Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Scenes from: An Affair to Remember
It's a spectacular Spring day. Ginette and Harry driving in a red convertible, top down through the winding road hugging the craggy grey cliffs of Mount Royal overlooking Montreal set against the Laurentian mountain range. They're laughing, hair blowing in the wind. All is right, all is beautiful. Basking in the glory of youth in love.
Sunday-in-the-park, a Monet tableau. Ginette and Harry are walking hand-in-hand around Beaver Lake on top of Mount Royal. A Monet tableau. Ginette feeds a small flock of quacking white ducks a hunk of bread. Harry rip-offs a piece to feed the ducks, but recoils and drops the bread, as a cheeky duck nearly snaps off his fingers. Harry freezes for a beat while Ginette laughs hysterically. Another beat. Ginette spontaneously grabs Harry and plants a passionate kiss on his mouth.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
The Big Date
Finkie's advice:
"Take her to Le Living, Harry. It's a new bar that opened on the Plateau where you won't run into anyone you know. All French there."
Unlike Basement Harry who had an aversion to scenes, any kind of scene, Finkie reveled in the glory of nightlife. But for Harry, anything "In" invariably made it "Out." If they like it, Harry hated it. If it was good for them, it was bad for Harry. Finkie however, was a self-proclaimed authority on the club scene. Through his network of film buddies, Plateau artsies and friends in the know, Finkie got invited to every new opening and knew all the doorman.
"Is it easy to park though? I don't want to look like an asshole on the first date," Harry's stomach and throat muscles contracted. Parking was a beast.
"Not to worry, Harry. There's valet parking for ten bucks."
"Ten bucks? Quel rip-off! Maybe I'll do a movie instead."
"Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me, Harry? A movie is the best way to get seen and blow your cover."
"Not at Cinema P?"
"Yeah right. A rep house. Two-fifty a ticket! Cheap, cheap, cheap. What the fuck is wrong with you Harry? Take her to Le Living. Be cool."
"Sorry but I do not need to go somewhere to validate my coolness or not."
"Is it the ten bucks, Harry? Is it the lousy ten bucks? " Finkie fished a crumpled ten dollar bill from his pocket and flung it at Harry.
"It's not the ten bucks, Finkie...I hate scenes."
"What scene, Harry? A crowd of well dressed people having fun? What's the scene? Is there gore, is there blood, are their body bags? What exactly is The Scene?"
"The Scene is the phonies, Finkie. Ever read Shakespeare? Those King Richard plays? All about phonies too, the dross coated in gold. Ever read Catcher in the Rye? "
"Ever read The Idiot? Quoting Shakespeare won't get you laid, Harry, but listening to me might. Remember my Inga plan?"
How could he forget? Finkie at his finest, The Inga Plan:
Harry trying hard to impress Snoot-with-Streaks. Finkie 'coincidentally' bumps into Harry and Snooty exactly half an hour into their date. Finkie feigns excitement running into Harry, blurts out, "Harry Starr! I thought you moved to Stockholm with Inga, the Vogue model? Or was that before Bettina from Berlin?"
Harry pretends to be embarrassed and shrugs. Finkie waves to someone at the door, but no one in particular, and makes a hasty exit. Harry apologizes for the gaucheness of his friend, "Have to be nice to him, 'cause he's my cousin."
And it works. Harry dates Snoot-with-Streaks until she trades him in, along with his Dodge Dart, for a disco-coiffed putz with a Corvette.
"Okay, okay. I admit it, Finkie, you're right. I gotta get over this valet parking phobia."
"If only Ginette didn't know me, I could play your driver. I'd wear the dark suit with the dorkie hat...We could rent a black Continental. It would be fucking epic!"
And of course, as always, the logistics weren't anything close to the nightmare that Harry anticipated. He picked Ginette up without actually getting lost driving to her place, paid the valet the ten bucks and even got a perfectly placed table in the corner of the bar. Piece of cake.
A translated snip of their conversation:
"So how do you know how to speak French, 'arry? Not many Americans do?"
"I'm originally from Montreal. Moved to L.A. after I graduated from McGill."
He was ready for that question.
"And where do stay when you're here?"
"With my aunt in Glenview."
Ready for that one too. Harry used the aunt story instead of his parents' address based on Finkie's advice. "Never give out any information that can be checked." Finkie knew what he was talking about. An undercover detective who was following Izzie Finkelstein, overheard him at Main Steamie's shmei ad nauseum about the smoked meat at Delly Guys. How it's way better than Schwartz's, buries The Brown Derby, demolishes the Westside Del. How he has his own table reserved at Delly Guys.
...How the cops then bugged that table, leading to Izzie's arrest and conviction for his master role in an eight million dollar telemarketing scam that bilked lots of old folks of their life's savings.
"So you must be a Jew?"
Which rubbed Harry the wrong way. He was playing a movie producer that night, not a Jew. But what could he have expected from a pur laine girl from the east end, who may have never met a Jew before. Harry was part love interest, part anthropology to her, and vice versa. What do the other tribes really do?
"Yes, and you must be French."
"Perceptive."
"Figured it out as soon as you started speaking French."
She stroked his hair...
"You don't look like a Jew?"
Still with the Jewish crap, when instead she should be asking him about Steve Martin.
"Like what's a Jew supposed to look like? But hey, I've got dark skin and black wavy hair, that's kind of Jewish."
"You're tall and well-built..."
"Good looking too, I hope." Harry said, going with the personal compliment over the implied tribal slight. There would always be plenty of chances to go to rallies for Israel in the future. It was time to rally for Harry, only Harry.
"Big ego. I can see how you can be a movie producer."
She was finally on the right track, but completely wrong. If he had a big ego would he drive a Dodge Dart when he could have driven a Camaro? Mike Winikoff pumped himself up good from the get-go. His big ego and served him well. Too bad for Harry. If he had a big ego, he wouldn't be selling belts for a prick like Alvy Shugar. A big ego was good and it was time Harry got himself one.
"And I can see you with me," said Harry playing Harry with the big ego.
He grabbed Ginette and kissed her like Brando in Last Tango, finally starring in the role he dreamt of playing.
"Take her to Le Living, Harry. It's a new bar that opened on the Plateau where you won't run into anyone you know. All French there."
