There were more important issues at hand, apparently, than immediately answering his question. Especially since he was wrestling to keep something contained within his apartment, and that something, which protruded now between his bare legs (saggy briefs still on, thank the Lord), had two small horns (one slightly longer and more twisted than the other), v-shaped nostrils at the tip of its nose, and a white beard to complete the ensemble.
Maaaaaah, it said.
Leah said: “Mahoney, is it just me, or is a goat growing out of your baloney sack?”
“Taking his pants off helps him think.” I added my own two cents.
Leah tried not to smile as she looked at me.
“We have a history,” Mahoney shrugged.
“Oh, do you?” Her attempt not to smile intensified.
The fact that a goat was presently being held back by Mahoney’s naked legs had almost completely drifted from our conversation. But just so it wasn't forgotten, the goat said: Maaahaaaah.
“Hey, you two coming to my party tonight?” Mahoney loosened his grip on the goat to nudge me in the arm, his buddy-buddy routine, and then wrestled to contain the bearded beast again. “The camera's gonna be rolling. Things might get crazy, if you know what I mean.”
“You, um, you planning to have that goat at your party?” Leah said.
“Oh, of course not; he's my brothers, that's all. I'm babysitting him for a few hours while he's down at the courthouse. Tony will totally be gone by then.”
“His name is Tony?” I said.
“If that thing is gone, then your definition of crazy terrifies me.”
Mahoney grinned and made that lobster clicking sound again: “Batter-up.”
4
STARING UP AT THE EMPIRE State Building from the corners of 34th Street and Fifth Avenue, it was a tourist thing, all I could think about was the smoking towers of the World Trade Center on that fateful September morning, not as the world knew them through the eyes of early twenty-first century pixilation, but as I did from the North Tower, seventy-something floors up, with the heat and the smoke bearing down into my lungs. It made me scared of tall buildings. They were so defenseless against wandering airliners. And more than anything I hated elevators.
I said: “Did you know it took somewhere around sixty-thousand tons of steel, ten million bricks, and over four-hundred miles of electrical wiring to get this baby up and running?”
“Yes, I know.” Leah's get-up was a white button-up dress and sunglasses to curb what was left of the cocaine hangover. Its bottom half was free flowing to her knees and tight fitting from the naval onward (a brown belt advertised her appetizing waistline), with straps that glorified bare shoulders. Her neck was lush with perfume while jewelry adorned both lobes and the spaces between her collarbones. “I dated an architect once who was more enamored with this building than he was of me.”
“Notable celebrity visits include King Kong, who observed the city from that very observation deck – twice.” Naming random facts was one way of delaying the inevitable. I could start making them up if I had to. “Kong’s first visit was in 1933, and then again three years ago in 2005. Only then it was more of a love letter to his original depression-era climb.”
“Uh-huh, that’s very fascinating. Now come on.” Leah tugged at my arm. “It’s probably a three hour wait with numerous cue lines. Good thing for us I dated a guy who works here and can probably cut us through to the end.”
“How many people have you dated?”
“Enough to get me places. High places like this one, just not enough to achieve my ultimate goal.”
“Which is?”
“Free and unlimited Starbucks coffee for life.”
“I don’t think such a thing exists.”
Leah just looked at me. “If it does, I’ll find it. Look, another twenty or thirty people have stood in line since we arrived, and it’s only getting longer.”
“I don’t think this is such a good idea.”
“How many times do you come here per year?”
“Roughly seven.”
“My god, Joshua, you’ve probably seen the city more than Richie has, and he was born here. Yet you haven’t climbed the Empire?”
“I can’t say that I have.”
She tugged at my arm again.
“I don’t like Empire virgins in my city.”
“I guess I might as well come right out and say it. I was sort of saving it until marriage.”
“You are married.”
“Damn.”
“Come on. I’ve only got three hours before I have to be backstage, which is roughly how long these lines are. You want to see the city, this is it.”
“I’ve got a better place in mind.”
“You’re really determined not to go up there with me, aren’t you?”
“I like the view of New York better from down here.”
“Okay, that was sweet, and kind of simultaneously creepy.”
“No, creepy is implying that your fingers would taste good with ketchup.”
“Admit it, you’re afraid of heights, aren’t you?”
“I’ve got a better place we can go.”
Leah sighed. “Alright, wedding photographer, this had better be good.”
5
“SO, WHAT IS THIS, a breather or something?” Leah leaned back into the steps of the New York City Library. I couldn’t help but notice the curvature arch of her body gave extra definition to her breasts. They just hung there, defying gravity. Richie had said, If only he had her rack. Not that I wanted my own pair, but I could certainly appreciate them. “When are we going to the spot?”
“You’re looking at it.” I snapped a couple pictures of her with the camera that had once been contractually reserved for a Connecticut wedding.
