Entertaining. A whole new ballgame for William.
I wasn't kidding when I suggested this living together business might be invasive. I had furniture re-covered and new dishes stacked in the cupboards. My cookbooks were lined up, ready for action. Pots dangled, wine glasses sparkled, and candles glowed. The sounds of jazz filled our rooms. Tiny lights twinkled over the deck.
When the construction was done, we had raced from one room to another, admiring the new look. When we awoke after our first night, we had looked at the sunlight pouring through the French door in our bedroom. It's like waking up in a bed and breakfast, William said. Except we don't have to pay the bill and leave.
We were in our house.
We had added a new bathroom with a large clawfoot bathtub. Because William and I are on the short side, we used it as others might use a hot tub. At the end of a hard day, we filled it with hot water and bubbles, climbed in and shared thoughts, worries and ideas.
I'd been creatively sated remodeling the house and preparing for dinner parties, but now what?
Do whatever you want, William offered. Quit that stupid TV show.
I can’t. It's my income.
We can get by on my salary. Quit.
At the time, I was a dialogue coach on a kids' television show. It introduced a new cast of young actors every year and the executive producer had hired me to hone acting their skills and teach on-set etiquette. That producer, however, seemed to be the only one who liked having me there, and over the years my value deteriorated as one director in particular made my job near impossible.
This director needed a lot of control and didn't want me talking to "his actors." As my job was all about talking to actors, our situation became untenable. My sleeping hours were jam-packed with work-related nightmares. I hung on because I simply could not imagine quitting. Plus, in addition to the income, the company covered my health insurance.
So I didn't quit.
We curled up in front of a roaring blaze in the fireplace, our faces lit by red and green lights on the Christmas tree. We spent New Year's Eve with lasagna, red wine and our annual viewing of "The Godfather." We had a dinner party on New Year's Day, toasting each other from across the table. We were grateful to be finished with the construction and wished for our country to mend its wounds as we moved into 2002.
With my head full of renovation ideas, I developed an addiction to the Home & Garden Television network. Oh God, look at that kitchen. William called HGTV "porn for women." And I was hooked.
I was particularly enthralled with a show called "Landscapers' Challenge," where a designer and crew land in a homeowner's yard and whip it into a wonderland in twenty-seven minutes. We should have that, I decided, and wrote an email to the show's producers, hoping they would consider our lackluster backyard for a future episode.
This seemingly trivial act cranked open an unexpected gulf in our home. One of those didn't-see-it-coming moments that can rock a foundation swifter than an earthquake.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Thursday, December 8, 2011
LOS ANGELES: December, 2001 (Part 1)
Two days before Christmas, I pulled my car into the driveway of William's house. Our house. I stepped out of the car, clutching a pet carrier with Spencer mewling inside. The two of us, feline and human, slightly stunned.
This felt like my five-hundredth move in a lifetime of moves, from western Canada to eastern Canada to New York City to Los Angeles. In each location, I'd set up a new living habitat from scratch. Packing, unpacking, signing leases and renting moving trucks. By this point, I'd lived in six places over thirteen years. I was sick and bored with the moving thing. Would this be the restful home I longed for?
William and his dog, a mutt named Stinky, waited in front of the newly painted front door. I'd chosen a dark red for the door. An auspicious color in the Chinese culture.
Welcome home, William said.
And we were. Spencer scurried, fur on end, from one corner to another. Stinky tried his best to sniff the cat's bum. William and I were locked in an embrace. Together. In our house.
Sidebar: the dog's name. When I took Stinky to the dog park, I would often disguise his name by shouting, "Inky! Inky!" Because when I called "Stinky," the strange glances shot my way were intolerable. William had adopted his pup from a shelter months before we met. He lifted the name "Stinky" from a comic book. What can I say? The dog believes his name is a term of endearment, and so it has become one in our home.
On the day Spencer and I moved in, Stinky matured from a puppy to an avuncular presence with the cat. He was nervous and, truth be told, afraid of the cat. One butt-sniff too many resulted in a good bat from Spencer's paw, but the two pets would make their way, over time, to a peaceable kingdom.
William grew to adore Spencer as much as he did Stinky and, believe me, his love for that dog competed with his love for me. Adjusting to a mixed-pet household was not without stumbles and scratches, barks and screeches, but we were determined to make it work. That Christmas, four stockings hung from the mantle.
The house renovation had lasted two months. We added space and color. I tore down the blinds and light filled the previously darkened rooms.
