“Thank you, Mr. President. But we both know how the media lie, trying to sell papers.” They laughed, pretending intimacy.
The dinner was being eaten up. The dessert. Politicians had risen and told jokes. A few real intimates had been upstairs at a smallish cocktail reception before the very big spenders. And they talked about the real problems. Markets. Russian contention with their business everywhere. What companies were in trouble. What Rockefeller’s new house on the Pocantico, the Japanese model, was really like.
Now the president was being introduced by Governor Rose. Rose, a Democrat, nevertheless tried to sound like a member of the same team, though mentioning they were two different wings of the same American eagle. By talking about the president’s personal qualities—his football years, his hardiness in the face of assassination threats, his willingness to get out and meet the American people. He was finally saying, “the President of the United States.” The band went into “Hail to the Chief.”
The people rose, and as they did, Morgan Conroy drew a gun out of his belt and pointed it at the president and began firing. Tim Goodson instinctively rose up as the gun was pulled. He didn’t understand, but anyway, he was rising. He thought, Why? It was a split-second. Why? This isn’t the cabinet post! He threw himself forward. The cabinet post. “What the fuck?” he was saying out loud, and he got hit by all three of the bullets that were fired. They hit him in the head—face and neck. And before young Conroy could fire again, he was inundated by waiters with .45 automatics. By that time, Goodson was dead.
* * *
The president was whizzed back to Washington. He issued a grave press release praising Goodson to the skies. An investigation was held, but it merely revealed that Morgan was spaced out and thought that this was what Patty would want. His father had to resign as President of Gratitude, but with half a million a year and stock options as his retirement. Morgan was placed in a private hospital after staying in jail for six years. Five years later, he wrote a book and began traveling around the world, snorting about $500 a week in cocaine.
Tim Goodson was buried at the largest funeral ever held in Finland Station. Black politicians came from all over the country. The vice president came, but not the president, as Finland Station was too much of a security risk. Madeline sat for hours in the house alone, thinking about what she would do. And Ray Sloane and the R.C. discussed what had happened, talking about the irony, the sick irony of it all, and went back to their job of trying to make a revolution.
1975
NORMAN’S DATE
Norman comes into the bar and tells me this one night. Norman always had great stuff to say, about painting and people he knew and Europe. Personalities and marvelous accomplishments. Fashionable stuff, in a way. But one night he comes up with this—it knocked me out.
He’s drinking. He’s got one hand holding up his very expensive trench coat. He’s got a Gauloise dangling outta his mouth. (That’s his usual stance.) He says: I met a woman, huh, the other night. Boy! He’s talking and puffing the Gauloise, his coat pushed back, a couple of guys and me listening. We got drinks. It’s not even late. Nobody’s drunk.
Yeh, I’d been at the Five Spot, he says. He’s talking like it’s real. He’s earnest, ya know? I was listening to Monk. And I see this babe standing by the bar digging the music. She’s listening, she smiles. She’s weaving, she’s got a glass. Ya know. I start watchin her.
She’s great, man. Great looking. Long and slender and blond. And all dolled up, but with good taste. Even some goddamn jewelry—and I hate jewelry. But on her it looks great, really great. And she spots me after a while. I was playin’ it cool, ya know? I thought maybe her ol’ man was in the john and coming right back. Shit, I didn’t want no trouble. The music’s great, too. That crazy Monk. And Wilbur. And that goddamn Trane is learning to play Monk’s tunes, ya know?
Norman holds up his glass and gestures at us; there were maybe two others and me in our knot. He gestures for drinks all around. He’s lighting another Gauloise with the stump he’s got in his mouth. He shrugs acknowledgment as we hold up our glasses, saluting him. Norman was a kind of generous guy in a way, but he comes on tough. An ex-captain in the goddamn bombers during the Second World War. He’s always got a scowl on his puss. People who don’t know him think he’s an asshole. A couple of friends of mine, even. They say Norman never invites them to his goddamn parties—the stuck-up elitist bastard. Ya know, Norman was making a little money then. Flying back and forth to Paris. Had regular shows there and a good gallery in New York. Big abstract expressionist canvasses. Big as hell, with the paint soaked in. And you could tell his Rorschach—he had his own style. You could tell a Norman anywhere once you’d seem them.
