Chapter 26/Page 2

“I’m stuck here for a while,” I told her when she rang my office just before six that evening. “You go ahead and I’ll meet you at your place in a couple hours.”

“Do you want me to come back for you?”

“No, I’ll be fine.”

“Okay, I need to pick up a few things at the mall, anyway.”

By the time I finished doing the Thing That Absolutely Couldn’t Wait Till Morning for the Person Who Already Left For The Day and got over to her place, it was just getting dark. Her apartment had a distinct look about it from the outside. I’d seen it this way before, but never really took notice of it. The curtains were drawn and she’d turned on a certain lamp on that gave the living room a dim amber glow. Sometimes the apartment was lit up bright and other times it looked like this. I’d just never paid attention before.

“Is that you?” she called when I opened the door.

“Are you expecting someone else?”

I locked the door behind me. She was nowhere in sight.

“Where are you?” I called out.

“In here,” she answered from the bedroom. She had indeed picked up a few things at the mall: There was a new ice bucket chilling a bottle of champagne on the nightstand, some sandalwood-scented candles burning on the dresser, and some ribbon from the card shop that she had used to wrap up a little something for me on the bed.

“I got you a present,” she said.

“Stockings? Thank you.” She lay on the bed modeling some black Evan Piccone thigh-highs, and was thoughtful enough to sacrifice any other clothing that might detract from them.

“How did you know this is what I’ve always wanted?”

“I took a wild guess,” she purred. I pulled at the bow tied around her bare belly and slowly unwrapped my gift.

•••

I woke in the middle of the night to the sound of something hitting the floor. The more needy of her two cats had jumped up on her dresser and batted at everything New Girl had on display there. I got out of bed, relocated the kitty, and got down on my hands and knees to retrieve the displaced item. The only light came from the glow of the lights we’d left on in the living room. My hand felt around the floor and came across something small and metallic. Before I put the object back on the dresser, I turned toward the light to see exactly what it was. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could make out that the object in my hand was a small gold Egyptian cat from the gift shop in the Louvre.

“Jealous,” I teased New Girl’s needy cat as I returned the trinket to its home. The cat muttered an obscenity and went off to scratch something valuable.

As long as I was up, I took the opportunity to turn off the lights in the living room. Somewhere in that middle of the night sleepy-eyed haze I put my thumb on what was different about her apartment. As I stood there surveying the room, I started feeling something familiar. I was getting horny -- the room had That Look. Every time we had sex, the apartment took on That Look. I was certain of it, but just to be sure, I started watching. Sure enough, every time the curtains were drawn and the amber light was glowing, I got laid. The apartment was an accomplice. Happily, it took on That Look more often than not, but there was no mistaking what was going on.

Of course, I couldn’t just accept good fortune and enjoy myself. I had to read into it that I was losing control of my life again. Why did she get to call all the shots? Maybe I wanted to have sex on a night when the apartment didn’t have That Look, or maybe I wanted to have sex at my place -- what then? I’ll tell you what then -- we had sex, that’s what then. All I had to do was make my desires known, just as she had been doing, and the sex was mine. I was fully capable of giving her That Look and never knew it. Goddamn, I was a bundle of low self-esteem and paranoia. Both were pissing me off and I wanted them out of my life. These stupid, stupid character flaws had prevented me from enjoying so much for who knows how long.

Once I got over my petty concerns about who was in control of the sex, my mind was free to take pleasure in life like never before. And it was always the simplest things that made the biggest impact on me. We took a lazy Sunday drive to Malibu for afternoon drinks. Headed west on Sunset, we hit the red light at Beverly Glen in Bel Air.

“I love this intersection,” she said breezily.

“What’s so special about this intersection?”

“This is where your street touches my street.” Her voice was incredibly sweet and romantic.

I just melted. That little comment was so potent, the thought so complete -- you’d have to be made of stone for it not to get to you. My heart was gushing and yet I felt like a complete asshole, because it was so obvious and yet it never occurred to me. Whatever was going on in me was happening at a pretty base level. I almost felt like calling the shrink again. Except I was having so much fun, I couldn’t venture a guess where I’d find the time.

