Literacy and Longing in L. A. (7 page)

Then there are the readers who like to hang out in bookstore cafés nursing tepid cappuccinos, hogging the table for hours while they leisurely read unpurchased books, leaving them in piles on the table for the salespeople to put away.

And let’s not forget the hopeless unfinishers—people who like choosing books, buying books, starting books, but the one thing they can’t seem to do is finish books. They continually deceive themselves, thinking this is the one book they are going to read all the way through, and I do think they are well-intentioned, but like diets and New Year’s resolutions, the will to persevere usually fades. I must confess that sometimes I fall into this category.

The most frustrating category of all includes people who read a book and just don’t get it. I know, I’m a snob. I admit it. But once they tell you their analysis, there is really nothing you can do except change the subject. A few years ago, one of my good friends read
Atonement
and told me how much she loved it. When I casually mentioned that most of the action in the book took place in the mind of Briony, she was at first sur
prised, and then bereft at her lack of comprehension. I hate when I do that.

Palmer used to tell me that I was my own worst enemy, grouping people in clichéd categories and never giving anyone a chance. He argued that the only people I could tolerate were “stray dogs,” like Darlene, who are so far outside the mainstream as to be unclassifiable and thus interesting only to me. He’d sometimes add with an arched eyebrow, “Is there any place in your world, Dora, for the nonweird?”

I look around. Fred is still dealing with the book-club lady when Darlene breezes past them and says, “How do you find anything in this place?” Sara appears and asks Darlene if she needs help.

Darlene is now looking for a vampire romance and Sara suggests Pam Keesey’s collection of lesbian vampire stories. Sara goes on to explain that the women in these stories are sexy, potent symbols of feminist power but the X-rated dialogue and erotic rhetoric narrows their appeal to the general public. Darlene gives me a look that says it all and tells Sara, “Maybe just a Nora Roberts.” As Sara turns to find her the books, Darlene does that sophisticated gesture of finger in a circle around her brain to suggest this girl’s fucking nuts.

Meanwhile, I wander aimlessly down another aisle, wondering how to approach Fred, and start to read the off-the-wall reviews attached to McKenzie’s Staff Picks of the Week books. The one attached to Jorge Luis Borges’s short stories reads, “A romantic mama’s boy collection of enigmatic parables.” There’s also an assortment of books
by Graham Greene, who is this month’s featured author. The note on
The End of the Affair
is a winner: “Here’s a blatant, chauvinistic take on a tortured love affair by a famous philandering, superstitious atheist.”

“I didn’t write that,” Fred says from somewhere behind me in a dusky voice.

“That’s good,” I laugh, “because it doesn’t exactly make me want to read it. Anyway, I’ve already seen the movie so I know how it all comes out.” (Great, now talk about the movie when I’ve actually read the book three times. That’ll impress him.)

“Any other suggestions?” I ask casually. “How about something pithy I can read at two in the morning?”

He looks at me with a sly grin. “Give me a few minutes to think about it.”

“Sure,” I counter, but he’s already walked off.

I see him conferring with the other employees and I strain to hear what they are saying. The last few times I stopped in here I noticed I was eavesdropping on his conversations. He always has something interesting, even provocative, to say and the banter back and forth makes my day. Occasionally the whole bunch of them will exchange hyperintellectual in-jokes and it’s at that point that I think to myself, “Geez, do people actually talk like that?” They’ll collapse into gales of laughter and I feel like someone seated at the wrong table at a dinner party.

The other day they were talking about the French novelist Georges Perec, who wrote a postmodern mystery filled with literary puzzles and wordplay. The idea is to
figure out why the main character, Anton Vowl, has disappeared along with the letter
e
. The
e
-less book is called
La Disparition
and there is no “here” or “there,” no “sleep,” no “sex,” no “love,” no “life.” I guess you could substitute words like fornication and copulation, but somehow it’s just not the same. If this wasn’t insanely esoteric enough, they then gushed over Perec’s most well-known classic (right!),
Life: A User’s Manual
. At first I thought it was one of those self-help, rehab books. But no. It’s a book that takes the blueprints of a Paris apartment building, cuts it into a grid that represents a hundred different rooms, and elaborates on one room per chapter, portraying the events that take place there. The game goes on because this, in turn, corresponds to a hypothetical chessboard. Alas, Perec only gets to the ninety-ninth floor/square/chapter because, as one of the kids joyfully points out, this is an unsuccessful quest for perfection. And, like the knight’s tour, it is naturally doomed for failure.