Unlike Basement Harry who had an aversion to scenes, any kind of scene, Finkie reveled in the glory of nightlife. But for Harry, anything "In" invariably made it "Out." If they like it, Harry hated it. If it was good for them, it was bad for Harry. Finkie however, was a self-proclaimed authority on the club scene. Through his network of film buddies, Plateau artsies and friends in the know, Finkie got invited to every new opening and knew all the doorman.
"Is it easy to park though? I don't want to look like an asshole on the first date," Harry's stomach and throat muscles contracted. Parking was a beast.
"Not to worry, Harry. There's valet parking for ten bucks."
"Ten bucks? Quel rip-off! Maybe I'll do a movie instead."
"Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me, Harry? A movie is the best way to get seen and blow your cover."
"Not at Cinema P?"
"Yeah right. A rep house. Two-fifty a ticket! Cheap, cheap, cheap. What the fuck is wrong with you Harry? Take her to Le Living. Be cool."
"Sorry but I do not need to go somewhere to validate my coolness or not."
"Is it the ten bucks, Harry? Is it the lousy ten bucks? " Finkie fished a crumpled ten dollar bill from his pocket and flung it at Harry.
"It's not the ten bucks, Finkie...I hate scenes."
"What scene, Harry? A crowd of well dressed people having fun? What's the scene? Is there gore, is there blood, are their body bags? What exactly is The Scene?"
"The Scene is the phonies, Finkie. Ever read Shakespeare? Those King Richard plays? All about phonies too, the dross coated in gold. Ever read Catcher in the Rye? "
"Ever read The Idiot? Quoting Shakespeare won't get you laid, Harry, but listening to me might. Remember my Inga plan?"
How could he forget? Finkie at his finest, The Inga Plan:
Harry trying hard to impress Snoot-with-Streaks. Finkie 'coincidentally' bumps into Harry and Snooty exactly half an hour into their date. Finkie feigns excitement running into Harry, blurts out, "Harry Starr! I thought you moved to Stockholm with Inga, the Vogue model? Or was that before Bettina from Berlin?"
Harry pretends to be embarrassed and shrugs. Finkie waves to someone at the door, but no one in particular, and makes a hasty exit. Harry apologizes for the gaucheness of his friend, "Have to be nice to him, 'cause he's my cousin."
And it works. Harry dates Snoot-with-Streaks until she trades him in, along with his Dodge Dart, for a disco-coiffed putz with a Corvette.
"Okay, okay. I admit it, Finkie, you're right. I gotta get over this valet parking phobia."
"If only Ginette didn't know me, I could play your driver. I'd wear the dark suit with the dorkie hat...We could rent a black Continental. It would be fucking epic!"
****
And of course, as always, the logistics weren't anything close to the nightmare that Harry anticipated. He picked Ginette up without actually getting lost driving to her place, paid the valet the ten bucks and even got a perfectly placed table in the corner of the bar. Piece of cake.
A translated snip of their conversation:
"So how do you know how to speak French, 'arry? Not many Americans do?"
"I'm originally from Montreal. Moved to L.A. after I graduated from McGill."
He was ready for that question.
"And where do stay when you're here?"
"With my aunt in Glenview."
Ready for that one too. Harry used the aunt story instead of his parents' address based on Finkie's advice. "Never give out any information that can be checked." Finkie knew what he was talking about. An undercover detective who was following Izzie Finkelstein, overheard him at Main Steamie's shmei ad nauseum about the smoked meat at Delly Guys. How it's way better than Schwartz's, buries The Brown Derby, demolishes the Westside Del. How he has his own table reserved at Delly Guys.
...How the cops then bugged that table, leading to Izzie's arrest and conviction for his master role in an eight million dollar telemarketing scam that bilked lots of old folks of their life's savings.
"So you must be a Jew?"
Which rubbed Harry the wrong way. He was playing a movie producer that night, not a Jew. But what could he have expected from a pur laine girl from the east end, who may have never met a Jew before. Harry was part love interest, part anthropology to her, and vice versa. What do the other tribes really do?
"Yes, and you must be French."
"Perceptive."
"Figured it out as soon as you started speaking French."
She stroked his hair...
"You don't look like a Jew?"
Still with the Jewish crap, when instead she should be asking him about Steve Martin.
"Like what's a Jew supposed to look like? But hey, I've got dark skin and black wavy hair, that's kind of Jewish."
"You're tall and well-built..."
"Good looking too, I hope." Harry said, going with the personal compliment over the implied tribal slight. There would always be plenty of chances to go to rallies for Israel in the future. It was time to rally for Harry, only Harry.
"Big ego. I can see how you can be a movie producer."
She was finally on the right track, but completely wrong. If he had a big ego would he drive a Dodge Dart when he could have driven a Camaro? Mike Winikoff pumped himself up good from the get-go. His big ego and served him well. Too bad for Harry. If he had a big ego, he wouldn't be selling belts for a prick like Alvy Shugar. A big ego was good and it was time Harry got himself one.
"And I can see you with me," said Harry playing Harry with the big ego.
He grabbed Ginette and kissed her like Brando in Last Tango, finally starring in the role he dreamt of playing.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The Perils of Market Week -- Continued
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.
"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.
Friday, January 14, 2011
The Perils of Market Week -- Continued
"Come with me to my cousin's wedding, Harry. She's marrying a Jew," Pauline bugged for like the tenth time."I promise you a good time."
"I promise you that won't happen, because for the tenth time, I don't want to go."
"Maybe you change your mind?"
Although Harry hated to admit it, even just to himself, he admired Pauline's persistence and sheer chutzpah, the right stuff in life that separates the haves from the have-nots.
"Maybe you leave me alone? You're not for me."
But that really wasn't true, Harry didn't want her to leave him alone. That was another thing he liked about Pauline but would never admit; she liked him a lot and wasn't afraid to show it.
"What's not for you? A blow job?"
"..."
A little bit tempting. Lately Harry's dark side had made considerable inroads in what had once been Pollyana country. Eat your Cheerios, do your homework, believe in God. Like that worked. And so if he was getting a little weak in the groin for a nasty little thing like Pauline, what did it matter? Who cared? Who really cared?
Harry did. Cave in to the power of the she-devil during a fleeting moment of weakness and hate yourself for life. Better to take a deep breath and play, 'Hey, I'm a cool guy.'
"Thanks for the kind offer, Pauline, but I'll take a pass. I haven't had all my shots yet."
