Lessons In Being A Flapper (5 page)

Marisol took me to some of the more expensive and eclectic boutiques around town in her chauffeured BMW. It was so obvious to me now that she was fairly well known around San Francisco and was somewhat of a legend. Even though she was small in stature she was big in personality and heart. She just radiated warmth and as a result people gravitated to her. Luckily, most of the people in the city didn’t know her background, which was just as well since she’d be mobbed if the
y did.                        

“Don’t you like this Chickadee?” she asked me as she held
up a baby blue wrap dress that I knew would look divine with my chestnut colored hair and fair complexion. It would also help to bring out my hazel eyes if I ever got to go on a date with Bayani.
If.
That was the key word right now.                                           

“Like it? I love it! It’s so perfect for me – a little retro and vintage but totally fashionable too,” I said, as I reached over to touch the expensive material just as Marisol pulled it out of my reach and put it in the “possible” pile. We were dividing the clothes up into piles of possibilities and definite
s to make things easier, though I wondered how much my bank account could take especially considering there wasn’t anything -- not even a scarf or pair of socks -- under $50 in this particular store. Marisol kept waving me off when I tried to check a price tag. Apparently rich people didn’t do that and I was ruining her image by worrying about how much each item cost. She said it was an investment in my future; I said it was the death of my credit card.                                                                                                                                                      

At the end of our trip, Marisol picked out my
first-day-of-work outfit without me trying it on or having a say in whether I liked it. She picked out the baby blue Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress, a sweet little cream colored cardigan, a bunch of things I could mix and match for the office and three pairs of designer shoes. She also added some accessories and made sure that my love for vintage things showed with cute little embellishments on many of the pieces. It was basically a wardrobe from heaven but I knew it wouldn’t be priced as nicely.

“Don’t fret, dear, I’m getting this one. It’s the least I can do
for you,” she said before adding “plus if you’re grandfather doesn’t see you in something classy soon he’s going to keel over for a second time!” Apparently, no one liked my tracksuit-and-shirt combos. I didn’t either, so for once I didn’t fight as Marisol pulled out her black AmEx card and signed for my brand new wardrobe.

Later on, over a very festive
Champagne Dream cocktail (we were celebrating my new job, apparently) I learned some more about the era that has for so long been in my heart.                                                    

“Drink up, woman! This drink is one of my favorites, especially after all the bathtub gin I had to drink throughout the 20’s,” Marisol said, shuddering as she remembered the awful
tasting cocktails that were made with tap water and other low-quality ingredients during the prohibition.                                                     

“You don’t know how lucky we are to be drinking such delicious drinks. During the prohibition, which went into effect on
January 16, 1920, when I was just 10 years old, my family lost their business because they could no longer sell giggle juice – that’s what we called alcohol, my dear. It was just disastrous. Disastrous, I tell you! Can you imagine a world without alcohol? It’s such a staple now but back then, it was only available in speakeasys and other illegal gems. Some people started drinking tea. Tea! You’d think we were British, for God’s sake! But alas, it was a bad time and a good time. There was just so much going on that you had to take the good with the bad.”

Marisol then went on to talk about how the prices had changed so much over the
years. With Thanksgiving less than two weeks away, she told me how she and her family used to go to The Harvard Tea Room in Glendale where an entire Thanksgiving dinner was only $1.50. Can you imagine that? Now, you’d be lucky if you could get your dinner for under $25.00. And leave without food poisoning.          

“Oh yes, those were the days. I was just a wee thing at ten years old and I loved nothing more than Thanksgiving dinner at the Tea Room. We had oyster cocktails – just
before the prohibition – pineapple salad, candied yams, creamed onions, hot buttered rolls and oh, the turkey! It was so moist and delicious! I could have eaten it three times over, but of course father couldn’t afford to feed me that much and I appreciated what he could give me. I was so thankful for my family then. Now they’ve all gone off for the Big Sleep, just like your grandfather and grandmother…but the memories remain, don’t they?” she said, looking quite wistful as she spoke of the Roaring Twenties like she was living in them now. I was transfixed by her stories. As I sat there drinking my cocktail (which I was very grateful for, by the way) and thinking about how my life had changed in the past few weeks, I realized that for the first time in a long time my heart wasn’t aching. I wasn’t thinking about going home and watching TV by myself or taking a nap during the afternoon because I had things to look forward to. I had things that made me happy and I didn’t even realize it until now. I was actually happy, an emotion that I hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