It’s at this point I’m thinking, “Gee, why don’t they all just read Cervantes’
Don Quixote
(with an
e
) if they want a simple but brilliant tale about a delusional knight on a hapless quest?” I’m also thinking that kids in the chess club should never mix with English lit students.

They went on to discuss the relative merits of Henry Miller’s
Tropic of Cancer
and
Tropic of Capricorn,
and the trilogy about his life,
The Rosy Crucifixion
. Fred said he liked the trilogy best because it’s all about Miller’s debaucherous, bohemian, absolutely beat-ass lifestyle, but one of the girls sneered that Miller was just
another dirty writer who used women for personal indulgence and literary material. The only thing I remember about Henry Miller was flipping through the chapters looking for sex. Isn’t that what everyone did?

There’s a fine line between interesting literary discussions and pompous bullshit. It’s one of those areas where you’re either fascinated with what someone has to say or you feel that if they don’t shut the hell up that instant you’re going to blow their brains out.

It’s fitting that when I’m busy thinking about all this, a man dressed in a white silk T-shirt, Armani jeans, and three-thousand-dollar crocodile loafers (which he wears like bedroom slippers, crushing the backs) approaches Fred and pronounces triumphantly that he has finally polished off the Brits and is “doing” the Russians.

“And just which Russians have you been doing?” Fred answers as he looks in my direction. I know that he’s really talking to me, and as the customer starts rattling off a syllabus of long Russian names ending in “sky” and “kov,” Fred takes my arm and leads me to another aisle.

“Excuse me, I’ll be back in a minute,” he tells him. “Jesus, this guy is such a pain,” Fred whispers. The man peers around the corner, looking impatient and a bit suspicious.

“Is there anything else I can find for you?” Fred asks me, hoping to keep the guy at bay.

I’m beginning to enjoy the game. “My sunglasses, the black cashmere sweater I left in the restaurant the other night, and the key to the trunk of my car, which I haven’t been able to open in three months.”

Fred’s eyes start to sparkle. The Russian is still hovering. Fred leans into me and says, “How about
Anna Karenina
? There’s a new translation over here. Terrific story. The plot’s a grabber from the first page. Beautiful insatiable drama queen, marries a loser, hooks up with another loser, falls into ruin, confesses all, flees to Italy with her lover. Who can blame them? I don’t want to give away too much.” He hands me the novel and winks.

I wink back. “Thanks. I’ve read it. Great story, though. Sex, lies, infidelity. Sounds like my neighborhood.” Fred gives me a good long look as the czarist finally snaps and lumbers over. I hand him back the Tolstoy and just as he is about to say more, Darlene comes up behind me and declares, “I’m starved. Let’s go.” She’s obviously been listening to our conversation and in her dingbat mode suggests, “Gee, Dora, maybe you two can have a drink sometime and talk about it.”

Fred flashes one of those amused half-smiles as he looks Darlene over. I know what he’s thinking. Not your typical Brentwood housewife. Darlene happens to be wearing a pair of jeans with enormous embroidered bells and a tight T-shirt that says “Angel.” Her long blonde hair is even more in need of a dye job than usual. I’m mortified and quickly gather my things to leave. Darlene jabs me with her elbow, and nods in Fred’s direction.

“Killer smile,” she says in a too-loud voice.

I push her out the door.

“Well, that was fun,” Darlene says as we walk to the parking lot. “I think he likes you.”

Ivanhoe

“I think reading a novel is almost next

best to having something to do.”

~
Margaret Oliphant, Scottish novelist (1827–1897)
~

W
hen an invitation says “festive attire” I am always stumped. What is festive, anyway? Is it about color or mood? My mood is “I don’t want to go,” so I figure I’ll focus on color. I swipe at the clothes lined up in my closet. Grim, grim, grim. I seem to have fallen into the Barneys all black, slightly black, or off-black lately. Nothing festive about that. So I throw on my little black Dolce and add a pilled pink cashmere sweater. That’s the festive part.

