Story of My Life Page 5

  Rob goes, not the kindness of strangers. I thought I told the class I didn’t want anybody doing that monologue ever again.

  Old Janet’s standing in front of the class looking like—oh, God, why does he hate me? And I’m feeling nice and safe in my wobbly little classroom chair, thinking, better you than me, Janet.

  Rob sighs and tells Janet to go ahead so she does, yada yada yada, really bad, I mean, bring back Vivien Leigh, please.

  Finally Rob shouts, she’s in the attic.

  I don’t know what it means but he always hollers this whenever he really hates something. He’ll tell us the story some day, or so he says.

  Janet asks, do you want me to stop?

  Please, Rob says, cease and desist. Then he launches into this thing where he tears her performance apart and goes on to talk about her sex life—Rob should have been a psychotherapist. You just broke up with your boyfriend, didn’t you? Rob shouts. Janet squeaks yes and then starts bawling. He gets really personal in his criticism. The roles we choose and how we perform them show a lot about us, Rob says.

  And while I’m supposed to be paying attention I’m wondering what Dean is doing, if he’s thinking of me. Then I think I may have to go out and screw somebody else or something just to get my sense of perspective back.

  4

  Truth or Dare

  After class I stop off at the tanning salon. I’m hoping Mark will be there because I’m flat broke and I used my last tanning coupon a few days ago. Luckily Mark’s behind the counter but he has to give me a bunch of shit first and say if his boss catches him giving out free tans he’ll be shit-canned and I have to remind him about some favors I’ve done for him, so he gives me my usual bed but I have to wait five minutes so I decide to call Francesca from the pay phone after I borrow a quarter from Mark.

  Alison, he goes, have you ever thought of getting a job?

  Not really, I go. Have you?

  I’ve got a job, he goes.

  And I go, you call this working?

  If I really gave a shit what Mark thinks I could tell him I had a job once. I was a waitress for about three seconds. I don’t know, it was pretty terrible, these businessmen thinking the price of their filet included a handful of ass and the manager wanted to sleep with me, plus the other waitresses weren’t too keen on me since Jeannie’s father owned the restaurant. Sorry, I just wasn’t raised to work. I mean, you take an indoor cat eating smoked salmon and lying around in the sunny spots all its life—you can’t suddenly chuck it out into the cold and expect it to feed itself and fight like an alley cat. I should start a clinic for former rich girls. Deprived Debs Anonymous.

  Francesca picks up on the second ring. Tell me all, she goes. I want to know everything about Dean. I need details. Length and width, the works. Did you take my advice?

  Francesca likes to pile up the questions, mainly because she hates to stop talking, she’s like scared she’ll have to let someone else talk the way kids are afraid of the moment when somebody notices it’s their bedtime. I don’t know, that sounds too negative, what it really is, she’s like a force of nature, Niagara Falls or something.

  I go, I took it.

  And she’s like, tell me all.

  And I’m like, I’m not going to tell you everything. It was good, it was great, I like him. I’m in lust.

  And she goes, I can’t believe you’re not going to tell me every little thing, your best friend, I’m so upset, at least tell me how big.

  So I go, big.

  And she goes, oh God, let me sit down, I’m getting dizzy, it’s been so long since I’ve been laid two inches would feel big to me. Four inches would feel like a baseball bat. This is no fair, I have to live vicariously through your lust life and now you’re holding out on me. Listen, do you know Bobby Cayman? Real dark, craggy. Looks like he just stepped off a Harley Davidson? I ran into him at Nell’s after you left with what’s-his-face and he is a total hunk.

  Forget it, I tell her. Used to be a junkie.

  Shit, why do I always go for men in the high-risk categories?

  It’s true. Francesca only seems to like guys who look like heavy-metal lead guitarists or bikers, hunks in leather with needle tracks and dubious sexual histories, the kind of guys who are like, what is it that Dean says?—walking petri dishes for sexually transmitted diseases. Francesca could get laid a lot more often if her tastes weren’t so narrow. She’s real picky, but she picks badly. It’s like, choosy mothers would never choose the kind of guys Francesca likes for son-in-law material. Sometimes I think she looks at a guy and goes, oh, wow! my mom would really be horrified by this stud.

  It was so depressing at Nell’s last night, Francesca says. There were absolutely no celebs. Plus I heard that Mick and Jerry had a dinner party and I wasn’t invited again. I’m really upset at Caroline because she knows them like really well and she was there last night and she still won’t introduce me.

