I thought of my friend Cherrie as I walked through the door of the restaurant, waving to Jody. Jody was on time, as usual, sitting with a smiling at a table for our lunch date. I had met Jody through Cherrie, whom we'd all known at one time or another. She'd brought most of us together, from various times and places. Everyone that had ever met Cherrie was her best friend. If they weren't, they had an opinion about her. Even the people who talked bad about her admired her. That was Cherrie.

    Jody had met Cherrie years ago when she was unexpectedly upgraded to first class on a flight to the Vatican in Rome. Cherrie just happened to be there because Cherrie was always getting upgraded to first class sections on flights. Jody was on her way to the Vatican for the sainthood trial of Father Damien of Molokai, the 19th century priest who was considered the saint of not only Molokai, but of all Hawaii. Her telling Cherrie about this is how they became friends. Father Damien was a handsome, tall and strong man who traveled to the leper colonies to work with the victims of this now-scarce disease. In the 19th century, there were only two recognized leper colonies in the world: one in Molokai, Hawaii, and one in Carville, Louisiana (the same city colorful politician James Carville's family hails from).

    I remembered long ago at Saint Rita School, at an early grade, being asked by our teacher to choose a statue to be erected to represent Father Damien at the site of the now closed leper colony. One showed a handsome tall "Ken doll" type figure cast in bronze, and the other was a stunted cripple hunched over and missing a nose, made of stone. This second choice was because Father Damien had himself become a victim of the dreaded disease. So the teacher posed the question: should it be Ken doll, or Lon Chaney? I was the only boy that voted for Ken, and the voting wasn't anonymous. I convinced myself I did it because I was lacking a boyfriend for my sister’s Midge doll (Barbie’s best friend). That lead to having nightmares about body parts falling off of me while studying the work of Father Damien. School was a rough time.

    Cherrie was simultaneously attending grammar school in sunny Beverly Hills. She wasn't even Catholic when she met a cardinal in another first class section of a return-flight from her first marriage honeymoon in Hawaii. "Hello, I'm Cherrie!" she said when she plopped down in her new first-class seat, sticking out her hand to greet her new traveling partner. Her husband had stayed back in coach. The cardinal and she became fast best friends, and the cardinal learned that Cherrie was looking for a job. Just like that she landed signed on with the committee to work for the sainthood of Father Ken Doll.

    The honeymoon had been in Hawaii, but the marriage soon ended, in California—and with the help of her new friend the cardinal, it was annulled and not spoken of again. Cherrie was a force to be reckoned with. I'd met her years before any of this, while working at Pedro Moreanus. Cherrie had relocated to New York to start her life anew. I was part of a groovy crowd, but then how groovy are you if you use the word "groovy?" Mickey Rooney uses "groovy" a lot. How groovy is he? I found that my crowd didn't particularly care for Cherrie because she was naturally effervescent and wore west coast fashions that were not understood in New York in the stylistically chilly late-1980’s. We later learned these garments were gifts and hand-me-downs from her aunt, sister of her mother, who is still married to a world famous Beverly Hills plastic surgeon.

    Cherrie's uncle did everybody in Hollywood's noses, toes, tits, zits, faces, eyes and thighs, all of it. For decades. He even reconstructed a famous Hollywood movie star couple’s baby boy into a girl when it was realized that the male name was prematurely or incorrectly given. It would be years later that the little hermaphrodite would become a sexy movie star in her own right.

    I met him at Cherrie’s second wedding in Montreal. The remains of the groovy set, now dearest friends of Cherrie's, traveled to the wedding and met the family—all good looking, whether born that way or because of the famous Uncle's skillful knife, who really knew? Even the babies were gorgeous. But the strict rule passed in whispers amongst the crowd that day was "don’t talk about the first marriage." We did not know anything about the first marriage other that a picture that showed Cherrie’s first husband as a cute, blond, surfer dude and a younger Cherrie, with a larger mouth than now (thanks to her uncle’s handy work).

    So the wedding was lovely but the memory of the event is shaky at best. Not that it wasn't all legit, but because the maid of honor didn’t show up, and my good friend Sally had been assigned in advance to record the event with her camcorder. Sally had become a pro at filming with the thing, actually. But this was before digital, and the thing was the size of a small refrigerator. When Sally was pulled from the technical side to a starring role as maid of honor, the behemoth camera was thrust in my arms and I was told to shoot. I looked for the trigger, and target, and was soon informed "you have it upside down." So I flipped the thing to the correct side and began. The film was mostly of the little mountain chapel’s ceiling and floor, with fast pans of the attendees and bridal party. If a Kung Fu soundtrack had been added it wold have rivaled anything in Quentin Tarantino filmography. At one point Sally grabbed the camera (she was an athletic girl and knew how to maneuver the thing) when she was shocked to see that I was filming my finest necktie purchased for the event, instead of the event (a story spoiler, that tie is still around and worn today where the marriage ended long ago). Sally scolded me, but unwisely gave me the camera back. The last scene was of Cherrie and her new husband, Jean St Moiré de Herat—a drop-dead sexy stud this new husband was—as they were in the lake in a small boat, with Jean rowing Cherrie and himself off to a new time of happiness from the little dock next to the quaint chapel. Gorgeous. Unfortunately only a few seconds of it was filmed because I was still in control of the camera.

