12:00. Now, at 2:30 a.m. , she somehow found the energy to disparage my car.
“What would you rather I drive?” I asked her.
“You’re in Los Angeles. You should have an SUV.”
“Short people drive SUVs. I don’t need to feel bigger.”
I figured that Miranda, at 5’ 1”, would respond with a flip comeback, or at least a flipped finger. Instead, she merely stretched and curled in a way that was seductively catlike. I kept my eyes on the road, but I knew she was looking at me.
“What?”
“You liked Deb Isham,” she teased. “I could tell.”
“Go to sleep.”
“No shame in it, man. Her tits were huge.”
“If that’s all it took, I’d have a crush on every woman in L.A.”
“I mean naturally huge. I think you could have had her, too. If I didn’t ruin it.”
“I doubt it.”
“So what was it you liked about her? Besides her knockers. Is it that she’s young and naive? That she could gaze upon you with a sense of awe and wonder?”
I would not entertain this conversation. Not at 2:30 a.m .
“Scott?”
“Oh, me? Sorry. I thought you were talking to Jim.”
She laughed hysterically, not without bitterness. “That was so rude!”
“I know. I’m sorry. Would you prefer pity?”
“No. That’s why I like you.”
“Wow, Miranda. You actually admit it. How many drinks did you have on that flight?”
“None. I’m just really tired. Why? Are you trying to take advantage of me?”
“Always.”
“Good. I don’t feel like checking into a hotel.”
I thought of several quips, all ranging from cute to provocative. Instead, I merely shut up. It had been a long day. I was too drained to handle the dilemma that was turning from humor to reality.
From the 405, I took the Wilshire East exit. I lived in Brentwood, only a few minutes away. Miranda had reserved a room at the Hotel Claremont, even closer. The sooner I got her out of my car, the better.
“So this is the famous Wilshire Boulevard,” she said, to my relief. That was her way of applying the handbrake.
“Yeah. You know who it was named after?”
“Mr. Wilshire.”
“Mr. H. Gaylord Wilshire. He was an active socialist but that didn’t stop him from being a great capitalist. He invented the I-ON-A-CO magnetic belt, an expensive little doodad that was supposed to cure any physical problem. Made millions off of it. He bought so many buildings on this one street that they finally just named it after him. They even called his district the Miracle Mile, because they thought he was such a wizard. You want to know what the funniest part is?”
She didn’t answer. I turned to look at her. She kept her cold stare forward, fighting back tears. Losing.
“Ah, shit. I’m sorry, Miranda.”
“No. No pity. Come on. You were doing so well.”
I sped through a yellow light. A dark SUV tailgated me. Its brights were on. I had to reposition my mirror to keep from going blind.
“Is there something I can say or do to make you feel better?”
“Depends,” she said.
“On what?”
“On whether or not you want to sleep with me.”
BAM! Both of our heads jerked back. I almost swerved onto the sidewalk.
Miranda turned around. “Jesus! What happened?”
I wasn’t sure until I looked in the rearview mirror again. The SUV quickly pulled back, signaling to the right.
“We just got rear-ended,” I said.
“Holy shit.”
I pulled over, right in front of the Avco cineplex. In this part of town, Wilshire was an eight-lane street. At this time of night, it was deserted. It had taken an extraordinary amount of incompetence to hit me.
I turned on the hazards and looked to Miranda. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Did you hit the brake or something?”
“No. He just knocked into us.”
“Well, be careful,” she said as I opened the door. “It could be a gang thing.”
Silly New Yorker. Crips don’t drive sport utility wagons. I was more concerned about an irrational drunk. The last thing I needed was to deal with somebody’s
“What would you rather I drive?” I asked her.
“You’re in Los Angeles. You should have an SUV.”
“Short people drive SUVs. I don’t need to feel bigger.”
I figured that Miranda, at 5’ 1”, would respond with a flip comeback, or at least a flipped finger. Instead, she merely stretched and curled in a way that was seductively catlike. I kept my eyes on the road, but I knew she was looking at me.
“What?”
“You liked Deb Isham,” she teased. “I could tell.”
“Go to sleep.”
“No shame in it, man. Her tits were huge.”
“If that’s all it took, I’d have a crush on every woman in L.A.”
“I mean naturally huge. I think you could have had her, too. If I didn’t ruin it.”
“I doubt it.”
“So what was it you liked about her? Besides her knockers. Is it that she’s young and naive? That she could gaze upon you with a sense of awe and wonder?”
I would not entertain this conversation. Not at 2:30 a.m .
“Scott?”
“Oh, me? Sorry. I thought you were talking to Jim.”
She laughed hysterically, not without bitterness. “That was so rude!”
“I know. I’m sorry. Would you prefer pity?”
“No. That’s why I like you.”
“Wow, Miranda. You actually admit it. How many drinks did you have on that flight?”
“None. I’m just really tired. Why? Are you trying to take advantage of me?”
“Always.”
“Good. I don’t feel like checking into a hotel.”
I thought of several quips, all ranging from cute to provocative. Instead, I merely shut up. It had been a long day. I was too drained to handle the dilemma that was turning from humor to reality.
From the 405, I took the Wilshire East exit. I lived in Brentwood, only a few minutes away. Miranda had reserved a room at the Hotel Claremont, even closer. The sooner I got her out of my car, the better.
“So this is the famous Wilshire Boulevard,” she said, to my relief. That was her way of applying the handbrake.
“Yeah. You know who it was named after?”
“Mr. Wilshire.”
“Mr. H. Gaylord Wilshire. He was an active socialist but that didn’t stop him from being a great capitalist. He invented the I-ON-A-CO magnetic belt, an expensive little doodad that was supposed to cure any physical problem. Made millions off of it. He bought so many buildings on this one street that they finally just named it after him. They even called his district the Miracle Mile, because they thought he was such a wizard. You want to know what the funniest part is?”
She didn’t answer. I turned to look at her. She kept her cold stare forward, fighting back tears. Losing.
“Ah, shit. I’m sorry, Miranda.”
“No. No pity. Come on. You were doing so well.”
I sped through a yellow light. A dark SUV tailgated me. Its brights were on. I had to reposition my mirror to keep from going blind.
“Is there something I can say or do to make you feel better?”
“Depends,” she said.
“On what?”
“On whether or not you want to sleep with me.”
BAM! Both of our heads jerked back. I almost swerved onto the sidewalk.
Miranda turned around. “Jesus! What happened?”
I wasn’t sure until I looked in the rearview mirror again. The SUV quickly pulled back, signaling to the right.
“We just got rear-ended,” I said.
“Holy shit.”
I pulled over, right in front of the Avco cineplex. In this part of town, Wilshire was an eight-lane street. At this time of night, it was deserted. It had taken an extraordinary amount of incompetence to hit me.
I turned on the hazards and looked to Miranda. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Did you hit the brake or something?”
“No. He just knocked into us.”
“Well, be careful,” she said as I opened the door. “It could be a gang thing.”
Silly New Yorker. Crips don’t drive sport utility wagons. I was more concerned about an irrational drunk. The last thing I needed was to deal with somebody’s
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