marc charbonnet's Open Salon Blog

Blue Hair (pt. 2)

Mon, 7 Jun 2010 11:06:40 -0400

My mind suddenly snapped back to the present moment, in subway with Javier. I realized I had the bag with Mary Todd Lincoln's shawl in it now clasped tightly around my neck as I listened and recollected. Was the ghost of America's 16th First Lady trying to strangle me from beyond the grave? I wondered inexplicably as the train blasted along its track.

Javier then said, "The blue hair wouldn't be so bad if it was slightly darker. But it gets lighter on the back of his head."

Then I remembered. November 1st. All Saints Day. Light hair, particularly blond hair, always makes me think of November 1st. That was the day I bumped into a stranger with a shock of natural blond hair in the elevator at the office.

The day before All Saints Day had been a very special day in my hometown of New Orleans. On Halloween, the day before the 1st, for all of my life we attended to my ancestors' cemetery. We'd wash down the tomb, place loads of fresh flowers and spruce everything up so that the next day, All Saint's Day, a public holiday in New Orleans, the tomb would be graced and dressed. It was a tradition I let slip away after I moved to New York.

It was the blond stranger who shook me out of my forlorn sense of nostalgic duty, when I bumped into him in that elevator that day. I remember looking at him with a smile and saying, "If we were in New Orleans this would be a holiday." It was something I often said to people on that day in work situations. It made me feel better somehow.

He replied, "Why?"

To which I said, "Well, you must be Episcopalian." This was the exchange that usually occurred, and lead to conversation. Except that in this case it led to more. Thus began a long friendship that would act as a catalyst to get me out of that office and on to greater things. It was hard to believe someone like him could be the cause of all that..

His name was Marshall. I'll admit that when I saw him that day it was like the feeling you get when you spy something in a shop window that you just have to have. He was ripe for the picking (as I would learn later). A straight boy who had "leanings," wonderment, and questions on his mind about his own sexuality. And there I was; an older, but not much wiser, frustrated, closeted queen. A match made in heaven? The only person who thought I was in the closet was me; everyone else knew I was gay as a goose.

We began having lunch, flirted casually, and innocently, I might add. I remember one of these afternoon meals, on a beautiful day in Central Park. We were sitting on a bench eating lunch, and my paper napkin blew off of my lap. He quickly retrieved it and then just reached over and tucked it into my waistband without pause. During another lunch in the park, I asked him if he would like a piece of my banana. Without answering, he surprised me by taking his right hand and, placing it at the back of his head, slowly coming down to take a bite out of it in a none-too subtle simulation of fellatio! We both burst out laughing, but inside I was gasping in disbelief. I was in love… or in a "crush."

At some point our friendship shifted onto "that" plateau–the one where one, or perhaps both, are wondering if it's more than just a friendship as they teeter on that edge (it's a treacherous plateau). It's a scary place to be because people in those situations do everything they can to avoid having confirmation of their hopes or fears, which would mean either ascending to the next plateau (becoming lovers) or plunging forever into the roomy, bottomless pit of rejection. No, Marshall and I were just friends who occasionally flirted, and that was just fine with me.

He would come over every Friday evening. I used to have a group of friends over every Wednesday night for roast chicken and lima bean dinners. However, I abandoned that tradition for my new Friday nights with Marshall, which included lavish, aromatic food I had fussed over in preparation. They were nights mixed with amazing meals, pot smoking, music blaring out of my answering machine tape player, and thick intimacy. Oh my, the romance! They were long evenings full of tension-filled touches, plate passing and tasting each other's dishes. Then we would light up the joints and pass them back and forth. We often smoked them shotgun style, that's when someone inhales the joint, puts the lit end in their mouth and exhales the smoke into the mouth of the receiver. When we did that, our lips would touch. It was sweeter than any kiss. Nothing sexual ever happened between us, actually, and that's was most rewarding. I had had sex before. Sex was quick, easy, practically disposable. This was different. "Everything but the sex" can be its own potent elixir.

I felt that while other people in the city were fucking anonymously, not even knowing each other's names, we were having long nights of real intimacy, romance, and the infinite supply of thrills that it allows. The sensuality between Marshall and me was as thick in that apartment on Friday nights, as the tension was between me and everyone else back at the office all day Monday through Friday.

We saw each other for two years like that, and of course word got around. I remember when someone asked, telling them it lasted two years. His first words were "what kind of fuck is he?" (so New York).

I said, "I don't know." I hadn't actually ever seen him undressed.

"No? What a waste of time!" they blurted. So very, very New York.

I remember trying to convince him of how special it was, and saying, "Oh no, you're wrong. It wasn't a waste of time at all." To which he just stared. I couldn't convince him of how special it really was to me. It was special. Perhaps that's why it hurt so much when it got spoiled, and I had been the one to spoil it.

During our two years, he had always been secretive about his past, and his whole life for that matter. But one night, intoxicated, he opened up. He confessed that his brother was rich, stinking rich in fact, "wealth oozing out of every pore" is the way he put it. I was amazed because he wasn't the type of person to make a vulgar statement like that. I immediately wondered why he had kept it from me, and also wondered why he felt the need to tell me now. I couldn't make up my mind about which was more telling. All of these thoughts were racing through my mind as I simply said "Oh, that must be nice."

"Well it is!" he said, "He buys me really beautiful clothes at Christmas."

A trillion hellish subtexts ran through my jealous skull. I wanted to scream and throw my answering machine tape player through the window. But again, I held back and instead just calmly said, "That's interesting." I'm glad I did because he then opened up more than he ever had. As his stories unfolded, I calmed down. He told me about how growing up in Kansas had been an experience that he found enjoyable, yet lonely. He told me other stories about how his mother wouldn't let him watch Mr. Rogers because she thought the sweatered man was gay. The openness continued as he elaborated on his past, how he felt that very past made him who he was in the present, how it shaped what he hoped not to be in the future. You could have cracked me with a hammer during those listening sessions.

The next day, one of his stories led to the admission that his brother was going to buy an apartment and would need a decorator. And would I do it? I said, "I would love to do the work, if he wants to interview me. I think he would be pleasantly surprised." I was thrilled.

Maybe a little too thrilled.

Our arrangement headed south because our friendship went straight to Hell, dragging everything it meant to me down with it. It was me. I did the worst things. I became compulsive, obsessive, thinking too much about him in all the wrong ways: sneaking into the employee coat closet to feel in his lapel pockets at lunch, wandering over to his desk when he left work in the evening and pressing his redial button to see whom he called. I became crazy with questions and jealousy, which of course at the time seemed perfectly sane to me.

