The Botox Diaries, page 25
“Are you the one whose husband left her?” Boulder asks. “God, you must be in a lousy mood, too.”
Lucy glares at me. I squirm and mouth “Sorry.”
“Guess I’ve been having too many late-night conversations with Boulder,” I tell her. “But we won’t sell the story to the National Enquirer. I promise.”
“Scout’s honor,” Boulder agrees. “But come on. We came here to bring you some fun.”
“I can see we have our work cut out for us,” says Cliff, pulling a dozen CDs out of his backpack. “But if I can get rich, jaded thirteen-year-olds dancing at bar mitzvahs, you girls’ll be a cinch.”
“Cliff spent his first six months in L.A. as a d.j.’s assistant,” Boulder says proudly. “He taught the Electric Slide at Adam Sandler’s cousin’s friend’s bar mitzvah.”
Even I know that qualifies as fame in Los Angeles. So I’m suitably impressed. Still weepy, but impressed.
“First, drinks to loosen everybody up,” says Cliff, opening his cooler. “Daiquiris, margaritas and piña coladas. Which’ll it be?”
“Piña colada,” says Boulder, lining up for a cup.
“No way,” I tell him. “What are you going to say at your next AA meeting?”
“They’re all nonalcoholic, silly,” he says gaily. “Who needs rum? The best part of the piña colada’s the coconut, anyway. This is the party where nobody feels bad in the morning.”
I look over at the gigantic cream cake, now filling most of my dining room table. “I’ll feel pretty bad after I eat that,” I say. “And the way I’m going, I’ll devour the whole thing.”
“Can’t. It’s cardboard and shaving cream. Just like I got for my twelfth birthday at fat kids’ sleep-away camp,” Boulder says sadly, reliving the painful memory.
Cliff comes over and puts his arm around him. “That was a long time ago, sweetie. Look at those abs. You’re gorgeous now.”
Boulder, still feeling like a chubby twelve-year-old, doesn’t perk up, so Cliff says, “I’m not the only one who thinks you’re gorgeous, right? How about Barry Rivers? Tell the girls about Barry.”
What’s Barry Rivers have to do with Cliff and Boulder? I hope it’s not another romantic triangle. Give me squares. Circles. Octagons. Anything that doesn’t involve Pythagoras.
But Boulder smiles now and so does Cliff.
“TEEEEELLLLL HERRR!” Cliff calls out, turning the two syllables into an entire song. “No, better yet. SHHOOOOW HERRR!” Not a bad tune. If he thinks up a few more lines, he might make Billboard’s Top 100.
Boulder obliges and takes center stage in my living room. He bends his knees slightly, plants his feet about a foot apart, extends his arms like an airplane, and begins wiggling his hips.
“Party game! Party game!” says Cliff. “Everybody plays! Guess Boulder’s good news.”
Boulder’s knees are bent a little deeper and his hips are swinging in bigger and bigger circles. But I refuse to guess the obvious.
“Hula hoops?” I offer instead. “Something to do with hula hoops?”
“Genius!” says Cliff. “You’re in the right place already! Hula hoops! Hawaii! His good news happens in Hawaii!”
I don’t want to break his heart and tell him that hula hoops weren’t invented in Waikiki.
“Hawaii,” says Lucy, moving to the edge of the sofa, totally in the spirit of the game, and bursting with tropical word associations. “Luaus. Pig roasts. Leis. Are you getting laid in Hawaii?”
“Only if Cliff visits,” says Boulder righteously.
Not having hit the jackpot, Lucy keeps going. “Let’s see. Waterfalls? Volleyball? How about surfing? You’re going to Hawaii to surf?”
“Bingo!” says Cliff, the perpetual d.j.’s assistant, reaching into a goody bag and tossing Lucy a gold-wrapped Hershey’s kiss. “You win part one. Now WHHHYYYY is Boulder going to Hawaii to surf?”
“Because I got a Dr Pepper commercial!” Boulder screams, unable to contain his excitement any longer. “Not even Diet Dr Pepper. The real thing!”
“Ohmygod that’s so great!” Lucy and I say, practically in unison, rushing over and hugging him so energetically that we almost knock him over.
