The Fuck Up (23 page)

“Hey,” someone yelled as I was crossing Ninth Street. It was Angel, an usher I had worked with at the Saint Mark’s Cinema. We talked a bit, and he asked me whether I had heard a rumor that the Saint Mark’s Cinema was going out of business.

“No way,” I replied.

“I heard it was going to turn it into some kind of yuppie mall.”

“I wish I was a yuppie,” I said.

“Why?”

“They’re young and they have money, the winning combination.”

“Well, you’re still young—halfway there. You’re not looking for any coke, are you?”

“I’m just out for a walk,” I replied.

“I can give you a good deal on some coke. Have a taste.” And he unfolded a small packet of aluminum foil, dabbed a little on the end of his long-grown pinky nail, and held it up to my nose. I snorted and felt the tingle rise and spread.

“Wait one second,” I said and went to the pay phone where I called Janus. I told her that 1 would be home soon with a parting gift.

“How much is it?” 1 asked the ex-usher.

“I’m freezing out here,” he replied and gave me a great deal; two grams for two hundred bucks. I went home quickly and showed it to a grim Janus.

“Tonight,” I said, “let’s go out in style.”

We went out to a nearby restaurant for dinner and then came home and watched some TV. Initially we were able to forget the impending return, but when we remembered it was additionally painful. We tried to be intimate but it wasn’t working; we couldn’t ignore the sword dangling over our heads. Finally she declared, “This is bullshit.”

“Let’s pack up and just leave,” I suggested. But then there was a new silence.

She eventually broke it with her explanation, “I can’t work forty hours a week just to live in a ten-floor walk up on Avenue C. I’ve lived with rats and roaches and I don’t want to, ever again.”

“I’ve lived like that too, but it doesn’t have to be like that. Right now I’m involved in something and if all goes well, I’ll co-own a movie theater in Jersey. It’ll only bring in a modest salary at first, but there are still some nice places in Hoboken and Jersey City, and you can move in with me.”

“Well, if that happens, great. But let’s only count on what we got: Where’s
the coke?” I took out the envelope and she took down a small glass frame from the wall. It was the New York Film Series Award citing Ternevsky for Best Cinematic Effort of 1973. She placed the coke on it. Taking a letter opener from his desk, she plowed through the pile, creating fine lines of white powder. I watched with a silent smile as she quickly got a small piece of aquarium tubing from Ternevsky’s top desk drawer and handed me one. She was an expert, there was no fumbling or improvising.

She smiled, kissed me and started up her nose siphoning.

Quickly a small fireworks ignited in the sinuses soared into the brain. Her eyes became glassy and we both started giggling. The celebration had begun. Half past a gram, the phone rang. Whoever it was, I wasn’t worried. It was night and Ternevsky, the daytime vampire, couldn’t catch us until tomorrow’s afternoon light.

Answering the phone, I found someone in desperate need of Henry, a wrong number. An anonymous male voice had misdialed. From my drugged perspective, this was absolutely hilarious. But a moment after the phone was back on the receiver, it rang again.

“I need to talk to Henry,” the voice pleaded, and once again I couldn’t stop laughing until I hung up. Again the phone rang. This time I instructed Janus, “When the Igor asks for Henry, hand me the phone.” She did so, and when the older male voice asked me if I was Henry, I made an affirmative mumble.

“Henry,” he started sobbing, “Dad is dead.” Janus was restraining laughs. This guy was sobbing and, coke notwithstanding, I was suddenly pushed face to face with an old familiar mood.

I hung up, unplugged the phone and chucked it across the room. Grabbing the aquarium tubing, I started snorting away from the caller and all the pathetic associations, snort exalting up into that cocaine cosmos.

Janus began undoing my clothes and I started stripping her. She brought me over to the big round bed. And everything was done, nothing was shameful, nor vulgar, nor squeamish, nor could be, everything was mustful. Energy launched and abounded; muscles bulged, bunched and loosened again. Nothing retained. Everything was a blastoff-moonwalk-splashdown, shameless sin before the expulsion. Each single sensation was on its own, soaking up itself, every second was lifefull and there was no nothingness, until my liquid concentrate diluted and then sinking forever deep, deep, deep….

