More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2) Read online

I have this love-hate thing with actors: I’m attracted by the larger-than-life, valiant characters they play on screen, but, in reality, so many of them are vain, self-serving, and not even very good in bed unless there’s a mirror nearby that allows them to—while gazing at their reflection as they penetrate some arbitrary body—actually make love to themselves.

  Clearly, I wasn’t going to sit with Viggo, but at least I’d made my flight, which is more than I could say about the time, a couple of years ago, when I spent two weeks in Switzerland for a series of BMW spots with Catherine Zeta-Jones. That time, it had totally been my fault. Nobody had made me have a fling with a remarkably handsome and amusing German microscope company executive who was attending a convention in the same hotel and who, of course, turned out to be married—detecting a pattern yet?—with a penchant for screwing anything over forty degrees that moved. He’d lied so convincingly, I believed him when he told me he was divorced and hadn’t been with anyone in a year.

  That time, I missed my flight because I felt compelled to do what any self-respecting modern woman would have done under the circumstances: I crashed the Annual Bausch Microscope business breakfast, picked up the lying pig’s plate of pickled herring, and broadsided it into his gaping maw. Soon, three other women began hurling water pitchers, coffee cups, and pastries at the louse. It seemed they, too, had succumbed to his charms. They hadn’t known about me, and it was abundantly clear they hadn’t known about each other. My only regret had been not sticking around to see what happened next.

  This singular event may have helped me steer clear of self-destructive relationships with married men while on work-related trips (the only kind I ever go on unless you count infrequent visits to Fresno), but it had yet to cure me of my attraction, unwittingly (and unwillingly, of course), to married men in my own city, like the one I was currently ensnarled with back in L.A.

  Now, as I try to move through first class with grace and aplomb, I’m aware of the dirty looks from men in suits and the haughty-looking “women who shop”—the latter probably headed to the U.S. to ransack American stores with their inflated yen, euros, dinars, and pounds—perturbed at having their shopping trip delayed by the likes of me, slowly making my way through their cabin to get to the rest of the people of no consequence in coach.

  I feel the glare of one of these women judging me and, “Oh my goodness, I’m so sorry!” I say, as I accidentally knock her elbow just enough to ever-so-slightly spill her free Mimosa onto her pale beige haute couture traveling costume with matching designer handbag. Such a shame…she’ll have to go straight to the Balenciaga Boutique in Beverly Hills and buy another. Well, at least I confirmed her worst suspicions about my character.

  Continuing on through business class, I spot Viggo, sunglasses on, head tipped back, enjoying an apparent snooze. Damn, he had looked so fine on that tractor—what an earthmover. But now, he doesn’t even know I’m here, the ingrate. I flick my tangled web of hair anyway. Somebody might be noticing.

  And then I enter coach, that engorged mid-section of any commercial jetliner, which veritably swells with people, many of whom have engorged mid-sections themselves. If you squint, blurring your vision, you can sort of imagine an oversized chocolate tin from a big box store—the kind they put out at Christmas—where every compartment is filled with something mysterious you really don’t want to take a chance on.

  I look up, figuring there will be no place to tuck the Tumi anywhere near my seat, so I’d better start looking. And, of course, it’s immediately apparent that all the overhead storage bins are jammed. Kabuki masks, boxes of sake, and duty-free Scotch join the luggage and pieces of clothing, crowding the bins for as far as I can see and pretty much guaranteeing there won’t be a spot for my one little carry-on with the perfectly measured three-ounce containers in their quart-sized zip-lock plastic bag. Crap, crap, crap!

  For all the trouble I went through to call her, Madelyn might have at least pretended to believe me. Calling had made me so late, I can’t even find a place for my bag. I hate that! Why is it everything about air travel is a challenge? The temperature is always either too hot or too cold, and there are always so many people. Where are they going, and why are they on my plane?

  If you’re getting the sense that I’m angry, you’re right. I’m an angry white woman. Get over it, you say? Granted, things could be a lot harder than they are, and perhaps I shouldn’t complain. But things could be a lot easier, too.

