Cell phone conversations between loved-ones in crisis should be rehearsed. A man on the top floor of a burning building calls his wife. Death is imminent. He has only moments to decide whether to jump out a window or burn alive. In either case, he’s going to be dead very soon. So, he calls his wife to say good-bye. . . .”
With the sound effect of a phone ringing, Act I begins.
“Good morning, Mansfield residence.”
“Maria, this is Mr. Mansfield. Is my wife there, please?”
“Oh, hello Mr. Mansfield. How are you?”
“Maria, I’m kind of in a hurry. Is my wife there?”
“She’s upstairs with little Billy. He just wake from his nappy. You like I have her call you back?”
“Maria, put my wife on the phone. NOW!”
“Yes, Mr. Mansfield. No need to yell.
“Sorry Maria.”
“That’s alright. Are you okay?”
“Maria, PLEASE, my wife!”
(Pause)
“Hello, William. Listen, can I call you back . . .”
“Muffy?”
“Yes, William, it’s me. I’m just a little busy . . .”
“Muffy, I (cough) love you!”
“Oh, aren’t you sweet.”
“I love (cough, cough) you so much!”
“William, I do wish you’d quit smoking. Just listen to that cough of yours.”
“I can’t help it, darling.”
“Well, if you really loved me, I think you could help it. And, think of the children . . .”
“Muffy, damn it, I am thinking of the (cough) children. I love (cough, cough) all our darlings.”
“So, quit smoking then, William. Oh, and please don’t forget about Sarah’s tennis lesson this evening. You promised to stop by in time to watch . . .”
“Muffy, darling, I’m afraid (cough) that won’t be possible. You see . . .”
“Won’t be possible! Now, damn it William, you promised to watch her for a while and bring her home.”
“I can’t.”
“You mean you’re going to be working late again tonight? This is getting just a little ridiculous. Every night last week . . . please William, would you stop that damn coughing into my ear!”
“Oh Muffy, (cough, cough) I love you (hacking) so much!”
“Yes dear, I know you do. . . . Maria . . . Maria, I hear little Billy crying . . . please go see what his trouble is. William, Billy’s teething is getting worse . . .”
“I love little (choking) Billy . . .”
“My, aren’t we full of love this morning, William. Could you stop by a drugstore and pick up more of that gum-numbing medicine on your way home?”
“(choking and coughing) I, I . . .”
“Jesus, William, put out the damn cigarette!”
“It’s not the cigarette, damn it!”
“Well, what the hell . . . are you smoking cigars again?”
“It’s the building, Muffy.”
“You’re smoking the fucking building. Jesus Christ, William!”
“It’s on fire, you insensitive bitch!”
“Insensitive bitch! Well, thank you very much, you dickwad!”
“The building is full of (choking) smoke. It’s on fire!”
“Fire?”
“Yes.”
“Your building is on fire?”
“Yes, darling.”
“Oh no, William.”
“Yes. And would you please stop calling me, William?”
“You prefer dickwad?”
“Bitch!”
“Asshole! How do like that? You like ‘asshole’ better than William?”
“Darling, please. I’m sorry. I just wish (cough, hack) . . . I just wish you’d call me sweetheart or honey or something like that. I love you Muffy—really I do. I want to hold you so much!”
“Will . . . sweetheart, is your building really on fire? Oops, there’s somebody on the other line. Just a . . .”
“Darling no—don’t put me on hold!”
“Just a second William . . .”
(More coughing and hacking and choking.)
“Oh my God, William—sweetheart, my dearest . . . that was Sheryl Phillips—you know, Brad’s wife. Well, listen to me—of course you know who Sheryl is, don’t you, William. Couldn’t keep your paws off her at the Charity Ball last month. Anyway, never mind about that . . . she saw on the news . . . your building. . . . Oh sweetheart, your building is on fire!”
“Yes, darling.”
“And you’re on the top floor! Can you get out?”
“It’s too late. The fire is coming up. All the exits are in flames.”
“Oh no, no, no!”
“Did Sheryl sound upset?”
“Fuck Sheryl, you dickwad . . . sweetheart!!”
“I never fucked Sheryl, darling. Never!”
“Swear?”
“Honestly, darling. I swear I never fucked her.”
“Oh, now I feel just horrible. I was sure you and Sheryl were . . .”
“No, my love. It was just an innocent flirtation. You know, like you and Brad had going.”
