The bar is the same, Fiona said: The chit, the info, call out your order, but stand in line there—don’t let anybody get in fucking line ahead of you at the bar or you’ll lose your drinks for sure.
Do you know Leonard Cohen? Isn’t he the coolest motherfucker in the world? I mean, next to Argwings Khodek. I love his Songs from a Room. He came in here twice—Leonard Cohen came in here twice—and both times I was shit-spray. Whenever I get around great talent I go shit-spray—the bottom falls out of me and I’m on the toilet sometimes for hours. Of course, now I’m totally freaked because Harry and I have this theory that if you see a person in New York three times, and those three times are somehow meaningful to you, then you have to fuck that person. Can you imagine fucking Leonard Cohen? I’m already wet, Fiona said.
I’ll make a tape for you. I just bought the album. “Famous Blue Raincoat” is on it, Fiona said, and “Joan of Arc,” and Oh! My! God! Have you heard “Song of Bernadette”? I’m going to have “Song of Bernadette” sung at my funeral. “Song of Bernadette” is so way fucking cool. Harry should sing it for you sometime. Or maybe I will.
I can’t imagine what would happen if Argwings Khodek walked in here. Holy Mother of God! Fiona said, What a shit-spray scene that would be!
What makes this place difficult is the place is divided. The owner wants it divided. The bartenders hate the waiters, the busboys hate the waiters, and of course, the kitchen hates the waiters, the dishwashers hate the waiters. The waiters hate everybody, including other waiters, Fiona said. It’s the same way all around. The bartenders hate the bus-boys, The kitchen hates the dishwashers, et cetera et cetera. That way, see, Fiona said, Nobody trusts anybody, so no one gets friendly and scams the boss. Divided, Fiona said, Conquered.
And something else. You see, you got to understand, what makes all this even harder is that Café Bistro is a theater restaurant. At six o’clock this place is going to start filling up, but by eight o’clock this fucking place is empty. And it stays empty pretty much until ten-fifteen or so, and then fills up again until midnight, sometimes one o’clock. The hardest part is getting all your people out of here by showtime.
Any questions?
Fiona’s fists were resting on her hips, Myths to Live By in one hand. Pit stains on the Day-Glo pink T-shirt.
My mother’s nerves. Language my second language.
My breath in. My breath out.
Yes! I said. Do you, I said, Like the book?
Fiona raised Myths to Live By up, looked at it.
My hands were folded in front of my crotch, so I moved my hands, put them on my hips, then hung them down next to me.
Synchronicity, Fiona said. I’m reading about synchronicity.
My arms were two wild monkeys hanging onto my body.
Synchronicity! I said. Well then, I said, Have you ever, I said, Met a man named Charlie 2Moons?
Fiona hid the scar of her top lip under her bottom lip, made a smacking sound.
Nevah hoid a him, Fiona said.
THAT’S WHEN HARRY walked into Café Cauchemar. Harry was the pinkest man I ever saw. Green eyes, freckles, short red hair parted on the right side. A blue polo shirt with an alligator, khaki walking shorts, white socks and Nikes. A Polaroid camera hung around his neck.
I thought he was a tourist.
Harry had a long piece of cardboard under each arm.
Fiona put her arm around Harry’s shoulders. This is Harry, Fiona said. Mr. Happy Birthday. New York’s only Irish Catholic homosexual.
Harry, Will, Fiona said; Will, Harry.
Harry put his arm over Fiona’s shoulders.
And this is Susan Strong, Harry said, Living proof that James Joyce’s idiot savant daughter fucked a truck driver.
Then: Photo op with the president and the first lady? Harry said.
Harry pulled a tab out at the bottom of each piece of cardboard and turned the cardboards around, and then Harry was standing between a life-sized photo poster of Ronald Reagan and a life-sized photo poster of Nancy Reagan. The Polaroid camera was hanging from Harry’s neck and his arms were draped over Ron and Nancy’s shoulders and Harry was saying cheese.
Have your picture taken with President and Mrs. Reagan, Fiona said. It’s a project we’re working on, a performance piece.
Actually, we just say it’s a performance piece, Harry said. Really what we’re doing is making some extra cash.
