As the afternoon wore on, I struck up a conversation with the gods—not God, mind you, only the gods. They appeared to me more imp-like than Olympian, their tiny wreathed heads poking through the low-hanging clouds. I felt as though, in this respect, I had come down in the world. These gods (a vague mixture of Greek and Roman) were not as protective or as intimate as God and His Mother had been. They were raucous, wearying, in fact. The more I defended the earthy simplicity of my current setup, the more they touted the glories of civilization.
“Believe me,” Saturn said, “it’s better to contemplate a chair than a tree. And look at that skirt, what an affront!”
“Why do you think people wear clothes?” Mars asked me. “To stave off the boredom, that’s why.”
I was getting fed up with them, with their Old World decadence, with their very lack, if I may say so, of spirituality. I turned over on the bench and closed my eyes. Somewhere right above me a few sparrows were twittering, the sound of their two-note song muffled in the humid air. I was seized with an unexpected wave of pity for little Eddie. What would become of him? For the first time, it really hit me that his life was in danger. “Oh, but he can take care of himself,” I thought. But could he? I was beginning to wonder. I heard people walking by; they were avoiding me, I could tell. Which was fine with me...wonderful to be left alone. I marveled over how far I had come, “from Park Avenue to a park bench.” Where had I heard that? It’s a long way to travel in one short lifetime, I thought, not without considerable pride. I was free. I drank some more whiskey and fell asleep again, feeling as if I had finally arrived.
“Janet! Janet!”
“Shh, she’s over there, see?”
“All right, I see. Fred, Dr. Monroe, I’ve found her!”
It was Maggie, calling out through the park in her best theatrical trill, and behind her, Maggie’s longtime shrink and party-going friend, Fred Schuster. Another man, pretty bald with a double chin and dressed in a three-piece suit, was tagging along after them.
Maggie was wearing a new matching flower-print skirt and top and low heels. There were yards of material in that skirt, which swirled around her as she marched over to me. It looked like she’d dressed for the occasion.
I sat up fast and took a drink. This was going to be rough.
“OK, what are you doing here?” I asked.
“Oscar told me where you were going. He told me you looked terrible,” Maggie said.
Maggie was standing over me now. Up came the doctor fellows.
“Hi, Fred, I’d offer you a snort, but all I got is what you see here,” I said, taking another drink.
“Thank you anyway, Janet. I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, George. George, say hello to Janet,” Fred said, smiling that unctuous smile of his.
It never ceased to amaze me what a cheeky little bloodsucker Fred was in his eternal cardigans, the white of his bony shin guaranteed to reveal itself whenever he crossed his legs. A real creep. Typical of him, he was trying to fob off his colleague as a casual friend, and this was supposed to be a casual meeting of friends, I suppose. How patronizing. It was insulting.
“Hello, Janet,” the George character said.
“Listen, I know why you’re here. Don’t pull this crap on me. I know it takes two doctors’ signatures to get someone committed. Forget it, I’ll go back to Sixth Street. I know when I’m beaten,” I said, starting to stand.
Maggie had moved away. She was standing quietly behind the tree like a little kid playing hide and seek.
“OK, Fred and what’s-your-name, you can split now. I don’t need you,” I said.
“Not so fast, young lady,” George said. He took a few steps in my direction, hovering with the frightened bravado of an inexperienced lion tamer before he cracks the whip.
Holy shit, the faggot in the three-piece suit was trying to get physical with me. With me! I hadn’t spent all this time on the street for nothing. I drained the pint.
“If that’s how you want it,” I said.
Then I reached under the jacket, pulled out the switchblade and pressed the button. It shot out like a snake. I stuck it next to the doctor’s face.
“You better back off, unless you want one nostril,” I said.
To my fierce delight, he jumped about a foot.
But Fred grabbed my wrist and started to twist it. Then George grabbed my other arm. I was shouting and kicking. They had me, though, at least for the time being.
