Hi, my name's Ronni Brady, and I'm a feature writer with New York Eye, the internationally renowned humorous news and current affairs magazine. I'm known for my acerbic wit and laconic style. You may have heard of me – I also have a regular newspaper column that's syndicated across the country, and I've been a regular guest on shows like Letterman and the Late Late Show over the years.
Of course these days, at my great age, I'm something of a Grand Dame at the Eye, and I can write my stuff from the viewpoint of a blousy cranky old lady. This story, though, comes from a much earlier period of my life, a more naive time, a time much simpler yet quite complex...
I'm not a native New Yorker. Far from it, I grew up in small town Kansas. Let me take you back to my home town – let's call it Westvale – in 1960, and introduce you to a shy young lady called Veronica Brady. I'd just turned 18, I was in my last months at Glendinning High School, and I was a mouse: an academic geek straight out of central casting, small at five-two with a petite figure, long chestnut brown hair held back with an Alice band or leather thong, hazel eyes, a pale complexion and big black-rimmed reading spectacles. I never used make-up and, apart from my white bobby sox, I generally wore somber colors. When I looked at myself in the mirror I knew I was pretty – my eyes sparkled, my small pert nose was lightly dusted with freckles, and I had a nice smile and a dimpled chin – but nobody else really noticed, and I guess I never encouraged them to. Basically, if anyone had thought it worth writing anything about me in the school yearbook it would have been 'girl most likely to become the town's spinster librarian'.
I had some friends, but not many. Glendinning was the hipper of the town's two schools, but I wasn't one of the hip girls, with their Marilyn Monroe or Liz Taylor hair, their big rouged lips and gleaming Crest smiles, their big Playtex tits and their long, long legs. What made it worse was that I was Big Joe Brady's kid; dad was chief labor organiser at the town auto works, revered by the blue collar population, hated by the white collar classes whose sons and daughters dominated Glendinning. I would probably have been happier at St Josephs, where most of the other working class kids went, but Glendinning was the best, and only the best was good enough for Joe Brady's kid, he wasn't gonna have those management bastards and their snivelling scumbag lawyers looking down on him. He was as loud, boisterous and overpowering as I was quiet, withdrawn and underwhelming.
All the other girls my age chased the school jocks and dreamed of being executive secretaries, selling Chanel perfume or Dior gowns in some big department store and becoming perfect little Betty Crocker homemakers and moms, but I had bigger ideas. The boys in school barely noticed I existed and, to be honest, I wasn't really interested in them either. Marrying some grease monkey or store clerk or drudge insurance salesman was not for me; my ambition was to graduate school with good grades, aim for an ivy league college, shake the dust of Hicksville off my feet for good and start my real life somewhere sophisticated like LA or the Big Apple.
My teachers encourage me in my fantasy. I knew I was smart, possibly the brightest kid in the school, but I guess the faculty knew better than I did just how smart I was. While the other girls spent their leisure time in school practising the latest dance, trying out for the cheerleading team or comparing make-up tips, I could invariably be found sitting in the shade of a tree in a quiet corner of the school field, my nose buried in a book. My favourite teacher was Miss Grzesiak (pronounced Greezhak) – Lorraine – who took English classes. I loved great literature, and ate up all I could find of the Brontes, Jane Austen, Henry James, and so on and so on. Miss G had only joined the faculty about a year previously, and she and I had instantly found common cause. After one of her first classes I hung back one day to ask a question that I'd been too embarrassed to ask in front of my fellow students, about the motivation of one of the characters in Gatsby. It was the end of the day, I didn't want to take up her time, but my single question led to nearly an hour of stimulating conversation about the novel, and F Scott Fitzgerald in general.
After that Miss G and I were on the same wavelength, and we often had extra-curricular discussions about literary esoterics that would have left my fellow students glassy-eyed with boredom and incomprehension within moments. Lorraine was no small-town girl, she was everything I dreamed of being: a Bostonian, she had attended a spiffy East Coast university, had visited Europe, and had cut her teeth as a teacher in the Bronx and Brooklyn before moving west. In her early 30s, she reminded me of Shirley MacLaine, with short reddish-blonde hair and a cat's face with high cheekbones, slightly slanted green eyes, a button nose and a tapered chin supporting a wide mouth. She was five inches taller than me, athletically built but with an impressive bust, and had shapely legs with a dancer's calves. She was assertive, funny, sassy and superb at putting down boys who tried to play the wise-ass in her classes. The other kids started whispering around school that she was a queer and used to snigger about her behind her back – they wouldn't have dared do so to her face – but I didn't care a fig about that. I admired her like nobody else I'd ever known; at night, in the darkness of my bedroom I used to lay and think about her, not in any sexual way but just of me and her being friends, real friends, more than simply an encouraging teacher and precocious kid.
And then, one fine day, just after my 18th birthday, to my amazement it started to happen. Miss G stopped me as I was leaving class and asked me to take a seat. "Veronica, there's a show on over in Ellsworth that I thought might interest you. A touring theater company are performing A Midsummer Night's Dream next week. I was thinking of organising a school outing, but to be honest you're the only student I can think of who would be likely to really appreciate it. So I wondered if you'd like to come and see it with me? Have you ever seen any live Shakespeare?"
