Dixieland Sushi Page 8

  “You still don’t have a date?” Tiffany asks me.

  I blanch at the word “still.”

  “It’s no big deal,” I say, hating the fact I have to admit this in front of her.

  “Why don’t you take her, Riley?” Tiffany suggests.

  “What?” Riley and I say at the same time.

  “Yes, take her,” Tiffany says. “Make a weekend out of it.”

  I can’t believe Tiffany wants me to spend a weekend with her boyfriend. Either she doesn’t consider me serious competition or she’d like the weekend alone to pursue whatever moment I interrupted with Paul.

  “Oh, that’s okay,” I’m quick to say. “Really, I’ll be fine.”

  Is she crazy? Even if she doesn’t consider me competition, how can she be so confident that I won’t try to convince Riley about what really happened between her and Paul?

  “What? Did my deodorant give out again?” Riley asks. “What’s wrong with me as your date?”

  “Nothing is wrong,” I say. “All of my family will be there. It’ll be a complete bore.”

  “Nonsense,” Riley says. “The stories I’ve heard about your family? I’ve been dying to meet them.”

  “It’s settled then.” Tiffany practically beams.

  —Mr. Miyagi, The Karate Kid II

  Never stop war by taking part in one.

  1984 STRIKES BACK

  In the fall of fifth grade, I saw Christi Collins and Kevin Peterson everywhere. They were inseparable at recess and at lunch, sharing Fruit Roll-Ups and snickering at their own private jokes. After school, Christi would ride on the handlebars of Kevin’s bike, or sit next to him on the merry-go-round, or share a box of Nerds candy: Kevin eating the blue ones, Christi eating the red. And all the time he wore that friendship bracelet, my bracelet, the fifth-grade equivalent of a wedding ring.

  Kevin Peterson thought Christi Collins was fun, but I knew what she really was: she was a conniving witch, a female version of J. R. Ewing.

  Fifth grade was the year I really started to watch Dallas religiously, along with the rest of my family. Meals were planned around the designated start time, and prime seats for the main event (couch and two armchairs with unblocked views of the TV) were reserved far in advance. To me, every Friday became like camping out on the sidewalk in front of the Shrine Auditorium five days before Oscar night in hopes of gaining admission to the stands near the red carpet. It was all about getting an unobstructed view of the stars.

  Kimberly and I would fight over the best real estate on the couch. Sometimes I’d stake out couch territory far earlier in the evening, forgoing all beverages to skip trips to the bathroom, which would leave my seat up for grabs. But Kimberly would always manage to oust me, usually by pinching my arm mercilessly, the same tactic she would usually use in the backseat of the family car during road trips when she wanted me to surrender part or all of my stash of Capri Suns.

  Everyone in the house, from Bubba to Aunt Teri, intently followed the movements of evil J. R., his long-suffering wife, Sue Ellen, youngest brother Bobby, and Bobby’s do-gooder wife, Pam. Even Grandma Saddie and Grandpa Frank (until his death) counted themselves regular watchers of Dallas. No one was immune.

  Between Grandma Saddie and Vivien’s involuntary ya-shee exclamations when J. R. did something particularly evil, and Grandpa Frank’s regular declarations that he could run an oil empire better than any of the Ewings, I’m lucky to have heard any of the dialogue.

  We saw ourselves in their struggles, even though we weren’t rich, white, or from Texas.

  If I was going to outwit Christi Collins, I needed to study the movements of the characters in Dallas. If I was going to out-scheme Christi, I’d have to see how Victoria Principal handled all the evildoers out to do her wrong.

  To start, I practiced the key acting moves in Dallas, includ-ing:

  The Open Palm Slap (see also: throwing drink in face of insulting husband/brother-in-law/rival oil baron)

  The Dramatic Pause (used after revelation of husband’s affair/brother-in-law’s plot/evildoing of any kind usually executed before commercial breaks)

  Stage Crying (tears that threaten to spill but never actually do)

  Revelation Reaction (stunned look of surprise used upon the discovery the husband you thought had died is still alive and taking a shower, since it turned out you dreamed his death and a whole season of now irrelevant plotting and scheming)

  I imagined dialogues between Kevin Peterson and me, with a Dallas slant.

