Pushing Upward Read online

  I’d only spent a few minutes with Saul on the phone. His voice was cryptic, distant, as if he were disguising his true identity. Maybe he had a cold. Maybe he was a spy, or worked for the CIA. In either case, I felt uneasy. Sure, I wanted to spend weeks exploring my alternatives, process each candidate, make an intelligent decision. But there was no time. I needed to be living with one of these callers within the next two weeks.

  No matter how desperate my situation was, my first glance upon walking into Saul’s place told me this was not an option. The apartment was stacked to the ceiling with magazines. Small Saul, with long white hair and a long white beard, looked like he’d stepped out of a Saturday-morning cartoon. He looked totally wild, Einstein wild. Only this animated character was no crazy genius. He was just crazy. It appeared as if he’d saved every magazine he’d ever read, categorized them all by number, and color-coded them by year on ten-foot-tall, built-in library shelves. I had to suppress my laughter as he rolled along on a wheeled ladder, sliding from shelf to shelf.

  Saul came down from his ladder and showed me the rest of the place. Every room was stacked with more magazines, more newspapers. Not as high as the ones in the living room. Still, newsprint, in all shapes and sizes, was the prominent feature of decor throughout his abode. The coup de grâce was when he showed me “my” room, the room where I would sleep if I were to accept his offer. It was a five-by-ten-foot walk-in closet with an old dusty mattress on the floor. Picky or not, I needed a tad more creature comforts than Saul’s apartment would provide.

  On my way out the door, I tried to be diplomatic. “You have a fascinating lifestyle here. I just don’t think I’d fit in.”

  I closed the door gently behind me and ran down the three flights of stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. I walked around the block twice before I decompressed enough to get into my car. And then I collapsed into the bucket seat, rested my hands on the steering wheel, and whispered to myself and to whoever happened to be listening, “I’ll brush my teeth three times a day. I won’t swear. I’ll volunteer at the children’s hospital down the block. Just make this next guy normal. Let him be the one.”

  Fortunately, traffic wasn’t too bad. Most people were at work. I just wished the smog would disappear so the sun could peer through.

  Frank Wilson’s condo looked impressive from the outside. It was nicely landscaped. The wood-paneled exterior was newly stained, shutters freshly painted. I was feeling hopeful. But when Mr. Wilson opened the door, the interior was not as well maintained. His condo looked more like a Dumpster with windows. Dirty clothes were piled on chairs, on the floor, on the couch. Dried Italian takeout was stuck on dishes spread over coffee tables, and Frank himself was seedy-looking. He was gangly, had atrocious posture, and slumped before me, chewing on a half-smoked cigar.

  I should have turned around and walked out right then. But Frank ushered me into the kitchen and asked me to sit for a minute. Since I was dripping sweat and the air-conditioning cooled my face and lymphatic orifices, I sat and listened to Mr. Wilson confess that he’d just gotten divorced and lament how lost he was without a woman. How he wanted someone to talk to when he returned home from work. While Frank talked, I glanced at his gray hairs, noticing how unevenly they had mixed with the few remaining black strands of youth; then I spotted thirty or so transplanted dark strands poorly placed at the center of his scalp.

  The tall man with no spine unfolded from his seat and asked me if I’d like to see his new rare amethyst. The fact that I loved rare gems, coupled with my desire to demonstrate compassion (a virtue I’d been working on the last few weeks), convinced me to accept his offer.

  As I followed him down the corridor, I thought, How much compassion should I be displaying here?

  The hall smelled of mold, the linoleum floor gave under our weight, and the walls were conspicuously bare. There were no pictures, no wall hangings, no tokens of any present or memories of a past. He opened the last door on the right. It was his bedroom. What have I done? I tried to stay calm as he reached for the stone sitting on his dusty dresser top. Deep breath, Sandra. He brought it close to me and put it in my hand. Look interested. I raised the amethyst to the light, and was surprised to see how magnificently deep and rich the color was. What’s this guy doing with expensive crystals? He should be spending his money on housekeepers.

