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“What the hell happened?” he asked. “Did you break your leg?”

“No, my little toe.”

Scott took me to St. Vincent's Hospital, which has since closed but was then on Greenwich Avenue. It was after midnight, and the emergency room was filled with the types of people who tend to get into trouble when everyone else is asleep. Some had been stabbed, others shot, a few had OD'd, and one had a tire stuck on his head. Even with my mysterious silver leggings, I was a very low priority. At six
A.M
., Scott left to get a few hours of sleep before heading off to work.

Two hours later, I was finally brought into an examining room. “Hey, I bet you didn't expect to be celebrating your birthday in a hospital,” the young doctor said. He looked at the automotive tape. “Were you out partying or something?”

“I broke my toe on the bathroom door.”

“I guess you got carried away with the tape,” he said as he ripped it off. “Wow, that's a bad break. I don't think I've ever seen such a weird configuration.”

“Don't I need X-rays? Maybe we should consult a foot surgeon?”

“No, I just need to reset it.”

He pulled out a pencil from a drawer. I figured he was going to take notes, so I began to explain how it happened, but he said, “Shhh . . . close your eyes.” Placing the toe over the pencil, he rebroke it, while I hollered in pain.

“Are you crazy?” I yelled. “Are you even a doctor?”

“Intern,” he said. “I learned the pencil trick in med school, but this is the first time I ever got to do it. That was cool.” He taped the little toe to its “brother” and told me to come back in a month.

When I returned for my checkup, he removed the tape, and my little toe was still sticking out at the same right angle. “Oh, this isn't good,” he said. Before I could yell, “
No, not the pencil!
” he whipped it out and broke the toe again.

It was such a bad break I was on crutches off and on for a month. That put a crimp in my plans to leave. I wrote a short story about my experience in the hospital, which I read to Scott. “I don't like your writing,” he said. “You're not very funny.”

Despite my encouragement, he was giving up his dream of becoming a musician in favor of going into the business side of music. His father thought it was more practical, and Scott was now talking about opening a recording studio. “You're a wonderful musician,” I said. “Don't listen to your father.”

The next day, Scott's father informed me that I no longer had a job.

“People are talking too much about the affair,” he explained.

“I'd hardly call it an affair. We've been together since college.”

“No, the affair with me.”

“But I'm not having an affair with you.”

“That's what people are saying.”

I didn't even know how to respond. Scott's father, who was twice my age, was practically a newlywed. Did he have such a reputation as a stud that it seemed plausible that he'd cheat on his young wife with his son's even younger girlfriend?

When Scott came home, I told him that his father had fired me because everybody thought we were having an affair.

“Really?”

“Apparently so.” The situation was so ridiculous I started to laugh and couldn't stop. Tears streamed down my face. “Why would I have an affair with your father?” I said, barely able to get out the words. “He . . . doesn't . . . even . . . have . . . lake rights.”

“That's not the slightest bit funny. My father is planning to bring the lake committee before the Human Rights Commission.”

“Maybe I should sue your father for sex discrimination.” At that point, I was practically rolling on the floor, and Scott, disgusted, went into the other room to read his favorite new book—
Star-Making Machinery: Inside the Business of Rock and Roll.

A month later, I moved into a small apartment on the Upper West Side and began my new job as an editor of a travel newsletter. I wasn't crazy about the apartment, and I didn't like the job, but at least I'd cut my ties to Scott.

The Oxford Boys

I
've always loved oxfords, and as I write this, they're back in fashion again. Victoria Beckham, of the sky-high stilettos and bountiful Birkins, not only showed them in her most recent collection but was also photographed wearing them. This is very good news for the classic tie shoe that derived from the Oxonian, a style of half-boot that was popular at Oxford University. For years it was associated mainly with college men, lesbians, librarians, and Salvation Army ladies.

I bought my first pair in 1977, after I saw Diane Keaton in
Annie Hall.
The movie won the Oscar for Best Picture and set off a major trend for menswear on women. While I didn't adopt the ties or goofy hats, I loved the white shirt buttoned to the neck, the baggy khakis, tweed jacket, and, of course, the oxfords. The shoes elicited interesting reactions from men. “Very few women can pull those off,” said a fellow writer, without adding, “But you can.” Another man called me a dyke on the subway, which made me wonder what was so threatening to men about women co-opting their accessories. Did they think that once women wore oxfords, they'd march into a man's office, step on his toes, kick him in the balls, and plant their two sturdy feet on his desk?

Luckily, I found two men who loved oxfords and, in different ways, loved me. The first I met through my film school friend, who dragged me to a dinner party on the Upper West Side. Woody was a screenwriter and journalist who kept a sprawling film archive in his Riverside Drive apartment. In addition to 5,000 videotapes that were cataloged alphabetically, the place was totally filled with stacks of newspapers and magazines waiting to be clipped and filed. People who saw the apartment never forgot it, often comparing Woody to the Collyer brothers, the famous Harlem hoarders who lived and died neck-deep in rubble. Woody was an ebullient host. Though three inches shorter than I, with oversize glasses and wispy auburn hair, he had a rich baritone voice and sexy, self-confident manner. Tunneling my way through pillars of print, I sat down on a bunch of old
Time
magazines
,
while Woody poured wonton soup into mugs. His father had been the chief theoretician of the American Socialist Party, so he was careful to apportion the wontons equally, but when he reached me, he dropped two extra into my mug. I knew I'd be hearing from him.

