by Bella Pollen
maggie
I have always had a secret passion for the Central Park zoo. The noise, the smell, the meeting of furtive lovers and chatterings of school kids exchanging baseball cards. When I was in third grade, my school organized a day trip there but my mom wouldn’t sign the permission form. The rest of the class went and I was sent home early. Of course I knew my mother was right to disapprove of caged animals, but when other teenagers were smoking their first illicit cigarettes, I was rebelliously throwing bread at penguins.
Wolf was waiting for me at the entrance, leaning his considerable bulk against the railings. I bumped him.
‘Hey.’
‘Hey yourself.’
We wandered through the park. It was April now and during the time I’d spent editing, the cherry trees had blossomed. The Bowery, Little Italy, Chinatown were all ablaze with marigolds and pansies. I’ve noticed something amazing about New Yorkers. They’ll steal the hub caps off your car and the spokes out of your bicycle wheels but they have the sensibility to leave the public flowers alone. They want the city to smell and look nice while they pick over its bones.
In the park, people were draped over benches, laid out on the grass or leaning against trees reading books, pitching into mitts and generally enjoying the first real warm sun of the year. A frisbee came spinning our way. Wolf sent it back, cutting low through the air.
‘You know who you reminded me of when I first met you?’ I told him.
‘Who?’
‘Chief.’
‘Chief?’
‘The Indian in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.’
‘Deaf and dumb?’
‘I may have found it disconcerting how little you talked.’
‘Did it ever occur to you I couldn’t get a word in?’
I grinned. I was afraid to ask him so I didn’t.
* * *
You hear of those screenings for Hollywood turkeys when executives sit down for the first time and take a look at where their dollars have gone. Apparently the air takes on a certain quality as if the fumes of so much disappointment actually pollute it. They say there’s a smell. Well, of course it wasn’t quite like that after I showed the edit, but up on the tenth floor of the Newsline building, there was definitely a vibe – and it was not a good one. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. The CBS suits who had become a fixture at Newsline wouldn’t know a good story from a shoe shine.
Alan eased himself up and out of his chair, ‘What happened to this hot story you were chasing?’
‘It didn’t pan out.’
‘Aha.’
‘It was a hot story, but the trail was cold.’
‘I see. So this is the piece you’re expecting us to run?’
I met his look squarely. ‘This is the piece I’m handing in.’
Alan cleared his throat. ‘This might be fine work, Maggie, but it’s not the fine work I was expecting, in fact let’s be clear, it’s twice not what I was expecting. What happened to your original brief?’
‘Yes.’ One of the CBS execs had joined us. ‘Where are the beautiful gardens, the pomp and circumstance, what about all that royal stuff we suggested you include?’
You could see why he was disappointed. I mean there was no sex, no celebrity, no ground-breaking scandal – but it was a good story, it was a touching story and I told him I thought people would want to watch it.
‘But they’re all so … well … so shabby these people,’ the executive looked at the blank screen. ‘The female demographic wants glamour, it wants something to aspire to. No one’s interested in downtrodden.’
I reminded him that Lesley Stahl from 60 Minutes once did a story about divorced wives living out of their cars in Beverly Hills. She shot it, loved it, but 60 Minutes refused to air it. They said no one would be interested. She kicked and screamed and eventually got it shown. It had huge ratings. I told Alan I thought he should air my piece exactly the way it was and I kicked and screamed but it didn’t do a lot of good. Alan listened throughout, but I could tell the argument was academic. It didn’t matter whether he agreed with me or not. He wasn’t running the show any longer.
‘The material should go to someone else,’ the executive said when I’d finished.
I looked down. My sneakers were covered in subway dust. I had a flash of Rory in his greying tennis shoes throwing the ball up in a perfect arc. If I handed the footage over to Newsline, ironically it would be edited according to my own original brief of snobbery, debauchery, lunacy. If I refused to hand it over, I would probably be fired. Alan put his hand on my shoulder, ‘Everything you’ve got, Maggie, give it to either Ed or Neil today and we’ll see what they can do with it.’
I nodded and Alan looked relieved.
I got out of there quick. Alan eviscerated by bean counters was something I never thought I’d see.
