by Rob Sedgwick
But day to day, Tybalt was content with his own company, happy to be alone with his own mind and communicating with himself. Probably because he was the only being that could challenge him to new depths of discovery and self-reflection. What could I do, with my self-reflectiveless soul, except attend to his needs and love him in my own self-absorbed, self-serving, and fearful way? At least he knew I was capable of devotion. I suppose that’s why he tolerated me. Devotion has to count for something.
However much I drank, Julie’s ghost wafted all over the apartment. Booze can kill lots of stuff, but it’s pretty ineffective against ghosts. Sometimes she was cooking, sometimes she was watching TV with me, sometimes jabbering away about nothing, and sometimes she gave me a hard, ruthless kiss that made me wish to God she had never left.
I volunteered for basically everything that was on the table: working with outpatient heroin addicts, schools, soup kitchens, you name it.
Moss showed up unannounced, drinking a beer and grinning like George C. Scott in Patton. He could have taken a bullet in the teeth. The situation struck him as ridiculous.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s a community service group of show business people,” I explained. “We’re helping poor and underprivileged folk.”
“Doing what?”
“Whatever they need.”
“Are you getting paid?”
“No.”
“So you’re a sucker.”
“I’m doing all this shit so it looks good for my sentencing.”
“Ahh. So you’re doing good.”
After that, we quickly became known as “the Do-Good Group.”
I ended up at one of the worst schools in New York: Nathan Richmond, just up the street from Dwight, my old high school. I used to arrive there drunk, Nikko, Kyra, and I already having had cocktail hour at 7:00 a.m.
Hungover, I arrived at Nathan Richmond, the only white guy there. It was a tough place. It was a “check your gun at the front desk and walk through a metal detector” kind of place.
I entered a homeroom class and met some other do-gooders, a couple named Roberta and Alex. They were members of a theater company. The homeroom teacher fled, leaving the place in our incapable hands.
We introduced ourselves. Roberta and Alex were so soft-spoken no one could hear a word they said. Annoyed to be here, annoyed at my hangover, annoyed at the concept of community service, annoyed at my lawyers for making me do it, and annoyed at the throng, whose bustle and screeching were killing my head, I shouted, “HEY! LISTEN UP! MY NAME IS ROB, AND WE’LL GET TO KNOW EACH OTHER AS WE GO ALONG. CALL ME ROB.”
Silence.
Finally.
My head stopped banging.
Roberta was furious. “Stop that. Everyone’s always yelling at the kids. How dare you blah blah blah.”
We threw them into some theater games. Sixty percent of the kids hung back and didn’t want to play.
“That’s fine,” I told them, “but keep it down for those who do.”
The kids who did participate were extraordinary. They had more talent in the top knuckle of their pinkies than all the white kids at Dalton and Horace Mann combined. They were extreme in their gestures, and their emotions were at their highest. Desks flew; they rhubarbed each other. They were loose, as if they were dancing. The session was glorious; they were free. About two months later, we ended up doing a small bit of Othello for CNN. They were so proud. We were so proud of them.
After working there for about three months, Roberta and I had lunch. She said, “We are so lucky to have you. The kids respond to you so beautifully, and you’re so patient with them. I completely misread you. But, because I’m in charge of this program, I have to ask you what brought you to us.”
I had to tell her everything.
She was devastated. “I feel terrible, but under the rules of our program and the state, you’re not allowed to work with children. I have to dismiss you.”
I thought it was too bad, but no big deal. I didn’t think I was that great and was certain there would be other community service opportunities that would look good for my sentencing.
About two months later, I ran into one of the kids from the program, Valentine; he had played Othello. His smile could light up a city block shinier than Magic Johnson’s after a championship run. I walked into a Love’s drugstore, and there he was behind the cash register. The corners of his mouth frowned. Things weren’t going well for him.
“That class was the only thing I looked forward to. I wanted to be an actor because of you. Why did you leave?” he asked.
