Monday, April 14, 2014

LA Stories: Gold-digging and Other STDs

Everyone has a price, and friends, mine's pretty bargain bin- the things I've done for money would shock and amaze you. I've been a phone book, a clown (an EQUITY clown though, dammit!) a flamingo, a pearl diver and a fluid mopper on a porn set. Hi mom!
Still, all things considered, my conscience is clear- because no matter how low I've set the bar for my pride and comfort level, no one can buy out my dreams. They're not for sale.
This is how I know, in Two Parts.

PART ONE:

Twice, I was challenged by men who tried to buy me.
The first was in Los Angeles, during the Starving Days. A good friend had let me take over her job as a receptionist at an architect firm while she went on vacation, and during my 2 weeks at her desk, I became chummy with the head of the firm.
Now, perhaps I should clarify- this wasn't "an" architect firm.
It was "THE" architect firm.

And "THE" Architect in question was going through a rough divorce.
Coincidentally, so was I. So you can see where this might go...

The Architect, a handsome older man in his mid-sixties, learned that I was a personal assistant to other fancy people, and asked me to invoke my super powers to find him a house to stay in while the divorce was going through.
Something low key, understated. Kind of a bachelor pad.
He gave me an $800,000 ballpark figure to work with.

While he was drafting and cruising around on his new Harley, I house-hunted online for him, chose my top favorite options, and showed them to him.
He loved what I found, and sent me to visit the ones he liked best. He paid me a very generous office rate for my time, and was thrilled when I came back armed with photos, videos, and a lengthy list of pros and cons for each option.

I liked this man. He was warm, funny, generous. Reminded me of my dad. And like my father, we bonded over motorcycles, and I showed him photos of my old bike back in Florida. He supplies the entire office with catered bagels and lox every friday.
I wanted to make him happy, and he was really nice to me. He selected a home, bought it (cash) and moved in right away.

After my last day working for him, he asked if I could meet him for "celebration drinks" downtown.
I like drinks, and celebrating. I was single. Why the fuck not, sure. One drink. I hadn't been "out" in a while and I was looking forward to not sitting at home worrying where my next paycheck would come from.

He gave me an address and I drove in circles downtown looking for the restaurant, finally pulling into a hotel to ask for directions. There were no street numbers to be seen on these schmancy high rises.
The valet very kindly informed me that I was already AT the address I was looking for, and that they were expecting me.
Uh oh...

They took my car, it'd already been paid for, and sent me to the elevators with instructions to go to the top floor.
And so I watched Los Angeles expand beneath my feet as I was whisked straight to the top of the tallest building in the city: The Four Seasons.

I emerge from the elevator bay and there's The Architect, waiting at a table in the gorgeous bar area outside of Wolfgang Puck's.
Yep! This guy!

We have the drink. A (singular) drink, and nothing more, and I high five him on his new home and rise to leave when he asks if I'd like dinner- no, no, I say, I couldn't possibly...
But he waves his arm and a waiter arrives. Yes, yes, his table is ready, would he like to be seated?

My stomach roars as it clamshells in on itself. My paycheck was already spent on rent, so I didn't eat that day. Sigh. Yes, let's get seated.
I lie and tell him I'm not that hungry, but he assures me that not only is he insisting on picking up the check, but I simply MUST have some chilean sea bass.
Oh. Well if I have to. My stomach, hell-bent on devouring itself, agrees.

The sea bass is amazing. And the korean tacos. And the springrolls. And the duck.
Yep, yep, all amazing. I try to enjoy it, knowing it's my last good meal for a while.

The Architect touches my hand and runs some fingers down my arm as I reach for yet another dinner roll. The food is to die for, but I'm distracted by my father's voice echoing in my head (possibly resonating up from the ever-narrowing hollows in my sea-bass-stuffed gut) telling me "there's no such thing as a free meal."
This meal was certainly not free- the check came and I tried to snag it from him to cover the tip (which would mean bouncing a check but better than this sickening feeling of indebtedness.)

I saw the bill: $425.
Holy shit.

