What You Wish For (26 page)

Dimple Goes Shopping

C
an’t you make him decide?” The situation with Julian Wales was making me a nervous wreck. “It’s been months of nonsense. Four months to be exact. I’ve been auditioning for
Cora
longer than the City Council candidates have been running for office.”

“What’s your hurry?” Freya asked.

I couldn’t explain my growing attraction to sperm donor number 11728
and
Julian Wales. I said, “What he’s asking is ridiculous! After the trapeze there was skydiving.” The gaps had ended after the trapeze, with Julian demanding more and more of my time.

A pause. “Where you need a parachute?”

“You only need a parachute if you want to skydive twice.”

“The thought of falling twelve thousand feet makes my blood freeze.”

“Freya, your blood’s been frozen for two decades. It’s what makes you an agent. Besides, it’s not the fall that kills you—it’s the sudden stop at the end.”

“This audition is certainly . . .
atypical
.”

“It’s not an audition, it’s a season of
The
Bachelor
. After the skydiving, there was the underwater scuba walk. I scream the same way whether I’m about to be devoured by a great white shark or if a piece of seaweed touches my foot. Then there was the bike ride from Santa Monica to Manhattan Beach.”

“It sounds like you’re dating,” Freya said.

That was the heart of the problem. It felt like we were dating. After go-carts, I’d forgotten it was an audition and grabbed Julian’s hand. He must have forgotten too because he didn’t let go.

“I like him.” It slipped out. “We laugh a lot.”

“Be careful,” Freya cautioned. “Women fake orgasms. Men fake whole relationships. The first testicular cup was used in 1874 and the first helmet was used in 1974. You do the math. This is your career. Keep LaMimi in her cage.”

On that cheery note, we hung up. I returned to the mess on my desk. Children’s pictures peeked out between personal profiles, medical profiles, Keirsey tests, donor essays, and staff evaluations. The jumble represented about $1,700 worth of potential baby daddies.

I started at the top.

At 6’6”, Donor 11728 is a big man with a deep voice. This quiet giant may come across as intense, but his sense of humor shows in the twinkle in his hazel eyes. A straight-A high school student, this engineering major can fix anything with wires and is as proficient an athlete as an academic. While his first love is soccer, he enjoys rowing, handball, and cycling. Hardworking, loyal, and patient, Donor 11728’s inventions will certainly leave a big footprint on the world one day.

The omniscient narrator of my life was Bob Barker.
Number 11728, come on down! You’re the next contestant on
The Sperm Is Right
!

The teasers were a cross between an Academy Award introduction and the penny-saver back-page personals, but the full files held a mother lode of information. I knew these strangers’ thoughts, feelings, aspirations, and lessons learned from their parents. Julian was a mystery to me, but Donor 11728 thought there was a certain tragedy in the fact that we can only see and experience so much in one life.

In their essays, most wrote about helping infertile couples achieve the joys of family. Donor 00643 wrote, “Honestly, I need the money.” He went into my pile. Donor 04377’s message to semen recipients was, “You’ll quickly realize that what I’ve done is the easy part.” Donor 4116’s advice was “simplicity.” If money wasn’t an issue, Donor 4251 would travel to Mars, because no one he knew had been there. Donor 12935 could complete a Rubik’s cube in five minutes. Donor 50161’s first memory was of a litter of puppies. “I still recall the funny names we gave them, especially Minnie, the runt. I don’t know what it is about puppies, but it stayed with me.” Donor 24580’s funniest memory was a golf tournament where he’d played the entire eighteen holes naked, as tournament rules stipulated that naked play would allow him to take three strokes off his final score. He went on the pile too.

LaMimi purred,
If he played naked, he’s got nothing to hide
. It brought me up short. I was screening like I was looking for a date, but I’d never meet these men. I’d just have their child. It was surreal.

