Living Columns

Living Columns
In sweet memory of John H. Davis-Bouvier

By Tatiana Pahlen

     John is a well-known name dropper and there is a lot to drop.
     For instance, he is a first cousin of one of the classiest first ladies and his famous ancestor received an honorable gift from the hands of Napoleon Bonaparte — the two-headed golden eagle.
     John likes to go to fancy places, anywhere he can get drunk and be loud. He is a solid writer, an author of eight biographical books. During the day his hands are preoccupied with pen and textbooks; at night they steadily hold a glass of vodka. Crude and difficult, he has the softest soul for poetry.
     I've seen John's eyes profusely teary from reading my poems. He is a genuine friend, indeed, but only if he likes you and you are in the same boat or, say, at the same table.
     We agreed to meet at the trendy Italian restaurant, Cipriani. John has a bad knee and carries around his trusty cane — an elegant wooden antique piece, which he uses as an accessory only. If he decides to lean his gigantic body on it, the stick may crack. He checks his cane in a coatroom, instead of a coat he never wears, even in the wintertime.
     "You’re a nasty girl! Forty minutes late!" he screams at the height of his lungs.
     "Sorry, John," I’m smooching his puffy cheek.
     "Why are you late?" A few heads turn in our direction.
     "I called the restaurant. Did you get my note?"
     "Yes, I did!" He waves a piece of paper. "So, my darling." he pets my hand, calming down. "Will you vote for Bush?"
     "Bush?"
     "Aren't you tired of this Democratic disorder?"
     "Yeah, but . . . "
     "Isn't it a shame what Clinton did in that Oval room?" His bloated face frowns.
     "Yeah . . ."
     "Do you think Bush would bring whores there?" He turns his anger towards the bartender. "Vodka on the rocks!"
     I shake my head, still thinking about his question.
     "How do I know?"
     "Why do they always make me wait at the bar? Grab the table, I'll be right back."
     He gets up — a mammoth, formless body; his elephant legs are slowly moving forward. The restaurant offers two ways to reach the Boy's Room, but John chooses the longest road, crossing the whole area. On his way out, he grabs the heads of people sitting at the table, as supportive columns, helping himself to saunter and enjoying their loud laments.
     Redder than a steamed lobster dish, on the tray of a stumbling waiter, I am seated next to a table with a lone, tipsy woman, dressed head to toe in Chanel.
     "Isn't it late Elvis?" she marvels.
     I nod my head and we both chuckle.
     When John returns, the woman's face droops. He places his enormous torso on the empty chair next to her.
     "By the way, John, you must meet your new fan." I offer.
     John earnestly shakes her lifeless hand and she gives me that long, painful look.
     "Join the Elvis club," I whisper and order more Belinis.