Comedy of Erinn (2 page)

“I read that you should work out whenever—and wherever—you can,” he said.

“Oh? You read that?”

Jude laughed. “Well, I downloaded a workout video to my iPod so I could listen to it while I was skateboarding. Same thing.”

Erinn arched an eyebrow. Jude suddenly looked up at her.

“What about Tin Lizzy? That would be an awesome nickname for you!”

“You know, Jude, I'm not sure this is going to work out.”

He looked up. “Oh? Why not?”

“Well,” Erinn faltered. “I just think that, if two people live in such close proximity to each other, there should be some symbiosis . . . if you get my drift.”

Jude looked at Erinn for a minute, then smiled.

“Oh, you mean 'cause I'm in such good shape,” he said. “Don't worry about that. I can help you get rid of that spare tire in no time.”

“No, no, no,” Erinn said. “I appreciate your offer. Although I wasn't aware I
had
a spare tire.”

“Oh, big-time.”

“It was more along the lines of, well, I don't feel we're . . . intellectually compatible.”

Jude frowned.

“I'm not smart enough to rent your
guesthouse
?”

He held up the rental agreement and waved it in her face.

“Is there an I.Q. test attached to this?” he asked.

Erinn stood up so fast she knocked the chair over, and stormed out of the guesthouse. Jude sprinted after her, and Erinn wheeled on him.

“I'm sorry, Jude, but clearly this isn't going to work.”

“Tell me about it. You think you're some sort of god because you wrote one important play a hundred years ago? Nobody can even make a joke around you? I'm out of here.”

“I assume you can see yourself out?”

“If I can find my way around your huge ego, yeah,” Jude replied, as he walked toward the main house. He stepped over the cat, which was sunbathing on the walkway.

“See ya around, Truck.”

Apparently, Jude had not succeeded in giving
her
a nickname, but poor Caro did not escape unscathed.

Erinn went back into the kitchen, stung by Jude's comments. To distract herself, she decided to make a pot of soup. She pulled out her large stockpot, added some homemade chicken stock, and started scrubbing tubers in a fury.
Who does he think he is, talking to me that way?
she thought.
I dodged a bullet with that one.

The phone rang. Erinn wiped off her hands and reached for the cordless, hesitating just long enough to grab her half-moon glasses, and checked the caller I.D.

It was Suzanna.

Erinn put the phone down without answering it. She took off her glasses and returned to her soup.

E
rinn made sure the front door was securely bolted for the night and walked into her living room. She flipped on the light and admired the heavy, dark furnishings.

Sunshine, for God's sake.
She bristled as she thought back to that half-wit Jude's reaction to this thoughtful, peaceful room.

She sat down at her computer—a twenty-four-inch behemoth that looked out of place on a highly polished clawfoot desk. She settled in to pay a few bills online. Caro pounced upon her, eager for attention. Erinn opened her eyes and scratched him thoughtfully.

“The bills won't pay themselves, Caro,” she said, as she held the cat up and looked into his green, unblinking eyes.

With a sigh she went upstairs and changed into her men's striped pajamas, brushed her teeth dutifully for two minutes, and headed back downstairs to the kitchen. One of Erinn's little rebellions was that she brushed her teeth before she had her late-night hot chocolate.

Caro padded softly down the steps behind her.

Erinn's kitchen, like every room in the house, was a monument to a more gracious era. The room was square, and the cabinetry was white with glass window inserts, so all the contents were proudly on display. A KitchenAid mixer, a Cuisinart, a Deni electric pressure cooker, a Vibiemme Domobar espresso machine: all had a place in the Wolf kitchen. If times were tough, they weren't always.

As Erinn stirred her cocoa, she heard a key jangling at the back door. She grabbed another mug and smiled slightly as she started another serving of hot chocolate. The key continued its clanking, grinding medley for several seconds. Finally, the back door swung open.

“Hi, Erinn. I was in the neighborhood . . . ,” offered a voice from the door. “Can I come in?”

“Don't let the cat—” called Erinn as Suzanna wrestled with the key still jammed in the lock.

Caro scooted out the door.

“—out,” Erinn finished.

Suzanna flung herself into the room, laden with bags from Mommies and Babies, Jellybeans in a Jar, and Naturally Natural Yarn. Suzanna was seven months' pregnant and was taking to the experience like Mother Nature to spring.

