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Chapter Twenty-Three

- New Girl -

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My first address in California was 8497 Sunset Boulevard. You can't get any closer to the action. That apartment building stands as one of the only residential addresses on the Sunset Strip. Drive north on LaCienega till you can’t anymore and if you don’t turn, you’ll end up in someone’s one bedroom. It was loud, a nightmare to get in and out of, and there was frequently someone hiding from the police in the garage. But it was dead in the center of Hollywood nightlife.

I had to smile when New Girl gave me her address: 8497 Sunset.

“What about Saturday?” she asked.

“Well, Saturday afternoon, I’m going to a wedding. Want to be my date?”

“Afternoon? Hmm. What about Friday night?”

“Yes,” I said. “No, wait. Shit. I have the bachelor party right after work.”

“Right after work.” She pondered that thought. “How long will it go on?”

“Those things don’t generally stay interesting more than a couple hours.”

“Well,” she said, drawing out the word, “why don’t we meet at, say, midnight?”

Midnight. I hadn’t had a midnight date in, well, ever. Post-gig cocktail waitress dates didn’t count. She didn’t mind getting a late start and I didn’t want to lose any more momentum. This could be good.

The bachelor party was about the best I’ve been to. A pair of those ultra-hot strippers found only in L.A. or Vegas “entertained.” They had, as one friend observed, less body fat than the milk you put on your cereal. I’d never been to a bachelor party with a better vibe. Most get kind of creepy right around the time they finish playing Feed-The-Kitty. But this one was a truly joyous event. Every person there, male and female, was in a ridiculously good mood, bordering on giddy. But as the strippers were performing their reindeer games, counting the tens and twenties, I was counting the minutes. I made a quiet exit at precisely 11:45.

The party was held at a house walking distance from New Girl’s apartment. Since living car-free, my perception of “walking distance” was somewhat impaired. I arrived at her door fifteen minutes late. She’d left me a note:

I waited and waited.

Meet me at the bar of the Sunset Marquis.

The Sunset Marquis Hotel actually was walking distance from her place.

Standing in the lobby, sweating from all the exercise, I caught my breath and checked my pits. I could see her sitting at the bar. She wore skintight black leather pants that I would come to love. Three tall guys surrounded her -- shades of my days with 3a and Best Friend. I wasn't sure if I was up to the task but I sucked up some guts and moved in.

“Hey you,” I said, wedging my way between her admirers. She smiled.

“You found me,” she beamed.

A lot of girls would have allowed the attention-fest to continue after their date had arrived, leading the other guys to believe they had a chance. Not her. She had no need to cover her bases like that, no need to keep a list of backup names. There was no point in her looking over her shoulder. She knew there would always be a man looking back. She pulled me close with one arm and gave me a quick but tender kiss. Her fan club made a hasty exit.

Her self-confidence was palpable, but not showy. In one fell swoop she reassured me that she was there to be with me, while very tactfully informing the others that their time was up. More than any girl I’d known, she was capable of extremely thoughtful and romantic gestures. That first one crept into my chest and made things very cozy inside me.

“This is for you,” I said, “Sorry I’m late.” I handed her a flower I pinched from a West Hollywood median.

“It’s beautiful,” she said and kissed me again. “Want a drink?”

•••

Later, as we strolled back toward her apartment, the Strip was jammed with cruisers. Car after car full of horny drunks blared their horns and shouted vague pick up hoots at her and those tight leather pants. I just smiled at her and my good fortune. She didn’t belabor the point. Subtly, and I’m sure for my benefit, she reached down and grabbed my hand for the duration of the walk. Most people would not associate the word “subtle” with New Girl on first impression. She was a tall, leggy blonde with a kick-ass body. But she had layers that she didn’t reveal until you gained her trust. Not many had.

We had several months’ worth of small talk under our belts, it’s two in the morning, and I have no car. There was no pretense as to what was going to happen next. And yet, for all the lack of surprise, the night was rife with discovery. All the usual motions and actions were imbued with a striking freshness. Every first night with someone holds an element of that, but there's also a certain sameness attached, as well. Feeling ‘a’ results in Response ‘b’, and so forth. This felt like the same sensations were firing different synapses in me. How we kissed, how she used her body, and how she allowed me to use her body -- it was all very different, like learning a new language. Had it not been for my Fuck Buddies, I’d have assumed it was because I was with the same girl for seven years and had no new sex partner memory.

Her touch was seductive, but not just sexually. She made me feel wanted in a way no one had in years, maybe even since Number 2. I let that feeling inhale me and heal my wounds.

Maybe it was the special combination of us. Maybe she was like this with every lover. It didn’t matter. Her tenderness, her thoughtfulness; her ass -- it all spelled the end of me.

I feared this was not just another one-night stand and she was not going to be just another Fuck Buddy. It would require a Herculean effort to not mess things up. We did work together, after all.

Wiener woke me the next morning by high-fiving me in the stomach. Ah, it was the eighth grade all over again.

“You’re welcome,” I whispered to my single-minded friend.

“Good morning,” New Girl cooed, not a trace of morning mouth on her -- another of her surprises. Not once did she have bad breath. Nor did she have any body odor to speak of, just a clean smell with a hint of sweet milk and salt. Her choice of perfume was embedded in my senses for all time. I can always pick it out in a crowd or even walking through a department store cosmetic department.

She would go to the wedding with me that afternoon, but I made up an excuse not to spend that night with her. I thought that even bringing up the issue of moving too fast would be moving too fast and presuming too much. This was not so much for her benefit -- I was still wearing my wedding band.

Speaking of wedding bands, I’d never before heard a mariachi band perform “Hava Nagila.” We sat at a table of coworkers who were shocked that I even had a date, not to mention with New Girl. Evidently they also thought that she was not my type, nor was I in her league.