Everything is a performance piece, Fiona said. Extra cash is a performance piece. Waiting tables is a performance piece. Ronald Reagan and Nancy are a performance piece. How we get up in the morning is a performance piece. What we’re really doing is a fucking performance piece.
Joseph Campbell, Harry said, moving his lips so he was talking out the side of his mouth to me, Myths to Live By, page one hundred and thirty-seven.
So is Tony and Tina’s Wedding, Fiona said.
Life is an art and art is a game, Harry said. Asobase kotoba.
Even death is an illusion, Fiona said. Death is only a door.
Five dollars a pop in Times Square, Harry said. Bridge and Tunnel people just love Ron and Nancy.
Bridge and Tunnel? I said.
Harry stepped out from in between Ronald Reagan and Nancy, came over to me, and took me by the arm. I was tall and thin next to Harry. Harry stood me in between Ronald Reagan and Nancy.
Just do whatever comes to you, whatever’s natural, Fiona said, And Harry will take the photograph.
I don’t ever, I said, Do things that come natural.
Cool, Fiona said. Then do what comes unnatural.
Ask your Higher Knowing, Fiona said.
My face smiled.
I don’t know, I said, My Higher Knowing.
Polaroid flash.
Five bucks, Fiona said. Goes to a good cause.
Art, Harry said. Performance art.
I took my wallet out from my back pocket, looked at the lone five-dollar bill.
Cool, Fiona said. For you, it’s three. Keep two bucks for the subway.
I sat down at a table, took the tobacco from my shirt pocket, and the papers, and started rolling with one hand like I can.
Fiona’s blue eyes had violet flecks.
Roll me one of those too, would you? Fiona said.
Then: Me too, Harry said.
Harry moved Ron and Nancy up to the table so they were standing close, then placed a dinner napkin over Ronald’s shoulder and a dinner napkin over Nancy’s shoulder.
Where did you learn to roll like that? Fiona asked. That’s beautiful. I hate smoking these fucking Jesse Helms Marlboros.
Father, I said, Was a rodeo clown, knew all kinds of tricks, I said. My father taught my sister, Bobbie, and Bobbie taught my friend Charlie 2Moons, and Charlie taught me.
Harry, Fiona said, Do you know a guy named Charlie Two Tunes?
Moons, I said, Charlie 2Moons.
Two Moons! Harry said. What kind of name is that?
Shoshone, I said.
Nevah hoid a him, Harry said.
Will, Fiona said, It’s so cool how you talk. Do you always stutter?
Not when I’m singing, I said.
Fiona’s smile almost as good as Ruby’s.
You really are beautiful, Fiona said, When you’re rolling a cigarette. Your whole aura changes.
Playing at rolling, I said. Art, I said. Performance, I said, Art.
Fiona really laughed out loud. Threw her head back, lots of teeth. Her gums showed. Same way Ellen laughed when I said Jackson Holeewood.
Where you from, cowboy? Harry said.
Harry smelled like Polo.
Idaho, I said.
My brothers went to school in Columbus, Fiona said.
Idaho, I said. Not Ohio, I said. In the Pacific Northwest.
Cool, Fiona said.
Idaho! Harry said, and put his hands on his cheeks. So you’re the one!
What one? I said.
Daniel’s new slave interest, Harry said. Has he asked you to stay after wor
k yet?
Slave interest? I said.
You were Daniel’s slave interest for a while, weren’t you, Harry? Fiona said, as she took her cigarette and took Harry’s too. He don’t smoke, Fiona said.
I lit Fiona’s cigarette.
Gentiles, Harry said. Daniel loves them. I needed the job, I’m out, I’m liberated. It’s 1983. Jews have super cocks, and Daniel’s no exception—got a can of Budweiser hanging down there. So I sucked off Daniel’s big beer-can dick. Any red-blooded American boy would have done the same thing, don’t you think?
Fiona and Harry looking at me.
Are you a red-blooded American boy?
Harry looked at Fiona. Fiona looked at Harry. Both of them looked at me.
So you like boys? Fiona said.
No, I said, too quickly, then: Well, I mean. . . .
Hell, you ain’t one of them bi-sekshuls, are you? Harry said, and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops.
