Chapter 13: Marksman

One is rarely pleased when the entire f. side of the Universe conspires against you. That damnable streetcar video! And then The McGovern having the brass to share it with her mother.

My displeasure would have had me tossing and perhaps even turning that fateful night, but Trish, sensing my despair, did indeed dispense succor. Three times ... manna from ... well mouth-manna, I suppose one could call it.

I drifted off dreaming of that modern, phallic-shaped streetcar instead of the Gibraltar Presentation.

Ms. Sloane took me out for Tuesday lunch. “To celebrate, Birdie.”

It had been, my modest estimate, a roaring success, my Gibraltar demonstration. In that I didn’t faint, didn’t wet my trousers, didn’t forget how to read.

Louise Lane’s original version had been 47 minutes, a little longer. When Meg Gibraltar asked for me, Ms. Sloane and the Sisters cut the BB portion down to three minutes and change.

Ms. Sloane moved the podium off to the right side of the auditorium stage and I could see the large screen same as everyone in the audience. Ms. Sloane had shown me how to turn on the little lamp so I could read the crib sheet every time she advanced the show. She had inserted a video in the middle so my exposure was even more limited.

Unbeknownst to the presenter, Peggy and Pru Brewster were in attendance for my star turn. I don’t know of anything that makes you feel much grander than a mother and auntie telling you, “Well done, Birdie, really well done.”

One lunchtime puzzlement. At the Unicorn Club, Ms. Sloane turned the conver. to The McGovern, “I like that girl, Birdie, she’s a sharp one.”

Yes, she is that. And I like Trish too. But the war footing intent is to get me out from under the crossed hairs of the wedding sniper’s aim, if I make myself lucid.

Last year, at our office Christmas party — it’s a real bash, catered, three open bars — things got pretty giggly. But do not worry, yrs. truly did not, as they say in some circumstances, sample the merchandise.

Auntie Pru gave me a gentle reminder, “Keep your fucking hands to yourself, Birdie.”

My sainted mother, “Keep it in your pants, Birdie.”

Being on Triple A best Behavior did not preclude me from overhearing a nice compliment from our Receptionist, Missy Banks, “I don’t think that Birdie is all that fatuous, Bonnie.”

I should say not. Haven’t gained a pound since college.

Ms. Sloane, The McGovern, and I were sipping cocktails in Manifesto, a trendy spot in the trendy Crossroads section of town.

Ms. Sloane smiled at Trish, “So you really think Birdie has ... um, potential?”

Deflecting this uncomfortable line of conversation required an adroitness of which yrs. truly is well-celebrated for. “Did you ladies ever hear of Zeno’s Parallels?”

They exchanged a glance. Cuneiform History obviously not their cuppa. Ms. Sloan said, “Sometimes it’s a malaprop. How about spoonerisms?”

“Once in a while. Other times it’s somewhere between a Mondegreen and a neologism.” For a Yale gal, Trish often blathers about, uttering nonsense words. She smiled at me, “Zeno?”

“It’s a race, see, between this jackrabbit and a turtle. But, the thing is, the fix is in. The turtle gets this head start. Too much to overcome.”

Trish nodded, “And what was the moral of this fable, Birdie?”

Huh?

“Oh. It’s ... the deal being ... ah, yes! It’s immoral to cheat. The moral is don’t be immoral.”

I sat back, lesson departed to an appreciative crowd.

Trish looked at Ms. Sloane, “Work in progress.”