Cynthia: the End

With two minutes left in the scavenger hunt, I knocked on one last door, Cynthia gasping for breath behind me. Hell, I'd done a hell of a lot more for a lot less. At another party just days earlier I turned a Twister game into a wrestling match to win a bottle of Vitalis. The end justified the means, I thought: I mean, what does a girl need hair grease for?

The lights were on in the windows, so somebody had to be home. All we needed was a pound of pastrami, and with every single item on the list we'd be, at the very least, tied for the grand prize. I walloped the door this time, ignoring the black wreath that hung there. Footsteps slowly approached, and as my heartbeat thumped off the remaining seconds a figure in black appeared.

"Sorry to bother you," I said, barely pausing between words, "but we're on a scavenger hunt, and we just need one more thing to win."

The woman tried to smile but fell short. "I see," she said quietly, tightening her wrinkled fingers around a rosary. "Well, unfortunately, we just had a death in the family, so it's not exactly a good time."

Cynthia moved up beside me, her face awash in sympathy. "I'm so, sooo sorry," she said, "intruding on you at this difficult time. Our best wishes are with you, and our prayers go to your loved one. I sincerely apologize for interrupting you during such an unfortunate time."

"Yeah -- me too," I muttered, furtively glancing inside. On the left was a row of folding chairs, all occupied by mourners staring at us. In the center were satin-swagged French doors leading to a patio and pool. On the right was a Louis XIV dining table draped with a lace cloth and overloaded with food. Chafing dishes, casseroles, cakes and cookies. A platter of deli meat.

The woman said that our sentiments were much appreciated as I cocked my head toward the buffet. "Do you mind if I make myself a snack?" I asked.

She nodded sadly, with what was pretty much the opposite of "Hey, help yourself!" I power-walked past the mourners, grabbed a couple slices of bread just for appearance's sake, and piled the pastrami high. I didn't have a clue how much meat made a pound, but I wasn't going to take any chances. I stacked the ruddy slices until they couldn't fit into anybody's mouth and threw another slice of bread on top. Clutching the thing with both hands I sprinted back to the front door.

The woman slid her sad gaze between my face and my sandwich as the second-hand on my watch ticked past the thirty-second mark. "As my girlfriend said," I told her, "we're so sorry to interrupt in your time of need we wish your loved ones all the best both here or heaven or hell or wherever you think they'll end up."

We sprinted back to Barbara's house and got inside just as the gong sounded. I don't know what the other teams had been doing, but it wasn't going door to door. Most only had two or three items, and nobody else had been to the funeral house. After expressing astonishment at our feat Barbara announced that Cynthia and I had won.

I screamed. Loud. Four maids poked their curious, paper-hatted faces through doorways. Dogs in eight neighboring houses yapped out the first eighth of a bark, the rest squelched by zaps from their electronic collars.

Barbara hugged Cynthia and me, and held the booty out. Cynthia shyly reached for the tennis bracelet as I felt an "I don't think so!" bubble up in my chest.

"Take good care of that watch, boy," Barbara's dad said. "That's three thousand dollars worth of Swiss craftsmanship."

"Sure," I laughed. As the proud owner of a Casio equipped with Space Invaders, I'd assumed Timex was top of the line. Barbara's dad nodded, and suddenly I realized he was serious. I tried to picture all those zeros and the room swam around me. I took the watch from Barbara and grasped it delicately, the way my parents always told me to hold my baby sister.

Cynthia took the bracelet -- basically a long line of diamonds held together by gold -- and draped it around her wrist. I couldn't help but feel a twang of jealousy, but my platinum prize was reassuring. We drank punch and gushed about our luck until her dad appeared, then piled into the back of his car. She slid in close in the darkness and maneuvered her lips in front of mine. Why did it have to be like this? I wondered as she pressed our faces together. Why did she always have to spoil things?

She tongue-kissed me while her father eyed us proudly in the rear view mirror. I pretended I was kissing him, feeling his neat little moustache tickle my lip, massaging the muscles in his broad shoulders. "I had so much fun," Cynthia murmured.

"I did too," I said.

"You know, Barbara really likes you. She told me if you ever get tired of dating me, she'd go out with you."

Was it possible? I thought. Could I really end up with a beach in the family?

"Not a chance," I reassured Cynthia, watching the light glint off my Rolex's face. "I don't think I could date another girl after going out with you."

Cynthia, Part Two

After the prom, Cynthia phoned me every ten minutes, day and night. Yes, it got a little annoying, but on the plus side at least she didn't ask for her money back. She wanted to see me again, and when flattery didn't work she turned to bribery. "We'll have lots of fun," she said, "and I'll pay for everything."

I knew I was gay, but I agreed anyway. When you're living at home, with no car and no money, it's not like your Friday nights are booked. I went out with Cynthia just three or four times, yet somehow our names got linked like macaroni and cheese. The more I conceded, the more she wanted, until she started "accidentally" turning up every time I walked out my front door. I'd express annoyance and declare that I needed my freedom, but I shut up when food or jewelry appeared.

