Going Down Fast (11 page)

“I will not. Look, Annie and I aren't going together.”

She caught her breath loudly. “What happened?”

That's what came of introducing a girl to his sister. “Nothing for you to fuss about.”

“You needn't be so glib. What was it, you wouldn't marry her? Don't you ever dare use me as an excuse.”

“Button your lip, Sam. You're young to be giving advice. I appreciate that you liked Annie, but life is more complicated than that and things don't always work out the way you might imagine.”

Sam snorted. “If you could hear yourself! If you want to know, I've met a wonderful person, and I love him, brother.”

“How serious is this? It's early on in the term and you have enough to run you ragged—”

“You sound like the dean of women—her standard lecture to freshmen. Next thing you'll say is be sure you make him respect you, young ladies, by always being just that.”

His stomach sank. “Maybe you better come next weekend.”

“No! I have a big paper due.”

“Just tell me why you expect me to pay his busfare. What kind of jerk is this?”

“Stop prejudging. I'm shocked at you, coming on parental. It's you and the folks want to look him over—he's not going to enjoy that one bit. Besides, he's broke. I told him we could trust you.”

“Finagling doesn't become you, Sam.”

“Then stop making me finagle.”

“How old is this kid?”

“Twenty-one. So quit calling him a kid.”

“Anybody whose busfare I have to pay is a kid.”

“Forget it. I'll get the money somewhere else.”

“Damn you, Sam, you goad me like an ox.”

She laughed again, high spirited. “My blue ox. So we'll be hearing from you?”

“What's this guy's name?”

“Gino Warwick, brother. So, see you!”

Caroline was hunched up on her side of the bed, pouting. “If you want to talk to that girl so bad, why don't you go see her and take me home? Calling her Sam, pretending it was a man.”

“That was my sister and Sam is short for Sandra.” He swung out of bed. “Get dressed and I'll take you home.”

“Sister?” Her voice trailed up. “I didn't know you had a sister.”

He reached for his trousers. “One. Tonight that's too many.”

“You're mad because I thought it was a girl?”

“Not mad at all.” He put his hand on her bare shapely shoulder. “There's nothing in this scene for you. I noticed your ring came off last week.”

“I thought … you know …”

“I won't string you along. You're not getting much out of this and no wonder, because I'm not putting much in. Let's call it off before you get angry at me for real.”

“You sit there and won't discuss anything. You don't really listen. I might as well not be here half the time.”

“Right. You're entitled to more than that. But not from me.”

“I don't understand you,” she began bitterly.

“Not worth your time to try.”

He was afraid she would cry. Her brown eyes grew moist and wavery, but then she shook her head and got up. “You change so radically from one day to the next, I don't understand.”

For the next twenty minutes until he had dropped her in the lobby of her apartmenthouse, among the turquoise chairs and doorman in rig and plastic bonsai trees in pots—he tried to concentrate on her and leave her feeling good. He worked to keep his mind off Sam and the phonecall. He felt a little guilty toward Caroline, as if he had been lacking common courtesy. Yet when he left her in the garish lobby, he felt only relief. He would still have time to work on that song before he went to bed.

Tuesday–Wednesday, October 28–29

The shadows crept across him as he walked north out of the Loop across the Chicago River that flowed backward with the city sewage, up Michigan Avenue broad and washed in the recent rain, past Tribune Tower (he spat ritualistically) which his, old hero Louis Sullivan said had a spider perched on top: Gothic skyscraper with itchy bricabrac as if the gray stone had dripped crazy in the rain. Tuba of newspapers willful windy hollow and fat with hatred.

Walking past the pretty shops of North Michigan, the French restaurants and shoe salons and branches of New York stores, he was walking a razorback ridge of money which dropped steeper than a toboggan slide down into slums. Good rock group, kids from there he'd tried to push but the lead guitar got busted. He was walking to Oldtown planning to eat in a little German place, then to take the subway back in plenty of time for the meeting at Harlan's.

As he walked north between the lake and goldcoast apartments, the tall buildings created twilight but the sky was a mustard yellow barred with low surly clouds. A brisk damp wind came off the lake. The waves folded into humps of whitecaps. Far out the world had no waist. Lake blended into sky. Against the teeth of the wind he pulled up the collar of his hunting jacket.

