squeaked the makeup artist. "You'll ruin my work."
Brad smiled. Only on the P'Town ferry! He moved on till he came to the snack bar, stopping to stare at an assortment of food beneath the glass. Hardly anything nonfat or low-carb, he noted grimly. At his neighborhood supermarket, Brad shopped exclusively in what he called the "No Fat-No Fun" section. Maybe it was time to live a little.
He decided on an apple turnover, giving himself a mental slap on the wrist. Just one won't hurt, he thought, though he knew that was always how it started.
The server looked at him with concern. "You sure you want this?" he asked, as though he'd read Brad's mind. Brad flushed and thought of his midriff. Was it showing already?
"It might get a bit rough out there," the man said, with a nod toward the water.
Brad smiled. "I like it rough." No reaction from the server. Brad's smile faltered. Definitely straight, he decided. "I'll be okay," he said with a shrug. "I've done this trip before."
"All right," the man said. "Just thought I should warn you."
"I stand warned."
Brad continued through the cabin, settling in to read The New York Times, a publication he liked to refer to as 'that amusing concoction of lies.' Two front-page stories vied for his attention: Hurricane Isabel was threatening offshore Maryland, and Arnold Schwarzenegger was threatening the rest of America in his campaign to become governor of California.
"I'm not afraid of Democrats," Arnie declared in a fervent interview. "I married one."
Isabel was a woman of fewer words, but her 150-mph winds kept the country's attention regardless.
It wasn't until he reached the back page of section one that Brad found a brief write-up on the Dalai Lama's upcoming lecture series in New York. To conclude his visit, the guru-in-exile had scheduled an open-air talk in Central Park the following Sunday. If Grace was so worried about him, Brad wondered, why didn't she just advise him to cancel his trip? Of course there could be any number of reasons, but it seemed the sensible solution.
He'd just finished the article when a loud squawking burst from the back of the cabin. He looked up to see Marilyn Monroe charging through the room. It was the man in boxers, now wearing a platinum wig and false eyelashes. He teetered through the cabin on high heels, a pink boa trailing behind.
"Help! Save me!" Marilyn cried to the room as everyone erupted in laughter.
"Norma Jean, I am not finished with you!" the makeup artist screamed as he raced after the charging figure.
The fugitive spied Brad sitting with his paper and suddenly turned coy. He sashayed over and ran the boa's feathery tip across Brad's cheeks.
"Hey, big boy!" he whispered in imitation of a very-Hollywood Marilyn. "How's about a little fun later, just you and me?"
"Norma Jean!"
Brad suddenly found his face pressed into the man's taut midriff.
"Please don't let them take me," Marilyn cooed in mock fright. His voice lowered and Brad thought he heard the man say, "I know who you are. I've got to talk to you about Ross Pretty."
Before Brad could react, the irate makeup artist reached his prey. "I'm not finished with you!" he cried, grabbing the unfinished Marilyn by the biceps and pulling him out of the room.
Marilyn gave Brad a last reluctant glance.
"And I'm not finished with you, honey," he crowed over the crowd's approving roar. "By the way, everybody," he said, turning to the room. "I'd like to take this opportunity to invite y'all to my show at the Post Office Cabaret, starting tomorrow night!"
Brad watched, intrigued, as Marilyn disappeared in a flurry of high heels and feathers.
3
Every time Bradford stepped off the Provincetown Ferry he felt as though he'd come home. He merged with the circuslike atmosphere of merrymakers, gleeful children, souvenir hawkers, roving dogs, arts-and-crafts collectors, professional escape artists, and the occasional genuine tourist swelling the crowded streets.
Every year, for
Brad smiled. Only on the P'Town ferry! He moved on till he came to the snack bar, stopping to stare at an assortment of food beneath the glass. Hardly anything nonfat or low-carb, he noted grimly. At his neighborhood supermarket, Brad shopped exclusively in what he called the "No Fat-No Fun" section. Maybe it was time to live a little.
He decided on an apple turnover, giving himself a mental slap on the wrist. Just one won't hurt, he thought, though he knew that was always how it started.
The server looked at him with concern. "You sure you want this?" he asked, as though he'd read Brad's mind. Brad flushed and thought of his midriff. Was it showing already?
"It might get a bit rough out there," the man said, with a nod toward the water.
Brad smiled. "I like it rough." No reaction from the server. Brad's smile faltered. Definitely straight, he decided. "I'll be okay," he said with a shrug. "I've done this trip before."
"All right," the man said. "Just thought I should warn you."
"I stand warned."
Brad continued through the cabin, settling in to read The New York Times, a publication he liked to refer to as 'that amusing concoction of lies.' Two front-page stories vied for his attention: Hurricane Isabel was threatening offshore Maryland, and Arnold Schwarzenegger was threatening the rest of America in his campaign to become governor of California.
"I'm not afraid of Democrats," Arnie declared in a fervent interview. "I married one."
Isabel was a woman of fewer words, but her 150-mph winds kept the country's attention regardless.
It wasn't until he reached the back page of section one that Brad found a brief write-up on the Dalai Lama's upcoming lecture series in New York. To conclude his visit, the guru-in-exile had scheduled an open-air talk in Central Park the following Sunday. If Grace was so worried about him, Brad wondered, why didn't she just advise him to cancel his trip? Of course there could be any number of reasons, but it seemed the sensible solution.
He'd just finished the article when a loud squawking burst from the back of the cabin. He looked up to see Marilyn Monroe charging through the room. It was the man in boxers, now wearing a platinum wig and false eyelashes. He teetered through the cabin on high heels, a pink boa trailing behind.
"Help! Save me!" Marilyn cried to the room as everyone erupted in laughter.
"Norma Jean, I am not finished with you!" the makeup artist screamed as he raced after the charging figure.
The fugitive spied Brad sitting with his paper and suddenly turned coy. He sashayed over and ran the boa's feathery tip across Brad's cheeks.
"Hey, big boy!" he whispered in imitation of a very-Hollywood Marilyn. "How's about a little fun later, just you and me?"
"Norma Jean!"
Brad suddenly found his face pressed into the man's taut midriff.
"Please don't let them take me," Marilyn cooed in mock fright. His voice lowered and Brad thought he heard the man say, "I know who you are. I've got to talk to you about Ross Pretty."
Before Brad could react, the irate makeup artist reached his prey. "I'm not finished with you!" he cried, grabbing the unfinished Marilyn by the biceps and pulling him out of the room.
Marilyn gave Brad a last reluctant glance.
"And I'm not finished with you, honey," he crowed over the crowd's approving roar. "By the way, everybody," he said, turning to the room. "I'd like to take this opportunity to invite y'all to my show at the Post Office Cabaret, starting tomorrow night!"
Brad watched, intrigued, as Marilyn disappeared in a flurry of high heels and feathers.
3
Every time Bradford stepped off the Provincetown Ferry he felt as though he'd come home. He merged with the circuslike atmosphere of merrymakers, gleeful children, souvenir hawkers, roving dogs, arts-and-crafts collectors, professional escape artists, and the occasional genuine tourist swelling the crowded streets.
Every year, for
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