“I just know what you look like when you’re in love.”
I released a sound so horrible I’m not even sure it classifies as a cry. It shocked me to the point that I began to laugh. Nick started to laugh, too. It was just like old times—so we had sex.
That afternoon’s festivities were like the breakup sex that we never had; neither of us took it seriously. The only thing that really stuck with me was that he encouraged me to tell Andy how I felt before it was too late.
I didn’t listen to Nick. I figured since he was someone who should probably be on medication he wasn’t necessarily the best person to take advice from. But as I was approaching my senior year, I decided I wanted to check out a theater company in Little Rock. At least that’s why I told Andy I was going to be in his neighborhood.
Andy offered to let me stay on his couch. My plan was to stay on his face. I didn’t want to leave Arkansas without getting this sex thing right with him.
When I got to his apartment, everything felt weird. There was more distance between us than before. I didn’t take this as a hint; in fact I took it the opposite. Here’s the psychotherapy rundown of it all: If you grow up fighting for a man’s attention, specifically your father, you will probably find yourself attracted to men whose attention you have to fight for. I also realize this is not exactly groundbreaking information.
That night in Little Rock, Andy and I had sex on a pullout couch in his apartment. It was even more awkward than the first time we did it. We just went through the motions and neither of us seemed to be getting any real enjoyment from it. It was blatantly clear that we would never have sexual chemistry. With him I really wanted to let it slide. I guess I thought there was something more, but thank God we never worked out because I really do like sex and that kind of relationship would have been a huge bummer. When we were finished, Andy didn’t stay on the bed with me nor did he invite me to his room. He just went to his bedroom and left me on the couch with my own thoughts, which were mainly focused on not crying so hard that the police would show up.
The next morning I woke up before him, so I left. I drove home and decided to put him out of my mind and focus on enjoying my last few months in not only college, but in Arkansas. I was involved in something called the “Mount Sequoyah New Play Retreat” and it was about to start. Mount Sequoyah is a beautiful place on the top of a mountain, with tons of cabins and a beautiful view. It seemed like a good way to go out.
The retreat was for playwrights to come and workshop their new shows. The actors would work with them, then at the end we’d put the shows up for an audience. A few of my friends from theater, including Michele, were also doing it. There were some others whom I hadn’t met who used to go to the University of Arkansas and were coming back to participate. One of those guys, John, was really cute. Michele laid dibs on him pretty quickly and followed through. They were making out within about two hours of meeting, and it was the middle of the day.
It was my last few weeks in Fayetteville. Since Michele had taken up with John, there weren’t a ton of options for distracting myself from thoughts of Andy. I tried not to care, but at night after rehearsals it became kind of a bummer that I didn’t have a make-out partner. We’d all go out for drinks, but I just didn’t find any of the new guys interesting, although there was one who thought he was really suave. His name was Colin. He had gone to school at the U of A and was now living in California. From what I heard, when he was at the U of A he fucked everybody. He was kind of cute, but his sleazy attitude that he could get any woman he wanted was really annoying. He constantly tried to flirt with me, but I laughed him off.
The thing about guys who act like that is that eventually I wind up attracted to them. At first I find them ridiculous, then I feel sorry for them, then I develop a crush. The final night of the retreat, I put my favorite long, wavy crinkle skirt over my black bodysuit, added my favorite choker for good luck, and headed out to party.
The more I drank that night, the more Colin’s behavior became irresistible to me. I walked over to Michele and told her that I was going to hook up with him that night. I wanted her permission.
“Really? I knew it! I say go for it. He’s totally cute,” she encouraged.
“He is, right? Did you know that he was in Biloxi Blues?”
“Really? That Matthew Broderick movie?”
“Yep. They filmed some of it here or something. Whatever—Andy’s never been in a movie.” With that I sauntered off toward Colin to laugh at his dumb jokes all night long. He was eating it up.
I can’t tell you the specifics of the rest of that night because I don’t remember them. All I know is that I woke up in my bed and my clothes were not on. My head was pounding. I stood up to go get some water and aspirin, then caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I was still wearing one part of my outfit. Naked with a choker: not a good look. I then saw a note on my dresser.
“Had so much fun. I’m headed back to CA today. Love, C.”
Gross. He called himself “C.” It wouldn’t have taken him that long to add the other four letters. Even grosser—he’d left me a note. I knew he was going back to California that day; I didn’t need a Post-it to remind me. I had intended that night to be a one-night stand and now he’d gone and trumped me with a note; God he was full of himself. If he was still there I would have fucked him again just so I could get the last word in. I slowly stumbled back to my bed and called Michele.
“Hello?” she answered groggily.
“I woke up wearing nothing but a choker,” I told her.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It is not a good look,” I warned her.
“Is he still there?”
“No. But he left a note.”
“Gross. Does your head hurt?”
“Yes. Is John still there?”
“No, he left. Want to go get a Bloody Mary?”
“Yes.”
We met at our favorite place, the Grill, and drank for the entire afternoon. She asked about the night with Colin, but I didn’t remember any of the details.
“I just know we used a condom. I found the wrapper. So there’s that.”
“Oh that’s too bad. He would have made a great father.”
