BEAUTY TO THE TENTH POWER!
OR HOW I GOT SCREWED OVER BY A DUDE, GOT CHEAP COSMETIC SURGERY IN MEXICO, AND LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER
A Novel by Mary Hahn
Copyright 2011 Mary Hahn
Smashwords Edition
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Dedication: To Kathleen O’Brien, the best friend a girl could ever have.
You’d be surprised how much it costs to look this cheap. I know I’m not a natural beauty. I’ve got short legs, little hands, and a tiny frame. And, yes, I’ve had cosmetic surgery. I’ve had nips and tucks and trims and sucks, boobs and waist, and butt and such, eyes and chin and back again.
—Dolly Parton
Any woman can be beautiful. Even if she’s a man. All she needs is a Victoria’s Secret catalog, a good plastic surgeon, and a sizable trust fund.
—Jade Taylor, Cosmetolatrix
Chapter One
The interesting thing about Jade and me is that we’ve been to hell and back and yet we still look fabulous. We’ve hardly aged at all. We’re beautiful, and we’ve managed to preserve our beauty without spending large amounts of cash. We’re talking do-it-yourself cosmetic surgery here, not to mention thievery and blackmail.
I met Jade Taylor 15 years ago, through my boyfriend who was best friends with her boyfriend. This was before medical school, back when I was living on Party Street in Hollywood. Our boyfriends were in a rock band called Luke Warm and the Rinse Cycle. Yeah. They were. Lukewarm. I was 26, Jade pretended she was 25. It was the beginning of what I call my sleazy years. I guess I’m on the outer fringes of my sleazy years now, but Jade is still in the throes of hers.
My downward slide into what I call The Pit of Sleaze began, as near as I can figure, with the can of liquid nitrogen. The can Jade talked me into stealing from the OR. Actually it was a can and a 10 liter tank, but who’s counting? I’d never stolen anything in my life, so I guess that tank represents a major breakthrough in my Assertiveness Training Class, courtesy of Cosmo magazine.
Jade is mostly (okay, partially) to blame for the bad stuff that happened to me as a result of my five-finger discount. She doesn’t deny it. So why are we still friends? Because I’m a turnip, that’s why, and because Jade has this way of talking me into doing things I do not want to do. Some people will do anything to save a friendship.
Jade was there from the beginning. And in the beginning there was beauty.
In my quest for total beauty I spent a lot of time in the dermatologist’s office. I was forever getting those unattractive skin lesions called actinic keratoses. You know, those sun-induced, crusty patches that never go away, no matter how much you scrub them with Comet cleanser on a Brillo pad. Sure, they bleed. They bleed bad, then a scab forms that you think will heal, but it doesn’t. It turns into the nasty little dry patch you started out with, only bigger.
So you pay a visit to your dermatologist to stop the vicious cycle that prevents your skin from realizing its full, glorious potential. He sprays you with a can of liquid nitrogen, the Can-O-Beauty, as Jade affectionately named it. At last a scab develops that falls off, never to return, revealing baby skin underneath. Cost: $250 give-or-take.
Toward the end of my second year of medical school, when my finances were pretty much decimated, I asked my dermatologist, Dr. Thigpen, if he would sell me one of those cans of his so I could freeze my own lesions. I figured I’d just charge it on my Visa and it would pay for itself in a year or so. I’m a medical student, I reminded him, planning a career in plastics, and I was perfectly capable of freezing my own lesions.
He refused, the money-grubbing bastard.
What’s the big deal? All you had to do was point the nozzle and squeeze the button, until your skin felt like a match had been held to it. Point and shoot, like one of those cheap cameras, right?
Dr. Thigpen’s unwillingness to cooperate left me totally pissed. I wanted to be beautiful, dammit—and at a reasonable cost.
It’s not like I was scheming to open an underground dermatology clinic, for God’s sake. This happened later, and was purely accidental.
Man, I had such big plans for the Can-O-Beauty. I wanted to freeze away every mole, every freckle, every flaw on my body. I wanted to make my skin as smooth and clear and white as a ping-pong ball.
My obsession with my looks was becoming insane. I’d begun scrutinizing my reflection in mirrors whenever I passed them and whispering, “Ish.” I wondered, did my nose turn up too much? Are freckles and red hair considered uncool? Shouldn’t I go blonde? No way—Jade would kill me. I felt short and dumpy, which is easy to feel around six-foot Jade. After a comment of hers that flats make me walk like a duck, I’d resorted to wearing dangerously high heels to med school every day. Even during autopsies.
I worried about wrinkles 24/7. Were there new ones spiking out from my eyes with every smile? Should I quit smiling altogether? And what about those lines around my mouth? I knew where those came from, all right: years and years of drinking milk through Flav-O-Straws.
And let’s not forget that every dime of my paltry income went to expensive cosmetics and clothes. I wanted to be a man magnet. I wanted to look great—on the outside, anyway. On the inside I was freakin’ mess.
I was becoming shallow and vain, just like Jade, a Junior Jade. I was even starting to sound like her, calling total strangers dahling.
I guess even then Jade’s moral perversion had begun to rub off on me. I figure by the time I finished medical school there was a thick coating of moral perversion covering my entire body.
Jade, I should mention, is a beauty professional, committed to spreading beauty throughout the land. She’s a cosmetologist by trade, but she’s much more than that. Suffice it to say that beauty dominates her life.
Jade was always trying to get me to go into some kind of business with her. And I was willing, as long as she kept things more or less legal. But then, at the ripe old age of 27, I was accepted to medical school. Once I got busy with school I had to turn down Jade’s business offers. But Jesus, I was broke. The only food I could afford was hospital food, and I don’t mean the hot stuff served in the cafeteria. We’re talking vending machine food which is not food per se.
Like clockwork I went to Dr. Thigpen when another solar lesion sprouted on my face. My 30th birthday was a month away and I was scared to death my skin was going to disintegrate like a sheet of wet toilet paper. It was July, the end of a cruel second year of school which featured National Boards Part One, a new and delicious form of mental and physical torture.
