Fault Line Read online

  It was crazy to even think about him; he was probably a giant flirt who practiced this routine every night. As far as I knew, he could have a spice rack full of nicknames for every girl in town. The last thing I needed was to be competing with hot girls like Clove and Nutmeg.

  This guy had taken my freckles, my reddish hair—qualities I’d been embarrassed about for years—and turned them into things to praise. Maybe he was a magician, not a comic at all.

  Interesting, handsome, creative. Liked me?

  I told myself to forget about him.

  He was obviously too good to be true.

  9/25

  NOTES TO SELF:

  Kip’s election joke—tied to political events—learn from this.

  A bit about nicknames?

  Finish lab report for Friday—get notes from Charlie—like he took any.

  If a person is a part-time bandleader, is he a semi-conductor? Might work in Silicon Valley.

  Dig through my files in case I run short again.

  Work on that bit about having a father who goes to work in a tuxedo—hopefully Dad won’t mind.

  If Kip doesn’t call—when he doesn’t call—maybe run into him next Friday night at the club … .

  From the Paper Towel Dialogues of Kip Costello

  Did I blow it?

  Come on too strong?

  What if she hates Neil young, haves that song, hates nicknames?

  Could I jusf shut up and listen for once?

  There’s such a fine line between knowing what you’re doing and looking like a giant dope. I hate those guys who make it look so easy; every time I try to act that way, I sound like some kind of weirdo on a bad TV commercial. Suppose I call her and she says no … ? But we had fun; she’d probably say yes to at least one date. It’s been six months since we moved here; I’ve got to jump in sometime. Might be worth breaking open a fresh roll and writing down a few things to talk about so I don’t seem like such a knucklehead.

  I’m thinking about making a crib sheet with conversational topics to impress a girl I just met—does it get any more pathetic than that?

  Thankfully Abby was wrong.

  Kip called the next night.

  And the next and the next …

  Our first date: the restaurant was full, with an hour-and-a-half wait. Recipe for disaster, right? Instead we got take-out chicken and noodles, drove up to Twin Peaks, and ate dinner overlooking the city. The movie we wanted to see was sold out—thank God, he loves movies too—so we walked around the Mission admiring the architecture until we came across two beat-up armchairs someone had left on the curb for trash. We dragged them to the corner, where we sat on the sidewalk pretending we had remote controls, clicking them at people as they walked by. Kip’s running commentary was clever and original; my lines were nowhere near as funny, although I did interject the occasional zinger.

  Date two: Kip picked me up at Goodwill to go to the movies. He listened to me complain about the two-station radio my boss kept on all day with right-wing talk shows. A few days later when I came into work, the radio was gone and an old but still-working cd player was in its place. Harold, my boss, told me some guy skateboarded into the store and had to have the old radio, trading it for the cd player. Listening to the Flaming Lips instead of Rush Limbaugh greatly improved the quality of my work day, believe me.

  For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel like an uncoordinated loser. Usually when I couldn’t open a Ziploc bag or cd, I felt like the most incompetent person on the planet. Kip actually found my deficiency in the fine-motor-skills department endearing and smiled as he helped me conquer the many inanimate objects that confounded me throughout the day.

  I felt comfortable around him. So when my mother suggested Kip join us for dinner a few weeks into the relationship, I thought it might be fun.

  My father had spent enough time in the Ritz-Carlton’s kitchen to absorb the most intricate cooking challenges. While Kip and I sipped seltzers at the counter, Dad steamed a basket of artichokes, extracting the tender hearts for dipping in lemon butter. Before we even looked for them, linen napkins and tiny forks appeared beside our plates. Lucky for me, Mom reined herself in from using her cross-examination skills and kept the conversation polite.

  “How did you like growing up in Napa?” she asked Kip.

  “It was kind of weird,” he answered. “Very touristy, with more spas than kids. But beautiful. Harvest time especially.”

