service men; wise, tough, avaricious, baby-faced.
Tee-heeho-ho yak-yak. Wham. Whoop-ee!
“I wish we had friends as amusing as that,” Leslie Benedict said to her husband across the vast spaces of the Coronado suite.
“No you don’t,” said Bick Benedict. “And don’t be like that.”
“Like what?” Leslie said. She was standing at the window which was tightly closed because of the air conditioning, and looking out at the view which consisted of nothing—unless one found refreshing an endless expanse of flat prairie pushing the horizon into obscurity.
“Like the kind of person you aren’t. Like dear Lady Karfrey your bitter bitchy sister. Bitterness doesn’t become you.”
“What’s the opposite of lebensraum, Bick? That’s what’s the matter with them. They’ve got too much space. It gives them delusions of grandeur. In the plane they kept on yelling about it being the most wonderful place in the world—the most wonderful people in the world, the biggest cattle, fruit, flowers, vegetables, climate, horses. It isn’t. They aren’t. And what’s so important about bigness, anyway? Bigness doesn’t make a thing better.”
“All right. I’ll bite. What is?” He was at the telephone. “Room Clerk…. Well, I’ll hold on…. Don’t say that damned Riviera. Or California.”
“No. No, I think the temperate climate of the United States. New York, or Pennsylvania, or Virginia or even Ohio. Cold in the winter with lemon-yellow sunshine and enough snow to make you long for spring. Hot in summer, cool in the spring, tangy in the autumn. You know where you are and you don’t have to explain about it all the time and try to sell it as they do here in Texas.”
“…Hello! Room Clerk?…This is Bick Benedict…. Oh, fine fine!…No, I don’t want to speak to the Manager, I just want toknow if…Oh, God, he’s connecting me with the…Hello there, Liggett!…Yes, everything’s wonderful…yes, she’s here looking at the view…yes, she thinks the furnishings are wonderful…no, don’t bother to send anything up thanks just the same we brought a lot of stuff with us…sure sure if we need anything we’ll…Look, I called the Room Clerk to find out if my daughter Luz—uh—Miss Luz Benedict you know—had come in yet, I…Oh, for…he’s putting me back on the Room Clerk…. Hello! Look, can you tell me if Miss Luz Benedict…”
They were in the enormous bedroom. Blond wood, bleached like a Broadway chorus girl. Their feet seemed to flounder ankle-deep in chenille. “They ought to give you snowshoes for these carpets,” Bick said. “Or skis. Liable to get in up to your neck and never get out.”
A half acre of dressing table laden with perfumes, china, glass. A dining room of bleached mahogany but vaguely oriental in defiance of Coronado. The dining table could seat thirty. There was a metal kitchen complete and as virgin as the culinary unit in a utilities company window. Vast consoles in the entrance hall and living room. Overpowering lamps with tent-size shades. Three bedrooms. Terraces. A bathroom in pink tile, a bathroom in yellow tile, a bathroom in aquamarine, and here deference was done to Coronado in terms of brilliant varnished wallpaper depicting conquistadores in armor dallying with maidens of obscure origin amongst flora not now indigenous to Texas.
Leslie had taken off the blue shantung and was making a tour of the vast and absurd living room, so cold in its metal and satin and brocade and glass and pale wood and air conditioning. She surveyed this splendor with an accustomed eye. It had been theirs on the occasion of the hotel’s opening a year earlier. With one hand Leslie hugged her peignoir more tightly about her for warmth while with the other hand she patted cold cream on her face, walking slowly the length of the room and pausing now and then before some monstrous structure of porcelain or carved wood or painting.
“There’s no JR on the Meissen or the pictures,”
Tee-heeho-ho yak-yak. Wham. Whoop-ee!
“I wish we had friends as amusing as that,” Leslie Benedict said to her husband across the vast spaces of the Coronado suite.
“No you don’t,” said Bick Benedict. “And don’t be like that.”
“Like what?” Leslie said. She was standing at the window which was tightly closed because of the air conditioning, and looking out at the view which consisted of nothing—unless one found refreshing an endless expanse of flat prairie pushing the horizon into obscurity.
“Like the kind of person you aren’t. Like dear Lady Karfrey your bitter bitchy sister. Bitterness doesn’t become you.”
“What’s the opposite of lebensraum, Bick? That’s what’s the matter with them. They’ve got too much space. It gives them delusions of grandeur. In the plane they kept on yelling about it being the most wonderful place in the world—the most wonderful people in the world, the biggest cattle, fruit, flowers, vegetables, climate, horses. It isn’t. They aren’t. And what’s so important about bigness, anyway? Bigness doesn’t make a thing better.”
“All right. I’ll bite. What is?” He was at the telephone. “Room Clerk…. Well, I’ll hold on…. Don’t say that damned Riviera. Or California.”
“No. No, I think the temperate climate of the United States. New York, or Pennsylvania, or Virginia or even Ohio. Cold in the winter with lemon-yellow sunshine and enough snow to make you long for spring. Hot in summer, cool in the spring, tangy in the autumn. You know where you are and you don’t have to explain about it all the time and try to sell it as they do here in Texas.”
“…Hello! Room Clerk?…This is Bick Benedict…. Oh, fine fine!…No, I don’t want to speak to the Manager, I just want toknow if…Oh, God, he’s connecting me with the…Hello there, Liggett!…Yes, everything’s wonderful…yes, she’s here looking at the view…yes, she thinks the furnishings are wonderful…no, don’t bother to send anything up thanks just the same we brought a lot of stuff with us…sure sure if we need anything we’ll…Look, I called the Room Clerk to find out if my daughter Luz—uh—Miss Luz Benedict you know—had come in yet, I…Oh, for…he’s putting me back on the Room Clerk…. Hello! Look, can you tell me if Miss Luz Benedict…”
They were in the enormous bedroom. Blond wood, bleached like a Broadway chorus girl. Their feet seemed to flounder ankle-deep in chenille. “They ought to give you snowshoes for these carpets,” Bick said. “Or skis. Liable to get in up to your neck and never get out.”
A half acre of dressing table laden with perfumes, china, glass. A dining room of bleached mahogany but vaguely oriental in defiance of Coronado. The dining table could seat thirty. There was a metal kitchen complete and as virgin as the culinary unit in a utilities company window. Vast consoles in the entrance hall and living room. Overpowering lamps with tent-size shades. Three bedrooms. Terraces. A bathroom in pink tile, a bathroom in yellow tile, a bathroom in aquamarine, and here deference was done to Coronado in terms of brilliant varnished wallpaper depicting conquistadores in armor dallying with maidens of obscure origin amongst flora not now indigenous to Texas.
Leslie had taken off the blue shantung and was making a tour of the vast and absurd living room, so cold in its metal and satin and brocade and glass and pale wood and air conditioning. She surveyed this splendor with an accustomed eye. It had been theirs on the occasion of the hotel’s opening a year earlier. With one hand Leslie hugged her peignoir more tightly about her for warmth while with the other hand she patted cold cream on her face, walking slowly the length of the room and pausing now and then before some monstrous structure of porcelain or carved wood or painting.
“There’s no JR on the Meissen or the pictures,”
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