Tales of the City 05 - Significant Others

lackluster “Yeah.”
    “Look,” she said, trying another tactic. “You can go for broke when you do my eyes. How ‘bout that? Turquoise, gold, whatever. There must be something you’ve always wanted to try.”
    As she’d expected, this did the trick. She had offered herself up as a palette, and the artist could not be contained. His eyes grew bright with obsession as he plunged into the depths of his kit. “I think there’s an Aztec Gold in here … that on the lips, very lightly down the center.”
    “Super,” she said.
    “And a little pale purple powder just under the eyes.”
    “There you go.”
    Sometimes it seemed there wasn’t a man on earth she couldn’t handle.
    An associate producer led her into the green room, which was peach and cream this time, with loads of hideous seventies Deco. On the walls were huge framed photographs of the fabled Mary Ann: Mary Ann with Raquel Welch, Mary Ann with Dr. Ruth, Mary Ann with Ed Koch, Mary Ann with Michael Landon.
    “Make yourself at home,” said the associate producer, backing toward the door. “There’s coffee there … and sweet rolls and whatever. Mary Ann will drop by to say hello in a little while.”
    “Am I the only guest?” she asked.
    He nodded. “Except for Ikey St. Jacques. We’re taping him for ‘Latchkey Kitchen.’ ”
    “What’s that?”
    “One of our segments. Fifteen minutes at the end. Famous kids come on and … you know, teach latchkey kids how to cook for themselves while their parents are out working.”
    “Come on,” said Wren.
    “It’s very popular.” He sounded a little defensive. “We’ve had offers to syndicate it.”
    Wren tried to picture the tiny black star of What It Is! whipping up a quick-and-easy tuna casserole. “He’s such a baby,” she said. “He can’t be a day over seven.”
    “Uh … look … I’m kind of rushed right now. I hope you don’t mind if I leave you on your own for a while.”
    He was flustered about something, she could tell. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Are you kidding? Alone with all this food?”
    Laughing uncomfortably, the associate producer backed out the door and closed it. She puzzled over his behavior for a moment, then headed straight for the sweet rolls, remembering her dwindling weight. She had downed one and was repairing her lips with a napkin the next time the door opened.
    “Awwriiiight, mama!”
    It was Ikey St. Jacques, grinning like a jack-o’-lantern and cute as the devil in his tiny red-and-white workout suit. His hands were outstretched, Jolson-style, and one of them held a lighted cigar.
    She tried to stay cool. “Uh … hi. You’re Ikey … right?”
    “I knew it,” he said with a husky chuckle. “That fool lied to me.”
    “Who?”
    “That candy-ass producer out there. He knows I like big mamas, so he lied to me, the sucker! I knew you was in here.” He took a long drag on his cigar and looked her up and down. His head was no higher than her waist. “I saw you on Carson. I said to my agent, that is one foxy lady.”
    She wasn’t buying this at all. “Look, junior …” She flailed toward the cigar. “Those things make me sick. The entrance was cute, but the bit is over.”
    He regarded her dolefully for a moment, then went to the table, reached up and stubbed out the cigar.
    “Thank you,” she said, extending her hand. “Now … I’m Wren Douglas.”
    He shook her hand. “Sorry ‘bout that.”
    “Hey … no biggie.”
    “I come on strong sometimes. Don’t know why.”
    She was beginning to feel like a bully. “Well, it was just that cigar. You ought not to smoke those, even for a joke. It’ll—”
    “Stunt my growth?” He laughed raucously. “I’m seventeen years old, lady!”
    “Wait a minute. Says who?”
    “Says me and my birth certificate. And my mama.”
    She drew back and studied him. “Nah. Sorry. No way. I’m not buyin’ that.”
    “You think I’m lyin’?”
    She shifted her weight to one hip and appraised him coolly. “Yeah. I think you’re lyin’.”
    He glared at her defiantly and shoved his sweat pants down to his knees.
    She took stock of the point he was making and responded as calmly as possible. “O.K…. Fine … we’ve established your maturity.”
    The kid wouldn’t budge, arms still folded across his chest. “Say I’m seventeen!”
    She glanced anxiously toward the door. “Pull your pants up, Ikey.”
    “Say I’m seventeen.”
    “Ikey, if somebody walks in here we could be