Eye to Eye Page 5
Bita, my best friend in L.A. who had known me longer than anyone, took one look at my face, said, “Charlie,” and Charlie said, “What?” and held his fork and knife up, like what do you want me to do about the fact that she wasted three years of her life? Earl was still on good behavior—we’d only been in L.A. for a few weeks when we’d had that dinner—so he just squeezed my thigh under the table and didn’t tell Charlie to “Hold on there, now, buddy,” which is Earl’s way of saying shut the hell up. Instead, he said, “Nice table. My mamaw had a table like this in her kitchen. Made it herself from wood out in the yard.”
Charlie took a sip of wine and grinned at Earl. “Well, this is a four-thousand-dollar table, Earl.” He stroked the table. “I doubt your, what’d you say, ‘Mamaw’? I doubt your grandmother would have had anything like this.”
Bita gave Charlie a look with her green, darkly lined eyes, which said, Stop being an asshole, but I didn’t say anything. Though I was wanting to point out the fact that the table’s price had somehow gotten inflated. Or had she been embarrassed and low-balled the price? That was possible, too. Charlie chewed his salmon, satisfied that he’d put Earl in his place. It’s been the good old boy versus the Hollywood exec ever since the two met. But Earl knew how to fight his own battles. I was waiting for his comeback.
“Well…” Earl said, and took a sip of his drink, a Miller that Bita had bought a whole six pack of because she knew it was Earl’s beer of choice. He let that “well” linger a little bit, as if the discussion was over. He crossed his arms and leaned into the table with them and I couldn’t help it. I ran my hand up and down his arm and he covered my hand with his and squeezed. He gave me one of those sly grins where only one of his dimples was showing. “Well,” he said again, finally. “You’re right about that, Charlie. Mamaw would’ve never spent that kind of money on a table. Always told me, she said, ‘Earl, nothing but fools throw away good money behind stuff that only fools don’t know how to make their own selves.’”
“Charlie,” Bita said, standing up and putting her napkin on the table. A cloth napkin with little cherries scattered everywhere that complimented the soft white stain of the table perfectly: a crisp, ironed cotton. “Honey, help me with the salad.” And Charlie gave Earl one last glance before leaving the table with Bita.
When they left, Earl turned to me. “Darlin’, you don’t have to work for folks that know Charlie. I’m bartending. We can figure it out until you find something else.” But I wanted to be working right away. One thing Earl didn’t understand was that scraping by in Indiana ain’t the same as scraping by in L.A. And this is why, in spite of my love for Earl and the kind of person he is—the no-bullshit kind—we are a strange match, partially because I was slightly more high maintenance than he’d ever be. Earl could really rough it, if he had to. Me, me no like-y. Earl could get by on a fire, a tent and a can of beans. Doris used to call him Mountain Man when we first used to see him at the Saloon. Little did we know.
I, however, needed to be able to get a coffee whenever I wanted one. I needed to grab a sandwich in the neighborhood whenever I wanted one. Nothing fancy, maybe a wrap at The Coffee Table or a breakfast burrito at Eat Well. I needed to buy something halfway cute at Gap or Old Navy on a whim, even if I didn’t actually need those things. I needed a job. Period. I had an MFA, but I hadn’t gone on the job market like Doris had, and it was too late—for now. I had to take what I could get. And I wanted to teach.
“Nope, Earl. I gotta have this job.”
“Well, did I mess it up for you then? Giving Charlie that little talking to?” Earl frowned and looked toward the swinging door to the kitchen.
I shook my head. One thing I was certain of. Bita would damn near castrate Charlie if he didn’t help me out. He was the money maker, the guy with all the pulls and connections and the TV shows in the works, but Bita was the boss. I even thought I could hear her raise her voice in the kitchen, though it was hard to tell over Coltrane’s frantic “My Favorite Things,” in the background. I hated having to rely on Charlie Flannigan for anything, but beggars—and caffeine addicts—can’t be choosers.