There, in Dr. Thigpen’s office, I met my future boyfriend, my worst menstrual cramp, my most hellishly painful root canal during a Novocain shortage. His name was Steve Bono. I never thought I’d catch anything remotely resembling a boyfriend in Dr. Thigpen’s office.
So there I sat, in Thigpen’s tastefully decorated reception room, scanning the July issue of Scientific American. Across from me was posted a tasteful brown leather couch, and splayed over the couch like he owned it was this amazing man. I tried hard not to look at him, but it was difficult given the fact that he was much more interesting than the article I was reading on ribonucleotides and self-replicating DNA.
He was 32 or maybe 35 years old, slim-hipped and muscular, with wild, pecan-colored curls, and skin I would die for—you know, poreless, smooth as butter. He looked like somebody. Somebody famous. More famous than me, anyway.
He glanced up from his Time and smiled sweetly, and there was this humongous dimple on the right side. None on the left. Love that!
I averted my eyes and buried my face in my article so I wouldn’t do anything stupid like smile hugely and show too much gum.
He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Miss?”
I blushed. A request for my phone number, perhaps? I flashed him a quick, knowing smile. This kind of thing happens all the time, I lied to myself. I lowered my voice an octave and raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Could you toss me that Sports Illustrated, please?”
“Uh, yeah.” I handed him the magazine, making sure he could see the lack of wedding ring on my left hand.
One thing led to another. That’s the way love is, the way it has to be: growing, proliferating. Like a tumor.
“You know, you remind me of a woman named Bree who was prop master on a play I was doing. You could be twins.”
My eyes got all wide and watery. “Oh, really?” Sucker.
“Yeah, Bree’s this young Irish lady. Very beautiful. And you look just like her.”
“Oh, thanks,” I said, thrilled. I knew I wasn’t beautiful, and I wasn’t that young, either. But this Bree person, whoever she was, sounded great. I wanted to be her. I wanted to be anybody but me. “You’re an actor, then?” Wild guess.
“Yup.” His pale brown eyes crinkled at the corners and suddenly I was glued to the tasteful chair in Dr. Thigpen’s office.
I searched my thoughts for something of value. “So, you’re actually a working actor?” Pathetic.
He set down his magazine, leaned forward, stuck out his hand, and I shook it. “Steve Bono. I’m also a licensed massage therapist.”
A masseur, eh? I glanced heavenward. I should have known. He had a great handshake—firm—which meant he respected me as a human being. None of that wimpy, half-assed, fingertip hold that some men try to pass off to women as a handshake. I spied chest hair curling over the neck of his T-shirt, which caused me to squeak, not unlike Minnie Mouse, “I’m Ginger O’Rourke.”
“Ginger O’Rourke, Ginger O’Rourke,” he chanted. He bit a full lower lip. “I knew you were Irish with that red hair.”
“I’m part Irish, on my father’s side.”
“I’m 100 percent Italian.” He crossed and uncrossed his legs, then stuck his hand into his jeans pocket, withdrew a package of Trident Cinnamon and, after offering me some which I turned down, crammed a piece into his mouth.
An Italian actor, eh? I’d never had an Italian, or an actor for that matter, vie for my affections. I could see why he was attracted to me, though. Opposites, and everything. He with umber hair and copper skin, I with birch white skin, diffuse freckles, cascading red hair, pouty lips, A-frame brows, etc, etc.
“So what are you here for?” he asked.
I told him, in marked detail, about my dermatological problems, while he listened attentively. I often find myself describing atypical medical conditions to anyone who will listen.
He leaned close and lowered his voice. “I’m here for this rash, and it’s in an inconvenient location, if you know what I mean.”
“And you’re not one bit shy about revealing things of a personal nature,” I remarked. Love that in a man. I wondered about the possibility of inviting him to my urology final as a pretend patient.
He shrugged. “Revealing myself is my business.” Then he grinned, and I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. “I’m used to unpacking my emotional baggage and spewing it on the ground for people to trample. You can’t be shy and be an actor.”
I think he was sincere. Please, God, don’t let him be dumb, I prayed. An exhibitionist if You must, but please, not dumb.
He laughed, and ran a tongue over even white teeth. Nice porcelain veneers, I had to admit. That meant he had money. Or really good dental insurance.
“You don’t seem typical of the male species,” I noted, tugging at the knees of my black leggings. Rrriiiip! Cheap dime store rags. “Most men don’t unpack anything, especially emotions.”
“Thanks, I think,” Steve said.
“How long have you been an actor?”
“All my life, I guess. I did a bunch of commercials when I was a kid, toothpaste and cereal, stuff like that. Then finally I got a break when I was in my twenties.”
“Oh? Let me guess. A part in a soap opera?” He looked the type.
“Well, it was Othello, actually. I guess you could call that a soap.”
“Really? Othello, huh?” I could feel my jaw sitting on my shoes.
“Yeah, it was a Canadian stage production. Not bad, either. There’s nothing like the immediacy of the stage.” His golden eyes were distant suddenly, full of memory, and of passion, and I wondered if he was in love with somebody (besides himself). I wanted to scratch her eyes out, whoever she was. I prayed it wasn’t that Bree chick. Wouldn’t that just beat all? Somebody who looks exactly like me, but who isn’t me, dammit.
“I would love to have seen your play. I’ve always been crazy about Shakespeare!” I shrilled. Horrified, I thought, it was Shakespeare who wrote Othello, wasn’t it?
“Well, you’re in luck, because I think you can rent the DVD, at least that’s what I’ve been told. It was a PBS special.” He pushed a stray curl behind his ear.
A warmth rolled through my body as I realized there was a way for me to look at this man over and over, to scrutinize him in glorious, full-color detail, thanks to the pause feature on my TV remote. There aren’t any nude scenes in Othello, are there?
“You seem, somehow, you sound so talented.” Brilliant one, Ginger. Why don’t you just lick the soles of his Nikes and get it over with?
Steve zeroed in: “And what about you? Are you a nurse or something?”