In becoming the best of friends with him, I became my own worst enemy. I developed a second face, then a third, plotting and planning, justifying everything along the way. It all was going to add up, I just knew it, the equation being that yes, I was truly loved by him. To be crazy and in love–nothing makes you feel younger. When you're older, it's to be crazy and un-medicated–nothing comes closer to making you feel younger.

The last time I heard about Marshall was a few years later, while chatting with a client who was also his sister-in-law. He was getting married to a girl named Frankie who had been his roommate for a while (he had lived with a guy and two girls, all architects). I knew that Marshall and Frankie had only been friends during the period that he and I were spending so much time together, but I admit I was less than surprised.

Days later when I passed Frankie on the street, we stopped to say hello and I congratulated her. She looked a bit shocked when I did. She asked "how do you know" when I told her his sister-in-law told me, she smiled again and looked slightly relieved. I imagined that she probably wondered about the Friday night get-togethers from a couple of years past, when her now-fiancé was coming home drunk and loaded from evenings with me and had told Marshall that their marriage had to be the end of his "questionable" period. As we talked I laughed to myself thinking that if Marshall had wound up with anyone else during that period of his life, he'd probably have ended up with pierced nipples and a Puerto Rican boyfriend. Frankie really owed me a debt of gratitude!

My mind snapped back to the present again. Blue hair. Could he be medicated? Or was he medicated then? And now he's not?

One day I did receive a call from Marshall's brother. He had indeed purchased a Fifth Avenue apartment. A really big one. This was the type of apartment that only an interior designer with an established firm would be considered for. And although Marshall and I weren't even friends, or much less speaking any longer (not enemies, just uncomfortable acquaintances), his brother did nonetheless hire me–obviously on Marshall's advice.

I wound up working for the family, and did four jobs. Four amazing jobs. Marshall's brother wanted José Maligno. But more specifically he wanted José Maligno on a budget. And I gave it to him. I emulated José's style because that was what he wanted. And naturally, as the jobs increased, my own style came out. And so did I.

I made money and had fun. Those jobs turned into other jobs, and others, and others. Eventually I became, if not a famous interior designer, at least a noted interior designer. I was working for movie stars and celebrities and Wall Street mavens–a coterie of people I never thought I would associate with.

My first time published was on the cover of Architectural Digest. I hadn't even been in a newspaper, but because of a movie star client I wound up on the cover of the bible to the trade.

I was published several times thereafter and became one of their esteemed "100 Decorators." making that list three years in a row. Quite a feat for an eleventh grade dropout from New Orleans. Talk about hitting the next plateau.

Ten years later I saw Mr. Maligno again at a dinner thrown by Architectural Digest. We were seated at the same table. He was wearing a black vest (I'm sure it was Dolce & Gabbana; if it wasn't it had to have been something trendy like that).

He had muscles! Lots of them! He had leather straps tied tightly around his biceps, his deltoids and his forearms, with long chains hanging between his waist and his ankles. He clinkety-clinked like one of my Chihuahuas when he walked. I approached him and grabbed his muscles and whispered, "I love those muscles." He giggled. It was the first time I had seen him in ten years. He didn't have blue hair yet.

But now he did.

Our train reached its destination and I kissed Javier goodbye and thanked him. We both exited and went off to our separate destinations. I ascended and strolled up the avenue to my friend's massive loft. I noticed my grip on the bag with the shawl had loosened.

"Blue hair" I kept thinking. That's amazing when you think about it. It's almost like Quentin Crisp, or a drag queen performing on a cruise ship. You can't help yourself in that situation. You have to be who you are. And I guess even at sixty, having blue hair and being who you are is the true mark of success. It was like something from the future, if only because it was something I never pictured my past contemporaries doing, ever. It was a new barrier to be crossed, a rule to be broken.

The thing about looking back into the past is that everything looks so perfect, but it also allows you put into focus things ahead of you that you could never have seen if you hadn't taken the path to that point. Like an additional rung way up high on a ladder that for some reason you had never really noticed before, because you couldn't see it from the bottom, or the middle... or even the top.

I arrived at my friend's loft. He was thrilled about the shawl. We talked endlessly about everything. He told me about two major plantation houses he owned down South, one Creole (the true Louisiana Creole) and one American. Lunch was lovely, as were the endless rooms, the paintings, the birds. As was he. So much fun.

Blue hair. Truly amazing.

Blue Hair (pt. 1)

Mon, 31 May 2010 08:05:36 -0400

"Blue hair?" I turned and inquired with shock to my friend Javier, almost hitting him with my bag which contained an antique shawl that had once belonged to Mary Todd Lincoln.

"Yep! He has blue hair now!" Javier replied.

An antique shawl that had belonged to the 16th First Lady herself was not the kind of thing you usually bring to lunch, but I was on my way to do just that. I was visiting a special someone who invited me to an afternoon meal at his studio.

His West Village loft was a seventy-room "eighth wonder of the world" loft overlooking the Hudson. The rooms were all painted in different colors and contained massive collections of art, as well as Gothic revival and antebellum furniture which was dispersed with live, fluttering ornithological collections in fantastic cages.

He also owned, amongst other things, a large mansion up north that was apparently haunted by the ghost of the 16th American President himself, and that's why I was carrying the shawl, as a kind of friendly talisman. I wanted to bring it along. This person was a great artist, and someone I was just getting to know. He was a new friend.

Anyway, it was when I was stepping onto the platform of the downtown E train en route with the haunted gift that I ran into a ghost from my past: Javier. I hadn't seen him in almost twenty years, when we used to work together. He was from Trinidad–a gifted, talented and artistic boy, brimming with personality. As we rode along we settled into conversation with ease, as if the two decades separating us meant nothing. But when he said the words "blue hair" it caused my jaw to loosen for a few seconds, and my bubbly how-are-yous to turn to instant interrogation.

"You mean like punk or something?" I asked.

"I guess so... but it's really just blue actually." He answered.

"Blue hair" I said pensively, turning to face forward again.

"Yep! Blue hair." he repeated.

I clutched the haunted shawl inside the bag to my chest. My mind began to drift back into my childhood. I remembered seeing little old ladies who had giant spun orbs of bouffant hair, dyed in that oh-so-subtle shade of blue and wrapped in a thin tulle scarves, teetering down the streets of New Orleans like walking light bulbs.

"How old is he now?" I asked.

"Oh... sixty, or thereabouts." Javier said.

I clutched the bag even closer to my chest as we rode along. Wow. Absolutely everything about that moment (except for the blue hair announcement) took me back... back to the day it all began, almost twenty years ago.

When the genesis of this entire collection of events happened, I was sitting in the middle of my New York apartment. It was a very, very different New York. I was rocking back and forth in a broken swivel chair. I was unshaven and in boxer shorts–which is how you're usually dressed when you're smoking pot and getting stoned out of your head alone in your room in a swivel chair. I dressed like that a lot in those days.

