Reinventing Mona (19 page)

“Okay,” I said sternly. “We really need to get going. Good to see you ... Poison. Gotta fly now.”

Tim winked again. “Gotcha, love. If yeh ever want to mend my broken heart, yeh got the number. Just dial the love sha—”

“All right! Good-bye. We really need to leave now.”

The waitress approached our table. “Ready to order?”

Tim skulked out of the restaurant and shouted, “I love you, Mona!” as the door swung behind him.

“What a disturbed fellow,” Adam said.

“He’s a musician,” I dismissed.

“He’s a troubled man,” Adam said, genuinely concemed. “Maybe we should’ve helped him out. Did you see the track marks up his arms? I think that guy’s a drug addict. We all suffer when people like that go without rehabilitation. That’s what I believe. You think that guy earns a nickel?” He shook his head. “He’s at the public trough or dealing drugs to kids—or both!”

I held my head in my hands, wishing I’d never staged this without clearly outlining what I expected from Tim. Adam did not look at all impressed by the fact that I’d dated this heavy metal band guy. I seemed dangerous in the worst sense of the word. “Did you ever share a needle with this guy?” Adam asked.

“No! Of course not. We were together very briefly.”

“Poison said it was six years.”

Stop calling him that!

“Three years,” I corrected.

“Three years is a long time, Mona.”

“We weren’t together three years. It was more like three months. The guy’s on drugs. He’s deluded. He’s troubled. You said so yourself. Let’s talk about something else. How’s your family doing? Do they still do those—”

“Have you been tested for AIDS?”

Vicki was quite a performer, genuinely loving the excitement of being watched, loved, cheered. There were others who looked exhausted by the constant hustle, but Vicki seemed to revel in the energy of it. Perhaps it’s because the coach only put her in for the second half of the game, but when she ran onto the field, she whipped off her jersey like post-World Cup Brandi Chastain and ran the periphery of the field high-fiving the thirty or so Kickin’ Chicks fans. She seemed a good fit for the team. I watched the other players to see if there were any side glances or eye rolling at their slutty new midfielder, but they seemed to get a charge out of her flair.

After the game, Vicki, Greta, and I went to dinner together, our second outing as a trio. We promised we wouldn’t get quite as drunk this time, and vowed absolutely no Audrey Hepburn films. A few months ago, we found ourselves sprawled out on the floor of my family room watching back-to-back Hepburn films finishing with
Roman Holiday.
At midnight, I was sobbing that Gregory Peck had just let Audrey Hepburn go without a fight. Vicki, who became extremely cynical when she drank too much, slurred that the princess and the reporter were from two different worlds and there was no point hoping for the happy ending. “No point?!” I said, taking on a bit of that classic film leading-lady affect. “What about love? The point is love, Vicki. How can he just walk away from true love?!”

“What was he supposed to do, stand there and beg her to give up her life as a princess? Get real, Mona.”

Greta was taking mental notes, I could tell. A fact confirmed by her later diagnosis that Vicki had attachment issues and I had displacement problems. Doctor, heal thyself, I thought.

If I weren’t drunk that night I would have never blurted that it was obvious that Vicki and Mike came from the same gene pool. “You Doughertys are a heartless, cold lot,” I said.

“That much is true, but it’s got nothing to do with the gene pool.” Vicki laughed. “Have you ever noticed that Mike and I look nothing alike?” Mike was adopted, she told me. I regretted making the comment about their heartless genes, but like most things, this just seemed to roll off Vicki’s tongue as if it was no big deal. “Don’t look so freaked about it, Mona. Mike was just adopted. My parents didn’t buy him on the black market.”

When the waitress approached our table of two grass-stained soccer chicks and me, she asked if we’d like to start off with something to drink. Simultaneously, we all refused. “Maybe if we stop at one bottle,” Vicki suggested, looking to each of us for approval.

“Last time got a wee bit too saucy,” Greta reminded Vicki.

“Let’s stop at one bottle,” I reaffirmed Vicki’s plea for moderation instead of abstinence.

“Okay,” we said in unison.
“One
bottle of your house Chianti, please,” Vicki spoke alone. Then turning to me, she asked about last weekend’s date with Adam.

“Ah yes, Little Miss Metal.” Greta laughed. “Do tell us about Ozzfest.”

