by Nina Siegal
“A few people, at least one heavy hitter who might have influence with the masthead. But I’m not convinced. You’re the closest to the story. It’s sad he killed himself. Did you think he was worth more words than what he got?”
Neutral was working out fine so far. “Everyone down here thought three hundred words was plenty. To be honest, I just filed a quickie, and I guess I thought it was plenty, for what I knew. But you probably knew him better. Was there a lot I missed?”
Curtis let that marble roll on his roulette wheel for a while and finally it found a slot. “Wallace was quite a character. We go way back, actually. He used to call me with so-called scoops. A real golden gadfly. He was always talking about someone who’d been wronged, how the community was being ignored, he was often threatening to sue people, but I don’t think he ever really did. I liked him well enough. Actually, I love these conspiracy theorist dudes. Just…well, I had to take it all with a salt lick.”
He scratched his head. He had long fingers, and they danced like a daddy longlegs through his dreads. He looked pensive for a moment, and then almost sad. “When someone dies you start to wonder if maybe you should’ve done things differently, you know? I guess, mainly, I didn’t really listen to his pitches because what he was talking about was all too small for us: some Bronx artist ripped off some style or some club fight erupted over longtime beefs. The real style wars, the petty crap. Village Voice material, maybe. That’s what I told him. Call Michael Musto.”
“Sounds like you were probably right. No need to feel bad.”
“I do feel bad, but you’re right, Val. We gave him plenty. Most artists don’t even get an obit.”
Exactly.
“Okay, it’s time I confess,” said Curtis. “The real reason I came down was to ask you if you’d like to join me for a Bollywood film festival at the Film Forum tonight. I’ve got to do a feature for Weekend. What do you say? A good nine hours of singing and dancing in Hindi, and hundreds of soaking saris?”
Two invitations in one day. And I hadn’t received a single one since the Incident.
6
The Incident
It was ruthlessly cold that January night, but my ego left my coat at home. I wanted to show off some strapless shimmer, a retro chic number I’d adopted at Saks.
In walks me to Club Zero after the bubbly’s already poured. But I get no entrance. My stiletto gets stuck in the velvet curtain a few steps past the door. I kick at it but it’s got me good. I dance with the curtain until the hostess pulls me through.
She doesn’t consult her clipboard. She doesn’t ask my name. She knows exactly who I am. I am the VIP section, whole and entire. My backup is waiting on me, a few steps above the floor.
I feel good about that, but the curtain dance has set me back. I’m no good at clumsy. I’m good at slink. I’m good at glide. My breastbone can make an entrance. My hips can open a door. Not my feet. My feet get in the way. And devil dust won’t have it. Won’t have mistakes. It likes things tidy. It likes things neat, controlled, sure.
Up in the VIP, the glasses are full but the seats are empty. I turn to my hostess and yell in her ear. She shrugs and says they were here a minute ago. Maybe they’re dancing. Maybe they’re out on the floor. When I try to look, I get strobe lights in my eyes.
Walking among the dancers, I scan the bobbing heads, the flickering sequins, the loosening straps. I seek familiar shapes and finally I find them. Jeremiah’s cohort is dead center, the heart of the throb. Paul Bakanal is a sack on the shoulder of a short brunette. Lance Glutton is deep in the ear of an unraveling blonde. Arty Guzzler is on his knees, awestruck by a set of red toenails. Jeremiah is nowhere to be seen.
It’s funny. I haven’t heard from him all day. He left the loft early after I said Uptite had designs on our wedding buffet. Our engagement had been hush-hush until now, but there are ten thousand ticks on the to-do list: crosscheck caterers, find florists, and on and on. So I badgered, just a little, for the right to announce it to a person or two. Uptite? he said. The last thing he said, on his way down the stairs, was “Can’t we just wait?”
Wait? Sniff, sniff. Wait for what?
There’s a high squeal behind me and it’s Tammi, linking arms with a new member of her flack team she introduces as Cyndi. Tammi has a touch of white powder on her upper lip. I wipe my own and she mimics and says thanks. The puddle black of Cyndi’s pupils leaves no question she’s an initiate, in more ways than one.
“You girls come from the bathroom?”
“Mmmmhmmmmm,” says Tammi.
“Any left for me?” Sniff, sniff. Not like I need more. I finished up my stash at home.
