Roommates

The morning of Elise’s date with Max she woke filled with nervous energy. Bella slept next to her, and Scrubbles slept at the foot of her bed. Lying next to the two pets made her relax a little more.

If it were up to Bella, the two pets would be best friends. She wagged her tail furiously and even jumped in circles sometimes when Scrubbles entered the room. However, the cat had kept his cool. He wasn’t entirely sure about the dog yet and often eyed her suspiciously if she came too close. Despite his trepidation, Scrubbles had seemed to find comfort in Elise’s room. Who could really blame him? The apartment was too gross, even for an animal.

She pictured Max in his shop, his toned arms peeking from a T-shirt while he tuned a Gibson. He was probably as calm as could be. She felt hungry, but when she thought of food, nothing sounded good to her. She opened the fridge and scanned the contents. Leftover pizza. Yogurt. Beer. A bottle of vodka. The only thing that sounded good to her was toast, and she headed for the pantry, nearly tripping over Iris’s Ugg boots en route.

While she waited for her toast to cook, she thought about what she should wear. Her only experience with the track had been seeing Seabiscuit on the big screen. Since watching the movie she’d been under the impression that horse races were a dressy affair. Women wore sundresses with matching gloves and glamorous hats. What would Max think if she greeted him at the front door, wearing a flowered sundress with gloves to her elbows and a hat that Princess Diana would’ve sported? She envisioned a look of panic washing over his face, the color draining from his cheeks. She’d stick with jeans and a blouse.

The toaster let out a loud ding, and she pulled out the bread with the tips of her fingers. When she opened the silverware drawer it was almost empty. Except for the dull butcher knife Elise had taken from her parents’ Salvation Army pile eight years ago and a cheese grater, there was nothing else. She looked at the mound of dishes in the sink and decided she would rather not pick through lasagna explosions and bowls with cereal mush to find a butter knife. She’d unloaded her silverware, but Megan and Iris had already used every single piece, discarding them all in the wasteland known as their sink when they were finished.

While buttering her toast with a butcher knife she debated waiting for Max on the street corner a block from their apartment. This way he wouldn’t have to see the dish heap in their sink or the three-day-old cranberry vodka cocktails on the coffee table, a roach clip floating in one.

Though she didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot, she decided to ask them to help her tidy up a bit before Max arrived. It was only fair, considering she hadn’t mixed one cocktail yet. However, it was ten o’clock, and Max was picking her up at two. The girls were still asleep. So far they hadn’t gotten out of bed before eleven. And the odor of cat urine that wafted from Iris’s room was enough to keep her away for the moment.

She took a trip to the Dumpster and when she returned, she heard music coming from Megan’s room. She knocked on the door and waited. “Coming!”

When her roommate opened the door, she wore a G-string and pink tank top, which didn’t leave much to the imagination. Elise waited for her to explain that she hadn’t done laundry in six months and thus had run out of clean pants and a bra. Instead she waited for Elise to explain what she was doing in her doorway with the vacuum and a bottle of 409.

“Hi,” Elise said. “I don’t mean to bug you, but I have a date today, and he’s picking me up here . . .” She hated being the anal one and could feel an uncontrollable babble attack coming on. The moment she stumbled off, she’d uncontrollably spew out sentences like a broken sprinkler head. She tried to remain placid and continued, “And anyway, I was wondering if you guys could help me clean up because well, he’s going to be here in about two hours, and he hasn’t seen my place yet, and um—”

“You have a date? Yeah, I’ll help you clean. But you know most of the mess is Iris’s. And if she didn’t sleep all day, our apartment wouldn’t look this way.” She immediately headed to her sister’s door and let herself in.

“What’s disgusting is the sound of you having sex every night. Maybe I wouldn’t sleep so late if there was any peace and quiet around here.”

