Summer and the City

  I jump out of bed and run around the apartment just for the hell of it, throwing on my clothes while typing the following three sentences: “I will succeed. I must succeed. Damn everyone,” and then I grab my Carrie bag and practically slide down all five flights to the lobby.

  I beetle up Fourteenth Street, expertly weaving through the crowd, picturing my feet flying a few inches off the ground. I turn right on Broadway and hurl myself into the Strand.

  The Strand is a legendary secondhand bookstore where you can find any book for cheap. It’s musty and all the salespeople have a very big attitude, like they’re the keepers of the flame of high literature. Which wouldn’t matter, except the salespeople cannot be avoided. If you’re looking for a specific book, you can’t find it without help.

  I buttonhole a weedy fellow wearing a sweater with elbow patches.

  “Do you have Death of a Salesman?”

  “I should hope so,” he says, crossing his arms.

  “And The Importance of Being Earnest? And maybe The Little Foxes? The Women? Our Town?”

  “Slow down. Do I look like a shoe salesman?”

  “No,” I murmur, as I follow him into the stacks.

  After fifteen minutes of searching, he finally finds The Women. At the end of the stacks I spot Ryan from class. He’s got his nose in Swann’s Way, scratching his head and jiggling his foot as if overcome by the text.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey.” He closes the book. “What are you doing here?”

  “Going to write a play.” I indicate my small pile of books. “Thought I should read a few first.”

  He laughs. “Good idea. The best way to avoid writing is by reading. Then you can at least pretend you’re working.”

  I like Ryan. He seems okay as a person, unlike his best friend, Capote Duncan.

  I pay for my books, and when I turn around, Ryan is still there. He has the air of someone who doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. “Want to get a coffee?” he asks.

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve got a couple of hours to kill before I have to meet my fiancée,” he says.

  “You’re engaged?” Ryan can’t be more than twenty-one or two. He seems too young to get married.

  “My fiancée’s a model.” He scratches his cheek, as if he’s both proud and ashamed of her profession. “I always find if a woman really, really, really wants you to do something, you should do it. It’s easier in the long run.”

  “So you don’t want to marry her?”

  He smiles awkwardly. “If I sleep with a woman ten times, I think I should marry her. I can’t help myself. If she weren’t so busy, we’d already be married by now.”

  We walk down Broadway and go into a hamburger joint. “I wish I could find a guy like that,” I say jokingly. “A guy who does everything I want.”

  “Can’t you?” He peers at me in confusion.

  “I don’t think I’m the man-wrangler type.”

  “I’m surprised.” He absentmindedly picks up his fork and tests the prongs on his thumb. “You’re pretty hot.”

  I grin. Coming from another guy, I’d take this as a pickup line. But Ryan doesn’t seem to have an agenda. I suspect he’s one of those guys who says exactly what he’s thinking and is then stupefied by the consequences.

  We order coffee. “How’d you meet her? Your model fiancée?”

  He jiggles his leg. “Capote introduced us.”

  “What is with that guy?” I ask.

  “Don’t tell me you’re interested too.”

  I give him a dirty look. “Are you kidding? I can’t stand him. He’s supposedly got all these women after him—”

  “I know.” Ryan nods in appreciative agreement. “I mean, the guy’s not even that good-looking.”

  “He’s like the guy every girl has a crush on in sixth grade. And no one can figure out why.”

  Ryan laughs. “I always thought I was that guy.”

  “Were you?”

  “Kind of, yeah.”

  I can see it. Ryan at twelve—masses of dark hair, bright blue eyes—a real teen heartthrob. “No wonder you’re engaged to a model.”

  “She wasn’t a model when we met, though. She was studying to be a veterinary assistant.”

  I take a sip of my coffee. “That’s like the default profession for girls who don’t know what they want to do. But they ‘love’ animals.”

  “Harsh but true.”

  “How’d she become a model?”

  “Discovered,” Ryan says. “She came to visit me in New York and a guy came up to her in Bergdorf’s and gave her his card.”

