Emma, you and your poetry, me and my acting—what are we trying to do? We can’t top this city. We poor would-be artists can’t compete with or improve on the rich density of human experience on any random, average, slow summer night in New York—who are we trying to kid? In the overheard conversation in the elevator, in the five minutes of talk the panhandler gives you before hitting you for the handout, in the brief give-and-take when you are going out and the cleaning lady is coming in—there are the real stories, incredible, heartbreaking and ridiculous, there are the command performances, the Great American Novels but forever unwritten, untoppable, and so beautifully unaware.
“You know the problem with that pimp,” said Emma as we trekked back across town, skipping rapidly by the maze of dark alleys and dangerous warehouses of lower Manhattan. “He fell in love with her, and I bet she fell in love with him. That messes everything up. You can’t use each other properly once you get love in there.”
You really think love messes everything up?
“Sure do. That’s what’s so compelling about it.”
Since it’s 4:30 a.m. and we’re bleary drunk and tired and most anything would be allowed, I slip my arm under hers and pull her closer.
“I never minded love, Gil, you know that.”
Just the sex.
“Right. The love business is all right, it’s the sex bit that stinks.”
Well she didn’t have to worry about me (if the sex warning then was for my benefit). With herpes, there was no way that Emma would sleep with me now—in fact, herpes sort of settled the whole issue. I didn’t ever see any reason for telling Emma I had herpes—what was the point? Emma and I were now friends, just-friends for life. And I was glad to have it all settled—no more secret longings, no more master plans, no more jealousies, no lies, no fuss no muss. God was in his heaven (somewhere on the Upper East Side, in the sixties) and everything was in its place: Gil and Emma, best friends.
5:10 a.m. Good night Emma.
“Yeah, seeya … when are you coming by again?”
All the time, whenever I can, of course. Oh yeah, two weeks from now: Lisa’s party. Don’t forget.
Emma with distaste corrected, “Lisa and Jim’s party.”
We gotta go.
“No we don’t.”
EMMA. This time we do, and you know it.
“You should talk. You didn’t have to go to that funereal wedding reception.” I had been in Bermuda Triangle back then, so I had had an excuse.
“I guess I’ll go if you go.”
Put it on your calendar and don’t forget.
In the intervening days, I asked Jasmine around to the theater to discuss her music for Chambers (a production to open in October). The theater, actually, was only a warehouse. What we’d done was build 25 sets connected by doorways; little rooms. We’d painted arrows between all these little rooms so the audience member could find his way through. Now, we gave each audience member a cassette recorder—one of those portable small ones you wear around your neck with ear-phones—and he got to go alone through all 25 rooms, four minutes a room, about ninety minutes to do the whole thing. On the tape there was a little beep to tell you when to move on to the next room—any fool could find his way through this. Each chamber was a complete world. You’d enter a living room and the furniture would be overturned, the lamps broken, etc., and on the tape would be the sound of a family fight. You were free to go and touch things, move things, explore. We wanted Slut Doll to provide music for some of the horror chambers—Jasmine had a tape collection like you wouldn’t believe.
She had a collection of cassettes with every imaginable kind of sound on it—executions, murders, massacres, anything you could name that was macabre and unusual. One cassette was marked BLACK BOX. “That’s from a plane crash, the pilot’s last words and all. That thing out in San Diego where the two planes hit and the pilot knew he was a gonner.” Here was a tape marked RAPE. “There was this security service that had videotapes of elevators and hallways in this apartment complex, and this woman got raped while the night-guard was asleep, in the elevator. The tape recorded not only the visuals but the sounds and screams and his cursing, his humiliating her. Maybe for the Pink Room.”
The Pink Room is so innocent-seeming, though, I said. We had a room that was dainty and pink and Valentine’s-day mushy.
“That’s right,” she said, brightening. “I was thinking of playing music-box, tinkly childlike music and then fading in the sounds of this woman being raped. I mean the whole defenseless-woman stuff, dress the little girls in pink, ribbons for the hair stuff starts in the crib, and it leads to woman as victim. There’s a connection.”
Yeah, I guess … What was this tape? I gave her one marked J.J. 1978.
