8. Intimate Knowledge of its Ugly Side

"The price we pay when pursuing any art or calling, is an intimate knowledge of its ugly side."
—James Baldwin

Jen was surprised to discover how much she could hear from upstairs. The TV room seemed to be right above her head, although she couldn’t quite picture how the layout of the house corresponded to the ceiling of her basement. Over the swelling sounds of movie montage music, Jen heard Becky rousing Chase and Paula from their stupor. “Did you hear that?” she asked. Evidently getting no response, she became more specific. “Did you just hear Jen scream?” Simultaneously, Chase and Paula burst out laughing.

“Turn it off,” said Becky, presumably referring to the movie. The music stopped abruptly. Jen could hear footsteps moving from just above her head off to the right. One well-defined set of foot-strikes came first; then a second, shuffly set followed. “Where the hell is she?” asked Becky in a panicky, agitated tone.

Jen couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit of satisfaction listening to them scrambling around in a panic, looking for her. At least it meant that somebody was going to come help her, and help, although she wasn’t sure what exactly would help in this situation, was what she desperately needed. She sat staring at the screen, meaningless words jumping out at her through her blurred vision: pimp, prostitute, playboy, Michigan. Her chest felt tight and strange and she couldn’t get enough air in through her nose when she breathed. She needed help, right now, or she was going to have to scream again.

Upstairs, she could hear Becky, Chase, and Paula searching the many rooms of the house, all through Becky’s suite downstairs and then upstairs to the guest bedrooms and Bradley’s old office. Finally, Jen heard the basement door fly open, and footsteps on the stairs. “Jen?” Becky’s voice called from the hallway above.

“Yes,” Jen replied, but her voice was faint, and she was still facing towards the computer and away from the door, so she was sure Becky couldn’t hear her. She couldn’t muster the strength to turn her head, but she tried to gather her voice to call out more loudly. “I’m here,” she said, but again her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” Becky exclaimed breathlessly as she reached the bottom of the stairs and saw Jen sitting at the desk. “Why did you scream?”

Jen could hear Chase and Paula descending the stairs. She tried to tell Becky that she didn’t want them to come in, but again her voice did not emerge properly. “No. I don’t want,” she said in an almost-whisper that was powerless against the invading forces.

“Oh honey,” said Becky, leaning over Jen’s shoulder and looking at the computer, as Chase and Paula came to stand behind them. “Not the internet.”

Jen didn’t say anything. Becky leaned in closer to the computer, squinted at the screen, and then gasped loudly. “No,” she said, as she read silently. And, “No,” again, as though she were about to launch into a heated argument with the words on the screen. Instead, she wheeled her body around abruptly, drove her full momentum into Chase ending with what sounded like a punch or a hard shove, and began yelling furiously at him. Jen stared into her lap, listening to them argue. Becky was mostly yelling, “What…what?” at him, seemingly unable to finish her thought. Chase was responding with his own indignant, “What?” so that the two of them were just yelling the same word back and forth at each other.

Finally, Becky said, “Look!” evidently pointing at the computer. Chase appeared over Jen’s shoulder, leaning in to look at the screen. “So, it says that she might move to Michigan,” Chase said, dismissively. “Big deal. We’ve got that all cleared up now.”

“Read the beginning,” snarled Becky through her teeth.

“Oh,” said Chase. “Oh god,” he said, after a moment.

Becky suddenly found the words she had been looking for. Now she had no trouble forming complete sentences. “I can’t believe you let this happen!” she yelled. “He’s your friend and you said he was okay and I trusted you! You said there was nothing wrong with him. I heard you, you said it.”

“Becky,” said Chase.

“And now they’re saying Jen is a hooker, and it’s all your fault,” Becky continued. Jen cringed at the word “hooker,” curling up in the desk chair and lowering her head further towards her lap.

“No,” said Becky. “No, it’s my fault, for ever listening to anything a man says…even if he seems enlightened, even if he seems dependable, even if he’s gay…”

“Becky!” said Chase, in a commanding, authoritative tone. Becky fell silent immediately.

“Skipper is not a pimp,” said Chase, in a quietly angry voice.

