Sunday in Suburbia, in Hooker Heels

Yesterday I played domesticated cat: a call from The Boy and I hit Home Depot for rakes and pool poles for his palace, my means of bribing him to stay up later than his usual Wall Street, EST hours.

In strip-mall suburbia right off the beach, a man welcomes me to the neighborhood.

“Nice dress, mammi!”

“Thank you, sexy,” I call after him, strapping tighter the belt on my leopard-print corduroy trench coat, click-clacking into the warehouse in black peep-show-toed, Lucite-heeled pumps. I see a salesman, and I zoom in, with a businessman’s mind to save time. “Where are the rakes?”

“They are right there.” He points to the aisle just behind me.

“But I need help finding the best.” I smile, I finger my belt, I cock my head, coy. “And I don’t know what is what.”

“All right.” He climbs down his ladder, and escorts me to a rack of rakes, and I pick out a couple.

“And I also need a hoe,” I say. “But not a girl.”

He chuckles, and hands me one.

“This is the Rolls Royce of hoes? You’re sure?”

He laughs again. “Anything else?”

“An axe.”

He blinks at me. “What size? For what?”

“A large tree. Or ex-husband.”

He pauses, brain digesting my chatter like an over-baked meat loaf, then leans back and laughs. I trail him ’round the warehouse, until he hands me an axe, a pool pole, and then arranges them like flowers in a vase in a dirty orange cart. I thank him, my conversation a curtsey, and I drive off my cart in sixth gear, screeching to a stop at the self-check-out.

Men and a few women in dirty shorts and T’s look amused as I squeal while I almost drop the yard equipment that’s mostly taller than me, scanning bar codes, swiping my plastic money with my own dude’s name on it, only pausing when I see an apron’ed teenage boy.

“Can you help me out?” I smile, I blink my triple-mascara-coated lashes, I’m seeing the benefits of being less a Kristopher and more a prissy Krissy in my speech. “I’ll likely break something otherwise.”

He walks me out, my knight in the parking lot of slow moving dragons of mini-vans, and my ditz becomes less fun and more serious. “I forgot where I parked… I have a Mini Cooper, by the way.”

He clears his throat.

“Jay kay! Just kidding. It’s a coupe.”

He laughs, polite: I am the cute, crazy, kept woman now.

After stuffing my car with the yard gear, he directs me to the Pacific Coast Highway, avoiding “south”s and “west”s for “left”s and “right”s in Chickalese, and I cruise through a hill of cookie-cutter homes before being dumped on the coast, onto a quiet road to The Boy’s Italiano villa, “The Castle,” I call it.

I show The Boy the receipt. “I’m the best assistant that never worked for you.”

“Thanks, honey.” He perky pecks me on my pout, Lucy-Desi style. “All right, here’s your drug money.” And he counts cash to pay me back, and I think how this scene matches my hooker heels and smoked-out eyes and the neon pink and black lingerie beneath my trench coat.

The Boy takes us to take-out, and 15 minutes later we sit in his dining room, overlooking the coast of Los Angeles glittering like little diamonds in middle-class marriage rings, eating dirty Mexican food.

I undress myself for dessert. “That’s nice,” says The Boy. And we bounce into his bed–

And he proceeds to pass out while working, reading words about numbers.

It was a nice Sunday break, but–

No fucking-thank-you for marriage.

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