Wish You Were Here: A Novel

We ran down the street, hand in hand, but at the end of the block, he pulled me back from the curb and slapped his hand over his chest like he was having a heart attack. “Oh jeez, I thought there was a car coming. Sorry.”

It was completely quiet out—not a car on the road or even the sound of one in the distance. At least he was being careful? We crossed the street and then he stopped in front of a concrete wall about two blocks down from his loft. “I only have enough paint for a small one.” He removed two small cans of paint and about twelve brushes. Then he started painting frantically.

“Holy shit. What am I supposed to do?”

“Keep watch.” It felt like the craziest thing I had ever done, but it wasn’t like he was defacing the building; he was creating art.

He was hyperfocused. His hood was up and he was humming a mindless tune. “I think this will make sense someday,” he mumbled.

After what seemed like hours, I turned around.

“Voilà,” he said.

It was a profile of a man, wearing a black suit and top hat and looking down at his feet hovering off the ground. The only other color Adam used was baby blue to paint a stunning set of wings sprouting from the man’s back. “Wow. That’s breathtaking, Adam. What is this?”

“It’s a man with wings, genius.”

“I know that, genius, but what did you mean when you said it’ll make sense someday?”

“Did I say that?”

Behind him, I saw headlights in the distance. “We better go. Are you going to sign it?”

“Nope.”

I looked at it one last time. Adam’s brushwork bore a striking resemblance to the mural on the side of my building. “Adam, did you paint those wolves on my building?”

“What wolves?”

Guess not. “Let’s go.” I took a picture of it with my phone and texted it to Helen.

Me: Adam just painted this!

Helen: Glad you’re alive. It’s not even 1 am yet so I haven’t reported you.

Me: I’m going to get donuts now.

Helen: With spontaneous artist dude?

Me: Yeah, my dad would be over the moon.

Helen: Yeah, he would disown you.

Me: I like him, H.

Helen: Figures. Does this mean I’ll see you in the morning?

Me:

Remember when I said I was a bit scattered? It wasn’t just when it came to jobs. I had a slew of strange ex-boyfriends, too. There was George, who liked to wear my underwear . . . everyday. Not just to prance around in—he wore them under his Levi’s at work. As a construction worker. That didn’t go over well with his co-workers once they found out. He works at Jamba Juice now. I don’t think anyone cares about what kind of underwear he wears at Jamba Juice.

Then there was Curtis. He had an irrational fear of El Caminos. Yes, the car. He just hated them so much that he became really fearful of seeing one. He’d say, “I don’t understand, is it a car or a truck?” The confusion would bring him to tears. When we were walking on the street together, I had to lead him like a blind person because he didn’t want to open his eyes and spot an El Camino. If he did, it would completely ruin his day. He would cry out, “There’s another one. Why, God?” And then he would have to blink seven times and say four Hail Marys facing in a southerly direction. I don’t know what happened to Curtis. He’s probably in his house playing video games and collecting disability.

After Curtis came Randall, who will never be forgotten. He was an expert sign spinner. You know those people who stand on the corner spinning signs? Randall had made a career of it. He was proud and protective of his title as best spinner in LA. I met him when he was spinning signs for Jesus Christ Bail Bonds on Fifth Street. He was skillfully flipping a giant arrow that said, “Let God Free You!” and his enthusiasm struck me. I smiled at him from the turn lane. He set the sign down, waved me over, and asked for my phone number. We started dating immediately. He called himself an Arrow Advertising executive when people would ask what he did for a living. He could spin, kick, and toss that sign like it weighed nothing. But when he’d put his bright-red Beats by Dre headphones on, he could break, krump, jerk, turf, float, pop, lock, crip-walk, and b-boy around that six-foot arrow like nobody’s business. He was the best around and I really liked him, but he dumped me for Alicia, who worked at Liberty Tax in the same strip mall. She would stand on the opposite corner, wearing a Statue of Liberty outfit, and dance to the National Anthem. They were destined for each other.

After Randall was Paul. Ugh, Paul. That, I will admit, was completely my fault. I had zero foresight with him. Helen and I were working at this massage place called Dharma. She was the receptionist and I was trying to build a clientele there. You know what they don’t tell you in massage school? They don’t tell you that bad things are happening in some of the nicest massage establishments. They don’t tell you that no matter where you work, you will occasionally get that random guy who thinks you’ll give him a happy ending for an extra twenty. Helen jokingly called Dharma the best little whorehouse not in Texas.

