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This writing was accepted for publication in the 84 page perfect-bound issue... cc&d magazine (v215) (the December 2010 Issue) |
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Doris Day’s Hat
Derek V. Hunter
“What do you think of this one?’ a quick and forceful female voice demanded while the owner of the voice, Linda, held up a one-piece swimsuit.
“Funny.” Cynthia, the pale-skinned, tall yet small-framed brunette shot back with a quick, forceful voice of her own.
“Never understood why you choose to live in L.A. when you hate the sun so much.”
“I was born here.”
“You can move.”
“Why? I love L.A.”
“Funny.”
The two continued to chat, about Roger, Cynthia’s boyfriend, and his reluctance to go to Cynthia’s mother’s best friend’s 60th birthday party. It was a serious affair, as was the next conversation about a friend of theirs, Amanda, who was choosing to cut her beautiful bangs.
The two women were slicing through the garments at “Olive and Oleander” on Melrose Ave. The boutique was a small, quaint but by no means mediocre shop on the hipster fashion strip. It was fortunately less populated than most places on Melrose. Cynthia and Linda loved going there because of its de-populated environment and choice selections of fabric. Women who knew their clothes went to “Olive and Oleander.” Despite low sales numbers, the owner of the store, ‘70’s actress Lizzy Meridian, could keep it going, year after year, with her husband’s money.
“These three and this slip for me. How about you?” Linda asked Cynthia while holding three summer 100% cotton Ferlani dresses and one Tortelli nightgown.
“Nothing for me here today.”
“You can’t do that to Lizzy.”
“You’re right, what am I thinking? I’ll take this Argentinean straw hat.” Cynthia said while taking off her current hat to replace it with the “Argentinean” one.
They both laughed at her calling the hat Argentinean when it was from Spain, and “straw” when it was leather.
“You’re such a hat whore.” Linda poked while they went to the cashier.
Even walking just fifteen feet, Linda’s breasts lead the way. The natural protrusion of her chest seemed to pull the rest of her body forward, often making Linda walk in front of her friends. Cynthia’s shoulders, on the other hand, hunched over, making her already small breasts even smaller.
“Can you blame me with my skin?” Cynthia responded as they reached the cashier.
“Let me treat you to lunch. Your 30th Birthday lunch with little ol’ Linda. Just a you and me celebration at ‘Lucinda’s’.”
Cynthia was indeed turning 30, next week in fact. It was a dreaded age, Cynthia believed, the first dreaded turning point in a downhill slide of progressively worse decade-turning ... Next it would be 40, then 50, then 60 and so on and so on. Perhaps she’d be lucky and die before she hit 60. At least women usually retained some hint of youth in their 50’s these days. But 60’s, forget it.
And the haughtiness and arrogance in Linda’s tone, being the 28 year old she was. Linda was always excessive with her abundance. Abundance in youth, abundance in breasts, abundance in womanly form. Men always turned to look at her ass. Cynthia was a tall twig. Pale skin, flat chest. Perhaps Linda’s question as to why she lived in L.A. was implying that Cynthia belonged in some state like Washington or Oregon.
After the birthday lunch at Lucinda’s, and while Cynthia was driving to her West Hollywood home near Crescent Heights and Fountain, she thought that must be it. Linda must think she didn’t belong in L.A. Cynthia did this kind of logical thinking often. In the midst of her fun, quick, stimulating chatter with friends, she was caught up in it. Later, a comment made here, a comment made there, would come back to haunt her. Linda was the worst perpetrator of them all.
Back at her $8,500 a month, three bedroom condo was her Prince in Shining Armor, Roger. He was on the phone while preparing what seemed like a three course lunch, consisting of a Viennese salad, Alaskan oysters, and thinly sliced roast beef with macaroni and long beans. This was not for him, but for her. He quickly got off the phone and rushed to his love.
“Hello, beautiful.” He said while embracing her.
“Hey. Let me put my things down.”
As she put her shopping bags down – she and Linda went to other stores besides Olive and Oleander – she eyed the three-course lunch in the dining room. She didn’t want to tell him she just had lunch for two reasons: one) she only ate a third of her dish at Lucinda’s and two) perhaps he made something worthwhile. Once she saw the roast beef, she wished she ate more at Lucinda’s.