* * *
‘Hungry?’ Wolf asked.
‘I could eat a horse.’
‘Settle for a dog?’
At the stand he waved away my dollars. I didn’t mean to look surprised. It’s not that Wolf was ungenerous with money but small acts of chivalry had never been his style. He lathered on mustard and sauerkraut and handed me the frankfurter.
‘A) you’ve quit,’ he said, ‘and will therefore soon be on welfare and B),’ he soused his own bun in mustard, ‘well … talk round the building is you damaged the tapes on purpose.’
‘Well let’s just say personally, professionally, technically, I’ve truly messed everything up.’
‘Aha … there you go again,’ Wolf said. ‘As George Bush said to Geraldine Ferraro, “Snatching defeat out of the jaws of victory”.’ He grinned at me, a blob of mustard on the side of his mouth.
‘Oh Chief … so you did like it?’
‘Yeah well. I thought it had real heart.’
I didn’t trust myself to speak. We sat down on a bench.
‘Talk is they could sue you,’ he said.
‘They could.’
‘But you don’t think they will?’
‘Naa, I don’t think they’ll bother.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
I gave an elaborate sigh. ‘I don’t know. Nothing for a bit, see how that feels. Then look for another job, maybe think about doing that documentary we always talked about.’
‘I meant about your love life,’ he said.
* * *
When Jay returned from Washington he took me out to an Indian restaurant near his apartment. ‘You’re wearing a black hat,’ he said. He touched the spark of electricity on my hair as I pulled off my beanie. ‘Any chance there’s a white one in your bag?’
We sat down awkwardly. One of Jay’s president stories was when Reagan was woken in the middle of the night to make decisions on some knotty foreign problem he would ask, ‘Do they have white hats or black hats?’ before making a decision, turning over and going back to sleep. ‘Just think,’ I could hear Jay saying, ‘the entire foreign policy and maybe the history of the world hung on what colour hat the baddies were wearing. Incredible.’
The food arrived and I watched it jumping and splattering on the plates in front of us as if it were too spicy even for itself. We both waited for one of us to have the courage to begin.
‘I could have it reversed,’ Jay said eventually, but I heard the if you really wanted me to, in his voice. I reminded him that you were never supposed to force someone into giving up something they believed in.
‘It’s a low blow to use a man’s own bullshit against him.’ He took my hand.
‘You are not the real you when you’re with me,’ I said desperately.
‘The real me?’ He raised his eyebrows.
The thing was, Jay wasn’t a recidivist. He was a war junkie. He needed to stand close to someone who was dying in order to feel alive – that was his addiction. I wanted to tell him I understood but I couldn’t find the right words. ‘I feel like time you spend with me is time taken out from being you,’ I said. ‘Your reali
ty kicks in when you leave me in the morning. Well I can’t just be your treat when the going gets rough.’
‘I think that’s a little unfair.’ When I said nothing he added, ‘Ain’t no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, kiddo.’
‘Maybe there is, Jay, maybe I just need a different map to get to it.’
‘Tell me about him,’ was all he said.
When I finally got around to saying the name, he looked up from his plate. ‘Lytton-Jones? Wait a minute … is there a Daniel?’
‘Yes,’ I was amazed.
‘I know him.’
‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Yes, I do, well I don’t know him exactly, but I met him. Ethiopia, I think it was. Very English, funny. He told me he took a homeopathic approach to drugs, i.e. anything that was plant-based was fine – heroin, marijuana, cocaine, “If God put it there it must be OK”.’ Jay chuckled. ‘It really made me laugh at the time.’ He was doing a piece for some English satirical magazine – I don’t know how seriously he was actually taking it.’
‘He’s dead now.’
Jay nodded like this didn’t surprise him.
* * *
When the cheque came he said, ‘I feel like I’ve been run over.’ He put fifty dollars on the plate. ‘And so you leave me, bloodied by the side of the road.’
You feel run over, I thought. While you’re in hospital, look me up. I’ll be on the women’s ward across the corridor.
I stretched over the table and kissed him on the cheek. He caught my hand. ‘If that’s your idea of a Band-Aid,’ he said softly, ‘I’m going to need a larger one.’