On this day however, the phone suddenly rang. My answering machine picked up and I heard "Marc, this is Jack. I'm calling from the office of José Maligno." I stopped rocking. Inside my head, my mind told my eyes to widen in amazement and, after what seemed like thirty minutes, my eyes actually did widen. Yet the brief message played on in real, non-stoned time; "If you're there, pick up the phone." I sat there immobilized, wide-eyed and stoned (quite literally). Why would someone who didn't even know me ask such a thing? And, more importantly, why was the office of José Maligno, one of the most respected designers of the time, and one of my all-time heroes, having one of his interior designers calling me? Was I hallucinating? Did my dealer sell me the wrong thing by mistake? My entire being was now frozen, so that my ears and brain could hear every millisecond of sound that came out of the answering machine's tinny, plastic speaker (just to give you an idea of my situation; this was the same tape player I used to play music on when I had guests over, because I didn't have a stereo system).

I then recalled that a friend of mine was also a friend of the firm's shopper, Brian. He must have told Jack about me.

The message continued to say that they had looked me up, and since it was Friday and they had some free time, they were wondering if they could interview me... oh, and please bring my portfolio. By this time I decided that yes, this was really happening. That's when the anxiety began to creep in. Half of my being sat there soaking in the moment, but the other half of me was already mentally projecting myself out of my apartment and onto the sidewalk.

I quickly got showered, shaved, dressed (tight alligator shoes, my tight suit, a loose tie and a big smile) and hit the streets, leaving in my wake curlicue wafts of smoke streaming out of my apartment and into the New York air as I exited.

My focus was at a finite point. I went to the Decorator and Designer's building (the 'D&D' for those in the trade) on Third Avenue. I shopped for two hours. I filled bag after bag with the most luscious fabrics, the chic-est trends, the most divine velvets and most expensive silks. I was on a mission and spending too much time futzing over each choice was not an option. My mind worked like a calculator, adding up what I already knew, divided by what I thought they wanted, and subtracting what I thought they would expect me to know. I worked like one of those multi-armed contraptions from a Dr. Seuss cartoon, robotically rolling down the aisles as my many extend-o arms reached out–grabbing, yanking, con-yopling and ter-floping.

When I had everything acquired, I stopped to take a deep breath. Then I took the next step. I drew from my experience as a photo stylist and put my camera's eye to work. I actually photo-styled my bags. Everything I had taken out on memo (borrowed) was now hanging out oh-so casually and oh-so visibly. But not too casually and not too visibly and, most important, not too obviously. Like a lot of great things, it's what you don't see but think might be there that makes the greatest impression. So I find it's best to scream with "nuance."

The bags were ready. They were beautiful, and I had three on each arm. I looked altogether like Marco Polo returning from the Orient and ready for his close-up. I rushed over to José Maligno's office and announced that I needed to see Jack.

"No I don't have an appointment, but he called me.” I said to the receptionist, drawing no attention whatsoever to my bags.

The man who had introduced himself on my answering machine as Jack came out to greet me, and I smiled. As he led me into the library I told him that, while I had just been out shopping for clients, I stopped to call my answering machine and received his message. He was glad.

We quickly got to the matter at hand. As I placed my bags carefully down on the carpeted floor, he told me they were looking for a shopper to replace someone who worked there. The person they were looking to replace was named Brian. I'll confess now that I actually knew that all of this might happen, I was just not aware of the timing. Brian had gotten the job a while ago because of his connections. Of course everything was due to a connection back then, and landing a job with José Maligno through a circuit of connections was not hard – as long as those connections had labels, or titles. Anyone who worked for him had met him through some sort of glamorous or spectacular series of events. I say glamorous and spectacular with a hint of irony because the man who was in charge of everything surrounding me at that moment, José Maligno, was a clamoring poseur. Now twenty years later, I learn that he has blue hair.

Back then he wore Armani suits, Hermes bow ties, carried a fancy crocodile briefcase, wore Belgian loafers (also a favorite of mine; they're like wearing bedroom slippers all day long), all of it terribly important. He would say that if he hadn't become an architect he'd have been an English professor. He purchased an apartment with rooms worthy of a palace. That is, if you didn't count its unobstructed view of the on-ramp to the Queensboro Bridge, which leads to the place he hailed from. He had run so fast and so far, only to see the threshold of the shadowed sections of his beginnings. While the apartment was being designed, it was realized that his dressing room entrance into the hall would not meet the handicap requirements demanded by law. "It's really okay." he quipped, "I promise I'll never have crippled people over." The custom-fabricated dressing room closets were filled with the hand-made loafers, Hermes bow ties and Armani suits. Years later these items would be replaced when, like Karl Lagerfeld, he would "butch up" his act and re-fill the closets with sleeveless leather tunics, leather biker pants, leather hats, biker boots and chrome chains that would hang from hip to hip. A fashionable Hells Angels look, tres chic.

He would return inter-office memos with spelling and grammar corrected in red. But then he would open his mouth and you could heard that sort of faux British accent that he had somehow developed (via his hometown of Bayside, Queens, no doubt).

But back to Brian. Brian had been ripe for the picking because, well, he had been traveling in Europe a few years earlier with his girlfriend and one day, while riding rented bicycles in London, a Duke (and cousin of the Queen) ran into him with his car, severely injuring Brain's leg. The Duke took Brian back to his home to nurse him to health, and he never really left. When he was better the Duke took him to various places and introduced him to his inner circle of friends. In the course of that time, Brian and his girlfriend broke up.

Divorced of his romantic ties, and under the friendship and care of one of the most important society people in England, Brian inevitably found himself being introduced to everyone who was anyone in England, even shaking hands with those in the outer reaches of Europe.

By the time the day came for Brian to return to the States, he was on a first name basis with everybody. When I say everybody, I mean exactly that. And, of course, the ties Brian made in Europe acted as a signal flare for José Maligno, who at that time was always, in his mind, picking and choosing the people he would hope to get to know one day while calculating his rise to the top step by step and person by person. Many of those people José hoped to meet knew and adored Brian. So Brian was given a golden ticket to move in permanently under Mr. Maligno's wing, and there you have it.

But that boisterous soap opera was, quite appropriately, all in the early 1980's. Time went on, and with it the world. Although nobody knew then, the reason Brian was now looking for a replacement was because he had been diagnosed with AIDS. Thus, he had given my name to Jack, and there I was.

