My Favorite Color

Based upon the short story SHOWING OFF by Allene Baker

* * * * *

I was at my job at Blockbuster Video, asking, "Would you like a second, free rental with that?" or "Have you heard about our new Movie Pass program?" when a man dressed in an expensive white suit walked up to the counter-side and leaned over.

"Excuse me? Where are your foreign films?"

Normally, I would let someone interrupting me know just how I felt at being interrupted. Not this man. "Foreign films?" I asked stupidly.

"Yes. You have foreign films, don't you?"

I nodded dumbly.

He asked quietly, "Shall I start over, Darlene?"

The man was in his mid-thirties, tall and athletically built, graceful in his movements. His eyes were a beautiful brown and he had Brad Pitt's lips. His chin and cheekbones belonged to George Clooney. A rich and powerful man, I thought, perfect in his dress. I was making a fool of myself.

"Uh, no," I muttered, feeling my face redden. I pointed to the back of the store, where the foreign films were shelved. "They're back there," I said, making my embarrassment worse.

"Thank you, Darlene," he said and headed in the pointed-to direction. Like a moron, I looked down at my name tag on my chest. My mouth was open. I closed it.

I finished waiting on my now-irritated customer, checked out the next man in line, all the while eying the rear of the store. I couldn't see the man, wasn't sure that was a bad thing. When things grew difficult with a lady with two small kids and four overdue films, I temporarily forgot him. When I looked up again, Mr. Perfect was next in line. My heart stuttered.

"Hi," I said, trying not to choke. "Find everything you wanted?"

"Actually no," he said. "But this will do." He held out a movie called Red.

"I read that," I said, hoping to recapture my wit. Then I said, "It was like, a sequel or something," flattening myself again.

Mr. Perfect grinned. "Part three of a trilogy, actually. Did you enjoy it?"

"Of course," I lied. Even with subtitles, I hadn't understood a word.

I scanned his card into the computer and read his name: David Chaguris. He lived in the Hills.

"As far as I'm concerned," he said, "it's the best thing Kieslowski's done. Certainly of the three. Don't you agree?"

"Of course," I chirped again. Inside, I wanted to cry.

For a time, the man held my eyes, and then he unexpectedly said: "I see you're not married."

I stared stupidly at my hand. I nodded.

"Is that a no?" he asked.

I nodded again.

"It's okay to speak," he said. "We're not in a library."

My face could have ignited a forest fire. Then he floored me completely. "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight, Darlene?"

"Dinner?"

Behind the man, the next customer in line looked quite amused. You are so unprepared for this, I thought, looking at my fingernails. "I would love dinner," I said softly. "When were you thinking of?"

"What time do you get off?"

I stammered, "S-six o'clock. But I'd have to go home. I wore this to work."

He shook his head. "You don't have to go anywhere. My treat. Ever been to Reynoldo's?"

I looked at the floor, making sure I hadn't fallen down. Reynoldo's is the most exclusive boutique in Los Angeles. I've looked in the windows once or twice, but had never been in. I didn't know anyone who had been in.

Suddenly, I asked: "This is a joke, right? My Uncle Henry put you up to this."

My folks had died when I was fifteen years old. I lived with my Uncle Henry in West Hollywood. West Hollywood is the mobile home park of L.A.

The man (it was a while before I could consider him Mr. Chaguris, much less David) only smiled at me. "I'll be in the parking lot at six o'clock. A white Mercedes-Benz. Will you be there, Darlene?"

I nodded and said, "Of course."

"If you leave me hanging, I'll be really upset."

"I'll be there," I promised.

"Six o'clock then, sharp."

His smooth manner, his off-putting smile, his absolute confidence in that smile meant this man demanded something like obedience from a women. I understood that. I also understood that he would get it from me.

At six o'clock, I hurried out of the building--I practically ran--and amongst the chunks of gravel that were Fords, Chevy's and Dodge pick-up trucks, his Mercedes stood out like a white diamond. I crossed the parking lot thinking, It's not him. No way it's him, until he got out of the car.

"Right on time," He said. "Very good." He opened the passenger-side door for me. I felt like a fairy princess.

"Thank you," I said.

After having me belt in, and then shutting the door, he came around to his side of the car and got in. As he drove off the lot, he said: "In answer to your question, Darlene, no, I was not setting you up. I just stopped by for a movie. The Blockbuster I frequent was too far away, it was late and traffic was jammed. You were convenient, and there you were. End of story."

