Tales From A Broad

by Fran Lebowitz

  ‘What’s the dress for tonight?’ Frank asks. ‘Why are you on the floor?’

  ‘Because it feels good. I don’t know, wear what still fits after this afternoon.’

  ‘Madame. Madame.’ I hear Susie’s voice and am pulled from a strange sleep, the type you have on a floor at dusk on Chinese New Year.

  ‘Hi, oh, sorry, am I in the way here?’ I slide over closer to the pantry so she can get her soufflé out of the oven. I close my eyes again. I want to get back to my recurring dream. The one where I’m in a home, my home, but usually not the real place I live, and I’ve just discovered, or rediscovered, that there is a whole other wing of rooms. At first, I’m like, ‘Oh, this is fantastic, so much room, such a big house!’ And then I start to worry about furnishing it and how to make good use of it and reminding myself not to forget to have everyone spend lots of time in these rooms. I want to finally get to the part where I am flinging doors open and saying, ‘This is the pinochle room and this is where we keep things that are pink.’ More likely, the sequel is that we now live in this wing and I forget all about the old one until one day … and it never ends in this crazy cycle of wonder and worry and burdensome gifts.

  I turn on Jethro Tull. I think ‘Locomotive Breath’ has lyrics to get you dressed, feeling like a tiger again. I’ll have to hear the song a few times before I can meow. Frank is trying to get the kids in the bath but they’re not interested.

  ‘Forget it,’ I tell him. ‘We have to get dressed, anyway.’

  ‘Do we have to go?’ he asks. ‘I’m not sure I feel good.’

  ‘Get over it. Yes, we have to go. It will be fun if you just put some effort into it. It’s the fucking Shangri-la. God!’

  ‘I feel sick too, Mommy.’

  ‘Great. Where, sweetie?’

  She points to her shoulder.

  ‘Ah, boy, we better stay home. Sadie has strep shoulder.’ I get into the tub and turn on the shower. Frank flushes the toilet and I hear muttering.

  ‘Frank,’ I cajole, ‘we just had a long day, that’s all. Come on. I’m sorry. We don’t want to miss the look on Collin’s face when he pays for all of this.’

  Frank gets into the shower with me. Sadie and Huxley follow. Good as this sounds, I mean, who really wants to get nudged out of their shower? Why should I wait for my turn at the hot water just because everyone liked my idea? Get out! I’ll see you on the other side!

  ‘Susie,’ I ask as we’re leaving, ‘did the kids like the soufflé?’

  ‘Madame?’

  ‘Their dinner. Did they like it?’

  ‘What dinner, Madame?’

  ‘That.’ I point to the soufflé.

  ‘My crêpe? It is for moi and Francis.’

  I nuke up some leftovers and we leave.

  ‘So, how do I look, Frank?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said you look fine.’

  ‘Oh, okay, it’s just that, you know, you so rarely dust off superlatives like that unless I’m asking you if I made out the cheque correctly or put your computer away properly or if the coffee is too hot. Then you sometimes bring yourself to those scary adjectival heights and pluck from the clouds the word “fine”.’

  ‘Oh jeez, Fran. What you’re wearing is nice.’

  ‘Like, we’ll make it through the evening without much snickering? Like, I should have you turn the car around so I can change? Or like, at least my outfit isn’t mean?’

  ‘God, will you stop this?’ He yanks the car to the side of the road and stops. ‘What is your problem?’

  ‘I’m fine, Frank. Just drive. We’re late.’

  ‘You know what?’ he snaps.

  ‘No. What?’

  ‘You look stupid in that.’

  ‘Who the fuck asked you, anyway? I do not.’

  We arrive at the imposing Shangri-la only 20 minutes late. The lobby is one of my ideas of heaven. Several cosy bars, light piano show-tune music and a singer of so little distinction you forget about her, ceilings high enough to fortress a tower, people dressed well, sipping happily, men in formal service wear bowing before you with cocktail napkins. I do have other ideas of the beyond. I love nature, the mountains, creeks, wild flowers and dewy grass, redneck bars with trivia games, cold beers sitting out on tables, playing pool. But opulence, wealth, ease, enjoyment, regality, well, they’re up there too. Unfortunately, there’s no time this evening to sit back and be dead and gone to heaven. I squeeze Frank’s hand, hoping we’re pals again. He lets me. I have a way to go, I guess. I adjust my scarf and look around; there is no whispering from the balconies here. I put my arm around Frank’s waist. He lets me. His arms hang at his sides. It doesn’t matter. It’s small stuff. This minute, the next minute and all the rest of our lives, we need to remember we’re lucky. Look where we are, think of where we could be. I stop and turn, expecting a kiss …

  ‘What, Fran?’

