Disquiet, Please!

by David Remnick

  ONE thing about being a private investigator, you’ve got to learn to go with your hunches. That’s why when a quivering pat of butter named Word Babcock walked into my office and laid his cards on the table, I should have trusted the cold chill that shot up my spine.

  “Kaiser?” he said. “Kaiser Lupowitz?”

  “That’s what it says on my license,” I owned up.

  “You’ve got to help me. I’m being blackmailed. Please!”

  He was shaking like the lead singer in a rumba band. I pushed a glass across the desk top and a bottle of rye I keep handy for nonmedicinal purposes. “Suppose you relax and tell me all about it.”

  “You … you won’t tell my wife?”

  “Level with me, Word. I can’t make any promises.”

  He tried pouring a drink, but you could hear the clicking sound across the street, and most of the stuff wound up in his shoes.

  “I’m a working guy,” he said. “Mechanical maintenance. I build and service joy buzzers. You know—those little fun gimmicks that give people a shock when they shake hands?”

  “So?”

  “A lot of your executives like ’em. Particularly down on Wall Street.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “I’m on the road a lot. You know how it is—lonely. Oh, not what you’re thinking. See, Kaiser, I’m basically an intellectual. Sure, a guy can meet all the bimbos he wants. But the really brainy women—they’re not so easy to find on short notice.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “Well, I heard of this young girl. Eighteen years old. A Vassar student. For a price, she’ll come over and discuss any subject—Proust, Yeats, anthropology. Exchange of ideas. You see what I’m driving at?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “I mean, my wife is great, don’t get me wrong. But she won’t discuss Pound with me. Or Eliot. I didn’t know that when I married her. See, I need a woman who’s mentally stimulating, Kaiser. And I’m willing to pay for it. I don’t want an involvement—I want a quick intellectual experience, then I want the girl to leave. Christ, Kaiser, I’m a happily married man.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  “Six months. Whenever I have that craving, I call Flossie. She’s a madam, with a master’s in Comparative Lit. She sends me over an intellectual, see?”

  So he was one of those guys whose weakness was really bright women. I felt sorry for the poor sap. I figured there must be a lot of jokers in his position, who were starved for a little intellectual communication with the opposite sex and would pay through the nose for it.

  “Now she’s threatening to tell my wife,” he said.

  “Who is?”

  “Flossie. They bugged the motel room. They got tapes of me discussing ‘The Waste Land’ and Styles of Radical Will, and, well, really getting into some issues. They want ten grand or they go to Carla. Kaiser, you’ve got to help me! Carla would die if she knew she didn’t turn me on up here.”

  The old call-girl racket. I had heard rumors that the boys at headquarters were on to something involving a group of educated women, but so far they were stymied.

  “Get Flossie on the phone for me.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll take your case, Word. But I get fifty dollars a day, plus expenses. You’ll have to repair a lot of joy buzzers.”

  “It won’t be ten Gs’ worth, I’m sure of that,” he said with a grin, and picked up the phone and dialed a number. I took it from him and winked. I was beginning to like him.

  Seconds later, a silky voice answered, and I told her what was on my mind. “I understand you can help me set up an hour of good chat,” I said.

  “Sure, honey. What do you have in mind?”

  “I’d like to discuss Melville.”

  “Moby Dick or the shorter novels?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “The price. That’s all. Symbolism’s extra.”

  “What’ll it run me?”

  “Fifty, maybe a hundred for Moby Dick. You want a comparative discussion—Melville and Hawthorne? That could be arranged for a hundred.”

  “The dough’s fine,” I told her and gave her the number of a room at the Plaza.

  “You want a blonde or a brunette?”

  “Surprise me,” I said, and hung up.

  I SHAVED and grabbed some black coffee while I checked over the Monarch College Outline series. Hardly an hour had passed before there was a knock on my door. I opened it, and standing there was a young redhead who was packed into her slacks like two big scoops of vanilla ice cream.

  “Hi, I’m Sherry.”

