an erstwhile gal, these new tattoos are much smaller, worn by well-educated youngsters of both sexes in unexpected places—on the ankle, for instance, or the shoulder blade, or God-knows-where. They are tributes neither to patriotism nor to love, but to beer brands, cartoon characters, and pop-music fads.
It’s another sign of growing older, Manning tells himself, when you can’t figure out why kids do what they do. Try to keep an open mind.
Neil says, “Hey, guys, the bar’s in the kitchen. Have fun.” And they will. They pass around Neil, offering pats on the back, making a beeline for the booze. Neil tells Manning, “That’s what I like about youth. Aside from their obvious visual charms, they’re so easily amused.”
Again the buzzer. “Your turn,” says Manning, sweeping his hand from Neil toward the door.
Neil opens it, and in steps David Bosch with his two out-of-town guests. David wears an outfit similar to the uniforms of the catering staff, but with preppy loafers instead of boots. His shorts and knit shirt confirm that a fantasy body has lurked all along beneath his office attire. Neil gives Manning a private Groucho-twitch of his eyebrows, a silent allusion to David’s “obvious visual charms.”
Pink clouds. Manning realizes that his earlier tally of clouds on the horizon failed to include David, whose newly revealed doting is a sticky, unexpected development.
“Hi, David,” says Neil, shaking his hand. “Welcome to our humble home.”
“Awesome,” says David, who then cringes at the word. Then he turns to his older companions for a round of introductions. The woman is fifty-something, fashionable and handsome, not quite pretty; she wears tailored slacks and a vibrant red silk blouse. The man is in his sixties, balding, slim, and dapper; he wears a dark silk suit, lightened for the occasion by a jaunty yellow necktie with matching pocket handkerchief.
David says, “Claire and Hector, I’d like you to meet Mark Manning of the Journal. ” David beams with pride, then adds sheepishly, “I don’t have to tell you—Mark’s the best in the business.”
Manning rolls his eyes, saying, “David, please. …”
David continues. “And this is Mark’s friend, Neil Waite, an architect who’s involved with the planning of Celebration Two Thousand.” Then turning to Neil and Manning, David says, “Gentlemen, please meet Claire Gray and my uncle, Hector Bosch.”
They all shake hands, honored to know one another. Manning concludes by telling David’s guests, “Welcome to Chicago. We’re delighted to have you in town.”
Claire tells him, “The theater committee was kind enough to invite us for the opening ceremonies during Fourth of July weekend. We were thrilled to be asked.”
Hector says, “And since I’ve spent no time whatever with my favorite nephew (my one and only, actually) since his earlier salad days in college, this trip provides me a perfect opportunity to scrutinize his new life among the Second City’s fourth estate. So I’m prepared to be impressed, Mr. Manning. Naturally, I’ll be filing reviews of the theater festival.”
“I should have guessed,” says Manning, recognizing the mannered prose that is a hallmark of Hector’s columns. He adds, “And please—call me Mark.”
Hector and Claire invite Manning and Neil to use their own first names as well.
Manning offers, “Let me get you a drink.” Hector and Claire both decide on kir. Manning asks for help from David, who gladly tails him to the bar, leaving Neil to get acquainted with the New Yorkers.
He says, “It’s a shame, Claire, that your schedule won’t allow you to direct part of the theater festival.”
“I feel terrible about it, darling, but my commitments back East were chiseled in stone, they tell me, so I’ll be watching the efforts of others for a change—which is really quite a nice idea, when you think about it.” She flips her palms in the air. “I’m on
It’s another sign of growing older, Manning tells himself, when you can’t figure out why kids do what they do. Try to keep an open mind.
Neil says, “Hey, guys, the bar’s in the kitchen. Have fun.” And they will. They pass around Neil, offering pats on the back, making a beeline for the booze. Neil tells Manning, “That’s what I like about youth. Aside from their obvious visual charms, they’re so easily amused.”
Again the buzzer. “Your turn,” says Manning, sweeping his hand from Neil toward the door.
Neil opens it, and in steps David Bosch with his two out-of-town guests. David wears an outfit similar to the uniforms of the catering staff, but with preppy loafers instead of boots. His shorts and knit shirt confirm that a fantasy body has lurked all along beneath his office attire. Neil gives Manning a private Groucho-twitch of his eyebrows, a silent allusion to David’s “obvious visual charms.”
Pink clouds. Manning realizes that his earlier tally of clouds on the horizon failed to include David, whose newly revealed doting is a sticky, unexpected development.
“Hi, David,” says Neil, shaking his hand. “Welcome to our humble home.”
“Awesome,” says David, who then cringes at the word. Then he turns to his older companions for a round of introductions. The woman is fifty-something, fashionable and handsome, not quite pretty; she wears tailored slacks and a vibrant red silk blouse. The man is in his sixties, balding, slim, and dapper; he wears a dark silk suit, lightened for the occasion by a jaunty yellow necktie with matching pocket handkerchief.
David says, “Claire and Hector, I’d like you to meet Mark Manning of the Journal. ” David beams with pride, then adds sheepishly, “I don’t have to tell you—Mark’s the best in the business.”
Manning rolls his eyes, saying, “David, please. …”
David continues. “And this is Mark’s friend, Neil Waite, an architect who’s involved with the planning of Celebration Two Thousand.” Then turning to Neil and Manning, David says, “Gentlemen, please meet Claire Gray and my uncle, Hector Bosch.”
They all shake hands, honored to know one another. Manning concludes by telling David’s guests, “Welcome to Chicago. We’re delighted to have you in town.”
Claire tells him, “The theater committee was kind enough to invite us for the opening ceremonies during Fourth of July weekend. We were thrilled to be asked.”
Hector says, “And since I’ve spent no time whatever with my favorite nephew (my one and only, actually) since his earlier salad days in college, this trip provides me a perfect opportunity to scrutinize his new life among the Second City’s fourth estate. So I’m prepared to be impressed, Mr. Manning. Naturally, I’ll be filing reviews of the theater festival.”
“I should have guessed,” says Manning, recognizing the mannered prose that is a hallmark of Hector’s columns. He adds, “And please—call me Mark.”
Hector and Claire invite Manning and Neil to use their own first names as well.
Manning offers, “Let me get you a drink.” Hector and Claire both decide on kir. Manning asks for help from David, who gladly tails him to the bar, leaving Neil to get acquainted with the New Yorkers.
He says, “It’s a shame, Claire, that your schedule won’t allow you to direct part of the theater festival.”
“I feel terrible about it, darling, but my commitments back East were chiseled in stone, they tell me, so I’ll be watching the efforts of others for a change—which is really quite a nice idea, when you think about it.” She flips her palms in the air. “I’m on
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