This is the L.A. Public Library’s main fundraiser, not as chic as its New York sister, but just as grandiloquent. My old college roommate, Pamela, is running the show
and I’m at her table. The event is held in the elaborate rotunda of the downtown Central Library, a grand old edifice with stately domed ceilings, Italian marble floors, and two-thousand-pound chandeliers, built eighty years ago when libraries were as honored as places of worship and downtown L.A. was still considered center city.

The rotunda is turned into a ballroom befitting a movie set. Elaborate tables are scattered around, covered with twelve layers of linens, enough silver for the duke of Windsor, and an amazing array of crystal. Violinists stroll through the crowd, playing music so patently corny that it reminds me of music last heard at Dome of the Sea, a tacky restaurant in Las Vegas that features strolling Venetian violinists. I scan the crowd, trying to find Pamela. It seems that at this event “festive” means Chanel jackets, Chanel suits, and Chanel handbags. The library has turned into a trunk show. She’ll fit right in.

“Finally, you’re here.” I knew Pamela would point out that I was late.

Pamela is my age but is married to a retired real estate magnate in his seventies. She always wears a nubby tweed Chanel something and I’m always nagging her to put on some weight.

Then there’s her six-year-old daughter, Madison. Pamela is obsessed with her. I continually have to endure every brilliant pearl that falls from her daughter’s lips, every nuance, every sneeze. So many women fall into this trap and end up boring everyone to death with details that parents should keep to themselves. It’s almost as if parenthood sucks up every available brain cell, and
like the canary, whose brain cells regenerate every year, all previous data is erased forever and all you hear is this year’s song. I read about a scientist in Upstate New York who keeps thousands of canaries in an aviary behind his house and slaughters hundreds of them semiannually to study their brains. Not that I am recommending that or anything, but people do tend to get single-minded after they have children. And it only gets worse. You go from sleeping problems to potty training to preschool, prep school, adolescent angst, tattoos and piercings. Then they start boring you with their child’s first fabulous internship or job and how brilliant little Johnny is and how everyone loves him at the office. It’s all so predictable and tiresome. Even if you like the person, and I do like Pamela, there is only so much of this you can take before you want to throttle them. I usually tell my sister when I’ve heard enough about Camille, but I don’t want to hurt Pamela’s feelings.

“Dora, are you listening to me?” I guess I zoned out. She is pointing to our table. The hook for this event is that every guest gets to sit with an author, who is usually promoting their latest book. The authors love it. Free trip to L.A. And the patrons love it because they get to have a semi-intimate conversation with semi-important authors. I notice that another friend of ours and her husband are seated in Siberia behind a pillar. Their author, a musicologist from Columbia University, is seated at the other end of the long narrow table. I can see even from this vantage that my friend is clenching her jaw and her husband is staring out into space. Pamela will hear
about this tomorrow. The A-list authors such as David Halberstam, Scott Berg, and Frank McCourt are seated up front. I walk over to my table. Since Pamela is on the dinner committee, I thought I’d get someone interesting. Unfortunately, my author is a San Francisco gynecologist who sometimes hosts the “Your Health” segment of the nightly news. Pamela has also put the requisite single guy at our table to “balance it out.”

This man is a fairly well-known television agent with bulging eyes and a thinning crown of hair. He also has one of those barrel-waisted bodies with thin, spindly legs, a birdlike affliction that affects so many sedentary, high-powered urban men and makes them look like Armani-clad pregnant chickens. He is also a good twenty years older than I am. Of course. I knew it. I knew they’d stick me next to someone like this. I can just hear Pamela now:
Oh, Dora, you have so much in common. You both like books. You both like the theater.
Meanwhile, he asked for Perrier. He doesn’t drink. What a bore. When the salad arrives, he asks for it with the dressing on the side. I hate when people do that. Oh no. Here it comes. The South Beach Diet. Save me. I’m glad I didn’t waste my new Prada jacket on this dud of an event. Now the agent is launching into an endless discussion concerning the SAG retirement plan, which interests the gyno, and the two of them then get into a serious discussion about the state of off-network shows, particularly those concerning bodily functions. I sip my wine. It’s not great but it’s getting better.

