UpHill

Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

“Wouldn’t you just know? First great guy I meet in years, funny, intelligent, doesn’t look like a male model. And he’s a Happy Boy.” Lary picks up a fifty percent off, sparkly gold sleeveless sweater from a pile in the Gappe, holding it against her coat to display it to Becks. “Don’t get me wrong. I like Happy Boys. In fact, I adore Happy Boys. Happy Boys are so much nicer than regular old boys. I just didn’t need the Dude to be a Happy Boy. What d’ya think, Becks? Am I glam?”

Becks, don’t-you-ever-call-me-Rebecca, is Lary’s best friend. Since the seventies they have shopped together, got drunk together, chased boys together.

“I think you need to keep in mind we’re shopping for your Find Lary a New Job outfit. After all, that’s why you’re dragging me to this New Year’s Eve bash, right? Reconnect with your old connections from the biz? That top is too slutty. Try this.” She tosses Larry a moss green sweater.

Becks’ stewardess hair is tied in a bright yellow knot on top of her head, her blood-red nails flying through the sales items. Never-married Becks believes religiously that four-inch heels were a must for proper posture. That the only real blonde is a fake blonde. And the only intriguing man worth pursuing is a relationship-challenged musician. So far, she has been engaged seven times, boasting a unique collection of ornaments declaring, “Our first Christmas together.” At five-foot-eleven, she is a vision in purple, oversized pale green eyes, and gold chandelier earrings.

“Your hair needs a trim, by the way,” she adds. When it comes from Becks, it is not a suggestion.

“I suppose you have a date.” Lary holds up the top for inspection.

“Mario is flying in from New York.” Becks’ latest squeeze is a saxophone-playing pilot from Aerolíneas Argentinas. “You?”

“I’m thinking of taking Pizza.”

Forty-five minutes later they peer into mirrors on the counter of their favorite chichi cosmetics store. “What happened to our lips?” Lary tries to puff hers out like Angelina’s. They are surrounded in a sea of Under Forties wearing black.

“They’ve been sucked right off our faces. Hey, Lary, look.” Becks pulls her cheek skin up and back, giving her a Burt Reynolds, Asian facelift appearance.

“Very Samurai.” Lary holds up her eyebrows with her fingers. “What has happened to our dewy, fresh complexions? What’s that blotch on my face? Must be chocolate from that cupcake I stuffed in my…” She takes a tissue from the complementary pewter container, spits on it, and rubs the spot. What the …? It doesn’t come off. She rubs even harder until her skin begins to redden.

“Omigawd. Omigawd. I’ve got an …” she sputters to the mirror. “I’ve got an age spot!”

A salesgirl pops out of nowhere. “Hello, ladies, may I show you something to create an image of youthful radiance?”

Becks looks the pale waif in the eye. “Got anything to dye my mustache, say, aubergine?”