1 Cupcakes, Lies, and Dead Guys

by Pamela DuMond

  “Because I’m your wife.” Tawny Fuller leaned her hand on her perfect boney hip and struck a pose. An irritated pose. She was tall, surgically enhanced, and boasted lioness hair with six hundred dollar three process highlights. She was thirty-five for-everrrr and a former BeachWatch TV babe. Posters of Tawny in her almost sprayed-on BeachWatch bathing suit were tacked and taped and repeatedly diddled on in teenage boys’ rooms all over the globe.

  “I’m your wife and I deserve more respect than your mistresses, female or male.”

  Derrick coughed. Winced when that pulled on his stitch. He spotted Consuela-Theresita trudging toward him carrying a tray of food. Relief in sight? He knew she didn’t approve of Tawny. He’d overheard her muttering “Puto” on several occasions. He knew enough Spanish to know what that meant. Maybe it was time to give her a raise.

  Tawny kneeled next to the chaise. “Baby, we need to talk,” she said and ran her long perfectly manicured acrylic nails down his back. Derrick’s skin immediately sprouted goose bumps. “My friends and I went shopping today. They bought me two outfits at Snotsky’s of Santa Monica. So naturally I offered to pick up lunch. But I didn’t.” She stopped scratching inches above his butt bandage like the high school make-out tease before the happy ending. “Ask me why.”

  Derrick shivered and his right leg twitched. “Why?”

  “Because our MasterCard was declined.”

  “Therefore, because every problem is an opportunity, you, my very smart wife, used the Visa,” Derrick said. He thought for a moment. “Be my sunshine girl and scratch a little lower?”

  Tawny scratched Derrick’s butt directly above his bandage. A millimeter from where he wanted it. “I’ve been scratching lower for quite a long time now. Our Visa opportunity was declined as well. My friends felt sorry for me. I felt embarrassed and, I must admit, a little pissed. I wondered if you cut up a credit card into a million pieces, loaded those pieces into a gun, and fired them? Would the effect be like buckshot? Or do you think those million little fragments could actually take someone out?”

  The look on Tawny’s face convinced Derrick she wasn’t just postulating, but downright considering. Maybe even plotting. Damn, he hoped his pre-nup was solid. Derrick glanced desperately over his shoulder. “Concha!” he hollered.

  Tawny stalked back toward the McMansion as Concha placed a plate with an enormous cupcake on the tiny table next to his almost emptied drink.

  Derrick called after Tawny, “Honey, I promise you everything’s fine. We’ll figure it all out. Mr. MasterCard and Ms. Visa will still be your friends.”

  Tawny didn’t turn around, let alone miss a step, as she flipped Derrick her French manicured middle finger.

  Derrick picked up the cupcake and peeled back the saran wrap with the sticker that read “Piccolino’s Pastries.” He bit into it. Damn it was good. He smiled at his maid. “Thanks, Concha. Why does the name Piccolino sound so familiar?” he asked and scarfed down the cupcake. “Mmm. Juicy. Love the sprinkles. I detect a whiff of almonds. Odd ingredient for a devil’s food chocolate cupcake, but I do believe this Piccolino baker is not scared to challenge convention. Go against the grain. Be a risk-taker!” Derrick finished the cupcake. “I like risk-takers. They are so I Promise people.”

  Concha nodded.

  “Do we have any more of these delicious confections?”

  “Sí, Dr. Fuller,” Concha said and trotted off toward the McMansion.

  “And another drink please. Grazie.” Derrick sighed, burped, and uh-oh, passed a little gas. He really needed to apply more sunscreen to his back and butt. He’d ask Concha to do it when she returned with his drink. Right now he’d work on his tan and brainstorm the title for his next series. Very exciting—his first book in the new series already had a fourth draft completed and sat with his editor. So, take a leap Barry. Divorce me Tawny. Shoot me wacko. And the fifty plus other people who hated him—whatever. His new book and seminar series were in the delivery room and smoking, baby. This would put him back on first base, right where he belonged.

  All he needed to move on from his I Promise series was a catchy title. He liked The Secret. But that was taken. He was drawn to “Intoxicating: You are so…” just fill in the word to apply to the book. It was brilliant. Like, “Intoxicating: You are so Marriage Material!” How commercial was that?

