Blue Plate Special, page 14
We had been up all night in her bedroom, just Dad and I. The evening prior a few of her friends came over. She was unconscious, and we all stood around and tried to make small talk. That, in fact, was the hardest part of the whole thing—dealing with well-wishers. It was better when the three of us were alone.
My father took a shower at dawn, and I sat by her bed, holding her hand. When Dad came out of the bathroom, I noticed that her eyes were open for the first time in weeks, but she looked up and away, not at me, as though she spied something in the distance.
“I think you better come here, Dad,” I said.
He sat on the other side of her bed and smoothed her face with his hand. It was one of the most tender gestures I had ever seen between them.
He looked into her eyes and said, “You go when you need to, honey. You go when you need to.”
My father was more generous than I was. I wanted her to stay forever even if she was incoherent. But I was afraid to call her back from the dead and tell her to stay, afraid it might initiate another argument between Dad and me. It would have been awful, though perhaps accurate, for her last memory of Dad and me to involve conflict.
Her eyes closed again, and I watched her chest move up and down in what seemed like steady breath. One breath, two, three. And then they stopped. I kept waiting for the next, but number four never came.
Neither my father nor I said anything. We sat and watched the color slowly drain from her face just as the sky was beginning to find its own, as though taking the rose directly from her. The strange thing was that she at once became beautiful again. The anguish and pain slipped from her face. Wrinkles seemed to disappear. My father placed her turban back on her head, and she lay there looking like a silent film star from the ’20s, swaddled in her robe and waiting for a facial.
She died her own quiet, private way, the way she wanted it. It wasn’t her style to die in front of strangers. She kept things controlled and calm to the very end.
* * *
I have lunch at the Snow White Café on Hollywood Boulevard—a diner by day and a bar by night. It’s done up in a faux Tudor style, wooden beams painted on walls festooned with fake garlands. The beer taps and counter are on the right and booths are on the left—each one has a flower box and a fake window with a picture of a dwarf in it. On the back wall, Snow White smiles brightly, her arms outstretched. Above her birds carry a banner that says, “We hope we have pleased you!”
Claire couldn’t make it because of errands, but I think it’s because she doesn’t like the place, which she claims always smells of beer and bacon grease even though it doesn’t. I pull out the brochure on therapy Claire gave me, which I thought was a comical gesture on her part more than anything. But she seems to be serious about it, asking me every few days or so if I’ve checked it out.
When she asked me about it this morning, I laughed and said, “I’m not the crazy one. But give me a few more weeks like these last two and I might be.” She didn’t get the joke.
“I went to Naomi when my sister died, and she really helped me.”
“I know, but I don’t think I should be wasting my money when I’m barely making ends meet.”
“It’s not a waste,” Claire said. “It’ll help you deal with the grief.”
“I’m dealing with it just fine. I’m showing up to work, aren’t I?”
After the interminable silence passed, Claire said, “I just want to help. But it’s your decision.”
I put the brochure away when my Grumpy’s cheeseburger platter arrives. The fries are still sizzling in their grease, and I think about my to-do list, the one that has “eat healthier food” on it. I figure I’ll start tomorrow.
After lunch I walk down Hollywood Boulevard and pull my jean jacket tighter against the unexpected late April drizzle and wind—actual weather. The wet streets produce their usual effect: halting traffic to a crawl. I am one of only several pedestrians out today. I cross side streets jammed with cars, all the while unsure of where exactly I am heading.
I think about Claire, how different our lives are, and wonder: How can she really understand what I need? Hers is the life of socialization, of couples and promotions and plans for having children—a life I imagined for myself, but which seems to grow increasingly dim. Claire tells me there is no timetable and I want to believe her. But then I think of my friends from high school and college, all of whom are not only married but quite well employed—a chef, a lawyer, a neurologist, for God’s sake. One friend stays at home with her two children, but that doesn’t stop her from being a triathlete. They send me chatty form letters at Christmas and inspirational or jokey prefab e-mails that have circulated the country several times over. At first I wrote actual notes back; two of them didn’t reply and the other two just sent more recycled e-mails. I am not close with these women; I don’t even know them anymore and have no idea if Christmas in the Bahamas was really that fabulous and whether her promotion, in truth, gives her little more than a reason to spend less time at home. Whether their lives are better or worse than when I knew them doesn’t really matter—all I know is that they are in that forward, striding momentum, and I’m still on the roadside, watching them pass, wondering how to break out of my stagnant, isolated self and into the flow of living.
My former roommate in L.A. had more of a social network than I did partly because she was an actress and was forever meeting new people in workshops and on the television spots she got. I called her a few times after she got married and moved to Venice but never heard back from her. I know she’s still in town because I’ve seen her on television a couple of times in bit parts—once as a juror on Law & Order, another time as a nurse on ER.
In the past ten years I’ve made many acquaintances but very few friends. I attribute it to the vastness of L.A., along with the itinerant nature of its residents—people stay, but not for very long in the same job or apartment. And you swear you’ll get together, but you’re so busy, and there’s traffic, and it’s too much of a struggle to get from here to there. My own shyness and tribulations haven’t exactly made me a social magnet, either.