“Then why did they say he was?” asked Becky.

“Because he hosts sex parties,” said Chase.

There was silence for a moment as Becky took this in. Finally she exclaimed, “Sex parties? ‘He hosts sex parties.’” Becky’s tone was incredulous as she quoted Chase. “You said he’s in some kind of business. You know, ‘buying things, selling things.’”

“He is in some kind of business,” said Chase. “And I really don’t know what it is, exactly, but it funds the parties.”

“What the hell is a sex party, anyway?” asked Becky. “Some kind of orgy?”

“With DJs,” said Chase. “And you don’t necessarily have sex at it if you don’t meet anyone you like. But yeah, sort of an orgy.”

“I thought you said he was a Buddhist,” said Becky.

“Buddhists don’t have anything against orgies,” said Chase. “Anyway,” he added, “Jen’s an adult. She can decide for herself who to sleep with.”

Becky seemed to have forgotten about Jen until this moment, as though the insulting comments on the computer screen had been pointed at Becky herself. Jen hunched quietly in her seat, hoping Becky would continue overlooking her and yelling at Chase. But she had no such luck.

“Jen,” Becky said. Jen sat still, waiting. “Turn around,” said Becky, sternly. Jen turned in the chair to face Becky, whose face was drained of its normal healthy color, and Chase, who was ruddy and flushed. She was surprised to remember that Paula was still in the room, a few feet away, leaning with her butt on the top of a file cabinet.

“Did you know that Skipper hosted sex parties?” Becky asked her, as though Jen were her teenaged daughter. Jen felt an uncomfortable flash of her own mother’s presence in the room.

“I thought they were raves,” said Jen, quietly.

Becky rolled her eyes dramatically. “And you thought you were making a good decision?” she asked, sarcastically.

Jen wasn’t sure what to say. She hadn’t seen Becky this mad in quite a while. She had hoped Becky could help her figure out how to deal with this, and instead she was making her feel even worse.

Luckily, Becky switched quickly from her unusual chastising mode back to her more normal attitude of crisis management.

“Okay,” she said, brushing past Jen to the desk and kneeling to unplug the computer. “This is coming with me.” She clicked the laptop closed and tucked it under her arm. “I can’t deal with this any more tonight, honey,” she said to Jen, in a weary but business-like voice. “I’m exhausted. I’ll work on it first thing in the morning.” She made it sound like Jen’s personal life was just another item on her agenda, between taxes and dry-cleaning. But Jen didn’t currently have a P.R. person, so she supposed Becky really would need to handle whatever fallout came from this scandal. Now she felt guilty, hoping this wouldn’t give Becky too much extra work.

With the laptop held firmly to her side, Becky stormed up the stairs. “Goodnight,” she said, in a voice that was forcibly cheerful. Jen could hear the door to the basement close, and then the door to Becky’s suite slam firmly. She must be really angry at me, Jen thought glumly.

Jen was left alone with Chase and Paula in the basement. She saw them both look at the empty staircase where Becky had just exited the room, then shoot each other understated looks of disbelief. Both of them seemed to be suppressing smiles. Jen wondered whether their veiled amusement was directed at her predicament or Becky’s response to it.

“Well,” said Chase, after a moment of awkward silence, “I guess I should go check on her. She seems really upset.” He turned and headed up the staircase after Becky.

Jen had hoped that Paula would follow him. But instead, she grabbed a small folding chair from a stack leaning against the wall and unfolded it. She set it down next to Jen, who was still sitting at the computerless desk, which was looking very blank and sad with its circle of dust outlining where the laptop had been.

“I know you probably want to be by yourself right now,” said Paula, seating herself in the rickety chair. Jen nodded, hoping Paula would go away. But she just leaned in closer, so that Jen could see the intricate lines and pores of her face. From this distance, in the glaring light of the bare bulb overhead, Jen could see that the two nose rings were in fact slightly different colors; one was a straightforward silver, while the other, which appeared to be the same shade under softer light, was in fact a very pale gold.

