Can’t Deny That –

Pink sponge curlers unravel. Housecoat stiff and new, never washed. Virginia Slims smoked halfway then bent like a knee. Get out the hose to water the asphalt.

Humidity shining up my face today, stealing my smile. It wasn’t always like this day. Down in New Orleans we had parties. We choked on laughter and liquor, we surely did. Too hot to sleep, open another beer. No, pour me instead a bourbon, lagniappe. Never went uptown, but they don’t mind not seeing my kind. It was the liquor that did it. Can’t deny that. Eatin’ oysters with the whiskey, that’s what it was. Oysters with whiskey.

The Old Somebody –

I used to be somebody. Oh yes, I used to be a big somebody. Do you remember how I regaled the poms, giving them a dose of the true epitome of millinery couture? Royal Ascot has never been the same. Do you remember? Do you? That hat! Yes, the magnificent pink sinamay with the peacock feathers. Of course it was I. What do you mean, “was that you?” Yes, a much younger I, but I all the same. Beautiful then, wasn’t I? Look at my photo there. Men worshipped my legs. Important men. Wealthy men. Remember the Baron?

I used to be somebody. Do you remember the night we dined with the Chancellor of the Exchequer – what was his name? Never mind. I said to him, my dear man you are simply a combustible tax machine doing your filthy work under the banner of modern socialism. Speechless! I rendered him speechless. He forever begged me to become his secret lover. Bouche cousue, I’ll never tell. But let me tell you, he loved me until the day he died. They all did! Wasn’t my nimble repartee well sought after then? Invitations to the preeminent supper clubs and society cotillions and luxury homes, where women were lit like chandeliers, bourgeois society at its most excellent—who could keep up with so many requests for my presence? They adored me then. Adored! I was on a first-name basis with the surnames on shoes most of them could ill-afford. When did it all change? When did my name become passé?

Now, look at me. Too many lovers have kneaded my flesh; it’s old pâte à choux. Dough bitter with age, stale with the stench of yesterday’s No. 5 and a thousand too many Gauloise. No, don’t deny the truth. Unlike you, mirrors refuse to lie.

Now, the skinny hobbledehoys eye me with only a dismissive flick—rude, unaware of my great history. I’d tell the striplings a thing or two about life, but eh…they don’t know what doesn’t come from television. Television! Their eyes see a fat old woman with nothing but crazy hats and a persistent memory… are you leaving? So soon? D’accord, d’accord. Will you come again? Don’t try, try is for failures. Do. Come again? À quoi bon? What does it matter? I used to be somebody. And now I live in Townsville.