Paul came in one day and seemed like an absolute gentleman. Good-looking, too. I gave him a massage and then he asked if he could take me out. We started dating pretty seriously . . . or so I thought. Every once in a while he’d come into Dharma on his lunch break and we’d have a quiet little romp while listening to the trickling sounds of some Zen meditation soundtrack shit they’d pump through the place on a loop.

One day, when I was late and Helen was home sick, the back-up receptionist told me that Amy, another therapist who we called Airbag Amy because of her enormous fake breasts (and because we hated her), was using my room for a client. “Why?” I had said.

“The client said the bed was better.”

Something made me walk through that door, some force I couldn’t fight. It was truly divine intervention that led me to Airbag Amy riding Paul, reverse cowgirl style, on my massage table, her giant tits bouncing like vulcanized rubber. I quit the little whorehouse that day and never saw Paul again. Bullet dodged.

I hadn’t won any awards for picking men, so a part of me was just waiting for the other shoe to drop with Adam.

We arrived at Donut King, located in a short building among tall ones. It looked like an afterthought of a building. There was no door, just a window and a line halfway down the block.

“I didn’t even know this place existed.”

“It comes to life at night,” Adam said.

“You bring all your dates here?”

He shook his head.

“There are a lot of paintings of women in your loft,” I remarked.

“They’re just women I see on the street and stuff.”

“So you don’t date them?”

“I don’t think I would make a very good boyfriend, small fry.”

Uh-oh. Do I want to know why? Wait, did he already forget my name? Is that why he keeps calling me all these weird nicknames?

“Why do you say that, Adam?”

“I’m a little forgetful, in case you haven’t noticed. Not good with anniversaries, birthdays, in-laws, parking tickets. You know the deal.”

“Were you always forgetful?”

He didn’t answer me. I stood there awkwardly.

“I was dating a runner when I worked at the firm. Her name was Keri, and every weekend we’d get up early and go for a run. We ran by this place at seven in the morning once and there was a line wrapped around the building. As we passed by, Keri looked at the line, rolled her eyes at me, and said something about them being gluttonous pigs. I remember just really wanting a donut.” He looked down at me and smiled. “I’m glad I’m here with you.”

“What happened to Keri?”

He stared past me down the street, looking wounded. “She left me about a year ago, right after I quit the firm.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be. Her loss.” He smirked. “Honestly, I could have been better to her.”

We were getting close to the order window when he slipped a hand behind my neck, leaned in, and kissed me. The lady behind him bumped hard into his backpack, which forced Adam to stumble into me. He reached one hand out to the wall behind my head and the other snaked around my waist so I wouldn’t get crushed against the brick wall. It was a somewhat athletic move. I felt completely safe and cocooned by him.

His eyes were wide open. He looked furious.

The lady leaned around him and said, “Sorry about that.”

His body relaxed. He let go of me, turned toward the woman, and smiled. “No worries.”

I was in awe of his self-control.

I could not figure Adam out. All I knew was that I liked him. One minute he’d be totally focused, and the next he’d be onto another subject. I couldn’t tell if he was truly free-spirited or working toward it. He seemed like a typical guy his age, but I suspected he was grappling with something from his past.

We ordered two maple bars and headed back to Adam’s loft. At the top of the stairs was a woman standing near his door, holding a cat. “Oh shit,” Adam said.

My stomach sank. I thought for sure it was his girlfriend, or a disgruntled ex. “Hi, Adam. Foxy was out on the ledge meowing for the last half an hour.”

He ran up the stairs toward the woman. “Come here.” He took the fluffy black cat from the woman’s arms. “Awh, I’m sorry, Foxy,” he told the cat.

I stood a few steps below Adam. The woman was wearing a thin robe. She leaned around him and waved. “I’m Stacy, his neighbor.”

“Oh, hi, I’m Charlotte. His friend.”

“It’s late. I’m sorry we woke you, Stacy,” Adam said.

“You can’t forget to close the bathroom window, Adam. Foxy can jump out here.” She pulled a Post-it from her robe pocket. “I wrote you a note to put in the bathroom.”

