2009-06-13: "Welcome To L.A"

Original Airdate: Saturday, June 13th, 2009

Starring: "Dave", "Miranda"

Dave.png Miranda.png

Notes: When an old college friend (Dave) needs a place to stay, recent divorcee Miranda apparently has no say in the matter.



That would be Dave. From San Francisco, California. Fled to L.A. because of some troubles with the law, perhaps relating to the illegal front he set up for some friends, but it's all good, because now he is in Sunny L.A., far from San Francisco and that lame wife, and it's going to be some good times. He's dropping in on his old college friend, Miranda Knox, because, well, his wife is a hobag who kicked him out when the first sign of trouble came, and he did know anyone in L.A. who wanted to help a fugitive. Which is still cool, because his wife doesn't know he drained the account of all he could before taking him. Hobag.

Except no one is answering! Which sucks, really, because it is damn hot out here— hey, these places have pools, right? Screw it. Leaving his bags on the front step, Dave finds the easiest way to get into the pool… over the fence. Pulling a pipe from his pocket, he lights up, tosses an intertube into the pool, hops in, and begins to relax. Wonder where Miranda's at.

Welcome to Mysteria Lane, Dave. Looks like someone found suburban paradise.

One and a half hours later…

Miranda's car, which happens to be a silver Model S Tesla, which she bought after selling the luxury convertible her then-husband bought her as an anniversary present. She didn't shed a tear, for the record. Also for the record, she's not a very good driver — the electric car scrapes its way into the driveway crookedly and out comes Miranda and several shopping bags.

With black Fuck You sunglasses (read: impenetrable black shades) still on after she heads into her house, she kicks off her sandals and pads her way through the tidy home (a miracle), dropping the bags on the kitchen table and making her way to the fridge. This familiar route brings her past the sliding glass patio doors.

…Hold up. Miranda sloooowly walks backwards, slides her sunglasses up, and squints into the sunny backyard. "… What … the fuck?" Okay, think, Miranda. There's a freak in your pool. He's probably a pervert, or— or a homeless person. Or, crap, what if he's both?! She momentarily freezes and panics before scurrying around the kitchen to find a mop. Feeling prepared, she shoves the door open and runs poolside. "GET OFF MY PROPERTY!! FREAK!" It's not until she's out there that she realizes……

…..that a mop is useless, so she hurls a ceramic turtle off the table.

Freaky Suburban House Wife Wielding Mop? Check. Freaked Out Guy In The Pool At The Sight Of It? Check. "WHAT THE FUCK!" Dave yells, toppling over the inner tube and finding himself sinking towards the bottom of the pool. At least he dodged that damn turtle. Not exactly the big WELCOME TO L.A.! he was expecting. Breaking the surface, he holds both hands up, pipe still glinting in the sunlight, his own sunglasses still somehow attached to his head. "Hold up Suburban Godzilla before you throw anything else and break things all over your nice pool!" Dave calls out, moving to the edge and pushing himself up onto the deck. "Ruined," he says, looking at the bowl of his pipe. "Oh well, I got more in my bag. Randi!" he goes on, looking at her with a bright, beaming smile, arms held wide open for a hug. "What brings you to the neighborhood?"

Miranda, having grabbed the turtle's partner in crime, a stone frog, is midway through bringing a willowy arm back for a second pitch, froggy doom clutched high above her head. She stays that way. Staring. Incredulous. "…Dave?" she says, squinting in disbelief. She slowly leans the mop against the outdoor patio set and relinquishes the ceramic amphibian, too. What she doesn't do is hug the man who is dripping with pool water and insanity. "Jesus Christ!" she shoves him, then steps back splays her hands out in an effort to calm down. "…you scared me. I thought you were a home intruder." She suddenly glances around the yard. "Did…" Miranda eyes Dave suspiciously. "…did you jump the fence?"

