“Drama,” I say.
Roger laughs, a chuckle with a hint of sadness, regret. He looks down at the ground. “Their drama reminds me of my youth.”
“Were your parents a lot like them when you were a kid?” I ask.
“Oh, no,” he says. “Kathi and Miss Gracie don’t remind me of my childhood. They remind me of my youth. My fucking youth: my twenties, when I first started this job for them. They’ve been dramatic, fighting, at odds with each other like this since I’ve been here. It always upsets Miss Gracie. I tell her, don’t think of it as a fight or as hate, think of it as passion, which is love. I don’t know if it helps her feel better. It certainly hasn’t helped reduce the fighting. But there’s love behind it. I know it.”
“What a way to spend your youth,” I say.
“What a way to spend yours.”
“Did you ever think about leaving?”
“Nah,” Roger says. “What am I gonna do? Work at Walmart? Drive an Uber for drunk kids? No, thank you. I’ll never find another job with all this fame and wealth and comfort. Plus, I do kinda really love Miss Gracie. Always have. I just think it’s hard to change, and it’s easy to stay. The problem is, like Kathi, I never bottomed out, never had a glaring reason to quit all this, and so my addiction lives—addiction to them, I guess. And how could I leave all this?” He motions toward Miss Gracie’s house, the property, the three-car-garage library, the yard of oak trees and ornaments, the city of Beverly Hills, the universe, his universe. He says, “What else is there?”
“There’s having it all.”
“All?”
“Can’t you do this job and also have a rich personal life?”
“No,” he says.
I say, “I think maybe I can.”
“Pfft. There is no way to have both, my sweet friend. Being a celebrity assistant is like working for the Hollywood mob. No one comes before the family, there is only the family, you can’t leave the family. If you do, the townies will kill you—not with bullets, you’ll just die of longing.”
We sit for a moment, the hum of Miss Gracie’s bathtub filter system drowning out any sounds of nature. But that’s not why we’re out here. We’re escaping other forces of nature. I stand. “See you later?” I ask.
“Unfortunately,” he says. “Same time, same channel.”
“Bye, Roger.”
“Bye, Roger,” he says.
* * *
I lay blankets on my apartment floor for Ben and me to fool around and watch Netflix.
I shamefully move some of Mom’s unopened boxes into my laundry hamper and stuff a few behind the sofa. I’m ashamed of all this mess and clutter, untouched and unexamined for all this time. Perhaps regretfully, I am my father’s son.
I have ice cream ready in the freezer. And I have a gift for him: the photo taken of us by the political-survey people outside of Intelligentsia Coffee. Our first meeting—captured forever—framed and wrapped in blue paper with a gold bow, hidden under a throw pillow. When we have our fifty-year wedding anniversary, it’ll be fun to have this souvenir.
Ben is on his way. He’s bringing wine, he’s bringing snacks, he’s bringing bad news.
Ben shows up for our date wearing jeans and flannel and puffy eyes.
“I’m so sorry…” he says, starting to crack. I’m lying naked and ready for him, tucked in the nest of blankets I made for us, and he’s standing in the doorway, his coat still on, his guard still up. I know what’s coming.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say.
I die inside, but I smile sweetly to calm him, to be kind, to service his emotions. I’m good at service.
Assistant Bible Verse 142: Your needs must wait.
“My dad has been sick,” he says, “and it’s so hard to deal with that plus my job and the travel for my job and travel for your job, and you’re amazing, but I’m just not in a place right now for this.”
I must still have my assistant hat on, because despite my anger and hurt and nakedness, I turn to comfort, to calm, to de-escalation. My insides are burning, but my face stays stoic; my mind says not to make a scene. “It’s okay, I understand,” I say, the words coming out robotically.
I feel frustrated that he didn’t break up with me sooner, differently. I’d prefer to know immediately when things aren’t working out. In fact, I’d prefer these guys not tell me at all! I’d prefer they text. Or at least call, instead of a face-to-face humiliation, awkward hugs, boner killers. But Ben is sweet, he’s got integrity. He does it in person. He leaves me, and then he leaves me, walking out of my apartment, taking all the slices of our relationship pie with him, none left for me.
I take the photo of us I had framed, still in its blue paper, still in its gold bow, and throw it in the trash. I hear the glass crack. Another waste.
I’m thinking, There go more blue dots from my calendar, and I want to throw my fucking phone across the room, have a fit of fury and rage. But I remain still, keeping the war inside, my phone tight in my grip. I’m realizing it’s not Ben I want to hurt; it’s the phone, it’s the job, it’s the inevitable loss of me in my life. As I open the calendar app and start deleting my future plans with Ben—the dinners, the movie nights—the blue dots vanish, prompting the pink dots to spread like a virus, filling in all the gaps. It’s not their fault. They’re just a program. They’re my newest teacher: This life is my program. I’m deleting myself.
I walk around the corner to a little café to sit at the bar alone and order a glass of wine while I log in to OkCupid to look for the next one.
I’m thinking, Ben. Ben. Ben.
The wine arrives, the glass of liquid gold swishing, sashaying before me. I’m scrolling through dating profiles, annoyed with everyone, including myself, that I’m back on the hunt. Scrolling, scrolling, drinking. And the first glass is gone. I tip it back, try to get every last drop out, and I’m hyperaware that I want another, another pour, more wine, more medicine. I hunger, like Kathi hungers for more out of her life. I want more, more, more, like the primal beast in me that Therapista called passively suicidal.
Greed knows no end.
The bartender asks if I want another.
I’m thinking, Yes.
But I say, “No, thanks.”
I’m the new me in this moment. I’m feeling like nothing, but now I have a scale to measure it by, because unlike my childhood, when I only knew one feeling—submission—or my twenties, when I only knew one feeling—depression—now having met and experienced Kathi Kannon, I have a reference for how it feels to be alive, to feel like I have a life worth living. I do a reality check. I’m making money. I’m banking self-esteem. I don’t need Ben. I want him, but I don’t need him. I can find someone else. And anyway, in the meantime I have her, and as long as I have her, I’ll find another boyfriend, because Kathi Kannon, no matter her complications, makes me a catch.
Hello, HotJock.
Hello, PalmSpringsWeekend.
Hello, WendellAcrobat.
17
With my boss tucked away in the care of Orion Towers, I’m thinking, This seems like a good time to replace Ben. I have to branch out and I have the time. I’ve handled the short list of people who had to be notified that Kathi is taking a mental health break: agent, attorney, accountant. I notice that Kathi’s circle of close contacts is small, just like mine. The absence of blue dots on my calendar is alarming, sad. Am I as isolated as she is? Am I Roger?