The Monkey and the Leprechuan

The Monkey and the Leprechaun

The Breakers hotel in Palm Beach may have hosted Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald during its heyday of the 1930s, but the most spectral of Palm Beach residents was instead a fixture at the eternally pink, rose, and peach colors of The Colony hotel. No matter the stunning lobby and its hand-painted wallpaper by de Gourney of London featuring palm and orange trees and a flamingo, tiger, and mischievous monkey, all set against a pastel background of Spanish pink, the star attraction at The Colony remained the mise-en-scene surrounding the swimming pool, replete with dining tables on two sides and its own dedicated outdoor bar area. The second supporting operandi was that dinner al fresco alongside the swimming pool, under the awnings laced with what appeared to be mature Clematis vines flowering in white and purple, was preceded by a well-crafted cocktail.

We had entered through the door near the valet stand and strolled past the hand-painted jungle-themed wallpaper, which was unlike the background of the wallpaper in the main lobby, whose hue matched the outside of the hotel at sunrise as the facade turned from pale orange to champagne. Instead, this wall-covering had a teal and hunter-green color scheme, punctuated by the repeating motif of the same energetic but well-bred monkey from the lobby, at times sporting a parasol as he sat amid palm leaves.

We turned left to find the copper-topped bar fronting the indoor dining room swarmed with gentlemen.

Hello, good to see you,

he said, then looked me in the eye, ignoring my younger and more handsome husband.

I see you are wearing a jacket this week.

He was, in all truth, actually a leprechaun not only because of his genetic heritage and white hair but because he appeared to magically apparate once a week during Thursday evening’s happy hour at the Colony. Referring to the classic television program Gilligan’s Island, during our first visit I had whispered to my beloved over the hum of discussions of trips to Europe and complaints about the slow pace of their latest home upgrade:

It’s a goddamn costume party where the first prize is for the best Thurston Howell look-alike.

This gentleman could certainly have been a contestant, being in his late 60s to mid-70s — or at least appearing to be.

This is so much better than what you wore last week.

This is what he chose to say to me, winking. I was wearing a grey Calvin Klein suit, one of my few suits purchased as a lawyer that could be paired with something less casual, and a bright white T-shirt underneath. As he had last week, he was wearing an ascot above a pastel jacket of eggshell blue background with a grey plaid pattern. The tie square was, of course, a complementary soft pinkish peach color that matched the lobby wallpaper.

The gentleman who critiqued my outfit was named Christian, as was the younger gentleman behind him. It was for this reason my husband began calling the gentleman “our Leprechaun,” saving the moniker “Chris” for the younger gentleman seated to our right. Chris was wearing jeans with a sport coat and, like me, just a t-shirt underneath.

Le Roi was there, of course, standing in front of us as we waited for our drinks, regaling us with stories of his days as a dancer for Janet Jackson, before, of course, he had married Leon and segued into being a sort of cross between a fantasist and a straight female Palm Beach Island hostess of a bygone era. He was not the only African-American gentleman there, but certainly the best-dressed man, with loafers inlaid with red velvet and high-waisted pants in a Tarlton pattern, which made the Leprechaun’s suit look pale in comparison. He said hello to me, my husband, and Chris without spilling even a drop from his drink, which he held high as if it were a powerful talisman.

There was another gentleman in our circular coterie who was certainly not called Chris, or even Christopher, as he said upon re-introduction, for he had met us earlier at Log Cabin Republican events, where he had stood very close to my husband for far too long:

My name is Christian. Not Chris or Christopher.

He was standing on our left and his pocket square was in a tartan of very deep blues and emerald greens, and I knew I had seen the palette somewhere before — the hallway wallpaper. He was very tall and friendly, and he let us know he was pleased when we told him we liked his tie.

I bought this on Worth Avenue at —

He interrupted himself to thank the young and handsome bartender, who brought him a new martini, extra dry.

We love this room, especially the bar with a copper-top —

my husband said.

Oh yes —

He interrupted himself again by swallowing his olive in one gulp. He turned to speak to ”Chris,” the youngest of the Christians. And so we were left to chat with another Christian, the Leprechaun.

I first came here in 1957. I have a picture of me as a boy, taken in front of the original mural in the lobby,

he volunteered, looking for a somewhat fragile picture in his inside pocket, in black and white, which showed him as a small boy, apparently with white hair, standing in front of the lobby’s original tropical mural, which featured no caricatured animals. His sartorial interest was aimed at me and not my husband.

I can teach you what to wear,

he said coyly,

because there is a rhythm for each season.

My husband was smiling but stayed quiet.

During the season, you must wear a jacket, though a tie is optional. An Ascot is a nice touch, of course.

Having spent so many hours arguing at Court, I knew how to be quiet and bide my time.

