Spur of the Moment

by Theresa Alan

  “Diet Coke,” Jessica said.

  “How are you going to get drunk on a Diet Coke?” Marin asked reasonably.

  “I can’t afford the calories.”

  “You weigh about three ounces. You’re four calories away from being declared anorexic and shipped off to the hospital. You can get a Diet Coke chaser, but I insist you do a couple shots. You can do an extra hour on the treadmill tomorrow.”

  “No I can’t, really.”

  “Vodka, rum, J.D. What’s it going to be? A couple shots won’t kill you. They’ll only make you stronger.”

  “You want us to think you’re uncool?” Devin said.

  “Peer pressure peer pressure,” Marin began. Devin instantly joined her. “Peer pressure peer pressure.”

  “O-kay,” Jessica finally agreed with a deep, beleaguered sigh. “Rum.”

  “Rum it is.”

  The bar was packed, so Marin walked past the side of the bar staffed by a female bartender and went straight to the guy, who was underwear-model yummy. As usual, Marin blazed past the other people who had been waiting there. Even in a town in which gorgeous women were as common as bad jokes, Marin stood out.

  “What did I miss?” Marin asked when she returned to the table.

  “We were just talking about what we did before we got this job,” Devin said.

  “Which was?”

  “I’ve been in L.A. since I was eighteen,” Devin said. “I’ve done a couple commercials, I’ve done lots of pretending to be a sick patient for med students to diagnose, lots of stand-up, a few plays here and there, and to pay the bills, I’ve done it all. I’ve been a sushi deliverer, a tour guide, a sandwich maker, a nanny. For a while I read books to an old blind guy. I really liked that job but the bugger kicked the bucket and I had to find another job, which just sucked. I was a high-rise window washer for a while, a short order cook, and I’ve been a clown for kids’birthday parties.”

  “Damn, girl, you have done it all. Jess, how about you?”

  Jessica downed her shot. She scratched her lip. Looked away. “I lived in Nevada till about four months ago. Since I got here I’ve worked as a lingerie model. We give private shows to guys. It’s all totally legit,” she said a little too quickly.

  “Yeah, whadja do in Nevada?” Devin said, already suspecting the answer. Jessica didn’t say anything. “You were a working girl, weren’t you?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I don’t get it, we all have to work,” Marin said.

  “Yes, but we’re not working girls,” Devin said.

  Marin mouthed a large “oh” of the “I get it now” variety.

  “Did you like it?” Devin asked. “How long were you a working girl?”

  “Since I was eighteen, so about three years. Um, did I like it? Um, I made a shitload of money. Sometimes it was kind of fun I guess. I worked at the Bunny Ranch, which is known to be, like, the best brothel in the country. We get tested for STDs once a week, it’s all very safe. I’d get a thousand bucks an hour . . .”

  “Jesus Christ!” Devin said.

  “Well, I mean, I’d get to keep $500.”

  “You only get half? But you did all the work!” Marin said.

  “Um, you know, the house provides the room and all that.”

  “Who the hell can afford $1,000 for an hour of fun?” Devin said.

  “You’d be amazed.”

  “So, tell us everything. Did you do it all? Lick butts and do chicks and stuff?” Marin asked.

  Jessica smiled. She was warming up to all the enthralled attention. She nodded.

  “Screw a horse?” Marin asked.

  “Once.”

  “Holy shit! I was kidding!” Marin and Devin cracked up. “How do you even . . . I mean . . .”

  “You want to know the craziest thing?”

  “There was something crazier than fucking a horse?” Marin shot Devin a look of amazement.

  “One of my regulars had two ribs removed so he could blow himself.”

  “No! No! That’s not possible! Gross!” Marin and Devin nearly fell off their stools they were laughing so hard.

  When Marin and Devin calmed down, Marin wiped the tears from her eyes and said, “No, but seriously, what kind of doctor would remove parts of somebody’s skeleton? That can’t possibly be legal.”

  “I had it done. Working at the Bunny Ranch paid for all my surgeries.”

