Ladies' Man

by Richard Price

  “I’m bein’ a bitch today, Kenny, I know.” She winced. -

  “No! No!” I shook my head and frowned. “Just bear with me till this is over, okay?” She touched my bicep and kissed me softly on the lips. “I love you, Kenny.” If she had asked me at that moment to please go into the cabaret and shoot the person onstage so her turn would come faster my only question would have been if she minded if I used a telescopic so I wouldn’t have to stand up in front of all those assholes.

  “Hey!” A short, sweating, shiny, pink rollerball wearing glasses grabbed the lapel of my jacket. “They sell new clothes where you got this?”

  His eyes were desperate and his breath smelled like cologne. I laughed because I didn’t want this guy to kill himself. When I laughed he jerked back smiling, like he had just drawn to an inside straight. He was bald but he grew his fringe hair long and plastered it across the dome. He whipped out a calling card that read: my card. I laughed. Then he handed me another: chuck steak, prime comedian. I laughed. Every time I laughed he shook his head and laughed along encouragingly. The maître d’ called out, “Six! Number six!” and Chuck Steak swung his head toward the voice so fast his rooster gullet was quivering from inertia.

  “I’m number eight.” He stared at La Donna. “Hey! It’s Joni Mitchell! Don’t start the peasant blouse revolution without me!”

  Wrong target I put my arm around his shoulder and turned him around.

  A big black dude in a cowboy hat drifted past us like a killer whale in a bad mood…

  “That guy’s an actor.” Chuck nudged me and waved at the guy. “Loved your movie!”

  The guy didn’t hear him and continued- to move through the room.

  “What movie?”

  “Planet of the Apes. They saved so much money on make-up with him they financed a sequel.”

  I snapped my head back in disbelief. “Hey, Chuck.” I laughed weakly. “Why don’t you save ‘em for the stage, okay? I mean, you know, like, you don’t know who you’re goofin’ on over here. You pick the wrong person, they might tear- your heart out and stuff it in your shirt pocket, you know? You know what I mean, Chuck? This is like a dynamite room right now.”

  He raised his eyebrows and peered at my arm across his shoulder.

  “Thay, fellah, you’re not my type.”

  He spied Mona Nucleosis and stared with malicious mischief at her beak. He walked out from under my arm and went back to work.

  “Jesus! Durante lives!”

  Mona didn’t even bunk but got right into it. “Actually, I was born with an Irish pug. It looked too much like a nose job so I had the rest added on last year.”

  They talked in spurts and their eyes never met. They weren’t hearing each other, just running their riffs like so much testing testing testing into a mike. I couldn’t listen to them. Part of me wanted to jump right in and riff them to death and part of me wanted to grab them by the chins and beg them to lighten up.

  I turned to La Donna. She was glancing furtively at a moon-faced girl sitting by herself clutching a guitar case. The girl looked so tense she made La Donna seem like Marlene Dietrich.

  The Mad Russian stood alone behind Chuck Steak fingering his Mandarin chin, scanning the competition and slightly smiling, like he knew the answer. Even though it was February, he was shirtless, wearing only a dirty rib-high suede hippie vest with foot-long fringes. That and a necklace made of chicken bones.

  Chuck noticed him out of the corner of his eye, did a double take, a triple take, then nudged Mona: “Hey! It’s Moscow’s answer to Charlie Manson! Ivan Cutchapeckeroff!”

  The Russian did a slow head turn to Chuck, grinned, raised his hands palms up and out, then flipped them knuckles side up. Without saying a word he reached behind Chuck Steak’s shiny scrubbed pink earlobe and withdrew a razor blade held delicately between thumb and forefinger. Chuck patted down the back of his head. Mona gave one of her eyebrow-raising uh-oh whistles. La Donna was now standing by the nervous chick with the guitar case, but she was looking away like a guy edging toward a pickup at a singles’ bar. I didn’t know if they had talked or not.

  “Number seven? Seven!” Thirteen guts sank. I noticed when customers made their way through the psycho ward to the curtain the amateurs were staring at them with this expression like the customers were somehow superior people, like the tryout comedians and singers were animals and these sporty schumucks were visitors at the zoo. That made me berserk. I felt like jumping up on the bar and announcing that the travesty was canceled. That everybody in that goddamn room should put down their cross. That there was a charter bus arriving in twenty minutes and everybody was going . on a pleasure trip, lunch included, so let’s blow this joint.

