A Not So Model Home

by David James

  “Both, but she’s kinda short for the model thing. She’s Ian’s therapist, counselor, exorcist, whatever. But I like her. I think.”

  “She’s the silver lining?”

  “I’m going to make her my emotional airbag. A buffer, so to speak. All right, I’m going to hide behind her if I need to.”

  Alex gave me one of those stop-underestimating-yourself looks. “How about this: Why don’t you work to stand out rather than hide in the shadows? I mean, that’s what they hired you for.”

  “I’m there for the comic relief . . . to make others look good while they dance rings around me.”

  “Then don’t let ’em do it. You’re much smarter than those vacuous models and musclehead pretty boys. Remember, the image you create on this show is going to stay with you for a long time.”

  “Like Janet Jackson’s pierced and armored nipple at the Super Bowl? Great! I still can’t get that image out of my head.”

  “I know, I still wake up screaming at night. That is one ugly boob . . . the veins, ugh! But back to the matter at hand. You’re a smart aleck. You’re funny. Why don’t you put all those zingers you come up with to good use?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Alex.”

  “Amanda, you said that these guys are vain, narcissistic, bitchy, and vacuous.”

  “Most of them are.”

  “So then it will be like shooting fish in a barrel. You’re going to stand out if you play off these bad qualities. I mean, if these guys turn out to be as bad as you think they might be, they’re not going to be likable. Ian is certainly not likable. Aurora seems like a hardass. You play it smart and witty, and you’re going to steal the show since viewers are going to want someone to like. They’ll identify with you because you’ll be giving these guys the kick in the ass the viewers want them to get.”

  I got up to go, grabbing my briefcase.

  “Where are you going?” Alex asked.

  “To look through my shoe closet for a pair with really sharp toes. I’ll call you later.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Gorky, I understand you’re frustrated that your house hasn’t sold yet and your neighbor’s has. But as I told you, Lionel’s house is 1,200 square feet larger, it has a drop-dead kitchen and new baths, and yours doesn’t. Yours is kinda original. From 1957 . . . Yes, I know yours has the original Formica, and we described it as vintage in the brochures, but it’s still gold-flecked Formica.... Yes, I understand that buyers are out for blood, but that doesn’t change things.... Yes, I think they’re bloodsuckers. . . . What? No, I wouldn’t call them that . . . that’s illegal. Listen, I understand. . . yes . . . I work in the market, I don’t make it. No, I don’t think it’s a Jewish conspiracy. Well, I imagine that Lehman Brothers had some Jewish people working there, but . . . Yes, but I don’t think that has anything to do with your house not selling. Let’s give it a few more weeks, and let’s talk about a price reduction at the end of the month. No, I think that’s what we need . . . Yes, about $50,000. I’m sorry, Mrs. Gorky, I think that’s what we need. Okay, I’ll call you in a week. Okay, yes, I hear that. Fuckers, huh? Good-bye.”

  I hung up the phone like it weighed 300 pounds. I was back in the office with Alex after a short lunch.

  “Is she still on the Jew-bastards rant?” Alex inquired.

  “That was last week. Now she’s after the Armenians.”

  “She’s old Russia, isn’t she? Probably missing the good ol’ days of Stalin.”

  “Did you see the varicose veins in her legs that she tries covering up with the dark blue hose? And the naval pinafore dress and spectators! She looks like a casting call for the movie Grey Gardens. Alex, could you tell me why we took on this listing? I knew she was crazy the moment she walked into my open house two months ago.”

  “The lipstick?” he replied. “A telltale sign if there ever was one. Normal people can put theirs on and manage to hit most of their lips.”

  “I think she’s better suited for living under a bridge instead of in a mid-century house. I don’t know why we took this listing,” I added exasperatedly.

  “Money? Penance?”

  “Alex, you forget that I’m Catholic. Life is penance.”

  “I never forget that you were raised Catholic because you remind me daily.”

  “That’s because I suffer mental anguish from it every day of my life.”