  “And she couldn’t resist.”

  “Don’t all women want to be models?” he asks.

  “No. But all men want to date them.”

  He chuckles. “You should come to this party tonight. It’s a fashion show for some downtown designer. Becky’s modeling in it. And Capote’s coming.”

  “Capote?” I scoff. “How can I resist?” But I write down the address on a napkin, anyway.

  After Ryan, I pop by Viktor Greene’s office to tell him about my exciting new plan to write a play. If I’m really jazzed about it, he’ll have to say yes.

  Viktor’s door is wide open as if he’s expecting someone, so I walk right in. He grunts, startled, and pets his mustache.

  He doesn’t offer me a seat, so I stand in front of his desk. “I’ve figured out what my project should be.”

  “Yes?” he asks cautiously, his eyes going past me to the hallway.

  “I’m going to write a play!”

  “That’s fine.”

  “You don’t mind? It’s not a short story or a poem—”

  “As long as it’s about family,” he says quickly.

  “It will be.” I nod. “I’m thinking it should be about this couple. They’ve been married for a few years and they hate each other—”

  Viktor stares at me blankly. It appears he has nothing more to say. I stand awkwardly for a moment then add, “I’ll get started right away.”

  “Good idea.” It’s now patently clear he wants me out of there. I give him a little wave as I exit.

  I run right into L’il. “Carrie!” She flushes.

  “I’m going to write a play,” I inform her excitedly. “Viktor says it’s okay.”

  “That’s perfect for you. I can’t wait to read it.”

  “I’ve got to write it first.”

  She steps to the side, trying to get around me.

  “What are you doing tonight?” I ask quickly. “Want to have dinner with me and my friend Miranda?”

  “I’d love to, but—”

  Viktor Greene comes out of his office. L’il glances up at him. “You sure?” I ask, pressing her. “Miranda’s really interesting. And we’re going to go to one of those cheap Indian places on Sixth Street. Miranda says she knows the best ones—”

  L’il blinks as she focuses her attention back on me. “All right. I guess I could—”

  “Meet me on Fourteenth and Broadway at eight-thirty. And afterward, we can go to this party,” I say over my shoulder.

  I leave L’il and Viktor standing there, staring at me like I’m a mugger who has suddenly decided to spare them.

  Chapter Twelve

  I write three pages of my play. It’s all about Peggy and her lover—the guy who took those naughty photos—whom I’ve named Moorehouse. Peggy and Moorehouse are having an argument about toilet paper. I think it’s pretty funny and pretty real—I mean, what couple doesn’t argue about toilet paper—and I actually feel satisfied with my work.

  At eight o’clock, I pick up Miranda at her house. Miranda’s lucky—she has an old aunt who lives in a small, run-down townhouse, consisting of four floors and a basement, where Miranda lives. The basement has its own entrance and two windows just below the sidewalk. It would be perfect but for the fact that it’s damp and perpetually dark.

  I ring the bell, thinking about how I love the way I can walk to my friend
s’ apartments and how my life has this frenetic, unstructured pace where I never know exactly what’s going to happen. Miranda opens the door, her hair still wet from the shower. “I’m not ready.”

  “That’s okay.” I stroll past her and plop onto an ancient sofa covered in worn damask. Miranda’s aunt used to be rich, about thirty years ago. Then her husband took off with another woman and left her flat broke, except for the house. The aunt worked as a waitress and put herself through school and now she’s a professor of Women’s Studies at NYU. The apartment is filled with books like Woman, Culture, and Society and Women: A Feminist Perspective. I always think the best part about Miranda’s apartment is the books. The only books Samantha has are astrology, self-help, and The Kama Sutra. Other than those, she mostly reads magazines.

  Miranda goes into her room to change. I light a cigarette and idly survey the bookshelves, picking out a book by Andrea Dworkin. It falls open and I read the following: “just some wet, ratty, bedraggled thing, semen caked on you, his piss running down your legs . . .”

  “What’s that?” Miranda asks, peering over my shoulder. “Oh. I love that book.”