  Suddenly, he felt exhausted. He broke into a sweat, looked at his hands and realized they were twitching. Stress. Last night was one of the few times he was honest to somebody, scared. Being shot by the heckler unnerved him. He yawned. He felt sleepy. Perfectly normal for what he’d been through. A drop in energy usually followed high anxiety/adrenaline levels. He’d take a little nap and be back to his old self. Weathering life’s storms sometimes forced one to realize the reality of life. It was, for everyone, finite. But for him, it was still sweet.

  He settled in for a very relaxing, napping position. He scooched a little on his chaise lounge. Stretched. Sighed. Laid his head down. He took a deep breath and…

  Damn he had a crotch itch. He had few rules in life, but one was, never ignore a crotch itch. He snaked one hand under his pelvis, grabbed and scratched his goods. There. Much better. His other hand fell to the ground.

  Derrick shuddered. And he died.

  Annie around at the snowy majestic mountains peppered with tall pine trees. Dressed in bitchin’ fashionable ski attire, she sported a huge fluffy fur scarf hanging around her neck. She perched tall on skis on the tippy top of a very steep ski run. Mike stood next to her. He was athletic and handsome, looked like an ad for Nike and chowed down on a pickle.

  A big sign next to them featured an image of a lovely engagement ring with a substantial black shiny diamond as the center stone. The sign read, “BLACK DIAMOND RUN— Recommended for Experienced Skiers Only.”

  Annie looked down at the daunting slope below, stuck out her stiff upper lip, tossed her furry scarf over her shoulder and declared, “Come on Mike, we can do this.”

  “Oh, Annie, you know the drill. I have to meet a very relevant director for a script that’s getting a lot of heat. I need this time to read,” he said, pulled a script out of his ski jacket, sat down in a snow bank and flipped through it.

  She squinted toward the bottom of the run. “Hey look. Is that Steven Spielberg eating a snow cone?” That got Mike’s attention. “See ya!” He was back up on his skis and right behind her as she vaulted off the Black Diamond’s precipice and flew down the steep slope.

  She hit a mogul. Totally maneuvered it. Down that hill she soared.

  She hit another mogul, but never even broke stride, let alone a sweat. Bill Gates laid flat on his back on the hill but still managed to lift his head out of the snow. He looked pissed that she had not only shattered his expensive goggles, but left ski tracks on his face. “Hey! Annie Rose Graceland, you can’t just run over moguls and not take responsibility. I’m a good man. I contribute substantially to charity, you know.”

  “Sorry! I’ll put a dime in that jar at the 7-11 and mention your name.”

  “But… I have a foundation named after me!”

  “I wear a dab of foundation almost every day, Mr. Gates. Coincidence? I think not.” She waved at him cheerily and continued down the run.

  He blinked through his expensive broken goggles and shook his fist at her.

  She schussed and flew off every bump and edge, powder flying up behind her. At the bottom Annie realized that—holy shit! She’d mastered her first Black Diamond course.

  Beautiful people in sexy ski gear, swimwear and cocktail attire clapped and cheered as she skied past them. She smiled and curtseyed. (How difficult was it to curtsey and ski at the same time?) One woman who looked suspiciously like her mother wore a placard around her neck that read, “Marry in Haste, Repent in Seizures.”

  A hunky ski adonis yelled to her, “Annie Rose, you sexy thing. Be mine, Valentine!”

  She waved back at Mr. Adonis, spit out a hunk of her fur scarf that the mountain air
had blown into her mouth, “Thank you. I’m flattered. But as you can see I’m already taken!” She reached for Mike’s arm, but the beautiful people screamed in horror. She turned and saw that the arm she held was bloody and not attached to a body. She frantically looked around for the rest of Mike, but the rest of Mike had disappeared.

  “Mike? Mike?”

  She glanced down and realized her fashionable ski attire had disintegrated during her run. She had skied down that black diamond slope in different stages of nakedness.

  Now she screamed. But the beautiful people had vanished and she was completely alone except for the bloody arm stump she held. Dammit. Another Major Life Debacle? How’d she end up here, again?

  She sat upright on her laundry room floor. Teddy fell off her face and meandered away. She shook her head and spit out a couple of cat hairs. Bad, terrible friggin’ nightmare. She just had to admit she wasn’t much of a skier and never would be. Let that dream go. Big breath in. Big breath out. She recited her mantra for letting go, releasing. “I, Annie Rose Graceland, will never be a Black Diamond skier.” Closure. Phew. Freedom.