  As I stood searching for my voice, hunting for a cautious phrase to express my appreciation, Mr. Wilson grabbed my shoulders and pushed me onto his bed. Within seconds, he was on top of me, like a dog in heat, undoing his pants. I could hardly breathe. All I could see were his nostrils, flaring wide; his nose hairs lodged instantly in my memory. My body locked with fear. Terrified that he might pull out a knife or tie me up with some itchy rope, I flailed around mentally for a way out. How the next set of words stumbled out of my mouth, I’ll never know.

  “Mr. Wilson, I could really get to like it here,” I whispered in his ear as I tried to squirm my way out from under his rancid flesh. “I’m just going to the bathroom for a minute … you know.” Like I was going to insert a diaphragm or a take a pill or something. “I’ll be right back,” I breathed into his ear. “I really like you.”

  One more squirm and I was off the bed. I smiled, coyly, with a wink.

  “Hurry back!” he shouted.

  I left him fondling himself in anticipation, closed the bedroom door behind me, and then ran like hell down the hall to the front door. I tried to open it, but it had some weird lock I’d never seen before. How am I supposed to unbolt it? I kicked it quietly, then loudly. I looked around the cluttered living room for something, anything, that would help me force the door open. Could I grab one of the wooden chairs, swing it back with all my strength, smash the picture window, and jump out? I sure as hell can!

  I must have jiggled something loose on my last kick. The lock came undone, and I bounded like a cheetah to my car. The keys in my hand were shaking so hard I could hardly unlock the Fiat. My legs were trembling. I couldn’t feel my feet, which kept slipping off the pedals. Somehow the car coughed to life. I jammed my foot on the accelerator, refusing to look in the rearview mirror in case he was running after me or standing at the front door, and drove straight home.

  This was enough torture for anyone to go through on a Thursday afternoon. Disappointed, disillusioned, I desperately needed a soft lounge chair on a thick carpet of green grass overlooking a blue ocean, a tall glass of Tab with a slice of lemon, the sun beaming its rays on my face, and fresh air moving through my lungs to help me forget this entire day. I needed a crystal ball to see the future so there’d be no more surprises. And I needed to talk to Rachel immediately.

  Chapter 3

  The tree itself affords no foothold for the wild goose,

  whose feet are not made for clutching …

  Rachel’s line was busy.

  And she thinks she’s so psychic! If she’s so telepathic, why doesn’t she feel my intense desire for her to get off the goddamned phone? I slammed the receiver down and collapsed on the bed to review my day. Depression set in quickly. What a waste. The ad was a stupid attempt to change my life. What was I thinking? Sandra, when are you going to learn? Just because you want something, doesn’t mean it’s gonna happen …

  I got up from the bed, went to the fridge, and quickly devoured the leftover Chinese food, along with some cheese sticks, crackers, and a granola bar. I wasn’t hungry, but I couldn’t help myself. Then I went into the bathroom, and threw up everything I had just eaten. No need to feel or look bloated … and disappointed.

  A bubble bath was next. I turned on the hot and cold faucets full blast, poured in some lavender bubbles, and slid into the tub. When it was almost full, I let out a humongous sigh of relief. Ahhhhh! Water, particularly bubble-bath water, always brought a sense of calm to my fragile nerves. If only life would slow down, like it does in this lavender pool, I might be able to move through the ups and downs more gracefully. But this was not my destiny, not yet anyway. As
soon as I dunked my head under the faucet to wash my hair, the phone rang. The decision to get out of the tub or not was no decision at all. I had placed an ad. I couldn’t miss a call. I grabbed the towel and dashed to the hallway to pick up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. My name is Peggy. I’m an actress, too. Isn’t that bitchin’? We could do scenes together—that’d be so far-out! Do you get high? I can get some pretty groovy stuff …”

  “It would be groovy, Peggy. But I don’t do drugs. Sorry.” That wasn’t entirely true. I did smoke a little grass with friends. “Thanks for calling.”

  I hung up, brought the phone into the bathroom, and returned to the scented water. I was just sinking back into the thick, welcoming lather, when the phone rang again.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi there, little lady.”

  Oh no! The guy sounded like a sixty-year-old cowboy.

