They're Not Your Friends Read online

  California

  WREK WE M

  CHAPTER 8

  AN ENDLESS ROW OF OLEANDER ADORNS THE MEDIAN OF THE Camino Real freeway heading into Santa Barbara. As Mike’s Saab whooshed by, the flowers danced in his turbocharged wake. With their white petals they resembled waves foaming and tumbling into a gray asphalt ocean. A few miles down the freeway, as Mike passed signs advertising fresh strawberries, seedless grapes, and juicy avocados, their color switched to candy pink, then flaming red, and then back to white. Lem remembered he once had a few oleanders perched in Greco-Roman urns on his deck. Those, too, were dead.

  Mike and Lem were headed to Thomas Bowman’s funeral at the Prince of Peace Presbyterian Church in Santa Barbara. Even though Mike had never met Thom, he had agreed to drive to the service. Vince had suggested that Mike go with Lem to represent Personality magazine. Lem knew the rumor was that Cyndi Bowman’s biggest client—Chris Mercer—might show up.

  Despite the motives, Lem was pleased that Mike was behind the wheel while he watched the flowers riot from the passenger side window. Even though they were only a few miles outside Los Angeles, it felt like another country. Lem stared out as they zoomed through dusty towns dotted with RV parks, spa stores, and satellite dishes. These towns disappeared, and soon they hit outlet shops and malls disguised as Spanish villas.

  Adidas. Calvin Klein. Ann Taylor. Bass. Chico’s. Hugo Boss. Izod. Casual Male Big & Tall. Nike. Maidenform. Bass. Sports Chalet. Baby City. Marshall’s. Babies-R-Us. Chili’s. Toys-R-Us. The Gap. Old Navy. Friday’s. McDonald’s. Olive Garden. Carl’s Jr. Taco Bell. El Pollo Loco. Coco’s.

  “We’ve hit the real oasis in the desert,” Lem mused. “The consumer oasis. Shop till you drop. Drive your family out to the desert and buy some shirts at the Ralph Lauren outlet. Drive home, feeling fulfilled and satisfied with the money you saved. A real Polo shirt for a quarter of the price. Then you realize the buttons are missing, the stitching is off. The color isn’t fashion forward.”

  Mike laughed. And Lem began to think that Mike was an all-round good bloke, although he had an annoying habit of pointing out every vanity plate they passed.

  “SOCCRMA. Isn’t that cute,” Mike said while thumping on the wheel of his car. “LNDLRD. Oh, God. That person wants us all to know he owns property, even though he drives a piece of shit Hyundai. Look at that Porsche. It says TOY4DR. God, that’s just about the worst I’ve ever seen.”

  “HME4SLE. Oh, home for sale. Gee, I wonder if that’s a realtor, duh. . . 7HANDICP. Yeah, I bet. Oh, and look at that one—EST8ESQ. Well, we’re all impressed.”

  There were STAR2BS, GR8M8S, and 12STPERS. Some guy in a Chevy pickup LUVCUBS. Some girl in a Honda Civic LUVGSUS. Some woman in a silver Jaguar LUVHUBE. Mike noticed them all.

  POOR MIKE STILL wasn’t getting laid. Lem could tell the minute he opened the car door to an avalanche of newspapers and magazines crammed onto the passenger seat. Good-looking guy, too—the kind of looks women go for, Lem thought. With his innocent wide eyes, disheveled tousle of hair, and wrinkled khakis, he looked like he needed to be taken care of. But Mike was too uptight. Sometimes these Americans just didn’t know how to have fun. Mike probably couldn’t get his John Thomas up unless he thought he was in love. Noble, but naive. This was Los Angeles. Lem realized shortly after leaving his mother country for the city of silicone that out here, love didn’t translate very well off-screen. In Hollywood, a person needed to recover from a fatal disease or an apocalyptic-style disaster to realize that he was in love with the beautiful woman he couldn’t stand a mere ninety minutes earlier. When the credits started rolling, you wondered for a second how those two would survive now that there were no more ax murderers or typhoons or metastasizing malignancies. But then the lights switched on and the ushers opened the doors and you were back outside, hoping for an incurable ailment, an avalanche, or a plague so you, too, could find true happiness.

  “So Thom Bowman was a good friend of yours?” Mike asked Lem after they had traveled in silence for several minutes.