“Not exactly...”
“I just thought, by your knowledge of dermatology, I figured you must work in the medical profession.”
I tossed my head. “I read a lot of medical journals.” Never one to brag, I don’t usually tell people I’m in medical school unless pressed. Of course, once pressed, I can’t shut up.
“Medical journals, eh? Most ladies I’ve been meeting lately read nothing but Cosmo and Bride.” His eyes were warming me like a sun lamp turned up to Crispy.
“Cosmo’s crap,” I lied. “Well, if you must know, I’m a medical student.”
“Really?” He seemed shocked. They always are. “You’re studying to be a doctor? Wow! No wonder you’re so smart. What area of medicine? My father’s a neurologist.”
“Well, er, plastics, eventually, I hope.” His father’s a neurologist? Yes!
“That’s a hard discipline for women to get into, I hear. A real Men’s Club. You must be brilliant if you’re going into plastics!”
I thought to say, “Well actually med school has lost its charm, especially the part where you deal with doctors, but if I drop out Daddy will haunt me from the grave.” But I smiled instead.
“Me, I’m just average. People smart,” he went on. “But I know a good thing when I see it.” He popped his gum.
I blushed. He was clearly no match for my fine medical mind. I was, however, intrigued by the way he handed out the compliments right and left, not to mention the way he eviscerated his feelings to a total stranger. I wondered if he was the intuitive type who could tune right in and read a person’s aura and know things. I wondered, for example, if he could tell that I hadn’t had a man in almost a year and was horny as hell.
“Ah, that medical stuff’s way over my head,” he said. “Maybe you could give me a physical sometime.” He chewed his gum tauntingly, with a lopsided grin.
My blood pressure spiked to 190/100. I snuck a peek at his left hand, checking for a wedding ring. No ring. No white mark where a ring should be, either. There was, however, a quarter-sized ragged hole in his jeans, high on his taut thigh. He continued to grin and chew his gum crazily, elevating gum-chewing to an art. It was then that I noticed the tiny space between his two front teeth. It was then that I became hopelessly hooked. I’m a sucker for slight— key word, slight—tooth malalignment.
I tried to return a smile without using any facial muscles, a trick I learned from Jade. Asian women never show emotion on their faces, she tells me, that’s why they look 30 when they’re 75.
All at once a peppy blonde nurse showed up and sang, “Mr. Bono! Doctor will see you now!”
“Time to go.” Steve scrambled out of the couch. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet and snapped it open. “Here,” he said, handing me a gray business card. “See ya around sometime, maybe?”
“Argggfff,” I rasped, leaping out of the chair. I snatched the card, wrapping my sweaty fingers around it with a death grip. “Steve,” the card read, in blue script. There was a PO box and a phone number. And a fax number. The card felt good in my hands. Hell, it smelled good.
Ten minutes later I was summoned.
“You all right?” the nurse wanted to know as I floated next to her down the hallway. “You’re perspiring.”
“Uh-huh. It’s just a little tachycardia.”
“Shall I get Doctor?”
“There’s nothing anyone can do, nurse. It’s a mild case, really. I’ll get over it.”
She looked at me like I’d just said, “I’m a tuna fish sandwich, please eat me.”
“You needn’t worry, I’m quite knowledgeable about things of a medical nature,” I assured the woman, who had forgotten to close her mouth.
I noticed tartar caked along her lower incisors like slime in a turtle aquarium. I wanted to get my purse-sized toothbrush in there and scrub away; I’m always wanting to fix people, make them over. I guess I’m like Jade in that regard. That’s probably why I want to be a plastic surgeon—the ultimate makeover artist. Maybe that’s the only reason I want to be a doctor at all. Well, that, and the money. You can buy a lot of Anne Klein suits on a plastic surgeon’s salary.
“This way, please,” the nurse said, leading me to Examination Room Four.
As I passed Examination Room Three, I smelled the unmistakable aroma of—was it fried chicken? This early in the morning? Then I heard a small masculine shriek.
“Hey!” came a familiar voice from behind the closed door. “Watch it with that soldering iron, will ya, Doc? Those are the family jewels.”
Please don’t hurt Steve, I prayed. Had I known then what I know now I’d have shouted, “That’s it, Doc, brand him like the cob roller he is!”
Hindsight.
Chapter Two
So Jade said to me, “What is it with you and monkeys, anyway?”
“Very funny,” I bitched into the phone. I was on the OB/GYN floor, tucked into a darkened hallway facing Room 202. It was 7 a.m. and I’d just checked on my first rounds patient of the day, Mrs. Winkler, who was at this moment screaming at the top of her lungs, “Why don’t you bastards just kill me and get it over with?” Poor woman. If I ever have a baby, I’ll never know a second of discomfort, thanks to the multitude of expensive drugs at my fingertips. This woman, unfortunately, had no health insurance, so it was Controlled Panting and Coached Pain for her.
Why, I could hear Mrs. Winkler’s coach now, his soothing words flowing like honey with each contraction, “Sweetums, you’re doing just great! Squeeze my hand, there’s a good girl. Eddie understands.”
“Like hell Eddie understands,” I muttered to Jade. “You know what? They ought to make the men stick umbrellas up their butts, and the women can open them every time they have a contraction. How’s that for understanding?”
“Oooo, angry are we?” Jade purred. “You’d like to give Steve Bono the umbrella, wouldn’t you, honey? Hey! I like that. It has a nice ring... maybe I should give Ricky the umbrella.”
Ricky Paul is Jade’s ex-husband. His real name is Bob Clancy, but he changed his name the summer he tried to kick heroin.
“Good idea,” I said angrily.
“Maybe you should stick to monkeys,” Jade went on with a laugh. “You seem to have better luck with them.” She was referring to my recent hiring on part-time at the primate lab. It’s an entry-level position. Mostly I keep the monkeys from eating paper clips and smearing feces on the computer monitors.
I tried to laugh, but couldn’t, because she was absolutely right. I do have better luck with monkeys.
