Dealing Flesh (12 page)

A few days pass. Tired of barking up a hollow tree, I bury the connection to T for good. “So long, Big Bad Wolf.”

CHAPTER 10

Cave Dweller

Greatly relieved that Vicki severed her ties to H, we hang out at the
Fantasmick
club tonight. Upon entering, I immediately hit the dance floor. I watch Vic joining a bunch of people by the bar that she seems to be familiar with.

An hour goes by. I am still shaking a leg and Vicki is still engaged with the same group of people on the other side of the room. Looks like she’s having a good time and looking mightily involved in a dialogue with a tall, rugged guy who to me could be mistaken for someone who plays in a band. Unfortunately, I find out later that he is yet another “bad news” character, connected to the “milieu.”

Over the course of the weeks to come, I hear her tell many stories about the two of them. It’s clear to me that she’s fallen hopelessly under that fellow’s spell.

It’s a few weeks later. She calls me this morning, whining that the guy has a violent streak and beats her often. I long to scream at her, “I told you so,” but I keep quiet. From our conversation, I can tell that she wishes to leave him, but I instantly sense that she doesn’t know how.

“It’s complicated,” she says.

I get it. Too consumed by my own drama, I keep my advice to myself.

~~~

Around this time, the “adults” take on Stuttgart. They move into a structure approximately thirty minutes from where I live.

Ragelina:
They better not fuck with me.

On a good note, I get to worry less about Vic. On another, I instantly retreat even further into the tightly sealed cave of my own making, resolute to close off nearly all avenues on the informational highway even more so than before.

As the weeks pass, I watch the “milieu” harden Vicki. Her street jargon worsens, and I find it increasingly more challenging to be in her company for more than five minutes. Eventually, our contact stops entirely.

~~~

More time zooms by. Otto calls me this afternoon saying Vicki attempted suicide several weeks ago, further disclosing that she is presently residing at a mental health facility or some place like that.

Scaredy Cat:
Fuck…she must have been in tremendous pain to do a foolish thing like that. I hope she’s gonna be alright.

A swarm of emotions hits me. I feel helpless, numb, and definitely angry that as usual, I am the last person to get clued in on significant events, often long after the situation initially occurred. An incessant yearning to escape the wreckage of my past and present, Toby’s betrayal, and everything in between confirms again what I’ve been feeling all along. I must get away so far, that no one in my family, nor anyone else, would want to under-go the effort of seeking me out.

Hot Shot:
Besides, modeling will be a whole lot easier in America.

CHAPTER 11

Dress Rehearsal

Los Angeles, California

Ron, my newly-acquired African-American pen pal who’s agreed to show me around while I spend a two-week vacation at his house, picks me up from Los Angeles International Airport this afternoon. Having hoped that we would hit it off romantically, I find that now that I see him in person, I am no longer attracted. Who could have known that photographs can be so deceiving? Yet, I am intensely grateful for his kindness to let me stay at his Santa Monica apartment and for his offer to drive me around.

The second night of sleeping in the same bed together, Ron makes a physical move on me. Tormented by guilt, thinking I need to repay him for his generosity, I allow him the use of my body. During the entire time, I lay stiff like a washboard. His increasing impatience over my non-participation becomes largely visible, especially now that he stops, turns on his bedside lamp, grabs a Bible, and begins reading aloud. A bunch of holy words fly at me, which I may mistake for phrases used to drive out demons during an exorcism.

Scaredy Cat:
What a religious freak. Disgusting.

But thanks to Pretender Babe’s diplomatic skills, the vacation isn’t entirely ruined yet. The remaining ten days pass by fairly harmoniously without further exchange of sexual gratuities or bouts of Bible-thumping.

Pretender Babe:
Do you want me to fake it so he’ll marry you to solve the green card problem
?

Tough Gal:
That won’t be necessary. I’d rather tough it out.

Romy:
That’s right. I won’t settle for anything less than the ‘glass-slipper’ dream…and for sure only once.

One Last Hit

Back on German domain, I return to my old routine within days. Driven by the burning desire to move to America near the end of the year, I take on a catering assignment to save up enough to make my move. Meanwhile, a new pen pal offers that I can stay with him until I establish myself.

On my lunch break this afternoon, a gorgeous black American army man, whose stature reminds me of a Marine, wows me. I find out that he is stationed right outside Stuttgart. He goes by Darcel.

Romy:
Just my luck. Couldn’t he have shown up before the decision to leave was made?

I take him home right after work. His sweetness and amazing skills in bed impress me so much that I feel tempted to call off my relocation plans.

