Confessions of a Librarian

by Barbara Foster

  “No, this can’t be happening. Hold on, Tiffany, let me look outside.”

  From the window of my Village apartment, instead of neighbors chatting on stoops, I saw people outside wandering around zombie-like, wearing masks to protect them from black smoke fouling the air. Every so often I heard strange pops, like distant explosions. I slammed the window to keep out the fumes.

  Could this war zone be my beloved neighborhood? New York, my long-term love that nurtured me and offered infinite variety, was wounded—perhaps terminally! Would I make it through this modern version of the Biblical Armageddon?

  “Why’s your head in the nineteen-twenties all the time?” continued a huffing Tiffany on the phone. “You carry Edna St. Vincent Millay’s flame because she lived in the neighborhood. Now, real flames are burning up buildings and people. Barriers are up at Fourteenth Street.”

  “We’re both downtown. How strange, cut off from Midtown Manhattan, like living in a concentration camp,” I burst out.

  Other than Tiffany’s roaring and the telly ratcheting up the body count, an eerie silence prevailed. Not a sound from the woman upstairs who practiced piano all day long, or the super accustomed to vacuum the hall daily.

  Impulsively, I wanted to jump aboard a bus and ride somewhere, to another world if possible. Since buses probably were not running, and I don’t drive, flight alternatives were academic anyway. Dizzy, a nightmarish image of New York fading into a ghost town caused me to rub my eyes till they hurt.

  “I feel rotten, Tiffany. I better lie down to get myself together.” I dared not admit my cowardly thoughts to Tiffany. In the past, she had embarked on “save the unfortunate” crusades, which required bravado if not courage. If anyone interfered, or even asked a question, she swatted them verbally.

  “And what are you doing about it?” demanded Tiffany. “Cowering in your apartment and complaining? Want to go downtown to see for ourselves? Yes or no? I’ll pick you up.”

  Shocked, I stuttered, “The TV says only doctors and nurses. Why me?”

  “First a cheapskate, now a coward!” snarled the monster, claws sharpened to a razor point. “You won’t give a penny to the Socialist Brecht Forum, or travel to the New Jersey prison with me to visit that woman.”

  “What woman?” I asked, befuddled.

  “You know, the cops sent her up for twenty years because she had a few joints in her Harlem apartment.”

  I imagined the newly-minted rescue worker curling her collagened lips disdainfully at my lack of a social conscience.

  “Not now, Tiffany. Save the left-wing rhetoric. People are dying.” I wanted to slam the phone into her infernal, clacking mouth. Yet I hung on, because she provided a sort of company. Who wanted to be alone, wondering where the next plane would strike?

  Later, I found out from a neighbor on the nursing staff at St. Vincent’s Hospital that the perfectly color-coordinated Florence Nightingale had walked to Ground Zero. In high heels! Maybe the Winged Samothrace whisked her there?

  After Tiffany hung up, I dusted everything twice. I regretted not cultivating house plants, which would have purified the air. Fully clothed, fists and teeth clenched, toes squeezed together, I dozed on the Victorian couch that comforts me because it has survived for more than a century.

  The phone rang again. Picking up, I frowned at a rash crawling up my arm. I imagined that the voice emanated from a ghostly victim in one of the fallen towers.

  Marilyn, who lived north of the barricade, spoke in a strained voice. In the throes of a panic attack, Marilyn struggled to speak.

  “How’re you, dear?” she blurted out. “Last night, we were celebrating, looking at the towers. Now they’ve vanished into a boiling caldron. Shit, outside I just saw a bunch of orange flashes!”

  “Take it easy, Mar. I’ll call later.”

  “Wait, don’t hang up! Talking makes me less frantic. I’m cuddling my three pusses, stroking them to calm down. Demeter’s the most psychic of our ménage. She’s been meowing strangely lately. I think she was predicting the tragedy.” No matter how she suffered, Marilyn attributed magic powers to her cats.

  “So many deaths. Now my own street’s gonna feel unsafe, the whole city. Imagine, I used to worry about getting mugged. My son graduating from law school called from L.A. Wants me to move there. Should I? No. Better take things day by day.” Abruptly, Marilyn hung up.

  Immediately Sarah, resident of the uptown Inwood section, called. Her words were slurred. Had the towers crash caused her to dive back into the sauce? Limping from one emotional catastrophe to another, would she have the stamina to endure a real calamity? I pictured her with a drawn face and bloodshot eyes curled up with or a favorite Victorian novelist for solace.

