laughed Mel. “I’ve certainly done what I liked, though whether I’ve done well is another story. And if I’ve turned out better than most, it depends on ‘the most’ you’re talking about.”
“Well, Stan Jacobs, for one. He seems to me your antithesis. Perhaps his mother didn’t dote on him enough.”
“It’s possible. But his wife did,” said Mel, frowning. “She worshiped the ground he walked on, and expected others to do the same. It was a trial being around them: self-love bolstered by hero worship.”
“It sounds intolerable. Why did his friends stand for it?”
“The power of self-promotion, what can I say? And the appeal of fraternizing with a professor—a role he played to the hilt, let me tell you. You’re right about one thing. You couldn’t findtwo more different people than Stan Jacobs and me. Have you seen him since our unfortunate encounter?”
“No,” said Flo, “though I expect I will. I drive May when she meets Norman at Broken Arrow, and Stan tends to show up.”
“He’ll probably try to bad-mouth me. Promise you won’t be swayed.”
“I won’t,” said Flo. “I have a mind of my own.”
Mel turned his head and smiled admiringly at her, then changed the subject: “I’ve been looking seriously at a place in Boca Festa, as you know. I like the club and your friends, but I would have thought someone like you might seek more—how shall I say?—’elevated’ company.”
“They’re not highbrow, if that’s what you mean,” laughed Flo. “I find I can get enough highbrow from reading good books.”
“I’m not talking education, so much,” said Mel, “but—well—style, class, if you will. The folks at Boca Festa are burghers, simple shopkeepers; plain people.”
“As opposed to, what, fancy people?”
“Not fancy, sophisticated. People with some worldliness, some experience and savoir faire.”
“Rich people?” asked Flo. “Boca Festa isn’t the Polo Club, if that’s what you mean, though I thought you found those people snobby. Some Boca Festa residents are very comfortable; you’d be surprised.”
“I’m sure I would. And I’m not pushing the Polo Club. I know the place, as I said. It’s really no different, though there’s more posturing. It’s that I imagine you in a more refined environment. When I see you with Hy Marcus, I want to laugh.”
“Hy’s a fool, I grant you, but a sweet fool.”
“That’s the question: At our stage in life, do we want to mix with fools, sweet or otherwise?”
“You think we should be more discriminating at ‘our stage in life’?”
“I do. You know what the poet says: ‘And at my back I always hear time’s winged chariot hurrying near.’ I hear it, all right, and it’s starting to make quite a racket. Times’s running out for us, my darling. We need to use what we have left with—yes, to be blunt about it—discrimination; not waste our time with fools.” Mel’s voice had taken on resonance as though he had tapped into a deep well of private conviction. “I want my last years to be like a well-edited story or a fine, short poem,” he continued. “No fat, no excess; just pure, undiluted quality. That, my
liebchen,
is why I like you.”
Though his tone had grown lighter again, Flo felt the force of his words and was silent.
They were heading west on Alligator Alley, and Flo deduced they were on their way to the exclusive towns on Florida’s west coast. Once off-limits to Jews, these enclaves had recently been stormed by those looking to reduplicate the habits of earlier inhabitants and escape undue proximity to their peers. The west coast was also the site of some breathtaking scenery. Flo had visited several times, the last with Amy, who at twenty-one was finally too old for Disney World. Amy was partial to nice landscape and to the spectacle of what she called “a good stretch house”—that oversized habitation that was the house equivalent of a stretch limousine.
“Mom and Dad
“Well, Stan Jacobs, for one. He seems to me your antithesis. Perhaps his mother didn’t dote on him enough.”
“It’s possible. But his wife did,” said Mel, frowning. “She worshiped the ground he walked on, and expected others to do the same. It was a trial being around them: self-love bolstered by hero worship.”
“It sounds intolerable. Why did his friends stand for it?”
“The power of self-promotion, what can I say? And the appeal of fraternizing with a professor—a role he played to the hilt, let me tell you. You’re right about one thing. You couldn’t findtwo more different people than Stan Jacobs and me. Have you seen him since our unfortunate encounter?”
“No,” said Flo, “though I expect I will. I drive May when she meets Norman at Broken Arrow, and Stan tends to show up.”
“He’ll probably try to bad-mouth me. Promise you won’t be swayed.”
“I won’t,” said Flo. “I have a mind of my own.”
Mel turned his head and smiled admiringly at her, then changed the subject: “I’ve been looking seriously at a place in Boca Festa, as you know. I like the club and your friends, but I would have thought someone like you might seek more—how shall I say?—’elevated’ company.”
“They’re not highbrow, if that’s what you mean,” laughed Flo. “I find I can get enough highbrow from reading good books.”
“I’m not talking education, so much,” said Mel, “but—well—style, class, if you will. The folks at Boca Festa are burghers, simple shopkeepers; plain people.”
“As opposed to, what, fancy people?”
“Not fancy, sophisticated. People with some worldliness, some experience and savoir faire.”
“Rich people?” asked Flo. “Boca Festa isn’t the Polo Club, if that’s what you mean, though I thought you found those people snobby. Some Boca Festa residents are very comfortable; you’d be surprised.”
“I’m sure I would. And I’m not pushing the Polo Club. I know the place, as I said. It’s really no different, though there’s more posturing. It’s that I imagine you in a more refined environment. When I see you with Hy Marcus, I want to laugh.”
“Hy’s a fool, I grant you, but a sweet fool.”
“That’s the question: At our stage in life, do we want to mix with fools, sweet or otherwise?”
“You think we should be more discriminating at ‘our stage in life’?”
“I do. You know what the poet says: ‘And at my back I always hear time’s winged chariot hurrying near.’ I hear it, all right, and it’s starting to make quite a racket. Times’s running out for us, my darling. We need to use what we have left with—yes, to be blunt about it—discrimination; not waste our time with fools.” Mel’s voice had taken on resonance as though he had tapped into a deep well of private conviction. “I want my last years to be like a well-edited story or a fine, short poem,” he continued. “No fat, no excess; just pure, undiluted quality. That, my
liebchen,
is why I like you.”
Though his tone had grown lighter again, Flo felt the force of his words and was silent.
They were heading west on Alligator Alley, and Flo deduced they were on their way to the exclusive towns on Florida’s west coast. Once off-limits to Jews, these enclaves had recently been stormed by those looking to reduplicate the habits of earlier inhabitants and escape undue proximity to their peers. The west coast was also the site of some breathtaking scenery. Flo had visited several times, the last with Amy, who at twenty-one was finally too old for Disney World. Amy was partial to nice landscape and to the spectacle of what she called “a good stretch house”—that oversized habitation that was the house equivalent of a stretch limousine.
“Mom and Dad
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