Old friends from college invited us over: June and Paul, Matt and Daryll, me and my old boyfriend Paul. It had been twelve years since graduation, and they wanted us to see their house and meet their kids. Catch up. Shoot the shit. Reminisce.
We had all been in acting conservatory together and had known each other for months upon years. Connor, our host, was a nice enough guy, but a cocky/nice in that white male privileged way white male privileged guys can be when they grow up in Brentwood and their parents are rich and liberal. He had a huge passion for acting but unfortunately his passion was accompanied by little talent. Luckily, time had fuzzied him up a bit. Life had knocked him around enough to take the edge off. And he meant well.
His wife, Larissa, on the other hand, had huge amounts of talent. She was a very pleasant, bubbly brunette who adored Connor. “She acts like she’s won the lottery,” I’d whispered to my friends the last time I saw them, probably four years prior.
Connor had actually been the one asking us over for months upon years. Begging really, if I’m being honest. And we all had put it off as long as we could, until we received an email with the subject line: “ANY NIGHT IN MARCH WORKS!!!”
We went.
They lived deep in Valencia, in the shadow of Six Flags. We pulled up to a cute house with a sweet porch that I couldn’t help noticing was covered with moving boxes. Every inch of it. After the six of us negotiated our way to the door and knocked, we were greeted by Larissa, who looked both frantic and annoyed.
“We’re in the middle of moving,” she said as her opener, as though we had STORMED the home, demanding a barbecue be thrown in our honor. She turned over her shoulder and screamed, “CONNOR! THEY’RE HERE!”
We all hesitated. I leaned in for a misguided hug. “Great to see you! Is this not a good time?” I asked, somewhat hoping she would say “You know what? Honestly it’s not.” And we would get to ease on down the road to El Compadre and enjoy well-done fajitas and flaming margaritas, as God intended.
Instead, she let us in and then delivered a doozy of a hostess line: “We don’t have any food. Just Tylenol.”
Huh. We did the math. No food meant someone would have to go get the food, bag the food, drive the food home, un-bag the food, and cook the food, before we could even start to eat the food. How long was this night going to last?
“I’ll take some Tylenol,” I said, brightly.
Connor appeared in the front hall, rumpled and exhausted, but gracious and excited to see us. “Let’s take this party outside!”
We took the nonparty out to the dimly lit back deck. The sun had set and it was quite cold out, and every available seat was covered with wet leaves. Connor shut the sliding door behind him and looked embarrassed. “So sorry, guys, we’re in a little bit of a . . . not a fight or anything but a little disagreement, sort of.”
“Well, that’s clear,” June said.
I began to admire, deeply, the fact that our hosts didn’t seem to give one single solitary fuckles in the world about our comfort as guests. Was this another by-product of growing up rich? The freedom to think us peasants don’t even need to be fed or have our eyeballs rest upon anything aesthetically pleasing or deserve to sit upon dry wood?
“Larissa’s gone to the store,” Connor said.
We nodded.
“Good. That’s . . . good for her,” Matt offered, kindly.
Connor made a face. “I just hope she goes somewhere close and not to the Whole Foods over the hill.” He stared off in a reverie. “She loves that Whole Foods.” He walked over to the grill and made another face. “Shit. I gotta call her and tell her we need some charcoal, too.”
“I haven’t left yet.”
We all jumped. Larissa had soundlessly opened the sliding door and was standing in the threshold, in terrifying silhouette.
“Connor,” she said in a low, even tone. “I can’t find the credit card. Did you pack it??”
“No,” he said, affecting the same tone. “Why would I have packed it?”
“I don’t know but I can’t find it,” she said through clenched teeth.
Something (else) odd was happening.
THE credit card? IT?? After college Connor’s parents gave him ten thousand dollars to direct and produce a piss-poor production of Three Sisters I’d starred in, alongside Larissa. And now they had only ONE credit card??
We all had the same thought. He’d been cut off.
Her nostrils flared but she sustained her calm, chilling tone. “Can. you. at. least. help. me. look. for. it??”
We all instinctively began brushing the wet leaves off the patio furniture and settling in.
Connor looked increasingly annoyed. “I can’t help you right now, Lariss, I’m trying to host my friends.” He turned back to us. “Do you guys want anything, by the way? Wine or diet root beer maybe?”
I raised my hand. “I’d love a—”
“Fine,” Larissa said, a threat in her voice. “Then I’ll just have to get the other one.”
“Stop,” Connor warned her, deadly serious. “Don’t. Just look for it, it’s probably still in your purse from when you went shopping yesterday and somehow got no food.”
“I’m getting the other one,” she said with finality.
Larissa stalked inside, and through the kitchen window we could see her rummaging through the drawers and cabinets.
“What are you guys working on?” Connor asked.
“Um, this and that,” Paul said. “I’m thinking about doing an animated show but who knows, it’s sort of just an idea at this point . . .” He trailed off.
Larissa was back and she was holding a hammer.
“Larissa,” Connor pleaded. “Come on. There’s probably cash in my jeans pocket.”
“I CHECKED THEM, CONNOR. THERE ISN’T!”
She then walked calmly across the deck and toward the grill and opened the door of a minifreezer I hadn’t noticed. She pulled out a huge block of ice and rested it on the bench next to her. She began hammering away at it. Pieces went flying into the air. Matt and Daryll, the closest to her, politely turned away. After about a minute she pulled out a sopping wet credit card.
She held it up and looked at us as if to say “Happy now?” Or, “This is my life now. My private hell. You’re welcome.”
Here we were. Trapped outside, inside this unhappy marriage. A long way from college. A long way from Three Sisters. A long way from the rehearsal rooms on Lafayette Street we spent four years dreaming and scheming in.
Larissa wiped the credit card off on her shirt and walked back inside. The door slammed behind her. My mind flashed on so many fights my parents had had (they never shied away from a public disagreement) and a familiar fearful feeling washed over me. I had to get out of there.
But I didn’t go. Because I wasn’t eight years old. I was thirty.
I stood up and followed Larissa into the house and offered her some of her Tylenol. Happy I was staying for dinner, but relieved that at the end of the night, I got to go home.