Another block down, a few houses from Seventh Avenue South, was John’s Pizzeria. It smelled so good. I wondered why we didn’t go there until I read the awning “NO SLICES.”
“That place smells good. Do you ever eat there?”
Gia clicked her tongue. “See that window? That’s my apartment. I smell it all day long. And it’s fucking expensive.”
We walked up a flight of stairs to the apartment. The door opened on a kitchen, with a tiny bathroom branching off past the stove. Doors to the left and right revealed two full size rooms. This place would be big except there was so much stuff. Every inch of the kitchen walls was covered with metal posters, flyers for Latex Sex Camp, recent invitations to Jack Hump at Danceteria. The stove looked inoperable. She used it as a sort of macabre doll hospital. To confirm my suspicions there was an electric tea kettle on the stove mantle.
We sat down at a Formica kitchen table with two chairs. Gia got a folding chair from the pantry. From where we sat, I could see into the rear bedroom. The wall above the bed was adorned with maces, a cat o’ nine tails, a half dozen leather whips, handcuffs, a zipper-mouth leather mask, and a few things I didn’t recognize, but they were surely meant to inflict pain.
“Are you into pain?” Gia’s eyes lit up.
I shook my head. “I’m too sensitive.”
“Pity. I would love to torture you.”
“I’m gay.”
“I don’t care.” She giggled. “The sensitive boys make the best victims.”
Donnie changed the subject quickly. “Gia’s lived here her whole life.”
“I lost count. I think I’ve lived in thirty places in my 18 years. It’s nice to have such a stable home.”
Gia said, “New York sucks. I wish this was London.”
Donnie said, “London is the shit. I wanna go there. Gia’s been.”
“You have?”
She nodded. “I’m going back as soon as I can save enough.”
Donnie said, “Ethan’s a Pisces.”
Gia smiled. “Really?”
“Yup. We’re the weirdos of the zodiac.”
Gia agreed. “Yeah, most of the freaks I know are Pisces.”
I was flattered.
Donnie sat with his head in the multi-colored bathroom sink. Years of colored dye had turned the white porcelain into a Jackson Pollock in vibrant hues.
“Hold still.” Gia wielded a plastic brush with short bristles. She dipped it into the Aubergine dye from Manic Panic. Like a skilled cosmetologist, she started at the roots and worked her way to the ends. Donnie’s hair went from bright white to dark purple.
“You’re gonna need to keep this on a long time unless you want old lady lavender hair.”
She wrapped Donnie’s hair in a knot and stuffed it into a shower cap.
No smoking in Gia’s apartment, so I sat on the stoop with Donnie while he inhaled a couple of cigarettes.
People passing by gawked at his purple stained towel and shower cap. Donnie was so cool, it was like he didn’t even see them.
“Don’t you think Gia is so fucking cool?”
“I do. I love her.”
“She loves you. She didn’t offer to torture me until two years into our friendship.”
✽✽✽
I had to live in New York. I loved how my tummy tingled whenever I got close enough to see the Empire State Building and the World Trade Center. The tingling was real; lots of my friends felt it too. Brennan said it came from the vibrations emanating from so many million people. It was more than that; the fashion, the art, the power, and the money contributed to the high energy signal that broadcasted from Manhattan.
My last trip before graduation I came with Brennan to look for a job and an apartment. He drove a red 1978 Oldsmobile Cutlass Calais with white leather interior. It had seen better days. We drove down 95 on a Friday after school. It got late. The sun set. Somewhere on a lonely stretch between New London and New Haven, Brennan taught me lights out. The goal was to see how long you could drive with no lights. It worked best on moonless nights. The game ended abruptly when we nearly rear ended a Mack Truck. It was going 20 tops.
“It’s illegal to drive that slow on a freeway,” Brennan informed me. “He could get a ticket. It’s reckless endangerment.”
“Lights out is reckless endangerment.”
“Good point.”
