Part 8 (1/2)
”Oolnya moved like a hippo with a great sense of rhythm. The top shelves of the supply closet were out of her reach because those hips kept her from pa.s.sing through the narrow door. When she needed our help, she would say, 'Olga! Stalina! Fetch me a box of cotton b.a.l.l.s. I'll give you some for your manicures.'”
”Bossy, wasn't she,” Joanie chipped in.
”Everyone who worked at the salon was a bit temperamental. Tasha, the manicurist, was missing the top two joints of her index and ring fingers on her left hand. She had an accident as a teenager climbing over a fence. But the missing joints actually made it easier for her to position her customers' hands and fingers as she did their nails. She was gifted.”
”Imagine that,” Joanie said.
”When Tasha was in a good humor, she would hand us a bottle of nail polish that was nearly empty. More often she would complain that the salon was the only place women could get away from their duties. 'That includes children!' she'd say, making sure we heard. When she chased us away, Olga and I would go into one of the dark, wood-paneled ma.s.sage rooms in the back to read our pile of magazines and dream about dressing like the models in the pictures.”
”Marilyn Monroe was my hero,” Joanie added. ”Poor thing, it makes me sad to think of her.” She got up and walked over to the ”bed-coaster” and lay down next to Harry. She had a small pout and a slight quiver on her lips.
”I'm a natural blond, you know,” she said as she wiped some spittle from the side of Harry's mouth.
I continued. ”Oolnya would rap on the ma.s.sage room door if someone was scheduled for an appointment. She filled the open doorway completely; her waist made an hourgla.s.s shape that we could see around to the front end of the salon. We would get woozy from breathing in hairspray and polish and would stagger off the ma.s.sage tables and into the salon. Everything seemed to float around us. The peach-colored lace curtains and the kidney-shaped manicure tables became clouds floating by.”
”I know what you mean; this room looks all cotton candy soft to me,” Joanie said, fueled by the vodka.
”To us, the ladies under the hair dryers with their mud packs looked like an alien race of big brains. One of them once said, 'Looks like those girls have gotten into Oolnya's vodka stash.' Oolnya heard the comment, turned in her swivel chair, lit a cigarette, adjusted her robe, and said, 'I keep only schnapps, to soothe the pain.'”
”I love her!” Joanie exclaimed, and in a terrible Russian accent, she added, ”I keep only schnapps, to soothe the pain.”
”I like your imitation, Joanie.”
”I told you I love your accent.”
”How is Harry? Mr. Suri is going to call again.”
”Is that the dark man who runs the desk?”
”Mr. Suri? He's not so dark.”
”No, he's...”
We both spoke at the same time, with the same words. ”Slightly dark.”
I added, ”He's Indian, from New Delhi.”
”Handsome with that mustache, and kind of exotic. I'm mostly German,” Joanie added.
”I'm a Jew,” I said.
”You're a Jew?”
”You are surprised?”
”You're Russian.”
”To the Russians I'm a Jew.”
”I don't say I'm a Catholic.”
”Are you?”
”Who cares?”
”Why were you surprised?”
”I don't care one way or another. Harry's Jewish. Do you miss Russia?”
”America is not home yet. I do miss Russia.”
”That's sad...let's not be sad. More vodka!”
Suddenly Harry sat up with his arms raised in front of him as if he was trying to stop something that was rus.h.i.+ng toward him.
”Stop the Shriiiiinnnnerrrs! They're commmminnng!” he screamed.
Joanie jumped toward Harry to keep him from falling off the bed again.
”Harry, wake up!” she shouted as she grabbed him around the waist.
I knocked back the rest of my vodka. Harry was shaking.
”Are you all right?” Joanie was clinging to him.
”I dreamt those d.a.m.n Shriners were taking over-measly little secretive anti-Semitic toy soldiers. What's she doing here?” Harry said, looking at me. ”Opliment.”