People will see, William said.
No they won't, I assured, and if they do, they won't care. Nobody cares about our business.
The contractor had created an archway connecting the dining room to a den area that led out to double French doors and our new redwood deck.
See, William, when people come over, they'll walk through here, pick up drinks and gather outside for appetizers on the deck. Then back inside to the dining room for dinner. Neat, huh?
What people?
Oh, people.
Who?
You'll see.
This felt like my five-hundredth move in a lifetime of moves, from western Canada to eastern Canada to New York City to Los Angeles. In each location, I'd set up a new living habitat from scratch. Packing, unpacking, signing leases and renting moving trucks. By this point, I'd lived in six places over thirteen years. I was sick and bored with the moving thing. Would this be the restful home I longed for?
William and his dog, a mutt named Stinky, waited in front of the newly painted front door. I'd chosen a dark red for the door. An auspicious color in the Chinese culture.
Welcome home, William said.
And we were. Spencer scurried, fur on end, from one corner to another. Stinky tried his best to sniff the cat's bum. William and I were locked in an embrace. Together. In our house.
Sidebar: the dog's name. When I took Stinky to the dog park, I would often disguise his name by shouting, "Inky! Inky!" Because when I called "Stinky," the strange glances shot my way were intolerable. William had adopted his pup from a shelter months before we met. He lifted the name "Stinky" from a comic book. What can I say? The dog believes his name is a term of endearment, and so it has become one in our home.
On the day Spencer and I moved in, Stinky matured from a puppy to an avuncular presence with the cat. He was nervous and, truth be told, afraid of the cat. One butt-sniff too many resulted in a good bat from Spencer's paw, but the two pets would make their way, over time, to a peaceable kingdom.
William grew to adore Spencer as much as he did Stinky and, believe me, his love for that dog competed with his love for me. Adjusting to a mixed-pet household was not without stumbles and scratches, barks and screeches, but we were determined to make it work. That Christmas, four stockings hung from the mantle.
The house renovation had lasted two months. We added space and color. I tore down the blinds and light filled the previously darkened rooms.
People will see, William said.
No they won't, I assured, and if they do, they won't care. Nobody cares about our business.
The contractor had created an archway connecting the dining room to a den area that led out to double French doors and our new redwood deck.
See, William, when people come over, they'll walk through here, pick up drinks and gather outside for appetizers on the deck. Then back inside to the dining room for dinner. Neat, huh?
What people?
Oh, people.
Who?
You'll see.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
NEW YORK CITY: October, 2001 (Part 2)
Think we could get tickets to the game? William asked the next morning. The Yankees were playing the Mariners in the American League Championship Series that night.
I doubt it...Really, darling…it's the playoffs and it’s Yankee Stadium.
Yeah, I guess.
But we could go to the Bronx and…you know…walk around and get a feel for it.
And that's what we did. We hopped into a subway car packed with giddy Yankee fans. We skimmed along the rails and mingled as if we belonged. At the Yankee Stadium stop, we hustled outside, shoulder to shoulder, only to discover all the stadium ticket booths locked up tight.
We walked in a giant circle around the stadium. There were no tickets for sale...except...wait a second—
Single seat, single seat! a voice cried out from the one tiny booth left open.
William hatched a plan. We'll buy two separate singles and find a place to sit together.
Scheme in hand, he pulled out a credit card for the pudgy seller. The poor guy, crammed like a sausage into his workspace, shot us an intense look.
Two singles, please.
One! he screamed at us in typical New Yorker fashion. He pounded the seating diagram, his stubby finger landing on the single seat in the entire stadium available for sale. I'm tellin' ya, I have one single ticket. Ya want it or not?
No, but thanks, anyway. We backed away.
Well, it was a nice try, I said. We almost—
You wanna see the game? The voice came from over William's shoulder.
Turning around, we came face to face with a man, standing alone, with two tickets shoved toward us.
Uh, sure—
Here, take these. Have a good time.
It was a command, not a wish. And he was gone. Instantly. Disappeared, vaporized before we could pay or even thank him. Dazed, we looked at the two bleacher seat tickets, then to each other to confirm this wasn't a dream.
And that's how we got into, hands down, the best baseball event of my life. When the national anthem played, we cried. An eagle named Challenger flew from the bleachers to the mound, and we sniffled some more. The crowd stood for every one of Roger Clemens' two-strike counts, and for every Derek Jeter at-bat. We cheered and howled, hot dogs held high, as if we were one of these brave souls and not recently flown-in Angelenos.
