Babe Walker Page 2

  “So, I’m assuming I’ll be doing this project alone and completely carrying you?” I remember Christina saying to me when we were assigned as partners. See, that was the thing about her, she was always underestimating my academic capability and acting as if I were just fucking and drugging and shopping my way through school.

  “You would be assuming correctly, yes.”

  “Right,” she said putting her head down.

  “I will take no part in supporting your fascist philosophies and traditionally conservative approach.”

  “What?”

  “No. What you, Christina. Honestly.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

  Staring contest.

  She won.

  I decided the air needed to be cleared if we would ever move forward. My whole life, I’ve had to be the bigger woman, even in high school.

  “Look,” I said, “I’m sorry that you broke your wrist when I tripped you with my Kate Spade backpack at Genevieve’s eleventh birthday party. I didn’t realize we were on a deck and it looked like that fall really hurt. And I’m sorry that I called you fat in my eighth-grade graduation speech. Really, I mean it. And I’m sorry that I told your mom that you were addicted to heroin, I should never have sent her that email. Most of all, and this truly comes from the bottom of my heart, I’m sorry that you do that weird thing when you walk where you basically tiptoe around on the fronts of your feet and your body bounces up and down and your hair flips from side to side, not to mention the fact that you can’t wear skirts because this walking thing has built you such muscular and athletic thighs.”

  I knew that I’d just blown her away by offering an olive branch so I gave her a few seconds to collect herself and find the appropriate words of gratitude.

  I never got that thank-you.

  Christina basically went into a rage, which is a blur of incomplete memories at this point. I do remember, however, that after she was done screaming and throwing things at the wall, she stood there in the center of the room, having just emerged from her violent state of possession, surrounded by terrified yet fascinated students, and she farted just loud enough for every one of us to hear. I’ll never forget that sound. As hard as I try.

  “Another glass-a-wine?” the bartender said, pulling me out of my head.

  I jumped out of my seat and ran to the door. Honestly, couldn’t tell you why but I was not going to let her leave like that. I never, ever, ever think it’s a good idea to confront your demons, because you risk losing your edge, but today was different. Seeing Christina had a major emotional effect on me and my body was responding.

  “Hey!” I shouted at her across the parking lot. Christina had just hopped in her pickup truck (not clear) and was about to slam her door.

  “HEY!” I tried again.

  She stopped and looked at me again for the first time since she’d seen me and ran. I noticed now that her hair was actually cute and the weird grey areas under her eyes had been dealt with.

  Something in her face conveyed to me that she was willing to talk.

  “What the actual fuck, Christina?” I said, out of breath and annoyed from speed walking across the dusty parking lot.

  “Hi, Babe.”

  “How are you? What’s going on? Your face is much less grey than in high school; you look good.”

  “Look, Babe, I really don’t want to make a scene with you, and to be honest I’m a little embarrassed that I’ve already basically made this a scene by running out here. But I’m having a really, really tough day and the last thing I want to do is to be reminded of all of my flaws. Seeing you in here of all places just sent me to a horrible place. Something about your face makes me feel like I need to retreat, to escape, to do anything I can to survive. And I know you’re probably coming over here to say you’re grown now and you’re sorry for everything you did to me back then, et cetera, et cetera. But I just can’t do that whole thing right now. I’m not in the place for it. So, for what it’s worth, I’ll just go ahead and accept your apology. It’s all good. You can now go back to your life, which I know is very nice and fun and expensive, feeling better about yourself. You can clear your conscience of me because I just can’t take the heat right now. Not today.”

  She looked like she could cry at any moment.

  “First of all,” I said, “That was super intense. I’m, like glad that you accept my apology because I was going to start with a brief yet heartfelt acknowledgement of my past behavior. I know I did some insane shit to you and some of it was deserved and some of it was not. So I really am sorry for the stuff that you didn’t deserve. Like, you didn’t deserve to get kicked out of school that day when I said you were showing people pictures of your vagina during lunch. You never showed your vagina to anyone. I did.”

  “I know this already, but thank you.”

  “I’ve also had a really weird day that I kind of wish had never happened, and I guess I just wanted to say hi ’cause I know you and I don’t know anyone here.”

  “Okay. Then hey. Hope you’re well.”

  Christina started to close the car door.

  “Hold on,” I said grabbing the door, “don’t you wanna have a glass of wine with me?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I’m buying.”

  “I don’t care. Come on, Babe. Let go of the door.”

  “I really think we should go in there and have a super cute grown-woman moment and talk about where we’re at in our lives and how much we’ve learned and get drunk and make fun of everyone’s hair.”

  Christina didn’t say anything.

  “I’m kidding! We don’t have to make fun of people. I know that’s not on brand for you. It’s not even really that on brand for me anymore but, like, maybe a little bit, but it’s okay, we don’t have to make fun of people; I’m sure we can think of other stuff to talk about. Please, I just really don’t want to be by myself right now. It’s a long story how I ended up stranded here, which I would love to tell you all about, so just come on.”

  “I have to get home and let my dog out.”

