Disconnected

Chapter 1

10/30/91

Intuition is a flash of insight. Neither telepathy, nor stroke of divinity, its enlightenment comes from empirical evidence, consciously or unconsciously attained. Intuition may not tell you what you want to hear, but if ignored, you're basically fucking yourself.

——-

It's hard to tell what's happening at first. The video is blurry, shot at night, and in black and white. I can make out a police car with its headlights on, lighting up a group of cops loosely encircling a guy trying to get up off the ground. The video sharpens to clarity as a cop, wielding a baton, slams it full force into the guy's head, like he's batting a T-ball. The guy goes down again. The image jitters, as if whoever is filming felt the blow. It's always shown with no sound, leaving the newscaster to narrate the scene.

Shocking! Deeply disturbing footage, Stan Chambers, the sage of the KTLA Morning News, manages to mix the right amount of righteous indignation with urgency in his delivery. This is an obvious case of racial profiling, and blatant police brutality, Stan insists. So much for unbiased reporting.

Video pulls back to reveal two officers relentlessly clubbing the guy on the ground. He curls onto his side to avoid the blows, then rolls to his other side in a fetal position as the pummeling continues. An officer among the many standing around watching the beating yells and gestures at guy to lay face down. He does, rolls onto his belly and stills. The beating stops, and for a moment there's peace, like no one knows what to do next.

Mr King was savagely beaten by LAPD officers... and Rodney King's mug shots come on-screen. Only then is it obvious he's Black. His right eye is swollen shut, his cheeks and forehead bloody. White butterfly bandages above his thick brows stand out against his dark skin.

So, what are you doing right now? Lee asked me. I'd forgotten he was on the line. His question felt invasive, verging on lewd, like he was peeping into my bedroom.

I'd clicked on the TV after prompting him to Tell me about being Lee, and he began reciting the same script as the twenty guys before him. Thirty-something, athletic, successful entrepreneur,' at a great space in his life.' All he wanted (not 'needed'—'wanted' makes one better adjusted) was someone to share his wonderful life with. My intuition bridled. How fulfilling could his life possibly be, if, like me, he was looking for love in personal ads in the L.A. Daily News?

Is that the TV I hear, or are you with someone? He asked casually, but there was an edge of 'why did you call me if you're with somebody.'

Just me. Well, and my roommate, who's probably still sleeping. Oh, and my dog, of course. I muted the TV, looked over at Face curled in her beanbag bed, whimpering and twitching, lost in a doggy dream. Made me feel safer somehow, declaring I had allies on hand.

The video demands my attention when one of the loitering cops near Rodney savagely stomps on his head. King's bulbous body writhes on the ground with the blow. Police resume beating him, alternating between baton blows and violent kicks to his head and back. Miraculously, he manages to sit up, tries to shield himself from the relentless pummeling. Clearly dazed, he sits on the ground holding his head, then a half dozen cops pounce on him at once, throw him on his stomach, pull his arms behind him, and cuff him.

I don't have a roommate. Or a dog either. But I like dogs. What kind of dog do you have?

A Shepard pound hound, I announced with a hint of bravado. Seven years old and at the top of her form. She's a bit of a brat. Somewhat possessive, though she generally likes most everyone I do.

Lee chuckled, like he got my implication. So, tell me more about being Rachel.

I flashed a tempered grin he'd turned my question to him back on me.What would you like to know?

Rodney King can be seen hogtied and writhing on the ground through the group of cops standing around him. Camera pulls back to reveal several police cars exiting the parking lot and driving away. A brief passing tension as I envisioned one of them driving over King's head and crushing it in. I wondered if Rodney thought of it right then.

Hmm... Lee mused. Let's start with something simple. You into the whole workout craze? Biking, hiking, any sports?

I smiled again, knowing his angle. The main concern of women when blind dating is that the guy's a psycho-killer. Guys want to know if the woman is fat.

I play racquetball.

Really? I do too. Well, used to. Started playing in high school. Kind of gave it up after college, but I'd love to get back into it. Great game. Quick. Focused. Rather brash, though. Haven't met a lot of women that are into it. It ain't exactly tennis.

