The Asylum Read Online Free Page B

chance to facilitate this process by becoming Danny’s parole buddy, or whatever the hell it’s called. In other words, Henry guaranteed the parole board he’d put a roof over Danny’s head, and if Danny murdered anyone or destroyed any rental cars by making them dance to James Brown, then Henry would take full responsibility. All of Henry’s friends joined in a Greek chorus imploring him not to be his guarantor. But Henry was adamant.
    â€œGirls! You have to stand by your man.”
    The prison bureaucracy was cumbersome. Henry’s gay nerves were severely tested. When a letter finally arrived bearing the date for Danny’s parole hearing, Henry let out a massive sigh—and then a shriek of horror.
    â€œFuck! That’s the same day as the couture show!”
    At this point, Henry was working for a top fashion house. In addition to the twice-yearly prêt-à-porter collections, this particular
maison
also produced, with great verve and much pomp and circumstance, a legendary couture collection. Chichi socialites, movie celebs and wealthy Saudis made the pilgrimage to buy $40,000 frocks as if they were Twizzlers.
    The date was set. The models were booked, as were the clients’ suites at the Ritz. Even Helen Keller could see that there was no way to reschedule the couture show. There was only one thing for it: the parole date would have to be delayed.
    Listening to Henry on the phone negotiating the date change with the prison officials, painstakingly explaining the importance of the couture show to fashion, and to the whole of humanity, was one of the most sublime moments of my life.
    Naturally, he was successful. As a result of Henry’s finagling, Danny became the only convicted felon in U.S. legal history whose parole date was dictated by the French couture calendar.
    When the show was finished, Henry flew home and so did Danny, and the melodrama resumed once more.
    When Danny dropped dead, it was not a huge surprise. Though he was a strapping hunk, he had a long history with drugs. One of his favorite tricks was to snort cocaine, yell “It’s pahty tahme!” and then hit the bench press. By doing so, he had blasted a few holes in some key heart valves.
    What is surprising is how much Henry cared.
    I had spent so much time being terrified of Danny that I had not stopped to examine the emotional side of their relationship: The effete fashionista and the street-fighting, fist-pumping hustler . . . were they really in love?
    When Henry came back from visiting Danny’s family, I made him a cup of Kukicha twig tea and asked him how he was doing. He got teary and changed the subject.

when bossy bitches roamed the earth
    BEFRIEND A HUNGARIAN gypsy and buy up all her shawls. Have a seamstress make them into tango dresses for you to wear to your parent-teacher meetings. It’s time to
make an impression!
    Soak your feet in molten molasses. The hotter the temperature, the more beautiful the pedicure.
    Do not even think of leaving the house this season unless you are wearing a puce-colored leotard and a scalloped zebra cape.
    You would be mad not to dye all your underwear cerise.
    It’s all about the carelessness of a bare leg. Donate all your silk stockings to the Carmelite nuns, now!
    Cardigans must be worn back to front . . . always! In fact, everything must be worn front to back, even your husband’s Y-fronts. You must insist upon it or suffer the unstylish consequences.
    More than anything else in the entire world, you need a canary yellow Mongolian lamb evening muff. The fluffier the better.
    Cut up your old ball gowns, sew them into ascots and give them to all your male friends. Save one for that homeless man who lives in a cardboard box near your house. There’s no reason why he should be deprived of sartorial flourishes.
    When will the women of America understand? A tambourine
is
an accessory! Carry one at all