Page 32

Palm Springs

December 19, 2022

Thomas and Raul watched me say goodbye to Grant before he left for his hike. I returned to sweeping the dead leaves and palm tree skins that looked like abandoned prostheses that had gathered on the patio after the windstorm. “Want to come work out with us?”

“I don’t know, I’m not in great shape these days.”

“Believe me, that won’t matter. Let us save you from your domestic follies. Let’s all get changed. See you in ten minutes.”

I tried not to laugh when we met in the courtyard. They had on tight, shimmery metallic bodysuits that zippered up the front.

“Like it?” Thomas asked. “We can run back and get one for you.”

“Oh, trust me, that’s not what you want to see. I’m not someone who likes to shimmer. I’d look like bratwurst in casing. A radioactive bratwurst.”

“It’s great for your vagina,” Raul said.

I almost spit out the coffee in my thermal cup. “What do you know about vaginas?” I’d been in Palm Springs long enough to say that word out loud without cringing.

Raul said, “I teach physiology. That’s how I met Thomas. He came to me for the science cred. And honestly, these suits are good for everything. This isn’t clothing. It’s like medicine you wear on your body. The fabric is grounding and earthing. It’ll shield you from EMRs.”

“From what?”

“Electromagnetic radiation. It neutralizes all the bad stuff.”

“You can plug this part here into a grounding pole in your wall socket.” Raul pointed at an attachment near the back.

I had many moments in California that made me feel as if I were late to the cultural party. There were phrases I’d never heard, foods I’d never eaten, lifestyles I’d thought only existed on television. I would sometimes feel as if the whole world had moved in a new direction without me. This was one of them.

Thomas said, “This is our business. We make clothing that reduces inflammation. And you know that inflammation is the mother source of all our problems. This is the marriage of fashion and function. It’s made with real silver—”

“Well, we thought it was silver,” Raul said. “We were working with a Chinese manufacturer until we found out they used recycled plastic instead.”

“But the problem was solved! I found a prince in Saudi Arabia—I knew him from my days in Rome. Mohammed had a stockpile of silver—”

“—as one does!” Raul practically sang these words.

“—so we struck an agreement: I could use his silver if I also used his wool. But the wool was rank, from Turkish camels or whatever.”

“It smelled like ass.”

I loved how Thomas said the sentences and Raul provided the punctuation and color commentary.

“Now we’ve finally got the formula right. Feels great, smells good. We call it Silverwear, and trust me, it’s about to be the next big thing. Go ahead.” Thomas gestured for me to put my nose up to his underarm. “See? The only smell is me now.”

“I can’t believe you made this yourselves. I’m so impressed.”

“It’s what we do,” Raul said. “Thomas is a designer. He doesn’t like to brag, but he was most recently at Valentino in Italy.”

This city was like a treasure hunt where I was always surprised by whom I’d meet. Just the day before, I learned that the person who owned the condo Gene and Jeanie rented was Madonna’s architect. Grant said he’d met Barry Manilow’s gardener at the gym. One day I chatted with Bart, Melody’s house cleaner, who used to be Elizabeth Taylor’s personal assistant. And on a walk, I met a man who told me he had Frank Sinatra’s pistol on his mantel. This didn’t make Palm Springs better than Madison, where people were interesting for their own reasons, but it sure made it different.

Thomas said, “It was only a matter of time before I got burned-out at Valentino. I couldn’t deal with all the drama and cocaine. And let’s face it, nobody cares about the fashion houses anymore, not when you can buy surprisingly decent shorts at Walmart for twelve bucks.”

“So, Kimmy,” Raul said, putting his arm around me. “We saw the photos you took of Cassie last week—they were gorgeous. Could you bring your camera along today? We need some images to market our new business before we burn through our start-up funding. Of course, we’ll pay you.”

“But why me?”

“Because the other photographer we asked is busy with Michelle Obama! Why do you think? Come on, Kim. Don’t hurt our feelings.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Basil put you up to this, didn’t he?”

