What Is All This? (11 page)

I haven't had any ass in a month. More. Two months, going on three. A long time, and I wanted some. That was all, animal as that must sound. I was tired of doing it to myself. Tired of thinking and dreaming about it, swiveling around to stare after it on the street, reading fiction about it, looking at nude photos in men's magazines, lingerie and swimsuit ads in the Sunday
Times
magazine, going to R-rated movies just to get a glimpse of the pubic area and long looks of bare thighs, breasts and behinds. So I brushed my hair. Shaved. Ten after nine. Little bit late to call but it was worth a shot. And left my apartment.

I made two calls at the corner phone booth. First woman said “Bullshit, man, you only call when you're horny,” and hung up. The other call was answered by the babysitter: “Ms. Michaelson is out on a date.” I'd check out the bars. Where else could I now hope to find someone to make love with tonight? I looked in the window of the bar nearest my home. It had a tall, beautiful bartender, but all the customers at the bar but two were men like myself: looking for ass; trying to get into bed with the bartender, who, times I was there, I saw was mainly behind the bar to keep their fantasies going about her while selling them twice as many drinks as they'd normally buy. Did any of them eventually end up with her? I doubted it, so to me it was a losing place.

I went into the next bar a block away. It had always been the best place in the neighborhood to meet women. Always crowded, lots of good music playing, and no professional whores. It was much darker now. Just as crowded. Same kind of music it usually played but much louder. All the customers were men, and they were all gay. Several of them gave me friendly looks. I walked right out. “Say, where are you going?—you're cute,” one of them said. I looked at the bar's sign and saw the name hadn't changed. There was a notice taped from the inside on several of the bar's small French window panes and one pasted to the lamppost out front:

 

COME TO THE WEST SIDE'S
NEWEST MEAT RACK

Dancing, inexpensive dining

Taped music during the week

Live combo Friday & Saturday nites

Never a cover, minimum, ripoff or

Commercial hustle of any kind at

Our good place

Peace-loving bartenders

Well-meaning bar owners

Sympathetic landlord

We like nice company too

Bring your closest friends

 

Probably the best bar for me to go to now was one eight blocks from here. I hardly ever went to it because it was so far away. But plenty of single women used to go there, and it was usually crowded at the bar. So if I saw a woman I was attracted to and she seemed unattached, I could go over and stand next to her while ordering a drink or drinking the one I already held. In other words, it wouldn't seem unusual my just standing there before I spoke to her.

So I walked to it. It was a chilly night and I was glad to get inside. The place was crowded. Lots of smoke, chatter, laughing, huge television set on without the sound: basketball, and a new super-stereo jukebox playing a loud rock number almost in beat to the dribbling, passing and dunking of the ball.

I looked around as I unbuttoned my coat. Two middle-aged women sat on the bar stools nearest the door. They looked up, seemed to resent the draft I brought in with me. One flicked cigarette ash to the floor, the other fooled with her false eyelash, and they resumed their conversation. Group of young women at the end of the bar by the dartboard. Two of them playing, other two watching. All four drinking beer from the same pitcher. A pretty woman sitting at the middle of the bar, a man on either side of her leaning on the counter and talking to her at once. Another woman standing not too far from them, looking drunk or stoned. She dropped her cigarette, had a hard time finding it, and when she did, picking it up and then trying to relight it though it was still lit. And several other women, at the bar or seated at the three tables in front, young and not so young, heavy, thin, stacked, flat, pretty, very pretty, short, average and tall, all apparently with men. I went almost to the end of the bar, stepped on a guy's foot along the way, said “Excuse me, I'm sorry,” and then “But I said I'm sorry,” after he growled.

There was only one bartender, running around like mad and also pouring drinks for the waiters and waitresses for the table customers in the next room. I remember him from the bar that had gone gay. He sort of managed it and never poured a free drink in two years and liked to eighty-six people from that place. One time he told a friend of mine to leave because he thought he was drunk. When Jack refused to go because he said he wasn't drunk, and he wasn't, Gil phoned the police. Two cops came in about five minutes. Their patrol car was double-parked outside with the emergency roof light spinning. Gil didn't have to say a word to them, just pointed at Jack. They went straight to him and said “Okay, wise guy—get.” “But I'm not drunk,” Jack said. “I'll piss in that ketchup bottle and let you take a urine test of it to prove I'm not drunk. But if I am drunk then I got that way here, so why don't you pull Gil in for selling a drunk beer?” One cop started to unsnap his holster. “I can't believe it,” I said. “Come on, Jack.” Gil said to me “Good, you're his pal, you go too.” I said “Jack, goddamn you, let's go, before you get shot for being a jerk,” and pushed him out the door. He never really forgave me for butting in. He said later “I wanted them to take me to lockup and then for Gil and those freeloading cops to pay with their jobs for that bum rap.”

