Zsa Zsa, Alone
I’m so proud that my flash fiction piece, “Zsa Zsa, Alone” is out online in The Chestnut Review. You can read the complete story online or listen to an audio recording.
I wrote the first draft of this piece during the height of lockdown. I suffered nightmares where I was trapped in my old apartment, completely alone. I conjured up the memory of my grandmother as both warning and comfort. A Hungarian Holocaust survivor, my grandmother had a lot in common with Zsa Zsa Gabor—including a passion for fur coats, a penchant for dying her hair platinum blonde, and a tangled web of fraught family relationships. When she first came to America, my grandmother drove from Plano, TX out to Hollywood. She went door to door, barging into strangers’ houses until she could convince someone to introduce her to celebrities. She charmed her way into a private tour of a major studio, laughing the whole time. I envied my grandmother’s confidence, even though I also understood her profound loneliness. The melancholy that underpins Zsa Zsa.
This story is about a moment in time: a moment of intense fomo. A moment before: before meeting my husband, before my dog, my children. A moment of pretending to be confident, flirtatious, and free—even when life is anything but. That’s what Zsa Zsa is: a performance. Gabor was always pretending: pretending to be Catholic, to be royalty, to be happy. It’s the ultimate American performance. It’s the smell of cigarette smoke, vodka, and perfume. It’s a sip of Tokaj when you’re feeling alone in a crowd. It’s the party where you’ve fooled everyone into believing you’re really something. You’re really Zsa Zsa.
I wrote the first draft of this piece during the height of lockdown. I suffered nightmares where I was trapped in my old apartment, completely alone. I conjured up the memory of my grandmother as both warning and comfort. A Hungarian Holocaust survivor, my grandmother had a lot in common with Zsa Zsa Gabor—including a passion for fur coats, a penchant for dying her hair platinum blonde, and a tangled web of fraught family relationships. When she first came to America, my grandmother drove from Plano, TX out to Hollywood. She went door to door, barging into strangers’ houses until she could convince someone to introduce her to celebrities. She charmed her way into a private tour of a major studio, laughing the whole time. I envied my grandmother’s confidence, even though I also understood her profound loneliness. The melancholy that underpins Zsa Zsa.
This story is about a moment in time: a moment of intense fomo. A moment before: before meeting my husband, before my dog, my children. A moment of pretending to be confident, flirtatious, and free—even when life is anything but. That’s what Zsa Zsa is: a performance. Gabor was always pretending: pretending to be Catholic, to be royalty, to be happy. It’s the ultimate American performance. It’s the smell of cigarette smoke, vodka, and perfume. It’s a sip of Tokaj when you’re feeling alone in a crowd. It’s the party where you’ve fooled everyone into believing you’re really something. You’re really Zsa Zsa.
