Kissing in Manhattan

by David Schickler

  “Yeah,” said First Angry Mouse. “We’re professionals. You can’t just stick some random employee into—”

  “The kid knows the part,” said Michael Hye. “Besides, Fourth Angry only has one line.”

  Fourth Kindly Mouse patted Jeremy’s back. “Let’s give him a chance.”

  “What’s his background?” said Third Angry Mouse.

  “He’s Robby Jax’s grandson,” said Michael.

  The mice all nodded, impressed.

  “Let’s hear him,” said First Angry. “Let’s hear him try his one line.”

  Michael urged Jeremy onto the roof, which was a giant promontory piece of the set. It was from this roof that Fourth Angry Mouse proclaimed his line.

  “Go on, Jax,” said Michael.

  Jeremy climbed the roof, looked out at the empty seats of the Lucas. A spotlight came on in the ceiling, singled him out.

  Three hundred a night, Jeremy told himself.

  “Do it up, kid,” yelled Fourth Kindly Mouse.

  Jeremy took a breath.

  “ ‘I have arrived!’ “ he shouted.

  Within two weeks an extraordinary thing happened. New York City fell in love with Of Mice And Mice.

  There was no rational accounting for it. Manhattan’s theater tastes had ranged over the preceding decade from men drenched in blue paint to maniacs thumping garbage cans, so the popularity of eight giant mice was perhaps only a matter of savvy timing. On the other hand, Of Mice And Mice’s playwright was furious. He’d intended Of Mice And Mice as a somber allegory about the divisiveness of the human heart, and audiences were finding the play outrageously funny. Children and adults loved the show with equal ardor, the way they might a classic Looney Tunes. Susan March, who wrote the editorial column “March Madness” for The New York Times, claimed that “these eight mice show us, with their tongues in their divine little cheeks, how laughable are all our attempts at serious human contention. Who would’ve expected such charm from the Lucas?”

  Receiving particular laud was the character of Fourth Angry Mouse. He wore unassuming blue trousers and had only one line, but there was something about his befuddled manner, his confused scampering to and fro among his fellow mice, that endeared him to audiences and won him standing ovations.

  “Fourth Angry Mouse,” wrote Susan March, “is petulant, skittish, bent on private designs. But he is so convincingly lost in his own antics that we can’t help but laugh at the little guy. He could be any one of us, plucked off the street, tossed into public scrutiny. Would any of us seem less goofy, less hysterically at sea?”

  Compounding the intrigue around Fourth Angry Mouse was the fact that the program listed his actor’s name as Anonymous. This was unheard of. Benny Demarco, the character actor of film and stage fame, was carrying the role of First Kindly Mouse, and garnering good reviews. Trisha Vera, as First Angry Mouse, had some brilliant moments, including a Velcro routine on the walls. But it was the unknown man behind Fourth Angry Mouse that Manhattan wanted to meet most. Some critics speculated that it was Christian Frick, reprising his Tony-award-winning role as the Familiar in Coven. Most reviewers, though, suspected that a newcomer lurked behind Fourth Angry Mouse, a dark-horse tyro with few credentials beyond instinct.

  As for Jeremy Jax, he was flabbergasted. He tried in each performance to implement the critical notes he’d been given by Michael Hye and Of Mice And Mice’s livid playwright. However, Jeremy was no actor. He had no knack for detail, no timing, no sense of his body as perceived by others, and so no clear motives for how to move when dressed as a seven-foot mouse. He got upset at the laughter he aroused—he didn’t want his fellow mice to think him a showboat—but the more upset he got, the harder people laughed and the more money the Lucas made.

  Relax, Jeremy told himself. Relax.

  But Jeremy couldn’t relax. His fame was a farce to him. He wanted no one to acknowledge it until he decided if it was shameful. If he’d been a praying man, Jeremy might’ve consulted the spirit of his dead grandfather directly for some assurance that he was authentically comic. Instead, he stood in the lobby of the Preemption, staring at the four portraits that hung on the wall over Sender’s desk. These portraits were of the Rooks—Elias, Hatter, Joseph, and Johann—who had, in succession, owned the Preemption since Elias Rook built it in 1890. The portraits showed four men of unsmiling German lineage. Jeremy respected their shared, serious countenance and the fact that they all looked like svelter versions of his grandfather Robby. Each Rook wore a dark suit or tuxedo, and each, except Johann, had his date of birth and death engraved beneath his name.

