by Andrea Adler
Larry wasn’t very bright or well mannered. These flaws in his character assured me of how short-lived the relationship was going to be. Nevertheless, Larry did have other attributes that made getting involved romantically an easy decision. He had the greatest lips on the planet; thick, dark wavy hair; and an exceedingly hairy chest. To me, there’s nothing better than burrowing into a mound of hair when I’m depressed, or diving into a mass of hair when I’m horny. I once mentioned my hair fetish to Rachel. She told me I must have been a female ape in a past life, searching for my hairy male counterpart. She might have been right.
Most of all, I loved the way Larry kissed. His plump tongue always knew just what to do inside my mouth; his succulent lips and long, expressive fingers knew just what to do everywhere else—a quality that more than made up for his acting deficiencies. Which is why, when Larry invited me to his apartment after class, I graciously accepted and looked forward to proceeding with … what he knew best.
A joint was smoldering in the ashtray on the floor by the bed, burning its last embers. Our bodies were naked, snuggled beneath the covers. Giggling rippled out from under Larry’s sheets, and only if you were lying next to us or if your head was directly above ours could you have heard him whisper the words: “I was great, wasn’t I?”
“In class or in bed?” I replied.
“Very funny, bush hair.”
“You were great in bed. Okay in class … why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Look out into the audience when you’re supposed to be in character. You break the fourth wall every time you look out. You lose the audience’s trust.”
“I sucked, right?”
“You didn’t suck. There were a couple of lines where I really believed you. Like, when you described how the cops couldn’t catch up to you and the sirens were screaming, and how you jumped out of the Porsche and walked away, cool-like. You were really into it.”
Larry lay there gloating, as if he’d just contributed something significant to a nation of needy people. I lay there next to him witnessing the swell of his unjustified ego, wondering how anyone could walk through life and remain so unconscious. As my conflicting thoughts about Larry drifted back and forth, I suddenly stepped into my own reality and stumbled upon an alarming idea that shot me bolt upright.
“I’m moving in with a stranger on Saturday. What am I doing?”
Larry took hold of my shoulder and pulled me down. It was his Italian Brooklyn accent that always ruined the ensuing moment or made me laugh out of context. “Why don’t you move in here? We got plenty a room.”
“Are you serious? You’ve got two roommates and one bedroom. You don’t even have a dresser. Where would I put my clothes?”
“We could put ’em under the bed.”
“Your mattress is on the floor.” I reached for the ashtray for one last toke, but the joint had burned out. “I’m just feeling paranoid.”
“What if she’s schizophrenic? In the daytime, she’s warm and loving, but when the sun goes down, she becomes a gargoyle, and flies around your room in the middle of the night, nests on your head …”
“I have no sense of humor right now!” I jumped off the bed, picked up my clothes off the floor, and bolted into the bathroom.
“How big’s her place?” he hollered through the door. “It could be one room, for all you know.”
“She told me her husband was a famous artist from New York. I’m sure the place is very palatial.” I emerged from the bathroom. “I’m leaving. Are you going to help me move or not?”
Larry didn’t answer. He pretended not to hear me, and intentionally slipped his head under the covers.
“Well?”
“I guess.”
“Never mind.”
“All right, all right. I’ll help you move.”
Chapter 6
If one clings to the strong man,
one loses the little boy.
Larry was only thirty-five minutes late when he sauntered into my apartment wearing his cutoffs and a pink T-shirt. I opened the door and found him leaning against the frame, Jimmy Dean–style. An unlit cigarette dangled from his luscious lips. He was expecting me to kiss him. Was he kidding? By the time he’d honored me with his presence, most of my things had been packed, crammed into every crevice of the Fiat. Since early that morning I had been lugging suitcases out to the trunk, stacking boxes in the backseat, laying clothes over taped boxes. Pillows and bedcovers were shoved in wherever they could fit, and the bags under my arms full of toiletries … I wasn’t sure where they were going. No doubt squished between the bucket seats. And he wanted my lips?
I looked at his tanned, muscular arms and legs, and wondered why God hadn’t finished the job and given him a functional brain. I asked him to wait while I made one last apartment check. He leaned his back against the Fiat, happy to oblige, as long as he could enhance his tan and not expend any effort.
As I headed back to the apartment for the last time, I knew I wasn’t going to miss this place. I wasn’t going to miss the torn rug that smelled of cat piss or the six-inch-square freezer that only had room for two Creamsicles and a chicken potpie, or the blotchy yellow walls, or the toilet that never completely flushed. I might miss the times I’d spent learning lines, pacing the living room as I rehearsed monologue after monologue, and sitting in the bathtub trying to get rid of my Michigan accent. I had to admit, I’d grown as an actor here. A tear fell, and it surprised me as I took my final glance. I guess I will miss this place.
Larry and I squeezed our bodies into the two tiny spaces left in the Fearless Fiat’s front seat and drove to Emma’s apartment building. Hardly able to see out the back window, I endured the slow lane for the first time in my life. It wasn’t bad. I guess there was a reason for the lane. Larry barely said a word, which was a pleasant surprise. Perhaps he knew more than I gave him credit for.
