Hand-Me-Down
We’d watched Secretary on video. “You want me to play your secretary?”
“You are my secretary.”
I nipped his ear. “Office manager.”
“Even better.” He nuzzled me. “Besides, you told me you liked spanking.”
“When? I never!”
“You’re always begging for it.”
I started to giggle. “I am not.”
“I can’t get into bed without you shouting, ‘Smack me, baby.’”
“I have never in my life said, ‘Smack me, baby.’”
“And ‘tan my naughty ass!’”
I shoved him, laughing. “‘Tan my naughty ass?’”
“See! There you go again!” He ran his palms down my hips, took both my hands in one of his and rubbed my bottom with the other. “Just one?”
I bit my lip. “Okay. One.”
He gave my ass a wallop and his eyes lit up—meaning he was ready for business.
“Later,” I said. Because we’d agreed: never in the office. But I could still tease. I kissed his neck and wriggled as he ran his hands over me.
“You’ll play secretary tonight?” he asked, a bit breathlessly.
“Office manager.”
“Office manager it is,” he said, and spanked me again.
Rip was out all afternoon, so I had time to finish the ads before they were due. It was a near thing though, and I was halfway home before I realized I hadn’t stopped at Tazza Antiques. I wasn’t exactly bothered—if I forgot to buy the desiccated old pot, maybe Emily would agree to get something else. Something better. Like a magazine subscription.
I picked up my dog, Ny—a ridiculously red chow mix—and took him to the beach before going to my dad’s house. I stopped at Dad’s two or three times a week, to check in and mooch dinner. Actually, checking and mooching were one and the same. Because if he knew I was coming, he’d buy food. Otherwise, he’d eat cold cereal three times a day. He was a bit of an absentminded professor.
Ny romped with his dog buddies and chased seabirds through the waves until he was exhausted. I toweled him dry and helped him scramble into the cab of the pickup—he was getting chubby and needed an extra boost.
My truck was a silver Ford Ranger pickup, the Splash model with chrome wheels. I’d bought it with my Ask It Basket money—the only new vehicle I’d ever owned. If I closed my eyes and sniffed deeply, I could still smell the new-car perfume. Plus, it was half of the patented Anne Olsen System for Being Semi-Successful with Men. Step One: don’t care about long-term relationships. Men love this. They swarm. Step Two: drive a pickup. Women driving pickups are to men what men driving Armani suits are to women. Don’t ask me why.
Dad lived in the same old Victorian on the upper east side where I’d grown up. It was a mixed neighborhood, filled with old houses like my dad’s that locals had owned for thirty years, and the updated versions that wealthy L.A. people had recently bought and renovated.
Dad glanced up from his newspaper when I let myself in. “What’s hanging?”
“‘What’s hanging?’” I let Ny track his sandy paws inside and closed the door. “Where’d you hear that?”
“I like to keep up with you young people,” he said.
“I don’t know, Dad. I don’t feel so young anymore.”
“Of course.” He shook his newspaper derisively. “You’re bent with age at twenty-six.”
“Nine,” I said. “Twenty-nine.”
“Really?” he said. “That is old.”
“What?”
He laughed. You’d think after twenty-nine years, I’d know when he was teasing.
“Still gullible as a teenager,” he said. “Have you eaten?”
“Of course not.” I headed for the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?”
“Stuffed pork chops. You’re staying?”
“I am for pork chops.”
He followed me into the kitchen and checked the oven. Two pork chops and two potatoes were already baking.
“Why two?” I asked. “Am I stealing one of yours?”
“No,” he said, “I was making leftovers for tomorrow.”
I glanced upstairs. “You haven’t got a woman hiding in your bedroom, waiting for me to leave?”
“Of course not,” he said. “She’s in the bathroom.”
“Oh! Sorry! I should’ve called—” I saw his expression. “Ha-ha. Very funny.” I opened the fridge and grabbed a soda. “But the way you play the field, I keep expecting to hear you eloped.”
He shook his head. “Three girls is enough.”
“Why haven’t you remarried?” I wasn’t sure if I liked the idea, but my dad wasn’t really meant to live alone. “It’s been almost twenty years.”
“You’re one to talk, with all your boyfriends.” He grabbed lettuce and carrots for a salad. “You’re a female Lothario.”
“I am not.”
“You’re Lotharia.”
