Gypsy

"When can the two of us have lunch?" asked a woman with a British accent the moment Steve Altman answered his phone.

"Gypsy?"

"That is, if you're up to and for it."

"Sure. But what happened with you and work?"

"I'll tell all when I see you. Tomorrow? Wednesday?"

"Tomorrow's great."

"Smashing," said Gypsy. "Text me a time and a place."

*

"You, dear boy, are the reason I quit," Gypsy announced after waltzing twenty minutes late into the Italian restaurant in Santa Monica that Altman had chosen, then surprising him with a kiss.

"Really?"

"Not entirely, since I got a better offer. But largely."

"Because?"

Before she could answer, a waiter came by for their drink orders, causing Gypsy to smile at Altman. "Okay if we celebrate with a bottle of Pinot Grigio?"

Altman nodded, then watched the waiter head off. "So what are we celebrating?" he then asked.

"Us."

There was a moment of silence as the waiter returned. A bottle was held up for inspection, then opened ceremoniously and poured. Gypsy and Altman toasted, then each took a sip.

"Am I scaring you?" Gypsy asked.

"No," Altman lied.

"But you're surprised."

He nodded.

"I would have spoken up sooner had that office of ours not been Gossip Central," Gypsy added after taking another sip of wine. "You are scared, aren't you?"

"Well –"

"If you've got a girlfriend, no worries. It's not a relationship or anything so formal, complicated, or messy I'm looking for. That set your mind at ease?"

Again Altman nodded.

"What I want is no ties, no fuss, and zero bother."

"Okay."

"Just good companionship – "

"Great –"

"And lots of sex."

Altman had to fight to keep from spewing a mouthful of wine.

*

A month earlier, two months earlier – or any other time in his life – Altman would have been filled with a combination of excitement, worry, and fear. The excitement would have been generated by the notion not merely of abundant sex, but that it would be with a worldly, attractive, sophisticated Brit seemingly well beyond both his checkbook and his dreams. The worry would have owed to performance anxiety, since instead of a twenty-something contemporary, Gypsy was five years or so older, with experiences that clearly overshadowed his own. The fear would have stemmed from the risk that he was being set up for a prank, a ruse, or a mean-spirited joke.

Why such a panoply of emotions? For the simple reason that Altman was a transplant from the Garden State, where he and his friends had longstanding repartee:

Q: "What's the definition of Jersey foreplay?"

A: "Twenty minutes of begging."

But in truth this was not just any time in Altman's life, since he had recently started seeing a sweet kindergarten teacher named Amanda, whose company he genuinely enjoyed.

Though his better self urged him to dismiss Gypsy with a polite "Thanks, but no thanks," it was curiosity, plus an indisputable dose of horniness, that prevailed. A date was scheduled for Friday evening.

Anticipation quickly gave way to obsession. At work, words Altman rarely used began infiltrating the ad copy he wrote: lush, ripe, lusty, titillating, orgasmic. At the wheel, he found himself barely avoiding crashes as he fixated on women young and old. At night, he tossed and turned, imagining couplings with Gypsy in positions he never before dared imagine or try.

Compounding his frenzy was that there was no one – not a single soul on either coast – with whom he felt comfortable discussing the fantasies running through his mind.

Then came yet another complication: a call from Amanda while he was grabbing lunch on Thursday. "I know it's short notice," she explained, "but a friend from college decided to have people over for dinner tomorrow. Will you come with me?"

Altman flirted momentarily with ducking his previous plans. "Well –" he said.

"Well, yes? Or well, no?"

"I-I wish I could –"

"But?"

"There's this thing I promised a friend I'd do."

"A thing?"

"For someone who needs help."

"That's nice," answered Amanda. "But we're on for Saturday?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world. You pick the movie."

"But it's your turn."

"Yeah, but since I can't make it Friday –"

*

Friday was cold feet day. First, Altman woke up convinced he had a fever, though his temperature proved to be normal. Next, his conscience started eating at him, leading to guilt about taking advantage of Gypsy, which subsided only when he realized that it was she who propositioned him. Then came a moment of panic when he found a parking space across the street from her Venice Beach apartment.