“How you doing, Gil?” I said.

“Rick's it, right?”

“Ray.”

“Ray. Ray. Right. Nice to see you.” He stuck his hand across the bar. He always wore the greatest shirts and belts. My clothes were fairly old and drab and getting threadbare from the wash. We shook hands. “What'll it be?”

“A dark draft.”

“All out. Only in bottles.”

The bottles of dark were German or Danish and too expensive, and besides, I didn't want to be carrying one around with the stein. I said “Regular draft, then. You got yourself out of Sweeney's, I see.”

“Came to where I couldn't make it there, or they couldn't make me,” and he laughed. I smiled. So we were old friends. He gave me my beer and I paid and put down a good tip. “Appreciated,” and I said “You're welcome.” I was going to ask if Sweeney's had new owners—anything to keep the talk going a while longer—but by now he was holding three order slips a waitress had given him and pouring a bar customer white and red wines, and I turned to my left. Those four young women were right by me as I'd planned. The two dart players had each been trying for the last few minutes to end the game with a bull's-eye. One of the two watching the game looked at me and then away. It was a hard look, a quick put-down for faking my way over here and staring directly at her, not at all interested, never could be interested, go away. The others seemed just as hard, though none looked at me. I didn't belong in this place. Didn't belong in any of these bars. It wasn't my clothes that were old, it was me. And my aim was all wrong: to come here just for a beer, okay, and preferably with a friend so I wouldn't have to push myself on someone to talk, but not just to find ass. It had never really worked out for me here or in that bar that was now gay or any of the bars around. In the four years since I'd come back to the city it had never worked out once. Closest I came to meeting a woman in any of these bars was right here about a year ago. I looked at her a long time. She was short, blond, lively, had a nice smile, seemed sexy, homey, thoughtful, uncomplicated, and as if she'd be lots of fun. She was talking to a man and every so often looked at me. Once, she smiled at me and I smiled back. Then she left for the ladies' room and on her way back I touched her arm and said “Excuse me, I know you're with someone, but I'm drawn to you, plain as that, silly and rude as that has to sound.” She said “No, I think it's fine. I just met that guy, so I can talk to you, and thought I was the one bugging you before with my occasional stares. You've very wistful eyes, that's why, which you must have been told before and which has to sound sillier or plainer than anything you said to me.” Two stools opened up and we sat at the bar. Admitted that these opening conversation lines were the worst. Laughed, talked, bought each other drinks, had hamburgers and fries. Then about six women—women I didn't know she'd come in with—came over and one said “Have to be skedaddling now, Lail.” I whispered to her “Stay the night with me—we got something going.” She said she knows, and she would, and she told me before she was a singer and accordionist? Well, it's with an all-women band and singing group in Florida and they had performed in Brooklyn that afternoon and were on their way to Pittsburgh in half an hour to give a concert tomorrow. We exchanged addresses. I kissed her fingers at the door, in jest and for real. We wrote each other and sometimes I called. Each letter and phone call became more affectionate. Then she didn't write back. I wrote again and she didn't answer. I called a few times. The woman who answered always said she'd give Lail my message. Finally I got her on the phone and she said she couldn't come to New York as I'd been asking her to and I shouldn't come to Florida to see her as I then said I wanted to, as there was lately another man in her life and marriage seemed a definite possibility. I said “Hell, I'll marry you,” and she said “Sorry, but with this one I know I'm safe.”

I said to the woman who gave me the hard look before “Come in here often?”

“What?”

“Do you come to this bar often?”

“What if I do?”

“I don't mean to sound forward.”

“Anyway, I don't.”

“You don't mean to sound forward?”

“Funny, funny, funny.”

“Bull's-eye,” one of the players said.

“She got a bull's-eye,” I said. “Like to play?”

“No.”

“Any of you other ladies care to take me up on my challenge?”

“Got a bad arm,” the other woman who'd watched the game said.

“Had enough…. Game's too slow,” the two players said.

“Might go faster if we teamed up and just one person watched,” I said.

“I think we've all had it,” the hard one said. “As spectators and playing.”

“Terrible drudge, darts,” I said.

Then why'd you want to play?”

