Complete Stories (20 page)
Authors: Dorothy Parker,Colleen Bresse,Regina Barreca
Honestly? Do you honestly mean it, Fred? Yes, but how could I help thinking so, when you’re with her all the time—when you bring her here every night in the week? Really, only Thursday? Oh, I know—I know how those things are. You simply can’t help it, when you get stuck with a person that way. Lord, I’m glad you realize what an awful thing that woman is. I was worried about it, Fred. It’s because I’m your friend. Why, of course I am, darling. You know I am. Oh, that’s just silly, Freddie. You’ve got heaps of friends. Only you’ll never find a better friend than I am. No, I know that. I know I’ll never find a better friend than you are to me. Just give me back my hand a second, till I get this damned mascara out of my eye.
Yes, I think we ought to, honey. I think we ought to have a little drink, on account of our being friends. Just a little one, because it’s real Scotch, and we’re real friends. After all, friends are the greatest things in the world, aren’t they, Fred? Gee, it makes you feel good to know you have a friend. I feel great, don’t you, dear? And you look great, too. I’m proud to have you for a friend. Do you realize, Fred, what a rare thing a friend is, when you think of all the terrible people there are in this world? Animals are much better than people. God, I love animals. That’s what I like about you, Fred. You’re so fond of animals.
Look, I’ll tell you what let’s do, after we’ve had just a little highball. Let’s go out and pick up a lot of stray dogs. I never had enough dogs in my life, did you? We ought to have more dogs. And maybe there’d be some cats around, if we looked. And a horse, I’ve never had one single horse, Fred. Isn’t that rotten? Not one single horse. Ah, I’d like a nice old cab-horse, Fred. Wouldn’t you? I’d like to take care of it and comb its hair and everything. Ah, don’t be stuffy about it, Fred, please don’t. I need a horse, honestly I do. Wouldn’t you like one? It would be so sweet and kind. Let’s have a drink and then let’s you and I go out and get a horsie, Freddie—just a little one, darling, just a little one.
The New Yorker
, May 12, 1928
, May 12, 1928
The Mantle of Whistler
The hostess, all smiles and sparkles and small, abortive dance-steps, led the young man with the side-burns across the room to where sat the girl who had twice been told she looked like Clara Bow.
“There she is!” she cried. “Here’s the girl we’ve been looking for! Miss French, let me make you acquainted with Mr. Bartlett.”
“Pleased to meet up with you social,” said Mr. Bartlett.
“Pardon my wet glove,” said Miss French.
“Oh, you two!” said the hostess. “I’ve just been dying to get you two together. I knew you’d get on just like nothing at all. Didn’t I tell you he had a marvelous line, Alice? What’d I tell you, Jack—didn’t I say over and over again she was a scream? And she’s always like this. You wait till you know her as well as I do! Goodness, I just wish I could stay here and listen to you.”
However, frustrated in her desire, she smiled heartily, waved her hand like a dear little baby shaking bye-bye, and schottisched across the floor to resume the burdens of hospitality.
“Hey, where have you been all my life?” said the young man who had a marvelous line.
“Don’t be an Airedale,” said the girl who was always like this.
“Any objection if I sit down?” he said.
“Go right ahead,” she said. “Sit down and take a load off your feet.”
“I’ll do that little thing for you,” he said. “Sit down before I fall down, what? Some party, isn’t it? What a party this turned out to be!”
“And how!” she said.
“ ‘And how’ is right,” he said. “ ’S wonderful.”
“ ’S marvelous,” she said.
“ ’S awful nice,” he said.
“ ’S Paradise,” she said.
“Right there with the comeback, aren’t you?” he said. “What a girl you turned out to be! Some girl, aren’t you?”
“Oh, don’t be an Airedale,” she said.
“Just a real good girl,” he said. “Some little looker, too. Where did you get those big, blue eyes from, anyway? Don’t you know I’m the guy that always falls for big, blue eyes?”
“You would,” she said. “You’re just the tripe.”
“Hey, listen, listen,” he said. “Lay off for a minute, will you? Come on, now, get regular. Aren’t you going to tell me where you got those big, blue eyes?”
“Oh, don’t be ridic,” she said. “They are not big! Are they?”
“Are they big!” he said. “You don’t know they’re big, do you? Oh, no, nobody ever told you that before. And you don’t know what you do to me, when you look up like that, do you? Yes, you don’t!”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” she said.