“It’s all because of you,” Boulder says, hugging me back. “Barry Rivers saw me on our TV date and called. He’s only the biggest casting agent in the whole world and he had me come in right away.”
“Boulder had four callbacks,” says Cliff. “First he had to take off his shirt and Barry just loved his body. Second time, Barry asked him to smile. You know he aced that. Third time, he had to chug a can of Dr Pepper. No dribbling. And finally …” Cliff pauses for effect. Or maybe to get his vocal cords ready. “He got to RREEEAAADDDD.”
“You have a speaking part?” asks Lucy, grasping the profound meaning of shilling soda. “You’ll get great residuals. Money every time they run the commercial. Better than a credit line at Citibank.”
“Do your part for them, sweetie,” says Cliff, the proud partner.
“I don’t know if I’m ready,” demurs Boulder.
“He’s only been practicing since yesterday,” Cliff explains. “He’s still getting the character.”
We nod solemnly. “We’re all friends here,” I remind him. “Go for it.”
Boulder resumes his surfing position. He bursts into the famous Boulder grin, then looks straight at us, camera ready.
“WHOOOOOSSSSHHHH,” he says, stretching out the syllable in what is clearly a Cliff-influenced performance. I’m waiting for the rest of the line, but it never comes. I look over at Lucy to see if a future fortune can be built on one word.
“Yup,” she confirms. “That’s a speaking part.”
“Isn’t he perfect? He’s going to be so famous,” says Cliff.
“He’s fabulous,” says Lucy. “That’s my professional opinion.”
“Everybody on the dance floor!” says Cliff, bouncing on his Pumas. “We’re celebrating!”
He puts music on the CD player that I’ve never heard before. “The Electric Slide!” he announces with enough enthusiasm to end the California energy crisis. “Come on everybody! I’ll teach you!”
Bolstered by Boulder’s announcement and Cliff’s coaxing, we fall in line. Why not? If it’s good enough for Adam Sandler’s cousin’s friend, it’s good enough for me.
Those L.A. kids must have had some bar mitzvahs, because for the next hour, my living room rocks. I’m lousy at the Electric Slide but turn out to have a gift for the Macarena. We go through a Motown set and then on to the Rolling Stones. Sixties music is like Beethoven—lives on forever. Can’t tell me our kids will be dancing to 50 Cent forty years from now.
We scream out the lyrics “I can’t get no … SATISFACTION!” at the top of our lungs and act like a bunch of raving groupies at Lollapalooza. We’re rowdy and raucous, and after a riotous rendition of “I Will Survive,” we all collapse in exhaustion on the couch.
But Cliff’s not done. “One more song,” says our favorite d.j., who’s wrapped up enough parties to know how to do it right.
From the CD player comes James Taylor’s soothing croon, and we circle our arms around each other, swaying side to side. At the chorus, we all join in.
“Winter, spring, summer or fa-all … All you’ve gotta do is call,” we warble emotionally. “And I’ll be there … You’ve got a friend.”
We’re maudlin now, as if we’ve gotten tipsy on our alcohol-free piña coladas.
I lean my head against Boulder’s shoulder. “To Dr Pepper,” I say emotionally. “And to your future. May it be all you want.”
“To all of us. Making the future we want come true. Because we know we can,” Boulder says. Now it really does sound like we’re at a bar mitzvah. He’s good at sincerity. Maybe his next gig could be for Hallmark.
I’m teary-eyed again—but this time I’m happy. Because JT’s got a point. It’s nice to have friends.
* * *
I may be working with Josh Gordon these days, but it’s pretty clear I’m not going to be adding him to my buddy list any time soon. The next morning I’m at his office, having been summoned for an eight a.m. conference. At least I talked him out of meeting at seven.
I take the elevator to the thirty-second floor where his assistant Peggy leads me into an enormous corner office with breathtaking views in three directions. So this is what they mean by on top of the world.
“He’s just finishing up a conference,” says Peggy, an efficient sixtyish woman who, making small talk, has already told me that she’s been with her boss for twenty-two years. Considerably longer than his wife lasted. “Just make yourself comfortable until he gets back. Can I get you some coffee?”
“I’ll be fine,” I say. But the moment she walks out, I’m not. I want to look settled—but not too settled—when Josh Gordon walks in. Give the appearance that I don’t mind that I’ve been kept waiting, but that I do have many other pressing things on my agenda for the day.