You’re going to piss everybody off, Fiona said.
I’m already pissed off, Harry said.
Bisexuals aren’t any good if they’re a man, Fiona said. Only decent bisexual’s a woman. A man just don’t have it in him to be good at bisexuality, do you think, Harry? It’s too complex. Most bisexual men, I’ve found, are straight men who like to get fucked in the ass.
You like getting fucked in the ass? Harry asked.
Best man to fuck with is a man who’s been fucked in the ass, Fiona said. Makes a man more attentive.
I’ve never . . . I said. I mean, it’s different . . . with me, I said.
Never been fucked in the ass? Harry said.
No, I said. I mean, not for . . . a long time, I said.
Oh, I know what you mean! Harry said.
No, I said, I mean. . . .
Shit happens, I said.
Seemed like a good idea at the time, I said.
But it’s not the truth.
Then I just said it. I usually can’t, I said.
Harry looked at Fiona. Fiona looked at Harry. They both looked up at the Sistine Chapel God.
Slow-uttered stage whispers: You usually can’t what?
Usually can’t, I said. You know, fuck.
Nightmare Café.
Harry and Fiona threw up their arms.
Wounded in Vietnam! Harry said.
Oh! . . . my! . . . God! Fiona said. The Sun Also Rises, Fiona said. You poor man!
Hell of a fix. Up Shit Creek. In a world of hurt.
Not Vietnam, I said. Not anything. Just me.
Harry pointed the Polaroid at me.
Flash. Auras.
Handed the Polaroid to Fiona.
Cool! Harry said, looking over Fiona’s shoulder at the Polaroid.
Make it aware, Fiona said. Make art out of it.
Way cool, Fiona said.
I reached for my wallet.
No problem, Fiona said. This Polaroid’s on us, Fiona said. She dropped the Polaroid into her huge red leather purse.
That was when Daniel, the boss’s brother, big beer-can-dick Daniel, slave-interest Daniel, flashed his Rolex, clapped his hands, and yelled, Three-thirty-six! Come on, you motherfuckers! Let’s get this fucking show on the road!
THE NEXT TEN days that I trained with Fiona, Chef Som Chai was on vacation.
Thank my lucky fucking stars.
The espresso machine, steaming the milk, ordering salads, ordering dinners, ordering desserts. Setups for the bar. Learned how to say things French: profiteroles, poulet florentine, steak frites, salade Méditerranéenne, tarte tartin, couscous.
Charlie 2Moons nowhere to be found.
Fiona’s busboy was what I was. I helped Harry out too.
One night I got coffees for Mack Dickson’s table. After the first rush, in the parlor by the espresso machine, next to the garbage can where you can smoke, I was smoking. Mack Dickson walked through the swinging red doors, a wave of Polo, beautiful according to GQ. Mack Dickson yelled across the room, Hey, Spud! If I want help with a table I’ll fucking ask for it!
After that, I didn’t help Mack or Joanie, Davey Dearest, and Walter either. They were on Mack Dickson’s side.
That’s one thing you had to learn quick that I learned quick: the Dining Room War.
Even the waiters hated the waiters.
Us and Them.
Us: Fiona, Harry, and me.
Them: Mack Dickson, Joanie, Davey Dearest, and Walter.
All of us already dead.
ONE THURSDAY EVENING, after the first rush, I was rolling a cigarette and Fiona said, Roll me one of those, would you? So I rolled Fiona a cigarette. Just as I put the match to Fiona’s cigarette, all at once, just like that, I said it. You guys, I said, Must think I’m weird.
Fiona’s blue eyes on me, violet flecks.
How so? Fiona said.
The light was unrelenting fluorescence from above.
What I said, I said. You know—the other day.
Harry walked in through the swinging red doors.
What did you say? Harry said.
I looked over at Georgette at her desk.
You know, I said. What I said about fucking.
Oh, you mean your limp dick, Harry said.
Fiona poked my chest with her finger, not hard, on my heartbeat, her lip a life all its own, something wild and red and crooked.
