When I get home, I get a call from Charles. “I have an opening this Sunday night. Come and see it. I think you’ll love the work. It’s a wonderful artist. She makes beaded tapestries. They’re amazing.”
“Sounds lovely. What time?” I ask.
“Starts at eight but it doesn’t get interesting until around ten. I’ll see you then.”
Charles has lavish openings with lots of booze so I’ll have to be careful. I check the clock. It’s half past ten. Pretty soon I’ll have a whole day without a cigarette or a drink. I feel like Bernadette, the patron saint of Lourdes.
I go to bed at midnight but I can’t fall asleep. I think through the conversation I had with Patty about artificial insemination and the woman who had a baby at sixty. Pretty soon self-fertilization will be common practice. All you will need is a kit like over-the-counter early pregnancy tests. It will be an over-the-counter Get Yourself Pregnant Kit. It will be about the same size as a Lady Clairol hair coloring kit, but rather than the smiling model on the cover, there will be the smiling sperm donor and a list of his vital statistics.
Of course, they’ll be available in a range of prices; the top end being Ivy League graduates, movie stars, professional athletes, then white-collar workers, blue-collar workers, and, bargain basement, you guessed it, politicians and prison parolees.
Directions read: Take sperm and egg (check the refrigerator next to the frozen peas—remember you harvested these after seeing a special with Diane Sawyer). Place ingredients in plastic petri dish, like the ones from ninth-grade biology. Whoever thought those lab classes would actually be of use? “Warm to room temperature over Bunsen burner or, if a Bunsen burner is unavailable, substitute fondue warmer,” I say aloud to Bixby, who is kneading my right thigh with his paws. “Now carefully coax the sperm to swim toward the egg with the sterilized end of a straight pin; put on a little music. If the sperm seems reluctant, add an eyedropper of scotch or bourbon. Once the sperm has made contact and done its job, you’ll know because the little sucker will turn on its side and fall asleep.” Bixby frowns at me and I scratch his ears.
“Take the customized turkey baster,” I continue, “and insert the mixture into the vagina with a gentle squeeze. And remember, the directions caution, this is a delicate procedure, so take your time, Bixby. Because what’s the hurry? You have all the time in the world, which is exactly the point.”
Bixby nestles himself next to me and falls asleep (typical male response). I wonder if it will ever be possible to crossbreed species. Now there is a new frontier waiting for intrepid explorers. All right. That’s it. Stop thinking.
I turn on the radio. The Yankees are playing San Diego in California so the game is only in the third inning. I fall asleep listening to the Bronx Bombers whip the San Diego Padres. I wake up and look at the clock. It’s three a.m. Art Bell is talking to a caller from outer space or so the caller claims. I get up and go to the bathroom. Then I shuffle along to the kitchen and get a lemon out of the refrigerator and suck it dry. It’s over twenty-four hours since I’ve had any nicotine, and my brain is crying out for a fix. I wish I had a big wooden mallet that I could hit myself over the head with so I could pass out for a week and skip all this withdrawal. I go back to sleep until the phone awakens me at seven a.m. It’s Sandy.
“We’re just leaving for the airport,” she says. “I wanted to remind you. We’ll be back on Sunday. There’s plenty of dog food and you know about the antiseizure medication. Break up one pill in his food every day.”
“Right. That’s great. Have a wonderful trip. I’ll see you when you get back,” I say with as much perkiness as I can muster on four hours of sleep. Mr. Ed has been on the medication ever since he was hurt saving my life. His brain was swollen and the medication is preventative. I don’t know how long he has to take it, but I do know I paid for it and his clinic bill as well. It was the least I could do. That and dog-sit whenever and wherever necessary for the rest of his life.
I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling for about an hour. I’m afraid to make a cup of coffee because nothing is a stronger trigger for a cigarette than a cup of coffee. But without coffee I may never be able to function again. Maybe I should go out to the coffee shop on Columbus Avenue and get coffee and sit there and drink it because you can’t smoke in the coffee shop. It would be like a demilitarized zone. That way I wouldn’t have to chew my right hand off to keep it from picking up a cigarette.
