The Trickster Diaries/Chapter 29
Peet’s Coffeehouse. Downtown Beverly Hills. 7AM the next morning. I didn’t say anything, but looking at Shana now I realized she’d planned to stay the night all along. Why else would she have brought fresh cargo shorts, a tie-dye polo, boots, underwear? But I loved the fact her method of seduction was turned on its head the second she learned about my eye problems. She flowed with every changing moment, with every subtle shift in the energetic current.
She held her latte in both hands, table level.
Me: So, we’ll pick up tools at the greenhouse, buy the shit in West L.A., do the job, return the tools, throw the trash in the dumpster…
Shana: And then, if you want… wait, you’re going to Joshua Tree?
Me: Uh huh.
Shana: Why? Just come home… shit, my boyfriend. (Pause) Just come home with me. My parents are away. Maybe he won’t come over.
Me: Or just come with me to the desert.
Shana: OK, you’re going to think I’m like this total Valley Chick, but I hate camping.
Me: It isn’t… camping, exactly. It’s getting away from the city, the noise, congestion. It’s, you know, a nature thing.
Shana: I hate nature.
It was so funny I nearly spit out my espresso.
Quite unexpectedly, Bill, our coworker, was at the greenhouse when we arrived. So now Bill knew about us, or suspected. Bill knew and Don knew which meant 28 others would know by the end of the day.
It was an easy job. $250 smackeroos in each our pockets. When we finally got back to Don’s so Shana could get her car the question of who was going where and why was still undecided.
Shana: (Shyly, sensually, almost in a whisper) See, Robert, thing is, I want to make love with you again, in my bedroom, in my parent’s house…
Me: But you’re afraid your boyfriend… just call him. Tell him something’s come up.
Shana: He’d know. I’m the worst liar.
Me: Do you secretly want me to meet him?
Her eyes suddenly widened. She took a step back and put her fingertips to her mouth. “Do I?! Oh shit. Maybe I do. But it isn’t to make anybody jealous…”
Me: You need a visual comparison. Or a behavioral comparison. Or both. I get it. OK, contingency plan: let me throw my tent and stuff in my car and I’ll follow you.
So the boyfriend—a “bad boy,” (tats, shaved head, ultra trim black goatee, gold chain, tight white Fruit o’ the Loom tank, baggy-ass black ankle length shorts, Nikes)—shows, while Shana’s in the shower. And I’m thinking—no, I KNOW—she’s gonna come outta there wearing a black negligee, smelling like a whore, without even the slightest clue that I’m no longer the only man in the house.
That or she’s timed everything just so. And jealousy IS a motive. And she’s the BEST worst liar…
Either way I’m stuck.
Either way I’m a fool for having broken my connection with The Spirit.