YOU KNOW YOU'VE slept around a lot when you walk into your bank and see someone you've had sex with on a life-size poster for "Small Business Loans."
I have this really bad habit of lying compulsively when I drink. The thing is, it's never about anything I need to lie about. Sure, sometimes it's necessary to lie to get out of going to someone's party; sometimes we lie to avoid hurting people's feelings. Lying about your father inventing voice-mail is a whole different ball of wax.
I once dated a guy for a couple of hours. I met him at a bar called El Dorado and managed to whisk him away after last call. He was a cutie and I wanted him in a bad way. He was funny, smart, and interesting-and mentioned something about spending every weekend in Mexico at an orphanage he had started.
When we were leaving, he hesitated about coming back to my place. This guy was playing hard to get, and I liked it. Fortunately, that act didn't last long, and we were soon on our way back to my apartment, which was conveniently located around the corner.
The sex was above average, and I was thrilled because I really liked this guy and knew it would only get better. Then the next morning he rolled over and asked, "So, does your dad actually own American Airlines?"
I looked at him, bewildered. It took me about thirty seconds to connect the dots. I turned over so that I wasn't facing him and cringed. I would never be able to see this guy again. Great, I thought. Another guy I'll never get to know.
"Yeah," I said hesitantly. "Why? Do you want to go somewhere?" It would be easier never to return his phone calls than to fess up to being completely certifiable. I had to end it right there and, in turn, teach myself a valuable lesson: No lying while drinking. A normal person would have decided to stop lying completely. I decided to restrict myself to lying only when I was sober.
Cut to a couple of months later when I met this guy whose name I can't remember for the life of me. Let's call him Mike. There were a bunch of Mikes, so he was probably one of them.
I had a lot of free time because Ivory and Lydia were both dating guys and spending every minute with them. Normally I wouldn't have had a problem with this, but a month earlier, for my twenty-fifth birthday, the two of them had told every person invited to get me a vibrator. Ivory and Lydia were acting like they had never been through a dry spell before. True, it had been a good four months since a real relationship or any sex, but I was trying not to focus on the time frame.
Getting one vibrator at your birthday party is kind of funny; getting twelve is not. First of all, everyone completely ignored the fact that I was registered at Tom's Liquor's. Second, how many vibrators does a girl really need? All it takes is one. What I am going to do, double-team myself?
I was working at a little breakfast place in Pacific Palisades at the time. Sometimes after work I would go to the Starbucks around the corner and read. I ran into him a couple times with his friend, and we did some heavy flirting. I was dying for it to lead to some heavy petting, but I was careful not to act desperate. This guy was right up my alley. He had dark hair and an adorable face, and was very well built.
He looked like a cross between Tom Cruise and the Hulk. He was doing construction part-time at someone's house while trying to make it as an actor. The acting thing bugged me but wasn't a deal breaker. To compensate, I conjured up images of him one day owning his own construction company, bossing people around in a hard hat. While clearly this wasn't going to be a serious relationship, I definitely wanted him to take advantage of me.
On our third meeting, he finally asked if I wanted to "grab some chow." That's construction lingo for dinner. I remember blushing uncontrollably, which does not go with my personality at all. He kept telling me I was blushing, which made me blush even more. Guys love when you blush. I've tried to blush on cue but can never do it when pressured.
We went for sushi somewhere in Los Feliz. He was staying with a friend of his who was out of town, he told me. She was letting him crash until he found a place.
We had a couple of hot sakes and split two large Sapporos. I picked up the tab because I felt bad for him being a struggling actor. I don't know what I was thinking since I was working under the table at a restaurant three mornings a week to supplement my $311 weekly unemployment check. In addition to my addiction to alcohol, it seems I suffer from delusions of grandeur.
I invited myself back to his place. He accepted. I followed behind his gold Ford Pinto in my Toyota Echo. Talk about two losers.
We kibitzed while looking at his friend's artwork and pictures. They must have been really close because his family pictures were all over the place. He said she had been gone awhile shooting a movie, so he kind of made the place his own. It never occurred to me to be suspicious, probably because I wasn't auditioning him for a recurring role in my vagina. I knew I might see him again, but we were not going to become an item. It also never occurred to me that anyone lied as much as I did. If I had been interested in anything more than penetration, the Pinto would have sent me reeling back to reality.
I left soon after the sex because the bed was uncomfortable and I prefer to do my walks of shame in the evening, when it's not so bright.
We went out again a couple more times and got along pretty well. I even ended up sleeping over once-because I had one gin and juice too many. You may have noticed by now that I enjoy a plethora of different libations. I'm an egalitarian that way. I don't play favorites.
Our last night together, Mike and I went bowling, and I had one of my accidents. I picked a ball that was too small for my fingers and upon trying to release the ball into the lane-for what I fantasized to be a strike-the ball stayed on my hand and took me down with it. I did a complete somersault, rolling across the slippery wooden lane, ending up in the gutter. Every employee was at my service within seconds, for fear of a lawsuit. Mike and I laughed about it, but I could tell there was a part of him that was scared for me.
After that night together, things started to get a little awkward between us. I felt like I was growing to like him, that we were starting to feel like a couple. I left and didn't speak to him for a couple of days. I wanted to call him but resisted the urge. I didn't want to fall in love with a construction person/actor/Pinto driver.
I finally gave in and called him a week later. He got off the phone quickly and didn't call me back until the next day. Forget it, I thought. I wasn't interested in tracking someone down. I'd seen my friends survive relationships like that, and it looked so unappealing and time-consuming. That was quality time they could have spent drinking.