“I'm very lousy at this talk.”

“What talk?”

This talk. Bar talk. This bullcrap bar talk. This get-together-and-say-something-to-meet-one-another and introductory-interrogatory male-female what-I'm-not-talking-to-you talk.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe he shouldn't try it then,” one of the others said.

“Shh,” the hard one said. They all looked at one another, were holding their laughs in. Screw it: they thought I was foolish or smashed or insane.

“Nothing,” I said. “Zero. Zip. Goose eggs. Blah. What am I doing in here? Excuse me.”

“You're excused,” she said.

They all laughed.

“Oh, you're all so dear,” I said.

“You're right; we are, we are.”

“I know. It's what I said. You're all very dear. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye…Goodbye…Goodbye,” her three friends said.

I left. Went home and lay down on my bed with my shoes and clothes on and read, listened to the radio—a talk show, then music—drank, read, drank. I still wanted some ass. I didn't know any women to fool around with except the two I called. Both I hadn't spoken to in months. Where were the other women I once knew? Where were all my men friends? Married. With women. Gone. drunks. Fathers. Abroad. Big successes. A suicide. Turned bisexual. One put away. Another put himself away. Not friends. I didn't know or want to continue to know just about anyone. Ass. That's what I still wanted. There were other bars. Two others around here and both had prostitutes. So I'd pay. A prostitute cost more money than I could afford, but tonight I'd pay. I could get the clap. I didn't care. I cared, but I'd take the chance. I never got it yet. I'd be very careful. The thought of getting it never stopped me before, and I could always get a shot. I put on my coat and left the apartment. “Nah,” I said when I reached the street, “I could also get arrested as a john or robbed and mugged.”

“I'm telling you,” Mr. Hyman said, “the baby's beautiful. Just beautiful.”

“You really like him, Dad?” Sylvia said.

“Like him? My God, what do you think?”

“I mean, he's really funny looking in his way, isn't he?”

“He's wonderful. A grandson like that is just wonderful.”

“Who do you think he looks like?”

“Well,” he said, glancing coyly at his son-in-law, “and remember, I only saw it from behind the nursery window, he looks like none of you. Tell me, Sylvia, who was the other guy?”

That's a nice joke to make the day your only child has a baby.”

“Don't get touchy. I was only kidding.”

“I know. I didn't mean it that way.”

“You want my seat, Hank? You must be exhausted.”

“I'm fine, Dad, thanks.”

“You think they'd give more than one chair in the room,” Mr. Hyman said, “even if nobody's in the other bed.”

“I'm sure there was another and they took it out for some reason. I'll just lean against this.”

“And you, my darling,” he said to Sylvia. “You look tired and pale. Place quiet enough to get a nap in?”

The hospital's great, Dad—really. Good service and everything.”

“Food's good?”

“It's better than that. You get choices like I've never seen in a hospital. This afternoon, for instance, they let me have things my doctor ordered me to stay away from during my pregnancy. The aide comes in and says ‘Want this?' and I tell her ‘Are you for real?' Here—chocolates like this box you brought me? Well, before, never, because of some diabetic thing, but now I can eat them till I get sick. Take one, Dad.”

“No, thanks.”

“Go on. They're just going to be eaten by the nurses and me if you don't.”

“Okay, so you broke my arm.”

He picked out a round chocolate with a little loop on top, removed the paper holder and dropped the candy into his mouth, Splitting it in two with his back teeth and drawing out the juices with his tongue, he saw Sylvia and Hank looking at him, so he smiled, chewed more ambitiously than he normally would, and said “It's good. Very good.”

“Whitman's makes some of the best chocolates around,” she said.

This I didn't know when I bought it. I just bought, that's all.”

“So what time you think you'll be heading back?” Hank said, placing the wrapper Mr. Hyman had put on the side table into the waste basket.

“I just came,” he said, laughing. “Let me at least look at my grandson again.”

“I didn't mean it that way. I meant—well, you know: tonight. Later. When we go.”

“Ohhh—twelve o'clock, maybe. Tomorrow's no work, so it makes no difference when I get back.”

“Was it a good trip coming here?”

“It's amazing, Hank. Four hours or a little more than that by bus, and that's it. Red Carpet Service, Trailways calls it, with a real red carpet running down the middle of the aisle. Give you a mealy pillow, a real hostess to assist you, she said. I never knew such a bargain existed till a friend told me last week.”

“What'd you eat?” Sylvia said.

