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That Done Look

Rita Plush

    New in the business and needing the money (that divorce of hers had shot her lifestyle down a notch or two), Cindy had been accessorizing a tony East Hampton house. Guest cottage, pool house, even the caretaker drove a Benz. There were commissions to be made in art and all the accoutrements that gave a home that done look. She was glad for the job and, the big reveal to which she’d been invited.
    Her client’s other guests oohed and aahed over her work. That fabric on the sofa toss pillows was to die for. Some asked for her card. Did Cindy go to Westchester? Out to Plainview? A friendly group, they talked about them all doing lunch. Her new best friends, she thought, then thought better of it. Margaritas around the pool, a keyboard player, waiters in white jackets passing little crabmeat puffs, succulent shrimp in teriyaki sauce. She was living the life—but not her life. They moved in different circles. She on the Circle Line around the Big Apple harbor, the ladies who lunched in their own Chris-Crafters. She was out of their league by an oceanfront mile.
    The important thing was she’d been invited to the party and maybe she’d get some new clients from it. What Cindy wanted to do now was say goodbyes, get her knockoff Ralph Lauren capris behind the wheel of her Toyota, sidle up to the westbound LIE and head back to Queens before the fabled Sunday traffic showed its ugly bumper-to-bumper face.
    Good luck with that!
    The turnoff from Route 114 onto the LIE bristled with police and Alternate Route signs. Her blood ran cold. Her mouth went dry.
    Design wise, she went where others feared to tread—tattersall print on a Victorian sofa? It works! But—Alternate Route when she was driving? Shoot her now! Her sense of direction didn’t even make sense to her. Right and left she had down pat. Tell her north and south, you’re talking Urdu. But there was no way to even turn off the road, head back to the party and wait it out a while. And once there, what would she say? The LIE is closed and I’m scared shitless to take a different route? Grow up! as the great Joan Rivers used to say.
    All she could do was trail the cars up front onto a two-lane highway that went through a rural part of Long Island. Are we in Kansas? No lamp posts or sidewalks. Open fields here and there, a house set back a far distance from the road. Stop and go, stop and go, inch forward, stop again. Just follow the cars, she told herself, trying to keep panic at bay. Before you know it you’ll see that LIE Westbound sign and you’re home free.
    She’d been on the road well over an hour. It began to get dark and she had to go (those poolside margaritas). Maybe soon she’d hit a turnoff for gas (Patron saint of highway signs, make it so!), the urge so great, she’d brave a gas station bathroom. When you gotta go, you gotta go.
    No such luck.
    Inch by inch, her car moved forward turtle-wise. Cindy sat and sat. She had to go in the worst way. Go as in explode. It’s dripping down the corners of her eyes, go. She worked her sphincter muscle like a Vegas hooker. She had to pee like nobody’s business.
    Dark now, she thought to pull over onto the shoulder, undo her capris, crouch down and do the deed. It was that bad. But she was so close to the car in front, she couldn’t turn the wheel to get out of the lineup.
    Desperate, she steered the wheel with one hand, and with the other undid the button on her pants. With a little shimmy hip action she managed to hike them down, at the same time working the gas and brake pedals as traffic allowed. Then she reached over to the passenger seat to a surplus yard from her client’s pillows, that linen floral those ladies went crazy for.
    Eyes on the road ahead she folded it into a neat little package, lifted off the seat, stuffed the cloth under her bare tush and decanted her poolside imbibing.
    She yanked out the sodden goods—Ugh! She’d wetted right through to the upholstery—hitched up her pants and still working the wheel, gas and brake pedals, made a grab for a ratty old sweater on the back seat and bunched it under her. At least she’d be dry for the rest of the ride home.
    She thought to toss the fabric out the window, but with her luck that night, a cop would swing by and ticket her for littering. She powered down the windows and left the pricey cloth to marinate on the floorboard.
    And wouldn’t you know it? A half mile down the road came the logo sign she’d been praying for: Gas Station Ahead. Too little too late; the traffic broke and she was on her way.
    Never in her life was Cindy so happy to arrive home. She pulled into the drive, ran inside and brought out every disinfectant spray she owned. She deep cleaned that driver’s seat as if to sanitize it from the plague. Then plastic bag in hand, about to snatch up the mess in the car as she would dog poop from the street, and toss it in the trash, another thought came to her.
    Cindy had a sofa, didn’t she? Crate & Barrel instead of custom yes, but after that car ride from hell didn’t she rate to die for pillows too? She ran the cold water in the kitchen sink, added a capful of detergent and placed the cloth in the bubbly. Gently, squeezing the suds through, she pictured how handsome those pillows would look on her sofa, puffed to perfection, nestled up against the back cushions. Maybe there wasn’t such a difference between her client’s circle and hers.’

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