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The Wall Street Journal was incensed with his contribution. The grapevine had it they were even putting Ann Leastwich on probation for not spotting straight away that George was a vain nutcase “of the ninth degree.”
This made George angry. Ann didn’t have a chance. She would have been given probation if he had refused to write anything too. “There’s no place in this world for temps,” George thought, and called WSJ’s editor-in-chief to inform him that if Ann was set to graze, he would sue.
“Ms. Leastwich is lucky to own such a figure,” George admonished himself (in recollection.) In his defense, it was her funny, pointed nose that came to mind when he called rather than her breasts.
Next week, his column was on the second page and Ann had been promoted. George felt powerful: a feeling that didn’t slack even when his desk flooded with hate mail from intuition-less readers. He was a sudden hero among New York artists, thanks to Professor Helm, who promoted his column at Columbia, convinced that it was he who pushed him in the right direction. Every being in New York City who made money via their artistic spirit quoted him like devote Catholics quoting the Bible. George feared that his “Brief Education” (as he referred to it thereafter) lost its original, satirical flavor. NYU art majors were painting his words on the walls of their studios for Christ’s sake.
George became more reclusive than ever once universally famous, hiding with his bar graphs and not taking phone calls. He threw out all of his letters, save the “Thank You” note from Ann, and refused all other journalism offers. In the light of his fans, this made him all the more enduring. They called out his anti-social tendencies as a mark of a true genius and canonized his name with the late Allen Ginsberg.
This wasn’t so long ago. George abandoned ship only recently. Two months ago, August, Emily had found him slumped over his desk like the failing Atlas; his eyes closed and his lips blue. He had stopped breathing. After the raucous, sterile nightmare of the hospital, George concluded that even numbers, especially numbers, will suffocate you eventually no matter how well you swim.
Emily came home at 5 a.m. when George was just getting up. Her waifish frame appeared rather unexpectedly in the doorway’s morning cold. She had purchased more cigarettes on the way back. George wanted to throw them out of the window again, but Emily was stalking the apartment with an annoying, regal air. He imagined she would have commanded the fire pokers to behead him if he so much as touched her Marlboro Lights.
“Did you stay here all night?” she asked.
“Usually.”
“The people you find at bars, you know, aren’t all bad.”
George wondered who she met. He followed her to the kitchen.
“Did you want me to make you any breakfast? What are you doing today?” Emily opened the fridge and poured herself some water, mixing it with Vitamin C powder, forgetting what she asked the moment she asked it.
“Read some.”
“I’m sorry?”
George intended to lock himself in the study today with the radio station on MoneyTalk and graph every damn share he owned. He could not afford another RTJ tragedy.
“Some oatmeal then? It’s cold today.”
As he would be spending the entire day indoors, this hardly mattered, but he took his place at the table, on a chilly metal chair, watching the shadows of airborne leaves dance across the wood and frost skate across his trousers.
Emily clicked on the stove. She turned on the faucet and let water run, passing her hand quickly through it like a mountaineer by a stream sifting for gold.
“Do you know I’ve never been in that bar before? It’s been there for six years and I’ve never been there before.” Emily twisted her hair behind her head before stooping for a saucepan.
George watched more leaves skitter across the table. He reached out and caught one with his thumb and forefinger. A shadow; but it passed to his hand and played in his palm like the wings of Tinkerbell.
Emily was sowing raisins and almonds in the saucepan. She looked contemplative. No, she looked pleasantly rattled; she only presented a thoughtful demeanor to steady her hands.
“What did you have?” George asked.
“What… of the drinks?”
“I go to a bar to drink.” George let go of the shadow flailing to join the other leaves in their flight.
“No, no dear George. You should be buying others drinks. Women drinks.”
“Did someone buy you a drink?”
Emily laughed. Her eyes turned green, and George involuntarily shuddered again. She was chronically shudder inducing. “They bought me Manhattan, love. They bought me the entire fucking island and all the waters around it.”
Yes. What very, very green eyes.
