be happy. And what were the chances of Solberg having a friend anyway?
Feeling crazy and alone, I finally phoned Elaine and invited her to a movie. She agreed. Apparently, she didn’t have more than a couple other offers to turn down since Solberg had become her main squeeze. I shuddered at the thought and eyed her across the table.
We were in Fosselman’s, my post-theater feeding grounds, and my favorite ice cream parlor in the universe. The little brick structure had been built in 1919 when Alhambra was probably a cow town instead of a squished annex of West Coast insanity. I’d like to think it’s the stained-glass lights and historic ambience that draws me to it, but it might just be the butterfat content of its desserts.
“So what’d you think of the movie?” I asked. Hugh Jackman had been the box office draw. He’d taken off his shirt on more than one occasion. It had been something of a spiritual experience for me.
“I don’t know.” Elaine shrugged and fiddled with her lemon sorbet. Its calorie content probably ran into the negatives. “I thought the supporting characters were a little lackluster.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, and wondered what the hell supporting characters had to do with Hugh Jackman’s naked chest.
“And some of Hugh’s lines were a little flat. For a hundred and ten million, you’d think he could have given a more inspired performance.”
“A hundred and ten mil,” I said, masticating thoughtfully. “For that kind of money he should have been able to take off his pants, too.”
She gave me a smile. I almost winced at the pathetic effort—talk about a lackluster performance.
I didn’t want to broach the topic, but I couldn’t avoid it any longer. “About Solberg, Elaine, I—”
She glanced up suddenly. “Hey. Did I tell you I’m going out with the ice cream guy?”
I shifted gears rustily. “The ice cream guy?” I echoed.
She bobbed her head. A young man stood behind the glass counter. He couldn’t have yet reached his twenty-third birthday, but he wore the expression typical of every male who wanders across Laney Butterfield’s path—a twisted meld of wistful hope and goofy adoration.
“You know the ice cream guy?” I asked.
“I think his name is Andy.” She didn’t bother to glance his way. He shuffled from foot to foot, studiously ignoring his patrons. I’d seen the syndrome a hundred times, but it never failed to fascinate me.
“And you met Andy . . . ?”
“Couple minutes ago,” she said, “while you were ordering.”
“Uh-huh.” I shoveled in the last of the whipped cream and reminded myself I did not hate her, even though I was pretty sure young Andy would have the kind of stamina that would put Secretariat to shame. “Approximately how old do you think Andy is?”
She shrugged. “Age only matters if you’re a perishable food product.”
“Are you sure?”
“It was a line in a play I auditioned for once.”
“Uh-huh. ’Cuz sometimes I feel like a banana.”
She gave me another smile. I felt my heart sink. I had asked her out in an attempt to convince myself that she wasn’t all that fond of Solberg—probably didn’t even really like him. Maybe she was just attached to his car. He had a hell of a car.
She took a minuscule bite of sorbet, then pushed it aside. “You ready to go?”
“You didn’t finish your . . .” I glanced at it. “Ice.”
“I’m full.”
“Sure. You probably had lots of air today,” I said, and rose to my feet before I asked if I could finish her dessert. I didn’t like sorbet. But I had once eaten a full bag of Cheetos in a single sitting. I hate Cheetos.
Seconds later, I was sliding onto the passenger seat of Laney’s vintage Mustang. It was primo, but it took a buttload of upkeep, or so said my idiot brothers. As it turns out, though, upkeep is no problem for Elaine. She has a herd of seventy-two grease monkeys who would give their spleens to do the work for free.
We jumped onto the San
Feeling crazy and alone, I finally phoned Elaine and invited her to a movie. She agreed. Apparently, she didn’t have more than a couple other offers to turn down since Solberg had become her main squeeze. I shuddered at the thought and eyed her across the table.
We were in Fosselman’s, my post-theater feeding grounds, and my favorite ice cream parlor in the universe. The little brick structure had been built in 1919 when Alhambra was probably a cow town instead of a squished annex of West Coast insanity. I’d like to think it’s the stained-glass lights and historic ambience that draws me to it, but it might just be the butterfat content of its desserts.
“So what’d you think of the movie?” I asked. Hugh Jackman had been the box office draw. He’d taken off his shirt on more than one occasion. It had been something of a spiritual experience for me.
“I don’t know.” Elaine shrugged and fiddled with her lemon sorbet. Its calorie content probably ran into the negatives. “I thought the supporting characters were a little lackluster.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, and wondered what the hell supporting characters had to do with Hugh Jackman’s naked chest.
“And some of Hugh’s lines were a little flat. For a hundred and ten million, you’d think he could have given a more inspired performance.”
“A hundred and ten mil,” I said, masticating thoughtfully. “For that kind of money he should have been able to take off his pants, too.”
She gave me a smile. I almost winced at the pathetic effort—talk about a lackluster performance.
I didn’t want to broach the topic, but I couldn’t avoid it any longer. “About Solberg, Elaine, I—”
She glanced up suddenly. “Hey. Did I tell you I’m going out with the ice cream guy?”
I shifted gears rustily. “The ice cream guy?” I echoed.
She bobbed her head. A young man stood behind the glass counter. He couldn’t have yet reached his twenty-third birthday, but he wore the expression typical of every male who wanders across Laney Butterfield’s path—a twisted meld of wistful hope and goofy adoration.
“You know the ice cream guy?” I asked.
“I think his name is Andy.” She didn’t bother to glance his way. He shuffled from foot to foot, studiously ignoring his patrons. I’d seen the syndrome a hundred times, but it never failed to fascinate me.
“And you met Andy . . . ?”
“Couple minutes ago,” she said, “while you were ordering.”
“Uh-huh.” I shoveled in the last of the whipped cream and reminded myself I did not hate her, even though I was pretty sure young Andy would have the kind of stamina that would put Secretariat to shame. “Approximately how old do you think Andy is?”
She shrugged. “Age only matters if you’re a perishable food product.”
“Are you sure?”
“It was a line in a play I auditioned for once.”
“Uh-huh. ’Cuz sometimes I feel like a banana.”
She gave me another smile. I felt my heart sink. I had asked her out in an attempt to convince myself that she wasn’t all that fond of Solberg—probably didn’t even really like him. Maybe she was just attached to his car. He had a hell of a car.
She took a minuscule bite of sorbet, then pushed it aside. “You ready to go?”
“You didn’t finish your . . .” I glanced at it. “Ice.”
“I’m full.”
“Sure. You probably had lots of air today,” I said, and rose to my feet before I asked if I could finish her dessert. I didn’t like sorbet. But I had once eaten a full bag of Cheetos in a single sitting. I hate Cheetos.
Seconds later, I was sliding onto the passenger seat of Laney’s vintage Mustang. It was primo, but it took a buttload of upkeep, or so said my idiot brothers. As it turns out, though, upkeep is no problem for Elaine. She has a herd of seventy-two grease monkeys who would give their spleens to do the work for free.
We jumped onto the San
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