The Dream Merchant

by Fred Waitzkin

  PART III

  15.

  On the big stage Ava was sexy and whimsical and she was available, or so it seemed. At the end of Marvin’s Saturday events men usually came on to her. For hours she had been onstage with all these products until she also became a product, the best of them. In the winding down of a night of coarse desires, men felt like they had the right to say hello to Ava, to nudge her or touch her shoulder or hip, some little intimacy. There had been a physical bond created; it had been purchased in fifty-dollar increments. She accepted this as a facet of her work or perhaps even an expression of her essence. Some nights it amused her a little or saddened her, but mainly she took it for granted, like the heavy night air.

  Lenny Bruce couldn’t take his eyes off her. One night he tried to speak to Ava. She brushed past him, trailing after Jim, but Lenny had had a whiff and he couldn’t get her out of his mind. He went back to California and thought about her innocent teacher’s voice and sumptuous body. Lenny slept with a lot of women and had a worn attitude, but she’d struck a chord. Two weeks later he returned to Montreal after working a one-week gig at the Elmwood Casino in Windsor, Ontario. At the end of the lengthy session, Ava was standing at the foot of the stage, talking to a few men. She didn’t mind if they brushed against her or touched her arm. She was exquisite and tarnished.

  My name is Lenny Bruce, he introduced himself with a trace of a chuckle. You’ve heard of me, maybe, the comedian. She shook her head no, never had. Ava was looking past this edgy guy, wondering about hamburgers after work with Jim. She was sweating from her long night on the stage, and Lenny suddenly felt unsteady. She had the same large breasts that sagged a little, same height and dark auburn hair. Even the clean smell like watermelon. He closed his eyes. She was the essence of his ex-wife and he’d never gotten over her. Now and again Honey would still call him from a street corner somewhere in California, his milky-voiced lost beauty stoned on heroin always promising she’d get straight and come home. He was needy and a little out of control. He was leaning toward Ava, pathetic really. He wanted to touch her, just touch her arm, and she wouldn’t have cared, which was maddening. He wanted to be charming and worldly, but he stared at her with dark hollow eyes from years of shooting up and great expanses of sadness.

  It must be hard to make money telling jokes, she said, filling a space. Ava had mastered the art of making awkward men feel on top, at least for a few moments. He smiled at her. She had no idea whom she was talking to, figured he was a small-time party comedian.

  No, no, I do pretty well. I make money in nightclubs, all the best spots. Las Vegas, you name it. No response. Sure you never heard of Lenny Bruce? She shook her head and he could feel the breeze from her hair. They were standing in front of the stage as it was coming apart in planks and swaths of dirty rug. Workers were dismantling the racks and sweeping up torn coupons in the dim light. Ava was greeting a half-dozen guys who’d stayed to say hello.

  Listen, you never saw me on The Tonight Show? I’ve been on the front pages of every paper in the country because of these trials. She looked at him quizzically. She didn’t know about the trials. He wanted her to understand that he was famous, and she wasn’t listening. Ava was doing her work, if you’d call it work, pleasing each of the men with a handshake or a lingering remark.

  Lenny was rocking on his heels. Everyone knows about me. Except they keep throwing me into jail because they say my routines are obscene. But they aren’t obscene. Do you know Norman Mailer, what he said about me? Saul Bellow? No, she didn’t know these men. Lenny wanted to tell her that famous writers had championed his causes, they considered him a genius and a visionary; but it was no use. She didn’t know about such people.

  He was so touched by her in this darkening theater of dreams where coupons promised a splendid prosperous future. Lenny’s own future was gone beyond redemption, except, and it came to him right then waiting his turn on line with a half-dozen losers, maybe she was his chance. What did he have to lose, an old junkie who couldn’t get a job and was nearly broke from defending himself in the courts? Ava was craning her neck for Jim, almost ready to drive off to a small forgettable life, cheap frayed curtains, and much remorse that would go unnoticed. Lenny really had no idea how she lived, but he wanted in. Badly. It didn’t matter that she was married. He swatted away the idea. He’d leave Los Angeles and move here or he’d bring her with him. Preposterous. He was a big star and she wouldn’t understand his world, but that’s how he was thinking. He was swept away by this woman. She started to move away and Lenny grabbed her wrist, which surprised her.