  Our would-be first female president, Hillary, would agree with me on this. People could be way nicer, smarter, more considerate, and the world would be a better place as a result. But everyone behaves as if they didn’t have to share the planet or the not-so-friendly skies with other human beings—not to mention animals, birds, and bugs—including women like me, Nancy Pelosi, and Lady Gaga; not that they fly coach, but you know what I mean—who want all the stuff men have.

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, imagining I’m back in Los Angeles, clasping a pole in K-Love’s intermediate dance class, circling to the sounds of J. Cole’s “Power Trip” and loving life. And I remind myself, as I always do in times of stress, I must learn to practice gratitude; I breathe deeply while repeating my mantra in my head: Inhale: Yes, yes, yes, yes; exhale: Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

  I’m moving again, and spot a flight attendant handing out headsets a few rows away on the other side of the plane. So I limp over, smiling cheerily, hoping she can help. Her hair is cut in a bob, and she wears a nametag that says, “Kitty.” Seriously, “Hello, I’m Kitty.” She can’t be serious.

  “Hello, Kitty,” I say, smiling as genuinely as Reese Witherspoon pulled over for a moving violation. “I wonder if you might help me.”

  She beams back a not-altogether-genuine smile herself, but of course she’s not had the benefit of working with actors as I do, being able to mirror behavior on a daily basis. “Oh-hi-oh, wuh I can do for you?” she asks in heavily accented English.

  “Kitty, could I ask you, isn’t the rule of the skies that a passenger gets one carry-on? Because there are people on this flight who must have more than one. Otherwise, all the overhead bins wouldn’t be so full, ya know?” I give her an “aw shucks” kind of shrug, hoping she’ll agree and do something about this gross miscarriage of justice.

  Kitty’s expression doesn’t change.

  “See, I only have this one carry-on,” I continue, speaking a little slower and acting it out with hand gestures in case her English comprehension isn’t up to speed.

  I realize it irritates non-English speakers when Americans do this, but I really believe it can help them understand better; so I forge ahead.

  “And as you can see—” I point to my eyes—“there’s no place to put it.” I point to the overhead bin and shrug.

  “Do you think we could find out who owns all this stuff?” I draw a question mark in the air and indicate all the passengers. “Because I’m pretty sure I few people on this plane have exceeded their baggage limit.”

  I wag my finger to indicate somebody has been very, very bad. “So if we were to do that, then we could put all their excess stuff under the plane.” I end my demonstration with a flourish, swinging a pretend suitcase in one hand, sliding it under the other—simulating the underbelly of the plane—and slamming the non-existent door before finally, brushing my palms together with a smile.

  “Sorry,” Kitty says, reaching for my Tumi and not the least bit sorry about it. “You late. Take seat and adjust seat belt low cross lap; we taking off soon.”

  “But—” I protest, holding onto the bag. “I only have one bag!”

  She won’t let go. “Put under plane.”

  “No!” I say, realizing I shouldn’t be having this fight with Kitty. “I mean—” I try a softer tone. “What are rules if nobody enforces them? Let’s get a few people with more than one carry-on to put their unfiltered sake under their seats.”

  Where was Maddie, the mediating Muff, when I needed her?
Oh, right, asleep in L.A., unsympathetic to my plight, unsympathetic to her own plight!

  “Sit—down!” Kitty says, trying to take my Tumi. For such a tiny figure, she’s surprisingly strong.

  “Let me...have my...ugh—” I use all my weight to snatch the Tumi from Kitty’s clutches. “Bag!” My ankle is really killing me.

  We stare at each other for a few seconds, while I’m quite sure she is considering telling somebody in the cockpit there is a terrorist on board.

  I compose myself. Inhale: Yes, yes, yes, yes; exhale: thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. “I’ll just put it under the seat in front of me and have leg cramps and back trouble from your airline’s flawed policies and this twenty-hour flight. Thank you for your help.”

  Once I’m back on the other aisle of the Jumbo Jet, I continue to limp into the bowels of the plane until I finally reach my row—forty-five—and stare at the spot that is my seat. It’s a bit of red and purple upholstery, barely visible between a sumo wrestler and a woman in the shape of a tent who met my gaze with an expression that dared me to even try squeezing between them.

