"What do you say, Elyse? Last chance to come up and enjoy some vintage wine."
He was practically breathing in her face, so she didn't mince words.
"I'm good, Henry. As a matter of fact, why don't you just get out right here at the light? Save the cabby from circling all the way around. Just cross the street from the avenue right over to your place."
Clearly, this was not a suggestion Henry cherished.
He harrumphed loudly. "Just get out at the light, you say? What--right here?"
"Look, I'm sorry, Henry, but I'm really tired. It'll just be so much easier to go straight up north from here."
Henry's expression shifted quickly as Mr. Joviality morphed into Mr. Hyde. His head shook angrily and his mouth turned downward in a frown. As incredulity shook his body, Elyse stared at him, surprised at how furious he was getting. When his mouth pulled up and down in wordless argument, he truly resembled a bullfrog. Elyse imagined a fly circling his nose, and him getting madder as he tried to zap it with his tongue, missing every round. Elyse would have laughed out loud at the image if he hadn't shot her such a nasty look. Finally, he slid his wide girth across the seat toward the other passenger door.
Since he was Jerry's friend, Elyse forced herself to be gracious. She spoke in a light, breezy voice belying her disgust.
"Henry, thanks again for your offer. It's just--I'm really super tired tonight."
"I'm sure you are. Driver, here--I'm getting out right here!"
Taken aback by his angry tone, pragmatism prevailed when Elyse considered he might not pony up his half of the fare. And it certainly looked that way when he scrambled out, slammed the door shut, and started walking away.
Elyse shot over fast and rolled the window down. "Oh, Henry," she called lightly, "your half of the fare?"
He stopped and turned, a bitter expression on his froggy face. "Wha-- Oh, for God's sake! How much is it?"
Elyse craned her neck over the front seat to read the meter.
"Twelve-fifty," the cabby called back.
Henry pulled a wad of cash from his pants pocket and flipped off a few bills. He stomped over and tossed them through the half-opened window, practically in Elyse's face. Recoiling from his rudeness, she snatched at the bills fluttering toward her lap. Even the cabby snuffed in disgust.
"You believe that guy?" Elyse asked.
"Friend of yours?"
"Friend of a friend. I got stuck with him because we both live on the Upper West Side."
"Nice," he said sarcastically.
"Well, at least he paid his share. Oh, wait." She counted the bills. "Not quite half!"
"Real fine fella, that one."
Elyse repeated her address to the driver and sat back. As the cab lurched forward, she decided she would never get together, ever again, with Mr. Henry Tilden, former architect and author of textbooks on famous, horny artists. Furthermore, she would let Shar know all about what happened first thing in the morning.
Then, in spite of what a rude jerk he'd been, she cracked up laughing. And she continued laughing all the way home.
Chapter 14
As their buzz set in from several strong margaritas at the Flora Mexicana bar, Elyse and Dylan carefully crossed Columbus Avenue over to Lincoln Center.
An early spring was thawing Manhattan's wintry aches and pains, as reflected in the cheery glow of a rose-colored sunset. The fountain waters at Lincoln Plaza gushed with the reemergence of spirit suppressed by months of cold weather. The daylight hours had grown warmer, although evenings cooled as soon as the sun disappeared.
Elyse skipped up the plaza steps to the great landing, opened her arms wide and twirled.
"I love this place!"
Dylan nodded. "It is grand--ain't it?"
"Let's sit here by the fountain."
"Until my skinny butt gets too cold."
They sat on the granite ledge at the base of the fountain and watched the sun go down. As the night breeze set in, Elyse flipped her collar up around her neck and sat back to gaze at the Metropolitan Opera house.
"I always wanted to paint this place," she said casually. "Those huge windows? Just crying out for my brush to immortalize them on canvas. Not that I'd be the first..."
"Nor the last. But it'd be strictly from your point of view."
They both admired the great arched windows. After a moment, Dylan asked, "Who's stopping you, by the way?"
"Stopping me?"
"From painting Lincoln Center."
"Oh...nobody, I guess. One of these days..." She pressed her lips together. "Maybe I should start sooner rather than later. It might help me get over the trauma of my pathetic love life."