“I’m not Lotharia.”
“You break up with every man you date. I can’t imagine Rip’ll last much longer, poor guy.”
“You like him?” Every time Rip met my father, he tried to sell him a new house.
“The question is, do you?”
“He’s funny and smart and wonderful—what’s not to like?”
“You’re not getting VD?” Dad asked.
No, he didn’t mean VD VD. He meant Vague Dissatisfaction. I’d stupidly confessed to him once that I had an acute case of Vague Dissatisfaction. Nothing in particular was wrong, but nothing felt right. It was why I never stuck with things very long. Dad considered it a low-level social disease, which would flare up periodically into unsightly outbreaks: VD. Dad thought he was pretty funny.
I glared. “Everything’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Then give me an onion.”
I gave him an onion, and we let the subject drop. He told university stories over dinner, and when we’d finished, he offered me Oreos for dessert.
“Is it a new package?” I asked.
“Anne, you’ve got to stop this.”
“My diet starts tomorrow.”
“You know what I mean. Your obsession with newness.”
Easy for him to say. With two older sisters, hand-me-downs had been the primary fact of my young life.
Charlotte had a Malibu Barbie with a full wardrobe. Emily had a slightly used Malibu Barbie with two outfits. I had a one-armed, bald Barbie who enjoyed nudist colonies.
Charlotte wore Jordache when it was popular. Emily wore Jordache when it was passable. I wore Jordache when it was passé.
Charlotte learned to drive on a six-year-old VW Rabbit. Emily learned on a seven-year-old VW Rabbit. I learned on a twelve-year-old, rusted-out junker with suspicious stains on the seats and the faint odor of Gruyère.
But all I said to Dad was, “I don’t like stale Oreos is all.”
He lifted his pipe from the ashtray on the kitchen table and packed it with tobacco. “They’re fresh from the factory.”
“Where are they?” I asked, heading toward the pantry.
“Bottom shelf.”
I pulled the half-eaten package from the shelf and forced myself to take one. From the back. The very back. “Not bad.”
Dad looked pleased as he lit up his pipe, and I surreptitiously pulled a brand-new carton of milk from the fridge—ignoring the one which was already open—and poured myself a glass. I’d let him discover that little treat tomorrow.
When I got home, I found a message from Rip. The nights we weren’t together we usually talked before sleep, and lately we’d been discussing moving in together. I’d lived with other men—Doug and Alex, for about twenty minutes each—but always returned to Charlotte’s guest house when things went awry. I wasn’t sure if living with Rip was a good idea. We already worked in the same office, and spending more time together seemed a great way to kill a nice relationship.
I picked up the phone to call him back, but didn’t feel like talking. I was itchy and restless. I switched on the TV. I’d see Rip at work tomorrow.
CHAPTER 05
By ten-thirty the next morning, I knew that Dad’s words had ruined me. I’d been perfectly content and happy—or at least acceptably content and happy—until he’d mentioned my VD. Now I was in the grips of an enormous amorphous ennui.
The job was fine. Rip was great. I didn’t care.
I sulked through the morning, and slipped out for an early liquid lunch. I sipped my peanut-butter-banana-chocolate smoothie and worried. Was I Lotharia? It wasn’t like I cut a huge swath through the male population. I just hadn’t found the right man, and couldn’t quite bring myself to care. Could Rip be the one? Well, his name was Rip, but that’s no worse than Ralph as in Fiennes, even if it is pronounced Rafe.
At least Rip was pronounced Rip. And his personality was as solid as his elocution. Perfect husband material…if only I were looking for a husband. I wasn’t. It’s far easier to have a relationship when you aren’t. The pressure cooker is off. I’ve watched friends with their cookers clamped down tight, the steamer diddly whirling round and round. Every date, every conversation and sexual experience, every misunderstanding, deviant desire, ambition, frustration and inadequacy is added to the pot until the whole thing blows.
I prefer the omelet approach to relationships. You use what few ingredients you have at hand, scramble them in a hot pan, and enjoy. Quick and simple.
Then why was I feeling such discontent?
Back in the office, I did what I always did when side-swiped by dissatisfaction: a little personal research. I’d collected a file of real estate deals I was interested in—my Recent Developments file. From big money resorts to condo conversions to commercial buildings, all the deals I was sure would make me rich, if I actually pursued them. Well, and could afford them. And knew how to be a developer and all.
