Out to Lunch

by Stacey Ballis

  “So, what do you think?” Wayne asks.

  “It’s fun, Wayne, thank you for inviting me.”

  “What do you think of the party? From your professional opinion, I mean, the execution and stuff?”

  I think about this. “Honestly?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Well, I think it’s fun, but sort of disjointed. It’s all over the place. And I know that the convention incorporates everything from sci-fi to fantasy to comics, from Disney to Twilight and stuff, but I think there should be a way to unify the event so that it is less chaotic. And you know how I feel about standard hotel catering.”

  “Guess who planned the party?”

  For the first time in years I realized that I hadn’t even checked the program to see. “Who?”

  “The CMG outfit from LA.”

  “Okay.” Not really sure where he is going with this. “Do you think I should be telling Peerless to bid on it for next year?”

  “No. I think you and I should plan it next year.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “This is the business I want to start. I want to start an event planning company. But one that specializes in theme events like this.”

  “Wayne, no offense, but you were never really involved in the business, event planning is really hard, with a lot of moving pieces . . . and if you want it to be worthwhile, you need clients with decent budgets.”

  “Hear me out. I’m talking about a niche market. Only theme events, catering specifically to the kinds of people in this room. A lot of these folks? Have a TON of money. Georgie? His company does ten mil a year. Ronald and Carolyn must make mid–six figures between them, Beth and John at least that. Hell, look at Elliot!”

  “Well, I know that sometimes he does a pretty big sale of a rare comic, but how much can the store really make?”

  Wayne laughs. “Um, Elliot is probably worth more than you. The store is his version of the Library; it’s his clubhouse, and his office. He has been brokering high-end comic and movie collectibles for over twenty years, and his clients are the richest guys on the planet. He probably does a half a million a month in sales in Asia alone.”

  My jaw drops open. “I had no idea.”

  “Look, all those Dungeons & Dragons geeks you remember from high school? They are the Steve Jobses and Wozes of today. Forget the meek inheriting the earth, it’s the techno age, the GEEK shall inherit the earth. Computers and technology are where the money lives. And all those geeks, those very rich geeks, they want really cool events and they are willing to spend loads of money to get it right. They want Buffy birthday parties, and Doctor Who Christmas parties and Star Wars weddings. They want Lord of the Rings bar mitzvahs for their kids, and off-the-chain Tim Burton Halloween parties. And if they could get the details right, they will pay for it. That’s what I want to do. I know the details and I’m connected in the geek world for clients. But I don’t know shit about parties. YOU know about parties. You would know which cake artist would have made this cool looking AND delicious.” He points at my half-eaten cake. “Look, I know I have all kinds of schemes, but I’ve really been thinking about this one, and I’ve been going to the fair-to-middling versions of these parties for years. I KNOW that with my connections, and your party planning, in three years? We’d be printing money. Everything from the private parties for individuals to premiere parties when new movies come out? Events at all the Cons? This one isn’t even a big one; wait till you see San Diego, the original Con! There were like one hundred and fifty thousand people last year! And so many parties the whole weekend, and they don’t ever get that level of awesomeness that you and Aimee always brought to your parties. And I know that she was a big part of that magic, but I feel like it was her taste and elegance and details that were her part. And you have a lot of that, and I have the rest.”

  I’m stunned. I’m looking at Wayne, Half-Brain Wayne, with his endless idiotic ideas, and his eager puppy eyes, and I? Don’t hate this idea.

  “But Wayne, you keep saying you and I. But this is your business, your idea. What if I’m not ready to get back into work like this? What if I don’t want to start all over?”

  “Look, if you like the idea and you are behind me when it comes to figuring out the financing, and you really don’t want to be involved at all, then maybe I’ll talk to Andrea or see if I can poach someone from Peerless. But I think it doesn’t really work its best without you. I know you only technically have to deal with me for another eight months if you want. I’m asking you to give me eighteen. Give me a year and a half to work together to get this off the ground, fifty-fifty, and then if you hate it, we’ll figure out a way for me to buy you out.”

