Slaves of New York (13 page)

We take the E train up to Fifty-third and Third Avenue. Stash molests me on the subway platform—anyway, he grabs me around the waist and breathes heavily down the back of my neck. He knows this makes me squirm. "Take it easy," I say. "There are people leering." Stash is wearing a Crazy Eddie T-shirt and white cotton trousers with zippered pockets. They're stained with mustard from when we went to the Yankees' game two nights ago. Stash resembles a Polish/Italian/

Samurai warrior, with his blond hair and Eastern European complexion. His ponytail hangs in back almost to his waist. He shaves once a week. One reason I was attracted to him in the first place was his dangerous appearance. Before I knew him, I thought he was a member of some motorcycle gang.

I'm not alone in this evaluation. I remember once, Stash hailed a taxi, which stopped; he ran across the street to get it. Just at that moment a woman got out of the cab. When she saw Stash, with his leather motorcycle jacket, his unshaven face, his Confederate Army soldier's cap, she jumped into the air, a look of terror on her face. It took several seconds for her to realize that Stash wasn't going to mug her—he just wanted her taxi. I subliminally enjoyed that: I like associating with such a frightening-looking person.

Underneath, however, Stash is actually quite gentle. He's said at times that it was very immature of me to have been attracted to his underworld qualities. This shows I wasn't looking for a real relationship. But I disagree; I've always felt that people's appearances don't necessarily have anything to do with their personality. Before we lived together, when Stash used to come to my apartment, I'd watch his behavior with Snowball, my cat. Even though it bothered Stash that Snowball didn't like to use the cat box, he was very good with her. He brushed her, bought her catnip. The only thing Stash insisted on was that while he was in my apartment the cat had to stay off the bed. Snowball bit him on the nose once, and he swatted her across the room. I could understand this, but before I moved in with him I had enough sense to give the cat away to my girlfriend.

At our stop we have to climb flight after flight of stairs to get to the street. The escalator is out of order. I'm not one of those girls who like to exercise. At the top of the stairs I'm out of breath. I don't know how I'll be able to play baseball, but I'm determined to try. This is the first time I've lived with a man; I want to be a good sport. Once I bought a book of advice to women about men, and the book told me to read the sports

section of the newspaper every day. So far Stash hasn't proposed, although I can quote you the batting averages of the Yankees for the past season.

He takes my arm as we walk up Third Avenue. Cars rush by in the night, furious wasps smoked out of their hive. Though it's dark, the air is hot and dry. In the city at this time of year the people who are left take on a demonic appearance. Their faces are yellow and ghastly. The street toward York Avenue grows gloomier. A large luxury building cuts off the view, but when we cross the street I see the cars are heading up the ramp onto the bridge. The bridge, seen from street level, appears tremendous. I notice turrets and ramparts protrude from the side. Below the bridge is an alcove, hidden from the cars but visible to pedestrians. If things don't work out with Stash, maybe I'll take my stuff and live in that little hole. I'll furnish it with a battery-operated lamp, a worn chair from the street, all the luxuries of home. The idea seems cozy. "There's the field," Stash says, pointing.

We stop at the start of the cyclone fence and look out across the field. Above the field is the underbelly of the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge, ridged with steel girders, shored up in places with planks of wood, like the grille of some immense cage. It's studded in spots with brilliant arc lamps. A hot wind churns up the dust. The ball, covered with a fine brown silt, lies in a pile of empty boxes of Kentucky Fried Chicken, beer cans, and torn newspapers.

Across the field grimy, fierce men—I don't recognize any of them—sock-sock the ball back and forth, faces stony as Aztecs. I feel like some actress who's walked onto the movie set without her script. Obviously I don't belong. Yet I'm not certain I feel any different when I'm at home, pretending that Stash and I are an old married couple. If I had stayed in tonight, by myself, I could have thought some more about the kinds of jewelry I want to design. The best idea I've had so far is to make pins and earrings out of reproductions of food. A plastic company will sell me an assortment of pastries—petits fours, éclairs, strawberry tarts—which I might put onto neck-

laces and earring wires. Stash has said this idea is not unique enough. He's already seen, in some store, earrings in the shape of sushi and sashimi, with realistic rice, seaweed, and raw fish. He's a harsh critic, but usually he's right.