"Yeah!" is Dave's nonchalant response, putting his arms back down. Looks like she isn't going to hug him, but he's not worried about it. It's not his fault she came running out looking crazed with the mop which resulted in him being soaking wet. "You weren't home and I wasn't going to stand on the porch all day, so I hopped it and thought I'd take a dip in the pool." Shaking a bit to get rid of some of the excess water, he takes a look around the area. "Didn't think that would happen, though," he muses outloud, pointing at the pieces of turtle before turning back to Miranda. "So where's the party! I'm on extended vacation, and I'm ready to hook up with the suburban lifestyle. Also I'm gonna crash here if that's cool. Cool? Cool." Patting Miranda on the shoulder with another big grin, he turns towards the fence, moving towards the gate and unlocking it, no doubt heading to where he left his bags.

Miranda is still in a state of bewilderment. The words coming out of Dave's mouth make her wonder if she stepped into an alternate reality when she came through the front door earlier. Staring. Gaping. Et cetera. "You…" She points vaguely at Dave but, not quite sure what to make of his sudden pronouncements, simply winds up holding her hand in the air. …Alone. Because he's going through her gate and leaving her in her own backyard. Miranda's pointing finger takes on a life of its own, wagging at the space Dave left until she breaks off into a barefooted jog after him, hopping over shards of ceramic turtle as she goes. "C-crash? What do you mean you're going to crash here? When was the last time we even saw each other?! You can't just invite yourself!"

"I don't know, a few years ago?" Dave calls back to Miranda, finally arriving at his bags and crouching down to dig through one of them. Must be his drug pouch, because there's quite a bit of weed in there. He certainly didn't come unprepared in any case. "I don't want to invite myself, but hell, Randi, what about that math I helped you cheat through back in college? The Hobag kicked me out of the house, and since all my savings isn't quite enough to get a new house of my own, I need to crash here for a bit to get back on my feet. So to speak." Grabbing a joint from the bag, he slips it in between his lips, pulling a lighter from the bag as well. He lights up. right in the middle of the porch. "So anyway," he goes on, since the matter is quite obviously settled to him, "what have you been up to, anyways? Still with that husband of yours? How's the kid?" He offers the joint to Miranda, hand held out in front of him as he takes a seat and leans against the porch railing. Apparently he's gonna sit and get high in just this very spot.

So anyway, Miranda doesn't think of this situation as settled, but she has other things to worry about right this second, like her tenuous reputation among her nosy neighbours. "Kid. Times three," she clarifies in a fluster on the porch. How did she not notice those bags befo— well, no one ever said Miranda was the most perceptive woman in the world. She zooms toward Dave and snatches the joint from him, followed by his wrist, which she hauls on. "And I'm divorced, now just— come inside! I'm on the PTA!" She puts the smoke out on the archway of the porch. "I don't want to deal with my Desperate Housewife neighbours wondering why I have a pothead on my front step." Still clinging to Dave, she marches up to the front door. "Look," she says as she opens the door, "College was a long time ago, Dave, but … call it generosity, or, more likely… temporary insanity, you can stay." She whirls around to eyeball Dave. "For a few days."

"THREE kids?" Dave says, shaking his head. "Damn, Randi. You've got the whole suburban housewife image down, don't you— minus a husband. Always knew he was a dud." Has Dave even met him? When the joint is pulled out of his mouth, plus the wrist hauling, Dave jumps up. "Okay okay!" he says, grabbing his bags and moving into the house. "PTA too?" He laughs, genuinely amused at the thought of Miranda in the PTA. "And hey, I'm not a pothead! I prefer to be called……… …… well I can't think of another word, but pothead is derogatory, you know." He claps his hands together, rubbing his palms slightly. "A few days. That should be plenty of time."