In the summer, if you are still here, you may wear shorts with loafers. And even though you don’t need socks, you still need a jacket or sweater, but the Ascot might be too much.

I let him finish and then turned around to go to the restroom, coming face to face with the wall of vintage photographs from the early days of The Colony — pictures of social denizens seated at the bar or at a dinner table, including one of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, which appeared to be from the 1950s. After segueing into the men’s room, I dried my hands on the paper hand towels adorned with the motif of our favorite monkey and asked myself if the Leprechaun had crossed paths with the Duke and Duchess as a tow-haired boy.

When I returned, my husband had smartly moved on, and so we were now talking with our friend James Paul, one of the few native Floridians we had met. His arm rested on the uncertain shoulder of Miguel, wearing his signature tight jeans, white belt, and solid-color t-shirt. Though the Leprechaun was almost within arm's reach, he did not mention the fact that neither James Paul nor Miguel wore a jacket or tie, though the former did at least have on a tight, short-sleeved, collared shirt.

Behind us, we could hear Christian telling Chris he likewise lived in Wellington and mentioning the Polo matches and horse jumping events he frequented. We had lost sight of the Leprechaun, who no doubt was nearby and blocked from our view by someone of normal height, and so instead, we turned to Christian and Chris and said adieu, maneuvering past the reception stand for the outdoor restaurant, making our way along the length of the hallway to get back to the street.

And there he was, on the wall amid the teal and hunter green of the hallway’s decorated walls. The Leprechaun was tiny and two-dimensional but otherwise looking very much the same, a mere 15 degrees northwest of our friendly primate, who was there in one of his most effective poses, looking upwards at the Leprechaun.

The next time we went to the Colony, the last gilded gasp of the season had passed, and much of the crowd had decamped to the Hamptons or Buenos Aires or wherever else they returned with their polo ponies, though there was still a modest crowd for happy hour.

We were at the opposite end of the bar, the one closest to the door leading to the outdoor pool area and terraces, this being prime real estate most of the year. I was looking into my husband’s eyes when James Paul said hello, though he looking instead at Miguel, who was wearing his same tight jeans, no belt, and a solid-color T-shirt the last time we saw him. My husband interjected and agreed to meet James Paul and Miguel a few miles south at what was self-billed as “The Lounge of the Mad Hatter” in an hour or so.

As we left, the hallway wallpaper looked as bright as ever, but I thought it was missing something: the monkey and his tail and his signature cocktail.

We drove down Dixie Highway from the island to Lake Worth Beach, several miles south, from the Pink Hotel to the long barrier island that had no name but extended for miles on the inland side of the intercoastal waterway all the way to Lake Worth Beach and beyond. My husband was very patient as I quoted aloud Scott Fitzgerald’s description of Palm Beach and its accompanying body of water, Lake Worth, which at the time was actually a freshwater lake before being opened up to the flow of the Atlantic:

Palm Beach sprawled plump and opulent between the sparkling sapphire of Lake Worth, flawed here and there by houseboats at anchor, and the great turquoise bar of the Atlantic Ocean.

He was still patient when I explained this quote had appeared in the short story The Rich Boy in 1926, originally published in Redbook and then reprinted in the collection All the Sad Young Men.

We parked on a neighborhood side street and, still wearing ties and long sleeves and dress slacks, entered the bar we called Mad’s. It was the most sweltering of July evenings, when the afternoon grey and purple downpour had been repeated again at eight and nine p.m. and it was now a night of gooey black punctuated by flashes of lightning in the distance, towards Lake Worth Beach, which would have been a sandy slough on a day like this.

Miss Aperitif, as she was called, was seated at the bar, and though she had retired from performing long ago and was a fixture at the bar, she was ostensibly by herself. During all of her prior interactions, she had given no hint that she knew any more than we did about who the Leprechaun was, from where he came, or that she was in any way formally acquainted. Nonetheless, having seen us at The Colony happy hour in prior weeks, she turned to me, unbidden, and showed me a color picture of the lobby at The Colony, in its sophisticated light peach and salmon glory.

This picture was taken soon after the remodel when the new De Gournay wallpaper was revealed. I was there that day.

My husband handed me a drink, and I said thank you while Miss Aperitif persisted.

Look there – do you see what you don’t see?

It was a picture of the jungle wallpaper just outside the bar at The Colony, and where the monkey could presently be seen hanging in the virtual space and holding a cocktail, there was nothing but the color of the background.

I was there last week, and I noticed how the wallpaper has been changed.

In the second it took to realize she was correct, the Leprechaun materialized behind Miss Aperitif. He handed her a drink, and she ignored him and whispered in my ear:

I always seem to be depending on the kindness of elderly strangers.

