I liked her a lot for her spirit, which was a typically British attitude, as I was to find out.
"Well, I wanted a real ass-kicking formal thing. Something to wear to a princess's wedding or something?"
"A Yank are we?" she goes, smiling. "Get invited to a lot of princess's weddings, do we?"
"Never mind about that. Let's see what you've got. The more expensive the better." Fashion coordinators around the world like to hear that.
"Good answer!" she goes, showing that American television gets distributed pretty widely. I could probably have gotten the same response in Sri Lanka. She began pulling things out of drawers, not off the racks. "How's this?" she goes.
The third dress she selected was classic yet glamorous. It was sewn together out of Imperial blue faux-silk, with a V-neckline that would require a serious, strapless, longline, undewired bra, which I'm sure she'd be able to sell me, too. It had overlapping layers of fringe all the way down to the floor-length hemline. She showed me some simple accessories—opera-length faux pearls and matching Imperial blue pumps with a knot of more faux pearls. We found a faux pearl-covered handbag to complete the outfit. I figured I was real costing and definitely "Get up!" It cost me a fortune, but I was playing against a mythical figure, and you got to go with what you know in that kind of semi-fabricated situation.
"Would you care to wear this now, or shall I wrap it for you?" she goes.
I go, "I'll wear it now. I want to impress all the hanks here in the mall. Is this really Sherwood Forest? I'd pictured it as more than three mighty oaks and a few poozley rhododendrons."
She shrugged without replying, and very casually took my golden brassiere and spangled G-string, my dagger and broadsword, and folded them over in nicely patterned paper as if they were everyday items of nine-to-five apparel. I paid her with my father's credit card, which I kept under the G-string. She didn't hesitate for a minute; I gave her full marks for her entire deportment and general zoiks. I walked out of Rhodes and Maxwell feeling as if Maid Marian would have to go some to joan me out.
Well, unfortunately, Maid Marian had the secret knowledge of the Sherwood Forest Mall geography, and she did joan me out. She showed up at the teashop at two o'clock, wearing, I swear, something you might wear as a visiting monarch among yam-eating natives somewhere. She walked gracefully, on Robin's arm, because someone as formal as she required an escort. "Get up, girl!" he goes. Even Robin Hood had a new outfit—or an old one, the one you picture him in, in Lincoln green.
But Maid Marian! I was ready to toss in the towel, the washcloth, and the dishrag all at the same time. She showed up in a gown from Whitley's, which apparently is open only by appointment, but celebrities like Robin Hood and Maid Marian have permanent appointments. She was wearing a white chiffon gown lined with white satin, hand-beaded, of course. Gold—possibly real gold—and white bugle beads dropped in bunches from the waist to the hem in the shape of what I was given to understand was the emblem of the Monceux family; it had been affixed by hand while Marian shopped for the rest of the items on her list.
She had gold beading draped from the shoulders over antique white leather gloves, and a high mantle of white lace featuring rhinestones and crystals. She had on a rhinestone crown, too, and carried a scepter to go with. For all I knew, the rhinestones could have been vastly more costly and unfaux, but I wouldn't give the bitch the satisfaction. I was surprised not to see big, white plumes stuck into her hair, but it was evident that Maid Marian knew when to stop. I didn't know you could walk into a shop and walk out with such an outfit.
"Well," she goes, "what do you think?" She flounced a little and did this ganky turn on the floor, like I was supposed to be impressed or something. "It's okay," I go, "but what would you wear that thing to?"
"Oh," she goes, "hospital openings and charity balls. We get invited to quite lot of that sort of thing. Do they have balls in the States?"
"Do they have balls? You just try us sometime. Seems like you did that twice in our history, and we sent you home both times, bitching and moaning about unfair tactics."
Maid Marian got a little ungelled by that statement, and she goes, "Talk about bitch!"
Robin Hood put his hand on her sleeve to cool her down. "Remember where she's from," he goes. "And you've clearly won the first round."
"Yeah," I go, "she did, but talk about unfair tactics!"
