Nathan in Spite of Himself

by Bernie Silver

  I moved down the aisle and grabbed the only pole left with a handhold. Still, the bus’s stops and starts kept me lurching like a drunken sailor.

  Maybe I was tired. Certainly I was tired of being pushed around, not only by little old ladies but by whores, editors, professors and assorted other bullies. The few people who weren’t pushing me around were pushing me to do more—to study more, to party more, to screw more, to more or less become somebody else. The only person who didn’t want more from me was Rachel Solomon, who wanted nothing more to do with me.

  I tried thinking positively for once, reminding myself that at least I wasn’t Winston, living in a state of terror, my every word and gesture assessed for disloyalty. No, I was Nate Rubin, living in a state of ennui. Job, classes, home life, even the Daily Post had become dull and dreary. And was any city, anywhere, more tedious than Detroit? The big three automakers, Ford, GM and Chrysler, called it home, but I called it homely and uninspiring.

  I had to escape before I went nuts. I mean, irredeemably nuts. But escape to where? I didn’t care. Anywhere else would be better than here. I figured going elsewhere shouldn’t be too hard. Hell, I could always follow Wonderman’s lead and join the Navy. I’d sail the seven seas, or at least one of them, visit exotic places and do exotic things, like screw exotic women.

  The swaying bus lulled me into a dream state, during which I visited those places and did those things, especially the ones involving sex. The fantasy continued as I sleepwalked across campus, made my way to English Lit and sat in class half-listening to the instructor rattle on about Big Brother, Oceania, Newspeak and all that.

  Maybe the real world wasn’t as scary as Orwell’s—I said maybe—but it was getting crazier all the time, what with the Army drafting Elvis and a Catholic running for president. At school, students were swooning over Fidel Castro and another bearded guy named Riviera or Givara or something. A few of my former Central High classmates admired Señor Castro, to the point where now instead of yelling “Food fight!” they were shouting "Vive le Revolucion!” Some even planned to toil in Cuba’s cane fields this summer.

  Right. These were the guys who’d flunked Spanish in school and whined about mowing the lawn at home, yet they were going to harvest sugar in Spanish-speaking Cuba. Could the world get any more meshugeh?

  Unfortunately, it could. I, Nate Rubin, who didn’t give a crap about Fidel Castro or the price of sugar in Cuba, was scheduled to interview one of these Castro-loving screwballs after class. Well, “agreed to” may not be accurate, seeing as Gustav Hermann had insisted I do a story on Students for Cuba Libre, which meant interviewing its president, Leonard Klinger.

  “This’ll be a cinch,” he said. “Almost like doing a feature.”

  Uh-huh.

  I knew Lenny Klinger. I’d been in a couple classes with him at Central High and here on campus I’d seen him transform from an ordinary shlump into a swaggering Castro wannabe, complete with scraggly beard, khaki uniform, military boots and a feverish devotion to communism. He displayed his devoutness mostly in speeches delivered on the mall and in pamphlets dispensed from his soapbox. In both, Lenny had announced that Students for Cuba Libre intended to visit Havana in July.

  I, of course, couldn’t wait to hear all about it.

  #

  Señor Klinger arrived on time and greeted me politely, almost deferentially, getting us off to a splendid start. Once settled in the interview room, we both lit up—Lenny a Cuban cigar, I an American cigarette. I started by asking him a few routine questions—age, major, year at school and so on—to which Lenny promptly responded in English with a slight Spanish accent. Nice revolutionary touch, I thought.

  In my mundane Midwest accent I got down to business. “Why is Students for Cuba Libre spending the summer in Havana?”

  “I am glad you asked thees question.” Lenny proved it by ignoring the question and delivering a speech that sounded a lot like Aaron Skolnick’s.

  In sum, SCL opposed capitalism, under which the rich and powerful exploited the poor and powerless to become even richer and more powerful. This exploitation had been especially pronounced in Russia and Cuba, which led to the revolutions of 1917 and 1953-59, respectively. I wasn’t sure how capitalistic those countries had been before their citizens revolted, but I doubted Lenny knew either. So I tried coaxing him into answering my question.