He won't hear of me covering the tip and and waves me off when I plead to contribute to the sum. The Architect writes a room number on the bill and sends it off with our waiter, then turns to me.
Here it comes. I brace myself and he says:
"So, I've got the penthouse for the night- it's huge. Would you like to come see it?"
No, no I can't. Early morning. Thanks anyway. I just, you know.
"I had to try, right?" He grins at me as I retreat awkwardly, stumbling backwards in heels.
I wish him congrats again AND I'M GONE.
I kick myself in the elevator- indebted, graceless, and now doomed to breakfastlessness.

But integrity intact.

I sent two thank you notes for that meal. One to The Architect's new address, and one to my Father.

PART TWO:

Back in Orlando, no longer starving and in a much stronger place emotionally, I had sworn off dating actors and was "shopping online" to see what was available. There was a lot to choose from, but I wanted the exact opposite of an actor. Just to see what it was like.

I selected a Lawyer.
Seemed like a good choice at the time- tall, blonde, physically fit, close to his family. Why not. Sure, he's kind of a gym rat and losing his hair, but this is a deliberate effort on my part to refrain from dating people for superficial reasons. I will try my damndest to make it work.

We meet at a wine bar and he's reasonably cute. Sweet, intelligent, the right age, been married and learned from his mistakes, still friends with his ex, all plusses. He's keen to be in a relationship, like, RIGHT AWAY. He wants a wife and a family, and is in a whole hellofa hurry. Aside from that, though, he's definitely 2nd date worthy.

The Lawyer walks me to my car, parked very near his, which is some fancy model or other.
He points out that he's trading it in for a newer model as soon as he can, which makes me wonder what his marriage must've been like- but he kisses me suddenly, like, inappropriately passionately, like he's trying to recreate a scenario in which I'm welcoming him home after a war.
I see the thought bubble over his head- in his mind, he's clearly dressed as a sailor and I'm the nurse.

It dawns on me that perhaps he's a little drunk- then I judge him for having a liver inferior to mine.
Then I chide myself for judging. This whole date is an exercise in not being superficial, right? I need to get over it. Suddenly he says, in all earnesty, "I'm gonna marry you."
Ohhhhkay. So this is what drunk lawyers are like. Still an improvement over actors.
As he hug-smothers me in the parking lot, I'm forced to inhale and I smell this sweet, strange smell on him. Somewhere in my mind a tiny alarm sounds.
Shit. Well, I'd already said yes to the second date. Whoops.

Date #2 is a lunch date- he asks me to meet him downtown at his building.
"Which building is your building?" I ask.
"The one with my name on it."
Ohhhh.
(It's the REALLY phallic one in the middle.)

I meet him and in the clear light of day, he's fine. He's smart, driven, loves his job, and seems really friendly. He was very polite to our server. That's important.
We take a quick walk after sushi and I see some fluffy little baby ducks.
Joking, I wonder aloud how many ducklets might fit in my mouth at once, and he stares at me with a horrified expression.
OK, so maybe we're not on the same page in regards to a sense of humor... But he's kind of redeemed himself in the way he speaks and how lovingly he talks about his family. We talk about karate and how much he loves the gym. Like, LOVES the gym. He rolls up his shirt sleeves to show me some well-defined muscles. I'm used to working around superheroes, so I'm probably not as impressed as he'd like me to be, but there's that smell again- like sweet almonds... It is the smell of something wrong, but I still can't quite place it. Regardless, he's charming and kind, and there's really no good reason to not see him again.
Wait for it.