I suck at tennis. My mind drifts with the pacing. It was true racquetball was not a popular sport among women. But it bugged me he pointed it out, as if suggesting women were weak. I'm pretty sure I can give most guys a fairly good workout on a racquetball court though.

Strike one, was his 'at a great space in his life,' monologue. Strike two, the first thing he wants to know about me is what every other heterosexual guy wants to know before meeting, and it ain't my I.Q.

Verging on strike three with his sexist slam, I considered how to end the call politely.

Are you one of those women who's only satisfied with the victory when you compete with men?

I play for the calorie burn, so I don't like to stop rallies for servers. I generally don't play for points.  Racquetball was my only healthy fix over bouts with bulimia and speed. Heroin thin was in, according to the media, and my mother— the authority on proper façades. Are you like most guys whose manhood hinges on winning?

Touché. Lee laughed. I'll play you. Anytime. And we don't have to keep score. I can probably give you a workout too, and I sure could use one. He paused, and I heard the unmistakable sound of a lighter flicking,  and then him taking a hit off a joint.

Definite strike three. Say thanks for the chat and hang up! But I didn't. What are you doing right now?

He hesitated, exhaled a whistling sigh. "Hmm...I asked you first. What are you doing right now?"

I considered lying. I just didn't have the energy to fabricate something glib right then. Let's see...before I called you, I was scribbling some thoughts before starting my day. I dare not confess Lonely became so choking I called my Daily News mailbox one last time. Lee's was the only message, and came last week, close to a month after every other response.

So, you're a writer, Lee said, with an oo-la-la edge. Poetry? Fiction? You a novelist?

Nope. Just journaling.

Ah, as in keeping a diary? Or are you penning a memoir? His continued focus on me felt unnerving. I was usually the one interviewing. With just the simplest of prompts most men blatted on about themselves, turning few to none of my questions around. Twenty-three phone chats, and the five men from my ad that I met 'for coffee,' which I don't drink, were equally self-absorbed, as men tend to be, ensconced atop the social order for eons.

"I stopped keeping a diary when I was ten. And a memoir is an oxymoron, at best, as memory is faulty— a construct of the writer's perception of their past. I tried to channel Dorothy Parker, but surely sounded more pretentious than clever. Honestly, I was just screwing around with prose."

Sounds like a good read. Must be fun, screwing around in your head. He paused, and I swear, I felt him smiling. I envy creative people, I mean.

I smiled. I must admit, making it with my muse tops out my list of favorite things to do. Reliable entertainment without complications. Like masturbation, but I didn't say it.

Imagination as an endless source of self-contained amusement. I like it. He paused.Well, you seem normal enough. Intriguing, even. Why is it you're still single if you don't want to be?

I heard him hit the joint again and felt the draw of desire, that part of my brain that craved escape from fear and want, and the weight of my ordinary life. My mother tells me I'm too...much. My sister would say I want too much. I matched his directness with purpose but suddenly felt exposed with my confession.What about you? Why are you still single?

I'm not.

Strike FOUR— Walk. HANG UP!

But we filed for divorce back in February.

A married (soon to be divorced or not) stoner (he was sure to be blatantly getting buzzed at 9:00 in the morning), was not the knight I'd been holding out for. My intuition screamed at me to dismiss this man. Say goodbye and hang up. But I didn't.

We've been separated almost a year now. I haven't seen or spoken to her for over nine months. Just waiting on the final papers.

I don't date married men. It made my skin crawl when illicit lovers were blithely complicit in the corruption of a marriage. And I had no intention of becoming a casualty of a divorcee's inability to keep his commitments.

I don't date married women. My marriage is over. If you're worried about that, don't be. He spoke softly but with conviction.

OK. But it wasn't. Look, you sound like a really nice guy—

And you sound like a very bright lady, and I'd love to get together for coffee or something, get acquainted in person.

I sighed. I told you, I don't 'get acquainted' with married guys. Or stoners, but I didn't say it.