"Yeah, laugh all you want," Miranda says dryly as she ushers Dave inside and makes sure the door is shut. Suffice to say, she didn't picture herself in the suburban housewife image either. (Then again, an image is just an image.) She holds the joint out to Dave. "Make sure this is gone before four o'clock. That's when the kids roll in from their grandparents' house in Glendale." She makes her way through the house to the kitchen and leans on the edge of the table where she left her shopping bags. Looking sidelong at Dave, she starts to laugh and shake her head. "Remember back in college — that party your roommate threw while I was trying to study calculus. You know I don't really owe you anything," she points out, "I write for a women's magazine, I don't use … math."

"Four o'clock, you got it," Dave says, accepting the joint back and setting it down for now. "You know they're probably getting high anyway," he says, leaning against the counter opposite of Miranda, from where he suddenly grins. "I do remember that party," he says, "that was the night I hooked up with those Asian twins. Looooot of limbs in that bed." He shakes his head, offering a placating hand. "I know you don't, I just thought I'd drop in and see how my favorite college girl was doing." Drop in being the key words here. "A women's magazine? Which one?"

"You know those twins weren't as— " Miranda holds up a hand, glancing away from her sudden… Houseguest… As she starts to go through her shopping bags. "…you know what, I'll let you cherish the memory untainted by reality." The contents of the bags are, as it turns out, mundane. Groceries. "Gloss. You know, that cheap knockoff of Cosmo with the obnoxious pink logo," she answers as she breezes past Dave with a bunch of bananas. "I haven't been … it's a new job. My first job, actually, in something like fifteen years." Miranda pauses in front of the counter holding the bananas, realizing how pathetic that sounds outloud, especially given the job she had fifteen years ago was working for Mark. "And for the record, my kids don't get high. One of them is in preschool."

"I was sellin' in preschool!" Dave says, grinning, but it's quite obvious he's just poking fun with Miranda. "Gloss— yeah, think I've heard of it. Hobag probably had a subscription to it with the thousand other magazines she subscribed too." He eyes the bananas, deciding that they look particularly good. Wonder why that is. "Job treating you well?" he says, watching as Miranda moves about putting up groceries.

"Mnh." The impartial sound is followed by a shrug of one of Miranda's particularly thin shoulders on her way past Dave again. "I get to write from home a lot, so." Bonus? She sounds thrilled, can't you tell by that deadpan voice of hers? The not-quite-housewife fishes a box of organic animal crackers out of one of the bags. She's not the one with a case of the munchies, but she opens 'em up and starts snacking on an edible sheep as she talks to Dave. "I take it yours isn't? I mean, since you're here. Did … Hobag … Freeze all your assets or something?"

"She freezed what she could, but you don't mess with an accountant, especially an accountant scorned," Dave says, shaking a fist in the air for the added drama. "I emptied what I could, but she's still got quite a bit." He helps himself to a few animal crackers, munching on them as he talks. "Left her back in San Fran. She has no idea where I took off to, so I don't have to worry about her. Plus," he says, eyes lighting up, "I've got the card to my secret account. She won't find out about that one." Hopefully, anyway.

"…Good for you." Miranda says with a thin smile of encouragement and a double thumbs up. The smiling lion on the box of crackers she still brandishes A-OKs Dave more cheerfully than Miranda pulls off. "You show that … Hobag. No one messes with Dave… …fuck. You're staying at my house, and I don't even remember your last name." This feels like a bad omen. Down goes the box of crackers onto the table as she whirls around, happier to sift through the groceries, with much crinkling of paper and plastic, than to dwell on her sudden houseguest.

"Yeah, yeah," Dave responds, popping the last of the animal cracks into his mouth. "Randi, you hurt me so much," he says, patting her on the back. "Besides, you won't even know I'm here. I'll be like the ghost of Christmas past or future, or.. I don't know what I'm talking about." Damn, those animal crackers are good. Grabbing a few more, he leans on the counter, watching Miranda as she puts away groceries. "How old are the kids now anyway?" he says, biting the head off of a lion. Fuck you, lion.

