Ginny Blue's Boyfriends Page 8

  Daphne, in a non sequitur that left me mildly shell-shocked, asked, “Did you ever sleep with Jackson Wright?”

  CeeCee leaned forward. “Why?”

  Slightly intimidated, Daphne said, “It’s just that we’ve always wanted to know.”

  “We?”

  “Hell, yes, we,” I declared when CeeCee turned her lethal gaze on me

  She casually lit the cigarette, said, “No,” rather flatly, and strolled out of the restaurant. Our waiter fluttered around her heels until she and her smoke were safely outside.

  After that, the waiter wouldn’t serve us. Just goes to show you. Regular customer or no, you don’t screw around with the state antismoking laws. Everyone’s a policeman at heart.

  Daphne said, “Sometimes I don’t think CeeCee likes me.”

  “CeeCee doesn’t like anybody. She just puts up with us because she hates us less than others.”

  “Oh, I don’t believe that, and neither do you. She just likes to be tough.”

  “She is tough,” I pointed out.

  “So, what happened with Nate?” she asked.

  “I told you the other night.”

  “You just said you broke up.”

  I shrugged. “That’s about all there is. I was really toying with the idea of ending things, and then he beat me to the punch. Not fun,” I added.

  A different waiter finally came to take our order and we lapsed into silence. CeeCee deigned to return and demanded her California omelet before our new server escaped. Our original waiter looked down his nose at her from across the room. CeeCee stared right back at him, slid her sunglasses on her nose, then pushed them upward with her middle finger. She capped this off by pulling her still skyward-pointing middle finger away from her face, holding it out to him in case he wasn’t into subtlety. His nose twitched and his cheeks reddened.

  “Gay,” Daphne decreed, having watched the whole incident.

  “Nah,” I said. “If he were gay, he’d be more fun.”

  “No, he’s that really non-fun, judgmental type,” she insisted.

  “He’s straight,” CeeCee said. “I know him. God, this town is just too small.”

  We both stared.

  “The fucker worked at the radio station as an intern. Hates me because I got the job. It pisses me off that he took a job here. Makes coming to Sammy’s a chore sometimes.”

  CeeCee had worked at KULA for six months. She was a fill-in DJ for the afternoon guy who specialized in techno songs and pop psychology. I loved it when she was on the air, because sometimes the “bleep” machine went nonstop. On her off-air hours she was a whatever-you-wanted-her-to-be around the station. Sort of like being a PA on one of our commercials.

  “How do you know he’s straight?” Daphne asked.

  “Because he grabbed my ass hard when I was on air one afternoon.”

  I gave the ex-waiter an admiring look. “Didn’t know he had it in him.”

  “He only did it once,” CeeCee revealed, pulling out another cigarette and turning it over and over on the table again. She held it up for inspection and added, “Because afterwards I ground one of these out on the back of his hand. Did you notice the scar?”

  We turned collectively, as if pulled by a string, and the ex-waiter strode stiffly out of the room and into the kitchen. “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “Who-The-Fuck-Cares.”

  “Couldn’t he, like, sue you, or something?” Daphne asked.

  I was a little horrified by CeeCee’s casual account of physical violence, but then, serious ass-grabbing wasn’t something anyone should have to put up with. I would have probably found some more peaceful means of dealing with the situation, but it might not have been as effective as her choice of retaliation.

  “I don’t care what he does as long as he stops ass-grabbing.” CeeCee was unrepentant. “He still comes around the station.”

  “Oh.” Daphne looked in the direction he’d gone. “Maybe he likes that kind of thing.”

  “Maybe he does,” CeeCee said, her voice a challenge.

  “Maybe you do ... too?” Daphne suggested carefully.

  “This sounds like a dangerous relationship.” I wasn’t sure what to make of it.

  “He wants to grab my ass, he’s gotta ask first. That’s all.”

  I started laughing. I couldn’t help myself. As our food came, delivered by waiter number two, my amusement scared a small smile out of CeeCee. I told her that Nate and I broke up and she said he wasn’t right for me. Daphne shot me a look and we both wondered what kind of guy was right for CeeCee.