“Oh William . . .”
“That was just an innocent flirtation between you and Brad, right?”
“Pretty much so, sweetheart.”
“Pretty (choking) much so!”
“Well, that’s how it started out.”
“That’s how we started out, you wanton hussy!”
“Please, sweetheart . . .”
“Don’t call me sweetheart!”
“Maria—Maria where are you? Damn that woman!”
“Yes, Mrs. Mansfield?”
“Don’t you hear little Billy crying? Please get a Popsicle out of the freezer and have him suck on it.”
“Muffy, I can’t see anymore. The smoke is everywhere.”
“Oh my sweet, sweet William. Can you climb out the window?”
“And do what? Damn it!”
“Well, hang there for a while. Maybe a helicopter…”
“Darling, I’m on the eighty-eighth floor. (Choking.) It’s either jump or burn to death. What do you suggest?”
“Well, either way I guess we can forget about an open casket. . . . Oh dear, I’m sorry. That was just a little joke.”
“Ha, ha, ha . . .”
“Maybe jump . . . yes. I can’t bear the thought of you burning alive. Besides, you always wanted to fly—isn’t that right my love?”
“Not out a window for Christsakes!”
“Mrs. Mansfield, the grocery boy is here. Shall I have him come in through the back door?”
“Yes, Maria. Please. You take care of it. Mr. Mansfield is burning up.”
“Oh, my husband gets that way sometimes, too. Don’t you worry about him. He’ll be just fine.”
“Thank you, Maria. Sweetheart, are you still there?”
“Still here, darling. I’ve decided to jump. The flames are in my office now. Oh, it’s so damn hot!”
“Take the cell phone with you, dearest. Then we can talk while you’re on the way down.”
“Count with me darling. One, two, three and I jump.”
“Okay, dear.”
“Ready. . . . One, two, three . . . woooooo!”
“Honest . . . you never fucked Sheryl?”
“Nooooooooooo!”
“I love you, sweetheart!”
“I love you, toooooo!”
“Brad was just a great lay. That’s all, sweetheart. I never loved him. It’s you . . .”
“Whoooorrrre!”
(Line goes dead.)
“Whore? How dare you call me a . . . William are you there? Damn you, speak to me! Maria . . . Maria! Catch that grocery boy and ask him to pick up a tube of gum-numbing medicine for little Billy.”
“I thought Mr. Mansfield was going to do that on his way home.”
“Mr. Mansfield won’t be home tonight, Maria.”
Act II
“Oh Brad darling, I don’t know how I’d have gotten through the last few days without you.”
“Muffy, my sweet, you’ve been so strong through this whole ordeal. You’re a most remarkable woman. William would be so proud of you.”
“Please, must we speak of William at a time like this. You, darling, are the strong one. My goodness! Three times this afternoon. You’re an absolute stallion.”
“You inspire me, muffin-buns.”
“I love it when you call me that. Do you think Sheryl suspects anything?”
“Certainly not. In fact, she’s barely stopped crying since the tragedy. The woman is a wreck.”
“Well honestly! What in God’s name is she weepy-poohing about? It was my goddamn husband who leapt from the eighty-eighth floor with flames tongue lashing his rear end.”
“You’re quite right, dear.”
“Don’t you think there have been times when I’ve felt like crying out?”
“Well, you’ve had a few outbursts this afternoon, muffin-buns.”
“Oh Brad, darling . . . how you make me laugh. But, otherwise, I’ve been saving my tears for the TV interview tonight with Winny ‘the Gutsucker’ Jones.”
“I know it’s horrible to say, but thank God your little Billy has been crying most of the afternoon. Otherwise, Maria might have heard us. What luck he’s still teething.”
“Not entirely luck, dear. I took the precaution of hiding his gum-numbing cream before you came over.”
“You’re an amazing woman, muffin. What a clever mind!”
“These are trying times darling, but I do my best. Like I said, your support has been so helpful. You’re my staff.”
“It’s been my pleasure.”
“And it’s been my pleasure.”
“Tongue lashing flames . . .”
“Oh, darling . . .”
“Shall we?”
“Let’s rehearse one more time. Now darling, we’re all familiar with Winny Jones’ determination to have her guests reveal the most intimate details of their lives.”
“Yes dear.”
“Well, I want to manage to sidestep those sorts of questions without, of course, seeming to be rude.”