"I still don't believe it," I said, mentally pinching my cheek. "What possibly could you see in me?"

He smiled. "You're perfectly built and perfectly beautiful. Is that enough?"

Laughing, I said, "I am not beautiful, and I'm not even that pretty. And as for built--" I looked down at my unflattering blue uniform. When I looked up again, his eyes were surprisingly playful.

"Do I detect false modesty here?"

I laughed. "Nothing false here at all."

"Then grant me my opinion. I can call anyone beautiful that I wish."

I grinned, wondering if I should be stung.

After pulling into Reynoldo's parking lot, David got out and opened my door. I looked at the expensive marble fascia of the store; I looked at the expensive clothes in the windows. I looked at the expensive women going in and out. "I can't go in there," I said.

"Why not?"

I exploded in frustration. "Look at how I'm dressed, David!"

He said, "Would you rather wear your skin?"

I blinked, unsure what he meant.

He repeated himself: "Would you rather wear your skin?"

I gulped. My face grew very hot. "Are those my options?" I asked.

"They are."

I said, "I don't even know you."

He took my right hand and placed it palm-in against his crotch. "You'll know me very well before the evening is over, Darlene. Now please, let's go in."

I accompanied him into the store.

***

People stared at me. I felt like a white woman in Harlem. A white woman in a Cadillac.

A blonde in her late twenties broke away from a small group of staff and headed toward us. She wore a white skirt and white blazer, with a white silk blouse underneath. Her bearing said money.

"Good afternoon, Mr.Chaguris. How good to see you again. What may I help you find today?"

I stood there, feeling twelve years old. David said, "Hello, Elizabeth. We need a cocktail dress: Cordell, Fiorelli or maybe a Verchelli. Whatever you think."

"Certainly, Mr.Chaguris." She motioned us forward. The way they communicated with their eyes, I knew they had fucked.

Touching her lips in thought, Elizabeth looked me up and down, then beckoned one of the other attendants. She was a pretty girl in her early twenties, not much older than I; she threw me a look of condescension, but also one of regard. She was, I believed, another David Chaguris conquest. Her name was Renee. After sending her off in search of a dress, Elizabeth lead us into the fitting room.

Fitting room--more like a suite at the Ritz-Carleton. In addition to expensive seating and chrome and glass tables, there was a wide-screen TV, a stainless steel and glass bar and more mirrors than I could stand. An alcove in the rear wall lead off to private dressing rooms.

I was taken to the center of the room where, without permission and without a word, in front of David and three other women in attendance, Elizabeth lifted my uniform top over my head. She then unzipped my pants and removed them as well, leaving me standing in my bra and panties. I felt thoroughly cowed.

"We'll need something more appropriate," she said, looking at my Wal-Mart bra. She took it off, leaving me in my panties. No one paid attention except David, who stared at me, nonplused. I wished desperately for bigger breasts.

"The panties too, of course," said Elizabeth. "We wouldn't want panty lines."

"Of course not," I said, taking off my panties and handing them over. "Can't have any panty lines."

How red was my face now?

* * *

In eleventh grade at Hollywood High, three girls shoved me out of the locker room in just my panties. They did it on a bet, and let me back in right away, but not before at least a dozen boys saw me topless. Being stripped naked before David Chaguris was not as bad, but I had that same feeling of helplessness.

Holding out a cloth tape measure, Elizabeth said: "I need to measure you. Lift your arms, please." She brought the ends together across my breasts, then measured my inseam, pressing the back of her hand against my crotch. It was my first time being touched there by another woman. Why she measured me like that, I don't know. Unless, of course, she just wanted to touch me.

"You can put your arms down now," she said.

I lowered my arms to my sides. I didn't cover up. Renee came hurrying in, carrying four lovely gowns, each of which must have cost a fortune.

"We'll try the blue one first," Elizabeth said.

The gown had sequined panels front and back, and was made of silk. Elizabeth instructed me to raise my arms, then she and Renee slipped the dress over my head; they smoothed it nicely into place. I felt wrapped in gold.

"How much is this?" I whispered to Renee.

The answer was more than my entire wardrobe had cost--over the past five years. Probably my uncle's as well.

The neckline cut straight across my buxom, showing cleavage I didn't possess. A Miracle Bra wouldn't help me much.

"What do you think?" Elizabeth asked.

"The black one," David suggested.

