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The Legend of The Skirt

by Franco Rossi

Act One, Scene One.

Exterior: Charming Victorian

Camera pans (unless is play) details of Victorian woodwork.

ENTER: (unless is movie, then camera zooms in through window) Handsome, with an air of superiority that he tries to hide, charismatic doorman, clearly bound for greater things.

(Note to self: decide if writing a play or movie)

A Skirt in San Francisco

A Play in Three Acts

by Franco Rossi

Act One, Scene One.

A world-renowned parapsychologist, acting as a doorman, (see above description) successfully rents his apartment to three women who will time-share during the week. The possessor of a skirt, which, legend has it, attracts men (and he must rely on legend since he is immune to the skirt), he awaits the opportunity to study the skirt’s effects firsthand.

(Note to self: keep it snappy, keep it moving)

Ms. Monday-Tuesday is a preoccupied computer programmer. Very smart, but very unaware. Nice eyes and hair—needs a trim—has no clue how to dress, presumably a good figure, but how would one know beneath the sleeping bag she wears as a coat? Wants to give city living a try and a break from long commute.

Ms. Wednesday-Thursday is looking for her father. Something mysterious going on there. Must explore.

Sadly, Ms. Friday-Saturday used to own the apartment and is attempting to get on with her life after a broken engagement.

(Note to self: take notes before writing script.)

(Additional note to self: Wear earplugs only if sitting in foyer, otherwise cannot hear doorbell.)

IT HAD BEEN several days since Zach had seen the homeless person. He hadn’t meant to scare her—he’d decided the person was a “her”—but that might be the best thing if it had sent her on home. These runaways took to the streets thinking it was a solution to their problems. Maybe in some cases it was, but that kid was too soft for that kind of life.

And then this morning, there she was again, dragging her belongings behind her. She hadn’t had the duffel when he’d seen her last week. He wondered if she’d stolen it or accepted a handout from somebody.

Surreptitiously from his perch on the ladder, Zach watched her climb the steps to a Victorian across the street and was more than surprised when that Frank character opened the door and let her in. Moments later, without the duffel, she climbed down the steps and hurried on up the street.

Zach started down the ladder, intending to check on the guy, but stopped. It wasn’t any of his business. Besides, Frank came and went all the time. If Zach didn’t see him by noon, he’d check up on him then.

In the meantime, he had some trim to finish tacking up.

Man, he loved his job. Even when things went wrong, he loved his work.

Zach had cut out thirty-six linear feet of gingerbread trim. This morning, he was tacking it between the bay window on the ground floor and the upper floor bay window, the oriel, to see how it looked.

It was an ornate pattern, full of curves and swoops and intricate cutouts because Zach wanted to show off a little bit. He hammered up the three strips, then climbed down the ladder and walked to the edge of the front yard.

An excellent job, if he did say so himself. But the trim didn’t have the impact he’d thought it would. He tried to imagine various exterior color schemes that would highlight the pattern, but the problem was that the curves and cutouts and curlicues were too small for the scale. The intricacies of the design were lost. Maybe if he painted the house a dark color and the gingerbread white, like icing, it would work.

He was standing there imagining it when he heard a throat clear behind him and was relieved to see Franco from across the street. He was walking three dogs, yet managed the leashes in a way that told Zach he’d done it many times before.

“Would you be adverse to a comment from a layman?”

“Go for it.”

“The trim doesn’t work.”

Zach exhaled heavily. “I know.”

“It’s too fussy.”

“I prefer ornate.”

“I prefer ornate, too, but sometimes, less is more, if you know what I mean.”

Zach had meant the word “ornate,” but he let it pass.

Franco shifted the leashes to one hand and gestured up and down. “Look at the tailored lines of the house.”

Zach knew what he meant. “It’s Sticks-Eastlake style. See the square bay window? And there are still some of the original wooden strips outlining it.” Restoration was Zach’s favorite subject. “When the facade is finished, there will be more strips outlining the doors and the framework of the house and then—”

Franco held up a hand. “My point is that you wouldn’t dress a gloriously statuesque six-foot tall woman in girlish frills and lace, would you?”

