into the fast lane.
I hold on to the door handle. “Homeless people don’t cars, Amity.”
“They do in Dallas!”
Somehow I believe her.
“Who sees your house?” she asks. “Nobody if you don’t ask them over. But everybody sees your car. A man can live in a as long as he’s driving a Mercedes.” Mer-sigh dees
While on the subject of cars, I tell her about JT, the BMW salesman who struts his stuff at the gym.
“You know he’ll let you do it!” Amity says. “Buy a car from him; then break it in by fucking him in the backseat.”
“I don’t need a new car.”
“Well at least go on a test drive,” she urges, eyebrows raised. It’s not a bad idea.
She pulls the Granada into a parking space at the mall, cracks her window, and decrees, “Power nap!” Then she reclines her seat, shuts her eyes, and within thirty seconds she’s asleep. Out. Completely dead to the world. And I sit there, while the rain drizzles down, and she Z’s out. I’m not tired, so I watch the studly valets in red jackets park the Mercedes and BMWs of large-haired, starving ladies wrapped in fur coats to shield themselves from the blustery, arctic, Texas spring days that sometimes dip below fifty degrees. Burr. They need those fur coats, in case their German sedans malfunction, and they’re stranded on the side of the road during a blue norther. Sure, they have car phones, but it’s hard to dial when you’re freezing and the chances of breaking a nail are greater under stress. Though my mother is the Kansas version of these women, there’s something a little more lifelike about her. Maybe because she lacks the hokey accent.
“Out!” Amity blurts, springing up like a corpse from a coffin.
“Ahhh!” I say, grabbing my heart. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“Power nap’s over! Out of the car!”
I feel at home as we head down the escalator, past the mannequinlike saleswomen who use their ring fingers (because all a ring finger does is hold a ring, so it’s cleaner and less stressed-out, Amity claims) to smooth eye re firmer onto prospective clients’ hopeful faces, and into the Mid-Life Cafe, as Amity calls it, where she orders a tuna salad on loose leaf lettuce, so I do too. My mother
used to take me on trips to Kansas City to shop at department like this, until my father told her to stop or I’d turn out queer.
I notice Amity sits taller in her chair at Maxwell’s than she at home. Taking a cue from her surroundings, she reapplies lipstick. First, she uses her white starched napkin to wipe off red stain from her lips. By the time she’s removed the old her napkin looks like a blood-soaked tourniquet. Then she opens a compact to access a mirror. Using a ruby-colored pencil two darker than her lipstick, she lines the outsides of her lips, expandin their borders by following the cosmetic manifest destiny. Then takes the actual lipstick and sensually fills in her lips with a that resembles M&M red dye #2. Then she takes the tournic and blots her lips several times, making it bloodier still. She by doing a final check in her little, feminine purse mirror.
Then the food comes, and she wipes it all off and eats.
And when she finishes eating, she performs the whole again.
I notice as we walk out of the cafe that almost every woman the place is holding a blood-soaked tourniquet in her lap and into a little purse mirror.
Before we leave the mall, Amity tells me she wants to get watchband replaced. I follow her into the upscale watch store, she approaches the salesman. Staring at her with a pissy look his face, he painfully asks, “May I help you?” He might as be saying, “Is there any help for you?” He’s fluffy and
His dyed-blond hair has been blow-dried and sprayed into a meringue. The manicured nails of his pudgy little hands poke dently out of his expensive suit sleeves, and the ring finger of left hand is adorned with a showy diamond wedding ring in shape of the state of Texas. His fine
I hold on to the door handle. “Homeless people don’t cars, Amity.”
“They do in Dallas!”
Somehow I believe her.
“Who sees your house?” she asks. “Nobody if you don’t ask them over. But everybody sees your car. A man can live in a as long as he’s driving a Mercedes.” Mer-sigh dees
While on the subject of cars, I tell her about JT, the BMW salesman who struts his stuff at the gym.
“You know he’ll let you do it!” Amity says. “Buy a car from him; then break it in by fucking him in the backseat.”
“I don’t need a new car.”
“Well at least go on a test drive,” she urges, eyebrows raised. It’s not a bad idea.
She pulls the Granada into a parking space at the mall, cracks her window, and decrees, “Power nap!” Then she reclines her seat, shuts her eyes, and within thirty seconds she’s asleep. Out. Completely dead to the world. And I sit there, while the rain drizzles down, and she Z’s out. I’m not tired, so I watch the studly valets in red jackets park the Mercedes and BMWs of large-haired, starving ladies wrapped in fur coats to shield themselves from the blustery, arctic, Texas spring days that sometimes dip below fifty degrees. Burr. They need those fur coats, in case their German sedans malfunction, and they’re stranded on the side of the road during a blue norther. Sure, they have car phones, but it’s hard to dial when you’re freezing and the chances of breaking a nail are greater under stress. Though my mother is the Kansas version of these women, there’s something a little more lifelike about her. Maybe because she lacks the hokey accent.
“Out!” Amity blurts, springing up like a corpse from a coffin.
“Ahhh!” I say, grabbing my heart. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“Power nap’s over! Out of the car!”
I feel at home as we head down the escalator, past the mannequinlike saleswomen who use their ring fingers (because all a ring finger does is hold a ring, so it’s cleaner and less stressed-out, Amity claims) to smooth eye re firmer onto prospective clients’ hopeful faces, and into the Mid-Life Cafe, as Amity calls it, where she orders a tuna salad on loose leaf lettuce, so I do too. My mother
used to take me on trips to Kansas City to shop at department like this, until my father told her to stop or I’d turn out queer.
I notice Amity sits taller in her chair at Maxwell’s than she at home. Taking a cue from her surroundings, she reapplies lipstick. First, she uses her white starched napkin to wipe off red stain from her lips. By the time she’s removed the old her napkin looks like a blood-soaked tourniquet. Then she opens a compact to access a mirror. Using a ruby-colored pencil two darker than her lipstick, she lines the outsides of her lips, expandin their borders by following the cosmetic manifest destiny. Then takes the actual lipstick and sensually fills in her lips with a that resembles M&M red dye #2. Then she takes the tournic and blots her lips several times, making it bloodier still. She by doing a final check in her little, feminine purse mirror.
Then the food comes, and she wipes it all off and eats.
And when she finishes eating, she performs the whole again.
I notice as we walk out of the cafe that almost every woman the place is holding a blood-soaked tourniquet in her lap and into a little purse mirror.
Before we leave the mall, Amity tells me she wants to get watchband replaced. I follow her into the upscale watch store, she approaches the salesman. Staring at her with a pissy look his face, he painfully asks, “May I help you?” He might as be saying, “Is there any help for you?” He’s fluffy and
His dyed-blond hair has been blow-dried and sprayed into a meringue. The manicured nails of his pudgy little hands poke dently out of his expensive suit sleeves, and the ring finger of left hand is adorned with a showy diamond wedding ring in shape of the state of Texas. His fine
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