Miss Wyoming (5 page)
«It's like upside-down stars,» said Nylla.
John handed Ivan a scotch with branch water. Nylla took cranberry juice.
Ivan said, «Melody phoned. She told me about your name change application.»
«She narcked?»
Nylla said, «Oh, don't be so corny. Of
course
she did. She's worried sick about you. We all are.»
Ivan burst in. «Fortunately between me and Mel we have enough contacts at City Hall to retrieve your forms, no harm done.»
«John,» said Nylla, «You were going to change your name to “dot”?»
«Not “dot” — just a simple period. When I filed my Change of Name affidavit at City Hall, they told me I had to use at least one keyboard stroke. A period is the smallest amount of ink and space a name can be.»
Ivan put his drink on a glass-block table and made I-told-you-so eyes at Nylla.
«There's more, Ivan. I'm going to renounce my citizenship.»
«Oh, John-O, that is a lousy idea — it's — it's —
un-American.
»
«What country
do
you want to be a citizen of, then?» asked Nylla. The three sat themselves down on Ultrasuede couches in John's high-tech conversation pit. John clapped his hands and the fire started.
«I don't want to be a citizen of
any
where, Ny.»
«Can you
do
that?» she asked. «I mean, be a citizen of
no
where?»
«I don't know. I'm seeing an immigration lawyer tomorrow. I'm wondering if I can get citizenship in Antarctica.»
«Antarctica?» said Ivan.
«Yeah. It's not like it has a king or queen or president or anything. I want to give it a try.»
«I think Antarctica's presliced into pieces from the South Pole outward,» said Nylla, «and a different country regulates each slice. So maybe not there. Maybe you can get citizenship in a country that's so useless it's almost the same thing as being stateless. Some country that only exists when the tide's out.»
«Nylla,» Ivan interrupted, «you're only feeding his bullshit idea.»
«It's not bullshit, Ivan,» John said.
«How about Pitcairn Island?» Nylla suggested. «One square mile in the middle of the South Pacific Ocean, the most remote inhabited place on earth.»
«My wife the
Jeopardy
champion.»
«England owns it,» said John. «I checked.»
Ivan asked listlessly, «How about one of those African countries held together with Scotch tape and Popsicle sticks?»
«I'm considering them, too.»
«John-O — if you renounce your U.S. citizenship, you'll have no protection. With citizenship, the U.S. government can step in and help you wherever you go. And besides, you'll always have your Social Security number no matter what else happens.»
«Not if I renounce my citizenship. I
do
know that.»
Ivan was sulky: «Just try renting a car with no credit card and a passport from Upper Volta.»
«It's called Benin now,» said Nylla.
Ivan glowered her way: «Please phrase your answer in the form of a question.»
«Ivan, you're getting distracted. You're missing the spirit of the thing. I won't be
wanting
to rent cars anymore. I'll be completely
gone.
»
«You're really pushing me with this new hobo kick, John-O. Sleeping in rain culverts and stealing fresh clothes from laundry lines is going to wear thin awful quickly.»
«Ivan, let me pitch it to you: This is the
road
we're talking about — the romance of the
road.
Strange new friends. Adventures every ten minutes. Waking up each morning feeling like a wild animal. No crappy rules or smothering obligations.»
Ivan was appalled. «The road is
over,
John-O. It never even
was.
You're thinking like a kid behind a Starbucks counter sneaking peeks at his Kerouac paperback and writing
“That's so true!”
in the margins. And if nothing else, Doris is freaked out by this totally.»
«You told my
mother
?»
«Of course.»
John paused. «Another drink, Ivan?»
As he looked for ice cubes in the kitchen's two deep freezes, John considered Ivan and Nylla. He heard them talking back in the living room. They were now discussing carpeting: prices per square yard,
World Book Encyclopedia
—style. «I want the good type,» said Ivan, «the kind that looks like pearl barley packed together. Really smooth.»
«But if the wool's too smooth, it looks like Orlon. It needs character. A bit of sheep dung mixed into it maybe.»
«We're going to have Beverly Hills's first Hanta virus carpet?»
«Sheep don't get Hanta virus. Just rodents, I think. And raccoons.»