  “Your group hates capitalism and loves communism,’ I said. “I get that. But what’s the purpose of going to Cuba?”

  “Correction. We love the people. All the peoples of all the countries of all the world. Therefore we hate those, such as capitalists, who do them harm, and admire those, such as communists, who give them strength.”

  I knew little about that kind of stuff, through no fault of instructors like Mr. Hinton, who had striven mightily to educate me. But the last time I looked, the capitalists Lenny despised were people too, and Russia’s Stalin, a known communist, had killed more people than Adolf Hitler and Attila the Hun combined. So I prolonged the digression by asking Lenny about this apparent incongruity.

  Before answering he blew several perfect, and I mean perfect, smoke rings, which as you might imagine pissed me off. “Capitalists are pigs,” my guest said after the rings had vanished. “The workers are people. As for Comrade Stalin, his methods were somewhat brutal, but he did what he had to do.”

  “Which was?”

  “Keep order.”

  I couldn’t interpret the look in Lenny’s eyes as he flicked his cigar at the ashtray I’d provided, but if I were to speculate I’d say sly. No matter. My opening question remained unanswered, so I asked it again. Why were Lenny and his people-lovers journeying to Cuba?

  This time he gave me an isn’t-it-obvious look but answered the question anyway. “To demonstrate our solidarity.”

  “I see. When will you arrive in Havana?”

  “On July 4th, to celebrate real independence.”

  “And how will you do that? I mean, how will you celebrate?”

  “By toiling in the people’s cane fields.”

  “Does Señor Castro know about your visit?”

  “Sí.”

  “And does he know you intend to work in the fields?”

  “Sí.”

  “Do you know how to harvest sugar cane?”

  “Sí.”

  I doubted that, so I gave Lenny time to reconsider. He hemmed once and hawed twice before admitting, “After we learn, we will know.”

  Nothing like on-the-job training.

  “Will you get paid?”

  Lenny smiled at this bourgeois question. “We will not accept money for such a privilege.”

  Properly chastised, I moved on. “What’ll you do when you return to the United States?”

  “Excellent question.” I waited for him to evade it but this time he didn’t. “We shall foment revolution in America, the world’s greatest exploiter of the people. If possible we shall do so peaceably, through education and persuasion.”

  “And if that fails?”

  Lenny puffed on his cigar. “We prefer not to think in terms of violence, but we shall do what we must do.” He inclined his head toward me, his eyes aglow with revolutionary fervor. “We shall start slowly and … how you say? … gather steam. No one will stop us as we crush the capitalist swine and wrest power from them. Then there will be no more poor and no more wealthy, no more slaves and no more slave-drivers. Everything equal, from each—”

  “Hold on.” I laid down my pen and wiggled my fingers. “Writer’s cramp.”

  In truth, I was tired of his speechifying so I wiggled a little more for effect. “Look, I’ve got everything I need so I won’t take up any more of your time.”

  “You are sure? You require no more informacion?”

  “No, but thanks for the offer.” I stood. “It was good to see you again, Lenny.”

  “Leonardo. My name is Leonardo.” He got up and pointed at my notebook. “Please use thees name in your story.”


  “Sure thing, Len … uh, Leonardo.” Unable to resist, I added, “I’m not too crazy about my name either. Maybe I’ll call myself Nathan, after that great American patriot … you know, the famous-last-words guy.”

  Lenny stared at me like I’d just escaped from Eloise, but to his credit he remained courteous. “Thank you for writing a story about us. We of the revolution salute you. Unfortunately, most news media are controlled by capitalists who—”

  “Sorry, Leonardo, but I’ve got a deadline to meet. Why don’t you call me when you return from Cooba.”

  Hey, two could play that game.

  But Lenny remained unfazed. “I shall be happy to.”

  We shook hands, and he swaggered out.