  “Yes. One of the best. This guy was a class act. Not like the people running the show now. You have to take a crap for them so they can analyze it and determine if you’re worthy of a few minutes in their celebrity’s presence. Thom loved the press. He understood what we needed and he accommodated us. He got me some big interviews. And if you left a message for him, ol’ Thomas Bowman was certain to get back to you within two hours, not a minute later. Two hours on the nose, no matter what. It was a policy he lived by.”

  Lem cleared his throat while Mike fumbled with the air conditioner.

  “Thom was the only person I completely trusted. There are very few people you can trust in this town, I’m sure you’re discovering this. For years, Thom begged me to work for him. He even talked about making me a partner, putting my name on the firm and everything. But I turned him down. I thought I had to be loyal to my craft or something. What bloody horseshit!”

  “So, do you regret it?”

  “Well, Michael, I always doubted my decision, especially when the tide changed at Personality and that jetsam named Vincent Reggio washed ashore. But then I got a whiff of that bloody daughter ol’ Thom sired. I think I would have killed myself or slit her throat and hung her out a window if we had had to work together. Have you met her?”

  “Yeah. Bad nose job and nightmare personality. Great legs, though.”

  Lem laughed and shook his head. “Poor Thomas. I don’t know how a guy like that could have a daughter like her, but he did. Thom was too busy running shop, I guess.” He looked out the window. “Look to your left.”

  Mike turned his head. There in her red convertible VW with the top down was Lottie Love. Her auburn hair was blowing behind her and her mouth was wide open, shouting lyrics to some song Lem was certain not to recognize. As if sensing their gaze, she turned her face toward them, her eyes hidden behind amber-tinted Fendi wrap sunglasses. Mike recognized them from a story Lottie had written a few weeks earlier. She tossed a cigarette stub out the window, flashed a smile, and accelerated.

  “LOTALUV,” Mike said, squeezing the accelerator.

  “What’s she doing heading our way? There must be some big celebrity bash in Santa Barbara. A party for the Next Big Thing, no doubt.”

  “Not quite,” Mike said slowly. “She’s going to the funeral.”

  Lem gasped. “You must be bloody joking.”

  Mike hiccuped out his nose. “Oh, according to Vince, Lottie’s becoming titty buddies with Cyndi Bowman. She told Vince she thought it would really help her efforts if she attended the funeral, paid her respects, played good mourner, and then groveled for an interview with Chris Mercer. She thinks of Cyndi as her new best friend.”

  “Lovely. Absolutely lovely.”

  “She even convinced Vince that she needed to spend the night in Santa Barbara. She’s staying at the Biltmore.”

  The freeway opened up on the shimmering Pacific, where craggy hills garnished with yellow wildflowers slid into the ocean. Lem watched as tiny boats cut a white swath of foam through the inky glass and surfers paddled out on their boards. On the shore side, they passed signs advertising antique shops and farm-fresh fruits and vegetables.

  “Get off at this exit,” Lem said sharply.

  “Isn’t this too soon?” Mike followed Lem’s directions, but they didn’t lead to a church. Instead they were in front of a cart topped with a big hot dog that read SURF DOGS. They got out of the Saab.

  “What are we doing here?”

  “These are the best hot dogs in all of California.” Lem ordered a Surf Dog with onions and sauerkraut. “Please don’t tell me you’re a vegan. I loathe all people who feel superior to us carnivores and yet inferior to pigs. Every now and then one must poison oneself with nitrates and pig entrails.”

  Mike slathered his dog with ketchup and mustard. They sat at a picnic bench next to a small garden filled with purple and orange ice plants and paddle cacti.

  “My deck
used to have. . .” Lem shook his head and cleared his throat. “We found this place years and years ago. I’ve never been here with anyone but Bowman. If you follow the path behind the railroad tracks, you’ll find a sea lion rookery. I’m told there are hundreds frolicking on the beach there. Supposed to be quite spectacular.”

  “You haven’t seen it?”

  “It’s a hike, ol’ boy. Nearly a half mile from here to the ocean. Besides, we were always heading off for libations somewhere. Or we were already staggering by the time we got here.”

  Mike glanced at his watch. “We only have a couple miles left and the service is in over an hour. Let’s go find the sea lions.”