  And get that instead … so what else can I do but …

  ‘Frank, your hair looks flat.’

  I walk ahead, downstairs to the restaurant. Fairy lights surround the pool, all the terrace doors are open on the restaurant. I see the long, long table where our friends are seated. I go around gripping shoulders, planting kisses, waving to people far down the line. Everyone’s commenting on my outfit, wondering where I got it, telling me it’s amazing. Ha ha, flathead!

  I hold Irish Kell’s face and we hug for a while, cheek to cheek. It’s not as if we’ve known each other all our lives. It’s that we’re like passengers on a plane together. We’ve been able to reveal so very much. And, all the while, knowing it’s perfectly safe because we’ll be getting off and going to separate destinations. The reason for the sadness, the deep loss, I feel is that there is never an end to what I want to divulge to someone like Kell, someone who laughs in the face of your gaffes and pounds them down to a wee little size under the weight of her much mightier mistakes. One day, we were hanging around the playground and I said, ‘I am the worst mother.’

  ‘Aye, it’s hard, isn’t it?’

  ‘I threw Sadie on the bed.’

  ‘I kicked the chair out from under Bymthe [Eileen], Frahn.’

  ‘I watched Huxley gag on vegetables and still made him finish.’

  ‘Can you imagine what poor Ryot [Kim] suffered when she didn’t take to the potato, Frahn?’

  I swore I wouldn’t tell.

  Vibba points at me from across the room. She mouths, ‘You’re wearing it.’ And gives the thumbs up. See, Frank was wrong. Everyone has their eyes on me. It was good luck that I went hunting through my closet for something swishy. I found the perfect thing.

  I had totally forgotten about my shalwar. I bought it on Serangoon Road in Little India with Vibba. It’s made of a floaty sort of fabric that changes hues as you move. Though the material is light, it weighs thousands of pounds because of all the intricate beading. I look like I should be singing ‘Viva Bombaygas’ except for the scarf-bedspread that is part of every Indian dress. It’s green or red, depending on the angle, and has a plunging V-neck. The pants are flared below the calf and every inch or so, on both the top and the pants, are clusters of pearls, sequins, rhinestones and other flashy baubles. I meant to get my shalwar tailored but haven’t yet so I’m full of hidden pins and duct tape. All the sarees, all the lenhas, all the shalwars, come in just one size and that size is plenty. You might not know this but ghee is tremendously fattening. Makes butter look like Diet Coke. So next time you think you’re eating smart with that vegetable jalfrezi (cauliflower, chickpeas, stringbeans … that’s two Weight Watcher points, we can get dessert!) or with that saag paneer (I’ll just have the spinach, Ravi), remember that the folds of skin so proudly displayed by the Indian women in their little tube tops and swaddling clothes are not the result of a malfunctioning thyroid. I don’t know what the National Geographic wastrels are dining on, but that’s not the point. The point is that I’ll have to give up half the outfit when I get it tak
en in. That aside, now that I really let myself absorb before I react, I’ve come to absolutely adore all things Indian. They’re the Italians of Asia – passionate, sensual, loud, lively. I’ve taken a great interest in all things Indian. I’m getting to be a little bit Indian. I have some CDs from movie soundtracks that I dance to; I hennaed my hands; Sadie and I wear bindis. And, now, I look Indian, especially over the phone: ‘Vhad are you dolking aboud? I am nod from New Yorg.’

  I met Vibba and Lindsey a few months ago in the playground. She’s a beautiful, glamorous Indian woman. I think her name – Vibba – suits her incandescence. She’s a major league banker in Singapore, extremely kind and lavishing, never without a compliment. Lindsey, a brilliant, oft-quoted macroeconomist from Australia, is six- or eight-feet tall and practises being geeky in front of a mirror. I would like for all of you to see him rollerblade. You’ll never love someone so much. He wears a big white helmet from outer space, hand pads, elbow pads, knee pads, shoulder pads and he goes through the parking lot, sailing over the speed bumps, lurching forward, ready to come crashing down with hands outstretched. But his cover’s blown with me. I’ve caught him looking off, in thought, face relaxed or breaking into a smile, and I think he could wear any style he chose.