"You are such a putz..." Harry loved to hear a shikse say that word. "That's probably why I like you so much."
"Everyone loves putz... I can't go to that wedding with you because I just fell in love with a girl I met this week...Now why am I telling you this? Oh right, because I am a putz."
"Love strikes like lightning...Then it's gone. You can still come to the wedding with me."
Harry rolled his eyes and sighed. Another ridiculous chick conversation. The belt business was turning him into mental mush. The week before he tripped into another moronic exchange with another intellectual lightweight, this boutique owner from Trois-Rivieres decked out in fushia-streaked hair and Elton John glasses. She asked Harry for a simultaneous French translation the Stevie Wonder song, I Just Called to Say I Love You, playing in the showroom at the time. And like a simpering fool, Harry actually did it. Not that his off-key, sing-song, pidgin French translation made any sense or could be understood. The look on her face -- as if she was watching a freak show. The fact that his mouth that wouldn't stop, couldn't stop the rambling gibberish spewing out like a stream of verbal diarrhea. The horror, the horror. Yes, it was time to leave the belt business behind, to go to LA and to make it big.
"Okay, I'll go."
But first Harry would have to get through Market Week.
"I promise you that won't happen, because for the tenth time, I don't want to go."
"Maybe you change your mind?"
Although Harry hated to admit it, even just to himself, he admired Pauline's persistence and sheer chutzpah, the right stuff in life that separates the haves from the have-nots.
"Maybe you leave me alone? You're not for me."
But that really wasn't true, Harry didn't want her to leave him alone. That was another thing he liked about Pauline but would never admit; she liked him a lot and wasn't afraid to show it.
"What's not for you? A blow job?"
"..."
A little bit tempting. Lately Harry's dark side had made considerable inroads in what had once been Pollyana country. Eat your Cheerios, do your homework, believe in God. Like that worked. And so if he was getting a little weak in the groin for a nasty little thing like Pauline, what did it matter? Who cared? Who really cared?
Harry did. Cave in to the power of the she-devil during a fleeting moment of weakness and hate yourself for life. Better to take a deep breath and play, 'Hey, I'm a cool guy.'
"Thanks for the kind offer, Pauline, but I'll take a pass. I haven't had all my shots yet."
"You are such a putz..." Harry loved to hear a shikse say that word. "That's probably why I like you so much."
"Everyone loves putz... I can't go to that wedding with you because I just fell in love with a girl I met this week...Now why am I telling you this? Oh right, because I am a putz."
"Love strikes like lightning...Then it's gone. You can still come to the wedding with me."
Harry rolled his eyes and sighed. Another ridiculous chick conversation. The belt business was turning him into mental mush. The week before he tripped into another moronic exchange with another intellectual lightweight, this boutique owner from Trois-Rivieres decked out in fushia-streaked hair and Elton John glasses. She asked Harry for a simultaneous French translation the Stevie Wonder song, I Just Called to Say I Love You, playing in the showroom at the time. And like a simpering fool, Harry actually did it. Not that his off-key, sing-song, pidgin French translation made any sense or could be understood. The look on her face -- as if she was watching a freak show. The fact that his mouth that wouldn't stop, couldn't stop the rambling gibberish spewing out like a stream of verbal diarrhea. The horror, the horror. Yes, it was time to leave the belt business behind, to go to LA and to make it big.
"Okay, I'll go."
But first Harry would have to get through Market Week.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
The Perils of Market Week
Market Week at the Fashion Mart
A time to show,
A time to woo,
A time to blow,
A time to schmooze,
A time to sell...
The Anne-of-Green-Gabley yokels from the Maritimes.
The stiletto-heeled Quebecois boutique owners from la belle province.
The big-boned, fair-haired, donut-country gals from Eastern Ontari-ari-ario.
Easy marks, honest merchants bereft of guile. Little Red Riding Hoods ready with checkbooks in holsters for the schmatah coach robbers. But for Harry, Market Week was a drag; long hours, a blown weekend and a stingy "bonus" in lieu of commission.
"You know what it costs me to rent a double-booth in the Fashion Mart for Market Week?"
"Here he goes again," Harry thought, knowing that any answer he would give would be wrong.
"I dunno, Alvy. Fifty, sixty gees?"
"Is that what they taught you in acting school? No wonder 95% of actors are unemployed. Consider yourself lucky, Har-ri-son Staaarrr, even if you can't count to two."
"Is that a compliment or insult?"
"I'm thinking, I'm thinking...Anyhow if you want to be a putz, be a putz, but Market Week costs me an arm and a leg. Moving costs, extra sample sets, refreshments - over five hundred bucks in bagels, cream cheese and lox alone. Then there's pens...pens...We go through cases of pens...And entertainment -- strippers for the horn-dogs from the Beauce. And finally...need I even mention, the very substantial labour costs?"
Very substantial labor costs? Like the $250 "bonus" Harry made for working Sunday and week nights? Chump change compared to the business he generated. The previous season Harry wrote over eighty grand in business, almost all of it at full mark up. He was sick of it all, ready to move on. With his Seinfeld script almost finished, this would surely be his last Market Week. But there was that ridiculous game he had play to try to squeeze Alvy for a few extra shekels. Left to Alvy's goodwill, Harry would still be making making the same measly C-note he got for his first Market Week.
"I need more money, Alvy. You pay me bupkis compared to the business I write."
"Bupkis? You want to cover all my expenses? Every season you harass me for more. Gimme, gimme, gimme..."
"It's not a gimme, I'm underpaid."
"So you say. How much did you make acting this year?
"..."
What the fuck did that have to do with anything? Harry considered murdering Alvy. Really. A little poison in his matzoh ball soup would be easy. No one would ever suspect a thing. No one would care. Actually the unbridled joy of his passing would be hard to contain. Harry wondered if he'd be a pall bearer and if so, whether he would be able to keep a straight face. Not really nice, but there was always Yom Kippur to grovel for forgiveness.
"There is biblical precedent," Harry imagined pleading to The Almighty during the Kol Nidre service on Yom Kippur eve, all the while doing his best to avoid Iggy Potacker's pungent herring breath. (Every year, no matter how far in advance he would advise the synagogue's esteemed High Holiday Seating Chairman, Mort "Monkey Toes" Block, a man who allegedly could peel a banana with his toes, Harry would find himself seated next to Iggy Potackner, the breath-impaired fishmonger).
