The Americans, Baby

by Frank Moorhouse

‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘I should get home, study early in the morning.’

  ‘Just a quick beer. I’ll shout you a cab home.’

  And then he added, ‘Just for a drink.’

  Without really waiting for him to answer, Paul hailed a cab. They rode back to the flat making only desultory conversation.

  In the flat, Paul’s books were now on shelves. There was a record player. A print of the Australian outback by Arthur Boyd. Paul went to the kitchen and again he heard the spurting of cans. He felt his heart thumping. He sat on the settee and picked up a copy of U.S. News and World Report.

  ‘Eats?’ Paul called.

  ‘What you got?’

  ‘More than last time.’ Paul’s voice faltered slightly on the ‘last time’. He heard Paul open the refrigerator. ‘Crackers, cheese, meat loaf, pizza pies, eggs, ham.’

  ‘Cheese and biscuits.’

  Paul carried out the beers and then brought the cheese and butter and biscuits. ‘Cut the cheese yourself,’ he said.

  They talked quietly while they drank and ate. Paul stood up and switched off the main light. ‘You can take in the view better.’

  ‘I took it in last time.’

  He looked across the Bay, conscious of the smell of the flat as Paul’s smell which was the smell of Paul’s body and the smell that had been on the towel. A smell which had branded on him that other night.

  ‘You said the same thing last time.’

  ‘I know,’ Paul replied.

  Without any invitation their eyes met and they let their hands go out to each other.

  ‘Oh baby,’ Paul said with relief.

  ‘Oh, yes Paul,’ he heard himself say.

  This time they went to Paul’s bed. Afterwards he lay there bewildered, wanting to run from the flat. The distance between himself in the bed and the clothes, crumpled on the floor beside the bed, was too great. He could not make the move.

  ‘Christ,’ he said bitterly, ‘you said we wouldn’t.’

  ‘We’re too attracted,’ Paul said hopelessly.

  ‘I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to do it. I’m not like this.’

  ‘I’m not homosexual either,’ Paul said defensively, ‘we have affinity – it happens to people sometimes.’

  Jonson tried to take him in his arms again. He pulled away and got out of bed. With disgust he washed himself and dressed. He was bewildered and shaken.

  ‘You’re ten years older than me,’ he said accusingly at Jonson.

  ‘Eight years – but what’s the relevance of that?’

  ‘You’re responsible for what happens.’

  Jonson shrugged unhappily. ‘You know that’s not true.’

  They didn’t speak again. He let himself out without saying goodbye.

  On the streets he remembered that he’d been demonstrating that day – and it seemed that he’d betrayed the demonstration. What he’d done with Jonson was inconsistent with his way of life. Against his way of life. And he’d done the wrong thing by Sylvia. He winced when he remembered pissing her off in the hotel. Sylvia and he weren’t ‘in love’ but they were somehow on with each other. They’d drifted together. They had sex now and then, but it was difficult to arrange. Perhaps he didn’t have enough. Perhaps he was sexually frustrated. He’d spend more time with Sylvia. He had to be finished with Jonson. Jonson had manoeuvred him into a trap twice. But he was just not like that.

  He came home from university the next day to find a message in his bedroom from his mother – ‘Ring Paul.’

  He screwed it up and didn’t ring, hoping that Jonson would leave him alone.

  A few nights later he was working in his bedroom when the telephone rang. He heard his mother say, ‘I’ll get him – who shall I say is calling?’

  He went to the telephone. ‘It’s Paul Jonson,’ she said, handing him the phone. He stood holding it.

  ‘Hullo?’ Jonson said. ‘Hullo?’

  He stood silent for a second or two.

  ‘Hullo? Hullo?’ Jonson said again.

  ‘Hullo.’

  ‘Where you been hiding?’ Jonson said, an attempt at breeziness.

  He was dumb with embarrassment.

  ‘Hullo?’ Jonson said, ‘you still there?’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’

  ‘Take a break – let me buy you a beer.’

  ‘I’ve got term essays and stuff to do.’

  ‘Oh come on now – you can’t be that busy you couldn’t stop for a beer.’

  ‘I am,’ he was firm.

