“Yes, I showed him the right way. I told him three feet and no closer.”
I interjected, “You never said that!”
She whirled on me. “It’s just common sense, you stupid piece of shit.”
“Hey, hey.” Andre weakly came to my defense. “Give him a second chance.”
Gladys shook her head. “I’m through with him, his ugly hair, his clothes the whole lot of it. He’s bad news.”
Being insulted in the third person sucks.
I bolted for the door.
“Hey! Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
I ran across the street to the rock n’ roll store. “Malgorzata, Claudius, it was a pleasure.”
Gladys grabbed me from behind. “You’re not leaving here until I say you’re leaving.”
In my struggle to break free I punched her tit with my elbow. She inhaled sharply and let go. I ran out the front door and down Sullivan Street. I didn’t stop until I got to West Houston Street. I crept along the busy crosstown road until I got to Seventh Avenue South. Then I cried. They owed me for almost a week - about 180 dollars. I couldn’t go back. I didn’t know what I was going to do. I walked up the west side of Seventh Avenue South and stopped at number 22. This was the Milk Bar. Donnie worked here before ‘something fucked up happened’ and he had to quit. The door was open. I walked down the steps to the underground nightclub. The walls were made of white Lucite panels. Behind the panels were dozens of fluorescent lights, wrapped in colored gels. Every surface - the bar, the floor, the egg chairs, the tables - all were dazzling white.
“Are you here about the job? Cause you’re two hours late!” I saw a tiny woman with big coke bottle glasses behind the bar.
“The job?”
“I guess not.” She went back to her paperwork.
“No, I mean, yes, I would like to apply.”
She squinted at me. “Do you know how to paint?”
“My parents were house painters.” It wasn’t a lie, and it kept her from the truth which was that I couldn’t paint my way out of a paper bag.
“Because this floor can only be mopped so many times before the filth just won’t come out. We paint every other Tuesday. You good with that?”
“Totally.”
“I’ll be honest with you. The other guy quit yesterday, and I don’t want to count bottles and clean up. So, go get that mop bucket over there and do your best.”
“I’m Ethan.”
“Oh, how rude of me! I’m Robin. Robin Lovelace. I’m the assistant manager. Look, Ethan, I can only pay you fifteen dollars an hour. Is that enough?”
I nearly choked. “Fifteen?”
She mistook my incredulity as a request for more.
“Okay, I can do seventeen, but not a penny more.”
“Sure, that’s cool.” She could have had me for seven dollars an hour. I was desperate.
I found the mop bucket in the closet. Thanks to my training from Gladys, I knew exactly what to do. There was a hose attached to the hot water spigot, so it was easy to fill the bucket. They didn’t use stinky Pine Sol. They used Clorox. It bleached the floors white. I worked methodically, starting at the far end and moving back towards the closet.
“Do I need to get behind the bar?”
“Nah. We do that once a week. When it’s dry, take it upstairs and do the upstairs lounge.” Robin was mellow and kind and easy to work for. The upstairs lounge was white tile - it cleaned up quickly.
“What next?” I hollered down the stairs.
“Let’s Windex the walls.”
We worked the Lucite walls together, removing mysterious stains with rags and drying the streaks with old newspaper. Then we wiped down the white pleather pillows with Lysol and rags.
“I can’t wait to tell Malinda about you. She’s my boss. You’re my first hire; she usually does the hiring.”
“What’s next?” I asked
“That’s about it. Sit down. Would you like a drink?”
“What are you having?”
“I don’t drink. Friend of Bill W.” Robin said it like it meant something else.
“Who?”
“Never mind. A cocktail?”
“I like plain Ginger Ale.”
She jumped up and down. “Me too! My favorite drink!” She filled us each a Ginger Ale from the soda gun. We toasted.
We chatted. Robin was the daughter of Linda Lovelace, the star of Deep Throat. She had mixed feelings about her mom. In one sense, she was an activist for free speech. In another, she was propping up the patriarchy by their dicks. She was single.
