The Boys in the Mail Room: A Novel

by Iris Rainer Dart

  "Andrew is in Europe," he said, "on business.' So how about if I tell him you called, when he gets back?"

  It was a lie. "Great," Barry said. "When will that be?"

  Muffled phone voices. Laughter.

  "Uh. . ." the man said. "Oh, sometime next year." Laughter in the background.

  "Right," Barry said and hung up.

  That was when he decided he ought to accept the fact that he was in California to stay. He also wrote several letters to his parents, but didn't mail any of them. He was lonely. His building had a swimming pool so he went to the Broadway on Hollywood Boulevard and Vine Street and bought himself a bathing suit. He was so slight and narrow and so much skinnier than he'd been in New York, when his mother was cooking dinner for him, and Mashe was paying for his lunches, that the only suit he could find to fit him was in the boys' department. Hang-Ten boxer trunks.

  He sat at the pool every Saturday and Sunday reading Friday's Variety. He'd already read it on Friday, but he was hoping perhaps someone would see him reading it and know he was in "the business."

  The only person at the pool on most days was Yona. Yona had brown frizzy hair, pimples and a roll around her midriff. The first time Barry saw her she was wearing only the bottom of her leopard-skin suit, and her sagging bananalike breasts were tanned dark like the rest of her skin. Barry must have looked at her, looked back at the real estate section, then looked back again because he couldn't believe it when Yona shouted.

  "I can sit here any goddamned way I want. I pay rent here, too, asshole."

  Barry was so surprised all he could emit was a polite "Good morning."

  There was a peal of laughter from a balcony overlooking the pool.

  "That's tellin' her, kid," the voice said. Barry squinted and looked up.

  A pudgy dark-haired man stood in the balcony of his pool-view apartment wearing an orange terry-cloth robe and holding a beer.

  "Fuck off, you fat suckhole," Yona yelled at the man.

  "Oh, my God," he responded, "we finally found you, Princess Anastasia."

  Yona sneered and turned over on her stomach, and the guy disappeared into his apartment.

  Barry went back to Variety until a few minutes later when there was a giant splash, and he was covered with water. His copy of Variety was soaked. Before he even looked, he knew Yona got wet, too, because he heard her bloodcurdling scream.

  "Mothafuckah!"

  The diver was swimming laps underwater. It was the fat guy. He would come up occasionally and gasp noisily, then swim lengths underwater again. When he had done the length about ten times he pulled himself up at the edge of the pool, his suit sliding down to reveal the top of his large pink ass. Then he walked over to Yona and shook himself so hard the water went all over her. "Take that, you bitch," he said. Yona opened her eyes slowly and looked up. Barry was sure she was going to say something really horrible now.

  "Hi, baby," she said, grinning.

  The fat guy leaned over and kissed her, then caressed one of the banana tits and she laughed. The guy looked over at Barry.

  "We're the Bakers. I'm Marty, she's Yona."

  Barry laughed.

  "I'm Barry Golden."

  "In the business?"

  Barry nodded.

  "Us, too," Yona said. "We do clubs and stuff, but we're studio musicians mostly."

  "I play the piano and vibes and Yona plays the harp," Marty said. "She was in the scoring sessions for Sound of Music!"

  Yona scratched herself under her suit. "Yeah. That was good fucking bread. You know?"

  Barry had to giggle to himself when he thought what it would be like if Julie Andrews ever met Yona.

  After that day, Marty and Yona practically adopted Barry. They invited him to their apartment for dinner every night and he loved going there. They were wonderfully zany and had stories to tell about everyone in the music business. They knew the Beach Boys, they had each played on Andy Williams' albums, one time Yona had replaced someone at the last minute on the road with Johnny Mathis. They were becoming not just the only friends Barry had, but a family for him as well. By the second week after he met them, he found himself at work wondering if it was close to six so he could get home, and what Yona would be cooking.

  Once Yona mentioned fixing him up with her sister who was a manicurist. She must have noticed the look that flickered across his face.

  "Gay, huh?" she asked matter-of-factly.

  Barry nodded.

  "Then how 'bout my brother?"

