Stirring It Up with Molly Ivins by Ellen Sweets

cocktail party honoring him at a chichi Highland Park home. I was to do a feature story on John and “The Book,” as it came to be known.
    Not wanting to embarrass my subject or my employer with my lack of fashion sense, I detoured home, showered, spritzed, donned a smart black dress, polished almost-new sensible shoes, arrived at my appointed destination, and walked briskly up the perfectly landscaped stone walk to the front door.
    As I approached, our hostess opened the inner door. I announced that I was there for the reception for John Berendt, and she responded by pointing through the storm door that separated us—to a walkway that led to the side of the house. “They’re in the kitchen,” she said. “You can go around the back.” In a nanosecond, arrested development once again snapped into play, moving me to do as instructed, knowing that I would be waiting in the kitchen when John and the photographer arrived. How interesting it would be, I thought, to see how this weirdness would play out.
    The caterer, whom I knew, was pleasantly surprised to see me. I knew her food to be really good, so I nibbled. I didn’t want the catering crew to be uncomfortable, so I just said I was hanging out until the hostess was ready to receive guests.
    An increased decibel level signaled the punctual arrival of guests, and I was able to recognize John’s resonant voice when he said to the hostess, “That’s strange; I’ve been with her all day, and she said she would be here early. Let’s ask the photographer.”
    This was before everyone had cell phones, so once it was determined that the photographer hadn’t heard from me either, the hostess suggested the photographer use the kitchen’s wall phone in an effort to determine my whereabouts.
    As she entered through the swinging door that led from dining room to kitchen, there I sat under the wall phone the photographer was already reaching for.
    â€œWhat are you doing in here?” he asked. “Hanging out with the catering crew,” I replied with a smile. He looked at me quizzically. Our hostess’s face was by now the hue of a vine-ripened Brandywine tomato. The rest of the evening was uneventful unless you want to count the guy who asked me for a martini refill. What he said was, “Excuse me, I need another martini.” To which I replied, “God, so do I—vodka, up, three olives. Thank you
so
much.”
    I left him holding two glasses, as discombobulated as our hostess had been earlier. Neither the dress, the nicely polished shoes, makeup, notebook, nor the pen suggested I could be anything other than the Help. Molly dined out on this story for a while too, usually as a lead-in to some rant on the sorry state of race relations in Dallas/Texas/America/the world in the 1990s.
    Once, when my brother Fred, then a photographer with the
Los Angeles Times
, was interviewing with the
New York Times
for a job as a photo editor, some newsroom muckety-muck took him to one of those high-dollar restaurants where editors take prospective employees they want to woo. Brother Fred was tricked out in a black cashmere turtleneck with a polished pair of my father’s cuff links, a dark charcoal heather tweed jacket, and wool slacks. Italian loafers completed the look, tassels and all.
    While Fred was waiting for a cab after dinner, a Jaguar pulled up. As the occupants emerged, the driver pressed the keys into Fred’s hand and said, “Keep it safe and there’s a big tip in it for you.” Fred smiled and replied, “I’ll keep them right here in my pocket.” And he did, until the next day, when he returned thekeys, by courier, to the restaurant. He can’t remember the name of the restaurant, or the name of the editor who took him out, but he remembers the magical moment when he realized he had the potential to be a felon.
    My reverie dissipated as I realized we were still surrounded