“Ethan, are you dating anyone?”
I shook my head.
“What type of girl do you like?”
“I like big, muscular guys.”
She burst out laughing. “You’re gay? You are so not gay!”
I was both insulted and flattered at once.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice called down the front stairs. “It’s me!”
“Malinda?” Robin asked.
“How’s it going. Did you find a new janitor?”
“Yeah. Come meet Ethan.”
A huge blond Russian wolfhound entered the room first, followed by his owner, Malinda. She was tall, walked like a model on a catwalk, and her hair matched her dog’s perfectly.
I put all my prep school manners in my frontal cortex and shook hands. “Delighted.”
She took in a panoramic view of the bar. “It looks great in here. It is just as important a job as any other.”
I smiled.
Robin fidgeted. “He’s seventeen an hour.”
“Make it eighteen,” Malinda said. “Have you filled out your tax forms?”
While I filled out the information, one by one, the bartenders arrived. The first was Scara. She looked Scary, so her name was easy to remember. She was mixed race with honey colored skin. She wore her hair in curls that were a cross between Hasidic and Shirley Temple. Like everyone in New York, Scara had attitude. She sniffed disdainfully when introduced to the janitor. She treated Robin like shit.
The next to arrive was Throstur. He was Nordic and spoke with an accent. But he too had attitude. He was buffed and devastatingly handsome; I had an instant crush. I pictured him thrusting in bed with me, so I remembered his name as Thruster.
Robin gave me my schedule. The bar was open Wednesday through Sunday. So, I needed to come in Thursday through Monday. The idea was that I would clean up the previous night’s mess. If we let it sit for two days, there would be roaches and venereal diseases and god knows what else festering everywhere.
I had walked in a bit of a daze, so I wasn’t sure where Gia’s apartment was in relation to where I was. I walked up Seventh Avenue South until I hit Bleecker. There it was. Barely a block away! Night was falling, and I needed to be free from ghosts. I went to the Psychic across the street. The bulldog was friendly. He put his paws on my knees and laid his head in my lap.
The psychic on duty was dark haired with very light brown skin. I remember that gypsies in California looked like this, so I assumed she was too. It’s rude to ask.
“What seems to be problem?”
“How do you know I have a problem?”
“Two reasons. First, dog puts head in your lap. Second, I see green and yellow fragments in your brown aura.”
She was good.
“You live in place across street. I see you in window. You are friend of Gia.”
“You know Gia?” I asked
“I know her only by reputation. She is dominatrix. Listen, before we go far, I tell you it costs thirty-five dollars for consultation. You have very little money, but you will have much money soon. I let you put down payment of five dollars and you return with the thirty.”
“You can trust me.”
“I already know.” She winked.
She had a crystal ball. She gazed into it for a few seconds, then closed her eyes and breathed.
“You are scared. Why?”
“Gia�
��s apartment is haunted.”
“By her grandmother. A kind woman. She always protects Gia. She doesn’t know you or why her granddaughter is gone.”
“Anyone else? Any demons?”
The psychic cackled. “Oh, many, many demons but grandma has banished them. Perhaps she lets one out to frighten you away.”
I frown. “It’s working. What can I do?”
“You are good writer. You write letter to grandma of Gia and tell her who you are and why you are there. She will read it.”
I glanced up at Gia’s window and saw the faint outline of a person. My blood ran cold.
The psychic put her hand on mine. “You fear too much. You must trust me as I trust you.” She went inside and came out with a notebook and pen. “Write letter now. Show her you mean Gia no harm. Gia left very suddenly, yes?”
I nodded.
“This upset grandma. She blames you. Write letter to explain. Call her Nonna.”
I put pen to paper and wrote hastily:
Dear Nonna Gamba,
Gia left for London very quickly. It had to do with the type of ticket she bought. So, don’t worry, she’s safe overseas. I’m her tenant. She took all the money I had as rent. That money is for her to spend in London. I will leave at the end of the summer.
