by Babe Walker
“Hey, Eight-Incher,” Babette said in a low, sultry voice.
Needless to say, Robert was pretty surprised to see Babette. Especially when she threw her arms around him and kissed him on the lips.
“How did you get in here?” he asked, forcing an uncomfortable smile.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your really tall, really nice-looking friends?” Babette asked, looking around suggestively. She nodded and winked at one of the players. “Robert talks shit about you all the time, don’t you, honey?” Babette laughed a little too loud. “Just kidding. You’re huge. Do you play football?”
So embarrassing. Normally I’m great at talking to pro athletes. Robert pulled me gently into the hall.
“Look,” he said, “I don’t know who you are right now, or what you think you’re doing here, but you are literally scaring the shit out of me. I miss the Babe Walker I knew and was in love with a couple days ago. That girl was so beautiful, so sure of herself, and had such an amazing sense of humor—what happened to her?”
That was so sweet, and I wanted to hug him and start over, putting Babette’s reign of terror behind us both. But Babette had a different idea.
“Oh, okay. Well next time, why don’t you just tell me I look fat to my FUCKING FACE!” she screamed. “I’m over it. Bye.”
Babette stormed out of MSG and decided to take advantage of being near Times Square and go out for the night. She loves chain restaurants, so she found the nearest Hooters and ordered herself a pitcher of sangria. Then she found some out-of-towner-bro–types and made them buy her shots and Hooterstizers and take pictures with her. She immediately uploaded the photos to a Facebook album entitled, Single and the City. Around 1:30 A.M., Babette started drunk-texting Robert:
1:28AM:
I love you.
1:28AM:
I’m sorry.
1:33AM:
Do you hate me?
1:39AM:
Fuck uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu.
1:45AM:
I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.
1:51AM:
Actally I dod mean that. FUK. YOU.
1:51AM:
Fick you
1:52AM:
Where aret u?
1:52AM:
Send me bavk those Loubs u borowed or I’m goig to rip your eybals out next time I c u [meant for Genevieve, sent to Robert by mistake]
1:53AM:
Sorry. That text wasnt 4 u.
1:59AM:
Do u even care?
2:12AM:
Over it.
2:13AM:
Over it.
2:14AM:
Over it.
2:15AM:
Over it.
2:16AM:
Over it.
2:17AM:
OVERIT.
2:18AM:
OVerit.
2:20AM:
Over. It.
2:25AM:
O
2:26AM:
V
2:27AM:
E
2:28AM:
R
3:00AM:
it.
3:27AM:
I’m os sorry. I love you.
3:30AM:
Going home w Mitch frm Arizona hes fuckng hot and Im so horny.
3:32AM:
What are you doing? You should com here.
4:14AM:
Where am I?
4:15AM:
Are u ok? I’m alittl worried.
4:19AM:
Did u get my text. I calld the police.
4:20AM:
woooo 4 20 wooooooo! I’m with all these guys and Im os stoned right now.
4:30AM:
Want 2 hang out? All my friends want to meet uu
4:32AM:
Fine dont text me. 2 can ply that game mister.
4:33AM:
ok
This chain of texts was the last straw for my poor, beloved Robert. He called me the next morning and broke things off completely, telling me to lose his number. Somewhere during Robert’s breakup speech, I came out of my Babette haze long enough to explain that I had freaked out because I loved him, but he didn’t care. He was done, which meant I was left alone with Babette, again.
Being the Fatal Attraction BITCH that she is, Babette couldn’t accept that it was over. She texted Robert incessantly until he changed his phone number, then she stalked him until he moved to an unlisted address. I, on the other hand, threw myself into finishing my spring semester, enrolled promptly in an anger management course, and started focusing heavily on my long-distance video-chat therapy with Susan. Despite these positive measures, I ultimately spiraled into a nervous breakdown that sent me fleeing to London to be with my Tai Tai once the school year had ended.
My grandmother is milking the shit out of this one.
I had to get out of New York.
Central Saint Martins College of Art and Design
Thanks to my above average grades at Parsons, and thanks to my grandmother being one of the most connected women in the London fashion scene since the sixties (she was Twiggy before Twiggy was Twiggy), I was allowed to transfer to Central Saint Martins for an independent study program. I threw myself headfirst into my work and designed a line of ethni-chic turbans that Tai Tai started wearing to society events all over London. Harrods even ordered fifty of them for fall. Tai Tai had always flitted in and out of my life, so it was nice to spend some quality time with her. We were really bonding, and things were kind of on the up and up, but all of that changed when tragedy struck.
I woke up one morning to find a note from Tai Tai in the refrigerator, saying that she’d left the country to go on a safari vision quest in Namibia. She’d taped it to the hemp milk, where she knew I’d find it. Tai Tai was the bald eagle of uncaged free spirits, so I didn’t think twice about her sudden disappearance. A week later, I found out that she’d been mauled by a lion.