  He went into a routine about the town’s population—a strange mix of upper-middle-class and migrant workers. He compared the hardworking grape pickers to his snooty neighborhood friends, finishing up with a raucous West Side Story school dance scenario. My mother actually had to wipe the tears from her eyes.

  Kip smiled at me as if to say, “See? This is easy. There was nothing to be worried about.” I squeezed his hand under the table.

  My mother gazed around the kitchen, then jumped up and down like a two-year-old. “Have I mentioned that I love being married to someone who cooks?” She helped my father bring the food to the table. Butterflied leg of lamb, braised fennel, curried couscous, and roasted asparagus.

  “Please tell me you don’t eat like this every night,” Kip said.

  “Every night Dad’s home,” I answered.

  Mom called Christopher down for dinner. “On my nights, it’s purely mac and cheese.”

  Christopher finally came to the table, toting his usual stack of paperbacks in his Scooby-Doo pillowcase. He’d been reading since he was four and claimed the two bottom shelves in the library as his own. He was now in a serious Captain Underpants phase, and several times during dinner my mom had to put the kibosh on his colorful language. I was crazy about Christopher but had to admit he was one weird little guy. He silently checked out Kip as we ate.

  After dinner, Mom dragged Kip downstairs to show him her yard-sale video collection.

  “Charlie Chaplin, Buster Keaton, and Harold Lloyd,” Kip said. “No wonder Becky’s funny.”

  “Becky was funny before she saw these,” Mom said. “Besides, physical comedy’s not her thing.”

  “Albert Brooks—my hero,” I said.

  “I’ll drink to that.” Kip clinked my glass in a toast.

  I told him about my family’s preferred video activity—watching movies with the sound off, playing a cd in the background at the same time, looking for scenes that made sense.

  “Like the urban legend about The Wizard of Oz and Dark Side of the Moon,” Kip said. “They’re synchronized perfectly—until the cd ends, of course.”

  “That one’s a classic,” Mom said. “But it’s more fun coming up with originals.”

  “Citizen Kane and Led Zeppelin IV is my favorite,” I said.

  “Hmmmm.” Kip flipped through the stacks of videos. “How about Singin’ in the Rain with The Eminem Show?”

  Yet another reason why I was really beginning to like this guy.

  “An inspired choice,” Mom said. “Next time you’re here, let’s watch it.”

  When I was going out with Peter, I don’t think he said two sentences to my mother, and even then I believe she had to remove them from his mouth with forceps. Maybe it was from all the stage experience, but Kip seemed more confident and secure.

  When I came back into the room with coffee, my mom was asking Kip about the most embarrassing subject possible—his future.

  “I’m applying to a few different schools,” he answered. “But I’m also thinking about taking some time off to work on my act.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  I offered coffee in an effort to distract my mother from her mission.

  She ignored me and plunged ahead. “College is so important. Becky’s applying to schools with a few comedy and performing classes, but school’s the operative word, not comedy.”

  “Well, if I had her grades, I’d be applying everywhere too.”

  “Your grades aren’t good?”

  “Mom! Why don’t you ask him what he got on hi
s SATs while you’re at it?”

  She looked at him expectantly.

  “Kidding! I was kidding,” I said.

  She smiled. “So was I, Becky. Lighten up!”

  Kip finally laughed; I did too. An eternity later, Mom picked up her cup and left the room.

  “Sorry about that,” I told Kip.

  “No, she’s right. That’s important stuff.” But something in his voice had shifted, and even my best material couldn’t get it back. After his coffee, he said he had to study for a test and would call me tomorrow.

  I went back to the kitchen, stood in the doorway, and watched my parents. Kip had kissed me good night on the porch, but here were Mom and Dad really getting into it.

  “Do you mind?” I asked.

  “Oh, come on,” Mom said. “You’ve seen this a hundred times before.”

  “And it makes me sick every time.” I cut myself a leftover slice of chocolate torte. “Well, what do you think?”