“That’s a goodie,” she said eagerly, slapping it into the cassette player: There was the sound of a man singing, maybe yelling, a high-pitched battle whoop and thousands, it sounded like a stadium full, of people joining him; it echoed and reverberated and rang dreadfully. A man’s voice sang forth above the din: No there was no man be like that man … no man at all—we had not seen his like nor again shall we see him. If they come for us … (the crowd noise nearly drowned him out) … better that we die for this man than go out among the world … (enthusiastic applause, the screaming, the held note eerily reemerges to full strength).
“It’s the last recording made of Jim Jones before he and the 900-some of his followers committed the mass suicide down in Guyana. Creepy, huh? But get that noise they made, all of them together, in some kind of trance. I’m going to use that noise, get a tape loop of it over and over, for the Black Room.”
How did she get hold of that thing?
“I have a friend who gets this stuff. I used some of that on my last album. I’ve got all kinds of stuff here…” She rummaged through a cassette carrying case. “Manson interviews, Vietnam atrocities, gas chamber noises, South American torture accounts—”
Right. Have you and Nicholas agreed about the Blood Room yet?
“No. He wants me to use like a heartbeat sound. I mean, Gil. It’s like boring, a clice, you know? We oughta use this rhythm instead.” She slapped another tape in her tape-player. It went ka-dump CRACK ka-dump CRACK ka-dump CRACK …”
“It’s from a hanging,” she said. “Those guys who up in Idaho went around forcing women driving alone in cars off the road, raped them for hours, tortured them—”
Yeah, okay, I remember. Back a while.
“Yeah, well they got the noose and they made a tape of it officially for last words and all. Anyway, the ka-dump sound is where they go through the trapdoor, the crack when the rope goes taut. I isolated it and bounced the tape back and forth until I got about four minutes of it, then spliced it into a permanent tape loop. One of my songs on Innocent Victims is set to that rhythm.”
Yeah, all right. I’ll get Nicholas to put a noose in that room.
Emerging into the light, leaving the Soho Center every afternoon, escaping this temporary world of corpses, executions, death rattles and suffering screams, was strangely therapeutic. I think I see why Emma got along with Jasmine. After a dose of Jasmine each day, life seemed positively JOYOUS, one gave thanks for every moment that didn’t include war crimes, torture or psychopathic activity.
Then it was the Saturday afternoon of Lisa’s party. I was a good boy, got up on time and everything, and made my way to Emma’s. I’ll admit this: Lisa wasn’t as fun as she used to be and neither of us were crazy about her husband Jim who was the kind of advertising guy people who have no sense of humor find funny. But I still liked Lisa. Emma was weirder about it—there was a deep resentment of Lisa for something. It was as if she had never forgiven Lisa for growing up and leaving the Apartment of the Gods years ago.
I buzzed for Emma on the street.
“Gil? What are you doing here so early?”
I KNEW IT. You’ve forgotten Lisa’s party. Now get up and get dressed—
“I can’t go.”
> Would you please let me in so we can discuss this? She buzzed me in and soon I was in her apartment with Janet, half-awake, milling about in the kitchen trying to make us coffee.
“I’ve got to do phone sex this morning. I’m committed,” said Emma. “It’s a call from Murray. I can’t refuse Murray.”
Murray the big tipper. Emma, I told her, I’m not going to this thing without you—I need moral support.
“I’ll show up later, I’ll—”
No you won’t. You won’t show up at all and I’ll have to lie for you. Do your phone sex and let’s get out of here.
Janet emerged from the kitchen with a yawn. “I spent five minutes hunting for the coffee. I take that as a sign I oughta go back to bed.”
“It’s in the broom closet, like always,” said Emma, as the phone rang. “You don’t think it’s Lisa do you?” Emma picked it up. It was Sheila, chief switchboard operator for Sunshine Entertainments, Inc. “Yeah,” said Emma, “patch him through but we gotta hurry, Sheila. I got a date I can’t miss at noon.”
Emma arranged the TV so it faced her. “Jasmine said that Murray called her four separate times during the Democratic Convention.”
Murray had this thing for public events. He liked to fantasize he was out there at the conventions, the U.S. Open, the State of the Union Address, the Indianapolis 500. He liked to pretend he was in the stands with a beautiful woman talking dirty to him. Emma’s TV set was warmed up. I turned up the sound, and put it on the channel Emma told me. It was Jim and Tammy Bakker on the PTL Club. This morning they were talking to a group of severely retarded people.
