Tales From A Broad

by Fran Lebowitz

  ‘Bloody hell, $500. Do you have many members?’ Simon inquires.

  ‘We don’t have members yet. We just opened a week ago.’

  We crack up. Simon takes the sign off the table, sits on the overstuffed library chair and says, ‘Here’s the deal, love, if you get 50 members in the next 50 minutes, I pledge that we will give up our seats peacefully. How ’bout you get us some Moët? Thanks, me duck.’

  The champagne comes to us warm. It seems the refrigerator hasn’t arrived yet, but they bought a few bags of ice. We wait while it chills in the ice bucket. We gaze upon our uncorked bottle, silently. Our conversation is in there. As soon as the first sign of sweat drips down the neck of the bottle, Simon thumbs it open, pours four glasses and begins his stories, ranging from white-water rafting in New Zealand to going to sleep in Spain and waking up in New Delhi. I am too outclassed to win them over with my limp little tale about hitchhiking for two years. Compared with them, I was just faking it all that time, waiting for Daddy to spank me and bring me back to finish up college. But I tell it anyway; it’s all I got. They love the part about when I fell asleep in a car and woke up in the middle of a cow pasture.

  Frank tells his story from Switzerland. (He usually saves this for Christmas Eve.) He’d been travelling for a while and had developed a stomach upset on the leg to Switzerland. He dropped off his bags at the hotel and planned to kill time until his room was ready, an estimated three hours. On his way back to the hotel, he stopped at a pissoir. ‘My, what a clean Johnnie On The Spot this is,’ he thought as he unzipped his fly. And basking in the relative comfort of his environment, zipping back up his fly, he unleashed the fart that had been grieving him for so many hours. Unfortunately, and ever-so-unFrankly, the fart was, by definition, not a fart at all; it had substance. He made it back to the hotel and adopted a haughty tone so as to put the staff to the task before they could determine his soiled state. They poked around on the computer for a moment and told him his room was ready but they would need a moment to deliver his luggage. ‘Fine, fine,’ he flicked his hand, disguising his relief. He went into his room and immediately dropped his drawers and started running a bath. The doorbell rang. ‘Bellhop, Sir. We have your bags.’ He looked at his underpants. He heard another knock. ‘Sir? Sir?’ He wrapped a towel around himself, opened a window, grabbed a hanger and scooped the loaded underpants onto the hook. He extended the armed hanger out the window and swung it around until the centrifugal force was powerful enough to send those babies flying. He returned the hanger to the closet and opened the door. He hadn’t bathed yet and the man gave him a very Swiss–French ‘pee-yew’ face. Who cares, thought Frank. He felt better now and took his bath. He was even well enough for a little room service and a glass of wine and a tawdry pay-per-view movie. He fell asleep around nine. The next morning he woke up early, full of brand-new-day energy, and pulled the curtains aside to breathe in the fresh, dewy air. He looked out at the mountains, proudly showing themselves against a cloudless sky. He heard the clattering of silverware and muffled conversation. It was coming from below his window. Just one floor down was an outdoor terrace café where the waiters were setting up for breakfast. They’d just begun. In only a few moments, they would start putting plates, napkins, silverware, coffee cups, saucers, milk, cream, sugar and maybe a vase of flowers on the table just below Frank’s room. The table just below Frank’s room, where his briefs had landed. They lay there still, as yet unnoticed, smack in the middle where the vase of flowers would go.

  Frank and I often say there are two kinds of people in the world: those who love this story and those who haven’t a clue why it’s being told in the company of fair ladies. It’s no wonder we want to ring in the New Year with Simon and Melanie.

  We order another bottle of Moët.

  ‘Gone already,’ says the waitress.

  ‘Yeah, we’re quick, so we’ll have another.’

  ‘No champagne left.’

  ‘Not a drop. It was so delicious. Anyway, we’ll take another.’

  ‘We don’t have any more champagne. That was all. Anything else for you?’