I go over to a bookcase and peruse the silver-framed family photos gracing the second shelf. The cute blonde who morphs in the pictures from baby in a pram to little girl riding a pony must be Ireland. Cute kid. In every photo, she’s either alone or with Josh. No apparent scissor cuts where the ex-wife has been expunged, but she’s nowhere in sight.
Five minutes pass. I’ve got the pictures down pat and I’ve memorized all the titles on the bookshelf. Milton Friedman’s Economics I understand, but why is he reading Atlas Shrugged? Time to sit down. I lower myself carefully onto the couch. It’s way too soft and I sink down deep into the cushions. Better move since this position always makes my legs look too fat. Maybe the hardback chair in front of his desk. I give it a try. But this is worse. If I’m sitting up this straight while I’m talking to Josh, he’ll feel like he’s taking a meeting with Queen Elizabeth. One’s too soft, one’s too hard. What am I, Goldilocks?
I stand up and notice that the zipper on my skirt has managed to make its way to the front. I try to swivel it back around but the hook snags on the top of my panty hose and won’t move. I’m tugging furiously at it when Josh makes his entrance. At least there’s nothing on my face this time. He glances at me. He’s busy—clearly fitting me in between deals—and my disarray barely registers.
“Have a seat,” Josh says, gesturing to a comfortable chair near his desk. Why didn’t I try that one before? It’s just right.
“I’ve been going over the finances for the benefit,” he begins, not bothering with small talk. Guess I didn’t have to spend an hour last night boning up on CNN’s headline stories.
“Contributions look good,” Josh continues, rifling through a sheaf of papers on his desk. “Ad sales for the program are strong. But I’m confused about some of these costs.”
“Everything’s been donated,” I assure him confidently, or as confident as I can be with my arm twisted into a contorted angle as I try to cover up my errant zipper. “Except a few minor costs for the production. Vincent said he’d send those off to you.”
“I got them,” says Josh, coming around with his papers and leaning on the side of the desk. “Some interesting ones. For example, did you approve the four thousand dollars in pink gels?”
“Of course not,” I say stalwartly. “No expensive gels or powders or pancake makeup. I told Vincent to buy Maybelline at Duane Reade. Under no circumstances was he to splurge on real greasepaint.”
“The bill wasn’t for makeup,” says Josh, handing me the invoice, which is labeled THEATER LIGHTING SUPPLY, INC.
Oh, those gels. Boy, I’m in total control today. Josh must be impressed. But even looking at the bill, I’m still baffled.
“All that money for extra-soft lighting? Pink gels?” I ask. “Doesn’t make sense. These are twelve-year-old kids. Even Joan Rivers doesn’t need that much help.”
Josh gives me one of his little smiles. From him, that’s like seeing the sun in Seattle. Doesn’t happen often. But when it does, it’s warmer than you’d think.
“How about this one?” Josh asks, pulling out another bill. “A thousand dollars to Millicent M. Who’s she?”
“Definitely not Vincent’s girlfriend,” I say quickly.
I take the receipt and realize it’s for artificial flowers. Probably for the Covent Garden scene. Would have been cheaper to grow our own.
I sigh and reach over to take the whole pile of receipts. “Sorry, Josh,” I say. “Vincent’s used to overblown Broadway budgets. You know, where they pay for union musicians who don’t play. For stagehands who don’t move anything. And for dressers who stand around during the nude scene in The Full Monty. Broadway has more padding than Tim Allen in The Santa Clause. But I’ll try to rein Vincent in.”
Josh nods, apparently softened by my rant. “I appreciate that. I’ve heard Vincent’s a little temperamental. I’ll talk to him if you want. I deal with financial problems every day.”
“I can do it,” I say tentatively. “I’m no Alan Greenspan, but I’m not bad at managing money.” He can’t argue. He’s never seen my checkbook.
But Josh, amazingly, picks up on my hesitancy. “Look, not a problem for me,” he says generously, with another small smile. “You’ve been doing a great job on the benefit. I can help you out. Let your director be mad at me instead of you.”
What’s going on here? That’s so nice of him. I better check the weather in Seattle. Global warming seems to be affecting everything.
