DECEMBER 2, 2002
MY SUMMER WITH THE MOVIE STAR
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE (Cont.)
In some respects, I am a lucky person because Phil Godland was coming up the hill while I was going down it. I didn't fall down dead with surprise since he had told me he would be by on the weekend, if he could stand it for a few minutes.
He leaned over and opened the passenger's door and said, "Get in." After I was inside, he continued on up to the circular driveway, where he turned around, and started back down the dirt road, not commenting on the wide open front door to his father's house.
"You smell like gin," he finally said to me. "Well, tell me, are you satisfied now? Did you get what you were after when you went up there on that phony typing job?"
By now, I was crying, and I mean that horrible, gasping, insane kind of crying everybody hates when you start it. I think I could have been somewhat hysterical.
"You can't go home," he said, "unless you want your folks to let the cops in on this, and I don't think you do."
He took me to his little, tiny apartment in Beverly Glen Canyon, behind someone's main house. He made me some Campbell's tomato soup with water, because he didn't have any milk. He told me where to sleep, and I spent half the night crying, but not in his arms because it wasn't a goddam movie, it was just a goddam mess.
"Shut up and go to sleep," he said. "You make me almost as sick as my mother and father. Yes, you heard me right," he added, "and I don't need any of your smart ass comments either."
Later in the night, when I was still carrying on with the pillow over my head to muffle it, he said, "Pipe down, my landlord will hear you, and I like living here, if you don't mind."
He was a different person in the morning, very matter-of-fact. We had cocoa, also made with hot water, and soda crackers he buttered and browned in the oven. He said, "Good morning," just like it was any other day, and I was beginning to think that maybe when this was all over he might ask me out again, but I didn't really believe it. I could hardly walk I hurt so much, so I had no trouble remembering the events of the night before.
After my shower when I was drying off, I caught a glimpse of the red and blue EG on my rear end. I wondered what my mother would do if she ever got a load of it; her reaction would be second only to a pregnancy, And what about the accounting in the Holy Bible about the Whore of Babylon marked with a letter on her forehead? Ezra Godland had marked me inside and out, but I was a step ahead of the Whore because I could hide my mark in my pants. Were tattoos removable? And, if so, where would I go to have it done? I would need to save my money and take a Greyhound to some other state where the doctor, who agreed to remove it, would probably secretly notify my parents.
I was scared sick, and trembly. I was scared to go home and face my parents, and I was scared not to go, even though they didn't expect me until late afternoon or night.
"O.k, let's move it on out," Phil said, after we finished our cocoa, and I rinsed the two cups. "Get pulled together, and let's haul ass."
"I already did it, got my things together," I said, pointing to my case on his bed, which I had re-made just as nice as it was. "And Phil, I am awfully sorry about--"
He interrupted me. "Sylvia," he said. "I am the one who is sorry. Try to remember the relationships involved here. I can only guess what my parents did to you. So, just for once, try to stop thinking about yourself all the time. How do you think I feel about the whole goddam, shitty deal?"
We were only a block away from his little apartment, heading down Beverly Glen, when he asked, out of the clear blue sky, "How would you like to spend the day tooling around Tijuana? If we start now, we can have plenty of time down there, and still get you home by dark."
I nodded my head, yes, and because I was so grateful I felt the tears coming back, and I didn't want to get him upset again by crying. But he turned on the radio, and it was a happy song with a beat, so I tried to remember how I used to be, and to forgive myself. I rolled down the window and stuck my head out. The morning air was wet like it always is near the ocean in California, and it made my face feel clean. I wished I could have gulped it way down inside and held it there, where I really needed it.
(To Be Continued)
