I have a million of them. Well, not quite, but there are a lot of short short stories by my father. I intend to put as many of them onto my blog as possible, when my inherent laziness doesn't prevent me. This one is in the style of Damon Runyon. He did quite a few in that style, that is, using the present tense. So here we go with "Count Gregory".
I do not see him for some fifty odd years. Suddenly he is the host of a big bash to which I am invited. He is no longer Count Gregory. He has a new name I would tell you, but I am foresworn not to do so. He is a well known Hollywood actor, now retired, and a noted comedian. He is regaling, now, perhaps one hundred invitees, many who are Hollywood notables of other days. It is a routine that is as well-worn, and has many lines from his old routines, some that resonate like eggs that hit the floor, but are somehow palatable, in that they are in a polished presentation.
I say this authoritatively since I attend some of his early forays into show biz. Nevertheless, in the back rooms and dressing areas of the New York demi-monde, he is warmly accepted. He is charming, continental, sartorially elegant and usually treated by impresarios and actors as a peer. He is a salesman who works for me, long ago, in a sales promotion organization which job is the main source of his daily sustenance.
I attend a few of the spots he appears in. They are, curiously enough, choice bistros on the East Side of Manhattan. His routine is a kind of Victor Borge imitation. I catch him several times at the famous Czardas Restaurant, or the Viennese Lantern.. He bombs as usual. These places are elegant cafes on East Seventy-Ninth Street.
One night, at the Lantern I watch as he performs to total inattention. The audience includes the Gabor sisters, Zsa Zsa, Eva and Jolie, who chatter away, indifferent to the Count and the universe outside the perimeter of their table.
It is following this performance that the Count treats me to an extraordinary inside look into some of the intricacies of behind the night life scene.
"Come," he says peremptorily, "we go to a fund raiser of a new musical. But first, we pick up Bibi."
He hustles me through the entrance of the Flamenco, an upscale bistro, through a maze of tables into a dressing room, where Bibi, the guitarist headliner, is doing her after performance ablutions.
She rises and they exchange hugs in a familiar manner. Then he introduces me. She takes my hand rather than shaking it, and it is excessively warm, though I do not think a fever affects her.
"Bibi," announces the Count, "put something on. We go to Orsini's for an expresso. Then we go to a fundraiser for a new musical."
Orsini's is also a bar and restaurant. The proprietor himself comes to serve us. He greets the Count with a hug, and a kiss on both cheeks, catching a good look at Bibi. He decides to join us for a dram or two.
His name is Orsini, which is an Italian name of medieval fame dating from the time of the Medicis. I hear later that he claims them as ancient cousins. He carries and twirls a key ring, which is a large wood effigy of a little bear, which is the meaning of his name. e is not little though he bulges somewhat. He is clearly taken by Bibi. Somehow I get the feeling that they know one another, although there is no clear sign of recognition.
"You guys doing anything?" he offers. "Let's we go to Twenty-One, or the Colony."
I get a tremor of apprehension. I do not carry enough money for a tip to the men's room attendant at one of those plush watering holes.
It takes much dissuading to discourage Orsini from coming with us, "Wherever you are going," as he puts it. He seems very disconsolate when we leave.
We arrive at an elegant tall building of New York's Central Park West, somewhere in the low sixties. The apartment, in the eleventh floor, is the antithesis of the exterior, small and cheaply furnished. There is a grand piano, a tired sofa, several pillowed armchairs and an assortment of folded chairs.
It is a wearisome routine, with an interminable score, great accompanist, and an ingenue singer, who never makes it to the top, but fills in, now and then in the road companies of hits like Kiss Me Kate.
I move to an unoccupied sofa and Bibi sits on the arm and takes my hand.
I do not recall that there is an effusion of material appreciation for the opus. Count Gregory is practically oratorical in praise, but not forthcoming in pesos. Bibi picks up her guitar in one hand, and takes proprietary possession of my arm with the other, as we leave.
On the street, Gregory hails a taxi. We mount, and he directs the driver up town, dismounts, and asks me to escort Bibi to her home. The taxi wends its way downtown to perhaps a block or two from where we begin. I watch the meter apprehensively all the way and curse the Count silently. We could easily have dropped off Bibi first.
Her building has a doorman and the elite appointments. Her apartment is small and box-like. I suppose that in show biz, it is the address that counts not the gentle appurtenances of living quarters.
We exchange amenities, and after a reasonable period, I rise to go.. Bibi gives me an affectionate hug and I notice that not only are her hands still warm, but so is the rest of her. I remember that I am married.
There is no real story to this narration. After the bash of last week of which I tell earlier, the Count and I spend some time in reminiscence. I don't know how pleased he is to see me after all this time, but he gives me a hug and kisses me on both cheeks. He is still very Continental. After a few more shots of Vodka he answers the questions I do not ask him, though I am very curious.
"It is very simple," he says. "Bibi is my little sister. We come here together from Minsk and I always look after her like a big brother should. She is married to Orsini--you remember--the little bear and he wants her out of show business and at home cooking spaghetti. I figure a little jealousy mediates this problem. I choose you as the shill, as you are young, passably looking, dress well, look like money, though I know you do not have any, and no danger to Bibi, who is often a little too warm; I know you recently marry and are reasonably safe. So I parade you a little, for the Little Bear.
I am not too pleased with the end of his dissertation.
"I can tell you know, as it is fifty years later. Bibi tells me that Orsini is waiting outside her apartment house, that night, with a baseball bat."
"Waiting for what?" I ask.
"Not what, you." he answers.
As Alan Alda says in one of his movies, "Comedy is tragedy plus time."
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