Frankie in Paris by Shauna McGuiness Page A

the
bottom of my eyes, so I cleaned that up, too. I tried to separate my bangs—which
were smashed together after hours of heat and stress—and decided to grow them
out.
    Feeling better already,   I went back to join Lulu.
    ***
    I didn’t think about tipping the attendant
until I was already seated across from my grandmother. Damn.   Now
she’ll remember me if I have to go back in there .   What
will she do to retaliate?   Of course
she would do nothing.   But it made me
feel more uncomfortable than ever about the idea of having restroom attendants
in attendance.
    ***
    The waiter came back with a little flat blade
and scraped the breadcrumbs from our table.   This felt absurdly decadent.   He
disappeared again and then reappeared instantly, holding our bottle of
champagne, cradling it in his arm like an infant. Then he thrust it in Lulu’s
face so she could check the label.   She
barely glanced at it.
    “Have you ever heard of the Plusot
Winery?”   she asked.
    He shook his head
    “Hoohoohoo.   Plusot Winery!   I lived there more
than thirty years ago.   It’s in France. Plusot
Winery!”
    Looking annoyed, he announced, “Zere are a lot
of wineries in France, Madame .   I have never heard of eet.”   He liberated the cork on our bottle with a
loud “pop,” and a little volcano of foam erupted from the top.   Pouring her a glass, he then aimed the bottle
in my direction.
    “Only a little bit,” Lulu told him, “ we are breaking the American drinking law! ”    I don't think I've ever heard such a
loud stage whisper.
    I wanted to scream, “IT’S THE CALIFORNIA LAW! WE’RE NOT IN CALIFORNIA! BESIDES,
I’VE HAD ALCOHOL BEFORE!   LOTS AND LOTS
OF IT!   GALLONS !”
    I didn’t.   I just sat lower in my chair and waited for the waiter to pour my two
fingers of champagne. It tasted just fine to me, so I sipped it until my steak
arrived.   My dinner was delicious, and I
enjoyed the feel of firm meat between my teeth.  
    Lulu was on her second glass.
    Lulu hadn’t touched her chicken.  
    Maybe it was because she hadn’t eaten. Or maybe
the medication she was taking interacted poorly with the champagne.     Whatever the reason, she turned into an
obnoxious drunk almost immediately.
    “Plusot Winery!   Any one ever heard of it? Loire
Valley?”   she called out and giggled.  
    Her feet didn’t reach the floor, and one of her
shoes dropped to the ground.
    “Lulu, it was a long time ago,” I
insisted.   “Eat your dinner.”
    "Bring on the dancing girls!”   she hooted, then: “We’re at the place in France
where the naked ladies dance!”  
    Oh, Good Lord , they were going to ask us to
leave before the show even began.  
    Thankfully there was a lot of noise.   Different conversations in many different
languages wafted through the air and disappeared somewhere around the lighting
fixtures.
    “Shhhhhhhh. Eat your chicken, Lulu.   We need to get something in your
stomach!”  
    The waiter glided past our table, glaring at
us.   Lulu gestured for glass number three,
and   I couldn’t find the words to stop
her.   He Who Was Supremely Annoyed poured
the champagne.   A much smaller glass than
the last.  
    Then she grabbed his arm, and he looked alarmed.   He was wearing a gold pinky ring.   “Take the bottle and dump it out,”   she commanded earnestly.
    " M-Madame ,
zere are at least anozer two glasses left in the—"
    “Don’t care.”   She shook her head emphatically. “Dump it out.   I wanna bring it home with me.”
    Putting a hand up near his throat, he looked
pained. “As you weesh,” he frowned.  
    “Thanksh,”   she slurred, “you are a good man.”
    He left to drain the champagne.   Hopefully into someone’s glass in the
kitchen.
    I grabbed Lulu’s fork and speared a chunk of
chicken.
    “Open your mouth!”   Like I was feeding a toddler.   I should have said something like, “Here
comes the airplane—open wide!”
    In turn, she was