Retail Therapy (9 page)
“That's the weird thing, Kyle. We usually don't argue. Daddy used to want to take care of me ... daddy's little girl. He used to enjoy paying my bills, looking after me.”
“Well, I gave up fighting with my dad,” Kyle went on. “The last time we argued, hip-huggers were in style.” He shot a glance at the waitress, who wore low-slung jeans beneath her white apron, then frowned. “OK, then. Maybe that was yesterday.”
I smiled. Kyle always worked hard to make everyone in the group feel at ease. I wondered why a good, solid woman hadn't snatched up this sweetheart long ago.
Somehow the talk turned to the almighty Xâno surpriseâand Hailey believed him when he told her he'd been pitching a sitcom to a cable network. How many times had I heard that story?
“We're in development now,” he said. “If we get a green light, I'll have to relocate to the West Coast, at least for a while.”
“That is so exciting!” Hailey enthused.
You have to feel for the girl; two years in Manhattan and still not a scratch in her trusting soul.
“Maybe you can find a part for Hailey,” I pressed X. “Something funny for a gorgeous, fashionable, wholesome girl from Wisconsin?”
Xavier flashed his killer smile. “Maybe. You know, we could write something in.”
“That would be so great!” Hailey waved her fists in the air like a runner doing a bony victory dance. Cute as a button, but the girl doesn't have a lick of soul.
“Yeah, X is getting hot here on the comedy circuit. In fact, he's got a gig at Stone Cold Comedy tonight.” Trevor checked his watch. “That's why we were so pressed to get a table; the man's got commitments. In fact, we should get going.”
“You ladies like to come along?” Kyle offered. “We could share a cab.”
Hailey turned to me, her eyes wide with that “please-please-please!” look.
“I don't think so.” A night of forced laughter and Trevor's friends did not fit into my spending plans.
“You have to come,” Xavier said. “If you don't come, I'll think you don't like me. I'll be destroyed. Devastated. And all that nasty stuff.”
“Do you have an early call tomorrow?” Kyle asked Hailey.
“Actually, I have the day off.” Her eyes were on me, begging.
“Come on, Alana,” Trevor scolded me, “snap out of your funk and tell your friend you'll make it a party.”
I sighed. “Fine. Excuse me while I go put on my comedy face.”
Leaving my cousin Trevor to take care of the bill, I slipped off to the ladies' room to take the sheen off my face. Afterward, I popped out the door to find Xavier waiting for me, dangling my coat.
“We were getting ready to deploy a SWAM team for you,” he said.
“You mean a SWAT team,” I said, turning to ease my arms into the sleeve.
“Nope. Mine stands for Stop Wearing Allthat Makeup.”
I rolled my eyes. “Xavier, I wish I could laugh, really I do. I'm afraid I'm just a little too smart for your humor.”
“You calling my humor dumb?” He reached around and pulled my jacket closed, letting his hands linger there, a warm weight over my breasts. It felt good, I admit that. I'll also admit that those hands have been there before in a much more intimate setting, skin on skin. But that was long ago, before I knew the perving, prowling X. Since then, I had learned that those warm hands led to a path of destruction.
I stepped away and turned around, hands on my hips. “Can I ask you a question? When are you going to get the message? When are you going to stop trying to get up my skirt?”
He feigned innocence. “Did I do anything?”
“Don't start with the act. I don't know how many ways I can spell it out for you, Xavier. I'm not interested. The kitchen is closed. Alana has left the building.”
He gave a slight smile. “Left the building? I like that one.”
I turned toward the door. “Just as long as you believe it.”
13
Hailey
“T
his is so exciting,” I said as we stood in the back of the club, waiting to be shown a table. Xavier was hanging back in the bar, along with the other comedians waiting to go on, while we went in to enjoy the show, and the atmosphere at the smoky bar reminded me of backstage in the few small productions I'd been in. Tense. Hilarious. Morose. Manic.
his is so exciting,” I said as we stood in the back of the club, waiting to be shown a table. Xavier was hanging back in the bar, along with the other comedians waiting to go on, while we went in to enjoy the show, and the atmosphere at the smoky bar reminded me of backstage in the few small productions I'd been in. Tense. Hilarious. Morose. Manic.
