Before he left with the others the next day, Larsen and I took a ride over to the Concord Walmart again, so I could buy another plaid lumberjack sweater-jacket. As we got into the Corolla, Larsen said he wanted to hear more about Wendy Smith. He cackled. I mentioned that, if she ever came to Philly, there were clubs I wanted to take her to, along with the Highwire Gallery. He cackled again. And proceeded to lay down the law about some differences between the United States and Europe: “You have to understand that girls like Wendy Smith don’t go clubbing in London, for example, or Belgium. You can’t really break out of where you came from. What they do in the States, they don’t do there. Mix it up. David Dulworth and I used to try to get posh girls to the clubs, because in certain parts of London they’ll at least listen to you. No dice. Belgium’s no different.” So if Wendy and I started from London, let’s say…more cackling. “Well, yeah, you start from the middle class, so there’s at least some kind of game there. I wound up in Philly because I don’t fit in anywhere in London the right way, anyway. Belgian working-class, but travels the world constantly, musician, smart enough to hold my own with brains, knows how to dress, good driver…that’s Nowheresville in the UK. The problem is, as limited as the class thing is where they enforce it in Europe, which is most of it, the people are just more sophisticated than they are here. They come from countries with longer histories, and they grow up absorbing more history, too. They’re more formed. They know themselves better. America is still wilderness that way. The real history hasn’t happened yet. So it makes sense that people like us are allowed to run around and try and be creative. America has to start somewhere.” The Walmart was Walmart, but Larsen pointed out, “This store doesn’t really target any class. Some things are expensive, some are cheap. In Belgium, stores only have either all cheap or all posh gear.” Then, there was what Larsen really wanted to know: did it actually happen? I was pleased to say that it did, even as Larsen bothered to opine, “And yet, you’ll never get it out of her twice. Everyone around her’s gonna be completely scandalized. You’re U Penn, so I guess it’s alright. But you’d never guess that in Maida Vale, you’d never get a peck on the fucking cheek. Remember, that whole clan are rich without being sophisticated. They’d never guess that Wendy shacking up with you might be a good idea for her career as an artist, for example. You said you tend to out-publish her, right? But they act like little kids. Which they do in Maida Vale too, but are cleaner about it, which is why in Maida Vale you couldn’t even kiss her. Londoners are good at staying clean that way. Americans don’t know who they are yet, so they get confused fast.” I tried not to be defensive: I thought I was plenty posh. Even as the lumberjack sweater-jacket I had duly donned might’ve suggested otherwise. Larsen took me aside for a final cigarette before they departed: “ One last thing about Wendy, Mr. Foley. You’d be well advised to understand that what you get out of her now is not too much. She really went out on a limb to do what you did with her, but I see now very clearly who the Smiths are. They’ll be happy to tell Wendy not to repeat the mistake.” Watching the Corolla pull out of the parking lot, and Christopher cryptically open his passenger seat window to take a final shot of something, I inwardly rebelled. I wanted to think that Larsen was being reductive. But I checked, and there it was: Wendy, who had been just visiting anyway, was gone with the wind
© Adam Fieled 2023
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