by Melvin Dixon
As soon as I entered the apartment I knew that Jesse had been there. Why hadn’t he answered the telephone when I called? His signs were everywhere: dishes washed and put away, sofa pillows fluffed and propped into place. Cleanliness all over again and here I was messing it up. Then I noticed scraps of paper with phone numbers on the kitchen counter top.
I had a salad for lunch and packed my leotards and dance tights for class. Jesse would be there and we’d dance, letting the movement of our separate bodies work out the tension between us. Maybe. If we didn’t dance together we’d at least have shared the same space. I’d have to work hard to make up for missing class the day before, but all I could think about during the stretching warm-ups, the triplets and leaps across the floor, the Graham contractions and Wideman extensions, was that Jesse wasn’t there filling space with his arms and legs and gyrating torso or watching me watch him. It wasn’t like him to miss class this close to audition date. During the ten-minute break before we worked in pairs for combinations across the floor, I asked among the other dancers. No one had seen him.
I caught the subway alone and climbed the stairs to my apartment, more tired than ever. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Jesse. And Phillip. If Jesse came back—he must come back—they could meet. Maybe tonight after the bars closed, Jesse and I could talk. Maybe after dinner and exercises. Maybe, maybe. We wouldn’t have to make love, just hold each other. I promised this time. The wallet papers on the counter top drew me away from the floor exercises and yoga. I flipped through the business cards, the coupons for reductions on food and dance tights, someone’s telephone number with instructions to call only after 7:00 p.m. Then a tongue of envelope with its glue dried and cracking: West Street, Pier 52.
Just then the phone rang. A white man’s voice. “Mr. Durand, please. Detective Stone here.”
“No,” I said in my best receptionist voice and holding the tongue of envelope with the pier address. “He isn’t in. May I take a message?”
“Do you know where he is? You know if I can reach him someplace?”
“No, I’m sorry, Detective. This is Ruella. May I help you? Is this about the Barthé case?” I fingered the tongue of envelope again, the dry glue flaking off on my fingers, and I wasn’t even biting my nails.
“Have him call me as soon as he gets in, please. We have a suspect. Someone found in the area. They say he was walking in circles. Lying on the ground nude. The neighbors called us right away.”
“Walking in circles?”
“Yes. Right on the street where they attacked him.”
“Jesse?”
“No, Barthé, Miss McPhee.”
“I’m sorry. I’m a little off today. I’ll tell Jesse to call you as soon as he gets in.”
“I hope so. Good-bye, Miss McPhee.”
“Ruella.”
“Yes, Ruella. Good-bye.”
He hung up and I read the envelope again. Then in careful folds, one atop the other, I put it by the phone and went to bed.
The next morning the regular secretary couldn’t come in, so I had to work all day. I missed dance class again but went there to ask again if Jesse had been there. No one had seen him. The company instructor was a little worried. By this time he knew we were friends and told me Jesse had to show more dedication if he wanted to join the company. “More discipline, too,” he said.
“And me? What about me?” I asked.
“I think I can use you both. We’ll see at the auditions.”
From the hallway of my building I heard my telephone ring and I bounded up the stairs. After fumbling with my keys I answered what was sure to be the last ring. Detective Stone again. His voice was decisive, but he was worried that Jesse still wasn’t there.
“You don’t think he’s gone off looking for those guys?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it, really.”
“Well, it’s no use. We got them. All of them.”
“Thank God, Officer.”
“You’ll have him call me right away?”
“Yes. Yes, right away.” I cased the receiver back onto the phone. Where was Jesse? Where had he been for two days? Ours was just a little fight, I thought. Not serious enough for him to be gone so long without word. And now good news: a chance to join the company and the arrest of the kids who attacked Metro. But where was Jesse? I remembered then the pile of wallet papers and the tongue of envelope with his handwriting folded neatly and placed— where? I looked frantically. The dresser drawer? The cabinet? The telephone? Yes. There. West Street, Pier 52. I tossed the slip of paper into my bag and headed for the IRT. The tights made my legs heavy under my jeans. I prayed I could find him.