Awaking
to the sensation of a clench, I blinked through the gushing sunlight of those bay windows. 1 could make out Ternevsky standing over me with Marty entering behind him, hauling in luggage. I jumped to my weak feet.

“Doesn’t anyone answer the phone?” asked the still-ignorant Marty, who was just stepping out of the elevator. Realizing my nudity, he dropped his bag and asked, “What the fuck is going on?”

“Your little faggot’s dick!” Ternevsky screamed. “It was in my little girl—that’s what!”

Ternevsky grabbed a vase of roses and poured it on the bed, splashing over Janus and myself. I shoved into my pants and shirt and she bolted up.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she asked, immediately grabbing the situation.

“I’ve always suspected this, you little bitch. Now I want you and your things out of my house.” Ternevsky, poor actor that he was, lost his exotic accent in his fit of anger.

“Sergei, I can explain.”

“Don’t explain,” I yelled, as I zipped up my pants. “Come with me.”

She looked at me angrily, making no attempts to conceal her nudity. She jumped to her feet before him and dropped to her knees, looking up at her master. She started crying into the loose legs of his trousers. After a moment of this, she pointed to me and started with the accusations, “It was that monster! He did it to me!”

Ternevsky looked at me with wild and widened eyes and since he was nearer to the kitchen than any other part of the house, he seized an electric can opener shaped like the Starship Enterprise and swung it dramatically in the air.

“Wait a fucking second! She’s lying!”

“He did it to me,” she yelled back. I dressed even quicker. As I squeezed my shoes on, Marty’s hands fell softly on my back, not attempting to restrain me, but letting me know that he was prepared to.

“What exactly did he do?” Ternevsky asked her paternally. She looked up into my eyes with absolute terror. Instantly in those pupils I saw tiny saucers of that terror: overpriced rat-infested tenements, dull and underpaying nine-to-five jobs.

Pushing Marty onto the bed, I dashed into the elevator, which was held open by one of Ternevsky’s bags. I kicked it out of the way and yanked the
door shut, and as the elevator sank away, I could hear Sergei scream, “Quick, call the police!”

Outside it was a sunny but chilly day as I wandered unsteadily toward the northwest, still hungover by last nights baby powder. Janus had supplied me with a good time, and if there was anything that she could salvage out of the wreck, even at my expense, she was welcome to give it a try, no hard feelings.

Finally, twisting along Bleecker, I arrived at Abingdon Square. There, I joined the collection of young mothers, children, old folks, bums, monkey bars, and swings. I wish I had grabbed more of my clothes, once again I had only escaped with the things on my back. Checking my pockets, I realized I had just about blown all my money on last night’s coke. So, without any immediate prospects, I just sat there awhile, waiting for something to come and for something else to pass. I watched a bag lady feeding pigeons and teenage kids wearing designer jeans.

I bought a candy bar, called it breakfast, and chewed it down as I walked through the West Village toward the F train. Passing the old restaurant where I had first met Sarah about a year before, I realized how quickly I had descended. I finally got to Fourteenth Street where I paid a token and realized as I walked down that long uriney tunnel connecting the IRT with the IND trains that the last time I had passed through this tunnel was when I went with Helmsley up to the Columbia University party. You know you’ve been in a place too long when every other locale serves as a reference for some sad recollection.

When I got to the F train platform, it was bare, so I figured I just missed one. Looking down into the dirty tunnel, I spotted a distant light. The train was on its way. But after a while when still nothing arrived, I checked the tunnel again and realized that it was only the nickering of an incandescent bulb deep in the tunnel’s filth. After about twenty minutes of waiting, a garbled
announcement came over the loudspeaker. All I could make out was “an alternative route…” I walked back through the long uriney tunnel. While waiting another small chunk of eternity for the IRT, I thought about how I had grown to tolerate almost all of New York’s degradations. Reality now seemed authentic only with a certain degree of anxiety and humiliation. But I decided that it would be a sad day when I didn’t mind riding the subway.

When a train finally arrived, there was a copy of yesterday’s
New York Post
on one of the seats. After reading the gossip on ‘Page Six,” I reached Boro Hall. As I walked toward Glenn’s house, I started pulling together some bullshit tale to tell her.