"Listen, buster," I tell him. "I can't play."

"That's the way I felt last week," he says kindly. "Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it." But he looks skeptical.

"What if I miss?" I say. "All the guys are going to yell at me, huh?"

"Nah," he says. "It's not like that."

Some people are sitting on the cement bleachers. I recognize one person, an artist with a long, pocked face and glittery eyes. His name is Marley Mantello, once he asked me out on a date. This was before I met Stash. I pretend I don't see him—I've figured out that Stash doesn't like me to be friendly with other men—and I follow Stash over to some girl. "Hi, Mame," Stash says. "Have you met Eleanor?"

"Hi," Mame says. She resembles Tweety Bird, yellowish fluff sprouts from her head, her eyes are round and surprised. "Hey, look at this," she says. From a tremendous pocketbook she pulls out an oversized wineglass. Attached to the stem is an assortment of rhinestones—square cubes of emerald, ruby, topaz—arranged around a rubber cupid carrying a bow and arrow. "See this?" she says. "I just got back from Europe. The glasses went over fabulously, I got tons of orders."

I feel a twinge of jealousy. I've been too busy trying to adjust to life with a man to devote all my energy to my work. The world of jewelry and home-furnishing accessories is very competitive. Maybe I should quit doing jewelry and start to do clothing. Stash has been encouraging, but he emphasizes the fact that I don't work hard enough.

"Are you going to play baseball?" I ask Mame.

"Oh, yeah," Mame says. "Listen, I have to do something with myself tonight. I didn't bring any smack with me to Paris, and it was fine. Three weeks and I didn't miss it at all. But as soon as I got back tonight, I went straight to my dealer's. That's New York for you." Mame is very restless. "I hope this

game goes on all night," she says. "I don't feel like going home."

I suppose I should be glad that Stash and I are drug-free. I only know two kinds of people, these days: those who used to take drugs and stopped, and those who still do. Stash lived through all that and came out the other side. For myself, I was never physically cut out for the fast lane. No drug I ever tried made me feel good, and even one drink makes me severely hungover almost immediately.

"I'm going out to warm up," Stash says.

"Come on, Stash, you pitch to me," Mame says. I'm waiting to see how good she is and feel relieved when she swings wildly, spinning around in a circle each time the ball is thrown to her. She misses three balls in a row. Her short little arms resemble Tweety Bird's wings; her feet, in pink basketball sneakers, are oversized, cartoonish. Somewhere on this planet, I figure, there is probably a whole tribe of people who look just like her—a neighborhood of Chilly Willy, Sylvester the Cat, Elmer Fudd. At least they probably don't ever have to worry about how to behave.

A long, thin dog wanders around the field, looking morose. The dog approaches a small boy, who is throwing a ball back and forth to the other players. He's about eight, wearing a shirt that says "Oakland A's." A pair of too-large shorts are hiked up to his armpits, his little arms and legs stick out from a larval body. Mame puts the bat down and comes back to me. "Look at him," she says. "Isn't he adorable?"

I look him over again. "I guess," I say.

"I got pregnant," Mame says. "I'm madly in love. It's so depressing."

"Are you going to have a baby?" I say.

"Philippe wants us to have it," Mame says. "We were going to get married, but his mother won't let him."

"This is someone you met in Paris?"

"He lives in Barcelona," Mame says. "I met him last year, then I was with him again this summer. He's addicted to speed, but he's a wonderful musician. I wish I could get

enough money to bring him over here and get him straightened out. His mother doesn't want him to, though. You know, strict Catholic and I'm not—his mother doesn't think too much of my background."

