You slip into a bar on Forty-fourth, a nice anonymous Irish place where no one has anything on his mind except drinking and sports. On a big video screen at the far end of the long wooden bar is some kind of sporting event. You take a stool and order a beer, then turn your attention to the screen. Basketball. You didn’t realize basketball was in season this time of year, but you like the soothing back-and-forth movement of the ball. The guy sitting next to you swivels and says, “Those fucking bums don’t know how to handle the full court press.”
You nod and fill your mouth with beer. He seems to expect a response, so you ask him what period it is.
He looks you up and down, as if you were carrying a volume of poetry or wearing funny shoes. “Third quarter” he answers. Then he turns away.
You keep meaning to cultivate an expertise in spectator sport. More and more you realize that sports trivia is crucial to male camaraderie. You keenly feel your ignorance. You are locked out of the largest fraternity in the country. You’d like to be the kind of guy who can walk into a bar or an eatery and break the ice with a Runyonism about the stupidity of a certain mid-season trade. Have something to hash out with truck drivers and stockbrokers alike. In high school, you went in for lone-wolf sports-tennis and skiing. You’re not really sure what a zone defense is. You don’t understand the sports metaphors in the political columns. Men don’t trust a man who missed the Super Bowl. You would like to devote a year to watching every athletic event on ABC and reading all fifty-two issues of Sports Illustrated. In the meantime your strategy is to view one playoff game in each sport so as to manage remarks like, “How about that slap shot by LaFleur in the third period against Boston?” Third quarter?
It’s five-twenty and raining when you leave the bar. You walk down to the Times Square subway station. You pass signs for GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS, and one that says YOUNG BOYS. Then, in a stationery store, DON’T FORGET MOTHER’S day. The rain starts coming down harder. You wonder if you own an umbrella. You’ve left so many in taxis. Usually, by the time the first raindrop hits the street, there are men on every corner selling umbrellas. Where do they come from, you have often wondered, and where do they go when it’s not raining? You imagine these umbrella peddlers huddled around powerful radios waiting for the very latest from the National Weather Service, or maybe sleeping in dingy hotel rooms with their arms hanging out the windows, ready to wake at the first touch of precipitation. Maybe they have a deal with the taxi companies, you think, to pick up all the left-behind umbrellas for next to nothing. The city’s economy is made up of strange, subterranean circuits that are as mysterious to you as the grids of wire and pipe under the streets. At the moment, though, you see no umbrella vendors whatsoever.
You wait fifteen minutes on the downtown platform. Everywhere you look you see the Missing Person. An announcement is made that the express is out of service. The tunnel smells of wet clothing and urine. The voice comes over the speaker again to say that the local will be delayed twenty minutes because of a fire on the tracks. You push through the crowd and ascend to the street.
It is still raining. Getting a cab is a long shot. Knots of people on every corner wave their arms at the passing traffic. You walk down Seventh to the bus stop, where some twenty souls huddle in the shelter. A bus packed with grim faces goes by and doesn’t stop.
An old woman breaks from the shelter and chases her ride. “Stop! You stop here!” She whacks the rear of the bus with her umbrella.
Another bus pulls over and disgorges passengers. The sheltered mob clutch umbrellas, purses and briefcases, prepared to fight for seats; but once the bus unloads it’s nearly empty. The driver, a massive black’ man with sweat rings under his arms, says “Take it easy,” and his voice commands respect.
You sit down up front. The bus lurches into traffic. Below Fortieth Street the signs on the corners change from Seventh Avenue to Fashion Avenue as you enter the garment district. Amanda’s old stomping grounds. Above Forty-second they sell women without clothes and below they sell clothes with women.
At the Thirty-fourth Street stop there is a commotion at the door. “Zact change,” the bus driver says. A young man standing by the change box is trying to work his hand into the pockets of his skin-tight Calvin Kleins. Peach Lacoste shirt, a mustache that looks like a set of plucked eyebrows. Under one arm he clutches a small portfolio and a bulky Japanese paper umbrella. He rests the umbrella against the change box. “Step aside,” the bus driver says. “People getting wet out there.”