  We convince Melanie that it makes more sense to walk back to Fortune Gardens. I try two more bank machines along the way and still can’t get any money out. We get to Sam and Valerie’s at about 10.30. It’s pretty packed. A buffet of nibblies is spread on the table. I did think to contribute. I had ducked back to our apartment to pick up a tray of hard, brown bread squares, which I’d earlier brushed repeatedly with my homemade shabu-shabu sauce. I’d invented a new appetizer. Wrap a little smoked salmon around it and whoo doggy. In fact, my little cruncherretta put the stake in previously undiscovered fusion possibilities. I had German bread, Japanese sauce and Norwegian salmon. I put my tray out in a prime position, moving inferior appetizers out of the way, and retrieve my drink from Sam. I go to hang out on the balcony. It’s the best place for people who want to talk and smoke – outside and distanced from the stereo speakers. Of course, you listen only by default if you can’t manage to talk while you’re drinking or dragging.

  Sam keeps coming up and filling and filling. He dances through the room asking us to taste his concoctions – a soursop daiquiri, a mango margarita, a papaya colada. And we do, because we can tell he’ll be sad and sobered if we don’t. He makes a toast to his lovely wife, swoops up his still-awake four-year-old son, Andrew, and dances with him to some hometown favourite. When the song’s over, Andrew returns, dazed, to the sofa to sit with his mother, who seems to be content as a spectator.

  Melanie and I start dancing. She’s doing that Deadhead sort of dance where you pretend you’re a weed in the wind or something. I try it. I know I look more like a dust mite in a hurricane; my heart rate is already at 170 and we’re only listening to Olivia Newton-John.

  Frank has just come back with a shoebox full of our CDs. Clive hunkers down next to him, looks from side to side to see if he’ll be spotted, and surreptitiously pulls out another stack from his inside pocket. Joe furtively pulls out a few of his own. Veterans of Sam and Valerie’s New Year’s parties come out of the woodwork and hand over their smuggled-in disks. Not that his music isn’t good. I’m sure he likes it. Now the stack is as high as the corn in July. Soon, we’re dancing to everything from Prince to Queen, from Cake to Cream, from Phish to Meat Loaf. Oh, if Brenda’s party could see us now, they’d all agree they made the more suitable choice if they were to act their age. We’re bouncing on the sofa, jumping off chairs, picking up candlesticks and salt shakers, holding them like mikes. I’m livin’ the song and singing loud, it’s a cold and lonely night. I’m not even aware of the major dings I’m making in the Burmese teak coffee table as I stomp in queble time about doing what I can and worrying about it in the morning, I mean, ain’t no doubt about. Then, everyone’s down for the count, moppin’ brows, falling back onto the sofa. Sam and I stand alone before them on our Burmese-teak coffee-table stage, gathering up all the anguish of that teenage night when the devil sat on our shoulders, feeling blessed, feeling 17, feeling barely dressed. I crouch down as low as I can, and know it just as well as he that we’re gonna go all the way tonight … I pick up a champagne flute, and finish the song, doing both parts. When the song ends, we get applause. I dance with Frank to NRBQ and take a break outside for a smoke. I’m about two puffs into it when harpies come – the first strains of Hair. I stub out my cigarette and meet Sam in the middle of the living room. Melanie’s good for ‘Age of Aquarius’, but then it’s a two-man show for me and Sam – until Clive croons in with ‘Colored Spade’. I don’t even know there’s an audience when I make my way with all my heart and soul through ‘Once Upon a Lookin’ for Donna’. When I do look up, Sam is gazing at me, puzzled. What are you? Valerie is still awfully relaxed on the lounge, barely even making a dent in her durian daiquiri. When the title song comes on, Sam and I traverse the room, leap athletically from surface to surface, land on the floor together as if it’s been rehearsed a dozen times and embrace at the end to shatt
ering calls for an encore in our heads. The party continues with more dancing and singing and drinking and chips sloppily scooped into dips. Midnight comes and goes unnoticed.

  Brenda is just serving her starter, a fried slice of foie gras with a raspberry drizzle over toasted, crust-free farmers’ bread. They’re listening to Vivaldi, drinking champagne. Everyone still has good hair. Brenda’s husband, Tim, looks through binoculars and tells Brenda, ‘Oh, it looks pretty beat. Everyone’s on the sofa watching the coffee table.’

  ‘What are they eating?’ asks Caroline.

  Frank towels me off and offers me water, like a good coach. Knock, knock, knock. There’s an insistent rap at the door. A guardly hammering.

  ‘Let’s guess which one. Winner gets $100.’

  ‘I say it’s Mr Quiff!’

  Knock! Knock! Knock!

  ‘Let’s hide in the bathroom and make him think he’s crazy.’