  He shook his head, don’t go, and then he eased his grip, fearing she’d bolt or call out. No words but his crazy energy spewed all over—sent her reckless needs and such a deep tunnel of emptiness until she was staring at his torn-up face. And Lenny felt Ava’s urges. He could fit in, fit right in.

  I have to see you again.

  It’s impossible, she said. I’m a married lady.

  I don’t care. I have to see you. Just for a little while. I love you—ridiculous to say these words standing in line with this beaten-down group of men. Lenny chuckled a little. They were all waiting their turn as if Ava were the prize of the carnival and they’d bought tickets tonight to win a rapturous moment.

  She laughed.

  Listen, I could help you, he said. I could do everything for you. Just give me a chance. She looked at him quizzically. Just give me a chance, will you? He was so excited and heartbroken.

  She was embarrassed by this talk and didn’t know how to turn him away. But also, she heard something. Ava scribbled her number on a piece of paper and then turned to three men who had been waiting patiently.

  * * *

  He called her on the phone from California and the talk came out like jazz; now when he had his act together he was getting turned down at the clubs that once loved him, even the dives and strip joints were saying no; Lenny was writing a book about his life in exile, he was going to put Ava into the book. Lenny had written pages about his reckless attraction for Ava in his notebook. She laughed, and he promised she’d go into the book, you’ll see; he read sections to her about his ex-wife, who had been a stripper; but Ava was even more beautiful than Honey Harlow; how wonderful and instructive that Jim and Marvin were scamming people with coupons until no one cared anymore about furniture; objects had been replaced by pure greed—capitalism was showing its true face; Lenny wanted to play all this music for her so that she would understand; understand what? Ava had never heard of Charlie Parker, Monk, Coltrane, George Shearing; she’d barely heard of capitalism. What was it? No matter, he would teach her. He would be her teacher and lover. She had to give him a chance. She said, Impossible, but he was insistent and charming. He would bring her records of Billie Holiday and Sarah Vaughan; he’d hold her in his arms until she began to feel it. They’d dance together and she’d soon begin to love him. He would crawl into her heart. Gerry Mulligan and Chet Baker, she must hear them playing “My Funny Valentine”; it was heartbreaking. They’d dance slow to Frank Sinatra. She’d heard of Sinatra. Jim loved Sinatra. That’s good; that’s good. She laughed at the pure rush of Lenny. When was Jim away traveling? He’d come to the farm and visit when Jim was away. He begged her. He hit every note.

  * * *

  In October of 1964, Lenny started coming to the farm every second or third week. He barely noticed the animals or bucolic view—he might have been visiting Ava in the South Bronx. For long stretches he stared at her, kissed her cheek or held her hand, and imagined her alone in this isolated place that he began to call the Sad Palace. Lenny was at the very end of his rope and he strained to find every dark connection with Ava. Almost from the start, he’d decided she was his last chance. In his Los Angeles house he was shooting up in his bathroom with four locks on the door so he wouldn’t feel paranoid about the police bursting in on him. For months he’d been enhancing heroin with methedrine for extra kick. But in Montreal he rarely used anything and it didn�
�t hurt so much when he was with Ava.

  They got drunk each night on cheap whiskey or wine and talked and talked. She could say anything to Lenny. But it went beyond that. This strange guy pulled intimacies from her guts. She told him when Jim was away she’d walk into stores and slip things into her pockets. She knew how to do this. She’d walk out feeling as though the luck had turned her way. Some evenings she’d go to bars and drink and flirt with guys she didn’t know; these tawdry episodes quieted her demon and she was able to go home and continue life, such as it was. She looked at Lenny’s face and he smiled. No rebuke. Ava admitted she didn’t know what to do with herself. When she was a little girl she had carefully prepared for the great banquet that was coming. Now most nights she ate by herself in the lonely farmhouse.

  They watched The Tonight Show together and he told her about Sinatra and Tony Bennett; he knew all the famous ones. He gave her titillating gossip about the stars and when the comics came on he told her which of them was borrowing his material or his timing, which of them had something special and the ones who were just going through the motions. Ava watched the comics carefully to learn what Lenny did. Meanwhile he stared at her serious face until he couldn’t stand it any longer and he gave her a hug or kissed her cheek or raised her skirt and fondled her thighs. Lenny, why do you always want that? she’d complain.

