Live Fast Die Hot (13 page)

“I just basically wanted you to see the changes we've made and tell me if you think we could get our money out. PS, Jason has no idea you're here and we can't tell him.” I led Eric past the pool to the front door.

Joan turned to him and said all the things I didn't have the courage to. “It's haunted, girl,” she said in a foreboding tone. Joan called everyone “girl,” regardless of gender. “Ghost dog. Old-man partner.”

“I see.” Eric remained calm as he looked up at the wood- beamed ceiling. “Opening up the kitchen made a huge difference,” he offered.

As upbeat as Eric tried to be, I sensed his underlying disappointment. He took pride in his work. If his clients weren't happy, neither was he. And his clients here weren't happy. Well, one of the clients, anyway. The other client had absolutely no idea any of this was happening.

I rattled off a list of improvements we'd made to the Spanish Colonial Revival as we made our way down the long hallway toward the nursery. The outdoor pizza oven, the built-in Miele coffee machine, the fifteen hidden security cams, the biometric keyless deadbolts on all the doors and windows.

“The foodie and the freak. That's my nickname for them.” Joan picked up one of Sid's jackets sitting on a club chair and tried to put it on.

“Jason wanted to install a Toto toilet and I wanted a moat and drawbridge, but we're both unemployed at the moment, so we thought we should hold off.”

I flung open the door to the nursery, hoping to catch the old-man partner carving a corncob pipe in my glider, to no avail.

“Honey, this basically fits me!” Joan said, sausaging herself into Sid's jacket.

Eric wasn't sure what to think. He admitted it would be hard to make a profit on the place so quickly, then guesstimated that if we held the house for another year we'd most likely break even.

“A year? I'll be dead in a year! What about all those people who flip houses? I kind of thought that's what I did here.”

Eric explained that the pizza oven, though a great perk, didn't add any square footage to the home.

“You could always just bulldoze and rebuild something massive and fabulous.” Joan never offered a solution that cost less than a million dollars.

“Or we could move you back into your old place and you could rent this out—” Before Eric could finish, Jason stormed through the front door with Sid.

I looked at the owl clock perched on Sid's bookshelf. They were home early. If Jason caught me with Joan Arthur and our realtor in Sid's bedroom, I was busted. If Eric Kessleman was given the opportunity to talk to Jason before he was properly primed, the deal would be off.

The floor creaked as Jason marched down the hall.

“Babe?” he called out.

With no way out, I scrambled to hide Eric and Joan. I flung open the French doors on Sid's creepy closet and shoved Eric in. “Just wait here,” I whispered eagerly, “and I'll come get you once the coast is clear.”

Joan followed and sat on his lap. “You don't mind if I sit on you, do you, girl? I'm kind of bony,” she said proudly. Closing the doors in their faces, I promised to return as quickly as I could.

After scanning the room to make sure everything looked normal, I shut out the lights and turned to go.

Just then, Jason appeared. He was holding Sid, who had spit up all down his Nirvana onesie. Jason gave me an awkward kiss on the chin, then brushed past me to change Sid's clothes.

“Feel my abs,” I heard the closet whisper as I walked over to help.

“What?” Jason said, distracted.

“Nothing, baby. How was the park?” I said loudly.

“Good, aside from Sid vomiting all over the car. I'm such an idiot! I shouldn't have given him a bottle before the ride home.” Jason shamed himself out of habit. I'd grown to hate it when he called himself names or beat himself up. Jason was no longer just Jason to me. He had been a little boy once. A little boy who needed to be perfect, who never got the unconditional love that our child would. I wished I could go back and save him. I wished I could go back and save myself.

Holding Sid by one leg and grabbing a new diaper with his free hand, Jason glanced at me and smiled.

“I'm impressed you're all alone in the nursery. This is huge progress.”

I smiled and offered to take over, but he refused. My boobs were engorged and ready for release, but Sid had just eaten.

“You go pump. I'll put him down for a nap,” he said sweetly.

What the fuck was I supposed to do? Jason was being so helpful. He was the guy I wanted him to be at two in the morning. If I argued, I'd be negating all the complaining I'd done for the last two months. If I didn't, Joan and Eric would be stuck in the closet for the next hour.

Weighing the pros and cons of each scenario, I decided that healthy co-parenting meant more to me than Eric Kessleman's comfort. So I left the nursery and returned to the bedroom to watch patiently on the monitor. Jason rocked Sid in his arms and danced lightly around the room. My pulse raced; I prayed Joan would sit still and wait for my return. Sid looked up at the ceiling, probably learning about the battle at Yorktown, when suddenly there was a sound.

