Story of My Life (7 page)

Was I in it? he goes and I’m thinking, for a supposedly smart guy Dean can be pretty predictable. I could lie, of course, and say he was but I feel really strongly about always being honest no matter what. That’s my personal code, basically—do anything you’d be willing to admit, and always tell the truth. I don’t know, though, that thing about Skip, telling him I was preggers, it’s been bugging me. It’s the first time in years I can remember that I’ve lied, but we were talking survival. And revenge, which is a girl’s best friend.

So when Dean wants to know is he in my stupid dream, I go, I’m not sure, because I’m not. I don’t think it was any
guy in particular. Maybe if I went right back to sleep I could find out. But I can tell he’s kind of hurt that it wasn’t him in the dream. Jesus! What a baby. So I tell him about my sense-memory exercise in class, how I had to think of something good I’d done for somebody. . . .

You
told
the class that?

Sure, I say. I mean, why not?

He goes, you didn’t tell them my name, did you?

Of course not, I go. Like it would mean anything to them anyway. Dean the Famous Bond Salesman.

Dean keeps saying over and over that he still can’t believe that I told them. But I think secretly he’s really flattered, you know?

Finally he asks me if I want to go to dinner and I say yeah, definitely, and he asks if I have any preference and I say Mexican, I don’t know, I just suddenly have this craving for hot salsa and margaritas. Love that spicy food. Must be my southern blood, did I mention my mom’s from Georgia? Anyway Dean says cool, he knows a place.

Are you sure that’s okay? I go. I’m like suddenly thinking maybe he had some big plan that I spoiled. The last time I went out on an actual date this guy sent a limo around and we ate at Le Bernardin and he was all upset that all I wanted was a salad because he’d gone to all this trouble and I guess he had these visions of us feeding each other oysters and snails and lusting across the meat like Albert Finney and that chick in
Tom Jones
, but I felt like I’d done my bit spending about five
hours on makeup and borrowing an Alaïa evening dress from Didi and emerald earrings from Jeannie. Granted, a salad’s not very sexy but it’s results that count, right? And any girl who gets invited out with any regularity and scarfs the paté and the tournedos and the mousse is eventually going to kill the goose that laid the golden egg, you know? Sure, there are fetishists who write letters to
Penthouse
about lusting after the fat girls, but let’s face it . . . I mean, Alaïa doesn’t make those sexy dresses in size fourteen. Which I’ve gotta say is Francesca’s problem. That girl loves eating the way I love . . . well, let’s just say the way Didi loves blow. We’re talking addiction. It’s sort of funny that they’re friends, now that I think about it. Didi hasn’t eaten in about eight months and Francesca never stops. Being in a restaurant with those two is a really weird experience. Didi jumping up to go to the Ladies every three minutes and Francesca screaming at the waitress to bring more bread. And butter. Luckily it doesn’t happen too often since Didi can never get it together to show up anywhere.

Anyway, I’m talking about dinner plans, right? and I’m suddenly worried that Dean had some big romantic idea that I’d just blown, but he says Mex is fine, dress casual and he’ll come by at eight-thirty.

Jeannie comes home a few minutes later. She throws herself down on the bed and says, God, I can’t wait to get married so I can quit working and lie around the house all day.

Jeannie is engaged to this guy Frank Salton who’s a tennis pro on Hilton Head. She flies down to see him every weekend,
which is the main reason she has to have a job—that and a few other bad habits—since the allowance her parents give her only covers the rent plus one or two outfits a week. I was going to mention food but Jeannie doesn’t really eat. They’re supposed to get married this fall. I don’t know. Frank’s a decent guy—I know, because I introduced him to Jeannie. Actually that’s kind of a problem. I went out with him before Jeannie. For about five minutes. But still. Anyway, she could definitely do better. Frank’s got a decent body, but he’s no brain surgeon. One time he broke his index finger and he couldn’t read for six weeks, right? Had to skip the Sunday funnies till his pointer got better. Plus Jeannie is used to a lot of money and Frank’s never going to make a ton of it. Not to be a snob. I don’t think it’s a reason not to get married, but it’s kind of stupid, if you ask me, to pretend that these things don’t make a difference.

Don’t you ever just want somebody to take care of you? Jeannie says.

I go, I miss having a maid, if that’s what you mean.

You know what I mean, she goes.

I’d get bored, I say. Having the same guy around all the time.

Not me, Jeannie says. I can’t wait. I’m going to sit around and watch the soaps, eat bonbons, cook dinner, the whole thing.

