Malibu

Her name was in the end credits. I almost missed it.

After the film ended, Ellie and I stretched our arms out to the ceiling of the theater and yawned. The triumphant music swelled as the scrolling list of names came up on the screen. I was barely paying attention. “You want to get something eat now?” I asked Ellie.

“Sure,” she said, as she tried to touch her fingers to her toes. “I could eat.”

I got up and was about to head to the door when I saw her name. It was right underneath the title “Set Designer.” I sat back down. Hard.

“You all right?” Ellie looked at me with eyebrow arched.

“Yea,” I said.

Her credit had descended off the screen. But her name remained illuminated in my mind.

She was a set designer. Good for her. I knew she must have worked her ass off to get there. The sets in the film were beautiful. As I replayed certain scenes from the movie, saw her creative fingerprints leaving prints on the entire production. The film featured vintage set pieces that I know she picked up herself at a thrift store. Now I recognized backdrops — the melancholy blues and greens of a grieving ocean. Her style. How could I have missed seeing her in this movie?

“You ready to go?” Ellie asked. I probably looked like I was freaking out. There I was, sitting quietly in this theater chair, staring at a white screen. The house lights went up. Everyone left, except the teenage couple in the back, who only came to see this movie because they figured no one else wanted to see it, and they could make out without an extensive audience.

“Yea,” I said.

We stood up and walked out of theater. There was a light rain that evening. The mist of droplets made the light of the lampposts shine scared halos over every parked car in the lot. I put my arm around Ellie as we walked to our car.

And I thought about her.

***

It was October, and we both had been invited to the Valencia’s sisters party at their house in Malibu. Their father was an immigrant, who made his vast fortune through hard work and a bit of luck. He opened a slew of restaurants that served street food with a flair to wealthy people looking for exotic fare. His cuisine was instantly popularly. The restaurants got rave reviews and were always full of the skinny upper-class. Mr. Valencia took short breaks from making money to buy a gorgeous home in Malibu, a chain of laundromats, and one (or two) affairs with b-list celebrities.

I didn’t run in any of those circles. I was middle-class and lived in a suburb outside Los Angeles. But, by a stroke of luck, I was the tutor assigned by the learning center to the Valencia sisters. They were struggling in statistics, and I was tasked with getting their percentages up.

The girls were nice. For being rich, they actually were down-to-earth, kind, and intelligent—in their own way. Also … they were stunningly beautiful. The kind of pretty that made you hot under the collar and cold with anxiety at the same time.

I am no Casanova. In looks, I’d rate myself a solid “6”. In terms of money, my bank account would rate me “0”. My trump card is humor. In wittiness, I’d award myself an “8.5”. I can crack a stupid joke with a twinkle in my eyes and a hint of smile that conveys a “ah-shucks-I-am-just-a-goof” message that many women find endearing. Sometimes even appealing.

But not the Valencia girls. Don’t get me wrong. I could get them to laugh. That was easy. But I couldn’t not get them to fall in love with me.

“This homework your teacher assigned is like a camping trip!” I said one tutoring session.

The girls looked back at me with “we-will-wait-patiently-for-this-corny-joke” faces.

“This homework is intense!”

Both sisters would throw back their heads and laugh with deep, rich, Latin voices. But when they came back to face me again, there was no deep affection in their eyes. No hint of desire. Those chocolate brown eyes spoke of friendship. Nothing more.

It was as friends that the Valencia girls invited me to their annual Halloween party. I played it very cool at the tutoring center when they proffered the offer. “I would love to be there” I said. As breezy and nonchalant as I could.

That evening, I lost the veneer of cool when I breathlessly told my roommate that I would be spending Halloween night at the Valencia mansion.

“DUDE! The Valencia place that is right up from life-guard station number 9? That is insane! You know that their neighbor is Cher, right?”

I had not heard that. I also did not care.

“What should I wear?” I asked.

“Okay, first off, you sound like a girl when you say that, so don’t say that again. Second, you have to get a costume that is funny and masculine at the same time. Like … a giant hot dog. Oh! I know! How about a pickle?”

“Dude, stop naming food costumes” I shot back.

He was too deep in thought to hear me. “Okay, this is a risky move. But it could pay off if you can get them to laugh about it. You can go as a Catholic School girl!”

I was horrified. “That is like our Chinese neighbor in an elevator. Wong on many levels!”

We both laughed.

Then I thought who I could call for good costume advice.

Her.

I called that night.

“Hey!” I said.

“Hi!” she said.

“Guess what? I got invited to the Valencia’s Halloween party too!”

“That’s great” she said.

“Here’s the real question: what should I wear? Got any costume ideas for me?”

She was so quiet for so long thought my phone had dropped the call.

“You still there?”

“Yea. Just thinking.”

“About my costume?”

“About you.”

“And … what I am going to wear?”

She sighed. “I don’t think I can help you. I am not going tell you what exactly to wear. The costumes I think are cool are probably not the outfits that really are cool. But who cares what other people think you should be. What do you want to be for Halloween?”

“You are right … you weren’t helpful at all” I teased her. “Would it help if I gave you options?”

“Sure. Shoot, partner”

“Okay. What do you think the girls would like the best? Superman, a mad scientist, or a Scottish warrior? I think these three options exemplify some of my finer character qualities. Superman because I am good guy. A scientist, on account of my intelligence. And Scottish highlander because of my rugged good looks and hairy chest.”

She chuckled at my obvious braggadocio. “I like the scientist angle.”

“Scottish guy it is” I teased some more.

“Then why ask my opinion you, hairy buffoon!” she laughed.

