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writing a work in progress started summer 2007


Martinis Served in Bed before Breakfast

"Good Morning, darling" Max lilts in her direction -

and Jessica replies

A very good good morning, darling",

He thought it was guilty crime to wake up to martinis. She considered it a profound pleasure. Anyway, they did agree that they should be served with a twist of lime, and an olive and heavens to Betsy, no pearl onions please. That being said it was time for breakfast, and the prospect of new faux kid gloves before noon. A fresh white linnen tablecloth, toast and jam, piping cups of coffee, bacon not ham - prepared to almost crunchy, and a single red rose, an American Beauty in a slim-line white, and gold etched, Lenox flute. Tomorrow there wil be pancakes and maple syrup, blueberry jam and honey. But now it's back to basics, back to today's breakfast. Three eggs
any style but boiled or poached -scrambled prefered. And a Bloody Mary to clear the throat. He takes out the celery stalk after twirling it about in the glass. Takes another sip tastes good, just the right amount of fresh ground pepper, and it's way to early to even contemplate the colour green, except for the olive of course. He places the celery under a shiny metal steamer dome. Good, now it's out of sight. But like most things post millenium, satisfaction did not linger, as he reached for the morning paper and read the headline which was in bold face type. The silk sleeves of his morning coat straining in the reach and the monogram on his pajamas could clearly be read they were LMG. Meanwhile she was going through her closet looking for something summery to wear, as she moved the tortoise shell brush through her wavy chestnut hair...should she put on something that her mother gave her, clothes from the time when Diane Keaton was a trendsetter during the super
success of Woody Allen's Annie Hall or something from when Joe Gould still kept his secret safe while panhandlingand living on the streeets in Greewich Village? Sometimes even Harvard educated Scions of New England families fall on hard times. Izzy Young always showed him 'rachmanas' - which we take here to mean the
mericful, charitable aspect of social justice. Izzy always helped him out
and it would be Izzy who he would give some of his secret and prized
notebooks that made up one of the biggest mysteries of literary New York waiting on tender hooks in the middle of the twentieth century - for his Oral History which was rumoured to be an opus of 20,000 converstations.
I still remember the evening I met Jessica, it was at a Hootie and the Blowfish concert, we were box seated near each other and seemed more than charmed by the way they the band was interpreting Orpheus' classic song of 1968"I Can't Find the Time to Tell You". We were the only ones in the audience that knew the lyrics - I guess that revealed and sealed our age We were having a ball singing along. So smiles led to laughter, laughter
led to greetings, greetings led to pizza, and, chianti at Luigi's after the
gig. Then we got into a discussion about my name, Leslie Max Gordon, my friends called me Max, and how the name Leslie could be used for both a man or a woman. For example there are Leslie Howard and Leslie Caron, Leslie West and Leslie Chernikoff. We began to rattle off some of the other ones too, Dana, Alex, Sam, Sidney, Morgan, and Lou were just a few of the ones that were mentioned over candlelight, garlic bread and the rich red wine - I guess it turned into sort of a game, and we had a lot of fun with it.

The pie arrived. There was grated Paremesan in a glass shaker, and this was the best pizza this side (the west side) of the Potomac River...the red and white checkered table cloths also lent to the ambiance and
cuisine. We fought to pick up the check, and as every enlightened diner
knows, you make an arrangement first with the waiter to home the bill to you regardless of argument and financial considerations. Well the chianti was rushing to our heads at about the same time during this epic struggle and we both leaned over and came within lip range, as the musical soundtrack just started playing Dean Martin's That's Amore, we giggled and then took our first kiss...and were on our road to wedded bliss...that's right three months later we eloped to Elkton, Maryland, seat of the quickee marriage, and were married by the Justice of the Peace, You know - I can't remember who
finally did pick up the check that night.

Meanwhile in Elkon Maryland, a mecca for elopement.
Jason Jubel Jones, the third in his line to hold this post and perform the
rites. We picked some flowers on our way and these made up Jessica's bouquet and my lapel carnation, which she pinned on me, a sweet memory and momento that I cherish to this day...it's in a small oval box, the lid with an abalone inlay, next to my side of the bed, the left side that is, depending on where your are standing or sleeping. We brought Tattinger champagne with us, a case and gave
the honourable Mr Jones three bottles in addition to his fee, tip and cordialities. That night we stayed in royal accomodations, that is for Elkton -
a Travellodge Motel...but we did have the wedding suite and breakfast in
bed, homemade waffles, dripping with butter and maple syrup...ain't life
grand sometimes...oh yes, I brought my golf clubs with me just in case I could get in 9 holes before brunch the next day, Jessica brought our tennis racquets
so we sure to work up a sweat one way or another.

I was more suited to golf and tennish than camping - probably my first and only camping trip I had taken in my life was a disaster. I came outfitted with canvas kicks rather than boots which nagged me the whole weekend, wet toes when crossing creeks, getting caught in the torrential rains of a ligtening edged thunderstorm, an ill wind that blew my cap into the lake etc.. guess I've always been more cosmopolitan than bucolic ). And for sure I felt like
a 'schlamazel' tripping my way through with bad luck.