The door swung open and Charlie came out holding an enormous ceramic bowl that they got during their last trip to Italy. Behind him came Bita with plates carefully stacked. “This is good salad. Everything organic,” she explained, winking at Earl who thought the whole organic thing was a little silly.
“I’ll call the Bernsteins about that job,” Charlie said dutifully. And then he asked Earl with fake camaraderie, “Hey, Mr. Lo Vecchio. Get you another beer?”
“I’d be delighted,” Earl said. “Thank you,” and then he turned to me to make sure I appreciated his gesture.
Now it has been exactly two weeks since Charlie has gotten me that job, and exactly five days since I’ve fucked it up. Earl has taken his bike out and is exploring L.A. even though I only allow him to do this after he promises that he won’t get killed by an idiot driver. I’m lounging on the couch, flipping channels and hoping that the phone will ring and hoping that it won’t. I’m waiting for Charlie to call and yell at me, or waiting for the Bernsteins to tell me that I will be getting my last check in the mail. On television, a couple is having to eat scorpions for the final fifty-thousand-dollar prize. That’s good money. Really good money. Earl and I can try out for something like that. A little deadly, venomous creature, in comparison to Ian, ain’t shit. Both are the same, actually, but one pays more money. And one, come to think of it, was less humiliating. At least with the scorpion, I wouldn’t have to be working, literally, for Mr. Charlie and Mr. Ian.
When the phone rings, I have to follow the sound before I answer it. Where did Earl put it last? Our apartment is so small, every room you can see from the front door. The kitchen. I had it in the kitchen when I was boiling eggs for lunch. I’m budgeting now, two boiled eggs is lunch. I may even eventually be one of these skinny women running around town without an ass before too long. I grab the phone before the third and last ring and look to see who it is before I press the talk button. Bita Flannigan.
“You’re calling to do Charlie’s dirty work. I’m fired.”
“Now what? Who said what to who? Who’s going to have to shake hands and say sorry, now?” Bita takes a drink from something. I can hear ice cubes clinking against a glass.
“I’m fired. At least I think I’m fired. Me and that Ian had a, uh, exhange.”
“He’s a little shit, anyway,” Bita lisps.
“Hey, chew that already.” Bita loves to eat ice. It’s a really bad habit she’s had since college—it’s in lieu of eating food, that she eats ice. The chewing made me want another egg. I had exactly two more eggs in the fridge, and two hundred dollars in my checking account. I’d save the egg for later. How sad. I was rationing.
Bita crunched in my ear. “You’ll either get that job back or something else’ll come up. It always does.”
I say nothing. Bita is always flip about stuff like this. She has the attitude of someone who has never known what it’s like to worry about money, and in spite of the fact that I would have NO respect for anyone else with the same attitude (Ian), I love this girl. I blame it on Charlie and his four-thousand-dollar table.
“Can you come over?” Bita asks. “I mean, since you’re unemployed and all on account of being a smart-ass.” She laughs again. I look at my watch and see that it’s 4:45 p.m., the beginning of rush hour, and I imagine the slow crawl of Sunset Boulevard all the way up to Kings Road, the street where Bita lives. I’ll be stuck in all that west-side scenery, like the giant billboards advertising some new starlet’s crotch, and then I’ll have to pass that idiotic House of Blues with its fake rust and Disneyland colors. I wouldn’t even be able to pop into Tower Records, the only reason for driving down to that end of Sunset, because it’s closed now, making it really and truly not the same L.A. I calculate how long it will take from Echo Park and estimate my arrival time to be 6:30 p.m. Not even for Bita, can I do it. Not today.
“Jeez,” Bita says. “Indiana has made you soft. A traffic wuss.” I hear the clink of ice as she takes a drink of something. “No, wait. What are you, scared to leave Earl alone or something? Is he lonely without you?”
