injected or swallowed in tablet form. As heir to a French pharmaceutical fortune, he was spending his life swallowing the profits and, of course, courting amusement.
“Amuse me,” he would dare you, vacant-eyed, stuffed to the gills with drugs. I would find myself babbling about the population explosion or the impending California earthquake. “Boring,” he would roar triumphantly. “You’re boring me!” At the moment, he was alleviating his boredom by parading battalions of bunnies, starlets, gymnasts, debutantes, and go-go dancers for Claude’s inspection, in the hopes that my boy friend would latch on to one of his protégées and crate me off to the Bronx Zoo.
What is the proper attire in which to dine with your enemies? I dug through my wardrobe, piled high on the bentwood rocker, in search of an appropriate answer. My heart began to beat out this refrain about having nothing to wear. I opted for the mismatched effect, currently so fashionable yet ideally suited to my unconventional looks. At the bottom of the bentwood body count, I rescued a long, cotton, tie-dyed skirt that can go absolutely anywhere. I chose to complement it with, of all inspirations, a sheer green Mexican overblouse. The color combination created a meeting of nature, and not just your everybody placid meeting but nature in convulsion.
I had barely four hours in which to transform myself from a hausfrau to an exotic creature of the night, but I hadn’t had a convalescent mother for nothing. We had our shortcuts. I slipped into my fineries, got under the shower, and in one fastidious burst of energy shampooed my hair and clothes. I hung my costume over the shower rod to drip dry. Next, just in case the dinner party traveled to our living room, I cleared out all the crud. By then, it was time to work on my face.
As I mentioned, I don’t have what you would call conventional good looks. However, with a translucent makeup base smoothed over my pale skin, my large expressive eyes outlined in kohl, and my dark shag framing my exotic cheekbones, you’d wonder what Egyptian tomb had been pilfered.
I was ready by six o’clock and stood in front of the mirror wondering if what I saw corresponded to my intentions. The tom-toming of my heart introduced a few doubts. To assure my composure, I prescribed one of Claude’s dynamite French tranquilizers. I put the others in my shoulder bag, just to be on the safe side. Rather than risk an international incident, I banked the air conditioner and finally crept noiselessly down the sweltering staircase, carrying my thong sandals, particularly anxious to spare Rhoda-Regina the anguish of seeing me so resplendent.
The humidity in the street must have been
a
thousand, and I staggered to Sheridan Square in search of a taxi. I was lucky to stop the first cab I hailed, because not being Maxine, I was not thrilled at the attention I was receiving.
I told the cab driver where to take me and leaned back, well served by the tranquilizers. Relaxation was not part of the ride. Oh, no, the driver had other plans. This one was your Uncle Bernie, who should have been the president of Yale, but as a victim of the quota system found himself hacking. He longed to share his worldliness with me.
“I bet a lot of people have told you, you look like Anne Bancroft,” he said, gazing into his crystal ball.
“Why? Has she been complaining to you lately?”
We drove in silence, but only till we were caught in crosstown traffic. He then presumed to share his military expertise with me. “Oy, the crime, the terrible crime of genocide we’re committing. It’s splitting the country in two, like Germany was split in two for what they did to the Jews.”
I sensed an unwelcome note of familiarity. “Listen, Bernie,” I informed him, “I happen not to be Jewish and therefore have no objections to the Vietnamese war or any other war, past or present.”
After that I was able to smoke my cigarette in peace.
I tipped him in
“Amuse me,” he would dare you, vacant-eyed, stuffed to the gills with drugs. I would find myself babbling about the population explosion or the impending California earthquake. “Boring,” he would roar triumphantly. “You’re boring me!” At the moment, he was alleviating his boredom by parading battalions of bunnies, starlets, gymnasts, debutantes, and go-go dancers for Claude’s inspection, in the hopes that my boy friend would latch on to one of his protégées and crate me off to the Bronx Zoo.
What is the proper attire in which to dine with your enemies? I dug through my wardrobe, piled high on the bentwood rocker, in search of an appropriate answer. My heart began to beat out this refrain about having nothing to wear. I opted for the mismatched effect, currently so fashionable yet ideally suited to my unconventional looks. At the bottom of the bentwood body count, I rescued a long, cotton, tie-dyed skirt that can go absolutely anywhere. I chose to complement it with, of all inspirations, a sheer green Mexican overblouse. The color combination created a meeting of nature, and not just your everybody placid meeting but nature in convulsion.
I had barely four hours in which to transform myself from a hausfrau to an exotic creature of the night, but I hadn’t had a convalescent mother for nothing. We had our shortcuts. I slipped into my fineries, got under the shower, and in one fastidious burst of energy shampooed my hair and clothes. I hung my costume over the shower rod to drip dry. Next, just in case the dinner party traveled to our living room, I cleared out all the crud. By then, it was time to work on my face.
As I mentioned, I don’t have what you would call conventional good looks. However, with a translucent makeup base smoothed over my pale skin, my large expressive eyes outlined in kohl, and my dark shag framing my exotic cheekbones, you’d wonder what Egyptian tomb had been pilfered.
I was ready by six o’clock and stood in front of the mirror wondering if what I saw corresponded to my intentions. The tom-toming of my heart introduced a few doubts. To assure my composure, I prescribed one of Claude’s dynamite French tranquilizers. I put the others in my shoulder bag, just to be on the safe side. Rather than risk an international incident, I banked the air conditioner and finally crept noiselessly down the sweltering staircase, carrying my thong sandals, particularly anxious to spare Rhoda-Regina the anguish of seeing me so resplendent.
The humidity in the street must have been
a
thousand, and I staggered to Sheridan Square in search of a taxi. I was lucky to stop the first cab I hailed, because not being Maxine, I was not thrilled at the attention I was receiving.
I told the cab driver where to take me and leaned back, well served by the tranquilizers. Relaxation was not part of the ride. Oh, no, the driver had other plans. This one was your Uncle Bernie, who should have been the president of Yale, but as a victim of the quota system found himself hacking. He longed to share his worldliness with me.
“I bet a lot of people have told you, you look like Anne Bancroft,” he said, gazing into his crystal ball.
“Why? Has she been complaining to you lately?”
We drove in silence, but only till we were caught in crosstown traffic. He then presumed to share his military expertise with me. “Oy, the crime, the terrible crime of genocide we’re committing. It’s splitting the country in two, like Germany was split in two for what they did to the Jews.”
I sensed an unwelcome note of familiarity. “Listen, Bernie,” I informed him, “I happen not to be Jewish and therefore have no objections to the Vietnamese war or any other war, past or present.”
After that I was able to smoke my cigarette in peace.
I tipped him in
Similar Books
