And Yesterday Is Gone

by Dolores Durando

  Coming from the cool, sophisticated city of San Francisco, whose misty skyline was so often blurred by fog covering it like a soft blanket and obscuring that which was not good to look upon, I was not prepared for this great, golden city that lay like an overfed cat, sprawled lazily in the sunshine of an open doorway. The Sierra Madre Mountains stood guard in the distance.

  City of Angels. Red-tiled roofs, palm trees standing tall against the startling blue of the sky. Purple bougainvillea, the raucous blare of horns, ricocheting traffic, where gang wars erupt upon sighting a jacket of a different color and prostitutes fight for their corner on Sunset Boulevard.

  “Drugs? You name it, bro.” Available to rich and poor alike.

  Chauffeured limos, Rodeo Drive, Bel Air, Beverly Hills mansions looking down their stuccoed noses.

  Home to the beautiful people.

  The “Hollywood” sign that dwarfed the hillside announcing to thousands that this was the end of the rainbow.

  Movie studios, starlets, young hopefuls seeking fame and fortune in this make-believe world that really was the end of the rainbow for most.

  Hollywood Boulevard, the street of broken dreams, and in this bawdy, teeming city of exotic mix, woven somewhere in between was the tenacious thread that held the fabric together: the ordinary people with their ordinary nine-to-five jobs.

  With my few clothes quickly unpacked and hung, the nagging thought of a tall, cold beer urged me to the elevator. It stopped a couple of floors down to admit two women. One, a bleached blonde with a swinging, bulky camera bag over her shoulder competing with a dangerously bulging purse. The other reminded me instantly of the one I had promised myself to forget. I think it was the black hair that hung over her back, or perhaps it was wishful thinking.

  As the elevator touched down, I noticed that they had preceded me to the bar and, as I ordered, they walked past me carrying a tray with glasses and a pitcher of something that momentarily erased beer from my mind. They were heading for the near vacant patio.

  With a beer in hand, I stopped at a table partly obscured by a large potted plant and carefully seated myself on a spindly legged chair that hopefully would sustain my hundred and eighty pounds. Lifting my glass, it hung frozen in midair as I heard clearly the laughing voice, “…fat-assed Miss Alabama…got a few good shots of her. She’s a thirty-eight/thirty-eight/thirty-eight if my camera doesn’t lie.” Their voices choked with laughter.

  My mind went into overdrive. This was the back door that J.W. had pointed to. I leaned over farther as the voice snickered. “…and the tits on Miss Ohio…” The rest was lost as the damned chair collapsed. Fighting to maintain my balance, I found myself swiping frantically and uselessly at the beer cascading down my front. “Son of a bitch,” I cursed as I kicked the three-legged chair and its orphaned leg behind the flowerpot.

  The women laughed uproariously and clapped. Then the blonde said, “I shoulda had a picture—my editor would have loved it.”

  I gave a weak smile and continued the vain attempt to dry myself.

  The dark-haired woman drawled, “You know they’ll probably bill you for that chair. Maybe you’d better sit with us. We’ll cover for you.” She smiled and patted the chair beside her.

  I was in. Her foot held the door wide open.

  Gratefully, I sank down in the chair beside her as she pulled it closer and motioned for another glass.

  “My name is Amy, and this is Janella. What should we call you—‘handsome’?”

  “Just call me anytime,” I flirted. “Steve Smith for now. I’m a salesman just passing through.” Anything, anything—keep them talking.

  “Janella is a big-time photographer for the L.A. Times—she’s covering the beauty pageant that my sister is going to win at the convention center tomorrow,” Amy said confidently.

  Turning to Janella, I said innocently, “You’re really a photographer? That must be an interesting profession, taking pictures of beautiful women. Wow.”

  “They’re not very beautiful in the morning, although the plastic boobs stand up pretty well. Already shot two rolls today—human interest stuff.”

  “My sister’s boobs aren’t plastic. She was always beautiful even when she was nursing a kid at fifteen and living on a dirt floor,” Amy said defensively.

  “Fifteen?” Janella’s eyebrows raised. “Thought that was illegal.”