  There was a beat and then both of them laughed for a long time.

  One night Yona and Marty were both playing on the same session and they invited Barry to come along. Sonny and Cher were there. Barry recognized them as the ones who sang "I Got You, Babe," and he remembered seeing them on Hullabaloo or one of those shows. They sat in the same control room as he did. The musicians, and there were a lot of them, were on the other side of the glass in a large studio. There was a lot of laughing and talking. Sonny and Cher were friends with the man who was in charge, Jim Garland. Garland was very tall and skinny and he had buckteeth. He was producing the session. He had a lot of energy and ran back and forth between the room where the recording equipment was and the room where the musicians were. Cher smoked a cigarette and didn't smile.

  Barry realized he hadn't even asked Yona and Marty, now busy in the crowd of musicians who were tuning up and chattering and laughing on the other side of the glass, who was recording. Maybe it was Sonny and Cher. No. Yona would have told him.

  The door from the outside hall opened and a boy's face peeked in tentatively.

  "Hello?"

  Garland and Sonny and Cher all jumped to their feet and ran to the door.

  "Hey, Harley," they said, escorting the boy into the room. "How you doin', man?" they asked him.

  Barry was sitting with about six or seven other people in a row of chairs that looked like they'd been removed from a movie house but faced directly into the studio. All the people looked over. Barry had never seen the boy before. He looked about eighteen, and he had shoulder-length straight brown hair, and he was carrying a guitar case, which Garland immediately took out of his hand and carried for him. Garland walked him into the studio. Most of the musicians didn't even look up.

  At the front of the group of musicians was a stool with a microphone in front of it. Garland was hovering over Harley so much he practically lifted him right onto the stool.

  Finally, after a big discussion about whether or not Harley should play his guitar while he sang, the decision was that he should, even though Garland didn't seem to like the idea. They started to rehearse. It was exciting. It reminded Barry of the live orchestras on Broadway. Marty was conducting, and the music gave Barry the chills. No one else was too excited, though. Sonny and Cher left after a while, and Garland was getting very nervous, and you couldn't hear Harley's guitar at all, and Harley's voice sounded very thin.

  "Let's lay one down," Garland said. Harley looked scared but he nodded, and Marty who was conducting from the piano counted and the orchestra played and Harley started singing the song he'd been rehearsing, "The Rain Is Like My Tears." When they played it back it was awful.

  "Great, Har!" Jim Garland said over the intercom into the studio. Harley didn't believe it. No one did.

  "One more, baby!" Garland said.

  Five takes later, Harley looked very sad.

  It seemed as if Garland had already smoked two packs of cigarettes.

  "Fuck," Garland said. Only the engineer and the seven people could hear him muttering angrily. His switch into the studio was off. "Suck. Rat piss. This eats it, and it's not the kid's fault."

  "Doin' great, Harley," he said with a smile into the box. "Band, take ten, okay?"

  The whole orchestra rose noisily to their feet and filed out into the corridor of the recording studio. Yona and Marty motioned for Barry to join them. There were machines that dispensed coffee, hot chocolate, milk, candy, crackers, even soup. Barry waited in
line to get a Hershey bar, realizing now that there had been about thirty people in the orchestra. There was a lot of laughter. A couple of guys lit up joints. No one in the group even commented or looked over. It was just as though they'd lit cigarettes.

  At one point Barry noticed Jim Garland come to the door of the studio and close it from the inside. When the ten minutes had passed, the group began to drift back toward the studio but the red light was on.

  "Shhh," someone said. They all listened. Harley's sweet voice was singing, alone with his guitar. Garland was recording it. The red light went off. Garland opened the door and gestured for the others to come in. When everyone was inside, Garland silenced them.

  "People," he shouted. "People! I want you to hear something."

  The engineer rolled back the tape and they played what they'd recorded while the band was on their break. "The Rain Is Like My Tears." One voice. One guitar. It was perfect. Harley's voice was clear and true, and Barry realized now that the boy had written the song, too. When it finished, all the musicians applauded. Harley blushed.

  "Call it a night," Garland said.

