Goddess for Hire (15 page)

SOME WOMEN
will only sleep with a guy after the third date.

I slept with a guy before our first date.

Don't knock it till you try it.

Tahir was taking me to Tangiers, a hip restaurant in the trendy Los Feliz neighborhood of LA. It was our first official date.

I couldn't tell what I was more excited about. Seeing Tahir again, going to Tangiers, or actually having plans on a Saturday night. I suppose it was all of the above.

The old Maya was back.

I'd gotten my manicure and pedicure done, then headed to Ziba, a salon across the street from South Coast Plaza. I leaned back into the reclining chair as a woman approached me with a spool of cotton thread. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes.

Ziba
specialized in threading, a beauty treatment/torture device where facial hair is removed with thread instead of wax. The beautician held one end of the thread in her
teeth and the other end in her hand. With the available hand, she fashioned the middle of the thread into a loop. The loop trapped unwanted hair, which was then pulled from the skin.

One silent shriek at a time.

Threading had recently become popular in Southern California, even though it had been around for eons in India and the Middle East.

I was glad Indian culture had become trendy again. My mom didn't have to deal with people wondering if her red bindhi was really blood. And I didn't have people asking me questions like—Do you eat monkey brains? If I ever ran into Steven Spielberg, I'd let him know in alto terms how
The Temple of Doom
had led to plenty of negative stereotypes about Indians, not to mention Kali.

Who was I kidding? If I ever did meet him I'd probably blab how
E.T.
still made me sob.

Unfortunately, there was a downside to all this “trendiness” as well. Threading, which used to cost me five bucks, now cost fifteen. And if I ever wanted to get henna tattooing done—which I didn't because when it faded it resembled ringworm—I'd have to pay a whopping hundred dollars.

Thanks to celebs like Madonna, Gwen Stefani, and Naomi Campbell.

Still, with each yell-inducing yank of my brow hair, a thrill of happiness went through me. I felt like a normal chick again. Getting ready to go out with a total hottie.

I deserved a night out. Not just because I'd been saving the world (cross my fingers), but because of living with the cumulative annoyance of Mom and Ram.

Even though my mom and I had experienced a sort of breakthrough—I hugged her and she allowed it—that didn't mean we had stopped getting on each other's nerves. And now there was Ram.

The two were as thick as turbaned thieves.

Mom and Ram went to the Cerritos temple together on Tuesday night. Went to Little India for lunch on Wednesday to eat South Indian food. On Thursday they went to Disneyland. Ram now had Mickey Mouse ears to complement his robes. On Friday the Dish Network dude came and installed two Indian channels—Zee and Sony. From then on Mom and Ram were glued to the TV watching all the Indian soaps. Since it involved a couch, my dad joined them.

It wasn't like I was afraid they were having an affair. The problem was they were gossiping about me. Every time I entered a room, they'd stop talking and look at each other knowingly.

I dealt with this in the usual way, by getting out of the house. I had my regular meditation sessions with Ram, and the rest of my time was spent cruising around for criminals.

Oh yeah, and talking to Tahir on the phone.

It was weird not arguing or exchanging insults with him. It was even weirder thinking of us as a couple.

Wait. Were we a couple?

I didn't want to go that far. I hadn't even told my mom I was going out with Tahir because I didn't want to get her hopes up. We were having fun, and that was good enough for me. I didn't want to examine my feelings too strongly.

I wondered if Nadia was still chasing Tahir.

I wondered if Tahir was seeing other women.

I wondered if he was sleeping with other women.

I wondered if it was normal for a straight man to like shopping as much as I.

Okay, sometimes feelings didn't care whether you were ready to examine them or not.

The beautician pressed my shoulder. “Please, take a look.”

I opened my eyes and gazed into the hand mirror she held in front of me, trying to ignore the ruby winking above my nostril. “You missed a hair, here.” I pointed to my left brow.

Well, I needed the perfect brows to go with my perfect dress.

Settling back, I visualized my outfit for tonight—Dolce & Gabbana floral slip dress, matching Pashmina shawl, and my brand-new Manolo Blahnik ankle-wrap sandals. The clerk had smiled knowingly as she wrapped up my shoes. “Did you see these on
Sex and the City
?”

“I only watch the
McLaughlin Newshour
,” I answered, and grabbed the bag. How dare she try to categorize me as some Carrie Bradshaw copycat! I'd been a fashionista from birth. My mom told me that as a toddler I'd once
thrown a tantrum because the socks she put on me didn't match. One was eggshell, and the other was ecru. She didn't see the difference until I pointed it all out in belligerent baby speak.

