probably get a bikini wax except I don’t have any money. Plus I’m not a glutton for that kind of pain.It’s not easy to bring tears to my eyes, but the old bikini wax does it every time. Underarm waxing is the worst, though. These places should hand out Demerol free of charge.
Mark tells me my bed’s ready so I tell Francesca I gotta go and I’ll call after I finish tanning. Then I call Jeannie collect at work.
Did you get any sleep? I go.
Hardly, she goes, and then she makes me tell her the whole story about Dean. Finally I ask her if she’s checked the messages and she hasn’t so I dial in and hear Francesca’s voice again, plus some crazy guy named Mannie looking for Rebecca, he sounds deranged, not a stable unit, there’s always some crazy guy looking for Rebecca. But no Dean.
When we went to L.A. last summer, Francesca and me, we’d catch this air-quality index on the radio. We were supposedly out there looking for jobs, right? We had this little house in Santa Monica on Second Street which was Party Central—but anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, there was this radio station we listened to, and between Madonna and the Beastie Boys the DJ would be like—the air really sucks today, don’t go out unless it’s absolutely necessary kind of thing. I really hate Madonna but that’s another story. So anyway, coming back to my apartment made me think about the air-quality index . . . don’t go inside unless really you have to. Heavy smog, hydrocarbons and BO. I mean, it’s never exactly a rose garden,but this is radical. Rebecca and Didi are really disgusting is all I can say. I have to open up all the windows and run the fan in the air conditioner for cross-ventilation. I don’t even want to think about dealing with the ashtrays. If I’d bought stock in Philip Morris yesterday I’d probably be a rich girl today.
So I clear some space on the bed and lie down with my script for a half an hour or so but the next thing I know the phone is ringing and I’ve been asleep and I’m listening to my message going—hi, this is Alison, Jeannie and I aren’t home right now, so leave the data and we’ll call you lata.
So I pick up and it’s Dean.
He goes, hey, how’s my little postmodern girl?
I’m spacey, I go.
By definition, he goes. So what are you doing? he says.
I think I was just having an erotic dream, I tell him, because it’s just coming back to me.
Was I in it? he goes and I’m thinking, for a supposedly smart guy Dean can be pretty predictable. I could lie, of course, and say he was but I feel really strongly about always being honest no matter what. That’s my personal code, basically—do anything you’d be willing to admit, and always tell the truth. I don’t know, though, that thing about Skip, telling him I was preggers, it’s been bugging me. It’s the first time in years I can remember that I’ve lied, but we were talking survival. And revenge, which is a girl’s best friend.
So when Dean wants to know is he in my stupid dream, I go, I’m not sure, because I’m not. I don’t think it was anyguy in particular. Maybe if I went right back to sleep I could find out. But I can tell he’s kind of hurt that it wasn’t him in the dream. Jesus! What a baby. So I tell him about my sense-memory exercise in class, how I had to think of something good I’d done for somebody. . . .
You
told
the class that?
Sure, I say. I mean, why not?
He goes, you didn’t tell them my name, did you?
Of course not, I go. Like it would mean anything to them anyway. Dean the Famous Bond Salesman.
Dean keeps saying over and over that he still can’t believe that I told them. But I think secretly he’s really flattered, you know?
Finally he asks me if I want to go to dinner and I say yeah, definitely, and he asks if I have any preference and I say Mexican, I don’t know, I just suddenly have this craving for hot salsa and margaritas. Love that spicy food. Must be my southern blood, did
Mark tells me my bed’s ready so I tell Francesca I gotta go and I’ll call after I finish tanning. Then I call Jeannie collect at work.
Did you get any sleep? I go.
Hardly, she goes, and then she makes me tell her the whole story about Dean. Finally I ask her if she’s checked the messages and she hasn’t so I dial in and hear Francesca’s voice again, plus some crazy guy named Mannie looking for Rebecca, he sounds deranged, not a stable unit, there’s always some crazy guy looking for Rebecca. But no Dean.
When we went to L.A. last summer, Francesca and me, we’d catch this air-quality index on the radio. We were supposedly out there looking for jobs, right? We had this little house in Santa Monica on Second Street which was Party Central—but anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, there was this radio station we listened to, and between Madonna and the Beastie Boys the DJ would be like—the air really sucks today, don’t go out unless it’s absolutely necessary kind of thing. I really hate Madonna but that’s another story. So anyway, coming back to my apartment made me think about the air-quality index . . . don’t go inside unless really you have to. Heavy smog, hydrocarbons and BO. I mean, it’s never exactly a rose garden,but this is radical. Rebecca and Didi are really disgusting is all I can say. I have to open up all the windows and run the fan in the air conditioner for cross-ventilation. I don’t even want to think about dealing with the ashtrays. If I’d bought stock in Philip Morris yesterday I’d probably be a rich girl today.
So I clear some space on the bed and lie down with my script for a half an hour or so but the next thing I know the phone is ringing and I’ve been asleep and I’m listening to my message going—hi, this is Alison, Jeannie and I aren’t home right now, so leave the data and we’ll call you lata.
So I pick up and it’s Dean.
He goes, hey, how’s my little postmodern girl?
I’m spacey, I go.
By definition, he goes. So what are you doing? he says.
I think I was just having an erotic dream, I tell him, because it’s just coming back to me.
Was I in it? he goes and I’m thinking, for a supposedly smart guy Dean can be pretty predictable. I could lie, of course, and say he was but I feel really strongly about always being honest no matter what. That’s my personal code, basically—do anything you’d be willing to admit, and always tell the truth. I don’t know, though, that thing about Skip, telling him I was preggers, it’s been bugging me. It’s the first time in years I can remember that I’ve lied, but we were talking survival. And revenge, which is a girl’s best friend.
So when Dean wants to know is he in my stupid dream, I go, I’m not sure, because I’m not. I don’t think it was anyguy in particular. Maybe if I went right back to sleep I could find out. But I can tell he’s kind of hurt that it wasn’t him in the dream. Jesus! What a baby. So I tell him about my sense-memory exercise in class, how I had to think of something good I’d done for somebody. . . .
You
told
the class that?
Sure, I say. I mean, why not?
He goes, you didn’t tell them my name, did you?
Of course not, I go. Like it would mean anything to them anyway. Dean the Famous Bond Salesman.
Dean keeps saying over and over that he still can’t believe that I told them. But I think secretly he’s really flattered, you know?
Finally he asks me if I want to go to dinner and I say yeah, definitely, and he asks if I have any preference and I say Mexican, I don’t know, I just suddenly have this craving for hot salsa and margaritas. Love that spicy food. Must be my southern blood, did
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