“Well, they don't give you a real meal, but for eighty-nine cents more a ticket than regular fare, you can't expect one.”

“But what was it you had?”

“A choice of deviled egg or ham sandwich. I had deviled egg plus some orange juice in the beginning and tea later.”

“But you never liked deviled egg that I can remember.”

This was pretty good, though, and I was hungry. Look, I was thinking I should see the baby again before they close the nursery.”

“Anything you want, Dad.”

“Like to come too, Hank?”

“I saw the kid plenty today. Thanks.”

He waved at them as he left the room, went down the corridor and stopped before a window with six babies behind it. Two of the babies were crying, one with a tag above its head labeled: C-25, Riner Baby—Male. He pointed at him and tapped the window and said “Hello. Hello, beautiful one. There, already with a mouth like your little mother, am I right? That's the way she was then, crying, crying. But you'll wake up everyone around you and they won't like you, you know. Shh, shh. Go to sleep like something good. Everybody will love you if you do.” He made a few funny faces at his grandson and then waved and smiled at the other crying baby.

“So?” Hank said in the hospital room. “Do you have any idea what I'm supposed to do with him?”

“Something, I guess,” Sylvia said.

“What do you mean ‘Something, I guess'? Is that supposed to be an answer?”

“Just something, something. Anyway, he'll be gone tonight, so what's the big deal?”

“But it's almost nine now, and I got to walk out of here when they close this place and think of something to do about him.”

Then take him to Lucine and Dave's for dinner.”

“You know they invited me and not him. And I've already imposed on them by getting there so late.”

They wouldn't mind that much.”

“I'd mind. They didn't know your old man was coming down. No, it wouldn't be right.”

“So who knew?” She pointed to her chest. “I knew?”

“Okay, so nobody knew, but must everybody suffer? Why did he even come down so quickly in the first place?”

“Maybe because you sent him a telegram of the birth.”

“But I didn't know he'd rush right down. And you told me to telegram him.”

“I think he had a right to know—don't you?”

“Of course. I didn't say no.”

“So think, then. Think of something.”

“I'm thinking,” he said. “I'm thinking.”

He sat in the chair facing her and put his hand on his forehead. Sylvia lay on her back, her belly, knees and feet making large bumps in the sheet, her head propped up on two pillows. Think of anything yet?”

“I'm still thinking.” His eyes followed the second hand on his watch.

“Maybe you can get him to go back earlier. Tell him you got something important to do. You know: something involving business and that the dinner you're going to is part of it. He knows business and respects it.”

“Oh yeah. Your dad really knows business.”

“Just tell him that!”

“I can't think of anything better, so I guess I'll have to.” He looked at her. “You know, you really look like you're struggling. You need anything to help?”

When Mr. Hyman returned, his hand on his cheek and his head shaking back and forth and smiling, Hank offered him the chair.

“Don't need it,” he said. “After seeing that boy I could stand and dance all night. I'll tell you, he's something. A knockout.”

“I'm glad you like him, Dad,” Sylvia said.

“Like him? Out of all the kids there, and I studied each of them, he was the nicest looking of all. I don't want to start anything again, but where he got that nose from, I'll never know. A small one like that you don't often get in my family. And when Sylvia married you, Hank, nice a nose as you got, I thought a very small nose your kids will never get. But you got. And two gorgeous blue eyes also.”

The doctor doesn't think they'll stay that way,” Sylvia said. “Probably get darker the next few months.”

“Maybe it's for the better. Because what would my neighbors think if I brought around a grandson like that with blue eyes and such a small nose. ‘So Sylvia married a Gentile?' they'd say.”

“Tell them not to worry,” Hank said.

“Worries like that I should have all my life. But let me tell you, worries about Sylvia's birth I had plenty. Did I worry.” He looked around, tried sitting on the arm of the chair Hank was in, then stood and said “You know, it's really beyond me why they don't have more than one chair in the room.”

“Take mine,” Hank said, getting up.

“No, sit, sit.”

Then I'll call someone here and get you one.”

“Don't bother. A big hospital chair like this one is too heavy for someone to lug in. But tell me. What are you paying for all this, if it's all right to ask?”

“Too much,” Hank said. “But thanks to your gift, we'll be able to squeak through just fine.”

“I wish I could've given more. Sylvia tells me your folks gave a real nice little something also. That's very kind of them, tell them from me. In fact, when I get back I was thinking I'd phone them and say everything here is just dandy.”

“I called and told them,” Hank said, “and they'll be here in a couple of days.”