My file of dreams. I flipped through it, and decided to call about The Hole, one of my recurring dream deals. A block off downtown Santa Barbara, there used to be a residential hotel for old people. But it was on prime real estate, and the old people were considered well past their prime, so some developer kicked everyone out and tore the place down, with assurances that they’d find the seniors new homes and bring prosperity and joy to downtown. Five years later, all they’d brought was The Hole—the great gaping basement of the hotel they’d demolished.
Well, I had some plans for that gaping basement. I dialed.
“I’m calling about the property on the corner of Carrillo and Chapala,” I told the man on the other end. “I’m representing—”
“You’re not representing anyone,” he said. “I recognize your voice.”
So maybe I’d called once too often. But thank God he didn’t know who I was. I’d never given a name.
“Well, if you’d just fax me the information—” I said.
“Are you a broker?”
“Not exactly.”
“You still think it’d be a great place for an indoor driving range?”
“I never said that!” I said. “That was just my way of getting you to talk to me.”
“And this is just my way of talking.” He hung up.
I growled into the phone and flipped through the Recent Developments. Nothing else caught my eye. Maybe it wasn’t a deal I needed. Maybe it was a new job. Rip walked in as I was glowering at the wall. He looked at my face, looked at the Recent Developments file open on my desk, and slipped into his office, closing his door for protection against the gathering clouds.
I guess I really am like Emily sometimes. But sometimes I’m like Charlotte, too. And I wasn’t going to let myself ruin everything. So I opened the door softly and gave him a smile. It was the job I was VDed with, not the man.
He eyed me suspiciously. “What?”
“I was just thinking how much I like your arms.”
“You want your desk moved again? It’s not getting the afternoon sun?”
“My desk is perfect. So is my boss.”
His suspicion grew into wariness. “How did your call go?”
“I’m this close to closing a big downtown deal.”
“Hung up on you again, huh?”
“Yeah. But I’ve got a plan.”
“Let me guess. It involves taking two-hour lunches?”
I waved an airy hand. “Oh, that—my boss is a pushover.”
“That’s not what I heard. I heard he wants to take it out of your hide.”
“He has to catch me first.”
Wren and I had a standing date Wednesday nights. We’d walk Ny at Hendry’s beach, then head up to the Mesa for a burrito before class. I considered stopping at the antiques store before meeting her, but I wasn’t going to be late to pick up some crusty old chamberpot.
“I’m thinking of quitting.” I put the tray of food on our table outside the burrito place: veggie tacos for me, chicken burrito for Wren, and cheese quesadilla for Ny. “Salsa?”
Wren gave me a look as she unwrapped her burrito. “Why?”
“For spice,” I said, tossing Ny’s quesadilla to the ground. He engulfed it.
She gave me another look. “I mean, why quit?”
“Yeah, I know. For spice.”
“Ha-ha.”
“I dunno…I just think it’s time.”
“What would you do instead?”
“You know I never have trouble getting a job.”
“Just keeping one.”
“I’d still be working at Element, if you hadn’t fired me.”
“If I hadn’t fired you,” she said, biting into her burrito. “There wouldn’t be an Element anymore.”
I made a face at her. “I wasn’t that bad.”
“You were worse. You haven’t broken up with Rip, have you?”
“No.”
“Not yet,” she said.
“You sound like my dad.”
“I like your father.”
“Yeah, a little too much. You want to get it on with my dad, don’t you?”
“I’m serious. Rip is great. You don’t deserve him.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Give him a chance, Anne. I know you’re approaching the sell-by date, but—”
“I’m not,” I insisted. “That’s why I want a new job. To preserve the relationship.”
“I thought you got along great at work.”
“Well, aside from the buzzer.” I toyed with my taco, before pushing it away. “God, Wren, I’m just so…bored. With me, with my job. Everything.”
“Here.” She dumped salsa verde on my taco. “A little more spice.”
For some reason, this made me feel better. Maybe because she seemed to be agreeing with me, even if it was only about the taco. We finished our meals and Wren sat back in her chair, replete from her burrito. “Now all I need is a naked woman and fifty pounds of warm mud, and I’ll be good.”
Twenty minutes later, she got more than she asked for. We were in the main room, the drapes pulled tight over the windows, with spotlights on a beautiful naked man, and Wren was up to her elbows in clay. She rolled her sculpture stand closer to mine and dug a big hunk from a bag of terra-cotta.