“Sorry,” says Tammi. “But we’re expecting a delivery.”
“How soon?” Not like it matters. I can wait. Like I said, I covered the bases at home. Sniff. That was a little while ago, though, and I wouldn’t mind a bump. Just a small one. Just to get the to-do lists out of my mind. To get into the mood.
“Have you seen Jeremiah? I want to make sure everything’s okay.”
Tammi swings her head from side to side. Maybe she’s looking, or maybe she’s saying no.
“Have you seen him?”
I’m a jumping LP. I sound like I need to know where Jeremiah is every second. Which I don’t. I don’t need to walk into a room and know. I just got here. I’m here for the party. I’m here to have a good time with all my good, good friends. We’ve got champagne on the dash. We’re expecting a delivery. Nothing big is happening anytime soon.
“He’s around here,” Tammi says and I’m relieved. “They came from some art opening at Deitch about an hour ago. They were up in the couches before Cyndi and I went to the bathroom.”
“They?”
Tammi doesn’t answer; Jenni and Nikki have just arrived. She and Cyndi are waving their hands like baby dolphin flippers high above the bobbing heads. There’s squealing. There’s air kissing all around. There’re little bleats and beeps.
“It’s so crowded down here,” says Nikki. “Where’s our section?”
The girls lure the boys and their cronies back to the VIP and soon we’re a saturnalia a few steps above the throng. We sit on silk pillows or toss them on the floor. We pop a new cork and spill as we pour. Arty assembles a bouquet of red toes between his paws. Lance finds the ear of the blonde and creeps back inside. Paul’s brunette gets at home between his thighs. Tammi, Nikki, Jenni, and Cyndi form a honeycomb and buzz.
In walks Demi, a genuine celeb. She’s Tammi, Nikki, and Jenni’s new friend. She’s trailing a posse and half a dozen shutterbugs who’ve weaseled their way in the door. We carve out a central spot for her in the VIP and the paparazzi start to swarm.
But she doesn’t sit with us; she drops her faux-fur fox on our sofa and stands there in a tube top and terry short shorts. The shooters get some snaps. Then Demi bounds out into the thick of it, her hands above her head, her tube top sinking. Murmurs in the crowd so loud we can hear them in the VIP. I dig in my purse for my pen, and all I get are nails full of tobacco.
I should follow her for comment, call in a scoop to Rewrite and make the early edition. It should be easy. She’s hankering for ink. Anyone in the room can read it. She’s sweating out her pores for print. All I have to do is walk over and oblige.
Tammi runs back. “Someone saw her nip,” she says. “Did you see that, Valerie?”
“Her nip?” says Nikki.
“Yep, nip,” says Jenni.
“Left or right?” says Cyndi.
“Goooood question,” says Tammi, pointing at Cyndi and jotting something down on a notepad. “You’re going to be so goooood at this. You’re going to be really, really goooood!”
I ogle Tammi’s notepad. I could borrow her pen, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s okay. I’ve got a colorful memory. I don’t need a pen. I ask Tammi, “When’s your deliveryman coming?”
“Should be here by now,” she says.
“You called Ken?” says Nikki in a conspirato
rial whisper.
“Yeah, I called Ken.”
“Oh, you called Ken?” says Jenni. “Great. When’s he getting here?”
“He should be here by now.”
They all look toward the door, then look back at one another and shrug.
Demi and her flock fly back and perch, downing our bubbly. I should stand up and talk to Demi, get a comment. But I’m deep in my silk cushions with two men on my mind: Jeremiah and Ken. Standing up could take an hour. Sitting back down could be another month. I could get sidetracked; I might miss Ken. I should see Ken before Jeremiah. Not that I need Ken, but Ken would cheer me up. And before I see Jeremiah, I should be cheery. Maybe this morning I was cranky. That’s it. Though I’m not sure why. Sniff, sniff. Everything’s swell. Sniff. I’m a bona fide big deal. I’m on top of the top. I’m going to be a Golden. Though no one knows but me. Can’t we just wait?
Demi leans over to grab her faux fox. She smiles at me faintly, maybe because Tammi told her she could milk me for ink. I know I’ll wake up to see her smack in the New York Post, even though Richard’s not in the room. Buzz will say, “Weren’t you there?” And I’ll say, “Of course I was there. But she didn’t show me her tits.” Or maybe I’ll write it; maybe I’ll call it in quoteless. Once Ken comes. I’ll get up my gusto and work the room. Someone sighted a nip. Then I’ll have done my share.