  I made my way over to La Donna. I thought it would be good for her to talk to the guitar girl. I passed the black kid from the line. He wore a loud three-piece plaid suit with sleeves that were too long. They came” down almost to his knuckles. He had an expensive stitched leather bag over his shoulder and constantly adjusted his gold-rimmed aviators. He was still talking to the chubby teen-ager.

  “You know, in all honesty, I can’t really call myself an amateur per se.”

  “Number eight!”

  Chuck Steak plowed through the bar crowd to the curtain, holding his card high in the air.

  “You know, in all honesty, I can’t really call myself an amateur per se,” the black kid repeated; he lit a cigarette and smoked it clumsily, holding it down by the webbing between his fingers and bringing his whole hand to his mouth when he took a puff.

  “Who’s your friend?” I nudged La Donna. She glanced down at the girl as if noticing her for the first time. With the guitar case between her knees and the blood drained from her face she looked like she was waiting for the cattle car.

  “Now”—the black kid punctuated his bullshit with a cigarette—“if you’ve ever studied Mathis’ style, he just gets up onstage and runs his repertoire. “He’s not very comfortable with trying to personally relate to his audience.”

  The fat kid shook his head automatically, but his brains were all over the floor.

  “Now me on the other hand”—he touched all ten fingertips to” his vest—“I like to rap to my audience, you know, set up a rapport.”

  “Shit,” La Donna hissed.

  “Hey, relax!”

  “I hate fuckin’ triteness, fuckin’ phonies.”

  The black kid overheard her. His face collapsed for a second but instantaneously recovered as if he had decided she was referring to somebody else.

  “C’mon.” I moved La Donna back to our barstools.

  The big, tall, knuckled-headed spade stood in front of us, about six-five in a sky blue three-piece suit, black shirt, black cowboy hat, red tie and a red cocktail napkin stuffed into his breast pocket like a handkerchief. He wore the thickest glasses I’ve ever seen and he looked as dumb and mean as a dinosaur. He had spent the last hour drifting from cluster to cluster saying stupid warlike things, totally misunderstanding whatever people said to him in response and in general making the whole room squirm. He faced both of us, looking like he couldn’t decide whether to kill me and rape her or rape me and kill her.

  “Wha’s yo name?” He squinted at La Donna, mouth open a good inch and a half. La Donna refused to look at him.

  “Her name’s Linda,” I said. It took this big dumb bastard a good five seconds to turn his head to me. “Ah dint as” you.”

  “Well, she got to save her voice now.” I smiled. He chewed that one over awhile, then returned his gaze to her.

  “You a singer?” He examined her like King Kong checking out Fay Wray.

  “Yeah, she’s a singer. I’m a singer too. Are you a singer?”

  He just stared at me. I must have supplied too much information too fast. If he touched her I would have smashed my drink in his glasses.

  “How come you won’t talk to me? You afraid a black mayn?”

  La Donna threw her eyes and shook her head sadly while still
looking away.

  “She’s afraid of everything. Her mother got scared by an encyclopedia when she was pregnant.” I grabbed his hand and shook it heartily. “Listen, I just wanna wish you the best of luck tonight. I’m sure you’re gonna kill ‘em out there.” He stared down at the handshake like he couldn’t understand how his hand got between mine. I have big motherfucking strong hands, bigger than his, and I gave an extra firm squeeze. When I let go he moved in slow motion toward La Donna.

  “I wanna wish huh luck too.” He extended his hand to her, and I quickly stepped between them and grabbed his hand again. “I want to thank you for both of us.” I grabbed La Donna away and tried to find a neutral corner in that loony bin.

  “That big yom start something with you?” Jackie di Paris stood over us now, his jaw cemented with rage. “I’m gonna kick his fuckin’ ass before midnight. He’s been breakin’ people’s balls all night.” Jackie glared across the room.

  “How you doin’, doll?” He kissed La Donna on the cheek. La Donna patted his shoulder like “Downboy.”

  “What’s your number?” he said, holding his own at arm’s length as if he were nearsighted.

  “Thirteen.”