  They really knew how to appeal to your fantasies. Long straight hair, leather bag, silver earrings, no makeup.

  “I’m surprised you weren’t stopped, walking into the hotel dressed like that,” I said. “The house dick can usually spot an intellectual.”

  “A five-spot cools him.”

  “Shall we begin?” I said, motioning her to the couch.

  She lit a cigarette and got right to it. “I think we could start by approaching Billy Budd as Melville’s justification of the ways of God to man, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Interestingly, though, not in a Miltonian sense.” I was bluffing. I wanted to see if she’d go for it.

  “No. Paradise Lost lacked the substructure of pessimism.” She did.

  “Right, right. God, you’re right,” I murmured.

  “I think Melville reaffirmed the virtues of innocence in a naïve yet sophisticated sense—don’t you agree?”

  I let her go on. She was barely nineteen years old, but already she had developed the hardened facility of the pseudointellectual. She rattled off her ideas glibly, but it was all mechanical. Whenever I offered an insight, she faked a response: “Oh, yes, Kaiser. Yes, baby, that’s deep. A platonic comprehension of Christianity—why didn’t I see it before?”

  We talked for about an hour and then she said she had to go. She stood up and I laid a C-note on her.

  “Thanks, honey.”

  “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  I had piqued her curiosity. She sat down again.

  “Suppose I wanted to—have a party?” I said.

  “Like, what kind of party?”

  “Suppose I wanted Noam Chomsky explained to me by two girls?”

  “Oh, wow.”

  “If you’d rather forget it …”

  “You’d have to speak with Flossie,” she said. “It’d cost you.”

  Now was the time to tighten the screws. I flashed my private-investigator’s badge and informed her it was a bust.

  “What!”

  “I’m fuzz, sugar, and discussing Melville for money is an 802. You can do time.”

  “You louse!”

  “Better come clean, baby. Unless you want to tell your story down at Alfred Kazin’s office, and I don’t think he’d be too happy to hear it.”

  She began to cry. “Don’t turn me in, Kaiser,” she said. “I needed the money to complete my master’s. I’ve been turned down for a grant. Twice. Oh, Christ …”

  It all poured out—the whole story. Central Park West upbringing, Socialist summer camps, Brandeis. She was every dame you saw waiting in line at the Elgin or the Thalia, or penciling the words “Yes, very true” into the margin of some book on Kant. Only somewhere along the line she had made a wrong turn.

  “I needed cash. A girl friend said she knew a married guy whose wife wasn’t very profound. He was into Blake. She couldn’t hack it. I said sure, for a price I’d talk Blake with him. I was nervous at first. I faked a lot of it. He didn’t care. My friend said there were others. Oh, I’ve been busted before. I got caught reading Commentary in a parked car, and I was once stopped and frisked at Tanglewood. Once more and I’m a three-time loser.”

  “Then take me to Flossie.”

  She bit her lip and said, “The Hunter College Book Store is a front.”

  �
��Yes?”

  “Like those bookie joints that have barbershops outside for show. You’ll see.”

  I made a quick call to headquarters and then said to her, “Okay, sugar. You’re off the hook. But don’t leave town.”

  She tilted her face up toward mine gratefully. “I can get you photographs of Dwight Macdonald reading,” she said.

  “Some other time.”

  I WALKED into the Hunter College Book Store. The salesman, a young man with sensitive eyes, came up to me. “Can I help you?” he said.

  “I’m looking for a special edition of Advertisements for Myself. I understand the author had several thousand gold-leaf copies printed up for friends.”

  “I’ll have to check,” he said. “We have a WATS line to Mailer’s house.”

  I fixed him with a look. “Sherry sent me,” I said.

  “Oh, in that case, go on back,” he said. He pressed a button. A wall of books opened, and I walked like a lamb into that bustling pleasure palace known as Flossie’s.

