Katherine Ayars
The Burgundy Room
Lainey turned off Hollywood Boulevard onto North Edgemont. There were no parking spots in front of her apartment, so she drove around the block and found a space on Franklin. She got out of the car and opened the trunk. Inside was her latest creation: a neon sculpture the size of a boom box. Cursive glass spelled “Home Motel.” Lainey carried the artwork as if it were a cake. Her Russian neighbor, Boris, was sitting on a three-legged sofa that had been dumped on the curb over a month ago. Boris sipped his beer as he watched Sergey, his son, run back and forth swiping an oversized candy cane across a metal fence.
“Boris,” Lainey said, “kak dyela?”
“Not bad.” He adjusted his raincoat. “Dry for now.” He looked at her tall boots and her skirt, then at her face. “You seem good. Happy.”
“I do?”
He shrugged.
“Merry Christmas,” she said.
“Same. Poka.”
Lainey continued toward a peach stucco building, where Felicia stood smoking. Her cigarette clashed with her youthful presentation.
“When are you going to give that up?” Lainey asked.
“When you quit eating meat.”
“How many dolphins did you save today?”
“Ian and I are only four hundred dollars away from our trip to Japan.”
“Count me in for fifty.”
“Seriously?” Felicia tamped the cigarette against the stucco and put the butt in her pocket. “Positive you can afford that?”
“Positive I can’t. But I like you.”
“Awesome.” Felicia opened the door for Lainey and followed her up the single flight of stairs. “Is that neon a Christmas present?”
“Anniversary. It’s tomorrow.”
Lainey and Felicia reached the landing and walked down the hall.
“Oh, yeah,” Felicia said, “you two met at that holiday party in—” She stopped when she saw the potted orchid on Lainey’s doormat. “Jesus. We better call the police.”
“You say that every time. LAPD can’t do anything. The keys are in my left pocket.”
“That doesn’t make sense.” She retrieved Lainey’s keys and unlocked the door. “Some creep keeps sending you flowers and they can’t do anything?”
“Would you go in and ask Monica to stay out of the living room? Wait. Take the orchid.”
“I’m not touching that thing. It’s coated in negative energy.”
“Come on, Felicia.”
“That crackpot psychopath is dangerous and anything he touches is equally dangerous.”
“He didn’t touch it. The florist did.”
Felicia took a step back from the orchid.
“Fine,” Lainey said. “Leave it. Just make sure Monica isn’t around.”
Felicia went into the apartment. She returned. “Sounds like she’s showering.”
Lainey put the neon in the closet.
“You guys free tonight?” Felicia asked. “There’s an opening celebration for a new vegan restaurant. It’s right next to Jumbo’s. Come.”
“Maybe.”
“But you can’t wear those leather boots. Or carry that purse.”
“I’ll wear my sexiest burlap sack.”
“Perfect. See you there.” Felicia started to leave. “Lainey, I’m serious about the flower.
Don’t bring it inside. And bolt the door when I leave.”
“Bye, crazy.” Lainey closed the door and locked it.
Monica came into the living room. She was wearing a bathrobe. Her long, dark hair was wet.
“Hi, Bunny,” she said. She kissed Lainey on the cheek. “Thirsty?”
“You have no idea.”
They went into the kitchen. Monica took two glasses from the dishwasher and began opening a bottle of wine. “How was the studio?” she asked.
“I lost another commission.”
“What?”
“Brent. That director who wanted a neon above his fireplace.”
“I remember. You showed me the sketches. Those waves.”
“Right. This morning Brent’s wife—the wife whose hair is platinum and who’s always smacking gum—that wife decided neon art is tacky.”
“Oh, no. I’m sorry. Well. Two of your pieces are still in the LACMA, right?”
“Yes.”
“So another commission will come along.”
“Hopefully.”
Monica put down the corkscrew and hooked her finger in Lainey’s skirt pocket. She pulled her close. “Not hopefully. Definitely.” Monica kissed her.
“You smell good,” Lainey said.
“New shampoo. Cucumber mango.”
“I like cucumber mango.”
“You do?”
“Very much.”