“Honnnnney?” the closet whispered.

Jason turned and looked directly at the closet. It didn't move. Curious, he walked closer.

“Girl?” the closet inquired.

Jason looked confused. We were new parents. We were tired. Was his mind playing tricks on him? Still holding Sid, he reached toward the French doors and tried to pry them open. They wouldn't budge. Maybe he'd baby-proofed them on the wrong side. I called to him from the bedroom, hoping to distract him.

“Baby? Everything okay in there?”

“I'm fine,” he called back.

To my great surprise, Jason suddenly stopped futzing with the doors and laid Sid in his crib. I was both relieved and horrified. How many other times in our marriage did he think he'd heard something and then completely brushed it of
f
? I could be dead and maimed in a bathtub filled with my own blood and Jason probably wouldn't notice until he decided to use the neighboring shower and there was nobody there to hand him a towel.

Once Sid was down, Jason directed his attention back toward the closet. I dropped the monitor and ran back down the hall to stop him, but just as I opened the nursery door, he opened the closet. Jason screamed. Eric screamed. Sid broke into hysterics. And Joan sat completely still, as if Sid's baby coat provided her with camouflage.

It took Jason weeks to forgive me for almost selling our new house out from under him. But with couple's therapy and several halfhearted blowjobs, we reached an understanding.

It occurred to me a few weeks later, as I sat with Jason and Sid in the American Airlines lounge waiting to board a flight to New York, that I might not have the kind of ghosts I could leave behind by moving, but the kind that rent space inside my head. Maybe it was easier to say I was afraid of the house than to admit I was afraid of being a mom. I didn't want to obsess over intruders or whether I was going to be a good enough teacher for my son. I didn't want to be the outcast of my Mommy and Me group or the lady who makes her housekeeper watch her shower. I didn't want to be guided by my fear. I wanted to be the kind of mom who hears a weird noise in her front yard, walks outside with nothing but her bare hands, and returns wearing a raccoon bolero.

I needed Sid to trust me. I needed to trust myself.

So for the time being I agreed to stay in the new house.

The lounge started to clear out when a voice came over the loudspeaker announcing boarding. Jason quickly ran to the bathroom as I packed up our carry-ons and prayed Sid's Benadryl was kicking in. Out of nowhere, a hand touched my shoulder. I turned to see Jerry, Jason's friend from the gym.

He wore a baseball cap that covered his insanely curly hair and a cashmere tracksuit that screamed “My other tracksuit is even more cashmere than this tracksuit.”

“Hey, you. Haven't met the little guy yet, but I've seen tons of pics.” Jerry reached out to pet Sid on the head the way I imagined he used to pet Seymour, his late Pekingese.

“How is it going?” I asked in a sympathetic tone that implied I already knew he'd accidentally murdered his dog.

“You know. It's been hard. Mike didn't eat for two weeks. Every time we walk past the dog park I break into hysterics.” Jerry teared up as he listed the holes Seymour had left in his life.

I couldn't help thinking this run-in wasn't a coincidence but some sort of divine intervention. I knew Jason said never to mention Seymour to Jerry, but maybe Seymour
needed
me to mention Seymour to Jerry. If I wanted to seize the moment and gain favor with my ghost dog and his old-man partner, I needed to act fast.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jason walking briskly back from the bathroom. He flapped his wet hands in the air as he made a beeline for us. My moment was about to pass.

“Let's have dinner when you guys get back from New York.” Jerry picked up his backpack and purple titanium roller bag to leave.

I pictured our dinner ending in Seymour using my body to kiss Jerry on the mouth, like he was Demi Moore in
Ghost.

“Jerry.” I grabbed his wrist and stared into his eyes. Jason appeared next to me, but it was too late, the words kept coming out. “This might sound crazy, but…Seymour wants you to know that he forgives you.”

Jerry's face lost all color and I thought for a moment he might faint.

Jason looked at me, mortified. I could almost see him tallying up the blowjobs I'd owe him. So far, his count was up to infinity.

Jerry pulled out a pair of sunglasses and used them to conceal the tears. He leaned over to my ear and whispered: “Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” I said loudly, as I looked at Jason and smiled like I was the Long Island Medium. “Oh, and one more thing, Jerry. Was there anyone else in your car that day? Maybe an old man?”