She had heard something but was so tired she never quite figured out what the noise was. “Um. I fell asleep early,” she said not wanting to get involved. She was thinking of ways to prevent them from fighting when out of Megan’s room sauntered a guy with a severe case of bed head and extremely wrinkled clothes. Elise thought that perhaps she would be introduced to this gentleman, but instead he walked past them and mumbled, “Later.”

Who was this? Obviously he was responsible for keeping Iris up all night, but Megan was clearly not going to provide many details about his identity as she sat there bantering with Iris in her underwear. Elise really hoped she got dressed before Max arrived.

Iris hopped out of bed, also wearing only her underpants and a tank top. “That guy is such a loser,” she said. Elise wondered if he could hear them. “Such a player.”

It was awkward standing there while the two of them fought in their underwear. However, listening to them argue was way too good to pass up. She had no idea Megan was romantically involved with anyone, let alone some cad who apparently enjoyed loud sex.

She avoided looking at them and let her eyes wander over Iris’s room. The carpet was covered in dirty laundry, crusty underwear, and jeans with grass stains around the lower hems. If Elise were asked what color Iris’s carpet was, she would honestly have no clue. There was not one square inch of unoccupied floor space.

A congealed Salisbury steak dinner rested on her nightstand next to several half-full glasses of wine. Cigarette butts floated like dead logs in her Chardonnay, making the liquid appear piss-colored. There was dry cat food sprinkled over her dirty clothes, and Elise noticed a small stain of blood on her sheets.

They spent all morning cleaning. Elise suspected they were doing a half-assed job, shoving everything in closets and cupboards just to make things look tidy. But there was no time to complain. After showering she spent several minutes picking out an outfit and settled on her favorite jeans and a white Spanish-looking top with red flowers that fell off her shoulders.

While she waited for Max she watched a rerun of The Real World with Iris and Megan. She’d never been a huge fan of the show, but since she had moved to Mission Beach she had really begun to conclude that you had to be a total nut to qualify for the show.

The doorbell rang, and Iris and Megan didn’t even bother to take their eyes from the television. This was fine with her, because she didn’t really want a huge audience while she greeted Max.

There was something about a guy with wet hair that turned her on, and seeing Max with his damp hair slicked away from his face made a flock of butterflies explode in her stomach. He smelled delicious, too, and except for his little soul patch beneath his lip, his face looked smooth and clean from a fresh shave.

“Come on in,” she said. She wondered what he would think of her after meeting her college-aged roommates and seeing her run-down apartment. He owned his shop and the loft that he lived in above it, and she suddenly felt slightly insecure about her living situation.

“Yeah, I mean, you must get the best sunsets every night living down by the water. I grew up at the beach, and that is one thing I really miss living out in North Park.”

She felt a need to get him out of there before he noticed the stains on the carpet or Megan’s butt peeking from the bottom of her shorts. “Well, all right. We should be on our way.” She reached for her purse.

She had forgotten about his motorcycle and wondered how she could miss such a huge detail. She’d be touching him. “No. Not at all.” However, this suddenly changed everything. If she had dragon breath she could forget making it to date two with him.

He looked at her flip-flops. A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “You can’t wear those on the bike though. You gotta wear something that covers your feet.”

She quickly headed back to her room and changed into her Pumas with the silver stripes up the sides. After sliding into her sneakers she tore through her desk drawer like an animal. Of course she was out of breath freshener when she needed it most. For a moment she debated brushing her teeth again. However, he was waiting around the corner, and would probably hear the frantic sound of her grating toothbrush. Instead, she slipped into the bathroom on her way back to the living room, squeezed a dollop of toothpaste onto her finger, shoved it in her mouth, swished it around, and swallowed before joining them.

The air outside was unusually warm and dry for the beach. She was glad they were experiencing a dry, hot summer, because this meant the ocean’s humidity wouldn’t make her face look like wet spaghetti.

When they reached his motorcycle he handed her a helmet. “Here’s the spare.” It looked like a giant beige pumpkin. “I know it’s ugly,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’d trade with you, but mine will be way too big for you.”