  Casually, I glance over my shoulder, desperate for another place to put my ass for the duration of the flight, but it’s quite clear that every seat is taken. Not only that, it seems like most of the people occupying the seats are huge—even the Japanese passengers.

  When did that happen? Japanese people, other than sumo wrestlers, of course, are usually thin. Could childhood obesity be wreaking havoc in Japan, too? With human cargo this size, we might not get off the ground.

  Oh, why was there no empty seat next to Viggo? If we’re going to crash, it might actually be all right if I could just be near him. If I were to perish in a plane crash, at least I’d be spared further grief from my mother about how I missed out on having kids and how terrible Hollywood is. More importantly, I’d be spared any further thought about how she might be right. Breathe—I am destined for great things!

  Resigned to the situation, I sigh and fish out my e-reader, on which The Glass Castle, the Muffia Book Club’s current read, awaited me. There was nowhere to go, and no one was going to help me better my situation. But at least Kitty hadn’t gotten me kicked off the plane. So make the best of it, Quinn. This too will pass.

  I take another deep breath, pick up the Tumi, and squeeze past tent lady into my sliver of a seat, wedging my bag under the seat in front of me. It’s going to be a very long flight, but I’m heading home. And though my seatmates’ combined mass is four times mine, should either of them attempt to monopolize an armrest, they do so at their own peril. I may have very little control over anything in my life, but my elbows are very sharp.

  CHAPTER 2

  Having sexual intercourse with a very large man has never been something I longed for, though I’ve often wondered what it might be like; not necessarily a sumo wrestler, but someone of that size and stature who exists on a grand scale and takes up a lot of space—a Pavarotti type of man. My curiosity stems from the concern that even if this large man’s penis is perfectly normal in size, as penises go, it’s going to look small, buried as it must be—particularly in its non-erect state—in mounds of flesh. It’s the visual that I find both amusing and disturbing; amusing, for obvious reasons, and disturbing for less obvious ones having to do with finding the penis—providing, of course, that I was inclined to look.

  And how did sex even work with a big man? Did the flesh get in the way? And if the belly protruded substantially beyond the groin, as indeed it usually did with men of generous girth, how was a woman to position herself so as to achieve full penetration without adipose obstruction?

  These were the questions that consumed me now, pressed into my seat as I was, essentially trapped by Sumo, a Mount Fuji of a man, and far stronger than I. My first reaction, however, was one of hope—hope that his penis was, in fact, trapped by mounds of flesh, unable to press beyond its rolls; the sumo wrestler’s body, in essence, was a buffer against rape.

  Where had the tent woman gone? Not that she would have done anything about what was happening in seat 45B. And hadn’t I been reading a book? Yes, The Glass Castle, on my Kobo e-reader. I needed to find it. Book club was coming up, and this time I was determined to finish the assigned book. This time I would wow the Muffs with my erudite commentary.

  I pushed into Sumo’s mountainous middle with my fingers. His fleshy folds could certainly house a book, or possibly, such was his vastness, even a toaster oven. It was simply—or perhaps not so simply—a matter of finding which fold he hid things in. Not so simple because it seemed like the inside crease of each fold was some five or six inches closer to the vital organs than the outer rolls. In order to reach that inner lining, I needed to contort my body so as to pry apart the rolls and squiggle my fingers inside. Pressing deeper, I found the crease and kept wiggling my fingers. How does one clean in there? The interminable folds were reminiscent of a bulldog’s jowls or a sharpei’s facial wrinkles, only deeper and wider, like the Shenandoah foothills. I made one last attempt to extend my hand deeper, a little farther and—kersplatz.

  Jolted awake, I found myself lying on the floor of my apartment. There I was, fully clothed and surrounded by what appeared to be every pillow I owned, which, no doubt, had contributed to the disturbing vision of Jelly Belly copping a feel.

  But had it only been a vision? I had the distinct sense that my subconscious was recalling Sumo’s porcine presence hovering over me during the flight when I’d nodded off for a few minutes while tent woman was in the rest room. Or had she been there, complicit in his febrile explorations.

