To compound his frustration, the Galen issues about quitting school and getting an immediate film opportunity riled his own fragile bearings; was his compass indeed set on the appropriate course? Was this business of entertainment, adulation, glory, fame—was this really his own, authentic, personal goal? Parental fiats were certainly all consuming, painful to challenge, as if to do so would be the height of disloyalty.
Now, in his adulthood, Harry believed he needed to consult with someone, re-examine his thrust, dig deeply into his own desires and see where they would point him.
The closest thing to a pal was, amazingly—considering his shyness around them—a woman. When he started college, there was a bespectacled, dark-haired, clearly intellectual young female in one of his classes, by name of Katy Bloom. He was drawn, at once, to her iconoclastic attitude, a sardonic quality that emerged when addressing cultural deceptions, or what she might consider insubstantial or misguided orthodoxies. In Miller’s play, The Crucible, Katy had a key role as the Minister’s teenage niece, Abigail Williams, and Harry a smaller part opposite her. The two became moderate friends, absolutely no sexual agenda between them, she an empathic listener with a good sense of humor, he quietly entertaining and supportive of her ambitions.
Though he had not let her in on his family conundrums, they had an easy way of communicating, no hyperbole, not a hint of braggadocio about either of them. She was not in his present classes, but they would get together for ice cream every couple of weeks. One afternoon, with his motivation flagging and his sense of martyrdom on the rise, he decided he would speak with Katy.
First on his “to resolve” list was what to do about Juliet. Surely, Katy, with her womanly perspective, would have a better take on the knotty situation then he. As he saw it, just about anyone would.
There was an ice cream parlor still operating at that time, now replaced by Haagen Daaz and Baskin Robbins, named Will Wright’s. They served ultra-rich ice cream, never over-frozen, often topped with savory roasted almonds, their portions moderate but appetizingly wicked in chocolate or other popular flavors.
It was Harry’s establishment of choice when he would meet with Katy, and it delighted her, since she had a spontaneous appreciation for elegant food of all kinds.
“So,” she said in her viola-pitched voice, not low enough for a cello, nor high enough for a violin, “what nefarious thoughts are behind that frown?”
“You see a frown?”
“I see disturbance.” She got dramatic and tacked on, “An internal inferno struggling to burst free, a vast cauldron of magma about to lay siege to its outer protective mantle!”
“You see all that?”
“I’m being a ham, silly. But, something is bothering you.”
“Yep. I’m bothering me. You know, Katy, I’m twenty-one and I don’t even know who the hell I am.”
“I suspect a lot of guys don’t. Women aren’t much clearer, maybe a little bit because they have mothers to emulate. Most men, when they were growing up, hardly knew what their fathers did, probably only saw them for an hour or two in the evening.”
“My parents, well, I know this may sound dramatic, but they defined me. As a teenager, I was exactly who they wanted me to be. Never even thought about it much. Whatever slant they put on things I accepted, no protests, hardly a recognition of what it meant. I don’t know if I want to be a damned actor. I’m not even sure I want to be famous.”
He stopped, enjoyed a spoonful of the wicked chocolate ice cream with a couple of roasted almonds, and shrugged. “I mean, what’s the purpose of all this study and work, if I don’t care that much about the end product?”
“I didn’t hear you say you didn’t care about it. I heard that you weren’t sure. Hell of a difference. Take me, for example, I’m not going to knock the panting, open-mouthed Hollywood boys off their perch with my matchless beauty or my to-die-for bod. If I want to go anywhere in this business, I have to refine my skill, develop something unusual in the way I sell a character or interpret a line. That’s a challenge, and there is a real payoff for becoming excellent at something. You’ve got a great look, and you’ve shown that you can handle intricate dialogue, which means you’re half way there already.”
“That’s too optimistic for my view of it. Anyway, you do have a super look, you’re pretty, you have a great…nose, your eyes are deep, there’s something wholesome about you. I’ve never gotten a clear look at it, but I’ll bet your bod, as you call it, is bitchin’.”
