I pushed him away.
“Holly, I’m just saying. If you don’t wear a bra, your tits will be to your knees by the time you’re fifty.”
I whipped off my jacket and shirt. Glancing at my boyish figure, I knew my boobs wouldn’t sag if I hung clothespins from my nipples. Still, I put on a bra to make Alessandro happy.
Alessandro Vercelli was my knight in shining armor, kind of. Six feet tall, slim, messy black hair, dark brooding eyes, he resembled a Latin Gregory Peck, one of my favorite actors. If I scrunched my eyes just right, he looked exactly like Gregory Peck, and like Gregory, Alessandro was a solid, dependable guy. He was always by my side whether I wanted him to be or not.
Unlike other boyfriends I’d had, Alessandro cared deeply about my professional success. Clothing had forever been my passion. Growing up, I’d first been inspired by the sumptuous costumes created by designers during the glamour years of Hollywood—Givenchy for Audrey Hepburn, Valentino for Marlene Dietrich, Coco Chanel for Katharine Hepburn. Later, I discovered a knack for making my own clothes.
Fashion awakened my senses like nothing else. Anytime I felt stressed, I’d jump on the subway and go to Bergdorf’s. It calmed me right down. In the hallowed reverence of the store, I’d take in the aroma of designer gowns and unapologetic overpricing. It felt like nothing bad could happen to you there. With Alessandro’s encouragement (and savings), I enrolled in the Fashion Institute of Technology, majoring in history and museum studies. When I needed him, Alessandro was there.
Last year, after spending nine months as Motel the tailor in an off-Broadway revival of Fiddler on the Roof, Alessandro was cast as the beast in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast. It was a huge step up for him and I brought all our friends to the opening night to cheer him on.
After five years of living in his East Village rent-controlled apartment, Alessandro proposed. Like many rent-controlled tenants, he was there illegally, but who was I to judge? The place was small, yet comfortable: pressed-tin ceilings, a marble fireplace, plank wood floors, and a toilet that flushed at random. Wait, where was I? Oh yes, Alessandro’s proposal. It was time. At thirty-five, the expiration date on my egg carton was nearly past. Marrying him made sense.
A famous Hollywood writer once said that in the 1950s you wrote your scripts for Cary Grant, but you ended up with Rock Hudson. Truth be told, I wrote my script for Gregory Peck, but ended up with Alessandro Vercelli.
After replacing my jacket and shirt, I slipped my headgear over my face and inserted the protraction hooks into the molar grips. Last Valentine’s Day Alessandro had surprised me with an orthodontic gift certificate to move my canines back. Romantic, yet practical. That’s my Alessandro! The doctor told me if I wanted my teeth perfect by the time I walked down the aisle, I should wear it twelve hours a day, so I commuted in it.
“Have you seen my glasses?” I asked, squinting.
“Try the fridge.”
“The fridge?” I thought, worried for my sanity.
“Why aren’t you wearing your contacts?”
“I need solution. I’ll get some on the way to work. Oh, and don’t eat too much at lunch. We’re meeting the caterers at six-thirty. Remember, they’re giving us a tasting of everything I picked for the wedding.
Alessandro frowned. “I completely forgot. I’m sorry. It’s too close to my call time. But go without me; whatever you choose will be fine,” he said, retrieving the glasses. “Here, and take this. It’ll bring you luck.” He handed me his two-dollar bill, the one he credited with getting him the part in Beauty and the Beast.
I folded the money into my bra. “Oh, but how sweet. Thank you. You won’t need it?”
“Nope,” he said. “Today’s your day.” He kissed me on the lips (well, really on the metal face-bow of my headgear).
I looked around for Kitty, the three-legged Maine coon I’d rescued from the Con Edison softball fields.
“There you are, you sneak,” I said, picking him up, holding him to my face where I could feel the vibration of his purring.
“I made you lunch,” Alessandro said, handing me a turkey sandwich wrapped in foil.
“Thanks,” I said, admiring his face, so handsome and rugged.
“Why are you scrunching your eyes like that?” he asked.
“Was I scrunching again? Sorry, bad habit. Break a leg tonight,” I said, flitting out the door into the muggy air.
“No, you break a leg at the meeting,” he yelled. “I love you.”
A Foggy Day
HUSTLING DOWN AVENUE A, I stopped to pick up breakfast for my father (better known as Pops), and coffee for me. I love Dunkin’ Donuts, especially those chocolate glazed munchkins, but boy do I take issue with them (the company, not the doughnuts). Every time a local store goes out of business in Manhattan, a bank or a Dunkin’ Donuts shop takes its place. It’s ruining the character of our neighborhoods.
I spotted Pops, with his naturally curly beard, wavy silver locks, clear blue eyes, and weathered face. He was puffing away on a cigarette clenched between two knobby fingers. Part Jed Clampett, part Cary Grant, he presided over the stoop in front of Muttropolis Groom and Board, next to his shopping cart full of street treasures. Pops was a jazz musician slash panhandler who had driven a taxi until he was fired last year. It was a blessing, really—these days he barely made enough to lease his cab and cover gas. Plus, he always got lost, even on the way to places he’d been to a thousand times.
Six months ago, he was evicted from the one-room apartment in Queens where he’d raised me. It was a rent issue (as in he’d stopped paying it). I helped him arrange temporary quarters in Muttropolis’ basement as a trade for walking the dogs. My friend Bobbie Liberty “BL” Ochman owns the shop. She had been looking for