“Babe, you didn’t have to.” She remarked.
“You know it’s a pleasure for me, and besides, there’s something to celebrate.” He said as he went back to finish setting up the meal.
“No, please keep my birthday celebrations to a minimum.”
“It’s something else, actually.”
“Ok, but ... I thought you knew I can’t eat roast beef.”
“Shit, I didn’t remember. Are you allergic?”
“No, I just can’t eat roast beef. It feels like I’m eating a live animal.”
“I’m sorry, honey. So, did you want to hear the good news?”
He didn’t even offer to make a tuna sandwich, she thought.
“Sure, babe, what is it?”
“HBO’s accepted the show!”
So he made this lunch for me because HBO’s taking his show, Cynthia thought while saying, “That’s great, honey” and giving him a hug. That made no sense. Celebrating something for yourself by doing something for someone else. Her birthday was coming up after all.
Roger soon left to meet with his agent and partner, to discuss the details for the show he’d produce for HBO. Cynthia thought, like always, leaving me alone, as she went to work on organizing her latest shopping acquisitions. The “Argentinean straw hat” from Olive and Oleander belonged on the hat display (she hated calling it a “rack”) in her own, separate room. Having a three bedroom condominium enabled Roger and her to have an extra room each. Roger’s room was a straightforward and efficient office with the latest home office appliances and equipment with desk, chair, computer, cabinets and so on. Cynthia’s room, on the other hand, was an extravaganza of shopping conquests.
As soon as anyone walked into this room – anyone, that is, that didn’t know Cynthia – they’d immediately get jolted by the fetishist nature of the person who owned it. “Fetishist” not for anything kinky, but for it’s sheer obsessiveness. Shopping was a lust for Cynthia, pure and simple, and a grandiose lust at that. Normally a clean and organized person, she was not so in regards to this room. Shoes, dresses, pants, hats, blouses, bags, purses, sunglasses, slips, shirts, lingerie, yoga mats, socks, bras, panties, jackets, hats, hats, and more hats were everywhere in the large room. Shopping Chaos Reigned.
That evening Cynthia’s friends took her to the Beverly Center Mall for a night out on the town. It was quite a common affair, frequent actually (usually five times a month). But this night was different. Each friend – all five of them – would buy three items for Cynthia. It was a Birthday Buying Bash. Cynthia made a charitable demand: no one should spend more than $900. The demand was accepted.
The night was Cynthia’s. It belonged completely to her and her friends obliged her. Every store they went to, every snippet of conversation they had, the restaurant they went to for dinner, was chosen and managed by her. While finishing dinner at the exquisite “Ricardo’s” on La Cienega blvd., just north of Beverly, the discussion focused on Roger. How could he make such a fuss about his show for HBO?
“Imagine the expectations that went into such a deal. He’d been waiting to hear HBO’s answer for months, right?” Linda said coolly.
“You’re not defending him, are you?” Cynthia light-heartedly responded with a friendly smile.
“No, it’s not a matter of defense.”
“You’re being his defense attorney actually.”
“Cynthia, you do have a tendency to read into people’s behavior.” Rachel, another friend at the dinner table, added. “I can’t think of a more devoted and loving boyfriend than Roger.”
“You got that right.” Amanda, one more friend there, chimed in.
“I certainly would love to have Roger as my boyfriend, to be quite blunt.” Linda said simply.
“Would you now?” Cynthia responded.
“I mean, out of everyone here, I think we can all agree who’s the luckiest in that department.”
“‘Luckiest’? That’s a nice way to put it. You sure are showing your true colors today.”
“What?”
“I started to suspect earlier, at Olive and Oleander. You think I’m too old, too pale, too unattractive, for this town, for my friends, for Roger!”
“What’re you talking about?” Linda said with a flabbergasted laugh.
“Cynthia, please, stop with this kind of melodrama.” Amanda said with a light laugh. “You’re being silly.”
“Yes, you are.” Linda added as she looked at the other people in the restaurant who turned to check out the conflict.
Linda and the other friends gave reassuring smiles to the people.
