Credits. Cha, cha-cha, cha-cha. Cha, cha-cha, cha-cha. Cha, cha-cha, cha-cha, cha-cha, whee, go xylophone! Splashy bus! Ohhh, the five-dollar tutu, she is ruined. Cha cha cha.
It's evening in New York. Carrie, in a creamy-pearly gorgeous short evening dress, the effect of which is barely ruined by her visible black bra, skips and flits and cavorts her way down the sidewalk. It's like the woman forgot how to walk without ebullience. She stops and checks her face in a car's side mirror, then catapults herself into what looks like the National Arts Club near Gramercy Park (feel free to write in and correct me if I'm wrong. Not everyone at once!).
No wonder she's so happy: She's meeting none other than her superman, Big. He looks weary and creased. They chew on steaks ecstatically. She asks if they have steaks this good out in his "little village" of Napa. He asks what field she thinks the cattle graze on, "the one on Canal Street?" She says, "What we lack in fields, we make up for in cabs." They could go on like this all night. I sincerely hope they do not. I have a slight banter allergy, which acts up after about two rounds of the stuff. Big counters with "Napa has cabs," and Carrie finally cries uncle and gives in. "You win." Not exactly: when pointless bickering comes to an end, we all win. She asks what's on his "New York agenda." Well, first he's going to catch up on everyone's blackout stories, then he's going to pay too much for cigarettes and have nowhere to smoke them. Just kidding. He asks if she can keep a secret. Never ask a journalist to keep a secret: they can't. I was at the Khyber last Friday night, which is a lovely rock-and-roll dump in Philadelphia. For the first time ever in their history, they were forced to cut the bands short for a noise ordinance, and the manager of the place drunkenly told me their legal plans to fight the shutdown. Of course, I won't tell you what he told me, just that after each sentence he kept stressing that it was OFF THE RECORD and NOT FOR PUBLICATION and DO I HEAR THIS, ALEX? I love getting the inside scoop, but when it comes with a disclaimer like that, secrets become a burden. And to provide closure on that anecdote, the Khyber is open and operating and everything is fine. The end.
Anyway. Big's secret is that he's in town for "a little heart thing." An angioplasty. There seems to be some blockage in his arteries. And afterwards, he can kiss steaks good-bye. Carrie listens to all this looking stricken, then bursts into almost-comic sobs. Her tears are ridiculous, the liquid equivalent of her famous squeal. Big gets a familiar, casual twang in his voice as he tells her she's freaking out needlessly, and that "they do a million of these a day...it's like having your teeth cleaned." More hysterical sobs from Carrie. Very high drama, very Olive Oyl. The waiter comes by to check on them, and Big asks for some more napkins and "a violin." Also, may we have another order of "shut up, Carrie"? Thanks, that'd be great. Mmm, I loves me that "shut up, Carrie." Can't get enough.