Buddha Baby (9 page)

Lindsey knew she was Asian because she was cutting meat with scissors.

She was preparing a special dinner to celebrate their engagement, and her menu reflected their particularly multicultural union. In addition to the sliced steak she was going to grill, she was planning on making lasagna, layering thin sheets of
wonton pei
instead of pasta between tomato sauce and Chinese mushrooms. Any moment now she was expecting Michael home from work, and for cocktails she was soaking freshly peeled lychees in vodka for "lychee-tinis."

"I'm home!" Michael yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

"Hi, Babycakes," he said, entering the kitchen and smooching her. "What's all this?"

"We're celebrating."

"Mmm," he said. "Looks… interesting."

He picked up an empty bottle of Chinese vinegar from the countertop.

"What's this for?"

"It was supposed to be for my special salad dressing."

"Do we need to go to the market?"

"Yeah," she said, "I ran out of fresh
wonton
skins, too." Washing her hands, she added, "The good thing about living in San Francisco is that even regular supermarkets sell all sorts of obscure Asian stuff."

Soon enough, they were in the car and on their way to Albertson's. As they made their way there, Michael informed Lindsey that he had some irritating news. He said, "Starting tomorrow,
Vegan Warrior
is sending me on a top-secret mission to the Psychic Food Ashram in Santa Barbara."

"What's that?" Lindsey asked.

"It's a ritzy getaway spot for aging hippies and New Age truth-seekers who trade cultlike devotion for tomato juice enemas and the opportunity to be ridiculed by a coterie of dieticians, yoga instructors, and self-proclaimed metaphysical healers. The ashram also supplies Southern California's restaurants with 'psychically clean' produce that—get this—is guaranteed 'free of bad vibes.' I'm going to investigate exactly what comprises bad vibes and how the ashram can prove such a claim."

Lindsey asked, "Isn't that a little short notice?"

Michael swung into the parking lot. "Yeah," he said. "The original reporter was taken off the case after nearly choking to death on a chicken bone hidden in the Tofurky hash. Behind the compound walls there've been allegations of late-night Krispy Kreme binges and genetically modified tomatoes that taste like bacon. Something's definitely amiss. Unfortunately, that means I'll be leaving first thing in the morning."

"How long will you be gone?"

"As long as it takes me to figure out if they yell at the vegetables to make them grow faster. Howard says that's against the laws of the Slow Food Movement. Also, that would definitely constitute bad vibes."

"Are you kidding?"

"Baby, I wish I was."

Just minutes after walking inside the store, Lindsey lost Michael. Standing in front of a row of pickles, she felt forlorn and confused. Every time they went to the supermarket they always lost each other within moments of getting there, and now she'd have to go looking for him. As she wandered past the rotisserie chickens, she ruminated on the strange inevitability of their separation. She was fairly certain she would find him on the arm of another female.

It was true that Michael Carrier had magic powers over women. Ladies of a certain age, that is. The Ethel Mermans, Carol Channings, and empress dowagers of the world adored him. It was as if he wore an invisible sign around his neck that read, next helpful young man, 52 miles. When they saw him, elderly gals instinctively knew that he would be glad to help them reach a precariously perched can of herring in wine sauce, or fix the wobbly wheel of their shopping cart. He was the pied piper of the AARP, and Lindsey was forced to share him.

After gathering the items she needed for dinner, plus some extra-special treats for dessert, she went off to search for him in the "incontinents" section. But he wasn't there. After wandering all the aisles, she decided to pay for their groceries, and waited outside for him.

Standing in front of the store, she scanned the parking lot and spotted Michael's red Toyota. He was driving slowly in circles, and as he rounded one corner, Lindsey was perplexed to see someone sitting beside him. As she tried to make sense out of the strange scene, she noticed that the passenger was an old Asian lady, and she was leaning out the window and pointing. Lindsey watched as the car crawled though the lot and eventually stopped. She saw the old lady get out of the car, and

Michael helped her transfer her groceries into what was presumably her own car. Seeming to sense Lindsey's gaze, Michael looked up toward the front of the supermarket and spotted her. He waved, hopped back into his car, then whipped around to pick her up.

"What was that all about?" Lindsey said, hoisting her purchases onto the seat.

"You sprinted off down the ethnic foods aisle, and I realized I forgot my wallet so I came out to get it. The next thing I knew, this old lady gets in the passenger seat and orders me to drive around and look for her car. I couldn't say no."

Lindsey sat down and slammed the door. "That's how people get murdered, you know. She could've had a hatchet in her purse."

"I think I could've taken her," Michael said, pulling out of the lot. "Besides, if she were my grandmother, I'd want someone to help her." He smiled at Lindsey. "But don't worry. Now you're gonna be my old lady. I'll always carry your groceries, and won't help anyone else from now on if you don't want me to."

Lindsey gave him a sideways glance. Scooting closer to him, she ran her fingers through his hair. "No…" she said. "I wouldn't want to change that about you."