“That’s going to be tricky.”
“I know, I know . . . but after all, I’ve just lost my husband. I’m in deep mourning.”
“You’re grieving.”
“Exactly. I’m grieving. That’s sounds more poignant than mourning.”
“I think so. And, in fact, the whole nation is grieving. Estimates indicate that it was the largest single-day death toll to ever occur in this country. You, muffin, have the honor of speaking for all the grieving souls who have been victimized by this enormous tragedy.”
“Oh Brad, you make me feel so special. I wish you could be there during the interview to hold me and give me strength.”
“So do I dear, but you must admit that that might not look right.”
“No, no I suppose not. You will be watching though, won’t you?”
“Absolutely. I’ll be glued to the screen transmitting all kinds of loving thoughts.”
“Will Sheryl be there with you?”
“I’m sure she will.”
“You’ll do your best to ignore her, won’t you darling.”
“Naturally, my dearest.”
“You’re so sweet.”
“Okay, now let’s focus on what the main reason is for Winny the Gutsucker’s interest in your particular story.”
“The phone conversation between William and I just before his death.”
“Exactly. That’s what makes your story prime-time.”
“But there must have been others who spoke to their loved ones, or whatever you want to call them, during that time.”
“Certainly there were. The point is that for some reason the network has chosen to interview you. What that reason is, is probably immaterial. You’re the chosen one, and we must make sure that you make the most of it. There’s no telling what could come of this. If you come across as likeable and engaging and smart and pretty and sincere and . . .”
“Please, Brad, let’s try not to put too much pressure on me. I get the point.”
“More interviews could follow. Trust me, muffin-buns, the public is going to love you.”
“I could be a star.”
“For sure! Who knows, you may even wind up with your own show.”
“Or in the movies!”
“Yes.”
“One thing darling is that I don’t want to become one of those boring national spokespersons for the trendy cause of the day sort of thing.”
“You mean like rallying and supporting other grieving relatives.”
“Precisely. That would be so tiresome and, of course, there’s no money in it.”
“Certainly not. That’s what becomes of people as a result of poor marketing.”
“Marketing is your business, darling. I trust your judgment completely.”
“All right then. Let’s go over that last tear-jerking phone conversation you had with William. And remember, I think it’s important that you not start crying too soon. That looks phony. You want to build up to it. Get Winny the Gutsucker and, hopefully, most of the viewing public to be on the verge of tears first.”
“Right.”
“So, Maria’s informed you that William is on the phone, you pick up the extension and say . . .”
“I say, ‘Oh, love of my life, what sweet joy to hear from you so unexpectedly.’ And he says, ‘Oh, honey-lambkins, I love you with all my heart. Please, please remember that as long as you live’.”
“Good. That’s very good. Did he really used to call you ‘honey-lambkins’?”
“No. He used to call me either ‘candy-loins’ or simply, ‘bitch’.”
“Yes, well, I think we should go with honey-lambkins.”
“I agree.”
“And following this initial exchange of charming endearments which you want to make plain was always the way you two greeted each other on the phone, then what?”
“Then William carried on further with how much he loved me to the point where I started thinking it was our anniversary or something which I had forgotten. But, I explain that I sensed a note of desperation in his voice, and that’s when he tells me what’s going on. I thereupon immediately hit the remote control switch on our super resolution, 35-inch color television with the quadraphonic, handcrafted teakwood surround-sound speakers and . . .”
“Perhaps you should dispense with all the luxurious details and simply say you turned on the TV. I mean, we don’t want to confuse what it is we’re trying to market here, right muffin-buns?”
“Oh, all right. But, you know, William was so proud of that damn television.”
“Yes, well, let’s never mind about that during the interview. After all, it’s his pride in you that we mean to convince the public of. They must be impressed with what a true blue faithful and loving wife you are.”
“Were, you mean.”
“Whatever. Now let me see your pretty little chin start to quiver.”
“Like this?”
“Yes, yes. That’s perfect. Remember to do that a couple of times before the tears begin to well up in your eyes.”
“It’s important that the welling up process is apparent before the tears actually begin to flow, right?”
“Oh absolutely. And remember, the cameras they have these days are extremely attuned to catching the most subtle visual nuances. There’s no need to worry about over-acting.”
“In other words, I should strive to be as natural as possible.”
“As natural as you can contrive to be, yes. That’s the secret to success in this image conscious era.”