I get it, he said with humor. How about we just play racquetball then? There's a club on Ventura near Vineland with regulation courts. Racquet World, I think it's called. I'm off by 3:00 most every afternoon. Play you tomorrow if you're available.

Say bye bye and HANG UP, my intuition said clearly.

But I didn't.

I unmuted the TV and watched the handful of police left in the parking lot meander around Rodney, still hogtied face down on the ground.

...captured by accident while testing a new video camera, and given exclusively to KTLA, we first aired this footage back in early March, and it has sparked a national debate... Stan has a hint of glee in his rich tenor, but keeps it out of his expression as camera is back on him at the news desk. The anchor is secretly salivating, picturing where to display his Peabody.

That was where the video clip always ended, and the viewer was left wondering what the evil cops would do to poor Rodney next. A perfect cliffhanger, edited to insight outrage. And it did. I understood that racial equality was still fiction, like equal rights for women, but I could not sanction the media canonizing a violent felon just because he was Black. Still, the countless times the horrific scene aired, daily, the clip always commanded my attention. It was like watching A Clockwork Orange, or a train wreck about to happen.

-

Chapter 2

It was clear Lee was better than me within the first five minutes. By a lot. He commanded center court and kept me running. His strokes landed the small blue ball with loud, hollow bangs against the white walls that echoed in the expansive enclosure. He was impressive to watch, had great timing, and was so focused on the ball, at times it seemed as if he were sucking energy from the room, then using it to power each hit.

You play well, he said humbly after an extended rally. He bounced the ball on the glossy hardwood floor in instead of putting it in play. Maybe 5'9", baby-face, he was pudgy—what's called 'stocky' on a guy, though likely labeled 'fat' on a woman.

And you're an amazing player, I conceded breathless. Though you were a bit vague about your skill level on the phone. I'm trying not to feel set up here.

His full lips took on this arresting, ear-to-ear grin. Thought you said it's all about the workout. He ran his hand through his full head of thick, chestnut hair—unusual for mid-30's men, with so many balding by then.

And you're definitely giving me one, I practically panted. Thanks for agreeing not to play for points.

No problem. Not stopping for serves keeps it fast and fluid. I like it. Very zen. He bounced the ball a few more times then held it, looked at me and stuck out his tongue in feigned exhaustion. You're giving me a hell of a workout. He held the ball up. You ready?

I nodded, though I wasn't sure I was. His green eyes stayed focused on me until an instant before he put the ball in motion.

He backed off a bit, played less aggressively, syncing us into a smooth, even rhythm. Each rally seem to last longer, and the longer they lasted the more charged they became, a visceral energy gathering between us with each hit that extended the play.

Great rallies today. I really enjoyed that, he said while we cooled down with Diet Cokes in the club lobby.

Me too. It was fun. Thanks for the game.

Thank you. And he raised his Diet Coke can and we toasted. To fun, Lee said with a grin, then sipped his soda. I'd like to start having more of it, actually.

I tensed, waiting for the come-on my intuition told me he'd deliver when he asked me to play ball.

I'd like to get back into playing more often. Just joined the club, in fact. He flashed an arch of his brow. Would you be into playing on a regular basis, a couple times a week maybe? You can play as my guest. Free. It's one of the membership perks.

I was down to a few games a month since Jon moved in with Mary. I was back to starving myself chasing thin. I'd been putting ads in The Recycler and notices on the peg boards at local clubs, but I'd yet to find anyone to partner with. Lee's offer was very generous. He was right in front of me, leaning on the opposite wall in the short, narrow hallway to the outdoor tennis courts. His gray t-shirt, tucked haphazardly in his loose black athletic shorts looked blue from the light of the soda machine next to him, as did his face, right out of Dutch masterpiece, or a Nike ad. If he turned out to reliable, he was better than I'd hoped for. And I needed a consistent racquetball partner if I hoped to maintain a body worth noticing among the beautiful people in L.A.