“I hope I never sober up again,” I stated. Then I polished off another drink.
A couple of weeks later, some friends from work decided to have a going-away party for me at their place. I was just about to graduate and I was going through with my plans to move to California to make my living as an actress and a comedian. I wondered if I should have two different parties, one with my friends from classes and one with my friends from work. But then I figured, screw it. I was about to leave anyway. Having all of the people I loved under one roof just might be a blast.
The party was exactly what I expected it to be. Everyone was drinking and I did a lot of crying. I couldn’t believe that I was about to move. I’d been in Arkansas for most of my life. I didn’t know how I was going to pull it off.
Andy’s appearance was a surprise. Nobody had warned me. I was happy to see him, but at the same time I wished he would have stayed in Little Rock, or perhaps jumped off a cliff. We hadn’t even talked since he’d pulled out on his pullout.
With the exception of the time I ordered all of Olivia Newton-John’s records on Amazon, I’ve never made a great decision while intoxicated. The night of that party was no exception. Everything was going fine—I felt loved and supported and special. The only thing that kept bothering me was the situation with Andy. I didn’t like that we were going to say goodbye at this party, possibly forever, without discussing what had happened between us. I just wanted to say something, get some closure.
If you are a girl, you probably know that closure is the excuse that most of us use to do something dramatic. Saying you are doing something for closure is just covering up your one last futile attempt to tell someone how you feel in hopes that they will come around to admit that they feel the same way about you and
the two of you will ride off into the sunset leaving all of your cares behind. So, I went to find Andy in order to get closure.
I don’t know if you’ve ever had forty drinks and then spilled your guts to someone, but I don’t recommend it. We stood there for an awkward moment, and then I unleashed. I told him that I had been in love with him for years. I told him that even when he was with Caryn I was in love with him. I told him that no matter who I was with, he was the one who I wished I was with. I told him that he was my best friend and how often does a woman get to fall in love with her best friend? I told him everything.
“But you’re moving away,” was his response.
I stared at him. No fucking kidding I was moving away.
That’s why I was standing on a lawn after drinking a gallon of Jack Daniel’s telling him that I loved him.
“That’s your response?” I asked.
“Well, you’re leaving, right?”
“Yes,” I slurred. “What are you getting at?”
He just looked at me. His eyes said it all. Mine probably said, “I’m seconds away from alcohol poisoning.”
I guess in my heart I knew what he wanted to say. It was a weird time for me to lay all of my cards out on the table. I shouldn’t have even bothered to put myself through it. If he’d returned my feelings, it wasn’t going to change my plans. Maybe I’d hoped he’d come with me. I didn’t know. I just knew that now I had closure. It felt anything but great. Fuck closure.
CABO WOBBLE
My post-college plan was to stay with my dad in Orange County, get a job as a waitress, save enough money to get an apartment, and move to L.A. I hadn’t spent much time with my father over the last four years. Once I started in college, I quit visiting him for the summer. Moving in with him was going to be weird.
To prep myself I went to visit him for my senior year spring break. I figured I needed to spend a little time to 1) make sure we still got along and 2) meet my new stepmom, Shirley. She’s my third stepmom, with a couple of broken-off engagements in between. She’s the one that stuck. My dad had quit the newspaper business and was attempting to start a wine club, which meant that I got to spend my spring break wine tasting in a beautiful place in California called Paso Robles. Not a bad deal for a twenty-one-year-old.
Shirley and I got along great. I’ve since watched her throw a drink in a twenty-two-year-old girl’s face for calling her an “old bitch.” She’s pretty fantastic. While Dad and his best friend, Joe, were off having meetings at wineries, Shirley and I went to sample the wines with Joe’s wife, Marsha. We got hammered. She was even fine with me stealing glasses from the wineries that wouldn’t let me keep the glass. This is great!
I was relieved that I liked Shirley so much. It was going to be interesting enough living with my dad again; I didn’t want to have issues with her on top of it. They’d only been married for a couple of months when I got there so I’m sure she was thrilled that her new husband’s twenty-one-year-old daughter was moving in with them.
I drove out to California with Logan and two other work friends. We all crammed into my Mustang with a U-Haul trailer attached to the back. When we pulled out of my mother’s driveway, she cried and waved, I cried and waved. It was very dramatic.
It was also the end of June. The drive across country in hundred-degree weather was a fucking disaster. Yes, I had air-conditioning in my car. No, it did not work well. We all hated one another by the end of the trip.
Our pit stop in Vegas turned out to be a few days longer than originally planned; none of us wanted to get back in that piece of shit car. I won a hundred dollars on blackjack, which I spent one morning on McDonald’s breakfast. I was hungover. I ordered a lot.
We arrived in California the week of July fourth. Joe and Marsha decided that they would have a little “welcome” party for me at their house. They had a lovely pool, a nice backyard, and a gorgeous son named Anthony. When I met him, I thought they were pulling some sort of prank on me. I couldn’t believe that my dad’s best friend had a hot Italian son close to my age. I immediately began planning our wedding.