Woody loved being a mentor, and I badly needed one. The only traveling I did as a travel writer was to the company's headquarters in suburban Bronxville. On our first date, Woody told me I was wasting my talent. On our second date, I came down with the flu and he brought me chicken soup. On our third date, he invited me to Europe. On our sixth date, we went to JFK.

Woody had managed to rack up an impressive array of magazine assignments that took us to Paris and London. As might be expected of a man who lived in an archive, he did not travel light, lugging forty-three file boxes of research material with him. After we'd loaded everything into a van he'd rented at the Paris airport, we moved into a two-bedroom apartment in the Marais. It belonged to an old friend whose heiress niece had left an Elsa Peretti diamonds-by-the-yard necklace dangling from the pull cord to the toilet. Vedic cosmology charts were taped to an entire wall. There was no refrigerator, so we ate our dinners in neighborhood bistros. Woody was a great mimic, with an incredible ear for accents. Though he knew only a few French phrases, he spoke them like a native.

Waiters were totally confused when after he'd order “
steak au poivre, bleu, s'il vous plaît
,”
they'd ask a question and he'd respond, “
Je ne comprend pas,
” in perfect-sounding French. Once a taxicab driver talked to him for fifteen minutes after he'd pronounced our street address with such Gallic verve that the driver didn't seem to notice that the rest of Woody's conversation consisted of “
Oui
” and “
Bien-sûr.
”

One of Woody's assignments was to interview the great film composer Georges Delerue, who had recently composed the soundtrack for George Cukor's
Rich and Famous.
Delerue had scored many of Truffaut's films, including my favorite—
Jules and Jim—
about a love triangle between two men and a woman, and I was eager to meet him. We had lunch at one of Delerue's favorite restaurants, where everyone assumed Woody spoke the language. At that point I think even Woody thought he spoke it. The movie publicist eventually straightened things out and Woody conducted the interview through a translator, but not before receiving multiple compliments on his “beautiful French.”

In London, I interviewed most of the cast members of
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
for the “official poster magazine.” Woody had helped me get the assignment. It wasn't what I'd gone to film school for, but as Woody reminded me, in his Humphrey Bogart accent, I needed “the dough.” Since I hadn't seen the
Rocky Horror
play or the movie I was somewhat at a disadvantage, but after Woody pointed me to the right boxes, I could have performed a one-woman show of it.

With a brief stop in New York to pick up more boxes, Woody and I drove to Tucson, where he'd been assigned to write a story about
The Villain.
Directed by former stuntman Hal Needham, it starred Kirk Douglas, Ann-Margret, and, in his first romantic lead, the former bodybuilder and future governor of California, Arnold Schwarzenegger. The movie was a broad comedy caper based on the Road Runner cartoons, and they'd built an old Western town complete with saloon and “pleasure house” in nearby Rio Rico.

Feeling like a city slicker in my oxfords, I told Woody we needed Western boots.

“I'm Annie Hall when I should be Annie Oakley,” I explained. Woody was a huge fan of Westerns—he'd seen John Ford's
The Searchers
at least thirty times—but there was no way he was going to wear cowboy boots. He favored L. L. Bean boat shoes, which he wore everywhere, except on boats. He agreed to drive me to Tucson, where I saw boots in every available color and skin, from ostrich to armadillo. The salesman, who was weighted down in turquoise and silver, asked what I wanted. “Something subtle,” I said. He looked crushed, so I added “but with texture.” He suggested Lucchese. The only Lucchese I knew had been head of a New York crime family and bore the nickname Three Finger, but apparently he was from a different branch. The Texas Luccheses had established the boot company in 1883, outfitting the U.S. Cavalry. The salesman explained that Lucchese had boots unique to every state, complete with depictions of the state flag, flower, and bird.

“What state are you from?” he asked.

“Massachusetts.”

“I'm not sure we have that boot. Where do you live now?”

“New York.”

“I don't think we have that one either.”

He wondered if perhaps I might like the Montana boot, which was one of his favorites. I told him that if I were going to buy a “state boot,” I'd probably want to have visited the state at least once.

“If you really like them, we could go,” Woody said. His mix of sweetness and total impracticality was a source of constant amazement to me.

I settled on a stateless boot, in brown lizard skin, with hand-tooled curlicues running down the sides. I tried to scuff them up to make them look as if I'd had them for more than five minutes, but they still screamed
city slicker
.

