At a bar in The Palazzo Hotel, Roger and Spencer sat among several other patrons, the sound of nearby slot machines serenading them as the bartender slid a Sierra Nevada beer to Roger and a ginger ale to Spencer. Roger looked at his old friend thoughtfully.
“You’re sure you’re all right here?”
Spencer nodded. “Yeah, I don’t drink anymore when life sucks. I sulk.”
“Here’s to you.” Roger lifted his beer and clinked it with Spencer’s glass.
The artist sighed.
“You’re okay with us selling it, aren’t you?”
Spencer nodded again. “I am. You bought me out a long time ago, man. You can do whatever you want with it. I was never that materialistic anyway, and when I moved to France, the shipping company lost just about all my belongings. I realized I could survive with almost nothing. It was freeing.”
“To freedom,” Roger said, and they clinked their glasses again. They drank in amiable silence for a few minutes before Spencer took a lime slice out of his drink and set it in an ashtray.
“Sludge might be right, you know, as much as I hate to give him credit for anything.”
Roger knew he was talking about the fire. Spencer liked his weed back then, but it was the booze that really had him in its grip. He’d had several blackouts, and the fire had occurred before he finally sought help and quit drinking. He felt bad for Spencer if it was still bothering him after all these years.
“Ancient history, my friend, long forgotten.”
The artist took a long drink, remembering. “I was so wasted that night, Roger. I left when everyone else did, but I came back, as I often did. I liked being around the comix, and that was our first issue, which made it even better. Ever since we had rented the warehouse and started carrying other publications, every once in a while I’d bring a girl there. They liked being around me being around the comix.”
They both looked up at a boobie middle-aged woman with big platinum hair framing a weathered face, who hit some kind of a jackpot on slots. She “whooped” it up as coins clinked into the bowl.
“Yeah, you were pretty hot back then,” Roger deadpanned.
Spencer tried to smile, but it didn’t take. “I don’t remember ever lighting candles, but I could have lit the candle that night and left it. I don’t know. I honestly don’t remember.”
Roger took another swig of his beer and shook his head. “If you didn’t do it before, I doubt if you did it then. Men are creatures of habit, you know. On the upside, if it’s tortured you all these years, it’s probably made you a better artist. Again, if you weren’t in the habit of lighting candles, why would you have lit one that night? Doesn’t make sense. But worse-case scenario, if you did, if that’s what happened, it was an accident, Skippy.” He put a hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Let it go, once and for all.”
Spencer looked him in the eye. “You were always too mellow for your own good. I’m sorry, man.”
“No need. Sigh. I miss the Muskman days. The whole world was open to us. The possibilities were endless.”
“I don’t know, Roger. I’m starting to see Chantella, Volume One, Number One take shape. And Tiffy Does Dallas.”
* * *
Chantella was passing Bonnie and Roger’s hotel room when the door opened and Bonnie walked out.
“Hey, Chantella, where you headed?”
Bonnie noticed she looked kind of pensive.
“What? Oh, I’m meeting Wesley down by the pool.”
She wasn’t wearing a bathing suit or cover-up. Her outfit could best be described as combination black leather and white cotton ensemble, with some chains thrown in.
Bonnie walked with her. “Is everything all right between you two? I’m a good listener if you need one.”
Chantella just looked at her and didn’t say anything for a minute.
“Oh my God, are you pregnant?”
Chantella just stared at her. “How do you do that?”
Bonnie smiled. “I’m very intuitive, especially about that for some reason. Are you okay?”
They reached the elevator and Chantella pressed the “down” button.
“Actually, I’m surprisingly okay. I’m a little introspective these days maybe but I’m not suffering. I haven’t decided for sure yet what I’m going to do, but I still know it’s going to be all right.”
“You come from a large family, don’t you?”
“Huge.”
“I suppose you could go either way on that, decide you want a zillion kids yourself or that you’re going to be celibate for the rest of your life, or at least childless.”
“Uh, celibacy is not an option,” she smiled, almost shyly. “I always intended to have a family, though not that big and not this soon.”
“You know they say God laughs when we plan.”
“Yeah.”