“I can give you a new key,” Erinn said.

“That's OK. This way you hear me coming,” Suzanna said. “I don't want to scare you.”

She set her new purchases on the table and dumped out several maternity outfits and skeins of orange, brown, and lime-green yarn. Erinn picked up the yarn and examined it—could this be for the
baby
?

“It's not your lack of skill with a lock that scares me,” Erinn said.

Suzanna was in her midthirties. She had recently married Eric, the object of her desire since high school. Suzanna owned the Rollicking Bun Tea Shoppe and Book Nook: Home of the Epic Scone on the other side of town.

“I thought orange and green were safe for either sex,” Suzanna said.

She and Eric had decided that they didn't want to know the gender of their baby beforehand.

Erinn watched as Suzanna continued to unload her bags.

“God! I love shopping,” said Suzanna.

“You were shopping? At this hour?”

“Erinn, it's eight-thirty. People shop at eight-thirty.”

Suzanna tossed a small box to her sister, who caught it clumsily.

“I bought you a lipstick!” she said. “Try it! It will look great with your . . . pajamas.”

Ever since Suzanna had gotten married, she'd been obsessed with Erinn's single status. She was on a one-woman campaign to get Erinn out in the world.

Suzanna and Erinn had not been close as children. Erinn was nearly ten years older, and had moved to New York City when Suzanna was still young. Since moving to Santa Monica, the siblings had gotten closer, and as she examined the lipstick, Erinn doubted the wisdom of this. She eyed the waxy red tube with suspicion.

Suzanna snatched it back. She grabbed her sister's mouth and forced it into a pucker. “Don't move. . . .”

Suzanna finished the application, whipped out a mirror from her purse, and handed it to her sister. Erinn inspected her new lips.

“If one is a sheepdog, why try to look like a Pekingese?” she asked as she returned the mirror.

“Well, Scooby-Doo, you could do with a little lift, that's all. Don't you remember when people used to say you looked like Valerie Bertinelli?”

Erinn nodded, trying not to gag on the waxy taste of the lipstick.

“Well, since she's been on Jenny Craig . . . not so much.”

“And one lipstick will do for me what a year on Jenny Craig did for Valerie? I think not.”

“Baby steps, big sister. Baby steps.”

Erinn was grateful for her sister's concern, but missed the days when Suzanna was in awe of her and treated her with respect instead of with incessant camaraderie. While her sister reloaded her bags, Erinn covertly wiped off her new lipstick and took a hefty sip of cocoa.

“Well?” Suzanna asked.

“Well what?”

“Did you find a tenant for the guesthouse?”

“No, I did not,” Erinn said. “And I have to say, I think neither Craig nor his list is the way to go.”

“You aren't trying.”

“It's my guesthouse, Suzanna. I don't have to try. They do.”

“Well, keep looking.”

“Let's change the subject, shall we?”

Erinn had pulled out her big sister voice, which wasn't really fair. She knew Suzanna would cave in.

“OK,” Suzanna said. “How's the new play?”

Erinn got up and went into the living room. Suzanna had started casting yarn onto a set of large circular needles and had to scoot after her sister to catch up.

“How long have you been practicing that casual delivery?” Erinn asked.

“Uh . . . all week, if you must know,” Suzanna said, following closely at her sister's heels.

Erinn thumped down on the sofa and put a pillow over her head.

“Erinn, come on! I'm worried about you. You stay holed up in here day after day, not talking to anybody. . . .”

“That is not true,” Erinn said from under the pillow. “I had a very interesting conversation with a nice couple I met in the park just this afternoon.”

Suzanna sat next to Erinn. She pulled the pillow off her sister's head and tossed it aside. Erinn noticed the corners of the pillow were a little frayed.
But, hey, get in line
.

“Listen, I'm not just talking to you as a sister,” Suzanna said. “Mimi was in the shop yesterday, and she said you've been avoiding her.”

Mimi was Erinn's agent.

“She shouldn't be discussing my business with you!”

“She's worried about you. She says she needs something to sell.”

“And what if I don't have anything right now? She'll drop me?”

“How should I know? Hey, we forgot our cocoa,” Suzanna said.

“I'll get it,” Erinn said.

