you, Flannery?”
“Would I? Would I?” I said, and everybody laughed except Adam; it was a favorite joke of the Basic Eight God forgive me, but it’s easier to write that nickname than list us all individually. It goes like this: A man loses his job, goes to a bar and gets drunk, and gets into a car accident while driving home. When he gets to the hospital he is told that his eye needs to be replaced with a prosthetic. His recent unemployed status fixed firmly in his mind, he prices several models: an amazingly lifelike and amazingly costly porcelain model, a reasonably lifelike and reasonably costly glass orb and finally the bottom of the line, which he chooses. It’s made of wood.
He wakes up from surgery, looks in the mirror, and embarks on the life of a hermit for the next fifteen years. Heedless of the pleas of his friends, he refuses to socialize or even leave the house. Finally, a friend comes to see him, gets him tipsy and drags him to a discotheque. Our hero sits in a corner, hoping the dim ambi- ence is hiding what looks like an ugly mahogany periscope dangling from his face. Then, across a crowded room–the camera swooping between extras–he spots a beautiful woman,
sitting quietly alone, who stuns him from her feet to her–the camera sliding up her body–glabrous head! A bald woman! Someone who will understand his pain! Someone undoubtedly alone, because she, too, feels incapacitated by a medically induced deficiency on the head! Breathlessly, he rushes to her and shyly asks, “Would you care to dance?”
Her eyes light up. “Would I?” she repeats. “Would I?”
He turns and stalks away, but not before shouting, “Baldy!
Baldy!”
Nothing made me happier than hearing Adam’s laughter bounce off Kate’s hill and up into the crisp night sky. “That’s wonderful ,” he said. “ Wonderful . So deliciously evil .”
It was like I was already drunk by the time we arrived at the liquor store. Rows and rows of perfect green bottles shimmered around me like some perfect Egyptian reeds. From the corner of my eye the word “GIN” looked like the word “BEGIN.” Even the poses of cigarette poster models didn’t seem frozen but poised. Everyone was holding their breath (breaths? Who cares.), and for the first time I felt like they wouldn’t be disappointed. It was like watching a movie and the two famous people first meet and you sit in the dark grinning because you know how it ends: They’re going to fall in love.
We walked back, each with a bottle, and in the light of the street lamps our shadows looked almost identical. In the movies we would have kissed, but this being paper and not celluloid, we just talked. We discussed being back at school, how neither of us has done any work on college applications and whether Flora Habstat would really quote The Guinness Book of World Records .
When we got back the season had truly begun: Darling Mud on the stereo (loud music during cooking,
quiet during dinner. Immutable.) and all the guests. V and Jennifer Rose Milton, with a slightly geeky-looking Flora Habstat in tow, were tied for most gorgeous, both in black silk pants to their embarrassment. Douglas, of course, was in linen, and, win- cing at “on and on and on,” was already flipping through records looking for dinner music. It’s always his job, that and bringing flowers. Douglas is crazy about flowers. Natasha, who has gone out with him too, said that it felt like he was constantly giving her vaginas, but I felt nothing indecent; I just felt a little over- whelmed by all the xylem and phloem. But Douglas must have been pulling out all financial stops for Lily or something, because there was just a simple vase of daisies on the table. V begged Kate to let her polish something. V has some strange urges from being raised so rich and one of them is that she needs to have things polished before she can eat off of them. Kate scraped up some silver polish for her, and V spent the next
“Would I? Would I?” I said, and everybody laughed except Adam; it was a favorite joke of the Basic Eight God forgive me, but it’s easier to write that nickname than list us all individually. It goes like this: A man loses his job, goes to a bar and gets drunk, and gets into a car accident while driving home. When he gets to the hospital he is told that his eye needs to be replaced with a prosthetic. His recent unemployed status fixed firmly in his mind, he prices several models: an amazingly lifelike and amazingly costly porcelain model, a reasonably lifelike and reasonably costly glass orb and finally the bottom of the line, which he chooses. It’s made of wood.
He wakes up from surgery, looks in the mirror, and embarks on the life of a hermit for the next fifteen years. Heedless of the pleas of his friends, he refuses to socialize or even leave the house. Finally, a friend comes to see him, gets him tipsy and drags him to a discotheque. Our hero sits in a corner, hoping the dim ambi- ence is hiding what looks like an ugly mahogany periscope dangling from his face. Then, across a crowded room–the camera swooping between extras–he spots a beautiful woman,
sitting quietly alone, who stuns him from her feet to her–the camera sliding up her body–glabrous head! A bald woman! Someone who will understand his pain! Someone undoubtedly alone, because she, too, feels incapacitated by a medically induced deficiency on the head! Breathlessly, he rushes to her and shyly asks, “Would you care to dance?”
Her eyes light up. “Would I?” she repeats. “Would I?”
He turns and stalks away, but not before shouting, “Baldy!
Baldy!”
Nothing made me happier than hearing Adam’s laughter bounce off Kate’s hill and up into the crisp night sky. “That’s wonderful ,” he said. “ Wonderful . So deliciously evil .”
It was like I was already drunk by the time we arrived at the liquor store. Rows and rows of perfect green bottles shimmered around me like some perfect Egyptian reeds. From the corner of my eye the word “GIN” looked like the word “BEGIN.” Even the poses of cigarette poster models didn’t seem frozen but poised. Everyone was holding their breath (breaths? Who cares.), and for the first time I felt like they wouldn’t be disappointed. It was like watching a movie and the two famous people first meet and you sit in the dark grinning because you know how it ends: They’re going to fall in love.
We walked back, each with a bottle, and in the light of the street lamps our shadows looked almost identical. In the movies we would have kissed, but this being paper and not celluloid, we just talked. We discussed being back at school, how neither of us has done any work on college applications and whether Flora Habstat would really quote The Guinness Book of World Records .
When we got back the season had truly begun: Darling Mud on the stereo (loud music during cooking,
quiet during dinner. Immutable.) and all the guests. V and Jennifer Rose Milton, with a slightly geeky-looking Flora Habstat in tow, were tied for most gorgeous, both in black silk pants to their embarrassment. Douglas, of course, was in linen, and, win- cing at “on and on and on,” was already flipping through records looking for dinner music. It’s always his job, that and bringing flowers. Douglas is crazy about flowers. Natasha, who has gone out with him too, said that it felt like he was constantly giving her vaginas, but I felt nothing indecent; I just felt a little over- whelmed by all the xylem and phloem. But Douglas must have been pulling out all financial stops for Lily or something, because there was just a simple vase of daisies on the table. V begged Kate to let her polish something. V has some strange urges from being raised so rich and one of them is that she needs to have things polished before she can eat off of them. Kate scraped up some silver polish for her, and V spent the next
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