  I was glad she hadn’t slept with Jackson.

  That night I drove Daphne and Jill to Pink Elephant to see Kristl tend bar. CeeCee was filling in on the night shift at the station, although she wouldn’t be on the air, but we tuned in anyway, on the off chance the DJ of the hour would engage her in some kind of lively conversation. No such luck. He was one of those guys who hovers between reality and that land of music only true afficionados or crazies seem to have a pass to. We were subjected to alternative rock, and though I like most of it, tonight’s selections just seemed blaring and tuneless.

  So I wasn’t in the best frame of mind as I entered Pink Elephant, a kitschy, retro kind of place that actually had some class. Kristl, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, red highlights catching the overhead lights, was busy lining up martini glasses and filling them with blue curacao. The row of them, electric blue and shining like liquid aquamarines, was a visual feast. I love looking at martinis. They’re so geometrically. . . triangular, and in today’s world, infinitely colored: Red, gold, green, blue ... utterly inviting. But personally, I can’t bear the taste of blue curacao. It’s too ... metallic, or something. I ordered my old standard: a Ketel One vodka martini.

  “Hey,” Kristl greeted us with a nod. She was too busy to do more. The colorful martinis were dispersed to a sleek group of women sitting at the bar. They all wore short skirts and showed trim thighs, toned by 24-Hour Fitness or Bally’s or maybe even a personal trainer. They clinked their glasses and drank. I noticed there was a fifty-cent tip on the bar.

  “Oh, shit ...” Daphne whispered and I turned from a view of the pretty cheapos to the direction of her gaze. My heart sank as Nate walked in with Tara, whose ID was examined very, very closely by the bouncer. She was allowed in, however. Must be one helluva good fake. These bouncers generally know what they’re doing.

  I smiled at Nate, though my lips felt stretched and frozen. Through the smile, I muttered in an aside to my friends, “He knows Kristl works here. He knows it’s on my list of places to go.”

  “It’s on your list,” Daphne agreed indignantly. “He shouldn’t use it now that you’re broken up.”

  Jill, who’d been brought up to speed about my breakup on the drive over, said in disgust, “He doesn’t have his own list, so he has to poach on yours.”

  Daphne snorted. “The bastard.”

  “I should feel sorry for him,” I said.

  “Not on your life! The fucking asshole,” Jill spat.

  “I thought only Ian was the fucking asshole,” Daphne said.

  “They’re all fucking assholes. Sicko, fucko, shits.”

  She managed to steal my attention from Nate and Tara, which was something. “What’s wrong with you?” I asked her.

  “Nothing.” Jill clammed up tight.

  “Give,” I demanded.

  “Where’s Ian tonight?” Daphne put in.

  Our dual attack broke open Jill’s reserve. “Don’t talk to me about him. He’s totally pissed me off and all I want to do is drink and swear.” She glanced predatorily around the room. “And flirt. Are there any decent males here?”

  A cluster of three attractive men was holding up a section of Pink Elephant’s pink bar. They didn’t look over at us when we gave them the eye. Male bonding was on the menu du jour, apparently.

  “What happened with Ian?” Daphne insisted.

  My gaze wandered toward Nate a
nd Tara. Having seen me, they were acting very circumspect. I did an inward check of my feelings, prepared to thicken the wall of insulation around my heart, if necessary. I’d gotten myself all worked up about him, but seeing him there, the curve of his back, his wrinkly pants, the way he kind of hunched when he sat at the bar stool ... I felt surprisingly disengaged. Not thrilled for my freedom as I had fantasized in the shower, and not angry or melancholy as I’d definitely been feeling the last few days ... now I just felt distanced.

  This made me happy. I’d been right after all. The breakup with Nate was the smart thing to do.

  “Which Ex-File is Nate?” Daphne asked, reading my thoughts.

  “Ummmm ... I guess he’s number six. Seven, if you count Charlie.”

  “Did you count Mr. Famous Actor?”

  “I never count him.”

  “Then Nate’s really number eight,” Jill declared. “You have eight Ex-Files.”

  I shook my head, feeling depressed all over again. “Jesus. Eight failed relationships. And that doesn’t even count the near misses.”

