by Joanna Coles
So I sit at my desk, trying to work and looking out at the view. It is an interesting view, more interesting than the stale words of my novel. To the north it takes in the illuminated ribbons of traffic of the West Side Highway, busy at any hour; a vast floodlit billboard of the Marlboro cowboy lighting up against a bucolic Montana backdrop; and a large black ‘V’ sign on an orange background, which marks the entrance to the Vault, which bills itself as New York’s favourite S&M club.
Across to the west is the chimneyed husk of the decommissioned Chelsea branch of the New York Sanitation Department, now used as a parking lot for city garbage trucks; a broad band of the Hudson River and the twinkling lights of the condo towers that have recently risen from the New Jersey shoreline. In the strip of wall mirror at right angles to the window, I can see the reflection of the massive mausoleum of the Port Authority Terminal and across to the Empire State Building.
Six floors below me are the uneven Belgian cobbles of Gansevoort Street, which, the real estate agent forgot to mention, is a main night-time drag for transvestite prostitutes. They patrol up and down among the warehouses, conforming precisely to the meat-market metaphor.
All of them are black and tall, even taller as they totter on their high heels up and down the broken sidewalk, sashaying for the headlights of potential customers who drive by, often twice or three times, checking out the goods before pulling over. The deed is usually done right there, behind a skip of offal, under a fire escape or between parked meat-delivery vans. This might obscure them from casual passers-by (there are none), but it leaves them totally exposed to my gaze. Curiosity about the details of who does what to whom has overcome my initial distaste at the scene below and I remain in position, a voyeur from our own home.
It is a strange business. Oral sex plays a prominent role, but so do masturbation and other variations which remain irritatingly just out of sight, behind jiggling bodies. What occurs to me is how brief it is, spectacularly so. I suppose this is because of the furtive nature of the transaction.
Surprisingly soon it has lost its capacity to shock us, it has become mundane, just part of the local scene. We now recognize the different ‘girls’. Tonight I have spotted Ru. We have nicknamed her Ru, partly because she is the most diligent streetwalker, and partly after the black transvestite celebrity Ru Paul, who now has her own television talk show.
We find that we have started to worry about the girls’ safety, fearing that one may be beaten up or killed. We have become invisible guardians, ready to dial 911 at the first sign of trouble. But all goes smoothly; there is a well-worn ritual to the transaction. Even the price appears to be pre-set, with a quick transfer of notes before business is initiated.
Joanna emerges sleepily from the bedroom.
‘What you doing?’ she slurs.
‘Being a peeping Tom,’ I reply dryly.
Just then a yellow cab stops beneath us, and its Sikh driver gets out and walks round to check one of his tyres. He kicks it a couple of times and then has a leisurely piss against the wall. As he is waggling to a finish, Ru strolls nonchalantly past him. We can see them having a conversation, but we cannot hear it. It is very brief, he utters four or five words, and she gives a similarly terse reply.
Then the Sikh reaches out and very deliberately squeezes Ru’s left breast, like a farmer at a livestock market checking the consistency of a dairy cow he’s considering purchasing. He climbs back in his cab and drives away, and Ru continues her lonely patrol. Whatever has occurred was clearly consensual.
‘What do you think they said to each other?’ asks Joanna.
I imagine he asked her, ‘What are they made of?’ or even, ‘Are they real?’
And Ru replied, ‘Check ’em out for yourself, darling. On the house.’
Monday, 11 May
Joanna
The gynaecologist’s office recommended by Dr Falzone is far smarter than anything I have encountered in the British Health Service. With black-leather seating and the latest editions of Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, Elle, National Geographic, the New Yorker and Time, the reception is more like a discreet hotel lobby. The walls are quietly green, decorated with soothing scenes from Yosemite, each framed in black; thundering waterfalls and proud snowcapped mountains. Each one is accompanied by a motivational slogan: ‘The bend in the road is not the end of the road – unless you fail to make the turn’; ‘Some people dream of success – others wake up and work at it.’