“Are you kidding? Earl’s the goddamn life of the party these days. It’s like L.A. would shut down if he wasn’t around to oversee the place on that bike of his.”
“He gets around,” Bita says. And he did, too. When he isn’t working at the Baseline, he is one with the city. He has really taken to the place. But Bita says it with a tone.
“Around?” I know what Bita’s thinking. It isn’t my imagination that Earl is being chased by Katie. I made the mistake of mentioning something about it, and now Bita is putting my man in the same category as Charlie, which makes me mad. He’s fine, Earl. Out with a couple new buddies at the bar. He’s no Charlie.
“You let me worry about Earl,” I say. “You worry about Charlie.” It’s a snarky thing to blurt out and I’m already sorry about it. Bita is silent on the other end. “Listen. I’ll come by later this week,” I say softly. “Okay?” She’s still silent. “Hello?”
“I’m nodding,” Bita says.
“Well, I can’t see that.” I laugh.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she says, and I hear her crunching ice again.
“Next week. For sure,” I promise.
When I get off the phone, I decide to take a walk down to Echo Park to try to get at this Katie and Earl stuff that keeps bothering me. I find a piece of paper and a pen, and I write Earl a note:
Dear Earl,
You’ve been neglecting your duties at home, not earning your keep. So I’m off to the lake. The dudes down there know how to treat a gal.
:)
Love,
Veronica
I sign off “Veronica,” because Earl always says that it’s my sexy name, and that “Ronnie” is my everyday, “gettin’ around town” name. I’m almost out the door when the phone rings. Maybe it’s Bita again. Or Earl.
“Yep?” I don’t here anything on the other end. “Yep, yep, aww yeah,” I say again. That always made Bita laugh. It was my Vanilla Ice impersonation. He was always saying that as filler. I think it was code for “I’m being very black right now.”
“You sound insane. Drinking already? It’s barely happy hour your time.”
“D. Oh my God, I miss you. If you were here, we would already be hammered by now.”
“Exactly,” Doris says. “I’m beating you, though. Two hours ahead of you and already on my first glass of wine.”
I sigh.
“What?” Doris asks. “No wine in the house?”
“No. I mean, yes, there is…it’s not that.”
“Uh, oh,” Doris says. “What?”
I pause and consider not telling Doris. I’m always putting on a brave front whenever something’s getting to me. And things with Earl are good. It’s jerky to complain given he’s come all the way to L.A., and when I know that Doris is having a hard time with Zach and finding somebody to run around with in Atlanta. “I think I’m jealous of that chick down at the bar.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I wish I were.”
“Okay. Is this, like, some reverse-psychology tactic or something? Because I was all set to pour and rant for two hours.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.” I dangle one of my flip-flops off my big toe and jiggle my leg. “What kind of wine are you drinking?”
“The kind that works. Talk.”
“Nothing to say, really. I’m just feeling this weird, I don’t know, dread or something. I saw Katie hug Earl at the bar the other night, and I got scared.”
“Really?” Doris asks, and I can see her wrinkled nose and squinting eyes that say, “You’ve really gone round the bend now.” “You don’t get scared, not of skinny blondes, anyway.”
“I know. I know. Maybe it’s just the stress of moving back home, and money, dealing with that horrifying child, being worried that Earl’s okay—”
“Huh,” Doris says. I hear her take another sip of wine, and then she let’s me have it. “YOU HAVE GOT TO SNAP THE HELL OUT OF IT.”
“But—”
“HELL TO THE NO,” Doris yells, mimicking Whitney Houston’s now-infamous catchphrase during her reality TV meltdown. That shit was hilarious—in hindsight—now that Whitney’s drug free and clear of Bobby Brown.
I’m laughing, but still trying to make my point. “Doris, seriously—”
“You cannot, and I repeat cannot start any of this horse shite,” she insists. “All that time when you were playing hard to get in Langsdale, I was seeing how hard Earl was working to get you. He’s not going to toss you aside after moving across the country, for some halfwit, barely legal, dime-a-dozen L.A. floozy. Do you hear me?”
