“Yeah, really ugly,” she said, looking into her whiskey glass, contemplating some former self-image. “I have a picture of when I was eighty-seven pounds if you can believe that—”
Oh I didn’t need to see that, if she didn’t want to show me.
“No, I want to show you.” She went through her purse.
(I really didn’t want to see, but …)
She handed me the photo: “It’s important I show you that. I look like something out of Dachau, huh? All pale and blue—ulllch. I have to show that so I don’t go back that way. I almost did when I came down with herpes.”
Betsy, it’s just not such a big damn deal. Inconvenient and life-adjusting yes, but it’s not leprosy or cancer or deadly or even harmful and all kinds of reports of all kinds of incurable sexual diseases were starting to surface, so, you know, herpes might be the least of our worries.
“They said they’d have a cure anyway,” she said confidently, “by, probably, next year, 1981 or so. They’re right on the edge of finding it. So I read. I read everything I can get my hands on.”
I did too when herpes material came across my path, but I never went out of my way to search for it.
“You know, I’d really like to ask you back to my place,” she began, a nervous laugh, testing my eyes. “But uh my roommate Ginger is there. She’s always there. I’d give anything for her not to be there one night.”
Oh. Well. My place isn’t too far—
“I’d like to see your place.”
No you wouldn’t, I said. Avenue A and Alphabet City—it’s very dangerous and by the time we got there and I accompanied you out it would be so late …
A staredown. Who’ll blink first? She goes:
“Perhaps, like, I could stay over?”
HOMEWARD BOUND.
As we walked down Avenue A from the crosstown bus stop on 14th Street, the street was packed with gangs and drugpeddlers and streetpeople. One punk I recognized (he hung around Ruiz’s store) passed by and sent up a flurry of noises and whistles: “Oooooh mama! Ey, ey, you wanna give me a piece, actorboy? Aiaiaiaiaia…”
Betsy got prim as she walked briskly alongside me: “A lot of scum out on the street tonight. Name me one neighborhood the Puerto Ricans have improved in the United States of America.”
Now now. I live under a very nice Puerto Rican family, I said.
Another catcall from a stoop: “Hey mama, blond mama—ey you wanna present? Ey? I give you some’n to remember me by, ey? Ahaha!”
Betsy: “Macho trash culture—these people are the lowest.”
We got to Ruiz’s Caribbean Foodstore.
“You live in a foodstore?” asked Betsy.
I gave the instructions: Betsy, you’re my cousin. The sẽnora’s a staunch Catholic and I don’t want a lecture, okay? Be nice to the store-people, they’re my landlords. I never bring anybody here so it’s not clean; the place is a hole but all I can afford, and I like it and don’t need to hear about what a pit it is. She nodded without conviction. She was prepared for the worst—I’m virtually positive she’d never been to Alphabet City before. No doubt, I was dispensable too for her. We had come to my place to dispense with each other.
“Buenas noches, Heel,” said a tired Sẽnor Ruiz behind the cash register. “Ah!” he brightened, “you have a lovely friend.”
Sẽnor Ruiz, I introduced, this is my cousin Elizabeth.
“Isabela!” He took her hand politely. I went to the beer cabinet to get two quart bottles, some milk for tomorrow, some eggs. I could do omelettes. Nah, maybe not. We’ll go out for breakfast—
“She ain’t no cousin,” hissed Rickie, loitering in the aisle.
Sẽnor Ruiz heard that: “If Heel say she his cousin, then she his cousin! EY?”
I winked at Rickie who had been silenced. “She still no yo’ cousin,” he whispered to me.
Back to My Place.
“What an apartment, what a neighborhood,” she said, shaking her head.
I warned her, didn’t I?
“This is all the space you have!” she cried in horror, as I opened the door, kicked underwear into a corner, threw a sheet over some piles of clothes and smelly socks—all in one sweep of the room.
How ’bout some more beer?
She looked as if she needed it. “Sure,” she said.
I checked my phone messages. The first one went: BEEP! Uhhhh … CLICK (the caller hanging up). My god was that Emma? It sounded like her uhhhh. Surely … Naaah, I’m hearing things.
“What is it?” asked Betsy.