I made piles. These were over 6’2”. These had musical ability, something sorely lacking in my DNA. These had some Latvian genes. I tried creating a single pile by preference but it kept messing me up. I liked one best for humor and another for height. One had a great medical history but another had academic success. How did you compare a penguin to a typewriter and pick just one?

I was like Julian, auditioning prospects for a role I’d created. There were no objective standards to guide me. I decided to adopt his methods. Perhaps percolating over time would help me realize which was the one. I caught myself wondering what Julian’s funniest memory was and if there were puppies in his background.

My phone rang. It was himself.

“Two silkworms had a race. They ended up in a tie,” he greeted my hello.

“I wondered why the baseball kept getting bigger. Then it hit me,” I countered.

“I’ve converted you.” He was tickled.

“If you can’t beat them, join them,” I said.

“I say, if you can’t beat them, beat them, because they’ll be expecting you to join them, so you’ll have the element of surprise.”

“What can I do for you?”

“You haven’t returned my call. Are you punishing me?”

“It was more a reward for myself.” More like a necessary breather. The man was too damn sexy.

“Reward yourself with a hot meal. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.”

“Julian, it’s eight o’clock on Friday night. I’m off the clock. It isn’t right to ask me to audition.”

There was a pause. “I’m not,” he said. “I’m asking you to dinner.”

“Oh.” Silence sat there. “Okay then. I’ll see you in half an hour.”

When Julian picked me up, I hustled him out the door so he couldn’t glimpse the avalanche of rejected clothing erupting from my bedroom. I congratulated myself that I looked effortlessly casual, as if I’d lounged in my outfit all day.

“You have a . . . something.” Julian pulled a dry-cleaning tag off my collar.

I decided no comment was the best comment, and we mostly drove in silence except for Julian’s comments on passing cars.

“Now that’s a hot vehicle.” He pointed to a Ford Fiesta. “He’s clearly taken good care of it. It’s probably an eighty-nine and look at the shine.”

“Maybe it’s a woman,” I said.

“What?”

“You said ‘he.’ Maybe the driver’s a she.”

He considered. “It has an Iron Maiden bumper sticker.”

“That shows a lack of judgment but not a gender-specific one.”

“You don’t like Iron Maiden?”

“I don’t like bumper stickers. I don’t want your smug don’t blame me i voted for the other guy declarations. Have whatever opinion you want, but let me ask for it.”

“You don’t believe in self-expression.”

“The bumper sticker mentality has seized American politics and it’s unhealthy. Entire ideas are reduced to slogans. Look at Fox News.”

“I prefer to Visualize Whirled Peas.”

“I saw one that said:
ISLAM AND THE LEFT—THEY BOTH LOVE KILLING BABIES.
Whether you agree or disagree, stuck behind it on the 405, your hostility level will rise.”

“I got a good laugh from one that said:
COPS NEVER THINK IT’S AS FUNNY AS YOU DO
.”

“Bet the cops didn’t. Have you ever had one?”

“Got it still. My mom put it on when I got my license.”

“What does it say?”

“Guess you’ll have to wait until we park.” He shot me a wink.

We did, and Julian ran around to open my door as if I was emerging from a limo, not a Prizm. A chocolate Lab bounded up to Julian. I sneaked a peek at the bumper. A tattered sticker read:
CLEAR THE ROAD, I AM SIXTEEN
.

“Hello, boy! Got a pet human nearby?” Julian ruffled the dog’s ears.

A teenager jogged up. “Sorry.”

“No problem,” Julian said. “Handsome dog.”

As always, Julian switched to my street side, then threw an arm over my shoulder as we walked down the street.

“You should get a dog,” I said, thinking of squirmy runt puppies named Minnie.

“I’m no good with dogs.”

“What are you talking about? Dogs love you. They run up to you everywhere, like you’ve got bacon in your pockets.”

“What’s the difference between a dog and a fox?” Julian asked. “Five drinks.”

