“Not funny,” Barry says.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I do have some advice to you, though.”
“Yes?”
“You’re a writer, Barry. Why don’t you write your own rules for once? Write your own story, Barry.”
“I’m so angry!” Teddy screams from the bedroom. “I don’t know what to do!”
We all stand and peer in the door.
He is holding a mannequin head over his head.
“Not the wigs!” we all cry. “Not the wigs!”
Sid
Leo, his parents and I are seated on the patio at Spencer’s Restaurant.
This time, I am fully dressed.
This is our rain check, our redo in the desert.
Spencer’s is a Palm Springs institution for brunch. Set at the historic Palm Springs Tennis Club, it has been an exclusive gathering place since its inception in the 1930s, hosting celebrities like Katherine Hepburn and Bob Hope. Spencer’s sits at the base of the mountain, and tables are perched under a canopy of live trees drenched in lights as if you are living in a dream, the atmosphere matched only by the wonderful food.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” I ask, babbling as usual like a nervous child, filling the silence since no one is talking. “Have you been here before?”
Miriam and Joseph stare at me, smiles that look as if their family photo is being taken by a trained assassin. They shake their heads no and return to studying their menus in silence.
This brunch was Leo’s idea of a do-over after our uncomfortable first encounter. But how many mimosas will it take to erase the image of my nearly nude eighty-one-year-old body from the minds of my boyfriend’s parents who are younger than me?
Leo wanted us all to have a chance to really get to know one another. Talk. Laugh. Share.
But we have been politely silent so far.
As if on cue, my cell trills in the pocket of the slacks Esther helped me choose. We spent an entire day at Saks, and Esther had me try on more outfits than a girl going to prom.
“When you die, you will be judged less harshly by God than you will the moment that woman returns to the dressing room,” the gay clerk told me when Esther left to retrieve more options.
I surreptitiously pull my phone free and hold it below the edge of the table. But of course: It’s a text from Esther.
Do you want me to show up and scare his parents? I’m really good at it. I’ve had years of experience as an overbearing Jewish great-grandmother.
I look up as I’m trying to decide between the eggs royale with smoked salmon or the banana-stuffed French toast.
I type:
No, but thank you, friend.
You’re welcome. PS: Don’t talk too much... remember suspicious mole? PPS: I hope you don’t get Louis as your waiter. He’s senile. Way worse than me.
I slide my cell back into my pocket as a waiter appears with menus.
I glance up. It’s Louis.
Thank you, Esther. You have eggplant-blouse cursed me once again.
Louis is every bit my age, and has been a server here since—I’m venturing to guess—FDR was president. I pray he doesn’t recognize me today. Louis rambles more than I do. He’s apt to say anything.
