A Year Of Living Stupidly

15. The Armenians

Recap: I need to shift gears. Give me time to think. Brains, back into the icebox. Maybe I'll take Reality up on his offer. That will keep me out of Trouble.

***

I'm twenty-nine years old and I'm thinking.

It's been a week. I should go see Trouble. We need to talk. If she and the Boyfriend are supposed to be exclusive, I don't think I'm okay having sex with her anymore. I don't want to make her a cheater. Is that putting her on a pedestal? Am I trying to save her? Maybe she doesn't need saving. Who am I to make that call? She could be fine just the way she is. Taking her to SIC's party established a precedent between us, so why should I care about the Boyfriend? The difference, I suppose, is that she wasn't upfront about her relationship from the start. I should think this through before I talk to her. Clear my head, that's what I need to do.

"Give me details about that thing," I tell Reality. "And don't smile at me like that." He wants me to make a pickup instead of a drop. Why me? Because it's unlikely that the police in Bel-Air will pull me over 'for being white.' True, that.

Bel-Air makes things interesting. Not so interesting is the facilitator he wants me to take along. I know him. He's been to Lawyer's house. He's a dirtbag heroin addict and I don't trust him. Reality doesn't trust Dirt Bag, either. That's why he wants me to supervise. I suggest Dirt Bag need not be involved, but Reality shoots the idea down.

Reality provides a Mercedes for me to drive. Sweet. He takes offense when I ask if the plates are clean but he appreciates my attention to detail. I'm to pick up Dirt Bag in the Beverly Hills 'flats.'

I hate this part of town. Parking is impossible. Damn it. It's a party. It will be a wrestling match to get Dirt Bag out of here on time. He's already high. I'm already nervous. Dirt Bag has 'business' to take care of with the owner of this house, in the back bedroom. I remind him we can't be late.

"Don't worry. I'll be back in a couple of minutes," Dirt Bag lies.

I told myself I will not drink tonight but now I need one. No scotch to be found. Beer it is. There's an empty chair at the dining table, two seats away from the prettiest girl I've ever seen in my life. She's got long, willowy light brown hair and blue eyes that sparkle like gems. The conversation at the table centers on music. The person sitting between Willow and me keeps making incorrect statements about pop music history. No problem. I steer him straight. But every time, he insists that he's right. And every time, someone looks up the information that corroborates what I've told him. Willow smiles at me. She's a music fan and appreciates my knowledge. I won't give her details of my history, but I will tap my beer to hers with each correction of the false information bandied around the table.

"You!" Someone shouts at me. Oh, no. That six-foot-tall bitch, also from Lawyer's house. She's just so six-feet-tall and aggressive with her needy vagina. Once she gets it in her head she wants to have sex with you, it becomes this unrelenting deluge of... her. I've seen it happen. She wears men down, till finally, they give in just to stop the onslaught. I'm told she's even louder in the bedroom than any other room of a house or train station. She's not unattractive in measured doses, but when you add it up it's unmanageable. Luckily, she's always respected that I am married.

"I hear you're divorced!" Dammit.

"Not yet."

"I want to party with you! But I have to leave now!" She points at Willow, "You!" Willow questions her involvement in this aural assault. "Take down my number!" Pen and paper rest on the table within Willow's reach. Who puts that out at a party? Willow jots down the information as Six Foot Bitch dictates. Six Foot Bitch yells at me again as she heads for the door.