She continued, sighing, “Maybe I should find me a nice monkey-boy. Naaaa! I mean, chimps are cute and everything, God knows I’d date one in a minute but, like, what do you talk about besides lice and junk?”
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” I shouted into the mouthpiece over the birth wailings.
“Oh, I forgot, you have a fondness for hairy men. Girl, why can’t you work in a record store, or a beauty salon, like normal a person?”
“Because I’m not normal.” What I really wanted to say was, “I have higher aspirations than that.” I also thought to say, “I was normal until I met you.” But I decided it was too early in the morning to be handing out compliments. “Besides,” I told her, “I’d rather be around animals than people. At least they return your phone calls.”
I had sworn off men forever again, due to the fact that two weeks had passed and Steve Bono hadn’t returned the message I left on his answering machine. I had to swig down two beers before I got the nerve to make that call. I wasted over 300 calories that could have gone toward rocky road, dammit. Steve was probably at this moment giving that Bree chick a complimentary “therapeutic” massage. I hope he drowns in his massage oil. But, in the off chance his answering machine was on the fritz and he never got my message, I stashed his business card in my desk drawer, on top of my Visa bill, covering the part of the bill that reads new balance.
“Aaaiiieee!” Mrs. Winkler screamed.
“Hang on, Mrs. Winkler!” I yelled. She was dilated seven centimeters thirty minutes ago. If she thinks this is bad...
Jade said to me, big sister-like, “Honey, any time you have trouble with a man, you just send him to The Jade Taylor School of Discipline.”
I have no doubt she means business. That’s why I wouldn’t send Steve Bono to her School of Discipline if my looks depended on it. In fact, I’d racked my brains trying to think of a way to prevent the two of them from ever meeting, but so far had come up with nothing palpable short of offing Jade.
Jade Taylor is a man magnet. She’s got boobs for days, platinum hair, never wears anything but tight, low-cut black clothing, and is more than tall enough to be a model. Too bad her attitude sucks.
Jade will say whatever pops into her head to any man, anytime, anywhere. She will never let an opportunity slide through her well-manicured fingertips. She doesn’t care if they’re married, gay, straight, poor, drunk, retired, stupid, jail bait, or uninsured. As long as they’re breathing. She does draw the line at animals, though. Possibly. She’ll come up to a man she suspects as being gay and murmur, “So, you a dock or a boat?” She will demand that a man drop his drawers if she’s curious about his anatomy. And he’ll gladly do it. If I said that to a man, he’d laugh. But then I’m not 6’, blonde, and bad. Jade thinks nothing of stealing her friends’ boyfriends. She has met each and every one of her obscene phone callers; she claims she’s doing her part to help the mentally ill confront their problems.
Let’s face it, Jade is a tramp. And being around her is abundantly more educational than medical school.
“So what kind of men do you like, honey?” Jade asked, sounding like a Customer Service rep taking my order. “I mean real men, not monkey men. Because I have somebody in mind for you in case this Steve Bono thing doesn’t pan out.”
“I like men who aren’t afraid to cry,” I said, recalling a line from one of the Airplane! movies.
“All men will cry if you whip them hard enough,” Jade cackled.
“Yeah, yeah, you should know. Listen, I gotta go,” I told her, glancing down the hallway. My resident had just entered the patient’s room.
“Bye honey,” Jade said. “Hope Stevereno calls.”
“Me, too.” I hung up and went to check on my patient.
“You’re doing fine,” Dr. Kuris, the resident OB, was telling Mrs. Winkler. He was stationed at the Y, pulling on a pair of gloves. He was about twenty minutes early for the delivery, I figured. The RN, Dixie, had miscalculated Mrs. Winkler’s delivery and called Dr. Kuris a little too soon. Oops!
Dixie checked Mrs. Winkler’s blood pressure on the monitor, then dashed into the next room and screaming patient who was being attended to by an LPN and medical student.
Poor Nurse Dixie worked her butt off, all but delivering the patients, while Dr. Kuris waltzed in at the last second, yanked the kid, stitched up the patient, and split. Even though I was headed for doctorhood and not nursehood, this working arrangement did not seem fair.
I glanced at Kuris’s face, and the hateful look he was giving Mrs. Winkler’s crotch. She had inconvenienced him by needing his time. Dr. Kuris did not like to work during eating hours, those hours being 6-8, 12-2, and 6-8. I hated working with him. I liked my attending physician, Dr. White, but he was on the phone at the nurse’s station yelling at the lab about some lost lab results.
Mrs. Winkler puked on her coach—she was in transition—and Dr. Kuris said smartly, “Clean that up, will you, Doctor?”
I glanced around. “You mean me?”
“The custodian’s union contract clearly stipulates they do not clean up vomit.” He meant me.
Like a good lowly med student I went to fetch a washcloth from the bathroom. While I was in there I looked at myself in the mirror. Jesus! Bleary-eyed, hair matted, brown under eye circles, stains on my lab coat. I looked like a junkie with a head cold. My beauty was fading fast, and it occurred to me that medical school was robbing me of my ability to attract men. This would not do at all.
I’d started out my first year of med school fresh, optimistic, naive, and clear-eyed. Now I was pimply, bloated, and pissed off. I was becoming as jaded as Kuris. I swore I’d never take it out on a patient’s crotch, though.
Mrs. Winkler screamed at the top of her lungs, “You did this to me, you son of a bitch, it’s all your fault!” I’d heard that line quite a few times during my six-week clerkship in OB/GYN.
I smiled and pictured her pointing to Dr. Kuris, and the look of horror on her husband’s face as he wondered if she’d done it with Kuris.
I was tempted to open the bathroom door and shout, “That’s it, honey, give ‘im hell!” But I was too tired to shout. I hadn’t slept in three days.
A part of me wanted to be in Mrs. Winkler’s shoes, or rather her stirrups, just to have a rest from all the stress of medical school. If only someone would take care of me, pamper me, bring me food on an aqua blue, microwaveable tray. And I must admit that a part of me wanted to see what it was like to have a baby. At the rate I was going I’d never have a boyfriend, let alone children.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
That night at precisely 8:04 p.m. Steve Bono called. There is a God.