Miranda ignores the stolen animal crackers and goes about putting groceries away — sometimes in the fridge, sometimes in the cupboard and back to the fridge or vice versa… There could be more organized methods. "Jay's sixteen. Michelle is thirteen and Alison's…" She momentarily becomes distracted by putting a box of cereal on the top shelf of a high cupboard, stretching up on her tiptoes. "… Five. How about you? Did you have any spawn with your…" Hobag? Maybe in this instance it's best to say— "Wife?"

"Let me help," Dave says, pushing off of the counter and grabbing some of the groceries. Of course, hsi version of help is basically stand there holding the items until Miranda directs him where to put them. At least she doesn't have to make as many trips? "Sixteen, that's a good age. I remember being sixteen," Dave says with a hint of nostalgia in his voice. "Those were good times…" he trails off, staring at the refrigerator as he replays some memory from those days in his head, but he suddenly snaps out of it and looks at Miranda. "Yeah, I've got two. No idea what the hell they're up to. Son is probably off getting his penis tattooed or something with that goth girlfriend of his. Freaky little looking girl," he says with an elaborate and over-the-top shudder.

After handing Dave a carton of milk, Miranda stares with a distant, wide-eyed sort of horror. The horror of not-so-psychic visions. Premonitions, one might say. Images of Dave having conversations with any one of her three children. In her imaginary vision, Dave is still talking about penis tattoos. She snaps out of it. "…put the milk… in the fridge, beside the Rice Dream. And uh. I don't have… a guest room. Three kids, you know, they kind of take up all the space. You'll have to sleep on the couch."

But it's only a few days, anyway.


"Oooh, come on Randi," Dave says, rolling his eyes as he puts the milk into the fridge. He can see that look on her face and read what it means. "I'll be a perfect gentleman in front of your kids." Of course, Miranda doesn't know what exactly a 'perfect gentleman' is to Dave. There's really no telling. "You mean to tell me there aren't any spare rooms in this place?" Dave says, looking around. "Ah, well. I'll sleep in the pool, get me a lounge chair or whatever you want to call it that floats on the water. A water chair."

Miranda manages to smile, lopsided and quirky as she regards… Dave. Dave What-His-Name. Maybe it won't be so bad. That optimistic thought lasts for about .5 of a second, but her silly smile stays where it is anyway. "…there's, uh. There's an inflatable floating chair in the shed. It's a pony. Or… It might be a seahorse. Anyway, you'll see it. It's pink. For the record," she points at him, "I'm not responsible if you fall asleep and drown."

Picking up his joint that he set down earlier, Dave flashes Miranda the thumbs up. "Pink works. Easy on the high eyes," Dave says, turning towards the pool and looking out at it through the sliding patio doors. "It's hot as hell, Randi. What do you say we take a dip?" Nothing sexual about it. It's just damn hot, don't you have AC in this house lady?! "Wait for the kids to get home and you can introduce them to uncle Dave."

Uncle Dave. Oh God. What has she done. "…I really should— " Miranda cringes hooks a thumb over her shoulder, gesturing to … who knows what further inside the house. It's an excuse with no real base, seeing as she had a grand day of doing nothing planned before the kids got home. "…well." She looks out at the back yard, squinting at the pool as sunlight glints off the water and makes the blue almost neon. She's going to have to clean up those turtle pieces. "…Suuure. Why not."

"Bitchin'," Dave says, sliding the door open (not before grabbing a few more animal crackers) and heading out onto the patio. He makes his way to the shed, somehow finding the pink pony chair (probably because it stands out being pink), and he begins to inflate it, which is probably going to take a bit.

Miranda follows as far as the patio door, leaning against it with folded arms while she watches Dave and the inflatable pony. She expects it to be a comedy of errors, so it's worth watching to later mock. "I'll … be right out," she calls blandly after a little span of time before drifting toward the house's staircase to change into something more pool-friendly. As she wanders up, she mumbles under her breath. "Bad ideeeeeeaa…"

* * *

It doesn't take TOO terribly long, but Dave manages to get the pink pony blown all the way up, and he tosses it out into the pool to look at it. "What the fuck is this, My Little Pony?" he says to no one in particular, hands on his hips. "Gonna have to get something better than that." Kicking off his sandals, he slips his sunglasses down over his eyes and hops onto the inflatable chair, kicking and splashing his way over to the edge of the pool where he grabs his joint, which he promptly lights up, and then he just chills.