I loved it. I wanted to stay in that electrified jungle, but Trevor ushered us through to the club, promising that Xavier would join us after he performed.
“Who cares about Xavier,” I shot to Alana, feeling giddy.
“Damn right.” She tilted her head at me. “Honey, you are looped.”
“Hey, it's Cinco de Mayo!” I giggled and snapped my fingers, feeling more festive than I'd felt in a long, long time. It didn't hurt that I'd lost count of margaritas after Trevor had ordered a few pitchers. The alcohol had rushed right to my insecurities, putting a bandage on my problems. When I stopped into the restroom and caught myself in the mirror, I considered myself a very attractive personâreally!âand in the full-length mirror there, I saw that my Nine West polka dot ankle-strap shoes did look fine with jeans. Actually, they weren't fine, they looked fucking great.
I looked fuâwell, I think I looked pretty darned good.
“I can't believe we're at a comedy club with one of the performers,” I said. “This is just so exciting for me.”
“Hello?” Alana squinted at me. “Honey, you are Ariel on
All Our Tomorrows
. You are leagues ahead of low-life comics like Xavier Goodman. Believe me, this is no big deal. I think they pay him cab fare for his fifteen minutes on stage.”
All Our Tomorrows
. You are leagues ahead of low-life comics like Xavier Goodman. Believe me, this is no big deal. I think they pay him cab fare for his fifteen minutes on stage.”
“But he's getting a cable show soon. Alana, I know you're not a fan, but the guy is talented.”
She sucked in a breath. “You'll see.”
“Either way, I'm at a comedy club for the first time ever, staying up late, and I don't even have to work tomorrow. Even if I don't get paid for the day, I'm going to stay up late and I'm going to own it.” Enough of whining and worrying about getting my contract renewed. That was so dumb. Nobody wanted to hear that. I shouted over the applauding audience,
“I own this night!”
“I own this night!”
“You do that, girl. Take control and enjoy the ride. Somebody's got to be in the pilot's seat.”
Our eyes were adjusting to the dimly lit rows of tables surrounding a stage of white light where a dark-haired woman in a black leather jacket talked about how she worried over her daughter wanting only blond Barbies, blond brownies, and vanilla ice cream. We zigzagged through crowded tables and chairs to our spot. As we went to sit down, someone squealed behind us.
“Girls! Get out! What are you doing here?”
Alana and I turned together. Marcella sat at a long table with a crowd of women; from the density of their foundation and eye liner, I guessed they sold cosmetics at Bon Nuit.
Alana gasped politely. “We were dragged here screaming against our will.”
“We're friends with the talent,” I said in that insider's voice. “How about you?”
“It's girls' night out. We do this every month or so, a bunch of us.” She gestured to her friends, then leaned closer to my ear. “Let me warn you, there's a two-drink minimum, and don't let them talk you into the frozen drinks. They cost twice as much. Not worth it.”
“Thanks for the tip,” Alana said, taking a seat on the other side of the table.
My seat ended up backing up to Marcella's, and she turned her chair around so that we could talk. At first I was a little nervous with her. I wasn't quite as good as Alana at making instant best friends. While other people ask a million questions and try to plumb the details of your life, I'm sort of stuck on small talk, worried about whether it's too invasive to ask the other person a string of personal questions. “If I want someone to know about my life, I'll write a book,” my father used to say when people barraged him with questions about where he grew up, where he used to live, what he did for a living.
But not to worryâMarcella had the conversation covered. She clearly wanted to give me her opinion about the woman on stage, the price of appetizers here, the condition of the ladies' room, the poor choice of floor tile. Listening to her, I was amazed at the total flip in the situation. Here this woman who had been wrestling with my friend was now giving me advice and telling the waitress I wanted my drink with ice on the side “so's they don't skimp on the booze,” she said.
