Cupcake (25 page)

Kathmandu café

Everest climbing season

Dante will school shrimp

"Say wha?" Shrimp wanted to know.

Doing the right thing is completely overrated, and yet the concept seduced me. "Dante contacted Wallace, trying to track you down. Dante's got some gig at a café in Kathmandu. It's the season for tourists who travel there en route to Mount Everest, and Dante of course is the stupid barista man of choice for climbing season in Nepal. Dante says he wants to show you the Buddhist monasteries, introduce you to the monks who are his friends there. Nepal is the epicenter of the spiritual action you seek, apparently, and Dante wants you to join him there. You're, like, looking for a teacher, but I think you already found him. And I think someone as cool and talented as you should have that, pursue it, see where it leads. If you read through Wallace's message, he says he's got plenty of work for you the next couple weeks to earn your fare to Kathmandu, if you want to go."

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I am a New York hypergrrl for sure, but the California free love free spirit in me will not be denied. No one's more surprised than me.

The sunstruck smile on Shrimp's face let me know his answer. "There it is," he said. "The dharma path."

I arrived here determined not to let Shrimp go like last time, but now I realized I'd made the right decision the first time, when he proposed marriage and I said no because I wanted us both to be free to pursue our dreams.

Maybe I am smarter than I think.

I want Shrimp to follow a path he's running to, not away from. I expected to cling to him, to fight for us not to repeat the old stalemate, but now I genuinely
wanted
him to go to Nepal. I won't be the girl to obstruct his answers.

I have my path, and he should have his. If our paths are meant to intertwine, they will. The permanent intersection just hasn't happened--yet. If we force it, we lose it forever.

I always thought at the end of the road, I would find him. Now I know--Shrimp will find me.

I'm already who and where I want to be. Myself.

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***

FORTY-SIX

For old times' sake we said good-bye in the backseat of Shrimp's

brother's hand-me-down Pinto parked near the top hill near the hallowed surf spot. Our lovemaking encompassed the soul-kissing-touching-talking-until-the-sun-set-over-the-Pacific variety The midafternoon nap inside his arms, with the sun cascading through the window as we lay enveloped in ocean breeze and in each other, more than compensated for the nakedness our bodies did not share, what with the Pacific cold and the sand all over my little man's little car.

"So how's it gonna be this time?" he asked me before I left. We stood against the ancient Geo Metro car I'd driven up north that used to be mine and that my parents still hadn't given away. Shrimp pressed against me, and I held him tight, rocking, kissing his neck and running my fingers through his hair. I didn't want to stop touching him. Ever. I momentarily considered pitching Shrimp on

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the idea that we get a reverse Siamese twin operation that could join us together forever, instead of separate us back into two independent beings.

"No clean break," I whispered in his ear.

"Then what break?" he whispered back.

Last time, we made the right choice, but executed it the wrong way. This time around, we couldn't make that same mistake. I said, "No break at all. Cuz there is like technology around now that makes it possible for us to see and talk to each other every day even if we're on opposite sides of the world. We're gonna make that technology our bitch."

"Bitchin'," Shrimp murmured. Then, in response to the fog setting in overhead and chilling the air, sending goose bumps across our arms, he added, "Burr-ito."

"Enchilada and tamale," I answered.

"Tostada and guacamole."

"Me amo Shrimp."

"My name's
'Camarón' en español."

"My name's still Cyd Charisse in other languages, I believe."

"Just promise not to call me Phil ever again?"

"Promise. I still
amo Camarón"

"Ditto."

I could only break my body apart from his after we shared a vow that we were not breaking up at all, but rather diverting to a

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temporary holding pattern, spiritually together but geographically apart. We promised a proper airport good-bye a few days later when I returned to Manhattan, complete with longing kisses and tears, and plans to reunite in New York after Shrimp's time in Nepal. Promises had other plans in mind.

My attempt to extract a Don't Die promise from Sugar Pie was requested of the wrong person. When I returned to San Francisco from seeing Shrimp, a message waited for me from Danny. I needed to return home to New York immediately.

