Bruce Wagner - Memorial

When she finally left, she made deliberate, old-world pains to thank the attractive hostess, one of those marvelous professionals trained never to make assumptions or judgments nor to condescend. She told Marj she was sorry, but nothing, not a scintilla, of her demeanor made the guest feel foolish, and for that Mrs Herlihy was grateful.

Perhaps she’d made a terrible mistake and the plan had been to meet at the Four Seasons all along. She needed to drive over, right away — where was that hotel? On Doheny? The thought crossed her mind that something awful might have happened to Lucas; or, more reasonably, the dinner was canceled due to a sudden emergency, and both he and Bonita had been trying to call. (Not that it mattered, because the damn “mobile” was at home. Anyhow, the old woman wasn’t sure she’d ever given them her number — and how could she? She didn’t even know it herself. Joanie kept saying she was going to tape it on the back but never did.) Wait. No! Now she remembered…Bonita saying she would give her a check for the dresses she’d charged “tonight at Spago.” So even if there had been a last-minute change, Bonita — Billingsley! — would still have met her at Spago— someone would have — then proceeded, arm in arm High Hopes, to the Four Seasons or wherever it was they had settled on. She kicked herself for remembering to pack everything in the world — everything except that stupid phone.

She went to Rite Aid for coins to call the special State of New York Blind Sister Beneficiary Hotline. Everything was so brightly lit that she felt herself coming out of her skin. The cashier was a surly Mexican who said, “I don’t have no change.” (Marj expected Rite Aid to have a higher caliber of worker, at least in Beverly Hills.) The girl wouldn’t even look at her and Marj knew that she was lying. Maybe they’d be kinder in the Rx section but it was so busy she would probably have to wait 20 minutes just to talk to the cashier. (She needed to use the toilet again.) The only place to sit was at the machine that took your blood pressure but right when she got close a little boy clambered onto the seat. Marj smiled and turned to leave. She was at a loss.

Up front, a raucous pack of youngsters jockeyed for ice cream, and she remembered how she used to buy Chess and Joanie cones and sundaes at 31 Flavors, kitty-corner to the drugstore (which back then was called Thrifty’s). Ray didn’t like it but she enjoyed taking the children on excursions to Beverly Hills, she thought it was good for their character to be exposed to wealth. She wanted them to see the large and orderly houses tended to by gardeners, homes she knew one day they could live in. More than anything, she had the desire for her children to attend Beverly Hills schools, the finest in the nation. (Ray never knew it but on Sundays, when Marj said she was with a galfriend, she went apartment hunting, just south of Olympic. But the prices were beyond their ken.) There was a huge pond on Santa Monica Boulevard and Beverly Drive and she sat with the kids on its stone borders, watching the big colorful fishes. Occasionally Marj even spotted someone that she recognized from television or the movies — she swore she once saw Fess Parker and Joan Fontaine but couldn’t get Raymond to believe it. To this day, she retained the habit of walking around the city, and a few weeks ago actually passed by “31” on her way to get bunion medicine — it amazed, but the parlor was still there, one of the few surviving landmarks from that time. There used to be 3 theaters in the neighborhood, and 3 bookstores too — all gone now. She remembered vividly that the Beverly movie palace was literally in the shape of the Taj Mahal, it had become more important to her through the years, after the children had grown she parked nearby just to look. (Best to see its dollop of a roof from a block or so away.) It hadn’t been a working theater for decades, enduring a series of drab transformations from clothing stores to banks, yet rose like a creampuff cloud above storefront commerce, visible only to the delighted cognoscenti, until finally, only a few months ago, they tore the icon down. It was almost proof there was a God that it had managed to stay for so long. Bless 31 Flavors, and bless the memory of the Taj Mahal too. She took the kids there for Saturday matinees. Ray didn’t like that either.

“Ain’t Culver City good enough?” he used to say. His English was perfectly fine but he liked to goad her by talking like a yokel. “No,” she would answer. “It isn’t.”

She was surprised when the Mexican shouted at her. She thought the cashier was being rude but instead she gave Marj 4 quarters. The girl must have felt bad about how she had treated her, and the old woman thought, See that? Everyone has a conscience. Maybe the man who shot poor Riki dead was in a motel room somewhere, a tormented soul thinking about turning himself in. She thanked her then made the mistake of asking where the phones were and the cashier got surly again, pointing outside with disdain. Marj cursed herself— of course they were outside. She already knew that. She hated being the helpless old lady. The girl probably thought she was a refugee from the expensive new Assisting Living condos that had recently gone up around the corner. She probably resented her because here she was working for minimum wage and this wizened crone, this witch who lived in luxury and came and went as she pleased, was pestering her for coins. Still, the cashier showed she had a heart.

The pack of ice cream kids had migrated outside (they all looked Persian) and were being so noisy that Marj had trouble concentrating on dialing. Their cars were just sitting in the lot with the doors open and music blaring. She called the toll free hotline and left her name.

Then she found Bonita’s number and listened to the strange message: Thank you for calling. Unfortunately, the person who gave you this number does not want to talk to you or speak to you — ever again. We would like to take this opportunity to officially reject you. If you would like to order personalized rejection cards with this number printed on them, please visit our website at www.rejectworld.com. Our certified rejection specialists are standing by to serve you in this time of need.

She winced in confusion. Some sort of joke? Bonita did have a quirky sense of humor. She tried the number again, and got the same recording. (Now her coins were all used up.)

She took a few steps and threw up. Like everyone her age, she had been trained to ask, “Am I having a heart attack?” but decided it was only the wine and her nerves. (“High Hopes” and “The Days of Wine and Roses” were catfighting in her head. She missed Jack Lemmon.) Joanie said, If you think you’re having a heart attack, breathe deep and force a deep cough. Keep doing that, then call 911. The music from the cars drowned out “High Hopes” and one of the rowdy kids yelped, alerting his friends to the old woman who puked. “That’s disgusting!” said a girl. Another girl said, “It’s sad. Maybe we should help.” Another wandered closer and said, “Lady?” Marj didn’t have the strength to respond. Another said, “Just call 911,” then boisterously broke into peals of laughter. Marj kept seeing the face of Jack Lemmon in his little hat; he would see her through. A boy said, “Call the pound!” A girl said, “That is so mean.” A boy said, “She just threw up. She ain’t dyin.” “Maybe she’s been partying.” “She looks really rich.” “It’s a Senior Moment.” “Is she a junior or a Senior?” “Hope she’s wearing her Pampers!”

The pack moved toward the alley, laughing and smoking and remonstrating, then disappeared.