accompanied by
three fat fairies wearing Prohibition browns. She pointed to her
Mickey Mouse wristwatch, yelling, “Time to come in, Mel!” She held
out a bouquet to me and I bowed to the sounds of staccato applause
that resembled door-locks clicking more than hands clapping.
“Melody. Saree. Wake up, girls.”
I opened a lid. Mrs. Donovan stood in the
doorway of my room holding a vase full of some sort of Japanese
lotus blossom.
“What?”
“They’re for you. Arrived a few minutes ago.
I brought 'em right up.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Donovan. Who are they
from?”
She ignored the question, trotted over to the
bed and handed the flowers to me. “Ya don’t see a lot of lotus
blossoms as gifts.”
“Damn straight.”
There was no card. Anonymous lotus blossoms.
The disappointment that swept over me was almost tangible. I knew
they weren’t from Briley. A few dances do not a love affair make. I
should have that one plastered on a T-shirt. Briley had future
plans that meant working full and overtime hours. He was serious.
He was also surrounded by gorgeous women who received bouquets on a
daily basis from multitudes of interested men. Probably thought
sending flowers to be insulting.
I had not convinced myself. I glanced over at
Saree. Still out cold. My new roomie was a champion sleeper. I’d
tossed most of the night but she’d smiled and snored.
I sighed, got out of bed, grabbed a robe and
headed for the community bathroom. Fifteen minutes later with the
stench of smoke gone from my freshly washed hair, face scrubbed
clean of the remnants of the night’s make-up I was ready to face
the morning. Or afternoon, which I suspected we’d reached an hour
or so ago.
Mrs. Donovan had plopped the lotus flowers
squarely on the dresser in their clear crystal vase. My bed had
been made. She was still there, fluffing pillows.
Saree was just opening her eyes and looking
around with an expression that said, “How in hell did I end up
here?”
Mrs. Donovan glared at me. “Stinks, don’t
it?”
“Pardon me?”
“That them flowers aren’t from Briley.”
“How did you know I even . . . ?”
I stopped. Stupid question. Of course she
knew.
“Don’t you worry none, Mel. The lad’ll come
around. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Nothin’ to fret
about.”
She tossed the pillow on the bed then left
the room, banging the door shut behind her.
Saree looked suspicously at the flowers.
“What are those?”
“Lotus blossoms.” I handed them to her.
“Wowie! They’re different.”
She sniffed. “They smell nice. Much nicer
than me. There are at least five distinct cigarette brands on five
different areas of my body. From five different men twirling me
around the floor if I remember correctly. Are there showers in this
joint?”
“Down the hall. You used the community
bathroom last night, remember? The showers are behind the big door
next to the sinks.”
I threw my robe at her and wondered how we
were going to squeeze her into one of Bettina’s outfits so she
could trash the smoke-filled dress she’d had on from last night.
Saree was a good deal shorter than I - and probably Bettina - but
she was also good deal more - well - stacked. In a borrowed Bettina
shirt she’d look like a hooker on 8th Avenue after a long but
successful night.
Saree was back in twenty minutes, wrapped up
in the robe and looking her age - which she’d told me was
twenty-two - now that her make-up had been scrubbed off. I’d found
her a skirt that probably would fit and a lightweight sweater that
would doubtless be a little snug. I tossed them to her.
“. . .with Bettina’s regards.”
She preened. “She’s due in next weekend. I’ll
just be sure they’re cleaned before them. Oh damn my garters! Look
at the time.”
It was close to noon. I was surprised it
wasn’t later.
“Mel? I gotta go.”
“Why?”
“Because the Count will start calling my
place and when I’m not there, he’ll start calling every man
three fat fairies wearing Prohibition browns. She pointed to her
Mickey Mouse wristwatch, yelling, “Time to come in, Mel!” She held
out a bouquet to me and I bowed to the sounds of staccato applause
that resembled door-locks clicking more than hands clapping.
“Melody. Saree. Wake up, girls.”
I opened a lid. Mrs. Donovan stood in the
doorway of my room holding a vase full of some sort of Japanese
lotus blossom.
“What?”
“They’re for you. Arrived a few minutes ago.
I brought 'em right up.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Donovan. Who are they
from?”
She ignored the question, trotted over to the
bed and handed the flowers to me. “Ya don’t see a lot of lotus
blossoms as gifts.”
“Damn straight.”
There was no card. Anonymous lotus blossoms.
The disappointment that swept over me was almost tangible. I knew
they weren’t from Briley. A few dances do not a love affair make. I
should have that one plastered on a T-shirt. Briley had future
plans that meant working full and overtime hours. He was serious.
He was also surrounded by gorgeous women who received bouquets on a
daily basis from multitudes of interested men. Probably thought
sending flowers to be insulting.
I had not convinced myself. I glanced over at
Saree. Still out cold. My new roomie was a champion sleeper. I’d
tossed most of the night but she’d smiled and snored.
I sighed, got out of bed, grabbed a robe and
headed for the community bathroom. Fifteen minutes later with the
stench of smoke gone from my freshly washed hair, face scrubbed
clean of the remnants of the night’s make-up I was ready to face
the morning. Or afternoon, which I suspected we’d reached an hour
or so ago.
Mrs. Donovan had plopped the lotus flowers
squarely on the dresser in their clear crystal vase. My bed had
been made. She was still there, fluffing pillows.
Saree was just opening her eyes and looking
around with an expression that said, “How in hell did I end up
here?”
Mrs. Donovan glared at me. “Stinks, don’t
it?”
“Pardon me?”
“That them flowers aren’t from Briley.”
“How did you know I even . . . ?”
I stopped. Stupid question. Of course she
knew.
“Don’t you worry none, Mel. The lad’ll come
around. I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Nothin’ to fret
about.”
She tossed the pillow on the bed then left
the room, banging the door shut behind her.
Saree looked suspicously at the flowers.
“What are those?”
“Lotus blossoms.” I handed them to her.
“Wowie! They’re different.”
She sniffed. “They smell nice. Much nicer
than me. There are at least five distinct cigarette brands on five
different areas of my body. From five different men twirling me
around the floor if I remember correctly. Are there showers in this
joint?”
“Down the hall. You used the community
bathroom last night, remember? The showers are behind the big door
next to the sinks.”
I threw my robe at her and wondered how we
were going to squeeze her into one of Bettina’s outfits so she
could trash the smoke-filled dress she’d had on from last night.
Saree was a good deal shorter than I - and probably Bettina - but
she was also good deal more - well - stacked. In a borrowed Bettina
shirt she’d look like a hooker on 8th Avenue after a long but
successful night.
Saree was back in twenty minutes, wrapped up
in the robe and looking her age - which she’d told me was
twenty-two - now that her make-up had been scrubbed off. I’d found
her a skirt that probably would fit and a lightweight sweater that
would doubtless be a little snug. I tossed them to her.
“. . .with Bettina’s regards.”
She preened. “She’s due in next weekend. I’ll
just be sure they’re cleaned before them. Oh damn my garters! Look
at the time.”
It was close to noon. I was surprised it
wasn’t later.
“Mel? I gotta go.”
“Why?”
“Because the Count will start calling my
place and when I’m not there, he’ll start calling every man
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