  I take a deep breath. My heart starts racing, and I wait to see if I’m going to have to run to the bathroom, but I suddenly realize I’m not having an attack. I’m excited. I’m excited at the prospect of a challenge, of meaningful work, of building something again. I smile. “Wayne, I actually think this is not a bad idea, and I’m not saying no. But I’m not saying yes either. I need to look at my contract with Peerless and see what it says about noncompete. And you need to come up with a serious business plan that includes numbers so we know what we are talking about financially for you. I’m not going to let you bankrupt yourself on a risky business venture. I’ll give the accountants the go-ahead to pay for consultation for you to develop a business plan, but that’s all I can commit to right now. Let’s both get our ducks in a row, and talk in a few weeks when we know more.”

  Wayne leans over and gives me a huge hug. “You won’t be sorry, Jenna.”

  I look at him. “You called me Jenna.” It sounded so strange.

  “Yeah. Elliot asked me earlier if anyone else calls you Jenny and I realized that I’ve never heard anyone else call you Jenny and he said maybe that’s because you prefer Jenna.”

  “I usually do.”

  “You could have said.”

  I think about this. “I could have. So I guess I don’t mind when you do it.”

  He grins. “Like my own private name for you.”

  I nod. “Just for you.”

  “Like you and Aimee called each other schmoopy.”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “Jenny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you. For everything. Aimee always said that her life was infinitely improved by your presence in it, and now I really know firsthand what she meant.”

  “Thank you Wayne. She always said the same about you too. And I’m starting to see why.”

  And I am.

  “Told you so.”

  Don’t push it.

  * * *

  Elliot’s car drops Wayne off first, and then heads for my place. I finally figure out that the town car and driver that he sent for me on New Year’s are actually not from a service, but are his, full-time.

  “Why the driver?” I ask after we drop Wayne off.

  “Never learned to drive.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. Couldn’t afford a car in high school or college, then I moved here and public transportation was fine and cabs when I needed them. Just got used to not driving. And then I met Teddy here a few years back when he drove me for a whole weekend at the San Diego Con, and it turned out he was from here and had family here and wanted to move back, but needed a job to do it. Seemed like a good fit, and infinitely easier on me.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, I know, it’s a little weird, but Teddy really takes care of me.”

  “I’m his Alfred,” Teddy says from the front seat.

  “I’m no Batman.” Elliot laughs. “But it’s true, Teddy does most of my errands and stuff, and it means that I can work in the car, which is helpful.”

  “I keep telling him I need a red phone,” Teddy says.

  “And I keep telling you that’s only for the Commissioner,” Elliot quips back. It’s clear that they genuinely like each other, and I like the thought that Elliot met a ni
ce guy and helped him come home. “Wayne said he talked to you about his new big idea.”

  “He did. It’s a really interesting idea. If his take on things is right. What do you think about it?”

  “I think if I’m going to spend six figures hosting a party for the San Diego Con every year, I’d like it to be more awesome.”

  “You do that?”

  “I do that.”

  “And do a lot of people?”

  “Yeah. They do.”

  “And his thoughts about private parties? Theme weddings and birthdays and stuff?”

  “My buddy Ryan did a Renaissance Faire thing for his fortieth. I think he spent nearly 200K. He’s trying to figure out how to top it for his forty-fifth next year.”

  “Wow.”

  “And the weddings can be even more major.”

  “So you really think it can work?”

  “I think it would need someone to take what Wayne has to offer in consulting on theme and turn it into viable executable plans. I think it needs you, and if you aren’t willing to do this with him, then you need to let him down gently. All or nothing. If you let him go it alone, for all his good intentions, it will fail. You have to be all-in on this, Jenna, and no one will blame you or think ill of you if you can’t or just don’t want to do that.”

  “It’s a lot.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “But if I were in, you think we could be successful?”