  “Really? I just read this part about semen caked on you—”

  “And what about the part when it oozes out and runs down your leg?”

  “Says here, it’s pee.”

  “Semen, pee, what’s the difference?” Miranda shrugs. “It’s all gross.” She slings a brown saddlebag over her shoulder. “Did you see that guy after all?”

  “‘That guy’ happens to have a name. Bernard. And yes, I did see him. I’m pretty crazy about him. We went furniture shopping.”

  “So he’s already turned you into his slave.”

  “We’re having fun,” I say pointedly.

  “Has he tried to get you into bed?”

  “No,” I say, somewhat defensively. “I need to go on the pill, first. And I’ve decided I’m not going to sleep with him until my eighteenth birthday.”

  “I’ll be sure to mark it on my calendar. ‘Carrie’s birthday and lose-her-virginity day.’”

  “Maybe you’d like to be there. For moral support.”

  “Does Bernie have any idea you’re planning to use him as a stud service?”

  “I believe the word ‘stud’ only applies if you’re planning on reproducing. Which I’m not.”

  “In that case, ‘dud’ might be more appropriate.”

  “Bernard is no dud,” I say threateningly. “He’s a famous playwright—”

  “Yada yada yada.”

  “And I’m sure his ‘sword’ is mightier than his word.”

  “You’d better hope so,” Miranda says. She raises her index finger and slowly lowers it into a crook as we burst out laughing.

  “I just love these prices,” L’il says, scanning the menu.

  “I know.” Miranda nods, pleased. “You can get a whole meal for three dollars.”

  “And a whole beer for fifty cents,” I add.

  We’re seated at a table in the Indian restaurant Miranda kept telling us about, although it wasn’t so easy to find. We walked up and down the block three times past nearly identical restaurants until Miranda insisted this was the place, recognizable by the three peacock feathers in a vase in the window. The tablecloths are red-and-white-checkered plastic; the knives and forks tinny. The air is musty and sweet.

  “This reminds me of home,” L’il says.

  “You live in India?” Miranda asks, astonished.

  “No, silly. North Carolina.” She gestures around the restaurant. “This is exactly like one of those barbecue places tucked off the freeway.”

  “Freeway?” Miranda queries.

  “Highway,” I translate.

  I hope the whole dinner isn’t like this. Miranda and L’il are both intense in their own way, so I assumed they’d like each other. And I need them to get along. I miss having a group of friends. Sometimes it feels like every part of my life is so different, I’m constantly visiting another planet.

  “You’re a poet?” Miranda asks L’il.

  “Indeed,” she replies. “What about you?”

  I jump in. “Miranda’s majoring in Women’s Studies.”

  L’il smiles. “No offense, but what can you do with that?”

  “Anything.” Miranda glares. She’s probably wondering what you can do with a poetry degree.

  “Miranda is doing very important work. Protesting against pornography. And she volunteers at a women’s shelter,” I say.

  “You’re a feminist.” L’il nods.

  “I wouldn’t consider being anything else.”

  “I’m a feminist,” I volunteer. “I think every woman should be a feminist—”

  “But it means you hate men.” L’il takes a sip of her beer, and stares straight across the table at Miranda.

  “What if I do?” Miranda says.

  This is not going well. “I don’t hate all men. Just some men,” I say, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “Especially men whom I like and they don’t like me back.”

  L’il gives me a sharp look, meaning she’s determined to lock horns with Miranda. “If you hate men, how can you ever marry? Have babies?”

  “I guess if you truly believe a woman’s only purpose in life is to marry and have children—” Miranda breaks off and gives L’il a superior smile.

  “I never said that,” L’il replies calmly. “Just because you’re married and have children doesn’t mean it’s the only point to your life. You can do all kinds of things and have children.”

  “Good answer,” I say.

  “I happen to think it’s wrong to bring a child into this patriarchal society,” Miranda replies swiftly. And just as the conversation is about to go completely haywire, our samosas arrive.

