Camille and I are standing in front of Saks schvitzing like we were in a men’s club sauna, the August heat compromising our sex appeal, to say the least.
“Taxi, the Carlyle, and step on it.”
I know it sounds like a bad film, but where do you think bad films come from?
Our driver smelled like tuna salad, an aroma I could have done without. When I asked after air-conditioning he reluctantly got off the phone from Iraq and said, “Open window and you will feel breeze.”
Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.
Since Camille was the color of kindergarten paste I asked him to pull over.
“Why…we almost there,” he said, his turban clearly too tightly wound.
By the time we did get to Bemelmans we needed CPR.
The central air greeted us putting color back in our cheeks.
Anton from hospitality happened to be at the door.
“You two ladies look as if you need a drink.”
We needed more than that. It was the first time Camille has ever looked her age.
“Two vodka martinis please…COLD,” we said in unison. I saw Anton gesture to the barmaid, it was on him.
Always liked Anton ever since he was a waiter at my favorite bistro before rising to the ranks of a good hotel. Don’t ever think over tipping is ever in vain because you’ll be surprised when it shows up happy to see you again.
We sat at a table in order to sprawl our legs feeling moist for all the wrong reasons.
“Now you know why I don’t wear underwear after Memorial Day,” said Camille in a daze. “I could grow mushrooms…shitakes…in my thong.” Another image I could have easily done without.
There were many men strewed around the room…their jackets off…perspiration marks clinging to their button-downs. The trouble was, it was just too hot to flirt, so we all drank, ate chips and over tipped the barmaid who kept plying us with ice and a smile.