“Somebody call the police!” Fred yelled.
A small crowd of old people and little kids had gathered.
“Help me, help me, I’m being kidnapped!” I screamed, but the crowd just stood there.
Meanwhile, Maggie had run out of the park, as it turned out, to call the police.
“If it were a man taking a snooze on a park bench on a warm afternoon, do you think anybody would be throwing him into the nuthouse? Oh yeah, and look at me: I’m dirty and smelly and I’ve got a crack on my head and blood on my skirt, so I must be nuts, right? When a man becomes totally violent, they throw him in the drunk tank overnight. When a woman misbehaves, gets out of line even just a little bit, they lock her away forever. Watch out boys, female at large! Woman on the loose! Whatsa matter, do I scare you? Do I threaten you?” I screamed at Fred and George. Then I spit in their smug faces.
“A woman—that is a white woman—stretches out on a park bench, and they come right down on her. Can you dig what they’re doing to me?” I was addressing the crowd now. “You’re not free until I’m free!” I yelled, twisting and turning in the surprisingly strong grip of the two doctors.
Maggie came sailing back then, flanked by what looked like a squadron of cops. They pushed their way through the crowd.
“All you pigs for one little defenseless chick?” I said, laughing a hollow laugh.
The knife was still in my hand. Fred had not been able to get it away from me. A cop came up and took it. Several others eased the doctors away and assumed their place. I had at least three or four of them restraining me. When I heard the ambulance, I struggled again, just to register one final protest, and then I gave up, letting the cops shove me along. Maggie was already seated on one of the narrow benches lining the back of the ambulance.
“You sons of bitches. Nobody’s gonna fuck with me,” I said after they pushed me inside.
The cop riding with us sat up straight. “You better simmer down, sister,” he said.
But he and I both knew this last expression of my outrage was merely a formality. It was just that I did not want to remember myself riding along to my doom without even a whimper.
I focused my narrowed eyes on Maggie, who was sitting very tall, her mouth set in a hard, thin line. She looked self-righteously hellbent on remaining in control. In control of everything, I thought. I would have liked to beat her phony composure clear out of her, to knock those thick glasses off her face and smash them.
“I thought you didn’t want to have anything more to do with me,” I said.
“Janet, I’m sorry.” Her voice cracked. “I had to do this.” She started to cry.
“Oh, shit, I don’t know why you’re crying. They’re not putting you away. Mother, stop them, you don’t know what it’s like. Stop them before it’s too late!” I yelled.
She turned her head.
The ambulance pulled up to a red light. Through the back window, I could see the two doctors in their Lincoln Continental tailgating us in the rush-hour traffic. Meanwhile, the two of us and the cop were all traveling for free through the streets of New York. A five-dollar cab ride at the very least. I felt pampered riding in the ambulance. But the gods, fair-weather friends that I knew them to be, had disappeared. I was stuck inside the crush of three dimensions one more time, in a paddy wagon with the woman who had always been out to destroy me. She had hunted me down and trapped me just because I was a wild thing.
The ambulance began to move again, crawling slowly up the avenue. There was no air where we sat. My bleached-dead hair was plastered with sweat. My whole body ached. Now Maggie was crying again.
She was embarrassing me in front of the cop. ‘I travel in the company of fools,’ I thought. Oh well, you had to forgive her. She didn’t know what she was doing. I sank back on the hard bench. Then, without warning, I burst into tears: real salt tears covering my contorted red face, the mucus running from my nose. Everything obliterated. I began to sob convulsively; I had been seized with a revelation of grief. Maggie staggered across the rocking ambulance, sat down, and put her arms around me. She held me and patted my back awkwardly, not sure what to do, as if I were someone else’s strange, small child.
“There, there” was all she could think to say at first, but then, as if she had suddenly gotten the word, she added, “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right.”
We continued to ride like that, me weeping silently and peacefully on my mother’s shoulder until we got to Bellevue.