Ahead a woman whose gorgeous freeswinging high ass he had been admiring stopped to let her woolly Afghan shit enormously on the sidewalk. “Caesar, you pig,” she drawled complacently. Her voice made him hasten his step. No, couldn't be. Three years? She stared through him as he caught up, then suddenly saw him. “Rowley! What do you mean sneaking up on us? How are you!”

Nina: as gorgeous, more gorgeous. She was five feet ten with a helmet of yellow hair and high hardlooking breasts. He used to run into her all the time when her husband worked for UNA, the neighborhood organization, and always he was conscious of her in a room and knew that she opened up when he spoke to her. She was quiet, and he thought her shy. Once at a fund raising party she had danced with him. That was all. Only he would watch her following Tom Lovis out, towheaded baby on her arm, and almost, almost envy Tom.

“Have you finally moved around here?” she asked.

“Still in the same place. I'm on my way to eat.”

“Here? You mean with someone.”

“No, I'm walking to Oldtown.”

“Hiking you mean. You are crazy.” She took his arm. “Have a drink with us if you're really not meeting a friend. It's been ages.” The building she steered him into had a Japanese rockgarden in the lobby for contemplation. As they rose in the elevator she leaned against one wall contemplating him. “You've gained weight, darling, like a married man. Careful!”

Anna's contribution, and Nina had not used to call him by false endearments. “How's Tom?”

“Still with Penman and Bates. They think a lot of him.”

“The PR boys doing the University whitewash?”

“Don't be pseudo-wise. The University has its own PR staff. Tom is simply serving as parttime consultant to the planning arm. Anyhow, they don't listen. At least finally his connections there are doing him some good.”

The livingroom was white, red and black, and Tom was nowhere to be seen. As the dog gamboled in shaking itself, he wanted to laugh. A nice big turd on the Danish longhair area rug, please. She mixed martinis and made them double.

“Don't keep dripping disapproval all over the poor room. We have a decorator in, and why not? You never forget you came from Gary, do you? Union boy from a company town.” She made her eyes large. “I don't mean to scold. Don't stand there disassociating, you make me nervous. Come sit.” She patted the white leather expanse of sofa.

Obediently, reluctantly he sat. Through an open door he could see the unmade kingsize bed. He didn't particularly want a martini, he didn't particularly want her: not this way, now. She took his arm conversationally in a grip of steel. “Why not move up here? Chicago is drab otherwise. Why hide down there in a dirty dangerous neighborhood that's getting worse all the time.”

“The sight of the lake gives me rheumatism … You used to like it well enough.”

“Where you can't leave a package in your car without someone breaking in. Where a woman isn't safe on the streets.”

Looking at Nina he thought she was strong enough to hold her own.

“It's such a bore—I don't know why you stay there.” Her hand slid up to his biceps.

“The best thing you can say is that in pockets anyhow it swings.” His muscle tensed under her hand.

“We have a Negro doctor and his wife in the building.”

The clock was long, low, black and chromium with a vaguely trapezoidal dial. He had to count blobs around the circumference to figure the time. “What's the University doing, Nina? They don't think they can kick people out for their convenience?”

“Don't be sentimental. Have any idea how many families are displaced by every expressway? The University needs an urban environment that can attract middle-class students—and hold middle-class faculty.” Her hand moved up to his shoulder.

He had forty minutes maximum. The graceful thing would be to gather her up and haul ass into the bedroom, but he was afraid he could not lift her except in a fireman's carry. “When is Tom arriving? Soon?”

“Don't worry.” Her golden throat tilted back. “Not till after eight. And Rhoda's at her grandmother's.”

So he kissed her muscular tanned throat, and her arms sprang around him. Six minutes later he was fucking her on the vast slab of bed with candy striped sheets. The bedroom clock was easier to read. Her body tensed under him, tan except for the imprint of a bikini. As she arched backward with her nails digging in his back, every muscle stood out discretely. This was a wrestling exhibition. Her belly was hard and bouncy as the mattress. Harlan would never forgive him if he missed the meeting. He could remember lusting after Nina's ass. Then Nina had lived for civic good works and mild causes. She wore homemade dresses and carried her baby in a sling and sat behind a card table red-cheeked with wind and cold raising money for CARE or collecting books for somewhere. That Nina had been a silly woman of easy indignations and patched-up opinions. This one had won a statuette in a woman's golfing tournament, which swung Fore at him from her dressing table.