“So I'll call them also and tell them. No harm in that. But let me tell you how surprised I was when I got your wire. I nearly fell off the chair I read it in—that's the truth. ‘A boy,' I said. ‘My first grandchild and it's a boy, and weeks early, no less.' Her mother in Boston should only feel as happy as I did. And that little weasel she married also.”

“You should have heard her,” Hank said, laughing. “She called before you got here and first thing she says is all this psychological stuff she's always reading about and spouting, and what's good for the newborn infant and so on—things like that.”

“I hope you took it all with a grain of salt.”

“Mom only meant well,” Sylvia said. The baby was a little premature, so she was naturally worried.”

“Of course she meant well,” Hank said. “And she's been all right. Helped us out plenty when we needed it, plenty, so I'm not about to gripe. But when she gets into that psychiatric and Freudian and Dr. Spock bushwah, well, let me out—know what I mean, Dad?”

Mr. Hyman nodded, took a candy from the box, peeled off the gold wrapping, and stuck it into his mouth. “It's cream filled. I thought it was a cherry.”

“You want one with a cherry?” Sylvia said.

“Sure, if nobody else does. They have them in the box? Didn't know. Just bought it without asking.”

They do, and a whole set of instructions also. That's why it's called a Whitman's Sampler—so you can sample any of their assortment. Here,” and she pointed to the chart on the inside cover of the box.

“Chocolate Butter Cream—third square in, second row from the top; that's what you just got.” She dug into the box where the chart said Liquid Cherry would be, removed the wrapping and gave the candy to her father. He bit the top half off, held the bottom half, which still had white liquid in it, and said “You know, you're right. It's a cherry. I got it in my mouth right now.”

“Told you. You can get whatever you want just by looking at the squares here, and it has an identical layer underneath.”

“It's really something,” he said. “Anyway, Hank's telegram was a terrific surprise. I thought three weeks from now, a month. I immediately dropped what I was doing, called you—you weren't home, of course, or at work—and took the bus to Washington, though when I got off I realized I didn't even know what hospital Sylvia was in. Hank didn't say so in the telegram—just his congratulations. So I called a couple of hospitals I found in the phonebook and they didn't know, till I asked one operator what's the biggest hospital in Washington, because I remember you once said that's where you'd be. She said ‘Washington Hospital Center you must mean,' so I called and they said you were here. You should've told me what hospital, Hank, but doesn't matter. And it's some place, eh? Biggest and nicest for its size I ever saw.”

“Dad,” Sylvia said. “What are your plans for later tonight?”

“I thought I'd take the proud papa out for dinner before leaving.”

“I can't,” Hank said. “I already got some place to go to. A sort of dinner-business engagement, you might say. Something I couldn't put off even if Sylvia were having the baby tonight, and I've already delayed it a couple of hours.”

“So you go even an hour later. For coffee and cake—around then. Business deals always work out best around that time.”

“You got a good point, Dad, but I can't. Let's face it—the kid's here now and I can't afford to pass up any chance for a sure buck.”

“So you can't, then.”

“But what are you going to do?” Sylvia said. “I don't want you walking around alone and maybe getting mugged. This can be a dangerous city.”

“I'll go home by bus like I planned.”

“Why not take an earlier one?”

“Because I want to take it at eleven or twelve. I'll have dinner in some nice place near the station and then sleep on the bus. It sort of rolls you, you know?”

“But you won't be getting in till four or five in the morning,” she said. That's why I'm concerned.”

That's not so late for me. Sometimes when I get through cleaning and setting up at the deli and then having breakfast someplace with the other waiters, I also don't get home till four or five. By the way, you must be tired, sweetheart, so I think we better go before they kick us out.” He opened the closet door to get his coat. Sylvia, with one eye on her father, mouthed to Hank that the least he could do was have a celebration drink with him before going to dinner, but Hank pointed to his watch, flapped his hand to tell her to forget the matter, then sliced the hand sideways through the air to say the incident was closed.

When Mr. Hyman had put on his heavy overcoat, he said “You know, I didn't sleep coming here on the bus I was so excited, but going back? Like a log I'll sleep.”

“You're lucky,” Hank said. “I could never do that.”

“It's something you almost got to be born with, I think. He kissed Sylvia's forehead, patted her hand as he told her how happy she had made him today, and said to Hank “I'll go downstairs and wait for you in the coffee shop, okay?”

“I won't have time for a coffee, Dad—I'm sorry. I'm much too late as it is.”

“One coffee, what's that? It's the least I can do for you.”