We saw Cynthia's friend Barbara again maybe a month into our couplehood, when she had a party at the family's Hancock Park estate. Her haughty folks acted like I should have been thrilled to be there, but frankly I wasn't impressed. In Europe, rich people use cash to show off their refined taste. They buy Rembrandts, drink hundred-year-old Cognacs, commission Frank Gehry to design their country homes. Judging from the party, American money went toward Devo CDs, frozen eggrolls and eight hundred feet of orange crepe paper. Sure, the family had a library named after them. What good was that? Give me a call when somebody springs for a Porsche.

To entertain a room full of her high-school friends, Barbara had arranged a scavenger hunt. Each couple was given a list of odd items to scrounge up in the neighborhood, with exactly one hour to get them. Cynthia grabbed my bicep and squealed her excitement. I rolled my eyes and groaned. The only thing I'd be looking for was alcohol.

"And the winning team," Barbara announced, "get these." She held up her hands: in one was a Cartier tennis bracelet, in the other a Rolex watch.

I sprinted past the other guests and out the front door. "You get the first five items," I yelled to Cynthia, quickly disappearing in my dust, "and I'll get all the rest."

I'd found three things before Cynthia caught up: empty-handed, angered by my desertion, and crippled by her high heels. She toddled irritably behind me as I pounded on every door and quizzed everybody who answered. Do you have a plastic spork? A flea collar? A picture of Millard Fillmore?

To my surprise, the neighbors turned over everything I asked for. I made a mental note to come back alone and ask for Armani suits and Kenneth Cole shoes. One by one we checked off everything on the list until all that was left was a pound of pastrami. We had exactly five minutes left.

"That's probably good enough," Cynthia said, massaging a blistered foot. "Nobody else could have come close." I felt an odd twinge of pity for her. She'd have been happy strolling down the street holding hands. She didn't want a tennis bracelet: she wanted a boyfriend.

Too bad for her, I thought as I pounded on one last door, that boyfriend wanted a tennis bracelet.

Cynthia, Part One

In high school to my surprise I found myself dating a girl. I treated Cynthia with complete disinterest, which just made her more determined to have me. It blazed the trail for every other relationship I'd have in my life. She saw my picture in the school yearbook, looked me up in the phone book, and asked me to the prom. I was flattered by the attention, but naturally I said no.

"That's too bad," she replied. "I'm hiring a stretch limousine, and I'd treat you to Lawry's Steakhouse afterwards." I'd spent half an hour that afternoon fighting with my sister over half a can of garbanzo beans, so there was no way I could resist.

Cynthia was about what you'd expect from a rich girl who had to turn to strangers for a date. Friendly, sweet, gawky as Big Bird. Still, next to me she looked like Claudia Schiffer. I didn't exactly blend in with the other prom-goers, with my home-styled hair and acid-wash denim suit, but Cynthia was happy. We danced, we chatted, we compared shoe sizes. She introduced me to all her friends and even had the photographer snap our portrait to commemorate the event.

I consoled myself: I'd never claimed to be attractive. I was fun. Besides, teenagers forget soon enough.

After the prom, as promised, we headed to Lawry's with Cynthia's friend Barbara and her well-dressed, blue-blood date. Cynthia's folks were millionaires but Barbara was out of their league, with buildings and streets and even beaches echoing the family name. The only way a beach and I would share names was if I changed mine to Zuma.

I cut my steak up all at once and then shoveled the pieces into my mouth. Cynthia daintily sliced hers, then moved a couple pieces to her mouth on an upside-down fork and declared herself full. "I can take care of that for you," I said as I grabbed her plate. I polished off two-and-a-half steaks -- Barbara's date didn't exactly have a wolverine's appetite -- before the waiter dropped off the bill. I pretended to be engrossed in a hangnail since I had twelve cents in my pocket, and that was including my lucky dime. I felt a nudge under the table coming from Cynthia's direction, then paper in my hand. I looked down and discovered she'd slipped me a huge wad of cash.

I gave her the wide-eyed "I'll always love you!" look I used when people gave me stuff. She beamed back.

"I'll get it," Barbara's date declared as he whipped out his American Express.

"Thanks!" I said, and I stuffed Cynthia's cash in my pants.

When I got home around oneish Mom was asleep on the couch, an empty sherry glass and National Geographic sitting on the carpet beside her. We couldn't afford sugar for our Kool Aid, but our educations required monthly photo essays on Tanzania. I tried to sneak by but she woke up and asked "Did you have a nice time?" with a yawn.

I was so excited I couldn't stop myself, though I was ordinarily too cool to share with adults. "It was absolutely fantastic," I gushed, seconds away from spinning in place, visions of everything I could buy -- videogames and stylish pants and Stouffer's TV dinners -- circling my head. "It was the best night of my life."

You could see shock hit mom like a grapefruit in the face. At sixteen I hated everything, from the Space Food Sticks we had for breakfast to our yearly vacations at Disneyland, and the family was long since resigned to the fact that the last thing I'd like would be a girl.

"Oh my goodness," she gasped, pulling me into a hug. "I'm so happy!" She dabbed at her eyes, barely able to speak, then stumbled to her bedroom. The second her door closed I heard her thump to her knees and cry, "Thank you, thank you, Lord!"

I hid the cash under my pillow and slept with a smile on my face. For once I had to agree.