The shorter of the other two, a compact rugged fellow, his jet-black hair brush-cut, was dressed as Batman in long red underwear, over which he wore a black bikini cut in the shape of a bat. A black cape topped his outfit. His underwear was baggy and this, together with his size, made him a more likely candidate for Mighty Mouse than Batman.
The third was gotten up as a motorcyclist: black boots, crushed cap, a galaxy of studs and chains decorating the basic black of his leather pants and jacket. He, of the three, appeared demented. He was far too beefy for the outfit and his tired face sagged all gray and pudgy beneath the ridiculous crushed cap. Way over the hill to be cavorting as a Hell’s Angel, he would have made a better, aging, rococo cupid as long as he had to play dress-up. My immediate reaction was: back to wardrobe!
Again I glanced at Vito; for a second his eyes flicked to me, then back to them. There was no humor in them. This surprised me because I was feeling fuzzy and lightheaded and the sight of this trio struck me funny.
They shook the snow off and stamped their feet; none of them wore overcoats. There was something about their eyes, a kind of dilated opaqueness, that indicated they were well into something besides booze.
Carmine walked toward us; the closer he came the more he laughed. I did, too. I knew we were laughing at the same thing: the incongruity of this sight in view of his assessment of me. The other two straggled behind him.
When he was only a few steps away from Vito, he slapped his hand against his thigh and, speaking through his laughter, said: “Jimmy—you’re into my scene—oh, Jimmy!” He laughed again. “Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy!” Then: “Oh, you’re a fox, all the time we worked together, what—six, seven months? You played it so square, so square!”
I’d gotten up from the easy chair by this time. Vito lay stretched out between Carmine and me. Carmine turned to his buddies.
“Clark Kent we used to call him!” He looked back at me and shook his head. “That girl, Christ, couldn’t get you out for a Coke without her. And now—look at this! When you come out of the closet you really—CHARGE!”
He stepped up to Vito, reached down and smacked him on the ass. “What a crazy rumble seat!”
“Hands off the merchandise!” Vito snapped.
Cocking his head, Carmine looked at him closely. “I’ve seen you someplace...”
“Yeah,” Vito said, his voice tough and challenging. “I seen you, too!” Vito turned to me. “The bunch of ’em, I seen ’em, The Unholy Three, they call ’em at the Ankle-Strap.” Vito glanced behind Carmine at the other two. “I also seen better drag on French poodles!”
Carmine took it in good humor. “Peppy, too. That’s right, the Ankle-Strap.” He whacked Vito’s ass again. “I never forget a pretty face.”
The other two laughed. Carmine made the introductions. The short, compact one was Pidgeon, the motorcyclist was Stanley. Indicating Vito, Carmine asked, “Does it have a name?”
“Yes, Vito,” I told him.
Pidgeon stepped up closer. “Yeah, It’s that little wop from the Ankle-Strap.”
Now it was the motorcycle’s turn. “Sure, I remember him. He’d cruise anything: dogs, cats, wallpaper—doorknobs!”
Vito quickly looked up at me to catch my reaction to this slur. There was concern in his eyes and I liked him for it. I did not like Pidgeon or Stanley.
“Yeah,” Vito said, “anything but chubbos, I ain’t no chubby chaser!”
Carmine laughed. “You tell ’em, Vito.” Carmine looked across Vito to me. “So, Jimmy—all this time, I always had eyes for you and you swinging away like crazy all this time.”
There was an unhealthy scent to them. I was suddenly not so sure I wanted them there.
“I got your message from Sammy. Tried to call but—busy. Tried again from Ginny’s, busy again, the operator checked”—Carmine glanced around, spotted the phone—“off the hook. That’s not nice, leave a message to call, then take the phone off the hook.”
“Carmine, honest, I completely forgot.”
“No big deal.” Carmine sighed and flashed a smile. “We’re all together now.” I did not like the sound of that. Carmine turned to his friends. “Didn’t I tell you he was a pussycat?”
It seemed, with the three of them lined up on the other side of Vito, like an extremely good idea to let him up. I reached down to untie the backstrap. “What are you doing?” Carmine asked.
“Look, he’s a friend of mine and—”
He cut me off. “A friend? I should hope a friend!”
“I mean—the joke’s over, he’s been tied up for hours.”
Carmine placed a restraining hand on my arm. “Ah-ah, leave it, looks nice all laid out on display.”
I tried to loosen the knot. “Carmine, come on, we’ll have a drink, maybe smoke a little—”
He gave my hands a brisk slap. I laughed, I don’t know why. I was feeling the effects of our last joint and wishing we hadn’t smoked it. When I kept my hold on the straps, Carmine walked around the front of the butcher block to where I stood. “Leave it!”
“I want to let him up.”
He shoved me away. A ripple of dizziness hit me. I stumbled back against the kitchen table and knocked a small sauce-pan to the floor. I bent down to pick it up but the move increased my dizziness. I straightened up and put a hand to my forehead.
“Jimmy,” Carmine said, “you called, left a message, then when I show up—the joke’s over?
“Carmine, I know it looks funny, all this, but I don’t—like you said—swing. I don’t.”
Carmine roared at this. “don’t—you don’t! Christ, you’re a hoot on top of it. Can barely walk you’re so stoned and”—he pointed to Vito—“what’s that? don’t tell me that’s your normal everyday New Year’s Eve centerpiece?”
“Carmine, I know it looks—”
“Looks!” Carmine whooped. “What were the two of you doing— having a Tupperware Party?”
For some odd turned-on reason the phrase struck me funny and I laughed. Although even while I was laughing I had a suspicion there was nothing all that funny. Carmine laughed, so did the other two.
I often have the actor’s recurrent nightmare. I suddenly find myself onstage opening night of a Broadway play—only to realize I haven’t rehearsed, don’t know my lines, don’t even know the plot of the play or how I happened to get involved. I wonder how I possibly could have gotten as far as opening night without this knowledge and appeal to my fellow actors for help, for a clue. No one gives it, everyone is frantically busy with his own problems.
I found myself in a similar situation now. I was ill prepared for this scene. I knew there must be some way to slip out of it, but I could not for the life of me think of any appropriate lines. In the meantime I kept laughing over—Tupperware Party.
This pleased Carmine and he walked over to me. “That’s better, relax, we’ll have some fun, put it all together.” He reached out, placing his hands on my waist and squeezing. My high degree of ticklishness pleased him even more. He looked over his shoulder at the other two and said, “No, Christ, they don’t swing, do they?”
Stanley and Pidgeon both echoed: “No, oh, no!” They laughed now, too, along with Carmine. So did I, even as I squirmed to get away.
“Is the Pope Catholic?” Carmine said.
“Does a bear shit in the woods?” Pidgeon asked.
I broke away from Carmine several steps into the living-room area. He was right after me, grabbing me from behind, his arms around my waist.
“Carmine—listen, this is crazy, we worked together!”
“So now we play together. All work and no play make Jimmy a dull boy!”
Carmine lifted me off the floor and swung me around just as I saw Pidgeon step up to the sink and reach underneath Vito’s stomach to grab him. “Let’s see what he’s got here.”
Vito cried out; Pidgeon had not grabbed him gently.
“Leave him alone! Jesus, you pigs!” I shouted this, wrenching myself away from Carmine at the same time. “Get out of here!” I wheeled around to face Carmine. “Carmine, get them out of here!”
“Oh-ho ...” This, a warning sound from Carmine. “So that’s the way it is. You already got your jollies and now the fun’s over, is that it?”
He came at me just as I heard Vito cry out, “Let’s go, you fuckin’ creep!” I swung at Carmine; he dodged and the punch landed ineffectively on his shoulder. He grabbed me, wrestled me around, and finally got his arms around my waist again, pinning my arms inside his and dragging me toward the bed.
“Vito—Jesus, help me!” The hopelessness of my cry for help struck me as the words came out. Nevertheless as I fought to get away from Carmine, I called out again: “Vito!”
I heard his voice. “Leave him alone, you creepy bastards, he’s stoned!”
Carmine flipped me down on the bed and threw himself on top of me, straddling my chest and pinning me down. He was breathing hard and laughing again. “I don’t mind a little work to get it, not at all!”
Again I saw his gold molars, only this time the view was too close. He was lowering his face toward mine. “Carmine, don’t!” He kept laughing, even as he pressed his mouth down on mine. He’d used some sort of breath sweetener and I got a sickening blast of it.