  Frank and I take a seat. It appears that every couple gets a bottle of champagne. That should last about a minute between the Rittmans, except, I have to admit, this night, I’m feeling odd. Which is exactly why I should drink and get better. I go up to the buffet, which is 1.5 miles long. I come back with two rolls. Frank comes back with one. ‘Oh, you got one already,’ I say. ‘I got this one for you.’ I hand him his favourite German bread – hard and black. I feel badly that he didn’t think of me. I am missing his friendship in this loud, chaotic room with its fourth of July chandeliers cascading down upon gargantuan flowers.

  I pour out more champagne for us. The waitress comes over and places new bottles up and down the table.

  ‘Compliments of Mr O’Maley,’ she says. We cheer and clap and clink our glasses.

  ‘This is going to cost Collin a fortune,’ I say to Frank. He nods. I try to count that as coming into my corner.

  ‘This is going to cost Collin a fortune!’ I say to Lisa.

  ‘Collin lost a fortune!’ Lisa says to Roy.

  ‘Collin lost his future,’ Caroline says to Phil.

  ‘Collin’s lost the furniture,’ is what Tilda hears from Dana.

  I take some more champagne and cheer Frank. He picks his up and drinks. Ah, forget it, I’m through trying. We’ll have one of those nights where we float through the same evening as if we never met. We’ll talk tomorrow as if nothing went astray and by evening we’ll hash it all out until I’m right.

  Time to shmooze.

  I stop at each person, pull up a chair and talk to them while they eat, or travel with them while they get seconds, thirds, fourths. I’m completely annoying but I can’t stop because I don’t have my friend Frank to just be with and I want him to see how popular I am. I’m completely not tempted to try the garlic prawn Valerie is offering and we’re talking away – well, I am – when suddenly, we hear a chair sharply, forcefully scraping back over the floor. Collin is standing, fork in the air, beet-red. Moving away from the table, he stabs his fork in the direction of his plate. He swings it to his left and uses it to direct a waitress over. He jabs his fork again and again, backing up, an invisible duel on hand. He speaks rapidly, excitedly, to the waitress, eyes wild and fearful.

  ‘What happened? What happened?’ we are all asking each other. I have never seen Collin’s mouth move at all and here it is, up and down and up and down. Valerie and I give each other a ‘whatthefuck?’ shrug. The news spreads downwind. Finally, it reaches me. ‘There’s an earwig in Collin’s lobster bisque!’

  The 50 dinners at the Shangri-la, famous for its glorious buffets, the 40 bottles of Moët, some unopened, the odd beer, various juices, Diet Cokes and sodas are all on the house, picked up by management. And now we’re off. Dancing!

  Collin’s pockets are intact, save for an earwig.

  We go to a bar in the basement level of a shopping centre. All the stores are closed and dark. I’m slightly drunk, wearing non-mall clothes at a non-mall hour in a shut-down mall. No sounds at all except for the forceful buzz of electricity and a few hollow giggles. It’s as if we decided to do lines in Dad’s office at night instead of going to some more perfect place, like a car. It knocks the adrenaline down a few pegs, makes you stop and think about what you’re doing; it reprimands and inhibits. I swing my scarf-bedspread around my neck and brace myself for the uphill hike to having a good time.

  ‘Does it look better over my head and around my neck or just hanging loose over my shoulders?’ I ask Samantha, who doesn’t hear. ‘Samantha! Samantha! Does it …’ But she doesn’t turn around. Caroline has everyone’s attention. She’s prepping us on the Johnny Cash Pub, telling us how much fun this place is, how much we’ll love it. They screw a railing on the bar and let people dance and swing once they’re good and smashed. They only play classic rock. I raise my hand. ‘Yes, you in the back?’ Caroline addresses me.

  ‘And they play Johnny Cash, right?’ I say.

  ‘I don’t think so, but they have a bust of him by the cash register.’