I got to know him through Frank. He was always jammed up with painters, especially the abstract expressionists—De Kooning, Kline, Guston, Hartigan, and even Rivers. He wasn’t abstract, not on canvas anyway. I think Rivers took out his abstraction in the real world. But he would leave half a person out of his paintings. I guess as a kind of tribute to all the money the A.E.’s was making.
Cedar Bar. The early ’60s, before Malcolm and hot street shit sent people flying every which way. (A buncha us to Harlem!) But we hung tough then. And bullshit—massive amounts of it got laid down in that joint.
So she looks at me, Norman’s saying, right in the eye. Hey, what a look! It went right through me. My pecker started to turn over just a little bit, ya know? This babe was really good looking, no shit!
We’re sipping and Norman’s a good storyteller. He brings in the whole nuance of the thing. The environmental vibes, so to speak. He describes the woman. He really describes her. She sounds good, like a cross between Brigitte Bardot and Marilyn Monroe. (I think these were his references.) But not “whorish,” he says, not at all whorish. Real nice!
Norman’s a big square-jawed Jewish guy with a permanently sneering lower lip. It gives him character. But actually, he’s a sweet guy in a lotta ways. He’d probably give you his last dime, but he ain’t never gonna get to that. No, not his last dime, knowing Norman. He knows what’s happening and being broke ain’t it!
Monk’s doing his wild dance. Norman demonstrates. Oh shit! I was laughing. Fuckin Norman, don’t dance, please. Just get on with the goddamn story.
And the babe is getting warmer and warmer. I could feel it across the room. Warmer, right there across the room. Through the music and over the people. A not insubstantial volume—is that the term? (We spat that around. Hey, what-ever.) But the babe is sending like fuckin heat-rays across the room. And I start thinking … I wasn’t thinking shit. But the ding-dong is clearly on the move. And we’re still fifteen feet apart. And Monk is squatting down and … Norman demonstrates again. He comes up and gestures with the glass. Sam bought another round.
When the set’s over, she looks away. I say shit, what a fuckin tease. This bitch! But then the fuckin broad turns and looks me right up and down from eyehole to peehole. Yeh, she lays them baby-blue glimmers right on the tip of my pecker. We howled.
How’d you know it was the tip end? Fuckin drunk Basil always got some contentious shit to raise—he’s beginning to get a little potted.
Hey, you know where somebody’s looking, goddamnit. Norman pretended to be incensed. We laughed.
I said, Basil never had nobody look at his drunken ass. He’s too fuckin drunk.
What? What? Basil chugalugged his brew. You wanna see the eye-prints on my ding-a-ling? (Norman made the jerk-off sign.) Everybody almost fell down.
John the bartender comes over, says, What the fuck you guys bullshittin about now? Goddamn Norman lying about something again?
John, kiss my ass, will ya, Norman said. Give us a fuckin free round and quit buttin in the customers’ fuckin conversation.
So then, while she’s shooting the heat-rays at my johnson, I start to return it full-up, ya know?
What’d you do, pee? (Basil again.)
Ya prick, shaddup! Let him finish. Go ahead, N
orman.
It’s crowded as hell in the Five Spot. Hey, where was I? I was getting it in. I’m in the Five Spot every night—Monk and Trane, man. That’s bad-bad. Not just bad, but bad-bad!
Yeh, everybody said amen to that. And it was bad, bad-bad. Check the records.
So I start over, says Norman. Yeh, I start over. Not goofy like Basil.
Basil shrugged, chugalugged, and waved for another at John, who was now standing behind the bar cocking an ear. He knew the kind of good stories Norman could tell.
I start over, very cautious and cool. Like I’m moving through the crowd, like maybe I was going to the john or to somebody else’s table, right?
Yeh, we encouraged.
