Oakdale

“Don’t you have everything you have ever wanted?” Rebecca glances at Mike’s reflection in the mirror and dabs at the white powder under her nose with a makeup pad, failing to be discreet.

Even though Mike can easily afford his wife’s Cocaine addition, it still grates at him. Sure, a thousand-dollar bottle of Scotch is easily justified, but drugs just aren’t his style. At least, not the hard stuff.

“Why would you want to change even one small detail of your superb life? I don’t think a shrink will help you, at all, Michael. Especially not Saul.” Rebecca spurts out his friend’s name like it is a bitter taste on her tongue.

Something must have happened to cause Rebecca to dislike Saul, but Mike hasn’t figured that out. Yet. Mike is eager to see his closest California friend, Saul Goldman. He and Rebecca met Saul and his wife Lisette two years ago at a dolphin rescue fundraiser in Malibu; they hit it off right away. With a shared respect for fine women and Whiskey, Mike and Saul became fast friends.

Last year, after Danny died, Saul offered to meet with Mike, as a friend, not a psychiatrist. Mike passed on the offer at that time; he didn’t think he needed to discuss Danny to get over his death.

Both couples look forward to the yearly Christmas Eve event held at the Friedman mansion. The $1,000-per-plate black-tie fundraiser attracts the creme de la crème. Plied with expensive champaign and the pressure of their peers watching, the attendees donate over $500,000 yearly for various college funds. It is the rare gala-goer who helps with the second part: distributing those funds to low-income families in the Los Angeles area.

Black mascara coats long, full eyelashes and Rebecca returns to swipe at her lashes for the third time. Sparkling gold powder makes her blue eyes stand out, even in the dressing room lights.

“I really wish you wouldn’t do that before the party. You know I hate how you behave on that shit.”

“Whatever do you mean, Michael, darling?” The squint in her eyes does not go unnoticed.

“Come on, Bec. You know what I mean. Don’t you have better ways to spend my money?” The second the words fall out of his mouth, Mike cringes.

“I thought we had gotten past this,” Rebecca huffs as she turns to face her husband. “Do we seriously need to have this conversation tonight? It bores me. As you very well know, I came into this marriage with plenty of my own money. I worked my ass off for years to make my millions. Where do you get off telling me what I can and can’t buy?”

“You haven’t worked in a year. That makes the coke you just snorted mine.” Go big or go home, Michael thinks to himself. Why does it feel so good to push her buttons, lately? We’ve moved past the days of trying to be nice; now we just bicker.

“Fuck you, Michael.”

Mike’s eyebrows raise and his chin lowers as he waits for a thorough tongue-lashing. Nothing. Rebecca rolls her eyes and turns back to the mirror and continues to primp.

That was too easy.

As much as Mike enjoys a good squabble with his wife, there is no point continuing this conversation; it’s almost as old as their marriage. Mike’s money versus Rebecca’s money. His money not being “real” because he didn’t earn it. Who has more, who came into the marriage with more, who wastes more? Good thing Mike’s lawyer suggested a pre-nup.

“If you want to know the truth, I think you need to finish getting dressed, accompany me to the Friedman’s fundraiser, spend a shit-ton of money on a great cause, smile, laugh, get drunk, then,” a squeak of her chair brings a frown to Rebecca’s flawless complexion as she stands to face her husband. “Come home and make love to your gorgeous wife. You know, the usual.”

Bright red lipstick highlights plump lips as Rebecca blows Mike a kiss and raises her hand to cup his cheek, her fingernail polish is an exact match.

Lyrics from his favorite Bon Jovi song about a painted smile and blood-red nails come to mind. Wonder how much that costs?

“Zip me, please,” Rebecca requests before she turns to face the mirror, again. Her long blonde hair is in a stylish up-do without a single strand out of place. Diamond earrings dangle from Rebecca’s lobes as she finishes primping herself to perfection.

Creamy white, silky soft skin is exposed under a gold satin floor-length cocktail dress with a split that ends just below her hip. The color is a perfect match to Rebecca’s shimmering La Praire eyeshadow.