•••

“... so I was just calling to tell you about the show. I guess I’ll see you then. Oh, by the way, I’m seeing someone. I just thought you should know so you’re not surprised at the club. Bye.” That was the end of a rambling message I’d left on 3b’s machine. I hadn’t really spoken to her since my birthday party. Other factors in my life made holding onto my anger seem pointless and I needed to fill seats in the club. She could be counted on to bring a few friends, Conniving and otherwise.

•••

Dear Diary:

Help! Aliens have abducted my girlfriend and replaced her with an evil replica. Or maybe she’s just on the rag.

•••

It is not man’s domain to understand the many moods of women. I didn’t even try. She was having a bad day and couldn’t really articulate what was bothering her.

“I just want to go for a drive and clear my head,” she told me late one Sunday afternoon. Everything seemed to happen on Sundays. Friday was for blowing off steam and Saturday was for recovering. Sunday was when the action was. Paranoid me had to assume the worst and couldn’t just let her go.

“Can I tag along?”

She didn’t look pleased, but allowed me to ride in silence with her up PCH as the sun set. We finally stopped for gas in Oxnard. She returned from the Quick Mart as I filled the tank.

“Got you something,” were her first words in nearly two hours. She handed me a candy bar.

“My favorite.”

She slid between her car and me and put her arms up around my neck.

“Thanks”

“For what?”

“Coming with me.”

She kissed me delicately, as if she was asking my permission. I wrapped my arms tight around her back and just held her for a minute. A warm breeze whipped a faint aroma of gasoline and old rubber around us.

The ride back was with a different person altogether. We talked openly and held hands on the long stretches of the highway where there was no traffic. The conversation continued in her car for half an hour after she’d pulled into my driveway.

“This was good.”

“It was,” she agreed, adding, “and I’m sorry I was such a bitch earlier. Sometimes I just need to get away.”

“We should.”

“Should what?”

“Let’s get away next weekend,” I suggested. “Just you and me.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know -- Big Bear. We’ll get a cabin out in the middle of nowhere.”

“That sounds romantic.” She kissed me and said, “It’s late and I should get going.” But I didn’t want her to leave. Fuck Monday morning, I wanted her to stay the night and I told her.

In the grand scheme of things, was the bad choice asking her in, or checking my phone messages in front of her? It had been so long that I’d made a bad choice (that I was aware of), that I casually pressed the button on my answering machine without thinking. Without thinking -- that was the bad choice. There was one totally innocuous message from 3b:

“So glad you called... blah, blah... my sister says hello... blah, blah... of course I’ll be at your show... blah, blah... I’m glad you’re dating someone... blah, blah, blah, blah.” And then she closed with, “I love you.”

So much for my plans. My life had become all about explaining myself. And if I wanted to fuck New Girl that night, it would not happen before much explanation.

At least not before I explained how 3b and I had been through a lot together and that even with our current circumstances, we still loved each other.

Then not before I explained “our current circumstances.”

“This is exactly our current circumstances,” I said. “We are not getting back together, period. She’s seeing someone else, and I’m seeing you. I haven’t even spoken to her since before you and I started dating.”

And certainly not before I explained why and how 3b and I still loved each other.

“We went through hell together, basically growing up with only each other to lean on, fight with, or figure things out with. There is a bond. I admit I love her and she loves me, but we are not in love with each other.”

And finally, not before I made a choice.

“She blew her chance with you,” New Girl said. “I don’t want her at your show Wednesday night.”

“Done.” I didn’t hesitate. “I’ll call her tomorrow and tell her to stay away.”

I should have called 3b weeks before. With no one present to witness a spraying, New Girl had only me to get the message across to. She was ferocious in bed, making certain there was no misunderstanding that I was hers now.

•••

“I’m sorry,” I told 3b, “but I have to respect her wishes.”

“Fine,” she said, sniffling. “Have a good show.” And she hung up.

The night of the show, I was hanging out at the entrance, taking inventory of who showed up and who didn’t. Musicians always do that, in case you ever blew one off and wondered. The place was filling up nicely -- the owners would be pleased. A few minutes before show time, 3b appeared, Conniving Friend in tow.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been to every show you’ve played in the last seven years,” she said. “It’s a free country. If she doesn’t like it, tough shit.”