When the Namibian police officer told us that Tai Tai was wearing her favorite zebra-skin trench coat at the time of her death, I knew it wasn’t an accident. After an autopsy, it was discovered that Tai Tai had a rare bone cancer and hadn’t had very long to live. She was not the kind of person to let anyone—or anything for that matter—rule her destiny, so she had chosen to cut her losses, keep her hair, and take matters into her own hands. She had planned the whole thing. The lion that killed her sits, stuffed, in my dad’s study and scares the shit out of me every time I see it.
My grandmother’s last will and testament requested that her circle of friends and family come to Africa to spread her ashes on the dunes of Namibia, which meant I was going to need a lot more print-heavy, shapeless, smock-type garments. I partook in a mini shopping spree on the way to Heathrow Airport. Every cloud.
Tai Tai’s death had really affected me deeply, especially after we’d had such an amazing time living together and drinking together in London. My grandmother was an amazing human being. She was unlike anyone I’d ever met and I respected her for it. She knew what she wanted, got what she wanted, and did so with a measure of grace that made you realize that she operated on another level.
Even though her façade always seemed inviting, Tai Tai was trained in the art of cuntyness. For example, if offered a basket of bread before a meal, she would invariably administer a freezing-cold death stare, leaving the waiter with no choice but to scurry away, bread basket in hand. The night I got my first period, we were having dinner at the Polo Lounge and she stood up and made a celebratory toast to the entire restaurant, including my father, his girlfriend, and the headmaster at my school, who happened to be at the restaurant with her husband celebrating their wedding anniversary. Tai Tai was an incredibly generous tipper, both with cash and advice, which usually came in the form of a backhanded remark. “Next week, when you hand me my check, please try and look a little less Spanish,” she’d say, smiling and pressing a $100 bill into the waiter’s palm. Tai Tai’s absolute favorite game was to tell people we were sisters.
I met my dad at the Johannesburg airport, where we took a private plane to Namibia. I sobbed on his shoulder during the whole flight.
“Who am I going to get facials with now?” I cried.
“This must be hard as hell, darling,” he said, comforting me. “I know how much she meant to you, and you should know that you were always her gem. You were her bloody gem.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“And, sweetie, she was effing proud of the person that you’re becoming.”
“I get it. But like, I don’t get it. It seems kinda rude that she made us all come to Namibia. She can be the biggest attention whore.” I wept on my dad’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Trust me, if anyone knows that woman, it’s me. I’m not the least bit surprised that even from the afterlife, she’s managed to make it all about her. All of this drama is a bit self-involved, isn’t it?”
On the day of the ceremony, it was literally nine thousand degrees. In a cruel twist of fate, I was in Africa for a funeral, so I had no choice but to dress in all black. So it was a Dolce & Gabbana dress with a long-sleeved sheer floral overlay and knee-high Jil Sander gladiators. I did the best I could with what I had, but I was still super-sweaty.
The funeral itself was really chic. A shitload of African dignitaries showed up, and their looks (costumes?) were major. We all cried when Ladysmith Black Mambazo performed “Send in the Clowns.” At the end of the ceremony, we released Tai Tai’s ashes over the dunes. It wasn’t until I saw them floating through the African atmosphere that I realized I would never again see my grandmother smack a tailor, or throw her keys at a valet, or give a waitress the silent treatment. My eyes welled with tears. No one would ever replace Tai Tai and I missed the fuck out of her.
The after party took place on the beach in Windhoek (birthplace of Shiloh Jolie-Pitt). It was tented and featured fire pits, traditional cuisine, and an elephant. I had to give it up to my grandmother and her party planner, they knew how to put an event together. Apparently they’d been planning her funeral for almost two months. She was always so good at surprises. One time she threw a surprise party in my backyard for my eighth birthday that would have been flawless if the fireworks hadn’t been so loud and scary. I peed through my skort.
My dad and I (and some cousins who don’t live in LA or London, so . . . unclear) and some other funeral guests sat around a huge bonfire, poured bottles of French rosé, and shared our favorite memories about Tai Tai. Most of the speeches were snoozeworthy, and I got progressively less sober as the night went on, but I do remember some of the good ones.
My dad talked about how, when he was a kid growing up in London, Tai Tai would take him to the movies every Wednesday after school. Without fail, she’d finish a bottle of champagne during the film and be asleep by the time the credits rolled. My dad would have to drive them home, so he basically learned to drive when he was seven. Also, they drive on the wrong side of the road in Britain, so in American years he was like three. He got really choked up talking about how Tai Tai helped raise me. She’d dropped everything and moved in with us from the time I was born until I was four. He told everyone about how I’d had a minor lisp when I first started talking, but Tai Tai corrected it by soaking my bottom lip in gin every night before I went to bed. I never knew that story, and I was touched to learn how selfless my grandmother had been with her time when my dad needed her most.