Indeed, there is nothing in our surroundings to suggest we are in a doctor’s waiting room at all, until I notice a discreet plastic box of leaflets dispensing advice on how to avoid genital herpes: ‘Genital herpes. One in four American adults suffers. There is no cure!’
‘Ms Coles?’ one of a troika of receptionists calls, beckoning with a silver-polished nail so long it has curled round on itself like a miniature dough hook.
‘Your insurance card?’ I hand over the blue plastic card which I have learned to keep alongside my credit and social security cards at all times in case of emergency. ‘Please fill these forms out and give them back to me before you see the doctor.’
There are four pages of intricate forms demanding my entire medical history, that of my immediate family, and then another sheet demanding my signature to take full responsibility for payment should there prove to be a problem with my insurance.
‘Ms Coles,’ a bouncy-haired woman in a white coat with a badge on indicating she is Beth, and whom I assume to be a doctor, waves a clipboard at me and I follow her into a large wooden-panelled office, where several impressively framed certificates compete for wall space with more motivational photos of Yosemite.
‘So, Joanna, I’m Beth. This is the first time you’ve been to us?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve filled in all the forms and we’ve seen your insurance card, right?’
I nod.
‘Great. So, what can I do you for today?’
‘Well, I’m ten days late and I’m never normally late. So I did a home pregnancy test, but that was negative. But I think I’m pregnant anyway.’
‘Why do you think that, Joanna?’
‘Well, I just sort of feel it. You know, painful breasts, prolonged period pain…’
‘You know what, I’m gonna give you a blood test, but it doesn’t sound to me as if you’re pregnant. Those shop tests are pretty accurate. How old are you?’ She glances down at one of the sheets I’ve filled in.
‘Thirty-six.’
She pulls a face, then shrugs. ‘Thirty-six? The female body starts winding down, hun. Tell you what I’m gonna do…’ And she takes a deep breath. ‘I’m gonna prescribe you Provera which you gotta take for seven full days, that’ll bring your period on, but don’t take it until we have the results of the blood test, just to be sure, OK? Go down the corridor and ask for Donna, the lab technician, she’ll take your blood and then call me on Thursday between 12.30 p.m. and 1.30 p.m., and we’ll give you the results, OK, oh and leave a urine sample too, if it’s negative, your system’s probably adjusting itself to being thirty-six; sorry but that’s the way the cookie crumbles, and you take the Provera.’ Another breath: ‘If it’s positive, well, you make another appointment to see an obstetrician.’
Down the corridor, Donna, the technician, snaps on skintight cream rubber gloves, ties a rubber tube round my left arm and flicks at my veins like I’ve seen junkies do in movies. ‘You do look a little peaky,’ she observes, withdrawing the needle with one hand and skilfully unpeeling a Band-Aid with the other. ‘Could be a sign. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for ya.’
Tuesday, 12 May
Peter
Our curiosity piqued by the outsize V sign in our view, Joanna has asked me to phone the Vault, which, she suggests, we should visit. I refuse. S&M is not really my scene. I am a coward. I treat pain as an enemy and go to great lengths to avoid humiliation.
‘But it’ll make a great story,’ she wheedles. She is always desperate for column ideas.
‘Welcome to the Vault,’ says the earnestly perky male voice on the answering machine. ‘America’s most popular S&M club. Please listen to our upcoming attractions:
Friday is our bare buns contest;
Saturday is our foot fetish night;
Sunday is the finals of our bald beaver competition;
Monday is our popular schoolgirl evening;
Tuesday features hot-wax branding;
on Wednesday our weekly slave auction takes place;
join us Thursday for Shiatsu bondage;
and next Friday is our speciality dental ’n’ head restraint.
We supper at the garage-like Café Braque, voted New York’s coolest summer hangout, full of slender models nibbling tiny organic mesclun leaves, and I tell Joanna of the varied fare offered by our neighbourhood club. ‘What do you fancy being entered for,’ I enquire. ‘Bare buns? Perhaps a little hot-wax branding?’
