Slaves of New York (23 page)

"What?" Simon says, leaning forward in his seat next to Stash.

"Have you noticed my personality has changed?" I say. "I think I'm more outgoing."

"Yes, yes, I have noticed," Simon says. "I thought you seemed more outgoing and I really felt glad, because I like to talk to you, but there usually seems to be a wall separating you from ..." His voice trails off.

"A wall separating me," I say, pleased with this image. I realize, however, that Simon is simply supplying me with what he thinks I want to hear: certainly I've never found it terribly difficult to talk to him.

I remember how once Simon came up to me on the street, at a traffic light, and said, "Hello, you old rattlesnake." I jumped about a foot in the air. Then he said, "What's wrong? Why do you look that way?"

I told him I wasn't used to being called an old rattlesnake. "I thought for a second you were the East Village rapist." He was terribly embarrassed: I guess I had made him feel stupid.

During the credits, while the audience is cheering, I have a real craving for mocha-chip ice cream, and whisper to Stash, "Could we go out for ice cream afterward? To Big Top's?"

"Maybe," Stash says.

But during the movie, while the zombies are devouring living human flesh, I start to feel guilty about our dietary habits. Since Stash only wanted cake for dinner, I just heated an old slice of mushroom pizza for myself. This type of meal probably

should not be rewarded with dessert, but after the movie Stash suggests to Simon and Daria that we all go somewhere for ice cream. I would have liked some acknowledgment for coming up with the idea; I don't say anything, though.

"Big Top's is really one of my favorite places," I tell everyone when we are seated in a booth. There's something so reassuring about being in here. The boxes of stale chocolate-covered caramels arranged at the cash register behind us, the Muzak—nothing bad, aside from poor service and lousy food, could ever happen here.

Stash can't figure out what to order. "I don't know whether to get dinner or dessert," he says. "I took a nap before we went out, and when I woke up I had angel food cake."

"Mmm," Daria says. "I haven't had angel food cake in years. Who made it?"

"I did," I say.

"You make angel food cake?" Simon says. "Boy, that's really something. She's really something, Stash."

I keep my mouth shut and merely look modest: I don't admit that I made the cake from a mix. Honestly, it tastes better than the same thing made from scratch. A girlfriend of mine works in a restaurant where spectacular angel cake is served. I begged her to steal the recipe, and she confided that the cake came from a packaged mix. The one time I tried to make the cake from scratch, I used up twelve eggs and ended up with a new plastic product. Stash thought it was delicious: he likes rubbery foods in a big way.

"How can you not be able to figure out what to order when the selection here is so marvelous?" I say. "For example, the Wizard's Fried Clams have always been a favorite of mine."

"Really?" Stash says. "That's funny. That's what I was thinking of getting. But do you think it's safe?"

"What you're getting is something frozen and reconstituted," I say.

"Daria, would
you
order the Wizard's Fried Clams?" Stash says.

I'm irritated that he's asking her. Why would she know more about the safety of the clams than me?

At the last minute Stash decides to have BLT on white toast, and Simon says, "That sounds good. I think that's what I'll get, too."

"Very good," the waiter says. He's about our age, and resembles a stand-up comedian in a Catskills resort: reedy mustache, red bow tie, a tic in one eye.

"What kind of bread do you have?" Simon says.

"We have rye, wheat, and white."

"I'll have whole wheat," Simon says.

"Good choice, excellent choice!" the waiter says. He notices we're all looking at him—he's like some sorcerer's apprentice. "Well," he says nervously,"there were only three possibilities available to you, for a BLT sand.—rye, wheat, or white. Of course, some people don't get bread at all. Do you want bread?"

"A BLT without bread?" Simon says.

"Sure," the waiter says. "Didn't you ever hear of a tuna sand., hold the sand.?" I love how he calls a sandwich a sand. He goes on, half mumbling, "That means the person just wants tuna on a bed of lettuce."

"I'll have my BLT on rye toast," Simon says.

"Here we call rye 'Robert.' "

"Not 'Roger'?" Simon says.