When she slid it over her head she knew she looked like a fool. She could feel her cheeks squeezing together as if her grandmother were sandwiching them between her hands, telling her how much she’d grown. And her head suddenly felt as if it weighed more than her body. Furthermore, she wished she’d worn her hair up. It was sticking out of the bottom like a shag rug caught in a doorframe.

“Let me help you with the chin strap. It’ll loosen it up a little.” His big hands moved beneath her chin, and she could see the callused edges of his fingers while he loosened the strap.

He slid on his black, edgy, I own a guitar shop and hang out in North Park helmet, and she wondered what he must think of this little peon riding on the back of his bike.

The only time she had ever climbed onto the back of a moving object was when she had been horseback riding in college. She knew it was going to be a little awkward climbing onto the back of his Harley-Davidson. Even worse, in fact. When she’d been horseback riding, she’d had the horse to herself. Was she supposed to hang on to Max? Did she slide her arms around his waist? Prop her hands on his shoulders? Hang on to the seat for dear life? Maybe she should ask. He motioned with his thumb for her to hop on the back.

She slid her arms around his waist and put her feet on the tiny little kickstand that they shared. Even though he wasn’t wearing a jacket, he smelled like leather and mint gum.

Riding on the back of his motorcycle was like hanging out on one long, fun ride at Disneyland. The fresh air on her face and the way her heart raced when he sped up made her wish they were driving to Cabo San Lucas rather than just twenty minutes to Del Mar. His waist felt firm and strong, and his T-shirt soft and clean against the side of her face.

The scent of clean Del Mar salt water and the soft breezes that filtered beneath her thin cotton shirt were enough to make her already love the races.

They walked to the open-air Spanish-style stadium. She was surprised at how clean the grounds were, not a piece of trash to be found. When she went to Padres games there were peanut shells and empty beer cans even at the entrance. It was the first time she had ever been to a sporting event and seen valet parking in the front. Every kind of luxury imaginable lined the driveway of the track, and she wondered if she should’ve worn the hat and gloves after all.

Max bought their tickets and gave Elise a small guide that showed which horses were racing, which jockeys were riding them, and a million other abbreviated things she decided to try to figure out later. He showed her in detail how to bet, and she asked if they could just watch the first race just as a practice round so she could get the hang of it before blowing any money.

He smiled. “Of course. Let’s grab drinks while we’re waiting.” He bought them each a beer. As she took the first crisp sip she couldn’t imagine doing anything better than playing hookey and sipping a cold beer on a sunny day with him. If the date ended now, she would’ve had a blast.

“C’mon. I want to show you something,” he said as he pulled her hand. As he led her around the grounds, she looked around. She had never seen such a variety of people in her entire life. There were old men in polyester and orthopedic shoes studying the odds from newspaper clippings. She suspected they probably knew a lot more about betting than the surfers who had taken a break from the swell and were still wearing their swim trunks, or the tourists who appeared to be just as confused as Elise was about betting. There were people still wearing their suits from work and parents who had brought their little kids.

She scanned the stands for Lady Di hats and spotted a handful of women who looked as if they were attending a presidential inauguration. But for the most part people were dressed like Max and Elise.

They walked down to a small track where several horses slowly pranced around a fence, their jockeys riding atop them like little mice dressed in colorful caps and black boots. A number of gamblers and photographers hung around the rail of the Paddock and watched the horses as if they were studying for an exam.

She remembered the time she had gone horseback riding at a dusty dude ranch near Tucson with several of her girlfriends. She had blown her nose later that day, and her boogers had dirt in them. Their guide, a skinny cowboy with the worst teeth Elise had ever seen in her life, handed her the reins of a brown horse with a rough coat the color of a seventy-year-old copper penny. The horse’s name was Pappy and had absolutely no spark in its eyes.