  With the two warm, fleshy forms rhythmically rising and falling on either side of me, it’s no wonder I’d fallen asleep on the plane. Though initially feeling trapped, it turned out that my rowmates’ deep, relaxing inhalations and exhalations had lulled me into a state of torpor, during which time Sumo must have pushed himself on me. Now, it was too late to confront him.

  Other than the nagging suspicion I’d been violated, however, being able to sleep for a couple of hours during the flight had been bliss, as had the hours I’d spent awake reading The Glass Castle. It’s rare I finish any book in time for book club, but with Jeannette Walls’s memoir—the story of a girl raised by insane people who happened to be her parents—I felt connected to the author in a very real way. We shared a similar past that made reading the book feel like a memory. Not that my father—God rest his bleepin’ soul—ever pimped me. No, it was more the tone and the way she reflected back on her childhood with a certain generosity of spirit that made me keep reading until I’d finished.

  After learning about all the things poor Jeannette endured on her way to adulthood, I also had a sort of revelation. I say, “sort of,” because I’ve had the thought before, making the word revelatory an expression of hyperbole. Still—whatever grounds a person in reality is worth mentioning. What I realized is I felt guilty about all the snarky complaining I’d been doing lately; all that angry white woman stuff.

  When I thought about it, I was grateful for so many things. Not the married guy so much, but my friends and even my silly job getting commercials for celebrities. Seriously, I should be ashamed of myself whining about the petty inconveniences of international jet travel—it was international jet travel! Some people never get to go anywhere.

  Sure, I could be agenting talent on big movies instead of in foreign ads, but at least I still get to hang out with Viggo and Benedict and Brad, occasionally rubbing up against them—even if it’s by mistake, and even if they’re stinkier and dirtier than you’d ever imagine they’d be. Uh—there I go again; be grateful, Quinn. Yes, yes, yes, yes; thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you! Who cares if they haven’t bathed? Some people would kill to get a whiff of Mr. Cumberbatch, no matter what he smelled like. I smiled and closed my eyes. MMMmmmm....I knew what he smelled like.

  My cellphone was ringing and probably had been ringing for awhile, only I was too sleepy to realize it. Somewhere, lost in all the
pillows, was my mobile playing its jazz-era ring tone. I really needed to change that. “I Ain’t Got Nobody” had turned out to be a self-fulfilling prophecy, but when I chose it, I’d just come off “Girls Just Want to Have Fun,” and that hadn’t borne any fruit, either. I was trying reverse psychology.

  Kicking away a pillow that said “Keep Calm and Wear Spiked Heels,” I once again felt the pain in my damaged ankle while my ring tone continued: “...my baby don’t care for me.”

  Spotting the phone, at last I picked it up, fumbling and almost dropping it as I brought it to my ear without checking caller I.D.

  “I knew it!” said the female voice, further shaking me from my jetlagged state.

  “Who is this?” I mumbled, finally getting the damned thing secure.

  “What do you mean, who is this? It’s Jelicka. Maddie told me you called her from Tokyo, and I just want to be on record as saying, ‘I told you he wasn’t dead.’”

  Eeeeerrrrrkkkk—!

  Cue SFX of screeching tires. Insert the visual of a car skidding out and coming to rest at the edge of a steep precipice. This is the part of the movie where we might go to a flashback, show the audience how the character ended up in a car skidding to a stop at the edge of a steep precipice; or, maybe we’d start to hear a voice over—perhaps a woman reflecting on the moment everything in her life changed. I don’t know about all that; I just want to go back and either refresh your memory, or fill you in on some things before we proceed with the story.

  If you’re not already onboard with what’s happened with The Muffia up to this point, or for some reason, you don’t accept my definition of the term, The Muffia, let me start by saying there’s no hidden meaning. The Muffia is a book club, and that’s pretty much it. We are nine women living in the greater Los Angeles area of California, USA, and we’ve been reading books together for over twelve years. That’s it.

  We’re friends too, of course, some of us enjoying the company of one or more Muffs over and above the others, but that’s only to be expected when you put nine women together. We bond, detach, and re-bond all the time. But through all the shifts, what is of greatest importance remains: we all like each other and respect each other’s opinions—particularly about books—that is, when we’ve read them, which we don’t always get around to, given the demands of life. This, too, we accept in each other.