  ‘No, no, let’s get naked and slither on our bellies down the hall.’

  ‘Wait, wait, I got it,’ Sam says and goes to the door. Some of us were hoping for a shot at $100 or at least a little naked slithering, but he takes matters into his own hands. He opens the door, slowly approaches the guard, seems about to kiss him on the lips and says, ‘I told you not to come here. What if my husband catches us!’

  Valerie, who is the most sober of us and has her child and lease to consider, intervenes. ‘Oh, we’re sorry. He’s just kidding. We’ll keep it down. Here, take this.’ She hands him a box of chocolates. ‘Happy New Year!’ The guard backs out, nodding and smiling. One of the good guys. He wants us to know that beneath his uniform … once the pistol holster is removed … and the club put aside … his cap taken off … shiny shoes left outside the door … walkie-talkie disengaged … chain of keys returned to their hook … he is loco too. ‘Sam Marks! You better watch yourself,’ Valerie says, patting him firmly on the rear.

  A screamingly good game of Pictionary is being played at Brenda’s. The tarts are beginning to brown.

  We troop out of the Markses’ and down the hall, drinks in hand, because the swimming pool is the best suggestion of the night. When we arrive, we are careful to be quiet as we spread around the area like druids. Melanie pops open a bottle of champagne and sits, fully clothed, in the baby pool. Her gauzy skirt is transparent; her shirt has become mostly unbuttoned. I am the first to take off my clothes and dive into the deep end of the big pool. Many follow suit and we swim away a few points of alcohol. I hear a two-finger whistle from above. I look up. It’s Greg and Samantha. They are spending their New Year’s alone. It’s their tradition, because it’s their wedding anniversary. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I’m guessing there are other reasons.

  ‘Fancy a swim?’ Tim says, putting down his binoculars. Brenda lowers the volume on Frank Sinatra, miffed that the cappuccino wasn’t timed properly. She straightens her taffeta skirt and puts out the tarts, crumbles and cakes. She calls Tim to come and reach the brandy snifters. She places them on the table. They have no brandy in the house, but she is not yet aware.

  We see flashlights heading our way. Of course the guards have found us and all we can hope for is that it’s Mr Loco. If it’s Don Knotts, he won’t rest until we get the caning we deserve. If it’s Mr Quiff, we’ll lose our pool privileges for a while. I can already see from the silhouette that it’s none of the above. It’s the guy who wears the worst toupee you could ever imagine. It is a carpet sample. Or maybe it’s the hair-part from a giant Ken doll. Maybe it’s half a coconut. Maybe he glued brush bristles on a yarmulke. Whatever, he wasn’t born that way and it’s got to be pretty hot under that thing during the day.

  ‘Let’s run!’ I say. I don’t want him shining his light in my face and identifying me. Everyone races to the sides of the pool and catapults out, grabs whatever they can find and runs in the opposite direction. I look back to see if Melanie is hustling but she is still rooted in the baby pool and now she’s crying.

  ‘Simon!’ I hoarsely whisper. ‘Simon!’

  ‘I think he’s vomiting in the bushes,’ says Tess.

  Melanie wails as if she can’t believe he’d do that without her.

  ‘I’ll help you with Melanie,’ Tess offers.

  The bushes part and Simon comes toward us, then way to the left, then back in our direction, then way on over to the right, and in three times as long as it should take, he is there, standing above his wife saying, ‘Bloody hell, you stupid git. What the hell are you doing? Mad cow, can’t you see this is a pool for children?’ Then he slips down next to her, pushes her back, lifts up her skirt and throws himself onto her. Melanie grabs his back and moans. Tess and I look at each other and run. We catch up with everyone in the lobby of block three. Clive is in the middle of a pile of clothes holding up a bra. ‘Okay, I have one black lacy thing here, size 32 B. Do I have any takers?’ Lisa shyly stretches out her hand and yanks it away. ‘Has anyone seen my other shoe? Jennifer, where’s my shoe?’ Ward asks.

  ‘Marks and Spencer white cotton briefs … anyone? Going once …’ No one fesses up.

  Brenda kisses each cheek of each guest who supped in her home and bids them a Happy New Year and a good night as she hands them a designer goody bag. She closes the door and rolls her pantyhose down, kicking them off along with her mules. She goes to the kitchen and stands in front of the counter with a knife, evening up the edges of the cake. She slivers off portions from each end, like trimming a moustache. It is very important. She wipes the chocolate from her face and sees her husband slipping out of the apartment with a towel over his shoulder.

