“Were you listening to Julio Iglesias? On your way to my house?”
She laughed at that, looking away. She crossed her arms, took it, a good sport, Angelica. She knew I was making fun of her. “Was it?” She wasn’t sure, Maria, come on. I knew it was Julio Iglesias, 90 percent chance. By her response, she knew it was true.
“Which one? Me Va Me Va? Or Agua Dulce?” Picturing her red Cadillac coming round the bend of La Brea, speeding uphill, switching lanes, chasing an IDIOT who had cut her off around x. Pulling up alongside him at the NEXT red light, the STORK would wave NICE and fake at the guy to FLIP this “mother FUCKER” off with a strong middle finger.
Back in the action — she was headed for Ladera Heights, dancing and singing behind the wheel, able to SNAP without hesitation. It wasn’t just anyone who came over to my house that fateful day — it was Angelica Leibowitz, the musical. She did not drive, she did not walk, she moved. In song. The first note that opened the sex scandal was celebratory.
She told me from the start, “I am from BRAZIL.” She MADE a point, like she could obliterate you on the court. You do not understand. She didn’t SOFTEN her culture, not for anybody, chewing her GUM like a fucking cow, to make a point. “I am FROM Brazil.”
The stork searched for an opening, she had to switch lanes, and there was no way she could have seen this coming, speaking of psychological structure. She was operating within a framework. I was fascinated by the existence of structure. What she could not SEE, how this situation happened, how her pride, or ego, would be bruised, hit, because she couldn’t even imagine finding herself in this situation. She knew, as she didn’t doubt my mother’s story, “real tears,” I understood, that child abuse existed outside her car, in the universe, but she never thought in “A MILLION YEARS,” and people exaggerate, thinking about Dr. J’s psychology, as she was a walking exaggeration, to make a META point, that it could enter her world.
Down the boulevard of bottlebrush trees…with its red flowers that looked like pipe cleaners, Angelica was looking out her window for the address. She didn’t know this neighborhood, so she was grooving, smiling, athletically looking at the piece of paper with the address on it. Her husband’s best friend Fat Alan asked her to pick up a tax return as she happened to be in the neighborhood that day. Mistake.
No kidding, crossing her arms.