  There was a short silence, then Jonson said, ‘If it’s the other thing that’s bugging you – forget it.’ The exuberance was gone, Jonson sounded a little desperate. ‘Let’s forget it ever happened and leave the matter alone.’

  Forget it! Jesus.

  ‘I don’t think we see eye-to-eye politically or in any other way.’

  ‘Don’t say you’re running away from an argument. That doesn’t sound like you.’

  ‘I think we are basically different.’

  ‘Let’s have dinner and maybe I’ll change a little.’

  He was being backed into a verbal alley. The only way out was to drop the receiver.

  He didn’t. ‘I’m just frightfully busy,’ he said.

  ‘Look – we’ll meet Thursday after you finish school – we’ll have a couple or three beers, a quick meal, and then you can get back to your books.’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Hello? – now Carl, that’s a fair bargain.’

  He knew he couldn’t escape.

  ‘OK, just for a meal.’ He was chagrined. He felt like throwing the telephone.

  ‘That’s fine, Carl, that’s wonderful.’

  His mother asked him who Jonson was. He felt himself blush. ‘Oh, an American, I met him at University.’

  ‘He’s been trying to get you for days. You should bring him home – he’s probably lonely.’

  He decided not to keep the appointment.

  What had ever possessed him to go up to his flat the second time? He felt sick.

  He went to the University Thursday morning and did not remember the appointment until after lunch when he was having coffee with Sylvia in the foyer.

  ‘Oh God,’ he said aloud to himself as he remembered.

  ‘What’s up?’ she asked.

  ‘I just remembered something unpleasant.’

  She looked at him, waiting for him to go on.

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ he said to her.

  She frowned.

  They talked and Sylvia said, ‘Will you be putting your draft to the committee tonight?’

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘remember – the meeting was brought forward a week – because of end of term.’

  ‘Christ,’ he remembered. And he hadn’t done the draft. ‘I haven’t, shit. But I’ll go along anyhow.’

  ‘Kim said he was going to raise something about links with the downtown group.’

  ‘Not again.’

  He didn’t know whether he was going to the meeting. He knew that, despite the fact he had told himself that he wouldn’t keep the appointment with Jonson, it was still a possibility.

  The meeting wasn’t until 7.30. Perhaps he could meet Jonson and then get back for the meeting.

  ‘Are you eating at the Union before the meeting?’ Sylvia asked.

  ‘No – I’ve got something to do in the city.’

  ‘I’ll come with you and eat when you do.’

  ‘No,’ he said, writhing, ‘I’ll just grab something to eat on the bus.’

  ‘OK,’ she said, disappointed.

  There was a pause.

  Then Sylvia said, ‘Are you meeting someone else?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘of course not.’

  ‘If there’s someone else – you can tell me.’

  ‘Of course there isn’t anyone else,’ he said, almost angrily, ‘whatever that means.’

  ‘You know what it means.’

  ‘No, there i
sn’t.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said, touching her hand, ‘there isn’t anyone else.’

  It was resolved. He would meet Jonson and then go to the meeting.

  During the next two hours he found himself resolving not to meet Jonson. But as he left the last lecture shortly before six he found himself thinking, ‘What the hell, it’s a free meal.’

  Jonson was reading in the pub.

  ‘I thought you mightn’t come,’ he said, looking up with a warm grin.

  ‘I thought I wouldn’t come,’ he said toughly, as Jonson ordered him a beer.

  ‘I’m glad you did.’

  ‘I have a meeting at seven-thirty.’

  ‘Bringing the Government to its knees again?’

  He was a little hurt by the remark. He didn’t want to be attacked. He felt sensitive.

  ‘At least we do something.’

  ‘Now, now,’ Jonson said, ‘take it easy. I didn’t mean to get at you.’

  Jonson bent down to his brief-case. ‘I have a present for you.’ He handed him a book, The Voice of the People – Readings in Public Opinion and Propaganda. ‘I apologise,’ Jonson said grinning, ‘it’s an American book.’

  He stood, uncertain and confused. He knew that despite himself the friendship with Paul was growing. Like a vine perhaps, entangling him. He didn’t see much he could do about it. Or much he wanted to do about it.

