Spying in High Heels

“No, an algebra test. Geez, anyone would think you’ve never been late before.”

Truth was, I hadn’t. And that’s what was scaring me even more about my predicament. Ever since my monthly visitor began arriving, I’d been twenty-eight days like clockwork. Which is why I’d panicked and left a near stalker amount of messages on my best friend’s machine. Hey, wait a minute, if she got my messages, how come she didn’t call me back?

“Why didn’t you call me back?”

Dana got that wicked smile on her face that said she was either dating someone new or about to give someone twenty push-ups.

“I wasn’t exactly alone.”

“Do I want to know who?”

“Sasha Aleksandrov,” she said, switching to a little two-step footwork in place.

“Excuse me?”

Dana giggled. Yes, grown women with 1% body fat still giggle like middle schoolers with braces when it comes to men. “He’s a Russian body contortionist. Sasha’s the bottom of the human pyramid in the Cirque Fantastique.”

I tried not to roll my eyes. Dana had an uncanny ability to pick guys who were destined for short-term relationships. “So where did you meet Mr. Pyramid Bottom?”

“Here. He came in with the Spanish trapeze artist to work out last week. I offered to show him how to use the Cybex machine. He doesn’t have them in Russia.”

“Of course not.”

“And, we hit it off. He asked if I wanted to see him perform.”

Considering the many meanings behind that statement, I’m betting Dana said yes. She never passed up an opportunity to see a muscular man “perform.”

“That’s it. I don’t want to hear any more,” I said, covering my ears. Dana giggled again.

“Okay, so how late are you?” she asked instead.

“Three days.”

“And you called me before noon for that? Honey, three days is nothing.”

“Dana, I’ve never been three days late before.”

“Lucky for you, I’ve got an emergency preggers test at home. I have one more class then we’ll go to my place and make a pitcher of margaritas while you pee on a stick. It’ll be fun, okay?”

“No. No margaritas, Dana. I can’t drink that stuff, I might be pregnant.”

At this, Dana actually abandoned her aerobics, standing perfectly still. She stared at me, her pert little mouth hanging open. “You’re not actually thinking of having a baby are you?”

Was I?

“No. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ll do if I… if… you know.”

“We see a pink line?”

“Yeah.”

“Fine. No margaritas for now. But you are so peeing tonight.”

* * *

Luckily I convinced Dana that peeing on a stick was a solo mission and left her to her Kickboxing for Seniors class. I did stop by the drugstore and pick up a test, the most embarrassing purchase of my entire life including the first time I ever bought condoms and accidentally grabbed super ribbed for her pleasure. I also purchased a Big Gulp, so by the time I pulled into the driveway of my second-story studio in Santa Monica, I was ready to pee. Physically that was. Mentally, I was a wreck.

I locked my Jeep, climbed the wooden stairs to my apartment, and let myself in, dropping the drugstore package on the kitchen counter. Despite the fact I had to pee like a racehorse, I couldn’t quite get up the courage to take the pregnancy test into the bathroom with me. Somehow now that I was faced with an entire array of IF’s, that test had become scarier than a Wes Craven movie. I mean, what if it did turn pink? Did I really want a baby? I looked around my cozy (translation: dinky) studio apartment, filled to max capacity with a fold out-futon and my sketch table. Where the hell would I even put a baby?

I guessed I’d always assumed I’d have kids someday. But even though I was closing in on thirty (and I refuse to say just how closely) someday still seemed far, far into the future. When I was more settled, domestic. Married. Oh God, would Richard think I wanted him to marry me? Did I?

I think I was hyperventilating again.

I went to the bathroom, sans stick, then checked my answering machine. No messages. Namely, no Richard. I picked up the receiver and dialed his number, waiting as it rang on the other end. His machine kicked in and I left what I thought was a relatively breezy message, considering the circumstances.

I plopped myself down on the sofa and clicked on the TV, settling for Seinfeld reruns while I waited for Richard to return my call. By Letterman, I still hadn’t heard from him. Which was annoying and also a little worrisome. He had said he’d call me tonight. And it wasn’t like Richard to ignore my messages. I tried not to freak out, instead promising myself I’d take the pregnancy test just as soon as I heard from Richard.

A promise that would soon come back to haunt me.

Chapter Two

Three days later, still no Aunt Flo. And still no Richard.

I was beginning to worry. About Richard, though the unopened pregnancy test on my kitchen counter didn’t help matters. Richard had never ignored my calls like this. Usually he checked his messages every hour on the hour, returning mine with at the very least a text messaged smiley or “hi beautiful.” Only I’d left about a gazillion messages and gotten no smileys back.

I left a second breezy message Saturday morning: Hi, how are you, guess you got too busy to call last night. At lunch I called his office, only to be bumped to voicemail. I held off calling again until almost five, when I then left another message on his voicemail, cell phone, home phone and emailed him a message full of my own smileys and “where are you?”s.

Dana intervened at that point, promising to tie my hands behind my back if I didn’t give the man a little space. She was right. I was beginning to be bunny boiling scary. So, I didn’t call all day Sunday until the time the perky newswomen on the channel two late report came on chatting about a burglary in Reseda and the day’s record highs. Then I left three more messages. Still no answer.

This was really unlike Richard. And try as I might I couldn’t shrug off the feeling that Richard’s commitment radar had somehow picked up on my lateness and he’d headed for the hills.

So, Monday morning my over active-imagination and I woke up determined to track down the MIA boyfriend. I showered, dressed in my favorite jeans, green silk sleeveless top and strappy emerald slingbacks. After a quick turn under the blow dryer and a little requisite lip-gloss, I was ready to go. It was only ten when I parked in the garage down the street from Dewy, Cheatum and Howe, but already the sidewalk was beginning to haze from the heat. Nothing like a smog layer to add a little sizzle to your July.

Two blocks and three homeless guys later, I entered the cool, air-conditioned interior of Richard’s building. Predictably, Jasmine was standing sentinel over the reception area.

“May I help you?” she asked, looking anything but helpful.

“I’m here to see Richard.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

I swear that should be this woman’s epitaph. Here lies Jasmine “do you have an appointment” Williams. May she rest in peace.

“No. But I’m sure he’ll see me if you’ll just let him know I’m here.”

“And you are?”