Spur of the Moment

by Theresa Alan

  46

  The Color Line

  Every Saturday morning Ana scoured the house into shape. She put on workout clothes, pulled her hair back, and sprinted around the house like the Tasmanian Devil, carrying Windex in one hand and Softscrub in the other like a cowboy with a gun in each hand as she blazed through the house firing off bullets of cleanser.

  Anyone who got in Ana’s way would be knocked to the ground. Poor Scott had the misfortune of filling his glass of water in the kitchen sink at the exact moment Ana had decided to tear through the dishes, and he was nearly knocked unconscious when she hurled him aside into the wall.

  Over in Chelsey’s part of town, things were considerably more peaceful. She and Rob were lazing in bed.

  “I’m starving. What should we have for breakfast?” Rob asked.

  “I can make fruit salad.”

  “That’ll make a nice appetizer, but you don’t really think a couple pieces of fruit can fuel a growing boy?”

  “I can make you an omelet.”

  “Now we’re talking. Hey, what’s this?” He picked up a copy of Sherman Alexie’s The Indian Killer, which Chelsey had been reading and had left on her nightstand.

  “It’s a novel. Have you read it?”

  “Not this one. I liked his book of short stories The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven and his movie Smoke Signals. How do you like this book?”

  “It’s well written, but a little . . . disturbing. I mean Indians have so many reasons to be angry at white people . . . In the book there’s this Indian, he was adopted and raised by white people, and he feels confused and angry and misplaced and so he lashes out by killing random white people . . . Do you ever feel like that? Like you just want to kill white people?”

  Rob glared at her. Chelsey was taken aback.

  Finally he said, “I can’t believe you just fucking said that to me.”

  “Rob, I was just trying to see, you know, how as an Indian, you feel about white people and what . . . and what’s happened.”

  “Oh yeah”—he jumped up and started pulling his clothes on—“all us dark, scary savages just want to kill the whities and rape their women.”

  Chelsey gripped the blanket to cover her naked body. She didn’t know what had just happened. “No, Rob, I didn’t mean that.”

  “I’ve been called chief, Injun, and people have done that ridiculous woo-woo with the hand patted over the mouth my whole life, but I have never been so offended by anything as what you just said.” With that, Rob grabbed his shoes, socks, and coat, and stormed out the door. Chelsey started crying, more out of shock than of sadness.

  She called Ana. Scott answered. “Can I talk to Ana?”

  “She’s cleaning. I really don’t think . . .” Then he heard her crying.

  “Please?” she asked.

  “Yeah, sure, hang on.” Ana was scrubbing the kitchen floor with such ferocious intensity it was like she was trying to remove bloodstains or dried paint. Scott was careful to keep his distance as he didn’t want to obtain any more bruises or head traumas. “Ana, Chelsey’s on the phone. She’s crying. She wants to talk to you.”

  “She’s crying?” Ana dropped the sponge she was scouring the floor with. She washed her hands thoroughly, then sprinted up to her room. “I’ve got it!” she bellowed. “Chelse, what is it?”

  “It’s Rob. We had a fight.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, so I’ve been reading all these books about Indians because, well, I never really learned anything about them in school or maybe I did and I just forgot and anyway, I’ve been feeling really stupid when Rob talks about all these historical events that were hugely important to Indians but mean absolutely nothing to me, so I’ve been reading nonfiction and fiction and I’m reading this one book called Indian Killer and it’s about this angry confused Indian who goes around killing whites for retribution for what we did to them and I asked Rob if ever thought about killing white people . . .” Chelsey gulped for air. She’d said all of that in a single sentence without taking a breath.

  “You. Did. Not.”

  “You think that’s bad?”

  “Chelsey, you accused him of being a would-be murderer!”

  “No I didn’t! We all think about what it would be like to kill someone . . .”

  “I have never thought about killing someone.”

  “You’ve never been so angry that you imagine having somebody killed or killing them yourself if you thought you could get away with it?”