  But why in that statement had she forgotten her married name, Piccolino? And why was she clawing herself to standing on her washer and dryer in her laundry room? And what was up with the loud and unfamiliar voices as well as banging and clanking noises resounding inside her apartment?

  She pushed her self to standing and swayed. Whoa—oh—whoa. What was she doing last night, where was the Advil, her smokes, and Mike? She cracked the laundry room door open and peered out. Three guys carted her furniture out of the front door on dollies. Huh? Had she scored a reality show home makeover and not been informed?

  “Excuse me. Excuse me!” She teetered out of the laundry room. She recognized one young male Latino mover. His name was Juan and he was the building manager’s twenty-something year old kid.

  Juan paused and regarded Annie with a look that conveyed either fear or compassion.

  “Juan, tell me it’s the House and Garden Network and that it’s big budget?”

  “No, Señorita Anna Rosita. You call me yesterday and say, “Emergencia!” You need us mañana. To move you to nueva muy bonita casita en Playa del Venice.”

  A whirlwind of sucky stuff flooded back: the bad trip to the Oby-Gyne, something crappy about Valentine’s Day and a disastrous ski trip. “Right.”

  Juan handed her a stack of mail, including her daily L.A. Times newspaper. “Coffee -- kitchen.”

  “Smokes?”

  He pointed to the patch on her arm and shrugged.

  She looked at her arm and frowned. “Gracias, Juan.”

  She plodded into her kitchen, squinted, and noticed a piece of paper taped to her coffee machine. She leaned in and read the note. She was so hung over the words actually swam a little. “Hit the ON button. Look next to the coffee machine. Love, Julia and Grady.” She hit the button on the coffee machine; it perked up immediately. Next to it was a huge empty coffee mug, a bottle of vitamin water and a small china cup that held four Advil and a fresh nicotine patch. She smiled. She had good friends.

  She popped the Advil, swigged them down with the water, ripped off the old nicotine patch and slapped a new one on her arm. She picked up today’s newspaper. February 15th, post Valentine’s Day massacre, thought Annie. The lower column had a headline, “Daring Shootout!” More like boring. But the picture of the vic looked vaguely familiar. Yeah didn’t they all?

  She poured herself a stiff cup of dark sludgy coffee, slugged back a couple of shots, dropped the paper and rifled through her mail. A coupon for five dollars off on her next Bed Bath and Beyond purchase. Opened an 8 X 10 envelope, pulled out her husband Mike’s make-out/boy toy pictures. Huh. Oh yeah. Thanks for the reminder. Cheater, wiener, dickwipe. She winced and stuffed the photos back in the envelope. Shook her head. Noticed her answering machine blinked sixteen new messages.

  She had a feeling that yesterday would qualify as her Major Life Debacle # Twelve. There were strict rules and guidelines that needed to be met before a truly shitty event could even be considered a Major Life Debacle. She was pretty sure that yesterday’s scores pushed her past the official qualification requirements.

  An I Promise book lay on the counter next to the vitamin water. She picked up the book, flipped to the author’s blurb, squinted at the picture of Dr. Derrick Fuller. She vaguely remembered Julia weaving over her head like a platypus and saying, “We figured out who Mike was involved with. His name is Dr. Derrick Fuller.” She looked at the Mike pictures again. Yeah. Same guy. She felt the blood drain from her face. Juan walked past her, directing the movers in Spanish. “Señorita Annie. Está bien?”

  Annie waved, smiled and replied, “Yes. Gracias.”

  Juan smiled and gave her a thumbs up.

  She gave him a thumbs up back, clutched her stomach, turned and hurled into the kitchen sink.

  Damn. It was one thing to find out you were most likely not super fertile, but zoom zoom ahead, fast forward…. you’re in peri-menopause. Next, some self-righteous doctor and his idiot intern insist that you not only had to quit smoking (your almost favorite habit in the whole entire world), but then unceremoniously put you on the patch as well. Kick number three (not in emotional value, just time-wise), the horror of discovering your husband cheated on you, and on top of that (figuratively not positionally), that he was doing it with a man.

  Yesterday had been a really sucky day. And she really didn’t see today getting better anytime soon.

