An Accidental Affair (17 page)

About a half mile before the finish line at Imperial Highway, Isabel passed by me.

She moved like the wind to prove a point.

She finished and waved, crossed at the red light, then kept jogging back to the complex.

When I finished my run, aching and out of breath, I jogged until she was out of sight, then stopped and absorbed the pain from the run, the pain of my life, and returned to being James Thicke. Sweat poured from me as I walked parallel to insane traffic. Morning was here. People were leaving lives they hated to rush to jobs they loathed. The Apartments rose before me like the villas of Argentina, the favelas of Buenos Aires, the anti-Hollywood of California.

When I made it to the area near the pool, Mr. Holder was leaning against the rail. We spoke, shook hands, and then he said, “It’s almost the big day.”

“The reunion with your daughter.”

“We’re meeting at TGIF. Would be nice to ride down there in that car of yours.”

“You want me to drive you down?”

“Could you? We meet next week. She might get a kick out of seeing that Maybach.”

“Would be glad to. If you want, I’ll take both of you for a ride.”

I stretched for a moment and after I’d caught my breath, I ran up the stairs to get a bottle of water. The neighbor living over my head was fornicating nonstop and making enough noise for me to want to
call management and complain. Either that or buy whoever lived up there a better bed. The sun was coming up. I picked up my Nikon, cellular, and sunglasses, and then stormed back downstairs and stood near Mr. Holder. He looked anxious. Today I looked and felt calm.

I asked, “You okay?”

He nodded. “Just thinking back. About what I went through with my daughter’s mom.”

“Kerri-Anne.”

He nodded again. “From Kerri-Anne to Vera-Anne. Twenty years later.”

We watched the people leaving for work. Mr. Holder stayed quiet while I photographed the Arabic, Dutch, Hebrew, Tibetan, Ukrainian, Mexican, Farsi, Mandarin, French, and German tenants as they exited the buildings. I took candid shots every now and then. Captured the hardworking people. Mr. Holder shifted and looked at all of the women. More than a few people said hello to Mr. Holder. He’d been here sixteen years and knew everyone by name.

His jaw tightened and he looked angry; it came and went.

He asked, “How long did you rent your apartment for?”

“Did a year lease.”

“A year? That’s quite a bit of money.”

“My monthly mortgage is a lot more than that.”

“So that much money, I guess it’s just a drop of water in the ocean for you.”

“I’ll write it off as a business expense.”

“People here are struggling to pay their rent and you’re throwing money away.”

He shook his head and exhaled, but added no words to his thoughts.

My cellular rang. It was Driver. He was driving another customer to the airport.

He said, “Gray four-door car was in front of your house the last two days.”

“Who?”

“No idea. Might’ve been parked longer than that.”

“Get the plates?”

“I’ll drive back by after I finish this run. If it’s still there, I’ll get the license plates.”

We hung up and I took a deep breath. Mr. Holder still looked angry.

I put my camera down at my side and asked, “You sure that you’re okay?”

Mr. Holder moved to one of the worn pool chairs and sat down.

I did the same.

“Thinking about Vera-Anna. I was on the computer last night trying to sort some things out. A few things have me troubled. So I’m standing outside, getting fresh air and thinking.”

I said, “You never said how you met Vera-Anne.”

“Met her right here. She used to live across the hall from me. She was working at a State Farm insurance office. Lost that job, then was working at a comedy club. Lost that job, and was getting evicted. It’s a bad season for trying to find a job, and that’s from top to bottom. I let her crash at my place for a few days, gave her a week to contact her family and move in with them, but by the third night, she got up from the couch and stood in my bedroom door.”

“And one thing led to another.”

Right about then, Vera-Anne came out of the complex. Tight jean shorts. Dark sports bra. House shoes. She was alone and had two Styrofoam bowls with her.

Mr. Holder said, “Where are the kids?”

“Brought you some chicken souse and Johnny Cake. Brought you some too, Varg.”

“Thanks, Vera-Anne.”

“You said chicken souse was one of your favorite meals, right?”

“Yeah. It is.”

Mr. Holder snapped, “What did I tell you about leaving those children unattended?”

“They’re watching television. Relax.”