“Ah, stop that, will you?” he said. “Go ahead, now, come clean. Tell me where you got those big, blue eyes.”
“What’s your idea in bringing that up?” she said.
“And your hair’s pretty cute, too,” he said. “I suppose you don’t know you’ve got pretty cute hair. You wouldn’t know about that, would you?”
“Even if that was good, I wouldn’t like it,” she said.
“Come on, now,” he said. “Don’t you know that hair of yours is pretty cute?”
“ ’S wonderful,” she said. “ ’S marvelous.”
“That you should care for me?” he said.
“Oh, don’t be an Airedale,” she said.
“I could care for you in a big way,” he said. “What those big, blue eyes of yours do to me is nobody’s business. Know that?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t know about that,” she said.
“Hey, listen,” he said, “what are you trying to do—run me ragged? Don’t you ever stop kidding? When are you going to tell me where you got your big, blue eyes?”
“Oh, pull yourself together,” she said.
“I’d have to have a care with a girl like you,” he said. “Watch my step, that’s what I’d have to do.”
“Don’t be sil,” she said.
“You know what?” he said. “I could get a girl like you on the brain.”
“The what?” she said.
“Ah, come on, come on,” he said. “Lay off that stuff, will you? Tell me where you’ve been keeping yourself, anyhow. Got any more like you around the house?”
“ ’S all there is,” she said. “ ’R’ isn’t any more.”
“That’s Oke with me,” he said. “One like you’s enough. What those eyes of yours do to me is plenty! Know it?”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” she said.
“That dress of yours slays me,” he said. “Where’d you get the catsy dress? Hm?”
“Don’t be an Airedale,” she said.
“Hey, where’d you get that expression, anyway?” he said.
“It’s a gift,” she said.
“ ‘Gift’ is right,” he said. “It’s a honey.”
“You ain’t heard nothin’ yet,” she said.
“You slay me,” he said. “I’m telling you. Where do you get all your stuff from?”
“What’s your idea in bringing that up?” she said.
The hostess, with enhanced sparkles, romped over to them.
“Well, for heaven’s sakes!” she cried. “Aren’t you two even going to look at anybody else? What do you think of her, Jack? Isn’t she cute?”
“Is she cute!” he said.
“Isn’t he marvelous, Alice?” asked the hostess.
“You’d be surprised,” she said.
The hostess cocked her head, like a darling, mischievous terrier puppy, and sparkled whimsically at them.
“Oh, you two!” she said. “Didn’t I tell you you’d get on just like nothing at all?”
“And how!” said the girl.
“ ‘And how’ is right!” said the young man.
“You two!” cooed the hostess. “I could listen to you all night.”
The New Yorker
, August 18, 1928
, August 18, 1928
The Garter
There it goes! That would be. That would happen to me. I haven’t got enough trouble. Here I am, a poor, lone orphan, stuck for the evening at this foul party where I don’t know a soul. And now my garter has to go and break. That’s the kind of thing they think up to do to me. Let’s see, what shall we have happen to her now? Well, suppose we make her garter break; of course, it’s an old gag, but it’s always pretty sure-fire. A lot they’ve got to do, raking up grammar-school jokes to play on a poor, heartsick orphan, alone in the midst of a crowd. That’s the bitterest kind of loneliness there is, too. Anybody’ll tell you that. Anybody that wouldn’t tell you that is a rotten egg.
This couldn’t have happened to me in the perfumed sanctity of my boudoir. Or even in the comparative privacy of the taxi. Oh, no. That would have been too good. It must wait until I’m cornered, like a frightened rat, in a room full of strangers. And the dressing-room forty yards away—it might as well be Sheridan. I would get that kind of break. Break, break, break, on thy cold gray stones, O sea, and I would that my tongue could utter the thoughts that arise in me. Boy, do I would that it could! I’d have this room emptied in thirty seconds, flat.
Thank God I was sitting down when the crash came. There’s a commentary on existence for you. There’s a glimpse of the depths to which a human being can sink. All I have to be thankful for in this world is that I was sitting down when my garter busted. Count your blessings over, name them one by one, and it will surprise you what the Lord hath done. Yeah. I see.
What is a person supposed to do in a case like this? What would Napoleon have done? I’ve got to keep a cool head on my shoulders. I’ve got to be practical. I’ve got to make plans. The thing to do is to avert a panic at all costs. Tell the orchestra for God’s sake to keep on playing. Dance, you jazz-mad puppets of fate, and pay no attention to me. I’m all right. Wounded? Nay, sire, I’m healthy. Oh, I’m great.