Then, as I twisted with all my strength to get away from him, my elbow cracked him solidly in the jaw. His head jerked up and away from me. He was stunned for a split second. He shook his head, clearing his vision, then our eyes locked and I didn’t avert mine when I spoke. “Jesus, you dirty pig!”
He slapped me hard on the side of the head. My vision blurred.
“You little cock-teaser! You want to play rough, is that what you like? I bet you do! Hold him!”
The other two took over, pinning me down, as Carmine stood up and dug into his tote bag. I put up what struggle I could, but it was useless against the two of them, then the three of them, as he quickly bound my feet and wrists with leather straps.
No contest, there I was. My shirt was ripped, my shoes were off, but my pants were still on. This was the least of my worries. Once I was trussed up, the three of them pulled away and stood looking down at me. They all breathed heavily. Pidgeon and Stanley were grinning. Not Carmine.
While I was hating myself more than them, for starting the whole asinine thing, a total nonsequitur struck me. Lying there on my back, securely bound, I thought: I want out—want out of acting! The helplessness of my position, at that very instant, was the same helplessness I so often felt as an actor. A strange spinoff at an even stranger time, but there it was. I was juggling this around in my mind when Carmine reached up and felt his jaw.
“I’m sorry—I—”
“Skip it,” Carmine said. It was not the kind of skip it one wants to hear.
Despite this, my mood abruptly changed. “I lied, I’m not sorry!”
“What?” Stanley asked, threateningly, playing big man for Carmine.
“You!” I shouted up at him. “You look like an asshole tied in the middle!”
Vito laughed.
I appreciated his laughter but I was suddenly in a rage that they’d invaded our New Year’s.
Stanley stepped toward me, hand raised. “Leave him alone,” Car-mine said. “I’ll take care of him.” He glanced down at me. “Won’t I, Jimmy?”
No one spoke for a moment. I was further stunned, not as much by the struggle or Carmine’s slap—I could still feel the sting—as by the perverse insanity of my predicament. I remember thinking: no, this isn’t possible, after everything else—I’m not going to get raped!
Add ’em up, Bobby!
Vito’s croupy laughter broke the silence. The three of them turned to look at him. So did I. I could not see his head from my position, only his legs and feet.
Vito spit his words out: “Serves you right, you prick!”
I could not believe him.
Carmine laughed and uttered a knowing “Ah-hah!” The other two snickered along with him.
“Hey, Carmine,” Vito said, in his wisest voice, “I’ll make you a deal.”
Carmine did not reply, simply looked at him with eyebrows raised.
Vito only said, “Eh, Carmine?”
“Yeah ... ?” Carmine replied. He was not rushing into anything.
“If you like to tie ’em up, I’ll bet you like a good show, too. don’t you? I mean, a real freaky show?”
Carmine glanced down at me, back to Vito. He took his time, then shrugged. “Who doesn’t?”
Vito laughed. “You like to watch? I’ll bet you do.” When Carmine didn’t reply, Vito said, “Everyone likes to watch.” He used Carmine’s words. “Who doesn’t—right?” Carmine had elected to play it cool. “Okay,” Vito said, “I’ll make you a deal. If you give me first dibs on”—his tone was toughly facetious—“my pal, Jimmy! I’ll make you a trade.”
“What kind of trade?” Carmine asked.
“I’ll give you four ounces of hash. Pure hash, the best stuff, straight from Tangiers.”
“Four ounces of hash?” Pidgeon asked.
“Yeah, a four-ounce hunk, one great piece. You know how much It’s worth an ounce? Pure hash?”
“Where is it?” Carmine asked.
“I got it. Let me up and I’ll give it to you.” When Carmine hesitated, Vito snickered. “Jesus, there’s three of you and one of me, bare-ass! What am I gonna try? I’ll make you an even trade, four ounces of pure hash for a go at—my buddy there!” He hit the words hard. “Come on, we can all turn on, have a party. You can watch all you want.” He shrugged. “I dig it. Truth.”
Stanley laughed, a simple moronic sort of laugh, and said, “Ey, Carmine?”
There was a long pause before Carmine shrugged and turned to Pidgeon. “Let him up.”
Pidgeon and Stanley went to Vito and untied him. He slid off the sink unit slowly. “Jesus, I’m stiff!” Although his shirttails dropped down to cover him, he picked up the bathtowel I’d used to wipe off his face. Turning to me, he grabbed his genitals—now bunched up underneath the shirting—in one hand and with a small shaking gesture, said: “Tit for tat, huh, Jim-may!”
Stanley whistled. Carmine and Pidgeon laughed and looked at me.
The rest happened very fast.
Vito wrapped the towel around his waist, walked to the bed, and knelt down, without as much as a glance. I was hoping he’d give me a wink or some sign that he was kidding. I found it hard to believe he was joining the enemy. He reached under the bed and took out a small airline bag. He had not let me know it was there; this surprise, call it a small deceit even, added to his possible duplicity, both disappointed and worried me.
He stood up, glanced around the room, and walked over to the rolltop desk. Opening the bag, he took from it a small parcel wrapped in brown paper, secured with rubber bands. He slipped the bands off, undid the paper, and from a piece of cellophane took what looked like a small brown rock. “Here yah go ...” He held it out in his hand.
Carmine walked over and took it; the other two joined him. The three of them stood by a lamp and inspected the piece of hashish.
Vito quickly glanced to his side and scuttled over to the corner of the bookcase. Swooping down toward the floor, he came up with the gun.
The swiftness of his movement caught Carmine’s attention. He swung around and automatically took a quick step toward Vito. “What the—?” He stopped abruptly when Vito pointed the gun at him.
Vito wasted no time. “Hold it. Okay, the three of youse, you got the hash, now—out! Get the fuck outta here or someone’s gonna get hurt!” He wagged the gun at them. “You think I wouldn’t? Try me!”
As I was thinking of the bulletless gun, Vito said: “You think it ain’t loaded?” He moved over to the desk, backing them away from it. He pointed to the hunk of raw wood that had been torn out when I’d fired at the phone. “We already had one—accident.” He poked his finger in the gash. “What do you think this is?” He scooted over to the bed, picked up Carmine’s tote bag and flung it at him. “Now—move!”
No one spoke, no one moved either. Vito’s voice stepped up to a shout; he sounded tough and deadly serious. “Shag your asses, goddamnit! Come on, the three of youse—out the door!” Still no one took a step. Vito lowered the gun, cocked it, and aimed in the general direction of their feet.
They all flinched; Stanley was the only one who spoke: “Jesus!”
“First shot’ll be at your feet, second—won’t! Out the door, come on!” He moved forward, straight at them.
Carmine backed toward the door, flanked by Pidgeon and Stanley. Vito kept crowding them. “See—I lied. I don’t like to be watched! Come on, move—out!”
Stanley grabbed the door, swung it open, and the three of them backed out. Vito followed them to the hall. I could hear their footsteps going downstairs. After a moment, he shouted after them: “You got the hash so—don’t come back! don’t try nothing! You do, you’ll be fartin’ through a hole in your stomach!”
Vito listened until he could hear the front door slam. Then he stepped back in the room, closed the door, and let out a barrage of laughter!
“Hee—those freaks!” He twirled the gun in his fingers, then looked at me, jabbing his chin in the air. “So, how’s it feel—Jimmy-baby? Huh?”
Though I didn’t consider myself particularly dense as observer of my fellow man, the events so far made such little sense that I could make head or tail of—nothing, let alone Vito’s true intent.
He stood there with the empty gun in his hand. There might have been amusement behind his eyes, but it was not spread over his face as he regarded me. The towel slackened of its own accord, then dropped from his waist to the floor. His eyes flicked down to it. Looking up at me, he shrugged his shoulders and eyebrows and then smiled. Not a lewd smile, for all that, his shirttails once again covered him.
For a moment I could not help contemplating—what if he were not covered. At the gym Pete would often, more to get a rise out of me than anything, say, “Hey, look at the buns on him!” or “Now there’s a three-piece set worthy of bronzing!” My face would heighten in color and he would laugh. Once when I blushed he said: “Listen, do you like your own cock?”
“Well, yes,” I replied. “I—yes, I like it. I don’t love it, but I like it. Why?”