Before I can ask her whether she plans to have the baby anyway, a man comes over to us. I must have met him fifteen times, but he's one of those people I instantly forget—he has a bland, innocuous face, sandy hair. It's not until Mame leaps up and throws her arms around him, saying, "Max, Max, my darling, where's the goddamn beer?" that I remember I know him. He's the organizer of the game, and an artist who paints traumatic situations—a rape, a car accident—in a medium he's invented himself, ground bones and blood acquired from garbage pails outside the meat market.

"Are you guys going to play?" he says.

"What the hell do you think I came here for?" Mame says. Her plump white hands are weighted with an assortment of rings, she wears candy-colored plastic baubles up to her elbows.

"How about you?" Max says. "We could use you."

"I don't know," I say. "Let me try and hit a few. If I hit them, I'll play."

I go out onto the field. "Stash, pitch me a few," I say. I swing the bat at shoulder level. To my surprise, a voice comes into my head. "Watch the ball," the voice says. "Keep your eye on the ball. Don't swing until it's over the plate." It's the voice of Mrs. Rourke, my gym teacher, just as spirited as when I was in first grade. Apparently I'm going to have to live with her my entire life; I don't know whether I'm exactly thrilled with this. I swing at the ball and hit it. Even though my hit is low, the ball goes all the way past second base.

Stash looks pleased. "You can play," he says.

Everyone comes in from warming up. I'm assigned to the team that lost last week. They need a catcher, which is fine with me. I remember now how I could never catch a ball out in the field, but if I'm behind the batter's plate, it seems to me, I can easily retrieve the ball and throw it to the pitcher.

My batting position is last. The little kid hangs around looking hopeful. But no one wants him on their team. My team is up first, we sit around on the bleachers waiting to bat. "Mickey," Mame says to the little kid, "come over here and sit on my lap."

Mickey ignores her. "Whose kid is he?" I say.

"You know Eddie, don't you?" Mame says, pointing to third base.

"Yeah," I say. Eddie has just made a movie—he's written, directed, and acted in something called
Forget It.
It was about some people who live on the Lower East Side and sell drugs that they had invented. The drugs turn the users into members of the opposite sex. This movie got very good reviews, now Eddie is something of a celebrity. Soon Eddie is supposed to leave for California—he's making a big movie out there. But he still hangs around the club scene and plays ball. I knew he had a kid who lived half the time with him and half the time with his ex-wife, but I never actually saw Mickey before. Since Eddie's divorce, his ex-wife lives with her girlfriend, and Eddie lives with his boyfriend. More than ever, I realize, everyone I know is just playing at being a grown-up; I have to include myself.

I watch Mickey. "Are you going to use my bat this week, Mame?" he says. "It's a good bat for girls, it's small." He waves his aluminum bat in the air, almost knocking me in the head.

A boy with an English accent, wearing an earring made from a yellow tooth, get up to bat. I should have thought of that, I think—necklaces made out of animal teeth. I could probably find teeth in the meat market. This is a slightly repulsive idea, but I'll see what Stash says. Stash always knows what's going to be hot; he's got a fatherly, knowledgeable quality to him. I watch him explain to the English boy how to hold a bat. "Listen, don't you hold a bat in cricket?" he says.

"Yes," the English boy says, swinging the bat as if it were a tennis racket.

"Here, hold it like this," Stash says. Stash is left-handed.

The boy is right-handed, but he tries to bat left-handed. He swings wildly and misses.

"Strike one!" the little boy screams. Mickey's sitting right next to me, his voice is so loud I involuntarily clutch my ear.

The pitcher throws another ball. The English boy swings again.

"Strike two!" Mickey says. "You're out!"

"What's that, Mickey?" someone says to him.

"Only two strikes to an out in this game!" Mickey says. "That's what we decided last week."

The English boy looks totally puzzled. His face is long and pinched, his nose as skinny as a collie's muzzle. "What?" he says. "What did I do?" It seems as if he's going to cry. This makes me afraid, probably the same thing will happen when it's my turn. Maybe I should just leave. I could easily make my escape and meet Stash later at home. But the thought of stepping out from under the carbon-arc lamps of this imaginary world, a place brighter than day, into the blackness that falls immediately beyond, fills me with terror.