Lessons In Being A Flapper (17 page)

“What are you doing here? I’ve missed you so very, very much!” I exclaimed. It was true. I couldn’t wait to get back to San Fran to see her but now she was here in what appeared to be a dance studio in Lower Manhattan.

“You’re probably wondering what we’re all doing her
e, aren’t you? Well, your lovely fella over there thought it would be a nice surprise for you if I came out for a quick visit. It was originally supposed to happen earlier but he said that he wanted it to be a Christmas present so here we are. Christmas day and we’re in a dance studio! How splendid!” she said, doing a little twirl. Bayani steadied her when she wobbled but overall her twirling abilities were impressive.

“I overheard the two of you talking about the twenties and I remembered that my brother used to own a dance studio here in the city so I asked him if he could help me rent it for the day,” Bayani said a little sheepishly as if he knew he shouldn’t have been eavesdropping.

“But what are we going to do here? I don’t think I understand…”

“Darling girl, we are going to learn the Charleston! Well, you are. I already know it like the palm of my hand. What a fun and flirty dance it is. Of course old age has left me rather stiff, but I’ll do my best to follow along.
After seeing you tear the Lindy Hop to shreds, I thought it’d be best if you learned from a professional before attempting any more dancing.”

Apparently, Bayani had called in a top Broadway choreographer wh
o specialized in the Charleston to show us the steps – literally. I guess this was how we’d break up. I never thought it was going to end this way…

Oh. Right.
It’s not ending. We’re just dancing.

Thing is, I’m really, really bad at dancing
, as you’ve probably realized. Almost as bad as I am at ice skating. As I mentioned before, I have no coordination. The dance instructor might tell us to put our left foot forward and I’ll almost always put my right. I couldn’t tell which was which, sometimes. Was that bad?

Anyway, I suppose I should give it a try, no? After all, Bayani did go out of his way to make Christmas extra special
for me. He even flew in Marisol for some twenties inspiration. I couldn’t deny him the chance to see me dance like a baby deer who hadn’t yet found out how its legs worked.

The choreographer was a middle aged man with a full head of thick
blonde hair who had a flamboyant flair about him. He snapped his fingers furiously to get out full attention. I thought I even saw him flick his wrist. Yep, I was now entering hell.

“Places, people!” he said, as if he were ins
tructing a Broadway production. Places? I had no freaking clue where I should stand so I stood in between Marisol, decked out in proper Charleston attire with a string of beads around her neck, and Bayani, in jeans and a t-shirt. Me? Well, I was dressed head-to-toe in Christmas colors. I had on pale green jeans (mint green, really) and a red sparkly sweater. I thought I looked rather cute when we left the hotel but now I just felt ridiculous. I suddenly wondered whether my grandparents were going to watch this little production and asked Marisol as much.

“Darling, haven’t I told you? You’re grandfather only contacts me when he has pressing information or wants to barber me into doing something silly – like telling you I hear dead people. I don’t hear from him otherwise,” she whispered. “Though you should assume he is watching and will have a critique or some other nonsense to bang on about when we get home.”

“By the way, have you heard anything from your ghost lately?” Marisol inquired.

“No, I haven’t and I don’t expect to as I put all of that to rest. The past is the past and I re
fuse to dwell on it any longer,” I said with determination.

“You obviously haven’t learned anything from me these past few months. You above all people should know that a spirit never really goes away. It may be silent for a while but until it gets what it wants, it
’s never really gone, my dear.” Damn it. Why did she always have to burst my bubble? I was so convinced that the “thing” haunting me could be cast away if I stopped thinking about it but obviously I was wrong. Deep down, I knew that Marisol was right.

A
fter fifteen rather disastrous attempts at learning to dance the Charleston, the choreographer gave up and said he wasn’t being paid enough to stand there all day while I tried to figure out my left foot from my right. He ended up leaving in a huff and while Bayani and Marisol found it excruciatingly funny, I was left feeling like a loser who couldn’t even learn a simple dance step. What fun this was turning out to be!