Through the tension growing in his pants, Mike groans as he raises the zipper from his wife’s ample hips to the nape of her long neck. The orange-blossom-and-vanilla aroma of Hermes 24 Faubourg rises to meet Mike’s nose. It is unlike Rebecca to wear the ‘cheap’ perfume to such an event.

Teeth scrape the ridge of his wife’s bare shoulder as Mike lets out a telling moan and his hands fall with gripping fingers, to her hips. Rebecca becomes wild in the sack when she’s high, the only good thing about her extracurricular habit.

Before he has a chance to pull her close, Rebecca scoots away and turns toward him with a scowl. Each luscious curve is obvious under the thin dress, leaving little to the imagination. The dress exposes more skin than Mike likes. He should be the only man to see this much of his wife’s body in public.

Implants from a plastic surgeon, one shared by Hollywood stars, of course, have allowed her perky C-cups to stretch the fabric to the limit. She hardly ever wears a bra, not that she needs to, and tonight is no exception.

“Do you know how long it has taken to reach this level of perfection? There is no way I am going to let you mess up one single part of this,” Rebecca’s hands glide up her sides, then float toward the floor.

“Aw, come on Bec. Just a quickie? I promise I won’t mess up your top half.” Mike winks as he takes a step forward and reaches for her. His pants grow tighter by the second.

“No!” Rebecca knits her eyebrows and swats at his hands, denying him their traditional pre-party romp. “And stop calling me that. It shows your roots.”

“Well, if that didn’t just ruin the mood.” Mike turns toward the bed where his jacket to complete his ensemble is laid out. “Great, thanks, Bec.” He emphasizes the nickname to irk her.

“The mood was ruined the moment you opened your mouth, Michael.”

Mike lowers himself to the footstool at the end of the bed and leans his elbows on his knees. With coat and tie in place, he waits patiently for his bride to finish getting ready. Collar-length, usually shaggy but slicked back for the evening, his dirty blond hair is stiff with styling product. If he were being honest, Mike loathes even this level of disingenuity.

Thoughts of Danny run through his mind. The days of skipping school and stealing beers from the local grocery store in Oakdale are still known as the “good ole days”. They would sneak out of Danny’s basement bedroom to hang out with older kids at least once every weekend.

Twice, the group found a way to break into the high school so they could change grades in the teacher’s books. Red and blue lights flashed outside the window one night while they rearranged the desks in one classroom. Small-town cops have a way of ignoring petty crime, especially when your best friend is the Police Captain’s son.

“Look, Michael,” Rebecca’s honeyed voice interrupts his thoughts. “I know what today represents for you and I’m sorry. But it has been a year, after all. Let’s go have fun tonight and drink away all of your bad memories. You need to let it go.”

“It’s not that easy. Rebecca. I’ve tried drowning my sorrows. It doesn’t work.”

=====

Mike grasps Rebecca’s outstretched hand and assists her as she exits the limo. Cameras flash from every direction to capture images of celebrities dressed to the nines. Surely the pictures will make the cover of magazines ranging from Style to People to The Enquirer. Journalists gather and repeatedly shout questions into the air, even though no one responds.

Being married to a model has its ups and downs. On occasion, this attention is exciting, a high, almost an aphrodisiac. Tonight, it is simply annoying.

Danny is at the forefront of Mike’s mind, no matter how hard he tries to shake his ghost away. It’s almost as if he is standing right there, gaping at the extraordinary size of this house. Mike can almost make out the raspy God damn, man, his best friend’s trademark phrase.

If only Mike had returned his call; if only he had known how close he was, merely three hours away. Two if he drove the Lambo. Mike closes his eyes and frowns, shaking his head to rid the sorrow. This time last year, at almost the exact time, Daniel Martin Jones was alone in a sleezy hotel room, where he decided to end his life.

What was he doing in Palm Springs, anyway?

