it, at which point the hook could very well snap off and the whole thing, including the radio, would quite possibly come tumbling down right into the water. The cord might be too short, and she might catch it in mid-air or fail toapply enough force to break anything. I had no idea what would happen, and I didn’t care.
I put on my coat and scarf, but I stuffed my woolen hat into my pocket: I would never wear it again. I didn’t say good-bye. As I left I heard, echoing against the bathroom tiles, the mellow, perfectly phrased voice of Frank Sinatra: “Night and day, you are the one, only you, ’neath the moon or under the sun …”
I gave Ralph a radiant smile as I walked through the lobby.
“How’d it work out?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said as I swept through the door he held open for me.
“So you didn’t lose anything?” he called after me.
“No, I didn’t,” I called back over my shoulder, and set off for home.
That night, as I was sitting in front of my black-and-white TV watching an incomprehensibly manic sitcom, and just as my stripped nerves were beginning to feel the effects of a big bolt or two of vodka, the phone rang. I looked at it for a moment, then turned down the TV volume and picked up after the third ring. If she asked where her Post-its were I would hang up on her. “Hello,” I snarled.
“Claudia?”
“Oh, hi,” I said. It was Frieda Mackintosh. I’d known her since we were freshmen in college. I had no idea any more how I actually felt about her, because college friends weren’t like other friends, they were more like family: you didn’t choose them, they happened to you, and they were yours forever. “How are you, Frieda?”
“A little depressed, actually.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing new. You know. Do you want to go hear that band I was telling you about? The Flukes? They’re playing tonight, the one with the oboe. They probably suck, but I’m so tired of the old guitar-bass-drums combo I could just die.”
“Where and when?”
“Eleven at the Blue Bar.”
“The Blue Bar,” I said.
“I’ll pay your cover, Claudia. We don’t have to stay if they’re awful.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Meet me there ?”
She was silent, breathing pleadingly into the phone. I always gave in, but I made a point not to make it too easy for her. “Okay, I’ll come and get you,” I said finally. “But you have to be ready when I ring the buzzer, Frieda. I’m not coming up.”
But when I rang her buzzer, she buzzed me in. I waited a few minutes, then rang again, and she buzzed me in again. I pushed the building door open and climbed up to her fifth-floor apartment, rapped on her door, then opened it. “I’m sorey,” her voice said in its Canadian accent from somewhere just beyond the door. “Really, Claudia, it’s just that I don’t know what—everything makes me look so—” I went in. She stood in the glaring overhead light of her kitchen. Her short black hair stuck out at several angles as if it had been slept on. She had a streak of dark blue paint on the back of one hand and wore a baggy gray smock over a knee-length black skirt; even so, she was ravishing.
“You’re trying out for Cinderella?” I said.
“Claudia,” she said desperately, “I don’t think I can go anywhere, actually. I’m feeling so self-conscious. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I just can’t take it any more.”
Frieda was six feet tall and freakishly beautiful. She had an extravagant but simple face with perfect bones, a wide, fullmouth, black hair and dark blue eyes, skin that was at once luminous and creamy, an iconic orchestration of flesh and bone that seemed to belong not to her but to everyone who saw it. She rode along inside, cringing. She tried to camouflage herself in unbecoming clothes, but no matter what she did, everyone stared at her wherever she went as if she were a giraffe. Why she couldn’t get over her
I put on my coat and scarf, but I stuffed my woolen hat into my pocket: I would never wear it again. I didn’t say good-bye. As I left I heard, echoing against the bathroom tiles, the mellow, perfectly phrased voice of Frank Sinatra: “Night and day, you are the one, only you, ’neath the moon or under the sun …”
I gave Ralph a radiant smile as I walked through the lobby.
“How’d it work out?” he asked.
“Fine,” I said as I swept through the door he held open for me.
“So you didn’t lose anything?” he called after me.
“No, I didn’t,” I called back over my shoulder, and set off for home.
That night, as I was sitting in front of my black-and-white TV watching an incomprehensibly manic sitcom, and just as my stripped nerves were beginning to feel the effects of a big bolt or two of vodka, the phone rang. I looked at it for a moment, then turned down the TV volume and picked up after the third ring. If she asked where her Post-its were I would hang up on her. “Hello,” I snarled.
“Claudia?”
“Oh, hi,” I said. It was Frieda Mackintosh. I’d known her since we were freshmen in college. I had no idea any more how I actually felt about her, because college friends weren’t like other friends, they were more like family: you didn’t choose them, they happened to you, and they were yours forever. “How are you, Frieda?”
“A little depressed, actually.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing new. You know. Do you want to go hear that band I was telling you about? The Flukes? They’re playing tonight, the one with the oboe. They probably suck, but I’m so tired of the old guitar-bass-drums combo I could just die.”
“Where and when?”
“Eleven at the Blue Bar.”
“The Blue Bar,” I said.
“I’ll pay your cover, Claudia. We don’t have to stay if they’re awful.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Meet me there ?”
She was silent, breathing pleadingly into the phone. I always gave in, but I made a point not to make it too easy for her. “Okay, I’ll come and get you,” I said finally. “But you have to be ready when I ring the buzzer, Frieda. I’m not coming up.”
But when I rang her buzzer, she buzzed me in. I waited a few minutes, then rang again, and she buzzed me in again. I pushed the building door open and climbed up to her fifth-floor apartment, rapped on her door, then opened it. “I’m sorey,” her voice said in its Canadian accent from somewhere just beyond the door. “Really, Claudia, it’s just that I don’t know what—everything makes me look so—” I went in. She stood in the glaring overhead light of her kitchen. Her short black hair stuck out at several angles as if it had been slept on. She had a streak of dark blue paint on the back of one hand and wore a baggy gray smock over a knee-length black skirt; even so, she was ravishing.
“You’re trying out for Cinderella?” I said.
“Claudia,” she said desperately, “I don’t think I can go anywhere, actually. I’m feeling so self-conscious. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I just can’t take it any more.”
Frieda was six feet tall and freakishly beautiful. She had an extravagant but simple face with perfect bones, a wide, fullmouth, black hair and dark blue eyes, skin that was at once luminous and creamy, an iconic orchestration of flesh and bone that seemed to belong not to her but to everyone who saw it. She rode along inside, cringing. She tried to camouflage herself in unbecoming clothes, but no matter what she did, everyone stared at her wherever she went as if she were a giraffe. Why she couldn’t get over her
Similar Books
