“SKATING AWAY ON THE THIN ICE OF A NEW DAY”

The song itself is by Jethro Tull. Below is a link to a version of it.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZPYybjh5kE&feature=related

“Meanwhile back in the year one,

when you belonged to no one.”

The red Mustang cruised slowly down a Studio City side street. Fred squinted to make
out the house numbers, then sped up from his snail’s pace when they remained too low.
The Pinot Noir lurched back and forth on the passenger seat in time with the motion of
the car. Fred felt almost preternaturally calm though. He floated along on the strength of
his liquor store parking lot epiphany. Giddy enough to free associate.

“Liquor Store Parking Lot Epiphany”, the new novel by Fred Barnstable. He smiled at
himself in the rear view mirror—he was suddenly in a good enough mood to let his
thoughts amuse him rather than gnaw at him. Fred had never written a serious literary
lick in his life. He wasn’t planning on it either. He just liked making up titles—he
figured it was a hell of a lot easier, and thus more fun, than actually writing the books. It
was a habit he’d gotten into in college, when he’d hung out with a girl who planned to
actually write novels, although not necessarily ones with titles that Fred composed.

Anne, with an “e”, she was cute enough, aggressively energetic, and had at least seemed
remarkably even-tempered back then. Fred wondered if she still was. Even-tempered,
that is. Tough call. Then he idly wondered if she still looked twenty-two, as she did in
his memory, or closer to forty-seven. There was a probable twelve to seven, he figured.
Not that he should talk. She hadn’t written any novels as far as he knew. At least there
was no announcement to that effect in the alumni magazine. And Fred figured she was
definitely the type to announce it. Fred wasn’t the type to announce anything in the
alumni news nor had he ever attended a reunion, but he was the type to carefully check
the announcements in every issue. Like a fly on the wall.

Funny how the distant past seemed so much more pleasant than the immediate past. Fred
clearly remembered that it hadn’t all been more pleasant, it just seemed that way now.
That’s the kind of thing that could give a guy hope. Nah. Not really. But it was all the
past and this was the present. That’s what could give a guy hope, at least when he was
still under the balm of a liquor store parking lot epiphany. Fred spotted the house. . .and
then, pretty much right in front, a solitary parking place on the otherwise occupied street.
Rock star parking. Fred almost thought it was a sign. He realized that he was actually
looking forward to this party for the first time. After all, he was “Fred Barnstable, man
about town.” Fred maneuvered the Mustang into the spot. Perfect, on the first pass. He
felt reborn.

“One day you'll wake up,

in the Present Day.
A million generations
removed from expectations
of being who you really want to be.”

The newborn held the bottle of Pinot Noir firmly by the neck as he strode up the walk,
head high.

“Skating away on the thin ice of the New Day.”

He rang the bell and suddenly felt as if the electric current in the buzzer was draining all
his optimism out of him. Funny, he was no more alone than he had been a moment
before. It just felt that way. And why was he here---he didn’t really like people much?
Fred felt his legs pulse to run. Run blindly. But they didn’t move. He’d already rung
the buzzer, and he could hear approaching female laughter on the other side of the door.
It was too late, he’d be spotted and marked as an idiot. . .but he smiled when he imagined
that vignette and wisps of his hope caught spark and flamed. “Like they say, a journey of
a thousand miles begins with a lot of whining.” The door swung open.

Heather was no longer laughing but a smile remained on her face. She wore jeans and
boots, and a blouse that only had one shoulder and made her look all right to Fred. But it
seemed to him like there was a beat in which she didn’t recognize him. He smiled and
felt phony as shit, for no reason though. Maybe he could’ve run fast enough. The beat
passed and her smile reanimated.
“Fred, I’m so glad you came. I didn’t think you would.”
“Oh, well, you know me.”
“Not really, but you seemed like the type not to come.”
Fred felt stupid and started to wonder if she had just dissed him. But then she laughed,
and there was no malice in it. He felt better, if still shy, almost welcome.
“Come in.”
He did and awkwardly proffered the wine.
“Oh, thank you. Would you like some?”
“Sure.”
She turned and headed toward the kitchen. It was a nice enough little house, more than a
bungalow, and decorated with that interesting lack of a cohesive style that you saw a lot
of in southern California. He followed, watching her hips swing, not out of any real
interest but more for practice. He really would’ve rather had a drink, but somehow this
had seemed easier. At least things hadn’t gone too badly so far.

