The Fran Lebowitz Reader (15 page)

By the time this unfortunate child has reached puberty there is no longer any hope that he will outgrow being a writer and become something more appealing—like a kidnap victim. The concern, then, as he enters the difficult period of adolescence, is that he receive the proper education in a sympathetic environment. For this reason it is strongly recommended that the teen
writer attend a school geared to his dilemma—Writing High. At Writing High the student will be among his own kind—the ungrateful. He will be offered a broad range of subjects relevant to his needs: Beginning Badly, Avoiding Los Angeles One and Too, Remedial Wakefulness, Magazine Editors: Why?, and Advanced Deftness of Phrase—all taught by jealous teachers who would really rather be students. Extracurricular activities (such as the Jacket Flap Club, where students have fun while learning the rudiments of acquiring colorful temporary jobs such as lumberjack, numbers runner, shepherd, and pornographer) are in plentiful supply. The figure of speech team, the Metaphors, are mighty effective. They can mix it up with the best of them, and Janet Flanner, their lovable mascot, is a great campus favorite.

Although the yearbook—
The Contempt
—is rarely finished in time for graduation, it is nevertheless a treasured memento of the years spent at Writing High. The cafeteria is presided over by an overweight woman of great ambition and serves mediocre Italian food at ridiculously inflated prices. School spirit is encouraged by holding in the auditorium a weekly gathering known as Asimile. Tutoring is available for the slow student, or “ghost,” as he is referred to at Writing High. Upon graduation or expulsion (and expulsion is favored by the more commercial students, who prize it for its terrific possibilities as a talk-show anecdote) the writer is as ready as he’ll ever be to make his mark upon the world.

It is unnecessary to detail the next, or actual career, stage, for all writers end up the same—either dead or in Homes for the Aged Writer. The prospect of being put in such an establishment is viewed by all writers with great dread and not without reason. Recent scandals have revealed the shockingly widespread sadistic practice of slipping the aged writer unfavorable reviews,
and more than one such victim has been found dead from lack of sufficient praise.

Not a very pretty picture, I’m afraid, and not a very accurate one either. But don’t be encouraged by
that
—two wrongs don’t make you write.

There recently appeared in the
New York Post
an article concerning the sexual abuse and exploitation of several thousand young boys in the Los Angeles area. Hard facts were on the sparse side but the police department did make some estimates:

I was, of course, surprised to see so many numbers on a list of what were admittedly allegations and wondered just where they had gotten their figures. It was difficult to imagine the police actually going around counting, so instead I imagined this:

In thinking back on the many exhilarating and arduous adventures that I have shared with my friend Mr. Sherlock Homes and Gardens, I can recall none more perplexing (or more fun) than that which I have chosen to call
A Study in Harlots.
Of course,
The Case of Dom Pérignon 1966
presented its problems,
The Afghan Hound of the Baskervilles
was hardly easy, and
The Baker Street Extremely Irregulars
was no piece of chicken, but none was a match for the tale I now tell.

First, allow me to introduce myself. I am Dr. John Watson, although Homes and Gardens often refers to me simply as “my dear.” I am a qualified physician with a limited practice in the East Sixties (right near Halston’s) and, I must say, much in demand, for between my own work and my association with Homes and Gardens it is generally acknowledged that Dr. John Watson knows exactly where all the bodies are buried. Homes and Gardens and I dwelt, of course, for many years at 221—B Baker Street, but the plummeting pound and outrageous taxes drove us from London, just as it did Mick, Liz, and so many other of our friends. We have taken up residence in Manhattan at an excellent address between Park and Madison (right near Halston’s) and it is here that our story begins.

