Playing Along (5 page)

“Sometimes I feel like I’m wearing long underwear and I want to rip it off and run through the streets naked.”

“Really?” says Lexi. “I want to cuddle up on the couch with a man who isn’t Andrew and watch
Before Sunrise
with no mascara on and baggy sweatpants.”

“Ahh, I know, Lex,” says Meg sympathetically. “You
will
meet somebody. I promise. A gorgeous specimen like you? There is no way you’re going to grow old without baggy sweats and no mascara nights.”

Lexi knows she’s pretty and has always been complimented on her elegant profile and her green eyes swirled with amber and grey. There is something gentle and open in her expressions and she has an offbeat sex appeal that might well come with the territory of being a fallen prom queen. Her parents only introduced her when she was young as “our beautiful Lexi,” and she came to rely on the label, like it was part of her name, printed neatly in typewriter ink on her birth certificate. But Lexi isn’t so sure how helpful that is any longer. Over the last few years, it seems as if her love life and her career path have been in vicious competition, vying for which aspect of her world can fall apart quicker. Alongside her ill-fated job opportunities have been several unfit boyfriends. There was Michael, a dentist, the son of a dentist, who apparently hailed from a long line of dentists. He was obsessed with floss and told Lexi she had the sexiest molars he had ever laid eyes upon. Lexi had been in ‘like’ with him for a short while. He knew how to cook Moussaka and he didn’t appear to be gay. But she left him after one year because she was bored.

“It’s very normal to be bored by a man,” explained her exasperated mother. “I’ve been bored by your father for decades!” But Lexi hadn’t felt quite ready to be permanently bored, so she paused for a little while before dating the opposite extreme. She met Hank in the check-out line at Whole Foods. Hank had his pilot’s license and was halfway through writing a seven hundred page novel. He flew her to Catalina and asked if he could paint her toenails on the beach. He had a mind like a marble maze and after a year, Lexi found it an effort to keep up with his wayward thoughts. Since Hank there had been numerous guys, some who had lasted for months at a time. She’s never short of men being interested, it’s her own lack of interest in return that concerns her.

“You just haven’t met the right guy yet, Lex,” says Meg encouragingly. “He’ll come along.”

“That’s just it, Meg. He might not come along and I’m going to have to accept that. And so are you. And so is my mom.”

“I don’t know, Lex. Maybe it’s like these guys are choosing you rather than you choosing them. You could be more proactive, go online, make a checklist, be assertive. I mean come on, you’re not even on Facebook yet. Ryan Glazer might get back in contact with you! I was friended by that bitch, Penelope, from grammar school. She’s a yoga teacher now.”

The girls had shared a crush on Ryan Glazer in the third grade and he’d been the first boy to come between them. Meg cried for two straight days after he offered Lexi a bite of his peanut butter and banana sandwich.

Lexi groans, “No thank you, Meg! The computer is so unromantic,” although Lexi has lost a true sense of what romance even is anymore. It used to be straightforward. The Prince
had
shown up. The glass slipper
had
fit. But now the Prince was out clubbing in boys town and the slipper had cracked into hundreds of pieces, leaving Lexi still picking up the tiny shards, all these years later.

“It might be unromantic but it
is
effective. Hey, Jack! Jack!” Meg suddenly yells at her four-year-old, “hippos DO NOT punch their sisters!”

“I wasn’t punching her, Mommy. I was stroking her,” says Jack innocently.

“With your fist?”

“But she likes it. Very, very much.”

“She does, does she? Let’s ask her. Annabelle, do you like it when Jack punches you?”

“Yes—me like it… punching is fun!” sings two-year-old Annabelle, jumping up and down.

Meg rolls her eyes. “She’s got a great future ahead of her. I give up. If I get involved—I’m overprotective. If I don’t—I’m neglecting their needs. Can you watch them while I get a drink? Is it too early for alcohol?”

“Yes!” says Lexi, as Meg disappears into the kitchen.