“Your stocks can all crash and burn because I have the island,” she said happily. She twisted around and danced like a balloon banner on a used car lot.
“Is this a re-enactment of the entitlement?” George asked grumpily.
“You mean, did I dance drunkenly on the bar? You know I never dance when I’m drunk.”
George had never seen Emily drunk.
“I was sitting like a statue,” Emily continued, “looking like a Venus.” Emily turned her face for a moment, parted her lips, elongated her neck, widened her eyes and turned to wax. George started, scrapping his chair noisily against the floor.
“Don’t do that! You do that often enough and your face will freeze like that forever,” George said.
“That’s not so terrible is it? I’m so beautiful still.”
George stayed silent, because a man should never argue the contrary; she was right anyway though it disturbed him to notice. “What the devil will you do with the island Manhattan?” he asked.
“After I finish making your oatmeal, I suppose I’ll lie down and smile. But just watch sir George. The next time you crave turkey-cranberry sandwiches, you’ll encounter a billboard a mile-high,” Emily shot up on tiptoe, her fingers-tips sparking with contact with the ceiling, “plastered with Emily in Chanel.”
George had a sudden vision of Emily sipping a martini and sprouting up like Alice in Wonderland when Alice made the mistake of snacking in the white rabbit’s house.
Emily reached over the smoking saucepan and clicked off the heat. She served his oatmeal as elegantly as anything before lighting another cigarette and leaving the kitchen. The oatmeal was fairly scanty in the way of raisins and almonds… as if the chef was unfamiliar with any particular ingredient in stomach-filling quantities. Which, of course, was the case. She certainly didn’t enjoy eating like other mammals. “Isn’t it ironic:” George whispered at Emily’s protruding vertebra, “ Her majestic billboard will weigh ten tons, and she is on the verge of disappearing.”
Or Tales From New York City That I Forgot to Write Down At the Time
My forgetfulness is comparable to Marilyn Monroe’s housekeeper- yes; the one who found Marilyn dead- as a witness of scandalous controversy, who didn’t understand the significance of events until it was too late, when she was standing in front of the cameras and Miss Sunshine’s microphone. Or a child reliving what truly happened on that ice rink in a reluctant therapy session. Only after I spent a couple weeks breathing sagebrush did the magnitude of this past year become manifest.
Nothing is sacred, you understand, as a writer, and suddenly I have stories to tell that I didn’t know I had. This means that for the next few weeks, Literally Speaking will be living in the past. Most of the time. Before I start in on my metropolitan drama, I have some present concerns that won’t take too long to address:
- On September 11th, I was asked no less than five times what date it was. Were they fucking serious? If Hollywood has been holding back an epic 9/11 masterpiece in mind of the timeframe, (“It’s just too soon to put Ben Affleck back in a careening cockpit. You know? Waaayyy too soon.”) their timely respect is unnoticed. Why, exactly, are people forgetting something as catestrophic as 9/11? I don’t really want to know, but it’s pissing me off.
- I thought that Family Guy’s premier would be much funnier. I laughed audibly only three times. I blame it on Stewie Vadar’s limited screen-time. However, this last episode in which STEWIE ACTUALLY KILLS LOIS was so amazing that I don’t mind anymore. What a twist! And how lame am I that I’m actually very excited about this?
- Speaking of LOL, I really hate that acronym. ILA (I laughed audibly) doesn’t sound so trite, but really, does it take that much effort to type “You made me laugh out loud!”?
With that off my chest, let me introduce the next two stories. One is fact. The other is fiction. Which is which? You tell me later.
Madison Avenue is a Royal Cemetery
When I realized that I was not invited to the fourth of July, I went instead, to chat with a bartender, who in turn made me a wonderful Jolly Rancher. The drink was cold and it was beginning to rain. I didn’t have an umbrella, and chances being that the rain would get worse, I left most of my drink, jolly and pink, on it’s glowing counter top and cast out into the storm.
