Tales From A Broad

by Fran Lebowitz

SADIE: Look!

  Frank mans the double stroller across the street for a closer view of the cross-dressers hanging out at the Gonzo Bar.

  HUXLEY: Whaa! Whaa! Whaa! [I’m hungry.]

  FRAN: We better get him something to eat. [If there is a God, we’ll have happy hour followed by a five-course dinner in a five-star restaurant overlooking the sea, beneath the moon, eating an abundance of fresh seafood.]

  FRANK: Yeah. [There’s a doughnut store.]

  Frank directs the stroller to the pastry shop. Fran begins to boil. She questions the marriage. ‘How could he not know that this will not do. What? After doughnuts we just go home? Doughnuts? In Thailand?’

  FRAN (hot, hungry): Frank, for fuck’s sake. Why do we want to give the kids this for dinner? We haven’t even had happy hour yet. Let’s look for something nice.

  FRANK: Yeah, you’re right, of course. [What the hell does a doughnut have to do with dinner?]

  The camera catches the Rittmans looking at menus outside of restaurants. The Malee Seafood Village, The Royal Kitchen, The Tung Ka Café. They wander down side streets; sometimes Fran walks into a place and comes out shaking her head ‘no’. Sometimes they all go in, look around and shrug ‘not exactly what I had in mind’. The streetlamps are now turned on and we can see that a good chunk of time has elapsed. They are drenched, dirty, beyond hungry and thirsty, unable to think entirely coherently. Menu after menu – too foreign, too western, too fancy, too bright, too loud, too shlocky. This – more than the bore of shopping, more than trying to get excited about local crafts – this is their curse. Indecision. This is how the story always ends.

  FRAN (panicking now): We have to just settle on something. Let’s go to the end of the block and if nothing is right, we’ll do that Ban Rim Pa. [If there is a God.]

  The next cluster of restaurants is a pizzeria, an outdoor coffee shop and The Dino-Park, a mini-golf-cum-burger-and-rib-restaurant with a prehistoric theme. There is nothing remotely Thai about it.

  SADIE: Yeah! [You will be the best parents on earth if you take me there.]

  HUXLEY: Yeah! [Well, Sadie said it.]

  Fran and Frank look at each other. They are tired, they admit defeat, they wave a wilted white flag. They go in and get a caveman banner with a number, golf clubs and four balls. The Rittmans hear the number painted on their caveman sashes called. It is time to return the equipment. They get briefly lost in ‘The Land Time Forgot’. Sadie finally leads the way out. They take a seat.

  FRANK: I’m going to get the ‘no-wonder-we’re-extinct’ burger. [Life is good.]

  FRAN: There’s nothing for me here. [I hate everyone.]

  SADIE: Hey, our waitress has hairy arms.

  THE END.

  As the credits roll, Fran, Sadie and Huxley are on the dark, dark street and hear Frank from far away: ‘I was sure this was where I parked it.’

  The next day, I feel awful.

  Frank says, ‘I’m not suggesting that your friends aren’t entirely knowledgeable about the ocean activity in Asia, but maybe, just maybe, you should see the nurse.’

  I go to the gym instead, despite being unable to bend. Frank takes the kids to breakfast. An hour later we meet up in the room, where I’ve collapsed on the bed with cold towels wrapped around my legs. I go to the nurse and discover there is something called sea lice. I’ve displayed a particularly bad reaction to them and should stay out of the sun for the day. I get a new cream. I sit in the shade. Frank and the kids go from the pool to the beach and say ‘Hi’ on occasion, if they remember.

  I join Mel and the gang for a game of chrelpla in the shade. Mel can’t believe she missed the signs. She pulls my leg up onto her ample lap.

  She stares, disbelieving, ‘Foon, dreguggle.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s okay. No one knows for sure.’ I take my leg back.

  ‘Mommmeeee!’ Sadie hollers.

  ‘Over here!’ I wave.

  Frank hands me a drink and asks how I’m doing.

  ‘Why you spending all your time with the fat ladies?’ Sadie whispers.

  ‘Sadie! Sorry,’ I offer the girls.

  The gang looks down at the game. They murmur, ‘Schent, schent.’

  ‘She’s just upset with me.’

  ‘Schent, schent.’

  ‘Please, it was nothing …’

  ‘Sch …’

  ‘Mom, it’s your turn. We’ll see you later! Dad’s making a sand car for Huxley and a sand city for me.’