The game remained scoreless until the eighth inning, when Bret Boone hit a solo home run and New York worried. Bernie Williams countered with a solo homer in the bottom of the inning and New York rallied. With the game tied and the stadium on its feet in the bottom of the ninth, a 25-year-old rookie, Alfonso Soriano, hit a two-run homer to win the game for the Yankees…and we discovered, in the best way possible, that NYC was going to be A-OK.
Frank Sinatra sang "New York, New York" at the top of his lungs and we screamed until our voices were ragged.
Williams would soon retire, Soriano would eventually be traded, and Joe Torre would end up crossing the country to manage the Dodgers. And on September 21, 2008, a final game was played at Yankee Stadium. But for generations to come, people will tell tales of that stadium. Ours will include a story of the day New York City gave two out-of-towners a big, fat hug and assured us everything was all right.
We drank in the cold October air and laughed like giddy drunks.
I doubt it...Really, darling…it's the playoffs and it’s Yankee Stadium.
Yeah, I guess.
But we could go to the Bronx and…you know…walk around and get a feel for it.
And that's what we did. We hopped into a subway car packed with giddy Yankee fans. We skimmed along the rails and mingled as if we belonged. At the Yankee Stadium stop, we hustled outside, shoulder to shoulder, only to discover all the stadium ticket booths locked up tight.
We walked in a giant circle around the stadium. There were no tickets for sale...except...wait a second—
Single seat, single seat! a voice cried out from the one tiny booth left open.
William hatched a plan. We'll buy two separate singles and find a place to sit together.
Scheme in hand, he pulled out a credit card for the pudgy seller. The poor guy, crammed like a sausage into his workspace, shot us an intense look.
Two singles, please.
One! he screamed at us in typical New Yorker fashion. He pounded the seating diagram, his stubby finger landing on the single seat in the entire stadium available for sale. I'm tellin' ya, I have one single ticket. Ya want it or not?
No, but thanks, anyway. We backed away.
Well, it was a nice try, I said. We almost—
You wanna see the game? The voice came from over William's shoulder.
Turning around, we came face to face with a man, standing alone, with two tickets shoved toward us.
Uh, sure—
Here, take these. Have a good time.
It was a command, not a wish. And he was gone. Instantly. Disappeared, vaporized before we could pay or even thank him. Dazed, we looked at the two bleacher seat tickets, then to each other to confirm this wasn't a dream.
And that's how we got into, hands down, the best baseball event of my life. When the national anthem played, we cried. An eagle named Challenger flew from the bleachers to the mound, and we sniffled some more. The crowd stood for every one of Roger Clemens' two-strike counts, and for every Derek Jeter at-bat. We cheered and howled, hot dogs held high, as if we were one of these brave souls and not recently flown-in Angelenos.
The game remained scoreless until the eighth inning, when Bret Boone hit a solo home run and New York worried. Bernie Williams countered with a solo homer in the bottom of the inning and New York rallied. With the game tied and the stadium on its feet in the bottom of the ninth, a 25-year-old rookie, Alfonso Soriano, hit a two-run homer to win the game for the Yankees…and we discovered, in the best way possible, that NYC was going to be A-OK.
Frank Sinatra sang "New York, New York" at the top of his lungs and we screamed until our voices were ragged.
Williams would soon retire, Soriano would eventually be traded, and Joe Torre would end up crossing the country to manage the Dodgers. And on September 21, 2008, a final game was played at Yankee Stadium. But for generations to come, people will tell tales of that stadium. Ours will include a story of the day New York City gave two out-of-towners a big, fat hug and assured us everything was all right.
We drank in the cold October air and laughed like giddy drunks.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
NEW YORK CITY: October, 2001 (Part 1)
The sky, clear and blue. The sun, warm and lemony. Very like the weather people described for New York City six weeks previous. That day, September 11, 2001, ended grotesquely, dusty and dark. In contrast, October 21, 2001, ended jubilantly, clear and light-filled.
I'd spent so much time watching television footage of the September 11 attacks that my head rocked with the stories and my heart cracked for the loss. I wanted to stretch my arms as wide as a comic-book hero's and embrace the city in a giant hug. To kiss the tips of the Chrysler and Empire State buildings and nuzzle the Brooklyn and George Washington bridges. Enfold all of Central Park in my arms, caress the tops of its trees and murmur that it would all be okay...one day...again.
