My Cocktail Dress

A memoir

by

Alva Smith, Jr. © 2016

A chilling rain was soaking Paris when I decided to spend the money for a ticket to Marseilles and, hopefully, some Riviera sunshine.  I took the Metro to the Gare du Sud.  The next morning, I stepped off the train into Marseilles and the same cold rain.  It took me half a day of wet walking and hitching to get to the road leading further south into Spain.  I heard a car and stuck out my thumb.  It stopped!

A lady was driving the tiny French Deux Chevaux.  A man was in the passenger seat but got out and climbed into the back, insisting I sit where he had been.  I settled in, and Nicole (I learned her name later) launched the car back onto the highway, the accelerator fully depressed.

I decided we should exchange names.  It seemed likely that the three of us would die together; we should at least know each other prior to the event.  As I was shaking his hand, the fellow in the back seat, who turned out to be Maurice, a Nigerian who was also hitching, looked beyond my shoulder.  His eyes widened. His hands covered his face in terror.

Nicole stomped on the brakes but failed to negotiate a ninety-degree left turn.  The car skidded off the highway, sliding into a farmer's field.   She downshifted with a determined look on her face, spun the steering wheel, regained control and lurched the little car, fishtailing, back onto the highway, now headed south, her foot firmly on the floor. 

Nicole slowed for a small village where Maurice apparently told her in French that he would get out.  I considered getting out with him, but decided it wouldn't be easy to hitch from there, especially with two thumbs extended, and, ya' know, that excursion into muddin' had showed some real driving talent!

Nicole told me she would drive to the south of Spain and that “we can go all zee way.”  I liked the idea of going south.  Mainly, I was partial to being inside a dry car, so I put my backpack in Maurice's vacated seat and relaxed.  Perhaps I got used to Nicole's uniquely French driving style, but terror seemed to become the exception, rather than the rule.

“Do you pray fair cafe?” she asked.  I wasn't a praying kinda guy, but had to admit that the idea had entered my mind since accepting the ride with Nicole.  I was mentally translating my answer accordingly when she parked in front of a sidewalk cafe.  “Do you pray fair cafe?” she repeated, as if she thought I hadn't heard her.  She made a hand motion toward the cafe.

Pray fair?  She's saying ‘prefer’!  “Mais Oui!” I said.  While sipping Cafe au Lait, I taught Nicole to say, “Would you like to have coffee?”   A few days later I explained the American idiom “going all the way.”

At first our communication was challenging, but I had a copy of “French for Travelers,” and she had taken an English course in school.  We had a mutual desire to communicate.  With patience, we got to know each other and improved our command of each other's language.  My ear tuned to her Parisian accent as hers did to Oklahoman.  We often formed sentences which were part English and part French.  We understood each other better daily.

We motored on down to Barcelona, where we left the main highway (less abruptly) and drove along the edge of Spain with the Mediterranean on our left.  The second day she invited me to drive, a situation that lasted less than an hour. She recaptured the wheel and never surrendered it again.

We spent ten days working our way south along the Spanish coast, sipping Cafe con Leche on terraces, eating Paella, dancing in discos, staying in small bed and breakfast pensions, and lying on the beach.  The sea water was still cold.  The swimming was not wonderful, since it was early in March.  We had a great time being free “twenty-somethings” wholeheartedly enjoying being thrown into beautiful surroundings together.

On the Costa del Sol in Torremolinos, Nicole's deadline for starting her trip back to Paris came.  She was going to drive home through Madrid to save time.  She issued the French equivalent of “Y'all come!” and launched the tiny car Parisward.  “I wonder what it's like in Morocco,” I mused, but I was to stay in Torremolinos for a month or so.  Since it was the off-season, I rented a second-floor apartment with a view of the beach for a bargain price.

I visited American Express most afternoons to buy a copy of “The International Herald Tribune,” and pick up my mail.  As became my custom, I went to Harry's American Bar to read the news and write a couple of Aerograms.

The original “Harry” had been gone for some time.  The current owner was a fellow from San Antonio, who went by the name “Tex.”  He talked of being the only customer in the bar one afternoon while Harry was speaking bitterly of his discontent.  “I don't know why I opened this bar!  I hate being tied down!  Don't fence me in!”

“Whadaya wanna do?” asked Tex.

“I came to Europe to travel, maybe go to India like the rest of these hippies are doin'.”

“Whyn't you sell th' bar?” Tex wanted to know.

“I'd love to!  How much money do you have?”