They stepped into the elevator and Bonnie waited for the doors to close. She turned to Chantella and grabbed both her hands. “For what it’s worth, I think you’ll be a great mom.”
How could she know that? Does a great mom bring attention to herself by purposely not fitting in with everyone else? Does a great mom not care what other people think?
As if Bonnie had heard those thoughts, she said, “You’re smart, kind, feisty, loving, loyal and not afraid to be who you are. A great role model.”
Chantella was touched. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
“And also for what it’s worth, having kids is the best thing I ever did, which is not to say raising them was easy or always fun. But Roger and I are better people for having done it.”
It hit Chantella then. She knew, as she supposed she’d always known deep in her heart, she would have the baby if she were indeed pregnant, and how could five home pregnancy kits be wrong? Now all she had to figure out was if she believed in the institution of marriage, and if Wesley really wanted to marry her rather than felt obligated to. She hadn’t thought she did believe in it, even though her parents’ marriage seemed happy enough as they cranked out enough kids to field a baseball team. She always thought she wanted to be different, independent, unexpected, “out in left field,” an ideal position for that baseball team, ironically. But was that who she really was or was it an affectation? No, dammit, she was out there. Or were all bets off since she met Wesley, the love of her life?
With eight siblings and 12 nieces and nephews, the Vanns were certainly a fertile clan. The Pope would be pleased. And nobody was a better aunt than Chantella. She loved those little rugrats, and even her brother Ian’s teenage daughter Lexie, the drama queen who would just die if this didn’t happen, her life was ruined because that happened, she would never speak to her best friend again, yatita, yatita, yatita. Chantella knew deep in her soul that she might not look maternal, but she was, from the top of her blue shaved head right down to her shiny black toenails.
She smiled kind of whimsically. It’s easy to be independent and, let’s call a spade a spade, a little odd, when you’re facing the world alone. But having someone you love, someone you’d die for, changes things. It changes everything. She turned her smile toward Bonnie.
“Thanks. I know it won’t be easy, but I think I can rock motherhood.”
Bonnie laughed. “Undoubtedly. I see big things for you and Wesley. You have to keep in touch when we’re in France and let me know how everything is. I’ll send you a French maid outfit.”
“Wesley’s dream come true. I’m excited about this, but for now could you…”
“…My lips are sealed.”
* * *
At the thriving Back in the Saddle Casino, Ellie sat at her table sipping her root beer, surreptitiously watching Cindy, so stunning and classy, smiling and so gregarious, greeting various customers as old friends. Could she be more attractive and appealing? As that thought tortured her, Russell walked up and plopped himself down at her booth startling her.
“Guilt is a terrible thing,” he said.
“So is a fat lip.”
He looked at her speculatively. “She’s nice. You probably didn’t count on that.”
She wasn’t going to deal with this. Not tonight. Ellie stood up and leaned over the table. “It’s still none of your business, but for your information, we haven’t done anything.”
Except for that dinner. And those other meetings. And the kisses. And it’s not that you haven’t thought about doing much more. A whole friggin’lot.
Russell grabbed her hand. “Wait. I’m sorry. Please don’t go.”
When he touched her, she shouldn’t have been shocked that she felt a tingle that went all the way up her arm. It wasn’t the first time. It had to be revulsion. Or a blast of the air conditioning. It couldn’t possibly be that attraction she was so diligently trying to dismiss. Thank you, Cleopatra, the queen of denial. She hesitated. She really didn’t want to leave, though she didn’t want to be harassed by Russell either. Reluctantly, she sat back down, eying Russell suspiciously. Had he really been put on this planet to annoy her? Brian and Russell were so different. Brian was competent, sophisticated, driven. Russell was footloose and funny and…and…she didn’t know what. It was like Brian was an anchor and Russell was a balloon. He seemed to bring out the worst in her. She wasn’t usually this rude.
“No, I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it sincerely. “I’m hypersensitive tonight for some reason. You’re doing me a huge favor here, and I really appreciate it. Seriously. And I’m glad you’re getting to share your singing talent for a bigger audience. You sound wonderful.”