Tammy: You know, Jim, I just can’t tell you how strongly I think that these are very special special people …
Jim: That’s right, Tammy Faye. Come on over here and join us as the graduating class of the Mecklenburg Center for Special Education sings us a song … (the young adults wave her on over, poor things, spastic and palsied)
Tammy: You know, Jim, I don’t think of these poor people as retarded at all—it’s WE’RE who’re retarded, you know? (tepid applause) I think of these young people as Angels Unaware.
Jim: Angels Unaware, yes, yes … (more applause) Now come over here and join us, Tammy.
Boy with thick glasses, slobbering: God doesn’t make mistakes.
Jim: Glory Hallelujah! Did you hear that Tammy?
Tammy: I couldn’t understand him, Jim, what—
Jim: God doesn’t make mistakes! No he doesn’t! God doesn’t make mistakes! (enthusiastic applause)
“That woman is made up,” said Emma, shaking her head in disbelief, “like the Whore of Babylon.”
Surely, I said, your caller doesn’t want to use this segment.
“Oh god, they’re singing now; please turn that down.”
I did. Silence.
“I hope Lisa isn’t going to be too upset. There’s no way we can make this little affair by twelve. Oh look, the song is over.”
The phone rang.
Emma picked up the phone. “Hellllooooo,” she breathed. “Why hello, Murray. You remember me, don’t you? Where are we today? Oh yes, how exciting…” She gave me the cue, I turned up the volume for her:
Tammy: (near tears) And you know, Jim, I prayed, I PRAYED to God to save Choo-Choo, I said, Lord, Lord, don’t let Choo-Choo die, he’s been a good little puppy for … for …
Jim: Now Tammy, this subject always upsets you and—
Tammy: LET ME FINISH, Jim, I was getting to the point where I realized that everything has its purpose in the world. And maybe, yes (sniveling) yes, maybe Choo-Choo did scratch the furniture and spray the curtains—you remember, Jim, the time when—
Jim: Yes honey, but now let’s go on—
Tammy: I’M STILL GOIN’, Jim, and I realized that maybe it was Choo-Choo’s time …
Emma suppressed a smirk. “Yes Murray, it’s true, we’re sitting just two rows from the front. Isn’t it exciting? What if they come over to do an audience participation segment … maybe we’ll get lucky. I see you have a raincoat in your lap … I know what you’re up to, and Murray we’re going to get caught … All right, all right, just so you won’t yell out, I’ll do what you say, I’ll slip my hand under the raincoat and … oh Murray, you’re so incredible! This mammoth pulsing strapping…”
Tammy: (going out into the audience) Hello hello, do you like this dress? Yes it is nice isn’t it? I wish I could get my hair to do what yours does—where ya from? Ada, Oklahoma? A lonnnng way from home! (mild applause) What brings you to Heritage Village? Hm? Isn’t that sweet, Jim! They get one week of vacation and they decided to come here to see us! Of course, many people don’t know about our extensive amusement and Christian-oriented theme park here at Heritage Village … you’re camping? Yes, by the Sea of Galilee—isn’t it lovely there?
“You’re unzipping your fly, I just know you are, you bad bad boy!” Emma went on, with an eye to her stopwatch. “And what if Jim and Tammy see what you’re doing? What Murray? Oh you are so bad! I have no choice but to get this over with as fast as possible … OH MURRAY, I scarce had imagined…”
Tammy: How old are you? Nine?
Pale, freckled dumb-looking white boy: Yeah.
Tammy: Have you been going to our classes for young folks?
Boy: Yeah.
Tammy: This week is Crucifixion Week at Heritage Village and in the classes and presentations we’ve been concentrating on the crucifixion. Do you know who was crucified for you?
Boy: No.