“I know all about wet, big guy.”
“I just bet you do, Queenie.”
Finally he gets his change together and deposits the coins one at a time, with flourishes, and then cocks his hip at the bus driver.
“Move to the rear, Queenie,” the bus driver says. “I know you know how to do that.”
The young man walks down the aisle with burlesque movements of the hips and wrist. The bus driver turns and watches him go. When he gets all the way back, the driver picks up the Japanese umbrella he left behind. The driver waits until it is quiet and then says, “Hey, Tinker Bell. You forgot your wand.”
Everyone watching titters and guffaws. The bus hasn’t moved.
Tinker Bell poses at the back of the bus, narrowing his eyes and scowling. Then he smiles. He walks back up the aisle, putting everything he’s got into it. He reaches the “front and picks up the umbrella. He raises it over his head and brings it down gently on the driver’s shoulder, as if he were bestowing knighthood. He does this three times, saying, in a cheery falsetto voice, ‘Turn to shit, turn to shit, turn to shit.”
At your apartment building you discover that you have no keys. They’re in the pocket of your jacket, which is back in the Department of Factual Verification. Much as you dislike your apartment, it has a bed in it. You want to sleep. You have attained that fine pitch of exhaustion which might make it possible. You’ve been thinking about that packet of instant cocoa in the kitchen, Family Feud on the TV. You were even thinking you might take some Dickens to bed with you. Run your mind over someone else’s pathetic misadventures for a change.
An image of yourself curled up on the sidewalk next to a heat vent with the other bums yields to the slightly less grim prospect of asking the super for the spare set of keys. The super, a huge Greek, has glared at you ever since you forgot to pay the customary tribute of cash or booze for Christmas. His wife is no less formidable, being the one who wears the mustache in the family.
Fortunately, the man who answers the door is one of the cousins, a young man whose lack of English and dubious visa status make him eager to oblige. You mime the problem and within minutes you are at your door with the spare set. An envelope with the logo of Allagash’s employer, an ad agency, is taped to the door. Inside, a note:
Coach:
Having this messengered to your digs after numerous calls to reputed place of employ. Don’t you keep office hours anymore? It’s tiresome, God knows, but one should try to keep up appearances and also be accessible in case of emergencies like present one. To be brief:
A long-anticipated tryst with the libidinous Inge-pin-up Queen manqué-is endangered by visit of cousin from Boston branch of family. I know what you’re thinking: A Boston branch of the Allagash clan? But every family has its dark secrets. Said cousin is doing academic gig at NYU and laying over at the Allagash pad. Must be entertained in grand manner. A well-bred young woman, something of an intellect, who would not be charmed by some junior account exec with toothpaste market surveys on the brain. This assignment calls for nothing less than a speaker of French, a reader of The New York Review of Books and that inexpressible guileless charm with which your name is synonymous. Don’t let me down, Coach, and everything I possess, including a portion of Bolivia’s finest, not to mention my undying gratitude and fealty, is yours. Have taken liberty of informing cousin, one Vicky Hollins, that you will be meeting her at the Lion’s Head at seven-thirty, to be joined by self and Inge at earliest possible convenience. D
escribed you as cross between young F. Scott Fitz-Hemingway and the later Wittgenstein, so dress accordingly.
Yrs. in Christ, T.A.
P.S. Should you get lucky with cousin or inflict rare social disease this office will deny all knowledge of your actions.
The presumption of Allagash appalls you. When you call his office to decline the invitation, he has already left. Well, it’s his cousin and his problem. The thought of the Allagash genes and the Boston climate is a frightening one. His brief description suggests a prig, a wearer of plaid tartan skirts, a former contender on the green New England hockey fields and a noncontender in the Looks Department. Born into the manner that Clara has been faking ever since she went to Vassar. You will unplug the phone and say you never got the letter.