William and I arrived in the city on Friday, October 19. I didn't want him on a flight without me. The fear was irrational and yet, If something happens, I want us to be together played over and over in my head. This way of thinking had become a nationwide phenomenon.
Equally important was a desire to see the city for myself. To know that New Yorkers could and would survive the nightmare. Back in Los Angeles, workers were about to bring down walls and dig huge holes in the earth to expand William's house. Here in New York, other workers were bringing down wreckage and imagining a new landscape.
We settled into our hotel, across from Madison Square Garden. I peered out a window in search of the city's mood. I tried to gauge the emotional climate, but our hotel room was far too high. Not good enough.
Let's go out. We won't know anything until we hit the streets.
We left the lobby and stepped into the night air with the intention of a long walk, a longer drink and dinner. The very least we could do was support the local economy. I dressed in black, seemly for New York on an autumn evening, and because I imagined things might be somewhat funereal.
Our sense of solemnity was quickly shattered in an abundance of...well...sheer frivolity. Restaurants and bars overflowed with New Yorkers in high spirits. It could have been New Year's Eve or St. Patrick's Day. In the Village, we hunted for a drink or dinner only to find every establishment filled to the brim. Customers thronged, jovial in boisterous, raucous laughter and loud chatter.
We put our names on a list and waited on a crowded street, marveling at the energy of this recovering patient. We ate, drank wine and listened in on conversations around us. No one talked of "it," which made sense. At this point, "it" was still too fresh and horrible to speculate or regurgitate. I had the sense that New Yorkers longed to buck up and laugh, remember they were alive, their city was alive, and a new year was on the horizon.
After dinner, we wandered south toward Canal Street and smelled acrid, bitter air. At Chambers Street, our walk ended. The city's laughter had stopped far behind us, replaced by the sound of graders, backhoes and trucks. The night sky billowed dusty smoke, backlit in super-white illumination. Sawhorses and patrolmen prevented us from going further. William and I stopped and held hands.
On our way back to the hotel, we passed nightclubs and watched mini-skirted young women dance in the street. They threw their arms around any fellow in a uniform. Gratefulness concocted a spirited affection. Anyone in a uniform appeared likely to score in New York City that October. Even a mail carrier could count on getting bussed by a cute gal.
I'd spent so much time watching television footage of the September 11 attacks that my head rocked with the stories and my heart cracked for the loss. I wanted to stretch my arms as wide as a comic-book hero's and embrace the city in a giant hug. To kiss the tips of the Chrysler and Empire State buildings and nuzzle the Brooklyn and George Washington bridges. Enfold all of Central Park in my arms, caress the tops of its trees and murmur that it would all be okay...one day...again.
William and I arrived in the city on Friday, October 19. I didn't want him on a flight without me. The fear was irrational and yet, If something happens, I want us to be together played over and over in my head. This way of thinking had become a nationwide phenomenon.
Equally important was a desire to see the city for myself. To know that New Yorkers could and would survive the nightmare. Back in Los Angeles, workers were about to bring down walls and dig huge holes in the earth to expand William's house. Here in New York, other workers were bringing down wreckage and imagining a new landscape.
We settled into our hotel, across from Madison Square Garden. I peered out a window in search of the city's mood. I tried to gauge the emotional climate, but our hotel room was far too high. Not good enough.
Let's go out. We won't know anything until we hit the streets.
We left the lobby and stepped into the night air with the intention of a long walk, a longer drink and dinner. The very least we could do was support the local economy. I dressed in black, seemly for New York on an autumn evening, and because I imagined things might be somewhat funereal.
Our sense of solemnity was quickly shattered in an abundance of...well...sheer frivolity. Restaurants and bars overflowed with New Yorkers in high spirits. It could have been New Year's Eve or St. Patrick's Day. In the Village, we hunted for a drink or dinner only to find every establishment filled to the brim. Customers thronged, jovial in boisterous, raucous laughter and loud chatter.
We put our names on a list and waited on a crowded street, marveling at the energy of this recovering patient. We ate, drank wine and listened in on conversations around us. No one talked of "it," which made sense. At this point, "it" was still too fresh and horrible to speculate or regurgitate. I had the sense that New Yorkers longed to buck up and laugh, remember they were alive, their city was alive, and a new year was on the horizon.
