My Right Foot---Days 11 & 12: Found Whimsy

During a rehearsal for a play in college, one of the guys in the cast suddenly looked at me and uttered a complete non sequitur.

“You look like an Edward Gorey drawing.”

I suppose it didn’t help that I had just read Edie Sedgwick’s biography and often showed up at rehearsals in a black turtleneck and black leggings like the famous photo of her and Warhol hanging out near The Factory in the 60s.

Nevertheless, I was completely taken aback. I DID look like an Edward Gorey drawing with my thin frame, skinny legs and black stockings. I knew who Edward Gorey was primarily due to the opening credits that played on PBS’s Mystery! Series every week and a few of his children’s books.

Though calling them Children’s Books is a bit of a stretch. I think the phrase “Children’s-Looking Books” would be more apt.

The Doubtful Guest is one of Gorey’s best. An odd little tale about a mysterious creature that suddenly shows up at the home of a family, creates all bits of curious chaos and simply refuses to leave.

“It was subject to fits of bewildering wrath,

During which it would hide all the towels from the bath.”

The past two days have been a bit of a blur with work and writing and rehearsal in preparation for a film I’m about to shoot. Oftentimes, Found Whimsy, as I like to call it, is what makes a hectic, blurry day much more pleasant. It’s also how I have fun when all that boring, grown-up, life stuff starts to take over my day---and ruin my blogging time (hence the doubled-up post).

I present for you today some: Found Whimsy of the Past Two Days!

The Austin Powers theme song comes on the Muzak at work and the bartender, Michael, and I do a little dance in the kitchen.

A few months ago, some odd, middle-aged woman sitting at the bar saw us talking to each other and leaned over to ask us "a personal question".

"Are you two dating?"

"No," I simply say with a smile.

"Oh, come on---I can tell there's something going on with you two."

"Noooo," the bartender says (in what I, and any other cogniscent person would recognize as a VERY gay voice).

He is, indeed, gay.

However, no sooner does he leave the bar to clear some tables than the middle-aged, single woman leans over the bar and says, "Okay---he's gone. You can tell me now. Are you two..."

"No," I can't help but smile. "Really. We're not."

"Well..." she says as she takes a sip of her martini, "trust me, honey---don't let the good ones go."

No wonder she's fifty and still single---apparently she has no Gay-dar!

Ever since then, the bartender and I always refer to each other as "Lover".

"Hey lover---are we out of Chardonnay?"

"Hey lover---did you get my text last night?"

We never tire of this silly little game.

Not only that, but we have added to the mix.

We constantly accuse one of my best friends at work, Valerie, of trying to "steal my man". Here she is at work--caught on camera eating pizza in the kitchen.

"He wants nothing to do with you," I say haughtily. "So stop rubbing yourself all over him and making him nauseous," I add whenever she gets anywhere near him.

"You're just jealous because you can't keep your man and you know he likes me better!"

"Oh Pu-lease," he pipes up. "You are such a desperate woman!"

Here is one of our busboys, Kabir:

Today, the sun peeks out from behind the rain and clouds for the first time in almost a week. I call his name from across the restaurant. He is bussing a table and looks towards me. I point out the window and cry across the dining room," Roddromoy! Roddromoy!!!"

This is the Bengali word for sunshine. Not only does the sunshine make him smile---but he always giggles when I speak Bengali. He finds it funny. Little white girl picking up his language, I suppose. Everyday I pick up more and more Bengali from him and the other busboys. It's all completely useless. I have no plans to visit Bangladesh anytime in the near future. A former manager of ours was once stunned that I spoke so much Bengali and was able to wait on tables in so many other languages.

"How did you learn all that?" he asked.

"I'm a waitress. I'm bored. I have to do something to keep my mind busy here."

Today I add four more Bangla words/phrases to my mental dictionary. It's completely pointless---but it makes Kabir giggle.

And that makes my day.

Later at work, I put my hand in my pocket and stick my finger on the little notebook I keep in my apron pocket to takes notes for writing. The spiral end is so sharp it draws blood. I go to the medicine cabinet to get a band-aid.

This leads to an appearance of Senor Piccolini :

And Senor Piccolini has something to say about EVERYTHING all night long.

And, although he denies it, I do believe that Senor Piccolini is responsible for the dirty bit of graffiti that appears on the kitchen special board that announces to the entire restaurant that "Valerie wets the bed."

Damn that Senor Piccolini! He is really a cad!

Later, one of the managers and I realize that we've never tried Miso Soup. We decide we need to be adventurous!

I run across the street to the Sushi place and we share a bowl. It's tasty, but the seaweed makes it quite fishy, indeed. I will now try to compare bowls of Miso Soup from other Japanese restaurants to try to get a better perspective. Daring Girl strikes again!

At rehearsal today, I explain to one of my actors ( a very sweet guy named Ron) that a mutual friend and I were discussing him the other night. And tho, Ron claimed he had to leave us early to meet an "acting coach" in the morning...we knew better. Oh, we had it ALL figured out! We knew he was, at that very moment, doing blow off a hooker's ass. In fact, at that very moment, he was NOT lying in bed sound asleep. He was selling drugs on the corner of 135th and Amsterdam. We even came up with his street name: P-Lay---a variation on his last name that had us laughing our way up 8th Avenue.

Here is P-Lay looking dramatically out the window during rehearsal today. Oh sure---he looks like a nice, decent guy---but when he went to grab the script out of his bag, a dirty syringe and some anal beads dropped to the floor. And I will SWEAR to that!

And later at work, I tried, once again, to convince my co-workers to join me in forming the official restaurant Barbershop Quartet.

Come on, you guys! "Hello My Baby, Hello My Honey, Hello My Ragtime Gal"? Don't you think it would be nice and summery? If "Coney Island Baby" doesn't bring in customers, I don't know what will.

And my friend Timmy is suddenly obsessed with taking found pictures of something her refers to as "cankles"---women whose calves and ankles appear to be one and the same. He texts me this photo he snapped while waiting for the train:

While this may seem odd---at least it's better than his last photo project---butt cracks. Trust me, if you've seen one cell phone photo of a butt crack, you've seen them all.

As we end rehearsal today, I almost forget that I need to take a picture of my right foot.

A thunderstorm is going on, and I had taken off my rainboots to direct in my black, Edward Gorey stockings. The picture comes out blurry.

I decide I like it that way.