He leaned back, looking relaxed. “I always wanted to play Vegas someday,” he said, smiling. There it was again, that ability to seem like he was totally content with who and where he was.
A cocktail waitress, dressed in a fringed miniskirt and a midriff blue-checked blouse tied below her big bulbous breasts, of course wearing cowboy boots and a straw cowboy hat, brought Russell a soft drink and a plate of cheese fries. He thanked her and she practically flung her breasts onto his plate. What was it with him and breasts? And why did women seem to want to share them with him so freely? Brian probably would have ignored the experience. Russell appreciated it in all its tackiness. Finally, the slutty waitress left.
“And what did you want to do after you played Vegas, Russell?”
“I don’t know. Play Dodger Stadium maybe? Carnegie Hall?”
He offered her some fries. She declined.
“You’re so talented, my furry friend. Or I guess that would be my checkered friend tonight. Did you think you’d be famous by now?”
He chuckled, tamping down the warm fuzzies he felt when she referred to him as a “friend.” Grasping at straws, are you? “I never cared about being famous. I was going for rich. What about you? What’d you want to do?”
She swirled the ice around in her glass, thinking. She’d almost forgotten. “Originally, I thought I would be a writer. I was going to pen novels or movies or plays or something, but I realized my life was too boring; I didn’t have enough material. I majored in communications at college and figured that must involve some kind of writing.”
“Don’t you hate it when that happens?”
“What?”
“When your life is too boring.”
She twirled the ice around in her root beer with her straw. “I wanted to live a while, get some life experience under my belt.”
“And now?”
Their eyes locked for a long moment. She could see how this man could really become addictive. She was tempted to pour her heart out to him, and then she remembered her rendezvous with Brian. She’d be better off sharing her hopes and dreams with him, if he was the one. Is he? Are you sure about that? Finally, uncomfortable with her thoughts, she resorted to the time-old dodge of looking at her watch.
“Oh dear. I promised Wesley and Chantella I’d meet them for a drink.” She got up. “Thanks again. You’ve really added to the ambiance here.”
He grabbed her hand again, rubbing his thumb on her wrist in a way that made her uterus hum. “That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” she said a little too sharply. She pulled her hand away, smiled apologetically and turned and walked away, slowly making her way through the crowd.
He watched her perky little butt sway as she headed toward the exit. Then, looking toward the bar, he noticed that Brian was watching her as well. And then he saw Cindy watching Brian. The only person missing in this psychodrama was Tiffy. What was that line from Shakespeare about weaving tangled webs?
* * *
At the Courtyard DuMont pool area, Ellie, Wesley and Chantella, fully dressed, sat at the edge of the pool with drinks, their pants rolled up, dangling their feet in the water. They were the only ones there except for an older man in the far corner, sipping a beer and reading a book.
“You met at the grocery store?”
“Yep,” Wesley said.
“The grocery store?”
“Even our people have to eat,” Chantella said.
Wesley turned to Ellie. “So Russell’s got a gig at your friend’s cowboy casino? With anybody else it would be hard to picture, but I can see it.”
“He’s incredible. He knows every cowboy song ever written, and he’s got the crowd eating out of his hand. He’s amazing.”
Chantella, smiling, elbowed Wesley.
Ellie looked askance. “What?”
Before Chantella could answer, Tiffy and Spencer approached from the hotel area, giggling up a storm. They seemed to be getting closer and closer.
“Let’s do shooters!” Tiffy bubbled. “No, get me a drink with a hula girl or an umbrella or something.”
“Coming right up, doll.”
Spencer headed back into the hotel and Tiffy sat herself down next to Ellie, putting her legs in the water like the rest of them, although she still had her blue heels on. They matched her periwinkle blue dress, which was sparkly and off one shoulder. Ellie looked at her, amused.
“Missing Muskman, are we?”
“Hashtag, Tiffy has to be free.”
Wesley nuzzled Chantella’s neck, and she stretched like a feline.
“Ooh, I’m getting tired,” she said, smiling seductively, poking Wesley playfully.
“Yeah, me too,” he said. “Real tired.”
Ah, young love. I am not envious. I am not envious. I am not envious. Repeat as necessary.
