Being Human

Mission 1. Hook up with someone as old as my mom (54) and as young as my sister (20) in a month.
Mission 2. Live a completely gay lifestyle (without the gay sex) for a month.
Mission Three: Live without an apartment for a month.
Mission Four: Reconnect.

The sunburned tourists were mere red flashes as we raced up the coast. People watching was low on our list of things to do this evening. Tracy had an agenda. And I was merely along for the ride.

“Are you excited, Rob?” Tracy asked, patting my leg.

“Super,” I said, less than enthusiastically.

“Ooh, wait till you see Val’s place, your going to have an absolute shit fit. Can I tell you about the car, pretty please?”

“No,” I said. I figured I would at least stay in character until we arrived. Lord knows, she has been a goodie, pretty-please teenager for the past few days.

She must be getting laid, I thought. I had to ask.

“Are you getting laid?”

She looked at me and smiled. But the smile faded as she realized I wasn’t joking.

“Why would you say that?” she asked.

“I don’t know, you just seem all giddy and 13, that’s all.”

“Fuck you Rob, I can be happy if I want. And my sex life is none of your business.”

“Fair enough,” I said, pointing to a street behind Pepperdine, “take this shortcut.”

Directions are a great way to change the topic with Tracy. She gets all frazzled and distracted. I do it to her all the time.

“So, have you met Shelfie? Was he at the holiday party?” she asked.

“Shelfie? Is that a guy? Sounds like that puppet, Alfie or whatever his name was.”

“OK, forget it, Shelfie is Val’s husband. He thinks he’s like a West coast Tony Soprano, always saying things like ‘top-shelf-across-the-board.’ So, we call him Shelfie."

“You publicists are so clever,” I said, but my sarcasm was misconveyed.

“It was between that, and ‘Dice,’ because he kinda looks like Andrew Dice Clay.”

“I think you made the right choice.”

“Wait, but he was at the party, too. Or was he? Wait, last year was at Bergamot. Did you see Val there?”

“Yea, she cornered me for 20 minutes, you totally left me.”

“Ok, maybe he wasn’t there, because he would never let you talk to his wife for that long.”

“Yea, she kept going on about pre-school shit and tennis. And she spent most of the time yapping about my name. Fuck, I forgot about that.”

“Oh, she’s nice, she just tries a bit too hard.”

“Her tits are great too. That’s how I was able to get through that insufferable conversation.”

“They’re totally fake, she has like a gazillion kids or something.”

“Wait, you think I don't know real tits from fake, c’mon Tracy. I'm a fucking dude, remember. Tits are my life.”

“Whatever, she’s not embarrassed. Shelfie bought them for her.”

“So romantic.”

I was spot on with the sarcasm.

“You better be nice, no sarcastic shit there. I just ignore it, but she won’t get your dumb jokes, and that would be mean.”

“Yea, I’m only sarcastic with the people I love.”

“I know,” she said putting her hand on my knee again. Obviously, Tracy doesn’t recognize my sarcasm as easily as she thought. Or maybe she was just fucking with me. The chances were equal.

“I’ll be nice. She's your biggest fan, after all.”

“Rob, stop,” she said stoically.

But it was true; Val was Tracy’s biggest fan. She was a reborn soccer mom, who, with the right tit surgery, was able to transform into an assistant or something at a vapid PR agency.

Val lived in Calabasas, an upscale mecca of McMansions that border Malibu and Woodland Hills. Each day she braved a daily commute to West Hollywood with Louis Vuitton riding shotgun. Val didn’t even need a job, she just wanted to be close to the entertainment scene. And there was no greater access afforded than through the up-and-coming, and securely connected spinmistress,Tracy.

We made our way through the land of trees and stucco, and finally arrived at our destination. It was a 20-foot gate that lead to two-million dollar tract homes. The guard asked for a name and stared at a clipboard. Tracy was on his list, and the gate opened.

“There’s the house,” Tracy said, pointing excitedly to a large tan structure that looked like every other large tan structure on the street.

Outside was Shelfie, washing the car. He was unmistakable. A raw and daft figure perched among the roof-tiled similitude. His hands looked like catcher’s mitts, his hair, dark and receding. Maybe I was wrong about the nickname. Dice would have been a better fit.

“I got out of the car, and shook his hand.

“Hi, I’m Rick,” he said, wiping the soap from his hand. “Just getting her shined up,” he said, looking at the car.

“I'm Rob, nice to meet you,” I followed, converting the niceties.

His interest in me quickly waned as Tracy exited the driver's side.

“Shelfie,” she screamed excitedly and gave him a hug.

“Top shelf across the board,” he said, much to Tracy's satisfaction. They both cracked up on cue.

I looked at Tracy. I had no idea she called him that to his face.

Val walked out, hearing the commotion.

“Oh, hello, Tracy, long time no see,” she said with her own false string of sarcasm. “And, I know this guy. I’ll never forget his name," she said, making me the straight man, “Rob.......Lowe.”

I remembered the implication about the husband jealosy, and didn’t want a mitt in my face. So I awkwardly stuck out a hand and produced a half-baked smile for my fake-titted hostess.

“I thought you were fucking with me, that’s really his name?” Shelfie said to his wife.

“Yes, the same as the actor. They even spell it the same. Right?”

"Yea, we do," I said, wanting to be anywhere in the world, but here.

"Any relation?” Shelfie pressed.

“Uh, we’re both human,” I replied, more glib than I first anticipated it would be.

Everyone laughed. Tracy glared.

"Oh, God, would you like something to drink?” Val asked us.

“I’m fine, thanks.” I answered.

"I'll take something," Tracy said.

“Come inside then. I need to show you what we’ve done with the upstairs bath, anyway.” Val said stealing Tracy away.

“You boys be good,” Tracy yapped, knowing I would never forgive her for this.

I looked at Shelfie, looking at Tracy's ass. Yea, he was the Diceman.

“You wanna beer?” he asked, eyes never leaving cheeks.

“Yea, thanks.”

“So, hey,” he said, “grab a sponge, why am I washing YOUR car.”

He threw his sponge as soapy water and errant arm pubes splashed across my shirt.

My twenties were officially over, once again. I was in Calabasas, bathed in short curlies and washing a stranger’s car that through a combination of coercion and my own laziness was about to become my own. But at least I would be safe.

It was a Volvo, after all.