22
We are in Gay Paree with Linus. He’s chaperoning Nikko and me on a European jaunt because the parents have decided it’s time for us to get some more culture, in addition to the culture we’ve already gotten by living with one of the great Modern Abstract Expressionist collections. And we never see the parents that much anyway, so Linus is our guy. I’m seventeen. We’ve just scored some hash near Notre Dame.
It’s a month after my nuts-and-bolts gig at my dad’s shop downtown in Tribeca.
We’ve just arrived, have barely slept, and are staying with some friend of Ben’s, Madam de Something-or-Other. In Paris, we drink wine first thing in the morning, and Linus teaches us to hold a baguette under our arm—just so.
On our way to Notre Dame, someone asks us for directions. Nikko is wearing a Jim Morrison button that says, “People are strange.” The tourist considers Nikko’s button and says, “People are strange? Ha ha. I am not so,” and strides off, confident that he is all right.
We enjoy the Notre Dame hashish. Nikko is taping our conversation for posterity.
Nikko: If the ’rents heard this tape, they’d be astounded.
Linus: They’d be astounded that we were so ripped off man, but hey, when you’re smoking hash, man, what can you dooo, man…?
Rob: What can ya do, what can ya do?
Linus: Your stepfather, I love him so much. He is smart and knowledgeable, etcetera, and in many ways he’s very good to me, but he such a Turk, man. To prefer Rembrandt over Giorgione is so philistine. Giorgione is so clearly and utterly superior, it’s ridiculous.
(The Kinks’ “The Village Green Preservation Society” plays in the background. Nikko passes out. He’s fourteen.)
Rob: What can you do, Linus?
Linus: That’s fucking right, man. What can you do? I leave your stepfather to bask in his own Turkishness, naturalamundo.
Rob: He makes Mom feel bad most of the time. I don’t know why she married him.
Linus: I know, man, but your poor mother, she was forty years old and had you three kids, and your father didn’t have shit, so what was she supposed to do? Of course she’s not happy with him, and she’s still in love with your father, but she did it for you three kids, man.
Rob: I never thought of that.
Linus: She loves you guys so much she would die for you. Rob, I have to tell you something in strictest confidence. I’m totally in love with Nikko, man. I kissed him in New York a couple of times and he was totally into it. I just wanted you to know ’cause I love you so much, man. Of course, if you were into it, I would fuck you too, but I know you’re not into that. I know we love each other just as friends. But Nikko, man, I’m just so in love with him. He’s so beautiful, man. He consumes me.
The next day I get my brother alone. “Has Linus been bothering you?” I’m his big brother; no one messes with my little brother.
“No,” Nikko says.
I chalk it up to Linus’s febrile imagination.
But as the trip goes on, things get tense. I can tell Linus is staring at Nikko when he can, but I pretend not to notice. I don’t know what to say and am paranoid because I don’t know how we would get around without Linus. New York is fine, but here I feel childish and lost. Paris is made even more
beautiful because Linus knows the museums so well. Every painting is a story, and he always calls the artist by his first name, as if they are great friends. He is able to find his way around everywhere.
But Nikko drifts away in museums and keeps to himself. He lags behind us when we walk. Which is all the time. I am looking over my shoulder constantly to see if he is all right. I even see him throwing up this morning’s wine without breaking stride.
“Are you okay?” I ask, amazed at his efficient vomiting technique.
“I’m fine.”
We leave Paris for Milan. An old doctor friend of Linus’s grandfather picks us up at the heavily guarded airport with his mistress in tow. He takes us to his apartment, where we are to stay. He and his mistress are going to their house in the country. The apartment is depressing, with its metal gates protecting the windows, and Nikko doesn’t like the smell of this at all. I can tell he doesn’t want to be alone with Linus.
“Can we come with you to your country house?” Nikko asks.
I am so glad he asks this because the idea of staying here is awful.
They speak little English, but between Linus and our miming and pointing, they get it, and we pile into their mini Citroën and head up to their house in the country.
When we get there, it is pitch dark. It is a beautiful five-hundred-year-old stone farmhouse. The mistress takes pasta dough out of the refrigerator that she kneaded herself. We know this because she mimes it.