  “You had ribs removed?” Devin screeched.

  “Why? Why?” demanded Marin.

  “It makes me look skinnier.”

  “If you looked any skinnier . . . I mean you look like a prisoner of war.”

  “What other surgeries did you have?” Devin asked.

  “My nose, my cheeks, my knees, my calves . . .”

  “Knees like, from a skiing accident?” Marin asked.

  “No, I had the fat around my knees removed.”

  “Knees have fat?”

  “The area around them does. What surgeries have you guys had?”

  “I haven’t any surgeries,” Marin said.

  “Oh yeah right, you look like that naturally. Devin, how about you?”

  “Breasts, stomach, butt . . .”

  Marin sat there, open-mouthed with amazement. What insane world was she in? “But doesn’t it hurt?”

  “Like a motherfucker,” Jessica said.

  “It’s excruciating.”

  “But you get a ton of Vicadin so you can just sleep for like two weeks. I hardly ate a thing and I lost a ton of weight. It was awesome,” Jessica said.

  Devin nodded.

  “Come on, honestly, what have you had done?” Jessica asked.

  “Honestly, nothing. I haven’t even had braces.”

  Both Jessica and Devin gave her a “yeah right” roll of their eyes.

  That’s when Marin saw him walk in the bar. He was casually dressed in jeans and a silvery-gray, fitted sweater that Marin guessed cost about three hundred bucks. Same for the Bruno Magli black shoes. And the Ulysse Nardin watch? Around fifteen thousand. He had thick, wavy dark-blond hair and pale gray eyes that matched his icy sweater. She liked the way he smiled like he meant it, not that teeth-gritted, put-on, smile-for-the-camera kind of smile so common in people in the biz. And a movie person he most definitely was. A producer, she guessed.

  She watched him casually as he ordered martinis for him and his friend—a guy, she was happy to note. His friend was also obviously well off. He was good looking, too, but he didn’t have the casual confidence of the silver sweater guy. Green-sweater guy was trying too hard.

  In Denver, all Marin had ever had to do to get a guy she thought was hot come talk to her was wait until he noticed her. But this was L.A., where beautiful women were like grains of sand on the beach—infinite, everywhere, and invasive. Maybe Marin would actually have to do something to get a conversation with him going.

  Marin, Devin, and Jessica continued talking for half an hour or so. Marin learned that Jessica had slept with six guys and a woman to get the role on Roommates. Marin suspected Jessica might not have actually had to screw seven people to get the part; she probably gave out sex preemptively just in case it could help her career. Marin’s thesis was supported because Devin had just given one blow job to get an audition.

  Marin finished her drink and tried not to look for the silver sweater guy. Just as she was plotting to “bump” into him on her way to the bathroom, deciding what she should say, the waitress brought her another Tanqueray and tonic. “Courtesy of the guy in the gray sweater,” the waitress said.

  Marin leaned back on her barstool, turned her head to meet his gaze, lifted the drink as if in a toast, and flashed him a smile. Then she returned her attention to Jessica and Devin. Well, she looked at them, pretending she didn’t give a damn about the guy, when in fact, all she could do was think about what she should do next. Maybe she should approach him.

  “I’m going to go over there and talk to him,” Marin said at last.

  “
Good luck, girlfriend,” Devin said.

  She walked across the bar, watching him the whole time. When she reached him, he turned his gaze to match hers.

  “Thanks for the drink.”

  “I figured it was the fastest way to ingratiate myself with you.”

  The remark was so unexpected she laughed. “I see.”

  “Let me guess: actress. Are you an actress-slash-something else, or one who actually makes a living at it?”

  “Currently I’m in the makes-a-living-at-it camp, but that just started recently. I’m shooting a pilot for the WB. It’s a mid-season replacement that will launch at the end of January.”

  “What were you before you were a sitcom actress?”

  “A temp-slash-improv comedian.”

  “Oh my, a smart girl.”

  “You sound surprised. Are you saying that actresses aren’t smart?”

  “Oh they can be, but they’re not always. Improv-ers are always smart. They have to be.”