‘What really intrigues me,’ she confides, ‘is the speciality dental ’n’ head restraint. What on earth could that be?’
Thursday, 14 May
Joanna
Though my period has still not arrived, all other symptoms have disappeared. I don’t feel sick and I’ve lost two lbs, but I spend the weekend imagining I may be pregnant. And, as my friends constantly remind me, I am thirty-six and it’s about time.
At exactly 12.35 p.m., as instructed, I phone Dr Beth’s number and am immediately plunged into another curse of contemporary America: voicemail hell.
‘Please listen to the following information BEFORE pressing your relevant number.
‘If you are an existing patient press one to hear a series of options.
‘If you are a new patient wishing to register with us, please have your insurance number ready to enter via your keypad.’
I press one.
‘If you need help with our fax number, website or e-mail address, press one followed by the pound sign.
‘If you would like to book an urgent appointment press two.
‘If you would like to make a routine appointment press three.
‘To cancel an appointment press four.
‘For all queries about billing or to review your account press five.
‘For all other enquiries press six.’
I press six.
‘To book a pap-smear test press one.
‘To receive results of a recent pap-smear test only, press two; do not press this number if you require results from any other test.
‘To book a hospital appointment needing your doctor’s consent press three.
‘To change the date or time of a hospital appointment press four.
‘To request a repeat prescription press five.
‘To request a new prescription press six.
‘To request information for legal reasons which may be confidential from your personal file, press seven.
‘All those needing to speak with an operator press eight and stay on the line.’
I press eight to be greeted by a short burst of Barbra Streisand singing ‘Evergreen’, quickly interrupted by another message.
‘Thank you for calling. All our operators are busy. Please call back later. Our office hours are from 9.30 a.m. until 5 p.m.’
I phone back again. And again, swearing as I hit the redial button. Would it be quicker to walk there? At 1.28 p.m. I finally get through and ask for Donna, the technician.
‘Hello, Jo-wanna,’ she says, uncertainly. ‘How you doin’ today?’
‘Oh fine. I was just calling to get my results from the blood tests on Friday.’
‘Right, just hang on, Joanna, I’m gonna get Dr Beth to explain them to ya. Stay right where y’are.’ And before I can say anything I hear her pick up another receiver. ‘Dr Beth? Ya gotta minute? I got Joanna Coles on the line, you said to call you when she got through?’
‘Hi, Joanna,’ says Dr Beth. ‘It’s not good news I’m afraid.’
I feel my insides deflate.
‘To be honest with you, hun, I don’t know exactly what’s going on, you’re certainly something – but it’s not pregnant. We need you to come back and have another blood test. Can you come in soon, like this afternoon?’
‘How do you mean it’s certainly something?’ I ask, feeling weak.
‘Are you OK, hun?’ asks Dr Beth.
‘Um, yes, just a bit disappointed,’ I mumble. ‘I could be there in about ten minutes? Do you think it’s something serious?’
‘Nah, probably not, but we need to make sure, OK? I’ll tell Donna to expect you,’ she says, before adding gently, ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow, when we’ve got the new results in. And take care, OK?’
I call Peter, but he’s out so I leave a message. ‘I’ve got to go back for more blood tests,’ I say melodramatically. ‘But apparently I’m still not pregnant.’
Ovarian cysts, cancer, fibroids, early menopause … I run through the list in the cab as we hurtle down Fifth, past New York’s glorious Public Library, which my mother once compared unfavourably to Leeds Town Hall, and swing onto 30th Street in front of the surgery.
After taking a photocopy of my insurance card, the receptionist sends me straight through to Donna. ‘Did you wanna be pregnant?’ she asks sympathetically.
I nod, suddenly realizing that after years of denying it, I really do.
‘What do you think is wrong?’ I manage.
‘Well, a reading of under five is definitely negative. Your score was eleven, which is too low to be positive but too high to be negative, so that’s why we’re doing you another test. Do you feel pregnant?’