  Red flocked wallpaper and a Victorian décor set the tone. Pale, nervous girls with black-rimmed glasses and blunt-cut hair lolled around on sofas, riffling Penguin Classics provocatively. A blonde with a big smile winked at me, nodded toward a room upstairs, and said, “Wallace Stevens, eh?” But it wasn’t just intellectual experiences—they were peddling emotional ones, too. For fifty bucks, I learned, you could “relate without getting close.” For a hundred, a girl would lend you her Bartók records, have dinner, and then let you watch while she had an anxiety attack. For one-fifty, you could listen to FM radio with twins. For three bills, you got the works: A thin Jewish brunette would pretend to pick you up at the Museum of Modern Art, let you read her master’s, get you involved in a screaming quarrel at Elaine’s over Freud’s conception of women, and then fake a suicide of your choosing—the perfect evening, for some guys. Nice racket. Great town, New York.

  “Like what you see?” a voice said behind me. I turned and suddenly found myself standing face to face with the business end of a .38. I’m a guy with a strong stomach, but this time it did a back flip. It was Flossie, all right. The voice was the same, but Flossie was a man. His face was hidden by a mask.

  “You’ll never believe this,” he said, “but I don’t even have a college degree. I was thrown out for low grades.”

  “Is that why you wear that mask?”

  “I devised a complicated scheme to take over The New York Review of Books, but it meant I had to pass for Lionel Trilling. I went to Mexico for an operation. There’s a doctor in Juarez who gives people Trilling’s features—for a price. Something went wrong. I came out looking like Auden, with Mary McCarthy’s voice. That’s when I started working the other side of the law.”

  Quickly, before he could tighten his finger on the trigger, I went into action. Heaving forward, I snapped my elbow across his jaw and grabbed the gun as he fell back. He hit the ground like a ton of bricks. He was still whimpering when the police showed up.

  “Nice work, Kaiser,” Sergeant Holmes said. “When we’re through with this guy, the FBI wants to have a talk with him. A little matter involving some gamblers and an annotated copy of Dante’s Inferno. Take him away, boys.”

  Later that night, I looked up an old account of mine named Gloria. She was blond. She had graduated cum laude. The difference was she majored in physical education. It felt good.

  1974

  POLLY FROST

  ARTICHOKE

  AT forty, I’m finally in control of my sexuality. Now it’s time to market it. My next book will be a foray into today’s relationships between men and women, with a lot of descriptions of me having sex. I don’t intend to titillate my readers, but no doubt that will be unavoidable. As long as they don’t miss the point of the book: how my sex life defines the nineties.

  ADULTERY’S a good subject for a long work. I remember the first time I cheated on my ex-husband, Derek. The whole way up to the hotel, I kept imagining Derek and how contorted with pain his face would be if he knew that I was hurrying to meet my lover, Kurt. That vision of Derek’s pained face hovered over Kurt and me the entire time, ruining my moments of ecstasy.

  I felt so terrible that I went back into therapy. After a forty-five-minute session I emerged a new woman, who felt entitled to her own sexual needs.

  So I didn’t feel bad for telling Derek that I’d bought all our groceries that week at Dean & DeLuca, when in fact I’d picked them up at the Red Apple.

  “Iceberg lettuce?” Derek asked, when he looked in our refrigerator. “I didn’t think Dean & DeLuca stooped to iceberg lettuce.”

  “This is organic baby field iceberg lettuce,” I said. Before, I’d always felt bad about lying to Derek. Now I knew better. It’s his problem if he thinks I tell him the truth.

  I used the money I saved to book a suite for Kurt and me. Later that day, I was in bed with Kurt. For the first time I could see him without the spectre of Derek blocking his features. Had that ugly mole by his nose always been there? I decided to let myself think about my husband. I imagined Derek’s face racked with pain and anguish again. Seconds later I reached my climax.

  My book will save my women readers the time I spent in therapy. They’ll realize they won’t need to get rid of their guilt but, rather, use it for their own pleasure.

  BEFORE we were divorced I tried to renew my love-trust for Derek by going through his files to make certain he wasn’t cheating on me. I discovered a stack of magazine photographs he had secretly filed away. He had carefully clipped and saved pictures of Cindy Crawford, Rebecca De Mornay, and several Ferraris. There were even photos of women who were sloppy and overweight.