We’d been attending the Adult Ed clay sculpture class for the past three years. Originally, we’d started because Wren thought it would be a good place to meet sensitive men, and I thought I’d like mucking around with mud. She’d never found a sensitive man—or an insensitive one, for that matter—but we kept coming.
Our patience had finally been rewarded. In three years, we’d only had a handful of male models, and none of them had looked like Mr. Nude America here. There were a dozen students in the class, held at the Schott Center on the upper west side. The sessions usually started with around twenty-five students, but it was fairly late in the season, and we’d dwindled down to the regulars.
I glanced briefly at the model, clinically observing his broad shoulders and washboard stomach, and when I looked away I noticed that Wren had already roughed out his torso. In clay, that is.
“That was fast,” I said.
She glanced at the clock. “You’ve been staring at the poor guy for twenty minutes.”
“I was examining the subject.”
“And drooling.”
“I’m an artist, Wren. He might as well be a bowl of fruit.”
She sighed. “It is a pity.”
“What is?”
“That he’s gay.”
I glanced at the model again. “He’s straight as a yardstick, Grasshopper,” I said. Because Wren was a novice when it came to men.
“With that body?”
“From tip to toe.”
Wren just shook her head sadly, so I sliced off a hunk of clay with my wire tool and started pushing it around. Making his feet. I thought I’d start low and move up. Let the anticipation build.
I was on his ankles when Claire, our teacher, drifted behind us.
“Excellent work, Wren,” she said. “You might want to caliper his chest, though. It looks a bit off scale. Remember there’s a rib cage under there.”
We had big metal calipers to measure distances on the models and then convert them into 1/3 scale. But to measure you had to approach within nibbling distance, in the middle of the room, and share the spotlight with the gloriously defined and shamelessly undraped model. Wren was usually extremely businesslike about measuring models. This time, however…
She blushed. “Oh, I see—you’re right.” She fiddled with her clay. “I think I can eye it, though….”
Claire nodded and checked my work. “Feet,” she said.
“I’m afraid to look any higher,” I told her.
She didn’t smile. She was very professional about the models. “At least give his feet arches, then. And his toes should not look like sausages.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Well—” I grabbed the calipers. “Only one way to fix that.”
I strode into the limelight, offering up the calipers at the altar of this sex god. I measured the distance between his feet, the distance from heel to toe. I leaned forward a bit and smiled up at him. “Bored yet?”
He smiled down. “It’s not as bad as my day job.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m a librarian.”
“Get out of town.” I leaned forward a bit more. “At the university?”
“No, the law school. It’s not the boredom that bothers me, so much as the larval lawyers.”
I laughed brightly and scurried back to Wren. I whispered: “Gay.”
“What?”
“He didn’t look at my cleavage.”
“Well, it would’ve been pretty obvious if he had.”
“He’s got every right to look—it’s not like he’s hiding anything. But there wasn’t even an eye-drift.”
“Maybe he likes the flat-chested type,” she said, meaning herself.
“Yeah. Men. He’s totally gay.”
She shook her head. “Now, I’m not sure.”
“Wren, I’m telling you, not even a flicker.”
“Maybe he’s not gay,” she said. “Maybe he just has good taste.”
I made a face at her. “And a really fine pack—”
“Break time!” Claire called.
We squirted our sculptures with water, covered them in plastic to keep them moist, and headed outside. Ny was sitting contentedly in the back of the pickup. He loved break time, because a couple of the regulars always brought him treats.
“Hey, fatboy,” I said, scratching his head.
He gave me a little love, then wagged hopefully as he was plied with cookies. When the snack-vending students left, Wren and I sat on the open tailgate and drank our waters.
“Ugg boots,” I said. “I don’t care that the stars are wearing them.”
“Sleeve ruffles on men,” Wren said.
“Unless they’re on a mariachi outfit.”
She shook her head. “I don’t want to hear your mariachi fantasy again.”
“I just liked the movie is all. How about black jeans after 1992?”
“Forget ’92. Black jeans anytime after the Michael Penn song.”
“What if I were Ro-me-o in black jeans?” we sang.
“Snap-on ties,” I said.
“Too easy. Denim shorts.”
I shuddered. “Denim shorts.”
A male voice said, “Nice dog. Boy or girl?”