  “That was almost thirty years ago. It’s time to move on, Amanda.”

  “I can’t. It’s not just mental trauma. It’s physical. Look at my hands. I still have ruler marks from when Sister Gerzaniks hit me because I colored Jesus’s face black in second-grade Sunday school.”

  “Black?”

  “The sister told us Jesus lived in the Middle East, where there are deserts and a lot of sun. So I figured Jesus would really be tan at the very least, and since someone had used all the burnt sienna crayons in the box, I used black.”

  “Sister Gerzaniks was a racist.”

  “She was. She pointed to a picture of Jesus, then a crucifix on the wall, and asked me if his face looked black to me.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I said that was just one artist’s conception of what Jesus could have looked like.”

  “You did not. You couldn’t have been more than eight.”

  “What could I say, Alex? She was towering over me and had the dreaded ruler in her hand. The one stained red from all the blood. Before I knew it, she brought it down on my hands. I’ll never be a hand model again.”

  “Did you tell your mother about this? This is physical abuse.”

  “I did.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She said I probably deserved it. Real supportive.”

  “Did anyone tell Sister Gerzaniks that there is absolutely no description of Jesus in the Bible, so every painting or sculpture is completely manufactured. It all depends on the artist. It’s not like we had a yearbook to look at.”

  “No one looks good in their high-school picture, Alex—except you. Imagine, Jesus with acne.”

  “The Holy pustule.”

  “We’re supposed to be made in God’s image, if you believe the Bible.”

  “Amanda, if there was a God, do you think he would run around looking like Paris Hilton?”

  “So remind me again, Alex, why we have this listing? It’s overpriced, the seller is psychotic, and no one is buying any homes.”

  Alex looked at me as if to say, y-e-s?

  There it was, staring me in the face like an oversized sty. The Great Recession that was really a Depression, but nobody wanted to name it that because it was too scary. But you couldn’t ignore it any more than you could a crack whore in your living room. It all started on Wall Street, with stock brokerages creating financial vehicles from borrowed overseas money with no wheels on them, lending money out to anyone who could successfully fog a mirror, to homeowners who bought houses at artificially inflated prices, then took out home equity loans with the false equity they had in their homes and spent it on masochistically ugly home improvements, more speculative housing buys, or boob jobs and cigarette boats capable of running down swimmers at over 100 miles an hour. It was a worldwide clusterfuck. It all was going along very nicely until the participants ran out of lube. Then things got uglier than an Amish fashion show.

  Yes, we Realtors had our fine, manicured hands up to the third joints in this mess. We sold these overinflated houses by the thousands and made money like South American drug dealers. We lived like them too. Almost everyone was driving BMWs or Mercedes. The poorer agents drove Lexuses. All this wealth and fine living didn’t go unnoticed either. Soon, everyone was getting into the business. Waitresses, school teachers, interior designers, followed by the just plain stupid and inept, while the corrupt brought up the rear. They exploded out of nowhere like a squeezed zit, bloating the ranks of agents while the State of California struggled to keep up with those applying. After all, all you had to do was have a car and a Department of Real Estate lice
nse. You didn’t have to build a database of leads, follow up on them, do mailing, make phone calls, and build a business plan. And like Santa Claus, we all believed the lie, believing that home values were going to go up forever and ever. The rising tide was going to raise all boats, but ours was going to be a yacht. We were going to be stinking rich. And some of us were . . . for the life span of a fruit fly. Then the whole sorry mess began to collapse like a house of cards. Agents went bankrupt, walked away from their homes, drove those fancy cars off cliffs, or more dramatically, made their entire borrowed estate into a delicious bonfire. And there we stood, with sellers looking at us Realtors to bail their butts out of the sling.

  The phone buzzed from the front desk.

  “Yes, Gino?”

  “Call for you from Jeff Stewart. He’s on the warpath again.”

  “Great,” I responded. “Put him through, Gino.”