  “I’m glad you recognized Charlie on the list,” Daphne said.

  “He was my first,” I said. “No matter how hard I try to forget.”

  “Who was number two?”

  When I didn’t immediately reply, Jill said, “Come on, Blue. Get it all out there. Consider it therapy. And count them all.”

  “Kane Reynolds was number two,” I finally admitted. “Right before graduation. I think we all agreed the other night that high school does count, so Kane’s on the list.” In an attempt to get off my Ex-Files, I added philosophically, “Sick as it is, those relationships shape how we feel about the men the rest of our lives.”

  “We don’t meet men,” Jill said. “We meet fucking assholes.”

  “If you’re not going to talk about what happened with Ian, don’t make comments like that,” I said reasonably. “We have no criteria to base your opinions on.”

  She snorted. “You’ve all been dating for years. Think back on those guys. There’s your criteria.”

  “My relationships may have ultimately failed, but I had some good times,” I defended.

  “Me, too,” Daphne chimed in staunchly.

  “Just because you and Ian are fighting is no reason to make it out like all men are useless bastards,” I added.

  Jill lapsed into injured silence. To be honest, that was about the extent of our evening fun. Jill wouldn’t cough up what had transpired between her and Ian, and frankly, Daphne and I were pretty sick of asking. On the way home, KULA’s DJ rhapsodized about some weird, new group whose music, which he played for our listening enjoyment, was produced using guitar and something concocted with Pringles cans. I said, “I heard somewhere that Pringles cans are the perfect conduit for catching wireless electronic information. Like your cell phone numbers and your bank accounts. All kinds of stuff. And just about anyone on the street can use one and maybe get your computer password, empty out your accounts or something.”

  “I like this group. That’s what their music’s about,” Daphne said. “That’s why they use Pringles cans. To protest our lack of privacy through technology.”

  I thought about Charlie picking up my number from caller ID.

  Jill, who’d been silent for the entire ride, said flatly, “Ian loves Pringles.”

  Neither Daphne nor I felt like going there—or trying to go there—so I just drove them both home.

  Sunday was a bust. Nobody was around. None of my friends. By Sunday night I’d once again done a 180 on the breakup idea. I was sorely missing Nate. Or at least the “idea” of Nate. My brief moment of emancipation and epiphany at Pink Elephant was superseded by an ugly female neediness. Once or twice I almost called his cell phone, but reason prevailed. Also, I feared Tara might be with him. She looked like the type who would move in to stay.

  I was heading to bed Sunday night, looking desperately forward to work the next day, when Kristl appeared in my bedroom doorway looking flushed and kind of pent-up, as if she had a secret just bursting to come out.

  “What?” I asked.

  With a little shudder of delight, she held out a tremulous left hand. A diamond ring sparkled.

  “Oh ... God.” My heart sank.

  “I—I didn’t know how to say no.” If she’d been a little girl she would have clapped her hands and giggled. Instead, she just drew me close to her for an intense “Please don’t be mad at me” hug. Her whole body was quaking.

  As well it should be, I decided. I made appropriate noises to show how happy I was for her, but I couldn’t believe she’d done it again. I’d joked about it; I just hadn’t truly believed it would happen.

  Though I sometimes like to lie, sometimes the truth just needs to be told. I said, with real sincerity, “I’m worried about you. Really. Nobody gets married like you do. It’s like you’re trying to fill up some inner void. It’s not going to work.”

  For a moment she held my gaze, then she looked away, her mouth trembling. “I really hoped you’d understand, Blue. You of all people.”

  “Why me of all people?”

  “Because I need you to,” she said in a small voice, and then she walked toward the stairs, totally beaten down. I called after her, but she ignored me and a few moments later I heard her bedroom door close, sounding oddly final.

  Way to put the period to one stellar weekend, I thought miserably. I looked at myself in the hallway mirror and really resented that I seemed so normal. I was evil incarnate. Which reminded me of Ex-File Number Four, Don the Devout, who believed in his own goodness and rightness in a way that defied description.