  “If you were in? I think in five to six years you might very well be able to sell the company again to one of your competitors, maybe even to Peerless again, and settle in for an even more lovely retirement than you are enjoying at the moment. I’ll tell you what, if you want to do a sort of a test run, I’ll hire you and Wayne to do a party for me. The Avengers is coming out, and I always try to do a theme party when comic movies get released, invite my high rollers. I can get a buddy of mine to send you a DVD screener of the movie. You and Wayne plan the party. Carte blanche. Whatever budget you think you need to make it great. See how it goes; if you can find the right people, the right resources, and you don’t end up wanting to kill my buddy, that might help you make your decision. Especially if you get nibbles to do more stuff from the people who attend.”

  “You’re a good friend.”

  “I try to be.”

  And he really has become a good one to me too.

  We pull up in front of my house. Teddy parks and gets out to open the door for me. Elliot gets out on his side to walk me to the door, carrying my small bag of the regular clothes I wore all day and my larger bag of purchases and Con swag.

  I lean over and kiss his cheek. He smiles at me and places a hand softly on the side of my face, and then turns and walks down the stoop.

  I turn and open the door and walk inside. I drop the bags on the floor, my purse on the table, and my coat on the rack, kicking off my shoes. I hear a whooshing noise and turn to see the orange blur launching himself into the air, and barely have time to brace myself for the impact. He knocks me on my ass, which is protected by layers of crinoline and plenty of fat trapped in a Spanx prison. “Hi, boy, hi, I know, how are you? You missed me, huh?” He is stomping all over me, licking my face, biting my hair, rubbing his big square head on me. I realize it’s nearly one in the morning, and since Benji picked him up at seven, this pup is way due for a walk to burn off some puppy energy. I push him off me, and stand up. Then I look in the mirror. I’m a hot mess. Slobber all over my dress, half my makeup is licked off; my hair is pulled into a wild nest.

  My doorbell rings.

  “Hi,” Elliot says.

  “Hi.”

  “What happened to you?”

  I preen. “What? You don’t like it? I call it ‘attacked by puppy.’ It’s replacing heroin chic and grunge as the new alternative hot.”

  “It’s a look, alright.”

  I laugh. “So much for Sophia Loren! Did you forget something? Did I leave something in the car?”

  “No, I realized that it was very late and you might need to walk your dogs, and I didn’t want you to be out this late alone.”

  “That’s so sweet, Elliot. I do have to walk them. But I think I have to change first . . .”

  “And you’ll need different shoes.” He points at our feet, where Chewie is mangling one of my pumps as if it is filled with peanut butter and hamburgers.

  “Oy. Yeah. I guess I will. Do you mind waiting five minutes?”

  “I don’t mind at all. Waiting is one of my best skills.” He smirks at me, and I run upstairs to change.

  22

  I look down at the little pale blue oval in my hand. One of my five precious Xanax. I’ve never been a bad flier, but I’ve already had two miniattacks today, and something tells me that perhaps this is the time. I woke up at four thirty this morning in a cold sweat, my heart fluttering like a little hummingbird. After rapidly downloading the contents of my intestines in a noisy and unladylike manner, I couldn’t fall back to sleep, even after my pulse finally settled down. At six I gave up and went downstairs to find that while the dog gate was still locked and Volnay sleeping behind it, Chewbacca was crashed out on the living room couch, and two of the three cushions had been completely mauled beyond recognition. Great. Now he is big enough to jump the fence. I packed him up and drove him to Doggie Days, as much for his own safety as for my convenience, paid the kennel fee, and said I would be back to fetch him Sunday evening, and in an emergency to call Wayne. Andrea is house-sitting to take care of Volnay, and to have a romantic weekend with Law, and I couldn’t in good conscience leave the Demolition Pup in the mix. I think she wants to get a dog, but Law isn’t so interested, so she volunteered so they could do a little trial run.