Katy laughed. Her laugh was unguarded, a full-throated jubilation that bounced around a room. Harry liked it. It was the opposite of her low-key appearance. She wasn’t glamorous, he admitted, but he thought of her as an attractive woman, and, if he weren’t so bonded to her as a friend, he might, in his inexperienced view of things, like to explore her—or any appealing woman—in a more intimate way. Her laugh always lifted his mood: it was as if she were celebrating some internal epiphany with an external display he could tune into, sharing whatever revelation she was having.
“I’ll tell you, buddy, you and I have a mutual appreciation, and it’s more for what we say than how we look. But, all that aside, there comes a time when we turn inward and ask the hard questions. Where am I going, how do I get there, what do I want from life, and who the hell am I?”
He grinned. “How did you get so smart in twenty years?”
“I’m already twenty-one—had a birthday three weeks ago.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“What’s the point? I didn’t want any presents, and I hate it when people go gooey over a cake and candles. I mean, it’s okay if you’re five or six, but not at my age.”
“Did anybody acknowledge you coming of age?”
“You mean like family? Nah. I don’t have much family. My mother is in New York, adores the brassy Big Apple life, pays me little attention. My father died when I was eleven, and that’s how I’m here, a trust fund that covers my tuition and gives me a monthly allowance. When I hit twenty-one another segment kicked in so that I can access funds if I want to buy a house or go to grad school. Those are the parameters: for tuition or real estate only.”
He felt a sudden surge of compassion, a protective feeling for this so very present and reliable friend. “I hope you aren’t lonely.”
“I have some girlfriends, I have my classes, and then there’s you. All in all, I keep busy. Hey, how did this get sidetracked onto me? I thought we were trying to help you get a handle on your future.” She consumed a daub of whipped cream, looked up and tilted her head as if to say, “Your turn, little brother; I’m waiting.”
“I have another question I want to ask you,” he said, unaware of her intense focus on him. “It has to do with Juliet. I hope you won’t think I’m some kind of lustful pervert, but she actually offered to…get it on with me. That was a few months ago, right after her mother was killed. I didn’t think it was right so I retreated. I’m embarrassed to talk with you about it, but I think of her a lot, and what I don’t understand is why she’s never repeated the invitation. I mean is that what women do? Once they’re turned down, give up on the person who spurned them?”
Katy quashed an urge to let loose with another of her earthy laughs, swallowed an eerie feeling of irritation that she didn’t quite understand, and said, “There is no universal behavior about what women do. Some women do some things, others different things. From what I know of Juliet, she could be waiting for an invitation, could be thinking you aren’t interested.”
“Yeah. Could be. I’m not very forward. Afraid I’ll get shot down.”
“That much I know about you. But, nothing will get done if you sit on your hands and wait.” She paused, as another thought—perhaps wishful thinking on her part—kicked in, and said, “Unless you may be fooling yourself. All that imagined passion because you’re young and horny.” She said this with a wry smile, hoping to take the edge off any criticism.
He didn’t catch the insult and answered seriousl
y, “I am. That’s the trouble. Young and horny and really mixed up.”
“Like most men.”
“You think?”
“I know.”
“So what do I do?”
“Get clear!” she said with too much force, so that Harry’s head snapped up and he stared at her.
“Yeah. Right. Get clear.”
“Sorry. I got carried away.”
“No, that’s okay. You’re right on. But, I don’t know how to do that.”
“You take a risk. If it doesn’t work, you learn from it. Life goes on.”
For a long moment he gazed intently at Katy, as if seeing something he had never seen before, a richness of texture, wisdom, bold insights unusual for so youthful a person, her words clattering around in his brain, searching for a place to land. Then, without conscious thought, he began to dig at his ice cream, spoonful after spoonful, almond after almond, stuffing his mouth, obsessive in his actions, unaware of anything around him—the other patrons noisy and self-absorbed, a faint aroma of brewing coffee, the curved and ostentatious legs flooring the quaint round tables—in this fancy dessert parlor. In some nondescript way, he experienced himself in that moment as empty, had an image of himself slumped over his stylish table like a phantom person, barely visible, shadowy, without substance. He could think of nothing to say.