I manage to get up and get out and walk up to Columbus Avenue without turning around and running to the deli on Amsterdam that has supplied me with nicotine ever since I moved into the neighborhood. When I get to the coffee shop, I order a double espresso and sit at the counter that looks out on the street.
“Guess who?” a voice says as two hands are clamped over my eyes.
“I don’t know, Harrison Ford?” I say.
“No. Come on. You can get it,” the mystery voice says.
“Javan?” I say, prying the hands off and turning around. “It’s you. How are you? Long time no see.”
Javan Jones is an actor and a stand-up comic. We met in a production of Carousel in Boothbay, Maine, one summer and later shot a few commercials together. We had a lucrative Chef Boy-Ar-Dee that ran for years. And then I lost track of him for a while. He stopped doing commercials because his “type” went out of fashion. The industry works like that. One minute you’re hot, hot, hot, and the next you can’t even book a spot for a local carpet cleaner. I also heard via the grapevine that he ended up in drug rehab for a couple of months. He got straightened out and the last time I ran into him he was back doing stand-up.
“I’m hanging in. How are you?” he asks, giving me a kiss on the cheek and a big hug. Javan is nice to hug and I linger for a second.
“How’s Deb doing?” I ask, reluctantly stepping away.
“Oh, you haven’t heard? We split up. About a year ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I say as sincerely as I can. I was never a big fan of Deb’s. “Gosh, is it possible I haven’t seen you in a year?”
“It’s very possible. I’ve been on the road doing comedy clubs, working nonstop. I was opening for George Carlin for a while.”
“Wow. That’s great.”
“Yeah, the money’s decent, but the road gets pretty gruesome. I’m back in town for a month. I’m booked at the Comic Strip for the next week.”
“I’ll have to come see you.”
“What are you up to? I see your commercial for Special K all the time. You must be rolling in dough, baby.”
“Not really. I’m doing okay. But the summer is dead. I’ve been doing children’s theater.”
“That’s fun. Hey, I’ve got to run,” Javan says, looking at his watch. “I have an audition in a half hour downtown. Come over to the Comic Strip. I’m doing the nine p.m. show every night starting Wednesday. Check it out. I’ll buy you a drink. We’ll catch up.”
“Sure.” We hug goodbye and off he goes. Javan and I had a fling the summer we did Carousel. I played Julie Jordan and he played Billy Bigelow and our characters fell in love and so did we, briefly. It’s not unusual to fall for a costar; I’ve done it dozens of times. It’s also not unusual to unfall the minute the show is over. It’s summer stock romance and it happens a lot, especially when you’re young; you learn to get over it. It was awkward for a while when we got back to New York because we were constantly running into each other at auditions.
Actually Javan was seeing someone before he went to Maine, and started seeing her again when he got back. The “her” was Deb, and that explains why I was never a fan. But eventually Javan and I booked the Chef Boy-Ar-Dee spot and made a lot of money and that bonded us in a positive way, so I forgot about the affair and Maine and Deb. Except now I remember because Javan looks great; and feels great; he has what is known in the pumping iron business as a good pair of pipes, and, let’s face it, I’m lonely. I’m lonely without Jack and I’m lonely without my cigarettes. And I’m craving another diversion. Someone else might say I�
�m horny, but not me because I was raised Presbyterian, so I’ll just say I’m craving a diversion.
I gaze out the window of the coffee shop. People are hustling up and down Columbus Avenue. Mothers with strollers, kids in shorts, men in summer suits, guys in work clothes, women in sling back heels, girls in midriff shirts, dogs on leashes, boys on tricycles, little girls with play strollers and dolls. Humanity, that divine comedy. My dad loved watching people. It was a pastime we often indulged in together. Saturday afternoons we would go downtown to Thompson’s Bookstore and browse for a while, then get a coffee to go at Grounds & Beans on Hanover Street and sit on one of the benches in front of the First Presbyterian Church and watch the parade pass by.
