dresses his Aunt Selma used to wear and hitch halfway up her ass in the hallway on her way to the toilet.
So why did he find this Edith Piaf without the voice attractive? He reminded himself that he wasn’t going to ask that question anymore. He’d decided that Melanie Chisolm had been right when she’d said, “Analyze your attractions and you’ll come up with a perversity.”
She’s a timid little rabbit, David told himself, and I bet she fucks like a bunny too. That ended his moment of turmoil.
When the class ended, he walked over to her.
She was putting on one of her shoes; somebody had suggested she take them off in order to be “more in touch with the texture of the floor.” David had assumed it was West Coast for “If she gets a splinter, maybe that’ll get a squeak out of her.” Still, he couldn’t keep himself from saying, “I liked the way you did that scene.”
“You did?” she said, her face filled with wonder.
“Yes,” David said. “You underplayed it wonderfully, I thought.”
“But people couldn’t hear me,” Sandra said.
“It was hard to hear anything with everybody getting in their two cents,” David said. “That moron from San Francisco that wants everyone to experience tactile sensations. You should have been here the week we were working on laughter and he tickled Elsa Smith’s feet until she threw up.”
“He could have been right,” Sandra replied. “At least about me. Probably Laura Wingfield did walk around their apartment in her stocking feet, what with her club foot and all.”
They talked about Laura Wingfield and Tennessee Williams and the Coast. Then David said he was going to grab a cup of coffee at the Chock Full of Nuts, and he asked her if she would like to come along.
Sandra said, “Why thanks, I’d like very much to.”
In the restaurant, Sandra undid a small black portfolio tied with string and showed David some of her work. He’d wondered about that case; she’d always had it with her. In it were drawings, David now discovered, and they weren’t the work of some hopelessly sincere little fawn, either. The pages were peopled mostly with leprechauns and elves, whimsical creatures in shoes that curled up at the tips and long, flowing stocking caps with bells on the ends. Hand-lettered story lines floated out of their mouths in curlicues, like pipe smoke, and their serpentine paths led from castles decorated like wedding cakes to rooms of stubby, toadstool-like furniture in the trunks of trees. Among the elves David encountered a skinny carrot in ballet slippers and a potato head, bald except for the fringe of parsley around his ears.
David recognized the potato head. He was a well-known agent. And the carrot was dancing with the American Ballet Theater and reputedly sleeping with a Broadway producer. For a moment David wondered if he was having coffee with a practicing witch or an enchantress.
Swallowing his coffee with a gulp, he said to Sandra, “Hey, this is absolutely incredible stuff.” She smiled.
“Have you ever tried to get this stuff published?” he asked.
“Yes,” Sandra replied. “I saw a literary agent. She told me there’s no money in children’s books. She said to me, ‘Rather than write children’s books, why don’t you just get married and have a baby?’ But I don’t want to be married and pregnant right away, so that’s why I’m trying acting lessons.”
David leafed through Sandra’s sketchbook until he found a jellyfish with about fifty tendrils, all of them in spike heels. The jellyfish’s face was being pulled like taffy by three effeminate-looking crabs.
“Is that your literary agent?” David asked, pointing.
“That’s her,” said Sandra. “At Georgette Klinger’s.”
They had another cup of coffee and, after talking for another half hour or so, left the restaurant. They walked together all the way from Times Square to East Eighty-second Street, to David’s apartment.
That night David found out
So why did he find this Edith Piaf without the voice attractive? He reminded himself that he wasn’t going to ask that question anymore. He’d decided that Melanie Chisolm had been right when she’d said, “Analyze your attractions and you’ll come up with a perversity.”
She’s a timid little rabbit, David told himself, and I bet she fucks like a bunny too. That ended his moment of turmoil.
When the class ended, he walked over to her.
She was putting on one of her shoes; somebody had suggested she take them off in order to be “more in touch with the texture of the floor.” David had assumed it was West Coast for “If she gets a splinter, maybe that’ll get a squeak out of her.” Still, he couldn’t keep himself from saying, “I liked the way you did that scene.”
“You did?” she said, her face filled with wonder.
“Yes,” David said. “You underplayed it wonderfully, I thought.”
“But people couldn’t hear me,” Sandra said.
“It was hard to hear anything with everybody getting in their two cents,” David said. “That moron from San Francisco that wants everyone to experience tactile sensations. You should have been here the week we were working on laughter and he tickled Elsa Smith’s feet until she threw up.”
“He could have been right,” Sandra replied. “At least about me. Probably Laura Wingfield did walk around their apartment in her stocking feet, what with her club foot and all.”
They talked about Laura Wingfield and Tennessee Williams and the Coast. Then David said he was going to grab a cup of coffee at the Chock Full of Nuts, and he asked her if she would like to come along.
Sandra said, “Why thanks, I’d like very much to.”
In the restaurant, Sandra undid a small black portfolio tied with string and showed David some of her work. He’d wondered about that case; she’d always had it with her. In it were drawings, David now discovered, and they weren’t the work of some hopelessly sincere little fawn, either. The pages were peopled mostly with leprechauns and elves, whimsical creatures in shoes that curled up at the tips and long, flowing stocking caps with bells on the ends. Hand-lettered story lines floated out of their mouths in curlicues, like pipe smoke, and their serpentine paths led from castles decorated like wedding cakes to rooms of stubby, toadstool-like furniture in the trunks of trees. Among the elves David encountered a skinny carrot in ballet slippers and a potato head, bald except for the fringe of parsley around his ears.
David recognized the potato head. He was a well-known agent. And the carrot was dancing with the American Ballet Theater and reputedly sleeping with a Broadway producer. For a moment David wondered if he was having coffee with a practicing witch or an enchantress.
Swallowing his coffee with a gulp, he said to Sandra, “Hey, this is absolutely incredible stuff.” She smiled.
“Have you ever tried to get this stuff published?” he asked.
“Yes,” Sandra replied. “I saw a literary agent. She told me there’s no money in children’s books. She said to me, ‘Rather than write children’s books, why don’t you just get married and have a baby?’ But I don’t want to be married and pregnant right away, so that’s why I’m trying acting lessons.”
David leafed through Sandra’s sketchbook until he found a jellyfish with about fifty tendrils, all of them in spike heels. The jellyfish’s face was being pulled like taffy by three effeminate-looking crabs.
“Is that your literary agent?” David asked, pointing.
“That’s her,” said Sandra. “At Georgette Klinger’s.”
They had another cup of coffee and, after talking for another half hour or so, left the restaurant. They walked together all the way from Times Square to East Eighty-second Street, to David’s apartment.
That night David found out
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