  He opened the book. It was inscribed, ‘To Carl – outspoken friend – Paul’, and the date.

  ‘Thank you, Paul,’ he said haltingly, ‘it’s the sort of subject I want to read more about.’

  ‘It seems to cover the ground.’

  ‘I’m … touched,’ he said and looked at Paul.

  Embarrassed, they looked into each other’s eyes.

  ‘Drink up,’ Paul said turning away. ‘If you have a meeting we’d better rush.’

  ‘No rush – it doesn’t matter if I’m a little late.’

  ‘Let’s talk about music,’ Paul said. ‘We’ll give politics a rest.’

  He didn’t answer. He felt immobilised. He wished suddenly he hadn’t come. He wished the gift hadn’t been given.

  ‘My record collection has arrived – I’d like you to come up one day and we’ll play some.’

  ‘I bet.’ He blushed at the audacity of his remark.

  ‘Don’t be like that, Carl,’ Paul said, slightly upset. ‘I didn’t mean it that way.’

  ‘Let’s have another beer, then,’ Paul said.

  ‘I should study,’ he giggled.

  Paul stopped. ‘If you feel you should …’

  ‘Let’s drink,’ he said, ‘if you have the money.’

  ‘The evening’s on me.’

  They drank until closing time.

  Outside on the footpath he found himself reckless.

  Paul said something about the uncivilised drinking hours.

  ‘Why, back home we’d be able to sit in a bar drinking until the early hours.’

  This time he said it, not Jonson. ‘Get a cab. Let’s go back to your place.’

  ‘I’ve got cans on ice,’ Paul said, in the cab, intimately. They held hands.

  Afterwards in bed with Paul he cried.

  ‘Why are we doing this?’ he said, from the same bewilderment and guilt as before, though less savage. He folded his arms around a pillow knowing that he was going to stay the night.

  ‘Calm now,’ Paul said, rubbing his back. ‘Be calm. I guess this is the way it is with us.’

  Becker and the Boys from the Band

  The antique poster on the wall of Sam’s office read ‘Coca-Cola at soda fountains five cents delicious detach card at dotted line and present at fountain refreshing this card entitles you to one glass of Coca-Cola free at the fountain of any dispenser of genuine Coca-Cola.’

  ‘Well, Becker – come on – reaction!’

  ‘Sure, Sam, it’ll work – I just don’t know the groups. I’m just not familiar with the groups – sure it worked in the States, local groups would be fine.’

  What worried Becker was D-E-S-T-I-N-Y, not pop groups. His destiny.

  ‘The Hi-lighters? Know the Hi-lighters?’

  ‘For Christsakes, Sam, I’ve been in the country four months.’

  He wanted to be back in Atlanta for one. Now. Instantly. Hotels, Motels, Blowtels. Blowing himself nightly was no life for a young man. Taking tranquillisers so he could simply eat; for Godsake, would you believe it? Just to eat a meal he needed to quiet down his jumping nerves. Everyone mistaking him for an American service man on R and R. Dancing with hostess girls in the dim joints, terrified to take them into the light where all the lumps and deformities showed. Perhaps he should go back to college. Now Sam talks about pop groups singing commercials. Capow.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Sure, Sam, just pooped.’

  ‘Too much action?’

  ‘In this city!’

  Sam walked over to the water cooler and pulled them both an iced water.

  Sam smiled and said, ‘Cocktail parties at the Cock burns’ not sufficient?’ Sam even smiled, whatdoyouknow.

  ‘Cockburn and the bloody Civil War.’

  ‘Rotary?’ Sam said. ‘I take you to Rotary.’

  Sam was really amusing today.

  ‘They always stick that name tag into my living flesh.’

  Sam laughed!

  ‘They do, Sam, I swear they do.’

  The dinner parties of the married couples.

  He stared at his trouser leg. At least his clothes were in shape. That was something, wasn’t it? – some achievement that – having his clothes in shape. That was really something.

  Play a piano in a cafe. That’s what he should do.

  ‘They have an agent.’ Sam wrote on a pad and tore off the page and handed it to him. ‘See them, check them out. My kids like them.’