Just as the beef tenderloin with risotto cakes is being
served, I notice Palmer and his girlfriend seated at one of the A-tables on the other side of the podium. How could I have missed him? But I forget, he usually strolls into an event just as everyone is being seated. He catches my eye and waves. Oh Christ, he’s pushing out his chair. Dammit, I’m not in the mood to deal with this now. Palmer leans over Kimberly’s shoulder, sweeps back a frosted blonde tress, and whispers in her ear. I see her squeeze his hand in an annoying, knowing sort of way and then I am sure of it. He’s coming over here to fulfill a social obligation or, maybe, pay his respects as if I were his dowager aunt. I watch him walk across the room. There is this wealthy, sunny sparkle to his demeanor that I remember admiring when I first met him. He’s wearing an expensive, imported, impeccably tailored tuxedo with a trendy white pleated shirt, the kind that the young male turks of Hollywood wear to the Oscars and that require no bow tie. I’m certain that she picked it out for him. His sandy, gray-flecked hair is longer than I remember, and he has onyx-and-diamond studs and matching cuff links. He looks tall and victorious, moving with the graceful stride of a man who no longer has to worry about success or status. He stares straight at me with a kind of quiet resolve while the rest of the room stares at him.

“Dora, you look terrific.”

“So do you, Palmer,” I say, and I mean it.

He has a bemused smile, taking in the various people at my table and making the obvious assessment. He raises his eyebrows. “Can I get any of you a drink? I’m on my way to the bar.”

“I’m fine,” I say, and then realize he’s making an offer. “But I’ll come with you if you’d like.”

He takes my elbow and more or less escorts me out of the rotunda and into the vestibule, where there is a small bar set up. It’s an odd feeling, me standing there with him, both of us all dressed up, calm and decorous, and making pleasant conversation that is completely unrelated to what I imagine either of us is thinking.

I flash on the night we met, an event much like this. I was busy interviewing someone when Palmer sent me a glass of champagne from across the room. The waiter pointed him out to me and we smiled. We ended up going to a late-night bar, discovered our favorite book was
Huck Finn,
and, well, I don’t feel like going down memory lane right now.

One thing is clear. The quick, overbearing petulance is gone. So is the bitterness and disappointment. Palmer is back to his old enigmatic, charming, sexy self. And I realize that he couldn’t have done it with me. It occurs to me that maybe, somehow, he’s heard about my little clandestine visits to his house. But no, that’s crazy, he couldn’t possibly know. Could he?

“So, how’ve you been, Palmer?” I say, testing the waters, avoiding any physical contact.

“Fine. I’ve been thinking about you,” he says with an endearing smile. He leans in close, planting his hand against the wall as if he is an officer detaining me for a sobriety check. I register a twinge of surprise and then start rambling on about some silly topic, anything to get past the moment. He stands there silently and then
lightly touches my hair. “So, Dora, do you ever think of me?”

“Of course I do, Palmer,” I say, consciously squelching the urge to make some nasty remark about the girlfriend. To be honest, I’m actually relieved. No, this is not a shakedown. But I don’t want to get into what we really think about each other at the moment, not now, maybe never.

“Thank you,” he says, suddenly serious. “I just wanted to tell you that I still care about you. I don’t want us to be total strangers. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say, unconvinced. Does he really want that or is he just being polite? Why is it that with some men, once the relationship is over, it’s over, and with others, it leaves a trail of remorse, indecision, and endless fantasies of what could have been that plague you for years? It doesn’t even have much to do with sex. I had a lover in college who set me on fire every time he touched me, but when his conversations started boring me, I cut it off with a single message on his answering machine. Palmer is different. All that promise and earnestness and undisputed intelligence. I should have been content. I should have been patient. I should have overlooked the fact that after we were married he was a lover who cared deeply about having me but seemed to care more about having a new car, a good address, a service for twelve, and a membership in a country club. I suddenly feel guilty and uncomfortable and cornered like a rat. In a trap.