Michael drove slowly, making full stops at the stop signs and waiting for pedestrians as they made their way across the intersections. Lindsey said, "You know, you're not like any of the guys that girls in magazines complain about. You're not addicted to ESPN and porn, and don't have to win at Pictionary or Wiffle ball just to prove how great you are. I think because you were a busboy in college, you know what it's like to serve other people so when we go out you don't treat people like crap. I like that you give people the benefit of the doubt, and drive like a granny, and don't give slow drivers the finger. I

used to think it was a show of weakness that you couldn't be bothered to get all pissed, but now I realize that, actually, it's strength."

She let go of Michael's head, and as she talked, she checked her own hair in the mirror on the passenger-side sun visor. She reached into her purse and proceeded to touch up her makeup.

Michael turned onto Steiner Street. He said, "When I first moved here, did I tell you I was on a Wiffle ball team? Incidentally, we did win."

"Yeah, I know, but that time when we were playing with those little kids in the park, it's not like you had to run them into the ground to prove you're a man. You let them win. And another thing, about moving here. A lot of people come to San Francisco and like it for a while, then leave or go back to wherever they came from. Other people, like you, once they get here they realize they can't possibly live anywhere else. I don't know what it is in a person that makes you become a San Franciscan, but even if the city has kicked your ass, or you've never been to the Mark Hopkins, Tadich Grill, or the Black and White Ball, you just feel it in your bones that you're home. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I like that you knew you belonged here even if you didn't… come looking to belong."

"But I was looking, I just didn't know it," Michael said, shooting her a smile. "When I first noticed you at
Vegan Warrior
, I liked that you never used to let people get away with their stupid shit. I remember when that editor, Lisa Didder, insisted that everyone call her Topaz, you used to get on the intercom and say stuff like, 'package at the front desk for the Didder.' And when that guy tried to play off that his name was pronounced 'Osshead,' you still called him Mr. Asshead, the way it was spelled. You were funny. And bold. I always knew you were smarter than so many people who worked above you, but you did all their dirty work without complaining. Actually, I kind of miss you at work. Now there's no one else to talk to."

"Oh, come on. You see me every day."

"Yeah, I know. But it's different. Did you know that when I used to hover over your desk, if I stood a little to the side, I could always see through that pinky-red blouse you wore? And I liked how, by the fax machine, you always unconsciously leaned in when I stood close to you. You always smelled faintly of citrus… and steak. Now I know it was your bergamot hair conditioner and Pau Pau's cooking, but back then, it was all so mysterious and sexy, in a domestic kind of way."

"Incidentally," he added, "I like to watch you put your lipstick on in the car when you think I'm not looking."

Lindsey blotted her lips on a tissue and replaced the cap on her tube of gloss. "Oh," she said. Still slightly shy of him, she looked away with a smile.

Arriving in front of their building, Michael parked the car and they unloaded the groceries. As they headed up their steps, he said, "Up until coming here, I moved around a lot, and the way you looked at me, and came to trust me, made me want a home. Made me think, for once, I could make a home with a girl who I wouldn't have to lie to just so I could get or do what I wanted."

"So are you saying that before you met me you were a liar?" She shot him a teasing look.

"Um, no." He smiled. "I'm just saying that you're the only girl I ever met where I wanted to be honest in everything. See, like you have this lipstick smudge right… here." He reached over and rubbed a tiny spot near her mouth, then leaned over and kissed it quickly.

She noticed an old lady across the street watching them, and aware that they were being stared at, she said, "hey," and nudged him away.

"Nope," Michael said, playfully pulling her toward him. "You have to do what I say now. You're my wife."

"Not yet!" she yelped in protest as he pushed her through the door and shut it behind them. Gently pushing her down on the inside stairs, he let the groceries fall willy nilly to the side. She said, "You're squishing my cupcakes!"

"That's the whole idea," he replied, continuing to bump his cucumber against her fruit basket. His mouth traveled down her neck and to her belly button where he deftly unfastened her miniskirt. They decided they couldn't wait until after dinner, so there in the dim stairwell, he devoured her cherry pie.

The next morning, Lindsey watched Michael from the window as he ran down the steps to the car and threw his luggage into the backseat. He started the engine and waved one last time, and as he zoomed off she already missed him.

When she arrived at St. Maude's, the doors were locked. She'd forgotten that the school was closed for Ascension Day. Turning around and heading back home, she was sorry that she got dressed and rushed all the way to work.

As she walked, cars sped by on Oak Street. She noticed how strange it was that there were no other pedestrians. She passed overgrown gardens spilling through cast-iron fences and rows of cracked, marble stairs. Soon enough, she had that familiar feeling of being watched. Near the corner of Fulton and La-guna, she spotted the old lady with her white witch's pompadour and velvet shawl. The woman tread softly and silently in the distance. Lindsey detoured down to McAllister Street, and for the rest of the way home wondered how Michael would survive more than three days without eating a hamburger.