He pulled into the left lane to go around the truck. We were going 60. Suddenly, the truck sped up. It was like he didn’t want us to pass him. We had to go faster to get around him. He threw a sandwich at the windshield. It splattered everywhere. Our game of lights out had probably pissed him off. Brennan fussed with the windshield wiper to get the mayonnaise and relish off the glass. Visibility was low. Then, in the rear-view mirror, a pair of headlights appeared. The car was going 100 and as it grew closer to the two blocked lanes, he should have slowed down and passed like we had. But this guy must have been coked up. He plowed forward with the intention of ramming us. At the very last second, he swerved onto the left shoulder. Three vehicles, a truck and two cars, going above the speed limit side by side on a two-lane road spelled inevitable death. Brennan and I both screamed like little girls. Then the coked-up car pulled in front of us and sped off into the distance. The truck driver slowed down and let us pass. Adrenaline made my head throb.
Before long, we had reached that place on 95 just outside New Rochelle where you catch your first glimpse of the Empire State Building poking its way up through the bombed-out apartments in the Bronx.
“There it is! Hey, Brennan, why are all the apartments here empty?”
“Fire.”
“So, the Bronx had a huge fire?”
“No. Some landlords set fire to their buildings to collect the insurance money. They couldn’t sell because of rent control, and they were losing money every day. At the same time, New York was bankrupt, and had to shut down fire stations. A lot of people died.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Even worse, the city gave fire victims a big welfare check to help with relocation. It was enough to buy a lot of coke and heroin. So sometimes a tenant would set the fire just to get that blood money.”
“I’m glad Manhattan isn’t like that.”
Right on cue, we reached the Third Avenue bridge and crossed over into Harlem. I never understood why they named it the Third Avenue bridge when it puts you on Second Avenue. Second Avenue starts out in a bad part of town and gradually reaches the invisible line at East 96th street where the bad neighborhood ends, and the filthy rich part of town begins. As we do on every trip, we took a side street over to Park Avenue so we could drive under the Pan Am Building. We turned on 14th Street until we got back to Second Avenue and continued south to St. Mark’s Place. Brennan parked in a bus stop. As he had explained on earlier expeditions, the New York ticket will never come due because he’s registered in Massachusetts. There is no way on earth they could manage the paperwork to get a ticket transferred to another state.
First stop: Manic Panic. Brennan needed midnight blue hair dye, and I needed a better pair of pants. I loved how everything in New York was open until midnight. The bars stayed open until 4am, so it was like a giant time shift. At this hour, you couldn’t find anything open in Newton, not even the Star Market in the sky.
I found a pair of red-flower Doc Martens and women’s plaid pants that zipped up on the side. Brennan was a good judge of fashion, and he persuaded me I could get away with it.
Then I struck the motherlode. I found a pair of black platform shoes. They were two sizes too big, but I didn’t care. I could always buy heel grips to close the gap.
I had a savings account at BayBank and the ATM card somehow magically worked in New York. I had to run to the nearest NYCE teller and get a hundred dollars to pay for the pants and shoes. Running back to the store, there was Donnie. I had written him that I was coming, but he didn’t have a phone anymore, and I wasn’t sure if he was still living on St. Mark’s.
&n
bsp; “Ethan!” he opened his arms wide and we hugged. “What are you doing here?”
“Buying platform shoes.”
“You’ll never find them. They vanished with the seventies.”
“I just bought a pair.”
The envy on Donnie’s face was priceless.
He breezed into Manic Panic with me. This was the first time Brennan met Donnie.
“You’re Brennan? Fleur plays your music all the time. It’s groovy.”
[note from the Protagonist - ‘groovy’ had a tarnished history. In the days of hippies, it was a positive adjective. In early 1980s California, we appropriated ‘groovy’ and used it to describe unfashionable and ugly things, whereas in New York it simply died. Donnie successfully brought it back into usage as a positive compliment amongst our friends.]