  “Yeah? I’m twelve. Hey, tonight’s only the beginning. Maybe me ‘n’ you’ll become a famous duet like Tony Orlando and Dawn.” He blew into his fist and robbed his hands as if he was still outside, winked at me, gave me a sidearm shot in the shoulder and walked off.

  I started to move La Donna around the room again when she shook my hand away. “Kenny, cut it. I’m not furniture.”

  “Hey, will you relax?”

  “You relax! You go up there in twenny minutes and you relax.”

  “Hey, relax, La Di.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Kenny.” She held my hand and took a deep breath. “You wanna help me, right? Please don’t be offended.” She kept patting my hand for accentuation. “Go inside, get a table and watch me from in there, okay?”

  “Nan, I’ll stay with you.”

  “Kenny, please.” She looked more weary than tense. “Please Kenny.”

  I had to do what she asked. I felt so hurt I wanted to cry. I didn’t understand what I’d done wrong. I felt like 1 had blown everything. “What about that big nigger?”

  She smiled. “I’ll scream for Jackie di Paris.”

  “I can handle that bozo. Why don’t you scream for me?”

  “‘Cause you’ll be inside.”

  I gave her a tasteless kiss, told her chin up and eyes closed and walked toward the curtain. As I went in I saw she Was standing over the girl with the guitar again, but still looking away like she had no idea she was there.

  “Thank you, Chuck Steak, Charles Steak.”

  He stepped off the stage sweating like a steam room attendant I was seated during the last thirty seconds of his act, a cheap-shot homo joke, but from the high buzz of table conversation and the almost nonexistent applause I assumed that the funniest thing Chuck had in his head was his name. I sat at a table against the back wall with two drunks and a nondescript guy about my age with a tape cassette and ordered a Chivas from the waitress.

  “I wanna remind you people that five of tonight’s performers will be invited back on Sunday evening at six for a special showcase, the, ah, cream of the crap as it were.” That got some laughter, some awws. The emcee shrugged and raised his hands in submission.

  He was a fast-talking prep school Jew, thin, also wearing aviator glasses, shag haircut, Bloomingdale’s pullover, very obnoxious. life would go on without him. “Okay.” He read from the clipboard. “Number nine, Leonard Wooley, a comedian.”

  It was the big spade with the cowboy hat. He sleepwalked up to the stage.

  “Than’ you.” He tried to adjust me mike, couldn’t and wound up lifting the whole thing to his mouth. He stared out over the audience frowning. “Wow, man, you Jews are wild, man.” Grumbles. Immediately the emcee came back onstage, grim and mechanically applauding, to grab the mike. “Thank you. Thank you,” and he ushered Leonard Wooley off before he realized what was happening. “Leonard Wooley, Leonard Wooley. Leonard had to leave early, his Hitler Youth bus threatened to split for Hamburg without him. Number ten! Number ten!”

  Ten was a bad comedian. He got slaughtered. When the kid’s time was up he looked like he needed a transfusion. He did not get one laugh in ten minutes. It was brutal. The joint was a killing floor. If they had given me a week to get ready I could have torn down the house. I would have them all laughing, on their knees, then, as a finale, sprayed the joint with mustard gas.

  “For those of you who just walked in, I’d like to wet come you to Fantasia. I’m your emcee, Danny Rifkin. Is anybody here from New Jersey?” About one fourth of the crowd cheered and yelled. “I’ll try to make you feel at home.” Danny boy started crooning a few bars of The Godfather theme and broke off into a call for number eleven.

  “Cathy Wilbur, Cathy Wilbur, a singer, guitarist and composer from… West Virginia!”

  It was the deep-freeze chick with the guitar. I saw La Donna standing by the curtain watching her. Cathy pulled up a stool, hoisted her guitar up to her chest and got tight into it. She had a voice like an Irish saint, beautiful and clear, the guitar sounded nice, but the whole thing was a big yawn.

  I’m searching for clar-i-ty

  A crys-tal clear re-al-i-ty uh huh huh, uh huh huh

  She was putting everybody to sleep, but nobody heckled because she was so goddamn sober and sincere. Just as it seemed she was finished with the lyrics she broke into a hum. She started humming and dai-da-dai-ing the whole goddamn song over again. By the time she was finished, people were exhausted. She received a nice round of respectful applause, half appreciation, half relief. She smiled for the first time that night, revealing totally rotten hillbilly teeth.