"Jacob's lads, Levi and Simeon slaughtered the whole town of Shechem to avenge for the rape of their sister, Dinah, and they snatched a by from the brimstone. True, a little tongue-lashing in pop's final blessing, but Levi's progeny snagged the the priesthood with all its great yichus, while Simeon still got to keep his tribe along with bragging rights to the popular but mindless children's game, "Simon Says."...And this example is but the tip of the iceberg. Let us not even mention our greatest prophet Moses, who, while breaking into the business, pummeled an Egyptian and then buried the dude in the sand. Should I continue, O Master of the Universe?"
"Okay, okay. What's with that look? You do a good job Harry, I'm bumping you up to a $300 bonus for Market Week."
Screw the extra fifty bucks, let's go with the murder behind Door Number 1.
At which point Harry would inevitably shrug and Alvy would inevitably pirouette towards the closest exit.
"Now I better go check to see if the samples are ready," Alvy said. "And don't forget to push that putana Pauline or she'll hang out under the table blowing guys all week."
Harry chose the sigh behind Door Number 2 and prorogued his bloodthirst by adding "Murder Alvy" to his to-do list...Then he thought of his assistant, Pauline Edouardo, the accomplished harpy on the prowl, and sighed again.
"..."
It was amazing how far chutzpah, designer clothes, a coiffed hairdo, blond streaks, manicured nails and a come-hither look could take a woman and Pauline was the proof. She looked at least seven years older than her 36 years with her perpetually tanned alligator hide, deep eye-pouches (masked by gaudy glasses), and long teeth discolored from smoking. Her plump, super-sized lips were her saving grace.
Harry was baffled by her success with men; what he didn't know was that her modus operandi was flawless. Hang out at breakfast and weekends at the Duc de Lorraine cafe on Cote des Neiges. Flirt, flatter and ingratiate herself with every rich Jewish sucker she could find - divorced or married. That's how she met Stan Yuck. Do the same thing week nights downtown at Chez Alexandre with her equally predatory divorced girlfriends. That's how she met "Dudas" Dubrofsky.
And could she talk, one of those people who tell their whole life story the first time they meet someone. Harry had heard it ad nauseum during the six months since Alvy had hired her to help out in the showroom:
She was married for five years to Arno Edouardo, an ethically psychopathic Corsican antique dealer with impeccable taste, magnetic charm and lots of cash. Anyone who did business with him ultimately got screwed, but few caught on. If they were fools enough to pay $34,000 for a pair of Louis XlV chairs that Arno picked up in a Paris flea market for $250, then that was their problem. If some gullible stooge dropped their asking price on their Westmount home by 30% because they bought into Arno's forged inspection report stating that the house was sinking into oblivion, then so be it. No one was forced to sell anything.
Not that any of this bothered Pauline. In fact, she admired Arno's cunning ways. Life was about fucking with people and coming out on top. And so she was willing to overlook all his affairs, the ones with her friends, the tryst with her cousin, the groping of her aunt. Arno brought home the bacon, decked her out in (hot) diamonds and gave her social status. Everyone wants to hang with successful crooks. (When they get caught, that's another story). In any case, life was almost beautiful. If Arno slapped her around once in a while, that was the price Pauline would have to pay.
Until the day Arno had one affair and one shady sale too many. This time he sold a faux Persian rug for $10,000 (manufactured in India, evaluated at $600), to a female body builder he'd been seeing. After she received the true evaluation of the rug, Miss Muscles had her own plan. That night while Arno was working his electric tongue on her G-spot, she clamped her legs with such brute force around the brazen bush pilot's neck, that it snapped like a breadstick, killing him instantaneously. Then she had a multiple orgasm.
Fortunately for Miss Muscles, the death was ruled accidental and she even got her ten grand back.
Fortunately for Pauline, she lucked into a clean exit from an abusive marriage and into a goldmine when Arno's estate was settled: two point seven million in cash, a couple of buildings and a house in Westmount. Life was beautiful.
And it got even better. Pauline's widowed mother, who was actually a lovely lady, moved in with her to take care of the two kids and thus began a new Pauline money man manhunt. Her first coup was nabbing Dudas Dubrofsky, a rugged defenseman for the Montreal Canadians and the first Jew to ever play for the team. She caught him at a vulnerable time, after he caught his wife in bed with the team doctor. Pauline and Dudas dated for over a year until he got cut by the Canadians, but finally got accepted into dentistry school. Enough reason for Pauline to dump him because,"Dentists are cheap." Then she wanted another place to go and got a part-time job in the showroom at Shugar Belt.
Less than a month after the trade, Pauline scored again, nailing Stan Yuck, owner of Canada's largest underwear manufacturer, Yuck Undergarments, and also a divorcee recovering from a bout of prostrate cancer. Pauline sucked him back to old form and therein lay the secret to her success with men, specifically fellatio-deprived-and-depraved Jewish men, of whom there were many. But the Stan romance ended rather eponymously when Pauline inadvertently poked a French-manicured nail into a yucky patch of poop sheared in his underwear. And that meant that Pauline was on the prowl again.
A time to show,
A time to woo,
A time to blow,
A time to schmooze,
A time to sell...
The Anne-of-Green-Gabley yokels from the Maritimes.
The stiletto-heeled Quebecois boutique owners from la belle province.
The big-boned, fair-haired, donut-country gals from Eastern Ontari-ari-ario.
Easy marks, honest merchants bereft of guile. Little Red Riding Hoods ready with checkbooks in holsters for the schmatah coach robbers. But for Harry, Market Week was a drag; long hours, a blown weekend and a stingy "bonus" in lieu of commission.
"You know what it costs me to rent a double-booth in the Fashion Mart for Market Week?"
"Here he goes again," Harry thought, knowing that any answer he would give would be wrong.
"I dunno, Alvy. Fifty, sixty gees?"
"Is that what they taught you in acting school? No wonder 95% of actors are unemployed. Consider yourself lucky, Har-ri-son Staaarrr, even if you can't count to two."
"Is that a compliment or insult?"
"I'm thinking, I'm thinking...Anyhow if you want to be a putz, be a putz, but Market Week costs me an arm and a leg. Moving costs, extra sample sets, refreshments - over five hundred bucks in bagels, cream cheese and lox alone. Then there's pens...pens...We go through cases of pens...And entertainment -- strippers for the horn-dogs from the Beauce. And finally...need I even mention, the very substantial labour costs?"