  “Not down on the border where we lived. People didn’t notice stuff like that. After we moved to the hill country in Texas, everybody thought the kid was our mother’s.

  “We’re doing better now that EmmaJean—of course, that’s not her real name—won the Miss Abilene when she was seventeen, Miss Texas at eighteen. In Phoenix, she was runner-up—the lighting was really poor there. I always do her hair and makeup so I flew in last night. She’ll win this one; I know she will.”

  “Doubt she’s prettier than you,” I said gallantly. “Bet you could beat her.”

  She smiled and patted my knee as she generously filled my glass.

  I got all the details right down to the thirty-four/twenty-two/thirty- four C-cup in that honeyed drawl that was beginning to send shivers down my spine.

  All the salt on the rim of that frosty glass was keeping me thirsty. Janella motioned to the barkeep who arrived just as she poured the last drop—while Amy’s foot played with mine under the table. I began to sweat.

  “That Miss Michigan—her ass is as big as Kansas and her tits look like parts left over from Frankenstein. Miss Arizona—isn’t she a mess?” Amy asked, turning to Janella. Not waiting for an answer, she continued, “The lighting was great in Tucson where she came in third…”

  The shop talk and information flowed so fast I couldn’t absorb it all, so excusing myself, I found the men’s room to make copious notes on my forearms, then rebuttoned my sleeves.

  Amy chattered for two more hours. My eyes glazed as she caressed my thigh—or close to it. I endured this torture manfully. Anything for the story that would bring joy to J.W.’s wicked heart and my byline to the front page.

  Janella excused herself—it may have been apparent that Amy and I were joined at the hip, and we practically were. She had moved her chair so close she was, to a casual observer, sitting in my lap.

  The patio had filled with a noisy crowd; the air was blue with smoke. My head was spinning and I was eager to get away, eager to put this story together knowing it would take all night.

  Finally I stood. “I gotta go.”

  “What room are you in, Sugar?”

  “Six-thirteen,” I lied.

  “Will I see you later?”

  “Of course. Knock three times on the ceiling.” I fled.

  • • •

  High above the noisy crowds and congested traffic, I rang for coffee, made myself comfortable and pulled the cover from my typewriter. The words seemed to flood the paper.

  Writing steadily, the hours flew by and my story came alive. I knew that it was good.

  Amy had been a goldmine of information—her candid descriptions of backstage activities left little to the imagination. Where there was a lapse, I took a few liberties—a writer’s prerogative. It was three a.m. when I added the last period.

  I routed the sleepy night clerk from his dreams to fax my night’s efforts over the airwaves to join the morning coffee on J.W.’s desk.

  As I showered the priceless information from my forearms, my thoughts were not of the attractive, talkative woman with whom I had spent most of the day, but of a woman in San Francisco who disturbed my dreams and told me nothing of what I so desperately wanted to hear.

  I was about to work myself into a righteous rage when I fell asleep.

  Waking late, I sent down for coffee and read the L.A. Times that came with it.

  I marveled at the publicity that this pageant was getting—why hadn’t J.W. sent a photographer with me? Damned penny-pincher. I could smell another good story here and pictures would have nailed it down.

  Had lunch in the ridi
culously overpriced restaurant and lingered over dessert. My mind cringed at the thought of the look of J.W.’s face when he checked the expense account and saw the tag on the apple pie à la mode.

  My press card saved him the admittance charge at the convention hall—small comfort.

  I pushed my way to the front seating. Although still early, the building was nearly full. The hoopla and bullshit that J.W. had predicted were certainly right on the money.

  The blaring announcements, the orchestra valiantly competing, the sound of voices that thundered against the walls—all seemed as perpetual as waves breaking against the shore. As latecomers banged the seats, finally the curtains rose and the lights dimmed.

  Despite cynical appraisal of various contestants by last night’s companion, I was enthralled. They were all beautiful. I didn’t envy the judges, who took notes carefully as each contestant performed.

  Never had I seen so much of so many.

  If any of it was plastic, to my inexperienced eye, it was a damned good job. But who could tell; who could care at this distance?

