Free God-Shaped Hole by Tiffanie DeBartolo

talking about. She just shows up here, barely says hello. She didn’t even kiss me or anything. She was nicer to you than she was to me. I haven’t seen her in weeks and she treated me like I was her garbage man.”
    “I think you’re a little hard on her. She needs to be placated, that’s all.” He was trying to unbutton my shirt.
    “Jacob, did you fuck her in the kitchen or what? I mean what the hell was that all about? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are not the kind of man she would normally take to.”
    “I give off good vibes,” he said. “Kids, dogs, and middle-aged divorcées like me.”
    “I’ll bet they do.”
    “You don’t give her enough credit. At least she was here. At least she tries.”
    “Whatever,” I said. “Let’s just do it and forget about her.”

ELEVEN
    My younger brother, Cole, was off in Washington D.C. finishing up law school. Last time I’d talked to him he had political aspirations. My older brother, Chip, the one we had the pleasure of dining with, is a hot-shot film producer. He lucked out with a small-time action flick that ended up making millions at the box office and, consequently, scored a five-picture deal with Warner Bros. He thinks his shit smells like daisies because of it. I’d bet a g-note his shit smells more like month-old chili con carne.
    Chip is fat; has black, greasy hair; and a black mole on his chin where a lone black whisker grows. He lives in the posh neighborhood of Holmby Hills with his wife, Elise, who is not fat, and his son, Chad, who is also not yet fat but has the propensity. Their twelve-thousand square-foot, Tudor-inspired abode is right down the street from the Playboy mansion.
    I usually made it a point to only see Chip on holidays, and Thanksgiving was still over six months away. I cursed Jacob the entire drive to Chip’s house. Jacob found my anxiety wholly amusing. I think he saw it as writing fodder. To Jacob, everything was writing fodder.
    My mother’s car was in the driveway when we pulled in. That meant we were late, even though we were ten minutes ahead of our scheduled arrival time. I gave Jacob one last chance to back out. He stepped in front of me and rang the bell.
    Every time I walked into Chip’s house, the formality of it made me feel like I was walking onto the set of Dynasty . I expected Linda Evans to swoop down the brass staircase and give me a coquettish little smile, like the one she gave in the TV show’s intro. Instead, Elise answered the door for us. Elise was a petite blond, with lips pumped full of collagen. She was one of those failed actresses—the cutest, most popular girl from the Midwestern town she came from, who moved to Hollywood after high school expecting to become the world’s next great thespian, but just ended up contributing another dime to the dozen. Elise never even got as far as hooking herself an agent, but as luck would have it, she met Chip at The Whiskey Bar one fateful evening. I guess she figured he was her best ticket out of the ant-infested, two-room bungalow she shared with a couple of bargain-basement strippers.
    Chip ruled Elise’s life. He instructed her how to talk, how to dress, and which charities she could support. I had a strong, ever-present notion to tell her to kick Chip in the balls and stand up for herself, but if she didn’t mind, I figured it wasn’t my business to do so. I got along okay with Elise. She was no Rhodes scholar, but she was nice; she called me the black sheep of the family and meant it as a compliment.
    “Beatrice! I’m so glad you came,” she said. “And you must be Jacob. Diane told us all about you. We hear you’re a writer.”
    They probably had his social security number and shoe size, too.
    My mother appeared from behind the door, took Jacob by the elbow, and with Chad in tow, gave him a tour of the house. Jacob couldn’t have cared less about the damn house, but he appeased her nonetheless, pretending he was enthralled. While the