“You seem like you’re in a lot of pain,” said Paula. Jen wanted to roll her eyes, but she resisted. She didn’t nod or agree, either; she just sat staring blankly, trying to patiently wait for Paula to finish talking and leave. Paula didn’t seem to notice Jen’s remoteness as she plowed ahead with her speech.

“And I know you probably don’t want to hear this, but there’s a path that could help you heal from this bad experience,” Paula said.

Groundbreakers, Jen thought. She was already nodding politely in response.

“Celibacy,” Paula said.

“What?” Jen asked, startled out of her self-pity by this unexpected suggestion.

“I’ve been practicing for six years,” said Paula. “Well, I fell off the wagon a couple of times. Once for about a year.”

Perhaps Jen’s brain wasn’t functioning correctly due to its recent trauma, but she was having trouble taking this all in.

“People are really resistant to trying it,” Paula continued, leaning forward earnestly so that her dreadlocks fell forward over her face, then brushing them back over her shoulder. “I was at first, too. But if you think about it, it makes perfect sense. I mean, if you reflect on all the greatest heartache and misery in your life, what does it come from? Love and sex.”

Jen couldn’t help but see the logic in this, despite her annoyance at the pungent wave of sandalwood that hit her nose as Paula moved her hair. She nodded half-consciously, but this time in earnest.

“When I was younger, I thought it was just men in the Midwest who were assholes,” said Paula. “So I moved to L.A. and started studying yoga. And then I thought it was just yoga guys who were assholes. So then I started dating normal guys who didn’t have any spiritual practice or anything. And they were assholes, too. Then I switched to women.”

Jen looked at her expectantly, waiting to hear if this strategy had worked.

“They were assholes, too,” said Paula. “Here’s what I learned: whoever you want to sleep with is an asshole.”

“Hmm,” said Jen, thinking about whether this applied to her own experience.

“I slept with my first yoga teacher in L.A.,” Paula said. “And my second one. Most yoga teachers in L.A. are just in it for the pussy.”

Though she would never have spoken that word out loud, Jen had often thought the same thing to herself, so often that it seemed dissonant to hear it in Paula’s voice.

“But my third teacher was the one who taught me about celibacy,” Paula said. “We shared a very deep spiritual connection that was purely platonic.”

The thought of Paula sharing a deep but platonic spiritual connection with anyone still kind of grossed Jen out, even though she was becoming less disgusted with her overall. Out of politeness, she suppressed a grimace.

“My teacher had been practicing celibacy her entire life,” said Paula. “She was a virgin.” Paula emphasized this last word as though it were something very rare and sacred, like a unicorn.

“Wow,” said Jen, feeling it was expected of her to be impressed.

“Well, actually I’m not really sure she was telling the truth about that. I think she’d slept with some women when she was younger and not counted it,” Paula added. “But anyway, I believe her that she’d been celibate for many, many years. Her energy was intense.”

Based on Paula’s facial expression, which Jen could identify in no other way than as recollection of sexual pleasure, she began to wonder how far one could go, exactly, within the bounds of celibacy. And of yoga instruction, come to think of it.

“So you’re saying I should be celibate,” Jen said.

“I don’t tell people to do things,” Paula said. “I just provide information.”

Something about this comment reminded Jen of her conversation with Skipper, back at the bar. She had been distracted for a moment, but now she remembered again what had happened, why she was having this conversation in the first place, and what she was going to have to deal with in the morning when Becky commenced her damage control. Her depression must have shown on her face, because Paula shifted back in her chair as though drawing the conversation to a close.

“Well, anyway, I’m sorry you slept with Skipper,” Paula said. “That guy definitely was an asshole.”

“But they all are,” said Jen.

“No, but I mean he was actually an asshole,” said Paula. “Why don’t you go to bed for real, now,” she added. This seemed like a good idea to Jen, who felt even more exhausted than she had the first and second times she had woken up this morning.

She followed Paula up the stairs, the discrepancy in elevation giving her a perfect view of Paula’s buttocks shifting loosely under her floppy, structureless pants. It seemed significant that Jen wasn’t even annoyed at this sight.

