There are so few things in life that you can count on. That Paul Moyer will make several entertaining flubs nightly on the KNBC 11:00 P.M. newscast. That Steve Edwards will always get a job. That the Los Angeles Times will ferret out its worst writer and give her a regular column. That no decent Mexican restaurant in the city will ever get better than a B grade from the health department.
Tim had something else he could count on. This was, after all, Sunday, and that meant a family dinner at the grand Newman estate in Studio City in the San Fernando Valley. And what an estate it was—a late sixties tract home with recessed lighting in the ceiling, a den with a wet bar, bedrooms like a Ramada Inn, a kidney-shaped pool, and a built-in propane
barbecue. He and Perry had grown up in that house, and it was no surprise that upon reaching what passes for adulthood, they had both escaped over the hill to the other side of Mulholland, an entire area code away from Mom and Dad.
Just as he knew it would, the phone rang around 4:00 P.M. “Hi, honey,” said the chipper voice on the other end. It was Mom, the housewife turned real estate agent turned family counselor. “Do your dad and me a big favor, will you? Swing by the Koo Koo Roo on Ventura Boulevard on your way and pick up the chicken.” Floating deep in the repressed mists of his childhood memories, he could recall images of his mother cooking. But that was before the big real estate boom of the eighties, when there were fortunes to be made matching up desperate buyers with small homes at exorbitant fees. Ann Newman hadn’t exactly made a fortune, but she kept busy, and that—to all concerned—was the most important thing.
“Why do I always have to pick up dinner? How come Perry never has to?”
“He’s bringing a date, dear,” said Ann sensibly. “What type of impression would that make? I’ll phone Koo Koo Roo and Daddy will pay you when you get here. You do have enough cash, don’t you?”
“Sure, I can handle it,” he said. He kept silent about the impression that having fast food for dinner might make, regardless of who picked it up. There were times when he positively admired his mother’s selective vision. She’d been on a Koo Koo Roo chicken kick ever since the deep-voiced restaurant critic on talk radio intoned, “It’s too good to be called fast food.” Gossip columns reported how Bob Evans used Koo Koo Roo to cater screenings at his house and Lee Iacocca sat on Koo Koo Roo’s board of directors. But that was before Evans had had his stroke and Iacocca had decided that there was more money to be made in marketing electric bicycles and the
whole Koo Koo Roo mystique went to hell. As so often happens when things go to hell, word never reached the Valley.
No matter how often he or Perry complained that, as legitimate offspring making the long trek to Studio City, they deserved a home-cooked meal rather than fast food, Ann would look shocked. “Merrill Shindler on KLSX says it’s too good to be called fast food,” she’d say. That would be followed with a satisfied smile, the one that said, Nothing’s too good for my family.
Of course, as fast food went, Koo Koo Roo was pretty good. And a bit pricey. Tim looked in his wallet. He didn’t have anywhere near enough cash for dinner, unless they were all going to split a single marinated breast. Yet another meal would be financed at 21.7 percent APR.
Due to the long line at Koo Koo Roo and a minor dispute about Tim’s maxed-out Visa card, which made him very glad he had a MasterCard fallback, Perry and Nancy were already ensconced in the den at casa Newman, drinking diet Coke while Syd, the patriarch of the Newman family, and Nancy discussed the merits of the Admiral’s Club versus the Red Carpet Club.
“Neither one of them is worth the money,” said Syd emphatically. A lifetime in car sales had given him the ability to sound completely sure of himself, even when he knew nothing. When it came to travel—his favorite subject of discussion—that was usually the case. Despite a bookcaseful of travel books, despite a daily flood of E-mail from Arthur Frommer and Travelzoo, despite a conversational repertoire that seemed limited to modes of transportation and hotels at various destinations, Syd traveled not at all. “Don’t have time,” he’d explain when either Tim or Perry pointed out the contradiction. “Maybe later.”
Nancy, on the other hand, actually did travel. It came with
the job. She was the personal assistant to one of the most talked-about young actresses in Hollywood, one known for her numerous love affairs with some famous Gen-X actors and her exquisite taste in tattoos. Heather Windward and Nancy wandered the world together, particularly during those brooding post-love affair trips to Italy and France. They were close enough in age so that many people assumed employer and employee were friends. Nancy subtly fostered that delusion, not because she wanted to be a star’s friend, but because it might help her get one of her projects off the ground and land the job of her dreams—that of producer. Not that she had any actual projects. With a limited budget, Nancy would be able to option only lesser books—say a murder mystery written by a self-educated retiree in Ohio and miraculously released as a quickie paperback. She could get a year’s option on a book like that for two hundred dollars and shop it around. Instead, she took her two hundred and ordered embossed business cards. It gave her a feeling of satisfaction equaled only by the time her picture appeared next to her boss in Us magazine. She didn’t get her name in the caption—it simply read “ … and friend”—but she bought forty copies anyway, then mailed them to important people, carefully stapling a business card to each one. She didn’t expect a response, but she labored mightily under the delusion that her minimailing had raised her profile.
Everyone took their diet Cokes to the table. “Oh, this is a special occasion,” Perry commented, holding his plate aloft. “Mom broke out the good paper plates, the ones with plastic coating.”
“Shut up, please,” said Ann, thumping Perry with a plastic spoon.
There was a momentary silence, and unfortunately, Nancy chose to fill it.
“How’s the job hunt coming, Tim?” she asked.
Oh, why? wondered Tim. Things had been going so well.
“I have a job interview tomorrow,” he offered, “to do some writing for a Web site.”
“A Web … site,” said Ann, stretching out the words as if she were trying to dissect them. “A Web site. That sounds like it might be fun.” She paused. “Is there much money writing for a Web site?”
Perry stepped in to save his brother. “Come on, Mom. It’s what all of us will eventually be doing.”
“Speaking of Web sites, have you seen Travelzoo?” asked Syd, inadvertently derailing the conversation and returning to the safe, boring world of travel. Tim was relieved.
There was ice cream and coffee (in actual cups!), and then the evening was over. Perry and Nancy, having arrived first, were able to duck out first. It was pretty much accepted in the family that any visit by Perry was a gift—after all, he had a job, a girlfriend, and spent more time at the gym. It showed how truly generous he was to spend any time with his family at all. Tim was not so lucky. Even on those rare occasions when he was busy, he didn’t look it. So it fell on him to be the more dutiful son. On this particular night, he had a choice. Go back to his one-room apartment and watch The Sopranos by himself or stay with Mom and Dad and watch The Sopranos with them. He opted for company. When it was over, he kissed his mother and gave his dad a hug.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” said Syd.
As they approached the Honda Civic, Syd fished out his wallet. “I owe you for dinner,” he said. “I almost forgot.” He nervously, almost reluctantly, shoved two one-hundred-dollar bills in Tim’s hand. “Take it—I don’t have anything smaller.”
“Dad.” Tim sighed. “One one-hundred-dollar bill is smaller than two.”
“Take it,” insisted Syd. “And good luck tomorrow.”