"Oh now, petunia. Don't get all depressed on me."
"I won't, but, geez, Dylan! What's up with me? I mean, look how many losers I've gone out with since I moved to New York."
Dylan looked at her in sympathy. "Got to admit, you were on quite a roll there for a while."
"I mean, who sleeps with a gun under his pillow? My bedroom pillow! For real?"
"That was pretty crazy. But, then again, we're talking about a chef--with Sicilian blood, no less."
"And what about before that, with Joel Lebanthal? I think I've found Mr. Perfect--smart, successful, creative, cool. Oh, by the way, just forgot to tell me one very important bit of information--he's married!"
"I think he has a bit of a coke habit, too. That's never good, not in the long run--"
"And, speaking of married--that no good, lying idiot of an actor! I was really stupid on that one."
"Oh, come on, Elyse. Don't be so hard on yourself. Bobby Kressner is gorgeous, rich, and famous. He was also dangling something you wanted like a carrot on a string. Promising to help with your career... I mean, who wouldn't go ga-ga for the guy?"
"Only, once again--there's wifey looming in the picture. Oh, wait--make that ex-wife--carrying his baby, no less. For God's sake! How long did he really think he could keep that one a secret?"
"Well, I don't think he was exactly thinking rationally about the whole thing. If you know what I mean.
"I'm a dumbo."
"You're not a dumbo, Elyse. They're the fruit cakes!"
"Yeah, but I can sure pick 'em, can't I?"
He made a little nudge of agreement, then said, "Don't beat yourself up, Elyse. At least, you nipped it quick with what's his name, the old fart, there. Jerry's friend."
"Who, Henry?"
"Yeah. Old froggy-face, or whatever you called him."
Elyse giggled in spite of misery over the errors of her ways. "That old letch."
She looked into the fountain waters sparkling wildly from the reflection of illuminated streetlamps.
"If only I could've fallen in love with James."
"Why do you say that?"
Elyse shrugged. "He's exactly the kind of guy my mother thinks I should marry."
"And what about you, petunia? What do you want?"
The lump in Elyse's throat kept her from answering.
"Hey, you all right, girl?"
She shook her head, too emotional to speak.
"Hey," Dylan said in a lighthearted voice, "you don't really have to answer me on that. Hell, I don't know what I want in a guy either!"
Her snuff of laughter squelched the threat of tears. "A half dozen fools," she suddenly blurted.
Dylan perked up. "A half dozen fools?"
"Including James," she stated philosophically. "Perfect except for too pushy."
"Oh, the guys, you mean. Counting James and Froggy--"
"Henry."
"Right, Henry. And the chef. And Joel. That makes, what--four?"
"Yeah. Don't forget the TV star."
"Oh, well, how could we ever forget Bobby Kressner?" He stopped and frowned. "Who else did I miss? Joel, Chef Rick, Bobby, James, and ol' Henry...that makes five."
Elyse twisted her mouth to one side. "Me. That makes six."
"Oh, Elyse! Stop--it's not your fault! Don't count yourself in
with the rest of the fools."
"Hey, when the shoe fits, you know what they say."
"Oh, come on--"
"No, I deserve the honor, actually. I ignored all the warning signs. And what's really sad is that out of all these numbskulls, I know this one really cool guy who I thought wasn't--I don't know, maybe I thought he wasn't good enough, or something, because of the business he's in. Like, not rich enough, or ambitious enough, or something. Only, as it turns out, Dylan? He's the best guy I've ever met."
"Who in heck is this?"
"Just, this guy... He's been running these copy shops for his uncle. His uncle got sick, and he took over. But when I first met him, I thought he was just a regular joe."
"Uh-huh..."
"Only, he's a great guy, with a brain. And more than that--he has a heart."
"Whoa, wait a minute--is he attractive?"
Elyse looked at him flatly. "Does that even matter? I mean, if I find who-he-is attractive--"
"Right, right, sure--that's what I meant! I meant, do you find him attractive?"
A radiant smile lit Elyse's face. "He's beautiful."
Dylan looked at her. "And where is this guy now?"
"He moved to another store. I don't see him anymore."