Romy:
Finally, someone I really like
.

Whip Cracker:
Trust me, he’s not worth it. You can find a million Darcels in L.A. I’ve got better plans for you
.
You will be a rarity in America. Men will stand in line to be with a fine European chick like you.

Okay…sold. Saying good-bye to Darcel proves tremendously challenging. But once I do it, I don’t look back. Instead, I move ahead as planned, motivated by an inner certainty that fills me with the conviction that my destiny is not tied to this continent.

Exodus

I am spending my last night on German soil inside the “adult’s” guest room.

Immensely tired, yet driven by the excitement of getting a chance to find revival in a new land, I jump out of bed at four o’clock a.m. As I’m getting ready for the road, I sense Mother’s nervous energy encapsulate me. The look on her face reflects concern. The heck with it. There will be no stopping me, even if the whole world thinks I’m crazy for leaving. I gotta get away, or I’ll die.

I grab my oversized suitcase on wheels, the duffle bag, and a couple of carry-ons and schlep into the kitchen. Mother’s eyes fill with water as I utter a quick, detached “goodbye.” I try to access my feelings but can’t. But I do detect an inner well of bubbling relief.

“Call me,” says Mother as I am giving her a briefer than brief hug.

I leap for the door on imaginary springs. The cab driver in front of the house loads my belongings into the vehicle. Now that I’m sitting down, I sense an incredible lightness saturate me. My heart beats fast.

“To the airport, please,” I tell the chauffeur.

We arrive at the airport’s international terminal. I make my way inside.

Two hours pass. Head held high, temporary confidence dripping from every pore I strut down the tunnel-like ramp that leads inside the aircraft.

Scaredy Cat:
I don’t know about this.

Doubt Cloud:
Are you sure this is the right move?

Absolutely. Glorious, this day…absolutely glorious.

During lift off, I nervously flip through the pages of my Los Angeles guidebook.

Tough Gal:
Relax. I’ve got your back. If all goes well, you should arrive in the land of the free within fifteen hours from now.

Hot Shot:
Let the adventures begin…

Scaredy Cat:
Oh, dear.

CHAPTER 12

Wonderland

Los Angeles, California – Late 1980’s

“Approaching Los Angeles International Airport,” I hear the captain announce over the intercom. The chime-like “pling” noise above my head alerts me that it’s time to buckle up. I fasten the belt, simultaneously keeping my eyes focused on the enormous sea of lights below, as we ascend into the Heavens. Tears of partial joy and boundless anxiety advance down my cheeks. I think about the amount of stories this town holds, stories of angels, many fallen ones. The fact that some of those very gleams down there indeed connect to
Hollywood
stars feels unfathomable.

Blushetta:
Ja, ja
…
those American actors with their üBER confidence. Lucky them, they’ve never blushed a day in their lives. How do they do it? I mean…dance, sing, act, and look fantastic with such ease all the time? Wish I could be as cool as them someday. Maybe living here will make some of that rub off on me. California, I’m counting on you.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have landed. Please exit the airplane to your left. It was a pleasure having you, and thank you for flying with us.”

I proceed to the baggage claim, excited to finally meet Stanley who, to my knowledge and according to his photo, should be a cute Caucasian male in his forties with brown eyes and hair and the overall image of an established musician.

Fifteen minutes pass. I’m still standing in the same spot, several pieces of luggage towering next to me on the cart. Knowing that we just spoke by phone a week ago, although for the first time, I recall he confirmed that he would give me a lift and be taking me to his house tonight. My eyes nervously scan the crowd again.

Doubt Cloud:
What if you’re not going to make it in this cutthroat city?

Tough Gal:
Shut up. There is no such thing.

I believe her. I have to. And frankly, I am virtually too exhausted to argue with anyone.

Another fifteen minutes go by.

Scaredy Cat:
Looks like he’s
standing you up.

Tough Gal:
Time to implement plan ‘B
.’

My forehead wrinkles in frustration. Sluggishly, I stroll over to the pay phones near the exit doors. I dial Stan’s number. Someone on the other end claiming to be his roommate tells me that Stan-man skipped town and that he owes him a bunch of money.

Ragelina:
It isn’t that I haven’t been warned about scam artists out here.
Verdammter Scheißdreck
.

With taxis excluded from the budget, I decide to meet my challenge using public transportation. Standing in the middle aisle of the bus to Santa Monica sandwiched by yapping strangers brings renewed meaning to the word agitation. Each time a patron enters, I wrangle my barrage of luggage out of the way. The driver’s snotty answers to my simple questions about the route mute me indefinitely, resulting in accidentally exiting at one stop before the one I had planned to get off of.