  “He loved the lamb,” Dad said.

  “Besides his eating habits.”

  “He seems quite nice,” Dad continued. “More mature than Peter.”

  “Peter was a dope,” I said. “Three months of my life down the drain.”

  Thankfully neither of my parents brought up the fact that Peter had been the one to break up with me. I wanted to hear about how great Kip was, how smart and well-mannered, how funny his ideas were about our video night. The best I got was this:

  “I bet Kip’s act is good,” Mom said. “He’s very facile with words.”

  “I bring home a new boyfriend—”

  “Is that what he is? I thought you two just started seeing each other.”

  “Whatever, a new person for you to meet, and all you have to say is ‘he’s facile with words’? There’s not even another person on the planet who would use the word ‘facile’ in a sentence!”

  “I’m sure this’ll end up in one of your routines. Use it. You have my blessing.”

  I went upstairs before they started going at it again.

  Mom’s interrogation of Kip notwithstanding, the night had been a success. (Of course, compared to Dad catching Peter sneaking into the liquor cabinet to steal a bottle of rum, anything short of disaster could be counted on the plus side.)

  My mind raced toward the year ahead—a fledgling career, a new boyfriend, graduation, college. The possibilities seemed endless.

  But one item on my list of options seemed necessary, required.

  Kip.

  Pure and simple. I needed him as much as I wanted to stand onstage and make people laugh. As much as I hoped to make a career out of it.

  That much.

  Maybe even more.

  10/8

  NOTES TO SELF:

  Stop procrastinating and apply to schools already!

  Rumor—new club opening downtown? Check it out.

  Don’t be nervous about meeting Kip’s mom.

  Idea for movie tour—love stories set in San Francisco—Serendipity? No, too lame. Harold and Maude? Much better.

  Don’t be so wimpy with hecklers.

  Finally broke through on that joke about the vegetarian refusing to eat animal crackers. Kip is brilliant!

  Muzzle Mom.

  From the Paper Towel Dialogues of kip Costello

  Her parents seemed okay. I mean, her father cooking a leg of lamb? Put a leg of lamb in my father’s hand and he would have tried to club my mother with it. Dad was such a Neanderthal, the leg of lamb actually might have been a natural for him. Hey—a bit about caveman accessories—could be good.

  I couldn’t tell if her mom was trying to make me feel like a loser ov if I felt like one on my own. A little intense, or what? God, I was sweating bullets, trying not to appear like Mr. Lowest Percentile. But Becky just shines; she’s funny and smart and beautiful—like the skin box of Crayolas—all peach and brown and tan. I don’t want to scare her away by moving too fast. Hopefully her mom will let Becky off the leash soon so she can check out my place. Now, that’ll be a day when I won’t mind things moving a little faster.

  My boyfriend and I are in our own little world. But it’s okay-they know us here.

  If Abby and I averaged five laughs per minute, that ratio was nothing compared to the number of e-mails, IMs, and phone calls that passed between Kip and me over the next several weeks. My mom refrained from commenting on my immersion, losing it only when I jumped up from the table to answer the phone for the second time during dinner.

  When I got out of school, Kip was there.

  When I finished my shift at Goodwill, Kip was there.

  Even when he wasn’t there, he was there.

  And he sang. All the time, softly enough not to bother people, but enough to serve as background music for everything we did. Driving in his truck, waiting in line for coffee—these experiences were transformed into events worthy of a soundtrack.

  I was suddenly someone whose conversation was sprinkled with “My boyfriend and I did this” and “My boyfriend and I did that.” If I were listening to someone else talk this way, I would’ve been forced to whip out the duct tape. As much as my own gushing made me sick, I was happy.

  I was dying to see Kip’s place, so when I finally had an afternoon that wasn’t filled with either of my two jobs, the yearbook, or homework, he took me there.

  When we entered the antique store downstairs, an old-fashioned bell announced our arrival. The large space was filled with homey furniture, lamps, and linens. A woman my mom’s age dashed across the store to greet us.