It was the male model, wearing a robe and flip-flops. I looked at his face for the first time. Boyishly handsome, with a lopsided smile. If I didn’t have Rip, I’d have tossed my hair and got down to business. The thought made me turn cold, as I realized: Wren was going to flirt.
“A boy. He’s a chow chow mutt,” I said, before she could say anything. “Mixed with I don’t know what. Chows have a bad reputation, but he’s totally friendly.”
“Hey there, boy.” The model put his hand out, and Ny perked up.
“He’s hoping for a treat,” I said. “He’s a bit spoiled—”
“I’m Wren!” She hopped off the truck and giggled nervously, looking up at him. “You’re tall. What’s your name?”
Oh, God.
“Kevin,” he said, and offered his hand.
She took it in a sort of death grip. “Hi! Glad to meet you. I saw you in class.”
“Yes, well—I’m the model,” he said, and looked toward me.
“I’m Anne. Wren and I were just saying how nice it is to have a male model.”
“We haven’t had a man in a long time,” Wren said, tilting her head. “I mean, not a man! A model. A male model. Not that a model’s not a man. I mean—”
Wren had just cut her hair. It was short and pixielike, bringing out the brightness of her eyes, the daintiness of her features, and the dippiness of her flirting. Still, her smile was sweet and inviting, even after I slid off the tailgate and stomped on her foot to shut her up.
“Have you done a lot of modeling?” I asked.
“No, this is my first time. Claire’s a friend, she asked as a favor?”
“That’s asking a lot from a friend,” I said. “How long will you model for?”
“A month. Then we’ll see. I hear the drawing class wants a male model. I guess it’s mostly women.”
“Actually, it’s mostly men who take figure drawing,” Wren blurted.
“He meant the models, Wren.”
“Oh, right! I did drawing for a while, but I like clay better. You shouldn’t be embarrassed, though. You’re a model. So your clothes are off. So you’re nude. Buck naked.” She offered a tinkly little laugh that ended in a snort. “Undraped, I mean. Not that I—I mean, you might as well be a fruit.”
“Bowl of fruit,” I said, grinding into her foot. “Wren loves doing still life.”
“I’ll try to remain motionless, then.”
“Oh, no!” Wren said, clutching his arm. “Move around all you want. Well, not all you want. I mean—no dancing. Unless you like dancing. But I mean—”
“Was that Claire?” I asked, glancing toward the classroom.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Kevin said.
Wren giggled horribly. “Neither did I.”
“And I do like dancing,” he told her.
“Me, too! Anne and I took ballroom dancing for a while—she dropped out, though, because she kept forgetting to let the man lead.”
“And you?”
She simpered. “I never forgot.”
“Wren—” I started. And, seeing her expression, words failed me. A full-throttle simper is not an expression which encourages conversation.
“Wren?” he said, smiling. “As in Ren and Stimpy?”
“Wren with a ‘W,’” she said. “Like the bird. The drab, brown bird.”
“But you’re not drab.”
Fortunately, before Wren gave herself a hernia from simpering, we were called back into the classroom.
“Not gay!” I said.
“Gay,” she said.
“He was flirting with you.”
“Pity flirting. He couldn’t believe what a dork I am. Why did you let me talk to him? I snorted. Did you hear me snort? I snorted. Like Miss Piggy.”
“And Kevin’s your Kermit.”
“Gay,” she said.
“Not gay. He likes you.”
“He doesn’t. He couldn’t.”
“He thinks you’re cute. Not drab, not brown, but cute.”
“He’s gay,” she hissed.
So I accidentally spilled the contents of my water bottle onto her white shirt. And you know what? I was right. He wasn’t gay.
CHAPTER 06
I woke with a splash from a dream of falling and wrestled with the blanket. We were evenly matched, but I finally prevailed and shoved it away. I lay back, flush with triumph, and for a moment thought I was still asleep and the sound of running water was leftover dream.
Then I realized: Rip was in the shower.
I groaned, wishing Rip hadn’t spent the night. He’s unforgivably perky in the morning. Whatever happened to strong, silent men who grunt over the paper? Plus, he always woke up looking like the same guy he was the night before. I woke up looking tangled, puffy and ten years older.
And to top it off, there was only enough hot water for one shower. Judging from the steam billowing through the bathroom door, I was in for a cold shock.