Curson Avenue, Emma’s street, was located in mid-city L.A. It was lined with garden apartments and condominiums, oak trees and maple trees, and real green grass. There were only a few small houses scattered on the street; the rest of the block was mostly five-and six-story buildings with people in their seventies and eighties sitting on their front balconies talking, laughing, rocking away the hours. As we drove down the street, two kids played Frisbee on the grass, and the passing friendly mailman tried his hand at throwing the disk. It was a real neighborhood, and it’d been a long time since I’d lived in one. I welcomed the unaccustomed sounds.
Emma’s building was in a gray square stucco structure. There were balconies attached, but no interesting curves or tiers. Symmetrical rectangular windows lined the front of the edifice, exposing identical off-white curtains in every frame. And each tenant had the same boxes of tulips sitting on their windowsills. I couldn’t tell if they were plastic or real. That was the least of my worries. I maneuvered the Fiat as best I could, close to the curb, and sat there for a moment, flashing back on why I was making this daring move. And then I remembered.
Fortunately, Larry remained silent as I breathed in my new street.
“Okay, let’s do it.”
“You’re sure you don’t want to live with me?” Larry asked, apparently thinking, absurdly, that I might change my mind.
“Let’s go.”
Arms filled with boxes, hands clutching loose pairs of shoes by straps and shoestrings, clothes falling off hangers and drooping off our forearms, we approached the lobby’s elevator. There on a sign were two of the most beautiful words I’d seen since I’d last lived in the comfort of my parents’ domain: LAUNDRY ROOM. I stopped in mid-breath. “Larry, look! I don’t have to drive twenty minutes to a hot, humid, money-eating Laundromat any longer.” Larry, having no concept of the depths of my relief, grunted and pulled me inside the elevator. I pressed the number 3.
Emma’s building was one of those garden apartments where all the doors opened to the outdoors. There were no dark, musty halls to walk through, no perfumed carpet
s that tried to hide the smells—yet another unfortunate situation I had become too accustomed to. At Emma’s apartment, the inner wooden door was open. I set down the suitcase, laid the bundle of clothes and shoes on top, and knocked softly on the outer screen door. Emma greeted us with a wide smile and invited us in.
“Hi, Emma. This is Larry Santino, a friend from acting class.”
“Hello, Larry. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Her clear blue eyes took him in. If she wasn’t impressed, she was too ladylike to be rude. “Why don’t you come in, relax a little, then bring the rest of your things upstairs. I’ve made some iced tea for you.”
“Oh, thank you,” I replied, waiting for Larry to do the same. Emma waited, too.
“Please, sit down. You must be exhausted from the move.”
We sat and watched Emma walk with a kind of deliberateness that revealed she’d been able to move much faster some time ago, but now, since her husband’s passing and her heart attack, she had slowed down. The woman from the ad placed one foot before the other solidly on the carpet and headed toward the kitchen to get her guests some tea.
I looked around, taking in the sights of my new home. The living room had that distinct grandmother aroma: cooked fish combined with the scent of evergreen air freshener. Old-fashioned plastic rug runners started in the living room and rolled out to the kitchen, then to the bathroom, to protect the atrocious turquoise carpet from wear. The green polyester couch was also covered with a thick protective plastic. Stained maple end tables must have been with Emma since her wedding day. The too-heavy-for-the-apartment mahogany dining-room table and armoire showcasing her old white china could not have arrived much after. An old record player and a small-screen TV were placed in the corner. Strangely, there was one piece of furniture that stood out among the others. It was a beautiful green satin Victorian high-back chair. Emma’s name was written all over it, even down to the faint impression of her buttocks in the seat.
Emma returned to the living room with a shaky tray and two glasses of iced tea. After serving us, she sat down in her high-back. “Did you have far to travel?”
“It only took us half an hour from Westwood. The real challenge was not causing an accident.”
Emma looked right into my eyes, and smiled.
“Would you like a tour of your new home?”
I took a sip of the cold tea, experienced brain freeze, and nodded yes.
Larry poked me in the spine with his elbow and whispered facetiously, “Very palatial!”
“Very funny!” I elbowed him back.
So what if the furniture was not as elegant as I had imagined and the rooms were small? So what if there were no Persian rugs or French provincial furniture or priceless antiques? Somehow, I could already sense that it wasn’t the things in this place that were about to change me. It was a feeling—an underlying feeling of expansion and the premonition that anything in the world, anything in the realm of possibility, could happen to me here. This feeling seemed much more important than what my eyes were seeing or what my nose was inhaling.
We followed Emma down the hallway. Paintings hung everywhere! Large paintings, small paintings, paintings in antique frames, paintings in modern frames. There were portraits and still lifes, landscapes and abstracts, each one more alluring, more animated, than the next, each one revealing a unique story. I realized then that this place, her home, where she had lived and breathed for years, was where she had nurtured Josef and where he had imbibed all her love and had woven the sum total of their love into his creations. I couldn’t imagine that I was being given the opportunity to live here, to drink in this energy, to bathe in it.