  I’m much better the next day and wake up early for a run. By the time Frank and the kids wake up, they find me with my feet in a tub of ice. I’ve just been writing a fax to Mala:

  Dear Mala: Perhaps you could spare just a moment of your time to clarify a few things for me. First of all, WE ARE NOT THE MARKSES. It was impossible to find a way to tell Frank I’ve had this planned for ages when everyone’s running around calling us the Markses. AND, we are four, not three. Only THREE pillows had chocolate on them. The kids had to share! That isn’t right. And, I only tell you this so you might avoid a future full of law suits, there are sea lice here. They almost killed me. PS, and the beach is small.

  ‘What now?’ Frank startles me. He is looking at the ice bucket.

  ‘Um, this is really really stupid,’ I say as I slip the fax – unnoticed – into a magazine.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, did you know it takes about 200 times around the beach to make a 12K? Killer on the feet.’

  Frank takes the kids to breakfast and after a while, I hobble down for coffee. He’s left already so I sit with Mel and Bernie and the girls.

  At 11 we catch each other in the elevator. Frank suggests we get in the car and go to Nai Harn, go up the steep hill to the lighthouse, look at the view, have lunch and hang out on the beach.

  I can’t say that walking up to the lighthouse is easy but being able to look around and see only Rittmans at my side is worth it, and the view of the island is spectacular as well. We can see farms, rubber plantations, beaches, boats, whitewashed cliffs and eerie protrusions from the sea.

  We have lunch at a small, family-owned shack next to the imposing yacht club: mii sapam, seafood in gravy over flat rice noodles, kao mok gai, a Muslim dish of roasted chicken on a bed of saffron rice, mixed with crispy ginger, pad thai, pineapple fried rice and two Singha Beers. We wait a long time for the order and it doesn’t come out all at once but we get to watch them wash and peel and chop as if it were Mom’s kitchen. We love the food and vow to come back the next time we find a spare $5 – that’s what it costs, including the tip.

  After lunch, I find the courage to swim in the ocean. We stay for hours. Playing Puff the Magic Dragon, hiking along the shore, discovering treasure. We find a red starfish about the size of a dinner plate. I’m sure it’s fake, it feels like rubber. We shower off at the yacht club, toss the toy starfish in the trunk and pile into the sweltering car, promising the kids we’ll get them a milkshake at Dino-Park on the way back.

  We are pretty zonked, everyone just staring out his or her window, when we come upon a building we haven’t noticed before, not far from the hotel. It’s about the size of a colonial mansion; perhaps it was the home of some rubber plantation king. But where it was once probably painted a bright white, it is now entirely black. How could we have missed the illuminated orange spaceship of a jack-o-lantern on the lawn with a mechanical green stem that lifts up and billows smoke and says ‘Ha ha ha’? I can make out a small, humble, unobtrusive glow-in-the-dark sign that matter-of-factly states ‘World’s largest haunted house’.

  ‘Cool!’ Frank says, awestricken.

  The next day, I run on the highway. Frank buys rafts and we all meet up for a bob in the sea. Sadie and Huxley feed Jumper, the elephant that travels around the hotel during the hours of ten through noon and five through eight. Jumper does a little dance and kisses Sadie; he bows before Huxley. He’s only a little pachyderm, like the one in Jungle Book, and the kids want to be with him every minute.

  We have lunch i
nside the pub. I’m playing pool with Mel. Sadie’s eating her hamburger the way her father does, which is fine for him but not so good for our Sadie, who has less chewing experience and a smaller gullet. Therefore, she chokes. Mel hustles over and directs Frank on the proper manoeuvre. Out the chunk of food shoots, landing on Huxley’s plate. Thinking, ‘Oh, a flying meatball’, Huxley eats it.

  ‘Thanks again, Mel.’

  She points up, crosses herself. ‘Pater Heimlich.’

  I give up my game and join my family.

  Grabbing a fistful of fries from Sadie’s plate, I fan out my brochures on the table.

  ‘So, later on, I thought we’d go to the casuarina forest and see the water buffalo and the rice paddies and then go –’

  Frank interrupts, puts his burger down and says in a stentorian tone, ‘We’re going to the haunted house.’ No hemming and hawing, no compromise like ‘Okay, and then on the way back …’ He continues his lunch.

  ‘Frank, there’s so much to see here. I don’t want to go to a haunted house. I mean, it’s Thailand for goodness sake – snorkelling, ancient temples, cliffs, gibbons. Frank, think of the kids!’