Max had moved on to the big commune in the sky. He died of a heart attack the night after I arrived in San Francisco. A lifestyle of junk food, smoking, and not visiting the doctor regularly since his partner's death, had finally caught up with him.

Sid-dad didn't want me to be alone after I'd lost a friend--the first friend I've ever lost to death. He offered to accompany me back to New York. I told Sid-dad, "I'll be okay, you don't have to come, I have Danny." He said, "You need your father." I said, "You're right. Thank you."

As our plane traveled back east, Sid-dad snoozed next to me and I rested my head against his arm. I didn't know whether to laugh or cry because maybe Max's timing was his sick way of giving me a last gift: grief for him distracted the heartache I otherwise would have felt for finding myself on an eastbound plane, again, after having let Shrimp go, again. Our young friendship--the one

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I shared with Max--had been cut too short. Max and I had never gotten around to watching his Ann Miller movie collection together, he'd never seen my barista mastery skills, owing to his desire to never leave his apartment unless absolutely necessary, and I'd yet to see Max in action when he crank-called his upstairs neighbors and played obscene noises from his laptop.

Even if Max was a grouch, I decided that he'd see it as no dishonor to his memory if I celebrated the bright side of his passing. Max lived twenty years essentially alone in his apartment after his partner died, and he was eager to ride out eternity with his true love. So when I think of Max, I will picture him up in heaven, reunited with Tony and their friends, building new walls of not-sadness. They're having garden parties with Ava Gardner and Lana Turner, drinking proper British tea, eating beets from a can, ramen noodles, and lots and lots of cupcakes. They're learning the real answers to the universe's crucial mysteries: Who was driving the car that killed Grace Kelly--Princess Grace or Princess Stephanie? How did Marilyn Monroe really die--and why? Did Sid Vicious off Nancy Spungen at the Chelsea Hotel--or did the drug dealer who visited them that night really do it? Liberace ...
WHY?

Yvette Mimieux greeted me when Sid-dad and I arrived home at Max's to retrieve her. She
miaule
'd,
So maybe you've lost a friend and your true love has flown the coop once again, but you've gained a movie star namesake sister. You promised.

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***

FORTY-SEVEN

A cappuccino bought me my life.

The espresso pull tasted too watery, and the newbie barista still can't get a good head of foam on milk--skim
or
whole--so I didn't bother actually paying for the drink. Instead I stuffed a dollar tip down the baristas shirt, for effort. He's here, he's trying. He's Johnny Mold, our first employee, who hopefully won't consider my dollar-down-the-shirt tip as grounds for a future sexual harassment lawsuit.

Johnny said,
"Toon vor es,"
to my tippage.

Myself may also be called Cupcake, Chaos, Little Hellion, CC, Ceece, Dollface, etc. (but I'm not yet called "Etc."--to my knowledge), but even in Armenian I didn't think I cared to be called an ass. Lisbeth beat me to my own defense.
"Toon esh es,"
she responded to Johnny. She then handed him her Armenian phrase

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book to go along with her piece of advice. "Maybe you could learn some words that don't involve offending someone?" At the rate their friendship has ignited since Aaron's birthday party, Johnny the Armenian jackass, and not Frank, will be accompanying Lisbeth to Armenia to adopt a baby next month.

Lisbeth's going to be a mom! More important, I'm going to be an aunt!

Johnny Mold may have lost his grandpa, but like Lisbeth, he's gained a family. He said, "So that's the new plan--you two ganging up on me?"

Lisbeth sang out, "Sisters."

Our brother Danny stood up on the platform in the corner window area of the establishment, clinking a fork against a champagne glass to get the group's attention. "People," he said. "Let the voting on a new name begin. I'll start the bidding by suggesting 'Dollface.'" He looked in my direction. "If we name the place after Ceece, perhaps she'll have less inclination to bolt every time we hold a party here?"

I had no intention of abandoning this particular celebration. The venue hosting our party, the Village establishment formerly known as LUNCHEONETTE, is now an unnamed café that, as of today, officially and permanently will host Danny's cupcake business. Make that,
our
cupcake business.