NINE
H is moods were ephemeral, which was a good thing. It was as if some inner energy, perhaps an innate drive toward health, would erupt like a bountiful fountain, facing off his demons and routing them with a fresh spray of hope. Somehow, down deep, he knew he was a good person, but he did not quite get what form that needed to take. Inexplicably, though he was amply rewarded for his class efforts, he felt as if his life was not working.
Katy was like a flashlight illuminating his dark places. He treasured her brash yet extraordinarily honest revelations. He placed her on a pedestal in his quality world, his definition of her, his expectations from her, ordered, logical and immutable. She unequivocally qualified as friend.
The rather slanted advice from Katy, that nothing changes if one doesn’t do something, was perhaps the strongest message that remained from their last ice cream encounter.
At the next class meeting, Harry approached Juliet with a thought-out strategy, shaky as one might expect from him, but nonetheless a real-life agenda.
“Hey, you going to see Evita on campus next week?”
She looked at him with a quizzical smile. “And you are asking for what purpose?”
“Oh, I want to go, and I thought if you were going, maybe we could…”
He paused and she filled in with, “Harry, you want a date!”
“Well, in a way, yeah, I mean after all, we are classmates and drama majors, and we’re supposed to go to live theater as part of our class assignments, and that is theater, and…”
“You want a date,” she declared, removing the doubt. “That’s okay. I’ll go with you. You want me to get the tickets, or will you?”
It couldn’t be that easy, he thought, but she had, after all, propositioned him, so there must be some kind of attraction operating here, unless, his all-too-present insecurity warned him, Juliet did that same thing with men indiscriminately, which he had no way of knowing without asking self-revealing and embarrassing questions.
“I’ll get them. I walk right by the auditorium every day. Any preference about orchestra or balcony?”
“Orchestra if they are in the first dozen rows, otherwise the first balcony, where we can look down on the whole stage without strain.”
“You got it, except if it’s already pretty much sold out. Then we’ll have to settle for what’s left.”
“Don’t you have pull? Like know somebody? After all, you are a star drama student.”
He was flattered, felt a warm sensation that she considered him a recognizable person on campus, but in truth, since he was such a loner, he had cultivated no connections to facilitate getting good theater seats.
Lamely he said, “You probably have more pull than I do.”
“Step up to the plate, Kevin Costner. Flex your muscles. Are you famous or not?”
His smile was apologetic, a sense of inadequacy gripping him as if a pair of monster hands had him by the shoulders, holding him down. He wanted to shout, “I’m no Kevin Costner! I’m a beginner, a student. No, I’m not famous. Maybe never will be. I only want to go out with you, get back to that evening in your apartment, return to that moment, re-visit your offer. Don’t play with me. I can’t handle sarcasm. Don’t you see how insecure I am?”
All he managed to say was, “In our class I’m okay. Some people admire my work. Like I admire yours. I’m sorry, but I just don’t have any influence in the bigger world out there.”
“How silly. I’ll bet you do. You haven’t tried, that’s all. Some day, when you fire up the courage you’ll surprise yourself.”
Maybe she was right. Maybe he was keeping himself down, a fearful young thespian finding his identity in make-believe, unwilling to face the challenges of everyday, bona fide discourse.
All at once he was aware of the two compelling feelings that nagged at him whenever he conjured up Juliet Marsh: a penetrating hunger for her as a physical and sexual entity, and a discomfort with her vexatious style, a style that, to him, relished the tormentor’s role. Yes, another role; she was so good at roles.
He took her taunt as a challenge and answered, “You’ve got a point there. I’m going to work on it.”
He revved up enough courage to lean forward and touch her on the arm. “I’ll do my best with the tickets.”
To his astonishment, she leaned toward him and kissed him on the cheek, saying, “You’re a good guy. Don’t pay any attention to my barbs.”
