Crap, she said. Crap. Sorry. She brought her napkin to her mouth and fiddled behind it. When she lowered it again and displayed her teeth for Ron's inspection, the blackgreen wormish coil was still there. Ron became a mime and Naomi mirrored his gestures. It took two more attempts to remove the culprit.
So, Robert began once everybody had settled down and refocused on him. I happened to be strolling through the Park yesterday morning when who do I see? She's out walking her little rat dog in one of those little rat-dog vests. Faux tartan. I kid you not. I pass by just as said little rat-dog finishes taking a little rat-dog shit. And you know what our illustrious so-called TV star does? After carefully picking up the little rat-dog shit in a special baggy-glove patterned with daisies, our illustrious so-called TV star extracts a Kleenex from her Versace purse, kneels down, and wipes her little rat-dog's little rat-dog ass.
She didn't! Naomi screamed in delight.
She did, said Robert. The rat-dog seemed to be not wholly averse to the gesture.
That's unconditionally hideous, Jean said.
Thanks for sharing, honey buns, said Estelle.
My pleasure, angel face. What, I couldn't help wondering to myself, is the social protocol at such a delicate nexus? Now imagine me there, watching our illustrious et cetera with the wad of soiled Kleenex in hand. I had to think on my feet.
Robert leaned back, raised his glass as if about to offer a toast, and grinned like a python.
So what did you do? Naomi asked.
I did what any self-respecting gentleman would do. I smiled graciously at her, and, ambling by, hands in my pockets, said casually: Hello, Mrs. Tautau. I absolutely adored your work in The Flintstones.
But she wasn't in The Flintstones, Naomi said.
Precisely, Robert said.
Laughter washed back and forth across the table.
Estelle leveled a flat look at her husband. Robert opened his eyes wide and puckered his lips, feigning surprise, then stood and began refilling everyone's wine glass. Naomi dabbed a tear from the corner of her eye with a napkined knuckle. Ron glanced from person to person, flummoxed. Jean took another bite of salad and chewed with a queen's stateliness.
Would anyone like some more? Estelle asked when everyone had settled again. There are simply heaps left.
It's scrumptious, Naomi said, but I'm stuffed. I literally can't eat another bite or I'll burst.
Me either, said Ron. What a great lunch.
This dental attack business, by the way, Jean said, fingering the spoon beside her plate distractedly, is exactly why Dan and I don't trust doctors anymore. At some point in the not-too-distant past, some shady organization kidnapped them all, extracted their hearts, and filled the resultant cavities with Snapple.
I think they refer to those organizations as HMOs, Robert said, don't they?
Doctors used to sit down and shoot the breeze with you, Naomi said. Ask how your mother was. Talk about the latest exhibit at the Guggenheim. Now you open your mouth and, bang, they're bored. Mine has his technician explain to me what pills to take because he doesn't want to be bothered. When did that happen?
When I was a kid, mine used to give me lollipops if I was a good little girl, Estelle said, pushing back, rising, beginning to clear the dishes. Jean and Naomi rose to help. Actually, he gave me lollipops if I was a bad little girl, too. I couldn't wait to see him.
They jabber on and on about the evils of socialized medicine, said Robert, then turn around and treat you like you might as well be living in France. Quelle horreur.
They're holding our cholesterol hostage, Jean said.
To be perfectly fair, Estelle said as she rounded the corner into the kitchen, they do have children to put through golf school.
You should have seen the way they treated Dan after his mugging, said Jean. It was inexcusable.
Mugging? Ron said.
Good lord, Robert said. So you're the sole member of our species who hasn't heard about that. Our poor Dan here was mugged — what? — five or six years ago on his way home from dinner with us.
Eight, Dan said.
No! Naomi called from the kitchen. Eight?
Glasses and utensils clinked and jangled through the doorway. The refrigerator thumped shut with a rattle, opened, thumped shut again. Dan could hear the women strike up their own conversation.
A minute later, Jean appeared carrying two bowls of blueberries and cream.
Ta-da, she said.
Wow, Ron said. Mmmmmmm.
Dan was just back from doing a piece on Chernobyl, Jean explained. Right, honey? She set down the first bowl in front of Robert, the second in front of Ron. I couldn't go along that evening because I had this cold from hell. I stayed home gorging on Dristan.
Yeah, said Dan. I decided to walk. It was a beautiful evening. I didn't think twice. Somebody jumped me on Park Avenue, knocked me down, roughed me up a little.
That's awful, Ron said.
And the weird part is, Estelle said, emerging with Naomi and the rest of the desserts, the guy didn't take anything. Not a thing.
It's like they say in disaster pieces, said Dan: everything happened so fast. I was just walking along, minding my own business, and all of a sudden wham. Next thing I knew, it was over and I was in the emergency room.
Tell Ron what he wanted, Jean said. The guy. She took her first mouthful, closed her eyes, relished. If I've been good and go to heaven when I die, this is what I'll get to eat every day.
There I was, Dan said, down on the sidewalk, covering my head, trying not to get beat up too bad, right? And this guy? He keeps calling me Kenneth and demanding to know what the frequency is. How creepy is that?
What frequency? Ron asked. Who's Kenneth?
Welcome to New York, said Robert.
Looking back, Dan said, it somehow doesn't seem like that big a deal. He chewed a while, swallowed. People get assaulted in New York all the time, don't they?
Yeah, Estelle said. Only most don't get songs written about it.
Songs? said Ron.
This band called Game Theory did something in… oh, I guess it was 1987. R.E.M. has a track about it on their new album. I've heard it. It's pretty catchy.
And, Estelle said, get this. Letterman asked Mr. Modest here to sing backup with them when they perform it on The Late Show.
You're kidding, Ron said. You know Michael Stipes?
I don't know him know him, said Dan, but I've bumped into him a couple times. He seems like a nice enough guy. Talks as if words are hundred-dollar bills and he doesn't have much in the bank. As opposed to, say, Letterman. Letterman uses this weird frivolous inflection saturated with irony when he's talking to you. You never know if he means what he's saying, or means the opposite of what he's saying, or doesn't mean anything at all.
Wow, Ron said.
Anyway, two weeks ago, out of the blue, I get this call from a guy named Dietz. Park Dietz. Great name, huh? He's a psychiatrist, and he says he's interviewing that lunatic who shot the NBC stagehand outside Rockefeller Center last summer.
Oh yeah, Naomi said. What was all that about?
The guy thought the TV networks were beaming messages into his head. During his interview with Dietz, he confessed he was also the one who mugged me. Evidently, I'd been tormenting his brainwaves, too. The police sent over a couple of mug shots. It was him, all right. At least, I'm pretty sure. I mean, I saw his face for like a couple of seconds nearly a decade ago, right?