Death by Pantyhose (4 page)

"You must bejaine," she said, finally managing
to swallow. She offered me a mustard-stained
hand to shake and grinned a wide generous
smile. "Grab a seat."

I slid into the booth across from her, wondering if she'd mind if I plucked a piece of pastrami dangling from her sandwich.

"You hungry?" she asked, following my gaze.
"Want a pastrami sandwich? They make really
good ones here."

"Oh, no. No, thanks."

There was no way I was going to order a pastrami sandwich-not after that huge lunch I'd
had. Absolutely not.

"Hey, Mitzi," she shouted to a blowsy waitress
whose jet black hair was tortured into a towering beehive. "Bring my friend here a pastrami
sandwich."

"Really," I protested, "I shouldn't."

Then I called out to the waitress: "With a side
of potato salad."

What can I say? I can't take me anywhere.

"Have a pickle while you're waiting," Dorcas
said.

I plucked a fat pickle from a bowl on the table
and took a bite. It was lip-puckering heaven.

"Forgive me for stuffing my face," she said between bites, "but I'm starving."

As I watched her eat, I couldn't help feeling a
tad disgruntled. It certainly didn't seem fair that
people like Dorcas could stuff their faces with
pastrami and never gain an ounce, while fat
cells clung to my thighs like barnacles to a ship.

"So," she said, when she finally came up for air,
"I suppose you want to hear all about my act."

Not really. What I really wanted was that pastrami sandwich, but I was here to make money,
so I plastered a bright smile on my face and
said, "Sure. Shoot."

"Well, I start out my act-"

But before she could tell me how she started
her act, a muscular guy in tight black jeans and
a T-shirt came sauntering over to our table. He
had the kind of oily good looks popular in singles bars and Vegas casinos.

"How's it going, Dork?" he sneered. "Put any
audiences to sleep lately?"

She bit into a pickle with an angry snap of
her jaw.

"Up yours, Vic."

Then he turned to me, his sneer still firmly in
place.

"Last time I saw the Dork's act, she stank so
bad people were waiting in line-to get out."

"Where'd you get that gag?" Dorcas said. "The
museum of prehistoric jokes? I think Plato was
using it on open-mike night at the Acropolis."

Just then a skinny guy in jeans and a corduroy
jacket appeared at Mr. Nasty's side and grabbed
him by the elbow.

"C'mon, Vic," the skinny guy said, his Adam's
apple bobbing like ayoyo. "Let's go."

He gave Dorcas an apologetic smile and
tugged his obnoxious friend to a table at the
back of the restaurant.

"Hey, Vic!" Dorcas shouted after them. "Time
to bring your hair in for an oil change.

"What a jerk," she said, turning back to me.

"I couldn't agree more. Is he a comic, too?"

"He thinks he is. Frankly, I think his act stinks. I
can't understand why he's getting booked at
comedy clubs and I'm not."

She glanced down at her now-empty plate and
mopped up a speck of mustard with her pickle.

"It helps that he has Hank, of course."

"Hank?"

"The guy who dragged him away. Hank is his
writer. He's the funny one. He gives Vic all his
best jokes, and Vic hogs the credit. Why Hank
puts up with Vic, I'll never know. The guy is a
total bottom-feeder." She turned and glanced at
where he was sitting. "See the cigarette lighter
on his table?"

I looked over and saw a silver cigarette lighter
at Vic's side.

"It's not really a lighter; it's a tape recorder.
He uses it to steal other comics' jokes."

I gasped in disbelief. Not at Vic's thievery.
But at the sight of our waitress approaching
with a pastrami sandwich as big as a Chihuahua.
I absolutely could not allow myself to finish it, not
if I expected to have an unclogged artery left in
my body.

Dorcas stared at it longingly.

I couldn't believe she was still hungry. Where
the heck was she packing all those calories?

"You want half?" I asked, after the waitress
had gone.

"Thanks," she said, sweeping it off my plate
with the speed of a Hoover. I felt a twinge of annoyance. Yes, I know I just said I didn't want to
finish the darn thing, but now that it was gone, I
missed it.

I took a big bite of my half before she changed
her mind and decided she wanted it, too. It was
salty, greasy, and oozing with mustard. In other
words, divine.