"Where's the store--Alaska?"
Elyse burst out laughing. "No."
"Another state?"
"The Upper West Side. He's helping out up there."
Dylan rolled his eyes. "Oh, good Lord, Elyse! The Upper West Side? Wait a minute--is he married?"
"No! At least--I don't think so... No, I'm sure he isn't. I think..."
With downcast eyes, Elyse shook her head in silent frustration.
Dylan spoke quietly. "Maybe you'd better go find out."
"What if he is, and I was just asleep at the wheel again?"
"Then, run, don't walk away."
Dylan slid off the ledge and rubbed his buttocks. "One thing's for sure though. You won't know unless you go find out."
Elyse stood and looked up at him. Her gigantic eyes welled with tears. Dylan reached out and pulled her into a hug. She hugged him back, and when they parted, she sighed.
"Maybe I'm afraid to take a chance now," she said quietly.
"Have a little faith, would ya? Just go find out. If he's married, or got a girlfriend, just say, 'Hey, it was nice seeing you,' and move on. Fast. At least you'll have closure."
She nodded thoughtfully. "Okay." She looked out over the avenue. "Let's go have dinner now. Those margaritas really kicked my butt."
Dylan put his arm around his friend and the two of them headed to a great little Italian place over on Sixty-Third, just off Columbus.
* * * *
Elyse was rarely late for work, but today she had a harder time than usual getting ready. She dawdled for no specific reason beyond a lack of desire. She finally called the Make-Up Place, and Carla answered. Elyse let her know she was running behind schedule. But then the subway was delayed, which put her even farther behind.
Judy shot Elyse a sour look when she arrived more than twenty minutes late.
"Sorry, sorry," Elyse blurted. "Everything that could possibly go wrong, did!"
Judy had the bleary-eyed look of having sneaked the flask, already. "Well, unfortunately," she said in a screechy twang that sounded to Elyse like nails on a blackboard, "you have an appointment waiting already."
"What?"
"In your studio. You have a full makeup session waiting."
Elyse marveled at how the one day she happened to be late, she had an appointment. "Oh! Geez, I haven't even set up, or anything. How come she's not out here in the waiting area?"
Judy glanced at Carla, then back at Elyse and lowered her voice. "'Cause she ain't a she. She's a he."
Elyse froze and frowned in consternation. "Huh?"
Judy raised her penciled black eyebrows and waited for the idea to sink in.
Elyse blinked as it dawned on her. "I'm doing makeup on a guy?"
When Judy snuffed wickedly, Elyse whipped around and looked at Carla. Carla nodded in agreement.
"That's why I thought he should wait in your studio," Judy added quietly. "I thought that might be better for when Carla's client comes in."
Elyse rolled her eyes and unbuttoned her coat. Only once had she done makeup on a guy. Even though he'd been cute and young, it hadn't been an easy job. She'd found it challenging to make cheeks toughened by shaving appear smooth and glowing underneath foundation.
Quietly, Elyse asked Judy, "Is this the same guy who was in a few months back?"
The frightened expression with which Judy shook her head worried Elyse. Muttering about her strange lot in life, Elyse whipped off her coat and marched inside her studio.
The sight of the man seated before the mirror gave her a start.
Well into his fifties, he was built solidly, like an ex-prize fighter or a man who'd done physical labor most of his life. Her eyes scanned the blue, velour jogging outfit he wore down to his pointy, snakeskin cowboy boots. Perched sedately in the makeup chair with hands crossed over his belly, his sausage-sized fingers sported long, add-on nails with shiny, silver polish.
Frozen on the spot, Elyse stood there gaping. She dug down to the core of her being for her escaping professionalism that had always come naturally. Once she had a proper hold on herself, she cleared her throat.
The man watched her through the mirror. "Hello," he said quietly.
Elyse smiled and crossed the room extending a hand.
"Hi, how do you do? I'm Elyse Wazinski, your makeup artist."
She was shocked when the big man turned and fluttered like a southern belle. Placing one beefy hand over his heart, he delicately reached out the other.
"How do you do, Miss Elyse." In spite of its soft tone, his voice was undeniably masculine. "I'm Earl. But for today, if you don't mind--would you please call me Delila?"