  Did I already say this is Francesca’s big goal in life, to get invited to Mick and Jerry’s house for dinner? I don’t know what she’d have to live for if the invitation ever came. She goes on and on about this dinner party she wasn’t invited to while I’m thinking I should probably get a bikini wax except I don’t have any money. Plus I’m not a glutton for that kind of pain. It’s not easy to bring tears to my eyes, but the old bikini wax does it every time. Underarm waxing is the worst, though. These places should hand out Demerol free of charge.

  Mark tells me my bed’s ready so I tell Francesca I gotta go and I’ll call after I finish tanning. Then I call Jeannie collect at work.

  Did you get any sleep? I go.

  Hardly, she goes, and then she makes me tell her the whole story about Dean. Finally I ask her if she’s checked the messages and she hasn’t so I dial in and hear Francesca’s voice again, plus some crazy guy named Mannie looking for Rebecca, he sounds deranged, not a stable unit, there’s always some crazy guy looking for Rebecca. But no Dean.

  When we went to L.A. last summer, Francesca and me, we’d catch this air-quality index on the radio. We were supposedly out there looking for jobs, right? We had this little house in Santa Monica on Second Street which was Party Central—but anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, there was this radio station we listened to, and between Madonna and the Beastie Boys the DJ would be like—the air really sucks today, don’t go out unless it’s absolutely necessary kind of thing. I really hate Madonna but that’s another story. So anyway, coming back to my apartment made me think about the air-quality index . . . don’t go inside unless really you have to. Heavy smog, hydrocarbons and BO. I mean, it’s never exactly a rose garden, but this is radical. Rebecca and Didi are really disgusting is all I can say. I have to open up all the windows and run the fan in the air conditioner for cross-ventilation. I don’t even want to think about dealing with the ashtrays. If I’d bought stock in Philip Morris yesterday I’d probably be a rich girl today.

  So I clear some space on the bed and lie down with my script for a half an hour or so but the next thing I know the phone is ringing and I’ve been asleep and I’m listening to my message going—hi, this is Alison, Jeannie and I aren’t home right now, so leave the data and we’ll call you lata.

  So I pick up and it’s Dean.

  He goes, hey, how’s my little postmodern girl?

  I’m spacey, I go.

  By definition, he goes. So what are you doing? he says.

  I think I was just having an erotic dream, I tell him, because it’s just coming back to me.

  Was I in it? he goes and I’m thinking, for a supposedly smart guy Dean can be pretty predictable. I could lie, of course, and say he was but I feel really strongly about always being honest no matter what. That’s my personal code, basically—do anything you’d be willing to admit, and always tell the truth. I don’t know, though, that thing about Skip, telling him I was preggers, it’s been bugging me. It’s the first time in years I can remember that I’ve lied, but we were talking survival. And revenge, which is
a girl’s best friend.

  So when Dean wants to know is he in my stupid dream, I go, I’m not sure, because I’m not. I don’t think it was any guy in particular. Maybe if I went right back to sleep I could find out. But I can tell he’s kind of hurt that it wasn’t him in the dream. Jesus! What a baby. So I tell him about my sense-memory exercise in class, how I had to think of something good I’d done for somebody. . . .

  You told the class that?

  Sure, I say. I mean, why not?

  He goes, you didn’t tell them my name, did you?

  Of course not, I go. Like it would mean anything to them anyway. Dean the Famous Bond Salesman.

  Dean keeps saying over and over that he still can’t believe that I told them. But I think secretly he’s really flattered, you know?

  Finally he asks me if I want to go to dinner and I say yeah, definitely, and he asks if I have any preference and I say Mexican, I don’t know, I just suddenly have this craving for hot salsa and margaritas. Love that spicy food. Must be my southern blood, did I mention my mom’s from Georgia? Anyway Dean says cool, he knows a place.