  “No! Christ no!”

  “Oh, maybe I’ve read too many thrillers. But the point is, I was just trying to bring up the topic of race, you know, start a dialogue.”

  “Don’t say the words ‘start a dialogue.’ You sound just like The Big Weasel when you say that.”

  “I’m an idiot. I’m such an idiot. He never brings up race as like, you know, this thing we have to discuss. It’s just a fact of life for him like, oh, I’ll go to the powwow in Denver next week. I’m the one who makes it this big deal about it. I’m always asking him about his traditions and his background. I mean, I think it’s really interesting and different.”

  “Don’t you talk about being Irish?”

  “It’s not the same thing. I wear a claddagh ring and drink too much and like St. Patrick’s Day, but lots of people wear claddagh rings and drink too much and like St. Patrick’s Day. Whoopdeedo, I’m so ethnic.”

  “You used to study Irish dancing.”

  Chelsey rolled her eyes. “Maybe if I ever go to Ireland I’ll start to get all into my roots, but I don’t know. Anyway, it’s not just about traditions, it’s about skin color and how there are only about eleven Indians left in the whole world and he’s probably going to want to marry an Indian . . .” Chelsey didn’t say anything for a long moment. “And I really love him and I’m scared I’m going to lose him because I’m white. I’ve never dealt with anything like this before.”

  “The first thing you should do is apologize your ass off. Then you should tell him your concerns and see what he says.”

  “What if he says I’m right, and things can never go any deeper than just having fun together?”

  “Is that going to be better to hear now or three years down the road?”

  “It’s going to be better to hear never.”

  “Chelse, get it together, girl. You have to talk to the boy.”

  47

  The Premiere

  Ana hardly saw Marin at all when Jay was in town. Marin got back on the performance schedule at Spur, but otherwise she spent every minute with Jay. Even after performances, she and Jay would dash off someplace else (probably the luxury hotel he was staying at). Sometimes they stuck around the bar, but they only paid attention to each other, so Ana rarely got a chance to talk with Marin. As if Ana hadn’t been jealous of enough things, now she was jealous of Jay and the attention Marin devoted to him. Even when he was out of town, all Marin could think or talk about was him. Ana wanted things to go back to the way they’d been, when she and Marin could dream about the future or talk about nothing at all—whether the new lipstick they’d bought was too orange or whether they’d liked the outfits sported by Jennifer or Courtney on that week’s episode of Friends. Even though Ana spent much of her time with Scott, she missed hanging out with Marin. She felt abandoned.

  Marin flitted in and out of their house every now and then to get more clothes or do some laundry. Ana was happy Marin was in love—she’d certainly been alone long enough— but Ana wished that Marin could find more time to spend with her friends.

  Even though she was annoyed with Marin, she still planned a Happy Premiere/Happy Birthday party for her. Marin’s show Roommates aired its first episode in late January, a few days before her twenty-fifth birthday.

  On the night of the premiere, the living room had so many people sitting so tightly together on the floor (the couch, recliner, and loveseat had long been claimed) that, sitting cross-legged, their knees overlapped. If some
body wanted to stand up to get another beer, she had to tiptoe across the floor, doing her best not to walk on people and trip over the tangle of limbs. Anyone brave enough to venture out of the thick pack of people was immediately deluged with calls to bring more beer! Bring more chips! Me too! More beer!

  Marin got a seat on the couch, obviously, being the guest of honor and all. She was squashed happily next to Jay. She was thrilled he could be here for this, but also a little terrified that he wouldn’t like it.

  “Shh shh shh!” Ana screamed when the show started. She blared the volume on the TV to get the attention of the last whisperers, then quieted it some so it was still commanding and painfully loud, but wasn’t quite so much like she was playing for an entire stadium of people who were miles away.

  The theme music started and clapping and laughter and cheers drowned out the noise.

