How’s your buddy True Shot? I said. Doesn’t he have lunch socially?
Ruby leaned closer, put his hand on my wrist.
Sweet mouthwash, fresh gum.
Something you got to know about Life Café, man, Ruby said. It’s a café all right, and it’s actually physically here on Tenth and B, but really what Life Café is is an attitude. Life Café is a way of looking at the world. It’s a lifestyle. Life Café lifestyle—so Eighties, you know, so predictable according to Noam Chomsky: Disco is out and Café Society is in, Ruby said.
Yeah, Ruby said, It’s like when you travel you put yourself in travel mode, right? You just go with what’s going to happen next—the rental car, the next restaurant, where you’ll stop to pee—you just let things come as they come. So why wait for travel to go into travel mode? Why not just live your life in travel mode? Life happens that way anyway, man. You might as well.
Travel mode is the key, Ruby said.
Ruby had white frosting on his soul patch under his chin. His Duke Ellington smile.
Do you think True Shot would ever tell me the secret of Wolf Swamp? I said.
So when people want me to make plans, Ruby said, Want me to make cosmos out of chaos, when people ask me if or when we should meet or where, I just say, See you at Life Café, man. And you know, it always works out.
Then Ruby, just like that, got up off his chair, then stepped up onto his chair and started dancing like he was à go go.
Party at Life Café, Ruby said. So Noam Chomsky, Ruby said. Don’t these people know that disco is back in?
The waitress with green hair and ears full of earrings brought us the check. Back behind the cash register and the counter, men who worked in the kitchen, brown men in white, big brown men in white, were at attention, wiping their hands on their aprons, staring at me and Ruby.
I put a twenty down on the check, and the waitress with green hair picked up the twenty and walked quick to the cash register.
Ruby stopped dancing and put his arms up in the air: Evita.
Everybody in the restaurant acting like they were already dead and wished Ruby was dead too.
In Wolf Swamp, Ruby said loud, You’ll find a concentration of two types of people: pharisees and fools, Ruby said.
Hey, Ruby, I said, Travel mode is the key, I said, Let’s travel on out of here.
Ruby looked down at me from his lofty height on the chair.
Pharisees, he said, Are directed by laws, rites, and ceremonies, are logical and consistent, are focused on values and in love with the power of adding zeros to existing values—are moral, sexually defined, are breast-beaters, squares, promote conformation and exchange, and, if you ask them how they’re feeling, will tell you what they’re thinking.
The waitress kept her body far away from Ruby when she brought back the change.
Twice the tax, about two dollars.
Let’s go, Ruby, I said. Come on, let’s go.
But Ruby wouldn’t budge.
Fools are directed by spirit and original impulses of the heart, Ruby said, Are illogical and inconsistent, are focused on zero and in love with the power of fixing a center in nothing—are amoral, sexually ambivalent, are tail-eaters, run around in circles, promote transformation and change, and are, if you ask them how they’re feeling, scared and lonely.
I grabbed Ruby by the arm and pulled him down off the chair and Ruby walked alongside me, but he wasn’t really alongside, he was somewhere else. Not on the premises. The whole time I walked out with Ruby, through the tables and the Life magazines, Ruby talking talking.
Fools create, Ruby said, Pharisees assess.
You find pharisees in a center like New York because getting rich, getting laid, and getting success is what the pharisee is about—and commerce, religion, sex, and power are the very nature of the center.
An old guy with a long gray beard, barefoot, just with a pair of pants tied on with string, walked by. I smelled him before I saw him. He and his seven big black Labradors that followed him.
Now, don’t get me wrong, Ruby said. Even fools want to get rich, get laid, and get success, but that’s not what the fool is about. The main reason you find so many fools in a center like New York is because it’s the perfect place to hide.
All fools are fools because they weren’t invited to the party, Ruby said. The fool moves to New York because New York is the party. The fool takes up residence in the party so he won’t ever have to feel he isn’t invited.
Ruby, I said, Is that Dog Shit Park?