Fred stood near a corner of the living room, almost behind a couch, the glass of wine in
his hand. He still would’ve rather had a drink. He tried to affix a pleasant expression to
his face as he scanned the room. Heather had resumed her rounds. Most of the other
guests seemed around forty. Fred sucked in his stomach reflexively. Not that he really
had a gut, but still. Forty, right. He could do that, in a vague way. There were three
people arranged on the couch and engaged with each other. Or, rather, a woman who
looked like Tina Fey was holding court. She was wearing something that more
resembled a business suit. The other women were showing as much skin as a generous
sense of age and dignity allowed. Another L.A. thing. Farther away from Fred sat a
rumpled guy in glasses. He was shorter and fatter than Fred, so Fred felt well disposed
towards him. Besides, he looked like the kind of guy that might have a use for one of
Fred’s titles. Tina Fey practically had her back to the guy, so, when she said something
about “when she was at Fine Line” and he perked up, Fred was sure the Doofus was a
writer.

Tina was giving all her attention to the actor boy closer to Fred. He wasn’t really a boy,
he was probably around forty as well, but he had that frozen mid thirties quality, which in
conjunction with the almost---no, genuinely---too pretty features, nice jeans, button down
shirt, and amiable but slightly desperate vacuous look, marked him as an actor-waiter.
Fred began to feel like an idiot again. He hated going up and starting conversations with
strangers. He liked talking to people, well, some people, some times, but wanted them to
come up to him. Good luck with that. He reckoned if he wanted that to happen, he
should either start dressing like a director or move to a town with fewer self-absorbed
people. Fred glanced around the room and figured that about a third of the people were
in the business. That was the thing about L.A., there was this surface layer of “industry”
people on top of the mass of folks like him. Kinda like that scum you have to scrape off
some kind of cheese. Was he remembering that right? Whatever. But, really, you
couldn’t swing a dead cat in this town without hitting someone talking about their
screenplay.

Suddenly he missed Jill, although only in a functional way. When they had gone to
parties, he could always join whatever circle she was in when he got tired of lurking and
hoping someone would come up to him. And she would gracefully involve him in the
conversation. . .until she started to hate him and stopped bothering. Fred stopped missing
her. In fact, he felt his unresolved bile towards her stretching itself after a nice nap.
Tina’s voice drew his attention. Really, it was her tone that did it---undeservedly smug
and rendered distant by the depths of falseness in the friendliness. Fred always found that
tone jarring and unpleasant. One heard it a lot in L.A. At parties. He grimaced—he
knew he’d forgotten a relevant fact when he’d been debating coming. Well, he guessed
you’d hear that tone anywhere, it was just the extra pinch of hipper than thou that was
unique to L.A. It didn’t seem to bother Actor Boy, who gave Tina his full wide eyed
attention.
“Nothing is worse than having to go over the hill first thing in the morning. It takes half
an hour just to get through the canyon. That’s when I read the scripts by nobodies. Some
days I can get through three of them.”
She let out a melodic but still unpleasant little laugh. Fred saw the Doofus perceptively
twitch, but Tina’s back was to him.
“I have to go all the way to the Sony lot. I hate it, but, after I brought that project to my
brother Leon, that’s where my development deal ended up.”
Somehow Fred recollected that said Leon was a successful director. Now Actor Boy
twitched---a lot more subtly than the Doofus, but that’s training for ya. Still, Fred had
sensed it and he reckoned Tina had too. He glanced at her. She reminded him of a cat
playing with a lizard in a bathroom. She wasn’t going to eat it, she just liked sticking it
with her claws and watching it fruitlessly try and get traction on the linoleum.
“Well, you know what I always tell people when they ask me how to succeed in
Hollywood. I say there’s only one essential skill.”
She preened for a second. Actor Boy leaned in, the Doofus perked his ears, and Fred
struggled to beat back both the look of disdain that kept sneaking across his face and the
rude vision that darted across his mind.
“If you want to succeed in Hollywood, you have to be fun to have lunch with.”
Tina sat back, satisfied. Fred could see that she felt she had delivered her bon mot nicely
and that it was freighted with subtle truth. Personally, Fred thought that two better
qualities were having a brother who was a director and the previously mentioned rude
vision. Actor Boy smiled blankly. The Doofus wrestled with the concept for a moment
before a look of horror swept over him, like he’d just figured out why he didn’t have a
career. Fred drank deeply from his wine glass and decided that he‘d just received a sign
that it was time to hit the harder stuff. He headed for the kitchen. He felt he’d been a
model of restraint.