During our meeting in the library, Jack was soon joined by a man named Russell. The three of us went over my selections, all of which they adored. They helped me put schemes together for my imaginary clients. Questions popped up throughout our meeting, and I had answers that lit up their faces. I, in turn, asked questions that sparked more discussions and ideas amongst them. The conversation flowed like great wine and the cornucopia just snowballed. That moment was akin to the feeling of finally placing the final piece of a giant jigsaw puzzle into place, stepping back, and taking a sigh of relief.

Jack walked out of the room to go speak with someone, and I talked alone with Russell (who would later become my nemesis (he kept a bottle of spring water under his desk and I can't tell you how many times I yearned to pee in it while he was out). After a few minutes Jack came back in and said, "When can you start?"

They probably thought I was going to say "Well with all this work I'm obviously doing, let's say one month?" But just three hours earlier I had been seriously contemplating going to D'Agostino's grocery to apply for a bag-man job. So I planted my tongue firmly in my left cheek, holding back my initial impulse (which was 'Right now!'), paused and calmly said, "Monday?" My cards were now on the table, but so what? I had played a winning hand, and besides, it was a lovely table.

So thus began my career with the most illustrious, the most famous, the most coveted architectural and design firm in the world. Lucky me. And I wasn't stuck in the office either, I was an "independent," as a Cuban aristocrat who worked there at the time once dubbed me. I was allowed to roam, explore, and find adventure within the rich avenue corridors and hidden canyon-like streets of the city and beyond, hunting for the treasures that Mr. Maligno's clients would want to possess.

When I was back at the offices. I witnessed the unveiling and re-packaging of some of the most magnificent objects that could possibly make their way in and out of any place. Their brilliance was matched only be the people with the appropriately refined tastes to be let in to select them. In the beginning I learned to suppress my shocked gasps of surprise as these masterpieces were unveiled before me again and again during the span of a day. But I never got used to it. Not once. It was simply fantastic.

I'll give you one example. There was a client, the daughter of a luggage baron. Her collection included the last Dowager Empress's inlaid tables, Peter the Great's silver tureens, Catherine the Great's libation cups, and an assortment of Fabergé frames. The client was of Russian stock, but despite appearances was from the other side of the fence. She was of peasant Russian stock, particularly Jewish peasant village stock. It is of note that these same people who might have inspired the famous play, Fiddler On the Roof, now had become high society New Yorkers. Their family had risen to prominence in New York and lived rich lives in what had been Doris Duke's former New York digs. There, they collected the treasures of the Czars, great paintings, and priceless artifacts from history. Almost every exchange that took place at the office was filled with that level of global intrigue.

Everything there was something that you felt required a moment of silence, if only to look at it, let alone handle it. It wasn't just a Louis XVI fireplace screen, for instance, it had belonged to Marie Antoinette in the Petit Trianon. It wasn't a beautiful bust of Thomas Jefferson, it had been the Jean Antoine Houdon bust that had been posed for by Thomas Jefferson himself while in Paris. The things that I saw, the things that I held, the things that I handled, the things that I brought to be repaired, they were hallowed beyond measure. I was constantly remarking to myself in private how honored I felt to be in the presence of these fine treasures, which probably contained traces of molecules from the people who had once owned them. It was the closest I ever felt to being able to travel back in time.

But now all of that faded away upon hearing that this man now had blue hair. Blue hair! Back then Mr. Maligno had crunchy hair. It was kinky brown and framed a pale face. José was not an overly unattractive person, but he possessed a Slavic face, with a pasty completion–one might mistake his head for a bread loaf unless it moved. He had an ugly laugh, and his debasing jokes, which usually amused only him, were at the expense of others. Making others tense was like breathing oxygen to him.

His acid-tinged, megaphone mouth was his skull's centerpiece (which his head also sometimes resembled, a skull with flames shooting out behind it), usually aiming itself at some unwilling office victim. At the drop of a hat, he would use profanity in that inexplicably talented and toxic way that could leave one horrified, dismayed and above all without a retort. I would stare in curious awe as avalanches of words like "You fucking mongoloid shitfaced fuck! How could you make such a mistake?" would tumble from his teeth and permanently seize the ears of some poor, helpless person–sometimes during their first day on the job.

He never looked them in the face when attacking, but looked down at his feet, often shaking his head and hands. This made the verbal attacks all the more surreal, or perhaps brilliant. What an experience in abject horror those moments were.

For reasons I should have been suspicious of at the time, I was immune to that kind of behavior from him. Whether he felt no need to treat me that way, or perhaps he did and I just didn't realize it, I don't know.

Many often wondered behind his back how someone with such abominable people skills could developed a stunningly successful business. I have my own theory. I think he actually made a deal with the devil, and I almost have proof. One part of my job was shopping for precious textiles. They were often beautiful 17th, 18th or 19th century scraps of cloth with stitching, or embroider velvets with threads of gold and silver running through the weave. These delicate pieces probably belonged in a museum, but instead would be used to upholster stool seats and cover throw pillows. I remember often shouting at work "Hey, don't throw that pillow! It may disintegrate in mid air!"

One afternoon while shopping for these kinds of things at Dalva Bothers (an amazing townhouse on East 57th Street, the best shopping street in Manhattan), I unearthed some dusty old boxes of material. In them I found piles of unbelievably gorgeous textiles. They all had stunning embroidery and were very old. I returned to work to show José my discovery. As I unfolded one rather large piece in his office, it wasn’t until the thing was opened that I realized it was a cope, or church vestment for a catholic priest. Jose took one look and let out an uncontrollable shriek, screaming, "Get it out, get it out!" I nearly leapt out of my skin! I grabbed the textiles like a pile of wet newspaper and scrambled out of the room, shocked and disappointed, and wondering what had happened. Then I put it together. Those church fabrics–none of which were hand worked with in any Christian motif, but were from a church–caused a violent reaction in him. That explains his rise to the top, his guardian angel is a demon.

Actually, after I pondered that event, I realized this demonic force might also explain another mystery. Often while in José’s office during meetings, a smell would suddenly permeate the air, unannounced. Obviously, it was José causing it. It happened all the time, but of course no one ever said anything. It was an obnoxious odor, the distinct smell of wet sulfur–a sure sign!

But, Satan's little helper found me amusing I suppose, he seemed to genuinely like me. This all in turn meant that I got along very well there. I flourished. Well, I flourished there until I met a blond boy in the elevator that I would eventually fall in...

Part two of Blue Hair, next week

Lunch is my Favorite Sport (pt.2)

Mon, 24 May 2010 08:05:15 -0400

Over the course of the conversation I gathered that she was calling from a lovely 18th century West Indies plantation home in Barbados. She chatted and giggled in that way she does, and she and Mr. Thompson swapped inside jokes and laughed. Sissy joined in and promised to make her salted roasted almonds for some undetermined future date when they would convene. I sat and perfected my technique of maintaining a relaxed smile while almost having a heart attack, which I had been working on all day.

