Katharine: “Mirror, mirror, not on the wall, will I get the part in that movie with the hottie named Spencer?”
Big Mirror: “Why, certainly. You have impeccable credentials, your acting is superb, and both you and the Spencer hottie need to quell certain rumors about your fluid sexual preferences.”
Katharine: “I could have done without the last part. My agent already hounds me about that mess and it’s such a bore.”
Big Mirror: “My apologies. I was so stunned by the beauty of your coiffure that I slightly lost my mind. If you feel the need to spray me with Windex, please do.”
Katharine: “Well, perhaps I shan’t go that far, but the option remains on the table.”
Little Mirror, tired of being upstaged: “Could I perhaps interject?”
Big Mirror: “Of course not. I’ve got seniority over little upstarts like you.”
Katharine: “Now, Biggles, let’s not be rude. This is still a democracy, last time I checked. Go ahead, Tiny Glancer.”
Little Mirror: “Big Mirror is a total liar who hides the truth from you so you won’t find something on eBay to replace him.”
Big Mirror: “This is an outrage! Little Mirror clearly works for the fake-news media!”
Katharine: “Let’s dial it down, Big Mirror. I still have the Windex handy. On the other hand, Little Mirror, you do understand that you can’t say things that aren’t true, right? Unlike certain presidents who rant away on Twitter without a shred of evidence.”
Little Mirror: “Oh, I have proof, unlike Fox News. Remember when Big Mirror told you that this vanity was the cutest thing he’d ever seen?”
Katharine: “He says that every day as I brush my hair in a unisex way.”
Big Mirror: “You’re such a lovely poet, Kate!”
Little Mirror: “There he goes again. It’s all a bunch of smoke-up-the-ass rubbish.”
Katharine: “I’m not sure I follow. I wouldn’t mind being known as a poet. After all, I was born in Connecticut, where we all think quite highly of ourselves. Something in the water. And the bank accounts.”
Little Mirror: “Girl, take a closer look at that vanity. The lamps alone are wretched, with ugly figurines holding up sparkly Devo hats that will only be popular in 1981 and then never again. And those plaid supporting pillars? They look like there was a tragic accident involving somebody’s worn-out sofa on a farm in Kentucky.”
Katharine: “Now that you mention it…”
Big Mirror: “Don’t listen to that little socialist!”
Katharine: “Hold up, Big Daddy. Now you’ve pushed a button. Do you not understand that this country has essentially been socialist since the first public-works tax was levied?”
Big Mirror: “Levied? Is that where Don McLean drove his Chevy?”
Little Mirror: “I weep at the ignorance.”
Katharine’s Publicist, speaking off-camera: “Kate, aren’t you getting a little too political for your fans?”
Katharine: “And when have I ever worried about that? Now, run get me some information about how to work this eBay thing. I believe I need a new vanity. And possibly a mirror.”
Previously published, minutely modified. For the record, the “the tragic accident in Kentucky” couch is very similar to one my granny had stored in a back room of her house for decades. I never questioned the existence of such, as it was just always there from my first days of cognizance. But I did hear, during the years of my youth, whispered rumors from various relations that someone had actually died on that couch, and this was the reason why she never got rid of the damn thing.
But when I first left the family fold and moved out on my own, this sordid tale did not stop me from graciously accepting Granny’s proffering of the couch to furnish my sparse new digs. At the time, my earthly possessions consisted of a few clever outfits, a back-killing futon to sleep on, some hand-me-down and mildly-rusted cookware, and a 12-inch dance mix of Berlin’s “No More Words”. End of inventory.
Once the death couch was ensconced in my tiny apartment, I discovered, much to my surprise, that it had a fold-out bed, further increasing the plausibility of possible death that may or may not have occurred and increasing the creepiness factor. Suffice it to say that I never used that couch as an actual bed. And I never sat on it past midnight.
Still, it was my first couch and we all have to start somewhere, right?
Categories: Past Imperfect