When it is time for dinner, the doctor takes out five bottles of wine, one for each of us, and musters in English, “Tonight, you sing!” Dinner is the safest, happiest place on the planet, and a feast! The pasta barely has any sauce, but is the most delicious thing I’ve ever had, moist, buttery and jubilant. The cheese melts on the plate. The peasant bread is dark brown and hard with pebbly grains and seeds. It is a meal by itself. We drink late into the night. When it’s time for bed, Nikko and I get our own room to share. He doesn’t let on, but I know he’s relieved.
In the morning, Nikko is up first. I turn away from the light that’s smashing into my face and Nikko says, “Look.” He has opened the shutter windows and there, under the low beautiful full sun, are acres of lush green fields. We are both so happy we came here. Of course. The wine last night. It’s a vineyard. The old doctor takes us around later to show us the place, the crooked branches, the vistas, the olive trees, which he uses to press his own olive oil.
Later in the day, they take us to the ocean to swim. Linus says his skin is too fair and stays at the house. The mistress drives. Her voice is a loud, brassy, smoky musical instrument. We have no idea what she is saying but it tastes lusty and kissable.
Once we’re in the water, we swim far out to be alone, Nikko says, “Thank God Linus isn’t here. He’s been making me so uptight.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But don’t you feel it too? Isn’t this the best time we’ve had on this trip, when he’s not here?”
I agree with Nikko, but what are we supposed to do? Calling the parents would be snitching on Linus, so that is out. And we can’t ditch him. We’re stuck.
Back at the farmhouse, Linus has decided we are going to Venice. I am torn. I’ve never been to Venice but we’re having so much fun here. And now, because of Nikko, I’m worried about Linus.
We decide to go and take the train.
Once there, we get a cheap pensione, nothing like our farmhouse digs, and walk around the city. I want to get an authentic slice of Sicilian pizza. Linus says, pissed off and huffy, “Oh Rob, you can be such an idiot. It’s nothing but authentic shit, but if that’s the way you want to waste your money, go ahead.”
Mom has given us a bunch of money to spend on this trip, but our plan has been to hold onto as much as we can so we can get more drugs when we get home.
Back at the pensione, our window opens to the street, and if I reach out I can touch the next building. A girl calls out in Italian. Her voice and the musical notes of the language are the Sirens beckoning Ulysses, and now me. She and her friend have been watching us, watching me, from their room one floor above ours. I stick my head out. They are gorgeous. They are Mediterranean delicious, olive and tan. Linus pulls me back in the room. They call again. They are giggling. I need them. I want them. I must have them. Again I stick my head out. They are more beautiful than before. Their smiles could lure paint off a wall. A pail appears. It jiggles sexily. They tip it over. It is filled with water. I get out of the way of the water. I snap my head down to follow the path of the water. It douses a man standing on the street. He yells at me in Italian. The beautiful girls have disappeared, but I can still hear their giggling.
Linus yanks me back into our room.
“What the fuck are you doing, man, talking to those fucking whores? You are some kind of fucking idiot, you know that? I mean really, Rob. You’re going to get us fucking thrown in jail.”
He yanks me easily. I didn’t realize he was so strong.
Maybe he’s right? We could be in big trouble.
But a couple of hours later, we are having cocktails to get ready to have cocktails with some friend of his that works at The New Yorker, and he’s telling me, “Oh, man this guy totally wants to fuck me. I know it. I’ll probably have to. You guys might be on your own after dinner, you never know.”
We follow Linus through the labyrinth of Venice to the restaurant. His friend is an older gentleman who wears a silk scarf as a man of leisure would and couldn’t be lovelier or more polite. He has a brought a younger man with him who is also kind, handsome, taller than me, and who doesn’t seem to be much older. He asks me and Nikko questions in broken English as best as he can. We both appreciate his effort and his kindness. But as the evening goes on, Linus gets louder, floppier, and jumps onto the older man, trying to kiss him. The older man fends Linus off easily. The evening is now over. They graciously say goodnight to Nikko and me (I also notice the younger man has been especially considerate of Nikko this whole time) and say to Linus it is time for him to go home. I am terrified that we will never find the pensione.
