Maybe the Moon

it right away.”
    Her hand fluttered to rest on her bosom as she stared at me in genuine horror. “That is the worst thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
    “It’s just a theory.”
    “Well, it’s a dumb one. People are impressed that I room with you. Especially after I tell them who you were.”
    Were . Get it? Sometimes she makes me sound like the Norma Desmond of elfdom.
    “I just meant,” I explained calmly, “that some guys might think of you as encumbered.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “You know. That you and I are a unit.”
    She gave a girlish little gasp. “Lesbians?”
    “No, sweetie.” I chuckled.
    “Then what?”
    “I don’t know.” This was getting muddier by the minute. “I just hope people realize you’re a free agent. I mean…free to go your own way.”
    Now she looked utterly stricken.
    “What is it?” I asked.
    “You want me to move out?”
    I just shook my head and smiled at her.
    “Well, it sounded like it.”
    “You’re such a mess,” I said.
    Renee’s lower lip plumped like a pillow. “Well, you are too.”
    Both of us, I think, were greatly relieved.

    Since that night a lot has happened. A check arrived from the cellulite people the following day, just barely enabling me to pay off the dentist and my other bad checks. Apparently they are going to air the infomercial—in a matter of weeks, they claim—so I’m bracing myself for the endless replay of this indignity. I can’t even justify it as exposure, since all you see are two fat little legs sticking out from under a Mylar and Styrofoam jar. Renee is beside herself, of course, and is currently alerting the planet.
    The money will buy me time, at least, so I’ve embarked on a program of self-improvement in preparation for taking a meeting with Arnie Green. Yeah, I called him, and Renee knows all about it. That’s why I’m stretched out here on the air mattress, cram-tanning like crazy in the thinnest coat of baby oil, in spite of everything I’ve ever heard about the ozone layer and melanomas and all that. It’s also the reason I’m doing the Cher Diet, if the truth be known. I said I was doing it for myself, but I’m not; I’m doing it for Arnie Green, an alte kaker with hair in his ears.
    If you’re not totally disgusted yet, try this on for size: I’m making an outfit for Arnie Green. I work on it in the morning when I’m watching Joan Rivers. I was doing just that today, in fact, when I saw that fucking yellow ribbon on my lamppost. The outfit is black-and-white satin, very Dynasty , like something Alexis would wear to a board meeting. That kind of eighties retro drag would be downright embarrassing in Leonard’s office, but it might be right up ol’ Arn’s alley.
    It better be. I’ve made a hat to go with it.

3
    I T’S LATE AND I’ M POOPED, BUT I’ M WORKING AGAIN . T HE temptation is to blow off the diary, since I’d like nothing better than to climb out of this sticky costume and into a hot bath. On the other hand, I haven’t written in almost two weeks, and there’s all sorts of stuff to tell you. I’m afraid I’ll forget the important details if I don’t get some of them down. Since Renee has just rewarded me with a cup of cocoa, I’ll put the sugar rush to work and do my best to tell you about my meeting with Arnie Green.
    I lost almost five pounds in the ten days I gave myself to get in shape. That’s pretty dramatic for me. It didn’t do much for my thighs, of course, but it gave me a lot more energy and made my cheekbones pop out again. Renee hennaed my hair the night before the interview, and I spent two hours on makeup, paying special attention to my eyes. Everyone tells me they’re my strongest feature—emerald green with flecks of warm brown, sultry but reassuring. When I was a teenager in Baker, I used to study them for hours in the mirror, imagining how the rest of such a pretty girl might look.
    Arnie Green’s office was in North Hollywood. I made an eight-thirty appointment with him so we’d both be fresh andRenee could take me there before she went to work. As the first client of the day, I’d also avoid the gut-wrenching chitchat of the waiting room, which was easy enough to imagine, even though I’d never been to the office. I’d be stuck there with all the others, twiddling my thumbs in quiet agony while some bleached-out accordion player bragged to me about her recent triumphal come-back at the Amway convention. Who needs that kind of stress?
    We