  “Do you think they expect me at the magazine?” whined Sarah. “Must I go? An executive secretary’s not expendable like some clerk. Who else is going to proof the issue on women’s spas due out next week?”

  As Sarah babbled on about being needed, my second phone went ting-a-ling. Had my apartment become a command station? Dashing to the phone, I wondered what accounted for my sudden popularity. It was Marilyn on the line again.

  “Hey, sweetie, just heard from Chloe.”

  “Hang on, Mar, Sarah’s on the other phone “

  Venting to the universe, Sarah rattled on about her troubled romance with Paul, the soap opera star. At least her personal neuroses kept her from becoming catatonic over the big picture. Back to a calmer Marilyn.

  “Chloe’s cousin, who worked as a stock analyst in the Trade Center, is missing.”

  “Were they close?” I asked.

  “Very. Chloe’s taking a leave from her job. Another cousin owns a hotel on the island of Hydra. Who knows when we’ll see her again, or if she’ll come back to the group?”

  My computer flashed. The instant messenger I had recently signed up for decided to give me my money’s worth. Tiffany’s email name flashed on the screen. From Ground Zero, her words came through slightly jumbled:

  “A turning point, you absent, too bad. Working side by side, bank officers, street cleaners. Fireman, police rushing into burning buildings risking their lives to save strangers. Marx’s communist ideals realized in money mad Manhattan!”

  I wondered how the monster had got hold of a computer. But what I found really amazing was the disappearance of those two enormous, concrete, steel and glass buildings into fire and smoke. If I could not depend on seemingly invincible New York, what was left?

  A few days later, I began to flesh out the stories about my erotic adventures during the last decades. With death not far from my neighborhood, I turned inward to revise rough drafts, stuffed into drawers, which celebrated the life-affirming sexuality that had brought me such pleasure. And sometimes its corollary: great pain. I marveled at the crooked paths that Eros, the capricious winged god of desire, had led me along.

  A week later, about to eat dinner, the doorbell rang. There stood Candy in a faded, loose-fitting dungaree outfit, one lopsided earring, her hair a fright. Normally all Candy’s clothes were skin tight, which showed off breasts so large they would overwhelm someone twice her size. Today she was bent over from carrying a heavy backpack.

  “Yuk, Grove Street’s so oddly quiet. Not the same Village throbbing with jazz clubs, cafes, trendy stores. My nose is running from dusty specks in the air.” Scowling, Candy coughed.

  “I would’ve called,” I apologized, “but I knew your... your... apartment had no phone.” I hesitated to say “garage” for fear of offending her. “Come inside. A drink? Something to eat?”

  “Don’t need anything else while I smoke pot. Haven’t been this high in five years. Boy, do those funnel clouds hovering over the towers—where they used to be—remind me of bad acid trips!”

  “How’d you get my address?”

  “From Marilyn. Just left some books and costumes there. How’re the girls?” Barely listening, Candy slumped down on the couch.

  “My heart feels like a bomb about
to explode. They struck the Apple at its core! Don’t want to do anymore interviews for my burlesque book. Fuck a duck. Seems too frivolous, although burlesque is an art—no matter what that snooty Tiffany thinks.”

  “Go on with the book, your life. Are you still working?”

  “I quit the club. Don’t want to dance either, except to a funeral march. Hope I don’t ‘lose my lip,’ as my favorite jazz musician in North Beach used to say. I may visit San Francisco or Mexico. Boundbrook, New Jersey’s freakin’ me out, that moldy garage! Would you store this for me?”

  “Sure, pick it up whenever.” Candy dumped one big box on my lap. Opening it, I saw a feather fan, boas, gold angel wings, pasties, tassels, sequined tights, different-colored wigs, rhinestone earrings and ankle bracelets. A pile of photos of Candy with older burlesque dancers, research for her book, was tied with a blue bow. This array of glittering objects reminded me of their owner’s personality.

  “Sewed the spangles on these brassieres by hand. Maybe I should throw them out. No, they’re too gorgeous.” Tenderly Candy cuddled the lacy items, folded them carefully, then stowed them in the box.

  “Who could have predicted our Confessions Club would scatter like the Children of Israel into the diaspora?” I sighed. “One way or another, we’ve got to meet again.” To express our determination, Candy and I shook hands. Ready to leave, Candy picked up her now empty backpack.