  The show opened with five of the roommates sprawled lazily across two couches and a love seat. The sixth roommate, played by Jessica, gets home from work and asks Marin/ Garrett how her interview went.

  “Terrible. She asked me what I wanted to be doing in five years and I just choked. I knew what she wanted me to say. She wanted me to say that I wanted to be working my way up Burkhardt Consulting, contributing my hard work, and blah blah blah whatever, but all I could think was, oh my god, please don’t let me be working at Burkhardt Consulting for the next five years.”

  “Garrett, you’re an actress. Surely you can act like you want an office job.”

  “Anyway, I’m doing stand-up at the Scatterbrain Theater tonight and I’ve got an audition for a commercial tomorrow. Something’s going to turn up. I can’t work at an office. I just can’t do it.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Jessica’s character says.

  Ana watched the show with a curious detachment. It wasn’t bad—it wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad—but she’d heard too much about taping the show, about Jessica fucking a horse and the arguments the producers had had with directors and the squabbles between the actors and the writers and amongst the actors themselves to be able to suspend her disbelief and lose herself in the story line. Also, it was so weird to see Marin wearing outfits she’d never wear and saying things she would never say.

  During the commercials, fist fights practically broke out as people battled their way into the bathroom. All was chaos as all twenty people began talking at once about oh how exciting this was and god, Marin, you look so great up there, I love your character!

  After the show was over, there was a long, loud applause and many more congratulations along the lines of “you’re so great!” “I love it!” Things got considerably more comfortable once the show was over because people could spread out all over the house instead of just hanging in their tiny living room. Marin and Jay sat cozily on the couch together, giggling like the annoying newly in-loves they were.

  The only two people who weren’t bursting with excitement and happiness were Chelsey and Jason. Chelsey was depressed because Rob hadn’t spoken to her in four days. She’d left thousands of messages, but he wouldn’t return her calls.

  Jason sat in the green recliner, looking like his best friend in the world had died. He didn’t join in the conversation or joke around like he normally would.

  Ana knew his bad mood was because of Jay. But maybe it was a good thing. Maybe now that Marin finally had someone serious in her life, Jason would move on to someone who loved him as much as he loved her.

  48

  Make-Up Sex

  Chelsey had called Rob frantically over the last few days. Each time she left long, apologetic messages. She’d done her best to restrain herself to two or three calls a day. Today she was on message number three.

  “Rob, I know you don’t want to talk to me, but I think we need to talk about this.” Nuts, that doesn’t make any sense. “It’s just, you’re really—”

  “Hello?”

  “Rob? It’s me.”

  He laughed. “I know.”

  “I just, I wanted to apologize.” He didn’t say anything. “I’m really, really sorry—”

  “I know. I was mad. I needed some time to cool off. I’m sorry too. I don’t know why that hit me the way it did. Some things just strike a nerve, you know?”

  “Can I come over?”

  “Yeah.”

  She did. She brought ice cream—she didn’t see him as the kind of guy who’d be into flowers.

  “Peace offering,” she said, handing him the ice cream when he opened the door. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know. Apology accepted. You’re trying to understand a world that’s completely different from the one you know. I know you’re trying.”

  Kiss me, she thought nervously. Let everything go back to the way it was. She felt stupid and awkward, unsure of what to say next. “Ah, so, I’ll get some bowls.”

  “We don’t need no stinkin’ bowls.”

  Chelsey gave him a curious look. He started to walk toward the bedroom. He made the gesture with his index finger that indicated she should follow.

  They ate the ice cream off one another then showered together afterward to get rid of the ice cream residue. They changed the sheets and lay on the cool fresh linens together.

  Chelsey thought about what Ana had said. God, how she didn’t want to have this conversation. “Do you have any wine or beer or something?” she asked.

  “I’ve got some beer. You want one?”

  She nodded.

  He retrieved it and got back into bed beside her. She drank half of it down in a single gulp. Rob looked at her wide-eyed. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yeah. I’ll tell you in a minute.”

