I was dumped over the phone by the man I’ve been dating for several months. I’d never had such an abrupt, hostile break up. He just hung up like a pissed off fourth grader. Said he didn’t want to talk anymore. That he’s done. Then he never spoke to me again.
My friends assumed there’s something dishonest about his abrupt, mean behavior. Perhaps he simply fell in love with someone else, or at least started fucking someone else. It would make reasonable logical sense to jettison the stripper for a nice girl with a headshot. Being discarded abruptly sort of feels being like being hit by a train:
A woman was carrying a one year-old girl when she was struck by a train in the North Chicago train station.
I wanted a different ending so I emailed. I called. I tried to get him to talk to me; I considered him a friend. We could part amicably. Wrong.
Warning bells and lights were going off and the train blew its horn when the woman crossed.
I wanted badly to cut his heart out and feed it to vultures, because it would be great material for my comedy act, and I could upstage him, but instead, I gave the saddest man in West Hollywood a hand job for a couple greenbacks.
After the crash happened, she was declared dead at the scene. She was 34.
Seriously, I wasn’t in the mood. But when I’m not in the mood, my clients can’t get enough of me.
Whenever I’m broke and need the money, I wait by the phone for clients to book appointments, there’s nothing but crickets.
When I’m anxious and depressed, my phone rings nonstop.
This particular night, it was Bill from New York, who lives in West Hollywood near Sweetzer. I hadn’t showered and I was nearly out of massage oil, but I showed up anyway, half an hour late.
A tall white guy in shorts waved from a balcony from an apartment building. He had a wine glass in his hand. He buzzed me in and met me in the lobby. He could have been anywhere between 25 and 40.
“Do you want to ride the elevator or take the stairs?” he asked. My shoes were at least six inches high.
“Elevator,” I said.
The button lit up when he pushed it. We waited a couple minutes.
“The stairs are faster, he said,” then the elevator arrived. We stepped inside. I’ve been to many generic hollywood apartment buildings like this with too many cooking smells from too many kitchens. His apartment was at the end of a hall. It had a balcony overlooking an empty courtyard. It was a big place with at least two bedrooms.
Once inside, I put my purse on the table. He stood next to me and leaned into me, close, and tucked his head in the space between my chin and collar bone. His hair was soft and red.
“Do you live here alone?” I asked. He didn’t move his head. I held him and put my hand on his head. He moved into my skin where the train had hit.
“Yes, but I have a daughter,” He said.
“Where is she?” I asked.
“Albequerque,” he said. His blue eyes were steady and clear. I hoped he couldn’t tell that I hadn’t showered.
“Is that where you’re from?” The easy chit-chat of the heavy hearted served as smoke to hide the fact that I didn’t want to be there. But, I was too sad not to be there.
“I’m from New York,” he said.
“Why’d you move here?” I asked. He picked up a glass that had red wine in it. He drank.
“I got a job on a horrible reality TV show.” He watched me remove my jacket, throw it on the table next to my purse and keys.
There were empty goblets of red wine on stark white tables. TV screens and computers were on in every room to fill the void.
He handed me some twenties, which I counted and tucked into my purse. Two hundred.
In the room with the bookcase there was a baseball game on the TV. He kept hugging me, like I was the last human on Earth. He led me down a hallway.
“Are these your photographs?” I asked. There were black and white photos against the wall.
“These ones are,” he said pointing to two photos: a woman on a beach with her black hair blowing in the wind behind her as she stared out ahead and one of the ocean with the title “Catalina.” They were lovely melancholic prints framed tastefully.
“Is that what you do?”
“Not anymore,” he said. He’d accepted the reality TV show paycheck but he wanted to take moody photographs. It was the collective soul-sucking, LA tragedy.
His bed was huge and everything was soft and white. Neat bed frame and white comforter, expensive down pillows, to cushion the blow of profound disappointment.
He had Freckles. He watched me get undressed. I massaged his back and his cock, but, no matter what I did, I couldn’t get him hard.
“Been drinking a bit today?”
He wanted to eat my pussy so I let him for a couple minutes while the baseball game played on the huge TV. I was afraid that I tasted like depo provera chemicals, the birth control that’s a shot. He looked up.
“You just got sad. What happened?” He said.
“I went on birth control for someone I’m not with anymore. It makes me bleed black and I hope you can’t taste it. It’s kind of chemical-tasting.”
“I just want you here,” he said.
The realization that he didn’t know me at all and this was the first time he’d ever met me and he would never know my real name-hit me hard. He turned onto his belly. I massaged him with the oil and lay my body on top of his, and moved fingers through his hair, brushed my lips against his ear.