  Chapter 35

  Midway through the fall quarter of my sophomore year I began attending bars and skipping classes. I’d remained relatively sober during summer break, mainly because most neighborhood pubs checked IDs. Surprisingly, Dad offered me an occasional glass of schnapps from that bottle in the cabinet, and, unsurprisingly, I snuck a sip—a small sip—from time to time. But other than that I’d behaved myself.

  This exemplary behavior ended once the new quarter got under way and I regained easy access to easygoing bars. Upon returning to campus I drank after classes, then before them, then between them, and finally during them, meaning instead of going to them. The truancy started with the course I hated most, Sociology, advanced to the two I hated a little less, Geology and World History, and graduated to the ones I hated least, English Lit and Advanced News Reporting. In my favor, I seldom missed work, though I detested it almost as much as classes, nor did I skip the Post, which, as I’ve said, had lost some of its luster. I sometimes showed up at Harry’s and the paper in less than mint condition, but neither my boss nor editor seemed to notice.

  And while I’m in confessional mode, I may as well concede I had an ulterior motive for at least some of this drinking, besides a desire to escape my stupid life. After finally getting laid, I’d become more eager than ever to screw a nonprofessional. I mean, someone who wanted me rather than my money or that of a benefactor. Bars seemed a good place to start, since more and more women, besides prostitutes, were hanging out in them. Finding a willing participant shouldn’t be too hard, I reasoned. I merely had to cure what ailed me, meaning my timidity and inhibitions. And maybe a pub could help with them too, seeing as it served the most potent medicine of all.

  Namely alcohol.

  #

  By the time the year-end holidays arrived I’d failed to achieve my goal, mainly because—and I guess I’d ignored this fact—most women who frequented bars did so in pairs and packs. Why they seldom flew solo I couldn’t say, but I wasn’t about to approach a woman while her companions were looking on. In fact, I learned I could no more make contact with women in bars than anywhere else, even if they were alone, and even if I’d put away a gallon of beer. I guess fear of failure was immune to alcohol.

  And that’s where things stood on Christmas Eve as I sat in Barnaby’s, across the street from Sal’s, guzzling beer and trying to decide which of the bar’s tacky decorations was the tackiest. I’d narrowed the field to the singing Santas and dancing elves when a woman dressed to the nines (as Mom would say) walked in, sat on the stool to my right and smiled at me. It was a nice smile that contradicted her eyes, which were blue in mood as well as color.

  Suzie the bartender, a perky Clairol blonde, scampered over to take the new arrival’s order.

  “Cutty, rocks.” The woman shrugged off her coat, one of those mink jobs favored by Grosse Pointers.

  Suzie turned to me. “Another beer?”

  I started to say yes but changed my mind. “Cutty, rocks.”

  I hadn’t tasted liquor, aside from the schnapps, since that night at Nancy Allabeck’s, but maybe it would succeed where beer had failed. I hoped.

  “Same tab?” Suzie smiled knowingly.

  I gave her a smile back for sparing me the can-I-buy-you-a-drink routine I’d never quite mastered.

  “Um … yes … uh-huh.”

  Blue Eyes all but batted her lashes at me. “Why thank you, sir.”

  I told her she was welcome while giving her a closer look. The woman’s most prominent feature, besides her eyes, was a crooked nose. This deformity puzzled me because her fur coat, as well as her silky dress, indicated she could afford a repair job. Then again, who knew why women did what they did, or didn’t do what they didn’t do? Not me for sure. But you already knew that. Instead of dwelling on this mystery I explored Blue Eyes further, observing in particular the mild creases around her eyes, a feature that spoke to me of experience rather than age. Maybe she could teach me a thing or two, which shouldn’t be hard since I knew next to nothing.

  “You like Cutty?” Blue Eyes asked.

  “First time I’ve tried it. Or any whiskey, for that matter.”

  Hell, why not just advertise my lack of sophistication?

  Her lips curved in a smile. “Well whaduhyuh know, an honest man.”

  She’d mistaken stupidity for honesty, but I saw no need to correct her.

  Suzie brought our drinks, and Blue Eyes raised hers. “Salud, um …”

  “Nate.”