My dad said people were like plants. You could tell by looking at someone if they were raised in the light or if they had been deprived and kept in the shadows. And how some people seemed to flourish and others had to struggle even if they had the exact same soil and nutrients. And there were always those poor plants that never seemed to take hold even if conditions were optimal, and then those hearty souls that grew and blossomed even if they landed in a pile of rocks. And while he mused and speculated and philosophized, he smoked and so did I. We smoked together and talked together and that’s why I’m thinking about him now, because I’m lonely and I want to smoke and I miss my dad. I don’t miss him all the time, I’m used to him being gone, but every so often I smell a certain blend of pipe tobacco or get a whiff of Old Spice aftershave or I sit and watch people and I remember him. Vividly. And the other thing I remember is that he died of lung cancer when he was fifty-seven. So, maybe I can make it one more day without a cigarette—one more day for Dad.
When I get home, I rummage through the kitchen drawer to find Sandy’s apartment keys, and then I go next door to visit Mr. Ed. He is napping on the couch.
“How about a walk, little guy? It’s a nice day out. What do you say we go to the park?”
Ed’s tail starts to wag like a metronome set to a fast three-four meter beat. I grab his leash and off we go. Ed beats me down the stairs by two flights, and when we get outside he runs to the corner with me hanging on for the ride. We get to the park and Ed starts his happy dog-sniffing dance. I let him off his leash when we get to the dog run next to the Great Lawn. About fifteen other dogs frolick in the fenced area. I sit on a bench and watch Mr. Ed socialize with his canine friends. A man sits down next to me and lights a cigarette.
“Is that your Westie?” he asks.
“Not exactly. He belongs to my neighbor.”
“You mean Sandy? I thought he looked familiar. How is Sandy? I haven’t seen her in a while. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, sure. She and Dick are out of town for a few days. So I’m on dog duty.”
“Oh, I see,” he says puffing thoughtfully on his cigarette. It’s all I can do not to reach over and wrestle it out of his hand and take a good long drag. “She didn’t mention she was going out of town. We often have our morning coffee together right here on this bench. She didn’t mention a trip.”
“Well, maybe it slipped her mind.”
“She’s a good woman.”
“Yes,” I agree. I am getting the feeling a little more is going on between Sandy and Mr. Dogwalk than just walking dogs. Of course, it could be one-sided and Sandy is oblivious to the attention, or maybe she is having a wild and passionate affair. Either way it’s none of my business. What is my business is the cigarette thing. I have to get going or I’m going to knock this guy out and steal the pack of Marlboros he has stashed in his pocket.
“Well, I’ve got to head out. Nice talking to you. Come on, Ed, let’s go,” I call to my four-footed friend. Ed comes running over and Mr. Dogwalk reaches down and ruffles his ears and pats his head.
“Good boy,” he says. It’s obvious he and Ed are friends.
“Tell Sandy I said hello when you see her. And tell her I’m still here every morning at the usual time, in case she’s interested.”
“Yeah. I sure will.” This guy has it bad. I think the affair ended and Sandy decided to get back with Dick and that’s what the sudden vacation in the Caribbean is about. But I’m sure Mr. Dogwalk hasn’t completely given up. Gosh, there is a soap opera sitting on every park bench in this big old city of dreams.
Ed and I stroll around the ball fields and then I head toward Belvedere Castle. And before I know it we are going to the scene of the crime. My feet seem to be leading me there, and it’s as if I have no choice but to follow. Mr. Ed starts sniffing furiously as we get close to the knoll where I was attacked.
“It’s okay, Ed,” I say. “I think it might be good if we go together and take a look at it. I think it might be therapeutic. What do you think, little guy?”
Ed stops and cocks his head up toward me. I squat down beside him and pet his head. “Are you nervous about being here with me?”
“Arf, arf, arf,” Ed replies.
“I see. You are apprehensive. Well, so am I, but they say it’s good to face your fears. I don’t always agree with that, but I know you are still upset with me and I was hoping this might open a door for us to have a dialogue about our experience.” I look around for a second, momentarily self-conscious about speaking so frankly with a dog. It might seem strange to someone watching us. But then again, maybe not. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t talk to his or her dog, especially if the dogs talk back.
