Bermuda Shorts - James Patterson [64]
When we left the local steakhouse and went to a local bar, we were tipsy, in hysterics. Her arms draped around my shoulders as she whispered her impressions of the Plain Janes and Johns from the restaurant in my ear, the two of us exploding with laughter as we stumbled into the bar. Once inside she resumed her act of being normal. We even exchanged dry, familial kisses to authenticate our routine.
We kissed good night at her hotel room door. A long, sweet, tongueless, thank you kiss, from the girl of my dreams for the boy next door. She would mention that night from time to time with a wry, happy smile. For a day or two, the others eyed us suspiciously, on the chance that assuming something had happened between us they might coax us into revealing if something actually had. I was willing to let them believe what they would, but things were moving pretty fast.
“When we get to New York I’m going to take my money and buy a beautiful fur coat, seamless stockings, new heels, and wear nothing else for an entire week!” When we got to New York she disappeared forever. Didn’t make opening night. In a panic to fill time, I dressed like a woman and did our old tango number all by myself, a fading beauty giving a last dance to a world that was passing her by, dancing with my own ghost, with tears streaming down my face as tears of laughter flowed freely from the crowd. It was a smash. It made me famous for a while. Eva sent me a telegram of congratulations, “Once again, as always, something out of nothing, hugs & kisses—Eva,” leaving no return address. I repeated that horrific goodbye many times over the years. It was one of my most popular numbers.
The morning paper hits the porch just before intermission. I read the box scores and wait for Lois to arrive and fire up the kitchen. Today is the Fourth of July and the boys at the Lodge always throw a big parade. It’s really just a big pain in the ass. I don’t know why I even bother. It seems like every time someone needs an old fool for a community production or a Santa Claus or a eulogy, my card gets punched. They always say it’s for the children. I suppose it is. Or rather, to get the children to even notice we exist. Freddy wants in so bad that every time the Lodge is mentioned he fidgets like a schoolboy who can’t control his bladder. I tell him we don’t admit cranky old fucks in their pajamas. This really pisses him off. If he was smart he’d let me win at chess a little more often.
I’ll go up to the attic and open the trunk. Maybe I’ll put on the big Indian headdress I used to wear during Eva’s Pocahontas number. “Katchawiggawaggamogga?” Eva would ask the open-faced guys in the crowd, causing their tongues to fall out of their mouths. Yes. The headdress should do fine. Little Carol should like that. I’ll ride atop the fire engine and wave to her. Oh yes, there’s an air show too. She loves to watch airplanes. Now that I think of it, she probably won’t even notice me.
Kids.
Shit.
Indexia Nervosa
(a guide to the people and places who make up the territory of Bermuda Shorts, along with recurring themes and thought-forms, as well as geographies that exist solely within the author’s mind)
Adler, Margot 50
Allen, George 95, 99, 101
Anderson, William “Bloody Bill” 129
Baker Street Irregulars 24
Balsam, Martin 39
Barks, Coleman 150
Battles, Cliff 98
Beatles, The 90, 153, 158
Beauticide xi, 80
definition of 80
Beckley, Jacob “Old Eagle Eye” 108
Beer 12, 22, 25, 35, 61, 63, 99, 131, 156. See also Drinking
Budweiser 56
cheap 132
spritzing of 115
throwing cups of 100
Berrigan Brothers 154
Bierce, Ambrose 151
Blewett, Chubby 3, 5, 6, 10
Blondes