  Me (wearing rolled, sprayed hair and too much lip gloss): I love you, Kevin. Can’t you see that? We are meant to be together.

  Kevin (wearing a gray polyester suit, blue shirt, no tie, and a white cowboy hat): I have responsibilities to the family. To Southfork. I can’t just abandon them, Jen. I realize it was a mistake to marry Christi. I see that now, but I am wearing her bracelet and that means something.

  Me: But don’t you see? I made that bracelet! Christi is in league with J. R. They want to take Ewing Oil from you. Let me help you. Together we can stand up to your brother, J. R. Things can be different, Kevin. They can be different this time.

  Camera zooms in on Kevin’s face. He’s pensive, considering. He takes off his cowboy hat, runs his fingers along its rim. He looks up, hopeful.

  Kevin: Can they, Jen? Can they really?

  Insert Dramatic Pause. Close-up on my face, which is hopeful, yet my bottom lip is quivering. Is that a tear at the corner of my eye?

  Me: They can, Kevin. They can. Together we can do anything.

  Kevin: Oh, Jen. I was wrong to ever doubt you.

  Kevin throws his cowboy hat to a nearby table, then passionately embraces me in a long, lingering kiss, which fades to black and then to a commercial.

  Of course, the problem with real life is that it’s not scripted, and I never did exchange any meaningful dialogue with Kevin that year. He was always being shadowed by Christi Collins, who kept him closer to her than Sue Ellen held hard drinks.

  But if there’s one thing I learned from J. R., it’s that double-crossing is something that goes around and comes around. J. R., after all, ended up being shot. So I sat back and learned to be patient.

  —Mr. Miyagi, The Karate Kid III

  Sometimes when take trip better know where trip end, otherwise, best stay home.

  The day after Tiffany suggests Riley take me to my cousin’s wedding, he does not show up for work. For two days. Then, four. Riley is AWOL on Thursday and Friday, and even the following Monday and Tuesday, which makes me worry that something awful has happened to him. I am tempted to call him at home, but I don’t want to risk getting Tiffany on the phone.

  When I casually ask Bob if he’s heard from Riley, Bob just shrugs, letting slip a tantalizing nugget of information.

  “He’s out sick, or so he says,” Bob answers but says nothing more.

  At least he’s not in a coma in the hospital, I think.

  Still, this doesn’t make me feel any better. Bob’s answer could mean that Riley’s at home nursing a rugby injury, or worse, has discovered his girlfriend is two-timing him and that I knew and didn’t tell him.

  I tell myself that it’s none of my business, but I find my eyes wandering to Riley’s desk chair as if I keep expecting to see him there.

  When Riley fails to make an appearance in the office on Wednesday, I decide to take the plunge and call his house.

  I get his answering machine, and the perky-sounding voice of Tiffany, who recorded the message, using the profoundly irritating “we.” I hang up and belatedly remember that he has caller ID. I’m trying to recall whether calls made from the station show up with the extension number when my phone rings.

  “Did you just call?” says Riley, sounding a bit groggy and out of it.

  “Uh, yeah. I was worried about you.”

  “Oh,” Riley says, going silent for a minute. “What time is it anyway?”

  “Four in the afternoon.”

  “Oh,” h
e says, and then we fall into a small silence.

  “Are you sick?”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing is wrong.”

  “You took a week off work.”

  “A week of my sick days were about to expire. I’m not coming back in until next Tuesday, only Bob doesn’t know that yet.”

  “I see.” I’m not sure if I believe him. If he’s telling the truth, then I have to admit I’m a little hurt he didn’t see fit to tell me about his plan. “So I guess that means you’re not coming along this weekend for the Deliverance wedding?” I try to make my voice sound light and playful, but I end up sounding pouty.

  “Shite, I totally forgot,” Riley says, yawning. “Yeah, I’ll go. When do we leave?”

  “You don’t have to,” I say, profoundly disappointed that he managed to forget the fact that he agreed to spend an entire weekend with me.

  “No, I want to, I do.”

