It's 1963 and you have a party to go to. It's been a tough day at the Acme Diversified Product Corp. and you are planning on keeping it simple. You are wearing a dark gray, three-button, center vent, and high waisted suit and you don't plan to change. Accessories include a pair of wing tips, a skinny black tie with the official company clip and a white cotton oxford.
You arrive home and find your wife in a pink taffeta dress, stiff and shiny. The skirt is knee length, and full. Her hair is a perfect bouffant. She's ready to go. As you hold the car door open for her you notice that she looks great. She should, damn it - she's been working on it all day!
The ride is uneventful, "how was your day", and "what's new with the girls at the beauty parlor". You arrive at the sleek new ranch home of your colleague, Peter Meadow, Vice President of Sales for the Mid-State Region. The lawns in the Green Manor subdivision are neatly coiffed. "Oh look the Peterson's are installing a pool," the little lady points out. Meadow's house is new. You remember him calling it a "California Ranch". You think that means it has only one floor.
Sure enough. The house is one floor and built of flat jutting limestone. The striking entrance is dramatically peaked with glass windows from the stoop to the roof line. You and the missus approach and let yourself in. You step into the sunken living room, assessing the modern decor. The carpeting is a short wool thread of rich blue. The furniture is blond oak and has a very "now" look to it. The trim is unadorned and the walls are covered with a stylish rattan paper. The low angular fireplace blazes warmly. It is open and shows the dining room on the other side. A woman stands, sipping a Manhattan on the other side of the room. She reminds you of Jackie Kennedy, only kind of dirty. You recognize the thug she is flirting with from the mailroom and question how he got invited.
You remove your fedora and your wife's shawl just as your host reaches you with two perfectly prepared martinis. "Hey," Peter says handing you and your wife the drinks, "welcome -- come on in and make yourself at home." He turns to your wife and signals to the kitchen, "The gals are in there doing what gals do". He points to you and chuckles "Now come on pal, you gotta check out the Hi-Fi." With a pat on the back, you and your wife are parted.
Peter's a progressive guy and he's decorated the den in a minimalist style with plastic bucket chairs and a plywood sofa from "Scandinavia". On his desk, you spot the most recent copy of Man's Adventure Magazine, the one with the Rita Moreno photo spread. She's a small dame but, I tell you!. A large painting hangs on the wall. It's a landscape you think, but the trees, mountains, and what might be a farm are reduced to abstract and loosely rendered rectangles. "Groovy painting, Peter," you lie, but he doesn't seem to hear. Peter is putting on a record. As he places the record on the turntable, you notice the album cover. "Exotica" it reads, and you can feel it through the way that luscious broad stares at you through that bamboo curtain.
You hear the needle hit the wax, followed by a relative silence, and then the room is filled with the quiet jungle sounds of light bongos and wild animals. The tonal quality of the equipment impresses you. Peter puts a lot of dough into his unit. When the full orchestra sets in, the room almost shakes. Peter dances eyes shut tightly. "She hates this", he yells over the music. Moments later, his wife Kerri enters with the other girls in tow. She smiles maternally as she passes the two of you. She turns down the stereo with a reprimanding smile. She takes her husband by the hand and leads him back to the living room without a word. He glances over his shoulder at you with a smirk that says "what can I do?"
