Young Fred Gucci was feeling he hadn't had enough for fun one evening, or, more properly, that there was more fun out there, given the fun he'd been having at the cocktail party, to be had. He thought this on his way south along Madison Avenue, Mad Ave, surveying potential fun venues on his way. There had been a bar, he remembered, at one time, the Madison Pub--half flight walk down, dark paneling, low light, sophisticated music, mostly jazz--just the place. Now an Ann Taylor, in the event. The Oak Bar at the Plaza had been condo-ized, slow to completion under new owner/operators, as it was said at the Pierre, and so he was left, face to face, once again, with the Bemelmans Bar. There was no argument, could be none.
It was the heart of spring, a Bemelmans sort of night in every kind of way. He remembered Bemelmans had been German, possibly Austrian. Maybe the wine was making him funny, or quasi-profound. What matter? Bemelmans--Ludwig, like Beethoven. And Wittgenstein. Spring, sprang, sprouted, he thought, thinking of an 10th grade English class where the girl had got it wrong in that way on the teacher's ask and wondering what had become of them, the teacher in particular, a tall angular blonde with a sharp sense of humor and a butch cut. He remembered also the low slung bazookas of the girl who had bungled the parsing--olive green sweater and blue gabardine skirt--explosive but ungrammatical Easy to see where his mind was tonight, nothing new or different--guy thing. James Watson, the discoverer of DNA said that most men thought about women 99% of the time and that his blessing had been that he only thought about them 95% of the time. Then thought of his first time in the Bemelmans--the job offer from the tall big shot, the Supreme Court Clerk Senior Partner dude, and how helpful that had been over time, to see it from the other side.
Because that was the whole substance of the interview, if you could call it that--Boothroyd, Alan, please call me Alan--had been nothing short of a prince. And princes are few and far between, as we learn if we pay attention and sit still. A prince to be sure--lesson one, to be a thoughtful and caring listener, and two--to work at all times to put yourself in the shoes of the person on the other side of whatever it was at that moment--be they female, partner, adversary, witness, government official or, last but not least, client. "Not to mention that not blind, but hopefully neutral, goddess we serve," Boothroyd said, "or start out promising to serve. Justice can see through the blindfold--isn't it odd that no one gets that? They look at the goddess and think it's themselves, impoverished of intellect, emotionally limited, and believe at the same time in their perception of the goddess--can't see that a goddess operates differently--obviously she does and must--not to mention that she has no need to please, other than as to her godhood. Goddesshood. People see everything but that, and run their mouths endlessly on the subject as if they knew something."
Justice rides in hard rounds, Fred thought as he approached the self-same bar, like the Preacher rides the rails--meaner than the law--I asked for some salvation and she gave me a lethal dose. Fred brought himself back from his reverie, ordered a T&T with lime, and shook the bartender's hand--Malaysian/Philippino fellow. Cheerful and friendly. One of the hallmarks of the joint--why people came back.. Quiet crowd, semi-flashy, undertones everywhere and lots of high toned English women and their fellows and chaps. Excellent piano, as how could it not be in the temple of Bobby Short, the Cole Porter avatar. Into the seat next to Fred slid a guy, clearing his throat, smiling, handshaking the bartender--hey, Dan glad to meet you. The Fred/Dan thing commenced and they were talking--under the Bemelmans Bar Code of Confidentiality, unwritten but understood clearly. Dan was a musician of a certain vintage and performance history, and so, as it evolved, was the piano player now coming off duty. "Long time best buddy," Dan said. "Years. Great guy--you'll see. Max."
"You gray haired rascal, you're looking good," Max said on arrival. "How does that come to be, with the way you lead your life?" Big hug, intros all around. happily family to be sure--very strong. Laughs likewise as Dan said "Clean living and honest work, Mr. Musician, and yourself? Meet my new friend Fred." Fred marveled at the size and strength of Max's hand. At one time you would have said he resembled OJ, now a younger Denzell. When he smiled you could see almost all his teeth, and it was by no means grotesque or weird. Everything about the guy was oversize.
The men enthused about the beauty of life--sunny May day, lack of fatal diseases, here in this sublime locale. Fred was not nobody, he'd invented several bedrock elements of modern finance law, like the first David Bowie intellectual property securitization bond deal, including a nice slice Fredwise to help set him up in practice now for himself. But pure creativity--the freeway out--was still El Dorado for Fred. He told them a little of that and a little more along the same lines.
"Powerhouse! Is this a smart guy or what?" High fives. Dan was a horn man, he told Fred--the trio giggled--in town for a session. He had played on most all of the Motown tracks for the Temps, the O'Jays, the Four Tops and many others, he said. A sense of drift took over and Dan turned to a lady on Fred's left, behind them--must have come in since the beginning of the conversation. She gleamed sleek in a cocktail dress, semi-long brunette hair swept back and a lively mien. Long legs and net stockings. The club had absorbed her in a glance, the very instant of a glance, it felt, and invited her in. Dan or the pianist told her that--pointed out how welcome she had made herself in the small cool period since she'd arrived and asked where she was from. "Bay Area, Justine," she responded, extending her hand for shaking or kissing. Fred shook. They all shook, and talked some more and got to know each other better.
How entertaining is this, Fred thought, these two guys setting up somebody to score with this first class out of town lovely from the Coast, and I'm here to see it go down. Fred knew he was out of the money in a place like this--geeks don't normally prosper against talent and charm. The musicians announced the need for a smoke and Fred, tete a tete with Justine, told her about the prize he'd won on NPR. You had to do a narrative with 26 words, and the words had to begin with the consecutive letters of the alphabet. Fred had loved the goofy challenge of it--the result had in some way or other come from the sky. "Outraged Persians, questing revenge, stormed Thermopylae. Undeniable victory was Xerxes' youthful zenith," was the finale.
Justine clapped her hands and gave Fred a hug and a kiss on the cheek. The two musicians re-arrived and asked what the merriment was about. Fred re-recited his little gem, everyone resumed their places, except closer to Justine, and they all more or less patted each other on the back for what fun it was.
Justine put up her hand--"Before we go forward, boys," she said, "I just want to know which one of you two I just overheard saying that after two martinis all pussies look just the same." Fred, front lip in glass, sputtered. Justine reached over and patted him on the shoulder, saying "Of course it wasn't you, Fred. One of these bozos, for sure. Come clean, lads."
She laughed out loud and touched Fred's arm. Squeezed, perhaps, he thought. He smiled and laughed and wondered where the bounds of politeness were, and how one might, amid the magic of the Bemelmans Bar, put oneself in the shoes of this number who had shot down these other guys but was obviously there to get what she had come for. What would somebody unlike me, with a real sense of humor, say to her, he asked, and decided that trying on the mask of comedy was the right hazard to embrace, or embrace to hazard. Gracie Allen's shoes. The original dumb blonde, girl to girl.
"How do you get a guy to take his clothes off?" Da-doomp!
"How?" she responded, taking up the new Cosmo the barman had placed by her hand as he took away the previous, and drawing deep on it.
"Ask him." Fred smiled and rolled his eyes--around what orbit he was by no means sure, but as to body language it was the best he could do.
"Let's go," she said. "I like smart, funny men. You're not hungry, are you?"
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