Lessons In Being A Flapper (2 page)

Yours in vintage beauty,

Marisol

OK then.

The mysterious letter turned out to be from some weirdo who was stalking me. Was “Marisol” even a woman? There was no way I was going to meet some stranger at The Painted Ladies (even though a part of me has always wanted to see the inside of these Victorian era gems).  I just couldn’t go. It was impossible and illogical. But wouldn’t it be amazing if Marisol really knew my feelings for the 20’s? My heart soared at the thought of someone who understood me. Before now, I only felt a kinship with Uggie the dog from the silent film
The Artist,
so it might be nice to have an actual human to talk to about life and the Roaring Twenties. Yes, it would. It bloody well would, but could I actually do something so impulsive?

T
he next few days passed in a flurry of excitement and trepidation. I was excited to meet this mysterious woman, who seemed to know so much about me already. However, I was also rather terrified that she wouldn’t live up to what I was imagining in my head. What if she (or he, for all I knew) was some scam artist or sex crazed maniac who had gotten my address and been stalking me since I moved here? I toyed with the idea of meeting her as the days passed. It wasn’t like me to be impulsive and just jump into unknown situations at all. I kept asking myself if she could really help me find my place in this world with so little information.  It seemed ludicrous and I was already afraid of being let down. Like air rushing out of a tire, I’d deflate in seconds if this all turned out to be one big joke. Because God knows I’ve been let down so much in my life.

You see, I came to San Francisco from a little suburb outside of Boston after my life was turned upside down. Things happened that shouldn’t have and as a result my life spiraled out of control. I was left broken and unable to move on with my life in such a small town so I left for bigger and brighter things. I always dreamed of doing things with my life, of achieving the unachievable and showing everyo
ne that I really had a purpose. Sadly, since arriving in San Fran six months, eighteen days and twelve hours ago and renting this gorgeous home in the heart of it all, the only thing I had acquired was the flu, my three legged dog, Clara, and a bad case of I-don’t-belong-here syndrome. Maybe running from my problems wasn’t the best idea, eh? Whether it was or it wasn’t, I couldn’t turn back now. For one thing there was Clara, who was named after the famous “It” girl of the 1920’s, Clara Bow.  I found my Clara and the 20’s era Clara had much in common: a tortured life (Clara the dog lost a leg after being abused, Clara the woman was stabbed by her jealous mother) and a desire to persevere no matter what. They were one in the same. Sometimes I wondered if this sweet little dog wasn’t Clara Bow reincarnated. I had yet to see her try on a dress or sing jazz but I wouldn’t be surprised one bit to come home one day and find her in full make-up and ready for her close up.                                                                                                              

H
ow I stumbled upon Clara is a miracle, really, both for her and I. I needed a friend and she needed someone to save her in her darkest hour.

I was walking through the city
, as I do most days now, but this time it was dark. I don’t usually venture out at night alone but that night I just so happened to need something at the store for a batch of cherry vanilla cupcakes I was making. Instead of waiting until morning, I felt the urge to go out and get the missing ingredient that night so I could have the decadent dessert ready for my mother’s visit the next day. As I walked down the street, which was crowded with young adults stumbling out of bars and drag queens swearing at me in stilettos and fishnets (seriously, they can be worse than a real woman if you look at them the wrong way!) I heard a whimpering noise and lots of shouting. As I got closer to a dark alleyway, I heard loud thumping and what sounded like glass shattering. Now, many of you would probably tell me that this was the point I should have turned around and either gone home or taken a different route but I didn’t. I felt propelled to go forward and as I crept towards the edge of the alley what I saw shook me to the core. Just a few hundred feet down the narrow space between two run-down buildings, there were a group of young men in their late teens to early twenties throwing glass bottles and kicking a terrified looking white dog. Backed into a corner, it was easy to see the fear in this little dog’s eyes just by the glint of a streetlight.  Without thinking, I screamed “Stop!” over and over again, then rushed forward and sheltered the dog from the blows. It wasn’t my smartest move but it was all I could think of at the moment. The men were stunned to see someone in the dogs place but not stunned enough to push me over and steal my wallet before running away.                                                      

 
Left on my own with a severely injured dog, no money and no phone to call for help, I decided my best bet would be to wrap the dog in my coat, carry her home and then call a taxi to take her to the emergency vets at San Francisco Pet Emergency Clinic. Within an hour, I was there. Cold, exhausted and in shock, I sat in the waiting room and prayed that this innocent animal would be saved. Her injuries were much worse than just cuts from glass, I was told. She had also been shot at and as a result her hind leg was dangling like a tree branch in danger of snapping off at any moment. It was a horrific sight to see. It seemed like I waited there all night, but it must have only been an hour or so before the vet came out to tell me that the dog was in critical condition and would need her leg amputated. He thanked me for saving her but told me that since she was a stray, they did not have the funds to perform the surgery only for her to end up in one of California’s (many) high kill shelters. He said they would instead euthanize her and end her pain.  Once again, I was shocked to the core (that had to stop; I was getting annoyed at physically recoiling every time someone said or did something appalling). I just couldn’t understand how this dog could be so tortured by life and then killed because no one claimed her. Had society really become so cruel and heartless that it would kill an innocent dog just because the system was overloaded? I immediately said that I would adopt her -- leg or no leg – and pay for all her medical bills. So that is how I inadvertently came to own a three-legged black and white Pit bull puppy named Clara. I may not have gotten my ingredients or made my cupcakes but I gained a loyal and loving friend in Clara. She’s been my confidante from the start and has never once let me down. This is probably why I was so afraid to go meet Marisol. In my experience, humans were more likely to let you down than any animal ever would be.