  “Oh my god, are you pregnant?”

  “If I were pregnant, would I be drinking?”

  “Good point.”

  “What if I were pregnant? How would you react?”

  “Well, I guess I’d want to find out how you felt about it. If you were excited, I’d be excited. If you didn’t want it, I’d support you.”

  “You’d be excited if I wanted it?”

  “I’ve always wanted kids.”

  “With me?”

  “I know we’re a little young and it would probably be better if we waited . . .”

  “I guess what I’m asking, Rob, is . . . is”—she finished the rest of her beer—“I’m wondering if you can see things between us as long term. Serious.”

  “Definitely. Why wouldn’t I?”

  Relief flooded Chelsey. “Because I make stupid, insensitive racial remarks maybe.”

  “You’re learning. You’re trying. You mess up sometimes, but I think your heart is in the right place.”

  “Yeah?”

  He hugged her. “When it’s right next to me, it’s in the right place.”

  49

  More Surprises

  Ana was at the office, working late as usual. She called home to check the messages before she left for the theater. “You. Have. One. New. Message. Message. Sent. At. 1:42 P.M., ‘Hi, my name is Alicia Hestler from the Luna Agency and I’m looking for Ramiro Martinez.’ ” Alicia Hestler, Alicia Hestler, why did that name sound so familiar? “I’ve tried getting a hold of you through email, but I haven’t had any luck so I thought I’d give you a call. Ramiro, I loved Staring at the Sun and I very much want to represent you. I have some editors in mind who I really think will love it. Give me a call at. . . .”

  Ana sprung out of her chair and screamed. “Oh my God oh my God oh my God!” Ramiro didn’t have a cell phone and he was probably on his way to the theater now. Maybe she could call Marin and have her tell . . . No, it would be better to tell him in person.

  Ana grabbed her purse, turned her computer off without shutting down properly, dashed to the hall where she waited impatiently for the elevator to arrive, then sprinted out to her car. She drove to the theater with reckless abandon, nearly hyperventilating with excitement.

  Ramiro wasn’t at the theater yet when she got there. She was about to explode with ex
citement. Damn him for being late!

  She quickly changed and when she exited the dressing room, she saw him talking to Nick.

  “Ramiro, I need to talk to you. It’s very important.” She pulled him away from Nick when Ramiro was in the middle of a sentence. She didn’t care. At this moment, she was not a woman to be trifled with. “You have to hear something.” She dialed their home voicemail on her cell phone and gave him the phone.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, after he’d clicked the phone off.

  “A couple of months ago, I sent out queries to agents to see if they wanted to read Staring into the Sun. Three did. So I mailed it out. Alicia was the first person who got back to me. You. Us. She read it and wants to represent you.” He didn’t say anything as he tried to absorb this. “Don’t you get it? Somebody in the industry thinks your book is good enough to sell. She’s going to spend time trying to sell your book because she thinks she can make money off your talent. She thinks you can really write.”

  “Huh.”

  “Can I tell everybody else?”

  “But what if she can’t sell it . . .”

  “That’s not even the important thing. The important thing is that you’re a real writer with an agent. An agent for god’s sake!”

  “I guess . . . Just these guys. Nobody else.”

  “Everyone! May I have your attention please! Our good friend Ramiro Martinez has written a beautiful novel, and today a literary agent called and said she’d like to represent him.”

  “A novel?”

  “You wrote a novel?”

  “I read it a couple months ago and it blew my mind,” Ana continued. “Ramiro didn’t think it was good enough, of course, so I took it upon myself to market it, and an agent wants to represent him. A literary agent. A real one. In New York!”

  There were the inevitable shouts and hugs and handshakes. They didn’t spend a single moment of the forty-five minutes before the show they were supposed to spend warming up, warming up. There were many questions—like how many millions would he make—but few answers. Ana had only read about getting an agent; she didn’t know anything else about the publishing business.