Of course, I was not of legal drinking age, but old man Lester did not corrupt me. I had not given my real name or my real age on the job application. Lester knew me as Selma Taylor. When I sometimes did not respond to that name, he would simply say, "See how you are?" I should have called myself Seehowyouare because in time I would hear that more often than any name I ever had.
"See how you are? I get you into the biggest bash of the season and instead of meeting all the eligible bachelors gathered around the pool, I find you hiding in the smallest room in the mansion," Les handed me a glass of what looked like 7Up.
He was right. I was hiding in a small alcove on the second story that overlooked the swimming pool. The giant table that took up most of the room was filled with trays of hors d'oeuvres. Now and then a waiter would buzz by and pick up a tray. I was very overwhelmed by the size of the shindig. From here I could watch the action without getting sucked into anything I couldn't handle. I wasn't completely safe in my little alcove. Les had found me and a few minutes before a waiter handed me a stack of empty trays and snapped at me, "You're not getting paid to just stand there!" I was just getting up from stashing the trays under the buffet table when Les arrived.
"I was contemplating going under the table," I said to Les because that was better than letting him know about the waiter mistaking me for an underling. I would never hear the end of it.
"I saw that," Les rubbed his gray stubble like he always did when he was trying to think of something terrible to say.
"What's this?" I asked him about the drink he had given me.
"Last night you said you wanted to be the next Hemingway and I couldn't very well bring you a shotgun, so I brought you this. It's gin and tonic," Les' eyes lit up with delight as they always did when he said something awful. He waited a respectable amount of time and when I did not appear mortified enough, his eyes returned to normal and he worked his way closer to the window.
"Who were you watching?" he asked me. Lester knew everyone.
"Those three," I nodded in their direction. You didn't need to give specific details. The three of them were gesturing as if they were on a trampoline.
"The one that looks like he might resort to falling into the pool to escape is The Wolf Of Wall Street. The two guys orbiting him so he can't escape are Andy Olaf and Boris Brownlee, a couple of lovey-dovey, new age psychologists who just purchased the dilapidated Mermaid Motel on The Strand. The real estate agent who made the sale, Frank Whittle, is the guy over there behind the potted bird of paradise. Andy and Boris are trolling the party for investors to help them convert the old motel into a showpiece. I personally think the project is..."
I slapped Les' hand as he reached for a particular hor d'oeurve. I didn't want to listen to him moan about his bellyache the next day at the paper while I was trying to paste up the type.
"No peperoncini for old men," I said with an air of authority that I only possessed when I was kidding around with my boss.
"What's with the gold watch?" Les caught me off guard. It wasn't exactly my style or my size but I couldn't bear to take it off. I'd worn it since the day Von Massenbach loaned it to me.
"It was my father's. I'd rather not talk about it," I lied.
"I see," Les backed away and changed the subject. I imagined he set it aside for later, like a nice piece of candy. I'd have to be ready for it.
~ To Be Continued ~
No comments:
Post a Comment