After dinner, we wandered south toward Canal Street and smelled acrid, bitter air. At Chambers Street, our walk ended. The city's laughter had stopped far behind us, replaced by the sound of graders, backhoes and trucks. The night sky billowed dusty smoke, backlit in super-white illumination. Sawhorses and patrolmen prevented us from going further. William and I stopped and held hands.
On our way back to the hotel, we passed nightclubs and watched mini-skirted young women dance in the street. They threw their arms around any fellow in a uniform. Gratefulness concocted a spirited affection. Anyone in a uniform appeared likely to score in New York City that October. Even a mail carrier could count on getting bussed by a cute gal.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
LOS ANGELES: December, 2000 (Part 3)
And what if, in two years, we discover we aren't successful as partners? I don't want to give up my great apartment, move across town, and end up looking for another place.
If we break up, find another apartment and I'll pay your rent for a year.
Why are you suddenly ready and willing, and spending? Why?
Because I want us to be together all the time.
I took his hand then looked away, because I didn't know what to say and my eyes were dripping. Finally. This time, he meant it. Time was no longer an issue because we were on the same calendar page and dangling from the same clock hand. I was sure of this and threw myself full-speed ahead into renovation plans.
We interviewed contractors and drew up layouts. I clipped pictures from magazines, wandered through design stores and Home Depot, and collected the paint chips he did not wish to see. And then, as we were getting ready to sign a contract with the building contractor, William said—
Maybe we should wait....This is a little fast....Maybe we don't have to do this right away....
On...off...light...dark...on...off.
And I lost it. I gritted my teeth, threw my hands up and wept.
Fine. Let's not do this. It was a crazy idea and I'm sick to death of getting my hopes up. You have ice-cold feet...keep 'em, I'm done.
I had lost it...and then the country lost it. Planes fell from the sky, buildings collapsed and, like so many others, we cried, lit candles and watched the endless stories on television. On the dining room table, our folders of house plans sat abandoned. Our conversations were silenced by news announcers and people far more lost than us.
I made spaghetti and mashed potatoes. Comfort food. We ate ice cream and drank wine. Comfort, comfort. We were mixed up, tumbling and raw from this terrible reality. William would pick me up at my apartment after work and we'd drive to his house. Along the roadside, flags rippled and candles sat lit on porches.
We're going ahead, William suddenly announced.
I ignored him and watched other houses out the car window, wondering about the families in them. Were they eating spaghetti every night too?
We're going ahead, he said again. We don't have time to fuck around waiting for things to be perfect. Call the contractor and let's get to work.
Tears rolled down my cheeks. I'm not even sure why; I was just so full. I shrugged, surrendered and floated into a new chapter. My body was limp and my mind limper.
I suspect the whole country measured time differently after 9/11. People compared the attack to Pearl Harbor and the assassinations of President Kennedy, Reverend King and Robert Kennedy. Already, a sense of before and after was setting in — as well as a serious reconsideration of how we used our time.
We proceeded with the renovation, signing paperwork with the contractor. I painted the living room myself, relieved to get away from the television and images of a burning New York City burnished into my brain.
And then William received a promotion at work. His boss took another show, leaving the project in William's hands. The director made him a full-time editor, and he was ready for the opportunity. William's editorial ambitions had begun to come true.
The studio planned to test the movie near their offices...in New York City. The entire filmmaking team would fly out to attend the screening.
And so, the day before a construction crew started work on our house, William and I flew to New York.
If we break up, find another apartment and I'll pay your rent for a year.
Why are you suddenly ready and willing, and spending? Why?
Because I want us to be together all the time.
I took his hand then looked away, because I didn't know what to say and my eyes were dripping. Finally. This time, he meant it. Time was no longer an issue because we were on the same calendar page and dangling from the same clock hand. I was sure of this and threw myself full-speed ahead into renovation plans.
We interviewed contractors and drew up layouts. I clipped pictures from magazines, wandered through design stores and Home Depot, and collected the paint chips he did not wish to see. And then, as we were getting ready to sign a contract with the building contractor, William said—
Maybe we should wait....This is a little fast....Maybe we don't have to do this right away....
On...off...light...dark...on...off.
And I lost it. I gritted my teeth, threw my hands up and wept.
Fine. Let's not do this. It was a crazy idea and I'm sick to death of getting my hopes up. You have ice-cold feet...keep 'em, I'm done.