At that moment, two more women entered the room, accompanied by two of the staff. Two gentlemen entered with them. After exchanging glances, the men made conversation with David and Elizabeth, pointedly ignoring me. I reddened, then reddened more when the women retired to their own personal fitting rooms.

"I kept that damned stock until this afternoon, David," one of the men complained. He wore khaki shorts, a white shirt and sandals. "On your advice, I might add."

David said: "Check your voice mail, Frank. I called you twice this morning. I also told you to dump that stock last week, just like I told Ed, here."

Ed, more casually dressed than his friend, had on gray slacks and a button down white shirt. He was my uncle's age with thinning gray hair and a ruddy face. A drinker, I thought.

Frank screwed up his mouth. He mumbled something too low to hear, then indicated the private fitting rooms with his head. "Enid'. She just had to make that charity luncheon this afternoon. I never got the chance to check my voice mail. Damn!"

All three laughed. Then David said: "Elizabeth, please. We don't have all night," and my heart began to gallop. He couldn't mean . . .

Elizabeth and Renee slid the gown over my head and I was naked again.

Okay, I thought. Big deal. Three strange men and you're naked before them. I kept my arms at my sides and my gaze neutral. Every nerve ending screamed but somehow, it was also funny. Looking at David, I said, "You could introduce me to your friends, David."

He looked simultaneously startled and pleased. A glint in his eyes said: Tough little girl, Darlene. One point for you.

"Ed, Frank, this is Darlene."

"Hello," I said to them both. I shook both of their hands. They worked hard not to look at my breasts.

"You must be new," Frank said. "In town I mean. I haven't seen you before."

David said, "I met her just today."

"Really!" Ed exclaimed, sounding truly amazed. "Wherever at?" Then he apologized, saying: "I should talk to you, my dear, not about you. Where are my manners?"

I gave him my most indulgent smile. "I'm used to being talked about," I said. "I--"

"Darlene hosts in an establishment downtown," David said. A bit of a stretch, but I said, "That's right," to avoid further embarrassment.

Frank said, "You are quite lovely, and David very fortunate. Perhaps you would join us for dinner?"

David shook his head. "Reservations already made, but thank you anyway."

"Some other time."

"We'd be delighted."

Growing impatient, Elizabeth interrupted. "May we have her back now, please? As you said, David, it's growing late." They put me into another dress. As Elizabeth fiddled with the front, she leaned close and whispered, "You are one cool little cucumber. Congratulations."

I whispered back, "My heart is palpitating. I feel like the Titanic heading for the bottom. Is this really happening to me?" She met my eyes and smiled. For a moment, I thought she meant to kiss me. Then she straightened and stood back.

"What do you think, David?"

David and the others turned to look. The dress plunged to my navel both front and back, leaving nothing for the imagination. But it fit me like a glove.

"Perfect," David said.

"Extraordinary," agreed Frank.

"She needs more lift," said Elizabeth, fingering the bodice. Renee immediately ran off. "What about her hair, David? Do we have time for that?"

David checked his watch. He planned to say no, but Elizabeth insisted. "She's perfect otherwise. Twenty minutes, no more."

I couldn't wash my hair and dry it in twenty minutes.

Renee came hurrying back with breasts supports and they rendered me naked again. They adhered the flesh-colored supports to the undersides of my breasts, then wrapped me in a robe. Elizabeth hustled me away to the salon.

"Sometime before midnight?" David called after us.

"Twenty minutes, I promise."

In the salon, Elizabeth plunked me down before Antoine, Reynaldo's head stylist; he looked at my hair and laughed.

"She's with David Chaguris, Antoine. And we have twenty minutes."

Antoine shut up. He instructed one of the girls to shampoo me, another to condition me, a third to towel-dry my hair. Feeling caught in a washing machine, I churned from Chair One to Chair Two to Chair One again. Elizabeth looked at her watch.

"I must have time!" Antoine protested.

"You tell Mr. Chaguris that."

He started nipping furiously at my hair. He whined like a Chihuahua. I looked at Elizabeth, pleading with my eyes.

It'll be all right, she smiled back.

What had I gotten myself into?

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Elizabeth announced: "She's ready, David."

I stood there, sheathed in black, valued in the millions of dollars. I thought Frank and Ed would applaud.

"You look quite stunning," said Frank.

"Really quite spectacular," chimed Ed.

David smiled, magnanimously. I thought to myself, Consider what payment will be extracted for this, Darlene.

