Aftermath of Dreaming(101)

“I saw Andrew on TV a few weeks ago.” I pause for a moment to see if Reggie is receptive, but he is quiet, just smoothly moving into the fast lane. “Spontaneous was on, and it was nice, really, just to see him, but especially from that time, L.A. in the seventies. He was so much a part of all that, and I always felt like I got to experience that period by being with him, through him in a way. So it was nice, but the best part was that I felt so okay about him and me. ’Cause, you know, he stepped into my life not long after Daddy was gone, and Andrew was really there for me, like a father to me those years I lived in New York, so it was nice, just to sit there and see him.”

Reggie changes lanes again through the steady traffic. The car is moving fast and the highway is streaming past.

“Goddammit, Yvette, you are out of your mind.” His voice is at such a pitch and his words so unlike what I thought I’d hear that I almost say, “What?” But his diatribe is spewing on. “He wasn’t your father, okay? He was just some man who had sex with you and didn’t care enough to do anything more. He probably doesn’t even remember your name.” Fuck you, I start to say, but Reggie is continuing, his voice filling the car. “You’ve got to let go of this. You’ve been dragging him around for years and where has it gotten you? Stuck in the past and ignoring what’s in your life today.”

Like him trying to make a pass at me? Is that the thing in my life that I’m missing?

“Reggie, I have let Andrew go, that’s exactly what the f*ck I was saying, if you would listen instead of having a goddamn fit that I mentioned his name. And f*ck you, by the way, he was like a father to me, and whether you believe that or not doesn’t change anything. What is your goddamn problem about him anyway? Christ, you’re the one who’s so worked up about this, not me. I’m fine. I have moved on. I’ve dated a lot since him. It’s not my fault none of them have been the one.”

I glance over at Reggie and his features look smaller on his face. We pass a few mile markers in silence.

“I just want you to be happy, honey, that’s all I’m saying.”

“I am.”

“Good.” Then he turns the radio on loud.



A couple of days after the Santa Boo excursion with Reggie, I am beginning to wonder if this friendship is going to have to end. Not that I want it to, but if I can’t tell him what’s going on in my life…And not even an honest-to-God encounter, just a movie on TV. Christ, I guess he’d really flip his lid if anything real with Andrew happened. Reggie is in Kansas seeing his dad, so we haven’t talked much and that’s probably for the best. But it’s Saturday afternoon, and I can’t stay in my apartment thinking about all this another second, so to distract myself I find a matinee to go to.

I decide to wear something upbeat and happy; maybe it will affect my mood. As I put on a deep red sweater, I remember reading somewhere that red cars get hit more than other ones, but only during daylight hours because at night they look gray. I wonder how drivers’ eyes under streetlights can transpose vibrant red to dull gray. Self-preservation, maybe, to not be drawn into a nocturnal crash. Then what happens to that instinct during the day?

I arrive at the theater early, so I decide to go to a store three very long blocks down La Brea to try on vintage Levi’s that I will never buy. Not because I don’t want to buy the Levi’s, but whenever I see the way they look on other women I always think, “How do those jeans fit like that on you? That has never happened for me.” But still I persist in trying, certain that there is one pair out there that will fit great; it’s just a matter of finding it. As I walk the three very long blocks to the store on the empty sidewalk of the busy street, I feel very pioneering to be a pedestrian in L.A.

Half an hour later I emerge from the store jeans-free, but consistent at least. As I head back to the theater, hurrying so I won’t be late, I keep thinking about a pair of Levi’s I tried on that finally actually maybe did fit but that I still didn’t buy, because I was sure that the minute I left the store they suddenly would not, so I’m not noticing very much except that there is a man on the sidewalk—tall, almost young—coming toward me from the other direction. Or veering toward me really. Not drunk, he definitely is not drunk, he’s clean looking actually, but just walking diagonally, like San Vicente to Pico kind of. Anyway, I think about moving which is hard. It’s a sidewalk, for God’s sake, public—moving is such a statement and, other than running into the traffic, where would I go? Then next thing I know, he’s near me, in front of me, his arm pulls back, and he punches me hard, right on my left breast.

I am completely shocked. I stand there holding myself and staring at him as the word “clobbered” flashes in my head. Finally, I say, “But I’m a girl.” I have no idea why, he clearly can tell that I am. Not that he should be beating up men, but what the hell was that for?

He just looks at me and smiles. With his whole body. Luxuriating, really. I half expect him to light a cigarette and ask how it was for me. Then he does this odd little chuckle and strolls away like he could not be happier with himself if he tried.

The cars on La Brea are blithely driving by. No one has noticed this daylight public bashing. No masked savior has flown down from the sky to stop my perpetrator. It is just me. Walking alone in what should be harmless territory, a sidewalk on a commercial street in a good neighborhood. An activity that appears to be safe, but isn’t.