breathless

It all started out innocently enough - I was just trying to get over you, and the void you had left in my heart, my life. After meeting Harold Parker Wadsworth IV at Coffee Bean and Teal Leaf, we began the standard married-geriatric-courting-young-hottie-with-wife’s-knowledge affair.  I thought I'd be sleeping with him right away, interlacing young limbs with old, soft-smooth with soft-saggy.  Yet apparently there is a sequence - lunches at the Four Seasons, shopping sprees at Gucci and Prada, having tea with his aging (and by aging, I mean 33) wife, Greta - leading to the consummation.

"I want you to promise me something," he said once, his octagenarian voice croaking. "Never, ever call me Harold. It’s Parkie. If you do this, I will cater to your every whim, as long as you desire." If this odd request meant a second Kelly, it was simple enough. He was Parkie, and I was Annie.  All this time, I was preparing to navigate the transparent flaps of old man skin in order to reach my ultimate goal. Sure, it had changed slightly - Louis Vuitton’s latest collection is amazing - but still. Means to an end.

Yesterday, the day had come. Parkie came to my apartment to pick me up - we were going to fly to San Francisco for the weekend. First Class. He stood on my stoop, gingerly holding a bottle of 1970 Dom. He remembered. There was a twinkle in his old, cloudy eye...or maybe that was just a cataract. I couldn’t tell.

I invited him in, knowing I’d need to team that bottle with some Xanax before getting on the plane. I had outfitted myself appropriately for my weekend getaway, just like Liz Hurley does when she travels. Elegant and expensive. I don’t understand how women let themselves get so sloppy on flights, no less be photographed like that. What could they possibly be thinking?

Parkie entered my apartment, peering around with obvious approval. He knew he had chosen his mistress well, with the overabundance of Eames, Adler, Noguchi and of course, Steph Goldstein. I took the bottle of Dom from him, and went into the kitchen. He settled on the chaise. I came back, a few minutes later, having hastily downed three glasses of champagne and a couple of pills to ease my anxiety. As I walked into the room, I looked lovingly at my benefactor. How sweet, I thought. He’s asleep. An hour later, after finishing the bottle, straightening my hair, retouching my makeup and changing twice over, he was still there. Same position. At that point, I started to feel slightly irritated. We have to leave soon, and he's STILL napping? I called his name, snapped my fingers, coughed insistently.  Still no movement.  Ugh. This is taking up my precious time.  Reluctantly, I walked the four steps to the chaise and bent over him. He looked fine. I mean, he’d taken his wallet out and sat it down next to him, which made him appear shorter than before. It was so beautiful, overstuffed, almost bursting at the seams, bathed in the warm afternoon sunlight. I sighed longingly. Vintage Louis, no less. I could feel my juices begin to stir...but then, my attention snapped back to Parkie when I realized he wasn’t wheezing as usual.  With emphysema, there is a familiar, almost Vader-esque quality to his breathing, but silence hung in the air like stale flatulence. Like cheap, supermarket Old Spice.

This cannot be for real, I thought, panicked. Parkie up and died on me before he had a chance to change his will. A million thoughts echoed in my head: who do I call? Steph? Greta? 911? How do you hide a body? I don’t want this in the papers; it would be the end of my social life.  I paced the room in my Blahniks, fighting the urge to flee, to pack my Prada bags and cab it to the nearest bakery.  Come on, Annie, breathe.  Think. It's not that bad.  I mean, let's face it - he was pretty old anyway.  Pretty light, too.  I could just toss him out the window - gently, of course - and the police would think he had a heart attack on the street.  But what if someone sees me?  What if I end up in Camp Cupcake? That would be akin to suicide, like white shoes after Labor Day. Jail was a terrible black mark on Martha's glossy image. I picked up the phone, and slowly, hesitantly, with trembling fingers, dialed the only number I could.

If only you could see the mess you have made.

Comments

[Steph Goldstein]

Annie dearest, I'm so sorry. I know you must feel terrible, even worse than I did when some blonde bitch snapped up the last silver Choos in my size at the sample sale. And poor H-Wads... he had so much left to give.