I was heading for Madison Ave. It was not raining enough yet to buy an umbrella, or even cause concern about getting electrocuted while talking on a cell phone. So when my phone rang, I stopped and talked. About everything. How ironic that he found his independence on the 4th of July, and there was a lot to talk about. Where was I going next?
Well, the day before Apple released their iphone and there was something of a block party on 60th and 5th at the Apple store.
I didn’t know anyone there. And as fascinating at the iphone was, I felt bored after about five minutes. I headed back to Madison Ave… it’s very beautiful at dusk when all the shop windows look like nightlights.
I still didn’t have an umbrella, but an unfortunate aspect of my construction involves an inexplicable thirst for water in every form it comes by. Being raised in the desert was nothing short of torture… now: I didn’t want to go inside. The stores were lonely and lovely.
My presence was seamless.
I actually started singing.
The sun is still rising
And the lights will go out
I rush for the exit
(You can’t stop in this town.)
I will work it harder,
Everyday I feel smarter.
The traffic moves faster
While they carve me in plaster
So return white and lonely
To my throne in the sky.
“What do I have to do?”
But I cannot forget you.
I cannot forget you.
I return to my window
The sun sets again
I sit in the shadows
I sing and drink gin
When I dream I’m uneasy
I fall out of sleep
I remember how you smell:
The places we would meet.
So my phone rings
-I sing louder, I sing louder
“When are you calling?”
Teacher, your face is so haunting
Your face is so haunting.
At 79th St., I was sopping wet, grateful for my waterproof mascara… for it could have been worse. It must have been midnight, and the bus would take awhile. I was in the middle of the road, torn, gazing at the abandoned bus stop. My figure must have been a gothic one.
“Lady! Lady!” From what only could be a taxi cab…
I turned and walked to his window.
“You’re completely drenched. Get inside,” as kindly as his rough voice would allow him.
“I haven’t any money,” I said… he should know. Surely it isn’t terribly uncommon to see derelicts in designer in this neck of the woods.
“Get in,” he insisted. “I can’t leave you here. Where do you live?” as I stepped in.
“79th and Amsterdam.” As I was riding home, I tried not to think about what this day would have been if he were here. He being nothing but a voice on my phone eons away. Because we would have driven to the beach with a bottle of wine and made our own fireworks. Instead I watched the water drip off my body and form a pool in the black leather seat.
I Found My Inspiration In A Leaf
“Have you ever seen Pulp Fiction?” Adam asked. “Because you look like that girl in it… Charlize Theron. You look like her. With your hair. What do you say we rent a movie huh? Like Pulp Fiction?”
“Do you have an umbrella?”
“Nah. Blockbuster is two blocks away. I’ll just hold my jacket over my head like this,” and he swung his arms up to stretch his jacket over his ears.
“It’s a bird! It’s a plane!”
We ran to blockbuster and back like deranged bats.
Give or take fifteen minutes, we were fairly high, because Adam had it on good authority that Pulp Fiction, like Alice in Wonderland or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, is most appreciated with marijuana. The gale outside was pounding my windowpane. Titan the Sea King was knocking. Blood was on the screen, but the thunder was outside and shaking my mind to pieces. Adam found some headphones and watched Pulp Fiction like a mute, but my eyes weren’t on the movie at all.
I leaned against the sill and slid the window open wide. I could see how high I was: it felt like miles and miles.
I dare you to knock me!
I dare you to time my fall
Until the end of time my voice will climb
And find and punish you all.
Gene Kelly Deserves Some Screen Time. Thanks For Reading.
My first roof-top party in New York City was approximately fifteen minutes long. I didn’t know anyone there, except for the friend that I came with, and spent most of those fifteen minutes on the phone anyway. It was impromptu. My friend and I were actually going to meet to discuss our one-night stand (also impromptu), but this city has an uncanny knack for spontaneity and so I found myself on the roof of a renovated complex in the East Village.
Really, I didn’t care either way. Here was a party: might as well. Unfortunately, as far as parties go, it was uncharacteristically dull and reminiscent of high school gatherings on the back porch of the rich kid’s house. When my friend suggested we leave, I didn’t mind at all. No one knows how to throw a party anymore. The art of entertainment and conversation seems to be foreign to America.
