A Faberge Turd
Let me tell you something about Ginger
The Chronicles of Former President of the United States X-Ray Johnson, In No Particular Order
What the reader needs to know:
X-Ray Johnson was born sometime in the mid 19th century, and soon found that he was an immortal American. These are the heretofore untold stories of his valiant service as or under the Executive Branch.
We met at the coffee shop, real incognito shit. Fred was past his prime by '69. Everbody knew, him most of all. The great MGM musical was a thing of the past. His fans now cowered in their midwest houses, terrified of the Negroes and the Longhairs, mournfully remembering Ike. I never liked Ike. The waitress was some fifteen year old New Jersey skank, probably had a Jimmy Page shrine at home to finance. She never paid him a second glance.
We knew each other by reputation only. He smiled without showing too many teeth as I shook his hand.
"I saw you foxtrot once," he said to me. My face flushed. When? "I think it was last November, at some charity bit," Fred continued. "Or an awards dinner. Rickles emceed."
"God damn," I replied, not recalling the evening, least of all his being there. "Had I known that the Master was in the audience, I would have fucking rehearsed! Did my conversation step measure up?"
Fred smiled and turned to look at the chrome espresso machine. He told me that he was impressed by the glide in my step, or some other generic compliment. Hell, I was satisfied. A false compliment from Fred is like a Faberge turd--you still cherish it until the day you die, illegitimate as it is. Little Miss Dazed and Confused came back with our coffees, plunking them down so that the hot liquid splashed out of the mug and on to the table, staining the newspaper Fred had so carelessly left there. She walked away and Fred took out a little flask from inside his tweed jacket. He poured the whisky in both mugs with veteran grace.
Our throats became warm and our tongues became looser. I told him about the time I was personally requested to teach the tango to a certain curvaceous blond named Marilyn ("I pressed my crotch to hers, and it was just like coming home. She thought I was initiating a little of the old Casting-Couch, and I stammered like an Iowa farm boy as I explained the Argentinian history"). Fred smiled in appreciation. I beamed with cameraderie.
"So, did you ever bag Ginger?" I said lightly. He chuckled, and I leaned back in my chair, one eyebrow cocked. There was a pause.
"Let me tell you something about Ginger," he said after half a minute.
* * *
We wound up in the showroom of an abandoned carpet store. Ironically, the floors were all hardwood. We had polished off half a case of malt liquor, and we set the other half on the windowsill. We compared moves, and I mimicked his steps for all I was worth. Of course, he flew away from me like a swallow. He taught me leaps and swivels that I doubt I could have performed if sober. Drunk as I was, I unfailingly collapsed into a heap, laughing with ever-diminishing self-consciousness.
Later we sat and tried to regain our bearings. Staring at the lights of the city, swirling and elongated in the green bellies of the liquor bottles. Fred was a quiet man, and he mumbled something--to himself, I realized, as the years passed.
I think he said, "They'll never get this on film."
What the reader needs to know:
X-Ray Johnson was born sometime in the mid 19th century, and soon found that he was an immortal American. These are the heretofore untold stories of his valiant service as or under the Executive Branch.
We met at the coffee shop, real incognito shit. Fred was past his prime by '69. Everbody knew, him most of all. The great MGM musical was a thing of the past. His fans now cowered in their midwest houses, terrified of the Negroes and the Longhairs, mournfully remembering Ike. I never liked Ike. The waitress was some fifteen year old New Jersey skank, probably had a Jimmy Page shrine at home to finance. She never paid him a second glance.
We knew each other by reputation only. He smiled without showing too many teeth as I shook his hand.
"I saw you foxtrot once," he said to me. My face flushed. When? "I think it was last November, at some charity bit," Fred continued. "Or an awards dinner. Rickles emceed."
"God damn," I replied, not recalling the evening, least of all his being there. "Had I known that the Master was in the audience, I would have fucking rehearsed! Did my conversation step measure up?"
Fred smiled and turned to look at the chrome espresso machine. He told me that he was impressed by the glide in my step, or some other generic compliment. Hell, I was satisfied. A false compliment from Fred is like a Faberge turd--you still cherish it until the day you die, illegitimate as it is. Little Miss Dazed and Confused came back with our coffees, plunking them down so that the hot liquid splashed out of the mug and on to the table, staining the newspaper Fred had so carelessly left there. She walked away and Fred took out a little flask from inside his tweed jacket. He poured the whisky in both mugs with veteran grace.
Our throats became warm and our tongues became looser. I told him about the time I was personally requested to teach the tango to a certain curvaceous blond named Marilyn ("I pressed my crotch to hers, and it was just like coming home. She thought I was initiating a little of the old Casting-Couch, and I stammered like an Iowa farm boy as I explained the Argentinian history"). Fred smiled in appreciation. I beamed with cameraderie.
"So, did you ever bag Ginger?" I said lightly. He chuckled, and I leaned back in my chair, one eyebrow cocked. There was a pause.
"Let me tell you something about Ginger," he said after half a minute.
* * *
We wound up in the showroom of an abandoned carpet store. Ironically, the floors were all hardwood. We had polished off half a case of malt liquor, and we set the other half on the windowsill. We compared moves, and I mimicked his steps for all I was worth. Of course, he flew away from me like a swallow. He taught me leaps and swivels that I doubt I could have performed if sober. Drunk as I was, I unfailingly collapsed into a heap, laughing with ever-diminishing self-consciousness.
Later we sat and tried to regain our bearings. Staring at the lights of the city, swirling and elongated in the green bellies of the liquor bottles. Fred was a quiet man, and he mumbled something--to himself, I realized, as the years passed.
I think he said, "They'll never get this on film."