“A gloriously statuesque six-foot tall woman can wear whatever the hell she wants.”

“No, she can’t.” Franco was firm on this. “She can wear the clean, dramatic lines and bold patterns and color that would overwhelm a more petite woman. Likewise, your house. Enhance. Do not detract.”

As Franco babbled about Amazons, Zach immediately saw why his previous design hadn’t worked. His curls and curves fought with the clean lines of the house. This particular style of Victorian was known for gingerbread embellishment, but clearly, it had to be the right gingerbread.

Franco had moved on to domes and turrets, equating them with hats and turbans. Zach wasn’t going in that direction, but he did have another idea for a gingerbread pattern with straight lines and spare curves.

“You’ve got a good eye,” he said to Franco.

“Yes. And I’m especially good with colors, should you find yourself in need of a second opinion.”

In spite of himself, Zach felt the edges of his mouth turn up. “I’ll keep that in mind. Hey, have you seen that homeless girl around here?”

“One sees so many.”

“I’m talking about the one you let in this morning.”

Franco’s face was blank.

“Giant coat? Funky hat? I know, that sounds like most of them.”

“Ah.” Franco raised his finger. “I know who you mean. She’s not homeless.”

Zach exhaled. “Good to hear. I thought she looked a little soft for the streets.”

“Not to worry.”

Franco and the dogs walked on and Zach got to work designing a crenelated running trim with wagon wheel spokes that would be a bear to cut out. But worth it.

OKAY. HERE IT WAS. Marnie’s first night in the Victorian apartment.

“Welcome, welcome.” Franco, her new landlord, bowed and ushered her into a jungle. “Mi casa es su casa.”

“At least on Mondays and Tuesdays,” Marnie said. “What’s with the greenery?”

“I’m plant sitting.” He gave her a sly look. “Normally, I would put them on my balcony, but I didn’t want to intrude.”

Marnie knew a hint when she heard one. “I don’t care if you put the plants on the balcony. I like plants.”

“Excellent.” Franco handed her a huge Boston fern. “Go on. I’ll be right behind you.”

Marnie could hardly see around the plant, but climbed the stairs to the second-floor apartment, 2B.

There were four apartments in the old Victorian, but she gathered that Franco was the only one renting his out piecemeal.

She thought it was clever of him, actually. This way, he could concentrate on his script. And he was, no doubt, making more money than if he’d rented it to one person. And, as he had told her, Sundays were his.

Franco had given her a key when she’d dropped off her suitcase and duffel this morning and now Marnie unlocked the door and stepped inside. She set the fern down by the front door and surveyed the apartment.

It was exquisitely decorated in period furniture that made Marnie nervous, but she figured she’d either get used to it or break something. Probably both. She immediately went over to the bay window, from which she could see the work going on across the street and looked for the construction guy.

He wasn’t there. She was relieved in a way, but knew that she’d have to speak to him again at some point. They were pseudo-neighbors now, after all.

It was only hours after their evening encounter last week that Marnie had realized that the man hadn’t been hitting on her. He’d been offering her help. It said a lot about him and unfortunately, something about her as well.

Girlfriend material. As if. She cringed inwardly and it was a feeling she was getting tired of.

A great huffing and puffing announced Franco’s arrival. He’d rigged a pole to hold several hanging baskets and looked like an ancient Chinese water bearer.

“I’m not doing that again!” he moaned. “We’ll just have to make more trips.”

Marnie heard the “we’ll,” but figured she’d let him get away with it this time.

Franco staggered into the bedroom. “Hurry, hurry.”

Marnie followed him and opened the French doors to the balcony.

With much moaning and groaning, Franco knelt and raised the pole.

Marnie helped him get the hanging baskets off. She watched as he arranged them on a pretty white wrought iron plant tree, then brought him the giant fern.

“That, we’ll put in the corner. All right, then. Next load.”