  ‘I want to go to the haunted house!’ Sadie screams, throwing her head back, burger juice dribbling down her chin. Jeez, she’ll choke again.

  Huxley is drawing with ketchup.

  ‘Well, I don’t. It’s stupid to be here and do that,’ I say.

  I tuck my pamphlets away and stir my salad. Not one mention – in the books, the brochures, the billboards or the hotel directory – of this attraction. Even Dino-Park had its share of blurbs.

  ‘Fine, fine. Stop looking at me like that, Huxley.’

  After lunch we go back to the room. A postcard is under the door. It seems THE MARKS FAMILY is invited on a sunset cruise with the GM. Will it never end? I head to the phone. Mala’s secretary answers. She concocts some ridiculous tale about Mala being at the dentist. Yeah, right. I leave an urgent message and take a shower. As I’m getting dressed in the orange-and-black overall shorts that Frank insists I wear, the phone rings. It’s Mala.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ve had an awful day. I’m having a bit of unexpected dental …’

  ‘Mala, Mala, Mala,’ I sing, patiently, menacingly, with an ‘I’ve got nowhere to go’ sort of tone. ‘Among other things … like, I’m sure I mentioned I’m a runner? … And this beach? … Uh, a little too small for, like, even a sprint … but, mostly, you FORGOT to change the hotel reservations. They have us as The Markses everywhere I turn. I told you that this was –’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Rittman. I can explain. Hold on a second, Mrs Rittman …’ She now speaks to someone else in the room, if you can believe her gall. ‘General anaesthesia’s fine, Doctor. Mrs Rittman.’ She resumes our conversation, talking funny like there’s cotton in her mouth. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Rittman, as I was saying, the reason … Oh, Doctor, that was a bit of a sting, not to worry, not to worry, it barely went noticed … Mrs Rittman, the reason for that … Count backwards from 99? Okay, that’s easy … 99, 98, 97 …’

  ‘MALA! The reason is what?’

  ‘Oh, it’s because …’

  ‘She’s ready, Doctor,’ comes a female voice. The phone goes dead just after I hear a drill.

  Oh, God, like what couldn’t wait until she finished her fucking last sentence? Never again, Mala. You blew it, Sleeping Beauty.

  It’s about six when we make it to the haunted house. We’re the only car in the lot. We bang on the knocker. After at least a minute the door opens. We see a European man. He towers over Frank and is paper-thin. His skin is pale and waxy. He wears a faded, shabby tuxedo. He welcomes us in.

  ‘I have been expecting you. I am Dorian. This is my house. Come in.’ His accent is elegant, heavy, like long, crimson velvet drapes. I can’t place it.

  ‘Please, please, follow me.’

  He ushers us to a macabre café. The tables are glass-topped coffins. You can see remains inside the coffins, and tokens buried with the dead. Our table houses Marilyn Monroe. She’s much skinnier now and in the company of her favourite dress, a rose and a novel. A waitress approaches. Dorian introduces her. ‘This is Desdemona. She’ll be your personal assistant. We require 20 minutes to wake the dead. Please enjoy our menu.’ His accent loses a bit of its pomp: ‘One house pour is free. Kids go half price. We’re out of the chicken.’ He turns on his heel and leaves.

  Desdemona hands out the menus, rubs Huxley’s head and produces the smile that so many Asians do when they see him – enthralled, enraptured, could it really be Confucius? She says, ‘This is not for children.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. They like nuggets and chips,’ I respond.

  ‘Good. They can have that with me in the operating room. We are equipped with monitors so they will be able to watch you as you take your journey. But they cannot join you. So, what’ll you have?’ She pulls out a pen from behind her ear and a pad from her hip pocket.

  ‘Frank, that doesn’t seem right, maybe we should go.’

  ‘Go now? After coming all this way? The kids will be fine with Dorian and Desdemona. Won’t you?’

  ‘Yeah, Dad, I want to watch. Don’t you, Huxley?’ Sadie says.

  ‘Daddy knows you do, Pumpkin.’

  Frank orders a Bloody Mary and I order a wine. We get the kids a whole bunch of things that hopefully will keep them occupied while we ‘journey’. Desdemona sashays away.

  ‘Another boy, Mom,’ Sadie whispers.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Desdemona is a boy. I know it.’

  ‘No way,’ I say.

