I Loved You Wednesday (13 page)

“So?”

“So we did.”

“Did what?”

“Went to his apartment and fed his parakeet.” “And?”

“And what?”

“How was he?”

“Blue.”

“I don’t mean the parakeet, bird-brain, I mean Harold!”

“Oh, Harold! Right, I’d rather talk about the parakeet.”

“Why?”

“More depth.”

“Why?”

“Premature.”

“Harold or the bird?”

“Harold. I don’t know about the bird. I didn’t make it with him. But Harold came all over his jockey shorts while we were getting undressed.”

“No!”

“Yes. Hadn’t laid a finger on me yet.”

“I’m surprised he doesn’t charge for that kind of stud service.”

“We must know each other too well. That’s exactly what I told Harold.”

“Good girl. Then what happened?”

“Then we got into bed and watched
A Christmas Carol”

“So did we.”

“Small world.”

“Which version?”

“I’m not sure. I started crying, and Harold got all upset.”

“I don’t think I like what’s coming.”

“Me neither. You know what happens when I start one of my uncontrollables. Pow! Harold thought I was freaking out.”

“What’d he do?”

“He apologized profusely for coming too soon and promised he’d get it up again if only I’d stop crying. Seems he’s got very thin walls and very thick neighbors.”

“Then what?”

“The rest is pretty sloppy. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

“Shoot.”

“Okay. Well, Harold stood on his knees on the bed,whipped out his beef and started playing with himself, trying to get another erection.”

“Nothing tops a class act. And?”

“And I started laughing hysterically.”

“Then what?”

“Then Harold got an erection.”

“And?”

“And I told him to go into the bathroom and masturbate because somehow, somewhere along the way, I’d lost the mood.”

“And?”

“And Harold went into the bathroom and did himself.”

“Then what?”

“Then I stopped laughing and started crying again because by this time Tiny Tim was going to lose his leg if Scrooge didn’t come forth with some charity.”

“Go on.”

“Then Harold came out of the bathroom, exhausted. It had been quite an active evening for him. So we watched the rest of the movie and went to sleep.”

“Nothing like a traditional Christmas Eve, huh?”

“Right.” There’s a short pause before Chris sheepishly asks, “Steve?”

“What?”

“What do you mean ‘we’?”

“What do I mean ‘we’ what?”

“I told you we watched
A Christmas Carol
and you said, ‘So did
we.9 “

“Did I? Aha.” I toss off a short laugh. “Oh. Well, I meant me and Corie.”

“You were with someone last night?”

“Yes.”

“You had sex?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I was going to. It was no big deal. I promise you, Chris, we both would have been better off with the parakeet.”

“Or even each other.”

“Or even each other.”

“Merry Christmas.” “Merry Christmas, darling.”

The next time I speak with Chris is New Year’s Day. It goes something like this: “Hello?”

“Happy New Year, Chris!”

“Steve!”

“Right!”

“Happy New Year, darling!” “How’re things?”
“Wonderful!”

“Why?” I ask demurely, knowing very well why.

“Guess!”

“Guess?!”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Um, someone called?” “Yes.”

“Someone you were happy to hear from?” “Yes.”

“Can I assume it wasn’t someone holding a gun to your forehead?” “Yes.”

“Okay. Um, let’s see . . . Bradley??” “Yes!”

“Surprised?” “Yes!” “Happy?” “Yes!”

“And miserable?” “Yes.”

“Both at the same time?” “Yes.”

“Did he want to see you?” “Yes.”

“Did you want to see him?” “Yes.”

“Did he ask you out?” “Yes.”

“Did you accept?” “Yes.”

“And then did you break it?” “Yes.”

“And then were you sorry?” “Yes. How’d you know?”

“What do you mean, how’d I know? I know you, that’s how I knew.” “Yes?”

“Of course. Once you accepted the date, Chris, which is what you really wanted to do, the side of you in constant battle with the rest of you made you see how you could only get hurt in this kind of setup, so you changed your mind.” “Yes!”

“Congratulations. I couldn’t be more pleased. That was a healthy, logical move. Weren’t you proud?” “Yes!”

“And wasn’t
that
a wonderful feeling?” “Yes.”

“Which lasted a very short time?” “Yes.”

“And was ultimately taken over by a good solid case of the yuckies?” “Yes.”

“And so you called him back and fixed the date you broke?” “Yes.”

“And so you saw him?” “Yes.”

“And had a fabulous time. One of the best.” “Yes.”

“And then when he left, you got even more depressed than you were before he had arrived.” “Yes.”

“And then you were sorry he ever came over in the first place.” “Yes.”

“And vowed never to see him again.” “Yes.”

“There’s more?” “Yes.”

“He called again?” “Yes.”

“And you went through practically the same changes of minds?” “Yes.”

“But you ultimately gave in and let him come over.” “Yes.”

“And now you love him more than ever.” “Yes.”

“And are more miserable about it than ever?” “Yes.”

“Is that it? Have I got everything?” “Yes.”

“You know I’ll be home in five days?” “Yes.”

“Well, Chris, sure’s been nice talking to you.” “Yes?”

“Yes. Is there something else?” “Yes.”

“This is ridiculous. Do I have to guess?” “Yes.”

“All right. Are you going to see him again?”

“Yes.”

“Soon?”

“Yes.”