Woody's first interview was with Hal Needham, who was on a career high after directing
Smokey and the Bandit
, starring his best friend, Burt Reynolds. Prior to directing, Needham had enjoyed a stellar career as a stuntman, wrecking cars, leaping from horses, and breaking fifty-six bones and his back twice.

“I think we're going to be pals,” Woody said.

Woody assumed that doing an interview was the start of a beautiful friendship, when it was usually only the start of a professional relationship that ended once the story hit the newsstand.

“I don't think you're going to become ‘pals' with a daredevil stunt driver,” I said. “You have nothing in common.”

Woody put on his hurt face. “Yes, we do. We both love movies.”

Though
The Villain
was supposed to be a comedy, the only thing I found amusing was the sight of Schwarzenegger strolling around in a powder-blue cowboy suit that barely contained his bulging muscles. During a lunch break, I helped myself to some rice and beans from the craft service table, taking refuge in our rental car. Suddenly, the door opened and Schwarzenegger, minus the ten-gallon hat but still in the powder-blue cowboy ensemble, squeezed behind the steering wheel. The seat had been adjusted to Woody's height and Schwarzenegger was practically curled into a ball. Dispensing with the niceties, he got straight to the point: “
Doomp the leetle guy and be vid me
.”

I was so startled, I dumped the beans and rice all over my lap. Schwarzenegger didn't seem to notice. “
Vat
you doing
vid
him anyway?” he wanted to know.

Schwarzenegger was so huge it was like sitting in the front row at a drive-in movie. I'd never seen such a large head or hands. As he attempted to extricate himself from the car, he said, “We'll
cadge up layder
.”

From then on, I couldn't make a move without Schwarzenegger following me. Realizing the he-man approach hadn't worked, he tried the courtly method.

“I can tell you
ah
a woman who likes
ahht.
”

“I'm sorry, I like what?”

“
Ahhhht! Ahhht!
”

“Oh, art. Yes, I like it.”

“Then we
chute
go to a museum together. There
ah
many
intresting
ones around.”

“We're in the middle of the desert. Where are the museums?”

He didn't know exactly but said we could go to any number of them and then have dinner.

“I don't think that's a good idea.”

“You don't?” He looked crestfallen, as if he couldn't believe somebody wouldn't want to go to a nonexistent museum in a partially fake desert with a muscleman in a powder-blue lace-up shirt.

“I like your boots,” he persisted. “Where did you get them?”

I couldn't remember the name of the shop, and anyway I didn't want to go boot shopping with him. Next he offered to buy me a pair.

“No, thanks. I already have these.”

He shook his head, and then, putting on his ten-gallon hat, he lumbered toward the Pleasure House.

After Tucson, we drove to L.A., where Woody interviewed George Cukor about
Rich and Famous,
which starred Jacqueline Bisset and Candice Bergen. Cukor, who was then eighty, had worked in Hollywood for sixty years, with such major stars as Greta Garbo, Ingrid Bergman, Audrey Hepburn, and Marilyn Monroe. Cukor's greatest collaboration, however, was with Katharine Hepburn, whom he directed in eight films, including
Holiday
and
The Philadelphia Story
. I'd always loved Hepburn, whose mannish style was a forerunner to Diane Keaton's, and whose affection for oxfords placed her in the company of such sexually ambiguous stars as Greta Garbo and Marlene Dietrich. All three adopted the shoe for its comfort and subversive chic. Hepburn often paired them with loose-fitting trousers known as Oxford Bags, named after a popular style of slouchy pants that Oxford students favored.

In homage to Hepburn, I wore my version of Oxford Bags, along with my oxford shoes. Greeting us at the door of his home in the Hollywood Hills, Cukor, looking at Woody and then at me, said, “Well,
she's
much prettier than you are.”

I was floating on air. The man who'd directed Garbo and Hepburn had called
me
pretty. Maybe he'd cast me in his next movie; though, given his advanced age, he'd have to work pretty fast.

Cukor took us on a tour of his house, a Mediterranean-style villa that Billy Haines, the actor-turned-designer, had decorated in the mid-1930s. We walked down a hallway filled with autographed photos of his movie star friends, into a library lined with autographed books by F. Scott Fitzgerald, Somerset Maugham, and Thomas Mann. “I think we're going to be pals,” Woody whispered. Settling into the living room, he pulled out his tape recorder and began the interview. I knew from all the boxes marked
Cukor
that Woody had spent a lot of time on research. He started as he always did, at the beginning, which in this case was 1930. Cukor was initially flattered with Woody's encyclopedic knowledge of his career, but after two hours, Cukor stood up and said, “I've had enough.” Woody couldn't believe it. “But we haven't even gotten to
Rich and Famous,”
he said. Cukor didn't care. “You're a very selfish young man taking up so much of my time. Now get out.”

I ran out of the house while Woody collected his things. A few minutes later, we were standing on the lawn when Cukor opened the door. “Feel free to take a swim,” he said breezily. The pool looked exactly like the one in
The Philadelphia Story.
Hepburn and Tracy had lived in two cottages on the property.