Brennan stood stock still, staring at Donnie’s entirety. His hair was high, his makeup was perfect, his clothes were just the right combination of punk and high fashion. He wore a white pirate’s shirt, black sequined pants, and a leather motorcycle jacket with a leopard print collar. If you could tear yourself away from his incredible face and clothes, you’d see a pair of black Converse low-tops.
Brennan leaned to me and said, “Remind me to have Fleur killed for playing my music.”
We sat on the stoop outside Manic Panic.
“Do you have a cigarette?” Donnie asked.
Brennan produced a pack.
“Red Dunhills! Are you sure?”
Brennan smiled. “Go on.”
I was blissfully ignorant of the cigarette culture, the status symbols, the prices. In 1986, Red Dunhills were at the top of the heap.
As they smoked, Donnie kept the conversation going by asking questions. He was an expert.
“Brennan, don’t you like Boston better than New York?”
“No. Boston is a shithole.”
“But so is New York.”
“Yes, but it’s a shithole where you can buy blue hair dye.”
Donnie giggled.
“How do you know Ethan?”
We both answered. “Through Miriam.”
“Who’s Miriam?”
Brennan turned to me. “Is Donnie the first person I’ve met who doesn’t already know Miriam?”
“I think so.”
Brennan didn’t forget Donnie’s question. “Miriam is my friend’s sister, and Ethan’s best friend in Boston. Once I became friends with Miriam, my world changed. She knows every person in the world. Her sister dropped me as a friend, but my life improved.”
“I can’t wait to meet her.”
“You will. You definitely will. It’s actually impossible not to meet her.”
Donnie giggled. He loved Brennan’s quirky sense of humor.
Donnie turned back to me. “So, you drove all the way to New York just to buy a pair of platform shoes?”
✽✽✽
The next morning, Brennan and I met up with Donnie at Love Saves the Day, our favorite secondhand store.
Donnie asked, “What brings you to New York besides platform shoes?”
“I’m looking for an apartment before school.”
Donnie gasped. “Gia needs someone to sublet this summer!”
“She does?”
“Come on.” He grabbed my hand and Brennan’s, and the three of us ran down St. Mark’s.
“This pay phone is busted.”
He lifted the receiver.
“Maybe we should find one that works.”
“Oh, it works. What’s busted is that it gives back your money when you hang up.”
A brief pause, then Donnie said, “Gia, do you remember Ethan?”
“Guess where he wants to live this summer!”
He turned to me. “It’s three hundred a month.”
“Perfect.” I had a thousand in the bank, and I could earn three hundred easy if I found a job.
Donnie listened then covered the mouthpiece. “She says it’s nine hundred for three months. It’s due up front.”
I could only take out three hundred a day from BayBank.
“Will she take three hundred now and the rest when I show up with my stuff?”
Donnie, acting as my celebrity realtor, closed the deal. So even if I ended up begging for a dollar for pizza, I had a Manhattan crash pad until Columbia. That’s one base covered.
Donnie, psychically linked to me, asked “Do you have a job?”
“I was gonna apply at Tower Records, maybe.”
“I worked there. It’s bullshit.”
“Should I work at a restaurant or something?”
“Maybe. Hey, you’re dressed up perfect. Let’s go to Marge Meadows and see if they have anything. I know everyone there.”
My plaid pants, flowered Doc Martens and a Ramones T-Shirt are sub-par, but it’s worth a try.
Brennan said, “Marge Meadows is the coolest store in New York. It’s like SEX on King’s Road or Studio V in Tokyo. All local designers, no French imports.”
I like the concept. It keeps starving designers in business.
Donnie turned to Brennan. “Have you been to SEX? I’m dying to go. I told Gia to bring me back something rubber from there.”
At Marge Meadows, Percival Laydown pranced to the front, his curly pigtails bouncing in the air-conditioned wind. “Donnie! What’s up?”
“I think you know Ethan.”