Vera-Anne handed him a bowl and a plastic spoon, then did the same to me.

Mr. Holder had a hard expression, a twitch in his lip, a rigid moment that I interpreted as him not being happy with Vera-Anne being generous with the food that he was buying.

I had accepted the gift and didn’t know how to give it back.

Mr. Holder said, “I was about to come back inside anyway. Come on, Vera-Anne. You’re a mother now. You don’t need to be walking around with your ass hanging out like that. People will think you’re advertising. And house shoes are made for wearing inside of the house.”

She ran her fingers though her pink mane. “Poppa, take me to the Getty today.”

He regarded her without expression. Then he turned to me, smiled as his eyes frowned, and we shook hands again, his handshake so firm, his eye contact so direct that it felt as if I were being challenged. He suddenly let my hand go and headed back toward his apartment. Vera-Anne followed. His steps were heavy, his head down, and hands inside of his pockets. Vera-Anne looked back, waved and smiled before she ran right into a heavy blond man as he exited the building. He was rushing, head down, and he almost knocked Vera-Anne over. They apologized to each other, then Vera-Anne glanced back, waved good-bye again.

The blond man hurried toward the parking lot. New face. He was large enough to be unforgettable. Hadn’t seen him here before. The heavy man left in a hurry, refused to make eye contact with anyone. His shame told me who he was. He was a customer and had been here on
business
. If I went back to my apartment, no screams of passion would rain down from overhead.

I wasn’t in a rush to go back upstairs. I ate the chicken souse and Johnny Cake.

Thirty minutes later, my enemy from the laundry room came downstairs.

She’d styled her long dreadlocks, made them look wavy. Part of her strong hair was pulled back while a lot of her powerful mane hung to her shoulders. She wore Roman sandals, jean shorts, and a T-Shirt that read
YES I’M A BITCH, JUST NOT YOURS.
Without warning, she reversed her course and came my way. I stood up. A man should face his enemy on foot. My enemy cleared antagonism from her throat and looked in my eyes, studied my face.

“You do look very familiar.”

“From the laundry room.”

“Yeah, I remember that.”

“So do I.”

She motioned at my camera. “You’re a photographer.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

“I’m an entertainer and an inspiring writer.”

“
Aspiring
writer. And an entertainer.”

“That’s what I said.”

“What type of entertainment?”

“Personal entertainment. It depends on the needs of the client.”

She nodded and gave me eye contact that tested my ability to read between the lines.

I asked, “Your book. What’s it about?”

“The cruelty of men toward women.”

“What’s it called?”

“
The Cruelty of Men Toward Women
.”

“You have a name?”

“Misty. I’m in E-313.”

“I’m in E-213. Call me Varg.”

“How long have you been living up under me?”

“Long enough to know you’re a very busy woman.”

“You look very familiar. I just don’t know from where.”

What broke the conversation was when one of the other tenants left the building.

It was a husband and a wife. They were holding hands and laughing like they didn’t have a care in the world. Misty waved at them. The husband waved back. The wife looked, but didn’t wave. He had on worn jeans and a green shirt. She wore Nike workout gear, all black.

I asked, “Who is that big guy?”

“Ted Evans. He sells crappy used cars at a crappy Mexican car lot in Norwalk.”

Mrs. Patrice Evans was walking with Ted. She glanced, and then looked away.

Misty tilted her head and asked, “What’s your name again?”

“Varg Veum.”

“Wait a minute. Have you ever been to a club in Hollywood called Mapona?”

Caught off guard, I paused and shook my head. “Can’t afford it. You’ve been there?”

“Once. Clients that I went with got into a fight with that asshole Johnny Bergs and we were thrown out and Johnny Bergs and his party were treated like kings and shit. We didn’t even get our money back and I heard that Johnny Bergs was given free champagne and free food.”

“I’ll make a point never to go up there. I’m more of a Bible study kinda guy anyway.”

“Regina Baptiste’s perfume is named after that place. That slut’s all over the news. Heard she’s pregnant by Johnny Bergs. Heard that she had AIDS. Heard she’s doing porn now.”