  “Don’t go,” I pleaded. “We may not see each other for months, years.”

  “Okay, I’ll stay awhile. Say, sometimes you write fun stories. How’s about reading one to cheer me up? Pot is dragging me through the dumps.” Candy kicked off her shoes. She refused to eat anything, listlessly sipping the glass of Chianti I placed before her.

  “This story’s set in Chelsea, not far from here.” I neglected to tell Candy the back-story how in search of romance, instead I stumbled into a scenario with a twist: Petrillio.

  FOUR: PETRILLIO, OR LOVE IN THE AIR

  Here am I, facing tomorrow, alone with my sorrow

  down in the depths on the 90th floor. Cole Porter

  It may not have been the 90th floor, perhaps the 30th or 40th. The number is foggy in my memory, but the rest of this “strange interlude” dances before me in primary colors. I met Petrillio, an architect, at an invitation-only erotic art opening in a Chelsea gallery that was generous with champagne. High on the bubbly, I found myself beside Petrillio while we both stared bemused at a painting of a watermelon-like vulva by Judy Chicago. I couldn’t help imagining him following up the dry champagne with wet kisses.

  It was difficult to concentrate on Petrillio’s words, rather musical notes, for he spoke in dulcet harp-like tones. Compact, only slightly taller than I, he wore his straight grey hair shoulder length, a slight curl at the end. As he pointed at the painting I noted his long tapered hands, which I sensed moving gracefully across a drawing board or a woman’s body.

  Hmmm, I thought to myself, it boded well that Petrillio chose to attend an erotic show. When he asked for my card, then called a week later, I ransacked my wardrobe to find the perfect garment to bewitch a sophisticated older man who wore his age with the same distinction as his Pierre Cardin suit. I yearned to stroke his perky moustache that he unconsciously twirled now and then.

  On five dates we thrust and parried in trendy Chelsea restaurants over dinners that tasted bland, for my attention belonged entirely to Petrillio. In the distance, he pointed to his abode in a tall modern building. I visualized us cavorting on his bed, or enjoying an intimate laugh after a savory breakfast, then back to bed for another roll under the covers.

  Why didn’t Petrillio, as huggable as a baby panda, invite me upstairs to see his etchings? “I’m yours, take me!” I screamed silently. Was Petrillio married, gay or hiding bodies of ex-wives or girlfriends? Finally, in January on a snowy night came a breakthrough: my cavalier suggested a glass of Pinot Grigio chez lui.

  “Oh, I couldn’t. It’s so late,” I answered trying not to appear overly anxious. Meanwhile I was petrified he would change his mind. Mentally, I was throwing my coat, gloves, jewelry, high heels, underwear in a heap.

  Petrillio passed the doorman with an insouciant wave. Off-handedly, he asked the score of the Sugar Bowl game. “Dip into my bowl of sugar so deep that I’ll have none left, go ahead scoop up handfuls,” I thought to myself. How many other women had zoomed up in this elevator to his perch in the clouds? Were they younger, prettier, sexier than I? How could I induce an amnesia that could beguile Petrillio into thinking that his love life began and ended with me?

  Exiting the elevator, windows everywhere, a panorama of midtown floated up to meet my eyes. Was I flying in a stationary airplane about to land in paradise? I wanted to lie down and dream in this hallway of rugs plush enough to be comfy pillows. Petrillio’s hand on my elbow, our first caress, relieved any lurking uncertainty.

  Voila, the minute I walked into Petrillio’s aerie it seemed I had been there before—perhaps for cocktails and kisses. Petrillio’s apartment exhibited an artistic imagination scaled down to fit into New York’s astronomical rents. Each piece of furniture seemed about to burst into a chorus of welcome as though it had been expecting me. The simply designed chairs were made of wood finished to a silky texture. Flower-shaped lamps gave the room a feminine touch.

  Japanese screens, judiciously placed art work—a Warholesque painting of Marilyn Monroe, a smiling Buddha, silk wall-hangings, a Tibetan rug—everything conspired to create an aura of enchantment. Paradoxically, Petrillio’s miniature castle in the sky seemed neither cluttered nor claustrophobic.

  “Pardon this camping out,” explained Petrillio, as he gently placed me on a divan barely big enough for two that was set into a cozy nook that contained several small vases filled with palm fronds.