"Let's move on to the second challenge," goes Robin. "The normal, daily outfit. That shouldn't be too hard here, and I don't think we have much of an advantage."
"Fine. Back here at four o'clock. And no secret shops hidden behind some totally dis American cheesesteak shop."
"There was no secret about Whitley's," goes Maid Marian. "You could have shopped there, too. I could've gotten you a special guest entré."
"Oh, thank you very much, your serene highness. You look ridiculous. Go bless some war veterans or something."
We stormed off in opposite directions. Robin Hood looked as if he didn't really want to be a part of this contest anymore, and I couldn't blame him.
I headed back to Rhodes and Maxwell, because my fashion coordinator, whom I'd gotten to know as Miss Haye, had been so cordial. She seemed genuinely glad to see me, particularly now that I was wearing my woofin' blue fringy number and not the barbarian garb. "Yes?" she goes. "Something more?"
"I thought some simple but elegant afternoon wear, in case I meet a fresh young man with designs to take me to tea."
"Ah, yes, we have just the thing." This came off the rack, though, not out of one of the drawers. It was a peach wool cinch waist dress that I could see myself roaring to victory over Maid Marian in. The fashion coordinator threw in a chunky real gold necklace with matching earrings and a fun little floppy beret. She graciously suggested shoes and a handbag that were perfect mates.
I paid again for the costume, and this time she wrapped the extraneous faux-silk number and its accoutrements. I was sure that I looked at the top of my form, and I couldn't wait to see if Maid Marian had found anything better. Maybe there was another private shop somewhere that catered to local mythical types.
We both arrived at the teashop at four o'clock, and this time Robin Hood brought Little John to act as judge.
"Jeez, he's big!" I go.
"Whence the name," goes Robin Hood charmingly. I was definitely hit-tin', but Robin's girlfriend was a definite goober.
And goober she proved to be. She showed up in a kind of pink and yellow flowered sheath dress with a peplum. Her shoes were simple pink low-heeled walking shoes. Oh, and she had an ice lemon tote that looked as if it had been given to her as a gift from one of the overjoyed war veterans.
"Well," goes Robin Hood disappointedly.
"I award the imaginary golden arrow to Miss Birnbaum, making this contest a tie now," announced Little John. "The winner will be determined by the victor of the casual wear competition. Good luck to you both."
"Terrific!" I go. "Nobody can out-casual me."
"We'll see," goes Maid Marian, whisking off Robin Hood down one of the diagonal aisles.
"And we didn't choose a prize for the winner, did we?" I go. "How about picking up the tab for dinner."
"So damn Yank," goes Maid Marian over her shoulder. "Like the honor isn't enough for her."
I studied the mall's Where-to-Find map for a few minutes, until I saw an entry for a sporty, informal shop called The Box. It looked okay from the outside—no dry-skinned plain girls from Australia, no ethnically-mixed groups with outrageous accessories. I went into The Box and shopped around, and put together a nice assortment of informal clothes. The fashion coordinator was a young woman with pretty red hair and an obligatory green dress. She wore a nametag that said she was Caroline.
"Are you sure you're in the right shop, miss?" she goes. "You're wearing such a nice outfit—"
"Oh, don't worry, Caroline," I go. "I want to get out of this thing and into something more casual. I've picked these right off the racks. I think they'll be o
kay."
"A Yank, are we? And how are we enjoying our stay?"
"Just total it up," I go. I'd chosen a kind of artsy-radical ensemble that I thought would blow Miss S. Forest out of the water. I could see Paula Abdul wearing the outfit, but not Miss Princess Maid Marian.
"It ought to flatter you nicely," Caroline goes.
"Oh," I go, "I have this one-of-a-kind flair. I don't go overboard into artistic or anything. I just want to be comfortable."
"Oh," laughed Caroline, "anything would be comfortable after that costume. Shall I wrap it for you? Do you wish to wear your purchases out of the shop?"
"You bet I'll wear it," I go. "That was the whole idea." I paid Caroline and wished her a good day, and left wearing a black cotton knit jumpsuit with a baggy jacket and a wild, jungle-print belt. On my feet I had red loafers, and I didn't bother with a handbag—I kept all my little personal items in a bag from The Box. It was a pretty simple shopping expedition, and I knew I had Maid Marian beaten by the kilometer.