John listened in and ached to have somebody to discuss rugs and raccoons with. He felt intact but worthless, like a chocolate rabbit selling for 75 percent off the month after Easter. But it went beyond that, too. He felt contaminated, that his blood stream carried microscopic loneliness viruses, like miniscule fish hooks, just waiting to inflect somebody dumb enough to attempt intimacy with him.
His mind wandered. There had to be hope — and there was. He remembered the woman in his hospital vision had made him feel that somewhere on the alien Death Star of his heart lay a small, vulnerable entry point into which he could deploy a rocket, blow himself up and rebuild from the shards that remained.
In the second freezer John found the ice cubes clumped frozen together inside a sky blue plastic bag. He opened up the bag and tried to pry a few cubes away from the lump. Daydreaming, he wondered if he could ever be unselfconsciously chatty and loose with someone. If Ivan=Nylla, then John=
blank.
Maybe his mother Doris's years of prayers had begun to inch their way onto God's «To Do» list:
Dear Lord, please take care of the late Piers Wyatt Johnson, a king among men. Also bless the pesticide industry, our boys in Vietnam,
(still, even at the century's end)
and please find a nice young wife for John, preferably one who doesn't mind the smell of cigarette smoke, which is so hard to find in California… .
He heard Krista and Cindy come downstairs and begin chatting with Ivan, then returned his attention to the ice. He lifted up the bag of fused ice cubes and dropped it, shattering its contents into individual cubes. The noise was fearsome, and Ivan called from the living room asking if John was okay, and John called back, «Fine — couldn't be better,» and it was easy to take as many cubes as he liked.
Chapter Seven
Standing alone on the sidewalk, John watched the police car drive Susan away. He was as still as a statue as the sun went down behind the hill. Had he left a car at the restaurant? No, Nylla had dropped him off there. So he decided to walk the rest of the way home. Home was temporary digs in Ivan's guesthouse, the house he grew up in and in which his mother still lived. John had been staying there since his return two months earlier from his disastrous experiment in hobodom.
He headed along Sunset Boulevard and was oblivious to the stares of passing drivers, many of whom punctuated their cell phone calls with such comments as:
* «Good
Lord
— it's John Johnson — walking — yes, that's right, with his
feet
— on Sunset!»
* «
Yow,
he looks like crap — what were the numbers on
Mega Force
in the end? —
yeee
— that much?»
* «Maybe he's doing his walking thing again — I mean, he looks like a Mexican gonna sell you a bag of oranges at a streetlight for a dollar.»
* «Yes, I'm absolutely sure it's him — he looks really thin, or should I say, not sort of bloated like he was before detox number 239.»
* «Wasn't he in the hospital? — pneumonia? AIDS? — no, if it was, we'd all know.»
* «Maybe he's gone and found God again. Whatta case.»
Ivan spotted John from his Audi and pulled over just past the corner at Gretna Green. «John-O, what the
fuck
are you doing? Hop in.»
«Ivan, what do you know about Susan Colgate?»
«Susan Colgate? TV — rock and roll. Get in the car and I'll tell you. Jesus, you smell like the carpet in a Gold's Gym changing room.»
«I walked here from the Ivy.»
«The Ivy? That's, like, a
jeezly
number of miles away.»
«Ivan, what do you know about Susan Colgate?»
Ivan cut the car back into traffic. «Later. Later. Did you see the weekend numbers from France and Germany? Whoosh!»
«Ivan — » John was firm: «Susan Colgate.»
«Everybody in town is going to think you've gone crazy again. Walking. On Sunset, no less. Shit.»
«I don't care, Ivan.
Susan.
»
«What — you want to, uh, cast her in a
movie
?»
«Maybe.»
«You're gonna make her a
star
?» They both laughed. Ivan pulled the Audi into his driveway, entered a code into his dash panel, releasing the gate. They drove through, depositing the car by the front steps instead of the garage. They got out. Ivan stopped and grabbed John's arm before he walked down the hill to the guesthouse. «God, whatta gorgeous day, John-O. Look at the light coming through that mimosa tree. It looks backlit, like it's on Demerol.»
Both men sat down on the front entryway's limestone pavers and watched the late afternoon's solar aureoles around the plants and birds and insects of Ivan's garden.
