Mercy (56 page)

all twisted up inside, but I never understood why, she was

pretty incoherent. We drank, we talked about him, or she did;

she didn’t have any other subject. There wasn’t no sexual

feeling between him and me and he acted cordial and

agreeable. We went on a bus with some other people they

knew to N ew Hampshire for Thanksgiving. I think he paid

but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t have any money to go but they

wanted me to go; they had friends there. We went on the

Greyhound bus and it let us o ff somewhere in Verm ont and

someone, another painter from up there, was supposed to pick

us up, but he didn’t come all night, so we were in the parking

lot o f the bus station, locked out o f the depot, deserted and

freezing through the whole night; and in the morning we got a

bus the rest o f the w ay. It was like being on a camping trip in

the Arctic without any provisions— w e’d pass around the ugly

coffee from the machine outside. We got cold and hungry and

angry and people’s tempers flared, but he sort o f held it all

together. His name was Paul, she was Jill. They fought a lot

that night but hell it was cold and awful. He was gregarious

but sort o f opaque, at least to me; I couldn’t figure out

anything about him really. He w asn’t interesting, he w asn’t

real intelligent, and then suddenly, mentally, he’d be right on

top o f you, staring past your eyes into you, then he’d see

whatever he saw and he’d m ove on. He had a cold streak right

down the middle o f him. He w asn’t someone you wanted to

get close with and at the same time he held you on his margin,

he kept you in sight, he had this sort o f peripheral vision so he

always knew where you were and what you needed. He kept

you as near as he wanted you. He had a strong w ill and a lot o f

insistence that you were going to be in his scout troop sitting

around the fire toasting m arshmallows. He had opinions on

everything, including who took too many drugs and who was

really gay. We got to N ew Hampshire and there was this big

house a wom an built with a tree right up the center o f it going

out the ro o f and all the walls were w indow s and it was in the

middle o f the woods and I never saw anything so imposing, so

grand. It w asn’t rich so much as handsome from hard w ork

and talent. The two wom en w ho lived there had built it

themselves. One was a painter, one a filmmaker; and it was

real beautiful. There was a lot o f people around. Then the food

came, a real Thanksgiving, with everything, including things

I never saw before and I didn’t know what they were, it was

ju st beyond anything I had ever seen, and it was warm and fine

and it was just people saying this and that. I’d been aw ay a long

time. I didn’t know what mostly they were talking about.

Someone tried to explain who Archie Bunker was to me but I

couldn’t understand what was funny about it or how such a

thing could be on television and I don’t like jokes against

faggots. I sat quiet and drank Stoli all I wanted, day and night.

We all bunked down in different parts o f the huge room. I

made love with a real young guy who reminded me o f a girl I

used to know; and some woman too who I liked. Then

somehow this guy Paul got us all back to N ew York. He had

been in the loft bed with Jill. It was the only real bed and it was

private because it was up so high and behind a structural beam.

They just kept fighting all night so he was aggravated and he

was angry anybody else made love, he said the noise kept him

up. So he wanted to leave and it was follow the leader. It was a

nice Thanksgiving, a real one in a way, as if I lived here, on

this earth, in ways that were congenial to me. The people had

furniture and books and music and food and a big fire and they

talked about all sorts o f things, books, music, everyday

things, and the filmmaker showed her film. I got back to N ew

Y ork, slept where I could, mostly on floors, it could get

harrowing, I would get pretty tired, I wasn’t really understanding how to put an end to it, I felt just perpetually exhausted and stupid, I didn’t see how you get to be one o f

these people who seemed plugged in— food, money, apartment, that stuff. I’d get warm in the bars with the painters. I’d

go downtown and they’d be there and w e’d drink. Sometimes

one o f the guys would hit on me but mostly I said no. I don’t

like painters. They seem very cold to me, the men; and the

women were all tormented like Jill, talked about men all the

time, suffered, drank. I don’t know. I made love with some o f

the women but they were just sort o f servants to the men;

drunk, servile. I fucked some o f the men but they were so

self-involved, so completely cold, in love with themselves, so

used to being mean to whoever was with them. They put this

shit on a canvas and they make it thick or thin and it’s blobs or

something and then they’re known for doing that and they just

do it over and over and then they’re very crass in bed, they’re

just fucking-machines, I never knew men w ho just wanted to

fuck and that’s it, I mean, you couldn’t even say it was a power

trip because it was too cold and narrow for that, greedy and

cold; they really should have just masturbated but they wanted

to do it in a girl. Paul kept making social events and he and Jill

invited me. Then N ew Y ear’s came and Paul had me to this

big dinner; Jill too but it was at his loft, his building I guess, I

couldn’t really grasp that part o f it. I was afraid to go but he

said it would be fine and I didn’t have to do anything or say

anything; I didn’t believe it because usually you had to cook or

clean or something but it was true because this was some

elegant sit-down dinner and there was people serving dinner

and he hadn’t cooked it but someone, some real cook, had. It

was N ew Y ear’s Eve. It made me feel special to be there, even

though I was scared. I felt like someone, not someone famous

or someone rich, ju st someone who could be somewhere

inside with people and nice things, I felt warm and in the midst

o f grace and abundance. It made me feel that there were people

in the world who were vibrant, who talked, who laughed. It

was not ju st some place to be— it was fine, a fine place. I was

almost shaking to see it, the table, the candles, the china, the

silverware, vigorous, jubilant people, warm and ruddy and

with this physical vitality that almost bounced o ff the walls. I

was so lonely that winter. I came back in N ovem ber
1972
, all

broke down. It was a bitter cold winter. I went to Paul’s loft on

N ew Y e ar’s Eve for dinner; a formal dinner; except no one

was dressed formal or acted formal. It was shimmering. It was

dazzling. There was plates and beautiful glasses and there was

food after food, all cooked, all served, first one thing, then

another, then another, it went on and on, it was like a hundred

meals all at once, and no one seemed to find it surprising like I