“So, what’s wrong with admiring someone else’s? There are other works of beauty besides yours.”
Preferring not to dwell on this area of speculation, I averted my eyes and glanced to the window. Outside the snow still fell, not as thick as before, and the flakes were finer now. I looked at the clock on the mantel. Ten minutes to three. In the distance I could hear the grind and whir of a snowplow.
Vito’s eyes remained on me. The bout with Carmine had taken the edge off my high. Exhaustion, residual from the entire day, was setting in fast. I could feel the heaviness in my veins and up in my eyelids. A headache threatened.
Vito walked slowly to the bed. He looked at the gun in his hand, glanced at the door and said, “I’d make a pretty good actor myself— don’t you think?”
“Yes...”
I lay on my back, the way I’d been left by Carmine and Company. Vito sat on the edge of the bed, only a foot or two from my waist. He stared down at me. I looked him back in the eyes. We held this look for a long while.
Until a small smile stretched Vito’s mouth. Glancing down at my chest, where the shirt had been torn open, he reached over and traced a finger down the center. “I always did like that, just that little bit of hair, that nice little line, leading down...” When his finger reached my navel, he lifted his hand away.
“So,” he sighed, “don’t you think you owe me something?”
I didn’t reply. What could I say—yes, no, maybe, what do you want? I was not feeling up to pertinent dialogue. Besides, intuition told me to underplay.
“Yeah,” Vito said, “I was always a good actor. Did you believe me, what I told you about Ben?”
I had believed him, but I wasn’t going to confirm this. When I didn’t reply, he asked, “Supposin’ I told you I made it up, that I just tricked with him for a one-night stand?”
Still, I didn’t answer.
Again we simply looked at each other. I wondered how long this delaying action could stretch. Once more I was struck by Kate’s eyes looking down at me from Vito’s face. This was no help.
It was his move. The longer we remained locked in eye-to-eye contact, the longer this limbo continued, the more the suspense. And in this suspense, I had to admit, there was excitement. Excitement I chose not to define. Again I summoned forth Pete. He would have shrugged and said: “Look, what a way to go, you’re tied down, you can indulge in a little mano-a-mano with no guilt whatsoever. What could you do, you’re helpless?”
My mind latched on to that, locked on it. It was an out. I almost smiled—from the combination of relief in the expiation of guilt and from the nervous tension that mounted the longer the silence stretched on.
Something to do with pride kept me from averting my eyes from his. It was his move.
He finally made it. Slowly he bent over and lowered his face toward mine. I stayed perfectly still, inhaling an impulse to flinch or turn my head.
When he was directly above me, only inches away, so close that my vision became blurred and I could feel the warmth of his breath, I could not help it—I didn’t mean to—it was reflex: I quickly turned my head to the side and emitted some small sound.
A beat, no more, and now Vito slapped me on the side of the head, not hard, I could feel a governor on it, but a slap nevertheless.
He was up off the bed and shouting: “Jesus, what?—you thought I was going to—what do you think, I gotta have someone tied down to make it with them?” A burst of laughter, bitter and harsh. “Dumb prick, I was just seein’ what you’d do. You think I’m that hard up, I have to have someone tied down? You think I’d mortify myself to make it with a person when a person don’t want to? Christ, I may be a hustler but I got my pride, too.” There was a pause, then: “Jesus Christ, Jim-may”—still he used my name with such familiarity—“dummy up!” He swept a glass off an end table.
After the crash, there was a long silence. I was the one to finally break it. “What do you want me to do—apologize?”
“No—oh, shit!” Then he was back over me, quickly untying my hands and feet. “There—you still got your cherry. Go can it!”
He was wound up; he walked away, pacing back and forth. I sat up on the bed and thought: Bad timing is everything.
“Jesus!” he shouted, then his tone turned snidely biting: “Would it break your balls if I had a drink?”
“No.”
“You want one?”
I nodded, then, for an instant, I almost said, No, no drink! I wanted nothing. Yes, I wanted to be alone. Not being alone, having to arrange it, also, yes, in a way owing this Vito not one but two rounds of thanks, I also felt the need for some independent activity. A drink required less action of me than anything I could think of, so I lay there in silence.
I want out!
Had I said it out loud or thought it? I turned my head to see him getting ice in the kitchen. He didn’t look around. I must have thought it. Out of what? The impulse I’d felt when I was tied down revisited me in full. I wanted out of being helpless, just as helpless in this acting profession as if I were bound and gagged.
By the time Vito handed me my drink, he’d simmered down. “Well, what the hell—Happy New Year!”
I was surprised to hear, once more, the sound of my laughter.
“How come you laugh?”
“Punchy, I guess.”
“Yeah, I can see how you would be.” We each drank. He spoke with frowning gravity. “So, no kidding, how do you feel, really?”
I decided I owed him the decency of leveling with him. “You really want to know? I feel deeply, seriously, intensely, gravely, perilously fucked up right about now. Truth!”
This seemed to register upon him, until I added, “Vito, I really would like to be alone.”
He shook his head. “Ah-ah, no way. If you feel that rotten, I couldn’t leave you like that!”
I laughed again.
“Hey, guy, what do you laugh—when I’m being serious?”
“Vito—look, I have about one quarter of a thimbleful of energy left and I’ll burn it up being serious right back at you. Okay?”
“Shoot.” He sat down on the bed.
I spoke to myself as much as to him. “I’ve been an actor for— since I was eighteen. That’s twenty years. Twenty years and I have neven, had a real, true success. I mean, nothing where everybody sat up on their hind legs and said, ’Jesus, look what he’s done—can do!” Oh, I’ve worked, scraped by, TV, industrials, commercials, Off-Broadway, summer stock. But in twenty years I have only been on Broadway four times, that’s an average of once in five years. Big career. It has seriously occurred to me tonight—yes, and was occurring crazily enough during the hijinks a while ago—that, finally, after twenty years, I just might be in the wrong business!
“That is not a fun occurrence. Can you imagine what It’s like to be in a business twenty years and never doing anything ... special in it? That would be like—like being a hustler for twenty years and never ’hooking up’ with anyone special, like Ben.
“Why haven’t I? Jesus, I don’t know. Why have I kept on? I don’t even know that.
“I do know this. I want to do something special sometime in some one thing.” Vito opened his mouth to speak. “No, wait a minute. My book was special and I think I can write it, in my own special way. I do. The problem is, I have to figure a way to swing it. I have to be alone and read over this last twenty years and hope to Christ I make some sense out of it. Besides just—a bummer. I have to be alone to think. Comprendo?”
Vito’s reply was unbelievable. “You said I could spend the night.”
“Vito!”
“I’ll be quiet like a mouse, I wouldn’t say a word, I—”
“Vito, I spill out a whole mess of home truths on my entire life and all I get from you is ’You said I could spend the night!’ don’t you understand?”
He hunched up his shoulders. “Sure. But—still—listen, you makin’ me go because I gave you a rough time? Okay, so I apologize.”
“No, that’s not it, Vito. I just really need to be alone.”
A sudden giggle from him. “Hah, I gotcha, I can’t go, not tonight. I got no pants, New Year’s Day—stores all closed.”
His tenacity, his energy, after all this time! I got up from the bed and went to the closet. I dug around for a corduroy suit, took it out and presented it to him. “Here, Happy New Year.”
His expression admitted defeat. “I only need the pants ...”
“Take the suit, It’s too small for me anyhow.” From the dresser I took a pair of shorts, then I got his twenty-seven dollars, added fifteen of my own, and held it out to him. “Here, for a room.”
He backed away. “I don’t want any money from you.”
“You have to have—”
“I’ll make out!”
“Take it, goddamnit! The twenty-seven was yours anyhow. And the hashish, you gave away your hashish.” I stuffed the money in the coat pocket. “There, It’s in there.”
Vito turned and walked into the bathroom, carrying the clothes and closing the door behind him.
There was relief, just being in the room alone. I stood in the middle looking around. The place was a mess. I’d always scored A in Compulsive Neatness, a trait I didn’t particularly admire in myself but one I was stuck with. Now I merely shrugged. Last things last. The kitchen was the biggest mess. I noticed Bobby Seale’s water and food dishes on the floor.