That was the second most hurtful thing she ever did to me, but I didn’t have time to go into it with her.

“Okay,” I said, “but give me five minutes before you go inside.” I disappeared into the club and found New Girl.

“Hey, Hon, isn’t it time for you to play?” ‘Hon’ was my name now. ‘Hon’ had no time to dick around and just blurted out what he had to say. I explained that I had called 3b and told her not to come, but she showed up anyway and I was pissed off and sorry. Her face changed color.

“Please,” I begged, “I have to go on now. Can we deal with this after?” She saw that I was honestly upset with 3b and smiled at me.

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” I breathed a sigh of relief. She hugged me. As I walked to the backstage area, she called out.

“Hey,” she said. I spun around. She added, “Love you madly” I smiled. She got me again.

The show was not one for the record books. I was too distracted by the obvious division of the audience. The room was split down the middle, like a damn wedding. New Girl and one set of friends on one side, 3b and her contingent on the other, and the poor bastards who walked in late and didn’t know where to stand. The split was so conspicuous I had to turn around during one song to conceal my laughter at the absurdity. The guys in the band knew what was going on and didn’t bother disguising their amusement. Bastards. Not that I’d do the same for them.

I made it through the set without killing or being killed. After the show, fans and band congregated at the bar area. It was really fun negotiating the two factions of the crowd trying to get my attention -- seriously. No, I mean it. Usually after a show, I’m pretty much a zombie and can’t make heads or tails of what everyone is saying to me. Even worse is my ability to make coherent comments back. This is usually the moment non-musicians choose to give you career and/or creative advice.

“You know what you need to do?” That’s always the question.

“Give you a hot lead enema?” That’s always what’s going through my mind as they blather on.

Well, this time I gathered up every ounce of focus I could. Recently it had been made clear to me how far a little spraying could go. Making sure 3b could see and was definitely watching, I made a beeline for New Girl, wrapped my arms around her, got up on my tiptoes (damn her high heels), and kissed her. I made fucking sure that 3b saw that it was more passionate than any kiss I’d ever given her. It worked. When I broke away and journeyed into her territory, 3b gave me a few pleasant compliments and beat it. As an added bonus, she took Conniving Friend with her. Better still, there was never a hint of fight with New Girl over the incident. I had deflected it enough to satisfy any doubts she might have had about my loyalties. In fact, I’d go so far as to say 3b showing up gave me the opportunity to kill the issue. Don’t ask me how in God’s name I was able to not only see that opportunity, but also seize it. Maybe the Universe figured it owed me one and tossed me a bone.

Hold the phone.

If I don’t take credit for my successes, that’s the same as not taking blame for my failures. Either way, I’m not accepting responsibility for my own actions -- in effect, giving up control of my life to an outside force. That may be fine for addicts to trade the crutch of drugs or alcohol for the crutch of a higher power, but I was not an addict. I may be compulsive and obsessive, but I am not addictive.

“Well done, sir. I commend you,” I said, patting myself on the back.

With that out of the way, I could relax and enjoy a few beers with my friends. One fairly recent friend, the Powerful Publicist, brought a Sexy TV Star with her.

“I can’t believe I got through this night,” I told them and took a long swig of beer.

“Tough show?” Powerful Publicist inquired.

“No, no,” I said. “It was the drama between the Ex and the girlfriend.”

Powerful Publicist and Sexy TV Star didn’t know the particulars and confused New Girl with 3b. Sexy TV Star looked at New Girl chatting up some friends at the bar and got up close to me.

“She doesn’t know what she’s throwing away,” she said, her breath warming my ear and her cleavage cradling my elbow. While that was great to hear, especially from a Sexy TV Star, I had no idea what she was basing her comments on, as we had only met a few times by then.

“That’s the girlfriend,” I explained. “The Ex has left the arena.”

“Oh,” Sexy TV Star said, adding a thoughtful, “hmm,” as she gave New Girl the twice over.

“Have either of you ever been to Big Bear?” I asked.