Extremely annoyed, I haul my life in bags several blocks down Santa Monica Boulevard, calling the driver a fucking “you know what,” over and over again. I pass by a couple of homeless folks who hit me up for “spare change.”

Big Shot Mama:
These people are pestering. Gross.

Following Tough Gal’s advice, I maintain the facial expression of a Sumo wrestler all the way to the hotel. Fighting a good cry, I drop depleted onto the Queen-size bed inside the room at the
Rosemont
. I feverishly budget numbers in my head unable to calm down.

Doubt Cloud:
I don’t think you’ll get far on the two thousand bucks you brought.

Scaredy Cat:
This country freaks me out. I need something to take the edge off, and I need it now.

I get dressed this instant and stroll down to the liquor store on the corner, bringing back a bunch of pastries and candy bars. Feeling nice and full and safer now that the sugar is taking effect, I fall asleep within the hour.

Not at all ready for it, morning arrives. Too fatigued to fetch a clear thought, I name this week “vacation.” I spend most of today tanning at the strand, as well as tomorrow…and the day after that…and two more days after that.

This morning, inside the lobby of the
Rosemont
I make the acquaintance of Katia, a gal from the Netherlands who also resides at the hotel and seems to be driven by the same agenda as mine. We hang out a lot from now on. With money seeping through my hands like sand through the hourglass, the urgency to initiate phase two turns into an absolute priority.

Nanny on the Run

Today, Katia moves from the hotel to a family in Monterey Park but before she leaves, she hands me her number. Happy for her but feeling slightly left out, I immediately search for more of my own opportunities.

To my great relief, I secure a nanny gig today. The couple, who are the proud parents of a toddler, a little girl, lives in an upscale part of Santa Monica. They provide me with room, board, an allowance, and access to a bicycle.

Today is day two on the assignment. Once four o’clock hits, the time my shift ends, I sense an all too familiar restlessness creep back in.

Lustania:
I can’t take it any more. I need relief…before day’s end.

I grab the bicycle from the garage and shoot over to Venice Beach, commonly referred to as
Muscle Beach
. Strolling down Ocean Front Walk in tights, and a cut off top, I covetously soak up the stares of men’s craving eyes. I hold out in front of the open-air gym, best known as
The Cage.
In fascination, I watch how several bodybuilders push around huge amounts of metal. Their loud moans and groans, as they pump and lift the heavy loads, play with my senses.

Lustania (snarling):
Yum. I wonder what some of them can deliver at close contact?

Several of the muscle-packed hunks zero in on me, but Lustania says it’s too soon to get locked in, so I keep on shopping. Further down the strand, I set foot into a small shoe store where I am heavily intrigued by a broad-shouldered Latin man who is dressed in sexy denim and a tight black and white striped T-shirt. Eavesdropping on his conversation with a co-worker, it appears to me that he must be the owner of the enterprise.

Lustania:
He’s hot
.

Fast-forward…He asks me out to dinner, and soon we are off to the restaurant and from there, straight to his house. Barely through his bedroom door, wild foreplay erupts. The rest escapes me.

Romy:
Wait a minute. I want him to fall in love with me.

Lustania:
Who’s got the nerve for all that Schmaltz? So many men, so little time
.

I do not recall how I get back to my place in Santa Monica, but who cares as long as I arrive.

Ten days go by. By now the responsibilities at the work site weigh me down. In a desperate moment, I convince Ron, the one who pulled the Bible crap on me on my initial visit to the U.S., to let me stay with him for a short while again. After his initial reluctance, he eventually allows me to room with him for another go-around.

One week goes by. Today, I move into a fancy-schmancy residence in the Hollywood Hills owned by a married couple with a fourteen-year-old son and three fluffy dogs. My responsibilities include cleaning, cooking, and caring for the animals. Tonight, the second day of working my bones to an ache, the woman of the house asks me to follow her on a walk-through. She stops right in front of the bookshelf, shines the flashlight onto one spot and runs her index finger across the surface.

Ragelina:
Insulting.

“There is dust right here…you need to be more thorough than that,” she says in a condescending tone of voice.

Big Shot Mama (indignantly):
Bloody hell. Who the fuck does she think she is
?

Ragelina:
I don’t think I can stand it here much longer.

Doubt Could:
Well, smart-ass. Where are ya’ gonna go without a car and loads of cash?