It was approximately eleven o’clock on a pleasant morning in early December when I descended the staircase of our tastefully appointed duplex penthouse. Homes and Gardens, an earlier riser than I, had already breakfasted and was lying, eyes closed, on the damask-covered Empire Récamier. Edward, a very attractive young man whose acquaintance we had recently made, played Homes and Gardens’s violin for him. Homes and Gardens used, of course, to play his own violin, but that was before we made it. Homes and Gardens stretched a languid hand in greeting, his well-cut silk Saint Laurent
shirtsleeve in graceful folds around his wrist, and said, “Watson, my dear, I see that you are a bit weary after your long evening in which you first attended a cocktail party in honor of Bill Blass’s new sheet collection, had dinner at Pearl’s with a number of fashion notables, drank brandy at Elaine’s with a well-known author, danced at Regine’s with a famous person’s daughter, and then went downtown to do it with a stranger.” I fell into a Louis XVI Marquise and looked at Homes and Gardens wonderingly, for all my years of being roommates with him had done nothing to diminish my astonishment at his remarkable powers of deduction. “How did you know?” I asked as soon as I had regained my composure. “I didn’t see you at all yesterday, for you were busy being photographed for
L’Uomo Vogue
and I had no chance to tell you of my plans.” “Elementary, my dear: The first four items I observed this morning in
Women’s Wear Daily
, the last I deduced by noting that your indigo blue Jackie Rogers jacket is lying more smoothly than usual against your seriously white Viyella sweater, indicating that your somewhat recherché Fendi wallet is missing.” My hand flew to my inside breast pocket but I knew it was futile, for Homes and Gardens was never wrong. “There, there, Watson my dear, no use getting into a snit about it—your wallet for a moment’s pleasure is a rough trade, to be sure, but I think I have something that will take your mind off your loss. This morning there was a message on the service from Precious Little asking that we take the next flight to Los Angeles, as my assistance is required in a matter of no small delicacy.”

Precious Little was an interesting fellow, though rather given to ancestor worship (other people’s ancestors—he had none of his own to speak of) and Homes and Gardens had known him for years. His association with the Los Angeles Police Department was not exactly professional. He was not an officer of the law or even
really a crime buff—it was, to be perfectly frank, quite simply that he had a most singular fondness for uniforms. Whatever his shortcomings, Precious was on the right side of the law and Homes and Gardens had aided him previously.

“Have our bags packed, my dear,” said Homes and Gardens as he reached for the cocaine bottle, “I’ll just do a few lines and then we must depart immediately.” I made all haste and soon found myself sitting comfortably in the first-class compartment of a 747. A young woman in an ill-fitting pantsuit came to take our drink order. Homes and Gardens looked at her keenly yet disdainfully and said, “Stolichnaya straight up—for I can see that you had a difficult time of it, what with the five whiskey sours you consumed before finally meeting that account executive, and the poor-quality but large quantity of marijuana that you smoked with the sales manager you ran into this morning when leaving the account executive’s apartment in the East Seventies near Third Avenue.” The young woman gasped in disbelief and stuttered, “But, sir—how did you—how did you …?”

“Elementary,” he said coolly, “all stewardesses are alike.”

I chuckled appreciatively. Homes and Gardens turned to me and said, “Now, my dear, I will tell you all that Precious told me, so that you are prepared to observe me observing the situation. It seems that a certain captain in the Los Angeles Police Department, you know who I mean, has been giving estimates to the press about the number of people involved in an underage homosexual sex scandal. Precious feels (and not without reason) that the situation is being exaggerated—you know how our captain brags—and I have been asked to investigate the matter more thoroughly, for my way with a number is legend.” “Yes indeed,” I agreed, “they’ve certainly chosen the right man.” Homes and Gardens lit his pipe and
I sat back with a magazine. The rest of the flight was uneventful except for a slight altercation caused by some passengers who resented Homes and Gardens telling them how the movie ended before it even started (“Saw it at a screening last week,” he confided to me triumphantly), but it was all soon settled and we arrived on schedule.

Precious Little had sent his matching car and driver and the ride to the hotel was a pleasant one. The Beverly Hills has in recent years lost a bit of its cachet, but Homes and Gardens is rather attached to its paging system and I myself am partial to its distinctive pink notepads.

No sooner had we settled into our bungalow (rather far from Halston’s but right near the main building) than Precious himself arrived. “My Sher, my dear,” he greeted us effusively and kissed us each on both cheeks, “you must come with me at once. That captain is becoming absolutely impossible. Daily his figures become more ridiculous and I have it from a very good source that he’s hours away from talking to Rona.”