You clearly play way better than me. You sure I won't bore you? Why he wanted to play with me was still vague. But his expression of awe when we first met in the lobby told me he'd likely be open for more than just racquetball partners.

I have serious doubts you could ever bore me, Rachel. Lee expression took on his Cheshire grin. You kept me on my toes today. And that's what I'm looking for. I'm hoping to get back in shape, especially now that I'm back to being single.

Was that the come-on? Or was he just stating a fact about the build required to compete with Hollywood's standard of chic.

Why did you run that ad? he asked flatly.

I stared back at him, feigned ignorance to thwart embarrassment. Sorry?

Well, he began cautiously. It seems to me you could date any guy you want.

If it was a come-on, it was the best I'd heard. He sounded like he was stating a fact. Not one of the guys I'd met through my personal ad had ever asked why I placed it. I smiled, then reminded myself I was there to play ball, and nothing more. Lee watched me. Despite his Pillsbury Dough boy build, he really was quite cute. How old are you, again?

Almost thirty nine. His brow furrowed with mock irritation. Now would you please answer my question? Why did you place that ad?

To find what it said, which, as it's turning out, seems to be way harder to come by than a racquetball partner. I gave him a wily grin.

'Attractive, passionate, creative pro, 5'7, 135, 33, SWF, seeks, imaginative, passionate, pragmatic, independent thinker, with a wild and crazy heart.' Lee quoted my ad word for word with a haughty smile. That's me."

'Who's ready for the real thing.' I quoted the rest, and returned his cheeky grin. I had no intention of discussing my ad with him since I wasn't there to date Lee. I had no interest in spending a lifetime with a partner who lost the internal battle against his cravings more than I did. I was looking for long and lean, single, and [for the most part] clean.

He took another drink of his soda then looked at the clock on the wall behind the lobby counter. Look, we just played almost two hours, practically non-stop. It's almost 6:00 and I'm starving. Come get some dinner with me. I'd love your company. And I really hate eating alone.

I hesitated, took a sip of my soda. Racquetball partner was one thing, but beyond that felt like adultery. Sorry. I told you, I don't go out with married guys.

And I told you, I'm getting divorced, and just waiting on the final papers. He studied me. Besides, I'm not asking you on a date. We're just two friends having dinner and then we'll call it a night. I have to be up at 4:00 in the morning to deal with back east clients, so I generally go to bed pretty early. How about it? We've earned a good meal tonight.

I eyed him, but couldn't resist smiling. His last remark was characteristically female, like he knew what it felt like to count every calorie.

Jerry's Deli is right around the corner and they have great sandwiches, soups, salads. My treat, to celebrate my new membership here, and our new partnership. He drank the last of his soda and tossed the can in the trash next to the soda machine. Come on. Join me, if you've got nothing else going on. I'm lusting after a pastrami on rye.

My stomach rumbled. No need to rush back to my empty house. My roommate had been staying at her boyfriend's for the last month. Having dinner with my new racquetball partner seemed harmless. And eating an actual meal was far more preferable than one more dry baked potato topped with carrot sticks— the dog, and TV my only companions for the evening. And to Lee's point, we earned dinner after that workout. Friends only, right? I watched him careful for any change in demeanor.

Just friends. He held up his index and middle finger in the Boy Scout salute. And the smile that spread across his face was infectious.

—-

I followed Lee's silver Mercedes west on Ventura, towards Jerry's, and the setting sun. Even with the heater blasting I was freezing with the passenger window half open. Face was in doggy bliss though, her long snout stuck out as far as possible, craning her neck to snuffle in the cool, crisp air, her jowls puffed with wind. I smiled, glad to have her with me, continually enamored by her unfettered joy in just being.

The orange sunset lit up the smoke intermittently billowing from the sunroof of his Mercedes. The sweet smell of colitas floated into my car and sparked my relentless craving for a buzz— that sublime lightness of being— for just an evening shutting out fear and Lonely, and engaging exclusively with my muse.