Tex emptied his pockets onto the bar. It amounted to two hundred American dollars, two thousand, six hundred seventy-five Spanish Pesetas and forty-seven French Francs.  Tex didn't mention several hundred dollars he had in traveler’s checks.  Harry scooped up the cash and emptied the till, leaving only the coins.

“Here's the key.  Rent's due on the first.  Landlord’ll come by to collect. When the booze is delivered, you'll have to pay cash. That'll be each Wednesday, so save your money.”  Harry walked out the door and was never seen again.  Tex took his place behind the bar, which is where he was when I came in.

The usual ex-patriots were hanging out that day. I was chatting with a Canadian fellow, a regular at Harry's, named Steve, who also wanted to see what Morocco had to offer.  He was a strong Bogart/Bacall fan and wanted to visit Casablanca.  We took local buses which were slow, but that was fine with us.  From near Gibraltar, we took a car ferry across to Ceuta and local buses on to Tangiers.

I was nodding, half asleep, when Steve observed, “They’ve got good shit here, Man!

“Pardon, me?” I said as I rubbed my eyes.

“Is that really a tree full of goats?” Steve asked. It was. Goats were perched on the branches like birds, eating leaves.

In Tangiers, Steve and I were wandering around the Kasbah (it's not as exotic as it sounds; it means “shops”). We were looking at curios in a store window when the merchant stuck his head out of the door and invited us in for tea.  We were soon seated cross-legged on cushions with steaming cups of green tea and a dish of candies, which seemed to be made of honey and crushed nuts.  I suspect Pistachios, because the candy had a greenish tint, but there was a... one could say “smoky,” taste.  I wanted to ask Ali how they were made, but he was busy with customers.

The candies tasted fine! I relaxed and thought of home.  It was a special feeling of freedom, having no life insurance policies to deliver nor premiums to collect.  I poured myself another cup of tea.  The sun was starting to set, light streaming through a westerly window.  My attention was grabbed by glints of light flashing at me from a merchandise counter.  I rose to investigate.

A folded stack of gold brocade cocktail dresses, bathed in the setting-sun's rays, were causing the millions of metallic reflections.  I picked a dress up and held it in the sunlight.  I was intrigued by the way the flashing changed as the material was manipulated.  Sheets of reflections spread in waves across the fabric as I gently shook the dress.

“You are to liking?” asked Ali.

“Oh, yes, it's beautiful work,” I replied.  The dress was becoming mesmerizing.

“You are to buying?”

“Oh, No!  I don't need a cocktail dress.”  The dress was skillfully made, I realized.

“It is for your wife,” Ali suggested.

“Oh, No!  I'm not married.”  But it would make a lovely gift for the right lady.

“It is for your girlfriend.”

“Oh, No!  I don't have a girlfriend.”  That was unfortunate.  A girlfriend would have been nice.

“It is for the next lady you meet who it is to fitting.” Ali may have been stabbing in the dark.

I looked at the shape of the dress, picturing in my mind the future body it was “to fitting.”  Ali's idea had merit!

“Oh, No!  I couldn't possibly afford it!”

“It is only one hundred seventy-five dollars,” he answered, quite fluently.

“Oh, No!  I can't afford that much.”  The price didn't seem to fully register in my mind.

“How much you are to paying?”

“Twelve dollars,” I said, knowing it would be far too little but an offer might get me off the hook. I had a Ten and two Ones in my wallet, left over from New York.

“I'll wrap it up,” Ali said.

“What did you buy?” asked Steve, while Ali was making a package with my new dress.

“A cocktail dress,” I mumbled, a bit under my breath.

“That's ridiculous!” Steve observed, accurately.

“Yeah, it certainly is!” I sincerely agreed.  “I just bought a size-specific, rather intimate gift for a woman I haven't met.”  I shook my head in wonder, perhaps gaining some understanding why people sought psychiatric treatment.  “What'd you buy, Steve?”

“Six purses.”

“Why?” I asked, somewhat concerned about the coming answer.

“Birthday and Christmas presents for my sisters and my mother.  I plan ahead.”

“Yeah.  Me too!”  I said as Ali handed me my package. “I'll go with that,” I thought.

Back in Torremolinos, I settled into my apartment and hung my new dress in the closet.  I caught up on some writing, drank a few beers at Harry's American Bar, and waited for Summer to arrive.  The beach, though warm enough in the afternoon, had a chilly wind blowing most days.  My lunches consisted of crepes off the sidewalk stands, and I ate my dinners in the Spanish restaurants.  A Spanish lady, whom I nicknamed “Spanish Lady”, delivered two freshly baked breakfast rolls each morning.