  Are you sure that’s okay? I go. I’m like suddenly thinking maybe he had some big plan that I spoiled. The last time I went out on an actual date this guy sent a limo around and we ate at Le Bernardin and he was all upset that all I wanted was a salad because he’d gone to all this trouble and I guess he had these visions of us feeding each other oysters and snails and lusting across the meat like Albert Finney and that chick in Tom Jones, but I felt like I’d done my bit spending about five hours on makeup and borrowing an Alaïa evening dress from Didi and emerald earrings from Jeannie. Granted, a salad’s not very sexy but it’s results that count, right? And any girl who gets invited out with any regularity and scarfs the paté and the tournedos and the mousse is eventually going to kill the goose that laid the golden egg, you know? Sure, there are fetishists who write letters to Penthouse about lusting after the fat girls, but let’s face it . . . I mean, Alaïa doesn’t make those sexy dresses in size fourteen. Which I’ve gotta say is Francesca’s problem. That girl loves eating the way I love . . . well, let’s just say the way Didi loves blow. We’re talking addiction. It’s sort of funny that they’re friends, now that I think about it. Didi hasn’t eaten in about eight months and Francesca never stops. Being in a restaurant with those two is a really weird experience. Didi jumping up to go to the Ladies every three minutes and Francesca screaming at the waitress to bring more bread. And butter. Luckily it doesn’t happen too often since Didi can never get it together to show up anywhere.

  Anyway, I’m talking about dinner plans, right? and I’m suddenly worried that Dean had some big romantic idea that I’d just blown, but he says Mex is fine, dress casual and he’ll come by at eight-thirty.

  Jeannie comes home a few minutes later. She throws herself down on the bed and says, God, I can’t wait to get married so I can quit working and lie around the house all day.

  Jeannie is engaged to this guy Frank Salton who’s a tennis pro on Hilton Head. She flies down to see him every weekend, which is the main reason she has to have a job—that and a few other bad habits—since the allowance her parents give her only covers the rent plus one or two outfits a week. I was going to mention food but Jeannie doesn’t really eat. They’re supposed to get married this fall. I don’t know. Frank’s a decent guy—I know, because I introduced him to Jeannie. Actually that’s kind of a problem. I went out with him before Jeannie. For about five minutes. But still. Anyway, she could definitely do better. Frank’s got a decent body, but he’s no brain surgeon. One time he broke his index finger and he couldn’t read for six weeks, right? Had to skip the Sunday funnies till his pointer got better. Plus Jeannie is used to a lot of money and Frank’s never going to make a ton of it. Not to be a snob. I don’t think it’s a reason not to get married, but it’s kind of stupid, if you ask me, to pretend that these things don’t make a difference.

  Don’t you ever just want somebody to take care of you? Jeannie says.

  I go, I miss having a maid, if that’s what you mean.

  You know what I mean, she goes.

  I’d get bored, I say. Having the same guy around all the time.

  Not me, Jeannie says. I can’t wait. I’m going to sit around and watch the soaps, eat bonbons, cook dinner, the whole thing.

  I’m like, since when did you ever cook anything?

  I can learn, she says.

  You’d better, I go. On Frank’s salary I don’t think you’re going to be able to afford help.

  She goes, fuck you, Alison.

  Hey, I go, I’m just being realistic.

  I mean, really. I’m trying to tell her what life is really like. Wake up and smell the espresso, babe.

  So Dean comes by and picks me up, looking good, casual and sexy in chinos and a cotton sweater. Even though she’s not going out, Jeannie brushes her hair and touches up her eyes before he comes over. She gives him the eye and I can tell what she’s thinking. It kills her that I went out with Frank, and she develops these weird physical crushes on any guy I go out with but I doubt she even realizes it. I think she’d like to sleep with all my boyfriends. Partly it’s like a revenge fantasy, but also its because she loves me and looks up to me and sympathizes totally with me, you know, and automatically likes a guy if he’s passed my selection process. Reminds me of my sister Carol, who never liked the clothes she bought for herself and only wanted to wear stuff from my closet. I guess it’s a compliment. With Jeannie, it’s kind of like, we share sweaters and shoes and dresses so why not men? At least, I sometimes think that’s what’s going on in her head when she starts flirting with my guys, though probably not consciously. It’s sort of a great idea, sharing a lover with someone you love. But it’s too weird, really.

  Did I mention about Jeannie and Alex, my old boyfriend? Somewhere in Jeannie’s mind there’s this doubt about marriage and domestic bliss with Frank, this little cloud floating around—it’s like, picture a perfectly clear sky and that’s probably a pretty good picture of Jeannie’s mind—I love her but I definitely wouldn’t let her take my law boards for me. Anyway there’s this little thing she has going over the phone with Alex, he calls up for me but sometimes she picks up or else I’m not home and they’ve developed this incredible flirtation where they’re talking about sex and teasing each other and they’ve never even met. I told you about Jeannie and my boyfriends. In a way I’m kind of irritated but in another way I’m like, great, I hope Jeannie sleeps with Alex because if she does she’ll have a hard time settling for the notion of a lifetime of sleeping with Frank, who is not exactly Valentino in bed. I think it would be good for her, and anyway, this marriage idea is kind of bogus. . . .