Chapter 9:
http://kickoutofyou.blogspot.com/2008/07/9-extra-ounce-of-power.html

7. Witnessing Violence

“Serious sport has nothing to do with fair play. It is bound up with hatred, jealousy, boastfulness, disregard of all rules and sadistic pleasure in witnessing violence: in other words it is war minus the shooting.” —George Orwell

It took Paula about ten seconds to remove her hands from over her mouth. When she finally did, she spoke in a hushed, awe-struck voice.

“You guys know Vanto Hatch?” she asked.

Chase put both hands on Becky’s shoulder and shoved her lightly. “Girlfriend, you’ve been holding out on me!” he said in a mock-offended tone that was much louder and more raucous than Paula’s reverent whisper.

“No, no,” said Becky, in a casually dismissive tone, straightening her blouse where Chase had pushed her. “We knew him in middle school, back in New York. That was a long time ago.”

Jen appreciated Becky’s nonchalance, which Jen knew was carefully orchestrated. During her years observing Becky and her friends, she had learned that this was a yoga-teacher way of showing off, to impress others with your detachment. Jen wondered how long Becky had waited for the right moment to surprise Paula with this story.

“Have you ever tried to get back in touch with him?” Chase asked.

Becky shrugged. “No,” she said simply. She didn’t add that she had never been able to find any contact information for him; the Groundbreakers people protected him like he was the pope.

Paula turned eagerly to Jen. “So you’re in Groundbreakers, too,” she said.

Jen was confused for a moment, then realized that Paula was assuming that her two-week juvenile acquaintance with Vanto would have somehow swayed her towards his self-actualization program.

“Oh…no,” she said vaguely, feeling bad to squash Paula’s enthusiasm.

“But why not?” asked Paula. “I mean, if you know Vanto Hatch, and you know Becky, it seems like you would have gotten into it.”

“Yeah, why haven’t you?” asked Chase. Chase and Paula were now looking at Jen expectantly, as though waiting for a thorough explanation. Jen didn’t know what to say. Once again, she felt outnumbered and cornered in her own kitchen. She had never felt even the slightest bit of interest in Groundbreakers, but it didn’t seem necessary to explain that and offend everyone in the room.

Becky came to her rescue before she was able to say anything. “It’s not her thing,” she said simply, as though no further explanation was required. Paula and Chase nodded in understanding; Becky was evidently speaking their language. Jen was endlessly grateful when Chase turned to Paula and engaged her in a lively debate about a new seminar called, “Mining your inner diamonds,” and the two of them began to ignore Jen once again.

When the food was ready, Becky and Paula prepared plates for everyone with big heaping portions of lasagna, bread, and salad, except Becky served Jen a big plate of salad with a tiny spoonful of lasagna and no bread. Jen had a beautiful dining room adjoining the kitchen, with a stately, antique oak table that had belonged to several renowned movie actors before her. But they didn’t eat there; in fact she hadn’t eaten in that room since she and Bradley used to throw dinner parties in there right after they got married. Instead, the four of them took their food into the TV room, which was a smaller living room in the back of the house with Jen’s less up-to-date furniture in it. They sat on the leather couches, their plates balanced on their knees. On the coffee table, Becky placed a bottle of red wine, three wine glasses, and a tall glass of sparkling water for Jen, who never drank at home.

As they began to eat, Becky turned on the large flat-screen television, which was mounted on the wall like a painting, and flipped idly through the channels. As always, she started with the new-age-living channel, worked her way up through the channels about animals, cooking, home-décor, and gardening, and a few other similar channels with less readily definable themes, before reaching the conservative news channel, at which point she would usually declare that there was nothing on before descending through the same channels again in reverse order. She never ventured beyond this ten-channel range, at least not when Jen was around, for fear of running into something that would disturb Jen. Even today, as the television landed on the news channel, Bradley’s face flashed on the screen, part of a commercial the channel was airing about its own “distinctive brand of news coverage.” His image was gone almost instantly, one in a stream of many images that evidently were supposed to represent modern-day concerns: a politician, a missile exploding, a famous actress, a gas station, a politician who used to be an actor, a poor-looking child in an unidentifiable third-world country, a war-plane. Still, in a futile gesture, Becky snapped the off the TV, saying, “What’s he doing on the old people channel?”