  Which must be why he forgot about it entirely, I think. “No, really,” I say.

  “Jen, if you don’t stop that, I am going to wring your bloody neck.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Being fake polite. I want to go, okay? When do we leave?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Pick me up. I’ll be ready.”

  There are two ways to get to Dixieland: fly into Little Rock and take a puddle jumper to Texarkana (the other, larger border town, the name a deliberate combination of states Texas and Arkansas, and the closest city with a working airport). Or you can drive. I prefer to drive. By plane it takes no less than three and a half hours. For ten more, I can be assured that I won’t have a panic attack in the air like I did the last time I attempted to fly, and spent most of the flight breathing into a sick bag.

  Yes, I have an unreasonable fear of flying. That is, if you call unreasonable being uncomfortable with the fact that the only thing that’s saving you from plummeting thirty thousand feet to your death is a few thin sheets of aluminum. If you see it as I see it, I have a reasonable fear of avoiding heights that could cause my premature demise.

  I make it out of the office only after going over two dozen story lists with Anne, who has promised to fill in for me. I deal with a temper tantrum from Michelle, who tries to get me involved in some battle she is having with accounting about having her tanning-bed visits expensed to the station, and then one last meeting with Bob, who is in one of his particularly grumpy moods after spending a half hour on the phone arguing with his fiancée about the cost of the floral centerpieces for the reception.

  “In my day, I never went to weddings or even my father’s funeral,” Bob tells me, sounding disapproving. “Now I’m paying $15,000 for orchids and my best producer is skipping out on me.”

  “I’ll only be gone five days,” I say.

  “A lot happens in five days,” Bob says. “And if I hear one peep from Michelle, no promotion for you.”

  Bob, I realize, is only partly joking.

  “I gave Michelle my mobile number, okay? Everyone has it. So things should be fine.”

  “Hmpf,” Bob grunts, not sounding convinced.

  It’s no wonder I don’t take more trips home. Taking my allotted vacation time always feels like asking for a favor.

  “Well, I guess I’ll help Anne cover for you,” Bob says, reluctantly.

  “Thanks, Bob.”

  I drive to Riley’s house in traffic, only to find that he’s not answering his apartment buzzer.

  I have driven my old Honda Accord—the 1995 white sedan with the bumper so scratched from Chicago street parking that it’s starting to look like someone took a coat hanger to it. My car, packed full of my belongings, is double-parked on Riley’s street.

  I consider calling the whole thing off but then I remember that Lucy will throw a fit if I show up alone and upset the delicate balance of the seating of her head table, and that I’ll never hear the end of it for as long as I live.

  Not to mention the fact that in person, the guilt-tripping will be immense. I’ll be getting a lot of “Why don’t you come home more?” and “When are you going to move closer?” and “Little Rock has TV stations—why can’t you just live there?”

  On the fourth try, Riley finally answers his buzzer. He sounds like I’ve just awakened him from a deep sleep.

  “I’m downstairs,” I tell him. “Time to Wax On, Wax Off!”

  “It is far too early to be quoting Mr. Miyagi,” Riley says into the intercom. The next thing I hear is the front door buzzer.

  The inside of Riley’s apartment is a mess. More than a mess. A hazardous waste zone. All available surfaces are covered in empty and half-empty pizza boxes, beer bottles, and nebulous brown bags of some mysterious takeout. Dirty dishes are stacked everywhere, including the sofa. His kitchen sink is filled with soapy water and what looks to be a failed or abandoned attempt at washing old socks. His television is on and fixed on the shopping network, where some overly enthusiastic salesperson is trying to sell kitchen knives.

  Riley isn’t wearing a shirt, and I’m trying not to look in his direction. He’s got the chest of a rugby player, and it makes me think of soap operas, and how the guy characters on them use any excuse to remove their shirts and show off their chests. I think I read somewhere that this improved ratings almost as much as supernatural plotlines.

  “Are you going to get dressed?” I ask him.

  “Are my man boobs offending you?” Riley asks, putting his hands on his pecs. He doesn’t, as far as I can see, have man boobs. He has a very nice chest, in fact, one that I wouldn’t mind running my hands across.