She studied an assortment of colorful pedestrians scattered across the steps or sitting at tables sipping on the caffeinated drinks that she so hoped to freely acquire for life or dressed for the office as they walked past the two lion statues on Fifth Avenue (a couple of pigeons cooed on top of their shaggy feline heads), and seemed confused by the entire scenario, though she seemed to enjoy the fact that her portrait was being taken by a professional, and smiled accordingly. The same Indian man in slacks and sneakers that I'd sat near to yesterday had also returned.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Along with Grand Central Station, this is one of the finest examples of Beaux-Arts architecture in America. Notice its over-scaled details and Baroque inspired sculptures mixed with the construct of conservative lines, like its flat roofing and Corinthian pillars.”
“You’re filled with all sorts of fun facts today, aren’t you?”
“Frommer’s New York City 2008 was a total page turner. I hate to say it, but South Florida 2007 just wasn’t as good.”
“I see. And what are we supposed to do here?”
“A little people watching never hurt anyone.”
“People watching,” she tightened her mouth, “Do you collect bottle caps too?”
“It’s a New York City establishment.”
“Um, I’m about as New Yorker as they come, and let me tell you something. This is not a New York City establishment.”
“I also like to read a little Whitman while I’m here. Maybe try my hand at writing poetry. This place has a habit of clearing my mind.”
“Oh, I see. You think you can come out here to New York, read from America’s greatest poet, and call yourself one?”
“Yes.”
“I think I need to read some of it before I make that decision.”
“Never going to happen.”
“Not even a snippet?” She held two scissor-like fingers together.
“About as unlikely as Shake N Bake having more than two moves.”
“Ouch. So we're talking evolutionary chances.”
“I also like to come here and think. Pick up on the intellectual radio waves.”
Leah studied the two cooing pige
ons on top of a lion’s head, at the dozens of pedestrians passing between them, at various others seated around placid tables, and sighed. She said: “Yeah, I’m not getting anything.”
“Not even an AM transmission?”
She playfully slapped my arm. “Okay, Howard Stern. I’ll bite. Tune me in. What are we listening to?”
“Discussion on who should win the presidential elections this November.”
Leah looked at me. “Really, I say tune me in to talk radio and you go straight for politics?”
“So whom are you voting for?”
“I’m turning the channel; how about Pearl Jam or Nirvana?”
“Sorry, we don't get nineties grunge at the NY City Library.”
“Babe, it’s me. Miss Broadway. Voting for the liberal party is practically a prerequisite. And besides, girls don't get dressed up like this to talk about politics.” She really did look adorable in that dress.
“Okay, so Obama has your vote, but…”
“Don’t tell me he doesn’t have your vote.”
“I’m undecided.”
“Being a player in a murderous mob investigation is one thing, but if it comes out that I’m hanging with a Republican….”
“I didn’t say I was voting for the Republican Party.”
“But you’re undecided.”
“Mostly.”
“And you’re not voting for Obama.”
“Probably not.”
“Mm-hmm, I smell Republican.”
“Walt Whitman was a Republican, you know.”
“Take that back.”
“I will do no such thing.”
“Then prove it.” She jabbed me in the chest.
“O Captain, My Captain was about Lincoln.”
“There’s that.”
“Sure, maybe I lean towards the conservative vote. Is that such a bad thing? Maybe I think the government’s constant intervention into individual lives isn’t ultimately healthy for the nation, or prosperous, and that taxes should….”
“La-la-la-la-la.” Leah held two fingers to each ear, utilizing them as plugs until I finally shut up about it.
“Real mature,” I said.
“It’s called a shit filter. It’s my best defense against blocking out the lies.”
“Isla Elliot would never plug her ears up and say la-la-la.”
“How would you know?”
“Because I went to one of her performances.”
“You’ve been doing your homework.”
“That’s right. And I expect to do further research into the mind of America’s favorite First Lady at the matinee today and later again tonight.”
“Um, those performances are sold out, Mister.”
“Good thing for me, I know someone who can get me in.”
Leah exaggerated her laugh. “Oh, do you? Wow, you’re a busy man. Between all those performances and that Bill O’Reilly fantasy talk, I don’t know how you can possibly find the time to sit around the New York City Library staring at people.”
“And don’t forget, writing poetry.”
“Yes, and writing poetry. Busy, busy man.”
“The trick is to think about stuff as I watch your play. It’s what industrial types call multi-tasking.”
“Ah, so that’s how it’s done.” She took a moment to observe the constant mix-up of people walking by. “I’m still getting nothing.”
“How much time do we have?”
She studied the time on my iPhone. “Not long.”
“Come on.” I stood up and held my hand out. “I’ve got one more place to take you.”
“You’re not going to tell me where?”
“Nope.”
“Is this going to involve controversial subjects, like politics and religion, and thinking about stuff?”
“Probably.”
She accepted my hand. “I can hardly wait.”
6
JUST ACROSS THE STREET from Rockefeller Plaza on Fifth Avenue stood Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, with its stunning medieval spires. It was part of the neo-gothic architectural family that found a feverish revival in the nineteenth century. The movement as a whole was not only a reaction to the incoming tidal wave of industrialism, but the religious non-conformism that fashionably paired itself with the world of progress and machines, and alternatively beckoned its visitor to become an aficionado of our spiritual heritage. I liked the reminder. On the way over I told all that and more.