  Harley hugged Yona and then Marty as they congratulated him.

  "Wanna get a bite?" Marty asked him. Marty looked even more like a big bear with his arms around the delicate Harley.

  "Sure."

  Barry couldn't believe it. He'd get to meet Harley.

  Ah Fong's was empty.

  "Anybody home?"

  An old Chinese man appeared. "Yes. We home," he said, grinning.

  The four of them took a booth. Barry and Yona across from Marty and Harley.

  "Harley was a studio guitarist," Marty told Barry.

  "But he's so adorable he's becoming a star. Right, you little baby-faced fart?" Yona said.

  Harley grinned. "Right."

  "He's really fifty years old," Marty told Barry. "He just lives clean. Doesn't smoke any of this stuff, right?"

  Marty was holding a joint in his hand.

  Barry was surprised. He had suspected that Yona and Marty smoked pot. He knew a lot of musicians did. But they never talked about it. And now. In a restaurant. Marty was being so open about it.

  The waiter came over to the table. Marty ordered for all of them, still moving the joint around in his pudgy hand the whole time. The waiter disappeared into the back and Marty lit the joint. He inhaled deeply but kept talking while he held the smoke in so his voice sounded weird. "I think Garland has taste in his tuchus," he said. "And he'll never get a full album cut a take at a time like that." He exhaled. Yona took the joint and inhaled in short sucking sounds. She held her pinky poised while she puffed, as if she were a fancy lady having tea. A few more puffs and she handed it to Harley. Barry watched him take it eagerly. The waiter was coming with the soup. Barry was afraid. Maybe the waiter would call the police. Harley puffed on the joint as the waiter put small soup bowls in front of each of them and the large soup tureen in the middle of the table, not looking at any of them. As the waiter turned to walk back to the kitchen, Harley handed the joint to Barry. Barry was embarrassed. He wasn't sure what to do. Marty understood.

  "Inhale and hold it in your lungs for as long as you can," he said gently.

  No one laughed. No one said, "First time, huh?"

  Barry held the smoke in his lungs for a long time. Released it. Then again. Then again.

  By the time the fortune cookies came, the four of them were still the only ones in the restaurant and they were all bleary. Barry knew he must be stoned because Yona looked beautiful to him.

  "You will take an exciting trip," she read from the tiny piece of paper she'd pulled out of the cookie. "Oooh, baby. Maybe it means Disneyland," she said to Marty, pouting like a little girl.

  "You did promise me that, you big turd," she said.

  "Yeah. Yeah." Marty took a handful of the hard noodles and tossed them into his mouth as if they were popcorn.

  "Let's go tomorrow," she urged. "We'll get stoned in the morning and drive out."

  "Stoned in Disneyland? Far out," Harley said. "Too bad I've got a rehearsal."

  "Bar, will you come? Fuck the mail room," Yona said.

  Stoned in Disneyland. Barry loved the idea. He'd call in sick to work—but he wanted Harley to come with them, too. He wanted Harley to be everywhere with him. The warm feeling in his chest was about Harley and the way Barry wanted to touch him. Oh, Jesus. He was stoned. Harley would probably recoil from him if he knew what he was feeling.

  "Are you going to go, Barry?" Harley asked.

  As Barry looked at him, he thought about Howard and Eugene and Andy and Mashe, and his parents, and all of the things that had happened in the last five or six years. And it was clear and plain as things seem to be after smoking dope, things that are obvious in a flash but later feel obscured again, that he had always let himself be a victim. Allowing things to happen to him, but never making them happen. And that was the wrong way to live. Wrong if he wanted to have the things he knew he had to have out of life. He thought of David Kane, who approached everyone on the lot asking them for jobs, and when the others teased Kane about it or called him pushy, he said, "You have to ask for what you want," and Stan Rose, who always bragged about himself that he had "Chutzpah" with a capital "Chu," and even that jerk-off Ashman who was always grab-assing every woman, seemed to end up in bed with anyone he wanted. So. So what? The original thought was blurred. Yes, change that. Barry wanted to change that. He could change that.