  “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Becky. Please call me Alex.”

  “Her real name is Carol,” Kip said. “But she thinks Alexandra is more classy for business.”

  “That’s not true, and you know it.” But she beamed at him as if he were the wittiest guy in the world. She then hurried us over to a loveseat in the corner of the main room. After depositing us there, she buzzed back with a platter of cheese, then ran off to get some tea.

  “Does she always move this fast?” I whispered.

  Kip tossed a cube of cheese into his mouth. “Makes the Road Runner look like he’s on Valium.”

  I reached for my notebook.

  “No way,” Kip said. “Looney Tunes characters with substance abuse problems—that one’s mine.”

  “Okay, but I’m warning you, if you don’t use it soon, I’m stealing it.”

  He tossed a piece of cheese at me; I opened my mouth and caught it just in time.

  When Alex finally sat down, I noticed the resemblance to Kip—the dimple on the left cheek, the curly dark hair. Her fingers strummed on her lap, her foot tapped. It was amazing that someone with her physical energy chose to spend her life in antiques. After twenty minutes of conversation, she told Kip she needed the truck to make a few deliveries. He helped her carry two dressers outside. If we hadn’t been there, I bet she would have strapped them to her back and carried them out herself.

  After she left, Kip locked up the shop.

  “Since my brother, Zach, got married, it’s just us. Mom works harder than anyone I know.”

  “She seems great.”

  “She went through a lot with my father, but things are much better now. We’re actually a pretty normal family—relatively speaking.”

  I groaned at the pun.

  He pulled me toward him and kissed me. Then he led me upstairs to an adjoining unit with a separate entrance. “This part of the building is mine. I have to admit, it’s pretty great.”

  I stepped inside and was immediately dumbstruck. The rooms had all the beauty of the antique store downstairs, but with a more casual touch. A long pine table lined one wall; on another, an armoire distressed with just the right amount of whitewashed blue paint. From every angle, unusual pieces caught my eye—tall tin canisters full of bamboo stalks, a barbershop chair in the kitchen, a basket of billiard balls on the coffee table, Batman TV trays.

  “Did you do this?” I finally stammered. “If so, my advice i
s to quit comedy immediately and go into decorating full-time.” I faced him squarely. “Oh … I get it. This is too good to be true. You’re gay.”

  He laughed, then explained that most of the pieces were part of his mother’s rotating inventory. “I walked in a few weeks ago, and my bureau was gone. She’s a mercenary—if someone wants to buy, she’s selling.”

  Talk about a hotbed of material. I made a mental note for a bit about Martha Stewart in a catfight with an older woman from Provence, fighting over antique linens.

  “Our old house in Napa was great too,” he said. “Maybe sometime we can drive up there. It’s less than two hours, but a world away from the city.”

  Future plans. We. Good signs.

  I pointed to a closed door next to the kitchen. “What’s in here?”

  “That’s the pantry. It’s kind of a mess.”

  When he opened the door, I burst out laughing.

  Piles of dirty laundry, stacks of magazines, and broken hockey sticks overflowed into the hallway.

  “You weren’t supposed to see this,” Kip said. “I didn’t want you to think I was a slob.”

  “I’m actually relieved. This is much more normal.”

  He grabbed handfuls of clothes and threw them back into the room. I took the magazines and tossed them next to the couch.

  We admired our handiwork. “Much better,” Kip said.

  I suddenly noticed the back wall of the pantry was covered with paper towel racks, maybe ten of them. The rods were full of paper towels, all covered in Kip’s black cursive.

  “I sit in here and go through all my material. It works for me.”

  I touched the trailing end of the closest roll. “Do you mind?”

  He nodded for me to go ahead.

  After a few minutes, the hurried words became clear. A routine about special effects in the movies, a piece about his grandmother not being able to find her dentures. Rolls and rolls of Kip talking to an imaginary audience.