  “As I said, it is quite a hike. Quite a hike.”

  “Come on, the only time I ever see the ocean is in movies.”

  The next thing he knew, Lem was swallowing the end of his dog and following Mike on a narrow dirt path toward the rookery. “Come to think of it, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a sea lion before,” Lem said as he peeled off his blazer. “Except on the telly. I’m told that you can’t get too close or the mothers get scared and they’ll abandon their babies on shore. I’d hate to have that on my conscience. Did I mention that it’s quite a hike?”

  Lem huffed as they treaded through a field of overgrown grass and yellow wildflowers. They crossed railroad tracks before reaching a rocky promontory overlooking a horseshoe-shaped piece of shore littered with what looked like slabs of rock.

  Mike shielded his eyes with a hand and scanned the beach as he panted. “I don’t see anything. Maybe they’re all mating.”

  “Look harder,” Lem said excitedly when he realized that the rocks were actually moving. “Those aren’t bloody rocks! They’re sea lions,” he squealed, surprised at the enthusiasm in his voice. “Bloody sea lions all over the bloody beach!”

  Lem nearly leapt off the edge of the precipice to gawk. The sea lions were stretching their sleek bodies, rolling along the sand, splashing in the foamy water.

  “I had no idea there’d be so many. They’re absolutely marvelous. And huge. They’re as big as elephants.”

  He watched them, mesmerized by their big eyes and round, innocent faces. They reminded him of children romping on a beach. Why hadn’t he had children? Lem thought about the man with his kids at the motel years and years ago. Even then, Lem felt that it would never happen for him. But why? He had been young. He could have changed. A childless life is a life with no purpose. Even the sea lions know that. Lem looked over at Mike, who was sitting on a rock, staring down at the creatures. Lem judged the guy for having newspapers on the seat of his Saab and not living life to the fullest, when he’d done the same thing himself. But Mike had his whole life in front of him. It was too late for Lem.

  “Don’t let the flowers die,” Lem whispered.

  “Huh?”

  “Just always take care of the important things—the things that make you happy—because it’s easy to neglect them; and then, one day, they’re no longer around. The flowers die and the butterflies disappear, and one day you realize that you haven’t been happy for quite some time because of it. Nothing is better for your soul than a garden full of butterflies.”

  “Hey, Lem, I’m sorry about your friend,” Mike said softly.

  “Good friends are a rarity, that’s for sure.”

  “I haven’t made one friend since I’ve been out here,” Mike said.

  Lem tapped Mike’s head. “Nonsense. What am I?”

  Smiling, Mike checked his watch. “Hey, so much for this lovefest, we’re gonna be late.”

  “Okay, son,” Lem quietly said.

  Son.

  THEY EXITED IN downtown Santa Barbara. Lem read aloud directions while Mike navigated through the eucalyptus- and palm tree–shaded streets until they arrived in front of a small Spanish-style chapel with a turreted terra-cotta roof. A sign encased in glass at the front of the church’s patch of emerald lawn read, “To love a butterfly you must care for a caterpillar.” “Everyone’s a writer,” Lem grumbled while shaking his head. Then he fixed his hair with a comb that was missing half its teeth and tightened his red-and-blue striped tie. He popped three BreathSavers in his mouth.

  Nearby, Lottie was standing by her car, applying some shade of brown lipstick while staring at herself in the driver’s side mirror. Lem caught Mike peeking at her breasts, which were ballooning out of the otherwise surprisingly conservative black suit.

  “She’s quite proud of her prow,” Lem whispered. “I think you two would make a cute couple. Maybe you have more in common than meets the eye.”

  Mike jerked his head back and narrowed his eyes at Lem. “Yeah, right,” he said, pursing his lips. But Lem couldn’t help notice that the boy’s face turned red at his suggestion.

  Lem headed toward Lottie.

  “Would you be so kind as to accompany us, Miss Love?” Lem said with a gallant swirl of his hand. “Mr. Posner and I would greatly appreciate it.”

  Lottie raised her lips into a smile and just as quickly slammed them into a frown. “Thanks. But I like promised some of Cyndi’s coworkers that I’d wait for them. We so want to like be a kind of united front for her. I mean I was like lit-rully there when Cyndi heard the horrible news.”