I arrived at the tea shop about half-past five. Robin and Marian were nowhere in sight, but Little John was inside having some British goodies unknown to us in the colonies. "Hey," he goes, "you look downright delicious! Maybe I shouldn't be the judge, because I'm quantifiably prejudiced toward exotic women."
I'm exotic?" I go, like totally disbelieving, but loving every second of it. "I like the jacket over the jumpsuit. Very Seventh Avenue. And that intensely sexy Yank accent!"
"You know Seventh Avenue?" I go. It seemed like we had a lot in common. And my New York nasal whine—sexy?
Robin Hood and Maid Marian took a lot longer to choose the casual clothing than any of the other outfits. I would've thought their traditional costumes would've been hot enough for show—you know, Robin's Lincoln green and Marian's dynamic retro old-timey gear; but I could tell that Marian wanted to absolutely kill here. So while Little John and I made goo-goo eyes over plates of like this terribly weight-inducing stuff, we waited but we didn't notice the time go by.
"So," I go, "I understand that you're this big superstar in the Video Arcade."
Little John blushed. "Aw," he goes, "has Gentle Robin been bragging on me again? It's just because he has no control over the silver ball. From the time he shoots it, he has maybe three seconds before it drops out one of the exit holes. He only plays those games because he doesn't like the video games where all you do is kill people."
"Except Normans, I suppose."
"Yes, well, killing Norman invaders, it goes without saying."
I stuffed some more pastry into my mouth. "Do you mind me asking a couple of embarrassing questions?"
"No, lady, I fear not," goes Little John.
"Well," I go, "take for instance Robin's name. Surely it's short for Robert, which is of Norman origin."
Little John frowned. "Causes him no end of grief, tackling that one."
"And if I remember right, the date of King Richard's return given in the book is something like 1188."
"Close enough," goes Little John, beginning to look grief-stricken himself.
"And you all escaped together to miss out on like the tyranny of the Normans. But the longbow—your band's chosen weapon—was not the favorite weapon of the Saxons, it was the short bow. The longbow wasn't even known by the Normans. It wasn't introduced until the end of the thirteenth century, at the battle of Falkirk. Am I right so far?"
"Have some more of this cream cake. It's pretty hittin', as far as mall food goes.
"No, thank you," I go.
"You seem to have studied up on us right well."
I shrugged. "It was either the Myths and Legends course or a political science thing I never would've gotten through."
"I know the feeling, the first time I saw Robin shoot—and it was a clothyard shaft from a longbow."
"Well," I go, "how do you explain your pardons from King Richard upon his return? In 1188 or thereabouts, the monarch, as far as I recall, was Henry II Plantagenet, not Richard."
A fainter shrug from Little John. "Prettier remembering than I have these days, my lady."
"And then there's your own name. John was introduced by the Normans, and at that time 'Little' meant in Saxon mean or like a lying, skanky son of a bitch."
Little John shrugged. "What can I say about what others thought of me at an early age?"
"Am I making you uncomfortable with all these questions?" I go.
Little John gave me a faint smile. "No," he goes, give as fair as I get, to the best of my recollection."
"Why do you put up with all this rumormongering?" I go.
"Oh," goes Little John, "it's only among the pedantic academics. Robin's gotten us a new PR firm, though. We'll be hot stuff again soon."
Robin and Marian entered the tea shop about 6 o'clock. They took empty seats at the table with Little John and me.
"Well," goes Maid Marian, "what do you think?" She stood and turned slowly, showing off her outfit. She had bought for herself a pair of Harris tweed pleated trousers, soft grey flecked with yellow, blue, and green. Above the pants she wore a beautiful, pale blue hand-knit sweater decorated with a pattern of colorful May flowers. Under the sweater she had on a leaf green turtleneck. On her feet she had grey woolen socks and sturdy black oxfords. She smiled delightedly at the assemblage and then took her seat. Robin stood up and he goes "There isn't any more of a casual outfit in England today than right here at this table." He slammed his ale tankard on the table and sat down.