You switch on the tube and throw yourself on the couch. Much fun on Family Feud. Ten grand rides on a question about garden tools; Richard Dawson flexes his eyebrows. But you keep glancing at the clock. By seven-twenty you are on your feet, pacing between the two rooms, kicking your laundry into the corners. If you know Tad, he won’t even make it to the Lion’s Head and the poor girl will be left to the slender mercies of all those aspiring actors and failed writers. A few friendly drinks with her wouldn’t kill you. You throw on a jacket and head out.
You arrive ten minutes late. It’s two deep along the bar and no sign of Allagash. No sign of anybody wearing a plaid tartan skirt and Allagash features.
In the middle of your beer you spot a woman standing alone beside the coat-rack, holding a drink and reading a paperback. She looks up from time to time and then returns to her reading. You watch her eyes as they move around the room. Her face is intelligent. The hair is somewhere between strawberry and gold, you can’t tell in this light. That she could be the Boston Allagash is too much to hope. Boots, jeans and a black silk shirt. Not a patch of madras or tartan on her.
The hell with Allagash and his race. You would like to speak to this woman, ask her if she’s eaten dinner. Perhaps she is the one who could make you forget your cares and woes, start eating breakfast, take up jogging. You edge in closer. The book in her hand is Spinoza’s Ethics. No flies on that. She looks up again and you catch her eye.
“We don’t get many Rationalists in here,” you say.
“I’m not surprised,” she says. “Too dark.” Her voice is like gravel spread with honey. She holds a smile just long enough to encourage you and then returns to her book. You wish you could remember something about Spinoza, besides the fact that he was excommunicated.
Allagash appears in the door. You consider hiding out in the Men’s Room, but he spots you and comes over. Tad shakes your hand. Then he plants a kiss on the philosopher’s cheek.
Introductions, brief confusion about whether everyone has met. Allagash tells you, with a deprecating roll of his eyes, that Vicky is studying Philosophy at Princeton. He introduces you as a literary cult celebrity whose name-has not yet reached the provinces.
“Hate to dash out again. But I said seven-thirty and Inge thought I said ten. So she’s still in media dress, as we say. Got to get crosstown and pick her up. But let’s by all means meet for dinner.” He consults his watch. “Let’s say nine-thirty. Better make it ten. Ten o’clock at Raoul’s. Don’t forget.” He slips a glass vial into your pocket while he’s kissing Vicky. Then he’s gone in a wake of camel’s hair.
Vicky seems confused by her cousin’s hospitality. “Did you catch all that?”
“More or less.” You know you will not see Tad for the rest of the night.
“He said seven-thirty and his date thought he said ten?”
“It’s a common mistake.”
“Well,” she says, putting her book in her purse. This could have been a very awkward situation, but she’s taking it in stride. “What now?”
Allagash has bribed you with a piece of the rock. You could invite her back to your place to share the booty, but somehow you think not. Although you suppose she would appreciate it, you’d like to see if it’s possible to get through an evening without chemicals for a change. Hear yourself and another person talk without Speedy Gonzales South American accents.
You ask her if she wants to stay for another drink, and she asks what you want to do. Eventually you ascend the stairs to the street. You think of Plato’s pilgrims climbing out of the cave, from the shadow world of appearances toward things as they really are, and you wonder if it is possible to change in this life. Being with a philosopher makes you think.
You linger at the edge of Sheridan Square to watch an acrobat ride a unicycle across a tightrope strung between the fences. A teenager in the crowd turns to Vicky and says, “He did that between the towers of the World Trade Center.”
“Can you imagine,” a woman asks.
“Sounds like my job,” you say.
When the acrobat passes the hat you throw in a buck. You walk west, without any firm destination in mind. Vicky is telling you about her work. She’s in her third year of graduate school, came in for an NYU conference at which she will read a rebuttal to an article entitled: “Why There Are No People.”
The evening is cool. You find yourself walking the Village, pointing out landmarks and favorite townhouses. Only yesterday you would have considered such a stroll too New Jersey for words, but tonight you remember how much you used to like this part of the city. The whole neighborhood smells of Italian food. The streets have friendly names and cut weird angles into the rectilinear map of the city. The buildings are humble in scale and don’t try to intimidate you. Gay giants stride past on hypertrophied thighs, swathed in leather and chains, and they do intimidate you.
