Every Little Thing. Pamela Klaffke
be in, he’s ancient.
“Sure, yeah, whatever,” says Janet. “But nothing too heavy.”
“I’ll get a comedy,” Seth says. He’s serious. He’s seriously suggesting we rent a movie. It’s Thursday night, Janet has just had a fashion show, the three of us are together again for the first time in years and we’re going to rent a movie? I take the champagne and pour what’s left into my glass. “You want to go to the store with me, Mason?” Seth asks.
“Not really,” I say, but quickly remember that if I stay I’ll be stuck here alone with Janet and Victor. “But I’ll go.”
“Get something with that Will Ferrell—he’s hilarious,” says Victor.
“You’re funny,” I say to Seth. He’s holding a copy of Anchorman in one hand and Blades of Glory in the other. “What about this?” I pass him the latest installment of the Twilight series. He makes a face.
“You’re the one who’s funny,” he says.
“You love vampires.”
“You’re not joking, are you?”
I point at the Will Ferrell films he’s got. “Aren’t you?” Our standoff is silent. Finally, Seth takes the movie from me and marches up to the checkout counter where he pays for all three—and for the bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips I sneak onto the counter at the last moment.
Janet and Victor both fall asleep partway through my movie. Seth watches with me. I knew he’d like it. When the film ends, I know I should go, but can’t muster the energy. Plus, Seth wants me to check out one of the supporting actors in Anchorman who is starring in a film Seth is scouting locations for that’s shooting here this summer. He says they’re going to simulate blowing up the Golden Gate Bridge.
“I don’t know,” I say. I don’t know if I can sit through a Will Ferrell movie. Not that I’ve ever seen one. But I’ve seen previews and that’s enough.
“Come on, Mason. I sat through that Twilight thing.” He says this like I owe him.
“Fine,” I say and cross my arms over my chest. Janet’s place is too far to walk home from and I don’t even have enough money for bus fare.
“Just give it a chance, Mason,” Seth says. “It’s funny.”
“What’s funny?” Janet asks in a woozy voice.
“Anchorman,” Seth says.
Janet sits up straight and nudges Victor in the ribs. “Oh, goody.”
LIVINGSTON
It isn’t until I pull up in a taxi in front of my mother’s apartment in North Beach that I remember I have no cash and no emergency credit card. It’s just past ten in the morning—once Anchorman started it was my turn to fall asleep. I woke up this morning on Janet’s couch with a blanket draped over me.
We dropped Seth off first, at his place. I am beyond tired and am tempted to draw the blinds, turn off the phones and hide from the world, sleep until the legal/taxes thing is sorted and I’m free to go home. And this time I swear I’m never coming back, which obviously won’t matter to anyone here because Janet is practically middle-aged and Seth has Diedre and Rob and probably all kinds of other friends I no longer know. Plus, I’m sure he’ll be hanging out with Janet and Victor since they’re clearly all so close.
But before that, I need to deal with this taxi situation. I rummage around in my bag looking for something I know I’m not going to find. The fare is twelve dollars plus tip. I am fucked.
“Excuse me,” I say to the cab driver in my best sweet voice. “I can’t find my wallet. Would you mind waiting here for a minute—I can run up and get some cash.” My mother had to have kept some cash somewhere.
“You leave your purse,” the driver says in heavily accented English.
I’m not sure what to do. If I leave my bag and I can’t find the cash then I’m fucked. If I leave my bag he could just drive away with it and then I’m fucked. I could leave my bag and go find the cash and he could give me back my bag and everything could be fine. But what are the chances of that? Since when does anything ever go my way?
I take a moment to think and weigh my options and the inevitably dreadful outcomes. I stare out the window. There’s a man sitting on the steps of the building. He’s wearing sunglasses and he looks familiar. Shit.
“Just a sec, okay?” I say to the driver. It’s not a question. I grab my bag and wedge myself out of the taxi, leaving the backseat passenger-side door open to the street.
“Hey, Mason.” Aaron says.
“Hey.”
“I’ve been waiting for you. Are you ready to go?”
“Look, do you happen to have fifteen bucks?” I try to say this like it’s not the most humiliating thing in the world to have to ask your ex-stepbrother who you barely know but have kissed to lend you money.
Aaron stands and digs a hand into his pants pocket. He pulls out his wallet and out of the wallet, a twenty. I snap it out of his fingers and dash over to where the taxi is idling. The driver smiles and roots around for change. “Good time to see your boyfriend,” he says.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I hiss at him and slam the door. He can keep the goddamn change.
I walk slowly back to where Aaron is standing, grinning and looking like an idiot. “Thanks,” I say. That’s all he’s getting from me. There’s no way I’m getting all ooh, you’re the best, you saved my life, what would I have done without you?
“No problem. Glad to help. I tried to call you at the hotel, but they said you checked out.”
“Oh.”
“Did you know that your mother’s address is in the white pages?”
This doesn’t surprise me. “She wasn’t a very private person.”
“I didn’t think she’d be listed.”
“Oh.” The last thing I feel like doing is talking, to Aaron or anyone else. What is he doing here?
“So are you ready to get out of here?”
The words are like magic. All I want is to get out of here. I nod.
“Great. We should get going. You packed?”
I stare at him, puzzled. Packed? Shit—Montana. I honestly, truly forgot. I need a calendar, maybe a PDA.
“Edgar’s hired a plane. They’re waiting.”
“Give me a couple of minutes.”
Aaron is sitting beside me on the jet and I’m drinking champagne and eating grapes and trying to look like it’s something I do every day. Edgar and his wife, Candice, are here, too, as well as Candice’s friend, Amanda, and her husband, Joseph.
When Aaron excuses himself to use the washroom, I stare out the window and try to block out the drone of Candice and Amanda. They’re debating the pros and the cons of various private preschools. Both women have one-year-old twins, though no one would guess it judging from their superfit, skinny bodies. Plus, neither of them is thirty. I wonder for a moment where their children are, who they’re with, and decide that twentysomething mannequin mommies with deep fake tans are neglectful shrews destined to get some sort of skin cancer nobody yet knows is caused by excessive use of spray-tanning services.
Joseph is reading the Wall Street Journal and Edgar is staring at me. I keep catching his eye and it’s making me self-conscious so I stare out the window, pretending to be absorbed in thought.
“Nice view, isn’t it?” Edgar says, sliding into the seat beside me.
I