Lee accelerated through the light at Laurel Canyon just before it turned orange. I was right behind him, then a BMW cut me off and I slammed on my brakes to avoid hitting him. The idiot turned left in front of me, leaving me at the intersection just as orange turned to red. Waiting for the green light, reason went to battle with desire inside me. Racquetball, even the occasional dinner after a game could spark a friendship, as I had with Jon, but intuition insisted that was as far as I should ever take it with Lee.

Halloween, 1991, Los Angeles was typically clear and crisp out. As a native of the land of perpetual sunshine, I'd never missed trick-or-treating from bad weather. A fanatic fan of all things sweet, I used to be so excited for this day to come every year, though I probably shouldn't have been. My weight issues were surely caused by my inability to control what I ate. Paradoxically, through most of my youth, eating, preferably in front of the TV, felt more like the solution to feeling sad.

A beater car slowed to pace me as I took my place in the line of cars turning into the deli. Primered and dented, I couldn't make out the car model, or see the driver through the tinted windows. I called Face in and rolled up the windows, practically held my breath till they passed. Though Studio City was considered one of the better suburbs of L.A., even with the recent drive-by there, violence was spreading everywhere.

Heavy, audible sigh of relief when I finally pulled into Jerry's parking lot, then waited another five minutes for the valet—wearing only a Tarzan loin cloth (with the build to pull it off) to give me a parking pass for the business center lot. I pulled into the nearest available spot in the office complex, retrieved the pen stuck inside the metal coil of the spiral notebook on the passenger seat and flipped open the black cardboard cover to a blank page. As with all entries, I titled the prose simply by date.

10/31/91

Ah, to be a dog...to be so idyllically simple to thoroughly enjoy living instead of suffocating under the weight of fabricated complexities.

——-

Closed the notebook, gave Face a quick scratch on the white diamond marking on her muzzle, locked my car and went to meet Lee. Several cars down the row of parked cars I was passing, a guy was hunched over the front of a Datsun Z. He was dressed in a fringed leather jacket, his jeans gathered around his calves, his bare white ass pumped back and forth as he humped the woman under him. She lay splayed on the long hood, panting and moaning, her sparkly blue party dress gathered up past her hips, her legs wrapped around his waist.

Neither seemed to noticed me. I took off running, passed the next row of parked cars, and the next, finally slowing to walk when I got to the deli's crowded entryway.

Lee stood by the wrought iron bench near the deli's entrance, a dozen or more people loosely gathered near him. All were White, mid-20s to late 50s, in-shape, and in vogue—dressed tight and revealing, some even in costume, likely on their way to a party after their appearance at the frequented studio industry hangout. I still wore my skin-tight black leggings, topped with a loose black T, my standard racquetball wear. If I'd meant to impress, I never would have agreed to play ball our first meeting.

That took a while, Lee said dryly. Started to think you changed your mind and went home. There was a hint of anger in his tone. I put our name down for a table already.

Thanks. And I should have left it at that, but I felt a need to defend my honor. I told you I'd meet you here, and I do what I say. Took me 15 minutes to get a spot in the business lot. Where'd you park?

Across the street. He stared at me with glassy eyes. I have an in with the parking gods. He flashed a quick grin, which lightened his initial contention. Anyway, glad you made it. His dark hair blended into the folds of the hooded sweatshirt he'd put on and framed his baby face. He looked like one of the Sibyls surrounding God in the painting on the Sistine Chapel.

A hostess came outside dressed as a maid from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, with the tiny flared skirt and 4" spiked heels, and called Lee's name. Our table was ready. It was packed inside, and loud. The deli was one large, bright dining room, complete with the classic chrome lined linoleum bar and rotating stools. The hostess led us through the crowds and seated us at a small maroon vinyl booth along the back wall. And for the moment we both got caught up in the bizarre.

A naked man, except for his feathered cap, groin and ass, was being escorted out of the restaurant by a large Black bouncer. He stopped before exiting, took off his cap and bowed to a woman about to pass him in the narrow entryway lined with glass cabinets full of treats. Both Lee and I laughed. He had a deep, resonant laugh. I liked it.