  "I'm going to go to Disneyland," he said to Harley, "skip your rehearsal and join us."

  "Okay."

  Some days in our lives are only historical in retrospect. The obvious ones, like wedding days, or funeral days, may seem to be pivotal, but later, when we look back, we find that the ones we didn't consider crucial may have been truly the most important. The day Barry spent in Disneyland with Yona, Marty and Harley changed his life.

  At eight thirty in the morning, Yona, with a joint in her left hand and a spatula in her right, made them all scrambled eggs in her kitchen. By nine fifteen they were on the freeway. Barry had seen Disneyland on the news on television when it opened, and he vaguely remembered seeing a ride that looked like teacups, but he wasn't prepared for this. Yona wanted to go on everything. She dragged them all by the hand from ride to ride laughing and hugging them. It was a blur of joy and sweet sensations, and eating too much, and thinking everyone was funny, and Harley and Barry would look at each other and laugh till the tears came. And finally it was getting dark and they took the tram to Marty's car and drove home exhausted. Yona fell asleep in the front seat with her head against the window, snoring. Barry looked at Harley. How could he know what to say? It was Howard and then Andy who initiated the sexual contact he'd had with them. How did they know he would want it?

  When Marty got off the freeway at Highland Avenue, he cleared his throat.

  "Uh. . . Har. You want me to take you home?"

  Barry clenched his teeth and looked straight ahead.

  "No," Harley said. "Uh-uh."

  The rest was understood. There wasn't much conversation when Harley and Barry got to Barry's apartment.

  When Harley took his clothes off, he was smooth and hairless like Barry, and when Barry was touching him and sucking him he had a picture in his mind that they were two innocent cherubs. And when Harley came, moaning gently, Barry could hear "The Rain Is Like My Tears" in his mind, and it played over and over again when he came himself, and until he fell asleep.

  When Barry woke up it was four o'clock in the morning. Harley was awake, too. They were both hungry, so they went into the kitchen and had salami sandwiches and beer.

  Harley told Barry what it was like to grow up in California in a big family, and how going off somewhere to just play his guitar was his only escape from the other kids. And that he still lived at home with his family except when he was on the road with some band. And Barry told Harley about the reason he'd left Brooklyn, and then Harley told Barry about the time when he
was a kid that his mom's brother gave him a blow job and then said he'd kill him if he told his mom. And Barry told Harley about the episode in Hawaii with Howard, which he'd left out of the story before. And a few hours later, when Barry was about to leave for the mail room, and Harley was lying in the bed half asleep, Barry said:

  "Go over to your folks' house today and pack your stuff and move in here."

  Harley looked up, thought for a long moment and then nodded.

  "Yeah. Okay," he said. "I will."

  eleven

  Inured. Allyn Grant was stoned. She'd tried pot for the first time at a party a few weeks ago. The girl who had the party, who was one of the other secretaries at the studio, served some chocolate chip cookies still in the box, and after Allyn took a few puffs of what was left of a joint that was so small one of the girls was holding it with a bobby pin, she ate ten cookies. They were the best cookies on earth. Better than Silverman's bakery in Pittsburgh. Inured. Later that week, she went out and bought the same cookies. They were dry. Tasteless. Yes. She must have been stoned at that party. So that's what it was like.

  Allyn would never make a "buy" and get some pot of her own, but Norah, George Marvin's secretary, gave her three joints as a gift. And tonight she was using the first one. She'd only required a few puffs. Hits, they were called. Now she was lying on the sofa in the living room of her apartment. Inured. That's how it made her feel. It was funny to her that she was thinking that word, inured, to describe her feelings, because she had no recollection of ever having used the word before. It meant something like being so numb that you were getting used to pain, and she was. The pain of her loneliness and her isolation from her old friends. And the pain of having no relationship with a man. No one to hold her. No sex. It reminded her of the way she'd felt in high school.

  High school. Somehow she had managed to stay a virgin through all of it. In the late fifties and early sixties that was what unmarried girls were supposed to be. That's what their parents told them, and that's what they told each other, and they turned their collective and cliquey backs on the girls who were rumored to "do it."