October 19, 2007
I’m sitting with two elderly women and an elderly gentleman in the front row of a theatre where we’ve just finished watching a play. As we get up to go, I leave my book bag on the floor because I believe we are coming right back.
The theatre is located on the lower floors of a grand old hotel. My little theatre party gets on the elevator to head back to our room, which is actually the apartment of the oldest of the women, who turns out to be the mother of the elderly man; the other woman is his second wife.
The older woman explains to her daughter-in-law that the family used to live next door to my family back when the first wife was still alive. She mentions the first wife just to be hurtful and I notice a flicker of sadness flash across the daughter-in-law's face.
The passive aggressive behavior of the mother-in-law has made me uncomfortable so I tell her, “I’m going back down to the theatre to get my bag.”
The mother-in-law hands me a wet one-piece ladies' bathing suit with the top half turned inside out, exposing two beige colored foam support cups. She asks if I would drop it off down the hall on my way out.
I take the bathing suit and head down the hall. A woman stops me and offers to make the delivery for me. She is slightly menacing, but she backs down quickly when I tell her firmly, “No, I will deliver it myself.”
I come upon a mustard brown colored door with a gold name plate. The name plate reads “Lucille Ball.”
I knock on the door and after a moment a woman in a white bathrobe with a matching towel covering her face opens the door. I can tell by the tuft of brittle red hair peeking out from her towel that it is indeed Lucille Ball.
“I have your suit,” I say.
“Come in, come in,” she growls.
The damp suit is dripping on the rug.
“It’s almost dry,” I tell her, “would you like me to hang it in the bathroom for you?”
“No, I’ll do it. Just leave it there.”
She has me hang it on the back of the vanity chair in which she is now seated. She looks at me as if to say, “Well, is that it?” But I can’t help myself. I feel I must say something...but what?
I think to myself, “I never really liked her, but I can’t say that.”
I decide to lie. “You know how everyone always says, ‘I love Lucy, I love Lucy?’”
I’m sitting with two elderly women and an elderly gentleman in the front row of a theatre where we’ve just finished watching a play. As we get up to go, I leave my book bag on the floor because I believe we are coming right back.
The theatre is located on the lower floors of a grand old hotel. My little theatre party gets on the elevator to head back to our room, which is actually the apartment of the oldest of the women, who turns out to be the mother of the elderly man; the other woman is his second wife.
The older woman explains to her daughter-in-law that the family used to live next door to my family back when the first wife was still alive. She mentions the first wife just to be hurtful and I notice a flicker of sadness flash across the daughter-in-law's face.
The passive aggressive behavior of the mother-in-law has made me uncomfortable so I tell her, “I’m going back down to the theatre to get my bag.”
The mother-in-law hands me a wet one-piece ladies' bathing suit with the top half turned inside out, exposing two beige colored foam support cups. She asks if I would drop it off down the hall on my way out.
I take the bathing suit and head down the hall. A woman stops me and offers to make the delivery for me. She is slightly menacing, but she backs down quickly when I tell her firmly, “No, I will deliver it myself.”
I come upon a mustard brown colored door with a gold name plate. The name plate reads “Lucille Ball.”
I knock on the door and after a moment a woman in a white bathrobe with a matching towel covering her face opens the door. I can tell by the tuft of brittle red hair peeking out from her towel that it is indeed Lucille Ball.
“I have your suit,” I say.
“Come in, come in,” she growls.
The damp suit is dripping on the rug.
“It’s almost dry,” I tell her, “would you like me to hang it in the bathroom for you?”
“No, I’ll do it. Just leave it there.”
She has me hang it on the back of the vanity chair in which she is now seated. She looks at me as if to say, “Well, is that it?” But I can’t help myself. I feel I must say something...but what?
I think to myself, “I never really liked her, but I can’t say that.”
I decide to lie. “You know how everyone always says, ‘I love Lucy, I love Lucy?’”
“Yes,” she says, barely tolerating my presence.
“Well, I do, I really do.”
“Thank you,” she responds, in a voice that says “I’ve heard this bunk a thousand times before.”
“But I really love Lucie Arnaz,” I tell her excitedly. “Ever since I was a kid, I’ve just always loved her.”
I want to tell Lucille that she did a good job raising her daughter, but then my thoughts spin out of control as I remember that she actually has two children and that maybe I should say she also did a good job with her son. “But then again,” I think, “there was that whole mess with Patty Duke, and wasn’t Desi Jr. a drug addict, and wouldn’t that be another lie if I said she’d done a good job with him?”
“Yeah, basically you raised two great kids,” I tell her, having opted to lie again. “I‘ve always liked Lucie, on TV, in movies and plays, books, just wherever she goes.”
She’s really had enough of me. “Yeah, well, now I’d like to go wherever, so could ya…”
Her voice trails off as she indicates the door with a snap of her head. I think to myself, “What a fucking bitch.”
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