“Fine. Treat me this way for my birthday celebration. I’ve always been your punching bag, haven’t I?” Cynthia said as she got up to leave, gathering all the shopping bags with her.
“Cynthia ...” Rachel began to plead but couldn’t find the words.
“I imagine none of you will mind if I don’t help pay for the bill?” Cynthia said as she struggled out of the booth with her huge load of shopping bags.
While rushing away from the table, Cynthia didn’t last eight steps before dropping the shopping bags to the floor.
“God damn it!”
Most of the people in the restaurant began to stare at Cynthia. She broke down in tears, covering her face and attempting to make her sobs as quiet as possible.
“I think we should go help with her bags.” Linda suggested quietly to the others at the table. They agreed and got up.
Before heading back to the condo, Cynthia went with her friends to St. Nick’s bar and had a few drinks. It was a rough day, after all, with all that commotion. A couple glasses of Mercussi white wine would do her good. The alcohol made it easier to make up with her friends and anyway, she was celebrating her birthday.
As she slipped into her queen sized bed, under the silk covers with Roger, she noticed he was talking in his sleep. He did this most nights, and it always annoyed her. But this time she wouldn’t put her ear plugs in. She’d listen to what he’d say, out of curiosity.
“... yes, right ... Locations New York, Vegas, Boston ... no, never been Boston ... gambling not fun ... roast beef ... like beef ... all meat used be live animals ... She loves New York steak ... it’s good thing I close to her father ... her father’s help ... HBO loves him ... HBO loves Cynthia ...”
What? Her father? What is this about HBO loving her father? Could this be it? Roger’s true colors coming through in his mumbling while asleep? It couldn’t be. Roger really did love her for her, not for whatever connections her dad had in show business. Didn’t he? He must. This was just nonsense.
Over the next week, an almost daily celebration for Cynthia’s 30th took place. A lunch here, a brunch there, a dinner somewhere, a party here and there and somewhere. She was a popular gal, for being a “tall twig” of a brunette and for being a neurotic mess perhaps. To many of her friends (and she did have many) her neurosis was charming. “Oh, that’s Cynthia for you,” people would say. She deserved a sitcom show where Cynthia played Cynthia. The irony that her father was one of the producers for “Sex and the City” and “Friends” and other sitcoms with neurotic women in them, was not missed by many people.
Once the birthday celebrations began to settle down – a couple weeks after her 30th birthday – Cynthia decided she was due for a day of shopping with her closest friends Linda, Rachel, and Amanda. They decided to go on an adventure: shop at Target on La Brea and Santa Monica blvd. They were going to “The Hood.” The La Brea and Santa Monica intersection had changed quite a bit the last couple years, ever since the large multi-store megaplex (which included Target) opened. Still, it was The Hood for them, as trannies and other street folk could still be spotted in the neighborhood. Just not anywhere near the multi-store megaplex.
Linda had to do something before, so arrived at Target later than the others. She walked up to Cynthia, Amanda, and Rachel as they were in the hat section.
“Hello.” Linda said calmly yet triumphantly.
Cynthia turned and saw something she thought was impossible to see: a 1963 bright yellow Doris Day hat, sitting on Linda’s head. They didn’t make those hats anymore. Doris Day had introduced them into the market in ’63, only to have them immediately removed because of legal entanglements involving a movie Day did in the ‘50’s. Doris Day had been known to wear the hat defiantly off and on through the ‘60’s, a symbol of what could have been. Somehow, in the ‘70’s, Day lost all remaining hats, and no one in her estate had any idea what happened to them. Some people believed they were stolen. Whatever happened, there were rumors that some could be found scattered all over the world, although most people believed they were just completely lost. Doris Day herself refused to take part in the matter. It was a painful affair, and something to be forgotten.
Now, Cynthia was no sucker for celebrities. She was third generation Hollywood after all. She was so unaffected by the “celebrity” industry that she chose not to work in it even. In fact, she chose not to work at all. But anyways, Cynthia was no celebrity whore. Doris Day was different. Doris Day was beyond being only a celebrity. She was a living Icon (she was still alive, wasn’t she? People always wondered). “Que Sera, Sera” was as timeless as they get. And here was Linda, wearing Doris Day’s yellow 1963 hat. Where the hell did she get it?
