What would Travis do?
[1904 Reference: Radie Harris (1904-2001), journalist and friend to Broadway denizens and Hollywood stars, best known for her "Broadway Ballyhoo" column in the Hollywood Reporter from the 1940s to 1989.]
Copyright Bianca Dorso
Where we last left off: Oh What a Tangled Web...
"Oh my," I said at last.
We continued to sit across from one another, Pam and I, her story of Didier's adventures between us on the coffee table, roughly the size of a toaster and about the same weight, metaphorically speaking. Had we dared pick it up and shook, ancient crumbs might have been released, as opposed to the proverbial rings a rock in a still pool sets off at about this point in a story -- that pause, pregnant or otherwise, when the characters ponder what has gone before, what secrets have been revealed, what confessions made. Then something happens to distract them -- a falcon swoops down out of the sky or ...
Meanwhile, Didier lay sprawled fast asleep at the opposite end of the sofa from Pam, his head flung back at an odd angle over the armrest, his mouth open, a tiny strand of drool trembling on his lip, oblivious to the cruel world.
"That just can't be comfortable," Pam observed, echoing my own thoughts. She moved to shake him awake.
"Doucement," I cautioned. Gently. It was something we used to say to a beloved dog when we fed her out of our hand; she could take a digit with a Milkbone before anyone heard you scream. Pam rethought her own gesture and patted the sofa slipcover absently instead. "Colefax and Fowler," she commented accurately, tracing a large peony.
"--"
"Oh please," she responded to the sound that could have been taken for shock or at least mild surprise. "Daddy's friends are all decorators. Or they're having their houses done by one. Or sleeping with one. You pick up these things."
I had already begun to revise my opinion of Pam. Yes, she was still a worthy opponent, but she was wiser than I'd given her credit for; she had a better grasp of detail and nuance and fine fabric...
"What do we do with him, then," she asked, "if we don't wake him up?"
I considered the young man whose form in this perfect light seemed artistically composed, draped like some Greek warrior struck down in battle. Or perhaps some Greek marble god arranged to fit the awkward low end of a temple pediment, his toga (or in the present modern day example a t-shirt) riding up and exposing his perfectly chisled abdomen.
"Free Fall in Crimson," I mused, mostly to myself. Then, realizing an explanation was in order I quickly added, "A Travis McGee mystery -- my dad used to read them." He had a stack on his night table. They were all paperbacks with seductive and scantily clad ladies on the covers and colors in the titles. "A Deadly Lemon Sky." "A Purple Kind of Dying." "A Tan and Sandy Silence."
Pam sat back, studying me. "What?" I asked, as if I didn't know.
"What're we gonna do?"
"About?" I tried, feigning ignorance. She waved at the metaphor of the toaster-size mystery before us.
"And Sleeping Beauty," she added, tipping her head in Didier's direction.
"I have to admit," I replied, "the story has pretty much everything. "Deceit, fraud...children of privilege" I added, giving her a look.
"Controlled substances," she put in.
"At least he hasn't been abusing cold medications," I said. "You don't know how I've worried --"
"There are drug dealers looking for him," Pam reminded me, somewhat needlessly.
"Yes, yes," I said, as though trying to diminish the seriousness of the matter.
"Way I see it, we got two choices," Pam announced.
"You realize," I couldn't help saying, "that you have the oddest way of sounding like John Gotti when you get all serious like that."
"Sorry," she said.
"I'm not sure it's a bad thing," I answered. "Pray continue."
"We either get a good lawyer," she said and paused.
"Or?" I said to prompt her.
"Or we get a good book agent."
I immediately warmed to this latter option and edged forward in my seat. "It does rather have a little Theodora Keogh quality about it," I blurted out impulsively. I was thinking of that battererd Signet paperback of "The Double Door" on my own night table, a cheap looking girl in the arms of a swarthy Spanish aristrocrat and the caption, 'A Throbbing Novel of Innocence and Evil' on the cover.
Pam frowned. "I was thinking more Grisham or Clancy."
"Well, that too of course."
"Or maybe LeCarre. Little Drummer Girl but it's Didier in the South of France."
"Absolutement."
"You don't think narrative's dead?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"That's what they say in Japan, you know," she explained matter-of-factly. "Since, like 1995. They are So far ahead of us. They say narrative is totally dead. That the Internet, instantaneous news with no time to react, blah blah blah, so like, there's no history. No history, no narrative, see?"
This was a side of Pam I could scarcely have imagined. I also realized at that moment that she had the voice of a young Delphine Seyrig in a Truffaut film. But which one, I wondered?
"It's hard to believe you're fifteen and sitting here talking about the death of narrative in Japan," I said.
She smiled. "That sounds like it oughta be the punch line to something," she replied.
"I've been writing limericks," I offered, somewhat unhelpfully. Not good ones either.
"Well, we either call the cops or try and get Ludlum's agent on the line, what d'ya say?"
Didier as an even more compelling Jason Bourne, a French Matt Damon, a --
"But Pam, Pam, wait: the part about them wanting to kill Didier, though. I mean, you were exaggerating about that part, right? A little? Some?"