And then when it looks like I might pass the table, I turn like slow. Norman gave the No. 1 demo of Valentino: Norman Valentino: eyes squinted sexily, shoulders pulled back, his trench coat hanging over that one arm, ever-present drink in hand. Yeh, we were clapping through our brew. Yeh, like that.
She looked up at me. Maybe she’d never taken her eyes away, I dunno. But when I turned, she caught me again from pecker to soul and back again. Whew.
We whewed too. John smirked, but listened even harder. Basil was grinning silently and making funny motions with his body that I decided were cheerleading stunts.
And then I’m standing there over the table, and she’s whispering almost, her voice low and soft, like quiet. People all around cackling and howling like they do at intermission. Pushing back and forth. And I’m standing there with this wild-looking woman stroking me through the eyes, down clear to the balls!
Norman was outdoing himself. His metaphors were usually sharp, but maybe this eternal story of boy meets girl (accompanied by T. Sphere Monk) was out. We were getting rapt and dumping beer down us, or whatever. No, I think I was drinking bourbon and soda.
She says, So why you standing there? There’s room. I guess I kept staring. You just want to look?
Huh. I dunno if I said huh. I probably did, but she thought it was something else with the cigarette. Hi, I said, and she laughs with that uncanny, quiet, low voice.
Hi, yourself. I was wondering if you were coming over or what. I thought for a while you might be just window shopping.
I laughed and eased into the seat. I sort of held the glass up like a little toast as I sat, and she did the same.
Whatcha drinking? It’s always my first statement to any broad, no matter how she looks. She’s drinking that goddamn Dubonnet on the rocks. I shoulda …
What? Basil snapped out of his slow drunken grin. Dubonnet, for Christ’s sake! Who the hell drinks that?
Shaddup, drunk, will ya? I think it was White propped against the bar, at least as drunk as Basil, kibitzing. I wanna hear the goddamn story.
OK, OK. Basil started to order another round, but John was already drawing it. So what happened next, Norman? Goddamnit, this is getting good. And Basil begins to chugalug again.
Yeh, we start talking, ya know? I tell her about me. She said she’d seen some of my work at Castelli’s. She tells me she was even at an opening of mine.
Yay, a fuckin art lover! Basil was smirking and White was frowning at him an unserious frown.
She tells me she used to paint when she first came to the Village, but got bored. She worked at an ad agency. She was a model. She even went out to Hollywood.
Yay, Hollywood! White cheered.
Shaddup, drunken bastard, Basil jeered unseriously.
So what’s she do then? I wanted to keep the story moving. Stories turn me on, especially from guys like Norman, because you keep waiting for some slip-up so you can tell it’s bullshit, or else it’s real and you pick up some info.
She says she’s thinking about it. She says she saved up some money so she’s between careers. She even wanted to play the goddamn violin—took lessons and everything. But nothing.
Anyway, we’re getting cozy—Monk comes back out. She keeps on with the Dubonnet and I’m sloshing down bourbon and waters like they’re gonna ration the shit the next day. She’s purring at me. Asking me about art. Asking me about my life.
She tells me she never married. That she lived with a few guys a couple times, but nothing serious. She’s twenty-seven— just my age category. (Norman was thirty-seven then.) And man, once I got close to her, she looked even better. Smooth ivory skin. Pale lips. These blue-gray peepers that seemed like they wanted to change colors. And then Norman chugalugs. And a set of fuckin—he makes a cupping motion—breasts.
Basil and White turned and squinted at Norman at the same time. I was laughing, so it made a little sound of air rushing out between my teeth. We almost said at the same time, Breasts?
Wow, after the air, I let out what we all had got simultaneously. Hey, Norman, I’ve never heard you say “breasts” before. I thought them things upon the ladies’ chests was boobs. Or boobies. Ain’t that what he calls them?
Right.
Yep.
White and Basil chimed in.
Norman with a goddamn woman with some breasts is hard to take. It was White’s most coherent statement of the evening.