I bring up the party because Adam was there. I’d thought I’d met him before. In fact; yes. I had. Two months ago when I was drinking coffee in Java City, he walked over and dumped a bunch of condoms on the table. This night, meeting him the second time, we recalled the moment with fondness. He asked for my number and I gave it to him.
Actually, if a fellow is nice enough, I won’t withhold my number, though I may not remember him when he calls the next day.
Adam, thanks to the condom scenario, was an unforgettable fellow. When he called me on Friday night, I knew who it was immediately. I also thought it was ironic that the movie he was asking me to was “Knocked Up” since condoms seemed to be the basis of our relationship. The movie was for ten o’clock and I was moving.
Moving. As in: packing all my belongings and hauling them to another apartment. As in: Adam’s call was untimely because I was trying to move. My room was a disaster area, with bottles of nail polish and shoes waiting to be packed. I told him, “Thanks, but I’m moving tonight. Have fun at the movie.”
Five minutes later he was at my side helping me pack. I almost burst out laughing because all I could think about was my mother recalling her first date with my father. He too had called about seeing a movie but ended up at her house pasting green stamps (which, as far as I could tell, were coupons that required sorting and gluing. Their extinction is understandable.) While packing isn’t nearly as mundane as pasting green stamps, it is certainly a chore, and chores should never be a first date.
Adam was surveying my bed with me as I haphazardly threw things in a trunk sitting on my pillow.
Did I mention I was stressing out? I was stressing out. My packing was less than efficient. After watching me for a moment, Adam said, “You know, I’m an expert packer. I know how to make things fit in a small space.” With that, he began sorting my trunk with the finesse of someone who has moved too frequently. I let him reign and handed him my stuffed bear.
“Who’s this?” Adam asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t name him,” I said.
“So just ‘Bear?’”
“Just ‘Bear.’”
He probably thought I was heartless and uninhibited. I mean, who leaves stuffed animals unnamed? What kind of unattached woman neglects to identify a bear as cute as mine?
“I feel like I’m invading your personal space. I mean… I’ve seen your bear.”
“You’re not invading I assured him. Because really, I am not a private person at all. I can be too honest with people I hardly know. Someone walked in on me in a unisex bathroom on 58th and 1st the other day while I was looking at my breasts in the mirror, and I hardly felt over-exposed. In fact, if he had stayed I could have turned around and asked him if thought one was bigger than the other and ended my debate. He read the situation differently and fled before his crotch could tent. Poor man; his face was very, very red. Though, back to his crotch, I imagine he was fighting an erection the rest of the evening. I do have very nice breasts.
Adam latched the truck close. He watched me while I was washing the dishes and we must have talked about something or other. When conversation dragged I began singing, because I have an instinctive impulse to start singing whenever water is running.
I didn’t have enough luggage to justify spending moving on a moving company, or even a truck, so I flagged a cab. The first cabbie was a dick and refused to carry my plethora of belongings and sped off before I could tell him exactly how big of a dick he was. Adam flagged the second cab and sweet-talked (read: bribed) him into accommodating yours truly.
While riding through Central Park, I learned two things: 1) Adam was raised in the West Village and 2) he is a freelance handyman. If he learned anything about me, it was equally unremarkable.
When the cabbie was unloading my luggage, I tried to pay him.
“It’s already been done,” he said. “I’m sorry, but he handed this to me first,” he pointed to a twenty poking from his shirt pocket. Adam was piling my things onto a luggage cart.
“You wonderful bastard,” I said.
“Do you know how you can repay me?”
“How can I repay you?”
“If you let me take you to dinner.”
I later learned that he didn’t have enough money to take a cab back home, so he hitched through Central Park at midnight and met a lot of interesting people.
Wednesday. 7:00. Dinner with my new friend Adam.