“Do you want to dance?” I asked her when the band started a romantic ballad.

“No,” she said, “I don’t dance.”

“Really? Why not?”

“You’ve never seen anyone look as stupid as me on a dance floor,” she said.

“Whatever you say.” I was somewhat perplexed. “How about another drink?”

“Love one.” Our fingertips did that slide-apart thing as I walked away.

Sound Guy pulled me aside at the bar and said, “You’re a lucky guy having her as your date.”

“Yeah,” I said, looking back at the table, “I suppose so.”

“I didn’t know it was you.”

“Me?” I asked,

“That she was dating.”

“Dating? We’re just,” I searched cautiously, “here.”

“You’re still lucky,” he said.

Though I thought I knew the answer, I still had to ask New Girl on the drive home.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

“How personal?” she asked.

“What’s up with Sound Guy?”

“What do you mean?”

“At my party, you were kind of holding hands. Are you two...?”

“No,” she laughed, “He kept holding my hand, which was kind of sweet. He’s a nice guy and I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I think I might have.”

She didn’t limit her tenderness to those she was romantically involved with. I never mentioned it again. She pulled into my parking spot and cut the engine.

“I had a real nice time,” she said.

“Me, too. We should do this again.” That sounded a little callus, so I added, “Have a date, I mean.”

“Yes,” she said, “Let’s have dinner this week.”

I leaned over to give her a quick goodnight kiss. Her lips gave way softly.

“I should go,” I whispered.

“Me, too,” she said, “I’m supposed to meet a friend for a drink.” That stung a little, but I didn’t question her about it. I had to put it into perspective. All we had was one terrific night and one terrific day.

“‘Night,” I said.

“Goodnight.”

I went inside and dialed Very Dear Friend.

“What do I do next?” I asked her.

“Depends,” she said, “What is it you want?”

“I don’t know, I really don’t.”

“Do you want to keep seeing her?”

“You mean like a girlfriend?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not ready for that. But she’s got a lot of cool stuff going on and I’d hate to let her get away if it turns out I could be ready in the near future.”

“Then keep going slowly,” VDF advised. “What’s the hurry?”

“None, I suppose.”

“And for god’s sake,” she added, “don’t fall in love.”

“Isn’t that a little...?”

“Maybe. Just promise you’ll take your time.”

I hung up the phone and cleaned my bathroom.

A few days later, New Girl and I went to a restaurant that is replica of a Japanese temple high in the Hollywood Hills. Its view of the city lights is on par with that of the Eiffel Tower, I can say with authority. That view makes it everyone’s first date place. We were a little beyond the first date, but it was still a great setting for us to talk. There was nothing huge up for discussion -- no “what do we do now,” or “where is this thing going.” The subject of our involvement never came up. It was all very casual and easy -- no pressure from either of us. And there was no mention of working together, as if it wasn’t an issue at all. I guess something’s only an issue if you make it one.

“You want to do something normal, like rent a movie?” She suggested. That was a little surprising but welcome.

“That sounds like a great idea,” I said.

In her highest heels, New Girl stood a full two inches over me. I dug that. I also dug that as we waited in line at the video store, she reached her arm around my chest from behind and rested her head on my shoulder. She did it in a way that was not at all emasculating or mothering. It was just plain romantic.

I popped the tape into the VCR. We got all the way through the opening credits before she gave me That Look. When New Girl cast That Look my way, her eyes were devastating. That’s a sentence that would cause me a lot of trouble in the future, but at that moment, That Look cut me to ribbons.

•••

It’s time.

We’re going to make love now.

This is all yours if you want it.

That Look says it all.

•••

The next day New Girl rang my line from the reception desk.

“Can I see you tonight?” Something was not right in her voice. I got a little concerned.

“What’s up? You sound upset,” I said.

“I need to talk.” Maybe I was paranoid, but all I could think was, here it comes.

I sighed, “You can tell me now.”

“No,” she said, “it’s too complicated. I just really need to talk to somebody.” Now I was confused.

“About what?”

“That bitch in human resources.” Oh. Now I felt paranoid and stupid.

“Say no more,” I told her.

“I don’t want to dump on you, but I called my girlfriend, and she’s busy.”

“That’s no problem. I’m meeting with a couple of the guys from the band at my place after work. Why don’t you come over after that?”

“Really?”

“Really. Nine o’clock.”

“Thanks. I’ll see you then.”

•••

In the middle of my meeting, the phone rang.

“Listen,” New Girl said, “I’m sorry about this afternoon. I don’t want to be a burden or a downer.”

“It’s really all right,” I tried to reassure her.

“No, it’s not your responsibility. I’ll just deal with the Bitch on my own.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

After the guys left I sat around flipping channels. Somewhere between the top news story and the sports report, there came a knock on my door. Normally, I’d have been pissed off if a girl broke my rule and just showed up at my doorstep without calling, but I was half expecting her.

“Sorry I didn’t call,” she apologized.

She looked beat. Bending my own rule may have been a stupid choice, but it was the choice I made: I let her in, poured drinks, put my arms around her and let her vent. Two hours later, she gave me That Look. Two hours after that, as she slept, I stared out the window, wishing I smoked.

Questions ricocheted around my brain in rapid-fire succession. Should I run screaming before I get in over my head? Or was she an angel sent to save me? Did she truly have the power to heal me or was that wishful thinking on my part? Does surrendering to these feelings mean not taking responsibility for my own well being? If she is my savior, how do you tell someone that without looking like a psycho -- or is it necessary to tell them at all?

Fuck, I thought, this is getting complicated.

I, too, have a gift for understatement.

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