“Michael, focus,” a shrill voice brings him back to reality. Rebecca usually reserves that tone for the help.

Movie stars, Rock Gods, models, politicians, philanthropists, and top executives from L.A. and surrounding communities join their ascent of granite stairs leading to the Friedman mansion’s front door.

Only six opportunities to break an ankle.

Mike giggles to himself at the visual of Rebecca falling flat on her ass.

What is wrong with me?

The usually brown trunks of Palm trees planted close to the long driveway are completely covered with strings of white lights, giving the impression that the trees are artificial. A faint Christmas melody streams from strategically placed speakers.

Rebecca’s hand tightens around Mike’s forearm to slow his stride. Her pace is more relaxed than most normal humans, one of many eccentricities to which Mike has grown accustomed to after their four years together. They walk side by side through the heavy wooden double doors into the foyer.

This year, the house is different.

A crystal chandelier, larger than Mike’s first car, hangs from the ceiling above his head. Swirls of golden-brown emphasize the Bocote planks that line the walls of the entrance hall.

Mike is compelled to test the theory about this type of wood, so he takes two steps to the right, leans close to the wall, and inhales. The Central American wood has a slight odor of dill pickles; it must be newly installed.

Rebecca squints her eyes and shakes her head as she lets out a long sigh, another of his wife’s habits that no longer bothers Mike.

She thinks I’m crazy or maybe just common.

Poinsettias and floral holiday arrangements cover every available space on the floor and tables lining the walls. An incredibly talented designer filled blue and silver vases and planters with a mix of seasonal greens, blue Spray Roses, white Tulips, blue Gerberas, and white Spider and Fuji Mums.

Not to be outdone by his non-Jewish friends, Menorahs and Stars of David intermingle with red bows and reindeer statues.

A giant Evergreen with decorations of white and silver stands tall in the middle of the room, the Angel at the top dressed in white with clasped hands gazes down on the guests as they enter the home. She’s so lifelike she could pass for a small child; Mike looks twice just to make sure she’s not real.

Six chandeliers, identical to the one in the entryway, dangle from the ceiling of the ballroom, reflecting light into every corner. A rare, white granite covers the floor of the expansive room with a black and grey mosaic of a lion in front of the stage.

This home must have cost a fortune to renovate; Mike researched the best building materials while redesigning his own home and easily recognizes and appreciates top quality.

Mike places his hand on the small of Rebecca’s back to guide her into the ballroom. He wonders why she tenses at the pressure. Mike follows his wife’s gaze across the ballroom directly to a stereotypical tall, dark, and handsome man.

The man that captures Rebecca’s focus walks toward them in long strides, staring at Mike’s wife like a wolf stalking prey. This is not someone Mike recognizes until she says his name.

“Mike, you remember Senator Benjamin?” Rebecca twists her hands in a rare anxious quirk while holding her voice steady. “Joe, you remember Mike?”

“Her husband,” Mike emphasizes his title while outstretching his hand.

“Of course, Mike. Great to see you, again.” The senator shakes Mike’s hand without any sense of unease.

=====

Rebecca, the queen of mingling, makes her way from model friends and their movie star husbands to the governor and his wife, then to Cher of all people. Mike glances in her direction occasionally while he visits with acquaintances. 

How does she know all these people?

“Mike,” Saul’s arrival relaxes Mike at once. He has no idea he is tense until his friend’s voice rings in his ear. “How the hell are ya?”

“Hey, Buddy.” Mike turns away from an up-and-coming jazz artist, who talks about nothing more than how to properly play the saxophone, to shake Saul’s hand. “Glad you made it. Took you long enough.”

Saul arrives fashionably late to the fundraiser and places blame on his wife; Lisette broke a heel off her favorite pair of shoes and had a semi meltdown. He called the owner of Balenciaga and talked her into an emergency meeting at the store.

“Wow. You have the owner of a Rodeo Drive shoe store on speed dial? What is this world coming to?” Mike jokes with his friend.