"You're sure, this time?" David queried.

"Absolutely," Elizabeth answered.

"Underwear?" I whispered.

Elizabeth shook her head.

While David signed the bill, Elizabeth placed my things in a bag and accompanied me to the entrance. When we reached the doors, I asked: "How much was this dress, Elizabeth?"

"You don't want to know. Where you work? It might be two years salary," she said. Her voice held no contempt, only fact. "You're a lucky girl, Darlene."

"Am I?" I asked. Suddenly, "You and he were lovers, weren't you?"

She nodded. She fiddled with her left hand.

"You were married at the time?"

She smiled again, sadly. Then her smile broadened. "I think I know why I like you," she said.

"For my wit?"

"You're smart. An adapter. You handled a bad situation very well. I would have been thoroughly cowed by what we did. If anyone can stand up to David Chaguris, I think it's you."

David walked up, saving me further embarrassment. He looked at Elizabeth, then at me. "Ready?" he asked.

"I am," I said, holding out my arm. "Fly me away, Monsieur."

We left Elizabeth, smiling at the door.

* * *

The restaurant was high atop Coldwater Canyon Drive, overlooking the city. David pulled into the valet lane and we got out. He took the receipt and put it in his pocket, then lead me up the front steps. I had difficulty walking in the heels.

"I feel like Cinderella one minute before midnight," I said.

He patted my hand. "Think rich and everyone will think you are."

How do you think rich? I wondered.

The maitre d' glided up to David and shook his hand, then kissed mine. His name was Jacques. He exchanged words with David in French, then led us to our table. He pointed out the view. Spread out below us, the city went on forever. Lights reflected in the Stone Canyon Reservoir; Santa Monica glittered. I saw the ocean and all the way to Thousand Oaks. David pulled out my chair, bidding me to sit down and I crossed my ankles and my hands and I sat there. I trusted myself not to speak.

Standing off at a respectable distance, our waiter waited to be summoned, then glided up to the table as Jacques bowed and backed away. Jacques had enjoyed my dress.

"Good evening, Mr.Chaguris," the waiter said, laying out the menus.

"Good evening, Charles," David said, pronouncing as you would Charles DeGaulle.

"Good evening, miss."

"Good evening," I said. The menus were in French.

When I didn't immediately ask for help, David asked: "You speak the language?"

"Some," I admitted. "My real name is Gabriel."

He blinked, raised his eyebrows. I had surprised him twice. "Tell me," he invited.

Struggling with the selection on the menu, I said, "My mother loved romance novels. Anything French. Anything doing with the French. She also loved noir. She picked my name from the novel Julius, by Daphne DuMaurier. When I was bad she used to tell me I would be the downfall of everyone around me, including my dad. Evidently she was right, because they both died in an auto accident when I was fifteen. I took French in high school, just to spite her memory. We never get along." What I didn't tell him was that Gabriel was also the name of a famous Parisienne madam around the turn of the century. After my parents died I found a book about her secreted away in a trunk in the attic. Her name name was underlined time and again throughout the book, in red ink, with various notations scribbled in the margins. None of notations were complimentary. I burned the book and never told anyone about it.

The waiter kept our wine glasses filled and as the meal progressed, I became progressively drunker. Each course was served on dainty little plates, the size of tea-saucers, with odd little garnishments on the side. For desert we had Baked Alaska, which seemed very unFrench-like to me. Then we had coffee.

"Excuse my asking," David said. "How old are you, Darlene?"

I sipped from my cup. "Old enough to fuck. Legally. And you?"

He smiled patiently. He took a sip of his coffee.

"Do I at least get to keep the dress?" I asked.

This made him laugh. "No matter what," he assured me, "You get to keep the dress."

"Then," I said, leaning across the table so that only he would hear, "you can fuck me all you want."

* * *

He left a one hundred dollar tip. Jacques kissed my hand going out, and spoke to me in French. I answered in a bad American accent. He asked if I would return and I told him only David could tell him that. He smiled. "David will grace us again with your presence. I can assure you of that."

Waiting for the valet, I told David, "He doesn't know you half as well as he thinks he does, David."

He raised an eyebrow. "And why is that?"

I felt a sudden chill and crossed my arms beneath my breasts. "I read Pygmalion, David, and saw the Rex Harrison movie. Blockbuster, remember? Occasionally I'll even turn off the captions and really challenge my mind. You brought me here to see if your sophistication could make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, didn't you?"