"Oh, sure, Ear--Delila. Nice to meet you."
As she hung up her coat, flashes of Jack Lemmon in drag from the movie, Some Like It Hot, shot through her mind. For a moment, all she heard in her head was his character squealing, "I'm a girl, I'm a girl, I'm a girl!"
She shook away that image and composed herself, smoothing down her skirt until she had a grip on the urge to laugh out loud. She crossed to the sink and washed her hands, mustering the energy and focus she'd need to perform the task at hand. When she was ready to embrace the gargantuan challenge of making Earl into Delila, she turned.
Her customer beamed. "I'm so excited about this, Miss Elyse, I just can't tell you!"
"Right," Elyse said. "Okay, well, I'm glad to hear that, Delila. Let's talk about your needs today."
He patted his fingertips together like a genteel lady applauding a piano concerto, then scrunched one shoulder up like a sex kitten, a pose made all the more incongruent in light of his masculine, barber-style haircut.
Elyse got right to work. Applying makeup to Delila's weathered skin was going to be a major challenge, so she started with plenty of moisturizer. His leathery skin and enlarged pores required patience and a true artist's touch. She literally painted the foundation carefully with a brush and the aid of a sponge. Sweating from the intensity of concentration, she worked hard to keep him from looking like a clown.
In the end, Elyse felt she'd failed to make Delila look truly beautiful, but one had to consider the canvas, after all. And while he hadn't ended up looking like a clown, he was obviously a man in drag.
The effects of testosterone. She pushed away the memory of Henry's study on brilliant male artists and smiled at her client.
"Well? What do you think?"
Delila was enrapt in his reflection. "Oh, my heavens," he gushed, "you are genius! A genius!"
He clasped his hands over his heart and admired his visage in the mirror. Even for all his sweet sincerity, Elyse had to choke back guffaws.
"Oh!" Delila exclaimed. "I almost forgot--the pièce de résistance."
He reached down beside
his chair and drew a mass of blond curls from a big plastic bag.
Thickening his coquettish southern drawl, he said, "I need to stand up for this."
Elyse stared as he bent his large frame and yanked the blond mane over his hairline. Straightening up, he maneuvered the wig into place. At the sight of the final product, Elyse felt her eyebrows shoot up and, just as quickly, suppressed her desire to laugh.
Delila turned toward Elyse and struck a beauty pageant pose.
"Well," he drawled, "how do y'all think I look?"
"Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Your whole look just came together with that."
"Oh, I think so, too! I am delighted! What an artist you are. No one has ever done my makeup so well! My friends will all be so jealous."
"Going someplace special tonight?"
"To a party," he turned toward the mirror. "A very special party..." Mesmerized by his own appearance, his voice trailed off.
"Sounds wonderful."
Relieved her work was successful, at least in the eyes of the beholder, Elyse smiled and relaxed. Although, in truth, she thought the fake eyelashes she'd applied were too long. Delila had picked them out from the assortment she'd offered, however, so she did her best to make them work. But when he blinked, all Elyse could think of was Elsie The Cow.
Delila reached into the bag again and pulled out a camera.
"Would you mind?" he asked, breathless. "Just a couple for posterity?"
While Delila pursed his lips, wickedly funny thoughts popped into Elyse's head again, as she focused the camera on his Marilyn Monroe impersonation. She giggled to herself thinking how much more Delila resembled Bette Davis in the movie classic, Whatever Happpened to Baby Jane? than the iconic starlet he sought to emulate.
Once the photo session ended, Delila asked Elyse for a few moments, alone.
"If you don't mind," he added. "I just want to bask a couple more minutes before it's time to go."
"Sure. Uh--are you going to wear your wig out?"
"Oh, not to go home. I've got a hat. No, I'll wear it later on this evening. By the way--I want to buy everything you showed me, so I can do this on my own again."
"Great. Let me get it all together for you."
"I so deserve this, don't I?"
"Oh, absolutely." She gathered up the testers she'd used. "Like I always say, if you don't treat yourself right, who will?"
A Half Dozen Fools Page 16