“Who?” said Chase. Jen wasn’t sure if he had missed the one-second flash or if he was pretending out of politeness.

The four of them sat silently for a few moments after the TV was off, staring at its darkened screen.

“I think this is a good time to ask her,” Paula said, upping the awkwardness of the moment by a couple orders of magnitude.

Jen’s stomach sank. Ask me what, she thought? Whatever it was, with a set-up like that, it couldn’t be good. This was going to be a talk, she could tell. There was nothing she hated more than having a talk. Trying not to look angry or upset, Jen turned to Becky.

“What’s going on?” Jen asked, her voice sounding a little cold and tinny.

Becky looked back at her nervously. She hesitated before she started speaking, as though considering the best place to begin. “Remember how that magazine said you were moving to Michigan?” she asked after a moment, in a calm, measured voice.

“Yes,” said Jen, not indicating that she had been obsessing over this mystery all day.

“Well, that’s probably my fault,” said Becky. “So, Paula and I were talking the other day, and I was telling her how you’ve seemed really, um…”

“Messed up?” Jen offered, hostilely.

“No,” said Becky, in a consoling tone. “Stressed.”

Jen looked over at Paula, who was nodding sympathetically, as though she fully agreed with Becky’s assessment. The idea of this grotesquely tranquil woman knowing all of Jen’s business, and judging her problems, made Jen furious. She knew rationally that she could not expect Becky to never speak about her; people talk about their friends, and Becky liked to talk more than most people. But Paula seemed to have that neo-Buddhist sense of equanimity that caused her not to reserve judgment, but to dole it out equitably to all those who, regrettably, were not blessed with her enlightened perspective. Jen could read all this on Paula’s face, on her pursed, pitying mouth and in her calm, impassive eyes.

“So Paula was telling me,” Becky continued, sounding uneasy, “that her mom and stepdad have a lake house in northern Michigan.”

“Northern-central Michigan,” Paula interrupted.

“In Michigan,” said Becky, “and they spend summers there. It’s supposed to be really beautiful there in the summer.”

“It is, it’s gorgeous,” said Paula.

“Is it near Detroit?” asked Chase. “I went there to buy a gun once.”

“It’s not near Detroit,” Becky said authoritatively, shooting a dirty look at Chase. Jen was sure that Becky had no idea if Paula’s mom’s lake house was near Detroit; she’d never been anywhere in the middle states at all, unless you counted a couple of bachelorette parties in Las Vegas.

“So anyway,” Becky said, “Paula told me that her parents can’t stay there this summer because they’re going to Europe instead.”

“Southeast Asia,” said Paula, frowning.

Oh no, thought Jen. Her stomach began to sink again, like it had when this conversation started. This was the bad news they’d been building up to. They’re trying to send me away. She looked down at her salad. The sight of a juicy tomato over-stimulated her senses and made her want to throw up. She pushed some lettuce across her plate with her fork, avoiding Becky’s gaze.

“They’re going to Asia,” said Becky. “And they really want someone to stay in the house.”

“It sounds really nice,” said Chase, encouragingly, letting Jen know that he, too, was in on this plot already. Asshole, Jen thought, bitterly, watching him continue to shovel lasagna into his mouth even as he spoke. She had been starting to almost like him.

“Becky told me she thought you could use a little time away from things,” said Paula, in a soothing, condescending tone, like you would use with an elderly widow or a mental patient. Jen’s hatred for her rose violently up in her throat. She was glad she hadn’t eaten any of the food that Paula had touched, especially the bread.

“Well, anyway, we were talking about it at the tea house and I guess somebody must have overheard us,” said Becky. “I’m so sorry, Jen; I didn’t think anyone was around. You know I don’t go talking about your business in public.”

Jen’s expression must have been skeptical, because Becky said, “I’m really careful! You know that. Don’t make that face. You know it was an accident, right?”

“Oh, ease up on her,” said Chase to Jen. “She just wants to show off a little that she knows you.”

“I do not,” said Becky, annoyed. “I got over that years ago.”