Very substantial labor costs? Like the $250 "bonus" Harry made for working Sunday and week nights? Chump change compared to the business he generated. The previous season Harry wrote over eighty grand in business, almost all of it at full mark up. He was sick of it all, ready to move on. With his Seinfeld script almost finished, this would surely be his last Market Week. But there was that ridiculous game he had play to try to squeeze Alvy for a few extra shekels. Left to Alvy's goodwill, Harry would still be making making the same measly C-note he got for his first Market Week.
"I need more money, Alvy. You pay me bupkis compared to the business I write."
"Bupkis? You want to cover all my expenses? Every season you harass me for more. Gimme, gimme, gimme..."
"It's not a gimme, I'm underpaid."
"So you say. How much did you make acting this year?
"..."
What the fuck did that have to do with anything? Harry considered murdering Alvy. Really. A little poison in his matzoh ball soup would be easy. No one would ever suspect a thing. No one would care. Actually the unbridled joy of his passing would be hard to contain. Harry wondered if he'd be a pall bearer and if so, whether he would be able to keep a straight face. Not really nice, but there was always Yom Kippur to grovel for forgiveness.
"There is biblical precedent," Harry imagined pleading to The Almighty during the Kol Nidre service on Yom Kippur eve, all the while doing his best to avoid Iggy Potacker's pungent herring breath. (Every year, no matter how far in advance he would advise the synagogue's esteemed High Holiday Seating Chairman, Mort "Monkey Toes" Block, a man who allegedly could peel a banana with his toes, Harry would find himself seated next to Iggy Potackner, the breath-impaired fishmonger).
"Jacob's lads, Levi and Simeon slaughtered the whole town of Shechem to avenge for the rape of their sister, Dinah, and they snatched a by from the brimstone. True, a little tongue-lashing in pop's final blessing, but Levi's progeny snagged the the priesthood with all its great yichus, while Simeon still got to keep his tribe along with bragging rights to the popular but mindless children's game, "Simon Says."...And this example is but the tip of the iceberg. Let us not even mention our greatest prophet Moses, who, while breaking into the business, pummeled an Egyptian and then buried the dude in the sand. Should I continue, O Master of the Universe?"
"Okay, okay. What's with that look? You do a good job Harry, I'm bumping you up to a $300 bonus for Market Week."
Screw the extra fifty bucks, let's go with the murder behind Door Number 1.
At which point Harry would inevitably shrug and Alvy would inevitably pirouette towards the closest exit.
"Now I better go check to see if the samples are ready," Alvy said. "And don't forget to push that putana Pauline or she'll hang out under the table blowing guys all week."
Harry chose the sigh behind Door Number 2 and prorogued his bloodthirst by adding "Murder Alvy" to his to-do list...Then he thought of his assistant, Pauline Edouardo, the accomplished harpy on the prowl, and sighed again.
"..."
It was amazing how far chutzpah, designer clothes, a coiffed hairdo, blond streaks, manicured nails and a come-hither look could take a woman and Pauline was the proof. She looked at least seven years older than her 36 years with her perpetually tanned alligator hide, deep eye-pouches (masked by gaudy glasses), and long teeth discolored from smoking. Her plump, super-sized lips were her saving grace.
Harry was baffled by her success with men; what he didn't know was that her modus operandi was flawless. Hang out at breakfast and weekends at the Duc de Lorraine cafe on Cote des Neiges. Flirt, flatter and ingratiate herself with every rich Jewish sucker she could find - divorced or married. That's how she met Stan Yuck. Do the same thing week nights downtown at Chez Alexandre with her equally predatory divorced girlfriends. That's how she met "Dudas" Dubrofsky.
And could she talk, one of those people who tell their whole life story the first time they meet someone. Harry had heard it ad nauseum during the six months since Alvy had hired her to help out in the showroom:
She was married for five years to Arno Edouardo, an ethically psychopathic Corsican antique dealer with impeccable taste, magnetic charm and lots of cash. Anyone who did business with him ultimately got screwed, but few caught on. If they were fools enough to pay $34,000 for a pair of Louis XlV chairs that Arno picked up in a Paris flea market for $250, then that was their problem. If some gullible stooge dropped their asking price on their Westmount home by 30% because they bought into Arno's forged inspection report stating that the house was sinking into oblivion, then so be it. No one was forced to sell anything.
Not that any of this bothered Pauline. In fact, she admired Arno's cunning ways. Life was about fucking with people and coming out on top. And so she was willing to overlook all his affairs, the ones with her friends, the tryst with her cousin, the groping of her aunt. Arno brought home the bacon, decked her out in (hot) diamonds and gave her social status. Everyone wants to hang with successful crooks. (When they get caught, that's another story). In any case, life was almost beautiful. If Arno slapped her around once in a while, that was the price Pauline would have to pay.
Until the day Arno had one affair and one shady sale too many. This time he sold a faux Persian rug for $10,000 (manufactured in India, evaluated at $600), to a female body builder he'd been seeing. After she received the true evaluation of the rug, Miss Muscles had her own plan. That night while Arno was working his electric tongue on her G-spot, she clamped her legs with such brute force around the brazen bush pilot's neck, that it snapped like a breadstick, killing him instantaneously. Then she had a multiple orgasm.
Fortunately for Miss Muscles, the death was ruled accidental and she even got her ten grand back.
Fortunately for Pauline, she lucked into a clean exit from an abusive marriage and into a goldmine when Arno's estate was settled: two point seven million in cash, a couple of buildings and a house in Westmount. Life was beautiful.
And it got even better. Pauline's widowed mother, who was actually a lovely lady, moved in with her to take care of the two kids and thus began a new Pauline money man manhunt. Her first coup was nabbing Dudas Dubrofsky, a rugged defenseman for the Montreal Canadians and the first Jew to ever play for the team. She caught him at a vulnerable time, after he caught his wife in bed with the team doctor. Pauline and Dudas dated for over a year until he got cut by the Canadians, but finally got accepted into dentistry school. Enough reason for Pauline to dump him because,"Dentists are cheap." Then she wanted another place to go and got a part-time job in the showroom at Shugar Belt.