Scaredy Cat:
Yeah…trapped inside these hills? I’m all alone in this wicked city.

Putting great energy into cleaning even more thoroughly this morning, I catch myself visiting the food pantry on the bottom level of the house in unusually high repetitions. Realizing that chances of staying at Ron’s place again remain out of the question, an idea pops into my head. “Handyman,” the thirty-something-year-old fellow that comes by every Tuesday to perform maintenance around here will just have to help me escape.

Pretender Babe:
That’s gotta be it. It’s gotta be.

Doubt Cloud:
If he can’t get you outta here, you’ll have to move back in with the “adults”.

Miss Vanity:
Hell no. Can you imagine having to face all the naysayers? The ones that told me, I’m not going to make it out here? They’re gonna be laughing their asses off. I can’t let that happen.

Starlight:
Ew.
Let’s just not think about that right now, okay?

Pretender Babe:
I don’t know about you. But ‘Handyman’ sounds like he’s the ticket.

The weekend passes quickly. Today, the handy fellow shows up to fix a few things. I brief him on the precariousness of my situation. Lo and behold, an hour later, my belongings and I are on the way to his place somewhere in jungle town, wherever that is. When evening rolls around, several of his buddies show up at his medium size studio apartment for an outdoor barbeque. Everyone gets hammered, but not me.

Doubt Cloud:
You are fucked. This is the end.

It’s eight o’clock, and the last person finally leaves. Exhausted, I drop onto the pull out couch in the living room. Handyman joins me, spoons my body. I lay frozen, afraid to think of what he will do next. Seconds later, I feel his cold hand slide into my panties. I remove it at once.

Scaredy Cat:
He’s gonna ravage me.

Pretender Babe:
Tell him you are on your period and that he may get lucky tomorrow.

Doubt Cloud:
It’s not gonna work.

I present the excuse anyway, exhale when he accepts it and instantaneously turn to the other side.

Tough Gal:
Call
Katia first thing in the morning and find out if you can room with her a while.

I wake up around seven, fagged out from the shortage of sleep. Watching Handyman get ready for work instills hope in me. When he actually does dart out the door, I hurriedly dial Katia’s number. I explain what happened and luckily she shows up within the hour.

Like a
Wirbelwind
, I stuff my kazoo of luggage into her station wagon and board the ride. On the way to her room in Monterey Park, she confirms again that the owners of the house she resides in do not mind my staying until I can secure a new situation. Greatly relieved, I make myself at home in her spacious domicile, albeit the awkwardness of feeling at someone’s mercy again intensifies my love affair with food more with each passing day.

Whip Cracker:
If you don’t cool it with the candy, you’ll turn into an ‘Average Girl.’

Hot Shot (crying):
I guess I better hang up the modeling dream for good.

Scaredy Cat:
Wished I could help ya’, but I just can’t stop snacking. I get so happy on sugar.

Another week goes by. Today, Sunday, I show up for an interview for a nanny gig in the tranquil woodsy neighborhood of Malibu Hills. The situation offers the use of a vehicle as well as other pleasing amenities. I move in within hours, relishing in the feeling of new hope surging through me.

Mecca of Brawn

Things are beginning to feel a lot more settled here at the Malibu Hills estate now that two weeks have gone by. I begin each new day with staring into the portable mirror that’s leaning against the rustic wood-paneled wall inside my shoebox-sized room, wondering with ample discontent why it is, that no matter how much I hike, bike ride or lift weights inside the fitness room on the premises, I do not seem to lose one ounce? Ironically, I appear even heavier.

Miss Vanity:
We got to tackle this.

Hot Shot:
That flab’s gotta go.

Terrified, I join a prestigious health club on Pacific Coast Highway called
Pacific Gym
this afternoon.

It’s morning, two weeks after having joined the gym. I purchase a day ticket to the testosterone mansion
World Gym
for even more inspiration. During the workout, I sense Lustania getting all fidgety, when hoards of buff guys show off their “Mister Universe” exteriors within my reach. Sven, an attractive, tall, blond fellow from Sweden who is by far not as buff as the others, seems impressed by the way I handle the machinery. He engages me in a dialogue that leads to a lunch date at the health food joint around the corner.

Romy:
The touch of machismo suits his otherwise gentle approach.

“Do you use steroids to grow your muscles?” I inquire, while we sit across from each other.

“I inject myself about twice a day,” he admits.

Hot Shot:
That’s so cool. What a man!

We sleep together after two more times of hanging out. The sex contents me and improves with each additional encounter.