  So Dean and I are in this frantic place on Second Avenue packed with well-groomed gringos getting sloppy on margaritas.

  Popular place, I go.

  Dean says, these people are all bankers trying to improve the balance of payments with Mexico and prevent default. That’s the only way I can think of, he goes, to explain the popularity of Third World food on the Upper East Side.

  Most of them look like they could use some spice, I say. Not that Dean is exactly the hairy barbarian himself. I mean, it seems like his idea of wild is argyle socks. But it’s okay, I like straight guys, I’d never go out with anybody who’s as irresponsible as me. Most of the guys I know have really high-powered jobs and make up for lost time when they’re not in the office. The Berserk After Work Club. I seem to attract them in a big way, all these boys in Paul Stuart suits with six-figure salaries and hellfire on a dimmer switch in their eyes.

  The waiter knows Dean and he keeps bringing us free margaritas so I get really blasted. Not blasted exactly. I just get really horny. Story of my life, right? I mean, who needs tequila? But then I remember my little problem, which makes me a mondo unhappy unit.

  Dean’s like, you want to come over? and I’m like, sure, yeah, but basically I’m still out of commission. He says that’s
okay, sex isn’t the only thing he ever thinks about, and I’m like, well, I hope it’s near the top of the list, anyway. He cracks up.

  So we get to Dean’s house and the phone is ringing. I don’t know why I say house, it’s an apartment. It’s like, living in New York never really seems normal, you keep thinking of the world as a place where people live in houses and drive cars to the 7-Eleven.

  Somebody called Didi for you, Dean goes, handing me the phone.

  Didi’s just bought her stash for the night and she wants to come over. God, I don’t know. A couple of lines would be nice, but I’ve got class in the morning, plus it’s Dean’s apartment and it’s not really up to me. So I go, you don’t really want this beautiful maniac friend of mine coming over here and wiggling her cute little tail all over the place and forcing nonprescription drugs up your nose, do you?

  And he says, sounds terrible, ask her how soon she can get here, and I go, really, you don’t mind? and he goes, why not? And I figure, well, I tried, right? but just to be safe I check my watch—it’s a little after eleven—and I say to Dean, we definitely kick her out at one, right? If not sooner.

  Absolutely, he says.

  And suddenly Dean goes, wait a minute, this isn’t Didi Spence, is it? Well, it turns out Dean knows Didi’s cousin Phil. And of course he’s heard stories. I don’t think there’s anybody in New York who hasn’t heard about Didi.

  Listen, I go, you better not start drooling all over Didi in front of me.

  And he goes, Alison, I only have eyes for you.

  I’m like, right, Dean. If you think I believe that I’ve got some swampland in Florida I’ll sell you real cheap.

  Didi shows up a little after midnight.

  By this time I’m chewing my fingernails off thinking about getting a line, right? If she hadn’t called at all that would’ve suited me just fine. We’re watching Carson, I’m kind of giving Dean a backrub. It must be bimbo night. I can’t believe some of the so-called actresses who are making a killing out there in videoland. You can see, when they get live on Johnny, these starlets without stage training, that they don’t even know how to talk. Doing a TV series they can shoot five hundred takes while some dimwit walking talking inflatable doll who the producer slept with tries to learn how to say Gesundheit! Or they can just change the script and say, bless you! and the prompter gives the lines word by word offscreen and then the editor cuts away just before she starts to pick her nose. I’m sorry, but the stage is where real actors and actresses live and die. You can’t fake it up there. We’re talking truth in advertising. My teacher says acting is about truth, and I finally figured out what he means, you know what real acting is when you see this fake shit on television. I’m not saying I’d turn down a role in a movie or even a TV series. But there’s a lot of bimbos making huge bucks. I can’t stand watching Johnny pimp for NBC’s latest sitcom, so we switch to Channel J to check out “Midnight Blue,” that cable show that’s all T and A and hand-held cameras and ads for escort services . . . which is like a blast of honesty and fresh air after this horrible network cosmetology.