The Henna with Gomez

"Y'know, Harry, I'm really really pissed with you about this whole Wendy thing," Gomez said while clipping his toenails in his kitchen.

"And I'm pissed with you for clipping your toenails in front of me, so we're even," Harry said while pulling on a hangnail.

"Give me a fucking break, Harry." A toenail clipping went flying into a fruit bowl on the kitchen counter.

"Three points for the LA Toe Clippers! You are a vile man, Gomez."

"And you're just an asshole, Harry."

Maybe, but at least he didn't clip his toenails in the kitchen in front of guests. Revolting, revolting. So tough shit on Gomez if he was pissed about Wendy.

"Look, the animal thing was getting too weird. The final straw was when I woke up one morning with her puss--her cat sleeping on my face."

"You were sleeping with her, Harry...Y'think I don't know?"

Actually, yes. Harry had no idea.

"Y'think I care?"

Which wasn't true. Wendy was a dark and dirty secret Harry wanted to bury.

"No, but you should."

"Look, she started it, I was lonely, shit happens."

"Meanwhile now I look like the shithead who brought you two together." Gomez clipped a toenail too close to the skin. "Fuuuuck!" He rubbed the injured toe.

"So I left. Big deal."

"At least pay her what you owe..."

"Don't worry, I'll pay her...something. It's just that I had to move into a hotel and it's double my budget."

"Still, you owe her what you owe her. Anyhow, now that"s your problem."

Gomez finished clipping his toenails and Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He looked outside the kitchen window into the courtyard where tangerine and orange trees grew under the canopy of the blue sky. Santa Monica was the most gorgeous place he ever visited. And here he sat, the slimeball who stiffed the landlord he slept with, watching Gomez clip his toenails. Another juxtaposition on the tableau of life.

Gomez rubbed his freshly manicured toes with foot lotion. He wouldn't admit it, but he was relieved that Harry left Wendy's house. He knew that he had blown one of the cardinal rules of chronic bullshitters: Keep all your friends apart from each other, lest they expose your bullshit when they get together and compare notes. So Harry knew that Wendy was never his girlfriend, big shit. Bullshit artists inevitably get caught along the way. Call it the cost of doing business.

"So are you ready for this henna party, Harry? I hear they're wild."

"What exactly is a henna party anyways?"

"Some kind of traditional party the Moroccan Jews throw a few nights before the wedding. At one point in the night they bring out this tub of henna and people rub the crap into their hands. It's supposed to bring good luck. At least that's what Regine says."

Regine, the sister of the bride who invited Gomez to the party, happened to be the toe-clipper's latest pretend girlfriend. They'd been seeing each other for about a month.

Seeing each other -- A term used by bullshit artists alluding to a non-platonic relationship, while semantically giving the bullshitter enough lattitude and vagueness to deny their own insinuation of engagement in a casual non-platonic relationship that could at any time develop into a full-blown relationship if only both parties could "commit."

The henna party crap intriguied Harry, it seemed to be ridiculous enough of a concept to check it out for the laughsake of it. Then again, how could it hurt to rub some of that good-luck-muck between the palms. Nail down destiny while the stars were aligned for the Big Break. What better place for it to happen then at a henna party and all that fucking good-luck-muck.

"Y'think there'll be some TV people there?"

"I doubt that, Harry. There'll be mainly Moroccan Jews. Most are in the schemata business. I think the father of the groom owns What? jeans," Gomez said while slipping a pair of argyle socks over his creamy feet. He gave Harry an approving once-over. "Don't we look pretty slick tonight, Harry. You'll do okay."

Indeed, as long as they don't think we're a couple, Harry thought. Who knows what Gomez ran around saying to who-knows-who?


"So Gomez brought along his boyfriend," Regine thought when Harry and Gomez entered the hall. She approached them and gave Gomez a chaste peck on the cheek.

Girlfriend, Harry thought while working hard to keep from smirking. At times, he could get so bitchy.

"Bingo -- a kiss." thought Gomez. "Bet that Harry believes she's my girlfriend." Perfect evidence that bullshit artists are just as deluded about themselves as with the lies they tell.

Everyone was thinking.