We had all gone into town, the editor and all the other reporters, for lunch and were coming back to the paper. As we pulled in front of the building, the composing room staffers were leaving for lunch, their contribution to putting out the paper having been done about an hour or so after ours. With the obsolescence of Linotype operators and compositors and their skills, composing staffs now comprise cutters and pasters, mostly young women making minimum wage.
Trailing the exiting group was a rather good looking Cajun teen who, before becoming pregnant eight months earlier, had a terrific shape. As we left the car, Elliot -- that's the editor -- turned to me, smiled and said, "Wouldn't you like to eat some of that."
Well, locker-room chatter makes me uneasy, and I had no idea what you say when your boss comes up with such an observation. Seeking repartee -- and not wanting to admit that the woman I really wanted to crawl in the sack with was Elliot's wife -- I blurted out, "Nay, I think I'd rather do Doris," the 40ish advertising director and part owner whose car was just then pulling into the parking lot.
Elliot thought that was an excellent idea and challenged me: Three-day weekend if I do Doris.
Thus began my pursuit of Doris Loro Williamson. Doris, long ago widowed by Mr. Williamson, was a descendant of Vicenzo Loro who came to Louisiana from Venice in the 1840s to become a rich planter and slave holder. His progeny still formed a rich and powerful clan of lawyers, bankers, brokers, patricians and, of course, large land owners. I was never really sure how close Doris was related to the judges Loro, second or third cousins I think, but she surely considered herself among the parish's aristocracy, and hobnobbed with the Ewings and Sonats and Oliviers. She looked and dressed the heiress, probably a bit over the top for ad sales, but she did look and smell nice, tall with long touched-up auburn hair, more of a light rinse and close to its original color. (It was, but we can get to that later.) And, she had this raspy, sexy voice with just enough drawl to identify.
For the first couple of Tuesday evenings after my bravado, I stayed at the office after closing, sipping from the bottle in the bottom drawer and pretending to be busy, while Doris put the final touches on the weekly grocery ads. The whiskey helped me imagine how Doris would look without clothes: tall with good legs, made sexier by those three- or four-inch heels she always wore; ass a little on the large size; and boobs well above average. I tried to concentrate on the boobs and what they would feel like in my hands or caressed with my lips. The thought really wasn't bad. Kinda nice really, especially since I hadn't gotten laid in a while.
But, despite all my efforts I was unable to engage Doris in conversation. I was going to ask her to dinner, but she wouldn't give me the chance. She was too busy. But then I'm not sure what I would say if she did give me the chance. It was obvious we were not going to make it here in the newsroom. If not for Elloit's three-day carrot dangling before me I would have just given up. I probably wouldn't have even tried. I mean, Doris was nice and all but she was 20 years my senior.
So after a few unsuccessful Tuesdays I figured I should try another tack. I was just unable to think of one. I couldn't follow her to the country club, and the dozen or so good restaurants within 25 miles were beyond my wallet, though I could afford the bars at some of the places. Still, I wasn't making any progress, but Elliot wouldn't let up. On mornings when he called me into his office I'd never know if he was going to rake me over the coals for a story I screwed up or ask me how the Doris Project was coming. It was almost always the latter. I tried not to answer, because one way or the other I wasn't going to be very comfortable when word got out of my ambitions, realized or not.
Late after deadline one Saturday night, I was drinking Maker's Mark in the bar at Tony's Lodge, the local version of a high class restaurant, and listening to Lionel Reason on the piano -- Lionel, older than dirt, played with King Oliver and Kid Ory. As my third drink was arriving, I left my stool and headed to the cigarette machine. That's when I saw her, and saw an opportunity. (Light bulb goes off thing.) She was sitting at a table in the dining room with other Loros and a Sonat or two. I quickly determined she was the odd diner, the others so obviously married pairs. I also quickly came up with a plan. That was unusual for me, because in those unthinking moments of love and lust I usually act first, and THEN come up with a plan.
Back at my stool, I slugged down another drink and put my plan into action: I had a martini sent to Doris with my compliments. Nothing. I sat there for more than a half hour -- a half hour that seemed like two or three. Sometime after midnight, Lionel quit playing and I saw the lights go out in the restaurant. It was a silly idea I told myself and gulped down the drink I had been nursing since my plan began. Ah well, I didn't really want to bang Doris anyway. Too old. I was lying of course.
Tout un coup, I smelled something familiar next to me and heard that Lauren Bacall voice: "Can I return the favor?" I couldn't speak. Relief spread through my body, along with the electric feeling that passed through my hips. "Buy you a drink," she added when I was too stunned to reply.
"Only if you'll join me," I finally said, noticing that she was empty handed. She sat on the neighboring stool, looked to the bartender, nodded her head and a glass of bourbon and a cold martini quickly appeared. Then we sat there in silence for the longest time. I thought it was my fault for not knowing what to say. I was obviously nervous, and absolutely sure Doris could see that.
She broke the silence, "You're from New Orleans, aren't you." New Orleans in four syllables. Straight out of the garden district.
She carried the conversation, with my adding a few nods and not many responses. My concentration was directed at those now appetizing tits, the appetite piqued by Makers Mark. And my heart was racing when she stroked the sleeve of my sweater. "Cashmere?" She continued to stroke my arm and my shoulder. And she smiled often. She was probably as drunk as I was, a good sign in a woman you're interested in taking to bed. I think I'm going to make it. And we drank and ordered another round. I put my hand on her nylon-covered thigh. By now the lounge emptying, and I knew we would soon have to leave, too. I stroked her thigh, passing my hand briefly under her dress. She continued to stroke my shoulders and my leg on occasion. We were the last in the bar. The staff was ready to close.
The moment of truth: "Would you like to come to my apartment for a nightcap?" I was hoping my voice wouldn't give away my nervousness. She didn't answer. I wasn't quite sure whether her silence meant yes or no or momentary deafness.
