Lessons In Being A Flapper (18 page)

“Of course, we’re not supporting any of those things. Drink responsibly, don’t do drugs and always use protection,”
I said, red faced and suddenly sweaty. Marisol gave me an odd look before telling the boys that she had to use the powder room.

“What was that all about? I was promoting those things not denoting them! They wanted the truth so I gave it
to them!” I rubbed my head with my hands and tried to talk some sense into this lovely woman who was sometimes a little
too
open with her past.

“Marisol, you can’t just go telling people to drink, do drugs and have sex! It’s not exactly acceptable to talk to a stranger that way,” I said.

“Well, they seemed to be enjoying it!” she said, stomping off in the direction of the bathroom like a penchant child, while yelling back “You’re such a fuddy-duddy!” Ok, I suppose I was sort of a spoilsport but what was I supposed to do? She was making us sound like loose women!

After a moment or two, Marisol returned looking slightly apologetic.

“Autumn, dear. I hope you know I’m no dumb Dora. I do know my limits. I just thought you might to like to get a taste for the Flapper lifestyle. Those women back then were wild, my dear. They might see a drugstore cowboy and flirt with him until he offered to take them home. They weren’t at all used to keeping their feelings in and neither am I.” She knew exactly what to say to make me feel bad but I still thought I had done the right thing. We didn’t know those men so they could have easily taken advantage of one or both of us if they pleased.

“Waiter! Fill her up! I want to get fried tonight,”
Marisol bellowed, as she raised her glass and gave me a meaningful look. I sighed, knowing that as much as I was enjoying the music and the atmosphere, I had a long night ahead of me watching out for her well-being.

I
t was a good thing I didn’t get too drunk because Marisol was completely and utterly wasted. She was cackling like a chicken and trying to get up and dance during the performance. I kept trying to pull her back down but she was as slippery as an eel.

At around
3:30 a.m. the club played its last set and I flagged a taxi to take us back to The Plaza. The doorman helped me load a half-awake Marisol into the cab and then told me that he had never seen anyone as spirited in his entire life – and that was saying something seeing as he’d been the doorman for The Birdland for twenty five years.

I looked at Marisol, curled up in a ball in the backseat next to me and reminded myself of her life. She had been through so much, just like me, and look at her now. Vibrant and willing to do whatever she could to make her life more fun. I wished that I could be like her. Learning to be a Flapper was one thing but actually being one was a completely different story altogether.

Back at the hotel, I tucked Marisol in her bed, washed the makeup off her face and realized how frail she really was. She could be a spitfire but her body betrayed her mind. It was fast becoming too skinny and too weak for all the things that her rambunctious mind wanted to do.  I worried about her, I really did. She was like family to me now and not knowing what was going to happen to her in the future was heart wrenching.

Deciding not to think of it at that moment, I crossed the room and curled up on the sofa. I was staying put tonight because I didn’t want to leave her alone in case she fell or had the urge to throw
up all that whiskey she drank. I’m telling you, my life was quickly becoming something I had never imagined it would.

T
he following morning, I awoke before Marisol and quickly showered and washed off last night’s makeup. I then switched on the news and fell backwards with shock when I saw what was on
The Today Show.

A rather grainy clip was playing
on the screen of Marisol chatting with the weirdo gentlemen last night. There I was sitting beside her, looking quite fab, if I do say so myself. Marisol could be seen laughing, smiling and gesturing wildly at some points but overall looking the happiest I’ve ever seen her look.

I was confused as to why we were
on TV so I rushed to turn up the volume only to hear Matt Lauer say the words “sex”, “drugs” and “alcohol”.

Oh shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

“M
arisol, wake up, wake up!” I said, shaking the old lady as gently as I can. She stirs a moment later, takes a second to take in her surroundings and then says “Whatever is the matter, my dear?” as if I was shaking her for no reason at all. Yes, that’s it. I just love shaking old ladies in my spare time. I’m a freak like that.

“What’s the matter?! WHAT’S THE MATTER?! WE’RE ON FUCKING TV!!” I scream, both elated an
d embarrassed at the same time. Not understanding what I’m talking about, Marisol switches her attention from the obviously deranged person in front of her to the television screen. Before long, I see recognition in her eyes and wonder if she is ashamed at the way she acted last night.

“Oh, chickadee! This is just divine! What a way to start off the morning! We’re famous, toots!”

Nope. No shame at all.

I sigh
inwardly before responding. Yes, we’re famous. Yes, it’s cool to see myself looking freaking amazing on television but what are we famous for? I can’t quite figure out why we’re on TV. We didn’t do anything that extraordinary, I think, as I watch video footage of Marisol twirling around the dance floor to the beat of her own drum.

As we both sit there, warm and cozy inside the cocoon of The Plaza hotel, it’s clear that we’re perplexed as to what we’re seeing. Who videotaped us? Why? It just doesn’t make sense.

When my phone rings, I answer it without looking at the caller ID. It’s Bayani, calling to tell me that he’s watching us on the
Today Show
and can’t stop laughing. The clip is the best thing in years, apparently and has already garnered up over 1 million views on YouTube. It’s gone Viral.

Holy. Shit.

“Don’t worry though, the reactions have all been great so far. Everyone is talking about how amazing Marisol is and many people want to know how they can get her to appear on their talk shows. She’s the newest internet sensation.” I need to get on a computer STAT.

“Thanks, Bayani. I’m sure Marisol will be thrilled with the attention,” I say before hanging up. As much as I want to talk to him right now and gauze his reaction to our passionate love affair, I have more pressing matters. Like seeing what people are
saying about me on the interweb. Pulling out my iPad and attempting to find our video, I get the feeling I’m being watched.