Marnie didn’t mind helping since she hadn’t actually thought about what she would do tonight. She hadn’t eaten and she wanted to get settled in, then maybe explore the neighborhood streets she didn’t see every morning on her walk.

Franco had allocated part of the bedroom closet to her and she understood that the other tenants of 2B would also have closet privileges. Not that she planned to leave much stuff here, but it was nice to know that she didn’t have to lug everything with her each week.

After she and Franco had brought up the rest of the plants, he offered her tea.

“That sounds good.”

“I left a few basics in the kitchen and you’re welcome to help yourself. I suppose you and the others can use boxes or labeling to keep your things straight.” Franco put water on to boil and gave her a tour of the kitchen amenities at the same time.

Marveling at the novelty of having a man wait on her, Marnie shrugged off her parka and sat at the kitchen table. Franco leaned against the counter as he waited for the water to boil.

“And now you must tell me everything about yourself.”

“I gave you my social security number. My life is now an open book.”

“I’m talking about more than good credit and your employment history. I want to know about a woman with the unusual name of Marnie LaTour, her hopes and dreams—and how she believes renting an apartment for two days a week will help her achieve them.”

Well, put that way…one second she was staring into the friendly, but inquisitive, eyes of her landlord/doorman and the next moment, Marnie had burst into tears.

Marnie couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried. Long, long, ago. She supposed that since her father had died right after she got out of college, she hadn’t had much to cry about. She had a good job, friends and the San Francisco public transportation system. What was there to cry about?

This was so embarrassing. “I’m s-sorry.”

Franco calmly went about the task of making tea. “I find myself confronted by crying women on a fairly regular basis.”

“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” Marnie wailed.

“Yes, you do. You just aren’t ready to tell me about it.” A cup of hot tea appeared in front of her, along with a tissue, which she accepted gratefully.

“It’s so stupid,” she mumbled, holding the tissue against her nose.

“Not if it makes you cry.”

“Crying’s stupid, too.”

Franco sipped his tea and said nothing.

Eventually, Marnie couldn’t stand the sound of her sniffing in the silence and blurted out, “It’s just that a man at work, someone I thought I liked, told me I wasn’t girlfriend material, which I knew because the construction workers never whistle at me and I don’t even know why I care.”

She sniffed. Again.

Franco clasped his hands together. “May I take notes?”

“Why?”

“I’m a student of the human condition and hope to incorporate certain stories into my scripts.”

Great. She was a human condition. Marnie held her head in her hands. “I don’t care.”

“Does it matter if it becomes a film script?”

Like it would ever be produced. “No.”

Franco went to the telephone table and returned with a pen and pad of paper and began scribbling. “Now what else is bothering you?”

“My mother is going to Paris,” Marnie threw in for good measure. She’d just found out.

Franco gasped. “And not taking you?”

“She’s chaperoning the French club. She teaches high school.”

Franco gestured dismissively. “Consider yourself lucky, then. You don’t want Paris at this time of year. Now, what do you want?” He stared at the pad of paper. “Do I understand that you wish construction workers to objectify you?”

“No! Well, kinda… Actually, I guess I just want to be the sort of woman they would want to objectify—whistle at. You know.”

“I’m getting the idea, but please enlighten me.”

And so Marnie told him all about Barry and not being girlfriend material and the construction workers and the foreman thinking she was a homeless person. Franco nodded and said “Uh-huh” and “mmm” a lot as he took notes.

He was such a good listener that Marnie even told him how she’d worried about telling her mother she’d be staying here and how her mother had misunderstood and thought she was moving out and that her mom had been so happy that now Marnie was really going to have to look for somewhere else to live. None of this had anything to do with being girlfriend material, but Marnie had thought she was helping her mother by living with her and now her mother didn’t need help anymore and it was Just One More Thing.

“I’m sorry to be such a drama queen,” she moaned, holding her head.

“Drama is my life,” Franco said fervently. “What are you going to do?”

Marnie drank her entire mug of lukewarm tea. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” Franco tapped his pencil impatiently.

