A Few New Yorkers, Part One

Excerpt from the classic “A Few New Yorkers Have Sushi”

(soon to be adapted for PBS as “Upton Shabby”)

“It was the oddest thing,” she murmured, half to herself, in a voice barely audible to her guests. Mindlessly pushing back a wisp of meticulously ironed bang from a wan forehead, Vidalia Tartine adjusted a pair of rimless eyeglasses on the bridge of her nose and sighed; the lenses gave off the slightest tint of lavender, having long faded from the more robust violet hue that everyone had so fervently sought the summer before; replacing them now of course was out of the question.

Vida, as her friends preferred to call her- ever the life of the party they cajoled in deference to an innate, dolefully contemplative nature- suddenly grew pensive, as if recalling something of deep significance as she gazed distractedly at her guests and absentmindedly began clearing the faux “Melmac” plates. Was it possible she mused that once upon a time in New York there truly had existed a bevy of servants for those even of simple means, small battalions of proud house workers at the ready to assist the recently anointed middle classes with their every burgeoning albeit nouveau domestic whim? And had it indeed been a noble, if not sought after employment she further mused, this uniquely crafted metier as it were of preserving someone else’s priceless set of china? The entire notion now seemed an incredible fantasy and untoward extravagance in an age where even a humble trip to the dry cleaners was prohibitive for the newly unemployed. Vida liked to muse and have notions.

One of her dangly silver earrings, Vida’s only adornment, a simple and inexpensive affair inset with miniscule blue plastic triangles intended to evoke lapis lazuli or something of the like, moved ever so slightly as it caught the glaring halogen beam of a hugely discounted, pointlessly oversized floor lamp; this fixture she mused once more had been purchased on final reduction at Home Depot and offered the only real illumination in the tiny apartment. The earrings, like the lamp, were a rare indulgence. Vida had treated herself at a crafts fair near Edith Wharton’s restored Berkshire “cottage” one summer during a rare weekend away from the sullen, desultory air of the August metropolis- Vida liked the word "desultory" a lot but was not sure how to pronounce it. Alas it had clouded over for the duration of the seventy-two or so hours she had spent musing in those beloved forests of Arden. But oh, how long ago that now seemed, and how life had changed so irrefutably since that brief, pastoral sojourn. She momentarily flashed on her present position as evening shift caller for a particularly and stringently soulless telemarketing firm and realized ruefully how precious nonetheless these few dreary weekly hours had become to her financial and spiritual well being.

Vidalia’s thoughts were jarred back to the present as dinner concluded, amid the clack of plastic forks as the last of the Fairway spicy shrimp sushi was consumed after having been meticulously doused with green mustard and scallion teriyaki. The Britta water jug stood empty and somewhat forlornly nearby, a reminder that it was time to relocate her guests to the seating area a scant foot or so away from where they huddled in those awful and hard little chairs. She imagined what it would be like to have a formal library of one’s own, with leather bound volumes filling polished oak or satin mahogany cases, overstuffed chairs and the smell of musk, a tiffany lamp or two, tea cozies and intricately embossed game tables where perhaps one could engage in a spirited hand or two of whist. She noticed that several “After Eights” lay scattered along the cheap hemp mats and that the diners were rosy with organic wine. Of course there would be no cigars or brandy, and the coffee was of an inferior pre-packaged brand, but still, was it not essential for certain traditions to prevail if civilization were to continue? Behind where she stood, on a wall shelf of white pressed board edged with gold leaf contact paper that she had applied herself -albeit somewhat unevenly- several nineteenth century novels in the Penguin edition, their shiny belle époque covers gleaming though somewhat dog-eared, leaned lazily to one side. In a vain attempt to secure this unruly, obstreperous cadre of turn-of-the-century narratives, “House of Mirth,” “Portrait of Lady” and “Washington Square” were all lying flat and piled on top of each other to form a decidedly pell-mell bookend; a copy of “The Bostonians” had fallen to the floor unnoticed. The small space’s decor emitted a parsimonious insouciance, a kind of mock drawing room ambience more suited to the gilded, earlier years of a previous century than to a millennium recession worthy of a stockbroker’s ransom. It was undeniably the perfect moment in which to settle in and partake of a good, old-fashioned ghost story. . . .