It took a nearly superhuman effort for Altman to haul himself out of his beat-up Saab, then another burst of will power to stride toward her low-rise building and climb to the second floor.

Determined to appear suave, or at least some approximation thereof, he nearly tripped over a skateboard while heading down the hall, then took two deep breaths before ringing the doorbell.

"There you are!" beamed Gypsy, who looked stunning in a low-cut black dress and a string of pearls. "I hope you don't mind that I fixed dinner instead of our going out."

"That's nice."

"And far more intimate. A bit of bubbly?"

Altman watched with awe as Gypsy, with candles flickering and Billie Holiday playing on the stereo, deftly opened a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, then filled two flutes. "To new adventures?" she asked.

Altman almost pinched himself as he toasted, then took a sip of a Champagne way beyond his price range.

"Since a first time should be memorable," Gypsy said, "I hope you won't mind blinis and caviar."

"I'll manage," Altman found himself joking.

*

"So what are your dreams?" Gypsy asked once they were seated at the dinner table.

"Umm –" mumbled Altman nervously.

"Other than about this evening."

"When I was young " Altman admitted wistfully, "I wanted to be a musician or a basketball player."

"And?"

"My mother insisted that I practice the piano after school."

"When you wanted to be outside playing ball or chasing girls?"

Altman nodded.

"And basketball?" Gypsy asked.

"Not much future for a 5' 10" white guy."

"Still, I bet I can prove your goal in life is not in advertising."

"How?"

"You're here, not in New York. Not that you're not good at it. What was that funny ditty you came up with for that would-be hipster coffee?"

"Gotta hit me where it hurts?"

"I thought it was clever," said Gypsy. "What was it again?"

"It's got the grinds to blow your mind."

"Cute. So tell me, like most folk who come to Tinseltown, do you want to be the first of your high school friends to write and direct a movie?"

"I'm more interested in something old school."

"Namely?"

"At some point I'd like to try my hand at a novel."

"Why not now?"

"It helps to have something to write about."

"Like coming to the Coast and getting seduced by an old lady?"

Altman frowned. "You're not exactly withered and decrepit."

"Now there's a compliment. Okay, an older woman. What if I tell you I believe in you?"

"Really?"

"And so that you know, as a judge of people I'm rarely wrong."

*

Staggering toward his car the next morning, Altman felt both spent and aglow. Yet when he tried to recapture the sequence of events, all he was able to summon was a blur of humping, sucking, and schtupping, plus moments of laughing, wolfing bonbons, snorting illicit substances, and licking Champagne off each other.

As never before in his entire life, he had completely ceded control to someone else, and Gypsy had been masterful as a lover, teacher, arouser, and guide.

What he needed most after such nonstop libido, Altman recognized, was sleep, sleep, and more sleep. Rest, however, was not in the cards, for he had work that remained unfinished after spending several days of office time fixated on Gypsy.

*

Trying to rally himself, Altman did his best to appear upbeat when he picked up Amanda that evening.

"How did it go last night?" she promptly asked.

"W-what do you mean?"

"Helping your pal."

"I-it was something."

"Which means you're a good friend," Amanda stated, increasing Altman's sense of betrayal.

Yet during the movie, when not trying to keep from nodding out, Altman found himself thinking solely of Gypsy, all the while wondering whether his night of lust would be repeated.

*

At first it was pride that kept him from calling his British lover, since it was Gypsy who had initiated their affair. But soon that pride, false or otherwise, gave way to paranoia. Did her silence, Altman began to wonder, owe to shortcomings on his part?

His feelings of discomfort evolved first into inadequacy, then resignation, as the sound of the phone not ringing stretched from one day to two, then on to a full week.

Convinced that what he hoped would be ongoing had come to an end, Altman was stunned on a gloomy Tuesday morning when Gypsy's number came up on his Caller ID. "She's alive!" Altman bellowed, startling colleagues at work.