  Because Annie Rose couldn’t compete with that. She couldn’t grow a dick even if she tried. And she liked being a girl. She knew in her bones there was another nail that lurked nearby, whispering her name and hoping to be pounded into a coffin. Most likely hers. She didn’t quite know what that nail looked like, but had a strong feeling it was coming. Probably complete with its own hammer.

  Concha walked up with another tray of snackies and noticed a crowd of crows circling over Dr. Derrick, as he lay prone, sound asleep, on his lounge chair facing his gorgeous crystal blue infinity pool. She quietly placed the tray including more Piccolino’s Pastries cupcakes on the table next to the muy coiffed Doctore. He was already pink and definitely burning. She hesitated. Sighed. Then picked up the Clarins’ 60 SPF sunscreen tube, squeezed a little onto her hand and gently patted it onto Dr. Derrick’s back and tushie. He didn’t even flinch. Concha wiped her hands on her uniform and trudged off.

  Hussy Sucks

  Description: Frozen sorbet-like popsicles.

  Appropriate Occasions: Identifying tramp who did you-know-what with possibly soon to be ex-spouse.

  Best Served With: Infidelity. Exhaustion. Overwhelming need to suck on something, carrot sticks simply won’t do and nothing else appropriate is available.

  Five

  Crackville Cookies

  It was a long day. The movers had come and gone. Now Annie wanted to see her first sunset in her new Venice neighborhood and her new apartment. The beach was so close and she needed to smell the salt air and soak it all in. Let her new life wash over her like a big cleansing wave. She stood across the street from her teensy new apartment and watched the beginning of a brilliant Pacific sunset.

  The street was narrow. Cars of all varieties and monthly payments were parked in driveways and at the curbs. The buildings were residential: a mixture of rental bungalows, small two bedroom starter houses, a crack-ville dive and the obligatory celebrity compound.

  Her new apartment was part of a string of 1950s miniscule bungalows, all connected and strung alongside each other in a V formation. Her place was located in the narrow part of the V, in the back of the property, bordered on an alley. The front of her spiffy new singles’ complex sported a small patch of weathered grass, some saggy lawn chairs and a big tree growing in the middle of the V. Maybe she’d plant an herb garden here. Paint and put up a little sign that said “Victory Gardens.” Arrange some chicken wire around it with a few more friendly signs in front. “We want p
eace and we want it now!” “Impeach (insert name of politician you hate, here).” And, “We don’t poop on your poodle. Please don’t pee on our peppermint.”

  Annie’s new living room was fifteen by twenty feet, featured scuffed hardwoods, a couple of saggy windows and the original 1950s metal floor heaters. It also multi-tasked as a foyer, an office, entertainment complex, and a bedroom. Behind this multi-plex was a miniscule kitchen. It miraculously had tons of cabinets that surrounded a grandmother stove, a basic fridge, and a single sink. The kitchen led to a back door painted tangerine dream.

  She opened the tangerine door, stepped outside and looked at her smallish bricked in patio covered in overgrown red, orange and blush bougainvilleas. It had a fire-pit and great potential for outdoor entertaining on a very small scale. It was perfect.

  She burst into tears. Who was she kidding? It was perfect, pre-Mike, when she was younger, more daring and not fertility challenged. She’d signed up for marriage and babies, not divorce and anxiety attacks. She forgot to breathe and started to shake. She ran back inside her little place, popped half a Xanax and started to unpack. Hopefully progressive movement would help.

  Dr. Derrick Fuller woke up, yawned and stretched his arms. He noticed the sun had dropped toward the horizon. He must have napped for hours and probably missed several appointments. What the hell. After all the stress he’d gone through he deserved it. Several crows squawked at him, which reminded him he once boinked a girl who was 1/20th American Indian at a writing conference in Jersey. Based on his advice Irene Fritzel changed her name to Little Feather and wrote a book about crows – shamanic animal messengers from the After-Life. God, those ugly birds were flying around, awfully close to him. Maybe they were going for the remnants of his snackies. He glanced about.

  Approximately forty feet below him uniformed cops, paramedics and some hunky firemen gathered around the pool and walked the premises of his stunning compound. Concha and Tawny hovered in the background, backs toward each other. Per usual, Tawny was surrounded by men. She fluttered her eyes, licked her lips, touched her breasts unconsciously (in a conscious fashion), and conversed with some of LAPD’s finest in universal language.