We spent the next minute or so with our
mouths full of pastrami, so talk was pretty much
out of the question. Over at Vic's table, I saw Vic
flirting with Mitzi, the bouffant-haired waitress.
The woman was twice his age and giggling like a
teenager.

"He flirts with anything in a skirt," Dorcas
said, following my gaze. "And the pathetic thing
is, he's got a really nice girlfriend. Cheats on her
right and left, and she hasn't a clue."

Dorcas had finished her half of the sandwich.

I clutched what was left of mine protectively.
She'd have to wrestle me to the ground before
I'd let her have it.

Accepting the fact that there was nothing left
to eat except her place mat, Dorcas rolled up
her paper napkin in a ball and tossed it on her
plate. Then she reached into her purse and took
out a beautiful cloisonne lipstick case. When
she opened the case, I was surprised to see a
tube of Chapstick nestled inside.

"You keep Chapstick in a beautiful case like
that?" I asked.

"Oh, I never wear lipstick. It's a sexist symbol
of feminine subjugation. A tool of the maledominated media."

Huh? Was she talking about the same stuff I slapped on my lips to keep me from looking like
a walking zombie?

"I love the case, though," she said, admiring
the beautiful cloisonne design. "I bought it years
ago, back when I was still trying to please men."

Hmmm. It looked like somebody at the table
was channeling Betty Friedan through Germaine Greer.

"So," I said, figuring I might as well get it over
with, "tell me about your act."

"It's a whole new kind of comedy. I tell jokes
from a feminist sociological perspective."

Uh-oh. Not exactly an area ripe with chuckles.

Dorcas began an impassioned rant about how
women were oppressed in a male-dominated society, how they were made to loathe their bodies
by the media and forced to sacrifice their integrity and comfort for an unattainable ideal of
beauty.

Her eyes shone with excitement, her hands
waved wildly. The woman was a bundle of nervous energy. Maybe that's why she was able to
pack away so much food and never gain a
pound.

"And when I rip up my pantyhose and throw
the pieces to the audience at the end of my act,"
she said, flinging her arms in the air, "it symbolizes my breaking the yoke of centuries of male
oppression! "

Good heavens. It sounded more like an article in Ms. Magazine than a comedy routine. Not
that I didn't agree with a lot of what she said,
but there wasn't a laugh in sight.

"It's brilliant, isn't it?"

I nodded numbly.

"All it needs is a few jokes to spice it up.
Think you can do it?"

Was she kidding? There was no way on earth I
could make this stuff funny. Chris Rock, Ellen
DeGeneres, and the writing staff of The Simpsons
couldn't make this stuff funny. And I was just
about to tell her so when I remembered a little
thing called a "car" I was going to have to buy.

"Sure," I said, forcing the words out of my
mouth. "I can do it."

"Great! "

We set up a date for me to see her act the
next night at the Laff Palace.

"I just know that with you by my side," she
said, "I'm going to be utterly hilarious."

As it turns out, with me by her side, she was
going to be utterly screwed. And I wasn't exactly
in for a day at Disneyland myself. If I'd known
then what was coming down the pike, I
would've taken the pastrami and run.

I was sprawled on my bed, sipping chardonnay and licking the filling out of Oreos, thinking about how my day had gone from hopeful to
horrible in the blink of an eye. It had started out
so promising, with the sun shining and the birds
tweeting and a high-paying job in the offing. And
then, before I knew what hit me, I was minus a
car and stuck with a minimum-wage job writing
jokes for the unfunniest woman on the planet.

I gazed down at Prozac, who was snoring on
my chest, blasting me with fish fumes.

No doubt about it. Life-much like Prozac's
breath-stunk.

At that moment, just when I was convinced that I was living under my own personal storm
cloud, the phone rang. I let the machine get it.

`Jaine? It's Andrew Ferguson calling."

And just like that, my world was flooded with
sunshine again.

You remember Andrew, don't you? You
would if you'd read my last book (The PMS Murder, now available in paperback at all the usual
places).

Andrew Ferguson was a world-class dollburger, a bank executive I'd met on a job interview. The minute I saw him, with his lanky build
and sandy brown hair that curled sexily at the
nape of his neck, I felt my napping hormones
spring into action.

