The Mailer Review/Volume 5, 2011/The Living Room Show: Difference between revisions

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{{dc|dc=T|HE LIVING ROOM SHOWS WERE RUMORED TO HAVE STARTED}} one New Year’s Eve. They took place in Doug Brannon’s Spanish Mediterranean, in the bowling alley-like living room that held little more than a fireplace at one

end, and a pair of long, moss green couches arranged in an L at the other. The band placed two mounted speakers on either side of the fireplace, and Doug and the other guitar players set up their amps, and brought in an array

of guitars on chrome stands. The drummer, J.B. Levine, placed his red sparkle Ludwig kit in the middle of it all, and whenever enough people had arrived, or the band members grew bored milling around, or it was just late enough and everyone was drunk enough, they would play.

Margaret Carr told us about the shows, and after accompanying her to one they became a monthly part of our social routine. Margaret is one of my husband, John Rushing’s, old friends, a divorced woman with no children,

whose own Mediterranean, acquired in the divorce settlement was just beginning to fall into disrepair. The awning in the front had torn, and the pool deck was cracked and discolored with mildew. There were porch lights with

broken glass, and a lichen-colored run-off from the roof streaking the exterior of the house. The night of the living room shows was always a Saturday, and it would always start with drinks at Margaret Carr’s, our two children entrusted to a babysitter and all but forgotten. We’d sit out by the pool under the frangipani and the fifty-foot high cluster of bamboo and have various Martinis stolen from the menu of one of the newer restaurants. She served them in over-sized plastic Martini glasses tinted different hues, and the success or disaster of the evening was something I associated with the color of my glass.

The night of the last show, a chartreuse night, took place in April, the air thick with blooming jasmine and tangerines rotting in the grass. A cat was{{pg|458|459}}in heat somewhere in the lush overgrowth of Margaret Carr’s landscaping, and John decided to have an argument with Margaret Carr’s new boyfriend, Manuel, about his mint ’85 Corvette. He made an unkind comment, something like, “What would make you want to collect a car like that?” and

Manuel, believing the question to be in earnest, began detailing all of the car’s special features. He was in his twenties, with dark eyes and a wide mouth and a chiseled torso that strained against the front of his cotton shirt.

John gave him one of his looks, part disdain and part feigned shock, and he waved his hand and turned away from him in his chair to ask Margaret where she found him.

“Behind the register at your hair salon? Handing out towels in the country club?”

Margaret flushed, because as usual John was close enough to the truth to make her uncomfortable—she’d told me earlier she met Manuel in the country club entryway holding an application for a waiter position at The Nineteenth Hole. At this point Manuel realized his error and jumped up in anger, and John stayed in his chair with his legs crossed, his pants perfectly creased, sipping from his Martini glass. Margaret stood quickly, and placed her hand

on the front of Manuel’s shirt, and whispered something in his ear and led him off into the house. Through the open door I could hear her mules clacking on the Saltillo tile, and Manuel’s voice, its urgent pitch, fading into the

house’s depths.

We left for Doug Brannon’s around ten-thirty, following Margaret with Manuel in his Corvette. The Mediterranean faced a four-lane street and its grounds, separated from the same street by an ivy-covered wall, took up

nearly a city block. The driveway was in the back, and the parking extended to the narrow streets behind the house, where the cars queued up along the curb and snaked through a neighborhood of tiny bungalows and cement block homes. Everyone went in up the driveway, through the back kitchen

entrance, and on this night we parked behind a sizable line of cars, and joined a group heading down the sidewalk. We passed the hedge of gardenia and the two Magnolia trees flanking the driveway, the darkness balmy, scented with their flowers, tinged with a nervous excitement that took over everyone as we entered the kitchen.