Saul lets out a hardy laugh and the honest smile reaches his bright green eyes. The friends settle in cozy armchairs at the outskirts of the ballroom, uninterested in the other guests. After all, the only reason they’re at this dinner is to appease their brides and to partake of the finest Whiskey in L.A. After a brief period of small talk, Mike asks the question that has held him hostage all night.

“Listen, Saul. I have a favor to ask.”

“Of course, Mike. What’s on your mind?”

“Not sure if you remember, but tonight is the one-year anniversary,” Mike’s voice trails off; he finds it difficult to find the right words and focuses on his clasped hands.

“Danny,” Saul says the only word that matters.

Mike’s head raises to meet kind, understanding eyes. “I need to talk it through. I miss my best friend more than I thought was possible. I can’t stop thinking about when Danny and I were younger, all the shit we did to make his dad angry, and the girls we would mess around with at the Falls just south of town.

“I miss his raspy voice and the way he could shoot Whiskey like no one I have ever met. He would look a woman up and down, then tilt his head, shake it, and lick his lips before asking her out. Man, he looked like a fat man eyeing up a ribeye. All signature ‘Danny’ moves.

“I need to really think about who I was when Danny and I were friends. I need to understand what was going through his head. I never told you this—hell I never told anyone,” Mike looks around the room to ensure no one overhears their conversation.

“Saul. He wrote me a letter. He didn’t give details, but from what he said, I think he was molested. I think that lead to his death. He signed off by saying he will always love me. I never said those words to him, but I should have.”

Saul nods, encouraging Mike to continue.

“I got this letter ten minutes after my mom called me to tell me that Danny died. What I don’t get is what he was doing in Palm Springs. He didn’t call me. Each time we planned on getting together, we would talk for a week beforehand to cement what we were going to do, with who, and when. I can’t shake the feeling that he wasn’t in California to see me.”

“How did that make you feel?” Saul asks in true Psychiatrist fashion.

Mike lowers his voice before continuing. “I tried all night not to break down and cry as the tears rolled down my face. I felt so cold and empty, like a lost soul out of place. Saul, I really need your help. What do I do?”

Saul takes a deep breath, leans forward, exhales, and gives his friend an honest answer from his heart. “Look, Mike. I seriously think you need to take some time and go back to Tennessee. As soon as possible. Tomorrow, even. Everyone who loves you for you is there.

“Celebrate Christmas with your mom and nephew. Since his dad is not around, I’m sure Steve would love to see you; it’s been too long. Go. Find yourself and rediscover Danny. He would want you to see your family. His family.”

Saul reassures Mike with his confidence. “When you come back, we’ll get to the root of this, together. I will make time whenever you’re ready. While you’re back home, you call me if you need to talk.” Saul nods at his friend and adds, “Promise me.”

“I promise. But tomorrow is Christmas,” Mike starts to speak but is interrupted.

“Yes, and you own a jet. You’ll go tomorrow?” Eyebrows raised; Saul expects confirmation.

Mike nods and shows his friend a thankful smile.

“Good. Now, go find your beautiful bride so we can choose a vacation package to spend loads of money building. I hear island-hopping in Greece is one of the options.”

Mike follows Saul’s advice and stands to search for his wife. Heading for the bar, he figures she is most likely talking up one of her model friends’ surgeon husbands so she can finally have her ankles “fixed,” whatever that means. The ballroom is so crowded he turns sideways to move between bodies.

Unable to locate Rebecca on the main floor, Mike climbs the carpet-covered Granite steps to the second floor. Meeting rooms, a library, and a study accompany the multiple bedrooms on the upper level. In addition to living with a large family, the Friedman’s conduct most of their business in this house.

Mike knows the rooms well; his first year in Los Angeles, he finalized some financial transactions with Glen Friedman. The study is the fourth door on the right, decorated with dark Dalbergia panels and furniture custom-made of trees from the same South African region.

Glen tells the tale about how this room was constructed each time Mike visits the house. On a nostalgic whim, he opens the familiar door to take a peek inside.

