Tales From A Broad

by Fran Lebowitz

  We’re led to the beach for the start. Samantha’s chatting away, making new friends. I hang back again in a great show of deference. The gun goes off and we run into the water. I am ready to quit in five minutes. This isn’t swimming; this is underwater wrestling. Bodies are covering me, arms are tugging at my legs, elbows are conking me in the head, someone is most definitely trying to drown me every time I get near. I would avoid her but I can’t see my hand in front of my face. The water is a muddy, oily, churning death pool. I know that I am the last person in the swim. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter, the family will love me anyway and we’ll have a good vacation.

  When I get out of the water and do the little run on the beach to my bike there are, like, four people left to cheer me on and they seem either bored or hired. I lope dejectedly over to my bike, towel off, pick sand from between my toes, swig a sippee of soda, put on my socks, tie up my runners and get into the saddle. ‘Have a good ride!’ says some jolly fuckwit.

  I ride like a madwoman because I am competitive. I do not want to be last. I can be not first, but I will not be last. The locals laugh and shout every time I pass. I am sure I have something hanging out of my bathing suit but, fuck it, I’m not wasting a second to adjust. I won’t even grab the water for fear it will slow me down. I will pedal until my legs turn to fucking ghee. I see Samantha on the other side of the loop. ‘Lookin’ good, Fran!’ she shouts, fresh as a daisy. Behind her are Vilja, Christine, Tamami. Everyone is a lap ahead of me.

  And then, I’m on my fifth lap and I am despairing. I have five more to go. The temperature must be 200 degrees and we’re riding – and soon to be running – on bubbling tarmac.

  Here we are on this gorgeous, exotic island surrounded by sea, covered with mountains and jungle, but the race is four laps on a stretch of highway that offers nothing to look at except for one big, gaudy mosque. We might as well do laps around the Miami K-Mart parking lot in August. They are so damned proud of their new road and that neat yellow line. And why is a country so full of poverty giving out entire bottles of water to riders who take one swallow and throw it away? What’s wrong with a Dixie cup?

  I finish the bike, jump off and do my Clara step for ten minutes. My friends ride by me on their bikes and cheer, ‘Run, Frannie.’ – ‘Looking Great.’ – ‘It’s in the baig.’

  ‘Omigosh,’ I think, ‘I’m actually ahead. They’re still riding.’ Now it starts to matter. I have a chance here. I’m totally not last. I run in earnest. I don’t care if I collapse. I pass tons of people. At about the six-kilometre mark, I get the chills and feel woozy. I shake it off when someone overtakes me. I grab some water and catch up to the bitch who dared. I high-step it to the finish line, hearing Frank’s hoarse voice shouting, ‘Yeah, Fran! Go Fran!’

  Sadie fingers my medal and Huxley hands me water. I have finished in the top quarter. People come up and tell me what a wonderful run I had and say, ‘Boy, you’re some runner’, and suddenly hick is chic. I have qualified for an Ironman and am offered a spot on a relay team. As I’m basking in the glory of it all, I say a sad farewell to my bad habits. Smoking, I’ll miss you most of all. My innocence is gone. This might never be fun again.

  Frank and I have hired a babysitter for the night and plan to have a romantic evening. But so far, I’ve been sitting alone for 20 minutes in the lounge while Frank talks to New York. I don’t mind, though. I have some lovely cold champagne and all the feel-good endorphins galloping around in my head.

  ‘Hey, I thought you were going to quit?’ Frank enters, nods at the cigarette I’m lighting.

  ‘New plan,’ I say, through a plume of smoke. ‘I’m going to ask Marlboro to sponsor me. We’ll have the warning changed to “Smoking might take two minutes off your time. Have a nice run!”’ I pour a glass of champagne for Frank.

  ‘Better yet, I’ll have my podiatrist sponsor me. I can wear a T-shirt that says “Ask me about my bunions!”’ I pour myself another glass.

  ‘You could design triangular-shaped running shoes. You know, for people with enormous bunions like you,’ Frank adds.

  ‘Thanks, Frank.’

  ‘Sorry, I thought we were kidding. Well, here’s to you. That was pretty amazing.’

  ‘Wasn’t it!’ My hands keep running over my shoulder muscles. I can’t help it. It’s late in the evening … I’ve put on my make-up and brushed my long, blonde hair and … oh … I look wonderful tonight.

