THE PUT-DOWN
 a very short true story


London ca. 1961. I am about 23 years old, Mysse [Pronounced: Moussa] must be 20. It is 9.30 pm-ish. We are sitting in a restaurant somewhere off Piccadilly, a basement room, the lights are low, there is very soft background music. The tables, 10 at the most, are lit by their own lights with red shades. The walls, maybe black or dark blue, are invisible from where we sit. As usual when Mysse has made an entrance in stylish haute-attire she is the centre of attention. Being blind as a bat without her glasses she is as usual completely unaware of this. (The reader should imagine Marylin Monroe in 'How to marry a millionaire' in glasses-off mode, but up-market with more of a mix of young Shirley McLean and Theresa Russell)

A waiter leaves the menu and two whiskey sours.

Mysse says: "Now, what are we going to eat, I'm starving. How about this avocado with...."

A figure looms out of the shadows to my right. George Clooney was not around in the 1960s but this American aged between 30 and 35 can best be imagined as Clooney putting on the style with an assurance that is impregnable. We will call him George. 

“Mysse! How great to see you, I didn’t know you were in London, how…”

Mysse smiles sweetly: “This is my friend James. James, this is…”

I will never know if the pause is deliberate or because she has momentarily forgotten his name. Though it is for less than a second he is not prepared to take the risk. "George" he says, turning to me, "pleased to meet you, Jim". He turns back to Mysse.

"How long are you here for?"

She smiles up at him: "It depends on..."

“Where are you staying?” he interrupts. 

“With friends…” 

“We must get together!” 

“That would be nice…”

“I have been here on business. How would you like to….” 

“I tell you what”, says Mysse in a seductive mid-atlantic drawl still smiling sweetly – George takes out his diary or business card in the total assurance that a date is about to be fixed or phone numbers exchanged. The conversation in the rest of the room seems to have died so her voice is the only one breaking the silence. A voice with a soft, slight Danish-mid-Atlantic drawl, like honey through a comb, drifting.... a smile but this time with a very polite hint of ice?

“I tell you what, George, James and I are in the middle of looking at the menu. I think it’s unbelievably rude of you to come over here and interrupt us, so will you just piss off and leave us alone?” 

I get the impression that George has never been on the receiving end of such a suggestion even in private, let alone in front of an audience, as he does not have a ready reply. In 1961 no lady has yet used such language in a smart London restaurant. He opens his mouth but remains wordless and moves of out of my field of vision.

He must still be in earshot when Mysse says: “He really is the most boring man. Now do you think we should have the avocado with…”

I am not registering a word she is saying. I see her lips move and hear her voice as if in a dream but my mind is on George. I have never before heard Mysse say anything disparaging to, or about anyone, but this man is not just going back to his table, it occurs to me, he is going straight back to his hotel. No, he is going back to America on the first available flight and when he gets home he is going to kick his dog, strangle the parrot, shout at his wife and when he gets to his office fire his secretary, maybe lose his job. He’ll probably be dead in a week. I had better get his full name off Mysse so I can go over for the funeral and explain to his friends and family, as they will never understand what happened…

“James, we need to eat, why are you staring at me?”

“I’m worried about er, George, but…”

“What?”

“I think I love you. Can we get married?"

"Can't we eat first? I'm starving”