When Mike first sees his wife, he almost says “hey Bec,” but then he recognizes the activity taking place in the Friedman study. His wife straddles Senator Benjamin on the Chaise Lounge to the left of the desk.

Mike always wondered about the purpose of this piece of furniture.

With her eyes closed and head tilted back, moaning only loud enough to be heard if you tried, Rebecca whispers her lover’s name between heavy breaths.

“I love that you’re wearing my favorite scent,” Joe hisses and Rebecca leans forward to plant a long, wet, heavy kiss on the lips of the man beneath her.

The gold dress hangs perfectly over one leg, the other with muscles visibly flexing as she repeatedly raises herself, then lowers with a gasp. It would have been hot to watch a woman grind on the subject in this position while the man’s strong fingers gripped creamy smooth skin of a perfect round ass, if this wasn’t his wife.

Mike watches Rebecca fuck the Senator for what seems like an hour before he clears his throat.

The motion does not stop at Mike’s initial attempt to interrupt the passion. Joe opens his eyes, realizes who is in the room, smirks, and pulls the woman down on him. Hard. Hard enough for Rebecca to cry out and move faster, moan louder.

Joe gasps and closes his eyes as Mike closes the door.

=====

The roar of the Lamborghini’s engine echoes in the three-car garage as Mike backs out of the enclosure. Red bricks separating white bricked squares pave the way to Calle De Barco.

Sharp curves keep Mike’s anxiety in check until he reaches Hwy 1. Once on the highway, Mike heads north toward the Malibu Pier. Always busy, it’s not the best place to be alone, so he keeps driving.

A heavy foot pushes the gas pedal to the floor and lets up only to shift gears. Blue LED lights the Speedometer as the needle reaches the nine-o-clock position; just over 100 miles per hour. Mike’s heart races as he pushes just a little further. He envisions Danny sitting in the passenger seat and hears him holler “God damn, man!” At the thought, Mike smiles.

Two minutes later, he pulls a U-turn and parks on hard-packed sand beside the road at Corral Beach. Salty air reaches lungs accustomed to living near the ocean. Mike exhales and gazes out the windshield before lifting the lever on the door. The car resembles a spaceship with the doors open perpendicular to the body.

Grains of sand find their way into Mike’s shiny black shoes, so he takes them off, along with his socks, and sets them beside the car; he will shake them out later. Barefoot, Mike makes his way to the edge of the water and lets the cool waves roll over his toes. Is it the ocean or tears that wet his feet?

Plopping into the sand butt-first, Mike leans forward to rest his arms on his knees. “Danny? Are you here? Dude, I can hear your voice. I can hear your laugh. I can smell the weed you just smoked. Did you save me some?”

A sound that resembles more of a hiccup than a laugh escapes Mike’s throat. “Why did you do it, man? What the fuck? Wasn’t there any other option?”

Tears run down Mike’s cheeks as the waves of a breathing ocean break five feet from him. His head leans forward and rests on his arms as his shoulders shake from uncontrollable sobs. This is the first time Mike has really let it all out, his first honest cry for his best friend’s short life.

“I’m sorry that I left you, Danny. You should have moved out here with me; maybe you would still be here if you had. You would still be alive. Dude, I miss so much about Tennessee. I want to go back so bad, but how can I after the way I left things?

“I miss you, my mom, Pops. Lisa. Man, I still wake in the night to find her on my mind. Maybe Saul is right. Maybe I should go back. I need to reconnect with the true me.”

The ocean gets closer with each exhale; Mike knows it’s time to go home. Not just up the hill in Malibu, but his only true home. Tennessee. Now that his mind is made up, he can’t wait to set a flight plan.

Sand sticks to his feet as Mike pulls on his socks; he doesn’t care. One of the scissor doors opens with an easy push of a button, allowing Mike to gracefully fall into the bucket seat.

One hour later, Mike’s pilot is logging the flight plan. He will deal with Rebecca later. The most important thing in his life, at this moment, is getting home.

Home.