Mr. Thompson and Sissy said their goodbyes to Claudette and we exited the study. It was then that it dawned on me that Claudette had been the woman in the mysterious oil portrait in the hallway!

In the adjoining library, which was also filled with exquisite art and antiques, we were seated and served yet another gin and tonic along with a tray of finger sandwiches. Oh yes, lunch. Why not have a picnic in the middle of a virtual Metropolitan Museum of Art? I turned and quietly asked Sissy, "Is it okay that we've had all these cocktails?" I had to return to the office after this! Sissy lit a cigarette and said, “Darling, I’m going to have a lot more than this,” as she chuckled. I lit a cigarette, too.

That moment of mutual resignation was suddenly broken when, without warning, the library doors flung wide open. A cluster of eight flailing (exquisitely dressed) arms transported by eight (impeccably tailored) clomping legs scurried into the room. Somewhere in that cluster of hurried limbs were four gentlemen who had bolted into the room with great excitement and some aggravation. Mr. Thompson stood and began speaking with them immediately, without even introducing us. Sissy leaned over and informed me that they were curators of four separate museums from different cities from across the country (Cincinnati, Kansas City, Seattle and... can’t remember the last one). The rapid conversation continued between the five men, during which I heard phrases like "unheard of" and "import laws" and "priceless" tossed about.

Soon Mr. Thompson changed his demeanor and, turning to all of us, announced that he had something to show. Something that we, and particularly they, the curators, would have never seen before–recently or any other time.

The four curators were seated as Mr. Thompson walked over and drew the heavy library curtains himself. It actually got quite dark inside the room. Two small and very bright desk lamps were brought over to the coffee table in the center of where we were all sitting, which were turned on simultaneously like little spotlights. Suddenly everyone's face was lit from underneath due to the light reflected off the table–a spooky effect that would become more appropriate as the proceedings continued.

For the first act, in fluttered the house boy, knowing he was on stage and tickled to death. The four curators looked on with anticipation. What was about to happen? I actually went from feeling suddenly privileged to feeling a bit apprehensive. The house boy produced a silver-domed serving tray, which he brought from behind his back with an extended gesture. This caused the four curators to "ohh" and "ahh!" He lowered the silver domed tray into the lit area on the coffee table, which gleamed in the two lights. The four curators leaned forward with big smiles, almost rubbing their hands with delight.

The boy lifted the tray lid. On the tray was what appeared to me to be nothing more than a sand-colored cup turned on its upside and with a crude painting on its side. But when the four curators looked upon it, a small avalanche of gasps came forth. They stood up, went for a closer look and almost just touched it as though it was the Holy Grail. Thompson then said, “wait a minute.” The tray was placed on the table and in walked the house boy with yet another tray holding three more of the same pieces. Well, I thought that two of the curators were going to faint because they did have to sit down again.

But Thompson wasn’t finished with his show. Following in a steady procession, the house boy presented four large jugs, which the things we had seen had merely been the lids of. Once the jugs were on the table, all jaws were on the floor. Well, I'll honestly say mine wasn't, until I learned exactly what was going on.

I came to understand that, in collections of such things, only cracked fragments of what had been mere single lids to these pieces had been seen. Now, not only were there four perfect lids, but astoundingly, four perfect jugs. These were funerary pieces. Ancient, and absolutely, positively impossible to have brought out of China. But Mr. Thompson has his ways. So there we sat. It was something that I may not ever see the likes of again.

For the first time since they had entered the room, the four curators were speechless. Their quiet moment was merely an intermission because what followed was a huge discussion. There was big business going on. Sissy and I continued to eat finger sandwiches–a perfect lunch–occasionally winking at each other and smiling as we pretended to know exactly what was being said. I didn't need to. I was just sitting there in Mr. Thompson’s apartment surrounded by awe-inspiring artifacts, my feet resting on an imperial Chinese carpet, his lovely dog (who had found her way into the library and, amongst all the excitement, curled up in a cocoon right beside me – occasionally rubbing her head lovingly against my hand). I was just drinking it all in as I continued to sip my cocktail.

As the business proceedings grew more complex, I decided it was time to return to work. I happily went through the reverse machinations of etiquette required in saying goodbye to people, events and situations you have experienced for the first time, and bid my adieu.

The elevator took me back down to earth. As I walked through Central Park, down towards 57th Street, I thought of the afternoon. It wasn't even 2 o'clock yet.

Lunch. It's my favorite sport.

Lunch is my Favorite Sport (pt. 1)

Mon, 17 May 2010 08:05:41 -0400

Lunch is my favorite sport. No event offers more thrills, spills, challenges and rewards. The "eating" part? That's usually just the intermission. This is the story of a lunch that took place several years ago in New York.

I was on an assignment for Mr. Maligno that, because of everyone's busy schedules, had inevitably turned into a lunch date. Mr. Maligno had a client whose normal business was ladies' gowns, accessories and so forth–all with double fees. The client had purchased a valuable, ancient Asian bronze piece, and Mr. Maligno had arranged for his friend Sissy Cahan to have her friend John Thompson go over to the client's apartment to authenticate and appraise it. Mr. Thompson was a connoisseur of Asian artifacts who, amongst other things, had greatly assisted the Asia Society with their collection at Park Avenue and 70th Street. I was the middle man.

At the onset of the lunching hour, the three of us boarded Mr. Thompson's purple Cadillac and set sail on the sunny, bustling streets of upper Manhattan, destined for bronze treasure. Well, we didn't "set sail" so much as "floated." The car clambered from lane to lane almost in reverse, dodging walls of honking cars and traffic clusters at every intersection. Did I mention this was on the same day the newly-freed Nelson Mandela was visiting our fair metropolis? New York City being thrown into a state of (even more) chaos is its own way by showering respect onto an important person, and Mr. Mandela certainly deserved it.

The purple behemoth eventually lurched to a stop and I emerged with a newfound appreciation for European compact cars. We had arrived at the location of our treasure, which was nestled within one of the top floors of the Upper East Side apartment building that loomed in front of us. As the doorman ushered us in, the cool air and darkly carpeted and marbled interior of the lobby hit our senses, providing a strong contrast to the loud sun and hot concrete outside.

Poking my head over the elevator operator's deep maroon, ribbon-detailed jacket to peek at the ascending floor button lights, I ran over in my head what I already knew about the apartment we were visiting. It was half a block long and almost a quarter of a block wide, overlooking the reservoir of Central Park. I felt honored showing John and Sissy such a place.