  I continue, ‘You know, in all seriousness, Frank, I’m serious about this racing now. Seriously.’ I flash the bartender a bicep as I motion for another bottle. ‘I’m going to do that Ironman.’

  ‘Are you serious?’ asks Frank.

  ‘Do I look like I’m joking, Frank?’ I light another cigarette.

  ‘You should know, sweetie, you haven’t taken your eyes off yourself since I got here,’ Frank quips. It’s true; the wall in front of me is mirrored.

  ‘I’m looking at the bottles,’ I say, gazing ahead, thinking, ‘This is what I look like when I say, “I’m looking at the bottles.”’ I turn to Frank. ‘Okay, yeah, you’re right. I can’t help it.’ The laughter suddenly goes out of me and I tamp down my cigarette. ‘I just feel good … like from the inside out, like the search is over. For once … oh, this is hard to say … I don’t know, Frank … I don’t really know … It’s everything, everything’s good … for once, I feel like a winner. I really do. I tried something and, for once, it worked.’ I tear up at the sad truth of that.

  ‘You are always so hard on yourself, Fran. Look, do the Ironman if you think it’s what you want to do but it won’t define you to me or the kids. In fact, I’m not sure what it really means. You really want to go through it? You really have the time? I think it’s crazy. But if it will make you happy, do it.’ Frank looks into my eyes.

  ‘Frank,’ I say, ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Of course you are.’ He hands me a cocktail napkin and lights my cigarette.

  The next day, Greg’s lined up a speedboat to take us to a small, uninhabited island. I call down for a picnic basket and Frank and Samantha get snorkelling gear for everyone. The kids have a wild time, bumping across the South China Sea. The captain looks for every chance to help them fly overboard into the roiling water. I’m trying to sit on both kids to keep them down but I’m bouncing around the vessel randomly, suddenly, violently. Finally, we stop at a lush little beach and it appears we’re the only people on the island. The boat drops us off and makes a quick u-turn and disappears.

  ‘Greg,’ I say, ‘how can we be sure he’ll be back?’

  ‘Calm down, Frannie.’

  Uh, these Canadians! Not a care in the fucking world, eh?

  ‘So,’ I whisper to Samantha, ‘where should we run?’

  ‘No!’ everyone shouts, including Samantha.

  ‘Frannie, one day off. It’s not gonna kill ya,’ Greg, Mr Mellower-than-thou, says like he knows.

  And maybe he does. Despite my anxiety – knowing as I do that a body at rest stays at rest and tomorrow it’s going to be that much harder to get off the sofa and just do it – the day unspools gloriously. It is a day where thousands of moments seem blessings. Two families playing, enjoying our children. The kids exploring their strengths, investing energy in running up and down the white, soft beach. We snap wonderful pictures of them in their snorkelling gear and we all flipper through the water, swimming up to each other and tapping a shoulder, pointing to a clownfish or a sea anemone. Greg tries out his new underwater camera and tracks down a huge turtle, which we all spend about an hour following and losing. We picnic on rolls and butter because I guess when I asked the hotel for sandwiches, they decided to give me their national favourite. We hike, draw messages in the sand and, just as we’re growing tired of being sticky and salty and even weary of feeling grateful, our man with the boat returns, grinning like a hellhound.

  The following day we return to Singapore and Frank immediately goes into the office for a few hours. He must have felt buried with wo
rk. On the plane he alternated between flipping through sheaves of paper and playing with his calculator. For lunch, he had fingernails.

  I check my emails: 35 from work, which I’ll ignore for now, especially the one that has ‘YOU DIDN’T CALL ME FRIDAY’ for a subject. Maj and Mag wrote: ‘Good work! Ironman is serious. We need to upgrade your Biospliven. Bring a sample of sweat. Visit our website www.fitnessisallthatmatters.com. Yeah!’ Every nut has a website now.

  ‘Susie?’ I call.

  ‘Yes, Madame.’

  ‘Can you hold this cup under my chin while I run in place here?’

  ‘Of course, Madame.’

  Plink, plink, plink.

  ‘Okay, will you take this over to Maj and Mag?’

  ‘Right away, Madame.’

  Hmmm, I think, this is what I have to put up with, a maid with attitude. It’s just a cup of sweat. She didn’t have to be so sullen. She could have made it more fun if she tried a little. I go into the kitchen and see she baked a torte. ‘Sadie! Huxley! Want some?’ There’s a sign sticking up: ‘Congratulations, Ma’am’.