She did know. “Okay, but I don’t know how.”

“Oh, hon, you don’t want that Barry creature.”

“Oh, no. But I want him to ask me out to Tarantella. I want him to beg me.”

“And you want the construction workers to whistle at you.”

“Maybe just once.”

“I could pay them for you.”

Marnie laughed, then immediately sobered. “You’re saying that’s the only way—”

“No, it was a joke. A bad one. But I did make you laugh.” He studied her and Marnie was reminded of the construction foreman’s thorough scrutiny.

“We have a lot of work ahead of us.” Franco stood.

“We?”

“You didn’t think I wouldn’t respond to your cry for help, did you? We’ll start by doing your colors.”

“What?”

“We’ll ascertain which colors are most flattering to you before we go shopping, my little Cinderella.”

“Shopping isn’t one of my favorite words. I mostly order online.”

Franco gave a world-weary sigh. He used sighs very effectively. “I shall return with my swatches. You need to change.”

“I know.”

“I meant your clothes. What did you bring?”

Marnie looked down at herself. “Uh, more jeans. Some T-shirts.”

“Do you have a white T-shirt?”

“Mostly white. It’s got the blue writing on it from the Carnahan Easter 10K Fun Run.”

“Wear it backward or turn it inside out. And let me check my costumes—”

“You have costumes?”

“Yes, I’m an actor and a playwright and sometimes due to budgetary constraints in the small theaters, one must exercise many talents.” He headed for the door. “I’ll be back.”

Marnie cleared away the teacups and unpacked her suitcase. The closet was empty, except for a large hanging bag. She hung up three T-shirts, two pairs of jeans and her pajamas and robe. She didn’t know what to do with her underwear, so she left it in the duffel, which she set on the closet floor.

“Yoo-hoo,” she heard. Marnie couldn’t remember a time when she’d ever heard a grown man say “Yoo-hoo.”

Franco was in the living room. He’d pulled a chair over to the bay window and had taken the shade off the lamps, which he’d turned on. “We’ll need to see how you look in both natural and artificial light.”

Marnie pictured the Carnahan offices. “I spend most of my day in fluorescent light.”

“How ghastly.” Franco grimaced. “I found a nice, plain, black skirt I think will fit you. Go put it on.”

“A skirt? Isn’t denim a neutral color?”

Franco pinched the top of his nose and inhaled. “Marnie, please start thinking outside the box.”

Apparently thinking outside the box meant putting on the black skirt. Fine. Whatever.

Marnie already had on the white T-shirt and now she added the skirt. It slipped smoothly over her head and settled around her hips, swirling around her thighs before brushing its hem around midknee.

Marnie couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn a skirt or a dress and yet she’d been faithfully shaving her legs just the same. Now was the payoff. Who would have known?

She zipped up the skirt and looked at her reflection in the full-length mirror on the closet door. Even she, fashion nihilist that she was, could see that the black skirt was probably the most flattering thing she’d ever worn. And it fit. Maybe a little loose at the waist, but that was just lasagna-eating room.

She smoothed her palms against the material noting the thick, rich feel. She turned to the side and thought for a moment that she saw a glimmer, but when she looked closer, it was gone.

What material was this? Some kind of silk, she guessed. Good quality stuff.

“Marnie? Are you about ready, hon?”

“Coming.” With a last look at herself, she headed for the door, the skirt warmly caressing her legs as she walked. She’d taken off her hiking boots and was walking barefoot across the wooden floor. The skirt made her walk differently. She could feel it in the sway of her hips and the placement of her feet and caught herself emphasizing certain movements in order to feel the material of the skirt against her skin.

She could be on to something here.

“Come, come.” Franco gestured impatiently. “And let down the hair—oh those ends…well, baby steps…baby steps.”

Marnie took a seat in front of the window and for the next few hours—actually only about thirty minutes—Franco draped scarves next to her face and made her look into a hand mirror. There were three piles of scarves: those that made something about her “pop,” which she learned was a good thing, and those that made her look like a corpse, which was a bad thing. Then there was the secondary pile, the “only if it’s on sale” pile.