•••

We drove up to the mountains that weekend and rented a cabin on Big Bear Lake that Powerful Publicist recommended. Both of us needed the trip badly. I’d had my fill of society after the 3b incident. Beyond her nerve, I resented the position she put me in. I hadn’t made a grand public gesture like that to New Girl yet and 3b forced my hand. The only way I could show New Girl where she stood was to take an action larger than I any had previously. But what if I wasn’t ready to go there yet? I had about five seconds after I got offstage to make that decision. Yes, I over think every action and needed a kick in the pants to do anything. Ultimately, I guess it was my choice. I could have chosen to not do it and dealt with those consequences. I much preferred the consequences put before me that weekend.

We explored the cabin maybe ten minutes before the clothes started coming off. The entire weekend was devoted to romance. We did venture out briefly Saturday afternoon to stroll around the local craft and antique shops, and then had a drink at one of the biker bars, but we were pretty much locked in our own biosphere. I use the word sphere because it was more completely enveloping than a circle, as I’d made at other times of my life. We spoke to no one. Other human beings appeared to be floating around us, but they were outside our sphere and therefore nonexistent. Our focus on each other was absolute.

New Girl’s week hadn’t been any better than mine. In addition to her part in the 3b incident, her new job kicked into overdrive. The suits that were swallowing up Cannon were the usual type of outsiders who confuse the film business with regular business.

“Hell, boy, a movie’s a product like any other product. We got a widget factory in Secaucus that’s the most efficient east of the Mississippi. Hollywood’s just another factory. All we have to do is apply the same good business principles that we use in Secaucus, and we’ll whip this sucker into shape. Show you California boys how to really make some money.”

That’s where they get their ass kicked. A movie is not a widget. The film industry does not operate like every other business, no matter how much the suits wish that to be true. Hollywood makes money in spite of itself. The suits can’t wrap their MBAs around all the intangibles and idiosyncrasies. They’re used to blueprints and business plans and market research that tells them in advance that if they put together a widget using a certain set of materials that have a proven track record (let’s call them Goldie Hawn and Mel Gibson), following a blueprint that market research indicates their target consumer desires (let’s call it a romantic comedy), then they will create a product (let’s call it a movie) that can not fail (let’s call it “Bird on a Wire”). And when they produce a flop (let’s call it “Bird On A Wire” again), they can’t for the life of them figure out why. And then they take a whack at every department of their entertainment division, except the creative department that put the turkey together. Then they make the innocent jump through hoops, because it must be those departments that are really losing the money.

New Girl jumped hoops for the new purchasing department. Her boss was a widget man from way back. His solution to make the company money was to have every purchase order flow through his department. I personally think it was his way of creating a paycheck for himself, but by doing it, he could theoretically control spending. That’s great for paper clips and coffee filters, and even office machines and furniture. But this idiot was spending his days concocting a scheme to control the spending on the films we produced, as well as all the secondary bits and pieces that we order on a moment’s notice. His grand vision did away with all discretionary funds. This might not have been a bad idea had he possessed one iota of knowledge as to how a film is actually produced. But he was unwaveringly a widget man. I pictured myself struggling to explain why the company should absorb the cost of making copies of home videos for Sylvester Stallone’s wife while Sly was making a film for us.

No one in the company knew about the idiot’s scheme yet. New Girl was just letting off a bit of steam when she leaked this inside information to me. I filed the information away and then changed the subject to more wine and sex. Monday morning I related what New Girl told me about her boss’s scheme to my New Old Boss.

“I can see it coming a mile away,” I told him. “He’s going to want us to run every purchase across his desk and we’ll spend more time teaching him how films are made than actually making them.”

New Old Boss thanked me and promised he’d look into it. He was nothing if not a diplomat. I felt sure none of this would come back to haunt me.

•••

My ever-increasing self-confidence aside, there was one issue I felt particularly certain I could not only handle, but I would handle exactly the right way. That was the issue of men: specifically, the men -- the never-ending stream of men who would inevitably hit on New Girl whenever we went anywhere.

I am not a jealous man. The way I see it, if a girl wants someone else, I can’t stop her, so what’s the point in worrying about it? It’s out of my control. All I can control is myself. In theory, that is.

In Los Angeles, there are as many ridiculously beautiful men as women. If you ever see one of those beautiful men with one of those beautiful women, it looks unreal, like a casting director’s wet dream of what every couple looks like. There’s no danger of me being cast in that role. Heaven help the gathering where I’m the best looking man in the room. That would be one seriously looks-challenged group.