“I had a collie growing up. My dad used to say, ‘How many collies does it take to change the lightbulb? Just one, and while he’s up there, he’ll replace any wiring that’s not up to code.’ ”

“This way.” Julian led me to a wall covered in ivy, stuck his hand into the leaves, and knocked. A door opened in the greenery, and we passed into wonderland.

“Welcome to the Little Door, Mr. Wales.” A maître d’ settled us at a table for two in the corner. Vines fell from braided wood trellises around us, and the muted light slanted off the angular planes of Julian’s skull. The restaurant made me feel as if I was dining on a patch of moss in a fairy tree castle in an enchanted forest. Julian’s bone structure made me feel like I was in a 1920s production of
The Count of Monte Cristo
. It was ridiculously romantic.

Nervous, I returned to our last conversation. “Did you have dogs growing up?”

“I don’t want to talk about dogs.” Abrupt. At my chagrined look, his face softened. “I want to talk about you.”

“Don’t you know everything? I trained at the UCLA School of Theater and my first role was in a film no one ever heard of.”

“I don’t want to talk about your resumé. I want to know your off-the-clock self. What are your hopes and dreams? What’s your earliest memory? What’s your favorite color? What are you looking for?”

“My napkin,” I said.

He handed one to me. “I’m serious. Other than a bumper-sticker-free life, what are you looking for in a person?”

I shrugged. “I want what everyone wants. Someone who knows the difference between ‘your’ and ‘you’re.’ Someone who doesn’t use emoticons. Someone who genuinely believes me when I tell him none of my car accidents was my fault. Someone who owns a passport and knows how to use it. He must agree with the statement: ‘If God didn’t mean for us to eat animals he wouldn’t have made them so delicious.’ He’s kind, cannot have taken up the guitar as an adult, and isn’t bat-shit insane. If I joined a cult I’d like to think he’d come rescue me. What about you?”

“Someone who doesn’t wear high heels to the beach. Someone who doesn’t scream uncontrollably during an alien invasion. Someone who drives a stick shift and isn’t afraid to use it. That’s not an analogy. She must agree with the statement: ‘Bald is beautiful.’ She’s compassionate; cannot have long, round fingernails; and isn’t an emotional fuckwit. If I went to outer space on Virgin Galactic, she’d come with me.”

“Space helmets give me hat head, as you’ve seen.”

“Me too.”

“ ‘You have no hair,’ she said baldly,” I said.

“I dent easily. Have you ever noticed that most directors are completely bald or completely grey?”

“Have you ever noticed that you never see a hot young actor walking down the street with a woman who has a little potbelly and a bald spot?”

“You on the other hand, have hair like Rapunzel.” He twisted a rope around his hand. “A man could get tangled in here.”

“This is California. Blondes are like the state flower or something. I’m a poor cousin.”

“Definitely not. Hairstyle is the final tip-off as to whether or not a woman knows herself.”

“Or vanity’s proving ground. It’s terribly personal for something so changeable, isn’t it? Jamie Lee Curtis used to say that people get comfortable with their features, but nobody gets comfortable with their hair. It’s the great unifier.”

“Life’s an endless tangle of frustrations and challenges, but, eventually, you find a hairstyle you like. Mine’s ascetic. Yours is magnificent.”

“Mine’s Justine’s.” His flirting made me skittery. Even LaMimi was hesitant because it didn’t smell like sex. It smelled like complicated sex. I was relieved when food arrived.

“God, this is good.” I tasted the cold salmon appetizer he’d ordered to share.

“I remember the first time we met, you said you liked your salmon cold.”

“At the Improv?” I was confused.

“At an industry party on Benedict Canyon. We met by the food table and you were eating salmon.”

His memory flustered me. I focused on the fish. “The dill is so clear it cuts through time. My dad called dill the King Sultan of the herb garden and tended that plot as if Elvis was buried there.”

“Was he a farmer?”

“No.” I didn’t elaborate. Julian stared. I relented. “My father’s family left Latvia before the second Russian occupation. In the States, he worked on the Wesley Allen assembly line, manufacturing iron beds for thirty-five years.”