That’s when I saw Ruby’s arms, I mean really saw them. Bright sunlight on the deep blue tracks and purple berries on Ruby’s beautiful forearms.
Now Harlequin is a fool with consciousness, Ruby said, A fool who puts on a costume. The difference between a fool and Harlequin is Harlequin knows he is hiding.
Ruby took me by the shoulders and shook my shoulders.
Deep blue tracks, purple berries, on Ruby’s beautiful forearms.
Harlequin knows he’s hiding, Ruby said.
That’s the crossover, Ruby said. If you understand that Harlequin is a costume—that the costume is the fool’s concept of zero, and that the difference between the fool and Harlequin is Harlequin knows he’s hiding—then you will know what’s important about New York, about why you’ve come to New York.
I took Ruby’s hands off my shoulders. I wasn’t gentle.
Ruby’s smile.
So, my dear William of Heaven, Ruby said, Why don’t you roll me up one of your cigarettes?
I rolled a cigarette for Ruby and one for me and lit them both.
Ruby inhaled.
A fool can’t go around looking like a fool, Ruby said, Or he’ll end up New York fucking roadkill.
So put your costume on, honey! Ruby said. Set Harlequin free! That party monster of yours is screaming to come out. Let the monster out!
Ruby, I said, What’s that shit on your arms?
What makes a monster scary, Ruby said, Is that he knows everything about you. What makes a monster scary is his gift.
Manhattan is a monster, Ruby said. A dragon. And the thing about Manhattan Dragon is he knows everything about you—what’s important, what’s wrong, why you stay the way you are. And the secret the Dragon reveals, Ruby said, Is the truth you’d rather run from, rather fall apart than face.
On Tenth and B, in front of the Life Café, the bright sun through the leaves of the English elms, the English elms of Dog Shit Park talking to me.
That afternoon on the northwest corner is where I left Ruby Prestigiacomo.
Ruby yelling at me: William of Heaven! William of Heaven! I love you! I love you! William of Heaven, what am I going to do with you?
I BOUGHT A LAMP the shape of a wagon wheel with cowboys and Indians riding on horses on the lampshade.
I bought a Sony Walkman and a tape with the sounds of a babbling brook on it and wind in the trees.
I bought a boom box.
Ruby kept calling calling.
I went to pick up but didn’t pick up.
After a while, Ruby’s messages changed. He didn’t speak. He left long messages of street noise. Sometimes of Ruby coughing.
On one message, a car alarm went off.
Car alarm—every time you hear a car alarm, Ruby said, Another New Yorker has gone to hell.
TAKE THE R uptown to 42nd Street, then switch to the number I uptown and get off at a 116th Street.
It sounds easy enough, but the first time in New York City’s subways, crowded into an underground boxcar, clutching the subway map in one hand, a chrome pole in the other, your breath in and out, in and out, trying to look like you know what you’re doing, going from the R to the number 1, wandering around beneath Times Square, following the signs—half the time there ain’t no signs—the loud metal screech and wail, wall-to-wall people looking like they’re dead and wishing you were dead too, everybody in such a hurry, makes you wish for a bareback horse and for riding free through a clear Idaho day, th
e June grass fancy with wind, the wind lips at your ear, the wind in the leaves of the cottonwoods’ sigh and scratch.
Dodge Hall is just on your left as you go through the gates from Broadway. Second story, turn right at the end of the hallway: the Columbia Writing Program. Young men and women, all collegiate-looking New England types, like they just got off the Mayflower, all of them, each one looking like they knew what they were doing, savoir faire.
The secretary’s name was Janet and she had short dark-red hair, freckles on her skin. She wore a purple-blue dress. I sat down in a big wood chair, smiled big, and told her the name.
Charlie? Janet said. I remember Charlie. He dropped out of the program after Sebastian Cooke went on sabbatical. Last winter, Janet said.
Can you tell me where Charlie lives? I said.
Janet had that business smile that’s polite when you’ve gone too far.