“Arf,” Ed says moving in the direction of the knoll.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” We find the spot together. Mr. Ed circles around a bit and then starts to bark as if to say, “This is it, this is where I saved your life.” The spot is isolated even in the full light of day. What a fool I was to come here in the dark and jeopardize my safety and Mr. Ed’s. What a fool. It’s a miracle we both survived. I get down close to the ground and watch him exorcise the ghost of bad things past. He barks and yaps and then comes over and licks my face and pushes his body against mine. I hold him in my arms and rock him back and forth.
“You are a good boy. You are my hero,” I say. Ed perks up his ears and licks my face some more.
“Arf, arf, arf, arf, arf,” he says and nestles in my arms.
“I love you too,” I say. “You’re the best dog in the whole world.”
16
The next few days are a blur. I sleep a lot and spend time with Mr. Ed. We walk all over Central Park and Riverside Park. I don’t smoke and I don’t drink and I don’t breathe as much as I should. I find myself holding my breath, waiting for something to happen. For one thing I’m waiting for Jack to call, but I decide it’s better that he doesn’t, although it hurts like hell, because the truth is, I’m in no condition to be with another person. I can barely stand myself—why should anyone else be able to? Then I realize what I’m really waiting for is a cigarette. I think if I don’t smoke I’m going to smother to death. I call my friend Brian who quit smoking a few years ago.
“I’m breathing too much oxygen. It’s making me light-headed. I’m not used to it. It’s giving me a headache,” I say.
“You need to breathe more,” Brian tells me. “People light a cigarette when what they really want is a deep breath. Just open up your lungs and take a good, long, slow breath, and then drink a glass of water. You’ll feel better. Have you tried meditating?”
Brian is very into eastern practices. He studied Hinduism, and then Buddhism, traveled to Tibet, has a poster of Richard Gere and the Dalai Lama in his living room. He buys his incense at a little shop in SoHo. In the late eighties he spent a year at an ashram up in the Catskills and was briefly married to a Pakistani woman who was a professional belly dancer.
“No, I’m not meditating, are you crazy? I can barely sit still long enough to go to the bathroom. I have to keep moving because if I stop for a moment I’m afraid I’ll open the oven door, turn on the gas, and stick my head in.”
“Don’t do that. Promise me you’ll call me before you do that,” he says. “I’ve got to go. But keep in touch, and
remember, you can do this.”
Right, of course I can. I can do this. There is a knock at my front door. It’s Sandy. She looks relaxed and pleasantly sunburned.
“It was magnificent, the whole trip, too short but very sweet. Have you ever been to the Caribbean? It’s so beautiful and so romantic.”
“That’s great,” I say.
“Here, we brought you something.” She hands me a package.
“You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Well, I saw it and thought it was perfect for you.”
I open the box and see a lovely silver bracelet with pink coral inlay.
“Oh, Sandy, you shouldn’t have. It’s beautiful.”
“Well, I wanted to get you something special because of, well, you know . . .” Her voice trails off and then she adds, “Dick picked it out.”
I don’t know what to do. I’m speechless. I give Sandy a hug.
“Thank you.”
“Dick and I had a great time. We really needed to get away.” Sandy says this with a big smile. “And it’s always nice to go someplace new.”
“I’m glad it was a good vacation. Oh, by the way, I ran into a friend of yours at the dog run. He said to tell you hello. Tall guy. Do you know who I mean?”
“Ah, yeah, sure,” Sandy says and drops her eyes. She doesn’t move, and then I notice a tear trickle down her cheek.
“Oh, Sandy,” I say. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, it’s all right,” she says, dabbing at her eyes.
“Come in and sit down for a minute,” I say, gesturing to the couch. “Do you want to talk? I know how those things can be.”
“It was just something that got out of hand.” She perches on the arm of the sofa. “But it’s behind me now.”
“Good. Because I think you and Dick are a wonderful couple.”
“We are,” Sandy says. “Oh, God. I don’t know what to do, Maggie. Todd, that’s his name, is so intense, and he makes me feel so alive.”
“I see.”
Dorothy on the Rocks Page 18
