“You’re from Syosset aren’t you?”
“Okay, fine, I know you’re Nathalie Portman, and I think you’re fabulous.”
“Oh thank you.” She is small, but her smile is big and genuine.
“I’m sure all your friends must be sick of drunks coming up and falling all over you.” (I’m talking about myself, of course… and how lame was my opening line…)
“No, no, it’s nice.”
Half the Maritime Hotel smells of smoked luncheon meat. The other half looks like meat… or at least the clientele does. Except for Nat (we’re tight now), the bar is meaty.
Lovely breasts everywhere, lots of bare shoulders (are knitted shawls now granny cool hot?), mini skirt wearers look concerned when skirt misbehaves, "it didn’t ride up like this in the store." Spike haired men suck in their cheeks and pretend they’re models, always looking toward the back of the room. Men in funky t-shirts, wear blazers and canvas shoes. Women with too much make up smile too hard, they’ve been practicing in the rearview mirror of their cars on the ride over the bridge. The fatties have tits working for them, and the waifs pile on red lipstick and pout, too afraid to get lipstick on their teeth with a smile. What is up with men and jewelry? Guys, chains and pinkie rings are worse than a Brooklyn accent, unless you’re Jude Law. And the too young to even be in here guys must know someone working the door. They pretend they’re older with the help of some gum, chewing hard to compensate for their undeveloped jaw line. And the man who offers you the drink takes 20 minutes to fetch it, hoping to meet his wife on his way. His only chance is the 40 year old woman too botoxed to give him the eye.
And then Average Joe’s, Zack Cohen and Adam Mesh walk in. I’ve known Zack since he was in third grade. I’ve seen him throw temper tantrums and beat up his sister, Hillary, my best friend from high school. Lovely seeing Zack. Lovelier meeting Nat. Then home with Michael, my best male friend, in a cab headed north. Oh behave.