Maybe the Moon

about the rest of the room, in case you need it for set decoration. Against one wall there’s an old green corduroy sofa (where Renee is sitting), which needs reupholstering in the worst kind of way. We’ve covered the most gruesome splits with strategically positioned pillows, though God only knows who we’re fooling. The bookshelf next to it is one of those cheapo wicker numbers, the bottom two units of which are reserved for my own library: a boxed Tolkien, half a dozen recent star bios, and a book of Mapplethorpe portraits that’s so huge I peruse it only when I’m in need of serious exercise.
    The walls of the living room are painted Caribbean Coral, a shade that looks subtle and warm on the little paper strip at the hardware store but is distinctly reminiscent of a whore’s nail polish when actually applied. We both hate it and plan to redecorate one of these days, but the money just isn’t there at the moment. I’d like to try for something stark and Japanesy, but Renee seems to have her heart set on pink-and-green chintz, a Laura Ashley nightmare. I may have to be firm with her.
    There are three lights in the room—a plain brass floor lamp, a ceramic black-panther lamp with a ball-fringed shade, and a small plastic modern thing that clips onto the stereo cabinet just below the shelf where Mr. Woods lives. I bought that damned panther on an impulse five years ago at a junk shop on Melrose, mostly because my friend Jeff, who was with me at the time, said it was an extremely valuable example of fifties kitsch. Others have been less convinced. Mom wanted to toss it the moment she saw it, and Renee has seconded the motion on several occasions. I think I’m beginning to agree with them; there’s something really depressing about it.

    Later, in bed.
    Renee is in her room now, giggling on the phone with her latest squeeze, a guy named Royal she met at The Sizzler last week. She has yet to bring him around here, but I’ve got a great mental image of him already: rumpled black clothes, an iodine-colored tan, and long hair slicked back to a ratty little ponytail. Renee says he’s a Scientologist and makes his own beer, and she seems enormously impressed by both things. Sometimes I just don’t know about her.
    A little while ago she came in here and told me that I’d just bounced a check to Dr. Baughman, my dentist, for work he did three months ago. When I told her I hadn’t heard the phone ring, she looked confused for a moment, then said: “Oh…no, it didn’t. I knew about it earlier, but I didn’t wanna spoil your concentration.”
    While I was writing our opus, she meant. Now it would only spoil my sleep.
    “His helper, that girl with the big eyebrows…”
    “Wendy,” I said.
    “Right. She called me at work today.”
    I could actually feel my face turn hot. “She didn’t try here first?”
    “Well, no…I mean, she might’ve , but…”
    “She didn’t. I was here all day.”
    “Oh.”
    “In the future, Renee, would you please tell her that I’m a big girl and can handle my own finances?” Maybe this sounds a little bitchy, but I get so tired of being patronized by people who think that small means dependent. Even my own mom, may she rest in peace, pulled this shit on occasion. Once, when I was about twenty-five and we were visiting Universal, a casting director, this really hip lady who seemed to like me a lot, offered to take us to lunch at the commissary. Mom put on her best Donna Reed face and said: “That’s nice of you, thanks. I just fed her.” I didn’t say a word at the time, but I was pissed at my mother for days. How could she have made me sound so much like a hamster?
    Renee looked cowed. “She didn’t really call about you. She was confirming my appointment tomorrow.”
    “Oh.”
    “She was just…you know, killing two birds with one stone.”
    This made me feel a little better, but not much. Wendy still should’ve called me personally. “How much do I owe?” I asked.
    “Two hundred and seventy-four dollars.”
    “Shit.”
    Renee ducked her head, and I was pretty sure I knew what was coming next. “I could loan you some.”
    “No,” I said firmly. “Thanks.”
    “Maybe I should start paying rent. It isn’t really fair that…”
    “Fuck that, Renee. You do enough as it is.” I smoothed the bedclothes, reviewing the options. I’d bounced three checks in a week, and there were no reinforcements in sight. Another loan from Renee would be a temporary