Meantime, back to the matter at hand, the headlines on the front page
of this morning's Washington Post newspaper. The robbery at Harry Winston's jewelry store and how the perps got away with a cool 77 million in gems, baubles, and bands...Now matter how you shuffle it, that's a lot of clams. And it was no smash and grab, just an impeccable cat thief...nothing ruffled, nothing stained. So the question now is how soon it will take them to call me...I'm on retainer with Harry Winston but at the bottom of their list, I usually cover their branch outlets, but today I've got a feeling they are going to call in all their chips...Somewhere in Winston's collection vaults is the Hope Diamond, priceless...most average Joes think it's on display at the Smithsonian Institution on the Mall, but that one is a fake, a ploy...the real one, yes that's question, where is the real one now...? Funny how my contact
with Harry Winston Jewelers started. While at the College of Arts and Letters, at George Washington University I met Harry's niece Gail
a bodacious red head, I got stuck in her memory because once in a friend'ssmall student flat just off campus, I leaned over a gas burner on the midget stove to light a cigarette and it singed my hair...it sticks in my memory too, ouch. Well years later when she heard that I was a Consultant, a jack of all trades, she got me in tabs wtih her family, and that's how our
cooperation began. School ties, don't ever underestimate them...just then
Jessica appeared in our library, while I was on the middle rungs of a high rolling ladder looking for a book about the saga of the Hope Diamond She was dressed like Diane Keation in Annie Hall, wow, retro, i dig it. "I've selected an outfit for you it's on the
bed spread, dear, now be a dear and get dressed, a phone call came, you were distracted with some explanation, and I told them that we, yes WE, were on our way and would see them in Manhattan before high tea...I booked a suite at the Sherry Netherlands, there will be fresh cut tulips in a vanilla Aalto vase, and we can use our new luggage monogrammed from Lane's (just across from the Mayflower on Connecticut Ave.)...and we're taking the swift train dear; Roland' s on holiday this week in Prague, you well remember, and airports are so droll on a Sunday," ...Jay Edgar Hoover, the FBI boss for an eternity, used to keep a standing table reservation at the restaurant in the Mayflower Hotel with a window facing the back street. My parents hosted two banquets there, and one of my cousin's had their wedding on premisis with a gala ballroom feast afterwards. Yes, The Mayflower has tradition. But it's not Washington
today that requires our attention first, it's Manhattan, and that means
we'll take a suite at the Sherry Netherlands and work out of there...
their rooms service is probably the best on the east coast, and they
are discreet, very discreet...all the elevator operators there are students working on their masters at Columbia, some waiters are film students from NYU...or the New School. The bar is manned by people associated with the Actor's studio, and the desk is run by pros, from Cornell's ivy league hotel managemnet school... It Jessica's favourite, and I think it's jake too, maybe because it's adjacent to the best Rathskeller in New York City, an establishment called Ernie's. It's a brilliant place to cap a lager on a warm Summer's day in the City...local pubs that's what gives
life flavour. In Newcastle, Max always enjoyed going to the Sarecen's Head -
where former military, some naval, some infanterty, some merchant marines
and their best girls would hang out. Here at Ernie's the clientele was a
bit different. Of course there were guests from the nearby hotels like myself
and Jess, but there was also a down home underground presence here. Italian and Jewish leagues that sought to support local businesses -legit, althought sometimes circumnavigating the city officials and federal agents. They had started out as social clubs, the jews had mostly been fraternity brothers at Columbia, New York and Brooklyn Universities, and now they were rogue lawyers championing the causes that struck their fancy, and to keep the ball rolling were revenue rich. The Italian had a similar story, but mostly they were friends from the same Catholic parish where they grew up and bonded all the while being inducted into a religous way of thinking, of honour the meek, respect/suspect authority and survive the day. The two gangs often met at Ernie's, which was neutral ground and the
proprietor was open to host them, in fact he liked them. Ernie was a Cosmopolitan, who pretty much called everywhere home. He was born in
a country of shifting borders and kept moving west. At the age of 13, he went
alone on a bicycle adventure to Italy, and this helped to shaped his
ecumincel ideas, he traveled through the countryside, stayed at nunneries and
monasteries, and met survivors of the war who now lived with a new lease
on life. Coming from a culture where beer and wine and spirits were
imbibed in celebration and the clasp of friendship young Ernie saved up his money that he had earned as a journeyman carpenter, builder and designer of
restorations - this work was in his blood, and his hands told the story.
Now in Manhattan at the age of 69, he decided to retire to a business that was socially oriented, his Rathskeller which he presided over and where there was always someone coming in for a converstation and to buy the owner a drink, that' s the kind of place it was...it was what the jews called Heimish(like home, friendly and folksy). In keeping with standards of purity only beers from branch water were served and the wines were all selected from vines and vinatages which would not produce chemical hangovers or sorry aftertastes...the same with the spirits
all from hills and hollers where they were made into enticing licqours. The Scotch, Bourboun, Rum, Vodka all had been screened by Ernie. And he
kept no pearl onions in his battery of twists and plops that adorned the
libations...Max's kind of place....

"Now where to find some sof fauxt kid gloves" he pondered...Yes, that's it!
Jessica would meet him just before the clock would strike 12.00 noon
at Saks Fifth Avenue.

End Chapter One...

/apache





Prosa av the apache kid VIP
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Publicerad 2018-02-26 10:25



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  Olof Lagerhorn VIP
This prose-text seems to me a very well-sructured and intriguing composition, opening up for a multitude of people , narratives and scenery´s.
Looking forward to read more chapters.
2018-02-27
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the apache kid
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