The spring always brings out such nostalgia in me. There’s something about the trees turning green and the sun shining through the leaves as a light breeze blows that makes me want to sit inside and think about myself.
Ah, yes, to think back on one’s childhood self! Naturally, I always assumed I would be incredibly famous by now and have a shelf full of Oscars. And while I have zero Oscars, I have also not gotten an EGOT.
Because my ambition is boundless in a way that my work ethic is not, I decided to look through my childhood screenplays. Luckily, I have a 100% track record of never getting anything produced, so it’s all still available, if anyone is interested.
I took the shoe box where I store my old screenplays out to my balcony. My building used to say that my balcony was actually scaffolding and unsafe for me to go out on, but after I spent an afternoon coming up with new choreography for “Sit Down You’re Rocking the Boat” that involved a clever use of a sprinkler system, my building said that actually it was a balcony, and I should feel free to go out there whenever I wanted.
I opened the shoe box and pulled out a screenplay that had a light blue cover and imitation typewriter font—typed by me age twelve—and started to read. I was immediately riveted. The screenplay was about a girl who lives in the big city with her cat, wears oversized sunglasses, and works at Bergdorf’s. And here I am in the city with a cat and wearing sunglasses, and I regularly go to Bergdorf’s to work on myself.
I read it seven more times and, before I knew it, night had fallen. And so, I went inside, tucked the screenplay under my pillow, put on my Hollywood themed eye mask— with the Hollywood sign gently covering my eyes— and went to bed.
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of music drifting through my apartment and a sense of ennui drifting through my mind. I called for the cat by saying, “Cat!” and found that overnight I had developed an accent of muddled European origin—cross my heart and kiss my elbow!
I climbed back out on the balcony, which was now a fire escape, with the cat and my guitar. I looked out over the city. There I was: just me and my ennui. I started strumming my guitar and played a song that I’d written in my sleep called “Moon Tributary.” It’s about two drifters who are off to see the world—meaning Los Angeles and parts of Europe.
While I was out on the fire escape, one of my neighbors, who collects antique typewriters, stuck his head out to see if I wanted a drink and to buy a typewriter. “And will there be giraffes?” I asked him. No, because those are only in Paris. When it sizzles.
After singing another few verses of “Moon Tributary,” I went inside my apartment and checked my messages on my answering machine. I keep the answering machine in the bathtub. Most of my messages were from my mobster friend, Sally Tomahto who is in white collar prison, which is why he telephones and I never run into him at parties. As a favor, I take messages from him to his associates who are not in prison, Mr. Potaeto and Mr. Potahto. He also asks me to take them tomatoes. This is, of course, very confusing due to my accent of muddled European origin, and so I frequently get the messages wrong. That is why I am occasionally asked to appear in court where they have terrible lighting, and they don’t pay an appearance fee. However, there is frequent talk of a disappearance fee. Well, people are always giving me $100 to leave places.
Yet, oh golly, I still felt such ennui! And a little bit of anxiety of influence. I started to have flashbacks of running through a briar patch, which I am assuming is something I did on a movie set because I am a phony but a real phony. It was then that I suddenly felt the urge to go have breakfast at Tiffany’s. I also had to get away from the Mean Reds—meaning my neighbor Mean Reds. He was a child actor and is always yelling at me about his glory days in pictures. Quel beast!
I put on a black dress as I like to go-darkly and wear black in the summer so people know I’m a kook. I put on my third largest pair of sunglasses and some strings of pearls, since it was morning, after all. I also put some diamonds in my hair, but other than that left my hair alone because you shouldn’t try to tame a wild thing. I then put a tomato in my bag and decided to go-forth.
After being chased down my building’s stairs by Mean Reds, I hailed a taxi and told the driver to take me to the real New York: midtown. I got out of the cab at 57th and 5th and as I exited, I heard the melancholy melody of my song “Moon Tributary” floating through the air. I checked to make sure that Mean Reds hadn’t followed me. Then I walked up to the Tiffany’s windows holding a can of Coke and a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts, which somehow I’d managed to purchase even though it’s not accounted for in this timeline. At Tiffany’s you have to bring your own breakfast.
I entered Tiffany’s expecting to immediately feel my ennui leave me and to have escaped Mean Reds, but instead I was greeted by a terrible sight. It was simply too gruesome. Where was the wood and marble and simple glass cases and the Kodachrome lighting? Why was I being forced to look at digital screens with images of Central Park on them when Central Park was right outside? Had I accidentally stumbled into an airport mall? It was a phony and a phony-phony.
It was then that I was approached by a man looking for some rare stamps. And then another man who was also looking for the stamps and who’s name kept changing and who also had an accent of muddled European origin. So, then we had to go look for the stamps and figure out people’s real names and true identities. Sorry wrong movie.
I stood in the middle of the first floor of Tiffany’s and looked around not recognizing anything. Now I was even more tres ennui-ful. I took one last look at Tiffany’s and strained to hear the melancholic opening chords of “Moon Tributary,” but they could not be heard. Then I grabbed some jewelry and put it in my bag next to the tomato, and I left.
Not knowing what to do with myself, I walked over to 52nd Street to have lunch at 21, but much to my horror, it was closed. Luckily, I am plucky, so I walked a few blocks over to La Cote Basque, but found that it had closed as well. What was I to do? I had no choice but to eat the tomato.
Cross my heart and kiss my elbow,
Victoria
Footnotes
If you have never seen Breakfast at Tiffany’s, better luck next time.
When I was twelve, I wrote several screenplays inspired by Breakfast at Tiffany’s. The most complete one was called Cross My Heart and Kiss My Elbow and it was about a young woman living in Manhattan— although the Tiffany’s stand-in wasn’t Bergdorf’s, but Bendel’s because Bendel’s had the great staircase. I also wrote a part for myself in this screenplay but made myself two years older because I knew that it usually took a couple of years to get a movie made.
Age twelve is also when I went through my Audrey Hepburn phase, which included a weekly viewing of Breakfast at Tiffany’s. It also included a questionable haircut, telling my classmates that she was a distant relation, and wanting to go to boarding school in Switzerland.
One year at camp—meaning a pre-college program—I performed a monologue I adapted myself from the novella of Breakfast at Tiffany’s for a theatre class focused on adaptations from literature.
The giraffes line is from Paris When It Sizzles a 1964 film starring Audrey Hepburn with a plot as convoluted as this newsletter.
The Anxiety of Influence is a book and literary theory by Harold Bloom.
The Tiffany’s remodel is hideous and clearly designed by people who hate New York City. In a column for Puck, Lauren Sherman gave the backstory on the redesign and quoted someone saying it looked like a mall in Dubai, which is the most apt description I have seen. It makes me incredibly sad.
The stamps and man with many names are from Charade a 1963 film starring Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant.
21 is mentioned in Breakfast at Tiffany’s. La Cote Basque is not, but highly associated with Truman Capote. Both restaurants have, sadly, closed.
I do get incredibly depressed and nostalgic in the spring and all of my childhood screenplays are still available.