It's definitely manic in here, he said, surveying the scene. Thanks for coming, joining me for dinner tonight. Sorry about the timing.

Don't be. The floor show is way more entertaining than another night of TV. I'd never have confessed this if I was looking to garner his interest, but I didn't have to pretend to be busy. I wasn't looking to impress Lee.

He chuckled knowingly. I totally get it. I'm there. I've been hiding in my condo for a year now, since being back on my own. My friends are all on my case to get out and about. Which is why I was looking in the personals. He kept his focus on me as a slender young waitress/model/actress dressed as a Playboy bunny, floppy ears, bushy tail and all came to our table.

She was gorgeous—long, slender legs, her flat belly accentuated her perky breasts. Her cleavage demanded notice as she bent to hear us, but Lee looked at me as he ordered a pastrami on rye, and stayed fixed on me while I ordered a cobb salad. He kept his eyes on me as the waitress straightened, stuck her notepad into her waistband and turned away.

I hope you don't mind my asking, Lee said. I'm wondering what kind of response you got to your ad?

Why? I smiled. "Thinking of putting one up?

Well, as my racquetball partner, would you recommend it? I mean, were the guys, like...normal?

What's your metric? Are you normal? I teased. I don't think any were psycho-killers, if that's what you mean. But most were on par with all the other self-appointed omnipotent males I've met. I heard myself say it aloud, and Lee laugh. I babbled on to cover the slam. I only met a few of the guys for coffee. And I went out with just one, and only once.

And who was this lucky guy? And why didn't you keep dating him? Lee kept the conversation on me, as he had on the phone our first exchange. It was unique being on the other side of the interview. Felt...nice.

So I described a date from the previous weekend with a lawyer, who after meeting for coffee called back and asked me out. It got more complicated than intended to explain why even though he took me to Dar Maghreb on the Strip for dinner, I had no desire for a second date with a guy who insisted the homeless were out there because they're lazy, and in America we all have the same opportunities.

The silver spoon up his ass clearly affected his brain. I joked, sort of. From our chemistry to our environment, we are mostly the hand we're dealt.

Spoken like a true cynic.

I prefer realist.

That's what all cynics say.

I smiled. So did Lee.

Some would argue we have free will, Lee said. We choose what to believe, how to be, who to love.

Well, that's poetic and all, but most people adopt their parent's religion without ever considering what they believe. And how we behave is usually more reaction than conscious choice. I knew I was coming off strong, an egregious sin in women, according to my father, the purveyor of human behavior. Lee stared at me with rapt attention, unlike most men who seemed to mentally check out when I expressed an opinion. And maybe we choose who to love, but we can't choose for that person to love us back. I was referring to Michael choosing Allison over me, but Lee's expression hardened.

So, you believe our lives are predestined then?

No. Not at all. The laws of physics withstanding, we have quite a range of choice. People rise from poverty, overcome adversity all the time.

Yes. But most people don't.

Ah... You make my point. Thank you. I gave him a cheeky grin. I felt no need to be sparkly but not too bright with Lee, as the media, and social convention insisted women should be.

Your date was unworthy of you, my dear. You're better off without him. You deserve someone who shares your vision, and passion, so you can't help but love him back. His green eyes were speckled with brown. They were large, the lids weighted but not sleepy, what my mother called 'bedroom eyes.' His long lashes nearly touched the base of his brow. So, the lawyer's out?

Yup.

A scream of delight and everyone clapped as rock legends Jim Morrison and Kurt Cobain entered the deli. The actor who played Jim looked familiar but I couldn't place him. Kurt Cobain looked identical to the real one—strung out and rail thin. He fell into the lap of a stylish middle-aged woman sitting at a small table along the front windows of the restaurant, and kissed her, on the lips, until her husband, or date pulled him off. He left her smiling, though, and even more so when the crowd cheered as the musical duo were shadowed to their booth by the big Black bouncer.

A tall, trim young waiter, every bit as gorgeous as the waitress, dressed in swim trunks and a Hawaiian shirt delivered