" 'Robert.' "

"Okay, then a BLT on Robert and a Heineken."

"Something to drink with that?"

"To drink with the Heineken?" Simon says, peeved.

"Oh. I didn't hear that," the waiter says. Daria and Stash give each other a look.

"And I'd like a soda," I say, since no one asks. "I'd like to have mocha-chip ice cream and chocolate syrup." I figure part of my new personality is to make my wants known.

"Wait," the waiter says. "We only have milkshakes, and they're premade—there's only a choice of three flavors. It's a bottled mix."

"I'm very disappointed," I say. "But in that case, I'll have a tuna sand." This isn't what I want at all, but it's good when it comes: it fact, that tuna salad is like a shot of heroin and goes right to my bloodstream. I look at Daria and think, Go ahead, make my life easier. "Your dog," I say. "How did it happen?"

"Oh, he was hit by a car," Daria says. "He was only two years old then. Of course, it was my fault; I should never have let him off the leash. Anyway, I was hysterical, and my husband at the time wrapped him up and we took him off to the veterinarian college. At first they said it was hopeless, but Textron didn't try to bite anyone, which is unusual for a dog in that much pain. The veterinarian college was extremely impressed with his disposition; they decided to try and treat him, and though the work they did on him should have cost three thousand dollars, they said they wouldn't charge us. In fact, they wanted to keep Textron to conduct experiments on— because of his disposition."

Daria wants to know if we are going to Sakhalin Island afterward: there's going to be a party at the club for the director of the zombie film. Before Stash can say anything, I speak. "I don't think so," I say. "If I go out tonight, tomorrow's a lost cause."

"I was going to go, but I guess now I won't, either," Daria says. "I put on high heels and everything. But maybe I'm too tired."

I cross my legs and feel what I think is Daria's knee pressed against Stash's—but maybe it's only a table protrusion.

Stash drinks a chocolate milkshake while he smokes a little cigar. He asks Daria if she remembers his old girlfriend, Andy.

"Oh, sure—Andy Dime, I see her name a lot these days," Daria says.

Stash says that Andy got to be very successful because she worked hard all the time.

"I like to rest, myself," I say.

"In fact, Andy worked harder at costume design than anyone else I ever knew," Stash says. "From six a.m. until five p.m. she worked, then she would go to dance class. Then she

would have dinner—vegetarian—and then we would go out dancing until three in the morning."

"Amazing," I say.

"Maybe I won't go to the club, either," Simon says.

"You can share a cab with me," Daria says. "You'll drop me off at home first."

There's a silence. I can hear Stash guzzling. "Great special effects, huh?" I say. No one answers. "Like where that head got chopped? With the eyes?"

"Yeah," Simon finally answers.

While we're looking for a taxi, near a video arcade, a policeman waving a gun comes running toward us and knocks into Simon. Then he dashes into the arcade.

Simon is white. "A gun!" he says. "He crashed into me with a gun!"

I tug Stash's arm. "This isn't a good place to stand," I say.

There are no cabs in sight. A couple of Buddhists (maybe they're Zen monks) walk by in front of us, dressed in very plain and beautiful robes. I wonder what they're doing in this part of town so late at night. I'm tempted to go over to the chief monk and ask him to give me a koan, but probably he doesn't speak English.

When we finally grab a taxi, Stash says he thinks maybe we'll go to the film party; in fact, he's definitely going. He starts to tell the driver, "But we'll be making a stop first, at—" when Daria interrupts.

"If you guys are going to Sakhalin Island, then maybe I'll come with you," she says.

I don't say anything. I take out my little mirror from my pocketbook and check to make sure I'm still here, then I put on more eyeliner and lipstick.

