Escape to La La Land
By: Jessika Lakin
Tags: Divorce, Relationships, Fiction, This Happened To Me, Dating

“Jessy Poo!!” Operation Escape to La La Land was in full swing.

“Spegma!”

Peg, the only person in the world who called me Jessy Poo, waited outside of security at Hollywood Burbank Airport. My fellow passengers stared at us, perhaps because my nickname for my former college roommate and sorority sister ran anathema to the blond woman they saw dressed head-to-toe in Burberry.

We were in our late teens when I coined the nickname Spegma because of its similarity to Sigma, one of the Greek letters in our sorority’s name at KU. But if I was honest, I loved Spegma because of its resemblance to smegma, an otherwise gross word used to describe body secretions down there.

“How was your flight?”

“A little too turbulent for my liking, but I’m here now and ready for a glass of wine, or maybe a whole bottle!”

Seeing Peg reminded me of another college-era joke about butt-sweat, a phrase we used in response to anything remotely awkward or sexual.

“Hey, what do you think about the new waiter downstairs?”

“Girl, he really makes my butt swear.”

Or, “How did your oral final go in Astronomy?”

“I totally froze up and had to take the written test or settle with a C.”

“Yikes, that’s gotta make your butt sweat!”

We’d double over laughing uncontrollably, not because the phrase made any real sense but because it was so idiotic, silly, and inappropriate. A mutual friend and fellow sorority sister celebrated our goofiness one Christmas by taking two Suave deodorant sticks and taping them together side-by-side. A homemade label instructed users to apply in any instance of social awkwardness, sexual awakening, or academic anxiety.

Twenty years after college, I still think like a twelve-year-old. No wonder Lorraine says I’m too immature to serve as a director. Whatever. Screw her and screw Align Orthopedics. I’m in Southern California free of corporate politics — and parental responsibility — for the next five nights.

“How did your lunch date go?” Peg asked.

“Peter really makes my butt sweat,” I said.

“You’re so immature,” she said.

“Thank you.”

We loaded my bags into the back of Peg’s Mercedes S-Class Coupe. Its electronics and interior made my 3-Series BMW look second-class. Peg had come from money as a kid and leveraged her upbringing into a high-level income with Apple. The woman had all the luck when it came to business.

Her success in love, on the other hand, left her wanting.

“Any word from Michelle, lately?” I asked.

“I’ve stopped all communication with her. I just can’t deal with it right now, Jess. Even with medication, she’s highly unstable.”

“But, the divorce is final, right?”

“It is…been complete since last month.”

Peg met her second wife in New York as a first-year law student at Columbia. They shared Midwestern roots and moved to Manhattan in their mid-twenties to live among more likeminded people than what they grew up within their separate families back home in Kansas.

Michelle lost her mind somewhere in the transition to the Pacific Coast three years earlier. She completed law school before the move but struggled to find work or pass the California Bar for whatever reason. Peg initially thought her wife struggled with self-doubt or low self-esteem. However, a year into their new lives in Santa Monica revealed Michelle’s struggle with mental illness, possibly Borderline Personality Disorder.

In two separate instances, she had tried to harm Peg, who had enough confidence and self-preservation to say, “enough.” She moved out the previous January right around when I shared a hotel room with Katrina discussing Flynn’s supposed love for me.

“Have you eaten yet?” Peg asked.

“Do the limes in my gin and tonic count?

“Only if you’re doing Paleo.”

“I’m starving. What do you have in mind?”

“There’s a Chinese place just down the street from my house. Let’s swing in there for takeout.”

“You want the extra fortune cookie?” Peg asked. We had inhaled generous portions of moo shoo pork and beef with broccoli on top of crab rangoons and a spicy tuna roll, all of it chased down by plum wine.

“Are you kidding? I’m too stuffed to move.”

“I’ll save it for tomorrow.”

“Speaking of which, what’s the plan? You’re hosting Thanksgiving, right? Who all’s coming over.”

“Diane, Paula, our new friend, Vivien, plus Chase. Diane’s boyfriend, Charlie.”

“I thought you said she was into girls.”

“Nope, not anymore, not since meeting Charlie.”

“Hmm. Okay, then.”

“Yeah, so they’ll all start arriving around noon on Thursday. We’re responsible for the bird, stuffing, and potatoes, but they’re bringing apps, sides, and dessert.”

“Have you ever cooked a turkey before?”

“Nope, but I’m going to learn.”

“I’d love the honors if you’re okay relinquishing poultry authority.”

“Consider it done. Now tell me — because we got sidetracked talking about Michelle — how was lunch with your new guy? Beyond ‘making your butt sweat.’”

“He’s Latinx, maybe five, nine.”

“Whoa, that’s kinda short for you, isn’t it?”

“Peg, I don’t care if he’s five, seven. If he’s stable in the income department, then that’s huge.”

“Okay, go on.”

“He said something about being fat.”

“About you?”

“No.”

He’s overweight, then?”

“No, I mean he trains for triathlons, but he talked about not ordering what he’d like or that he’d balloon up or something. And he brought it a couple of times. I wondered if he maybe he was bulimic or something. Guys do that, too, right?”

“I’m sure he was joking…probably nervous.”

“Nervous? About having lunch with me?”

“You’re a catch. And don’t give me that look, either. Do you know how people act self-deprecating when they’re nervous or feeling a little insecure? You don’t see it, and that’s part of your charm, but maybe he was trying to be funny or cool.”

“I don’t know how Peter would feel that way about himself. He’s pretty hot.”

“Why’s he getting a divorce?”

“Grew apart, I think. Peter’s wife sounds like a bit of a nut job.”

“I think a lot of men say that about women…for what it’s worth.”

“Fair, but technically…you said the same thing about Michelle.”

Peg’s eyes opened wide.

“Sorry. Too close to home? You know I’m just giving you shit,” I said.

“Ha. Ha.”

“Well, overall, it was a great lunch. I’m excited to see him again.”

“I’m excited for you,” Peg said, rising to clear the takeout containers. “I don’t know about you, but I am exhausted. What time you want to get up tomorrow?”

“Eight?”

“Eight works for me if the two-hour time difference in Texas doesn’t make you too tired come morning. We can head out to get any last-minute items like wine or whatnot. The turkey’s thawing in the fridge already. Then we can head over to this bar in Hollywood that I think you’ll like.”

“Peg, thanks for inviting me out for a holiday this year.”

“Aww, Jessy Poo. I love you and would do anything for you.” Peg gave me a hug that I was long overdue for with all of the past three months’ stress and disappointment.

“Love you too. See you in the morning.”

“Night.”

I made my way to the guest bedroom decorated in shades of cream and dusty mauve. A lace table runner covered an antique dresser’s length while a quilt sewn from myriad pastel swatches hung over the end of an iron-framed bed. The room with its farm-house style felt familiar yet out of place in Peg’s English Tudor home nestled in Sherman Oaks. It seemed you could take the girl away from Kansas, but you couldn’t take Kansas out of the girl.

Purring sounds interrupted my unpacking. Coco, Peg’s long-term pet, weaved itself through my legs, reminding me to take an allergy pill.

“Sorry, cat. You’re not my type,” I said, but Coco didn’t care. It was almost as if she knew I didn’t like her. It made her want my attention all the more.

“Shoo, you’re not welcome here, no matter how cute your owner thinks you are,” I said as I pulled on my pajama bottoms.

Coco took her cue to leave the room. I closed the room behind her and slipped into bed for my first night of vacation.