“Why would you say that? You don’t need Basil to pimp you out.”

I could feel myself blushing. “I’m not a professional. You should get someone more qualified. But out of curiosity, how much did you have in mind?”

“Five hundred?”

I rolled my eyes.

“What, it’s not enough?”

“It’s too much! I’d do it for free, you know.”

“So you will do it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No artist turns down a commission.”

“They might suck.”

“They won’t! Where’s that Kimmy we saw dropping it like it’s hot on the dance floor? Show some of that confidence! Grab your gear. Let’s go!”

We headed in the direction of downtown. Thomas turned onto Alejo. “That’s Twin Palms, Frank Sinatra’s house,” he said. “The tour guides say that there’s still a crack in the bathroom sink from when Frank threw a bottle of champagne at Ava Gardner. They tout it as ‘local lore.’ Like spousal abuse is so fabulous? That hothead could have killed her, and everyone acts like it’s a quaint bit of local history.”

Thomas then turned into a luxurious neighborhood with more tall gates, groomed hedges with Spanish tile roofs like Le Desert’s peeking over the tops. The streets were filled with gardening trucks. “Welcome to Movie Colony,” Raul said. “This is where Hollywood royalty lived. Marilyn Monroe, Cary Grant, Gary Cooper. When our designs take off and we make our fortune, Thomas and I will live here, too. It’s on our vision board. This is where we can raise our baby.”

“Doesn’t cost a penny to dream,” I said. That was what Polly used to say to me.

“A penny? Please. You have to take out a loan if you want to dream in Palm Springs.”

Ruth Hardy Park was crowded with people walking their miniature designer dogs, elderly joggers speeding along the park’s perimeter, and pickleball players already lining up to have a turn on the courts. On the playground I saw some kids—actual children. It hadn’t occurred to me that I hadn’t seen many until that very moment.

The workout participants spread out their beach towels and yoga mats to face the mountains, lit pink by the morning sun. I imagined Grant somewhere out there on his hike to who knows where.

I felt my phone buzz in my pocket; it was a text from Sally.

When is the last time you had a Roto-Rooter guy come by? There’s a small sewage backup in the basement. Pretty gross. I’ve hired someone to take care of it. We’ll send the bill.

I’d almost forgotten about our house, about our other life. I had a mortgage, doctors, dentists, yoga teachers, friends who needed me. A place to go back to. Was that “real life”?

All around me were people my own age and older stretching and chatting. They were a mix of gay and straight men and women, some in top-of-the-line clothing and expensive sunglasses and gear, others who, like me, wore baggy T-shirts and shorts. Everyone was happy and social. There were hugs and more hugs when we walked through the crowd. In Madison, Thomas and Raul would stand out like sore thumbs in their sparkling, body-hugging outfits; here, they were part of the milieu of tutus, wild leggings, neon socks, pink tennis shoes. and booty shorts. But just because Palm Springs was different from what I was used to didn’t make the life I was building here any less real.

The silver-haired instructor with bulging biceps and thighs and supertight shorts adjusted his microphone and greeted us. Through the giant portable speakers, I heard the sound of new age flutes. He said, “Good morning, G-Force! Let’s greet the morning, hakuna matata–style!” He encouraged everyone to face the mountains and wave their arms around. “Howl, go ahead. Let’s hear you!”

Everyone began howling.

“Take a moment to appreciate the glorious sun that shines love and happiness on us all,” the instructor said. I couldn’t stop smiling and snapping photos. I loved being part of this emotive crowd. The song changed to Deee-Lite’s “Power of Love”—we all knew it. The instructor began to shift his weight from side to side before launching into a Richard Simmons–style workout.

Back at Basil’s condo that afternoon, I went through the photos I’d taken, reliving the joy of the morning. I knew many of them were good, but one was the clear standout—Thomas and Raul, sparkling in the morning light, fierce, howling.