July 2014
C1nderella
by Barbara Stevens Barnum
My oldest acquaintance—I guess you could call her a buddy—is not your usual old lady. My mother used to say lots of kids have imaginary friends, but Rita is so substantial I was amazed that Mom couldn't see her. Even then Rita weighed close to two hundred pounds and sang with a voice so loud it made the chandelier ring. Mom heard the chandelier—blamed it on the L train six blocks away. Some of Rita's songs were pretty bawdy, so maybe it's just as well Mom didn't hear them.
My present wife, Adrienne, thinks Rita's my guardian angel. Frankly I don't recall Rita ever bailing me out of trouble, and I have to admit Adrienne's believing in angels is a little off the wall, but then I didn't marry her for her cognitive processes. Not seeing Rita doesn't stop Adrienne from carrying on long conversations with her. Adrienne says she can tell Rita listens because of things that happen later. As I said, Adrienne's gray matter is shiny new, unused. But since Rita is real, it's nice that Adrienne believes in her.
The three of us have some really great evenings out. Nothing fancy—Rita's happy with a good pub, draft beer, and plenty of conversation preferably at a piano bar with patron songbirds. Fortunately that's Adrienne's style too.
There are times I'm glad no one but me sees Rita, like when we hit the bars. Rita wears long dangling gold earrings, and she shows too much bust. Now, when you weigh almost two hundred pounds, any bust is too much in my opinion, but Rita doesn't see it that way. I guess it goes with her tiger-striped dresses and dyed red hair. I don't expend any energy wondering why a spook should have dyed hair—who am I to deny Rita's black roots? Rita balances all that other-worldly weight on—what else—purple, four-inch spike heels with ankle straps. Rita has these real little feet and good-looking ankles, can you imagine? Just to see that enormous body balancing on those tiny feet is a sight not to be believed.
Well, the craziness all started when the Drop Inn Lounge, part of the not-so-terrific Downtowner Motel, got a new piano player. There we were, the three of us, sitting around the piano bar, me and Adrienne with an empty seat between us, a fresh draft beer in front of Rita's stool to keep it free.
“To absent friends,” Tony the bartender said as he plunked down the third draft. He knew our routine.
The new piano player, Bobby, was about fifty, with a receding hairline. He had a good voice and played a fair piano. His patter with the patrons was good, he knew how to handle the mouthy ones. To me, he was no sex symbol, but something about him rang Rita's bell.
“What a doll," she said, "reminds me of my second husband.”
“Rita, I didn't know you were married,” I whispered, hoping no one would think I was talking to myself.
“I don't tell you everything, Buster.”
My name is Len. When Rita calls me Buster, I know I've gone too far. I haven't lived with this broad for forty-five years without learning her ways. So we spent the rest of the night singing along with Bobby and getting more and more into our cups. Did I tell you? Rita can outdrink all the regulars. Some nights she passes out cold, in which case we just step over her sizeable bod and go home without her.
In any case, we are none of us feeling any pain, when Rita turns to me and asks, "Len, do you think Bobby could be interested in me?”
“Now, that's a tough one, Rita—he can't see even you, ya know.”
“But, what if he could?”
“You want an honest answer, Rita? This guy is no Tom Selleck, but I think he'd still look for a younger chick. Maybe one that weighs a few hundred pounds less.” Rita and I have never hedged on tough issues.
The very next day, Rita goes on a diet. I never see her with a piece of pie in hand any more. However crazy it seems—a ghost dieting—she did it. About six months later, Rita was down to maybe 120 pounds stripped. . . if you could strip a ghost. It surprised me to see how good she looked once she dropped the blubber. A real pretty face, and the little bit of bust showing now looked downright inviting.
So one day she says to me, “Okay, Len, now what do you think? Would Bobby go for me?”
“Rita, far be it for me to give advice to my elders, but I think he would go out of his pea-brain mind. Except for one thing—those black roots. And maybe you could try for a more subtle shade of red, sort of henna instead of blatant orange.”
Rita doesn't even curse me out. She just smiles and disappears. Have I mentioned that she does that? Usually she's bitched about something when she takes a fast powder.
Later the same night, Rita appears again. Sure enough, her hair is now a subtle auburn—henna highlights, no roots. Right now Bobby or any other living male would go out of his mind for Rita. I know her too well, of course, to be swayed by these surface adornments. But even Adrienne I don't tell the extent of Rita's rejuvenation. So now it doesn't surprise me when Rita suggests we go around and listen to Bobby's piano. She's had us virtually living in that bar for the last six months. Adrienne refuses to go; on Wednesdays she plays gin rummy with her mother and sister. It's like religion, nothing gets in the way of the game.
So Rita and I set out for the Drop Inn Lounge together. When we get near the door, Rita asks me to peek in and see if Bobby's there. Of course he's there. Where else?
“Okay,” Rita says, “come with me to the alley a minute.”
Good God, what now? But it's easier to do what Rita asks than to cross her. So I go.
“Len,” says Rita, “this may blow your socks off, but I have a trick you've never seen. It takes a lot of energy, so I only do it every hundred years or so.”
And in front of my eyes, Rita condenses. I don't know what else to call it. I reach out my hand, and I can touch her. She's there, she's real. Will everyone else see her? How could they miss her? So we walk into the Drop Inn arm in arm, me nervous as a cat, Rita gorgeous. We sit at the piano bar right next to Bobby. You better believe everyone sees Rita; few of them see anything else. And Bobby's no exception.
Rita is armed for her assault with all sorts of unfair ammunition. She starts by asking Bobby to play her favorite, Moon River. Of course, she knows its his favorite piece. All night long she uses tactics like this, and all night long he gets closer to heaven. By 2:00 A.M. he's as moonstruck as she is.
Everyone tries to horn in on my “cousin from Buffalo,” but Rita only has eyes for Bobby. She drops her final bomb as the dive is about to close. “I never end the night without a Black Russian,” she says. Bobby nearly goes into orgasm as he rushes to the bar to get his and hers. I can hear him thinking: It's fate, it's fate.
While he's gone, Rita turns to me. “Len, you go on home. I’ll come along later.”
Who am I to argue with a ghost? I leave.
That's the last I hear of it until about six in the morning. Someone is pounding on my door. I stagger down to answer it. There's Bobby acting like a maniac. He has a tiny little ankle-strapped purple high heel in his hand.
“I have to see your cousin,” he says. "Where is she? I woke up and she was gone.”
“She's not here, Bobby," I answer, not knowing whether it's the truth. "She's gone back to Buffalo.”
“You have to tell me her last name, her address.”
“I can't do that, Bobby, not unless she tells me it's okay. I'll let you know.”
“But I have to find her.”
“Bobby, you could try that little slipper on a thousand women from here to Buffalo and still not find Rita if she doesn't want to be found. Why don't you just keep it as a memento of one interesting night? It's more unusual than you know.”
He looks at the sandal. “It's all I have left of her.”
“Might be all you'll ever have, Bobby. Rita's not like other women.” As I'm delivering this piece of wisdom, I see Rita. She's no longer condensed. She is, in fact, sitting on the sofa, watching the conversation with a tear in her eye and a piece of pie in her hand.
“Tell him I stayed as long as I could, Len. As long as I could.”
I tell him this and a few things more. I finally get rid of him. By now Rita is having a second piece of pie. I know it won't be long before she's her old self.
“It's tough, Len. I stayed until I was exhausted. Keeping a body is a hell of a lot of work. But it was one fantastic night. I'll never forget it.”
“Tell me about it,” I say.
“None of your damned business, Buster,” she says as she disappears in one of her instant exit jobs.