“Let’s put it this way, we’ll have to tell our grandchildren about our second date. Adam looked like he was having a great time, screaming along lyrics I could barely understand. ‘Said you’re a liar!!!! Kicked my face with love. Rat from hell ... damned blood stained throat’ I sang. What the hell are these guys so angry about?”

“Middle-class suburban white boys who grew up to be rich white boys.” Vicki laughed. “All pissed off about nothing.”

“
I’m
pissed off about the fact that I may be permanently deaf in my left ear. The worst part was that freaky actor I hired to pretend he was my ex-boyfriend,” I reported. “Your brother’s idea. Anyway, he’s screaming and cursing, and he took the role sooooo seriously, he put track marks up his arm with strawberry seeds to look like little scabs.”

“Ewwww!” they said together.

“How could you tell they were strawberry seeds?” Vicki asked.

“They were some type of seed because they started falling off and I saw these little glue marks where the faux scabs were. Adam felt sorry for him. Thought we should buy him a meal. Until, of course, Tim took his part of brooding, disturbed ex a bit too seriously. After he left the diner, he threw a rock through the window and shouted, “The money’s in the newspaper!’ We didn’t even have a newspaper.”

“What?!” Vicki was dumbfounded. “What does that even mean? What money? What newspaper?”

“Who knows?! The guy was a total freak. I’ve got major damage control to do now with Adam. Would you believe the owner wants me to pay for a replacement window for the diner?”

“Honey, this is where a good prescription comes in handy.” Greta seemed relieved and amused. “So, I take it you’ve learned an expensive lesson and won’t be pursuing this cockamamie scheme any longer?”

“Absolutely,” I assured her. “Next time I hire an actor, I’m going to make sure I really go over what’s going to happen. We’re sticking to a straight script next time.”

The waitress returned to uncork our bottle. She handed the cork to Vicki, who looked at Greta and I as if to say,
Here I am with two rich girls and they
give me the cork to sniff.
Vicki then fulfilled her role as head of the table and approved the sip that was poured. “Very nice,” she said, mocking herself. When the waitress left, Vicki leaned in toward the center of the table and whispered, “They are so barking up the wrong tree here. If it gives me a buzz, it works for me.”

Our meals were placed on the table as I was explaining how I would impress Adam on our next date by demonstrating what a solid citizen I was. “I call this one Project Good Samaritan,” I started. “When Tim called to ask for performance feedback, I went slightly ballistic on him. ‘How exactly did you think that my having an ex-boyfriend who vandalizes diners would impress Adam?!’ I shouted. ‘How did you think telling him I was a
mosh pit whore
was going to be a good thing for my image?! You were deranged, Tim. People going to Ozzfest thought you were a freak. Do you know how hard it is to stand out as a mentally ill person at a heavy metal concert?!’ Shockingly, Tim was surprised that I was displeased with his performance and offered to do another gig absolutely free. Of course, I declined, but decided to use another actor from his theater company for more low-key assignment.”

My pals nibbled as I told them about my next stunt. “So this weekend, Adam and I are going to the zoo and while we’re there, an actress is going to collapse to the ground. Then I’ll jump in, give her CPR, and save the day. Adam will see me as competent, responsible, and totally adorable. What do you think?”

Vicki nodded, raising her eyebrows with approval for my image-neutralizing plan. Greta did not think it was such a good idea. “Why can’t you date the man and see where it leads? Why the need to stage everything and everyone?” Turning to Vicki, she continued, “Don’t you find this whole scheme a bit controlling?”

“Anyway, so that’s the plan,” I said, dismissing Greta’s question. “It looks like you’re really enjoying yourself out there on the field, Vicki.”

She leaned in toward us and whispered that she needed some advice. It seemed the manager at Field of Dream Girls was not thrilled with Vicki’s new position on the soccer team, and asked her to quit. “He says the bruises on my legs aren’t sexy,” she began. “I’ve been covering them up with foundation, but look at this beauty.” She stood, lifted her shorts, and revealed a mark the size and color of an eggplant right on her left butt cheek. “I’m not really sure what I should do. This is how I make my living, but I love playing soccer. I twisted my ankle last week and high heels were totally unmanageable, but who wants to see a stripper in Birkenstocks?”

“It seems you have a dilemma,” Greta said in full-on therapist mode.

