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Authors: Elizabeth Gilbert
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onto your bed? Unclear. So I lay there in stillness and silence, listening to her thick breathing, smelling the cigarette smoke and perfume on her hair, and wondering how we wouldmanage the inevitable awkwardness when morning came.
Celia finally roused herself around seven o’clock, when the sunlight that was glaring into the bedroom became impossible to ignore. She gave a decadent yawn and stretched fully, taking up even more of the bed. She was still wearing all her makeup and was dressed in her reckless evening gown from the night before. She was stunning. She lookedlike an angel who had fallen to earth, straight through a hole in the floor of some celestial nightclub.
“Hey, Vivvie,” she said, blinking away the sun. “Thanks for sharing your bed. That cot they gave me is torture. I couldn’t take it anymore.”
I hadn’t been fully confident at this point that Celia even knew my name, so to hear her use the affectionate diminutive “Vivvie” flooded me with joy.
“That’s all right,” I said. “You can sleep here anytime.”
“Really?” she said. “That’s terrific. I’ll move my things in here today.”
Well, then. I guess I had a roommate now. (That was fine with me, though. I was just honored that she’d chosen me.) I wanted this strange, exotic moment to last as long as possible, so I dared to make conversation. “Say,” I asked, “where’d you go out to last night?”
She seemed surprised that I cared.
“El Morocco,” she said. “I saw John Rockefeller there.”
“ Did you?”
“He’s the pits. He wanted to dance, but I was out with some other fellows.”
“Who’d you go out with?”
“Nobody special. Just a couple of guys who aren’t about to take me home to meet their mothers.”
“What kind of guys?”
Celia settled back into the bed, lit a smoke, and told me all about hernight. She explained that she had gone out with some Jewish boys who were pretending to be gangsters, but then they ran into some real Jewish gangsters, so the pretenders had to scram, and she ended up with a fellow who took her to Brooklyn and then paid for a limousine to take her home. I was entranced by every detail. We stayed in bed for another hour as she narrated for me—in that unforgettablygruff voice of hers—every detail of an evening in the life of one Celia Ray, New York City showgirl.
I drank it all down like spring water.
By the next day, all of Celia’s belongings had migrated into my apartment. Her tubes of greasepaint and pots of cold cream now cluttered up every surface. Her vials of Elizabeth Arden competed for space on Uncle Billy’s elegant desk against her compactsof Helena Rubinstein. Her long hairs laced my sink. My floor was an instant tangle of brassieres and fishnets, garters and girdles. (She had suchprodigious quantities of undergarments! I swear, Celia Ray had a way of making negligees reproduce .) Her used, perspiration-soaked dress shields were hiding under my bed like little mice. Her tweezers bit into my feet when I stepped on them.
She wasoutrageously entitled. She wiped her lipstick on my towels. She borrowed my sweaters without asking. My pillowcases became stained with black smudges from Celia’s mascara, and my sheets were dyed orange from her pancake makeup. And there wasn’t anything this girl wouldn’t use as an ashtray—including once, while I was in it, the bathtub.
Incredibly, I didn’t mind any of this. On the contrary,I never wanted her to leave. If I’d had a roommate this interesting back at Vassar, I might’ve stayed in college. To my mind, Celia Ray was perfection. She was New York City’s very distillation—a glittering composite of sophistication and mystery. I would endure any filth or befouling, just to have access to her.
Anyhow, our living arrangement seemed to suit us both perfectly: I got to be nearher glamour, and she got to be near my sink.
I never asked my Aunt Peg if this was all right with her—that Celia had moved
Celia finally roused herself around seven o’clock, when the sunlight that was glaring into the bedroom became impossible to ignore. She gave a decadent yawn and stretched fully, taking up even more of the bed. She was still wearing all her makeup and was dressed in her reckless evening gown from the night before. She was stunning. She lookedlike an angel who had fallen to earth, straight through a hole in the floor of some celestial nightclub.
“Hey, Vivvie,” she said, blinking away the sun. “Thanks for sharing your bed. That cot they gave me is torture. I couldn’t take it anymore.”
I hadn’t been fully confident at this point that Celia even knew my name, so to hear her use the affectionate diminutive “Vivvie” flooded me with joy.
“That’s all right,” I said. “You can sleep here anytime.”
“Really?” she said. “That’s terrific. I’ll move my things in here today.”
Well, then. I guess I had a roommate now. (That was fine with me, though. I was just honored that she’d chosen me.) I wanted this strange, exotic moment to last as long as possible, so I dared to make conversation. “Say,” I asked, “where’d you go out to last night?”
She seemed surprised that I cared.
“El Morocco,” she said. “I saw John Rockefeller there.”
“ Did you?”
“He’s the pits. He wanted to dance, but I was out with some other fellows.”
“Who’d you go out with?”
“Nobody special. Just a couple of guys who aren’t about to take me home to meet their mothers.”
“What kind of guys?”
Celia settled back into the bed, lit a smoke, and told me all about hernight. She explained that she had gone out with some Jewish boys who were pretending to be gangsters, but then they ran into some real Jewish gangsters, so the pretenders had to scram, and she ended up with a fellow who took her to Brooklyn and then paid for a limousine to take her home. I was entranced by every detail. We stayed in bed for another hour as she narrated for me—in that unforgettablygruff voice of hers—every detail of an evening in the life of one Celia Ray, New York City showgirl.
I drank it all down like spring water.
By the next day, all of Celia’s belongings had migrated into my apartment. Her tubes of greasepaint and pots of cold cream now cluttered up every surface. Her vials of Elizabeth Arden competed for space on Uncle Billy’s elegant desk against her compactsof Helena Rubinstein. Her long hairs laced my sink. My floor was an instant tangle of brassieres and fishnets, garters and girdles. (She had suchprodigious quantities of undergarments! I swear, Celia Ray had a way of making negligees reproduce .) Her used, perspiration-soaked dress shields were hiding under my bed like little mice. Her tweezers bit into my feet when I stepped on them.
She wasoutrageously entitled. She wiped her lipstick on my towels. She borrowed my sweaters without asking. My pillowcases became stained with black smudges from Celia’s mascara, and my sheets were dyed orange from her pancake makeup. And there wasn’t anything this girl wouldn’t use as an ashtray—including once, while I was in it, the bathtub.
Incredibly, I didn’t mind any of this. On the contrary,I never wanted her to leave. If I’d had a roommate this interesting back at Vassar, I might’ve stayed in college. To my mind, Celia Ray was perfection. She was New York City’s very distillation—a glittering composite of sophistication and mystery. I would endure any filth or befouling, just to have access to her.
Anyhow, our living arrangement seemed to suit us both perfectly: I got to be nearher glamour, and she got to be near my sink.
I never asked my Aunt Peg if this was all right with her—that Celia had moved
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