I’m like, since when did you ever cook anything?

I can learn, she says.

You’d better, I go. On Frank’s salary I don’t think you’re going to be able to afford help.

She goes, fuck you, Alison.

Hey, I go, I’m just being realistic.

I mean, really. I’m trying to tell her what life is really like. Wake up and smell the espresso, babe.

So Dean comes by and picks me up, looking good, casual and sexy in chinos and a cotton sweater. Even though she’s not going out, Jeannie brushes her hair and touches up her eyes before he comes over. She gives him the eye and I can tell what she’s thinking. It kills her that I went out with Frank, and she develops these weird physical crushes on any guy I go out with but I doubt she even realizes it. I think she’d like to sleep with all my boyfriends. Partly it’s like a revenge fantasy, but also its because she loves me and looks up to me and sympathizes totally with me, you know, and automatically likes a guy if he’s passed my selection process. Reminds me of my sister Carol, who never liked the clothes she bought for herself and only wanted to wear stuff from my closet. I guess it’s a compliment. With Jeannie, it’s kind of like, we share sweaters and shoes and dresses so why not men? At least, I sometimes think that’s what’s going on in her head when she starts flirting with my guys, though probably not consciously. It’s sort of a great idea, sharing a lover with someone you love. But it’s too weird, really.

Did I mention about Jeannie and Alex, my old boyfriend? Somewhere in Jeannie’s mind there’s this doubt about marriage and domestic bliss with Frank, this little cloud floating
around—it’s like, picture a perfectly clear sky and that’s probably a pretty good picture of Jeannie’s mind—I love her but I definitely wouldn’t let her take my law boards for me. Anyway there’s this little thing she has going over the phone with Alex, he calls up for me but sometimes she picks up or else I’m not home and they’ve developed this incredible flirtation where they’re talking about sex and teasing each other and they’ve never even met. I told you about Jeannie and my boyfriends. In a way I’m kind of irritated but in another way I’m like, great, I hope Jeannie sleeps with Alex because if she does she’ll have a hard time settling for the notion of a lifetime of sleeping with Frank, who is not exactly Valentino in bed. I think it would be good for her, and anyway, this marriage idea is kind of bogus. . . .

So Dean and I are in this frantic place on Second Avenue packed with well-groomed gringos getting sloppy on margaritas.

Popular place, I go.

Dean says, these people are all bankers trying to improve the balance of payments with Mexico and prevent default. That’s the only way I can think of, he goes, to explain the popularity of Third World food on the Upper East Side.

Most of them look like they could use some spice, I say. Not that Dean is exactly the hairy barbarian himself. I mean, it seems like his idea of wild is argyle socks. But it’s okay, I
like straight guys, I’d never go out with anybody who’s as irresponsible as me. Most of the guys I know have really high-powered jobs and make up for lost time when they’re not in the office. The Berserk After Work Club. I seem to attract them in a big way, all these boys in Paul Stuart suits with six-figure salaries and hellfire on a dimmer switch in their eyes.

The waiter knows Dean and he keeps bringing us free margaritas so I get really blasted. Not blasted exactly. I just get really horny. Story of my life, right? I mean, who needs tequila? But then I remember my little problem, which makes me a mondo unhappy unit.

Dean’s like, you want to come over? and I’m like, sure, yeah, but basically I’m still out of commission. He says that’s okay, sex isn’t the only thing he ever thinks about, and I’m like, well, I hope it’s near the top of the list, anyway. He cracks up.

So we get to Dean’s house and the phone is ringing. I don’t know why I say house, it’s an apartment. It’s like, living in New York never really seems normal, you keep thinking of the world as a place where people live in houses and drive cars to the 7-Eleven.

Somebody called Didi for you, Dean goes, handing me the phone.

Didi’s just bought her stash for the night and she wants to come over. God, I don’t know. A couple of lines would be nice, but I’ve got class in the morning, plus it’s Dean’s apartment and it’s not really up to me. So I go, you don’t really want this beautiful maniac friend of mine coming over here
and wiggling her cute little tail all over the place and forcing nonprescription drugs up your nose, do you?

And he says, sounds terrible, ask her how soon she can get here, and I go, really, you don’t mind? and he goes, why not? And I figure, well, I tried, right? but just to be safe I check my watch—it’s a little after eleven—and I say to Dean, we definitely kick her out at one, right? If not sooner.

Absolutely, he says.