Linus weaves, slides, snakes, bends, and follows what seems to be his own path. We follow some paces behind. I am fretful we will be lost. But Linus’s sandals seem to know where they’re going, though he’s struggling to stay in them. They slap the ancient cobblestones so loudly the echo goes on for the whole walk back and seemingly into ancient times. He gets us back to the pensione easily, efficiently, then passes out.
In the morning, before we leave, Nikko brushes his teeth. He drops the cap into the sink. The hole in the sink is the perfect size for the cap to get stuck, which it does. Nikko is terrified because he can’t get it out. He looks over to me. He is panicking. Linus notices this and looks into the sink. He sees the cap stuck in the hole. He is enraged. Now he yanks Nikko away from the sink.
“What the fuck is with you kids, my God! We are going to be put in jail, don’t you realize? This isn’t the States; you can’t fuck up here like you can there. This is a police state! They’re after people like us! No one is here to bail us out! Let’s get the fuck out of here while there’s still time. We’ll probably be stopped on the train and sent to prison.”
The fever of his paranoia is thrilling and contagious. At this moment, I believe he is right. I don’t want to go to prison. Not for this.
We pay our bill and make it out of Venice and Italy alive.
Our last stop is London. When we’re drunk, the trip is still fun, so we’re drunk most of the time. We stay with an old friend of my mother’s and her daughter, who is my age. We have cocktails all day: in the morning before the mother’s coffee, around London via the bottles we prepared at the flat for lunch, before dinner on their roof, which is not designed for cocktails but pretty easy to fall off of.
After a couple of days, we get a letter from Mom. Nikko wants to read the letter aloud. I don’t want him to. I kn
ow it will break badly because he has been stuttering again and it will be all he can do to read the letter. He won’t be able to read ahead to see if Mom has made a slight about Linus.
My dearest darling sons,
I miss you so much and hope you are having the most wonderful time. Europe is magical. Did you go to the cafés in Paris? Did you walk by the Seine? Notre Dame? I hope you’ve spent most of the money I gave you and weren’t cheap. I gave it to you to enjoy yourselves, not to hoard. Nikko: Did you see the Louvre and the Impressionist gallery? Did you learn from the great masters up close and personal? Have you been sketching? I love you so much my dearest and miss you terribly. Rob: If you’re in London by now, you have to go to Buckingham Palace (as we did all those years ago when your father and I were still married) to see the changing of the guard and all that Christopher Robin would have seen in all those stories I read you when you were much younger. I hope you remember them, I’m sure you do. And you must go to Theater! Don’t be cheap! How is Linus? I hope you are taking good care of him, that he’s not too much trouble and…
That’s it.
Linus erupts, “That fucking stupid bitch, man! How dare she say that? Is that what she thinks of me? I’m horrified. Where the fuck does she get off…”
Nikko says in a dead serious tone, “It’s true.” He may be small and can’t shave yet, but his tone is sharp, and if you are on the receiving end it can really get under your skin. “You’ve been a fucking asshole. Fuck off.”
Linus, despite being smashed, lunges at Nikko for all he is worth. It’s sloppy, but I can tell he wants to gouge his eyes out. “Why you stupid little, fucking…”
Nikko easily sidesteps him. Linus lands on his face.
“That’s it, man! Fuck that shit. I do not have to put up with this. I am not a slave. I will not be mocked. How dare that bitch say you are looking after me? Fucking whore. I’m leaving right now.”
Linus is a man of his word. He packs what little he has and is gone in a frantic huff minutes later.
—
Back at 127 East Seventy-Fifth Street, the five-floor townhouse that’s bigger than any other townhouse, we’re partying mightily in Linus’s room shortly after our European trip. Nikko, Kyra, me, assorted others teenager hippies, and Milo Goldstein are indulging in our weekend festivities. The disagreements, tensions, and weirdnesses that were so thick have melted away, vaporized, and billowed—mostly as the result of massive ingestions of pot, coke, and booze—into a pink-colored cloud of forgiveness and love.