“My mother might’ve looked like a tightly wound broad, but those of us who knew her well can attest to the fact that she was a scrappy one.” My dad continued, “There wasn’t a problem she couldn’t fix—or rather, a fuckup she couldn’t gracefully get herself, or her loved ones, out of.” He found me in the group and looked right into my eyes, and I knew he was about to say something emo. “Babe, you remind me of Tai Tai every day. Your laugh, your twisted sense of humor, your passion, and I know that she’s sitting up there, or down there, with a cigarette slowly burning in her pretty little fingers, smiling at you. She was fucking proud of you, Babe.” And he sat back down on the bench between two half-naked tribeswomen. I would’ve cried if there weren’t strangers around, I swear.
Her plastic surgeon praised her for having “the hair of Grace Kelly, the boobs of Helen Mirren, the attitude of Cher, and the wit of Blanche Devereaux.” He also claimed that she had some of the finest bone structure he had ever come across. She was his favorite patient because her taste in facial adjustments was refined and classic. It was always a collaborative effort with Tai Tai. Also, his date may have been Joceyln Wildenstein (Google her).
Tai Tai’s gardener, Daniel, told a weird story about the time that he and my grandmother were arrested for having ten kilos of marijuana growing under hyroponic lamps in a shed on her property. He went on to say that he wasn’t mad at her anymore for making him take the blame, and that serving fourteen months in a correctional facility in San Quentin was the best thing that had ever happened to him. So supersweet.
To conclude the long evening of drunken memories (it was 3 A.M.), I gave an impromptu speech about what my Tai Tai meant to me. I told everyone that she taught me how to dress, and how to eat, etc., blah blah blah. I’m normally terrible at public speaking because, as a former actress, I respect and rely on other people’s words. When I don’t have a script, I get flustered and usually end up ruining my speeches. This time was different. I was so present that night on the beach, I could feel the sand on my skin and taste the ocean in the air. At the end of my monologue, I facilitated a silent prayer that brought everyone to tears. It was beyond. I may have even levitated for a sec.
After twenty hours on a plane, seven Xanax, thirteen Bloody Marys, six hundred Diet Cokes, and zero cigarettes, I was back in LA. My dad and I went to Tai Tai’s lawyer’s office for the reading of her will. I’d never been to a will reading before, and besides being slightly morose, the whole event was very chic. We weren’t there long, but the gist was this: my dad got most of her fortune, she gave a crazy amount of money to charity, she gave me her furs and a very sizeable trust, she gave Daniel the gardens he had been taking care of for the past thirty years and the guesthouse on her estate, and she gave Mabinty her Rolls-Royce. I think we all fared well, but I would’ve loved some jewelry. Just saying.
As we were leaving the lawyer’s office, he handed me a small envelope with my name written in Tai Tai’s florid cursive on the front. There was a letter inside:
Dearest Babe,
Shut up and listen to me, darling, because I’m only going to say this once. I know my death may seem sudden, and I know you may hate me for making you wear all black to an outdoor wedding in Namibia, but this is the way it was meant to be. From dust to dust.
I love you very much and I have all the faith in the world that one day you will get your shit together. I’ve left you my furs and I expect that you will care for them like the beautiful pets that they are. I needn’t remind you that they’ll require their own temperature-controlled storage unit. I’ve also left you a bit of cash, which is to be released to you in increments. Don’t spend it all in one day. However, the most important thing I can leave you is the following wisdom:
Never accept a marriage proposal from a man in open toed shoes. He’s either gay or a gypsy.
Never cry. It causes swelling.
Doctors, lawyers, and princes come and go. Oil money lasts forever.
Get your first face-lift by the time you’re forty-two, after that it’s too late.
Don’t go to bed with a full face of makeup on, unless you think you may die in your sleep.
You should never have to work to make a living. You’re smarter than that.
I miss you already, my love, and I’ll be watching over you. So spend my money with good taste. I deserve that.
Love,
Your Tai Tai
My waxer knows me better than I know myself.
The best thing you can do for your social life is to leave home for a long period of time and then
come back unexpectedly. I try to do this as often as possible.
I had just gotten back home to LA after five brief stints at five universities and an uncomfortably hot funeral in Namibia. My return home was the beginning of a new chapter in my life, so I chose to be in a place of renewal and receive the positivity that the world had to offer. The first few weeks back in town were amazing. The trust my grandmother had set up for me kicked in, and my dad threw me a huge welcome home party and let me redecorate my room. I decided on a marriage of two motifs: Zen garden meets Brazilian jungle. I was super-focused and ready to take on the rest of my life, or whatevs.
I also reconnected with Roman and Genevieve. Gen had graduated with honors from Stanford and was selling real estate. She was the youngest broker at the hottest firm in town, which was especially impressive because she was also doing enough coke to blow up the sun.
Roman had gotten into the business of promoting nightclubs and had just opened a new hot spot the week before I got back. I wish I could say more about it, but it was a members only thing. Sorry. So fucking chic though. Just like . . . the kind of place where everyone can relax while dressed in head-to-toe Celine and lounge, and no one cares who anyone is because everyone is somebody. Very easy and real.
In Los Angeles, twenty is the new fifty. So once I was home it became my full-time job to make myself look ten. I didn’t realize how far I’d gone down this dark path until one day it occurred to me that I was e-mailing my waxer more than anyone else in my life. Let me break it down:
