charges in ahead of me, as if she were my publicist, announcing, “This is Eddie Sanders from British MTV. He needs a suit. Now.” The saleswoman directs us upstairs, giving me and my barely pubescent companion a look like she’s going to call Child Services. As Lizzie and I ride the escalator, she asks, “So, what kinda suit are you looking for?”
“Somefin’ conservative,” I mumble. “I thought maybe black.”
She rolls her eyes. “Black is for limo drivers and dead people.”
The third floor of Brooks Brothers has the Old World look of a private gentlemen’s club: cherry paneling, egg and dart molding, and a wooden chandelier with carved deer heads holding crystal lamps in their mouths. The saleswomen look like the Daughters of the American Revolution. The actual daughters.
So, as we ascend the winding, Colonial-style staircase to the fourth floor, I can’t help but notice the shapely pair of showgirl legs heading my way. As they approach I take in the snug fit of the skirt on the hips, the high-necked blouse accentuating rather than concealing the breasts, her frosted hair swirling like a meringue, obscuring her face.
“Excuse me,” I say, letting her pass.
The showgirl raises her head to acknowledge me, and my blood turns to ice.
It’s Dagmar. My ex-stepmonster.
“You!” the Terminator cries, her blood-red lipstick like a gash across her face. “Vaht are you doink here?”
I opt for outright denial, answering in Eddie’s jaunty cockney, “Beg your pardon?”
“You stole from me, you son uffa bitch,” she says, wagging a crooked finger in my face. Despite her Bond-Girl beauty, her hands are as gnarled as tree roots. “You ruined evertsing. It is because of
you
I hef to verk here.”
Please. It’s not my fault if no one wants to buy her creepy photographs of decapitated dolls and rotting meat.
“I don’t know whut you’re tawkin’ about.” I try to pass her but, like a bird of prey, she grabs my wrist, her talons digging into me.
“Liar!”
Being a Manhattan kid, Lizzie doesn’t seem remotely fazed by the confrontation. And, being Lizzie, she’s not afraid to step in. “Eddie, who the hell is this?”
“I dunno,” I say, shaking free. “I’ve nevuh seen ’er before.”
“Dat is not true!” Dagmar shrieks. “You are a liar! And a tsief! And an azz
huuuuuuuuull!
”
She accompanies this last little endearment with a decisive shove to my chest, sending me hurtling down the steps.
Twelve
Actually, I send myself hurtling down the steps. In my second display of stairway spontaneity in just over a week, I realize that the best way out of this situation is to incriminate Dagmar, so I put two years’ worth of stage combat to use and take a very convincing fall. Naturally, the manager comes running to my aid. When he learns that I am not only British MTV’s hottest new veejay but also a referral from a valued customer, he fires Dagmar on the spot. What follows is something akin to a Godzilla movie, with Brooks Brothers standing in for Tokyo. After a flurry of accusations, as well as the destruction of a rack holding camel-hair jackets and tartan vests, the scene ends with an unhinged Austrian being escorted from the building, frothing at the mouth and vowing revenge.
Okay, maybe she doesn’t froth, but that’s how I reenact it when I get together with my friends to go bowling, the sound of falling pins punctuating the action. I’m thrilled I have stories to tell them, for there is no audience I want to please more. Laughing with your best friends is like eating cake—you do it till your sides hurt. I just wish I could tell them everything. It doesn’t feel natural to keep secrets from them.
Bowling was Paula’s idea. “Never disdain mindless activities,” she says. “They are the only refuge for the brilliant and the only option for the ordinary.” If the sentiment sounds out of character, it’s because she’s been cast as Lady Bracknell in
The Importance of
“Somefin’ conservative,” I mumble. “I thought maybe black.”
She rolls her eyes. “Black is for limo drivers and dead people.”
The third floor of Brooks Brothers has the Old World look of a private gentlemen’s club: cherry paneling, egg and dart molding, and a wooden chandelier with carved deer heads holding crystal lamps in their mouths. The saleswomen look like the Daughters of the American Revolution. The actual daughters.
So, as we ascend the winding, Colonial-style staircase to the fourth floor, I can’t help but notice the shapely pair of showgirl legs heading my way. As they approach I take in the snug fit of the skirt on the hips, the high-necked blouse accentuating rather than concealing the breasts, her frosted hair swirling like a meringue, obscuring her face.
“Excuse me,” I say, letting her pass.
The showgirl raises her head to acknowledge me, and my blood turns to ice.
It’s Dagmar. My ex-stepmonster.
“You!” the Terminator cries, her blood-red lipstick like a gash across her face. “Vaht are you doink here?”
I opt for outright denial, answering in Eddie’s jaunty cockney, “Beg your pardon?”
“You stole from me, you son uffa bitch,” she says, wagging a crooked finger in my face. Despite her Bond-Girl beauty, her hands are as gnarled as tree roots. “You ruined evertsing. It is because of
you
I hef to verk here.”
Please. It’s not my fault if no one wants to buy her creepy photographs of decapitated dolls and rotting meat.
“I don’t know whut you’re tawkin’ about.” I try to pass her but, like a bird of prey, she grabs my wrist, her talons digging into me.
“Liar!”
Being a Manhattan kid, Lizzie doesn’t seem remotely fazed by the confrontation. And, being Lizzie, she’s not afraid to step in. “Eddie, who the hell is this?”
“I dunno,” I say, shaking free. “I’ve nevuh seen ’er before.”
“Dat is not true!” Dagmar shrieks. “You are a liar! And a tsief! And an azz
huuuuuuuuull!
”
She accompanies this last little endearment with a decisive shove to my chest, sending me hurtling down the steps.
Twelve
Actually, I send myself hurtling down the steps. In my second display of stairway spontaneity in just over a week, I realize that the best way out of this situation is to incriminate Dagmar, so I put two years’ worth of stage combat to use and take a very convincing fall. Naturally, the manager comes running to my aid. When he learns that I am not only British MTV’s hottest new veejay but also a referral from a valued customer, he fires Dagmar on the spot. What follows is something akin to a Godzilla movie, with Brooks Brothers standing in for Tokyo. After a flurry of accusations, as well as the destruction of a rack holding camel-hair jackets and tartan vests, the scene ends with an unhinged Austrian being escorted from the building, frothing at the mouth and vowing revenge.
Okay, maybe she doesn’t froth, but that’s how I reenact it when I get together with my friends to go bowling, the sound of falling pins punctuating the action. I’m thrilled I have stories to tell them, for there is no audience I want to please more. Laughing with your best friends is like eating cake—you do it till your sides hurt. I just wish I could tell them everything. It doesn’t feel natural to keep secrets from them.
Bowling was Paula’s idea. “Never disdain mindless activities,” she says. “They are the only refuge for the brilliant and the only option for the ordinary.” If the sentiment sounds out of character, it’s because she’s been cast as Lady Bracknell in
The Importance of
Similar Books