  I line up friends to pop in and check on Sadie and Huxley for every day that we’ll be in Australia. I hire two more babysitters for day and night shifts so that I have constant, vigilant supervision of the kids. The kids have playdates every day. Susie tells me not to worry, she’ll call if there is any problem.

  Frank pulls some string or another and manages to book us into a penthouse at the ANA with quintessential panoramic views of Sydney Harbour. The minute I’m there I see no need to leave the room to have a satisfying vacation, but I want to walk around before it gets dark.

  ‘But this is about the love,’ Frank says, coming toward me.

  ‘You’ll be working tomorrow. Don’t you want to have a quick look at the place?’ I say. ‘And, then, the love.’ I wink.

  The weather is chilly and I’m happy to wear my motorcycle jacket and black jeans as we cruise through this ancient section of town. The Tildons were named after the sandstone bluffs where the first convicts cut bricks for gutters and buildings in the 1700s. It was also where prisoners were piled up in dosshouses run by drunken marines. Now, it’s just full of drunken investment bankers and thick-necked yobbos and the odd maritime folk, depending on the bar.

  We wander through the warren of streets and go into every pub that looks interesting. One has two lovely big old stone fireplaces. A dog is sleeping on a woven Aboriginal rug and an old sailor sits propped at the bar. Behind the bar is a bosomy girl in her mid-30s and an ancient man, probably the bartender’s dad. I get the feeling that, even though they have plenty of vacant seats and probably need the money, they don’t want our type. American. My Australian and British (and German and Irish … and Singaporean … and Indian) friends always say, ‘… oh, but you and Frank are different’ whenever they’ve just finished saying ‘Of course they were American’ or ‘leave it to an American’ or ‘bloody fucking wankers, those Americans’. Anyway, I’m rather indifferent to the snub.

  We go to a few more pubs and walk down to Woolloo-moolooo. We take a ferry to Watsons Bay and have dinner on the wharf. The afternoon had been like a New York early fall day. The city is quite nice, but it’s the weather and the Australian way of life – a passion for pleasure and ease – that makes me say, ‘Frank, Australia has got to be your next gig. Let’s start scheming.’

  ‘What next gig?’

  ‘Well, wouldn’t it be great to get a job in a new place in a few years? I mean, I’m not ready to leave Singapore, but when we are, then, Australia! That would be so fantastic. The weather is awesome here and they’re like us even though they hate us. Then we’ll do Europe … but I can’t learn a new language …’ I take a bite of my lobster. Why hadn’t we thought of this before? We’re on to something here; we have discovered the wonderful worldwide expat scene. We are part of a whole secret society that knows how good it can be. Frank doesn’t say anything more. He is looking off into the ocean, pensively. I have planted a seed. Or, it is entirely possible, he is thinking ‘Ocean’.

  When we return to the ANA, we undress for the love. Is it a sign that they really care when they make a bed so tight it’s shrink-wrapped? As I use every ounce of strength I have to get a small corner of sheet down I see the message light on the phone.

  ‘Frank, we have a message.’

  ‘Can’t we ignore it?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It could be the kids.’

  ‘They don’t make phone calls.’

  ‘I mean, it could be about them.’

  Frank dials in for the message. He sits down heavily on the bed as he listens. He hangs up slowly.

  ‘Fran, I’m sorry. I don’t think we can make it to the Blue Mountains. Ken’s here. He wants to see me tomorrow. He’s invited us to dinner after.’

  ‘Ken? Your boss? From New York?’

  ‘Yeah. It’s a big meeting. I told you there might be a chance he’d show up.’

  ‘No, see, because if you did, I would have brought a dinner-with-Ken outfit and I didn’t.’ I jump up and swing open the closet door to display my all-blacks. ‘And why can’t we still go away?’ I huff back into bed and make no headway on dislodging the sheet, scratching and pawing at it.

  ‘Fran, my boss doesn’t come around the world so that we can piss off on a vacation we’re only taking because he was on the other side of the world.’

  ‘Ahhhh. See, you never said that.’ I find a way to slither in. ‘Okay, don’t worry. I mean, now that we know how easy it is to get here, we’ll do it another time. We’ll bring the kids. And then when you get a job here … just kidding … good night. I love you. I’ll find something to wear, don’t worry.’

