Paulie Quest (Excerpt from The Fat Lady Sings)

A hot sunny summer day on Hollywood Boulevard.

The world is mine, if just for today – I feel saucy in my red short shorts, striped sleeveless top, and strappy sandals.

I stop at Grauman’s Chinese Theater.

I gaze at the celebrity hand and footprints in concrete. I’m standing over Myrna Loy, when a man comes up to me with a Polaroid.

“May I take your photo?”

Flattered, I say, “Sure!”

I pose, and he snaps the button.

When the photo rolls out, I say, “Lemme see!”

The man slips the photo into a yellow folder with red etchings of the theater and swipes it away. “It’ll cost you a buck.”

Oh, I get it. Well, I’m not playing.

“You can keep it, Mister.”

Behind me, a velvety voice with a slight accent: “Now is that any way to treat a beautiful young woman?”

I turn around to see the most handsome man I have ever seen: Large brown eyes and a mop of black curly hair, heart-shaped face, lush red lips. Tall and slim. In tight jeans and a leather jacket.

Deliciously dangerous.

Handsome man hands a dollar to the photographer, who tosses the photo to him.

Handsome Man hands me the photo. “For you, young lady.”

I accept it. “Thank you, sir.”

It’s not very good, hardly worth the dollar. My legs and arms look fat, I have a pot belly, and my purse hangs from my hand, dangling to the ground.

“These guys hang around, looking for tourists to scalp. You a tourist?”

I laugh. “No. My Mom lives in Canoga Park. I’m visiting my aunt. She lives up the street.”

“I just moved here,” Handsome Man says. “I have an opening next week.”

“Opening?”

“A one-man show.” He mentions the name of a gallery, but I don’t catch it. “I’m an artist.”

“Cool!” I say. “I painted all through high school.”

“Well, then. We have something in common. I’m Paulie Quest, by the way.”

“Samantha Mallory.”

“Pleased to meet you!”

We shake hands. I look down at Myrna Loy’s square. “To Sid, who gave me my first job.”

Did Sid Grauman stop Myrna in the street and buy her photograph from a sleazy street photographer?

We walk a bit around Grauman’s, commenting on the squares bearing the hand and footprints of the rich and famous: Marilyn Monroe, Mary Pickford, John Wayne, Sidney Poitier, and others.

We talk about art; his knowledge of the subject is esoteric and way beyond my scope – later I would understand the various schools, but, for now, I’m just enjoying the view that this gorgeous man presents.

“I started painting when I was three,” he says. “I’ve never stopped.”

When he asks my age, I say 18, even though it’s a lie.

As Emily says, “Tell all the truth but tell it slant.” Besides, I’m almost 18, so it’s just a little lie.

He’s 25, probably too old for me, but who cares? I don’t want this day to end.

But end, it must.

“Look,” he says. “I have an appointment with my agent, so I must run. May I give you a ride home?”

Disappointed, I admit that Auntie lives close by.

“Well, then. I’ll walk you there.”

As I lead the way to Auntie’s, we walk in silence.

Why do we have to end before we have barely begun?

As if he reads my mind, he says, “You know, I’m free tonight…”

“So am I!” I say.

“Beautiful! We’ll continue our conversation then.”

Then I remember Rocky Paris, the snaky agent who tried to pick me up the day before. “Auntie won’t allow it unless she meets you first,” I say. “Can you spare a few minutes?”

Paulie glances at his watch. “Sure. I’m really good with parents and aunties.”

Even so, after yesterday’s encounter, she may be wary. “Maybe you can say we already know each other…”

“That we ran into each other on the street…”

“Yeah…”

“It’s a plan.”

 

Auntie is totally besotted by Paulie Quest.

Paulie’s innate charm works perfectly; Auntie stumbles all over herself trying to impress him.

We don’t have to lie; she never asks how we know each other.

Later, she will tell me that if she were 50 years younger, she’d give me a run for my money.

I believe her. I have seen her photos as a young woman – she was more beautiful than any movie star I have ever seen.

In many ways, she still is.

Paulie will pick me up at 7:30.

“Wear something lovely,” he says.

I know just the dress: the brown sleeveless Voile with asymmetric hemline, ranging from mini (left side) to midi (right side) – perfect complement to my red hair.

Silver lamè flats.

I’ll borrow Auntie’s turquoise and coral Squash Blossom necklace and bracelet to offset the muted Voile.

I spend the rest of the day trying to tame my wild hair.

 

Paulie arrives 45 minutes late, slightly sweaty and apologetic.

Auntie can’t take her eyes off him, as if she sees through him, perhaps conjuring up a memory of a beau from long ago.

I’m miffed – on the verge of tears, certain he had stood me up.

I was about to change into a pair of jeans.

“My meeting lasted longer than I thought it would.”

He wears the same leather coat and jeans, still stunning.

I feel a bit overdressed…

As we leave, Auntie says, “Have fun, kids!”

 

I’m still pissed off, but when Paulie escorts me into a baby blue Thunderbird convertible (top down), with white upholstery, my anger dissipates.

The cool night air blows through my hair.

He drives to Malibu, choosing an oceanfront restaurant, built on a pier.

The Albatross. “Water, water, everywhere.”

We are seated by a window. Translucent aqua-green ocean spray laps against our window with foamy swishes and splashes, lit by underwater lights.

“Order anything you want,” Paulie says. “Cost no object.”

I scour the menu. My God! The prices about knock me silly. Twenty-five dollars for steamed lobster with a salad and two sides!

I order a Tab with a twist of lime and settle for an entrée in the middle of the price range, an $11.95 sirloin steak – still horribly pricey, but less ostentatious for a first date, even for the film capital of the world. For my sides, I order onion rings and green beans almondine. French dressing for my salad.

