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Mr. Rabinowitz, as was his custom, was perched on the porch of his Georgetown colonial at 7:45AM in his vintage shawl neck cardigan. He was a spry 89 years old, and still managed to get his 'groove' on with the help of his occasional elixir of prune juice and Viagra. He nursed a smoldering mug of black coffee while periodically checking his watch as he sat behind a crumpled New York Times, which Ms. Chicklebutt (who knows everyone's business) in unit 3B, says is actually the same paper he's had since last 4th of July when he first saw, Samantha Jones.
You could set your watch to Samantha because every day at 7:55 sharp she emerged looking like she was on a fashion runway as she left for work. This morning started out a little different as the door cracked open at 7:53, but no Samantha-- then sure enough, at 7:55 she emerged in a luxe, teal-green cashmere Diane Von Furstenburg wrap dress that cradled her mid-drift like a first time super-mom would her new-born. She also had an unusual bag slung over her shoulder that looked like something for a yoga mat.
Samantha had the kind of body that stopped traffic, and her aura was like something from the big-screen. She had 'it'; that thing men desired, and that vibe women yearned for. The only thing missing was her theme song, but every time Mr. Rabinowitz saw her, he always mouthed the words to Billy Paul's classic, 'Me & Mrs. Jones.'
Mr. Rabinowitz lowered his shades as he peeked over the crumpled newspaper, his pale white lips mouthing the song. He watched her every move as Samantha glided down the stone steps and traversed the concrete sidewalk, which always reminded him of an airport runway because of what was waiting on the other end.
A unique chirp pierces the crisp autumn stillness as Samantha steps to the gleaming Bugatti Veyron FGB Par Hermés. She leans her yoga bag against the curvaceous rear driver-side fender. As she opens the door, the sumptuous interior beckons her admission. She places an envelop on the opulent butter-soft leather console. She gently closes the door, and the sound of currency wafts gently into the stillness. She then reaches into her crocodile Hermés Birkin bag and extracts a silk scarf, and proceeds to wipe an indiscernible smudge from the luminous paint.
Mr. Rabinowitz lowers his yellowing newspaper and leans forward studying Samantha's every move. Her routine has changed, and he senses the deviation as she carefully lifts the yoga bag. Her freshly manicured fingers methodically slides the zipper open. Mr. Rabinowitz's eyes bulge as his coffee mug slides from his nubby fingers, crashing to the concrete below.
Samantha withdraws a factory fresh Louisville Slugger baseball bat, and drops the yoga bag onto the ground. She then proceeds to mount the car in her 5 inch Manolo Blahnik heels. It's almost surreal as she stands on the roof of the priceless automobile, heaves the bat and systematically begins the beat the luxurious car beyond recognition. Shards of glass dance about as she swings the bat through the windshield with the skill of a lumberjack. She then climbs down from the crumpled roof of the vehicle, picks up the yoga bag, and places the bat back inside. She looks up at Mr. Rabinowitz and winks as she catches him looking. He quickly snatches the newspaper up to conceal his bewilderment.
Samantha pops the hood open, reaches into the car's complimentary luxurious bag and rescues a man's down-filled vest and walks off into the distance.
How To Wear The Down-filled Vest:
- Layer over a cashmere cardigan with a pair of slim corduroys for a 'tailored casual' look
- Wear over a white shirt with a wool neck tie and selvedge denim jeans, and suede lace ups
- Layer under a wool blazer with a bow-tie and French-cuffed dress shirt, and a pair of brogues
Click below to see Parts 1 & 2
| Legends Of The Fall Part 1 |
| Legends Of The Fall Part 2 |
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