If you have unleashed a demon in the apartment, please put it away. I mean your granddaughter no harm. She is my friend.
Love,
Ethan
I posted the letter on the back of the door, which was one of the few vertical spaces available that wasn’t already covered in Metal posters, graffiti, drawings or knickknacks. As I posted it, the air grew very cold around me. I could see my breath. Then it warmed up. A light that had burnt out flickered back to life on the far side of the room. The apartment was at peace.
✽✽✽
The managers at the Milk Bar loved me. Malinda would call me and ask me to walk over to her apartment on Hudson to get her Saluki, Viktor. I would walk him down to the docks and back up Christopher Street. I still had time to clean up. One Monday we painted the floors with thick goopy white paint. The fumes were intense. We tried to blow them out with a fan, but it was too slow, so Robin and I went out to eat at Tiffany’s.
“So, what’s it like having a movie star for a mom?”
“Porn star. There’s a big difference.” Robin stared at the menu to avoid my gaze.
“Okay, what’s it like though?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had a mom who wasn’t a porn star, so I don’t know how to compare it to anything.” I was bringing up a sore subject.
“I’m sorry Robin, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“I know, Ethan. You’re a total sweetheart. It’s my bullshit.”
We drank our chocolate egg creams in silence, waiting for our grilled cheese sandwiches.
When the food arrived, Robin took over the interrogation. “Are you going to college?”
I nodded.
“What are you going to study?”
“I don’t know yet.” It was true, I had no idea what I wanted to learn.
“Which college?”
“Columbia.”
Robin choked on her french fry. “What?”
“Columbia.”
“I heard you. What are you doing mopping floors? Shouldn’t you be polishing the family silver or something?”
“I got a scholarship. Not a very good one. Please, Robin, don’t fire me!”
“Fire you? I’ve got a Columbia student working for a pittance. Why would I want to get rid of you?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. I had lost so many jobs, it was traumatic.
✽✽✽
My first paycheck was hard to read, but it was for way too much. I took it to Robin. “How did I earn this much at eighteen an hour?”
“Well, every day you work ten hours, so the last two are paid at time and a half.”
I earned nearly $750.00 in one week. That was more than I earned in a whole summer at Marriott’s Great America Amusement Park. My luck was finally turning.
I deposited the check in my Manufacturers Hanover Trust account on my lunch break. Getting that bank account was one of the hardest things I did when I moved to New York. No bank would take my cashier’s check from BayBank in Boston. I thought it would be as easy as walking in and opening an account, but it wasn’t. I needed a passport, birth certificate, New York Driver’s license, and a minimum deposit of $3,000.00 to open an account at Chemical Bank. Citibank was the same. Manny Hanny said I could open an account with any amount of money and my California Driver’ License, but the first deposit needed to be with a cashier’s check from a New York Bank.
Gia’s bank, a tiny Savings and Loan called Joe’s Bank (or something similar) would take me. But they didn’t have ATMs or checks - only passbook savings accounts. They would write cashier’s checks for a fee of $30.00. So, I put all my Boston savings into Gia’s bank, then asked them to write me a cashier’s check to close out the account. They made me wait ten business days for the cashier’s check, during which time my money was held hostage. When they finally wrote me the cashier’s check, I took it over to Manufacturer’s and they accepted it. At last, I was on the NYCE with a shiny new ATM card.
It was with great pride that I deposited the largest paycheck of my life (so far) into that account. I didn’t even mind the long line. How cool it would be if some day you could deposit money at the ATM. But I can’t even figure out how that would work. They have to run the check through the reader and check your signature on the back. A computer can’t do that. It doesn’t have any hands or eyes.
The phone was ringing that evening when I got home. It was Gia, calling from London.
“Gia! How are you?”
“I don’t have time to talk. I need you to wire me some money. I ran out.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred dollars.”