One painting mesmerized me: it was of three middle-aged men sitting at a table in a dark bar. The intense brushstrokes of deeply penetrating browns and burgundies brought such depth to the characters that the figures truly came alive. I stopped at the next picture to study the rich colors of the robust country farmer, proud of the land he cultivated, when Emma’s voice, close beside me, said, “He was a great painter, wasn’t he?”
“Yes, he was,” I replied.
And your encouragement—that made sure of it, I thought.
The woman standing beside me was quiet. A moment of stillness turned into forever while everything around me intensified—colors, sounds, touch. I could hear dust fly and smell the dried paint on the canvas and the various woods that framed the paintings. And in that moment of stillness, there was an understanding between us that went beyond words or thoughts. As we stood there in front of Josef’s paintings, we were two vessels open to the mystery of what had brought us together. Open to the challenge of what the future might bring. Emma was a formidable woman indeed. She had plenty to teach me, and I had plenty to learn. I was about to be … Pushing Upward.
“Holy crap. I gotta go!” Larry’s interjection startled me. He was looking at his Mickey Mouse wristwatch. “I’m s’posed ta meet my brother at the Sunset Diner in ten minutes.”
“Emma, do you mind if we bring my things up now?”
“Go ahead, dear.”
“Larry, where’d you leave your manners?” He didn’t answer as we headed down the elevator and piled the rest of my bags and loose shoes in each other’s arms. After Larry dropped my favorite dress on the ground, I had no words. I picked up the garment, and we took the elevator back up to my new home—in silence.
I was pretty certain about saying good-bye to Larry—forever. Saying good-bye meant an end to a significant Chapter of my life, a major shift from surface encounters to what I hoped would be substantive, fulfilling relationships. I couldn’t wait to meet intelligent, talented people who knew where they were going and were willing to work hard to get there. People I could learn from and respect. I didn’t know when I’d meet these people; I just knew I was going to. It was all part of this impending excursion I was about to take off on. And like all great adventures, there was no telling how different the traveler would be when the trip was over, or where the changes would lead.
After all my belongings were stacked high on my new bed, I gave a hug to the boy who had warmed my lips and caressed my body on nights I couldn’t stand to be alone. And as I pulled away from his tight embrace, I remembered how effortless it was to lie next to him, how sweet it was to kiss his mouth. And even though his jokes were insanely stupid and he was a horrid actor, I was going to miss the guy with the Yankees baseball cap and the perfect tan.
“Hey, call me later.” Then he turned to Emma and smiled. “Thanks for the tea. Nice meetin’ ya.” Not a clue how belated he was with his good manners.
Emma smiled back. “It was nice meeting you, Larry.”
Chapter 7
Shock comes—oh, oh!
Then follow laughing words—ha, ha!
Sleeping in a new bed usually meant a restless night’s sleep, and major adjustments for my psyche the following morning. But for some reason I slept quite soundly amid my new surroundings and woke up to two robins singing on the edge of my windowsill. Listening to their lyrical sounds and feeling the sun’s rays on my exhausted body, I was at peace in this tiny room filled with Josef’s paintings and books, its walls glowing, cupping the morning sun. I didn’t mind Josef’s presence, either, his memory surrounding me. It added a kind of security, a knowing that I was being looked after, cared for. This cocoon, enveloping me as I lay on the bed, seemed to be protecting me from all the possible demons lurking outside. For the first time, I think, in my life, I felt no anxiety, no apprehension about what the next minute might or might not bring.
Maybe this is what heaven is like. I held that thought and slid down beneath the covers, sinking into the soft goose-down pillows, where my mind could wander without interruption. Free to turn to one side of the bed or the other, embracing my pillow. Feeling the soft white sheets on my freshly shaved legs as they moved this way and that with total freedom. I was completely content. If I had my way, I’d hide under these covers forever.
Lest I forget how short forever
could be … without warning came the recollection of the dream I’d had the night before, and off and on for years. The images were dark. They wouldn’t come clear. There were two shadows. Two shadowy male figures stood there, laughing, more menacing than gleeful. They were looming larger. Coming closer … there was a third figure I couldn’t make out. My stomach felt queasy as the memory surfaced.
How foolish of me to think I could remain in this state of bliss for more than a few minutes, let alone eternity. As soon as I thought I couldn’t, I didn’t. The internal demons of doubt were back. I threw off the covers. Oh God, what if Emma turns out to be weird? What if we don’t get along and I have to move out? The thought of moving again put my brain on overload.
I pulled the covers back over me, shivering. My arm slid out from the side. I reached under the bed, and brought the I Ching up to my breast. My fingers returned to the floor, groping around for the silk pouch, the pencil and pad. I sat up, pulled open the pouch strings, took out the dimes, and held them tightly. I closed my eyes and tried to think of the right question.
Dear God, is everything going to be okay?
No, that wasn’t the question.
Will I have to leave?
I didn’t even want to go there. Think, Sandra.
Okay: What is it I need to know about this relationship?
That’s it. I threw the coins six times, wrote down each of the six broken lines on the legal pad, and looked up the hexagram in the back of the oracle. It was hexagram number 2:
2. K’un /The Receptive
Above: K’un, The Receptive, Earth
Below: K’un, The Receptive, Earth