I thought it was someone I recognized, I said. Moving on, next message: BEEP! Gil, damn you, you are not in existence anymore. I’m going to catch up with you, you know, at the opening. Jim and I have tickets virtually on the front row and don’t tell her I told you but Emma thinks she’ll be there too. You two have to make it up—I mean it. Oh, damn you! Fuck this machine! CLICK.
“Emma?” asked Betsy, smiling, curious.
(Wonder what Emma would think of Betsy? Probably would be unprintable. Emma’s probably playing out her fantasies of rockband groupie with Cock right now, celibacy a distant memory. WHO CARES, Gil—she’s past history, remember?) I told Betsy Emma was no one of any importance.
“Was she the one?”
One who what?
“Gave you herpes?”
No. She’s the one I can never now sleep with because of the herpes. But it didn’t look like it was going that way anyway; and I don’t care anymore etc.
Betsy looked down at the bed. My dirty sheet atop a mattress on the floor, all scruffy and fuzzy with lint in a disordered heap. “You need a housekeeper, Gil,” she said laughing.
Gee, I said, acknowledging all, the maid usually comes in on Friday; Betsy just hit the wrong day.
Laughter. She drank her beer, I drank mine.
When I first touched her, she melted and was eagerly all over me, hurried sloppy kisses, pained anticipatory sighs—I thought she was going to pull my hair out as she took my head in her hands. Then I put a hand on her thigh intending to move upward and click, she froze up as if the power had gone off. She scooted back. I touched her again and she scooted further back, a little grunt as if to say: no, not there. I guess she wanted to keep things above the neckline.
Through kisses, I asked if something was wrong.
“No,” she breathed, “no, no…”
So I touched her again and she seemed to relent—not happy about it, it seemed, but she perhaps conceded that lovemaking was likely to involve anatomy in that general vicinity. She was doing nothing with her hands as I undressed her. In fact as I was trying to undo her dress she didn’t help at all. I sort of like a little SUPPORT at this point, you know? I don’t want to take someone’s clothes off. I mean, there I was pulling on her boots. Lady, give me some help, for christ’s sake … I’ve seen this routine back in college, actually—it’s like the girl is saying: I don’t participate in this, YOU do all the work and therefore I won’t feel guilty in the morning or if something goes wrong it’s your fault; if I lie still enough and do as little as possible, I might be able to persuade myself we didn’t even HAVE sex last night …
She moved her hands chastity belt-like to her waist and I kept tugging on her boot. She laughed a little private laugh. A smile passed across my face, a desire to laugh. That must have been because I suddenly saw myself with this immobile WASP beauty tugging to get her boots off while she went into some trance during which she could allow someone to have sex with her. God I wanted to laugh. What if I left and went to get some beer about here? No, stop thinking like this—you’re going to start laughing, I thought. What if I said: gee, I guess NO ORAL SEX FOR ME TONIGHT … cut it out, cut it out—
“Is something wrong, Gil?” she asked.
NO nothing. Just having a little trouble with the boot. She surrendered and helped me take off her boot, then the other boot, then she went back to lying there, her arms tightly guarding her body, hands clasped over her waist, apparen
tly wanting to remain in her sweater and jacket. This must be what morticians go through, I thought, dressing and undressing a corpse. Well, to hell with the skirt. I’m not taking it off alone. I’ll work on the jacket and sweater.
“Yes,” she said simply as I slipped off her jacket. As I went for the sweater, she resisted. “Could … could I—it’s cold in here a bit … could I keep it on for a while?”
It’s eighty degrees in my room, for god’s sake. Okay, okay, shyness is a rare commodity these days—charming in its way. Not VERY charming, but as I said: we are not expecting perfection in the post-herpes phase of living.
Hmmm, some more foreplay, I guess. If we have some more foreplay perhaps she’ll tear her clothes off, become a creature of passion. Yeah, and I’ve got some swamp land in Florida I bought sometime after I purchased the Brooklyn Bridge. C’mon Gil, a positive attitude. Tactic Two: I lie beside her, holding her warmly, a fond embrace, not sexual but close, tender, the sensitive male, supportive, intimate …
“Something wrong?” she asked meekly in a mid-sex whisper.