“Didn’t one of the great philosophers say that ‘image is everything’?”
“Actually, it was a tennis player who got paid a great deal of money to say that. Our firm had the account and I was part of the creative-writing team that came up with that slogan. It was one of our most popular.”
“A creative-writing team came up with that slogan? ‘Image is everything’ only consists of three words for Christsakes, Brad. There’s a subject, a verb, and an object. Which part of that was your creative contribution? The verb, perhaps?”
“Don’t be sarcastic, dear. The creative process involved in the advertising business is much more complicated than most people realize.”
“I’m sorry, darling. The advertising business is full of frustrated novelists and poets. That’s what I keep hearing, and so it must be true .”
“And as for ‘image is everything,’ true r words were never spoken. Not in our lifetime, anyway.”
“You’re right. Now, Brad darling, I really think I’ve got it all down. Let’s not rehearse the spontaneity out it. And I need to rest, don’t you think? Winnie Jones and her crew will be here in less than three hours.”
“No point in looking too rested, muffin-buns. After all, you’re meant to have been grieving inconsolably for the past three days. You should appear to be severely traumatized.”
“You think I still seem less than appropriately exhausted?”
“Is that little Billy screaming again?”
“Poor child. What a Godsend teeth are. Traumatize me one more time you horny stud-stallion.”
“Step aside Secretariat!”
Another woman then came on stage, acknowledged the scattering of applause, and announced that if there were no objections, Scene II of Act II would commence immediately. Several people took the occasion to order another round of libations but, all in all, there were no objections.
This scene had Brad and his wife Sheryl sitting together with Muffy on a stool a few feet away from them. They all were in possession of mobile phones. Brad’s began ringing and he put it to his ear. . . .
“Hello.”
“Brad darling, is that you?”
“Ah . . . yes, this is Mr. Wilkins. Who is calling?”
“Mr. Wilkins, is it? Who the fuck do you think is calling, damn it!”
“Mrs. Wilkins is right here if you’d like to speak to her.”
“I most certainly would not! But I get your point. Do you believe that wanton hussy, Winnie Jones? Why they chose me to interview instead of the many others who had last-minute phone conversations with their soon-to-be-dead loved ones was ‘probably immaterial.’ That’s what you said, remember?”
“Ah-huh.”
“Ah-huh my ass! How was I to know they’d managed to get a transcript of William’s and my phone conversation? That’s the reason they wanted to interview me. It was a set-up, pure and simple. Did you notice how she strung me along, let me go through just about everything you and I rehearsed and then she plays the tape of our real conversation?”
“Ah-huh.”
“I had my chin quivering and tears welling up in my eyes just perfectly, don’t you think?”
“Ah-huh.”
“And just at the point when the first precious little teardrop slipped out of its eye socket and down my cheek, that heartless bitch says, ‘Before we go any further, perhaps our viewing audience would like to hear a bit of yours and William’s actual conversation.’ A bit of it, mind you . . . the bit about you and Sheryl and the bit about me calling William a ‘dickwad’ and him calling me a ‘whore.’ It was the most embarrassing moment of my entire life. I must have looked absolutely frightful!”
“Ah-huh.”
“Brad, damn you, if you say ‘ah-huh’ one more time I’m going to go over there, slap you upside the head, and kick your butt into next week. You understand me? I need you. Now, more than ever. I need your arms around me.”
“How would you like my hands around your neck, you marriage meddling tramp!”
“Sheryl?”
“Sheryl darling, please don’t get involved in this. Hang up that phone.”
“Don’t you ‘Sheryl darling’ me you whore-mongering bastard! What do you mean, ‘don’t get involved in this’? This is our marriage that’s been made a public mockery of. What. . . ? Like I shouldn’t get involved in our goddamn marriage!”
“Sheryl, I’m sorry . . . really I am.”
“Oh, shut up Muffy! In less than thirty minutes this evening you’ve managed to make a public mockery of my marriage, and ridicule one of the dearest men I’ve ever known.”
“Thank you, darling. That’s very sweet of you but, you know me, I’ll get over it.”
“I wasn’t referring to you, Brad. I was referring to William, you ass.”
“Oh.”
“Maria, would you please tend to little Billy. His crying is driving me mad!”
“And that’s another matter. Just imagine how embarrassing this is going to be for all our children.”