  “No, but we’re late.”

  “So you’re saying I do have man boobs.” Riley has been semiobsessed with “man boobs” ever since we ran a story on News Four last month on the increasing rates of breast cancer among men due to obesity.

  “You don’t have man boobs,” I say. In fact, I doubt he has more than 5 percent body fat.

  “Don’t lie to me just to spare my feelings,” Riley says, snatching up a T-shirt from the armchair and wiggling into it. Next, he steps into flip-flops and tames his brown unruly hair under his Quins hat.

  “Is that what you’re wearing to the wedding?”

  “I was thinking of overalls. Without a shirt. Like Jed Clam-pett from the Beverly Hillbillies.”

  I glance around his apartment.

  “So what happened here?” I ask him, changing the subject. The last time I saw his place it was spotless.

  “Tiffany’s in Los Angeles,” he says, as if that explains everything. I take another look around his apartment and I notice something that’s missing: Tiffany’s boxes. The ones I nearly tripped over at the party are gone.

  “How long is she there for?”

  Riley shrugs. “She got a new client there, so she and Paul are going to be working there for a few months. Maybe longer.”

  I think about Paul and Tiffany and the looks on their faces when I caught them in the bedroom. Chances are they’re going to be doing more than just working, I think.

  “Are you upset about it?” I ask Riley.

  “Eh,” Riley says. He doesn’t look me in the eye. “We’re sort of on break.”

  “On BREAK?” I nearly shout. “When did this happen?”

  “A week ago.”

  “And just when were you going to tell me?”

  “I’m telling you now,” Riley says.

  Everything becomes clear. His absence from work, and the fact that he’s been distracted. I’d be a little forgetful, too, if I was having relationship problems.

  I imagine that he was sitting in his apartment for a week, lights out, listening to “I Will Survive” and crying into his beer. But then I take another look at Riley and he doesn’t look devastated. He looks fine, just a bit underslept.

  “But when? Why? What happened?” I sputter.

  Riley shrugs. “It’s no big deal. Let’s drop it, all right?”

&
nbsp; I give him a look. “You don’t really think I’m going to let you drop it, do you?”

  “Well, I’m not going to tell you anything, and if you keep at it, then I’m going to have to boycott this little trip.”

  “Riley! But …”

  “Nope.”

  “What about …”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Why …”

  “NO.”

  “Wha …”

  “Zip it!”

  I sigh, exasperated. This is going nowhere. He won’t even let me ask a full question.

  “Are you going to just stand there staring at my man boobs or are we going?” Riley asks me, one corner of his mouth curving up to a smile.

  There is something that is always a bit exciting about a road trip, even if you dread getting to your destination. There’s the feeling of freedom, of leaving behind everything that’s been bothering you, of striking out on clear highways, away from city lights.

  This is usually the moment I slip in a Dixie Chicks CD and start singing along to “Wide Open Spaces” but Riley has no interest in hearing country music. Not to mention that traffic doesn’t look very wide or very open since we are sitting on the Dan Ryan Expressway lodged in bumper-to-bumper commuter traffic.

  “This is why I wanted to leave early,” I say.

  Riley doesn’t answer me. He is busy rifling through my CDs. “Please tell me you have at least one Morrissey album,” he says. “Bleedin’ Christ. Dixie Chicks? Johnny Cash? Dolly Parton? What kind of representative are you to your Japanese people?”

  “I’m one who grew up in the South,” I say. “But I do have a Smiths album. It’s on the bottom.”

  “Phew,” Riley says, wiping his brow. “I thought I was going to have to abort this trip.” He slides in the Louder than Bombs CD and sighs, content. Morrissey’s voice singing “Is It Really So Strange?” washes over us.

  “So, tell me again why we’re driving instead of flying?”

  “I do not like airplanes. It doesn’t seem natural to hurl yourself three hundred miles an hour forty thousand feet in the air.”

  “Oh, but driving seventy miles an hour, listening to the Smiths while in an air-conditioned car is the natural state for humans,” Riley says, then pauses. “So, are you going to tell me the backstory on this Kevin Peterson tosser or what?”