"To paraphrase Mark Twain," Gypsy responded, "reports of my demise are greatly exaggerated. You'll forgive me, won't you?"

"I think I can find a way."

"How is this Saturday?"

"Difficult."

"Off to Paris? Rome?"

"I wish."

"Sunday then?"

"You're on!"

*

Once more the work seemed to drag on endlessly. More difficult still was Altman's Saturday outing with Amanda. Despite the pleasure he always found in her company, it was a fight to keep from being distracted by what awaited him the next evening.

After a movie and a late dinner at a Thai place, Amanda was surprised when Altman kissed her at her door. "Not coming in?" she asked.

"If it's okay with you, next time."

"You all right?"

"Lots of stuff on my mind."

"Anything I can help with? Anything you want to discuss?"

"You're sweet."

"A neck rub? A massage?"

Altman shook his head, then walked slowly toward his car.

*

Tossing and turning throughout the night, Altman alternated between feelings of anticipation and frustration, weighing his affection for Amanda against his lust for Gypsy.

Thoughts of calling off the assignation took turns with a wish that the fireworks could somehow start immediately.

Then came an excruciatingly long day as he watched the seconds tick off until it was finally time to get ready.

*

"Have you read Julio Cortazar, Raymond Chandler, or a book called The Art Of Fielding?" Gypsy asked Altman as she served a Persian dish called fesanjan.

"Is this a quiz?"

"I take that as a no."

"Actually I have read a little Chandler."

"A little's not enough," said Gypsy as she refilled Altman's wine glass. "But let's go on. Have you seen Pierrot Le Fou, The Hustler, and La Guerre Est Finie?"

"Why these questions?"

"Indulge me. Are you familiar with Ray Charles & Betty Carter, Sonny Rollins, and the Velvet Underground?"

"I don't see why it matters."

"Let's move on to TV. Seen Borgen? The Wire? An Italian miniseries called The Best Of Youth?"

"You're making me self-conscious."

"Good. To pursue your dream, it helps to have a breadth of knowledge, plus a sense of what can be accomplished in different art forms."

"But –"

"But nothing! There's more to the world than bloody Spielberg, Adele, Jay-Z, and Donna Tartt."

"Donna who?"

"The perpetrator of that excruciating Goldfinch book so many seem to love."

Altman took a sip of wine. "Is this some sort of Oxford or Cambridge curriculum?"

"No, dear boy. Call it a road map, or a guide."

Altman smiled. "Which makes you my mentor? My muse?"

"Don't put me on a pedestal. I'm just trying to help."

*

The next few days it was Gypsy's words rather than what took place in the bedroom that haunted Altman. Immediately he devoured The Big Sleep and a collection of Chandler stories, then binge-watched The Best Of Youth. Though daunting, the experiences were also inspiring, which prompted him to go on Youtube and listen to Sonny Rollins playing Don't Stop The Carnival and St. Thomas, then the entire Ray Charles/Betty Carter album.

Despite a vague uneasiness, he brought a DVD of The Hustler over to Amanda's apartment the next evening, together with takeout food from their favorite Sichuan place, then stayed up late the following night to watch La Guerre Est Finie.

Hitting the library on his way home from work the next day, he took out copies of Cortazar's Hopscotch and The Art Of Fielding, then returned to Youtube to listen to the Velvet Underground's Waiting For The Man and I'll Be Your Mirror.

Filled with gratitude for what he was playfully calling his syllabus, Altman started wondering about Gypsy herself. A search on the internet yielded several articles from her journalist days in London, plus a couple of brief BBC interviews. But precious little biographical information was to be found.

Nor, when he inquired, did colleagues at the office have significant knowledge about anything other than her time as a reporter or her stint in advertising.

Intrigued about the mystery woman who was shaping his life, Altman spoke up as never before when they again got together. "Instead of talking about me," he said as they sipped the Cotes de Rhone he brought, "any chance of talking about you?"

"In what way?"