Erinn headed back to the kitchen. She tested the temperature by dipping her little finger into the cocoa. She put the cups in the microwave to reheat. While she watched the cups go around and around, she suddenly noticed how quiet it was. Leaving the cocoa to its carousel ride, she dashed frantically back into the living room, but she was too late. Suzanna was staring intently at the computer screen.

Erinn tried to block the screen and said, “It's not ready!”

“Just a peek!”

“No! It's still rough.”

“I'll make allowances.”

Erinn couldn't budge her sister. Suzanna countered every move like a prizefighter—years of sisterly combat had her trained—and the two women stared at the screen.

Erinn turned off the monitor and started to pace.

“It's hopeless,” she said. “I'm hopeless.”

“It's not that bad,” Suzanna said. “It's very patriotic.”

“Do you think Mimi will like it?”

“Oh, who cares if she likes it? She's an agent . . . she only cares ten percent,” Suzanna said as Erinn chewed on a thumbnail. “I, on the other hand, am your sister. So I care one hundred and ten percent.”

Erinn turned, midpace, and stared at her sister.

“That's a good line,” she said, going back to the computer. “That's a very good line. I bet I can use that.”

Suzanna smiled wanly. She started to twist her hair nervously as Erinn's fingers blazed over the keyboard.

“Sorry, Suzanna, you need to go. I need to write!” Erinn said without looking up. “Could you let yourself out? And let the cat in?”

“Sure,” Suzanna said, kissing Erinn's hair. “Good night.”

Erinn glanced up as her sister waddled away in the muted light of the living room. She saw the little girl who used to look up to her.
How did it come to this?
Erinn wondered, as she stared back at the computer screen.

I
t was Wednesday, and Wednesday was Erinn's favorite day.

She wandered down 3rd Street, passing all the high-end stores, her enormous messenger bag slung over her shoulder. Try as she might, she was not able to bypass the Apple Store, a Pleasure Island for anyone with a taste for the latest electronics. Telling herself she would only stop in for a minute, Erinn entered the store to check out the computers and new software.

She stared at a computerized sign overhead that announced Y
OUR GENIUS IS HERE TO HELP.
Scanning the store, her eyes briefly met those of Steven, who quickly looked away. Erinn understood that the poor man found her questions annoying, since she would spend hours trying out new programs and never buy anything. She knew that when her ship came in—again—she would make it up to him with massive amounts of purchasing. But there was no point trying to explain that. For now, he would just have to suffer. Erinn went up and tapped him on the shoulder. He smiled thinly.

“Hello, Ms. Wolf. On your way to the farmers' market?”

“It's Wednesday, isn't it?”

“Is there anything I can help you with today?”

“Yes. I read online that a new version of Final Cut Pro just came out. I've been thinking of learning how to edit.”

Steven pointed to an empty computer station.

“We just installed it,” he said. “Go take it for a test drive.”

Erinn headed over to the computer, but indicated that Steven should follow her.

Knitting her brow, she tried to navigate the system, but to no avail. She turned to Steven for help. He pulled up footage of a motorcycle careening wildly around California mountains.

“Here,” Steven said. “Let's try editing this commercial. It will give you a sense of what you can do.”

Erinn had no desire—or any intention—of editing a motorcycle commercial.

“Steven, I don't think this is going to help me.”

He looked at her and blinked.

“No, Ms. Wolf, I don't think this will help you, either.”

She wondered if Steven wanted to get rid of her. She knew she could be difficult. But it seemed insane to her that the geniuses had decided that, in order to get a grasp of the editing system, she should be working on a motorcycle commercial. She had no use for this sort of...
commercial
. . . editing. Just the sound of the word set her teeth on edge. She wanted to learn to edit the way she wanted to edit! Or at least, the way she thought she might want to edit, once she understood how it all worked.

“This is all about postproduction, Ms. Wolf,” Steven said. “Maybe you should be worrying about scripting before you tackle this.”

Was he actually telling her that she should be writing? Who did he think he was—her sister? Well, he thought he was a genius, of course. He'd been told he was a genius.
Genius
was on his badge after
Hi, My Name Is Steven.

Erinn tipped her half-moon glasses down, studying Steven as he looked at the computer screen. She could not read him. Her genius was a sphinx.

“If I'm going to start making my own films, I need to have a complete vision,” Erinn said.

Steven cleared his throat.

“If you're going to make a film, I think you should concentrate on your script. Especially if you don't want to learn editing the way we teach it.”