When Miss Aperitif excused herself to the all-gender restroom, the Leprechaun rotated his stool toward us. He was drinking Tanqueray Orange, and by his expression of repose and control, he seemed to know everyone there.

Do you know what I call the monkey?

He said this with intensity, oblivious to anyone else in the now-crowded bar. He pointed to his tie and took a sip from his drink. And there on this beautiful fabric, holding a cocktail, was our monkey, just as he did on the wallpaper at The Colony. My husband explained the monkey looked very debonair, though we did not know his name.

To those who know him, his name in fact is Reginald. Doesn’t he look like a “Reggie?”

My husband agreed with this for the sake of extrication from the discussion.

I thought it was a Lemur.

I said truthfully. The Leprechaun gave us a smirk.

Any lemur would be far more primitive. No lemur could hold it cocktail correctly, but, as you can see, Reggie is a professional when it comes to balancing his gin,

h said, lifting up his tie for better inspection. We had to admit that, yes, his “Reggie” had a perfect grip on his drink.

But Reggie was not to be seen at next week’s happy hour, at least not on the Leprechaun’s tie. That week the Irishman wore an argyle tie somewhere between indigo and deep emerald with a pocket square of the same color and pattern. Returning from the bathroom after two rounds of drinks, I looked at the wallpaper in the hallway, and the monkey was nowhere to be seen. Was he still on the Leprechaun’s tie, hanging in some closet somewhere, or, as I surmised, sleeping behind the foliage, having had one too many celebratory cocktails?

By the fall the strings of polo ponies had been brought back, and the northern beach houses closed, so the outdoor tables and terrace at The Colony were full. Inside, the bar was completely obscured by those clamoring for a second drink. There was some sort of wedding event in the space that served as an annex to The Colony, and I was also able to discern, heard in bits and pieces between shrieks from the female guests, that there had been an event at Mar-A-Lago that afternoon.

The Leprechaun was there, as were Christian and Chris. The lucky gentleman had on the brightest of yellow ties and a blue-green suit, with a dark teal tartan set against a royal blue background.

Did you hear about Miss Aperitif?

He asked, his eyes not twinkling one bit as he put his orange-colored drink down on the white napkin with the monkey motif that sat atop the corrugated surface of the bar. There were two other drinks next to his, for space was at the sort of Palm Beach premium one expected October through May.

She was run over like Myrtle Wilson in The Great Gatsby.

He was talking about Miss Aperitif. Yes, we explained we had heard she had been attempting to cross Dixie Highway in front of Mad’s a few weeks earlier, on a dry and still August night, and had been hit by a passing vehicle.

They ran her over like a stray dog,

he said.

But all we can do is toast her name. . .

To Miss Aperitif —

Looking behind me as I left to see the whereabouts of Christian and Chris, I wondered about what I saw — the monkey was holding his cocktail on the bespoke wall-covering. He seemed to be winking, and next to him, also holding a cocktail glass as if to give a toast, I spotted our Leprechaun, dressed in all blue and green.

To Miss Aperitif indeed —

I thought, stepping outside and looking carefully in both directions before crossing the street with my husband.

It was January again and the apogee of the season. Le Roi was telling us the stories about when he had been a backup dancer for Janet Jackson, no matter that if one did the math he was probably a tad too old to have been a late teens to early 20s dancer during that legendary tour. I knew the only one who truly verified his age was his husband‘s trust attorney, as such information would have to be divulged to make him a beneficiary of such a complex estate.

The Leprechaun appeared behind my left shoulder, standing sideways to me, and I caught sight of a bright lemon tie and matching pocket square. He lifted his drink and swiveled around to me.

I see you are wearing loafers, but still no jacket.

Le Roi took up in my defense, twirling his glass and noting that while I had a jacket held under one arm, it was fine for me to simply stand there in my very nice-fitting jeans and a white T-shirt:

The jacket is there for those of you with a big gut.

He continued:

But for the record: I wear a jacket not to conceal anything, but because the more layers, the more elements of flamboyance.

My husband and I were wondering if Le Roi knew flamboyance was the name for a group of flamingos. As in:

The coterie of men who congealed around the bar had the tropical flavor of a flamboyance.

We’ve had enough of this flamboyance for the evening, I thought. We said goodbye without waiting for a response from the Leprechaun and left in a hurry, having dinner reservations elsewhere on the Island.

I did have time, though, to look at the wallpaper in the hallway and notice our stylish primate. The monkey was where he usually was, his mouth in a frozen expression of horror, though he looked as dapper as ever. His fingers were curled as if he had just let go of something, but his hand was empty. Just to the right was the leprechaun, his teal pocket square once again matching the verdant wallpaper, holding the monkey's cocktail in triumph.