Jesse
HER HANDS KEPT STICKING TO ME. Pulling on me. Holding fast. I needed to go somewhere, anywhere, quick. I rode the subway most of the night for as far as I could go on a single token. I’d give back to the trains the constant roaring in my chest. I wanted tunnels and lights and the grimy arms of travel. From 86th Street and Broadway, I took the downtown #1 IRT to Times Square, then the SS to Grand Central Station, walked through the underground passage to the Lexington Line and rode the #4 express to 14th Street, changed for the LL train over to the West Side at 8th Avenue, and there took the IND AA caroom-boom-clack, caroom-boom-clack, caroom to the E downtown at West 4th Street, switched to the uptown F train and changed at 42nd Street for the #7 Flushing, then uptown again on the Lexington #5 this time and changed at 59th Street for the BMT N train over again to the West Side, and the #1 local all the way to 125th Street, where the tracks come out of the ground and stand high above the streets and lights and noise.
I changed back to the downtown train and this time stood at the front-car window and watched the underground lights zoom in and flash by all through the dark and abandoned stations. I remembered Ruella’s voice and Metro’s voice clanging inside me. I sat alone in another car as the lights went off and on and off again. I changed trains at 34th Street, Penn Station, and stalked the platform, ready to jump onto the tracks, but there was garbage and water and the quick tarantella of rats. I got back on the train, a #2 smelling of electrical wires and rusty wheels. I could have traveled all night for just one fare going caroom-boom-clack, caroom nonstop until I was back at 14th Street. I left the subway and walked east. Three blocks later I found myself at the door to the Paradise Baths.
Metro had been there once and told me about it, all seven floors. Maybe being there would bring me closer to him, now that I was also a wanderer with no place to go. But would I have enough sense to stop myself from jumping from the roof of a thirty-story apartment building or kissing the blades of angry knives? I was running faster now, faster than a rat between subway tracks. Running away from Ruella who was a refuge no longer, not Rooms anymore, running from the Village to the Upper West Side and back again, running from downtown backroom bookstores where you can get a blowjob from other wanderers watching the same skin flick play out in private booths or private minds for twenty-five cents a reel. Or dingy and crowded baths where men wait in 4 x 8 cubicles, a single red bulb dimming on their supine bodies, ass up for fucking, balls up for sucking, and anonymous hands feeling you up or leading you into cellulite thighs. But this establishment, seven floors and only a subway ride away at the edge of Chelsea and the Village, is different. You have a choice of rooms.
Inside, there was a line at the reception desk and overhead signs offering discounts:
LOCKER FREE TO ANY FORMER P.O.W.
1/2 Price for Veterans
Anyone in Uniform—Military or Police—A Free Room!
I couldn’t afford a room so I took a locker. I signed the register “Jess B. Kind,” checked my valuables, and went in.
One flight up, people were changing into towels or from towels to clothes. I looked for my locker, number 98, and kept bumping into mirrors.
“What number you got?” said a voice from somewhere. Then behind me. “What number?”
“Ninety-eight.”
; “Well, can’t you see that the numbers go in order—”
“I’m sorry.”
“Ninety-eight’s over there. The sign says lockers 54 to 86, 87 to 112. See it to your right?”
I did, but once I found the locker I couldn’t get it open. The key stuck and I tried the latch. That too wouldn’t budge. Then the same voice came back, out of nowhere. “What’s the matter? Can’t get it open?”
He was a tall, heavy-set black man with large popeyes. His gray hair extended into sideburns and a thin gray beard. His belly protruded over the rolled edge of the towel stretched about his waist. “Here, let me try,” he said, taking my key out and pounding the area around the latch. “Sometimes these things stick,” he said. “You don’t act like you been here before.”
“No, I haven’t. A friend told me about this place.”
“So it’s your first time?”