  I started worrying about La Donna: (a) in general and (b) her doing “Feelings.” I couldn’t tell what kind of songs the crowd would dig. Maybe “Feelings” wasn’t “up” enough. Maybe they only liked dirty songs.

  “And now, number twelve, twelve. Mr. Jackie di Paris. Jackie di Paris, a crooner.”

  Jackie swaggered upstage like Gorgeous George, his chest bursting out of the floral shirt, half-moons under the arms, his nuts bulging against his thigh. His pants were so tight, the seam of his crotch looked like it was halfway up his ass. He handed the house piano player some sheet music and began adjusting the mike. A Texas dude yelled out something about Lady Clairol. Jackie stopped fucking around with the pole, found the guy in the semidarkness and gave him a look like if the guy was anything more than pigshit it would have been worth his while to break his face. Jackie kept up the evil eye a good thirty seconds. Long enough to quiet the whole place. He removed the mike from its stand and, holding it like a weapon, stepped to the edge of the stage. He was wearing three-inch white-heeled platforms.

  “I would like to sing a tune written by one of the great, great songwriters of today.” The joint stayed quiet. Everybody was intimidated. He sounded nice he was reproaching the place, like he was telling us off. ”Mister Piano Man, if you please.” The guy at the piano rolled his eyes, then hit some very familiar notes.

  “Hey!” Jackie snapped. “Dim those lights, hah?” The lights were dimmed, people glanced at each other across tables and shrugged. “Again, please.”

  “Fee-lings, nut-tin more dan fee-lings.” My gut dropped out my ass. La Donna was screwed. Also, he was fucking horrible. His phrasing made Leo Gorcey sound like Rex Harrison. The mood he conveyed was about as romantic as somebody poking a finger in your chest. He wasn’t singing, he wasn’t even talking, he was arguing. People started yakking immediately. He lost everybody from word one.

  “Feelings like I nev… Hey! A little quiet, hah? I’m singin’, okay with you? Like nev-ver lost… Yeah! I’m talking a you! yah cracker bastad!” Jackie stepped to one end of the stage and pointed his mike at the drunk Texan who had made the Lady Clairol crack. The Texan, a six-foot-plus potbellie
d gray-haired dude in a sitting tie, tried to get to his feet, but his friends, red-faced from laughing, pulled him down. He collapsed in his chair and started laughing too. The whole joint was laughing. Jackie looked as if he could kill the world. He slapped the mike against his thigh, nodding his head in small up-and-down motions as though he had just made a decision and seconded it. “Fuck you,” he spat into the mike. “You’re all fuckin’ slobs. Consideration, you ever hear that word?” That doubled the laughter; He couldn’t think of anything else to say and finally dropped the mike like it was infected, snatched his music off the piano—the player had to duck—and stormed off the stage, pushing people in the aisle out of his way and vanishing behind the plastic curtain.

  Danny Rifkin came jogging upstage, swinging the clipboard. He picked up the mike and made wild eyes at the house. “Thank you, thank you. That Was the charming and talented Jackie di Paris. Jackie di Paris. Jackie had to leave us a little early, he just heard they finished cleaning his cage. Okay, number thir-teen, thirteen. La Donna, a singer.”

  It war pretty cold in the room, but I was sweating. My hands were shaking so bad my ring was clinking like castanets against my glass. La Donna came trancing down the aisle from the parted curtain like there should’ve been a chaplain behind her droning the Twenty-third Psalm. She knew. When she gave her sheet music to the piano player, she was wincing. Danny Rifkin helped her adjust the mike, wound up giving her an exaggerated once-over and jacking off the mike stand. The place broke up. La Donna wasn’t hip to what he did, and I wanted to tear that smartass sheeny bastard from Bloomie limb to Bloomie limb. I wanted to hug her, protect her, save her, take her a thousand miles away. .

  “Excuse me one second.” Rifkin scanned the back of the room, shivering and squinting. “Is the thermostat guy here? Why don’t you lower the heat a little more, Larry, I wanna hang some fuckin’ meat from the ceiling, okay?” Big laugh from the Texans. He almost knocked her over getting offstage. She had to backstep to give him room. Cocksucking pig.