Less than a month after the trade, Pauline scored again, nailing Stan Yuck, owner of Canada's largest underwear manufacturer, Yuck Undergarments, and also a divorcee recovering from a bout of prostrate cancer. Pauline sucked him back to old form and therein lay the secret to her success with men, specifically fellatio-deprived-and-depraved Jewish men, of whom there were many. But the Stan romance ended rather eponymously when Pauline inadvertently poked a French-manicured nail into a yucky patch of poop sheared in his underwear. And that meant that Pauline was on the prowl again.
Monday, January 10, 2011
Harry in Wonderland
Parked in front of Ginette's triplex, locked in a smoochy embrace, Harry's subconscious DJ played a tune:
She's giving me excitations.
Good good good, good vibrations
Ginette was getting her own soundtrack.
It was a stroke of fleeting fortune that the faux producers took Finkie's car for the night. how would he ever have explained the LA movie producer of a Steve Martin project driving an eight year old Dodge Dart? There would be another script to write for Ginette, but all Harry knew was that their faces were melting into one and that moment, eternal.
But not eternal enough. Doomed, this love, this true love was doomed. Revel in this borrowed time, this delicious girl, because the reality of reality kept on interrupting.
If he took her out again, he'd have to show up in a rented car. How long was he in town for? Where was he staying? When was he coming back?
Lies, lies, lies. How Harry hated to lie. How he hated Finkie's retarded plan. How he hated himself for going along with Finkie's retarded plan, for being such a fool.
"Kiss me again, you fool," Ginette purred.
"A mind reader," he thought. Might as well plant an idea."Blow job."
Ginette pulled herself away from their sloppy lip-lock. Head south baby.
"I have to go now, 'Arry. Tonight you can't come up, my sister is sleeping over."
Which was okay, but not okay with Harry. Too much stimulation, racing thoughts out of control. Head about to explode; everything about to explode.
Harry groaned, but not out of lust. Swept away by life with no brakes. Out of his cocooned basement existence - ecstatic and terrified. Too much to handle for a guy who preferred to have his excitement dished out vicariously.
"Are you okay?" Ginette asked.
"Yeah, I'm great, everything's great."
"How long are you in town?"
Good question. Harry hadn't a clue. A longish pause.
"......?"
"Not sure, until I find all the locations?" Whatever that meant.
Ginette plucked a pen from her purse and scribbled her phone number on of a scrap of paper.
"Call me tomorrow." She kissed Harry again and got out of the car.
To see her again -- euphoric. To perpetuate this ridiculous lie -- moronic. Hurray turned oy vey. Harry was drained, vibed out, madly in love. He had to get home to the womb of his basement, to crash into his bed, to tumble into a dream-world of Ginette.
And dream of her he did. Devouring her, bodies entwined, swirling round and round down an Alice in Wonderland tunnel, sliding out the other end on the door step of...Finkie. Fucking Finkie? Finkie go away, disappear, vanish from the dream. Knock it off.
But the knocking at his window wasn't a dream.
Harry woke up abruptly drenched in a cold sweat. Finkie was pounding at the window.
"Harry, open the window. Let me in."
" ?"
Harry opened the window, then looked at his clock-radio. 3:47 AM. They left the club a little before 2 AM, so what was Finkie doing crawling through his window less than two hours later?
Finkie, an experienced wriggler, a deft crawler, born with the belly of a snake, wiggled through the window and slithered onto Harry's bed.
"I'd actually prefer if you sat in the chair."
"That's the first thing you ask me?"
"Exactly. Now comes the second thing. What the fuck happened?"
"Totally fucked up situation, Harry."
Where had he heard that before?
"The hat should've tipped me off. What chicks wear hats these days?"
"Nudists who take macrobiotic cooking classes," Harry said.
"So I thought. A hat is like an anklet, sign of the harlot. Should've taken her to a motel. So we get to her place and she tells me we have to be super quiet because she's living with her sister. Fine, who wants to talk to some flake in a hat anyways? Anyhow, she leads me to this bed in the hall near the kitchen, which is where she sleeps, she doesn't even have a room. She's like homeless in her own apartment."
Harry started cracking up.
"I never got her name." Harry said.
"Celeste. Fruit-cake name to go with the hat. Anyhow, we're making out on the bed, then I'm taking off my pants..."
"Why do you always whip off your pants so fast, Finkie? It fucking freaks them out."
"I thought it would be okay this time, 'cause she's a nudist...I pull up her dress -- she's not wearing any panties, it was like this big brown poodle under there...Stop laughing for a second, I know it's funny..."
But Harry couldn't control himself. Being friends with Finkie was about the stories, vicarious excitement served up on a silver platter.
"So we're fooling around, but the bed's creaking. All of the sudden, her sister storms out of her room down the hall and starts screaming in French while I'm frantically putting back on my pants. 'Celeste you whore! Every night a different guy! Get this scumbag out here!' Then the sister's two little kids come out of their rooms. Celeste gets pissed at me and tells me to leave right way, but then I realize you drove my car home and I don't have a penny on me. How am I going to get home? I ask her if I can borrow twenty bucks for a cab and then she starts yelling at me to get out...like I really am some scumbag. Then I ask if I can use their phone to call you to come pick me up, but now they're both yelling at me to get out. I barely made it out with my pants on...I barely made it out alive."
Harry buckled over in laughter.
"So what did you do? Hitch-hike home?"
"Right, like I'm going to hitch from that neighborhood. So luckily I see a cab, flag it down and tell him to bring me here, so I can pick up my car..."
Harry picked up Finkie's keys from the night table and tossed them to him.
"One more thing, Harry. The cab is waiting in front of your place to get paid. Can you lend me twenty bucks?"
She's giving me excitations.
Good good good, good vibrations
Ginette was getting her own soundtrack.
It was a stroke of fleeting fortune that the faux producers took Finkie's car for the night. how would he ever have explained the LA movie producer of a Steve Martin project driving an eight year old Dodge Dart? There would be another script to write for Ginette, but all Harry knew was that their faces were melting into one and that moment, eternal.
But not eternal enough. Doomed, this love, this true love was doomed. Revel in this borrowed time, this delicious girl, because the reality of reality kept on interrupting.
If he took her out again, he'd have to show up in a rented car. How long was he in town for? Where was he staying? When was he coming back?
Lies, lies, lies. How Harry hated to lie. How he hated Finkie's retarded plan. How he hated himself for going along with Finkie's retarded plan, for being such a fool.
