Drinking with Dead Women Writers (Drinking with Dead Writers) by Ambrose Elaine; Turner AK

Author:Ambrose, Elaine; Turner, AK
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Mill Park Publishing
Published: 2012-04-18T04:00:00+00:00

Dorothy Parker

Fug

BY AK TURNER

We’re at Grape Escape on the corner of 8th and Idaho in Boise. Dorothy Parker has come to me. We’d planned, of course, to meet at the Algonquin in New York, but my flight was canceled.

“Thanks for coming all this way,” I smile as I pull out the heavy wooden chair next to her.

“Well I’m dead, you know, so it seems my schedule was wide open. Don’t expect me to soften for you,” she warns.

“I should hope you wouldn’t!” I say.

“Good. So, how does this work then? Am I supposed to tell you about me or are you supposed to already know?”

“A little of both, I guess.”

“Shush! Not another syllable until I have a drink.”

“Dorothy Parker just shushed me,” I mumble to myself.

“Excuse me, handsome, but I need a martini.” She addresses this to Israel who walks over with menus.

“We don’t have martinis, but I can still be handsome,” he says. “Here’s a wine list.”

“Pity,” she says. “About the martinis, not you.”

Israel beams.

“Bring us something red,” she says. “I’d like a wine that brings to mind the rustle of sheets.”

I’ve known Israel for some time. He’s a shameless flirt, but I think in Dorothy he’s met his match. For the first time, he’s struck silent. He walks away in search of such a wine.

“Did I scare him?” she asks me.

“Just a little,” I answer, “it’s good for him.”

“I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy,” she says.

“Agreed.”

“So, what do you know about me? Rather, what do you think you know? Whatever it is, it’s complete rubbish.”

“I know that you introduced yourself to Norman Mailer by saying, ‘So, you’re the man who can’t spell fuck.’”

“Alright, that one is true. Honestly, did you read The Naked and the Dead? He changed it to fug. What on earth is a fug?”

Israel approaches tentatively. “What are you ladies talking about?” he asks, setting down two glasses.

“A worthy activity,” says Parker, flashing him a set of bedroom eyes.

“You brought a live one,” Israel says to me. “I brought you a dry one.” With that he opens a Lyeth Cabernet and addresses Parker. “Are you a writer, too?”

She ignores his question and leans frightfully close to me. “You’re a writer? Want me to shoot you in the head now, while you’re still happy?”

“I’ll hold off for just a bit,” I say.

“Alright, but the offer stands. I’ll ask you again when we’re on our third bottle.”

“Even in death, you’re still preoccupied with suicide,” I comment.

“No, not preoccupied. It’s funny, really, that after all of my attempts and poems about it, I drop dead of a heart attack. What a boring last line.”

“Believe me,” I say, “you are anything but boring.”

“Oh, but it’s true. It turns out that at social gatherings, as a source of entertainment, conviviality, and good fun, I rank somewhere between a sprig of parsley and a single ice-skate.”

I laugh. Israel appears to refill our glasses. They’re not yet empty, but I can tell he’s drawn to her.

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