“It’s okay,” I whispered in his ear. “It happens to everyone in LA.”
“Don’t worry about getting me off,” he said and fell asleep.
25 responses
I don’t understand why “his head was a big place with at least two bedrooms.”
Actually, “it” was a big place. His head was where it belonged.
And I love this. It’s real. Raw. Human. Very well done.
Awesome essay, Antonia.
hahaha. i thought the exact same thing as neil. now i can’t stop laughing. i love antonia! i’m sorry if the laughter is at any way at her expense! i love you and your columns, antonia! but you gotta admit, it’s funny.
“Only connect.”
Only we can’t.
Such a lonely species, us.
Anther awesome piece, Antonia. I love the intro with the train crash bits. Really well done.
So pleased that the Rumpus and I are of the same opinion: Antonia’s work is outstanding. I especially love the juxtaposition of the Chicago train wreck news with her own story; brilliant. Her writing draws me in and holds me. The editor part of me (that used to be my day job) wants to reply to Neil that the antecedent for “it” is actually two paragraphs up, where the word “apartment” appears; and to mention to Antonia that technically he’s correct, it should appear in the previous sentence. But I think this is a clear case of logic. 🙂
I love the scattering of details with action. Great writing, Antonia.
“It happens to everyone in LA,” could be the response to a variety of questions. So cool to see your blog reprinted here in the Rumpus.
Beautiful. Thank you. And as for the way the guy broke up with you: men can be dicks.
Thanks you guys. I will correct the typo mentioned above. Men can totally be dicks. Case in point, but the point is to feel the fuck out of life, right?
Antonia,
Fantastic! This piece breathes, oozes uncomfortable humanity and reflects the tedious ticking of our mortality clock. You’re a great writer. Thank you.
A profound loneliness here, a comfort between those who have failed to connect, but still feel the urgent need to be with someone, perhaps anyone. Expertly done.
Antonia, your writing is getting better and better. I felt like I was reading a novel for a moment. Please keep it up.
Thanks Hannah, Tina, Patrick, Aaron, Jeff, Nick, Arron, Jim, jeff, Tina and everyone else.
I’m filled with gratitude by your thoughtful remarks. So much good writing is missing awkward, messy sex. Why is that?
The writers I love who do it well (Steve Almond, Rob Roberge, Kati Arnoldi)do it in a way that’s extremely personal-which is embarrassing, messy, sticky and usually involves a Kiddie pool, handy wipe or garlic breath. I was a bit scared when Stephen wanted to run this blog entry. There are more risks I can take with it, but you’ll have to wait for me to get the balls.
The assumption is that sex workers are robotic and shallow but I think just because someone is paying me-doesn’t mean the exchange is void of meaning and humanity.
Aces from Moses.
Do sex workers like to be called sex workers? There is one sex worker where I live, but we just call her BJ Betty.
Antonia wrote, “I think just because someone is paying me-doesn’t mean the exchange is void of meaning and humanity.” Love that. I get paid to write and it often is void of meaning and humanity. Is there a message here?
Some people feel shit and some people don’t. Before being Black or Filipino, a dyke, or a former foster kid, or a commie, or anything else I’m a writer. I think same goes for you Crane. Before being a fox, or a sex worker, or an athelete, a girlfriend, or a really good friend that says a lot of the right things, you’re a writer. It’s so obvious here. Writers feel shit. Oh and
“I wanted badly to cut his heart out and feed it to vultures, because it would be great material for my comedy act, and I could upstage him, but instead, I gave the saddest man in West Hollywood a hand job for a couple greenbacks.” Mmmmmmm perfect. Start cutting home girl. On paper. Write it. Cut and feed little confetti pieces of his heart to cute tiny baby birds and watch them die and feel bad for the birds and write about that. Just don’t stop. You’re too good.
No writes more evocatively about loneliness. I echo Aaron and others above
Good writing, pared to the bone, whittled to a fine point, raw emotion in plain language, momentum, yeah…
I dont get it….
Antonia, your writing always makes me feel like you’re in my head. The way you write about the void and the loneliness that we all experience makes your essays universal, even though we haven’t necessarily walked in your shoes. Brava, chica.
Again, Antonia, thanks. “But, I was too sad not to be there.” This line just kills me, I get it so deeply.
Hi Antonia. I came here by way of researching the other writers who will be appearing with my friend and long-ago colleague Stevie Weevekins at the MOR Monday night. The garish headline drew me in. And now you have a new fan. So if you’ll excuse me, I have some Googling of Antonia Crane to do.
Really great.
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