Eyebrows finally arched to perfection, I went home to get ready.

 

Tahir and I met at his apartment—followed by some heavy breathing and my reapplication of lipstick—and from there he drove to the restaurant.

At the first red light, he let go of the gearshift and reached for my hand.

He held it until the light turned green.

We left the car with the valet and were heading up to the entrance when Tahir noticed a white Labrador waiting for its owner outside a shop. He walked over, crouched, and began rubbing the dog's ears, cooing into its face.

Hand holding? Dog petting?

Had Tahir undergone an exorcism recently or what?

A moment later he was back beside me. “You look amazing. Did I tell you that?” Wordlessly I shook my head no. He pulled me to his side. “Well, you do.”

A sick feeling swelled inside me as we entered the restaurant. I hadn't felt this bad since my weeklong fling with amoebic dysentery on my last trip to India.

In the name of all that was holy and chargeable—

I knew what had happened.

I had fallen in love with Tahir.

SOME PEOPLE
found their peace in ashrams.

I preferred the toilet.

As soon as tactfully possible I excused myself from dinner to escape into the bathroom. Settling down into my porcelain sanctuary, I realized I was withdrawing to the WC on a regular basis.

Things had been going so well.

Why'd I have to ruin it by falling in love with him?

I tore off a sheet of toilet paper and began shredding it. What was wrong with me? The guy pets a dog, and suddenly I was Juliet Capulet. I tried vainly to convince myself that what I was feeling was just lust in warp drive, but even if Tahir were to gain fifty pounds (gulp) or mangle his face in a freak accident (gulp, gulp), I'd still feel the same way about him.

Call it love. Call it hysterical blindness. Whatever.

I didn't know what was more galling—falling in love with the man my family picked out for me—or falling in love with a man who'd explicitly stated he wanted a
woman who respected her family and adhered to Indian values.

Regardless of what Tahir said, I believed I was just someone for him to fool around with until he found the perfect wife and mother for his future children.

Someone grabbed the stall handle and tugged.

“Occupied,” I shouted.

I had enough pressure trying to figure out how to save the world, trying to keep my nails shiny and buffed, trying to meditate, trying to overcome childhood issues, trying to find a career path, and trying to stay alive while some computer programmer tried to kill me….

And now this.

If only I knew how to micromanage my feelings.

Until then, I'd have to go back to my lamb shank and potatoes and face Tahir.

I stood and flushed the toilet for good measure. Exiting the stall I was confronted by a long line of ladies wearing the latest in dirty looks. I washed my hands, tossed my hair, and left the bathroom with my head held high.

 

Bathed in the soft glow of the candles, surrounded by golden walls and colorful carpets, we enjoyed our after-dinner grappa.

I was mulling over a restaurant idea of my own. Just in case the video game or the exercise video didn't take off. The cuisine would be California-Indian fusion. I even had a name. The Goddess Gourmet.

“Maya, are you listening?”

“Huh?” I looked over to see Tahir watching me expectantly. I straightened my shoulders and sat up. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

Tahir smiled. “I want to take back something I said to you before, because it wasn't the truth.”

I went still. Could I have been wrong? Was Tahir going to admit he felt the same way about me, too? My cynicism melted under the warmth of requited love. Life suddenly pulsed with possibilities. Maybe I'd even vote in the next election.

“Maya.” Tahir hesitated.

“Yes,” I prompted.

He looked deep into my eyes. “Maya, I just want to say…I don't think you're crazy.”

“What the—”

He interrupted. “I just wanted to share how I really felt.”

I signaled the waiter. “Another shot of grappa, please.”

He traced his finger down my palm. “I also think you're beautiful and original.”

“Oh.”

“One more thing…” His voice trailed off as the waiter set the shot glass down in front of me.

Compliment or insult? What would it be? I was going to have a massive coronary in the time it took for him to decide.

“Maya—”

Ugh.

Malevolence settled on me like one of Tangiers' thick Persian rugs.

Tahir squeezed my hand. “When I met you I—”

No. Not now. I wanted to squeeze his hand back. I wanted to hear what he had to say.

Ugh.

But I couldn't wait. Malevolence had beaten him to the punch.

“I have to…I'll be back.” I slid out of the booth and began moving through the crowd. As the night had progressed, so had the crush of people.