T
hursday afternoon I went for tea and scones at my local bakery cum café. I had bought a book written on The Painted Ladies and the Colorist Movement, which found normally dull colored homes painted in bright pinks, greens, yellows and even orange, that I planned to spend some time reading over my “calming” herbal tea and a warm cranberry apple scone. They were definitely a sight to be seen (the homes not the scones) and to actually know someone in them was an exception. They were a tourist attraction but very rarely did anyone actually get to look inside and see the décor or the no doubt fabulous people living behind the ornate doors. I researched Marisol’s home (or what I presumed to be her home) at number 3 Summerhill Road. I found that it had sold in 1999 for nearly $4 million dollars
($4 million!!)
to a person or persons who wished to remain anonymous. Was this Marisol? Was she married?  I couldn’t help but wonder.                                                                                                                         I knew the homes were worth money but yet I was still shocked by the sum of it. I was broke from still paying off Clara’s vet bills so being invited to a multi-million dollar home was
way
out of my league!      As I left the café, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my life was about to change and despite my fear of being hurt or let down, I felt that things were going to go well tonight if I went. So, on a whim, I decided to go and see Marisol. If I thought about it too long, I knew I’d change my mind, so I figured I’d better get this done and over with quickly.

After a session of physical therapy with Clara in which I was nibbled on many times as I tried to move her good legs and get her to walk on a leash without dragging me down the street (being handicapped had not hampered her one bit!), I decided to take a bath and pick out what I should wear to a $4 million dollar house. I doubted that my $20 jeans and $10 t-shirt would cut it with
a millionaire. I eventually decided on a black 1920’s style dress with fringe which I reserved for special occasions. What could be more special than getting an inside look at one of the extremely famous Painted Ladies? I was already in heaven at the thought of it. I was just about to leave Clara to her own devices for the next few hours (something I rarely did) but then thought better of it as she whimpered behind me.                             

  
Ever since her “accident” as I like to call it, Clara has not wanted to be alone at night. The sun was just setting and I knew I wouldn’t be home before dark so I had to make an executive decision and take her with me. Hopefully this Marisol woman liked dogs, if not both Clara and I would be returning home with our tails between our legs.

I arrived at 3 Summerhill Road at precisely 6:00 P.M. with only mild anxiety causing my hands to shake as I pulled the knocker on Marisol’s door. No electronic doorbell here. Just a gorgeous and very vintage brass knock
er. I loved this place already.                                                                                                 

“You’re on time, I see,” said a short, bent-over woman
who couldn’t be a day under 90. No pleasantries, just an opinion on my clockwork. Interesting. She must have known I’d come all along.                         

“Do come in, dear. And bring your dog too, animals are better friends t
han humans, you know,” she said in an exasperated tone as if we’d known each other our whole lives. Walking into the foyer – if you could call it that – of one of The Painted Ladies was probably the most exciting moment of my life. It was even better than being told I was beautiful by my ex-boyfriend back in fifth grade (which up until now had been my highlight. As I said, I lead a very lackluster life). I couldn’t help but gawk as Marisol led me around her ground floor. I had never seen such beauty in my life. The stained glass windows and hand carved griffins on the fireplace mantel were authentic pieces of Victorian history, while the enormous and brightly colored dining room and the warm and comforting sitting room gave the home a modern flair. To top it off, the house was so centrally located that you could walk into the city but still have grass and trees and a beautiful view of the sky that isn’t blocked by metallic skyscrapers.  It was, in one word, Bliss. 

“So Autumn, tell me, why did you decide to take me up on my offer to learn about the twenties? I could have been anyone you know and in this day and age you should be more careful. Especially wearing that dress,” Marisol said, both questioning me and admonishing me for showing up on her doorstep with my handicapped dog while dressed like a
frizzy-haired Flapper. What a sight I must have been to her neighbors!                                                                                                                                                                   “I’m sorry, Marisol. I don’t know what came over me. When I got your letter, I was shocked by just how much you knew about me. It was as if you had reached into my head and taken hold of my dreams and fantasies,” I explained as she muttered “I figured as much” under her breath.                                       

“Now that I’m here though, I do want to know how you know me. I don’t recall ever seeing you in my life…”                                                                                                                                                                       

 
“No, you wouldn’t have seen me. I think it’s safe to say we tend to play in different social circles, but I know you because I received a message from someone close to you who wants nothing more than for you to be happy. He said that you’re not happy and the only time you come alive is when you think about the twenties. You’re a true ‘vintage queen’, he said. At least that’s what I think he said. My memory isn’t as good as it used to be so please forgive me, dear.”                                                             

“He? Who is he?” I inquired. I haven’t had a man in my life in years and especially not one who would know my love for all things vintage so intimately.                                                                                            

“My darling, Autumn, it’s not really necessary that you get all the details right now. What’s important is that you’re here so let’s stay in the present,” Marisol quipped.                                                                   

“No, I can’t just sit here and wonder who you know, Marisol! I mean, yes, I’m here and I’m grateful for you being so welcoming, but I can’t for the life of me imagine who you’d hav
e spoken to that knows me so –“                                                                                                                                                                                                                   “You’re grandfather.”