The Cocktail Hour Pt 7 (Home Less)

Continued from The Cocktail Hour Pt 6

"Fucking democrats." said Mr. Woods.

I wasn't certain whether Mr. Woods was speaking to me or his dog who had ceased sniffing my crotch and was at present sniffing his own. Not certain if or how I should respond to such a statement, I thought it prudent to remain silent.

Seeming to construe my silence as agreement, Mr. Woods continued his rant unabated. "Goddamn Democrats -they're fucking everything up. George Bush is the single fucking greatest president of the last 100 years, and if anyone believes differently, then they're fuck-all full of shit!"

Still not certain how I should respond to such a conversation 'opener' an uncomfortable moment passed before I lamely responded "Right" and went back to staring at the bright morning sunlight bouncing off the shimmery surface of the L'Hermitage pool. I'm fairly certain Mr. Woods was frustrated by my utter lack of interest in the topic under discussion as he angrily threw his newspaper to the ground. His valet who had just returned, placed a small porcelain bowl of cooked hamburger meat in front of the dog then silently scooped up the paper and obediently returned to his previous position behind Mr. Woods.

Mr. Woods said nothing, crossed his arms in concentration and like me stared at the surface of the pool. We said nothing for a minute or two until I thought to ask him about his dog.

"Excuse me," I said "But I'm a little curious - how is it you're allowed to have a dog here? I mean isn't that against LA hospitality rules or something?"

"I live here." Mr. Woods casually responded as if living in a $700 a night hotel was the most natural thing in the world.

"Live here..wow...that must be expensive." I replied.

"Yes, but it's worth it, I never have to make my bed or cook anything. Besides, my dog loves the facilities here." I thought it odd that Mr. Woods seemed to speak of his dog with the same deference and concern that one might have for a small child. The dog finished the hamburger meat, and jumped up on Mr. Woods' lounge chair coming to rest comfortably in his lap. They both looked at me expectantly.

"Well, that must be a great way to live." I said at last.

Unimpressed with my response, Mr. Woods muttered an agreement and continued to stroke the head of his small dog. Another moment passed and I decided to take a chance. What the fuck, I thought - James Woods and I hardly travel in the same circles, and save for the unfortunate and bizarre connection of burning my husband with a lit cigar years ago, I was certain we would never see each other again.

"I'm here because I hate my family." I said provocatively.

"Oh, why is that?"

And with that simple statement, I told James Woods all about the inebriated, Botoxed housewives sucking down a stolen recipe for Magic Margaritas, my husband and child enjoying a life I had sold my soul to bestow upon them, and my despair at their lack of interest in my welfare.

At first, Mr. Woods said nothing. I thought that perhaps he hadn't been listening, but to my surprise I noticed that had ceased stroking his dog and turned to give me his full attention. The golden morning light reflected beautifully on his pitted face. Despite the brilliance of the glow, there was no judgment or emotion etched into the dark features. I remembered reading on some trashy Hollywood website that James Woods was some kind of genius - a member of MENSA who despite his erratic nature possessed amazing intellectual gifts. Like a colorful, exotic insect Mr. Woods continued to appraise me, carefully deliberating what he would say.

At last, Mr. Woods asked "Have you ever read George Bernard Shaw?"

"No, not much I'm afraid." I regretted my shitty public school education.

"Then I suppose you are not familiar with one of his most famous quotes - one that I'm fairly certain applies to you."

"Which is?"

"Hatred is the coward's revenge for being intimidated. Grow up already and and go home. You're boring."

With those words, Mr. Woods clasped his purse dog close to his body, rose gracefully from his lounge, and signaled for his valet to follow. As he disappeared from sight, I realized our audience was at an end. God had spoken.

Like Moses returning from Mt. Sinai, I returned to my family the next day a changed man. As I silently entered the house, I heard my son and my husband splashing about in the pool. Upon seeing me, they both shouted elated hellos - but their happy greetings gave way to wonder when they saw the holy illumination that shone from my face. I had spoken with God, and God had instructed me to return to my people with new wisdom that would govern our lives.

After 'officially' welcoming me home with a hardy hug and kiss, George offered me a Watermelon Mojito derived from a recipe he found on the Internet. As I sunk into the happy fog that accompanies this particular cocktail, I couldn't help but laugh as the GAYEST disco version of Belinda Carlisle's 'Heaven is a Place On Earth' played deafeningly on our stereo.