"Kiss me again, you fool," Ginette purred.
"A mind reader," he thought. Might as well plant an idea."Blow job."
Ginette pulled herself away from their sloppy lip-lock. Head south baby.
"I have to go now, 'Arry. Tonight you can't come up, my sister is sleeping over."
Which was okay, but not okay with Harry. Too much stimulation, racing thoughts out of control. Head about to explode; everything about to explode.
Harry groaned, but not out of lust. Swept away by life with no brakes. Out of his cocooned basement existence - ecstatic and terrified. Too much to handle for a guy who preferred to have his excitement dished out vicariously.
"Are you okay?" Ginette asked.
"Yeah, I'm great, everything's great."
"How long are you in town?"
Good question. Harry hadn't a clue. A longish pause.
"......?"
"Not sure, until I find all the locations?" Whatever that meant.
Ginette plucked a pen from her purse and scribbled her phone number on of a scrap of paper.
"Call me tomorrow." She kissed Harry again and got out of the car.
To see her again -- euphoric. To perpetuate this ridiculous lie -- moronic. Hurray turned oy vey. Harry was drained, vibed out, madly in love. He had to get home to the womb of his basement, to crash into his bed, to tumble into a dream-world of Ginette.
And dream of her he did. Devouring her, bodies entwined, swirling round and round down an Alice in Wonderland tunnel, sliding out the other end on the door step of...Finkie. Fucking Finkie? Finkie go away, disappear, vanish from the dream. Knock it off.
But the knocking at his window wasn't a dream.
Harry woke up abruptly drenched in a cold sweat. Finkie was pounding at the window.
"Harry, open the window. Let me in."
" ?"
Harry opened the window, then looked at his clock-radio. 3:47 AM. They left the club a little before 2 AM, so what was Finkie doing crawling through his window less than two hours later?
Finkie, an experienced wriggler, a deft crawler, born with the belly of a snake, wiggled through the window and slithered onto Harry's bed.
"I'd actually prefer if you sat in the chair."
"That's the first thing you ask me?"
"Exactly. Now comes the second thing. What the fuck happened?"
"Totally fucked up situation, Harry."
Where had he heard that before?
"The hat should've tipped me off. What chicks wear hats these days?"
"Nudists who take macrobiotic cooking classes," Harry said.
"So I thought. A hat is like an anklet, sign of the harlot. Should've taken her to a motel. So we get to her place and she tells me we have to be super quiet because she's living with her sister. Fine, who wants to talk to some flake in a hat anyways? Anyhow, she leads me to this bed in the hall near the kitchen, which is where she sleeps, she doesn't even have a room. She's like homeless in her own apartment."
Harry started cracking up.
"I never got her name." Harry said.
"Celeste. Fruit-cake name to go with the hat. Anyhow, we're making out on the bed, then I'm taking off my pants..."
"Why do you always whip off your pants so fast, Finkie? It fucking freaks them out."
"I thought it would be okay this time, 'cause she's a nudist...I pull up her dress -- she's not wearing any panties, it was like this big brown poodle under there...Stop laughing for a second, I know it's funny..."
But Harry couldn't control himself. Being friends with Finkie was about the stories, vicarious excitement served up on a silver platter.
"So we're fooling around, but the bed's creaking. All of the sudden, her sister storms out of her room down the hall and starts screaming in French while I'm frantically putting back on my pants. 'Celeste you whore! Every night a different guy! Get this scumbag out here!' Then the sister's two little kids come out of their rooms. Celeste gets pissed at me and tells me to leave right way, but then I realize you drove my car home and I don't have a penny on me. How am I going to get home? I ask her if I can borrow twenty bucks for a cab and then she starts yelling at me to get out...like I really am some scumbag. Then I ask if I can use their phone to call you to come pick me up, but now they're both yelling at me to get out. I barely made it out with my pants on...I barely made it out alive."
Harry buckled over in laughter.
"So what did you do? Hitch-hike home?"
"Right, like I'm going to hitch from that neighborhood. So luckily I see a cab, flag it down and tell him to bring me here, so I can pick up my car..."
Harry picked up Finkie's keys from the night table and tossed them to him.
"One more thing, Harry. The cab is waiting in front of your place to get paid. Can you lend me twenty bucks?"
Saturday, January 1, 2011
The Producers
Finkie's plan for the night:
"We'll tell them we're movie producers from LA."
"Then what are we doing in Montreal?"
Finkie's eyes lit up. As illusionary, delusionary, imaginary that being a movie producer was, for a brief shining moment it became real.
"We're scouting for locations."
"What's the movie about?"
Finkie furrowed his brow in deep thought.
...
"It's a story about a big time coke smuggler who fronts as a boot manufacturer."
"Your Uncle Hershie?"
"Don't go mention his name..."
"What do you think-- I'm an idiot?"
"You know if you ever said something, he could have you rubbed out. There were a couple of Hell's Angels at his Christmas party."
Harry's stomach gurgled. Hell's Angels?
"I hate druggie movies. Who wants to watch scumbags for two hours? Can we do a comedy instead?" Harry asked.
"Fine, we'll do a comedy...An Eddie Murphy project..."
"Eddie Murphy, that putz? How 'bout Steve Martin?"
"Okay, okay. Steve Martin. Happy, Harry?"
"So he discovered us and bought my script."
"Who made you the writer?"
"Who made you the producer?"
Finkie thought that over, then nodded.
"Right, but I'm also directing."
"Good. Direct...What's the movie about?"
"Who the fuck cares, Harry? If someone asks, just say it's confidential."
"Confidential. I like that. Very sexy."
Later that night:
The club was hopping while the two poseurs, (carefully coddling their flat four dollar beers), scouted the field. Finkie fixated on a couple of girls dancing together in the corner of the club.
"Who're you staring at, Finkie?"
Finkie drew close to Harry and discreetly pointed at the dancing girls.
"You see the one with the hat? I think I know her."
"How's that?"
"I'm pretty sure she was in my sister's macrobiotic cooking class. She's apparently a nudist too."
" ."
"I'm gonna say hello."
"But what about our plan, the producer story?"
"You'll have to be the producer, Harry. She knows me."
"But I --"
"It's cool. She already knows I'm a film-maker. You're in from LA 'cause you just bought my script for Steve Martin."