  ‘Let’s go to the beach!’

  ‘Wait, I can’t find my shirt.’

  People are still pawing through the tangle of clothes.

  ‘Your mascara escaped down your face.’

  ‘So what, I can see your nipples.’

  ‘Fran, we have no money.’

  ‘Where’s Simon and Melanie?’

  Ding. The elevator doors open. Twelve adults come out, carrying small, decorative bags full of festive whatnots. The last to emerge is Brenda’s husband, Tim. ‘Hey mates,’ he says, ‘guess I missed the swim but made it for the garage sale.’

  Everyone heads to the beach. Tess and I hesitate, look back, and figure that as Natalie and Charlie are safe with Posie, it’s okay to go. There’s a party going on at the Surf Club which, when I say that, sounds a lot cooler than it really is. What it really is? A ton of Singaporeans ten years younger and ten degrees less uproarious than us, and a smattering of expats much like ourselves and therefore embarrassing to look at. There’s a trifling Singaporean DJ saying things like, ‘All right! Now, let’s get the party started!’ and playing music that acts a lot like a finger down my throat. The drinks are totally watery and this seems like a big mistake … until … I see the big, black, juicy sea. ‘Come on!’

  ‘No, Fran. Don’t,’ Frank says with all the conviction of Willy Wonka before Augustus Gloop drinks from the chocolate river. I pull Sam. He was just thinking the same thing. We run to the sea, singing ‘She’s Come Undone’, leaving a trail of clothes behind us. We swim out and moon the crowd, dive about and swim some more. Frank and Valerie are dancing a slow dance.

  When we see our gang leaving, we hurry on after them. Everyone goes back to Sam and Valerie’s to gather their things and go home, but no one does because Sam insists on one more song and the best drink of the night. He’s been saving it for this moment: an iced coffee white Russian. Mmmm, I put my bag back down. The track Sam puts on, the first great Smash Mouth song, gets everyone stomping again so naturally it’s just a matter of seconds before … knock, knock, knock.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘A guard.’

  ‘Agard who?’

  ‘A guard, please …’

  ‘I don’t know an Agard Please, perhaps you have the wrong …’

  ‘Sam Marks, it’s not funny. Let them in!’ admonishes Valerie.

  ‘Okay, doll.’ He opens the door and, thi
s time, actually does kiss the guard, full on the mouth.

  ‘We’re terribly sorry, everyone’s just leaving now. Happy New Year,’ Valerie quickly says and hands over a plate of cookies.

  The guard nods and says, ‘Dis is de segond gomplaind, please do nod gause any more drouble.’ She leaves, the lady guard, the one with the bindi on her forehead.

  ‘Sam, you’ll get us killed one day!’ Valerie says and laughs. Simon and Melanie come in. So now we have to stay for the grand finale cocktail. We dance in our socks. And finally, at four, most of us head out. As I walk down the hall, I hear Tim say, ‘Hey, man, let’s get the party started.’

  Brenda has put the latch on the door. She is propped up in bed with two large feather pillows. She picks up her book and a bag of M&Ms.

  Simon and Melanie follow us as best they can to our apartment. It’s slow going because of the zigzagging. We finally get there and all is quiet. I’m about to lead Melanie upstairs to her children but she and Simon go out on the balcony, put their feet up and light cigarettes.

  ‘Frank,’ I say under my breath, ‘why are they out there?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why don’t we bring their kids down. That should be a hint.’

  ‘Hey!’ Simon calls from outside. I stiffen. ‘You have any vodka?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Yes.’ Frank and I contradict each other.

  ‘I’ll get the kids; you make them one drink,’ I mutter.

  I scoop Natalie up in my arms and bring her down to the sofa. She sits upright for half a second, then falls over, deep in sleep. I roll Charlie’s pram into the living room. Melanie waves to her unconscious children from the other side of the window.

  ‘I wish I had some cocaine,’ Simon says. ‘I’ll bet you have some, Music Man.’

  ‘Sorry, my friend, can’t say that I do,’ Frank responds.

  ‘Well, you can’t say it but you can bring it out.’

  ‘Really, I don’t have any.’

  ‘Fuck you, you fuckin’ selfish faggot.’