Lainey untied Monica’s robe. She was wearing a pale pink bra and matching panties. They looked expensive. “Pink,” Lainey said. She ran her finger down one of the straps. The chiaroscuro of the light fabric against Monica’s olive skin was incredible. “You never buy pink.”
“I didn’t buy these. Alex did.”
“Alex?”
Monica untucked Lainey’s blouse. “He signed a three-picture deal today.”
“And?” Lainey let go of Monica. “Did the contract require him to buy you fancy lingerie?”
“I was as surprised as you are.”
“Has he ever bought you lingerie?”
“No. But he’s also never closed a deal that huge.”
Lainey went to the pantry.
“Bunny,” Monica said.
“Want some minestrone?” Lainey opened the can and poured the soup in a pot.
Monica pulled a dead leaf off the ivy. “I have dinner plans.”
“What?”
“I told you this morning.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I’m going out with Alex. He’s leaving tomorrow. Skiing with his family.”
“How nice.”
“Why are you upset?”
“I’m not. I’m hungry.”
“I’ll be home by ten-thirty. You know he always brings me home by ten-thirty. Afterward, you and I can go for a drink. All right?”
Lainey didn’t say anything. She rinsed the can and threw it away. Monica poured herself some wine and left the kitchen. Lainey stirred the soup as she listened to the sound of the blow dryer. After a few minutes, she turned off the burner and dumped the minestrone in the sink. She went to the bedroom, sat on the floor, and unzipped her boots.
Monica came in. “Lainey.”
“Is he taking you back to the Four Seasons?”
“He mentioned the Fairmont.”
“Lovely.”
“I don’t understand why you’re so annoyed.”
“Who’s annoyed?” Lainey looked toward the plastic garment bag that hung on the bureau door.
“Did he buy that too?”
Monica removed the plastic and held up two dresses. One black, one red. “Do you like them?”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Here.” Monica extended the red toward Lainey. “I want you to have it.”
Lainey put her boots in the closet then unbuttoned her blouse. “No thanks.”
“It’ll look great on you. You never wear anything low-cut.”
Lainey went to the bathroom. She tucked her hair in a shower cap, turned on the water and stepped in. Monica’s voice came from the other side of the curtain. “Bunny?” Lainey didn’t answer. Monica moved the curtain aside a little. “Lainey, please.”
“He loves you.”
“Wrong. He loves having sex with me.”
“He’s going to leave his wife for you. He left his first wife for this wife and he’s going
to leave this wife for you.”
“He’s not.”
“When we met, you said you’d quit seeing him.”
“I thought I could find another job. Lainey, your life is better because of Alex. Do you think every producer pays his assistant seventy-five grand? Even if you don’t receive another commission for a year, I’ll be able to cover our rent. And groceries. And still have enough to take us to the spa.”
“You know I don’t care about spas.” Lainey turned her back to Monica. She stared at the tile where a long, dark hair clung. “And I don’t care about your statistics. A man that’s going to leave his wife does so within the first three months of the affair. Bullshit.”
Lainey wiped the hair away and turned to Monica. “People aren’t statistics. They’re goddamn human beings who work and eat and crap.”
Monica closed her robe. “A refined girl shouldn’t use such unrefined language.”
“Fuck language. Do you guys fuck before dinner or do you fuck after?”
Monica left the bathroom. Lainey pulled the cap over her ears and leaned her head under the water.
She finished showering. She put on a sweatshirt and went into the living room. Monica was sitting on the sofa wearing the new black dress. The closet door was open and the neon—which Monica had plugged in—was on the coffee table. The letters glowed the color of the Pacific.
“Home Motel,” Monica said. “Our song.”
Lainey didn’t say anything.
“Is this my Christmas present?” Monica asked.
“No. It’s for—Sure. Christmas.”
“I love it.”
“What time is he picking you up?”
“Any minute.” Monica fastened the ankle straps on her stilettos. “If you’d only meet him, you’d feel better. You’d understand that it just is what it is.”
Lainey lit a match and watched the flame climb down the stick. “Do you love him?”
“No.”
Lainey shook out the match and lit another. Monica switched the neon off then put on her coat.
“I love nice things,” Monica said. “You know that. I love linen napkins.”
“We have linen napkins.”