GEORGE
7
^th
November, 2009
Maida Vale, London

It’s three in the morning. George sits on the side of his bed wearing only boxers and plucking the strings of his oldest and most loved guitar. He saved up for it when he was a boy, washing his neighbors’ cars and taking their dogs for walks. When he’d finally earned forty pounds, he’d cycled to the local charity shop and handed over the money. The guitar had been balanced in the window for months, next to a leery garden gnome and a pair of scuffed pink stilettos. He’d named it Stardust, in honor of Bowie, and had grown up talking to the instrument the way other kids conversed with imaginary friends. Stardust knew all of George’s hopes and fears and translated them back to him in beautiful vibrating sound waves. All these years later, the scratched-up body still smells faintly of cedar wood and George always finds the weight of the instrument in his lap comforting. He presses his fingertips into the fret board and listens to the echo of ‘A’ minor reverberate. The window is wide open and his bedroom is bathed in a dense, cold darkness. George can’t sleep, but even so, he feels like something deep inside of him still needs waking up.

LEXI
November 7
^th
, 2009
Pacific Palisades, Los Angeles

Jack and Anabelle continue to wrestle merrily on the grass. For a brief second Lexi imagines this is her garden, her children, her life and she feels not the usual pang, but an unfamiliar ambivalence that catches her off guard. If she doesn’t want this, what does she want? She used to think that this picture was all that mattered, or was it just that her mother had done the greatest PR job of all and marketed a potential package to Lexi that would never actually suit her? At least she has a new job to look forward to. Russell said she could start on Monday, and while the whole set-up is more than slightly odd, she had left Victoria Avenue feeling a trace of hopeful.

Meg interrupts her thoughts and hands her a tall glass of iced tea and her iPhone “Hey, can you give me your honest opinion of my profile picture? Is it trying too hard?” Lexi takes the phone and sees that Meg has chosen a shot pre-children, where she still looks fresh and quite sassy. She understands how Meg might be sensing some of her own dreams slipping through her fingers.

“Well, it could be more current—but you look great. Very flirty. I’m sure Penelope is seething.”

“Mission accomplished. Ooh, look at this,” says Meg, taking the phone back from Lexi and scrolling down the screen, “Thesis update. Did you ever buy their new album? The one I told you about last week—it’s compulsive.”

“No, I haven’t bought any new music in ages. Oh God, I’m getting stale, aren’t I? I’m supposed to be single and hip and you’re meant to be wearing mom jeans. What’s happening?”

“George Bryce is what’s happening, Lex. Check this guy out—he’s adorable.”

Meg is legendary for her feverish crushes on numerous famous men and Lexi guesses this lead singer is the latest in line.

“Meggy—I love it when you turn fourteen on me again.” Lexi remembers the days when they were both infatuated with Pearl Jam and would spend hours debating which of them would be better suited to marry Eddie Vedder. She’d lie in bed at night fantasizing about touching her cheek to his sweaty chest moments after he ran off stage.

“Well, I need
some
outlet, don’t I?” says Meg defensively. “They’re coming to LA in concert soon—it’s a special acoustic thing. I’d die to see them live.”

“Would you just like totally die?” Lexi teases, grabbing the phone back from Meg to look at a grainy picture of George Bryce, posing with a delirious looking fan, a random pack of toilet paper lodged between them.

“Mock me if you will, but I’m entering the lottery to win tickets to their concert. I can take Tim for his birthday. Cross your fingers.”

“Whatever you say,” says Lexi, as it occurs to her that she too is due some luck, and good old fashioned finger crossing might definitely be worth a try.

GEORGE
12
^th
November, 2009
Gatwick Airport, London

George and the boys are fielded through the busy airport by an ultra efficient woman called Candice, who works for Virgin Atlantic Special Services. Gone are the days of waiting to check in, or waiting in the tedious security line, or waiting at passport control, or waiting for luggage. George will never fully adjust to the VIP treatment. He feels guilty that they have become exempt from the mind-numbing activities that lend a familiar rhythm to the passage of life. He actually misses deciding where best to position himself at the luggage carousel and knocking into strangers while hauling his duffel bag off. He is, however, looking forward to the eleven-hour journey and is planning on revisiting the lyrics to “Over Time” again.

Candice is leading them briskly towards the first class lounge. As they pass through the throng of hassled travelers, George keeps his head down but can still hear people whispering “look!” and “isn’t that..?” It’s strange how he has come to feel the pointing fingers even when he can’t directly see them—like sharp jabs in the ribs. In the past, Gabe has tried to advise him on the pitfalls of fame when he notices George is struggling. He once told him to imagine he is surrounded by an invisible force field—like a protective barrier designed to keep out the critic and let in the love. George managed this for about a week, until his fluorescent blue aura suffered a slow puncture and allowed all sorts of negativity in with absolutely no discretion. The best thing that came out of that failed attempt was the third single on their latest album, “Punctured Aura.” It went straight to number three on the UK charts.