Heather was back in the foyer, answering the door again. A beautiful blonde grrl waltzed
in. Well, blonde except for the pink and silvery swatches. But Fred suspected that the
blonde part was the natural color. Fred thought she was hot. Of course, she was twenty-
five, twenty-six—at this point, Fred didn’t know. Technically, she was young enough to
be his daughter. Not that it mattered, she wouldn’t give him a second, check that, first
look---just like the girl at the liquor store. Fred realized with a start that part of her
appeal was that she reminded him of Jill. Thus the expression, “I just threw up in my
mouth a little.” Fred hadn’t, but he killed the wine anyway. And she didn’t remind him
of the current Jill, the harridan of his daydream nightmares, she reminded him of Jill
when Jill was that age. When he was twenty-six, it was a very good year. “Stop it. It’s a
stupid song anyway.” The Grrl took off her jacket to reveal a sleeveless top. And
sleeves. Tattoo sleeves, a solid mass of Gauguin colors, at least to Fred at this distance,
running from her wrists to her shoulders. Well, at least the sleeves, not to mention the
pink and silvery hair, didn’t remind him of the ghost of Jill. Past or present.

Fred had nothing against tats, although aesthetically some were more appealing than
others. On this grrl, they were fine, they made her a bird of paradise. Fred couldn’t deal
with piercings though. They grossed him out. Even though he knew it was just
ethnocentrism. . .no, worse than that---it was age. Fred really did try not to lie to himself.
He didn’t see any piercings though. Of course, they could be in more private spots---
which would be worse. But what did it matter to him? He headed for the kitchen,
wondering why that grrl was here.

“And as you cross the wilderness,

spinning in your emptiness,
you feel you have to pray.”

Fred prayed that there was some vodka. There were two guys leaning against the kitchen
counter with beers, one of them was balding and the other was pretending that he wasn’t.
Fred fired up another quick prayer of thanks that he still had hair. Even if it wasn’t nice
hair. And it mattered less since it was short. It seemed like a long time ago that he’d
“forgotten his dreams and cut off his hair.” As long ago as the last time he’d been to a
party as an apparently bumbling single man. As Fred approached, he heard the shorter
and balder of the two.
“I don’t think my relationship will last out the month---she gets back on the 23rd.”

Fred thought, “A man after my own heart.” But he didn’t say anything. The men
stopped their conversation and turned to him indifferently.
“Do you know if there’s some vodka? I’m starting to shake.”
Fred held up his left hand and made it tremor. Then he held up his right and held it
steady.
“But this is the one I shoot with.”
Both the men laughed. An old one but a good one. Fred was pleased with himself for
that modicum of social success, even if it was a low bar. He was more pleased when they
directed him to a cabinet on the opposite wall. By the time, Fred had mixed a stiff vodka
and tonic, the guys had moved on to the Lakers. Fred couldn’t work up the enthusiasm
for basketball, he could do it for baseball, but not basketball. He was afraid that this too
was age instead of ethnocentrism. Several more men tumbled into the kitchen, looking
for beer. But these were young men, the grrl’s age---there was a mystery solved. Two of
them wore stupid pork pie hats. They had been so unhip in Fred’s childhood that he just
couldn’t get past it. And this time, he admitted to age instead of running ethnocentrism
up the flag pole. The young ‘uns, now equipped with beers, formed their own circle.
That was it. That was what Fred hated about L.A. parties---they replicated high school
mores. Yet with adults of all ages. People stood in their own little cliques, formed
around silly pecking orders. Well, silly if you were a prole. Or a troll. Fred figured it
probably seemed very reasonable if you were top dog. Not that Fred had ever had any
way of knowing that for sure. He headed back towards the living room

“Looking for a sign

that the Universal Mind
has written you into the Passion Play.”

As Fred rounded the corner, he almost ran into the Doofus. They awkwardly stared at
each other.
“Hi. My name’s Leland.”
“Fred,” said Fred, but he was thinking, “Of course it is.”
“Nice party, huh?”
Leland seemed anxious to start a conversation. Fred didn’t really have anything to say.
The old starlet joke popped into his head: “She was so stupid, she slept with the writer.”
Fred managed some combination of smile and grimace, and silently toasted Leland.
Delicious. Leland pressed on.
“How do you know Heather?”
“Oh, from work.”
“Oh. You’re not in the business?”
“No.” Fred wanted to add “But I’m fun to have lunch with,” but it seemed too mean. It
didn’t really matter because Leland was now looking over his shoulder to see who was in
the kitchen.
“Well, I’m trying to get another drink.”
Fred let him pass. So. Who was the starlet and who was the writer in that relationship?
Fred mentally shrugged, advanced to just inside the living room, and surveyed the scene.