I knew that another renowned woman had once lived there. She was famous for wrap dresses, marrying a prince, and changing the "zu" in her name to a "von." She was now more famous for a complete rebirth of her personal style, which could be “shared” with anyone with a thick wallet. She married a man of dubious sexuality who flew all over the world for his business. She's now on television and he owns a television network. I was acquainted with a handsome young man with alabaster skin (in a good way) who was rumored to be seeing this then-married network mogul. So he'd ascended into the world of the super rich men’s kept boy club. I remember he once unselfconsciously said in my company, “I never fly commercial any longer. I take the jet like it’s a taxi, never commercial.” I could help myself and asked, "Had you ever thought you be spooning in bed with a man your grandfather's age?” It didn't even faze him. Apartments like this were often filled with society power couples or families that were "arranged" in a sort of way. C’est la vie.

The elevator stopped and the operator opened the doors to reveal a private floor entrance. The front entrance had double doors and a doorbell. When the front doors bloomed open, we were reunited with the sun, which poured in on our faces and actually appeared to be coming from somewhere in the center of the large room. The light turned out to be an ample bronze piece reflecting light from a set of windows in the rooms beyond us. However, it was not the bronze piece in question. This glimmering creation looked like a giant railroad tie standing on its side and splintered on top. Through squinting eyes I just made out Sissy's face as she quietly commented, "I guess we'll call that 'art modern.'" John nodded, "Yes, oh yes."

The place was strangely ethereal, like a cathedral. It seemed bathed in a kind of golden light from the many windows that reflected off the exhibited bronzes scattered around the home, all of different ages and locations (many almost as old as the sun itself). One's gaze around the perimeter was constantly interrupted by light. You could make out a Rousseau here, a Matisse there, a Caravaggio, a Canaletton and magnificent French furniture from the 18th century arranged around the best Imperial Bessarabian carpets. It was as if god-like forces were intervening to alternately veil and exhibit wonders with blasting coruscations. No wonder New York socialite types are always wearing large black sunglasses in the daytime; their possessions could possibly cause blindness! Of course under it all was the unmistakable hum of the powerful air conditioners, which churned to chill this glittering sun cave to a brisk temperature.

Walking through several hallways, we reached our destination: a bedroom. Greeting us upon entering was a Renoir, hanging on the wall over a television set opposite the bed (this was before the days of home theaters, mind you). On the opposite wall was a Fragonard. The light in this room was as brilliant as it was in the apartment’s other spaces, but less so because of the heavy curtains on the windows. Strolling past a Warhol portrait of the mistress of the house (a young, pretty woman), we witnessed a truly amazing arrangement of objects; fantastic clothes from all over the world laid out; chains of jewels strewn like dew-dropped spider webs, alternated by glittering clusters of reflection catching light on the bed and carpet, which were gem-encrusted rings or bauble broaches. This would be expected of a woman whose husband privately owned a fashion empire whose double-letter logo had been around for longer than most. I felt like one needed to stop and pay attention to each piece separately, but I led my tour straight through like characters traipsing through an enchanted forest scene in a fairy tale.

We finally arrived to the coveted bronze in question. Mr. Thompson squinted his eyes and looked over the piece, saying after just a few seconds, that he thought it was a "very good piece." With all the grandiosity around us it almost seemed sacrilegious to blurt something like that straight out about a prized object, but that's how experts in their field work.

After that, we sauntered into the bathroom. Actually, I had casually led us there because rested against one wall was a particular bronze bowl I’d earlier arranged to have displayed, knowing it was a 15th century piece that Mr. Thompson would probably be interested in. How could you not notice a glittering bronze bowl sitting against a field of white marble? His eyes, of course, zeroed right in on it. I remember him saying something like "Oh, yes... look at that!" He looked sideways at me and said, “That’s not my field. I can’t tell you about it.” Well, that was that!

With our work done, Sissy and Mr. Thompson chatted a bit more about bronzes and history as we found our way back to the front entrance. On our way out of the apartment we passed a large bronze urn that Mr. Thompson declared a fraud.

We left the hushed, glistening cavern and entered the dark elevator which was already waiting for us in the foyer. We quietly discussed the enormity of the apartment and the collection within. We hit the lobby and the three of us popped out of the building's front door, hitting street level again. I personally felt it was a job well done.

I thought I would be parting ways with Sissy and Mr. Thompson, and return to home base but Mr. Thompson invited Sissy and me for a quick bite. Oh yes, after all, this was lunch.

The traffic was still in a stagnant state of bleeping, wheezing vehicles. Even a taxi seemed pointless. "Why don't we walk?" Mr. Thompson suggested, turning his head as he looked down the avenue, away from his parked, trapped Cadillac. Great idea.

We strolled from our location on 87th Street and Fifth Avenue, and eventually stopped at a little place on 81st Street between Madison and Fifth that I believe was Mr. Thompson’s cocktail lounge. To be honest, to this day I don't even know exactly where we were at that moment but I do know that since then the Madison Avenue space has served as a variety of other things.

We entered and, once again, felt the contrast between loud, bright outside and the darker, hushed interior–which in this case was dark shades of forest green and polished wood alternated with cut glass and brass. We were greeted by an incredibly handsome, younger, WASP-y man. He treated Mr. Thompson with stone-faced deference, Sissy with stone-faced respect, and me with stone-faced disinterest. The equalizer was our poison: when we each ordered a gin and tonic, the young man shot us all the same warm smile. We were served a small lunch as we talked about the events of the day.

The chatter amongst us was soon interrupted by a ringing phone. Mr. Thompson said, "Oh excuse me," as he set it to speaker and said, "Hello?" while looking up into the air. I heard a loud, distinct voice coming over the line. It took me about a microsecond to realize that it was Frank Sinatra! I'd recognize that legendary toupee anywhere. Even over a speaker phone. I kept my cool, but honestly I had that feeling inside my stomach like when you take a fast dip on a roller coaster. We listened as he and Mr. Thompson had a rather bawdy conversation during which several parts of the female anatomy were named using non-medical terms. I glanced over at Sissy, who just looked at me and widened her eyes at each thing they said. I'm sure she was smiling (I couldn't exactly tell, she was sucking on a lime wedge). As soon as Frank realized that Sissy was there too, a friendly rapid-fire "Hello darling, hello darling,” erupted from the phone and they started to chat loudly.

The feeling in my stomach passed and I just sat there soaking it all in, raising my clinking glass with one elbow propped on the bar (my other arm was down by my thigh, which was now practically black and blue from repeatedly pinching myself). Frank just yammered away out of the little speaker box as the three of us sat there–it was almost like the opening scene in an episode of Charlie's Angels! I'll admit that for anyone meeting Mr. Sinatra in person would be a memorable experience. But meeting him over a speaker phone while sitting in a cocktail lounge in uptown Manhattan, I can't exactly put my finger on why, it just seems ten times as memorable.