  I looked at Alex for support. “Your turn to get shot,” I commented, handing him the phone.

  CHAPTER 6

  Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder. Does That Apply to Sluts Too?

  I went home that night after a fruitless afternoon. Ken, my detective with the Palm Springs police and my cautious and perpetual dating partner, had let himself in and was cooking.

  “How was the first day of shooting?”

  “Like a drive-by.”

  “That bad?”

  “Actually, they didn’t do any shooting today, just a get-to-know-your-enemy meeting. It’s going to be a pit of snakes.”

  “Well, Amanda, sit down and I’ll pour you a cucumber martini. That should make things right.”

  Into a frosted glass, he poured my favorite drink with care, then topped it off with a cucumber slice. Perfect. Like my ex, Alex.

  “I’ve got some bad news for you, Amanda,” he said, looking me straight in the eye.

  “You’re gay. I knew it! You dress too well. You’re too handsome. You know how to cook. You have tasteful furniture in your condo.”

  “I’m not gay. I’m metrosexual.”

  I laughed like it was all a joke, when it really wasn’t. After my first husband turned out to be gay, I’ve been waiting for the other Gucci shoe to drop with Ken. He’s too much like a gay man to be straight. He assures me all the time. Fucks me until I’m crazy. And still I wonder. Once bitten, twice shy, I guess.

  Ken continued, “No, I’ve got to leave town for a while. My mother fell.”

  “Oh, my God, is she all right?”

  “She fell down the stairs into the basement. Didn’t break a single bone, but she’s pretty bruised up and in the hospital. I have to fly home and get her on her feet. I might be gone for a while.”

  “Of course, of course, Ken. Any idea how long this might take? A month?”

  Ken shook his head.

  “Two?”

  Again, another sad shake. “Amanda, I really don’t know. I have to get her on her feet again, make her house more accessible, and find someone to look in on her.”

  My face fell like a startled soufflé. “Well, okay. I’m sure I’ll find something to do in the meantime. Maybe I’ll take up snake handling. Or golfing. I need a hot, buff caddy following me around with a wood in his bag.”

  “It’s only for a while, and you yourself said you wanted to take things slowly. This will give you some time off. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say.”

  “They also say that while the cat’s away, the mice will play.”

  Ken looked surprised. “You?! Naw!”

  “Well, you don’t have to say it like I was made of pus. I do get other men who look at me from time to time.”

  “I wouldn’t blame them.”

  “Mostly they’re trying to figure out what happened to Kathleen Turner. Or they’re gay and like my shoes. But I do get cruised by real straight men in this town. All two of them.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. But for your information, not every man in Palm Springs is gay, you know. And don’t worry, I’ll come back eventually.”

  Just then, the weirdest thought flashed across my brain. Just for a nanosecond, but it was there nonetheless: I would be single while Ken was gone. I immediately dismissed the thought, but it left a vapor trail in my head that remained there for weeks. What frightened me was that here I get the partner I was so desperately looking for, and now I was being seduced by the notion of looking for someone else. Or at least stepping out to play. I hated dating. Hated it. But the fantasy of a naughty fling, well . . . This was followed by a wave of Catholic guilt that hit me like an Indonesian tsunami, yet I hadn’t even done anything wrong . . . yet.

  I continued in an attempt to hide my guilty feelings. “Well, I could use the time to work on my fudge sculpture.”

  “I didn’t know you had an artistic side.”

  “Neither did I, but I’ve got to find something else to do besides hocking houses.”

  “I don’t think real estate has been that bad for you. You’ve made some big money selling homes.”

  “Yeah, about three years ago.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “Tied up in the several rental properties I have that are worth about half of what I paid for them. Or just plain pissed away.”

  “You pissed all that money away?”

  “Well, like I said, I do have several rental properties. And a ton of nice shoes.”

  Ken shook his head, then smiled that smile, framed by those pillowy lips that made me fall for him—besides his husky-dog, ice-blue eyes and jet-black hair, graying ever so slightly at the temples.

