Market Week felt like a marathon bar mitzvah night affair. That live, on-stage, heightened kind of awareness automatically set Harry at his social best; smiling, shaking hands, greeting kisses. Bullshit, but the game had to be played. Look like you're having fun, keep it light, flirt, lay on the sap and schmaltz, ram innuendo down their throats and cruise down Easy Street.
"What's up in Halifax, Mary? You look amazing. You must be in love."
"Can you tell, Harry? DJ finally asked me to marry him."
Too bad she bought into that crap. Harry knew DJ well.
"Michelle ma belle, when are we going to run away together to Club Med?"
"Pay for my ticket and I'm yours."
Too bad she looked like a mackerel.
"Kingston Katie, I thought it was against the law to look so sexy."
"Then I guess I need a spanking."
Yes, for wearing pants that ride up the deep caverns of your crotch and thinking it's a turn-on.
And as deluded as they might be, these gals had game. Ran their own businesses, dressed to the nines, (or at least thought they did), always rough 'n ready to roll the dice.
"Just go ahead, Harry, and write my belt order. I sold out of everything I bought from you last season."
The only ones who believed in him.
"I trust your taste, Harry. If you say I can sell $100 belts with buckles that look like sculptures, then add it to my order."
Not like he was a genius, but when something was hot, it sold everywhere.
"Whatever you say, Harry. You're the star."
Maybe, but in the wrong place. The star in a nook and cranny. The star of The Marginal. Another Lawrence Modell, Prince of the Lonely, host-on-call for those Sweet Sixteen debs whose Saturday night dates were tubs of Ben and Jerry's -- Rocky Road, Cherry Garcia, Ethan Almond. Camped out in their sweats in front of the TV, taking their virtual cruise on The Love Boat, teleporting their dreams to the custody of Ricardo Montalban, Mr. Roarke of Fantasy Island, safe from the daily grind of rejection. But for just one night of their aching teenage lives, for one enchanted magical night, their Sweet Sixteen party, those cast-offs could be princesses. And there, flanked by their, the mitzvah man himself, their muckle-mouthed Prince Charming, Lawrence Modell.
Until the clock struck midnight.
That thought: then: Harry yearned to weep. Unattainable dreams could that.
"Stop dreaming, Harry. There's a customer over there who needs help," Pauline said.
"Yeah, yeah."
Harry couldn't help but notice that Pauline was now thriving at the job. It was like she was co-hosting a major network morning show. Orson and Mary Lou. Fuck, did he hate those two bum-smooching phonies, especially Mary Lou née Miriam Rabinowitz. RA-BI-NO-WITZ. Who was she trying to kid. Now, a born again Christian. Rabinowitz.
And now Harry was co-hosting with Pauline his own show, Live with Pauline and Harry and just as full of shit. This had to stop.
No comments:
Post a Comment