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While it may be a joint business of which I am co-owner, Danny's nickname for me shouldn't bear the brunt of becoming our business name. Too cute and obvious. Nixed. "'Pastabilities,'" I chimed in. "That's what I think we should call the place."

Aaron asked, "But isn't the plan for this business to indulge the sugar more than the pasta side of the carb food chain?"

True loves be damned, I smelled a voting bloc. I said, "Is that distinction really so important? Who wouldn't want to eat in a cupcake place called 'Pastabilities'?"

"I wouldn't," Johnny Be Damned said.

"I wouldn't either," Lisbeth seconded. "But I'd be glad to have my management consulting team research and develop an appropriate corporate brand name--"

The Danny and CC voting bloc: "NO!"

Johnny mused, "As hard as it is to operate a successful food business in Manhattan, it's even harder to come up with an original name for it. So I'm throwing 'Geldof' into the suggestion pile, after Sir Bob Geldof--"

I interrupted, "Who's not actually a proper 'Sir,' since he's not a British citizen, even though he gets called 'Sir'--"

Only to be interrupted back by Johnny, "And Danny could formulate special brand cupcakes named after Sir Bob's biological and adopted daughters."

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"I like it," Danny said. "The black-and-white cupcake becomes the Fifi Trixibelle, the spring fever cupcake becomes the Peaches Honeyblossom ..."

Aaron grabbed Danny's hand, inspired. "... And the flower frosting cupcake becomes the Pixie Frou-Frou! The peanut butter cupcake becomes the Heavenly Hiraani Tigerlily! I can already see the marketing campaign:
Come to Geldof--cupcakes catered to your every groupie craving."

Danny laughed. "There's our niche! I foresee customer lines out the door and down the block."

Sid-dad shook his head. "What's the matter with simply calling the place 'Cupcake'?"

Sid-dad is biased. Frank-dad is not. "How about just sticking with the name LUNCHEONETTE, until inspiration strikes?" he said.

We all more or less grumbled, "Okay." If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

I always imagined it would be too weird to see my two families merge, but watching Frank and Sid-dad step aside to inspect the preliminary remodel plans at the counter together, I realized it was in fact too overdue. The two dads, former college roommates and former best friends, their friendship long lost to the Nancy riff that produced me, converged in New York for a talk after Max's funeral service. A talk about me. They emerged from that talk to pronounce that while I may call myself a slacker, I'm in fact anything but.

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Despite my refusal to go to college or to culinary school, they decided that with the right backing, Myself was fully capable of learning how to run a business. They were equally bullish on Danny's prospects. And so Our Two Dads (being that Sid-dad is also Danny's godfather) teamed together to formulate a Plan. Trust funds were cashed out, offers made, papers signed. Danny and I, along with our families as investors, now own LUNCHEONETTE.

Hmmm: Our Two Dads. Potential band name ... or potential café business name?

The sound of a champagne cork popping open announced our celebration was ready to get lively. A glass of sparkly arrived in my hand courtesy of the honored guest who'd brought the bottle to help us christen the New-Old establishment. "I see your doll still travels with you," said Miss Loretta, the NY bio-fam's longtime friend and former housekeeper, acknowledging Gingerbread perched on top of the blueprints lying on the counter. When I first came to New York to meet the bio-fam, Miss Loretta had extended an offer to my sixteen-year-old girl self to park Gingerbread on a shelf at her restaurant uptown if Gingerbread and I were ever ready to part ways. I'm allegedly a woman now, one with a hella remodel debt piling on, and I
still
wasn't ready to part with my childhood doll.

I pointed in the direction of La Marzocco, eternally reliable and therefore saved from the discarded appliances list included in the

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remodels upgrade plans. I told Miss Loretta, "Naw, Gingerbread doesn't travel with me so much as hang out in my important places. And she's fixing for a permanent retirement. The remodel plans will provide a custom-built shelf designed for Gingerbread to sit over La Marzocco."

"Good spot for her," Miss Loretta allowed. "From there Gingerbread can lord over and grace your community of customers, family, and friends. Amen." She lifted her glass to me. "Cyd Charisse, I wish you much luck and happiness with this business, and I promise not to hold a grudge at you for breaking my nephew Luis's heart."