Boys and girls, it may surprise you to know that even your very own Miss Comportment needs some time away from the desk, away from her sanctuary looking out over our green, lucious banks … time to simply, well, sip.
So you can imagine my surprise when I came across one Susan Cotton perched on a barstool in the Underground sipping a glass of upstate cabernet.
“Forsaking the Riverside?” I asked, innocently.
“Not a fan,” she said, inviting me to sit next to her. “Too much … too many …”
“Oh I know, I know,” I said. Because, of course, I did.
I have always enjoyed the Riverside and Cassie’s odd but endearing sense of humor, but with all this Mick craziness going on, it has started to give even me – your devoted voice, your solemn bloodhound – the icks.
“Whiskey neat,” I told the bartender, then turned to Susan. “Now you, you’re on TV. What kind of T can you spill?”
Susan smiled. “Nothing, Miss Comportment, nothing you don’t already likely know.”
The bartender placed my drink in front of me and I turned to Susan. “Think I can shoot it?”
Susan’s eyes widened. “The whole thing? Like, right now?”
I nodded.
She shook her head. “No, you can’t … you shouldn’t … that’s not a good thing to do.”
Before she could protest any longer, I downed the entire glass in just two swallows.
“Another,” I said, gesturing to the bartender. I turned toward her. “Now, do you want me to land on my face in the middle of this beautiful bar or are we going to help each other?”
Susan acquiesced. “Don’t fall down but … I may know a few things.”
Cut to two wines and an appetizer later and I was … Up. To. Date. (Cost me a few bucks, but I figured what the hell.)
“Sheriff Paul … What a tragedy for this town! What a true, unbelievable tragedy! But why? Why would he kill Mick?” I motioned for the bartender to bring the wine bottle down to us and poured her another glass.
“Well,” Susan started, gathering herself slightly. She blinked her eyes three, four, five times before continuing, a bit dizzy with the red. “I think … I think he was jealous!”
“Jealous, you say,” I said, leaning in and pushing her glass toward her hand. “How so?”
Susan cackeled out loud, then crossed her legs one way, then the other way, then back the first way yet again.
“I think …” she whispered. “I think he wanted to be …” And with all the gusto she could pull from the bottom of her wine glass, Susan Cotton said aloud “I think he wanted to be a ROCK STAR!”
Oh dear reader, the thought left your Miss Comportment in the contemplative puddle of laughter only available to those who’d moderated their intake but remained amongst a person who had not, for I knew what this all meant.
I motioned toward the bartender. “Two taxis, please,” I said, and sent Susan Cotton on her way.
I blew her a kiss as she stuffed herself into the car.
Bye bye, future New York anchor. Bye bye, Ms. Susan Cotton.
Gunnar Olafsson