I walk east, fast and purposefully, though I have no purpose other than to get away from work. I turn around after several blocks and then head toward the distant Pacific. Suddenly, the sporadic drizzle gives way to a blast of sun, but it’s not a comforting sight. Instead of brightness and clarity, it gives the boulevard a murky, postapocalyptic haze, like the earth’s atmosphere in the sci-fi flick Soylent Green. I pass Frederick’s, the Church of Scientology, Ripley’s Believe It or Not Odditorium, and dozens of shops that advertise a mishmash of tourist knickknacks, tattoos, body piercing, T-shirts, pagers, and check cashing services with no questions asked. Rock music blares from every venue, and I long for a quiet, clean place.
I walk all the way down to the gaudy, chrome caryatids built to signify the renewal of the boulevard to its 1940s glory days even though they didn’t have the Gap or California Pizza Kitchen back then. I look at the shapely women who effortlessly bear the weight of Hollywood on their heads, and I know that the restoration, like so many things here, is just another hyped-up, short-lived impossible dream.
It’s twelve-thirty, and I’m supposed to be back at the office but am not ready to return. I look down the street lined with tall palms and think about what the ocean must look like on a day like today, probably slate blue and choppy, the kind of ocean that can take your jumbled thoughts away for a while into its own rough swell. As I imagine the waves, their mix of turmoil and calm, I lose sight of the things directly in front of me—a sign that says Don’t Walk.
I’m standing about halfway into the crosswalk where Hollywood meets La Brea when I finally emerge from my reverie. Luckily there are no cars, but a bicyclist hangs a right and heads straight for me. He swerves to miss me, causing his tires go out from under him. He and the bike skid to a halt a few feet away, but he then bounces up off the pavement like a spinning top and starts swearing and screaming at me. He wants to know what the fuck my problem is. He wants to know if I’ve got eyes, a brain. Goddamn motherfucker, he says. He’s about twenty-two years old and has a goatee. He wears a backward baseball cap, black biking shorts, and a red warm-up jacket.
He walks back to his bike and inspects it and then looks down at the scrape on his leg that has begun to bleed. I’m standing there watching the blood drip down his wet, hairy leg. I say, “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.” I say it twice because the first time gets no reaction from him. He wipes the blood with his jacket and then glares at me.
“Sorry won’t help my leg. Next time, why the fuck don’t you watch where you’re going? Goddamn idiot!”
He rides away stiffly, clearly in pain, yet I am the one who is left crying on the corner. I tell myself that it was just an accident, that he was being unfair, that I tried to make things better for him. But nothing consoles me as I stand under the awning of a pizza joint, sobbing uncontrollably. There’s nothing worse than crying in a city. People look but no one asks what’s wrong. Of course, even if someone did come to my aid, I don’t know what I would say. It seems ludicrous to attribute all of my hysteria to a fallen bicyclist.
So I let the motorists stare as they drive by the corner of Hollywood and La Brea. I’ve been entertaining them for what feels like an hour, but the manager of a pizza joint tells me it’s been fifteen minutes. He doesn’t like people loitering in front of his establishment, so I need to either come in and eat or stand someplace else.
I make another endeavor to quell the tears. I try to say, “I’m not loitering.” But the only sound that comes out is a strangled whimper and he tells me again, eat or move on. In a trance I head south on La Brea, past the minimalls, pawn shop, and Crazy Girls Exotic Strip Show, still sniffling and fighting for control. I lose the battle and have to stop again, ducking into the rubble of a demolished building. I sit on a slab of concrete and bury my head in my arms. I am no longer in L.A. I am on the farm, talking to Trudy, listening to Harlan tell me I’ll be all right. I am in my house on the hill sitting in front of the fire and watching the flames, safe and contained, as my mother and father read the evening paper. In my dreams, the other part of life never happens. There are no sudden or miserable deaths, enemies masquerading as stepsisters, arrogant actors, profane, unforgiving bicyclists. Life is gracious, untroubled, and everlasting.
I guess you could call it an emotional blackout, but I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting in the lot and staring at the chunks of concrete and twisted metal. I forgot my watch but know I must be well over my allotted hour. At least I’ve stopped crying, but Sally’s wrath would undo me all over again. The alibi for my extended absence is obvious: I was hit by the cyclist. I don’t like lying to people, but I see no way out of the predicament when I think about Sally.
And even if I did make it through another verbal assault, it wouldn’t stop there. Sally would want me to confide my troubles to her. “What’s going on with you? Tell me about your life.” That’s her favorite management style. She coaxes her colleagues into baring their souls—about relationship troubles, sick friends, dead parents—and then she invariably uses the confessions against them, chiding them for letting their personal lives interfere with their work. Claire and I are among the sensible ones who haven’t taken the bait although Sally tried pretty hard to make me spill my guts after Dad died. I remained stoic, which has only helped her pretend it never happened.
So the truth is not an option. But my story is not a complete lie, I figure, since the guy did run over me verbally. Nevertheless, I go to the drugstore and buy some gauze and adhesive tape and wrap up my elbow just in case anybody suspects.