“I’m sorry it took so long to return your call, but I was out of town,” he explained. “On a shoot. So what’s doin’, Ginger O’Rourke?”
My name never sounded so good. And to think I once considered changing it to Tiffany Travers. “Fine,” I gulped. I quickly put my hand over the receiver so he wouldn’t hear my breath loud and panting like a phone pervert’s.
“How’s medical school?” I could hear the smile in his voice.
“Hectic. I’ve been spending twenty hours a day at the hospital, which means I have no social life.” You fool! Why did you say that?
“Well, I hope you can squeeze in a dinner sometime.”
“When and where?” I shot back quicker than a Jeopardy contestant.
“How about this Friday night?”
“Shhuuure, Steve,” I said in a desperate, pudding voice.
“Great. Maybe we can do Italian or something.”
“Italian would be nice,” I shrilled. “I’ve never done an Italian,” my inner voice, Evil Ginger, cooed.
And then there came one of those god-awful ten second silences. The phone became Crisco-covered in my trembling hand. Sweat dribbled into my ears. I struggled to think of something clever to say.
“Tell me where you live, Ginger,” he said at last. I heard the sound of paper rustling.
My mind went completely blank. “Uh, uh—” I fumbled in my desk drawer for a phone bill, gas bill, anything with my address on it so I could read it to him. At last I pulled out a crumpled letter from my dentist’s collection agency for last year’s root canal. “Ready?” I said in a pleasant, secretarial tone. “It’s 599 Brenda Lane, the pink apartment complex on the north, I mean south, I mean north side of the street.”
“Oh, I know where that is, off Ocean, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I should be able to find you okay. That’s what seven years of college has done for me. I can read a map pretty well.” He laughed.
“Seven years?” See, Ginger, he’s not stupid. You are, for thinking he was. I remembered his face grinning at me in Dr. Thigpen’s office, and now the picture was enhanced by the fact that inside his cranium marched millions of tiny intelligent soldier cells. Now he was beyond wonderful. He was deity.
“So, I guess I’ll see you Friday around seven, then?”
“Yesss,” I hissed. “Ssseven.” Vomit.
I set the phone into its cradle and went into a frenzied jig, whirling around the apartment, my fist crammed into my mouth so I wouldn’t squeal in ecstasy like the desperate woman I am.
I was still wearing my smelly, blood-stained lab coat, and my stethoscope was flapping in and out of my pocket. I had earlier removed one of my shoes to let my bunions out of their spike-heeled prison, and so there I was, hopping around with just the one shoe on. I’m sure I looked very attractive to my voyeuristic neighbor, Mr. Souza, who was at this moment watching me through my open mini blinds.
This time, I didn’t care.
Chapter Three
Date Night found Ginger O’Rourke, student of medicine, with a sinus headache, a bad case of premenstrual bloating, and a pea-sized pimple on her chin. Interesting how rotten things always come in threes, while good things come in ones, if they come at all.
The outfit that Jade had insisted I purchase for the occasion, a trashy black tube dress, had not stretched to fit me like I’d hoped it would. Nor had I shrunk to fit it. “You can’t count on anything anymore,” I muttered as I hurled the black sausage casing across the bedroom. It landed on the heap of too-tight clothes I’d been flinging onto the floor for the last hour. It’s funny how seven little pounds can mess up your room, not to mention your life.
I ransacked my closet which contained clothes in every dye lot of black imaginable. None of the blacks matched one another, of course. At last I settled on a Donna Karan black leotard tucked into a tasteful striped skirt. The leotard had lost its snaps at the crotch and was held together with an industrial-sized bent safety pin. As I closed the pin, a sudden paranoid thought occurred: that the pin would burst open at the wrong time and maim not only me, but Steve’s hand, or other appendage. A surefire way to kill the mood.
It’s your first date with him, you tramp! I scolded. You’re so bad! “Yes, but I’m the good kind of bad,” Evil Ginger purred.
I ended up wearing a tasteful, loose-fitting dress that went way up to my chin and way down to my toes. At least it was black.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
When I opened the front door and saw Steve Bono standing on the porch, it felt like the Christmas I’ve always dreamed of, the one where Santa screws up royally and, instead of bringing you the blender you’ve asked for, he brings you a gorgeous new Mercedes. And I felt that special feeling I remembered from a certain Christmas of my childhood—the best Christmas ever—when I got everything I’d asked for, and more. And I was just sure that those gifts were the payoff for being a good little girl the last eleven years, for not shoplifting or showing boys my underpants. Steve was my payoff, my reward for having had nothing but loser boyfriends all my life, and for being faithful to them.
Steve stood there grinning like he couldn’t stop, like he was happy to see me. Me! His long dark curls were tousled, but clean. I smelled soap. I love a clean man! His shirt was one of those easy, Marlboro Man chambrays, this one the color of butter. His eyes shone golden and his skin was like warm honey. I flipped off the yellow bug light. Much better.
“Oh! Come in,” I said, surprised. I was surprised that he hadn’t stood me up like my last four dates. “Ooo, you’re taller than I remember,” I said. He was around six three I figured. His nose was the size that would never get in the way should we decide to kiss.
“How are you, Ginger?” he asked in a caring way, stretching out his hand as he stepped over the threshold.
“Fine,” I said, avoiding his eyes. I took his warm hand and fairly yanked him into my apartment. Once I had him inside my lair I dropped his hand and looked around stupidly, wondering what to do next. Those fourteen valerian root pills I’d taken an hour ago were barely taking the edge off my anxiety. Still, it was only 7:02, and already I’d touched him. I felt evolved. If things continue like this, by the time next summer rolls around I’ll be able to look him in the eye without hyperventilating.
“We’ve got a 7:30 reservation at Guido’s,” he informed me, and I detected a nervous edge to his voice.
