talk to Kyle. Thereâs a credit card in the silver box on the ottoman. I always tip thirty percent.â
âPerfect,â I say. All this, and a big tipper.
Eight
T yler is a dream boss. We ate burgers, took the dog for a walk, looked at Kilim fabric swatches from George Smith for the new sofa Tyler wants. It was kind of a magical day.
When I pull up at the door to my apartment, I lock my bike and dash into the One Life to buy real food to cook myself a proper dinner, something I havenât been motivated to do for weeks. I buy a bunch of organic dinosaur kale, a perfectly ripe avocado, a can of Italian white beans, a shallot, and a handful of roasted pepitas. Itâs like I canât commit to feeding myself more than one meal, but itâs definitely a start. I even dash across the street to the liquor store and pick up a twenty-dollar bottle of white Burgundy. I mean, why shouldnât I treat myself like a grown-up? Iâm feeling pretty sassy, I have to say.
As Iâm hauling my bike and my groceries off the antiquated elevator, my phone rings, lighting my screen with a picture of my friend Scout and me in a thrift store in Echo Park. Iâm holding a shirt up across my chest that reads IâM WITH STUPID , the arrow pointing toward her, and weâre both laughing. For the record, Scout is way less stupid than I am.
Scout works as a tour manager for a couple metal bands. Not A-list, like Motörhead or Metallica. Iâm talking about bands on a level where they sometimes turn down shows because they canât afford to pay for transportation to the venue. Itâs a harsh gig. Not many girls could hack it.
âIâm getting too old for this shit,â she says in lieu of a greeting when I answer.
âWhere are you?â I say.
âYou donât want to know. A random Motel 6 in Texas. Howâs your job? Today was your first day, right?â
âDude, it was like the best blind date ever. He has a Weimaraner named Zelda and Dupioni silk drapes in his living room that cost more than the house I grew up in.â
âDude,â she says, mocking me.
âToday? I drove around in his Carrera and picked up fabric swatches for the sofa he wants to buy.â
âSwatches?â Scout says.
âYeah.â
âWell, good. Maybe he has a straight brother.â
âI think heâs straight.â
âYeah, the hot guy with a Weimaraner?â she says. âWhat did you say his curtains are?â
âDupioni silk.â
âSingle straight guys donât have curtains, let alone doopy-whatever.â
âWhat do you think, they tape cardboard over their windows?â
âWhat windows?â she asks.
âYou are hanging around with the wrong single straightââ
Thereâs a huge crash, followed by the unmistakable sound of puking. Which sort of proves my point.
âShit, I have to go,â Scout says. âWeâll hang out when I get back.â
âSounds good,â I say. âIâm around.â
I cut the connection with a smile on my face. Fucking Scout. I met her on my first day at the Date Palm counter, and we almost got into a fistfight.
Iâd only been behind the counter for ten minutes when she came striding in with her tattoo-sleeved arms and her ironic red pigtails and her size-14 skinny jeans that are so body conscious theyâre a thrown-down gauntlet challenging you for even looking. Her whole persona screams,
Go ahead, say something about my body
. People either love Scout or hate her. Sheâs like cilantro or Chris Brown. For the record, I love cilantro.
She was wearing a skintight white wife-beater over a purple lace bra that day, and sheâd twisted an old-school white bandana into an ad hoc headband that was part Bettie Page rockabilly chick and part Aunt Jemima. She had big black platen headphones clamped on her ears, and I could hear something feedback-filled and angry