  But I get ahead of myself. Before I can think of Don, I really should consider Kane Reynolds, Ex-File Number 2, then Larry Stoddard, Ex-File Number Three, and probably Mr. Famous Actor, although I still resist counting him. However, thinking of my exes all at one time made my head hurt. Delving into my own problems isn’t my strong suit.

  For now I would just have to accept that I was evil. Eeee-ville.

  I’m not sure I like me without a boyfriend.

  At work Monday afternoon I walked into the men’s room by mistake. “Oops, sorry,” I said as soon as I saw the telltale urinal hanging on the wall. Men’s rooms make me close my nose. An automatic reaction brought on by experience: they always smell bad. But before my nostrils could retract I sniffed an aroma that I usually don’t associate with bathrooms, and as I hesitated, Sean appeared from one of the stalls, grinning like an idiot. Pinched between his thumb and index finger was, as my mother would say, “one of those funny cigarettes.” He inhaled deeply, said, tightly, “Wanna hit?” and offered the joint to me. I shook my head as he held his breath to ensure every pneumatic sac absorbed the smoke. Alas, this is another reason I can’t smoke. I just visualize my lungs dragging in all kinds of noxious gases, irritants, and chemicals and I can’t do it. LA smog is bad enough.

  “I’m not good with marijuana,” I said.

  He cocked his head and lifted his brows, still unwilling to release the smoke.

  “Smoking dope makes me salivate,” I explained. He expelled with a rush and a gasp, his starved lungs sucking in the wonderful bathroom air.

  “Salivate?” he questioned. “Haven’t heard that one before. It’s s’posed to make your mouth dry.”

  “I hope you’re going to tell me you’re through working for the day,” I said. I could just picture him driving around under the influence and having it somehow be the production company’s fault.

  “Yeah, totally!” he assured me emphatically. “I’m done here. Just on my way out.” Seeing my look, he said, “Well ... not immediately. Wouldn’t want to get a DUI or anything. It really makes you salivate?”

  “Yep.”

  I didn’t feel like going through my brief attempt at smoking dope. It had been another of those decisions made for popularity and acceptance during high school. Not long after the Charlie Carruthers episode, I briefly turned my attention to my grades and
caught the fever of needing those last semester GPAs to get into the “right” school. Well, it was way too late for that. I mean, you wanna impress some college you gotta start freshman year. But I was suddenly convinced I could do it, and I started hanging out with the nerds. That’s where I met Kane. He was the nerdiest of the nerdy, pocket protector and all, but he had this fantastic baritone speaking voice, and he sounded so incredibly smart that I went into some kind of fugue state, I swear, and my last high school semester I followed him around and listened to him like an acolyte.

  It was during the Kane phase that I had my one excursion into dope smoking. A group of the nerds hung out at Kane’s. He lived in this tract house that was surprisingly nicely done. His mother had flirted with interior design, more as a hobby than a career, but her decorating sense made the place seem like a Better Homes and Gardens article: “How to make your dwelling sparkle on a limited budget.”

  I was mildly shocked to learn the nerds were deep into dope smoking. When they passed the joint around, I attempted a quick puff, was told I needed to inhale, did, then coughed until my stomach hurt. Embarrassed, I tried again, and finally managed to take that terrible, smelly smoke into my lungs. Immediately my salivary glands went on overload. I was flooded with saliva, struggling to swallow, wipe my mouth, not cough, and be cool all at one time. Nobody else seemed to suffer this malady, I noticed, as I looked around the room. Kane smiled at me. I was never sure later if it was the dope, or just a sincere need to reestablish that I was cool, but I smiled back and actually went over and sat next to him. “Cool,” he said, and that pretty much won my heart.

  Just before I graduated from Carriage Hill High, Kane and I engaged in some sexual gymnastics that helped a lot after the disappointing Charlie Carruthers episode. Kane was one of those talkers, whispering all kinds of things in my ear that honestly, I found very distracting. Between that and worrying I might get caught screwing Kane in his parents’ basement—or that one time in my parents’ powder room—I could never get to the Zen mode his voice promised that might allow me an actual orgasm. Still, it was exciting and his voice was one deep purr.