As Mr. Thompson said goodbye to Mr. Sinatra, we finished up and then ambled outdoors again. As the sun hit my face again, I looked up the street and realized Campbell's funeral home was just around the corner. As someone who adored Judy Garland (it's where her widely attended funeral services were), and having just met Frank Sinatra the way I did, I felt a slight dizziness. Physically I was of course fine; I was just having a "New York Moment" in the truest sense of the word. Those of you who have lived for a length of time in the city will know what I'm talking about.

True to its form, just like that, the moment was gone. We continued to stroll south along Fifth Avenue. The traffic had let up a bit, but was still in a state of chaos. Somehow we deduced that Mr. Mandela was apparently en route from the United Nations to Yankee Stadium.

We headed further down Fifth towards Mr. Thompson’s apartment. I was soon to learn that due south of this particular area was a much more fashionable neighborhood. His apartment was on Fifth Avenue and stretched above Central Park in the east 70s. He had an entire floor in the same building where Bubbles Rothermere lived. She earned the name "Bubbles" because she liked to drink Dom Perignon pink champagne flat, served over ice. (I had visited her apartment after she passed away, a magnificent place that had a style all its own–a perfect example of Elsie De-Wolf).

We were greeted at his door by an Asian house boy in full uniform: white starched top, black tuxedo striped pants and patent leather shoes. Standing next to him was a tremendous, and very old golden retriever. The dog gently tugged at the rein the boy was holding him with, and when the boy let go it pranced towards me, stopped at my feet, and licked my hand. We were led into the living room, and I followed, wiping my hand on my handkerchief. As we walked in, the dog proceeded to follow right alongside my legs, and jumped up next to me when I sat down.

"I can’t imagine why she’s being so friendly with you," Mr. Thompson said as he asked the boy to serve us another round of gin and tonics, "She doesn't really like anyone... at least not since Sunny’s been hospitalized."

The dog sat next to my lap, and licked and licked. Hearing Sunny’s name, I recalled two sofas I had purchased from the thrift store on 77th Street between 2nd and 3rd Avenues. This thrift store was always overflowing with great finds, and these two pieces of furniture were no exception; they had been dropped off there by Sotheby's. It was only after one had become an ever-shifting repository for all my fine linens, decorative work and good upholstery that I found out they had both belonged to Sunny von Bulow! She now to this day lays in a comatose state in a room at Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital, a freesia bouquet resting at her side. A gin and tonic was placed in my hand as I came to the realization that this dog had obviously sniffed me out.

Mr. Thompson decided that since I was kind enough to show him Mr. Maligno's client’s apartment, he should return the favor by giving me the grand tour of his own apartment. Goody.

It felt like the whole day had been a string of events, each trying to chronologically out-do one another. As it was barely past noon, I was anticipating nothing less than an earth-shattering climax by three o'clock.

Mr. Thompson 's home was–need I say it–an understated palace. Walking through the apartment again created an alternating rhythm of darkness and light. It was much larger than the one we had just visited, filled with exquisite Asian treasures. As we progressed from room to room, we saw one artifact after another, each of its own heritage and descent. It was like Charles Foster Kane's mansion was being used for an episode of The Price Is Right. You couldn't imagine what was going to be behind the next curtain, and you didn't dare guess the price! It was magnificent.

In one of the hallways were two walls of beautiful oil portraits. I noticed one in particular, a vaguely familiar woman's face. I couldn’t place exactly where I recognized her from, or why.

Our expedition came to a halt when the phone suddenly rang. Mr. Thompson answered it in one of the studies and began merrily chatting with someone while Sissy and I stood there. He motioned us into the room with his hand as he laughed with the person on the other end. We gathered around the desk right as he hung up the phone and flicked a switch to put it on speaker. Out of the phone came a ringing, honey voice that I somehow recognized. It wasn't until Mr. Thompson called her by name that I realized it was Claudette Colbert!

…part two of Lunch is my Favorite Sport coming next Monday.

The Boat (pt. 2)

Mon, 3 May 2010 11:05:45 -0400

She was sitting on the dark banquette, and her torso being long, she had the appearance of someone with average height. That's why she didn't want to dance!

"What would you have done if she had said yes?" Harry asked while laughing.

"I would have danced and danced." I said.

We seemed to attract trouble even when in high spirits. I'll never forget, the crew was angry with Harry and me at one point when they had an emergency drill, and we were told to put our life vests on and all gather in the appropriate area. During the drill, we decided to do a little shopping inside this charming little Hermes store we discovered on the way to the escape route. I was picking up items and examining them, and Harry looked at me and said "Marc, you should really save your money and get out of debt.”

"Out of debt?" I replied, in the deserted store in the middle of a sinking ship, "That's like being skinny!"

One of the cruise staff briskly walked by and looked in at us casually browsing. "That's not where you should be," they snapped, "Get up on deck!" They actually snapped at us!

We stood out there amongst some of the other passengers, and Harry said, "If we have to wait for the people on this boat to be loaded into the life boats, we're definitely going to be down, under and drowned." I couldn't believe I was laughing, but it was true! "They say women and children first," he continued, "but there aren't any children on this boat, that's for sure. If there are children, that means that the 80 year old women and their 60 year old kids will be getting in the boats faster than we will." We both laughed.

Finally, the boat reached England, and I felt a bit reborn. In all it was a six day trip. We disembarked, were loaded onto buses, and brought to an area in London where they opened the doors, and, for the most part, said, "Get off." After six days on a boat together, Harry and I needed a break from each other, and so we went to our hotel, he in his room, I in mine. We did our own things. Harry left the next day, and I soon learned it wasn't that he was just a little tired of being around me, but was frankly happy to be rid of me. I stayed two more days in London, I ran into friends, went into some chic places, had dinner at the SOHO house, constantly wafting my hands in the air because people smoke like chimneys over there and I can't stand cigarettes. All the while, I kept calling Beth because I had never being able to reach her. I called and called ...and called. I flew to Prague on the third day to meet my family. All the while, continuing to call, "Beth, Beth, it's Marc." Finally, while in Prague, and a week after leaving the Queen Mary, I reached her. She was very stiff response on the phone.

"Well hi Beth!" I said.

There was a long pause and then she said, "I think we need to take a break."

What are you talking about?" I asked.

"It's your phone calls. Marc, you're insane. You've called and called and acted as though I did something to you." she half-yelled.

"Oh no," I said, "you don't understand. I was calling you as a friend!"

"If that's how you treat your friends," she said, "then perhaps it's better not to be one." and hung up on me.