My special talent at talking groups of women into (or out of) situations was an extension of the general gift of gab I developed as a means of survival among the pretty boys. Believe it or not, this was an issue for me even in the Midwest. I never get the first looks, but if I could engage a woman in conversation, chances are I could close the deal. Pretty Boys enter through one door, I enter through another -- we play the hand we’re dealt and all end up at the same destination. They can no more go through my door than I can theirs. Learning that lesson at an early age saved me a lot of frustration.

This in no way contradicts what I said earlier about my local stardom easing the way for me. That only got me out of having to make the initial approach and weeded out the definite “nos.” Successful girling still required work on my part. A lot of my success depends on the woman. Some, like the Spinner I blew off, don’t even come equipped with my door. Those oral skills are lost on them. If a gal is going to respond to my shtick, a certain craving for mental stimulation is a prerequisite. A healthy sense of humor helps, too. But don’t confuse me with the pick up line guys. I’m not a pick up line kind of guy and never have been. That’s a different sport entirely. Those guys toss as many minnows they can in a shallow stream, knowing that eventually a trout is going to bite. Don’t get me wrong: a trout is a wonderful fish, if a wee bit common. But a trout thinks a minnow is a delicacy. A Marlin, on the other hand, is a little more choosey. Marlin could survive on minnows, but they know that squid is a lot tastier.

I was a deep-sea fisherman. When I went after a fish, even a Groupie Fish, I went after something a little more complex and challenging. My fish swam in deeper waters and required a little more of a gourmet bait and a lot more finesse to reel in. It was more work, to be sure. But once mounted, they always proved worth the effort.

There’s a correlation between IQ and intensity of sex. Smart girls are either really great at expressing themselves sexually, or really hung up on their daddy issues, or both. Either way, you’re in for a bumpy ride.

Out in public with 3a, I didn’t sweat it every time some guy tossed his cute little minnow her way. I had done my job. Even at her tender age, she came to understand that while the minnow may quiet her hunger pangs, the squid was ultimately more satisfying. I never bothered spraying 3a, though. Youth’s folly taken to a cocky extreme, I guess.

I hadn’t been fishing in so long, I forgot all my skills, I thought. Then it occurred to me that in the months leading up to my affair with New Girl, I had unconsciously cast several lines into the deep blue sea, and had been reeling them in just by being myself. I had no idea who myself was, so I couldn’t have known what I was doing. But this might explain how I got on the Fantastic Four’s a-list, and a few others’ good sides, the best which of was my hot new girlfriend getting all the attention everywhere we went.

I had forgotten so many things I used to know. But once I got out with New Girl and became aware of so many men zealously hitting on her, it all came flooding back. I was fine. This was something I knew how to handle. It was like falling off a bike.

Trader Vic’s was a regular hang of ours. We loved those ridiculous cocktails made with a hundred varieties of booze and flowers, served up in a wacky glass with a giant straw. Our Trader Vic’s was in the Beverly Hilton Hotel (home of the fire hydrant I had leaned on every morning), which meant two drinks and no worry about a long drive back to my place.

Almost better than the drinks, though, was the crowd. That particular Hilton catered to a lot of business travelers who were not in the entertainment industry. Not only did they not avoid eye contact because they feared you might want something from them, they weren’t obsessed with the entertainment world at all! You could talk to these people about other subjects. Imagine that. We’d entertain ourselves chatting up people from many different places, geographically and ideologically.

Friday night, however, was Pretty People Night at Trader Vic’s. Hotties of both sexes crammed into the cramped, loud bar like so many photogenic sardines. There was also a healthy supply of not-so-hot rich guys who slithered through the crowd, trolling for models. Both sectors frequently targeted New Girl.

It was in this setting that I truly shined at participating in a close personal relationship with another human being. Even with my arm around New Girl, the minnows came flying. The choice of reactions was mine: jealousy, rage, hurt, or ‘other.’

“Hey, how ya doin’,” was my choice. If we weren’t too involved in something, I’d drag the guy into the conversation as long as he could take it. They can’t take it very long and off they go.

I ruled.