    The reception was held at the groom’s home, a beautiful chalet high in mountains, and was a blast. There were non-stop stories about the movie stars "done" by the uncle, and the eventual revelation that the grandmother that Cherrie had never mentioned before, except referred to in passing as "my Gran," was actually a world-famous movie star. It is so stylish to have famous relatives and never talk about it. So much for looking down on west coast fashions!

    My friend John, a member of the groovy set, did impressions of his favorite star during an impromptu game of charades. His devotion was apparent, but his delivery was so poor someone asked if it was Lassie. He was so hurt, he wouldn’t tell the star’s identity, and no one would have ever guessed. Although I knew who the person was I would never admit it in a million years.

    By the end of the evening a collection was being taken for a friend of the bride whose husband had pulled his revolver on because he thought had flirted with his wife. The man hadn’t flirted, he's gay! He was looking not seductively at this flat foot’s wife, but was scheming how to discreetly push her into the swimming pool, which everyone wound up in by night’s end anyway. What a party! Handsome Canadian men diving for the jewels that had fallen in the push into the pool from the ladies who worn them. Who said chivalry is dead?  That party began at 1 PM and when into the next morning.

    The next time I saw Cherrie and Jean it was in North Carolina. They were there looking for law schools for Jean to attend. He’d been a skiing champion, a mountain climber, a safari guild in Kenya, and a playboy that played extreme sports and loved adventure. We meet at Sally’s home, who by this time had married and moved to Winston Salem, North Carolina to start a life with her wonderfully handsome husband, Aaron. Knowing Cherrie was visiting, John joined me on a flight down south for the meet up.

    Cherri, John, Sally and Aaron had a wonderful time, and I loved the historic tours. At Duke University we saw a collection that turned the groovy set off, except for John and myself. It was a large collection of bronze and stone penises that had been knocked off the world’s greatest male sculptures by the Catholic church, only to be replaced by plumb leaves.

    I whispered to Jean that I actually knew the man that owned the collection. The penises were housed at Duke University because the man who owed them was then best friends with infamous heiress Doris Duke. Since that friendship meant the world to him he’d donated the collection to the collage. I saw Doris Duke twice, and served her coffee once. I was at the townhouse of a good friend named James, and in the morning I discovered a woman was sleeping on his parlor sofa. She opened her eyes, pointed to me, and said "coffee."

    "No," I said, "it’s Marc, hello.”

    "No, no, no, coffee! Damn it!" was her response.

    Jean was becoming bored as the visit lagged. He took a daily membership at the YMCA which was a couple of blocks away from Sally and Aaron’s home. The biggest event of the trip, held on the evening before Cherrie, John and I were heading back to our home cities, was an afternoon tea party at Sally’s next door’s neighbor’s home. Sally’s neighbor, Miss Lilly, was 95 and sharp as a pin and so genteel that when she sat during tea her back did not touch the back of the chair.

    When I heard she played the piano every afternoon to keep her fingers flexible, I jumped up so fast I startled everyone. “Sally go get your camera!" I whispered (now digital, thank god) and then looked at the host, adding, "Miss Lilly, play for me, can you follow?”

    "You are a funny, fun man," Miss Lilly said, smiling, "sure, I can follow you."

    It was a club act in Miss Lilly’s gilded music room, with Miss Lily's walking cane as an added prop. I did at least seven songs celebrating the South; "Carolina in the Morning," "Old Man River," "Sewanee," "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," "Alexander’s Rag Time Band" and of course "Dixie."

    I was a hit, or so I thought. Days later, while watching Sally’s film version of the affair, I spied Jean staring out of the window, probably wishing he was on Mount Kilimanjaro or anywhere else beside the Miss-Lilly-and-Marc-sing-along, bringing Branson to Winston Salem.

    Ten years later, I was being introduced to Cherrie's newest fiancé, Sean, a handsome man who knew how to spoil a girl. It was mid-morning and Cherrie was there in a St. John's white running jersey suit with black piping, and wearing diamonds! Diamond bracelets, diamond necklace, diamond earrings and proudly displayed a 5 karat (she whispered that anything over 5 was vulgar) engagement ring. That was when I trumped her with my 8 karat rose cut diamond solitaire stunner, big as a fat blueberry. Hers was flawless. Mine was much like me; imperfect but loud and shinning.