But already Demi and her entourage have departed. I am relieved. The room wants less of me. Tammi’s cell rings. She puts it daintily to her ear. “You’re outside? Great. I’ll be right there.” Tammi snaps her phone and grins. “Anyone want to come meet Ken?”
Obviously, me. Sniff, sniff. Outside, I climb up into the high backseat of his shiny black Escalade as Tammi climbs into the passenger seat. Ken sits in the front but I don’t get a look at his mug; all I see is his cowboy hat in the glow of the hot blue dash.
“Hey, Kenneth,” says Tammi, pouring on the sugar as if she’s meeting a boy for root beer. “We’ve been missing you too long.”
“Let me tell you about this traffic,” he says. “I’ve been up to Harlem and down to Alphabet City. Lot of orders tonight.”
“Alphabet City?” says Tammi. “Get retro! We call it the East Village now, doll.”
“Grew up on East Fifth,” says Ken. “It’ll always be Alphabet City to me.”
I remember something about East Fifth. I remember a girl there, a girl in a pink dress. If she’d been engaged to my Golden she’d be singing it from a hilltop like Maria von Trapp.
“Hey, I grew up on East Fifth Street, too,” I say. “A tenement share with handmade curtains.”
Tammi flashes me a worried grin. “That’s just silly, Val. Park Avenue doesn’t even go down to Fifth Street.”
But it’s true. All of a sudden, truth feels so good. So welcome, so new. I want to tell Ken all about East Fifth Street, I want to tell Ken about everything. “No, really. I had a roommate and she was nice. We had no money. I remember one day I found a ten-dollar bill. I went to the bodega and bought tofu, broccoli, a head of garlic, a lemon, soy sauce, and Ben & Jerry’s New York Super Fudge Chunk. It seemed like a feast!”
“What are you on about, Val?” says Tammi. “This is so not true.”
That girl had a name. A name, a name…Sunflowers or Barley or something organic. Sniff, sniff. In the last few weeks, things have been getting away from me. Things that shouldn’t get away from me. That girl’s name. It disappears like a marble down a manhole.
“Val has been working on a crazy deadline. She’s deliriously tired,” Tammi apologizes to Ken. “She’s been working on it, like, forever. It’ll be out in Style on Sunday. Right, Val?”
“Actually, I missed my deadline,” I say, still wondering where that name dropped.
“Oh,” says Tammi, “Well, next Sunday, then. Valerie has big stories all the time.” She adds some more sugar and stirs. I clench my fist around something, but I don’t have my vial. I’d like my vial. I wonder why it’s not in my hand.
“Val wants one, too,” says Tammi to Ken. And she says to me, “You want one, don’t you, Val?”
“Totally.” I push a sweaty wad of twenties into an outstretched hand. I don’t bother to count; I counted long ago. I’ve had the bills ready in my hands since Tammi mentioned Ken. It’s the first time I know it. That’s what’s been jabbing at my palm.
Ken takes the money and slips his hand back behind Tammi’s leather seat and hands me the tiny glass vial. I crunch it in my paw and it feels cold with soft curves, not unlike a marble. Holding my marble, the image of the girl climbing the stairs on East Fifth Street dissolves, but on goes the search for the name: Rainbow, Starshine…
Before I get out of the Escalade, I twist open the black lid of my vial and take out my keys. I hold the vial between my knees and lean to get a quick sniff.
“Hey,” barks Ken. “People can see.”
I just need a quick one. Sniff, sniff. Just one. A bump.
“Come on, Val,” says Tammi, knocking on my door. “It’s freezing out here. Let’s go back in.”
My skin smarts as soon as it hits the air. I put my arms around my shoulders, and head back in through the doors, past the bouncers, through the velvet curtain, up the stairs, past the bar, over the dance floor, through the hallway, alongside the dance floor, and back into the VIP. Even though Demi’s gone there’s a posse of paparazzi leaning on the back of our banquette. Maybe a half dozen shutterbugs. Maybe a handful of Sidney Falcos in the bunch.