[Frank Lemonbrows]

I can help. i live in a truck. We can discuss the "details" of our "business arrangement" when i show up. itll be about a half hour. be strong until then. Also maybe put on a tube top and a skirt.

[piupiu]

oh my god! the funeral- sweetie, what the hell are you going to wear?

[3rd Times a Charm ( 3T )]

My condolences on your loss. (of benefactor) I'm on the edge of my seat, wondering what you're going to do! Although with that bulging wallet, just sitting there...he didn't need it anymore..

3T

[Subtext Whore]

Never mind dear. You can always try the intensive care unit next time. The life support systems keep ole flappy chops alive while he re-drafts his will...it's just a shame my Manolo spiked the power cord when it did, but my lawyer thinks I'll be out of here soon enough.

[stretch_td]

And you came so close. If he only had time to call his estate lawyer. Change the benefactor, a signature ... and all your dreams would have cumm true.

Better luck next time, girl!

[He's Dead, Jim!]

Dear, Dear Annee,
So sorry for your loss! Though I am sure you remember the box office classic "Weekend at Bernie's?" Perhaps you could cart the old sport around with you in the limo for a few days?

Would anyone *really* know the difference at Barney's or Bergdorf's? I mean, his credit cards still work, right?

Cheers!

[Straight Up and Jappy]

My condolences on your loss. Was Parkie about to become a MILFM or a MILSM? Would that have affected how the will was rewritten?

I'd think MILSM would make more sense -- you two could use each other's Depends (or whatever the Prada equivalent is).

[Babs in Minnesota]

I'm now 43 and have 2 children ages 14 and 19 and I can't relate with your fancy lifestyle of fine designers and first class flights... but I really enjoy your writing and check your journal every day. I love your perspectives on all of life's little curves (whether it be fat camp or an old man croaking in your apartment). My deepest condolances on your loss.. and thank you so much for sharing your life with us!

Speaking of little curves. Can you post more pictures of your outtings? Maybe some shots of you and Parkie (or his wallet)! I'd love to see this hottie (the wallet)!

[Neil]

Harold Parker Wadsworth IV! Not the family with the Wadsworth Theater! The family that practically "owns" the city. Please email me at my law firm immediately so we can discuss these matters. Rather than you being in trouble, I think I can help you win a very large settlement for all the joy you gave a lonely, elderly man in his time of need.

[allthedetails]

check out NY Consigliere's Sept 7 post

[S. Jessica Plath]

It's soo strange that you should go through almost exactly what I went through with Joan Krock! Except we hadn't really met in person yet before she died.... She did answer a lot of my phone calls and mail, though....
Have you thought about coming to my Feminist Dance Therapy E-session this Thursday morning ? I think it could get your mind off men for a while.

[Karo]

I'm a damn fan! Make me one!

[delmer]

I know you hear it all the time, but, nice site ladies (women ... gals ... girls ... I never know what to say anymore.)

Very funny.

[the yankee clipper]

i posted this on another blog, but i think its appropriate for this forum as well, so i am copying it to see if anyone else agrees:

i wish someone would parody that d-bag "this fish". i honestly find her as putrid as SK, if not moreso. the only thing worse than her are her heinous fans. honestly, the shit that they write to her in the comments is surreal, sometimes i need to pinch myself to ensure that i havent been transported to some twilight zone type netherworld. if i read one more time, after one of her ridiculous posts, that she is someones idol, inspiration, hero, or some other completely inappropriate term, i am going to vomit.

i have to close with, just so no one thinks i am exaggerating, what i think is my all time favorite comment to fish (i measure "favorite" by the one that made me projectile vomit the furthest):

Fish, you are a champion of the human spirit. One of
the few true role models left in the world. If there was ever a reason to promote and legalize human cloning it would be to replicate your blessed, beating heart a million times. (If only they all could help pump that yucky water out of NOLA.) You're a modern day Joan of Arc. I wish I had half the strength, courage, and care that you exhibit. I bow my head to you.

[leann]

Um, Clipper?

You do realize that comment was made out of disdain for her gushy commenters, right? And if you don't, maybe you should re-read it... and this time check for some sarsasm.

[piupiu]

how are u sweetie? i left london early because i was so worried about your bank balance.....

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