  I quickly grab one of the pastries, dip it into a red sauce, and pop it into my mouth. “Fantastic,” I exclaim, as my eyes begin to water and my tongue burns. I frantically wave my hand in front of my face, reaching for a glass of water, as Miranda and L’il laugh. “Why didn’t you tell me that sauce was hot?”

  “Why didn’t you ask?” Miranda giggles. “You dove right in. I figured you knew what you were doing.”

  “I do!”

  “Does that include sex?” Miranda asks wickedly.

  “What is it with everyone and sex?”

  “It’s very exciting,” L’il says.

  “Ha,” I say. “She hates it.” I point to Miranda.

  “Only the ‘intercourse’ part.” Miranda makes quotation marks with her fingers. “Why do they call it intercourse anyway? It makes it sound like it’s some kind of conversation. Which it isn’t. It’s penetration, pure and simple. There’s no give-and-take involved.”

  Our curries arrive. One is white and creamy. The other two are brown and red, and look dangerous. I take a scoop of the white curry. L’il takes some of the brown and pushes it toward Miranda. “If you know how to do it properly, supposedly it is like a conversation,” she says.

  “How?” Miranda asks, thoroughly unconvinced.

  “The penis and vagina communicate.”

  “No way,” I say.

  “My mother told me,” L’il says. “It’s an act of love.”

  “It’s an act of war,” Miranda objects, getting heated. “The penis is saying, ‘Let me in,’ and the vagina is saying, ‘Get the hell away from me, creep.’”

  “Or maybe the vagina is saying, ‘Hurry up,’” I add.

  L’il dabs at her mouth, and smiles. “That’s the problem. If you think it’s going to be terrible, it will be.”

  “Why?” I dip my fork into the red curry to test it for hotness.

  “Tension. If you tense up, it makes it more difficult. And painful. That’s why the woman should always have an orgasm first,” L’il says nonchalantly.

  Miranda finishes her beer and immediately orders another. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. How can you tell if you’ve even had this supposed orgasm?”

  L’il laughs.


  “Yeah.” I gulp. “How?”

  L’il slides back in her chair and puts on a teacherly face. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m not,” I say, looking at Miranda. Her face is closed, as if she doesn’t want to hear this.

  “You have to know your own body,” L’il says cryptically.

  “Meaning?”

  “Masturbation.”

  “Eeeeewwww.” Miranda puts her hands over ears.

  “Masturbation is not a dirty word,” L’il scolds. “It’s part of a healthy sexuality.”

  “And I suppose your mother told you this, too?” Miranda demands.

  L’il shrugs. “My mother’s a nurse. She doesn’t believe in mincing words when it comes to health. She says healthy sex is simply a part of a healthy life.”

  “Well.” I’m impressed.

  “And she did all that consciousness-raising stuff,” L’il continues. “In the early seventies. When the women sit around in a circle with mirrors—”

  “Aha.” This, I suppose, explains everything.

  “She’s a lesbian now,” L’il says casually.

  Miranda’s mouth opens as if she’s about to speak, but suddenly thinks better of it. For once, she has nothing to say.

  After dinner, L’il begs off the party, claiming a headache. Miranda doesn’t want to go either, but I point out if she goes home, she’ll look like she’s sulking.

  The party is on Broadway and Seventeenth Street in a building that was once a bank. A security guard tells us to take the elevator to the fourth floor. I figure this must be a big party if the guard is letting people in so easily.

  The elevator opens into a white space with crazy art on the walls. As we’re taking it in, a small, rotund man with hair the color of butter bustles over, beaming.

  “I’m Bobby,” he says, extending his hand to me.

  “Carrie Bradshaw. And Miranda Hobbes.” Miranda gives Bobby a stiff smile while Bobby squints, summing us up.

  “Carrie Bradshaw,” he says, like he’s delighted to meet me. “And what do you do?”

  “Why is that always the first question out of everyone’s mouth?” Miranda mutters.

  I glance at her so she knows I agree, and say boldly, “I’m a playwright.”