  “You’re allergic to dogs, you don’t have a dog. Remember? I put one in your locker.”

  “Ughhhh,” she said, starting to concede.

  “Yes. Cute. Come inside, it’ll be fun. You have nothing to do right now; shut up.”

  “I don’t. So, I’ll come have one glass of wine with you but that is absolutely it.”

  “Whatever. Deal.”

  Back in the bar, we ordered our glasses of wine and sipped them awkwardly for a minute before:

  “See,” Christina started, “we do not like each other. What is the point of this?”

  “I just think we can be evolved women and share the same space without you freaking out. It will be good for us, I promise. I also just really feel like drinking and don’t do bars alone.”

  “You were in here alone before, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah, but that was a first. It was really hard. I’m fine, but it was hard.”

  “Alright. Then, um, how is your life going, Babe?”

  “It’s a constant roller coaster, you know? I have my good days and I have my shitty days.”

  “What do you do for work? Do you even work?”

  “Of course. Thank you for assuming I might have gone on to be a model or actress or some other fun job that you might not actually consider a real job, but no, I do all kinds of work. I write, I go to events for causes, I’ve started companies, I travel, I love organic juice. Yeah, I’ve been really busy.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “And you?” I said, taking a sip of my wine. It was not the same rosé I’d had before. It was even better. It was also the right color pink. Not too coral, not too red, not too salmon.

&nb
sp; “For work?”

  “Sí.”

  “I . . .”

  Okay, I have to admit right now that as soon as she started talking about her job I got distracted by this very freckly, ginger-haired woman in the corner booth of the bar (alone) who was so heavily inebriated that she was slowly removing all of her clothes. She had to be more than drunk. She also had to be more than sixty years old. One garment at a time, she got completely nude over the course of Christina explaining to me something boring about how she lives in Napa now because she inherited a wine company or something and the company is falling apart or it’s not easy or the wine is bad or I don’t know. Just couldn’t take my eyes off the show behind her.

  “That’s so crazy,” I said, finally looking at Christina.

  “Yeah. It’s been a really intense year.”

  “I bet.”

  “I’m starting to look into selling the vineyard.”

  “You own a vineyard?”

  “Yeah, did you miss that part, because that was the entire story.”

  “No, no, no. I knew that. I was just double-checking.”

  “Ah.”

  “That’s amazing. I’ve always wanted to own a vineyard and live out here and wear earth tones but chic earth tones and have relationships with all of the farmers and farmer ladies and learn about all of the different types of flowers and cactuses and grapes.”

  “That sounds like the opposite of something you’d want to do, to be honest.”

  “That’s exactly why I want to do it.”

  “Got any ideas to help me save my company?” she said with a laugh, taking a sip of wine.

  “Actually, yes, I definitely do. This is my specialty.”

  “What is?”

  “Saving people.”

  “While I highly doubt that providing a human being with anything that resembles help is your ‘specialty,’ it doesn’t even matter because this isn’t a person that needs helping ,it’s a company. It’s a business.”

  “Oooh, burn,” I said, “you still have so much hate in your heart. We’ll work on that. And while we do, I will totally consult, pro bono by the way, on how you can save your failed attempts not only at running this shitty little wine company, but also at life in general!”

  “You don’t even know what the problem is; how can you know you’ll be able to help me? See, this is the same exact Babe Walker I remember. Has to know everything. The best student. The best slut. The best dressed. The most drugs. I think you’re old enough now to realize that you’re not going to be the best at everything.”

  “You’re exactly right. Who the fuck am I to walk in here and tell you, a woman of quality whose formative years I made an ongoing episode of Locked Up Abroad, how to do her job? I am completely underestimating you and assuming that I know better just because I’m more traveled, better connected, in better shape, and take better care of my skin. Why would my vast life experience as a conscious, deliberate, and not to mention global consumer give me any grounds to believe that I might actually be able to help a dying rosé company? Why would I know what people want and what’s fun and chic and sellable? How shitty of me to assume my talents might lend themselves to your boring, pathetic plight? My bad.”

  I think I’d dragged her far enough into the depths of hell with my little speech because I could see that I broke through and her wheels were starting to turn. At this point, I think I’d made the subconscious decision to do everything in my power to prove her wrong.

  “I know you think I’m evil to the core,” I continued, “but I’m really not, I promise. I’ve done a lot of good in my life since high school. I have loving, strong relationships with important amazing people and artists now and I promise I’m not such a bitch anymore.”

  “I got to be honest, Babe, I just don’t believe that.”

  “Rude!”

  “Well, what am I supposed to think?”

  “That I’m better in every way now.”

  “You ask me to come back in here and have a drink with you, which is nice, but I know it was just so you wouldn’t have to sit alone and then when I try to share with you, share super vulnerable stories from my failing life, you don’t even try to pay attention. You’re completely in your own world still, Babe. But it’s whatever. You do you, or whatever. It was great catching up.”

  I was shocked. I was amazed. Now Christina had genuinely made me feel shitty about myself.

  “Wow!” I said, beaming.

  “What?”