My heart took on weight. I’d momentarily forgotten. I found a large shopping bag and put his two dishes in it, also three cans of cat food and a box of catnip. I wandered around the room collecting all his things, his red scratching post, three rubber balls, and an old sock of mine tied into a knot with catnip inside. I even found a book on the care and training of cats I’d bought when I first adopted him. He’d never learned any tricks, but he had enough of his own. God, I loved that scroungy cat!
When Vito came out of the bathroom he was dressed in the corduroy suit. “Pants fit okay, a little loose in the waist but—well, how do I look?”
“Fine.” He did, too. He’d washed up and combed his hair. He looked, actually, not much the worse for wear; there was about him something pulled together and trim. As I watched him put his shoes on, the thought occurred that he might be one of those who score A in Compulsive Survival.
He went about getting the rest of his things together. “You know what I been thinking? I never done anything right in my life, except maybe brush my teeth. I end up all fucked up. Why not? You, you’re a whole different ball game. What happens? You end up equally screwed up. So—if that’s the way the Old Lady pulls the strings, what’s the use tryin’? Makes you think, don’t it?”
I could see him pondering this as he collected his coat and put his gun into the airline bag. “Except that can’t be it, know how I know? Ben would call that kind of rap a bummer. He wouldn’t stand for down-heads. He was a great one for signs, like takin’ a bummer and turning it into a sign to—like, change something, spin off in a different orbit. What do you think?”
“Me? I’m all thought out. Truth.” I handed him the shopping bag and asked him to take it down with him.
Vito looked inside. “Hey, don’t throw this stuff out. I bet I could find another little kitty for you.”
“I don’t want a cat, I really don’t like cats.”
“You liked your cat—”
“I liked my cat, I loved that cat, but I don’t particularly like cats in general.”
“Okay, okay—what about a dog? I’ll bet I could find you a cute little puppy?”
I laughed at his persistence/ And I marveled at his endurance. “Why—you know of a pet shop you can knock off?”
“No, guy—come on. But I’d find you a puppy.”
“Vito, I wouldn’t want you snatching a puppy from some little old bowlegged blue-haired lady on Christopher Street.”
The forehead wrinkled. “Hey, I wouldn’t do anything like that. I’d like to do something for you. The main reason—your book. You don’t know how bad I feel about that. Truth! Also, what the hell, you been good to me.”
The straighter his line, the more I had to laugh. “Good to you!”
“Yeah. Oh, you started out sorta mean, but outside of that—well, listen, it wasn’t boring.”
I shook my head.
“No kidding. I could have done without”—now he gave me a small dig—“your freaky friends. Even that—well, it was vivid, if you know what I mean. So—” Vito stuck out his hand. “Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year.”
“Oh, listen, I left you a few joints on the counter over there.” He walked toward the door, turned around and hesitated before speaking. “Uh—can I call you or—drop by sometime? You know, just to say hello?”
“Sure.”
He grinned. “I can?”
“Yeah, give me time to catch my breath.”
“Well, so long. Good luck! I wish you good luck, guy.”
“So long, Vito. Happy hunting.”
I closed the door after him. I started to turn the bed down, but then I stopped and walked to the windows. The snow fell lightly, very lightly now. I was watching for Vito. There he came, crossing the street to the large trash can on the far side. He dropped the shopping bag in it. He began to walk away, down the street in thick snow halfway up to his knees. Then he suddenly stopped, turned around, looked up, and saw me. He waved. In that instant I had a flickering impulse to open the window and shout “What the hell— come on back!” I overcame it—what was his phrase?—ga-noog is ga-noog. I waved back and quickly stepped away from the window. Within minutes I was in bed. There was only conscious time enough left to miss the warmth of Bobby Seale flattened out against my thigh and curse him for dying.
A phone call from the veterinarian awakened me the next day, New Year’s. We quickly concluded funeral arrangements for Bobby Seale. It was not difficult to get back to sleep.
Next on the agenda, my agent, Phyllis. She’d been to a New Year’s party. The word had gotten around about my job and this was the good news:
“Andreas Ffolkes was there, he’s bringing one of those heavy costume plays over from England. When he heard about your bad luck—he’s an old friend of mine—he gave me his word he’d find something for you in it. The principals are coming over from London, so there’ll only be the smaller parts, soldiers, messengers, several young monks. It’s a heavy production and they’re only paying minimum, but it would be a job.”
She was putting me right back to sleep. Phyllis picked up on my silence. “At least you’d be getting a weekly salary, Jimmy. Your unemployment’s run out, hasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“So look at it this way, it would help qualify you for next year. The deal is, you’ll have to come by the theater in three or four weeks when they’re casting and read for the director, but Andreas will be there and he said he’d damn well see to it you get something.”
I used my grogginess as an excuse to end the conversation, telling Phyllis I’d call her in a day or so.
Under the heading Bright Prospects, this thirty-eight-year-old actor could look forward to a three- or four-week wait to audition for a bit part at minimum salary in an English import. I could hardly wait to be listed in the Playbill as “Soldiers, monks, virgins, bell-ringers—and humpbacks.”
“No,” I said out loud. “No hard feelings, but no!”
I was feeling hollowed out and wobbly from the last few days but still, at that very moment, I knew I would make a change. I took two more aspirin and went back to sleep.
It was the phone that awakened me again; Claire from the airport. Although it was late in the afternoon, it was still an effort for me to talk, especially to her. After telling me how terrible I sounded, she invited me once more to join her in Tobago. I declined again. “Jimmy, I know you’re upset about—well, about things. Promise if there’s anything I can do to help, you’ll let me know. That’s what family is for.”
It hit me. By God, she’d asked and I would no longer criticize her for my silence. I’d level and see what it brought. I sat up in bed, cleared my throat, and asked if she had a minute to spare. She did.
“Claire, I want to get back to work on the book. I’m going to have to move. Instead of taking another apartment maybe I could find some little place up in the country for a winter rental or out West, where I could get away and really buckle down. If you could lend me enough to get through the winter, I’d repay you when I go back to work, or if the book is published from anything I might make.”
She pitched right in. “Jimmy, I’ve an idea and see if it isn’t perfeet? Why, I’m suddenly so excited. The market’s down now and to raise cash I’d have to sell at a loss.” (Not true, she kept large balances in both checking and savings accounts.) “But there’s the house in Riverdale. You can have your own bedroom and the upstairs study all to yourself. You won’t have to worry about cooking, or laundry or anything. You won’t have to do anything but write your heart out. In the evening we can have a cocktail before dinner and you can tell me all about your day’s work. I can even proofread for you. It’s perfect, I’ve always wanted you to get more use out of that house. You can move up anytime. Jimmy, I’m so excited, what a lovely winter we’ll have!”
I could not reply, the idea was disastrous. When I remained silent, she added: “It wouldn’t cost you a cent, what do you say—is it a deal?”
“Claire, I honestly think it might be best if I just go someplace and hole up by myself.”
“Any writer would give his right arm to have a setup like yours. That lovely house, everything taken care of, all the luxuries of home.”
I decided to be entirely candid. “In other words, you won’t lend me the money?”
“Jimmy, I explained, the market’s down now and—”
“That’s all I wanted to know.”
A chilly pause before she said: “I’m amazed at your attitude, an offer like that—”
“Claire, I’m a grown man, can’t you see if I’m plunging into work on something like this it might be best if I’m off by myself?”
“Jimmy, with all due respect, you might be a grown man, but if you’re not able to support yourself—”
“Better not miss your plane. I’ll see what I can work out. Have a good trip.”
That ended the conversation and began my resolve: never to be dependent upon her again. She was a living Maypole; I would be forever entangled in the ribbons of her conditions unless I made a clean break.
Two resolutions taken care of! Oh, the relief. The relief of the relief! I didn’t quite know how I’d manage, but I’d figure that out when I felt up to it. It was dark outside. I looked at the clock— almost five. Still feeling weak, I thought I’d better put something in my stomach, so I fixed some soup and made a light supper.