  “Till I find something bigger, my art collection’s in storage. Supporting my ex-wife’s home in Danbury, her obsession with her shrink, plus two kids at college keeps me hopping. Women haven’t been kind to me, especially Sally.” The pain in his deep blue eyes made me long to kiss away the suffering his thoughtless wife had inflicted. I vowed to soothe this old school gentleman, who exuded an elegance absent from our age of Craigslist pickups.

  Petrillio sprinkled his conversation with references to Italian art films and Roman history. He was a genuinely sensitive man of letters rather than a dilettante, I concluded. Therefore, I expected that the books on his shelves would be scholarly. Getting up to examine his collection, I opened a folio written in Italian to a picture of a woman, legs spread, masturbating.

  My vision blurred as volume after volume contained pictures of women in classic pornographic situations: multiple partners, orgies, animals, including a monkey. Keeping my voice under control, I whispered: “Are all your books porn? No great literature?” I whined. “And Screw magazine. Why do you read that?”

  “I’m a collector,” answered Petrillio proudly. “I somehow managed to get a complete run. No small feat since Screw has been published for decades. Don’t those models wear some delightful outfits? Mostly black leather but a few show real imagination. Here look at this foxy lady, her nightie of leather and lace. See, this blondie’s hot pants are cut out at the crotch and rump. Brilliant!” Cheerfully, Petrillio thrust the well-thumbed magazine in my face.

  My smile belied the tears about to course down my cheeks. The room started to spin and so did my mind. Was this porn maven the man I had fantasized as a romantic partner? I squirmed, and though I meant to leave, my feet felt plastered to the floor.

  “Pinot Grigio, darling? Other than bubbly, it’s all I drink. It’s good for the heart. Ah, what beautiful visions my elixir conjures. It compensates me for this meaningless existence. Drink up, you angelic creature. Together we shall pay homage to the versatile grape.”

  Petrillio sighed and moved my hair away to lick my earlobe. Then he raised the window blinds higher to expose a view of the Empire State building ablaze with colored lights as bright as crown jewel
s. Pouring glass after glass of wine, soon he finished the entire bottle as though it were apple juice.

  The more wine I consumed, the more I yearned to become part of Petrillio’s scenario. As he smoked a cigarette in a long golden holder, I marveled at the movement of his graceful wrist, the erotic way his lips puckered to inhale smoke.

  “Darling, mind if I change into a cozy dressing gown?” Disappearing into a small alcove, Petrillio blew me a kiss.

  I had anticipated him caressing me slowly, awakening each erogenous zone in turn. Mad from an overabundance of wine and desire, I shivered with longing ready to open to him.

  Ten long minutes later, Petrillio appeared wearing a gold-colored silk robe that Noel Coward would have fancied. Underneath what a shock: black lace panties and bra, a red garter belt that held up black fishnet stockings and an antique locket with rhinestones dangled from his neck. Prancing like a rotund fawn drunk on wine, Petrillio’s reserve evaporated.

  “You think I should get a bustier? Petrillio murmured, twisting and turning before a decorative mirror on a stand. He thrust his chest forward provocatively. Meanwhile, he applied makeup to his face and rouged his cheeks. “Don’t I look better than Madonna? That slut! Staring at me, darling, why?” asked Petrillio, his speech slurred. “C’mon, never seen a man wear a locket before?”

  “Any picture inside it?” I asked, with mounting hysteria.

  “A picture of Mae West taken when the cops busted her and closed the show. Bought it at a flea market in Danbury, along with a hairpin the dealer swore belonged to Mae herself. Some pisser!” he slurred. Fondling the locket self-consciously, Petrillio wriggled in a vain attempt to assume a dignified posture. One of his frilly-topped fishnets dropped.

  Bug-eyed, I watched my courtier metamorphose into Tony Curtis’ drag character in Some Like It Hot. Perhaps in a former incarnation I had stolen Petrillio’s garter belt, kicked a cat or spit into a beggar’s bowl? Buddhists say that debts from a previous life must be repaid. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to scream for help. Dazed, I watched this fan of Victoria’s Secret consume another bottle of his “elixir.” Just as I was figuring how to sneak out without his noticing, Petrillio sidled over, crossed his hairy legs and plumped down beside me. Suddenly sober as a deacon, although his breath smelled of alcohol, he crept up close to my face, examining it minutely.