  Play a piano. Go back to college.

  ‘How long you been here, Sam?’

  ‘Five, going on six.’

  ‘How do you take it?’

  ‘Love the country. Love the people. They work their hearts out for you.’

  He stood up, crushed the paper cup and missed Sam’s waste paper basket. He moved to pick it up.

  Sam picked it up.

  Sam came around and squeezed his shoulder. ‘You’ll be seeing some of the countryside soon.’

  Oh no. The city was bad enough for Christsakes, at least there were ten dollar screws – which made him as guilty as all hell.

  ‘Sign them up,’ Sam said, leading to the door, ‘if you like them.’ Then Sam pointed at him. ‘That’s right, you play piano – just the right man.’

  ‘Yeah – the Music Man.’ He looked at the paper with the telephone number and heaved himself together. ‘Leave it to me, Sam.’

  ‘Great – get more sleep.’

  ‘Which of you is the leader?’ They sat around the coffee shop table.

  ‘Him,’ one of them said.

  ‘I am,’ the one said, from out of his small goatee beard, waistcoat, paisley shirt, wide fancy tie.

  What to be said?

  ‘You sing folk, then?’

  ‘Folk, some rock, some soul, mostly folk,’ the Leader said.

  ‘Blues,’ one said.

  To break the quiz he told them, ‘I play jazz piano.’

  ‘You play the piano?’ the Leader said, with strained interest.

  Let it pass.

  ‘I see here you sang in Vietnam,’ he said, looking at his background material from the agency. Vietnam hell, if someone else asked him if he was R and R there’d be murder.

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘Oh, fine.’

  ‘Really lets you see how things are up there,’ one came in.

  ‘How are things up there?’ Not that he had any burning interest – his sister’s husband, was he there?

  ‘Morale’s great, simply great.’

  ‘They cry when you sing – great audien
ce.’

  ‘I’m forever being mistaken for an R and R serviceman,’ he told them.

  They laughed a big group laugh.

  ‘What part of the States you from?’ the Leader asked.

  ‘I suppose Atlanta,’ he mused, ‘or Motel Travelodge.’

  They all smiled.

  He leafed through the background.

  ‘This Labour Party deal – you sang for the Labour Party?’

  ‘Well,’ one of them said, looking at the Leader.

  ‘It was just a gig,’ the Leader said. He tried to explain it away. ‘It was a washout but well paid – we did it just as a gig.’

  They were hungry for a dollar.

  ‘We’re not a political group,’ the Leader hastened to say.

  He just stared at the notation Sam had made – ‘check’, Sam had written. Well, he’d checked.

  They bubbled and squawked something else – each one of them – like hungry birds – trying to explain. He was unnerving them, he could tell, by not speaking.

  ‘No matter,’ he said. ‘Politics, Coca-Cola, Vietnam, who gives a five cent damn? – it’s all show business.’

  They laughed, relieved.

  ‘What is it – this Labour Party?’

  ‘Oh, they’d never win elections,’ the Leader said. ‘We just did it for the money.’

  ‘They’ve got too many nuts and crackpots and old men.’

  ‘Crazy old men.’

  ‘They hired us to go around country halls.’

  ‘No one turned up.’

  ‘They paid us OK.’

  Oh God, he was tired. He motioned to the girl for service. ‘More coffee?’ he asked, glancing at them. They nodded obediently.

  ‘Politics is show business is politics,’ he said.

  ‘Politics here is a dead scene.’

  ‘It’s nowhere,’ said another.

  He looked down at his information: ‘The show was cleanly produced. The four young singers appeared as four clean young men. It was all very unobjectionable and unexciting.’ Some of the other reviews were enthusiastic.

  Anyhow, they wanted clean young people. We all want clean young people.

  ‘You’re clean young people,’ he said. ‘It says so here.’

  They chuckled as a group.

  So he needed political and legal organisation, financing and accountancy, mathematics and statistics, industrial relations, decision-making theory, and a semester of group dynamics to hire a clean, hungry, little pop group to sing a commercial. He should be back in Atlanta. Everyone was going up the ladder but him.