Anthony was a cop. He had a cop body and cop testosterone. It was a little jarring at first. I was used to guys who ran around in tights rehearsing lines and dumb frat guys who ran around in Tommy Hilfigers doing bong hits. But if this was what California had to offer I was okay with it. I have a real thing for Italian guys. Aside from my baseball wife dream, I have a weird fantasy of being married to the mob, but not really like Henry Hill in GoodFellas. That’s too depressing. Somewhere more in between Tony Soprano and Sonny from General Hospital. I’ve also always been pretty horny for Andy Garcia. I know that he’s Cuban, but I can’t tell the difference.
At one point during the party we ran out of beer. Anthony offered to go get some more and asked if I’d like to join him. I followed him out to the driveway. We got into his truck and then I asked: “Are you okay to drive? We’ve been drinking all day.”
“I’m a cop!” he said excitedly and started the engine.
When we left, he kept the window down, then reached out to pull the garage door closed while he backed out, moving quickly so that the door just missed the hood of his truck. He could’ve just used the automatic garage door opener, but that’s the testosterone thing that I was talking about. Nothing really happened during the ride, but at the time it was the best half hour of my life. I felt like I was really going to like California.
Back at the party, Anthony asked if I wanted to take a quick ride on his (wait for it) motorcycle. Now he wasn’t just a hot guy, he was a hot guy with a motorcycle. God had really taken his time when putting this man together. While we went for a little spin around the block on his motorcycle, I imagined what it would be like on our wedding day when we pulled out of the church on his bike. My white dress would be flowing and we’d wave goodbye to our friends and family as all of his cop buddies fired their guns in the air. I have no idea if cops do that at a wedding, but they would do it at ours. Our families would stand together, laughing and crying.
“I can’t believe that my daughter married my best friend’s son,” my dad would say through tears of joy. “This is perfect.”
When we got back to the house, I climbed off and immediately felt pain shoot through my leg. I was a little drunk, so the pain wasn’t as bad as it could have been; sometimes alcohol comes in handy. I looked down and realized I had burned my leg on the motorcycle exhaust pipe.
“Shit, I told you to be careful around that!” Anthony ran and ripped open an aloe plant from the yard (I thought, People have aloe plants in their yards here?), broke it in half, and dripped the aloe onto my new wound. Any pain that subsided had nothing to do with the plant. It had to do with the hot Italian guy standing over me tending to my injury.
Later that afternoon Shirley told me that I was going to need eyelid surgery. She said that if I looked closely at my dad, I would notice that his eyelids are really droopy.
“By the time he’s eighty he probably won’t even be able to see.”
“Oh,” I replied. “What does that have to do with me?”
“You have your father’s eyelids. They already droop a little. It’s only going to get worse as you get older. You’re twenty-one: That’s the perfect age to take care of it. Insurance will probably cover it.”
Great. I had just moved to California and I already needed plastic surgery. I hoped that Anthony wasn’t turned off by my fucked-up eyelids.
After being in California for about two weeks, I found a bartending job close to my dad’s house. I couldn’t wait to start making some money. I mean, I was fresh out of school and living with my dad for the first time since I was five years old … and he had just gotten married. Everyone involved wanted me in and out of that house as quickly as possible.
When I got off from work my co-workers and I always went out to T.G.I. Friday’s. It was not the club scene that I assumed I’d see when I moved to California; it was that strip mall/chain restaurant mentali
ty that I was familiar with from Arkansas. It made me comfortable and every once in a while I’d feel like I was still back home. The people I worked with were fun and I had officially made my first California friends. The only problem was that all the houses on my father’s street looked the same so more times than I can count I pulled into the wrong driveway only to discover my key didn’t fit in the lock. “I just finished college … it was exhausting” was my constant excuse for drinking and sleeping in. I was actually just depressed because I’d left home, but I didn’t figure that out until later.
Living with my father was when I really began to understand where my conflicting desires in life came from. Most of my life, my dad had a lot of money. When I moved in with him, and when he was trying to start his own business, that had changed. He was basically starting over—a new career, a new wife. It was odd to see, but he was struggling. He worried about money, which he’d never done before. He was still really fun, but something about him was different. I think losing the power he once had in his career humbled him, but as I know him now, I have to say it was good for him. It made him appreciate more the things that can’t be bought. That being said, he’s always loved to go out for drinks. When I was living with him he still let himself go out and have a lot of fun, regardless of the struggles. He was the exact opposite of my mother, and so was half of me.
My plans to marry Anthony were not panning out. So far all I’d gotten from him was a scar on my leg from the motorcycle burn. We’d only hung out a few more times since the party, and it didn’t seem like it was leading to anything else. I figured it was for the best; I didn’t need to get tied up in some messy relationship before I moved to L.A. It was like an hour-and-a-half drive and for that I’d at least need to be getting laid.
A few months later, I went on a weekend trip to Cabo San Lucas with one of the girls I worked with, Danielle. If you’ve never been to Cabo, just know that it’s a mess. The bars are full of people doing shots and falling down. They play loud techno music everywhere you go. You can’t sit at a table without some man or woman coming up to pour tequila down your throat and then shaking your head back and forth while blowing a whistle. It’s awesome.
Life As I Blow It Page 9