  I clinked her glass. “Le’chayim, uh …”

  “Denise.”

  We both drank. The Cutty produced a warm glow that made up for its bitter taste.

  “You Jewish?” Denise asked.

  Uh-oh.

  “Kinda.”

  “Kinda? Now that sounds evasive.”

  “Ethnically, I’m Jewish.”

  “You’re not religious?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  Being born to Jewish parents qualified you as a Jew whether you adhered to the religion or not, which confused a lot of people, including many Jews. It was a matter of ethnicity, but beyond that I couldn’t comment, except to say you often could tell us apart physically from, say, the Irish.

  “Oh well,” Denise said.

  Apparently she’d lost interest in the topic, which was fine with me. I swallowed more Cutty.

  “You circumscribed?” she asked, and I almost spit out my whiskey. “C’mon. Either way won’t keep us from sleeping together.”

  Did she just say what I think she said? Who the hell was this woman?

  “Yes, I’ve been circumcised,” I said. “But tell me something. What do you do, I mean for a living?”

  Judging by the fleeting twinkle in those grim eyes Denise was amused. “You think I’m a prostitute, don’t you?”

  “No, I—”

  “Hey, where’s that honest streak? It’s quite becoming, you know. Along with that baby face of yours.” She sipped her drink. “Tell the truth. You think I’m a hooker because I’m coming on so strong, right?”

  “I—”

  “Right?”

  What the hell.

  “Right.”

  “That’s better.” She twirled her swizzle stick between thumb and forefinger. “Well, I’m not. I happen to like sex, and with The Pill I can have it whenever I want with whomever I want. Comprende?”

  I understood, but I couldn’t believe she was saying these things.

  I said yes anyway.

  “I’ve never done it with someone so young before,” Denise confessed. “Or with a Jew.”

  Our glasses were only half empty but I motioned to Suzie. I needed more fortification.

  “Hit us again,” I said after she arrived. I gulped the last of my Cutty Sark and set the glass down, harder than I intended. Looking a bit miffed, Suzie grabbed it and flitted away.

  Denise peered at me. “You’re not drunk are you?”

  If only. But I was merely high, if that’s not too fine a distinction.

  I shook my head.

  “Good. Because I don’t sleep with drunks.”

  I wondered why not, but instead of asking I helped myself to a Lucky and offered Denise the pack. She extracted a cigarette with two long, manicured fingernails and I lit us both.
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  She took a puff and blew the smoke sideways. “As for your question, I don’t do anything for a living. My ex-husband is an executive with some company or other. I can never remember which one. We don’t have children and I receive a lot of alimony, so I live pretty much as I please.”

  What must that feel like, living as you pleased? I’d lived as everyone thought I should. Gone to school, worked after classes, done my homework, mowed the lawn and taken the garbage out. I’d even gone to bed at a decent hour. In college I’d followed the same routine until I took up drinking. So now I skipped school a lot and went home at odd hours. Big deal. At heart I was still a good boy who obeyed all the rules and did everything expected of him. After that useless editorial on making trouble, I’d resumed not making any. And I mean any.

  I gulped more Cutty, then tuned back in to Denise.

  “… In case you’re wondering,” she was saying, “my husband mistook me for a sparring partner.” She stroked her nose with one slender finger. “I refused to fix this because it annoyed the hell out of him. Now it reminds me never to get married again.” She paused, peering into the distance. “He often used his fists but seldom his penis, no matter what I did to entice him. He made love to his work, if you ask me. Anyway, I guess you could say I’m making up for lost time.”

  “How long were you married?”

  She offered a smile even sadder than her eyes. “It took me twelve long years to decide I’d had enough.” Then she answered my next question before I even asked it. “Aside from living with a bastard, I was comfortable most of the time. He bought me everything I wanted … house, car, clothes, jewelry, tennis lessons. You name it.”

  I decided not to. Instead, I glanced at my glass. Someone must have siphoned off its contents. I waved two fingers at Suzie.

  Denise stared at her own near-empty glass. “I don’t know, maybe I am a whore.”