No, I said. What? This wasn’t doing anything for her? Well, we were doing all right with the kissing portion of our program, so back to that we went. She was ALIVE again, kissing kissing and more kissing. All right, another go at the big game; my hand slips down her side to her waist and the belt of her skirt. ICE STATION ZEBRA again … all motion stops. Well now. We seem to be darting from yes to no here. How about something in between, Betz, we got a wide range to land in.
Oh hell. Undo the woman’s skirt. Some resistance but at least it’s not France in 1946 like a minute ago. I decided to guide her hand to my jeans. Any interest? Perhaps she’ll keep her hand there … She moved her hand back after a dimension check to its official position, clasped with the other hand above the pelvis. All right, no interest in that particular part of my anatomy, I see. Not a big draw lately. I got an idea. I’ll take off MY clothes and maybe you’ll feel left out. Here we go … shirt is off, girl. Guess what’s next? My jeans. Unbutton them … no slow down, don’t rush, let her think about it. Jeans to the floor. We’ll keep on the underpants, a fresh clean pair brought out for this occasion. And now I slip beside her under the covers. HEEEEEEEERE’s Gil.
“Gil,” she said.
Yes?
“Don’t you want to make love to me?”
Well yes darling, but it seemed you were resisting me.
“I’m just a little shy with someone new, that’s all.”
No need to be shy with me, I said. (I should have added: because we’ll likely never see each other again so what the hell? But I did not add that, bad bad boy …)
She started fumbling with her skirt. Great, we’re on our little way now … Her skirt hit the floor. We both lay there. I guess it’s up to me to start things off here. We were on safe ground with the kissing, as I recall. This time we’ll see where the wandering hands gets us.
Now what does our audience at home think? This lovemaking experience ends with what comment from Betsy (multiple choice):
a) “Gee, that was the best sex I ever had, Gil. You’re a master, a craftsman, I was a block of marble, you were the sculptor.”
b) “I never really knew until this moment what it was to be a woman … I’ll never be frigid and neurotic and withholding again after this night…”
c) “God, wait till I tell all my friends! They’ll be wanting some of this too! You stud you!”
d) “Gil can you get me a taxi, do you think? And uh … well, like, next time I promise to be more into it okay? I’m just, you know, not back to normal yet. It’ll be more fun next time, I promise.”
Some people might have gotten depressed. But not me. I got to have SEX WITH SOMEONE, post-herpes, got it out of my system for a while, solved the moral qualms, and didn’t get emotionally involved with a woman who wouldn’t take her sweater off. A kiss on the cheek, put her in the taxi and BUENAS NOCHES, sẽnorita. And then—I love this feeling—back to one’s own private bedroom, no lump of flesh staying over, heating up your bed, stealing covers, taking space, seeing you look like crap the next morning … alone again! Post-coital aloneness—can’t beat it. I walked into my room and saw I had forgotten to put the milk and eggs away in my icebox. I thought: more eggs for me tomorrow this way. A four-egg omelette and not a two-egg omelette; more Cocoa Krispies for me, a second bowl …
Now okay. It’s obvious Betsy and I aren’t meant for each other. But she sort of got under my skin, that woman. No, can’t say she ever became important to me (or me to her), and I can’t say it was all because of the good sex (because we had—look this up in the almanac, too—the world’s consistently worst sex). Betsy was like a Big Mac. You’re not always in the mood for gourmet food, sometimes you want something easy and convenient and happily trivial. I’m not defending myself very well. All I know is that I wasn’t alone for two years with herpes in New York. Some people end up alone, I didn’t.