“Good,” I said. How long does it take to get to Guido’s? I wondered. Was there time for a sherry and small talk on my ratty couch? Should I show him around my apartment, and if so, should I skip the bedroom? Is my underwear clean? Should I show him my baby pictures? That always makes them fall for a girl, Jade says, but don’t ever show photos of your mother if she’s overweight—he’ll bolt for sure. Maybe I could show Steve a photograph of a beautiful model and say it’s my mom and then he’ll think there’s hope for me. No, scratch that. He’d probably want to date her.
“Nice apartment.” He gazed this way and that, his eyes settling on the fireplace. “Hey! My grandparents used to have a gold sunburst clock like that,” he said, grinning at the spiky, brass-plated monstrosity hanging above the mantle.
“You like it?” My God, he has the same bad taste as Jade.
“I didn’t say that.”
Relieved, I said, “It was a present from, um, a friend.” I knew better than to mention the name Jade around a man that I wanted for my own. It’s bad luck. “A birthday present,” I explained, shrugging, “I couldn’t very well hurt her feelings.” I thought it best not to tell him that I couldn’t hurt the feelings of a serial killer, as long as he spoke kindly to me while his chainsaw warmed up.
“That’s awfully decent of you,” Steve said, still looking at the clock. “I’m not nearly that nice.” He smiled like a teenager with a secret, showing that solitary dimple on the right side. I had the sudden urge to run to the bathroom and check my teeth for stubborn, clinging threads of garden vegetables, but instead I stood my ground and forced myself to gaze at him, our fingertips practically touching.
We probably have nothing at all in common. God knows he doesn’t want a family. He’ll never make any money unless Dr. Daddy checks out and leaves him some. He’s probably shallow and self-centered, not to mention a womanizer. I wonder what he looks like naked?
“Like a drink?” I asked.
“Sure, what have you got besides formaldehyde?”
I laughed jauntily. “Ha, ha. Good one.” Excusing myself, I eased into the kitchen and flung open the refrigerator door while Steve stayed behind to scan the books on my bookshelf.
I hadn’t seen the inside of a grocery store in three months, I remembered, when I saw that the fridge was empty except for a jar of mayo, something mysterious in a Styrofoam takeout box, a carton of ancient milk, and my main food staple, Diet Coke. Regular, not decaf. I closed the refrigerator door. A shot of caffeine was exactly what I didn’t need right now. A shot of morphine might be nice, though.
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything to offer you because I didn’t make it to the store,” I apologized, slinking into the living room. “Terribly long hours at the hospital, you know? On call every third night.” I leaned, S-curved, against the bookshelf.
“Sounds grueling.”
“Terribly so.” I glanced at my watch. 7:08, I noted. Isn’t it time to go yet?
Meanwhile, the sour Frigidaire smells had managed to follow me into the living room and were threatening to overpower my Calvin Klein cologne. Damn! I never would have thought an appliance could screw with my love life.
“You know, it’s okay because we can just head over to the restaurant and have a drink there,” he said. “Are you ready?”
All my life, I thought.
I locked up the apartment and we walked out to the street. He led the way to a navy blue BMW, and not one of the chincy models, either. I smiled.
“I’m so glad I got to see your apartment,” he said, unlocking the passenger door.
The paranoid in me switched on. God, I hope he’s not casing my apartment. If it’s that sunburst clock he’s after, he can have it.
I sunk into the black leather seat and immediately felt at home. I fastened my seatbelt. Tight.
It’s weird being in a man’s car for the first time. You feel like you’re in his bedroom, sort of. You can tell so much about a man by his car, even if he’s a man you know absolutely nothing about. A man’s car always has a visual theme, I’ve found.
I remember one Mike Swanson and his car, the theme of which was underachieving surfer bum.
When I was a high school junior I had a crush on Mike Swanson. I’d never met him, but I’d spied him in my neighbor’s yearbook while scouring it for new and interesting older men I could fantasize about. Mike had graduated three years earlier, which meant he was a soph in college by now. Really old.
Mike had an adorable smile featuring a tiny space between his front teeth which, in those days, was the kind of thing that drove me wild. But the space had to be tiny, so one wasn’t driven to thoughts of Simon, Theodore, and Alvin. Mike’s best feature, though, was his magnificent dark and shiny hair.
When I found out my neighbor actually knew him, I talked her into setting us up on a blind date. I had just turned sixteen and had never been asked out, let alone kissed. I felt my biological clock ticking away. If I didn’t get me a boyfriend soon, all the boys would be taken. I’d end up a nun, or worse, a romance novelist living vicariously through my characters. Oh, Jesus, what a crappy way to live a life. Even then I was desperate and paranoid, though of course I didn’t realize it. I thought of myself as sensible and realistic. My talons were sharp and ready to snag me a nice young man for my own.
Mike Swanson turned out to be one of the few men in my life who didn’t stand me up. But had I seen his car before I saw him, I would have stood him up.
He called and invited me to a movie. He came to pick me up, and when I opened the front door and saw him, I almost slammed the door in his face. He looked nothing like his yearbook picture of two years ago. His hair was not dark and shiny, but rather yellow and dry and frizzy—severely sun bleached. He had a broom sitting on his head instead of hair. How could I run my fingers through that broom without breaking nails?
He had a dark tan which I hated because it showed his lack of concern about premature wrinkling and keratotic lesions. He obviously had a lot of time on his hands to loaf at the beach. Probably a college dropout. Hate that. The space between his teeth was humongous—how could it have grown?—and combined with that yellow frizz on his head he looked like an electrocuted chipmunk. Make that an electrocuted tanned chipmunk.
He was wearing cut-offs and a Hawaiian shirt. I wore a tasteful black dress and sensible Bally pumps, my usual movie attire. I might add that, even back in high school I had expensive tastes, and those shoes represented over 20 hours of baby-sitting children I did not like.
We drove in silence in his metallic blue Volkswagen. The car had been altered to resemble a beach on wheels, with extra-long blue shag carpeting that made me feel like I was inside a giant stuffed animal. I guess it was supposed to represent the water. Tasteful. There was a magazine rack full of surfer magazines, and strands of pooka beads swinging off the mirror. The fool had glued clam shells all over the headliner. Cute, real cute.