  Jeremy was particularly taken with the portrait of Johann Rook, the Preemption’s current owner. This man was known for his secrecy and spectacular wealth, and his image carried a severe aspect. He had a full head of shock white hair, and wore a black tuxedo, and rumor went that Johann Rook traveled the world under various aliases, now practicing medicine in Paris, now mining diamonds in Johannesburg, and occasionally intervening in the lives of his Preemption residents. Jeremy, though, studied Johann’s portrait only because, of the four Rooks, this man looked most like Robby Jax, the one soul whose approval Jeremy most craved.

  Am I funny? Jeremy thought, staring at the portrait when the lobby was empty. Deep down, am I?

  Of course, he got no spoken answer from Johann Rook. So, frustrated, Jeremy got drunk at Cherrywood’s with Patrick Rigg.

  “You no longer suck,” said Patrick. “Why not spill your name?”

  “Because,” hissed Jeremy. “Because I’m a fucking mouse, that’s why.”

  Patrick shrugged. Outside of Michael Hye and the other cast members—whom Michael had contracted into secrecy—only Patrick knew Jeremy’s alter ego.

  “You might be a mouse,” said Patrick, “but you’re definitely the man. Everybody loves you.”

  Jeremy scowled. If I were a man, he thought, I’d be drinking vodka in Siberia. I’d be living on tundra, with a beefy wife.

  To cheer his buddy up Patrick dragged Jeremy to Minotaur’s, a basement nightclub in the meatpacking district. Minotaur’s was a labyrinth of halls and dark corners. There were doors off the halls, some of which led to rooms of bliss. Other doors led nowhere. If you got separated from someone at Minotaur’s, you might not see him or her till morning or ever again. The idea, though, was to dabble in as many corners as you could, then follow the maze to its center, a wide clearing called the Forum. In this room were several bars, a high ceiling, a dance floor, and a stage that had revolving entertainment: house on Mondays, blues on Tuesdays, swingon Thursdays, ska on Fridays. Patrick brought Jeremy tothe Forum on a Wednesday. Wednesday was Anything-Can-Happen Night.

  Jeremy groaned again. “Why am I here?”

  Patrick whinnied a high, eerie laugh. He pointed at the stage.

  “Watch,” he said.

  Jeremy watched. A person named Harold read erotica. A girl named Tsunami danced.

  “They suck,” said Jeremy.

  “Watch,” insisted Patrick.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the MC, “please welcome back to Minotaur’s The Great Unwashed.”

  A whoop went up. The lights dimmed. Three young women took the stage, one at the drums, two on guitar. The girl on lead guitar had long black hair combed over one eye in a sickle that hid most of her face. Seconds later she and her band were at it. They played simple, throbbing music, but what got Jeremy’s ear was the singer, the lead guitarist. Her face was hidden by her sickle, and her voice was awful butarresting, like Lou Reed’s. She told lyrics in a simple monotone,then her words rose and cracked and broke your heart. Jeremy felt the hairs on his neck ripple. He turned to Patrick.

  “She’s . . . she’s . . .” Jeremy wanted to say she was terrible. He wanted it to be a compliment.

  “She’s Freida,” said Patrick. “Freida from Hobart.”

  Jeremy’s mouth opened. Patrick was right. It was Freida.

  “She’s great,” whispered Jeremy.

 
“I know,” said Patrick. “I saw her here last month.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Patrick grinned, sly and easy. He knew things about Manhattan that only dead people should know.

  Jeremy found Freida after the show. She remembered him, and shook his hand. They went through a door, bought some drinks, went through another door, sat on a couch.

  “I can’t believe it’s you,” said Jeremy. “You were great out there.”

  Freida brushed back her sickle. “Your hair got gray,” she said.

  “So what do you do with yourself now?” asked Jeremy.

  Freida tapped her guitar. “I do this, stupid. I sing.”

  “Full time?”

  “Well, I’m a saleswoman at Saks. But who cares about that?”

  Jeremy stared at her. He wanted to tell her how supple her thighs looked under her miniskirt, how terrific it was that she was profiting from her awful voice.

  “What are you doing?” asked Freida.