"It will be very difficult," goes Little John, "for me to choose the final winner and award the cherished prize today."
"In that outfit, Marian," I go, "you look like the Queen of the May."
Marian glared at me. "I've been Queen of the May with Robin as King of the May for 700 years. In Nottinghamshire, no one would dare propose any others."
"Well, then, Little John," goes Robin Hood, "don't feel obliged to name us the winners just because we've been winners for over seven centuries. We have a worthy challenger among us. We'll think no less of you for championing Miss Birnbaum over us." Robin was one gracious dude.
"They're both pretty nice outfits," Little John goes. "I think we'll have to look in more detail to break this apparent tie."
Robin stood and finished another tankard of ale. "Never before in seven hundred years," he goes, "has a contest finished as closely as this. Of course, during the majority of those years Sherwood Forest was a forest, not a mall." He sat back down.
Little John got up and walked around to see me and Maid Marian better. First he examined me. I tried not to be ganky, and I kept a straight face, although I knew I was looking good. He made a circuit of our table two or three times, and each time he complimented me on my choices of casual clothes. "I've said it before, but I think you've got crushin' taste in clothes. I'm a sucker for fringe, but I won't let that get in the way of my judgment. Maureen, you're what we've come to call in the last few years a real betty—that's totally good. I think your figure and your fitness add to your point total because here in Sherwood we expect a woman to be more than just a lovely lady at our service. Your outfit is outstanding. For instance, your belt. What about it?"
"Oh, it's nothing special," I go. "I picked it up for forty pounds. Hand made in Brazil. How much is that in dollars?"
"Very nice. Very nice. Now let's look at Marian's ensemble. Your pants are a lovely Harris tweed. And your sweater?"
"Hand knit of Scottish lambswool."
"And the turtleneck. A perfect spring green background for the flowers in your sweater."
Robin Hood ordered more ale for all of us, the first for Little John and me. Robin took a long draught and, burping, announced "Can Marian shop or can't she?" At which point, Little John rubbed his well-trimmed beard again and examined Maid Marian's clothes more carefully.
"You know," he goes, "I do honestly believe by the king's troth that I've seen that leaf green turtleneck before."
"No!" cried Robin Hood. Maid Marian's expression fell
slowly into grief.
"Even after seven hundred years," she goes, "I cannot bear to win under falsehood. I have worn this green turtleneck before. Look, here on my sleeve, this hole. I received this shirt two years ago from my aunt—on the Monceux side. I knew it would look good with these other clothes, and I thought that I might easily dupe Little John who would be the hard judge and Maureen who is not accustomed to our ways. Forgive me! I have forfeited the match! I don't deserve your faith and trust any longer."
Little John's expression was grim. "You've served us in Sherwood Forest all these centuries in every necessary capacity. Surely you've earned our gratitude enough to overcome this one lapse in judgment."
"Thank you," goes Maid Marian simply.
Robin goes "Marian, I love you still, and I always will. Maureen, I'm happy to offer you membership in our Merrie Band. You're right hearty and we'd be pleased to have you as a member of our group."
And just then, with a rich cream pie in my mouth, I whooshed out of Merrie Olde England.
* * * * *
MAUREEN , LISTEN," I told her, "I'm not as enthusiastic about your adventures as you are. I've got my own life to lead. I'm married now, and pregnant. Although you'll be my best friend for life, probably, and we have our Greenberg School bond between us, I have to tell you that you've become a disruptive force in our family."
"Bitsy," she said, "I don't know how to tell you this, but I've had a really bald time here. I understand from my careful observational studies that Mars is in the sky tonight, and I'll make another attempt to whoosh to the Red Planet and Prince Van. I'm beginning to lose hope that I'll ever find him again, but I have to keep trying. The first time was biscuit easy. Since then, I've been lucky just to make it back to Earth. I wonder if any of the scientists at the Smithsonian Institute or those burly places in England could help me out.
Maureen Birnbaum, Barbarian Swordperson Page 10