It was all so warm and fuzzyâmy new friend Marcella, my big night out, the lady at the next table who told me I was great on
All Our Tomorrows
. I felt the urge to hug somebody, but I figured that was probably the tequila kicking in.
All Our Tomorrows
. I felt the urge to hug somebody, but I figured that was probably the tequila kicking in.
“Oh, this next guy is good,” Marcella said when she spotted the tall Hispanic man waiting at the edge of the stage. “You are gonna laugh so hard, honey. He's a total pisser.”
She was right. I started letting my buzz take over, letting my mind follow the images the comics conjured, letting myself laugh.
At the break, Alana introduced Marcella to Kyle and Trevor, who insisted that she join our table.
“I would love to!” Marcella responded. “But first let me pay up for my gin and tonics.” She turned back to the table and opened her purseâa smart little beaded bag. Fendi, I think.
“Don't worry about it.” Trevor leaned over to the next table, and snatched up the running tab. “We'll take care of it. Drink up and enjoy, my friends. My man X is coming on soon, and we want you all to be ready to laugh.”
“Oh, Jesus, did you see that?” Marcella said to me. “Does he mean that?” She spoke up. “What's the matter with you, Trevor? You can't pay that bill! My friends are prepared to pay for their own drinks.”
“Relax! I've got it covered, short stuff.”
“Let him do it,” Alana told Marcella. “It's all part of the Trevor show.”
When the lights went down, Marcella settled in beside me and set her focus on Alana, Trevor, and Kyle, who sat across the table.
“That was awfully nice of him, picking up my tab and all the girls from work, too,” she said. “Either he's totally insane or the man is loaded. And since he doesn't seem too crazy ... what, is the guy rich?”
“Their family is fairly well-off ... the Marshall-Hughs,” I said, keeping my voice low, as I didn't think Alana would appreciate me sharing her life story. “Trevor's mother owns a catering businessâa big deal out on Long Island. And Alana's parents are sort of prestigious. Her mother teaches at NYU, and her father is a federal judge. There's some talk that he might be appointed to the Supreme Court one day.”
“Really.” She sucked it all in, savoring.
A few minutes later, she tapped my shoulder and asked: “But is Alana happy?”
I shrugged.
Marcella answered, “No.”
“I'm not so sure.”
“Trust me, honey. Your friend Alana is miserable. Do you know that story about the poor little rich girl? The one where her family's got all the money, but they get separated, and she has to live in poverty at an orphanage with all that money. Then her father comes along but she doesn't recognize him, and since he got blinded in the war he doesn't recognize her either.”
And critics claim daytime dramas are far-fetched?
“It's so sad,” Marcella went on, though I wasn't sure if she was referring to Alana or the story of the little rich girl. “Do you see how those guys tried to talk to her during the break? How they tried to get a rap going, but she turned them down flat? I'm telling you, she is more concerned with the right color lip gloss than with letting a relationship happen. And the whole point of getting the right color lip gloss is to make that relationship happen.”
Hard to follow, I know, but I sensed an odd thread of logic in Marcella's proclamation.
“I'm going to help her,” Marcella said, folding her arms. “I am going to make our beautiful African-American princess my personal mission.”
I lifted my cosmo glass and hid behind it. Alana was staring at us, probably because we were talking through the comic's performance. “How would you do that?” I asked Marcella.
“Simple. I'll fix whatever is wrong with her life.”
I shook my head. That would take a lot of fixing. Any life requires major repair work.
I hoped that Marcella wouldn't get stuck in a pothole.
14
Alana
W
hen Xavier stepped on stage, introduced as X-man, I admit I was struck by his fine, real fine appearance. The lights gave a vibrant sheen to his chocolate brown skin, and when he smiled, those dimples softened the killer grin, making him a study in contradictions: bad boy meets dream date. If Hollywood is really the land of illusions, maybe X did have a shot out there.
hen Xavier stepped on stage, introduced as X-man, I admit I was struck by his fine, real fine appearance. The lights gave a vibrant sheen to his chocolate brown skin, and when he smiled, those dimples softened the killer grin, making him a study in contradictions: bad boy meets dream date. If Hollywood is really the land of illusions, maybe X did have a shot out there.