“And, madam, how would you like your steak?”

No one has ever called me “madam” before, and I’m loving being treated like the adult I am not. “Rare. Very rare.”

Paulie laughs. “A confirmed carnivore.”

I blush. Yes, I love my steak to bleed when I cut into it.

“No worries.” A slight smirk passes on his upper lip. He looks a little like Elvis. “I admire a girl with a healthy appetite for raw red meat.”

God, he’s gorgeous!

The waiter turns to Paulie, “And you, sir?”

“I’ll have a Tab with a shot of rum.”

The waiter jots down Paulie’s drink order and waits, pen posed in midair.

“Oh, I’m not eating tonight.”

The waiter pauses for a bit, then says with a hint of snoot in his tone, “Very good, sir.”

I’m so embarrassed, I could die.

Did I order something waaay too expensive???

I hang my head in shame.

After the waiter leaves, I say, “I’m sorry.”

Paulie shakes his head and looks puzzled. “What for?”

“I should have ordered something cheaper.”

He laughs. “Now you just enjoy that big slab of pricey bloody meat. I can afford it.”

“But, but, why aren’t you eating?”

“I have a photoshoot tomorrow morning.” He pats his flat belly. “You know, the waistline.”

“Oh.”

Awkward.

After tucking into my salad – Paulie looking on longingly – I gasp as my steak arrives. It’s huge, at least a pound, maybe more, swimming in its own juices, bloody just like I ordered. Oversized portions of onion rings and green beans overlap the edges, the plate itself the size of a serving platter.

I take in a deep breath. “Well, this is beyond my ability.” I ask the waiter for an extra plate and cut the steak in half. “Just in case.”

After the waiter brings the plate, I load it up with the extra steak and half the sides. I push it toward Paulie. “Eat.”

He accepts the plate, but he doesn’t eat. Instead, he rearranges the food in artistic arrangements, stacking onion rings at odd angles and separating almond bits from the green beans. He slices the steak into small triangular pieces, red juices running from them, pink surrounding the sides.

As he creates his pièce de résistance, I nibble, the diet pills dulling my monstrous appetite.

His food doodle is oddly pleasant – strange, but pleasant.

Occasionally, he takes small sips of his Tab and rum.

Studying his creation, he says, “Voila!”

Too bad. Doomed to fade into the ether.

As if he has read my mind, he says, “I wish I had my camera.”

“Memorize it and paint it later,” I offer.

“Better yet, I’ll take it with me.”

Seriously?

He calls the waiter over. “I’d like to take this home with me,” he says. “Including the plate.”

The waiter raises a brow. “Sir?”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll pay for the plate.”

The waiter sighs, hinting he has fulfilled odder requests. “Very good, sir.” He starts to take the plate.

“No, no. just bring me a box with a cover and a bag.”

“Certainly, sir.” The waiter leaves.

“What will you do with it?”

“I’ll take pictures of it at several angles, develop them, and then eat it tomorrow after the shoot.”

How will he ever get it home?

“By the way, I do this all the time.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I paint abstracts of food, my signature style. Most food arrangements are mundane and not worth the effort, but your steak sung to me.”

“Lobster might have sung louder,” I observe.

Paulie considers this. “Nah. Lobster is interesting enough, but that steak reveals something important about you. Lobster would have been an affectation, a lame attempt to prove how sophisticated you are, but we both know better.”

Busted.

“Okay, I’m just a corn-fed Iowa girl who digs big, juicy steaks.”

He laughs. “You’re refreshing.”

The box arrives, and Paulie carefully packs it up and watches as I finish eating. “Now let’s talk about us.”

“Us?” A moment of panic.

“I know we just met, but I’m going to be honest.”

Oh, oh.

“I’m drawn to you in a major way.”

I squirm. Have I placed myself in a predicament?

“When I saw you today, I just knew.”

I blush and stare down at my plate, the leftovers congealed in pinkish fat. I’m sure Auntie would pay my cab fare – if it ever came to that…

“I would like to make love to you and then paint you…”

“I, uh, I’m…”

I’m not ready for this!

“Please come home with me.”

“I’m too young,” I blurt out.

He takes my hand, squeezing it gently. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Seventeen.”

“Honey, that’s not young.”

“I’m not ready.”

He considers this. “Well, then.”

“Please take me home.”

“Mine or yours?”

“I, uh, um…” A lump in my throat.

“Just checking…” A long pause.

I’m not sure what he means –

“I’ll return you to your auntie, then.” He takes my hand and kisses it. “I’m going to regret this for the rest of my life.”

“Thank you. Some day…”

Paulie shakes his head. “One lesson I have learned: once something has slipped away, it doesn’t come around again.”

Puzzling…

“You’ll move on, I’ll move on – the way of the world.”

I get it now. He views me as a potential plaything, something to commit to canvas, not to him, the flesh and blood version.

Like Darryl, only smoother.

“I see.”

I have regrets, too. If only we had met later – just a few months, that’s all – I would have been ready to give up a part of myself to this beautiful man, allow him to slip inside me and then pose for a painting, perhaps a masterpiece. I almost say, I’ll go with you, but I would regret it afterwards.

Paulie pays the waiter, leaving an outsized tip.

“Thank you, sir,” the waiter says, bowing slightly to Paulie.

“Let’s go.” He picks up his bag and leads the way out and to the Thunderbird.

Oh, my God, am I’m going to allow this gorgeous man to walk out of my life forever?

I do.

He drops me off at Auntie’s, sending me off with a chaste kiss, our first and last.

_______________

“Paulie Quest,” copyright by Jennifer Semple Siegel, may not be reprinted or reposted without permission from the author.