  Elliot sent Teddy to drive me to the airport and save me a car service, which was very lovely of him. I had a second attack in the middle of the security procedure, and almost gave the TSA guys a real dirty bomb to discover, but made it through the other side and into the nearest bathroom in time. And after a clammy hour at the Admirals Club, I am now on my plane to SFO, staring at a little bit of numb that is looking very tempting.

  “Why are you so freaked out? They’re just your parents.”

  I dunno. I haven’t seen them in almost eight months. I haven’t seen them since . . .

  “Since I croaked? Shuffled off this mortal coil? Bit the dust? Expired? Missed the curve? Became formerly animated? Crossed over? Danced the last dance? Ran off with the reaper? Became living-challenged?”

  You talk a lot for a . . .

  “Corpse? Ex-parrot? Worm food?”

  And this? Right here? Is why I am going to take this pill as soon as the flight attendant brings me my water.

  “You’re fine. They’re your parents. It’s Passover. You’ll make matzo balls with Eileen and debate the state of the election with Mike, and watch a lot of taped old-people shows like NCIS, and get a cramped back from that horrible guest room pullout bed, and then you’ll come home and you’ll see them again in the fall for Rosh Hashanah.”

  The flight attendant delivers my water, and I don’t hesitate. I swallow the pill, finish the glass and lean back in the seat, closing my eyes.

  “It’ll be fine. You’ll see. They’re fine. It will be a great weekend.”

  And then I am gone.

  * * *

  One thing about Xanax if you aren’t used to it? It makes everything deliciously fuzzy. I don’t remember takeoff, and barely registered landing. I floated to baggage claim, was greeted by Jorge, the driver I arranged, who took my bag and led me to a car that was the twin of Wayne’s monstrosity. I have to give credit, though; they are comfy to ride in. I watched the world go by, the Voix was blissfully quiet, and I just started to come into focus as we pulled into my parents’ Berkeley driveway.

  “Sweetheart!” My mom comes to the door and grabs me in a hug, planting multiple kisses on my cheek and neck.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say, thinking that her hair seems to be getting blonder, and that she is defin
itely noticeably shorter than the last time I was here.

  “Hello, pumpkin.” My dad comes into the foyer to give me a hug, his gray curly hair bushy around the sides of his head, scalp shiny above. But his hug is still strong and comforting, and his eyes have lost none of their twinkle.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  I schlep my suitcase inside and take it to the guest room cum office where I stay when I am here. The dreaded pullout couch is already unfurled and made up, room has been made in the closet, my mom’s laptop pushed to the side on the table that serves as her desk to make room for me. There is a pair of dark chocolate squares on a little doily on the pillow.

  I unpack quickly, avail myself of the bathroom just outside the door of my room, and get their gifts and the other treats I brought out of my carry-on bag. I’ve brought a tin of homemade chocolate-covered toffee matzo, which my dad loves even though he’s always at risk of pulling off a crown. A second tin of coconut macaroons, my mom’s favorite, in a new configuration, an experiment from the Notebook, using large dried flakes of unsweetened coconut instead of the little sugary shreds that are most common. The result, as I hoped, was gorgeous little craggy mounds of golden-brown coconut, crispy on the outside, chewy inside, barely held together with sweet goo, tasting mostly of coconut and not cloying like so many of these traditional sweets. Half of them I dipped in dark chocolate, and half I left plain. I found a great wrap sweater in a shade of green that is going to make my mom’s eyes pop while it keeps her warm, since she apparently has no circulation, based on the house always feeling like a sauna. For Dad, an antique harp-shaped multitool, his favorite thing, something that shows old craftsmanship, has inherent patina and beauty but is still enormously functional.

  I open the window in my room and turn on the ceiling fan. This is when we begin the thermostat dance. The thermostat is right outside the room where I’m staying. It currently reads 78 degrees. As in, my parents have set the temperature of their house for a level of heat that when it hits that temp outside, SANE people turn on their air conditioning. I turn it down to 70. For the next two and a half days, this shift will occur at least eleven times a day. None of us will speak of it.