I had lost it...and then the country lost it. Planes fell from the sky, buildings collapsed and, like so many others, we cried, lit candles and watched the endless stories on television. On the dining room table, our folders of house plans sat abandoned. Our conversations were silenced by news announcers and people far more lost than us.
I made spaghetti and mashed potatoes. Comfort food. We ate ice cream and drank wine. Comfort, comfort. We were mixed up, tumbling and raw from this terrible reality. William would pick me up at my apartment after work and we'd drive to his house. Along the roadside, flags rippled and candles sat lit on porches.
We're going ahead, William suddenly announced.
I ignored him and watched other houses out the car window, wondering about the families in them. Were they eating spaghetti every night too?
We're going ahead, he said again. We don't have time to fuck around waiting for things to be perfect. Call the contractor and let's get to work.
Tears rolled down my cheeks. I'm not even sure why; I was just so full. I shrugged, surrendered and floated into a new chapter. My body was limp and my mind limper.
I suspect the whole country measured time differently after 9/11. People compared the attack to Pearl Harbor and the assassinations of President Kennedy, Reverend King and Robert Kennedy. Already, a sense of before and after was setting in — as well as a serious reconsideration of how we used our time.
We proceeded with the renovation, signing paperwork with the contractor. I painted the living room myself, relieved to get away from the television and images of a burning New York City burnished into my brain.
And then William received a promotion at work. His boss took another show, leaving the project in William's hands. The director made him a full-time editor, and he was ready for the opportunity. William's editorial ambitions had begun to come true.
The studio planned to test the movie near their offices...in New York City. The entire filmmaking team would fly out to attend the screening.
And so, the day before a construction crew started work on our house, William and I flew to New York.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
LOS ANGELES: December, 2000 (Part 2)
What would it take for you to move into my house?
My head nearly came right off. I readjusted the bolts on my neck and ignored him because I wasn't at all certain I'd heard him correctly. I carried on as if he hadn't said a damn thing.
You really should examine your relationship with your parents. I mean, there's loads going on there. Your withholding shit seems pretty angry, if you ask me.
Okay, but that's not what I'm asking you.
Where's this coming from? Seriously, you're making me nervous. I don't want to go there until I'm really sure you're going there.
Mel, I'm going there. We should do this. What would it take?
I definitely wasn't ready for this and had to think...fast. I took a breath to calm down. And another, and another, followed by a swallow.
Well, I guess making some physical changes. Expanding the house, painting it...stuff like that, to create a space that would be ours. Otherwise you might feel invaded and I wouldn't want that.
I stared out the passenger window. I studied a carpet store bright in primary colors, and next to it a seedy bar in faded pastels. I wondered who was buying carpet, and who was drinking tequila shots. There was life outside this car, and there was life inside this car. Which did I want?
Okay, he said. What if I gave you a chunk of money to renovate? You could do whatever you wanted to the house. Expand it, paint it, whatever — as long as you stayed on budget. You'd be the director and I'd be the producer. I wouldn't want to see paint chips. I wouldn't care what you did. What do you think?
I squinted and tried not to scream. I'd been chosen...cast, if you will. The part was mine, and it was the leading role. My resignation to single life disappeared as easily as cotton candy melting on my tongue.
Well, I answered, in a tone cool and sophisticated, that...should...work. There's just one more thing. One tiny thing.
What's that?
We were lit by intermittent by street lamps. On...off...light...dark...on...off.
Within two years of our living together, I would want us to get married. If that doesn't seem possible for you, then we should shelve the idea.
On...off...light...dark...on...off.
My head nearly came right off. I readjusted the bolts on my neck and ignored him because I wasn't at all certain I'd heard him correctly. I carried on as if he hadn't said a damn thing.
You really should examine your relationship with your parents. I mean, there's loads going on there. Your withholding shit seems pretty angry, if you ask me.
Okay, but that's not what I'm asking you.
Where's this coming from? Seriously, you're making me nervous. I don't want to go there until I'm really sure you're going there.
Mel, I'm going there. We should do this. What would it take?
I definitely wasn't ready for this and had to think...fast. I took a breath to calm down. And another, and another, followed by a swallow.
Well, I guess making some physical changes. Expanding the house, painting it...stuff like that, to create a space that would be ours. Otherwise you might feel invaded and I wouldn't want that.
I stared out the passenger window. I studied a carpet store bright in primary colors, and next to it a seedy bar in faded pastels. I wondered who was buying carpet, and who was drinking tequila shots. There was life outside this car, and there was life inside this car. Which did I want?