"But--"
"Follow me," Finkie instructed as he marched with Harry in tow towards the hatted girl and her dance partner.
"Bonsoir," Finkie said to the hatted girl.
Harry gasped when he beheld the brown-eyed beauty dancing with the hatted girl. It was deja vu.
The brown-eyed beauty was the spitting image of Harry's big unrequited love from high school, Sherri Abrams...only better looking, curvier and named Ginette. Ginette, Ginette. His heart pounded, he took a deep breath. Fade away Finkie.
An English translation of that conversation:
"So, umm...So, this place is really, uhh uhh, happening," Harry stuttered in her ear.
She giggled, then nodded.
"What's your name?"
"Ginette."
"Like the Beau Dommage song. " And then he sang off-key a few words from the chorus. "Ginette, Ginette..."
"You have a bad voice."
"I know."
"But make up for it with your good looks."
"Tell me more, tell me more." Which doesn't sound as good in French, still...
"You look like a Mohawk prince. Tall, dark and handsome."
"With high cheekbones and thick black hair cascading down to my shoulders." Harry loved his hair.
"What's your name?"
"Harry. Not very Mohawk sounding."
Ginette giggled. "I never met a 'Arry."
"I never met a Ginette," Harry said. Or a French Canadian who could pronounce the "H" sound at the beginning of a word, he didn't say. Then Harry remembered Finkie's plan.
"I'm a movie producer from L.A. doing a Steve Martin movie. We're shooting it in Montreal and I'm scouting for locations." Got it all in. Phew! Like she gave a shit, making Harry instantaneously regret listening to Finkie and his fucking retarded plan.
Harry took a deep breath, focused, then compartmentalized and filed the stupidity he just blurted into one of the many unused parts of his brain.
"How true it is," he thought, "that we just use 15% of our brain." Then he took Ginette's hand and led her to a dark corner of the dance floor to dance. The man was smitten like never before.
A little later:
Finkie, who was all hot 'n heavy with the hatted girl, led her over to Ginette and Harry, then pulled Harry aside and whispered.
"The mad-hatter just invited me over to her place where she'll hopefully turn out to be the mad-fucker. Here's the keys to my car, we'll exchange notes tomorrow."
"We'll tell them we're movie producers from LA."
"Then what are we doing in Montreal?"
Finkie's eyes lit up. As illusionary, delusionary, imaginary that being a movie producer was, for a brief shining moment it became real.
"We're scouting for locations."
"What's the movie about?"
Finkie furrowed his brow in deep thought.
...
"It's a story about a big time coke smuggler who fronts as a boot manufacturer."
"Your Uncle Hershie?"
"Don't go mention his name..."
"What do you think-- I'm an idiot?"
"You know if you ever said something, he could have you rubbed out. There were a couple of Hell's Angels at his Christmas party."
Harry's stomach gurgled. Hell's Angels?
"I hate druggie movies. Who wants to watch scumbags for two hours? Can we do a comedy instead?" Harry asked.
"Fine, we'll do a comedy...An Eddie Murphy project..."
"Eddie Murphy, that putz? How 'bout Steve Martin?"
"Okay, okay. Steve Martin. Happy, Harry?"
"So he discovered us and bought my script."
"Who made you the writer?"
"Who made you the producer?"
Finkie thought that over, then nodded.
"Right, but I'm also directing."
"Good. Direct...What's the movie about?"
"Who the fuck cares, Harry? If someone asks, just say it's confidential."
"Confidential. I like that. Very sexy."
Later that night:
The club was hopping while the two poseurs, (carefully coddling their flat four dollar beers), scouted the field. Finkie fixated on a couple of girls dancing together in the corner of the club.
"Who're you staring at, Finkie?"
Finkie drew close to Harry and discreetly pointed at the dancing girls.
"You see the one with the hat? I think I know her."
"How's that?"
"I'm pretty sure she was in my sister's macrobiotic cooking class. She's apparently a nudist too."
" ."
"I'm gonna say hello."
"But what about our plan, the producer story?"
"You'll have to be the producer, Harry. She knows me."
"But I --"
"It's cool. She already knows I'm a film-maker. You're in from LA 'cause you just bought my script for Steve Martin."
"But--"
"Follow me," Finkie instructed as he marched with Harry in tow towards the hatted girl and her dance partner.
"Bonsoir," Finkie said to the hatted girl.
Harry gasped when he beheld the brown-eyed beauty dancing with the hatted girl. It was deja vu.
The brown-eyed beauty was the spitting image of Harry's big unrequited love from high school, Sherri Abrams...only better looking, curvier and named Ginette. Ginette, Ginette. His heart pounded, he took a deep breath. Fade away Finkie.
An English translation of that conversation:
"So, umm...So, this place is really, uhh uhh, happening," Harry stuttered in her ear.
She giggled, then nodded.
"What's your name?"
"Ginette."
"Like the Beau Dommage song. " And then he sang off-key a few words from the chorus. "Ginette, Ginette..."
"You have a bad voice."
"I know."
"But make up for it with your good looks."
"Tell me more, tell me more." Which doesn't sound as good in French, still...
"You look like a Mohawk prince. Tall, dark and handsome."
"With high cheekbones and thick black hair cascading down to my shoulders." Harry loved his hair.
"What's your name?"
"Harry. Not very Mohawk sounding."
Ginette giggled. "I never met a 'Arry."
"I never met a Ginette," Harry said. Or a French Canadian who could pronounce the "H" sound at the beginning of a word, he didn't say. Then Harry remembered Finkie's plan.
"I'm a movie producer from L.A. doing a Steve Martin movie. We're shooting it in Montreal and I'm scouting for locations." Got it all in. Phew! Like she gave a shit, making Harry instantaneously regret listening to Finkie and his fucking retarded plan.
Harry took a deep breath, focused, then compartmentalized and filed the stupidity he just blurted into one of the many unused parts of his brain.
"How true it is," he thought, "that we just use 15% of our brain." Then he took Ginette's hand and led her to a dark corner of the dance floor to dance. The man was smitten like never before.
A little later:
Finkie, who was all hot 'n heavy with the hatted girl, led her over to Ginette and Harry, then pulled Harry aside and whispered.
"The mad-hatter just invited me over to her place where she'll hopefully turn out to be the mad-fucker. Here's the keys to my car, we'll exchange notes tomorrow."
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