“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about my children, Sheryl. They’ll be just fine. . . . It’s in the glove compartment of the car, Maria. The red Mercedes XL 90 convertible with super all-weather radial tires, tan Cordovan leather interior with dual air-bags, small screen color TV, surround-sound compact disc entertainment center, built-in seat massage, global positioning satellite hook-up, hands-free cell phone and . . .”
“Muffy!”
“Oh. Sorry, Brad.”
“Brad, I can’t listen to you two anymore. I’m so angry I could scream. Poor William must be turning in his grave.”
“What do you mean, ‘turning in his grave’? It’ll probably be weeks before they find his body.”
“Well, don’t expect me to be at the funeral. I plan to continue mourning for him privately. And as for you Muffy, I hope that common decency will compel you to resist the temptation of appearing on any more television interview programs. In fact, I think it would be best for everyone involved, both living and dead, if you were to maintain the low profile that your moral character so richly deserves. Good night!” (Sheryl switches off her phone with a flourish and exits the stage.)
“You must forgive her, Muffy, she’s very upset.”
“No shit.”
“This couldn’t have happened at a worse time for her. Dr. Kadison took her off the daily sedatives last week. You know, what with the pregnancy and all.”
“Sheryl’s pregnant?”
“I thought you knew.”
“How the hell was I supposed to know? Nobody told me.”
“Oh. Well, we just found out ourselves late last month.”
“Any idea who the father is, Brad?”
“That’s not funny, Muffy.”
“Sorry, you stud-stallion. . . . Maria! Billy’s still crying. Did you rub that shit on his gums or what? Damn that woman! Okay, give him a rubber nipple to suck on.”
“Poor little Billy. I guess this is what Sheryl and I have to look forward to.”
“It’ll be a year and a half before you’ll have to worry about it, Brad. . . . Well then, Maria, give him one of yours to suck on. I don’t care. Just quiet him down for Christsakes.”
(Brad clicks off his phone and walks from the stage.)
“Now, listen Brad, I need you. We must figure out a way to be together more often like we were this afternoon. Wouldn’t that be nice? Brad. . . ? Oh now, don’t concern yourself that it has anything to do with love. I’m not expecting some sort of emotional commitment from you. It’s just that I need to be held once in a while and, you know . . . Brad. . . ? Well, must I spell it out for you? Okay . . . I need to be F-U-C-K-E-D . . . Brad. . . ? Hello, hello? Ah, the bastard. . . . Maria, stop that moaning, damn it!”
Act III
(Six months later. Brad and Muffy are sitting very close together on stage.)
“What I don’t understand, Brad, is how the government comes up with these numbers. Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars for ‘pain and suffering’ plus 50,000 dollars for each child. And, because William’s insurance benefits totaled over a million dollars, the quarter million pain and suffering amount has been denied to me. That just doesn’t seem fair. I mean, the black female janitor married to some crack-head pimp got the pain and suffering money plus 50,000 bucks for each one of her 13 children.”
“Muffy dear, I think, all things considered, the government’s compensation plan is extremely generous. I mean just think for a minute what kind of benefits you would have received if you’d been living in Bangladesh.”
“Oh Brad, don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t be caught dead living in Bangladesh. What are you, nuts? Where is Bangladesh, anyway?”
“It’s a small country somewhat adjacent to Northeast India.”
“Is that the place that’s constantly being ravished by floods and hurricanes and famine and whatnot?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, why in God’s name would I be living there. You’d have to be out of your mind to live in a joint like that.”
“I think you’re missing my point, dear.”
“Well, if your point is to make me feel better because I’m not a half-starved rice farmer up to my armpits in flood waters and being blown to bits by hundred-mile-an-hour winds, forget it. This is America, damn it. Just look out the window. Honest to God, if I never see another American flag in my life, it won’t be too soon.”
“My point dear, is that you should try to be grateful that you do live in America and that your government has demonstrated an extraordinary degree of generosity in dealing with the victims, such as yourself, of this horrible tragedy. Believe me, no other country in the world would have done anywhere near this much.”
“But . . .”
“Muffin-buns . . .”
“Oh, Brad. . . . Do me, do me one more time, my stud-stallion.”
(Room lights flicker for thirty seconds and then dim once again.)
ACT III Scene II
“Good God, I needed that.”
“Feeling better, muffin-buns?”
“Much, thank you.”
“That’s my girl.”
“So, how’s the expectant mother these days?”
