Running From Legs and Other Stories

“How are your parents?” I asked.

“Oh, fine,” she said.

... agreeing to take her down to Nassau with them for the Spring break, though you’d never guess she’d been South, the sun hadn’t come out the whole week she’d been there. She’d expected to go back to San Francisco with at least some kind of a tan, and instead she looked like a sickly white thing that had crawled out from under a rock.

“You look very healthy, Jennifer,” I said.

“Depends where you’re looking,” she answered, and flashed her quick grin again, and before I had time to think about what she’d just said, she stopped before what was undoubtedly the airport bar and said, “Is this it?”

“I guess so.”

“Let me get the door,” she said, and reached out with the hand still clutching the wig box. After a lot of awkward shuffling and maneuvering, we finally managed to squeeze the three suitcases, the wig box and ourselves through the door and over to the checkroom, where I deposited the luggage with an enormous sense of relief.

“Made it!” Jennifer said triumphantly.

“I wasn’t sure we would.”

“Neither was I.”

“What do you mean?”

“The way you were puffing back there. I see a table, come on.”

The bar was fairly crowded and resounding with the same kind of noise I had heard over the telephone wires from New York. Jennifer led me to an unoccupied table against the rear wall, and we slid in behind it on the leatherette banquette. I immediately signaled to the waiter.

“Seat’s warm,” Jennifer said. “Must have been a very fat lady sitting here.”

The waiter, a crew-cut, clean-shaved kid who looked to be twenty-two or — three ambled over, stared admiringly at Jennifer, glanced balefully at me, and then said, “Yes, sir, can I help you?”

“Jennifer?”

“I’d like a scotch on the rocks, please,” she said.

“A scotch for the lady,” I said, “and I’ll have...”

“Excuse me, miss,” the waiter said, “but would you happen to have some identification with you?”

“Flatterer,” Jennifer said, and immediately unslung her shoulder bag, opened it, and produced her ID card. The waiter studied it as though I were a white slaver transporting nubile blondes across state lines. As his scrutiny persisted, I felt first embarrassment, and then anger.

“The young lady’s over twenty-one,” I snapped. “If you’re finished with her card, we’d like some drinks here.”

“Sorry, sir,” the waiter said, “but I don’t make the laws in this state.”

“Do you control the weather here?”

“Huh?”

“Just give the young lady her card, and bring us a scotch on the rocks and a vodka martini, straight up.”

“We could lose our license, you know,” the waiter said.

“We could lose our patience,” I said, and gave him the same penetrating, disintegrating look I had wasted on the hostess’ back.

The waiter dropped Jennifer’s card on the table top, mumbled, “Scotch on the rocks, vodka martini, straight up,” and then walked off with a cowpuncher’s lope.

“My, my,” Jennifer said, picking up her card and putting it back in her bag, “you do take control of a situation, don’t you?”

“I get vicious when I’m thirsty.”

“What it probably was,” Jennifer said, “is that he probably figures you’re too old for me.”

“Well, yes,” I said, “but still, you know, you did, you know, show him the identification he asked for, you know, and he had no right...”

“Don’t get nervous,” Jennifer said. “I’m not coming on or anything.”

“I’m not nervous,” I said.

“You seem nervous.”

“I’m not.”

“Okay. Do you always drink martinis?”

“Not always.”

“I mean, this late at night. I thought people only drank martinis before dinner.”

“I haven’t had dinner yet,” I said.

“Didn’t you eat on the plane?”

“Yes, but that would hardly qualify as dinner.”

“I never eat on airplanes, either,” she said. “I get like a ravenous beast, but I’ll be damned if I’ll eat any of that plastic crap they serve. I’m starved right now, to tell the truth, I haven’t eaten since early this morning. What I did, you see, was grab a plane from New York because I couldn’t get a San Francisco flight, and I figured Chicago’s better than nothing, don’t you think? Closer to where I’m headed, anyway.”