  “An actress, eh? Well, this could be your lucky day. How would you like to live in the lap of the luxurious Hollywood Hills? For no extra charge, you get a hot tub, a sauna, and me. I give massages to all my tenants, and …”

  “So kind of you to offer all your services. But I’ve decided to stay where I am.”

  Back to my interrupted indulgence. Peace at last. I slid back in, rested my head on the plastic pillow that never really supported my neck, and had just drawn a very deep breath … when the phone rang again. I jumped up, got out of the tub, sat on the edge shivering, and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello.” I must have sounded gruff.

  “Hello, my name is Emma. I read your ad in the Los Angeles Times.”

  “Yes,” I said. Not wanting to extend any unnecessary effort.

  Still, I listened intently. The woman told me that she owned a spacious two-bedroom apartment she would like to share. “Spacious,” she said. I noted the word. “You will love my beautiful home,” she went on. “The neighbors are friendly, and the neighborhood is quiet and safe.” She also mentioned that her husband had died the previous year. I couldn’t tell her age. It was hard to decipher. So was her accent; I couldn’t quite place it. But I liked how she enunciated her words, the way she pronounced each syllable. I always admired people with proper diction. There were also sparks of energy and enthusiasm in her voice, as though she were a small child wanting, almost needing, to make new friends.

  “Think about it overnight,” she said. “If you’re still interested in the morning, give me a call and we can set up a time to meet.”

  She gave me her number, and I wrote it down on the mirror using my Coral #4 lipstick. Then I drained the tub, knowing the moment for any kind of reprieve was over. As I dried my hair and got dressed, I thought about how lovely and refined the woman’s voice was. How she chose her words so precisely, and how she paused and listened. But she sounded like she might be fifty or even sixty. How could I possibly live with a woman my mother’s age? My neck started to cramp, the muscles along my shoulders started to tighten. I began to perspire, everywhere. I went to the sink, splashed cold water on my face, and scrutinized myself critically in the mirror. Sandra, I know you don’t want to live with an old lady, but what are your choices? You’re being evicted, and you’ll soon have no job. Martha had made that pretty clear yesterday.

  I tried Rachel again; her line was still busy. Returning to the living room, I sat down on the rocking chair the previous renters had left and decided to keep dialing until she got off the phone.

  Rachel was an actress, too. She was twenty-three, two years older than I was. We’d met about a year before at an audition in which neither one of us was chosen. It was our destiny to meet. We both walked out from a casting call that day complaining about everything we’d hated in the industry: the phoniness, the pretentiousness, the lack of compassion, the nepotism. No sooner than that and we were on our way to becoming best friends.

  Rachel supported herself by delivering singing, dancing, and otherwise dramatic messages to strangers. She tried to convince me how fabulous this job was, and that I too should become a “star messenger” at Frederick Clark’s Specialty Agency. She’d constantly try to sell me on how flexible the hours were, how she was never bored, and how there were always interesting people to meet. I suppose these perks made the job bearable, but it was not for me. I wanted no part of a business that made a mockery out of the acting profession. I wanted to be taken seriously.

  Depending on the client and the occasion, Rachel was asked to do some pretty lame things, ranging from dressing up as a one-eyed ogre for a children’s birthday party to masquerading as a nun. Her most unusual assignment, bar none, was when a wealthy lady executive hired her to play the part of a saucy stewardess for a flight on a private plane. Rachel had to get all dressed up in a Playboy bunny costume and flirt with the executive’s boyfriend, who was taking a chartered flight to San Francisco for a business meeting. The plan was that if the boyfriend came on to Rachel, she was supposed to turn a cold shoulder and ignore him for the rest of the flight. If he didn’t come on to her, she was supposed to hand him a note from the lady executive proposing marriage.

  It turned into a mess. Rachel ended up having a huge crush on the guy, even though he didn’t come on to her, and she didn’t want to give him the note. Toward the end of the flight, she realized her job could be in jeopardy, so she placed the note on the tray she served his drink on. She watched his passionless expression as he read the proposal, and then slipped him her own phone number on a napkin. Rachel waited for weeks for him to call, but he never did.

  Rachel had as much success with guys as I had. Zilch! I think she intimidated men, because she was smart and funny. Slipping that guy her phone number was uncharacteristically subtle for my friend. She was more often loud and crass, and never one to hold back her words or her emotions. The stories she’d tell me of her one-night stands would have been heartbreaking if they hadn’t been so hilarious. I’ll spare you the details.