“Yeah. Really damn loud and clear.”
“Okay, then,” Doris says, and then I hear the tinny sound of her call-waiting beeping. “It’s Zach, speaking of people who are hard to get.”
“Get it!” I holler. “Don’t be mean, either.”
“Don’t worry. I will.” She hangs up on me.
Doris’s phone call was perfect timing and I think it’s a sign that it happened when I was about to go on a walk. We used to always walk around the trail at the Y in Langsdale, and one of us was usually knocking some sense into the head of the other while we walked and complained about stuff. Doris was the one who gave Earl my number. I gave her shit for that, but she knew I would never call Earl. I would have kept running and running.
In Langsdale, I worked in a car parts factory to make money during the summer. The whole time, I was working with Earl’s cousin and didn’t even know it. Unfortunately, the cousin, Ray, thought I was a snotty university student slumming it, which I was, I realized by the time I was done. Ray gave Earl an earful about me, Earl told me later, but he still wanted to be with me. He saw something of me, in him, Earl said, which sounded crazy at the time. But then soon after we started dating, something happened, all because of James Baldwin.
It was my fourth time on Earl’s hog, and he’d take me all over town. He’d picked me up from the library, where I was doing some research, and when we got to Griffey Lake, Langsdale’s most beautiful spot—turning leaves in the fall, woodpeckers and ducks and every other creature I usually want to avoid—we hiked up to a clearing to talk. We lay on our backs and looked up at the sky. One of my books was poking out of my backpack so Earl asked me what I was reading. I pulled out The Fire Next Time and passed it over to him.
“Read something,” he said, passing it back to me.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah. I don’t know James Baldwin.” Seriously? I felt that passing notion of our difference. He doesn’t know James Baldwin. But I started reading anyway. Written in 1963, during the times when the racial shit was truly hitting the fan in America, any reader could see that Mr. Baldwin was pissed off—as were most black folks in America. In essence, Baldwin argues that all of us, black, white, whatever, really had best get it together or we were all going to go down in flames together. Sure, he was talking about the times in 1963, but for my money, it’s still very relevant today. As I read, Earl’s brows were scrunched together. “What?” I asked.
Earl sat up. “I don’t know.” He ran his fingers through his hair. He looked of in the distance. A woodpecker concentrated on a tree nearby. “I feel mad or something.” He wouldn’t look at me.
“Mad at what Baldwin is saying?” Good. I got mad every time, too.
“Yeah,” Earl went on, “I don’t think…He’s not…Well, hell, Ronnie, I feel like he’s blaming me personally or something, whenever he says white people this and white people that. I ain’t like what he’s saying.”
Oh no. Here we go, I thought. I sat up, too, and stared at Earl hard. All of a sudden I wasn’t sure what I was
looking at. “Not you, personally, maybe, but white people of that time, and white people of this time still have a lot of privilege. Black people or other people of color keep struggling to be treated as equals.”
Earl nodded slowly. “But I ain’t privileged,” he said.
He had a point, but I was becoming disappointed. I couldn’t do this. If he was saying that racism didn’t exist, that Baldwin was insignificant, Earl and I could never, ever, see eye to eye. “I want to go,” I said. I stood up, shoved Baldwin in my backpack, and started walking away from Earl.
“Hey,” he called out. “Wait a minute!” He caught up to me and grabbed my arm. I jerked away from him. “Don’t do that,” he said. “Don’t just cut me off, Ronnie.” He stood with his fingers in his belt loops and looked down at his boots. “Tell me something. Talk to me. I want to understand what you mean.”
“You want to quit bartending and go to law school. You want to help people who get treated badly. When Jimmy D. got fired at the factory, you were pissed off about that.”
“Well, yeah,” Earl said. His voice was getting loud. He was frustrated and trying to calm me down at the same time.