"Where you're from? How you grew up? What brought you to LA?"

"Boring."

"Not to me."

"Haven't you gleaned that I choose to live entirely in the present?"

"Someone's being evasive."

"And someone's being pushy," Gypsy said, ending the inquiry.

*

Four days later, Altman was surprised by a call as he was preparing to leave work.

"Ever had Ethiopian?" Gypsy asked.

"What's it like?"

"Ethiopian. I've got this terrible craving, so care to join me? Especially if I promise not to order fried missionary?"

*

After an explanation from Gypsy that it was by using a piece of crepe-like injera, rather than a fork, that the food was to be picked up, Altman dove hesitantly at first, then with ever-increasing zeal, into a medley of chicken, lamb, collards, and lentils, plus a couple of unidentifiable substances, accompanied by spicy Ethiopian tea.

"See how broadening horizons can be fun?" Gypsy asked.

"And tasty. But next time can we try the fried missionaries?"

"That's a weekend special," Gypsy joked. "Mind my purse and cell phone, will you? Since there's no car wash nearby, yours truly is going to wash her hands and face in the loo."

As Gypsy sauntered toward the rear of the restaurant, then disappeared into the ladies room, her cell started to ring. Altman thought of ignoring it, then picked it up. "Hello," he said.

"Who is this?" asked a clearly British voice.

"Who is this?" Altman countered.

"This is Louise's brother Bernie."

"I think you've got the wrong number."

"May I ask whose phone it is?"

"A woman named Gypsy Lee."

"Whose real name, dear chap, is Louise Wickham."

Before Altman could reply, over toward the table came the woman he knew as Gypsy. "Your brother," he said, handing her the iPhone.

"Darling," she exclaimed into the phone as Altman, to her surprise, stood and walked out of the restaurant.

*

Altman was standing on the main street of LA's Little Ethiopia when Gypsy stepped outside. "Something wrong?" she asked.

"No, Louise. Everything's fine."

"Oh, I see," said Gypsy with a wince. "Someone's upset that his mysterious muse is not who he thought she was."

Altman's only response was a frown.

"Isn't reinventing oneself what I'm trying to help you do?" Gypsy asked.

Altman shrugged.

"If names are so sacred," Gypsy continued, "how about Cassius Clay becoming Muhammed Ali? Or Amantine Dupin becoming George Sand, not that I assume you've heard of either? Or Eric Blair becoming George Orwell? Or Stanley Lieber being Stan Lee? Or how about Stevland Judkins changing his name to Stevie Wonder?"

When Altman still said nothing, Gypsy shook her head. "Sorry to disappoint you," she said. "Sorry yours truly is the daughter of a bookkeeper who grew up in the Midlands, didn't go to Oxford or Cambridge, and had to fight for a better, different, more exciting life. What in the world is wrong with being not who we were, but who we want to be?"

Altman shook his head. "This is not about you," he mumbled. "It's about me."

"At last something that makes sense," Gypsy replied.

"I probably don't deserve you."

"Know what? You're probably right."

Altman studied the woman who had been his muse, his mentor, and his lover, then turned and trudged slowly away.

*

In the weeks that followed, Altman thought repeatedly about calling Gypsy, at times with the hope of apologizing, at others with a dream of rekindling.

Instead, after a weekend trip to visit old friends in Berkeley, he moved in with Amanda, who joined him on the sofa for many evenings as they watched Pierrot Le Fou, Borgen, La Guerre Est Finie, and other classics.
Nor did Amanda ever question why Altman suddenly started spending time reading The Art Of Fielding or Hopscotch and other books he never before would have considered or even known about. Never did she ask what prompted him to spend time listening to music that included Charles Brown, Solomon Burke, Irma Thomas, Arthur Lee & Love, and Thelonious Monk.

For all sorts of reasons, Altman chose not to mention to Amanda that he had written the first pages of a novel. Nor did he say what it was about.

Above all, though he thought of Gypsy often, the impact she had on his life was never in any way, shape, or form brought up.