inches of her increasingly wobbly limbs, back toward the stage. I kept one arm around her waist and waved the other at Bass. I caught his eye, and he gave me a little upward nod as he sang.
No, I was not saying hi.
I ran through a mental list of universal gestures and only came up with the finger across the throat, meaning kill it or death. I combined that with a finger toward Tiki and a nod toward Howard and the brunette. Repeatedly. Until he finally understood and wrapped up the song a few verses early. My apologies to the disappointed girls, but Tiki was getting heavy and it is a pretty long song.
“Hey, thanks, guys,” he said into the microphone over what should have been enough screams and applause to shake Tiki back into sobriety. No such luck. I held her up while he put down someone’s guitar and jumped off the stage toward me.
“Is she okay?”
“God, I’m fine. Just let go of me. I need to talk to Howard.”
“Got it. Let’s get her out of here. But make it look normal. I don’t want Howard to think she’s a mess.” So in the most dignified way that we knew how, Bass and I each put an arm around Tiki and escorted her past Howard into the night. As we passed the bar, Bass laughed, too loud. “You’re right, this is kind of lame. Where’s the other party?”
When we got outside, we let Tiki take a break on the grass for a bit. I had a bad feeling about her nice white sheet on that damp grass. And she no longer looked hot at all. We stood and watched as she cried, the streetlight making her look even more tragic than she was. “Okay, I’m fine now, just let me go back in. I’ll be cool. I just want him to know how much I miss him . . .”
“No chance.” Bass pulled her up and put his arm around her waist and started walking back to the dorm. He turned back to me. “A little help?”
We made it back to our room and deposited Tiki on her bed. Bass went to his room and got her a bottle of water and waited while she drank it. “Just let me go to sleep . . .” Tiki passed out as I struggled to move her under the covers.
“Our work here is done.”
“Thank you. You going back out with Tammy?” The eternal question:
What is wrong with me?
“No. I’m going back out with Buddy.” He turned to leave and stopped. “Wanna come?”
“Can I change?” I suddenly felt like an idiot in my super-mini toga. These things really only work in a large group.
“I insist.”
Back in my fashion comfort zone, I headed out into the night with Bass and Buddy. It was completely dark except for the streetlights. They were the old-fashioned kind, painted black, that let out a dull light. Exactly the right amount of light.
“Do you do this every night?”
“Save drunk girls from humiliating themselves? Most nights.”
“The walking.”
“I do. Buddy needs a lot of exercise or he tears up my room. Plus I like to be out here. I’m like a night watchman. During the day I check in on the trees. Somebody’s got to do it.”
“You have different trees out here. Like those old maples on Eastman Court. And the little cluster of weeping willows behind the Stata Center? Everything’s different here than in L.A.”
“I bet. For one, I hear people don’t walk in L.A.”
“We don’t. We like our cars. And the leaves don’t change. Which I guess is fine because I like palm trees just the way they are. But here it’s sort of dynamic. Like every day you wake up and the weather’s a little different, the light’s a little different. It keeps you on your toes.”
“That’s my favorite part.” We walked past the dorms and back toward the party. We could hear the muffled sounds of the band inside. Buddy stopped to sniff something, and we sat down on a bench to wait. This is the thing about walking a dog: You are really not on your own schedule at all. I wondered at the temperament of someone who could spend so much of his day at the whim of his dog’s nose.
“You’d like L.A. The people are
No, I was not saying hi.
I ran through a mental list of universal gestures and only came up with the finger across the throat, meaning kill it or death. I combined that with a finger toward Tiki and a nod toward Howard and the brunette. Repeatedly. Until he finally understood and wrapped up the song a few verses early. My apologies to the disappointed girls, but Tiki was getting heavy and it is a pretty long song.
“Hey, thanks, guys,” he said into the microphone over what should have been enough screams and applause to shake Tiki back into sobriety. No such luck. I held her up while he put down someone’s guitar and jumped off the stage toward me.
“Is she okay?”
“God, I’m fine. Just let go of me. I need to talk to Howard.”
“Got it. Let’s get her out of here. But make it look normal. I don’t want Howard to think she’s a mess.” So in the most dignified way that we knew how, Bass and I each put an arm around Tiki and escorted her past Howard into the night. As we passed the bar, Bass laughed, too loud. “You’re right, this is kind of lame. Where’s the other party?”
When we got outside, we let Tiki take a break on the grass for a bit. I had a bad feeling about her nice white sheet on that damp grass. And she no longer looked hot at all. We stood and watched as she cried, the streetlight making her look even more tragic than she was. “Okay, I’m fine now, just let me go back in. I’ll be cool. I just want him to know how much I miss him . . .”
“No chance.” Bass pulled her up and put his arm around her waist and started walking back to the dorm. He turned back to me. “A little help?”
We made it back to our room and deposited Tiki on her bed. Bass went to his room and got her a bottle of water and waited while she drank it. “Just let me go to sleep . . .” Tiki passed out as I struggled to move her under the covers.
“Our work here is done.”
“Thank you. You going back out with Tammy?” The eternal question:
What is wrong with me?
“No. I’m going back out with Buddy.” He turned to leave and stopped. “Wanna come?”
“Can I change?” I suddenly felt like an idiot in my super-mini toga. These things really only work in a large group.
“I insist.”
Back in my fashion comfort zone, I headed out into the night with Bass and Buddy. It was completely dark except for the streetlights. They were the old-fashioned kind, painted black, that let out a dull light. Exactly the right amount of light.
“Do you do this every night?”
“Save drunk girls from humiliating themselves? Most nights.”
“The walking.”
“I do. Buddy needs a lot of exercise or he tears up my room. Plus I like to be out here. I’m like a night watchman. During the day I check in on the trees. Somebody’s got to do it.”
“You have different trees out here. Like those old maples on Eastman Court. And the little cluster of weeping willows behind the Stata Center? Everything’s different here than in L.A.”
“I bet. For one, I hear people don’t walk in L.A.”
“We don’t. We like our cars. And the leaves don’t change. Which I guess is fine because I like palm trees just the way they are. But here it’s sort of dynamic. Like every day you wake up and the weather’s a little different, the light’s a little different. It keeps you on your toes.”
“That’s my favorite part.” We walked past the dorms and back toward the party. We could hear the muffled sounds of the band inside. Buddy stopped to sniff something, and we sat down on a bench to wait. This is the thing about walking a dog: You are really not on your own schedule at all. I wondered at the temperament of someone who could spend so much of his day at the whim of his dog’s nose.
“You’d like L.A. The people are
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