A
man's midlife crisis starts with him buying a sports car. A woman's midlife crisis starts with her calling herself an interior decorator. After talking about it in couple's therapy, Jason and I decided we'd try to live in our ghost house for a year before making any rash moves. Our therapist, Beth, encouraged me to take whatever measures I needed to make myself feel comfortable in the new space.

That meant decorating. After all, I wasn't living in a midcentury-modern fuckpad anymore. I was living in a tile-roofed hacienda with absolutely zero fucking. I needed décor that complemented my new architecture and celibacy. I saw myself surrounded by African mud cloth and Indian block printing. I wanted miles of Thai batik runners and heavy Bolivian blankets, called
frazadas,
that I'd throw over my bed. I wanted to buy baskets from Botswana and fill them with firewood that I'd never burn. My house would be an eclectic clash of cultures that at best made me look like a seasoned editor for
Condé Nast Traveler,
and at worst like an eccentric retired theater professor who collects tribal masks.

I began by scouring countless Pinterest pages for inspiration before realizing I was missing a key element:
I needed a Moroccan rug.
They were everywhere. Whenever I'd look up somebody fashionable on Instagram that I envied too much to actually follow, I'd inevitably scroll down and see a picture of their latest handbag strategically shot at a high angle on the same cream pile-weave rug with a black trellislike pattern woven throughout. These weren't just any Moroccan rugs; they were Beni Ourains. Beni Ourains hail from the eastern Middle Atlas Mountains of Morocco and are traditionally used as blankets to protect from the cold. Each rug is one of a kind because the weavers intentionally weave inaccuracies into their work to ward off the “evil eye.” Objectively, these rugs are fairly basic, but like any trend (read: Birkenstocks), if you see it enough times you eventually become convinced you cannot live your life without it.

A bit of research told me that an authentic eleven-by-fourteen Beni Ourain rug could cost me as much as $20,000. I wanted one so badly I was tempted to visit ABC Home and order one on the spot. But I had a kid and an unpredictable menstrual cycle, and was unwilling to spend more than $5,000 on anything that was cream. So I did some browsing.

I started out talking to an Etsy seller named Mustapha. I knew that Etsy allowed for negotiation, so I was careful to conceal my identity and appear as though I had a deep understanding of what I was talking about. I wasn't a postpartum-battling ghost whisperer. I was Bertrand, the bi-curious interior designer with a penchant for travel. On one of my pillow-buying binges I'd discovered that most online vendors offer a discount to industry professionals. As Bertrand, Mustapha would know better than to take advantage of me. Bertrand was worldly, after all. He had expensive taste and was used to getting his way. If Mustapha couldn't provide Bertrand with what he was looking for at the price he demanded, Betrand would have no problem going elsewhere.

I reached out about an eleven-by-fourteen and he promptly replied. In broken English, he proposed a price of $6,800. “Do you design homes?” he added.

Here was my opportunity to let my expertise shine. Yes, I'm a designer, I told him. I explained that I lived in Los Angeles with my on-again, off-again lover, Trevor, and my golden doodle, Catherine Zeta Bones, but that I traveled extensively for work. I told him $6,800 was far too much. Bertrand knew better than to settle on a first offer. He might even travel to the source and pick something out himself, if that's what it took.

Mustapha strongly urged me against visiting Morocco. “Morocco is very difficult place to be,” he said. “Crazy strange lions that eat everyone. They share food and shelter with the humans.”

Lions that eat everyone?
What the fuck was he talking about? Was Mustapha really trying to dissuade me from traveling to Morocco with the threat of lions? I felt lied to and manipulated. Bertrand would never stand for that. Without hesitation, I promptly ghosted Mustapha and moved on.

After a couple more days of Web surfing, I stumbled on a blog post on Apartment Therapy introducing me to The Anou. The Anou was a community of artisans, including women weavers, living in the Ait Bouguemez valley of the High Atlas Mountains. In 2010, Dan Driscoll, a guy from San Diego, was serving in the Peace Corps in the neighboring Moroccan region of Azilal. He was horrified when he learned that the weavers he met were practically penniless, even after selling their high-end tapestries to fair-trade organizations. Dan decided the solution would be to help build a website where the community could reach consumers without going through middlemen. And thus The Anou was born.