I stared at her. In my mind I was beating her the way I had beaten Johnny Handsome, holding her dreadlocks in my left hand and
striking her in the mouth over and over, grimacing and spitting in her face and making her regret calling my wife a slut.

She asked, “What was your name again?”

I cleared my throat and said, “Veum. Varg Veum.”

“Ugly name.”

“Ugly world.”

She studied my features for a while. The edge of her lips curled upward.

“Okay, Veum. Varg. Man with the ugly name. See you later.”

She left in a hurry and I sweated like a man on the run from the unknown.

And just like that, I was no longer calm. I was beyond anxious.

Once again I could hear the thunderous applause.

I logged on and reactivated my Facebook account. Did the same for Twitter. As soon as I did, friend requests and strangers begging to follow me on Twitter poured in. Within an hour, I had more hits than three times the population of the British overseas territory Montserrat. I could only imagine the attention Regina Baptiste loathed right now.

Could only imagine the attention Johnny Bergs was enjoying.

Worst of all, I heard that bastard Bobby Holland laughing at it all.

The tabloid fire was still burning throughout Hollywoodland and beyond.

There was nothing that I could do. Stress sweat drained from my face.

I had left my computer on; my Skype was up and running. I clicked on the icon.

Someone had tried to call me on the account that I shared with only a few.

It was the account that I used mostly to communicate with Regina
when she was away at work. The screen name was
STEVEMARTIN.OBJECTOFBEAUTY.
A comedian and his novel.

I looked up the profile and it was pretty blank. No information told me who this was.

My guess was the Bergs. Either Johnny Handsome or someone in his family.

Or maybe it was the comedienne who was capitalizing on the situation,
The Baddest Whyte Bitch Dat Done Ever Been Born
. I looked her up. Her name was Frances Johnson; another nobody who was trying to be somebody; another comic trying to get to the top of the barrel.

Procol Harum sang “A Whiter Shade of Pale.” Isabel played the vintage record when I entered her apartment. Her place smelled of fresh chocolate chip cookies. A hint of lavender came from her deodorizer, and her apartment was spotless, everything in its proper place. Her furniture was modest and very nice, a light brown sofa made for sitting and watching television, or sleeping, a dark green love seat and a wooden coffee table that held an arrangement of colorful fresh cut flowers. Her carpet was beige and freshly cleaned, the paint on her walls crisp. When I came inside, she changed records, put on Ann Peebles’s “I’m Gonna Tear Your Playhouse Down.” Like she had done at my apartment, I gravitated toward her literary novels. She had hundreds of books. There were books by British authors; those were separated from the rest, the majority of them decades old, many of them in hardback.

She said, “Be a gentleman and carry my bowling ball for me.”

“Sure. I’ll be more than happy to carry your ball. One day you might return the favor.”

“Frisky wanker. I like you better as a cheeky bastard.”

We headed out to her sports car, a red Nissan 350Z Roadster, and with the top down, she zoomed us up Imperial Highway into the city of Norwalk to Keystone Lanes.

We bowled six games. Isabel was all strikes and spares, her bowling form perfect, her hook on the ball remarkable, the spin on her
ball amazing. She had three speeds, different hand positions. Her hips were squared like a professional, and she moved like a ballerina. When she broke a sweat and took off her jacket revealing a dark tank top, everyone looked at her physique. Her remarkable bowling had everyone taking notes. Her delivery was good, her explosion point perfect. She knew the terminology, Brooklyn, The Pocket, The Pick-Up, and bowled like a league bowler, never scored less than two hundred sixty, her top score two seventy-seven. Even though I never had a gutter ball, I only had six strikes and my score stayed under one-ninety.

When we were done I asked, “Want to go back over to Cerritos to Skate Depot?”

“Another day, you cheeky bastard.”

I was out of The Apartments, out of my self-imposed claustrophobia, still a man on the run from a crime that he had committed, a man humiliated, and I just didn’t want to go back.

My cellular rang. It was Driver. I didn’t answer.

I didn’t want to go back to being James Thicke right now.

I wanted to take on this part I’d created, become a method actor and make it mine.

Once at Isabel’s apartment, we sat at her dining room table, Gladys Knight singing “Help Me Make It Through the Night” on the record player, and we sipped Earl Grey tea.