  “Amanda, the time will fly by. And before you know it, I’ll be back in town.”

  “Sure,” I replied, giving him a hug while my mind raced at the possibility of being on my own for a while. What was going on with me?

  “Of course you should have fun while Ken is gone!” Regina replied incredulously.

  I didn’t want to lay my cards on the table with just anyone, but my secret was safe with Regina, my ageless neighbor. The old saying that there may be snow on the roof, but there’s still a fire in the furnace below, fit Regina to a T. Occasionally, though, one of Regina’s gentlemen callers merely left her with a burning sensation down below, if you know what I mean.

  “You don’t mean I should cheat on Ken, do you?” I asked.

  “Amanda, Ken is a terrific guy. But you can’t get all you want and need in one package.”

  “Yes, I can. Ken gives me support, he loves me, we have great sex. What more can a woman want?”

  “Something different. Something exciting! The thrill that comes with sex with a complete stranger.”

  “Well, you’ve got something there,” I admitted hesitantly. “Can I trust you with a thought I’ve been having lately?”

  “Shoot.”

  “You know how I was so desperate to find a new partner after Alex and I divorced.”

  “Desperate wasn’t the word for it. Pathetic would be a better fit.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Regina, I was lonely.”

  “That’s why I encouraged you to get out and have some funnnnnnnnn.”

  “That’s what would you call it, Regina?”

  “Okay, extracurricular activities. Amanda, let me ask you another question. Are you and Ken going steady?”

  “Steady? No, but he let me wear his varsity sweater.”

  “Funny. So what are the two of you to each other?”

  “Regina, we were both in emotionally difficult breakups. We’re just not rushing into anything. We’re taking our time.”

  “And taking your time means the ability to explore others, since you’re not tied down to each other.”

  I looked at Regina, wondering why she didn’t go into trial law. “When you explain it like that, it doesn’t sound like cheating at all. It sounds like personal fulfillment. Something that I not only deserve, but have a right to.”

  “Good, honey. Keep saying it to yourself like that over and over. Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s go out tonight an
d have fun, just us two girls. We can head out to Aqua Bar.”

  “Regina, unless the crowd has changed since I was there last, the men there are mostly gay.”

  “Listen, sweetie, that hasn’t stopped you or me before. Let’s head out at nine.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

  Regina and I went out that very night. Ken had to pack, so he approved of us going out. Girls’ night, he called it.

  At nine, I sidled over to Regina’s house just as she was emerging through the front door, locking it behind her.

  “Get in,” she instructed.

  I knew she was going to drive, and that meant that we would take her car. Going out for a hot night on the town in a powder-blue, 1996 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight wasn’t exactly the kind of wheels you wanted to be seen in when trying to land hot guys, but Regina was Regina. What could you do but humor the situation?

  I got in and slammed the door behind me. Good and solid. Like the door to a Spanish dungeon. Regina slid in, too, slammed the door, then had to slam it again since it wasn’t shutting tight since “I sideswiped an olive tree outside Tropicana after happy hour last week.”

  For Regina, this meant one thing: She was a little too happy when she left the restaurant, er, bar. It wasn’t the first time. She once hit a tree, and the only reason the cops managed to trace her car to the scene of the crime was that they followed the trail of car parts to her house. I decided I would be the designated driver on our way home later tonight.

  She jammed the key into the ignition and let the car beep incessantly, adjusted the rearview mirror to make a last-minute check of her makeup, turned the mirror back into a more useful position, started the car, and Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” exploded from the speakers, scaring the bejesus out of me in the process. Obviously, Regina was out last night and forgot to turn the volume down. I know. I heard her pull in at 2:30 last night.

  She clapped her hands like a mad scientist.

  “So what’s on the menu tonight?” she asked, throwing the car into reverse and steering the land leviathan down the driveway. I watched her mailbox pass a mere three inches from my window, but at least she missed it. “How about Aqua? The night has cooled down. I think a drink outside would be just perfect tonight.”