Date #3 is at my place. I cook for him, and we chat about families.
He wants me to meet his, soon.
Gulp.
"Oh, and would I mind keeping my opinions about women's rights, gay issues and gun control to myself if his father asks?"
Wait, what? Absolutely not- I warn him that I have a penchant for speaking my mind, regardless of who's asking. I arch a brow and fold my arms. Red fucking flags all over the field.
He changes tack and, since we're discussing sensitive issues, inquires how soon I think is too soon to be physical in a relationship.
Um. That kind of depends- I tell him I've had a chance to try a few different methods in terms of rushing things, one-night-things, and things in between.
I tell him I wanna be slow. Like, glacially slow.
No more actors, no more craziness. I wanna be smart about this.
"That's good," he says. "I'm glad to hear that- because I have herpes, and I want to get married soon and since I hate condoms, I expect my wife to share my herpes."
ON DATE #3?!? ...wow.
"Okayyyy," I say, trying to process.
I thank him for his honesty, and wrack my brain trying to recall if that kiss on Date #1 has doomed me to anything.
"What are you thinking? Is everything OK? Is this a dealbreaker?!? Please don't say it's a dealbreaker!"
"Um." (Translation: "It's a dealbreaker.")
We say goodnight shortly afterwards. I thank him for his honesty, and he responds by absolutely pinning me down to Date #4. Uggghhh.

I've already made up my mind Date #4 will have to be the last one- partially because of the herpes and partially because he absolutely reeks of desperation.
OK mostly because of the herpes.
"I expect my wife to share my herpes..."

*shudder*

I stall as long as possible, but the inevitable Date #4 rolls around.
It's at his house. I say "house," but it's a small palace.
He gives me an enthusiastic tour- pointing out there's where the kid's rooms will be. There's where I could have a writing room, or a study. Whatever I wanted, just name it. Gulp.
He starts cooking ME dinner now. It's a fancy dinner.
As he invites me to join him on his airplane for a quick trip to New York City, I'm reminded of another fancy meal that cost me way too much.

Melancholy sets in. I know I have to tell him the truth at some point that evening. He's a nice guy, it's a shame- but I don't want to be his wife. I need a guy who gets my sense of humor. And won't riddle me with disease.

He'd been at the gym shortly before I arrived, and was wearing his gym clothes. I help him prep the chopped veggies, and as he reached a muscular arm across me I'm finally close enough to see it:
His skin is grey-blue in certain areas, and flaking apart. As his arm nears my face I smell the sweet almond smell and it hits me...
I am smelling his decaying skin cells.
The man is literally rotting alive in his empty tomb of a home.
Panic sets in and I start talking, quickly.

I tell him about an email I got that day- an invitation to an audition in Los Angeles. If I get the job I'll have to move out there, and I'm not up for a long-distance relationship.
Words tumble out of my mouth as I try to repress my horror at his skin.
Is this some side effect of herpes? Is it from steroids? Hair loss, skin issues, compulsive sweating, mood issues...
Every Valtrex Advertisement I've ever seen hurricanes through my mind as I process.

I'm spitting words out as fast as my whirling water-wheel mind can spin them. Excuses, explanations, reasons, stuff, things. As I speak, the light, once blazing behind his twinkling eyes, fades until he regards me with a dull, flat expression.
"So, there's nothing I can do to get you to stay here?"
"No."
"And you won't skip this audition?"
I shake my head and look down. "No."
He sets his fork down and takes my head in his sicky-sweet hands.
"I could give you everything you need. You know that, right? You'd never want for anything."
I gulp. "I know."
He breathes. "Everything I have isn't enough for you?"
I kiss him, once. Last time. "I have to write. I have to write in LA."

He picks his fork up and resumes eating. "Well I guess that's that," he says.
He's right. By the time I'm home at my apartment, he's unfriended me on facebook.
A mutual friend reports that he's asking girls out at the gym two days later.

I recently heard he's married- to a gym girl. I hope they're really happy. He's an honest, kind, ridiculously wealthy man, and if she's cool with sharing "what he has," I wish them all the best.

As for me, I'm happy. I don't have an airplane. I don't have sea bass. But I have this laptop and these stories, and I'm typing them out in the city of my dreams next to my wonderful boyfriend as he writes, too.
He smells amazing, he's disease-free, and the answer is 2.5.
He can fit 2.5 hypothetical ducklings in his mouth.
(He gets it.)

1 comment:

  1. I miss your face and hearing your stories face to face but I love that I can read some of them here. Hugs!

    ReplyDelete