Audrey

end of a trio..
ready?...
one, two,...three!...

Piled into Buster's dull gray '54 Austin A30, we headed out towards the Pantages Theatre, all of us in too-snug ties, Audrey in satin, the girl with the big black eyes squeezed in between Spencer and Hemingway in back. In a light California mist, as rare as a fish coming up for air, the wiper blades slowly rose, then slammed violently downward. I reached across and wiped the fog collecting on the windshield with my bare hand as Buster leaned forward gripping the wheel tightly and squinting. We were going to look mighty funny pulling up to the valet at the red carpet compared to limos. We made it, in reverse, the man in the bow tie and pork-pie hat leaving tire marks on bright red, just below orange swaying Chinese lanterns.

Tracy didn't want to go even though he was one of the Big Five. Surprisingly, Hemingway talked him into going, saying what a loser he was anyways, kidding of course, but riling up Tracy's blood into his ears, and setting into motion an unexpectedly pleasureable recent afternoon at a local ladies boutique, smelling of a French Market, the four of us sitting on a cushioned bench as Audrey modeled different gowns for the Ball, rising as she emerged from behind the door, Buster with his hat over his heart, us shaking our heads in disapproval, although we lied, coughing excuses like, 'there's no place to pin a corsage! Next!' her looking stunning always, exhaustively choosing a white sleeveless satin.

"But..these are my friends." She was just a shade above a pleading whisper when the gorilla at the entrance demanded invitations. Tracy was able to get the Great Storyteller in with some unblinking profanity, but all Audrey could do was look over her bare white shoulder, as Buster and I were left out in the mist. "But, those are my friends," she shivered, red lips parted, as Grace Kelly swept by looking with contempt down her nose at us misfits. Hemingway was smilingly imagining a runaway bull spearing the gorilla.

Buster, with an over sized napkin stuffed over his little bow tie, held a fork and knife upright on a counter at a dusty oatmeal smelling coffee shop a block away, doing his big-hearted best to cheer me up. Or, maybe just to cheer himself up. It worked only when an old man with hiccups and uneven eyebrows behind the counter in a paper hat glared at us. I pointed at a faded and peeling picture of a whole pecan pie on the marquee, Buster nodded, and I ordered a whole pie and two clean forks. It was rich, and the black liquid coal served in chipped porcelain cups was a lovely companion.
"Good." It was raining now, water sprinkling off the roof. A little girl at the cash register with her finger in her nose was staring back at Buster.
"Yes," I agreed, brushing crumbs off my lap.

"Yes," she said, yawning in the backseat, "it was a lovely evening," squeezing Tracy's hand tighter, as she peered with tired eyes up at his profile. She freed her bunned-hair in one motion and it fell softly as a fairytale. She was still wearing her long polished Italian dress gloves, tugging her right jeweled earring thoughtfully with her free hand.
"I told you you were a loser," Hemingway repeated, leaning forward, "you son of a bitch."
She scolded him playfully, shaking a finger like a bunned-hair school marm in boots.
His squeezed hand made him reply calmly and quietly, "no..I..Ernie really was good."
"Marty?"
"Handsome Marty," Buster nodded. We laughed with loosened ties, and exclaimed out of sync, 'hey, Marty, whatcha doin' tonight?' And then there was a moment of silence. The rain moved out of town, forced away by whipping winds.
"But you're the best," she said somewhat defiantly, and I looked back at her, and she was crying.