The room had filled considerably. A lot of the new arrivals were younger, Fred figured
most of the young women as actors. The men looked farther out----at least, they
conformed to a less conventional mold than the actors. Probably they were musicians or,
worse yet, performance artists. Fred lumped performance artists with mimes---they
should be rounded up and isolated from the general population. Fred figured he was
probably being an asshole, but he really did feel that way. Tina was still enthroned on the
couch; in fact, she had acquired a couple more actor acolytes, both of whom fit in the
vacuum that Leland had left behind. Fred could feel a joke about Leland and a vacuum,
but it didn’t quite come together in his head. He followed Tina’s gaze and saw her
eyeing The Grrl. To Fred, Tina looked threatened in a philosophical way---like she was a
member of the old regime and could feel its underpinnings cracking. The Grrl was
talking to this tallish guy more or less her age. He had a black Mohawk and the shaved
areas had been done up as a checkerboard. Nonetheless, Fred admitted that the guy
wasn’t a mouth breather; in fact, he looked genuinely interesting relative to the assorted
posers in the foreground.

Speaking of posing, the two women on Leland’s former part of the couch were about to
have their friend sitting opposite snap their picture.
“Wait!!” One of two cried out so sharply that Fred almost spilled his drink. A fire? He
looked but didn’t see the cause for alarm. Then, the woman rearranged the candles on the
adjacent tables to better back light them. She plopped back down.
“Okay.”
Fred was dumbfounded for a second. He saw an approving and amused smile flicker on
Tina’s face. He was amused too, for a second. But then he felt utterly out of place, on
every level. Not lonely. Not even really alone. Just alien. He wanted to go, but it was
too soon. It’d be lame Whether he went and thanked Heather or just slipped away. It
just seemed all too much. Or too little.

“Well, do you ever get the feeling that the story's too damn real and in the present. . .
tense?
Or that everybody's on the stage, and it seems like you're the only person sitting in the
audience?”

Fred eyed his drink, and felt like refreshing it. Drinking and driving, the sport of our
people. Maybe he shouldn’t. But I wanna, he thought. “A Journey of a Thousand Miles
Continues With a Lot of Whining,” the new novel by Fred Barnstable. As he looked up,
he saw a patio that had escaped his attention earlier. And it was half full of people.
Empty might have been better, but it was time for the good rat to desert this sinking ship.
Fred made a break for it.

“And as you cross the circle line,

the ice-wall creaks behind,
you're a rabbit on the run.”
Fred went out the French doors and took in the patio by the yellowish cast of the paper
shaded lights mounted on the fence and the back of the house. The crowd out here was
older and seemingly less Hollywood. Were they in hiding? Or just suiting themselves?
Fred slowly walked around. He’d have to approach one of the cliques. Or, better yet,
find a dark corner. None of the groups seemed likely. Two couples were talking. . .Fred
drew closer. . .about the possibility of a Disney deal. Well, there was one theory shot to
hell. Fred edged away. Two older guys were talking about a month spent in Umbria last
summer, and apparently another upcoming this year. They looked more like straight
lawyers than gay artists, but Fred didn’t see them as likely conversation partners in either
case. He’d never been to Umbria. Just to London once with Jill. And that trip had been
about Jill. Fred stopped his prowl as he remembered that, actually happy, time. That it
was happy made the memory a little bittersweet.

“Fred!”
A woman’s voice hit Fred like a pistol shot. “I knew I shouldn’t have stopped moving,”
Fred thought, “Or maybe it’s divine punishment for thinking kindly about Jill.” He
recognized the slightly sing song voice. It belonged to a Tiffany. And this Tiffany was
an old friend of Jill’s. And old friends are mistakes you make when you’re young. At
least Fred thought that shoe fit here. But that was okay, because she’d never liked him
either. He turned, hoping the requisite joust would be quick.

“Tiffany.”
To Fred that had sounded civil and he hoped it conveyed a pleasant undertone of “Don’t
fuck with me.” Tiffany, a classic blonde American beauty rose whose fading blush had
been propped up by modern medical science, cocked her head and one hip at him.
“Fred. What on earth are you doing at a party? I mean, . . .you know what I mean.”
He knew what she meant. So much for undertones. Okay, honey, bring it.
“I knew Heather from the office and I ran into her the other week.”
That seemed both true and opaque.
“Well, you look great. But did you cut yourself shaving?”
She eyed the wound at the edge of the lobe of his nose that he’d inflicted on himself
earlier. It must have been leaking.
“No, I was trying to slit my throat and I missed.”
Tiffany laughed in a way that meant she wasn’t sure she got the joke, but she was sure it
wasn’t funny.
“Well, I ran into someone, too. Jill. In front of Bar Marmont.”
“Were you driving and was she walking?”
Fred couldn’t resist that.
“No, silly. I was meeting a girlfriend at the bar Saturday night and she was having dinner
with a date.”
God, what a bitch. Tiffany, that is. Jill, well, perhaps the consolation that she wasn’t
fucking anybody wasn’t long for this world. What’s a fella to do? Tiffany’s eyes
sparkled with something akin to delight as she watched him and waited for his response.
Fred wondered if his thoughts had been visible.
“Well, gee, Tif, I’m surprised you didn’t have a date on Saturday night.”
Tiffany had been divorced for quite some time. Fred was sure there was a good reason
for that.
“Fred, I’ve been with Jeff for months. He was just busy that night.”
Still, Fred could see that she was a touch stung. Tiffany nodded towards one of the older
guys who’d been talking about Italy. Fred masked his surprise. Tiffany had always
seemed to favor musicians or similar out of work artists. Younger ones, too. She’d
reversed field. Fred bet there was a reason for that, too. Or was that malicious? Fred
just smiled.
“In fact,” she went on, “we’re going to Europe this summer.”
“One of those senior tours?”