“Can’t tell.” Linda responded.
She smiled devilishly sweet. She knew of Cynthia’s obsession.
“Let me see.” Cynthia demanded. “I’m sure it’s a replica.”
“It’s not.” Linda said as she took off the hat and gave it to her.
“Well, let me decide.” Cynthia said as she inspected the hat.
It was indeed the real thing. The inseam, the fabric, the contours, the right shade of yellow (even after 40 years), the label had the 1963 Doris Day signature on it. Everything was legit. Cynthia’s eyes lit up like a fire god.
“How the hell did you get this and where?” Cynthia almost exploded.
“Can’t tell.”
“Ha. Funny.”
Cynthia waited for Linda to fess up, but she wouldn’t. Cynthia waited until the mood there got suddenly much darker. Then she asked again.
“I’m not telling.” Linda resisted, still with a smile.
“Come on, Linda.” Amanda now got involved. “Just tell her. You know how much she loves Doris Day and that hat.”
“Let’s just say I’m not telling as punishment for Cynthia thinking I have a crush on Roger.”
“Now you’re really making me think you do have a crush on him. In fact, you two are probably even having an affair.”
“Cynthia!” Amanda and Rachel exclaimed quietly in unison. “How can you say that?” They continued in unison.
“I wouldn’t put it pass either of them. I’ll find out soon enough. As for the hat, fine. Don’t tell me where you got it from. I’ll find out about that, as well.”
And with that, Cynthia stormed out of Target, not even buying the aqua blue cheap hat, and leaving her friends behind to wonder. What was Cynthia going to do? She wasn’t going to confront Roger about some silly idea of an affair, was she? No. Most pressing was the hat. She was going to find Doris Day’s hat, no matter what. Linda wanted to challenge her? So be it.
Cynthia would go on a quest, putting all other concerns to the side. Sure, she would still go to Bellamonte’s weekly Sunday sale on the Sunset Strip, but everything else must go. No Thursday brunch with her mother, no Friday nights at Castille’s, no Saturday night out clubbing, no Sunday dinner with the family, no Monday lunch with Amanda, no Tuesday breakfast with Rachel, and not even the Wednesday sacrilegious mid-week check-in romance dinner with Roger.
Roger would never hear the allegation of an affair. She would confirm with him her hunt, though. He was surprised to hear of the hat’s existence. She’d told him numerous times it was basically impossible to find. Now they knew differently.
Before she took a step out of her condo, Cynthia would first research the web. Maybe there was a clue, even an answer, on the Internet. She took out her Mac Book, knowing the possible hours spent on the Internet and not wanting to hog Roger’s computer.
First, she spent hours reading information she already knew, sites dedicated to Doris Day which included the “hat controversy.” There was even one site that dealt exclusively with the hat controversy. Actually, two. But none of these sites either mentioned they knew the whereabouts of any remaining hats nor said it would be possible to find them. Cynthia sent e-mail inquiries to the people running the sites, just in case. She then went to sites focusing on ‘60’s memorabilia, Hollywood hats memorabilia, ‘50’s and ‘60’s Hollywood legal battles, ‘50’s and ‘60’s Hollywood legal controversies. She e-mailed all the people running these sites, as well. She spent hours conversing with bloggers from all over the world. She went to sites dedicated to hunting down hard to find ‘50’s and ‘60’s items. Most of these detectives were upfront with Cynthia: it was impossible to find Doris Day’s hats. When she mentioned her friend had the hat, they had no answers. Out of the five who said they could find the hat, one met her at a diner to show a phony hat, and the other four never returned her calls.
Two weeks went by with hours and hours of on-line research, e-mails, and phone calls, with no results. Then she received an e-mail, sender unknown, in response to her inquiry. The message said there was a high probability there were 5 remaining hats in California. They said the source was confirmed as a good one, even though they couldn’t specify what city nor even what part of California the hats were in. But this was it, it had to be it. Cynthia had to go on this. She had nothing else.
Where could these hats be? Were they together in one place, or were they scattered all over the state? Where should she start? Being in Los Angeles, she would start there.
