THE STRAIGHT POOP (Part One)

Sitting on a hillside, eating fried chicken and drinking beer, on a sunny day sounds like a lot of fun, until you add auto racing into the mix. Once the chicken and beer have been consumed, it is really boring to wait for the next gaggle of cars to zoom around the bend. If you are slapping a mosquito, you might miss them, and then you have to wait until those autos come around again---and again---and again.

Hank was a new friend W.S. had met at work. He was a former racecar driver, and thought it about time we become exposed to his favorite sport. I was surprised that W.S. had succumbed to this invitation, but we liked Hank and his fiancée Elsa, and W.S. was to be the best man at their wedding, so how could we refuse.

Their formal wedding was to be held at Elsa’s parent’s home in Kenilworth, a very exclusive suburb in Chicago. Mother-in-law, Fannie came through again. She gave me the peach colored chiffon dress she had worn to her niece’s wedding in Los Angeles. With minor alterations, it fit perfectly, and all I had to buy were some peach colored shoes.

Six weeks later, we arrived at Elsa’s parent’s home in Kenilworth. We parked on the street, not realizing that we’d have to hike a half-mile to the house. Also, there were no lights along the driveway, which kept it very private and exclusive. Taking my hand, W.S. kept saying, “We’re almost there.” “How do you know?” I whined, “I can’t see a thing.”

“Well, there has to be a house in here somewhere,” he replied. “Do you want me to go back and get the car?” “No,” I moaned, “I’m not going to stand here in the dark by myself.” Finally, we spied the glimmering lights of the house, and W.S. groaned when he saw the parking attendants. The driveway looked like a Mercedes dealership. “Now aren’t you glad we walked,” he said. “Right,” I replied. “We saved a bundle on tips.”

Elsa’s father opened the door and greeted us warmly. As I limped into the house, I was dazzled by the opulence. Everything was white---white sofas, white chairs; glass tables decorated with white accessories, and magnificent white, lush carpeting. It was like walking into a blizzard. As Elsa’s father took my wrap, he looked down at my feet and froze. Then everyone in the room looked at my feet and froze. Did I miss something here? Were we playing, Simon Says? Then I looked down.

There on the white, lush carpeting were my petite, but extremely brown, footsteps. With a little scream of greeting, Elsa’s mother entered the room, but composing herself, she said, “I told the gardener to pick up after those damn dogs! Take off your shoes. Hiram will clean them for you.”

I wasn’t sure who Hiram was, but I was relieved to step out of my shoes, which were both pinching and smelling bad by this time. I gingerly handed my semi-peach shoes to Elsa’s father, and he invited us to step into the adjoining white room. I hesitated, but was relieved when he added, “You too.” In thirty minutes, not only were my shoes returned unscathed, but also the carpeting was miraculously restored to its undefiled state.

Hank grabbed a bottle of champagne and said to W.S. and me, “Let’s the four of us have a private toast before the wedding.”

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued---)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006