If I had been separated from New Girl when the onslaught came, I didn’t rush into action. That would make me look needy and weak. She could more than hold her own with anyone, and I’d let her. The difference between how I behaved with 3a and how I behaved with New Girl was that I now kept a close eye on the alarm clock that was her back. There would come a moment in every conversation that she would uncomfortably flex her back, which was my signal to rescue her. She had no idea she was even sending the signal. But no matter where I was -- even mid-sentence with someone else -- I’d break away and lightly press my palm into her back. Even without seeing me, she knew my touch and would automatically relax her back muscles and finish her sentence. If she wanted out of the conversation, she’d simply reach for my hand, raise it to her lips and kiss it once -- all without ever taking her eyes off the person talking to her. You could see these guys thinking, “Fuck, I just wasted ten minutes.”

Dude, I was the master at this shit -- cocky, cocky, and furthermore, cocky.

“It occurs to me,” I said after I had dispatched some drooler and we shared a Scorpion, that “I was set up at my birthday party, wasn’t I?” She laughed and laughed.

“You were totally set up.”

“Your ride never really ditched you, did he?”

“Oh, he left. But he had instructions to come back and look for me, just in case.”

“I wish you hadn’t been there for him to find.”

Score! I finally got one in before she did. She melted into me like ice cream on a campfire.

“Take me home and make love to me,” she commanded.

•••

“I can’t believe I’m dating a bald guy!” She teased me mercilessly.

“Give me a break, “ I said. “It’s just a haircut.” It may have been short, but I was about to go to one of those places where the rationalization for the oppressive weather is the “humidity, not the heat.”

“Funny. I’m not looking forward to this trip at all,” I told her. She felt the same.

“At least we both planned it for the same time,” she said wistfully.

We were both taking vacation trips home. That suddenly had a funny ring to it. I’d lived in L.A. almost a decade, and I still referred to Milwaukee as home. It was hard not to. I still knew the city like the top of my dick. That’s where I went for a dose of stability. The utter lack of change there was comforting. That’s how Florida was for New Girl. Coincidentally, before we started dating we had both planned trips “home” that week, but she would leave and return two days before me.

The day after she left, I spent longer than usual at the gym after work. When I finally got home, there was a message from her on my machine:

“Hi, Hon, just calling to say I love you madly. Miss you.”

I missed her, too. I hit “save” on the machine and listened to her message several times before I left town.

Asian Mix dropped me off at LAX -- the mark of a true friend. Unfortunately, I wasn’t ready when she picked me up, and I missed my flight.

“I’m sorry, sir, there’s nothing else today to Milwaukee,” the ticket agent sadly informed me. Crap.

“What about Chicago?”

“We have two more flights to Chicago today, but you’d miss your connection to Milwaukee.”

“That’s fine. Just get me to Chicago and I’ll get up to Milwaukee myself.” It’s all of eighty miles.

“I can’t refund any portion of your ticket, sir.”

“I’ll live.”

I made arrangements for one of my very good high school buddies to pick me up at O’Hare. The flight picked up a tail wind and touched down half an hour early in Chicago.

•••

Chicago.

It was a local call.

I’d memorized the number.

I have zero self-control.

The phone rang once.

What am I doing, I thought.

It rang a second time.

This is stupid, I thought, I’m hanging up now.

Halfway through the third ring, she picked up.

“Hello?”

It was the first time I’d heard 3a’s voice in more than seven years.

“Hello,” she asked again. Six months before, I had so much to say to her. Suddenly, I was speechless. All I could do was let her hang up on me. Why did I even go there? Was it just the not knowing that tormented me? Was this why closure is so important? Without it, do you dangle uncertainly for the rest of your days? Or is there more at risk?

•••

Milwaukee looked weird. Mysteriously, the city that never changes had changed completely. Somewhere in the six months since my last visit, everything was altered in some way or another. Street signs had been updated. There were new faces reading the local news. The two daily papers had collided into one. Businesses that predated my arrival on the planet had gone belly up. Maybe the changes had been in place my last visit and I had been too obsessed with my 3a mission to notice.

“Where are you going?” Best Friend asked. I was driving us to a bar where I’d forgotten more about drinking than most people ever know.

“Von Trier’s.”