  And I fall asleep.

  Had we asked someone, we might have learned that St Leonards is to Sydney as Brooklyn is to Manhattan. We could have done it in a taxi ride. But we didn’t ask. So, instead, because Frank’s meeting is in St Leonards, we move into a dank, drippy little motor lodge in the heart of a suburb.

  ‘What am I going to do here?’ I complain.

  ‘Didn’t you bring your laptop?’

  ‘Actually, no.’ And it occurs to me that I didn’t even bring a manuscript or a contract. I have completely forgotten about work.

  ‘I gotta go. Just take a bath and get your nails done. Go shopping. I’ll be back soon.’

  The minute he leaves, the walls start coming toward me. I’m making them do that because I’m bored. I could lie on the bed and pretend I’m a junkie. I’m going crazy. Why? What do other people do when they are on vacation? Relax, read … but the walls … it’s for real this time … ahhh!!! I cave. Much as I wish I could deviate from my routine, it seems I can’t. There simply is one thing to do. I put on some shorts and tie up my shoes and go out for a run.

  In front of the motor lodge I spot a guy, about 60, tying up his shoes, a fellow jogger.

  ‘Hey,’ I call out, ‘you know a good route around here?’

  He says, ‘Yeah, come with me.’

  I don’t really want to. I mean, I’m training for an Ironman for God’s sake and this man is, well, not. But I can’t be rude, that’d be so American, so I run with him. And, actually, he keeps up fine. Our conversation is crackling. He’s a doctor and a writer and a very interesting man. He takes me on a wonderful path through Aboriginal caves and cliffs and bushland and into exclusive neighbourhoods. He asks about my kids and I ask about his. One is an actress.

  ‘Oh, that’s tough,’ I say.

  ‘Yeah, she lives in the US but she comes to visit.’

  ‘Is she getting work?’ I ask as we round a cliff wall.

  ‘Oh, she and Tom do pretty well.’

  Nicole Kidman’s dad and I had a great run together. Next time, I’ll get the vacation that includes tea with Elle’s mum.

  I get a book and take a walk, come back in time for a shower, and lay out all my clothes. Frank returns. ‘Frank! You’ll never believe who I ran with today.’

  ‘Fran, Ken and
Jill are waiting downstairs. I told you six.’

  ‘Frank, there’s no downstairs here. It’s a motor lodge. I’ll be ready in a second.’

  While I’m putting on my make-up, I call out to Frank, ‘We have to play this carefully, you know.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Well, someone’s going to ask, “How are you, Fran?” and I don’t want to seem too happy or else Ken’ll be, like, “Hmmm, they have it too good”, but then we have to get him to know we’d love to be here four years, five years, forever … Okay, how do I look? Like I can wrap him around my pinky?’

  Frank doesn’t take in the gauzy shirt and black jeans, he looks at my face. ‘Fran, you’ve had a long run.’

  ‘I usually have good colour after a long run.’

  Frank pulls me close for a moment, tightly. ‘That’s not what I mean. Listen, let’s go. The boss is waiting.’

  I kiss Jill and now probably have more make-up on one side of my face. She tends to apply a little extra, maybe in case you forgot to wear your own. Same thing with the perfume, because, who knows, the whole town might smell bad. She wears a lot of jewellery; they don’t like to be separated. She and I have matching hair.

  I like her and I like Ken. Sure, they’re the boss and his wife and a generation older and rich, rich, rich – from what he’s accomplished and by virtue of her birth – but she makes me feel like a girlfriend and Ken always laughs at my jokes. It doesn’t matter if she never calls me the next day to keep on being my girlfriend or if Ken was only laughing at my jokes because I am. It’s a form of kindness, no? Ken’s a guy, a guy’s guy. If he married a different girl, he might’ve been racing cars, or fixing them wearing a jumpsuit and a name patch, ‘Ken’. He’s a man of action and decision. He makes people quake and he makes things happen.

  We pile into the limo waiting at our motel and, ten minutes later, arrive at the ANA where Jill has made dinner reservations. I say hello to the concierge who recognises me from last night and wave to the bellhop who helped us with our bags and nod to the reservations assistant and oh, there’s the housekeeper – ‘Nice chocolates!’ I say. ‘I used to live here,’ I explain to Jill and Ken.