“I love hotel lobbies with piano players. I love vintage champagne. I love being shown off
in exquisite places.” Monica walked over to Lainey and blew out the match. “But I do not love Alex.” She put her hand on Lainey’s hip.
The phone rang.
“Your ride,” Lainey said.
“Could we install the neon when I get home?”
“Whatever you want.”
“Thank you.” Monica kissed Lainey’s forehead. “It’s beautiful.”
Lainey set the matches on a bookshelf and walked down the hall.
“Bunny,” she heard Monica say.
Lainey went back to the living room. Monica was standing in the doorway holding the orchid.
“Dumpster?” she asked.
“You decide.” Lainey headed toward the bedroom. She heard the front door close then the bolt lock. She lay on the bed and stared at the red dress hanging on the bureau. The shadows cast through the blinds by the setting sun made the dress look as though it were striped. Lainey closed her eyes. She could hear the faint dragging of Sergey’s candy cane; he was still running it back and forth across the fence. It sounded like bursts from some sort of machine gun. Fire. Pause for reload. Fire. Pause for reload. The longer Lainey listened, the more she appreciated the kid’s metronomic rhythm.
When she finally opened her eyes, the machine gun had been silenced. The clock read nine. She got out of bed, stepped into a pair of heels and took the dress off the hanger.
Monica had been right; the cut did flatter Lainey’s figure. As she brushed her teeth, she looked inside the medicine cabinet at a stack of hotel soaps. The one on top was jojoba-scented. She didn’t know what jojoba was. What she knew was that Monica liked collecting those tiny soaps. Maybe jojoba was some sort of berry or seed or bush. Lainey applied mascara and left the apartment.
North Edgemont was wet; it must have rained while she napped. She walked to the end of the street, turned right, and headed up Hollywood Boulevard. The traffic noise blotted out the holiday music coming from the Chicken House. Lainey looked across the street toward the lighting store. The last time she was in the place was eight months ago – back when she met Jeremiah. She was moving in with Monica and they needed a new floor lamp. Just a simple lamp.
“You look confused,” Jeremiah had said after he paid for his fancy light bulb.
“I’m a neon artist,” Lainey said. Then she clicked a lamp on and off.
“Okay,” he said. “Now I’m confused.”
“Light is my medium.” She flipped the switch of another lamp. “How is it that I deal in light, yet I can’t tell one lamp from the other?”
“Well, I deal in taxes. Discernment is my specialty.” Jeremiah chose a lamp for her then carried it back to the peach stucco apartment. She didn’t think much of the fifteen minutes they spent together. He was just some man. Some kind man buying a light bulb during his lunch break. And she was just some girl. Some girl floating on the idea of memorizing her new lover’s body.
Lainey looked away from the light store and kept walking. She passed a pay phone whose receiver was dangling. Someone had draped a banana peel over the mouthpiece. Three blocks up, she crossed Winona Street and faced the banner hanging above a restaurant: Vegan Bully. Lainey watched the people inside. They were drinking wine and eating whatever it was the waiters held on their trays. Felicia sat on Ian’s lap and removed a piece of lint from his shoulder. Lainey pictured herself feigning enthusiasm over tofurkey and egg substitute. Then she walked two doors down to Jumbo’s Clown Room. There were no windows. Just a brick wall painted red and a black door. The sign’s font and blinking lights resembled those of a circus marquee.
Lainey went in and sat at the bar.
“Twenty-one?” the bartender said as he cleaned a beer nozzle.
“Twenty-seven,” she said. “Martini on the rocks.”
He gave her the drink as the music started. It wasn’t the heavy rock that often accompanies strip teases. The tune was something impossible to define, something playful. There was a guitar. Then some bells. Some synthesized piano and, low in the background, some whistles.
“Just in time for Blue,” the bartender said.
“Blue?”
He lifted his chin, gesturing behind Lainey. “Our main attraction.”
She turned and faced the stage. The place wasn’t what she’d imagined. The velvet clown paintings, sure. And the stale smell of 1970, of course. But the performance area was smaller than she’d expected. Only one pole. Also, the dancer wasn’t topless. Her black lingerie seemed as much a part of her skin as the tattoos. Colored ribbons streamed from her hips. Her red thigh-highs echoed the red lights overhead. Everything was unnaturally saturated. Lainey felt as though she’d stepped into a photographer’s darkroom.