  I scribbled furiously, but my arm was constantly bumped by a man who overflowed his seat. My notes became unreadable and I bumped back. He gave me a frosty stare and muttered, “Damn tourist.” I wondered how he could tell.

  The last contestant appeared, climaxing the pageant.

  She seemed oblivious of the suddenly quieted audience as the spotlight followed her across the darkened stage, then blazed to show a petite woman in a ten-gallon hat atop a forest of red hair, high-heeled boots, a bikini almost as large as my handkerchief, and a guitar.

  She strummed slowly for a moment, paused to adjust something, then pushed her hat back. It was then that the first words of that unforgettable song, “Ave Maria,” sounded.

  It was as though every person in that huge auditorium held their breath and exhaled only as the last hauntingly beautiful note faded. Shivers chased themselves across my back. I couldn’t control the pen. The walls shook as the crowd roared and stood as one.

  “Encore. Encore,” yelled the audience as Miss Texas grinned—the same grin I’d seen on Amy’s face. Then she belted out a foot-stomping, yahooing version of “The Eyes of Texas.”

  Looking around the near-riotous crowd, I could see the placards with the Texas star waving everywhere high in the air. I could hear Amy leading the chant, “Texas, Texas, Texas.” I was excited for her and her sister, remembering her assured “She’ll win this one…”

  Jostled by the crowd, I finally found the men’s room and locked myself in a stall. Adding to my almost unreadable notes while seated most uncomfortably, I heard a gruff, threatening voice.

  “If you don’t come out of there right now, I’m coming in to get you. Are you constipated?”

  Sliding past a guy who looked like a professional wrestler and avoiding his scowl with an apologetic, “S’cuse me,” I escaped to hear Amy’s shrill voice above the thinning celebrants. “Hey, Steve—over here.”

  Hoping my good luck would hold, I dodged the noisy groups and, as Amy grabbed my arm, asked, “Do you s’pose you could introduce me?”

  “Are you crazy? Just look.” She pointed at the mad scramble surrounding her sister.

  “There’s a big-time movie producer and that’s a guy from CBS and look at the photographers…”

  Realizing my luck had run out, I bolted through a side door and made a death-defying trip through the parking lot. Racing for the hotel, the words already forming in my mind, I found the sanctuary of my room.

  I typed and retyped, crossed it out and did it again and again. Changed a paragraph, added and deleted. My fingers were numb, but it had to be perfect. And at last my instincts told me it was all I had.

  I had typed steadily, skipped dinner and now it was dark—my watch indicated ten p.m.

  The elevator was too slow; I took the stairs two at a time.

  Shaking the night clerk awake, I disregarded his hostile, “Not again.”

  The airwaves were smoking when the last page was en route.

  The elevator traveled its usual speed going up and that was fine with me. My mission was accomplished. Kicking off my shoes and socks, I collapsed across the bed, almost instantly asleep.

  A loud, persistent banging on the door floundered through my sleep-numbed brain and I croaked, “Who is it?”

  “Amy. Who the hell do you think it is? Open up.”

  “Not a chance—go to bed.”

  The pounding intensified. Cursing, I struggled to the door and opened it an inch, only to have it pushed open. I jumped back to avoid facial reconstruction.

  “Hey Handsome—party time. C’mon. I’ve got munchies and Jack Daniel’s in my room. Hurry up.”

  I could smell that she had already made Jack’s acquaintance. Her voice was insistent and sleep had fled. Realizing there was no escape, suddenly a celebration on my last night here didn’t seem like such a bad idea. One could always sleep. Hadn’t J.W. said to live a little?

  I’d written a fabulous report, Rica was a long ways gone—perhaps the hair of the dog? I assured myself that indeed a celebration was in order.

  Having justified myself, my bare feet followed Amy like a shadow.

  “So,” she said triumphantly. “I’ve tracked you down and you are now my captive.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “When I knocked on the ceiling, that guy was so mad he called the room clerk. I told him I was your wife and that you often got numbers confused, and he said the only Steve he had on the books was in Room five thirteen…”

  Still chatting, she slipped the key in the lock and the door opened to an empty room.

