2:27 p.m. - 2005-06-05
David Rant
"Could It Be I'm Falling In Love?" was playing when he finally woke up. I had positioned myself nearby. Drowsily, he checked me out, sauntered over and nodded towards the floor. That was it. No "Would you like to dance?" or even "How 'bout it?". Just a nod, and rather an arrogant nod at that. No smile, no hungry eyes. Just a disinterested smirk and a nod towards the floor. He had alot of fancy dance moves considering his appearance. The other guys were all aiming for John Travolta in "Saturday Night Fever". He looked uncontrived and rather out of place. Were it not for his prowess on the floor, I would have suspected he had stopped in for a quick nap. He watched other girls as I danced with him. I did my little special step and he was watching some skinny girl in shiny, stretch pants. I caught the eye of the keyboardist, who was flirting like crazy. It went unnoticed. So I did that spin thing, but his eyes were on a raven beauty with long, long hair and a shirt full of cartoon characters. He never said a word, but as the song ended he kept right on dancing and so did I. He never bought me a drink. In fact, he went to the bar at intervals to get himself a glass of water so as to avoid having to tip. Basically, we danced until closing time, 1:30 a.m. Outside, he said "Howdy, I'm David". "Howdy?", I thought. I hadn't ever been addressed quite that way. He invited me back to his place and, knowing nothing of risk and being more than intrigued, I said "okay". I was surprised to find he had no car waiting in the parking lot (or even at all). His friend had driven him to the club and, once inside, they had gone their separate ways. David settled into the passenger seat of my VW bug and directed me towards Hollywood. His apartment was just off Fairfax, across the street from CBS Studios. I didn't know what to expect, but was completely unprepared for what I found. The apartment building had maybe four units and was older, but appeared well kept. The Fairfax district was mostly Jewish and known for being a safe neighborhood. We parked and I followed him upstairs. The first thing I noticed as he opened the door was a dim glow coming from the kitchen. I discovered that the stove burners had been left on simmer, so as not to violate the Shabbat when cooking on Saturday. The next thing I couldn't help noticing was a plump, gray haired woman in a tattered chenille robe yelling at the top of her lungs in a language I did not recognize, but would later learn was Yiddish. David calmly took a small spiral notebook from his back pocket and began to write. He offered no explanation or response to either me or the hysterical woman who turned out to be his mother. He did not appear embarassed or in any particular hurry to leave. He simply scribbled in the notebook, ignoring us both. Finally, he got up to leave and motioned for me to join him, much like he had motioned for me to dance with him earlier that evening. Apparently, she spoke some English, because she yelled out the window as we disappeared into the night, "Why don't you just finish her off?" My face turned red in the streetlamp. Outside, I asked to see what David had written and, betraying no trace of embarassment, he produced several pages of unintelligible pencil markings. He then told me that both his mother and father had been in concentration camps. His mother had been in line to die several times, but had been taken out of line because she was known to be a hard working seamstress and the Nazis apparently had need of her services. She was pregnant with his older sister, Rochelle, when the war ended. His father also survived a separate concentration camp and moved the family to safety in the Fairfax district of Los Angeles. He set up shop as a tailor. David was the second child, followed a couple of years later by his sister, Toby. His father died of a heart attack when David was only eight. He grew up in a house with three women, which did not do him any good. His mother and two sisters kept constant vigil on all his activities, including routine trips to the bathroom. In order to maintain some semblance of privacy, David learned to lie. He became well versed in the art of subterfuge and found himself lying about almost everything. Growing up in a strictly Kosher home, he first lied about the pepperoni and cheese pizza he tried at Taco Tah, a stand on the corner of Oakwood and Beverly. Next, he lied about the nasty magazines he stole from the newstand on Fairfax and Rosewood. He lied about the ballet tights that belonged to his sister, but that he liked to try on when no one was home. He lied about the money that disappeared from his mother's purse. He lied about where he went on the bus and eventually the adult bookstores he frequented as a teenager with his fake ID. He lied about his height and his middle name and the weather and what he watched on t.v. and his astrological sign and who was his favorite Beatle and his shoe size and whether or not he liked the rain. He lied about anything he ever was asked. He made up a former girlfriend and drove me crazy with comparisons. He had me trying to outdo a mirage for his affections. But let me tell you that, without a doubt, David gave me more attention than I had ever had in my entire life. He followed me virtually everywhere. He would wait in the car like a cocker spaniel while I went about the business of school, work, etc. He would follow me into the bathroom if I let him. He talked to me constantly and used double negatives, which I found really disturbing. He pronounced words all wrong, like "punography" and "manafacturer". And he talked about himself in the third person, which really made me nuts. If we were in an argument, he would say in an exaggerated, snotty tone, "Oh, I see. It's okay for you to do whatever, but DAVID is not 'posed to. David is 'posed to do whatever YOU say". He had lots of time on his hands which he devoted only to me. Basically his only job was being was paid by his mother's apartment manager under the table to paint walls and hang new drapes when someone moved out. Lucky for him, he may not have had much to offer in the eyes of the world, but the very thing he had was the very thing I wanted most. Attention. I was the center of his world. He fit the job description surreptitiously programmed into me by my unwitting and appropriately horrified parents. But I was surprisingly content. Some nights, I would literally fall asleep with my fingers pressed tight against my ears so as to block out the incessant chatter that made me feel loved and seen. He effectively slayed that dragon of invisibility that had pursued me all my life. And I loved him for it. That first May 4th we spent together, which was his birthday, I purchased on credit a 24 carat gold medallion with the bull that identified him as a Taurus on the front. I paid extra to have the back incribed to read, "Only The Beginning" (from my favorite Chicago song). And it really WAS only the beginning. David spent most of his time at my place. He tolerated my son, but having had no experience with kids, except for being a pretty messed up one himself,he was much too immature and needy to play dad. I'm ashamed to say that mostly I pretended not to notice, although sometimes I would unsuccessfully attempt to endear them to one another. In my photo album, I wrote under their picture, "Oil and Vinegar". I intended it to be funny, but looking back, but knew that it wasn't. David never officially moved in. It happened flannel shirt by denim shirt, Grateful Dead album by Who album. One day, he was there to stay. Our first Christmas together was truly magical. Being Jewish, David had never trimmed a tree and appreciated it in a way I had forgotten. He made wreaths out of extra branches and decorated the whole duplex apartment with elves and glittery ornaments. I took a picture of him holding my son up to place a star high on the treetop. There were genuine smiles that first year. On my birthday, David presented me with a tiny glass and pewter box that looked antique. Inside, I found a pinch of coffee grounds, a safety pin and some uncooked rice. Adept at ascribing the meaning I desired to any event, I interpreted this to mean that he wanted to marry me. Rice could only mean a wedding and coffee, well, couldn't you just see us married and enjoying coffee together first thing in the morning? And the safety pin? Well, maybe Fred had been the one who was infertile. Maybe I would one day magically produce a spitting image of this quirky guy who saw me without make-up, spoke up for me when my parents were disrespectful and even pled my case at the college English department when there was a grade dispute. Double negatives and all. And we won. David championed my every cause, called me daily at work just to play the theme from "Green Acres" because it made me laugh and, most importantly, he obviously could not get enough of me. So what if he was unemployable, a pathological liar and kind of kinky around the edges? I registered on his radar. Big time.
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