“Yes.”
“Well, welcome to Paradise. All seven greasy floors of it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it’s shit. The same ol’ shit. I been coming here every Wednesday night for the discounts, you know, and it’s always the same ol’ shit.”
“Always?”
“Always. When you get undressed I’ll show you around.”
“You don’t mind?”
“I been on all the floors at least twice already since eight o’clock. I’ll show you around. My name’s Clement. You can call me Clementine. I’m real, darling.”
“I’m Jesse. You can call me Jesse.”
“You sure look good, Jesse. Bet you got good meat, too.”
“Now wait a minute, I just got here.”
“Just warming you up, that’s all. You can give it up any way you like. That’s all I’m trying to say. There are no rules here. And tonight there’s some real hungry numbers here, honey. I don’t know why your lover even let you out.”
“I don’t have a lover. Not anymore.”
“Lucky for me. I mean, how long were you together?”
“Two years.”
“Honey, you complaining? That’s a record in Manhattan. I’ve had me four lovers. One for every century I lived through, before I forgot how to count. I’m old as sin and just as fun. But I can still put them out when I want to. They don’t leave me. What about you?”
“He was killed.”
Clementine’s eyes widened, then looked away. “Sorry.”
“It’s O.K. I don’t think about it much anymore,” I lied. “I want to have a good time tonight.”
“Then let old Clementine show you around. I can speak Spanish, you know. French too, and some Italian. I’m a woman of many tongues.”
“I bet you are.”
“I’d sure like to put one in you. Get us real tongue-tied.”
“I’m not available.”
“You ain’t no snow queen, is you? I like all types myself.”
“Snow queen?”
“Into white boys, darling. A preference for the Nordic breed. You know, the Ice Age and northern Europe. I used to give concerts there. In Europe, when I was a singer. Now I just give voice lessons. You might say I’ve retired from the stage.”
“I’m a dancer.”
“And you ain’t been to Paradise before? You don’t know what you missing. Time stops here. And in the dark you can be anything you want to be. You’ll see.”
“Everyone wears just towels?”
“Yeah. But if I looked as good as you I wouldn’t wear nothing. Just skin.”
I tied the towel tight and eased off my undershorts with the towel still covering me. I kicked my shoes into the locker and locked it. Clementine moved past me, waddling up the stairs to level three where it seemed dark and quiet as I followed. The floor was cold to my bare feet. A single aisle separated rows of doors, some open, some closed. Men paraded by quietly, occasionally peeking into an open room. Clementine passed in front of me, and I peeked right and left at the tiny rooms where male bodies lay expectantly: ass or balls up. One man lay with a can of Crisco between his legs, his crooked finger inviting anyone inside. I followed Clementine. We eased along the aisle and up the narrow stairwell leading to the next level up. Level four. More rooms. This time I could hear people moan, throats gag and cough. Each room had a number like the lockers below, many more were closed, and the only sounds were those of mouths on flesh and the quiet shuffle of bare feet. Then we came upon a small hallway with even smaller lockers lining the walls. I asked Clementine about these.
“Oh, honey, you so tired. It’s for memory. And masturbation. Don’t you remember your first week in junior high when they assigned lockers and you fell in love with the boy who had the locker next to yours? Remember how you used to peek in to see if he had any photographs of a girlfriend, or just sniff at the opening where you thought he kept his gym shorts and jockstrap? It was your first sensual contact. Not even sexual, and you were stupid enough to call it love. We all had them in those days. Even me. Those little shit nothings who’d call us sissies and feel our asses when nobody else was looking. They didn’t give a fuck about how much we ached inside, or how we pined secretly for their friendship. I’m old as sin, girl.”
“Ache? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You probably don’t. But desire and hurt get mixed up here sometimes. Like that guy. See how he dangles up to the cold metal? See how he rubs himself so gently, like he’s touching skin?”