With prop in place, I call Sally and give her the bad news.
She knows it’s me and says, “Well?” when the receptionist connects us.
“I’m very sorry I’m late Sally, but I got hit by a bicyclist when I was crossing the street.” My voice, still tearful and shaky, adds a convincing touch.
“Good God. Are you okay?”
“Yes, but I scraped my elbow pretty badly and I also—”
Why did I say “also”? Now I have to bandage something else. But what? I have to say it now or she’ll know I’m lying. Just say it. Say something!
“I also hurt my nose.”
Oh, shit.
“Is it broken?” she asks.
“No. Some people in front of a restaurant helped me to my feet and one of them was a doctor, so he made sure nothing was broken.”
What am I saying?
“Boy are you lucky it wasn’t worse. Was he at least cute?” Sally asks.
“The cyclist?”
“No, the doctor.”
“Not really,” I say. “He was older.”
“Listen, get a cab or a bus back to work even if it’s only a few blocks. You shouldn’t be walking.”
I comply although it occurs to me that I shouldn’t even be working if I had been actually hit. But showing up and forging on over the glare of the light table will only put me in Sally’s good graces—a positive angle I hadn’t seen before. She loves selfless devotion, something I’ve never excelled in when it comes to food styling. She’ll think I’m turning over a new leaf. Riding in the back of the cab, I tape a piece of gauze over the bridge of my nose and hope for the best.
Claire is the first person I see in the room of cubicles, the world headquarters of Mangia!
“Jesus! What on earth happened to you?”
Other people are looking now and moving toward me. I had planned to pull Claire into the bathroom and tell her the truth. But maybe it’s just as well that she hears my little fabrication. Maybe she’ll take pity on me and stop pestering me about the shrink.
So I tell her and anyone else who’ll listen the whole wildly embellished story: I’m in the crosswalk and the bicyclist slams on his breaks but still runs into my elbow and knocks me nose-first to the pavement. Meanwhile, he does a complete flip in the air and lands on his feet, miraculously unscathed. Several bystanders rush to my aid, one of them being an elderly doctor who bears a striking resemblance to Marcus Welby, M.D. He’s very kind and efficient. The cyclist inspects the damage to his vehicle, which is minor. Still, he starts to berate me, but the crowd shouts him down.
“Young man, don’t bother this woman. It’s not her fault,” says Marcus Welby. And then other voices chime in.
“Yeah, take a hike, bozo.”
“Try the Tour de France next time.”
“Why don’t you buy some training wheels, hot shot?”
I finish the story by telling how Marcus Welby helped me to my feet and walked me to the drugstore. Then he carefully bandaged my nose and elbow for me.
“What a wonderful man,” says Denise, the receptionist with curly brunette hair (this week) and two-inch nails. “How come more people aren’t like that?”
“Good question,” I say, practically believing the fiction myself. “But it really redeemed my faith in humanity.”
There’s a murmur of agreement, and I begin to feel a pang of guilt over how well the lie has succeeded. Everyone tells me how glad they are that I’m all right. The only people who remain silent are Claire and Stone, who both stare at me blankly and then go back to their work at the light table. It’s nothing new for Stone, really, but Claire is another story. Denise says Sally is in a meeting, but she’ll tell her I’m back as soon as possible.
I walk slowly to my cubicle, and after a few minutes Claire comes by. I rub my elbow dramatically and try to look like I’m busy.
“What are you working on?” she asks.
“Just another blue plate special,” I say lightly, hoping she’ll smile and walk away. But she’s still there after a few seconds, so I turn to her and ask, “Do you need something?”
“No,” she says a bit sheepishly. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about what happened to you. Are your scrapes pretty bad?”
“Pretty bad,” I say as I swivel back to my desk and begin shuffling plastic sheets of photo slides, “but I guess they could have been worse. I mean, I could have been hit by a car instead of a bike.”
“Well, that’s a positive perspective.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know. And at least you don’t need stitches. I mean, I’m assuming the doctor said you didn’t.”
“Yeah. No stitches. Just time, bandages, and Neosporin.”
“I hope they heal soon.” Claire pauses and then steps a little closer to me. She stands over my shoulder and asks, “Can I take a look at them?”
“Sure. It’s the ‘High Tea’ shoot.”
“No, I mean, your scrapes,” she says. “Would you mind if I saw them?”
All I can say is: “Yes, I would mind. Are you into gore or something?”
“No, I’m just concerned. I don’t know. Maybe I need to see it to believe it—it seems so impossible.”
“Well, that’s the way things go. One minute you’re fine, the next you’re getting run over by a bike or swallowed by a wave or falling from the sky or whatever.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“I’m not upset.”
“You sound like you are, and I don’t blame you. Another accident is just about the last thing you need.”
“This hardly compares with the plane crash,” I say as I shove the slides into a folder.
“Oh, of course not. What I meant was—”
“I know what you meant. I’ve had enough trouble, enough bad surprises. I need things to calm down for a while, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, they will. I’m due. And look, I really am fine.”
“I am looking, and fine is not the word I’d use. I won’t say anything more about it, Julia, but will you please just think about calling Naomi?”