Tiffany’s scowl was startled off her face by a crescendo of noise. Several of the young
actors and musicians burst through the French doors in a noisy gaggle. Instead of the
murmur of conversation, now there was a roar. The group moved as one, or, as Fred
thought, like a Panzer division rolling forward, conquering the gravel pathway and then
seizing the citadel that was the fountain. Fred decided not to favor Tiffany or anyone else
with that metaphor. Tiffany had moved closer to Jeff, who was talking at her. Fred slid
off in the other direction towards the shadows. He hated talking to Tiffany. And he’d
hated talking to her when he and Jill had been happy. He always felt dirty afterwards,
like he’d lost something by dealing on that level of pettiness and jibes. Even on nights
like tonight, when he felt he’d won, more or less. He sucked on his drink. Actually, he
reflected on the ice cube swirling in his mouth, he felt that way when dealing with lots of
people. But never as strongly as with Tiffany. Sometimes he really tried not to deal with
people because he didn’t like that kind of ugliness. Of course, withdrawing hadn’t done
much for his so called career. After Jill had started to hate him, she’d called it slacker
and “symptomatic of a lack of ambition.” Like that was a bad thing---wanting to live at
peace. And “sensitive” was an “s” word that hadn’t occurred to her. Fred knew he
should stop thinking about this right away. He drained his drink.

“You didn't stand a chance son,

if your pants were undone.
`Cause you were bred for humanity
and sold to society.”

Fred watched the twenty somethings milling around the fountain from a safe distance.
He felt older and figured that he’d keep feeling more older as the years rolled by. Older
and crankier. And weirder. Now there was a depressing vision. He’d end up screaming
“Get off of my lawn!” at children---except that Jill had saved him from that fate by taking
the house. Thank god, he didn’t have a lawn. Of course, he could work against it, he
supposed.

The group at the fountain was smoking now. That was another funny thing about L.A.
parties. Two drinks in, all these people who didn’t smoke, smoked. Fred didn’t smoke,
even two drinks in, but he was old enough not to mind it. In fact, he always wished he
did when he heard someone whining about being allergic to cigarette smoke. Because he
was also old enough to remember when sufferers of such an allergy were few and far
between. So when he heard that, he always figured he was listening to a selfish, self-
centered, intellectually dishonest person. Maybe there was hope for him if whiney
people still annoyed him. . .unless it was part of everyone annoying him.

Fred distracted himself by focusing on the folks at the fountain. There was some
commotion going on. People were laughing, and a couple of them shouted, “Do it, do
it!” Fred maneuvered sideways to get a better view. A young woman, striking in a more
classic than cheap California way, sat on the stone bench. She arranged her shawl around
her head and shoulders as a longer haired, bearded young man lay down on his back, with
his head and shoulders in her lap. As she leaned over him and composed her features
beatifically, he threw out one arm and let himself go slack. They became a tableau.
Someone in the laughing group said, “Mary and dead Jesus”. And Fred saw that it was
so. A very good rendering of one of those Renaissance paintings. Fred couldn’t
remember which one---an American college education only goes so far.

Fred spontaneously laughed, too. And then he thought that maybe there was hope for
him, maybe he wasn’t getting old if that kind of blasphemy still amused him. Fred
wasn’t religious. His parents had been indifferent and he’d never developed any of his
own curiosity. Fred didn’t even know anybody religious in L.A. So, in all fairness, he
admitted that L.A. parties did have theatrics that you might not find everywhere. Not to
mention a higher proportion of beautiful young woman, except that to them he was made
of cellophane. Well, maybe he meant “despite” instead of “except.” A bunch more
people had come out to the patio. Perhaps they’d been drawn by the revelry that had
accompanied the tableau. Well, they were too late, as it had unraveled amidst more
laughter. Or maybe the house was overflowing. Fred wasn’t sure if that was a good
thing. Like an icebreaker nearing the Pole, Tiffany surged the other way, with “Jeff” in
tow. Fred remembered that Tiffany pretended to be religious on special occasions, and
she looked like she was pretending to be offended now. Good.