Thank you, gramps. Thank you so much for bringing Marisol into my life and bringing me out of hibernation. I owe you everything, as you already know
, I thought, as Marisol continued on with her reminiscing and I listened intently until darkness fell and cool air blew over the patio. Another night in San Francisco had passed without me thinking of everything in my past. I couldn’t be more grateful for the distraction.

T
he following day was Sunday and Marisol decided that would be the day that we had our first real-life interpretation of how my lessons were coming along. I had been learning all about the twenties through Marisol and more often than not she surprised me with her vivid memories of a time gone by. We had already made it through most of the slang words and important dates that related to the era. My dress sense was slowly changing as Marisol showed me different Flapper styles from her own closet. The dresses were very boxy looking, I thought, but they were true pieces of history so I fell in love with them regardless. Many were cut to the knee and done in muted colors; others had gorgeous fringe and were gold, silver or copper colored.

It became clear to me that even thought I loved the era, I couldn’t exactly get away with dressing like a Flapper every day. I’d look like a complete nutcase. Though one did tend to see some pretty odd things in San Francisco, so maybe I wouldn’t be so out of place after all if I decided to do a complete Flapper transformation.

“So, Chickadee, I have a wretched plan that you’re probably going to find dreadful but it’s necessary to see how you’re progressing. I don’t want you to be spending countless hours with me and getting nothing out of it,” Marisol said, as she sat in her living room chair twiddling her thumbs incessantly. I got the feeling she knew I wasn’t going to like her plan without even asking me.

“Actually, Marisol, I enjoy my time with you. I’ve always loved listening to people recount the past and you do it so well. I’m not really worried about all of the fine details of being a Flapper. I appreciate just being here with you,” I explained.

“Darling girl, if there is one thing you’ve got to learn it’s not to insult the hand that feeds you! I’m going to ignore the fact that you don’t want to know details and teach you anyway. The 1920s were the ‘Era of Nonsense’ and I think we could all use some nonsense in our lives – especially you!” she said, giving me a stern look that meant business. “Now, my plan includes you in full Flapper attire – that means hair, makeup, clothes, shoes – as you attend a dinner party here at my home. I’ll invite some molls and some dolls, we’ll have some giggle juice and oh, I can’t forget to buy you some handcuffs!” she said, quickly grabbing a notepad on the coffee table next to her and jotting down the word “handcuffs” with two lines underneath to signify its importance. She studied me before writing down “hair” with a question mark, as if she didn’t know what to do with my out of control frizz. I knew it wasn’t exactly the sleek cut that almost all Flappers had in the twenties but it’d have to do somehow because I really couldn’t afford to cut it at the moment.

“Marisol! I am not going to dress as a Flapper to attend a fetish party!”

“Good God, Chickadee! What kind of joint do you think I’m running here? Although I’ll admit you are being a bit of a bluenose – that’s prude in modern terms – I will not be opening a can house. I’m not into prostitution, but if you are, then golly, we need to get you cleaned up. You’d never get enough johns to make a living looking the way you do most days.” I silently gawped at this tiny wisp of a woman in front of me who seemed to not give a two shits about what she said or to whom.

“Pick your jaw up off the floor, dear. It’s unbecoming. Now, back to my plan. Handcuffs are nothing more than bracelets. Jewelry and headpieces were a large part of the Flapper look so I will not have you coming to my party halfway done,” Marisol said, adding some more notes to her rather long list of things I’d need to become a true Flapper.

“I don’t know about this. I think I’ll feel out of place at a dinner party where everyone else will look elegant and normal.”