I inquired and learned that for $1,600, The Anou would weave me an eleven-by-fourteen Beni Ourain and send it to me in L.A. with no additional shipping costs. The rugs were beautiful, but unless they were being mass-produced in Indian sweatshops, I didn't understand how they could cost so little. So, before placing an order, I sent Dan an e-mail explaining what I wanted and double-checking that he wasn't a slave trader. Dan responded instantly. He defended the integrity of his operation and told me not to hesitate in calling him if I had any further questions.

Dan seemed like the kind of guy who regularly used every feature on his Swiss Army knife. He probably knew how to tie at least three hundred different kinds of knots. He could kill a Moroccan street lion with his bare hands. He was proficient and competent in all the areas I wasn't. I pictured him extracting his daily water from a cactus, sleeping in a Bedouin hut, and telling me he wished I wasn't married.

It was a Wednesday morning when I finally got around to calling Dan. I was stuck in West Hollywood rush-hour traffic and nobody on my “I'm bored and sitting in the car” phone sheet was available to talk, so I decided to try Dan. I didn't have any real questions. I guess I wanted to make sure that he wasn't scamming me, but more than that I just figured he must be really eager to get to know me.

After just two rings, a young voice with a distinctly Californian accent answered.

“This is Dan.”

“Hey, Dan! It's Jenny!” I was so excited for him. He finally had me on the phone.

“Hi,” he said, unmoved. “How can I help you?” It must have been hard for Dan to hold back his enthusiasm. How often was it that he got to talk to buyers directly? Especially ones that had googleable sex scenes on the Internet? It was kind of sweet that he was trying.

“I just wanted to talk through this whole thing with you before placing my order. The last guy I tried to do business with claimed I'd be eaten by lions if I didn't buy from him, so I'm just a little wary.”

“Lions? Wow. Well, there are no lions here.” Hmm. I was giving Dan room to banter with me and he was totally missing his cues. Dan wasn't as funny as I wanted him to be.

“Daaaaaaan. I'm from L.A. I just want my house to look like Irene Neuwirth's. Is this whole thing legit? Do you promise you aren't just trying to steal from me? The ladies on your site aren't just hanging out on a Universal Studios back lot, are they?”

“Ha.” I smiled, pleased to finally get a rise out of him. “No, I assure you we are a real operation and we guarantee that the rug will arrive in one piece on your doorstep or your money back.”

Then, a flash of inspiration. “You know, I'd love to come there someday and see this operation. Is that possible?” I was only half-serious, half making sure he wasn't on a Universal Studios back lot.

He sounded skeptical. “You do realize the Berber people don't speak English.”

“Do they speak French or German?”

“No.”

“How about Spanish? I don't speak it, but I do know all the words to Madonna's ‘La Isla Bonita.' Okay, don't tell anyone, but I also know one Pitbull song.”

“They speak their own indigenous language. I'm sure you haven't heard it.”

“That's cool. It might even be a plus. People usually love me when they can't understand a word I'm saying.”

Dan paused, with what felt like disbelief.

“Yeah, I don't think you would enjoy yourself. Have you ever been camping?”

“No.”

“Hiked a mountain?”

“Magic Mountain.”

“Slept on the floor?”

“I was a theater major.”

Dan chuckled, but it was obvious he'd never learned how to trust by closing his eyes and allowing his body to be lifted into the air by a group of fellow thespians. It was also obvious that he didn't want me to visit. Without coming straight out and saying it, Dan was implying that I couldn't hack it in the Atlas. He might have also been implying that I couldn't hack it as a theater major, but that could have just been my own projection.

Later that night, I bought the rug. Before bed, I lamented to Jason that the socially inept stranger I met online wasn't completely in love with me, and I told him how he laughed at the idea of me coming to the Atlas Mountains to see the weavers. I was looking for support, but Jason just rolled his eyes and sidled into bed beside me.

“Oh, I'm sure you could hack it, Anderson Cooper. Sounds like just the kind of trip I could see you taking.”

The sarcasm stung, but I refrained from engaging.

The next morning, I did some research. Here's what I learned. The co-op was five hours outside Marrakech, deep in the Atlas Mountains. If I were to go, I'd have to fly to Africa, make my way through Casablanca, get on a smaller plane to Marrakech, hire a driver to take me five hours into the mountains, and hike three miles before even seeing a weaver. I'd never taken that kind of trip before. Usually my vacations consisted of sitting on a beach drinking overpriced iced tea and contemplating how I looked in a bikini. This would be a far more badass endeavor. The kind of story I could brag about one day to my son. Something I'd probably have to invest in waterproof boots for.