“Darling what is that contraption? It looks like something from Space.
Your grandfather is inquiring. He also wants me to pass on the message that he’s happy you weren’t looking like a cancelled stamp last night. You look stunning! No doubt you’ll get a lot of barney mugging from your boy toy now!” she says, hooting with laughter. Either the alcohol hasn’t worn off or the idea of fame is making her giddy. Maybe it’s a mixture of the two. I’ve always thought that Marisol had a hidden desire to be someone important, the way she went on about dignitaries and other people of importance all the time. Maybe now it was finally her turn to be in the spotlight once again and show Clara Bow and her cohorts (who were deceased) that they couldn’t rob her of her life calling with just a silly rumor.

Watching the video online makes me smile. I’m so glad to see Marisol happy and feel slightly bad for ruining her fun last night. It all seems rather innocent now, but at the time I couldn’t imagine the idea of talking to a bunch of strange men the way that she did.

“I’m sorry, Marisol, for snapping at you last night. It wasn’t my place to treat you the way that I did.”

“Dear, don’t you worry. I know you didn’t mean anything by it. I just hate being treated like a God forsaken baby just because I’m old!”

“I know. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

“I know you didn’t.” S
he says, as she pats my arm (like I’m the baby) and then says “Now, tell me, what do we do from here? You said the video has gone viral? What does that mean? Has it caught a cold? Is it spreading germs?” I laugh at her naivety of modern technology before explaining that going viral means our video can be seen all over the world instantly.

“Well, isn’t that fluky! You mean to tell me the countries in Europe, Africa, South America…and all those other far off places can see me doing the Egg Harbor? I’m shocked!”

“Yes, anyone can see it, anywhere. What’s the Egg Harbor? Is it a dance?

“God no. The Egg Harbor just means I was dancing for free, not in a production or something like that.”

Even though I had known Marisol for a while now, I still couldn’t keep up with all the 1920s slang she threw at me. It seemed like there were more ludicrous and confusing terms every time we spoke!

“You know I’m surprised I didn’t get hit with the nut cracker
– that’s a police baton -- last night. Instead I went viral! I’ll never get over the shock of it all!” Marisol said, getting out bed.

“Do they have any noodle juice
for an old lady in this joint?” I call down to room service and ask for a tea AKA noodle juice for Marisol and an extra strong coffee for myself. After we have our drinks, we get dressed and then sit on the balcony overlooking the busy city streets below.

“My dear, I think I need to hit up a hen coop this afternoon. My hair is absolutely dreadful! I can’t be seen walking around looking like a right old fool after I’ve been on the glass box there,” she says, pointing at the TV.

“Can you hire us a dimbox to take us to Saks on Fifth Avenue?”

“Absolutely. I could do with a day of pampering myself.”

“Pampering? My dear girl, beauty is pain! Don’t go thinking otherwise.”

Oh, I won’t. Especially after knowing just how much a bikini wax hurts.

W
hen we arrived at Saks a few hours later, we were whisked up to the Halcyon Days salon and spa. A petite woman in head to toe white was waiting for our arrival. She opened the door for us and immediately loaded us down with a glass of champagne each. This must be what it’s like to travel with a celebrity, I thought.

The salon and spa was large, with monochrome chairs and
every level of luxury possible. You could get everything from a pedicure to Microdermabrasion done right here in the Saks building! It was all very exciting but I really didn’t need to get a face peel (at least I didn’t think so but these New York women might disagree with the state of my skin!) I opted for a pedicure, manicure and massage. It was all heavenly.

Marisol, on the other hand, was going for the works. Luckily, she wasn’t opting for a bikini wax (yikes!) but she did get a haircut, color and perm. She also had her nails done and makeup freshly applied by a professional. I was starting to think that the celebrity status was going to her head!

About an hour into our visit we became aware of some fracas downstairs near the entrance of the store. It sounded like the paparazzi had tracked down a celebrity within the building. A celebrity! How exciting! I was wondering whether it was Oprah Winfrey or Sarah Jessica Parker when one of the stylists came running over to Marisol and I, informing us that we may have to exit by the back door.

Seriously? Was there an armed gunman in the store? Was there some sort of attack on Saks?

Oh. Right. It was all because we were now deemed internet sensations. Every magazine and gossip site wanted photos of Marisol for their next story.

“Do you squeal on all of your clients?” I said, being unusually snippy. As much as I liked the idea of being on TV and possibly mingling with celebrities, I wasn’t so excited about the paparazzi. I knew how ruthless they could be and Marisol was an old woman, after all.

“No! Of course not! We have many wealthy and powerful people who come in here and want absolute secrecy. We never give away a client’s name,” the stylist explained. I believed her. Someone else must have tipped the paps off as to where we were.

Once Marisol and I were safely escorted outside and into a waiting
car (which had mysteriously materialized while we were getting pampered), we made our way back to The Plaza.

“Oh. My. God. What the hell are all these people doing outside the hotel?” I asked upon seeing a swarm of photographers and journalist-looking types with their notepads and microphones at the ready.

“I’d assume they’re here for us, my dear,” Marisol replied, fluffing up her already fluffed hair a little more.

“Now make a graceful exit and please, dear God, don’t show your panties or even
worse your coochie!” she said.  She said this as if I was Britney Spears or something. Please. I wore underwear…except for when Bayani and I had a steamy romp and then I couldn’t find it. But I wouldn’t think about that now. Obviously Marisol was more up to date with pop culture than I realized. I wondered if she had seen Britney Spears coochie in the tabloids. I hoped not.

Getting out of the
car we were instantly bombarded with people sticking microphones in our face like they were trying to get us to eat them. I had the urge to bite one, just to piss them off a bit.