The only course I see open is to sit here and hold on to it, so my stocking won’t come slithering down around my ankle. Just sit here and sit here and sit here. There’s a rosy future. Summer will come, and bright, bitter Autumn, and jolly old King Winter. And here I’ll be, hanging on to this damned thing. Love and fame will pass me by, and I shall never know the sacred, awful joy of holding a tiny, warm body in my grateful arms. I may not set down imperishable words for posterity to marvel over; there will be for me nor travel nor riches nor wise, new friends, nor glittering adventure, nor the sweet fruition of my gracious womanhood. Ah, hell.
Won’t it be nice for my lucky hosts, when everybody else goes home, and I’m still sitting here? I wonder if I’ll ever get to know them well enough to hang my blushing head and whisper my little secret to them. I suppose we’ll have to get pretty much used to one another. I’ll probably live a long time; there won’t be much wear on my system, sitting here, year in, year out, holding my stocking up. Maybe they could find a use for me, after a while. They could hang hats on me, or use my lap for an ash-tray. I wonder if their lease is up, the first of October. No, no, no, now I won’t hear a word of it; you all go right ahead and move, and leave me here for the new tenants. Maybe the landlord will do me over for them. I expect my clothes will turn yellow, like Miss Havisham’s, in
Great Expectations
, by Charles Dickens, an English novelist, 1812-1870. Miss Havisham had a broken heart, and I’ve got a broken garter. The Frustration Girls. The Frustration Girls on an Island, The Frustration Girls at the World’s Fair, The Frustration Girls and Their Ice-Boat, The Frustration Girls at the House of All Nations. That’s enough of that. I don’t want to play that any more.
Great Expectations
, by Charles Dickens, an English novelist, 1812-1870. Miss Havisham had a broken heart, and I’ve got a broken garter. The Frustration Girls. The Frustration Girls on an Island, The Frustration Girls at the World’s Fair, The Frustration Girls and Their Ice-Boat, The Frustration Girls at the House of All Nations. That’s enough of that. I don’t want to play that any more.
To think of a promising young life blocked, halted, shattered by a garter! In happier times, I might have been able to use the word “garter” in a sentence. Nearer, my garter thee, nearer to thee. It doesn’t matter; my life’s over, anyway. I wonder how they’ll be able to tell when I’m dead. It will be a very thin line of distinction between me sitting here holding my stocking, and just a regulation dead body. A demd, damp, moist, unpleasant body. That’s from
Nicholas Nickleby
. What am I having, anyway—An Evening with Dickens? Well, it’s the best I’ll get, from now on.
Nicholas Nickleby
. What am I having, anyway—An Evening with Dickens? Well, it’s the best I’ll get, from now on.
If I had my life to live over again, I’d wear corsets; corsets with lots of firm, true, tough, loyal-hearted garters attached to them all the way around. You’d be safe with them; they wouldn’t let you down. I wouldn’t trust a round garter again as far as I could see it. I or anybody else. Never trust a round garter or a Wall Street man. That’s what life has taught me. That’s what I’ve got out of all this living. If I could have just one more chance, I’d wear corsets. Or else I’d go without stockings, and play I was the eternal Summer girl. Once they wouldn’t let me in the Casino at Monte Carlo because I didn’t have any stockings on. So I went and found my stockings, and then came back and lost my shirt. Dottie’s Travel Diary: or Highways and Byways in Picturesque Monaco, by One of Them. I wish I were in Monte Carlo right this minute. I wish I were in Carcassonne. Hell, it would look like a million dollars to me to be on St. Helena.
I certainly must be cutting a wide swath through this party. I’m making my personality felt. Creeping into every heart, that’s what I’m doing. Oh, have you met Dorothy Parker? What’s she like? Oh, she’s terrible. God, she’s poisonous. Sits in a corner and sulks all evening—never opens her yap. Dumbest woman you ever saw in your life. You know, they say she doesn’t write a word of her stuff. They say she pays this poor little guy, that lives in some tenement on the lower East Side, ten dollars a week to write it and she just signs her name to it. He has to do it, the poor devil, to help support a crippled mother and five brothers and sisters; he makes buttonholes in the daytime. Oh, she’s terrible.
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