“Thanks.” He took the note from her and gestured for me to come up. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

I hadn’t noticed before because of all the clutter, but once I was back in his apartment, I realized there were little Post-its on various items throughout his apartment, reminding him to do random things like eat, buy food, and shower. When my grandmother got dementia and we’d go see her in the convalescent home, she would always call me by my mother’s name because she remembered my mom from thirty years ago, but couldn’t remember what she ate for breakfast. We had to put Post-its on pictures around her room to remind her of everyone’s names. She still forgot.

Adam set Foxy down. “I better close the window before I forget.” I picked up the cat. She purred. Adam called back, “That’s Foxy Cleopatra! Get to know each other.”

He had a cat. I always went for guys with dogs. I always thought dog people were more normal, but they’re not. In fact, they’re less normal. One time, George (the panty man) asked me to take his Labrador, Lucy, to the groomer while he was at work. When I picked her up, she was wearing a pink bandana with cherries on it. The groomer told me that Lucy had a fungal infection in her ears and recommended sixty-dollar eardrops and a cup of plain Yoplait with each meal. “You gotta be kidding me! Yogurt, for a dog?” I had said.

“It’s a yeast infection. Like what women get, but in her ears.”

“I’m sure it will run its course,” I had said.

Her smile faded. “Is that what you do when you have a yeast infection? Let it run its course?”

“She’s a dog.”

I unleashed the puppy police with that statement. “How could you be so heartless? That poor animal is relying on you to take care of her.”

I was about to tell the woman it wasn’t even my dog, but I thought she’d probably try to have me arrested for dog-napping. “I don’t have sixty bucks.”

“We take Visa and MasterCard.”

When I told George about the incident, he said I was insensitive. And he never paid me back the sixty bucks. Dog people.

I had a cat named Ginger when I was a kid. He was orange. I named him when I was three, before I knew Ginger was a girl’s name, according to most of the world. Anyway, when I was around eight, a raccoon attacked fierce Ginger. He came walking up our driveway with part of his intestines hanging out, dragging on the concrete. My dad said he’d be fine. No one believed my dad. Ginger somehow managed to climb into the rafters of our garage. I was 99 percent sure he was going there to die, but he didn’t. He spent seven days licking his wounds until he healed himself. Cats are awesome! We had a lot of respect for Ginger after that, even though he was kind of an asshole.

“Oh my god!” Adam slammed the refrigerator door closed and my attention was suddenly directed to him standing in the kitchen, shocked.

I set down Foxy Cleopatra. “What?” I began walking toward the refrigerator.

He stood in front of it, blocking it. “No! You can’t look in there.”

I started feeling sick to my stomach. “What, what is it?” Is it a human head?!

He slowly moved out of the way. “You’re gonna find out eventually.” He looked down at the ground as I reached for the handle. I was trembling. This was suddenly getting very strange.

I opened it and looked in. There was nothing unusual. Adam leaned in, near my ear, and whispered, “Champagne. We haven’t had Champagne tonight.”

“You scared me!” I shouted. I grabbed the bottle and pulled it out.

“What’d you think you’d find in there?”

“You don’t want to know.”

In the kitchen, we ate the giant maple bars and drank Champagne from the bottle.

We were hopped up on sugar and Adam seemed fidgety. “Bathroom break. I’ll be right back,” he said.

“Okay.” He handed me his phone. “Here, it’s hooked up to the speaker up there. You want to put some music on?”

“Sure.”

The picture on the screen saver was of Foxy. Maybe cat people are a little weird, too. Who just hands over their phone like that? He was hiding nothing from me, but he was still a mystery.

I picked Paul Simon, and “Obvious Child” came on. Adam yelled, “Good choice!” from the bathroom. He came out wearing only a white T-shirt and boxers. My mouth fell open in shock.

“What?” he said.

“What happened to your clothes?”

“I took them off.” He squinted, confused. “Why are you dressed like that? It’s the middle of the night.”

I paused for a minute, unsure of what he meant. “This is the same outfit I’ve been wearing all night. How should I be dressed?”

Something flickered in his eyes. “Sorry, I bet that seemed weird. That was my lame attempt at a joke. Shall we get comfy?”