Okay, he said. What if I gave you a chunk of money to renovate? You could do whatever you wanted to the house. Expand it, paint it, whatever — as long as you stayed on budget. You'd be the director and I'd be the producer. I wouldn't want to see paint chips. I wouldn't care what you did. What do you think?
I squinted and tried not to scream. I'd been chosen...cast, if you will. The part was mine, and it was the leading role. My resignation to single life disappeared as easily as cotton candy melting on my tongue.
Well, I answered, in a tone cool and sophisticated, that...should...work. There's just one more thing. One tiny thing.
What's that?
We were lit by intermittent by street lamps. On...off...light...dark...on...off.
Within two years of our living together, I would want us to get married. If that doesn't seem possible for you, then we should shelve the idea.
On...off...light...dark...on...off.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
LOS ANGELES: December, 2000 (Part 1)
William arrived home from Berlin right before Christmas. I met him at LAX and ran into his arms. We hung on to each other, laughing and kissing as if he'd been away at war. My concerns after our final dinner in Berlin were distanced by excitement and joyous anticipation.
I'd decorated his house for the holidays. As we drove slowly up the street, I glanced over to catch his reaction as he spotted the house, trimmed in icicle lights with a tree aglow in the window. He smiled and entwined his fingers in mine, and I decided this delight was worth every hazardous, one-footed reach I'd made from high atop a ladder to hang lights from the eaves.
We ventured into 2001 with me busy coaching on a television series while William worked on his movie. If my short film was going to make an impression at film festivals, I knew I would have to write a screenplay, sell it and attach myself as director. So I dialogue-coached in television during the day and at home labored on what would surely be a spectacular feature-film script.
I was independent, creatively energized and had a boyfriend. On weekends we took turns driving twenty miles across the city to stay at each other's places. As it turned out, the entertainment-industry strike was averted, and our hearts settled into more secure beats. Like the rest of the country, we didn't know we were living in a cocoon that would soon be ripped away.
One day we were driving home from a visit with William's parents...maybe this was the trigger. Trips back home to spend time with parents can do strange things to the head.
Listen, I launched, it would help me a lot — as in a great deal — when we socialize with your folks…if you actually joined in.
What do you mean?
I mean you go all monosyllabic around them. You give one-word answers and the conversation stops until, like some kind of court jester, I pick up the balls and start juggling.
Really?
Really. I'm all by myself asking about your dad's work and your mom's journey from Hong Kong to England to New York, where she met your dad, who had arrived there from South Carolina. I mean, an immigrant in South Carolina during the civil rights era...what was that like? And all that before having kids and moving across the country?
You know more about them than I do.
Don't you think there's something odd about that?
And then William changed it up.
I'd decorated his house for the holidays. As we drove slowly up the street, I glanced over to catch his reaction as he spotted the house, trimmed in icicle lights with a tree aglow in the window. He smiled and entwined his fingers in mine, and I decided this delight was worth every hazardous, one-footed reach I'd made from high atop a ladder to hang lights from the eaves.
We ventured into 2001 with me busy coaching on a television series while William worked on his movie. If my short film was going to make an impression at film festivals, I knew I would have to write a screenplay, sell it and attach myself as director. So I dialogue-coached in television during the day and at home labored on what would surely be a spectacular feature-film script.
I was independent, creatively energized and had a boyfriend. On weekends we took turns driving twenty miles across the city to stay at each other's places. As it turned out, the entertainment-industry strike was averted, and our hearts settled into more secure beats. Like the rest of the country, we didn't know we were living in a cocoon that would soon be ripped away.
One day we were driving home from a visit with William's parents...maybe this was the trigger. Trips back home to spend time with parents can do strange things to the head.
Listen, I launched, it would help me a lot — as in a great deal — when we socialize with your folks…if you actually joined in.
What do you mean?
I mean you go all monosyllabic around them. You give one-word answers and the conversation stops until, like some kind of court jester, I pick up the balls and start juggling.
Really?
Really. I'm all by myself asking about your dad's work and your mom's journey from Hong Kong to England to New York, where she met your dad, who had arrived there from South Carolina. I mean, an immigrant in South Carolina during the civil rights era...what was that like? And all that before having kids and moving across the country?
You know more about them than I do.
Don't you think there's something odd about that?
And then William changed it up.
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