I was at the door when Tahir whirled me around to face him. “What's wrong?” he demanded.

Whether he meant in the metaphysical or emotional sense, the explanation would take too long. “There's no time. I have to go.”

“You can't do this again, Maya.” His voice held an edge of finality.

I pulled away. “I'm sorry.”

His expression was closed, his voice flat. “So am I.”

I pushed my way out of the restaurant, refusing to look back.

What was I supposed to say?

Tahir had been right the day he'd moved out of our house.

It never would have worked out between us.

MY LIFE HAD BECOME
about running.

Running into bathrooms, running out the door, running in designer heels.

My Manolos!

I pulled them off, reducing my height by a good three inches, and scanned the street for malevolence.

Evil had taken a right.

Pashmina shawl flying behind me like a cape, I ran down the sidewalk in my bare feet, praying I wouldn't step in spit or shit.

This was seriously bad planning on my part. No sword. No Hummer. Nobody walked in LA. From now on I was taking my car everywhere—not that there'd be any more dates with Tahir.

Tahir. Best not to think about him.

My Malevolent Meter led me into a narrow alley, where a man had a woman up against the wall.

It didn't take a goddess to guess his intentions.

I was sick of evil in all its forms. Especially the nasty form that now stood in front of me.

I called the you-know-what within.

Lightning illuminated the gray eyes of the attacker, along with the shiny knife blade in his hand. The woman was slumped against the wall and made no move to get away.

There wasn't time to look for a clean place to set down my shawl and shoes, so I dropped them on the ground and grabbed the lid of a trash can.

“Who—” he uttered.

I flung the trash can lid as hard as I could, and divine accuracy took care of the rest.

The metal Frisbee caught him full in the face, and he hit the ground with a thud, a moment before the clattering disk.

He didn't move.

Maybe I'd been feeling a bit too much of the shakti?

I knelt at his side and felt for a pulse. It took me a few tries actually to find the correct spot—you'd think with a family full of doctors I'd detect it right away—but it was there, beating strong.

A groan made me turn my head and move toward the woman. She had long, streaked blond hair and a California tan. “Where's my date?” she murmured.

“Date?”

She took a step, fell toward me. I grabbed her. “The guy I picked up at the bar?” She was completely wasted,
which made it all the more fun for me. “He said he wanted to show me something.”

“Don't you watch the Lifetime Channel?” I asked. “They had a TV movie about this kind of thing just last week.” I slipped one arm around her waist and used my other hand to pick up my stuff from the ground. After numerous falls and several stumbling steps, we managed to make it out of the alleyway.

“Where do you live?” I asked her.

She swayed. “I don't know. LA.”

I rolled my eyes. “Where's your purse?” I could at least get her address from her driver's license.

“I had it in the bathroom when I was snorting.” She stopped walking. “Don't feel good.” Her eyes closed and she crumpled to the ground.

A woman with black hair and way too much makeup was unlocking the door to a Saturn at the curb.

Time to use the Goddess Gaze. “Hey!” She looked up. “I need to get to the hospital. Now.”

She nodded. “Hospital…okay.”

Together we heaved Blondie into the back of the car. I'd just saved her life. If she even thought of overdosing on me—

I'd kill her.

 

I left the waiting room as soon as the nurse assured me Blondie would be fine.

I decided to grab a cup of coffee. The hospital—Linda
Vista—was freezing. Wrapping my shawl around me, I followed the signs leading to the cafeteria.

I'd let the woman with the Saturn go, so I'd have to use the G.G. again later to get a ride to my car.

I was rounding the corner, the cafeteria in plain sight ahead when the doors to the elevator opened and a group of chattering nurses exited.

“What's up with Dr. Vargas?” one of them said, with a cross expression. “Ordering us around like we're servants?”

“Doctors,” another said. “They strut around the hospital like they own it. ‘M.D.' apparently stands for massive dick!”

“Not literally of course,” another laughed.

“Don't we wish.”

I couldn't see her face but a nurse in pink scrubs spoke up. “Come on, girls. Until we get more male nurses—nothing's going to change.”

I froze in the corner. I knew that voice.

As they passed by me in the hall, I had a clear view of the group. My eyes widened. It was all I could do not to reveal my presence.

Suddenly, I didn't need the coffee after all. I'd completely perked up.

Thanks to the woman in pink.

As it turned out, my cousin Nadia wasn't a nephrologist after all.

She was a nurse.