«Where were you coming from just now?» John asked.
«Temple, temple, temple.»
«Three times a week still?»
«Sí.»
The sprinklers kicked in by a dahlia patch. Ivan said, «So you're in love, then, John-O? With Susan Colgate — ha!»
«I'm in …
need.
Desperate need.»
«Where'd you meet?»
«The Ivy. Today.»
«Lunch? Today?» He whistled. «
That's
a quick turnaround.»
«A half-year ago in Cedars when I, you know —
she's
who I saw when I died.»
Ivan's body locked upon hearing this. «Now,
John-O
— I thought you were over that stuff.»
«Over
what,
Ivan? I have no regrets, but what I did only took me so far. But Susan — she's
it.
She's gotta be the one.»
Ivan was both worried that John was relapsing back into his despondency of the months before, and slightly excited at the idea his friend might be making an emotional connection, something he'd never done before. «What do you know about her, John-O?»
«That's what I've been asking
you.
»
«I think her agent's Adam Norwitz. She was with Larry Mortimer until a few years ago. An ugly split. She stalked him. And I don't think she's worked since the grunge era. Say, 1994. A slasher flick? No, wait, it's some new one —
Dynamite Bay
? I'm glad for you, but I've gotta say up front, John-O, she's real C-list. She can't act her way out of a paper bag.»
«Ivan, you ought to know not to slag somebody's loved one to his face.»
«
Loved
one?»
«Word games.»
They heard steps behind them — Nylla, holding a silent baby. «Having our funzies out here on the front steps, are we, boys?»
«Hey, Nylla.»
«John, hello. Will you be eating with us in the big house tonight?»
«Nah. Thanks. I'm having Metrecal and celery with Ma down at the house.»
«Congratulations on the French numbers over the weekend. Ooh-lah-
lah
.»
«We did okay over there?»
«John-O, I tried to tell you back when I picked you up at Gretna Green. Hey Nylla, guess what — John-O's in love! Lovesy-dovesy. Susan Colgate.»
«Susan Colgate!» said Nylla. «Oh John, that's so weird. So exciting. I used to love her in that old show of hers,
Meet the Blooms.
»
John's face confirmed the truth.
«Well, I must say,» smiled Nylla, «nature works in mysterious ways to get us to propagate the species.»
«They met at Ivy today at lunch.» Ivan couldn't contain himself.
She's the woman I saw in my out of body experience when I was laid up in Cedars.»
The smile muscles on Nylla's face changed like a tide, ebbing from real into phony. «Well then.
Really
now,» she trailed off. Ivan, sitting behind John, shot her a worried glance. «Be true to your heart. You two want to come in for a drink?»
«I'm in. You, John-O?»
«Nah. I'm going to go phone Adam Norwitz.»
«Adam — » said Nylla. «Say hello for me. He represented me for about six minutes a few years ago.»
«Hey. I was talking to his agency today,» said Ivan. «His number's still in my cell's memory.» He pulled out his cell phone and punched some digits. Two seconds later he said, «Adam Norwitz, please. John Johnson calling.» He handed the phone to John. «Here.»
John gave Ivan the hairy eyebrow and took the phone. «Hello, Adam?»
Adam was on: «John
Johnson
. Good to meet you today. How can I help you? And congrats again on
Mega Force
.»
«Yeah, yeah, thanks. Hey, Adam, I need a home number from you. Susan's.»
Adam hemmed and hawed as though his morals were in serious conflict.
«Adam, don't give me that discretion routine. I need Susan's phone number.»
«I'm not sure if I can …»
«It's personal, not business. Call and ask her if it's okay if you want. And I'll owe you a big favor.»
«Of course I'll give you her number. But it's not» — he rustled some papers into the phone's receiver — «right here right now. Give me five minutes, okay?»
«Five minutes or no deal.»
They hung up. Adam immediately called Susan's line and got her machine, where he left a message: «Susan! Swimming with the big fish now, are we? None other than your strolling companion John Johnson just phoned asking me for your number. He says it's personal.
Hmmmmm.
Well, just so you know, I'm going to phone back right now and give it to him. A protocol breach, but that's what I'm here for. And phone
me,
why don't you, and let me in on the buzz. I'm on cell all night. Bye.»