  Jeremy downed some Ballantine. “I’m assistant to the director at— Well, I work at the Lucas Theater.”

  Freida nodded. “The Mouseketeer Club.”

  “Ha,” said Jeremy. He took another look at Freida’s thighs, which, if he remembered right, had a tiny spray of freckles on them up around the hips. He remembered his grandfather, who’d loved whispering to pretty girls. Jeremy glanced around. The room they were in was dark and empty.

  “Freida,” he whispered. He placed his hand on her thigh.

  Freida immediately removed it. “Nope,” she said. She smoothed her skirt, and looked at Jeremy, her eyes all business.

  Jeremy was surprised. He’d heard anything went in the back rooms at Minotaur’s, and he’d once taken this girl quite aggressively. He reached toward Freida’s lap again. Freida slapped his hand easily away. She made a little sound that could have been a laugh, then stood up.

  “What’s wrong?” demanded Jeremy.

  Freida shook her head. “Nothing’s wrong, stupid.” She picked up her guitar and walked away.

  The more Jeremy thought about Freida, the madder he got.

  “She called me stupid,” Jeremy muttered. “Twice.”

  “What are you mumbling about?” asked First Angry Mouse.

  The mice were backstage, in the green room, stretching, getting their heads on straight. The Saturday-evening curtain was rising in five minutes, and rumor had it that Mayor Fillipone was in the audience.

  “Nothing,” snapped Jeremy.

  “Hey, Jax,” said Benny Demarco, “don’t step on my tail during the butter dance.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Well, you did this afternoon.”

  “Bullshit,” snapped Jeremy.

  Michael Hye popped his head in the door. “Places,” he said.

  Jeremy sighed heavily.

  “What’s your problem?” said Michael.

  “Fourth Angry’s pissed off,” said Benny.

  Jeremy gave Benny the finger.

  “All right, all right,” said Michael. “Everyone, relax. We’ve got the mayor out there. Places.”

  The mice scurried out.

  Jeremy moved upstage to the giant cheese grate, took his position behind it.

  The curtain rose. The audience applauded. The mice began their story, strutting and fretting upon the stage. Jeremy remained cloaked in darkness. He didn’t appear until twenty minutes into Act One. Most nights, while he stood waiting, he peeked through the cheese grate and scanned the audience for famous people. Tonight he looked for the mayor. What he discovered instead was a young woman in the tenth row with a sickle of hair across her face.

  “Freida,” whispered Jeremy.

  She wore a crimson gown, and gloves that came up her forearms. Beside her was a handsome man in a tuxedo who had one hand locked around Freida’s wrist. With his free hand, using his fingertips, he stroked her biceps casually, possessively.

  Jeremy scowled. Relax, he told himself. Relax, relax.

  But he couldn’t relax. Not only had Freida called him stupid, she’d laughed at him, laughed at the immense, sexual, Russian darkness inside him. And now here she was, the lead singer of The Great Unwashed, hiding her awful voice behind her crimson dress and her sickle of hair. Freida was a celebrity, apparently, a healthy Manhattan aesthete out on the town with her lover. It made Jeremy furious.

  He rushed into view, two full minutes ahead of cue. The audience exploded with applause. The other seven mice stared at Jeremy.

  Michael Hye stood at the back of the Lucas.

  “Oh, no,” he whispered.

  Jeremy panicked. He squeaked loudly, twice, which was the signal for the butter dance, which wasn’t even part of Act One. Chaos ensued. Half of the mice followed Jeremy’s lead and improvised a makeshift butter dance, while the other mice threw up their paws in protest. The audience laughed.

  Benny Demarco, as First Kindly Mouse, leaned close to Jeremy.

  “You’re ruining it,” he hissed.

  Out of frustration Benny gave Jeremy a kick in the ass. Fourth Angry Mouse responded by shoving Benny into the butter churn.

  The audience roared. The playwright, standing beside Michael Hye, seethed and cursed.

  First Kindly Mouse began chasing Fourth Angry Mouse. The chase rambled through the butter dancers, over the cheese grate, onto the lower portion of the roof, off of which Jeremy flipped Benny. Benny landed on top of two other mice, collapsing them to the floor.

  The crowd was in stitches, even those who’d seen the show before and knew a bungle was under way.

  Jeremy stood panting in his mouse outfit, his face—his human face—gone beet-red.