  “This moment is a breakthrough!” I shouted.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You, me, this. You just made me feel bad about myself. No one ever does that, but you did. Come on, let me prove you wrong. You need to sell more wine, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And your wine company isn’t failing because you’re stupid or the wine is bad, right?”

  “I mean, no. I never thought I was stupid before, just ugly and fat and weird. Mostly thanks to you.”

  “Oops.”

  “But I think the wine is pretty good; you’re drinking it right now.”

  I looked down at my near-empty glass. This was her family’s wine? It was amazing. Easily some of the best rosé I’d ever had. Fuck! I was inspired.

  “Wow, okay, no. We’re gonna do this together. I’m gonna help you save this company.”

  “What are you talking about, Babe?”

  “I’m gonna stay here in Napa. It’s chic enough. I’ll have clothes sent out here and I’ll make it work. For a week or so.”

  “I think this is a really bad idea.”

  “I kind of agree, but I have nothing to do this week. And honestly, I owe you one.”

  “I don’t know what to say. I mean, I think you might be able to help me so I’m not gonna say no, but I also hate you still kinda.”

  “That’s fair, Christina. That’s totally fair.”

  “Oh,” she said, “by the way, I go by Tina now.”

  I looked at her and took this in.

  “No, you don’t. No one should choose to go by Tina.”

  three

  BABE: Thanx for the lift up here

  BABE: Im staying in wine country. Safe drive back to LA

  JACK (BIG PEEN): K. Can I get a BJ before I head?

  JACK (BIG PEEN): Taking a shit and leaving in 45.

  BABE: Im good

  It was one of the easiest “breakups” I’d ever had (where I actually told the guy it wasn’t going to work out). Jack wasn’t going to be the slightest bit worried about me blowing him off, or rather, I wasn’t going to be worried about him being worried about me blowing him off. I have been medically diagnosed with a below-average capacity for empathy. So, essentially, all was good in the world. My trip to “NorCal,” (I know; it’s sick. I’ll never use it again, but I felt it was appropriate just this once) had a whole new meaning. Tina needed me. Her wine business needed me. The state of California needed me. It was time to get to work.

  “Xtina” had texted me at 7:00 a.m. to tell me that her assistant, Ryan, was going to swing by my hotel to pick me up at nine. First of all, how rude is it to text someone at 7:00 a.m., unless it’s to text your coke dealer and you haven’t gone to bed yet, and you are asking her to drive to Malibu, because “drinking and driving” is completely irresponsible, plus you are going to be paying her cash, because her accountant isn’t “crazy about Venmo anymore.” Second of all . . . Ryan? So many questions about “Ryan.” Are you a chic little gay? Are you a no-bullshit lesbian with the work ethic of an ox? I was obsessed with “Ryan” and all the possibilities of who this person might be and all the potential looks this person might have. I love surprises. Actually, that’s a lie, I fucking hate surprises. Don’t ever surprise me. Seriously. It’s the worst. Mabinty once surprised me by showing up in my apartment in New York, and I
honestly choked her out. Like, I had to perform CPR.

  I’ve gotten off topic here. Had I been awake at 7:00 a.m., I would have been very angry at receiving the aforementioned text. But I was sleeping. That’s basically the middle of the night. When I did wake up at eleven, I wrote back to Tina and arranged a more suitable pickup time of 3:30 p.m. This would give me enough time to eat some coffee for breakfast, shower, take a postshower nap, get a blowout, and be waiting in the lobby for Ryan.

  Ryan was a disappointment. Heeeeeee . . . was an average-looking, average-height, average-vibed normy. I hate to sound so judgmental, but my truth is my truth is truth. He seemed uncomfortable from the moment he spotted me and walked up to me in the lobby.

  “Babe Walker, I presume?”

  “Yes. Ryan. Hey.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it that you are in fact Babe Walker. I googled you to see if I could find a picture, but it was, like, impossible to find.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I don’t do photos. I hate them. My shaman says that every time someone takes a photo of you, they also take a small piece of your soul as well. Which I think is total fucking bullshit. But there are a lot of bad photos of people out there, and soooooo many bad angles that can happen, and the Internet is relentless, so I just do an overall ‘no photo’ policy.”

  “Okay.”

  He stood there for a solid thirty seconds, awkwardly shifting his eyes between the floor and the rest of the room. Doing everything he could to avoid looking at me.

  “Okay. My car is just outside.”

  It was a Prius. Obviously.

  “So, what’s on the agenda for us on this beautiful morning?” I asked.

  “Um . . .” he said quietly, looking at the clock in the Prius, “I was told to give you a tour of our grounds and facility. It’s harvest, so should be pretty exciting to watch.”

  “Wow. Yeah, you seem, like, really, really, really excited.”

  “I am. This is my favorite part of the wine-making process.”

  “I can tell.”

  I most definitely could not tell. Ryan couldn’t have been less excited about what he was saying, but he wasn’t being sarcastic. I somehow knew that he was actually super excited about showing me around, but his lack of emotion was almost terrifying. I mean, I get it. I’m not a “bubbly” person, but Ryan was just low energy. I hated it, but also I respected it.