“What should I do?” Vicki turned to her.

“What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. Find better makeup, I guess.” Vicki shrugged. “I feel like I should dance as long as I can ‘cause I probably only have another four, five years at it. Then again, I don’t want to wait another four or five years before playing soccer again. I don’t know. If I could make as much money in a field where I don’t need a flawless ass, this’d be a no-brainer.”

“What else can you see yourself doing?” Greta asked.

Vicki leaned her scrunched mouth into her fist and pondered the thought. “That day I went shopping with Mona, I felt really useful. I felt like I was really earning my money helping her pick out outfits that bring out her best features. You know what I’d really like to do, though?” The intensity of Vicki’s voice heightened with her last thought. “I would love to revamp that sweet crib of yours. I can’t even tell you how many ideas I have for that place. It has sooooo much potential, Mona.”

“I love that house,” Greta said, defending Grammy’s decor.

“I like it, too, but you’ve got to admit it’s a bit dated. Maybe you’d let me do a room? Like one of the downstairs guest rooms, maybe? I was thinking the little guest room where the three steps lead up to it we could do in a
Wizard of Oz
theme. We could get rainbow carpet for the steps up, a yellow brick road rug, a poppy covered duvet, and do murals all over the place—Munchkinland, Emerald City in the distance, Dorothy and Toto skipping, a piece of the Kansas house in the corner with the witch’s feet peeking out from under it, what do you think?”

“Mona’s house is lovely as is. Plus, I think we all have had enough of Oz for a while,” Greta offered.

“I like it,” I lied It wasn’t an outright lie. What I liked as seeing Vicki come alive at the thought of redecorating my house. I knew it was past time I did something to make that house my home. “I’m not sure I’m into the whole
Wizard of Oz
theme, but I think it’s kind of kitsch to do the guest rooms in movie themes. How ‘bout if I hire you to do both downstairs guest rooms?”

Vicki nodded emphatically. “What do you think of a
Psycho
bathroom?” she stabbed.

“A
Psycho
bathroom?” Greta shrieked. “You two have gone completely mad. And I’m qualified to make that diagnosis.”

“What do you say I put together some ideas s week and we can talk before the game next weekend?” Vicki asked.

“Our soccer game or the ‘Mona saves the day’ game?” Greta asked.

The number on my cell phone showed it was Mike calling. “Hey.” I smiled as I answered. “I’m having dinner with Greta and your sister. Can I call you later?”

“No big,” he said. “I got an idea for your next scam.”

“It’s not a scam,” I protested. “It’s public relations.”

“Whatever. I got an idea for you. Call me later.” He hung up without saying good-bye.

* * *

That night, I actually changed into the cute pajamas I bought myself for Valentine’s Day. After I dialed Mike’s number, I hung up and collapsed into my pillows. My heart was pounding like the drum section of a virgin sacrificing ceremony, hard and steady.
Stop it now!
I commanded myself.
Mike is completely and totally wrong for you. He is a Dog who will shit all over you. You will get emotionally attached and he will remain unavailable, and you will die from the pain. Adam is a sensible choice. He’s sweet, kind, and solid. Wonderful night versus wonderful life – the choice is simple.

Or it should have been. Preferring Mike to Adam was not part of my plan and it was pissing me off big time. I was furious with myself for sabotaging my future happiness, but angrier with Mike for reasons I could never pinpoint.

“Hey, Mona Lisa,” he said when I gathered my resources and called again.

“What did you want?” I said flat and cool.

“Wanted to give you an idea for your boy. That’s why I get the big bucks, right?”

“Fine. What is it?”

“Is something wrong?” Mike asked. “You sound mad.”

Don’t pretend you care, you heartless piece of shit. You’re all the same from Gregory Peck to you—totally and completely disengaged from your feelings.

“Nothing at all,” I said. “Should there be something wrong?”

“No, I guess not. Anyway, I was thinking that the next time you see this guy, you should act like you dig sports. So I want to load you up with a little sports jargon.”

See how they switch gears so quickly? No sensitivity whatsoever. Completely out of touch with how I’m feeling. You think he’d be any different in a relationship?

“Sounds good. Lay it on me, buddy,” I said.

Spring is here and love is in the air ... or maybe it’s the smell of fertilizer being sprinkled on my neighbor’s lawn.