Tammi is teasing them with promises of fresh meat. “Nas said he’d be coming by,” she says to Nikki.
“Oh, Nas is always here. This is his second skin.”
“Second skin; funny Nikki,” says Jenni. “I’ll wait for Nas if you wait for Nas.”
“I’ll wait,” says Cyndi, not quite in on the inside joke.
“Anyone seen Jeremiah?” I say.
Paul gazes at me dull-eyed. Lance points to his left and to his right, and then up toward the ceiling, before he makes himself dizzy and retreats under his blonde. Arty is already lying on the floor.
“They were here when I came in,” says Tammi, plugging numbers into her cell phone.
Again. “They?”
“Angelica and him.”
“Angelica?”
“Angelica?” says Nikki.
“Angelica’s here?” says Jenni.
“Who’s Angelica?” I ask.
“You don’t know Angelica?” says Nikki. “Oh, that’s weird. You should know Angelica.”
“I don’t know Angelica.” Sniff, sniff.
“That’s baaaaad, Val,” says Tammi. “Where have you beeeen? Angelica Pomeroy is the new it girl. She’s the new new thing. You, of all people, should know Angelica Pomeroy. You should do a piece. Totally—actually.”
I grind my teeth. “Who is Angelica Pomeroy?”
Tammi says, “VH1 VJ?”
Nikki says, “Crazy skinny?”
Jenni says, “Balloon boobs?”
Cyndi gets in the act. “She’s, like, nineteen or something. She was an underwear supermodel. Now she works the whole backward baseball cap thing.”
“She is not nineteen,” says Nikki. “She’s like twenty-two.”
“She’s from Long Island.”
“Long Island? Nobody’s from Long Island.”
“Yep. I’m not kidding.”
“Are you teasing?”
“Not teasing! Somewhere like Great Neck or Ronkonkoma or Patchogue. I don’t know. Out there somewhere.” She flicks her wrist.
“Don’t write that, Val.”
“Oh, so, now she’s our client?”
“Everyone,” says Tammi, as if it is a dictum, “is our client.”
Sniff, sniff. But Jeremiah shouldn’t be with any new new thing. He’s my Golden. We’re making it official any day now. Aren’t we? Can’t we just wait?
I claw my skirt. He’s got to be here. He’s got to be here somewhere. I’ll go find him and find out about this whole Angelica
thing. So down again I go back across the floor, dizzy in the spinning lights. I push through the mass of dancers. I get a paw on my ass and a hand on my hip and a tug at my bra. I get a blinding eyeful of bodies, but no sight of him. I back off to climb the stairs. Maybe I’ll get a better view one landing up. Now I’m at the ladies’. I reach into my pocket and finger my marble. Sniff, sniff. Maybe just a quick bump and then I’ll search.
I push through the door before I hear the groans, moans. I don’t think much of it. It’s a club bathroom, anyway. This kind of thing is routine. And it’s normal to use the other stall. At first, they don’t strike me as familiar, so I take another step forward. But then there it is, the image to end my life. His black curls thrown back, his dimpled ass, and someone else’s bare thighs, someone else’s breasts. His button-down is open, her hands around his neck. Her alligator shoes are tipped over on the floor. All the pieces fall into place quickly. Jeremiah has VH1 VJ Angelica Pomeroy, the new new thing, pinned to the bathroom sink.
I scream so loud I don’t even hear myself. A girl looking for a stall assesses the scene and scuttles out the bathroom door. Jeremiah hears me and pulls back from Angelica, and she comes tumbling off the sink, headfirst into his chest.
Anyone with any sense would back out of the bathroom and run. But devil’s dust is in me and it doesn’t like good sense. I lurch forward, claws bared. I kick Jeremiah, and then ram my heel hard into his foot, to hold him steady while I dig for Angelica’s eyes. She has no idea what’s come at her, what kind of rabid bird, but I claw and scrape at her face and her hair until I’ve got some sort of hold. I don’t know what I’ve got, exactly, but I’ve got some sort of hold.
The stall girl must’ve gotten her friends, because a crowd of onlookers is now in the bathroom door. Angelica’s panties are still below her knees and her skirt is hiked up near her bra. But I don’t give her time to assemble; I grab a clump of hair.
“You low-rent Ronkonkoma reject,” I cry. “How dare you fuck my fiancé?”