Miss Fortune (19 page)

“AH! AH! YES! YES! AHHHHH!”

Oh, come on. She sounds like she's an amateur actor auditioning for community-theater porn. Though lots of sex stuff tends to sound fake to me. For years, I've complained to David, “Who says things like, ‘Oh yeah, that feels so good?'” I once heard her laugh and that sounded fake, too. “HA, HA, HA, HA!” As if she'd been taught to laugh. “Here, let me write it out. It's HA. HA. HA. Yes! That's laughing!”

Finally, at two fifteen
A.M.
she fakes an orgasm.

“How are you so sure she faked it?” David asks me the next morning.

It's hard for me to believe that he wasn't pretending to sleep while he secretly recorded all her sex screams to listen to at a more appropriate time, like in the middle of the day at Home Depot.

“Of course it was fake! If it had been real we would have heard an ‘Ow!' followed by ‘Oh, just let me do it.'”

David doesn't laugh. I don't either. And I always laugh at my own jokes, but I'm distracted because David is sitting in his chair, his shirt is up over his belly, his unwashed hair is in crazy clumps, and three pairs of dirty reading glasses are perched all over his face.

“I wish you could see what I'm seeing right now.”

I feel guilty as soon as I've said it and am about to add “because you look amazing,” when he takes off his glasses and says with the
slightest hint of anger, “Honestly, Lauren, from here on out, I don't give a
shit.
”

There's a world where “not giving a shit” could be seen as liberated. Mature. But I wasn't ready to “not give a shit.” You don't see me stumbling drunk around the apartment with my skirt caught in the folds of my back fat, granny panties stained with jelly, “I don't give a shitting” all over the place.

I'd promised myself and David not to give any power to what the psychic in Boise told me because, one: her office was in a strip mall above a Moneytree; two: because she'd made racist remarks about Mexicans ruining beach towns as I left her office; and three: because she was a psychic. But I can't help it.

Psychic Sheila told me completely unprovoked that my marriage was over. I'd gone to see her to get material for the play I was working on in Boise about the city of Boise. Psychic characters in plays are low-hanging fruit, but Boise is such a nice town full of nice people that I had to dig deep to hit the weird. Even the lesbians who live there don't complain, and lesbians complain about everything. My hope was that Sheila would be an interesting character, and she was.

With a cigarette dangling out of her mouth, she told me to “Pick a card, any card that speaks to you.” I'd pick the card, she'd look at it, make a face—“Huh. I don't like this one. It's so . . . You know what, pick another one.” It took me three tries before she liked my choice, or more likely, remembered what the card meant.

Sheila picked up the card, looked at it. The card was some newfangled version of a Tarot card and had a drawing of a goddess standing on a turtle drinking water at night.

“Oh yeah,” she said. “Here we go. Your marriage is over.”

She said it in this matter-of-fact tone that sounded like she was telling me it gets hot in September. I hadn't been taking any of what she said seriously up until that point, yet when she said this
to me, I gasped and was immediately in tears. It was such a shocking thing. I tried to brush it off: “So is that always what a goddess on a turtle means? Or does it sometimes mean you're moving to a warmer climate?”

I'd stood up and told her I had to go. “And I don't think you should say things like that to people. You could have your license revoked.”

She gave me a “geez, so sensitive” look and told me not to worry about it. “You get the house.”

“We rent! We have a shitty little apartment! I don't want it!” Stumbling to gain my composure and not to let on that I was actually believing what a raspy-voiced, chain-smoking, middle-aged woman with Kate Plus Eight bi-level haircut and a pink running suit was telling me, I told her it was an upsetting thing to hear. “Only because, you know, I have a kid and the idea of—”

She shrugged off my concern about the collapse of my family with a “Your son will be fine.” And asked me if I had any other questions I wanted answered.

Let's see, my marriage is over and oh, yes, am I going to get a new car? Any idea of the color? I'd run out to my rental car to call David and had started laughing somewhat nervously when I told him the story. He didn't laugh. In fact he didn't say anything. “David, can you hear me?”