I shrug, suddenly exhausted, as she snaps on her gloves again and taps my arm. ‘This time call me on my direct line and I’ll give you the results myself,’ she whispers, handing me her card.
Friday, 15 May
Peter
I am determined not to allow the wait for my test results to paralyse me into a state of limbo. I must keep active. Physically active. Today I decide to go rollerblading along Riverside Walk. This stretch of sidewalk from Chelsea Piers down to Battery Park must be one of the most congenial rollerblading courses in the world. It is a safe, level, cement strip with views on one side across the Hudson River and on the other over to Greenwich Village then TriBeCa, City Hall and the World Trade Towers.
I am a reasonable blader, about intermediate level, I think. I very seldom fall, but I take no chances, strapping myself into my matte black safety gear: helmet, elbow pads, wrist protectors with Velcro fasteners and plastic reinforcers, mittens, and knee pads with black plastic cups over the joints themselves. Thus attired, I can blade for about fifteen minutes before I need to rest, or else I risk cramping up. I think there is something wrong with my blading posture. I have even been to blading school at Chelsea Piers, once. I went to the intermediate class, where I found myself surrounded by large middle-aged women and small children. I was the only adult male. Since then I have tried to self-tutor by watching other, more advanced bladers and attempting to ape them, straightening my back and assuming a more open, balletic posture. Invariably I soon revert to my clenched, bent stance.
There is one physical barrier that seriously blights my blading enjoyment. It is the West Side Highway, the eight-lane stream of traffic that I am forced to cross to get to the river walk. Although there is a pedestrian crossing, the flashing green man has been wrongly adjusted by the Traffic Department. For intermediate bladers like myself, he provides an inadequately fleeting window of opportunity in which to blade across, and the impatient traffic sits on the line revving up for their green, like racing cars waiting for a chequered starting-flag to fall. Nor is it unknown for them to jump the lights. I find that under the close scrutiny of eight rows of New York drivers, my blading deteriorates significantly. I wobble nervously and falter like a beginner. Once I reach the other side I feel triumphant, l
iberated. Until the time approaches to cross again, as it always does.
But today, today is my last crossing of the West Side Highway. Today I have almost reached the other side when, unaccountably, my left skate jams and I fall heavily – just as the lights turn in favour of a grid of trucks. The Mack truck nearest me releases its brakes with a menacing pneumatic wheeze, kicks into gear and advances. I look up desperately, but my perspective is too low to allow me to see the driver, too low to fix him with pleading eyes. The truck looms dangerously and then emits a vast, throaty, customized hoot. My whole body resonates, right to the fillings in my molars. I scuttle desperately to the kerb, a spidery, Gothic figure in my matte black safety outfit and the goat’s hooves of my black skates. I felt that I must look like one of those Calcutta pavement cripples, cosmetically enhanced by callous relatives for more proficient begging. I haul myself up over the concrete lip to safety, where I sit, feeling the laughter of the driver wash over me. Fast, proficient skaters, the ones I have been trying to emulate, blade gracefully past me.
‘Bad blades, man. You OK?’ yells one cheerily, as he whisks past shirtless, and without any safety gear, casually ramping some substantial obstacle. He is well out of earshot before I can reply.
I bend down to examine my recalcitrant skate, expecting to find a shard of gravel from the nearby roadworks, wedged in my axle. Instead I find a used condom has wrapped itself around a wheel with the aid of a puce blob of chewing gum. I gingerly peel off the condom and its attendant gluey tendrils of gum, remove my skates and hobble home in my socks.
I check for phone messages, but my test results still aren’t in.
Monday, 18 May
Joanna
Though part of me wants to sit and obsess until the next set of results comes through, Peter persuades me that I would be better kept busy and so, at 7 p.m., we set off for the Royal Shakespeare Company’s summer fund-raiser organized by Tina Brown, the editor of the New Yorker. It takes place at the Manhattan Center, a vast indoor stadium in midtown. As we arrive, a motorcade of stretch limos is disgorging its passengers.