They say people sometimes look like their dogs. Well, Mike Swanson looked like his car, his surfermobile. And what movie did he take me to see? A surfing movie. Really hate that.
And what was the theme of Steve Bono’s Cordoba leather, well-cared for, ultra clean Beemer? Class and Money, and lots of it. I felt I belonged in the car with him.
Yes, I belonged in a shallow, tasteless display of monetary worth and snobbery.
Chapter Four
At the restaurant I endeavored to follow the rules of first date etiquette:
I will not wolf down my hand-rolled cheese ravioli no matter how long it’s been since I’ve had a meal that didn’t come out of a vending machine.
I will not let marinara sauce dribble down my chin or splatter over my dress like I do at home.
I will try to keep my lipstick completely intact while I eat—a difficult, though not impossible, feat.
I will try to keep any and all food from clinging tenaciously to my teeth; I will consume nothing green for this reason.
I will consume no garlic for obvious reasons.
I will rest my left hand calmly in my lap while the right hand shovels.
After an hour of trying to do and not do all these things, I was exhausted. But then Steve got into a story that made me lose track of me. As he spoke, I listened in rapt fascination. The story he told was about himself and, I swear it’s true—his evil identical twin brother. I thought stories like his existed only in trashy romance novels or in those badly dubbed foreign movies that come on at 4:00 a.m.
“His name is Sam,” Steve whispered in a warning tone. “And he’ll try to steal you away, Ginger. I know he will. He’s done it before.”
I sat there smiling stupidly, playing with the fringe of the red gingham table cloth. I didn’t know I was yours to steal, but if you insist.
“And then he’ll go after your girlfriends.”
I almost spit out my pinot noir. Just let him go after Jade. Ha! Ha!
“Once,” Steve said hoarsely, “I had this girlfriend named Annie. We were engaged to be married. One day Sam showed up at her apartment pretending to be me. Three days later Annie dumped me. Sam ended up dumping her soon after that, but not before he got her pregnant. And guess who’s paying child support?”
“How unfair!” I shrieked. “Couldn’t you prove...wait, you’re twins.”
“Let’s face it. I got screwed. Sam is a pathological liar.” He shrugged. “The worst part is that he doesn’t care anything about little Matthew.” Steve’s fist tightened around the stem of his wine glass like he was trying to break it in two. “He’s been like this since we were children. He just doesn’t seem to have any integrity or morals. A bad seed, I guess.”
Not unlike Jade. “I don’t think much of that Annie person, either,” I remarked.
“Yeah. But she’s a great mother to Matthew, I’ll give her that.”
“Can’t you move away from Sam?” I asked.
“I’m an actor,” Steve said in a pleading way. “Why should I move to Butte just because of Sam?”
“What about New York?”
“He’s done his dirty work there, too, I’m afraid. He has a way of popping into my life when he finds out I’m seeing a woman. No, I decided a long time ago that I wouldn’t get involved with anybody. I wouldn’t give Sam the satisfaction. I haven’t had a girlfriend in a long, long time. But then you came along, Ginger, and I couldn’t help myself.”
I stared down at my spumoni and tried to keep from drooling. I was so flattered and so—surprised. Surprised that a chick magnet like Steve had a big fat zero sex life. We do have something in common after all. Of course, the paranoid in me immediately wondered: what’s the real reason he can’t get a girl? Does he have a bean dick? Does he suffer from premature ejaculation? Does he snore like an elephant?
“You don’t have to worry about me and Sam,” I promised. I had the urge to pat his hand. “I can take care of me. As for my girlfriends,” and here I smiled devilishly, “one of them in particular can take care of Sam.”
Steve’s eyebrow shot up. “Really?”
“I’ve got this crazy friend,” I blabbed without a second thought, “who’s into dominating men, if you know what I mean.”
“As in whips and chains?”
“That, and more.”
“You’re kidding!” His eyes were practically popping out of their sockets. I’m sure he’s never met anyone like Jade before.
“If she ever gets ahold of Sam he’ll never bother anybody again.” Under my breath I said, “If he lives.” I thought of telling Steve about some of Jade’s adventures at her Abusement Park for Curious and Unsuspecting Men, but when I saw that he was still eating, I thought better of it.
He set down his spoon and stared at me for a long moment. He seemed relieved. “You’ll have to introduce the two of them,” he said earnestly. “I think it’s payback time for Sam.”
At that moment a tiny, paranoid seed was planted in my brain: was I wrong to tell him about Jade?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“NO, I did not get laid,” I told Jade. We were having champagne brunch two days later at our favorite restaurant, the Polo Lounge at the Beverly Hills Hotel. The place where rich, surgically altered women eat. A treasure trove of too-short nose jobs, too-taut face lifts, and more implants than a Victoria’s Secret catalog. The restaurant’s pink. Jade and I look good against a pink background. It transfers a peachy, iridescent glow to our skin. Makes us look more youthful than ever.
“What! You didn’t get laid?” she shrieked. “I hope to God you at least got a look at his butt, Gin. Tell me you saw his butt.” She stuck a finger in her champagne and touched it to her tongue. She was having a liquid lunch today, living off her fat.
“He’s a gentleman, Jade, something you’ve probably never encountered.” I cut my eggs Benedict daintily with my knife and fork and shoveled up a generous wedge. “We had a nice dinner and he kissed me good night. That was it. He didn’t try to get me into bed or...” Damn! He probably found me repulsive but was too polite to say anything. I knew I shouldn’t have worn that black sack.
Jade said, “You wore that dress we bought at Victoria’s Secret and he didn’t attack you? Is he light in the loafers, or what?”
I stared at her, chewing slowly. God, I hope not! You never can be sure these days. But I saw no earrings, no keys or scarves slung out the back pocket. I remembered his kiss and it made my stomach fall to my toes. “Naaaaa! He’s not gay.” I sucked on the lemon from my ice tea. “And I didn’t wear the dress we bought,” I said quietly.
