Poses

I had a party Saturday night and Luis brought his friend Mildred. Mildred was quite a character. She was quite attractive; a little skinny, yes, but one got the impression that she did not have trouble making friends and/or boyfriends.

I like jazz, although I'm not quite sure how much I like it, if you get my meaning. I guess a true jazz afficionado would tell me pointedly that I "like all the obvious stuff." Nevertheless Mark and I talked a little about jazz Saturday night. I told him about John Coltrane's rendition of "My Favorite Things" and about the documentary I saw where Wynton Marsalis said that "My Favorite Things" with its blue cover was the record that got him interested in jazz. A few minutes into the song, Mark agreed that this was indeed a great record.
"Hey, Rich, who is this?" It was Mildred speaking.
"John Coltrane," I said.
"John Coltrane?" she replied. "My friend shook the hand of John Coltrane! He was like, 'J-J-John C-C-Coltrane!'" she said, tremulously shaking an invisible hand.
"Wow, that's so cool!" I said.
Joe incredulously replied, "Haven't a million people shaken his hand?" Leave it to Joe to make an awkward situation even more so.
I pulled Joe aside and whispered, "Dude, Coltrane's been dead for a really long time." 38 years, to be exact.

While this little conversation was to me the most glaring example of Mildred's posing, it was not all she had to offer for the night. Next to the bar hung a piece painted in the style of van Gogh, of whose work my father is a great admirer. She asked me about it.
"Hey, Rich," she began, "is that a copy of a van Gogh?"
Joe's eyes were already rolling, but I plodded on. "I think it's just made in his style," I said. "My dad's a big fan of his. He's become really into paintings recently."
"You mean it wasn't your mom who bought all these paintings? Is your dad a fag?" Joe again.
"Do you mind if I have a look?" Mildred politely asked.
"No, not at all."
After a few minutes of examining the painting she came back. "Is it a copy?" I asked, genuinely curious myself. I'd always assumed it was just done in van Gogh's style, although now I wasn't so sure. "I don't think he painted anything like that."
"It's a copy," Mildred corrected me. "He made one of those. Irises."
I later asked my dad about the painting, and he said that it was only done in van Gogh's style and wasn't actually a copy.

Mildred's last faux pas was very forgivable to me, but for a gourmet like Joe it was totally unacceptable. She tried some of the dessert Chino brought.
"Rich, are these cinnamon sticks?" she asked.
"No, they aren't. I don't know what they are. Chino brought them and we've been trying to remember what they're called."
Later on Joe, visibly chagrined, complained that "There isn't even a hint of cinnamon here."

In retrospect, Joe and I were too cruel to this sweet girl, whether she was aware of it or not. I'm willing to believe that she has a friend who is at least twice her twenty-two years who did get to shake John Coltrane's hand. The van Gogh mistake was most likely honest. And maybe she's had cinnamon sticks that don't taste much like cinnamon. I should have asked for her number. She was cute, and I felt she was flirting with me, although she probably wasn't. I bet she thinks Joe and I are a pair of queens.