What the fuck, Fiona said. An idiot savant truck driver’s daughter and New York’s only Irish Catholic homosexual think you’re weird? Listen up, Fiona said. This here ain’t America anymore where you are. This is a whole new place. Weird here is something we aspire to, something we perfect, get degrees in, get awards for. Don’t flatter yourself about weird. This middle-class self-reflection and comparison-to-the-norm is bullshit, is small-town, is petty cash. If you want to spend your life worrying about what a bunch of assholes think, go back to Poontang, Idaho. I could give a fuck about your tiny life. This is New York City. Here, you take what’s wrong with you, you make it aware, and you make art out of it. And you take it to the extreme. Hot or cold, anything else you spit out!
The other day, Fiona said, When you were rolling that cigarette, when you told us you can’t fuck, you were beautiful, real, and completely present. And I have a Polaroid of it. And now you come up with this shit. Look around you, man, there’s a lot to complain about. You’re a tall, slim, beautiful white American male. Give me a fucking break. So your dick don’t get hard. Fix it or forget it, but be present with it. Besides, it ain’t your dick that’s broken, it’s your heart. So what’s new. I don’t even have a dick and I’m doing fine. The rest is Connecticut, middle-class cowardice, quiet desperation, something I have no room for in my life.
Fiona put the cigarette out in some mashed potatoes in the garbage can, and walked big steps—lots of shoulders and hips—out the swinging red doors.
Walking Spanish, Harry said. I love it when she walks Spanish.
MRS. LUPINO OPENED her door as I was unlocking my door. A black cat with yellow eyes ran into the hallway.
My red answering machine was blinking.
Ruby.
Ruby sounded like when you dream and you need to say something in your dream and you can’t say it because the words are so far away from your mouth.
Ruby Prestigiacomo, what am I going to do with you?
No message from Janet at Columbia University.
Across the courtyard, newspaper spread out in front of him, the E.T.-phone-home guy was phoning home. Again.
There were five of them: mannequins. Standing up in a green Dumpster on the east side of Cooper Square. Two females and three males. All of them, arms and legs and heads intact. No nipples. The males had lumps for dicks and one guy had a beard—not hair, just molded beard. No hair on the others. Took me a couple of trips, but I got them all and scrubbed them up good.
The bearded guy I put in my Jimmy Stewart outfit, another guy in the sharkskin suit, the third my Osh Kosh overalls. The one woman in my big white shirt and my baseball cap backwards
. The other in my Japanese kimono and red paisley silk scarf.
Stood them around between my bed and the front windows. They looked like a cocktail party.
Their names changed as often as their outfits.
Make it aware. Make art out of it, Fiona had said.
My Art Family. I called them my Art Family.
CHEF’S BACK, FIONA said. Keep your ass low.
Downstairs in the locker room, I hung up my waiter uniform, sat down on the wooden bench, took my high-top tennis shoes off, took my Levi’s off. I pulled my T-shirt off and when my T-shirt was off, I was standing there just in my Fruit of the Looms and white socks. All at once, Kung Fu salad guy walked in the locker room with another Asian man: a short guy, stocky, wearing a chef’s hat.
Chef Som Chai.
You’re going this way and then shit happens and then you’re going that way.
Kung Fu salad guy made like he was throwing a knife, then made a scared face, pointed at me. Chef Som Chai laughed, they both laughed, and I stood there in my underwear.
Show me the dick! the chef yelled.
The chef’s voice, Pavarotti in the low-ceiling room.
Hell of a fix.
The dick? I said.
Up Shit Creek.
Show me the dick! the chef yelled, and just like that the chef was standing right there on the other side of the wooden bench.
The dick! The dick! the chef yelled. Show me the dick!
In a world of hurt.
My hand pulled down the front of my shorts and put the elastic under my balls. I didn’t look down, I looked up, at the ceiling, just my eyes, at the fluorescence.
Like a horse, Chef Som Chai said to the Kung Fu salad guy. He hung like horse.
Chef Som Chai walked around the wood bench to me, put his index fingers under the elastic of my shorts at my hips, pulled the elastic so it pulled my cock up, then pulled the elastic out in the back, looked in on my ass, then let the elastic snap back. The chef smiled. Kung Fu salad guy smiled. Then the chef poked his finger onto each of my nipples.
In the City of Shy Hunters Page 10