She went to all the vintage and non-vintage clothing shops on Melrose, going from La Cienega blvd. to Highland blvd. The vintage didn’t have to be ‘50’s or ‘60’s specific, the hat could be anywhere. No luck. She then went up and down Highland and La Brea, then Hollywood blvd., Sunset blvd., back and forth, all the way on Sunset to the Pacific Palisades then East to where Sunset turns into Caesar Chavez blvd. in Downtown L.A. Then around Echo Park, Silverlake, and Los Feliz. Down Franklin Ave. in Hollywood, to some other areas in Hollywood. Still no luck. Then back to Downtown on Wilshire blvd., then back West on Wilshire, again all the way to the coast, to Santa Monica, going through Korea Town, Mid-Wilshire, Fairfax District, Beverly Hills, Century City, to Westwood blvd., up and down Westwood blvd. from Beverly Glenn to Westwood, then back down Wilshire and on West through West L.A. to Santa Monica. No Luck.
She went down Main Street in Santa Monica to Venice, going through every single shop. Onto Marina Del Rey and Mar Vista next, down Lincoln blvd. towards LAX, and on to the South Bay. Manhattan Beach, Hermosa Beach, and Redondo Beach, and inwards to Torrance, Inglewood, Hawthorne, then onto San Pedro. She went everywhere, and into the Valley, and no luck. She went beyond “Greater Los Angeles” and no luck. Weeks went by of continual driving and looking, every single day, and no luck. She eventually went to San Diego, to Santa Barbara, to San Francisco, Berkeley, Oakland even.
She went further north to Sacramento. No luck. She went up and down the coast. She put thousands and thousands of miles on her car. Months went by. People began to worry. Friends, family, and Roger began to worry. What was happening to their Cynthia? When she finally gave up her search, she slept for days, never leaving her condo. Roger stood watch over her, postponing meetings with HBO in New York. He fed her, bathed her, treated her like his baby while she was in her deep slumber of dejected depression.
Ten days later, Roger and Cynthia’s friends and family pushed her to at least go out and have lunch. She conceded and decided to have lunch at Ricardo’s with Amanda, Rachel, and Linda. She hadn’t seen any of them for a long time, and Linda not since that fateful day at Target. They all were “poor Cynthia that, poor Cynthia this.” Even Linda, although she had restraint. While in the midst of eating their delicate dishes, “the search” was put into question.
“I never meant for you to go on such a gargantuan quest. It was just a little tease.” Linda said.
There was an awkward silence, very awkward, especially since these four never had awkward silences. Drama yes, but never awkward silences. Amanda and Rachel almost wanted to cry out of awkwardness. The darkness that hung over Cynthia in her defeated sleep for days had crept back into her. She was impenetrable darkness as she stared down Linda.
“Cynthia, stop looking at me like that. You’re almost scaring me.” Linda said with an uncomfortable yet defiant laugh. “You know, I thought about not telling you something but, being your friend, I felt I should be honest with you. I do have a mischievous side to me, just not so scandalous as to have an affair with Roger.”
“Linda, come on now. Don’t say anything you’ll regret later.” Amanda butted in.
“This mischievous side did take a little pleasure in seeing you suffer while on your mad quest. I just never thought you’d go as far as you did. I mean, wow.”
“Just tell me what you’re going to say.” Cynthia said while holding onto the table.
“I was the one who sent that e-mail to you.”
They all knew which e-mail Linda was referring to. Whatever awkwardness there was before now grew to unthinkable proportions ... to the point where –
“You fucking bitch!” Cynthia snapped as she grabbed the steak knife and began to stab Linda in the side of her neck.
“Oh my God, oh my God ...” Amanda and Rachel said in unison as they jumped out of the booth in fright.
Linda was screaming in agony and trying to fight off Cynthia ... but it was too late. Cynthia’s stabs began to puncture deep into her neck ... blood splattered all over Cynthia, all over her New York steak, the New England mashed potatoes, Argentinean long beans, fine Italian silver ware, Spanish leather seats in the booth, and the silky smooth French table cloth ... it was a mess.
Linda’s dead body soon slumped underneath the table. Cynthia dropped the steak knife and broke down in anguish. Amanda and Rachel were shaking in terrible shock as they both were thinking, in unison, “ ... should never have let Linda sit next to Cynthia ...