At the time, I didn't think I stood a ghost of a
chance with him. Andrew was unquestionably
adorable in a corporate Brooks Brothers kind of
way. And I don't usually attract the Brooks Brothers type. (Shnooks Brothers is more my speed.)

Much to my utter amazement, he'd asked me
out. But before we got a chance to get together,
he was transferred a quatrillion miles away to
Stuttgart, Germany. I was certain I'd heard the
last of him. And now here he was. Back in my
life!

I snatched up the phone, my heart racing.

"Andrew!"

"Hey, Jaine. How are you?"

"Um, fine," I said, wowing him with my witty
repartee. "How are things in Germany?"

"Actually, I wouldn't know. I'm here in L.A."

He was here in L.A.! I forced myself to take a
deep breath and calm down. I had to play it
cool.

"Oh, my gosh!" I squealed. "That's fantastic!"

That was playing it cool, all right. Any cooler
and he'd be scraping me off the ceiling.

"Anyhow," he said, "I was wondering if you'd
like to get together."

For all eternity, if possible.

"I'd love to."

"How about lunch tomorrow?"

Lunch? I felt a momentary twinge of disappointment. I was hoping for something a bit more romantic. Like a candlelit dinner with wine and soft
music and an all-you-can-eat dessert bar. But what
the heck? Maybe he didn't want to rush things.
Hadn't I read a million times that the most enduring relationships start off slow?

"Sure," I stammered. "Lunch would be fine."

"Would you mind meeting me downtown?"
he asked. "I'm in the middle of a crazy project at
the bank, and I can't take much time off."

"No problem."

He named a trendy downtown restaurant and
we agreed to meet there at noon.

"Oh, Prozac!" I screeched the minute I hung
up. "It was Andrew Ferguson! My potential significant other."

I scooped her up in my arms and did a little
happy dance.

She peered at me through slitted eyes.

Wad a minute. I thought I was your significant
other. Moi!

"Prozac, honey, you know I adore you, but I
was hoping some day to connect with someone
of my own species."

She squirmed out of my arms and gave me a
reproachful look.

Have you forgotten about your history with men?

She had me there. The men in my life have been unquestionable duds, a series of losers
who'd make cupid consider a career in account-
iiia.

Take my first and only husband, The Blob. A
charming guy who clipped his toenails in the
kitchen sink and watched ESPN during sex.
After four years of marriage to The Blob, I
thought I'd sworn off men forever, but then Andrew came along, and I decided to give the
hairy half of the population another chance.

"Oh, Prozac. Don't you see? Andrew's different from all the others."

She shot me a skeptical look.

Just don't come crying to me when you get your
heart broken.

Then she jumped off the bed and, tail held
high, stalked off to the living room.

I'll be sleeping on the sofa tonight.

"Oh, don't be that way."

I tried luring her back to bed with kitty treats
and belly rubs, but she wouldn't budge.

Normally I can't sleep without her warm body
purring next to mine, but that night was different. That night I drifted off to a deep sleep filled
with delicious dreams of me and Andrew and an
all-you-can-eat dessert bar.

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Good News

Hi, darling-

Keep your eye out for the UPS man. I sent you
the most adorable Georgie O. Armany shorts set
from the Shopping Channel, just $39.99 plus
shipping and handling. It's got sequined palm
trees all over it, perfect to wear on a date in L.A.
(Hint, hint.) I do hope you're going out,
sweetheart, and not sitting home with Paxil,
who's a precious kitty but not exactly the son-inlaw of my dreams.

Good news here in Florida. Daddy's six-month
suspension from the Tampa Vistas clubhouse
will be up next week.

Remember how they kicked him out for starting
a food fight at Sunday brunch? He claimed he
never threw that Belgian waffle at Ed Peters, that
it just slipped off his plate, but I don't see how a
waffle can "slip" three feet in the air clear across
a table. And everybody knew Daddy was mad at
Ed for beating him at miniature golf. It's true that
Ed was gloating about it all through brunch and I
guess Daddy just lost it and threw his waffle at
him. And then Ed threw his popover back at
Daddy. Which just escalated the whole thing until
Daddy wound up hurling that deviled egg. If only
it hadn't landed down Mrs. Stuyvesant's cleav age! She was one of our nicest social directors
ever. She handed in her resignation the very
next day, saying she couldn't put up with Daddy
anymore.