She was gratified that the colors in her parka made the pop pile, but Franco only shook his head. “Colors aren’t everything. However, you lucky, lucky girl, you’re a Deep Autumn. You can wear black.”

“Everyone can wear black.”

“Everyone does wear black, but not everyone should.”

Franco gathered up his scarves then presented her with a swatch sampler. “You may borrow this if you swear that you’ll use it. Also, I will give you a list of acceptable boutiques where you may shop and put your choices on hold. I’ll stop by and approve them and you can make the final purchase then.”

The nerve of him! Marnie did not remember agreeing to any of this: Franco approving her clothes, making her take swatches, for heaven’s sake. She hardly knew him. Marnie opened her mouth, then closed it. Franco seemed to be awfully sure of himself. And she wasn’t.

Marnie smoothed the skirt over her lap and remembered the way it made her feel as she walked across the room. Okay, so what was the harm in buying a few new clothes? She knew she was going to have to change her appearance and if she didn’t find anything she liked, no one was going to force her to buy it.

She gave Franco a sideways glance. Well, he just might. He handed her the swatch cards. “Thanks, Franco,” she said meekly.

Franco snapped his scarf case shut. “I have some errands to run, but in about half an hour, I’m going to Tony’s grocery. You can come with me, if you like, and I’ll introduce you to Tony.”

“Thanks, Franco, I would.”

Amazing how some silly scarves and an offer to go to the grocery store could improve her mood, but it did. Being with Franco was going to be fun.

Marnie went into the bedroom, strangely loathe to take off the skirt. She was standing in front of the mirror turning this way and that when she heard a crash from the balcony.

One of the plants. It had to be. She just hoped it wasn’t the whole plant stand.

The evening breeze had picked up and Marnie was chilled as she opened the French doors and stepped out onto the balcony. The giant fern had blown over. It needed a bigger pot to make it more stable, though Marnie guessed that when it was hanging, it didn’t matter.

She knelt and scooped up the dirt that had spilled out of the pot. A gust of wind swirled around the tiny balcony sending the hem of her skirt rippling way up her thighs and making her flash anyone who happened to be walking along the sidewalk—or renovating a house across the street. Marnie grabbed the skirt and the fern tipped over again.

There were tricks to wearing a skirt that she’d forgotten. She darted a quick look across the street but, thankfully, didn’t see anyone. The Bronco was there, so she knew the construction guy was around somewhere. Marnie cleaned up the dirt again and hooked the big fern around the balcony railing. It rolled from side to side a little, but that was better than tipping over.

Marnie stood. While she was out here, she ought to check the plant stand.

The pots were swaying, but Franco had wedged the heavy stand in a corner. Just to make sure, Marnie moved one of the matching wrought iron chairs from the little table set next to the stand.

The chair had chipped white paint and bits of rust on the seat. It looked extremely uncomfortable. Marnie couldn’t imagine anyone—even Franco—sitting in it, but from the street, the tableau probably looked very picturesque.

Another gust of wind caught her skirt and slammed the glass door shut so hard, the pane rattled. Moist San Francisco night air misted Marnie’s thighs before she could yank the skirt back down.

Good grief! The whole block had probably seen her underwear by now. Holding the skirt in place with one hand, Marnie tried to open the French door with the other.

It was locked.

She rattled the handle. She tried pulling up and turning. She tried pushing down and turning. She tried kicking, but since she was barefoot it hurt her more than the door.

Great. Now what? She could break the glass and unlock the door, assuming the lock wasn’t broken, which she suspected it was. Or she could try to get Franco’s attention.

Marnie leaned over the balcony. “Franco! Franco, can you hear me?” The front door was just beneath her.

There was no answer and Marnie remembered that Franco had said something about running errands. He’d also said something about returning in half an hour.

Okay, then. She’d give him half an hour and then she’d break the glass.

Or she’d give him until her feet went numb, whichever came first.