Maybe Miranda can be a good host. When she returns, picking her way over the turtle destruction zone, the dark sunglasses have returned to her eyes, she's wearing black bikini bottoms, a beat up old green fitted tee with Cat Woman on it, and she's holding two beers. She flops down at the edge of the pool near Dave and his pony. "Catch," she says — more like warns — before throwing one of the bottles at Dave. As we've learned, she isn't a very good shot.

Dave manages to put the joint in his lips and hold it there, and catch a throw from Miranda all in one smooth move. What can he say? He's badass. Or, if we're honest here, he just got lucky. "Thanks," he says, popping the top of the beer off and flipping the cap near his khakis so he can grab it later. "You've got it goin' really good here, Randi," he says, taking a long sip of the beer and relaxing into what is now Dave's Pink Pony Chair, drifting along the length of the pool. "Swank house, nice pool, three kids who I bet are just dolls. Don't even have to worry about your husband anymore, I bet."

Miranda rolls her eyes, giving Dave a little scoffing sound. "You should've seen where I used to live, before the divorce," she says with an unhealthy hint of bitterness as she uncaps the bottle. She takes a swig before saying, "This is a cardboard box in comparison. Whatever, though. It's fine. Except for the neighbours… and the mortgage." The woman tips her beer bottle toward Dave in question. "Do I dare ask why Hobag threw you out?" She takes other drink, a glint of amusement in her eyes as she watches Dave (and his Pink Pony Chair). "I won't judge. Swear."

"Oh I know how to take care of the neighbors," Dave retorts, nursing his beer. "Just have to do something they don't want to see. Or give 'em a reason not to look. Show 'em what you're made of. Make they don't mess with Randi." As for Hobag? "Work related. Did some stuff I wasn't supposed to, but it's no biggie, I got the paper trail covered. Flipped out on me, though. I tried to explain hwo all her subscriptions and day spas and general spoiled status comes because of it, but she still got mad. Something wrong with her." He tips his beer back towards Miranda, asking a question of his own. "What about you? Why's the ex-husband an ex?"

"..Ah," Miranda says quietly under her breath, taking another drink of beer and slowly nod-nod-nodding along to Dave's story with a faintly incredulous stare. When he turns the question around on her, she laughs sardonically and smirks against the mouth of the beer bottle. Time for another drink. "…Work-related," she answers back. "I got sex-dialled accidentally during Thanksgiving," Miranda explains, her voice a deadpan drone, surprisingly nonchalant as she talks about it. "He was banging his assistant on his desk. He was on speakerphone." She calmly takes another sip of beer, gazing off over the fence toward the neighbours'. "That was on top of — no pun intended — never being home."

"It's no big deal," Dave says with a shrug. "She never put out, anyway." Miranda's story, however, is cause for another drink. On which he chokes. "On speakerphone?" Dave says incredulously, shaking his head. "Dumb man to get caught, but even dumber to cheat on a looker like you," Dave says, and while it's a compliment, it doesn't really.. sound like one. Still is, though. Taking a few puffs from his joint (which is going quite well with his beer), he extends it towards Miranda. "You want in on this? Mexico's finest, baby, I pull out the big bucks for this. Help calm some of rage you might be feeling."

"He's not dumb, he's a jerk. Probably why I married him, so I had it coming." Miranda gives Dave one of her thin smiles and holds up her bottle to block the path of his offering. "…Thanks but… I'm good. I'm sure it's great, grade A Mexican or whatever, but I've got my rage under control. I have other … methods." She swishes her feet in the water lazily, setting the bottle down so she can lean back on her hands and look up at the sky. "I like my head… clear. Sharp, you know."

