“You want to feel better don’t you?”
Camille and I are languishing in a booth in the anteroom off the bar that isn’t even open yet. She’s decided, after seeing The Philadelphia Story for the umpteenth time, to do what the Jimmy Stewart character does when he’s hungover…have another drink courtesy of Uncle Willie.
“Do you think we’ll get a prize for being the first customers on Christmas Day?”
I assure her drinking more, as a cure, couldn’t be such a great idea since I for one, have sworn off alcohol, at least for the day. I had never been so sick in my life so the thought of the hair of the dog, if you will, holds little appeal.
“How come you’re not wearing the fishnets I gave you?”
“I wore them last night. They need to be washed.”
Little did she know from crawling to the bathroom on all fours they have huge holes in the knees like drunken spider webs.
When Eddie the bartender finally came in looking worse than we did, he offered to make us some strange concoction with rum, bitters and bouillon that apparently would make all the difference in our ailing personalities.
One could say, charm was at large Christmas day.
Just then the smell of eggs Benedict wafting through the room sent me running to the ladies room; not that I had anything left to dispense with. Three dozen Oreos really don’t amount to much is the long and short of it. I’m lucky my liver was still inside my body after the abuse it took. I could have sworn I heard it squeal, “Get me the fuck outta here, she’s gonna kill me.” But then again, when you’re drunk, you think you hear lots of things, like Santa tap-dancing on the roof. When I finally fell asleep I dreamt Dasher had popped in for a nightcap.
No more champagne for you there Susannah, and to think Starbucks didn’t open till 9, but I’m digressing.
“Camille, what happened with Malcolm anyway? Last I knew you were so smitten.”
“Yeah well, remember when you said he looked like a knick-knack?”
“How could I forget, you didn’t talk to me for three days.”
“I should have paid more attention to your first impression.”
“It suddenly felt like I was out with Ken. He was stiff in all the wrong places, if you know what I mean.”
“I thought you weren’t jumping in bed with him right away…you were observing THE RULES?” I couldn’t help adding an eye roll to that.
“That lasted till my second martini. I’m almost 60, I haven’t time to observe anything… besides, better to get the bad news earlier than later.”
“You mean that he couldn’t cross the finish line?”
“No, that he folds his Calvins neatly over a chair.”
“OOH..that’s not too manly, is it?”
“I would say not. He also seemed to have everything synchronized…like marking things off a laundry list. We ended up in his room in less than 45 minutes. If I didn’t know better I would have thought he was trying to beat check-out time.”
Just then Eddie arrived with our soup on the rocks. I couldn’t look at it since it smelled like Monday’s soup of the day.
“There aren’t lentils in here Eddie, I hope?”
Camille slurped hers up like a sailor while mine sat smoldering causing my eyes to tear.
“I feel remarkably better,’ Camille said, “touching up her make-up. “Eddie, you’re as good as Uncle Willie in Philadelphia.”
“Philadelphia…is that where you’re from?”
“Ignore her Eddie, and no, that’s not where she’s from. Mars is more like it…
I don’t believe you Camille. You don’t feel any better…I can tell.”
“You’re right,” she said, before jumping up making a beeline to the ladies room.
I took it upon myself to order tea and toast for two along with aspirin from Felipe, the concierge. When Camille finally emerged the color of green beans, one could say brunch was waiting.
“I know just how you feel Camille…you’re never drinking again.”
“No, I’m never having soup again.”