The older man sitting next to Lainey swirled his bourbon. He ran his hand over his horseshoe of hair and leaned forward so his elbows met his knees. He watched with intent.
Blue circled the pole, holding it with both hands. Then she leaped off the stage, dropped her head back, and cocked her legs like a carousel mare frozen in mid-prance. She rotated in slow motion. How did she maintain such control? Such suspension? It was like blowing glass. Too much air and the tube shatters; not enough and it’ll collapse.
“My unicorn,” the man said without looking at Lainey. “My impossibility.”
Blue melted up and down the pole, then hooked it with both knees. She extended her torso and arms so that they were parallel to the floor. She began to wave like a flag. It was as if the music dictated the amount of imaginary wind. When the song picked up, Blue flapped with great speed. And when it slowed, Blue let her body sag toward the floor.
Some type of cymbal percussion came into the song. It reminded Lainey of Monica’s laugh: full and honest, but brief.
Blue spiraled her legs and turned upside down on the pole. Hand over hand, she climbed higher. As she approached the mirrored ceiling, her legs unfurled. She held them in a perfect split. Then she began to turn a circle; she became a windmill. Turning. Turning. Lainey thought of that field, of Jeremiah. Had he really dumped that girl in the weeds the way the prosecution said he had?
The audience cheered as Blue continued to whirl. Dollars floated onto the stage and the song ended. Blue collected the money. The man left his seat, set down some bills, and returned. “One more?” he asked as he looked at Lainey’s empty glass.
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Ten.”
Monica would be home in half an hour. “All right,” Lainey said. “One more.”
The bartended fixed another round. Lainey and the man sat drinking and not talking, their backs to the stage. The man put his hand on the folded newspaper before him and faced Lainey. “Did you know major league umpires are required to wear black underwear?”
“Wow,” she said. “I wasn’t aware.”
“Right here.” He tapped the paper. “In print.”
The first time Jeremiah sent an orchid, he hadn’t included a card. Felicia had called the florist, who gave her Jeremiah’s name. Felicia then dug around. She discovered Jeremiah’s conviction, his appeal and the reversal. His record was clean.
Lainey set her glass on the bar. The ice cubes’ formation resembled that of a sculpture by Giacometti. The cubist piece—the one in the Pompidou. The fragmented configuration was how Lainey viewed Jeremiah. A green tie and a bald spot. No wedding ring, an easy voice. Use of the word gravitas. Why had he said that word? What had they been discussing as they walked toward her place? Grav-i-tas.
The man next to Lainey pulled some change out of his pocket. “Hungry?” he asked.
“What? No. No, thanks.”
He rose and walked to a vending machine that was next to the stage. He deposited some coins. As the bag of pretzels pushed forward and fell, Lainey set a twenty on the bar. Then she left.
Hollywood Boulevard seemed louder than before.
Lainey reached the peach building and went upstairs.
The apartment was quiet. No Monica.
Lainey took a hammer and nails from the utility closet. When she’d designed the neon, she
knew exactly where it would hang.
The spot she’d chosen was perfect. She clicked off the floor lamp and sat on the sofa. The room’s blue glow was nice. So was the soft buzz of electricity humming through the neon-filled tubes. She picked up Monica’s wine glass and took a sip. Then she looked at the clock: eleven-fifteen.
On the chair beneath the window sat the orchid. She went over and opened the card. Familiar handwriting read, “The Burgundy Room.” Once, Jeremiah had written “Short Stop.” And another time, “The Fifth.” Lainey looked outside. A streetlamp illuminated a hydrant, which cast a long, black shadow. She imagined the scene as a Hopper painting—blurred but on the verge of climax. Everything was still. Lainey decided she wouldn’t move until something else did.
Finally, a spotted cat walked into the frame and paused. A moment later, it darted behind a car and disappeared.
Lainey looked again at the clock. Eleven-thirty.
She walked to the end table and picked up the phone book. She opened it. B. Bai–Bak. Bro–Bru. Then, the right page: Bur–Bus. She ran her finger down a column. After she found what she wanted, she picked up her purse and walked toward the door.