I wrote a play. Really. It’s called “Listen to the Band” and took me two years to write. Someone pointed out to me several months after completion that “Listen to the Band” is actually a song by The Monkees. I couldn’t change the title because it was just too perfect, but I did buy The Monkees greatest hits and converted “Listen to the Band” to my ringtone.
More than anything I wanted to meet someone who could produce my play. I arrived at college expectant and hopeful that my masterpiece would find its way to the hands of a knowledgeable and well-connected professor, a student director and an actor going places.
I met the actor where I frequently meet soul mates: while I was buying coffee. He was promoting his theatre group. The group was concentrated on African American theatre, and as my play depends on jazz, I latched on his company like a sprig of Ivy on Yale.
Vlad is four years my senior and a Haitian actor with more dedication to his calling than Jesus. I made my mark as a dramaturge, than as a playwright among his contemporaries as well as a wonderful dancer and lover of Mojitos. I wondered frequently why he picked me out. Understand that I am as white as they come. To give you an idea of my whiteness, CoverGirl doesn’t make a foundation light enough. (True! Being pale can be expensive. The same amount some spend on tanning passes I spend on customized make-up and sunscreen.)
And while we’re describing my physic, I may as well admit that I know perfectly well why Vlad noticed me. My ass is rather round for someone so petite everywhere else. I can not articulate how much I despise my J.Lo butt. But if New York City has taught me anything, black men really love a girl with a round ass. Lord knows I’ve tried everything short of anorexia to decrease its shape, but all I’ve done is make the rest of me smaller. I dare say my butt to waist ratio is still exactly the same.
So Vlad noticed me. Attacked me rather, while I was adding Splenda to my poison.
“Do you want to write for the theatre?” He said.
Do I! So the black community welcomed me with open arms, and thanks to my ass, felt I was their equal on the dance floors for the most part. These hips do not lie.
So now you have met two actors, both of which I’ll admit to sleeping with, but I haven’t fallen in love. It’s difficult for me to fall in love with an actor. I’m wary that their affections might be an… act. Actually, I haven’t fallen in love with anyone in New York City. I didn’t come for love after all. Nor has anyone else I gather. I’ve dated a fair few, but I gently break things off before anything emotional starts to grow so that we can remain good friends at least. To conclude Adam’s part of things, we spent a pleasant evening with Italian wine and his sheets and he taught me billiards the week after. Halting the romance was as simple as a phone call. He was on rebound anyway.
This morning I received a phone call from dear Brandin, the best friend of my former love back in my desert home. He’s close to being my best friend when you come to it, us both being in the city and loving the same man. Platonically. I was considering wasting my morning sleeping. I was doing such when my cell phone began singing.
“Guess where I am?” Brandin said.
“Where?”
“Your room.”
I was in my room. I was pretty sure he wasn’t.
“What? No you’re not.” Than I remembered. My old room. My desert home room. The room that is the size of the average studio apartment in the East Village. With my old bears and pictures. I tried to remember what I’d left. I had a sneaking suspicion that my room wasn’t representing me very well. He was in hometown teaching a dance workshop that I desperately wanted to be a part of.
“I like your bed,” he said. “I think you have better dreams when the bed is diagonal.”
“Have you seen Anthony?”
“I’m going to have breakfast with him and Bob in just a moment. But I wanted to call and see how you were.”
“I’ve been meaning to call Anthony. To see if he’s called Kelly. He’s in love with her you know.”
“I don’t know Janet,” he said.
“I don’t know either. That’s just what he said,” (meaning Anthony.) “But he also said that he couldn’t picture himself growing old with a guy. I don’t know. I mean, that’s his own quagmire…”
I said “quagmire.”
“Really, I think that sexual preference is so terribly socially constructed. I think everyone is born bi and than gets confused.”
We talked sociology for awhile. We talked about dancing and writing and New York in the summer.
He wished I was there.
I wished I was there.
Than he wished he was here.
The city, I said, is lonely enough without best friends. He knows I’m right. He also knows, I suppose, that I’ve yet to love anyone besides Anthony.
“Next year,” he said.
“Yes.” I said. “Next year.”