I came across Vito’s cue card on the kitchen floor. While I ate, I looked it over. On the opposite side from the jokes and one-liners was printed Real Life. Underneath, written in his minuscule hand, were listed:
“Beetie’s fucked-up parakeet, Marcy locked meat freezer, Marcy-me-tulips”—that one I knew—“Jitters—vibrator—St. V’s Hosp, meet Judy Garland, fire-168th St. 5-times one night, dead body Jitters’ car, Uncle S. pukes punchbowl, Maw-Paw-Toodles-Coney, EPS”—sic; ESP, I imagined—“with Lou & table knocking Hilda-witch, wino blows 9 in jail, Coby & Rita’s prettiest wedding”—these two side-by-side items killed me—“Aunt L pee’s Macy’s, Richie’s maid into brownies, BAD TRIP, Richie-me-Paris whore, Jitters’ concussion, Hitching to S.F. with nut, Jitters’—snakes, movie star party, screwed-out-pay porno flick, Tijuana raid, spooky house Bev Hills, lady-pet cougar, Jitters & Sophia Loren, gay senator, sour cream— armpit, flat tire dessert [sic] all nite, Jitters’ funeral.”
I was sorry Jitters died. At least he seemed to have led a fairly eventful life.
The card was immeasurably touching.
Vito! Vito was certainly the most vivid character I’d encountered in many a year.
There was no contest over what to do with this New Year’s Day— sleep it away. Back in bed I wondered what Vito was up to, how he was making out. Before falling asleep again, I wished him well, wished him a wide streak of good luck.
Kate woke me the following morning. Her curiosity had mushroomed, if anything. After commenting on my froggy tones, she struck right to the heart of her call. “Jim, now level with me. What was all the—”
“Kate, I still can’t talk—” I croaked sleepily.
“It’s almost eleven!”
I was being unduly mean but I couldn’t stop myself. “We had a big night.” I pulled my voice down to the barest whisper. “I can’t talk now...”
“All right, you listen to me. I’m going to Washington, I’ll be shooting there until the day after tomorrow, then I’m coming back and you and I are having dinner. I’m paying, you’re talking! Goodbye!”
This started my day off in a good mood. I lay in bed laughing. Dear old Kate. I had a full morning erection. Dear old Kate, indeed. Because of our stormy holidays we had not been to bed since before Christmas. So, yes, there were thoughts of Kate.
I also thought of Vito. I wondered what that would have been like? Whatever, it probably would not have been boring.
Quickly I got out of bed and went into the bathroom to urinate. That would relieve some of the tension. While washing up I caught sight of myself in the mirror. I hadn’t shaved for days; I looked scroungy. I liked the look and decided to keep it a while. I showered though and this made me feel fresher.
While eating breakfast, I once again looked over Vito’s card. I don’t know why it affected me so, but it did. Would he miss it, I wondered? Supposing he met a possible hook-up, would he be lost without it?
As I dawdled over coffee, what I should do now came to me in a series of calm overlaps. Mr. Weisscoff had said I could expect a settlement of fifteen hundred or two thousand if I vacated the premises early. I would move to a reasonable apartment and devote full time to writing the book. There would be no phone installed and I would tell Phyllis I would not be available for readings or interviews until I’d finished.
I had nine hundred rehearsal pay and the five hundred Claire had given me for Christmas. I also had bills amounting to over three hundred. I was not really flush. Perhaps I could get a part-time job that would bring in an extra fifty or sixty a week.
I would hole up, dig in, and write. Thirty-eight was old enough to start on a first novel without dragging it out, hit or miss, dabbled at and strung out and watered down by every possible interruption, physical and psychic. If I were going to give it a serious try, and I was, this was the approach, all or nothing.
Thoughts of the immediate future excited me. I’d made a Command Decision, by God. I phoned Mr. Weisscoff and told him to begin investigating a deal with the new owners.
Then, for something to do, I set to work to clean up the disaster area that was my apartment. By the time I finished, it was after three. Although the apartment was now back in order, it was somehow stale. Or I was stale in it. I needed to shop for food, needed fresh air more. Downstairs in the mailbox I found a New Year’s card and Claire’s check for two hundred and fifty dollars. It was appreciated; despite my resolves I was neither fool enough nor brave enough to send it back.
Walking through the snow, which had not yet turned to gray mush, I felt buoyant. The adrenaline of change stirred deep inside me. I shopped and bought a copy of the Village Voice in case there might be some advertisements for part-time jobs.
By the time I got home, the streak-ends of a mild pastel winter sunset were to be seen out my window over the rooftops to the west of me. I made myself a drink and toasted myself into the New Year on this second day of January. I picked up the Voice and, at the front of the paper, scanned the personal ads, which always fascinated me. “Gloria—come home, goldfish wilting, puppy won’t eat, I can’t sleep. Apologies. Sid.” “Hey, Skinny, if you show up Friday night, I’ll fatten you up. Love, Moo-Moo.”
I made one up: “Vito, contact your former captor. For the main reason, you left your Personality Card. P.S. How goes it with you?”
The help-wanted ads were not nearly as much fun. Most of them sounded cold and impersonal. I had really never taken a regular job, so what did I know about them? What could I do? I sat there muddling. The future didn’t loom quite as rosy as it had seemed earlier. The thought of working as maitre d’ or typist or waiter didn’t fill me with anything like elation. The idea of apartment hunting was nothing to be looked forward to either; it would have to be small and fairly drab to fit my wallet.
To get down to fundamentals, my love affair with the city had begun to cool several years before. It was now kaput. The winters were no longer exciting, as they had been when I was twenty or thirty. (Exciting—had they ever been exciting?. Yes.) I also remembered the good old days when the only knowledge one had of robberies and muggings was an occasional item in the News or Mirror. Now all you had to do for the latest reports was talk to a friend.
I shivered. I wasn’t cold. I was, quite frankly—lonely. That’s what I was, I was goddamn lonely! September, October, November, December, now January. I wondered how long the strength of missing Pete would grip me.
I missed Kate, too, although I knew only too well we’d reached the punishment phase of our relationship. Still, I missed the early months when round-the-clock infatuation—and novelty—made our time together so full of exuberance and warmth.
Bobby Seale, another hunk of warmth missing.
I was depressing myself. And doing a good job of it. I got up and wandered around the room. There on the kitchen counter were the joints Vito had left me. I picked one up. Why not? Why not!
I lit the joint and took a puff, holding it down only a few seconds before coughing the smoke back up. Vito would have awarded demerits. Taking another drag, I concentrated on holding, holding it down. Seven, eight, nine, ten—the heat of the smoke warmed my stomach.
“There ...” I exhaled. I smoked again, contracting my stomach muscles, refusing to cough. Grinning at my expertise, I let the smoke out in a slow controlled stream.
After putting the original cast album of Candide on the stereo, I lay down on the bed and proceeded with Pot Smoking Two. Within a few minutes I felt a sort of cocked-hat calm settle over me. By the time I’d finished the joint and stubbed it out, my cares were dissolving to a surprising degree.
I did not usually have the happy built-in faculty of viewing the bumpy stretches as a series of jokes. Pete had always said, “Life is nothing but a bunch of revue sketches. The birth sketch, the first-day-at-school sketch, the discovering-what-your-dong-is-for sketch, the marriage one, and so on. Some are bombs, some are so-so, a few are perfect, but when they’re played out—forget them. On to the next. And remember, like revue sketches, the bad ones always end.”
So ... ? No sweat, roll with ’em. They could not go on this way, that was for sure. They wouldn’t dare.
My senses knocked for attention. I cocked my head. The music sounded, to my slightly stoned ears, as if the entire New York Philharmonic had dropped by for a visit. I glanced around the room. The texture of the exposed brick was astonishing to behold. The wall opposite the bed looked so alive it could have been breathing. Great Breathing Bricks! The apartment was friendly again, and I’d relaxed to the point of relative contentment. So long, spooks.
In a paean to pot, I wished I had smoked with Kate. I gave myself a few mental belts for having resisted. I don’t know how long I lay there. After a while I got up to see if there was more ice cream in the freezer section. I didn’t want it that second, but I wanted to know it was there. There was a pint of butter-almond. Joy!
There was also, nestled inside the cellophane packet, one other rolled cigarette. It was a bit the worse for wear, crumpled and slightly wilted. I straightened it out with loving care. So close to Heaven, why not make an entrance?
I switched the record to side two and aimed for the bed. I became aware of my movement; it was both light and heavy. Explain that, I thought. Well, as if I were in a weighted suit but light in the atmosphere. Like an astronaut? Who cares, both light and heavy!