“Well, well, Precious,” said Homes and Gardens crisply, “that, of course, must be prevented, although it is unlikely, don’t you think, that she’ll take his call?” We all agreed and once more I was struck by Homes and Gardens’s acute sensibilities.

The three of us got into the car—Homes and Gardens electing to sit up front, in order, he said, that he might see more clearly, although I imagine that what he wanted to see more clearly did not entirely exclude Juan, Precious’s superbly café-au-lait driver. Homes and Gardens is, after all, a man of many interests.

We made an extensive tour of the various neighborhoods—Homes and Gardens gazing intently at every detail while Precious pointed out the homes of the stars. Our inspection completed, we repaired to Mr. Chow’s, where we were welcomed extravagantly.

Precious and I looked at Homes and Gardens expectantly, but he avoided our eyes and I must confess that my heart sank as I allowed myself to feel for the very first time some doubt about my roommate. My spirits rose, however, when Homes and Gardens smiled precisely and said, “Oh, look, there’s Liza, doesn’t she look great?” I turned around and was pleased to see the celebrated entertainer waving cheerfully in our direction. We exchanged nods and turned our attention once again to Homes and Gardens, who was now obviously ready to address us.

“It’s quite a simple thing really, reminds me in fact of the case involving the disappearance of a makeup artist at the
pret-à-porter
some years back. We knew for a fact that a makeup artist was missing—what we didn’t know was just which makeup artist it was. Everyone, as you can imagine, was in a veritable tizzy, until I pointed out that we had only to examine the faces of the models, note which ones were most painfully lacking in cheekbone definition, inquire as to who did the makeup and thus we would have the name of the missing artist. From there the actual discovery of the young man took but a moment. Now, in the instance at hand, I must say we were most fortunate that the areas involved were not the very best, for had we been concerned with say, an area like Bel Air, we would have been confronted with the problem of ample household help. Since, however, we were dealing with such locales as Brentwood my work was quite trifling. You may have noticed, my dears, that I took much interest in the landscaping and I found exactly what I thought I would. A great many of the lawns were overgrown and needed cutting in the most dreadful way. I further learned that in many of the houses the garbage had not been taken out for days, nor had newspapers been delivered in quite some time. So many chores and part-time jobs left undone pointed to one thing and one thing only—that these neighborhoods
were suffering from a dearth of underage boys. I simply counted up the amount of neglected work and can now present you with an accurate tally:

Homes and Gardens sat back with a satisfied air and Precious Little and I congratulated him heartily. Once again Homes and Gardens’s admirable talents had triumphed, and on the way out of the restaurant we saw Barbra and Jon snubbing Kris.

It was with considerable approval that I listened one Sunday evening to my weekend host instruct his chauffeur to drive us, his guests, back to New York. The source of my approval was my firmly held conviction that public transportation should be avoided with precisely the same zeal that one accords Herpes II. And, I must say, in view of my slender means and broad acquaintance, I have on the whole, been remarkably successful in escaping both. It was, therefore, in excellent spirits that I settled myself comfortably in the back seat of the car. I smiled fondly at my companions, lit a cigarette, and entered enthusiastically into a discussion of the entertaining personal habits of those not present. Under such circumstances it is easily understandable that I did not, at first, pay much attention to what I innocently believed to be the harmless mutterings of the driver. It was not until a silence, afforded by a lull in the conversation, allowed me the opportunity of genuine eavesdropping that I became aware that someone was muttering back. I studied my fellow passengers and was much relieved to conclude that neither one had
been concealing a secret knowledge of ventriloquism. That the chauffeur might possess such an intricate skill was quite out of the question. Overwhelmed by curiosity I asked him outright for an explanation. He replied that he was talking on the Citizen’s Band radio he had recently installed in my host’s automobile. The answering mutter was that of a truckdriver fifteen miles away. I asked him what he hoped to gain by this repartee. He replied that he was trading information on weather, traffic, and police radar cars.