“It’s not on this street.” She informed me.

“Yes it is.” I argued.

“No, sweetie, Von Trier’s is on North Avenue.”

“I know.”

“This is Brady Street.”

“It is?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Fuck me.”

I let other people drive after that. Once we landed in Von Trier’s and I got a sip of the thick, yeasty liquid Germans call beer, I felt much better. Best Friend pulled no punches, as usual.

“Have you called her?”

“Called who?” She furled her brow at me, knowing full well that I knew who she was talking about. “Oh, her. Um, maybe, when I was waiting to be picked up at O’Hare.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“No. She picked up and I went blank.”

“Whimp. Are you going to call her again?”

“No. Definitely not.”

Not the next day, or the next, but the day after that I broke down and called 3a again. Her machine picked up and gave me a longer taste of her voice.

“Hi, we can’t come to the phone right now, so leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible” -- pretty standard stuff. She had absolutely no emotion in her voice. I suppose that’s important for single women. So is saying “we” can’t get to the phone and “we’ll” get back to you, especially if there is no “we.” Leaving a message was pointless, so I hung up.

My Crazy Friend from High School was itching to visit California.

“You should come,” I encouraged her. “Stay with me and I’ll show you all around.”

“This is so exciting,” she said. “I’ve got a free ticket. How about next week?” She was a little more anxious than I was.

“How about the week after next?” I knew I’d need time to settle down once I got back.

“I can’t wait,” she squealed her voice and her tires as she rounded a corner too fast for the amount of air in them.

“Isn’t Elsa’s that-a-way?” I asked, referring to an east side snooty place where we always began our nights on the town.

“No, it’s right up here.”

“Forget I said anything.”

This trip’s mission with my parents must have distracted me. I’m sure they weren’t even aware, but we’d had a strained relationship from my early adolescence on. I was determined to patch things up and heal those old wounds before, God forbid my parents died. Usually when I made these trips home, I’d visit with them for about five minutes a day, and then I’d be off hooking up with old friends or making new ones. This time, I focused on reestablishing a relationship with them. I took most of my meals with them, went out only after they’d gone to bed, and even made a short day trip with them to my grandparent’s old place in rural Wisconsin.

I’d lived in California over seven years and they’d never come to visit once. When my sister lived in Canoga Park, they had no qualms about getting on an airplane. Since she and I had traded states, the parents developed a fear of flying. My arguments were convincing this time out.

“So, you’ll come maybe the end of August?”

“We’ll see,” my mom almost committed. “Let me check into fares.”

The phone rang.

“It’s not for us.” My dad said. It was after seven o’clock -- how could it be for them? I picked it up. It wasn’t for them at all -- it was New Girl.

“Hey!” I radiated, “Are you back?” I took the phone into the kitchen for a little privacy.

“I am,” she said. “When are you coming home?”

That was it. That was why Milwaukee suddenly changed. It was no longer home. For the first time since leaving the quaint little European village, I was homesick for L.A. Not really. I was homesick for New Girl. I was so pussy-whipped.

“I’m stuck here two more days. But you know what? Fuck it -- I’m going to change my flight and come home tomorrow.”

“You are?” I could hear her smile over the phone line. “Call me as soon as you have a flight and I’ll pick you up. Miss you -- love you madly.”

“Miss you, too.”

I hung up and stared at the phone for a minute or two. “Jeopardy” blared out from the next room, my parent’s television set to not quite senior citizen volume. The phone and I had developed an interesting relationship over the course of this trip. As the past and the future haunted me from opposite directions, the telephone had become the channel between the two rivals competing for my soul. Staring down the deregulated agent of existential communication that mocked me, a sudden impulse to gamble with my life overtook. My mind went totally blank and I let my hand dangle over the phone base, just kissing the keypad and feeling for vibrations on the telephonic Oui-Ja board. The Universe cradled my fate as the Fingers pressed first eleven numbers that popped into their motion memory.

“Hello?” The female voice on the other end of the line sent a hazy tingle down my spine.

“Hey there.”

“Hi,” She lingered on the word, surprising me by how happy she sounded to hear my voice.

“I forgot to tell you something.”

“What’s that?”

“I love you madly, too.”

New Girl just became Number 4.

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