  “Yeah, that’s true, but how do you know that?”

  “I have two really close friends at Second City in Chicago. When I lived out there I hung out with improv-ers all the time. They were without exception really bright.”

  “What brought you out here from Chicago?”

  “Come on, sunny L.A. versus chilly Chicago?”

  “So what do you do? Let me guess: producer.”

  He laughed. “The movie business isn’t for me. I was an entrepreneur, now I’m retired.”

  “Retired? But you look like you’re about thirty.”

  “I’m thirty-eight.”

  “Thirty-eight! Wow, you look good for thirty-eight.”

  He laughed again. “You must be pretty young to think thirty-eight is old.”

  “I am not. I’m twenty-four. Hey, stop laughing at me. Anyway, thirty-eight is young to retire.”

  “I got lucky with the company I built. I sold it three years ago for a very pretty penny. I play the stock market some, but mostly I just like to travel and enjoy life.”

  “So L.A. is your home base?”

  “One of them. I have a place in New York, a place in France, a condo in Hawaii.”

  “Nice.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been lucky.”

  He didn’t seem like he was bragging. Most guys would try to impress her, going on and on about their cars and their swimming pools and their yachts. He was just telling her a fact about himself. He didn’t seem proud, just lucky, like life had dealt him a very good hand, but it could have just as easily gone another way.

  “My name is Marin Kennesaw, by the way.”

  “I’m Jay. Jay Prochazka.”

  “That’s a mouthful.”

  “So am I.”

  Marin laughed again. Normally a joke like that would make her squirm.

  “Jay, it was nice meeting you. Thanks for the drink. I should probably get back to my friends.”

  “I’d like to see you again. If you want, you can come over to my place, sit by the pool, and work on your tan.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t go to a guy’s house till I know them a little better, enough to get a sense of whether he’ll cut me up into tiny pieces and bury me in the floorboards.”

  “I knew you were a smart girl. How about I take you out for a nice meal?”

  “That sounds like a very nice idea.”

  “Can I get your number?”

  “You could if I knew what it was. I’m staying at the Graciela Burbank, room 214.”

  “You don’t have a place out here?”

  “I’ll get one if the show is picked up. I’m from Denver. Well, New York originally. I’ve been in Denver since college.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “Sounds good. Talk to you later.”

  But he didn’t call tomorrow, or the day after that. A week went by, and still she didn’t hear from him.

  34

  Accidents

  Chelsey fed her cat, Mo, giving her the usual dry food along with wet food. Chelsey used to buy expensive organic cat food when Mo was a kitty, but back then Mo had been a tiny, fluffy ball of flatulence, darting around the house emitting odors so noxious it was impossible to believe such a small creature could create such a vile smell. When Chelsey had guests over, Mo could take out a room as fast as a teargas bomb, everyone staggering around blindly, gasping for fresh air. So Chelsey had switched to the cheaper, chemically saturated stuff. It was the American way, really, and Mo should do her patriotic duty to keep the makers of various preservatives and dye-#-whatever in business. Anyway, Mo was decidedly less stinky these days, which was always a good thing.

  Chelsey walked to the bathroom peeling off her clothes, shedding them as she went as though she were leaving a trail of breadcrumbs. She pulled down her workout pants to sit on the toilet, and she felt a strange, disorienting fuzziness graze her butt. It was Mo, of course, who would use the toilet seat as a stepping stone to get to the bathroom sink, where she would moan plaintively until Chelsey turned on a trickle of water for her to drink. No matter that Chelsey had just poured Mo a fresh, cold bowl of water. Mo seemed to think it adventurous to seek out alternative water sources, which meant that Chelsey hadn’t had water in a glass any time in the last two years. She had to have water bottles with lids, otherwise Mo would stick her entire face into the glass and sneeze two or three times for each sip of water she commandeered, despite the rules Chelsey had tried to lay down about not drinking from mom’s glass.

