I Smell Esther Williams

HE HAD ONE OF THOSE AROOOOOOGA HORNS ON HIS CAR

Arooooooga! Arooooooga!

“Carla, he’s here!”

“I’ll be right down!”

“What did you do with the laundry tickets — I’ve got to go by there later?”

Arooooooga! Arooooooga!

“What were you reading about Vilas?”

“What about Vilas?” she says, leafing through the paper.

The kitchen looks nice. It’s suffused with the cheerful sunlight.

“The thing about Vilas … you just read it to me.”

Arooooooga! Arooooooga!

“Oh, oh … ‘At last Vilas lunches on the clubhouse terrace’?”

“No.” he says, wiping soft-boiled egg from his chin.

“This, ‘Vilas passes jogging. He has planes to catch and no time for conversation. He must be in Copenhagen tonight, and in Tokyo a few hours after that’?”

“Yeah … yeah.”

Arooooooga! Arooooooga!

“Carla!!”

“I’ve got …” The rest of her sentence can’t be heard because of the dishwasher.

“What’s wrong with the dishwasher?”

“I think something’s caught in the blade.”

“What blade?”

“If you’d come over here and look you’d see what blade.”

“What’s caught?”

“Probably one of those idiotic ceramic handled hors d’oeuvre knives I’ve told you a million times not to put in the dishwasher.”

Arooooooga! Arooooooga!

“Does Carla know he’s here?”

“You heard me screaming at her.”

“Maybe she doesn’t know he’s here.”

“I’ve been screaming at the top of my lungs.”

“Maybe she didn’t hear you.”

“She answered … she said she’d be right down.”

“Maybe she just meant that in a routine way.”

Arooooooga! Arooooooga!

He almost knocks the salt and pepper shakers and the bottle of vitamins over, reaching for the ashtray.

“If you’re going to the laundry, take the stuff I’ve got.”

“What stuff?”

“It’s in a pile next to the hamper.”

“Do you want that velour thing cleaned?”

“No, leave it. I might want to wear it if I go help Norman with the car tonight.”

“His Fiat?”

“No, Barbara’s Malibu.”

“What happened to it?”

“Steven had a little accident with it or something.”

“Why can’t he just …”

“The trunk’s just jammed.”

Arooooooga! Arooooooga!

“I think I hear her coming.”

“Carla?!”

“Carla!” they both yell.

There are no pets in the house. At least none have ventured into the kitchen and one would imagine the smell of breakfast to be a pungent animal attractant.

“Where was Vilas going to be before Tokyo?”

Arooooooga! Arooooooga!

“What?”

“Where did it say Vilas was going to be before Tokyo?”

She leafs back through the paper, “Copenhagen.”

“I knew something reminded me of Danny Kaye.”

“What’s that got to do with Danny Kaye?”

“He sang that song ‘Wonderful Wonderful Copenhagen’ in that film about Hans Christian Andersen.”

“Norway seems like it would be nice.”

“Copenhagen’s Denmark.”

“I know, I meant Norway.”

Arooooooga! Arooooooga!

“Are you going to call Marilyn about the house this summer or should I?”

“This week’s very bad for me,” he says, lighting a True Menthol.

“What’s so bad?”

“Busy. I’ve got that thing in Morris County coming to trial Thursday — Friday if we’re lucky. And I’ve got that crazy business with your brother-in-law’s doctor …”

“Carla only wants to come for half this summer if we go.”

“It’s up to her.”

“I’ll call then.”

“Ask her about something closer to the beach this time.”

“The other one wasn’t that far.”

“It was a twenty minute walk.”

Arooooooga! Arooooooga!

“Carla!!” she yells.

He counts his change and yells too, “Carla!”

“What’s she doing?”

“Is she in the bathroom?”

“She might be in there.”

“Do you have quarters?”

“Wait … yeah. When Marilyn talked to …”

“I need quarters now for the lot. I owe them sixty cents from a few weeks ago anyway.”

“You should park in the lot near your father’s old store.”

“That’s a fifteen minute walk.”

“Isn’t it free?”

“It’s not even so near that store — it’s about two blocks … it’s nearer to the Stanley than to the store.”

“It’s first come first serve anyway … you could see a movie on the way.”

“They’re all Spanish.”

“You never took Spanish in …”

“There’s no Spanish there now anyway — it’s all Indian now.”

