God-Shaped Hole

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If your intentions are pure
I'm seeking a friend
for the end
of the world

    That's all the ad said. That, plus a phone number.

    It was the biggest one under the section titled Men Seeking Women in the LA Weekly. I didn't usually even read the Weekly. I never liked going out all that much. Reading it only reminded me that I lived in L.A., and no one with any sense would want to be reminded of that. With its constant contradiction of sunshine and violence, going out in Los Angeles was like offering yourself up as a sacrifice to the god of hellfire. It just brought me down.

    But for some reason that day, I felt an urge. Was it claustrophobia of my apartment, or of the couple-hundred mile radius I helped populate? I had my suspicions. Either way, it all screamed Get me out of here!

    I picked up the Weekly right in front of the natural food market two blocks from my apartment. It was only six o'clock and I didn't feel like spending the entire evening alone, nor did I feel like succumbing to a knock on the door from Greg, my neighbor-slash-ex-boyfriend, who deep down I loathed to all hell but who also, conveniently, lived right down the hall. When he was bored he came looking for sex, and I wasn't in the mood to endure the wrestling match of my conscience versus my libido. I was feeling weak and wanted to see what my other options were.

    I was flipping the pages, looking for movie listings, when it caught my eye.

    Seeking a friend for the end ofthe world.

    I couldn't have put it better myself. Except to add one question: Where the fuck have you been all my life?

    I read the ad over a few more times and then, for some nonsensical reason I'll probably never be able to explain, I did it. I skipped the movie, went up to my apartment, and called the number. Sometimes the most consequential moments in my life originate from a state of completely witless human auto-pilot.

    After four rings an answering machine picked up and a computer-generated voice asked me to leave my name and number. It caught me off-guard. I didn't know what to say and didn't want to sound asinine. I hung up.

    Ten minutes later, after jotting down exactly what I would tell him to make myself sound enchanting, I called back and left a floundering message that wasn't even close to what was written on the Post-It note I held in my hand.

    "Uh, hi. My name's Beatrice. I'm twenty-seven years old and, well, I don't know what else to say. I saw your ad in the Weekly. I was intrigued. Call me if you want. I mean, I don't know, I've never done anything like this before but, anyway ... here's my number."

    Like I told the machine, I'd never called a personal ad before, and hadn't ever planned on calling one. As a matter of fact, I made fun of people who had to advertise for dates, and I usually prefer my own company to any old idiot, unless I'm really horny. But I wasn't too proud to admit that in a city where women choose men by the kind of car they drive, and men choose women by the size of their breasts, I'd become moderately despondent.

    I'm only a B cup.

    Besides, the ad seemed different, inspiring in a way. I asked myself if any of my former lovers would have ever thought of something that provocative to write in a personal ad, and because the answer to my question was a resounding no, I figured it was worth a shot.

    I didn't hear from anyone for almost two weeks, and I had all but forgotten about it until I answered the phone and heard his voice.

    He said, "Trixie?"

    I paused. "Do you mean ... Beatrice?"

    Chuckling a little, he said, "Isn't Trixie short for Beatrice?"

    If it was, I said, I'd sure as hell never been called it.

    I knew it was the guy from the ad as soon as he spoke. Whoever he was, that is. The tone of his voice was smooth and rich, like freshly ground coffee. And he spoke softly, deliberately, as if every word he uttered were a self-portrait.

    He told me his name was Jacob Grace, and he apologized for not calling me back sooner, although he gave no explanation as to why it took him so long. He said he was twenty-nine, that he was a writer—currently working part-time at the Weekly—and that he'd very much like to meet me as soon as possible. He said all this as if he were in pain, as if I were a lost love he never got over. Or maybe that was the dreamer in me. I try to find meaning anywhere I can. It's the only way I know how to validate my existence.

    Jacob and I arranged to meet for lunch the next day at Fred's on Vermont. It wasn't too far from where he worked, he explained. He ate there a couple times a week.

    "They have corn dogs and pop-tarts on the menu," he said boyishly.

    I asked him what he looked like, pretending I needed to know in case it was crowded. I really just wanted to make sure he wasn't some kind of Quasimodo.

    "What do you look like," he said back to me, more a statement than a question.

    "I have long black hair, and I'll wear a topaz stone around my neck."

    "You were born in November," he said. "So was I."

    "How do you know that?"

    "Topaz is the birth stone for November. I have brown hair. See you tomorrow."

Chapter Two

    I got to Fred's a few minutes early and stood outside, peering in through the slats of the wooden blinds. The place was like a time warp, with brown and yellow leather booths, caricatures of old movie stars on the walls, and vintage white toasters on every table. I'd never been to a restaurant where they let you toast your own bread. There was a jukebox in the corner, and a massive cappuccino machine behind the counter. But what really caught my eye was something on the wall. I could see it from where I was—a painting of a rocky beach with a raging sea crashing down upon it. In big letters across the front was scribed the phrase: NOT NOW.

    It was a kitschy piece of shit but something about it made my heart hurt.

    I was going to walk in and get a table, then I spotted Jacob. He was in the booth right under a bad likeness of Lauren Bacall. Don't ask me how I knew he was the guy, I just did. It was a typical spring day: warm, clear, a predictable bore, with the temperature reaching the mid-seventies, but he was wearing a black, ratty, old wool coat that looked like it had been through a war. He was smaller than I'd pictured him—a little taller than me, but he looked fragile somehow, sitting alone with his head down. He hadn't shaved that morning, I could tell because there was a hint of scruff across his delicate jaw. And his hair was brown, like he said, but a fiery brown, as if it were flecked with cinnamon. It was disheveled and still...

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from God-Shaped Hole by tiffanie debartolo. Copyright © 2002 by Tiffanie DeBartolo. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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