  LEM AND MIKE sat toward the back of the church, watching the circus of demi- and pseudocelebrities vie with the coffin for attention. There were women in big hats and impenetrable sunglasses dramatically weaving tissues through the air. There were perfectly coiffed men in black Armani, their eyes scanning the church for the A-list pews. Lem imagined each slipping an usher a couple of bills to be closer to the casket. He laughed at the thought, and then the organ wheezed a dirge while the Bowman family dragged themselves down the red-carpeted aisle. Lem caught a glimpse of a black-bedecked Cynthetica in an umbrella-sized hat with what looked like mosquito netting in front of it. She held a cluster of tissues to her nose and leaned on her mother.

  Lem craned his neck and realized he didn’t know anyone. The church was filled with faces he had never seen or no longer recognized due to surgical alterations or botulism paralysis. Lem’s eyesight blurred as tears fogged his vision. He didn’t know if the tears were for Thom or himself. He felt as much in that casket as his dead friend.

  Lem was lost in his thoughts when he saw Cyndi stride up to the podium sans headpiece. She cleared her throat, dabbed the corners of her eyes with the tip of a tissue. She smiled weakly. She pulled a piece of paper out of her jacket pocket and methodically unfolded it right into the microphone, where it crackled as if the church were on fire.

  “My father, Thomas Bowman, taught me everything I know,” she began, her mouth practically inhaling the microphone. “Thomas Bowman was the best in the business. I grew up knowing that about him, and I wanted to be just like my daddy. That’s all I wanted in life, to be like my hero, my father.”

  Cyndi breathed deeply, blotting her eyes and placing a red-nailed hand at her throat as if gasping for air. “I promise to live up to his memory.” She pounded her fist lightly on the podium like some anemic revivalist. “I want to carry the torch my father lit so proudly. Thomas Bowman is dead. We will all mourn him. But his name will live on eternally at Bowman Publicity. He will be forever immortalized through the celebrities he so brilliantly represented. He may not have a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, but he deserves a little piece of every star.”

  The sniffling congregation erupted into earsplitting applause. Cyndi covered her face with her hands, and her body convulsed with sobs. The crowd applauded and applauded. Lem wondered if they’d ever stop.

  AFTER THE SERVICE, about two hundred mourners headed to Thom’s. The gathering was held outside on the interminable green lawn tucked between an ostrich farm and a horse stable. Lem’s eyes immediately gravitated to the white tented bar, which was set up next to what appeared to be a tribute table. The table was littered with framed photographs, but Lem was too far away to see all but one. In the center of the white-linen tablecloth was a
n ornate gilt-framed shot of Thom flanked by Arnold and Maria. Lem knew that Thom had met the two on a few occasions but didn’t know them well at all—certainly not well enough to warrant a space at his tribute table, let alone the focus! The handiwork of Cynthetica.

  Guests ambled up to the Bowmans to pay their respects. Another American tradition Lem couldn’t understand. In England, he and his mates would get bloody pissed after a friend died. Then they’d slur out stories to illustrate what an all-round good bloke and horrible bastard the deceased was. They’d mourn him and then determine that it was a damned good thing ol’ Nigel was dead or they’d kill the asshole themselves. Instead of crying, they’d curse him while nursing a hangover. There was no time to grieve when you were rushing to the loo to puke.

  Lem went to the bar and ordered ginger ale. As he passed the tribute table he scanned each photograph. Every celebrity in the history of celebrity seemed to be on display, but there were no photos of him. Lem Brac hadn’t even made the cut in the retrospective of his best friend’s life. He shook his head sadly.

  Lem slogged through the wet grass toward Marjorie Bowman.

  But suddenly his eyes veered right and landed unexpectedly on her.

  After all those years of searching for her, perhaps his eyes operated on instinct. No matter, there she was, standing in the middle of a cluster of the bereaved, a ribbon of pink against the endless black fabric of mourners. In one hand, she clutched a clear drink with a lemon perched on the rim. The other hand gestured lightly like a butterfly riding a warm breeze. He watched her from the corner of his eyes—his heart throbbing in his throat—as he moved closer to the family. She was still beautiful, still captivating, still heartbreaking. After all these years, all the anger he had felt for her disappeared with the slightest wave of her slinky wrist as she gestured to the mesmerized crowd. After all these years, she was still Lisa the Love Witch.