The young couple shared a knowing look and got up, still nuzzling. They stopped long enough to mumble their goodbyes and sauntered off, their arms around each other’s waists. Despite her determination not to be envious watching their obvious love for each other, Ellie felt her shoulders slump. Tiffy noticed.
“Are you against love or something?”
She almost didn’t answer. Was she against love? At this point, kinda. Then she said, “One day you’re not Tiffy or Chantella anymore and you realize you haven’t really accomplished anything since you were. And you’re alone and maybe you always will be.”
“You’re not that old.” Tiffy took off a shoe and guided it in the water like a little boat.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just in a weird mood.”
“I’m always in a weird mood.” Tiffy about busted a gut laughing at that one. Finally, she straightened up and adjusted her undies.
No doubt she’s wearing a thong. It probably bounces off her taut little buns.
“My grandpa died when my grandma was only 29 and she said she’d never get married again. He was her one true love. Hashtag, she got in a fender-bender one rainy day with a lovable old geezer when she was 68 and they’re married now and hang all over each other. It’s pretty gross. Grandma can’t stop smiling, though.”
“Sixty-eight, huh? That gives me something to look forward to, I guess.”
Tiffy swished her legs around in the water. She wasn’t very good at sitting still. She thought about Ellie’s last statement and her observations of the woman. She looked at Ellie, really looked at her. Ellie was afraid to love, she decided. “I guess if you never put yourself out there, you’ll never get hurt, but what’re you gonna do? Sit home and watch your hair turn blue?”
As Ellie contemplated that profundity, Spencer returned with two fancy schmancy green drinks with umbrellas and hula-girl stirrers.
“Oh, Ellie. I didn’t see you there. Did you want…”
“No, I’m good,” she interrupted. Of course he didn’t see you next to Tiffy. Maybe that’s your problem. You’re invisible.
“Hey, there’s a guy in the lounge who can do “Play That Funky Music, White Boy” on the accordion.”
Tiffy jumped up and struggled into her wet shoes. “Ooh, I feel like dancing.”
She and Spencer locked arms and sashayed off.
“You wanna cha-cha?”
“Not until after we dance,” Tiffy said.
Ellie and Spencer both laughed. Ellie called after her. “Hey, Tiffy!”
The little sexpot looked back.
“You’re okay.”
Tiffy waved and disappeared into the hotel with Spencer. She had played the ditzy blond role so long she almost believed it herself. She remembered when it started. She was 15 when her mother died unexpectedly and she was unprepared for the depth of emotions she felt. It wasn’t a conscious decision to keep people from delving too deeply by acting dumb; it just sort of happened. And now it came naturally, and somehow the ditz and the glitz had melded together, so she didn’t know where the fake Tiffy ended and the real Tiffy began. These Full Court Press people were the only ones besides her father who had ever seemed to realize the difference between the two personas. But hashtag, both sides of her knew how to have fun.
Back at the pool, Ellie relished the time alone, since even the guy in the corner had left. She thought about putting herself out there and the possible cost. Was it worth it? When had she become such a blatant coward? Or was she just careful and discerning when it came to men? Yeah, right, and pigs fly. What had playing it safe ever gotten her? True, she wasn’t hurt, but was she really living or just phoning it in? She swished her feet and once again an unbidden picture of Russell appeared in her head. What was it about that guy? She worked hard at replacing that picture with one of Brian, the man who was perfect for her on paper. Except for his pesky fiancée. Was it possible to drink enough to make that irritating little voice go away? She sincerely doubted it.
Well, it was time to get some sleep, perchance to dream of Brian and not Russell. Remember, he’s a player. Yes, good, she’d almost forgotten that. She’d set her mental alarm for 1 a.m., which would leave her plenty of time to get ready for Brian’s visit. She picked up her sandals and walked over to the table, where she began gathering up her belongings. She had dried her legs and feet and had just sat down to put on her shoes when Bonnie came rushing in from the opposite side that Tiffy and Spencer had exited.
“Have you seen Number One?”
Ellie was confused. “What?”
“Volume One. Number One. It’s gone!”
“Oh, no! It couldn’t be.”
“It is.”
“Shit.”