We talked some more that night. I heard about her art classes, and how she was struggling with charcoal. “You try creating a human face from a bunch of ash you pulled out of the fireplace!” she told me.

I smiled. “Sounds easy to me.”

“Idiot” she said.

Her real dream, she told me, was to work in Hollywood. “Creating sets for movies and TV would be awesome. I mean, your job would be to build worlds! How amazing to take an idea from a director’s head and make it into a reality that actors can walk, talk, and live in.”

She was a talented artist. I knew she could do whatever she wanted, and I told her so. I added that I looked forward to seeing her name in the credits of a Christopher Nolan film very soon.

“Thank you” she said.

It was late, and I was tired, so I said goodnight, and told her I would talk to her later. “All right” she said. Then I got a strange idea. Maybe because it was past my bedtime and my brain was firing off random, free-form thoughts, but a wild question came into my head. I blurted it out.

“Hey, you want to come with me to the Halloween party?” I asked.

I could tell she was caught off guard. “Won’t I derail your mission to get close to one (or both) of the Valencia sisters?”

“If go together, you could be my wingman … er … woman. Talk me up to the Valencias! Make me look gooood.”

She was quiet again for a long time. Then she answered so faintly I could barely hear it.

“Okay.”

“Okay! I’ll pick you up at 9 and we can go straight there.”

I ended that call, and suddenly I was back with Ellie, leaving the theater parking lot. Headed to our home. Together. I shook my head to clear the vestiges of time traveling into the past. I was miles down the road with Ellie in the passenger seat. And I don’t remember how I got there.

“Do you still want to grab a bite to eat? I don’t think we have anything at the house. I need to go grocery shopping.” Ellie was looking at me with a whisper of concern blowing tiny wrinkles in her forehead. She knew I was there in the car with her, and she was wondering where I had gone. I was wondering how I arrived.

“Sure”, I told Ellie. “Let’s go get something to eat.”

***

“We can get something to eat after the party!” I said when I picked her up.

As soon as she closed the car door, I sped off toward Malibu. Towards the Halloween party. To the Valencia girls who I would impress with my Scottish kilt costume. I don’t remember if we talked much on the drive to the party. My thoughts were consumed with dreams and plans.

She was dressed as a Greek goddess. A white toga fell gracefully around her form, demurely hugging her curves with quiet appreciation. Her red hair was curled and piled on her head. A few stray curls escaped their confines of hair clips, and hung down over her pale forehead. I had never seen her with a full face of makeup. She had always been pretty. But now she looked beautiful. However, I didn’t tell her. Not then.

We arrived at the party at 9:28 p.m. The pathway leading from the beach to the house was lined with creepy Halloween decorations. Witches, werewolves, vampires, and unsettling dolls with painted faces. Some even made noise when you walked by. The loud dance music erupting from the backyard was interrupted by the loud shrieks of guests walking through this corridor of terror. As we walked up to the massive double doors of the mansion, she clung to my arm tightly, and closed one eye.

“Why do you look like a Greek Popeye?” I asked.

“If I use only one eye it limits the amount of scary that enters my brain” she told me very seriously.

“Idiot” I said.

She laughed.

Here is where I find my memories unreliable. Though I search through the file cabinet of my mind marked “Malibu Halloween Party”, the file folders are empty. I cannot remember what happened after her and I stepped through those mansion doors. It was not the result of alcohol. Yes, we both sipped some cocktails. But we never got drunk. That I know for sure. But try as I might, I cannot recall even the blurriest memory of being at the party. It’s like in a movie where the scene just ends right before you think something important is going to happen. Suddenly, you are watching a completely different act and left wondering what did I miss?

My recollection picks up at the moment I pull up at her apartment.

“I’m tired,” I said.

She smiled with her eyes. “Lay your head on my lap and take a little nap.”

I laughed, but I did it anyway. The soft, white cloth of her toga felt good against my flushed cheeks. I closed my eyes. I smelled her perfume for the first time that night. It was this mixture of Polynesian flowers, warm sand, and your favorite song. She ran her fingers through my hair. I was overwhelmed with this desire to kiss her. Long, and sweet, and new. I was acutely aware that I was sharing this intimate moment with a woman who was funny, smart, creative, and attractive. Masks began to fall off in that car. I saw her face, even with my eyes closed. And she saw mine. The realness of the moment felt like a warm pressure on my chest.

“I should get inside” she said. But her words didn’t match with her body. She continued to play with my hair as I laid in her lap.

“You look beautiful” I said.

“Thank you.”

Then she leaned down and whispered in my ear; “Idiot.”

At that moment, I felt a fulcrum in my personal timeline. A cluster of future lives teetering upon a single point in time. One more minute spent in this car, with this woman, and many coming moments would be set in stone. I knew that the paint was still wet. I could wipe away what I was creating, right now, and build a new landscape. But if I waited any longer, the oils would dry into this shape, and my only options left would be to add in subtle details. The finality of this moment scared me. I sat up and yawned.

“Yea, I should get home too.”

You could hear the fragile glass of tension shatter right then. She looked at me with misty sadness in the green fields of her eyes. “Okay.”

She opened the car door, got out, closed the door, and walk back to her apartment without waving or looking back.

We started talking less and less after than night. We never talked about what could have been. She continued her art classes. I kept tutoring. Last time we talked, she was applying for a position at a studio. I had landed a teaching job in Oregon. We both said “that’s awesome.” Then we both lost touch.

***

Ellie and I came back to our house. I flicked on the lights. Ellie took off her jacket and hung it up in the coat closet. As my eyes adjusted to the lights I looked at Ellie and I saw her. In a white toga, with auburn hair, emerald eyes, and closed smile.

I wonder; am I an idiot?