  Lenny was impatient with the animals and bugs, everything but Ava. He wanted to steal her and make a big life together. He had these big silly notions. Lenny told her she was born to be a showgirl or a singer. It wasn’t too late and he would show her how to do it. He’d get her bookings. He’d take her around the world to see things she’d never dreamed of. They’d perform together. Ava let him say whatever he wanted. She was giving him a reason to live. She was filling him like a muse—it made her feel necessary. He was a really famous guy.

  Their lovemaking was soft and dreamy and usually unfulfilled because Lenny couldn’t quite do it anymore. Even that was sweet and informed by hurting and she’d hold him for a while and say, It’s okay, Lenny; it doesn’t matter. On Jim’s fancy victrola, a present from Marvin Gesler, Lenny played her Joe Williams, Goin’ to Chicago, sorry but I can’t take you there; she felt it deeply and it made him so happy; in an hour he’d be trying to make it again, full of ardor and curiosity. He tried to please her, best as he could, but mainly he wanted to possess every inch of Ava, every capricious little smile, kissed the creases beneath her heavy breasts, rolled her over and opened her legs, searched; You know me better than my husband, she joked; he nodded seriously and loved her little fatnesses and cracks and smells, put his ravaged face on each mole, looking for clues, maybe about what was missing in himself, tried to fill it in with her taste, her sweat, and even her menstrual bleeding. She let him. She let him eat her alive until he was sated, his face dripping with himself and her—she quickly wiped it with her hand—before he began to kiss her deeply, long stretches of ardent schoolboy kissing.

  She’d entirely opened herself to this man from the moon. He hardly ate food. He fed on her flesh and shadows. She allowed him. Then he’d pace around, talking about the Constitution and First Amendment law, and Ava tried to follow his ideas until her brain ached. He was so intricate and moody and his jokes weren’t exactly funny. They were mazes of commentary and sarcasm. With Jim she was the arty mystery girl, but she wasn’t in Lenny’s class. She was just holding on. Then she would become frightened. How could she stay with this guy? He was in a different league. When Ava thought of Jim she felt appalled and lost, a fallen angel. She and Jim were going to make a baby. Jim brought the freshness of the woods and physical strength that lifted her spirits. He pushed aside her demons. Lenny called her to march alongside him in darkness. He surrounded her with his scrawny junkie arms and ideas that made her feel stupid. What was she doing? I’m not on your level, Lenny. It won’t work. Whenever she took a little step back Lenny geared up and won her back with big promises, Fame, Mystery, and decadence that frightened her but drew Ava ahead as if this shady path were fated. He’d tapped into the primal Ava. Nothing was obscene, he told her. He wanted to know every secret urge. He wanted to watch her make love to another man or maybe they’d make it together with another woman; she tittered. He wanted to unleash the impulses she held back. Ava didn’t understand Lenny, but he moved her.

  Lenny appealed to Ava’s ego with his tape recorder. Since the first obscenity trial he had taken to taping many things in his life: conversations with friends, testimonials on his work, the trials themselves. He turned on the machine and asked Ava thorny questions about her family life, her first sexual experiences; the worst she could say didn’t make Lenny flinch and he’d make a little motion with his fingers, Give me something more. His questions had a thematic direction and she got caught up in his pace. Ava stopped being self-conscious and she could feel her life stitching together like a tapestry. He wanted it all on tape for something special he was working on in California. He was going to make her a star. Then he’d turn off the machine and he needed her kisses like a kid, an empty kid. He’d earned them with all his questions and the small machine that was taking in her life.

  Even if Lenny was quiet a moment Ava felt his mind working and she tried to watch his eyes and feel his direction. Anything could trip him into laughing or falling into one of his routines, looking at her face for approval. Maybe I’ll try it on The Tonight Show, he’d say, and she’d nod yes or no, so seriously, as though she were making America’s cultural choices. Then he’d tell her how great she was or that she had soul or she understood things deeply. Her problem was confidence. She didn’t understand how fine she was. He was always pumping her up. Believe me you’ll do important things, you’re still young, and Ava was half-believing she could be great at that nameless something, maybe a model or a performer; he could get her club dates, everyone needs a leg up; she actually bought into it. If she doubted for a moment, he turned on the tape, the tape of her life. And he took notes in the little black notebook as though she were a star. She was a star. She was Lenny Bruce’s girl.