‘I’m so sorry, Jay.’
He sighed. ‘You know what we are, Maggie? Just two people maturing on a different schedule … I read that somewhere and I thought of us.’ He took my hand and turned it over in his like he was examining it for signs of the future. ‘Two people maturing on a different schedule – at least that’s the way my old man’s pride is going to sell it to my young man’s ego.’
* * *
‘We’ve been together a long time now,’ I told Wolf. ‘I don’t know, he’s everything I always wanted. He’s grown-up and decent, he’s serious about things that really matter, he believes in the things I believe in, he’s a really good guy, a good man. He has all the right heroes – God, he’s virtually a hero himself and well … well the truth is I’ve finished it with Jay.’
‘Actually I meant Rory.’ Wolf wiped the ketchup from his mouth.
There was such an expression of tenderness in those heavy features I felt my face crumple. While I cried, Wolf ate the rest of my hot dog.
When I finished, he handed me the paper napkin.
‘I have nothing to say to Rory.’ I blew my nose
Wolf shook his head slowly. ‘You see, this is why you will be great at making documentaries. You’ll never have to worry about thinking up happy endings.’
I had no idea what he was talking about.
‘You don’t have to say anything to him, Maggie,’ Wolf said, as though instructing a first year film student. ‘Show him.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Send it.’
‘The film?’
‘Yes, of course the film.’
‘What’s the point, he hates me,’ I said sulkily.
‘Send it anyway,’ Wolf said.
daniel
A few days before Benj’s get out of jail card becomes valid Rory goes down with a bad case of flu. Its sheer spite takes him by surprise and he finds himself in bed with a high temperature watching a succession of Carole Lombard movies which he only partially manages to follow. When Benj appears on the doorstep, the event is notable only because for the first time in his life Benj is four shades less green than his cousin.
They lie sprawled on the floor, take-away menus scattered between them, watching Miss Universe on the telly. The mews house is bare and cold without the furniture. Rory misses the moose head; despite the obvious drawback of it being dead, the moose had actually been quite good company – a low maintenance virtual pet – and Rory quite often finds himself talking to its blank space on the wall, which has done little to improve his temper.
‘And a number ten,’ Benj says into the phone.
‘Park or bif?’ demands the voice on the other end.
‘Which is it?’ Benj is confused.
‘That’s why ask. Park of bif. Which you wan?’
Benj sighs, he has always assumed the point of numbered menus is to avoid confusion of this sort but he’s far too good-natured to say so.
‘Rory,’ Benj nudges him with his foot, ‘see what number ten is would you?’
Rory grunts. On screen the Miss Universe candidates, holding their numbered placards, parade their teeth, bikinis, hopes and dreams across the stage.
‘Rory! Number ten?’
‘For fuck’s sake … Miss Uruguay.’
‘Oh thank you very much, so very helpful. Right, my friend would like one Miss Uruguay … yes with hot sauce … yes cash on delivery is fine. Yes, thank you too.’
‘You’re a real wag … a natural vaudevillian,’ Rory says sourly as Benj hangs up the phone. ‘I mean, are these witticisms spontaneous or do you practise them beforehand?’
‘Sorry, I wasn’t listening.’ Benj is a little offended. Having traditionally been the recipient of efforts to raise the level of his own happiness rather than someone else’s, he is ill trained for the job in hand.
‘I was just wondering what kind of wit you were,’ Rory says grouchily.
‘Just your average halfwit.’ Benj sighs again. He stares at the television. ‘Hey, you know, I’ve got it. Stella’s having a party in Suffolk this weekend. Some fantastic possibilities there.’
‘Such as?’
‘Wine, women, song.’
Rory doesn’t bother to acknowledge this.
‘Um … well,’ Benj stumbles, ‘women, girls … er, sex?’
Rory gives him a withering look.
‘Sex!’ Benj rallies. ‘Come on, surely you remember. That strenuous activity where a woman puts her naked body at your disposal. Sometimes for as long as five whole minutes consecutively.’
‘Sorry,’ Rory says. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell.’
On screen Miss Chile is being crowned. She bursts into tears and adjusts her Grecian-style gown around her Brazilian-style boobs.