  Rachel was an only child. Her mother had died when she was eighteen, and her father had remarried, so she claimed, the reincarnation of Medusa. She hadn’t spoken to her father since he’d moved to Las Vegas with his new bride, years ago. Every time Rachel tried to invite them to L.A. or offer to drive to visit them in Vegas, Medusa would find some excuse and prevent the reunion from taking place. I could tell that Rachel was upset by her father’s lack of interest; he’d never once reached out to see her. Though Rachel never confessed this to me, I knew she yearned for close family relations as much as I did.

  My own family portrait wasn’t much prettier. Daddy had had an ongoing affair with alcohol since I could remember, and Mom … well, she was way too paralyzed with fear to take any kind of action. Like get a divorce. The fact that her denial of my father’s disease might be breaking down the nucleus of the Billings family was inconceivable to her. So we all ended up pretending that the problem didn’t exist. We’d pretend that the reason Daddy slurred his words and walked like a drunk was because of a new medication he was on for his ulcers. We’d pretend the reason he threw martini glasses was because work wasn’t going well.

  Work wasn’t going well. Daddy’s construction company was going broke, which created a lot of tension in our household. On any given night between my eighth and my fifteenth birthdays, dining at the Billings family home was not exactly about gathering around for a fun-filled evening. It was a dismal, debilitating sport. Steven, my older brother, and I had to guard our every word. No teasing allowed at the table. Daddy wouldn’t tolerate it. If Steven or I cracked a joke or laughed or squealed on each other during dinner, we’d have to dodge silverware and glasses, watch the black belt slip out from the loops of our father’s pants, and be humiliated right there in the kitchen as we stood there bare-assed. He’d whack us until we bled and promised that we wouldn’t squeal on each other again. I never could digest a meal.

  I thought this was just a phase Daddy was going through, that as soon as his houses were fixed up, he’d stop drinking and we’d all get a
long. But things never changed. They only got worse.

  Daddy took his frustrations out on Steven; Steven took his frustrations out on me. In fact, Steven’s mission in life was to make my life hell. It wasn’t the kind of hell normal siblings go through. His acts of sabotage were downright cruel, mean-­spirited. He’d do things like hide my ice skates the day of the big skating competition, embarrass me in front of my friends by taking my bra to school and showing everyone my small cup size, or lock me in the backyard shed for hours—and then throw in a live mouse for added fun. He made a big mistake that time! The day he pulled that stunt, Daddy came into Steven’s bedroom, just next to mine—at two in the morning, in his inebriated state—slipped off his belt, and whipped Steven big-time. Was I sorry for him? Hell no! Steven never should have locked me in that shed. I thought I was going to die in there. I screamed for hours. It took weeks before my voice came back.

  Daddy whipped me on occasion. But nothing compared to the times he beat Steven. Now, this might have seemed like a blessing, but it wasn’t. Throughout the years, Steven’s revenge was much worse.

  I untwisted the black-coiled telephone cord from around my finger and dialed Rachel’s number again. Her line was still busy. God, that girl can talk!

  I loved being around Rachel, for several reasons. The first reason was because we both came from dysfunctional families. The second was because I always felt thin standing next to her. She was tall, about five-foot-eight, a hundred and fifty pounds. I was five-foot-six, a hundred and forty pounds. Give or take a pound—depending. Rachel’s bones were bigger, giving people the impression she was heavier than she was. She had an enviable size-C rack compared to my measly Bs, which my push-up bra helped me to achieve. My wavy hair was consistently dark brown; Rachel’s hair was straight one day, frizzy the next, and changed colors with her outfits. She hated her freckles. She’d wear way too many moonstone rings, six or seven gold chains around her neck, gobs of makeup, and bold batik bell-bottoms that totally embarrassed me—I mean, she was partial to God-awful hand-screened footprints of obscure animals! But Rachel loved them. She said her cousin Cannoli (yes, like the Sicilian dessert) gifted her these outfits from his trips overseas as a photographer, and since she adored him, she adored the outfits.