    Her new husband Sean was so polite, and implored me to please come to the wedding which would be held at a famous golf resort outside of San Francisco. I told him I was thrilled to be invited, and that I wouldn’t miss one of Cherrie’s weddings for the world! I then realize that that was not the most appropriate thing to say. After Sean excused himself to powder his nose, Cherrie let out an uproarious laugh, and reminded me I could not tell him about the first marriage. Not difficult, because other than that picture from very long ago of Cherrie and that blond hunk, I knew nothing of the marriage.

    I noticed that Cherrie never looked better. I asked what she’d been up to she said her uncle had given her an over-hall after her accident. "What accident?" I asked. I learned that she’d cut her eyelid on a moonless night in San Francisco bay, where she'd been invited by a Saudi prince she’d met on a flight. Cherrie is the type of person who can make a new best friend and keep them for life (while being upgraded to first class on flights, as usual). She had a string of  them. When she introduced me to him at tea in the Ritz hotel, she said "Your majesty this is Mr. Charbonnet." I looked at Cherrie and whispered that he was at best only a highness. "I know honey, but he likes to be called that." she responded without flinching.

    Cherrie and I both looked down as I shook his hand. The swarthy prince was short, about 6” shorter than Cherrie, who was 5’7”. He was distracted by the pretty hostess showing a couple to a table next to ours.

    Anyway back to how she’d gotten an overhaul from her uncle, which is how she also met this new man in her life. While out on a nighttime yacht cruise, there was a lot of partying going on, and in the middle of the ruckus the yacht bounced. Cherrie was thrown over the front of the boat! Her head banged and bounced along the bottom of the yacht and her eyebrow got cut. The water was freezing and, with hypothermia setting in the black sea, she came up to the water’s surface and with chattering teeth saw the boat with was the size of a tennis ball from her vantage.

    She was angry with God and let Him know it (later we learned the heat generated in her fury is probably what saved her). She couldn’t bare the thought of her beauty being ruined by the death that occurs in water. She screamed—not for help—in rage with God. The CD playing on the boat changed and in that momentary silence someone heard her scream. The party stopped and took a head count...Cherrie was not on the boat!

    With a flash light searching the surface, the boat floated forever. Finally, they spied her bobbing head, and she was pulled to safety and rushed to the dock and to the hospital. I remember picturing Cherrie playing Kate Winslet’s role in Titanic when I heard this story.

    Well, her latest husband, Sean, was at the emergency room with a buddy who was injured in a fall. Sean looked at Cherrie and, in a moment she says she doesn’t remember, grabbed his hand and wouldn’t let go. Sean held onto her. The doctor asked him to stay because he thought she needed that feeling of security. And here they were holding hands at the table while I ate some surprisingly good eggs Benedict.

    Sally, John and I traveled to San Francisco for the big event. I was bejeweled; sapphires, rubies, pearls, a 21 carat ruby ring, a deco ring of a sapphire surround by begets that sparkled and my bee brooch. I felt like Henry VIII!

    This nuptial and following reception was not half as much fun as last one, but lovely just the same. We talked John into imitating his idol. Again, no one guessed who the person was.

    So here I was many years later in this restaurant with Jody and I, sitting, waiting for Cherrie to join us who was a no-show. Cherrie was flying into town to meet us, and we soon learned her plane was delayed (we later learned she befriend Christianne Ammapour on the flight, and they had a fascinating visit and are now best friends!)

    The restaurant where Jody and I were lunching was new at the time, in the Beekman Place area of First Avenue. A long banquet and small table, almost three inches, at most, next to each other lined along the wall. I’d heard that Justin Timberlake was an investor in the restaurant and remarked that it’d be fun to see him, but we both doubted we would. I did see someone who caught my attention a table away (which meant four feet). I couldn't tell if it was a man or woman, and asked Jody what she thought. After several glances, she voted: woman. "No way," I said.  This person was lunching with a male friend. They were at least in their mid 60’s to early 70’s. The one person that had us guessing had obviously had a lot of plastic surgery.

    As I visited with Jody we chatted about Cherrie and our memories of all of the good times we’d had with her. My 20-plus years with her had brought me much joy. I then laughed thinking about John and how he could never play the game of guessing your idol well enough to win or come in at second place.

    At that moment another couple joined the table with the older couple of undetermined gender. During their overheard introductions, I heard the voice, and name, and was floored! I said to Jody, "It’s a woman."

    Their table and our table both stood to leave at the same time. I grabbed a menu and a pen and approached the person that I now knew was a woman, and said “Hello, Ms Burnett, may I please have your autograph? My dear friend John is your biggest fan, he’ll just die"

    She looked at me and said, smiling, “I’m not Carol Burnett” she then turned towards her date and said “It is so funny that people always think I am Carol Burnett." They then departed, leaving me standing there, aghast. I looked over at the maître d', and he gave me an “Oh well too bad for you” look. What an ingenious way to tell a fan to screw off!

    As Jody and I walked out to the bright day, Jody’s cell phone rang. She looked at the phone and said to me “It’s Cherrie!” too bad Cherrie wasn’t with us, Carol Burnett would now be her newest best friend.