Fred’s eye was drawn to one of the new arrivals. One of the now surplus of babes. But
his lip curled and his look jaundiced. She was wearing a t shirt that proclaimed, “I Love
PETA.” Fred had never killed an animal in his life and was more likely to write a novel
to go with one of his titles than to do so. But he was a confirmed carnivore and was
emotionally attached to his position on top of the food chain. And thus, he thought PETA
was nuts. Or maybe an organization that was allergic to cigarette smoke. Then he heard
a musical but throaty female voice behind him.
“If she lived someplace where people were hungry, that bitch would fucking eat a rat.”
Fred laughed again, even harder. Why, he wasn’t old at all! He turned to the voice. It
was The Grrl. Her eyes and her slivery streaks twinkled at him.

“And the silver splinters fly

in the corner of your eye
shining in the setting sun.”

“I was thinking something like that.”

“I could tell.”
Up close, her sleeves still looked like Gauguin’s work in their coloring and design. But,
as far as Fred could recollect---and he was admittedly only slightly more knowledgeable
about Impressionists than he was of Renaissance artists---Gauguin hadn’t interspersed his
work with Gothic script that read “Born to kill” (on her left bicep) and “Goonies never
say die” (on her right). But maybe he was sick that day. And “Born to kill”? The only
people with tats like that were much older than even he was. Vietnam vets. Apparently
this train of thought was not going to yield something clever to say to her. He decided to
improvise.
“I’m Fred.”
Serviceable , right. . .although maybe a stupid name. Maybe he should have said “Jamil.”
“I’m Sunny. Well, really my name is Sunshine.”
Of course it is. Fred wondered if people had names like that in other parts of the country.
And he definitely should have said “Jamil.”
“Your art is beautiful, but what about ‘Born to kill’?”
“My Dad was in Vietnam and he had one just like it. In the exact same spot.”
“Well, Kipling said, ‘If any question why we died, Tell them, because our fathers lied.’
But I guess that wouldn’t fit.”
Fuck. Why had he said that? It was way stupid. And not complimentary to fathers when
she apparently worshipped hers. Not that that was a big surprise. Another probable
twelve to seven. Even Tiffany had worshipped her father. But, damn it, he didn’t even
like Kipling that much. He’d just read that quote on a blog about Iraq the other day.
Fred figured his only hope was if he seemed too lame to piss her off.

“Who’s Kipling?”
Apparently, he did. God protects the lame---no, wait, that was the dumb and the blind.
“Just some writer. Before your time.”
“All books are before my time.”
Fred was flabbergasted for a split second. Then he was impressed—that was sheer
profundity. He was starting to like this girl. She studied him.
“Are you a writer?”
“No. . .although I like making up titles.”
Was that lame, too? Probably not as lame as saying he was a glorified clerk. He hated
feeling this way. He blamed L.A. entirely. There was no way he could retreat. But
Sunny laughed.
“That’s fucking great! Make one up about this party.”
Aw, shit. Think. Fuck. Hurry. You must look like an asshole.
“Uhm. . .uh. ‘The Beautiful and Damned’?”

“Skating away on the thin ice of the New Day.”

