HERBIE’S COFFEE SHOP was in the same neighborhood as Sunshine’s loft. That’s how I knew so much about her. She used to come in for breakfast with various models she’d picked up on shoots. They had to eat at Herbie’s because all those Yup-Mex, blue-margarita places don’t open until lunch. Sunshine was one of those customers who never thought their waitress was real, never recognized her, never learned her name. She’d leave the coffee sitting there while she made witty conversation and then called me over to complain that it was cold. Some afternoons I could see her and Delores whiz by on Sunshine’s motorcycle. They were so cool, I could throw up. TriBeCa was exactly where they belonged. There were a lot of offensive people living in TriBeCa, which was, in general, an offensive neighborhood. And in relation to those kinds of people, I was their servant.
There were still a couple of artists living around that area, but only the rich ones. There was one in particular who was very famous. His picture was once in People magazine. He used to come in and talk about money for five to six hours at a time. He was always surrounded by people who said yes to everything he said, and he talked so loudly you could hear him in any corner of the restaurant. One day he was talking loudly again, as usual.
“I’ve just returned from my Eastern European tour where I developed great insights into the difference between communism and capitalism.”
Just then Charlotte walked into the restaurant and took the table right behind the artist.
“Under capitalism, a family living in Harlem will never see Paris. Under communism, a family living in Budapest will never see Paris. But the family in Harlem might one day see Paris. And that is the difference.”
I was embarrassed that Charlotte should see me wait on someone so stupid, but when I went over to her, she leaned across the table like a co-conspirator.
“You want to know the difference between communism and capitalism?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“Under capitalism, people with new ideas serve people with old ones. Under communism, it’s exactly the same, only you don’t get tips.”
And then I realized that Charlotte had come to see me.
“Did I get the job?” I asked, not knowing whether to laugh or not.
“I have to admit that there is no job. Forgive me?” She kissed my hand.
“Sure.” “I do these things,” she said, “because I like provocation. Otherwise I’m bored and nasty all day long. Besides, I didn’t want to talk about Marianne in front of Beatriz. You understand that, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but, how…”
“Marianne told me all about you. She said you were very kind. You paid for her drinks. You shared your cigarettes. You gave her advice and you didn’t try to get her into bed. I thought you’d show up eventually. After all, Marianne was a very attractive young woman, wasn’t she?”
“Yes, she was.”
“But we’ll talk more about this later. What time do you get off work?” She sat there for the next forty minutes making friends with Dino and Joe by imitating all the customers. Charlotte was amazing because she could be anybody at any time. She could be whoever you wanted her to be and still have total control of the situation. She was an entertainer all the way.
When work was over, we walked to the park.
“How could you possibly get bored, Charlotte, playing characters all day long?”
“Acting is so great,” she said. “I love being hateful especially. It’s so satisfying. It’s terrible in life but onstage it’s the best. That way, everyone watches you more closely and then they want to soothe your sorrows and make you a better person.”
As she talked, I could see how smooth she was. She knew which facial expression to use to communicate every situation. Her face was capable of such refined emotions that she managed to convey what she was thinking and acknowledge what I was thinking and still be polite. But there were always surprises. Like I’d be right in the middle of explaining about Delores when, “Oh, God!”
“I saw a baby slobbering all over himself. It was great.”
She was a kid, ready to grab and respond to anything immediately. She didn’t let her life walk all over her.
It was just warm enough in the park to try out a bench. I could feel Charlotte breathing next to me. She smelled like a horse. It was so exciting. Charlotte really felt things, just like those guys on Spanish TV, and it made me a little freer, being near her. My whole body was tingling, my muscles were breathing. No wonder Punkette loved her. Since Delores, I haven’t known how to relate to people sometimes because I can’t tell how much they really feel. If they pay attention to me, I don’t know if they’re doing it on purpose or if it’s a trick. But, with Charlotte’s voice on my neck, I realized how much I had missed closeness. I think I got too turned on, though, and kept interrupting maniacally, for no reason but to be in conversation with Charlotte. To see her teeth.
“Charlotte, when you were little, what did you want to be when you grew up?”
“Growing up has always been an elusive question in my life.”
“What does elusive mean?”
Actually I think I did know what elusive meant, but I was so excited that I forgot.
“Let’s see,” she kept going, “I used to play games all the time. I had six brothers. One died. Three of them are priests. The other—”
“What kind of games? Oh … I’m sorry.”
I wanted to shut up. I really wanted to shut up.
“That’s okay. Princes and dragons and buccaneers. We would—”
“Princes? Do you want to get a beer? I’m sorry … I am listening. I’m hearing every word you say.”
I was. I was listening too hard. So she got silent. Almost sullen. I had no idea at all of what to do until a derelict walked by laughing to himself.
“I don’t like homosexuals,” he said.
And I loved him for that because he could see the same thing in me that he saw in Charlotte. It put us in the same boat. I wanted her to put her arm around me but instead she flattened her black hair and took off her earrings.
“Better get rid of these and back to my tough self.”
Right there before me on a park bench, she transformed from the soft woman onstage, laughing and open, to an Irish butch with a set jaw and big hands, who comes home at night with tight shoulders, needing loving from her woman. I think that was the first time that any of Charlotte’s personas struck me as real. She was a woman who wore suit jackets and men’s pants. She’d stick her hands in her pockets and clam up when she really had something to say.
She was so close and within reach that I could no longer abide by the rule of touching and not touching. I put my hand up flat against her lapel, in the lightest way, and then pulled back, reaching for a cigarette and offering her one.
“No thanks, I don’t smoke anymore.”
That’s what stayed in my mind all night, tossing and turning on the couch. Charlotte doesn’t smoke. How could I ever be close with a woman who doesn’t smoke? No bitter taste of tobacco on her tongue when I suck it. No late-night waves of smoke hanging on our shoulders. No red tip smoldering in the dark. No passing the butt from lip to lip. She would never love my smell the way a nicotine addict craved me. That’s when I wondered if Charlotte was only my diversion, and I was nothing to her. But that thought was too bleak to possibly accept.