To cheer me up, Bayani took me to a quaint little store called Vintage Tea, where I spent an hour looking through the authentic vintage clothes and accessories. Nothing really caught my eye though, which was good as most things were outlandishly priced ($3,000 for a Butterfly clip,
really
?)

We then headed back to the hotel, where we engaged in another round of passionate lovemaking. That’s
the thing with sex, isn’t it? Once you start doing it with someone, you don’t stop. We were like teenagers discovering new things for the first time, exploring and generally not getting out of bed for anything. Not even the breakfast buffet the following morning. That had to say something about my devotion to Bayani as I
never
would miss a good breakfast buffet!

Around 1 o’clock, Bayani said he had to leave. I was sad to s
ee him go but knew that when I got back to San Francisco I could see him as much as I wanted – and that was a lot. By George, I think I’m addicted to the old chap. Though Bayani wasn’t old (far from it) and I wasn’t really addicted, per se. I just enjoyed his company more than most peoples.

Parting was like a sweet surrender as promises were made and X-rated things were said. When Baynai eventually closed the door to my room, leaving me with nothing but the music of Frank Sinatra and Rosemary Clooney (I was an old soul) I lay down on my bed and stared blissfully at the ceiling for a few minutes before deciding to go see if Marisol was up for a game of golf on the Wii Fit.

“
W
hy people want to play these games is beyond me,” Marisol said as she tried to get a hole in one (million) on the Wii. Either she had never played golf in her life or she wasn’t too good with technology. I was leaning towards the latter. We had been playing for a while now and even though I said we could stop at any time, Marisol had decided that she wasn’t going to quit until she won. If that was true, we were looking at a very long night ahead.

A few games later I came up with a plan to just let Marisol win by doing absolutely nothing to win myself. It worked beautifully and as we sat down at the glass t
able on the closed-in balcony for a much deserved glass of fizz, I told Marisol about the Tiffany’s ring box.

“Do you know anything about it?” I asked.

“Why would I know anything? I can’t read his mind and I definitely do not keep tabs on that palooka when you’re not around.” Well, sorry I asked! Marisol seemed extremely restless tonight like she was itching to do something different instead of sit in this (fabulous) hotel and drink with me.

“Do you like
jazz, chickadee?” she asked out of the blue.

“It’s OK. Why do you ask?”

“It’s OK?! A true Flapper loves Jazz. She loves to dance to it, listen to it and be one with it,” she said, getting up and getting her coat. “Let’s go.”

“Go where? It’s 11 o’clock at night!”

“And your point is?” Well, my point was that it was 11 o’clock at night. What other point did I have to make?

“Darling girl, the night is young. I’m sure we can find some fabulous place to listen to music in this God forsaken city at 11 o’clock on a weeknight. The banks closed, your palooka has left the building. What else do you plan on doing with yourself? You
’re in New York, lest you forget.”

The banks closed. That meant making out and other things in her language. Ha. She must have known Bayani and I had slept together. She probably got a message from my grandfather again. I really hoped he hadn’t been watching me have sex. That would just be far too creepy for words.

“I know. But I don’t exactly have the right clothes to go out clubbing…” Just the thought of going clubbing with a 99-year-old was insane to think about. Although, I had come to realize that Marisol could be the life of the party if given the chance.

“I suggest we go out and get bent or whatever you call it nowadays. What do you call it, by the way, when someone
is off their trolley with giggle juice?”

“Drunk”, I replied. Though I didn’t think it was a good idea to get drunk at all – for neither of us.

“Yes, drunk. Now, are you coming or what?” Marisol said standing at the door.  I reluctantly got up only to be pushed back down by a rather firm, but bony, hand.

“Toots, you can’t go out like that. Let’s find you something more appropriate. You look li
ke you need a nap not a party!” Didn’t I just say I didn’t have the right clothes? Was she even listening to me?!