Erinn hesitated, then said, “I'm having trouble with my script right now.”

“Well, then, you don't need to worry about editing at all.”

Erinn left the Apple Store, demoralized, but changed her mind about one thing. Steven really was a genius.

Her mood lifted as she approached the farmers' market, which was her every-Wednesday destination. The Santa Monica Farmers' Market offered fresh produce, flowers, and, incongruently, soap, to the locals at a fraction of the cost of the supermarkets. Erinn looked around the thriving market—even in December, fruits and vegetables were laid out in full force.

That's one thing I have to give Los Angeles,
she thought.
No outdoor farmers' markets on 42nd Street in winter.

She pulled out her little expandable pull-cart and unfolded a coolie hat, both of which she had stored in her messenger bag. She started loading up on yams, multicolored fingerling potatoes, carrots, and green beans. She eyed the pale yellow and pink orchids, which reared over the heads of the shoppers in an explosion of floral majesty, but she didn't buy one. Erinn remembered a time when she thought nothing of tossing two or three heavily laden moth orchids into her cart, but those days were gone. She chided herself:
On hold, not gone
.

Thinking about money—or the lack thereof—always got her down. And, of course, as her bank account diminished, her sister's nagging had escalated from gentle to volcanic. Erinn recalled all the strange creatures craigslist had sent her way over the last few weeks. Was it her fault that everyone was impossible to deal with?

“What was wrong with Bunny?” Suzanna had asked about a possible tenant. “She was a writer! You would have had tons to talk about!”

“She communicates with the spirit world,” said Erinn.

“At least she communicates with somebody,” said Suzanna.

“She told me my spirit guide was Dorothy Parker.”

“You could do worse.”

“Very true. As a matter of fact, if you recall, I have often been compared to Dorothy Parker.”

“That's great, Erinn. But don't forget,” said Suzanna, stroking her pregnant belly, “Dorothy Parker died a lonely old woman.”

Deep in thought over her sister's words, Erinn frowned at the display of red and purple carrots. She absentmindedly held a large arrow-shaped Italian cauliflower to the sun. She loved the way the sun backlit the vegetable—you could see every detail outlined perfectly. Erinn could study the Italian cauliflower for hours—some would say it was an Italian broccoli, but she knew better. The florets grew in a spiral, one after another, according to a rhythm called the Fibonacci series, which was the origin of all aesthetic harmony according to Renaissance artists. Erinn marveled that proof of this medieval concept was sitting right in her hand.

“Excuse me, madam,” said a deep, heavily accented voice behind her. “If you are not interested in that particular romanesco, would you allow me to purchase it?”

Erinn realized her mind had wandered. How long had she been standing in front of this vegetable stand? She turned to apologize to the man behind her.

“Mi scusi, signore,”
Erinn said.
“Stavo sognando ad occhi aperti.”

Erinn almost stumbled on her words—she was hoping she had said, “I was daydreaming”—as she turned around and took in the gorgeous man smiling at her.

“How did you know that I was Italian?” he asked.

Erinn felt her face getting hot. She had always had a weakness for smoldering Italian good looks, but this man, with his liquid mercury eyes, was almost impossibly handsome.

“I . . . I . . . you said . . . only Italians call this a romanesco. Most Americans don't even know what it is!”

Out of practice conversing with attractive men in any language, Erinn looked down at her feet.

“Ahh . . . you are so ripe you are ready to burst.”

Erinn froze, then looked up, relieved to see the man had picked up a pear and was holding it up to the sun for inspection.

“Gorgeous, no?” he asked. “But you must have it; I will choose another.”

He held the fruit out to Erinn.

“Oh, no,” she said, pushing it back toward him. “Please. It's yours.”

The man, with his thick head of graying hair, put out his well-manicured hand. “
Grazie.
My name is Massimo Minecozzi.”

“Erinn Wolf.”

Erinn smiled and went about her business choosing fruits and vegetables. While she was studying the spaghetti squash, Massimo nodded good-bye and headed into the crowd. Erinn paid for her purchases quickly and tried to keep him in her sights. She followed him to the berry stand.

“So we meet again,” said Massimo when he caught Erinn's eye.

He had purchased several cartons of raspberries and was packing them gently into a well-designed grocery cart.

“You must be a big fan of raspberries,” Erinn said, trying to seem interested in some blueberries.