I spent most evenings at Harry's, swapping stories with other travelers. One fellow who hung out at Harry's was an older guy named Jim. Jim was a friendly man, and always interested in us “drifters,” as he called the ex-patriots. He wanted to know where we were from, where we had been, where we were going, and perhaps most importantly, why.  Most of the younger people were eager to share their vagabond tales, especially when Jim bought a round of San Miguel (which was often).

I didn't figure out who Jim was until years later when I read the book, “The Drifters,” and took note of “the bearded young man from Oklahoma, who hated Tulsa and thought he'd found a better alternative in Haight-Ashbury.”  Jim had used some artistic license.

To this day, I believe I inspired the “bearded young (29) man from Oklahoma,” but I never claimed to hate Tulsa. In fact, I bored more than one person, telling them about Will Rogers High School, both the school’s architecture and dedicated educators. It’s probably a good thing I had no pictures of the school or Will. The previous summer, I had walked through Haight-Ashbury, ignored the young man who kept saying, under his breath, “I got grass for sale,” and been unimpressed with the neighborhood.

One evening in Harry's, I met a Canadian cowgirl named Cheryl, from Calgary.  Interesting to me, she wore traditional Moroccan clothing, which was not fashionable in the South of Spain. Mini-skirts were the rage in 1969. She explained that she was not a Muslim, but while in Fez, had sold all her Canadian clothing for a nice profit, and only had the hijab to wear. She had discarded the veil.

Cheryl and I became friends, talked a lot about rodeos, and spent some time seeing the sights and basking on the beach. The Arabs hadn't offered to buy her bikini, which she wore under her hijab, eliminating all luggage except a handbag. I thought it was an inspired idea, but never managed to imitate it.

Our diet improved and became less expensive. We shopped in the open-air market and ate our creations on my balcony overlooking the Mediterranean, often taking most of the day to plan and shop for dinner.

One afternoon, Cheryl saw my cocktail dress.  I don't know how she found it, nor why she was browsing through my closet.  Perhaps I left the door ajar.

She found it hard to believe that no woman had forgotten the dress as she rushed home (apparently nude) one morning.  Cheryl was patient and heard my cocktail dress story, which made her chuckle. She asked if I ever learned what was in the tea. I confessed I'd forgotten to get the recipe. She thought the dress was pretty and asked if she could try it on.

It was “to fitting.”  She produced a lipstick from her purse. I watched with fascination as she used it creatively in several different ways. It was the only time I'd seen her wear makeup with her long brown hair brushed down, rather than in a pony-tail. She wore the dress out to dinner that evening and turned heads, despite (or perhaps because of) her Bedouin sandals, which didn't really go with my dress.  After dinner, she hung it back in its closet and washed the makeup away.”

Some days later, I was sipping a beer in Harry's American Bar, reading the International Herald Tribune, when Cheryl breezed through the door with an aerogram in her hand.  “Alva!” she shouted across the room, “I need to borrow your cocktail dress again!”  In unison, every eye in the bar turned to look at me in a different light.

The aerogram had come from her mother asking Cheryl to meet in Paris.  She thought it would be better to meet her mother in a less Arabian look, if perhaps over-dressed somewhat for Charles de Gaulle airport.  She planned to buy shoes and underwear in Paris.

Months later, on a Sunday afternoon in Hyde Park in London, I was listening to a pudgy fellow wearing a straining monokini, rattle on about his head-to-toe tattoos when, beyond him, I caught the eye of a woman looking at me between people.  She seemed familiar.  A look of recognition swept over her face as she ran into my arms.  “Alva!  Alva!” she shouted. Her lips had a familiarity to them, but clueless who this kissing woman might be, I gently pushed her shoulders back so I could see her face.

I kissed her again.  The blonde hair had thrown me off, and I wasn't accustomed to the makeup, but a glance into her smiling eyes left no doubt in my mind who she was.  “Cheryl!” I said.  “You haven't returned my cocktail dress!”

Cheryl had taken the dress to Canada, where her sister, also a cowgirl, had tried it on and, finding it was “to fitting,” demanded it.  Cheryl assured me that “our” cocktail dress had a good home in Calgary, eh? and that she could wear it whenever she was in town, so it was the same as if she still had it.

Cheryl and I had a wonderful time seeing the sights of London together and updating our friendship. A few days later, Cheryl had to leave England.  She was off to Italy to pursue a master's program, and I to a job in Germany.

Our paths never crossed again.

I loved this!

Thanks, Gordona! I hope you chuckled a time or two.

A.J.