“So, Catholic huh?” Even at a hush, Leah’s voice echoed indoors. I wondered if the echoes reverberated into her hangover. As testament to the possibility she kept her sunglasses on. “First I find out you like to sit on random street corners and watch people, when you're not staying up all night to cook, and now this. You’re full of surprises.”
“My current Bible includes the seven books that Luther and the reformers later removed. It’s a slightly longer read, but the supplementary character development really adds to the overall suspense and apocalyptic climax.”
“Last time I checked your father was a Baptist preacher.”
“He still is. King James is the only inspired word of God.”
“Oh boy, so when was the move to the dark side?”
“When I married Elise; she subscribed to the papal tradition. I didn’t see any reason for us to be in two separate churches, and I guess Catholicism had its perks.”
“Apparently two of them, to be exact,” Leah let a deep breath of air escape sarcastically from her lungs, as she often did.
I smiled pleasurably. “You remember Elise then.”
“The cheerleader? Let’s just say I’d never let her borrow any of my sweaters. I like my wool un-stretched, thank you very much.”
We sat down in a pew. It creaked under the slump of our bodies. Art and ambiance flourished in our senses. I even worked at creating my own art by snapping several pictures of the pretty lady. She seemed to enjoy the attention, and really, it was hard to screw up any sort of picture that she happened to be walking through or sitting in. Elise was the same way.
“It’s awe inspiring, isn’t it?” I said after a time. Click. It's very likely that my subconscious wasn't strictly speaking of neo-gothic architecture.
“It is.” She scrolled her eyes over intricate pillars and shimmering panes of glass. I liked watching her. Another snap of my camera attested to that fact. And the mere thought that I was sitting down next to the worlds most beloved First Lady (and that included the actual First Lady, Laura Bush), was humbling. “It’s almost like a living picture book. A person could really come here to think. And pray.”
“That’s a noted difference between the western and eastern orthodox delivery. In Evangelical culture, God is your friend. In Orthodoxy, you’re taken back by how holy He is. I like both approaches, but I respond particularly well to the later.”
“Huh. I’ve never thought about it quite like that.” She considered the matter. “I could totally see myself sitting here on a Sunday morning. It’s just, I’ve put off going to church for so long.”
“Maybe I’ll take you some time, little lady.” I nudged her arm with my elbow just to pull another smile from her lips. My attempt was successful. “I’m curious, why have you put off going to church?”
“I stopped going the moment I left home for college. I guess I just wanted to pull away from my fathers overbearing control, create my own identity, and there was such enormous pressure to fit into the arts community. I didn’t want to be judged, or worse, rejected. Many of my friends were atheists. They were the only ones who ever talked about God. Except for the agnostics, everyone else just kept their mouths shut. And my teachers had so much wisdom yet so little love for religion. It just made sense at the time, especially since I identified Christianity with my father. After being pulled away from it long enough I finally convinced myself that I was a mature adult, and the Bible was illustrated stories for children.”
“That was college. You’re the most recognized Broadway star
in America. There’s no way they’re rejecting you now.”
“You don’t know the theater community then.”
“I guess not.” I looked up at the ceiling. The pew creaked under my weight as I shuffled in it. “I won’t reject you, whatever your decision.”
“I know you won’t. And you're not theater.”
“Hey, if I recall, I acted in several plays with you back in high school. My interpretation of Nick Bottom to your Fairy Queen in Midsummer Night’s Dream was a performance not soon to be forgotten.”
“Mm-hmm, I haven't forgotten. Same observation applies.”
“Ouch.”
Just to let me know she didn't think poorly of me, despite my bad acting, she laid a hand on mine. Our fingers interlocked. I reminded myself that physical affection was always difficult for Leah, and so tried to take the implications of it in.
And then I suddenly recalled Ellie Alexander's book, Babies are Atheists, sitting on her nightstand, and asked: “Do you still believe in God?”
“Sure, of course. But you have to understand I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life. It was easier to not think about it. And besides, I guess I was never interested in going to church because I always thought God was manipulative.”
“Sounds a lot like the theater community.”
Leah didn't seem to appreciate the comparison. Her hand loosened its grip from my own. So I attempted that Bill Murray Groundhog Day thing and gave our conversation another rebooted college try.
“Me personally, I've always struggled with the thought that God could really accept me for who I am, thank-you father. That belief alone typically keeps my Bible closed on Monday mornings.”
“I know where you’re going with this, and I don’t have daddy issues.” She pulled her hand away.
“We all have daddy issues. I have daddy issues. Elise has daddy issues.”
“Well I don’t.”
“God is at work in you Leah, despite confusing him with your father.”
“That's rather bold of you.” Leah frowned. The emotionally detached side of her brain probably wanted to jump ship and swim into the vastness of the open ocean, but something kept her onboard. Maybe that wild card from last night’s stack was still in my favor. “Joshua, I'm too broken.”
Goodnight Sometimes Means Goodbye (Wrong Flight Home, #2) Page 22