Adam called back John and gave him Susan's number, which John wrote on the back of one of Ivan's business cards. He hung up. Ivan and Nylla stared at him.
«Yes?» said John.
«Call her,» said Nylla.
«What, with you guys here?»
«
Yes,
with us guys here.»
John dialed and got Susan's answering machine. He whispered the words «answering machine» to Ivan and Nylla. And then he left a message: «Susan, it's John — Johnson. I hope you got home okay. Man, was it ever hot today and — oh jeez, I'm stuttering into your machine.» He paused to gather his thoughts. «Well, you know what I feel like today? It's like this: the last little while I've been feeling as if — as if I've come back from a long trip away — and I've been continuing on with my life again, but it's only today that I realized something went missing while I was gone. And I think it's you, and I want to see you again so badly I think I'm going blind. So call me.» He left his number.
Nylla's eyes were beginning to tear. «Come inside and eat with us,» Nylla asked. «Please,» she added. The baby woke up and screamed. «I'll ask Doris, too.»
And so John went inside to eat with Ivan and Nylla.
Half a year ago, just as John left the city and became a dharma bum, the couple had had a daughter, MacKenzie. She wailed like a crack baby and had a cluster of medical firestorms that had left Ivan and Nylla frazzled, but especially Nylla. Sleepless nights and worries had made her a soccer mom, and Ivan was converting into a soccer dad. Their kitchen was a shambles and all the more pleasant for it. «Watch where you sit,» said Nylla. «I think Mac might have had a minor exorcism on that seat.»
«Help us choose a name for the next one,» said Ivan.
«No!» said John. «Congratulations.»
Nylla rolled her eyes. «I feel like somebody's science project.»
Ivan said, «I like the name Chloris — what do you think of Chloris — if it's a girl?»
Before John could reply, Nylla asked, «Can Borgnine be a first name if you want it to be one?»
«How about Tesh,» suggested John. «It'd work for both.»
«Merveilleux!»
Nylla spoke French.
And so the two parents once again lapsed into banter and John pulled himself away ever so slightly.
This is what Ivan wanted,
thought John. This is a salve for him — his ability to lose himself in a family. And for Nylla, too. The year before, Ivan and Nylla had been like best friends, but now they were absolutely husband and wife. They were content with themselves and with the place their lives had landed. Their train had stopped and this is where they'd hopped off.
John wouldn't dare mention to them the depression he felt when Ivan had told him he was getting married. It was a few years ago, during the emotionally murky period after having two films flop, and their industry currency had been much devalued. To John, two flops meant a time to change and evolve and go forward — but Ivan had chickened out. He'd invented himself as much as he was ever going to. He was going to take the Full Meal Deal and fade away and make medium-budget teen movies that opened big the first weekend and then died of bad word-of-mouth. It was like a slap to John, who had wanted to go on and on, reinventing himself, and had continued to try doing so.
John suspected that his recent crack-up was precipitated by being, if not abandoned by Ivan, then certainly relegated to second place. He felt selfish even thinking about it, and tried to put it out of mind.
But John
did
want to reinvent himself, still. Even at thirty-seven, after his castastrophic fuckup.
John loved Ivan and Nylla, and he valued the world they'd built for themselves. Yet he knew that fairly soon, there in the kitchen, after Mac was given to the nanny and hauled upstairs, Nylla would gently grill John about Susan Colgate. She'd be careful not to dwell on the negative — his recent past — and then both she and Ivan would try to steer John closer to the road's center.
John wasn't without hesitations in his feelings for Susan. He'd followed his instincts in big ways before, but with his two flop movies and his Kerouac routine, it seemed his instincts now only failed him despite
Mega Force's
current stamina. Yet with Susan he felt only pure emotion. There was nothing strategic about the attraction. It was a rush of feelings that could only be satisfied by establishing further closeness. He wouldn't make money from his feelings. He wouldn't achieve cosmic bliss — he would only be …
closer to Susan.
MacKenzie began to bellow like a Marine World exhibit, and Nylla and Ivan carted her up to her nursery. John picked up
TV Guide
and scanned its pages trying to locate reruns of
Meet the Blooms,
growing frustrated as he was unable to locate any.