“Real soon.” “Yes.” “Tonight?” “Yes.”

“Sooner than tonight?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“Yes!”

“He’s lying next to you right now?” “YES!”

“NOW I UNDERSTAND!”

ACT TWO
 

Chapter Eight
 

The theater: in actuality a converted loft. The seats: badly aged, badly peeling, badly recushioned pews donated by a local church. The houselights: carefully dimmed to hide the dirt on the floors and walls, but at the same time, making it difficult to see where one is walking.

The one hundred and fifty or so invited guests find it too dark to read the small program that’s been provided, so they chat quietly among themselves. There’s no small amount of tension, some excitement and even a little hope in the air.

Eventually, the houselights dim, and the audience, not knowing what’s to come, enjoys the mystery of the moment, releasing a buzz of enthusiasm which electrifies the entire house. This mutual charge is felt as everyone braces, knowing the play’s about to begin, hoping the fickle, uncertain magic of theater might strike here tonight... for that rare change.

After a few moments, the stagelights come up: ambers, blues, pinks—gels all. The sound of a roaring, rattling subway is heard from the speaker next to the stage.

The piano player plinks out a soft child’s nursery rhyme, and the voices of small children eventually fill the stage.

Another Straw
, Chris’ revue, has begun.

It is the fifth of January. I’ve just flown in from Florida not forty-five minutes ago. No time to drop off my luggage or pick up the dogs, I race as soon as I get off the plane at

Kennedy into a taxi, down to the Village, arriving just before the show starts.

My only disappointment upon getting here with but moments to spare is the dark lighting which doesn’t allow me to show off my tan.

But back to the show.

Dressed as children, the eight performers come onstage singing a song about living in Manhattan either as very wealthy, superbright kids or as very poor, underexposed children of the inner-city ghetto.

It’s a good number, well sung with clever choreography and some genuinely comic moments.

The audience is most responsive when the number ends, thumping, whistling, hooting, cheering, and it doesn’t take long to realize the producers have stuffed the house only with friends, relatives, well-wishers and investors.

The show goes on and gets better. Chris has a terrific song all her own about the trouble she always gets into whenever she doesn’t have the exact bus fare.

There are skits and musical numbers about the tall buildings, the short mayor, the graffiti in the subways, the cheap pickup bars and the expensive gourmet restaurants.

Some of it is quite good. Some not so good. All, however, is received with equal enthusiasm by this audience most anxious to appreciate what’s being offered. The entire revue seems promising enough, though there’s plenty to be done before it solidifies.

But that’s what this early presentation in this drafty loft is all about. The producer is trying to raise funds to bring the show to an uptown house. So he offers this early rendering with promise that uptown will be the more polished version of what is being seen here tonight.

The show ends on a saccharinely high note of optimism about how people of all persuasions and colors are going to get together to make this city a better place in which to live. Pleading for patriotism and humanity in the eleventh hour, while a bit banal for my jaded tastes, brings this hyped audience to its feet, cheering praises wildly and lauding bravos upon the curtain calls as though these frenzied peo-

pie had just sat through the opening-night performance of
My Fair Lady.

Since everyone else is on his feet clamoring for more, I stand up, too, and applaud madly with them.

After three curtain calls, the last one truly milked by the stage manager, who brings the lights up and down, the dimmed houselights come up again, and the audience starts to file out.

A few minutes later, it’s quite crowded “backstage”—that is, at the rear of the loft. The same friends, relatives and well-wishers that earlier constituted the audience now flood these four tiny dressing rooms with kisses, compliments and congratulations.

Shoving my way to Chris’ shared dressing room with my luggage, fighting to get past one hundred and fifty people, is quite an interesting experience. I had no idea I could get so many theatergoers irked and teed off simply by crashing into them with a heavy suitcase.

But no matter. For as soon as Chris sees me, she stops talking to someone and runs over, jumping into my arms. I drop my weighted luggage with a thud and embrace her back.

“Steve! You made it!”

“Barely. The plane was two hours late.”

“You’re so tan!”

“Chris, you were terrific!”

“Really?”

“Really!”

“Was it okay?”

“Better. It was fine. You were wonderful.”

She jumps up and hugs me again. Really tight.

“I missed you so much,” she says excitedly, squeezing me still tighter. I take one look down into those dark dark-green eyes, and there it goes again, that jolt which won’t leave my privates alone. The surge goes right through me. I smile at Chris, and she smiles back, that all-too-knowing sign, letting me know she’s got the same juice jetting through her as well.

So here we stand, surrounded by no less than fifty people in this unbelievably crowded hallway . . . arousing each other.

“Chris ...” I whisper.

“What?” she whispers back in my ear, at the same time taking a small nibble of my lobe.

“I’m-getting-excited,” I singsong to her.

She singsongs back to me, “What-would-you-like-me-to-do-about-it?”

“I’d-like-you-to-take-your-thigh-away-from-my-crotch.”

Chris looks down at her thigh as though she’d just met it for the first time and says in wonderment, “Now how do you suppose that got there?”

“Beats me.”

“Come here.” Chris steps back, grabs my hand, leading me through these throngs to her dressing room. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” Using my luggage as a battering wedge, we push our way into Chris’ dressing room, and she leads me to a corner, to some guy standing there and, pointing to him, says, “
This is Bradley!”