A Dandy, Indeed
Jamie came back to Buenos Aires after ten months in Los Angeles. He used to call me baby, but now it was ‘babe’. My one time muse was back for a quick visit. So we went for brunch.
“You live in Beverly Hills, don’t you?”
James smiled. “I live in the corner of the earth that God designed to house the world’s orphan drop-tops.” James is the wittiest person I’ve ever met.
I giggled. “So you live in Beverly Hills AND you drive a convertible? Of course you do.”
Witticism is James’ seductive cologne; it is his ability to disarm and engage. His words dance playfully, and at my best, I am a mediocre partner. As I try to anticipate his next step, I stumble over my toes and try to keep up appearances that I’m familiar with the tune. I’m not fooling anyone.
James is a character. He has the capacity to make every ordinary experience something unique and memorable, and terribly fantastic. When he lived in Buenos Aires, he was perpetually unavailable and cancelled plans constantly and always at the last minute. He would always show up late to dinner parties, sometimes after they were long over, but he would bring champagne and anecdotes that made him impossible not to forgive. He addressed everyone as if they were native New Yorkers.
More than witty, James is a genius writer. Once over Cesar salads at the Four Seasons he read me a paragraph from his book. He was so shy and modest and it made me shy too, because I knew I could never compare, and my writing would never parallel his. I said a quick prayer that my writing would pass off for being weird or different, and other weird and different people would think it was ok, only because they hadn’t read what James would have written.
“So tell me about your convertible. What is it? And who are your neighbors?”
James smiled. “Paul McCartney once told me never to name drop, and I haven’t since.”
- Avenida Libertador 2410