There is a moment in the movie trailer for Memoirs of a Geisha where some guy on a bike gets sidetracked by the merest glance from the very young geisha-in-training. Looking at her causes him to ride smack dab into a cart piled high with fruit and Louis Vuitton knock offs, before he crashes unceremoniously to the ground.
The geisha's training officer,
who witnesses this young man's humiliation, is smugly satisfied by his
pratfall, since it means that her protege may now have what it takes to
control men with her charms.
After sixty-two years, Mrs.
Linklater finally had her own geisha moment a couple of days ago. Why
it took so damn long, she'll never know.
Like most people who are younger than she is -- and that would be most
people -- you're probably thinking she's just making this up -- a la
James "Don't Mess With Oprah" Frey. Perhaps she just wants to include
something interesting, but not true, in her own memoir, A Thousand Tiny
Pieces of Cake, which is updated intermittently here in this journal,
usually when her memory kicks in long enough to remember something.
But, despite what you may think, she's just as surprised as any woman
who is closer to pushing a walker than learning to pole dance about the
unexpected event that unfolded.
In what may be a useless attempt to be disingenuous, Mrs. Linklater
confesses that she uses the wa-a-a-ay flattering headshot over in her
About Me section because
that's the only part of her body that remains free of cellulite, spider
veins, and arthritis.
With a judicious use of photography, combined with hundreds of dollars of make up
and careful lighting, she can maintain the illusion of youthfulness
without actually revealing the sixty-two year old truth.
Her gift at not looking bad from
the neck up can be the only explanation for what transpired the day before yesterday.
Mrs. L was sitting behind the wheel
of her high mileage Jeep, stuck in traffic, using the time to finish a
day old turkey sandwich she found stuck between the seats, when she
half noticed two
young men crossing the street, dodging in and out of traffic.
By the way they were rushing, she assumed they were going to the train
station. As they were weaving their way around stopped cars, they
suddenly turned and decided to cross to the other side in front of her
That's when it happened. One of the young men looked at her. This is
not unusual. Many people look at Mrs. Linklater when she has a mouth
full of food, often in disbelief.
But this time, no doubt distracted by the Hollywood lighting and
makeup, her unnaturally blond hair, and the fact that the rest of her
body was well hidden behind the wheel of the car, the young man did a
double take usually reserved for women who more closely resemble
Catherine Zeta Jones, Charlize Theron or Salma Hayak.
Unfortunately, the young man failed to notice the, uh, pothole which
had suddenly opened up beneath his feet. It appeared at the very moment
he looked at Mrs. Linklater for the second time, instead of watching where
the hell he was going.
Like a some David Copperfield rush hour magic trick, the guy vanished
before Mrs. Linklater's eyes. Swallowed up by the street. Right in
front of her bumper.
But his disappearance was temporary. He immediately jumped back up,
looked down at whatever he fell into, brushed himself off, and acted
like he did stuff like that all the time.
Followed by one last look to see if the person who caused him so much grief was worth it.