I always went on and on to my friends like that in a crisis. I always needed an ear to chew when I had a problem. When I reach out in need, I reach out with octopus arms–everybody hears from me. Beth just didn't know me that well, and she thought I was placing blame specifically on her, accusing her of shoddy arrangements. I wasn't, I just needed a shoulder to cry on.

How awful, this thing that was supposed to be so lovely, and so much fun, and she was so happy to have done it for me. No matter how much I tried to think about it or wish, the fact that Beth felt hurt devastated me. I suddenly felt like reaching out to even more friends by phone to console me. Then I decided against it. I suddenly remembered she had given me a noise machine for the trip, which I still use every night to put me to sleep. I don't even know how to set the thing, but the soft sound of crickets puts me to sleep every night to this day, it really was the best new discovery about the entire voyage. I'd need it to get to sleep on the night Beth told me she didn't want to be my friend, that's for sure.

While I traveled around Prague with my family, we visited castles, palaces, churches... places like that. I finally got to see the famous Infant Jesus of Prague. I was a bit disappointed. When I heard that the statue had spoken in the 17th century, I found out that it was to tell someone that he didn't have his hands, and needed replacements! That was the whole deal! I thought it was something more miraculous than that. He was nothing more than a little Jesus drag queen. He had red garments and purple ones, gold, green, black, white–every kind of gown, with capes and crowns. They would change these little outfits in a succession of feast days or holidays or saints days or different seasons of the Catholic calendar. I remembered back when I had my own little Infant of Prague, my aunt, sly as she was, said, "I know why you have that. It's like a dress-up doll that can't be criticized because it represents our Savior." Now, I thought, "Exactly."

But even that didn't cheer me up. There I was. Harry was gone and angry. Beth was gone and angry. I'd be going back to London for another two days, feeling sorry for myself, again, and probably humming "A Foggy Day in London Town" even if the city was bright and beautiful. I reluctantly loaded myself and my luggage back onto the jet to head home. The mental baggage was a carry-on. The plane ride ended up being a bit of a surprise. My seat became a bed, and they treated me very well. Some famous rap star was in first class with his posse, and they were having a big celebration, so that made for fun. I slept like a baby.

The jet landed and I went back to my apartment. I was greeted at the door by my dogs, my precious babies Gomez and Magi (Benny hadn't arrived yet, he hadn't even been born!). Oh, it was never so good to be home. Unpacking was a monumental task that made me want to go on vacation all over again. I needed a forklift to unpack these huge cases full of seersucker suits, navy blazers, white linen trousers, cashmere cardigans, one tuxedo, one dress jacket, twelve different shirts, four different cummerbunds and bow ties, all of those pocket squares, four pairs of shoes, alligator sandals... oh, simply ridiculous!

I got back into my routine, which wasn't easy. I don't travel on my own, and never leave town for two weeks for anything, other than going to New Orleans to deal with family issues, or client jobs. I discovered I was really out of sorts. It took me three days to get back into the swing. Phone calls to Beth still went unanswered. Harry and I had, of course, patched up our differences in no time flat. One delightful surprise was when he presented me with photographs from our trip. I flipped through them, smiling. There were actually boxes and bags of photos from the entire journey. But the ones we decided were good enough to earn the title "photos of our trip" fit in one small envelope, and there are just twenty one of these.

The first one shows a woman with her walker.

The second one, two people dressed formally for dinner, walking in unison on their canes.

The third one, a man popping a wheelie with his wife in a wheelchair, as he tried to get her into an elevator.

The fourth one, an enormously fat woman, rolling against the wall as her escort pulled in the opposite direction to keep her balanced. Drunk?

The fifth one, two little, tiny people, shrunken with age, crawling on two canes each, into the dining room.

This goes on and on and on for twenty one pictures, ending in a wonderful shot of me in a seersucker suit and Ferrangamo spectator shoes, sitting in a shiny red motorized wheelchair. Such bad taste...but oh, so funny.

A week after my return, my next door neighbor, a young and handsome twenty-two year old, was telling me his family was going for a cruise on the Queen Mary. I told him, "Oh, I'll show you some photographs when you return."

"Why can't I see them now?" he asked.

"Because you should see them when you return." I said simply.

When he did, he looked through the pack, then looked at me and said, "Man, this is hysterical. This is exactly what it was like!"

Days after, I finally got into the swing of things. I found I was missing the boat, and the trip in general. It's funny how you always miss what you don't have, and I honestly missed Beth. She'd been fun. She was young and fresh, and had a great outlook. She hadn't worked for the long amount of time that I had, and was still new and enjoying her career. I found that when I was around her, that energy could be shared. I did miss her.

It wasn't until two years later when she suddenly popped back into my life. I was crossing the street from my apartment, and ran smack into her. It was a bit awkward, but we smiled and I chatted with her, eventually saying, "We should have sushi." She said she'd love to.

We made a date. I met her in front of our renowned greasy chopstick. We entered the doors, sat down, and ordered our plates. I had the most unhealthy thing you can have from the menu, fried tempura shrimp rolls. She had salmon. We smiled and chit-chatted, laughed, and promised to see each other again, and did. It became a tradition. We were never as close as we were before, of course, but at least now we had the greasy chopstick. We went from knowing each other, and the promise of sharing stories of the Queen Mary II out on the high ocean, to sitting there, really enjoying ourselves and rebuilding our friendship...with raw fish on chopsticks. Actually, those lunches with Beth were more enjoyable than any meal I had on the boat.

The good thing about the boat was that it gave me something to talk about at cocktail parties, something to laugh about when I had a comparison to make, "Oh yes, well, this reminds me of when on the boat..."

The best line on the boat was when Harry was talking to someone that neither of us could actually see. There was this very interesting woman who used to sit out on the deck very late at night and smoke cigarettes. She was quite old, so much so that her head had kind of recessed into the shoulders of her parka jacket. She was almost like some sort of ghoulish but friendly sea ghost. We struck up a conversation with her, and Harry said, "My friend has never been on a cruise before, and I've been on several."

But you're not on one now." the woman said from beneath her coat

Well," Harry said quizzically, "of course we are."

"No, my boy." she said, pulling her cigarette up to her collar to take another puff, "We are on a voyage."

I learned that a voyage is across the sea. A cruise is island-hopping and port-hopping. So, we were on a voyage. We had been on a voyage.

Life is a voyage, and my life has been, and still is, like that voyage. Full of treats and special wonder, arguments and makeups, dress-ups and dress-downs, real disappointments and funny disappointments, too much food, too much booze, not enough dancing...but still a lot of laughs. I was able to share this reflection with Beth, and she agreed. We smiled as we realized the voyage had served as the catalyst, and a promise, of more lunches at the greasy chopstick to come.