There were breasts, lads. And he got another setup from John. John was shaking his head back and forth. Come on, Norman. Don’t slow down now. Let’s hear about the goddamn breasts, for Christ’s sake!
By the end of Monk’s set, we were both mellow. We already got the next day planned out. Lunch, a trip to my gallery, a show. More Monk and Trane the next night. Then she says, I think it’s time to head in. If we get too drunk we’ll only sleep.
It was the desired turning point of the story. All the circle of the narrated-to got closer, and armed with the last free drink, we licked our lips and waited for the next installment. Even Domenick, who was half-listening and half-trying to ignore Norman ’cause he didn’t like him, cocked a blatant ear and dragged his eyes off a passing lady-painter’s ass.
Yeh, she says that. I hadn’t even asked to go to her place. But she just pops out with it—bam! Sleep, hell, hold on. I’m not in a sleepin’ mood. Alcohol don’t put me to sleep. It just makes me mean. And she laughed that low laugh and her eyes seemed to change colors. Like, like …
Like what? I was pressing.
No, let me finish.
Go ahead!
I like that in men, she says. Mean and very physical.
Wow, Basil said. Wow. She said very physical, huh? You shoulda called White.
Shaddup, drunk. Go on, Norman.
You’re coming home with me, right? she says.
Hey, you ain’t even told us the woman’s name, I put in. It just occurred to me. Maybe this was the slip-up, I thought.
He don’t wanna tell us her name because he wants to keep a good thing secret, Domenick spoke for the first time, a little ironically and a trifle sour.
Shaddup, Domenick, Basil grinned. You didn’t tap nobody on the shoulder when that last fat ass floated by, either. Domenick was cooled out.
Monica. Monica Hess, Norman said straightforwardly.
Oh, a German babe. I came on with some academic shit.
Yeh, I guess, but she didn’t press it. She said she’d grown up in a small town in the Midwest—in Ohio, actually. In fact, she comes from a town called Hess, Ohio, named after her fuckin grandfather.
Wow, we howled. That this bastard scored was the general sentiment. A fuckin painter and a rich bitch.
A rich sexy …
Beautiful.
Yeh.
Bitch.
Smoke would get in Norman’s eyes and he’d squint. And you wouldn’t really know sometimes what kind of expression was on his face.
She told me a lot about herself, her childhood. All the different careers. She said she couldn’t find a man to satisfy her, either.
Wow, a general wow, came from us. And the anticipation hooked up together like a rope.
To satisfy her? White hunched Basil so sharply that Basil ugghed in drunken pantomime like it hurt. It did, but he was too drunk to care.
&
nbsp; So you naturally volunteered for that gig, I chuckled.
Yeh. Norman was grinning now, a strange light in his eyes. Yeh, I volunteered alright. On the goddamn spot. My pecker was starting to rise like the fuckin flag on the 4th of July! So we get to her place, ya know? She lives on 4th Avenue.
Hey, you know they’re going to call that Park Avenue South in a little while?
Fuck them, White spat. It’s 4th Avenue, not no fuckin Park Avenue South!
Fuckin a tweety! Basil wet us with his affirmation.
Come on with the story, Norman. It was Domenick, maybe thinking Norman’s ending would be so weak it would give the whole thing up as bullshit. Norman never even looked at him. He rasped at John through the open end of his lips. Buy the loud guy a drink on me.
Where on 4th Ave.?
You know the building that looks like a convent or tourist attraction in an old European village?
Yeh.
By the bookstore, across from the post office.
Yeh. Hey, that’s a pretty heavy looking building. What’s the goddamn rent in there?
She says she pays 450 a month.
What? (And this was the early ’60s when that was even further out than it is today.)
Four-fifty?
Jeez, what’s in the goddamn place?
Hey, it’s worth it. The inside of the joint is no quaint shit. It’s super modern. (Norman used the French pronunciation so the whole effect was got.) And get this, there’s a goddamn doorman inside. But we go around to a back entrance on Broadway she’s got a key for. Go to an elevator, and get this— the elevator only stops at her floor.
Tales of the Out & the Gone Page 4