She turned to Jen and said, “Don’t be mad, okay?”

Jen wasn’t feeling too forgiving, but she nodded accommodatingly.

“Anyway,” said Becky, “The house will be empty all summer. I guess there’s someone who comes around and takes care of the yard and the cleaning and stuff, but they would feel better if someone were actually staying in the house, at least for some of the time.”

“Why?” asked Jen, sullenly.

“Because if it seems like no one’s there, the house could get broken into,” said Paula.

“But you said your mom only stays there in the summer anyway,” said Jen. “What happens in the winter?”

“In the winter, there’s no one in the town. It’s too cold,” said Paula.

“So wouldn’t that be the best time for thieves to break into the houses?” asked Jen.

“It’s too cold for thieves,” said Paula.

“So Paula was just wondering if you’d like to spend a little time there,” said Becky. “In the summer,” she added.

“No, thank you,” said Jen, tersely. If Becky hadn’t been sure that Jen was angry, she would know now from Jen’s coldly polite tone.

“Just a few weeks, or a month,” said Becky, ignoring Jen’s refusal. “It wouldn’t be a big deal. Just some time away.”

“Would you come with me?” asked Jen.

“Oh, no,” said Becky, a bit too hastily. “I mean, I can’t afford to cancel my classes, and it’s impossible to find a sub in the summer. Plus someone would need to stay here and take care of the house.”

So Jen had been correct; Becky was trying to send her away so she could have the house all to herself. She probably wanted to spend the summer cooking high-calorie feasts with Chase and Paula, without having to worry about accommodating Jen’s picky eating habits. And Becky would need time to develop her budding friendship with Chase, without Jen around taking up all of her time. Jen knew that this last part of her theory was a bit illogical considering Becky and Chase hadn’t even met when the story about Michigan had gotten into the tabloids; still, it added up a bit too well. Perhaps Becky had had a moment of psychic foreknowledge that told her to ditch Jen to make room for some new best friend—and as prophesized, Chase had arrived right on schedule.

Jen turned to Paula, who was watching her patiently, with the same fixed, sympathetic look on her face. “I’m sorry,” said Jen. “I appreciate the offer, but I think I’m too busy this summer.”

Jen wondered if Becky would contradict her. The truth was, Jen had no plans for summer. She had been having horrible luck with casting ever since her divorce proceedings became public. The publicity seemed to have helped Bradley’s career, while it had hurt hers. Becky, however, had the tact not to say anything about this. A tiny bit of Jen’s anger melted as Becky smoothly overlooked her lie.

“Well,” said Becky, “You don’t need to decide now. We just wanted to run this by you; think it over for a few weeks.”

Jen knew her refusal was final, but felt too beaten-down to argue any further. “All right,” she said simply. But she thought in her head, When hell freezes over, you evil, evil witch. She was barely certain whether these words were directed at Paula, Becky, or even Chase.

To lighten the mood after this heavy conversation, Chase decided they should watch a DVD, and Jen didn’t need to converse any further. As Becky, Chase, and Paula laughed at the romantic comedy he had chosen, pretending to make fun of it so they wouldn’t have to admit they were enjoying the trite plotline and jokes, Jen fumed silently. She had seen this movie before—about a man and woman who meet through their fake identities on the internet—but she still couldn’t follow the plot, distracted and furious as she was. She excused herself to her room halfway through the movie, saying that she was going to bed.

Lying in her room with the lights on, listening to the faint sounds of laughter from the living room, Jen wondered what exactly of Becky’s conversation with Paula had gotten into the tabloid. What did the reporter overhear? Did they think she was definitely going to Michigan? Had Becky mentioned anything about how miserable Jen had been about her divorce, or her flailing career? Had Paula added any of her judgmental commentary?