I was so excited by the idea that I could barely breathe, let alone speak, and I shook my head dumbly. Miss G smiled and said, "Can I take it that means you haven't seen the bard's work live, not that you're not interested in coming?" Feeling myself blush I apologised and said that was exactly what it meant. I'd never seen any live theater, well, not real, professional productions. Proper theater companies never came to our small town, Ellsworth was over 30 miles away, I had no car and no-one to go with - my folks didn't have the slightest interest in the arts beyond movies shown on TV.
Despite my excitement, and even though the invitation seemed entirely innocent, some sense of self-preservation warned me not to mention my outing with Miss Grzesiak to anybody. Because I'd be back so late I did tell my mom that I was going on a school trip to Ellsworth to see a play, and if she drew the conclusion from that that a whole bunch of us were going, on a formally organised visit, well, that wasn't my fault. I borrowed a copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream from the library and thoroughly studied it, so that I wouldn't look a complete dork at the theatre. My anticipation built over the next few days until, on the appointed Friday, I was almost bursting. I didn't have a class with Miss G that day but I passed her in the school corridor and she gave me a barely perceptible wink and mouthed "see you tonight".
As soon as my last class finished I raced home and changed into my one smart outfit, a sparkly black prom dress I'd never actually worn, having not been able last time to face the ritual humiliation of being a wallflower once again. I struggled into the self-supporting stockings I'd also never worn, scooped my hair into a ponytail and slipped my glasses into my purse, hoping I wouldn't have to drag them out to actually read anything during the evening. I was too keyed up to eat anything, and I rushed down to the town square where we had agreed Miss G would pick me up.
She roared up in a jewel off a car, a tiny red English two-seater convertible sports car which made my jaw drop in admiration. I had never ridden in anything remotely like it before, and as we whisked along I eased back into the rich leather seat with the wind streaming my long hair out behind me, fantasising that I was sitting beside Cary Grant as he chauffeured me along the French Riviera. When we reached Ellsworth Miss G turned to me and said, "I don't want to be ma'am out of school, so I think you should call me Lorraine and I'll call you Ronni, okay honey?" She was the first person ever to call me that, and I immediately adopted it as her special name for me. As Lorraine exited the car I got my first chance to properly see her outfit. She looked wonderful, in a midnight blue blouse, black slacks and low-heeled black patent leather sandals which revealed bare toes with nails painted scarlet to match those of her fingers. The blouse had quite a plunging neckline, revealing an expanse of pale chest and the first swelling of her generous boobies. Strangely I felt embarrassed looking directly at her, but I kept sneaking glances throughout the evening.
I had a wonderful time at the theater. The performances were superb, and at the interval I found that Lorraine had ordered me a white wine spritzer in the bar, my first taste of alcohol, even if a very weak one. At the end of the play I clapped so hard my hands were sore. The theater exit was crowded as we left and Lorraine grabbed my hand to guide me through the throng. Somehow we ended up holding hands all the way back to the car, but I didn't mind in the least; it felt sisterly and, well, friendly. With the combination of the excitement, the lack of food and the alcohol I felt woozy and fell asleep on the way back. I stayed late in bed on the Saturday and lay staring at the ceiling reliving every scene of the performance in my head, and the way Lorraine had looked. I was still glowing from it when I returned to school on the Monday. After my English class Lorraine pulled me to the side and asked if I'd enjoyed the evening. Almost hugging myself I told her it was the best time ever. She grinned hugely at that and replied, "Good, I'm really glad. We should do it again sometime. In fact, if you're interested, the New York Ballet are performing Swan Lake in a couple of weeks' time." Naturally I was interested, and we made the arrangements then and there. I offered to pay Lorraine for the tickets out of my savings but she wouldn't hear of it.
The night of the ballet couldn't come quickly enough for me. I was embarrassed at the thought of wearing the same outfit, so I drew some money from my savings and treated myself to a sophisticated cream cocktail dress I couldn't really afford and a matching pair of flat sandals. The performance was on a Saturday this time, and I spent the afternoon in the local hair salon getting my locks piled high on my head – very Audrey Hepburn. I also experimented with some make-up, and felt I'd done quite a good job. Lorraine's face lit up when she saw me and she said I looked beautiful, which made me blush with happiness. She was dressed in quite a masculine fashion, with a tuxedo, frilled shirt and red bow tie, but my only thought was how much the look suited her. The performance was stunning and, with all the pent up excitement and emotion inside me I found tears streaming down my face during the Dying Swan. I felt Lorraine's arm slip comfortingly around me, and she gently pressed a handkerchief into my hand.
As we left the theater Lorraine slipped her arm through mine, and we strolled companionably back towards the car. I was floating on a little pink cloud of pleasure, and it took me completely by surprise when three girls from my class as school loomed up before me. They were all pretty blondes, dressed to kill, and each hanging on the arm of a young man. As they archly greeted Lorraine and me, trying not to snigger, I felt myself blushing from head to toe. Lorraine tried to disengage her arm from mine, but I locked on. After all, there was nothing wrong in us being out together, and I looked the other girls in the eye and smiled as I wished them a pleasant evening. Lorraine went quiet until we were a few miles out of town when, looking straight ahead at the road, she muttered, "Look Ronni, I'm sorry about that..."