Duncan is keeping step with Candice while George, Simon, Mark, and Mark’s wife Anna trail slightly behind. Gabe follows.

Duncan leans in to Candice, “So, Candy, have you ever performed any ‘special services’ for Mick Jagger?” He is clearly amused by his own joke.

“Oh, Mr. Cross, you
are
naughty,” says Candice, obviously not unused to men coming on to her somewhere between security clearance and the first class lounge.

“So I’ve been told. Call me Duncan.”

“Well, Duncan, Mr. Jagger is in fact one of our clients, but I shall say no more. One day when I’m old and grey I might write a book.”

“I’ll buy it, but I need to know how to get
in it
first.”

Simon mutters to George, “Jesus, Dunc’s out of control, are you listening to this? I think she’s old enough to be his mother.”

George chuckles, “Duncan gets away with it. I’d sound like a right twat if I said any of that.”

“It’s because he’s Australian. They can say anything and women fall all over them.”

“You reckon? Whatever became of Angela?” George can’t forget the six foot model from Melbourne who was permanently draped around Duncan’s neck when the band had first formed. “I thought she was the love of his life.”

“Come on, mate… you’re still a hopeless romantic. Angela was just another girl. Duncan’s not husband material. Do you honestly think that there is one woman out there meant especially for you?”

George lets the question hang in the air. He wants to believe it. He used to believe it. Mark seems content, but then again Anna is forever moaning at him about this thing he never does right or that thing he could have done better. Maybe he should just forget about finding the ‘right’ woman and be a bit more reckless instead. There’s a zillion opportunities. He’s a rock star, for God’s sake. Shouldn’t he start behaving like one? Does he want to end up like his parents, numb and shriveled, barely speaking to one another except to say pass the remote control? But then again, it’s not as if Simon’s a rock ’n roll model himself. He’s usually too busy eating.

“I don’t know, Sim, I thought I did, but recently I’m not so sure. Why don’t you and I make a pact, right here, right now. This trip we’re about to take—let’s throw caution to the wind and—you know—explore some options…”

“I’m liking this, George, it’s sounding good. Are you talking female options?”

“Yeah, among other things. I’m not talking about you trying a new gluten free pumpernickel bread.” Simon shakes his friend’s hand.

“I’m in.”

As they arrive in the first class lounge, a pretty receptionist greets the band with a big smile and shiny pink lip gloss.

“What a pleasure to meet you all. Mr. Bryce, I’m going to embarrass myself now, but I can’t tell you how much I adore your voice.”

George returns the smile. “Oh, I’m sure with a bit of encouragement you could.” The receptionist blushes and giggles nervously, lowering her eyes.
See
thinks George,
easy
.

LEXI
November 12
^th
, 2009
Venice, Los Angeles

Lexi is driving to her fourth day of work with Russell. The first three days on the job have been peculiar. Daunted by the task at hand, Lexi wonders how she is ever going to make sense of the minefield of messiness in Russell’s home and in his mind. For all his talk of getting focused, the reality is that Russell simply doesn’t know how. Every time she shows up for work, he spends at least ten minutes giving her a play by play of Boris’s activities in her absence.

“After you left, he appeared a little forlorn. He chased his tail for some time before settling. He slept fitfully last night. I think he was having a nightmare about the neighbor’s canary. He only ate half of his bowl of food. He might be constipated.” Lexi nods dutifully, desperately wanting to yell, “TOO MUCH INFORMATION!” but incapable of being that impolite. Eventually Russell moves onto a jumbled outpouring about CO2 emissions, greenhouse gases, plastic recycling technology and grains and pulses. At that point, he usually squeezes them both a large glass of orange and beet juice and Lexi sips it slowly, imagining her tongue turning red.

Today she has decided enough is enough. Whatever it takes, she is determined to figure out how to harness the unruly child that is Let The Green Times Roll and tame it to be a well-behaved business. And if that doesn’t work—she’s out.