Mary was my first obvious introduction to what alcohol does for women.
She was in her sixties, but looked eighty. Mary would come in for cocktails
dressed in her ratty old sequined gowns and belly up to the piano bar
every night of the week. She would sing along with the crowd and
occasionally request special songs and add a dollar or two to the tip jar.
She wore her bleached yellow- blond hair in a Prince Valiant haircut with
her bangs always cut slightly crooked. She would go to the ladies room
with its low lighting and slenderizing mirror to re-apply her make up no
less then four times a night, talking to herself and her imaginary lover in
her raspy too much whiskey voice and her lispy diction caused by a
combination of her gapped yellow teeth and too much to drink.
Her blue eyes were watery and red rimmed as if she has been crying, but
she usually wore her smile and seemed content. Her eyebrows were
drawn on in an unnatural black smudge that went well past the natural
line of her brow. She wore no mascara, which emphasized the red rims of
her puffy little eyes.
I would watch her put her red lipstick on and wonder how she could be so
far off her mark. She so carefully applied her pancake makeup to her
wrinkled acne scared face; her rouge caked on in less than perfect
circles on her cheeks resulting in what appeared to be clown makeup.
Squinting her eyes to see what she saw, she would smack her lips with
satisfaction and mutter something nice to herself. A job well done… she
was happy with what she saw.
Mary wore an abundance of cheap cologne which she would dab behind
her ears and knees and splash down between her flat and saggy breast.
She had no discernible cleavage, but wore low cut tops to show it off. It
was always my impression that she used perfume in lieu of bathing. The
resulting affect was a mix of perfume, gin and body odor covered up with
clothing that smelled like cat urine.
She loved the bartenders and would flirt with them most of the night, until
they decided she had enough to drink, she would then become slightly
belligerent and pouty. The pouting was by far the more annoying trait
from my view, because Mary thought she did so with sex appeal.
Other than me, Mary did not care for the women. She told me they were
jealous of her beauty. Maybe in her youth that was true, but I couldn't see
it.
Mary left an indelible mark on me. She has been gone more than 30
years now, but I can still see her face looking in the mirror, smacking her
lips and smiling wide; talking to her imaginary lover, ordering her drinks,
singing her songs and happy with herself. Indeed we should all be so
satisfied with who we are.
| Pretty Mary |