Looking Back

Without Reservations

Vivian

 

First off, let’s get one thing straight. I’m straight. I’m a man. When my parents chose to name me after a maternal uncle who had been kind enough to grant them the use of a few hundred pounds (the deal to go through the moment said uncle no longer had need of the stuff) they had no idea what they were starting. But then, American friends tell me neither did Mrs. O'Leary's cow, whoever she was.

The sniggers. The titters. The surprised looks when I show up for appointments with people who have never met me before—and who apparently have never ventured beyond the daily tabloids, daytime telly, diet crazes and the 24-hour news cycle that make up the four corners of their Known World. Good gravy, the briefest foray into the shallowest end of literature’s vast Pacific would have put them in contact with enough Percys, Evelyns, Leslies and Merediths to prepare them adequately for me.

Forgive me. It’s just that sniggers and titters have provided a sort of infernal Muzak to the lift ride of my life. And I made it quite clear to Basil as he was lugging me into writing this that I would put up with none of it in the “comment” section. Face to face I’m not saying. But jibes in the comment box will be dealt with summarily.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It all started when Basil rang me up. I was in London, he at the family compound somewhere north of a place called St. Louis in a state known as Illinois. He wanted to know when I’d be in the States. He wanted to know if I could meet him in a place called Chicago for drinks. Commending my soul to Mapquest I said fine, I’d be there.

Having gained my consent he then sprang the information which, had I but known it, would have made me crinkle up a sheet of stationary (damn the expense) in front of the mouthpiece and ring off, claiming later that the trans-Atlantic cable was getting unreliable these days.

“There are some people I want you to meet,” he said, “good friends of mine, don’t you know.”

I replied that I didn’t know and added that had I known I would have…but I’ve already covered that.

“Who are they,” I asked warily, hoping against hope, “Americans?”

“As a matter of fact, they are.”

I should have known. It’s one thing to hang around with friends your mother warned you about; it’s another thing entirely to persist in hanging around with said friends after they themselves have warned you about themselves. So I really have no one but myself to blame. Arm and arm, the Baz and I have been thrown out of more posh watering holes than any other two men of our generation. Don’t get the wrong idea, though. Basil has his faults. True, most of these are being gradually belt-sanded down by the Countess (his wife) but for the most part he could still stand in as the allegorical figure of A Good Time in a Victorian cautionary tale.

Figuring he had somehow slipped the short leash the Countess customarily keeps him on, I resolved that, Americans or no Americans, I must forgather with the old ass and let the chips—and the nuts and the little cocktail wieners on sticks—fall where they may.

Apparently these Americans of Basil’s run some sort of underground cyber-rag devoted to coaxing what my pastor euphemistically refers to as “our separated brethren” to breast the Tiber. No problem there. I mean mine and Basil's families have been hiding priests from the Tudors and whores from the Windsors for hundreds of years. The projected evening might offer some solid entertainment after all.

A few weeks later, I'm in Chicago at the Club International dining with Basil and his guests.  Absolutely charming people, the Mr. and Mrs. Peperium.  They live somewhere in what is called "flyover country” (Mrs. Peperium claims that the higher you fly over said country, the better, especially when approaching a charming center known as Detroit). I was actually quite shocked that Basil had managed to make and then sustain the acquaintance of such sensible and well-bred friends.  I was even more shocked that they were from Michigan.  I assumed they were friends of the Countess detailed to keep an eye on Basil.  But what took the breath away completely was the fact that, at the moment of impact, when introductions were flying left and right and hands being shaken and drink orders being placed, neither Peperium batted an eye at my Christian name. They absolutely took Vivian in their stride. Add the fact that Mr. Peperium ordered his first round of Black Velvet in a pitcher and I really don’t think I have to explain the spontaneously sympathetic spark that illumined my usually cynical bosom.

The Mrs. Peperium, who sat next to me, was one of those gregarious ladies possessed of a tinkling voice and infectious laugh.  Although I think she was originally from the east coast of America, she seemed quite normal.  More, as the product of a small if not select finishing school, she had received a black belt in décolletage.  I mean, I'm quite sure she had to have some sort of permit to wield it the way she did. A more professional display I had not seen in some time.  Now I understood how she was Pied Pipering those brethren across the Tiber so easily.

Later, Basil and Mr. Peperium opted out of coffee and went off to tour the nude female figures in the club’s art collection. I was sitting comfortably with Mrs. Peperium and she was explaining their online magazine and so forth and so on...The tinkling voice and bright girlish laughter continued drowning out the sounds of ripping wood and crashing glass which were coming from the next room. That said sounds were connected in some way with Basil and Mr. Peperium's nude hunt I didn’t doubt.  More than that, I didn’t care.

That was my fatal mistake. Being thrown out on my ear I could have withstood (no one knows me in Chicago, after all). Paying for the splintered woodwork would have been more difficult but not beyond the limits of my purse. But no. Instead I let myself be led down the proverbial primrose path. The light laughter. The flashing eye. The occasional glimpse of stockinged ankle. And by easy stages I went from a vague, polite interest in the Peperium’s pub to a firm commitment to write for them on a semi-regular basis. True, Mr. Peperium’s second pitcher of Black Velvet may have had something to do with it, too. But, man-like, I prefer to blame the woman.

Be that as it may I am writing this now.  In Mrs. Peperium's opinion I am a "man o' the world" (you'd better leave the room Mrs. Pierce) and therefore in a perfect position to write a column telling the homebodies and shut-ins what’s happening out there.  Simple, right? Gossip, travel who's who, what's what, you know the drill.  Fine I'm stuck with it now.  But as the Ancient Mariner might have said, never meet with Basil when the Countess isn’t around to make him sit, heel and beg.  And never, ever drink with either Peperium. Until next time...

Comments

[Basil Seal]

My Dear Viv, you know you secretly wanted to do it...And no one actually ever eats the little wieners on sticks. They're ghastly. Welcome.

[dareboy]

Perhaps, to clear the details of delly tales, Sir Basil should i say that follow your advices, my ambitious turned by my english friends wellcome me to very old real estate business born in London city if i'm not mistake in the seventeen century.
To be honest, the temporal power which your correspondent has to share a huge responsibilities with landlords.