  “Where is everyone? The party?” I stuttered.

  She leaned against me, nibbling my ear and whispered, “We are everybody. Are you ready to party?”

  “Not quite yet. Let’s have a drink first.”

  “Consider this foreplay,” she said as a drink appeared like magic a moment later.

  Manfully, I slugged it down. My eyes watered and my curly hair straightened like the tail of a cat at the sight of a strange dog.

  She pushed me down on the bed where my recovery began. The kisses lengthened as our tongues had a lively conversation and I cooperated with enthusiasm. Somehow she had shed her clothes without breaking contact.

  I could feel my pants growing tight enough to cripple me. Apparently she had noticed. Her hand had just found the zipper when a deafening bang-bang sounded on the door.

  “Oh, shit—who can that be?”

  “Janella here—open up.”

  “I don’t hear anything, do you?”

  “Hell no. I’m deaf as a post.”

  Again her mouth sought mine.

  I thought the door would fly off the hinges.

  “Damn it to hell. I know you’re in there. Open this door before I kick it in.”

  Amy fumbled with her clothes and opened the door. Janella stalked in, tossing her purse on the nightstand.

  “My, aren’t you cozy.”

  I held a pillow on my lap.

  “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything,” she said innocently, kicking off her shoes and seating herself in the only chair. “I won’t stay long.”

  “Bitch,” Amy said under her breath. “I hope yours grows together.”

  “It would serve her right,” I muttered. “She talks too much.”

  Amy looked at me in amazement.

  “Steve, you can’t possibly be that dumb.” She started to laugh.

  Janella’s laughter joined ours. “I don’t know what’s so funny, but I’ve sure livened up this party. Somebody fix me a drink.”

  I crawled off the bed to do her bidding, and wondered if she would fly when I pushed her out the window. That would liven up my party.

  “Had a bad scene with my boss. I lost that last roll of film that I took at the pageant with all my best shots. I would have gotten the Pulitzer. I’d already given him three so he didn’t need to get so nasty.” She started to
cry.

  “Stop sniveling, Janella. I hate a crying drunk.”

  “Shut your big Texas mouth. I’m not drunk yet.”

  “Sitting by myself playing solitaire isn’t much fun. Thought you might like to play a few hands.” Then, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she added, “Hand me my purse, will ya?”

  Digging through her cluttered bag, she pulled out a wad of Kleenex and with it came the roll of film.

  She leaped to her feet with an ecstatic whoop.

  “Omigawd, it’s my lucky day.” Laughing and crying, she cavorted about the room, Jack Daniel’s sloshing in one hand, the film held higher in the other.

  The film—my heart lusted for that roll, but I knew it would take a king’s ransom to part her from it. My story would make the front page, but it would go over the top if I could add those pictures. My mind cleared as I schemed and plotted to no avail.

  Holding her over the railing by her feet tempted me, but I discarded that plan when I realized she’d take the film with her.

  Amy was sulking, giving Janella a sour look. “C’mon, c’mon. It’s getting late. This ain’t no ladies aid society. You brought the cards, now let’s play.”

  Then she brightened. “I know. Let’s play strip poker. I’ll show you how a Texas girl can strip a guy right down to his spurs and make him look forward to it.”

  With a wicked smile, Janella answered, “I’m not so bad at that myself, and if it’s a draw, we’ll play a hand for his spurs.”

  J.W. had said I might get lucky, so why was I so nervous?

  “Wait a minute, ladies,” I stalled. “Let’s have a drink.”

  My brain wrestled with indecision. I could leave, but I wanted that film. I had to figure out a way to get it. Then, too, Amy was no afterthought.

  My grandfather had been a hellfire-and-brimstone traveling preacher, traveling by horseback to joust with the devil regarding sins of the flesh. Dancing was intercourse set to music, smoking was a deadly sin, and cards were an invention of the devil. Ma had never learned to play, although she had bent the rules of dancing; consequently, Sis and I had never been allowed. We hid our Monopoly board in the barn.