In the seconds remaining, I wrote down the instructions to wire the money to Gia via Western Union.
“They close in an hour here in London. You gotta do this in an hour.”
The nearest Western Union in the phone book was in Times Square. I had to go to the ATM and it only let me pull out three hundred. I had about fifty in cash. I wasn’t certain she would be paying me back anyway, so it would have to do.
The subway to Times Square took forever. I got on the Number 1 train, and it crawled its way north. The 2 would have been faster, but I missed the transfer at Union Square.
It was one minute after 5pm when I sent the wire. I came home to a jangling telephone. The rings sounded desperate.
“Gia?”
“What the fuck! The money didn’t come.”
“I sent it. I only had three hundred fifty.”
“Shit shit shit. I have to sleep on the street tonight because I can’t even pay for a hostel.”
“Maybe you can go to the YWCA.”
“Do you think the Christian ladies would welcome a girl with Satanic tattoos?”
“I’m sorry Gia. You’ll have your money when you wake up. Do they sell speed in London?”
“No. Well, maybe at the pharmacy. That’s a good idea.” She hung up without goodbye.
I didn’t hear from Gia the next day, so I figured the money went through. Just in case, I took out another three hundred in cash and hid it inside a black ceramic cat.
Summer in New York was beastly hot. You were living in a bathroom with a hot shower and a broken radiator that can’t turn off. You could point a hundred fans towards you and it still wouldn’t be enough. Air conditioning was the only way to escape the heat. The Milk Bar was air conditioned. Tiffany’s was air-conditioned. The Pyramid was not.
The Pyramid had the most fantastic exciting drag show every Sunday at “Whispers Night.” It was hosted by a clown-like emcee named Sister HapiPhace, who was frequently upstaged by a recent transplant from Atlanta named “The Lady Miss Bunny.” Another fixture was the deejay, a freakishly tall skinny queen named “Sis
ter Dimension.” Sister Dimension was my favorite. She never performed, which made her the butt of several ongoing jokes. I was there the night she finally agreed to perform.
She slinked onstage in a mod 60’s black and white dress and a raincoat made from a garbage bag. “Tortoise Brand Pot Scrubbing Cleaner” by Shonen Knife began playing at an ear-splitting Volume. Sister Dimension held her long arms straight up over her head for the entire performance. Instead of lip synching, she sucked in her cheeks and rapidly moved her blackened lips to an imaginary beat that had nothing to do with the music. Her dance move was to simply rotate like a chicken on a spit. It was the best drag performance I had ever seen. It was the antithesis of everything drag stood for.
The boys at Whispers night were cool, handsome, gay, and unfriendly. I pined for several regulars who never bothered to notice me. Donnie gave me a pair of black tights with zebra fur sewn down the front. I wore creepers and teased my mop of black hair. I could pull off cool, but there was no cure for ugly.
There were dozens of clubs, and it was hard to know which ones were going to be the scene on any given night. It was unpredictable. One night it might be Limelight, another the Saint, another the Palladium. Nell’s was the only club that didn’t offer club courtesy, and it cost sixty dollars to get in. You had to be a celebrity or rich to go there, so I never went. Celebutantes were not welcome there. Area down in Soho had one or two good nights but the consensus was that it was tired.
One night I stumbled on the best club that ever existed or ever will exist: Paradise Garage. They didn’t even open until midnight. They served nothing but fruit juice and sodas, so it was all ages. The dance floor was packed until dawn. The music was house, mostly Chicago style, mixed with random disco hits like Madonna’s 14-minute version of “Everybody.” There were famous people everywhere, but the dance floor was like a pan of popcorn. You moved and swirled through the club without any anchor, so faces might only appear for a few seconds before they vanished back into the crowd. The very best dancers jumped onstage and did gymnastic dance moves that brought roars of approval from the crowd. The young kids who went had the newest moves, like the Cabbage Patch or the Smurf, and they loved to get onstage and show off their newfound abilities; it made them famous for one brief moment.
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