glance while walking away can go a long way, too.
I beg you from the bottom of my heart, keep gawking…ravish me in your mind. After all, that’s what I’m here for, to soak up the hit of you getting off on me. I thank you for the abundance of supply.
Gratefully yours,
Fantasia
Checking out the scenery, I spot a pair of large pretty brown eyes that strongly demand my consideration. A black guy with a bright smile, well-groomed nappy hair and a sturdy build approaches my table. He wears navy sweat pants and a green, form-fitted T-shirt.
Hot Shot: Ahhh, just what I need.
I return his seductive grin.
“Are you new to this facility?”
“Fairely nu, I vood say. I signt up thrie vieks ago,” I reply with a thick German accent, and an eye-batting sneer.
His name is Raymond, he says. At five foot nine, he comes up a bit short compared to the men I usually gravitate towards, but nevertheless, his refreshing confidence and charm keeps me stay tuned. During our small talk, my attention shifts roughly every other second to the ongoing happenings around me, making sure I don’t miss out on any attractive man that’s coming or going and willing to give me the eye. I know from experience that if I just stare at someone who’s unaware of me long and intensely enough, he will eventually succumb to my force field and take notice of me shortly thereafter.
Enjoying the kick of seeing Ray’s face light up upon spotting me, I make it a point from here on forward to catch at least one glimpse of it before I leave the gym each time.
Big Shot Mama: I’m dying to take a spin in his gorgeous olive-colored Mitsubishi Eclipse.
The Other Shoe
Wearing a gray, out-of-style leather coat, Raymond proceeds proud like a peacock, both hands tucked inside his pockets, several feet ahead of me toward the entrance of the Steakhouse in Malibu. He remains mute like a fish even now that we get closer to the front portal. I watch as he opens his side of the double-sided door and steps inside, leaving me to get my own while I hurry to catch up with him.
Dealing Flesh Page 11