“… there’s Indonesian, Indian …”

“There’s about eight Indian groceries.”

“You should get me some curry.”

“You can get curry at the supermarket — I bet it’s cheaper.”

“You think that would be cheap?”

“Cheaper.”

“If it’s cheaper here, no one would shop there, never mind open eight groceries.”

“They live there — they shop there. It’s got nothing to do with saving a few pennies. It’s neighborhood stores …”

“If it’s a few pennies, you could just as easily pick me up some things.”

“Like what things?”

“Like curry powder.”

“I’m not even parking near there. I owe the other lot about sixty cents so I have to go there anyway.”

“I don’t have time to fool with that anyway this week. We’ll have franks tonight — on the grill or something … maybe just a cold salad. I have my hands full this week. I have about three months of late planning to do in one week …”

Arooooooga! Arooooooga!

“What are you doing?”

“Counting the months till July.”

“On your fingers? It’s three months.”

“You don’t even know when you’re taking your month. How can I make any arrangements?”

“I told you … Make arrangements and I’ll work around them.”

“Alright then, I’ll plan for July … and it’s four months.”

“What four months? There’s a week and a half left this month.”

“Two weeks — and if I have to put down a deposit or sign something, it matters.”

“It doesn’t matter. If there’s a deposit — there’s a deposit. But call me before you do anything.”

“I thought Art’s girl got married and left.”

“She did.”

“I thought she answered yesterday when I called.”

“That must have been Susan.”

“Who’s Susan?”

“Susan’s a new secretary.”

“Whose?”

“No one’s yet. We’re getting one more girl and then rearranging the whole thing.”

“You’re not going to have Fran anymore?”

“No, no, Fran’s staying with me.”

“Who else left?”

“Frank Tarrant’s girl.”

“She already …”

“She didn’t leave — she was fired. She was incompetent.”

“How’s your penis today?”

“Redder.”

“All European men must have red penises then.”

“If they wear tiny mesh underpants they have red penises.”

“You said European …”

“I said European cut, not mesh frankfurter skins.”

Arooooooga! Arooooooga!

She leaves and returns with a stack of magazines.

“What’s that?” he says rubbing his eye.

“Cynthia …”

“My eye itches like crazy … Cynthia what?”

“Cynthia Hayden asked for these when I was done.”

“Cynthia Hayden wants decorator magazines?”

“She asked for them when I was done so I said fine. Don’t rub it — it’s getting all red.”

“Do we have any Visine?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. Why don’t you rinse it a little with some cool water.”

“It’s alright.”

“Did you see the picture of Carter with the Indian headdress?”

“Where?”

She folds the paper and hands it to him.

“What’s that for?”

“It has something to do with that commercial where the Indian cries about pollution.”

“He reminds me of Anthony Quinn at the end of ‘Requiem For A Heavyweight.’ ”

“Is that … is that where Bogart does publicity for …”

“That’s not ‘Requiem …’ ”

“Let me finish.”

“I know what you’re talking about.”

“What?”

“That’s not ‘Requiem For A Heavyweight.’ That’s ‘The Harder They Fall.’ Bogart’s a sports writer and becomes a press agent for this mob’s fighter stable … no, for this mob-owned giant South American fighter who can’t fight. He’s a giant dumb fighter — the ‘Bull of the Pampas’ or something — and they let him get slaughtered and don’t pay him and he’s got poor parents and everything and finally at the end Bogart pays him out of his own pocket and writes a big exposé with his wife leaning over the typewriter.”

“Do you want a match?”

“No … wait … yeah, yeah — I thought I had one more in here.”

She reaches into a drawer across from the table.

“Here.”

He lights a True Menthol with a kitchen match.

“When you spoke to your father last, what did he say about your mother’s surgery?”

“What about it?”

“Does she need it or not or what?”

“Probably. She’s got an appointment this week or next week with a man in New York.”

“With Larry’s cousin?”

“Not Larry’s cousin — with a gastroenterologist.”

“At Mount Sinai?”

“Not at Mount Sinai — at his office.”

“She’s upset?”

“She’s probably upset. It’s not serious really.”

“What do you mean it’s not serious?”

“It’s not serious — she’ll probably need it done every once in a while from now on. It’s annoying and uncomfortable — but it’s not serious.”

“What’s serious to you?”

“A blood clot is serious, a broken hip is serious at her age, a heart attack is serious, a stroke …”