The stallions that Elise admired today clearly bore no relation to Pappy. Dark chocolate in color and as sleek as brand-new Ferraris, these horses lifted their necks and knees like dazzling showgirls as they looped around the paddock. Instead of kicking up manure-laced dirt, their polished hooves tossed up dark earth similar in texture to the expensive potting soil her mother used in her rose garden. They carried themselves in such a way that made arrogance look absolutely beautiful. Just watching them made her heart beat faster.

He nodded. “A lot of people like to see them before they bet. Sometimes if a horse is acting temperamental it might mean they’re distracted. They may not race as well.”

She was admiring a horse the color of fresh coffee beans when she heard a vaguely familiar voice behind her. “Elise? Elise Sawyer? Is that you?”

Her gaze moved from a polished set of hooves to Thomas Yackrell. Dressed in slacks that made his kneecaps look knobby, he wore the same tasseled loafers he’d sported at her parents’ house. His legs looked like chopsticks, and he seemed much taller and paler than she remembered.

He didn’t even glance at Max. “I know. I buy a booth here every season for my company. We’re up there.” He pointed to the section where she’d seen the Lady Di hats. “You’re more than welcome to join us.” When he turned his head toward Max, she noticed how severe the part in his hair was. “And, um, you can bring . . .”

Max’s hand was curled around his beer, his star tattoo as bold and bright as any jockey uniform. When he moved his beer to the other hand to shake with Thomas, she noticed veins twitch in his forearms. His skin looked tanned next to Thomas’s pink hands. “Nice to meet you,” Max said.

“Great. I’ll call you. Let’s try to get together for dinner, too. Enjoy the races.” He spun on his loafers and almost left. Almost. However, he paused to look over his shoulder. “Oh and it was a pleasure meeting you, Mike.”

“I’m betting on the female jockey,” Elise said as she flipped through her little guide. “Julie Krone is her name. And I like the name of her horse. Tigermite. Screw checking the odds and all that other nonsense. I like that name, and I’ve gotta support the chick rider.”

Max looked at her choice, then raised an eyebrow. “That horse is the long shot. But you should go with your first instinct. Sometimes it’s lucky just to pick the names you like. And if the long shot wins, you’ll really cash in.”

Elise looked at her race program while they waited in line. There were trifectas and all kinds of things Elise had yet to understand. She sort of felt nervous. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing. What if she screwed up and held up the whole line? What if the bet-taker guy got mad at her for being a novice gambler?

When she walked up to the counter she handed the attendant two dollars and remembered everything Max had told her. Apparently, there was a sequence in betting. “I’d like to put two dollars on number seven to show.” It was a very safe bet.

The man took her money and handed her a ticket. Max was next, and his betting was much more calculated and complex. She still wasn’t certain what he had done after they left the counter. She just knew he’d bet on Ice Princess and Happy Dayz.

Even though they had paid for seats in the grandstand, they watched the first race from the lower level of the track. “This is where all the real action is,” Max said as he leaned against the railing.

“Tha hawses are approaching the starting gate,” a male British accent announced. She had expected the same British man to stroll onto the green wearing plaid plants and carrying a pistol that he would shoot off before sending the horses bolting in terror. However, the British voice returned and simply said, “And away they go,” just as casually as if he were saying “Cheerio, love.”

At first she couldn’t keep track of what the Brit was saying because he was talking so fast. The starting gate was clear on the other side of the track, so she couldn’t really see. But when the horses came around the corner she could see that Tigermite was somewhere in the front. She clung to the fence.

“Tigermite taking gain over You Betcha Luck,” she heard him say in his speedy announcement. “First place Tigermite! Second place Bridesmaid. And third place Neverending Story.”

He smiled and rubbed her back. “I know. Lemme see your ticket.” He looked at the little square of paper. “You probably won about eighty bucks. We’ll see when we cash it in.”