I’m sorry, Janet said, I can’t do that.
Behind Janet were big windows, the old kind of big windows like in Saint Joseph’s School that were dark wood and you need a long stick with a hook on the end to open the top part. The top part of the windows were open. It was already a hot day.
My face was still smiling.
I’ve come a long way, I said, To find Charlie 2Moons, I said, It’s very very important, I said. I must give him a message.
Janet just kept smiling like you do when you don’t know what else to do.
On my way out, when I was at the door, Janet said, I do hope he’s all right!
Was he sick? I said.
No, Janet said, quick, It’s just that I worry about him.
The gay cancer? I said.
Janet quick pulled a tissue from a tissue box and swiveled her chair around to face the big wood windows.
The sun was shining on the green leaves of the trees. No wind. Just bright sun on leaves.
Janet blew her nose, and when Janet turned around again, she looked like she knew what she was doing. She thought. I could see the tears.
Charlie 2Moons is a very gifted young man, Janet said. And a dream-boat, Janet said. A real charmer.
Janet’s smile wasn’t a business smile anymore, just a smile.
I think the whole place was in love with him, Janet said. When he left the program, Charlie was living in Columbia housing, but now that he has left, I don’t know where he’s moved and he left no forwarding address.
Janet reached for another tissue, dabbed at her eyes, blew her nose.
What about this Sebastian Cooke? I said. Can you tell me how to get in touch with him?
Sebastian Cooke is in Paris, Janet said. Have you read his book on Andy Warhol?
Charlie’s? I said.
Sebastian’s, Janet said.
No, I said.
It’s fantastic, Janet said.
Where in Paris? I said.
Janet’s breath in, her breath out. Janet leaned her head onto her hand. I went to touch her arm, but didn’t.
Why are you crying? I said. What’s the matter with Charlie?
Janet looked up at me, tears down her cheeks. Her nose was red. She made a gesture with her hand, the tissue in her hand, waving, not at me, but waving things to the side, out of the way.
Give me your phone number, Janet said, And I’ll be in touch with you.
On a piece of scrap paper, I wrote down my name and phone number.
Here’s my card, Janet said. We’ll be in touch.
In my wallet, next to the Romeo Movers card, I put Janet’s business card.
In all the world, my cowboy boots walking down the marble steps of Dodge Hall, with each step my lips moved with the syllables of his name.
Char-
lie
2
Moons.
Se-
bas-
tian
Cooke.
Char-
lie
2
Moons.
CHAPTER
FOUR
Café Bistro on 46th Street was where I finally got a job.
My first day at work, as soon as I walked in the front door, Daniel, the boss’s brother, lifted his wrist up, shirtsleeve rolled to the elbow, hairy arm, Rolex.
Thought your horse mighta threw ya, Daniel said. Or were you planting your potato over at Show World?
Show World?
Don’t ever fucking be late again! Daniel said.
Daniel’s face was a mask over his face, handsome underneath like Ruby, but while Ruby was turning into a skeleton, Daniel’s face was something still alive floating in old water.
Find Muffy, Daniel said. Muffy’s the one training you.
Through the swinging red doors was a room, like a parlor, shelves from floor to ceiling, two espresso machines, a long counter. A person sat behind another counter and a cash register. To the right was an arch and the dish room—stacks of glass racks, old-food smell, the dishwasher loud, steam and spray.
My mother’s nerves.
Through the arch in front of me, two stories high, was the kitchen. Red-brick walls, shiny cement floor painted gray, stainless-steel shelves and racks and countertops, steam rising, smoke, the air full of hanging pots and pans. Frying grease. Convection oven air blasting. A side of beef lying on a butcher block. Lamb hanging from a hook. Unrelenting fluorescence from above.
Pots and pans slamming together. Little Asian men, all in white, white caps, yelling.
Muffy? I said. My voice a tiny thing in the bright loud room.
A man on the other side of a stainless-steel counter was chopping lettuce.