Massimo shrugged. “The berries . . . they speak to me.”

Erinn picked up a three-pack of assorted berries and indicated that she was ready to pay for them. Before the vendor could reach for her money, Massimo lifted the carton of the berries out of her hands.

“The blackberries are bruised,” he said. “Let me choose.”

Massimo looked over the berries with an expert eye. Erinn was not one to sit on her tuffet while a man took the reins, but this man appeared to be some kind of berry expert. Massimo didn't seem to find a carton to his liking, and instead created his own three-pack. He bowed slightly as he handed it to her.

“These are
perfetto
,” he said.

“Grazie, signore,”
Erinn said.

“How is it that you speak Italian?”

Erinn hesitated. She hadn't spoken Italian in years and she was nearly breathless from the emotions that were bobbing to the surface—the bitter fighting with the sweet.

“I have loved many, many things about Italy. Especially the language.”

“You speak it well.”

“
No, signore, ma grazie. Il mio Italiano è orribille, ma amo par-larlo.”

Massimo seemed to be studying her, which made Erinn extremely nervous. She never had gotten the hang of the Italian male's undivided attention. She turned back to the vendor and waited for her change.

“May I buy you a cup of coffee?” Massimo waited patiently for her to pocket her coins. “The espresso here is very good.”

Erinn felt heat rising up her neck—she was well out of her depth and she knew it. But she, too, had always found the coffee delicious at this local farmers' market, so she followed him to the espresso bar. Erinn had often wondered if it was only in prestigious, pretentious Santa Monica that there was a coffee bar settled snugly among the summer squash and the tangelos. But, in the scheme of things, good coffee was good coffee—why question it? Today, Erinn was grateful for the coffee bar for many reasons.

They sat in what she hoped was companionable silence instead of in the acute awkwardness she felt. Finally, Erinn found her voice.

“How long have you been in America?” she asked.

“Just two years. And those years I live in New York City. I am an actor, and people, they tell me I must come to Los Angeles. And so!”

Erinn was of the opinion that real actors belonged solely in New York. Serious artists, New York; vapid stars, Los Angeles. But he was here now, and it wouldn't really help for Erinn to tell him he'd made a terrible mistake, so she kept it to herself.

“What films did you make in New York? Anything I would know?”

“I was not a success in New York. In Italy, yes. But here, no. I am in Los Angeles to try something new.” He smiled at Erinn. “Whatever that may be.”

Massimo told Erinn that he found Los Angeles, as a whole, very confusing.

“It is so big,” he said. “I still look for a place to live, but I am not happy with what I see. I want to live in the vicinity of the water, but I cannot afford to live in the vicinity of the water. I have only some money. While I wait for success, I serve a restaurant.”

“Do you mean, you are a waiter?”

Massimo looked offended.

“I am a chef! At Bella Bella.”

Erinn had never heard of Bella Bella but nodded enthusiastically. She had obviously wounded his pride by calling him a waiter. She remembered how carefully you needed to phrase things around artistic Italians. It was all coming back to her. Erinn looked at him. She was not one to jump into anything at this stage of her life, but it seemed as if destiny had not only taken her hand but slapped her across the cheek.

“You should come home with me,” she said.

“But I hardly know you.”

Erinn, horrified at the implication, tried to clarify. Massimo laughed an easy laugh, and Erinn relaxed. She could tell he was just teasing.

“I have a guesthouse for rent.”

“To me?” asked Massimo, beautiful brown eyes growing wide.

“Well, let's go see,” said Erinn.

The two chatted amicably as they strolled up Ocean Avenue. Massimo, deeming Erinn's cart unworthy, had loaded her purchases into his own and he pulled it along as they walked. He told Erinn about his life in Italy, how interesting he found America, and his change of heart toward California wines.

“When I first am to America,” he said, “I refuse to drink the California wine. But now . . . I think the California wine is very good. Sometime.”

“It's interesting that you should mention California wine. . . .”

Erinn warmed to the subject of California wines. Although she was born in New York, her parents had moved to Napa Valley when she was nine—a year before Suzanna was born. Although she moved back to New York City as a college student and didn't return to California for almost twenty years, a large part of her heart remained in Napa.

Massimo, who seemed to have a short attention span, pointed out a large white Spanish Revival building called the Sovereign Hotel.

“That is made by the woman who made Hearst Castle,” said Massimo.