He was propped on set arms pounding at her teak body. Her eyes kept opening to keep watch, then shutting as she concentrated on the building of her tension. He was trying his strength on the carnival strength machine. If he hammered at her cunt long enough the bell would ring and he could climb off. Maybe he would win a cigar.

Finally her mouth came open, her lips thinned and her eyes popped to glare through him. With her teeth clamping into his shoulder she came. He finished quickly and got out. Efficiently she rolled out of bed and dressed, then as he was dressing, made up the bed and smoothed a sheepskin coverlet over. Then she looked carefully at the clock as she brushed her hair flat and retouched her makeup. “Like one for the road?”

“Tell you what—make me a sandwich.”

“What?” She glared over her shoulder, asking if he were making fun of her.

“A sandwich,” he said patiently. “I don't have time to eat now. Anything out of the icebox.”

“
Icebox
? So sorry I made you late …”

“My pleasure. Leftover meat? cheese? pickles?” He ended making himself two sandwiches from a can of Swedish meatballs.

“I used to think you were a fantastic person,” she said as she put the cocktail glasses in the top of the dishwasher. “But it seems to me you've been standing still. How long have you been with that arty little station? You say PR as if it were a joke, but Tom is making something of himself. You'll see.”

He had some olives, potato chips, and then he rode down in the elevator eating an apple he took at the last minute from a bowl.

Walking briskly west along the dark wet streets toward the subway, he thought that at this rate he would be trim again in no time. He could do with three more sandwiches like those he had eaten—but not too much like them. Ground beef meatballs extended with oatmeal and potato parings in snotty gravy: not unlike the canned petfood Yente turned up his nose at.

He hoped Yente had bummed supper. Shirley had a soft heart for animals. Right after he'd polished off a pile of gizzards at home, Yente the bum would go upstairs tail high, meowing, and rub against her ankles acting starved. Bolt their table scraps and beat it home before Harlan's kids started hauling him around by his pudgy middle. He caught the time on the corner of State and turned south to a quick standup hamburger, just a couple blocks. Tonight he'd bet the tomcat had gone better than the man.

Fuzzy Afghan dropping that enormous turd on the sidewalk. She had prepared to outstare him. Exorcising something with him. Walking under the canopy of a restaurant he shrugged. Woman not safe on the South Side streets? Man not safe on the sidewalk up here. He had been had. Yes indeed, subpoenaed, made to perform, and kicked out without a thankyou or a decent bit to eat. Grimly and neatly used.

Now look here, he summoned Anna, what was I supposed to do, say No thank you and scoot out the door like a frightened deer? Come off it. Anna leaned against something vague, arms folded, and looked back at him through halfclosed eyes with an insolent and sensual smile. A public service. She nodded and faded.

After his hamburger he turned north to the subway past Bughouse Square. The rain had washed some of the trees bare. Nobody was exercising right of free speech guaranteed under deed of park to city. A few bums huddled on the wet benches, but nobody exhorted them. IWW used to house itself around here, and hereabouts speech hadn't always come free. Haymarket to Bughouse. August Spies to the hangman before they closed his mouth with the hood.
There will be a time when our silence will be more powerful than the voices you strangle today
. Any bets, August? Who here has heard of you? This city gave its name to anarchists who argued that unions should avoid opportunism, guard against betrayal by leaders, rest on direct action of the rank-and-file, and stress equality. A week ago he had picked up a history of unions, among them his old man's, which started with a disclaimer of any interest in ideology, as irrelevant.…
all government, in the last resort, is violence; all law, in the last resort, is force …
People he knew would find that relevant yet, but history was buried in libraries, and the official history was lethal as mustard gas. This neighborhood was unslumming and would be expensive. The IWW had gone north. Born in Chicago, smashed in Chicago when one hundred leaders were jailed.