“Whipped cream and other delights?”
“Well, naturally. Herb in his gaucho pants and mariachi jacket. Who’d a thunk?”
“Who, indeed.”
“Sergio Mendes? Equinox?”
“Oh, so now we’re actually talking music? I thought the topic was adolescent sex.”
“You mean fantasies.”
“There’s a difference?”
“After Lani Hall got tired of Serge, turns out she took up with Herb.”
“You don’t suppose—”
“No, I don’t. The woman sang in Portuguese, for God’s sake.”
“And that disqualifies her from whipped—”
“That and a whole lot of other things, Buster.”
“Getting awfully canonical there. Buster? Thought it was my birthday.”
“7:05 yet?”
“Close enough, don’t you think?”
“We’ll wait the five minutes, thank you.”
“Oh, we will, shall we?”
They waited.
7:05 came, cathedral bells in the distance.
“You pay the Archbishop for that dispensation?”
“He knew Dolores Erickson. Baptized her first baby.”
“Dolores?”
“The woman on the cover.”
“Back to that are we? We’re how old now?”
“I don’t think I take your meaning. Besides, you’re the year older now, Buddy. I’ll languish in my youth a few more months, if you don’t mind.”
“By all means languish, mon frere.”
The bells rambled on.
“Pretty cool, huh?”
“Something tells me we’re not finished with the album cover. Yes, the song sounds vaguely familiar.”
“I admit, the bells throw you off. ‘A Taste of Honey.’”
“Well, I’ll be. I don’t suppose the Archbishop did Herb’s bar mitzvah.”
“As a matter of fact—”
“No, please, spare me.”
Whipped cream boy “sang” along with the bells.
“You do a pretty mean trumpet there, muchacho. Pick that up from Al Jarreau, did we?”
“Sarah Vaughan.”
“The Divine One? My, my. You are the clever one.”
“You want, I can do ‘The Lonely Bull,’ too.”
“No, no, this is fine.”
The bells were tolling something for the lactose intolerant. Bach? Brahms? Mantovani?
“My mother hated Mantovani.”
“Mine, too.”
“Really. I’d always heard he was very big in Dubuque.”
“Never trust a city named after a technique for cutting carrots.”
“I’m sorry, who’s being obtuse now?”
“Julien. Dubuque’s first name was Julien.”
“That almost borders on funny.”
“Well, it is my birthday, after all.”
“Touché.”
Whipped cream stood to go. To birthday boy, he said, “Guess it’s time for you to get to work, eh?”
“Getting there. Might take in one more round of the bells.”
“Sorry, I couldn’t get Nyro. The Bish wanted twice as much for ‘Wedding Bell Blues.’”
“I can imagine. You know—”
“Yes?”
“Well, I was just thinking—”
“Dangerous thing, at your age.”
“At my age, is it?”
“Well, for a few more months.”
“Want to be the junior senator, do you?”
“If that makes me Hillary, so be it.”
The bells tolled off into minor oblivion.
“No, I was just thinking, Ms. Erickson, she’d be, what—”
“I don’t like to think about it.”
“Oh, you don’t, do you?”
“Besides, she married an attorney.”
“That is dire. My condolences.”
“To her, or to me?”
“Why, to all of us, yes?”
“1937.”
“1937 wha—…Oh. My. Doesn’t seem possible, does it?”
“Nor for any of us, you come right down to it.”
“I suppose you’re right. Well, it can’t be helped now, can it?”
“No, I guess it can’t.”
“So, chica was 28—”
“And three months pregnant—”
“And three…really? Well, good for her.”
“Son’s name is Brett.”
“Well, of course it is. So, chica was 28 year old mother of three month old little Brett, and we were twelve year olds awash in whatever twelve year old Texans and Iowans are awash in, be it whipped cream on a cardboard album cover or whipped cream in our wistful little twelve year old hearts—”
“Wistful. I like that. Makes me feel better.”
“I thought it might. You know, wistful’s got no statute of limitations.”
“I like that, too.”
“Well, good. Consider it an early birthday present.”
[for Alan's birthday, 6.25.07]
Labels: Dorignac's, Elaine Collard, vitamin C