  This was much worse than any affair. I had always suspected that he was subjecting me to his rigorous male standards of looks. I worked out and worked out, just trying to measure up to what I felt sure was his pickiness. To find out that he had no standards at all! What hurts most is that when I was married to him I tried to see him as the fairly presentable human being I thought he had it in him to become.

  I’VE been thinking about whether or not to have a book-jacket photo. Naomi Wolf didn’t have one on The Beauty Myth, and it hasn’t kept her readers from knowing how good she looks. In fact, in an article called “Radical Heterosexuality,” in Ms., she wrote about how she can’t walk down city streets without hearing comments about her looks. I’m confident I endure many more degrading kissy sounds about my thighs than she does. I suppose these construction workers think I pump Nautilus and wear a miniskirt just to brighten up the years they spend repairing the same pothole on Sixth Avenue.

  Also like Naomi, I find that my male companions are oblivious of this harassment. “Did you hear that?” I asked Thomas, a male. “That man just said, ‘What a babe!’ ”

  “A babe?” Thomas said, his head swiveling. “Is there a babe around? Ow! You hit me!”

  This is why I lift weights.

  IN my book I will tell my sisters the real truth: You don’t have to love the man you’re having sex with. In fact, if you wait until you love a man to have sex with him, it may not happen very often, especially if you and he are married.

  I need to spend several chapters detailing the erotic possibilities I have discovered in annoyance and frustration.

  I STAY in bed while Hank, a holding-pattern relationship, adjusts the TV unit. “As long as you’re up,” I say, “could you go to the store and pick up some cookie-dough ice cream? I’ll let you have the ice-cream part after you pick out the cookie-dough pieces for me. By the way, I noticed that you’re out of condoms. I consider it my responsibility to pay for half of them and yours to pay for the other half and do the footwork. Just put what I owe on my tab.”

  I have moved past Radical Heterosexuality to Radical Princessdom.

  RICHARD (divorced for ten years and still needing his space) and I were lying on his bed. I had been encouraging him to acknowledge my existence after intercourse. It was retro, but it was working; Richard talked and talke
d. The only problem was that all he would talk about were his favorite passages from Camille Paglia.

  I couldn’t take any more and went to the bathroom to give him a sign I was bored. He just talked louder. And then I spotted it—another woman’s nipple ring near his Interplak. How was I supposed to respond to this?

  The next day I sent Richard a package with this note: “Enclosed you will find one pair of my panties. Was I thinking of you when I wore them, or somebody else?”

  I will take my female readers beyond rewards and punishments to torture. It may not do much for relationships, but it will do a lot for women.

  AS I do research for my book, I begin to understand what Madonna went through after the release of her “Justify My Love” video.

  Howard and I were in my studio apartment. We had just come back from a book party where we had met and had discovered we have something important in common. We are both literate Manhattanites trying to find sexual satisfaction in an increasingly difficult world.

  I gave him one of my famous ear licks. “Tell me to crawl across the floor.” I felt good about being submissive, because I was being submissive on my floor. I was in charge of my masochistic/submissive/movie-option desires, even if I was behind in my rent.

  Howard looked suspicious, but he said the words: “Crawl across the floor.”

  I got down on all fours. But he was still looking at me warily. “Now tell me to grovel,” I said.

  “Okay—grovel,” he said, unconvincingly. I was glad he wasn’t my agent.

  “No,” I said. It gave me a powerful feeling to refuse to obey my own commands.

  Howard leaned against the Murphy bed. “I think I understand what’s going on between us,” he said. He was shaking. It’s my observation that men in New York City shake a lot. Some of them begin shaking if I simply mention that I’m forty. Sometimes I dream of moving to one of those cities they say are great for families. Of course, I’d probably just end up involved with a married man. “And, while I look forward to helping you achieve your sexual goals,” Howard went on, “I must say that in the current context I have reservations about my participation.” He brightened. “I have an idea,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”