Hey, she hadn’t known who Kipling was, it was worth a try. Fred hadn’t read it or any
other Fitzgerald either but that girl in college, Anne, had gone on and on about it. Sunny
burst into genuine laughter.
“That’s fucking perfect!”
He shoots and scores. No guts, no glory. And, he’d gotten his payback for listening to
Anne prattle on, a mere twenty-five years later. . .let’s not think about that now. But,
wow, he’d chalked up a second social success. Fred felt very pleased with himself for a
moment before he realized that now he had to think of something else to say.
“So, what are you about?”
That was better than “What do you do?’ Wasn’t it? At least marginally?
“I’m a contortionist.”
L.A. But Fred was a little more impressed. And his mind seethed with possibilities.
“Wow. But didn’t the market for that fizzle out a few hundred years ago?”
“No, I do gigs in clubs every couple of weeks. But mostly, I raise my kid.”
She had a kid? On the whole, that was more surprising than her being a contortionist.
Did that mean she had a husband or boyfriend? Now that’s an L.A. question. And why
did that matter to him? He should get over himself.
“Yeah, it’s just the two of us.”
Apparently she was a mind reader too.
“Well, that’s too bad. How old? Is it a boy?”
Fred took a moment to himself to reflect on what a great guy he was. He really had
gotten over himself.
“Jet is three, and he’s great. He’s my life.”
He could see she felt it. Now Fred was completely impressed. She wasn’t simple, that’s
for sure. Even if she didn’t know who Kipling was. Besides, Fred was a fake as far as
that sort of thing went, he’d just had a college girlfriend who was well-read. But “Jet?”
Fred reckoned it was probably better than “Sunshine.” When he was a kid, you could call
a strange boy “Mike” and be right two out of three times. And now he was an old fuck.
Excellent.
“I have two boys, too.”
More nobility.
“But it’s not bad. My folks are around. I sent Lombardo to rehab for crack. I thought it
was the drugs that made him a fucking asshole. I was wrong.”
It seemed to Fred that she was looking at him more intensely now. It disrupted his inner
monologue.
“Oh. It sounds too bad, just the same.”
He was still a great guy.
“Well, you know what I always say: you can’t put cheese on a fucking cracker and call it
pizza.”
Fred laughed. He really liked her.
“I mean, I cleaned the house, and cooked him food, and let him fuck me in the ass. What
more did he want?”
Good question. Fred didn’t know what to say. Maybe he had gotten old, after all. This
girl was so blunt and open. So alive. A lot more than he’d been at her age. A lot more
than he was now. So, maybe he wasn’t old, maybe he’d just always been dull and
lifeless. Excellent. Anyway, he found it all charming. Damn, if he could get out now,
this party could be considered a big success---he’d vanquished Tiffany and successfully
talked to a stranger. That she was pretty and he hadn’t spilled anything on himself were
bonuses. He needed an exit strategy. He rattled the ice in his empty glass.
“I’m seriously considering another drink.”
He waited for her to release him.
“Let’s blow this pop stand.”
Huh? Fred turned his head to see who she was talking to. There wasn’t anybody there.
And he was as funny doing it as the best vaudevillian because he really thought there
would be someone there. When he turned back, she was laughing at him. But nicely.
“Let’s go to Hollywood. Let’s go to a club. You drive.”

Fred struggled with the concept. It was incomprehensible. She didn’t seem to be coming
on to him at all, but it was a real offer, he was almost sure. Why would she pull his
chain? Well, for fun, but she didn’t seem the type. It was ridiculous. It had been years
since he’d done something like that. And he’d feel stupid. And he’d look more like a
vice cop than a club kid. A lot more. She was waiting, twirling a purple lock. It was
stupid. It would be a lot more fun than sitting in the dark in his crappy apartment dicking
around on the computer. Which probably rated ahead of sticking around here much
longer by himself.
“Okay.”
Sometimes you have to say “what the fuck.” Wasn’t that “Risky Business?” A Tom
Cruise movie. In that case, it was something he should keep to himself, that was for sure.
He figured he should say something to Heather.
“Do you want to say goodbye to anybody?”
“No. I told a friend of mine I’d come by and meet him here. And now I’ve done my
fucking duty.”
“All righty then.
Before they could move, a woman swooped down on them.
“Hi! Don’t I know you/”
This voice belonged to another stunning woman. Both her tone and eyes were full of
giggles and apparently little else. Worse yet, she reminded Fred of Tiffany when she was
just a kitten. The woman was almost bouncing in front of Sunny.
“I’m Jade!”
“I know. We’ve met before. At Lombardo’s. I’m Sunny”
Sunny’s flat tone didn’t seem to discourage Jade. Nor that Sunny spoke slowly and
clearly to her, as if she was, well, a toddler.
“Oh, right. I knew it. He says we’re just like each other!”
“No. We’re not. You’re beautiful and I’m smart.”
Fred nearly burst out laughing but it didn’t seem to faze Jade at all.
“You’re so sweet.”
Sweet wasn’t the word that had leaped to Fred’s mind, but, okay. Sunny just kept
smiling, but one of her eyebrows reached for the sky. Jade burbled on.
“I just wanted to say ‘hi’, I gotta go find my friends.”
Jade scampered away. Fred figured that meant he wouldn’t have the pleasure of meeting
Lombardo. Which seemed like a good thing. He noted that Jade hadn’t even looked at
him once, but, right now, that didn’t matter. Sunny was smirking at him.
“I’ve met that girl at least three times and she can’t fucking remember. She’s not a bitch.
She’s a fucking retard. I watched the Super Bowl with her at Lombardo’s this year---that
was a fucking trip. She talked to me about her fucking nails through the whole first half.
But isn’t she beautiful? Say she’s fucking beautiful or I’ll rip off your fucking arm and
fuck you in the ass with it.”
At least she was smiling when she said it. Fred considered his options carefully before
answering.
“She’s fucking beautiful.”
Sunny beamed at him. What was he doing here again?
“Come on, let’s go. I don’t get to do this very fucking often. I’m a mother.”
No matter how true, that was comedy.