“Who said a Flapper wasn’t elegant? Yes, they were sexy broads and quite brass at times, but overall they were gorgeous young women, like myself, who were tasting freedom for
the first time in their lives. Flappers were the epitome of everything elegant at the time. Of course, I’ll make sure that my guests only come in 1920s era clothing as well. I wouldn’t want to put you on the spot. I do expect you to converse with everyone though and act the part.”

“When will this little party be?” I asked, hesitantly, as I really hoped she didn’t think I’d be ready for this type of thing anytime soon.

“I don’t know yet. I’ll call you on the ameche when I have things finalized. Now, would you care for a Sherry or a G & T? We have to toast this glorious idea of mine with some giggle juice!”

When would I ever learn that Marisol was not at all your average elderly woman? She really was someone I’d never, ever forget.

I
couldn’t sleep that night. I think I was just anticipating what my first day at work would bring as well as worrying that I’d be a complete failure at being a Flapper. As I said, I’d never been in an office setting before so stepping foot into the office of such a massive magazine was a little daunting. I decided to call Bayani and see if we could meet up at one of the all night diners around the corner, knowing that most likely he’d say no in account of having to get up early the next day. However, I was pleasantly surprised when he agreed to meet me at Eat Not Sleep, a local haunt that had good grub 24 hours a day and never let those who suffered from insomnia go home without a stomach full of food.                                                                                                                                                     

Bayani met me at the door of Eat Not Sleep looking as handsome as I remembered him to be. We hadn’t seen each other since the now infamous almost-hit-and-run so it was refreshing to see that my eyes weren’t deceiving me. He really was stunning.
  

“Hi,” he said, as he kissed me on the cheek.

“Hi, thanks for meeting me,” I replied, a little bashfully since I wasn’t expecting him to actually kiss me in any manner of the word. The spot where his lips touched me was tingling and it left me wanting more.
We grabbed a table by the window and took off our coats. The diner wasn’t very busy; just a few people here and there, drinking coffee and chatting placidly with others across the table. It felt comfy and was much better for me than staying at home tossing and turning.

“So, what’s up? Why can’t you sleep? Are you nervous for tomorrow?” Bayani asked after we placed our orders. I wasn’t about to order coffee and keep myself awake even longer so I opted for a ginger ale and a grilled cheese.

“Yeah, I think I’m just nervous that I won’t fit in with the other girls or someone will be jealous that I got the vacant position while other people had to interview and queue up to find a decent job,” I explained.

“Don’t worry about that. I’m sure no one will know you didn’t interview unless your bos
s decides to tell them – which he shouldn’t because it’s unprofessional.” Bayani was so good at calming me down. In just the short time I had known him, he had more often than not been the best person to turn to for advice or just a quick pick-me-up.

“Listen, I know you’re nervous and that’s OK. But when you get in the office tomorrow, you’ll need to put your best foot forward. Don’t let your nerves show or the other women will eat you alive. You’re beautiful and smart, there’s no reason for you to think you can’t do just as good of a job – or better – than they can,” he said as he gently put his
hand over mine across the table and let his thumb stroke away my worries. That felt so nice. Really, really nice. I didn’t want him to stop. Of course that would be the exact moment our food would arrive (bugger off! I wanted to yell) so he had no choice but to retract his hand. As we ate, we talked about everything. Our shared love for animals; our hometowns and his ancestry and of course, Marisol and my job offer. I hadn’t yet told him how Marisol and I had met, nor did I tell him that she heard the voices of dead people. I thought that was a little too much for a first date (was this a date? I didn’t even know). Before I knew it, it was 2 A.M. and I felt that I needed to let Bayani get home. Even if I couldn’t sleep, at least one of us should. He didn’t need to be late for work on account of me. So I reluctantly told him that we should call it a night and as he walked me home, I felt chills run up my spine at the thought of him kissing me again when we arrived at my door. I couldn’t help but wonder if he
would or if it was all too soon. I didn’t have to wonder for long because we when arrived on my doorstep, his strong arms spun me around to face him and he said “Autumn, would you mind if I kissed you?” which was pretty much the exact words I had been dying to hear all night. I didn’t say anything and instead shook my head in agreement. I didn’t trust myself to speak because I thought that if I did, words might not come out.