Up the front steps, I rang the door bell and kept ringing it for about five minutes. No one answered. When I took a couple of steps back and looked up at the front of the house, I thought I saw one of the drapes moving. Could she be hiding? I sat on the stoop unsuspecting and waited for the career lady to return from her career.

After about forty minutes of sitting and rereading yesterday’s Post, a van slowly pulled up. Suddenly I heard Glenn’s door behind me swing open. Junior leaped out with a baseball bat and screamed, “That’s him!”

The side door of the van slid open and out plopped a harmless-looking fat kid who fell on his face, but stumbling behind him was a little league team. I dropped everything and ran down the street toward the river. I had at least a half a block lead, which they closed by the time I reached the promenade. Jumping over the encircling gate, I moved through the shrubs and trees and tried squeezing through a fence into a private backyard, but I was too hefty. Through the foliage I could see nothing but running feet. They seemed to be all around me so I squatted low in the thicket and waited. I could hear them yelling between each other, “Is he up there?”

“No—did he jump over there?”

“He couldn’t, either the fall or the cars would’ve killed him.”

“Well he was around here a second ago.”

“He couldn’t’ve escaped. Spread out.”

They were defoliating the bushes and shrubs, and I knew that in a minute they would be on me, so I chose a direction and waited for my big chance. A hard boot suddenly kicked me square in the center of my back, throwing me flat on my face.

“Found him!” one large guy was screaming. “He’s right here.”

“Grab him, grab him!” I could feel the thuds of approaching feet running toward me. I tried to rise but a shower of needles seemed to radiate from my spine. Then the hailstorm started. Feet and fists smashed up and down along my arms and legs. I curled into a ball and tried to get up.

“Hold his arms! Kick out his teeth!” I heard someone ranting orders, and a paddle wheel of shoes started on my head and neck.

“Stop it!” I suddenly made out Junior’s voice. “Just hold him flat!” Anda group of hands and arms weaved into a straight jacket holding me flat on my back. “Mama’s gonna need a new lover.”

Through the throbbing headache, puffy eyes, and loud ringing, I watched him pull that Afghan knife out of his pants. When I saw him snap open the shiny blade, it was like snapping open a capsule of smelling salts and inhaling. Convulsing up with all my might, he quickly gored his knife into my right inner thigh. When I started bleeding, they weakened their grip and I pulled to my feet and dashed through the bramble. As I hurtled back over the gated area, they pursued. A cop car was slowly patrolling the far end of the promenade and nothing was obstructing its view. One of the officers must’ve seen me dashing by with Spanky’s gang close behind, but apparently it didn’t warrant further investigation.

Running off the promenade at the exit with the flag pole, I made it about
a quarter of the block up Montague Street before the fastest kid in the group grabbed me. A baby-faced monster with good sneakers, kicked me in the back of my knees. I went down. It was just the two of us. I lunged forward, putting him in a quick half-nelson, and fumbled through his pocket. Just as Junior and the tallest lad bolted forth, I found a Bic ballpoint pen which I placed right in the corner of his right eye.

“A step closer and skinny’s a cyclops, I swear it.” Junior caught the rest of the kids as they came huffing and tumbling out of the park. They encircled me and then Junior made a proposal.

“Let him go, and we’ll let you go.”

“There’s no way you can guarantee that,” I said.

“What do you want?”

“Just stay put,” I replied as I backed up the block holding the hostage boy in one hand and the pen in the other. A retroactive pain was regrouping throughout parts of my body, a limp had caught up with me and bent me over. Neither cab nor cop came by.

As the pain settled, it became harder to hold balance, and when I finally tripped on the consistently broken pavement, dropping the pen, my leash was gone. Skinny broke lose and the dog pack was set free. In an excruciating limp, 1 dashed into the nearest open store, a Häagen Dazs ice cream parlor.

I pushed two people aside and jumped over the counter. When the kids dashed in one by one, each at his own pace, someone yelled, ‘There’s a line!”

Running around the counter, they reached down and restarted with the kicks and wallops. I felt a tooth break in my mouth and fists pounding on my skull and chest. Suddenly, like a piece of furniture, I was lifted into the air for removal and disposal.

“Let him go!” A middle-aged lady wearing a red Häagen Dazs T-shirt cocked a small revolver at the group.