She made eighty-five dollars and bet four on the next race. When the races started, she watched as an ambulance circled the track. She’d been so excited during the last race that she hadn’t noticed it. “What’s the ambulance for?” she asked.

She had never been to something more exciting. She didn’t win every race, but found that the thrill and anticipation of watching her horse outweighed any losses. At the end of the day she and Max both walked away with a little extra cash in their wallets.

She wasn’t. Butterflies had moved into her stomach and taken control since he’d picked her up, but she didn’t want the date to end. “Yes. I am.”

The Red Fox was located on the lower level of an old hotel in North Park. Like the hotel, the décor looked as if it hadn’t been updated in years. Part restaurant, part bar, it was dimly lit. It was crowded with young North Park barhoppers. But the most interesting part of the Red Fox was the entertainment. An elderly woman with a cap of snow white hair sat in the corner of the bar playing a large keyboard. In front of her, a row of retired people waited to karaoke to their favorite old hits. A man who appeared to be pushing eighty was singing “It Had to Be You” when Elise and Max slid into a booth.

The man sang with the same enthusiasm any twenty-year-old would’ve given the song, and his smile seemed to send rays of light over the bar. Elise could’ve sat in the Red Fox for hours, watching the geriatric karaoke.

“Well, I went to college in San Francisco. But I quit after a couple years. My band was touring all the time, and school wasn’t working out with touring and everything.”

“I’m sure you understand what it’s like. It’s like any other industry where you’re creating your own product. You never know where you’re going to be. I wanted more stability.”

“We were signed by a big label when I was playing music, but our album never took off. I had a lot of money from my advance though, so I quit the band and cashed in.”

“Good for you. If I had money to buy a place, I would in a heartbeat. Sometimes I feel like it’s pointless to even save. By the time I do have enough money, condos will be a million dollars.”

She could’ve sat there talking to him all night about life. They ate steaks and drank red wine, and Elise watched women who probably belonged to her grandmother’s gin club belt out songs like “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”

He drove her home, and she could feel that awkward part of the evening approaching. The part where she didn’t know if he would kiss her, or maybe even ask to come in. What she really hoped is that he’d make plans to see her again soon. Or would he politely say he had a good time and disappear into the starry night, never to be heard from again, which had happened to Elise a couple times.

“We’ll have to do it again.” She sensed he meant it and wondered if he would kiss her on the cheek, the lips, or would he just go for a nice hug? These all meant different things. She hoped her breath smelled okay and tried to catch a whiff of it while she searched for her keys.

Elise whipped around to face Iris, Megan, and a fellow she’d never met before holding a gigantic, life-sized poster. Elise wasn’t sure what was more interesting, the fact that they were sprinting full speed down Mission Boulevard dressed as hookers and a pimp or the half-naked men featured on the poster that flapped in front of them as they sped toward the apartment.

Elise fumbled with her keys, while their feather boas flapped up around their necks. As soon as she pushed their door open, they ran through like fugitives. “Close the door! Close the damn door!” their friend shouted as he dove onto their staircase.

“We were coming back from a pimp and ho party,” Iris explained, “when Megan here noticed this poster at a bus stop bench.” Their friend held up a poster of several men with huge muscles and the same hairstyles as Fabio. Their weenies bulged from black Speedos like sacks of potatoes, and bow ties clung to their necks. Thunder Down Under at the Pala Indian Reservation was boldly advertised on top. “It’s a poster for a strip club!” Megan exclaimed. “I told Iris and Joe that I wanted it, and the next thing I knew, Joe had broken into the poster’s holder and ripped it out. We were all looking at it when a flashlight came toward us, and it was this stupid security guard on a bike. We just fled.”

Max chuckled. “I ripped off a poster for that movie Natural Born Killers when I was in college. We had Woody Harelson’s gigantic head in our apartment forever.”

She knew she wasn’t going to get a kiss with an audience there and sort of felt like kicking a hole through their Chippendales poster. For tonight, she’d just have to settle for a pat on the shoulder.