“That smells-like-teen-spirit smell?”
He cocked an eye.
“Did we ever fuck anywhere on campus?”
“Hey, mister,” she said. “I held out a long time. Don’t go mixin me up with somebody else.”
They sat on a plastic picnic table outside the auditorium. Padlocked vending machines, scratched with graffiti, hibernated against the stained cinder block wall.
“I wish I could have seen your mama before she died,” she said. “I miss her, I truly do.” She shook her head. “That was a rough time for me—’Cela Byrd: The Rehab Years.’ It’s all about me, isn’t it?” she said, sardonically.
“You doing OK now?”
“Still peeing in a bottle. Hey, my birthday’s coming up! AA — six months. Wanna give me a cake?”
“Love to.”
“So… you gonna marry Viv Wembley?” She smiled as Kit simulated a blush. “Well you should. She’s pretty! And I love that show, it’s hilarious. She’s from L.A., right?”
“Orange County.”
“Michelle Pfeiffer’s from OC too. I read that somewhere.”
A faraway girl approached on a bike. The sight of her summoned a memory.
“Remember when we got loaded at that Christmas party?”
“Yeah,” said Kit.
He fished a roach from his wallet.
“And we went into that room where everybody left their coats and purses and shit? And you, like, stole all the money—”
“I wasn’t the only one! You had some magic fingers.”
“I did, didn’t I?” she said, sex creeping into her voice.
“You surely did.”
“Please don’t call me Shirley. Remember that from Airplane! I loved that movie.” She put her hand on his leg. “We had something special, huh. First loves…” She unbuckled his belt. He lit the roach. “You don’t know how fucked up it’s been, Kit. Sitting in rehab, watching you in a movie. Reading about you in People. Or wherever. At the premieres. Always with someone else. There I am thinking: That girl should have been me. I used to tell people we went out, but I stopped. I was in jail once, all like, ‘He was my boyfriend! You don’t understand! He took me to the prom!’ That was a low point. As worsts go, that was a personal best.”
She kissed him lightly once or twice to see how amenable he was, then drifted down and put him in her mouth.
The faraway girl was closer now and stood on her bike, watching.
A Gathering at the Rose
BECCA DROVE SADGE to LAX. He would be away about three months. It was understood that when he returned, he’d find his own place. He would for sure have the money by then, anyway.
On instinct, Becca drove to the Rose and parked in the lot. She decided to go for a stroll and check out Rusty’s building. Why not? He had described it to her. It was right on the boardwalk, a few doors up from the Figtree.
Suddenly, Elaine Jordache emerged from the café. She dawdled, then Rusty came out holding a coffee and talking animatedly to a blondish young man of slight build. He wore an incongruous dress shirt and tie along with a warm and wolfish, slightly bemused grin. Becca slid down in the car seat to watch.
A boy barely out of his teens was the last to join them. He held a binder and hung behind the blondish man with subtle, efficient obsequiousness. The trio strolled toward a vintage convertible with the boy lagging behind. The blondish man enthusiastically shook hands, first with Rusty then with Elaine. The boy-assistant got into the convertible and started the car. Becca couldn’t quite hear the words but thought Rusty was complimenting the blondish man on his car as the latter climbed into the passenger seat. There were a few more good-byes as boy-assistant and blondish boss pulled away.
Becca slunk lower as Rusty walked Elaine to her car. They stood talking awhile in earnest. The mood got lighter, and Becca’s heart sickly speeded as she wondered if he was going to kiss Elaine on the mouth. He bussed her cheek. Becca, vindicated, swore eternal allegiance. Elaine drove off. Rusty strolled from the lot toward the beach.
She considered going inside for a fruit plate then embarking on her mission, as planned. She could linger at the pier or have a cappuccino at Shutters before dropping in at Rusty’s on the way back. Take him by surprise.
Then she thought better of it, having had enough excitement for the day.
A Brief History of Tantric Buddhism
IN HER BED, Lisanne McCadden dreamed of Kit Lightfoot.
They were by the ocean, making a movie. Filming was delayed because an animal got caught in a generator and the crew was trying to free it with long, lacquered sticks. Kit lay on his side on a peaceful promontory overlooking the water. He was sketching in the sand, and something about the way he concentrated reminded Lisanne of the monks she’d seen at the Hammer Museum. A talking baby was there, like in one of those old Ally McBeals. When Lisanne woke up, she couldn’t remember anything the baby had said.
She thought the dream was psychic because a few minutes after she arrived at work, Reggie gave her a pair of tickets to see the monks perform that very evening at UCLA. She thought of who she might ask but no one seemed handy. She decided to go alone.
• • •
THERE WERE ABOUT a dozen of them onstage, but this time they wore elaborate costumes and headdresses. A small photo of H.H. the Fourteenth Dalai Lama rested on an altar, with an architectural model of a many-layered temple beside it. Microphone headsets were the monks’ only bow to modernity. The characteristic amplified yoy-oy-yoy-oy-yoy throat chants accompanied drums and weird metal instruments, creating a haunting cacophony of sounds. At varying times, the holy men looked as if they were making signs and signals with their hands like ballplayers, but Lisanne hadn’t rented binoculars so couldn’t be sure. The man beside her was snoring and no one seemed to mind. A row ahead, a bored little boy fidgeted. Lisanne thought it sweet that his father had brought him to the ceremonies.
Slowly and fantastically, it dawned upon her that just one aisle over and four rows down, sat none other than Kitchener Lightfoot, flanked by Viv Wembley and the comedian Paul Reiser. Kit’s eyes were closed. He looked as if he was mediating.
After a few minutes of obsessing, Lisanne looked down at her program to distract herself. It said that tantric meditation was considered the “quick” way to enlightenment. Books of the tantra described not just one Buddha but thousands. A tantric meditator was supposed to visualize that he or she was actually one of those Buddhas, and she wondered if that’s what Kit was doing that very moment.
Her mouth moved as she silently read that
Vajrabhairava’s name means “Diamond Terrifier.” His bull-like face indicates that he has overcome Yama, the bull-headed Lord of Death. From the top of his head emerges the small peaceful face of Manjushri, who embodies all of the wisdom of all the Buddhas; Vajrabhairava symbolizes that wisdom transcends death.
Maybe Kit was just going over lines in his head, for tomorrow’s shoot… or maybe he was thinking: Who is that girl across the aisle, four rows back, the Rubenesque milkmaid who charmingly does not even notice how totally into her I am? Who is that amazing, secretly pregnant, sweet-faced executive assistant who could have no possible way of knowing that I am only sexually excited by similarly proportioned women who also happen to be phobic about flying? I need to have her in my life!
She gave herself the chuckles amidst all the sacred rituals. But try as she might, she couldn’t imagine what was going on in the head of Viv Wembley or Paul Reiser.