Brandi and Bernadette have been giving Bren the silent treatment because he won't let them come and go in his room as they please. But that didn't work with him, of course; he loves being left alone. So they're changing tactics...
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After two weeks of silence, the B-girls decided it was time I be made acceptable to them and their circle of friends, for my general appearance was not cool. So a makeover was started, and I went along with it.
Why? I have no idea. I'd never cared about that nonsense in Derry. But their incessant nattering kept my focus on them and not my past life, so I let the fanatical two lead the way, with one condition--that we keep the price low. My ready cash was not so very great.
“We could just ask mommy for her charge card,” said one.
“Like for Joske's. Maybe Penney's,” said the other. “No Sears. No Montgomery Wards.”
“Not Frost Brothers or Neiman's, yet.”
“We gotta establish your style before we go upscale.”
“What's upscale?” I asked, truly perplexed.
“Designer duds.”
“No upscale, at all,” I'd snapped.
“Well, we're not talking Yves St. Laurent,” said one.
“Or Christian Dior,” said the other.
“He doesn't have men's clothes.”
“I saw one of his suits at Holleran's.”
“That was Burberry. From England.”
“You don't know what you're talking about.”
And off they went, no longer discussing designer duds for me. Thank God. Instead, first was my new wardrobe.
“Those pants are just plain ugly,” said one, after I'd about given up hope of ever telling them apart.
“What's wrong with my trousers?” I'd growled.
“They're for old men, not boys.”
“And nothing but white t-shirts?” said the other.
“With stains on them!”
“And holes.”
“From cigarette burns?!”
“You have to get out and be around people.”
“But we don't want you to be embarrassing to us,”
“So this is for your own good.”
“No hip-huggers, either.”
“I don't know; David Cassidy still wears them.”
“Not like he used to. They're closer to his belly button.”
“I still think he'd look good in them.”
“But they are so last year.”
“Gracie Venable wears hip-huggers.”
“Yeah, and look at her.”
“Oh. Yeah. No hip-huggers.”
Levi 501 jeans, is what it wound up at; not Wrangler, thank you. Dingo boots. Sandals. Madras button-ups and undershirts with pockets.
“No tie-dies.”
“Very last year.”
“Worse, very 1970.”
“Now that's just mean. We were wearing tie-dyes last year.”
“You were. Not me.”
“Now you're being rude!”
And off they would go into one of their arguments, and they'd forget about me.
Of course, I could not forget completely about Derry and Belfast, because it seemed every night's news carried a new atrocity. Constables and soldiers grabbed and murdered. Protestant workers, with the same done to Catholics. Bombs dealing death and destruction to people out and about at the time. Politicians nattering on and on with nothing to show for all their talk. Bleating from Westminster about how best to settle the matter and the planning of a new government beholden to none and all, after the June elections. Stories with little depth or understanding of what was happening.
The intrusion of the B-Girls and their demands grew more and more to be a sanctuary against the arbitrariness of what was happening.
So every Saturday, they'd be knocking at my door, ten am--until I growled a reminder that I hadn't got home till near four and needed my sleep so I could do it all, again, that night. So they shifted to noon, with time enough for lunch before dragging me here or there, on the bus.
Fortunately, the little beasts had accepted that everyone agreed second-hand shops were cool enough to shop in.
“Sarah Wakeman told us about this great one on Bissonnet,” said Brandi, one Saturday, “so we need to go.”
“I'm working tonight,” I said.
“Plenty of time,” said the other, pulling out a bus schedule.
It took a bloody hour to get there. Then they dug through several racks of shirts and coats before finding a real leather bomber jacket in a wonderfully shabby condition, with a name sewn in it. Oh, did they sigh over that.
“I bet this is from the Second World War.”
“We're learning about that in history.”
“Bombers flying over the Channel to destroy Berlin.”
“Kissing the girls they leave behind.”
“Sister Joseph played A Guy Named Joe in our class.”
“I saw that one. So romantic.”
Even though it was twenty dollars, it was settled I had to have it. And wear it home. And sweat my arse off in that bloody, never-ending Houston heat to the point I needed another shower. But it was that or listen to their chattering, and I'd melt before I do that a moment longer than needed.
They also took much pleasure at filling me in on what the newest sayings were.
“Cool is okay.” said one.
“But groovy is dead.”
“Radical is a fun word.”
“So is awesome.”
“But do NOT ever, EVER say What's up, pussycat.”
“That's so middle-aged.”
Fortunately, they never concerned themselves with music for me.
“Boys have to find their own songs.”
“Usually pretty bad choices.”
“Seriously! Ramblin' Man?”
“Saturday Night's All Right For Fightin'?”
“Money? Really stupid.”
“All barks and growls.”
“And howls.”
So they studiously ignored my eight-tracks...so long as I didn't play any of them when they were over.
By this point, my curls had returned, but they weren't going to let me cut them...until they saw how thick and wild they became in the heat. Then they dragged me to a salon on West Gray, within walking distance, and forced this amazingly patient woman to make it smooth and well-behaved. Which extended to instructing me on how best to care for it.
“A hundred strokes in the morning,” said one.
“And a hundred at night,” the other added.
“I'll go bald, like that,” I growled.
“That's what Mommy told us to do.”
“Are you saying she's wrong?”
Both said with a great deal of hostility, but the woman working on me said to them, “Oh, but your hair is silk--”
Like Joanna's. Blowing in the breeze.
“--while his is more like cotton, and needs a different way to be treated. You don't wash a cashmere sweater with your sheets, do you?”
That, they had to agree on. So the woman gave me a spiky sort of brush and said, “This'll be easier on you.”
“Looks like what you use on a dog,” I said.
She'd just smiled and winked, and the B-girls had giggled.
I managed to catch the woman to one side before we left and whisper, “You giving lessons on how to talk to those two?”
She'd giggled, patted my cheek and said, “Don't worry, honey, you'll catch on to it.”