Lighting up again, I took a deep drag. The stereo was tuned up high. Even so, I heard something, some other sound, or perhaps I only sensed... I glanced around the room. There was nothing. I listened. I did hear movement, muffled and—
I leaned back against the headboard of the bed and looked up above me. The small skylight, slightly to my left, joggled, moved slightly up, then back down on its rim, then swung up and away on its hinges. A drift of snow sprinkled down on the bed next to me.
I was not, I remember, alarmed. I believe I was more amused than anything.
A face appeared, Vito’s face, grinning down at me. I would have grinned back immediately, but it was not exactly the same face I’d seen last. It was badly beaten—bruised forehead, black-eyed, swollen-jawed, and cut-lipped. Still, he grinned arid then crossed his eyes. The crossed eyes did it; I couldn’t help grinning back.
He uncrossed his eyes and spoke. “You probably don’t remember me, but...”
I laughed at his line, but not at his face. “Vito! What happened to you!”
“Fuck it, I don’t care!” He laughed again.
I had no idea what could be funny about his condition, but I was high so I laughed, too. “What are you doing up there, why didn’t you knock on the front door?”
“I called you a little while ago, no answer.”
“Oh, I was out for a while.”
“So, I thought you wasn’t home, figured I’d drop in and wait. I come over from the other roof.” He thought for a moment. “Hey, if I had of knocked, would you let me in?”
“Sure.”
“Can I come in now—I mean, down?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
His head bobbed up and out of sight. When he reappeared, he held a large canvas duffel bag over the skylight. I moved out of the way, and he let it fall to the bed, then dropped his airline bag down after it. “I got a bad ankle, maybe I better just come down from the roof. Let me in, huh?”
He shut the skylight and I walked, weaving slightly, to the front door and opened it. Vito came down the short flight of stairs from the roof and walked in, limping badly. Close up, he looked much worse. There was a lump on his jaw the size of a small walnut, the ridge on his forehead was raised and angry-looking, unhealthy yellows and reds edged the blue-black swelling of his bloodshot right eye.
“Jesus, Vito, when did that happen?”
He closed the door and locked it. “Other night, the bastards! Fuck ’em!” A hoarse laugh. “And I did.” He sniffed the air, quickly took in the joint I was holding. “Hmn, good stuff, where’d you get it?”
“I grow it in old sweat socks.”
He reached out; I handed it to him and he took a deep drag. Exhaling, he said: “So, how things been in the New Year?”
“Just as great as the old.”
“Yeah? Tough ...” He shrugged. “They picked up for me.”
“You couldn’t tell from looking at you.”
“Looks isn’t everything. Hey, could I have a glass of milk?”
“Sure, sit down.” I got it for him and he sat on the bed. When he finished drinking, I held out the joint to him. “No, one puff’s enough. I don’t want to get high. Uh-uh.” He screwed his face up to deadly earnest. “For the main reason—I want to make sense. I want to talk serious to you.”
“Oh... ? Okay.” I laughed. It was for the main reason and his attempt at solemnity that did it.
His forehead wrinkled. “What are you laughing for?”
“I’m a little high.” The pot gave me the freedom to add: “Also, I’m—I feel very glad to see you again.”
His face brightened and he grinned. “Yeah ... ? Hey, how come you smoked—like all by yourself?”
“Seemed like a good idea.”
“So, okay, what do you suppose is in there?” He patted the duffel bag.
“Search me. No, wait a minute, a cat? A kidnaped cat?”
“No—wrong.”
“A puppy? A hot one—just snatched!”
Vito shook his head. “No—two wrong. Okay, wise-ass, you’re shootin’ for three wrong.” A twinkle shone in his eyes, even the bloodshot one. “Pick a number between one and twelve.”
“One and twelve?”
After a second he asked: “Got it?”
“Yeah.”
“What is it?”
“Nine.”
He spoke rapid-fire without taking a breath. “Wrong, seven, you lose, pull off your clothes and lie down!”
We both laughed. I sat down on the bed as Vito smacked his hands together. “I made more contacts with that one. If I seen a score, like a humpy number at a bar, I’d go up and cold, right off the bat: Think of a number between one and twelve. Five. Wrong, three, you lose, pull off your clothes and lie down! And you know what? It always broke the ice.”
“You’re an extremely vivid person.”
“Vivid, yeah, you got that from me. Sometimes I think you put me on. Go ahead, put me on, I don’t care. I got a question to ask you.”
“Shoot.”
“How long would it take you to write your book?”
“I don’t know, ten months, eight months, a year. Why—do I have cancer?”
“Hey, guy, bite your tongue.” He leaned forward and cracked his knuckles. “So—what about going away someplace?”
“What if you could?”
“The way I feel today even Newark looks good.” I held the butt out to Vito, who waved it away. “Except I have to admit, I’m beginning to feel better. This stuff sure picks a person’s spirits up.”
“I’m gonna pick ’em up even better. What about Mexico, could you live on eighty-six hundred for ten months or a year? Remember in Mexico, so It’s cheaper by lots.”
I thought a moment. “If I scrimped. I’d have to run my own tub, cut my own fingernails, but I could probably squeeze by.”
Vito spoke with businesslike finality. “Well, if you can get by on that—you got a deal.”
“Did I win the lottery?”
He stood up from the bed. “No, guy—you won me!”
I laughed. “Jesus, I knew my luck had run out for sure.”
“Sticks and stones can break my bones, but insults don’t mean dick!”
The amount I’d smoked was just now catching up with me. My head was stuffed with kapok, balloon-light and floating free. It suddenly struck me that—yes, Vito was back in the flesh, standing there in front of me, even though I couldn’t comprehend what he was talking about. I shook my head, “Whew—this stuff is dynamite!”
“Wait’ll you get a load of this stuff!” Vito opened his outer jacket, loosened his belt, and jammed a hand inside his pants, down into his crotch. When he pulled it out, he held a large wad of bills. He flipped off a rubber band and tossed the money on the bed next to me. “That’s for starters, thirty-six hundred in cash. Half is yours.”
“Mine?”
“Yeah, and that’s only the first course.” He leaned over the bed, opened the neck of the duffel bag, reached in, and pulled out a round metal cookie cannister, the gift type decorated with flowers. He lifted the top off, tilting it so I could see inside. “This, in here— pure cocaine, uncut. I’m gettin’ five thousand for it tomorrow, nine thirty A.M. That’s five and thirty-six, that’s eight thousand six hundred—right?”
“Right.”
Vito let out a high “Hee!” and said, “We hit it big, Jim-may! We’re in the clover.” I could only look at him with a certain amount of turned-on wonderment. “You wanna hear?”
“What do you think?”
“Okay, I’m gonna tell you.” Forgetting about his ankle, he executed a little jump step in the air. He winced. “Oh, shit—oew!”
“Vito, what about your face, isn’t there something—”
“Naw, I already been to the emergency. They give me the treatment, all it takes now is for it to heal. I’m okay, honest. So, get this, I had this friend, Jitters, my best friend, and—”
“Oh, you left your card here.”
“Yeah, I figured. Anyhow, Jitters was—well, he was the most vivid character ever. Oh, no sex, we was just best friends. Crazy he was, but, oh, what a kick! And funny! Time to time he used to be a runner for different deals, hash, smack, different stuff. Me and Jitters, too, used to run for this guy, Joe Bistrante, oh, big hot-shot dresser but strictly minor Mafia. Joey Bistrante sent Jitters to Harlem on a strictly bad deal two years ago, before I went to the coast with Ben. Sent him right into a den of crazies. Jitters got stabbed to death by this strung-out spade nut.
“Jitters didn’t have no family so a bunch of us chipped in, everybody loved Jitters, and we gave him a sendoff would knock your eyes out. Joey Bistrante blah-blah’ed out of the funeral expenses but he promises to buy Jitters a good stone, you know, for his grave. It’s now almost two years and I ain’t seen no stone, did you? Uh-uh.
“Okay, get this.” Vito cracked his knuckles and backed off a few steps. Legs planted apart, cocky of stance, he took the floor as if he were taking stage. “So, the writer here”—he jabbed a thumb at me—“the writer here has to be alone. Mr. Big Thinker gotta have his solitude, so I’m out on my ass in the snow. Right? Right. After I hit the streets, I stopped off at an all-night diner. I was fuckin’ starvin’! Ow, you should have seen what I put away. I mean it, Jimmy, I was gettin’ laughs from the waitress.