Tammy: Jesus Christ, that’s who! Do you know what crucifixion is? (silence) Well, I’ll just sit right down here on the steps and tell you, how’s about that? (silence, distracted looks) Give me your hand … yes, that one is fine. Now have you ever played in your daddy’s basement with hammers and nails? You know how sharp nails are, don’t you? Here, hold out your hand, honey—now can you imagine having a nail put right through your hand, just hammered into you till it came out the other side? No, I see you can’t …
“Oh Murray, you’re so bad!” Emma continued, looking up at the set. “Oh I know she’s coming over here, Murray. My god, the ruin, the disgrace, they’ll say you’re a pervert, a sick degenerate, worthless slime, Murray…” Emma winked at me, as if to say that this was doing the trick. “Ah, here she comes, my god, she’s in our aisle, she’s going to talk to you, she’s coming, she’s coming, she’s here … ah, but lookee here, Murray—what a mess you’ve made!” Emma gave me the thumbs-up sign.
Tammy:… and it’s important that you keep those contributions coming in or we won’t be able to serve you as we have, and we just love doing the Lord’s work, serving our television audience, and our audience is rising Jim, rising and reaching new people each and every broadcast …
“Bye Murray,” cooed Emma. “You’re so bad but you know I love to meet with you, and you know I’ll be there for you next time. The Carter-Reagan debates, right, right … Au revoir…” She gently set the phone down, then turned to me: “Let’s haul ass, we’ll never make it by noon.”
We ran three blocks north and slammed our money down for the L train, which on weekends is slightly more nonexistent than on weekdays. Silence, wait, anxiety, smells, time ticking away. Eventually the train creaked into the station taking us two more stops to the transfer to the 1-2-3 lines for the West Side. The two platforms were connected by one of New York’s longest tunnels, over a block in length—Emma called it the “Rapeway,” and nothing could induce man or woman to make this deadly connection at night. The usual Saturday morning wino dregs, addicts, bums with nowhere to sleep, were there—dodge the urine here, skip lightly by the impossibly colored pool of vomit there … then finally, we stood waiting for the 1 train. And waiting. And waiting.
“It’s 12:20 already. I’m calling to say we’ll be late,” Emma offered.
Nah, Lisa knows us, don’t be nervous. But we were nervous, and we couldn’t stop ourselves.
We went past the doorman, into the elevator (which took forever), do
wn the hall (“This hallway smells nice,” Emma said. “Hallways aren’t supposed to smell nice”) and rang the doorbell. We could hear some vague partying noises inside, like bird-chirping sounds.
“Get ready for the performance of your career,” Emma said out of the side of her mouth.
The door opened and it was Lisa, thinner, paler, older than we had ever seen her, but beaming and happy: “Oh you’re late, you’re late, you’re late!” A kiss on my cheek, then one on Emma’s. “Emma you look so good, so so good.”
Emma shrugged: “I look like shit.”
Jim approaching from the right: “It’s the Emma! And it’s the Gil! Stars in our midst, stars in our midst.”
How you doin’, Jim?
“Great, great. You know me. But now the piece de ŕesistance … what we’ve been waiting for…”
Lisa lightly slapped our arms. “We told Phoenicia to wait to bring her out—we were waiting on you!”
To the oohs and the aahs of all the assembled guests, out came Phoenicia, this big kindly black woman, with Jim and Lisa’s one-month-old daughter. “Heeeeere’s BAY-BEEEEEE … woah woah woah,” Lisa looked like a grouper swimming through the crowd to intercept Baby: “… woah woah woah, here’s Mah-mah, you know your mah-mah don’t we, huh, don’t we?” Lisa took Baby’s hand and waved it hello to the guests who were still cooing over the piece de ŕesistance.
“There’s Dah-dah,” said Lisa, aiming Baby at Jim. “Recognize your dah-dah? Hmmm? Woah woah woah…”
Jim poked a wiggling finger into Baby’s stomach: “Hatcha hatcha hatcha … whoa-ho-ho, Baby says don’t do that! Baby says hey man, what are you doin’ to me, huh old man? Ha ha ha, Baby says who are these people?”
“You know Mah-mah don’tya honey, my little honey honey honey?”
I look at Emma. Emma looks at me. Other guests before us slip in to see the baby. I look at Emma, and Emma looks at me, again. “I want to end my life,” she said distinctly.
“Heeeeeere comes Bay-bee-Bay-bee-Bay-bee…” said Lisa, lifting the baby over the heads of the throng, flying it towards us. I felt myself back away. Like, what if I dropped it? Be a different kind of party then, wouldn’t it? Oh that Gil, he’s such a downer at parties, like that time he dropped Lisa and Jim’s baby …
Emma Who Saved My Life Page 34