  16.

  When I got to Florida I went straight to Jim’s. After dinner we had a few minutes by ourselves on the tiny patio. That’s when he told me that Mara’s ex-husband had arrived from Israel. Shimon had rented a small apartment a couple of miles away. He missed his kids and wanted to visit, she explained to Jim. But this was a strange situation. Shimon was thirty-two years old, handsome, and with a bodybuilder’s physique. He was coming by twice, three times a week to pick up the children. He and Mara spoke Hebrew in the tiny kitchen. What did they say? How would Jim know? It hung between us, the chance there was something more going on, a secret arrangement or rekindling of their feelings. Jim had so little to offer Mara. Their great plans were stalled by no money and Jim’s reluctance to leave her side. He didn’t say this, but I could read him. His need for her had absorbed everything else in his life. It was a scalding need. She listened to his dreams and made him lusty. For years he had forgotten how that felt, what a beautiful supple body felt like against his chest and heart that pattered unevenly or sometimes raced ahead. But what was the risk weighed against a young woman’s breasts and arms, how they felt? Just to kiss her neck. Made him forget how old he was and how the luck had turned against him. That was enough for him; just to kiss her neck or fine arms was enough. He could not give that back. Even if she made love with her husband, it wouldn’t be so terrible, if there was enough left for him, something for him. As long as Mara stayed with him, listened to his stories and promises. But he had to marry her, immediately, before she disappeared into a new life. Jim had stalled Mara about the marriage. Maybe he’d played it too cute. She might turn him down now and laugh in his face. He was sopping with fear. It didn’t matter if Mara and her husband were setting him up. More time with her was everything to Jim. He needed to buy time. Something could still break his way. It was a good deal, good enough, because he would never find her again. For his remaining ancient days he wo
uld search for her.

  I couldn’t decide if Mara graced or degraded the remains of my friend. This physically slight, uneducated woman had eclipsed his great factories and showrooms, his glory days in the jungle. She had become Brazil, but Brazil had devolved into the most rudimentary needs and deceits. And still, Mara would occasionally look at me in a lingering way as though she was making a calculation: Would he be better for me? She was so audacious, preposterous, presumptuous, and yet I wondered, Could I resist her? I don’t know. Mara was a calling, something way beyond herself.

  I asked Jim about Phyllis and he hesitated before answering. His silence told a lot. Whenever Jim stalled like this, I knew he had done something wrong or, more to the point, he believed you’d think he’d done something wrong and he was figuring how to cover up. He’s always had a very pragmatic relationship to guilt. After he coughed a couple of times, he said to me, Remember the paintings? Well, she changed her mind and decided to give them to me. She wanted me to have them. And I’ll tell you something. She did the right thing. I picked out those paintings twenty-five years ago. She told me, You should have them, Jim. He seemed emotional about Phyllis’s change of heart—that’s how he tried to sell it. But I knew he was thinking about selling them, giving Mara something, and having a couple of thousand left to take her to Orlando for a few days after they were married. It was a chance to make her believe in their lives together.

  Even when Phyllis could no longer pay the rent on the one-bedroom apartment, she had remained stubbornly in place. Jim had coached her, You can stay for a long time after they post the notice, months and months, sometimes years. No problem, she said to me in that chipper way that his salespeople had reassured one another while they were going broke. No problem. No problem. She stayed on until the day the sheriff came. It was August and very hot in her twilight rooms because the owner of the condominium had turned off the AC three weeks earlier in a guerilla tactic to force her out. While the tall man waited with crossed arms in the kitchen leaning against the wall, sweating through his khaki shirt, she tried to reach Jim on the phone. He’s not home, Mara said curtly, and hung up. Phyllis stuffed things into four matching pieces of luggage and carefully took down the ornately framed Monet prints from the wall and admired them for a moment.