    

Rest Stop, Part One

I love the smell of greasy French fries at a rest stop along the Jersey Turnpike on a damp April Sunday. The unmistakable scent of frozen potato scraps sizzling away in vats of rancid, bubbling oil adds a certain flavor to the chilly air of a parking lot. You stretch your legs gratefully after hours of cramped inertia and inane FM music, waiting for your husband to refill the tank or take a leak in one of the labyrinthine rest rooms- a giant suite of busy commodes devoid of an outside door- and it never fails to remind of a simpler time. How complicated it can all get, so far from home since the annoying and nauseating family road trips of childhood. The only relief in those days from the sniping and tearing at each other of your parents up in the front was a couple of brief stops for gummy jelly apples or charred, skinny hot dogs with watery mustard. Now you can look forward to petrified veggie burgers and wilted, make believe salad along with the sticky swirls of pink cotton candy. 

We were returning from a bar mitzvah in Virginia, an event I vowed I would never attend when I first ripped open the oversized envelope to find an unexpected summons to celebrate! The announcement wound its way into the mailbox along with an offer from “Publishers Clearing House” and a five dollar coupon from Bed, Bath & Beyond. In a hefty, corporate looking packet padded with confusing directions in teeny font, pre-stamped RSVP card and related “data” about the event was a rather large, florid invitation. It was etched on heavy, oversized paper and surrounded by a thick border like an illuminated manuscript. In the center of the colorful, exotic design, obviously intended to evoke something medieval and Judaic, were boldly embossed the names of the child and his parents. Every word and numeral was fully spelled out to make it look appropriately official, first, last, middle names, day, month, and year. I felt as if I had been called for jury duty. My immediate reaction was irritation. Now I’d have to answer with some ridiculous excuse, or worse, endure a vague and protracted struggle about possibly being a good sport and going.

Suddenly there were visions of hysterically sifting through a clearance rack for something cheap and festive, or maybe just dark and glittery, hopefully in “final reduction” stage; it didn’t seem fair. I immediately reassured myself that I had “plenty to wear” knowing full well this was a pathetic rationalization. Nor did I realize at the time that the initial anxiety would pale next to another wardrobe nightmare. As it turned out, despite my “hunch” about stowed accessories from the past most likely hiding in the recesses of my closet, the four dust mite-ridden corners upon inspection failed to conceal even one pair of shiny, toe crushing ballet flats or weirdly shaped heels in faux lizard. This discovery ultimately led to an act of last minute desperation: an inevitable sprint to Bloomingdale’s the evening before the event and half an hour or so before the store closed, where a smoothie named “Antonio” dramatically solved the problem with only mildly hurtful patent leather sandals; he’d dug them out from somewhere “in the back” presenting them with a flourish. It seemed I’d been naively living out my life in sneakers and clogs.

Ironically, in retrospect even the shoe catastrophe eventually would start to look like an eye dropper of lithium in a bucket of psychosis before it was finally all over. The very worst part of the “prep period” was yet to come- recurring images of endless hours on the turnpike, relentlessly swerving back and forth between lanes, sparring with sixteen wheelers and all sorts of highly dysfunctional families and sleep deprived truckers on the miserable round trip between south of DC and New York. If there was an accident, it would take even longer, maybe forever. In between terrifying flash forwards of ambulances and tow trucks, I worried that the flat shoes would not make me appear tall enough, that my own, modest family background would not measure up, that the gift would fall gravely short.

There were so many things to obsess over I barely knew where to start. For several weeks before the ominous “reply” date, a deadline that began to loom like an upcoming tryst with the electric chair, nearer and nearer each day, I vacillated between anger and forgiveness, despair and hope. Each morning the RSVP inched twenty-four hours closer. Why did certain people feel compelled to organize such potentially torturous events and then inflict them on others in the guise of joy and hospitality? Why couldn’t I be like those other casual party goers who lived for gatherings like these and actually owned sequin-covered fabric (We just got back from a wedding in Minneapolis- a grandniece- it was absolutely beautiful!)?