Sunny turned on her heel and headed toward the patio doors at a pretty fucking brisk
pace. Did he just think that? She was contagious. And she was zooming ahead. Fred
mostly felt confused. But he started after her. She did have a bubble butt. “Stop it.”

He caught up to her just inside the doors and surveyed the room. It was pretty crowded.
The patio had been a good choice. Tina had not moved from the couch and Actor Boy
remained next to her. Sure enough, the Doofus was talking to a stunning blonde who
seemed like the most vacuous woman there. And there was a stiff competition for the
honor, including Jade and a host of others. And if you opened it up to the men. . .There
was Heather, dead center and dead ahead. Excellent. He approached her. Sunny sidled
up beside him.
“Uhm, hey Heather, thanks a lot. I’m going to bug out but it was great and I’m really
glad you invited me.”

It occurred to Fred that maybe he should withhold judgment on that last bit. Heather was
absorbing the idea of Fred and Sunny together. Fred thought it was like those five stages
of grief. Confusion, disbelief, amazement, anger, and finally something like “Whatever.
I don’t care. But all men are assholes, even Fred” flashed across her face in rapid
succession. Fred found it gratifying, even though he suspected it was vain on his part.
And vaguely fraudulent, since he hadn’t laid a hand on her and wasn’t really sure that
was in the cards.
“I’m glad you came. And it seems like you had a good time.”
Heather didn’t or couldn’t quite take all of the bite out of her tone. Sunny smiled at her
as angelically as a choir girl with blonde, purple, and silver hair could. It felt to Fred like
she was playing into it, probably just for her own amusement.
“I have to make sure everybody’s okay. I’ll see you around.”
And Heather was off, leaving just a whiff of irritation in her wake. Sunny turned her
smile on Fred. It seemed like she was waiting for him to lead her out through the crowd.
So he did.

The crowd got harder to navigate through as they got closer to the entrance hall. Without
thinking, Fred took her hand. He noticed how much easier life was without thinking.
Maybe he should think about that. When he looked back at her, she was waving to the
guy with the checkerboard Mohawk. He waved back and smiled, with none of the angst
that Heather had oozed. They made it to the door. Fred let Sunny go first, out of habit.
As she slipped past him, he immediately felt old fashioned. What a giveaway. He
scanned the panorama of Tina, Actor Boy, the Doofus, and the cast of thousands. Win,
lose, or draw, this was definitely a better choice.
“So as you push off from the shore,
won't you turn your head once more
and make your peace with everyone?”

Fred came up beside Sunny on the front steps. She was watching a couple who
apparently had been disturbed from some kind of clinch by her presence. As they
emerged from the shadows, Fred saw that it was Tiffany and Jeff. At the same moment,
Tiffany saw them. Heather had been nothing---Fred thought Tiffany’s expression was
priceless. This time, the fraudulent part didn’t matter. Neither did the vain and petty
part. It was all good. He consciously imitated Sunny with Heather----he gave her the
sweetest possible smile. And didn’t mention that she’d catch flies with her mouth open
that way. Fred and Sunny went down the walk. Tiffany and Jeff remained rooted.

“For those who choose to stay,

will live just one more day.
To do the things they should have done.”

“Do you know that bitch?”

“She’s my ex-wife’s best friend.”
Honesty is the best policy.
“Fuck her and feed her fish heads.”
Fred laughed again. He’d laughed more lately than in the last several months put
together. At least if you didn’t count bitter laughs. He pointed at the red Mustang.
“That one there.”
Sunny laughed. It sounded like she was laughing at it, but Fred decided that he really
didn’t want to know if that was it.

After they got in, Fred looked at her. She looked contented, but he really wasn’t getting
anything sexual from her. He was sure. When he was a stupid teenager, he’d always
hope that the absence of any sign meant “maybe.” Now, as a stupid adult, he knew
better. Sunny’s eyes steadily met his.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why me?”
“Because you were the least full of shit of anyone there. I mean, you’re full of shit, but in
a really innocent, silly way.”
“Oh.”
Fred debated whether there was a positive spin to that and whether he wanted to try and
go with it.
“And because you’re not fucking mean. That’s important.”
Fred decided to go with the positive spin. Why not? It seemed like he was living tonight,
instead of just existing. When was the last time he had no idea what was going to happen
in the next hour. And he should really work on that “not thinking” thing.
“Dude, let’s fucking go.”
He looked at her again. She was still smiling. He smiled back. He started the car.
“Skating away,
skating away, hey,
skating away on the thin ice of the New Day.”