  ‘Yes way.’ She closes the argument.

  Desdemona returns with our drinks. I look at her more closely and see the carefully layered pancake make-up, the scarf not quite obliterating the Adam’s apple. She motions for us to follow her. She leads us to brain central, a small room with a few sofas and pillows and a dozen TV screens on the wall, like you’d see in the security room of a major institution.

  The kids’ food is laid out on a low table in a dignified, if not overly formal fashion, with pewter curlicued cutlery and cloth napkins and ice-cold water. Desdemona says, ‘You begin outside. Dorian will show you the way.’

  I hug Sadie and she stiffens. ‘Go, Mother!’

  I kiss the top of Huxley’s head.

  ‘We don’t have to go if you guys are worried,’ I say to the kids.

  They’re busy eating.

  Frank pulls my arm. ‘Dorian is waiting!’

  ‘Mr and Mrs Rittman, you are to begin here.’ He shows us a staircase. ‘Otto will take you to your first room. Tarra. Have fun.’

  We walk up the stairs and our world gets dimmer and dimmer. Otto is waiting on the landing. He is dressed in an old-time jailhouse uniform. He doesn’t speak, but mimes for us to follow him. He opens a door, motions ‘After you’, and then slams it shut. He is not in the room with us. A small bulb is swinging overhead. There is a big bed and a young girl lying in it. The bed begins to rock violently and spin. The girl sits up, turns to us, revealing a hideous grin, black-rimmed eyes and long, tangled hair. She screams; I scream. She lurches forward and vomits. I quickly make for the door – jolted, disturbed – and find it’s locked. Another door on the far end is opening, revealing a shaft of dusty light. I stride toward it. Otto is on the other side; he takes my elbow. Frank is behind me. Otto leads us a few paces and opens another door. Uncertainly, I follow Frank into another room. Otto disappears in a cloud of smoke. We’re in total darkness. I hear footsteps. A desk lamp comes on, framing the silhouette of a man in a sweater. He moves toward us. ‘Mother? Mother?’ He stops at a swivel chair, spins it around and shows us the skeleton. Otto, at the other side of the room, motions ‘This way, this way’. I hurry.

  Down the pitch-black hall we go. I hear heavy footfalls behind us, faster and faster; chains are rattling, closer and closer, hitting metal, hitting the floor, the wall. I start to run and scream. What sort of mind would come up with all of this? This is not mechanical; this is n
ot some cheap-thrill sideshow. This is a Broadway-production horror, and while I totally appreciate the accuracy and all the great special effects and, God, just the workmanship that went into all of this, I am freaking out because, like, what sort of person devotes all his time and resources to such a thing? A person who really might want to butcher another person? I can feel the chains coming near … A person who especially likes to prey upon the children of foreign tourists? When is a game not a game? The footsteps are upon me and I see something glimmering right in front of my face. It’s a huge butcher’s knife. I scream and grab for Frank – who isn’t there. ‘Frank!!!’ Otto pulls me into a small closet, where a man is typing ‘REDRUM’ over and over.

  ‘I want to go. I want to go,’ I cry.

  Otto nods. He smiles. It’s going to be all right. He’s just a bloke. It’s just a summer job. He takes my hand. We’re moving along a hallway. He drops my hand. A screen slides open, revealing a window, through which we see the broad shoulders and head of a man. When he turns, we see he is wearing a hockey mask. ‘It’s Jason, Frank. Ha ha, it’s just Jason, Frank. And it’s not even Friday 13th. Get it? Get it? Frank?’ I make a weird laugh. At this point, Jason is warm and fuzzy, especially behind the glass. But then he takes his hockey stick and smashes it through the window. He reaches out for me. I run in terror. I have to find a way out. I look around for light from a window, anything. Instead, I crash into Otto, just as I hear the first pull on a chainsaw cord. Frank crashes into me and we find ourselves in an old-fashioned elevator. It takes us to a basement full of scientific experiments, bubbling test tubes and Frankenstein, I presume. It is indeed a detailed laboratory complete with the good doctor mixing potions and the big guy himself getting electrocuted. I remember the monitors. Why exactly do they have monitors? Maybe in case a tourist escapes?

  ‘Otto – Frank –’ I pant, ‘really – I think it’s – like – time to go. The kids and all …’

  Otto points to a door with an EXIT sign. A trap?

  ‘Come on, Frank.’

  Frank just stands there.