Jack With a Twist

“I always forget that he’s still alive,” I say, remembering the days when I was an associate at Gilson, Hecht. When associates first get to Gilson, Hecht, they always think that the fact that the last named partner is still alive is like a law firm urban legend—that he doesn’t really exist, that he’s just a ghost used by partners to put the fear of God into associates (“You think working until midnight is bad? Back when Old Man Trattner was still here, he would have made us work straight through the night and checked up on us at 3:00 a.m. to make sure we hadn’t dozed off!”). But the truth is, Milt Trattner just moved out to California and is teaching anti-trust law at U.C.L.A. “Isn’t he, like over one hundred years old? Is it even safe for him to fly?”

“He’s one hundred and three. But that’s not the point. I’m a partner now in a firm that has four hundred attorneys, and I have to start making a name for myself.”

“Well, I’m almost a senior associate now,” I say, “and I need to start taking the lead on cases and bringing in clients if I want to make partner.”

“If that’s the way you want it,” Jack says, “then that’s fine. You keep your case and I’ll keep mine. But just one warning—I am going to cut you into twelve little pieces and feed you to the jury. So get prepared for it!”

“Don’t be silly, Jackie,” I say, “dissolution of partnership cases don’t go to trial.”

“It’s a movie quote,” he says, smiling down at me.

“Since when do you quote movies?” I ask.

“I quote movies,” Jack says.

Since when does Jack quote movies?

“Lovebirds!” Maximo calls out, “are you een-spy-yeyrd?”

“Very,” Jack says.

“Well, good,” Maximo says, “I am glad. And I am glad that you found our little pond. You throw a penny in and make a wish now, no?”

Jack and I look at each other and Maximo announces that he has a penny for each of us to toss.

“I give you a moment to come up with a wish.”

“I don’t need a moment,” Jack says, “I know what I wish for.”

“Me, too,” I say, looking at Jack.

“Then, let’s do it,” Jack says as Maximo smiles and hands us each a penny.

We both close our eyes and throw our respective pennies into the pond.

10

“You do not look like James Bond,” I say.

“Of course I do,” Jack says, not even looking at me, waving the zappy gun menacingly at the row of crystal bowls we’re browsing. We’re at Tiffany and Co. today to register since my parents’ friends apparently went to Tiffany to buy us an engagement gift and we were—gasp!—not registered there yet. (“The Goldmans said that you are still not registered at Tiffany’s. I could not believe my ears. Still not registered at Tiffany’s? Still? Well, when they told me I was horrified. Horrified!”)

“You don’t,” I say, grabbing the gun from him to zap the Harmony bowl onto our registry. I’ve bought that bowl for so many engaged couples that I’ve lost count. I know that I should be thrilled that I am now the one registering for it, but all I can do is be annoyed at Jack for acting so juvenile. Who is this man-child and what has he done with my fiancé?

Why does Tiffany’s even give out these stupid zappy guns to couples who are registering, anyway? You would think that a classy joint like Tiffany and Co. wouldn’t want to give couples a scanner to scan merchandise directly onto their registry. You’d think that they’d ask you to write them a formal note on perfumed stationery detailing just exactly which items you would like on your registry instead of letting all of their couples make a scene in the store by having them walk around debating the merits of the basketweave pattern versus the plaid. More importantly, don’t they know that the men who hold the scanners will instantly revert to children and start using the scanning guns as toys?

I had this image of us walking into Tiffany’s—a modern-day Audrey Hepburn and George Peppard—behaving elegantly as we registered for all of the things that we would need for our glamorous new life together. I even wore a black shift dress and beige raincoat. Instead, my fiancé began playing with the gun like a six-year- old, thus testing our relationship to its very brink.

“Gimme that,” he says, grabbing the gun from my hands, “those Russians are on our tails.” And with that, he begins to skulk behind the glassware.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” I whisper loudly as I follow him behind the rock-cut beer mugs.

“Shhh!” he says, pointing at another couple around the same age as us who are also registering, “the Russian couple!”

“First of all,” I say, “they’re not Russian, Jackie.”

“Yes, they are,” he whispers. “And use my code name, Hannibal.”

“Excuse me?”

“Hannibal,” he says, crawling past the wineglasses straight toward the bowls. “You said that I had to be George Peppard today.”

“Get up!” I say, pulling Jack up off the ground from his shirt collar, “His character’s name was not Hannibal.”

“Well, I’m George Peppard from the A-Team,” he says, “George Peppard from Breakfast at Tiffany’s was a huge wimp.”

“You can’t just pick whatever George Peppard you want to be,” I say.

“The Russians!” he says, pulling me behind the wall that separates the personal shoppers from the rest of the floor.

“Stop this,” I say, “You’re George Peppard from Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Start behaving accordingly.”

“A-Team!”

“Who are you and what have you done with my fiancé?”

“Please, Brooke,” he whispers, “we don’t want the Russians to attack. We’re vulnerable by the glassware. Let’s move to the sterling silver.”

“You do realize that you’re supposed to be the normal one in this relationship,” I say as he drags me across the floor to the sterling silver. And he’s right, there’s much more cover in the sterling silver section. It’s just that my father will kill me if I register for any sterling silver that could be gotten for cheaper out on Long Island at Morell’s.

“Do you see the Russians?” Jack asks, his back to the display case.

“Okay, they are not Russian!” I say. “They are just another couple registering for their wedding, just like us.”

“Well, actually, Brooke,” Jack says, “both of my grandmothers were born in Russia, as was my grandfather on my mother’s side.”

“Could you focus on the task at hand, please,” I say, taking the gun away from him.

“Shouldn’t you just be happy that I came?” Jack asks. “Most men make their fiancées do all the work by themselves. But, I’m here. So, can’t you just appreciate that and let me have a little fun instead of being bored to death?”

“Oh, my God, Jackie, you’re bored to death?”

“Kind of,” he says, “but I know it’s important to you, so I’m here.”

“Jackie,” I sing, grabbing him for a kiss. “That is so sweet of you.”

“Of course, sweetie,” he says as he glances back to the table filled with crystal bowls. “But you can do Bloomie’s with your mother, right?”

“Right,” I say with a smile.

“Hey, are these the Georgetown bowls?” Jack says, picking up a crystal bowl and turning it over. It’s a large crystal bowl, but rather plain. It lacks the elegant lines of the Harmony bowl, and has big sides that look cumbersome—like they’d always get in the way. I never would have chosen it myself, but if Jack wants it, I