As Xavier warmed up the audience, I remembered that he wasn't so bad in the looks department. If only the brother weren't so obnoxious.
“Let me ask you, we got any royalty here tonight?” He held a hand up to shield his eyes from the stage lights. “Every guy has at least one princess in his life. You know what I'm talking about, right, guys?”
I reached for my cosmo. Slow start there, X.
“I don't care if she's a midwestern princess, a Jewish-American princess, an Asian princess, or an African-American princess ... every culture has them. And the United States, this country is a magnet for princesses. Hell, in England they've got one or two, maybe a handful in Liechtenstein. Liechtenstein, I love to say that. Sounds like you're soliciting a prostitute in Bavaria. Lick-ten-stein? Ya, ya! Good!”
Of course, he would go for the sex joke. So predictable.
“But every culture has its princesses. Hell, I think every guy has at least one princess in his life, that unattainable, smoking sister who wavers between spoiled bitch and sultry vixen. And she always thinks you're coming on to her. You do something innocent, like help her on with her coat and she says, âX! X? Now we'll have none of that!' like a little old librarian. She'll say, âAin't never gonna happen.' Or, âThe kitchen is closed.' Or, âMy coco has left the building.' ”
I bolted up in my chair. The bastard! He was using our conversation as part of his routine.
“Sometimes you think, is it me? Am I doing something wrong? But the thing is, the princess doesn't date anyone, and that's because her standards are so high. Only the perfect man for the princess.”
All around me people were laughing, and I didn't get it. Why was that so funny? Why shouldn't a girl find herself a perfect man? Didn't these people read
Glamour
and
Cosmo
and
Vogue
?
Glamour
and
Cosmo
and
Vogue
?
These people were weird.
“Now you might wonder how to recognize a princess? Well, the manicured nails are a dead giveaway. We're not talking about a little polish. They're encrusted with gems, with little flowers and hearts painted on, and tiny tattoos.
“These nails are sacred. Ain't no boogy flickin' going on with these little gems. No doors get opened, no typin' on a keyboard. No peeling, scrubbing, slicing, or dicing. The princess gives these nails the royal treatment.
“I'm waiting for these chicks to start embedding microchips in their nails. Know what I mean? Microchips. So they wouldn't even have to hold a cell phone anymore. Just flip one finger up and talk to the hand.”
He flipped up his index finger and recited in a high voice, “Speed dial Tiffany's!”
The audience started to roar as he then stuck his finger in his ear and squeaked on. “Hello? Quick question: can I get a solitaire diamond ring with three diamonds? Only one? But my friend Muffy has three!
“Microchips. Yeah! I'm gonna patent that ideaâdon't you steal it! I'd like to patent it, but I do see one potential problem. See, if a brother's really lucky, his princess knows how to use her hands. Know what I mean? That's right. The princess whose daddy spent all that money on music lessons. The princess who plays the flute. Every guy wants to go out with a princess who knows her way around a mouth pipe. That's right.”
He pointed to a man in the audience. “You'd rather have tulips on your organ than flowers on your piano, right? Right?”
I snatched my bag from the table, ready to spring. I didn't have to take this abuse.
“The princess and the flute. Problem is, if she's got a cell phone in her fingers, you don't know what kind of calls she'll be making during sex. I mean, she'd be moving her hand along down there, at a nice, steady rhythm, and suddenly she's speed-dialed her hair stylist. And you're there screaming, âI'm coming! I'm coming!' And someone from the salon is on the other end shouting back, âNot today! Not today! We're totally booked!' ”
Enough! I stood up so abruptly my chair fell back, but I didn't care. My movements were muffled by the applause and laughter of the audience. No one cared. No one even noticed as I pushed out into the lobby bar, the heels of my shoes striking the tiled floor with a satisfying thunk.
That bastard. He could talk to the hand, all right!
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