In the dimly lit auditorium, Harry was flushed with excitement, Juliet seated beside him, her hand periodically brushing his arm, her cross-legged foot intermittently kneading his leg, their conversation brisk, condensed, as if purposefully on her part. Bright as she was, her monosyllabic quips were witty and, to Harry, entertaining. He wished he had the same capacity to beguile a listener with clever repartee.
As the Lloyd Weber music began to soar—he liked it a lot, even though aware that his professor and other critics thought it repetitious, true musical aficionados clearly appreciating Sondheim’s intricate creations more, though often they could not remember them once the show was over—Harry found his passions stirred, and not by the music. This symbol of carnal desire seated next to him was enough to make any man flush.
He began to squirm, not lost on Juliet as she sneaked a look at him in the sparse light. Finally, in the complete darkness before the curtain, Juliet reached out and patted Harry directly on his groin and whispered into his ear, “Down boy. Time for that later.”
Other than with pornography, literary descriptions of lovemaking are often gratuitous, a gimmick to hook in a listener or a reader, filled with detail, soupy with erotica. This event was less than lascivious, pleasing for Harry, his first such escapade, and satisfying for Juliet, delighted at her man’s consideration of her desires.
When they reached her flat, she guided him to her bedroom, a surprisingly low-key affair, muted in tone, devoid of frills, tastefully decorated in shades of blue, her bedspread adorned with a half-dozen furry animals and one faded yellow, worn replica of Big Bird from Sesame Street.
They did not tear off each other’s clothing, nor did they grope and paw frantically on the way to the bed. The tableau was orchestrated slowly and stylishly by Juliet, her superior experience in such instances earning her the lead, with Harry content, in fact deliriously eager, to grant her that authority.
Aggressive and acerbic as she could sometimes be, once the actual lovemaking began, Juliet seemed to surrender to her man’s fervor. Whether it was a calculated role or not, Harry could not know, but he did know that it felt delicious, his fantasies unfettered at last, her submission allowing him free range. When it was over, finally, t
he two lay side-by-side, out of breath, mellow, coming down the way an audience does as their applause dies out, and he found himself smiling broadly: a milestone in his young life accomplished.
For a fleeting instant, he wondered about love. Was there love in this experience? They call it lovemaking, but was there really love involved? Despite all his reading of stage literature, he did not believe he really knew what love was, at least the kind of love between non-related people. He felt pulled toward Juliet, the sexual event towering and clamoring to be repeated, if not at once, as soon as feasible, but whether it was more profound than a sexual event, he did not know.
He had read about lust—remembered President Carter once admitted he had lust in his heart—and in this moment of tender recovery, he said to himself that such a powerful episode in his life was probably that, an exercise in lust. But since he was naïve about the definitions of these emotions, he dismissed the thought with a resolve to relive the event, when Juliet was agreeable, whatever it was called.
An hour later, as he was leaving, Juliet, in her discomfiting nakedness, accompanied him to the door, causing him physical grief and revving up again his utter confusion: he loved her naked body, so was this love? For a brief moment he again allowed the thought to torture him, then, as if taking the broom to his bafflement, swept it all away with the silent words, “Who cares what you call it? It can’t get much better than this. I’ve got to do it again!”
As she said goodbye, Juliet whispered with a sly smile, “You do it good. You’re the leading man in my Playbill. What do you say to a rehearsal, next week, same time, same place?”
It was more than he could have hoped for. He wanted to touch her, feel the forbidden female parts of her, but his good sense counseled restraint. Let it happen. Let it be.
On the way to his car he found himself singing, “Don’t cry for me, Argentina!” with a remarkable grin on his face so expansive that it stretched almost to his ears, and exhilaration in his heart that warmed him head to toe—so remarkable, in fact, that he wondered if the grin caused the exhilaration or the exhilaration the grin. Not a bad voice, he thought as he finished his solo. Glad I took those singing lessons as a teen.
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