“Then I stopped off at this private club on the West Side I know, run by the gang. Maybe I can latch on to a little deal. Who’s there but Joey Bistrante and his wife, Ella, the both of them dressed to the teeth. I get a drink and they wave, so I go over and sit and we blah-blah-blah real chummy. So chummy that I finally say, ’Hey, Joey, what about Jitters’ stone? It’s goin’ on two years now.’ I said it real nice cause he promised and it burns my ass that Jitters is out in Queens now two years with no marker, nothin’.
” ’Yeah, I gotta take care of that,’ Joey says. When, I ask, is all I ask, is when. And his wife, Ella, suddenly pipes up. ’Oh, stop bugging him about Jitters for Chrissake, It’s New Year’s.’ ’Hey, wait a minute,’ I says, ’It’s New Year’s out at Queen of Angels Cemetery, too, and Jitters ain’t got—’
” ’Oh, go fuck your stupid self!’ Ella says. Joey gets a big kick, almost falls off his chair, out of his wife saying this big clever line go fuck your stupid self! Oh, how he laughs, you’d think she’d just quoted Shakespeare outta the mouth of Lenny Bruce. And when he finally pulls himself together, he says, yeah, come to think of it, that’s what I should do—go fuck myself. Then Ella—mind you they’re oiled, but still, for a woman to talk like that! Ella says, ’Yeah, and while you’re at it, why don’t you dig up your friend Jitters and go fuck him, too!’ “
Vito stopped and stared at me. “You ever hear of such a filthy dirty thing to say about someone dead, someone that you caused to be dead? I couldn’t believe my ears, especially from a good-lookin’ woman all dressed up for New Year’s.
“Now Joey Bistrante is hysterical, It’s so funny. I was shocked, I was so shocked I says to Ella, ’Why you stupid fuckin’ sacrilegious cunt, you!’ And the fight was on. Joey and one of the club goons dragged me outside. And Ella, she comes out on the sidewalk, takes off her shoe, and gives me this with the heel.” Vito pointed to the bruise on his forehead.
He held up a warning hand. “Oh, baby, that really did it, that did it! Last night I waited across from their building, brownstone over in Murray Hill, and sure enough about seven thirty out they come, all dolled up again, Ella lookin’ like a million. But the mouth on her!
“Now, I’ll tell you, I mainly thought if I get enough for a good stone, like a nice angel, that would be it. I figured whatever hock-ables would do it. But once inside I kept remembering how vulgar they was and I said to myself—they’re gonna pay for it. I went crazy. I tore that apartment apart from the seams and I don’t usually do that. Wasn’t I neat with you? Just took the stuff, no mess, huh?”
I nodded and grinned. I was rooting for him, even though I knew the results.
“You know what I got special fun out of—ripping her off for the foul mouth on her. Truth, Jimmy, the majority of the thirty-six hundred came from her stuff, her jewelry, which she had a lot of, and two good fur coats. I took his jewelry, too, and some other stuff. Now, It’s not until I’m practically leaving that I remember to check inside the toilet.”
“Inside the toilet?”
“Yeah, about three years ago when I went to his apartment to pick up some stuff for delivery, I remembered he got it out of the toilet tank, the top part where you keep the water for the flush. So, I go to the John and I lift off the lid and—there’s the cookie can all sealed, watertight. I nearly shit, I was so excited. Oh, Jimmy, I shouted for joy!”
Vito laughed and slapped a hand against his chest. “You know what I did before I left—I mean they would figure out it was me anyhow—so I took one of Ella’s lipsticks and wrote on their bedroom mirror: JITTERS WAS HERE!
“Jitters was here!” he repeated, clapping his hands together. “Can you see their faces?.” He had a solid laugh at that prospect.
“I picked out an angel for Jitters today. I seen several big ones but they looked mean as hell, scowling angels. I finally found one that was smiling, a nice medium-sized happy-looking angel, cost $483, inscribed and everything. I got over four thousand for the hockables, but I spent that, which left thirty-six hundred.”
Vito spoke with pride. “That’s the biggest hit I ever made. Of course, the coke made it a winner. So, you see, Jimmy, I gotta go to Mexico or someplace ’cause if I stick around here, my ass out on the streets won’t be worth three cents of bad dog meat. This is the way it looks to me, eighty-six hundred split is forty-three hundred apiece, so—”
“Split? Listen, Vito—”
“Ah-ah, half is yours.” I began to speak but Vito raised his voice to a shout. “Jimmy, I know what I gotta do, goddamn it! I threw your fuckin’ book out, that’s the lowest! Jesus, let me have my pride back!” He spoke with such resolve that I sat there quietly. “Like I said, now forty-three hundred isn’t a helluva lot for one, but eighty-six hundred stretches a lot longer for two living in Mexico. That’s only one rent, food for two’s not much more than food for one, one car for two and so on. Way I look at it we could—”
“Vito, I—”
“Will you listen to me out, what I got in my mind? I snag us some wheels, I can get a hot car, safe and cheap, and we light out for Mexico. We rent a pad, someplace where we like. You write your book and I resume my course on how not to end up a dumb schmuck at forty.” I began to speak again. “Ah, ah, I do the shopping, fix the eats, keep the place all douched up spick-and-span— everything. All you gotta do is fly your fingers over the keys, spin the tales. So—what do you think?”
He was, actually, tickling the hell out of me. He was also astounding me, disarming me, touching me. And because of the way he was reaching me, I naturally had to punch the caution button. “Vito, the whole idea’s wild!”
The shoulders hunched up, the hands went out in a gesture of supplication. “So—what do you want, to grab hold of a dull one?”
“No, but—” I had to laugh at him, with him, because of him. I shook my head. “Do you really see us as a winning team?”
Now his challenge, wise and tough: “Yeah—why in the fuck not? What’s to win, anyway? You can split anytime you want. Winning team? What’s that? We already won, we got the bread—bammo, just like that!” A thought struck him. “Oh, Jesus—you’re not worried about puttin’ out, are you? If that’s what—”
“No, I wasn’t even thinking about that.”
“I’ll bet. Listen, don’t get ’em in an uproar. Sure, I’d like to toss the salad with you, but—if I get into your knickers, you’ll do the unzipping. That’s in a way of speakin’. I bet that’s what’s buggin’ you. You know something, I may be a dumb-head but sometimes you’re a dumb-ass. You get my point?”
“I think so,” I grinned.
“One other thing, you think I’m doing this for you?. Think again. I’m gonna level with you. Do me the favor to listen.”
Instead of talking, he opened his airline bag, foraged around, and took out a dog-eared notebook; from it he took two wrinkled sheets of yellow paper. “Here.” He handed them to me. One had a list of perhaps one hundred books, the other a long list of classical records. “That’s Ben’s handwriting, lists for my reading and listening education.” He took them, carefully folded them up, and put them back in the notebook.
Then he faced me. “I am frantic to dummy up, Jimmy. Truth. I am A-Number-One Fuckin’ Tired of being this world’s dumb-head. I’ll tell you something else—I don’t even think It’s funny any more!”
He walked to the mirror and looked at himself. “Look at me, you think I want to go through life getting the shit kicked out of me, makin’ runs for the minor Mafia, their delivery boy? You think I like to hang out in bars so I can score, so maybe I can hook up with someone who’ll feed me, let me sleep at their place? I told you I was twenty-seven. I’m thirty-fuckin’-one, nine years from four-oh. And look at me!”
He made a small gesture of disgust, then he opened the notebook and pawed through the pages until he found what he wanted. “Listen to what Ben said once. ’You better find out what you want in life, because that’s what you’re going to get!’
“Well, I don’t want what I had. That’s for sure. I want sometime to have my own house, my own job, my own car, my own wife, and my own kid. But mostly, my own pride in just being a person can mix with other people without puttin’ on a freak show. I been a freak act and I want out of the sideshow.” He thought a moment, then snorted and added: “And into the main tent.” A bronchial laugh. “Hey, that ain’t bad, huh? I want out of the freak show and into the main tent.”
“No, It’s not.”
“So ... what do you say?”
“Vito, It’s”—I was struggling against the effects of the marijuana; I realized I was in a weakened condition and had every reason to put up a fight—“It’s—It’s just too wild!”