Jade’s lower lip shot out. Her eyes went sad on me. “What? What? You didn’t wear the dress? Are you crazy? That was a great dress!” She shook her head in slow motion. “You’re such a turnip, Ginger. You looked great in that dress.” Then a look of horror came over her face. “What did you wear? Tell me you didn’t wear one of those drop-waisted matron sacks. Tell me you didn’t.” She looked like she was about to throw up. Jade thinks drop-waisted dresses should be outlawed. That, and Birkenstocks, home perms, and denim. She says they’re the kiss of death to women’s sexuality. She herself was, at this moment, wearing basic hooker attire: black leggings, a black silk blazer with a lace bra under it. No blouse whatsoever, and the blazer was unbuttoned to reveal cleavage the size of a small person’s buttocks. All hers, too.
“No, I did not wear a denim sack,” I said in an insulted tone. “I wore that slinky red dress, you know, the really sexy one I wore to Lauren’s wedding,” I lied. Lauren’s wedding was eight pounds and two chins ago. “And Jade, dear, about Victoria’s Secret. Are their mirrors, by any chance, fixed? You know, concave to make you look, oh, about ten pounds lighter than you actually are? Because, when I put on that black dress—wrenched it on, I mean—I looked dreadful. My stomach stuck out like a basketball and my ass was flat as a slab of concrete.”
“Honey, why didn’t you call me? There’s bun shaping underpants and waist cinches that’ll fix that. Why, I’d lace you into a corset in a heartbeat, you know I would. We just need to go foundation shopping.” She closed her eyes. “A good push-up bra will take years off a girl’s figure.” She focused again, looked me straight in the eye. “Remember, the distance from your chin to your nipple line is directly proportional to your age. And honey, if all else fails, you can get those silicone breast forms on the internet, if you’re worried about your breasts being too flat.”
“Who said anything about that? I was talking about my ass.”
“It’s just that those breast forms look so real.”
“And mine don’t, I suppose?” But I was intrigued. I glanced down at my microscopic breasts, well hidden under a baggy black T-shirt. “How do they stay on?”
“They’ve got, you know, the covering is like those gummy bear things on the inside and it sticks to your body. I could see you with big breasts in that dress. I could just see you, Ginger.” Her emerald green (contact lens-enhanced) eyes were starting to tear up.
I knew how bad she wanted me to wear that tube dress, how bad she wanted me to get laid. When it comes to sex, beauty, or men, Jade can be very controlling. I have to tell myself that she really does want the best for me, although it might not always seem like it at the time. Sometimes I see her as a sort of perverted mother figure. She’d make a great whorehouse Madame.
“I just couldn’t wear it, Jade. I lost my nerve. I was all bloated, you know? PMS.” Hell, that excuse has kept people out of jail. I figured it would get me off the hook with Jade.
“Bloated?” she cried. “And you couldn’t take a diuretic, with all the fabulous drugs you can get your hands on?”
Every head in the restaurant turned and stared.
“Shhhh! I hate taking drugs...”
“That dress looked fabulous on you, Gin. You should have seen the clerk’s reaction when you walked out of that dressing room. She was jealous because, let’s face it, you looked hot!”
“Oh, stop being such a pimp, will you? I’ll wear it next time.” There would be a next time, wouldn’t there? Steve’s last words, when he’d turned to go were, “I’ll talk to you soon.” Where have I heard that line before? But he’d kissed me, kissed me. Nobody had forced him to.
I murmured, “He’s such gooood kisser.” My knees shook at the memory. I brought my palm to my lips and pressed it there while Jade babbled on about drag queens and make-up and stuff. “I want him,” I breathed. “I want him for my own.”
Steve and I had stood outside my apartment door and he’d kissed me in an unhurried way. He’d gazed at me under the bug light for a full three minutes. Gazed at me like he wanted me. I‘d invited him in—hell, I’d grabbed his arm and tried to pull him in—that’s what three glasses of pinot noir will do for you, but he’d refused. He’d refused, but his body had said, “Yes, yes, yes.” How do I know? I felt his manhood stabbing at me when we kissed. He wanted me, but he wouldn’t let himself take me, because he respected me. What a gentleman!
And for all his hunkiness, he was so vulnerable, so cursed, thanks to Evil Sam. There’s nothing more exciting than a complete hunk with a flaw. In Steve’s case the flaw wasn’t even his fault, it was caused by situations beyond his control. And it was easily remedied by the dominatrix, I mean, beauty professional, Jade. Does this mean that once Sam was out of the picture Steve would be perfect in every way? A scary thought.
Well, if anybody could blot Sam out of the picture, it was Jade. She was so good at punishment. She was a natural. I couldn’t wait to see what she did to Sam. But I wouldn’t mention anything to her until I’d heard from Steve. I wanted to make sure we were an item first, just in case Jade got grabby.
“So where does cocky locky live, and with whom?” Jade asked in her stern, Mistress of Punishment voice.
“Silver Lake. Shares a house with a lesbian clothing designer named Stella.”
“Doesn’t sound good, Gin.” She swung her pale hair back and forth.
“He’s not gay, Jade.”
“Hmmmph. Is he employed?”
“Of course. He’s an actor and a masseur, remember?”
“Right, but what does he really do?”
“He’s a working actor, and when times are slow, he’s a masseur.”
She threw back her head and laughed. “A male prostitute, love that!”
“He’s not a male prostitute and he’s not gay.”
“Then how come you didn’t sleep with him?”
“Because he’s special. And because he’s a little shy, I think.” I downed my ice tea and raised the empty glass to our waiter across the room.
Jade went into her standard lecture on why I should have attacked Steve and had wild, gratuitous sex, a lecture I knew by heart. When she saw that it wasn’t working, she sighed and said, “Well, honey, you know what’s best.”
“Thank you.”
She watched while the waiter filled my glass with tea and then snatched the first sip.
“Yes, they’re real!” she snapped at the waiter who stared at her chest.
I rolled my eyes as the waiter scurried away.
“Well, enough about men already. I’ve called you here today because of this little business proposition.”