Pushing Upward by Andrea Adler Page A

have no sense of humor right now!” I jumped off the bed, picked up my clothes off the floor, and bolted into the bathroom.
    â€œHow big’s her place?” he hollered through the door. “It could be one room, for all you know.”
    â€œShe told me her husband was a famous artist from New York. I’m sure the place is very palatial.” I emerged from the bathroom. “I’m leaving. Are you going to help me move or not?”
    Larry didn’t answer. He pretended not to hear me, and intentionally slipped his head under the covers.
    â€œWell?”
    â€œI guess.”
    â€œNever mind.”
    â€œAll right, all right. I’ll help you move.”

Chapter 6
    If one clings to the strong man,
one loses the little boy.
    Larry was only thirty-five minutes late when he sauntered into my apartment wearing his cutoffs and a pink T-shirt. I opened the door and found him leaning against the frame, Jimmy Dean–style. An unlit cigarette dangled from his luscious lips. He was expecting me to kiss him. Was he kidding? By the time he’d honored me with his presence, most of my things had been packed, crammed into every crevice of the Fiat. Since early that morning I had been lugging suitcases out to the trunk, stacking boxes in the backseat, laying clothes over taped boxes. Pillows and bedcovers were shoved in wherever they could fit, and the bags under my arms full of toiletries … I wasn’t sure where they were going. No doubt squished between the bucket seats. And he wanted my lips?
    I looked at his tanned, muscular arms and legs, and wondered why God hadn’t finished the job and given him a functional brain. I asked him to wait while I made one last apartment check. He leaned his back against the Fiat, happy to oblige, as long as he could enhance his tan and not expend any effort.
    As I headed back to the apartment for the last time, I knew I wasn’t going to miss this place. I wasn’t going to miss the torn rug that smelled of cat piss or the six-inch-square freezer that only had room for two Creamsicles and a chicken potpie, or the blotchy yellow walls, or the toilet that never completely flushed. I might miss the times I’d spent learning lines, pacing the living room as I rehearsed monologue after monologue, and sitting in the bathtub trying to get rid of my Michigan accent. I had to admit, I’d grown as an actor here. A tear fell, and it surprised me as I took my final glance. I guess I will miss this place .
    Larry and I squeezed our bodies into the two tiny spaces left in the Fearless Fiat’s front seat and drove to Emma’s apartment building. Hardly able to see out the back window, I endured the slow lane for the first time in my life. It wasn’t bad. I guess there was a reason for the lane. Larry barely said a word, which was a pleasant surprise. Perhaps he knew more than I gave him credit for.
    Curson Avenue, Emma’s street, was located in mid-city L.A. It was lined with garden apartments and condominiums, oak trees and maple trees, and real green grass. There were only a few small houses scattered on the street; the rest of the block was mostly five-and six-story buildings with people in their seventies and eighties sitting on their front balconies talking, laughing, rocking away the hours. As we drove down the street, two kids played Frisbee on the grass, and the passing friendly mailman tried his hand at throwing the disk. It was a real neighborhood, and it’d been a long time since I’d lived in one. I welcomed the unaccustomed sounds.
    Emma’s building was in a gray square stucco structure. There were balconies attached, but no interesting curves or tiers. Symmetrical rectangular windows lined the front of the edifice, exposing identical off-white curtains in every frame. And each tenant had the same boxes of tulips sitting on their windowsills. I couldn’t tell if they were plastic or real. That was the least of my