It's not so bad at the club after all. Actors, dressed like zombies, stagger around with trays of zombies: fancy drinks with four or five types of alcohol, in drinking bowls that resemble coconuts and skulls. Daria and Simon go off to the room where there's dancing, and Stash and I go to the room with the

piranhas in the fish tank and say hello to people that we know. As usual when I go to a club I can't hear a word anyone says; all I can do is grin and try and nod at the right places. Since Stash gets involved talking to an old friend about the Velvet Underground, and I don't know too much about the topic, I lean against the wall and sip a zombie. As the room gets hotter and more crowded, I start to get weak. Once again my vision is gathering detritus.

I pull Stash by the arm. "Hey, listen," I say, "I feel weird. I think I'm going to faint again. I'm going to go sit down."

Stash is in the middle of a sentence. He looks distracted. "Okay, okay," he says.

"I'll be over there," I say, pointing to some chairs. Unfortunately, all the chairs are taken. Once again I'm in a cold sweat. I kick a man gently in the ankles. "Excuse me," I say. "I'm in trouble. I'm going to faint." I'm embarrassed but feel I have no choice.

The man, dressed in what appears to be silk pajamas, stands up immediately. "Sit down, honey," he says. "Are you pregnant?"

"No," I say. "I just feel faint. I know I'll be okay in a chair."

"I was going anyway," the man says.

I put my head between my legs and feel the blood rush around like a herd of buffaloes trapped at the edge of a cliff. I'm better almost at once, but I'm afraid to get up again, especially if it means losing my seat. Anyway, I enjoy just watching the scene: a boy with long hair, wearing leopard-skin leotards and white lipstick, is busy taking pictures of another man dressed as Captain Hook. Then I study a girl who's wearing a Victorian dress, complete with bustle—she's got on Day-Glo red mascara. On her shoulder is a parrot, but whether it's stuffed or alive I can't tell. I watch the crowd for hours; in fact, I float into a sort of trance, and when I look at my watch it's after 2:00 a.m.

I spot Stash on the other side of the room: he and Daria are leaning against a railing near the piranha tank. The room is too crowded to push my way through to them. I try to catch Stash's

eye, but he's busy talking. Finally he sees me. I wave at him, trying to make him understand I want him to come over to me, but he doesn't move.

Around three, Stash is ready to leave. In the taxi he wants to know what's wrong with me. "You don't talk to people, you sit in a chair all night," he says. "Daria said to me, 'What's wrong with Eleanor, she looks terrible.'

I don't even know most of his friends' addresses to notify them about the funeral. Maybe I should request, "In lieu of flowers, contributions to the Museum of Modern Art." "My behavior is my business," I say. "I'm not a performing dolphin; I act as I please." My words sound feeble even to myself. I try not to be so sensitive; at least I don't burst into tears the way I did in the early years of our relationship.

In our apartment Stash is silent, and it makes me sad to go to sleep without getting a chance to analyze every person we've bumped into that night. I picture the room getting blacker, beginning at the edges and gradually disappearing into a hole resembling a bathtub drain.

I'm shocked at how cute the clinic doctor is. He has brooding, vampire eyes and a strong smell of foreign aftershave. I'm glad I didn't go to the person Stash suggested. Even so, I'm nervous—I'm used to my family doctor, Dr. Henness, who is at least eighty years old. When I was eighteen and went for my college examination, he begged me not to get undressed. He never really seemed to remember my name, but at least he represented stability and some sort of security. With him, I knew there would never be anything wrong with me. But with this guy—Dr. Bartholdi—things are ominous right from the start. He sulks at his desk, jabbing something that lurks in the top drawer.

I assure him right off the bat that I'm not pregnant. I describe what's been happening to me. I want to prove to him that I'm not flaky; because of this, perhaps, my hands are rummaging wildly through my hair, I'm talking a mile a minute. I explain that I never take drugs, due to the fact that they

don't make me feel good. Nor was I drunk on the recent occasions when I practically fainted.

But Dr. Bartholdi pays me no mind. In fact, he examines his fingernails while I talk. Then he makes me pull up my shirt. He presses his cold stethoscope against me. It's difficult, with such a handsome doctor, not to feel violated. I imagine marrying him, dutifully undergoing such examination nightly. Then I tell myself he's a medical person, not a human being.