After much fuss about what I should where and how I should do my makeup, we finally settled on a complete Flapper transformation. I wore strands of pearls that hung down to
my waist, a feathered headband, a short skirt with tassels and a black sparkly top.  Marisol helped me to do my makeup like a true Flapper too. She taught me this trick where you put concealer over your lips and then paint a heart on with lipstick. It was extremely easy to do and the results were amazing. I thought about doing my lips this way all the time from now on but decided against it as most women would probably look at me funny. But I didn’t care. I was a true Flapper who didn’t give a flying squirrel about anything tonight.

B
y the time we left The Plaza it was almost midnight. Marisol asked the doorman where the nearest club was and after giving her a slightly astonished look he directed us to what he called a “hip joint” about five minutes away. He then flagged us a taxi and off we went.

“I’m telling you Autumn, we’re going to cast a kitten tonight!” Marisol said gleefully with a shine in her eyes I hadn’t seen before. I was slightly worried about what she had planned and what the hell “cast a kitten” meant. A quick search of Google on my iPhone told me it meant to have a good time.

The cabbie dropped us off at the Birdland Jazz Club on West 44
th
Street and we got in line behind all the hipsters waiting to get in while texting their friends to tell them how cool the place was and what a great time they were having. Obviously they were all trying too hard because the
real
cool kids had just arrived.

“Woohoo! Baldy! Can a couple of crashers get a door pass or what?” Marisol yelled out to the bald-headed doorman who didn’t look too
amused with her antics.

“I’m really sorry. She’s just very impatient,” I explained trying my best to diffuse the situation as best I could.

“How old is your grandmother?” the doorman asked.

“Oh, she’s not…” A swift kick at my ankles warned me to say no more.

“I’m 99, dearie. Couldn’t you let us in, just this once? We promise not to cause any trouble,” Marisol said, winking at him in an extremely disturbing and flirtatious way. While taken aback at first, the doorman let us through without hesitation, which was both a surprise and relief for me. I hated scenes and I would have bet my life that if we stayed out there any longer we would have had one.

“Good to know I still have it,” Marisol said,
patting her hair and scanning the room for the best seats. Once she spotted them she hurried me along, telling me they wouldn’t last. Seats in a NYC club were like water, they evaporated into thin air as quickly as they appeared.

“New York City is the Mecca of jazz music, my dear. You won’t find anywhere else as diverse and exciting a
s this city!” The place was incredible, I’ll give it that. Even though I wasn’t a huge fan of jazz music, I could see that this place was hopping with trendy people of all ages. Marisol, of course, was the oldest but she didn’t care one bit. The waiter took our order which consisted of a “brown plaid” (scotch whiskey) for her and a dainty cocktail for myself. I wasn’t about to get trashed. I had to keep an eye on Marisol as I felt as though she was attempting to relive her glory days and could easily become rowdy.

“My God, ther
e are a lot of bug eyed Bettys here tonight. I think we’re the two best looking dames in the house.” Of course we were. We were also the most uniquely dressed. Go figure.

The music soon started and I found that I was enjoying myself immensely. Jazz wasn’t as boring as I had originally thought. In fact it was actually quite fantastic to li
sten to and see performed live. When there was an intermission, a few people who had spotted Marisol and I earlier came over to introduce themselves and ask Marisol questions about her past. At one point a scrawny man, with thick glasses and a newsboy hat asked what her secret was to a long life.

“My dear boy, there is no secret. The only thing I can say is that I drank a lot of whiskey, smoked a lot of marijuana and slept with a lot of men. So in my experience alcohol, drugs and sex will
surely add to your longevity!”  I sputtered my cocktail all over the table and wondered how I could crawl under it and disappear. Did she just tell random men that she liked to sleep around and smoke pot? Would they think I was cut from the same cloth? I was here with this batty old woman after all.