Читать книгу Book Lover - Karen Mack - Страница 9

“I divide all readers into two classes:

Those who read to remember

and those who read to forget.”

∼ William Lyon Phelps (1865–1943) ∼

I jump behind a bush as a silver Porsche 911 Turbo convertible races out of the driveway, driven by one of Palmer’s best friends, Hootie. Must be a new car. Like this slug would ever need to get from 0 to 60 in four seconds. His golf clubs are sticking out of the back of his car like plumes on a rooster and he’s probably headed to Bel Air Country Club for his afternoon rounds. The scion of an old Southern family, he currently spends his days golfing and his nights watching videos of himself golfing. At one time handsome, almost patrician, he is now a lush with a puffy face and a bulbous nose covered with spider veins who tells unfunny jokes with boorish sexual references.

Oddly enough, Palmer is nothing like his friends. He went to Yale, and for some reason gravitated toward those guys with three last names who graduated from St. Paul’s or Exeter with a C-minus average and spent their entire undergraduate careers getting shit-faced in the same clubs where their fathers and grandfathers once held court. Talk about the original affirmative action.

Not that Palmer was like that. He grew up in working-class New Jersey, went to Yale on a full scholarship, and was the first in his family to graduate from college. He is smart and ambitious, the kind of person who could hold down three jobs and still end up with a 4.0. His family owned a ma-and-pa grocery store, and Little Joey, as the Palmers called him to differentiate him from his father, Big Joey, spent every waking hour helping out in the store. He still notices the prices of food items and pays particular attention to the cost of a quart of milk, feeling that it’s a bellwether for fluctuations in the economy.

Given all of Palmer’s obvious attributes, it always amazed me how impressed he was with old money. Even these clowns, the kind of people who juxtapose fancy cars with bad skin, bad breath, and slightly agape flies, were elevated in his eyes because of their once-fashionable social standing. He’s still grateful for the fact that they anointed him “Palmer” the first week of school as they ushered him into their snobby group, and he continues to find them interesting in spite of their pretentious and slightly depraved lifestyles. When I suggested that these people were just losers taking up space, he shot back that I was the real snob here, not them.

Palmer loved everything that I hated, including fancy parties, corporate intrigue, business networking, and the whole Hollywood scene. I especially hated going to his Young Presidents Organization (YPO) weekend extravaganzas. This was an organization for mostly second-generation presidents of companies who liked to get together in places like Vail or Tucson to talk about interest rates and balancing their portfolios. They had boring seminars during the day and endless cocktail parties at night in dark reception rooms located in the basement level of the hotels. The wives were expected to come along, look beautiful, and spend their time participating in stupid activities like Asian flower arranging, shopping sprees at local malls, or guided tours by ancient docents of obscure museums.

I went along the first time to a weekend in Monterey, but after three excruciating days of socializing with women I never would have talked to ordinarily, I told him to forget about bringing me along the next time. He went alone after that, but always came home silent, resentful, and full of accusatory pronouncements like “I was the only one who didn’t bring his wife” or “You missed a great speech by Buzz Aldrin about orbiting hotels on Mars.”

But it wasn’t all Palmer’s fault. He was out in the world and I stayed home and read. Not that I let myself indulge all the time, but I’d have to admit that the book-binge thing sometimes got out of control. After all, I had plenty of time to kill. He had evolved into a workaholic and I was lost in the blissful, dreamlike otherworldness of books. Compared to reality, it was much more enticing.

In retrospect, I made a mistake not going back to work. After my father died, I thought I’d take a short sabbatical. But how did it turn into five years? I just couldn’t seem to pull myself together. And Palmer was happy to have me all to himself. I should have remembered how miserable and bored my mother was just being the corporate wife. But now I’m not even the corporate wife. I’m just one of those thirtysomething women who roam around Los Angeles, speeding down the freeway with nowhere to go.

I am jolted out of my reverie by Steve, the neighborhood Bel Air patrolman. He taps on the window and peers in at me. “Hey, Dora. What’s up?” He’s friendly but clearly wants to know what the hell I’m doing here. I suddenly get queasy at the prospect of him maybe calling Palmer. Do they have a restraining order against me? Not possible. I’ve never showed signs of aggression or threatening behavior that would warrant such measures. Granted, it is weird that I’m hanging out in front of Palmer’s gate.

Even I don’t know why I’m here. I give Steve one of my most of-course-this-is-perfectly-normal looks and say, “Just came to pick up a few things.” Sure, that’s why I’ve been hiding in the bushes. “Guess no one’s home. I’ll try later.” He doesn’t believe it for a second. How humiliating. And I remember how I used to complain to him about all the tourists who cruised our streets and, god forbid, if anyone parked by my gate to try to get a glimpse of the actress next door. I’d call Steve all agitated and make him come right over and roust the guy to move on.

I start my car and try to get out of the parking spot I had wedged myself into. Not easy. I never was very good at parallel parking. I think if you don’t grow up in L.A., you never quite get the hang of it. Finally, I angle it out. If a car could have its tail between its legs, that’s my once proud vehicle as I slowly head home.