Free Blues for Beginners: Stories and Obsessions by Bacon Press Books

“It’s time to move on to men in suits. Read
Cosmopolitan.”
    She found Cosmopolitan lively and
informative, a fount of wisdom and inspiration, but I found it
unbearably sad. The Cosmo Girl, with her spike heels and cleavage,
lived exclusively under man-made light. She was calculating, yet
innocent, avid to please. Her eye always on the main chance, yet
she seemed satisfied with so little: a clerical job, lingerie, and
a boss to seduce.
    .
    My boss, Mr. Fischbach was the president and
founder of Chatsworth Osborn. Tall, gray, and cadaverous, he was a
presence behind closed doors. He was rumored to be an Angel, one of
those Broadway investors who financed vehicles for aging stars and
young proteges. Twice a day I delivered his mail. He never spoke to
me. Sometimes he didn’t even look up from the pages of his
Variety.
    Besides delivering mail, I proofread copy and
clipped our ads as they appeared in print. Chatsworth Osborn ads
ran in airplane magazines and publications of fraternal orders. A
Chatsworth Osborn ad was direct. Never buy another pair of socks in
your life! Improve TV reception for only $9.95! There was always a
fourteen day money back guarantee if you weren’t completely
satisfied.
    The bard of Forever Socks and Day-glo Panties
was Lenny, chief copywriter and self proclaimed “dirty old man.” He
looked like a friendly mastiff. Lots of jowl and grizzled hair at
the temples, but he wore great shirts. His attitude towards me was
of good natured lechery, which I didn’t take seriously, since he
was married. He had one of those cigarette scorched, Humphrey
Bogart voices, like my father. He even smelled the same, a friendly
aroma of coffee and unfiltered Camels.
    “You’re the only broad with class around
here,” he said when I asked him why he didn’t bother the
secretaries instead of me.
    “That’s because I still wear knee socks and
Weejuns,” I said.
    “Seriously. You’ve got an aristocratic
profile. C’mere,” he said, and grabbed for my ass in a pro forma
sort of way.
    “Cut it out, Lenny. You’re old enough to be
my father.”
    “You took Psychology, college girl,” he said.
“ Admit it. Haven’t you ever wanted to make it with the old
man?”
    .
    I shared a windowless cubicle with two other
trainees. Kenneth was 19 and had the face of an angel if you could
overlook the acne. He spoke real slow because he was trying to get
the Brooklyn out of his voice. Ralph, who said he was 19 but looked
older, spoke fast and southern. I imagined Ralph outfitted by
doting maiden aunts who still shopped the boys department. He wore
such odd clothes, everything too small, and in strange colors or
wallpaper prints. Ralph and Kenneth were roommates in real life as
well.
    One night they invited me over to the
apartment they shared off Central Park West. Black leather and
chrome Barcelona chairs, a white overstuffed sofa, and only the
barest glimpse of kitchen behind a mirrored screen. I wondered how
they could afford it.
    “What do the bedrooms look like?” I said.
    “Bedrooms?” Ralph said, and Kenneth
blushed.
    I felt very, very provincial.
    Dinner was fondu. Cosmo recommended fondue as
the perfect little dinner for promoting an intimate situation.
Under candlelight, the three of us huddled around the fondue pot
with our small skewers of raw meat. After dinner, Ralph and Kenneth
showed me their portfolios, the collection of glossy photographs
that would give them the edge they needed for modeling jobs. In
black and white, Ralph looked sophisticated, debonair, and ageless
as Astaire, while Kenneth combined the intense self-absorption of
James Dean with the clean gleam of Tab Hunter.
    “You’re so lucky to get the mail run,” said
Kenneth.
    “I’ve never met anyone as weird as Mr.
Fischbach,” I said. “Does he only come out at night, or what?”
    Ralph giggled.
    “I’m not furniture, “ I said. “It wouldn’t
kill him to thank me for bringing him his precious Variety.”
    “He’s just