Peggy peeks her head in the door before I get a chance to thank Josh and take him up on his offer.
“Sorry to bother you, but Mia’s on the phone,” Peggy says. “I told her you were in a meeting, but she asked that I interrupt.”
“I’ll call her back,” he replies tersely.
“I offered. She says it’s an emergency.”
Josh glances over at me.
“Should I step out?” I ask.
“No. I’ll just be a moment. Sorry. My ex-wife.”
More irritated than worried, Josh snatches up the phone.
He issues a brusque “Hello” into the receiver then paces behind his desk as Mia talks. And talks. And talks. He seems to be losing patience.
“I don’t call this an emergency,” he says, finally hearing enough. “You could have waited. You interrupted an important meeting.”
So now I’m important. Hey, that’s not bad.
Josh listens to Mia for a couple more minutes.
“Of course I paid your therapy bills,” he says, exasperated. “I told you I’d take care of them for as long as you need.”
Which could be a long time, from the sounds of this conversation. Poor man. First the benefit’s bills and now Mia’s.
“Mia, if your psychiatrist doesn’t want to see you anymore, it’s not because he hasn’t been paid,” Josh says tartly. “It must be something else.”
And I can guess what it is. I don’t know Mia, but I do know shrinks. Could be she’s whining too much. Or not keeping her therapist properly entertained. It’s not enough just to go into your therapist’s office and cry anymore. In New York, you’re competing against some of the unhappiest people in the world. Bored with your husband? No longer satisfied with Frederic Fekkai? Anguished by recovered memories of inadequate SAT scores? Oh, please. They’ve heard it all before. You’ve got to dig deeper and constantly come up with new material. Keeping your shrink happy is tougher than holding on to a stand-up gig at The Comedy Club.
“Mia, I have to get back to work,” Josh says in a tempered voice that he’s obviously honed after too many calls like this. “You know I’m here for you if you really need me. But we’re divorced now. You can’t keep calling me for things like this.”
He hangs up the phone and distractedly thumbs through some messages on his BlackBerry. Looking up, he seems surprised to realize that I’m still there.
“Anything you need?” he asks randomly.
Sure. I can think of a few things. I’ll take a husband, a house in Montauk, a better prescription drug plan, and a DVD of the first season of The Sopranos. And I’ll settle for any two of the four.
“No, I guess we’re okay,” I say.
“Fine, then we’re done,” he says. “Keep going with the benefit. And talk to Vincent about his expenses. Let’s get this under control.”
I hesitate. Not the time to remind him that he said he’d deal with Vincent for me. Mia’s ruining things for everyone.
“Call me if you run into a problem,” he says dismissing me. “I take all sorts of trivial calls from women.”
Guess we’re not his favorite species right now.
* * *
“Maybe Josh Gordon would be nicer to you if you got a face-lift,” Lucy suggests to me an hour later, as we’re sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Gloria Roget, the latest addition to Lucy’s beauty maintenance crew.
Lucy peers into the large daisy-shaped mirror that dominates an entire wall of the outer office and immediately makes “The Face”—the one every woman over forty regularly tries out, though usually in the privacy of her own home. She draws up the skin across her cheekbones with her forefingers and pulls it tight, then uses her palms to stretch out her jowls. Or what she worries are jowls.
“What do you think?” Lucy asks, turning to me with her pulledback face. “Wouldn’t I look better?”
“You look good now.”
“I’m thinking future perfect,” she says. “Try it.”
I copy the same maneuver and study The Face—mine—in the mirror. This firmer, smoother me is an improvement, but I’m not ready to go under the knife. Maybe I’ll just get some duct tape on the way home. Wouldn’t matter as far as Josh Gordon is concerned, anyway. My face could be as taut as an Army recruit’s cot and it still wouldn’t change his grumpy opinion of women.
“This isn’t what we’re here for, anyway,” I remind Lucy, releasing my hands and letting my face fall—literally—back into place.
“I know. That’s for another time. Today’s about boobs,” Lucy says, still looking into the mirror. She moves her hands from her face and cups them under her breasts, pushing them forward. “Breasts like this would change my life,” she tells me. “You wouldn’t understand. You’re lucky. You’ll never need implants.”
