Literacy and Longing in L. A. Read Online Free Page B

he entered their gate. Their dog, an imported German shepherd, sat immobile on his bed as the robbery was taking place. The dog was trained in Frankfurt and only understood commands like
sitzen
and
attacke
!
    I reach behind me and grab one of the six books I had thrown into the car. One thing I’m glad about: I’m never bored and I never mind waiting—anywhere. Unless, of course, I’ve forgotten my book, in which case I just run off and buy another one. I read at the DMV, in movie lines, in bank teller lines, or when the shuttle from L.A. to San Francisco is four hours late. Layovers in unfamiliar airports are a treat, as are jury notices that arrive at my home and give me license to sit around and read all day, knowing that I’m doing my civic duty. On my last jury duty, I was rejected from two trials, one because I told the judge in voir dire that I thought the defendant, a skinhead with tattoos, looked guilty, and the other because the attorneys got a load of the hostile jury pool and settled the case. That day, I actually got to finish Jonathan Franzen’s
The Corrections
.
    What to read now? Maybe Alice Munro’s
Lives of Girls and Women
. A quote on the back talks about thedark side of womanhood. Maybe something lighter. How about Kate Braverman’s
Lithium for Medea
? Oh god, forget it. This is even more depressing. A woman who has a terrible relationship with her mother as well as every man in her life.
    I burrow through the trunk of my fifteen-year-old cobalt-blue Mercedes 280, a graduation gift from my father. It is still a lovely old coach with faulty wiring and a broken windshield wiper that I’ve been meaning to fix for the last five years. Every time it rains, which isn’t very often, I vow to take the thing in and then immediately lose interest when the sun comes out.
    It’s a sad commentary that I’ve been with my car longer than any man in my life. I’m not one of those people who affectionately bestows a name upon their car, but I can understand the inclination to do so.
    The gates to the long sloping driveway slowly begin to open and I dive behind my car as a grim-looking plumber carrying his toolbox emerges. We were always having trouble with the water system, which belched greenish-looking water no matter how many experts we called in. I used to joke that our house was West L.A.’s version of the Love Canal. I do have some sense of pleasure that this problem has not been resolved and that my replacement will have to deal with the endless stream of aeroscopic engineers, construction supervisors, and plumbers.
    Palmer is now living with an elegant, beautifully put-together woman named Kimberly, who he thinks will be the next domestic diva. She first came to Palmer for legaladvice regarding a line of cookware she wanted to sell on the Home Shopping Network. Already the host of a cheery little show on the Food Network, she had just signed a multimedia deal that included her own magazine. She uses phrases on the air such as “Ladies, we can make our families happy without working our tushies off,” and includes tricks like turning old bed linens into junky tablecloths.
    Last year, the top job at Sony Pictures opened up, and in a surprise move, the Sony brass named Palmer to replace the retiring studio head. His latest string of movies has been financially successful, and now he has a house on the Vineyard, another in Cabo, and I see his name on the letterhead of a dozen charities.
    I’ve spent the last year trying to figure out how I feel about all this. I thought back to the times when I’d toss and turn all night worrying about something, and in the morning, when I’d wake up bleary-eyed and conflicted, he’d get that look on his face and effortlessly work it all out. There was this calm brilliance about him that had nothing to do with money. I think I loved him. I certainly admired him. But not for his success. That just seemed to get in the way.
    One day, shortly before the breakup, I found