“Yeah, I can hear you. I'm putting Leo to bed. Let me call you later.” I didn't call him later because it felt like I was trying to stir up trouble. Plus, like I said, you can't really start any meaningful heart to heart with “But Psychic Sheila said—”

Her voice keeps popping up in my head at the oddest times. And I keep flashing to all the little angels she had all over her office. Angels holding her business cards; angels holding up her untouched
How to Be a Psychic
manuals on her bookshelf; angels holding her clock on her desk. I'm not going to give any weight to
what that kooky lady who worked the hell out of her angels said to me.

I grab my robe and head to the garage to weigh myself.

Years ago, a therapist in Pasadena told me I needed to stop weighing myself every morning. “But how will I know how I'm
really
doing?” I asked her. Her theory was that a number cannot tell me and it would be best for my mental health if I got rid of my scale. It seemed a shame to throw it away completely, so I put it way up high in the bathroom cabinet behind the beach towels. I'll just have to start using my bank account numbers to tell me how I'm feeling, I told myself.

The scale stayed there for a few weeks, until a particularly brutal shopping spree at Costco destroyed our apartment's entire ecosystem. After that, the bathroom scale was moved to the garage to make room for twenty rolls of paper towels. I'd really hoped that it would prevent me from obsessively weighing myself, but instead it's meant that I have to come up with excuses to go the garage every day.

The next day I walk into the living room with my robe on and ask David, “Have you seen my bag of rocks? Hmmm. I'll be right back.”

As I walk out the door, David gives me a “good luck out there” sad wave and turns back to his computer.

Right as I step out of the apartment, I hear Christina from apartment number five calling my name.

Christina's the only person at these apartments who has lived here longer than David and me. She's a fifty-year-old sexy brunette who, with her Chanel glasses, ivory Lexus SUV, and dewy skin, could easily be mistaken for a movie star or a Realtor.

Once when Christina was sick for two days, I texted her to see if she was okay and she texted back—
“Jesus! I've been sick for two
days and now you're checking? Thanks a lot. I hope I don't drown in my tub because you won't check until day three.”

She's often referred to by the other tenants as “the combative lady in apartment five,” but she's always been generous to me, giving me the hand-me-downs that her cleaning lady rejects. In ever-changing Santa Monica apartment land, where tenants come and go, she's my only friend, so I should stay on her good side. Over the years I even had some moments of what felt like love toward her.

There was a ninety-year-old lady who lived above Christina who died the first year we were here. A tiny woman, she wore bright purple or bright green polyester pantsuits every day. The hump on her back forced her neck down to her chest. Her right arm was higher than her left by at least five inches, in a permanent shrug. Slowly walking by our window, her white vinyl purse hanging off her lower arm, she did what no one ever did: She said hello. Unable to lift her head, she'd peek up like the sweetest shy little girl and wave to us. After she was moved into a facility for old folks, Christina visited her every day until she died. Christina told us how she was the only visitor the woman got and that she'd confessed to Christina that she'd never kissed a boy. “Can you believe that? I mean, I've been single for twenty years, but
that's
sad.” They emptied out the lady's apartment after she died and Christina divided up the lady's dusty old phallic cactuses between the two of us. Watching Christina carry the cactuses that were too far gone to save to the garbage, I'd thought, please don't let me die here. I'm sure Christina was looking at those gigantic cactuses thinking, please god, let this not be the last phallus I see . . .

I was going to ask Christina if she'd heard the loud sex but she's too excited about her one-armed boxing instructor whose got the spirit of a two-armed boxing instructor to talk about anything else. “You don't even miss the other arm. It's
incredible
!” Last week she
was raving about a powder you sprinkle on your food when you've eaten all you should that makes it taste like cow manure. “You just don't eat. It's
incredible.
”

Christina asks me how David and I are doing. “I see him all the time but I never see you guys together. What's going on?”

Her
People
magazine must not have arrived yet. “We're good. I mean great. He's my sexy stay-at-home dad. I'm one lucky lady . . .”