“Call me sometime. At the office,” he says abruptly.

“Okay, Palmer.” I smile tightly. Like I’d really call him at home.

“By the way, how did you get down here?” he said. He
would
ask me that. He’s also one of the few people who knows My Big Freeway Secret.

“I managed.” (My version of “I called a car service.”)

“That’s my girl.”

We finish our drinks and return to the ballroom like any complacent married couple taking a breather. He squeezes my shoulder as I turn my back on him and head to the table. The high-pitched din of the room jolts my nervous system like a car backfiring on the highway and I focus on half-eaten desserts, an array of cut-glass wine goblets, and women rummaging through their favor bags; the anticlimactic winding down of a long-anticipated event.

As I walk back to the table, I spy a woman I used to work with at the
Times
. She’s married to a lawyer, has two angelic kids, and is now producing a hot new series on Fox. She sees me and says, “Hey, a blast from the past. How are you?”

How am I? I feel like a complete loser. “Just great. How are you?”

“Working like a maniac. Leaving for New York tomorrow.”

“Really busy, huh?”

“Yeah. And they all shoot away from L.A. Lots of traveling right now. What are you up to?”

Spying on my husband, getting dumped on by a
twenty-five-year-old editor, OD’ing on books. “Oh, same old, same old.”

“Well, you look great. Really. Take care.” She gives me a sideways kiss and leaves. I pull my shoulders up into a rigid block and watch her walk off.

I reach our table, take a long swig of somebody’s untouched wine, and make a big deal of looking at my watch. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I have a babysitter problem. I have to run.” Pamela shoots me a look, and with a guilty wave, I make my escape.

Walking down the magnificent hallway, I pass a series of life-sized paintings illustrating Sir Walter Scott’s story of
Ivanhoe,
depicting the days of romance and chivalry. Everything depresses me now.

I feel a rush of relief as I enter my apartment. I look at the clock; still relatively early considering I went all the way downtown and back. I rip off my clothes and throw on my favorite sweats, old faded Gap men’s with a drawstring waist and a baggy bottom. I pad into the kitchen, open the fridge, and grab a half-filled bottle of something—what is this? Sherry? Where did I get it? Must have been a Christmas gift. This is something you give to old people. Uh-oh. I hate when I start feeling over the hill. How old was Kimberly, anyway? She had that youthful glow that makes me crazy. I wonder what they’re doing right now. Oh, it IS only nine thirty, they’re probably still there. Although Palmer does like to cut out early. When we were dating, we actually de
vised our own rules for ducking out—that “never before the cake thing”…gone. I need something stronger. I pour myself a shot of vodka. I was so tense with Palmer I don’t remember drinking anything at all.

What was up with him, anyway? I don’t know what to think of our conversation. I pick up Flaubert.
Madame Bovary
is in vogue these days, but at the moment, I am plowing through
Sentimental Education
because I heard a critic on NPR say that the book exposes all the hollowness and fragility of youthful ideals and is an insidious devaluation of the power of love. Naturally I ran right out and got it. I get a rush these days from the inevitable pitfalls of the human condition. Here we go. A young man’s passion for an older woman that goes on and on and on until the penultimate reunion at the end with the white-haired Madame Arnoux. Oh god. I can’t take it. I’m beat.

Palmer did look exceptionally attractive tonight. He looked like he was having fun. He always looked like he was having fun. That was part of my initial attraction to him. That, and the fact that he made me feel like I was the only one. When did he stop making me feel that way? Maybe when his career blasted into the stratosphere. Suddenly, it was a whole new world, cluttered with social obligations, speaking engagements, weekend business trips, and long absences.

It all worked for Palmer, the new house, the decorators, the social secretary, the lingering effect he had on people, especially women, when he entered a room. I was happy for him. I just couldn’t figure out where I fit in. The
more Palmer was away (and he was away a lot) the more I felt left behind. A therapist once asked me if it was the same way I felt when my father left home and my mother dissolved into dust. I don’t know. I just couldn’t snap out of it. The whole thing left Palmer baffled.