‘Anyway, I’d better go home this weekend. I haven’t been for months. My father has bought a seaweed-extracting machine.’
‘But Bevan isn’t by the sea.’
Yes,’ Rory says wryly. ‘Well spotted.’
maggie
The waxy orange flakes floated on top of the water. The fish’s bulbous head quivered with excitement, his little mouth opening and shutting like, well, a fish, I supposed. He gobbled up the flakes. Wolf eyed me over the top of his New York Times.
‘Another four weeks,’ he said, ‘and that fish’ll be floating.’ He stretched his feet out on the ottoman and flipped the page.
I grabbed the handykit off the table and dragged a chair over to the wall. Aimed the hammer at the nail. ‘Shit.’ The nail dropped, twisted, to the ground; I sucked my thumb.
‘Still haven’t heard anything, huh?’ Wolf searched out the sports section. I glared at him then chose a larger nail from the metal box and executed a repeat performance. The picture was a little crooked, but it was good enough. The loft looked completely different furnished, though I couldn’t decide whether better or worse – I kept tripping over things which I hadn’t remembered buying, but once I’d tripped over them, turned out they were quite comfortable to lie on.
‘Maggie?’
‘You know something, Wolf, it’s so much safer in life to be a cynic. Santa Claus, the infallibility of your parents, a believable religion – they all fall by the wayside sooner or later. We’re told stories of monsters in the woods, then scolded for having nightmares. We’re drip-fed fantasy then taught to be suspicious of anything that has no roots
in reality so why, oh why are we still conditioned to believe in romantic love?’
Wolf grunted and went back to his reading.
I wrenched open the window. Manhattan was in the throes of a freak heatwave. It was so damn hot it steamed at night. The air hung over the city, hazy and polluted. Yesterday in Washington Square a girl tore off her shirt in protest. Both her nipples were multiple pierced and she had ‘fuck me’ tattooed across her belly button. Later in the day a large scantily clad Hawaiian reeled into me on the subway and asked, ‘Have you ever been raped?’ As opening gambits go I guess it left a lot to be desired. Luckily a group of Asians came aboard causing him to bellow, ‘CHINKS!’ every few seconds. The Asians just nodded their heads politely. God, New York in the spring. The city was lurching from 99 degrees to 49 on an hourly basis which was interesting as my internal emotional temperature had been doing roughly the same thing.
It took me days to post Rory the film. The problem was I didn’t know what to put in the note. I tried flippant, casual, professional but none of them seemed right so in the end I just sent the film on its own, figuring that if it didn’t say what I felt then nothing I could put on paper would help much anyway.
After I sealed the package, it sat on my desk for days. Finally, Wolf came round one morning with bagels and juice. He saw it there, neatly addressed, and simply picked it up without saying a word and lumbered off to FedEx.
For a week I was on a high. Whatever Rory thought of the film at least a line of communication would be opened. After two weeks, I tracked the package and received confirmation that it had been delivered. I kept giving Rory new deadlines to get in touch and the weeks started to pile up on top of each other like unreturned library books. As soon as I realized he wasn’t going to get in touch I tried to fill myself up with hate, hate, hate for the slimy boy germ that had exposed me to all this emotional garbage. Well to hell with him, at least I had tried.
‘So just how much longer are you going to give him?’ Wolf said.
Out of the window I watched the last of the trestle tables being carried through the doors of the building. The Chinese sweatshop below was closing, their lease up. They invited me to their goodbye party. I hadn’t intended to go but at the last minute I changed my mind. Most of the racks had disappeared along with plastic bags, sewing machines, and accompanying loops of electrical cabling from the ceiling. The space looked completely different – well, not unlike what my loft used to look like. The centre of the floor had been chalked out as a dancing zone. I don’t think I’d ever thought about the kind of dancing that Chinese tailors liked but these guys were into waltzing big time, beautiful old-fashioned tunes like the Blue Danube. I forked noodles off a paper plate and watched the seamstresses move dreamily through the airless room. I liked the party at first, assuming its mellow, drifting atmosphere was out of choice, then it occurred to me that it was because all these people had lost their livelihood and had no idea where their next pay cheque was coming from.