  Chelsey lifted Mo and carried her to the couch. Chelsey lay down and remained perfectly still for a full thirty seconds so Mo wouldn’t run off. Mo considered, considered . . . kneading her paws into Chelsey’s chest . . . was this really the best place to nap? Was there someplace better? This was warm and this scratching-behind-the-ears business sure did feel good . . . Finally Mo settled down with a general condescending air of “I guess this will do.”

  Chelsey listened to Mo purr as she scratched and petted her. Chelsey really should go make herself something to eat, but she felt too damn tired. All these late nights of practices and performances or having athletic sex for hours on end—it was good fun, all of it, but she often had early morning clients to meet, and she just wasn’t getting the sleep she needed.

  She knew that skipping meals wreaked havoc on her metabolism. She was doing absolutely everything she told her clients not to do: She was sleeping too little and irregularly, she was skipping meals and not always making the healthiest choices when she did eat . . . She would become a model citizen of dietary virtue tomorrow. Tonight, she just wanted to get her call from Rob from the station and stagger up to bed and pass out.

  She looked at the clock. It was 7:30. He usually called between seven and eight on the nights he was at work.

  After a few minutes, she picked up one of the ten books on Indians she’d bought. She’d bought mostly nonfiction books about Indian history and tradition, but she’d also bought fiction by Sherman Alexie, Leslie Marmon Silko, Adrian C. Louis, and Michael Dorris.

  Chelsey wasn’t sure when she fell asleep, but when the phone woke her up, she glanced at the clock. 10:33.

  “Hello?”

  “Are you watching the news?” It was Ana.

  “No. Why?”

  Ana didn’t say anything for a long moment. “I’m sure it’s nothing. Rob isn’t . . . he isn’t on duty today, is he?”

  “Yes. Oh my god. What’s going on?” Chelsey struggled to get her eyes adjusted to the light and searched for the remote. She fumbled for it from her perch on the right side of the couch to the left arm rest where it lay and pressed POWER. What immediately popped on the screen was the local affiliate to NBC news.

  The voluminously coiffed male reporter stood in front of burning house.

  “It’s still not clear what started the blaze of this three-story home in central Denver, but . . .” The reporter stopped talking and pressed his finger to his earpiece. “It’s been confirmed, two firefighters are dead tonight and a
third has been injured. Authorities are not revealing the identities of the two fallen firefighters pending notification of their families, but it appears that they were trapped when the roof collapsed.”

  “Oh my god,” Chelsey whispered. “Oh my god.”

  “Chelsey, I’m coming over, okay? Chelsey?”

  Chelsey nodded, which of course Ana couldn’t see, but Ana hung up the phone and raced over anyway.

  On screen, the reporter was explaining how a fire weakened the supporting joists and beams, which could cause the roof to collapse. On and on he went, talking about what heroes these firefighters were and how many other firefighters had died this year in Colorado and across the country.

  It took Chelsey a long time first to even register the noise, then to understand that it was the sound of someone pounding on her door. Her first thought was: The police are here to tell me that he’s dead.

  That’s when the tears came. She’d been in too much of a shocked trance before, but now she understood that Rob was gone. She had never been in love before him—she’d thought she had but she’d been too young and stupid to know what love meant. Now that she had found her true love, a guy who challenged her and always taught her something new and laughed at her jokes and made her laugh and whose hand was just the right size to hold hers, she’d lost him. She’d been too happy. No one deserved that much happiness and God was taking it away from her.

  But when she opened the door, it wasn’t the police, it was Ana, carrying a large box of Kleenex.

  “How are you?”

  Chelsey’s sobbing renewed with additional force, and she gratefully reached out to take a handful of tissues.

  “I have to call the fire station, see if they can tell me the news.”

  “I’ll call,” Ana said. She didn’t need to say that Chelsey was crying so hard she could barely speak.

  “No, I will.” Chelsey grabbed the cordless phone. It took her four tries to dial the station correctly. “Shit, nobody is answering.”

  “They’re probably all at the fire.”

  “Do you think I can call 911?”

  “How would a 911 operator know about the firefighters?”

  “I don’t know. I need to do something.”