And suddenly Dean goes, wait a minute, this isn’t Didi Spence, is it? Well, it turns out Dean knows Didi’s cousin Phil. And of course he’s heard stories. I don’t think there’s anybody in New York who hasn’t heard about Didi.

Listen, I go, you better not start drooling all over Didi in front of me.

And he goes, Alison, I only have eyes for you.

I’m like, right, Dean. If you think I believe that I’ve got some swampland in Florida I’ll sell you real cheap.

Didi shows up a little after midnight.

By this time I’m chewing my fingernails off thinking about getting a line, right? If she hadn’t called at all that would’ve suited me just fine. We’re watching Carson, I’m kind of giving Dean a backrub. It must be bimbo night. I can’t believe some of the so-called actresses who are making a killing out there in videoland. You can see, when they get live on Johnny, these starlets without stage training, that they don’t even know
how to talk. Doing a TV series they can shoot five hundred takes while some dimwit walking talking inflatable doll who the producer slept with tries to learn how to say Gesundheit! Or they can just change the script and say, bless you! and the prompter gives the lines word by word offscreen and then the editor cuts away just before she starts to pick her nose. I’m sorry, but the stage is where real actors and actresses live and die. You can’t fake it up there. We’re talking truth in advertising. My teacher says acting is about truth, and I finally figured out what he means, you know what real acting is when you see this fake shit on television. I’m not saying I’d turn down a role in a movie or even a TV series. But there’s a lot of bimbos making huge bucks. I can’t stand watching Johnny pimp for NBC’s latest sitcom, so we switch to Channel J to check out “Midnight Blue,” that cable show that’s all T and A and hand-held cameras and ads for escort services . . . which is like a blast of honesty and fresh air after this horrible network cosmetology.

So finally the buzzer rings in the middle of the nude talk show. Didi breezes in wearing the same clothes she had on before she went to bed this afternoon. Still, I can see that Dean thinks she’s all right. Any minute the saliva will start trickling down his chin. Sometimes I wonder why all my friends are good-looking. I must be an idiot.

Mirror, says Didi, before she’s even inside the door.

I know your cousin Phil, Dean drools.

Didi ignores Dean and walks over to draw the living room curtains. Dean gets her a picture from the wall, a framed poster
for a play called
Zoo Story
, sounds like something I could relate to. Didi sits down on the floor in front of the coffee table and dumps out a mound of blow.

I’m so mad at Whitney, Didi says, launching into a story about a friend of ours who’s supposedly spreading rumors about Didi. I don’t know why Whitney would want to spread rumors about Didi, the truth’s kinky enough. Dean is a little stunned. This chick has just walked in and taken over his apartment, like an army commander or something. She chops and folds the stuff endlessly until I’m about ready to hit her over the head with the brass lamp. Dean rolls up a bill, probably just trying to be helpful, although I think he’s a little impatient too. Didi doesn’t even look at Dean’s bill. I don’t know, she is rude, but it’s kind of like what do you call it, a parachuter who won’t let anyone else pack his parachute. Didi’s into the ritual and the equipment. It’s what she does. When she’s good and ready, she rolls her own bill, does a couple of monster lines—what Didi calls lines other people call grams—and then tortures us for a few more minutes holding the rolled bill in the air and waving it around while she bitches some more about Whitney. Finally the spoiled little brat lets us play with her toys and she looks around for the first time.

This your place? she says to Dean.

Dean looks up from the mirror and nods his head so hard I’m afraid he’s going to break his neck.

You own or rent? Didi asks, lighting up a Merit.

Rent, Dean says.

The buzzer rings and Didi goes, that’s probably Francesca. And I’m like, Didi, what’s the deal here? and Didi goes relax. Dean goes to the door and comes back with Francesca and Jeannie. Naturally we hear Francesca’s voice even before Dean gets the door open, and I’m sure his neighbors do too. And isn’t it interesting that Jeannie’s dressed to kill? A few hours ago she’s all set to go to bed, and now she’s in black cashmere and hose. Plus we should’ve bought stock in Chanel before she started in on her face tonight. Didi and me usually just wear leggings under a shirt or something, except I change mine every day, but Jeannie and Francesca wouldn’t think of going out of the house without a thousand bucks worth of fabric on their backs. Jeannie has this expensive WASP look and Francesca’s dressed as usual, sort of the expensive-flooze chic—sequins and cleavage—which actually does suit her. I mean, if you’re pushing size 12 and headed for a D cup, you might as well go for it. She gives me a huge hug while she finishes this urgent story that she’s right in the middle of, which has something to do with some rock singer.