  Relax, he ordered himself. Relax.

  But, even as he thought this, Jeremy caught Freida’s face in the crowd. Her mouth was thrown open, bucking with laughter. Her teeth seemed to eat the air ravenously as she howled. The mouth of her lover was howling too.

  Jeremy closed his eyes, hard, hating what he was: a funny man. He was funny in a tense, awful way, a way that infuriated him and delighted others. These others, the audience, were delighted even now. They laughed, pointing at him. He couldn’t bear it. He ran to the top of the roof.

  “I have arrived,” hissed Jeremy.

  He put his hands to his mousy head, tried to unscrew it. He cuffed at his face, boxed his ears, yanked at his headpiece.

  “What’s he doing?” squeaked the mice below.

  Michael Hye and the playwright caught their breath.

  “Oh God,” whispered Michael.

  The audience hushed. Fourth Angry Mouse was clawing at his cheeks, apparently trying to tear his own skull off.

  The other mice dashed for the roof.

  “Don’t do it,” squealed Third Kindly.

  “Wait,” barked Third Angry.

  “I have arrived,” warned Jeremy. He swatted stubbornly at his neck, loosening the hinges there.

  First Kindly Mouse was only feet away.

  “Character,” hissed Benny. “Stay in character.”

  “I have arrived,” shouted Fourth Angry Mouse. He popped the final hinge in his neck.

  No, prayed Michael Hye, but it was too late. In a beheading that shocked the masses, Jeremy Jax revealed his feeble self.

  * * *

  * * *

  The Opals

  James Branch discovered the opals in Manhattan, underground. He came upon them in a charmed, perhaps fated manner. It happened like this:

  James was twenty-five, single and shy, with sleepy blue eyes and straight teeth. He worked as an accountant on Wall Street and he lived in the Preemption apartment building. Every evening after work, before taking the train north, James caught a cab to Flat Michael’s, an East Village restaurant where he ate dishes called Bison, or Snipe, or the chef’s specialty, a strange concoction known simply as Vittles.

  Dinner was the one flavorful hour of James’s day. After crunching and tallying numbers from eight to six, he abandoned the abstract and indulged his s
enses. He was not a talker, a drinker, a clubgoer, or an athlete, so his indulgences almost exclusively were meals, and James loved the unpredictable offerings at Flat Michael’s. In the last year he’d feasted there on Possum, Gilthead, Rarebit, Neck, and Rattler. He savored the names of these dishes almost as much as the dishes themselves. For James was a lover of simple detail, a fan of wrought-iron fences and haiku. He felt that the dishes served at Flat Michael’s—in their ingredients and in their names—possessed an Old World, elemental quality of romance, as if some medieval knight-errant had gone hunting and laid the spoils on James’s table. James was also a recovering stutterer, and between the ordering of his meal and its arrival, he would practice his skills.

  “Langostino. Langostino.” Each night, James whispered the title of his forthcoming entrée as if it were an incantation or the name of a woman he hoped might join him.

  “Souvlaki,” whispered James. “Calamari.”

  This quiet habit gave James great satisfaction and, somehow, comfort. It gave an order and a voice to his day, and it lent him a place among the patrons of Flat Michael’s. The restaurant catered to the eccentric and lonesome, so the tables filled quickly each evening, and James tried always to arrive by six. One October night he worked late and reached the restaurant after seven.

  “One-hour wait, so sorry,” said Juan at the door. Juan was James’s favorite waiter.

  “A little purgatory,” chuckled Juan. He was foreign and religious. Purgatory was a word he could pronounce.

  “Even for a regular?” whispered James.

  Juan sighed sadly. “One-hour purgatory, Mr. James. So sorry.”

  James went back outside, wandered the neighborhood. He was a creature of ritual, uninterested in other eateries, so he decided to while an hour strolling. On one corner he listened to a vagrant street singer he knew from the subways, a lanky,black-eyed guitarist named Morality John. Walking on, peering through glass windows, James studied the ferrets at Tandy’sPets, the pastries at Let Them Eat Cake, the leather boxer shorts at Barby’s Bondage. James had never entered this latter establishment, but he stopped before its open doorway to blush at some chain-mail brassieres on a rack inside. It was the kind of store, James guessed, that his housemate, Patrick Rigg, might frequent.