  I look across to the Young Gurl Cutz beauty salon and then over to The Bra Bazaar. Rock? I don’t hear a note, not a chord, not the thrum of a bass. I only hear a pop. It is from Sam, who’s sitting on a marble bench, next to a fake fir tree, a bottle of nicked champagne to his lips. I go over, adjusting my scarf, wrapping it around my neck twice, weaving it through my arms, taking it slightly off the shoulders and casually tying the ends behind my back.

  ‘Ah, come to share?’ he asks.

  ‘Just the bench,’ I answer, tucking up my trousers, admiring how the threading goes from green to crimson depending on the light. I take out my own nicked bottle. ‘Well, there were so many just left there,’ I say.

  ‘Lucky for us we kept our wits about us,’ Sam says and points out his second bottle behind a fake tree branch.

  ‘Yeah, while everyone else ran through the halls screaming, “An earwig! An earwig!”’ I laugh.

  Caroline finishes her introduction and leads us in. The minute we cross the threshold, we forget the morgueishness of the sanitary mall and catch a wave of floor-beer stink and cigarette fumes. The bartenders speed-walk from end to end, multitasking like they invented the word. The music tries to get you to do something brainless and wild on the dance floor, the stage or even on the bar, which is now being set up with the steel rails, just like Caroline said.

  I hide my bottle behind me and give a one-armed namaste to the door guy. Sam and I take a seat in the corner and put the bottles in a dark nook under the table. Valerie, Frank, Dana and regular Collin, Tess and Clive, Simon and Melanie, and even Jennifer and Ward, who have left their kids for the first time, come to join us. I tell Jennifer that I like her new GAP skirt as I take my scarf off and whoosh it around my neck. ‘Thanks. Ward said I could get it the day he got his second set of spare golf clubs. Well. That’s quite an outfit you have on, Fran.’ Jennifer is always so sweet.

  Irish Kell beckons us to the dance floor. I’m really not entirely in the mood but I feel it’s my duty … to the Irish. I tug at Frank but he begs off; Sam tags Valerie, but she says, ‘Next song, doll.’ So, I dance with Sam. Not long after, the floor gets crowded; Frank starts dancing with Valerie. Then Jennifer, Melanie, Pam and Dana get up while their husbands hope this next lager will make them better dancers.

  At ‘Tequila Sunrise’ Sam and I go back to our table. A waitress in pink hot pants comes over. ‘I’m sorry, you can’t bring in from the outside.’ She motions to his bottle.

  ‘No worries,’ Sam shouts over the music. The waitress leans in and he orders us each a vodka. ‘Thanks love.’ He pats her on the rear. She returns with four drinks for us.

  I’m looking at that bar and looking at that bar and now I just have to
hop on that bar. Kell is leaving, goddammit, and she wants us to make some noise. Sam’s got his hands all over Valerie, turning right and left to tell whoever is near, ‘This is my wife. Isn’t she gorgeous?’ Valerie smiles, rolls her eyes and slithers out to go sit down. I’ve got my place on the bar and I’m taking myself seriously, I’m bringing cultures of the world together in just one outfit and all I know is I’m just a shootin’ star and all the world will love me just because, because I am … Frank grabs my ankle. He squeezes it. I’m supposed to stop. Shit, what a bad place to stop. I look at Frank and see an urgency; he is clearly disturbed. I unlock arms with Sam and Jonelle and unsteadily bend over to him. ‘What?’

  ‘We have to go. The kids are sick. Susie called on my cell phone.’

  I feel so entirely foolish and criminal. There I was peeling away, abandoning all responsibility, about to walk the length of the bar swinging my enormous scarf and shining my bindi. Now, I’m exposed and facing demons because I am a bad mother and sooner or later we all get caught. My kids are sick and I’m here, pulling my heel out of some poor sod’s drink, apologising to a young girl for stepping on her pocketbook, taking Frank’s hand and jumping off a bar in a dead mall. My flared pants get caught on the beer tap and I flatten out over the railing like a crashing plane, ripping the pants and landing face down. When I get up, the pants stay down. The tape did not hold up as well as I had hoped. My ankle hurts and my knee is ripped and bleeding. As Frank helps me to the door, Valerie comes over and asks if she can have a ride back to Fortune Gardens with us. She’s feeling a little tired, she says.

  When we get on the expressway, Valerie’s phone goes off. ‘Sam, doll, I told you I was just feeling poorly because, you know … I can’t understand you. Sam? Sam! Sam!