Besides, as Emma once said: In sex, it’s the thought that counts. Someone wanted to have it with me and that was more important than the end result, the final byproduct, etc. After a while, even Betsy got a kick out of coming down to Alphabet City. I could visualize her going on at the office about this bohemian on Avenue A. My god, her yuppie master’s-in-English friends would shriek, not there! It’s so dangerous! Ah the adventure of romance, what those durn fool crazy lovers won’t do … She even got to like fried plantains and black beans on rice which I’d cook on my hotplate, following recipes that were on the cans. The more I think about living with the Ruizes, the more memories keep flooding back, and the more I miss them:
I see Sẽnor Ruiz watching soccer games on the Spanish station on his little black-and-white TV behind the counter, ignoring the customers, making incorrect change half-distracted. On Thursday nights, invariably, Iris Chacon’s show came on (lots of rumba, lots of salsa, lots of tongue-rolling rrrrrrrrrrrs and yeeeeha! noises and Iris in the tightest clothes imaginable, shaking and gyrating). I remember coming in to find Señora Ruiz all perfumed, dolled in a tight black frock, a flower in her hair (for some reason, some occasion—an anniversary?) dancing with Señor Ruiz behind the counter, both of them too big to salsa up and down the aisles without bumping things to the floor. He’d take her and spin her about nonetheless and this girlish years-younger laughter would just spill out of her. She tried to fight him off as I came in the door—“No, no, es Heel, Heel…”—but he was not to be put off, hugging her, tickling her a bit, making her squeal and giggle, kissing her neck. On Fridays it was some teenybopper Latin American show that reduced Manuela to screaming frenzies, ridiculed by her brothers who had no interest in the newest teen-idol group of sweet androgynous Puerto Rican boys. They would taunt her, pulling out the plug in the middle of the show and running, leaving her in hysterics while the set took another five minutes to warm up.
I came in another evening to find Sẽnor Ruiz listening to the news. I went to get my usual can of pork ’n beans. When you live in a store you have to be careful about your shopping. Once I got a can of pork ’n beans from another store and Sẽnor Ruiz was the incarnation of despair: “Why you go there? We got beans here, Heel—see?” No, I said, those were red beans and white beans and South American black beans but not pork ’n beans. Sẽnor Ruiz took my can and examined it and said he’d get some pork ’n beans in too. The next week there were three cans of pork ’n beans and I bought one. The next week six, then nine … apparently, he thought I was good for three cans a week. There’s only so much pork ’n beans I want to eat, but because he ordered them and they were piling up I kept buying them. To this day I can’t eat another bite of pork ’n beans. ANYWAY, I was getting my weekly two cans of pork ’n beans and Sẽnor Ruiz was watching the news.
“Hmm, mmmm, mmmm,” he said, shaking his head. “This ees a bad bad theeng for our country, Heel.”
What is?
“The Communists all over the place in Central America. We know what happened in Cuba with Castro.
The communists are trouble, trouble. I am not a Communist, Heel.”
No, Sẽnor Ruiz.
“Thees man, thees Carter—no ees a good president.”
The TV was showing pictures of the Sandinistas celebrating their victory of the deposed tyrant Somoza. I pointed out to Sẽnor Ruiz that Somoza was a worse man, a bad man, a dictator.
“Bah,” he waved me aside, “you still no want the Communists down there. They no give up until they in the United States. I am not a Communist, Heel. I am an American.”
I NEVER like to hear someone rag on and on about how left-wing and lazy the Hispanic people are in America. Yeah, okay, some are but there is a sizable percentage of Latin American macho voters for whom a Ronald Reagan is still short of the mark. Somewhere mixed up with gratitude for being in America (and always the lowest parts of it too—the love Sẽnor Ruiz felt for Alphabet City!) is a sense that Americans don’t do enough to look out for themselves, don’t play tough enough. You’d expect socialism to rise from the filthy streets of Manhattan but it never has and I don’t think it ever will. They don’t have any interest in changing the game plan; they want to play the capitalist game, have been looking forward to the fruits of it, and having come prepared to scrape out an existence they are not going to subsidize anybody they don’t have to. Slum-dwelling right-wingers are a phenomenon NO ONE writes about in America; people are absolutely convinced they don’t exist. But you go live in a slum and ask around, you may see this too.
I was in the store when Rickie got five dollars from his father. This was something to do with a good report card.
“Now you go give half to your mama, right now—go,” he urged Rickie with a mild push. Rickie went up and did as he was told.
As I was there, looking on, Sẽnor Ruiz spoke to me next, explaining the division of spoils: “When I give them money, when they get money from work, when their abuela send them money I say go, go give some of it to your mama. She save it for you one day. I don’t care what they give, as long as they give something. One dollar is not much but you give 20¢, 30¢ to your mother. You do this out of respect. You never too good to give some of it to your mother, yes? They always do, they always give. If I find they get money and no give some to their mother, they know I keel them so they always do.”
Emma Who Saved My Life Page 29