“Wild? Wild for a writer, that should be good. Who says wild isn’t good? Wild is great!” Vito snapped his fingers, took a little jump step and, despite his bad ankle, landed with his feet planted apart, toes turned out. He looked like a young Italian Cagney, about to go into his dance. “Okay—wild, wild? Flying—ey, what about that for wild? Who ever thought of that to begin with? What if that one brother—what’s-his-face?”
“The Wright brothers, Wilbur and Orville.”
“Wilbur and Orville” he said, in a derisive voice. “Sound like a couple of tired old queens. So what if Wilbur had said to Orville: ’Fly—up in the air? Are you buggy, Mae?’
“Wild things is good. Pot is wild. What?—a couple of little puffs and you’re in never-never land. And they say the Old Lady put everything on this earth Herself, every little plant and twig down to the ittiest bittiest gnat. So, She knew what She was doin’. She planted Maryjane. And—ah—wild! Yeah, that’s my point.”
He stopped, stood dead still for a moment, then snapped his fingers. The expression on his face announced he had a big one. “Okay, look at Grace Kelly!”
“Grace Kelly?”
“Yeah, Grace Kelly. Started out a poor little pussy from Pittsburgh—”
“Philadelphia.”
“Philadelphia—Pittsburgh, big deal!”
“And she was rich to begin with.”
“Okay, still a little pussy from Philadelphia and now she’s a goddamn Princess!”
“She was already a big fat movie star!”
Vito dismissed Grace Kelly with a wave of his hand. “All right, all right—forget Grace Kelly! When I was a kid, I used to want to shtupp her. That’s how she got in there. Anyhow, what do you say?”
“Vito, I can’t make sense out of it. It doesn’t—of course, I’m feeling a little woozy. Good woozy, but—”
He dug in his bag and took out another joint. “Not woozy enough. The whole thing set up, I knew you’d down-head me.” He lit up, smoked, and exhaled. “Heavy! Klump-klump—you’re heavy. The ballbreaker was right. You won’t ever—what’d she say? Shake it up! You got lead shoes on. Not only that, you got your feet stuck in glue. Old glue-shoes.”
“Up yours!”
He flashed a wide frozen grin. “Okay!” Then snapped it shut again.
I reached for the cigarette. He held it back. “Better not, you won’t be able to make sense out of—whatever it is you gotta make sense out of.” I took it from him and smoked. “You know what you are? You’re a sense freak!” Vito giggled. “And remember, this offer expires at midnight—1999. In New Jersey the number is Bigelow blah-blah-blah-blah-blah-blah—”
I chipped in with him to sound the raspberry, then we laughed.
“What a vivid New Year’s!” I said. I took another puff and thought about Pete, wondering if he could see me now.
I felt a definite tilt. But better than the tilt, I was beginning to feel—loose. Yes, loose and free.
Pete, look who’s loosening up! I know what you’d say, which way you’d push. Pete, who had once said, “The greatest thing in life, almost as good as sex, but a helluva lot longer lasting—is friendship! Friendships—Jesus, what would we do without them?”
Yes, and I thought: oh, the varying sizes, shapes, and qualities of them. Not always, but sometimes—they come along just when we need them.
Do we take them where we find them? Or do we throw them back?
“Hey...” Vito’s hand reached out.
I handed the joint to this—friendship.
“You know what, you oughta start lookin’ at things positively,” Vito said. A brief bark of laughter. “So—what?—you had any better offers today?”
He had a way of getting at the basics. I certainly hadn’t; I’d been feeling low and lonely. I watched him while he smoked. The similarity between Bobby Seale and Vito hit me again. Only if I took on this cat, he would require more responsibility of me than just opening a can of tuna and a game of hide and seek now and then.
I glanced at his duffel bag, the money on the bed, the cookie cannister. Like any good cat he’d dragged his catch back to his chosen home.
I felt a great womping surge of warmth for him. I wanted to reach out and touch him.
Vito looked up at me. “What?” he asked. “A penny?”
By far the safest thing to pin it on was—“Umm, this stuff is glorious! Oh, Senegalese Thunderfuck, I love you!”
I wanted to pat him, to thank him for his gesture. I wondered how long I would go on pretending I had no arms.
Out of nowhere, I was struck by a burst of energy and a massive shot of general euphoria. I stood up on the bed. Vito had had his turn; I wanted mine. He sensed this, because he grinned, backed away, and sat down on a hassock. “Yeah?” he asked. “So—splat it out.”
“I wonder, does everything have to make sense? I wonder. Even in the real world, as opposed to now, even when things make sense, they really don’t make sense. Do they?”
Vito shrugged and giggled. “I pass, you’re the sense freak.”
“Okay, you finally get a break and before rehearsals even start, the star’s boy friend gets fired in Spain for calling the director ’a dizzy cunt.’ So, you, minding your own business way the other side of the Atlantic, get it—zap, in the neck! That doesn’t make sense.”
Vito handed me the joint. “Keep up the old steam, put it through the computer!”
I only had time for the quickest puff. “By Christmas I figured I got the world by the tail. I got a lead on Broadway, a girl to make great Hugglebunnyburgers with, I’m moving up, got my eye on the sparrow—then, zappo! By New Year’s Eve, the Old Lady Up There, She pulls the rug out from under me. The whole rug, not just a corner. Whoosht—now you see it, now you don’t! Right?”
“Right, tell me about it, lay it out for me!”
“Bammo, fired! No job. Then—wop! Eighty-six the girl and the H-B-burgers. Then, as if the Old Gal hadn’t totaled me, I find a horny little wop burglar—wop again, no pun intended—under the bed. And I’ve already been cleaned out twice. Now that doesn’t make a bit of sense!”
“Yeah,” Vito said, “but that’s what we’re here for. Hit me with the sense of it. It gotta make sense!”
Now I was laughing, nice tumbling rolls of easy laughter. I held my arms out from my sides. For a moment I considered levitating. I turned to Vito. “No, no sense at all! So, get this, first I put his lights out, then I tie him up and figure to get him—what?— shtupped for New Year’s. And who ends up almost getting it, no one but good old square-ass me! Now, really, you don’t believe that!”
Vito Uncle Tommed me, rolling eyes and all. “I don’t believes yah, but Ah hears yah talkin’.”
“Pow! I fall into the world of pot and burglars and degeneracy and—bingo, before I can even start maintaining it, the little wop burglar bounces back forty-eight hours later with a load of goodies, a dowry, and—and an offer of marriage!”
Vito stamped his feet and shook his head. “I don’t believe it, it don’t make sense!” He broke off, laughing.
I was delighted with his delight.
“You know,” Vito said, “you’re not bad at all, once you get a head of steam up—and that’s it, the whole schmeer?”
“What do you want for a nickel? Yes. And—no! Jesus, I forgot. Get this, there’s a tag, a postscript. For the main reason—P.S., on top of it all, my cat is dead!”
Vito slapped the palm of his hand to his forehead. “Your cat is dead). Un-uh, that don’t make a bit of sense!”
But suddenly it did. It was the wipe-out, the finish to an era, a period, the last tie broken. It was magically see-through-clear.
“Ah,” I told him, “but it does, it does!”
Vito snapped his head around in a double-take. “It does?”
Yes.
“Well, I’ll be all powdered down in a star-spangled jockstrap! So, hit me with the wrap-up!”
“My pleasure. Now, get this, his death, the idea that he could walk out on me after the lavish display of Friskies and catnip, toys and scratching pads and assorted collars, jeweled and otherwise, and gourmet kitty food—flounder on Saturdays, fresh shrimp on holidays—that he could walk out on all I’d squandered on him, to say nothing of my love and affection, my heart, my very heart, that he would have the effrontery to do this to me, so enrages me, that I forsake the very land of my birth, the United States of America— and move to Mexico!”
I took a lovely free fall, the way trapeze artists leave their rigs for the net, and dropped to the bed in a sitting position. I bounced up and down in the pure freedom I was allowing myself. Yes, I could allow myself the indulgence of my emotions. Oh, the joy of it! And the release. Kabam, it hit me hard and big—as if all the planets and stars suddenly swung into the right position and my sign had an orgasm.
“Hey, Vito—Jesus, thank you!”
The phone rang.
As Vito dived onto the bed next to me I thought: I can laugh as long as you can ring.
And I did.
P.S.
And this is the book I wrote.
JAMES ZOOLE
Puerta Blanca
Mexico