councillors commit … What do they commit, for chrissake?”
“… commit calumny with calamitous consequences ,” I finished for Ham.
Dahlia pulled the wispiest layer over my head and let it cover my nose and chin.
“Hold it!” Ham shouted at Dahlia. “Do it again!”
“What, Ham?”
“Does she remind you of Hedy Lamarr or what?”
He crooked his fingers, making a perfect box, and framed my face. Like Frankie, he was seeing possibilities in me at the most inappropriate, passionate moments. I tried to rescue the Fong word game. “Heedful Hedy hides her head in a hole hollowed out of …”
That’s when a hard-bodied, graying blonde in a tightsilk T-shirt and linen shorts barged in on us from behind a rack of caftans. “Let me guess, Ham! A long-lost daughter come to collect support money?” Then she hooked her elbow around Ham’s neck, and dragged his face close enough to hers to kiss. Ham did. Long and hard. I didn’t check for tongue positions before announcing, “Hi, I’m Devi. Ham’s friend.”
Ham flinched, then let go his hold. The woman didn’t step away from him. I took Ham’s arm in an undaughterly way. The woman flicked blond bangs off her sun-aged face and, smiling, seized Ham’s free arm. “Aren’t you going to introduce an old flame to Devi?” she said.
I knew not to let her snideness rile me, but I did envy her overmuscled biceps and self-confidence.
Ham introduced the woman as Jess DuPree, the Jess of media escort agency Leave It to Me, didn’t I remember him calling her that first time I stopped by his office? Wasn’t she the one who always came through for him?
“ME,” Jess said. “Media Escort, get the pun?” She gestured towards the fitting room. “Benita Farias, the mystery writer. Needs a softer look. TV’s cruel.”
I didn’t need Madame K’s computerized crystal ball to figure out that Jess and Ham had had—probably still had—a heavy thing going. For a fiftyish woman, Jess could still turn heads. She dismissed me as the newest on Ham’s arm. I knew that because she said to Ham, “I think you’re ready for a red Miata.”
Over soba and fishcakes in Japantown I got the Jess & Ham Story, Abbreviated Edition. Yes, they’d been loversin Berkeley. They’d co-protested McNamara’s Vietnam, they’d co-organized a takeover of Sproul Hall, they’d co-lobbed rotting fruit at a motorcade that should have been escorting President YankeeStooge NguyenSlime, and for a while they’d cohabited in a commune. The commune living on Derby Street must have been as far back as in the fall of 1967, because by the spring of 1968 they’d moved on to Napa and coworshiped at Baba Lalji’s feet.
Baba Lalji?
Oh, he was a guru guy who set himself up in an ashram before going on to bigger things.
Like what, Ham? Like sex, drugs and prison time?
No, more like gunrunning and Cold War politics. Ham filled me in on Hesse and Hinduism and Holymen with funny names like God-ji and Rishi-ji who came over on tourist visas and when the visas expired founded ashrams.
Ashram?
Ham could have made a living as a teacher or a preacher. He was most inspired when he was explaining. “Devi,” he said, “think of Baba Lalji’s Napa ashram as a B and B in wine country. Pure air, great meditating, tantric fucking, holistic healing, the works, and all of it gratis!” He said he’d lost track of Jess after her abortion.
“Love and abortion in a Napa B and B?”
Ham ignored the dig. “Think Vietnam, Devi. Think big Uncle Sam fucking over bandy-legged little VCs. Think McNamara fucking over bennied-out grunts. Rent the Apocalypse Now video if you can’t think. You made your life one continuous flying fuck or you didn’t survive the times.”
“Jess had an abortion?” I was thinking, in spite of everything, I was glad Bio-Mom hadn’t.
Ham changed the subject. “You’re a cheap date,” he said. “That must be why I’ve fallen for you. The one woman who keeps me solvent.”
“… commit calumny with calamitous consequences ,” I finished for Ham.
Dahlia pulled the wispiest layer over my head and let it cover my nose and chin.
“Hold it!” Ham shouted at Dahlia. “Do it again!”
“What, Ham?”
“Does she remind you of Hedy Lamarr or what?”
He crooked his fingers, making a perfect box, and framed my face. Like Frankie, he was seeing possibilities in me at the most inappropriate, passionate moments. I tried to rescue the Fong word game. “Heedful Hedy hides her head in a hole hollowed out of …”
That’s when a hard-bodied, graying blonde in a tightsilk T-shirt and linen shorts barged in on us from behind a rack of caftans. “Let me guess, Ham! A long-lost daughter come to collect support money?” Then she hooked her elbow around Ham’s neck, and dragged his face close enough to hers to kiss. Ham did. Long and hard. I didn’t check for tongue positions before announcing, “Hi, I’m Devi. Ham’s friend.”
Ham flinched, then let go his hold. The woman didn’t step away from him. I took Ham’s arm in an undaughterly way. The woman flicked blond bangs off her sun-aged face and, smiling, seized Ham’s free arm. “Aren’t you going to introduce an old flame to Devi?” she said.
I knew not to let her snideness rile me, but I did envy her overmuscled biceps and self-confidence.
Ham introduced the woman as Jess DuPree, the Jess of media escort agency Leave It to Me, didn’t I remember him calling her that first time I stopped by his office? Wasn’t she the one who always came through for him?
“ME,” Jess said. “Media Escort, get the pun?” She gestured towards the fitting room. “Benita Farias, the mystery writer. Needs a softer look. TV’s cruel.”
I didn’t need Madame K’s computerized crystal ball to figure out that Jess and Ham had had—probably still had—a heavy thing going. For a fiftyish woman, Jess could still turn heads. She dismissed me as the newest on Ham’s arm. I knew that because she said to Ham, “I think you’re ready for a red Miata.”
Over soba and fishcakes in Japantown I got the Jess & Ham Story, Abbreviated Edition. Yes, they’d been loversin Berkeley. They’d co-protested McNamara’s Vietnam, they’d co-organized a takeover of Sproul Hall, they’d co-lobbed rotting fruit at a motorcade that should have been escorting President YankeeStooge NguyenSlime, and for a while they’d cohabited in a commune. The commune living on Derby Street must have been as far back as in the fall of 1967, because by the spring of 1968 they’d moved on to Napa and coworshiped at Baba Lalji’s feet.
Baba Lalji?
Oh, he was a guru guy who set himself up in an ashram before going on to bigger things.
Like what, Ham? Like sex, drugs and prison time?
No, more like gunrunning and Cold War politics. Ham filled me in on Hesse and Hinduism and Holymen with funny names like God-ji and Rishi-ji who came over on tourist visas and when the visas expired founded ashrams.
Ashram?
Ham could have made a living as a teacher or a preacher. He was most inspired when he was explaining. “Devi,” he said, “think of Baba Lalji’s Napa ashram as a B and B in wine country. Pure air, great meditating, tantric fucking, holistic healing, the works, and all of it gratis!” He said he’d lost track of Jess after her abortion.
“Love and abortion in a Napa B and B?”
Ham ignored the dig. “Think Vietnam, Devi. Think big Uncle Sam fucking over bandy-legged little VCs. Think McNamara fucking over bennied-out grunts. Rent the Apocalypse Now video if you can’t think. You made your life one continuous flying fuck or you didn’t survive the times.”
“Jess had an abortion?” I was thinking, in spite of everything, I was glad Bio-Mom hadn’t.
Ham changed the subject. “You’re a cheap date,” he said. “That must be why I’ve fallen for you. The one woman who keeps me solvent.”
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