a fashion that would erase the smallest suspicion of my being Jewish, and head held high, I entered the restaurant.
Charles and his date were standing at the crowded bar. There was no sign of my boy friend.
“Where’s Claude?” I asked, going up to them, searching Charles’s junkie eyes to see if he had received the good news yet.
“He just called. He’ll be a bit late.” Charles shook my hand.
“Did a swell assassination turn up?”
“Ah, Harriet.” He laughed. “Always so deliriously amusing and always so beautiful.”
Yes, I thought, the rat has told him about the old heave-ho.
I couldn’t help but notice an icy blonde lady clinging to his elbow. She had what is called a golden helmet of hair, sleek and neat, curving along the line of her slender jaw. She was dressed in a gleaming white, silk-jersey halter and yards of pleated white silk pants that managed to cling to her slim hips and legs. Charles, the faggot, was also immaculate in a white linen mod suit and white boots. I stood there beside the white medical team, feeling like a collision victim who has been rushed into the emergency unit.
“Harriet, I’d like you to meet Baba,” Charles proudly announced, his glazed eyes pretending to be focused.
“What was that name?” I addressed myself to him, because as yet there was no shred of evidence that she wasn’t a deaf-mute.
“Baba,” she supplied, in my favorite flat, nasal, hick twang.
“Baba?”
“My real name is Barbara.” Icy blue eyes fringed with dark blue lashes. “But when I was born, my baby brother couldn’t pronounce it and the name Baba just stuck.” Her teeth were as brilliantly white as her uniform.
God, I demanded, what are you doing to me? Stop this torture, you Miserable Creep. Since Claude hadn’t arrived, I could delay my charm tactics for a few minutes.
“If you don’t mind, I can manage Barbara,” I assured her. It was like taking candy from a hooded cobra.
“Charles,” she whimpered, pronouncing the “ch” like the first two letters in Sheldon, “don’t they have our table yet?”
“I’ll find out,” he said, snapping to attention. What a marvelous whip these little white marsh-mallows crack.
“I hate to stand at bars, don’t you?” she confided in me, elaborately unaware of the men ogling her.
“Not if I have a drink.” Everyone got very alarmed and active about taking my order, and I was obliged to keep them waiting while choices raced through my brain.
“Why don’t you have what we’re having?” Charles suggested, which seemed an easy way out. I was soon handed an ice-cold martini. It was just what I needed; in fact, it tasted like bitter but welcome medicine. I was balancing my second martini when Claude came sashaying into the bar.
He acknowledged me like I was the crawling green slime and held on to Baba’s hand with a pause that said now his entire slob life would take on significance. I could tell that she was attracted to him. The way I could tell was that she completely ignored me and Charles and pleaded with shyly enamored eyes for Claude to rip off her clothes and throw her on the floor. Charles’s pimp face beamed approval.
A waiter, inconspicuous in a bright-red cutaway, led us to our table, dropped cement napkins into our laps, and handed us gigantic menus designed for a race of glandular freaks. Rather than stand on my chair in order to open the unmanageable billboard, I turned to Charles and said, “Well, Charles, what do you suggest we send back tonight?”
Charles, the unamused, who could barely digest a cup of warm water, was renowned for the number of dishes he found inedible. Claude glared at me, and then he and Baba vanished behind their menus, doing God knows what. I held up my empty martini glass to one of the cadets hovering around our table.
“I think you’ve had enough, Harriet.”
“Enough what?” I demanded, and then to Baba, who was a study of brilliant white confusion, “My boy friend is so
Charles and his date were standing at the crowded bar. There was no sign of my boy friend.
“Where’s Claude?” I asked, going up to them, searching Charles’s junkie eyes to see if he had received the good news yet.
“He just called. He’ll be a bit late.” Charles shook my hand.
“Did a swell assassination turn up?”
“Ah, Harriet.” He laughed. “Always so deliriously amusing and always so beautiful.”
Yes, I thought, the rat has told him about the old heave-ho.
I couldn’t help but notice an icy blonde lady clinging to his elbow. She had what is called a golden helmet of hair, sleek and neat, curving along the line of her slender jaw. She was dressed in a gleaming white, silk-jersey halter and yards of pleated white silk pants that managed to cling to her slim hips and legs. Charles, the faggot, was also immaculate in a white linen mod suit and white boots. I stood there beside the white medical team, feeling like a collision victim who has been rushed into the emergency unit.
“Harriet, I’d like you to meet Baba,” Charles proudly announced, his glazed eyes pretending to be focused.
“What was that name?” I addressed myself to him, because as yet there was no shred of evidence that she wasn’t a deaf-mute.
“Baba,” she supplied, in my favorite flat, nasal, hick twang.
“Baba?”
“My real name is Barbara.” Icy blue eyes fringed with dark blue lashes. “But when I was born, my baby brother couldn’t pronounce it and the name Baba just stuck.” Her teeth were as brilliantly white as her uniform.
God, I demanded, what are you doing to me? Stop this torture, you Miserable Creep. Since Claude hadn’t arrived, I could delay my charm tactics for a few minutes.
“If you don’t mind, I can manage Barbara,” I assured her. It was like taking candy from a hooded cobra.
“Charles,” she whimpered, pronouncing the “ch” like the first two letters in Sheldon, “don’t they have our table yet?”
“I’ll find out,” he said, snapping to attention. What a marvelous whip these little white marsh-mallows crack.
“I hate to stand at bars, don’t you?” she confided in me, elaborately unaware of the men ogling her.
“Not if I have a drink.” Everyone got very alarmed and active about taking my order, and I was obliged to keep them waiting while choices raced through my brain.
“Why don’t you have what we’re having?” Charles suggested, which seemed an easy way out. I was soon handed an ice-cold martini. It was just what I needed; in fact, it tasted like bitter but welcome medicine. I was balancing my second martini when Claude came sashaying into the bar.
He acknowledged me like I was the crawling green slime and held on to Baba’s hand with a pause that said now his entire slob life would take on significance. I could tell that she was attracted to him. The way I could tell was that she completely ignored me and Charles and pleaded with shyly enamored eyes for Claude to rip off her clothes and throw her on the floor. Charles’s pimp face beamed approval.
A waiter, inconspicuous in a bright-red cutaway, led us to our table, dropped cement napkins into our laps, and handed us gigantic menus designed for a race of glandular freaks. Rather than stand on my chair in order to open the unmanageable billboard, I turned to Charles and said, “Well, Charles, what do you suggest we send back tonight?”
Charles, the unamused, who could barely digest a cup of warm water, was renowned for the number of dishes he found inedible. Claude glared at me, and then he and Baba vanished behind their menus, doing God knows what. I held up my empty martini glass to one of the cadets hovering around our table.
“I think you’ve had enough, Harriet.”
“Enough what?” I demanded, and then to Baba, who was a study of brilliant white confusion, “My boy friend is so
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