Pronoun Problems: A Novel About Friendship, Transgender and (eventually) Ninjas

13 - D Cup

Miriam lived with her parents in luxuriant Beverly Hills. I grew up comfortably upper-middle class, but this was something else entirely. This was wealth. What struck me wasn't just the opulence of the Cohens' pillared mansion lit up like the Parthenon, but the astounding precision of the landscaping. I was used to the combativeness of nature — defiantly overgrown hedges and unconquerable weeds — but here every leaf, every flower petal, every blade of grass in its place, as if cowed into submission, afraid to move. In Beverly Hills, money met Mother Nature and made her his bitch.

The contrast between the awesomeness of the exterior and the wilted figure of Miriam when she answered the door was jarring, like Wizard of Oz emerging from behind the curtain. Only worse because, I was startled to notice, her face was covered with scrapes and bruises.

I didn't ask her what had happened — not because I wasn't intensely curious, but because Jesus Christ! What's with your face? seemed like an ungracious way to begin the evening — but she felt compelled to explain anyway.

"This morning I was running and I stepped in wet cement and tripped and fell and hit my head on a brick wall."

"Ah," I said, and winced sympathetically.

"I feel so stupid."

"Hey, I once knocked myself out running into a tree," I said reassuringly. "I've got no high ground."

She laughed, relieved to be in the presence of a kindred doofus, and called out, "We're going, Mom!"

Her mother waved from the marbled kitchen. She was wearing a sweat-stained cervical collar on her neck. Miriam explained that her mother had gotten in an accident six months ago when her Audi 5000 suddenly accelerated on its own volition and collided with a telephone pole. She needed to keep the brace on until the class action suit was settled. You never know when a private investigator will come snooping around, taking pictures.

I waved back.

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The plan for the evening could not have been more cliché: Dinner and a movie. Which, I came to learn, was exactly backwards. Go to the movie first; that way, you'll at least to have something to talk about at dinner. It certainly would have spared me from some particularly uncomfortable evenings when conversation was exhausted before appetizers were even ordered, and I would stare at my menu, listening to the sound of my date passive-aggressively crunching on tortilla chips while I thought up imaginative ways to kill her.

I parked my Saab in a ridiculously expensive lot, and then Miriam led the way to the restaurant. It was my first time in trendy Westwood Village and the sidewalks teemed with boisterous UCLA students and well-heeled locals who found them annoying.

The conversation was standard fare. Miriam asked me questions about where I was from and my nonexistent sitcom writing career. Then she started telling me about her radiology internship at Cedars-Sinai when, all of a sudden, she said, "Aaron, hold my hands."

Apparently, she thought the date was going better than I did.

"Aaron! Hold my hands!" she said again, urgently this time. I had no idea what was going on, but I did as I was told. And then I felt it: The tremors. "Put me on the ground!" I lowered her gently to the sidewalk where she started convulsing. I stood there — helplessly, stupidly — as she writhed on the concrete.

I later learned that Miriam was an epileptic. Generally, her condition was controlled by medication, but her doctor had warned that her earlier rendezvous with Mr. Wall was likely to trigger a seizure. I suppose I can't blame her for withholding the information from me. After all, I'm probably going to have a seizure! is right up there with religion and politics on the list of things you shouldn't talk about on a first date.