Vicky stops in front of an antique shop window on Bleecker and points to a wooden carousel horse, painted red and white, mounted on a pedestal. “I’d like to have the kind of house someday where a carousel horse wouldn’t be out of place in the living room.”
“How about a jukebox?”
“Oh, definitely. There’s always room for a jukebox. And maybe a pinball machine. A really old one with Buck Rogers stuff.”
As you resume your walk she describes the house in which she grew up. A rambling Tudor affair on the shore in Marblehead, which started out early in the century as a summer house and, despite the formal dining room, never quite lost its wet-towel ambience. There were empty rooms to play in, and a closed alcove under the stairs which no one could enter without her permission. Pets galore. A gazebo where the four girls had tealess tea parties presided over by Vicky’s eldest sister. Their father kept chickens in the boathouse and spent years trying to bring a vegetable patch to life. Every morning he woke up at five and went for a swim. Mother stayed in bed till her daughters and the pets gathered in her room.
What she tells you is enhanced by the increasing animation of her gestures and facial expressions and becomes a vivid image of this childhood Arcadia. You notice for the first time that she has freckles. You didn’t know they still made them. You imagine her as a child carrying a bucket of sand down to the beach. You see yourself watching from the bluff, through a time warp, saying: Someday I will meet this girt. You want to watch over her through the interval, protect her from the cruelty of schoolchildren and the careless lust of young men. The irrevocable past tense of the narration suggests to you some intervening tragedy. You suspect a snake in the vegetable garden.
“Your parents?” you say.
“Divorced three years ago. Yours?”
“Happy marriage,” you say.
“You’re lucky.”
Lucky is not the word you would have chosen, except maybe out of a hat.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters,” she asks.
“Three brothers. The youngest are twins.”
“That’s nice. Symmetrical, I mean. I’ve got three sisters. Boys were very mysterious to us.”
“I know what you mean.”
“Listen. Do we have to meet Tad later?”
“Tad has no intention of meeting us. Or, rather, he has good intentions, b
ut he won’t be there.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No, it’s just that I know him. Tad is always on his way, but he seldom arrives.”
“What did he tell you about me,” she asks, after you have been seated in the courtyard of a cafe on Charles Street. She has a conspiratorial smile. She seems to think that your allegiance to Tad will crumble before this new intimacy. “Not much,” you say. “Come on.”
“He tried to build you up. I was expecting a field hockey player with monogrammed knee socks and thick glasses.” She does not press for the compliment. Just smiles and looks down at the menu.
You tell her what a good guy Tad is. You like his energy and his style-joie de vivre, je ne sais quoi, savoir-faire, sprezzatura. You are nearly sincere. Having a cousin like Vicky tips the scales in his favor. You are inclined to cut him some slack. Not necessarily the man for a heart-to-heart, but indispensable in a party situation. You tell her that Tad has been a good friend in time of need. If not exactly sensitive, then generous in his own careless way. “Are you two very close,” you ask.
“I think he’s an ass,” she says.
“Exactly.” Everything she says is right. She’s got you in the palm of her unclenched hand. You love the way she raises her water glass to her lips, the ease she has with her hands and mouth. You are afraid you are staring too intently into her eyes, even though this intimacy does not appear uninvited.
“What’s your job like?” she says. “I guess I should be pretty impressed.”
“Please don’t be. I don’t like it much. I don’t think they much like me.”
“I know people who would kill for a job like that.” You’d rather she wasn’t too impressed with a job you may not have the next time you see her. You wish that no one, including yourself, had ever been impressed. You wince to think of all the self-aggrandizement you have heaped on this subject. You describe for her the tedious procedure of factual verification, the long hours over dictionaries, phone books, encyclopedias, government pamphlets. You tell her how you were reprimanded for suggesting stylistic changes.