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Authors: Garrison Keillor
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Shawn
P.S. What brand of hooch do you prefer? My guess is bourbon.
And one night I walk out the door and up West 7th and I call a Manhattan real estate agent on the pay phone in the Day By Day and leave a message on her machine saying, “Yes, I’m interested in purchasing apartment 12A at the Bel Noir for one million dollars.”
That night Iris and I lay in bed and I told her my New York dream—to work at The New Yorker and run into John Updike in the hall and say, “Hi, John,” and he’d say, “Hey, Larry, how’s it going? Liked your last story.” And I’d go to lunch at the Algonquin with Mr. Shawn and in would come Mr. Perelman and Mr. White and Mr. Trillin and we’d sit and yak about writerly things and I’d head home to the fashionable Bel Noir on Central Park West and there would be Iris in a silk pantsuit on the terrace, ready to go off to the Met for Der Rosenkavalier and a late supper at the Café des Artistes—
“What’s wrong with St. Paul?” she said.
“I want to live a bigger life. I want to be in the midst of things, not out on the fringe.”
“Maybe I don’t. What’s New York got that St. Paul doesn’t?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.”
“We’ve got theater here. Music. Museums. It’s good enough for me. How come you’re all het up about New York?”
I put my arms around her and lay my head between her neck and shoulder and kiss her and say, “Do you remember the first time we made love, that summer night? We sat on the grass listening to the jazz band knowing something wonderful was about to happen? New York makes me feel that way.”
“I don’t really feel like moving,” she says.
“I’ll help you feel like it.”
She sighs. Who is this man and what does he want, anyway?
I talk about New York and the harbor, Wall Street, Trinity Church, Bryant Park, Soho, meanwhile my finger traces around her wings and down her spine and she leans back against me, and I unbutton her blouse, and she smiles, and I am kissing her—
“I am so fat, look at this,” she says, pinching a little flab at her waist.
“You have the breasts of a goddess—I wish I had a painting of you nude. I’d hang it on the dining room wall and look at it as I eat dessert.”
She glances down at her breasts as if she can’t remember where she got them.
“You don’t have as good a view of them as I do,” I point out, grasping them gently, my little friends.
“Remember back in the seventies, those people in south Minneapolis ? We went to their house for dinner. They had photos on the wall of a woman’s belly and nipples and crotch as big as movie posters, and I tried not to look stare but then it dawned on me that these were the nipples and crotch of the hostess, who was tossing the salad. Remember them?”
“I don’t remember that at all.”
“Of course you do.”
“What is it with men and breasts? It’s so infantile.”
I adore her and she keeps arguing with me. I cry, “Woman, don’t you know you make me crazy when you take your clothes off?” She says, “Haven’t you ever seen a naked woman before?” I say, “I love when you lie on your back, your arms behind your head, your little bush standing up so proud and delicate.” She says, “It’s not that different from anybody else’s.” I say, “Let’s get a picture of you nude to hang in the dining room.” She says, “I don’t want the plumber looking at me.”
“I’ll do your plumbing!” I cry and I kiss her breasts.
I kiss her Aphrodite breasts and caress her thighs and turn her toward me so we lie face to face, chest to breasts, belly to belly, sword to sheath, peak to valley, peninsula to inlet, and we kiss long and sweet and I put my hand between her thighs and stroke her slowly, and she sighs, she murmurs, she gives off heat, and we move through the Seven Stations of Foreplay from the Anointing of the Nipples to St. Cunnilingus and head toward the finale—and as she mounts me, I imagine that
P.S. What brand of hooch do you prefer? My guess is bourbon.
And one night I walk out the door and up West 7th and I call a Manhattan real estate agent on the pay phone in the Day By Day and leave a message on her machine saying, “Yes, I’m interested in purchasing apartment 12A at the Bel Noir for one million dollars.”
That night Iris and I lay in bed and I told her my New York dream—to work at The New Yorker and run into John Updike in the hall and say, “Hi, John,” and he’d say, “Hey, Larry, how’s it going? Liked your last story.” And I’d go to lunch at the Algonquin with Mr. Shawn and in would come Mr. Perelman and Mr. White and Mr. Trillin and we’d sit and yak about writerly things and I’d head home to the fashionable Bel Noir on Central Park West and there would be Iris in a silk pantsuit on the terrace, ready to go off to the Met for Der Rosenkavalier and a late supper at the Café des Artistes—
“What’s wrong with St. Paul?” she said.
“I want to live a bigger life. I want to be in the midst of things, not out on the fringe.”
“Maybe I don’t. What’s New York got that St. Paul doesn’t?”
“That’s what I intend to find out.”
“We’ve got theater here. Music. Museums. It’s good enough for me. How come you’re all het up about New York?”
I put my arms around her and lay my head between her neck and shoulder and kiss her and say, “Do you remember the first time we made love, that summer night? We sat on the grass listening to the jazz band knowing something wonderful was about to happen? New York makes me feel that way.”
“I don’t really feel like moving,” she says.
“I’ll help you feel like it.”
She sighs. Who is this man and what does he want, anyway?
I talk about New York and the harbor, Wall Street, Trinity Church, Bryant Park, Soho, meanwhile my finger traces around her wings and down her spine and she leans back against me, and I unbutton her blouse, and she smiles, and I am kissing her—
“I am so fat, look at this,” she says, pinching a little flab at her waist.
“You have the breasts of a goddess—I wish I had a painting of you nude. I’d hang it on the dining room wall and look at it as I eat dessert.”
She glances down at her breasts as if she can’t remember where she got them.
“You don’t have as good a view of them as I do,” I point out, grasping them gently, my little friends.
“Remember back in the seventies, those people in south Minneapolis ? We went to their house for dinner. They had photos on the wall of a woman’s belly and nipples and crotch as big as movie posters, and I tried not to look stare but then it dawned on me that these were the nipples and crotch of the hostess, who was tossing the salad. Remember them?”
“I don’t remember that at all.”
“Of course you do.”
“What is it with men and breasts? It’s so infantile.”
I adore her and she keeps arguing with me. I cry, “Woman, don’t you know you make me crazy when you take your clothes off?” She says, “Haven’t you ever seen a naked woman before?” I say, “I love when you lie on your back, your arms behind your head, your little bush standing up so proud and delicate.” She says, “It’s not that different from anybody else’s.” I say, “Let’s get a picture of you nude to hang in the dining room.” She says, “I don’t want the plumber looking at me.”
“I’ll do your plumbing!” I cry and I kiss her breasts.
I kiss her Aphrodite breasts and caress her thighs and turn her toward me so we lie face to face, chest to breasts, belly to belly, sword to sheath, peak to valley, peninsula to inlet, and we kiss long and sweet and I put my hand between her thighs and stroke her slowly, and she sighs, she murmurs, she gives off heat, and we move through the Seven Stations of Foreplay from the Anointing of the Nipples to St. Cunnilingus and head toward the finale—and as she mounts me, I imagine that
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