Doug Brannon’s house was built in the twenties of terracotta block covered with heavy stucco. From the outside it was an imposing two-story structure with an arched portico and an odd carved relief of a ship at sea over{{pg|459|460}}

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 {{MR05}}
 {{byline|last=Brown|first=Karen}}
+{{dc|dc=T|HE LIVING ROOM SHOWS WERE RUMORED TO HAVE STARTED}} one New Year’s Eve. They took place in Doug Brannon’s Spanish Mediterranean, in the bowling alley-like living room that held little more than a fireplace at one
+end, and a pair of long, moss green couches arranged in an L at the other. The band placed two mounted speakers on either side of the fireplace, and Doug and the other guitar players set up their amps, and brought in an array
+of guitars on chrome stands. The drummer, J.B. Levine, placed his red sparkle Ludwig kit in the middle of it all, and whenever enough people had arrived, or the band members grew bored milling around, or it was just late enough and everyone was drunk enough, they would play.
+Margaret Carr told us about the shows, and after accompanying her to one they became a monthly part of our social routine. Margaret is one of my husband, John Rushing’s, old friends, a divorced woman with no children,
+whose own Mediterranean, acquired in the divorce settlement was just beginning to fall into disrepair. The awning in the front had torn, and the pool deck was cracked and discolored with mildew. There were porch lights with
+broken glass, and a lichen-colored run-off from the roof streaking the exterior of the house. The night of the living room shows was always a Saturday, and it would always start with drinks at Margaret Carr’s, our two children entrusted to a babysitter and all but forgotten. We’d sit out by the pool under the frangipani and the fifty-foot high cluster of bamboo and have various Martinis stolen from the menu of one of the newer restaurants. She served them in over-sized plastic Martini glasses tinted different hues, and the success or disaster of the evening was something I associated with the color of my glass.
+The night of the last show, a chartreuse night, took place in April, the air thick with blooming jasmine and tangerines rotting in the grass. A cat was{{pg|458|459}}in heat somewhere in the lush overgrowth of Margaret Carr’s landscaping, and John decided to have an argument with Margaret Carr’s new boyfriend, Manuel, about his mint ’85 Corvette. He made an unkind comment, something like, “What would make you want to collect a car like that?” and
+Manuel, believing the question to be in earnest, began detailing all of the car’s special features. He was in his twenties, with dark eyes and a wide mouth and a chiseled torso that strained against the front of his cotton shirt.
+John gave him one of his looks, part disdain and part feigned shock, and he waved his hand and turned away from him in his chair to ask Margaret where she found him.
+“Behind the register at your hair salon? Handing out towels in the country club?”
+Margaret flushed, because as usual John was close enough to the truth to make her uncomfortable—she’d told me earlier she met Manuel in the country club entryway holding an application for a waiter position at The Nineteenth Hole. At this point Manuel realized his error and jumped up in anger, and John stayed in his chair with his legs crossed, his pants perfectly creased, sipping from his Martini glass. Margaret stood quickly, and placed her hand
+on the front of Manuel’s shirt, and whispered something in his ear and led him off into the house. Through the open door I could hear her mules clacking on the Saltillo tile, and Manuel’s voice, its urgent pitch, fading into the
+house’s depths.
+We left for Doug Brannon’s around ten-thirty, following Margaret with Manuel in his Corvette. The Mediterranean faced a four-lane street and its grounds, separated from the same street by an ivy-covered wall, took up
+nearly a city block. The driveway was in the back, and the parking extended to the narrow streets behind the house, where the cars queued up along the curb and snaked through a neighborhood of tiny bungalows and cement block homes. Everyone went in up the driveway, through the back kitchen
+entrance, and on this night we parked behind a sizable line of cars, and joined a group heading down the sidewalk. We passed the hedge of gardenia and the two Magnolia trees flanking the driveway, the darkness balmy, scented with their flowers, tinged with a nervous excitement that took over everyone as we entered the kitchen.
+Doug Brannon’s house was built in the twenties of terracotta block covered with heavy stucco. From the outside it was an imposing two-story structure with an arched portico and an odd carved relief of a ship at sea over{{pg|459|460}}