“Ethan.” He grabbed my hand and didn’t let go. “Ethan, Ethan. Yes! I met you with Gia Genocide and Donnie in Fleur’s bathroom.”
I remember. Who can forget such a sweet face? His best friend from San Diego, Jessie Pike, came around the corner and our eyes met. She was so fashion forward, I was at a loss to describe it. She wore a pink satin dress with silk flowers for buttons and a floor length white taffeta underskirt. It ballooned out so that she became the main little girl in the painting, “Las Meninas.”
“Hi Ethan, you’re Fleur’s friend, right?”
“Oh my god. You look like a Velazquez painting come to life.”
She turned to Percival and they shared a silent best friend moment. “I just told Percival this morning that if someone got the Velazquez reference, they were my instant best friend”
Jessie had the same celebutante voice and manner of affixing attention that made you feel incredibly important. “Were you looking for anything in particular?”
“A job.” That went over like a garlic fart. Donnie leaped in to rescue me.
“Ethan is in the fashion industry in Boston, but he’s moving to New York in a couple of weeks.”
Jessie kept the sincere smile plastered on her face. “You know what, Pat’s in a real good mood today. Let me just get her and tell her about Ethan.”
Ten minutes went by. Percival showed us some new surplus from Eastern Europe. They started selling Czechoslovakian army long johns and other clothing found on the black market. Marge flew to Trieste and bought a ton from the mob. She filled a shipping container with the contraband fashion. It arrived in New York a week ago. Percival and Jessie had to rent a van and make three trips to Jersey City to get it all there. That’s the type of work I would be doing.
Marjorie Meadow emerged from the back bespectacled in black horn rims and wearing a power dyke haircut.
“Ethan! Jessie tells me you know Fleur and you want a job in fashion.”
“Yep.”
She looked me up and down like she was appraising a bunch of broccoli. “You seem like you get it. Okay, when can you start?”
“I graduate in three weeks.”
“That’s not what I asked. When can you start?”
“Three weeks from tomorrow,”
“Done. Be here at 11:00 a.m.”
Brennan, Donnie and I left Marge Meadows’ shop giggling excitedly.
“She liked you,” Donnie said. “I’ve never seen her act nice towards anyone.”
To celebrate, we stopped at Tiffany’s on Sheridan Square for egg creams.
Brennan had his usual chocolate milk. His s
tomach had been upset for nearly a year, and the only thing he could eat is chocolate milk. Before we could place our order, Gia walked in.
“Oh my god” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”
Donnie asked, “What are you doing here? Don’t you go to the Sheridan Square Diner?”
“It’s closed for roaches.”
She joined us at the table. Her hair took up half the booth. The closer I looked at it, the more it resembled like a wig.
“Gia, how do you get your hair stop sign red and pearly white like that?”
She giggled. “It’s extensions.”
“What’s that?”
“See.” She lifted her hair and underneath you saw where the fake locks connected to her real ones. “I did them myself.”
“What do you use?”
“Superglue.”
We all sipped our egg creams and Brennan slurped his chocolate milk through a straw.
I valued Brennan’s opinion. As we walked down Seventh Avenue South to Bleecker, I hung back with him.
“What do you think of all this?”
“Donnie’s voice is beautiful. It’s like listening to a John Cage composition.”
“And Gia?”
Brennan paused a minute before responding “I’ve never met anybody so thoroughly wrapped up and tuned in to pop culture. I’m dying to see what her house is like.”
“It matches her hair.”
When Gia unlocked her door, Brennan spontaneously broke into applause and laughed. “It really does match your hair.” Gia smiled, unsure if it was a compliment.
I jumped in. “Brennan never gives compliments like that.”
We toured the house.
I asked, “What’s in the front bedroom?”
“That’s Eric’s room.”
“Is he leaving?”
“No.” Gia smiled coyly.
“So, where do I…?”
Seventh Avenue South Page 3
