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duplex on the fringes of
Beverly Hills, where the rents are manageable
and the plumbing is impossible.
    Lance works flexible hours as a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus, which gives him plenty
of time to loll about on lounge chairs in the middle of the day. That morning he was wearing
cut-off jeans and nothing on top, not an ounce
of flab visible on his perfect bod.
    "Hey, Jaine." He looked me up and down and
nodded approvingly. "Nice outfit."
    I beamed. That was high praise indeed from
a guy who says moths come to my closet to commit suicide.
    "Thanks!" I preened.
    Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously.
    "Those jeans don't have an elastic waist, do
they?"
    Lance hates elastic-waist pants. He thinks
they're classless and tacky and very Jerry Springer.
I keep telling him that they're comfortable, and
he keeps telling me that I've got to suffer for
beauty. Yeah, right. The only thing I'm willing
to suffer for is a hot fudge sundae.
    "No," I assured him, "they're not elastic
waist. "
    To prove it, I opened my blazer and showed
him the uncomfortable set-in waistband.
    'Whatever you do," he warned, "don't unbutton the waistband. We don't want to look like a
lady teamster, do we?"
    "I won't unbutton the waistband."
    "You promise?"
     
    "I swear on a stack of J.Crew catalogs."
    He smiled, satisfied.
    "So where are you off to?"
    "Oh, just a lunch date," I said, playing it nonchalant.
    "Date?" He sat up, interested. "Did I hear the
word date coming from your lips?"
    I nodded.
    "It's about time! I was beginning to think you
were a nun.
    "It's not that bad," I protested.
    "Honey, the last time you were out, they were
dancing the minuet."
    "Harty-har. "
    "So who's the lucky guy?"
    "A bank executive. I met him on a job interview last year."
    "Cute?"
    "Adorable. "
    "Well, if it doesn't work out, give him my
number."
    "Will do."
    He beamed an encouraging smile.
    "You look terrific, Jaine. Really."
    With Lance's approval ringing in my ears, I
headed down the path to Wheezy, where I unbuttoned the waistband on my jeans and set off
for my date with Andrew.
    I debated about whether or not to take the
freeway. I doubted Wheezy could dredge up the
energy to go more than forty miles an hour. But
cross-town street traffic would be a nightmare,
so I decided to risk it.
    And so I spent the next twenty harrowing minutes clutching the wheel with white knuckles as Wheezy coughed and sputtered her way in
the slow lane. Pedestrians were making better
time than I was.
     
    I'm happy to report that Wheezy didn't conk
out on the freeway. Nope, she conked out 60
seconds after we got off the freeway. I was
stopped at a traffic light when I looked down
and saw all the warning lights blinking merrily
on the dashboard.
    I tried gunning the engine. Nothing. Poor
Wheezy had breathed her last breath.
    I checked my watch. It was five of noon, and I
was at least fifteen blocks away from The Patio,
the restaurant where I was supposed to meet
Andrew. No way was I going to make it there in
five minutes. Not in my fashionably high-heeled
boots.
    Suddenly I heard a blast of car horns. I
turned and saw a line of cars backed up behind
me. I motioned them to go around me.
    I was sitting there, blocking traffic and cursing Crazy Dave and his wreckmobiles, when I
heard someone tapping on my car window. I
looked up and saw a tall black man. His name
was Leonard. At least that was the name embroidered on his denim work shirt.
    "Can I help you, lady?" he asked when I
rolled down the window.
    I looked up into his eyes. They were kind
eyes, warm and sympathetic.
    And then out of the blue, before I could stop
myself, I was crying. With big hiccupy racking
sobs.
    This is crazy, I told myself. What was I doing
crying in front of a perfect stranger? And ruin ing my eye make-up, too. But I couldn't stop myself.
     
    "Lady, what's wrong?"
    "Oh, Leonard!" I wailed. "First my car was
stolen and then my insurance company gave me
fifteen crummy