We hear a door open and both turn around to see our neighbor Joel, pushing his bike out of his apartment. He's wearing a golf visor with fake spiked blond hair attached to the top. It would go great with a tuxedo T-shirt.

I tell him I like his hair.

“Oh. Right. Funny thing, lots of people don't even know it's fake. They think it's my hair. Pretty funny.” Joel says this without a hint of “pretty funny” reflected in his voice.

Christina immediately starts yelling at him. “Listen, asshole, I'm sick of your shit!”

Joel calls her “crazy bitch” and tells her to fuck off.

Joel's lived in the apartment building for a few years, but his “witness protection program killer for the mob” vibe has made it difficult to get to know him. Rumor has it that Joel used to work on the stock market, but after he killed a bunch of people, he moved into a rent-controlled Santa Monica studio apartment to live out his days peacefully, riding his bike on the beach and soliciting prostitutes. He and Christina have been screaming at and threatening each other since the day he moved in.

According to Christina, it started when she asked him politely to take off his shoes when he was in his bathroom and he refused to do it even though she'd made it clear that his stomping around as he brushed his teeth at nine
A.M.
was waking her up and ruining her day.

Christina had knocked on Joel's door to remind him to wear
socks, and when he opened the door and saw her, he shoved her. She called the police and they haven't spoken since, except to yell at each other.

The idea of not getting along with my neighbors, even Lurch lady, is horrific to me. If I hated my neighbors I could't sleep at night. We are so close to one another—so intertwined. Did Nelson Mandela teach us nothing?

I tell Christina I hope she has a great day (so she'll like me), and then head to the garage.

I'm trying to find an even part of the cement floor to set my scale on when David comes in to get his bike.

“I'll be back around four.”

“That's a five-hour bike ride, David.”

“Oh, right, I'll be back at five.”

His bike rides have been getting longer and longer.

“Are you avoiding me?”

He rolls his eyes and heads out. “Come on, Lauren! Don't. Don't start.”

David and I took our first bike ride together in Santa Monica. I bought Jack a bike to ride to school and David went out and bought himself one the next day. That weekend we went on a two-hour bike ride along the LA River to our favorite sushi place. It was so fun. It was David's idea. He'd mapped the route, had it all figured out. We rode home, half-drunk in the dark. Thinking that David was far enough ahead of me, I'd stood up on the pedals and farted. David's head whipped around and he yelled, “Yeah, right?” He thought that I was commenting about the ocean air and the perfect night and had said, “Wow.” We were so close he understood my farts. I've never told my “David talking to my fart” story without laughing so hard I can't breathe. Now it feels how it probably has felt to everyone I've ever told it to: gross and weird.

It's unusual for us to be this disconnected for so long. Usually after a period of blaming each other for our unhappiness, we see a good documentary about coma survivors or talk to a friend and come back to reality. That hasn't happened in a long time. It would be so lovely for him to fart to show me how he's feeling about our marriage or burp to me his fears about his life. Something. Oh, what am I saying? I've lost two pounds. Things have never been better.

Somebody needs to get this marriage relit. One of us needs to take control of the situation.

David returns from his marathon bike ride and I suggest that we go out next Saturday night. Together.

David says, “Okay.” I ignore the fear in his voice and start to figure out which babysitter I should call first. My nephews in Indiana have a sitter with three teeth who shows up wearing her Minnie Mouse sleep shirt. We live near Hollywood. Our two main babysitters are beautiful young actresses. The younger and cheaper one, so to speak, is an acting student of David's who needed some work. Simone. Whenever she babysits I present her to Leo with “Hey! Look what Mama got you!” like a Vegas pimp.

Ava-Rose has been a professional nanny on the Upper West Side and is also very beautiful and sexual. I see that plainly myself but she always helpfully points it out as well: “I'm very sexual.” She does a lot of spiritual work on herself. Her sexuality has always felt like the “treat yourself like the goddess that you are” school. I vacillate between Simone and Ava-Rose before deciding it doesn't matter. David won't notice either of them. His glasses are too dirty.