"Jerks will be jerks, and all men are pigs— or so most women I've met seem to believe," Dave says, pulling his hand back. "If you say so, but only the finest," Dave says with a small shake of the head, smiling at Miranda. "Other methods?" Count Dave intrigued.

Crap. Why does conversation always have to lead into personal things? Jeez. …Oh yeah, because she led it there, this time. Miranda slides off her sunglasses and sets them aside at the edge of the pool. "Well. Dave. You know what they say," she says with a smirk which, somehow or other, perhaps paired with the look in those dark eyes of hers, doubles a warning sign. "Curiosity kills the cat."

Miranda then pushes herself into a limber crouch and JUMPS into the pool in a tiny but mighty cannonball, splashing water every which way and rocking the Pink Pony's world. That's one way to end a conversation!

"I'm not a cat— no no no no NO!" Dave says, right before Miranda jumps into the pool. He tries to swim away, flailing his legs and one free arm (his left hand is currently holding both beer and joint) in a futile attempt to get away from her. Luckily, miraculously, the joint somehow does not get soaked. "Hey! You're gonna get my shit wet over here," he says, taking a final drag, finishing it off, and tossing it into the beer bottle. He sets that on the side of the pool, near his sandals, just like the cap. "Gotta watch yourself, Randi. So what are we talking about here, pills? Codeine? Vicodin? What's your guilty pleasure?"

A soaked Miranda emerges in time to hear Dave's questions (and his warning about getting his shit wet, but she pretends not to), knuckling at chlorine-filled eyes that are now rimmed in not-quite-waterproof mascara. "None of your business," she counters — and she means it, but she says so good-naturedly, smiling. That could be because, not two seconds later, she's sending a wave of water toward Dave.

"Sure, sure," Dave says, accepting her answer. He'll find out one day, perhaps, besides, he's got his own guilty pleasure and there's nothing that will stop him from partaking in it. Nothing at all. When Miranda splashes him, he topples out of Dave's Pink Pony Chair, and grabs it to use it as a shield. "Whoa!" he says, holding it up in front of his face. "Pink Pony commands you to stop!"

Miranda sweeps a hand over the top of the now tumultuous water and splashes the Pink Pony. "Pink Pony has no power over me!" Splash, splash. Yes, this a pair of forty-year-olds (HEY, only almost, in Miranda's case). She dives down underwater and swims toward the opposite end of the rectangular pool, climbing out onto dry land.

"You will feel the wrath of Pink Pony! You will feel! the wrath! of Pink Pony!" Dave calls out, still guarding himself. He would have to say, if he were an outsider, that the fact two forty-year-olds (only almost in Miranda's case) are splashing each other is okay— it's the fact one (a man) is using a giant pink pony floatation device for a shield that takes the proverbial cake. Once Miranda heads towards dry land, he tries to time his throw just right— lobbing the chair, if he's lucky, it'll land right on top of Miranda as she gets out of the pool.

Is— what— Dave's Pink Pony smacks Miranda as she's standing up, catching on her head— until she bats it off with an elbow. It bounces onto the ground and she whirls around, pointing and eyeing Dave. The looming threat of the woman in her dripping wet swimwear and Cat Woman t-shirt is dampened by the fact that she's very obviously trying not to laugh. "I will cut you." With that, she kicks the floating chair contraption back into the pool in Dave's general direction and starts to march toward the house.

"With an ass like that you could cut anything," Dave calls to Miranda, but she's already heading into the house. He grabs Dave's Pink Pony Chair, sets it up nicely, and then fiddles with his sandals for a bit, somehow procuring another joint. He gets back into his chair, and right about that time, one of the neighbors begins playing music over their stereo, which carries over the fence. "Oo I like this song," Dave says to himself, lighting up and floating around in the pool. Zen.


Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License