Muffy? I said to him, smiled.
The man yelled some kind of kung fu, slammed the knife down on the cutting board—lettuce every which way—then waved it in the air between me and him; he slashed the knife back and forth, brought the knife back behind his head, threw the knife past my ear into a cardboard box of Idaho potatoes behind me.
Hell of a fix. Up Shit Creek. In a world of hurt.
Everyone in the kitchen laughing, Asian men all looking at me, laughing.
Then: Eat! Eat! Kung Fu lettuce guy yelled.
Another man from behind the steam table yelled, Plate! Plate!—pointing at a pile of plates—Eat! Eat!
Rice and a thick stew with meat that was gray.
Kung Fu lettuce guy threw a plate of lettuce onto the stainless-steel counter. Salad! Salad! he yelled. Eat! Eat!
In the dining room, back out through the swinging red doors, a round table of brown men all staring at me. I walked past the table with the plate of thick stew with meat that was gray, the plate of salad. Brown men in white bus coats and white shirts, laughing.
Then: two men and a woman sitting at a table. Waiters. White people.
My name’s Will, I said. I’m the new waiter. May I join you?
The men didn’t look up; finally the woman did, right at me.
No, the woman said, looking back to her crossword puzzle. That place is saved for Mack.
Mack? I said.
Mack Dickson, she said.
The two men looked at me, looked me up and down. What’s important. What’s wrong. Went back to eating deli sandwiches.
My deep breath. The exhale brought my eyes to the ceiling. Painted up there, the Sistine Chapel God extended his finger and Man reached out for it, the way we’ll always reach.
Other places on the ceiling were clouds and cherubs and pastoral settings. The walls were mirrors. Two columns, Corinthian, divided the room. A wall made to look like a crumbling wall connected the two columns just high enough for privacy on the banquettes. The bar carved maple; a mirror in the bar back; the bar top, zinc.
All the tables were covered with linen and over the linen pieces of butcher paper. On each table a small jar filled with crayons.
On the table where I sat down alone, from the jar, I picked a red Crayola, and with the red Crayola I drew one big red circle on the butcher paper.
* * *
YOU’RE GOING THIS way and then shit happens and then
you’re going that way.
The moment that after you’re different.
Welcome to Café Cauchemar, she said.
The chandelier behind her. I looked for her shadow on the table. Curly black hair poked up under a Yankee cap, a T-shirt, nipples through the pink Day-Glo T-shirt, ninety-eight pounds, black bicycle pants, the book she was holding, Joseph Campbell’s Myths to Live By.
Fiona. I looked up from the red circle and there was Fiona. I put both feet parallel on the floor, my back straight up against the chair, rested my arms around my middle, chin out, shoulders square, new-shoe stiff, big smile.
When the woman is beautiful, before I know it, my body is at attention.
What’s important. What’s wrong.
Deep blue eyes, white white skin. Something wild about her mouth.
I had to take another breath.
Her upper lip a life all its own.
When she smiled, the scar.
Cauchemar? I said. Isn’t this Café Bistro?
Nightmare Café, Fiona said. It’s French. I’m the one who’s training you.
You’re Muffy?
No, Fiona said, her lip New York drop-dead fuck-you. My name is not Muffy. My name is Susan, Fiona said, Susan Strong.
Oh, I said. Daniel said that Muffy was the one.
Susan! Susan Strong, Fiona said.
Fiona pointed her index straight at my nose.
Listen up, she said. This is important, she said. Not Muffy! I’m not Muffy anymore. I’m Susan Strong. Understand?
Things start where you don’t know.
When I met her, she was Muffy Macllvane trying to be Susan Strong. She wasn’t Fiona yet. Not yet. It was only at the end, after Ruby named her, that she became Fiona.
FROM UNDER THE chandelier, we went to the three waiters’ stations, then to the bar. Then through the swinging red doors to the parlor, through the archway into the kitchen, Fiona talking talking.
In the City of Shy Hunters Page 8