I watched the boy lean toward the locker, his nose at the grillwork. Forehead perspiring, beads of sweat reflecting in the dim light. Arms hugging metal.
“I don’t believe you,” I said.
“You don’t, huh?”
“Nobody knows about Sam Levine. He used to wait for me by the playground. We’d walk home together, so what? We’d wrestle in the park, so what? Then his Mom would call him to dinner.”
“And you wanted him to hold you longer, just a minute or two longer because you were about to drip and thought it was pee, huh? Like I told you, Jesse, I’m old as sin.”
“I’m going to the next floor.”
The next stairwell was narrower, the air thick with steam and heat. I started to sweat. From the sound of water splashing on tile, I figured it was the shower and sauna and steam room. The real things. Naked men stood in every patch of light and sound. Soapy water ran from down their backs and into a common drain.
“This is the Saturday shower at scout camp,” Clementine said in a voice more gruff than before. Another accent, maybe. “When you couldn’t wait to scrub up next to the new boy on the staff. Sure, you tried back rubs and skinny-dipping in the lake at night. But that wasn’t enough, was it? You wanted his whole wet body draped in light. You wanted to towel him off with your tongue. Here’s your chance. Only there’s twenty of them—all shapes, sizes, colors. You can take them soaped up, or wait till they’re rinsed and conditioned. I like the creme rinse myself. Albert VO5.”
“I’ve heard enough, Clem,” I said, trying to look away from him and catch someone’s eye. No one noticed me.
“Clementine, darling,” he said in a voice like a saleslady. “Would you now like to try the quick steam or the slow cooker of the sauna? The dry heat burns just as hot. Step in. Step in. Or, you can imagine the steam is the low fog over Lake Deerfield and you rub your canoe up against any shore and hope it takes you in. Like that one, or him, or him. Reach out, honey. Touch ground. Get down and dirty like you want to be under the cover of night or fog or any other dream you have. It’s all here.”
And I did reach out, blindly. Out of the mist, a man appeared almost magically. Sweat from his hairy chest dripped onto mine. He bent down to kiss me. I saw that he had no teeth and that his body was folds of fat. I left the steam room without looking back at him or waiting for Clementine. I’d find my own fog, I thought, what the hell. I closed the door behind me. Then I felt Clementine’s hand on my shoulder. His voice was different this time too.
“Were you looking for me?” he said. “I’m not
lost. Just overcome a bit by the heat and the heavies inside. I need air, too. Especially at my age. You don’t get much air here, though. Let’s go up another level.”
We climbed further, Clementine and I. We reached the next flight of stairs and there I saw the movement of thick, square thighs, calves, a towel tight on a firm, mushrooming torso. Hair wavy and brown, pale skin glistening in the half-dark. He was climbing ahead of me. I followed.
“Metro,” I said, pulling at Clementine’s towel. “That guy looks like Metro.”
“Metro? This ain’t no train,” he said. “We going uptown not down.”
“His name was Metro.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“Like Clementine,” I said. “Made up.”
“Like Jesse, you mean,” he said, smiling a smile I didn’t want to see. His voice was different this time too. How many more accents did he have stored away?
“I was named after my mother,” I said.
“Honey, even that ain’t new around here.”
By this time the figure I was following disappeared behind the door to the next level. I followed. Clementine breathed hard behind me, like he couldn’t keep up. I felt his eyes scratching the back of my neck. But when I entered the next level, I heard voices that made me stop so short that Clementine bumped into me, his hands bracing a fall against my ass, the towel almost coming loose. The voices were coming from a radio or television. It was the eleven o’clock news televised on a six-foot screen. And sitting before it on tiers of carpeted platforms were men lounging in all positions. The voice of the newscaster made me lose sight of the man I was following. The newscast was loud and images came blurred on the large screen.
When his words registered in my mind, I stood stockstill. Air became trapped in my throat, my chest and lungs. Pain went everywhere inside and wouldn’t let me go. I didn’t want to see or hear anything, but I couldn’t help it.