“Sheryl?”
“Are there others you’re responsible for?”
“Ha, ha. She’s doing okay, thanks. Gets a bit cranky once in a while, but I guess that’s to be expected. You know how it is.”
“You think I was a cranky prego?”
“Well, William would say once in a while that . . .”
“William? Did he tell you I was a cranky bitch when I was pregnant?”
“No, no dear. Not in so many words.”
“What do you mean, ‘Not in so many words’? ‘Cranky bitch’ is only two fucking words. Did that duckweed use the ‘W’ word?”
“Settle down, Muffy. William was always a gentleman. That’s what Sheryl always says; ‘William was a gentleman’.”
“Sheryl and William, William and Sheryl. Don’t you ever wonder if those two didn’t get it on? She’s been burning the torch for William longer than I have. I’m surprised she hasn’t applied for some ‘pain and suffering’ money.”
“Well . . .”
“No!”
“Actually, she did receive 100,000 dollars last week for what is being referred to as ‘collateral pain and suffering trauma.’”
“You’re joking.”
“No. She wrote a personal letter to Jacob Weintrab, the so-called ‘Tsar of the Pain and Suffering Relief Fund.’”
“Fancy a Jew being called the ‘Tsar’ of something. Has he no pride? I’d like to know how much money he’s getting paid for his troubles. Probably more than any of the victims I’ll bet. More than me, that’s for sure. The government doesn’t give a damn about my pain and suffering.”
“That’s not true , dear.”
“It most certainly is true . How much money am I getting for it? Zip! That’s how much. Zippa-dee-do-dah . . . not one stinking dime.”
“Let’s not forget the 50,000 for each of your two children. That’s something, isn’t it?”
“Do you think that when little Billy grows up he’s going to be happy that the US government considered his father’s life to be worth a measly 50,000 bucks? Hell, that won’t be enough to get him through one year of college. And, as for Sarah, at the rate she’s been breaking tennis rackets since her father died, her fifty grand will be gone in a few years.”
“This whole thing has been very hard on Sarah, hasn’t it?”
“Yes. Of course it has. She loved her father and misses him very much.”
“And you? You loved and miss him as well, don’t you?”
“Sure . . . in my own way. But life goes on. It’s amazing how resilient the human spirit is. It makes me feel selfish and guilty sometimes when I think about it.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, if it had been me. If I had been the one who died, I’d want to believe that William would be spending the rest of his miserable life virtually catatonic in a state of inconsolable grief and gloom. If I looked up or down from wherever I was and saw him laughing or enjoying a game of golf or still cheering for those ridiculous Chicago Cubs, I think it would make me angry. That’s very selfish of me, isn’t it, Brad?”
“Yes, I suppose it is. But, I admire your honesty. You’re a good woman, Muffy. I think it would be disrespectful to William’s memory to think otherwise. He had his passions—laughter, golf, ‘those ridiculous Chicago Cubs.’ You can’t begrudge the living their passions. For all we know, they may be the most important characteristic separating us from the non-living. And when I say ‘the non-living’ I don’t just mean dead people.”
“I understand.”
“William would want you to be happy—to go on living. And, I believe, despite what you say, that you would want the same for him if the situation were reversed.”
“I certainly wouldn’t want him bonking the bejesus out of Sheryl. That’s for damn sure. I don’t suppose you would either.”
“No, I certainly wouldn’t.”
“See, now I feel guilty. Guilty about being the survivor, guilty about having sex with you. . . . I hate feeling guilty.”
“Then maybe you should stop doing those things that make you feel guilty.”
“You mean, like living.”
“No, the other thing.”
“Oh. Well, do you feel guilty about it?”
“Muffy, I’m in the marketing business and I make a very good living at it. I can’t afford to have a guilty conscience about anything. It would ruin my career.”
“I guess the million-dollar death insurance plus the hundred grand for the children isn’t so bad after all. It’s all tax-free, too. Still got the house, the cars. . . . The country club has offered us a free lifetime membership. That was nice of them. Maybe I’ll start playing golf, who knows.”
“That’s the spirit, muffin-buns.”
“They’ve got some very cute caddies at the club.”
“Muffy, you’re an irrepressible tart.”
“Or, as William so eloquently put it during his farewell voyage . . .”
(Brad and Muffy together.) “Whoorrre!”
Excerpt from: At the Bamboo Bar
e-book via Amazon