She wished they hadn’t cancelled their internet connection; all the tabloids had websites nowadays, and she imagined the story about her would be online. In fact it was for just this reason that they had disconnected the internet. It was too dangerous a temptation; a girl could get depressed, have a few drinks, and then stay up all night reading horrifying gossip about herself, illustrated with unflattering photographs of her in bad outfits, without ever exhausting the supply. Jen had considered the internet off-limits for years, in the same category as any number of contraband items like bathing suits, magazines, doughnuts, the entertainment channel, candy bars, pasta, beer, salt. The list was endless, and Jen had great discipline in banishing these items from her consciousness, as though they were dead to her. It seemed odd that she would be so tempted by this particular story that she would want to resort to the internet; after all, she already knew what it would say. And yet, something about Becky’s betrayal made Jen want to see it written out in words, to wallow in the awfulness of her own best friend trying to send her away to a hostile land full of fat, ugly Midwesterners, where even criminals would not spend the winter.

Suddenly, Jen remembered something that made her jump up off the bed. It had been two years since Becky had disconnected the internet—but she had never cancelled the subscription. Becky had said that they should keep the minimal service just in case they needed it for an emergency; she had simply disconnected her office computer from the phone jack. Jen had even seen the internet provider on a recent credit card bill in Becky’s office. If Jen could figure out how to reconnect the laptop in the basement, she could use the old dial-up modem to connect.

Jen crept down to the basement, closing the door behind her quietly, ignoring the improbability of Becky and her friends noticing any noises through their haze of wine, melted cheese, and crappy movies. She turned on the light, revealing the large, partially-finished basement that smelled like dryer sheets because of the laundry room off to one side. Bradley had started a wine cellar in an alcove off to one side, and it added a musty odor. Becky kept a small desk with a telephone and a laptop down here for times when she wanted to work while she was doing laundry. The basement was chilly, and Jen regretted not having worn a robe or sweatshirt, but she didn’t want to risk being overheard by going back upstairs to get it. Instead, she turned on the laptop and began looking around for a phone cord to connect it to the jack in the wall.

Jen looked in the desk drawers, the linen closet, and the bin of old floppy disks and CDs before realizing that she could just use the cord from the telephone. She plugged it into the computer and clicked on the icon to connect to the internet.

A password screen popped up, with Becky’s user name, “libra-yogini,” and a space for her password. Jen used to know the password that Becky used, but she couldn’t quite remember it. She knew it was a food item, and she was pretty sure it was a grain. She tried a number of options, including “amaranth,” “quinoa,” and “flaxseed,” before remembering the correct one, “spelt.”

Jen sighed in relief as the laptop began to make the familiar, comforting modem noises, the aggressive sound of dialed phone numbers and the phlegmy hiss of the computer speaking its robot-language with some other computer far away.

There it was! The search page sprung to life before her like an oasis, even featuring a beautiful picture of the sunset over the ocean in the advertisement for vacations on the top of the page.

Nervously, and knowing already that she was making a mistake, Jen typed her name in the search box. Then, fearing what broad information that might supply, she added “Michigan” as well.

A list of sites appeared. The ones on the first page were mainly reviews of her movies from Michigan newspapers. She was about to go to the second page, when she saw a heading near the bottom from a popular celebrity magazine called The Dirt: “Jen’s sordid night with ‘playboy by the bay’ Skipper Engels.” Looking at the screen, which seemed suddenly to be a great distance from her, she felt that dizziness and detachment that she had learned to recognize as her fight-or-flight mechanism taking effect. Her eyes began to lose focus, and it was difficult to still her hand enough to click on the link.

When the article came up, the first thing Jen saw were the photographs: she and Skipper talking at the bar, their heads bowed close, visible through a crowd of blurry heads and shoulders. She and Skipper leaving the bar through the back door. Skipper leaving her house in the morning, buttoning up his pants.

She scanned the article, which was very short, only a couple of paragraphs, but all that she could take in was her own name, in boldface to indicate that it was a search-term, repeating senselessly over and over. At the end of the article, the word “Michigan” was also in bold letters.

Then she saw the caption under the headline: “Jen’s tryst with San Francisco’s most notorious pimp.”

Shit, shit, she thought, over and over.

And below that: “Distraught Jen resorts to prostitution to get even with Bradley, friends say.”

Jen stared blankly at the words for a moment. Then she screamed.

Chapter 8:
http://kickoutofyou.blogspot.com/2008/06/8-intimate-knowledge-of-its-ugly-side.html