The look on her face said it all.
"Oh dear," I observed.
To Be Continued.
Copyright Bianca DorsoWhere we last left off: Oh What a Tangled Web...
"Oh my," I said at last.
We continued to sit across from one another, Pam and I, her story of Didier's adventures between us on the coffee table, roughly the size of a toaster and about the same weight, metaphorically speaking. Had we dared pick it up and shook, ancient crumbs might have been released, as opposed to the proverbial rings a rock in a still pool sets off at about this point in a story -- that pause, pregnant or otherwise, when the characters ponder what has gone before, what secrets have been revealed, what confessions made. Then something happens to distract them -- a falcon swoops down out of the sky or ...
Meanwhile, Didier lay sprawled fast asleep at the opposite end of the sofa from Pam, his head flung back at an odd angle over the armrest, his mouth open, a tiny strand of drool trembling on his lip, oblivious to the cruel world.
"That just can't be comfortable," Pam observed, echoing my own thoughts. She moved to shake him awake.
"Doucement," I cautioned. Gently. It was something we used to say to a beloved dog when we fed her out of our hand; she could take a digit with a Milkbone before anyone heard you scream. Pam rethought her own gesture and patted the sofa slipcover absently instead. "Colefax and Fowler," she commented accurately, tracing a large peony.
"--"
"Oh please," she responded to the sound that could have been taken for shock or at least mild surprise. "Daddy's friends are all decorators. Or they're having their houses done by one. Or sleeping with one. You pick up these things."
I had already begun to revise my opinion of Pam. Yes, she was still a worthy opponent, but she was wiser than I'd given her credit for; she had a better grasp of detail and nuance and fine fabric...
"What do we do with him, then," she asked, "if we don't wake him up?"
I considered the young man whose form in this perfect light seemed artistically composed, draped like some Greek warrior struck down in battle. Or perhaps some Greek marble god arranged to fit the awkward low end of a temple pediment, his toga (or in the present modern day example a t-shirt) riding up and exposing his perfectly chisled abdomen.
"Free Fall in Crimson," I mused, mostly to myself. Then, realizing an explanation was in order I quickly added, "A Travis McGee mystery -- my dad used to read them." He had a stack on his night table. They were all paperbacks with seductive and scantily clad ladies on the covers and colors in the titles. "A Deadly Lemon Sky." "A Purple Kind of Dying." "A Tan and Sandy Silence."
Pam sat back, studying me. "What?" I asked, as if I didn't know.
"What're we gonna do?"
"About?" I tried, feigning ignorance. She waved at the metaphor of the toaster-size mystery before us.
"And Sleeping Beauty," she added, tipping her head in Didier's direction.
"I have to admit," I replied, "the story has pretty much everything. "Deceit, fraud...children of privilege" I added, giving her a look.
"Controlled substances," she put in.
"At least he hasn't been abusing cold medications," I said. "You don't know how I've worried --"
"There are drug dealers looking for him," Pam reminded me, somewhat needlessly.
"Yes, yes," I said, as though trying to diminish the seriousness of the matter.
"Way I see it, we got two choices," Pam announced.
"You realize," I couldn't help saying, "that you have the oddest way of sounding like John Gotti when you get all serious like that."
"Sorry," she said.
"I'm not sure it's a bad thing," I answered. "Pray continue."
"We either get a good lawyer," she said and paused.
"Or?" I said to prompt her.
"Or we get a good book agent."
I immediately warmed to this latter option and edged forward in my seat. "It does rather have a little Theodora Keogh quality about it," I blurted out impulsively. I was thinking of that battererd Signet paperback of "The Double Door" on my own night table, a cheap looking girl in the arms of a swarthy Spanish aristrocrat and the caption, 'A Throbbing Novel of Innocence and Evil' on the cover.
Pam frowned. "I was thinking more Grisham or Clancy."
"Well, that too of course."
"Or maybe LeCarre. Little Drummer Girl but it's Didier in the South of France."
"Absolutement."
"You don't think narrative's dead?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"That's what they say in Japan, you know," she explained matter-of-factly. "Since, like 1995. They are So far ahead of us. They say narrative is totally dead. That the Internet, instantaneous news with no time to react, blah blah blah, so like, there's no history. No history, no narrative, see?"
This was a side of Pam I could scarcely have imagined. I also realized at that moment that she had the voice of a young Delphine Seyrig in a Truffaut film. But which one, I wondered?
"It's hard to believe you're fifteen and sitting here talking about the death of narrative in Japan," I said.
She smiled. "That sounds like it oughta be the punch line to something," she replied.
"I've been writing limericks," I offered, somewhat unhelpfully. Not good ones either.
"Well, we either call the cops or try and get Ludlum's agent on the line, what d'ya say?"
Didier as an even more compelling Jason Bourne, a French Matt Damon, a --
"But Pam, Pam, wait: the part about them wanting to kill Didier, though. I mean, you were exaggerating about that part, right? A little? Some?"
The look on her face said it all.
"Oh dear," I observed.
To Be Continued.
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