I had never mentioned to Mike that I worked part-time as a waitress, so you can imagine my surprise when, a few days later, I saw him walk into my restaurant with a gorgeous brunette who could easily guarantee my elimination in a swimsuit contest. Shit.
It was eleven-thirty in the morning and I was the last waitress left before the lunch girls came in. I could not believe Mike was sitting at a table that I was going to have to wait on. The only other option was to walk out, drive home, and never speak to another person from that restaurant again. Unless I could devise some scheme that involved a relative dying.
My mind raced as I considered my options. Even if a relative had died, there was no reason I couldn't physically wait on a table until someone showed up to relieve me. It was all too complicated. Also, the owner of the place had done me a huge favor by paying me under the table, so I couldn't possibly bail on her. I thought maybe I could have the busboy wait on Mike, or maybe the cook, but they all laughed at me when I asked. I didn't know if they were laughing because it was the first time they had seen me in a frenzy, or because they didn't speak English and thought I was telling a joke.
I had to think of something. Going over and introducing myself was not an option. I had to find another way.
Then I got an idea. It was simple. I would not be me. He didn't know that I worked here. I would just be someone who looked a lot like me. I would be my own twin sister. Yes! I could do this. I could pull this off. Why not? He didn't know anything about me. I could have a twin sister.
I walked over with a bounce in my step.
"Hi, guys," I said sweetly. "Can I get you a couple of drinks?"
The color immediately ran out of his face. Probably into mine.
"Hi," he said with terrified recognition. I kept repeating the same thought in my head. I do not know this guy. I do not. I have never seen him before in my life.
"Hi," I answered. "Can I get you any drinks?"
Silence. He was just staring at me. And now she was staring at me too.
I will not give up on my plan, I thought.
"Drinks?" I asked again. Come on, nut bag, play along! I was helping him out of an uncomfortable situation too.
"Um, yeah. I'll take a coffee and, honey, what would you like?" he asked his little muffinhead.
"I'll take a coffee too please," she replied.
"Okeydoke, I'll be right back," I said with the gayest smile ever. I had become a cute, bubbly waitress with a positive disposition. I had just used the word "okeydoke" in a sentence.
The rest of the meal went pretty much the same way-me acting insane but all the time reacting to Mike as if be was the insane one. Every time he looked at me, I just looked back at him with big, crazy eyes as if wondering why this weirdo kept staring at me. Judging by the pallid, green color of his face, he was starting to feel sick. It was nice taking on the role of a friendly do-gooder waitress. I had never been so pleasant to customers before. It almost felt gratifying. I would have to look into that more later.
And so it continued. When the bill finally came, Mike ended up leaving me a 25 percent tip. I wondered if that was a result of his guilt or because of my sunny disposition. He left with his girlfriend, who smiled and waved good-bye. She was nice. I felt bad that she was dating someone who was a complete liar.
About twenty minutes later I was counting my money, getting ready to close out, and thinking about the irony of having paid for this guy's dinner a couple weeks earlier. What an idiot I was. Then, suddenly, I heard his voice.
" Chelsea." Oh, shit. It was Mike. Alone. I spun around to answer before it hit me that I was no longer Chelsea. Panicking, I squinted my eyes to intimate confusion. "Are you speaking to me?" I said.
"I'm really sorry," he said.
"About what?" I asked, acting puzzled.
"About what just happened," he said. "I mean, yes, we're living together, but it's not-"
This is where it gets good.
"Okay," I said. "I need to stop you. I am not Chelsea. I know you've been looking at me very funny, but I'm not her. She's my twin sister. I don't know how you know her or what, but I have no idea who you are." Then I said ever so sweetly, "I'm really sorry."
Silence.
He stared for a bit. "Okay, this is really strange," he said. "You look exactly like her. I mean, exactly."
"Well, we're twins. That can happen with twins."
"So, what is your name?" he asked.
I hadn't prepared for that. What shall I name myself? I thought. All the names of people I'd been involved with started flooding my head. Unfortunately, none of them were girls.
"Kelsea," I blurted out.
"Chelsea and Kelsea?" he asked.
"You should meet our parents." I laughed. I quickly wondered if Chelsea had ever told him about our real parents. Then I reminded myself that I was Chelsea.
"This is unbelievable, you guys are identical!"
I nodded.
"But seriously, you look exactly alike."
Now he was getting on my nerves. Hadn't he ever seen twins before?
"Wait, why didn't she ever tell me she had a twin sister?" he said.
"I don't know, how do you know her?"
"We kind of um… well, we…"
I interjected. "Let me guess, you slept with her?"
"Oh." He felt stupid.
"Yeah, well, Chelsea pretty much sleeps with everyone."
"What?" He was appalled.
"Yeah, she's a real hoo-ha. This happens to me all the time. Men think I'm her."
"Does she do this all the time?"
I sighed. Hadn't I just said that? "Pretty much."
"You mean, she just sleeps with different guys all the time?"
"Afraid so. You should probably get tested."
Silence.
About five seconds passed before Mike sprinted out the door. He didn't even say good-bye, which I thought a bit rude.
"Should I tell her you stopped by?" I yelled after him.
"No."
He was gone.
About two years later I walked into my branch of Bank of America and saw his face plastered on their latest billboard for small business loans. It took me about ten good minutes to figure out how I knew this guy. I wondered if Bank of America would give me a small personal loan for having slept with their poster boy. I wondered if they would give me a small personal loan for sleeping with one of their tellers. I really needed a loan.